#gaz fanfic

[lovifie]

Reader, recently retired: John, I'm grateful for the offer, and that you had me in mind to be part of the task force. But I have already made up my mind, I am stepping back and taking an early retirement.

John: I understand. And there is nothing out there that would change your mind?

Reader: Nope. Absolutely nothing.

John, pressing the button on the interphone: Tell him to come in.

Reader: ???

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, entering the room: Morning, sir. You called me?

Reader: ...

John: ...

Gaz: ...

Reader, angrily grabbing the contract: Bloody bastard, give me that pen.

Back to Masterlist - Taglist Form

Gaz is the only propaganda the military needs. 💗

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[gloomwitchwrites]

Break Up with Your Toxic Boyfriend (1 of 4)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, brief discussion of verbal and emotional injury, protective Kyle, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

With no one to turn to, you contact Gaz, knowing that he'll listen. But old instincts are hard to ignore, and Gaz comes to you because your current boyfriend isn't worth your love. He needs you to understand that.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // break up with your toxic boyfriend masterlist

It’s late. The colors on the television are bright in the dark room. Sound is off but Kyle isn’t watching. It’s more for the background. A distraction. All the muscles in his body ache. That’s how it always is when he returns from another deployment.

Everything is fine until he arrives home and plops onto the sofa. Like a slumbering bear emerging from winter hibernation, his body reacts to the sudden silence of rest as if peace isn’t something Kyle deserves. It’s why he’s always gone, and because of his continuous absences, you left.

Lonely. You were always lonely with him, and it’s because Kyle made it so. It’s a constant regret that sits in the back of his throat like spice buildup. It burns. Rages. Simmers.

When Kyle’s phone starts buzzing, he doesn’t notice at first. The screen is bright like the television, but it isn’t until its rattling boxy body shifts that Kyle’s gaze glances downward. He considers leaving it, allowing the caller to fall to voicemail, but something stirs in his stomach. It hooks his attention.

Perhaps it’s the late hour or the sudden tightness in his chest. Something is bothering him like stubborn sticky spots on the kitchen floor.

Kyle sits up, reaching for the vibrating phone on the tabletop.

Your name scrolls across the screen.

At first, Kyle’s mind cannot comprehend it. The letters that make up your name move over the screen of the phone in a blur, almost like they’re moving too quickly. But that isn’t possible. Kyle’s mind simply cannot comprehend why the hell you’re calling him this late at night.

You are no longer his. The two of you aren’t together. You moved on and rightfully so. Kyle has seen all the social media posts, and sometimes the blokes at work might bring you up, usually to provoke him. But the fucking joke is on them. The separation was mutual. It was kind and calm and fine.

But that doesn’t mean Kyle hasn’t thought about you. There is no box inside his head to put you in. There is no hole or lock or key or barren wasteland where he could simply toss your memory into and forget.

Kyle didn’t want to pull away. He didn’t want to let you go.

But you weren’t happy. He was always gone, and still is. Kyle never figured out how to be a partner to you when he was a partner to his work.

He regrets not fighting for you. He regrets not speaking up instead of gently bowing out.

And it’s late. It’s fucking late. Why are you calling him?

Hope—or a sliver of it—blooms in his chest, twisting around inside his body like ribbons around bone. When the feeling pulls taut, that excitement slides into worry.

The two of you are not together.

You rarely call him.

But his phone is buzzing.

And you are waiting on the other end.

Kyle’s slides his thumb across his phone’s screen, answering the call. He brings it up his ear, and that is when he hears it—a choked inhalation. It is one he recognizes. You’re crying, and trying to hide it.

“What’s wrong?” asks Kyle automatically, the instinct to take care of you rising to the surface.

There is a soft sniffle before you speak. “It’s—fuck. I’m sorry for calling you this late. I didn’t think you’d even pick up. Or be home. Are you home? Shit. I—”

“What’s wrong?” he repeats, because there has to be something wrong. You’re calling him, not your boyfriend. “Are you hurt?”

The idea of someone putting hands on you builds in his mind. It is followed by so many other possibilities. A wrecked car. Someone following you home. Everything.

“No—I mean.” You pause, sighing. The difficulty to communicate doesn’t sit right with him. You’re clearly in distress and the need to fix it is unbearable.

“Are you at home?” This time Kyle lowers his voice. Makes it soft. Gentle.

“Yes,” you answer.

He nods as if you can see him. “I’m coming over.” Kyle is already pushing off the couch, shrugging on his coat, and reaching for his keys.

“Kyle.” You say his name—just his name—and it says so much.

The ribbon between his bones loosens. Tightens. Ties his emotions and memory of you all together until your face is all he can picture.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

Kyle makes it in fifteen.

When you answer the door, Kyle shatters like glass hurled against the wall. Your eyes are red and puffy from crying. The look on your face dances between anger, sadness, and relief. He has no idea where on the spectrum he currently sits but this vision of you only puts him back to those days when he’d come home for a few days, taking off again, leaving you with nothing for stretches at a time.

There are no awkward greetings. No embarrassed flushes. Kyle does not hesitate, and you open for him. He reaches for you, and you answer in kind, embracing Kyle so hard you might squeeze the air from his lungs.

That would be fine. Kyle would happily suffocate.

Kyle stands and holds you, breathing in your familiar scent, pressing his face into your hair. His eyes close, and it’s just like before. Like you never left him. The sensation of you this close ignites every possessive part of him. It tells him to not let go and to keep you close.

But you are not his woman. Not anymore. And yet you should be.

He does not pull away until you do. But you don’t retreat into your flat, or slip out of reach. You stay right where you are, the two of you hovering just inside the doorway. On instinct, Kyle is touching you, one hand cupping the side of your face, your tears staining his skin where he touches your flesh. His other hand is on your upper arm, thumb rubbing across the bare skin there in gentle strokes.

You begin to melt, the muscles in your body relaxing. What Kyle wants to do is to take you to the couch or the bed, to drape you over his body, to place you in his lap. That is the intimacy he craves. It’s what he would do if you were still his.

Those gorgeous lips of your part, mouth opening as if you wish to speak, but whatever you want to say is lodged in your throat. In their place come fresh tears and sudden shifts of emotions that range from frustration to despair.

You’re hurting. You’re hurting so much, and Kyle only wants to fix things.

“Look at me,” murmurs Kyle, both hands now cradling your face. “Let’s get you settled. Yeah?” You nod, your small smile forced. “Come with me,” he coaxes.

He draws away and gently reaches out to take your hand, guiding you over to the sofa. He instructs you to recline, grabbing a few more pillows and a blanket. Once you’re all tucked in, Kyle digs around in your kitchen searching for snacks while the kettle boils for tea.

The need to take care of you is overwhelming. Kyle’s head throbs from the incessant voice that tells him to get you calm, to make you comfortable, to listen when you’re ready. The routine is easy, and Kyle provides, executing what you need without prompting or even second guessing it.

And you open up for him. Thank him. Reach out with your hand to hold his as he sits next to you on the couch. You’re calmer now with your tears wiped away and your face no longer puffy.

“Ready to talk about it?”

Your thumb runs along the edge of your mug. “Still want to hear it?”

“You can tell me anything,” he replies automatically.

You lick your lips and inhale. “He yelled at me.” By the defeat in your tone, Kyle can immediately tell that this isn’t the first time.

Kyle stays quiet, allowing you to take the lead, to tell it however you need to.

“This time it happened after we met up with some of his friends. I called him ‘boyfriend’ and got a few odd looks. In the car he told me not to call him that. I didn’t understand so I pushed.” You glance down at your tea. “He screamed the whole ride home. Dropped me off here and wouldn’t even look at me.”

Kyle goes cold all over. You’ve been with this guy for almost six months and he’s upset that you referred to him as your ‘boyfriend?’ No. Fuck him. That’s fuck boy behavior. That’s a man who wants all the benefits without any of the commitment. You don’t deserve that. And this fucker doesn’t deserve you.

Sighing, you reach for your phone and unlock it, turning it around to present it. Kyle takes it, staring at the screen. There are texts upon texts from the guy, all of which you’ve left unanswered. It starts as an apology and quickly becomes angrier as he scrolls.

But you did answer him. It’s the very last message. You sent it just before you called Kyle.

We’re done, it reads.

And there is no answering reply. There are no pulsing bubbles to even indicate that he’s formulating a response.

Good. Fucking good.

Kyle extends his arm, returning the phone. You don’t lock it. You shut it down, tossing it onto the table. Placing the mug of tea down, you sit up, staring intensely into Kyle’s eyes. There is so much he sees there, but he won’t move first even though he wants to, even though he wants you to return to his arms so he can remind you just how perfect the two of you are for each other.

But sometimes memory and the movement of it are just the length of a singular breath.

Maybe it is Kyle that moves first. Maybe it is you. In moments—seconds—you are straddling Kyle’s lap, arms laced around the back of his neck, your mouths pressed together in perfectly wanton need, a reunion that shakes every bone in his body.

You are fresh air. Cold ice cream on a hot summer day. Strawberries with sugar and cream. Sweet. Perfect. And only for his consumption. That is always how it should be.

Kyle’s hands slide up your body, over every curve.

“I miss you. I miss you all the time,” you confess, fingers digging into the front of his shirt.

Your admission is validation.

“I’d never tell you to not call me ‘boyfriend,’” murmurs Kyle against your mouth before going in for another kiss. “I’d want to hear you say it all the time.”

His words are a promise. An invitation.

Take me back. Please. Choose me.

Your lips part and Kyle slides his tongue inside, relearning your flavor. It is heaven dissolving on his tongue. He chases it, chases you, until you’re tugging at his clothes, wanting them gone.

It doesn’t matter that this is your sofa. If you want him, Kyle will lay himself bare, let you have whatever the fuck you want. There isn’t much to remove from you, but once the two of you are bare and you are straddling his lap, Kyle gives all his love and attention to these next moments.

Your body briefly resists, and then it melts, allowing him entrance. Kyle wraps one arm around your waist, hand splayed over your lower back to support your weight as you roll your hips up and down his cock. His other hand holds onto the side of your throat, keeping your gaze on him as you fuck yourself on him.

It’s glorious. Perfect. You are so slick and warm around him. He never forgot, but the real thing is better than memory. Better than his hand in the shower or the dark. You are moaning, light and wavering and only for him.

Your fingers dig in, nails clawing but not tearing. On the next rock of your hips, Kyle slides deep, and the sound you make nearly snaps his control. He holds fast, hand sliding to squeeze your ass as your movements become frantic and with no purposeful rhythm. You’re seeking your end, and Kyle wants you to have it. He needs you to have it.

“Come on my cock, love. For me. Yes. Like that.” You squeeze and Kyle groans loudly. “That’s it. Fucking hell, love.

You turn your face into his neck to stifle the cry that erupts from your throat as your orgasm hits you. Kyle nearly finishes himself, your pussy a vice around him, claiming him. A shudder runs through your limbs, and then you’re nipping at Kyle’s neck and jaw.

“Finish inside me,” you whimper, drawing back enough to gaze into his eyes.

Kyle doesn’t need you to say it twice.

Changing position, Kyle slides both hands to the curve of your ass. Lifting, he shifts you until he’s propped up on his knees. Your legs drape over his arms, completely open for him. You cling to him and Kyle brings your bodies together over and over again.

He will finish—he will, but Kyle needs to hear that word first.

“Are you mine?” he asks between clenched teeth. It’s the only thing keeping him steady. He’s ready to snap, ready to release.

You nod and it isn’t enough.

“Say it.”

“Yours.”

“Mine.”

Kyle grinds his pelvis against you, rubbing perfectly across your already sensitive clit. You cry out, clench around him again, but still, he needs to hear you say it.

“What am I to you?”

“Kyle,” you moan, and he laughs.

“Not that.” A little spasm runs through you and Kyle feels it reverberate all the way to his brain. “Won’t give you what you want until you say it.”

You gasp as the next thrust punches the air from your lungs. “Boyfriend,” you manage to whimper. “You’re my boyfriend.”

Fucking right.

Kyle immediately takes you to your back on the couch, thrusting a few more times before pressing taut, sealing your bodies together as his own release overcomes him.

His mouth meets yours and Kyle’s body is singing, pulsing, and bright.

You are his.

You are his.

You are his again.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @miaraei @contractedcriteria

[hyperfixiation-station]

Fic where the reader is the princess and her kingdom was taken over by hostiles. For some reasons she knows Price so asks him for help. The rest of the 141 is kinda skeptical of working with a Princess because they expect her to be like naive and coddled. But when they meet her she's dressed in battle clothes, bruises marher skin, and rage fills her eyes. She's got a bloody bandage wrapped around her arm and is going over battle plans with a couple of her soldiers.

Ghost is sold when she goes "don't call me Highness."

"Why not?"

"Because currently I'm Princess of nothing"

After Soap was condescendingly mocking her rank.

