kirisjournal

[kirisjournal]

so jevon was robbed .. jevon absolutely deserved that win and his title , that ref pmtfo .

everyone wrestling tonight was absolutely amazing, im just petty that jevon didnt win

[kirisjournal]

🥀always

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mafia, the old country: cesare massaro x female!reader

summary: cesare returns home after a long day carrying the weight of his uncle’s empire. the house is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every creak of the floor feel louder. you don’t ask where he’s been or what he’s done—you just guide him, your presence a soft anchor against the chaos of his life. as he collapses against you, head on your chest, the silence becomes a sanctuary, and for a few precious moments, he allows himself to simply breathe.

setting: your shared home late at night. the sitting room and hallway are dimly lit by a single lamp, casting amber shadows. lavender lingers faintly from sachets in drawers, mingling with the warmth of the room. the bed is calm, inviting, a stark contrast to the violent, demanding world Cesare navigates outside these walls.

warnings: mentions of mafia life and the burden of family expectations, emotional exhaustion, intense comfort and intimacy, no explicit sexual content, emotional vulnerability.

word count: 0.6k

taglist: @beforeroachfalls (for the promised fluff... there is one more on the way)

note: for the ones who understand that sometimes love doesn’t need words, just presence. for the ones who know the weight someone carries can be eased by a steady hand and a promise to stay.

also: i hope cesare’s exhaustion made you want to smother him in a blanket burrito and never let him go <3

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

the house was quiet by the time cesare returned, so quiet that even the hinges of the door seemed to hesitate, groaning low as if in warning not to disturb the peace inside.

he stepped through like a man carrying ghosts, his coat draped loosely over one arm, the other hand dragging tiredly over his face.

you watched him from the doorway of the sitting room, the lamp casting a warm circle of light at your back. he looked heavier than when he’d left that morning—not in body, but in spirit. the kind of heaviness that pressed into his shoulders, curled at the corners of his mouth, and deepened the dark shadows under his eyes.

you didn’t ask where he had been, or what had happened. you knew better. his world was a tangle of sharp edges and dark alleys, things spoken in smoke-filled rooms that had no place between the two of you. tonight, he didn’t need questions. he needed reprieve.

so you set your book aside and crossed the room with measured steps, slow enough that he could pull away if he needed distance. but when your fingers brushed his sleeve, his arm stilled, a faint exhale escaping him as though even that small contact gave him something to cling to.

without a word, you guided him down the hallway. the air was softer here, quieter, the faint smell of lavender lingering from the sachet tucked into the dresser drawers. he didn’t protest when you pressed gently at his back, coaxing him to sit at the edge of the bed. his hands braced against his knees, head bowed low, strands of dark hair falling loose to shadow his face.

for a moment, you just stood there, watching him—this man who wore his uncle’s legacy like an iron crown, who carried the burden of a family that demanded ruthlessness at every turn. and yet, here he was, slumped under the weight of it all, silent in his exhaustion.

you whispered his name, not sharp, not prying—just enough to let him know you were near, that you saw him.

his chest rose and fell in a long, shuddering sigh. he didn’t lift his head, but he shifted enough to let you slip closer, enough to let you reach for him. your hands slid over his tense shoulders, warm through the fabric of his shirt, and then you coaxed him down, easing him back until his head found its place against your collarbone.

for a few minutes there was nothing but silence—the steady beat of your heart under his cheek, the slow pass of your fingers through his hair, the unspoken promise that he could stay like this for as long as he needed.

it was then, in the stillness, that he seemed to notice the faint lamp-glow still clinging to your skin, the way your eyes were heavy with weariness not your own. his voice came low, rough from the weight of the day.

“you stayed up for me.”

your hand paused only long enough to smooth back the hair from his temple. “of course i did,” you murmured, voice soft, unwavering. “i always will.”

something in him gave way at that—his arms sliding around your waist at last, pulling you closer as if to anchor himself.

when he finally spoke again, it wasn’t about business, or his uncle, or the unending demands of his family’s name. it was softer, smaller—your name whispered into the hollow of your throat, a sigh that carried exhaustion and need and something dangerously close to devotion.

your lips brushed against his hairline in reply. “rest, cesare. i’ve got you.”

and for the first time that night, he truly allowed himself to breathe.

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

[kirisjournal]

🥀 bruised

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mafia, the old country: cesare massaro x female!reader

summary: cesare massaro was never a man built for tenderness, yet he couldn’t resist the pull you had on him. mornings in the market, the warmth of the coast road beneath your feet, the smallest touches and glances — they all lingered in him longer than he would ever admit. that day, the life he imagined with you shattered in an instant, leaving only memory and longing in its wake.

setting: a quiet southern italian coastal village in early spring — the bustling market with the scent of fresh produce and citrus, the winding coast road where sunlight hits the cobblestones just right, and the dim, lamp-lit streets at night where shadows hide danger and the sea whispers through the alleys.

warnings: graphic injury and blood, implied death, mafia-related violence, emotional trauma, grief, intense tension, character in peril, lowercase prose, pre game.

word count: 1k

note: for the ones who’ve felt the cruel juxtaposition of ordinary, peaceful moments and the sudden intrusion of violence — the fleeting joys, the laughter, the shared warmth of someone who shouldn’t be theirs, only to have it torn away in a heartbeat.

