rover🐾

haiiii!! im rover/cowboy, a 20+ year old gay guy trying to fill the void of male ocs/reader fics <3

this is an 18+ blog! whilst a chunk of my fics aren’t NSFW, i do write smut. i’m a fag my 20s. go figure

i’m a trans man and a cripple so feel free to swing some specific requests my way!

i mainly write oneshots/short series and ficlets ^_^

also on ao3 as cautiondog/abracadaverdog previously on @cautiondog <3

"Were you an asshole before the war as well then? Or is that a wasteland development?" You snap at the man beside you as the pair of you trudge through the sand. You've been dipping in and out of dilapidated buildings in search of something... under the hot sun for hours. You apparently weren't privileged enough to know what, simply forced to follow close behind- and so you'd started to resent the sight of the back of his head.

But now as you continue on, sweat beading on the back of your neck, you were starting to get hungry, to get thirsty, and evidently- you were now beginning to lose your already razor thin patience.

"Were you an insufferable cunt before the war?" He shoots back almost immediately, huffing out a chuckle at his own comment, barely glancing back at you to make sure you are still following. He didn't need to, you both knew he'd have you dead in the desert before you even got 10 feet away from him.

"Only around people like you." Your response was a little weak and childish, but the anger was dying in your throat, each step had you growing weaker and your brain hazy. You could barley see past bleary eyes at the shape of his form that had grown to make you so mad.

"Fuck- Ghoul, I have to stop." You gasp out, using what little strength you have to not collapse into the dunes. It's a gamble on whether he'll just leave you to rot under the midday sun if you do give up- you're no use to him half dead, he's told you as much a million times. "I can't-" Even talking has your throat clenching, dry and unforgiving you just barely manage to choke out the words.

Your knees hit the sand before you can do anything about it, and your face follows just seconds later.

"Oh for fucks-" Is all you hear before everything goes black.

Your ears are ringing when you finally wake up, head spinning and legs aching, it's a miracle you're still breathing. "What the fuck-" You go to move and stretch out your sore limbs, only to find your arms and legs bound. It should panic you, but the wasteland had long since taken any shock from your mind. The last few months had brought a long line of bullshit.

You were lying flat on your back and - hold on- you squint up at the sky and, well, either theres some atomic storm coming along to rapidly push the clouds across- or you're moving.

"Huh-" You tilt your head as much as your position makes you able, quickly coming to the conclusion you are tied to something, and you blink blurry eyes down at the sand passing to the side of you. "Ghoul?" You groan stupidly in pain as moving position causes something harsh to press into the small of your back.

"Well well well, someone finally decided to wake up." He abruptly stops, and whatever you're lashed to tilts into the sand, kicking it into your hair.

"What the fuck is-" Your hands are tied at your sides, but the Ghoul had mercifully left just enough space for you to run fingers against what you guess to be a random piece of scrap metal he'd dragged up from the depth of godknows where. If you had any more energy, you'd probably snap at him about the risk of fucking tetanus in this day and age with no shots to speak of, but you decide to savour what strength you have left for now.

"Well I ain't gonna carry you all this way, am I?" The Ghoul steps into view, obscuring the sun with his cowboy hat, staring down at you with his usual stupid yellow smirk. Through your hazy eyes that continue to betray you, you liken him to an angel with a golden sun halo, before striking that thought clean from your mind. You cannot afford fondness in this world to a man who's denied you food and water and rest for so long he resorts to strapping you to sheet metal and dragging you along when you pass out. "Turns out I actually much prefer you like this- fuckin silence at last." He steps closer, purposefully kicking sand over you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, much to his amusement. "And- You worked as a perfect bit of bait." He crouches down, brushing the sand from your face so he can grab at your jaw. Manhandling you clearly seems to be a favourite pastime of his.

"You see, I got you a lil' somethin', since you did such a good job." You begrudgingly force your eyes back open, a little teary, blinking up at the Ghoul. Even being fed by him was some sort of miracle, so the fact he'd gone out of his way to find you a gift had you feeling something you could only vaguely describe as grateful.

"Thank you?" It comes out more of a question than intended, but the Ghoul doesn't seem phased, he just digs around in the pocket of his duster for a moment.

"Ah, here it is." He doesn't make any move to untie you- because of course not- he instead gets down on one knee beside you, sliding the hand on your jaw round to the back of your head. It's a touch that feels so foreign now, and you try to not think about how tender this seems all of a sudden as it snakes around enough for him to hold and tilt it up. "Keep ya head up." He huffs, and you do so without argument as he uses both hands to wind something around your neck, pinching your skin a little as he does so, until he can clasp it at the front. "There we go, even added my own lil' inscription to it."

Holy fuck. It takes you several long seconds to realise what the item is without seeing or feeling it, but the thickness of it and the way that something jingles when The Ghoul flicks his finger tells you all you need to know. A dog collar. The fucking bastard. It's the only sentiment you can seem to muster about his so called gift. The mere feel of it right against your skin, still damp with what you can only presume is the blood of some feral mutt unlucky enough to cross his path has you squirming.

It's disgusting, but it's a filth that doesn't shock you anymore. You wish you still carried that same hope you entered the wasteland with- that people out there weren't as deranged as you'd heard. But so far? The Ghoul had done little to dispel that rumour.

"You ain't able to see it now, but it's got a big 'G' on it, for Ghoul." He smiles to himself, and your stomach turns at the way he looks genuinely pleased for once, almost proud. "Ain't gonna be no people mistaking you as theirs, now." You hate to admit it- and you'd never tell him as such, lest he uses it for his advantage- but looking past the gore and grossness, its an almost painfully intimate gesture that has your heart hammering in your chest, cheeks feeling hot with embarrassment.

It's something a little too familiar in ways you never want to have to explain to the Ghoul, so you hope the sudden panicked sweat beading on your temples and cheeks can be chalked down to the sun, or maybe some strange illness you'd contracted.

"You get off on shit like this or what?" You can barely stop the words before they tumble from your lips, and it's a tense few moments of you both simply staring at each other before he answers, and your stomach twists in anticipation.

"Well, you ain't seem all that fussed about it, if anything..." He prods a gloved finger to your hot cheek, a sickly grin settling on his lips. "You seem almost pleased with my present here, ain't that right?" You should be embarrassed- mortified even- but instead, a burning anger rises in his chest. He's right, but how dare he?

"You're a fucking sick freak!" In the back of your mind, your brain supplies some internal ridicule- something about stones and glass houses, but you chose to push it back in favour of snarling at him with all the danger of a puppy. Exactly how he wants you. You piss yourself off with the realisation, and focus on doing something stupid instead, so you punctuate your statement by launching a glob of spit that lands on the lapel of his worn jacket.

In one swift move, you'd put out the fire in your throat, and as you feel regret build up in real time, you dread whatever will come your way next. After all, the Ghoul's expressions are extremely hard to read when he barely has any features left.

"Well, Sweetheart," He starts, a deep chuckle bubbling with his words, real harsh and condescending, "you'll be a sick fuckin' freak like me before long." He pauses, and without looking away, dips his finger to pick up the spit off his jacket, and you watch in a painful mix of annoyance and something much more heated, as he licks it off with a smirk so devilish it makes your stomach flip. "And if you ask me? You already fuckin' are one." You feel like the air has been sucked out of your chest when he shoves that same finger into your open mouth.

