thank god fish aren't into cash...

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After a trip of rollerblading from california Into an artic setting, then camping with Barbara– well, barbie, riding a bike through a field of tulips, riding a rocket ship!? And finally driving a boat in the ocean...

You and barbie both made it to the outskirts of barbieland in the automatic pink car, you could see the large, clouds that spelled out "Barbie"

It also wasn't hard to miss the population of pink buildings and pink everything.

You didn't know what to expect but this makes sense.

Barbie had told you about what barbieland was like, what had happend with discovering the real world... and what the Ken's did. You then had a personal grudge.

But, she assured that everything for them was back to normal, even better than it was before, and you were excited.

Being able to see the lives of the toys we used to play with as a kid? That's mindblowing!

Maybe you could use barbieland to document your art, show the beauties of women through the barbies.

You and barbie parked the pink car in the central roundabout and you practically jumped out with eagerness. "Barb, this is amazing! I didn't think anything could be this pink!"

She smiled at your contagious reaction, "I know! It's so different from the real world, I do miss being here as much as I used to, but the real world is my place."

You swivelled around many times, looking at different houses, different barbies and anything you could see.

There are so many barbies!

"Seriously this has to be the coolest thing I've ever done. Thank you so much for trusting me with this." You easily embraced her for a moment.

"You're my best friend! Of course I trust you with being in barbieland." Barbie laughed. "Here, let's introduce you to some of the barbies!"

And just like that, you two were skipping around barbieland, allowing you to meet all kinds of barbies, a few of the ken's and especially Allan.

When you both arrived at the beach you were both fascinated and amused. "Wow, so even the ocean is plastic."

You stepped through the sand, leaning down to poke at the solid sea.

You turned back around to barbie when you noticed there was a ken next to her now, chatting away. No doubt was he asking about you.

"Hey barbie, are they from the real world?" He whispered–loudly.

"Mhm, they're my best friend!" She nodded, turning to you as you stepped over to the pair.

"Let me guess... Ken?" You tilted your head.

"Woah! How'd you know?" Ken spoke in awe, brushing a hand through the strands of his bleached hair nervously.

Ken was immediately gagged. He's only been to the real world a few times after the incident, never has he seen a real human this pretty.

"Lucky guess." You shrugged. Man, the ken's really are oblivious.

"You– so... barbies best friend?" He swallowed a little too hard.

You nodded, telling him your name and then allowing your eyes to linger on his appearance as he repeated it.

Obviously he's attractive... he's a ken... but there's something about him. Maybe it's the dumb charm. Maybe it's that dopey grin. You'd rather not figure that out right now.

You turn your head to barbie, "So, is there anything else you'd like to show me, Barb? Ooh, we could have a girls night!"

And just like that, Barbie and you left ken on the sand, standing there as his gaze seemed to follow you. The more he stared the more he noticed the funny feeling within his tummy.

He is so in love with you!

Maybe you're his soulmate..

Overtime, you switched between where you stayed, mostly in barbieland as it's just better than home, it allowed you more freedom to work on your art.

Barbie noticed that Ken was spending a lot of his time with you, always trying to catch your eye, seeking your attention as much as possible.

She also noticed you had been pressing your nose into your sketchbook a little more than often, but when Ken stepped anywhere in your vicinity: you smacked it shut.

Clearly, you had something to hide.

Unlike Ken who obviously showed his undying love for you, you were in denial.

Having a crush on a doll!? That's insane! On a ken-doll no less...

So, Barbie took it upon herself to figure out what had you drawing so intensely. She knew you used your art as a way to present your emotions.

Entering her dream house, she noticed you, pencil against paper, resting on her pink couch, eyes glued to your sketchbook.

She greeted you politely before sitting on the end of the plush coushins. "So, you've been drawing a lot." It wasn't a question, rather an observation.

"Wut.. I don't know what you're talking about." You couldn't keep eye contact longer than a few seconds.

"Can I see?" "No." "What! Im you're best friend." A beat. "Fine."

You reluctantly handed her your sketchbook after sitting up straight. You watched as her eyes trailed along the two pages.

"It's all.. Ken?" Barbie asked, clearly a little puzzled.

"Don't say it like that! I can't help myself recently.. ever since meeting him I just.. keep drawing him." You proved your words, showing her other pages.

"They look exactly like him!" She praises and you immediately accepted it. "I– thank you, actually. I don't know what it is about him... it feels really good to draw him."

"Didn't you teach me about crushes?" A brow lifted on Barbies face, smiling like she had figured it all out. Well, technically she has.

"Barb. I do not have a crush on your ex ken-doll boyfriend." You said slightly through your teeth, a certain warmth flooding through your body.

"I don't see you drawing anyone else like this. Not even the real human males in the real world." She now had a grin plastered on her perfect face.

You paused, bathing in the embarrassment that you may actually be fully attracted to a doll. A ken-doll.

"Either way, we just met like a week ago, we can't just start dating... that would be weird!" You were now standing, pacing around in front of barbie and her couch.

"I ship it." Barbie said quietly, making you freeze, your cheeks tinting pink.

"I didn't teach you that word..." and she just shrugged.

The silence settled for a moment before you spoke up.

"So.. what should I do..?" You huffed.

"Well, it's not like it'd be hard to start dating him." She reassured you.

"What?" "He's completely obsessed with you!"

You laughed then, "He's not.." But the more you thought back to previous memories, times you've spent with him, you picture him like a cartoon with hearts in his eyes.

The way he acted around you, spoke around you.. he was pretty desperate. Ken is obsessed with you–he's just very polite about it. That you respected. You smiled to yourself, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

In barbieland, you realised that you felt a lot more comfortable on the beach there than you did at home, even though it wasn't real and the sea is fully made of plastic.

You didn't go swimming at home that much anyway. Too many eyes and people, it always felt like you were being watched.

But here, you could sit in the sand while other barbies sunbathed, their ken's by the their side or beaching in the sea. Whatever that meant, you'd have to ask Ken about that at some point.

Speaking of ken..

Your head tilted up from your lap, watching the blonde himself, beaching.

You ducked your head again, sketching away in your book. A guess to what you were sketching? Well the man right in front of you of course.

Only for the hundredth time (probably).

What you didn't expect was when you lifted your head again to capture his frame in that tropical shirt–he was right there. In front of you. Looking down at you sitting in the sand, the cheesy grin that made your tummy flutter.

"How'd you like my beach moves?" Ken asked, hopeful.

"Oh, uh.. yeah. They were great. You really know how to beach, Ken." You praised with a sheepish smile before snapping your book shut, having reminded yourself of what you were doing.

After fisting his pumps in the air as a celebration of your praise, he raised a brow at the sound of the paperback closing. "You're doing that art thing again?"

"Uhh... Uh hm. Yep, just some sketches." You dipped your head after nodding, knowing heat was rising to your cheeks.

Before he could say anything else you jumped to a thought, "Actually.. I was just about to head back to the real world to grab something from home, you wanna come with?"

"Definitely!" Ken said, way too quickly, like a puppy asked to go for walkies.

You opened your mouth before closing it, forcing your eyes away from his body. You collected your things and stood, giving him a once over. "Okay. Sounds good, just gotta grab my rollerblades.."

"Yippee! Real world trip!" He eagerly jumped into step beside you, and although he wasn't entirely oblivious to your odd behaviour and reddening face, he didn't think it was because you felt the same.

You both walked in silence before you ended up breaking it.

"I thought you didn't like the real world? after you know..." you asked quietly, looking up at him as you both stepped onto the pavement.

"We do not mention.. that. It was not cool of me and I will never ever ever ever do anything like it again, but the real world still has fun things, like beach!" Ken explained solemnly but then brightened up as he mentioned the beaches of california.

"Yeah, I guess it does." You sighed.

And so, you two travelled into the real world. You hadn't ever brought ken with you yourself before so you didn't know what to expect, you've only hung out with him in barbieland.

But now, leading him to your apartment, your home. You felt a tingle wrack your body.

Meanwhile–Ken was ecstatic. Getting to come to your personal home? With you? Where all of your personal belongings are? He could learn so much about you! Despite already knowing you're an artist.

Once there, you unlocked your front door, pushing the door open and moving aside to let him in. "Well, this is it, the home of me. My place.." you cursed yourself silently for how awkward you were being.

He smiled, the expression full of gratitude as he followed you inside like a lamb. Your place was so.. you! Ken was also obsessed with the scent around your apartment–all that filled his senses was you.

"I'm just gonna go toilet real quick, you can explore if you'd like." You pursed your lips before disappearing into the hallway– but not after depositing your things on the couch, that caught Ken's eye.

He watched you walk away before looking down at the book that was always shut when he's around.

Whatever could you be drawing? He thought. He's an innocent–well, not totally innocent–ken-doll who wants to know every inch of you.

He loves you for Mattel's sake!

He loves you so much that he'd do anything! That includes looking through your very private and very suspicious sketchbook...

If he figured out everything you liked, he was sure he could make you feel the same way he did.

Ken wouldn't want to miss that chance.

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Extra notes: i'm incredibly sorry if you don't like how this turned out 😖😖

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Taglist: @avocado-writing @cosmicyeehaw @stxrrrdusttt @pixiebuggz @lauuispunk @marstheflower16 @ken-dom @qardasngan

It's been a long time since anyone's called him anything but Six, and a small part of him wishes that you could. But his birth name, or even the shorter version of it that he used to prefer, is too unusual. 

And as much as you say you won't tell a soul - and as much as he believes you - it would be too easy for someone to make you talk. All it takes is a singular slip of the tongue, and then you'd be at risk of torture, capture, being held hostage to lure him out. 

And as much as he thinks he doesn't care enough for that to work, he knows different. 

Because he doesn't get nearly anything remotely resembling peace in his life, but the closest to it is the few hours he spends with you. 

There's no pattern to when he might show up. No forewarning. He does that on purpose. Watches your place to make sure it's safe, for both of you. 

You open your door to see him standing there, dressed in an unassuming pair of black jeans, an acid washed grey tee, sleeves long enough to hide the scarring that trails along his left shoulder, down his bicep. 

There's a healing bruise on his cheek, fresh scars on his knuckles, but he seems relatively unhurt. You've seen him in worse states, far worse. Had nights where you think maybe he's come to you because he doesn't think he'll ever see you again. 

