#kirisjournal

[kirisjournal]

Hii, could you do Angst for John Price? I have this idea like, you keep pursuing him, youre like very infatuated for him, but one day,after getting rejected again, you give up finally, and he regrets it, its ok if not,just wanted to like share

awh of course! thank you ever so kindly for your request, lovely ♡ i went with a gender-neutral reader this time—just to keep the story open, wide as the sky, for anyone who might need to slip into it quietly. i hope it wraps around you gently, like something soft and familiar. ♡

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🕰️ not yours to keep

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call of duty: john price x gn!reader

summary: you hadn’t meant to fall for him. not really. not out loud. it started quiet—between early drills and shared silences, buried beneath routine and rank. you were just steady. kind. someone who stayed. and maybe that was the problem. you cared too much and said too little, until one day you asked.

setting: base corridors and debriefing rooms. the hum of fluorescent lights. quiet nights outside john’s quarters. the sharp scent of gun oil and missed chances.

warnings: lowercase prose, gender-neutral!reader, reader is military, unspoken pining, repeated rejection, emotional ache, soft confession, mutual care but missed timing, reader stops trying, quiet regret, no y/n used,

word count: 2.08k

note: this one aches. for anyone who’s ever reached out with soft hands only to be met with silence. for the ones who stayed kind, even when it hurt. and for the people who realized too late what they’d pushed away. thank you for being here ♡

my inbox is always open ♡♡

part one | part two | part three

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you hadn’t meant to fall for him.

it started like everything else did, in the hush between orders and the grit of early morning drills—one moment bleeding into the next, too blurred to name. there were rules. structure. a chain of command. and at the top of yours stood captain john price, solid as a stone wall, voice like the edge of gravel, eyes that held entire wars.

he was your superior. and you respected him—deeply, fully, enough to make your palms go still when he passed by, enough to know the way he carried his stress like weight in his shoulders. but somewhere along the line, something shifted. not loudly. not all at once. just… a quiet tilt. the way gravity sometimes pulls without you realizing until you're already falling.

it started small.

a glance held a little too long. a question asked just to hear his voice. a joke softened by affection you didn’t name out loud.

he didn’t notice at first—not really. not in the way you meant for him to. john price was used to attention, after all. to looks and interest and the weight of someone else's want brushing against his skin like static. but yours was different. slower. quieter. not a spotlight, but a lantern left glowing on the porch—just in case he ever wanted to come home to something warm.

you weren’t careless with it.

you didn’t throw yourself at him. didn’t flirt the way other people did.

but god, you cared.

you stayed late when you didn’t have to. cleaned up after briefings even when it wasn’t your mess. your gaze lingered longer than it should’ve when he wasn’t looking. a presence he could always count on, even if he never asked for it. a tether in the dark.

and sometimes—just sometimes—you let your voice soften when you spoke to him, as if he might hear all the things you couldn’t say yet.

he called you by name in that low, rough voice like gravel under soft rain. sometimes with a chuckle. sometimes with a sigh. but always—always with a gentleness he didn’t use for everyone.

and still, when you asked—quietly, carefully, maybe we could grab dinner sometime?—he said no.

not cruelly. not sharply. just… no.

it wasn’t rejection, not outright. just careful avoidance. silence that filled the gaps where something else might’ve bloomed. he never treated you harshly. never snapped or pulled rank in anger. but you could feel the line—barbed and invisible—wrapped tight around your ribs every time you got too close.

you thought maybe, just maybe, if you were patient—he’d step over it.

but the third time you tried… it broke you.

it was late. deployment had been rough. days without proper sleep. the kind of exhaustion that sat behind your eyes and made your heart feel too full.

it wasn’t planned. nothing that soft ever was. it had been a rough op—mud thick in your boots, lungs still tight from the sprint to exfil, adrenaline cooling in your bloodstream like ash. and there he was. captain john price. solid and familiar in the aftermath, standing just outside the hangar with his hands braced on his hips, sweat drying at his temples. he looked tired. so did you.

but you’d seen something, back there. the way he barked your name over comms when the building collapsed. the way he’d grabbed your vest with both hands once you got out, like he needed to be sure you were still here. it echoed behind your ribs long after the dust settled.

so, stupidly, softly—you let it slip.

“you ever think,” you said, barely louder than the wind, “what it might be like? if this was… something else?”

there was a pause. brief, but heavy.

and then he turned.

his gaze landed on you with a sharpness that knocked the air from your lungs. not cruel, not even surprised—just… alert. eyes narrowed slightly, brow creasing in a way that felt like it cracked something deep inside you. something you’d been keeping held together with silence and hope.

“what are you askin’?” he said—quiet, low. unreadable in the way only someone who’s had to bury everything soft can be.

you swallowed hard.

the words caught on the edge of your throat like barbed wire. you couldn’t quite meet his eyes, couldn’t bear to see the rejection already beginning to form there.

“i mean…” your voice faltered, barely holding its shape. “if i wasn’t under your command. if we met somewhere else—normal. quieter. would you… would you even think about it? about us?”

for a second, it felt like the whole world held its breath.

but he didn’t.

he exhaled slowly. steady. then shook his head, just once.

“don’t,” he said, and the word was soft—almost tender. not sharp. not angry. just… final.

“you don’t want to walk that road.”

and he meant it.

not because he didn’t care. but because maybe he did—and that made it worse. because that road, the one you were trying to follow him down, only led to pain. to impossible choices. to all the things soldiers aren’t allowed to keep.

you tried to laugh. tried to let it pass like a stray gust of wind, like rain on armor.

but it didn’t slide off. it sank in. settled in your chest like a bruise just beneath the skin—deep enough to ache, too quiet to scream.

you didn’t bring it up again.

not for a long time.

not until months had passed. until the silence between you stopped feeling safe and started feeling suffocating. until every empty hallway felt colder without his presence, and every glance he spared you felt like a lifeline you couldn’t keep holding onto.

you started seeing him everywhere—in the echo of boots on metal grates, in the way your name sounded when he said it like it mattered.

and eventually… it just became too much.

you couldn’t hold it anymore. you’d spent so long trying to be quiet, respectful, restrained—trying to be what he needed, even if it meant burying what you felt.

but now? now, the distance was no longer protection. it was punishment. and some part of you still hoped… maybe he just needed a sign. maybe he was afraid. maybe if you met him halfway, he’d finally take a step forward.

so you gathered what little courage you had left.

and you tried… one more time.

it was late again—always late, always quiet in the way only a base could be after the sun went down and the boots stopped echoing. there was a particular stillness to the place at night, the kind that seemed to pull all the noise inward, leaving the air too heavy, too expectant. like the walls themselves were waiting for something to be said that hadn’t yet been spoken.

you stood outside his quarters, the corridor around you dim and silent except for the low hum of distant machinery and the occasional creak of the structure settling into itself. your arms were crossed tight over your chest—not because you were cold, but because your hands didn’t quite know where else to go.

there was a tremor beneath your skin. not nervousness, exactly. something quieter. heavier. the kind of ache that came from carrying something alone for too long.

your boots felt rooted to the floor. your tongue thick in your mouth. but still—you raised your hand. knocked. waited.

when the door opened, the warm glow of a desk lamp spilled out into the hallway, brushing your face with light. and there he was. john. standing behind the threshold, surprised to see you—not because you were there, but because you’d said his name without the rank. without the armor.

“john.”

his name left your lips like something you weren’t supposed to say. not because it was forbidden—but because it was real. and maybe that made it harder.

his eyes—those steady, sharp, sea-colored eyes—found yours immediately. he was caught off guard —not just by the suddenness of your voice, but by the way you said his name, stripped of formality. no captain. no sir.

just… john.

and for a moment, neither of you said anything. the silence stretched long and uncertain, but not uncomfortable. not yet.

you stepped inside at his small nod, and the door clicked softly shut behind you. he looked at you like he always did—measured, quiet, that edge of wariness he never quite let go of, even in the safest places. you stood across from him, arms still folded, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

“i keep telling myself to stop,” you said, your voice soft. raw. you weren’t sure if it was from the mission you’d just returned from or from the weeks and months leading up to this moment. “but i can’t seem to stop caring. about you.”

your confession didn’t fill the room. it settled into it. like dust on polished steel.

his jaw tensed, that familiar twitch of restraint rippling beneath his expression. his hands—always steady, always sure—folded together in front of him like he was trying to keep them from betraying something.

he didn’t look away. didn’t retreat. but the weight in his gaze shifted.

“you’re a good soldier,” he said after a long pause. the words landed with more force than they should have. “smart. steady. dependable.”

you blinked once. felt your chest tighten, but you didn’t flinch.

“but not enough?” you asked, even though you knew the answer before he could give it. you just needed to hear it anyway. maybe to prove to yourself that your instincts had been right all along.

he shook his head slowly, stepping toward the desk but not sitting. he couldn’t seem to stay still. something about your presence made the room feel too small.

“it’s not that,” he said. and his voice—normally so even, so command-sharp—sounded a little unsteady. like it cost him something to say what came next. “it’s because i’m your captain. and this—” he gestured between the two of you with a tired hand, as if that might capture the mess of everything unspoken, “it wouldn’t be right. not for you. not for me.”

you stared at him for a moment. took in the lines of his face, the crease in his brow, the stubborn set of his mouth that you’d once thought you could soften.

“so you’d rather pretend it’s not there?” your voice wasn’t angry. it was quieter than that. hollowed out by exhaustion and quiet ache.

he exhaled, the sound low and weighted.

“i’d rather protect you.”

and there it was. the real reason. not cruelty. not fear. just the unbearable need to keep you safe—even if that meant hurting you now, to avoid hurting you worse later.

your arms dropped to your sides. your fingers curled once, then stilled. you looked at him like maybe, if you stared long enough, he’d change his mind. say he regretted it. that it wasn’t true. that he wanted you, too. but he didn’t.

your voice was barely a breath. “maybe i don’t want protecting.”

he didn’t answer right away. just watched you, his expression unreadable.

“i know,” he murmured at last. softer than you’d ever heard him. “but i do.”

and that was it. the end of the line.

you didn’t try again.

after that, you did what soldiers do—you buried it. packed it up like an old injury. you kept showing up. kept your uniform crisp, your reports clean. you spoke when spoken to. you stood when he entered the room. but that softness? that shimmer of something beneath the words?

gone.

you were still loyal. still sharp. but colder. quieter. not out of spite—just survival. you weren’t built to keep chasing something that would never reach back.

and he—

he felt the difference. every damn day.

in the way you stopped looking at him like he was more than a uniform. in how you smiled at others but never him. in the hollow space you used to fill with small kindnesses, with warmth, with hope.

he’d told himself it was the right thing. the honorable thing. drawing a line before either of you got hurt.

but now, with nothing left between you but distance and rank—he wasn’t so sure.

because no one else looked at him the way you did.

and now no one did at all.

