#tyler rake

Lloyd’s tone is playful - full of mirth, and you hadn’t realized that you’d spat the chummy question out loud. Your mouth drops open, and Six shoves a croissant into it. You sputter, swatting him away, kicking his ankle under the table. 

Fucking idiots. 

Still - your chest gets tight. Your heart rate picks up. The first snow is beginning to drift outside, and the kitchen is swelling with this amber-golden glow. It’s Colorado. It’s another safe house. It’s theirs.

Aside from all the murder, their new life is like a damn Thomas Kinkade painting.

***

It’s sort of normal, or what Six believes to be normal. He has never had a regular life. He had gone to prison young. He had only ever understood orders. Death. He was good at death, masterly at killing precisely. He wasn’t crazy about dragging out a mission, hated chaos though it followed him. 

Lloyd was the expert at pain. 

These days, Six comes home, not knowing what he will find. Sometimes it’s you on the couch, resting your head on Lloyd’s shoulder as they watch Netflix. Sometimes he will find you barefoot and propped on the counter, slurping soup. Chicken and Stars. 

“Are you hurt?” Your tone is ripe with accusation like Six hadn’t just gone out and done his fucking job.  

“A little.” He figures he shouldn’t lie. 

“C’mere,” you order before placing your bowl in the sink, the metal spoon ringing. He moves toward you, and you assess him with clear eyes. The moon shuffles its cool, pearly sheen through the window, over the tile floor. “Your shoulder,” you conclude before gently taking his wrist in one hand and placing your other against the inside of his elbow. 

“Stay still.” You peer up at him, and he meets your gaze openly. You’re terribly distracting, which he knows you're counting on. You rise on tiptoe and press your lips to his before abruptly stepping away and throwing your weight into his arm. An audible pop followed by a sharp, familiar pain. He groans, knees nearly giving out, but you are right there. His beautiful, anchoring weight. 

***

Lloyd supposes that this is his definition of normal. The sweetness of everyday living combined with the blood-soaked missions that pluck at the vital disturbed string inside him. It’s crepe Suzette and club sandwiches and then nighttime trysts in a strange cold dungeon where he tortures the information out of some sad sack. 

Or he watches you torture the information out of some sad sack. An image he savors deep in his breast. 

This is very much theirs. 

Back in the CIA, Lloyd remembers sharing his broken pieces with you. The disturbing things he thought and believed. His inability to collar his rage. You had seen it and not flinched. You melded so well with him because he gave you his truth, and you handed your own over. 

Such a thing applied to his brand of extracting information. Most of the time, he is successful with the violence. The teeth and fingernails and pounds of flesh. But there are other times when that just doesn’t do the job. He has to be charismatic. He has to share his vulnerabilities (or at least vulnerabilities that sound legit) to connect with whoever he’s interrogating. I show you mine, and then you show me yours. I promise promise you’ll live. Pinky fucking swear. 

Lloyd had told you things that he had never told anyone else, and as a result, there was nothing but naked truth between them. No need for an inquisition. No need to worry that his secrets would ever be used against them.

You know me, baby. 

With scorched veins, he watches you. Your eyes glitter as you lean over the guy they’ve got strapped to a chair. You murmur to him, whispering about how the pain will stop if he just tells them where the Prime Minister’s daughter is.

Once the info spills from the blubbering mess, Lloyd pays him back with a bullet.

“Jesus, duchess,” he practically sings. “That was hot.”

You laugh, waving him off as you move toward the door. Lloyd has other ideas. He advances on you, hand clamping down on your arm as he forces you against the wall. “Not so fast,” he purrs, flicking the button on your jeans. “Let me give my sweet girl something for working so hard.”

Your eyes widen, and your tongue wets your lower lip. Bingo. He sneaks his hand down the front of your jeans, gliding his fingers through the pillowy, soaked heat between your folds. He rubs and strokes, nudging that silk-soft entrance that leads to your cunt. You’re pulsing around the tip of his fingers - the throbbing furious as his own heartbeat while his gaze trails over your pleasure-ridden face. There’s some blood splattered across your cheek. You grip his shoulders, digging your thumb into the muscle. 

“Lloyd,” you breathe, hips lifting as he watches you come apart. He knows that they will go home after this. He will curl around you as they watch some shitty reality show. It will be perfectly calm. The secret of this dungeon will be a memory they bury somewhere else. He lowers his head to kiss you sweetly - as he would at the end of a fairytale.

His chest expands. His stomach flutters. He thinks it might be love.

***

The darkness inside Lloyd and 33 lingers, bleeding into everything they do. It’s good that the government no longer controls them because sometimes the job requires a bit more sparkle. A bit more pizzazz. 

Still, Lloyd would like to state that this was your fucking idea. Lloyd has to pretend to be a crime syndicate’s hired hand for torture while you pretend to know shit that you don’t. Infiltrate to gather information for an enemy gang. They’re paying you a startling sum. 

“I’m not a huge fan of hurting you, bunny,” Lloyd admits, leaning his back against his dove-gray headboard. He rubs his chin, feeling torn. “One thing to hurt you in bed when you ask for it, another to actually do it when you’re tied to a chair.” He frowns. “Helpless.”

You’re standing at the foot of his mattress, hands on your hips. You narrow your eyes before suddenly climbing onto the bed and crawling toward him. He sits up, cock already stiffening at the sight. You straddle his lap, easing your ass down on his very hard erection. “Lloyd,” you murmur. “I trust you. It’ll be like foreplay.”