I dunno

[dmitriene]

THOUGHTS ABOUT VENTING WITH KYLE ON THE BEACH.

cw: tooth rotting fluff, comfort, established relationship, intimacy, lot of kisses, massaging, teasing, flirting, pet names, just a lot of romantic couple things, reader described as wearing a swimsuit. pairing: bf kyle gaz garrick x gf fem reader

author's note: that's my first ever try of writing for kyle, so he maybe might seem to ya'll ooc, or something else, but i just wanted to try and post something with him, so i hope that those who'll read it enjoy.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

the sun and slight coolness create a pleasant atmosphere on the morning beach, there are not many people yet, the pale sand has not had time to be filled with a huge number of plastic chairs and sun loungers, while the slightly warm rays play with reflections on the water and color the sand yellowish.

your trip to the beach with kyle was completely spontaneous, an idea that emerged during the dialogue that it would be nice to get out somewhere together to relax and unwind, especially considering that kyle has been sitting more at home lately, too tired from missions and definitely missing your presence to go somewhere from the comfort of home, therefore, the best option was the sea, light warmth, cool water, the images that popped up in kyle’s head, and not even yours, looked too tempting not to voice them

— “hmm, wha' abou' a beach, then, sunshine?„

that's why you were now sitting on his tailbone while kyle lay on his stomach on top of the beach mat, letting your hands touch his dark, sun glistening skin, starting from the bottom of his back and working up the white streaks of sunscreen, the cool, sticky texture making him shiver softly, practically arching, if not for the weight of your body pressing him down while you cover every visible part of his back with sun cream.

your hands slide to his shoulder blades, tracing the defined bones and muscles that tense and limp under your touch as your thumbs press in circular motions, moving to his shoulders, and kyle turns his head to the side, catching your slightly concentrated face, which causing him to have a wide, snow white smile, revealing his pointed fangs, while he practically purrs

— “can't really ge' enough of your touch on me, sweethear'„

his shameless flirting causes a small smile to tug at the corners of your lips as your body leans forward and you move your face closer to his, placing a quick kiss on his lips as he reaches back, propping himself up on his elbows and tilting his head to capture your lips with his, rubbing with his stubble against your skin and frowning his dark thick eyebrows with displeasure when you pull away from him, sliding off him and standing on the sand, flashing him a teasing smile and murmuring, playfully

— “well, i can't smear you with sunscreen until the evening?„

kyle laughs in response, propping himself up on his elbows and stretching to warm up after lying down for a long time, letting the sun's rays fall on his skin, illuminating him as his back and abs muscles work at the same time, rippling with every movement until he is fully on his feet, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you into the air without a single problem, narrowing his dark eyes in a smile, catching the sun with them and letting them light up as he lifts you slightly, placing his hands under your ass that is slightly opened by your swimsuit, allowing him to hide your pretty parts, while your hands rest on his shoulders

— “is tha' a question, sunshine? because my answer is definitely yes„

his slightly deep voice sparkles with perkiness, causing you to playfully roll your eyes back before you reach up to kiss him softly on the cheek, placing a warm kiss where he has a scar of two scratches, which brings a burning tenderness in his gaze, encouraging him to kiss you back just as reverently, fidgeting with his slightly plump lips against yours, his slightly shaved mustache tickling your skin as he presses closer to lick your lower lip and open a passage inside your mouth, freeing one hand from under your butt, and holding you on one, he touches the back of your head, pressing you deeper into the kiss, stroking your hair, until one of you pulls away.

and kyle does it first, allowing you to greedily draw in lungfuls of air through swollen and wet lips, not even paying attention to possible looks from the passing people, before you are brought back to reality by unexpected, literally childish behavior on his part, when he leans down and touches your nose with his, before biting the tip of your nose, and you gasp, your eyes immediately widening in surprise, before you furrow your brows and pinch his own nose, and he just breaks out into loud laughter, his body shaking and you with him while you mutter threateningly

— “you do this one more time and i would bury you in the sand, garrick!„

the laughter immediately becomes quieter, softening as he rubs his eyes from the slight accumulation of moisture there from approaching tears, before starting to walk towards the open sea along the sand, still holding you in his arms, even despite the slight frown in your eyebrows and feigned offense at his action, although it still touches him, which is why he bounces you slightly in his arms, jumping up, pressing his cheek against yours with an airy smooch and purring smugly

— “aww, come on, i'm sorry, sunshine, let's enjoy the woter, shall we?„

you look at kyle with suspicion, sincere, narrowing your eyes when he turns his head to look at you, smiling sickly sweetly, knowing that his charm always works without unnecessary problems, but you still give him a small warning, making him snort, but one way or another, listen to the end

— “don't try to pull out something silly again, i dare you„

he nods, as if obediently, but you see that sparkle in his brown eyes and it leaves nothing good to be desired, especially when kyle still gives you his answer, far from an agreement, but you can’t help but smile at his playfulness, sighing and resigned as you lay your head on top of his, kissing the top of his dark, curly hair, almost imperceptibly, but kyle is aware of your every warm touch

— “don' promise you anything, sweetie, but i migh' try„

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

POLLUTED MARROW & HOLLOW BONES (VIII)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IX ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader.

WORDCOUNT: 6.4k

WARNINGS: Angst, arguments, high-tension scenarios, talks of death, strained familial relationships, anxiety symptoms including lightheadedness, vomiting, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“L-let’s not be rash, here,” you chuckle awkwardly, still staring down from the top of the roof into Gaz’s glaring eyes, the amber in them boiling and rolling with fire. The vans all open their obsidian black doors, multiple armed men spilling out to case the area—but all the Sergeant does is set his jaw. 

“Get down,” it’s the only thing said. A low rumble and tilt of accent. Dead. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and for a moment you’re so tense you forget the fact that you’re looking into Kyle’s eyes without so much as flinching. You stare a moment longer, one hand on the edge of the concrete, steadily tightening its hold as the other cradles your father’s things. 

“Eh…” Your eyes dart away, blood on the bottom of your face dried and itchy. You’d never heard him speak like that before. 

Before you can think to protest, you’re slipping onto the latter with a burning face and a skip in your heart. This was worse than having to smack a man with a vent grate—like being taken to your death. 

When you land on solid ground, a hand latches onto the neck of your jacket and begins forcefully moving you to one of the vans. Your free hand snaps to the clenched fist, grasping onto his wrist like a whiny teenager and releasing a sound of alarm.

“Hey!” Your feet try to dig their heels in, but the void of the car door is coming up quickly. “Gaz, let me go!”

There’s no response. The form beside you is so firm and his hand so unrelenting you wonder if you’ll be in even deeper trouble this time than when you stole your mother’s credit card in middle school. Kyle’s athletic build surges with anger—a clench to his teeth so hard his jaw bones can be seen while the corners of his eyes. 

Any snappy response or insult stales on your lips as you see his other hand tightly curled in on itself, the tiny growl that builds in him at your struggling. Throat bobbing, you let the man push you forward to the car and hop in without another word. 

Oh, I’m screwed. You thin your lips and cringe at the loud slam of the door, trying to keep calm in the enclosed space as the darkness sets in. Some of the soldiers enter the Museum, probably doing damage control. 

Bringing your items to your chest, you take a steadying breath and rub under your sore nose; bits of red flaking off like dirt on the wind. Your head pounds with uncertainties. 

Did you really think you could pull this off? Body hunching in, the driver glances back at you, his eyes narrowed with annoyance and a frown on his lips. Your face and the tips of your ears feel like they’re being placed over hot coals. 

You clear your throat, staring at the portion of skin right under his orbs. “Problem?” The driver scoffs and returns his gaze to the front as the passenger side door opens with a pop. 

“Get us back.” Kyle orders, voice clipped and final. 

Engine starting, the man that had tracked you down clicks his seatbelt on and closes the door with a stiff arm. Alone in the back, you do the same after a slight beat of hesitation; a second of something like panic hitting you in the chest. 

It was stupid to ask why he would be acting like this, but you still wondered if you had really met Kyle’s breaking point. The aggressive re-situating of his ball cap seemed like a good hint—the rod-straight spine and tapping fingers on the door-arm.

He was in full gear. 

But…this was what you wanted, right? A breaking point?

Your mouth opens and then slowly closes, breath caught in your throat and not knowing what to say. Why did you feel like you’d just done something irreversible?

Gaze darting to the floor, you glare at the mats as the vehicle jerks forward, turning to bring you back to the mansion surrounded by metal like an abyss and bullet-proof glass. 

“I…found some stuff, y’know,” you puff out, not liking the strangling silence about two minutes in. The USB in your pocket sits heavy.

Again, no one answers. The Sergeant’s eyes don’t even glance at you from the mirror. Frustration grows like a virus. 

“I wouldn’t have done this if you’d just let me help, Gaz.” You try to get him to speak, suddenly nervous and building in volume…or was that desperation? “I mean, really, it’s my dad!”

Nothing. 

Face stained with shame and lips peeled into a sneer, your eyes crinkle with a slight burning sensation trapped behind the skin. You sit with shaky fingers the entire ride, your mouth strangling down the loud exclamations as to why this wasn’t your fault so you don’t bark like a dog. 

You had to, didn’t Gaz understand that? 

Whatever was in your father’s belongings would tell you what you needed to know—break this entire thing open. And if the rest of the Sergeant’s friends overseas could track down the two that started this, all of it could be over. 

You could be left alone again, finish your classes, and…and…

Brows slowly slide in. 

What then? As the car pulls up through your gate, you find a horrifying realization that you have no idea. 

Unclipping your seatbelt, you go to try and open the door with a frown, only to find it’s unwilling to release you. Lightly pushing on the material again, your eyes slowly widen. 

No way.

Kyle had child-locked you. 

Gaping, you have to wait for Gaz to get out in a long moment of letting this new reality settle into your blood. He does so after pure silence, seeming as if he might say something, but the Brit just ends up sighing loudly and shaking his head. Gaz gets out and grasps the handle to your door, pulling it out and standing back—all without a mumble. 

Like you want to prove to yourself that this doesn’t make your chest feel weird, you shuffle out and scoff at him. But anyone can see the guilty expression on your face.

Striding up to the front door, you push at it with your shoulder, the night air cold and encompassing before the relatively warmer air of your house hits your face. The plate you’d left out for the cat hours earlier is left behind on the step, empty.

Kyle follows close after, hands hanging off his combat vest. In the foyer is when you snap. 

“Are you going to speak up or keep acting like a child? Look at the stuff I got, Garrick!” You hold the items in display as you can hear the car out front leave in a grind of gravel. “This could be the answer to if my father really—”

The laptop and the journal are all swiped from your grasp and he’s pushing past you before you can continue. Shocked, even petrified for a moment, your mouth flaps like a fish. 

Realization hits you like a truck.

“Fucker!” That was a new one. 

Twisting on your heel, you stalk quickly after the male as he stomps, hands clenched into themselves and the skin of your knuckles thin. “Give those back! Garrick—don’t you ignore me, I don’t deserve this!” 

It’s like he snaps at that, whipping around and pointing a finger right into your face. You balk back, surprise and alarm alighting your features.

“Deserve?!” Your eyes blink rapidly, lips parted. You stare widely into his cheek scar as his lips turn into an attacking jibe. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, what you deserve is to be locked into a fucking jail cell! Least then I’d be able to keep track of you, eh? What kind of bastard do you have to be to think that was a good idea?!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it your family that’s,” you splay your hands, the house echoing with the sounds of verbal battle. The glass finally shatters. “Being goddamn hunted, Sergeant? Your father that got his head fucking imploded?”

You didn’t want to admit how much this argument was making you feel uneasy, but you want your father’s things back. They belong to you, and now they’re stuck in this jerk’s gloved hands like a doll. Those things were valuable; they could fix this.

“If it was me, I wouldn’t be running off like a bloody fool! I’d be listening to the people that are here to keep me alive!” You growl and shake your head. “How thick-headed are you?!”

Gaz isn’t done, his finger moving back and forth as the skin of his cheek tightens, lips dancing to speak rapidly like a fire was under his feet. 

“Your father is dead.” Blood drains from your body, expression immediately blanking. “He’s gone and he wasn’t someone to be proud of. Whoever he was with you was a facade for his family and the public. If it wasn’t an end by Row, it would have been by someone else, yeah, you understand that?” Tears infect the sides of your wide gaze, and you’re suddenly sucked into Gaz’s eyes as you had been the first day you’d both met. Amber and flashing gold—enraged emotion and raw bluntness that you’d had yet to experience in this capacity. What had happened to his sarcasm? His stern and laughable annoyance? 

“Hell,” he keeps going, moving his finger to point to the side. “Look at the carnage he’s caused just by being dead—innocent civilians and a fucking daughter who fights for an honor that doesn’t exist! You’re mental, Love, fucking mental!” 

Kyle pants, staring into your face and your tiny pupils; your shaking body. He grits his teeth and peels back, angrily twitching his nose. 