The digit probes at your tongue, sliding against your teeth, hooking to widen your lower jaw, and all you can seem to do is let it happen, let him feel about in your mouth like he owns it. At this point in time, you wonder if maybe he does.

You want to bite down, you really do, you want to snap off his stupid fucking finger, but he pulls it out of your mouth before you have the chance. "Fuck you."

After spending the night in the remains of some old building, huddled around a fire -lit inside to block the smoke and orange glow from being seen in the distance- you sit to eat as the light shone in from the rising sun.

"You ain't taken the collar off." It is said as a mere throwaway comment you're sure, The Ghoul barely even sparing you a glance as he speaks. It's an observation, and a pretty loaded one at that.

In all honesty, you haven't even considered that that was something you could do. You'd been untied and regained the freedom of your hands again that previous evening, but the thought to move and take off the collar hadn't crossed your mind, lest he bind you back up again.

"Oh." You find yourself saying, trying to busy yourself with eating the can of dog food he'd so graciously just warmed up for you over the fire- desperate to do everything other than look up at the Ghoul.

"You fuck a lot of men before the war?" He says it so nonchalant, like it's as normal as asking about someone's day. Like it isn't just an insane question to drop before the sun is even properly in the sky.

"Excuse me?" The can drops onto the old floorboards, the fork clattering with it, as you stared openly at him now, jaw slack in bewilderment. The gall of him shouldn't shock you, but the crassness of his question catches you off guard nonetheless.

"Yeah-" He speaks to himself, but his eyes never leave yours. "You've still got that pre-war fuckin' puritan feel in you." He practically scoffs, rolling his eyes. "So, did you?" Without thinking, in a subconscious move you'll curse until the end of time, your fingers come up to rub against the tag around your neck, the feeling bringing you begrudging comfort, it's a familiar piece of something you'd long forgotten.

"Not a lot." You settle on answering, something you regret before you even finish speaking, but it's a nice sweeping wave of denial wrapped up something akin to confirmation, a comment for the Ghoul to gnaw on and pick at, which you know he will.

"You forget I'm pre-war." He tuts, a deep laugh rattling in his chest, before he too drops his can to the floor. "I remember what it was like in those days, what fucking men was like in that old world." There's a smirk tugging at his lips, a dangerous one, as always. He has that knowing glint in his dark eyes that in turn has something unsettling growing in your stomach. "An' I can tell which side you were on." The chuckle, for once, doesn't feel tormenting, it has something very different behind it this time. It's teasing, but not cruel, if you are willing to admit it, it is almost flirtatious.

"You fuck a lot of men before the war, then?" You shoot back, defensive, stupid. It's obvious, the affect he has over you, and you just so openly let it show to the one man who will use it against you. You'd never been good at bluffing.

"Yes." He answers simply, reclining back against the wall behind him, smirk only widening. "An' I know which side I was on." Oh. There is something different building in your chest now, and you feel his cheeks warm again at the implications of his simple comment. "I take it it ain't the first time you've been some man's dog." He laughs at his own comment, grinning wickedly at you, like a cat who'd got the cream, watching you squirm across the fire. It's pathetic, you're sure, but shame is hard to feel when you know he enjoys the sight so much.

"Fuck off." It's a childish, pointless retort, but it's all your brain can scramble up, moving your hands to unclasp the stupid fucking thing-

"Don't you fuckin' dare." His words leave no room for argument, cutting through the thick atmosphere, you hate the way it makes you still almost instantly, stopping dead, hands hovering at the back of your neck, eyes wide staring at him. It has all changed quickly, his jaw is clenched, gaze hard and heavy, it's all a warning, one you'll take if you know what's good for you. "Yeah. I can fuckin' tell where you stood." The silence that follows is almost deafening, your ears ring violently. A line has been crossed again, and you're not sure you can ever come back from it- either of you.

Self defence.

He'd insisted on it, on account of your recent relationship that you'd formed with the Gray Man- though you did also want him to teach you self defence, just incase. -It definitely wasn't just because you found your boyfriend panting whilst pinning you down incredibly hot. Not at all.

"You're smaller, you gotta use that to your advantage." His brows pull into a frown, a genuine seriousness as he hops back and forth on the mat, watching intently as you bounce in a similar manner. Smaller. He always liked that, being bigger than you, the ability to throw you around exactly how he knew you liked it- not that you'd ever admit it. But that didn't stop him using that to his advantage.

"Fuck!" It comes out as a strangled yelp as he lunges forward, forcing you to dive to the side, Courts hands just about snatching at your shirt as you move the best you can.

"Again." He orders, with all the command of a man who knows his power, but theres just a hint of playfulness in his tone as he narrows his eyes at you. It was always a game of cat and mouse with Court, and you know your role is his prey, regardless of how much he humours your attempts at fighting back. He'll always be the predator, and he'll always hunt you down.

"Court.." You whine, a little breathless as you stare at your boyfriend. He was a mess of sweat and old bruises, hair beginning to flop and stick to his forehead as he moves, scars littering the scraps of his visible body like stars, glistening white with the sheen over his skin.

"Mhm?" He entertains you, only for his own enjoyment, allowing himself the moment of calm to take in your rather disheveled state, and he admires the way your lips are wet with spit as you pant out his name. "Do you think you're done? You've barely even got a hit in." He taunts, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

In truth, he'd let you get to him a few times, purely for his own satisfaction, who would he be if he didn't enjoy seeng his boyfriend sweaty and desperate?

"Six!" He follows your eyes down to his torso, where his shirt had become plastered to his skin- a little obscene, even for his standards. So he happily fixes it.

The second his shirt hits the floor your eyes widen, unfocused and dizzy.

"Oh I'm Six now, huh?" He stalks around where you stand in place in the middle of the mat, and you liken him to some sort of animal, an approving grumble in the back of his throat as he circles you like you were just his next meal. Not that you mind- you'd let Court eat you any day. "You want me to be Six, huh? Drop the boyfriend act?" He pauses, stopping just in front of you, inching close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Court." There's a hunger building in his eyes, and the sheer weight of his gaze has your skin pricking.

"No." The way his voice dips low is almost enough for you to back out, but the growing heat in your stomach keeps your feet planted to the floor. "Come at me again." A whine settles in the back of your throat, and you silently attempt to prepare a sort of plan- not that any will work. Court will have you flat on your back before you even make it the few steps towards him. That was always the whole purpose of these sparring sessions, for him to lay you down with flexing muscles under the guise of 'training'. You loved it, so did he.

You dive towards him, forgoing any sort of strategy, and you become instantly rewarded with thick arms winding around you. A hand cradles the back of your head as you both take a dive towards the mat, and when you finally hit the floor his body is beneath you. "Hi." For a solid few moments you think his little game to be over, your chests are pressed together as you manage a somewhat winded smile.

