Call Of Duty - Blog Posts

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So handsome, so pretty, so cute~ (100/10 he would definitely nibble some ankles)

Rip guys

baby blue 💙

𝙲𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕..🫢

yehawww am i right

ghost in red

FIRST MET⛓️🖤🔪

Matchies~✨

hmm what about enemies to lovers w/ Kick? Kind of going along with the head cannons you made of why they don’t like you. Sorry if it’s not much, I fear that’s the best my mind can make up 😔

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎 ˚｡⋆♡༘˚ ❀ੈ♡˳───────𖤐˚︵︵˚𖤐───────♡ੈ❀

✧ 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄: Enemies to lovers with kick ✧ 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌: Call of Duty Ghosts ✧ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: Kick ✧ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Character X G!N! reader! ✧ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: Slow burn, enemies to lovers ✧ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Verbal conflict, emotional tension, enemies-to-lovers dynamic ✧ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4030

The First Meet

You were former field intel—trained, tested, and hardened. Sharp in both strategy and aim. When they assigned you to dual-capable support, it wasn’t a promotion, it was a need. A solution. Someone who could bridge both ends of the op.

The assignment to the Ghosts' station wasn’t by your request. It was abrupt, high-priority. They didn’t want just anyone—they needed someone who could run comms, decrypt under pressure, and still hit targets without hesitation. That someone was you.

You walk into the base’s comms bay for the first time. The air is cool, the low hum of screens buzzing. You crack the door open slightly, not wanting to interrupt.

He’s there—locked in, eyes narrowed, sharp brows drawn in deep concentration. He doesn’t even glance your way. Maybe didn’t hear you. Maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

But from that first glimpse, you could already tell: he’s the type who doesn’t waste focus. And now, you were stepping into his world.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Voice low, flat, and laced with sarcasm: “If you’re delivering coffee, make it strong. If not, I need some cigarettes.”

You glance sideways, unimpressed but unmoved. Cool and composed. “I’m your new handler for recon data.”

That’s when he pauses. Eyes lift to meet yours.

Amber—no, gold, almost glowing under the wash of the screen light. A fleeting moment of surprise flashes across his face, subtle but there.

“Oh. Good,” he says, finally leaning back in his chair, tone dry as ever. “Try not to fry my drive like the last guy did.”

You arch a brow. The game had begun—and clearly, this wasn’t going to be a quiet assignment.

You didn’t flinch. Just crossed your arms and replied coolly, “Not here to babysit any driver. Just to make sure you don’t brick the mission while you're being clever.”

That was it—the spark. The gate to the classic enemies-to-lovers chaos creaked open right then and there.

He didn’t hate you, no. But damn, did he dislike you. The attitude, the sharp tongue, the way you came in like you already had the place mapped. Kick couldn’t stand people who came off too smart, too fast. Especially ones who mirrored his own bite.

He paused, your words hanging in the air, then sighed—lips twitching into a slow, amused smile. He stood, gaze leveled, one brow raised. “What did you just say to me?”

You didn’t back down. “Well, Kick, I’ve heard what you did when you first—”

He cut you off with a scoff, “Yeah, did. And what is it? ‘Bygones be bygones’? English not your first language or somethin’?”

That was the first round. A volley of sharp words and stubborn faces. Neither of you backed off—and maybe that’s exactly why it started to matter.

The Tension Builds

Week one? It’s a cold war dressed as teamwork.

You deliver your part of the job—clean, precise. He mocks you with nothing but a look, that infuriating half-lidded stare like he's already picked apart everything you've done. You feel it.

He delivers next—and you critique, straight-faced, surgical with your words. Every joint task turns into a quiet, brutal game of chess.

When you double-check his system patch before a field op, he doesn’t argue. Just shrugs, clicks a few keys, and redoes it. Not because he cares—no. But to let you know he really doesn’t care.

Later, during a mission brief, you silently reach into his routing code and correct it mid-scan. Not flashy. Not even out loud. Just enough to keep the op running clean.