His dirty blond hair is disheveled, as usual, but he looks... Okay. Tired, but no visible injuries. 

You may not know much about him - anything, really, beyond a rough estimate on his age - but you're not an idiot. Whatever he's into, you know that it's something dangerous. 

Black Ops. Paramilitary, maybe. Something that's not on the record, and would make him a lot of enemies. 

He steps inside, closes the door and triple checks the locks behind him before he's turning to you, barely gets a chance to look you up and down once before you're reaching for him. 

"Are you hurt?" You ask, fully prepared for him to make some stupid joke about his ego, like he had that one time he'd shown up with a dislocated shoulder. 

You keep a first aid kit that wouldn't be out of place in a small medical clinic under your bed for a reason now. A six feet tall, broad wall of muscle reason. 

"Not this time." His voice is a little hoarse, like he hasn't spoken for a while, but aside from that, you take him at his word. It's not unusual for him not to speak much; he told you once that he sometimes goes days without needing to speak to anyone else. 

"Okay. Okay, good," you say, trying to sound casual and failing. You've not quite gotten the art of acting as though you don't worry about him perfected. 

Six knows you worry about him; can see it in your expression before you try to mask it. He's trained to read body language far more subtle than yours. 

Hopefully one day, you won't have to worry about him anymore. Maybe if he puts enough bad guys into the ground, they'll let him disappear into civilian life. It's probably wishful thinking, but it's something to hold onto. 

Fortunately, he can think of about a dozen ways to stop either of you from thinking about anything too depressing or upsetting right now. 

Starting with leaning down and stealing a kiss. It's not really stolen if it's willingly given, considering the moment his mouth touches yours, you're leaning up, practically melting into him. 

"I missed you," the words fall from his lips between kisses that become increasingly needy; Six might be tall and broad and dangerous, but he's also exceptionally touch starved. 

Feeling is a liability, and he knows that, but he can't help it. Lifting you effortlessly into his arms, you barely get out an ‘I missed you, too’, before he's kissing you again. 

Your apartment is small, thankfully, so it's not far from the hallway to the bedroom. He carries you the entire way, sets you down and only pulls away from you so he can remove a handgun from somewhere on his person. 

He's careful about it, slides the ammo clip out and sets them down on the nightstand an inch or so apart before you're pulling him in closer, tugging at his shirt. 

His gaze sweeps the room, taking stock of the entry and exit; your window is locked, the new lock he'd put on it for you last time still in place. 

Then you're pulling his shirt up, and he helps you tug it off, toss it aside. It sure doesn't escape his notice, the way you look him up and down, your eyes traveling slowly over the plains of muscle that make up his chest and arms. 

Six still sometimes expects you to flinch away when you see the scars that litter his body, particularly the worst of them across his left shoulder and down his bicep. 

You never have, and you don't start now. Instead, your fingers are careful as you touch him, trace around the old scarring. 

Thankfully, the new additions to his scars and bruises seem relatively minimal this time, not that you're really able to tell. 

"Gonna just keep staring?" He asks, while his big, scarred hands find your waist, gently pull you in closer so he can kiss you again. 

You think he's trying to distract you, trying to ease up some of your concern for him. You don't know half of it. 

Six knows that this line of work will kill him eventually; he's not expecting some cushy retirement. Guys like him don't get that sort of thing. Sooner or later, there'll be a bad guy he can't kill first, and he'll end up in the ground. 

He hadn't intended to keep coming back to you, but your apartment has become an unintended safehouse. One of many, but the only one that's occupied. 

It's unfair to you, and he knows it; one day, he'll die, and you won't even know who to mourn. He knows it would be easier if neither of you got attached, but he's not stupid enough to think that's still an option. 

That doesn't mean he wants to watch you be afraid for him in real time, because seeing that just makes it harder and harder for him to leave you behind. 

Sooner or later, something's going to give, and he isn't sure he can feasibly say he wouldn't choose you if that happened. 

Especially when your soft, warm hands are running all over him, your touch so gentle as he tugs your jeans down, caresses your ass and makes you laugh softly. 

Between greedy kisses that border on desperate, the pair of you get the rest of your respective clothes off. He likes the way you touch the tattoos inked into his skin, the way you look at him like maybe he's worth saving. 

From the way he's built and his general demeanor, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that Six is strictly dominant. 

The assumption would be only half true; he can be a little dominant, when he wants to be, but barely. He's actually quite gentle with you, particularly when he lifts you up and lays you down in the middle of the bed, hovers over you, caging you in between his arms. 

You slide your hands up his chest again, link them at the nape of his neck as you wrap one leg around his waist, encouraging him closer. 

Six can feel the heat radiating from your core, groans softly when you kiss his neck gently, trail wet, open mouthed kisses along his jawline. 

"I missed you so much..." You breathe as he nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your perfume and soap. 

You know that you say it a lot, probably more often than needed, but you can’t help it. There’s a small part of you that hopes that if you say it often enough, he might realise how much you genuinely care about him. That you might give him a reason to stay.  

He knows that you mean it, too, beyond something purely physical. That you missed him, his presence, his voice. 

That, too, is part of why he keeps coming back. Because he misses those things about you just as much. Misses the warmth of your body against his, the softness in your voice when you whisper his call sign. 

His call sign. 

God, you deserve so much more than just that. 

The thought strikes him mid kiss, makes him freeze for just a fraction of a second before he forces the idea out of his head. Thinking too much about that will only make him sad, which is the last thing he wants right now. 

So, instead, he focuses on your hands, warm and soft as you run them up his biceps, across his shoulders, as if you’re trying to commit the feeling of him to memory. For all he knows, you might be. 

Six doesn’t know how long he has with you this time; he probably needs to leave before the sun rises, you know the drill by now. Sometimes, when he thinks he has longer, he takes his time with you. 

It helps him decompress, in a way, to shut his brain off and focus entirely on you. To kiss you all over until you’re sobbing and begging. If he wasn’t still running on adrenaline, hadn’t been away from you for so long, he might have done the same tonight. 

“Can I make you feel good?” you ask softly, your hand ghosting across his chest, down between you. 

You’ve missed this; missed him, the scent of his cologne, the faint lingering smell of gunpowder and sweat and something that’s entirely him. You can’t place that last one. 

There’s no telling how long it’ll be before you see him again - if you see him again - so you want to make this last. As much as you tell yourself that it means nothing, that he’s just a good lay who uses your place as a safehouse… you can’t lie to yourself.

The truth is, you barely know anything about him, and yet you want to. You want him. Feel things that make no sense to feel for an almost-stranger. 

So, you lose yourself in the fantasy, in the daydream of knowing him better. 

At least when he’s in your bed, you can pretend, just for a little while, that he’s yours. 

So, you run your fingertips along his hipbone, unperturbed by the scars that you can feel beneath your touch. You continue the little touches, further inwards, wrap your warm hand gently around his cock. 

He’s achingly hard, groans softly when you slowly stroke him. It’s not like he’s incapable of getting himself off, and he does, but it’s always so different to when you’re touching him. The feeling of your soft, warm hand wrapped around the thick length of his shaft, your eyes hazy with lust as you look up at him. 

Six isn’t a stranger to people looking at him like that; he knows he’s handsome, knows that he keeps his body in peak physical condition. But there’s a difference between strangers eye fucking him and the way you look at him. 

You kiss his throat, just above his pulse point, where you know he’s sensitive. Sure enough, he makes a little purring noise in response, rolls his hips gently into your hand. There’s a little jolt of satisfaction that runs through you at this, at the feeling of inspiring such a reaction in him. 

So maybe you don’t know exactly what he does, but you know for sure he’s dangerous. Strong. And yet he practically melts into your touch like he’s starved for it. That isn’t exactly far from the truth. 

“You gonna let me suck your cock?” you ask, kiss down his throat, along his collarbone, nip at his skin before working your way back. You want to. Badly. It’s one of your favorite things to do when you’re together, when he lets you. 

But sometimes, like tonight, he doesn’t want to draw it out. Needs to be and feel connected with you in every way possible. So while he would very much like to feel your soft lips wrapped around his cock, look down and see that pretty sight, he’d rather be inside you.

“Not tonight,” he answers, gently removes your hand from his cock, brings it up to rest on his chest again. “Need you.” 

You’re used to short sentences from him, soft words and silence, actions over words, so it doesn’t surprise you this time, either. Thankfully, you’re just as needy, too, have been aching and wet since he caged you in beneath him. 

“Need you, too,” you whisper back, use the hand resting at the nape of his neck to gently tug him down into another kiss. 

This one's deeper, more passionate; you pour all of your inexplicable feelings into it as he adjusts his body between your thighs. 

Keeping himself braced on one hand, he reaches between you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it slowly once or twice. 

It doesn't feel as good as when you did it. He drags the thick, velvet-soft tip through your soaked folds, nudges against your clit. You make a little whimpering sound into the kiss when he does, which sends another jolt of need through him, has his cock throbbing in his hand. 

Still, he's so, so careful as he lets his tip catch at your entrance. No matter how pent up he is, how badly you need one another, he never just pushes inside you in one go. 

Slowly, inch by inch, he presses deeper inside, nuzzles into the side of your neck and inhales the scent of your perfume. 

The warm, wet feeling of your cunt around him is addictive, has his head spinning just a little. He's one of the most dangerous men in the world, and yet you make him forget it. Perhaps that's another reason he comes back. 

As if it's not you. You, you, you. Everything about you. Six wants to love you in the daylight, he realises. Be with you. Explore what you could be together, if he wasn't who he is. 

His hips meet yours, the full length of him buried inside you. You slip your hands under his arms, rest them on his back. It feels intimate, like you're holding him, and he loves it, gently rolls his hips and makes you whimper. 

You're so responsive to him; he loves that about you. Loves the way you cling to him as he slowly starts to move. 

The urge to pound you into the bed is there; it's not like he hasn't before, after all. But the desire to take his time wins out, so instead he gives you slow, deep thrusts that have your nails digging little crescent shapes into his back. 

“Yeah? That feel good?” 

In spite of himself, Six has to ask. Half because he wants to hear you say it, half because he knows that you love when he talks you through it. 

You adjust your legs around his waist, cling to him with your soft hands as he builds up a steady pace, spurred on by the pretty sounds you make for him. 

