#courtland gentry x f!reader

[listenbuckaroo]

Flowers - Courtland Gentry (Sierra Six) x Reader

Warnings: guns, blood, canonical violence, not too graphic or nothin 

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: your high school sweetheart appears unannounced in your apartment

a/n: im back friends :) hope you like this one!

Juggling the keys and grocery bags you had just picked up you trudge through the halls of your small apartment building. Carefully you tried to soften your footsteps so as to not wake your neighbor, who had a habit of yelling at you when you came home from late shifts for making too much noise. 

Unfortunately this evening she was already waiting for you outside of her door, maybe it was the obnoxiously loud music you had to blast on your way home from work so as to not fall asleep but you were about to find out. 

“Hi Mrs. Cross, how are you tonight?” you attempted to start on a good note before she laid into you.

“Your boyfriend has been in there for the past hour beating and banging on things and it keeps waking me up!” She said in her shrill voice. 

But tonight her shrill voice wasn’t the one that was bothering you, the fact that someone was in your apartment and had been for the past hour was. You didn’t have a boyfriend, not since high school and that was a long time ago. Fearing the assumed robbers were still in there right now and not wanting Mrs. Cross to report it you just sighed and said, “Don’t worry I'll handle him. Have a good night!” 

Waiting until she was inside and door locked you placed all your bags right outside your door and pulled your small handgun from your purse and pushed on your door. Whoever was in there had left it unlocked, probably assuming no one was going to come back tonight given the hour it was. 

The smell of blood hit you before you saw anyone, looking down at the floor bloody boot prints marred your wood floors in a jagged pattern meaning someone was probably bleeding out in your apartment. For a moment you considered that this may be too much, even for you, but shook the thought out of your mind. 

And not a moment too soon, a body came barrelling at you from your bathroom in an attempt to tackle you. Sliding forward and tripping him you quickly clamored on top and pinned his arms to his sides so he couldn’t attack again. 

“Jesus I’m gonna get so much shit for being topped by a girl.” You heard him wheeze out, as you flipped the nearest light switch in the hall. 

Looking down and seeing who you had now pinned to your floor was one of the last people you thought you might ever see again, Courtland Gentry. The pure shock that went through your body caused you to freeze and nearly drop the gun you were holding a few inches away from his face. He looked like he had been in a bar fight with 20 different people in the past few hours, bruises littered his face and neck and the weeping cut on his eyebrow was threatening to gush blood into his eye.

His face contorted into one of confusion, and then blanched like he had seen a ghost, “Y/N?” He questioned in a whisper.

“Courland what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” You said not moving the gun from his face. 

“What am I doing here? You live here?” He wheezed, glancing around your sparsely decorated apartment, which only made you squeeze his arms into his body further.

“Okay, that's a fair move.” he whined. 

“Talk, then I’ll move.” you said getting comfortable on your new seat. 

“Hmmm, that's classified” he groaned as you jabbed a knee into his side.

“Nice fucking try, you’re supposed to be in prison.” You spat at him.

The pure anger and resentment on your face must have shocked him. He stopped squirming underneath you and looked you in your eyes. You liked to believe that you had kept a front up pretty well. Ever since Courtland had left for prison in highschool, you felt like he took a part of your heart with him. 

You two were nearly inseparable, both being from lower middle class families you lived near each other and always hung out every summer which eventually led to you dating in highschool. He was the most gentle person, especially with you before everything happened, and you thought you would never see him again. The last time you saw him he was being dragged away in handcuffs and threw a wink over his shoulder at you. 

Your father wouldn’t take you to see him at the trial so you tried on multiple occasions to go yourself, always being caught by school security. It felt like true love, but you eventually came to terms later that you had been swooped up in a summer love affair with a murder and had no busisness missing him. 

So you stopped. You stopped fighting, you never tried to go visit him in prison once you got old enough because you knew it'd be too hard. He was probably a deeply changed person and one that you wouldn't recognize or have the heart to actually break up with since you hadn't when he had first left. 

"Get to it Gentry I don't have all night." You said moving around on top of him shifting the slightest bit of weight towards his ribs.

He winced and wriggled out of your grasp, done with you annoying his clearly fractured ribs anymore tonight. He grabbed your thighs and shoved you off of him, even though he was bulky you didn’t expect the speed that came out of him. He had your hands pinned and your gun tossed away from you before you could really register what had happened.

"Oh, eat shit." You huffed out finishing it difficult to complete a full sentence with his new found body weight on top of you. 

He didn't say anything but slowly put a hand over your mouth as you listened to whatever he thought he heard. You tried to move around and get out from his weight but he gave you a glare that made you immediately stop. Focusing on quieting your breathing you looked back up at Courland.

He had aged, but to be fair it had been 10 years since the last time you had seen him. His dirty blonde hair was longer than you remember, but it suited him. The goatee however, you were on the fence about, you could maybe get used to it. His shoulders were about twice as broad as the last time you had seen him, and he stunk. That was what stood out the most. 

After a few seconds you heard footsteps outside that sounded heavy and they were moving with a purpose. Hoping Mrs. Cross didn't step outside to yell at them when they ran by you and waited until Courtland told you it was clear. It was obvious he had extensive training with some organization, but you still didn't know how he was out of prison.

He dropped his hand from your mouth and sat up to his knees in front of you. Still in a haze of panic you back up to grab your gun and aim it back at him. The confusion coursing through your mind made it difficult to process everything that was happening. 

He looked down at you sadly almost, he gently lifted his hand and pointed the gun down towards the ground. You let him take it out of your hands and turn the safety on. You stared at him and the blood pulsing down his face from a cut that he had recently acquired.

“Courtland Gentry, what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” you said once again hoping you wouldn’t have to kick his ass for answers, although you’re not sure if you would win considering how much he had beefed up.

“I swear I'd tell you if I could.” He looked at you, almost as if he was trying to memorize the new freckles and lines on your face.

“Okay, well how did you get in?” you questioned hoping to get some kind of information out of him.

“Window.” he gestured to your living room fire escape and misplaced furniture that was now there, “it looked vacant that's why I came in.”

You glanced back over at him and couldn’t help but smile, he had always given you shit for your subpar homemaker skills when you were younger. You couldn’t cook, cleaned the bare minimum and when you did you somehow did it wrong. Surprisingly, he knew more than you and taught you a lot those years you had the privilege of knowing him.

Your smile quickly faded as you took in the man in front of you. Very far off from the boy you knew and watched go to prison for life. In all honesty you weren’t mad at him for what he did, you would have done the same for your sibling, you were just mad that your best friend was stripped away from you without warning. And without a doubt now you definitely did not know this person. He looked battle hardened and exhausted, far off from the vibrant sweet boy you remember.

“I hate to ask but can I shower here?” he said, breaking the silence between the two of you. 

“Oh yeah, do you need help?”

“No, I think I know how to shower.”

“I meant with the cut you perv.” you said, pushing his shoulder as you stood to grab a towel for him.

He giggled and nodded at you as he loudly ripped the elastic of what appeared to be a bullet proof vest that he was wearing. 

“Mrs. Cross is going to file a noise complaint if you don’t shut the hell up.” you said throwing a towel at him.

“I’ll get her some fucking flowers if it gets you out of this dump.” he said kicking his shoes off in the hallway, and you missed the following eyes of your former best friend as you made your way to the bedroom. 

10 minutes later he was standing in your doorway in the sweatpants you had set outside the door and fresh blood was leaking from the cut on his eyebrow. You grabbed the first aid kit from under your bed and made your way to the bathroom.

“Sit.” you said and pointed at the edge of the bathtub.

He happily obliged and waited on you. Removing the antiseptic ointment and sticky gauze you had planned to use on the cut you turned your attention back to the man in front of you. Being as gentle as possible you pulled his chin up so you could see the cut in a better light. It wasn’t deep enough to need stitches so what you had here would be fine. 

Reaching back to grab your supplies you tenderly helped Courtland, something you hadn’t been able to do in years. He surprisingly accepted it, you’re not sure if it was the exhaustion that he was suddenly wracked with or the fact that 10 years had really changed the people you both were. Nevertheless as soon as you finished he offered you a soft, “Thanks honey.” in his tired state.

Making your way to your bedroom you offered him the bed, and you were headed to take the small futon that sat in your living room. 

“You can stay here too, I won’t go anywhere near you.” He said as you got up to  leave.

“Courtland it's been too long I don’t..”

“Just shut up and lay down.” He said seeing the exhaustion on your face as well. 

You snuggled tightly on your side, almost feeling like you were in the same bed as a stranger, but then again you weren’t. You shifted towards the middle of the bed giving the all clear that if your bodies made contact on your small bed that night you would be okay. Then before you knew it, a strong arm was slung over your midsection dragging you into a deep sleep.

—

Cortland knew leaving this bed with the love of his life would be one of the hardest things he’d ever do. When the sun began to peak through the window in Y/N’s bedroom a deep sense of dread came to life. He didn’t mean to break into her apartment, it did look vacant to him, and now he was worried he may be putting her in danger.

But if he said he was happier than this beforehand he would be a liar. He had never felt more at peace and rested after a single night than this in a long time. Slowly unwrapping his arms from around Y/N’s sleeping body he tried his best not to wake her. 

Hoping he could slip out of her small apartment without waking her, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, hell, he never knew when he would see anyone from his past life that would solely call him Courtland instead of Six ever again. Grabbing his boots and vest he made his way to the kitchen and looked around. 

He had no money to buy her a halfway decent couch but he could leave a note and steal some wildflowers flowers from the field outside. Scribbling a few words on a notepad she had lying on the counter:

Morning honey,

Please don’t be mad at me for leaving without saying goodbye, I’ll fall into your tiny apartment again soon.

-CG

Placing a stick of gum next to his note and tiny flowers, Six slipped out the fire escape and back into his normal life once more. 

[sirdindjarin]

Streetwise Hercules - (Sierra Six x F!Reader)

Sierra Six is paid to safeguard you. Too bad he's bossy and sarcastic and hot as shit.

A/N: This was supposed to be a 3k blurb and it is ... not. I'm so sorry lmao. I love this man and I want to hold him and never shut up about him.

This is a prequel, but - like Part One - I think you can read it alone. I think it's best to read Parts One and Two first since I wrote this last lol.

Shoutout to @crownofdecit for hyping me up 🥹

TAGS: Angst, Fluff, Lead Up To 👉👌, Snark, Six Being a Sassy Sexy Bitch, Idiots to (Eventual) Lovers

WARNINGS: None. Curse words? Sheer horniness without relief?

WORD COUNT: oh god I don't even want to tell you guys (it's 9.9k. I'm adding lil dividers and breaks because I know it's long)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How exactly was this place designed to be a “safe” house? 

The house was a single story with more glass than wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the east side, while trees guarded both sides. The lot sits on a downward slope, a valley in the background. 

The amount of glass made it look insecure if anything. But, you had no say in it - if you wanted to be paid, you’d work here. You’d not given your employers a timetable on your project, and you had hoped they wouldn’t request one. They hadn’t. Unfortunately, that meant your stay here would be indefinite.

After a long ride across a border you hadn't been able to read, a mysterious driver had dropped you off in the gravel driveway. A single custodian had been sweeping when you pulled up, and he had been less than welcoming. You’d said, “Hello,” but the young man had simply inclined his head at you and continued his task.

In less than half an hour, you had found your room and unpacked most of your belongings into the rattan dresser. It was evident the money spent on this secluded hide-out was in its design and the protection detail, not the furniture. You notice there is no en-suite bathroom, and the nearest one is down the hall. 

That’s annoying. 

The only other room along this hallway must be the bodyguard’s room. It’s at the opposite end, facing yours. You suppose that’s so he can keep an eye on you, and you sigh. It’s hard to believe you could need all of this fuss. You’ve worked in high-security locations and needed top-tier clearances before, but having to leave your apartment to live in this place while an unknown man supervised you? That was not something you’d get used to quickly.

It was Sunday, so, seeing as you preferred to keep a regular work week, you decided you’d survey your workstation tomorrow. You tour the kitchen. 

A marble countertop complete with a coffee machine, stovetop, and hanging microwave mark the space. Next to the coffee machine, you notice a crystal vase filled with an amber liquid.

Don’t mind if I do. 

The whiskey flows smoothly into your glass, the smoky aroma soothing. You then take a seat at the island bar. The late afternoon light comes through the glass patio door, heating the space. Your head cranes to the right to study the view, mentally wandering through the hills, the trees, and the city far below. The whiskey is excellent, burning your throat pleasantly.

The hinged squeak of the front door opening rings through the house. You swivel counterclockwise on your barstool. A man in a dark gray suit steps over the threshold and into the living room, shutting the door behind him. It’s darker in that section of the house, so he flips the switch to his right. A ceiling fan blinks to life above him, and his blonde hair is highlighted. 

“Oh, hi,” you smile.

You hop off the stool gracefully and stroll through the large, open doorway between the living room and kitchen. Extending your hand, you meet him between the couch and the flat-screen television.  

You’re stunned by how handsome he is. His eyes are kind and brilliantly blue. His hair is parted to the side and lightly gelled, and his suit barely covers the fact that he is rather muscular. That last part you had expected given his job title. 

   “Hello,” he says simply, shaking your hand with the slightest grip.

His jaw is working, and you realize he's chewing gum. When he drops his hand to clasp them together, as if he’s at ease, you notice a tattoo of a palm tree and a sunrise on his left hand. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet. I haven’t had a chance to look around.” He chides. 

“Oh,” you’re taken aback by his directness. “I was just given the address and told to be here today. They didn’t give me a time. I wasn’t told anything, actually. Didn’t even tell me who I’d be meeting.” You laugh, hoping he’ll tell you his name without you needing to ask. 

“They didn’t tell you -?” He’s frustrated by the poor organization. Anyone could’ve met you here and you’d have believed anything they said. He decides to make further progress in his planning than he’d originally intended for tonight. “Alright. I’ll get to work. I’ll stay out of your way.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” you insist in reactive politeness. Taking into account his brusque, business-like manner, you amend quietly, “I’ll stay out of yours.” 

He nods once in agreement. 

Taking the hint that the conversation is over, you turn around and head back toward your barstool. The kitchen is dimmed in the growing dark, so as you walk through the doorway, you reach out for the light switch.

From behind you, you hear steps, firm and determined, which make you instinctively turn your head to face him.

“Actually, can you sit here on the couch while I…?” He trails off and makes a circling motion with his index finger. 

“Sure, yeah.” You’re getting nervous about how seriously he’s taking his job, so you sit as he requested. 

Is there an actual threat to me? Am I actually in danger? You eye your whiskey glass on the counter. 

As he steps into the kitchen, he sees the alcohol and quizzes, “Did you bring that yourself?” 

“No,” you answer, already knowing he’s about to tell you that you can't drink it. 

“Don’t drink it.” 

“I believe it was courtesy of my employer. I’ve already had several sips - it’s fine.” You assure, a touch annoyed.

You know caution is his job, so you’re mindful of your tone. His impersonal manners are disappointing given how long you'll be around him.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he looks blankly at you before grabbing the drink and delivering it to you. Your fingers close around his as you take the glass, and you smile in gratitude. 

Something tells him this is going to be a frustrating assignment; you don’t seem to feel at risk. And truthfully, you don’t. He’s here as an extreme precaution on part of your company. But this man appreciated better than anyone that life could change in an instant.

           

The next morning you’re awoken by your alarm. You silence the phone and grab a change of clothes. You crack open your bedroom door, hoping the bathroom is free so you can shower. Luckily, the man from last night is nowhere to be found. 

He never told me his name; that’s so weird, you realize. 

He had checked the house and found nothing of interest, then returned to the living room, motioning to you that you were free to go. He'd spoken no further, and you'd kept your word about staying out of his way.

After getting ready for your day, you walk into the living room to find your workspace. You open the only door you’d not been through: a nondescript wood-paneled barrier beside the kitchen. Sure enough, inside is an array of equipment and a desktop computer. Everything you’d need to perform your job is located in this garage-sized space.

You march into the kitchen to make yourself a pot of coffee. In a cabinet, you’re drawn to a mug with an artist-rendering of the sun. It’s a cloudy morning, so you find it appropriate. 

You stand in front of the coffee maker, waiting patiently for it to stop brewing, drumming your fingers on the counter in time with the song stuck in your head. The hair on the back of your neck prickles, so you turn your head to look around. Seated at the bar behind you is the man, dressed now in a bright blue suit, focused on his laptop. 

“Oh, my god!” You exclaim, nearly dropping the empty mug. “When did you get in here?” 

“You didn’t hear me sit down?” The man queries, his eyes jumping from the mug in your hands to your face. 

“Obviously not,” one hand presses over your heart. You can't help but notice that his eyes match the color of his suit.

He snorts once in levity at your misplaced distress and returns to his computer.

“I’m glad you find it funny, Mr. - ?” You prompt.

"You don't need to call me ‘mister,’” he says politely without looking up. 

“Okay, well, what do I call you? 'Chatterbox'?” You’re irritated by his lack of apology for scaring you and poor conversational skills. 

He looks up sharply, but his eyes are entertained. "I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot,” he states. “You can refer to me as Six.”

Given that this man is your only source of human interaction for an unknown length of time, you're willing to take the second chance. 

You reply, “Okay, Six. The right foot sounds good. We’re stuck in this house together. Let's not make it weird.”

“We’re on the same page, then,” Six observes drily, his eyes returning to his laptop. 

The coffee maker audibly spits out the last few drops into the pot, and you quickly pour yourself a cup; without speaking another word to the man, you disappear into your workspace to begin. 

               

Four weeks later, you’ve established a routine: each morning, you’d pull out the same mug, make your coffee, and wait for Six to make an entrance somehow. He was generally unable to form routines due to his lifestyle, but each morning he would enter the room from a new direction, laptop in hand, and sit. 

The first week, Six’s stealthy entrances had caused you to jump in alarm. He would be standing around the corner or appear behind you when you least expected it. On mornings when you’d slept well, you’d laugh. After that first time, Six started to kindly apologize when he scared you.

He didn’t speak much outside of a “Good morning,” unless you spoke first. Forcing an intimidatingly attractive man who doesn’t want to speak to do so was nerve-wracking. Sometimes you felt too shy to talk to him, but some mornings you were brave enough to ask him how he slept, or what he had planned for the day. He'd always respond with the fewest words in a courteous tone, but you found his patience in indulging your questions somehow charming. 

Six started to find the morning routine oddly compelling. He enjoyed watching you drink from the same mug, the same amount of coffee, and make the same well-mannered smile at him. Technically, it was something mundane, calm, and normal - but not to him. To Six, this was fascinating. He knew that letting himself enjoy the company of another person, however silent he remained, was dangerous for his psyche, but this wasn’t a permanent job - he could be reckless short term.

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One Friday evening, you send out a week’s-end report to your company then wonder what you’ll do for the next two days. You’d spent the past three weekends working. It’s not a major problem considering your average time off was spent reading or watching your favorite movies on rotation, but you could go for a normal conversation with normal people tonight. 

Unfortunately, you’re not able to leave the house unless approved by Six, and you’re pretty certain that will never happen. He had been nice, but distant and a touch paranoid. Maybe you’d work for a couple of hours to get ahead instead - then you’d be able to go home sooner. 

You stand from the computer in your lab, powering it off. Exiting the room, you’re nearly run into by Six as he leaves the kitchen. 

 “Oh!” You exclaim. “I’m sorry.” 

You’re not surprised by the sudden butterflies in your stomach. He may be reserved, but his physical appeal was impossible to ignore.

"It’s okay,” his arms had gone up automatically to grab your shoulders, but he drops them before touching you. “I’m sorry, I normally hear you.”

“Huh?”

“I usually know exactly where you are because I can hear you. You’re not very quiet.” He speaks without a hint of scorn, but the accusation offends you.

“Of course you can hear me. This is a small house and we’re the only two people in it.”

“You don’t seem to hear me,” Six argues, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He pulls out a stick of gum and pops it in his mouth.

“Because you do your best to scare me to death at every opportunity,” you chastise.

“Scaring you to death would defeat the purpose of my being here."

You have no retort to that, so you brush past his sizable shape and laugh, “Touche.” 

You squat in front of the shelf beside the TV. If the only person you’ll get to be around is Six, you might as well try to make friends.

“Want to watch a movie?” After passing little pleasantries for a month, you figure it’s a normal enough thing to ask him.

You hear him question from behind you: “It’s Friday night; you don’t want to go somewhere?”

“Am I allowed to?” You don’t look at him.

“Not without me.” 

“As much as I’d love to go on a date with you, Six, I think I’ll just sit here.” 

He doesn’t respond, and you hear nothing, despite straining to make out his footsteps. If he is still there, you refuse to turn around and give him the satisfaction of knowing you regret your words, so you try to focus on the movie.

It becomes obvious that he did leave at some point as you hear the water running in the hallway bathroom to your right. You feel your body relax. 

When the movie ends, you pick up a book and retire to your room. As you close the door, Six leaves the bathroom in only a towel. He doesn't see you as he walks toward his own room. His bare back fills your vision despite the distance, and you find yourself staring. He's built powerfully. His smooth skin is broken on his left arm by a jagged, discolored scar. 

You inhale sharply at the visual representation of the kind of life he lives, and his head whips around at the sound. You slam your door shut, praying in vain he didn't perceive you. 

He stares at your now-closed door, one eyebrow raised. Did you just gasp at him being half-naked? Maybe you weren't expecting him to be there and he scared you again. Six decides to ignore it. Or to try to.

Trying to forget the moment yourself, you pull up some music on your phone and lay across your bed, your hands rubbing your eyes. Your phone’s low-quality speakers mean the Bonnie Tyler song you choose isn't loud enough for your liking, but it's so nice to hear something other than silence that you sing along. You sit up and start folding some of the clothes you'd washed the previous night, still singing along. 

A quick knock startles you into standing.