also: why did i allow myself to write this? i dunno, because now im picturing the happy endings that all the mafia games could have, and it is NOT making me happy. ( it wont be making @beforeroachfalls happy either... told you i was making cesare works though !) (i PROMISE, fluff is on the way... maybe)

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

the sea was still that morning, a rare thing for early spring.

the air smelled of salt and earth, the citrus groves just starting to carry their sweetness down into the village.

cesare trailed a half-step behind you at the market, shoulders squared, coat hanging loose, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he had better things to do. but his eyes stayed fixed on you as you picked through the stalls — slow, deliberate, turning each tomato, testing the weight of the lemons like you were hunting for perfection.

“you’ll never eat all that,” he muttered, voice flat as he leaned against a crate of fish. anyone else might’ve thought he was mocking you. but his gaze stayed steady on your hands, the corners of his mouth tugged just faintly in a way no one else ever saw.

you didn’t look at him, though he caught the quick twitch of a smile as you tucked a lemon into your basket, its skin so bright it looked almost unreal. “that’s because you’ll eat the rest,” you said.

this time you did turn, glancing at him over your shoulder. the market noise blurred for a beat as you gave him a small, easy smile — the kind that didn’t ask for anything, just existed.

cesare’s brow ticked, the usual flat line of his mouth faltering. he held your gaze for a breath longer than he should have, then let the corner of his lips curve upward — soft, fleeting, but real.

he never gave that smile to anyone else.

you walked home together along the coast road, the wicker of your basket creaking with every step. he listened while you talked about the neighbor’s new baby, the goat that kept sneaking into the churchyard, some fisherman’s half-drunk story. he gave you little more than grunts in reply, but he kept close, shoulder brushing yours whenever the path narrowed.

when you looped your arm through his without thinking, his first instinct was to stiffen — cesare wasn’t a man built for softness, not in the life he lived. but the weight of you leaning into him settled something deep in his chest. he let it stay, silent, his stride matching yours.

for a flicker of a moment, he let himself picture it: you, a place of your own, mornings with shutters thrown open, sunlight cutting across a table where your basket sat waiting. no debts. no eyes on his back. no family except the one he could make.

the thought left a bitter edge in his mouth, because men like him didn’t get futures like that.

still, he let the silence between you stretch, carrying it all the way to your door, the ghost of that impossible picture lodged in the back of his mind.

he didn’t know it would be the last time he walked you home.

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

that night, the town was louder than usual.

shouts spilled from the tavern near the docks, laughter pitched too high, all nerves and no joy. the family had been pressing debts harder than ever — collectors moving like storms through the streets, leaving wreckage in their wake. tension lived in the air, stitched into the seams of every shuttered window and half-closed door.

cesare had been sent out on a simple errand — “quick delivery, ragazzo” — and he’d taken the back lanes, boots steady on cobblestones, mind already drifting. drifting to you . to the way your arm had looped through his earlier, the faint smell of lemons caught in your hair when the wind had turned.

he didn’t see the shadow slip toward your street.

but he heard it — not the strike itself, not the knife cutting air — only the sound after. a muffled gasp, wrong against the night.

his steps quickened. then he was running.

when he turned the corner, the world collapsed to a single sight: your basket spilling to the stones. wicker hit once, twice, before rolling onto its side, lemons scattering in a golden spill. they gleamed almost obscene under the weak lamplight, rolling through the dirt, catching on the edge of something darker. a streak across the cobblestones.

blood.

you were crumpled beside them, the dress twisted as if you’d been caught mid-step, now frozen in collapse. blood had bloomed across your side, soaking through the thin fabric, staining the dust beneath you. the cut was deep, messy — made by someone who hadn’t cared if she lived or died, only that she fell.

“no—” the word ripped from him, raw, as he dropped to his knees. his hands hovered uselessly for a heartbeat before he gathered you into his arms, pulling you into his lap like he could shield you from the damage already done.

your breath rattled, shallow, wet. each inhale caught like it was snagged on glass. when your fingers found his coat, they were trembling, slick with blood, curling weakly as though trying to hold on.

“stay with me,” he said, and his voice was a plea, shaking in a way it never had before. “please, tesoro. don’t leave me. not like this.”

but beneath the pleading, confusion tore at him. he couldn’t understand it — why you? you had nothing to do with this life, with his debts, his shadows, his knives. you were untouched by it all, innocent, the only good thing he had left. why would anyone go after his angel, of all people? what sense could there be in it?

your lips moved — just barely — and he bent closer, desperate to catch it, to steal even a whisper. maybe his name. maybe something more. but no sound came.

your hand slipped from his coat, streaking red across the fabric.

the night surged back around him, deafening in its indifference. footsteps somewhere down the street. the groan of a cart wheel. the hush of the sea.

and underneath it all, a sharpness on the breeze — citrus, faint and cruel. it carried down the alley where he sat, rocking you against his chest, your blood seeping hot into his clothes.

when at last he laid you down, it was with careful, reverent hands. the basket lay tipped on its side beside you, one last lemon still resting inside, its skin smooth, golden, untouched.