"Sit up." The command surprises you a little, but you are hardly going to go against him when he sounds and looks the way he does, so you begin to slip sideways off his body. "No." He grumbles, impatient with a roll of his eyes, his hands snatch at your hips to keep you on top of him. "I said sit up, not get off." Awkwardly, and with very little aid from the man beneath you, you push up with hands either side of his shoulders, your knees pressing into the mat until you straddle his waist.

Neither of you move then, aside from his wandering hands as they skate under your shirt, fingers dancing almost tender across your stomach, a deep contrast to the way he's borderline eye fucking you with a predatory stare. "This needs to go." You blink down at him in confusion, you can barely concentrate, and don't notice one of his hands slipping somewhere beneath you both.

"Huh?" Your eyes catch the glinting of a blade just before it makes contact with the collar of your shirt, his other hand pulls it just taut enough away from your torso for the knife to cut down. He tuts slowly as he does it, barely even lifting his shoulders up off the floor, watching the fabric tear apart from where his head still rests on the mat, eyes half-lidded. "Court-" His name caught in your throat as you attempt to stay stock still, though it's becoming increasingly more difficult when all his actions make you want to squirm.

"Off." He hums, though he doesn't allow you time to try and take the tatters of your shirt off yourself before he's dropping the knife at his side, lifting hands up to rip it even further until the scraps land at your sides. You want to grumble at him for destroying yet another one of your shirts, but you know for a fact you'll wake up in the morning with a brand new one laid on your bed. He could act all harsh and cold during these performances, but beneath all that agent bravado, you knew you were staring at your loving boyfriend.

It shows when he gives you a little mercy and rubs a gentle thumb into your hip where you'd hit earlier in the session, tender and sweet as he tries to suppress a smile. It's the little breaks in his composure that you love so much about the games you play, the flicker of uncontrollable happiness that crosses his face just for a moment. It's a reminder of your love, of how safe you can be together.

When you and Court first started seeing each other, he'd been so hesitant to touch you, sitting stiff as a board when you tried to cuddle him. All contact seemed to be met with a hesitation and discomfort, and it took several weeks to soften him up enough to accept the gentle touch. Once he felt safe enough to open up a little, it had all made sense. He was on such high alert, terrified of hurting you that he was barely able to struggle through basic human contact.

With time he'd softened, easing into cuddles, though he still slipped into the defender he was in his core. Many nights you woke up with an arm tight around you, locking you against him. He often wrestled you in bed to the opposite side to the door, blocking you from entrance to your bedroom with his body, cradling you to keep you safe- even in his sleep.

These sparring sessions, which always ended up being so much more, were your joint solution to the pent up emotions he'd been feeling. It allowed himself to exercise part of him he'd so strongly kept from you, the side that even unnerved himself. He could let go, in the environment you'd created, take you as he wanted, flexing his control in a way that didn't make him feel dizzy with worry.

"You wanna try again?" He grunts, shifting you against him where you're sat on his abdomen. "Maybe I'll go easy on you this time." He's unforgiving as he grasps at the scruff of your neck, grabbing at you like you're nothing more than a puppy, before using the hold to flip you over.

Your back hits the mat with an 'oof' that catches in your throat, knocking the wind out of your lungs. "Fuck, Court." You gasp, only for your mouth to be smothered with his own a moment later.

"You want to fuck, baby?" He laughs, teeth catching on your lower lip to suck it into his mouth. "You've gotta win first."

He rolls off you and is back on his feet before you can take in what he'd just said. He flashes a grin, and stares down at you with a mocking that would sting if you didn't know any better.

You want to whine that your body aches as you push yourself to sit on the mat, but that would mean calling the whole thing off- your sweet Court would insist you ease your muscles in a hot bath- which is always nice, but not exactly what you need right now. You need him.

"Fine." You huff, you know it's still just a ploy to throw you around for a bit longer until he takes pity on your pathetic excuse for 'fighting', and judging by the growing tent in his trousers, it won't continue for too long.

"Atta boy." He softens just a fraction again, eyes crinkling in a momentary smile before he puffs his chest out. He's proud of you, and you'll no doubt be rewarded for your perseverance. Later, he'll groan words of encouragement that you're simply improving your endurance- a fact you can't seem to argue with.

"I thought I wasn't your boy anymore?" You tease, trying to bide your time until his next move, both of you bouncing on your heels on the soft mat, the movement shifting the wonderfully toned muscles in his chest- something you openly ogle at.

"Oh no matter who I am, you're mine." He cocks his head to the side as he speaks, dragging his eyes up and down you. Any move you make will be inconsequential, it's all just elaborate foreplay.

"C'mon, I'm know you can do better." He scoffs when you still don’t make a move, all mean and mocking, but you see the small tick of his mouth twitching upwards.

“You’re mean, Court.” You retort childishly, and he rolls his eyes, biting back a teasing laugh.

“Is it mean to want my boy to know how to protect himself?” He knows that’s not the real reason, he’s just saying it to play the role he’s made up, but the way he’s talking to you has something hot balling up in your stomach. “I just want you to grow big and strong.”

“You’re an asshole.”

You sigh, getting a little too desperate between your legs to keep idling and delaying the inevitable- as much as you enjoy his taunting, and take a quick run towards him, arms out to grab at his waist.

Smack!

You hit the mat and roll onto your stomach faster than you can register, and he’s on you like a flash, swinging broad thighs over yours, pinning your legs together as he forces your face into the ground. “All that mouthing off and you can’t even back it up in a fight.” He hisses into your ear, scraping his teeth against the shell of it before he licks across it, caging your body against the floor. “I really thought you’d get me this time, what a shame.” A whine escapes your throat in a way you should probably be embarrassed by, but you can feel his hard cock pressed against your ass, twitching at each noise you make.

“Oh baby.” He taunts, dipping his head down to bite at the back of your neck, holding you down harder when you squirm. Fuck. He’s so all encompassing, physically and mentally he’s enveloping you entirely, drowning you in the feeling of him. It’s dizzying, punishing when he gnaws at the space between your throat and shoulder. “If you can shake me off, maybe I’ll fuck you.” That draws a whimper from you, one he clearly reacts well to with a teasing thrust to your ass.

You try- you really do, but the game was rigged from the start. You’re never meant to win these things, and in all honesty, you don’t want to, you knew regardless that you’ll get what you want in the end. Court could be punishing, but he wants you just as much as you want him, you were a match made in heaven.

“How cute, it’s sweet when you try.” Nothing happens for several moments after he talks, no sound past laboured breathing from you both, he pulls back away from your throat and his hips still. “I guess your attempts should be rewarded anyway.” He says it like he’s simply pitying you, yet you know it’s because his resolve is cracking and he can barely hold on, he’s nothing if not desperate during these sessions. “Just cause you’ve been so good, doing what I’ve told you to.”

He moves again, harsher and faster, and he grasps your hip, dropping quickly to the space beside you and swinging you over onto his own body, your back to his front. An involuntary yelp sounds out as he hauls you, arm curling so tight around your stomach that you can barely move, pulling you tight down onto his crotch.

“Fuck- you feel so good,” He groans, hooking his arm around your throat, applying just enough pressure that you feel the weight of him, but not enough to choke you. He’s in control, and he’s making sure you know it, everything that’s happening is because he wants it- at least that’s how you both pretend it is.

