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gofishygo · 17 days ago

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—AMOROUSLY YOURS (MINE)

kyle 'gaz' garrick x gn!reader | hurt / comfort I gaz appreciation week masterlist.

KYLE GARRICK x READER tw: toxic ( kyle ) , vampire stuff ( blood in cups + mentions of blood ) , very possessive kyle ,

You hadn’t meant to see him again.

The night found you wandering—half-drawn by restlessness, half-chased by the ghosts you never named out loud. Rain clung to your coat in cold, needling strands, and the city’s edges blurred into something shapeless and wrong.

You ducked into the first place still open. Dim light. Dust in the corners. A bar that looked like it had given up on pretending to be anything else. The kind of place that swallowed the broken whole and asked no questions.

Suddenly you felt wrong. Needless to say pricking into your skin, rising goosebumps, you felt watched.

Next to the window bleeding white silk from the moon, you looked out at the gloomy streets, spotting a cafe directly across from the bar.

It was blurry, rain obscuring your vision (trying to save you from the truth). You turned away for a second bending over to an itch on your ankle (the god Hermes urging you to run) standing straight again, you cast a glance out the window again jumping back in fear at the sudden appearance of the man directly outside the glass. Starting at you.

His head was bowed, looking at you underneath hooded eyes shadows pooling beneath them like bruises that never healed.

You froze, heart lurching in your chest like it remembered something your mind had spent months trying to forget.

His eyes narrowed—and the world went too quiet.

No wind. No traffic. Even the rain had gone still, hovering midair like the whole night was holding its breath.

Your heart thundered against your ribs, too loud in the silence. You didn’t blink. You couldn’t. Because if you did, he might vanish again—like the last time. Like a bad dream or a warning you ignored.

But he didn’t vanish. He stood there, soaked and still, watching you with something too human to be called hunger—and too haunted to be called love.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. What do you say to a ghost who never died?

Then he moved.

Slow. Controlled. He lifted a hand and pressed his palm to the glass between you, the gesture more prayer than threat. His fingers curled against the pane, and something in your chest cracked open—because you remembered that hand. What it felt like when it held yours. What it looked like wiping blood from his mouth the last night you saw him.

Kyle Garrick. The name dripped through your thoughts like blood into water. Notorious, untouchable. Beautiful in the way monsters are right before they sink their teeth in.

His head was bowed, face tilted just enough to see you beneath the hood of his coat. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes like bruises that never healed, like he’d forgotten what softness felt like—and maybe he had.

You froze, heart seizing in your chest like it remembered what your mind had tried so hard to bury.

The last time. The screaming. The bite. The deal.

You’d run. Left your phone behind. No note. Just silence. You’d changed cities, changed names, slept with a knife under your pillow. And still—still—he found you.

You’d thought he was dead.

You had hoped he was; It would’ve been easier.

His eyes narrowed. And the world went too quiet.

No thunder. No sirens. Just the slow, cold realization that you were still his. Whether you wanted to be or not.

A sharp knock on the glass made you flinch. Once. Then again.

You backed away, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. But he didn’t move. Didn’t shout. Didn’t break the glass like part of you expected.

He didn’t need to.

You knew what was coming.

You didn’t stop until your spine hit the wall behind you. And still, you couldn’t look away. His eyes were following you, just as they always had—burning straight through you.

You took a breath and spun around—slamming into a wall of muscle and cold rain-soaked fabric. Hands closed around your arms, firm and close to bruising. Familiarly terrifying.

“Don’t tell me you missed me that much love?”

His voice was dripping honeyed threats straight from his tongue. The kind that curled under your skin and wrapped around your ribs. You shivered—not from cold. From knowing.

“You said you’d let me go,” You whispered.

He tilted his head. “I lied.”

Simple. Final. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You tried to twist free, but he pulled you closer, trapping you against him with a cold arm around your waist, nose brushing your temple. He inhaled deeply, like he was memorizing you all over again.

“You ran,” He murmured. “You always run. But you know how this ends.”

Your breath hitched. “Please—”

His grip tightened, the threat looming. Always there. Not in what he said—but what he didn’t.

“You belong to me.”

A pause. A slow smile against your cheek.

“I don’t care if you’re afraid. I want you afraid. I want you to remember what happens when you forget who I am.”

He wasn’t born this way. You’d seen the cracks in him once—those brief flashes of a man, not a monster. But the darkness had swallowed him whole long ago. Now, the only thing left was obsession. Cold and eternal.

And you—God help you—used to believe you could love the man inside the monster.

Now, all you could do was survive him.

“I don’t love you anymore,” You whispered, even as your voice trembled. He chuckled in response, low and dangerous.

“Don’t lie to me.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“Love isn’t what keeps you mine.”

And in that moment, you knew: he would never let you go.

Not until your blood ran dry. Not until your last breath.

Not even then.

Outside, the rain had teeth.

It chewed through the streets as he led you outside, your feet dragging across cracked pavement slick with oil and shadows. His grip was iron. Not bruising—no, he was too refined for that. But firm in the way a trap holds prey: patient and inevitable.

You tried to speak. Tried to turn. But the night itself seemed to conspire with him, muffling your voice, swallowing the city whole. A car waited at the curb—sleek, black, predatory. The kind of vehicle that didn’t belong to a man but to a myth.

He opened the door for you like a gentleman, gaze unreadable.

And you—fool that you were—hesitated.

Not because you wanted to go.

But because some small part of you, traitorous and aching, remembered what it felt like to be wanted by something so powerful it would tear the world apart to hold you.

“I can’t.” You whispered

His expression didn’t change. Only his eyes—those strange, haunted things—darkened like storm-swollen skies.

“You think you still have choices?” He asked, voice low and cold enough to frost glass. “You bled me dry with your absence. And now you expect mercy?”

You stepped back.

He stepped forward. “You don’t get to leave again.”

He took your wrist—not roughly, not even harshly—but with a reverence that turned your stomach. Like you were something sacred. A relic. A possession returned at last.

The ride was silent.

His shoulder brushed yours once. You flinched. He didn’t apologize.

You watched the city peel away—buildings thinning into forests, the forest into fog, the fog into nothing. And there, in the cradle of nowhere, his mansion rose like a mausoleum.

White stone blackened by time. Iron gates twisted like broken ribs. Windows tall and hollow-eyed, watching your approach like sentient things.

You thought: This house knows hunger.

The door opened before he touched it.

You shouldn’t have been surprised.

Inside, it smelled of old paper, bloodwine, and ash. A cathedral built by madness, with vaulted ceilings high enough to echo all the things he never said. Candles bled wax onto antique tables. Velvet curtains, deep burgundy, pooled like congealed blood on the marble floor.

He led you through it all like Orpheus through the underworld—never glancing back, as if he knew you would follow even when every instinct screamed not to.

Up the stairs. Down the hall.

To the room that was yours. (a shrine to the idea of you).

The same books you once loved lined the shelves. A scarf you’d lost months ago lay folded on the armchair. A pressed flower between glass on the nightstand—your favorite, now long dead.

You stepped inside. The door closed behind you locked.

You turned on him, breath catching. “You said you loved me once.”

He studied you for a long moment. Then stepped forward—slow, methodical—until the space between you was suffocating.

“I do,” He said.

You wanted to scream. Or sob. Or touch him, god forbid. He was a riddle wrapped in velvet and menace, and you were tired of not knowing which part of him would reach for you next: the man who once kissed you like you were a miracle—or the monster who now held your life like a leash in his hands.

His fingers grazed your cheek. Cold. Gentle.

“I rebuilt this place for you,” He murmured. “Room by room. Memory by memory.”

“And if I leave?”

His gaze sharpened. Smile thinned.

“There’s no door in this house that opens without my will.”

A beat.

“But you won’t leave,” He added softly. “Because despite the fear. . . you feel it too.”

You wanted to deny it. But the truth clawed at your ribs.

Yes, you feared him.

But you feared yourself more—for the part of you that still wanted to stay.

And now—his love was all that remained.

“You’re not a prisoner here,” He said finally.

You looked at him. “But I am.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” He murmured, stepping close enough that his shadow wrapped around you. “You’re a promise.”

The words settled over you like ash. You backed into the wall before realizing you’d moved. His presence filled the space around you like smoke, like something pressed tight into your lungs.

He hovered close—not touching, but daring you to move.

“And promises don’t get to leave.” His hand rose, fingertips brushing your jaw. A question buried deep in the gesture.

“And if I break it?” You whispered.

The words barely escaped you, trembling out of your mouth like a prayer you didn’t believe in. The syllables curled into the space between you, fragile as moth wings—and just as likely to burn.

Kyle’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and something ancient stirred behind his eyes. Something too vast to be human. His hunger wasn’t just for your blood—it was for obedience. For the slow, exquisite agony of your surrender.

His body moved like a shadow changing shape, not touching you—not yet—but close enough that you could feel the chill of his breath as it ghosted across your cheek, down the column of your throat. He was studying you like a scholar studies scripture—reading you, memorizing the fragile cracks in your defiance.

A slow, cold smile touched his lips.

“Then we’ll rebuild you,” He murmured, and his voice no longer sounded like speech. It sounded like a blade being unsheathed. Like the beginning of a song you only hear once—right before you die.

“Piece by piece.”

The room went silent again. But now you felt the house watching. Waiting.

You weren’t the guest here.

You were the center.

And somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open. And you know another would follow. And another.

The wolves were circling.

His hand rose—that hand, always gloved in leather when blood was near—and with two fingers he touched your jaw, tilting your face as though you were made of porcelain. Delicate. Replaceable.

His thumb brushed over your lower lip, and the gesture was almost tender, almost reverent—until you saw the crimson sheen on his nail. Not his blood. Yours.

Outside, the house shifted.