He never talks to me after I shut my door, you're curious as to what he wants and you hope it's not to tell you to stop ogling him.

You move to the door and pull it open cautiously. He's fully dressed in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants. You focus your eyes above his neck, but that doesn't help the blushing, either.

"What's up?" You successfully sound casual. 

"I can't hear."

"Can't hear what?"

"Myself think," he gestures toward your phone as the last notes of the eight-minute song begin to fade.

He just can't let me have a single shred of pleasure. Your embarrassment abruptly changes to frustration.

"Can't imagine there's much to hear," you snort. Then you grimace, reminding yourself again it's his job to be alert. You cover your eyes with one hand, "I'm sorry. That was not nice." 

But he laughs one, short chuckle. He actually laughs, and the shock of it has you drop your hand to gawk at him. He has a nice laugh; it's soft, ironic-sounding. But he isn't explicitly smiling. It's almost as though the sound escaped him at gunpoint. 

"Alright. Continue," he allows with an impassive wink, turning away from you. He leaves you standing there gaping after him.

A wink? What the fuck? This man's getting off on flustering me. When he shuts his door, you swear he's hiding a smile.

You can’t quite pin down your feelings. You’re not afraid of him, but he makes you nervous. Though he’s unsociable, you can see there's something soft behind his professional mask. Maybe it was the gentleness of his eyes or the warmth he unwillingly emanated, but it was impossible not to like him. 

Periodically, if he felt secure enough, Six would sleep during the night. He was able to get by with five hours' sleep, and he often took that around lunchtime, but tonight he'd let himself rest. After all, this contract was a farce. There'd been no credible intelligence; your company was paranoid. Six could get behind that, but after a full month with no issues, he was confident he'd be able to sleep.

Of course, he kept his laptop on, flipped multiple alarms, and set a timer for every hour. His reputation wasn't for nothing.

He sits on his bed, wondering why he knocked on your door. Yes, he could hear you - you honestly were not quiet - but it wasn't bothersome. Six found himself relaxing at the noise, at the knowledge that another person was nearby, untroubled.

Your openness, even your petty irritation at him, was fun. You were genuine, natural around him. Most everyone treated Six only two ways: with respect or fear. You treated him as if he were an average person. Was that why he found himself paying attention to you?

Six decides that he doesn't want to know why he sought you out, and he lies back, falling asleep nearly immediately.

                   

You spend the weekend alternating between watching movies on the couch and walking laps around the acre of land. It's boring, so you start working again late Sunday evening. While bent over your desk, you hear a rap at the door.

"Yeah?" You call, unwilling to walk away from your task.

"Are you staying in there much longer? You're typically in bed by now." 

"Oh, shit, what time is it?" You ask rhetorically as you pick up your phone to check. Eleven-thirty. "Uh, yeah, I'll head to bed."

You organize your materials for tomorrow, then open the door to see Six, arms folded, waiting for you. 

"Are you gonna escort me to my room safely?" You tease him, offering a conspiratorial eyebrow raise.

"Would you rather I got you there unsafely?" He rejoins, his brow imitating yours.

"I'd rather not need anyone to get to my room, but I guess I don't have a choice."

You traipse through the living room. You make it just past the couch before it hits you that he hasn’t done this before. 

"Why tonight?"

"Sunday Special," he deflects.

As he walks you the few paces down the hallway to your bedroom, you feel faint heat against your lower back, then a tingling sensation at the base of your spine. It feels almost like someone is touching your skin. Brushing it off as anxiety, you slip into your room and away from Six. 

"Okay, job well done. Goodnight, Six,” you remark, shutting your door without looking at him.

He makes no noise, but you can almost feel the nod of his head.

One of the cameras had failed. The other four were fine, but Six was nothing if not proactive. If someone was sneaking around, he needed you in your room. As soon as you are out of harm’s potential way, he pulls his weapon. 

Six carefully sweeps through the building, checking corners. All clear, he steps out the back door, utterly silent. The malfunctioning camera was the one overlooking the driveway, but if someone had knocked out only one camera, they likely expected him to check there first. He tediously makes his way to the front of the house.

Above the front door, pointed at the ground, was the camera. A small feather clung to the broken piece of tech. Six looks around for the poor bird who must’ve smacked into it, but finds nothing. He reaches up and unhooks the camera. He’d need to either repair it or find a new one. 

Satisfied you and he were not under attack, he returns inside. He won’t be going to sleep tonight; his body will remain alert. He begins to tinker with the camera, already looking forward to his afternoon nap. 

                 

Several days later, after having had to stop exactly zero intruders, Six feels comfortable enough to continue sleeping overnight. It’s a treat he enjoys too infrequently, and he wakes early Friday morning with energy to spare. He ventures out into the kitchen, enjoying the sun’s rays creeping over the trees. He retrieves his laptop and sits at his usual spot.

Having slept badly, when you walk into the dim room, you're startled by the shape of a man at the bar. Then you notice his profile silhouetted by the sun, and you exhale in recognition.

"I should really just expect you around every corner, shouldn't I?" 

He raises his eyebrows at you in jest and shrugs, “Might be best.”

His elevated mood lifts your own. Your smile lights your face. If only he could be this relaxed all the time. You breeze past him to your coffee pot to continue the morning ritual. 

Waiting for the machine to brew, you turn, leaning against the counter, and tilt your head toward the window.

"It's not a bad view, huh?" 

"I have noticed," he says honestly.

Though that sounds nearly sarcastic to you, to Six it's another slip in his exterior. He doesn't often get the chance to enjoy something for its beauty, but he has been taking full advantage lately. 

Your workday is long, but you take a break near lunchtime to find Six seated where you'd left him. You grab an apple from the stocked fridge, then pull a clear glass from the cabinet. In the shiny reflection of the stainless-steel fridge, you notice Six's head tilt to look at you. You fill the glass with water from the tap, then turn and set both items in front of the curious blonde. 

"What's that for?" 

"You. This is food and water." You grin. More seriously, you wonder, "Have you eaten? I don't think you have." 

Six was typically excellent about fueling his body, it was his livelihood as well as his life, but you were right, he had neglected it this morning.

He blinks for a moment, unsure what your angle is. "Why- are you giving it to me?" 

"Because I can," you state. "I didn't poison it." You smirk at him and make a face like maybe you should have. 

"A poisoned apple would be cliche. I'm sure you have something more creative in mind for me." He examines you, his eyes shining.

You can see his lips fighting a smile. It makes you want to try harder; you need to make this man lighten up.

"Nah, I need you, Six. Who else would I not talk to every day?" 

Six licks his lip and shakes his head in defeat. He huffs a short laugh, and you chalk up a victory. 

You slap the counter and cheesily announce, "Alright, see you around." 

The weight of his eyes on you as you leave the room makes you feel giddy. 

Been a while since I've had a crush, you laugh to yourself. From his wit to his patience, his profound eyes to his muscular build, Six makes your stomach twist.

Six is left sitting in turmoil. Why did you care? Do people normally look out for each other like that? He'd done it for his brother, often making him meals, but that was a close familial bond. Six is essentially a stranger to you, despite the month of small talk and close quarters. Worse than a stranger, he was a tool, a product… wasn’t he? Six feels something shift in his chest. A tiny pull, like a bond creating itself. He does his best to push the thought away.

You wake the next day much later than usual. After showering, you leave your room ready to spend the day similarly to last Saturday. As you exit the hallway into the living room, however, the housekeeper is walking out the front doorway.

"Hey! Good morning," you call, excited to see another person. "How are you?" 

The youthful-looking man acts flustered, but answers in an accent you don’t recognize, "I'm fine, thanks. You?" 

"I'm great. Do you mind me asking your name?" 

"Ma'am, I was told not to speak to the residents here. I hope you understand."

"Oh! I'm sorry to have put you on the spot, then." You feel deflated. 

"I restocked the pantry and the fridge, and the kitchen is clean," the kid reports. 

"Thank you. Can I offer you anything?" 

"No, ma'am, I'm on my way out for today." 

You thank him again and let him go. You're hidden away so thoroughly that you're not even allowed to speak to other people. The depressing thought makes you seek out your only source of relief.

You find him in the garage, messing with a black, foreign-looking car. Though the sunlight from the open garage door makes you squint, you notice he’s wearing a dark t-shirt and tactical pants today. Six makes your heart spasm when he looks up to greet you.

Goddamn him, you swear internally like it’s his fault you’re attracted to him.

“Morning,” his voice is rough as though he hadn’t spoken in a while. Probably not since the last time he spoke to you.

“Morning. Is this yours?” 

“It’s technically the house’s. ‘In case of emergency.’” He explains, disappearing from view as he leans into the trunk.

“Oh. Is it bulletproof?” You joke.

“Yeah,” his voice is muffled.

Your brow shoots up. Is he serious?

His head rises from behind the trunk lid. His eyes are full of amusement.

“You’re fucking with me,” you accuse. 

Laughing, you walk around the car, knocking on the windows. You can’t tell.

He chuckles once, then slams the lid. It echoes in the concrete space. Six walks around the opposite side of the car, so tall that the vehicle barely comes up to his ribs. He leans his forearms on the roof, hands clasped, looking at you.

“The windows in the house aren’t normal glass, either,” he smirks at your innocence. He doesn’t tell you they’re not completely bulletproof. He figures they’re close enough.

For your own health, you’re ignoring how seductive he looks propped against the car. 

Changing the subject, you tell him, “The housekeeper was here a moment ago.”

“He’s not just a housekeeper,” he corrects but doesn’t expound. 

“Ah. Okay. Is anything around here exactly what it looks like?” 

He turns his head to look out the garage door.

“You are,” he says after a moment. “I am.”

You tilt your head, "You know what - that's absolutely true."

"I have a question. Can we quit listening to 80s music?" He taunts. He must've heard you again last night.

"We don't. I listen to it, and you invade my privacy." You whip back. 

"Once you're singing over sixty-five decibels, it stops being private and starts being a neighborhood nuisance."

His left cheek pulls upward, and he shifts onto one elbow. The movement causes a lock of hair to fall onto his forehead, and you're disarmed - unable to form the scathing rebuttal you want.

Smiling, you do your best, "Well, the neighbors can fuck off. I've got to do something to stay sane."

You know you're barely loud enough to be heard. He was just hellbent on giving you shit for it and you had to admit, it was kind of funny. 

Your stomach growls. "Are you hungry? I’ll make breakfast.”

“It’s 11 a.m.” 

“... and I’m going to make breakfast.” You walk inside, directly into the far side of the kitchen. 

Six follows a few minutes later, shutting the garage door with a click. You’re in the middle of breaking eggs into a mixing bowl when he sits at the table - a rare move for him. He can’t see you well from this seat, and that’s intentional. He keeps his focus on the acre outside.

“Do you want any?” You call to him.

“No, thank you. I'll eat later.” 

You wonder why he’s sitting in here with you. You make extra, just in case. When you’re finished cooking, you sit at the bar to eat, feeling on edge about sitting at the table with him.

Six takes the hint and gets up to leave the room. As he passes the stovetop, he sees you’ve made him some anyway. His heart tugs at him once more. He changes direction and picks up the plate.

Without looking at you, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

You smile warmly, “Anytime.”

He takes the plate to his room.

                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, as you curl up in a couch corner watching a mindless TV show, Six sits on the opposite end. You're cold but feel too awkward to grab the blanket from Six's end of the furniture. Feeling his mood, you wait for him to say something first. He never does. After several minutes, you break.

"Were you lonely in your room?" You rib him.

He looks over at you, and you meet his eyes with a quick grin. He shrugs.

"You get used to it," you tell him.

You look back at the TV and rub heat into your upper arm with your left hand. Maybe I should get up and turn the ceiling fan off.

He scoffs. You? Lonely? Compared to him? Then he thinks about it for a moment and realizes you haven't contacted anyone since you've been here. 

"You don't have people waiting for you to come home?" He means family, friends, anyone.

"Nope. I got nobody." You say it with lightheartedness, though it makes you sad.

"I got nobody, too." He mimics your phrasing with a frown. 

You turn to him again with a smile and offer, "Well, we can be nobodies to each other."

Six's mouth twitches and his eyebrow quirks up. You feel a rush of heat, embarrassment. 

But then he makes a soft, pleased grunt and he hands you the blanket.

               

That next weekend, in the kitchen, you find Six shuffling a deck of cards. Curious, you make a face at him.

"This was how we passed the time in prison." He begins laying out a game of solitaire.

There's so much about his statement that makes you sad, but you ask the obvious question: "Prison?" 

"I was in prison, yes."

"Violent offense, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Was it deserved?"

"The crime or the punishment?"

"What you did," you clarify.

"I thought so. Still think so." 

Needing nothing else answered, you climb up on the barstool next to him and take the cards. You pick up the few he'd already laid out for solitaire. You weren’t letting him play cards alone.

"Have you ever played 'War'?" You shuffle the deck and begin to deal.

He hides his astonishment at your nonchalance. He'd never told anyone who didn't already know. But to you, it wasn’t a surprise. Your employers had been sure to tell you they’d hired one of the most elite assassins. You’d never expected that person to have lived a privileged, easy life. And you'd always been an excellent judge of character - Six's character was as solid as they come. Whatever his crime had been, it was justified. 

"Yes, I've played War. Good way to get into a fistfight." He says, thinking of his long, terrible eight years.

"I could take you," you lie. 

Your challenging look is met by his intense eyes, and he grabs his dealt cards.

"Loser has to make dinner." 

"Deal," he agrees.

Later that evening, you stand at the stove top, cooking dinner for the both of you. After he beat you soundly in War, you'd insisted on a rematch, but he'd won a second time. Losing somewhat graciously, you told him you hoped he liked poorly made food. You weren't a good cook.

He'd done a perimeter check after that last game, but he was back in his favorite spot now, leaning forward on his elbows. As you flitted between the cabinets, the stove, and the pantry, he watched in near-awe. He didn't care how bad this food tasted. Watching you make it was enough. He didn't think he'd ever get used to how pleasant domesticity was. 

As you walk past the stainless-steel microwave, you realize it's reflective enough to see behind you, and Six is currently hyper-focused on you. The fierce look in his eyes sends butterflies soaring in your stomach.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Six is just bored. The poor man hasn't seen another woman in over a month. Of course he’s going to look at the only available one.

You plate the food, setting one in front of him, for which he thanks you sincerely. You take your own into the living room to escape the air between you two. You flip the TV on, hoping for some background noise to distract you from Six. It works as he remains in the kitchen. After finishing his food, he washes his dish, then retrieves yours and does the same. 

"Thank you, Six," you swallow thickly. 

"Mhm," he grunts. 

Why does the energy between us keep changing? 

"I have some things to do outside," he reports. 

Oddly relieved, you cheerfully tell him, "Okay, have fun."

He glances at you with a look you can’t identify, then exits through the patio door.

We're both going stir-crazy. 

After changing into a tank top and pajama pants, you figure the decanter had been left lonely for too long. You down a couple of shots and put a movie on. This time you pick something you're only vaguely interested in, knowing the alcohol will do the work for you. 

You hadn't seen Six since he walked out, but you know he's somewhere nearby. You'd love to offer him a shot, but it's hard to imagine him being willingly impaired.

After a few hours, another glass, and a consecutive movie, you stretch out on the comfy, tan couch. As you lay there, you feel the waves of drunkenness rocking you to sleep. 

You're awoken by a masculine voice calling your name. Your eyes crack open to see Six standing over you.

"Six! You wanna shot?" You sleepily propose despite having stopped drinking yourself hours earlier.

His voice is decisive, "No, thank you. Are you planning on sleeping out here?"

"Maybe. 'm I allowed?"

"No," he asserts.

"I thought we were friends, now," you grumble, glaring.

"We're nobodies, remember? And I'm not sitting out here all night making sure you don’t puke," he clears his throat to disguise a laugh.

"Why not? It'd be like a sleepover."

You snuggle down into your blanket and try to find unconsciousness again, but you feel his hand on your shoulder. Your stomach lurches - not from the alcohol, you're barely tipsy now - and your eyes fly up to his face. He's never touched you. 

He attributes the blush spreading across your face to the alcohol.

"Don't make me carry you," he tries to threaten, but the idea sparks an evil grin on your face, so he repeats himself, "Don't make me do that." 

His jaw clenches at the knotted pit forming in his stomach. Deep down, he wants you to make him.

You sigh dramatically. "Why can't you leave me alone out here? Is it really any less safe than my room?"

"Yes, actually." He doesn't elaborate. "Am I going to get to sleep myself or am I gonna stand here arguing with you until dawn?"

"Okay. Fine. So demanding," you sit up and fold your fluffy blanket as his hand retreats. 

He sighs. His biceps jiggle when he crosses his arms tightly.

“You really can’t stand me, can you, Six?” Your voice is sultrier than you intended. You look up at him through your eyelashes.

You watch with confusion as he blinks and swallows hard. He doesn't move or look away from your pouting face. His body heats up as he valiantly fights the temptation to look down your tank top. 

Shaking off his lack of response, you stand, and step over to the entertainment center. You then bend to turn off the TV. When the screen blackens, in the reflection, you see Six’s head cock to the side, then snap away from you.

Was he just checking out my ass? No way. I'm drunker than I thought. God, I'm a lightweight now.

Since you’re inebriated, you decide to push your luck, so you turn and brush your fingertips across Six's forearm as you walk by him, murmuring, "Goodnight."

You’re almost to the hallway when you hear his husky voice.

"’Night, sweetheart." 

Your theory is confirmed. You must be absolutely black-out drunk because there was no possibility Six called you "sweetheart." You curl up and pass out almost instantly on your bed, laughing at your love-sick, impaired brain's desire for him. 

Was he drunk? Six's jaw clamps shut as soon as the word leaves his mouth. He'd never called anyone a pet name. He didn't even know he knew any. He had been headed to bed, but now he couldn't face laying there in the dark with his thoughts. Six walks out the front door, intent on performing unnecessary checks. His thoughts follow him anyway. 

He's not sure what's happening to him. Six isn't going soft, he's still hyper-alert, still deadly. But he is softer, somehow. When he looks at you or thinks of you, he feels a protectiveness that has nothing to do with his paycheck. He feels like he could be happy if he could just keep looking at you.

And really what was the point of being freed from prison if he didn't take every opportunity to live before he died? He could allow himself to feel an attraction to you, as long as he didn't name it. As long as he didn't act on it. Six decided he wouldn't fight this, but he also wouldn't encourage any feelings from you. He wouldn’t drag you into this. He would let himself have a friend - no more - if only for a little while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you keep your ritual. You have no hangover despite being sure you’d drank too heavily the night before. As you reach for your mug, your fingers brush empty space. It's missing from its place in the cabinet. Groggy, you take a better look around you, and you blink when you see the mug next to your coffee pot. 

Weird - did I leave it out yesterday? Hm. Must have. 

The telltale squeak of the barstool echoes in the quiet room. 

Without turning, you greet him, "Morning, Six. I hope you slept well." 

"Oh, you can hear me now?" is his fond response. His tone makes your heart skip.

"I'm sure you're just being louder for my benefit."

A chuckle leaves his lips. You aren't wrong. 

Six watches you brew the coffee, imagining what it’d be like to have this view forever. He knows that’s a concerning thought, and he knows he’s torturing himself. It doesn’t stop him. It feels too good to let himself believe this could be his life, just for a moment. In some alternate universe, he could have a wife who loves him, a home, simple mornings, and peace. Six wants to imbibe as much of this as possible.

You finally turn after filling your mug. You peer out the window, but it's still relatively dark outside. Instead, your eyes dart to Six. He's focused on his laptop, so you freely admire him. Your gaze trails over him while you stir your drink.

A white t-shirt clings to him just enough to build pressure in your core. Since he's seated, you can't see his lower half, but you're sure it's some slacks that fit him perfectly. His hair is coiffed as usual, but his facial hair is scruffy. He looks good. If you were honest with yourself, you'd fuck him right there on the counter.

Six didn’t notice every single time you looked at him, but it was close. He didn't know why, but he marked each glance he caught. And right now, he could feel your stare as if it was a physical weight. The pleasure it gave him was electric, addictive. This base desire was easier to understand than the others you made him face, and he felt slightly more comfortable imagining it. This feeling could be partially alleviated.

Six would never act on his desires with you, though. You were under his authority, his protection. You had seen only one other man in over a month. He was new to the strength of these feelings, but he wasn't stupid. You were bored and lonely. He was more lonely, and he'd already let you in further than anyone else. That would be a problem. No, he would be content to let himself bask in your skin-deep attentions and your kindness, but he wouldn't torture either of you with physical complications.

During the silence, while the two of you thought about the same thing, the sun rose, casting you in a golden light. Six's back was to the window, but the sunshine catches his blonde hair, illuminating it. At the same time, both of you smile at each other - yours much larger than his, but no less genuine. He watches as your smile fades into your eyes, and you wet your lips. Nerves tighten in your stomach, and Six sees your throat constrict. Despite the distance between you, your eyes fall to his mouth. His do the same.

Registering the spark in the room, Six abruptly stands to avoid ignition. 

"Have a good day," he offers quietly. He heads toward his room, toting his laptop.

Too shocked to reply, you stand there staring after him in the morning sun. 

Holy shit, what just happened?

Over the next month, your morning routine is kept mostly the same, except your coffee mug is nearly always next to the machine when you wake. Six is civil, friendlier than he was at first, but you feel a wall returning. It's clear he's keeping some kind of boundary and you respect that. You could use a friend, and he does his best to be just that. 

Throughout the month, there are times he finds you seated on the couch and sits with you. He doesn’t speak much, only answering your questions or agreeing with a comment you make about a movie or TV show. It’s the bare minimum that you both need, but it’s not fully satisfying for either of you.

It settles in your mind that you want to tell him you care about him. Platonically and in the most casual way possible, of course. You get the feeling he’s never had someone to look out for him, and that makes you sad. 