“If you would listen to me, this all would have already been over with, can you get that through your skull? I’ve tried to be nice about this, truly, but I’m done. No more leaving the mansion; no more late-night stunts that leave me callin’ up my Mates only to find you’ve gone and snuck out. No more damn,” he holds up the laptop and journal, “involvement from you. You’re done. I’m done.”

The house gradually goes back to silence, but it’s no longer a deep, ancient feeling. It’s like walking on glass, blood pooling along the soles of feet and sticking through flesh.

You stare and can’t find it in yourself to breathe anymore.

Amber darts to your bloody nose and Gaz bares his teeth, face bright with dismissal. He pushes past the concern at the crimson flecks. He’s done trying to earn your favor, so he blankly spits out, “Clean yourself up. I’m finished with being your bloody punching bag,” and turns down the hall. 

“I fucking hate you,” the words spill out in a strangled gasp, a wheeze on your tongue. Gaz pauses, his back taunt and straight. His chin partially peeks over his shoulder.

“Good.” The worlds feel like lead. “It can go both ways, Love.”

When he disappears, you stand in the darkness and feel the first dribbles of tears wet your lashes—making them stick to one another as you stutter on air. 

Your brain can’t make sense of it. 

Empty-handed, your body is so heavy the first few steps in the direction of your room feel like you’re dragging a statue of stone behind you; the rope tied to your fingers and toes. But when the bile starts to fizzle in your throat, you pick up the pace; darting through your opened bedroom door and beelining to your bathroom. 

Just in time, your face finds the toilet, vomit coming out in sputtering coughs as your sobs exit moments later, stuck between the acid in your throat and your stubbornness. 

You hated crying—hated vomiting—but lately, it was like those were the only things you could do; your body didn’t listen to your pleas or begging, only did what it wanted. On that front, you believe that your brain and matter were equally matched. 

Gasping and feeling saliva drip off your lips, you raggedly cough up what little you had in your stomach until you can sit back against the wall and blankly stare ahead. With varying success you try and take down deep breaths, shivering something awful as the chill gets to you.

But suddenly the silence of the mansion was a prison. 

The water pipes, the small creaking—the click of your small clock out in your room. 

Click-clock, click-clock, click-clock.

Your mind told you that you shouldn't feel bad. Shouldn’t be wearing that thousand-yard stare as you tase vomit on your tongue and in your throat; the burn of that shame and guilt. You had nothing to be guilty of—nothing. 

It was your father, not Gaz’s. He’d do the very same thing. 

Right?

You grasp at your scalp and lean forward, slotting your head in between your knees. Everything spins and twirls, there’s a violent need to satiate the thirst in your throat, but you can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. 

“...I’ve tried to be nice about this, truly, but I’m done. No more leaving the mansion; no more late-night stunts that leave me callin’ up my Mates only to find you’ve gone and snuck out. No more damn,” he holds up the laptop and journal, “involvement from you. You’re done. I’m done.”

Gaz’s hands on your palm and the way your very injured hand stings now in memory; those stitches popped and bandages bloody—the crimson on your nose. 

How he held you in the kitchen and leaned you back against the island. Spoke so softly and casually, as if you hadn’t nearly passed out on him.

He’d apologized not hours before you’d gone and snuck out. 

Your heart tightens.

He’d apologized. 

Your fingers dig into your flesh, biting hard as you suck down sobs and tiny whimpers; tears staining your clothes in fast droplets. 

“If it wasn’t an end by Row, it would have been by someone else…Look at the carnage he’s caused just by being dead…a fucking daughter who fights for an honor that doesn’t bloody exist!”

You curl into a tiny ball of horror.

“I’m finished with being your bloody punching bag.”

—

Kyle moved his things to the room directly in front of yours in the middle of the night, when you’d passed out from your panic on the bathroom floor. He’d grasped all of his belongings with clenched hands, bags contouring under the force.

At every instance, he cursed your name and everything you’d put him through. 

“Bloody, unbelievable,” he growls, shoving clothes into his duffel bag before zipping it up and wrenching it over his shoulder. 

It was rare to find the Brit this mad, so often level-headed.

“Give her every chance in the books, and what does she do?” He flicks the lights of his old room off and quickly walks down the hallway. “Fucking plays me for a fool! Jesus. Brilliant, just brilliant.” 

There was no way to describe how his heart had jerked out of his chest when he’d come to try and speak to you hours earlier; when he’d found the room empty after knocking for minutes—trying to be considerate to your privacy. 

The open window, the damn curtain rack. 

It was insulting.

Gaz stalks in a bitter and steam-emitting silence to the room across from yours, not bothering to check on the cracked open door from your own. You’d had your fun, you’d probably just forgotten to close the door fully as you made fun of him behind his back. 

Kyle frowns and sets his things down on the white, sheeted-covered bed that would be his. Tiny, and not even long enough to let his legs stay on it fully.

He tries not to remind himself about how afraid you’d looked as he’d laid into you. Halfway through his barking match of emotion, he’d thought maybe it was time to stop—to ease off a bit and reel it back in, but then it had become necessary. 

If you didn’t listen to him when he was calm, the fact was that you wouldn’t listen to him at all. Best to get it all off his chest while he could.

He’d already sent in a reassignment request to Laswell not an hour prior. 

Taking out his things, his fingers brush your stolen laptop and journal. Christ, there was so much paperwork to go through after what you’d done—damage reports and write-ups on his record for losing track of his VIP; the crimes you’d stacked like awards that needed to be scrubbed. 

This wasn’t only a protection Op, this was his job. 

And you were taking a hammer to his perfect track rep. 

Pulling out the two items, Gaz huffs and shakes his head, running his free hand over his chin. 

“Two things and it couldn’t have waited a few more days? What is this girl about?” They’re placed down on the bed and not given another glance. 

He’d have to go through them later. 

Kyle goes and splays both of his hands over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes before taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with oxygen. An attempt to calm down.

You’ll not get anything done acting like this.

The resounding truth was that he was tired. You’d tested him to the point of snapping—how was that even possible? You were a bloody Uni student with a big mouth and a stubborn streak, not even a drug lord could do what you did. 

You’d gotten him to yell at you and on the other end, he’d gotten you to look at him. Yes, look, with your own volition, but that fact left a sour taste in his mouth where it should have felt like a triumph after the terrible first in the park. 

You’d stared into his eyes with utter shock and numb fear—as if he’d pull a gun on you. 

A civilian. His charge.

You had been terrified, even if you’d tried to use entitlement to sneak around it. You’d been shaking. With eyes dead still.

“God, you twat,” Gaz grunts. Had he really called you mental? “Bloody hell, you’re in for it.” 

You’d be livid tomorrow when it catches up to you. A damn near homemade bomb wrapped in metal and filled with nails; Gaz’s name written on the top in red ink.

As he kept his door open to stare at yours in the middle of the night, the Sergeant prepared himself, still angry and dreading the future.

If only it could be that simple. 

In the morning, you wouldn’t even look at him. 

Wearing a large hoodie and pajama bottoms, you had already downed three cups of coffee by 9 o’clock, your body stiff and the air around your head a cloud of indiscernible separation. But it wasn’t like Gaz had tried to speak to you, either.

Both of you were forced to be in the same room, as the Sergeant wouldn’t let you alone save for the bathroom. You couldn’t be trusted. 

It was mental torture.

Jaw clenching, the man watched you work on your personal laptop, doing classwork while your USB stuck out of the port—he blinked away, writing up his own reports on the incident last night. 

The air was so thick you could be lost in it like a forest full of mist. It simmered; burned—then cooled to a degree of freezing before starting back up again. No words, no acknowledgements. 

Brown drifts back to your blank face as your fingers stop over your laptop’s keys, a small tremor, and then get back to it. Gaz bites his lip and closes his eyes harshly, shaking his head once.

He had to stop feeling guilty for the truth. You needed to hear what he said, no matter how blunt. It was the truth, after all. 

But the truth didn’t stop his heart from hurting when you reverted to a state of waking nothingness with little desire to eat or move beyond the shuffle of your body.

Gaz sighs and tells himself it’s not his problem anymore—in a little bit he’d be gone if Laswell approved him for transfer. Back with One-Four-One. Working with people who trust him and his judgment. 

It was for the best.

You stare at the ‘enter password’ screen on your laptop with a chill on your neck, blind to all else as you wrack your brain for answers.

The USB from your father’s office was password protected. Ten tries before it got locked out. You’d gone through five already. 

Staring hard, Gaz keeps distracting you.

He was sitting in the living room with you, on the opposite couch as well as on the opposite end—as far as he could be with still being near. Being in this state and feeling the tension in the air made you lightheaded with anxiety. 

It’s as if every urge to speak or breathe near him dissipates; your face a perpetual furnace, blood on fire. 

Focus, you have to tell yourself, but it only makes it worse. Eyes dig into the screen as the two words blend into one another, taunting. 

You can hear his breath, the scratch of his pen as it travels over paper—if the circumstances had been different, it would have been the picture of quiet companionship. 

A pity you both were the way you are. 

The shame was urging you to apologize, to rectify what you’d done; pride was taking that shame by the throat. But you were faced with the reality that you couldn’t go back to living alone like you had before, because this silence was enough to make you go insane. 

You missed his voice, and you’d only been without it for a short while. Kyle’s smirk and his cheeky quips. You both hated it and longed for something to grapple to.

It was true, you admitted, hands over the keys, you’d grown used to him. It was disgusting. 

About to chance another possible password—your parent’s anniversary halfway typed in—the front door rings. 

Immediately, everything that had seemingly already been still, halts. 

Freezing, you stare at the laptop and let the echo spread across the mansion, the high ding of the rarely used object. Your eyes slowly rise to stare at the living room opening, blinking, and for a moment any thought of Kyle and the argument; the hatred at your stubbornness and pride, utterly ceases to exist.

With a twitch of your fingers, you close your laptop in what seems like hours, the tiny sound it makes when it lays flat making your ear perk. 

Gaz’s head is already swiveled, body wound up. He sends a quick glance your way before standing and reaching for the X12 in his waistband. Your eyes catch the glint of his watch and you look away with a frown, lids narrowed with hesitation. 

Tell him you’re sorry. You know you are. 

Standing to follow, Kyle sends a hard look your way. Your feet stall.

Both of you seem surprised by that.

The Sergeant’s eyes widened for a second, hand on his weapon loosening and pulse up-ticking. So much expressed with absolutely no words to be muttered aloud. You take a deep breath and lick your lips, not able to speak over a raspy grunt of, “Kyle…I-I—”

The doorbell rings again, longer this time.

You snap your mouth shut.

Kyle looks you up and down, but his feet only hesitate a moment longer. He turns his head away quickly and carefully leaves the living room.

Running a hand over your neck, you close your eyes and contort your face into an image of confused pain, an inner hatred at…everything. You’d messed up. Badly. 

And you were afraid of your own fear. Afraid of your sudden unease at Gaz’s absence and his angry silence. Afraid because, deep down, you knew his outburst last night was nothing but the truth.

Sighing, you sit back down and lean into the cushions with a growing headache. You wanted more coffee, your stomach rolled with hunger, and you were cold. 

You hated being like this. 

“...Sweetheart?” your head whips up to a familiar face in the grand double doorway, breath getting taken in with a big inhale. 

A woman dressed in a nice shirt and dress pants stands with a hefty designer purse over her shoulder, face open and soft, blinking through the wetness at the corners which you stare at in pause. 

Gaz comes in behind her with another man, tall and blond with a mustache—your mother’s guard, because that was who the woman was after all...your mother. Home. The Sergeant looks over at you and places his gun back with a small sigh.

You clear your throat, standing before you shuffle your feet.

“Hey, Ma,” you glance to the side, itching at your arm. “How’ve you—”

You’re slammed into a tight hug and you flinch violently into it, sharp noise escaping your lungs and Kyle takes a quick step forward in alarm. The blond guard sends him a look of confusion, but the Brit stares at you and feels his lips thin. 

“Oh, my God!” Your mom exclaims in utter relief, sagging to you and placing a hand firmly on the back of your head. “I was so worried, I-I saw the news about the shooting but I wasn’t able to get in contact with you.” 

Your body is moved back and forth and you awkwardly place your hand on the small of her back. You stare at the far wall like a stuffed animal. Your mother was never a hugger, but maybe Gaz’s expression in the kitchen had been true. People change.

Three years.

“Christ, you have no idea how much I wanted to call you. Are you alright, talk to me.” The meat of your arms is taken and you’re maneuvered back so your matriarch—and last remaining family member—can look you in the eyes. 

You quickly move your head to the side. 

“I’m fine, Mom,” licking your lips, you shrug. “Glad you’re back…How was overseas?”

She sighs, looking at you in concern, and brushes past your question.

“You look sick,” your chin is taken and moved to the side, and another hand is taken and placed on your head. “And you’re running hot—when’s the last time you slept?”

