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kirisjournal · 22 days ago

Text

🧢 on the other end

kyle “gaz” garrick x male!reader

summary: your voice is the first thing he hears in the morning. the last thing before sleep. the tether he follows when the world goes dark. he knows you by tone and tempo, by the steady calm that cuts through chaos. he trusts you like he trusts his weapon—maybe more. and when everything falls apart, when his comm goes dead and the world tries to take him—you're the one who goes in after him. you’re not a soldier. not trained for this. but he’s yours. and you are not letting him die.

setting: half-lit war rooms and comms towers blinking in the storm. burnt-out cityscapes, signal interference, ruined buildings swallowed by smoke. medbay nights and stitched-up silence.

warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, battlefield injuries, blood, violence, implied death (but not really), heavy angst with a soft ending, knife use, leg injury, emotional stakes, mutual care, love through headset, protective instincts, minor ocs, price being price, desperate rescue, found connection, slowburn intimacy

tw: heavy blood, graphic violence, action sequences, battlefield wounds, knife fights, leg injury, emotional distress

word count: 5k

note: for the ones who fall in love over comms. for the voices that guide you home. for when trust sounds like “stay with me,” and love doesn’t wait for permission. i’m sorry it’s a little long, but i have so much fun writing for gaz because he’s literally just a pretty baby.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

your voice is the first thing he hears in the morning, and the last thing he hears before he falls asleep in some distant tent with the taste of ash still in his mouth.

you’re the one who tells him where the enemies are. who whispers the safe routes through burning cities, the backdoor exits in half-collapsed buildings. who counts his rounds when he forgets to, and reminds him to breathe when the smoke gets too thick.

“you’ve got five on the left. rooftop, three levels.” “take the corner slow.” “you’re not dying today, garrick. don’t make me come down there.”

he always smiles when you say that last one. even when his lungs are tight. even when his ribs are bruised and his boots are soaked in someone else’s blood.

he’s never seen your face outside of base. never touched your hand. but he knows the cadence of your breathing, the tilt in your voice when you’re worried, the way your laugh softens when it’s just the two of you on an open channel.

and you—

you never meant to fall for him. you tried to be careful.

you had to be. lines like that got blurred all the time in places like this. and it would be quick for it to end badly. but there was something about him—something calm, grounded, the kind of steady you didn’t realize you’d been reaching for until it was already within arm’s length.

but he makes it so easy.

he listens. he trusts you. he doesn’t just hear your voice—he leans into it. he calms when you speak. steadies. like you’re something he believes in.

and then the mission goes wrong.

you see it first. a blip vanishing off your screen. garbled comms, signal interference, an open channel that suddenly cuts out mid-breath. your stomach drops.

you try to reestablish the connection immediately, fingers flying over the controls with a precision you don’t have to think about. this isn’t the first time a line has dropped. it happens. glitches, interference, compressed bandwidth under heavy cloud coverage. there are explanations.

but none of them settle your nerves.

you tap the channel again. try a manual reconnect. nothing.

your pulse starts to climb, slow and steady.

you lean closer to the console, voice low but focused, tight with the tension building behind your ribs.

“kyle, come in,” you say, steady at first. practiced.

the line crackles, but no voice follows. no reply. not even the hum of breathing on the other end.

just empty air.

you reroute the signal, bypassing the standard comms pathway entirely. override frequency limitations. rerun the encryption sequence. reset the transmission buffer. it’s all muscle memory now, something you could do in your sleep—but tonight, it feels slow. sluggish. like the system is dragging behind your heartbeat.

still nothing.

your hands tighten around the edge of the console. the headset presses sharp into your temples.

your voice cuts sharper now. louder. more urgent.

“gaz, this is command,” you say again, pushing each word out like you can force it to reach him. “do you copy? respond.”

but the line stays quiet.

dead.

your chest is tight now, your ears straining for anything—a breath, a rustle, a sound that tells you he’s still there.

and then— a flicker. a flicker of static.

it’s faint, barely enough to register. a broken surge of sound that skips in and out like a heartbeat running low. garbled, dragged across fractured signal paths. but you know his voice. you know it better than anything.

and you hear it.

