Awkward Writer without schedule

(30+/she/her) Getting back into things, loving to imagine, very bad at writing but trying, for Karks sake!

[awkward-fink]

MDNI!!!

Gaz is a meticulous person. He plans. He thinks ahead. He keeps lists, organizers, meal preps—everything in neat order.

So it’s no wonder that when he prepares for long missions, he plans something special.

“For morale,” he says.

And every time, you fall for it.

Gaz meticulously sets up the camera, nudging it gently with his foot to get the angle just right. His eyes stay fixed on the phone in his hand, watching the live camera feed.

“Perfect,” he purrs darkly.

His free hand wanders down your bare back, nails dragging lightly over your skin and leaving the softest red trails behind. A low groan rumbles up your throat, muffled by the leather between your lips. Your back arches instinctively as his nails dig a little deeper, your muscles twitching while he swirls the pads of his fingers through the sweat gathered along your spine like tiny liquid gems.

“Take six,” Gaz intones.

He spreads his thighs a little wider, opening you up again along with the movement.

Six.

Six times. Six takes.

Five orgasms already, each one leaving you breathless, your body trembling and weak.

Gaz’s hand finally reaches your ass, fingers spreading your cheeks slowly, teasingly. His thumb dips into the cleft, pressing where his cock is still buried deep inside you.

Your head rests against his shoulder, chest pressed firmly against his. You can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, his strained breathing fanning hot across your damp neck.

“Beautiful,” he groans softly. “That’ll help me through the months away from you.”

His hips buck upward, slow and deliberate. A slick, wet sound fills the room as his cock stirs the mess of cum inside you again. The frothy ring around the base of him shifts and glistens, some of it slowly running down over his balls.

Your hands dig into his back, teeth biting hard into the leather between your lips. The muscles in your thighs quiver with every lazy thrust he gives you. Every slow drag of his cock over your nerves makes you whimper and whine helplessly.

Gaz’s lower stomach is slick from you, your own juices smeared across his darker skin like a trophy of sin.

“You can give me one more, right?” Gaz murmurs into your ear. “You’re so good to me… but I need one more, love.”

His teeth close over the cartilage of your ear, making you whine loudly. Your body jolts as pleasure shoots through you like lightning, your back arching again as his cock slides deeper. The movement drags over a cluster of nerves that sends heat racing through your body, stoking the fire of stimulation higher and higher again.

Toward another orgasm.

Just one more.

Right?

One more.

That’s what he said two takes ago.

“Come on,” he pants now, thighs tightening beneath you as his thrusts grow faster. He angles his hips carefully, deliberately, driving into that sweet, sensitive spot deep inside you again and again.

“This is a close-up,” he groans. “Price loves those.”

A breathless laugh rumbles in his chest.

“You don’t want to disappoint the Captain, do you?”

His voice is strained now, low and rich like expensive Belgian chocolate. You want to answer—want to cry out yes, yes, yes—but the leather between your lips turns it into helpless whines and broken sounds.

“Ah—fuck—”

Gaz’s hand trembles between your asscheeks as his body tenses. Your walls tighten around his thick cock, clenching the hot, silky flesh like a fist.

He bucks upward hard, a rough shout of your name tearing from his throat as his cock hits a sensitive bundle of nerves.

Heat floods you instantly.

Thick, hot cum fills you again, pushing deeper inside, forcing some of his earlier loads to spill back out. The mess spreads around his cock and balls, sticky and frothy.

Your own orgasm hits just as violently.

Your body convulses, pleasure crashing through you like a lightning strike, your own release spilling over his thighs and lower stomach, mixing with everything already there.

Gaz exhales shakily, his grip tightening around you.

“So good…” he murmurs.

Then he presses a soft kiss just beneath your ear.

“You think you’ve got one more in you?”

And you—

You just whine, eyes squeezed shut, your whole body trembling as you come down from the high.

Maybe one more.

Maybe.

[museaway]

✍️ more fic writer asks!

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[awkward-fink]

The safehouse was quieter than usual tonight.Rain tapped steadily against the window, the soft rhythm filling the space between you and Gaz as he leaned against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up and arms crossed.