“Breaking your fingers isn’t hot,” he grumbles. “If you want me to make it look real, it will be bad. I can’t just scratch you and call it a day.”

You lean into him, your tits crushed against his chest as his hands fly to your waist. “I trust you,” you repeat, rubbing your nose against his cheek like a big cat. It’s disarmingly adorable. 

He sighs. “I don’t like it. Six will nuke my ass.”

“But I trust you.”

“You keep saying that like it makes a difference.”

You pause, and he can tell you’re ruminating over something - hopefully a damn better idea. After a moment, your smile widens, and your tiny pocket knife appears out of thin air (where do you even keep it?). You press it into his hands. “Fuck me,” you demand. 

Lloyd startles. “With the knife??”

You laugh. “No, dumb ass.”

You snatch his wrist and force his hand with the knife to the skin over your heart, your perfect tit. “Fuck me,” you repeat. 

Oh. 

He smirks. 

Kinky. 

With his other hand, he reaches up to grasp the nape of your neck to hold you steady. You bracket your thighs around his own, squeezing tightly, and he flips you onto your back in a flash. He’s already naked, and you’re not wearing panties. Just some lacy little nightgown. He shoves it up, slotting between your legs, cock nearly breaching you as he holds that blade right beneath your throat. He notches right at your opening, teasing the warm, wet slit of your pussy. Your mouth parts, and he savors the way the head of his cock kisses your clit - your sensitive folds. “Okay, baby,” he drawls. “Okay, whatever you want.” He bears his weight before filling you to the hilt. He grinds deep. He thrusts hard.

You’re panting, cradling his sides, nails skating down his ribs. “I trust you, I trust you, I trust you.” It slips from your mouth like a prayer before it wraps all the way around him. 

***

There are days when the absurd greets Six when he returns to them. 

“We found kittens!” you loudly exclaim as you skip in front of him with two small fluffy creatures pressed to your breasts. “Come kiss!”

Lloyd is right behind you with four of them in his muscular arms. He’s grinning like a maniac. 

Six doesn’t want to tell them he’s allergic, so he smiles. Later, they have to give them up for adoption anyway due to the nature of their job. They can’t settle. They can’t stick to a single place. 

The only constant is themselves. 33. Lloyd. Six. Their unit. Their fucked-up triad.

Sometimes, he is forced to meet up with them in some dank, dark basement in some desperate city. He always loudly opens the front door, just in case they’re on edge. He doesn’t need to get shot. Not again, at least. 33 will stomp up the stairs to see who’s arrived. Black latex gloves glistening with new blood. Your eyes land on Six momentarily, surprised to see him standing there as if you hadn’t texted him to plz come help. 

You offer him a sheepish smile. “Lloyd’s on one,” you explain. There are screams behind you, down in the depths of whatever Hell Lloyd has created. The shrieks gradually trickle into whimpers before going silent. 

“Shit,” you bristle. “He better not have fucking killed that dude.” Then, you’re gone, rushing back down into the purple dark. Six doesn’t go down there unless asked. It’s their thing. 

He doesn’t mind. He prefers to have them in the light. All exits available to him.

***

In November, Six returns to the safehouse in London. The air is cold and wet, the black streets coated with damp leaves. Everything smells like rain. 

“Don’t freak out.”

That’s the first thing that bursts from Lloyd when Six steps through the front door. 

Don’t. Freak. Out.

Six narrows his eyes as the hair on his neck prickles. They had kept him in the dark on this mission. The specifics. He’d been given a role that he later realized had been a distraction. A total milk-toast assignment, and he should have known. 

You and Lloyd had been planning something without him, which meant they felt he’d disapprove. 

“What do you mean don’t freak -”

The words die on Six’s tongue the second Lloyd disappears back into the hall and reappears with you. His arm is around your waist as he gently guides you out of the shadows. In the light…in the fucking light…it’s so bad.

“Jesus Christ,” Six growls as he shoots forward, shoving Lloyd out of the way. His hands find your face, and he tips it up. There are abrasions around your throat and bruises along your arms. Blood has turned your silk dress to something stiff, and it practically cracks when Six brushes against it. Your lower lip is terribly swollen. Your fingers are visibly jutting from the wrong angles.

They were going undercover at some gala. At least, that’s what they had claimed. There are pearls in your ears, and the ruined dress is expensive, so perhaps that had been true. Had they been ambushed?

“Who -” He has to clear his throat because he’s seeing red. There is fury whipping into a fucking cyclone between his ribs. His adrenaline soars. His muscles tense. He finds his voice again. “Who did this to you?”

You try to smile, and it quickly becomes ghoulish with your bloodied gums. “It’s okay, Six.” You struggle through the statement, your lips cracking. You’re hoarse, probably from some goddamn son of a bitch strangling you. 

You dart a glance toward Lloyd, who has gone particularly pale -paler than normal. Almost sick.

“Who did this?” Six demands. Lloyd grimaces, and you open your mouth before abruptly shutting it. It takes him a moment before it falls into place. You didn’t. He thinks. You wouldn’t. 

Six goes rigid; his heart stills to a steady thump. He steps backward so he can inspect you from top to bottom. He knows exactly how Lloyd hurts people. This may be just a shade of it, but it’s a shade nonetheless. Slowly, he rolls his neck before settling cool eyes on Lloyd. 

“You did this?” Six’s words are bathed in ice. He’s surprised at himself. Surprised that he cares this much, but he does. Lloyd says nothing, but his features twist, and his grimace deepens. 

