#gray and fitzroy

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xvii}

AND NOW~ IT WAS TIME~ FOR TUMBLR TO DROWN IN THE SWEET SORROW OF THIS FIC'S 17TH CHAPTER

disclaimer: The Gray Man and the characters are NOT mine, even the reader. I only own the plot and the reader's character lol. Pictures used in the fic are NOT MINE, but only the edited version (u can msg me if u ze owner); credits to the rightful owners and canva + weheartit. Additionally, I am not a Subic/Zambales native, so my apologies for any wrong locations, descriptions, or languages.

Six x F!Reader / Courtland Gentry x Female Reader

warnings: moderate amount of swear words. some filipino dialogues. slow burn. fluff. trust issues. dramaramramamama. comedy if you use a magnifying glass. culture shock. word count check. slightly proofread/revised.

CHAPTER SELECTION IS IN THE ✨Masterlist✨ Chapter 16 was the icon Chapter 17 is the legend

word count: 3.9k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Clare *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know YET (except you do know #wreckthe4thwall)

This has got to be kidnapping.

Yet how can it be when you're not even verbally struggling to escape?

The only physical binding you have is your sprained ankle. If you didn't have that, you can easily jump out of the car.

But you dare not anger Court any further. He might not let you leave them until you ripen of old age.

Would that be so bad, though?

You blush, sharply averting your gaze out the window as if it would throw the thought away. Being with Court and Claire in less than three hours for thrice a week should be enough for friends hanging out.

Right?

So, why are you wishing for more time?

Why are you always at the edge of your seat waiting for them?

Why is it always hard to watch them walk out of the cafe without you?

The answers are obvious. You just don't want to indulge them again, especially after what happened tonight.

"Home runnnn!" Claire shouts happily as she races through the garage. She certainly looked like she batted a ball out of the field, arms raised overhead, open-mouthed grin, and keys dangling noisily.

You and Court stay silent as Claire unlocks the door. He has you in his arms again, but you don't breathe a complaint this time.

"Want to take a bath, (N/N)?" Claire asks when the three of you entered the guestroom.

You nod. "Sure, that'd be grand."

Court gently sets you down on the bed. "Do you, um, need help?" he questions with a red face, "Taking a bath?"

You laugh. "I'm not that incapacitated, dude. Just get me a chair, towel, and clothes."

"Here's a towel!" Claire gets one from the closet and deposits it on the bed in a flash, "I'll go get a plastic chair!"

She's out of the room before either of you can blink.

"What a proactive teen," you comment amusedly before the silence becomes awkward.

Court snorts in agreement, looks at you for a few seconds, and turns away. "Hey, listen, you can borrow my clothes for the time being."

"Do you have my kind of underwear this time?" you tease.

"About the underwear.. we can buy some tomorrow morning." Court awkwardly rubs his nape, "There's a— what do you call this.. a small market at the park tomorrow. It's always there every Saturday, from 6 AM to 10 AM."

"A tiangge?"

"Yeah, that!"

"Alright, it'd probably be good for me to walk around tomorrow."

"Who says you'll be walking around?"

"Uh, I did?"

"No, you're staying in the car."

"What?"

"My house, my car, my rules."

You chuckle. "Court, seriously.. what are you doing? This is rather sweet and all, but you're lowkey scaring me." you swiftly add to ease his growing anxiety, "It's scary in a funny way, actually. But I'm getting worried that you're over-worrying about me."

He glances down at the floor. "Isn't this what friends do?" and peers at you with eyes so dubious it's as though he doesn't know the meaning of friends.

"Yeah, it is.. and I would do the same for you, it's just that…" you look straight into his eyes, "This kind of overworrying feels different. I can't help but think it feels different. This, us, we.. feel different. But I don't want to think it does, I want to know." 

You're quick to realize what you just said, their weight and meaning, so you let out a loud laugh. Hopefully it will dispel your statements.

"Or maybe it's just me!— Me being silly ol' me," you snicker.

Yet Court is looking at you as though he understands the facade you're wearing.

"What's so funny?" Claire drags a monoblock chair into the room.

You shake your head. "I was just mimicking Flint Lockwood."

"You know Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs?!"

"Know it? I've watched it a hundred times!"

"There! Good as new!" Claire declares, satisfied.

After taking a bath, the father-daughter duo helped you with your wounds again. Claire has just finished bandaging your elbow. While Court went to get another compression bandage after leaving an ice pack on your ankle.

"Kiara.. may I ask you something?"

She snorts. "Of course. And no need to be all formal."

"How did you and Kurt find me?"

Claire freezes, the look on her face somewhat resembles a search engine loading continuously due to a weak internet. "Um, well.. we were going to invite you to watch a movie with us," she smiles sheepishly, "It's Friday. And it's been a while.

"Anyway, we knew you were going to Lillia's, so we turned around and drove to the hotel. We got there just as you were being chased."

You resist a shudder when you hear derisive howling in your ears. You wonder how long those guys will be in your mind, their laughs and hoots bouncing back and forth, reverberating your skull.

"I'm glad you two turned around," you smile at Claire with glassy eyes. "Thank you, Kiara."

She's stunned until tears brim her eyes. But Claire doesn't let them fall. "Don't just thank me. It's Six who beat their asses," she snickers.

"Who?" you ask.

"What?" Claire replies and freezes in realization.

"(Y/N), are you hungry?" Court inquires, sidling in the room.

"No, thank you." you glance at him from head to toe, "How about you? Didn't all that ass kicking got you starving?"

"Not really." Court sits on a chair at the edge of the bed. He takes off the ice pack from your ankle, which he towel-dries before he mindfully wraps a compression bandage around it.

He's too focused on your sprain while you're so engrossed watching him that neither of you notice Claire sneaking out of the room.

"Hey, can you come over here and hand me the ice pack?"

Court just finishes bandaging your sprain. Yet he wastes no time obliging you. This, again, neither of you notices.

"You found another welt on you?" he asks, sounding like he's half-joking (but he's not).

You snatch the ice pack from him and press it up against his left jaw. Court is monumentally unprepared for the "assault" that he winces in pain.

"Nope! Found a bruise on you, though." you say, snickering.

Court lets the astonishment wash over him. "You notice that?" he asks, somewhat amazed.

"At first, I thought it was a tattoo."

"Really?"

"No, I'm joking."

"Oh.."

You snort. "Doofus."

"Twerp," he fires back, flaring.

You double over, laughing. But you still have the ice pack steady on his jaw. "Sometimes you're a sore loser," you examine his face for any more injuries, but it's hard when he's scrunching it up to a scowl. "No, scratch that, you are one."

"And you're just infuriating. All. The. Time." he remarks with hardening emphasis.

"But you love me," you intone jokingly.

Court stares at you, astounded. And as the blood creep up his face, your laugh dies down in shame.

He knows you're joking, right?

You know you were joking.. right?

Sure, you like-like him, but you wouldn't call it love. Infatuation is more like it. Or stirrings, as Captain Jack Sparrow termed it.

Your inner self gives you an unimpressed look.

'Ok, fine.. feelings.'

Court calls your name.

"Huh? What?" you snap out of your stupor.

Court grabs the ice pack from you and off his jaw. "I asked if you want to call somebody." he says with genuine concern.

"Oh… I don't think I can talk to anybody about what happened just yet."

"Okay," he pauses, "Sorry.. I thought you'd feel better if you talked to Mindy. Or maybe Erick."

You chuckle. "I would if we were still dating."

Court blinks at you.

You elaborate. "I mean, we were only dating. He's not really my boyfriend in the first place."

"So… You two aren't dating anymore?" Court asks.

"That's right." you nod and pretend like your heart is not leaping up your throat because of what you plan to say next. "I told Erick I can't  date him anymore because I realized I already like someone else. Even before him."