“Court,” You whimper, trying to shift your hips to gain some friction where you need it most, only for his legs to wrap around yours, pulling them apart so you can’t rub your thighs together. “Fuck!” You whine in frustration, feeling his bicep curl just a fraction tighter, an instruction to shut up and stop moving. You take it- and listen to the soft hum of praise when you do so.

“I said I’d reward you, but I’m still calling the shots, alright?” You feel the muscle flex against your jaw as you nod.

“Y-Yeah, Six.” Your voice catches in your throat, and he laughs again, all mean and taunting.

“Y-Yeah, baby?” He mocks, rolling his hips up once just to listen to you gasp out.

You feel the arm across your stomach ease, and you fall a little limper against him, only to tense back up when it ghosts down to your waistline, probing under your shorts. “You know, I think you like it when I’m mean to you.” He punctuates it with a kiss to your bare shoulder, and the laugh this time isn’t mean, it’s another fracture in his persona- a break in the game.

“Shut up, Court.” You giggle a little breathlessly, wiggling your ass against him until he bucks up into you.

“I don’t think you want me to.” He frames it as a question, his own little method of teasing and asking for consent at the same time, which you enthusiastically give.

“Yeah- I don’t want you to.” You affirm, something you’re instantly rewarded for.

He snaps back into the role, punishing as he grabs at your cock through your boxers- yet he doesn’t move. “Now, you’re gonna take what I give you and nothing more.” He curses softly when his hand shifts up just enough to run his thumb over where the tip had dampened the fabric, a guttural moan vibrating in his chest. “God you’re needy.” You were writhing about on top of him, and he simply took the opportunity to flaunt his strength again, pulling your legs back even tighter with his own until you can’t move at all. Part of your hazy mind decides that you need to ask about him tying you up another day.

“Shhh shh shh, just take it,” He hums, mouthing across the back of your neck before his hand hooks under your boxers to grasp you skin to skin. “You can do it, just be good for me.” You nod as much as you can in his headlock, whining something along the lines of ‘I’ll be good’, though it comes out more as a pathetic cry- it pleases him all the same. “I know baby, I know. You’ve been so good.” He can’t keep a hold on the role anymore, slipping back into his loving boyfriend who simply basks in praising and rewarding you. “Been so good.” He repeats, his hand moving faster and faster, jerking you off at an almost punishing pace.

“Court!” Your hands grasp at his forearm curled around your neck, desperate to grab a hold of anything that could ground you as the heat built violently in your stomach. “Court! Fuck!” You’re a babbling mess as he hums appreciatively in your ear, following with a moan when you manage to move against him again.

“Is it too much?” He’s taunting again, slowing down almost to a stop right when he knows you’re at your peak. “Okay, I’ll slow down.” He laughs, though it gets cut off by a groan too quickly as he finally grants himself the relief of rutting against your ass, quickly seeking his own pleasure to catch up with you.

“Bitch.” You hiss out, only for his hand to cover your mouth.

“Watch your mouth.” He snaps, but the mock anger of it is shaken by the fact he can’t keep his own voice level, too lost in the feeling of you.

“Fuck-Fuck baby.” He’s writhing under you, stuffing his fingers past your lips to probe behind your teeth, feeling your tongue licking desperately across them. “Come on, you’re gonna come with me, okay? Fuck- Come on.” He speeds up his ministrations again, thrusting up at you in time with each flick of his wrist until both of you have trembling legs, his hold slipping before you’re able to grind freely down against him. “Look-Look how long you’re lasting- I-I told you training was good-“ He can barely get the words out in between moans, and you can’t even respond past the fingers in your mouth, but he can feel how close you are. “There we go, you’re so-you’re so good.”

You come with a muffled cry, sobbing when he doesn’t stop moving until he has too, and you both fall limp on the mat, Court slowly pulling his fingers from your mouth just to hear you whine from the overstimulation of his hand still holding onto your cock.

“Court-“ He tries a laugh, but he barely has the energy himself as he swipes his thumb across your sensitive tip before pulling his hand back, instead moving both to hold your hips and carefully roll you to the floor beside him.

“Fuck.” He sighs, flinging an arm across your chest just to feel the rise and fall of your rapid breathing as you wrestle to calm down. “You are lasting longer though,” He pants out a laugh, tilting his head just enough to press a kiss to your sweaty shoulder. “proud of you.” He tacks on, and you just grin up at the ceiling, laying your hand over his.

“Shut up, Court.” You shake your head with a grin.

“Not until you successfully take me down.” You groan loudly at his words, and he jokingly muffles it with his hand again.

It had been 4 months and 16 days since you last saw him- since he was a real person pressed against your skin, rather than just a crackled voice down some burner phone he'd picked up god only knows where.

Being with Sierra Six had never been easy, you knew that when it all started, but it still ate away at you most nights. You'd hear your friends tell stories of date nights and you'd scroll past posts on social media, all smiling and in love for the world to see. Your idea of a date night was when he was safe enough to call for an hour or so, but he was never truly there- he was always so on edge and alert.

You tell yourself you're used to it. But even he would argue that you absolutely aren't.

You'd been out with friends, a distraction from

the sight of the calendar hung up on the wall, an 'X' on each day he hadn't been home. Once you'd reached 100, you stopped counting, but the marks persisted. A reminder- a promise that one day they wouldn't be there anymore, at least for a little while.

Your relationship with Six had made you a little paranoid, to say the least, so your nightly routine consisted of locking every window and checking each room in turn. But this time, when your hand caught the handle of your little office, one latched onto you.

A scream immediately erupts from your throat, only for you to be silenced a moment later by fingers clamping over your mouth, an arm sliding across your stomach to pin you to a hard chest. "You always forget to check the cupboard." A voice hums, barely audible over the sound of your pulse beating in your ears.

"Six." You relax against him, despite how the burning adrenaline in your body wants to pull away- not that you could, Six has a tight hold on you. He always does.

"Hi, baby." He immediately locks his attention on dragging lips across your cheek, nuzzling into you like he's trying to fuse you both together. "I've missed you." He purrs into your ear now, a soft groan as his hands seek to smooth over your body, pulling your shirt up enough to press calloused palms to your stomach. Skin to skin, he needs the contact like air.

"I've missed you too." You respond, closing your eyes to focus on the roaming hands in an effort to calm your racing heart, basking in the feeling of him behind you once more.

"Are you hurt?" You dream of a world where that isn't the first instinctive question upon your boyfriend returning home, yet it's a fact of your life when you feel the hesitation in his movements. "You're hurt." It comes out somewhere in between anger and concern, and you try and fail to turn to face him, fighting against his grip is useless when he wants you the way he does. "Six-" As soon as your wrestle to get out of his arms turns almost frantic and genuine, he releases you and spins you around, your eyes meeting his bloodshot ones. "Come on." There's dirt scuffed across his cheeks and some blood drying on his temple- you'd guess it's his, but you'd long since decided you didn't want to know.