“He didn’t do it,” you cut in, staggering in front of Lloyd. “I mean, he did, but it was part of the plan. We didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Six snaps. “I highly doubt torturing you was the only option, sweetheart.” He snorts. “Look at you - you’re fucking bleeding everywhere. Your hand - Fucking Christ, Hansen-

Lloyd clears his throat, pressing himself to your back as he stares at him. “Everything I did is easily fixable. No weird brakes. Very shallow cuts. I’d never scar her-”

“You are both out of your fucking minds,” Six snarls, and the two of them have the decency to look cowed. Six doesn’t usually lose his temper. He can bludgeon a man’s head with his boot until it explodes like a swollen piece of fruit, and not a single facial feature will change. Not a wrinkle. He steps toward you, grasping your chin and lifting it. His breath huffs against your mouth. “Do not ever leave me out of the plan again. Maybe - next time, I can convince you not to do something so laughably stupid.”

You bite your lip and then wince from the pain of it. 

“Are we clear?” he hisses. Both 33 and Lloyd automatically nod in unison, and, for a moment, Six feels as if he’s tamed some force of nature - some uncollared beast. 

***

“I need you to do this,” Lloyd tells you. “I want it.”

It’s his penance. He’s been a sulking baby since Six let him have it for torturing you. 

It was my idea. I talked you into it.

I don’t care.

He led you into this dim room beneath the house. A place normally meant for his victims. The cement smells like antiseptic, sweat, and blood. Lloyd’s tied to the chair. Naked as the single bulb above them drips yellow light across his milky skin. He’s got his thick thighs spread. His dark hair blunt against his paleness. His pink nipples. His dick standing upright - red and weeping. 

He’s beautiful. The chestnut scratch of his beard tinged with a spark of gray. The blue eyes. The sculpted body. The muscles in his biceps twinge from the uncomfortable position. He stares at you like you’re the sun - the blood-scented air in this room that threatens to engulf them. He knows your darkness better than anyone.

Better than Rake? The thought pinches at the back of your mind. Memories fall loose as scraps of paper in the meat of your head. Where the fuck did that come from? You bury the thought just as you had buried Rake two years ago. 

Lloyd makes a clipped, frustrated noise, demanding your attention. He says your name, and it trails down your back like his talented fingers. Calloused. Full of intention. You know what he wants. You slink forward, wedging yourself between his legs before straddling his lap. 

You grasp the bobbing length of his cock, circling your fingers right under the head. “Beg me,” you whisper as you press your lips to his brow. “Beg me, Hansen.”

His hips buck up underneath you, jutting forward, desperate for more friction. “Please,” He grunts as he tips his head back. He slides his lips over yours, his tongue delving into your mouth. “Please.” It comes out muffled, bouncing against the thrust of your tongue. It’s a frantic kiss - sloppy and uncontrolled. It tastes delicious. It tastes wonderful to have Lloyd so submissive for you.

“Please?” you echo, skating your nails across his scalp. 

“Baby.” His eyes are big and blue as the Pacific as they stay trained on your face. 

You position yourself over him, hitching the crotch of your underwear to the side before slowly impaling yourself on his cock. He groans, nearly choking as the room echoes with the wet noise of your cunt taking him. It burns - an ache that momentarily stings before it flares out into something else entirely. His hands are locked behind the chair, the muscles in his shoulders straining. You draw back to look at him, enjoying how his cock twitches and throbs inside you. The band of your panties digs into his length and tugs at your hips, cutting into the flesh of your ass.

You gently rock forward, lifting yourself only an inch before dropping down. “Fuck, fuck,” he stammers. Carefully, you nip his jaw, his throat, and shoulder. You sink your teeth deep just so he can feel it. He shivers and moans, jerking as the head of his cock punches up against something soft and tender inside you. You yank at his chest hair, causing bright pain spots across his surface. It’s a lovely chest - broad and well-shaped. You’ve rested your cheek against it more times than you can count, simply listening to the battering drum beat of his heart. 

You fuck him slow, teasing him with each roll of your hips.

“Don’t tell Six,” you murmur, leaning forward to steal another open-mouthed kiss from him. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“No - he wouldn’t.” He agrees, his lips twitching before they morph into an O when you clench around him. The chair creaks, and there’s no doubt you’re going to break it. 

It’s a messy kind of love. Fucked up. But - they’ve always been that way. Always stuck between two existences and somehow finding each other. He ripped down your walls and found your nerves, screaming cells, and raw places. He found them, grasped them, and held them up to the light. 

“Make it hurt,” he demands as he thrusts up into you. “Please.”

***

The thing is, 33 is not him. Not in any way, shape or form. You feel guilt profoundly though you try to act like you don’t. He thinks it occurred somewhere after you got older. Vienna? Fucking Gentry’s sneaky little influence? An unknown tipping point that suddenly made you feel morose. 

Admittedly, sorrow looks beautiful on you. It is just your flavor; just as a genuinely happy smile is devastating when you choose to present one. 

You’re already gorgeous, but that soft, aching grief that churns quietly beneath your features? Yeah - that does something to Lloyd.

They’re in Gstaad when he finds you alone in the library with a bottle in your hands. You’re drunk - fingers sliding up and down the neck that reminds him of you sucking his cock this morning.

“Shit, baby,” he’d grunted. “Eyes up. I want you to know who is fucking that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Gentry had been none too pleased, storming inside while you had Lloyd’s dick down your throat. You were running late, and Gentry was nothing if not punctual. 