"So," he hums inquisitively, "You're dating this someone now?"

You shake your head, smiling sadly. "No, I haven't told him I like him yet."

He gulps. "Why is that?"

"Because after what happened tonight, as much as I want him to know.. I don't want him to think it's because he saved me."

Court is looking at you like you're a thousand-piece puzzle.

You blush. "I know I've liked this guy for a long while now. And I know this isn't the right time, but.. I'm idiotically still trying to tell him. That I like him."

Silence spreads to every corner of the room. And if it weren't for the crickets serenading outside, the silence would be awkward the way it should be.

Court is still saying nothing. He has his eyes on the floor and you have no idea what's going on in his mind.

Typically, you're that friend who advises their other friends to just say it— do it!— Don't ride the merry-go-around.

Yet here you are, dangling on one of the carousel horses as it spins for all eternity.

"You should get some rest." Court says finally.

"Huh?"

"I said, you should get some rest."

"Oh… That's what I thought you said."

He hauls out something from his jacket pocket. "Here.. the channel is all set," he nods at the walkie-talkie, "Keep it open and call me as soon as you need me— or anything."

"Sure," you grab the device absentmindedly. "Good night."

"Good night."

And then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

You look at the transceiver, place it on the bedside drawer, and expel a hefty sigh. "Ang tanga mo talaga," you tell yourself, forcibly lying down. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! You should've just told him!— Why didn't you tell him? Oh right, because I'm an idiotic, no good, shit for brains, twat!"

A sharp twinge rises up your leg as a scratching pain erupts from the rest of your body. "Ow, ow, ow," you stop thrashing, slowly placing your sprained ankle atop the pillow it was on. You sigh exasperatedly, "I'm such a dumbass."

"You're such a dumbass!"

"Excuse me?" Court glares at Claire over his shoulder as they climb up the stairs.

She rolls her eyes. "Her message was as clear as the archipelago sun!"

"Whose?"

"(N/N), duh!"

He furrows his brows. "What message?"

She snaps her fingers. "And that's why you're such a dumbass."

"Fine. Whatever. Just get to bed."

"Fine! Let's all see how this stupidity between you and (N/N) plays out!"

Claire storms in her room and noisily shuts the door before Court can retort. He ponders what she's got to be mad about.

He takes a short bath, sets another set of clothes aside for you, and checks the house's security.

No one's after you three.

That's not just why Court suggested you stay with them for a few days. This is better than you staying all night at the cafe alone. And like hell he'll ever leave you alone after what happened tonight.

Court checks the handgun under his pillow as he looks at the guestroom's feed.

If someone did come after them, he'll have no choice but to take you with him and Claire.

Suddenly, he recalls what you said earlier as he lays on the bed.

"...as much as I want him to know.. I don't want him to think it's because he saved me."

You're not talking about him, right?

"I know I've liked this guy for a long while now—"

There's just no way, right?

"—And I know this isn't the right time, but.. I'm idiotically still trying to tell him. That I like him."

Court abruptly sits upright. "Fuck!" he breathes out, wishing he can do the same to the heat in his cheeks. "Don't do this to yourself, man. You're 100% uncertain."

Maybe you were just delirious from the trauma.

Yeah, that's plausible. 

But also worrisome.

Court glances over to his desk, where the security feed is showing any events live inside, outside, and ten meters around the house. But he's focused on one feed: the guestroom.

You're fast asleep already. And how you're so unmoving sets paranoia ablaze in his veins. 

He has the right to worry, right?

So, it's okay for him to switch on the guestroom's camera audio and cranks it up until he hears your breathing, right?

He puts on one earbud and doesn't dwell on the fact that what he's doing is downright creepy.

Setting up a tablet beside him on the bed, Court finds the security feed on the device. He then lies back down and tries closing his ends. Not after a minute, he ends up watching you on the screen.

'Hopeless..'

He ignores his demons snickering at him.

As he continues eyeing the security feed of the premises, particularly you, Court doesn't realize he fell asleep.

Until he hears you scream.

"NO! NO! STOP— PLEASE!"

Court practically becomes The Flash. He bolts down to the guestroom before his eyes can fully open.

He shouts your name as he bursts in the room. Opening the lights, he finds that you have no (external) attacker.

You're sitting down, yet you looked like you ran a marathon. "Hey, Kurt," you wipe the cold sweat off your brow. "I'm so sorry for waking you."

He stammers. "No. Not really, I.. I just got up to get some water."

You glance at the time, 1:35 AM. "Still, sorry for disturbing you and shit."

Court sighs. "Stop apologizing. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Maybe 99 more to get it through my thick skull?"

"That's probably not enough."

You laugh, shaking your head, and you scratch behind your ear. "Did I wake Claire up, too?"

Court glances out the door when he hears footsteps. Claire carefully rounds the corner, armed with a handgun dipped towards the floor. 

"No, she's still asleep." he blankly says as he turns back to you.

You heave a brow. "Why are you lying?"

Court is taken aback. Was he that obvious? No one can usually read him, not even Claire; although, Donald and Margaret used to.

"Oh, Claire!" you holler in a singsong voice.

The teen reluctantly peers in the room, hiding her weapon behind her. "H-Hiya," she smiles nervously.

You chuckle. "The two of you should get back to bed. I'm sorry for getting you out of there in the first place."

"It wasn't your fault you had a nightmare, (N/N)." says Claire. "Would—"

"Would you like some company?" Court asks just before the teen could. He looks at her in befuddlement, while she sneers maniacally at him.

"No, you two should rest." you give a small smile, "I'll be fine."

Except you didn't get to be.

For the past three hours, you've woken up from several nightmares. Only a few of them did you wake up screaming. Sometimes you can't even sleep immediately because it takes you back to the same bad dream. 

It takes all of Court's might not to barge back in the guestroom, lay down next to you, and kick all those nightmares in the ass.

After your first nightmare, Court hasn't slept a wink. He returned to his room and watched you through the security feed. When you've had your second nightmare, he quickly sets up the sandbag in his room and starts whaling on it.

But there's only so much that he can take from hearing your cries. He tried muting your security feed, yet for some reason, it's worse than before.

So, Court has selfishly decided that you need someone with you tonight. Whether you like it or not. 

He waited until you're back in deep sleep after a nightmare.

Without little to no sound, Court sneaks into the guestroom and places a chair beside the bed. And as he sits there, it just hits him that he doesn't know what the fuck to do. You'll probably have a heart attack when you wake up and find him staring at you.

How should he comfort you?

He pinches himself when the first thought he has is to get in bed with you. There's got to be another way other than that— it'll be the last resort.

You suddenly let out a grunt, stirring, and Court flinches, readying to flee. But you're still asleep. It's another nightmare.

Court spots your clenched fist and tightens his jaw. He looks at your grimacing face, and for some reason, it's similar to your concentrating face. Now, here's a thought: what if you're suppressing yourself for him and Claire? So that you won't wake them up because of your nightmares.

He chuckles in both disbelief and admiration. That'd truly be you. Even when you're having trouble, you're still looking after them.

Breathing in and out, Court takes your balled hand in both of his. He strokes your fist, tracing patterns on your skin until he feels your muscles release their contraction. Gently, he unfurls your tightened fingers and soothes them one by one.

Compared to his, your appendages are small and smooth. It astonishes him how a hard worker such as yourself has dainty hands. But he stands corrected when he feels a few callouses. Nevertheless, your hand fascinates him.

What would it feel like to hold both of your hands in his own?

The thought is cut short when he feels crescent marks on your palm. Court frowns at that and then at you. "Idiot.. stop taking on everything by yourself," he whispers and carefully holds your hand in both of his. "I'll be here for you, (Y/N). I am here. You just.. gotta see me."