“Ohh, god-” you gasp as he grinds against you, his cock so deep inside that his tip kisses your cervix. “Oh my god-” 

He responds with a soft, filthy groan, feeling the way your cunt constricts around him with sheer desire and arousal. 

“Nnhh; oh, you like that, don't you? Yeah? I can feel how much you love it, sweetheart-” 

He can't get enough of your hands all over him, your breathy moans and the way your back arches up, pressing your pretty tits against his chest. 

You're both so close to one another, you leaning to chase his mouth, kissing every inch of him you can reach. 

“Mmhmm, right there; please, Six-” you beg him, using his call sign, the only name he's ever given you.

Once again it strikes him, the deep buried desire to have this every night. To sleep beside you, take care of you. To wake you in the morning with his face between your thighs, making out with your sweet pussy until the sheets are soaked. 

He'll never be allowed out of his contract, not that he can ever foresee, anyway. 

Life in service to the CIA, or life in prison. He can't see a way where he could ever give you the life you deserve. 

A ring on your finger. Children, if you wanted them. A pipe dream, something that'll always be out of his reach. 

What, then, is left for him to give you, beyond physical intimacy? 

“Court,” he whispers finally, slowing again to that sensual pace, gives you the only other piece of himself that he can. 

Your eyes widen as you look up at him. 

“W-what?” You can barely register what he's just told you, having long since accepted that you would likely just be calling him Six for the rest of time. 

“My name,” his lips brush your ear, press a little kiss just below, “I want to hear you say it.” 

“Court.” You breathe his name softly, like it's something precious and fragile, as though even saying it too loud could shatter the moment. 

It's not the name you expected, but then, you aren't sure what you thought it might be. 

Immediately though, you think it suits him. The transition from him being Six to Court in your internal dialogue is seamless, instant. 

Especially when he starts to move again, deep, heavy thrusts full of an unspoken longing. 

You moan so beautifully for him. Pretty sounds as he holds you close, still managing to hit all those perfect spots inside you.

Court usually tries to keep a certain degree of separation between himself and his lovers, but he’s always struggled to do that with you. Even when he’s had you on all fours, he’s had his chest pressed against your back, one arm wrapped around you to keep you close.

This is different though, almost an embrace as he steadily builds up a slightly rougher, faster pace. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, chase his mouth for kiss after kiss, pleased when he lets you. He’s always sweet to you, but something’s different this time. Of course it is, otherwise he would never have finally given you his name. 

Something is building between you, has been for months, feels right out of your reach at almost all times. Even as distracted as you are, you understand that a line has been crossed, one you can’t come back from. That him giving you his name, even what you suspect is a shortened version, is something momentous. 

Your lips part in a breathy moan as he buries his face in your shoulder, letting you hear every soft grunt and groan that escapes him each time his hips make impact against yours. 

He’s so big, getting deep inside you with each steady thrust, stretching you open deliciously; all you can do is cling to him, rake your nails gently across his broad shoulders and mewl as he somehow manages to massage your g-spot on every thrust.  

“Yeah? Right there? That where you need me?” His already soft voice is a silky purr into your ear, every second word punctuated by little grunts that have you tightening around him. 

“Mmhmm-” you whimper, wrap your legs around his waist, your feet resting neatly at the small of his back. 

Court makes a soft little tsk sound, plants an open mouthed kiss on your throat. 

“Use your words, sweetheart.” 

The soft chastising, the kisses he leaves all over your body, the feeling of him inside you, it’s too much. The orgasm that’s been building steadily inside you for a while now ripples through your body like a tidal wave. 

“Oh my fucking god, Court-” you moan as he keeps fucking you through it, erratic snaps of his hips as your cunt flutters around him, your entire body trembling in his arms. 

He doesn’t expect hearing his name in your voice, moaned so sweetly at the height of the pleasure he’s giving you, to have such an effect on him. 

Court has remarkable self control; had it literally beaten into him during his training. But he doesn't remember the last time anyone used his name, let alone said it with such desire and affection. 

It gets to him, gets under his skin, reminds him that he's more than just a killer in plain sight. Reminds him that there's still, at least, one person in the world who cares about him. 

Another filthy groan rumbles in his chest as your still fluttering walls massage his cock, threaten to send him over the edge with you. 

You're through the peak now, look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, your lips parted in a soft pout as he keeps steadily fucking into you, knows that he can drag a second orgasm out of you in quick succession. 

“Oh fuck, nnhh, please, cum for me, please, Court, cum with me…” 

Your impassioned plea rushes straight to his cock, though your back arching up and your walls tightening almost painfully around him as you reach that second peak certainly helps. 

His pace falters, becomes more erratic as he gets right to the edge, fucks you through your release, waits until that very last moment before he pulls out of you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes the heavy shaft. 

With an obscene groan, he spills his load onto the softness of your stomach, hot, thick ropes of his spend painting your skin. 

Breathless, you look up at him, commit the sight of his face when he cums to memory; he looks gorgeous in the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand. 

Court catches his breath; his recovery time is still impeccable. Leaning over you as you unfold your legs from around his waist, he brushes a soft kiss across your forehead. 

You stretch your legs out with a little hum, sigh contentedly; you're just considering getting up to find a washcloth to clean yourself up with, when Court’s already on his feet. 

“Let me.” 

Shamelessly, your gaze tracks his naked form as he heads into your small en suite bathroom, returns with a warm washcloth and gently cleans you up. 

Court is fully aware of the irony of this; his hands have more blood on them than he can count, but he's so careful with you, likes the way your gaze softens with affection as he does. 

Tossing the washcloth into the laundry hamper on his way, Court gets back into bed with you, letting you pull the blankets up around you both and curl into his side, rest your head on his chest. 

Your fingers trace little patterns into his chest, featherlight touches across the tattoos inked into his skin. 

“Will you stay the night?” You ask, voice quiet; it feels like asking too much from him, when he's already crossed one major line. 

Court doesn't take it as such. It's nice to feel wanted, cared for.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.” 

 The few times he's stayed the night, you've woken early before he leaves, made sure he eats. 

It's a somewhat domestic routine, but there's always been that degree of separation, where you were you, but he was just Six. 

But now… now you know his preferred name. Now he knows what said name sounds like in your voice, whispered and moaned in the height of pleasure. 

It’s far more intimacy than he should be involved in. Puts you at risk. And yet. 

Court is quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world. Quite certainly the world’s deadliest covert operator. 

He isn’t arrogant enough to believe that nobody would try to harm you, given the chance. But he wants to believe that he’s good enough at what he does to keep you safe. He has to believe that, because the alternative is to panic, or worse, keep you at arm’s length. 

Those are his options. Trust his own abilities, do his best to keep you safe in spite of the risk… or break your heart, and arguably, his own. Court doesn’t care much for his own emotions, knows how to shut himself off when he needs to. 

But you… Court isn’t willing to gamble with hurting your feelings. Of course, he’d rather not gamble with your life, either, but, well. He’s killed more scumbags than he can count, and that was just a job. Anyone who came after you? That would be personal, and Court can think of a dozen ways he’d make them pay for it. 

He’s pulled out of his ruminating by you pressing a little kiss to his jaw. 

“Hey,” you whisper, “you okay?” 

Instinctively, he knows you aren’t prying for details about his state prior to arriving here. You know better than that. He supposes he’s probably been too quiet for too long, making you worry, even though you’re used to his silences.

But then again, you’ve never been silent together after he's given you his name before. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, I'm okay.” 

Court isn't lying. As far as mood goes, and physical health, he's fine. Better than fine. But he sounds tired, exhausted even, and you can hear it in his voice. 

He doesn't want you worrying about him anymore than he knows you do already. 

You might not be trained the way he is, but you're not an idiot. Court thinks he's difficult to read, but you're observant. Spend more time with him than pretty much anyone else that isn't Fitz. 

So, he isn't surprised when you make a little humming sound, like you know he's omitting things. 

But you don't seem upset. Instead, you plant more kisses all over him; chest, neck, face, finally his mouth. 

Court finds your touch comforting, he realises. That's part of why he keeps coming back to you. 

It's not just about having somewhere safe to crash, or about getting laid. It's about the fact that for a few short hours, he can feel like an ordinary man. 

Turning his head slightly, he returns your kiss, wraps his arms around you so you can nestle yourself against his chest. 

There's no rush to the kiss, and it's not the heated sort that leads to sex, either. Instead, these kisses are slow, languid. Kisses for the sake of kissing. 

That's new, too, but neither of you mention that fact when you break apart, one hand resting on his cheek, your thumb brushing back and forth. 

One of his tattooed hands covers yours for just a moment, before his crystal blue eyes meet your gaze. 

You can see the fatigue wearing on him, flip your palm so you can gently squeeze his hand. 

“Get some sleep. I'll watch over you.” 

That brings a smile to Court's face; the idea of you, so fragile in comparison, watching over him while he sleeps. 

“Just an hour. Then you wake me.” 

You're so pleased that he agrees to sleep that you nod, even though you'd rather he gets a full night's rest. 

“An hour.” You agree, extracting yourself from his arms so he can get comfortable. You end up trading places, Court resting his head on your shoulder. 

“‘night, sweetheart.” 

You press a kiss to the top of his head, and it's the last thing he's aware of before sleep takes over. 

Court wakes slowly; you must have fallen asleep at some point, too, but he can feel you breathing, so he's not too concerned. 

His mind and body still feel a little foggy, which makes him think he slept for longer than an hour. 

He can also hear the sounds of light traffic, which makes him think dawn is close. That isn't enough to make him move, though. Court doesn't remember the last time he was so comfortable. 

You have one arm wrapped loosely around him, your free hand gently carding through his hair. The touch is intimate, loving. 

It makes him wonder about the expression on your face right now. What he might see if he opens his eyes. 

So he does, slowly, crystal blue still a little hazy with sleep. It catches you off guard, so he's privy to the unmasked affection in your eyes before you startle. 

“That was longer than an hour,” he murmurs, blinking sleep away as you give him an apologetic look. 

“I'm sorry. You needed the rest…” 

He knows you're right, of course. He also knows he can't protect you twenty four seven. Besides which, he really does feel better. 

“I did.” He agrees, sitting up so he can pull you into his arms. Immediately, you curl into him. 

Of course, you don't know what - or who - he is, but you clearly feel safe with him. Court doesn't know whether he's earned that privilege, but he swears he'll never give you reason not to. 