“We have to fucking go. Wheels up at 0600 remember?”

“C’mon, Six,” Lloyd said. “She’ll suck you off too.”

“No.”

Court Gentry might be a robot. He compartmentalizes everything, including his sex drive. His cock can stay limp, his heartbeat stuck on an even line, even when their girl is ass up in front of him. Lloyd’s New Years' Resolution is to corrupt the son of a bitch. 

You’d swallowed his come like a champ before running after Six. They were supposed to take out some oligarch, which had turned into a spectacular mess. Gentry had called Lloyd ahead of time, which is why he isn’t completely surprised that you’re deep-throating a bottle of Gray Goose. 

“You know how to handle this shit,” Six had said. He could hear him pacing, the rustle of gauze and bandages.

“I’d disagree.”

“You’re good with her,” he argues, which makes Lloyd stop in his tracks. He is thoroughly floored at this rare praise. He didn’t expect this from Six - this hesitant declaration that he was a decent person with the woman they treasured. 

Lloyd cocks his head, regarding you with something. Tender concern, perhaps? He’s not sure. He hates when you go all broody and tragic. He doesn’t understand because he so rarely feels regret. Another reason he thinks Six is off his rocker for thinking Lloyd is good with handling 33’s mood swings. 

When you catch his eyes, you glare at him. Absolute defiance. Very you. You tip your head back to swallow more vodka, and Lloyd smoothly snatches the bottle from your hand. “No more, bunny.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s fair.”

You open your mouth before shutting it again. Unsure how to respond when he’d so readily agreed with you. He knows you want him to fight.

You wrap your arms around your knees. You look like a child.

He gives you silence, waiting patiently for you to confess what you need to confess. 

“There was a kid….” you finally offer. “A kid in the way. The bomb-“

“Yeah,” he cuts you off. He crouches down and touches your face, thumb catching on your lower lip. “Six told me.”

You nod, seemingly relieved not to have to rehash what occurred. “He left - ran off after. I think he’s mad at me.”

Shit. Lloyd would have to talk to him about this. 

“Not true,” he protests. “You know how our Courtney gets. He’s a softhearted fuck and doesn’t do so well with the comfort.”

“I don’t want to feel.” You’re slurring, your eyelids are heavy, and your nose is swollen.

You reach for him - arms encircling his neck as you yank him on top of you. You’re nuzzling his cheek - mouth smearing hot and wet on his chin. “Show me how to stop caring.”

You turn his head and catch his lips, pushing your tongue fully into his mouth, and for a minute, he returns it. He nips your jaw; he squeezes your hips. You whimper - shaking and frantic and his name burning in your throat.

He is full of fucked up shit, and so are you, but you’re really beginning to struggle with the guilt. There are invisible hands clasped around your neck as you drown in it. Lloyd needs to get you above water.

Reluctantly he pulls away, untangling you from his body as you make a soft, desperate noise. “We should tell Court to come back,” he suggests. “Maybe, make you dinner.”

You shrug, deflated, and then your eyes begin to fill with tears before you turn away from him. It’s the alcohol. It has to be. You rarely cry. 

Horrified, Lloyd pats you lightly on the cheek, offering soft, coaxing sounds of comfort like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. You cry harder. Finally, he gives up and collects you to him.

“We’re feeding you,” he announces. “Then you’ll feel better.”

***

Six falls ill. Very sick. Potentially poisoned, and you’re a mess over him. He’s wilting with fever, his tongue thick in his mouth. He can’t see straight. The ceiling blurs and distorts, and you cradle his head in your lap and hold a cool washcloth to his brow.

“Shhh,” you murmur as he tries to roll away. I’m fine. 

I'm fine. I'm fine. He wants to say this, but it won’t come out. 

You stroke his cheek, allowing him to soak your clothes in sweat. “Tell me what hurts,” you whisper, reminding him of his mother. His mom had fled that household long before he turned 13. But she had once been a mother. His mother, regardless of the short period of time.

“Chest,” he mutters. “Throat. Stomach. Fuck. Everywhere.”

“Lloyd is getting a doctor,” you reassure him. You brush his hair from his forehead, and another sharp pain shoots through his belly. He lurches, his hand around your wrist, squeezing bruisingly rough as he groans. “You’re okay,” you hum sweetly even though he’s probably hurting you. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He vomits over the side of the bed, and you wipe the dregs from his chin. It’s startling. It’s so fucking strange. You can be so terrifying when you’re working - so calm and deadly even with your face splashed in blood. 

He thinks of unconditional love. He thinks about the people who were supposed to give it to him and didn't. You, Lloyd, and himself had been denied this as children, as human beings, until their environment had morphed them into perfect putty ripe for training. Hard. Cold. Weapons.

This isn't your nature. It’s not his. 

And yet…

You won’t leave him. He realizes this as he drifts away. You hold him like his mother, and you won’t leave him. 

***

Six starts dreaming, which is never a good sign. 

It’s a lot of you fucking Lloyd in front of him, which should be considered normal, except it’s always on a blood-drenched bed. They’re coated in it, writhing around each other, Hansen’s brunette head between your legs or his hips pistoning against your ass as you whimper and snatch at the soiled sheets. 

He often wakes up sweating, his lungs catching on short, unsteady breaths. He finds himself requiring you in a way that confuses him. He wordlessly walks down the hallway until he reaches your bedroom. He enters, quiet and stealthy, and sneaks into your bed.