On the last Friday of the month, you find the courage to say something. He’s seated on the opposite end of the couch, as far as he can be, in companionable silence as you let a comedy play. 

“Six,” you begin, your heart already racing. But as you look at his profile, you fizzle out. “Are you hungry?”

He turns to you, face grave. “As long as it’s not the rubber chicken you made yesterday, yeah.” 

“Well, maybe you should cook for a change.” Would you ever not be trading jabs at each other?

“I do cook,” he argues.

You roll your eyes. “Mac and cheese from a box for a week straight does not qualify as cooking.” 

“You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s all I’m paid for. Special cuisine is extra.” 

He’s joking, but the reminder of the nature of your relationship makes you cringe. You’ve let yourself grow far too attached to the handsome, quietly witty man, and knowing there was an asterisk on your friendship causes you more sorrow than you thought you’d feel. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One sunny morning, as you sit on the patio step, your ever-present coffee mug on the ground next to you, Six joins you. He doesn’t sit, instead, he stands behind you. Overlooking the valley, you ask him random questions that pop into your mind. You’re putting pieces of him together while trying not to pry any further than you know he'd like. 

"Favorite candy? Besides gum," you add at the same time he answers.

"Gum. Oh, Skittles," he edits.  

“Shoe size?” You turn to look up at him, shielding your eyes from the sun.

His lips twitch, “Eleven. You gonna buy me a birthday present?”

“When is your birthday, Six?”

He hesitates before responding, and when he does, you’re not sure it’s the truth. 

“November 12th.” 

You nod once and move on. "Ideal vacation?"

"A quiet beach." 

“Favorite song?"

He's stumped on that one, "I don't think I have one."

"What about a favorite band? Or a singer?" You ask more generally.

"Hm, Bonnie Tyler." He declares, a gleam in his eye. 

You laugh, "You're trying to rile me up, but I bet you probably are a fan of 'Holding Out for a Hero,' aren't you?" 

He quirks an eyebrow at you so you explain, "She mentions Greek mythology," you gesture at his left arm, "and I know you love the Greeks." 

You pause, then sing your own version of the lyrics to him, markedly offkey, "You're my streetwise Hercules -” Breaking off quickly in laughter at yourself, you bend forward to hug your knees. 

You're no longer looking at him, so you miss out on the way his cheeks fight a brilliant, natural smile. You miss the way he loses and has to turn away from you to let the adoration color his face. And he misses the triumphant shutter of a camera in the distance.

               

The following day, Six is surprised to feel his phone vibrate. Few people had his current number. 

Heard you got that cushy contract? I suppose you deserve it after saving my ass so many times.

Ah, it’s Denver, Six knows immediately. Not one for texting, Six leaves the message alone. The less he says about you the better - even to someone Six could almost call a friend. 

He mulls over the phase ‘cushy contract’ and frowns. Six was now two and half months into this job, and he knew it would be coming to an end soon. Apparently, you were making good progress because your employer had notified Six they’d be terminating his services shortly - probably at the end of the month. 

Two weeks until you were gone. Now that he understood exactly what he was missing, Six wasn’t sure how he would go back to his isolated murderous-errand-boy status. But what he felt didn’t matter - he would be going back to the existence he’d known for nearly twenty years. 

You stroll into the common area one afternoon to see Six standing on the patio, contemplating the horizon. His gray suit is bright in the daylight, and you watch as the wind tosses a lock of hair. You take the opportunity to soak him in, to think about how much you care for him.

You open the door and walk out to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. You follow his eye line to see fluffy white clouds amidst a deep blue sky. Curious to know what he’s thinking, you clear your throat.

“You see something?”

“The same thing you do,” he gives you a tiny smirk. A breeze wafts the scent of his gum and you smile at the essence of him.

He slides his gaze along the tree line. You can hardly take your eyes off him, though. Six fascinates you. The CIA’s deadliest ex-asset was standing out here, looking like that, enjoying the countryside. He was quiet and closed-off, but he was also incredibly funny and warm.

God, what I wouldn't do for him. A surge of attraction consumes you for a moment, and it leaves you feeling unsteady. 

Oh, he probably came out here to be alone. I’m interrupting.

“I’ll leave you be,” you say, your voice catching. You turn to go.

Six’s jaw clenches, and his lips part to tell you not to go, to tell you he prefers your presence to anything else on earth, but he doesn’t speak. Honestly, he doesn’t know how to say it - and he hears the door click shut behind him.

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later, Six is anticipating a text from your company telling him to stand down. He’s on edge all day, reigning in his thoughts. Trying to learn how to pack the pieces of humanity you’d given him into something he could carry with him. He can’t decide if it’s best to spend time around you or avoid you. 

Six’s phone vibrates for the third time since he’d been here. Fully expecting another text from Denver or your employer, he’s stunned by what he does see.

Three photos have been sent to him by a blocked number. Each one depicts the two of you; each one shows Six exactly how fucked he is. He stares at the last one and the mixed emotions nearly buckle his knees. 

Six had never seen happiness on his own face, but there it was. You’d sang to him, made a joke as only a friend could, you’d reminded him he was a man with choices and desires. It had struck him then hardest of all. Six wanted you. He wanted you in every way a man could want a woman, and in that moment he knew he’d never be the same. 

But seeing that moment now through the lens of a threat? Six’s body kicks back into the high-alert state he’d been in for two decades. He springs off his bed, grabs his weapon, and sprints out to find you. 

Because these photos are of Six’s reactions to you, he knows this isn’t about your work. Six knows exactly who this is and why. He also knows his adversary is probably running on fumes and therefore probably weak in resources. That means Six had some time. 

He knocks on your lab door, and you call out, “Yeah?” 

“Just checking,” he assures. 

He moves off to scan his cameras, then the grounds. He finds nothing, so he retreats into the kitchen, half-facing the direction that the last photo had come from. Six works at his laptop until the sun sets. Through connections and rumors, he figures out someone (he needed no guesses as to whom) had placed a decent sum of money on his head.

His theory had been right, his foe was broke. It was obvious that the guy had poured all of his remaining funds into the bounty on Six's head. Six estimated he had roughly three weeks until a team could be expected. At least he wouldn’t be saying goodbye to you just yet.

                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The end of the third month comes and goes, and another week drags by. No word arrives from your employer. Going home had become something you no longer wanted, so your research had intentionally slowed. You spent more time outside of your lab than in. As time wore on, your mornings with Six became longer. Instead of standing across the kitchen from him, you found yourself seated next to him at the bar more often than not. 

But Six had been strange lately. His brow furrowed constantly, he was as uptight as he was when you met him. Six became strict about knowing where you were at all times. And for the past two weeks, he had walked you directly to your room at night, hand hovering over your lower back. It was a weird mixture of familiarity and distance between the two of you.

This morning, you’re both sitting at the bar in comfortable silence. You're reading while he does god-only-knows-what on his computer. You both jump when his phone buzzes and violently dances across the counter. He snatches it up and sighs.

“Next week, some extra people are going to be hanging around.” 

“What?” You’re dismayed. The private bubble that had been suspending the two of you bursts.

He has to tell you. If not the whole truth, then part of it.

“There's been a- a threat. It’s not a definite thing, but it could be a problem,” he hedges. 

The world drops out beneath you. Not only is the intoxicating time you’d had with Six coming to an end, but it’s doing so because you could be hurt. You take a deep breath, willing your nerves to go away. Your eyes close and you place your palms flat on the bar. 

Six suddenly remembers that this isn’t your life, you’re not used to life-threatening events. He slowly, firmly covers your hand with his own. It’s rough and warm; your internal monologue gets derailed.

It’s terrifying to learn that someone will try to assault you. It’s something you never thought would truly happen. However, you know your work has led you into some high-risk areas, and you’re strong enough to hold the information, to accept it. And the appreciation that the person protecting you is Six? He was everything you could ask for. 

“You’ll be okay,” he promises, his voice aimed at your stampeding heart. It’s the one thing he knows he can give you, and he feels wildly territorial. He was damned if he let anyone near you.

He reluctantly removes his hand, and you take a second breath. You’re facing straight ahead, but you can feel his eyes reading your face. 

“I know. I trust you, Six,” turning to look up at him, you find the courage to tamp down your fear. You give him a sad smile.

Your eyes water, and Six begs them not to spill over. He won’t be able to stop himself from wiping away your tears - it’s his fault they’re there. 

Your childlike faith in him jars him with a realization: he would do anything for you. If you asked, he would do it. He was wrapped around your finger, and he liked it. His heart swells. And, for the first time in his adult life since his grueling training, he's overcome. 

···

You spend the next week anticipating the arrival of the anonymous men. Six had warned you that - like the housekeeper - these men were not supposed to speak to you. 

At the same time, Six divested himself of you as best he could. Once this immediate situation was dealt with, and the contract terminated, he wouldn't see you again. Six's lifestyle would not allow him to have you, and he couldn't change it. As badly as he wanted you, Six would never ask you to leave your career, your home, your life to be with him. 

He wrestled with it, though. Six often found himself thinking of scenarios in which he could show you how he felt. Maybe after he killed Lloyd he could come back for you. Maybe after the contract ended you would realize it wasn't boredom, it was real. Maybe your feelings were as strong as his. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The return of Six's coldness confuses you. You miss him despite him being in the next room. You knew why (or you thought you did), you knew he was being paid to be here for this exact situation. It didn't stop you from feeling rejected.

The day comes and a van pulls up in the driveway. Four large, armed men pile out. They all look similar, terrifying. You retreat to your room before they come inside.

Six greets them, instructing them in what he's had planned. He walks the grounds with them but doesn't divulge his personal plans in regards to you. Six wanted everything compartmentalized and separated. No one could know who you were or why Six was there. These are Denver's men, but Six trusts no one completely. 

Nearly a full day later, when you get too hungry to stay in your room any longer, you tiptoe to the kitchen. Your heart sinks at the empty room; you'd been subconsciously hoping Six would be at his spot. 

As you reach the sink, you hear footsteps enter the room. You turn to greet Six, but you're visibly shocked by a stocky man standing there instead.

"Is everything okay?" You ask when the man doesn't say anything. 

"Yeah, sorry. I didn't realize there was a woman here." 

"Oh," you laugh, "Well, here I am." 

Forgetting that this is not actually your home, and you didn't need to play hostess, you offer the man a drink. 

"Water? Or some whiskey? But you're probably like Six with that, huh?" 

"Yeah, naw, I can't drink on the job. Thanks though, honey. You been up here a while? You seem happy to see me." The man laughs good-naturedly. 

You continue without answering his question, "Anything to eat? We've got plenty." You wince at the way you use 'we' as if you and Six had been playing house.

"I appr-" the man is interrupted by Six flinging open the garage door. 

"Why are you in here?" His question is authoritative yet calm, and both you and the man start to answer at the same time. 

"No, you." He nods at the man. 

"Sorry, man. Should've known." The man quickly retreats outside. The patio door slams shut.

"He didn't even know a woman was here?" You put the query to Six. "Why? What'd he mean by 'should've known'?"

"His job is to watch that direction." Six indicates outward, toward the perimeter. "Not what goes on inside. I don't want anyone knowing anything unnecessary." He doesn't address your third question. 

"I'm unnecessary now?" You already know it's a catty remark.

He throws you a withering look. "They're not supposed to be inside at all. If you see them, tell me. I'll take care of it."

"I mean, okay. But that guy was nice. At least he talked to me." You mutter the last bit. 

Six has never felt jealousy, so when it flares in his stomach at your words, it burns. His eyes narrow and he strides over, stopping close enough to touch you. 

"My job is to protect you. My job is not to entertain you. I'm not paid to be your friend." He sounds frustrated; like he's been trying to tell you something.

Six is overwhelmed and conflicted. He wasn't paid to be your friend - that came naturally. And he wasn't even being paid at all anymore. The deposits have stopped and Six is still here. He can't find a way to tell you that fact, though. 

Abashed, you duck your head so he doesn't see the tears that spring up. Gravity works against you, so you look up to the ceiling, fighting the tears back. You feel lonely despite the best friend you'd had in a long while standing in front of you. 

Six's mouth goes slack. He's horrified. He just made you cry. Six had made new-widows cry, sure. But never had his words caused the tears of a woman he cared about. He feels unbalanced. Six has no idea how to process anything going on inside him.

You sigh. 

I'm the one who's pushed this friendship. He's always been honest about what this was. I can't very well be mad at him when he does his job. 

"Okay, Six. I'll stay out of your way." Your voice is hoarse.

You bolt to your room as he stands staring into space, fists clenched.

             

A few days later, you leave your lab to find an apple and a glass of water waiting for you on the bar. A faint smile pulls at your lips. You realize you've not eaten today. On the countertop is your favorite mug. Peering inside, you see whiskey. Your small laugh breaks the heavy silence in the house.

After eating, you take the mug and sink down onto the couch. The gaming console makes an electronic jingle as you turn it on for the first time. You'd been working hard, again, but your morale was poor. You were miserable without Six's easy humor.

You pick up a game controller and start to scroll through the downloaded games when you hear Six's footsteps enter the house from the garage. Your heart twinges at the discovery that you have his footsteps memorized. He trudges through the kitchen and stops in the entryway to the living room.

You stop yourself from fully appreciating him in his gray suit, but it's hard as you can see your favorite black t-shirt underneath. He sees the mug in your hand and his face becomes hopeful.

"I haven't played a video game since 1995." He confesses, now staring at the TV.

"You want to play?" Your voice cracks embarrassingly. 

He almost smiles at you, "Loser makes dinner?"

[ay0nha]

I AM CURIOUS...

soooooo

Not only did I watch Blade Runner 2049...but also Gray Man....so catch me while you can thinking about Ryan Gosling in different forms...

WHO would be interested in what I have to say about either Sierra Six (courtland gentry) OR Officer K

Asking for a friend....

[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

✨TAGLIST✨

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

[chadillacboseman]

Possibility

Pairing: Courtland Gentry (Sierra Six) x F!Reader (reader is referred to as his wife)

Warnings: If you can believe it, they are not fucking. Mentions of injury to reader, Six being out of character (RE: soft), hospital setting toward the end.

Summary: You're hurt, Six freaks out

--

Few things scare Courtland Gentry anymore.

In his line of work, he's seen too many things that left little scars on each fold of his brain- deaths, dismemberment, and enough blood to fill a modest backyard swimming pool. He's escorted diplomats, killed drug lords, and been thrown from two story windows on more than one occasion. Those were just your average Tuesday.

But one thing does scare Courtland Gentry.

Losing you.

He keeps his line of work far away from you, like a pristine collectible on a dusty shelf- a diamond in a coal mine. Court's apologies come like band-aids on gunshot wounds every time he stumbles in the front door after days of silence, leaving bloodied hand prints on your clean walls.

Still, you clean his wounds and tell him it's alright as he perches on the edge of the bath tub and promises through bloodied lips that things will get better.

He knows it's not the life you deserve, but it's all he can give you right now.

Court tries to make things normal for you as best he can, but quiet date nights on the patio and flowers for every anniversary seem pale compared to the worry you hold in your chest every night he's not at home.

Tonight, he's perched on a rooftop, aiming binoculars at a target for the fourth night in a row. His mind wanders to you, wondering if you're at home wringing your hands in fear for his safety. Pacing the kitchen floor as you so often do, checking your phone and glancing at the clock at the top of every hour.

Court's cell phone vibrates and he ignores it, squinting through the lenses of the binoculars in the dimming light.

His cell phone vibrates again, but this time it doesn't stop.

He sighs in frustration and yanks it from his pocket, glaring down at the bright screen.

It's Fitzroy.

"What?" he answers curtly, annoyed at the interruption.

"Six-" Fitzroy sounds worried, "Something happened. I need you to come to the usual spot."

The usual spot- the alleyway at London and Lancaster. Court furrows his brows as he opens his mouth to ask what happened, but Fitzroy cuts him off.

"Just come here. Now."

---

Fitzroy's car is parked in the alleyway, idling with the lights off. Court pulls the rear door open and slides inside, locking it behind him.

Something is wrong.

Fitzroy is pale as a sheet and he avoids Court's gaze, staring pointedly at the seat in front of him.

"What's going on?" Court leans in and tries to catch his eyes, "Fitz?"

"Six, your wife-"

Court feels his stomach drop into his shoes; the next words are unintelligible, just muffled sounds that fall on his deaf ears. The car is spinning.

"Take me to her," he feels like he's trying to shout through water.

"Six, I need you to calm down-"

"Take me to her, now, Fitz."

--

Court hammers the elevator button in the lobby of the hospital, watching the numbers above illuminate slowly. He's sweating. Around him, people mull about loudly- their conversations are an annoying hum that thrums against his ears.

The elevator dings loudly, and Court pushes through the couple that exits, disregarding their cries of anger and slamming his fist on the button for the 5th floor.

The doors open once more and he's standing in the intensive care unit. The faint sounds of alarms and machines assaults his ears as he searches for your room number.

"What happened to the fucking protection detail, Fitz?"

"They were there. How do you think I knew about this?"

"Who was it? Which one of them let this happen?"

"I'm not gonna tell you that, Six."

He'll find out who it was.

But there will be time for that later. He finds your room and reaches for the door, feeling his heart bang out a rhythm faster than he's felt in years.

There's a short man in a white coat standing at the foot of your bed. He wears his glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose as he scrawls on a clipboard. He looks up when Court clears his throat.

"Ah, you must be her husband?" his voice is like nails on a chalkboard in the quiet room.

Court nods and the man extends a hand for him to shake. It's sweaty. Court grimaces when he clasps it.

"The shot went through her right lung. Missed her T6 by just under a centimeter on the exit. We were able to repair the damage in surgery, but she's not out of the woods yet."

Court barely hears the doctor's words. He's staring at you, feeling a lump form in his throat as his eyes trace the wires and tubes that seem to cover every inch of you.

"I'll uh, give you some time alone," the doctor pats Court's shoulder awkwardly and bows out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Court approaches your bed slowly- he feels like he's moving through wet concrete. Every step closer is laborious, almost painful. When he reaches you, his legs can no longer hold him- he falls to his knees at the edge of the bed, clutching at the white blankets for purchase.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his face buried in the fabric as he speaks, "This is my fault."

Courtland Gentry hasn't cried since he was a boy. The night his shithead father broke his arm in a fit of drunken rage. He'd cried himself to sleep that night while his little brother clung to him in fear.

He never cried again.

But now, as he kneels here before you, the tears come back with a vengeance. He had forgotten how much they burn on fresh wounds. Before he can stop himself, he's shaking with sobs, fingers clutching the blankets so tightly it hurts.

He feels like a child again, vulnerable and afraid, hanging onto your hospital bed as if you might drift away if he lets go. He's angry, he's terrified, he has lost the tight control he has over his life.

Court finally finds the strength to pull himself to his feet, bracing his weight on the bed for support. The rhythmic beeping of the machines rings in his ears like the buzz of an angry hornet.

He dips his mouth to your forehead and plants a gentle kiss there, lingering for a moment before finally straightening.

Court makes a promise as he settles into the chair near the bed-

He's going to give you the life you deserve.

BONUS, CRYING GOSLING:

[goldensunflowe-r]

Sierra Six x reader Smut

[anitalenia]

━━ anitalenia’s masterlist ༺ ˎˊ-

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✧˚. VISIT MY OTHER PAGES↷ ˊ- taglist | time stamps | the great library | writing help

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━━━ GENRES I LOVE ★ mafia ｡･:*˚:✧｡ fantasy/supernatural ｡･:*˚:✧｡ step dad ｡･:*˚:✧｡ enemies to lovers ｡･:*˚:✧｡ polyamory ｡･:*˚:✧｡ stepcest ｡･:*˚:✧｡ teacher x student ｡･:*˚:✧｡ bodyguard ｡･:*˚:✧｡ monsterfucking ｡･:*˚:✧｡ bimbo!reader

'*•.¸♡ UPCOMING FICS / WIP ★ be my protector, be my love , court gentry x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ want you, want me, taijani x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ all of me, eyekey x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ a velvet unity, sierra six x fem!reader

'*•.¸♡ UPCOMING SERIES ★ a thousand bad things, lloyd hansen x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

☆。* THE GRAY MAN 。☆。

lloyd hansen | courtland gentry / sierra six |

the gray boys / multiple characters

───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

☆。* TRIPLE FRONTIER 。☆。

santiago garcia / pope | william miller / ironhead |

ben miller | francisco morales / catfish |

the frontier boys / multiple characters

───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

☆。* SLASHERS 。☆。

ghostface | michael myers | jason voorhees |

slashers / multiple characters

───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

☆。* MISCELLANEOUS 。☆。

avatar | ari levinson | rio (good girls) | battinson |

𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓶. pirates / mafia / fantasy etc.

KEY — s (smut ) f ( fluff ) a ( angst ) d ( dark content )

˖⁺ ⊹୨ let me make it better ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( s, f ) ━━ you hated when lloyd yelled, but loved when he made up for it. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: lloyd hansen x fem!reader started: April 28 published: April 30 edited: yes ୨୧ 𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་

˖⁺ ⊹୨ be my protector, be my love ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( s, f, a ) ━━ his job was to protect you, but falling in love wasn’t in the contract. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: sierra six x fem!reader started: published: edited: yes ୨୧ 𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་

˖⁺ ⊹୨ by the lakeside ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( s, f, a ) ━━ you were angry with benny for almost dying and not even caring about it. luckily, benny finds a way to make it up to you. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: ben miller x fem!reader started: May 22 published: May 26 edited: yes ୨୧ 𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་

©︎ 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐀. 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙯𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨 𝙤𝙧 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢 𝙖𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣.

[listenbuckaroo]

Flowers Part 2 - Courtland Gentry (Sierra Six) x Reader

warnings: none, sweet and happy six w/ his partner :)

word count: 1.2k

summary: your high school sweetheart appears again

a/n: hello everyone, i had quite possibly the worst week. this may be shit and short but i hope you like it <3

---

Morning honey,

Please don’t be mad at me for leaving without saying goodbye, I’ll fall into your tiny apartment again soon.