Hours later, when the tension is finally dying down, his voice cuts in behind you—low, even: “I thought I told you not to touch the codes I work on again.”

You don’t even turn around. You’re trying to enjoy what little peace you’ve got.

With a sigh, you reply, “It’s my job too. What if the data report was filled with fake intel?”

There’s a pause. And behind you, you swear you hear the smallest scoff of approval—buried in annoyance.

Yeah. Cold war. For now.

Kick isn’t the type to beef. He doesn’t waste time on ego games—too seasoned, too practical. If it doesn't serve the mission, it’s noise.

So after that first week of sparks and code edits, the tension just… fizzles. Not into warmth, not yet—but into mutual exhaustion. You both have work to do, and not enough energy to keep clashing.

The coldest thing he does is withhold. Support, emotion, any trace of personal investment—he keeps it all sealed behind that quiet, unreadable calm.

And because you're both adults, professionals, and frankly too tired to keep drawing battle lines, it just... levels out.

One evening, over systems check, he says it offhand while typing: “Didn’t think I’d meet someone here who could keep up. You’re not half bad.”

It catches you off guard. You look over, blinking. “You either…”

No smile. No softness. But it lands different. Not flirty. Not dramatic. Just… respect, finally cracked open.

After that, the silence shifts. Not cold anymore—charged. You feel him watching during ops. Long glances. Nothing said.

Kick doesn’t fall fast. He fights it, like it’s some mission breach.

But you got under his skin. And he’s not used to bleeding quietly.

The quiet understanding? Gone. Work’s tense now—not personal, but pressure-cooked from the mission load.

Kick’s hunched over the relay case, calibrating for the infiltration op. You spot a flicker—diagnostic lag. Instinct kicks in. You override part of the setup without asking.

His jaw tightens instantly.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You don’t back down.

“Fixing what you missed. You forgot to compensate for the static backflow on the east relay. If I hadn’t—”

“If?” he cuts in, voice sharper now, “You wanna bet comms failing mid-op on your name? Because I don’t.”

He snatches the cable from your hand. You don’t flinch.

“I’ve pulled people out of worse with a busted mic and a bent antenna. You don’t get to lecture me like I’m green.”

That’s the crack. The voice raises. The weight of the job pressing down.

His reply is low, clipped:

“Then stop acting like it. You want this job or a pissing contest?”

It hangs in the air. Both of you glaring, hearts racing—not because of each other, but because everything around you is too much.

The tension erasing slowly

You and Kick were on the same field support op. You were almost pinned in crossfire during retreat — and he didn't loop your comm in time.

When it’s over, you're walking back into the safehouse. He’s trying to defuse it with nothing.

Inside, Kick’s already ditched his vest, silent as ever. When you step in, he looks up only briefly and mutters: “Good to see you alive.”

It’s stiff. Distant. Not like him—not after months of working together, knowing each other’s tones, silences, everything.

You pause. Then exhale with a dry, tired smile, eyes half-lidded like sleep was dragging you down where you stood. “I think if I had gone down, you’d still be making jokes about it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You finally lift your gaze to his—and for once, it’s not guarded.

Just worn. Jaw tight. Guilt sitting somewhere behind those amber eyes.

It hits. Hard. You can see it in his eyes—no snark, no defensive walls. Just a raw, quiet thing that makes the whole room feel smaller.

Kick doesn’t say anything, but that look of his? It’s a heavy one. Like it’s all falling into place—things he doesn’t want to admit.

“Oh man…” he mutters, eyes narrowing, face still as stone. “Can’t believe you. After months of working and enduring my asshole behaviors, you now think I don’t care if you die? I thought you were good at reading people.”

You tilt your head, something sharp flickering behind your eyes. You step closer, voice steady but cutting: “I think you care more about being right than being reliable.”

The words sting. You see the tension coil in his shoulders, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he lets out a low chuckle, though it’s tight. “You really know how to make a guy want to punch drywall, you know that?”