“Court?”

Hearing his name still startles him; he needs to get used to it after so long, but he likes the way it sounds in your voice. The way you say it so softly, your affection for him clear in your voice. 

“Yeah?” 

“Can you stay a little longer? I know you’ve probably stayed too long as it is, but…” 

But you’ll miss him terribly when he’s gone, not knowing when you’ll see him again - if you’ll see him again. It makes you feel selfish, makes you want to be greedy and take as much of his time as he allows. 

Luckily, he feels the same. He hasn’t been briefed on a new target yet, so it’s best for him to go to ground anyway. 

Besides which, he likes the idea of spending time with you. Playing house for a bit, if you’ll let him. It’s more than he ever expected, even if it’s temporary. But he’s got a moral code, isn’t a bad person. 

So he feels it necessary to warn you. 

“I’ll break your heart one day, I need you to understand that, then decide whether you still want me to stay.” 

Even as he says it, one hand gently stroking your cheek, it hurts him; he doesn’t want to walk away from you, but he needs to give you that choice. One last chance to back away, because people like him don’t get peace. That was the deal he made. 

He wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind. 

Thinking that, it surprises him when you gently cup his face in your much smaller hands, brush your thumbs across his cheeks, nuzzle your nose against his before you press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

“Stay with me,” you breathe, pulling back only so you can meet his gaze, so he can see for himself the certainty, the affection, burning in your eyes. 

Slowly, he nods. Court doesn’t know how long he has - before he’s called out again, before he dies, but what he does know, is that he wants to spend whatever peaceful time he gets here, with you.

“Okay,” he says softly, immediately knows it was the right decision when your eyes light up. 

He makes a soft little oof sound as you slide into his lap, straddling him, planting kisses all over his face. 

Court doesn’t know how much time he has with you, but as he wraps his arms around you, returns your kisses, he knows one thing for certain: it won’t ever be enough time. 

There were zip ties keeping your wrists tightly secured to the arms of an uncomfortable metal chair. A burlap sack over your head was both blocking you from being able to see and flooding your nose with the smell of blood and vomit—you didn’t wanna know why the fabric had taken on that specific odor.

You were also half-naked, only still wearing your underwear. Goosebumps were trailing all across your body at the thought that someone had undressed you while you were unconscious. The only thing keeping you from spiraling even more was that there wasn’t any pain between your legs. Some part of you believed deeply that if something had happened to you, you’d know it. Whether because of some natural conclusion, or lingering pain, you didn’t know. But you clung to that like a lifesaver, barely keeping your head above water.

If you were in a better state of mind, you might have laughed at the whole situation. Starting with the van that had pulled up next to you, and the men exiting it wearing ski masks, knocking you out before you could do anything, along with the position you now found yourself in; this was a cliché kidnapping if you’ve ever seen one.

A burlap sack over your head? Who were you—Scarecrow?

That and more spun around in your head like a tornado of hysteria. Perhaps you could laugh at it tomorrow, or next month, or maybe once you hit the bottom of the ocean after they cut every limb from your body and let you bleed out slowly.

Yeah, that wasn’t helping. You wished you could go back to imagining yourself as Batman villains, but the longer you sat there with the back of the chair digging into your spine, the louder the silence echoed in your head.  

Your breathing, which had been shallow for some time now, sped up, filling your mouth even more with the taste of all the previous victims of the sack. It felt like hours since you regained consciousness, tied to a chair. Since then, no one had answered your terrified screams or stopped you from rubbing your wrists bloody.

You were aware enough to know that that was the point. Leaving you alone, clueless and trembling was supposed to make you even more afraid of what was to come. You knew that, but that didn’t stop it from working.

You were terrified. Every muscle in your body was tense, if you hadn’t already hurt your wrist by trying to wriggle out of the zip ties, the way you were trembling would have been enough to leave wounds, and your heart pounded so fast, you could feel it in your toes.

“Knock knock!” You couldn’t help but scream when a low male voice suddenly came from right next to your ear. You hadn’t heard anyone come close, but now that he had presented himself it was like the entire left side of your body was simultaneously leaning toward and away from him. Everyone of your nerves was on alert, waiting for what his sudden arrival meant.

“Uh, you’re a jumpy bunny,” the voice said, sounding delighted at that. Something touched your wrist, making you flinch away. Which in turn only made the zip ties dig in further, hurting you more. “Ouchy, why’d you do that?”

Even if you had been planning on answering, you weren’t sure you could. Your throat was dry, and every possible word seemed to get stuck somewhere between tongue and lips.  

“Hey!” The man flicked his finger against your head. “I don’t like being ignored!” The playful tone had vanished from his voice, leaving behind the kind of seriousness that better fit the circumstances.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered. Telling him that you had tried to escape didn’t seem like the smartest thing, but then again, he must know that you would at least try to. “I wanted to see how tight they are.”

“Ah, a science girl, I see. So, what is your assessment?” his previous good-humored tone had returned, with a speed that left you dizzy.

You swallowed, trying to make your voice come out less shaky. “Tight.”

He hummed self-satisfied. “That it is.”

After that, he fell silent. Were you supposed to answer him and continue the conversation? Did you have to keep his spirits high to make sure that he wouldn’t kill you out of sheer boredom? You didn’t want to keep interacting with him, you wanted to roll up in some corner and weep for the next foreseeable future.

Silence prevailed so long that you almost began to think that he had left, when suddenly, the sack was ripped off your head. You squinted against the unexpected sunlight shining through a window, making your eyes burn.

When your eyes adjusted, it took you another second to realize what you were seeing. You had expected to be in some sort of rundown warehouse—cliché kidnapping and all that—but instead you were sitting in what was perhaps the nicest room you had ever seen.

It was the size of your apartment, with a high ceiling, large windows, and a balcony. It was furnished and decorated in the way that suggested either rich people that actually had taste and didn’t spend all their money on minimalism, or that you were about to see a dragon fly past a window, because the last place you had seen look this way had been on Game of Thrones.  

Gold trimmings along the edges of the walls, candelabras standing in corners, and a large four-poster bed with thick red curtains.

“You like it?” Your gaze snapped toward the man, who was still standing next to you, grinning as if he had just flashed you his wallet. He was white, tall, and wore the kind of mustache you could probably only confidently wear if you spent your time kidnapping people for fun. He raised an eyebrow after you stared at him for too long, and you remembered his annoyance at being ignored.

“It’s…” Your voice wavered. “It’s nice.”

“You think so?” He looked at you, and maybe it was the head wound from being knocked out, but he sounded genuinely interested in your answer. “I think it’s kind of kitschy.”

“I guess,” you said hesitantly. “But… in a nice way? Like, you’d see in a castle or something.”

“Funny you’d say that.” He leaned closer. “Three guesses where we are.”

“A castle?”

He clapped his hands together, making you jump. “Ten points to smarty pants over here.”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to give him a reaction. You were still trembling, but at least you had run out of tears hours ago. “Why am I here?” you asked, trying to sound braver than you felt.

“Why are you here?” the man repeated. He tilted his head to the side, bringing his hand to his chin as if in deep contemplation. “Hm, see, that’s a bit tricky. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but it doesn’t really have anything to do with you. It’s more about who you know. Or, well, who knows you.”

You shook your head slightly. “I don’t understand.”

The man sighed and then grabbed the chair next to him. You noticed an indent in the cushion, and it dawned on you that the reason you hadn’t heard him come in wasn’t because he had been that silent—he had been there the whole time. Your fingers started digging into the arms of your chair in a desperate hope to find some stability.

He settled down, and then got back up, pulling the chair forward until he sat so close that his knees bracketed yours.

“A little birdy told me that we have a mutual acquaintance.” He stared at you intensely as if waiting for some kind of reaction. When you didn’t give him what he wanted, he continued, “Guy, early forties, about yay high, kind of looks like a Ken doll came to life and decided to spend his life wearing clothes that make you want to kill yourself.”

He looked at you expectantly, but you just stared back. Something was poking at the back of your mind at the description, but you were not in the right state of mind to start dwelling in your memories.

The man sighed. “Goes by the number six, and acts like that makes up for his lack of personality.”

Oh, fuck!

“There it is.” He grinned and then started drumming on his legs excitedly. “You mind sharing how you know him?”

“I—I don’t know him,” you said. Your heart was beating even faster, which you hadn’t thought was possible, but the sudden reminder of the man you had met a couple of months ago felt like a punch to the gut.

“No, see, sugar, I saw how you reacted when I mentioned his name. Your eyes got all wide, and you looked like the cute little bunny that you are.” His face suddenly fell into a terrifyingly neutral expression. “Don’t lie to me. You really don’t wanna do that, believe me.”  

Your breath hitched, and you dug your fingers even harder into the metal. “It’s not a lie, I don’t know him. We met months ago, just once. I helped him, and afterwards he left. I never heard or saw him again.”

“You might not have, but our boy has definitely been keeping an eye on you. You know, it’s funny if you think about it; by trying to keep you safe, he led me directly to your doorstep.” He shrugged and then crossed his legs like the smug asshole that he was.

Later you might have the space of mind to go over what it meant that Six had been keeping tabs on you—and why that didn’t disturb you as much as it probably should have—but right now all you could do was focus on the mercurial man before you.  

“Okay,” you said in a thin voice. “What does that mean for me?”

He laughed loudly and abruptly at that, even going so far as to slap his knee. If you were braver, you might have glared at him, but you could only watch as he wiped a tear from his eye. “What does that mean for me?” he said, the question in a mock version of your voice. “Cute. You’re really cute. I like it when people can just say what they think, and don’t hide behind fake empathy for other people.”

You frowned, momentarily not understanding what he was talking about. Then it dawned on you. “You want him to come here so that you can hurt him.”

“No, I want him to come here so that we can share a cup of tea and talk about the weather—of course I’m going to hurt him! God, what happened to the smart girl I met a couple of hours ago?”

He had started yelling again, which made you sink deeper into yourself. To be fair, you hadn’t thought (or cared) at all about what he wanted to do with Six, after all, he wasn’t here, you were.

“M’sorry,” you mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah. Spare me the puppy-dog eyes,” he grumbled, waving you off. “Ugh, you’re starting to bore me. I thought you’d be more fun. Whatever, life is filled with disappointments. Here’s what’s going to happen now.” His eyes darkened, and he got up, walking around the chair until he was right behind you. He leaned forward, whispering in your ear, “We’ll wait here for him. I left enough clues for our little boy scout to find his way here to you.”