“...under fire—two down—pinned—fuck—”

you sit up so fast your headset nearly flies off. the rest of command is yelling, typing, relaying data. but your voice cuts through the noise.

“gaz, you need to get out of there. you copy? fall back. now.”

you’re not supposed to panic. comms is meant to stay level. measured. but you feel it—the tightening in your throat, the heat building behind your eyes.

then, over the line—barely audible:

“not… gonna make it. s’okay. just—stay with me, yeah?”

and something in you breaks.

not loud. not sudden. but deep—like a fault line splitting down the center of your chest, quiet and irreversible.

you’ve heard plenty of things through the comms before. last words. final breaths. soldiers calling for medics who never make it. callsigns being spoken like prayers. but this—his voice? low and shaking, threaded with pain and trying so hard to sound calm—it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs.

not gonna make it.

he says it like it’s already done. like he’s accepted it. like this is just how the story ends for him, pinned beneath rubble and enemy fire, too far out for anyone to reach him in time. and what kills you isn’t just the resignation—it’s the way he says your name. the way he asks you to stay. not as a command. not as a request.

as a goodbye.

and that— that’s what shatters you.

because you’ve walked him through a hundred firefights. stayed with him through the worst of it. you’ve counted his heartbeats through static. mapped his escape routes in real time. been the voice he leaned on when the rest of the world was burning.

and now, when it really counts— when it’s life or death— he thinks all you can do is stay.

just sit there. just listen.

you feel the crack travel through every bone in your body. your hands go cold. your mouth goes dry. your vision blurs at the edges, but you’re not crying. not yet.

your fingers tremble against the console. the sound of your own heartbeat roars in your ears. every line of protocol, every rule you’ve ever followed, every lecture about your place on the comms team—it all falls away like dust.

you whisper, voice broken.

“no. you don’t get to say goodbye.”

and then you’re moving.

you don’t hesitate. don’t wait for clearance. don’t wait for the retrieval team to finish suiting up. they’re too slow. too careful. too late.

your gear is already halfway on. it doesn’t fit quite right. the vest is heavy. the boots are stiff. you haven’t worn this in months—not like this. not for real.

you’ve had basic field training, yes. the kind they require. the kind they give everyone. you know how to fire a weapon, how to drop into cover, how to follow behind a lead and hope to god you’re not in the way.

but this?

this is a battlefield.

and you don’t belong out there.

not by training. not by rank.

but that doesn’t stop you.

because it’s him. because he is out there. and you can’t sit still while his voice fades from the earth.

so you move. you grab a weapon. a headset. an old comms rig tuned to his last known frequency. you ignore every voice calling your name. every protocol officer trying to drag you back.

you override everything—every doubt, every warning, every what if.

you don’t look back.

because if you don’t go now, no one will reach him in time.

and you refuse to let that be the end.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

you hit the ground running.

outside, the world is a different kind of quiet—tense, crackling with pressure, like the air itself is waiting for something to explode. the path ahead is long, carved between shattered buildings and half-collapsed infrastructure.

every few feet, the dirt shifts with the memory of something buried: a crater, a bloodstain, a rusted piece of shrapnel that no one bothered to clear.

you move fast. faster than you should in this gear. your body aches from the weight you’re not used to, the vest digging into your collarbone, the comms pack slamming against your spine with every step—but you keep going.

because every second you waste is one second he doesn’t have.

the smoke thickens the deeper you go. black and bitter, clinging to your skin, your lashes, your tongue. you try to breathe through your scarf, but it still burns.

gunfire cracks in the distance. not far now.

your hands shake around the weapon you’ve barely fired outside of training simulations. your trigger finger rests light. too light. not like a soldier. not like someone who belongs out here.

but still— you press on.

your earpiece sputters once, then goes dead again. the interference is too strong now, but you don’t need directions. not anymore. you burned his last coordinates into your mind.

you can feel the pull of them in your chest. like gravity. like instinct.

you don’t even see him until it’s nearly too late.

a flicker of movement—just barely caught in the corner of your vision. something shifting through the haze and heat of the battlefield, sharp-edged and wrong. instinct kicks in before thought does, and your body jerks sideways behind the crumbling wreck of a rusted-out vehicle, heart hammering against your ribs.