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

[kirisjournal]

Congratulations to Naomi and Big Jim! MONDAY NIGHT RAW | 08.18.25

[kirisjournal]

got the biggest smile on my face right now — the glow just got brighter 💚✨

so, so happy for naomi. she’s forever one of my favorites: the creativity, the athleticism, the way she turns an arena into a galaxy and makes you feel something every time. beyond the ring, she’s always carried herself with warmth and grace, and i’ve admired that just as much as the titles.

of course, it’s bittersweet to see her have to relinquish the women’s world championship after she fought so hard to get to where she was — but if there’s one thing we all know, it’s that naomi is going to shine in motherhood, and when the time is right, she’ll come back and fight her way right back to that gold.

seeing her and jimmy step into this new chapter makes my heart so full. champion energy in and out of the ring — and now into parenthood. wishing them rest, health, and every soft, joyful moment ahead. (proceed… with caution… may have flown out the window and i’m not mad about it 😂)

congratulations, naomi and jimmy. here’s to the little glow on the way 👶✨

[kirisjournal]

MY BABIES

"Charlotte I'm scared" LEXI BE NICE TO YOUR GF

[kirisjournal]

👻 appreciation

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call of duty: simon "ghost" riley x female!reader

summary: what starts as a small kindness — leaving food and notes outside ghost’s door after missions — quietly grows into a ritual neither of you expected. a quiet way to say “welcome home” without words, even as he remains silent. until one night, you’re caught, and everything shifts just a little.

setting: late-night military base hallway, after a long mission; the quiet hum of the building and the soft flicker of hallway lights, with the cold air of night lingering in every breath.

warnings: mentions of injury and trauma (non-graphic), emotional vulnerability, soft slow-building connection, implied unspoken feelings, gentle mutual care

word count: 1.6k

note: for the ones who know sometimes love isn’t shouted from the rooftops or wrapped in grand gestures — it’s the quiet things, the small acts that fill the spaces between chaos and silence. for the ones who keep showing up even when no one’s watching, who care with every folded note and every meal left at the door. this is for anyone who’s learned that love can be gentle, patient, and fiercely persistent — even when it’s unspoken. (relate to this one a bit TOO much..)

also: yeah okay i’m feeding him like a stray cat what about it?? my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

people appreciated him — you knew that. anyone with sense would.

he was the one who walked through fire so others didn’t have to, who came back with bruises and blood that weren’t always his own. and when he did, there was always something waiting for him in the air: a nod from price, a half-smile from soap, a casual good work, mate tossed his way in passing.

but you’d never really noticed it being more than that. never the kind of appreciation that sank past the surface, that followed him into the quiet when the adrenaline faded and the noise died down. it was always for what he’d done, never just for him.

no one asked if he’d eaten. no one lingered to talk once the debrief ended. no one seemed to mark the difference between the man under the mask and the mask itself — or if they did, they didn’t say it out loud.

and maybe that was fine for him. maybe that was how he liked it. but standing there that night, you found yourself thinking it might be nice if, just once, someone noticed the man came home at all.

the first time, it was because you happened to be walking past the mess hall when the mission alert came through. the air was sharp with the smell of burnt coffee and reheated rations, boots scuffing against tile as the last few soldiers cleared out.

you saw ghost leaving with his gear — a silent shadow among the noise, moving with that steady, deliberate pace of someone who already knew exactly how the night was going to unfold. the rest of the team called out to each other, last-minute jokes and instructions echoing down the corridor, but he didn’t say a word.

and you remembered the look in his eyes the last time they’d come back — that distant, far-off focus that didn’t quite leave, even when he was standing on safe ground. the way he’d walked straight past the mess, past the showers, all the way to his quarters like stopping for even a second would let something catch up to him. like he was racing an invisible weight you couldn’t see but knew was there.

you’d been holding a wrapped sandwich — still warm through the paper, the kind of quick grab from the mess you hadn’t even planned on eating yourself. on a whim, you stopped outside his door, setting it down carefully so it wouldn’t tip.

your hand hovered for a second before you dug in your pocket, pulling out a crumpled scrap of paper and the stub of a pen. the words came without thinking, small and plain.

welcome back. don’t forget to eat.

you folded it once, slid it beneath the edge of the sandwich, and walked away.

he never mentioned it. never so much as a nod in your direction. but when you passed by hours later, the spot was empty — no plate, no paper.

that should’ve been it. a small kindness in a passing moment. a one-time thing.

but then the next mission came, and you caught yourself lingering in the mess, looking for something he might actually like. you found yourself folding another note, keeping the words simple, like you were afraid too much sentiment might scare him off.

good work today. rest easy. you matter more than the mission.

and that time, too, it disappeared.

weeks turned into months, and somewhere along the way it stopped feeling like an impulse and became a ritual. it didn’t matter what time they came back, or how short the op was — you made sure his quarters were never empty when he opened that door. always something to eat. always something in your handwriting.