-CG

One year later, the note Courtland left on your counter still remained in its place on your fridge. Glancing at it before you start your day job is one of the best things for you. It kept you going on darker days and brightened your day even more on the good ones. 

It was completely radio silent from him. You didn’t have his phone number, according to the internet he was still in prison, and he quite literally left no trace other than the note in your life. You knew he had to do something secretive and classified due to the way he left that morning. 

Your life had continued on as normal, working day in and day out, attempting to make the most of your days off and not worry about the fact that Courtland could be doing something incredibly dangerous while you worked a 9-5.

Even from a young age you two had talked about being ever forever, you knew he was the one for you and nothing was going to change that. But if he never came back you could never have that conversation with him again. 

When the gentle Saturday sun hit you face something felt different. You didn’t feel tired when your feet hit the floor. The water in the shower nearly immediately got hot enough for you to get in, and your coffee was the best it had been in weeks. 

But nothing topped the knock on your door as you were making breakfast. At 10:30 a knock sounded on your door. You tried to remember if you had ordered anything recently or if the kids down the hall were playing ding dong ditch this early on a Saturday. Holding your coffee in your hands to keep it warm you glanced out your peephole on your door. Nearly dropping your mug you ripped your door open to see your favorite human in front of you. 

Cortland Gentry was standing in front of you, with the most beautiful bouquet of flowers you had ever seen in your life. He proceeded to give you the biggest shit eating grin you hadn’t seen since high school and opened his arms as you tackled him for a hug. 

“Heya honey.” he whispered into your hair. “God, I missed you.” 

You breathed in Courtland, he smelled cleaner this time. Not like the gunpowder and blood that he did last time. But today he smelled like clean soap and spearmint, from the gum he insisted on chewing 24/7. He also looked better, there were no bruised ribs or bleeding forehead that needed tending, just a happy healthy man that you had missed so dearly. 

Never wanting your hug to end, but also not wanting your neighbors to stop and berate you with questions the next time you saw any of them you pulled him inside. He kissed your forehead and handed you the bouquet of flowers you had nearly crushed when you tackled him. The roses and sunflowers complimented each other so beautifully and matched your apartment decor to a T. 

“Here, these are to make up for my exit last time.” He said as you searched for a vase in your cabinets.

You tried to compose yourself, the anger and frustration you felt last time he was here threatened to bubble up over the happiness you felt. 

You couldn’t be a place for him to crash but you also couldn’t give him up. He had been stripped from your life once, and you’d be damned if you were to let that happen again. 

“What happened, Courtland?” you said with your back still to him, trying not to let the tears spill over.

You felt him shift behind in the chair he had made himself comfortable on. A deep sigh and sorrowed eyes met yours when you turned around. He gestured at the coffee pot that was still warm and you poured him a mug. 

“It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you everything that I’m legally allowed to tell you if you have a free day.” He said, sipping his coffee. 

You nodded and sat down next to him with your newly poured cup of coffee. 

Over the next few hours Courtland explained his entire situation to you. From the reason he did what he did in high school, to the reason he got out, and onwards. You learned of his adventures (he spared you the gory details) in other countries that you had only dreamed about going to. By the time he had finished, the coffee was gone, you were hungry and he couldn't stop pacing. 

“I have questions, but I know we're both hungry Courtland so I’ll cook something and we can keep talking, okay?”

“Would you please call me Court?” He asked “you know I always hated when you used my full name.”

“Your name is Courtland, and you broke into my apartment so I don’t think we're on a nickname basis yet.” you said picking up the takeout menus you kept on the fridge. 

“Yes, but we did grow up together, and we also shared a bed the last time I was here.” He said standing up to step closer to you. 

“Even so, I had to wash my sheets three times because even a shower couldn’t get you clean, you stinky ass man.” you said pushing him away and picking up your phone to call in a pizza.

“Oh how dare you..” He said picking you up by the waist, he began tickling you as if you were in high school again play fighting.

The shock and giddiness that wracked your body nearly made your brain short circuit. You were 15 again just hanging out with a boy who you loved, and had no idea of the bad things he had done or was capable of doing. In this moment he was Courtland Gentry, a boy from a small town who loved the people he was close to and would do anything for them. He was no longer a criminal or a CIA agent that didn’t exist. 

He was just Courtland Gentry, and that's all you could ever ask for. When he finally set you down you found yourself planted on the counter and were finally eye level with him. Looking into the eyes that you fell in love with you felt nothing but the urge to kiss him. It may have been a few years since you had kissed anyone, but you had to try.

And after leaning in, Courtland clearly felt the same way. He ran his hand up your thighs and kissed you, not a needy urgent kiss, but one that held emotion and love. It felt like home and you never wanted to leave it, but you both had to pull away eventually for air. 

He rested his forehead on yours and took a deep breath. “I can’t believe it took me 10 years to kiss the love of my life again.” He said and smiled at you. 

You giggled with teary eyes and pulled him in for another hug, not really believing that he was back with you, hopefully for good. 

tags: @spideysimpossiblegirl

[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

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xvi}

the previous chapter was the appetizer~ now, for the main dish

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 15 is the moment Chapter 16 is the icon

word count: 3.2k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Clare *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know YET (except you do know #wreckthe4thwall)

After Court gathers your stuff and helps you with your shorts, he strips off his jacket and drapes it on your shoulders. "I'm just gonna tie them up, so they aren't walking free in the morning." he shortly clutches your shoulder, "Wait here, okay?"

You nod. "Okay.."

As you double-check your things, Court is tying up the unconscious thugs to a tree— rephrase: tightly tying them up. Not too tight to cut off circulation, but tight enough that it hurts and possibly cut off circulation if not untied after 12 hours.

Court was (still is) holding back. When he heard your muffled cries, he was seething. And when he saw the state you were in, there was only red in his vision. He badly wanted to kill them, but he quickly thought that death wasn't the punishment they deserved. Plus, it would attract too much attention.

Despite pulling his punches, Court struck the thugs hard enough for fractures.

"If I wanted to break all the bones in your bodies," he glances at the unconscious thugs, "I would've."

As he triples the knot, he looks over to you. You're fiddling with the contents in your bag while leaning on a tree. Court notices that you've donned his jacket, which looks like a very short dress on you. 

A fluttering feeling spreads across his chest and up his throat.

It's that dangerous feeling again. Much more dangerous than when he was livid. This will only worsen if he ignores it, so he decides to contemplate something else.

While securing the thugs' bounds, Court sneaks glances at you every five seconds. The horrific events took place no less than 10 minutes ago, yet somehow you appear to be standing strong and unaffected. He always suspects you're more strong-willed than most. However, Court cannot truly fathom the extent of the trauma you experienced.

It's something anyone shouldn't ever experience. No matter the gender or what kind of person they are.

Court deeply breathes in and out, dousing the anger boiling in his stomach. He steps back, admires his handiwork, and nods to himself. He heads back to you and he notices a light on the ground. It's a phone. He picks it up, thinking it's yours, and swipes at the screen. After two messy photos, he almost crushes the phone upon seeing a picture of you straddled to the ground with your shorts being pulled down.

He knows there are more photos, but he doesn't need to look at them or else he won't be able to leave without snapping all their necks.

You watch Court walking back with angry strides. Even though he's wearing a cap and there's not much light around, you know he has a scary face on.

"Hey," you say with a small smile, in an attempt to calm him.

"Hey.." he replies with a sigh, glancing at the phone in his hand. "They, uh.. they took pictures."

It takes all your might not to break down again. "Yeah.. yeah, I figured. I mean, I saw flashes," you chuckle awkwardly and gesture for the phone.

He reluctantly hands it to you. "You can delete them."

"And destroy evidence that they did this to me? I think not," you huff. "I hope it's enough to land them in jail. I don't want to do any trial of sorts."

"You're probably going to have to, though."

"And get you and Kiara involved? No way."

He sighs, exasperated and amused. "You were just—" he tightens his jaw, "Take care of yourself first before you start taking care of others."

You heave a brow at him. "I know I said you have a savior pass, but don't you dare lecture me right now." you declare chidingly and give his shoulder a shove. "Now, let's go.. there's a police station nearby."

Court frowns. "How near?"

"A minute or two by car? And probably less than a 10-minute walk." you furtively observe the reluctance flashing across his face. "I  mean.. you don't have to come with me. Just take me to my bike and—"

"No, I'll take you. Let's go."

"Where's Kiara, by the— ah!— Shit!"

You've only taken one and a half steps when your left ankle screams and decides not to fully function. Court is quick to catch you, and you feel a flare of shame on your cheeks, heating up with another emotion-that-should-not-be-named.

"Where does it hurt?" he asks, assessing your lower extremities.

You groan. "Left ankle. I think it's sprained."

"Let me take a look. Lean on the tree."

"Yeah, sure."

Court descends to a half-kneel and carefully rolls your sock down. He then uses his phone's flashlight to help his inspection. You glance at the thugs, still unconscious, and then you glance around, still no people. But the rain is slowly letting up.

"Maybe it's not a sprain— maybe I can walk it off, you know?" you shortly laugh, "It's my fault for just standing here and not stretching."

"It's sprained," says Court.

"Fuck." you say through gritted teeth, "Are you sure?"

"As sure as it is swelling."

You look down. "Damn, no wonder it kept twinging. I thought I could shake it off."

Court powers off the flashlight, pockets his phone, and rolls your sock up before he stands. "I have a compression bandage in the car. Here," he slightly squats down, "put your arm on my shoulder."

"Okay.. but shouldn't you be at my left side— woah, woah!" you yelp when he suddenly hoists you up in his arms. "Kurt, what are you doing?!"

"Preventing unwanted pressure off your ankle and keeping it elevated," he answers diligently, as though reciting in class, and starts walking out of the park.

You stammer. "I know first aid. I meant, why are you carrying me?"

He blinks at you. "I just told you why."

"I can walk."

"You tried."

"Stop arguing with me."

"That's my line."

"Why are you being stubborn?!"

"Why are you?"

Court's SUV is parked near where your motorcycle has fallen. Except its now up on its two-wheels and parked by the curb.

The driver's window rolls down and Claire's horrified face appears. "Oh my God, (N/N)!" she exclaims and climbs out of the car.

"Kiara? Seriously, what are you two still doing around these parts?" you question, glancing at the father-daughter duo.

"I told you, I'll tell you later." Court says, "You're safe, but not so sound. Health comes first."

Before you can protest, Claire opens the backseat door and Court carefully carries you in the car. "Get the first-aid," he tells the teen.

"Aye-aye!" Claire rounds the car, hops in the passenger side, and reels out a kit from under the seat.

"Scoot over," Court says to you.

"No." you say firmly.

He glares at you, and you glare back.

"Why are you two fighting?" Claire asks, amused.

"We're not. He's just picking a fight." you answer, scooting back.

He snorts. "Says the pigheaded." and climbs in the backseat.

"Who are you calling pigheaded?!"

"You, of course!"

Claire giggles. "Are you two just fighting to avoid saying what you're really feeling?"

You and Court look at her as though her eyes combined into one. "What?" the two of you chorus, "No."

"Jinx!" Claire chirps, laughing.

She opens the light and hands the first-aid kit to Court. He then starts bandaging your swelling ankle while you open up your phone's camera. It doesn't surprise you to see your beaten up reflection. Because honestly, you've been thinking you looked worse.

You have small cuts here and there; bruised right temple and left cheek; and dried blood caking beneath your nose.

Claire pops open a water bottle, carefully dampening a towel, which she gives you.

"Thank you," you smile, immediately wincing when your face twinges.

"Let me help," Claire unpacks the disinfectant spray and band-aids.

"It's alright—"

"No, (N/N)," Claire says solemnly, "None of this is alright."

You're momentarily shocked. This is the first time you've seen Claire immensely serious. Yet it makes you smile, and this time, you don't feel any twinge.

"Thank you, Kiara."

She blushes. "Y-You're welcome— but you don't have to thank me! I'm helping because I care about you, so it's only natural, you know.."

You feel a sting in your eyes and turn away, pretending to be eyeing the scrapes on your knees. In your peripheral, you spot Court staring at you discreetly. You've already cried in front of him, you don't want that to happen twice, let alone in front of Claire as well.

You've worried them enough.

"That's why I'm thanking you," you chuckle, turning back to her. "Because that's the only way I can repay you right now."

She hums. "How about a movie marathon on Sunday?"

You laugh. "Deal."

Court looks as though he's about to reprimand Claire, but quickly keeps it to himself. You stifle a smile at that and start checking on your other wounds.

"Why are we stopping here?" you ask as the SUV slows down to a halt one block away from the police station.

"I, uh.." Court trails off.

"Government issues," Claire chimes in, shortly glaring at Court. "Yeah, he's one of those crazed conspiracy theorist."

"I'm not crazy," Court defends.

Claire snorts. "I didn't say you were."

"Wait, is that why you always wear a hat?" you ask amusedly.

"Yes! That's exactly why!" Claire barks out laughing.

With red ears and a displeased frown, Court climbs out the car without another word. You and Claire exchange grins before she carefully crawls to the driver's seat.

Court opens the passenger door. "Don't move," he says when you start scooting towards him.

"Don't worry, it's not aggravated." you nod at my sprained ankle, which I've set atop the other ankle.

Court waits for you at the edge of the seat. And without warning, he hooks his arm under my legs and cradles my back with the other, gently carrying you out of the car. The heat on your face clashes with the cold biting your skin, the battle sends shivers down your spine and you try not to shudder.

"Hey! Don't tell me you'll carry me to the police station like this," you frown at Court.

"How else would I take you there? Want me to roll you?"

"Go ahead, you'll be the one having a hard time."

"Stop arguing with me or I will really roll you across the ground."

"I'm just saying that you can carry me on your back, dummy!"

"Aww, arguing like a newly-wedded couple!" Claire chimes in teasingly.

You and Court snap scowls at her. "Cl— Kiara!" he chides, while you exclaim, "What?!"

A click and a flash resounds across the quiet street. Claire has taken a polariod picture of you and Court. "If I edit this picture, I'll caption it as Brawl Wedding." Claire snickers as she wags the photo towards the two of you.

As if you haven't blushed enough, your neck and face are flaring when Claire said 'wedding'.

Once you're on Court's back, he starts a slow trek to the police station. You keep your hands on his shoulders rather than wrap it around him. He's already too close as it is, and that zesty scent of his isn't helping. You don't even wanna get started about his hands underneath your thighs.

"Is it okay to leave her alone there?" you ask, an attempt to distract yourself from observing him at such proximity.

He shortly glances over at you. "Can you worry more about yourself right now?" he replies in a playful tone, but you know he's scolding you.

You huff. "I'm done worrying about me."

He clicks his tongue. "Well, I'm not."

"And why is that?"

Court doesn't answer right away. "Because…" he stammers and trails off, and for some reason, that makes you blush.

"You and Kiara dot on me too much," you say to break the awkward silence.

Court chuckles. "About Kiara.. don't worry, she's a big girl. She knows how to defend herself."

"Did you teach her?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Can you teach me?"

"Of course. When would you like to start?"

"I was kidding."

"I'm not."

You feel a swell in your chest. Unfortunately, it's nothing bad. Just good.. stirrings. Same feeling when eating a marshmallow.

"I can handle myself." you say.

He sighs. "I know you can, but.." he stops walking, "I just want to teach you how to clock someone the right way."

"The right way?" you echo amusedly.

"Yeah, the kind of way that knocks someone out in one or two hits. So that they don't quickly get back up."

Court starts his gait again. You're about to reply a joke, but notice that you two are almost to the station. You press your lips shut and stifle a smile. 

You want to ask him more. You want him to talk to you more. But you don't want him to run out of things to say or share to you and your curious (talkative) self. Then again…

You furtively peer at his face. It's serious, like it always is; however, there's flecks of nervousness on it. The reason for that is unfathomable to you.

…Court never ceases to astonish you.

The police are like flies on a watermelon on a hot, sunny day when you and Court enter.

They inquire you relentlessly while ushering you to a room. And when asked to have a private conversation with you, Court is about to exit when you hold onto his arm and ask the officers to let him stay.

Now, he's watching you retell the whole event.

"Listen, don't look too suspicious. Keep your cap up a bit, but not enough to show your face on the CCTVs. Just enough to let them know you're friendly."

Court briefly lowers his head, hiding his smile, as he recalls what you whispered to him before entering the station. It's as though you know what kind of circumstances he and Claire have. Surprisingly, no matter how many countless times he did a background check, you don't know anything— you're clean.

Too clean, if his paranoia may add.

And if his paranoia will add another thing, it's: how the fuck is he still calm being in a police station filled with security camera?!

Court is panicking for not panicking in the first place. Scratch that— for not panicking even now!

It's baffling him.

Appalling even!

"Opo, nakatali lang po sila sa isang puno sa Waterfront Park. Kaibigan ko po may kakagawan," you nod towards him and the officers glance with quirked brows.

Court internally composes himself and returns a nod. Looking at you, everything somewhat becomes crystal clear yet simultaneously foggy.

If you're the reason why he's staying calm indefinitely, the next questions should be.. why and how?

By the time you're done with the interrogation, Court unfortunately doesn't come up with an answer.

The officers escort you two out, where Court only piggybacks you down the stairs and off into the street.

"They wanted to interview you," you say once Court crosses to the next block.

"Really?"

"Yup! Told them you're Icelandic and still practicing basic English."

Court stifles a smile, but it quickly ends up into a grin. "I can't believe they bought that," he replies teasingly.

You huff proudly. "I can be monumentally persuasive without breaking a sweat."

"What else did you persuaded them to?"

"Nothing, really. They're quick to assume that I'm your tutor."

"Did you tell them we were out late tutoring?"

"Yeah, I did! I told them that you were an immersive learner, you needed environmental stimuli to learn the words. That's why we were outside, and then got attacked by those goons."

Court can't hold back his laugh. And you're immediately infected by it.

"What?" you ask, chuckling.

"You're a very convincing liar." he declares, "I say that as a compliment."

"It wasn't lying if it was partly true."

"I don't think half of it was true. Nevertheless, it was awesome."

"But you are Icelandic, right? I presumed because of the chef-takes-first-spoonful tradition." you snicker and unknowingly place your chin on the edge of his shoulder, inclining your head sideways. "Remember? The night we first met.."

"Yeah," he looks over at you, "how could I forget?"

Court doesn't realize, and neither did you, just how close your faces are. All he knows is that despite your bruised face decorated with cuts, you look pretty. 

You are pretty. 

But he doesn't like you because you're pretty.

You're pretty because he likes you.

Wait, what?

"Hey, noble steed, you aren't moving." you pat his shoulders, chuckling.

Court snaps out of his stupor just as you pull your face off his shoulder. He notices your blushing cheeks, but disregards it for a trick of the light on your bruise.

"Sorry," he mumbles and carefully marches towards the SUV.

Once you're safely situated and buckled up in the backseat, the father-daughter duo chorus a question— "So, where do you live??"

"Jinx," you chuckle and reel out your phone. "I live in—"

Without warning, there's a heavy pounding in your chest. You're about to ignore it when you feel your airway tightening. You furrow your brows as you try to steady your breaths. "I'm okay, just—" you sputter, "Just give me a minute."

"(N/N), what's wrong?!" Kiara unlatches her seatbelt and meticulously sidles from the front seat to the back.

You shut your eyes, but that only made it worse.

The guys who attacked you flash through your head, and you feel their hands on you again.

You snap your eyes open. No one's touching you. Even Claire is just right in front of you.

"I don't think I can go back to my apartment." you confess, gauging their reactions.

"That's.. that's okay, hey," Claire rubs your shoulder.

"The landlord will have me taken care of, I don't—" you shake your head, "I don't want to burden anyone."

"You won't be, (Y/N)." Court declares, frowning at you.

"Yeah, you need help, (N/N). That doesn't mean you're a burden," says Claire. "Do you want to go to Mindy's?"

"No, no.. I don't want to drag her into this."

Court sighs exasperatedly. "Are you serious? Will you stop worrying about others for now?" he questions, though it sounds more of a demand. "Mindy is your friend, and she'd want to get dragged into this. Unless you don't consider her your friend."

"She is. That's why I don't want to go to her right now."

"What the fuck kind of logic is that?"

"Kurt!" Kiara hisses.

"If you're so stressed about me, just leave me at the cafe!" you yell.

"What?!" the father-daughter duo looks at you in disbelief.

You sigh apologetically. "I'm sorry."

They stay silent.

"The cafe is a safe space for me." you disclose, looking at Court and Claire. "I have extra clothes there, some first-aid, and a lounge room where I can rest."

Court breathes out a laugh, shakes his head, and exasperatedly drums his fingers on the wheel. "Yeah, no," he says, facing forward.

You roll your eyes. "What do you mean no?"

He looks over to you, gaze unreadable yet solemn. "I mean, you're staying with us for a few days. And that's final."

A/N: very firm, Courtland Gentry! WE LOVE IT! And not to be conceited or anything, but if you think this main dish is sweet.. wait 'til y'all taste the dessert ☆⌒(≧▽​° )

The keys to Chapter 17 are yet to be found!

✨TAGLIST✨

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

[chadillacboseman]

Panicked

Pairing: Courtland Gentry (Sierra Six) x F!Reader Warnings: Panic attacks, mentions of injury, just sweetness at the end. Word Count: 1.5k A/N: Kinda boring, I'm sorry lol.

--

Courtland Gentry wasn't immortal, that much you knew. In his line of work, death was common, and something you had to come to terms with quickly.

He often went "dark" for days at a time, leaving you wringing your hands in worry while pacing the floor of the kitchen.

This was one of those times- "Six" as he was known in the field hadn't so much as checked in in a full two weeks; you knew he was on a mission in Bangkok with another agent. He had told you it could get dicey, and that he might not be able to contact you for several days.