The first time, you’d nearly shot him in the face. The second, you almost stabbed him. Gradually, you grow accustomed to his naked presence in the middle of the night. 

Six spoons you, burrowing his face into your hair, inhaling your scent: woodsy, musky, powder violets and sandalwood. 

He grasps the back of your thigh from behind, opening your legs before he slides forward and into you. You inhale sharply, your body locking tight around him. Your hand snakes back to fist his hair. It starts slow before gaining speed. There is the muffled noise of their skin slapping, the mattress creaking. He’ll grab your chin and tilt your face to the side, his lips capturing yours, stealing your breath for his own.

“Like that,” he murmurs as you whine low. You clamp down. Your pussy is soaked and warm as he surges into it with all the aggression his nightmares have left in him. 

Sometimes he gets ugly about it. Sometimes he hates feeling something for you - this scorching, terrible emotion for another person.

What if you die? They see it every day. They touch it. Taste it. It’s possible. It’s probable.

“Court,” you moan, grinding back into him, taking his hand and shoving it between your legs to feel where you’re stretched around his cock. He allows you to call him by his name. His real one. He doesn’t totally mind it anymore. 

He’s grateful for the distraction. He sucks up every minute he has you alive and fever-hot underneath him.

***

You are a smooth fighter. You dart out of the way, stabbing in quick short strokes. You are fierce and lethal. You never overdo it. Every move is calculated. Lloyd burns for it, but Six groans at the sight. Six mumbles your name when your enemy drops, and you turn to look at him.

It could be a god damn hallmark film. Their eyes meet, you smile, and then Six surges forward, taking your face between his battered hands and kissing you desperately. 

It is so out of character for him that Lloyd is momentarily stunned.

Finally, he shakes himself out of it. “Hey,” he growls. “Stop that.

They are deaf to him. Their lips moving against each other in a frenzy. 

“Give her to me!” he demands - tone sulky. “I want-

Tightening his hold on you, Six flashes Lloyd a thunderous look before lowering his face to yours. 

“Fine,” Lloyd grumbles. “I’ll just go fuck myself.”

***

It’s a mission to be handled on the dance floor. An underground club in Berlin where red light streaks across Six’s eyes and blinds him. He doesn’t want to do this, but their mark will be there, and it’s loud, busy, and chaotic. A perfect spot to slide a needle full of toxins into an arms dealer’s throat.

33 is buzzed or pretending to be, at least. Your body is clad in this sequined corset-top shaped like a butterfly. Held together by strings. Pink and pale blue and lavender. You’d chosen jeans and dark sneakers as opposed to stilettos. Still - it’s a ridiculous outfit and entirely distracting.

“Jesus Christ, you look fucking sexy,” Lloyd had crowed as he gripped your waist and hauled you into his arms. He crushed his lips to yours while Six tried to go over the plan. Ignoring him, Lloyd had lowered you onto the table - spreading you out all over Six’s maps of the venue.

“Can you not? We have to focus.”

“After I eat her out, Courtney.  You can join. C’mon.”

Six hates clubs. They’re difficult to navigate. The exits aren’t reliable, and people can’t be trusted to act accordingly, especially people on drugs.

He monitors the crowd from one of the catwalks. You’re dancing, tossing your head as some techno beat pulses and shakes the walls and floor. You certainly have a presence. Few people have tried to touch you as if there is a barrier between you and the restless masses. He wonders if they sense your danger - that you are an apex predator by all definitions. Sleek. Untouchable. A silver bullet. All teeth.

One man does try to grind up against you, and Six hears Lloyds huff through the coms. It doesn’t phase you; you dart away from the man. Your smile glittering under flickering lights and confetti. 

“Good girl,” Lloyd growls. “Thank god I made her come all over my face before this.”

Six tries not to smile. “Yeah - I’m sure she would have cheated on us with some random dude because you didn’t give her an orgasm.”

“Ha ha,” Lloyd returns, his tone dry as bone chips. “33 requires a lot of handling. Chicks like her need to be pleasured daily.”

“I heard that,” you hiss.

“Aw, baby, hey,” Lloyd croons. 

Six decidedly does not join in. He’s got to focus. 

After a minute or so, Hansen speaks up again, a whine in his voice. “We should have just bought a table and handled this down there. I’m so fucking bored.”

“Yeah,” Six deadpans. “The three of us together in front of hundreds of people would have been a swell idea.”

“Did you just say ‘swell’?”

Once again, Six ignores him. He keeps himself still above the ground, monitoring every last detail of the club and the arms dealer sitting by the DJ booth. This is his specialty. He’s already thought up twelve other strategies to take this dude out should Plan A fail. 

“Who’s that?” Lloyd mutters into the coms, and Six glances down at where you’ve suddenly stilled. You’re staring at something on the east side of the dance floor, and when Six follows your line of vision, he spots a tall, shadowy presence. The figure is in a black t-shirt and jeans. A haircut that Lloyd would probably attempt. Six squints, sneaking closer because he can’t tell what’s wrong with you. You’re frozen.

“33,” Lloyd says. “Talk. What’s up?”

Nothing. 

“Bunny,” Lloyd tries. 

Nothing.

“33,” Six barks. “Respond.”

“Sorry,” you reply quickly. “Thought I saw something.”

Your voice is audibly shaken. Six turns back to where the figure had been. He’s gone - the crowd had swallowed him up. 

***

You dragged them into your room the second they’d gotten home. Lloyd and 33 start fucking like the world is ending. He’s pinning you to the mattress, flipping you onto your stomach. He says something dumb, and you slap him, and then he sinks his teeth into your neck, but it seems you’re enjoying it.