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

ghost never said a word. not in passing, not in the debriefs, not in the long stretches of silence between missions.

to be fair, he didn't exactly knew who it was, putting out the notes and food for him.

but you started to notice things. the way the plate or container was always cleaned off — not just emptied, but wiped down, set neatly back outside his door like he didn’t want to leave it looking careless. the way your folded notes were never crumpled or tossed; sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of one on his desk when the door was half-open, paper smoothed flat, edges worn soft like it had been handled more than once.

once, you even saw one pinned under the corner of a map, weighed down by a mug. another time, it was tucked between the pages of a well-worn field manual, the handwriting just barely peeking out.

you told yourself it didn’t mean much. he probably didn’t care that much. it was just food. just paper. just something to fill the space until the next mission.

but still, you kept doing it — because maybe it wasn’t about whether he cared. maybe it was about the fact that you did.

tonight is no different — except it’s late. past midnight, the kind of late where the base feels almost hollow, the hum of the overhead lights the only thing keeping the silence from swallowing the corridor whole. the op had wrapped hours later than planned, and the air still clung to the chill of the night outside, sharp enough that your breath fogged faintly in the glow of the hallway lamps.

you’re carrying a small tin this time, the lid warm beneath your palms, keeping the heat in. inside is stew from the mess — thick with potatoes, carrots, and slow-cooked meat, the kind of hearty weight that settles deep in the bones. something to fill the hollow space that missions always seem to carve out of people.

you kneel and set it down gently in front of his door, fingers tucking the folded note under the tin so it won’t blow away in the draft that snakes along the hallway floor.

welcome home, ghost. you did good out there.

you straighten, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

it’s quiet in the corridor.

until it isn’t.

boots. heavy, slow, approaching from the far end — not rushed, not dragging, but each step carrying weight you can hear in the rubber tread.

you freeze, hand still hovering near the tin, but you already know before you turn. broad shoulders cutting a shadow against the light. hood drawn up over the balaclava. the kind of presence that seems to take up all the space in the hall without trying.

ghost.

his pace slows when his gaze lands on you. the sound of his steps shifts, less of a march now, more deliberate. you straighten, pulse jumping against your ribs like you’ve been caught doing something forbidden — which is ridiculous, because there’s nothing wrong about this.

but he’s looking at you like he’s fitting puzzle pieces together.

he stops just in front of you, gaze flicking down to the tin and the note beneath it.

“so it’s you,” he says at last, voice low and rough, like the gravel road after a long night’s rain — hours of comms chatter and cold air wrapping around every syllable.

your mouth is suddenly dry. “i— guess it is.”

he doesn’t answer right away. just studies you for a long beat before crouching down, big hands dwarfing the tin as he lifts it. his eyes flick to the note, but he doesn’t open it here; instead, he slides it into one of the many pockets sewn into his gear.

“been you all along?”

you nod. “yeah.”

another pause. for a moment you’re sure he’s about to tell you to stop — that he doesn’t need anyone doing this for him. but instead, his head tilts slightly, and there’s the faintest huff of something close to a laugh, muffled behind the mask.

“could’ve just said something.”

“would you have let me?”

his eyes lift to yours at that. there’s a flicker there — something unreadable but undeniably human — before it smooths out again. whatever answer he might’ve given, he swallows it down.

instead, he shifts the tin to one hand and digs into his cargo pocket with the other, pulling out a folded scrap of paper.

he holds it out. “found some time during the flight back.”

you take it, a little confused, the paper warm from being tucked against him. unfolding it, you see the handwriting — blocky, uneven, like someone not used to writing outside mission reports and after-action notes.

keep doing this, and i might actually start thinking i deserve it.

your throat tightens. you look up. “you do deserve it.”

for a second, the only sound is the low electric hum above you. ghost tilts his head slightly, watching you like he’s trying to work out how you can say that with no hesitation, no qualifiers.

“get some sleep,” he says finally, softer than it should be coming from him. “i’ll… see you tomorrow.”

he turns and disappears into his quarters, the door shutting with a quiet finality.

you’re still holding his note when you make your way down the hall, the edges warm where your fingers have curled around it.

you don’t know it, but inside, ghost sets the tin down on his desk. he takes a seat, pulls the new note you left him free from its safe spot in his pocket, and smooths it flat. after a moment, he opens the top drawer, where the rest are stacked — every single one — and adds it carefully to the pile.

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

[kirisjournal]

hii stargazers!!

i am so sorry for the sudden lack in posting, as i was just posting a lot like a day or two ago..

unfortunately my laptop charger decided to give out on me because my cats keep chewing on it, no matter what i do to try and prevent it..

thankfully, ive already ordered a new charger off of amazon this morning (saturday morning, as im posting this right at 12am) , and it will be arriving the next day.

so just a few more hours, and my computer will be charged and i will get back to posting more stories for you all!!

feel free to request anything while im unable to work on anything, ill make those my top priority when im back!