That wasn't what worried you.

What worried you was Fitzroy's troubling silence. When Claire didn't pick up the emergency phone, genuine panic set in in your chest.

Of course this was a scenario you had planned for in the past.

You had braced for it as one might brace before an impact on many an occasion. You packed your go bag quickly, tossing the necessities into the duffel haphazardly- clothes, burner phone, gun; it pained you to pass over the many keepsakes in the home you had built together.

You glanced once more at the burner phone and sighed.

Nothing.

You slung the duffel over your shoulder and glanced once more around the home you had called your own for years. There was an ache in your heart that you couldn't seem to rid yourself of.

You said one last mental goodbye as you flipped on the gas supply to the stove. As you walked out the back door into the darkness, you flipped the switch hidden behind the azalea bush by the window.

You knew you had about seven seconds to make it to your car before-

BOOM

The house erupted in flames as you put the car in drive and screeched down the alleyway in a plume of dust.

--

You hated safe houses.

They were so unbelievably boring- no windows, no decor. Often, they didn't even have basic appliances or toiletries.

This one Court had at least tried to spruce up, you had to give him that. He had bought the property in the woods back when the two of you first got serious- a little cabin in the middle of nowhere with a locked gate and steel doors. He called it an insurance policy in case the agency ever decided he was a little too expendable.

Had that time finally come?

You tried to push the thought from your mind, but it nagged at you, buzzing in your skull like an angry hornet.

What if he's dead?

Stop it. Stop it stop it-

What if he's bleeding out right now on the floor of some Bangkok hotel, alone and afraid?

STOP IT!

You gripped the edge of the sink and choked back a sob, trying desperately to clear your head of the darkness that threatened to overtake you.

He's fine. Court's fine. Everything will be okay.

Right?

You tried to sleep, you really did, but every sound woke you with a jolt and had you panting in the darkness and reaching for your gun.

When you did sleep, you dreamed of Court- bloodied and broken lying in some grimy alleyway. No matter how many times you talked yourself down from the ledge, it didn't matter.

The dreams kept coming back, vivid and painful, leaving you breathless and sobbing into the quiet air.

When you awoke the next morning, you felt as if you hadn't slept at all- dark circles haloed your dull eyes as you examined your face in the bathroom mirror.

You sighed and washed your face with frigid water before toweling off and heading back into the bedroom. A small sliver of orange light splashed across the bed from the tiny window. Outside, you could see the pine trees swaying with wind.

At least the view was nice.

It had now been almost a full month since Court's silence began. You'd ventured out a few times to grab supplies with the cash stashed under the floorboards in the kitchen. Meager and modest things you couldn't live without.

There was a sort of general store alongside the highway that you used- run by an old man who had met Court and yourself when he first bought the property. He assumed you were a young couple in love looking for a "fixer upper".

You supposed he wasn't entirely wrong.

You returned to the house this time with cup noodle and bottled water in tow, tossing the bags onto the counter haphazardly before going to check the encrypted messaging on your computer.

Nothing. Exactly as you'd expected.

You settled onto the couch as the microwave hummed and flipped on the tv. News of your house fire being investigated had finally stopped- ruled an accident by the fire marshal. They'd declared you 'missing', but you knew an 'ad absentia' death would soon follow. You had no vehicles registered in your real name and no accounts that could be used. They'd have no choice.

The microwave dinged and you retrieved your noodles, setting them on the counter to cool.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the front entry.

CREEEEAK

It sounded deafening. Your ears pricked, listening intently for another.

It didn't come.

You scrambled quietly for your pistol, leaving the TV on so the intruder was none the wiser. You crouched behind the couch and watched the mirror on the far side of the room, waiting for any sign of feet to appear.

When they did, they were dark boots, scuffed and stained with dark, red splotches.

You let out a shaky breath and tried to remember the shooting lessons Court had given you-

"Plant your feet, yeah, just like that. Shoulder-width apart. Cup the other hand under the clip- yeah, that's it. Now shoot."

You sprung up from behind the couch and aimed down the iron sights at the intruder. In an instant, you felt your breath snatched from your lungs.

"Court-" you gasped his name and he flashed you a grin between chews of his gum.

"In the flesh."

His face had healing bruises and several new wounds were splashed across the skin. You took in his appearance for another few seconds, eyes raking over him as if he was a hallucination.

When you finally broke your trance, you ran to him and threw your arms around him, choking back tears as he wrapped his own arms around your frame.

"I was so worried," you sobbed against his broad chest, "I thought you were dead, Court."

His heart soared at the sound of his name on your lips- no one called him that anymore but you.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into your hair, "Things got bad. Fitz is...gone."

Your heart sank at the news of Fitzroy's death- he had taken care of Court when no one else had.

"And Claire?" you pulled back and wiped tears from your eyes.

Court grinned and jerked his head backward. The small, dark-haired girl was standing in the hall, her hands clasped in front of her with a small smile on her face.

"Claire!" you broke away from Court and hugged her tightly. She felt smaller than she had before, shrunken as if she'd not been eating.

You knew you'd have to fix that.

"I'm sorry about Don," you tucked her hair behind hear ear and she shrugged, trying her best to keep up her tough exterior as Court settled in to eat your now cold noodles.

"Is Claire going to be alright?" you curled into Court's embrace in the bed, finding your usual spot as you had so many nights before. It still felt unreal having him back- you had thought he was dead just hours before.

"With time, yeah," he traced his fingers along your exposed skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake, "She saw a lot of things I didn't want her to."

You shuddered at the thought.

"Are we safe?"

Court pondered that question for a moment- he had killed dozens of people in his effort to retrieve Claire and free himself from imprisonment. But Lloyd Hansen was dead and he knew that Miranda would have to step over at least ten bodies just to find the evidence of his escape.

He thought she was wise enough to leave it be.

"I think so," he planted a kiss on the top of your head and you hummed in response.

"I love you," his words surprised you- you knew he loved you, of course, but he didn't say it often. A hazard of working for a three letter agency- detachment came standard with the job. He felt as if he admitted how much you mattered, that you'd be taken away in an instant. Swept up into the shadows like everything else he had loved.

But Court did love you. God, did he love you.

During the fiasco with Lloyd, the thought of you was all that had kept him going- all that kept him from simply giving in and letting the man kill him.

"I love you too, Court."

"You know, your shooting stance wasn't half bad," you could almost hear the smile in his words.

"Yeah?" you craned your neck to look up at him and he nodded.

"I think you'd have hit me if you'd been quicker on the draw."

"Well, maybe you can give me some more lessons?" you grinned up at him and he returned it.

"I'd like that."

--

TAGLIST FOR THIS FIC (sorry it took so long): @wadiyatalkinabeet1 @thefictionalgemini

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {ii}

bon appetit!

(see author's notes far below)

disclaimer: pictures are NOT MINE, but the edited version of it is for the fic. still, credits to the rightful owners and to canva + weheartit

Six x F!Reader / Courtland Gentry x Fem!Reader

warnings: mild swear words- they appear occasionally. fluff. trust issues. slow burn. check word count. culture shock.

CHAPTER SELECTION is in the✨Masterlist✨ Chapter 1 - with summary check it out in the masterlist Chapter 2 - this is it [next chapter link is posted below for suspense & convenience hehe]

words: 3.9k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Claire *Kurt = Court *cover names / reader doesn't know (except you really do know #wreckthe4thwall)

⚜🍰⚜🍰⚜🍰⚜

Friday nights can always get chaotic.

One of the reasons may be.. because you're hanging out with your friends and you're all ready to do the stupidest shit any of you can think of.

Another reason is there's a possibility that your research group will be burning the midnight oil to finish the thesis manuscript.

Maybe you're at a family gathering or a birthday party.

Or maybe you're trying to do some homework to get a free weekend, but you end up procrastinating.

You place an arm over your eyes when sunbeams slip through the gaps of your blue velvet curtain. It's Thursday, your rest day— unless the botika downstairs needs an extra pair of hands.

Typically, you don't wake up early on your rest day, because your Wednesday shifts at the bar start at 18:00 and end at 3:00. You glance at the clock on your bedside drawer, 10:17 beams merrily at you, reminding you why you've been awake for several minutes now.

You dreamt of them again— the father-daughter duo. Specifically your first meeting with them and how it ended.

You've experienced crazy and wild Friday nights. You try to recall anything far more befuddling than what happened last Friday, but it continues to take the cake.

⚜🍰

"Here.. you eat it first."

"W-What?" you sputter, like a broken engine.

He chuckles. "Sorry, I should've explained first. It's tradition for the older recipient of a cake to offer the first bite to the baker."

Your jaw drops, but it soon recovers as your mouth decides to work without your consent. "Where in the fu— friggin' fracken face of this blue, green, and brown earth does that tradition hail from?" you demand bewilderedly, glancing at his daughter to see that she shares a similar confused look.

"Iceland," he says, nodding at the teenager across from him. "You remember, Kiara?"

"Oh.. oh, yeah!" she laughs in realization and looks at you, "It's a very silly yet profound tradition. Like a way of giving gratitude."

"This gesture is to thank you for your cake and your kind services tonight," he proclaims with a small smile, slightly lifting the fork towards you.

You're red from the neck up. Not because you're feeling extremely privileged at the father-daughter duo's attempt to share culture. But because you're trying not to explodingly decline the offer.

It's so bizarre!

You haven't heard, seen, nor read about this tradition before. Whether or not it's true, refusing to do it is crass. But if it's really not true, then you're dumb. 

Maybe they're just pranking you.

But what if that's not the case?

You internally scream before you give a nod and bend down toward him. He carefully raises the fork, and you take it in your mouth. You look at him, the 12-inch proximity lets you study his icy blue eyes beneath the shadow of his cap, and you resist the urge to shudder from the intensity of his gaze boring into yours. You pull back, and he gently extracts the fork.

There's a smidge of icing on your lips, it feels cool, like an oasis amidst the burning desert that is your face. You lick your lips, scattering the cream throughout your tongue, and you swallow. He inspects your lips, blue eyes becoming fiercer—

"Th-Thank you for letting me share your tradition!" you blurt out, bowing to the man and his daughter, you straighten with a grin. "Enjoy the dessert now!"

You practically sprint away. Mindy and Muro are questioning you about what happened, while you chug down a glass full of water. You hush your co-workers, telling them that you'll elaborate once it's just the three of you.

The father-daughter duo enjoys the strawberry shortcake you made. This showers you with immense relief that you nearly forgot about the "tradition" incident.

They finish in about ten minutes, and when the man places the exact amount in the check, you step up to their booth as they prepare to depart.

"Hi! Just to commemorate your first-time here, would you like a picture?" you hold up an instax mini and a pen, "Or maybe sign on our customer wall?"

"We'll just sign," says the man.

His daughter, Kiara is the first to leave her mark. He then scribbles his signature below hers.

Kiara

Kurt

You open the door for them as they leave. "Come again!"

"We will!"

You meet the man's eyes for a few seconds, and you feel the blood swarm your face again.

⚜🍰

"Aaaahhhhh!" you scream into your pillow, legs flapping, body wiggling.

You stop your thrashing. It's been nearly a week and you're still pondering on whether the man was flirting with you or not. He looks 30-ish, right around your age, but it's hard to know with his cap on. You recall his attire: a navy blue jacket over a black shirt, dark cargo pants, and combat boots.

No ring on any of his fingers.

You slap yourself across the face, abruptly sitting up. "He has a daughter, you dumbass slut!" you yell at yourself, "I mean, sure— bonus. But, fuck!"

Whatever he was doing with that "tradition", let's say he was flirting. His daughter appears to be smarter than him. If she perceives and understands what he's doing, she approves because she was in on it.

But if he wasn't flirting with you… What else could he be trying to do with that "tradition"?

You frustratedly ruffle your head, laying back down with a huff, you force yourself to sleep.

"A-ha!" you exclaim, somewhat triumphant, and sit up. "He was checking if I poisoned the cake!"

You let the silence of your room judge you. And as the late morning traffic mingles with it, you shake your head, dismissing the bizarre thoughts, and you climb out of bed.

"Let's just conclude that he was flirting with you, okay (Y/N)? That's much more acceptable than the other crazy shits you're thinking.."

After making sure the pharmaceutical store below the apartment is not understaffed for today, you decide to go to the mall. You owe it to the owner for letting you take the vacant apartment without payment five years ago. Before you found work at the bar and at Flour Cake De Liz, you were working 24/7 in the botika. Nowadays, you only have the Sunday shift.

It takes you a full hour to bathe, prepare clothes, and dry your hair. You only put on some chapstick since you plan to commute, you don't want your make-up coming undone before you reach the mall. But you still packed a few of your make-up for emergency purposes.

You double-check your stuff before you lock the apartment. On the way out, you bid goodbye to the people at the botika.

"Ingat ka, (Y/N)!" they wave at you.

"Anong oras ka uuwi?" Mr. Nik, the owner of the residence and the store, hollers.

"Kahit anong oras gusto ko!" you reply with a cheeky grin.

But you did plan to be home by 20:00. You still have some leftover dapa that needs finishing tonight. And you have a full-day at the cafe tomorrow.

You hop on a jeepney that's half-full. Several older women eye you with distaste as your cropped shirt exposes portions of your waist and upper arms. You flash them a smile as you pay your fee, glancing at your wristwatch, it's already 12:01. You mull over that you can arrive at Harbor Point by 12:45, depending on the traffic.

⚜🍰⚜

The cool air of the mall gladly embraces you as you enter. A mall's air-conditioning certainly always feels like an affection from an old friend. Checking that your sling pouch is still intact and your things still accounted for, you venture around for food first.

It's a common understanding between the self and the body that both shall need energy to travel. And that energy is obtained from food— glorious food!

Since it's been a while, you decide to eat at KFC. You grin excitedly. Brace yourself, gravy station. You can already imagine the look on the staff when they see you hoarding the gravy.

You sigh in relief when there's several vacant tables at the restaurant. The lines are a bit long, you hope at least one table remains free. This is the only downside to going to the mall alone, no one gets to save you a table when eating.

"Here's your number. Please wait for your meal at your table!"

You grip the tray in both hands, and without spilling your Coke, you speed-walk across the restaurant and manage to secure a small table at a corner near the entrance. You grab the table number and Coke off the tray, which you place on the seat across you.

Knowing it may take more than 5 minutes for your order, you slip on your headphones and play some music. You start to examine the people in the restaurant, the staff, and then the people outside. You wonder if any of the people made plans for today or they just went to the mall on a whim, like you.

Your sole reason for going is because you can't handle your thoughts about the father-daughter duo. It's hard to read a book when that bizarre event keeps streaking in your mind. 

And now, you're starting to think about it again.

Before you can slap yourself with your table number, a waiter arrives with your order. You thank him, unbeknownst of your loud voice because of your headphones. You then dump the mushroom soup on your rice, you leave for the gravy station, where you fill the soup bowl with gravy. You return to the table to pour the gravy on your rice, like you did with the soup, and you briskly walk back to the gravy station.

Once the bowl is filled with gravy, you sit at your table, nod contently at your meal, and wolf it all down. Everybody in the restaurant gawks at you, but you don’t care.

You rest for ten minutes after your meal. During that time, you cover your mouth while you clean your teeth with a toothpick. You decide to head to the bathroom first before going to Watson's, other than toiletries, you know there's some mint there.

Music still blares softly from your headphones, which you pull down to your shoulders after departing from KFC. You peer into the tote bag you brought from Watson's, inside it are your toiletries for the next month and a strawberry Tic Tac. You open it, popping three pills in your mouth, and you slow down your strides as you ponder on your next destination.

Suddenly, the hair on your nape rises. Like meerkats standing up and looking to one side in unison. You suppress a shudder and take a gander, scrutinizing everything and anyone as far as your eyes can see. Some of the people passing by only glance at you. No one around the stores is looking at you.

So why the hell do you feel like you're being watched?

And as though some higher being is toying with you, the next song that resonates out your headphones matches your situation.

♪Every breath you take And every move you make Every bond you break Every step you take I'll be watching you♪

You scoff, shaking your head, you decide to continue your gait. Your steps feel rigid, so you try to relax. No one's watching nor following you. You're not that pretty enough to be stalked— thank the heavens. Deeply breathing in and out, you nod at yourself, concluding that it may just be the CCTVs that you felt watching.

But the cold electricity zipping up your spine tells you otherwise.

You walk faster now, but acting as normal as possible. You head for the escalators, climbing down faster than the moving steps, you murmur apologies to the people you pass and continuously glance at your wristwatch like you're in a hurry. As soon as you get off, you step aside and look towards the top of the escalators. No one appears to be following you.

Even so, you stroll to an open hall, blending with the crowd while simultaneously tying your hair into a pair of low pigtails. You veer away, entering a stall-filled hallway, you pretend to be interested in cologne, even inquiring the saleslady about their products. Once the blood diminishes from your cheeks and your heart calms down, you walk away from the stall and dare a look around.

See? You're good, nervous fuck!

Why would anyone follow you? You're not a celebrity. Feelingera.

You shake your head, breathing out exasperatedly. You're about to head back to where you came (ran) from— the bookstore is that way— but you notice someone on the 2nd level moving away from the railings.

You could've sworn this person was looking at you.

⚜🍰⚜

Surprisingly, there's a lot of people at the NBS (National Bookstore). Summer just started, the next academic year is still two months away. When you were still in school, sometimes you like to shop for school supplies in the middle of the summer. You hated crowded sale days when you were young, but now you'd fight anyone who dares pick up the last bundle of 50%-off items you're about to grab.

You wander around the work supplies section, contemplating whether you need the tape holder more than new pens. You decide to put a pin on that dilemma and move to the fictional books section.

Aurora Rising— you pick up a thick book that has an interesting cover of a black, short-haired girl with a few white strands and a glowing right eye. You turn it over to read the synopsis, which you find amusing. You haven't read any sci-fi novels lately, this should be a good change of environment.

"(N/N)?"

You flinch, surprised at the sound of your nickname. Turning to the owner of the voice, your brows furrow shortly before you soon recognize who it was.

"Kiara!" you pause, "Right?"

The teenager chuckles. "Right!" 

You didn't immediately know who she was because of the facemask she's wearing. And her hair is tied up into a high ponytail.

"This is.. unexpected yet pleasant. You here with your friends?"

"No, I'm with my dad."

You notice the melancholy in her eyes, even though she tries to hide it from her tone. "And I'm guessing he's the one who made you wear that facemask?" you raise a brow.

Kiara is astonished. "He did! He's a bit of a germaphobe when it concerns me," she chuckles. "Luckily, he's not overly worried enough to put me in a hazmat suit."

You amusedly snap your fingers. "I was just about to say that. He probably noticed the air pollution, it's real nasty here— especially in Manila."

She glances around. "So, how about you? Are you by yourself?" she questions curiously.

"Matter of fact, I am." you grin, "Thursdays are my rest days. But I didn't wanna lounge around, so voilà!"

"Spontaneous," Kiara nods approvingly.

"There are some cons, though.. like having anxiety as you order at a restaurant because no one is reserving a table."

"Yeah, that is a con."

You glimpse at the books in her basket. "Paper Towns? And TFIOS?"

She smiles. "Uh-huh! I wanted to read them first before watching them."

Shocked, your jaw drops. "You haven't watched them?"

"Well, I was only eight.. nine— when the movies came out."

"Damn, I feel so old."

Kiara stifles a laugh at your exasperation towards your lifespan. You can't help but smile as she seems relaxed with you. Usually, children cry whenever you're near.

"May I?" you gesture to her books

She lifts a shoulder, and you grab TFIOS from her basket. The book is still plastic-wrapped, it has the movie cover, which shoots a bullet through your heart. TFIOS is still one of the most beautiful yet painful novels.

"No offense, but I don't think your heart can take these." you croak with a dramatic sniffle.

She laughs. "That's why I plan to stop for a while when the story gets too painful. I've read the online reviews on both the movies and the books."

"You know.. I still have my copies for these. If you want, you could borrow them." you offer with a smile, "That way you can buy some comedic novels to compensate for the heartache that is John Green's stories."

She brightens. "Really?!" 

"Why not?!" you reply, matching her fervor.

"You're terrific, (N/N)!"

"Of course, I am!— But I haven't cleaned my books for a while, so I can't really say I'm that terrific."

"I don't mind if the books aren't tidy."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"Kiara.."

You tense at his voice, and Kiara turns as her father enters the aisle you two are in. "Hey, Mr. Kurt." you casually say, ignoring the heat that threatens to bake your face.

He seems to be wearing a similar attire since last week. A white shirt beneath a grey jacket, dark pants, and combat boots. Plus, the usual cap on his head.

"(N/N)," he’s surprised. "What a coincidence to see you here. Must be fate."

"Or unlucky spontaneity." you joke.

"What?"

"Nothing!"

He turns to his daughter. "Have you picked out your books yet?"

"Yeah, but I'm gonna swap these for a different pair. (N/N) will let me borrow her copies," she grins.

He blinks, looking from you to his daughter. "That's very nice of her," he says.

Kiara nods. "Yup!" and suddenly sidles past you, "I'll just be a sec!"

"Oh, I'll help you find—"

"No, no," she cuts you off, "The two of you just stay there."

She disappears before you can think of a rebuttal. You exchange incredulous looks with Kurt, chuckling awkwardly, you scratch behind your ear. "She's still as enthusiastic as ever," you say, peering down at your Chucks.

"Yeah… Thank you, by the way. But you didn't have to," he shortly gives a sincere smile.

You feel sheepish. "Don't think of it as a favor. I just thought that.. if you two will be going to the cafe once in a while, Kiara can borrow my books instead of buying some." your eyes widen in realization, "Unless you two are just here for a vacation. In which case, I'm very possessive of my books."

He breathes out a laugh. "No, we're.. we're here indefinitely." he pauses to sigh, "I hope."