you catch sight of him fully now—crouched low, creeping forward. enemy uniform, rifle raised, his line of fire aimed straight toward the alleyway you know gaz is pinned in.

your breath stutters.

he hasn’t seen you yet. not clearly. but he’s close. too close.

your fingers fumble toward your weapon out of habit—your issued sidearm, heavy in its holster. it’s meant to be your last-resort protection, the kind they gave all the tech division officers, just in case. god forbid you’d ever have to use it.

and yet—here you are.

your hand hesitates over the grip. something clenches in your gut. too loud. too risky. it’ll draw attention, blow your cover wide open before you can even reach him.

then—a memory. your old instructor, sergeant kim’s voice, low and certain during an early field briefing:

“if you’re outnumbered, don’t use the gun unless you have to. draws attention. a blade’s quieter. lets you get in and out without the rest of ‘em knowing you were ever there.”

at the time, it sounded like drama. now, it sounds like survival.

your fingers shift. instead of the gun, you reach for the combat knife on your belt.

it’s not much. not made for this. you’ve only ever used it to pry open jammed drone panels or cut twisted wire out of cooling fans. but right now, it’s the only thing you trust yourself to hold.

you draw it slow. steady. feel its weight in your hand, heavier than you remember.

then—movement.

another figure. closer. faster.

you don’t know where he comes from—maybe he was shadowing the first. maybe he just slipped through the smoke. but he’s coming right for you now, footsteps sure, grip steady, scanning the wreckage like a predator.

he’s trained. practiced.

you are not.

but you move anyway.

your boot grinds against shattered stone as you surge out of cover, body propelled by adrenaline and something much more fragile—hope. the knife is clutched in your grip as you launch toward him, your shoulder colliding with his chest. he grunts, surprised, as the two of you slam into the dirt.

you don’t wait.

you drive the blade forward—once, twice—into his side, where the body armor ends. the edge meets resistance, then slides in with sickening warmth. he snarls in pain, his hand clawing for your wrist, your arm, anything to throw you off.

you try to press down, to finish it, but he’s stronger. too strong.

he bucks his hips and you roll—hard—onto your back. gravel cuts into your spine. your vision swims. your knife-hand is still locked in his grip, your knuckles white.

and then—

a blur of motion. a flash of silver.

pain.

a white-hot scream tears out of you as the knife plunges down into your thigh—just above the knee. the sound is horrible. the sensation worse. like being set on fire from the inside out. your breath leaves you in a choked sob.

he twists it.

you almost black out.

but you don’t. you can't.

you’re not done.

with your free leg—the one not split open and bleeding—you slam your knee into his gut. he lurches forward, the force of it enough to make him loosen his grip. you reach—

your fingers close around the hilt still buried in your leg.

you yank it out.

your cry is raw. ugly. blood pours freely now, but you don’t stop.

you can’t.

before he can strike again, you surge upward—blade clutched in both hands—and drive it into his neck.

it’s not graceful.

it’s not clean.

but it’s final.

his body convulses, goes slack above you. collapses onto you. blood spills warm across your hands, your chest, soaking into your collar.

you lie there for a breath. two.

your leg screams with every beat of your heart. you bite back another cry and roll to your side, dragging yourself toward the wreckage for cover.

he’s dead. you’re not.

that’s what matters.

your hands shake as you press against your torn leg, trying to slow the bleeding. everything hurts. your blood is everywhere. but your eyes are on the alley.

on where he is.

you stare too long.

too long on the first man, who like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut, collapsing on you behind the wreckage. his rifle clatters uselessly to the ground beside the both of you, the final echo of the life you just ended.

your chest heaves. your ears are ringing.

you’re not proud of it.

but you’re not sorry either.

because he was going to take something from you.

someone.

your grip tightens on the knife, slick with blood. the weight of it suddenly feels enormous, like your hand doesn’t belong to you anymore.

you don’t even get the chance to breathe.

the second figure is already there—rising like smoke from the haze, moving fast, too fast. no hesitation. he doesn’t stalk like the first. doesn’t test the terrain. this one moves like he knows the ground beneath his feet. like he’s done this before.