A door creaked open.

Another pair of footsteps, soft as sin, passed down the corridor. Someone whistled—low, tuneless, and wrong. Like a lullaby from a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

Kyle’s forehead came to rest against yours, and his eyes fluttered shut like he was savoring the moment—like it cost him something not to bury his teeth in your throat right then and there.

“You can run again,” He whispered. “Lie to yourself. Starve. Pretend this isn’t what you want.”

His breath was colder now, threading between your lips like winter smoke.

“But you’ll come back.”

You swallowed, throat clicking dryly, pulse loud in your ears.

“Why?”

His eyes opened. And there was nothing soft in them now. Only fire and possession.

“Because you’re mine,” He said simply. “And love doesn’t ask for permission. Not here. Not anymore.”

Somewhere behind you, the lock on the door turned.

But Kyle hadn’t moved.

He stood rooted before you like some cathedral gargoyle come to life—an effigy carved from hunger, and blood, and devotion warped into something unrecognizable.

His hands remained loose at your hips, but the tension coiled beneath his skin told a different story. He was waiting—for you to fall forward into his arms, or to bolt.

He would relish either.

You blinked once. Twice. The room around you swayed, the wallpaper too rich in color, the floor too still beneath your feet. It felt less like a bedroom and more like a theatre set waiting for the next scene to begin.

And somewhere beyond these walls, it already had

The halls of the house were colder in the morning, though no sunlight dared breach the thick velvet drapes. The mansion breathed like a living thing—floorboards moaning, walls sweating silence, and chandeliers twitching in their chains as if they, too, were listening.

Kyle said nothing as he led you down the corridor. His pace was slow, but every step felt like a page turning in a book written in your blood. A procession, not an escort. You weren’t being walked to breakfast.

You were being presented.

The dining hall opened like a mouth before you.

Gold-drenched sconces and oil paintings lined the walls—wretched depictions of wolves in mourning, angels bleeding into wine glasses, a table long enough to seat twenty.

Only four chairs were filled.

Price sat at the head. Not lounging. Not upright. Still. As if carved from some dark wood pulled from a drowned forest. His eyes met yours the second you crossed the threshold—unmoving, appraising. He wore a collared shirt, half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the forearm. No tie. A ring on his finger caught the light. You could feel the weight of his authority like a hand between your shoulder blades.

You remember the time where you were branded with a ring. Happy, content. Not anymore.

To his right, Ghost.

You didn’t know how long he’d been watching you. Maybe since the night before. Maybe before that.

He leaned back in his chair with a kind of lazy menace, one arm draped over the backrest, the other nursing a steaming cup between gloved hands. He didn’t wear the balaclava now, but his expression gave nothing away. It didn’t need to.

His gaze felt like being dragged underwater—slowly.

Opposite him, Soap, shirt wrinkled, knife in one hand, apple in the other. He carved it absently with the tip of the blade, slicing ribbons of flesh that curled like scrolls across his plate.

He grinned when he saw you.

“Well,” He said, accent thick and casual, “though’ ye’d bolt in the night.”

“I thought about it,” You muttered before you could stop yourself.

The silence that followed was soft. Too soft.

Then Ghost chuckled—low, like a door creaking open in the dark. “I would’ve bet on you lastin’ three hours,” He murmured. “Guess I lost.”

Kyle gestured wordlessly toward the only empty seat—between Soap and Price, across from Ghost. It gleamed at you, pulled out just enough to make refusal feel childish.

You sat.

No food on your plate. Just a glass of something dark. It wasn’t wine.

No one commented on your silence. You were a guest, yes. But not the kind they expected to speak. Not yet.

Price finally leaned forward, setting both forearms on the table. His presence shifted the entire room like gravity had taken notice.

“She sleep?” He asked, directing it to Kyle. Though his eyes were on you the entire time.

“Eventually,” Kyle murmured, his eyes on you, not the others. “She’s still adjusting.”

Ghost smirked. “To captivity?”

“Call it commitment,” Kyle said evenly.

Your throat closed.

Soap snorted. “Could call it obsession. But it’s prettier when we pretend it’s romance, innit?”

“Johnny,” Price said.

That one name held enough steel to quiet the table.

You could feel it now—beneath the civil silence. Beneath the candlelight and polished cutlery. The sharp edges. The pact.

You weren’t at breakfast.

You were at a ritual. A claiming.

Ghost leaned forward, one hand on the table, the other still wrapped around his cup. “I’m curious,” He said softly, voice more felt than heard. “Did you come with ‘im willingly?”

Your mouth opened.

Kyle didn’t speak.

But his hand found the small of your back between your chair—lightly pressing. Possessive.

You swallowed. You could feel all three of them watching. Waiting.

The glass at your place pulsed with scent—blood and clove and something that might have once been you.

You didn’t drink it.

But you didn’t push it away either.

A little while later they had let you leave the table without protest—like wolves turning their heads while a deer wandered off. You didn’t question it. You couldn’t afford to. You kept your head down, your steps light. You walked as if their silence was permission, not pity.

But the moment you reached your room—the velvet-clad cage of it—you didn’t stop.

You pivoted.

And moved.

Past the door. Down the corridor. Up a stairwell you hadn’t dared approach before. The walls narrowed. The paintings became crueler, darker—twisted studies in pain and devotion. Lovers with bleeding eyes. Saints whose ribs broke open into rose gardens. Angels bound in red silk and silence.

Still, you didn’t stop.

You moved like a breath between cracks. Like myth. Like the last gasp of something doomed.

And somehow—by luck or some trick of the house—you found it.

A door. Wooden and unmarked. Unlocked.

Behind it: a stairwell that spiraled downward like the throat of some great, sleeping beast.

It smelled of damp stone and old iron. The walls were damp. Mold kissed the edges of the banister. You followed it blindly, heart rattling in your chest like bones in a velvet sack.

Then—finally—another door. Not locked. Just heavy.

You shoved it open with your whole body.

And there—the night. Wet, thick, sprawling.

The air struck your lungs like a slap. Cold. Real.

The garden was overgrown. Wild. A graveyard of ruined beauty. Roses spilled like blood down moss-slick statues. Thorns clawed at your legs as you pushed through the brush, breathing hard, heart screaming.

You saw the wrought-iron gate.

You ran.

Branches tore at your arms. Mud clung to your feet. Your breath rasped out in gasps, sharp as broken glass. You touched the gate. It groaned under your weight. You pulled, heaved— opened it.

The woods beyond stretched wide and black, moonlight whispering between the trees.

You took one step. Then two.

And then—a voice.

Low, calm and unmoved.

“Where were you planning to go?”

Your stomach dropped, crashing through you like a stone through ice.

You turned slowly.

He stood just inside the gate. Leaning against it as if he’d been waiting all along.

The moonlight loved him. It silvered the edges of his face, caught the blood-red thread woven into the black of his coat. His expression was unreadable. But his eyes—those eyes—burned like oil fire.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” You whispered.

“I know,” He said softly.

The wind shifted. The woods behind you hissed. The house behind him pulsed.

“I thought—” You stopped. There was no dignity left. Just the thundering ache of your own betrayal. “I thought I could make it.”

Kyle stepped forward. One step. Just one.

And the world obeyed him.

“I know,” He said again. Not unkindly. But like someone correcting a child. Like someone who knew better.

You stepped back. “Please.”

His head tilted.

“Do you even know what’s out there?” He asked, gesturing vaguely to the woods. “You think I’m the worst thing waiting for you in the dark?”

“I don’t care.”

He stared at you for a moment.

Then he laughed. Quiet and sad.

“You do,” He said. “You care so much it’s eating you alive.”

You opened your mouth. To argue. To run. To scream.

But he was in front of you now—too close. His hand found your wrist, firm but not rough. His touch didn’t burn.

It thrummed.

“I would’ve let you go,” He said.

You blinked.

“What?”

His eyes glittered. “I would’ve. If you hadn’t looked back.”

And you remembered, then—you had.

In the garden. Just once. Before reaching the gate. You’d looked over your shoulder, back at the house. Just for a heartbeat.

And he had seen it.

“That’s all I needed to know,” He said.

You stared at him.

And he smiled. Not cruel.

Certain.

“You belong to me.”

The wind died. The woods held their breath. And the gate—

clicked shut.

It echoed in your spine like a verdict.

You didn’t feel Kyle’s hand on you—but his presence was a brand, seared into the back of your neck, a pressure so suffocating it felt like gravity had shifted to orbit him. Your body moved before your mind caught up, following him through the garden as though dragged by an invisible thread stitched deep into your ribs.

The flowers whispered as you passed—dark roses heavy with rain, bowed like mourners. Vines snaked around statues with empty eyes, and petals wilted beneath your steps like the house itself was offering you back to him.

When the manor swallowed you again, it did so with silence. Not peace—stillness. The kind that follows something dead into the earth.

Inside, the warmth returned, but it was wrong. Staged. The glow of dying hearths and perfumed oil, too thick, too sweet—a scent that clung like fingerprints on glass. The shadows had teeth again. The sconces flickered with a hungry light.

Kyle walked ahead of you, slow, assured, like a king returning home with his crown in hand.

And you—the crown.

He didn’t speak until the door to your bedroom closed with the soft, unmistakable thud of a tomb sealing.

The fire crackled behind him, gilding his figure in the golds of a dying sun. His back was straight, arms crossed, jaw tight beneath the flicker of flame. But his voice—when it came—was a blade sheathed in silk.

“You’re lucky it was me,” He said. “Out there, alone? The woods don’t ask what you’re running from. They just take.”

You turned your face away from the hearthlight, from the terrible steadiness in his voice. The tears in your throat threatened to rise like salt from the sea. “Maybe that would’ve been better.”

The silence that followed was heavy—pregnant with consequence.

