#sierra six whump

[comasuart]

THE GRAY MAN (2022)

Begging someone to write a proper good whump fic with Six and Lloyd, a nsfw one

c’mon they are such a good pairing especially for some tortured whump ff, with Lloyd’s pet names and sadistic tendencies and Six’s praise kink

just a suggestion 🗣️

[whumpdotpng]

Name Game

It’s been a few months since the events of the Gray Man, and instead of getting killed, Lloyd Hansen managed to slip away. They still pinned the whole mess on though. Made him pretty angry. And sure, he could focus that anger on Suzanne and Carmichael and a million other unreachable targets, but why do that when he already had such an easy target? Sierra Six is the only person that’s ever been able to beat him at anything, and Lloyd, well, let’s just say he’d like to return the favor a thousand times over.

A/N: So there’s a frankly pathetic lack of Six whump in this fandom, and I’m here to stubbornly correct that. I need my SOFT BOY GETTING HIS ASS BEAT HOURS okay? Let me live. This fic is from Six’s POV. Depending on how much people like it, I may continue it, but it’s going to primarily be Lloyd being sadistic and creepy and Six being snarky and defiant. At least at first. Muahaha >:)

This will also be posted on AO3 as “The Name Game”

CW: kidnapping, torture, blood, violence, Lloyd Hansen in general tbh

The first thing Six noticed as consciousness swam lazily back into his mind was the concrete. Gritty and cold and hard and frankly just unpleasant, and he was lying on it, half his face pressed against the floor. He immediately realized he was indoors, underground, the air slightly damp and tasting of dirt and mildew. His head hurt like a motherfucker, and the cold metal around his wrists wasn’t very encouraging. Dim light from behind his eyelids; he knew better than to be obvious about gaining consciousness. He could hear someone in the room with him, and the breathing and shuffling feet helped him guesstimate the room’s size. Small. No more than fifteen by fifteen feet at most. And the breathing and shuffling itself, well. Lloyd had always been the impatient type.

“Come on, wake up.” Lloyd walked over and nudged him in the ribs, and that’s when Six realized he hurt everywhere, not just his head. He’d been beaten, a few ribs broken maybe. His left cheekbone felt hot and tight, a fresh bruise forming on the skin. And his ankle-

He felt the dull pain of the sprain just before Lloyd placed the sole of his expensive shoe over Six’s ankle and pressed, and he felt himself flinch, heard himself groan at the pain. When Lloyd spoke next, Six could hear the smile in his voice.

“There you are, sunshine,” he said, digging his heel into Six’s sprained ankle. He bit down another groan and forced his eyes open a crack. Bastard. “Morning. You slept in late, missed the bus. You know how much mom hates having to drive you to school.”

God, he was annoying. Then again, two could play that game. Six turned his face towards Lloyd’s voice and gave a pained grin. “You my mom, then?” he asked. “Or are we both late for school? Metaphor’s kinda confusing, Lloyd.”

He expected Lloyd to keep pressing on his ankle, maybe kick him or something, but to Six’s surprise, he felt the pressure on his ankle lift. And then Lloyd crouched down right next to him and threaded his fingers into Six’s hair.

“Nah, I’m neither,” he said, and then yanked up, nearly ripping the hair out of Six’s scalp as Lloyd pulled him up off the ground. Six couldn’t help the pained sound that leaked out from his chest. “I’m the guy your mom sends you to when you’ve been a very bad boy.”

Oh, this was not good at all.

“Come on, up,” Lloyd said, pulling Six up by his hair, and Six did his best to not get his entire scalp ripped off, but the sprained ankle really wasn’t helping. He felt Lloyd half-drag him to the center of the room, unable to fully stand. A thousand plans raced through Six’s mind, each more desperate and unlikely than the last, and he was in the middle of dissecting one of these plans when Lloyd grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him up fully, face to face.

“Now, aren’t you adorable like this,” Lloyd said, perfect white teeth glinting in the dim light of the room’s single bulb. “All sad and pathetic. Really. But I don’t want that just yet, Six. Gimme a little fight. I know you have it in you.”

“Okay,” Six said, and slammed his forehead into Lloyd’s nose.

He heard the bone snap, the blood gush, Lloyd yell in pain and surprise as he dropped Six like a sack of potatoes. Six tried to stay standing, but his legs collapsed underneath him, weak and shaky and in pain. He realized his stomach was chewing a pit in his torso. Hungry. 

“How long have I been out?” Six asked, forcing himself to move. His voice sounded ragged and distant to his own ears. Something was wrong, aside from all the other obvious things that were wrong. His eyes were open, but seeing was hard, shapes blurry and unfocused, the light smarting the headache in his brain.

Lloyd chuckled, collecting himself after the broken nose, and began to approach. Six felt his back and shoulder hit a wall. Shit.

“Oh, Six, you really are quite something.” Lloyd crouched down again, still above Six but closer to his level. His perfect smile was stained with blood. “To answer your question, you’ve been out for about a week. Been trying to track down your little girl in the meantime, but I got antsy. Decided I wanted to see if I could break you without her. Want to prove me right?”

Claire. Six’s heart hammered in his chest. At least the fucker didn’t have her. “Nah, I’m good,” he replied, and then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he asked, “What is this? Revenge or something?”

“Eh, sort of.” Lloyd reached out and put one finger under Six’s chin, tilting his head up until their eyes met. “Half revenge, half… well, I guess curiosity. You’re very intriguing, Six, and I’ve decided to make you my new pet project. Hope you’re excited.”

“Thrilled.” Six didn’t break eye contact, but his voice wavered of its own accord, his body already weak from being beaten and starved and who knew what else while he’d been unconscious. He’d beaten Lloyd before, and if he weren’t so fucked, he definitely could’ve again. But Lloyd knew that, and he never played fair if he could help it. Now that he had him, well, Six had a feeling he’d have a hard time finding a good opportunity to escape.

But he didn’t have Claire. That alone made relief fill his chest and strengthen his will. He could handle a psychotic asshole with a penchant for pain. He’d done it a thousand times. But he knew he couldn’t handle Claire getting hurt, and if Lloyd got his hands on her, that’s probably all he’d do. 

Keep her safe, Dani, he thought furiously. Lloyd yanked Six up by his shirt again and brought him to a chair in the center of the room, threading his handcuffed arms over the back with rough precision. Six’s head swam; he was too disoriented to fight back physically. Was he drugged as well as beaten and starved? Honestly wouldn’t surprise him. Lloyd wouldn’t give him a single opportunity to escape if he could help it, and drugging his more dangerous victims seemed right up his alley. 

Six heard the familiar sound of Lloyd’s butterfly knife flicking and spinning out, and though he didn’t show it, his heart lurched. He knew exactly how good Lloyd was with that knife. Not wanting to be caught unawares, he forced his eyes open again, the blade glinting in the dim light. Lloyd’s grin grew. 

“Alright, Six,” Lloyd said, “the rest of your life is either gonna be very simple or very painful. Hopefully both. I own your ass now. You’re mine, and I’m gonna do whatever I want with you. But! You do what I say? Things will be much better for you. Crystal?”

Sierra Six gave Lloyd Hansen a small, pained grin. “Clear as a cloudy day, Lloyd,” he said. “You gonna get started or what?”

Lloyd’s eyes glinted with excitement, and somehow his grin grew even more. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. The knife came to rest under Six’s chin, blade forcing his head up with the threat of sharp pain and a very bloody death.

“First things first,” Lloyd said, “why don’t you tell me your name?”

[stardustdreams-andcaffeine]

Bullet for You | Sierra Six

sierra six x fem!reader ✧ oneshot

Summary: Six's job is simple—protect you and Claire. It should have been straight-forward, should have been easy. That is, until you fell in love. And love makes us do crazy things, things that make the simple job of protecting very difficult.

A/N: I'm back! I know it's been a while, but I'm on a break from university and I can actually breathe and do the things I love, like writing for a totally new character to me! It's another angsty whump, but what else do you expect? Some authors specialize in smut, others in fluff. I just happen to love the angst. And be honest, so do you. Love and miss you all, keep dreaming 🤍

Warnings: angst, blood, injury, language, happy ending I promise

Word Count: 6033

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It began with a smile.

I'm not even sure if you could call what Sierra Six's lips made a smile, considering how small and quick it was. I count it, though. After months of being a bodyguard for my sister and I, months of Claire cracking jokes and me forcing Six to sit through comedy after comedy, he finally smiled.

And he smiled at me.

It was oh so brief, so fleeting, so miniscule. And yet, that one upturn of his lips changed something so fundamental and eternally within me. I was in the kitchen, trying desperately to grab the flour from the top cabinet and stubbornly refusing any and all help Six so stoically offered from his silent post in the corner. When I managed to accidentally tip it over, raining the flour down upon me and sending the bag careening to the floor, I looked up just in time to see Six's lip turn up.

And I could never be the same.

After the smile, more of the ice began to crack. He got more comfortable on movie nights, would even joke back with me with that dry, sarcastic humor of his. Sometimes, if it's been an especially good week, I can get Six to take us out on the town. Our mission had always been just to warm up the unflinching exterior of Sierra Six. Claire and I never meant to rely on his protection, his safety, his surprising warmth.

I never meant to fall in love.

And love makes you do incomprehensible things.

"Six, on average, how much do you sleep? Just give me a ballpark number here," I call out, eying the stoic, gorgeously rugged man over my steaming coffee mug.

Six pauses to think for a minute before adjusting the cuffs on his suit jacket, "3 hours on a good night."

"Excuse me?" I sputter, almost choking on the burning liquid caffeine. I set down my mug, my wide eyes catching on the humor buried in Six's smug features, "You have to know how bad for you that is."

"Sleep is for the weak," Six replies plainly, and even though I know he's joking with me I roll my eyes skyward.

"That's why you have the emotional range of a carrot. I would too if I slept that little!"

I almost miss the smile that ghosts his lips. It takes every ounce of strength I have to smother the roaring of my heart at the sight. Six simply stares ahead, his unchanging demeanor giving little away. After the many months he's been watching over us, though, I've learned to pick up on the subtleties in his behavior. The way his shoulders are relaxed and his jaw isn't set, the way his clear blue eyes seem softened, I'd go as far to call him almost...content.

I hadn't realized how much I would be willing to give to make sure he stayed that way.

I find myself studying him for another moment, and I know that he knows I am. I can't bring myself to look away, though. I know what he's been through, and even if my knowledge is only a fraction of his past, I know that peace and rest have seldom been in the cards for him. Sudden, pressing emotion threatens to choke me at the thought of the agent's life away from here. All of the horrible things he has to do, all of the fighting, all of the sleepless nights and days void of joy.

"Six, can I ask you a personal question?"

There's a beat of silence, and I know he wasn't expecting that from me. Neither was I, if I'm going to be honest.

"Technically you're my boss, so you can ask me anything. Now whether or not I’ll answer..." Six tilts his head, his humored eyes meeting mine as the start of a smirk tugs at his lips. He walks over slowly to the breakfast table I sit at, and I almost begin to fear that the pounding of my heart and searing of my blood in my veins is audible.

"Ask away, Y/N." Six says gently, his gaze down at me with a glint of something that he keeps intricately veiled.

And yet it makes a shiver crawl down my spine.