a hundred times before.

he’s trained. and he’s armed.

and suddenly—you are the one being hunted.

he raises his sidearm, already aiming as he sweeps the area, and your body reacts before your brain even catches up. you quickly shove the dead man off of you, diving hard behind a collapsed wall of scorched concrete and metal, your boots sliding in ash and broken glass. your knees scrape raw against jagged stone, and a jutting piece of rebar cuts a burning line across your side—but you barely feel it.

because all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sickening pop of gunfire somewhere too close.

you drop low, press your back to the crumbling wall, chest rising in frantic, shallow bursts. the air tastes like dirt and smoke and blood—none of it yours, not yet.

you know he's seen his dead comrade by know— and you know he’s coming for you.

you can hear it—measured footsteps over gravel, closing in. deliberate. confident. he’s sweeping the area the way they taught in advanced close-quarters training. you’ve seen it in lectures. in field recordings. and you’ve never been more aware of what you lack.

you squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, just long enough to hear that voice again—sergeant kim. during early drills, always having the ability to speak loudly and clearly, and you made sure you didn't miss any of it;

“close the distance. disrupt the rhythm. don’t let ’em think.”

you don’t know if you can.

but you don’t have time to doubt yourself.

so you move.

you burst from cover with a scream caught somewhere in your chest, more instinct than strategy. your shoulder slams into his chest, knocking him off balance. the knife glints in your hand—blood-stained but steady—and you both go down hard in a sprawl of limbs and momentum.

the world becomes a blur of grunts and snarls and bone-jarring impact.

your blade drives low—into the soft spot just beneath his ribs.

you feel it hit.

the give of flesh, the jolt of resistance, the sickening slide.

he chokes, grabs at your vest, his hands clawing for control. he’s strong—stronger than you—and he tries to throw you off, but your weight pins him just enough to keep him beneath you.

so you stab again.

and again.

until he stops moving.

until his grip loosens.

until his eyes roll somewhere beyond you.

your arm is shaking. your teeth grit together so tightly your head throbs.

he's still now.

and you don’t move for a moment.

your hands are soaked, dripping. your fingers twitch around the knife handle, refusing to let go. the tremble starts in your shoulders and doesn’t stop. your stomach twists sharply—nausea rising in your throat—but there’s no time to be sick. no time to be scared.

not now.

not when he’s still out there.

you wipe the blade against the man’s sleeve, mechanical, numbed. you don’t let yourself think about what you’ve just done. you sheath it again with a grunt, then brace your hands against the ground and push yourself up—slow. unsteady.

your legs feel wrong beneath you. unbalanced. like they might collapse. your breath rasps in and out.

but you’re still upright.

you’re still moving.

and he’s still waiting.

so you press forward. past the blood. past the pain. past the two bodies behind you.

and toward the one that matters.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

the smoke is thick. suffocating. it rolls through the ruins like a living thing, curling through shattered windows and scorched rebar, cloaking everything in gray.

the crack of gunfire still ricochets in the distance, too close, too unpredictable. you can hear shouting—muffled, distorted, enemy movement still circling the outer sector.

but none of it matters.

you keep going. one step, then another, dragging your battered leg behind you, every movement a lesson in agony.

your knee is slick and soaked through, blood pouring freely now—hot and wet down your boot. but you grit your teeth and press forward, through the wreckage of what used to be a storefront, through broken glass and fractured concrete slabs, boots crunching over twisted steel.

you don’t stop until you find him.

there. tucked low against the base of a collapsed wall, half-shadowed in rubble and ruin, is a shape that nearly doesn’t look human at first. a bloodied vest. cracked armor. skin pale with shock. one of his arms is limp, folded awkwardly beneath him. the other is barely clutching his side. his helmet is shattered down the middle, dangling off by a single strap. his rifle is nowhere to be seen.

your heart drops so hard it nearly takes you with it.

but then—he stirs.

barely.

a flutter of his fingers. a shallow hitch of breath that rattles like broken glass. his head shifts slightly at the sound of your boots grinding through gravel.

alive.

he’s alive.

you don’t even think. you just drop to your knees beside him, the weight of it jarring through your injured leg like lightning. pain explodes up your thigh, but you barely register it. your hands are already moving—searching. shoulder. pulse. jaw. breath. every place he might still be warm.