You purse your lips when you feel the curiosity bubbling in your throat. "Oh," you glance behind him and reach—

He catches your hand in a dangerous grip.

"S-Someone's just.."

He turns, sidestepping for a teenage guy to pass by and inspect the shelf behind you. "Sorry," he quickly lets you go. "Reflex."

"And a good grip." you laugh, shaking your hand to ease the pain.

He guiltily regards you, and you give a reassuring smile. "Let's stand over here," you step out of the aisle, noticing the scowl on his face. "Hey, if I had your reflexes, I would do the same to any stranger who invades my personal bubble."

He looks at you like you're both an alien and a calculus question. You try to match his mien when you feel the blush creeping up your cheeks. Despite the shadow from his cap, his blue eyes easily pierce through the thin blackness over his face. You're staring— mesmerized, it's rare to find someone with a different eye color in this country. Usually, it's just dark brown, brown, and light brown.

It's tempting to examine every detail of his eyes. The urge to step closer snaps you out of your stupor. "I like your eyes," you blurt out, taking a half-step back.

Your inner self slaps you with a baton— she prizes herself as a majorette.

"Thanks," he glances down, and you swear there's pink on his cheeks. But it isn't evident when he scrutinizes you from crown to toe, trying to decide on what to say without offense.

This makes you snort until you can't hold back the laugh. "You don't have to say anything back, you know." 

Your remark seems to have put him out of his misery.

"Sorry," he awkwardly pockets his hands in his jacket. "It's common courtesy to say a compliment back."

"True, but we make our own rules." you wolfishly grin.

It’s infectious— your smile. Court doesn’t realize it until he spots his vague reflection on the glass, the restraints on the corners of his mouth have buckled.

He clears his throat, tightening his lips down, he takes a look around. Pretending to be looking for Claire as an excuse to tear his gaze away from you.

This is bad. 

If you’re really an innocent civilian, you shouldn’t be a constant presence in their surreptitious life. With you interacting with them now already draws a target on your back and the people around you. Court isn’t fond of collateral damage, and he certainly dislikes the thought of Claire feeling guilty for someone’s death because of them.

But he wasn't lying when he told you that he hoped he and Claire would get to stay longer in one place.

Court quietly sighs and looks straight at you. It’s much easier to think that you’re a spy, paid to get all chummy with him and Claire before you stab them in the back. Although, the way you become easily embarrassed reckons otherwise. You’d flinch and blush, but maybe because of an innate competitiveness, you try to hold his gaze. Like you did last Friday. 

It amuses him. And even though he’s ignoring it, one word keeps streaking through his mind— cute.

On the other hand, you try to maintain a steady eye contact while thinking— awkward.

“All done!” Claire appears out of the blue, holding up a paper bag.

“Nice!— Wait, you already paid for it?” you look over to the cashier, there’s no line.

“I did!”

Court frowns. “Why didn’t you call me?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

“We weren’t talking about anything serious,” you chime in, chuckling. “Guess I’ll see you two around, then.”

“Yeah, see you.” Court nods with a polite smile.

“Wait, (N/N)!” Claire grabs your wrist.

“Yes?!” you respond dramatically, but quickly apologizes for startling her.

“Do you wanna go around the mall with us?” Claire glances at Court, who’s infinitesimally shaking his head. “We’re not about to go home, right, Dad?”

You stammer. “I don’t wanna impose..”

“Great, let’s go!”

Huh?

⚜🍰⚜🍰⚜🍰⚜

A/N: Oh boy lol

Been thinking that maybe after chapter 5 (wow, that's a long way) there will be more lovey-dovey stuffs and Claire being aggressive with making you two into a couple The portal to another dimension Chapter 3 <-click

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xiv}

THIS IS JAPANESE LUNCH TIME RUSH (who understood the reference?)

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

warning: 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 13 is still a newborn fawn Chapter 14 is 13's twin

word count: 3k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Clare *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know (except you DO know #wreckthe4thwall)

There’s something about you— Claire mentally remarks as she scrutinizes you behind the counter. She already knows you’re one of those ‘one of a kind’ persons, but there’s something different in your atmosphere for this past week. Claire just cannot pinpoint what it is. What she can pinpoint are the specifications as to why she’s concluded something is different about you.

You’re not being passive-aggressive towards Court anymore

Claire knows the reason for that. When she noticed that he’s not being mean to you during their Monday breakfast, Claire asked him about it and he truthfully told her on their way home. She’s extremely glad, huzzah-ing every time she sees you and Court interacting without avoiding eye contact or having tight-lipped smiles.

"What's with the huzzahs?" you'd ask, because Court already knows why.

"Just feeling festive," Claire would reply, grinning toothily.

2. You’ve become more bubbly than you've ever been

There's a bounce in your step that's more jubilant than the bounce you've had before. If Claire hasn't known you for almost four months, she might've not noticed it. She notes the way you start your gait off with a skip and end with a tiny bounce.

"Somebody's in a good mood," Claire says when she first notices the extra zeal you're emitting.

You dramatically bat your eyelashes at her. "Whatever do you mean, milady?"

"Erick gave you a present or something?" Claire teases.

"Oh, he, um.. I," you cut yourself off, clearing your throat, and you bashfully glance at Court. "We actually—"

"Hey, that's none of your business." Court flicks a balled up tissue at Claire, hitting her on the forehead.

"Ouch!"

You chuckle. "Alright, I'm stopping this banter before it starts."

You thought you've hidden it well, but Claire catches the brief dejected look you gave Court. As though you missed an opportunity to say something. However, what Claire mostly perceives is that—

3. Your face gains more color whenever you're talking or looking at Court

“Reverse— reverse— wild card— and uno," Court grins as he holds up his remaining card.

You heatedly huff. "Plus four!" and place the card down.

"Plus four back," he snickers, dropping his own 4+ card.

Your jaw drops, and so did Claire's. But you quickly recover first. "This is the first time you beat me, huh?" you smirk and start cleaning up the cards, "I wonder who taught you that combo.."

"I've been taught by the best." says Court, discreetly nodding at you.

You laugh, maybe a little too loud; the other customers in this fine Saturday evening glance over at you momentarily. And maybe that’s why your face is more redder than usual. But when your amusement has dissipated and you make eye contact with Court, the color in your cheeks doubles.

“Order for Table 7!” Muro announces as he deposits a tray with two plates of carbonara and a bowl with four garlic bread.

You flinch, reeling out of your daze, and you excuse yourself with a laugh. “Gotta get some dough,” you remark playfully.

“Go get ‘em.” Court cheers, stifling his smile.

Claire once again catches the flare in your cheeks before you turn away. “Something’s..” she hums, clipping her chin between her fingers. “Something’s a-happening.”

“Hm? What is it?” Court asks.

She shortly scrunches up her nose. “I’ll tell you once I have solid proof.”

He chuckles. “Alright, detective.” and sips on his cup of warm, white chocolate mocha. His eyes are on a certain waitress, the only waitress in the cafe tonight— which is you, if that isn’t obvious.

Claire doesn’t comment on it, but she has most certainly reacted. Court is too busy staring after you to see Claire's toothy grin.

And she still hasn't released the expression by the time you're serving them dinner. Court notices this and he's slightly freaked out. "What's wrong with your face?" he whispers just before you reach their table.

"Mind if I inquire why you're mimicking the Cheshire Cat?" you ask, snorting.

Claire opens her mouth for a cheeky retort, when somebody noisily bursts in the cafe. "Honey, I brought guests!" Erick exclaims with a slight yodel.

Court glances over his shoulder, immediately regretting it. A hundred emotions tweak on his face faster than the speed of light. Bewilderment. Displeasure. Contempt. Anger. Despair. Those are some of Court's emotions that Claire manages to perceive. And she knows the reason behind each one of them.

"Erick!" you blink, dumbfounded. "What are you doing here?"

"Mi amigos wanted something new, and they've never been to this cafe before," he replies as he puts an arm across your shoulders, smiling lopsidedly.

"Oh, well.. sit anywhere you like—"

"Oh, no, no, no, honey. We'll take-out our orders. They just wanted to see what the cafe was like."

"And we're definitely coming back here some other day," one of his friends chimes in.

"Unless, of course," Erick shifts a little and, making you face him, he leisurely slides his arm down from your shoulders and tightens it around your waist, "you want me to stay?"

For a moment, Claire thinks about getting cardiac arrest while actually feeling she's in cardiac arrest. She needs to separate you and Erick, for Court's sake. Despite the cruel reality that his chances with you have gotten slimmer than an ANTM's body, Claire is still rooting for you and Court.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow!"

Everyone is stunned by the scene, until Erick's friends erupt with laughter, while Claire and Court share puzzled looks. You have grabbed Erick by the ear and twisted it in an unlawful way.

"Boundaries, man." you say chidingly to Erick and glance at his friends, "Right this way if you want to order!"

"Ca-Can you let go of my ear first— OW!"

Claire notices something unsettling about Court. "What's going on with your mug?" she asks, perplexed by his wildly amused demeanor.

"Dinner and a show," he answers and suppresses a laugh when he witnesses you giving one last forceful twist on Erick's ear before releasing it.

"I feel like I might pass out," Claire huffs and puffs.

"Why is that??" you and Court chorus worriedly.

She grins. "'Cuz I'm so full!"

"Please, don't joke about that." you say as you return to clearing out their table, eyeing the teenager for any signs of fainting.

"But I'm serious, though. Quick!— Make me laugh so I'll digest quickly!"

"You mean, so you'll puke easily?" Court chimes in with a smirk.

"How about a short walk outside?" you suggest and carefully hoist up the tray filled with their dishes, "The Boardwalk isn't too cold nor too warm this time of year."

Claire snaps her fingers. "That's a great idea! And it'll even be greater if you walk along with us!"

"Of course, it's a great idea! I— wait, what?" you do a double-take at the teenager, who suddenly conjures her puppy-dog mien. You feel your self-control churning in your stomach and you nervously laugh, "Kurt, please tell your daughter that I won't be able to join since I'm at work."

Court looks at you and then at Claire. "Ah, food coma." he blankly cries out and feigns to faint, head slumping back against the backrest of the booth.

Muro appears beside you. "Alright! I'll take it from here!"

You sigh in relief. "Thank you— wait," you frown quizzically at him, and before you can react, Muro snatches the tray of dishes from you. "Hey!"

"And you won't be needing this outside!" Mindy pops up from behind you and swiftly takes your apron off at the speed of light.

You stammer a protest while Claire clutches your arm and hauls you out of the cafe. Court trails behind, smiling amusedly. The moon and stars are out and gleaming, and the city lights twinkle back at them. There's laughter ringing through the sea breeze, which leaves a warm aftertaste in each of its chilly gust.

"This is a me versus the world kind of thing going on here," you comment in between your final opposition, and when you start walking on sand, you zip your lips and yield to the serenity of the nocturnal stroll.

Claire is still at your side, arm looped around yours, grinning effervescently. She pauses from star-gazing and takes a gander. She sees Court treading behind, gestures for him to come closer, and slows down her gait. He obliges without a word, astonishment painting his features when Claire loops her other arm around his. She shortly squeezes her hold on you and Court before adding a bounce in her step.

Court exchanges dumbfounded looks with you. This moment would've been totally normal if it weren't for your physiology experiencing aberration whenever you make eye contact with your crush. Blood automatically rushes up your cheeks, you ignore it and give a sheepish grin. He returns the expression with a small laugh, glances at Claire, and eyes the world around the three of you.

You admire him admiring the world. Counting from one to three, you then avert your gaze to the city life bustling on the outskirts of the Boardwalk. The smell of the sea and grilling restaurants mingle in your olfactory. It's been a long while since you've had a stroll, deeply breathing in and out, you fight back a contented shudder. But Court notices the infinitesimal quake in your shoulders.

"Are you cold?" he inquires, halting his tracks, he's about to remove his jacket. You're only wearing the signature brown-collared shirt of the cafe's uniform, denim shorts, and thigh-high socks.

"Oh, no, I'm not cold!" you reply with a laugh, "I'm just.. thrilled, you know? Been a while since I've walked along the beach."

"You should thank yourself for that 'cuz you suggested it," says Claire.

"You know what? I will."

"That's right, raise that self-esteem!"

The three of you are 5 minutes away from the cafe now, 3 minutes if you sprint like an Olympic runner. A group of guys are playing basketball on the nearby court where sand meets concrete. "Oh, there's a fountain over there, would you two like to see it?" you point towards a miniature park.

"Sure," Court and Claire say in unison, though the teenager has a more gleeful tone.

You're about to take another step when you notice something soaring towards you. "Woah!" you yelp as you catch a basketball.

"Sorry, miss!" one of the guys starts to jog towards you.

You lob the ball at him. "Sa susunod kasi, sa kakampi niyo ipasa."

Next time, pass it to your teammate.

His other friends erupt with oooh's and taunts, while the guy stops to catch the ball. "Baka lang naman gusto kita makausap," he replies, smirking.

Maybe it's because I just want to talk to you.

"Edi tanga ka. Sana lumapit ka kesa nambato ka ng bola." you scoff and gesture for the father-daughter duo, "Let's go."

"Single ka, no? Walang magkakagusto sa'yo 'pag pinagpatuloy mo yung ugali na 'yan!" he angrily yells.

You're single, ain't you? No one will like you if you continue with that attitude!

You try to hold back, but the retort has already turned the keys and launched out the missiles. "At ikaw naman? Single kasi para kang pwet ng manok na putak ng putak!"

How about you? You're single 'cause you're like a chicken's ass that keeps on spouting!

Claire barks out a laugh, while Court glances away to hide his smile. You feel a sense of pride, simultaneously a tinge of embarrassment for loosening the chains on your warfreakness.

The three of you arrive at the fountain with no further catcalls or distractions. Claire roams around, snapping pictures as she goes, while you take a seat on the rim of the fountain's basin. Court strolls around the small park, like a bodyguard securing the area, and afterwards, he heads towards the fountain. Specifically towards you.

Your heart has skipped, tripped, and cartwheeled even before Court sits beside you. However, he leaves a respectable space between the two of you, and part of you wants nothing more than to erase the distance. Because of that, you don't have the courage to look at him; or else your face will put an erupting volcano to shame.

You keep your eyes on Claire instead. Even when you perceive Court looking at you in your peripheral vision.

Five minutes pass by like that, yet the silence between you and Court is comfortable. Claire's giggling and the camera snapping are the only consistent noise mingling with the quietness, as well as the vague crash of the waves against the shore. You see distant people strolling by the beach, some kids are even running around and tripping, sand particles flying and glinting under the moonlight.

"Okay, let's go!" Court suddenly says, rising up.

You blink at him. "What?"

He holds his hand out to you. "It's already been 5 minutes since we left the cafe. You're still working, right?"

"Yeah, you need to get back to work!" Claire exclaims, hopping next to Court, she outstretches a hand to you, while her other hand is used to snap a picture of you.

You blink out the flashes, glance at each the father-daughter duo, and stifle a laugh. "Okay, let's go," you grab their hands, "But are you two sure you're done sightseeing?"

Claire nods. "Yup! And don't worry, we can sightsee some other time! And (N/N) will be our tour guide," she looks up at Court, "Right, dad?"

"Of course," Court replies, but he's looking at you.

You gulp down your heart when it somersaults up your throat. Fire grows in your cheeks, and you hope the sea breeze that's flurrying by will extinguish it. "W-Well, that's good.. so you two have other places to go other than the cafe." you say, mentally noting how the father-daughter duo are still holding your hands.

"Like we'll ever get tired of the cafe." Claire snorts and tugs on your hand, "C'mon, let's go back!"

You let Claire pull you to a slow gait, and when you feel Court loosening his grip, you tighten your hold on his hand. "Hey," you shortly frown at him over your shoulder, "no letting go."

His eyes widen as he's forced to follow after your and Claire's strides. Soon, astonishment is melted by relief— and something else that you can't decipher. Court smiles at you, the most genuine kind of smile, and you can't help but smile back, the sheepish kind mixed with something unknown.

You stammer. "I mean, I'm the tour guide, so—"

"Alright," Court grips your hand affectionately, "No letting go."

Officially, your heart has gone boom-boom, bye-bye.

"Bye-bye, (N/N)!"

"Bye-bye, Claire!"

"Will you go to Lilia's later?"

"Yeah, I will! Have a safe drive home!"

You watch the father-daughter duo climb in the car before you step back in the cafe. There's only a few customers now, and with only one hour until closing time. But for some reason, one hour feels like an eternity. 

You've lost count on how many times Mindy and Muro have asked you to relay the events of this evening's stroll. They repeatedly asked because even when you left out the part where you held hands with Claire and Court during the last bit of the stroll, blood would rush up your neck and face. With that, the couple knows something more happened. It's not like you want to hide it, but…

For some reason, you want those moments with the father-daughter duo just for yourself. As though disclosing it to anyone else will break the magic spell— which is the mystery of why Claire and Court seem to like you.

Shaking your head, you forcibly reel yourself out of your stupor before you fall down that rabbit hole again. You envy Alice for reaching the bottom of her rabbit hole, since yours will most likely be a bottomless pit. You let out a deep sigh through your nose, briefly expelling the scent of coffee, and glance at the wall clock, which indicates 9:40— 50 minutes before work ends.

One way to quicken time is to be busy, so you clear your thoughts and get to waiting tables, blending drinks, and washing dishes.

And just like that, it's closing time.

You chuckle to yourself, contemplating how funny time is. When you're not doing anything, it's slow. But when you're doing something, it gets faster. You find that hilarious, but sometimes you despise time for speeding up when you're enjoying someone else's company. Your inner self coughs and indiscreetly hangs up a portrait of Court and Claire on the wall. You find a vase to throw at your inner self and focus on driving to the hotel where Lilia's family resides.

The girl hasn't come to work for a week as she's taking care of her younger sibling, who had gotten sick. Lilia went to the cafe earlier to inform you that she might take another week off in case she caught her sister's cold.

That's why here you are now, driving to their current residence to give them leftovers from the cafe— chicken sinigang.

"Ay, pota." you angrily mutter when a raindrop and two spatters on your face.

You swiftly park your motorcycle by the curb and unwrap the jacket from your waist. "Please be a light rain," you sigh, slipping on the jack.

As you're zipping the jacket close, you hear a car parking behind you. But instead of shutting the engine, the driver switches on the high-beams. You glance over your shoulder as the hazard lights begin to blink.

You gesture that you'll be going now— but then another car halts in front of you, turns on their high-beams and hazard lights, and revs their engine.

Panic pumps through your heart and you feel the pulse in your throat drum wildly beneath your skin. Both cars start to inch closer towards you, and before you're completely boxed in, you hastily urge your motorcycle away from the curb. The dark heavens shriek with multiple thunders, drowning out practically every other sound, yet you hear the engines revving behind you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see the two cars following after you. The increasing rain and their high-beams make it hard for you to perceive your pursuers. Whoever they are, evidently they are no friend.

A/N: dfdddfjksf who the fuck is chasing our dear reader?! of course, i know~ but what are your guesses? hehehe

Chapter 15 is under now constructed ion

✨TAGLIST✨

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

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xiii}

FINALLLY AN UPDATE HAHAHAHUHUHUHU I'M SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG CUZ OF THAT THERE WILL BE 2 CHAPTERS TODAY!

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

warning: 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 12 is already a full-blown deer Chapter 13 is a newborn fawn

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

♪Sino ang mag-aakalang mahal kita Sino ang maglalahad ng nadarama♪

♪Bakit hindi alam kung bakit Laging sa akin lumalapit Kahit minsan ako'y nagkulang♪

He doesn’t understand the song, yet for some reason he can relate to it as much as the next foreigner.

Court finds interest in the memphis-patterned wall when you turn away from the counter and stroll to the booth he’s taken. The two of you are in a coffee shop less than a 3-minute drive from the subdivision, you lead them here after you asked if you and Court can talk. The coffee shop is inside a residential area, which Court actually has a room rented as one of their nearby hideouts. Claire is still asleep in the backseat of the car, which is parked right outside of the cafe; he left it locked and running since he has a spare key.

While you ordered warm drinks for the two of you, Court assesses the vicinity. It’s small, up to 20 customers will fit, with 3 tables for two, 2 booths for four, and a counter-table good for four by the window. Two ways in and out. When he has concocted enough shootout scenarios and possible escape plans, his eyes land on you like a rocket to the moon.

You’re still in your thigh-high white socks and black jeans-shorts, except you unfolded the hem to dangle the methodical loose threads. You have switched your white shoes for pink high Chucks and the brown collared-shirt for a peach sweatshirt.

How you look two times younger than your age isn’t what astounds Court. It’s your sprightly hair free from the usual ponytail or braids you always tie it into. He hasn’t seen your untied hair in a while, making him recall that you haven’t been to their house since you began dating Erick. For the reason being Court’s douchey decisions in putting a raincheck on the Friday movie nights.

A forest fire is starting in his chest at the thought of Erick having the privilege to see you out of your cafe uniform every time he wants.

Erick gets to contact you and hang out with you without resistance.

Erick gets to run his hands through your hair while Court sits back and watches like the fool he is.

He gets to take you home or to his place and—

“Hey? Kurt!”

Court blinks, reeling out of his dangerous spiraling stupor, he looks at you and takes the gander. “What is it?”

“You’ve been staring at me for almost two minutes,” you say, stifling a grin.

The wildfire in his chest springs up to his cheeks, he stammers an apology and looks at anywhere but you. A waiter approaches the booth, serving a yellow mug to you and a red mug to Court. “We’ll be behind the counter if you two need anything,” he says and takes his bouncy leave.

“I ordered chai tea latte for both of us,” you lift the mug up, “This is one of the drinks I know you like.”

“Well, I like your blend.” he blurts out, bringing the mug up to his lips, he imagines smacking the mug against the top of his head.

You smile. “Let’s have a taste of their blend, shall we?”