You blinked, and Kyle had moved. Swift. Sudden. Not violent—but the kind of swift that demanded your body rearrange itself around him.

His hand struck the wall beside your head—not to harm, but to hold you in place with the force of choice removed. His body, caging yours, radiated warmth like a furnace sealed tight.

“Say that again.” His voice was low, poisonous velvet.

You stared into his eyes—those haunted, gold-lit things rimmed in shadow—and wished you hated him.

“I said,” You breathed, “maybe I’d rather be lost than found by you.”

Something in his face twisted. But not with rage.

He smiled.

“I’m not what found you,” He murmured, his breath cool against your cheek, “I’m what remains.”

Your hands shot up before your mind could stop them—pushing, clawing, shoving at his chest like your palms might burn him with defiance. But he was unmovable, a statue forged in something heavier than marble. You shoved stone.

“Why me?” You snapped, voice hoarse. “Why this? Why pretend it’s love when it’s just—control?”

His eyes softened. Not gently.

“I don’t love you the way soft men do,” He said, voice like embers in a cathedral, “I love you like the sea loves the shore.”

He stepped closer.

You felt your ribs crush inward.

“With waves that break it,” He whispered. “Again. And again. Until it belongs.”

The words lodged in your chest like splinters of glass. You didn’t want them. And yet—

You felt them.

Beneath the hatred and fear, some treacherous, ancient part of you curled toward it. Toward him. Toward the comfort of inevitability.

“Let me go,” You whispered.

But it was a ghost of a protest now, thin as breath on glass.

He touched you, then. Not forceful, not bruising.

His fingers came to your jaw—gentle, reverent, as though you were a relic he had stolen from a shrine and polished nightly.

“I could,” He said, thumb grazing your cheekbone. “But you’d just come back. Piece by piece. Dream by dream.”

Then, he kissed you.

Not like a man in love.

Like a man who had waited centuries for a prophecy to bleed true.

When he pulled back, the room spun. You were no longer cold. But you weren’t warm either.

You were marked.

His thumb swept over your lower lip—tender, possessive.

“You don’t need a cage, sweetheart,” He whispered. “You need someone who sees the monster in you. . . and doesn’t flinch.”

You stood in silence.

Your body still. Your heartbeat—loud. Bruising.

He left without another word.

And you stood there alone.

The room watched you breathe, watched as you lay awake at night.

But in the pale stretch of dawn, there were two teacups on the bedside table.

One with steam curling up in a lazy halo.

The other cold.

Like it had been waiting.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

#I GAVE YOU TWO WORDS AS A PROMPT HOLY FUCK #IM SCREAMINF #i used to be able to pinpoint parts of the text that i found really good but I can’t do that anymore because everything you’ve written here #is so amazing and so necessary #oh my god the world needs to see thos #genuinely one of the best things I’ve seen this year

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gofishygo · 18 days ago

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—FESTERING FEELINGS

𝜗𝜚 — in which, dick doesn’t know how to say ‘i love you’ without scaring you away.

DICK GRAYSON x READER mild angst, light fluff, reader is dick’s anchor. just dick showing you love / trying to love you

DICK GRAYSON never knew someone like him could love so a love so consuming in nature.

it crept in quietly at first, like dusk spilling over a quiet city, soft and unassuming. a glance held a second too long. a breath caught in the stillness of shared silence. he dismissed it then, as he always did—too careful, too calculated. love, to him, had always been a weapon others used or a weakness he couldn’t afford.

but this? this was different.

it didn’t blaze like wildfire, not at first. it smoldered. settled deep in his bones, until the mere thought of you was enough to unravel the tightly wound threads he’d spent a lifetime knotting. he hated it. he craved it. and most of all, he didn’t understand how someone like you had become the axis of his world.

he told himself it was just admiration. then respect. then reliance. but when he saw you laugh—really laugh, head tilted back, eyes scrunched in unguarded joy—he felt it bloom, raw and terrifying.

this love wasn’t kind. it wasn’t gentle. it was fierce and aching and constant. it demanded things from him he didn’t know how to give.

but still, he stayed. still, he reached for you in the dark.

not always with his hands—he wasn’t good at that, not yet—but with presence. with silence that stretched out like a question only you knew how to answer. with the way his shoulder brushed yours when words failed him. with the way he looked at you, like he was learning a new language with every passing day, and you were the only one who spoke it fluently.

there were moments—fleeting, fragile—when he almost said it; the three-worded devotion that he dreams of whispering into your skin before he dips into oblivion. when the weight of it pressed against his teeth and burned at the back of his throat.

but what if saying it made it real? what if it shattered everything he’d built to protect himself?

so he said other things instead. thing like stay, and be careful, and you don’t have to go yet. and when you hear them, you always smiled like you understood the translation.

he was a man shaped by duty, honed by silence, scarred by the things he couldn’t let go. love wasn’t supposed to fit into a life like his. it wasn’t supposed to thrive in the ruins. but it did. somehow, it did.

and it terrified him—how easy it was becoming to need you. how much of himself he’d already given without meaning to.

how one day, he might not be able to take it back.

and maybe—maybe he wouldn’t want to.

that was the part that frightened him most. not the vulnerability, not the unraveling, but the quiet, impossible idea that he could belong somewhere. to someone. that all the parts of him shaped by cold halls and harder choices could soften under your touch and not fall apart completely.

there were nights when he lay awake, long after you’d fallen asleep beside him—if he was lucky enough to have you there at all. he’d watch the rise and fall of your breathing, steady as a tide, and wonder what he had done to deserve even a fragment of this peace. a thief of joy, a soldier of secrets, a man who’d spent so long surviving that he’d forgotten what it meant to simply live.

you reminded him. without asking anything in return. without pressing him for words he didn’t yet know how to say. you just were—and somehow, that was enough.

he didn’t know how to name what lived in his chest now. didn’t know how to carry it without trembling.

but he knew this: if you ever asked for his heart, he would give it to you—quietly, completely, without condition or caution.

because for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of losing himself.

he was afraid of losing you.

the thought lodged itself somewhere deep—beneath the practiced calm, beneath the armor of command and control. it sat there like a quiet ache, constant and familiar, a shadow cast by everything you’d come to mean to him.

because losing you wouldn’t just be grief. it would be absence in its purest form. the kind that echoes. the kind that hollows. the kind he wouldn’t know how to survive.

you had become the thread holding his seams together—gently, imperceptibly, until one day he realized that if you pulled away, he might unravel altogether.

and yet, he couldn’t say it. not yet.

he could command a room with a glance, pull confessions from strangers with nothing but stillness, but this? saying “i love you” felt like stepping onto a ledge with no promise of solid ground beneath him.

still scared, so he showed you in other ways. in the way he remembered how you took your coffee, the way he always walked on the side of the road closest to traffic, the rare moments when his hand would brush yours, and he wouldn’t pull away. not right away.

you probably knew—he hoped you knew.

but still—some nights, when the quiet was too loud and his mind refused to settle, he would picture it—the words. how they might sound in the quiet. how they might taste in his mouth. wbat your face would look like if he ever let them slip.

and maybe one day he’d say them.

but until then, he’d keep reaching for you in the dark, and praying you’d keep reaching back.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

#mimi has her bed in her kitchen with they way shes always cooking #OH MY GOD

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gofishygo · 18 days ago

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Please Save our life In Gaza 🙏❤️

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #515) ✅️

I'm teacher Areej Shatat and today is my birthday and I'm turning 28 years and I'm so sad because I can't afford my family their food. A bag of flour costs 600$. I'm now making bread with pasta 💔 I need your support urgently 🙏🎁

I have three children Yahya, Ahysha and Reem and they are all my life. They are now without food and I can't see them die from hunger. They all of my life and I'm calling you to make a real action and to put yourself in my situation 💔💔 Also Eid Al Adha is coming and I want to buy some clothes to those children to be happy at least at this day. 😭

I'm now asking for generous and kind people who care about kids rights in this life.

⛔️Please help me 🙏🙏

We all here depending on you 🙏❤️❤️❤️

❤️Your contribution means the world ❤️

Those are my kids ❤️❤️

You can donate here and read the full story 🙏🙏

Or directly here 🎁🙏

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gofishygo · 19 days ago

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something something star-crossed lovers trope with dick grayson.

The night air tasted like silver and sorrow.

The city stretched around you in a winking sprawl, its lights flickering like dying stars, and you stood at the edge of a rooftop that had seen too many goodbyes. The sky above you was choked in clouds, but you could still feel the moon behind them—pale and aching, like your heart.

You heard him before you see him—soft boots on stone, breath caught in his throat. He always did that when he was about to say something he didn’t want to say. You didn’t turn around.

“Don’t do this,” He pleaded, and there was velvet in his voice, worn thin with pain. “Please.”

His plea hung in the air like a lullaby left unsung.

You closed your eyes, willing the tears to stay where they were, tucked neatly behind your lashes. “You think I want this?”

He was beside you in an instant. Not with his Nightwing speed, but slowly, like you were a wounded bird and he wasn’t sure if getting close would break you or save you. The wind pulled at his hair, making it flutter like a midnight flag. You wanted to run your fingers through it one last time.

“Then stay.”

Your heart cracked at the edges. God, he was beautiful in the moonlight—his face all sharp angles and soft eyes, like marble carved by someone in love. His hands found yours, warm and trembling, like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.

“I love you,” He whispered, as if it was both confession and curse.

And you did love him. You do. In the way planets love stars—forever orbiting, never quite touching, always burning.

But love isn’t enough. Not when the world was full of shadows, and you were drowning in one too many. The danger trailing you like smoke wasn’t something he could punch away in a flurry of acrobatics. You were a weight around his neck, an anchor in a life that needed wings.