You can’t help it. You chuckle too—half tired, half bitter, but there’s something else there too. Maybe relief. “And yet you’re still standing here.”

For a moment, the air is thick. Neither of you makes a move, just standing there, locked in a silent tug-of-war.

Kick’s gaze softens for a brief moment—something you’ve never seen before, not from him. A flicker of warmth, quickly buried beneath that hard exterior.

He doesn’t say much, just that small, almost begrudging smile tugging at the corner of his lips. And then, the words come, slow and heavy like he’s not sure he even believes them himself. “You did good, Y/N... And don’t make me regret saying it again.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired, too caught off guard by the rare glimpse of approval to even form the words.

He doesn’t wait for your reply. He just turns and walks out, leaving you standing there, staring after him as the door closes.

You shake your head with a quiet exhale. It’s not the apology you expected. It’s not the comfort you wanted. But maybe... maybe it’s enough.

Well, he’s not that bad.

You don’t know how long you stand there, but when you finally leave the room, the weight of the mission and the weight of what’s been said still hangs in the air. Neither one of you has said the things that need saying, but for once, you both understand.

After that moment, everything between you and Kick shifts. It’s not obvious—no sudden confessions or grand gestures. It’s in the quiet, the moments when the tension between you both starts to loosen just a little, bit by bit.

You find yourself slipping into conversations with him that you never thought you’d have. No more sharp words or unspoken grudges. Just... talking. Just being.

And you start noticing things. Small things. The way his gaze lingers for a moment longer than usual. The soft exhale he lets out when he’s finally out of a mission zone, or when his eyes catch yours unexpectedly. It’s almost like he’s letting you in without even realizing it.

One night, the conversation shifts. You’re sitting in the mess hall, the low hum of conversation around you, but the two of you are lost in your own little world.

You catch yourself asking, voice softer than you expect: “You ever get tired of this? The waiting. The quiet. The silence just before it all goes to hell?”

Kick’s brows furrow, a rare sign of uncertainty, as he thinks about the question. The silence stretches, and you wonder if you’ve asked something too deep.

Finally, he answers, voice low and steady: “Sometimes. But not right now.”

You don’t say anything after that. You just let the quiet settle in, the unspoken weight of his words lingering between you both. He’s not exactly opening up, but he’s still here. Present. And that, for now, is enough.

Kick’s the kind of guy who doesn’t let silence last too long. He’ll fill it with something—anything—to break the tension. Whether it’s rambling about the latest op or ranting about some random thing that’s bothering him, he’s always got something to say.

And you get used to it, the way his voice cuts through the quiet, his words bouncing off the walls, pulling you into his world. It’s just who he is, a talker at heart.

But there’s something else you notice too, something that shifts over time. You’re sitting together one evening, the air thick with unspoken words. Kick leans back, hand instinctively reaching for a cigarette, but before he lights it, he looks over at you.

“See? You’re not bad when you don’t smoke.”

You say it lightly, but you know there’s a part of him that’s changed. That used to be a constant, the cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a shield. But now, with you? He’s different.

Kick just shrugs, a half-smirk tugging at his lips, that familiar glint in his eyes. “Oh yeah? Don’t get used to it.”

And maybe, just maybe, you do get used to it. The way he’s shifting, the way he’s adapting, even if he won’t admit it. It’s not about the smoking anymore. It’s about him—about how he's willing to change little things for you, even if he won’t fully acknowledge it.

You’ve never been one to fish for validation. It’s not your style. But when Kick starts running his mouth—those familiar lines about things being “too easy” or “not challenging enough”—it’s hard not to notice the pattern. It starts sounding like a broken record, and you can't help but wonder if there's a part of him trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

You catch him in the middle of one of his rants, watching him as he struggles just a little—nothing big, but enough to make you think. It’s like he’s pretending not to feel the weight of it all.

You can’t help but tease him, leaning in just enough to throw him off balance with a suggestion: “If you need something, just ask, alright? I can... run a search, or fix something.”

He just glances at you, barely pausing from his task, a shrug in his voice as he responds: “Well, yeah. I’m good, thanks.”