I almost lose my nerve, what with his eyes burning down into me and the closeness of his presence making my head dizzy with a dangerous tangle of attraction and unspoken feelings. Swallowing thickly, I keep my voice calm as I hold his gaze.

"If you had a say in your life, what would it look like?" I almost whisper.

His jaw clenches slightly, his throat bobbing and his body going tense. A faraway look settles into those breathtaking eyes as Six raises his gaze to the window across from us. He's silent for a while, which is characteristic for Six. He always chooses his words wisely, always stays calm, always remains sure.

This is the most unsure I've seen him, and it makes me wonder if he's ever been asked this.

"I don't know," He finally answers truthfully, making something so fundamental crack in my chest. I can't help but stare at his lifted face with furrowed brows and and pain-filled eyes. "I guess I've never really thought about it."

"You've never thought about what you want?" I ask, my voice no more than a breath to hide the anguish that threatens to out my feelings for my bodyguard.

Six sets his jaw, looking down at me again and stealing the breath from my lungs. His eyes search my face, almost as if he's memorizing every feature. In them is more emotion than I've seen in his gaze before. Finally, his eyes meet mine and I remember how much of a goner I am.

"Not until recently."

I don't dare to imagine what he means, but I can't ignore the stumbling of my heart and the overwhelming urge to stand and close the distance between us. I stay unmoving in my chair though, not daring to barely breathe.

"And what do you want, Six?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see his hands clench tighter together in front of him, almost as if he's...restraining them. From what, I'm not sure. My heart pounds harder in its cage of bones and I feel something shift in the air between us. As my breathing slowly increases and the silence grows thicker, I begin to realize that I can't hold back from him much longer. Six seems ready to answer when the ringing of my phone on the breakfast table interrupts and snaps the moment.

"Sorry," I whisper, finding my breath hard to gather as I look down at the caller ID, "It's work. I have to take this."

I give him a sympathetic gaze, but Six seems to relax slightly at this. He takes a few steps back and nods, giving me another small smile, "Duty calls,"

I smile back, and it takes all of my effort to look away and answer the phone. The call is short and to the point. They're loading me with remote work to finish over the weekend before Monday morning. Once I finally hang up, I let out a long sigh and shove myself to my feet.

"Well, looks like my Saturday just got filled," I announce with a yawn, stretching my arms up before grabbing my coffee mug. I give Six a tired smile as I bring the empty mug to the sink in the kitchen.

"They're working you half to death," Six remarks, turning to watch me as I clean my dishes, "Any more extra hours and I might have to go over there and bloody up my knuckles."

His words shouldn't ignite me as much as they do.

"I’m tempted to tell you to, being technically your boss and all," I respond, and I swear a quiet laugh escapes his laugh. It makes a soft smile grow onto my lips that I don't bother to stop. I finally tear away my gaze and walk towards my room.

"Let me know if you need anything, Six." I call back, meaning every word.

What he says next makes he halt in my step, my brows furrowed in confusion.

"Court."

I look back at him, not even having to ask to convey that I don't know what he means by that one word. Six just stares at me in a way that makes me feel undone.

"That's my real name. Courtland, but everyone used to call me Court."

His name. More than a number, more than a title, more than a job. His name. He told me his name.

What Six...what Court has done to me can never be undone. What he has changed within me can never be fixed. I know it as I just stare at him, a smile growing on my lips. I know it as that name clangs around in my mind.

"If you tell anyone, I'll have to kill you, though." Court jokes, his face still so stoic. With my heart pounding in my chest and my mind spinning out of control, I stand staring at him in awe for another moment.

"I'll take it to my grave," I whisper, my heart racing so quickly that I fear it will fail, "Court."

Saying it is one thing, but to hear his name from someone else, to hear his name from me...Something changes in Court's gaze. Something changes between us, something I can't put my finger on and something that makes me come to two realizations as I walk into my room and shut the door.

One. I love him more than I thought love was capable of.

I press my back up against my bedroom door, letting my head fall back and my eyes slip closed.

Two. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, I wouldn't do to give Courtland every single thing he could ever want.

That second realization is a very dangerous thing to know to be true when the man you'd give everything for is the man in charge of protecting your very life.

|||

Later That Night

I walk out of my bedroom, stretching with a groan. It's nearly two in the morning and I'm just now finishing up with the work that my boss sent over. My tired eyes adjust to the darkness of the house as I make my way over to the kitchen and grab a water from the fridge.

"I guess I'll relax when I retire," I grumble under my breath as I take a swig of water.

I recap the bottle and go to set it on the counter edge, but miss. When the plastic bottle clatters against the ground and I realize that I have to pick it up, I let out another groan. Mumbling under my breath annoyedly, I bend down to pick up the bottle. When I do, I'm not even fully standing before a large, powerful arm is barring my throat and pressing me to the fridge with a massive, warm body. I barely have time to gasp when my wide eyes meet those familiar blue ones and his arm is off of me in the next instant.

"Shit, Y/N are you okay?" Six asks, gently taking my face in his large, rough hands and tilting it so he can examine the untarnished skin of my neck for signs of harm.

I force out a laugh to hide the lowering panic from being attacked and from being so close to Court. Where his skin meets mine burns so intensely that I almost think something is wrong.

"I'm alright," I promise, but he doesn't let go and step back until he has come to the same conclusion, "Unless you count scaring me half to death."

"No one's usually up this late, I thought you were an intruder," Six responds, guilt still coursing through his gaze. I can’t help notice the absence of warmth in my body without his hands on me.

"Well, you're very good at your job but if I were an intruder, why would I stop for some water?" I ask, humor coursing through me. Six shrugs, and I can tell he's scrambling to regain his composure.

"Maybe you got thirsty. Breaking in takes effort"

I laugh softly, which visibly puts Six at ease. He shakes his head slightly, running a hand across his stubble-covered jaw. It's then that I notice he's not wearing professional clothes. Instead, a tight-fitting black t-shirt shows off nearly every muscle in his torso and the sweatpants to go with it make him almost seem...normal. The sight has my mouth dry and my chest tightly constricted.

"I can't believe my eyes," I remark breathlessly, looking up to connect my gaze with his, "You're not wearing a suit."

"They're in the wash," he remarks, making another laugh escape my lips.

"Well, now that you've scared me half to death, I'm definitely not tired anymore."

"Next time, don't go sneaking around the kitchen at midnight," Six advises. I scoff, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Sneaking around? If that was sneaking around then I lied. You must not be very good at your job," I point out. His ever-so stoic face turns smug in a way that sends my heart careening out of rhythm. He takes a step closer and I have to look up to keep my gaze locked with his. His warmth washes over me and suddenly I can't think straight.

"Honey, I'm not good at my job. I'm fucking incredible at it," Six rumbles, and every coherent part of me turns molten.

The way he looks down at me with that stupid smirk on the lips that I've dreamed about for months, the way his body seems to dwarf mine, the way every molecule of air has been sucked away...it's too much for my fool's heart to resist any longer.

We both go quiet, and I think he realizes the tension thick in the air at the same moment that I do. His eyes dart down to my lips so quickly that I almost think I dreamt it, but I know that I didn't and it sends me past the breaking point.

"Y/N," Court whispers. His voice is a warning, a plea, a promise.

I'm about to close the distance between us when the glint of something catches my eye. I dart my gaze over my bodyguard's shoulder just in time to see a singular man with a handgun standing at the entry of the kitchen.

And the gun's aimed at Six, not me.

My eyes widen, and the moment suddenly slows to a crawl. The man's finger is already squeezing the trigger, and in my head I can see the love of my life catching that bullet and crumpling to the ground. Pure horror seizes my chest and I can't even think before I act.

"NO!" I shout, shoving around Six and managing to get my body between him and the man just in time for a gunshot to ring pure and clear through the air.

Time freezes and every second is a handful of years. The pain is instant, but the bite is dulled by Six bellowing my name. I've never even heard his voice get that loud. It seems almost louder than the second gunshot that explodes nearer to my head, one that comes from Six and hits the lone intruder directly between the eyes.

I press my hands to the burning in my chest, and my shocked brain can't seem to comprehend what the thick, warm liquid that gushes around my fingers is. I see Six move in front of me and slowly look up at him, my head growing lighter by the second. His eyes are wild and frantic, not an ounce of calm in sight.

"Court," I breathe, and it's the only word I can get out before my legs give out. Courtland reacts instantly, lifting me in his arms and already moving for Claire's room.

"Hold on, honey. Hold on," He orders, his voice straining for indifferent but betrayed by its tremble. My blurring vision stays caught on the beautiful man who holds me, and for once his stoic nature is broken. In its stead is a panic that he barely keeps controlled.

"Six? Six what happened?" Claire calls out from somewhere in front of me.

"Claire, I need you to grab the keys and get the car started. We need to get your sister to a hospital, alright?"

I can hear Claire frantically rush out a million questions as she scrambles through the house. My vision begins to fade, voices begins to dull, and I can barely keep my eyes open as I feel myself being carried into the garage. I vaguely hear the roar of an engine and the opening of a car door. In the midst of it all, though, my eyes are on Court.

"Court," I whisper, and through the darkening haze I see the love of my life look down at me, his gaze breaking with something deathly close to tears, "Court I'm tired again"

"No baby," he interrupts, his voice breaking on the words so deeply that he has to clear his throat to keep his tone steady, "I need you to stay awake, alright sweetheart?"

I try to nod as he sets my down in the back seat with Claire and shuts the door. I can hear my sister sobbing and speaking to me as she presses down firmly on my chest, trying desperately to keep my blood from gushing out of my body. Then, Court's in the driver's seat and peeling out of the garage and down the road at an ungodly speed. The squeal of tires and the smell of burning rubber catch in me as my brain scrambles to hold onto anything and everything.

"Why did you do that, Y/N?" Court demands, his voice so angry and terrified and desperate, all at once showing more emotion than I have ever head from him. “Why did you that?"

I know he doesn't mean for me to answer, but in the midst of it all his voice is my lifeline to the living world. As the pain dulls and I feel myself being dragged underneath by the alluring peace of darkness, Sierra Six's voice keeps me tethered to reality a few minutes longer.

He was just supposed to be my bodyguard. He didn’t even want this job when he first started. He was my uncle’s employee and that was it.

And now, I’ve taken a bullet for him. I’d do it again, too. Over and over and over again.

Oh how things have changed.

"I couldn't let you die." My voice is weak and small, but he hears it through all of the commotion. As he tears down the dark road, his eyes meet mine in the review mirror. In them, I see his heart shattering. I see the guilt mounting and I see his very composure hanging by a thread.

"You should have let me."

Those words are the last things I hear before my world fades away into a nothingness so consuming that I almost welcome it.

|||

The next few hours—or days, of which I’m not sure—pass in a drug-induced haze that captures my mind in a knee-deep sludge.

There’s flashes of white coats and bright lights, needles and monitors, cold metal and blinding pain. Through it all, my mind struggles to keep pace and the confusion muddles every thought and leaves them to die on their way across a neuron to fruition. Eventually, the chaos settles into a blissful sleep.

That is, until the lights turn back on in my mind and this time, I can think clearly.

When I finally manage to get my eyes to open to the soft lighting of a hospital room, I remain still on the bed. I can hear voices mulling around me, and subconsciously I find myself searching and yearning for that one specific voice to grace my ears.

But it doesn't.