“You deserve peace, Dick,” You said, voice barely more than air. “You deserve someone who isn’t constantly looking over their shoulder.”

He cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the outline of your jaw like he was memorizing it. “Peace is a world without you in it? Then I don’t want it.”

The tears came anyway.

The city was too quiet. The space between you too loud.

You reached for his face and kissed him like you were lighting a candle in the dark—desperate, trembling, and afraid it wouldn’t last. His lips tasted like rain and regret, soft and searching. You tried to write your love into that kiss—tried to tattoo it into his skin, into his soul.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Say you’ll come back,” He breathed.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. The stars above you were still watching, and they’d always been cruel to lovers like you.

So you whispered, “I love you too,” and turned into the night like a shadow slipping through the cracks of fate.

And behind you, Dick stood still as a statue, staring into the sky, hoping the universe might bend just once—for love.

#OJHHHH YEAHHHHHHHHHHHH #this hits the spot n i dont even know who dick is

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gofishygo · 21 days ago

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⛔️Stop⛔️ and

♻️ Reblog ♻️ to save lives ‼️

I won't forgive anyone skip this and don't help me and my kids. I depend on you you are my last hope to survive 😭😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔

16/5/2025

10:56Am

New update for the Modern Holocaust in Gaza ‼️‼️

The last attempt for ceasefire is gone after Trump left the middle East without giving any hope about us so this is the end in Gaza 💔💔😭😭 🥺🥺🥺 ((killing+starvation)))

We lost hope this time and they will kill the rest of us by bombing or by starving so please read this and share as much as you can 🙏🙏🥺‼️

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #515) ✅️

My full story 🙏💔

I'm Areej I was an English teacher and a creative writer at we are not numbers before war and everything change after October 7. Also I'm a creative writer at we are not numbers.

Dear my kind donors!

I am a mother of three children. We have lived through the war for a year and a half, and we have lost everything we own. My husband is a man who did not work. Before the war, I did not have a breadwinner or any source of income. During the war I didn't give up to teach so I volunteered and had good chance to help some students to get engaged again with English in a very creative way.

Please Save those innocent kids from war 🥺‼️🙏🙏

We are in tents for almost two years because our home was destroyed and my kids are starving now with no enough food 😭‼️🥺After our several evacuation from place to another.Now we don't have a house after it was destroyed by missiles. I now ask you to help me rebuild my house. And buy basics for the daily essentials for my children and I need money so that we can stand up again and start again.

This war wasn't easy at all it has taken many friends at work, students and some of my colleagues at the university. They are almost ten souls I won't never forget . Their laughter, their presence, their love… all of it is gone, leaving behind memories that are both precious and painful. Every day, I carry the weight of their loss, but I also carry their spirit, which gives me the strength to keep going.

My lovely students before war 🥺

My lovely home 💔💔‼️

Here’s what life in Gaza looks like for my family right now:

🏠 Safety: The uncertainty of tomorrow weighs heavily on us.

😢 Loss: The absence of my students and my friends is really hurts.

💔 Dreams on Hold: The future feels so far away when survival takes all our strength.

Note to mention the other very expensive essential goods. I hope you will stand by me to get food

The crossings boarders are closed again these days and war return in Gaza. The crossing through which food enters has been closed for more than 30 days. We have nothing to eat, and even if we do, the prices are exorbitant. Some of the prices listed are:

1 kg of meat = $100 now there is no meat

1 chicken = 70$ there is no chicken

1 kg of fish = 100$ now it costs 200$

1 bag of flour = $200 now it costs 600$

1 kg of cooking gas = $150 now it costs 1000$

1 kg of sugar = $50

1 kg of eggplant = $20

1 kg of onions = $50

1 kg of tomatoes = $20

How You Can Help Us Cross the Finish Line

Even the smallest act of kindness can make a difference:

. $5 might not seem like much, but it could mean a meal, clean water, or a tiny bit of hope for my family.

. Can’t donate? Reblog this post to help us reach someone who can. Every share matters more than you know.

To help me and my family you can donate here or at least you can share this post to people who can support us in gaz

To sump up I'm seeking for help, I'm trying to scrape together the $800 monthly rent, that's all I need each month for my kids and to get some food for us 🙏😭💔

So Sorry For tagging you guys randomly but this is the only way to reach more people and to gain your attention please help me sharing my story to people who care about Palestinians 💔🙏🙏‼️🇵🇸

You can support my family here

Here 🙏🎁🎁

Or directly here

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gofishygo · 21 days ago

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An urgent appeal for help ‼️‼️🚨🙏

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #538)

I’m Inge Kassab 22, dental student in alazhar university Gaza, I have finished three years of my studies at the university and unfortunately my university has completely destroyed due to the war in Gaza and I can’t go abroad the city to continue my studies because all boarders around us were closed and I forced to live her under bombing.

For almost a whole year and half I have been living in Gaza, where wardestruction and chaos spread everywhere in Gaza.

My home and my university were completely destroyed .

I am currently in Deir El Balah after I have displaced from my city Gaza , trying to save money to rebuild home to live in a safe place with my family. My father is an old man who lost his work and my mom also lost her work. I need you to support me and my family to build our life again.

Because of the war, it has become impossible to provide money to live, buy food, clean and drinkable water, and education here. This money will be used to provide what the war has destroyed for us, and also to provide a place to stay, especially since we are now approaching the winter season, where we need winter clothes, repair the damage to the house, and provide what protects us from the cold and hunger of winter.

Gaza has become a place full of destruction and is no longer suitable for any opportunity here. Diseases have spread in the Gaza Strip, especially those skin diseases for which there is no treatment due to the war. The water here has also become polluted water and has spread, and there is not enough food for everyone here.

I created this campaign to ask for help and support from you. As a human being who lived an entire year and half under the flames of war, destruction, and tragedies, I am addressing you and asking you for help, to help me get a chance to survive war, death, and hunger with my family, and to start from scratch. A new journey of living and recovering from those traumas and painful memories that we experienced in the war. So we stayed in the Gaza Strip under the genocide to live in difficult conditions and complete our studies with the least available means. Before the war began, I was at the beginning of the clinical stage and the beginning of my work on patients, but the war came and destroyed all my dreams, as I lost my university and my dental tools, which cost my father more than $1,000, and I lost my future. But now I am trying to return again in order to complete the number of study hours and graduate. Therefore, I need your help to complete what remains, as there is only very little left to graduate and go out to work and help patients.

This money will also help me to cover our living expenses and buy food in Gaza. Buying food and groceries in Gaza is something we cannot afford every day because of the high prices, and there is no opportunity to work here. The money will also be used to buy available cooking gas, wood and firewood which will also be used to provide fires for cooking and also to keep warm from the cold at night in the coming days. Also I want to build my own clinic after graduation.

I hope you will hear my voice and help me get a chance to evacuate from here, and a chance to evacuate from Gaza if we can .

I am a person whose dreams, life, and ambitions were stolen during the war. All I have left is the hope of escaping from here. Help me revive this hope ❤️🙏🙏

So Please Help Me to Put (Dr.) before my name.

Sorry For tagging you guys randomly but this is the only way to reach more people and to gain your attention please help me sharing my story to people who care about Palestinians 💔🙏🙏‼️🇵🇸

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gofishygo · 23 days ago

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"When the house falls, the voice remains" — A message from Gaza, written by Abdelmajid ✍️

In a time where news is just numbers, and images pass in seconds, there are faces that remain. I am one of them.

My name is Abdelmajid. I don't carry an extraordinary story — I share what has sadly become ordinary in Gaza: Waking up to find no roof above me 🏚️, calling out to my mother and hearing no reply 💔, surviving a certain death… only to face the daily battle to live.

We used to believe war was a moment that would pass. But we’ve learned it may begin… and never end. It doesn’t just take homes — it takes childhood, voices, the faces we love.

Since that day, I no longer have a little world called my room. No key. No quiet corner. What remains? Fragments of memory… and a flicker of hope I carry every time my niece looks at me and asks, "Why did this happen to us?" 👧

I’m not writing for pity, nor for passing sadness. I write because we need a voice — someone to carry our story back into the rhythm of this loud world 🌍

You may not be able to end the war, but you can ease its cruelty on those who survived. You can extend a hand to someone trying to rebuild from rubble 🤝

Whether you donate, share, or simply read these words to the end — your action may go unseen by cameras, but it makes a real difference ✨

For authenticity, Abdelmajid is verified and listed as #537 on the GazaVetters trusted vetting list. ✅

From my heart, and from the heart of Gaza: Thank you for still seeing the human behind the headlines 🕊️

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gofishygo · 23 days ago

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An urgent appeal for help ‼️‼️🚨🙏

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #538)

For almost a whole year and half I have been living in Gaza, where wardestruction and chaos spread everywhere in Gaza.

My home and my university were completely destroyed .

I hope you will hear my voice and help me get a chance to evacuate from here, and a chance to evacuate from Gaza if we can .

I am a person whose dreams, life, and ambitions were stolen during the war. All I have left is the hope of escaping from here. Help me revive this hope ❤️🙏🙏

So Please Help Me to Put (Dr.) before my name.