You shake your head, about to head back to your own work, but something pulls you back to him, that nagging feeling that he won’t admit it even when he needs help.

“I mean, you could use someone to keep up with you.”

For the first time, there's a pause. Then, he looks up at you with a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah? Guess you’re stronger than I thought.”

It’s said lightly, but you both know it means something more than just a casual comment. Something shifts in the air, a quiet acknowledgment between you two. And for a second, it feels like the walls between you are a little thinner.

When it broke all

You're now sitting in front of Kick, the room dim and quiet after the medic left. Just the two of you now, a low hum from some overhead light filling the silence. He’d been patched up — nothing too crazy, but still enough to make you wince when you looked at him. Scrapes, bruises, a stitched gash or two. The usual. His job was always messy like that. Being a tech specialist didn’t mean he got to sit behind a desk — more like crawling through collapsed buildings or trying to hack a terminal while bullets flew past his head.

You watched him breathe for a second. Still alive. Still stubborn. And then, you broke the silence.

“You know, at some point,” you said, pulling your legs up a little, “you’ll run out of places to get shot.”

He tilted his head toward you with a lazy half-smirk. “Then I’ll finally be symmetrical. Bonus.”

You didn’t smile. Not exactly. But something softened in your face. Maybe your eyes stayed on him a second too long. Long enough for him to notice, anyway. His smirk didn’t fade, but it quieted.

You reached over to the medkit sitting beside you, flipping it open with one hand, fingers sorting through gauze and antiseptic pads. You pulled out what you needed and glanced at him — a look that said, "May I?"

He just gave a slow nod, the kind he gave when words weren’t worth the effort. So you moved in closer, Your hands, still chilled from the metal table, met warm skin just below where the bandage ended. He stiffened. Just barely — the kind of flinch someone doesn’t mean to make.

“Sorry,” you murmured, not sure if you were apologizing for the cold or the closeness. Maybe both.

You leaned in a bit more, just slightly, head dipping down for a better angle. It wasn’t anything romantic — not intentionally — just practical. Close work meant being close. That’s all. But still, you could feel the space between you shrink. His breath slowed. You didn’t say anything about it, just started cleaning the wound, your touch careful.

He didn’t joke this time. Didn’t move. Just sat there, letting you patch him up again like he always did.

And you… you stayed right there, pretending your hands didn’t tremble a little as they brushed across the side of someone you were trying way too hard not to care about.

“From what I’ve heard,” you say quietly, eyes still on the angry red line across his skin, “the Federation had your photo on a kill list.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. But something shifts in his eyes — a flicker, like a match catching fire for a split second before going dark again. He looks at you then, not startled, not angry. Just... watching. Like he’s trying to read between your words, see what you’re really asking.

Kick’s voice comes out low, dry, like gravel under boots. “Yeah. I figured someone would’ve mentioned that.”

You don’t meet his gaze. Your hands keep working, steady and careful, cleaning the edge of the wound like it’s just another scrape on just another day. But the silence between your words carries weight.

“Doesn’t mean you stop being careful,” you mutter, not accusing, not gentle either — just honest.

His chest rises slowly under your fingers. A long breath in. He’s not the type to make promises. You both know that. But maybe that wasn’t what you were asking for.

Maybe you just wanted him to understand that someone is still watching, still keeping track of where he bleeds.

And maybe, just maybe, he already does.

“You knew. About the list.” His voice was low, like he was talking more to himself than to you. “And you’re still with me. Others would just be scared shitless for their lives.”

He said it like it didn’t matter — like it rolled off him easy. But it didn’t. You could hear the way he tried to bury the edge in his tone, how he made it a statement instead of a question just so he didn’t sound like he needed the answer.

You kept your eyes on his chest, still dabbing at the edge of the wound, slow and steady. The smell of antiseptic filled the air between you, sharp and clean.

“I’m your second on field,” you said simply. “I don’t abandon people mid-mission.”