With a slight frown etched into my brow, I stir slightly on the hospital bed and turn my head to survey the room. The sources of the voices appear as I sweep my gaze to the chairs at my bedside. A small smile etches onto my lips. It's Uncle Fitz and Claire.

"Hey,"

My voice is barely a scratch of a whisper, but it makes my family go silent before me. They both whip their gazes towards me, and instantly whatever conversation the two were having before is long forgotten. Uncle Fitz and Claire hurry to my side, each speaking over the other to try and talk with me. Tears edge my gaze and I chuckle slightly, the motion making my chest ache painfully.

"One at a time," I manage out, smiling at the two. Uncle Fitz grabs ahold of my hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it and clutching it in his grasp as if at any moment I'll fade away.

"You gave us both one hell of a scare, kiddo,"

"Yeah," Claire chirps in, slapping my thigh lightly, "Don't do that again, Y/N"

She's saying something else, but my gaze sweeps through the rest of the room and something in my chest falls when I see only a stranger standing in the corner. No trace of Six. An odd spiraling sensation trickles through my chest. This room isn't complete without him.

"Where's Six?" I mumble, turning to look between a now silent Uncle Fitz and Claire. My uncle takes in a long breath and sits up slightly, keeping my hand in his.

"Y/N, this is Agent Williams. He will be watching over you and Claire from now on"

That trickle in my chest intensifies to a downpour, and suddenly someone is wrenching my heart in their grasp. My breathing quickens, my head spins, my soul trembles.

Where is Six? Where is he? Why isn't he here?

"Did you fire him?" I breathe out, my eyes wide and every emotion displayed plainly across my face.

"Y/N," Fitz sighs, hanging his head so to not look me in the eyes.

"Did you fire him?" I repeat, my heart beating so fast it could burst. Then, Uncle Fitzroy looks me in the eyes once more.

"No, sweetheart. He requested to be moved to another assignment."

And my heart, my very soul, fractures.

He's just so easily left us behind? After everything we've been through, after every day cooped up together, after slowly but surely breaking into my chest and stealing my heart, he's gone.

I don’t think so.

I only groan slightly as I sit up against my uncle’s protests, “Give me his location.”

Fitz freezes, his brows furrowing as he stands unsure beside my hospital bed, “Y/N, I can’t-“

“Give me his location,” I repeat, staring down my uncle, “You know it’s safe with me.”

Fitz holds my gaze for a few more moments, warring with himself over whether or not to give into my demands. I know I’ve won when he lets out a long sigh and pulls out his phone.

“You’re not gonna back down, so I guess I have to,” he wearily says. He fiddles around with his phone before putting it away and pulling out a burner phone from another pocket.

Does he just keep those things on hand?

“Here, I sent the location to this phone,” Uncle Fitz informs, slipping the burner phone into my hand, “But you’re not allowed to go until you’re healed up.”

I nod, grateful to take whatever bargain I can. As the day goes on, it turns into two. And then three. And then a week. And then two weeks. Before I know it, it’s been a month, and I’m still clutching the burner phone to my chest. A few more months and I’ll be able to hunt Six down. I’ll find him.

I have to.

|||

A few months later.

The cold wind whips against my cheeks angrily, making my skin nearly burn with the frost it holds. The buildings smattered around do little to break the icy temperatures, and neither does the throngs of people mulling around quietly with their thick coats tugged close. My eyes follow the buildings closely as I walk, and it isn’t long before I come to a pause and pull out the small burner phone Uncle Fitz gave me months ago in the hospital.

I check and then double check. This is it. This is the building.

Anxiety I hadn’t expected blossoms in the bottom of my gut as I stand before the apartment complex. A million doubts rush through my head, but I banish them with the reminder that, if nothing else, I am here to see Court one last time.

Even if that last time is me punching him across the face.

I shove past the crowd and hastily cross the street, getting lucky enough to slip in through the main entrance behind another tenant as they go in. The blast of stifled heat in the dingy, close to trashy, apartment lobby is enough to make me choke, but it’s welcome compared to the icebox of outside. I go unnoticed as I make my way to the stairwell beside the elevators that don’t seem all that trustworthy.

Fourth floor. Room 416. It should be the last one on the right.

I take each step slower than the last, my grit fizzling out the closer I get to the fourth floor. The stairwell is silent, leaving my brain plenty of room to run over and over and over again what could happen. Once again, I silence the thoughts by reminding myself of what spurred me to come here in the first place.

He left. Six left and I don’t think I can keep living like this without him.

What if he doesn’t want to stay with me? What if I mean as little to him as the next target? What if, what if, what if?

I don’t even pause to catch my breath when I reach the massive door marked with the Russian word for four. I shove through it and begin to blaze my way down the cramped hallway. My heart is racing but I don’t dare stop, don’t dare look back. I’ve come this far, I can’t turn around now.

I do pause, though, when I reach the last door on the right. Room 416.

“416,” I breathe, my heart slamming in my chest loud enough to reverberate through my being.

Then I raise my fist, and knock.

And knock.

And then knock again.

By the third round of knocking, it hits me that he’s probably not home. For some reason, that comforts me. I tug in a breath of stifled air and then pull out the pickpocketing kit I’d purchased weeks ago in case of this very scenario. With trembling fingers, I stoop down and begin to fiddle with the lock just as I’d practiced. It’s only a few minutes before I’m met with a surprising click.

It’s open.

I stash the kit and hold my breath as I take the cold doorknob in my grasp. Then, with a heart of both lead and hope, I turn it and enter his apartment. The moment I’m inside and the door is shut behind me, I know that I’ve reached the right place. The overwhelming smell of pine and snow and a hint of gum circulates, and that’s one smell I don’t think I’ll ever soon forget.

Casting my gaze around the darkened apartment, I notice it’s as I suspected. I can’t see anyone in here. I traipse my way into the main area of the small but quaint apartment. There’s a kitchen to my left, a small living room to my right, and a short hallway leading to a door that I presume is his bedroom before me.

I haven’t taken more than two steps towards the door when a pair of large, rough hands grasp my shoulders and shove me backwards until I’m colliding with the wall beside the kitchen. A massive, muscular arm comes up to bar my throat, and once my shock has subsided, I come to realize what’s happening. The familiarity of this is too strong.

Because it’s him. It’s Courtland.

He must be just as surprised to see me, because the moment recognition flares through those gorgeous, deadly eyes, his stubble-covered jaw slackens and so does his hold on my neck. He keeps me there against the wall, seeming to be frozen and uncomprehending of what stands before him. With his skin on mine and his face so close, I almost buckle to the floor as something I’ve been missing these last few months crashes into me. Something only Court makes me feel.

“This position seems familiar,” I finally whisper, breaking the thick, tense silence.

“Y/N” Six mumbles, the very sound of my name coming from his lips making me shiver.

He shoves away from me instantly, taking steps back to put space between us. Six runs a hand over his jaw as his gaze sweeps over me, slowly and scrutinizingly in the way he was trained. Only his gaze doesn’t make me feel like a target, it makes me feel…undone. I see his eyes stick on my upper torso. The exact spot that bullet slammed into me all those months ago. A certain pain flashes through his gaze before, in an instant, his unfeeling and unyielding demeanor returns.

Only this time there’s a difference. I can visibly see the strain it takes to hide whatever emotions are running through him.

“I’m okay,” I manage out, shattering the silence between us. I mentally scold myself for the stupid and fumbling excuse for a first greeting, but I press on nonetheless.

Court nods, his face blank as his eyes pierce into mine, “What are you doing here?”

His words send a dagger of hurt slicing through my heart, but I try to ignore it. Instead, I gather my nerve and say what I came here to stay.

“You weren’t there when I woke up”

I intended the words to be bold, convicting, confident. It surprises even me when they instead come out nearly laying bare every inch of affliction burdening me. My words are quiet, but they hit Six so hard I see him flinch the slightest bit.

“I’m just glad you woke up,” Six averts, but his words ring with truth. I feel tears I knew would come but desperately hoped wouldn’t begin to prick behind my eyes.

“Why did you leave?” I ask directly. I’m done beating around the bush.

“Y/N, it’s not as simple as-”

“Why did you leave?” I repeat, my words stronger and trembling only slightly at the end. Six sighs, clenching his jaw before he manages a response.

“I had a job, I failed at that job. When that happens, that usually means you don’t have that job anymore.” He sounds almost automated, as if he’d memorized those words.

“That sounds pretty simple to me,” I shoot back, anger I hadn’t anticipated beginning to burn in my gut, “But I’m calling bullshit.”

There’s a moment of silence and I can tell from the shift in his gaze that he’s going to tell me the truth.

I just hope I’m prepared for what it means.

“It is-,” he stops abruptly, barely reacting except for the tightening of his jaw and the clenching of his fists before him as he tries again, “Was my job to protect you. I couldn’t do that when you were willing to put yourself in danger around me.”

“You left me because I made you incapable of doing your job correctly?” I exclaim, my tone incredulous.

“It’s not about the damn job!” Six suddenly outbursts, and I go silent immediately. I’ve only ever heard him raise his voice now twice.

And the first was when he saw blood pouring from my chest.

“Protecting you,” Six continues, his normal volume returned but his voice strained, “It goes beyond the job.”

I don’t seem to have a response for that one. I don’t need to find one either, because Six can’t stop himself from taking a step closer to me.

“You once asked me what I wanted,” He murmurs, and even though we’re a few feet apart the air is electric. “Well, what I want can’t be near me if all she’ll do is put herself between me and a bullet.”

I’m fairly certain that my brain short-circuits, because his words won’t process.

What he wants.

What he wants.

Me? He wants me?

“You mean you-”

But just as quickly as his emotion has exploded, it’s gone. Court’s face hardens and he turns around, walking off back to where he was before I broke in.

“Your new bodyguard is good. He’ll take care of you.”

"Wait, Six. I-"

"I've got a job to take care of here, so I probably won't see you or Claire again. Keep her safe for me." His voice is so monotone, so careless, so...so strained to make it that way. I watch in utter shock as he mills around his apartment, grabbing a phone and a gun as he clearly prepares to leave.

"Six, don't shut down like this. We need to talk about what you just said." I insist. He acts as though I haven't spoken at all.

"If you'll excuse me," Six says curtly, pulling a suit jacket on and brushing past me and towards the door to his apartment. A certain panic grips my chest so tightly that my legs nearly give out.

He can't leave me, not again. I can't lose him. I can't.

"Six, wait!" I exclaim, trailing him towards the door. He doesn't turn around, "Please, just talk to me."

Six makes it to the apartment door and swings it open. As he does, despair that threatens to suffocate me invades my chest. I'm slowly beginning to realize that this is it. He's going to walk out that door and everything that has happened in the time I've known him, everything he's become to me, will be over.

"Court, please. Don't leave me,"

Six freezes in his step, the door still in his grasp and his frame halfway through the opening. My heart slams into my throat, hope making it pick up its pace as he stands with his back to me, his body clearly heaving with breath.

"If you meant what you just said," I falter slightly, only slightly, before I throw all caution to the wind, "Then you have to know that I want you too, you have to know that. Shit, Court I more than want you. I-"

My words die as Six is suddenly moving, storming back into the apartment and slamming the door behind him. I stare with wide eyes as he suddenly approaches me, and the next thing I know his hands are cupping my face and his face is so close to mine that all thoughts leave me. His eyes search mine as he pauses, no emotions held back this time.