Hot? You’ve never felt more cold. 

“Mom,” taking a small step back, you whisper out a meaningful utterance. 

“Okay, okay,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m a worrier...But, how have things held up? I feel like we haven’t been able to speak in lifetimes.”

We haven’t. Who’s fault was that?

Gaz tilts his head at the interaction, seeing your uncomfortable stiffness and your mother’s open and obvious love. This wasn’t how you described her at all, but then again, your mum’s actions weren’t the same either.

“How’s it been?” Alex asks, his arms crossed as the two women speak in low tones a few feet away. Your body is seen shifting and hands flexing. “Heard some stuff, everything goin’ smooth over here?”

“Wouldn’t call it smooth, Mate,” Kyle utters. “Recon you had it better than I have.”

“Ah,” the CIA Officer shrugs. “Gonna be honest, the Old Lady’s pretty easy—most I had to do was ask for her tea with extra sugar while on the plane.”

He sends over a twitch of his lips, a raised eyebrow. But the expression shifts to serious moments later.

“Word is the boys overseas haven't got any leads, they’re stuck in the dirt with this.” Kyle grits his teeth.

“Nothing?” 

“Nada.”

“Fuckin’ hell. That’s bollocks—how well are those two hidden?” Alex moves his fingers from their hold on his biceps, moving them up in a show of ‘no clue.’

He draws out his words with a huff. “It’s going to push out this timeline even farther than it already is, is what I’m tryin’ to say.”

“There any good news?” Gaz watches you as your feet realign, hands going to hide inside your sweatshirt pocket. A bobbing to your throat makes his shoulders turn in.

What is your problem? the Sergeant hums to himself. It's just her mum—Christ. Ease off it. Alex’s eyes narrow in question when he notices the hatted man’s attention is half on you and half on the conversation. 

“...Not any worthwhile.” 

“They’re expecting us to just wait? We can’t stay in a single bloody location forever, it makes a bigger target.” A brown gaze doesn’t stray from you as he says this. 

“Not much we can do, Garrick. VIPs take priority.”

Kyle shakes his head in disapproval. “For now, we might have something here—some new intel. Have to look into it.”

Alex perks, his arms falling to his sides. “How’d you come by that?” 

“Long story.” Gaz sighs deeply and the blond chuckles, giving a half-shrug. 

“Fair enough.” Alex nods to you and Kyle tenses. “It have to do with her?”

“...Longer story.” That gets a few grunted laughs, and the Sergeant smirks lightly, feeling a bit better to have someone he knows to talk to.

Across the way, you explain everything the best you can to your mother in small sentences and stuttering words. Her hands don’t leave you; studying you deeply at every mico-expression. 

“Well,” she takes a deep breath. “I think I’ll make us some tea, hm? Start cleaning up the estate when I get settled. I understand it’s a lot of work, but let’s at least open the curtains.”

She laughs and it fills you with dead. Clean up? She didn’t really expect to mess with everything right? Your mother kisses your cheek. 

“I’ll be right back—be sure to introduce yourself to Alex. And do try to be respectful.” Her fingers pinch your skin and you thin your lips. “Smile, Dear. No foul language. A-and let’s try to get some sleep tonight, okay? School can wait.” 

“Right. Yeah, I know.” She nods and smiles brightly, before telling you how happy she is to see you again. Your mother walks out and slips past Alex and Gaz. 

Two sets of eyes level on your form.

You waste no time snatching up your laptop and quickly walking to the separate set of doors, ignoring the confused looks before entering the hallway and breathing heavily.

This should be a good thing—having your mother back. Hell, you should be relieved she’s still alive after everything that went down. 

So why did it feel like everything was going to change? Three years and you’d had it under control, your routine, the fitful nights, you’d managed—not well, but you had. Now all of that was gone; stripped away like some meaningless cloth. 

It wasn’t meaningless to you.

The house was the way it was—like you in many senses. You lived with the covered furniture, and the curtains over with windows with a glance and nothing more. That was your normal. 

She’s going to change everything. She’s just come back and she’s going to wreck it.

It wasn’t fair to her to be like this, but it wasn’t fair to you to have disappeared when you needed a mom more than anyone. 

“Oh, God,” you cover your mouth with your hand and try to push away the footsteps that follow behind you, the nearly vacant press of shoes. 

Of course, he wouldn’t even allow you to have five minutes to gather yourself.

Gaz doesn’t utter a sound as he follows at your heels, staring into the back of your head. You briefly wonder where the ‘Alex’ fellow went, but find you don’t even care. Your mother was here after all. She’d take care of it.

She’d take care of everything. 

You glare painfully at the hardwood ahead of you and hold your laptop tighter, wishing you had your father’s journal—something that belonged to him. But Gaz had already stashed it away, probably locked it up from you. 

And you can’t find it in yourself to be angry, which makes you annoyed. 

That annoyance stays, just as the guard at your side does, even one day later. You don’t speak anymore, you don’t quip and dig; he doesn’t respond or smirk—no jokes taken in stride where yours are blunt and his whitty. 

Everything changes overnight. 

Gaz had seen your body completely turn to stone on the stares when you’d come down and glanced at the furniture open to the air, no sheets or coverings. Things were dusted and set on display; even taken from storage and laid out in expensive finery. He’d darted his vision down at you and tightened his lips, again saying to himself that it won’t be his problem for much longer. 

Yet, when he’d clocked your very-much real panic at the sight of the open curtains, he’d nearly put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed, having to restrain himself. 

You didn’t take it well. 

“Honey!” Your mother calls down from the foyer, holding her phone in her hand. “Lovely, just who I was looking for. Do you think we should change the colors from navy to green, or to violet?” 

You stare in horror, hands clenched into fists near the banister. 

“I-” your voice stutters. “Why are you changing the navy?”

“Well…it’s a bit dated, don’t you think?” Gaz’s face pulls. “Let’s, I don’t know, mix it up a little!” She laughs, flicking some dust from the coffee table near the old fireplace. “We’re back together—it’s time to move on.”

And still, to his shock, you say nothing, the fight sucked out of you. You bite your tongue and hold it all in as he spares you wide brown eyes. A sound of confusion bounces from Kyle’s throat. 

If it were anyone else you’d be down their ear by now—barking about the history and the memories.

For a moment he’s left as you slowly start back down the steps, back straight and neck tense, blinking at your spine. 

He almost speaks to you. 

Almost, but not quite.

As you seem to sink into a hole of mute acceptance you begin to close up even more—what little you’d opened up to Gaz was shuttering closed with a great shaky slam. 

“Hey,” Alex is leaning against the wall as a loyal hound would, keeping an eye on the ground floor. When he sees you he stands up straighter. “We weren’t properly introduced—Alex Keller, I’m glad to hear you’re—”

You stride past and grasp at the single straw to your name—the USB. You’d still had no luck with it yet. Only two tries left. It was weighing on your soul more than your mother’s insistence on eating meals at the family table. 

“...alright…” 

Alex passes a look to Gaz and the Sergeant only shakes his head over his shoulder and quickly moves. 

The blond is left with lightly parted lips and quickly blinking eyes—hand barely outstretched in failed greeting.

You end up in the library, hurriedly messing with the books under your name and piling them on the table out of instinct. Call you possessive, but no way was your mother touching anything that directly belonged to you. 

You own the estate now, you remind yourself, just tell her to stop. 

You only grab books faster—especially the ones that your father read. Maybe there was something of importance there; he liked to highlight and annotate important sections and quoted things often. 

A sequence of numbers or a code? A phrase? Who knew at this point, but you needed to do something. Keep you occupied. 

Keep you from thinking about the silent man who watches you from the side of his eye near the door. 

The silent treatment—you weren’t new to it. 

Just didn’t expect it from a soldier in his mid to late twenties. 

Huffing, you drop more books onto the table and tidy them, brushing off dust in your form of cleaning with a slap of your hand. When you’re done, the large objects are piled high in front of you and relatively dusted. 

Breathing stiffly, you try to push back the weight on your lungs before brushing off the heat on your cheeks as Gaz watches, head tilted and face tight.

If he’s anything as stubborn as you, he’ll be keeping this up for—

“What’s the question, then?” 

You immediately wind up like a jack-in-the-box, eyes daring to connect with Kyle’s. Twitching, you settle instead on his scar; studying the darkness. It’s a minute before you respond, and when you do, it’s nearly silent. 

Brows moved with apprehension.

“Kyle?” You ask, sticking your hands into your pockets. You’d left your coin back in your room. A frown mixes with a grimace.

It’s hard to admit how his voice made your heart lurch. 

Gaz clears his throat, feet shifting, but his voice is still hard and monotone. “Your question. You cleaned the books off.”

“I help you clean, and when I say we take a break, I have to answer one question of your choice.” 

Your bargain. A bit skewed, yeah, but apparently it counted.

“...I don’t have one,” you admit lowly, not a hostile thorn heard. Vision sliding, you look down at your objects. Apologize. Grunting, you grasp a few of the books, moving forward with them in your arms. 

Kyle lets you slide past, moving his shoulder until you’re not about to bump into it. In the bright light of the open curtains, he stares after and closes his eyes; breathing in through heavy lungs. 

Re-assignment couldn’t come soon enough. If not for his sanity, then for yours. 

Kyle fiddles with his watch and fixes his cap once before continuing after you, a very large hole of something in his chest that can’t be filled.

By how he wishes for your sarcastic comments and your fiery spite right about now, staring with growing worry at your hunched shoulders, he dreads what that something could be.

Tonight he’d take a look at your father’s laptop and journal—too busy yesterday with paperwork and reports; getting through red tape and trying to get into contact with Price.

He hadn’t told you, but there had been a break-in at the museum the same night you had snuck out. Same section. Same box bearing your father’s name ripped open and thrown to the ground. Five minutes after his team had cleared it. 

Five minutes after you’d left with the items in your dust-coated hands and bloody nose. Your wide, fake-innocent, eyes over the corner of that roof.

Someone was playing games.

And they were getting closer.

TAGS:

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[spooky-loopy]

Lemme just start with, Gaz would fuck you on your period, he's not scared of the blood, all the more reason to fuck you in the shower after, :)

(Warnings: NSFW, period fucking, civilian gf reader, I might do a pt.2 lmk if you want tagged)

I <3 drabble

//-scroll if your uncomfortable </3-//

(Also lemme just say this mf'er is a clean freak so the fact he wanted to fuck on your period came as a surprise,)

Gaz had just gotten home after a long mission. You had been waiting months for him, and he had been waiting months for you.

The only problem was you were on your period,

After he walked through the door, dropped his stuff, and shedded most of his layers, he looked up at you with a huge grin and hugged you tightly in his arms.

"I missed you so much," he says kissing your head picking you up and carrying you to bed and plopping you down and turning a movie on before cuddling up to you

You and Gaz were cuddling for a while; and you were basically sitting on his lap at this point when his hands began to explore. One hand was slipping under your shirt and groping your breast and the other slowly moving down your body.

You stop his hand when he reaches your stomach and look at him. "I'm on my period," you say with a tinge of disappointment in your voice,

He lifts your hand and kisses the top of it before looking up at you with a smile "that's okay, we will just have to shower after,"

You match his smile blush forming on your cheeks as you become incredibly aroused "what about the mess?" You ask raising an eyebrow,

He laughs, "I'll go get some towels," he says as if the answer was obvious; it was. But you wanted to see if he was serious, and just how serious,

You laugh with him, "Okay, but your the one who has to deal with it," you say snidely

"Not a problem with me, just as long as I get to fuck my beautiful girlfriend," he says standing up and kissing you on the top of the head. He walks out of the room presumably getting towels

He comes back with three neatly folded towels. Then you stand up so that he can lay them out on the bed, he removes the comforter from the bed and lays out two of the towels and leaves the third one on the nightstand.

He walks up to you and crashes his lips into yours, you gasp intensively grab onto him as he picks you up and lays you down the the bed,

He begins to heatedly kiss your neck, your breath growing quicker; he slides his hands up your body removing your shirt over your head in one smooth motion.