“Damn,” Lloyd laughs. “Baby’s desperate.”

You are. It’s weird. Not totally out of the ordinary, but your touch is lined with panic. A frenzy. Something upset you tonight, and you’re not saying what.

Six thinks of the man. The scrawl of dark tats up his neck. He had disappeared and vanished into the shadows, which was a feat for a man of that size. There were other people considered “gray men,” of course. It wouldn’t be a revelation that you knew them.

After they’d taken the mark out, SIx had pressed you for information.

It was raining by the time they escaped the screaming maw of the club. You’d snatched a cigarette from Six’s back pocket and stuck it in your mouth. He helped you light it, watching as you inhaled deeply before scrunching your nose. “I hate smoking - I just -“

“Who was that?” 

“No one.”

Six knew to stop there. You were a steel trap. You gave nothing if you did not want to give it. 

“Court,” Lloyd yells as he manages to get you back on top of him, his knees curved over the end of the bed. “Get over here.”

Six steps away from the window to admire you: the arch of your back as you cling to Lloyd, the soft, trembling whimpers as he stretches you a little too wide. There’s still glitter in your hair and on your skin. It drives heat to his groin and makes his head heavy with it. 

Six undresses and then stalks toward them.

You’re on your hands with your knees spread on either side of Lloyd’s hips as he finger fucks you right in front of Six’s face. 

“She’s good,” Lloyd rumbles. “So wet. You can just slide right in.”

Six palms your ass, gripping the sweat-damp fat of it. He takes himself in hand and sinks inside you, not even caring that Lloyd’s fingers are already there. Hansen grunts, stroking and petting you while trailing blunt nails along Six’s plunging shaft. 

It feels good. Better than good. 

They’ve all coalesced into one thing. A single mass of flesh and limbs and mouths. Cock and cunt. There are no longer boundaries between Lloyd and Six. They go with it, unafraid to touch and savor It’s half a fight anyway. They’d tried to kill the other at one point. Now - they’re trying to ruin each other in new ways. Sometimes Lloyd and Six find themselves pressed together in the dark as you nip their jaws and tell them to kiss.

“For me,” you whisper when all three of them know it’s for Lloyd and Six also.

Now kiss and make-up. 

Is this some fucked-up Barney episode?

Shut up, Lloyd. 

Fine. C’mere, Ken doll. 

Six leans over you, bracketing your body, pinning you to Lloyd, His hips are slamming against your ass, and your cunt is wet  - dripping from Lloyd already having fucked and filled you. It eases the way. It makes it messy. Six looks at Lloyd, who meets his eyes. Dark. Hungry. His brow furrows, pink mouth parting. 

Over your shoulder, Lloyd grabs him hard by the back of the head and forces their mouths together. There is the click of teeth, the slick of spit. It’s erotic. It’s hot, to say the least, especially when the audible noise of his cock driving into you rings out again and again. 

“Shit,” you whine. “That’s so sexy.”

Lloyd draws away, his lips tugging into an arrogant smile. “You want us to take you together?” He nuzzles your cheek, his gaze still boring into Six’s. “You want us to fuck you at the same time?”

You shiver - your pussy fluttering around Six’s cock. 

“Please,” you beg. “Please - fuck - I want it.”

The words are thick in your throat - almost upset. Once again, Six thinks of the man in the club. He keeps getting distracted by the sex. You’re choking his cock, and Lloyd sticking his tongue in his mouth. There’s more to this. He can feel it in his gut. Something is wrong.

“Get the lube,” Hansen orders as he bands one muscular forearm around your back to pull you further up his body, so you’re nearly straddling his stomach. 

“For?” Six asks.

“Don’t play dumb, sunshine,” Lloyd quips. “Fuck her ass.”

Okay. That shoots straight between his legs. The command. The concept of having to fit inside you like that. They haven’t tried it together before. 

“Yes,” you melt, your hand shooting back to grasp Six’s thigh. “Make me forget.”

Six frowns at your choice of words.

***

 You saw him. You’re positive. You saw Rake. 

You think of India. You think of the green-yellow river rushing beneath them. Rake being a stupid damn martyr for some stupid fuck’s kid. Red had bubbled in the seam of his lips, and you had felt your heart stop. Your hand had slammed down on his own, trying to block the blood spouting from his neck. Innately, you knew that no one could have lived from that kind of injury even though you had hoped. You had stood there crying and begging him.

“No…no, Tyler,” you whispered as you shook like a leaf. You were cold. Frigid despite the white-sun beating down on your head. Sweat and grime and bullets. You couldn’t breathe. Gasoline was all over the road. Your vision was going dizzy. Vomit climbed up your esophagus. 

His head had lolled forward like it was too heavy for his neck. His brow met yours as he slurred out that it was okay - get the fuck out of here, and then he shoved you in the direction of the rescue helicopters with his gun raised. He took out whoever was left. He had been soaked in his own blood and had managed to kill a few more bastards. The last glimpse you had of him, he had flipped over the bridge and sunk like a stone. Dead. At least, you were certain he had died. His handler Nik had told you as much. 

Whatever you saw in the club had to have been an illusion. 

Even though you weren’t drunk. You’d been very sober. Maybe, a contact high?

You’re already fucked up from this. You’re drained. You haven’t slept. In London, you buy blow off some kid down the street and take it home. Six is on recon, but Lloyd is home, and Lloyd would gladly get coked out and drunk with you.