A pause. The kind that stretched just long enough for him to maybe say something, but he didn’t. So you did.

Softer this time. Almost quiet enough to be missed if he wasn’t already listening.

“And you’re not just anyone out there.”

His breath caught — just a little. And your hand stayed right where it was, resting lightly against his chest, waiting.

Neither of you moved.

You don’t even realize how close you are until the air between you starts to feel thinner, heavier — like breathing takes just a little more effort now. Like something’s shifted and neither of you wants to name it.

Then his hand grazes your waist. Just that — a brush of skin, rough calluses against your ribs.

There’s no dramatic moment, no sharp inhale or trembling gasp. Just stillness. A long, weighty kind of silence where your eyes find his — and stay there.

You glance down, almost unsure, to where his fingers now rest gently against your waist. His hand, worn and scarred from years in the field, strong and steady, holding you like something fragile. Your eyes lift back to his, and there’s a quiet frown between your brows, your lips slightly parted, voice barely a breath.

“…Kick…”

But he’s already watching you. Expecting you. Like he knew this moment would come, he’d just been waiting for it to land.

“Yes, love.”

And then he leans in. Not reckless, not urgent. Just slow. Careful. Like he’s giving you every chance to stop him — but you don’t.

You don’t step back. You just meet him halfway.

The kiss isn’t soft, but it’s not rushed either. There’s no hesitation in it, only weight — the weight of everything unsaid, everything felt but never spoken. It’s steady. Grounded. Like both of you had been carrying something too heavy for too long, and now, just for this moment, you’ve found somewhere to set it down.

You stay there — not in a rush to pull away. Because this… this was never about timing.

The first kiss might’ve been steady — a question asked in silence — but the second… the second burns.

You don’t know who moved first, maybe it was both of you at once, but suddenly it’s not careful anymore. It’s need — sharp and unspoken — rushing in like a tide neither of you can stop.

You slip your hands up around his neck, fingers curling at the nape, holding on like you’re afraid letting go will break whatever this is. His hands find your waist, rough and certain, pulling you closer — close enough to feel his heartbeat, fast and hard against your chest.

Your mouths find each other again, this time deeper, messier, hungrier. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission anymore — it just takes. There’s heat in it now, in the way his lips press against yours, in the low, raw grunt he lets out when your nails brush against the back of his neck.

Both of you have your eyes shut, not needing to see when you can feel everything. The tension, the years of pretending, the battlefield closeness that’s finally collapsed in on itself — it’s all there, pressed between you.

And in that breathless space, nothing else exists. Not the mission. Not the kill list. Not the war outside the door.

Just you and Kick — two people who’ve seen too much, lost too much — finally letting themselves want something. Even just for a minute.

You both pulled back from the kiss, breathing a little uneven, like the air had changed shape around you and neither of you were quite ready to speak yet. The space between you hummed, charged and warm, and for a second, all you could do was look at him.

Then you smiled, crooked and knowing. “I just… I know it’s not your first time, Kick.”

He raised a brow at you “Damn. You got me. I was gonna ask if you’d sign my yearbook,” he said, deadpan, like the two of you were in some high school hallway instead of a half-lit room that still smelled like antiseptic and smoke.

You snorted. Just a little. But it slipped out, and he caught it.

He leaned back, still perched on the cot, watching you like you were the most interesting thing in the room. Which, let’s be honest, you were.

“So?” he asked, half-teasing. “Was it at least top five?”

You gave him a look, unimpressed but amused. “It was fine.”

“Fine? Fine?” His voice pitched up, full mock quite outrage. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“You had a mild concussion and at least two broken ribs,” you replied, already turning toward the door. “I figured you deserved a morale boost.”

He grinned — smug, even through the wince of pain when he shifted. “Guess I’ll have to earn a real one next time.”

You didn’t answer.

But the silence you left behind wasn’t cold. It wasn’t awkward. It was filled with something heavier — certainty. The kind that didn’t need words, didn’t need to be spelled out.

You paused at the door, hand resting on the frame, and glanced back over your shoulder.