“You’re staring,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

You tried to focus on the mug in your hands, but the warmth of it did nothing to distract from the way his eyes stayed on you—dark, amused, a little too observant. Gaz pushed off the counter and stepped closer.

“Long day,” he murmured.

“Understatement.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low in his chest. When he stopped in front of you, the air seemed to tighten. Close enough now that you could smell rain on his jacket and something faintly like soap and metal.

“Funny thing,” he said, voice dropping, “after missions like that… people usually relax.”

“And what exactly are you suggesting, Sergeant?”

His grin widened. “Just noticing you’re still wound up.”

Before you could reply, he reached out, fingers brushing yours where they held the mug. The contact was light, but it sent a quiet spark up your arm.

“You always this tense around me,” he asked softly, “or am I getting special treatment?”

You looked up at him then, and whatever sarcastic answer you had planned vanished the moment your eyes met.

For a second neither of you moved

.Then he tilted his head slightly, voice barely above a whisper.“Careful,” he said. “You keep looking at me like that…”

His hand slipped around yours, gently taking the mug away and setting it aside on the table.

“…and I might start thinking you want me closer.”

You didn’t step back.

Gaz noticed. Naturally he did.

The teasing in his expression softened into something warmer, more intent, as he leaned in just enough that his forehead almost brushed yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

Outside, thunder rolled quietly across the sky.

Inside, the distance between you disappeared.-

[awkward-fink]

still alive!

I promise.

But crotch goblin has the colics and got his first big vaccination so he is very grumpy and screaming his head off.

Just be prepared to read some TF141 and them handling such Goblins.

[awkward-fink]

still alive!

I promise.

But crotch goblin has the colics and got his first big vaccination so he is very grumpy and screaming his head off.

Just be prepared to read some TF141 and them handling such Goblins.

[awkward-fink]

Some more headcanons, this time for Alejandro's mother:

Alejandro’s mother was fierce, driven, and practical, juggling work and family with sheer force of will.

She taught Alejandro responsibility early — how to stand tall, how to protect, how to lead — but she also taught him to recognize safe places.

Rudy’s home was one of those safe places. She trusted Rudy’s mother and abuela completely.

She noticed Alejandro’s attachment to Rudy and never discouraged it. If anything, she encouraged it — telling him:

“A good leader knows who he can lean on.”

When Rudy’s mother died, Alejandro’s mother stepped in without being asked — school pickups, extra meals, quiet check-ins — never trying to replace her, just making sure Rudy was not alone.

[awkward-fink]

Some headcanons about Rudy's mother I have:

Rudy’s mother was gentle but unyielding — soft hands, steady voice, the kind of woman who could calm a room without raising her tone.

She believed deeply in small kindnesses: feeding strays, sending neighbors home with leftovers, never letting a child leave her house hungry.

She taught Rudy that care is not weakness. That tending wounds, cooking, listening — these were acts of strength.

She learned many of her recipes from Abuela and passed them on to Rudy deliberately, knowing he listened closely and remembered everything.

She noticed early how Rudy hovered around Alejandro when he was hurt or tired and once told him quietly: “You take care of him the way you take care of everyone. Don’t ever lose that.”

Her death was sudden, and Rudy never quite recovered from the way the world went silent afterward — but Alejandro’s presence anchored him, because it was the closest thing to her warmth he still had with his abuela.

[awkward-fink]

oh yeah i would Love to write more but first someone needs to take away the baby sleeping on my breasts.

my new everyday Problem

[softbratxoxoxo]

All my mutuals are hot. Reblog to tell your mutuals they are hot.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Daily Writing Challenge

Write 5 sentences for your WIP right now. (x)

Imagine a place where you would like to be and write about what you would do there. (x)

What are your OCs pet peeves? (x)

Write a 10 sentence long short story about the object next to you. (x)

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Write down 10 words that describe your MC. (x)

Write a micro story about an unusual love. (x)

Explain your MCs motivation in 3 sentences. (x)

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Write a 5 sentence long short story from three different perspectives. (x)

What nicknames does your MC have and who gave them to them? (x)