"This isn't safe for you," Court rasps. I can hardly focus as his eyes drop to my lips with a desire so strong in them that a shiver runs down my spine.

"I'm safest with you," I assure. Court shakes his head slightly, his thumb running across my cheek.

"You just had to go and say my name," He murmurs.

Then Court connects his lips to mine, and for the first time in my life I know what it is to live.

His lips move in perfect harmony with mine, his warmth overwhelming me and overheating me. His large, calloused hands on me are everything and not enough all at once and when one slips into my hair and tugs me closer, I know.

He is danger, he is the dark, he is everything I was warned about as a child. And he's the love of my life.

"No more jumping in front of bullets for me," Court orders once he pulls back. My lips twitch up slightly.

"No promises."

[whumpypepsigal]

The Gray Man (2022): Ryan Gosling as Court Gentry "Sierra Six"

[feral-fae-writes]

Remove with a Cleft, Rewire the Dread || Trompe l'oeil

A/N: I was peer-pressured into posting this. Just as well, because lighting a fire under my ass is the only way to get my brain to cooperate. This was difficult for me to write, but nothing easy is worth doing. Features my OC and @anotherdayinchuckletown's OC, Olivia. As always, enjoy, or don't; I don't know how fucked up y'all are. Again, Minors DNI, please.

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Courtland Gentry x Female!OC, Sierra Six x Female!OC

Wordcount: 6,508

Type: Multi-Parter

Rating: Mature Content / 18+ || tw: whump, injury, torture, non-con, imprisonment, sexual assault, hospitalization, homicide, evil doppelgänger, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

Summary: Creatures of the ash, ghosts he thought were long dead, come back to haunt Courtland Gentry. It was foolish to think that he could run — ironic, given his line of work — and it was foolish for him to not trust his instincts, and now the consequences were rippling out, and blood was mixed with water. And it was all because of him, and she could see no one else.

Trompe l'oeil

It wasn’t meant to happen like this. She wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Six was the one that always got hurt, that was his role. An asset, a weapon — a grey man. Disposable. All he could do was wait; he’d fought to keep her with him, but she’d been dragged away to another part of the damn prison compound, and it was like a maze race, and Six was Algernon, and he couldn’t even get to the starting line. 

Shit. Shit!

Six slammed the weight of his whole body against the bars of the cell, and let out a scream of rage. He was bloody, and — he had to admit, beaten — and he didn’t even have his usual ingenuity on hand. He knew how he thought; it was in his blood. He’d taken her, stolen her senses from her too, and was doing God knew what. He hoped, he prayed, but he knew how deep the poison ran. He could only imagine — and imagination was often so much worse.

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He’d removed her blindfold. His painfully iron grip around her was secure, and still familiar; it looked like him, but it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him at all — but it was his touch, it was his lips, his hands, voice, body… but it wasn’t him at all. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

“Please…” She whimpered, nails digging into his arms, “please stop…” “I thought I said you weren’t allowed to talk. I’ll have to torture you more for that.”

She vehemently shook her head in abject fear, then, in spite of herself, the begging fell from her lips.

“No, no, no, no…”

“Punishment it is, then.” Her cries of agony echoed throughout the entire building, pure anguish given a pitiful, hoarse voice. Thinking wasn’t an option. She had to retreat within herself, had to find some way to cope, to survive. The pieces of her could be picked up later.

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When she was finally thrown into the cell beside him, in the dim light, he breathed a tentative sigh of relief. At least she was within his line of sight. He’d heard everything through the walls, faint echoes of every moan and sob and sound of pain from her mouth. He felt a strange sort of shame; even though he knew he wasn’t the one responsible, his expression crumpled. He never wanted to hear that pain coming from her mouth, but he had no choice but to listen.

Now, she was completely silent, her eyes glassy and dissociative. Unresponsive. She pitifully crawled to one corner of her cell, dragging one leg behind. It wasn’t broken, as far as Six could tell — god forbid — but she certainly had a limp. He couldn’t bear to look, but couldn’t look away. The anger settled further underneath his skin, intertwining itself with every fibre of his being, as he took in her condition. Among all the signs of physical torture, the bruises and the cuts, the wound at her neck — as if a creature had tried to sink its nails into her throat and never let go —  the one thing that didn't escape him was how wet she was, soaked through, arousal crawling down her right leg, slightly pinkish from her own blood. 

He’d left his marks: several royally purple bruises and animalistic bite wounds at her inner thigh, groin, and just shy of inside her. He’d tried to force his way with almost every part of her… Six would kill him slowly, then. He wasn’t usually one for making things personal — his work demanded that — but this was from the moment he premeditated. Deep down inside, Six was horrified, too. He knew why she’d been so violently raped, that Caleb wanted to fuck with him, knew it’d fuck with him. A faint whimper of fear snapped Six back to reality. She was curled up, trying to make herself as small as possible, her eyes huge with panic. And she was trying to get away from him. Her lip was split. He wanted to comfort her, but he had no idea what to say. So he just whispered.

“Fiona.”

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She froze, zeroing in on her name in the darkness. It was his voice. For just a second, she relaxed, but the creeping anxiety and fear were hard to fight. She wasn’t safe. She would never be, or feel, safe again. But she had to be strong for both of them. She had to.

“S’okay,” she slurred, distantly. But the word was a flat, monotonous thing, falling from her tongue like lead. It was a lie: a big, ugly, stupid lie that was betrayed by her blood, and the streak of wet, and the smears of shame, and the angry, purple blotches on her battered skin. She was numb, so very numb. Too numb to feel much of anything, now. Just a creeping sense of caustic shame that made it impossible to meet Six's eyes.

A choked sob escaped her shaking body.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I... I couldn't fight; I— I... didn't want to— I'm sorry..." She cracked then, incapable of saying anything more, and broke down, sobbing in confusion. When he tried to reach through the bars to comfort her, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling away. It was instinct. It was him. She knew she was shattering his heart with every word, but she couldn’t repair the damage, nor could she live bandaging open wounds.

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He heard his twin brother’s footsteps before she did. Six slammed himself against the bars, prompting, regrettably, a flinch from Fiona, but now was not the time to waste time pondering this turn of events. He was going to kill — no, violently murder — Caleb. He rattled the bars, tried to brute-force his way out, to no avail. The eventual realisation sunk in like dead weight, which he was in this situation. He was helpless.

He was helpless as Caleb picked her up like a ragdoll — a scared, limp body who reflexively curled against a monster who looked like the person she loved. She didn’t fight. He could tell she had no fight left in her, not anymore. She couldn’t even pick her head up as he shifted her weight in his arms, only letting out a pitiful moan of fear.

And what could he do? Nothing.

Caleb was smiling like he was insane, a hell-bent thing that only wanted revenge. It was disconcerting, seeing his own face wear such an evil grin. And then he laughed, like nothing was wrong. Like he didn’t have their lives and their love in the palm of his hand.

“She’s so pretty, Court. Pretty fucking fragile, too,” he hummed, tilting his head. “How do you feel right now?”

“I feel like kicking your ass,” Six replied immediately, tongue darting out to lick his own lips. Reflexively, he clenched his fingers into a fist. He was ready to fight to the death if he had to. He’d done it before, more than once, but he’d never had to fight himself. This was just another Thursday. It had to be. “Why?” he asked, voice measured.

“‘Why?’ ‘Why?’” Caleb repeated, tone burning with rage. “I don’t know, asshole, maybe because you fucking betrayed me! You left! I was shoved into foster for three damn years, then orphaned and homeless once I aged out of the system, and it was hell on earth,” he finished, laughing shakily. “I saved your life,” Six growled. 

“Only to leave me to fend for myself,” Caleb shot back. “I was in prison. You were there when I was on trial. In fact, I think you belong behind bars, not me.” Six replied, spitting through the divide between them. The spit landed on his twin’s right shoe, exactly on target. Caleb didn’t continue to verbally spar. He had no more words. The sound of a switchblade was audible in the proceeding silence. He put the blade to Fiona’s already wounded throat, and gently pressed, letting a few droplets of blood. When he spoke, his voice was turbulent, unstable, a hiss through twin teeth. He was taunting his brother.

“You didn’t save me. You killed me. And now I’m gonna do the same to you, from the inside out. It would be so easy to just… take her apart now. Wanna see how?” He asked.

“No, Caleb. I don’t.” Six fell quiet, then, blue-grey eyes suddenly burning with tears. Caleb continued as if Six hadn’t replied, left brow raising in mock-curiousity.

“No? Hey, how about this: if you don't comply exactly with what I want, I might get bored of our little game, and decide to end it — and her — for good! So if you care at all, you better not take your eyes off her for a fucking second.”

Six roared in pure rage. It was all he could do. He didn’t want to beg, or plead, or stoop to his brother’s level. He was beaten by the person who knew him best: himself. When he finally replied, voice raspy, it was with more strength and composure than he felt.

“Fine.”

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The twin’s black-gloved fingers cruelly dug into her chin, as he turned her face towards Six; he wanted his brother to see everything as she came undone, weeping and whining. She struggled in his grip, to at least turn her face away, but the twin — Caleb — didn't budge. 

“Don’t look,” she whispered, pleading to no one. “Don’t look…” she repeated, meeting the grey gaze she knew so well. Caleb’s expression turned dark, he dug his nails in further, and she yelped.

“That’s not how we’re playing our game. Let him see you, doll,” he said scathingly.

“I’m— not your…” Doll.

Fiona couldn’t finish her sentence, instead letting out a mournful gasp. Again, she tried to struggle out of his grip to no avail.

“Au contraire, if you’re his, which I can tell you’re all too happy to be, you’re mine.”

Fiona shook her head weakly, breathing shallow and fast. He was waiting for something. She craned her head to look at Six, tried to twist away from him and towards him; the shame in her heart stretched out into her limbs, but there was nothing left for her to hold onto. 

“Please, Six—”

“Watch me fuck your girl.” Caleb said, cutting her off. She heard a short, tiny gasp from between her own lips, before the pain of forced entry bloomed between her legs. That didn’t sound like her, and this wasn’t Six. The gasp turned into cries of pain. She couldn’t speak, but her sobs said everything without words behind them.

“That’s right, doll. Beg for this to stop.”

This wasn’t Six, but his hands were cradling her jaw, were combing her hair back — his hips were angling to kill, peeling back her defences like the smoky curl of a burning cigarette. This wasn’t him. He was pistoning into her, tearing her apart, but she was only conscious of him — in that messy, disparaging, desperate way that the body understands more than the mind. This wasn’t him. Through the haze and the tears, she tried to crawl towards that thought, but it kept slipping just as her fingertips ghosted the grey.

Fiona felt hot liquid inch down her leg. Was that blood, or her body betraying her again? She didn’t want this. But the tiny knot in her abs was there regardless. It would unwind itself eventually, but, for now, it coiled tighter and tighter.

“Beg!” he growled, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust. She felt it on the inside, hitting against her cervix. She saw white. Beg. She couldn’t stop the sounds of both pain and pleasure leaving her lips. She didn’t want to beg. She just wanted to return the pain somehow, and that need crystallised into a not-so distant plan.

Her hands found his throat, weakly scratched for attention. His eyes were on hers. Perfect. Gasping and moaning as if in desire, she reached up and kissed him, then bit down on his lip in retaliation, as hard as she could. She wasn’t necessarily thinking. She knew what it looked like.

Six… The thought trailed into an unspoken apology.