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[kirisjournal]

🧢 on the other end

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kyle “gaz” garrick x male!reader

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

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

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

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

word count: 5k

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

my inbox is always open ♡♡

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

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

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

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

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

and you—

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

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

but he makes it so easy.

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

and then the mission goes wrong.

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

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

but none of them settle your nerves.

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

your pulse starts to climb, slow and steady.

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

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

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

just empty air.

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

still nothing.

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

your voice cuts sharper now. louder. more urgent.

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

but the line stays quiet.

dead.

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

and then— a flicker. a flicker of static.

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

and you hear it.

“...under fire—two down—pinned—fuck—”

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

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

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

then, over the line—barely audible:

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

and something in you breaks.

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

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

not gonna make it.

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

as a goodbye.

and that— that’s what shatters you.

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

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

just sit there. just listen.

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

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

you whisper, voice broken.

“no. you don’t get to say goodbye.”

and then you’re moving.

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

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

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

but this?

this is a battlefield.

and you don’t belong out there.

not by training. not by rank.

but that doesn’t stop you.

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

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

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

you don’t look back.

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

and you refuse to let that be the end.

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you hit the ground running.

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

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

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

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

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

gunfire cracks in the distance. not far now.

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

but still— you press on.

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

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

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

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

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

your breath stutters.

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

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

and yet—here you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then—movement.

another figure. closer. faster.

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

he’s trained. practiced.

you are not.

but you move anyway.

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

you don’t wait.

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

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

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

and then—

a blur of motion. a flash of silver.

pain.

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

he twists it.

you almost black out.

but you don’t. you can't.

you’re not done.

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

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

you yank it out.

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

you can’t.

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

it’s not graceful.

it’s not clean.

but it’s final.

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

you lie there for a breath. two.

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

he’s dead. you’re not.

that’s what matters.

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

on where he is.

you stare too long.

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

your chest heaves. your ears are ringing.

you’re not proud of it.

but you’re not sorry either.

because he was going to take something from you.

someone.

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

you don’t even get the chance to breathe.

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

a hundred times before.

he’s trained. and he’s armed.

and suddenly—you are the one being hunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t know if you can.

but you don’t have time to doubt yourself.

so you move.

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

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

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

you feel it hit.

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

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

so you stab again.

and again.

until he stops moving.

until his grip loosens.

until his eyes roll somewhere beyond you.

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

he's still now.

and you don’t move for a moment.

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

not now.

not when he’s still out there.

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

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

but you’re still upright.

you’re still moving.

and he’s still waiting.

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

and toward the one that matters.

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

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

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

but none of it matters.

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

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

you don’t stop until you find him.

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

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

but then—he stirs.

barely.

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

alive.

he’s alive.

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

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

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

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

and then, finally, something clicks.

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

then, like a prayer:

“wait.. [name]?"

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

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

“yeah. it’s me.”

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

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

just full of something quiet and aching.

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

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

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

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

real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you don’t look away.

and neither does he.

not once.

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

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

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

gaz woke slow.

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

and then he saw you.

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

you.

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

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

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

his hand was curled in yours.

something caught in his throat.

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

that you’d bled for him.

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

and still, you held his hand.

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

john price stepped into the medbay.

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

then he saw you.

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

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

just weight.

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

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

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

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

john looked at you for a long time.

then, slowly, nodded.

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

your brows pulled together, uncertain. “sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

and then—

his fingers moved.

slow. tentative.

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

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

not with confusion.

not with fear.

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

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

he just needed you.

and you were here.

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

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

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

the door shut behind him with a quiet click.

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

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

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

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

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

“was hoping for that,” he said softly.

your throat burned.

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

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

only him.

only you.

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

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

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

it was you.

real. here.

and he wasn’t letting go.

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

[kirisjournal]

👻 against all odds

| call of duty masterlist | tf141 masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

simon “ghost” riley x male!reader

summary: your new assignment was supposed to be clean—brief intel handoff, temporary field shadowing, minimal drama. but then he walks in. and you freeze. and so does he. simon “ghost” riley. older. harder. wearing that mask like it belongs to him. you haven’t seen each other since training. since barracks rooms and bruised knuckles and lines crossed that never got spoken out loud.

setting: a blacksite briefing room carved deep into concrete. no windows. no warmth. the lights buzz overhead with sterile indifference. scattered chairs, battered files, half-drained mugs of coffee left behind by ghosts of ops past. the projector hums low in the background. 141’s already seated when the door opens again—just as you step in, cool and unbothered, the new intel liaison. and across the room, simon riley goes still.

warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, past situationship/romantic tension, ghosts of youth, mutual surprise, unspoken history, heavy eye contact, shared past from SAS days, nothing resolved (yet), tension you could bottle and sell, first meeting after years apart

word count: 0.7k

note: this one’s haunted in the best way. i wanted something that feels like an open wound still pulsing under the skin. they’ve both changed—but some things don’t. the way they look at each other. the history they don’t talk about. the weight of what never got said. this is the kind of reunion that’s quiet—but shakes something loose.

also: soap absolutely clocked the vibe immediately and started texting gaz under the table like “👀 bro they knew each other. bet on exes. bet.”

my inbox is always open ♡♡

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

it starts with the door opening.

you’re already seated—arms crossed, one leg slung casually over the other, boredom etched into your posture like an artform. the blacksite’s briefing room is colder than necessary, lit by that fluorescent hum that makes your eyes ache if you stare too long at the concrete walls.

it smells like burnt coffee and leftover adrenaline. files are scattered across the metal table. the projector is halfway through loading a satellite overlay you’ve already memorized.

you don't look up at first.

your new team—the infamous task force 141—is scattered across the room in various stages of alertness. soap’s chatting with gaz in low tones, price stands near the back, reading something off a clipboard. the air’s thick with that military blend of tension and familiarity—gritty and worn-in, like an old boot.

then the door opens. and everything stills.

you look up lazily, expecting another analyst. maybe another operator you’ll have to win over. instead—

him.

ghost.

your breath catches. subtly. invisibly. but it does.

he steps inside and stops cold when he sees you.

for a second—just a second—everything in his posture falters. a hesitation in the way his shoulders rise. in the way his boot hangs mid-step. you could miss it if you didn’t know him.

but you do. or… you did.

the mask hides most of his face, but not his eyes. those are the same. sharp. tired. unblinking. staring at you like you’ve stepped out of a memory he wasn’t prepared to relive.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

but the silence that follows isn’t casual. it’s weighted. like a file someone meant to burn but never did.

and then—quietly, dryly, like it doesn’t punch the air out of your lungs—he speaks.

“…you made it out alive. damn.”

your lips twitch, betraying the smallest of smiles. it doesn’t reach your eyes, but it’s not fake either.

“so did you,” you say. “against all odds.”

there’s something close to amusement behind his mask. or maybe you’re just projecting. hard to tell after all this time. you lean back in your chair and stretch your legs out slightly, suddenly aware of every set of eyes in the room watching the exchange like a tennis match.

soap shifts beside gaz. you hear a whisper: “they know each other.” “obviously, mate.”

ghost doesn’t acknowledge them. his gaze is locked on you. assessing. remembering. you do the same.

he’s different now. broader, more grounded. colder in posture, but not in presence. there’s more stillness to him than there used to be. he used to move like a firework waiting to go off. now he moves like a storm that's already passed through something and left it ruined.

you wonder what changed him. you wonder if you were part of it.

price clears his throat in the corner, pulling the room back to order with a subtle, practiced shift of authority.

“you two know each other, then?”

ghost doesn’t answer. you do.

“ghosty and i trained together. sas intake.” you say it lightly, as if it’s not heavy. as if it didn’t cost you both more than you want to admit.

soap’s eyebrows are halfway to his hairline. gaz’s mouth forms a quiet ohhh. price just nods, like that’s one more piece on the board he was waiting to confirm.

ghost doesn’t move. doesn’t confirm. doesn’t deny.

you rise slowly, stretching your spine, and step toward the table to pull the briefing files toward you. you don’t look at simon again—but you feel him. like static at the edge of your reach.

“i’ll be handling intel handoffs for the next stretch,” you say, professional now, polished. “you get me your recon, i get you answers.”

price hums. satisfied. “he’s good,” he says to the room, nodding in your direction. “sharp. doesn’t miss much.”

you smile without teeth. “don’t plan to.”

ghost still hasn’t sat down. hasn’t looked away. but something in his shoulders loosens. just a little. just enough.

and maybe that’s it. maybe that’s all either of you will say about it. not the nights in shared bunks. not the bleeding knuckles. not the way he touched your jaw once like he wasn’t sure if it was a mistake or a promise.

just that you both made it out alive. damn.

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

[kirisjournal]

👻 the quiet one

| call of duty masterlist | tf141 masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

simon "ghost" riley x female!reader

summary: you’re the last one in the gym, bruising your knuckles against a heavy bag that won’t talk back. there’s too much noise in your head and nowhere to put it but here—sweat, fists, silence. but then he’s there. doesn’t speak. doesn’t interrupt. just steadies the bag like it’s second nature, like he knows.

setting: a battered comms tent clinging to the edge of a forward operating base. inside, it’s a graveyard of broken tech and dying batteries—folding tables littered with tools, wires, and burnt-out transmitters. the storm outside never stops. dust seeps in through every crack. overhead lamps stutter in and out of life. it smells like heat and metal and too many hours without rest. the only thing still working is you.

warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, battlefield exhaustion, tension, ghost being ghost, passive-aggressive flirting, reader is done, ghost is curious, beginnings of a slow burn, mutual respect through mild hostility, just the hint of something more

word count: 1.6k

note: this one’s for the version of ghost who shows up silent and pissed and leaves you with more questions than answers. i wanted to write a meeting that doesn’t start with sparks, but static—all crackling comms and shorted wires, something brittle that could become something electric. reader’s tired. ghost’s calculating. no one’s impressed. but maybe—maybe—something’s there. just under the dust.

also: price definitely got the incident report and immediately muttered “for fuck’s sake” before pretending it didn’t make him proud.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

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

it’s late. the kind of late that sinks into your bones. past the time for drills or debriefs, past even the night patrols and stragglers that drift through the base like ghosts in worn boots and half-zipped jackets.