For the second time tonight, Court has fallen asleep watching you.

And once again, you're the one to wake him. But not with a scream this time.

"Court," you softly call, tugging on his hands.

With his name like a feather on your lips, everything within him stirs wildly into life. But he doesn't show that effect you have on him.

He slowly rises from slumping on the bed. "Hey, sorry, did I scare you?" he blurts out with one eye still closed.

You chuckle. "No, you didn't."

"Get back to sleep. I'll just be here."

"Why don't you..?"

"Hm?" Court blinks at you curiously.

You fight back the blush, scoot further in the bed, and pat the space beside you. "I don't think you're comfortable there. Why don't you sleep here instead?"

He gulps. "Aren't you gonna ask me what I'm doing here first?"

"Will you answer me honestly? Or tell me to shut up and rest?" you question amusedly.

"Both?" he stifles a grin.

You shortly laugh before you tug him towards you. It doesn't take long for him to fold. Just you holding his hand is enough to make Court roll over for you.

He worriedly climbs in the bed—

"Oh, wait!"

"What?!"

"Let's switch."

".. Why?"

You redden. "I don't want you sleeping on my sweat, man! Understand?!"

He looks at you for a few seconds and sputters out a laugh. "Alright, fine," he says before you can chastise him for laughing. You scoot over as he rounds the bed, "There. Happy?"

"Very," you nod and settle down.

"Oh, wait!" he exclaims this time.

"What?!"

Court returns to his room to retrieve his clothes that you were going to wear later in the morning. "Change. You stink." he chucks them to you, sneering.

"Go away, then." you snarl.

"Like hell I would."

"Just turn around, moron!"

He obliges, snickering, and when he faces away from you, horrific realization strikes like vicious lightning across his chest. 

You're undressing. With him still in the room. And it's just the two of you. Has he mentioned that you're currently undressing?

His demons are biting into the side of his neck, yanking at him to look over at you. This is bad. His self-control is losing a lot of blood.

"Need any help?"

Yup, that's significant blood loss right there.

"No, I got this. Thanks, Kurt."

After an eternity (minute) of suffering..

"Done!" you exhale, relieved.

And so did Court. 

He rigidly gets in the bed without glancing at you. His self-control needs recharging, it doesn't help that you're half-an-arms length away. But even just a visual on you is lethal.

The two of you are staring at the ceiling. Until you turn your head to Court, just as he risks a glance at you. His self-control can't charge anymore.

You grin apologetically. "Sorry for keeping you up. Let's get some rest," and roll on your side, facing away from him. "Good night."

"Yeah, night." he replies, staring at your back.

Before horrendous thoughts can start invading his mind, Court notices something amusing. 

He stifles a grin, his shirt is like a blanket on you. The way it hangs on you with too many folds screams that you're wearing an extremely baggy top. It'll never not be entertaining to have you in his clothes. What's more, only ⅓ of your feet are sticking out the hem of his joggers.

This time, Court doesn't fall asleep watching you. Because with you up close, he's granted visual acuity to scrutinize you evenly.

Your hair doesn't appear damp despite the cold sweat you're experiencing from the nightmares.

The curve of your shoulder somewhat displays tenacity and elegance simultaneously.

How can such a tiny body hold so much strength and carry such burdens?

Eventually, the nightmares are back. And Court is ready for them.

As soon as you're stirring abnormally and moaning in fear, Court props onto his elbow and carefully grabs your shoulder. He calls your name, shaking you gently.

You jolt awake, breathing heavily. "Court," you look at him, the fear in your wide eyes diminishing gradually. "Did I wake you?"

"No," says Court, steeling his resolve. "Come here."

You almost didn't understand what he said. Until he pulls you to him. And you move compliantly.

Court shimmies his arm under your head, while the other clutches your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space between your back and his chest.

You stifle a squeak when he slips a leg between yours. "Sorry," he says in your hair, "Just gotta get this.."

He clasps the edge of the pillow with his toes and carefully reels it. "Lift your left leg up," he tells you, and you oblige. He leaves the pillow between your legs and grabs the one you lifted. "You can put this down now."

He helps you in setting your sprained ankle down on the pillow.

"Good girl."

Oh, damn..

Thank the heavens you're not facing him right now. He'd probably mistake your face for a stove.

"No nightmare is getting to you now."

"Huh?"

You feel him moving his face against the back of your head.

"I said," he pauses, voice low, breaths fanning on your ear. "No nightmare is getting to you now. Because I'm protecting you."

Your heart finds it hard to go back to its place after cartwheeling up your throat. And when it's reminded of the position you and Court are presently in, your heart threatens to roll out your mouth.

"The nightmares are in my head, though." you chuckle, placing a hand on the arm you're resting your head on, you reach for his hand. "Thank you."

Court watches, with fireworks gleefully exploding in his chest, as you intertwine your hand with his. When the festivities calm down, he gives your hand a squeeze.

"You're always welcome, (Y/N)."

A/N: these chapters will be all FOR NOW~ I am continuing this fic y'all, albeit it'll be from time to time (ehem month to month huhuhuhu)

The door to Chapter 18 is blocked

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THE GRAY MAN, 2022.

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[drivinmeinsane]

Leap of Faith

※ Sierra Six ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: What if the escape mission had gone a little differently? No outcomes are certain. No one is impervious to fault.

※ Rating: M for mature themes of suicidal idealization and death. 

※ Content/Tags: Suicidal Idealization, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt No Comfort, Found Family, Suicide Attempt, Character Death

※ Word count: 4,938

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: Lloyd's moves did not, in fact, fuck.

Sucking in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment, the Sierra Agent steels himself. The doorknob is firm under his hand, sturdier than he feels right now. He is not sure what he is going to find behind the double doors. Is he too late? Is he going to turn the knob and open the antique door to see the bodies of his family cast aside on the floor like abandoned dolls? Lloyd does not seem like the type to treat his toys with consideration. He did not exactly come across as a beacon of patience during this entire ordeal, more like another rich kid who breaks things when he gets mad because his gilded parents will get him another. 

Six does not allow himself to continue mentally circling the drain. He forces himself into a state of blind optimism. He has to believe he is going to succeed. A defeatist attitude will get them all killed. 

Pushing the door open, he is greeted by the sight of Fitz standing in the middle of the room and prepared for trouble. Six feels his knees go weak, and he winks in lieu of a verbal hello, not trusting himself to speak just yet. There is no time to relax, to take a breather. He has to get his family out of here before Lloyd realizes that the building has been breached. His own body is also a factor. It is an hourglass counting down the minutes. Instead of sand, he is keeping time with blood. Their would-be assassin had not been as much of an amateur as Six had let on to Agent Miranda. 

“Attaboy.” The retired handler praises, his relief palpable. 

Claire let out a laugh from where she is crouched at the side of the bed. The scrawny preteen stands up and Six’s eyes rapidly scan her. She is unharmed, Greasy and exhausted, yes, but unharmed. Fitz had kept her safe in the agent’s absence, now it is time for Six to take up the task and see them through to the end. 

“Fitz,” he says and brushes past to check the window. Dani is running Lloyd’s personal ragged outside. All eyes are on the woman racing across the grounds. He is unspeakably grateful for her. If she hadn’t picked his sorry ass up and taken him to Prague, he would have failed long ago.

“You able?” He asks Fitz, closing the curtain and turning away from the window. 

“Well, I can walk, but, uh, missing a wing,” he responds bitterly and raises his bandaged hand. Of course Lloyd would be a fingernail puller. 

“Can you wiggle your finger?”

“With this wing,” Fitz says and raises his right. Mercifully intact.

“That’ll do.” He pauses and looks at Claire, “You okay?”