[kirisjournal]

🧢one last time

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call of duty: kyle "gaz" garrick x male!reader

summary: a mission gone sideways splits you and gaz in opposite directions — but before you part, he stops you, his touch lingering like he’s trying to memorize your face. urgency and unspoken promises hang in the air, the moment just as dangerous as the mission itself.

setting: narrow, debris-filled alleyway in an active combat zone; distant boots, clipped comms chatter, and shifting mission orders.

warnings: mentions of combat and implied violence; intense emotional tension; brief physical contact (face touch).

word count: 0.3k

note: for the ones who know that sometimes the most dangerous thing on the battlefield is what goes unsaid.

also: i’m totally normal about this (i’m not)

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

the air between you was already heavy —

and not from the dust and debris lingering in the narrow alleyway, but from the weight of what was about to happen. voices crackled faintly over comms in your earpieces, orders coming through in clipped tones. somewhere in the distance, boots pounded against concrete.

the mission was still moving forward, but the plan had shifted. you and gaz were being sent in opposite directions.

he stepped close, gloved hand brushing your jaw before you could even think to speak. there was no smirk, no teasing remark this time — just his eyes, dark and intent, catching yours in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“hold still,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it almost got swallowed by the wind curling between buildings. “i need to remember your face.”

your breath caught. you could feel the heat of his palm, steadying you, grounding you, even as everything around you screamed urgency.

his thumb traced just beneath your cheekbone like he was committing the exact angle of your features to memory — the way your mouth quirked slightly when you tried not to smile, the set of your brow when you were focused.

he didn’t move for a few seconds. didn’t blink. it was as if he thought that if he stared long enough, maybe you’d stay, maybe you wouldn’t have to peel away into the chaos alone.

a shout from comms broke the spell. you both flinched, and his hand dropped reluctantly, fingers curling into a fist like they didn’t know what else to do.

“stay alive, yeah?” he said, softer this time, though it carried a thread of steel.

"you too." you gave him the faintest grin — because if you didn’t, you might not walk away — and then you were turning, heading into your own stretch of danger. but the phantom warmth of his touch stayed with you, burning against your skin, like a promise he’d be there when it was over.

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

[kirisjournal]

🧢 timing

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

summary: kyle “gaz” garrick has the worst timing imaginable — except when it’s perfect. pinned down in the middle of a firefight, you’re forced to admit that sometimes reckless heroics come with a grin you can’t quite resist.

setting: a bombed-out urban street smothered in heat shimmer, smoke, and gunfire; cover’s a crumbling wall barely holding together, and the only backup you get slides in grinning like it’s all part of the plan.

warnings: gunfire, battlefield danger, swearing, flirty banter under fire, reckless behavior, mild injury risk, lowercase prose, tension and humor in equal measure.

word count: 0.3k

note: for the ones who find each other in the middle of chaos, who trade barbs as easily as bullets, and whose hearts beat just as hard in the lulls between.

also: men who grin in firefights should be fined, jailed, and then immediately released into my custody.

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

you’re pressed low behind a half-collapsed wall, the jagged edges of broken stone biting into your forearms as you keep your scope steady.

the street ahead is a ghost town painted in smoke and heat shimmer, each flicker in your peripheral a possible threat. the world’s narrowed to the breath in your chest, the bead of sweat rolling down your temple, the target you’re lining up—

and then kyle’s voice cuts through the comms like he’s calling from the pub, casual as ever. “you’ve got terrible timing.”

you don’t look away from the scope, your voice tight with focus. “yeah, well, some of us are a little busy not dying right now.”

he chuckles in your ear—low, infuriatingly unbothered. “and yet, here i am. risking my neck to make sure you’re alright. hero stuff, really.”

you roll your eyes, just enough to break the tension. “hero stuff? you mean ‘waltzing in without a plan’?”

“nah. more like ‘arriving just when i’m needed.’” “you weren’t needed.” “still love me, though.” his tone is pure grin, and you can almost see it.

you open your mouth to fire something back, but the alley ahead suddenly detonates into motion—shouting in a language you don’t have time to process, the clatter of boots on stone, muzzle flashes tearing through the haze. you duck instinctively, the concrete at your back splintering as bullets chew it apart.

“gaz—” “yeah, i see ’em.”

he bursts into view before you even register where he’s coming from, darting through the open like the laws of physics have agreed to give him a pass. your gut twists at the reckless speed, at the way his body moves just ahead of the danger, and then he’s sliding into cover beside you, the scent of cordite and sweat sharp in the air.

“told you,” he pants, grinning as if he hasn’t just cheated death, “perfect timing.”

you glare at him for all of half a second before another volley rattles against the wall. the two of you exchange a glance, wordless and electric, and then you’re moving—him popping up to lay down suppressive fire, you shifting to flank.

“still terrible timing,” you call over the gunfire. “still love me, though,” he shouts back, and damn him, you’re smiling despite the chaos roaring around you. your smile widens at that. "that i do."

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

[kirisjournal]

if yall cant tell i love love love gaz anyways

[kirisjournal]

🧢thinking, are we?

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

summary: you’re commanding the room with nothing but your voice and presence, calm and in control—and gaz is doing everything in his power not to fall apart under it. spoiler: he fails.

setting: a pre-mission briefing room buzzing with quiet tension—your voice steady in the air, gaz rooted in place, unable to look anywhere but at you. authority has never looked this good, and professionalism is hanging on by a thread.

warnings: flirty tension, gaz being visibly down bad, reader’s voice/presence/authority kink coded, subtle power dynamics, blushing, lingering stares, lowercase prose

word count: 0.5k

note: for the ones who don't raise their voices but still get everyone to listen—for the ones who don’t mean to make hearts stutter but do it anyway, just by existing.

also: kyle “i’m not staring” garrick absolutely is. and he’d say “yes sir” without even thinking about it.