the gym’s nearly silent, save for the faint electrical hum of overhead lights and the rhythmic, dull thud of your fists meeting canvas.

the air is thick, warm in a way that clings—not humid, but heavy, like every breath you take is filtered through old sweat and rubber mats. your gloves are soaked through. your shoulders ache with the kind of deep, rhythmic burn that borders on soothing, if only because it drowns out the rest of you. time stopped mattering twenty punches ago. your thoughts stopped mattering even earlier.

all that’s left is the sound of your own breathing—shallow, sharp, in time with every strike. it’s the only thing that hasn’t failed you tonight.

you hit the bag again. and again. and again.

each impact echoes into the hollow of the room, bouncing off high ceilings and empty bleachers. not a soul in sight. not even the night crew. you’re alone, just the way you wanted. or thought you wanted.

you don’t even know what exactly you’re mad at anymore.

it started earlier, somewhere between the meeting room and the comms tower—something stupid. one of the officers with a clipboard and too much authority waved off your concerns like you were nothing but background noise. “just logistics,” they said. as if the satellites aligned themselves. as if the radios ran on hope.

you knew better than to rise to it. you always do. you’re good at swallowing it down, letting it go. but something about today... it lodged itself under your skin. settled there like splinters.

so here you are. bruising your knuckles against a target that won’t talk back.

you plant your feet, exhale sharp through your nose, and drive your fist straight into the bag’s center. then do it again. again. harder. it’s not clean technique anymore—it’s need. frustration given form.

and then—

something shifts.

it’s not the air, not the sound. nothing loud. just a feeling. like gravity changed its mind.

a new weight settles over the room. thick. grounded. not threatening, but not ignorable either. it wraps around you, coils at the base of your neck. presence.

out of instinct, your eyes flick sideways—just briefly, just enough.

there’s someone standing at the edge of the mat. just beyond the reach of the flickering lights. tall. broad. arms crossed. still as stone. you can’t make out the details at first—just black gear, a looming outline.

but the mask gives him away.

white. bone. stretched in that permanent grin that’s never once meant humor.

your pulse stutters. just for a second.

you don’t stop moving, but your rhythm falters. not out of fear, exactly. not even surprise. just the quiet, unsettling awareness that he’s watching.

ghost.

you’ve seen him around the base—always just out of reach. part rumor, part warning. most people avoid getting too close. and yet, here he is. watching you in the half-light.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t shift his weight. doesn’t interrupt. just waits.

so you keep going. fists back into motion. the thud of impact louder now, somehow, with him standing there. like he’s absorbing the sound. listening without reacting.

until he moves.

he steps forward—slow, deliberate, like someone who’s never once hesitated a day in his life. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask. just raises one gloved hand and places it on the bag to steady it.

your body stills almost instinctively. you blink through sweat as your breath catches at the back of your throat. you don’t flinch. but you feel the difference. the bag doesn’t swing anymore. his hold is firm—solid enough to hold your weight, if you needed it to.

“…you know, most people leave me alone when i’m in this mood,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you meant. it comes out low and scratchy, carved down by hours of silence and unspoken anger.

he tilts his head slightly, but doesn’t let go. his voice, when it comes, is soft—but not gentle. not soft the way most people mean. it scrapes just a little, carries that northern grit that makes everything sound a touch too real.

“someone piss you off a little extra today?”

a huff of a breath escapes you. half a laugh, maybe. maybe not. it doesn’t reach your eyes. “could be.”

he nods. once. doesn’t ask for details. doesn’t offer any either.

his hand stays firm on the bag as you throw another punch. and another. and another. the rhythm changes with him there—less chaotic, more focused. the resistance feels better now. like you’re actually getting somewhere. like he’s sharing the weight of what you’ve been holding on your own.

you don’t speak again, and neither does he. not for a while. he just holds. stays. lets you burn the last of it out.

eventually, your arms begin to tremble. your knuckles throb, and your lungs start dragging at the air like they’ve been starved of it. you let your hands drop, finally, chest heaving, jaw tight.

he still doesn’t move. not until you glance over at him. not until you meet his eyes—what little you can see of them.

they’re sharp, yes. but not cold. not cruel. just... watchful. maybe even something close to understanding buried in the shadows of his gaze.

“…you box?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

“not well,” he replies, almost immediately.

you raise a brow. “you hold a bag like you do.”

“i watch people. pick things up.”

you huff softly. “hm.”

you don’t thank him. not yet. maybe not tonight.

but you step back. peel off your gloves. stretch your arms out and let the tension ease from your spine. your body aches. your hands sting. the anger’s dulled now, like a fire that finally ran out of oxygen.

you grab your water bottle and sink onto the nearby bench, letting your head fall back against the wall.

and still—he doesn’t leave.

he lingers. quiet. unmoving. maybe just for a minute. maybe longer.

you don’t question it.

you just let the silence settle between you like dust.

and for the first time all day, you feel like you’re not carrying the whole damn thing alone.

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

[kirisjournal]

🕰️ wrong place , right time

| call of duty masterlist | tf141 masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

call of duty: john price x gn!reader

summary: you step into the wrong pub on a cold night, and all the wrong eyes turn to look at you—until his voice cuts through the silence and offers you a place at his table. something about him feels like safety wrapped in storm-weathered steel.

setting: a small, military-frequented pub somewhere in the uk; late evening; cold outside, warm and tense inside.

warnings: minor tension, military presence, implied age gap, protective behavior, strangers-to-something, slow-burn undertones, lowercase prose

word count: 0.9k

note: for the ones that always end up in the wrong place at the right time. who’ve been looked at like they didn’t belong—until someone made space without needing to ask. and for the ones who never expected kindness to come wrapped in calloused hands and a steady voice.

also: he’s warm. he’s tired. he’s already watching out for you without knowing why. you’re gonna fall. slowly, then all at once. also also: the seat next to him stays open next week, too.

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

you hadn’t meant to wander in.

the door creaked behind you, its hinges tired and sticky with age, and the warmth of the bar rushed to meet your chilled skin—thick and slightly sour with the scent of spilled ale, damp coats, fried food, and cigarette smoke that clung to old wood like it had been there for decades.

it was the kind of place you might have liked, under different circumstances. quiet, low-lit. the kind of pub where the booths had deep cracks in the leather and every chair rocked just a little unevenly, like it knew how to sit with ghosts.

but as soon as you stepped inside, you felt it—that pause. that near-imperceptible shift in air pressure. conversation didn’t stop, not exactly. but it slowed. faltered. a few glances flicked up from pint glasses. from behind newspapers. heads turned slightly, just enough to clock you. and it was clear within moments: this was not your place.

you weren’t dressed like them. you didn’t walk like them. and worst of all—you’d hesitated.

you hovered just inside the doorway, letting your hands thaw by your sides, heart beginning to thump quietly beneath your coat. you weren’t sure whether to sit, backtrack, apologize, explain. the pub didn’t have signs, but the lines were drawn all the same.

then a voice, low and steady, came from your left.

“sit with me.”

it wasn’t a command, exactly. but it wasn’t a suggestion, either.

you turned your head slowly. he was tucked into the farthest corner booth, half-shadowed under the dim bulb above his table. sturdy shoulders beneath a dark jacket. thick forearms resting calmly on the tabletop. a pint of something amber between his fingers, held like he had nowhere else to be tonight.

he looked like he belonged in this place. in the way a foundation belongs beneath a house—silent, solid, keeping everything from collapsing.

“what?” you said, barely above the ambient hum of the room.

he nodded to the seat across from him, then jerked his chin ever so slightly toward the bar. “sit. trust me. not the kind of place you want to stand around lookin’ lost in.”

the room was still watching. not openly, but enough that the hair on the back of your neck was starting to rise.

so you did as he asked. you slid into the booth across from him, the seat warm from the radiators and patched with duct tape. the old wood table pressed against your coat zipper, and your knees brushed against something under the table—likely his boot, wide-set and unmoving.

you caught his gaze once you were settled. blue eyes—cool and unreadable, but not unkind. he took another sip from his glass before speaking again.

“that’s better. makes you look like you’re supposed to be here.”

“am i?” you asked, unsure if you were pushing your luck.

he let out a short huff of amusement. “for now.”

there was silence for a beat. the pub returned to its rhythm, conversation resuming in patches around the space, and the moment passed as quietly as it had arrived. it struck you, then, how easily he had shifted the attention off of you. no dramatics, no announcements. he’d simply taken it onto himself, just enough to shield you from whatever quiet scrutiny you’d walked into.

you leaned back slightly, shrugging off the last chill of the outside wind. “thank you,” you said finally. “i didn’t realize... this was one of those pubs.”

“not exactly posted on the door, is it?” he said, glancing sideways at the window, where the frost clung in gentle patches against the glass. “but yeah. lotta military in here. regulars, mostly. can be a bit territorial when a stranger walks in.”

you gave him a look. “and you’re not worried about breaking that territory line?”

“i’m not,” he said simply. “they won’t say anything to me.”

something about the way he said it—not boastful, not defensive, just certain—made your stomach flip a little.

you studied him for a moment, curiosity blooming slow and warm. his jacket was standard enough, plain and dark, but you could tell by the fit that it wasn’t cheap. the cap was pulled low over dark blond hair, beard trimmed, eyes steady and a little tired in the corners. a man who’d seen too much to be impressed by bar gossip.

“what’s your name?” you asked.

he hesitated, just for a second. then offered it. “price.”

“you ex-military?”

his mouth twitched—something like a smirk, but buried deep beneath years of restraint. “still am.”

you blinked. “and yet you invited a total stranger to your table.”

he tilted his head slightly. “you didn’t feel like a threat.”

“because i’m not?”

he looked at you for a long moment. his gaze dropped to your hands, the edge of your coat, the damp cuff of your sleeve. slow and assessing—but never inappropriate.

“no,” he said at last. “because you looked like someone who needed a seat more than i needed a quiet drink.”

that quietness fell again—not awkward, but full of something unspoken. something curious, waiting.

you nodded slowly, thumb trailing along the rim of the coaster in front of you.

“so,” he said, voice low and even, “you just out for a walk on a night like this?”

you glanced out the fogged window, where the dark glowed with amber streetlights and the wind rattled bare branches against the glass.

“guess the cold didn’t bother me as much until it did.”

he hummed, not pressing for more. you liked that.

“lucky for you,” he added after a moment, “my corner was free.”

you glanced at him, one brow lifted. “is that what this is? luck?”

he looked at you, then, properly. the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth. a breath of something just between interest and amusement.

“we’ll see,” he murmured.