The monster who looked like the man she loved let out a scream of pain, pulling back. It did not equate to hers. His bottom lip was bleeding, two vampire bites leaking his own blood. He spat it back into her face. She flinched, losing her nerve, and the knot frayed. She came on herself, a weak orgasm rippling through. She felt cold. “You— you bitch!” He yelled, breathing heavily, before pulling her off him, holding the girl up like a kitten. He threw her to her knees, and she didn’t move a muscle, looking up at him. Her eyes were glassy. That last ditch effort had been just that; she didn’t know why she did it, but he was only observing her like a predator, one gloved hand covering his wounded mouth, before something dark — something devilish — appeared behind his eyes. He lowered his gloved hand, and smiled. His voice was soft, almost comforting. “I made your girl cum, Court,” he goaded. “She’s my tortured sex doll, and she’ll never be anything else. I won. And now, just to rub it in, I’m gonna make her suck my cock.”

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As much as it pained him, Sierra Six — Courtland Gentry — didn’t look away, even though hot tears were trailing down his face and into his beard. He was too strong for her to fight off, and he knew that, because she was against him — those same arms that always held her securely were now a selfish vice, treating her like an object. She was on her knees now. 

He kicked her closer to him, and shoved himself down her throat. She’d already been crying, but now she was too fragile to even react, reflexively gagging with that same numb stare. Out of the corner of his eye, Six watched more wetness escape between her legs, before Caleb demanded his attention. “You’ve trained your bitch well, haven’t you?” Caleb asked, laughing. It was more of a bark than anything, bitter and vindictive. “How much do you want to bet I can make her cum again?”

Six’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t going to give his brother the satisfaction of getting a reply, but the tears continued.

“Suck me off, darlin’,” Caleb commanded, a self-satisfied southern drawl creeping in on darlin’. 

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Numbly, Fiona did as he asked, like a robot. The growly moans that left her torturer’s mouth— God, she knew them. She’d heard them vibrate against her own chest, shaking her whole world and the body that belonged to it. She wasn’t really there, not anymore. He’d already tortured her, used her, and there wasn’t anything left behind. So when he shoved her off him, just as he was about to cum, she was both confused and indifferent. He was breathing heavily, ragged and taut. The twin’s gaze drifted to the ghost in the metal shell, and he tilted his head. Another idea had occurred to him, darker than the last. She saw it in his eyes. “No!” The scream that left Courtland Gentry’s throat was one possessed. Fiona felt more than heard his heavy body sliding down the cell bars, but his eyes never left hers — both pairs of them.

He picked her up again, and she didn’t dissent. This time, he flipped her over, onto her stomach, positioning her on her hands and knees — a bruised Barbie to his killer Ken. She was staring into his eyes, but he was behind her, and she was so lost and confused and afraid, and he was enraged and afraid, and there was nothing but fear and pain within that moment of waiting for what they both knew was about to happen. I’m so sorry.

She screamed.

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She screamed, just like he knew she would. She screamed, despite the fact that he was lubed from her own spit, despite the fact that every movement against her body was familiar. She screamed, because they’d never done anal; that was her line, her hard No, Never, Not For Fifteen Million Merits thing, because she was terrified of the pain.

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And, God, was it painful. It was worse than when he’d rammed against her cervix; she was no longer seeing white, she was seeing static grey blooms that were the precursor to unconsciousness. She was too weak to move, to speak, to feel. 

But he didn’t care. The distant, hyper-aware part of her knew that. All he cared about was ensuring the three two of them knew that he unequivocally owned her now, that he’d ravaged and forced himself into every part of her, taken up the space where her heart used to be and replaced it with absence. 

He broke her. ------------------------------------------------------ She hadn’t moved after his brother came inside her ass. She was gone. In the moment he came and she left, Six had made a plan. His brother didn’t bother to clean her up, but he did have the grace to dump her in the corner of the cell beside him. She was in a tangled heap in her own wetness, his cum, and her own blood. Her breathing was so shallow, her chest was barely able to rise and fall.

Six scanned his cell, scanned Fiona’s and Fiona herself, before spotting the ring on her left hand. Her ring. It had been Dani’s idea, and he’d had it custom-made: the band could lock and and unlock, splitting into two halves to reveal a blade that could cut through most anything as if it were a hot knife through butter. He prayed it could melt through steel beams. Stretching to reach her hand, he ever-so-gently slid it off her finger. She didn’t respond, but he could see in her eyes that she was afraid, not of him, but of him, and he could do nothing except watch from the outside as she fell apart within. He got to work, fingers and hands delicately breaking one into two. The blade was as precise as Six was lethal. He slipped it back onto her finger when he was done.

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Caleb knew as soon as Courtland managed to escape, the latter would go after him, and Courtland knew he knew. They cornered each other in the stairwell, below fluorescent red light. Neither twin spoke, waiting for the other. Caleb was the one who eventually broke the silence, his words slurred from a wounded mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, panting, but he looked violently alive.

“What do you say, Six, you wanna dance?” He asked, swallowing his own blood with a gasp. Six must’ve betrayed something within his expression, because Caleb began to laugh. “Yeah, I know all about you — the infamous Sierra Six…” Caleb said, trailing off to breathe, panting a bit before he continued further. “She doesn’t even know your real name, does she?” 

Courtland Gentry — Sierra Six — didn’t reply, only let out a small sniff. His right hand clenched into a fist. “She does,” he whispered.

“Does she call you Six in bed, too?” His brother asked, mocking.

“No, she doesn’t,” he replied, expression turning grim; his jaw clenched in barely withheld rage.

“Do you even know who you are anymore? More importantly, does she?” He pressed, a low, gurgling chuckle escaping his throat.

“Shut up!” Six roared. He threw the first punch, which his brother ducked. Six grabbed him with his other hand, using his brother’s momentum against him. He threw his twin down the stairs, and they rolled together, Caleb spitting blood into Six’s face; they both groaned in pain when they hit the basement floor. Six got to his feet first, offered out a gloved hand to his brother, only to throw his weight back to the floor. Caleb swung his legs outward to trip Six, who fell face-first onto concrete. The sharp sound of breaking bone echoed outwards, but he wasn’t going to waste time. Six dizzily got to his feet, adrenaline keeping him up. The blood from his nose trickled into his mouth. It tasted of iron, and regret. They were evenly matched, and circled one another like vultures would the twin corpse.

He tasted blood, but his brother would choke on it.

This time, Caleb was the one who swung — a left hook, which Six blocked with his right forearm, twisting around to capture his brother in a headlock. Caleb began to laugh, spitting his own blood onto Six’s arms. He wasn’t fighting back. Six began to growl, a deep thing from his ribcage, before he gasped. He felt the shot before he heard it, stumbling back with a grunt as the bullet grazed his side.

“You’re a shit shot,” He managed to quip, ducking as Caleb let off another. “Who brings a gun to a fistfight?” 

“What makes you think I’d give up a loaded gun?” Caleb asked.

“Nobody throws a loaded gun, Caleb,” Six gasped in reply, gritting his teeth against the white-hot pain blooming from his side.

“My point exactly! You know me so well,” Caleb replied tauntingly, as he removed the shells and tossed the pistol aside. “Happy now?”

Six paused to catch his breath, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Like hell he was going to walk away.

“What do you think?” Six asked, a ghost of a grimace on his face. “Probably not,” Caleb replied, chuckling weakly, shaking his head. For a second, the ghost of who he used to be came back to life. 

With a roar and tears biting at his eyes, Six ran full-tilt towards his twin, tackling him against the opposite wall. Caleb landed on hard concrete with a heavy thump, groaning as more blood escaped his mouth, spraying Six in the face with dark red droplets. Six saw nothing but red, in more ways than one. The pair stood there, grappling, breaths ragged and heavy and wrapped in the grey, each trying to find purchase to hurt the other. Caleb tried to gouge Six’s eyes out, failed, gouged the skin of his temples instead; Six pressed his palms flat against his brother’s windpipe in return, gradually collapsing the airway. He watched the light leave his own eyes, and Caleb’s hands fell away. 

The asphyxiation was quick, as much as he’d intended otherwise. Sierra Six had saved his brother, and now, he had killed him. Revenge was a hollow thing; they’d both suffered enough, and he couldn’t bring himself to continue it. After everything, he had been merciful. Neither of them deserved mercy. 

The door to the basement stairwell slammed shut before the body hit the floor. ------------------------------------------------------

Fiona heard the basement door slam from two floors above. She flinched, jolting out of her dissociation with a whimper. Pulling her knees to her chest, she could only stare at her condition, limp limbs tangled up. She could still feel his cum dripping out of her, and feel her own sticky shame. She pressed her thighs together. 

She didn’t want to feel the mingling and swirling around underneath her. It was already shameful enough that she was collapsed there, in that pool of cum and blood, curled up in the corner of her cell. She began to wail. No one answered. Eventually, she exhausted what little energy she had left. 

She passed out, holding herself for comfort.

------------------------------------------------------

Sierra Six — Courtland Gentry — took the time to find clothes and patch himself up, courtesy of the abandoned prison compound’s amenities and the retrieval of his backpack. There was no running water, but he wasn’t focused on looking nice just yet; he had to get Fiona gone. He’d found a janitorial cap to hide his face, and a jacket to cover and staunch his wounds. That would do.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to touch her. He had to find something — anything — to wrap her in, assuming she still wasn’t responsive. If she was, he just hoped she wouldn’t gouge his eye out. He ended up finding a spare tarp — presumably to protect the front lawn foliage against heavy rain — buried behind the linens in the janitorial closet. That would do. 

God, would he kill for a honey bun right now.

------------------------------------------------------

She didn’t hear his footsteps, but she saw them, out of slitted, barely open eyes. Maybe he was Death, here to claim her, too. He kept his head low, a dark brown baseball cap hiding his face, but she recognised his build. She tried to play dead, but he must’ve seen her flinch back, because as soon as she shifted, he froze, hands up.

“Get away from me, you monster,” she croaked, but nothing came out from between her lips, besides a weak mewling. 

“Fiona,” he whispered, stepping forward a few paces. “I’m here to get you out of here. Get you gone. Okay? We’re gonna get you cleaned up.”

“Don’t— don’t touch me,” she tried again. Again, no words left her mouth. She was effectively mute. She stared at him, eyes big orbs of fear, as he knelt down and gently picked her up. She flinched again, more violent than the last, in his arms. She knew those arms… But there was no torture this time. He just wrapped her up in a giant, plasticky blanket. She had a hard time believing it, but she could barely move, let alone escape his grip. She could barely see under the cap — he kept his face carefully angled away from her field of view — but she knew. His face was already burnt into her brain as the face of the man who hurt her beyond belief.

------------------------------------------------------

And Six knew this. He heard and saw it all — both when it happened, and, currently, in her eyes. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she was right back with his brother with every attempted glance towards his face. And it broke his heart. 

He was Sisyphus, punished by the gods, but here he was a pantheon. He walked out of the compound and out of hell, silent as Death but as determined as Hades, his Persephone in his arms.

------------------------------------------------------

He took her to a hospital. It wasn’t a normal hospital; she could tell that solely based on the atmosphere. They went into an elevator, down, down, down. She watched him tap his ear, and then he spoke, voice still quiet.

“I’m here, Dani. Is Claire safe?”