The two of you sip simultaneously, extracting the mug from your lips, you and Court exchange looks. Taking another sip at the same time for confirmation, you lower the mug to the table and sigh.

“Too much milk,” you and Court quietly comment.

Astonishment shortly blooms across your faces before amusement cracks it and the two of you share a laugh. For the next few minutes, the two of you decide to sit in silence and enjoy what you can from the drink.

Court can’t help but think how nice this is. It’s blissful (euphoric, even) to be with you like this.

And it scares him.

No matter how much he wants these moments with you, his inner demons stab his heart relentlessly as punishment and reminder that he doesn’t deserve it—

He doesn’t deserve you.

“Where were you two going?” your sweet-voiced inquiry swats the demons away, and when he makes eye contact with you, his stab wounds have healed.

There’s no point in lying and dragging this infighting out too much.

“To the cafe,” Court pauses, “Because I wanted to see you.”

 You’re stunned.

Court sighs. “I wanted to talk to you, too.”

You’re— whatever is the next adjective to stunned. But simultaneously, you’re relieved.

“That’s.. good.” you breathe out, chuckling.

“Let me apologize first for my attitude these past weeks.” he looks you in the eye, “I’m sorry, (Y/N).”

Your heart flutters, not in a way that should be when someone is asking for your forgiveness . “Apology half-accepted,” you grin, “I’ll accept it wholeheartedly if you increase your tips in the cafe.”

His jaw drops, and if you two were a cartoon, it would’ve dropped on the table and knocked his drink off.

“I’m kidding,” you announce, somehow not reassuringly. “And I’m sorry, too, for being snobbish recently.”

“It’s okay,” says Court, sipping on his drink. “Anyway.. you should talk first.”

You nod, gathering your courage with a collective breath in and out. “Alright… Why have you been avoiding me?” you inquire, brows knotted solemnly.

Now it’s Court’s turn to gather his courage. Inhaling and exhaling through his nose, Court musters an abundance of bravery to hold your gaze.

“You have a boyfriend.”

Huh?

You blink at him, dumbfounded. "What does that have to do with anything?" you ask amusedly.

"Everything." Court heavily emphasizes and sighs, "Look, (Y/N), Claire doesn't have a lot of friends and she considers you to be one. But hanging out with her means you'll hang out with me. And I'm pretty sure your boyfriend won't approve."

You frown. "One, he's not my boyfriend, we're just dating. Two, he doesn't give a flying shit about it after a talk we had."

Court huffs. "Well, if you were dating me, I'd give a flying shit about you hanging out with some guy."

For a second, the whole world is quiet. Until the next song gently oozes out of the speakers.

♪Dami pang gustong sabihin Ngunit 'wag na lang muna Hintayin na lang ang hanging Tangayin ang salita♪

You look at Court, who’s looking back just as shocked as you. If not, even more shocked and positively horrified at his subconscious.

“I-I me-mean if I,” he clears his throat, “If I was dating someone, and they were friends with a person they appear very close to, I’d give a shit in a cautious way. I don’t mean to sound possessive or anything, but like, I’d care about who they’re friends with.. okay?”

You’re quiet for several seconds, sipping on your drink before you reply. “Erick cares.. he confessed about being skeptical towards our friendship. But after our talk, he’s okay with you and I—”

His self-control is slipping.

“—and Claire.”

Slipping very fast now.

“... That way, it’s the three of us against the world.”

“Glad to know that,” Court nods and swigs on his drink.

“So,” you trail off, smiling sheepishly. “Are we okay?”

We will be if we just be together.

Court finally imprisons his talkative subconscious. “Yeah, we’re okay.” he answers with a crooked smile.

You narrow your eyes at him, and without warning, you slide out of the booth, stand at his side, and collar him. “Don’t lie to me,” you coldly say, leaning down to threateningly place your face half a ruler away.

The look of terror on his face isn’t from the abrupt invasion of privacy or your cute attempt to be hostile; instead, Court is terrified you’ll read his mind being this up close to him.

Six inches.. your face, your nose, your lips— they’re just six inches away. And six inches is awfully close proximity.

Just as his body begins to move without permission, thankfully you stand upright with a wolfish grin. “Was I menacing enough?”

Court breathes out a laugh, but it’s actually a puff of relief. “Would you like me to be brutally honest?”

“As long as it’s constructive,” you quip, sitting back down across him.

A light bulb pops in his mind and breaks, the light flickering challengingly as he considers the idea. “Okay, well, point to you for the demeanor. It’s very icy. And the way you hold the gaze unblinking, plus the way you take up the space are double points.” says Court, “But of course, being in close quarters with the enemy could leave you vulnerable. So.. best be careful with face-to-face threatening tactics.”

You’re open-mouthed, yet simultaneously amused as a grin tweaks up the corners of your lips. “Were you, like, a secret agent before your graphic designing era?”

His rigid shoulders loosen when he shrugs. “I just like secret agent movies.” he declares nonchalantly.

Part lie, part truth…

“Oh, yeah? What’s your favorite?”

“Woah, that’s tough, but..” Court scratches his head, “I’ll go with Spy.”

“Spy, 2015? The one with Melissa McCarthy?” you question with eyes about to burst with glitter.

Court grins. “And with Miranda Hart, Rose Byrne, Jason Statham, and—”

“Jude Law!” you finish his sentence with him, though you’re more enthusiastic than he is. “If there’s an action/comedy film that I would sleep with, Spy would be that movie. I am crazy in love with it!”

“Better not let your boyfriend know that,” he snickers.

You scoff. “Like he’ll complain when he’s getting some.”

The universe may as well be positively against Courtland Gentry. Because he’s in the middle of drinking from his chai tea latte when you explicitly hinted that you’re having sex with the guy you’re dating.

Court feels as though the warm drink has become sentient and decides not to meet its maker, slapping his throat with the force of 500 pounds in the attempts to escape the esophagus. He coughs horribly, facing away from you, he covers his mouth with his arm.

“Are you okay?” you worriedly ask, jumping out of the booth, you stand beside him. “Kurt, are you okay? You sound asphyxiated.”

“I’m—” Court is cut off by another fit of cough.

You’re careful when you reach to soothe and pat his back, while your other hand gently grips on his shoulder. Court can’t focus on your hands on him at first, that’s why he’s slightly thankful that he’s still recovering from choking. But as his bodily reflex begins calming down, Court wonders if you’ll stay this close to him if he pretends.

However, self-control gets the best of him.

Breathing out a sigh, he composes himself and looks up at you. “Thanks, (Y/N).. I’m fine now.” he says and absentmindedly pats your hand on his shoulder. He is quick to realize it, freezing up in the process, leaving his hand atop yours.

“You sure? Can I get you anything?” you question, scrutinizing him from crown to toe.

Court snaps out of his daze, pats your hand again, and reluctantly puts his hand down. “Yeah, I’m sure I’m fine.” he replies with a smile, “And you’ve done enough.”

“Okay.. well,” you slowly pull away from him, “what happened?”

“I think my drink has a grudge on me.”

“What, for consuming it?”

“Something like that.”

“I should be careful with mine, then.”

You return to your seat, glancing out of the cafe, you trace swirling patterns on your plain yellow mug. “You two can go home, you know.. I’ll stay for a bit.”

Court furrows his brows. “Why?— Oh, okay..”

“No, I’m not meeting Erick if that’s what you’re thinking.” you lightly kick his leg.

“Oh…” he tries not to look too happy, “Well, then, I’ll just go check up on Cl— Kiara.”

“Okay! See if she’s awake and hungry.”

Court exits the coffee shop, taking a furtive gander of the block, he unlocks the SUV and hops in. “Claire, wanna go home?” he looks over to the backseat, locking the doors.

She groans. “What’re you talking about? I am home.” and rolls over, smushing her face into the seat.

Court reaches over to see if her seatbelt is secured, and even pokes her shoulder for good measure that she’s deeply in slumber.

“She thinks she’s sleeping at home, so..” he announces when he enters back in the cafe, sidling across from you.

You chuckle. “Really, Kurt, you don’t have to accompany me.”

“Yeah, but I’d love to be with you,” Court internally punches himself across the face. He proceeds to clarify himself, “To accompany you. I mean, we are friends, right? Friends.. do that, accompany each other and shit.”

You smile, the kind that you’re trying to suppress as you’re simultaneously amused yet elated. “Yeah.. and shit,” you say, blissfully looking at him as though you’re about to ask him to marry you.

Court vanquishes the ludicrous thoughts away, slowly finishing his chai tea latte, which now appears menacing for a warm drink. He feels the sweat oozing out the top of his head when you stay silent while you drink, eyeing the coffee shop’s ornaments. You’re beginning to keep your thoughts to yourself. He sees them dancing around your eyes, but he’s not a mindreader; just a guy who would love for you to share your thoughts.

 It then hits him like a ten-wheeler truck— horn blaring, bones rupturing, realizing death is happening in just a snap— you’re always the one leading the conversation. During your first moments together, even during the walkie-talkie nights; he’s always waiting for you to say something. Granted, it’s due to his inept social skills, plus he doesn’t want to say anything wrong to you. That’s why he keeps quiet.

But not tonight.

He concludes it’s high time he acts like a man and takes the lead.

“So, what’s your favorite moment in Spy?” Court asks.

The thoughts in your eyes become lively, like celestial bodies showing off in a cloudless starry night. “Is answering.. every moment in Spy is my favorite moment too superfluous?” you ask back with a grin.

“If you put it like that, yeah.”

You laugh— the good kind of laugh.

The laugh that says ‘I’m comfortable with you, and I hope you’re comfortable with me too’.

The laugh that would’ve shot chai tea out of your nose if you had been drinking when he responded.

The laugh that Court wishes he can hear every day.

It’s the most genuine laugh he has heard from you yet. Court wonders if you laugh with Erick like this as well.

This is bad.

Even though it feels right and gives you ecstasy, this is bad.

By this, you mean you and Court— hanging out. It's the first time in a while that you two get to talk, but this is the first time you two talked like this in person. Typically, your conversations with Court occur through radio waves. 

That's what made you overlook the situation. The familiarity and comfort. Conversations with Court have always made you feel at ease.

If you're honest, the situation is innocent.

But if you're being more honest, the situation is wrongful.

Because you're starting to realize something you shouldn't. Feeling something you don't know is possible.

And it scares you.

You can't think of any reasons why— why and how it's possible. And that wreaks havoc in your brain as you try to ponder thoroughly about it.

You swirl the drink in your mug by lightly shaking it around. You watch the remaining liquid dance as an excuse to take your eyes off Court. He just asked you when was the last time you went to an amusement park (context: you two were fangirling about the Final Destination franchise).

"I guess.. 7 years?" you chuckle, "My parents surprisingly know I love amusement parks and decide we go to Universal Studios Japan after my graduation."

“I’ve been there once,” he pauses, averting his gaze just as a vivid memory flickers in it. “Ten years ago.”

You open your mouth to probe, but he beats you to it. “I thought you hadn't traveled to another country before?” he inquires puzzledly.

“Well, that was more like visiting Japan, not really my definition of traveling.” you shrug.

“And how was the USJ for you and your family?”

You try to search his eyes, finding no evidence of the memory he just recalled, you yield and recall your own memory of the popular theme park. “Shockingly, we had fun together. It was a rare blue moon event.” you snicker, “We even rode The Flying Dinosaur, which just opened that year, ten times in 1 day.”

Court stays silent, waiting for you to add on either the theme park or your family, but you’re not ready. And you’re certain he’s not ready to hear your family drama yet.

“Sorry,” he says suddenly.

You furrow your brows. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I didn’t intend for this conversation to involve your family. You told me once that you didn’t want me to feel bad about telling you anything about me.. and I’d like to say the same to you right now.” Court scratches the back of his head, “I mean.. am I right to think that your family is a sensitive topic?”

“Yeah, they are.. and you’re right. But don’t worry, you didn’t make me feel bad or anything.” you reply with a smile.

“Really?”

“Really.. I’m okay.”

“But your eyes say you’re not.”

You’re astonished. True, any memory or mentions of your family showers you with melancholy; but you did not think you’re showing it explicitly. Because you know you aren’t, yet Court manages to see through your defenses.

“What are you, a psychiatrist?” you nervously laugh, “Okay, okay, here’s a more honest answer.. I’m partly okay and you’re not the reason why I’m not fully okay.”

“But I’m the reason why you’re only partly okay in the first place. I triggered that.” Court frowns.

“Susmaryosep—” you reach over and flick him on the forehead, “Now you’re being more of a drama queen than my inner self. I’m partly okay, Kurt, and I’ll be fully okay once I’ve stabilized my emotions. Stop blaming yourself when I’m already assuring you that you did not hurt me.”

He gawks at you, shocked at your formidability, and you flick him on the forehead again before sitting back down. “Sheesh, is extreme affirmation and a forehead flick your love language?” you grumble, taking a swig of your chai tea latte.

If your exasperation has a form, it would be pops of firecrackers effusing out the top of your head.

Before Court can apologize again, the waiter approaches your booth and informs the two of you that the coffee shop will close in 20 minutes. “Ay sige, ubusin lang namin ito tapos labas na kami. Pasensya na, napatagal kami,” you reply to the waiter with a sheepish smile.

Oh okay, we’ll just finish this and then we’ll go out. Pardon us for taking too long,

“Okay lang po! Sana nag-enjoy naman po kayo sa stay niyo rito!” he beams and whisks back to the counter.

It’s alright! I hope you two enjoyed your stay here!

You whisper to Court to quickly finish your drinks, which is done in less than thirty-seconds, and wait for a minute before skedaddling out of the cafe.

The late-September air attempts to overwhelm you with its chilly embrace, but you’re protected by the remaining warmth of your deceased chai tea latte. You check your things and head to your motorcycle, Court trails after you silently. And when you halt, he halts.

“You know.. if you waited three more years, we might’ve run into each other at USJ.” you quip with a toothy grin, “Who were you with, if I may ask?”

He has trouble looking straight at you as he answers. “Uh.. just some old friends.”

“No lovers?” you tease.

“None,” he shortly laughs, looking straight at you, and now you’re the one having trouble looking at him.

“Well, thank you for accepting my offer and talking it out with me tonight.” you unlatch your helmet from the luggage rack, turning to Court, you smile brightly at him. “Have a good night, Kurt.”

“Don’t you,” he pauses when he sounds too hasty, “Don’t you want to stay the night at our place? It’s almost midnight.”

You hold the ‘yes’ captive in your throat. “No, it’s fine.. the drive home for me will be fast at this time.” you reply with a reassuring smile.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a game of DOS before bed?” Court quips awkwardly.

You laugh. “I’m sure you’ll regret that offer if I beat your ass in DOS.”

The two of you share a laugh, lively sounds mingling and ringing together into one, floating up to the twinkling stars behind the dark clouds. Once the cosmos has been fed by your and Court’s laughter, the two of you stare at each other— you instantly lose track of time at that moment.

You don’t know how, you don’t know why. But those findings somewhat don’t matter because right now, it’s just you and Court.

Except it shouldn’t be.

Because there’s no you and him.

In that sudden realization, you’re the first to snap back to reality. “Say good night to Kiara for me!” you say in a mixture of exclamation and yelping. You put on your helmet, straddle the motorcycle, and boots the stand-up.

“Y-Yeah, I will.” says Court.

You give him a thumbs up. “Alright, good night to you as well, Kurt!” and twist the keys in the ignition.

You’re the first to drive out of the small residential village, halting a few feet away from the highway, and Court rests to your right, lowering the driver window. “Are you sure I can’t at least drive you home?” he inquires with a worried frown.

“Yes, I’m sure.” you chuckle, “Good night, Kurt!”

Looking from left to right, you urge your ride into the highway. You forcefully focus your mind on the drive, because it keeps flashing memories of tonight like a broken record.

Just as you assured Court, you arrive at your apartment in no time. You fish out your phone, call the latest contact on the call list, and grab a pitcher of water from the fridge. The recipient doesn’t answer. After drinking a glass of water, you call again.

[“Hello?”] he groggily answers, probably with both eyes closed.

“Erick, hi, sorry.” you pause, “It’s me, (Y/N).”

[“(N/N)? Babe, why are you calling at midnight? Did your pumpkin explode?”]

“It’s more of the mice literally speaking,” you jokingly say and sit down, lowering your forehead to the edge of the table.

[“Are you okay? Did something crazy abnormal happen to you?”] Erick questions worriedly.

“No, but… Yes, I guess?— I just.. I need to talk to you.”

[“You sound serious. Wanna meet up now?”]

“No, I… I need some time to think.”

He deeply breathes in and out. [“Whatever that is.. it sounds like you made your mind about it already.”]

You stammer. “What do you mean?”

[“C’mon, (N/N).. I’ve known you, what, three years? Albeit, intermittently and through Muro,”] Erick snickers, [“So if you say you’ll be thinking about it, you probably thought about it for a while and finalizing it right now. Plus, we’ve been dating for a month.. that’s enough to know someone.”]

Sitting upright,  you breathe out a laugh. “Why do you sound so wise?”

[“Because I’ve always been, doy!”]

“Erick.. can we meet up tomorrow for lunch?”

[“Sure! At the cafe?”]

“I’ll text you the details in the morning. Sorry for calling you abruptly at this hour.”

You can imagine the boyish smile on his smile as he replies. [“It’s alright, babe. See you tomorrow?”]

“See you tomorrow..”

A/N: got nothing except HOPE YOU ENJOY AND CONTINUE STAYING TUNE &lt;;<<333 i am so so very very sorry for not updating in a very long while INTERNSHIP IS A HELLISH YET FUN JOURNEY

The key to Chapter 14 is itself

✨TAGLIST✨

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

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xii}

oooooh another chapter in less than an hour? *tries to mesmerize you*

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. Addtionally, 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

warning: 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 11 should be out of the blueprints Chapter 12 is this right here

word count: 3k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Claire *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know (except you do know #wreckthe4thwall)

It’s been a week since you’re dating Erick. 

But three weeks ago, if you're more honest, you thought you’d be dating Court.

Why is that?— Oh, maybe because he asked if you were in a relationship. You answered truthfully, and even flung the question back to him. If that wasn't a gigantic sign to ask someone out, you don't know what it was. 

For two weeks, you have waited for him to ask you out. But, as God said when Wuntch tried to sneak past the gates into heaven, “It ain’t happening, honey”—rebuked by Captain Raymond Jacob Holt of the 99 Brooklyn precinct.

Even so, you’ve contemplated on being the one to take the first step and ask him out. Your nerves unfortunately tear your vocal chords to shreds; whenever you think you have the courage to ask Court out, you’re losing your voice as though Ursula wants it to scare off any colorful sea creatures.

Your little inner selves are warning you, telling you to be sure first before producing stupidity into something tangible. So you decide to wait it out, look for definite signs that Court is authentically interested in you, and—

Nothing happens.

Apparently, you’re only positively daydreaming. You think you’re that lucky to have a foreign guy become interested in you? Stop, please, you’re killing your muscle fibers— they’re laughing too much.

If your own ethnicity has always had trouble finding you attractive, what more for people of other ethnicities?

Here you go again, degrading yourself like a terror professor. Stop it— you're sexy and you know it.

Erick certainly believes it as he periodically murmurs how sexy you are during sex earlier. You regard his open-mouthed sleeping face, wondering how he doesn't snore, and softly run a hand through his hair. Something— someone else flashes in your eyes, making you see that you're not combing Erick's hair.

Dirty blond locks instead of black bend to your gentle will. You carefully retract your hand, gaze at Erick guiltily, and quietly knock the back of your head on the headboard of his bed. For some reason (there's no point hiding it), during intercourse with Erick, your mind occasionally imagines that Court is in Erick's place.

When you soothe a hand up and down his arm, you vividly feel Court's arm instead of Erick's. It has been practically a month, yet your mind still replays that moment you and Court had in their kitchen as though it happened yesterday.

You recall his scar and wonder if Court has any more that he will let you venture.

An exasperated sigh blows out your lips, like a single storm cloud wafting angrily to rain on everyone's parade. Here you are in bed with a guy who's definitely interested, and you're musing over somebody else who probably isn't.

Talk about being a shitty person.

"Why weren't you two here last week?" you inquire, unable to keep it in your molars any longer.

Claire and Court didn't show up for their Monday breakfast, and Friday and Saturday dinners. She mentioned that they may add it to their more dinner nights and breakfast at the cafe. You shouldn't have assumed it'll be written in stone, now you're reddening as the father-daughter duo exchange unreadable looks.

Maybe you shouldn't have asked.

"Busy preparing for homeschool," says Claire.

"Oh, yeah? When are you going to start?" you grin excitedly.

She grimaces. "Next week, actually."

"Damn, time flies fast!" you exclaim with a laugh, "It seems like yesterday you two were first-time customers in the cafe."

Claire snaps her fingers. "I remember we played UNO Flip then. We haven't played that since."

"That's true.. how about instead of a movie night tonight, we'll have a game night?" you suggest with a toothy grin.

"We can do alternating events— game night this Friday, and then movie night on the next!" Claire claps her hands enthusiastically.

The two of you regard Court, who has been quietly finishing his meal. "(Y/N) may be busy," he states without looking and drinks his water.

You blink. "No, I'm not—"

"Well, I am." he curtly says.

"You are?" Claire heaves a brow.

"Company project needs to be done tomorrow morning." he begins wiping his mouth and hands, sliding out of the booth, he's careful not to be in your proximity. He looks at Claire, "Let's go?"

She glances down at her empty plate. "We haven't had dessert yet."

"Two slices of strawberry shortcake to go, please." Court whisks away to the counter.

"O-Okay," you glance at Claire, who shrugs in response, and you follow Court, trying to catch his eyes as he keeps his gaze down.

When you outstretch the paper bag to him, you keep your hold on it before Court can take it. "Are you alright?" you inquire before he can say anything.

He is astonished, yet he replies nonchalantly. "Yeah."