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[kirisjournal]

🧢 call it luck, call it him

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call of duty: gaz x gn!reader

summary: the extraction was a mess. communications failed. your squad was split, and by the time the gunfire faded, you were alone—cut off in a forest where even the wind seemed to whisper wrong. when gaz found you, both of you raised your weapons out of instinct. what followed was banter, blood, and a slow, strange trust that rooted itself between bullet shells and broken branches. he helped you out—step by step, breath by breath—and never stopped smiling like it wasn’t the worst night of the whole month.

setting: dense woodland just past midnight—shadows thick, radio static rising, and adrenaline humming in your teeth. damp boots. flickering flashlights. quick glances that mean don’t stop walking.

warnings: lowercase prose, gender-neutral reader, different-unit!reader, field injury, emergency extraction, lost in enemy terrain, light wound detail, mild banter-to-bonding, adrenaline-fueled connection, no y/n used

word count: 0.5k

note: this is for the ones who keep going—who get lost but still find something worth carrying. something worth coming back to. i wrote this while listening to storm sounds and imagining footsteps beside mine in the dark. thank you for reading ♡

my inbox is always open for requests ♡♡

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the woods are too quiet.

not the kind of quiet that means peace—but the kind that hums like something is holding its breath. somewhere between your shoulder blades, tension coils. sharp. constant. and not for the first time tonight, you wonder if you’re being watched.

the moon is high but useless, all fog and tree shadow. your rifle’s not even yours—just something scavenged off a fallen comms operator in the chaos after the extraction call went to hell. your unit got scattered across the valley. you haven’t heard a voice on comms in six hours. no confirmation. no fallback. just static and blood.

you’re tired. hurt, maybe. you haven’t looked too hard at your thigh since you caught that shard of something sharp diving over a ridge. bandaged it in the dark. kept moving.

then—

brush shifts.

instinct overrules thought. you whip around, rifle up, stance tight. heart climbing straight into your throat.

“whoa—easy.”

the voice is low. british. calm in the way only practiced people sound—cool under pressure, like the gun you’re holding doesn’t bother him.

your grip tightens. you can barely see the man beyond your scope, but he’s standing still, hands raised, no threat in his posture. vest, helmet, gear that looks better than what you’ve seen all day.

"don’t sneak up on people in the woods, then," you snap.

he steps a bit closer—just enough to let the moon catch his face. dark skin, tactical paint smeared at the edges. familiar. not in a personal way, but from briefings. training footage. files.

gaz.

sergeant. task force 141.

you lower your rifle an inch.

"you always this friendly?" he asks, voice threaded with amusement.

"only when i’m lost, bleeding, and holding someone else’s gun."

he huffs a laugh. "you hit bad?"

"just nicked. doesn’t matter."

he gives you a look—somewhere between doubt and respect—and then steps forward with a nod. "come on, then. let’s get you out of here before something with more teeth than me finds you."

he doesn’t wait for permission. just turns and starts walking, flashlight angled toward the ground. not too bright. not too loud. you follow because what else is there to do?

for a while, neither of you speak. the only sounds are boots on wet earth and the distant crackle of something burning far off.

"i once got stuck in a swamp for eighteen hours," gaz says, casually. "thought a frog was a tripwire. screamed like a child."

it makes you bark a laugh. sharp. sudden. the kind that feels out of place in the dark.

"bet the frog was terrified."

"still has nightmares," he says solemnly. "little guy’s probably in therapy."

the path is rough. your leg screams every few steps. you don’t say anything. but gaz keeps looking back. subtle. checking your gait. making sure you’re still upright.

and eventually—

"you got a name?"

you tell him.

he says it back, like he’s trying it on. soft. thoughtful.

"well, [name]… glad you didn’t shoot me."

"still thinking about it."

he grins. offers you half his protein bar.

the base comes into view like a whisper. lights blurry through the trees. it doesn’t feel real. none of it does.

but he walks beside you until you’re close enough to smell hot metal and old oil and the comfort of people who are still alive.

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[kirisjournal]

🧢 proof in pressure

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call of duty: gaz x male!reader

summary: you’re new to the task force selection pool—quiet, sharp, and already drawing stares. gaz notices you the way he notices all potential—silently, carefully. after your third evaluation, he challenges you to a spar. it’s not about winning. it’s about recognition. when it ends, neither of you is down—but something’s shifted. maybe not trust. not yet. but the start of it.

setting: a british training facility, all steel beams and scuffed mats. filtered sun through dirty skylights. the quiet tension of a room full of men pretending they’re not watching everything unfold.

warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, military setting, task force selection, slow burn rivalry-to-something, mutual respect, tension in the ring, sharp silences, sweat-soaked trust, no y/n used

word count: 0.8k

note: this is for the ones who don’t speak first. the ones who prove themselves in silence, breath, and bruises. this story is thick with tension—the kind that doesn’t snap, but simmers. i wrote this with your heartbeat in my ear and your gloves on the mat. thank you for reading ♡

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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they don’t quite know what to do with you.

you’re new to the task force selection pool—a name freshly stamped on the roster, slotted between men with longer histories and louder reputations. you arrived without ceremony. no flashy intro, no stories passed around the bunks. just your gear, your silence, and a file full of combat evaluations marked with too many redacted lines.

still, it doesn’t take long for your presence to carve itself into the training facility.

you’re quiet. not in a shy way. it’s quieter than that. quieter like deep water. like the kind of silence you keep sharpened beneath your ribs. you don’t talk unless someone gives you a reason. and even then—your eyes do most of the work.

they all notice. not just because of how quiet you are—but how clean you move. hand-to-hand drills don’t look like drills when you step onto the mat. they look like necessity. like instinct trimmed down to its most violent edge. you don’t dance around opponents. you press into them. smother them. control the breath right out of their lungs before they know they’ve given it up.

after your second evaluation, people stop whispering and start watching.

and someone else watches, too.

gaz.

you know him. not personally—but in the way everyone knows him. the sergeant who doesn’t say much but never misses anything. always somewhere in the background. always watching the selection pool with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, like he’s assembling a puzzle piece by piece.

and today, he watches you.

you feel it the moment you get off the mat, your third match finished—your opponent flat on their back, groaning something halfway between disbelief and pain. you don’t show off. don’t gloat. just catch your breath and run a hand down your neck, wiping sweat onto the collar of your shirt..

and that’s when he speaks.

“you’re fast.”

you turn toward the voice. don’t flinch. don’t smile. just arch a brow and find him leaning casually against one of the load-bearing columns, his silhouette framed in dusty overhead light.

“you offering critique?” you ask, voice rough from exertion.

he gives a faint shrug. half a smile. “offering a spar.”

that… surprises you.

not because of the challenge itself, but because of who it’s coming from. this isn’t some candidate trying to prove themselves. this is gaz. the one whose nods make the difference between maybe and you’re in.

you don’t answer with words. just hold his gaze a second longer. then tilt your head toward the mat.

and that’s all it takes.

the mood in the room shifts.

a few of the other recruits catch on right away. one elbow nudges another. a whispered “holy shit, is that Gaz?” floats across the space. within seconds, the room starts to shift—trainees drifting in from the adjoining bay, slowing their cooldown drills, subtly circling the sparring mat like moths to a low-burning flame.

you notice. so does gaz.

neither of you acknowledges it.

you step onto the mat, jaw set, shoulders loose. gaz joins you, mirroring your stance with something quieter than confidence—more like precision wrapped in muscle and breath. he raises his hands. so do you.

and then—

movement.

you clash like magnets. controlled and brutal, every strike deliberate. your arms tangle. legs hook. gaz is quicker than you anticipated—fluid, sharp. you counter with force honed from fights that didn’t take place in any training facility. your elbow grazes his ribs. his knee nearly clips your thigh. your breath comes faster. sweat beads along your brow.

the crowd around you grows. murmurs ripple. but the world narrows.

you don’t see them. just him. just the next move. the next shift. the next place to land, to block, to break.

you grapple. twist. fall into a rhythm that feels less like competition and more like understanding. not a test of strength, but of awareness. survival. control.

when the spar ends, neither of you is on the ground. both breathing heavy. both slick with sweat and steel-eyed.

there’s no clear winner.

and maybe that’s the point.

gaz steps forward, claps a hand to your shoulder. it’s firm. solid.

“you fight like a damn ghost,” he says, almost breathless. almost… impressed.

you glance at him, chest still heaving. “you talk a lot.”

he laughs. and it’s real—low and rough and a little warm, the kind of sound that softens around the edges when you’ve earned it.

the crowd slowly begins to disperse, a few muttering things like “did you see that?” and “closest thing to a brawl we’ve had all month.” but you don’t pay them any mind. not really.

you step off the mat. reach for your towel. it’s warm from the sun, already damp from earlier drills. you toss it over your shoulder, slow and steady as you dry your face, then toss it again—this time onto the bench with a soft, final thud.

you don’t look back.

but you know he’s still watching.

and something inside you—something ragged, something old—settles a little. not peace. not yet.

but maybe… the start of it.