Write a new piece of lore for your WIP. (x)

Write a micro story about someone saying "thank you". (x)

Write about one your OC's tattoos or someone getting one done. (x)

What do you admire about your MC? (x)

Write the dialogue for a scene that's been on your mind. (x)

Write a road trip scene. (x)

Write about your MCs favourite outfit. (x)

Write about something that you can see from your window. (x)

Write about a normal day in your MC's life. (x)

Write 100 words today. It doesn't matter about what. (x)

Write a funny scene. (x)

Write down everything on your mind for five minutes. (x)

Write about your OC's first meeting. (x)

Write a scene in a grocery store. (x)

Write a micro story about an artist and their muse. (x)

Write an end scene, without the beginning. (x)

Write 10 sentences for your WIP right now. (x)

Write an angsty scene.

Write a screaming match.

Write a micro story about a failed adventure.

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[writing-prompt-s]

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

[sadoeuphemist]

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

[sameenbyhat]

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

[stu-pot]

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

[willow7rosenberg]

❤️❤️❤️

[katsdom]

[ysl123]

[awkward-fink]

The mission doesn’t fail loudly.

There’s no final stand, no heroic last transmission. Just a wrong turn, a sealed street, radios choking on fizzy sounding static for barely a few minutes. By the time Alejandro realizes Rudy isn’t behind him anymore, the alley is empty except for shell casings and drifting smoke.

Rodolfo Parra disappears in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The gang doesn’t know who they’ve taken at first.

They find out quickly enough.

Operators don’t stay missing. They come with consequences—airstrikes, interrogations, cities turned inside out. Keeping Rudy close is a liability, and liabilities get sold. Quickly.

So they move him fast and as far away as they can. No names. No paperwork. Just a cash exchange with a broker who asks one question only:

Can he fight?

The answer earns them more money than they’ve ever seen.

Rudy wakes up underground.

Alejandro tears the city apart looking for him.

At first it’s methodical—contacts leaned on, safehouses breached, familiar pressure points squeezed until information bleeds out. Then it stops being clean. Las Almas shudders in its bones of stone.

People vanish. Buildings burn. The city learns a new kind of fear, one with a calm voice and dead eyes. Alejandro stops reporting in on time. Stops listening when Price tells him to slow down.

Every lead ends the same way.

Nothing.

Rudy is a ghost.

And Alejandro is unraveling.

The break comes from Nikolai.

Not a miracle. Not a confession. Just a scrap of digital filth scraped from the dark corners of the internet—a grainy video passed hand to hand among gamblers who prefer their violence personal.

The footage shakes. Torchlight flickers against ancient stone. A cage fills the frame, bars bent and rusted, the floor slick with old blood and other fluids that are long since dried.

The man inside barely looks human.

Bare torso wrapped in dirty bandages. Face swollen beyond recognition. One eye sealed shut, the other burning with something that refuses to go out. He staggers, gets knocked down, spits blood onto the stone—

—and gets back up.

Alejandro doesn’t need confirmation. The burning in his chest is answer enough.

“That’s him,” he says.

No one argues.

Nikolai works fast. Architecture. Drainage. Old maps. The answer settles like a death sentence.

Prague. The catacombs beneath the city.

[awkward-fink]

the inner Fight

Do you wake the Baby to Change His diapers

Or do you let him sleep (finally) in His slowly filling Attachment?

And all rolling through my head IS, wwdd? What would Dadler do?

[motzglorp]

Darlings, please remember that almost all stories have been told before and will be told again.

Especially in fanfiction.

Especially when you have a circle of writers you follow who get inspiration from each other.

Does it feel sometimes that you read the exact same story somewhere else? Yes.

Does it feel 'copied' from another work? Also yes.

Is that because the person steals from others? No.

Because when you write very specific tropes it feels all the same because we want exactly that thing that is the same in every story. It always happens. Unless someone is actively working on their writing skills and develops original characters and plot it will happen again. Sometimes you don't even notice you wrote something almost identical. Sometimes one writer writes the same story again and again, especially when they write a lot.