“kyle,” you breathe, frantic. your voice is shaking, thick with smoke and something else that’s been coiled in your chest since the line went dead. “kyle, it’s me. you’re alright. i’ve got you. i’m here.”

his eyes open—slow, sticky with sweat and blood—and blink up at you in confusion. hazy. out of focus. for a moment, he just stares, brow furrowed like he’s trying to make sense of a dream.

he watches you. really looks at you. something about you is so familiar to him. like he's known you for years—he has— , but it's all just out of reach.

and then, finally, something clicks.

you see it—feel it—the exact moment recognition blooms behind his eyes. the cloudiness clears, just a fraction, and he stares at you like you’re not real. like you can’t be real. his lips part, but for a second, nothing comes out.

then, like a prayer:

“wait.. [name]?"

his voice is raw. fragile. but his gaze sharpens, even through the haze of pain. his eyes search your face, your dirt-streaked cheeks, the blood splattered across your collar, the way your hand trembles on his chest—but most of all, he hears it. your voice. that familiar cadence that’s guided him through hell and back.

you nod slowly. your throat is too tight to speak for a moment. your hand presses down on his ribs again, trying to slow the bleeding even though you know there’s no good fix until extraction.

“yeah. it’s me.”

“fuck,” he whispers, breath hitching. “you—” he doesn’t finish the sentence. he doesn’t need to.

he closes his eyes for a second, just breathing through it. trying to absorb the reality. when he opens them again, he’s not confused anymore.

just full of something quiet and aching.

“i’ve only ever heard you,” he says. “i didn’t… i didn’t think…”

“i couldn’t stay back,” you interrupt, voice cracking. “they said they’d send someone else, but i—I couldn’t just sit there. i had to get to you.”

his hand finds yours. slow. trembling. but firm.

you flinch at the contact—more from emotion than pain. because this is real. after all the long nights, the static-filled comms, the half-breaths shared between firefights—you’re here. with him. not a voice. not a ghost.

real.

his thumb brushes the back of your hand. his fingers are colder than they should be.

he looks at you, and something soft slips across his expression. something almost like wonder. and then his gaze falls to your leg.

“you’re bleeding,” he murmurs, voice rasping. “your leg—”

“doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “i’ll live.”

he exhales shakily, like that’s the only thing he needed to hear.

his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but can’t quite remember how. “didn’t think… they’d send you.”

your throat burns. you shake your head, fingers already pressing firm over the bleeding at his side. “they didn’t,” you whisper. “i came anyway.”

"you idiot." he scoffs. his eyes flutter again—tired, dazed—but the corner of his mouth pulls a little higher.

“you always said you’d come get me,” he murmurs. “figured you were joking.”

“i wasn’t.” your words are soft. steady. you lean over him, shielding him from the smoke curling overhead, pressing your palm tighter to the wound. “i never was.”

the moment hangs there between you—thick with smoke, and ash, and everything neither of you has ever been able to say. it’s not perfect. not clean. but it’s enough.

in the distance, you hear the sound of backup—retrieval finally breaking through the southern wall. voices shouting. boots stomping over rubble. a helicopter slicing the sky.

but you don’t look away.

and neither does he.

not once.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

the lights in the medbay were soft. too soft, almost—muted in that strange, sterile way that made everything feel weightless, like the world had been drained of its noise and color.

a low hum buzzed gently from the overhead bulbs, casting the room in a hazy, bluish warmth that didn’t quite reach the skin. it was the kind of quiet usually reserved for liminal spaces—places that sat between waking and sleep, life and death. between then and now.

gaz woke slow.

not in a rush. not with a start. just a long, dragging pull toward the surface, his body caught somewhere between pain and numbness. everything hurt, but in a distant way—like his limbs belonged to someone else. the ache in his ribs throbbed slow and deep, syncing with the monitor’s steady beeping. his side was bandaged tight, layered and secured, and he could feel the itch of antiseptic where the gauze met broken skin. breathing hurt. swallowing hurt. everything was raw, dull-edged, unsteady.