“Why would he come?” You asked, unable to stop yourself. You didn’t really know him, you had spent maybe three hours together, and you were clearly in the hands of some kind of professional lunatic. Who would ever willfully get himself into that situation?

He scoffed, “Because he’s a little bitch boy with a bleeding heart for the weak and vulnerable.” He tapped your cheek harshly. “That’s you, my dear. Anyway, we’ll wait until he arrives like a knight in shining armor. When he gets here, I’ll have that nice overdue conversation with him, and afterwards, beat his face until it is mush on the floor.” You could see his wide smile out of the corner of your eye.

“Okay,” you said in a shaky voice. A desperate sob was bubbling up in your chest, but you tried your best to choke it down. Up until now, it wasn’t that bad. Sure, he just detailed the planned murder of a man, but you were just the bait. You could live with that.

“And in the meantime…” Your heart sank. You could feel his hot breath hitting the side of your face, making you shudder. “I’m sure we’ll find some way to occupy ourselves.” He gingerly placed his pointer finger on your shoulder, just grazing your bra strap, and then slowly stroked it down your arm.

“Please don’t,” you whimpered. It was like the realization that you had actually been sitting there half-naked in front of this mad man hit you so quickly it left you winded. A shaky sob finally broke out of you. “Please.”

“No, no, shh,” he shushed you almost tenderly. “It’s not like that—I’m not a monster. C’mon, don’t cry. You have nothing to cry about, not yet.” He went back around you, pushed his chair away, and then squatted before you, hands settling on your knees. “Look, I’m not gonna lie to you, I will hurt you a little.” You whimpered at that, and he shushed you again. “No, listen. Yes, I will hurt you, but I won’t sexually assault you or anything. Who do you think I am? A freshman frat bro trying to date-rape the first girl that looks his way? Ew, no, I have self-respect.”

You almost laughed at the genuine offense on his face. This was so fucking ridiculous. His hands burned where they touched your skin, and you almost started gagging when he pushed himself up, pressing down more on your legs for a second.

“One thing you probably didn’t know about me is that I’m a bit of an artist.” He walked somewhere in the room you couldn’t see, and you didn’t dare try to shift in your seat. Maybe—maybe if you sat really still and didn’t make a sound, he would forget you were there and leave. You’d happily spend the next three days on this chair and then die of thirst if it meant not having to talk to that man even a second longer.

“Hey!” he suddenly appeared next to you again and smacked your head. “Do I have to repeat myself? I don’t like being ignored!” If you thought his carefully curated neutrality was scary, it was nothing against seeing him actually upset. His shoulders were rising and falling quickly, and he was clenching his jaw, looking like he’d bite through his own teeth any second.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! You—you’re an artist. What—what does that mean?”

“It generally means someone who does art, cupcake,” he said, his voice having lightened up considerably since your apology. There was, however, still the way his fist clenched next to him, that kept you from relaxing even a little.  

“That’s… okay.” You took a deep breath. “What kind of art do you make?”

You heard him chuckle lowly at that, and then, before you could ponder over what that meant, his hand shot toward your hand.

The pain didn’t set in immediately. For a couple of seconds, you just stared at the scalpel that was now jammed into the back of your hand. You watched as a dark red liquid gushed out between the glinting metal of the blade and your skin—it was blood, you knew that. You were bleeding. Out of your hand. Because the man who had kidnapped you just stabbed you with a scalpel.

The pain slammed into you like the blast wave of a bomb, almost knocking you backward. Burning hot, and nothing like you’ve ever felt before. You screamed, pain overtaking any instinct to hide what you were feeling.

“I specialize in my own version of body art,” he hummed, and then with one quick movement, pulled the scalpel back out. You choked on your own spit as you flinched at the new wave of pain crashing through you. “Oh, I’m Lloyd, by the way. Don’t think I introduced myself yet.”

────────

There was not a part of your body that didn’t hurt. Your left hand—which was where it had all begun—was throbbing not just from the stab wound, but from the missing pinkie, which had landed somewhere on the ground, probably kicked away by Lloyd at some point.  

There were scorch marks where he had experimented with a couple of different ways to burn you. The matches didn’t seem to satisfy him, the lighter seemed better, the torch lighter almost made you pass out from pain, and the sparklers had just been bizarre.

At some point, Lloyd decided that he wanted to leave behind a more personal note, like a signature—his words—and he started carving little doodles onto your thighs, arms, and stomach. On your chest he carved a big heart, with the number 6 inside it, and then laughed about it for like ten minutes.

He had briefly considered waterboarding you, but then decided against it because the logistics just seemed a bit too difficult. You were supposed to stay on that chair in that room until Six arrived. After that… you didn’t know what would happen.

It didn’t matter anyway. You didn’t believe that Six would actually show up. You had lost all sense of time, but considering the sun was about to set, and you had been kidnapped on your way to work in the morning, you could guess pretty accurately. Still, while it might not have actually been a very long time, it sure as hell felt like it.

You were tied to a chair and trapped in a body that was in so much pain, every time Lloyd now put a blade to your skin, you wished he’d just slip up, cut too deep, and end what seemed endless at this point. You had even considered trying to tempt him into killing you, get him angry enough to just jam a knife into your throat, and then spend the last seconds of your life laughing in his face because you won.  

Ultimately, you decided against it. Lloyd was clearly a sadist, getting off on all the pain and suffering he caused you. You feared that if you were to provoke him, he’d just get more creative with his methods of torture.

All you could do was endure.

Stare out of the window, and fantasize about breaking away from the chair and running forward, through the glass doors leading to the balcony, and then just jumping off in the hopes that the lake you could see stretch out before you, reached up to under the balcony.

You had spent the last hour just gazing out of the window, your vision going in and out of focus. Every now and then your nose would twitch from the acidic smell of vomit, which had settled around you after you had thrown up not once but twice from the sheer amount of pain.

Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Whether it was because of the blood loss, or adrenaline taking over and then abandoning your body over and over again, you didn’t know, but you were okay with it. You liked being so sluggish, it made it more difficult to hear the bullshit Lloyd was spouting from where he was standing a couple of meters away.

He was yelling at someone over the phone, face going red in a way that you knew should scare you but just didn’t anymore. It was like you had gotten used to him in the strange way you could get used to the sadistic murderer that had spent the last hours gleefully torturing you. You already knew what to expect of him, that was at least something.

“—able to do this. I hired fucking professionals, did I not?” He had walked closer to you. His eyes flickered toward you, and then he backhanded you. “Hey! Don’t fucking die yet. Get it together.”

Your head fell forward, but even still, you nodded slightly, mumbling what might have been an ‘okay’, or might just have been noises; either way, it satisfied him enough to move away from you.

He was still yelling, so you almost missed the weird scraping sound coming from the balcony. You lifted your head as much as you could, but even that hurt enough to make dots appear in your vision. You blinked a couple of times, trying to get rid of them, and when you focused again, you were sure you had died.

There on the balcony stood the man you had last seen months ago—the man everyone here presumably had been waiting for for the last couple of hours.

Six was half-hiding behind a pillar, his gaze wandering between you and Lloyd, who was standing with his back to the balcony. With one hand Six was holding a gun, and he lifted the other to his mouth, putting a finger to his lips, in a motion telling you not to say anything.

Then he motioned to the balcony door, raising his eyebrows in question. You were like 90% sure that he was asking you whether the door was unlocked—the 10% were leftover fears that you had died and this was a very weird afterlife.

But instead of answering him, you just kept staring at him.

He was wet, you realized. Soaking wet, in fact. A dazed giggle escaped you at the thought of him swimming in the lake.

The second you made a sound, Six hid completely from your view, and you almost cried out for him not to leave. Luckily, Lloyd interrupted that by coming back to your side. “What the fuck is up with you now, huh? What’s so fucking funny, bunny?” He pressed the barrel of his gun into your cheek, and for some reason, that just made you giggle more. You weren’t sure whether he had rhymed on purpose, but he definitely didn’t look happy about it.

“You think this is a fucking joke?” He had become really aggravated now, there was no hint left of his previous playfulness. But still, for some reason, your mind couldn’t even try to be afraid of him. You were either already dead or were about to be rescued.

And you did just lose a shit ton of blood.

Lloyd pistol-whipped you, which succeeded in finally shutting you up. The wound you had previously acquired by biting your lip to stifle your screams reopened, and you could taste the slight trail of blood making its way down your lips.

“Jesus, there we go. Open your mouth again and—” he never got to finish his threat. A loud sound rang out, the glass in front of you shattered, and Lloyd stumbled back. “Fuck!”

Blood was running down his right shoulder, and he quickly changed the gun from his right hand to his left, holding it up. Six stepped out from behind the pillar slowly, gun directed straight at Lloyd.

He walked forward a bit and pushed the glass door open with his foot. It evidently hadn’t been locked, not even closed properly, which made you wonder why Six had asked you.

“Lower your gun.” Six’s voice was just as you remembered it. Low and rough, as if he’d just woken up from a nap that went on for an hour too long.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Let me just…” something pressed into the back of your head, and only now you realized that Lloyd was pointing his gun at you, not Six.

“Lloyd,” Six growled.

“Hey,” Lloyd replied in a singsong voice. “Funny to see you here. How’s it going, how’s life?”

“Let her go.” His words were said slow and in a tone that made you almost impressed with Lloyd’s ability not to immediately run and hide. Six sounded deadly serious.

Lloyd hissed through his teeth. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Lloyd let out a strained laugh. He held his right shoulder slightly tense, and it was clear that no matter how much he tried to hide it, he was in a lot of pain. “A lot of things. I want a house on Lake Como. I want one of my former classmates to stop posting shirtless pictures on Facebook… right now I really want like a Twix or something. Y’know, something for the blood sugar.” He shrugged with one shoulder and then widened his eyes as if just remembered something. “Oh, and obviously, I want to kick your ass before making you eat a bullet, pal.”

Six had stayed stoic throughout Lloyd’s babbling, eyes not straying from where they were trained on the gun pointing at your head. “You want to beat me up? Didn’t work so well last time, hmm?”

Lloyd pressed the barrel of the gun harder against your head and sneered. “That’s not quite how I remember it. Anyway, you should probably watch your words a bit more, or my pretty little guest here will lick the dust off the floor.”