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gofishygo · 1 month ago

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warnings: mentions of past abuse/violence, darker slightly ooc ghost

the scene of simon riley's death is not only the flames that erupted in his home, not just the bullets placed in the heads of the only people who had shared his blood. when you think about it now, it's a slow murder- one that has started long since he had first heard of roba.

the marks of angry hands and harsh words are now engraved into his face in the way that time creates cracks in old statues. there was something great there, burning bright and rich with life, but something has twisted at his smile, bent it into something you don't recognise. a jagged gash that stretches from the base of his chin to the corner of his mouth, tearing flesh apart and sewing itself back together. but it's chipped at his skin, taken off what once was his face. his nose has been broken, moulded by the only method of growth that he knows- violence.

he's been gone for years, parts of him stripped away by another enemy, another crime, until he was nothing like he was before- unrecognisable. something inhabits his body and he dares to call it his own. he's the ship of thesus- every part of himself distored and replaced, and he dares to say that he is the same man that you knew before.

you shake his hand, but you don't feel it's warmth. his smile doesn't mean anything in the face of lifeless eyes- he's just showing you another part of his skeleton.

you don't even think he recognises what is in that mirror anymore, flourescent light missing a glint of light in his eyes that you know had used to be there, all those years ago, when times were quieter and he'd had a pencil in his hands instead of a gun.

something ugly and violent has festered for too long in those bones, had him rolling in a grave that should have kept his corpse hidden nearly a decade ago. that's not the simon who'd stayed at yours to do homework and leaned on your shoulder during classes when he was tired.

too bad he loves you like he is.

#call of duty #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #cod ghost #ghost simon riley #simon riley #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader

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gofishygo · 1 month ago

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—Low & Careful

kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x gn!reader | hurt / comfort | gaz appreciation week masterlist.

day two : hurt / comfort

tw : dependency ( kyle on reader )

It stuck to him like glue.

The feeling of dread, of loss. Sunk its poisoned talons into his flesh, touching bone, tainting anything and everything. It travelled from his flesh, his bones, to deep in his belly; taking root in his stomach and growing there. Drinking what he did, stealing what he ate.

He felt as it grew up from his stomach, used its vines to claw its way up and out his throat, his mouth. Felt it become him; turning into a skin as deep as his, mimicking the molten caramel of his eyes, the dripping honey from his smile, the tiny moons imbedded into his cheeks—it replaced him.

No wonder he’s always lived like he’s bracing for something to fall apart.

He doesn’t mean to — it’s just instinct by now. Keep things at a distance. Don’t get too soft. Don’t name anything you don’t want to lose.

( “Don’t name anything you want to lose”—Yet he catches himself giving you names that drip like molasses from his lips.

Smiling at you in the morning, a hand at your waist as he leans your body on his. “What do you want to eat today, angel?”

Thumbing away your tears, smoothing the furrow between your brows and replacing it with a kiss. “It’s okay love, I got you.” )

He’s good at pretending.

Knows just how to smile when someone cracks a joke, how to nod like he’s listening, like he’s not somewhere else entirely—buried under the weight of everything he’s lost, and everything he never let himself keep.

You come along quieter than most. You don’t ask too many questions. And that’s probably why he doesn’t shove you away.

But even then, he keeps you at arm’s length. A careful, practiced distance.

Because it’s not you—it’s what you could become. Another person he could miss. Another name he’d carve into his bones if things went wrong.

He doesn’t let you see it though—the nights when sleep won’t come. When the silence curls tight around his ribs like barbed wire. When he lies awake replaying the past in fragments he can’t put back together.

He remembers touches he never gets to feel again. Laughter that doesn’t echo anymore. He remembers what it’s like to hold something close and still lose it.

So he keeps his voice calm. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps his heart barricaded behind worn smiles and casual shrugs.

And you—

You’re. . . patient. That’s what terrifies him the most. You look at him like you see the cracks and don’t mind the sharp edges. Like you’re not going to run when things get messy, piercing your skin and when he tries to help, his fingers get painted with blood. Your blood.

But you don’t know what you’re in for.

Because if he lets you in, if he lets himself want this, want you—

he knows it’ll ruin him if you ever go.

And part of him already thinks you will.

They always do.

When he first felt this way, this hopelessness that stuck to him, it scared him how you didn’t press him to open up to you.

You never asked him what kept him up at night, or why his eyes lingered a little too long on doorways, shadows, goodbyes. You don’t try to fix him—and maybe that’s why he sometimes finds himself watching you longer than he means to. Like he’s trying to memorize you in case you disappear too.

Because you might. Because everyone else does.

He tells himself it’s better this way. Keeping it light. Keeping it safe. Jokes over bruised knuckles and tired grins over half-eaten takeout. Letting you in just far enough that you think you’re close, but never far enough to see where it hurts; where each crack lies.

And it does hurt.

More than he’ll ever say out loud.

The silence after missions. The way his chest aches when his phone lights up and it’s not you. The way he finds traces of you in places you’ve never even touched—your shampoo on his towel, your laugh echoing in his kitchen, your ghost curled up on the couch long after you’ve left.

He’s scared.

Not of dying. He’s made peace with that. It’s easy, in comparison.

He’s scared of his dependence on you. Of letting himself believe this could be something, and then waking up one day to find you gone, just like the rest. Another person who realized he wasn’t worth staying for. Another empty room. Another silence he has to learn to live with.

So when you ask, one night, soft and unsure, “Do you ever get tired of being alone?”—

he doesn’t answer right away.

Just looks at you, like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll find the words he’s buried too deep.

His voice is quiet when it finally comes.

“Only when you’re not here.”

You only looked at him for a moment, then a slow, unsure smile crept on your face.

Part of him thinks he doesn’t want to notice something’s wrong. Like keeping it tucked away in the back of his mind, locked away and collecting dust. But he knows it’s there. Knows that he needs to notice it. But nobody notices anything at first.

Not the way his day starts to feel off when you don’t text back. Not the way the silence in his flat stretches longer without your voice in it. Not the way he stops buying coffee for one.

It creeps in—soft, quiet, like you. Like the way you leave your cardigan on the back of his chair. Like the way your laughter settles into the walls like warmth. Like the way your presence feels less like a visit and more like a rhythm he’s gotten used to.

You never ask him to need you. You never make it obvious. You just. . . show up. When he’s had a rough day, when he doesn’t say anything but somehow you still know. You hand him tea and don’t ask about the blood caked in his fingernails. You sit beside him and let him exist without having to explain.

And he doesn’t say it—that he looks for you before he looks for anyone else. That your name on his phone makes something in his chest unclench. That some days, the only reason he makes it out of bed is the thought of maybe seeing you later.

He tells himself it’s not need. That he’s just used to you now. That it’s convenience. Familiarity.

But he starts keeping your favorite snacks in his kitchen. Starts sleeping a little better when you’re around. Starts catching himself listening for your footsteps down the hall like they mean something. Like you mean something.

And when you’re gone—even just for a day or two—he feels it.

Not in the dramatic way. Not in the falling-apart, can’t-function kind of way.

But in the quiet spaces.

In the way he leaves the TV on for background noise. In the untouched mug on the counter he still sets out for you by habit. In the way he checks the door three times, like he’s hoping you’ll walk through it.

Like he’s already forgotten what life was like without you in it.

And as always, he tells himself he’s fine.

That he hasn’t noticed how your toothbrush lives beside his now. That the worn-in softness of your jackets on the back of the couch doesn’t make his chest feel too tight. That the playlists on his phone—the ones he swore he didn’t care about—are full of songs you’ve hummed under your breath.

He still sleeps on his side of the bed, even when you’re not there. Leaves yours untouched. As if you might walk in, any second now, and crawl into it like you always do—feet cold, eyes tired, muttering something about how shit the weather is.

And maybe that’s what scares him.

Not that you’ve changed his space,

But that he’s started needing you in it.

There’s a rhythm to his life now, and it’s shaped around you in ways he didn’t authorize. You’ve folded yourself into the cracks he thought he’d sealed off— the quiet, jagged places no one else bothered to stay long enough to find.

He finds himself remembering your voice in moments you weren’t even there for.

When it’s late and his hands won’t stop shaking. When the mission chatter fades and there’s only blood on his boots and something cold in his throat—he hears your laugh. Not loud. Not bright. Just there, like a tether. Like a promise he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

You’re in all the soft places now.

The back of his mind. The curve of his routines. The split second before he answers the phone—hoping it’s you.

And still, he doesn’t say anything.

He won’t.

Because to say it would mean admitting something’s shifted. That the distance he’s always kept, the armor he’s worn for so long—it’s not holding like it used to. Not with you.

He tells himself it’s manageable. That he can handle this—the way he checks the door when he hears footsteps, the way he sleeps lighter when you’re not there, just in case you come back and he doesn’t want to miss it.

That he’s not getting used to you in the same way he breathes—constantly, unconsciously, like something vital.

But he is.

And that terrifies him more than anything he’s faced out there in the field.

It starts small.

You don’t text that morning.

No “morning, sunshine” with a sleepy photo of your pillow-smushed face. No joke about how your coffee tastes like regret. Nothing. Just silence.

He notices, of course. Pretends he doesn’t.

Wipes a hand down his face and tells himself you’re probably just busy. That you overslept. That it’s nothing. He even types out a message—You alive?—but doesn’t send it. Just stares at the screen for a while and puts the phone face-down on the table.

By midday, the silence is louder.

He checks his phone again. Then again. Then again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t. It feels stupid. Pathetic. He’s a grown man. He’s seen hell and walked out of it. But this? This radio silence from you? It puts a knot in his chest he can’t seem to loosen.

You’re not pulling away on purpose. Not really.

But you don’t show up that night either. No knock at the door. No comfortable silence on his couch while you scroll through your phone with your legs in his lap like they belong there.

And maybe they did. Maybe they still do. But without you here, the space feels off. Airless.

He eats half his dinner and tosses the rest. Sleeps like shit. Wakes up twice thinking he heard you, only to remember you never came in the first place.

It shouldn’t bother him. You’re not his. Not really.

But your absence wraps around him tighter than your presence ever did. It digs into the space you carved out and reminds him, cruelly, that he let you get too close. That he’s not fine. That maybe he does need you—not in the abstract, but in the bone-deep, can’t-sleep-right-without-you-here kind of way.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Doesn’t know how to ask you to come back without sounding like he’s falling apart. Doesn’t know how to admit he’s been leaning on you this whole time, even when he swore he wasn’t.