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[kirisjournal]

🕰️ hands too rough for ceramic

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call of duty: john price x female!reader

summary: rain softened the edges of the morning when john walked into your café—dripping, quiet, and carrying something heavier than the cold. you didn’t ask what brought him in. just offered warmth in the form of black coffee, and a smile that asked nothing in return.

setting: a small-town café stitched together with chipped mugs, lavender sachets, and the gentle hum of early mornings. rain tapping on windows, golden light filtering through steam, the hush of shared silence between strangers who might not be strangers forever.

warnings: lowercase prose, gender neutral reader, soft first meeting, civilian!reader, gentle tension, unspoken comfort, small kindnesses, no y/n used

word count: 1.07k

note: this one’s for the people who speak in soft gestures. for the tired men who linger a second too long. for the baristas who remember orders before names. i wrote this like a warm drink on a gray day, with the hope that someone out there is waiting for you with both hands. thank you for reading ♡

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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it begins the way most quiet, ordinary miracles do—so gentle, so unannounced you barely realize it’s happening until your breath catches a little differently.

rain taps gently against the café windows like a lullaby hummed by the morning itself. soft gray light pools on the counter where your elbows rest, and something warm curls between your hands—a chipped mug, familiar and comforting, steam rising like a secret between your fingers.

outside, the town hasn’t fully woken yet. the street glistens with fresh rain, slick and reflective, as if the sky bent down just to kiss it.

inside, the world feels stitched together with care.

the day begins not with chaos, but with small rituals—quiet motions wrapped in intention. you stack the scones just so in the glass display case, adjusting their angles like they’re crown jewels. you hum low under your breath while mopping a floor that will soon be wet again from bootprints and dripping umbrellas.

it doesn’t matter. this is part of the rhythm. this is how peace is built—slow, tender, and mostly invisible.

the café smells like honey and roasted espresso, warmed wood and a whisper of something floral. a trick of the tea blends, maybe, or the lavender sachet you keep tucked behind the register, a little offering to softness. you breathe it in. feel it settle beneath your ribs.

and then the bell above the door chimes.

not a sharp sound. not demanding. just… present. like the quiet turn of a page in a well-loved book.

your head lifts instinctively.

he steps in, bringing the weather with him. not storming through, but arriving—in the way that some people do, like the space was waiting for them. rain clings to the shoulders of a dark coat, heavy and soaked through. his boots leave soft impressions in the doormat, and there’s something else that lingers on him, too. not cologne, exactly. something cooler. cleaner. metal and earth and the faint burn of distant fire.

you know that scent. or maybe not the scent itself, but the kind of man it belongs to.

he’s tall—yes. broad across the chest, shoulders held in that specific kind of posture that comes not from pride but from habit. from weight. from years of being the one who steps forward when others fall back. but what you notice first isn’t his size.

it’s the stillness.

he doesn’t fidget. doesn’t shuffle like most people do when they walk into a place like yours, where warmth drips from every wall and time moves slow enough to feel.

instead, he just… takes it in. not like a guest, but like a soldier assessing the room. his gaze doesn’t linger on the soft wallpaper or the twinkle lights tucked into the corners. it flicks to the exits. the windows. the few other patrons. and finally—to you.

his eyes settle. blue. impossibly clear. not the sharpness of ice, but the depth of it. still water after a storm. the kind of look that says he’s seen things and never forgot a single one of them.

“mornin’,” he says, voice low—gravelly in the way old vinyl records are. worn smooth around the edges, but with weight behind it. measured. calm. like someone who doesn’t raise their voice unless it’s the last thing left.

“morning,” you say back, smiling despite yourself.

he nods toward the board overhead. “what’s good here?”

but he isn’t looking at the menu. he’s looking at you.

you tilt your head, tone playful but honest. “depends. sweet tooth or salt and grit?”

a quiet huff of a laugh escapes his nose. “bit o’ both, if I’m honest. but coffee—black. none of that syrup shite.”

you snort gently. turn toward the machine, already pulling a cup. “lucky for you, we ran out yesterday. i’ll spare you the trauma.”

a faint grin tugs at the corner of his mouth—barely there, but real. you can feel it even with your back turned. and when you glance over your shoulder, you catch him leaning against the counter. his gloves rest beside him, fingers twitching now and then, like they don’t know what to do when they’re not holding something heavy.

“passing through?” you ask. your voice is lighter than your thoughts, curious without pressing.

he nods once. “work,” he says.

it’s a simple answer. but you can hear the story buried underneath.

you don’t ask for more.

instead, you make the coffee. the hiss of steam fills the air, familiar and steady. when you set the cup down in front of him, your fingers brush his as he takes it.

they’re rough.

not in the way most people are rough from cold or labor. rough in the way soldiers are. hands that have held weight—real weight. not groceries or toolboxes, but something heavier. something final.

you don’t flinch.

“on the house,” you say.

his brows raise slightly. “do that for everyone?”

you shake your head. “just the ones who take it black.”

he smiles then—an actual smile this time. soft. brief. but real. and in that instant, you see it—the echo of youth he doesn’t wear anymore. not in his posture, not in his speech. but it’s still in there, tucked somewhere behind the lines etched at the corners of his eyes. the lines that weren’t there when he first began doing whatever it is he does now.

“name’s john,” he offers after a beat.

you give yours. and he repeats it.

and the way it sounds from his mouth makes your skin warm.

he steps back, offers one last nod, and turns toward the door. you watch him go—rain still catching on the edge of his coat. the bell above the frame rings as he pushes it open. the wind brushes through with him, stirring the scent of lavender and coffee one last time before the door swings shut.

and just like that, he’s gone.

but your heart hasn’t moved from where it paused in your chest.

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

later, long after you’ve wiped the counter again and restacked the scones, you’ll find yourself reaching for a takeaway cup. unthinking. automatic. you’ll scrawl his name across the sleeve in black marker, quiet as a breath.

not because you expect him.

but because something in you knows he’ll come back.

and when he does, you’ll be ready—with a cup in your hand and softness waiting behind your smile.

because he’s the kind of man who doesn’t ask for kindness.

and you?

you’re the kind of person who gives it anyway.

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[kirisjournal]

🧢 ashes and espresso

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call of duty: kyle 'gaz' garrick x female!reader

summary: when the town was bombed, you didn’t hesitate. civilian or not, you stepped up—volunteering to help in the makeshift clinic, patching wounds with trembling hands and stubborn defiance. the clinic wasn’t much—more tarp than walls, more dust than floor—but it was yours. and when gaz walked in, asking questions with those steady eyes, you didn’t expect the quiet that followed. or the coffee. or the way something warm lingered long after he was gone.

setting: a makeshift warzone clinic—blood-stiff sleeves, battered crates, tarp walls snapping in the wind. the scent of antiseptic clings to the air, and silence means someone is still breathing.

warnings: lowercase prose, female!reader, civilian medic reader, military setting, exhaustion, subtle comfort, first meetings, coffee offerings, soft mutual understanding, background violence, no y/n used (other than name) word count: 0.6k

note: this one is quiet. a slow-burning connection built between ash-stained uniforms and sore hands, where the gesture of sharing coffee says more than either of you can. if you’ve ever met someone and thought, oh—it’s you, even before you knew why, this one’s for you. thank you for reading ♡

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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the clinic was barely a building—more tarp than walls, more dust than floor.

broken beams leaned like ribs against cracked stone, and wind snuck through every gap with a sharpness that bit at your knuckles. there was blood dried beneath your fingernails. your sleeves were stiff with it—most of it not yours.

you didn’t look up when the boots approached. too many soldiers had passed through in the last twenty-four hours for you to flinch at every sound. too many voices barking commands and casualty reports and death counts like they were just numbers and not people you’d just finished stitching back together.

but the footsteps paused—deliberate. steady.

“this the clinic?” the voice was low. british. calm, but alert. careful in the way people were when they weren’t sure what they were walking into.

you glanced up, hand still bracing the child’s knee you were bandaging. “depends. are you bleeding?”

he blinked. not the response he expected.

“…no.”

“then yes,” you muttered, focusing back on the gauze. “this is the clinic.”

there was a pause. long enough for you to register the weight of him in your periphery. tall, squared shoulders, tactical vest dusted with ash. his eyes—dark and alert—kept sweeping the room. not paranoid. just… protective. scanning. clocking exits. counting heads. soldier things.

you tied off the bandage with practiced fingers and finally rose to your feet, stretching sore muscles until your spine cracked.

“you need something, or are you just here to loom?” you asked, brushing your palms off on your thighs.

he gave a faint exhale. might’ve been a laugh. “you’re not military.”

“thank god,” you muttered. “i like sleeping in places without mortar craters.”

his brow furrowed. “then why the hell are you here?”

you looked at him then—really looked. and something about the question stuck. not the words, but the way he said them. not judgmental. not scoffing. just… real. genuinely unsure why someone like you—civilian, tired, clearly running on nothing but caffeine and defiance—would voluntarily be standing in the wreckage of a war zone.

you shrugged. “someone’s gotta patch up what the rest of you break.”

his gaze lingered on your face. you didn’t flinch from it. didn’t soften either. just let him see the exhaustion, the bruises under your eyes, the way your fingers still shook faintly when you weren’t paying attention.

“you been here long?” he asked, voice gentler now. like he didn’t want to disturb something fragile.

“four days,” you answered. “feels like forty.”

he nodded, and for the first time, his shoulders relaxed slightly.

“gaz,” he offered, after a beat. “sergeant.”

you looked at the hand he held out, then took it. warm. solid. the kind of grip that said he wouldn’t let go unless you asked him to.

“[name],” you said. “civilian. coffee enthusiast. certified exhausted.”

a small smile tugged at his mouth. just the edge. “hell of a résumé.”

“you want an espresso or a tetanus shot?”

he chuckled—low and real this time. “i’ll pass.”

for a moment, the air between you wasn’t scorched earth or antiseptic.

it was… calm. like something quieter had settled in the ruins. the kind of stillness that comes not from absence—but from two people finally finding someone who understands the ache of staying.

he lingered for a few minutes. didn’t ask too many questions. just helped restock a shelf. moved a crate you’d been too sore to lift. and when he left, he touched your shoulder—not roughly. not awkwardly. just enough to let you know you’d been seen. that someone would remember your face, even when the rest of this place got blown into memory.

and you watched him go, unsure why the warmth in your chest stayed even after he vanished past the tarp.

you wouldn’t see him again until two days later—when the next round of wounded came through.

but by then, he’d already started bringing coffee with him.

black. no sugar. two cups.

one for him.

one for you.

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[kirisjournal]

🐺 no bark, all bite

| call of duty masterlist | tf141 masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

task force 141 wasn’t looking to recruit, nevermind a whole new soldier. but after a mission gone sideways, they brought back something they didn’t fully understand—a silent operative with no apparent name, no past, and a talent for violence that bordered on inhuman. obedient, efficient, and unsettlingly calm, they followed orders without question... until one day, they didn’t.

now, the team is starting to notice the way they hover near gaz. the way they react to danger. the way something feral flickers beneath the surface. they don’t talk much—but they never miss. and maybe, just maybe, they're not as cold as they seem.

whatever they are, they’re loyal. terrifyingly so.

and that might be the scariest part.

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prologue : no bark, all bite part one : quiet things with sharp teeth part two : part three : part four : part five : part six : part seven : part eight : part nine : part ten : epilogue :

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[kirisjournal]

🧼 ye always this dramatic?

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call of duty: johnny 'soap' mactavish x female!reader

summary: the op was doomed from the start—bad intel, no exfil, rain falling so hard it drowned the last of your hope. crouched behind the husk of a car, bleeding and low on ammo, you were ready to make peace with whatever came next. and then he showed up.

setting: an urban warzone gone to hell—thick rain, ruined buildings, and a stalled mission with no support in sight. the only cover is a burnt-out car, and the only ally comes in hot with a mouth full of cheek and a heart steadier than you'd expect.

warnings: blood and injury (minor gunshot graze), swearing, combat violence, tension, battlefield banter, flirty dialogue, mild vulnerability, lowercase prose

word count: 0.4k

note: for the ones that meet in the middle of the storm, bruised and bleeding and half-laughing anyway—for the first spark in the darkest hour. also: men with accents who flirt in firefights should come with a warning label.