“Took you long enough,” she grouses, watery despite the chiding words. 

“Sorry about that. My flight was delayed.” There is no heat to his voice. He would have gone down in countless burning planes if it ensured the girl’s safety.

“I knew you’d catch another one.” Fitz sounds apologetic. 

The sound of steps in the hallway outside gets his attention. They are no longer alone. Lloyd has caught onto the diversion that he and Dani cooked up before they ambushed the sentries. They are out of time.

“Put these in your ears,” he instructs Claire quietly, making sure she takes the offered pair of earplugs from his hand before lifting his gun into a ready position. He fires off a line of shots into the wall. Groans and heavy thuds signal that the bullets meet their mark. One of the assailants falls against the door, pushing it further ajar. 

“You ready?” 

Fitzroy nods and ushers their charge in front of himself. He will watch her while Six keeps the way clear. They have an unspoken agreement that regardless of the consequences, Claire must be escorted to safety. The two adults are disposable, she is not.

Hooking his gloved fingers around the door and pulling it open, Six cautiously sticks his head into the hallway. No sign of any living problems. He beckons for Claire and Fitz to follow him. They stay close to keep Claire sandwiched securely between them. Both of them tell her to not look down as they step over the bodies and creep through the building. Gunfire and shouts echo in the distance.

The agent nearly jumps out of his skin when feels Claire grip onto the back of his belt. He can feel her trembling despite the thin connection. Tremors aside, she is brave. He wishes that she did not have to be, that she was not even cast into this impossible situation to begin with. It is not fair. She is even younger than he was when he was arrested and charged as an adult for the murder of his father. 

They make it onto the bridge before things really start to go to shit. Six considers their options. The bridge does not afford them much choice. Lloyd and his cronies would be able to meet them at the bottom of the steps or else pick them off like animals in a trophy seeker’s canned hunt. The water is the only possible route. They will have to jump and swim for their freedom. He can see a boat in the distance. It can serve as their escape vehicle until they get to the edge of the moat and proceed on foot. 

“Okay. Do you have a plan, or are we improvising?” Fitz sounds a little labored. His hand must be hurting him. Who knows what else Lloyd did to him during his captivity. Six will have to wrestle the older man into an examination once they are out of here.

“Yeah, I got a plan. You got your swim trunks?” He smooths his worry with a joke. He has a bad feeling about all of this.

Gunfire from the bridge running parallel to theirs pushes them along. He hears Fitz telling their girl to keep going, to stay low. Six covers them, does his damnedest to make sure that neither member of his family gets injured. They take a rest against a pillar while Six checks their escape route again. No changes. Lloyd must be confident that he has them cornered. Conceited asshole, he thinks callously. 

Speak of the devil and he will make himself known. Six hears Lloyd scream from the other bridge. He is able to make out something about destroying a historical building. He is of the opinion that if Lloyd really wanted to keep the structure intact, he would not have made it the prison for the two people Six cares about the most in this world. There is not anything on this earth that he would not tear down if it meant saving them.

“All right. Let’s get ready to jump.” The water is deep, the walkway at a lower point. It would be the safest here. 

“I’m gonna have to take the stairs.”

“What are you talking about?” He asks, frustration creeping into his voice. He turns to look at Fitz. The other man is slumped against the pillar with his hand clutching at his abdomen. Blood has begun to soak into the bandage wrapping up his fingers. Six does not think it is from his nail beds.  

“It's not good,” Fitz gets out through gritted teeth. He pulls his hand away for a brief moment, offering Six a glimpse of a bullet wound.

“What the hell is that?” He’s crowding into the older man’s space. Fear is creeping its icy touch up his spine. If any one of them were to die, it would be Six. That was the job of a good guard dog.

“What do you think it is?” Even now Fitz cannot show any vulnerabilities of his own. He doubles down. “Go, Six, get her out of here.”

The agent stands up with a growl. He fires off a few more shots at Lloyd, trying to buy them some more time. Time that he knows will not fix anything. He ducks back down next to the bleeding man.

Fitz speaks before he can. “Take the gun. Give me the grenade.”

“Let me see. Put your hand on it. Put some pressure. Get the gun out of my damn face.” Desperation is making him harsh. Things were not supposed to happen this way.

“Give me the gren-.”

Six cuts him off. “Shut up. I need to think.”

He can still fix this. Fitz does not have to die here. Six can carry him, Atlas the weight of both of their bodies. Claire is sobbing quietly beside them. He has to fix this. There is no other option. 

“You don’t have time to think. Six, look at me.” He keeps his eyes averted from the speaking man. He is running scenario after scenario in his mind. He was trained for this. He can make this work. 

“Look at me.” Six finally meets his eyes. They’re sad, understanding. Fitz knows what this means to the three of them. Knows that this is a devastating blow. “I’m out. Get her gone.”

“Sto-.” Six tries, agonized. 

“Take this. Give me a hand grenade. You understand me? Go!” He shoves the gun at Six’s chest. They are out of time and Six knows it. 

Woodenly, Six pushes a grenade into Fitz’s waiting hand and takes the gun. Claire is whimpering now, holding herself and rocking. He has to save her, even if it takes his final breath. He stands up and wraps his hand around her upper arm. Pins down Lloyd on the other bridge with a few more shots. He will have to grit his teeth and bear it like he did when he pulled the gun on his own father. He has to follow through no matter how much it hurts. Sometimes to save someone you care about, you have to sacrifice another. 

“C’mere,” he says softly to the trembling girl in his grasp.

“You go with Six, baby.” Fitz prompts. He is looking at them as though he is trying to take in every last detail. 

“We go in three, two, one.” He starts pulling her away, but she fights him, jerks out of his grip the moment she finally processes her uncle’s condition. 

“No, wait! He’s bleeding. Oh my god!” She falls onto her knees next to him, frantically grasping at him. Both men close their eyes and cringe at what has to be done. 

Six closes the gap between them and catches Claire in a vice grip. She cannot slip away from him again. It could easily be a death sentence for her too. He would not be able to live with himself if he lost both of them. They are all he has. 

“Come on.” The agent is nearly begging. 

“I love you, baby. Go with Six.” 

“No! Not you too!” She’s screaming, fighting against the man holding her. She is breaking their hearts.

“Go, go, go, go. Take her!” The last part is directed at his final recruit. 

“It’s okay,” Six mutters, trying to convince Claire as much as himself. There is nothing okay about this situation. Both his fathers will have died from a bullet to the gut if Fitz does not manage to trigger the grenade. He pulls the girl off of her uncle. 

She is hitting and clawing at him in her efforts to not abandon Fitz. He will carry the gouges of her nails in his arm for weeks. They will be a tangible reminder of his failure. 

“No! Six, stop! Stop it! Stop! Six, please!” She is choking on her words, sobbing hysterically. 

Donald Fitzroy’s “Oh, for Christ sakes.” lingers in his ears as he shoves Claire behind him and forces her down the walkway. He gives them just enough cover to duck behind another pillar before helping Claire onto the barrier. The man hesitates, he has a bad feeling about this but Fitz was right, he does not have time to think. They are out of options. 

“I’ll jump with you. I’ll be with you the whole way. I promise,” he tells her as he steps up next to her. She is crying and clinging to his hand now. There is no fight left in her.

They leap off the bridge, hand in hand until the impact of the water tears them apart. Six hits hard, the air knocked out of his lungs even though he went into the water feet first. Claire had flinched right before impact and had landed belly down. They sink beneath the surface, suspended in silence as a battle rages on overhead. Forcing himself into action, the agent grabs hold of Claire as he fights to get the both back to breathable conditions.. They break the surface, and he holds her for a moment, treading water. She is unmoving in his arms, deadweight. He reasons that she must have been knocked unconscious in the fall. Six will have to get them both to shore on his own. 