“And for the record,” you said, eyes flicking to his, “top five is generous.”

“Top three,” he called after you, smug as hell. “Don’t lie to yourself!”

You were gone before he saw the smile tug at your lips — that twitch you tried to suppress and failed miserably at.

And Kick leaned back, wincing at his ribs, a hand resting lazily across his chest, still smirking like he’d just won something.

Not bad for a first kiss under fire.

warm up doodle 🤓

Cpl Dunn :0 yayaya I think I'll make more content about CoD MW og... Or BO? (Black ops)

Btw, here some close up :]

Bonus:

"Excuse me."

ೃ Random cod ghosts hc༄༊·˚

Warning: emotional numbness, implied depression, Angst. Character: Hesh walker Song rec: Mice On Venus

○ Hesh Walker no longer looks in the mirror the way he once did.

○ It’s not melodrama. It’s just a quiet, unspoken truth. Since the day his father’s heart gave out and Logan vanished like dust on the wind, something hollowed out inside him. Not shattered — not broken in any obvious way — just emptied. A soft erasure, like someone had scraped out all the color from within him with the edge of a dull blade.

○ He doesn’t know what he's supposed to feel. Anger? Maybe. Sadness? Probably. Mourning? Grief? Words like those seem too clean, too neat. Emotions are supposed to arrive with names, faces, pulses — but what he feels doesn’t. It just sits there, shapeless and heavy, like fog that never lifts.

○ So he doesn’t say much. He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t rage. He does what he knows how to do: he keeps quiet and keeps working. The way a lieutenant should. The way he always has.

○ But the team notice.

○ They see the dark, sharp lines etched under his eyes — not just from sleepless nights, but from something deeper, something lodged in the bones. They see the tension in his jaw, the way he stands a little too still, as if movement might shake something loose inside him that he’s not ready to face.

○ Yet he remains what he’s always been: a born leader. Natural. Unyielding. Even when hollow, Hesh Walker is still the man others follow without question — the kind of man who doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊Hesh walker ODIN strike moodboard₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I fr...need captain MacTavish...

this is how cod ghosts 2 is going to start.

ladies and gentlemen the only reason why we don't have more unmasked logan (or logan himself lol) is because they feared his powers. thx.

✧ Title: Logan Friends to lovers. [requested]

✧ Characters: Teammate! any! g! Reader X Logan walker.

✧ Summary: That’s a soft burn with sharp edges type of love. A quiet storm. The man doesn’t talk much, but when he loves, it’s with his whole chest—even if he doesn’t know how to say it out loud yet.

✧ Warnings: Nothing, SFW content.

Boy, how he wishes he could just voice his thoughts to you—say everything he feels without hesitation.

Logan’s a composed man, always keeping his emotions in check, keeping his look calm and unreadable.

But inside? He’s emotional. Deeply. He just buries it well, finding any excuse to brush the thoughts off, to pretend they don’t exist—because feeling too much is dangerous for someone like him.

He's the type to notice first, but not acknowledge it.

It starts with awareness.

How you always adjust your gear with purpose.

How your voice sounds over comms.

How you move through a room like you own the space but never demand attention.

Logan notices. Always. And it quietly messes him up.

"Don't be reckless," he tells you before a solo op. You shrug it off. He doesn't.He doesn't say he's scared. He just hands you a fresh mag without a word.

He doesn't talk about it. He just... starts doing more.

And let’s just say… you don't mind his company :)

He’s not clingy, never the type to hover or be constantly in your space—but he wants to be around you. Whether it’s casual chit-chat or just sitting in silence, your presence calms him.

If you’re talkative or social? Hooray, you’re his favorite kind of chaos—because honestly, he’s terrible at starting conversations. But he’ll listen to every word like it matters.

One time, he straight-up asked if he could clean your rifles or do your job for a bit—just to help, just to feel closer to what matters to you.

He always sits across from you at meal time, no matter who else is around. That’s your seat in his world.

And honestly hesh never noticed.