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

the op was a shitshow from the second the chopper blades cut through the sky.

rain slicked the streets in silver, pouring down in sheets so thick you could barely see past your rifle. the recon had been off—wrong coordinates, heavier resistance than intel claimed, and now you were stranded with a comms blackout and half the squad scattered or worse.

you were bleeding. you were pissed. and you were out of options.

the burnt-out husk of a sedan had become your shelter, your cover, your coffin if things went further south. the side panel was warm against your back from all the gunfire it had absorbed, and your left arm stung like hell from a graze wound that was bleeding more than you liked.

you gritted your teeth and ejected your mag, cursing under your breath. just three rounds left.

and then—footsteps. fast. heavy. not panicked.

you turned your rifle toward the sound, finger steady on the trigger.

a figure skidded around the corner of the crumbled building ahead, ducked low, face half-obscured by grime and a soaking balaclava.

“friendly!” the man barked out, hands raised as he dove into cover beside you with a practiced roll. “fuckin’ hell, yer still breathin’. wasn’t expectin’ that.”

you eyed him warily. “name.”

he yanked the mask off with one hand, revealing a rain-soaked mohawk and a cocky grin that somehow survived all the chaos. “soap. soap mactavish. here tae pull yer arse out the fire, bonnie.”

you blinked at him. he grinned wider. “ye always this dramatic on first dates?”

“you always this annoying in a firefight?” you shot back.

“aye,” he said, pulling out a field bandage. “keeps me grounded.”

he nodded at your arm. “yer bleedin’. let me help.”

you hesitated—just a beat too long. he noticed, but didn’t push. just reached into his vest, slow and calm, and tossed you the bandage instead.

“yer call. won’t lay a hand on ye unless ye say so.”

it wasn’t what you expected. neither was the way his voice softened at the edges, still threaded with humor but careful, like he knew the difference between pain and pride.

you took the bandage. started wrapping with one hand, poorly. he watched in silence for a second, then offered again:

“lemme hold it steady, aye? promise I won’t cock it up.”

you let him. his fingers were warm, steady despite the adrenaline in the air.

“we’ve got evac,” he said quietly after a beat. “exfil’s aboot two clicks east. can ye walk?”

“i can limp.”

“good. i’ll shoot anyone who stares too long at yer stride.”

you snorted despite yourself. “smooth.”

“aw, sweetheart—this is me bein’ polite. ye’ve no idea what smooth looks like yet.”

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

[kirisjournal]

🪳the mystery man

| call of duty masterlist | tf141 masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

gary “roach” sanderson x female!reader

summary: it starts with a sticky note. a square of yellow paper pinned to the rec room bulletin board, tucked between deployment schedules and a crooked drawing of price’s mustache. it’s blunt, a little rude, and entirely accurate. you laugh. you reply. and the next day, there’s another one waiting for you.

by the end of the week, the board has become something else entirely—a quiet thread of attention passed between two strangers who haven’t met yet, but somehow keep seeing each other anyway

setting: a dusty, too-small base rec room with scuffed linoleum floors, a half-busted snack machine, and a bulletin board cluttered with deployment notices, bad doodles, and fading flyers. the air smells like burnt coffee and vinyl upholstery, always a little too cold or a little too hot.

warnings: lowercase prose, female!reader, strangers to flirtation → something sweet, mute!roach who uses sticky notes + notebooks to communicate, slow emotional build, low-stakes tension, soft humor, mutual noticing, emotionally literate ghost of a man who has jokes and favorites, implied crushes, sticky notes as love letters, roach gets under your skin and stays there

word count: 1.9k

note: i love writing first meetings that feel like the start of something soft—especially when it comes to roach, who doesn’t say a word but still has so much to say. this one's quiet, understated, and full of that moment where two people realize they speak the same language—even if no one else does.

also: i'm always gonna give roach a little field notebook. it just feels right. probably gonna write some blurbs for it too.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

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

you notice it three days into your deployment. a square of yellow paper stuck on the rec room bulletin board—surrounded by the usual chaos of shift schedules, a half-torn flyer for a boxing match, and someone’s doodle of price’s mustache in increasingly cursed forms.

the sticky note is neat but bold. black ink. slightly smudged like the writer pressed too hard.

“for the girl who's shoelaces are always untied, are you okay.” — g.s.

you pause mid-step, caught off guard by the neat little square of yellow pinned to the very center of the rec room bulletin board. your eyes flick over the handwriting once, then again, as the words sink in—quick strokes of heavy black ink, slightly smudged at the edges like the pen was pressed too hard. deliberate. certain.

you blink. and then, suddenly, you're laughing.

you wave them off, but you’re still smiling as your gaze drops—instinctively, inevitably—down to your boots.

your laces are, in fact, untied. again. one is fully trailing across the linoleum like it’s trying to escape the deployment.

“well, shit,” you mutter under your breath, still grinning, “they’re not wrong.”

the note itself is absurd. blunt. slightly rude. but also... spot-on.

and now someone’s watching closely enough to notice?

there’s a strange warmth that creeps under your collar at the thought. curious. amused. slightly flustered.

you pat yourself down for something to write with and finally dig a pen out of your jacket pocket—a half-dried, beaten-up old thing that barely clicks when you try. the ink sputters once against the paper, and you have to angle it just right to get it going. but once it does, you scrawl your response directly beneath the original message with a crooked little smile tugging at your mouth.

"mind your business. but also... no. i’m absolutely not." — y/n

your handwriting is a little messier than theirs—slanted, looser, the ink dragging faintly in places where the pen threatens to give out. but it does the job. the message is clear. teasing, defensive, and maybe just a little self-aware.

you cap the pen with a satisfied little click and step back to admire the absurdity of the exchange. your response sits directly beneath theirs like a reply in a private thread—only this one’s been pinned to a grimy corkboard surrounded by deployment notices and cheap push pins.

a paper conversation between ghosts. one that makes your chest feel oddly lighter.

you tuck the pen back into your pocket, fingers still stained faintly with ink, and cast one last glance at the note before turning away. your boots thump softly across the floor—still untied, still rebellious—and this time, you don’t bother fixing them.

you walk out of the rec room with a grin curling at the corners of your mouth, invisible to everyone else but impossible to suppress. the walls feel a little less cold. your steps fall a little easier.

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

the next day, the note is gone.

not torn or crumpled or half-hanging by a corner—just cleanly removed, like someone had come by with purpose and a plan. but in its place, pinned in the exact same spot on the corkboard with a black thumbtack so neat it almost looked military-issued, is a new one.

same square yellow paper. same black ink. same heavy-handed strokes, like the pen had been held a little too tight again.

do you need adult supervision. — g.s.

you snort—loud and unfiltered this time, drawing a side glance from a passing sergeant—but you’re already pulling out your pen. no hesitation. no thought. it’s become automatic now, like answering a text from someone who knows you, even if you’ve never met their face.

you scrawl underneath the new note, your handwriting quick and unapologetic:

desperately. but they keep giving me weapons anyway. — y/n

the ink smudges a little as you cap the pen. you don’t bother fixing it. the mess feels honest.

after that, it becomes a thing.

by day five, it’s no longer just something you notice. it’s something you look for.

you start passing the rec room deliberately—even when you don’t need to be there.

you check the board after breakfast, in between briefings, after the gym when your muscles are loose and your hair’s still damp at the nape of your neck. before lights-out, even if you’re already half-dead on your feet.

and there’s always something new waiting for you.

sometimes the notes are short and dry. biting sarcasm. barely-veiled mockery of your absolutely miserable track record with field rations or your inability to remember your own locker combination.

sometimes they’re oddly thoughtful. quiet observations. questions written in the margins.

“you always leave the rec room at the exact same time.” “what song are you always humming?” “you double check the doors twice. why?”

it’s… disarming.

one time, he leaves a hand-drawn doodle—crude and funny, obviously rushed—of a stick figure tripping over massive cartoon shoelaces, arms flailing, expression manic. written beneath in tiny block letters:

“this is you.”

you laugh so hard you almost choke on your protein bar. you write back:

“rude. accurate. but rude.”

and somewhere in between dodging patrols and cleaning your rifle for the third time that week, it becomes the highlight of your day. not loud. not thrilling. just—steady.

a quiet little thread of humor and attention that anchors you when the rest of the day spins too fast.

you still don’t know who “g.s.” is.

you’ve asked, of course. casually. dropped the initials into a few conversations, careful to make it sound like an afterthought. like you weren’t secretly aching for someone to confirm what you’re already starting to hope.

but no one gives it up.

no recognition. no smirks. no shared looks. just a shrug, a shake of the head, a mumbled “don’t know him.”

it’s like trying to name a shadow.

like flirting with a ghost—one with excellent penmanship, impeccable timing, and the infuriating ability to get under your skin with a single line of text.

a ghost who sees you. and for some reason, keeps showing up.

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

a week in, the note moves.

it’s no longer pinned to the bulletin board like usual. instead, you spot it taped—carefully, almost reverently—to the top of the snack machine tucked into the far corner of the rec room. the same yellow paper, still marked with those familiar thick black strokes, pressed just above the faded keypad and blinking red light of the candy selection panel.

your gaze zeroes in on it instantly.

you always buy the red and pink starburst. what’s wrong with orange. — g.s.

you stare at it for a beat longer than you probably should, water bottle tucked beneath your arm, heartbeat doing a little skip like it’s in on the joke too. it’s a dumb question. completely unnecessary. and also? completely valid.

you can already hear your brother’s voice in your head teasing you—“you really have a vendetta against orange candy?”

you mutter something under your breath—mostly a curse, mostly amused—and glance around the room, half-expecting to see someone watching from behind a half-open door or shadowed corner.

but there’s no one. just you. and the dumbest ongoing flirtation you’ve ever let yourself enjoy.

you snag a napkin from beside the coffee machine—slightly crumpled, coffee-stained at the corner—and dig out your pen with hands that are a little too eager. the answer comes easily, like muscle memory.

orange tastes like disappointment and lies. red and pink, are for warriors.

you underline warriors twice for good measure.

then you fold the napkin into a messy triangle and wedge it between the edge of the candy lever and the cracked plastic casing. it sticks out like a secret note passed in class. a dare waiting to be answered.

you step back. linger just a second too long. and then you turn on your heel and walk out of the room faster than you mean to—half-flustered, half-grinning, all nerves.

you don’t know why it feels like your face is warm. but it does.

and you know you’ll be back tomorrow. you’re already wondering what he’ll say next.