Your head was spinning, vision blurry, and you weren’t sure whether you could hear them correctly anymore. The pain that had been clamoring through your body slowly ebbed away, leaving you feeling like you were floating. You wanted to tell them to wrap it up. 

Someone should probably kill the other one now, because if the way you were starting to feel cool sweat gather on your skin was any indication, it wouldn’t matter much to you soon, anyway.

Your head fell forward, and automatically Lloyd grabbed your hair, trying to keep you facing forward. He used his left hand, which momentarily removed the gun from pointing at your head. You saw the way Six immediately shifted his stance, and a second later, another gunshot rang through the room.

Lloyd dropped your head, followed by the sound of his body dropping to the floor.

Six instantly rushed toward you, kneeling down before you and taking your face gently into his hands. “Hey, hey. You’re okay, you’re fine. I’ll get you out of here now.” You blinked at him, and when that didn’t seem to satisfy him, you tried to smile. If his concerned expression was anything to go by, you didn’t succeed in that so well.

He took out a pocketknife and started to work at the zip ties around your wrists. He was muttering apologizes, probably afraid that he was hurting you, which he shouldn’t. He wasn’t hurting you; nothing was. You didn’t even really have a body anymore. You were floating, and even though his voice got louder and more insistent, you closed your eyes, letting darkness consume you.  

────────

You awoke slowly at first. The bed you lay on was comfortable, and the soft pillow was nice under your throbbing head.

Why was your head hurting so badly? And why didn’t this feel like your bed?

…

All the memories returned at once, making you shoot up and then push yourself out of the bed. You landed hard, yelling out at the impact against your many wounds.

“Whoa, hey, don’t do that.” You looked up and scrambled back against the edge of the bed. Six stopped in his steps, raising his hands placatingly. “It’s just me. You’re safe, I promise.”

Your heart calmed a bit once it recognized who was standing before you. You nodded sharply, regretting it instantly at the pain shooting up your neck. Everything hurt. You couldn’t even tell where it hurt the most; it was like your entire body was just one large open wound. You whimpered as you readjusted yourself.

“Let me help you back into bed. You really shouldn’t move too much right now.” He waited for you to nod again before coming closer. He put his arms under your legs and behind your back, lifting you up in one smooth movement and then putting you back down on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts,” was all you managed to say. Your throat was dry, and you started coughing a bit.

“Here.” He handed you a glass of water that had previously been standing on the nightstand next to the bed. “Slowly.”

You drank a couple of sips, enjoying the way some of the water escaped between the glass and your lips, running down your chin in cool veins.

You handed him the glass back.

“Better?” he asked, putting the glass down.

You hummed, not feeling like talking more. Everything was hitting you again. Your fingers started to shake, and you twisted them into the fabric next to you.

You looked down at yourself and only then realized that you were wearing clothes again. A black shirt and some sweatpants that bunched up at your waist. “Did you…”

“I figured you’d feel more comfortable with some clothes on,” he said. “I also took care of your wounds as best I could. If you want to, I’ll get you to a hospital, but right now it would probably be safer to lie low a bit.”

“It’s fine.” The last thing you wanted now was more people probing at you. From what you had seen of Six’s own wounds—and the number of them—he was well versed in keeping a body from falling apart.

“Okay, just say if you change your mind. Do you need anything else?”

You just shook your head, tears were starting to gather in your eyes, and you tried in vain to blink them away.

Six hesitated a bit, standing at the end of your bed like a child waiting to be picked up by his parents. “Can I, um…” he tilted his head toward the bed. You nodded, and he sat down where he sighed, running his hands over his legs. “Look, I know you’ve been through a lot. This… it never should have happened, and I cannot even begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

You rubbed an escaped tear from your cheek, sniffing. “He said it was because of you.” You didn’t mean to blame him for what happened, but there was a bitter edge evident in your tone.  

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“He also said you kept tabs on me.”

Six sighed, “I did. I wanted to make sure you were okay after…”

“After,” you said, tasting it out in your mouth. “After what?”

Six looked at you with a complicated look. “After you helped me.”

You had helped him all those months ago. Back then he had just been a stranger in an alley, bleeding out slowly. You had been walking home and noticed him trying and failing to get back up. You had offered to call an ambulance, which he declined fervently. Ultimately, after seeing the wound, you had led him to your home, but not without making it clear that you owned a stun gun and were ready to give him another stab wound if he stepped out of place. He had only smiled quietly at that.

At your place, you had taken care of him the best way you could, using your never before used first aid kit. He told you what to do, and together it only took about thirty minutes to get him back from death’s doorstep.

He stayed for another couple of hours, regaining some of the color in his face. Both of you had been fueled by adrenaline—he from almost dying, and you from the presence of that tall, handsome man whose body you were almost burdened with—and one thing led to another. You had sat next to him on the couch, and the next thing you knew, you were sitting in his lap, making out with him.   

He had left afterward, and you hadn’t expected to ever hear from him again.

Now you were here, with him in front of you, and even though you would give anything to reverse time and not have gone through the last 24 hours, you were glad to see Six again.

“Well, at least you found me,” you sniffed again, and then took a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you for that.”

“Don’t thank me for that. Should have been there much earlier.”

You shrugged, wincing at the uncomfortable sensation running down your shoulder at that.

“Seriously, is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”

“I kind of wanna take a shower.” The tacky feeling of dried blood on your skin made you nauseous, and you were sure you smelled like a delightful mixture of sweat, vomit, and blood.

“Sure, just gotta be careful not to get the bandages wet. I have some plastic wrap which you can use, and if you do get them wet, I’ll just redress them, it’s fine,” he said.

He got up and then helped you to the bathroom, supporting most of your weight. When you were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he exited the room, and when he returned, he handed you a carton of plastic wrap. He left you then, closing the door behind him, but not before telling you to just yell out if you needed anything.

Now you were left in the empty room, clutching the plastic wrap to your chest. The bathroom was devoid of personality, nothing in it communicated anything about the person it belonged to. You couldn’t tell whether that was because this was a safe house, or if that just summed up who Six was as a person.

Slowly, you started stripping yourself of the borrowed clothes. You winced as you lifted your arms over your head to take off the shirt, straining the wounds along your chest and stomach. You took off the pants next, which was considerably easier.

That left you in only your underwear… again.

The memory of being tied up and so vulnerable slithered its way from your brain down into your stomach, and before you had time to adjust, you started gagging. Instantly, you jolted toward the toilet, and not a second too soon. You threw up, racking coughs shaking your entire body.

A knock came from the door along with the concerned sound of Six’s voice, “You okay?”

“Fine,” you croaked back, wiping the back of your mouth with your left hand. That’s when you finally remembered that Lloyd had not just taken your dignity and feeling of safety, but your pinkie finger as well.

A sob broke out of you, and when you automatically went to cover your mouth with your hand, you only started crying more. It felt different, weird. You stared at your left hand and could swear that you felt the cut-off finger as if it were still part of you. It was throbbing, burning, melting, screaming. You whimpered as you stretched your arm as far away from you as you could.

“Can I come in?” Six asked, but you couldn’t answer him, just stare at your hand as if looking at it long enough would force it to regrow the missing appendage. “I’m coming in now.”

The door opened slowly, and he stepped into the room. He didn’t come closer to you, though, staying in the doorframe. Your face was twisted anxiously, and you looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and wet cheeks.

“I can feel my finger. Why—” you choked up. “Why can I still feel it? I need it back.”

Six slowly lowered himself to the floor, leaning against the door. “That’s normal. It’s okay, you’re okay.” He seemed a little awkward trying to comfort you, as if not quite sure what to say.

“It’s not okay. I am not okay,” you wailed. “How am I ever supposed to go on with my life now?”

Six looked uncertain, opening his mouth and then closing it again. After a couple of seconds filled with your weeping and his silence, he moved toward you, stopping right in front of you. Hesitantly, he reached out for you, and when his hands came in contact with your shoulders, you threw yourself forward into his arms. He pulled you closer, mindful of where you were injured.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, stroking a hand up and down your back. “I won’t let anything else happen to you, I swear.”

You sniffled, burying your face in his chest. He just kept hugging you, and even though you were only in your underwear and still covered in blood and wounds, you couldn’t remember the last time you'd felt so safe.

“He took my finger,” you said, and immediately felt silly, like you were a child complaining about other kids on the playground.

But Six just nodded his head, his mouth ghosting over your hair. “I know, I know. I killed him, he’s gone. He’ll never hurt you again.”

You cried even more at that, pressing your face harder into his chest.

“Easy, don’t hurt yourself,” he said, and gently pulled your head away from him. He cradled your face between his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears that kept on falling from your eyes. “I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help you, okay? I got you; I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”

His lips were in a thin line, but his eyes seemed to want to drill his words into you.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting your skin absorb the heat radiating from him.

“You’re shaking,” he said lowly. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” you mumbled, only now realizing that you were trembling slightly. He reached behind him for the clothes you had been wearing, but you shook your head. “I still need to shower.”

“I don’t know if that’s truly the best idea right now. If you wrap all your wounds, then there is not much of your body left to clean.”

“Please, I need to just… get clean. Please,” you said, not even trying to hide how desperate you sounded.

Six pursed his lips before nodding slowly. “You could maybe just kind of use some wet towels and do it like that.”

“Like a sponge bath,” you asked.

“Like a sponge bath,” he repeated, smiling faintly.  

“Can you…” you trailed off, looking away.

“Can I, what?” he prompted you, taking your chin and coaxing it back toward him.

You closed your eyes before continuing quietly, “Would you help me?”

“You want me to—” he raised his eyebrows, but when he noticed your embarrassed expression, he quickly corrected himself. “No, sure. I can do that. I’ll help you in whatever way you need.”

He eased you up, placing you back on the edge of the bathtub. He averted his eyes from your body as he gestured back to the clothes on the floor. “Are you good like that, or do you want to put them back on?”

“It would probably be a bit difficult to clean myself while wearing clothes,” you replied.

“Maybe,” he said in a playful tone. It was so different from the one Lloyd had used. Where his had always sounded like he was making fun of you, Six’s held a trace of comfort, inviting you toward him. “But if you wanted it, we could make it work.”