So unless you have actual proof, stop accusing people of stealing other people's work.

[awkward-fink]

Imagine

Rudy gets taken in a Mission gone wrong and because the local Gangs know exactly that they will have Problems If they keep him Close they sell him to an Underground fighting Pit, to someone with Bad Connection to TF 141 maybe. More Money, one of the problems gone, whats not to like about that Idea?

And Ale is going berserk, cant find Rudy, tears apart the whole City without success, getting increasingly desperate and violent. Calling contacts without any hints, the poor man slowly bowing under the Stress.

until Niks Network finds a grainy Picture or Video of a very bloody Cage Fight in the catacombs of Praha.

[awkward-fink]

I Am!

Back at home.

But Boy that was and is a hard backslap. Baby and I are mostly ok, even though it evolved into an emergency c-section.

Which, IS Not nice.

I am still healing, but as soon as I get my shit together and a bit more organized, I want to start writing again.

Lots of Love

[awkward-fink]

Honey, my water just broke...

Captain John Price

Price is the picture of calm under fire — but this? This short-circuits the man.

He hears, “John… I think my water just broke,” and for a split second he freezes like someone yanked the power cord out of him.

The next second? MILITARY COMMAND MODE ENGAGED.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t panic. His voice drops into that steady, low captain tone. “Alright, love. I’m right here. We’re going.”

He has a go-bag already in the closet, sorted by trimester, labeled, and repacked monthly.

He puts a hand on the small of your back the whole time, guiding but not rushing.

Drives with terrifyingly smooth efficiency (he absolutely uses the “captain voice” to cut through traffic politely when some asshat tries to judge his driving style).

Inside, he’s a soft, molten mess whispering:

“We’re about to meet our kid… bloody hell.”

But outside? Unshakable, gnarly oak tree.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Ghost does NOT panic.

He malfunctions.

The mask can’t hide the instant, wide-eyed oh no that hits him like a shockwave.

He just… stares at you for a solid 4 seconds.

“…Now?”

You nod, breathing hard as you look onto the now shiny floor beneath you.

“…Right. Right. Right then.”

And he moves.

Scoops up the hospital bag like it weighs nothing.

One arm around your waist, steady, grounding and oh so gentle.

Checks doors, keys, car, everything in a ruthless efficiency loop.

But every minute or so?

He mutters under his breath:

“Bloody hell… it’s happening… it’s really happening…”

He’s not scared for himself — he’s scared of not being perfect for you. He stays glued to your side at the hospital, silent, protective, massive hand wrapped around yours the whole time. Dont worry Luv, you can break it if you want to.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Soap goes straight into:

“OH—OKAY—OKAY—WE GOT THIS—OH JESUS—OKAY—”

He’s not useless. Not entirely. He’s just loud. Bolts upright like he’s been shot.

Immediately drops whatever he’s holding.

Tries to put his jacket on but somehow gets both arms into the same sleeve.

Then he sees your face — and instantly calms down.

“Right. Aye. I’m with ye. Deep breaths. We’re good.”

He shifts into hyper-focused soldier mode, but with the eyes of a guy who is 92% sure he’s about to cry from joy.

He keeps making little jokes to keep you relaxed:

“Hey, remember t’ breathe, lass. I cannae be the only one hyperventilatin’ here.”

He will absolutely tear up the moment you’re in the car.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Gaz is the perfect mix of:

extremely prepared

extremely soft

extremely overwhelmed on the inside

When you tell him your water broke, he straightens up like he’s about to salute the queen or like someone told him Manchester was disqualified from the next big chapionsleague.

“Okay. Okay. We’re ready. We’re good. I rehearsed this.”

He did rehearse it. Multiple times.

There’s a checklist taped to the fridge. He memorized it.

But the moment he helps you into the car, he squeezes your hand and whispers:

“I’ve got you. We’re doing this together.”

He talks to you the whole way, keeping you calm, keeping himself calm, grounding everything with warm, steady presence. He calls Price on the way, voice steady but shaking slightly.

He doesn’t break until later, when he holds the baby. Then he absolutely cries. Thankfully the nurses take a picture for you of this.