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

you catch him on day seven.

the base feels quieter tonight—muted, in that post-storm kind of way where the air hangs heavy and the power flickers just often enough to feel like a warning. you’re heading toward the gym, hoodie drawn up over your ears, earbuds in but silent. no music, just the hush of your own breathing and the low hum of white noise to ground you.

your boots strike damp concrete with steady weight, and as you near the end of the hallway—the part where the overhead lights dim out and the walls start to sweat—you turn the corner…

and there he is.

leaning against the wall just past the gym doors, half-draped in shadow, one shoulder braced against the cold concrete column. he doesn’t startle when you spot him. doesn’t flinch or hide the thing in his hand. instead, his head dips slightly, like he already expected you to come this way.

and then you see what he’s holding.

not the notebook you imagined, but something smaller. familiar. a sticky note—bright yellow, balanced on top of the weathered cover of a slim, spiral-bound pad. the notepad is clearly just a backing, something to write against. the note itself is the message. just like always.

your heart gives a little twist. recognition. warmth. anticipation.

his gloved hand moves carefully, marker gliding across the square with quick, sure strokes. the ink presses heavy in places, as if he’s bearing down more than necessary—writing not just to be read, but to be felt.

he finishes. peels the note from the pad in one smooth motion. and when you stop a few paces in front of him, breath caught somewhere in your chest, he steps forward and holds it out to you.

no words. no awkwardness. just quiet, practiced intent.

his helmet stays low. balaclava pulled up to his nose. only his eyes visible—dark and steady and watching you with something unreadable in their depths. not guarded, but waiting.

you take the note from him, fingers brushing lightly against his glove. it’s warm at the corner, where he’d been holding it, and smells faintly of sharpie, field soap, and something crisp and paper-thin. your heart is suddenly too loud in your ears.

you glance down and read:

if this counts as flirting, i hope you’re the type to flirt back. — roach

your breath catches. not in shock—more like relief. like the quiet momentum of the past week finally folding in on itself. something gentle unspooling in your chest.

you glance up again and really look at him.

roach.

the name you’ve heard in passing. in mission briefings, in muttered stories that always sound more like legend than fact. the kind of presence that lives in the corner of a room—never loud, never boasting. just efficient. focused. unshakable.

and now here he is, holding nothing but a yellow sticky note and the kind of stillness that makes it hard to breathe.

you fold the note gently—like it’s fragile, like it means more than a square inch of paper should—and slide it carefully into the back pocket of your jeans.

then you smile.

not wide. not smug. just warm. steady. the kind of smile that knows.

“i am,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re lucky.”

his eyes crease at the edges, barely—but enough to change the shape of the moment.

then he taps the edge of his notebook once, then again. a full stop. a promise.

message received.

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

[kirisjournal]

🪳you sign?

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gary “roach” sanderson x male!reader

summary: you're late to a mission briefing. not by much—but enough to make ghost glance up. and across the room, you spot him: roach. dirt still on his gloves, balaclava pulled tight, not taking notes. just signing quietly to himself like the words live better in his hands. so you sign first. and it begins there.

setting: a cramped, sweltering mission briefing room deep in the heart of a tf141 base. folding chairs scrape against dusty concrete, the air thick with worn gear, old coffee, and recycled sweat. overhead lights flicker with that faint electric hum. half the squad’s nodding off or whispering. the projector’s too loud. maps are half-unreadable. it’s hot, close, heavy. warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, soft-flirting, background ghost annoyance, subtle mutual interest, sign language as connection, roach doesn’t speak, beginnings of something

word count: 0.7k

note: this one means a lot to me. i really wanted to write a quiet kind of beginning—not loud or dramatic, just something warm that slips in under the noise. i think roach deserves soft moments like this, where someone sees him before they hear him. and maybe it’s nothing yet. maybe it’s just the start. but something about that unspoken spark between them—yeah. that’s the good stuff.

also: ghost definitely clocked all of it. he’s just choosing peace. for now.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

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

you’re late.

not by much—just a few minutes past the start—but it’s enough to turn ghost’s head mid-sentence. he doesn’t stop the briefing, doesn’t call you out, but his gaze lingers for a moment too long. one eyebrow lifts under the brim of his cap, and you can practically hear the unspoken you’re lucky i like you behind his mask.

you nod in apology and slide into the nearest empty seat near the back, clutching a thin stack of mission papers against your chest. the room’s already packed, boots scuffing against concrete, pens scratching along the margins of printouts.

a few low murmurs ripple between squads. the air is thick with heat and the smell of worn gear and old coffee, like every other too-small room on base.

and that’s when you see him.

across from you, seated straight-backed at the edge of the long table, posture almost too still to be relaxed. his uniform’s still dusted with dirt and ash, a few darker stains dried into the seams of his vest. gloves on. helmet secure. face hidden behind a balaclava that only leaves his eyes visible—dark, sharp, and unnervingly alert.

you’ve seen him before, at a distance. roach. one of the task force’s ghosts, in a sense. not the masked lieutenant, but something just as quiet, just as deadly. the kind of soldier who doesn’t need words to leave an impression.

and he’s not taking notes.

you notice his hands first—gloved fingers twitching slightly beneath the table, forming quick shapes in a fluid, practiced rhythm. at first, you think it might be a nervous tic. but no—there’s intention behind it. structure. familiarity.

he’s signing. not to anyone. just quietly to himself, like a second layer of thought.

your chest pulls tight for a moment. it’s small, almost silly, but that flicker of recognition twists something inside you. most people wouldn’t notice. hell, most people don’t.

but you do.

you’re not sure when you started leaning forward. not far—just enough to make sure your movement wouldn’t be threatening. your voice stays quiet, low enough to not interrupt ghost’s rundown of the perimeter plan. you catch roach’s attention gently with a slight movement of your hand, then sign:

“you caught all that, or need a quick translation?”

for a second, he just stares at you. eyes unreadable behind the layer of tactical gear and shadow. like he’s not sure if you’re messing with him. then his head tilts slightly, and he signs back:

“you sign?”

you nod once, lips twitching upward. “my little brother’s deaf. been signing since i was nine. got good at it fast. had to—he’d drag me into every fight with my mum so i could translate his sass.”

his shoulders shift—the barest laugh, maybe. his eyes crease at the corners, and though his mouth is still hidden beneath the mask, you know he’s smiling.

then he signs something quick. too fast to catch every word, but you definitely recognize 'ghost' and 'pain in the ass' somewhere in the blur. your hand comes up instinctively to smother a laugh, but it still breaks through—loud enough that ghost falters mid-sentence and throws a brief glare in your direction.

you shake your head and wave him on. it’s nothing, your gesture says. keep going.

roach nudges your boot under the table a second later. not hard. just enough to get your attention again. when you glance back over, he’s already flipped open a small, spiral-bound notebook from one of his vest pouches. it’s old—edges soft and curling, half-filled with shorthand, map sketches, and notes written in cramped handwriting. he scribbles in the corner of a blank page, then turns it toward you.

“you’re the only one here who’s ever signed first.” “i like you already.”

you blink. caught off-guard. the words are simple, but something about them hits deeper than expected. you look up from the page, then back to him.

his gaze doesn’t waver.

you tap the notebook gently with your knuckle, then sign slowly—clearly this time, making sure he doesn’t miss it:

“good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere.”

and he doesn’t just smile.

he beams.

eyes crinkling, breath catching ever so slightly behind the fabric of his mask. not a sound leaves him, but the room feels warmer anyway. like something quiet just cracked open between you both.

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

[kirisjournal]

🧼rule breakers

| call of duty masterlist | tf141 masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

johnny "soap" mactavish x male!reader

summary: you’re not supposed to be here. not in glasgow, not in a pub, not watching the room like it might go sideways. but then again—neither is he. he’s all mohawk and mischief, loud as ever, arguing with strangers about whether he could knock out a bear. you don’t mean to say anything. but when you do—dry, unimpressed—he turns like he was waiting for it. like he heard you coming a mile away.

setting: a noisy glasgow pub lit in gold and neon. pool tables, spilled drinks, and jukebox static. too many voices, too many eyes, and a shadowed corner where something begins.

warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, strangers to flirting, off-duty tension, mutual provocation, light drinking, subtle attraction, cocky banter, slow magnetic pull, soap is too charming for his own good, reader might be worse, implied interest, beginnings of something

word count: 0.6k

note: for the nights that weren’t supposed to mean anything. for the grin you didn’t expect to want to see again. for something reckless, loud, and a little bit golden.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

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

the place is crowded. buzzing with lowlight and laughter, it's the kind of pub that smells like wet coats and old whiskey and cheap aftershave. someone’s playing oasis on the jukebox, a little too loud and a little off-key, and the air’s thick with late-night stories and glass clinks and bad decisions waiting to be made.

you’re not supposed to be here.

not really. technically, you’re still on the tail-end of recovery leave. supposed to be laying low, healing up. not out in public, not in glasgow, not watching the room like you’re waiting for a fight.

but here you are. boots up on the brass rail, pint in hand, letting the hum of strangers distract you from the quiet in your own head.

you spot him before he sees you.

it’s the mohawk first—unmistakable even in the haze of too-warm overhead lights. then the grin: sharp and stupid and unmistakably his.

he’s got one hand braced on the edge of a pool table, a half-empty pint in the other, talking too loud to a group of guys who clearly don’t know what to make of him. someone laughs nervously. someone else mutters something about scots and madness and testosterone.

“i’m tellin’ ye,” he’s saying, pointing with the chalk end of a pool cue like it’s a mic, “if it’s just me and the bear? i could take him. bare hands, no weapons. just grit and charm.”

you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself.

you don’t mean to say anything. really, you don’t. but it slips out as you pass—dry and low and just loud enough to cut through the noise.

“you’d lose.”

his head snaps toward your voice like it’s a gunshot.

and then—like he expected you to be there all along—he beams. wide. bright. all teeth and trouble.

“oi! c’mon now—do i look like someone who’d lose to a bear?”

you glance over your shoulder. drag your eyes across his frame, exaggerated and slow. broad shoulders under a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up his forearms. combat boots. faded jeans. faint scarring along his temple where the hairline breaks and never quite reconnects. a bruise just beginning to bloom under one eye.

he looks like trouble. like stories he hasn’t told yet. like he just climbed out of a fight and might be looking for another one.

“…no,” you say finally. “but i’d still put my money on the bear.”

for a second, he just blinks at you. then throws his head back with a laugh that rings like thunder through the bar. the strangers around him shift awkwardly—some amused, some relieved he’s been distracted.