He then reaches behind your back and unclasps the bra you were wearing, and you shrug it off revealing your sensitive breasts, he begins to softly kiss and lick all around them, he places a final kiss on your collar bone and looks up at you with a smirk,

He takes his shirt and pants off as he reaches for your waistband and removes your pants as well, you remove your underwear and your pad goes with them. Gaz's underwear followed soon after,

He leans back down and kisses your cheek while lining himself with your slippery hole, instead of inserting himself he kept his tip teasingly rested against you as he moved his mouth to your breast and began to kiss and lick it moving over your nipple a couple times causing you to tremble with need,

You try to grind yourself against his dick trying to push him in but he takes notice and smiles putting a hand on your hip to still the movement,

He looks up at you "are you ready?" He asks. you nod with a small smirk; and you definitely weren't ready. The things months away from his girlfriend would do to a man,

He thrusts into you unmercifully, not even giving you time to adjust. Your head lulls back, your mouth ajar with uncontrollable moans escaping you. His grunts and your moans fill the air like a symphony,

He hits the perfect spot inside of you and you tighten around him feeling like you're about to climax. He feels this too and presses slightly on the bulge in your belly as he fucks you harder,

Your eyebrows draw together as you climax and pulse around him, he begins to fuck you slower a low groan escaping the back of his throat as his length begins to twitch inside of you filling you with liquid warmth,

He slowly begins to stop as both your orgsams come to an end, he's still in you when he moves up and kisses your neck. He pulls out and stands up grabbing the extra towel off the nightstand and wiping himself off before crawling back over you still holding the towel "now let's go get cleaned up," he said with a seductive smile and a kiss…

[manicrouge]

See You Again

[ᴋʏʟᴇ ɢᴀʀʀɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

[ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ]: 15/02/24

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: After being confirmed KIA, you finally meet with the man who you believed was simply a spirit.

[ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ]: 1.3k

[ᴛᴡ]: Lots of angst squeezed into very few words, discussion of grief, i don't think there's anything else.

[ᴀ/ɴ]: I really loved this and I didn't want this to go to waste so I thought I would post the original ending to the Swing Set before I ended up changing it !! There are no spoilers as the plot is completely different to what this is- I hope you enjoy it !!

However, if you're interested in the new story, the link is here !! I'd really appreciate it as I'm working hard on it and the first chapter is up :))

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

There's something in your throat but you can't quite place it.

You're overcome with a flood of emotion, you have been for a while as you sit in an empty park, rocking backwards and forwards on a swing which creaking would, on any other day, make you uneasy. Yet, you can't hear it through the thudding of your heart in your ears and your concentration on your hands as you press them together, their clamminess cooling with a gentle gust of wind which nudges a few stray locks of hair off of your shoulders.

The sky is pink, settling into an orange, all for the transition to end in a crude splash of redness as the sun acts as an eye and stares over you, basking you in a golden light which you think you're undeserving of in that moment. Her eyes keep you warm, and despite the goosebumps on your arms you feel as though your body is on fire as you sit and wait. The occasional person passes by with their dog, or even alone, you hear their footsteps but you don't see them.

You're ashamed to say that you know when you have to look up, the sound of the footsteps you await are so similar that you blush at the fact that you even know them. But when you've spent forever with someone, you suppose it's something natural. You come to understand the way they function without ever really questioning it: how they stand, how they speak, how they smile, everything is there, and you've been lost without having that humanity to distract you from everything in your current life.

You're shaking, your mouth puffing out as you attempt to fight off the urge to vomit and ruin the dress you have picked out especially for this occasion. You're sure he's seen worse, but you don't care. You fight for composure as though it's the only thing that will keep you alive, yet, the longer you spin around with ideas in your head, you find that the string of sanity is slowly unravelling, succumbing to become that of a entanglement of lunacy.

What if he doesn't like me? Have I changed too much for him to like me?

Self doubt is a killer, worse than any virus and you know that as you feel as though your heart is one more horrible thought away from popping. Bringing your clammy hands to your face, you rub it and let out a sigh as you slowly swing backwards and forwards on the swing. Your feet are firmly planted against the ground, pushing you to and from. The sensation only really aids in your nausea, however, you still persist and you find it strange,

Another breath escapes you as you hear the creak of a gate. It's louder than the occasional squeal emitted by the swing you're sitting on, although, you don't lift your head until you hear the heavy plodding of boots against the ground. There used to be a time whee you would have sprung to your feet and greeted him, only, this time, you don't do that. You remain where you're sitting, maintaining the same pace on the swing.

There's a heavy thud from beside you, the fabric of a duffle bag landing on the side of the swing set. Then the chains rattle as he settles down, the same squeal from your swing set coming from the swing he's sitting on. For a moment, you think the pair of you are just going to sit in silence. Perhaps that's for the better, seeing each other without saying anything you know might hurt him.

'I'm sorry,' he says, the vibration of his voice from beside you almost ratting all of your bones from out of their sockets, rendering you a pool of goop on the floor. 'I made a mistake, should've called you- done something than leaving you in the dark for months,' he adds with a short nod.

Your eyes sting as you nod, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. It's impossible, really, to find something to say to him. A tear clings to your lower lashes as you continue to nod.

'You look nice,' he stiffly follows up.

Still, you nod.

You find it difficult to do anything else as your throat tightens. The longer you look down, the worse the cloudiness in your eyes grows as a tear finally drips down your face, landing on one of the printed strawberries on your dress. You want your madness to persist, you want to have the guts to stand up and scream at him for everything, yet, you know you're not capable of doing that.

'I-I—'

You lift your head to look at him. It's been a while since you've seen him in person, and for a while, you have thought you'd be forever destined to see all his gorgeous features in a picture frame. Yet, here he is, sitting right in front of you. The rise of his chest should be confirmation enough that he is in fact before you and living, but, you don't quite believe it.

So, in an act of bravery, you wipe your hand on the skirt of your dress and reach out your hand to touch his which is holding the chain on the swingset. Warmth greets your fingertips, and his skin moves as you press your fingers into his hand. He doesn't say anything, instead, he watches you.

Pulling your hand away, you move swiftly as you stand up from where you're sitting, taking a step so you're in front of him before wrapping your arms around him tightly. You bury your face into the nape of his neck, inhaling the scent of battle which really brands the both if you in that moment.

Finally, you allow yourself the pleasure of letting out all the emotions as you sob.

His arms wrap around you tightly, and as you knees weaken and your entire body sets alight, he holds you up. You hope your sobs are muffled, although, you find that you care very little as you puff away, cupping his face in your hands. Any form of malice dissipates as you look at him, seeing his face is marked with the same tears as yours- knowing that he has grieved the loss of you just as you had him.

'You're alive,' you cry, looking at him.

His face settles in your hands and you press your finger tips into his cheeks attempting to chase away all the doubt clouding your mind. You can feel him, his body and his eyes on you- everything. He's here with you and the pair of you are alive.

'I'm sorry, lovie,' he exhales, his bottom lip trembling as he takes a moment to look at you. 'You didn't deserve anythin' that happened an- an—'

'Shut up, Kyle,' you firmly say, looking at him, 'you're here, you're here and that's all I want,' you confirm, a stuttering breath passing your lips as your heart thuds against your chest. 'I know you couldn't have told me the truth.'

'It was torture,' he confesses, 'knowin' you thought I was dead and- I'll never ever be able to forgive myself for doing that to you,' he rambles.

His words, while meaningless in that moment also mean everything. Hearing the sound of his voice from him rather than the speaker of your phone means everything.

You continue to cry, you can't help it. Even when he leans forward and places his lips on yours, the pair of you are a crying mess as you embrace each other. It doesn't matter if your skin is on fire, what matters is that he's right here with you, his lips pressed on yours. And even if you were to set alight in that moment, you are sure that the summer breeze will subdue the flame- at least, long enough for you to call his name.

[celenawrites]

safe and sound

Pairing - Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x f!Reader

Warnings - Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots-in-love, pining, mentions of injuries and blood, mentions of needles, mentions of death, mentions of religious metaphors and the like (is it obvious that I have some religious trauma?), lots of yearning and tender moments(they should probably talk it out, but they won't - what a bummer), kinda whump/whumpee scenario, Gaz is forward with the praise, a lot of subtle yearning, somewhat open-ending.

Summary -

You're bleeding and bruised when he finds you.

Category -

1. One-shot

8. Safe House

Prompts -

5. 'I'll take care of you.'

11. 'Let me see you.'

14. 'Stay still.'

15. 'Take it off.'

Word Count - 2.8k

AO3 Version

Note -

This fic was written for 'Gazfest 2023' being organized by @glitterypirateduck. This event has led me to discovering so many writers and so many great stories for Gaz!

Check it out here: - Gazfest 2023

The mission had gone smoothly, for the most part. 

No one had died, no one was compromised and your team had been able to locate the weapon cache the cartel had been hiding in their expansive warehouse - stashed in the very heart of their operations, surrounded by drugs, guns and blood money. 

And yet you cannot help but feel like you have failed somehow. 

You lean against the wall, sitting on the island of the wash basin as you calmly debate the merits and demerits of forgoing a much-needed bath. You make a little game out of it - writing in your little mental lists about how fucked you’d be if you decide to not clean yourself up. 

Pros - you can go to sleep on the uncomfortable cot laid out in the small bedroom, you can go eat some awful MREs, you can talk to your captain and get an update on when you will leave, and did you mention that you can finally hit the hay?

Cons - you stink, your uniform is soaked in blood and sweat, you have injuries that you need to tend to (something that you do not look forward to), and you’re sure that you’d feel so much better if you take a steaming hot shower. 

Too bad that the water runs cold here. 

It is when you’re wholly absorbed into completing your mental checklist, when you see the door in front of you shake and hear the incessant sound of someone knocking on the wooden barrier as if it has personally offended them. 

You call out hesitantly, unsure about your ability to get up from your uncomfortable seat without worsening the injury into the side of your torso. 

“The door’s unlocked”. 

And that is where you seem to have messed up. 

The doorknob twists and the door is pushed open to the side, revealing a very pissed Sgt. Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick standing on the threshold of the room. You stare at him with wide eyes, and he wears an almost enraged expression on his handsome face, despite his best efforts in schooling himself to appear nonchalant to you. 

He has shed off his heavy jacket, his undershirt peeking from the few buttons of his military shirt. In one of his hands, he carries a first aid kit. And you take a secret oath in your mind to kick ass of whoever tipped him off about you. 

Probably Soap, that fucker-

The sergeant was the last person you wished to see at the moment, within reason. 

There has been a weird tension between you and him for the past couple of weeks. Ignored texts, brushed off advances, physical barriers and distances initiated by him that made you wonder if the bond you shared with the man had been nothing but a mirage that helped you tether your sanity as you survived the everyday grimness that haunts a person working in the military.  The ache in your heart had soon turned into a silent indignation of sorts, egging you on to match each action of his with a petty counteract of your own.  You refused to seek his company, and malevolent compliance had been your best companion when the direct chain of command forced you to listen to anything the sergeant requested; clearly the head on your shoulders worked well enough for you to prioritize the mission and the safety of your comrades over anything else, but it was extremely satisfying to watch your friend (The same friend who had just cut you out of his life in all regards like an invasive weed - forgetting that once its roots take place, the weed is nearly impossible to get rid of; and you’d be damned if you let him get rid of you so easily.) seethe in anger as you obey his commands on your own terms.  It all came to a head a week prior to the mission you were supposed to go on with the entire team. You had been minding your business, really - barely sparing Garrick a glance as you went about your way to brew yourself a pot of coffee when you heard him muttering something under his breath. You ask him to repeat himself, and next thing you know is that both of you are screaming your heads off - him for your ‘insubordination’ and you for him being a major bag of dicks.  With defeat sagging your shoulders and a deep exhale to calm yourself down, you detach yourself from the scene, leaving the man behind to his own devices in the rec room. It’s a miracle you didn’t raise your fists against him - you’d certainly have ended up with a broken wrist had you not retreated like a poor prey with your tail between your legs. And Gaz would’ve ended up with a broken nose.  It was more astonishing that the angry cacophony of yelling had not summoned your captain to the scene of the crime. 

You hadn’t spoken to the man since then. 

He takes long strides towards the wash basin, and you are mere inches away from your superior - close enough to take note of the pensive look on his face, his eyebrows furrowed and enhancing his crow’s feet under the pathetic yellow glow of the shitty bulb-light illuminating the otherwise grim room. 

If this was a lighter moment, you’d have eased the tension by pressing between his eyebrows - massaging away his tension with a simple roll of your thumb against his skin. If you were not mortally wounded and your sergeant wasn’t pissed at you right now, you’d have cracked a joke at your expense to see him laugh, his chuckle warming you up like the flames that licked at your fingertips whenever you got close to the fire to cook at home. 

Unfortunately, this is not the moment for you to attempt to make merry. 

He slams down puts down the kit on the island, next to your thigh and you flinch at the sudden movement. Your skittering only seems to make your injuries sting worse, and you grab at your abdomen, groaning at the sudden pain that shoots through you. You look down at your clenched hands, and notice how the blood paints them red. Your eyes widen a little at the scene, your fingers shaking with tremors as you try to appear unfazed at the crimson staining your skin and your clothes. 

You are always surprised at the mortality you possess whenever you get a close brush with death, not knowing when it will be your last. 

Gaz opens the metallic box open, meticulously pulling out various instruments to put at his disposal - gauze, bandages, rubbing alcohol, sterilized needles, and sutures. He looks up at you, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your pained expression and your crimson fingertips twitching mid-air.

With a ticked jaw, he demands, “Take it off”. 

“W-What?” you mumble out the question, slightly confused at his sudden order. 

With a sigh, he repeats himself for you, “I said, take it off”. 

The blood loss, while not fatal, seems to be impairing you cognitively. 