“No, it’s alright.” You smiled cynically. “At this point, I’m kind of used to being in my underwear in front of people.”

Six’s smile dropped, and he turned towards a cabinet, grabbing some towels. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”

“He didn’t, like… do anything,” you said, shrugging halfheartedly.

“I figured.” He went to the sink, where he wet a towel. “That’s one of his tactics to mess with someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’re just in your underwear, it leaves you even more vulnerable than you already are just by being captured. If you somehow got loose, you’d be less likely to leave without at least some clothes on you.”

“Then why not take off all my clothes?”

“Because of the insinuation of it all. Like at any point, if you didn’t do exactly what he says, he could strip you off that last barrier of safety that you got. And obviously, with women there is also the underlying threat of what it meant for someone to have taken off your clothes, what it would mean if someone continued,” he explained and then walked back to you, kneeling down. “It’s cruel and fucked up, and I’m sorry he did that to you.”

“What the fuck,” you mumbled. “Maybe it’s better that he’s…” you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“It definitely is,” Six said, and then pointed toward your arm. “Gimme.”

You extend your arm and he brought the wet towel to your skin, softly rubbing at the blood on it. “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said, concentrating on what he was doing.

But he wasn’t hurting you, it was like the opposite of it, actually. With every stroke of the towel, with every touch of his skin on yours, you felt a buzz run down your spine. It went on like that for a while. Him making his way around your body, cleaning away all the visible stains and while doing the same to the ones you couldn’t see with your eyes, only feel deep down.

You exchanged words here and there, soft quiet ones without any actual meaning. About the weather, about a book you read recently, whether 3-in-1 shampoo was a crime against humanity—you said yes, he disagreed.

It was simple and nice, and even though you were sitting, you could feel yourself drift off slowly. When your head dipped forward for the third time in less than five minutes, Six stopped what he was doing, smiling at you.

“Let’s get you to bed, alright?”

“Okay,” you whispered, already half asleep.

“C’mon.”

The two of you made it back to the bedroom, where he pulled back the blanket, waiting for you to settle in. You did, but before he could place the blanket over you, you stopped him.

“Would you…” you swallowed. “You need sleep too, right? When was the last time you slept?”

He hesitated, looking conflicted, but then he started smiling. “Scooch over.”

You did, and he joined you in bed. He turned off the lights, and before you could think better of it, you laid your head on his chest. He promptly put his arm around you, caressing your waist.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, and then pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “You’re safe.”

With his words on your mind, and his strong arm around you, you closed your eyes.

“Should we call an ambulance or something?” you ask.

“Hm? Nah, he’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re in the apartment next to mine, right?” he says, and says your name. You nod, shakily. “Right. Uh. I’m Healy.” You nod, because you’d seen his name on his mailbox. You’ve passed him once or twice, with polite nods of the head. “You got your keys? You should really be careful coming home at night, you know. All kinds of crazies out here.”

“Yeah,” you say, and without touching you, he leads you away from your whimpering assailant and up towards your apartments. You fumble for your keys and drop them, and he gently pushes you back, picks up your keys, and unlocks your door for you. His own hands are steady.

“Here,” he says. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him.

“No, you’re not, you’re shaking,” he says, and he opens the door and brings you in. He puts his hand on your back again, guiding you gently into your apartment.

You are surprised to find that his hand is steady and warm through your shirt. You realize abruptly that you are shaking.

“Come on,” he says, and gets you sitting down in your armchair, and goes to your sink, getting down a glass. “Sure the guy didn’t hurt you before I got there?”

“No, he didn’t,” you promise. “He was just being an asshole. I’m not even sure you needed to, uh, intervene.”

He shrugs a little, and brings you a glass of water. “People don’t intervene enough,” he says. “Sometimes you gotta. I only broke one hand anyway. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about him.”

You take the glass from him, and take a drink. “I can’t believe you broke a guy’s hand. And you don’t even want anything for it?”

He looks down at you then. He’s a big man—not just fat, but solid. Well, you know how strong he is. You’d felt his hand on your back. You’d seen how he’d hit that guy on the stairway before crumbling his fingers like dried kindling. That had been powerful. And for a moment, you put it together—all that power, and surprisingly gentle blue eyes, his brows knit into a little frown.

“I never said that,” he says, and his voice is a low, rough grumble.

And that’s when you think of what else all that power could do. You lower your glass of water and look back at him. He’d just rescued you, you think. The least you could do is show him some gratitude—or pretend it’s gratitude, and not just a sudden desire to have all that power against you, moving into you—

“I have these fish,” he says then.

You blink at him a moment, jarred out of your fantasies. “What?”

“I have a fish tank,” he repeats. “I’m going to be gone for a week. Could you come by Tuesday and Thursday and feed ‘em?”

It takes you a long, long moment to process that. “That’s it?” you say.

“That’s it,” he says. “If you feed them every day the tank gets dirtier, and I won’t be there to clean it. They’ll be okay. Can you?”

“I…” You look at him again, your eyes on his soft, stubbled jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. “I mean. Sure. Yeah, of course I can.”

“Great,” he said. “You a little less shaky? You could come over now, I could show you where I keep the fish food and all that.”

“Sure,” you say, and set down your glass of water, rising to your feet.

When you go out of your apartment, you don’t look down to see if the guy’s still on the stairs. But you do look around his place when he unlocks it and lets you in. The fish tank is the brightest thing in the room, well-lit and colorful. He gestures you over, shows off his fish, and opens the cabinet for the fish flakes.

“Just a pinch,” he says. “That’s all they need. It’ll be fine. I just hate leaving them all week with nothin’, y’know?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. No problem.”

“Okay, then,” he says, and gets down a spare key for you. “Tuesday and Thursday. Try not to forget.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “Your fish are in safe hands.”

A poor choice of words, bringing up hands. You think of the mangled fingers on the stairwell again and swallow hard.

But he nods, smiling a little, and you also think of his hand on your back, his hands carrying a glass of water to you. Maybe it’s not that poor a choice of words.

He brings you the key, and when you take it, your fingers brush against his again. You look down at both of your hands, and then you take a breath.

“Y’know,” you say. “When you said you wanted a favor from—from that, I wasn’t expecting it to be, y’know. Aquarium-related.”

“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t think about it,” he says, his voice low, and you look up at him. “Well, I did. But I didn’t want to ask you for that. Not this time.”

“Why not?” you ask. “I’d have been…”

“Because,” he said, “you were scared.” And then he takes his hands and thrusts them into his pockets, looking a little apologetic for having noticed.

“I wasn’t that scared,” you say.

“You were shaking,” he reminds you. “I’m not gonna ask a terrified stranger to have sex. Come on. I’d have to break my own hand for that.”

You let out a little laugh, but then your laughter fades a little. “Look. You know. I wasn’t scared of you,” you say, assuring him. “You’re a good guy.”

The smile he gives you is rueful. “Not all the time,” he says.

“Maybe enough,” you say.

You both stand there for a moment in silence, in his tiny apartment, a twin of your own. You can hear the fish tank filter, and somewhere a clock is ticking. And then you approach him.

“You were a good guy when I needed a good guy,” you say.

You put your hand on his soft, broad shoulder for leverage, stretch up a little, and press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the stubble rough under your lips, the softness of his skin underneath.

And then he turns, and his mouth finds yours, his hands curling onto your shoulders. And yes, you can feel the strength there, that same power. But you can also feel his restraint, a gentleness that does not surprise you, not after the things he’s said, not after the things he hasn’t said. And you kiss him back, pressing into it, pressing yourself against him, assuring him that he is not making any demands—any requests—that are more than what you’re willing to give.

When he breaks the kiss there’s a flush to his cheeks, and he reaches up to cup your face, his eyes serious for a moment. “I still need you to feed my fish next week, though,” he says, his eyes searching.

You bite back a giggle, and just nod. “I promise.”

“All right, then,” he says. “So. Where were we?”

And he spends the rest of the night proving to you that his hands can do a lot more than break fingers.

You can barely walk straight. Neither can he, so it seems like a stupid idea that you're hanging onto each other for support as you stagger back to his house; especially because you stop every five steps to kiss in a way which can only be called pornographic. Your tongues slide together outside your mouths, coating his 'stache and your chin in spit. Every single one is broken with a long groan.

"Baby, the things 'm gonna do t' you when we get inside..." he slurs. You pin him up against his front door as he scrabbles for his keys in his pocket, but in this state they end up just falling on the floor. He kisses down the length of your body as he kneels to get them, lavishing particular attention over your groin, and pauses for just long enough undo the goddamn lock.

The two of you fall into his house in a flurry of hands and stripped clothes. He falls over as he tries to get his pants off, just dead-ass hits the floor with an oof, and it's so stupid that you burst into laughter.

"Whasso funny?" he grouses, fighting with his own boxers to free his cock. You kick off your jeans with ease and slide into his lap right there in the corridor. Can't even be bothered to make it to the bedroom, you have to feel him inside you now.

"You didn't wear underwear..." he manages, eyes bright. He says it as if he's witnessing a miracle.

"Stopped botherin' when I'm with you, Hol. But..." you dig around in the pocket of your discarded Levis and bring out a tiny bottle, "but I've always got lube."

He throws his head back and lets out a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl. His hands come up to grab either side of your shirt - you just realised you're still wearing it - and he tears. Buttons ping across the room, bouncing off things like pinballs and becoming lost relics in his hall.

"I liked tha' shirt--!"

"'ll get you a new one," he grumbles, tweaking your nipples with rough fingers as you start to grind down against him. He's so hard even just from the promise of you, it’s kinda flattering. His precome soaks you both filthily as you lift up to get yourself ready for him. You don’t have quite enough control over your hands to squeeze the lube gently so half the bottle pours out instead, dripping down his balls and into the carpet.

“Oops!” you laugh as you stretch yourself open on your fingers before attempting to line up his cock with your entrance. You can feel how empty you are but it’s difficult, the world is spinning and making everything hard. Hard, just like Holland is., you think. Teehee.

“Please baby c’mon, don’t leave me waiting, gotta feel you…”

His begging trails off into drunken mumbling as he gets caught up in the sight of his dick slipping around your hole. There really is too much lube, but you’re nothing if not stubborn, so you hold him a bit tighter than necessary and sit.

Holland goes inside in one stroke. His head lolls back, his eyes going white as they roll up towards his brain.