"Baby." He protests when you grab his hand, it's that voice he does when he just wants to eat you alive, but you ignore it in favour of tugging him to the bathroom. "C'mon, I just want to kiss you." He whines, and it's almost comical, the 6 foot killing machine standing broad in the doorway, resorting to pouting at you. "One kiss, then you can do whatever." Despite just playing along and letting you lead him, he flips it over on you now, shaking your hand off, and instead he grabs at your waist to push you against the door. "I've missed you." His mouth is on yours before you can jokingly argue back at him, and he pins you up against the door with his hips.

One kiss. You ease into the way he feels almost instantly, any retort dying in your throat as he mouths at you, all encompassing, your brain swirls.

His tongue probes at the seam of your lips until they split open enough for him to push in, licking into your mouth, dragging a soft groan from the both of you.

"Six-" The hum of his name comes out garbled as he uses the hold on your waist to hike you up against the door until your feet leave the floor, and you grab at his shoulders in an effort to stay upright.

"Shhh." He purrs, all soft and needy, and he kisses like he's trying to swallow you whole. It's not that you're not enjoying the way he's devouring you- you'd spent most nights the last few months imagining what it would be like to taste him again, but you know too much about your boyfriend to not be concerned.

Court was allergic to showing how he felt- he spends most of his time around you attempting to cover up who he is. You know, of course, you had for a long time, but he hardly enjoys showing it- past using his strength to throw you around. But you can tell, you can read him like a book now, despite how much you know he hates it. You feel the way the muscles in his back twitch when your hand grasps his shoulder, you hear the hitch in his breathing when he shifts his body a way that tugs at some injury he'd acquired in his time away.

"Down." You pat his chest, just harsh enough to break him out of the woozy feeling of you making out like men starved. "Six." You try to be scolding, but you know he only does it to protect you, despite how often you insist he's safe with you, all of him is. "Please let me run you a bath." It's a compromise you know he won't mind, deep down he's aware he needs to be taken care of, have you tend to his wounds and kiss him all better whilst he soaks his aching muscles.

"Fine." He slowly lowers you back to the floor, and nips your bottom lip with a stupid grin, drunk on the feeling of having you close again, he glues to your back as you walk to the bath.

"You gonna give me some space?" He gets clingy during times like this, terrified of letting you go when he finally gets to you again. A trained assassin melting into nothing but a teddy bear as he crowds over you, hands once again seeking out the soft skin of your waist.

"Not now." You lean to turn the taps, and he bends over with you just so he can nuzzle into the space between your neck and shoulder. "I want to be close." He mumbles, pressing gentle kisses to your skin, though it lacks the hunger it had just moments before. He's all tender now, needy in a different way. He just wants to hold you close and never let you go.

"Come on, baby, let me look after you." You turn in the small space he's left you, slotting your hand against his cheek to gently pry him away. "You deserve a rest." You can see it in the bags under his eyes- and simply because you know Six better than anyone. He's not slept properly, and you'd gamble to say he hasn't for the last 4 and a half months. He always sleeps better with you, he tells you as much. Long painful days followed by even longer, pained nights. He lives in a constant state of fight or flight, and you both know he's barely ever content with running. He's a fighter, and it shows when you take his hands in your own, cuts and bruises splitting skin that barely healed originally. You don't pry, you never do, but it's obvious that in your time apart he suffered gravely, not that he'd admit it. If you don't know him the way you did, you'd say he's too proud, too egotistical to let his carefully constructed bravado slip away- but in reality you know he's scared.

"Okay," He leans back enough for you to pull his shirt up and over his head, and you both pretend that you don't flinch at the sight of him. He's bruised, purple, blue and yellow across large patches of his torso. If you look closer, they're layered- he's not healing in between beatings, and it chokes you up. But he simply takes your hands and places them on his waist, using the hold of your wrists to glide your palms against his skin. "I'm okay." He does this when he knows you're slipping into overwhelming concern for him, an attempt at consoling you, and in a way- himself. If he just shows you that he can take it, that he can get hit and battered and survive it, if he pretends your touch against his wounded body doesn't sting, he doesn't have to face his own reality.

"You feel that?" He skates your warm hand up to rest across his chest, pressing it close until you feel the steady thump of his heart. He doesn't know if it's more for himself or for you, but the touch comforts you both nonetheless.

"I know." You sigh, stepping forward to press your forehead to his collarbone, letting his arms wrap around you again. "I just worry." It's something you don't particularly need to say this long into the relationship, you've said it a million times and it shows on your face, but he lets you mumble it into his skin again, and he will do so until the end of time. He'll tell himself it's just because he knows it's healthy for you to get your feelings out, but some part of him enjoys hearing you say it- though he'd never admit that. The rush he gets when you express concern, a care for him that he so seldom gets.

The Government 'cared', Fitz 'cared'- they cared enough to keep him living and breathing and safe enough, but not in the way you do. He's only alive because the agencies need him to be, he's their property, they need him to do their bidding. To be their attack dog.

But you- you care for him so deep and genuine that his chest burns, you care in a way he'd only ever experienced as a child. You care for him because you want him to live.

"Now how about this bath, eh?" He tries to lift his voice and lighten the sudden drop in mood, dragging a hand up your side to grasp at your cheek, tilting your head up to kiss you gently.

"Yeah." You pull back with a small smile, and he's merciful enough not to comment on the tears beading in your eyes, simply swiping them away with a thumb when they roll down your cheeks.

"I know you like roleplay- we can be nurse and patient." He jokes, and the tense atmosphere cracks when you grin up at him, shaking your head.

"Oh shut up, and take your trousers off." You push back away from him gently, and he lets you go this time.

"Anytime, baby." He's watching as you test the temperature of the water and adjusting it to how you know he likes it. His heart softens at the sight, and for a brief moment he allows himself to imagine a world where this is his daily reality- where he works an average job and comes home to this domestic bliss each night. He wonders what your life would be like if everything was normal. But it never has been- and it never will be. He cuts off the train of thought before it can continue, there is no use falling into a daydream. For now, living in the moment will have to suffice.

"You changed?" You ask, facing away from him as if you're trying to give him privacy as he undoes his belt and drops his combat trousers to the floor with his boxers, in a pile where he'd just kicked off his shoes. He'd find it comical if it wasn't so painfully sweet, and he grins at your back even where you can't see it.

"Yeah, baby." You glance just a little over your shoulder, catching his smile as you nod towards the bath. "Thank you." He accepts your hand when you offer it to help him into the water, guiding him down until he's well submerged.

"God- that feels good." He allows himself to relax, squeezing your hand before you pull it back.

"Let me go get you a drink whilst you relax, are you hungry?" He shakes his head, and even despite knowing it's a lie, you'll let him have his way for now, kissing his head before slipping out of the room.

You return a few minutes later, dragging a chair behind you and a small glass of whisky in the other. He's reclined back in the bath as much as he can, his knees poking high out of the water as his tall, broad frame barely fits in. You'd laugh, if it wasn't such a charming sight- he feels more human like this, tangible in a way he tries not to be. It's another reminder that under all the act and all he's done, he's still your sweet boyfriend.