It is a hard swim. She does not so much as twitch as he struggles to keep them moving and afloat. She is slung across his broad back. Her arms are tucked through the shoulder straps of the bulletproof vest he is wearing. He could not risk her slipping under the surface in her unconscious state. Exhaustion threatens to drown them both. His arms move like they have weights hanging from them. The wound on his side has torn open further. If this were a cartoon, he would be leaving behind a winding trail of blood in the water. His vision sparks around the edges. Blood loss and fatigue are catching up to him. He feels as though there is a man standing over him with a hammer, waiting to strike.

The last time he slept was in the back of Agent Miranda’s silver Audi, head knocking aggressively against the interior of the trunk lid. Perhaps she could hit him with another dart once they catch up with each other at the meetup location. He does not think that he will be able to fall asleep naturally, not for a long while. Even now, he can hear Claire’s wheezing sobs rattling in the back of his mind as they leave Fitz alone to die.

Hauling them both over the edge of the retaining wall hurts . His stomach scrapes on the stone and he nearly blacks out from the pain. His fingers slacken and they pull free of the gravel. Only the thought of the girl he is carrying rallies him enough to drag the two of them the rest of the way out. He crouches, breathing through the lightning bolts of agony racing through his tired muscles, and extracts Claire from his back. He is forced to let go of her to eliminate a threat that catches up with them. Lloyd will be coming soon, he realizes. The man he just shot was the welcoming committee.

He turns back to Claire and pauses. The girl lays in a crumpled little heap on the gravel where he had dragged her out of the water. She has not moved. Six returns to her and kneels. Rolling her onto her side, he makes sure her airway isn't obstructed. It was a hard impact, difficult even for him. It is reasonable that she is taking more time to recover.

“Claire.” The way he says it is soft, panic has not set in. He knows that Claire is a strong kid.

She does not respond.

“Claire, we need to go. I need to get you out of here.” He tries again, an edge creeping into his voice.

Nothing. He strips off his glove and notches his bare fingers against her neck. He waits. Tries a different angle. Waits. Presses more firmly. Waits. There's no matching echo to his own beating heart. 

He feels an uncontrollable uptick in his breathing. Tension spreads in his nervous system. Her pulse is there, just too weak for him to feel it. She must have water in her lungs. He needs to get it out.

The agent shifts Claire onto her back. He gently opens her jaw and adjusts the angle of her head to ensure that there is a clear path from her lungs to her mouth. Her ribs feel as delicate as a bird's under his hands. She is just a child.

The first set of compressions jolts her, and for a shining moment, he thinks that she is coming to. That thought plummets when he realizes it is only the force of his hands puppeteering her. No water comes from her lungs, all he hears is the dry rasping of a chest cavity being forced to respond. Even still, he does not stop. He cannot bring himself to succumb to the truth, even as he feels her ribs shatter underneath his palms.

“I'm surprised that you're still here, sunshine. Thought you would have taken the girl and scrammed.” Lloyd's voice is an annoying buzz at the fringes of his awareness

Six drowns it out, swats it away like a mosquito. He is still trying to help Claire breathe. Stopping means giving up on her. 

“Oooh. I see. Looks like the girl didn't make it, huh? Guess you'll have to turn in your parenting license.”

There is a stinging sensation digging at his eyes. Six feels wetness streaking down his face. The likelihood of an unrealized facial injury is high. Much to his disbelief, however, the liquid that falls onto the backs of his hands is clear. It is not blood. He has not cried in over a decade. Nothing was ever worth it, not since he walked out of his father’s bedroom, gun clasped in a too small hand. His movements stutter to a stop as he muddles through the dawning grief. His body is more willing to accept the truth in front of him than his mind is. The man kneels, head bowed, finally still. A dog loyally by the side of his dearest companion.

Lloyd fires a shot off. It clips his left arm, tearing a long gouge as it passes. Blood immediately fills the newly vacated space. It drips onto Claire, soaking into her shirt in a scattershot of drops. The pain is an annoyance, the insult to his charge is far greater. He looks at Claire’s still face, the cost of his failure. He knows. Oh, he knows.

The cause of her death is running his mouth without a care in the world. “With her and your old man gone, why don’t we work together. Smooth this whole thing over.”

Six stands, spits. He faces Lloyd. “You made a mistake.”

The other man laughs, delighted. He tosses his gun into the moat and pulls out a knife. He does a trick as he releases the blade. Lloyd has always preferred to be hands on when it comes to torture. There is something more rewarding about it. 

“Let’s see if these moves fuck,” Lloyd crows. 

The agent is on him in seconds, primed to tear into him like an animal. Six no longer has any reservations about being the aggressor. With no reason to try to be a better man, who is there to care about what cruelty his hands inflict? Why bother with morals? They had been his downfall, start to finish.

He takes the knife to the shoulder without flinching. It plunges deep into the meat of his trapezius muscle, missing the bulletproof vest. It makes a place for itself a narrow distance away from his spine. The minute it is withdrawn in an arc of blood, his hand clamps onto Lloyd’s. They snarl and growl in each other’s faces. Six is stronger and he overpowers the other man. He gives Lloyd’s wrist no option but to turn. The blade is steadily angled away from Six’s already injured abdomen and towards the other man’s. He looks him in the eyes as he unyieldingly drives the knife home. Together, they gut Danny Carmichael’s golden boy. Lloyd’s skin snags and jerks around the sharp edge as it carves into the tender flesh of his belly. It should have been sharpened for a clean cut. It would have hurt less. Blood spills hot and thick over their clasped hands. A crimson wave of carnage. Six does not exactly relish the pained surprise in the other man’s eyes, but he is not upset about it either. He lets go, the folding knife falls from Lloyd’s suddenly limp fingers. Impassive, he observes as the interrogator take a few stumbling steps back. Lloyd hovers his hands uncertainly over his stomach.

“You shit… look what you did to me,” he groans. 

Six closes the scant distance. He does not want to hear the other man speak again. He fists one hand in the long hair at the top of Lloyd’s head. Like a steadfast, unthinking laborer, he drags his thrashing body over to the edge of the moat. Lloyd’s knees scrape across the gravel and he loses a shoe. He is clawing at Six’s gloved hand. It hurts less than Claire’s desperate attempts to break free had. 

Lloyd gives into primal animal fear. He squeals and flails like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. There is nothing he can do to gain the upper hand when Six overpowers him to his knees at the water’s edge. The agent does not hesitate the first time he smashes Lloyd’s face into the stone edge. He does not hesitate the second or third time either. He lets himself fall into the repetitive motion, repeats it until all he can hear over the increasingly wetter thuds are Lloyd’s pathetic attempts to draw in air.

Six straightens, drops the now unrecognizable man flat on his back to suffocate in his own blood, and turns to Claire. He picks her up and cradles her in his arms like something fragile, precious. He handles her as gently now as he did when she was alive. Gingerly, he lowers himself to the ground beside the vehicle Lloyd arrived in. The agent leans back against the tire, he adjusts the girl in his arms so she is cradled against his chest. He waits to die.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Death does not greet him by the time Suzanne arrives. The Sierra Agent cannot bring himself to care about her presence. He is floating somewhere above his body. He has long since tuned out the sludgy sound of Lloyd’s breathing. At some point the other man had tried to crawl across the ground towards him, towards the vehicle, but that had been some time ago. He vaguely wonders who will die first. Fitz had always said his inclination to survival was almost supernatural. He wishes it were not so. Maybe continuing to live was part of his penance for failing Fitzroy… for failing Claire. 

He hears a droning in his ears. He realizes that it is his own voice, hoarse and ragged. Apologies spill from his lips. He cannot make himself stop. Distantly, he is aware of a gun going off. The gurgling ends. 

