I know, I know, I know that I should be writing a new chapter of my Tony/Natasha fanfic but I couldn't resist doing this one.

Aghk, so I just finished The Rise of Nine and I really love Nine, and there is just not enough of him on here. I basically ship him with every single person he interacts with. But I decided it would be hot if he were to hook up with Six, so…

It happens like this:

They're all back in Nine's apartment in Chicago and he's got a bottle of bourbon and it's not until he's standing outside the door to Six's room, opening it, that he realizes how weird this is.

But then, he thinks as he steps inside, this has been an off week.

She's stretched out on her bed when he enters, wearing a pair of striped pajama pants and a gray tank top; a bowl of half-eaten cherries resting against her hip.

"Drink?" He lifts the bottle, liquor red-brown and fire-sweet inside.

"Sure," Six smiles, spitting out a cherry pit.

Nine sits next to her, offering the bottle, opened, in one hand. Her eyes are big, watchfully sober. He'll be drinking first, then.

Her head tilts, her smile trapping her tongue behind her teeth. "What if the Mogs attack—"

"I've always wondered if fighting drunk would impair my fighting in any way. I doubt it." He drinks and it's straight sweet fire on his tongue. "You got to take a minute every now and again just for yourself." he says, voice coming out liquor-burned and rough.

She smiles, takes the bottle from him and downs a quarter of the liquid in one swallow.

"Jesus, Six, you practically inhaled that. Do I have to remind you that our legacies don't affect our alcohol tolerance?" Nine asks, arching a sardonic brow.

She pulls a face, "Shut it, Nine," and reaches out to pick up a cherry out of the bowl and Nine gets to it first.

Her mouth opens to snap at him, but then he pops it in her parted lips.

As she chews, he keeps his hand on her chin. Unladylike, she spits the pit into his hand.

"Next time you try that," she says, dry throat sanding the words. "I'll bite your fingers off."

His lips part, his eyes lid and his brows arch: a dare. "Try me."

"Think I can't do it?"

"You're not up for it," he says, and her fingers curl into fists at her sides.

"Try me," she says. "Fucking test me right now."

He doesn't.

She grabs Nine by the scruff of the neck and her nails dig in, she pulls his head back by his hair, and yanks, yanks hard until he winces.

"That fucking hurt."

"Good." She smiles and lets him go. Here's a test. He doesn't leave. For a moment there, he doesn't move. Just sits there and watches with a face full of something she can't discern until slowly sits back up straight. And doesn't leave.

"Looks like someone else is not up for a fight right now either," She says, and leans back on her elbow, braces her cheek to her fist.

"Well, I wouldn't want to embarrass a girl," He coughs.

Her spine straightens sharply, she sits up.

"Oh, Nine," She enunciates the number crisply.

"Sorry," he says, lifting his hands, fingers splaying. His head tilts, looking at her in the eye, that grin cocking at his mouth.

She watches him lazily, doesn't say anything, but she can't help the smirk that tucks into her cheek.

And then his hand is right there, on the mattress beside hers. Or it's always been there and she is just now noticing. She's just now noticing the proximity—his proximity to her, her proximity to him.

Six wants to say she's only putting up with him for the alcohol, but that's a lie. That's a lie she doesn't know what to do with, so she ignores it. She focuses instead on how the bourbon is sticking in her mouth, how perfectly tipsy she feels as she swigs back some more.

But he is still looking at her, and she is still looking at him. She hands him back the bottle and he drinks some more down and they pass it back and forth, silently.

The sound the bottom of the newly-empty bottle of bourbon makes when she sets it down on the nightstand beside her is loud in the silence. Nine watches her without comment, a rarity for him.

She doesn't think it through when he grabs her hand by the wrist and drags her to him, her body pressed flush against his, knocking the bowl of cherries off the bed, scattering the fruit onto the floor. She barely flinches. She doesn't pull away from him, but she also does not move. She thinks she should slap him, but no, that would stop this from happening and she's not so sure that she doesn't want it to.

His hand is warm against her wrist, and his body is warm, she can feel it, even through her clothes, and it makes her realize just how much she does want this.

Her voice cracks when she says, barely audible, "Nine, I—" but he seems to get it. He must get it, because her open mouth is pulled in all unawares against his. He kisses her with the taste of bourbon on his tongue.

She pushes him back, unsure if the objective is to fight or fuck. But she is tired, she is so tired, and frustrated, and what little patience she has been able to string him along with has finally reached its end.

She hits him, the flat of her hand against his chest. He staggers a step back, face darkened, and he reaches for her. So she hits him again. And again.

She goes from pounding her fists against his chest to grabbing him by the shirt. He stops trying to hold her at a distance and instead hauls her up against him.

His fingers are at her waistband, curling beneath it.

She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat—his shirt is wrinkling under her hands, his hand dragging from her shoulder up and along her neck, fist knotting in her hair.

Six kisses him feverishly, all teeth and unrepentant lips, one hand curving against his chin, pulling him closer into the press and suck and bite of lip to lip. Nine abandons her lips, kissing a blazing trail down the length of her arched throat. He opens his mouth against her skin. Tongue hot, he licks a slow path over bone, over every ridge.

She squirms, screws her eyes shut. She hears herself mutter, "Jesus Christ, just fuck me."