They must’ve spoken before. She didn’t know anyone named Dani. Did she? “Things got loud, that’s all. Be glad you’re not going to either of our funerals.”

Fiona didn’t want to die, not yet. Sometimes, she felt like she was — like ghosts and ghouls were wrapping around her head. 

“Fiona… Fiona’s been better.” His voice broke slightly, on better, but he continued. “You know what, Miranda? I’m trying to figure out what answer it is that you want.”

A pause in the conversation, as she responded.

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He asked. He hung up on Dani, whoever she was.

The elevator doors opened up into an emergency wing. There were soldiers stationed at every corner, in every hallway. He took her to a room at the end of the main hall. It was empty. He opened up the plastic blanket, peeling back the bedsheet at the same time, and laid her down. She wanted to fall asleep right there, but she couldn’t. She stared up at the ceiling, and watched him out of the corner of her eye. He couldn’t look at her; instead, he pressed the button that called for a nurse. 

His hand shook, ever so slightly.

------------------------------------------------------

When the nurse arrived, Six stepped out of the room. He stayed by the doorway to keep an eye on Fiona, but kept his eyes to the floor and his head low. He spoke to the nurse in a whispered tone — not to hide anything, but to spare Fiona more pain. The nurse, Maggie — Six felt a pang of sorrow, remembering Cahill for just a moment — listened with a sympathetic ear. She couldn’t understand what had happened during the op, not really. But she did understand the situation. She knew the line of work she was in.

“So you can help her recover?”

“Of course, Mr. Gentry.”

“Thanks,” he replied. The exhaustion settled in then, along with the relief, but he had something left to do. “And where can I get cleaned up?”

“You don’t want to use the patient restroom just in here…?” She paused, glancing at Fiona’s prone form in concern, before the realisation settled behind her eyes. “Ah. I understand, Mr. Gentry. I can direct you to a guest bathroom,” she whispered.

“Thanks.” ------------------------------------------------------

A pair of female nurse examiners came in, asking permission to spread her legs apart. Fiona let them. When they examined the inside of her mouth, her vagina, and her asshole, she let them. When they combed samples of hair, spit, blood, cum, and sweat off her body, she let them. When they took forensic images of her sore skin and bruised body, she let them. When they traded her clothes and lace for a hospital gown over clinically white underwear, she let them. She accepted whatever they wanted to do to her without question. It’s not like she could’ve disagreed. It’s not like she could’ve fought them.

However, when they asked her questions, she could say nothing. She couldn’t move a muscle. He’d left. He couldn’t speak for her, and nor did she want him to, but at least he could explain himself. When they left, promising to come back when she was ready, he still wasn’t back. She saw them exchange a look on their way out.

When the orderlies came in, they took her out of bed and into the bathroom. They bathed her under the spray of a thin, hard-water antiseptic shower. She let them. She listened to them arrange follow-up procedures for preventative care, their voices echoing around the bathroom, though none of it mattered to her. She watched a fly buzz on the mirror light. When they took her back to bed, Fiona just laid there. They’d turned the television on, but she had no interest in it. She kept her eyes on the triple-padlocked door and the red keycard light above it, and simply waited for red to turn green.

------------------------------------------------------

Under the yellowish glare of the locked guest bathroom, Six finally removed the janitor’s cap. He scanned himself in the mirror, angling his face this way and that, fingers pressed to his throat, then nose. With a grunt, he set the broken bone back into place. More blood gushed over his lips; he coughed as dark blood splattered white porcelain. “Shit,” he gasped. The word came out a reaction instead of a response. He’d never broken his nose this badly before. There was dried blood on the left side of his face, rivulets of red like rain down a car window. He combed back sweaty, dirty blonde hair, then turned the tap, as far as it could go. Cold water gushed, turning redrum into pink — under the light, his blood could’ve been mistaken for too-sour lemonade. He took stock of the tiny half-bath. It'd be another shower with a washrag. Fine by him. His backpack was in the corner; he knelt down with a small groan, unzipped it. He took out what he needed, methodically laying everything out on top of the toilet’s tank, then tossed the jacket and his black shirt to the floor. It took all of five minutes, washrag tap bath included, and then, when he was dressed again, he picked up the razor.

Always look like shit, always clean up nice. 

Six stared at himself in the mirror, letting out an exhausted sniff. The soreness was really settling in now. He lifted the razor to his right cheek, then his left, going with the grain and trying to be as careful as he could on each side. He had no shaving cream, so when he eventually nicked himself, it was a sharp stab of dull pain. He sucked in a hiss through his teeth, let out another sniffle, then continued. The cut was a small and shallow one, along his jaw. It didn’t bleed, just glistened, mocking him for being unable to cry. 

When he left the guest bathroom, the janitorial cap was back on, along with his shirt, jacket, and backpack. He kept his head low and his hands in his pockets.

------------------------------------------------------- When the keycard light finally turned green, Fiona braced herself for the person that would walk through the door. She knew who it would be. She was scared of who it was.

He opened the door with a click-click-click; it swung inwards, then back. The door locked itself. Green turned red. Fiona followed him with only her eyes. He walked past her bed, into the opposing bedside chair, head low and hands in pockets. 

He’d shaved. There was a skin-deep cut along his jawline. She could see just slightly past the brim of the cap, too; his nose was bruised.

He adjusted in his seat, pulled the cap lower over his face, and attempted to sleep, assuming he wasn’t pretending. Fiona let out a held breath. Her bangs fluttered in front of her face. She could escape, maybe, but that would require stealing his keycard, and she didn’t want to risk that.

He’d rape her again.

The television, though its volume was low, felt loud. It was the elephant in the room, taking up silent, empty space with its sound. Fiona refused to look away from him. She wouldn’t take her eyes off of him for a goddamn second.

------------------------------------------------------

He could feel her distrust. It radiated off her in waves, her eyes fearfully baleful as she stared a hole into his janitorial cap. On the T.V. was an old movie, from a few years after Courtland was born; he knew it, but he had no idea how. Three boys were in an old beater; all three were greasers. Two were eating like they were starving, one was smoking. The smoker took a drag, then laughed grimly.

“Man, that broad sure does hate me. I offered to take her over to The Dingo for a Coke, and she told me to go to hell.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that — a dark, bittersweet, wounded thing — from underneath his cap. Even to his own ears, it sounded weird. He felt hollow.

A second later, her heart monitor flatlined.

No, no, no…!

Shoving down his panic, Courtland rushed towards the door, keycard already in hand. On his way, he punched the button for the on-call nurse.

As soon as he was out the door, the heart monitor peaked from nothing and returned to normal, as if she was coming back from the dead. He wasn’t around to hear it. The door was already locked behind him: click-click-click.

------------------------------------------------------

“Aline! Que fais-tu, ma fille?” “Rien! Je promet!”

“Non, non, tu fais quelque chose,” her father replied, teasing her.

Aline pouted. “Qu'est-ce que je fais, papa?”

“Tu es... trop adorable!” Aline’s father said, going in for the kill; he began to tickle her. In spite of trying, Aline couldn’t keep a straight face, and fell into a fit of giggles.

------------------------------------------------------

Courtland ran past the nurse that was going in the opposite direction. He didn’t know exactly where he was headed, just that he needed to find her records. He was listed as her emergency contact, so he had access to them, within reason. He just had to talk to the right people, pull the right strings. He would wait. He had no choice but to wait, but he would wait for her. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder. He resisted the sudden urge to retaliate and fight back; it was only a doctor.

“Mr. Gentry?” The doctor asked. After a moment, Courtland recognised her as the residential physician for the floor — her name card said as much: Dr. Olivia Holland.

“Dr. Holland,” he replied, catching his composure in his throat. 

“May I speak with you for a moment? Concerning your fiancée?”

Courtland blinked, taken aback for a moment. He suddenly felt so juvenile, and in a few ways, maybe he was. Growing up in a jail cell made you tough, but in none of the right ways. He’d had no say in his life.

“I was just—”

“Going to find the patient records room?” Dr. Holland asked in reply, raising an amused brow. “You know you need only ask. You have prior authorisation.” She reminded him, giving a wink. He did not have prior authorisation. Dr. Holland was only a handful or two years older than him, yet it was as if she knew something he didn’t, or that they shared something unsaid.

“I know,” Courtland exhaled. The exhaustion was in his bones. “I just don’t have time to ask.”

“Come with me, then.”

------------------------------------------------------

Fiona came back to herself in the same white hospital bed. Her eyes flickered to the door. The keycard light was red, and the door was locked. Her eyes moved to the bedside. He had left. She was alone. Her eyes flickered to the television.

“I liked you from the start. The way we talked. Wouldn't you try to help me if you could?”

“Can you see the sunset from the Southside very good?”

“Yeah. Real good.”

“You can see it from the Northside, too.” 

“Thanks, Ponyboy. You dig okay.” Fiona let a whimper out into the silence. She felt so faint, so fragile, but there was nowhere she could go. Where would she go? She’d left her papa across the ocean, and her mama was in the grave. Her papa probably was, too, at this point. Fiona heard a small beep. A machine had picked up some response from her internal system. Was she panicking? She only felt numb and so, so sleepy. She saw the haze crawl over her eyes before she fell back into memory.

“You want to go to America, ma cherie? What for?”

“I want to live, papa! I don’t want to stay here and rot, you know. Mama said—”

“I don’t care what she said. You think America will give you excitement? That it will give you an adventure? C’est dangereux!” He wasn’t angry; rather there were tears in his eyes. He wanted to respect his wife’s dying wish, but he couldn’t let his Aline go, he just couldn’t. She could see it in his eyes; that was precisely why she was being so adamant.

“I will go; Mama wished for me to go, and I am going to fulfill it, whether you like it or not!”

“Then go. Don’t come back here, ma fille. I will not be here when you come back.”

He wasn’t angry. Aline almost wished he was. Even so, she turned and walked away, bags and luggage on her arm, and began the long walk to the airport. She was going to fly to America.