and then he saw you.

not your voice crackling through a comm. not a digital overlay blinking on a screen. not the vague, guiding presence he’d followed through firefights and ambushes and the smoke-choked dark.

you.

slumped in the chair beside his bed, curled half into yourself like your body had finally collapsed after days of staying upright through sheer will alone. you hadn’t changed out of your uniform—what was left of it. the sleeves were dust-stained, torn in places, and your vest hung crooked across your torso like it had been forgotten. your leg was elevated slightly, wrapped in layers of thick white bandage just above the knee, the cloth clean now but clearly fresh. it pulsed with pain even in sleep—he could see it in the way your muscles twitched every so often beneath the gauze.

you were asleep, but it didn’t look peaceful.

your head rested on folded arms at the edge of his mattress. your shoulders were hunched like your body didn’t trust the rest. one of your hands—dirt-smudged, scraped raw at the knuckles—was stretched out loosely across the bed.

his hand was curled in yours.

something caught in his throat.

he didn’t move at first. didn’t speak. just stared, dazed and disoriented, at the sight of you—real, whole, here. everything else—his wound, the noise of the medbay, the weight in his chest—it all dulled beneath the steady, quiet fact that you had come for him.

that you’d bled for him.

he shifted slightly, a quiet, pained breath escaping his lungs. not enough to wake you—but just enough to convince himself that this wasn’t a hallucination. that the last thing he’d heard—your voice, breaking over the comms—hadn't been a dream. that you'd made it through hell to reach him, and then stayed. long after it was over. long after the blood had dried.

and still, you held his hand.

before he could gather enough strength to speak, the door hissed open with a low hydraulic sigh.

john price stepped into the medbay.

his movements were quiet, practiced—boots silent on the tile, shoulders broad beneath a fatigue jacket that looked too neat for the battlefield. he carried a file tucked beneath one arm, but his gaze wasn’t on the chart. it landed on gaz first, tracking his awareness. nodding once.

then he saw you.

his eyes paused, unreadable. flicking to the way your body leaned unconsciously toward the bed. the fresh bandage on your leg. the dried blood beneath your nails. the way your hand curled—still protectively—around gaz’s even in sleep.

john’s jaw tensed. he let out a slow exhale, rough with something not quite annoyance. not quite approval.

just weight.

“you did something reckless,” he said, voice pitched low. quiet enough not to startle.

you stirred, sluggishly. a slow blink, a stretch of confusion as the room tilted into focus again. you sat up straighter with a faint hiss of pain, your leg shifting instinctively beneath you—too fast, too tight. the bandage pulled, and you winced. but you didn’t make a sound.

“i know,” you said, your voice hoarse. “but i couldn’t—he was alone.”

your words weren’t a defense. they weren’t even an apology. they were just the truth. worn down to the root. your face, even bruised and pale, held steady.

john looked at you for a long time.

then, slowly, nodded.

“you’ll need training,” he said, tone clipped but not cold. “real training. not the orientation bullshit they feed support staff.”

your brows pulled together, uncertain. “sir?”

he gave a faint shrug. “you’ve got instinct. you’ve got heart. clearly.” his eyes narrowed slightly. “but if you’re gonna run headfirst into hell again—and let’s not pretend you won’t—you need to know how to finish the fight. not just start it.”

you opened your mouth, then closed it again. no words came.

your mind raced to catch up—spinning through a dozen thoughts at once: what if you hadn’t made it? what if you’d failed? what if it happens again and you’re not enough next time? the weight of it all—his blood, your choices, the consequences still unfolding—settled heavily on your shoulders.

your throat felt tight. raw. like it might close altogether if you tried to speak.

your hands curled instinctively in your lap, still streaked with dried blood and dirt, fingers trembling against your thighs. you didn’t know what you were supposed to say. what anyone expected you to say.

and then—

his fingers moved.

slow. tentative.

gaz’s hand squeezed yours—barely a shift of pressure, weak but unmistakable. grounding. gentle.

your gaze snapped to his, startled by the touch—but he was already looking at you.

not with confusion.

not with fear.

just something quiet. steady. soft enough to make your heart lurch.

and in that glance, that unspoken beat between you, everything settled—just for a moment. all the fear, all the noise, all the not-enoughs quieted beneath the weight of his eyes on yours. he didn’t need you to say anything.

he just needed you.

and you were here.

john didn’t press. he’d already seen everything he needed to.

he stepped toward the door again. paused with one hand on the frame. then looked back.