“name’s johnny,” he says, turning fully toward you, walking a few steps closer without being invited. “soap, if ye wanna be formal. though i’d prefer it if ye didn’t.”

you tip your drink toward him. one brow raised, mouth curved just slightly.

“you buying the next round, or am i gonna have to humble you at pool first?”

he grins like you just handed him a live wire. “if ye hustle me,” he says, real low, voice dipping just beneath the volume of the jukebox, “i’ll absolutely fall in love wi’ ye on the spot.”

you take a long sip. don’t look away.

“then maybe i will.”

he stares at you for a second too long. like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious or just as reckless as he is. and then—without a word—he turns back toward the table, gestures to the bartender with two fingers raised.

“rack ‘em up, then,” he calls, grabbing his cue. “hope ye’re ready to lose and fall in love at the same time.”

you set your pint down. move toward the table.

you’re not supposed to be here. but maybe neither is he.

and maybe… it'll be the best rule you've ever broken.

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

[kirisjournal]

🪖 blood, smoke, and loyalty

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

| call of duty masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

MULTI

SERIES — no bark, all bite (tf141 x attackdog! gn! reader) [click this link!]

BLURBS — ' unwrap him, birthday girl ' , female!reader (smut)

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

JOHN "CAPTAIN" PRICE

FIRST MEETING — female! reader , male! reader , gn! reader

BLURBS — ' not yours to keep ' , gn!reader (request) part one | part two | part three

— ' always? ' , female!reader (request)

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

KYLE "GAZ" GARRICK

FIRST MEETING — female! reader , male! reader , gn! reader

BLURBS — ' in the quiet ' , gn!reader

— ' on the other end ' , male!reader

— virgin!sugarbaby!kyle headcannons , fem!reader (smut)

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

JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH

FIRST MEETING — female! reader , male! reader , gn! reader

BLURBS — nothing yet!

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

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY

FIRST MEETING — female! reader , male! reader , gn! reader

BLURBS — nothing yet!

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

GARY "ROACH" SANDERSON

FIRST MEETING — female! reader , male! reader , gn! reader

BLURBS — nothing yet!

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

[kirisjournal]

🧼 snack pairings

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john “soap” mactavish x gn!reader

summary: you didn’t ask for a partner. didn’t want one, didn’t need one. especially not him—grinning in the doorway like he owned the air, too loud, too cocky, all sharp edges and swagger. but soap wasn’t so easy to shake. he cracked jokes you refused to laugh at. brought snacks you refused to take. said you’d warm up to him eventually—and worst of all, he might’ve been right.

setting: dim briefing rooms and desert skies. crates and jerky by the transport. a humming plane cabin where sleep comes slowly and silence says more than words.

warnings: lowercase prose, gn!reader, slowburn, reluctant partnership, emotional tension, soft banter, quiet introspection, mutual growing respect, subtle attraction, soap is emotionally intelligent beneath the chaos, reader is guarded, beginnings of trust, found partnership

word count: 1.5k

note: for the ones who didn’t want to let anyone in—until someone didn’t ask permission. for the loud ones who see through the silence. for when connection doesn’t spark, but simmers.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

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the briefing room smells like old coffee and stale tension—just another grey-walled corner of command where names get paired and lives get promised to missions no one really walks away from clean.

you’re already seated when price walks in, steady as ever, the scuff of his boots announcing him long before he speaks. he’s got a file tucked under one arm and that look in his eyes—measured, unreadable, like he’s handing you something heavier than paper.

“this one’s yours,” he says simply, nodding toward the doorway.

you turn, expecting someone forgettable. what you get is... not exactly that.

he’s leaned against the doorframe like he built it, dressed in half-zipped gear, forearms bare, a jagged mohawk cutting through the dust in his hair. his grin’s already there, lazy and lopsided, like he knows exactly how obnoxious he looks.

“alright?” he says, voice thick and lilting, "name's soap."

“you.. look like ye’ve got opinions.”

you raise an eyebrow. that’s his opening line?

you don’t answer right away. just glance back to price, silently checking if this is some kind of punishment. it isn’t. worse—it’s real.

“i just prefer working alone,” you say finally, clipped and cool.

it’s not meant as an insult. just a fact. you’ve gotten used to silence, to predictability. to not having to account for someone else's pace or their recklessness. you’ve seen partnerships go sideways—one loud decision in the field, one unchecked impulse, and suddenly you’re writing names on the memorial wall.

but soap doesn’t flinch. doesn’t falter. his grin just gets wider.

“ahh,” he hums, stepping further in, “strong ‘n silent, eh? but pretty, too. dangerous combination, that.”

you blink at him. is he flirting? is he always like this?

“…was that a compliment or a warning?”

“bit o’ both,” he says with a shrug, like the difference means nothin’ to him.

and before you can tell him off or ask what the hell kind of name is soap, he’s already turning toward the exit, shouldering his pack like this is all settled.

“dinnae worry,” he calls over his shoulder, still grinning like he’s cracked some secret, “we’ll be best mates in no time.”

you just stare at his back in astonishment as he walks out. and then—loud, unapologetic, echoing down the hallway:

“brought snacks, too! bribery’s undefeated, aye?”

you don’t even realize price is still in the room until he drops the file on the table with a dull thud.

“good luck,” he mutters, a smirk hiding under his beard. “you’ll need it.”

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the next time you see him, he’s sprawled out on a crate near the transport zone like it’s his own personal front porch.

the sun’s dipping low, casting the whole base in a haze of gold and rust, turning the concrete soft at the edges. the sky’s bleeding into itself—orange melting into pink, streaks of cloud cutting through like claw marks. the wind’s kicked up just enough to stir the sand along the tarmac, pulling it into little spirals that dance past his boots and disappear.

he’s rolled his sleeves even higher now, forearms dusted with sweat and grit, tattoos catching the light as he leans back, legs stretched out like he’s got nowhere in the world to be. there’s a strip of jerky hanging lazily from his mouth, and the way he chews it—slow and content—makes him look completely untouched by the weight of the mission briefing you just came from.

he spots you before you say a word. his eyes flick up, bright and immediate, and he lifts two fingers in a lazy wave like he’s been waiting for you all afternoon.

“still mad?” he asks, casual as anything, like you’re old friends and the last twenty-four hours haven’t been laced with tension.

you stop a few feet away, arms folded across your chest, spine stiff out of habit. “i wasn’t mad.”

his grin spreads like wildfire. “aye, sure,” he says, dragging the words out in that thick scottish drawl of his. “ye looked like ye were five seconds away from stabbin’ me in the neck wi’ a pen. not judgin’, mind—i’ve earned worse.”

you level a look at him, unimpressed. “still might.”

he laughs—really laughs—head tipping back, teeth flashing in the warm light. the sound is loud and unapologetic, echoing just enough in the open space to make a few nearby techs glance over.

“there they are,” he says, like he’s just uncovered a hidden treasure. “knew ye had a sense o’ humor tucked away in there somewhere. it’s the quiet ones, always.”

you roll your eyes, more out of instinct than anything else, and make a show of stepping past him without so much as a glance. but the corner of your mouth tugs. just a little. just enough that he might’ve seen if he were really looking.

and of course—of course—he’s looking.

he doesn't call it out, though. just lets the moment hang in the air, light and weightless, like maybe he knows not to press. not yet. instead, he shifts on the crate, leans back, and pops another piece of jerky into his mouth with a lazy shrug.

“ye’ll warm up to me,” he says, half to himself. “they always do.”

you don’t answer. don’t give him the satisfaction. but your steps don’t feel quite as heavy as they did a minute ago.

and the air doesn’t feel quite so sharp.

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later—after the heat of the day has bled away, after the long walk to the airstrip, after his too-casual jokes and that smug little wink you refused to dignify with a response—you find yourself across from him in the dim belly of a transport plane.

the cabin’s quiet now. not silent, not really—the engines are still thrumming beneath the metal floor, rattling bolts and vibrating through the thin air—but quiet in a way that settles into your skin. the kind of quiet where thoughts get louder. where the hum turns rhythmic. like a pulse. like breath.

you should be asleep. or at the very least, reviewing the mission schematics on the screen in your lap, pretending to focus. instead, your gaze keeps drifting.

to him.

johnny. soap. maybe a dumb nickname, whatever name you’re supposed to be calling him. you still haven’t decided which feels more real.

he’s slouched in his seat across the aisle, limbs spilling into the empty space around him like he owns it. arms folded over his chest, chin tipped down, head bumping gently against the wall of the plane with every small shudder of turbulence.

his mohawk’s a little crushed from the weight of his gear, and there’s a shadow of grime streaked along one side of his face, like he forgot to wipe off the day. or maybe he just didn’t care.

his foot twitches every so often. small, restless movements, like even in sleep, something in him refuses to go fully still. like he’s dreaming of running. of fire. of chaos. the kind of dreams you don’t talk about when you wake up.

you study him for longer than you mean to.

and you hate that you are.

because you’re supposed to be annoyed. you’re supposed to not like him.

he talks too much. always has something to say, even when no one asks. he’s loud and infuriatingly confident and seems to find amusement in every last thing, even the serious stuff. especially the serious stuff.

he gets under your skin in the worst way—like a splinter. like grit in your boot.

and yet... there’s something about him that pulls at you.

something steady beneath all the showmanship. something heavy under the jokes. the noise, the charm, the crooked grin—maybe all of that’s just surface. maybe it’s the shell. the distraction. the thing he wears to keep people from seeing what’s really underneath.

because there’s weight to him. you can feel it, even now. even here. like he’s lived too much for someone who laughs that easy. like he’s bled more than he lets on.

and you think—no, you know—that if it came down to it, he’d throw himself in front of a bullet for someone on his team without blinking. you see it in the way he watches the exits. how he checks gear that isn’t his. how he carries the silence between jokes like it’s familiar.

you shift slightly in your seat. drag your gaze away.

your chest feels tight in a way you can’t quite explain.

you don’t trust him. not yet. trust is slow. messy. something built one moment at a time, and this—whatever this is—is still brand new.

but the idea of working beside him doesn’t feel quite as unbearable as it did when price first dropped his name like a weight on the table.

he’s kind of growing on you.

not in a way that’s soft. not yet. but in a way that feels inevitable. like moss creeping up stone. like something you didn’t notice until it was already there, clinging to you.

you don’t want to admit it—not to yourself, not to anyone—but maybe the bastard was right. maybe you will warm up to him.

maybe you already are.

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