[goodwhump-temp]

Ryan Gosling Whump - Multiple Movies

The Nice Guys - Holland March

06:00 - Hungover 07:00 - Shaving cut 09:50 - Dumb asf, glass cut, profusely bleeding, weak, ambulance, weak, high (drogas) 12:30 - Punched, bloody nose, thrown, kicked, knocked down, left radius fractured, aiaiai scream, arm casted 22:00 - Upset 25:25 - Jumpscare 37:00 - Can't smell 41:50 - Drunk, falls off balcony, rolls down hill, pain, freaks out, nausea 51:00 - Car crash 58:50 - Drinking in misery, passes out 1:05:00 - Berated ((1:06:35) adorable interaction) 1:11:25 - Shaking (scared), screams 1:20:00 - Hallucinating, car crash, screaming 1:24:30 - Shot at, screams (???), freaks out (mishandled gun) 1:35:00 - Held at gunpoint, misinterprets life & dream, 1:39:40 - "Drunk", "crying", falls from roof, hallucinating, freaks out x2, shot at, chased, falls from different roof, hit by car, emotionally happy, limping 1:50:30 - Freaks out (bee)

The Grey Man - Sierra Six

01:00 - Prison 09:10 - Punched multiple times, hit with bar x2, manhandled 26:30 - Betrayed, punched, headbutted, plane torn in half, falling 40:20 - Badass 44:20 - Scars, abusive father 47:00 - Betrayed, falls down well, coughing, bloody mouth, limp 53:30 - Pepper-sprayed, annoyed, jumps out window, limp, held at gunpoint, betrayed-ish, handcuffed, tranquilized 58:00 - Drowsy 1:06:30 - Shot at, knocked back from explosion, held at gunpoint 1:09:40 - Chased by two different groups, hit by car, pain, restrained x2, shot at, caught in the middle of firefight, cornered on train, manhandled, elbowed, jumps off derailing train 1:19:50 - Fake injury 1:20:40 - Hand stabbed, body slammed, pain (obvio), headbutted, punched, kicked into glass, decked, punched, stabbed w/ scissors, wacked with defibrilator x2, shot at, bleeding out 1:25:00 - Bleeding out, bandaging, talks about childhood 1:38:00 - Headbutted, shot at 1:43:00 - Boss fight, punched x6, sliced x6, stabbed x3, drowning x2 (irl/flashback), shot, bleeding out, tired, medevac

Drive - Ryan Gosling

03:00 - Looks tired 15:20 - Car crash stunt 35:00++ - Heartbroken 41:00 - Annoyed 51:30 - Nervous, shot at 59:00 - Annoyed 1:01:00 - Ambushed/betrayed, shot at 1:03:00 - Stitches, angry/sad? 1:05:00 - Angry 1:10:05 - Slapped 1:12:00 - Angry outburst, emotional, betrayed, angry 1:22:00 - Crying 1:26:00 - Car crash 1:29:00 - Sad/scared 1:32:00 - Stabbed, bleeding profusely

Stay - Henry Letham

The whole movie - Suicidal/depressed 1:21:00 - Head bleeding 1:23:00 - Emotional confrontation 1:25:00 - Saddest shit you'll ever see in your entire life

Crazy Stupid Love - Jacob Palmer

1:29:00 - Freaking out, punched, manhandled-ish, tackled by 4 guys

Barbie - Ken (I don't want to watch the movie)

somewhere near the beginning - heartbroken somewhere near the middle - heartbroken somewhere near the end - Sobbing, suicidal

[mlmxreader]

Battered | Sierra Six x m!reader

@satan-incarnate-666 asked: PROMPT STORM WOOOOO!!!

all sierra six x m!reader pls!!

and finally, six whump and hurt/comfort pls?

summary: Six has a habit of showing up at your door when he needs patching up, but this may just be the last time that he does.

tws: swearing, smoking, blood, injury, broken bones, pain, little bit of angst, bruises

Six was absolutely battered, blood all over his shirt and smeared across his skin, bruises littering his skin from the head down to his ankles, a broken rib and several broken fingers; he was struggling massively to move, and you were quick to force him down onto your bed, looking at him with such pain when he offered those puppy dog eyes he knew you couldn't resist.

"Is Claire home?"

You shook your head, clearing your throat as you took a deep breath. "No, she's gone over to a friend's house for the night. They're having a little birthday party."

Six nodded, relief flooding his veins as he dared to stare up at the ceiling; after everything that had happened, Six couldn't stomach the thought of Claire, his baby sister, seeing him hurt again. He was all she had left, after her uncle, after her parents - Six was the only family she had left, and he would be gutted if she ever saw him hurt again.

You sat at the edge of the bed next to him, putting your hand on his chest gently as you frowned. "Six, I'm gonna take your shirt off - is that okay?"

He nodded again, watching carefully as you started to undo the buttons of his shirt; slowly and so cautiously that Six couldn't help but to smile a little bit. He watched as you removed the layer of fabric, throwing it aside and examining his wounds; a slit in his chest, a large bruise on his chest, smaller cuts on his stomach that weren't exactly deep but weren't exactly paper cuts either. When you looked down to the waistband of his jeans, you could see that he had more bruises, more bloody cuts, and you sighed.

"Okay... okay... ideally, you need a hospital," you started, "but I know you'd never do that shit, so... I'm gonna patch up what I can, okay?"

Six nodded.

"Do not fucking move," you told him sternly. "Do not fucking move. I won't be long."

He waited patiently, listening out for the door and hoping, praying, fucking pleading silently to anyone who was going to listen, that Claire was still at her friend's house; she didn't need to see him hurt again, and he didn't want her to see it. How he was bloodied, bruised, his bones were broken, he was wheezing and coughing as he breathed. But then there was you, as well; sure, you had patched up Six time and time again, you had given him a place to lick his wounds and to rest, but even he knew that you would eventually snap and tell him to fuck off.

No man would put up with him for this long, he thought, not even you; he knew that you would tell him to leave eventually, that you would slam the door in his face at some point because you couldn't cope with it anymore. He only needed to start counting the days until that happened; he knew that as much as you did care, you weren't Superman, and you would eventually be worn down by the amount of times you needed to patch him up. Sure, you cared about him, Six knew you cared about him, but he also knew that you would eventually need to take a break from patching him up; he couldn't say he blamed you, he really couldn't, in fact he actually blamed himself for it more than anything. He wasn't even sure why he kept running to you; you weren't a medical professional, he had plenty of contacts through Fitzroy who were and who were just as secure and just as safe as you were, but he kept running to you. Time and time again.

He sighed when you walked back into the room, a large plastic tub filled with medical supplies in your arms as you came and sat at his bedside again; you ripped open a packet of antiseptic, dashed some on a cloth, and paused before you started to wipe down his skin.

"This is gonna sting like a bitch," you told him. "You gonna let me do it?"

Six clenched his jaw, and put his thumb up, his gaze drifting to your face as you started to wipe down his skin; his training had given him at least one good thing - he didn't flinch and seethe when the antiseptic stung his skin. He felt raw, and open, he could feel the cold sting sharply, but he could at least pretend and act like he wasn't feeling a damn thing; looking at you made it even easier. He shivered a little when you got to that sensitive spot just above the waistband of his jeans, if only because he wasn't expecting it, but he took a tiny fraction of a second to recover.

You stopped, taking the orange stained cloth away and trying not to frown; he looked awful, the cuts and bruises and scrapes and grazes were a lot more frequent than you first thought. You paused.

"Six? I, uh, I think I'm gonna have to call a doctor for this - I can't, I can't patch this up, it's not... it's bad," you admitted softly. "You got a number I can use?"

Six reached for his phone, and he quickly pulled up the number of a doctor he knew was nearby; he sent them a text and within a minute, he got one back. "Ten minutes."

You sighed with relief, nodding and swiping a hand down your face as you looked at his battered body. "I can fix up the little things, if you want me to? But if you'd rather wait for the doctor, I'd-"

"You can do it." His voice was shaky, uneven and wheezing, not the steady and stoic rumble you had been so used to. That's what scared you.

The bruises, the cuts, the blood - you were used to all of that, even if you were in pain when you had to look at it, you were at least used to it; but his voice being shaky, his words trembling, that was frightening. He never let his voice get uneven, he never let it wheeze even when he was really out of breath. You started to shake as you reached for the plasters, your jaw clenched as you started to apply them to the smaller and superficial wounds, trying not to whimper when you heard the rattling in the back of his throat when he coughed. Spit mixed with blood from a bleeding tongue.

When the doorbell rang, you were quick to usher the doctor inside, no questions asked, you rushed them to the bedroom and you let them work; you drank cups of coffee and smoked cigarettes for what seemed like an eternity, looking at the clock and counting the fucking seconds. They dragged. You smoked. You filled the ashtray and emptied it, waiting with baited breath for the doctor to come back downstairs and to tell you that he was okay; that's all you needed to know, was that Six wouldn't fucking die on you. That's all you needed. That's all you wanted.

You cared about him a little bit too much, just a little bit too much; you kept patching him up when he came to your doorstep like a wounded animal because you couldn't stomach the thought of him being unsafe, of him getting himself killed. You liked having Six around, you liked to spend time with him; you were thankful when he visited with Claire, usually because he needed someone safe to leave her with when he had to do something, because it meant that you could see him more often. Usually, he left her in your care for a couple of weeks, which was never a big deal; she was a good kid, and she made you laugh when she told Six off about not talking, about how he never looked at anything but his shoes.

"He's done," the doctor said, so cold and so casual, as they approached you in the kitchen. "He's alive."

You nodded, relief in your eyes as you tried not to tear up. "Thank you, I'll, I'll show you to the door, I'll-"

The doctor shook their head. "He's asking for you. I can see myself out."

"What do I ow-"

"Nothing." They told you. "I'll need to come back to take the casts off. I'll call when that is."

You nodded again, sniffling as you walked with them through the hallway; the doctor headed to the door, while you made your way to the bedroom, sheepishly knocking the door.

"Can I come in?"

"It's your bedroom."

He was still wheezing, but when you walked in, you could see how his lips turned up a little, just enough to hint at a smile; you dared to approach, ending up sat by his hip as you looked down at him and dared to smile.

"You okay?"

Six shook his head, he wouldn't say it if only to save his own face and to spare you a little bit of pain, but he felt as if every single millimetre of his body was being stabbed and slashed at; he still felt raw, as if the top layer of his skin had been peeled off, and he wanted to cry. He had aches, and he was starting to itch where the casts had been put on his left foot and his right hand. But he still managed to meet your gaze, and he relaxed.

"I, uh, I'm kinda tired," you started, "would, uhm, would it be okay if I slept with you?"

"Sure."

You didn't really sleep much, though, when you laid down with him and when you tried not to cuddle into his side, you were kept awake by his near constant little whimpers and whines of pain, agony; you weren't sure how you could help, aside from getting him some painkillers, but you knew he would never accept that. He wouldn't let you give him any painkillers, because that would mean telling you the truth: that he was in absolute fucking agony.

You left him to it, putting an extra blanket on the bed as well as a couple of extra cushions just to be sure that he had some sort of comfort for the night, in the end and spent the night in the living room watching television instead; it wasn't until the doorbell rang, and you could hear birds chirping outside, that you even realised what a long night it had been.

But then Claire smiled at you, and despite your tiredness, you found it in yourself to smile back.

"Were you good?"

Claire scoffed as she walked past you. "Always! Do we have anything to eat? We didn't have time for breakfast, William's mum had to go to work."

You bit back a yawn as you nodded and gestured to the kitchen. "You know where everything is."

"Is Six back?" She asked, pausing as she knelt down at the crisp cupboard.

You nodded, leaning against the counter. "Yeah, but uh, he's uhm... he's really-"

"He got hurt," Claire's voice went so quiet it was heartbreaking. "Didn't he?"

"Yeah," you breathed out. "Yeah, he did... but he'll be okay."

"Can I see him?" She grabbed two packets of crisps from the cupboard and looked up at you as if the entire world was resting on your shoulders. "Please, (y/n)?"

"Yeah," you agreed. "Yeah, you can see him - if he's awake. He had a long night."

Claire nodded, bounding to the bedroom; she didn't even bother to knock as she strolled in and stood at Six's bedside.

"Are you dead?"

Six opened one eye as he grumbled. "Not yet."

"Good," she smiled, although it was obvious to see that she was hurting. Six was her big brother, he was the only family she had left, and she didn't want to lose that. She didn't want to be alone in the world. "Are you gonna be able to walk around staring at your shoes all day?"

"Are you gonna talk all day?" Six asked, the slightest bit of amusement in his voice as he tried not to laugh, if only to spare his ribs a little bit of pain.

"No, but I know (y/n)'s got something on his mind," she told him. "He seemed really upset."