Dumbly, you ask again, “Why?”

He rubs at his forehead in frustration, and you’re almost inclined to apologize for worrying him. You wish to run your nails through his curls, quietly pinching at his nape as you rest your forehead against his and beg him to forgive you for being such an idiotic mess. 

Instead, you lean against the tiled walls like a delirious fool, losing blood fast. 

Patiently, he explains to you, taking into account your slowing brain, “You need to get those wounds checked, don’t you now?”

You nod at him with pursed lips, not at all happy at your current predicament. You can try and refuse, and he’d only end up butting heads with you again. Or you can swallow up your pride, and let him fix you up - awkward as that might seem. 

“Let me see you, then”, he asks you, and the shake in his otherwise firm voice makes you comply. 

Silently, you unfasten the buttons of your military-issued uniform shirt with shaky fingers. 

One by one. 

One by one. 

One by one. 

Your fingers give up on the task just shy of the last two buttons of the garment, the tremors making it almost impossible for you to even steady your aching arm. 

“Shit, shit, shit”, you curse to yourself, your fingertips constantly missing the plastic buttons on the shirt despite your best efforts. Irked at your inability to master such a simple task, you cannot help the tears of irritation that well up in your eyes, blurring your vision and giving you a much harder time with something you could’ve been done with in seconds. 

Calloused hands touch yours, and you can feel your skin set ablaze at the fragility of the touch as you look into the eyes of your dear friend and coworker. Glassy eyes look into his dark ones, conveying every little thing you wish to tell him - anguish, yearning, guilt, remorse, and  love. 

Every little thing that you fail to put into words and speech because your mouth is suddenly very dry, as if you have swallowed cotton and your tongue is weighed down by a block of lead. 

He always made you feel so nervous. 

He calls out your name (it sounds so sweet, so pristine when he says it - he exhales out each syllable of your moniker in reverence, as if you were a prayer to be uttered with utmost vigilance and devotion) and you snap out of your thoughts - your ears heating up partly due to embarrassment and partly due to the sudden proximity you share with the man standing before you. 

“I’ll handle this, ‘k?” his fingers toy with your button, and you do not protest as he unbuttons the last few of them near the hem of your shirt, leaving the center of your torso exposed. The cotton fabric sticks to your skin, thanks to the oozing wound on your waist that you had been nursing in the bathroom for the past half hour or so. 

You feel bashful, and yet you do not have the energy to express it - your eyes feeling heavier with every blink and the deft fingers of your sergeant feel warm against your cold, pallid skin. You fight yourself to stay awake, not eager about sleeping with untreated injuries and the dizziness that plagues you due to blood loss. 

You feel him tap at your arms, and you raise them just high enough so that he can lower down the sleeves of your shirt and undress you, leaving you in nothing but in a pair of khaki pants and your plain black bra. This is the closest you have come to being nude around the man, and if you weren't in enough pain to want to shoot yourself in the foot for your stupidity, you’d have tried to cover yourself up with your hands at least. 

Sadly, all modesty flew out of the window the moment you decided to get hurt on the field. 

Sometimes, modesty seems to leave your brain whenever you’re around him too. 

Kyle observes you with narrowed eyes, assessing the damage you had accumulated because of him. A lapse in judgment on his part had resulted in him not keeping a close eye around him and almost taking a bullet to his head - had you not tackled the henchmen to the ground; the scuffle had ended when you had slit his throat with your favorite knife, but not before taking some injuries of your own. 

When he had asked you about it, you had shrugged it off at the moment, assuring him that whatever you are inflicted with is something you can handle just fine. 

Clearly that was a lie, if your bloodied body is anything to go by it. 

Your face bears a few nicks and cuts that have already ceased bleeding - nothing too bad. Your body from neck down, however, seems to be a macabre masterpiece. Purple and yellow bruises litter across your shoulders and love handles. There are a few cuts that are closed up with dried blood; some of them are long enough to warrant some surgical assistance for recovery. And then he takes into notice your bloodied waist - the gash still oozing with fresh blood. 

You probably got it from the henchmen who almost blew his head off. 

He cannot believe he had let you get hurt on his watch. And he chides himself even more for believing your lies so easily. 

He is still so angry. At you. At himself. 

He tears out a piece of gauze from the packet he had laid out beside you, before slowly soaking it in a generous amount of rubbing alcohol. Your shoulders tense at the implication, and Gaz notices. (Of course, he does. He always noticed everything when it came to you.)

“This one’s gonna sting” is all he says before he’s pressing the gauze against an open wound and you prevent the scream that works up your throat by biting your tongue, grinding your molars against the muscle and tasting iron in your mouth. 

Your body twitches like a wild livewire as Gaz tries his best to treat your wounds, barely giving you a warning before you can feel the alcohol burn into your skin. You do not scream, but your sensitivity to pain leads you to shed a few tears of agony as you wait it all out with baited breath.

“.....So fucking stupid”, you hear the sergeant grumble to himself in your haze as he cleans your wounds and every time the gauze touches your skin, you cannot help but inch away from his hands, unable to handle the painful aftermath. 

“Cannot believe…”

“You really had to-”

He cuts himself off before he could finish his sentences, or maybe your brain is on a gradual process of shutting down - making it harder with each passing moment to pay attention to what he has to say to you. Through your muddled thoughts, all you can decipher is that he sounds angry. 

He’s angry. 

You shift just a little, hoping to brace for the pain by moving away from it - your pain-addled brain making you believe that prolonging the contact with the rubbing alcohol would help you recuperate from the pain much better. It only made the wound in your side bleed more, the droplets of crimson flowing down your abdomen like an endless rivulet.  

Kyle notices that, and he quickly grabs you by your shoulders to stop you from moving too much. You squirm under his touch; his palms are far too hot for your freezing skin, and you’d have probably jumped at the impact, had it not been for the indestructible hold he has of you. 

“Stay still”, he commands you, and you stop any and all movement immediately. You’re not sure you wish to fire the fuel that has been ignited in him when he saw your injured body on the island slab of the basin. 

“That’s it, sweetheart”, he assures you, his hands playing with the tips of your hair to soothe you, and you can feel shivers run down your spine. It’s soothing, to still be able to feel and react to his touch as if it’s the first time. 

“It hurts”, you sob out to him, your hands itching to grab at the wound near your waist - desperate to put any pressure on it, to stop the red liquid from leaving you lifeless. You’re scared and it shows. 

You won’t die, not yet anyway. And that is the only comforting thought you can muster to hold onto. 

You won’t die, even if your insides scream from the agony it feels from all of its open wounds and the ache your relaxed muscles throb with incessantly. 

You feel like you’re dying, but God has favored you today yet again. 

You wonder if the reason is divine intervention or a divine curse haunting you. 

“I know, sweet thing. I do. You did so good out there, having my back, yeah?” he asks and you nod eagerly in response, hoping to make amends with Gaz just in case. 

Just in case you breathe your last right here right now. In case you have run out of favor with the unknown deity who has protected you all this time without you knowing. 

“I got this, okay? I got you”, he leaves a soft kiss on your forehead, murmuring the affirming words against your skin. You feel yourself lighten up just a little at the gesture, knowing that this was not only to console you, but his own peace offering to you for earlier. For every little transgression he had committed against you. 

For the fight. For everything. 

“I promise everything will be okay. I’ll take care of you.”, he assures you, and for a moment you have faith that you’d live through the pain if he’s the one tending to it. 

Note -

I saw Prompts 5, 14 and 15 on the list and I couldn't resist writing a 'tending to your beloved in the bathroom while they're sitting and you're standing in front of them' scenario. Also a long lost fan art of the bathroom scene between Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa is a huge inspiration for this fic. (I have the books but I haven't gotten around to reading them. I have seen clips of the show, and I regret not having Netflix. Also, the yearning between the two is immaculate and the fanart is like stuck in my head, so if anyone can find it and send it to me, I'd appreciate it a lot.)

This is my first time participating for an event (at least for this fandom and blog). I seldom do these challenges because I tend to procrastinate for too long and forget to write before the due date.

When I finally finished the initial edit of this fic this morning, I almost entertained the idea of extending this fic, maybe by writing a second part of this story and incorporating a few more prompts in the Gazfest. But I have way too many WIPs to pay attention to, an original manuscript I need to start working on (and another one I need to edit), and I need to prepare for my final year of college too - so this is all I can offer, I am afraid. Maybe I will write a continuation of this, maybe I will write things from Gaz's perspective, but I won't be able to finish it in time, I am afraid. But I hope you enjoyed reading it, just like I enjoyed writing it. :)

Also, nevermind the title. I suck at naming things and I suck with names - can never get it right anyway. (also the Taylor Swift song being used as a title was purely coincidental - I swear on it)

[lovifie]

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick always gets draw as the most level headed, more calm and more connected with his feelings. But in my experience, these kind of people always attract those that are more broken on their head (not talking about the 141, just funny it fits.)

Like, he just attract these people that love confrontation and it is always Gaz the one that has to deescalate the situation. Or people that when they notice they are in the wrong simply give him the cold shoulder or just straight up jumps to insult him, and at the end he still needs to apologise.

So yeah, he hasn't had the best experience with relationship. Until you, of course. He is completely smitten with you, delighted by how easy going you are, how easy it is to comunicate with you. But you are still human, and the dreading moment arrives, where you and Gaz get into an argument.

It was about something silly, like how he never cleans the water that splashes when he washes the dishes. You got home from work, took off your shoes and step into the puddle wetting your socks and it sent you into an emotional breakdown.

Gaz is expecting you to just insult him, he is ready, he is going to hate to hear you insult him, but he'll manage, you are worth it. But only then, you say:

"Kyle, I'm sorry but you are getting on my last fucking nerve right now. I had an absolute shit day, and it is not your fault it was. So I'm going upstairs, I'm getting a shower and I'm going to bed before I end up paying it with you."

And Gaz looks at you astonished, so used to people with an absolute lack of emotional intelligence and simple goes:

You don't make it pass him of course, because he grabs you, cupping your face. You look at him confused and he says: "I am going to fuck you so nicely, luv."

"Kyle, no, I'm pissed." You try to explain.

"I know, you can still be pissed when we are done. C'mon, c'mon. I have never been more in love with you, luv. I swear I have been waiting for you my whole life."

And just to be clear, you sock was not the only thing that got wet that day.

1. I know I am reusing the Donald duck photo, I'm sorry for the lack of originality, but it just encapsulates the vibes of the situation so good.

2. I just want to be clear, that I mainly think Gaz gets profiled as the most level headed, calmed and overall chill guy not because he is exceptionally any of them but because everyone else is just worse. I could go onto heavy detail, AND I'LL GO INTO HEAVY DETAIL. Just not today, but one of these days, I promise. Justice for Gaz, my man almost beat up the butcher when he was tied to a chair.

TagList: @whos-fran @thevoidwriting @sklt987659 @kayden666 @dumb12bvtch1212 @thatonepupkai @glocuseguardian3rd @darkangel4121 @risingofjupiter @dukeofjjune @soupinasock @marymustdie @arbesa-mind @dilara-del @multifandomheathenannie @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @lunari0m

[mlmxreader]

I'm Still Here | Kyle Gaz Garrick x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Can I request the prompt “I love you. I'll wait for you. Come back. Come back to me.” with Gaz please?

Thanks ❞

: ̗̀➛ Gaz isn't going anywhere, he's never leaving... he just wishes that you could see him.

: ̗̀➛ major character death, swearing, injury detail

↳ DNI if you interact with rape porn, proship, profic, DDNE/dead dove, etc. stay the fuck away from me <3

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Gaz sat on the kitchen counter, watching you carefully as he idly kicked his legs, the backs of his heavy combat boots hitting the wooden cupboards but without a single sound. His hands planted firmly on the marble counter top as he dared to smile.

He loved to watch you so much; to see you go about your day and to get better and better every day.

The last few months had been so tough on you, Gaz felt so awful; seeing you stay up late every night, crying and sobbing and wailing until you passed out. You would sleep until the afternoon, wake up, and then spend all night either in bed or sitting on the sofa crying and snivelling.

If he had been able to, Gaz would have cried himself; he promised that he would never hurt you, that he would always protect you. But he had failed you; he couldn't protect you any more, he couldn't keep you safe at all.

It was all his fault.

But seeing you now... vibrant, full of life, singing along to old Sodom songs. It did bring a smile to Gaz's face as he leaned back a little, folding his arms across his chest. He listened keenly to the sound of your voice, and watched you like he always used to.

His dark brown eyes completely and utterly focused on you, and only you; as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

He reached a hand down to his stomach, feeling the cold gush of nothing as a soft draft seeped through the open and gaping hole; the jagged edges and bits of organ that hung and clung onto the bottom. The burn marks around the inner rim.

He frowned. He thought he was going to get used to it after a while, but not anymore.