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

you didn’t mean to catch his attention. not like that.

you were just giving orders — crisp, commanding, your voice low and steady, the kind that leaves no room for questions. the room seemed to shift when you spoke, a quiet authority that settled like a weight in the air.

you stand just inside the doorway, arms folded loosely over your chest. your voice is calm but firm, steady as you explain the plan.

there’s no rushing you—every word measured, each sentence carrying weight. gaz watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time, caught off guard by the quiet power you hold.

the room feels charged, like the air itself is humming with something unspoken. gaz’s eyes don’t drift away. he traces the sharp line of your jaw, the way your lips press together when you’re focused, the subtle rise and fall of your chest beneath the plain shirt you’re wearing.

you don’t just speak — you command, without ever raising your voice. it’s the kind of authority that doesn’t demand attention but takes it anyway.

gaz’s heart beats a little faster. his mind races, caught somewhere between trying to follow what you’re saying and falling into the pull of your presence.

he’s been staring longer than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to look away. it’s like you’re the gravity holding him in place.

he thought he was just supposed to listen, follow orders, stay professional. but the way you carried yourself — the way your sharp eyes scanned the room, the way your jaw tightened when you meant business — it had him staring without thinking. caught completely red-handed, his gaze fixed on you like you were the only thing in the room.

he tried to look away, tried to focus on the mission, but something about the way you owned the space made it impossible. it wasn’t just your words. it was the way your presence settled over everything, commanding, magnetic.

but gaz, well… gaz wasn’t so good at hiding what he felt. the way his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary, the subtle swallow when your gaze met his — you caught him completely off guard.

“your staring again,” you said, your tone smooth but commanding, like you were reading him perfectly — because you were.

gaz froze for a split second, caught mid-lick of his lips like he’d been caught sneaking candy as a kid. his mouth opened, then closed, words scrambling behind his eyes as he searched for some excuse, some way to wiggle out of it without admitting the truth.

“what? no—i wasn’t—just, uh, zoning out.. thinking, yeah. totally thinking.”

but you saw the heat rising in his cheeks, the way his eyes darted away before snapping back to yours, guilty but helpless. you leaned back, crossing your arms, your voice dropping lower — the kind of tone that said, i’m not fooled, and i don’t even want you to try.

gaz swallowed hard, throat dry, every part of him aware of your presence, your power. and in that moment, he couldn’t help but think:

oh. my. god. he’s so hot.

because you weren’t just giving orders. you were commanding him. and god, did he want to obey.

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

[kirisjournal]

🕰️marked

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call of duty: john price x male!reader

summary: you never meant for him to find it. but once he sees the tattoo above your ribs—his initials, etched into your skin like a vow—he touches it like it’s sacred, and kisses it like it means everything.

setting: a quiet morning tangled in rumpled sheets and half-undressed warmth—post-mission and starved for each other, with sunlight filtering in and nothing but hands and breath and ink between you.

warnings: soft smut, suggestive content, half-naked cuddling, tattoo mention, emotional intimacy, possessive tenderness, lowercase prose

word count: 0.5k

note: for the ones who carry their love like scripture—for the quiet marks made in ink and sealed in kisses, where no one else can see but the one it’s meant for.

also: men who whisper “mine” against your skin should be studied in labs and then immediately handed over to me.

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

you didn’t mean for him to find it.

it wasn’t a secret, not exactly—but you hadn’t shown it to him, either. not because you were ashamed. it just... felt like yours. something quiet. personal. something you touched in the early mornings when the bed was still warm beneath you and the ache of missing him hadn’t quite faded. a mark above your ribs, just under your left pec, where the ink sat neat and small—his initials, etched in clean black lines. not decorative. not loud. just permanent.

it was yours. your own quiet vow, made on a whim and a deep breath and a gut-deep certainty that he was it for you.

you think maybe you were laughing when he found it.

you were both half-dressed. the duvet kicked back, his shirt shoved up your chest and his hand sliding up your side as he pressed slow kisses along your neck. you hadn’t seen him in days—maybe longer—and you’d missed him like something vital. you were straddling his thighs, hands in his hair, lips swollen from too many kisses and not nearly enough.

then his hand drifted a little higher. paused. and went still.

you felt it instantly—the shift in the air. how his thumb hovered, not touching. how his breath stilled against your throat.

his voice came a beat later. lower. rougher.

“what’s this?”

you froze for a second, then looked down—saw his gaze locked on the ink, thumb grazing just beside it, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch the skin directly.

"those're my letters," he said. not a question.

you nodded. didn’t say anything at first. just let him look.

price sat up slowly, hands smoothing along your waist to steady you as you shifted to let him see it clearer. his fingers splayed across your back, the other hand coming up to finally touch the tattoo—barely. the pads of his fingers traced the curve of each letter like they were fragile, like he was afraid they’d vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“you serious?”

his voice wasn’t teasing. not even a little. it was quiet. nearly reverent.