"Here, love." You pull the chair up to the side of the bath and pass him his drink, which he thanks you for by pressing a kiss to your knuckles. He looks small, in an odd way, his face sleepy and pink from the warmth of the water, his eyes a little glossy. "Relax for a bit, I'll stay right here." You don't mind his clinginess and need for contact, and you barley bat an eye when he slings an arm over to lay across your lap.

"As long as you don't leave me." His voice is so uncharacteristically quiet you barely hear him, but he punctuates it by hooking his hand under your thigh, keeping you close.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Six." He sips his drink slowly, sighing in content as you weave your fingers into his mess of hair, carefully pulling apart knots that had formed. He could hardly care about looking after it when he was on the run, so you take up the job, and you do so happily.

You let him relax in the water, changing it once when it begins to cool and turn an unsightly pale pink from blood, before starting work on cleaning him up. "You don't have to." He chuckles softly, catching your hand when you reach for the soap. It's a song and dance you do each time, he pretends he doesn't like the feel of you caring for him, but he always relents in the end, giddy with the love he feels.

"Let me, please." You smile, and it takes all of 2 seconds for him to nod up at you.

"Fine." He rolls his eyes, but his smile betrays him as he shuffles immediately for you to begin to slowly lather up a cloth.

You feel him ease up as soon as you begin to scrub across his back, and you skim it gently over the torn skin, cleaning up the dried blood there. "Fuck." He sighs in content, especially when you drop the cloth to massage the bubbles into his sore muscles.

"That feel good?" You tease, instantly awarded with a rattled moan when you press a little deeper into the space below his shoulder.

"You know it does." He laughs, peering over his shoulder to grin at you. "You're so good to me." A wet hand comes to grab at your face, and you recoil with a small yelp, but his hold is unrelenting as he pulls you down into a gentle kiss.

"Okay- okay!" You chuckle, leaning back even when he chases your mouth. "Let me finish cleaning you up first, at least." You send him a pointed mock glare when he rolls his eyes again, urging him to lean back so you can start on his legs, soothing the tenseness in his calves as you massage there too, up to the tops of his thighs.

It's not until you've carefully washed up his chest and begin to move on to his hair that his quiet demeanour changes from his relaxed, blissful state into a playful one, and you barely process what's going on as he splashes his arms up and snatches at your waist.

"Six!" It's a stupid squeal he laughs at- one second you're leant over the bath, the next you're in it, clothes and all. "Bastard!" You cry, feeling the way they cling tight to your skin as he wrestles you into his lap, not caring at the water now flooding over your bathroom with the force of the splash.

"Oh you're just saying that." He waves your annoyance off, and you can't even argue as you break out into a laugh yourself, easing against him. "You were out of my arms for too long." He nuzzles into your head again, nipping at the tip of your ear with a wolfish grin.

"You could at least let me take off my clothes first." You huff in mock anger, which he quickly kisses away with a tilt of his head.

"There's plenty of time for that later." You have no doubt in it. When all is said and done and he's clean again, he strips you bare to dry you both off, and you retire to your room.

Life had moved on fast from your last interaction with Six- you’d forced it to, you could no longer stomach chasing after a ghost. When he’d left he’d allowed you to wake up for it, kissing you softly, passionately, with a finality you couldn’t argue with. He showed no emotion as he pulled away, no words were shared, and then he was gone once more.

For a year, your friends would remark on your lack of dates, they’d throw you together with men at bars in the hopes of bringing you close to someone. But you couldn’t, and you failed to come up with excuses as to why, either. You’d kept his existence to yourself, as if it was something that would so easily be ripped away again if you uttered any word about him. Your time with Six had been exactly that- yours, and maybe- just maybe- if you continued to keep him safe, he would return to you. Sure, you’d vowed to give up on ever seeing him again, but you knew that meant nothing to your heart. Your heart longed for the man that could never be yours.

“Here, love.” The barista smiles, she was one of the many relationships formed after you decided you could never live a life in which people did not know you. Not like him. Seeing Six had kicked you into gear, no more days of isolation and solo travelling seeking nothing but a lonely redemption for yourself. You spoke to people as you went, as you imagined he never could. “Already been paid for.” She follows up when you raise an eyebrow at your regular order already in her outstretched hand.

“By who?” A part of your mind hellbent on your own destruction says him. It’s him it’s him it’s him. It’s not it’s not it’s not! The rational side counters, and you stare at the cup for way too long before taking it. The warmth in your palm reminds you of his hand in yours, and a shake of your head dismisses that treacherous thought. “Nevermind, I’ll take it as a sign it’s a good day.” You can’t explain to her that the reason you cut her off is because you cannot stomach the possibility that it wasn’t him, despite how desperately you want to pretend you don’t care about him. She simply nods, blissfully unaware of the nightmare you’re living in your head, and you bid each other farewell before you make your way to the counter by the window. You never sit at that table, and you resent yourself when you realise your subconscious led you there in the hopes you’d see him outside. Waiting. Watching.

The street in front of you is empty,and it remains that way until you leave. You try not to feel disappointed. You fail.

You spend the next few weeks cursing his existence, and despite your internal insistence that you don’t care, you still find yourself looking for him again. In the cafe, in the park, under the streetlight outside your window. Nothing. You want to kill him for ruining all your progress in bidding him farewell in your head.

Six does what he does best. He disappears, he tracks, he watches. Every break between a job has him returning to your town, a different passport each trip, a new motel, he travels light, and tells himself it’s to keep you safe- which it is, but more than anything he feels deeply selfish. He cannot stomach the thought of anyone but himself knowing anything about you.

It’ll be his downfall in the end, he knows that, and yet he continues.

So he follows and waits, for what? He’s not sure. And so he does what he does best, and he watches you like a target. You look for him, and each time you seek him out in the shadows he tries not to think about how happy he is- how desperate to have you again. But he’s not there, he doesn’t lurk down dark alleyways and under the cover of night like you believe. He’s there, with you. He’s sitting at a table behind you. He’s walking along the trail through the park, falling into step just far enough behind that he doesn't even register to you. It’s the thrill of almost being caught, and yet he dreads the day you turn around.

It’s not you who turns, not in the end. It’s him, who shows up at your door at an ungodly hour of night, beaten and bruised. He didn’t mean for it to happen, for him to end up there, but he was spiralling into something sickly, and ever since the hotel, he’d never been able to ease out of it as he once had. You’d softened him, and he hated you for it- at least he told himself that. He’s built to hold grudges, and yet he could never bring himself to despise you.

So he knocks at the door, biting back a wince at the bruises littering the backs of his knuckles. He could let himself in, he probably should, save making a scene in front of his neighbours, but he knows you’re up at this hour. He knows everything about you.

“Six?” He doesn’t look at you when the door opens, and just the sound of your voice has his heart falling to his feet. “Shit- come in.” He can’t move, he’s trapped under the feeling of your gaze, and it takes you grasping at his arm and pulling him into your apartment to get him to walk.

“Don’t look at me.” He says and his voice comes out like a growl. He feels like a panicked animal around you, his heart thumping hard in his chest as he tries to keep himself stable.

“I won’t, Six.” He can just about see the way you tilt your head away, guiding him slowly to the sofa he’d been lounging on a year before. The sofa in which he’d held you down and kissed you stupid on. The memory makes him sick, and he hates himself for it.