Once, during a casual conversation, you said, “Yes, well, Logan walker here is my teammate”

Logan’s lips parted slightly, eyes dropping to the floor. Teammates? I thought we are… dating. :(

The doubt started creeping in again. Especially when he saw you around the others—talking, working, joking like you always did. And with Kick? Yeah, that stung more than he’d ever admit.

He hated how bitter it made him feel. He isn’t the jealous type—He just wishes he make you laugh like this since he know he is damn well boring man or whatever you think about him.

But after you shared a laugh with a teammate and walked off alone with Logan again talking about the thing they talked about, something reckless slipped out.

Logan let out a dry laugh, brushing it off like nothing. “Yeah… can you imagine? He’s taken? Kinda Ridiculous.”

But beneath the sarcasm, it stung—because that wasn’t about them at all. That was about him.

It’s not a grand moment. It’s not a near-death confession. It’s a normal day where you two are laughing over something dumb someone did.

And Logan looks at you — really looks — and realizes: You’re the peace in the storm. The thing he never thought he deserved.

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t confess.

He just… takes a breath.

"If I ever lose this, I don't know who I'd be anymore."

Logan is the type to keep things bottled. He doesn’t say much, but he watches. And he notices everything about you — the way you move during recon, how precise your movements are in the field, the way you handle weapons without wasting time. He admires it quietly.

"You didn’t miss a single shot today," he says one night, his tone unreadable. You raise a brow. "You counting now?" He shrugs. "Only yours."

It doesn’t feel flirty. It feels... like respect. Like interest he doesn’t know how to verbalize yet.

❖ How He Acts After He Knows

Logan’s not awkward, but he’s more… careful. Intentional. His protective nature turns up a notch, but subtly—he won’t smother.

More present when you’re talking, eyes calm and unreadable.

Always behind you in formation, but close enough that if something happens, he’s the first one there.

Noticing your habits, your tells, and memorizing the way you speak when you're tired, stressed, happy.

After realizing his feelings for you, Logan will become even more attuned to your actions and words.

He watches how you work, your posture, your mannerisms. There’s a slight shift in how he looks at you — not just out of respect, but with a level of curiosity he tries to bury.

His focus becomes sharper when you’re around, but he makes sure not to let it slip.

If you’re cleaning your weapon or checking your gear, Logan might catch himself staring a little too long, noticing the precise way you work.

He’ll look away quickly, trying to force his attention elsewhere. He’ll brush it off as nothing, but the truth is, his mind can’t help but wander.

Logan, after realizing his feelings, would likely become even more reserved with you, at least at first.

His calm, stoic demeanor will become more pronounced because he doesn’t want to make any mistake or seem vulnerable.

The last thing he wants is for his emotions to interfere with his professional behavior, so he keeps his distance, not in a cold way, but just in a "I need to stay focused" sort of way.

During a debrief or mission prep, he might address you the same way he addresses everyone else, but he might catch himself pausing for just a fraction of a second longer when you speak.

He’ll have that fleeting moment of wanting to say something — something personal — but he’ll stay silent, pushing those feelings aside to focus on the task at hand.

Despite his attempt at emotional distance, Logan’s care will show through in small, subtle ways.

It’ll be a glance when you’re stressed, a hand just a little too close to yours when passing gear, or a silent offering of something (like an extra water bottle or ration bar) that he knows you’ll need. (also wtf im writing)

After a long day of training or a mission, Logan might say something like, "I left a spare water bottle in your pack." It’s not much, but it’s a small, quiet gesture that shows he’s thinking of you without saying anything.

Another time, if you’re struggling with something, Logan might be there, ready to assist, but he won’t press. He’ll let you handle things your way, but if you need help, he’s right there.

Logan’s feelings for you cause him to question whether he has the luxury to indulge in them.

He's a man of duty, and being in a relationship might distract him from what he needs to do — his mission, his team, the bigger picture. This internal conflict creates moments of tension within himself.