“yeah,” you said simply, meeting his eyes. “meant it.”

he exhaled through his nose, slow and unsteady. then leaned in, brushing his lips over the mark with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. once. then again. then he just rested his mouth there, his breath warm against your chest.

when he finally pulled back, his eyes were darker than before. jaw tight. brows drawn the slightest bit, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you again or just look at you until the moment carved itself into his memory.

“fuck,” he murmured. “you’ve really got me, haven’t you.”

you smiled, mouth soft. “always did.”

he reached up, cupped your jaw, and kissed you hard—not frantic, but deep. purposeful. like he was putting something into you. something old and true and aching.

his hands stayed steady on your ribs, his mouth trailing down your chest and over the ink again, reverent.

“mine,” he said, lips brushing it.

then, quieter:

“and i’m yours.”

and when he looked up at you, eyes heavy with everything he didn’t say out loud—you kissed him again. slow. steady. sure.

you didn’t need to speak.

you were already marked.

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

[kirisjournal]

🕰️ safe space

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call of duty: john price x male!reader

summary: the world outside is loud. always has been. but here, on a worn couch with a candle burning and your wrist under his hand, john price finally finds something quiet enough to breathe in.

setting: a dim living room just after dark—soft soul music on vinyl, a flickering candle, and the quiet hush that only comes when the war is far away and the weight of it all has a place to rest.

warnings: fluff, emotional intimacy, vulnerability, mentions of war trauma, soft domesticity, lowercase prose

word count: 0.6k

note: for the ones who offer no solutions, only softness—for the ones who become a home just by staying, listening, and letting their love rest for a while.

also: men with heavy hearts who only find peace in your arms should be federally protected.

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

the house is quiet except for the soft hum of the record player in the corner, needle dragging itself gently across a well-worn groove.

it’s some old soul album you’d found at a secondhand store, all brass and warmth, faint static wrapped like gauze around each note. the couch sags under the weight of you both—blanket half-fallen to the floor, one of your legs tangled between his, john's hand resting idle on your wrist like it always does when he’s trying not to think too hard.

he doesn’t say much.

he rarely does, not about the important things. the world outside, the weight he carries, the silence that stretches too long after mission debriefs. you’ve learned not to push. with john, it’s never about the words—just the space you give him to rest.

his thumb moves in slow, steady circles against the inside of your wrist. soft. thoughtless.

you’re both half-lost in the haze between sleep and something quieter. not quite dreaming, not quite fully awake. the room is dim, lit only by the lamp across the room and the flickering candle on the coffee table—vanilla, because he always pretends not to care about scents but re-lights that same one every time.

you shift a little and his arm tightens around you. not enough to hurt. just enough to anchor.

“you alright?” you ask, low. voice gravelled from disuse.

he hums, but doesn’t answer right away. just keeps tracing that same gentle line along your wrist like it’s grounding him. like maybe it’s the only thing keeping him here, in this room, in this moment.

“was thinkin’,” he says eventually. slow.

you wait.

his voice drops softer, so low you almost don’t catch it. “’bout how this... this is the only time my head ever shuts up.”

your heart aches a little. not for yourself, but for him.

for how tightly wound he always is, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. for how often he’s bracing for impact even when he pretends he’s not. for how no one ever taught him that he didn’t have to earn stillness.

you press your forehead to his collarbone. “when we’re like this?”

“mm.”

his other hand lifts, slow, and settles against your back. not moving. just resting there. warm and steady.

you don’t say anything more. don’t ask him to explain.

but maybe he doesn’t need to.

he shifts just enough to look at you—those blue eyes catching the low light, a little softer now, a little less guarded. “don’t get that with anyone else.”

and god, that—

that simple sentence, dropped quiet in the hush of the room, feels heavier than anything else he’s ever said to you.

you swallow around the knot in your throat. “yeah?”

he nods once. serious. thumb still tracing that same worn path over your pulse. “with you, it’s quiet. it’s... safe.”

your hand finds his chest and rests there, fingers splayed over his heart.

it’s not perfect. he’s not perfect.

he’s got scars he hasn’t told you about, and walls even you haven’t found the edges of yet. but here, in this moment, with the music playing soft and the room wrapped in amber light—he lets himself breathe.

and maybe that’s all he needs.

just a couch. just a quiet song. just your heartbeat close and the soft weight of your wrist under his hand.

just a place to land when the rest of the world feels like a battlefield.

and he’s chosen you.

not because he has to. because somehow, without even meaning to—you became the safest place he’s ever known.

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

[kirisjournal]

....Ok i promise its the last time i request its just that I Adore your works, could you please do John Price,but like, lets say its a stablished relationship, proposing to reader,in like the most random moment,maybe while cooking,or while waking up idk

ahhh please never apologize!! it means the world that you enjoy my work enough to ask again ♡ i loved this idea so much—soft, random, so john price. thank you for trusting me with it:

mr. random, and mx. price

[kirisjournal]

May I? Yes? Get ready for a rant. first off. I love how you write descriptions. Theyre lively if needed, or carrying a burden. The comparisons and analogies are perfect and your way of writing is touching. It’s refreshing to see someone offering such outstanding work. Overall,, 9.4/10.

next: I like how you write the “for the ones that…” it’s really distinguishable. And it makes me feel seen. Then, the way you don’t make it too complicated, how the feelings feel natural and belonging. It’s a nice balance.