There is something relieving about her saying the words out loud, like giving the go ahead, an agreement to what the future will bring, so they can resign themselves to the present. She is already achingly wet, and he knows. She thinks he knows.

And Nine's fucking grinning when he pulls back at last, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Fuck the Mogadorians," she says, and his hand wraps around her wrist as her mouth falls hot against his neck, her teeth and tongue tracing a slow line; he makes a sound, a muffled groan. "You're gonna be the death of me."

She can feel Nine at her knees, kneeling between them, undoing the drawstring on her pants, achingly slow. She can feel him, hard against her leg.

Her heels skid against the mattress when she bends her knees, when she wrenches her sweats, her panties, down her legs and she kicks the clothes off her ankles, off the bed, pulls off her tank top too, her body bare.

Her fingers toy with his pants now, unzipping them, pushing them off while he tugs his shirt up and over his head. She wraps her hand around him, he hisses, his eyes dark (darker than she's ever seen them) as he watches her—her face, her hand, her cunt. Six moves her hand, lazy as can be, palm against hot skin.

There is a gasp and a thud as she rolls them over on the bed; she is poised over him, looking down at him with self-satisfaction.

Then Six slicks herself over his cock, her fingers squeezing at the base.

"Fuck," Nine says, his hands roaming over her, grabbing at her thighs, her hips, her ass.

She wriggles her body, sliding down onto him slowly, so slowly, but it's too slow for him. His fingers dig into her hips painfully, and he just drags her down onto him, slamming his hips up against hers.

Six slides up and then lowers herself on to him, slowly, so slowly that Nine hisses, tongue trapped between teeth.

"Maybe I can't fight right now, but I bet I can draw blood," He taunts low in his throat, and she clenches her legs on either side of him, buzzed blood pounding through her veins.

Nine rolls over and she hooks one leg behind his knee to pull him closer. His kiss turns into a bite, bites until he breaks skin. She can taste the blood like a split lip, it tastes like battle.

Then she bites back, digs her teeth into his lower lip like it's something important enough to be worth breaking. Blood on her tongue, hers, his, it all tastes the same, it doesn't matter.

She kisses him with a bloody mouth and that motherfucker, he grins.

He thrusts and her teeth nip and, fuck, shit, fuck, she whisperslike a plea hidden in her bones. He moves fast, rough, and she pushes back with everything she's got, heels digging into the mattress, trying to find a purchase against him.

She thinks that Nine is fucking her like they're in a fight. Like he's imagining it, each snap of his hips brutal and unforgiving.

His hand at her throat, poised to squeeze.

Her back arches, he draws her thigh up, her knee hooked around his ribcage. He kisses just as he fucks her—too aggressive, too angry, conquer and kill.

She's going to feel this for days.

He comes murmuring unintelligibly against her neck, with her legs wrapped tight and sweaty around his waist. His hips lose their rhythm—his shoulders flex beneath her hands.

That's when she starts clenching around him, grabbing at his shoulders.

She swallows his name when she comes, biting down the word and replacing it with a meaningless string of syllables. When she opens her eyes, she can see blood fading under his skin, the red rake of her nails and the bruise of her mouth. Breath ragged, she rests her open mouth against the taut line of his throat. She feels the warmth of him against her and then the chilly flood of air when he pulls away.

He's sitting up, catching his breath, and she opens her mouth to say something but then he's looking between her legs and he's lowering his head, slowly, between them. She lies back and hisses, softly, as he lays his mouth against the skin of her thighs; he begins to kiss his way up her thighs, across the smooth planes of skin and up when she says:

"You look so self-satisfied, you cocksucker," The first insult to come to mind, and her lips curl over her bared teeth. She thinks she must look positively feral—she hopes she looks positively feral. It kind of negates the fact her back is arching and her fingers are curling tight in his hair. And the fact she is more than kind of panting.

Nine laughs and shakes his head, and even that makes him seem like he is oh-so-pleased with himself, and Six desperately wants to kick him, but she can't, not when she's sliding one leg over his shoulder.

Then his hands are tightening on her thighs, thumbs pressing in hard against her inner thighs, and he is spreading her legs wider.

He presses his tongue against her, and her hips may have bucked a little. And she might be shivering, a little.

"I think we both know," he says, so close, too close, and she isn't going to moan, no, she's not going to give him the fucking satisfaction. "Given the present moment," And it's his voice that has that wicked feral thing she was going for earlier, and one of his hands holding her thighs open and the other is holding down her hip. "That couldn't be farther from the truth."

She doesn't get a chance to reply or refute or toss more profanity-laced and misdirected insults at him. Instead, the words get stuck in her throat, and all she knows is that his tongue between her legs, and that her hips are arching against Nine's mouth.

She bites her lip, and writhes until her thighs lock and her body tenses up and she's grabbing handfuls of his hair.

His body slumps against hers when he resurfaces. Six's muscles feel weak and Nine's skin lies too heavy over his bones, sweaty and hot. She wants sleep. He wants sleep. She thinks she'd allow him to stay if it meant she could sleep.

She lets her eyes flutter closed.

"Nine," she mumbles, keeps her eyes closed.

"Six," he says. But he says it too quietly, so she keeps her eyes closed.

"Turn the light off please."

He does.