He picks up his phone again. Scrolls up to your last message — two days ago. A dumb meme and a heart emoji.

He stares at it longer than he should.

Then, quietly, he types out:

Did I do something?

He doesn’t send it.

Just leaves it there, cursor blinking.

Waiting.

Then someone knocks on his front door.

Somehow he knows it’s you before even standing up to answer it. Like he can feel your warmth through the old wood.

It’s funny, how just the sound of your knuckles against his door—three soft taps like always, calmed him down from his tense battle in his mind. And when he opens it, you’re just standing there in that old jacket he likes on you—his jacket—hands in your pockets, eyes tired but warm.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just blinks like he’s not sure you’re real.

“I didn’t mean to go quiet.” You say softly, already stepping inside like you never left. “Got caught up. Shit week.”

He nods. Says, “Yeah, no worries,” like he hasn’t been unraveling for days.

But you look at him a little too long. And he knows you’ve seen it.

The bags under his eyes. The slightly off-center tension in his posture. The way he doesn’t meet your gaze for too long, like if he does, everything he’s been holding in might just spill out all at once.

You don’t push.

You just move through the flat like you belong there, like the gap in the last few days didn’t stretch painfully wide between you. You toss your bag on the floor, kick off your shoes, and when you pass him, your fingers brush his briefly—not enough to be obvious, just enough to ground him.

He doesn’t realize how tight his shoulders were until they start to loosen.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs under you, flipping through the TV with half-interest. He hasn’t said much. He’s just sitting beside you, head tilted back against the cushion, eyes closed, listening to the sound of you being here again.

“I missed this,” You murmur, casual.

His eyes open, sharp, like that one sentence tugged something deep.

You turn your head to look at him. “I missed you, Kyle.”

His name from your mouth does something to him. Always has.

He wants to brush it off, say something easy—“Right back at you”, or “Someone’s gotta put up with me”—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He swallows instead. Quiet. Raw.

“I didn’t like it when you were gone.”

Your eyes soften. Not with pity—never pity. Just understanding.

“I know,” You say gently, and scoot closer. Your hand finds his, warm and sure. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were alone again.”

He lets out a shaky breath. Not quite relief. Not quite fear. Just something too big to name.

“You didn’t,” He lies.

You squeeze his hand once. “Yeah, I did. And I’m sorry.”

There’s silence for a moment—but not the bad kind. The kind where breathing gets easier.

He shifts then, a little awkwardly, a little helplessly—and lets his head drop onto your shoulder like it’s the only place that makes sense.

And when your fingers start threading through his hair, slow and steady, he finally exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

No words. Just you. Here.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like enough.

Then, when you say you need to talk to him—really talk to him, he gets scared.

But instead of the belittling scolding he thought he’d get from you, (“I need space, I don’t have time to be taking care of a man-baby right now.”he could think of other things you’d say, but it’d just make his eyes water and spill, decorating his cheeks in a clear, beautiful way) you just let him rest his head on your shoulder, his weight warm and solid and a little heavier than usual. His hand loops through yours, loose but not letting go, like he’s afraid you might vanish again if he does.

But eventually, you speak. Low. Careful.

“Kyle.”

He makes a soft sound—not quite a word—like he hears you, but doesn’t want to move.

“You’ve been doing it again,” You say gently.

That gets a reaction. His fingers twitch. His body goes just a little tense against yours.

You keep going, voice soft. Not accusing. Just truthful.

“Building your world around me without saying it out loud. Letting everything lean a little harder on me than it should.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. But you can feel it in him—the way he holds himself a little too still. Like he’s waiting for you to be angry. To tell him he’s too much. Too needy. Like everyone else eventually did.

You shift, just enough to look at him. His eyes are on the floor, jaw tight.

“I don’t mind,” You say.

His eyes flick up—guarded, hopeful, wrecked all at once.

You squeeze his hand. “I just don’t want you to break if I’m gone for a few days.”

He looks like he’s been hit in the chest. Swallows hard. Doesn’t know what to do with the softness in your voice. Doesn’t know how to answer without admitting how much of what you’re saying is true.

You keep going, because someone has to say it.

“You’ve been carrying so much for so long, I don’t think you remember what it’s like to stand on your own. And now that I’m here, I think you’re scared I’ll be the next thing to disappear.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just nods, slow. Miserable.

“I’m not mad,” You whisper. “But I want to help, not just hold you up when you’re falling.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes out like he’s in pain.

“I don’t mean to—” He starts, then falters.

“I know.”

You brush his knuckles with your thumb. Gentle. Steady.

“I want to help you build something stronger than this. . . than just me. I’ll still be here, but you need something that doesn’t fall apart when I’m not in the room.”

He leans into your touch, quiet. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Help me. . . please,” He says finally. Barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to do it.”

You nod. “We’ll figure it out. Together. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just leans into you, forehead pressed to your shoulder like it’s the only place he’s sure won’t fall away. And you let him. You hold him steady—not to carry him, but to show him he doesn’t have to walk alone anymore.

It starts here.

Not with a fix. Not with a promise. But with a choice.

To stay; to help him learn how.

It starts with silence.

Not the aching kind that used to fill the room like smoke—but the kind that settles. Gentle. Mutual. His forehead rests against your shoulder, your hand still in his hair, the weight of his admission lingering between you like something fragile and sacred.

Help me.

You’d never heard him sound so small. So real. And you don’t say anything for a long moment because you know what it costs him to ask.

But when you finally speak, your voice is steady.

“Okay.”

He exhales against your collarbone—not relief exactly, but something close. Like a knot pulled loose in his chest.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, and you touch his cheek with the back of your hand—a small gesture, but one that anchors him. “We take it one step at a time,” you say. “No pressure. No rush.”

His nod is barely there, but it’s enough.

It starts slow.

No big changes. No dramatic speeches. Just little things—nough that he doesn’t feel like the ground’s shifting under him. You know him too well to push.

First, it’s the mornings.

You start texting him early, even if you’re not around. Simple stuff. Up yet? Go brush your teeth, love. Don’t make me come over there. He rolls his eyes every time, but he answers. Every single time.

Then, it’s lists.

You sit down with him one evening—calm, casual—and say, “Let’s make a routine for you. Just the basics.” He grumbles, but you see the way his fingers tighten on the pen when you hand it to him. Like structure feels safer than he wants to admit.

He starts small:

• Wake up.

• Shower.

• Eat something that isn’t toast.

• Go for a walk.

• Check in—with someone. Anyone.

You help him set reminders. You don’t treat him like he’s broken—just tired. Just someone who’s been holding the world up alone for too long.

Then comes the harder part.

“Talk to Price,” You say gently one night, when he’s stretched out on the couch and not quite asleep.

He stiffens. “Why?”

“Because he’s known you longer than me. He cares. And he’s seen this before—in other people. In himself, probably.”

Gaz doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

“I’m not saying unload everything,” You continue, soft but firm. “Just let someone else see you. Outside of me.”

It takes three days.

Then he texts you a photo—a blurry shot of two coffee mugs on a table, Price’s hand halfway in frame.

Talked. Didn’t explode. No emotional damage. Might try again.

You don’t reply right away. You let him sit in that little win. Let him own it.

You build from there.

Encourage him to reconnect with the others—Soap, Laswell, anyone who’s part of his life but got pushed out by his quiet dependence on just you. It’s not about letting go of what you are to him—it’s about making space for more than just that.

Some days, he slips. Cancels plans. Shuts down. You don’t scold him. You just show up with takeout and sit beside him, quiet, patient. And he always comes back. A little steadier each time.

He starts taking walks alone. Reading again. Even finds a dog shelter nearby and volunteers once a week—says the dogs don’t ask questions he can’t answer.

You don’t say it, but you’re proud. So proud.

And one night, weeks later, you find him standing in the kitchen, phone in hand, smiling at a message.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Soap,” He says, eyes still on the screen. “Sent me a video of his dog dragging his laundry across the house.”

You blink. “You text Soap now?”

He shrugs, casual. Too casual. “He texted first. I just answered.”

But you see it. The lightness. The shift.

The first signs of something better taking root.

He still needs you. But not like before. Not like air. Not like a crutch. Now, it’s something healthier. Something chosen, not clung to.

He steps toward you and wraps his arms around your waist, grounding himself in the curve of your shoulder, your heartbeat, your warmth.

“Thank you,” He murmurs.

You smile against his hair.

“I love you too.”

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms !

- likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3 !!

©miwsolovely

#HOLY FUCK.#this is amazing. so much things to talk about jher #the descriptions and imagery are absolutely everything and mimicking cranks these masterpieces out like they are nothing #the progression of their relationship too- maybe I’m tired while reading but you can’t really tell when reader goes from someone he doesn’r #know to his closest friend and partner- it blurs a lot and k think that’s important #beautiful as always Mimi this so peak

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gofishygo · 1 month ago

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i forgot to reblog this but i think this should be put on mandatory reading lists in schools. absolutely beautiful and such raw interactions. this is by far my favourite sort of depiction of gaz im in tears

—Two Hearts

kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x gn!reader | fluff | gaz appreciation week masterlist.

day one : sunflower

tw : light ( but necessary ) angst.

“Kyle.”

“Yes, love?”

A few seconds pass, comfortable and airy, he looks at you after the third beat passes with an eyebrow raised to find you staring at him.

You meet his eyes, lips curling up into a smile. “Did you know your dimples show when you talk?”

He turns to face you fully, skin catching the sun dripping from the window, golden light making a halo of his short curls and catching on the faint scar near his jaw. His lips part just slightly, somewhere between amusement and surprise, then curl into a grin of his own—one that only deepens those very dimples you just complimented.