You find him watching a basketball game in the living room. His team is losing, so you skip into his eye line and then toss yourself into his lap. You cradle his cheek and reveal the vial of white powder from your cleavage. “Want to party?”

Lloyd lifts an eyebrow. “We talking junior year spring break booze cruise or sophomore year homecoming?”

“Homecoming,” you answer, tone growing serious. “We’re talking me finding you railing Hannah McDermott in the frat bathroom.”

He grins. “There’s booze in Court’s room.”

***

It’s all fun and games until Lloyd gets soft. 

“What’s wrong?” He suddenly asks. His features shift into tender concern. The lower half of his face is wet from your cunt due to eating you out on the washing machine. His broad hands still hold you open, grasping under your knees before he stands to his full height. Your pussy is bare to him, and he wants to talk feelings. “You’ve been off since Berlin.”

You groan and try to kick out of his iron grip. “I don’t need new and improved and self-aware Lloyd. I need asshole Lloyd.”

“Sometimes you don’t get what you want, duchess.”

Lloyd is nothing if not persistent, whether it’s trying to get them to take a trip to Rome or attempt some complex sex act. 

But - you’re stubborn, and this wound is not one you care to open. Ever again. 

You punch him hard in the chest, and he releases you, grunting with surprise. You drop off the laundry machine and escape to your room. 

***

The message on your phone tells you nothing and everything at once. It’s one of the guys from an old job. Not exactly an enemy, but not a friend. The man claims to have information on Tyler, and, foolishly, you cling to it. It’s too coincidental. How would he know? What does he know? 

Rake is fucking haunting you, and you want to be done with it. It’s getting in the way of your work. You’re so damn distracted that you can barely function. Lloyd and Six miss nothing, and you’re certain you will have to come clean at some point. 

I loved someone before you. I loved them a lot. 

So focused on receiving intel on Rake, you miss all the signs. The bright red flags. You go to a storage facility in Croydon, where an enormous bald man awaits you. Tons of rings. A sharp suit. There’s a startling prick against your neck. You fall forward, pain exploding across your face when you make contact with the hard floor.

“Huh,” the man smirks. “It really was that easy.”

They trap you. 

It’s so embarrassing. 

***

33 is covered in a thin film of blood. It’s all over your face. It’s in your hair and slinking down your arms and chest in branching rivulets. You’re tied to a chair; your lower lip is swollen. One eye is drooping. Your shoulder is out of its socket. 

“Jesus Christ,” Lloyd hisses. “Jesus Christ - that better not all be hers.”

The words out of his mouth are pointless. Or what? He thinks. Or what? How would he make up for it? They’d allowed you to get hurt. 

It’s definitely yours. No fucking doubt. 

Six places a hand on his bicep. It is firm and warm, and grounding. “Calm down,” he instructs. “She needs us on our shit.”

You need us. You need us. That little expression circles around Lloyd's head like a carousel: lions, unicorns, and brightly-painted dragons. The smell of popcorn and they’d gone to a carnival a few months ago. The most normal thing he’d ever done with you. A fucking date. 

Six appears implacably cool, but Lloyd has learned his tics and tells. He’s nervous - his eyes darting from 33 to the mass of guards around you. One has a pretty big knife, and another has a rope. There are more outside this room - flooding the facility. 

“You don’t think they-“

“No,” Six growls - his tone harsh. The first time it’s jumped an octave since they found you. He pauses - swallows thickly. “I mean, I don’t think they would…this wasn’t about that.”

“How do you know what this is even about?” he snaps back. 

They watch and wait. How did this happen?

You’d left the house saying you were meeting someone. You’d seemed flustered, but otherwise fine. You were capable of taking care of yourself, and it seemed implausible that you’d go do something so fucking dangerous without telling them. 

Then you disappeared for days after Lloyd and Six had torn the city down. Your boss called - thunderous. 

“An old enemy has her,” he explained. He clears his throat before continuing. “A few things have popped up again. A few surprises. This is being used against her. My contact is already on this, but I want you both there. Here are the coordinates. Get her back.”

What the fuck had any of that meant? The boss spoke in vague turn of phrase that drove both Six and Lloyd insane. Only you were really able to translate. 

They had little information, and now they were sprawled on a catwalk above an enormous cement room, watching you shiver and bleed everywhere. 

We have to be patient. We have to wait for the opportune moment. 33 would be pissed if they blew this.

This is what he tells himself. One of the guards punches you hard enough that your chair rocks backward. Something inside Lloyd cracks.

***

How this resolves is a strange sort of miracle. 

There’s this lipless piece of shit guard that won’t leave you alone. He’s getting too intimate about his touches. Lloyd can feel Six begin to lose it. The usually calm mercenary starts to twitch and grunt. His hackles rise. The muscle in his jaw jumps. 

When this fuckface caresses your lips, a dirty thumb digging into the tissue of it, Six curses. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

The taut string of caution and hesitancy snaps and Lloyd and Six drop down from the second level. You gingerly lift your head and the corner of your mouth tugs.

“Hey honey,” Lloyd remarks casually even though they’re fucking surrounded.

It should have been a potentially fatal situation. It should have been bad. They hadn’t thought this through, which was unheard of for them.

But they were mad. They were upset. Emotionally compromised. 

Then an act of God happens.

The lights go out followed by the distant shriek of several grenades. The floor trembles. Dust flutters down from the ceiling. Screams. Shouts. The world goes wild. When the Emergency lights flicker one, it bathes all of them in a ghoulish purple-red. The alarms are buzzing. Another bomb explodes.