“Put this on.” There’s a tie loose around his neck, hanging at the collar of an unbuttoned shirt, and it stings against his sore skin as he pulls it out. You repeat his name in that painfully soft tone you have, and his teeth grit. “Cover your eyes, put it on.” He shoves it into your chest, and lets his hand linger there, just for a moment, before he’s pulling it back like you’re on fire.

“Okay- yeah- okay.” He wants to scream and kick and cry, he feels every ounce a broken man at the way he makes your voice crack with fear. He should revel in it, a man of his calibre, he should be delighting in having anyone cower at him. At a point in time, he had. But now he resented it. He was not a bad dog. He knew why he bit, yet it made no difference. A dog who has been groomed to fight is still the one who does the mauling in the end. He can never escape the things he’s done, and will continue to do. He is not a bad dog, he does exactly as he is told- just as you do now. The cycle repeats.

“Thank you.” He breathes out a sigh of what should be relief, but it’s nothing but an angry pit in his chest. He wants you to look at him, to see him as he is, despite it all. But he cannot look at your face, he cannot see your eyes and continue on with his life again. You make him soft, and he is no use as a gentle man. He is rough and violent and punishing, and that is all he will ever allow himself to be. Even if it means losing you again and again and again.

“Will you do something for me?” He knows your answer before you say it, the hand on his bicep curls just a fraction tighter. He tries not to shrug it off as he digs in his pocket and pulls out his gloves- the thought of losing your touch now sends him crazy.

“Of course.” He looks up at you now, sliding a gloved hand softly to cradle your face, his jaw ticking when you flinch back.

“Will you let me hold you…please?” He can hear how desperate he sounds, he’s losing his composure around you, and quickly.

You do nothing but hum and he grabs at your waist a little unceremoniously, apologising almost silently when you flinch back. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He repeats the line in his head over and over again as if it will absolve him from his sins. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you- a sick part of his brain tacks on a ‘yet’, because he knows he can never promise such a thing. All he does is hurt and maul and kill. Sooner or later, you will fall victim to his cruel ways. He will leave again. Wordless and afraid. His cowardice towards connection will ruin you both in the end. He is not human in that way. He’s not allowed to be.

“I won’t hurt you.” He whispers again, but he can hear in his own voice that he doesn't believe it, yet you curl into him all the same, lifting arms a little clumsily to loop around his neck.

“I know.” You don’t. “It’s okay.” You both know it isn’t. He lets his gloved hand trail down your throat, over your shoulder and down your arm, until it joins the other to hook around your waist. The barrier between his calloused palms and your soft skin calms him to an extent, putting distance between the two of you, no matter how small. He’s shielding you from all the blood that stains his hands, keeping you sweet and pure, untainted by him. If he just keeps you pristine and untouched, maybe you can remain his sanctuary.

“Sit with me.” He allows himself to pull you closer, enough that his lips ghost just barely against your temple, feeling you nod.

“Okay, Six.” My name is Court. My name is Court. My name is Court. He can count on one hand the number of people who know him by name, who see him more as an individual than an asset. It’s a sorry existence for a man- and yet deep down he believes he deserves it.

He pulls you down with him onto your sofa, and tries not to think about everything that occurred the last time you were entwined there. A lapse in judgement, he tells himself, despite the fact that he’d make that same mistake a million times if offered the chance. He’d take a lifetime of you if he could.

“Are you okay?” You tuck your head snug into the space below his chin, and you feel white hot against him. He prays silently that you don’t pick up on the way he swallows down everything he wants to say, dragging back every word that’s begging to come out of his mouth.

“Yes.” Is all he allows himself to say, closing his eyes- he can’t take the sight of you.

“I trust you.” He tries to ignore the feeling of your arms snaking around his waist, sliding under his shirt, dancing across scars and bruises. “I trust you.” He wants so badly to scream that you shouldn’t, that you should’ve never opened the door tonight, or the time before- you shouldn’t have stayed in that hotel. You’d kept him alive, and so had doomed yourself. No good deed goes unpunished-he knows that himself all too well.

He coils around you, tightening his hold as if he could fuse you both together for all eternity. He wants it so badly, to have you tied to him, to know that no matter what he did or where he went, you’d be there in the end. He’s sure, if he asks now, you’d say yes. He feels egotistical even considering your answer would be affirmative, but he knows because he’s trained to, and intentional or not, he’s forced his way into your life, he’s changed it- and not for the better.

He wants to kiss you again, he wants a life with you- a real one. He is so filled with such selfish desires that deep down a part of him that he tries so desperately to ignore, wants to pull you down with him.

If you just knew who he was- if he entangled you in his business just enough- you’d be bound to him forever.

He holds you even closer, if it’s possible, digging his fingers roughly into the soft skin of your waist and thigh, begging for the relief it brings. It does little to soothe him.

“How do I help you, Six?” His hand trails up your ribs again, over your arm, and up to the side of your face, rubbing a thumb over the silk of his own tie. Despite him forcing it on you as a way to distance you both, the mere act of you wearing something of his has the opposite effect. He wonders what you’d look like in his other clothes- coming home to you in bed in one of his shirts. He feels dizzy with it.

“You help me enough.” It’s a lie, one he refuses to admit to you. You're ruining my life. Ever since you’d met he’d been fighting against himself, against all his training, against the person he has to be.

“Why did you come here?” Your question comes after a period of silence, both of you pretending you were more comfortable with it than you were. He’s trying to remain calm, and you’re trying to soothe whatever nightmare he’d just experienced to have him arriving bloody and bruised at your door. You don’t think about the question before you ask it, and your inability to watch his face change has your stomach twisting in knots. Blindness to a man who seems to live on a hair-trigger is not the safest you’ve ever been. But he wouldn’t hurt you- right?

“I don’t know.” He answers, and you do not need to question his honesty, he sounds too genuinely broken to be a liar. You have no idea how to react to him, and instead gamble on pressing a kiss to where your head still rests under his chin, lips ghosting across his throat. You hear and feel him suck in a breath beneath you, but he makes no effort to move you away, in fact, he appears to go against his own instincts and holds you ever tighter. “I just need you.” It’s the most honesty he’s offered up so far, and you don’t dare push him on it, accepting the kiss hesitantly presses to your scalp, before pulling away as if you burn.

“You won’t leave me, will you? You won’t leave me- you won’t leave me.” He hums mindlessly against you, fingers digging so tightly into your flesh that the hold stings, yet you can’t bring yourself to move away.

“I won’t leave you.” You affirm, but you both know it’s not up to you- in the end he will always be the one to leave, he cannot stay with you, he’s loyal only to the people who control him, and they will always drag him home. “I-I waited, didn’t I? I stayed here so you knew where to come back to.” Your honesty makes you feel a little sick, and you can feel the way his heartbeat thrums against you.

“I can find you, I’ll always find you.” It should probably unnerve you, but he knows you’re too far gone to have it affect you. You’re both trapped in the knowledge that in meeting you were doomed, nothing will ever be the way you want it. Six is destined to die a killer, living to serve others and never quite being human, and in turn, you are destined to chase after a ghost until the end of time.