“Yeah?” He says, tilting his head slightly. “You’ve been keepin’ track of my dimples, then?”

Your smile widens, and you don’t bother hiding it. “Maybe. Can’t help it. They show up every time you’re being charming.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that makes your chest warm. He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, the distance between you closing until you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“You calling me charming, angel?” He teases, voice low, a little rough around the edges but still tender in a way that has you yearning. “Because if you are, I might get used to it.”

You lightly nudge his shoulder with yours. “Just stating facts, Garrick.”

His eyes sparkle at that, crinkling slightly at the corners as he leans even closer, lips near your ear now.

“Well then,” He murmurs, “I’ll just have to keep talking, won’t I?”

You hum, pretending to consider it, though your smile betrays you. “You should. For research purposes.”

Kyle chuckles again, the sound soft and rich, like velvet against your skin. His closeness to you has you feeling his voice throughout your body: a deep rumble in your chest, a warmth in your face. “Right. Gotta give you plenty of material to study.”

He shifts just a little, one hand finding yours between you on the couch. His thumb brushes over your knuckles slowly, like he’s memorizing the feel of you. There’s no rush in his movements—just quiet comfort, the kind that only comes from time and trust.

“You always look at me like that?” He asks suddenly, voice gentle.

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I put the stars in the sky or somethin’.” He gives you a half-grin, a little crooked and shy now. “Makes me feel like I’ve got the whole world right here.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a second—just one. Long enough for him to notice, long enough for him to squeeze your hand slightly.

“You kinda do,” You say quietly. “At least, you’ve got mine.”

His eyes search yours for a long moment, something soft and unspoken flickering behind them. He leans in, this time with full intent, and presses a kiss to your forehead—slow, warm, lingering.

“I’ll take good care of it,” He whispers against your skin.

And when he leans back, the dimples are back too—deeper than ever.

You don’t say anything right away. His words sit with you, echoing in the quiet room, warm and heavy in your chest. Kyle doesn’t press. He just watches you, still holding your hand like it’s something precious. Like he’s afraid if he lets go, you might vanish.

You turn toward him, shifting slightly so your knees brush his. “You always make it feel. . . easy,” you say finally. Your voice is quieter now, almost unsure. “Even when it’s not.”

His brows furrow, that softness in his gaze growing heavier. “What’s not easy, love?”

You shrug, trying to find the words. “Letting someone in. Trusting they’ll stay. I’ve. . . not always had the best luck with that.”

Kyle doesn’t answer right away, but his grip on your hand tightens just a little—steady, reassuring. When he does speak, his voice is low and certain.

“I’m not them,” He says. “I know I can’t promise forever—not in this line of work—but I can promise this: when I’m with you, I’m with you. No games. No going quiet when things get hard. Just me. Honest.”

You feel your throat tighten at that, and when you blink, the sting in your eyes betrays you.

He notices. Of course he does.

Without a word, he pulls you in—arms wrapping around your middle, moving one hand to cradle the back of your head as you rest your face against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, grounding. Real.

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, barely above a whisper. “For as long as I can. . . I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, you believe him completely.

You stay like that for a while. Wrapped in his arms, the world narrows to just the sound of his breathing and the rhythm of his heart. It’s quiet—but not empty. It’s the kind of silence that says everything without needing words.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and he holds you tighter in response, like he knows. Like he always knows.

“You make it hard not to fall,” You say softly, words muffled into his chest.

You feel his body still for a second. Then a breath, slow and deep. He leans his cheek against the top of your head, voice barely audible now. “That’s the idea.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him, and he doesn’t shy away from the way you’re looking at him—like he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. His expression is open, vulnerable in a way you rarely see. No armor. No jokes to lighten the moment.

Just Kyle.

“I didn’t think I’d get this,” You admit. “Someone who sees me like this and doesn’t run.”

His hand comes up, brushing his thumb across your cheek like he’s trying to memorize your face. “You’re not too much,” He says. “Don’t ever think that.”

A pause. He swallows, jaw tightening before he speaks again.

“I know what it’s like. . . to be left behind. To feel like you’re easy to walk away from.” His voice cracks slightly, but he keeps going. “But I see you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The vulnerability in his eyes is raw; genuine. It’s not the kind of thing he says often—maybe not ever. But he said it now. For you.

You lean up and kiss him then—slow and deep, with everything you don’t quite know how to say. His hand cups your jaw, his other arm pulling you closer, like he’s trying to hold all of you at once.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe. . . this is what it feels like to be truly seen. To be chosen. Not just once, but every day.

By him.

The kiss fades slowly, like a tide pulling back, but neither of you move far. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the warm hush between you. His thumb keeps tracing your cheek, his eyes still searching yours like he’s reading something only he can see.

“God,” He murmurs, almost like a prayer. “You undo me.”

Your lips twitch into the smallest smile, but your eyes are glassy, heart so full it almost aches. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He huffs a soft laugh, and it fans across your skin. “No, angel. Not bad. Just. . . unexpected. I didn’t know I could feel like this and still feel steady.”

You nod, because you know exactly what he means. Loving someone—really loving them—doesn’t always feel like fireworks. Sometimes it feels like this: like home, like quiet strength. Like standing on solid ground after years of shifting sand.

You reach up, letting your fingers trail through his curls at the nape of his neck, soft and familiar. “What made you stay?” You ask, voice low but clear. “With me.”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Because,” He says, “the second I let myself fall, I realized I wasn’t scared. Not with you. You make all the noise in my head go quiet. You make the hollowness in my bones full and strong.”

There’s a vulnerability in his voice that feels sacred. You tuck that confession away like something fragile and priceless.

Kyle shifts then, just enough to guide you into his side. He pulls a blanket over the two of you from the back of the couch, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, his lips brushing your temple in a lingering kiss.

“Stay with me tonight,” He says. Not a question. Not a demand. Just an offering.

You answer without hesitation. “Always.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

The sun dips lower, casting golden shadows across the room. Outside, the world keeps moving, unaware—but in here, time slows. Everything softens. No masks. No walls.

Just two hearts, scarred but open, beating in quiet sync.

And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—there’s no fear in that.

Only peace.

As you settle into the crook of his arm, blanket pulled around your shoulders, the room is bathed in the last amber stretch of sunlight. It spills across the floor like honey, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the lashes that kiss the tops of his cheeks when he blinks slow and content.

You watch him in silence, your head resting against his chest, and the thought slips in quiet and uninvited—but true:

He’s the sun, and he doesn’t even know it.

He doesn’t know how he pulls things toward him without even trying. How warmth radiates off him even in the moments he says nothing at all. How people bend in his direction like sunflowers chasing light.

You say it before you can stop yourself.

“You’re like a sunflower.”

Kyle blinks, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “A what?”

“A sunflower,” You repeat, smiling softly. “You turn everything warm. You draw people in. Even when it’s dark, you still find a way to reach for the light.”

He’s quiet for a beat, like he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of softness—like no one’s ever called him something beautiful just for being who he is.

“‘M not sure anyone’s ever said that to me before,” He admits with a gentle gaze trained on you.

“I mean it,” You say, your voice barely a whisper. “You’re steady. Bright. You’re the kind of person who makes things grow, even when they’ve been through storms.”

He looks away for a second, almost like it’s too much to hold. His jaw clenches just slightly, emotion gathering and threatening to spill from his eyes, before he looks back at you with something reverent in his gaze.

“You really see me like that?” He asks, voice low.

You nod, lifting a hand to rest against his cheek. “I’ve always seen you like that.”

He leans into your touch like it anchors him. And when he closes his eyes, there’s a small, almost disbelieving smile on his lips—dimples and all.

“You’re dangerous, you know,” He murmurs.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you make me believe I’m more than just the job. More than what I’ve seen. What I’ve done.”

You trace your thumb across his skin, gaze steady. “You are.”

And for the rest of the night, you stay curled into his warmth, as the sun fades and the quiet takes over—but somehow, even in the dark, he still glows.

Like something made to carry light.

The light outside fades into twilight, and eventually into that deep blue hush that settles just before true night. You don’t turn on a lamp. There’s something sacred about the dim—like you’ve slipped into a pocket of time that doesn’t belong to anyone else.

Kyle’s voice breaks the silence gently. “Did you always want this?”

You glance up at him. “Want what?”

“This,” He says, gesturing vaguely—to the couch, the blanket, your head on his chest. “Peace. Quiet. Something still.”

You think about it for a moment. “I think I always wanted it. . . but I didn’t think I’d get to have it. Not like this. Not with someone who feels like. . . sunlight, in human form.”

He lets out a soft, quiet laugh, almost bashful, like he’s still not used to being seen that way. “I’m not used to being someone’s calm. Not sure I ever have been.”

You tilt your head against him. “You’re mine.”

He doesn’t answer at first, but you can feel the way his arm tightens around you, how his hand shifts to thread through your fingers again.

“I used to think I’d burn too hot,” He says after a while. “Like anyone who got too close would just get. . . scorched. So I kept a bit of distance. Stayed busy. Focused on work.”

Your thumb brushes over the back of his hand.

“But then you showed up,” He continues, voice quieter now. “And suddenly I wasn’t just heat. I was warmth. I was something safe. For someone.”

“For me,” You whisper.

He nods, eyes closed now. “For you.”

There’s a long pause after that. Not empty — just full of things that don’t need to be said.

Then, in a voice rough from emotion and maybe the edge of sleep, He murmurs, “What about you, then? What were you before this?”

You let the silence stretch a little, then whisper back, “A little lost. A little lonely. But I kept turning toward the sun anyway.”

Kyle shifts, turning to face you fully, his hand coming up to rest against your cheek. “I’m glad you did.”

You smile, leaning into his touch. “Me too.”