For a moment, Six catches Lloyd’s eyes.

Did you?

No. Of course not. 

Then who fucking did?

The bullets start flying. 

They fight dirty. It’s not as smooth as they’d like because it means something. They’re pissed. Someone took their girlfriend if that’s what she even is. Sometimes Lloyd thinks you are more than that. Not to get sentimental, but you had become his damn second chance. He’d be dead or in jail if you’d left him in that fountain in Croatia. 

He ducks and weaves, slamming his blade into a chin until hot blood coats his forearm. He whirls around, whipping his gun from his holster and shooting three bullets through another’s cheek. Bone shards flying. A gurgle of blood. Brain matter. Everything is hot and smoky and smells of cordite.

It makes him hard. Kind of. The chaos of the whole situation shudders through him, warms his heart. 

He glances at Six who is taking people out just like Lloyd. In fact, he’s never seen Six kill with this sort of ferocity. It’s beautiful. It’s devastating. He breaks a man’s arm, the bone jutting out from the skin. He shoves that bone right into the guy’s jugular. 

My god. 

It is a symphony of violence and when it’s all said and done and the floor is coated in gore and gristle, they can breathe again. 

“Wow - that was impressive,” you utter hoarsley before coughing. It sounds wet, which isn’t a good sign.

Six curses and rushes toward you. Lloyd follows. He swipes the keys for the cuffs from one of the bodies on the floor. The top of the guard’s head is cracked open like an egg.  

He moves behind you to undo your bindings, his fingers are feather-soft against your scraped wrists.  Six leans down - hand under your chin before he covers your mouth with his own. “Hi,” he murmurs against your lips and then whispers something else too low for Lloyd to hear. 

When he gets your cuffs off, he massage your wrists. You pull them away from him, haltingly turning around and opening your arms. 

“Lloyd,” you call to him - your big eyes watery, red, and full of need.  

Let me make you better. Let me fix you.

“Bunny,” he replies quietly. “Duchess.” He grabs you by the hinge of our jaw and kisses you so hard their teeth click. He can hear Six grunt about Lloyd being too rough, but you cling to him harder.

“We need to get out of here,” he tells you, nosing at your cheek, embracing you closer. 

You’re trying to even out your breathing. Your chest slightly hitching from the pain. 

He wants to know where you had gone. Who had fucked you over and stolen you from them? Do they need to ransack the place? Do they have time? Opportunity? It all runs through his head. All of his CIA training still hitting its marks.

Your fingers snag in his shirt. “You guys rigged explosives?”

“No,” Six says. “That wasn’t us.”

You shake your head. “This - this wasn’t about me,” you stutter, licking your lips. “I was bait.”

“For us?” Six replies, bewildered. He kicks a corpse's torso, and it crunches wetly. “Well - that failed.”

“No,” you hiss. You’re working yourself up, your eyes darting all over the room. To Lloyd’s dismay, he notices that one of your pupils is bigger than the other. “You’re concussed. We have to get-”

 Your grip on his bullet-proof vest tightens. “I think - I think I know who rigged the bombs - they told me they wanted him to come for me - they thought-”

The door at the end of the room creaks open, and Lloyd and Six whip around, guns raised. Lloyd shoves you behind his back. It’s a man - tall and broad and covered in blood with an M60 in his hands. He’s familiar in a way that pulls at Lloyd - dislodging a memory. It flickers away before he can snatch it. 

“Oh,” you whisper, and the man’s mouth twists, his brow furrows. His gaze knifes right past Lloyd and Six to land on 33. You make a startling sort of noise like you’re dying. Six and Lloyd share a confused look.

The man’s attention remains openly fixated on you. His expression is indecipherable. Did it momentarily soften with relief, or did Lloyd imagine that? There is no doubt that something is passing between this tall son of a bitch and 33. Alive. Raw. Heavy with an implication that kind of freaks Lloyd out.

This encounter is running too long for Lloyd’s liking, and he bristles. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man glances at him, visibly annoyed, before once more staring at the girl cowering at Lloyd’s back. 

At last, the stranger speaks.

“Should I be hurt that you didn’t tell them about me?”

The words are thin and ragged like he hasn’t spoken in a long while. His accent is Australian. But Lloyd doesn’t focus on that, he focuses on the inflection. The question is both an accusation and not. It comes out a shade uncertain or even awkward as if there’s a laugh beneath it.

Lloyd understands human facial tells better than anyone. This man is trying to be restrained, but he can still read him. He’s also nervous.

Lloyd frowns. 

He looks to Six again, who has remained silent, regarding the man with guarded vigilance. Sizing him up. Taking stock. The newcomer was bigger than both of them.

“You died,” you finally whisper, your broken body sinking into Lloyd’s spine, going slack against him. 

Died?

Reflexively, he reaches his arm back to steady you. You’re shivering. Teeth chattering. He needs to call their boss, get doctors to you, get you out of here. They had hurt you badly. It had been personal and he was beginning to suspect that this blood-drenched Australian was in someway responsible.

Lloyd is done with this. 

“You uh - you want to explain, bunny?”

“Bunny?” The man wrinkles his nose, his tone affronted.

Back the fuck off, fucker. She likes it.

You say nothing, and Lloyd turns around. You’re sweating, your skin cold and clammy. Your lashes flutter and your pupils burn out before you collapse in a dead faint. 

***

To be continued obvi. Lmk what you think!!