“for what it’s worth,” he added, voice a touch softer, “you did good.”

the door shut behind him with a quiet click.

you turned your head back toward the bed—and found gaz already looking at you.

not confused. not dazed. not lost in the fog of injury anymore.

just watching you, like you were something he’d seen a hundred times before but never really understood until now.

you gave him a weak smile. tried to sound light. “guess that means you’re stuck with me.”

his lips pulled into something crooked—pain-drowsy but real. his hand squeezed yours, just a little, like he needed to feel it again. to make sure you weren’t going anywhere.

“was hoping for that,” he said softly.

your throat burned.

his eyes were clearer now. softer, still rimmed with exhaustion but no longer clouded. and the way he looked at you—full of quiet awe, disbelief softened by something deeper—it nearly undid you.

because this time, there was no headset. no static. no screen between you.

only him.

only you.

and that tether of skin and blood and survival tying you to each other like gravity.

he exhaled slowly, like some weight had finally slid off his ribs. the pain hadn’t gone, not fully. but the fear had.

for the first time in days, what he felt wasn’t terror or silence or static. it wasn’t death.

it was you.

real. here.

and he wasn’t letting go.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

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psychomusic · 11 months ago

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oc time again! + her town & culture (heavily inspired by pre-roman italic populations)

she is suri sauthon. her story is linked to my swtor imperial agent, tar'x, but most of her life except for the one year away where she meets him, is spent in a town in the mountains of mirial.

despite mirial being cold and desert, and many cities developing underground, her town flourishes thanks to a force nexus, venerated in the form of an ancient, sacred, alive crystal. the ecosystem of that mountain depended on what "the horned crystal" was capable of giving them, but mirialans couldn't live off of that alone, so they developed trade and some rudimental technology, even if oftentimes it was bought thanks to the highly profitable trade of a plant used to make medicines that slowed down aging and had overall healing properties.

note: everything that's generated by this nexus has these healing properties BUT they have to be processed, except for those who bathed in the waters of the cavity under the crystal - the "real" nexus, but not the worshipped one. the waters were sacred but they were not thought to be miraculous, unlike the crystal, who instead was thought of as the keystone of the ecosystem: without it, everything would fall apart (and that is partially true: the cavity was the "real" nexus but thanks to the crystal, also strong in the force, the properties were spread all over the mountains). those who bathed in the cavity's waters - so, all of the town, who had a sort of baptism there - could eat the plant, make whatever food with it, and not only that plant, but everything generated by the nexus, that, again, had similar properties. this allowed people to live up to normal life-spans without advanced medicines or, much, really. to those who didn't live there, though, after the processing, had incredible effects, slowing down aging - for those who took it regularly - and making people able to live up to half a century more than the average]

originally, there were four tribes of nomads that lived thanks to horned farm animals that decided to settle down into one bigger town and other smaller settlements, to live off of transhumance. this division of the tribes stayed into the political and social organization: every person belonged to one tribe specifically, and had slightly different rituals and culture. for examples, each tribe had their own priests and healers, with different techniques and traditions. the town, tho, was guided by a group of people in the high priesthood, a position you could reach only by having earned the trust of all tribes. those high priests had many roles: they guided the people into sacred processions common to all the tribes, they managed the trading with outsiders, they did the maintenance of the temple of the summit (the one that functioned as casket to the crystal) and created a special liquid to offer the crystal that helps it grow.

this particular temple was important because 1. it was very visible, from every angle of the town, and it became an important identity symbol; 2. it stored the venerated horned crystal; 3. it had the altar where sacrifices were made for the crystals. that altar had a hole connected to the cavity, that allowed the liquids to reach the underground; 4. it had various symbols: statues representing each tribe + the high priesthood, and typical mirialan tattoos carved into the wood of the trees that served as columns for the temple, symbolizing 8 values that who dared to enter HAD to have; 5. it was on the way to an important lake (called "mother lake" because the lake the town was built around to depended on the waters of that other lake) where they traveled to in important processions; 6. it was said that a the wizard who unified the tribes made it with its magic, making the plant grow to hold the temple's roof. this wizard was, actually, a force user, obv.