Outside, the world turns under a quiet sky, and inside, two hearts rest—no longer chasing light, but wrapped in it.

Eventually, the room sinks into complete darkness, save for the faint glow of city lights bleeding in through the window. The kind of soft blue that makes everything feel slower, smaller, safe.

Kyle’s hand stays on your cheek a moment longer before it drifts down, settling over your waist, pulling you just a little closer. There’s no more space between you now—just shared warmth, shared breath, the steady lull of hearts syncing in time.

You can feel the way his body starts to relax, how his breathing evens out with yours. The day is finally falling away from his shoulders, and it feels like he’s letting himself rest only because you’re here.

Your fingers trail lightly along the edge of his shirt sleeve, tracing a line over the soft curve of muscle there. “You know,” You whisper, voice drowsy but warm, “if you ever forget who you are. . . I’ll be right here to remind you.”

He hums low, a sound buried in his chest. “Promise?”

You shift just enough to press your forehead to his. “Always.”

There’s another silence—this one even softer. The kind that settles over people who know they are exactly where they’re meant to be.

You feel him smile, just barely. Then, so quiet you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so close:

“I think I started sleeping better the day you walked into my life.”

Your heart pulls at that, a soft ache blooming behind your ribs. You close your eyes, let the words settle like a blanket over both of you.

And when sleep finally comes, it isn’t heavy.

It’s light. Warm.

You fall into it wrapped in his arms, in the comfort of knowing that whatever storms might come, whatever battles may follow—tonight, you’re both home.

And he, still warm beside you, is your sun.

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms !

- likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3 !!

©miwsolovely

#gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #mimi is constantly slept on its infuriating . if u like my writing go read hers it is like painting from the rain a sauce

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gofishygo · 1 month ago

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gaz appreciation week (day 1: sunflowers)

hosted by @/GazAppreciationWeek2025 on twitter

lower saturation + star alt

#before anyone asks why the quality is dog #i dont know either. probably canvas size #also if i see anyone pulling up saying 'ohuhuhghfg u used pngs !!' GET OUT I HAVE 12 EXAMS COMING UP I BARELY HAVE TIME #Gaz Appreciation Week 2025 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz #kyle garrick #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #gaz garrick #cod #cod fanart #gaz fanart #Spotify

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gofishygo · 1 month ago

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gaz appreciation week (day 2, hurt/comfort): losing time

sypnosis: the blinds are closed and half of your bed is empty. (gn! reader, 1.6k)

notes: unhealthy codependency (reader), implied anxiety and depression (reader) angst at the start- thank you so much @/miwsolovely for betareading !!

You know that you aren't meant to be upset at him. But staring into your closet now, that outfit seems to be looking at you, and you curl up further into your bed, eyes still damp from tears, staring right back. A calendar, among other things, is scattered on the floor, and you know that you cannot bring yourself to look at it, like you cannot stare at whatever seems to look back at you in that mirror, because you know far more than that piece of paper what date it is. what day it is.

it shouldn't be a big deal. it's not even in his control. not even in his control, but-

there is something wrong with your body. it worms its way into your lungs when you breathe and trickles into the cracks in your voice hoarse from sobs, travels into your gut and festers there- living and breathing and consuming and outcompeting what had made your body feel like home, scrapes at your insides when you look at the other half of your bed. the sheets are folded into neat rectangles there, pristine white- one of the only times your shared room has looked clean, so why are you crying?

You wipe these tears by yourself, saline drops now smeared against the skin of your knuckles, knowing that if Kyle was here, it wouldn't be this way. He would've cupped your face in those warm hands, cooed something sweet- scooped the broken bits of you into your arms and held you until you were whole again. None of this would have happened, if he was here.

But he isn't, and this cluttered room is still too empty for your own sobs to fill.

Some part of you, sickened and weathered by time, and all of its softness shielded by rose thorns and crab shells almost laughs when you want to think that Kyle wants to be here, with you. You know it is true- that he would rather be at home than halfway across the world, lying in the mud, gun heavy in his hand.

But the thing that stares back at you in the mirror laughs in your face, maw cracked open in a smile with too-many teeth. It plants seeds behind your eyes, tells you things you can’t afford to hear- he didn’t care, was planning to leave anyways. That today didn't matter to him, you didn’t matter to him.

What if he doesn’t make it back? What if he doesn't come back at all?

The thoughts don’t leave when you step into the shower, tile floor colder than usual beneath your feet. The shower water does little to aid your anxieties, its warmth trickling down your back and into the drain.

From here, you can look and see your makeup scattered across the bathroom counter. You cannot bear to look at it when you remember how he’d stood next to you just two nights ago, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing as you’d rubbed your cleanser on his skin, subconsciously feeling for the crease of his smile beneath your fingertips. Helped you fit matching jewelry that you had planned to get for the occasion, kissed your shoulders as nimble hands wound the silver clasp around your neck, his fingers gently fitted against your collarbone. How you'd gone back and forth about what you two would do for your fifth anniversary for the past week, curled up on your shared duvet, fingers intertwined.

And then you can remember the late-night call he'd gotten- you'd mistook it as some sort of change in your reservation, initially- but there is something in his eyes that you wish you weren't familiar with, and when you look at him you can see kyle shrink back into gaz. The hand on your shoulder had felt more like a weight of regret than a silent declaration of love, and between the way he packs his bags (like it's the last time) and the static rumble of his captain in his phone, you know that this is going to be a long mission. That he may not make it back, or may never be the same.

His job chips away at him like battered cliffs, and the sea is not kind to the things it has to share this earth with. It wedges itself into small cracks and crevices, chips away with sediment and violent tide until there is something that barely calls to what it was- a standing pillar, a lone soldier, withered compared to what it had been- what you should have saved.

The line blurs, and at some point, heavy breaths in the shower tiptoe back into an anxiety attack, and you gasp for air, hands clutching at bare skin for respite. But fear winds its way around your tendons, constricts at your chest until there is no air left to take, dried husk of a sob erupting from your aching throat. There's no clock for you to stare, only your warped reflection in the glass pane of the shower, and it stares at you back, dishevled, pleading, as you cry. You're not sure how long you sit there, curled up on the floor, heaving with sobs, losing sense of time.

The pitter-patter of water against stone floor and the pumping of blood to your head drowns out any other noise, leaves you in an echo chamber of your own fear. you don't hear the lock on the front door open- the shuffle of gear being taken off, the gentle creak of the floorboards beneath the weight of someone's feet. you barely notice any of it, right up until he opens the bathroom door with a gentle call of your name.

His voice is smooth- if not a bit drowsy post-deployment, and it's almost like another breath is forced up into your throat, sending another jolt through your shoulders, electricity tracing your nerves. But this is not icewater fear, this is familiarity, something that lives in the husk of a body and calls it home. Your throat is still clogged, stings faintly when you look up, and your vision is blurry- eyelids slightly swollen from the crying, but you look up and you see him.

Amber glint in his eyes and his hair disheveled; voice that feels grounding in the way that the warm water in the shower could never compare with- hardened by conflict, but soft despite how the world has forced him to be stronger with every passing day.

"Love?" He takes little time in stripping down from his gear, sitting with you on the shower floor, resting your head in his lap as the water begins to soak through his shirt. He doesn't hesitate to throw his arms around you, and for the first time in days, you stepped into the sun. "I missed you too, so much. Got everything sorted as quickly as I could. Wanted to make it back home before our anniversary, but..."

Kyle pauses, and a sudden surge of guilt wells up in the back of your throat. He has been out for days, in a location so secret that even you- the person who knows him best- could not learn. battling through storms and doing whatever things he could to survive- things that you will never hear, but will always manifest through his sleepless nights and silent weeping. Terrors committed with his own hands, men that are reduced only to the memories of others, because of him.

And here you are, head pressed against his chest, crying over a date on a calendar, an absence that means nothing compared to what your boyfriend has seen. There's a sense of self awareness that washes over you, and try to croak out an apology, but Kyle's quick to shush you- running a hand over your back, encouraging you to draw in deep breaths until your tears run dry and there is nothing to drown in but Kyle.

His fingers graze your neck, forming a gentle grip on the chain there. "You're wearing it?" You don't have to look up to hear the smile in his voice. "Yeah," you reply, voice still weak from your tears, "made me feel closer to you."

"That's good," he hums, content. He slips his thumb under the necklace. "You won't have to feel close to me anymore, one day."

You don't dwell on what that means too much. Instead, you're helping gaz take off his shirt, and nearly waterboard him twice when you try bring it over his neck- your laugh comes back, eases its way out of your chest, and you feel almost whole again. Your fingers scrub against his scalp, and his sigh of relief tells you everything you need to know about his time being deployed.

For the first time in days, you stare at the mirror and your reflection stares at you back. Your eyes are still red rimmed, but they are kissed by the light that only Kyle has, flickers like candlelight as you put your clothes back on. The world feels lighter on your shoulders.

"I'll sort something out for tonight, 'kay love? We can get some takeout, i've seen the way you eye that restaurant around the corner. Then we can figure out our plan of attack later, yeah?." his arm is wrapped around your waist, and you find the strength to look at the calendar that you'd hurled to the floor last night. Twelfth of May. "You can pick the movie," you offer, head resting against his shoulder.

He kisses you gently, messily, and this house feels whole again. There are papers scattered on the floor, and half-drunken mugs of tea collecting at the desk- but there are two sets of shoes in the doorway, and your hand finds his as he makes a call to the restaurant.

You don't know it yet, but he's practiced something for you overseas, wishing that he could be here tonight, saying those exact words, the weight of that box in his palms. But maybe one day, you'll learn of the papers that await your signature, tucked between the work reports in his office. He hopes that the silver of the rings matches your necklace and his dogtags.

And it won't be today, but he's certain that he will slip it on your finger.

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