“Get up,” a woman’s voice tells him. He pays her no mind. He does not even think he could stand if he wanted to. 

The rest of her words roll right over him. He comes back to himself when he registers that two men are trying to extract Claire from his hold. That provokes a reaction from him. His apologies turned into the feral growls and snarls of a wounded dog. A boot dug into his stab wound stuns him enough that they are able to pull the dead girl off of him. Despite the lack of motor functions, he makes himself struggle to rise. It is a series of starts and stops. His muscles will not obey. He feels cold. 

The bullet to his thigh feels more like a gesture of mercy than anything else. It takes the final dregs of fight out of him. The last thing he sees before his vision gives out is Claire’s arm dangling as she is carried away from him. He reaches out for her hand. He said he would be there with her. He promised.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Steadily beeping machines greet him as he gradually comes to, fighting his way through the cocktail of pain management and sedatives that serve to keep him compliant. For a blissful moment, he hazily drifts along before his mind sharpens and he remembers. The memories of that night in Croatia latch onto him and they do not let go. He makes a motion to sit up, to do anything to end the anguish, but he is handcuffed to the hospital bed that he woke up in. He is a prisoner in every way that counts.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The nurse tending to Six makes two mistakes. The first is that she does not tighten one of his wrist cuffs enough to keep him properly restrained after sponging him down. The second is that she does not notice him slipping her ballpoint pen from one of the hip pockets on her scrub top when she leans over him to check an IV bag.  She leaves the room none the wiser to his plan.

With the extra slack, it is easy to tug his hand free of the restraint. He angles his head to the side before locating his carotid artery with seeking fingers. It is a mirror of when he sought out Claire’s pulse in what feels like a lifetime ago. Unlike hers, his beats steadily against the pads of his fingers. His heart rate does not increase, even as he plunges the pen as deeply as he can into his own flesh. His hand trembles slightly. Six pulls the pen out, letting it fall to the floor as his blood begins to pump steadily from the hole he has made.

The heart rate monitor finally goes wild as he hemorrhages. He closes his eyes and coaxes his body into relaxing despite the instinctual urge to fight for self preservation. He will not fight what he assuredly deserves.

───※ ·❆· ※───

With a wild sense of déjà vu, he wakes up again to the sound of steadily working machines. Only this time, he is not alone. Suzanne is sitting in a chair at his bedside. She looks ruffled and bordering on irate. 

“You are too important of an asset to be acting up like this,” she says as an opener.

What is there for him to say? He knows his value to the CIA. Does not care. There was no longer anyone to tether him.

“Fine. Don’t speak. You have two weeks, and then I’m sending you to take care of a little problem.”

He does not spend a single moment alone for those two weeks. His hands are kept in sight at all times. The staff are not allowed to have anything in their pockets. They do not give him a single opportunity to disrupt Suzanne Brewer’s will.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning dawns without fanfare. Six rattles along down the road, seated between two handlers. He is not trusted enough to be unsupervised, even now. The man knows that he could wrestle a firearm from one of the agents on either side of him, put it in his mouth, and pull the trigger faster than anyone in the back of this vehicle could respond, but he is going to see this final mission through. He will put a bullet into the target and then his work will be done. If he makes his death look like an accident, then the majority of the blame will be off the shoulders of the people supervising him. It will be better that way.

The van rolls to a stop and he emerges into the early morning light. He goes through the motions of checking his equipment. He declines the bulletproof vest that is offered to him with the argument that he does not need it for a stealth mission. It would only serve to draw attention to him. The target might catch wind of the plot to take his life. 

A strict looking supervisor gives him the rundown on the operation like he could not do something this simple in his sleep. He had been Donald Fitzroy’s gray man for almost twenty years. He was the only surviving member of the Sierra program. The only real hitch in the plan would be drawing fire without someone else intervening until his personal goal was achieved. 

As anticipated, he retires the target without issue. By all accounts the man he put down was a terrible individual, nothing to mourn. He finds that relatable. It is no big effort to draw attention. He allows himself to be spotted leaving the scene. A particularly loyal bodyguard tails him back to the extraction site. Without the vest that he declined, there is nothing to protect him from the cartridge of rounds that pierce his back. 

Six falls forward, does not try to catch himself. The ground meets him like an embrace. He relaxes into the loose soil. The whooshing sound of the blood in his ears sounds like the ocean. If he lets himself pretend, he can imagine that he is laying on a distant shore, somewhere far away from here. Maybe they could have gotten a house near the beach. He had dreamed of open waters and palm trees while he was in prison. He thinks he can hear one of Claire's records in the distance. The crashing of the waves fades away with the music and silence sets in.

[siriwesen]

Based on the silly idea I had yesterday about a TAZ Graduation oneshot and it's just Thundermen LLC being hired by Gray to back him up at a Demonic War Conference where all the demons showcase their successes of the past 100 years.

And Gray never invaded Nua properly and spent 50 years running a bureaucratic school institution so he hires thundermen LLC to make him look more accomplished...

I'll never actually write this but here's a bit from the four of them on a demonic Golf course:

"Hand me the wood.", Gray commanded.

"What's the magic word?", was the immediate response by the half-elf next to his golf bag.

"Or I'll kill you."

"Ziss… is not one word.", Gary stood in a relatively safe distance to the both of them. With him Argonaut Keene.

"It's three words just now if I counted right"

Gray sighed.

"Please. Can you just… shut up!"

"I'll let that count.", Fitzroy handed over the club. Finally.

Konk!

The golf club sent the skull shaped ball flying. It flew quite a good distance but took a slight curve to the right and soon disintegrated into smoke, as it entered the lava.

"Oouuh. That's rough."

"No it's not." 

"Well, clearly it is because your ball just got annihilated by-"

"Have. You. Even. READ! The guide to demonic golfing I sent with the invite?", Gray was now getting dangerously close to Argo and Gary. Definitely not sticking to an armlength of social distance.

"We do not need guides. Weeeee have a business card." Gary held out a business card that was way too small for his or Gray’s hands.

[daisymintt]

Just watched the Gray Man and I’m sorry if you like it but oh my gosh it was so boring. The only part I liked was Six and Claire’s relationship so I’m glad they got a happy ending. The movie was just really slow and dragged in a lot of places, it did not need to be 2 hours long. I definitely prefer Gosling in more comedic roles rather than these dramatic, serious roles. It did have a couple of fun one liners though.

[kohltrast]

YO Fuse is so cool in this new Apex Legends tv series set in the future!!!

Just kidding <3 i felt creative and designed him a mythic skin, and then wanted to draw a little tv show scene with him! 

[phantasma-ghoulia]

Travis describing Gray in Grad. 29 like dude did you intend to make him appealing specifically to monsterfuckers cause BRO IS LIKE 10 TIMES HOTTER NOW BE FOR REAL A 12 FOOT DEMON WITH HORNS AND TALONS AND FANGS AND MAGIC????? YES PUH-LEAAASEEE

[scorchedmazes]

hi hello pls give me all of your sierra six and/or claire fitzroy headcanons!!

i’ll go first:

-six always has his eyes on her to make sure she’s safe

-he taught her self defense so she could keep herself safe until he could get to her

-he buys her ice cream anytime he goes out

-they have weekly game nights and movie nights

-claire dances to “silver bird” all. the. time. and forces six to dance with her

-six almost never sleeps (claire slips melatonin into his coffee every once in a while so he’ll actually sleep)

-claire has a scrapbook full of polaroids (six has his own special section)

-six taught her how to drive when she was old enough

-six comforts her after any nightmares she has (she sneaks into his room at night)

-claire called six “dad” one time and he never corrected it

-six teaches her all about greek mythology (she loves it)

i have SO many more but i had to get on here and share them,, might be adding more when i remember to!!

additions:

-six let claire do his makeup once (she took polaroids of the aftermath)

-claire asks him ab his scars (he jokes and says he got them in prison with his tattoo)

-six can play the guitar and the piano,, he teaches claire how to play both

-six is a very anxious person but hides it very well (claire knows it though)

-claire made them matching bracelets

-six constantly checks on her to make sure she’s alright (i.e. loud noises, her heart rate, her pacemaker, etc.)