You tighten your jaw. "Are we alright?" you press, brows knotting worriedly.

It nearly takes him a moment to answer. ".. Yeah, why wouldn't we be?" says Court, offering a small smile.

"Right," you murmur dubiously.

Reluctantly releasing the paper bag, you look straight into Court’s eyes and spot a flicker of emotion. But you can’t name it, and he turns away before you can scrutinize him further. Court strolls ahead to exit the cafe, while Claire trails behind with you. "See you next week, (N/N)." she waves with a toothy smile.

You hold the door open for her. "Yeah, see you." you manage a bright smile, even though it feels dejected.

Once Claire has climbed in the SUV, you give the father-daughter duo one last wave before returning inside the cafe.

"Why are you being a dickwad?" Claire immediately (verbally) pounces on Court.

He glares at her. "You're grounded," and carefully drives out of the parking lot.

"Seriously? That's what you're coming up with?" she questions, scoffing. "Court, it's the two of us against the world.. tell me why you're being a dickwad to the only person who'll ever be good to us."

"How are you sure (Y/N) is good?" he demands, knuckles blanching white as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "We don't know anything about her, she's as much a stranger as everyone else. She doesn't even know who we really are—" he pauses to sharply glance at Claire, "—How are you sure she won't pick money over us? Or her real family and friends over us?"

Claire is seething. "How is (Y/N) a stranger when each of us have our own late night talks with her?!"

Court shortly glances at her in shock.

She mirthlessly laughs. "Oh, yeah, buddy.. I know— way before she even mentioned it. The bedroom doors still have gaps, I've eavesdropped on some of your conversations. She also mentioned that you haven't walkie-talked to her for the past weeks. She's worried.. agitated, even.”

An imaginary elephant stomps on his chest, bruising his skin, cracking his ribs, and flattening his every organ. He doesn’t deserve your concern.

Claire breathes in and out, turning to the road ahead. “Look, I don't know who (Y/N) will pick, but it certainly won't be money. You know that as well as I do,” she pauses to regard Court. “So why are you being shitty to her?"

The blinker chirps periodically when Court signals that he’ll be making a right turn. He carefully rests the SUV by a vacant spot on the curb, pulls up the parking brake, and clenches his jaw. 

“Court, it’s the two of us against the world.. tell me why you're being a dickwad to the only person who'll ever be good to us.”

Keeping secrets from the only family he has is kind of pompous and shitty.

Expelling a hefty sigh, he starts to open up. "I'm avoiding her—"

Claire snorts. "No shit."

"—for my own sake."

Her eyebrows leap in astonishment.

He shortly closes his eyes when he soothes his forehead. "Every time she's at arms-length, all I think about is kidnapping her. Stealing her away from that guy— from the world. Telling her who I am.. who we are.” he glances at Claire with a sadly amused smirk, “That way, it’s the three of us against the world.”

Claire remains silent, either she’s letting him continue or she doesn’t have anything to say. It’s both.

“She just lays her eyes on me and my self-control slips like sand through my fingers,” Court releases his grip on the steering wheel, gazing at his rough appendages. “I don't think I'll be able to hold back any longer if she keeps nearing me."

"Oh, damn..” Claire breathes out, “Oh, damn… Oh, damn, Six! I didn't think you were in love!"

He regards her, both flabbergasted and discombobulated. Then he fully processes her words and flares like a red stoplight. "I wouldn't call it that,” he stammers, “I'm just—"

"Oh, yeah? Just what?" she questions, snickering.

"Just…” he trails off, glancing out the window, he notices his faint reflection morphing. It’s not him looking back at himself, it’s you. Every memory he has of you starts streaking across the glass like a fast-paced, slow-motion movie. The most recent images he has of you is you in the arms of the guy you’re dating and the way you looked at him earlier when you asked if the two of you were alright.

The two of you— we.

Him, her; I, you— us.

You have already considered him in your life. 

You’re at the door, opening it halfway, not wanting to overwhelm him too much and letting it be his decision to enter. Do you know what you’re doing already? Or is it still your subconscious taking the wheel?— Because either way, you’re letting him into your world, willing to let him have a piece of your life, and willing to know more about him.

Court sighs as he faces forward, scratching the side of his head, he shrugs. “I just think I like her more than I've allowed myself to like another person."

Claire stares at him, until she suddenly smacks him on the arm. “Ow! The hell was that for?!” he shrieks, bewildered.

She strikes him again, this time with a toothy grin. “I never pegged you as someone who can say such poetic words,” she coos, “You make Shakespeare run for his money.”

“Well, Shakespeare is overrated.”

“I dare you tweet that.”

Larceny.

Arson.

Attempted murder.

Necrophilia.

You're listing things that you're certain are reasons why Court is avoiding you. What happened last week is already enough proof, and you've hundred percent confirmed it during this week's Monday breakfast and Friday dinner.

He doesn't look you in the eye.

He's rigid whenever you're in close proximity with him.

His responses are always clipped when talking to you.

And he still hasn't engaged in the weekly late night talks with you through the walkie-talkie.

Other than illegal activities that you certainly do not engage in, you’ve been thinking and listing how you’ve been behaving around the father-daughter duo.

Did you say something explicit with Kiara at earshot?

Were you being racist without realizing?

Are you smothering them uncomfortably with hospitality?

You let out a cry, distressed voice bouncing from the bathroom’s ceiling to floor, seeping into the walls. You’ve just served the father-daughter duo their meals and decide to wallow in your anxiety in the staff bathroom. Because you might not be able to stop yourself from asking Court why he’s avoiding you. It’d be embarrassing if that isn’t the case.

But what if it is?— The next question would be: what have you done to make him avoid you?

Muro raps on the door. “(N/N)? Are you okay in there?”

“Yeah, just..!” you pause, “Feeling some cramps, you know, I might get my period tonight instead of next week.”

“Need any pads?”

“You have some?”

“NO— Mindy does.”

“Are you sure they’re not yours?”

“Bahala ka nga d’yan!” you hear Muro storming off.

You laugh and holler. “Sorry na!”

Standing in front of the mirror, you exchange nods with your reflection before you exit the bathroom. Just be cool. No matter how Court acts, just be your everyday waitress self.

"How's dinner?" you quirkily step up to their booth.

"Magnifique!" Claire exclaims, "I didn't think vinegar and soy sauce would go absolutely well together."

"Adobo certainly is magic," you wink at her and glance over to Court, who's silently finishing his meal. You clap your hands together, "Right, since dinner looks almost done.. would you two care for dessert?"

"We'll have our desserts to go, please." Court says without looking at you.

"Got another one of those hefty company projects, huh?" you reply, as though you’re knowledgeable about gruesome corporate deadlines.

"That's right."

You tighten your jaw when you feel the bubbling anger in your throat. However, the resistance does not pull on the reins of your exasperation. "We're out of strawberry shortcake today. Do you need the menu to choose for other desserts?" you ask, eyes and tone as sharp as the knives in Mindy's kitchen.

The father-daughter duo notices your edge and regards you in astonishment. This is the first time in a while since Court looked at you properly. Pro tip for anyone handling Court in the near future: vividly express your annoyance if he’s ignoring you.

You give him a bright, tight-lipped smile. “I’m asking so that I can immediately prepare the takeout and you won’t have to waste your energy going to the counter.”

“No, it’s fi—”

“Great! I’ll be back with the menu in five minutes,” you chirpily cut him off and sashay away to the counter.

Claire shares a look with Court before she frowns at him. “If I haven’t said this was gonna bite you in the ass, then I’ll say it now,” she pauses to clear her throat, pressing her palms together like she’s praying, she taps her fingertips to her lips and points her praying hands to him. “This was gonna bite you in the ass.”

“I don’t understand what she has to be mad about,” Court scoffs, stabbing the last piece of meat on his plate, biting it off the fork like a caveman.

“Seriously? You’ve been reducing contact with her, henceforth she’s mad.”—Claire waits for any realization on Court’s face, and when there’s none, she continues—“And she’s mad because.. she cares.”

Court ceases his chewing.

She gives him a look. “.. About you,” and sighs. “She cares about you, Six.”

He gulps, glancing over to you, he settles his gaze on the table. “Well, that’s not good for any of us.”

Claire quietly explodes. “How is that not—?!”

“Are you forgetting our quality of life, Claire Fitzroy?” Court sharply interjects, glowering. “We let anyone in, there’s a high chance they die. That may not have happened yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m up for testing the theory.”

The way he ends his argument indicates that there’s no leeway for a rebuttal. Claire hasn’t really come up with a counter yet. She watches as Court rigidly finishes his plate: face tight, shoulders squared, and anger oozing from him like sweat out of pores.

“Maraming salamat po! Sana nabusog po kayo sa aming cafe!” you beam at the group of customers departing from the vicinity, “Ingat kayo para makabalik kayo ulit dito!”

Thank you very much! I hope you all became full from our cafe! Be careful so that you can return here!

Claire watches you clear out the table that the customers used, catching you vaguely hum a funky tune. You appear quite content with your life. With that swing of your hips and a bounce in your step, you look like you can take on the world. She notices Court furtively glimpsing at you in her peripheral vision and recalls his words from last week.

“Every time she's at arms-length, all I think about is kidnapping her. Stealing her away from that guy— from the world. Telling her who I am.. who we are… That way, it’s the three of us against the world.”

She then connects it with Court’s recent statements. Her face brightens with cognizant, smiling stupidly yet sadly, she begins finishing her meal.

“At least you confirmed that you care about her, too.” she nonchalantly declares.

“What?” Court regards her quizzically, “I didn’t—”

She noisily sips on her drink. “Directly said so? True.”

"I don't c—"

"Now, we both know you'll be lying if you continue that sentence."

"... Whatever," he scoffs.

Shit.. you're really mad at him. Enraged, even.

Another week has passed, marking it to be a month since you dated Erick. And during their cafe breakfast and dinners, you've reciprocated a much colder demeanor than he could ever conjure. You're only genuinely smiling at Claire, dropping it whenever you lay eyes on him, as though he's that kid who's always stealing other kids' juicebox in preschool. Your sentences are razor-sharp despite being up to 3 words long. You've been keeping your distance, always in close proximity with Claire, evading him like he has a viral infection.

Court did not expect that two could play this game. And he’s on a losing streak right off the bat when you joined.

He also did not expect how it’s more painful to have you ignoring him. However, this rift makes it easier to sledgehammer the relationship you two have been building.

So why is it that he’s currently driving out of the house, with Claire asleep and buckled in the backseat, and with the intent of reconstructing his friendship with you?

‘Friends..’ his inner self scoffs derisively.

‘Better than nothing,’ he replies as fast as a gunshot.

One of the guards slides the gate outwards and salutes to Court as he drives out of the subdivision. He halts the SUV, glancing from left to right, and shortly watches as a motorcycle gently swings off the highway. The rider honks thrice and they stop right beside the SUV.

Court’s eyes widen when they take off the helmet.

A/N: is it just me or this chapter feels like a rollercoaster? HAHAHAH i am absolutely reeling after revising this

Follow the map to Chapter 13, it'll reveal the location in the near future.. AND THERE IT IS

✨TAGLIST✨

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

*to those who want to be in the taglist, check out the guidelines at the Masterlist pls („ಡωಡ„) thankyousomuch

[niobe-loreley]

Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xi}

BEEN TOO DAMN LONG AHJFNHSAEFKJHUN to make up for such a mini hiatus on the fic, I'll be posting two more new chapters because I've got the next three chapters hot and ready to serve!

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. Addtionally, 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

warning: moderate amount of swear words. some filipino dialogues. slow burn. fluff. trust issues. comedy if you use a magnifying glass. culture shock. word count check or not. slightly proofread/revised.

CHAPTER SELECTION is in the ✨Masterlist✨ Chapter 10 is nowhere here Chapter 11 is the chapter right now

word count: 2.1k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Claire *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know (except you do know #wreckthe4thwall)

For an entire fortnight, Court has successfully not asked you. It is hellish to be in this phase, especially when he hasn't experienced it in his lifetime. Sure, there were people who would flirt with him during missions, and he would flirt back if it's part of his staged identity or the mission isn't commencing yet. And sure, he's shared a bed with someone— and he leaves after an hour.

But he has not asked anyone out. Nor has he had any volition to date anyone until you came along.

This is new territory for him, uncharted waters he never imagined he'd be able to venture. And you're almost like an alien; or maybe he's the alien because he doesn't know the first thing in asking someone out. What is being human, anyway?

Oh, yeah.. that’s how far he has spiraled down the rabbit hole.

"Stare anymore at her and she'll turn into a puddle."

Claire's teasing remark pierces through his thick skull and ceases his haywire thoughts.

Court coughs, noisy and awkward. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Now, that's just plain out idiotic and sad."

"Would you rather pay for the meal tonight?"

"I'd pay for our meal if you ask (N/N) out."

"Tha-That's.. that's not what's happening."

"Again, idiotic and sad."

"You're idiotic." he fires stupidly.

"You're mean."

"You're rude."

"You're a moron."

"You—

"You're watching Playground Insults live!" you chime in with a laugh, "What's going on here? I just went to get extra tissues and you two are fighting."

The pair beams at you as Claire kicks Court in the shin. You hear it, but don't address it, so you wait for either of them to say a word. But besides the music bouncing around the cafe, there's only Claire's shoes rebounding off Court's leg. And Court is smiling at you like nothing is happening.

You look between their grinning faces, and yours begin to falter. This is getting too weird.

"I'm gonna go," you uneasily say, waving before you glide back to the counter.

"You're gonna lose your chance." Claire singsongs quietly.

“Shut up,” he grumbles.

Seven days pass by like that. Every day Court contemplates and practices how to ask you out, while talking to you through the transceiver every other night. Claire badgers him that she can help, but he doesn't accept it. So instead, she suggests having breakfast and dinner at the cafe during your shifts after one week of Court's no-show-courting. Court comprises by deciding they'll additionally have breakfast on Mondays and dinner on Saturdays.

They did, and nothing has yet to happen.

It’s Saturday again, it now heavily dawns on Court that he is still at square one for two weeks straight. Even though he has no experience, he sure as hell knows it doesn't take this long to ask someone out on a date.

"I'll ask (N/N) out if you don't get your balls together and just do it." Claire snarls with a mouthful of brown rice.

Court is appalled by her vulgarity, but he doesn't chide her for it. If even Claire has reached her frustration limit, he's no longer at square one— he's down to square negative five.

"I'll do it after dinner," he declares, frowning determinedly.

She snorts incredulously. "I'll believe it when it even happens."

You're serving them dessert by the time they finish dinner. "Enjoy our delightful dulce de leche cake roll!" you beam and swivel around, only to turn back to them when Court calls you. "Yes?"

"Can I talk to you in private?"

"Whatever it is you have to say to me, you can say it in front of Kiara!"

He blinks at you. "What?"

You snicker. "She said that you might ask me something, so she told me to say those words to you."

Court glances between the two of you before settling to scowl at the younger girl. "When did you even have time to tell her?!" he demands, unsure whether to feel betrayed, horrified, or amazed.

"Doesn't matter," Claire wolfishly grins.

"So, what is it?" you ask, looking straight at him.

Systems critical— yet his heart starts drumming like it's in a rock concert even though his brain is malfunctioning from having eye contact with you. He averts his gaze to compose himself, quietly breathing in and out, he rises from his seat and stands in front of you.

What a bad decision. You're too close.

"I..." he trails off, reddening. "Will you..?— Um.. you see, I.."

Claire facepalms, both embarrassed and vexed at her surrogate father.

"Are you having a stroke? Just spill it out, Kurt." you laugh.

He notices Claire mouthing something at him—

If you won't ask her, I will.

Court gulps, gazing into your eyes, he tightens his jaw. Here goes nothing..

"(Y/N), will you go on a d—?"

"Honey, I'm home!"

A guy brusquely bursts in the cafe, Court recognizes his voice even though he only heard it once, and you facepalm to hide your pink cheeks. “Para kang tanga, tol. Sabi na huwag kang gaganyan habang shift ko pa,” you chide the guy as he strides to your side.

You’re like an idiot, dude. I told you to not do that when it’s still my shift,

He snickers. “Ba’t ‘tol’ tawag mo sa jowa mo?” and pecks you on the forehead.

Why are you calling your boyfriend ‘dude’?

You frivolously wipe the spot he shortly put his lips on. “Firstly, Erick, you’re not my boyfriend. Secondly, don’t kiss me without permission.” you frown and jab him on the stomach.

Unbeknownst to you and Erick, but knownst to Claire, Court’s world has ruptured with spiderweb cracks. He feels as though he’s the one whom you struck in the gut; he’s kinda debating whether or not he can ask you to punch him in order to wake up from this stupidly horrifying dream. But then Court realizes that if he puts his head through the wall to wake himself up, reality is going to seep in and burn into every crevice of his brain.

And reality is much harsher than the nightmare he thinks he’s in.

He’s a little too late.

“Court, what were you going to ask?”

Your voice, smooth like the silk strangling his throat, reels him out of his daze. Court tries not to focus on Erick’s arm on your shoulders and mulls over what to say. “I was gonna ask if.. there’s still some strawberry shortcake left for a takeout.” he replies with a small, forced smile.

He thought only Claire could see through him. But you stare at his tight-lipped demeanor as though you understand what’s happening.

Nevertheless, you don’t know why.

“Y-Yeah, there’s still half of the cake left.” you say, glancing at Claire, who can’t even muster a fake smile.

“Can I get two slices from that? One for you and me,” Erick chimes in, winking down on you, squeezing you closer to his side.

“Actually, I was going to buy all of the half.” Court interjects crisply.

There’s a heat in his tone that you and Erick sense immediately. You internally muse that it’s either Court is really adamant about having more strawberry shortcake or there’s something else amiss. 

“Forgive my dad.. (N/N) got him addicted to strawberry shortcake.” Claire laughs to extinguish the growing tension.

“Sorry, dude, customers first.” you elbow Erick’s side with a snicker.

“I’ll just ask you to make some,” he coos, aiming to kiss you on the cheek.

You shove his face away. “And I’ll make you pay for the ingredients.”

“As long as you get to bake me some.”

“I’ll make you pay for the cake, too.”

“You’re a horrible girlfriend.”

“Thank you!”

Erick grumbles about going to the kitchen for free food and strict, workaholic girlfriends. He’s about to turn, but you hop to your tip-toes and peck him on the cheek.

You face the father-daughter duo while Erick becomes a statue as though he made eye contact with Medusa. “I’ll be right back with the cake!” you beam, “Are you gonna pay at the counter or..?”

“At the counter,” Court replies, glancing at Erick still frozen on his spot.

“Great!”

Once the cake has been boxed, you escort the father-daughter duo out of the cafe. The warm air instantly decks the chillness from the cafe, Court wishes he can punch that guy you're dating just as easily. But the one who deserves a broken nose is himself.

This is what he gets for stalling. No matter how nervous and unprepared he is, he should've just asked you out. Because knowing you, you'd understand why he would suck at dating and liking someone. You'll probably laugh at him, but not in any way contemptuous, and reassure him that you can guide him in dating.

The only problem— the reason why Court keeps putting off asking you out— is: would you have said yes?

“See you two next week!” you grin and wave at them like a child.

“(N/N), can we talk later on the walkie? Here’s the channel and the passcode,” Claire hands you a folded piece of paper, trying to sound enthusiastic instead of disappointed. "Tell me all about your boy toy!"

“More like a boy tool,” you roll your eyes.

“Why is that? Are you just dating him for kicks?” Claire questions, quite enthusiastic.

You snort. “Dating is the definition of ‘for kicks’.”

Claire shortly shoots Court a pointed look, practically shouting at him that he still has a chance, and he turns his head away, trying to drown out her silent bellows. If that’s what you think while dating that tool, then what would you be thinking while dating him?

“So,” Claire intones, hesitant. “You don’t like Erick the tool?”

“I like him.. but not enough to say he’s my boyfriend.”

“Will you like him enough to be your boyfriend?”

“Claire,” Court says in a warning tone.

“What?” she snaps.

“You don’t have to answer her.” he informs you reassuringly.

“No, it’s alright. This is a ‘who knows’ situation,” you shrug, regarding Court for a full five seconds, you then turn to Claire. “There’s a chance, but time will tell. Erick knows it as well.”

You suddenly look at Court and Claire as though you’ve had an epiphany. Court becomes nauseated, thinking that you’re already contemplating on marrying the tool you’re dating.

“Hey, what do you know, that rhymes!” you exclaim with a laugh.

Court stands corrected.

“See you next week, (N/N).” says Claire, stifling a grin.

You wave. “See ya’!”

When Court drives the SUV out into the street, he instinctively glances at the cafe and sees Erick taking the tray full of plates from you. He’s telling something to the customers, maybe explaining his relationship with you. The customers laugh and remark it’s sweet, while you’re blushing and trying to snatch the tray back from Erick.

Claire witnesses the scene before Court harshly steps on the accelerator, rushing the SUV away. He switches on the radio, combing through the channels that don’t have any love songs playing, and Claire slumps into the passenger seat, crossing her arms with a sigh.

“This one’s on you.” she declares dejectedly and stares out the window.

Court grimaces. “Undoubtedly so..”

Claire turns to him. “I’m on (N/N)’s side until you realize how stupid you are for stalling,” and smirks.

“I already do realize it.”

“Well, that’s not enough. Unbuckle your seatbelt, drive really fast, and then hit the brakes so hard you’ll fly out of the windshield.”

“Why are you so violent when it comes to me?”

“'Cuz you’re always asking for it.”

A/N: uh-oh~ you, the reader, have a boyfriend guy you're dating. will you and Erick last long?

ANYWAY~ good to be back! how was the chapter? hopefully yall enjoyed it and don't worry about the next chapter, i'll be posting them later or tomorrow (probably)

Here is the portal to Chapter 12- except it's NOT still in the drafts NO MORE

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