“So fuckin’ good…”

“Mm…”

You begin to bounce on him, the wet slap of lubed skin filling the empty house. Holland’s hands come to rest on your chest, then your hips, then he’s dragging you down so he can start kissing you as you take him. With a quick push you’re on your back and he’s controlling the pace, fucking your mouth with his tongue as he fucks your hole with his cock. Your sex is covered in slick, your mouth is covered in spit, it’s all just very messy. You fucking adore it.

Holland leaves your lips alone, leaving a long trail of saliva between yours and his, but simply clamps down on your neck so he can give kisses around your pulse. All the while you’re aware of him rutting into you like an animal, the tip of his cock hitting exactly where you need it to. Pleasure crescendos as your drunk brain tries to form words.

“Hol… Hol—! ‘M gonna…”

“Me too,” he chokes, and a second later he floods you with come. It pushes you over the edge and he splutters out a string of expletives as he feels your orgasm pulsing around his cock. The two of you stay there for a moment, riding out the aftershocks, his head tucked beneath your chin. He’s a bit of a dead weight on you, but you don’t mind.

Then he starts to snore.

“Holland y’ sonovabitch, you’re still ‘nside me—!”

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Holland loves his ass, he knows it looks good in his tight pants. They smooth over his plump cheeks perfectly, and he likes the attention from you.

Holland would say he loves your everything, your face, your hands, your lips

But come on

He whimpers and moans into your ear like he's a girl every single time he fucks you. He cries in your ear about how you're so tight, that you're so wet and you're pussy is perfectly made for him, that that is why another man will never touch you, because your pussy was made for him to fuck and him only.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

Well, Holland is filthy.

He will not clean your cum from his mustache after going down on you before bed

Or what he usually does, quickly licking his cum out of you because he was to lazy to use a condom and too stupid to pull out

So his mustache has remains of both of you, he'll whisper to you and ask for a kiss but you shake your head at the sight

He'll kiss you anyways, yanking you forward

And then rub his mustache clean or just knock out with it still there.

Prince Charming!

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Holland loves getting his ass touched. He loves when you squeeze it, when you slap it, he likes when you grip it when he fucks you.

He likes when you pay attention to it, because he knows that he's got a little extra back there that most men don't, and he likes to flaunt it

It feels good, it turns him on, and he hopes you get the hint...

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Considering you are high school sweethearts, none. He didn't have any experience before you because you met as teens. He had to learn by you either telling or showing him what felt good, or by going off what made you cum the quickest or moan the loudest.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying)

He loves when you ride him

He likes to see you fall apart on him, using him to take full advantage of your pleasure

He loves when you use him as your own personal toy, just some assistant in your pleasure almost as if he's not real

He also loves missionary, he's the classic white picket fence dad with dinner on the table at 5, lights out by 8, he loves missionary.

He likes being close to you. He says he can feel your love stronger that way. He likes holding your hand and pressing himself to you.

But he also likes whenever position he can manhandle you into, especially if you're in some sort of argument

He'll cover your mouth while fucking you from behind and won't pull his hand off until you agree to tell him that you love him, and that's also the second he cums... inside of you... with cuck heading to your apartment. Holland makes it with thirty seconds to spare and shoved himself inside of a random old ladies apartment to avoid cuck on the stairs, he then gets beat with a cane. Holly has to bring him a bandaid.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Holland can get a little goofy, trying to make you laugh, or accidentally making you laugh which results in the mood being ruined, him laughing, or falling off the bed, you having to take him to the ER which he screams about his "cock being broken"

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

It's the 70's, Holland is fully bushing it

He's wild down there, untamed

Unruly you could say

But it feels good against your clit, and of course he's a clean nice guy so there's no complaints

Beside, you both like some hair.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Holland is always a romantic, he's always telling you how much he loves you, how you're so perfect, how you're made for each other no matter how rough he is. Even during your separation he'll sob into you while he's balls deep, big blubbery sobs while he tells you how much you mean to him.

He relies on the intimacy. He can't live with just a sexual partner, he can't do hook ups, any of that. That's how he knows you two are meant to be.

He needs romance, he needs love.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Holland loves getting caught

During the separation he'll sneak in and wait for you to get home and once you want into your room you see him laid out, stroking himself

When you're in the same house, together, he likes spicing it up, kissing your neck and jerking himself off to wake you up, cumming on your tits as you wake up or having you finish him off

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

He has a biggg breeding kink

He'll whisper into your ear constantly that he wants to fuck you so good that he'll get you pregnant

The bump turned him on, he liked cumming on it, kissing it, licking it

When you're with cuck he tells you constantly how he wants you get you pregnant, how he wants to fill you up with baby after baby until you can't have any more.

You are a little worried, since you have a boyfriend but you also know that you're still in love with Holland and would love to welcome another beautiful baby with him, just not when your family is still broken. :(

When you were postpartum he couldn't get enough of your tits

He had to make sure sweet little baby Holly was snoozing away in her nursery before he would come to bed

He would fuck you while you were pumping, something about the milk made him rock hard

And he loves your nipples, playing with them, licking them, kissing them, sucking them

He would always pout and kiss them when they were red but he could never tell if it was just postpartum or from him constantly being on them

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

He loves to fuck you in the shower

He likes the water keeping him warm and beating down on him while he thrusts into you, it's a cozy environment, and honestly... it's hot.

He also likes to fuck you in his car, the risk of getting caught is so thrilling to him since there's no top

He also just likes the classic bed, more room which means he can spread you out

In your early to mid twenties there was a lot of sex on the floor, however that happened, but Holland claims he can't do that now with his knees and his back even though he is still young, really he just likes to complain.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Oh literally anything

Watching you cross your legs

Hearing your breath jump

Watching you apply lipstick

The way your breath hits the back of his neck

How you slide your hand in his back pocket when he pulls you in to hold you

But he especially likes it when you pull his tie and lead him by it

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There's not many things Holland wouldn't do to you. Once he ordered a sex swing but you swatted him in the head for it and he just never called the guy to install it because the last time Holland personally tried drilling into the ceiling (a canopy for Holly's bed) he almost cause a serious electrical fire.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Oh holland loves oral

He calls it his prayer time

It's like when you confess to something in the Catholic Church and are sent to do hail marys

That's his version

Getting on his knees for you or he's on the bed with you as he laps at you, licking up and don't and sucking at you just right

The noises that come out of your mouth is enough to get him off, and it's happened before.

Usually where you were a bit younger, like late teens are early twenties Holland would be able to get off from just eating you out.

It still happens now, just not as often, he has to give himself at least a few touches.

He loves to go down on you, he likes pleasing you.

Typically that's also his way of apologizing to you if he's been annoying or getting on your nerves or pissed you off

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Holland can be anything

Typically when you've annoyed him it's fast and rough, annoyed with you or trying to give you some sort of punishment for even letting cuck kiss you

Other times he wants to be slow, make love to you, kiss you softly as he touches you gently and whispers to you how much he loves you and he's doing so much better

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Holland loves a quickie. He loves to fuck you fast and hard in the car while you're on lunch at work or switching weeks with Holland, waiting for a friends parent to drop Holly off . He loves knowing cuck might catch you. He loves seeing you try to walk away and act normal like his cum isn't dripping out of you and like he didn't just fuck the life out of you.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Oh absolutely yes

He likes to fuck you knowing cuck is near

He likes to fuck you in his car

He likes the risk of getting caught

Taking Polaroids, leaving his tie or something at the foot of your bed

Just little breadcrumbs

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

Holland wants to go all night long. When he gets you all to himself, no disruptions, he wants you for hours. He makes sure to get you water and a little snack, placing it on your nightstand as a silent way of telling you to prepare for the night.

He wants you gasping, sweating, spread open for him.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Holland loves toys

He likes using them on you just as a possible glimpse into how you'd use them if you were alone, during phone sex while you're separated

During your separation he'll bring your vibrator out and hold it to the base of his dick like you used to

Not that you ever stopped really being together

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh he loves to tease, but what starts out as him teasing you ends up with him just teasing himself.

He'll either slide his hand down the front of your pants and tell you'll have to scurry off to go do something, get a call from cuck, something of that nature, of you'll just leave him high and dry.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Oh Holland is LOUD!!!

it's hard for him to be quiet

To literally have to smack your hand down onto his mouth and clamp it over it if Holly is near because there's no way she wouldn't hear

He lets out loud, breathy, high pitched moans

One time Healy came over while you two were busy in the bedroom and noted to Holland that he couldn't tell who was who

W = Wild Card (Random headcanon)

Condescending calling each other "mommy" and "daddy" during an argument will definitely get Holland off

He's not sure if it's the fighting he likes

If it's calling you mommy or you calling him daddy

He's not sure exactly what it is or how to pinpoint it but when you're arguing between gritted teeth, hoping Holly or Healy or nobody is in ear shot, and if they are you still use the names to make it seem like some parental disagreement since you still use those names to refer to yourself and each other for Holly

He thinks it's everything really.

Seeing you be an assertive, sexy, especially when you are in a disagreement about Holly, he likes that you are such a good mom, and he likes seeing you get a little rialed up about her if he let her stay at Janet's house or something.

Holland also loves to take dirty pics.

Pics of himself to give to you, pics of you to keep for himself.

Pictures of the both of you

He keeps one Polaroid of him half inside of you in his wallet incase he needs to quickly get off.

Let's just say, his Polaroid is working over time, but also his best investment ever.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

Holland is packing

Duh

About eight inches, maybe Eight and a half

Enough to where he has to really work you up for you to be fully ready for him without some sort of lube or tears.

But he can work you up to dripping down your leg in the matter of minutes so typically he doesn't have any problems sliding in.

He just has quite the sensitive tip.

When he adjusts himself while sitting if he accidentally touches it his knees are knocking together

When he gets worked up he's almost to tears as his tip is red and leaking everywhere

One time you dry humped for about ten minutes and it looked like someone spilled a glass on water on his lap.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Oh if ex holland is anything he is a yearner

He always wants you

There's not a moment he doesn't

He could be the saddest he's ever been or the most angry he's ever been and if you tell him you want him he is right then and there balls deep inside of you, bending you over

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Unfortunately, Holland is not safe! He will fall asleep directly after sex! If you try to escort him out and push him out of your window because cuck is coming he will try to ask if he can just sleep on Holly's floor or something beside he's tired