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xv}

three words plus one = I HAVE RETURNED.. temporarily lol

disclaimer: The Gray Man and the characters are NOT mine, even the reader. I only own the plot and the reader's character lol. Pictures used in the fic are NOT MINE, but only the edited version (u can msg me if u ze owner); credits to the rightful owners and canva + weheartit. Additionally, I am not a Subic/Zambales native, so my apologies for any wrong locations, descriptions, or languages.

Six x F!Reader / Courtland Gentry x Female Reader

warnings: moderate amount of swear words. some filipino dialogues. slow burn. fluff. trust issues. dramaramramamama. comedy if you use a magnifying glass. culture shock. word count check. slightly proofread/revised.

CHAPTER SELECTION IS IN THE ✨Masterlist✨ Chapter 14 is prolly a deer now Chapter 15 is the moment

word count: 2.7k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Clare *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know YET (except you do know #wreckthe4thwall)

"Shit."

That's one way to put it.

You glance over your shoulder. "Puta."

That's another way to put it.

Cuss all you want, you deserve to— especially with two cars hurtling right behind you, as though with the intent to make you crash.

"Tangina!" you shout when one of the cars, the white SUV, speeds up to your left and prevents you from driving towards the Hotel Interpark.

You take a wild gander around the street, where there’s not a single soul in sight. Probably because of this fucking rain!

As though the thunderclouds heard your insult, the downpour becomes stronger; a little more and the thick raindrops will be like waves crashing down from above.

You drive faster now, maintaining your balance, and you turn right, weaving into a street that’s partially being remade. You switch to the lane that’s under construction and you’re thankful for your experience in riding motorcycles on tough roads. 

There’s a nearby restaurant— with workers still inside!

You're about to honk to gain their attention but a bump from behind threatens your equilibrium. You swiftly steady the motorcycle and veer left into a street. You take a gander, despite the parked cars and opened lights in the building, no one is witnessing you fleeing for your life.

"Fucking hell!" you roar, harshly twisting the accelerator.

Just as you burst out of the street, you're about to turn left when headlights swallow you. Luckily, your instincts kick in and you haven't released the accelerator. If you had slowed down then, the black Honda Civic would've crashed into you. Instead, it hits your rear wheel; you attempt to balance once again, but the force this time is too much.

Lightning strikes the earth at the time your motorcycle pummels into the ground. You're thrown off into the curb, ignoring the pain flaring across your body, you shuffle up and head for your motorcycle. But you stop when you see your pursuers are already out of their cars. You hastily swivel away and hurtle into the trees. 

You then realize your location: Waterfront Park. Even in the evening, this park is typically spotted with people; but the rain has metaphorically washed them away indoors. Just your luck. However, before despair can shackle you, you will yourself to fight and use your head. You know there's a lot of establishments nearby, but only a few of them are still open at this hour. You see it even from afar, the ray of light— The Reef Hotel & Residences. 

You hightail towards the treeline. Just cross the park— that's your success to escape, because once you're out on the street, the guard at the hotel will surely notice you.

You're about to exit the treeline when someone tackles you back beneath the shadow of the woods. Everything spins, disorienting you for a second until a biting pain courses through your nerves. You let out a cry when you feel as though your elbow has split open. The guy who tackled you is trying to grab your arms. Thankfully the streetlights still manage to reach into the darkness of the park, you find yourself on the ground and spot the guy's knee, which you give your mightiest kick, and when he doubles over, you cut off his pained squeal with a kick to his face.

Upon rising up to your feet, another guy clutches at your arm. You spin to face him, jabbing his throat with your free hand. He releases you, and you run—

THWACK!

—into a fist. Pain explodes across your temple, where the hit forcibly landed, and you're reeled into blackness. There's a ringing in your ears, it's somewhat scolding you for not taking the rape whistle that Mindy gifted you. You ponder on where you put it and realize it's in your locker in the cafe's staffroom.

If you had it with you, you could've gotten some attention.

Your inner self smacks her lips— So, why didn't you press the motorcycle's horn instead?

As your stupidity dawns on you, your bearings slowly rebuild itself. You then find yourself restrained; mouth stuffed with a cloth and hands tied behind your back. And you're draped on some guy's shoulder. You thrash as you try to peer where they're taking you— to their cars parked at a spot where no one was around. Your strength doubles as panic and adrenaline surges through your nerves.

You try to scream, but it's muffled. 

Despair begins to leisurely brim your eyes.

"Patulugin niyo muna nga siya! Masyadong maingay at malikot!" 

(Knock her out! She's too noisy and squirming a lot!)

They roughly set you down with your back on the ground; the guy who was carrying you is now holding your ankles down. Another guy then crouches above your stomach and pulls out a switchblade; you freeze, shock slowly morphing into fear, and you try to relax as you ponder on how to get out.

"Tama 'yan, wag ka na magulo o masasaktan ka pa." the guy atop you says and, lightly tracing the side of the blade on your neck, he unzips your jacket. 

(That's right, don't be naughty or you'll get hurt.)

He lifts the hem of your shirt with the blade and they all whistle at your bare skin.

You squeeze your eyes, tears flowing through.

"Nasa'n ngayon ang tapang mo?"

(Where's your courage now?)

They all share a laugh, the hyena kind, and thunder claps across the heavens. No one will hear them. But that isn't what scares you, what scares you more is the fact that—

No one will hear you.

You struggle, he taps the blade on your stomach, and you stop. He then raises your shirt over your bra and your eyes snap open. You begin talking through your gag, which the guy finds annoying, so he pulls it out of your mouth.

"M-May pera ako," you blurt out, breathing erratically.

(I have money,)

"Don't worry, we already have it." one guy holds your backpack up.

"But what we want more is you."

"Aren't you lucky?"

They all start yammering how giddy you must be feeling. Wanted by one too many guys. But they know very well it's quite the opposite.

Before you can plead, they gag you again. You're about to put up a fight when the guy slides the knife sideways beneath your bra. The blade's coolness decorates your flesh with bumps as fear wrings your throat shut. He flips the knife with the sharp edge cutting against the cloth; still, the blunt side pricks into your skin.

He slowly moves the knife, pushing upwards. "It's probably hard to breathe, right? Let us help you.."

You scream, cry, and wail simultaneously. Not just because your bra is about to be cut off, but also because the other guys are unbuttoning your shorts and pulling them down. One of them is also taking pictures, you hope someone will spot the flashes.

Another guy harshly grabs your face when you start getting louder than normally muffled. "Shut—!" he cut himself off as he looks at something behind his pals. "PUTANGINA!"

A sort of banging sound echoes around the woods. It's repetitive with a few cracks, grunts, and cries here and there. Your should-be-rapists shuffle up and run to the same direction, yelling as though they're charging into war. You quickly roll on your side and sit up to find someone fighting against five guys.

You now realize that your should-be-rapists were eight guys when you notice three of them are already on the floor. And despite the dimness shrouding the woods, you begin to recognize your cap-wearing savior.

"Kurt?" you breathe out, shocked and confused.

But he doesn't hear you with the gag. That is until the guy who straddled you is slowly approaching Court from behind. You spot the switchblade he's holding and scream with all your might.

"LOOK OUT!"