Six grumbled again, he couldn't really find the energy to do much else.

"I think he's worried about you," she continued, "like really worried. I think he thought you were gonna die."

He only shook his head; of course he knew you cared, he would be an idiot if he didn't realise that you had put down extra pillows and blankets for him. He had heard you pacing around when he was being patched up by the doctor; it wasn't the same type of pacing that you did when you couldn't sleep, he wasn't an idiot. But you were just friends. Only friends, he knew that. The same as he knew that it wasn't like you to not listen to music when you were pacing around; he knew that you were just friends the same way that he knew that you liked your coffee a specific way.

"I'm gonna go," Claire pressed one of the crisp packets into his hands and smiled. "Don't die."

Six gave her the devil horns with his left hand, watching as she left the room, he sighed heavily.

Claire found you in the garden, sat at the bottom in one of the black wicker chairs and smoking a cigarette as you stared into nothing; she sat on the chair beside you, and opened the packet of crisps, grabbing your attention.

"So, why do you always get Six patched up?"

You were a little taken aback by the question, but you shrugged. "I like him a lot."

"Like, more than friends?" She tilted her head to the side and offered you the packet, but you shook your head.

Taking a drag from your cigarette, you turned your head to the side so that the smoke wouldn't go near her. "You could say that, yeah... tell you what, though, why don't you go in the front room and chuck the telly on? We can watch Beethoven, if you want."

"Is that the film about the Saint Bernard dog?"

You nodded. "Yeah, if you chuck it on, I'll be back in a bit and we can watch it, yeah? And then later we can go up the shop and I'll get you a packet of sweets."

Claire nearly grinned. "Sounds like a deal, but can we play that game again? The one on the Xbox with the dragon?"

"Sure," you shrugged. "I'll set it all up later, okay?"

"Okay!"

And just like that, she left you there, practically running inside; but instead of heading into the living room, she dared to pester Six again, a little cocky as she strutted into the room and cleared her throat.

"What?" Six grumbled.

"(y/n) told me he likes you," she practically sang the words. "Like, more than friends."

He scoffed. "We're just friends."

Claire rolled her eyes, and although she knew it wasn't exactly the truth, she cleared her throat and dared to say, "he wants to be your boyfriend."

Six glared at her. "Really?"

"Really," she nodded. "He said that I have to ask you if you want him to be your boyfriend - and you can't just grumble, you have to say yes or no."

He rolled his eyes, sighing heavily as he cleared his throat. "Yes."

"Good," she ran off again, heading down to the bottom of the garden where she knew she'd find you. "(y/n), Six said that he wants you to be his boyfriend."

You raised a brow. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she nodded. "He said that he really likes you, too."

"Oh..." you swallowed thickly, your eyes going a little wide as you swiped a hand down your face. "Okay, well, uh... yeah, okay. Uh. Go stick that film on, I'm gonna go have a word with him."

You followed her inside, your head starting to spin with what suddenly made Six decide he wanted to be more than friends, but when she went into the living room, you headed into your bedroom; Six was up, his back resting against the headboard as he stared into nothing. He only looked at you when you cleared your throat and bit at the inside of your lip; he could tell that you were nervous, that something was on your mind.

"Six, uh, Claire told me that uhm, that you wanted me to be your boyfriend," you said.

Six shook his head. "She told me that you said you wanted to be my boyfriend."

"Well, uh," you looked around the room, avoiding his gaze as you struggled to get the words out. "Do you? Do you want me to be your boyfriend, I mean?"

He dared to crack a small smile as he nodded, but when you still wouldn't look at him, he let the word go, "yeah."

"Yeah?" You asked, finally looking at him. He nodded again, and held out his left hand for you to take, pulling you down onto the bed beside him as he rested his head on your shoulder. "Six, that's mighty sweet, but I promised Claire we'd watch Beethoven..."

"I can join."

"Are you sure you're able? Because I can come back later and-"

"I can do it."

You sighed, getting up off of the bed and letting him wrap his left arm around you, letting him lean into you as you helped him to get moving; he was stiff, and he was weak, but when you collapsed on the sofa next to him, he immediately leaned into your side and grumbled softly. From her place in the reclining chair, Claire smiled.

"So, are you two boyfriends, now?"

You looked at her, and dared to laugh. "Yeah. We are."

"Cool!" She beamed. "So, does that mean we can stay here, forever?"

"Well... me and Six would have to talk about that," you told her with a shrug. "But at least for the next few months, yeah."

Six huffed, almost laughing but trying desperately not to. "We'll talk about it later."

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it.

[loverhymeswith]

I'm overwhelmed to be reaching such an amazing milestone and to say thank you to everyone who has supported me, I wanted to give a little something back 💜

So, send me an ask with a character, a trope(s), a genre, and a setting from the options below, and I'll write you a drabble! (Now with new characters!)

And if there's anything missing that you would like to see, send me an ask and I'll definitely consider it!

Characters: Rick Flag, Takeshi Kovacs, Ed Baldwin, Stephen Holder, Erik Heller, Jake "Hangman" Seresin, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Harley Quinn, Adrian Chase, Chris Smith, Sierra Six, Dream of the Endless, Bucky Barnes

Trope: Hurt-comfort, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, friends with benefits, forced proximity, fake dating, one-bed, memory-loss, first date, undercover

Genre: Angst, fluff, smut, whump

Setting: Coffeeshop, bookshop, hospital, wedding, prison, office, train, plane, ocean, hotel, cave, cottage, forest

Tagging some of my lovely followers who may be interested: @a-reader-and-a-writer @sociiallydiisoriiented @yespolkadotkitty @babblydrabbly @heresathreebee @christinasyellowflowers @littlefreakingfangirl @luxurybeskar @phoenixhalliwell @katjnordstrom96 @ed-baldwin @lacontroller1991 @mayhem24-7forever @bewitchedignition @green-socks

[artemiseamoon]

Behind the Mask

A Gray Man AU

Ofc x Sierra Six, Ofc x Lloyd Hansen

Status: in progress

READ ON A03 ✨✨✨

✨Best way to stay updated: subscribe to the fic here on A03. You’ll be first to know about updates via your email (by a03)✨

Tags? No. Check out updates at @artemiseamoon-updates & (best) subscribe to fic on A03. *

Summary: As Puma's two-year anniversary of retirement approaches, a person from her past shows up at her doorstep needing help. A quiet life a civilian is now tested.

Warnings: secret agent work and canon warnings for such injuries and patching them up, whump, hurt/comfort. Will update warnings on a part by part basis.

✨Story Moodboards✨

READ ON A03 📚📖📓

[archersgaymerblog]

Hsvddjsvdjddb people have such cool stories for their couriers…. Like able to manipulate and change the main story line to make it a lil more interesting and better for exploring their couriers/other characters. I wanna talk about Six’s so bad but it’s actually pretty straight forward with the game rododhdvdjdjsk like. What I just make a comic/fic that’s just Fallout News Vegas??? 😭😭😭😭

[comasuart]

Six

twitter: comasuart

[whumpdotpng]

The Name Game fic update

Hello my fellow whump enjoyers and Gray Man enthusiasts, I’ve updated my Name Game fic! However, I’m probably just going to be posting it on Archive of Our Own since posting to tumblr isn’t something I’m as used to. I am, however, very comfortable on Ao3. The fic should be viewable for guests, so feel free to follow the link below and read it there!

I’ll make a post on this blog every time I update, so don’t worry about not being in the loop :)

Have fun reading...

[whumpypepsigal]

The Gray Man (2022): “Good news is he missed the liver and the kidney.”

[feral-fae-writes]

Remove with a Cleft, Rewire the Dread || Prélude

A/N: After quite a long hiatus, I'm back in some respect. I figured I would post this to let y'all know I'm still alive, and still writing, while I have the energy. This is my first whump piece, by the way. Minors DNI, please. Please do let me know what you think, even if this is a sneak peek of sorts.

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Courtland Gentry x Female!OC, Sierra Six x Female!OC

Wordcount: 327

Type: Multi-Parter

Rating: Mature Content / 18+ || tw: whump, injury, torture, non-consent, imprisonment, evil doppelgänger, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

Summary: No summary for this one; it's rather short. The title song is an instrumental, and also a hint of what's to come. This is my accidental magnum opus, so I want the prelude to sing for itself.

Prélude

He came stumbling in, shaky hands clawing at the cell she was in. She’d been entirely alone for such a long time, and, through the exhaustion and pain, it was so easy for her to believe that it was actually Six this time, come to save her: beat up and bloodied but relentless. For a couple of moments, she allowed herself to believe it, needed to believe it. She’d been tortured for what had felt like days, and she had no idea how long it’d actually been — there was only pain and blood and temporary relief, only for the suffering to start again. Her torturer was a pendulum, swinging between comfort and brutality based on his own whims. All she could tell was that he was male; he’d had her blindfolded and gagged from the start, in the dark. She’d never gotten a chance to identify him.

She felt Six pick her up; he half-carried and half dragged her. He must’ve been hurt, too — he was too weak to lift her properly, but his touch was gentle, and his voice was so soft and worried and familiar. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a relief that weighed her down. His presence was a heavy blanket of warm comfort; she clutched onto it and him. He inhaled her scent, going still, before he started chuckling, a low little growl of amusement. That low little growl turned into a sick, twisted expression of joy. This wasn’t him. The delayed realisation and the fear crashed like shattering glass, but she couldn’t let go, already collapsed into his arms. He wouldn’t let her go. 

“You’re alright, love. That’s right. Shame I’ll have to torture you more. I don’t want to hurt you more than I have to, but…” Another low, growly laugh, as a fingertip scrubbed away dried blood on her cheek. It was clean, but wet with his spit.  “Oh, who am I kidding, I absolutely want to.”

[ao3feed-btvs]

Lonely Hearts

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2k62k9O

by GhostInTheBAU

Six months have passed since the Dollhouse got their hands on Dr. Spencer Reid, and Aaron Hotchner is slowly falling apart. Romeo continues to show signs of self-awareness and memory, the team uncovers more of Rossum's secrets from an unlikely new ally, Penelope hatches a plan of her own, and trouble may be looming on the horizon.

Words: 3286, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English

Series: Part 4 of Dollhouse

Fandoms: Criminal Minds, Dollhouse, Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: M/M

Characters: Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Penelope Garcia, David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, Ashley Seaver, Jason Gideon, William Reid, Frank Breitkopf, George Foyet (Daniel 2.0), Elle Greenaway (Claire Saunders - Whiskey), Jennifer "JJ" Jareau (Sierra), William LaMontagne Jr. (Victor), Faith Lehane (Echo), Tobias Hankel (Alpha), Other canon characters to be added

Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid

Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe, Dollhouse Fusion, Dubious Science, Identity Issues, memory wipes, explicit slash, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Brief Thoughts of Suicide/Self Harm, Referenced Child Molestation, Referenced Child Murder, Strong Religious Themes, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Suspense, Angst, Mystery, Spoilers for Dollhouse, Spoilers for Criminal Minds, I borrowed characters and locations from Buffy and Angel, But not the supernatural element, It's a Whedon Melting Pot, Still don't need to know Dollhouse, I explain everything

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2k62k9O

[whumpdotpng]

New Chapter of The Name Game!

Wassup nerds, ya boi is back with more Fucked Up Sierra Six/Lloyd Hansen Whump

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40680699/chapters/103496304

Have fun folks ;)