BACK TO HER THOUGH: she's daughter of one of the high priests, who was in charge of managing the trades with outsiders, and lives in a house on the mountains with her mother and him. her parents are from different tribes (that's one of the things that earned him trust from the 4 tribes): when a child is born from two different tribes, they don't pick one to allign to, but they're usually linked automatically to the one with more relatives in it (in her case, the father's tribe: she had many uncles and aunts on his side while her mom only had one sister).

later, though, she got quite tied to her mother's tribe due to a mysterious illness that only her mother's tribe healer was able to cure. she spent 4 years (from 10 to 14 years old) living with the healer and learned her secrets. to better study, she wrote them down. when she returned home, she studied to become a priestess with her father. at 22 (the average age: you can't become priest before your 20s), she was supposed to take a test and become a priestess, but the healer of her mother's tribe died and the tribe asked her to take her place. she couldn't technically do that, but both tribes estimated both her and her parents and she was allowed to become both. she then decided to try to become a high priestess, and became one at 25 (a quite young age). being part of the council, she tried to convince the various tribe healers to unite their knowledges and write them down, and eventually made it. healers still remained tribe based but they now had an "upper, inter-tribe level" similar to high priesthood.

years later, the sacred horned crystal is stolen from the temple by some Hutt mercenaries looking for a profit. given the trust she has earned from all the tribes and the fact that her father is the high priest that deals with outsiders (and she's been hearing stories and advice about it since she was little), she is the one tasked with getting it back. without the growing crystal, the keystone to their ecosystem, the village would have lasted only a few years. in hrr quest, she meets imperial intelligence agent tar'x laran and, as they "solve the mystery" and fight to have it back, they get closer. they'll get married and have a daughter, Vegoia (who's the only one who actually will get to the plot of my story. this was all background)

#i overdeveloped this part of the background. IT'S QUITE LITERALLY USELESS. like. Vegoia will have so few memories of it (she'll become jedi)#i will make a post about her too when I'll finish designing her and outlining her story BUT that may be difficult cuz the frame for the mai #story is quite difficult to match with how developed the other stories are getting and i have to figure it Much Stuff yet #so I'm using these post to like. fix a certain part lf the lore because even my own notes are getting older and messy. better to start over #ANYWAY for those curious & who are still reading (if u exist. WTF THANK U!!); my main story is actually a research file in the jedi archive #BASICALLY i was trying to write my own story for years but then i watched a video (tcw doesn't hold up by sheev talks i think) and i finall #understood how to frame all of these stories together in a way that i feel can add to the star wars lore (because. the others were just #like. okay but who cares unless me? and i did want to have a cool frame that maybe some nerd would be interested in looking into)#so: when ahsoka anakin and obi return from mortis; they tell the council about it (yoda knows about it in s6). sheev talks complained that #it was incredibly full of stuff that was done so poorly it could ruin a big part of the original sw story itself and it was never brought u #again. and honestly i agree. SO my story is about a jedi that is tasked with research on the celestials & by having him figure out stuff i #can minimize/limit/reframe some of the controversial things in there (i love mortis arc so bad but i also agree with his critic. I'll Fix™)#so. many stories will be about people who have previously seen the celestials or have been to mortis one way or another (pre-tcw obv) & hav #had experience & knowledge that the researcher is looking for. so i get to have an anthology with many stories #and have a cool frame I'm intrested in developing + i can experiment with different storytelling styles depending on how he finds out stuff #+ there was another sw story with a similar frame i think? so if i decide to write the story as if it was the file itself and not the searc #i can have even a REFERENCE of what a file like that is supposed to be. LIKE. IT ALL FITS!!!#sw #star wars #swtor #the old republic #star wars oc #imperial agent #star wars fanart #mirialan oc #mirialan #star wars story #star wars the old republic #oc: suri sauthon

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