Despite your muffled voice, Court somewhat understands you. He whirls around in the blink of an eye, ramming an elbow on the guy's temple. The switchblade drops with its unconscious owner.

Immediately, someone else picks it up. You're about to shout at Court again when you realize the guy with the knife is charging at you.

You don't even have to ask why, because whatever his intentions are, as long as he's coming at you with a knife, it can't be good. Scrambling up to your feet, you curse when the shorts at your ankles nearly made you fall; your bounds aren't helping either.

In such a state of panic, and insufficient lighting, you miscalculate the thick root for soil. You trip, face-planting into the ground, but you don't let that stop you and try to get back up.

"Come here!" the guy chasing you clutches at your ankle and reels you to him.

You'll probably feel the scrapes later, because your fight response brawls against the intense fear flooding throughout your body. "Let go!" you scream, kicking at him successfully on his shoulder and stomach.

"Tangina, tumigil ka nga!" he yells and grabs both your ankles, pulling you closer.

You're about to boot his face this time, but he smacks yours first, stunning you. He rises, roughly hauling you up, but someone gets in between you two. The guy gasps when a fist heavily jabs into his chest and throat; he's instantly knocked out when the same fist strikes his temple.

Still in a daze, you think the world is falling away. Trees dancing into a swirl with streams of light. But in actuality, you're just falling down.

You're on the ground, you think as your perspective steadies itself.

Someone calls your name, you think it's the Kapre on the trees— maybe your perspective isn't right just yet.

You hear your name again and a face appears. You recognize him.

"Kurt?"

"Hey," he breathes out, relieved.

You fight back a wince when your chest tightens. "W-Why.." you stammer, "How are you here?"

"I'll tell you later. First," he pauses, scanning you from head to toe, "are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

Your head is buzzing. The last several minutes replays in it as a myriad of emotions washes over you. Terror, relief, panic, concern, happiness, gratefulness, anxiety, sadness, shame—

It's overwhelming.

And because of it, you're starting to think you're hallucinating. Maybe the one holding you isn't your friend.

"Kurt," you say, shakily.

"Yes?" he replies, steadily.

The strong arm wrapped around you and the rough yet gentle hand holding you conveys everything else. 

It's him. 

It's Court. 

He's here.

He saved you.

You have an abundance of questions. However, you want to address first why your face is somewhat damped and stinging. You think you have a gash and you're heavily bleeding, that is until you taste salt. Warm, liquid salt.

Oh.. you're crying.

You try to stop, but that only makes you cry harder. Like all the emotions pouring out your eyes, your body melts against Court's. But unlike your cascading tears, you're held firmly by him.

"Hey, what is it?" he asks, worriedly calling your name. "Where does it hurt?"

You manage to stifle your sobs for a second. "I'm so-sorry."

He scowls. "You're not the one who should be apologizing."

"N-No.. I'm sorry fo-for.." you gasp in between sobs,"for crying."

Court is astonished.

You continue. "I-I-I'm so-sorry you had to sav-save me.."

His hold on you tightens. "I'll always save you, (Y/N).. no matter what."

"Y-You don't always have to," you say, "I don't want you hurt."

Court holds the side of your face, gently pushing it up so he's looking into your teary eyes. "And I don't want you hurt, too." he declares, "So I'll save you. I'll protect you. I'll take care of you… Whether you like that or not."

There's an ache in your heart, yet it's somehow comforting rather than agonizing.

"And I'll beat the shit out of anyone who makes you cry."

You hide your face on his shoulder, but it doesn't stop you from laughing and sniffling at the same time.

The two of you stay there until your tears slow down to a halt. Then you finally allow yourself to wrap your arms around him. Because you didn't think you deserve it, you always thought you're unworthy to be saved. But then you don't know what else to do to express your gratitude at the moment.

So, you hug him with all your feeble might. Simultaneously trying not to let your feelings overpower you.

"Th-Thank you.." you sigh, "Thank you."

He returns the embrace, and for a second, you think he's kissing you on the head. "You're welcome." he whispers into your hair, "And thank you, too."

"For what?"

He stays silent for a moment.

"For.. you."

".. You want to thank me for me?"

"Yes..?"

You snicker. "That's stupid."

He breathes out a laugh. "Sorry."

"No worries. You got an unlimited savior coupon for the rest of my life."

"Well, then.. thank you."

"You're welcome."

first off~ I AM SO SORRY! VERY MUCH, I AM SORRY SORRY!!!!! AND PLEASE ACCEPT MY APOLOGIES WITH THREE NEW CHAPTERSSS I will explain my abrupt hiatus in another blog after posting the chapters. Thank you so much for waiting, enjoying, and messaging me about this fic! I hope y'all still enjoy it (*_ _)人 The portal to Chapter 16 will open momentarily starting now!

✨TAGLIST✨

@kat-thepoet @queenofhellhasrisen @sierrasixswife @vallyb @lyuir @yvxcy @justareaderdude @sortingharryshairclip

[kerriganwrites]

THE GRAY MAN, 2022.

[secretgardensmind]

Did Six have Claire’s pacemaker number tattooed on his hand?

[do-you-ship-this-taz-ship]

Submit a ship through the form or in my askbox!

[sirislayer]

TAZ Grad Ep 20 - WIP Here's a snippet from the thing ive been working on the past months? It's nowhere near close where i wanted to be by now, but y'know we don't always choose how this goes.

[the-purest-wolf]

I swear. I read each volume trying to latch on to a bit of comfort for Court 🤷

Justine, who treats Six as one of her canine patients and cooing over a crying man?

She feeds him. She serves a croissant and coffee. She lets him take a nap 🥺

Don, the cunning old man who used Claire to motivate Gray Man on the verge of death to go to the rescue of his family. And Court has a soft spot for this girl, so on the verge of a breakdown, he promises to save her.

And Claire worries so much about Jim, doesn't want to leave him, and helps him when he barely walks about his own🥺

Sierra One calls Court "young" even though he is an adult? And he insists on killing him, but he doesn't.

Ellena... She's just convinced that she can fix Gray Man. They have this great chemistry and just want to give Gentry some warmth. (WHERE IS MY SCENE IN THE HOTEL, WHERE AFTER A LOVELY NIGHT COURT CUDDLES UP TO A PRETTY WOMAN???) Ellen has so much faith and trust in Court 🥺

And Eddie. Oh Eddie... What kind of guy he was. You've known each other for so short a time, and Court was willing to die for you! This guy has shown more goodwill throughout Gentry's career than anyone else. Eddie he was imprisoned and was to be rescued by a man with malaria. Irony. Indeed, Gentry was quite unlucky *laughter*.

Eddie He was so affected by leaving a sick Court in the jungle that I thought my heart was going to break. Two weeks?

They made the two men die for each other.

Those gentle touches, checking temperatures, giving their own rations, beating down fevers , rubbing limbs when Court was trembling and Eddi's steadfastness that they would escape from prison together, even if he had to lumber Gentry on his back made me want to cry.

And in the end, he had to abandon a barely conscious Gray Man, who tried to convince a concerned Eddie that once he was safe, the CIA would rescue the ailing Court.

And then that scene when Gray Man, who was left in the mud - ready to die, though terrified by the vision of drowning in a puddle because he couldn't move - finally saw Eddie and almost started to cry. Until then, I have not seen Court laugh as many times as he did then in prison with Eddie. And that code name "Sally" given by Eddie *Laughter*.

When , so Court finally saw the little sister Eddie had talked so much about…. She was beautiful , so similar to Eddie, and yet different, not of this world. Mark Greaney, the Gamboa siblings, Eddie and Laura would take excellent care of Court. Maybe I am biased because I love threesomes , but that chemistry between Eddie and Court and his sister is beautiful and tragic.