He wished you would look at him, that you would meet his sunken and empty eyes; he wished you would put your hand next to him, and feel the cold spot that had formed there.

They seemed to be all around him these days, cold spots and flickering lights.

But you hardly seemed to notice. He would scream at the top of his lungs, call your name as he stood in front of you, and you didn't even hear him; you didn't even see him standing there with his voice breaking and hoarse.

He slid himself off of the counter, his heavy duty boots making no sound as he paced around you, nudging your cup slightly so that it wouldn't fall. Flicking the spider away from the tap so that you didn't accidentally touch it; he knew how much you would have hated to startle the poor thing.

But then the phone rang, and Gaz frowned as he looked at the caller ID; Price. You picked it up, sniffling.

"Hey, John."

"Hey," Price sighed. "How you holding up?"

You shrugged, swiping a hand down your face. Gaz knew you were about to lie, you always did that when you were lying. "I'm okay... I'm okay..."

"The funeral's next week," Price told you. "You think you can make it?"

"I have to," you scoffed. "He was... Gaz is everything to me. I have to be there."

Gaz cleared his throat, watching as he tried to put his hand on your shoulder, only for it to sink right through. "Don't lie to him, darling. Please. He can help you."

But you didn't hear a single thing. "Look, John, I appreciate the whole caring, considerate bullshit you have going on, but I don't need it right now."

Gaz frowned, shaking his head as he begged for you to open up and to talk about it; you didn't have to suffer silently, and nor did you have to suffer alone but... but then he looked at the picture on the wall, and he sighed heavily, knowing why you were being that way.

You had always been one another's confidants and most trusted friends; there were things that you would only talk to Gaz about, just as there were things that he would only talk to you about. Forever joined at the hip. The picture on the wall, taken just after you had gotten together, only reminded him of that.

You looked so happy. So comfortable.

He paced around a little more, only to pause when you called his name.

"Kyle, I dunno if you can hear me," you murmured. "But if you can - I love you, I'm never gonna forget you. You know that, right? I dunno... I dunno if you're here, or if you've fucked off somewhere, but... I don't wanna bury you. I really don't, I mean how... how do you bury your best friend, your husband, and act like you're alright?"

Gaz swallowed hard, shaking his head as he wiped his aching eyes and moved back to you; he put his hands on the side of your head, despite his fingers sinking into you like he was made of nothing, and pressed his lips to your temple. You didn't feel anything, didn't even flinch or wonder why it had gotten so cold suddenly.

He sighed as he pulled away, moving to stand in front of you even though you couldn't see him. "I'm never leaving you. I'm not. I love you. I'll wait for you."

"I love you," you whispered, closing your eyes and sobbing quietly. "I love you. I'll wait for you. Come back. Come back to me. Please... please... Gaz, pull a pet sematary for all I care, just... come back."

"But I'm right here," he told you. "I'm already here. I'm not leaving you, I'm not going anywhere. I just... I wish you could see me. I wish you could hear me."

You moved away, shaking your head and making your way to the sofa, leaving your phone on the counter; Gaz followed, not wanting to leave you alone for even a second.

He loved you.

He wasn't going anywhere.

[gloomwitchwrites]

I wish to see how each of the 141 boys respond to their ex, reader, calling them for emotional support bc readers newest bf was toxic af

bonus points if 141 boys are still possessive over reader, but doesn't do anything besides telling reader to leave her toxic bf. OR ORRR he's possessive bc him and reader have been together for so long, who would know how to treat her better than him? He knows every little detail she cares about, every little action that makes her fall head over heels in an instant. Her toxic bf? He doesn't care to learn about those types of things, even if reader outright says it

EVEN MORE BONUS POINTS for smut to show reader what a quick fuck of satisfaction looks like vs genuine sex / love making

Apologies, Anon. This has been sitting in my inbox for…a while, but I’ve been thinking about it off and on since you’ve sent it in.

I’ll drop some HC’s about how this would go down but I absolutely want to explore this further as part of the Imagines & What If Series.

I'll tackle these separately and make them individual one-shots (with much more detail) once I wrap up the By the Belt prompt. But for now...enjoy my HC's (if you will) on what I think would go down in this scenario.

The official masterlist for the extended fics can be found HERE.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Content & Warnings: suggestive themes (it's vague), brief mentions of protective/possessive behavior, canon-typical swearing

John Price

Breakup status: Strained (at first), but settled into friendship.

Absolutely hates texting, and you know if you need to reach him immediately, you have to call. Price isn’t an old man, he’s just the old man of the group, and would absolutely be tech literate but also super picky on how he communicates with people personally. It’s Price’s job to be calm, to be a leader, and pick up on things others don’t necessarily notice. So, Price would know you’re upset with your current boyfriend without you even having to spell it out. Besides, Price hates the guy, and knows he’s not worth even a lob of spit.

Plus, Price has been wanting to get back with you for ages. Now that the two of you are friends and have repaired whatever it is that separated the two of you in the first place, Price is looking to find a way to move in again, to slowly (or quickly) win you back, and now he has the opportunity.

Price insists on talking in person, and the moment the two of you are together, he makes the effort he knows you’re needing—because he wants you back, but also because he knows you better than your current boyfriend. Price doesn’t understand why you even gave the guy a chance, but he’ll do everything to get you back.

He would start with subtle indications eventually moving the conversation into past memories, reminiscing on happier times when you were his woman, and how that felt. It slowly devolves until you’re admitting first that you still miss him, and Price goes in for the kill, stating clearly that he still has feelings for you.

The final act is passionate, rough, and intense. Like an atom splitting, it is explosive.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Breakup status: mutual (away all the time; hard to make it work)

When you call, on the verge of tears, needing to talk to someone, Gaz immediately knows something is wrong the moment he picks up. (Sorta like Price but more attuned emotionally to the situation).

I can see Gaz not being a fan of chatting for long periods on the phone, so you don’t even need to ask, Gaz will drop everything and come to you without you having to suggest it. In fact, Gaz picks up, realizes your upset, and immediately says he’s coming over.

When he arrives, it’s like the two of you have never been apart. It’s almost routine, completely natural the way the two of you come together. Gaz is very much about physical affection. He’s constantly touching you, comforting you, and saying sweet things that always make you melt.

Totally knows you need a distraction, and while you’re upset, you’re having a difficult time expressing yourself. When this happens, Gaz just shuts it down, guiding you toward distraction to help you calm down and ease your mind before probing to see if you want to return to the topic.

Once that happens, game over for boyfriend. He’s lost you to Gaz.

The reunification is absolutely passionate and soft. I will die on that hill.

John “Soap” MacTavish

Breakup status: Messy. (You cannot tell me Soap isn’t a hot mess. Our boy is a little too high energy at times.)

While the breakup between the two of you is messy, Soap has always been a “safe” person for you. So, when you call him to vent, you don’t realize that Soap immediately starts heading in your direction until he knocks on your door and the two of you stand there staring at each other, phones held up to your ears. It’s an impulsive decision on his end to come to you, but you don’t turn him away.

Like Simon, Soap would be forward in the way he addresses your concern and the issues—which is your shitty boyfriend who deserves to only be known as your ex. However, where Simon is more of a blunt “these are the facts” kind of communicator, Soap will go for the jugular, using harsher language about this “boyfriend.” He won’t be critical of you, but he will be overly critical of him, listing all the ways this idiot doesn’t deserve you. He might even grow a bit heated in tone and pitch, becoming creative with his slang, and his accent might thicken slightly especially if he’s going off.

But ultimately, Soap is defending you, and reiterates the need for you to stand up for yourself and get rid of this loser.

I don’t think anything passionate would happen in that moment. But I could also see Soap in the middle of him criticizing your toxic boyfriend, you shutting him up with a kiss. Now…that could easily go sideways with someone like Soap. He’s very much impulsive at times, and I think that would win out. Soap would totally kiss you back and not allow you to pull away from him again until you’re…satisfied.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Breakup status: Tumultuous, eventually mellowing to mutual understanding afterward.

Would listen to you rant without interrupting. He would not ask any clarifying or follow up questions.

When you have it all out of your system, his response is simple: break up with him. Simon is direct—could even say blunt depending on the situation, and he would absolutely be that way in this scenario.

He makes it clear that you’re obviously not happy and that the relationship is making you miserable. He might even lay it out plainly, stating only the facts, sliding into that mindset when he’s in the field, thinking about all scenarios and problem-solving while doing so.

Internally, he’s absolutely ecstatic that your current boyfriend is a garbage heap of a human being. He will see this as an opportunity to slip right back into your life if he plays this right. Sure, the two of you aren’t together anymore, but he’s not over it. Simon is possessive and territorial to the core. Totally still considers you his.

Will absolutely make up a reason to come over, and it will likely fall under the “I’m looking out for you” or “trying to protect you from him” insisting that your boyfriend could escalate and he won’t allow you to potentially be in harm’s way.

When he arrives, Simon immediately turns soft and attentive in just the way you like. He gives you his full attention, doesn’t lecture, and offers plenty of physical touch.

The physical touches turn…well, I’ll save that for the full fic. But it is a reminder of how you’ve always been his and you just need to realize it.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @miaraei

[hyperfixiation-station]

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Information Pt.2

Apprehension

TW: Torture, graphicish violence, angst Summary: Backstory time >:)

A Study in Torture, Rescue

1 Month, 3 days ago

You grunt softly, hoisting yourself over the wall and dropping near silently to the ground. You cradle a fractured wrist to your chest, cursing Ghost and his inability to fly a helicopter. 

“Hang on kid!”

“I’m trying!” 

“Shit! Ghost you’ve got to level the chopper!”

“I’m! Trying!” 

“Don’t let me fall, MacTavish!”

“Y/N!”

“Oh my God.” 

“Ghost you have to turn around!” 

“I can’t!” 

“Y/N!”

You shake your head, breaking out of the reverie. Focus, you tell yourself. You creep silently through the enemy encampment, sticking to the shadows. Your eyes dart back and forth, constantly scanning your surroundings for danger. 

You crouch, moving behind a tent as voices sounded from in front of you. You watch as soldiers walk past you, sighing in relief when they don't seem to notice you. That relief is short-lived however, as cool metal is pressed into your back.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” Heavily-accented English sounds from behind you. The man holding the gun pulls it away, then slams the butt of it into your temple. You don’t even have time to respond before the world goes dark. 

You come to in a dark room. Grunting, you try to sit up, but stop when spikes of pain flare through your wrists. Your head spins and you look down, blinking sluggishly. Your eyes widen as you finally notice that you are handcuffed to a table, hands up above your head.  

“Good morning, pretty bird.” Slightly Russian-accented English sounds from behind you, “about time you woke up.” A man comes into view, and though it takes you a few seconds, you recognize him. 

“Colonel Kravchenko.” You mutter, tongue thick and heavy in your mouth. 

“So you know me.” You say nothing, just follow him with your eyes. He sighs softly, moving next to the table you are strapped to.

“So, Y/N L/N. You know, you really should not be in enemy territory with an I.D. on you. As it is, I now know pretty much everything about you, including the fact that you are a member of an...elite team I have been hunting.” He double checks your restraints as he speaks, circling the table and stopping by your side. 

“Being as such, you have information I want.” He grins, “You can give this to me the boring, easy way, or you can let me have fun.” 

Fear coils in your belly, but you do not let it show. You are a trained, battle-hardened soldier, and you will not give up your team for anything.

“Well, pretty bird? Are you going to talk to me?” You remain silent, watching him. He grins sharply at the silence, almost eager. 

“Good. I hate the boring ones anyways.” He moves out of your line of sight, returning with a covered cart next to him, “There are a few rules we’ll have to go over before we start, of course. But we can introduce them slowly, I don’t want to…overwhelm you. The first, and most important, is that you will address me as Sir whenever you speak.” You snort, rolling your eyes at that.

“You think that's a funny, pretty bird?”

“A little, yeah.” You snark, trying to hide your fear.

“Sir.” He says, annoyed.

“What are you gonna do if I don’t.” 

“You are a soldier, no?” You nod instinctively, confused at the turn in conversation. 

“It would be a shame for you to never be able to hold a gun again, wouldn’t it be, pretty bird?” he croons. He slides his hand into yours, interlocking your fingers. If you weren’t concussed, maybe you would be able to guess what he was about to do, but your brain is foggy, thought process muddled. So it comes as a surprise when he jerks his hand up, forcing your fingers back. There is a crunching noise as your bones shatter, fire lacing up your arm. He squeezes the broken fingers and you scream. 

“Pretty bird, you and I are going to have so much fun together.” The man laughs, letting go of your hand, “Now, we’ll start off simple. What were you doing in my airspace?” You say nothing, teeth clenched, eyes watering. He turns his back to you, flipping the cloth of the cart. You watch through blurry eyes as he pulls something from it before flipping the cloth back over. In his hands is a towel.

“I’ll ask you one more time. What were you doing in my airspace?” You say nothing, just stare at him. He smiles, delighted by your decision to play hard to get. 