Also, your whole personality is likable. It’s fitting. And the variety in genders you write for is a cherry on top. go along the way you want and make sure to stay healthy. ~Defro

defro. you absolute gem.

this made me smile like an idiot—i don’t even know where to begin. thank you, truly. for the time, the kindness, the detail. i never take this kind of thing lightly.

the fact that you picked up on the emotional rhythm in my writing—the comparisons, the weight when it’s needed, the softness when it isn’t—it means so much. i pour a lot of myself into those moments, and to have someone notice? that’s everything.

and you mentioning the “for the ones that…” section?? i could cry. i started adding that because i wanted people to feel seen in the small ways. like maybe, just maybe, these stories could land where they’re needed. knowing that it found you—i’m grateful beyond words.

thank you for calling my little corner of the internet a likable one. thank you for seeing the effort in the gender variety, the tone, the balance. just—thank you.

i’ll keep going my way... and i promise to stay healthy. only if you do too ♡

sending all the love your way, —kiri ♡

[kirisjournal]

🕰️ mr. random , and mx. price

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call of duty: john price x gn!reader

request: '....Ok i promise its the last time i request its just that I Adore your works, could you please do John Price,but like, lets say its a stablished relationship, proposing to reader,in like the most random moment,maybe while cooking,or while waking up idk'

summary: a sleepy morning in the kitchen—barefoot, half-dressed, kettle whistling—and john price asks you to marry him with no ring, no plan, and no hesitation. just love. (you say yes anyway.)

setting: a quiet kitchen after the rain, steam from the kettle curling into the air. john’s shirt on your skin, his hands at your waist, and a casual proposal spoken like a promise already kept.

warnings: fluff, spontaneous marriage proposal, softness, vulnerability, domestic intimacy, lowercase prose

word count: 0.5k

note: for the ones who enjoy comfier, softer moments in the middle of the morning, when the tea's not even ready and love has already settled into every corner of the room.

also: john price proposing in the kitchen while you’re in his shirt should be illegal and yet here we are. (mx. is for nonbinary, instead of mr. or mrs. , since this is a gn!reader blurb)

my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡

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

you’re not really dressed yet.

still half-draped in the cotton heat of john’s t-shirt—too big for you, stretched and worn thin around the collar from his broad shoulders. your thighs are bare, toes curled against the cool tile of the kitchen. the kettle hums on the stove behind you, filling the silence with a soft build of steam.

john’s just come in, hair still damp from the shower, sweatpants low on his hips, a mug dangling from his fingers.

he looks at you the same way he always does—like he’s still stunned you’re real.

“mornin’, love,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“hi, baby,” you murmur, not bothering to turn around fully, just tilting your head over your shoulder to offer him a lopsided smile. “tea’s almost ready.”

he steps up behind you without another word, big hands resting heavy on your waist. kisses the side of your neck, slow and soft, like a ritual.

you lean back into his chest, letting your eyes fall shut for a second.

the two of you sway there, barely moving. the kitchen smells like rain through the window, and lemon from the tea.

and then—

“marry me.”

you don’t register it at first. not really. not with the kettle just starting to whistle, and john’s mouth grazing your shoulder.

you blink, turn your face toward him a bit more.

“what?” you laugh, softly. not because it’s funny. just— “what did you say?”

he still hasn’t moved.

arms around you, nose nudging behind your ear. like he could whisper the whole world to you from that one place, the shell of your skin.

“i said marry me,” he repeats, a little clearer this time. still warm. still casual. “you should marry me.”

your heart stutters.

“john…”

“i mean it.”

he finally pulls back enough to look at you properly—hands sliding up your sides to rest just beneath your ribs, holding you in place like something fragile. like he’s scared if he doesn’t touch you with both hands, you might float off and disappear.

you turn in his arms. stare at him, blinking.

“you—you don’t have a ring or anything?” you whisper.

“no.” he smiles, a little sheepish. shrugs. “wasn’t plannin’ on askin’ yet.”

“so why now?”

and that’s when his expression softens again—something impossibly fond. deep in his eyes, in the crease of his brows.

“dunno,” he says. “you just looked so pretty. kettle was on. you were barefoot, wearin’ my shirt. felt like the right time.”

you laugh again—wet this time, emotional. your hands come up to rest on his chest.

“you’re such an idiot,” you murmur.

“mm.” his mouth twitches. “but you love me.”

“i really do.”

“so marry me.”

you breathe in, shaky. your fingertips twist slightly in the fabric of his shirt.

he’s not trying to impress you. there’s no crowd, no candlelight, no sweeping gestures. just him. just the two of you, in your quiet little kitchen.

and somehow—it’s perfect.

so you nod.

you press your forehead to his, eyes fluttering closed.

“okay,” you whisper. “i’ll marry you.”

you feel his smile more than you see it. the soft puff of his breath against your cheek.

his arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you in, grounding you.

“gonna spend the rest of my life lovin’ you,” he murmurs. “was already gonna do it anyway.”

the kettle shrieks louder. the rain outside starts again.

john kisses you like you said yes to the rest of his life.

like you always have.

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