Living in the inbetween, in the few moments you can insist mean nothing, are the only times you will feel truly alive despite it all. Together, as he pretends the way he’s trying to conjure distance, you are closer than you ever have been before. There’s a vulnerability present, even more so than when you held his life in your hesitant hands in that hotel room. Just for now, he’s allowing you to see himself as he is, barely a person, a shell of something that could’ve been.

Neither of you can stomach the words you so desperately want to say, and you remain entwined, two boys together clinging.

So you dream, pressed together. You wish for a world where you are anyone other than who you are, happy and alive, he wishes for a world where you were given the keys to someone else’s room, and you never crossed paths at all.

You’re sure you’d find each other in every universe, he knows that you will- and you are doomed in every one of them. He wonders if in one of them, he is permitted to be human, at least for a little while.

And so this time, he leaves with a kiss to your forehead, and when you stand to follow him to the door, any trace of softness you’d been given in the hours you were holding each other disappears into nothing. “Sit.” He pushes you back with a hand to your shoulder, and you can’t even get one last look at him, you’re blind to him, but you can hear the way his breathing gets harsher. “Stay. Just- Stay.” And so the dog becomes the owner, snapping orders that make bile rise up in his throat. A click of the lock- your heart drops to the floor.

“I’ll wait for you.” He’s already gone. Again.

“Talk to me.” You know it’s him immediately, breathing ragged- you can barely hear him through the speakers. “Talk to me.” He repeats, achingly desperate this time, as if he’s trying to claw at you through the phone.

“Six.” You sigh out. It’s not a relief, you’re not entirely sure what it could possibly be. You have no idea how you’re supposed to feel about him, how he feels about you.

“Talk to me. Please.” He sounds weaker than you’ve ever heard him, even the night he crawled into your arms, even when he was bleeding out.

“Are you hurt?” There’s a laugh, but it’s far from humourous, all scratchy and pained. Your chest tightens at the thought. “Where are you? I-I’ll come help you, let me help you.” You rush out, listening to the way he wheezes. It’s pathetic how quickly you go from second guessing your feelings towards him to a blind desperate panic at the thought of him being alone and injured.

“No-No you can’t.” For a moment there, you can almost hear the smile in his voice, the one he’d given you just once. Tender, sweet, everything he’s not capable of saying out loud. “Just talk to me, baby.” You’re ‘baby’ again. You try to ignore how it makes you feel.

“About what?” Your voice skips, and you both pretend not to notice.

“Anything. Just-“ There’s a pause that lasts long enough that for a moment you believe the call disconnects, before his voice returns again, painfully quiet- he’s afraid of his own words all of a sudden. “-remind me what it’s like to be a person, please.”

There’s a silence from yourself now, as you grapple with the gravity of what he just said. The fear you had previously felt around him, had been replaced by a fear for him.

“Six.” You sigh, hearing him groan back.

“That’s not-That’s not my name.” You want to laugh -obviously it’s not- but the sheer devastation in his words keeps you quiet. “I’d tell you, if I could.” Another bout of silence, your brain is swirling with things you want to say, but all will be of little comfort to the man on the other end of the phone.

“I know.” You settle on, and his breath rattles out in something close to a whine.

“I shouldn’t be calling you.” He’s laughing, again, but he sounds more delirious now, distant.

“Where are you, Six?”

☆ he wore a cap, low enough on his forehead to shade his eyes. on colder days he’d wear a thick jacket that covered up his jaw and partially obscured his mouth.

★ at the cafe, in the park, he’d be there across the way. never watching, just…existing near your space.

☆ maybe you should’ve been more alarmed, and you were in the beginning, but after a while the sight of him became some sort of sick comfort. you sought out his shadowed figure in the side streets, in crowds, across roads and rooms.

★ one night, walking home from your job, you’re stopped by a group of men who demand your belongings, gesturing with knives as you shuck your bag off your back and throw it at the floor. you have little money to your name, but you decided these men would not see that reason enough to leave you alone

☆ they allow you to escape off home, and when you make it a street away, you find yourself searching in the darkness in hopes you’d be met with a familiar silhouette.

★ it isn’t until then that you hear it, in the distance, there’s yelling, and what sounds like a gunshot. you run the rest of the way home and curl under your covers with your shoes still on.

☆ that morning you sit in your kitchen, nursing a small mug of coffee as you debate on how to inform your boss you’ve lost your laptop, when there is a short knock on your front door

★ you stare at the wood like it’s a monster, and creep along to retrieve a knife from your counter. it’s stupid, you’re too clumsy and scared to ever be able to defend yourself, but it eases your panic just a fraction.

☆ you open the door slowly, only to find nothing but your bag, and when you bring it inside, you’re surprised to see it exactly as you’d left it when you packed it after your shift the night before.

★ minutes later, when you work up the courage to peer out onto the street, you see a retreating figure in the distance, a cap pulled down on their head.

☆ later, when you turn on the news, a story detailing the men found with gunshot wounds on the street you’d been robbed on. non-lethal, they report, and you don’t quite feel relieved. but you feel safer in the knowledge that someone out there is looking after you.

★ the first time you hear him speak, he gets close enough to touch, pressing a hand tight to your back.

☆ “act normal, don’t look at my face, just lean into my side and smile like we’re reuniting.” his voice is calm, almost sweet, and he stops you with that hand, urging you into his chest. it’s crazy, and you’re heart is thumping so loud you hear it in your ears, and yet you embrace him all the same.

★ “there’s men following you. friends of the ones who robbed you.” he informs you, resuming your walk, falling into step perfectly in time with you.

☆ you don’t question him, even when you know you should. but his presence alone is comforting, you feel safer than you ever have, and you allow the man to wordlessly walk you home as if he’d done it a million times. you suppose he had.

★ from then on he gets just a fraction closer each time, more open with his watchful eye. he doesn’t acknowledge you, and you don’t approach him. no words are exchanged, just the silent agreement that you will be safe as long as he’s near.

☆ one day, it hits you that you haven’t seen him in a week, and you spend all your waking hours wandering aimlessly, ducking your head to peer down alleyways, checking behind trees, scanning crowds.

★ he’s gone, and you suppose you should be relieved, most people would when their stalker disappears. but you aren’t.

☆ you seek him out as if you’re chasing a ghost. no one you mention him to has any recollection of ever seeing such a man during your hangouts, and you begin to doubt he was ever there at all.

★ one night there’s a knock at your door, and that same uptick of your heart has your blood pumping in your ears.

☆ on your doorstep is a single red rose. it’s delicate and sharp all at once, and you liken it to him in your mind. caring for you, yet willing to hurt others to keep you safe.

★ you keep it on your bedside table until it begins to wilt, and then you hang it up to dry.

☆ there’s no hint or confirmation that it came from your mystery man, until you see him a few nights later.

★ frozen in place, you stare at him across the dark street, visible only by his choice to stand under a lone street light.

☆ you open your mouth to call to him, yet no words come out, you simply stare and stare and stare, until he nods- once, final, before slipping back to disappear into the darkness of night.