“Your choice, pretty bird.” He drapes the towel over your face, obscuring your vision. You panic, breaths coming in rapid bursts at the inability to see anything. You calm down slightly as the towel is flipped down so you can see again, still covering your mouth and nose. You blame the concussion again for not being able to put two-and-two together, but you are confused until he returns, bucket in hand. 

You squirm pointlessly, trying to get away. The man simply chuckles, pouring the water over your face. You hold your breath for as long as you can, but eventually you exhale, gasping as your lungs demand air. Immediately, the wet cloth is sucked to your skin, suffocating you. You panic, no longer able to control your breathing as you inhale sharply and gag at the water running down your throat in a vicious cycle. 

Though it feels like hours, you are only under the water for about a minute before the cloth is pulled away. Your body heaves as you choke, gasping greedily for air. 

“What were you doing in our airspace?” You say nothing, just sob softly. 

“Have it your way, pretty bird.” The cloth is placed back over your face and the water is poured again. And again. And again. 

~~~~~Meanwhile~~~~~

“Bloody hell.” Ghosts snarls as he brings the chopper to a rough landing. He jumps out, followed by Soap and Gaz. Price stands in the hanger, waiting for them.

“I heard.” He says solemnly as Gaz opens his mouth, “They are sending men out to look for them, and it took every favor Laswell has ever owed me to get us sent out.” He turns on his heel, not bothering to check if his men were following. He leads them to a briefing room, slamming the door shut behind him. 

A map of the enemy territory is projected on the white board, upon which Price draws a small red circle. 

“This is our best guess as to where they landed. We have received no communication from them since they fell.” He pauses, sighing softly, “Officially, they have been marked K.I.A and this is a body recovery. Unofficially, this is a rescue op. We don’t lose hope until their body is on the table in front of us, okay?” 

“We are rolling out tomorrow.” He continues, “So get to the infirmary, get checked out, and get some sleep.”

Sounds of agreement echo from the room, and Gaz and Price exit, leaving Soap and Ghost alone in the room.

“Not your fault Johnny.” 

“Not yours either Lt.”

Neither of them believe the other. The guilt lays heavy in the room, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The minutes drag out for hours as they sit in stony silence.

"If anyone can survive out there, it's Y/N. We'll find 'em." Soaps voice trembles slightly as he breaks the silence. Ghost nods in agreement.

"Lets hit the rack." It's not a suggestion. They walk out of the room side-by-side, both thinking the same thing.

My fault.

 Soap still holds the glove that had slid off your hand as you fell from the chopper. 

Okay question. When you finally get rescued do we want major PTSD or only some PTSD?

Also do y'all want more torture scenes or do you want the rescue?

[boowritess]

Gaz and The Unaware Three

kyle "gaz" garrick x gn!reader

a/n: i really fucking love gaz bro, and i whipped this outta my brain instead of my essay but uwu. tbh it's a mess, but it's my mess. hope ya'll enjoy and are safe xx drink water, and get some rests babes!

when it came to going on breaks, everyone knew that gaz went home, assuming he went by family. i mean it made sense didn't it? there were times he was on the phone texting someone, when asking who it was, and he just casually responds that it was someone from home. that was normal. why second guess that. another moment he was wrapping up a phone call, "alright, yes i will remember! it's my sisters birthday of course i will! okay. i love you. love you. g'night."

"was that your mummy? missing your mummy gaz?" soap teased watching the younger male pocket his phone. gaz playfully stared daggers at him,

"nah it wasn't, it was yours she just rang me to ask when i-"

"don't ya dare finish that sentence-"

"when i'll give her a son she'll actually love!" he booked it, soap close behind.

"aye! ya wee git!"

other than that, there was no telltale sign that he was in a relationship. thing is they would've known. right? i mean they spend every waking minute with one another, they woulda known. of course, they each were allowed to keep things to themselves, but to task 141, it was gaz! gaz was their unoffical but offical baby of the group! and were inherently protective of him without even realizing. heck one drunk night ghost and price surrounded the poor lad.

"gaz- kid- listen," price huffed, leaning close to gaz, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder, smelling heavily of whiskey and cigars, "i just want you to be happy with whoever! okay?" then he stabbed a finger in his chest, attempting to give him a serious stare, "i don't give a fuck who- who you- ah fuck, ghost?"

ghost, who had been looming over gaz had been nodding along with price's word and as soon as the captain faltered he stepped in, words slurred, "we will kill them if they ever hurt you? m'kay, gaz? gotit? and we don't give a FUCK what they identify as-"

"oi! i do-"

"shut up!" ghost put a gloved hand on gaz's other shoulder, leaning down, "i don't give a fuck whomever they are. if they hurt you- i can get rid of their body-"

it was laswell who came to gaz rescue, "hey see! if it's a women, laswell will beat her up if the witch hurts ya!" price hooraed, rising a glass in the air. laswell shaking her head, a smile on her face. the next morning, ghost said not one word, and price pretended he didn't remember anything from that night.

so, they all just think he's single.

till one mission gaz gets hurt and sent to the hospital. when they went to check on him they expected to see his family, but upon entering the hospital room, it was clear there had been people, with the amount of flowers, balloons and cards. but other than that it was just gaz.

making themselves known, they fell into conversation with the healing male, who suffered from a bullet wound and a broken leg. moments later the door to the room opened, you came in carrying a duffel bag, eyes focused on the items in the bag.

"okay, i washed your clothes and i packed some stuff that'll be easy for you to put on over the cast and yes i got your boxers with the kittens on them- oh, shoot." your heart jumped, seeing not just your partner staring at you, but three others, faces you immediately recognized from the photos gaz had sent you, "hi! oh sorry for Interrupting!" you beamed, sending them a large smile. "i'll just put this down and leave you's too it!"

soap was the one to jump up, feigning the persona of a perfect gentleman he grabbed the bag from you, "here, let me. are you gaz's sibling? can't be you're too pretty to be related to that." he grinned.

"oi!" gaz yelled, "soap get your ugly face away from my partner would you?"

everyone's jaw dropped. when you entered they assumed you could've been a friend of his, not really peicing that you could've been a partner and in their opinion, you were way out've his league.

"piss off! no, that's not your partner." ghost grumbled leaning back in the chair.

"excuse me what's that supposed to mean? babe, y'know what leave! they don't deserve to meet you- i'll see ya later." he exclaimed trying to wave you away.

"nonsense," soap scolded throwing an arm over your shoulder and bringing you further into the room, dropping the bag on the dresser. you grinned at gaz as the other two men got to their feet, gaz face still held one of being upset but his eyes were burning with happiness as he watched.

ghost and price loomed over you at first you thought it was tactic to intimidate you but now being this close, you could tell they were buzzing in excitement as they stared at you, "captain price and ghost? right? so which one of you said that you'd kill me if i hurt, gaz?" you grinned, ghost eyes slightly widened.

"that was him." price nodded to the masked man.

"price i thought you didn't remember that night?" ghost growled glaring at the male, who shrugged ignoring him.

you giggled, "it's fine, i'm happy to know gaz has you both to protect him. i'm y/n." shaking hands with both men who surprisingly, gently clasped yours. soap appearing at the otherside of price eagerly shook your hand.

"i'm-"

"soap. yes, i've uh, heard some things about you." you say amused.

"can you lot stop huddling my parnter?" gaz huffed watching the display. but they backed off, returning to their seats as you went over to sit beside him on the bed, pecking his cheek.

"awe, gaz ya talk bout us?" soap cooed.

"good things?"

"oh always cap." gaz confirmed, but when price looked at you, you subtly shook your head, only to quickly nod when gaz looked at you. "right babe?"

"mhm." you hummed. "most definitely."

it was safe to say that the meeting went well. gaz was practically beaming the whole time you and task 141 talked, especially bursting with happiness to see how much they enjoyed your company. your personality, and easy going attitude, even made ghost relaxed enough to join in on the conversations even providing a couple of jokes making the others roll their eyes, but he smiled in triumph behind the balaclava as you laughed.

"babe, it wasn't that good." gaz groaned, an arm around your waist. his fingers mindlessly drumming against your body. you shushed him, leaning into him a little.

soap sat up, "alright, alright- i got one!" but as soon as he went to say it, your alarm went off indicating it was time to go back to work.

"sorry, soap, how bout you tell me next time?" you say rising from the bed, gaz reluctantly letting you go.

"i'll save it just for you." he grinned.

"i'm holding you to that. alright, i will see you after work." you smile, going to kiss gaz's cheek only for him to turn and capture your lips. you blushed pulling away and seeing the men stare at you both, and you swore they had hearts in their eyes. "it was lovely to finally meet you all! will i see you all later?"

price shrugged getting to his feet the others doing the same, "not sure but just incase, we'll see you next time, yeah?"

"alright then!" you grinned, then surprising price you pulled him in for a quick hug. doing the same to soap.

when you pulled away he grinned, "y'know i wouldn't mind a cheeky kiss-"

"ghost, hit him." gaz scowled.

"on it." he nodded taking a step towards soap who actually let out a yelp, which made the man let out a low chuckle. he turned to you, you went to go hug him too but stopped,

"gaz mentioned something about how you threw someone to the ground because they tried to hug you?"

ghost's eyes crinkled ever so slightly, breifly flickering to the blushing Scotsman. "right." he confirmed watching as you stuck out a hand instead, his gloved one meeting it.

"well it was nice to meet you." stepping away, price went with you to the door, your eyes locked with the man in the bed, who stared at you with big eyes and a small smile on his face. "love you." you grinned, blowing him a kiss.

and cheesily, he caught it. "love you!" he called as price closed the door behind you. once gone, his smile on his face remained, feeling all giddy on the inside as he still felt your warmth and your softness. yet he was jerked out've his head when a hand rested on his leg, specifically the injured one. his heart jumped seeing the three men staring down at him from the end of the bed, eyes like daggers. "what? what'd i do!?"

it was ghost to speak up, "you hurt them and i'll kill ya gaz."

"or they can replace you in the task force instead." price added.

"or both."

"or both." price confirmed. soap nodded in agreement, folding his arms.

gaz stared at them confused, "weren't you lot the one to threaten them? if they hurt me?" he said exasperated.

"yeah nah, not any more lad." price grinned. "they seem smart, it would be you who woulda did something."

"oh my gosh," gaz groaned rubbing his face, "nurse! nurse! these men are a threat to my mental health!" they all grinned, backing off into their prior position. if anything, they were happy for him but had questions.

espeically price, "now why the heck didn't you tell us about them earlier?" he huffed, somewhat offended that he didn't know.

gaz shurgged, "it wasn't on purpose, cap! i actually thought you lot knew that i was atleast seeing someone. i mean who'd ya think i was goin home too all the time, or on the phone with?"

"your mum?" soap murmered genuinely serious, making gaz eyes roll.

"well i'm glad you lot like them." he licked his lips, sheepishly looking round the room, "i want you's to be around them more before i..." he drawled, fingers nervously playing with the hospital blanket.

"spit it out kid!" ghost growled.

"before i ask them to marry me!" he blurted out. soap got up, grabbing gaz by the shoulder.

"do it. do it right now. ring them. y'know what, i'll ring them."

"stand down, soap." price grinned. "why ya want us to be round them more before you ask them, anyway?"

gaz shrugged, feeling vulnerable and it was just because of his injuries. "dunno, well-" he sighed, "cause you lot are my family and i want to be with someone that you all atleast approve off."

"oh mate. they could probably do way better than you." soap shrugged, relaxing the tension in the room.

"fuck off! fuck you! i take it back!"

"aw, gaz. didn't know we meant that much too ya." ghost cooed. "but johnny's right, they could do way better." he teased.

"fuck this! i regret saying anything! nurse! nah i'm actually calling for the nurse now and saying i'm being bullied." gaz huffed face slightly flushed but the teasing didn't cease from soap or ghost, as they leaned closer to poke at the younger male. price leaned back in the chair happily watching.

♡

[ahopelesspedantic]

'Keeping Lines Blurry' Fanart/Animation

I absolutely love Keeping Lines Blurry by @indigosunsetao3 - an action packed, high tension, political thriller Gaz x OC fic that gives me the same vibes as CA:TWS. I haven't picked up a pen to draw anything seriously in years, but this story lit a fire under me and I finally caved into the bout of inspiration that wouldn't leave me be.

This particular scene from chapter 4 haunts me, like I imagine it haunts Gaz and Olivia. This flashback is the epicentre of their shitshow. Reading it is like a knife to the gut.

I love Billie Eilish and hearing this song now immediately made me think of the rage, devastation and utter betrayal going through Gaz as he makes his way to Henry's Manor, hell bent on getting some answers. And also because Gaz really wouldn't have treated Olivia that shitty.

I might still be rooting for the 2 but this is a testament to how I will not forget💔

Gaz is supposed to be covertly tying his laces in this scene but anatomy and hands stay kicking my ass 🥲