During downtime, Logan might be sitting alone, looking out at the horizon or up at the stars, his mind caught in thought. He's thinking about you, but he's also thinking about the mission, his brother, his father, the team, his responsibilities.

There’s a sense of frustration when he doesn’t know how to balance his feelings and his role.

He might even mutter to himself, “I don’t have time for this.” But deep down, he knows he does, he just doesn’t know how to make space for it yet.

Confession

The air outside was cool, a crisp reminder that despite the tension of war, time still moved in subtle rhythms. You and Logan were on the outskirts of the base, sitting in the shadow of a makeshift barricade. The rest of the team had gone to bed or was deep in other tasks, leaving you two alone, as usual.

You had finished checking your tasks, doing the usual post-mission routine. Logan, who had been quietly focused on his own task, adjusted the strap on his rifle before leaning back, looking out into the endless horizon.

He’d been distant lately, more than usual. You could feel the shift, the weight in the air between you. You both knew something had changed, but neither of you had said a word about it — until now.

"Everything alright?" you asked, voice calm but laced with sweetness. You weren't sure if it was the mission weighing on him or something else, but you could tell he was in his head more than usual.

Logan looked over at you, his eyes briefly meeting yours. There was something in them, something you hadn’t seen before — vulnerability, maybe. Or maybe it was just the way he hadn’t really looked at you like that in a while. He sighed, just enough to show a crack in his usual composed demeanor. He sat up, his hand running through his hair.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly looking down, voice low. "Maybe I’ve been… too caught up in the mission, in everything else, and I've let things... slip." He turned his head to you looking at you, you made a slight frown expression in confusion and smiling "Or maybe I just thought if I didn’t acknowledge it, it’d go away."

You can't hide the amusement when logan spoke like this for the first time with you you smiled "What are you talking about?" The underlying tension, the glances exchanged, the silence after mission debriefs. He was talking about you — about how his feelings for you had grown, and how he had tried to ignore them, thinking that focusing on the mission was enough.

"Logan, if this is about..." you started, but he shook his head, cutting you off before you could finish.

"No. It’s not about that," he said, his tone firm, but his voice was shaking slightly. "It’s about... everything. I’ve been focused on this shit, on surviving, on doing what I have to do. And maybe that’s why I’ve been avoiding this — avoiding you."

He paused for a moment, looking at you, as though weighing whether or not to say more. You could see him struggling internally, his usual calm demeanor fighting against the storm of emotions he was trying so hard to keep buried.

"I’m not good at this," Logan admitted, a self-deprecating chuckle slipping past his lips. "Talking about...Emotions. It’s not who I am. I never expected to feel anything more than just... duty. But you’ve made that harder than I thought." His words were careful, but there was an undeniable truth to them.

You didn’t say anything at first, letting him continue.

"I’ve tried to ignore it," Logan continued, his voice growing softer now, as if he was finally allowing himself to be vulnerable with you. "Tried to push it down, make it go away. But that’s not how it works, is it?" His gaze locked onto yours again. "I can’t pretend anymore. The way I feel... about you."

The silence hung between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was as if everything had led up to this moment — all the tension, all the looks, all the times he had held back. Now, there were no more barriers.

"I think about you all the time," Logan admitted, his voice steady but quiet. "I can’t focus when you're around because all I can think about is what this is, what we could be. But I’ve been too damn coward to acknowledge it."

His words lingered in the air for a moment, and despite the vulnerability in them, there was still something in Logan's demeanor that remained composed, measured, like he was afraid of the consequences of saying too much.

He exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling as if he was trying to steady himself. He leaned forward, his eyes dropping for a second, his hand subconsciously reaching for the strap of his rifle, then pulling it back, as if physically trying to distract himself.

"But I don’t want to pretend anymore," Logan said, this time with more conviction. His voice was softer now, more intimate. "I... I want this, I want you. I don’t want to be the guy who just runs from this anymore, thinking it’s just a distraction." He paused again, eyes still on the ground. "I’m not asking for anything. I’m just telling you how I feel."

The sincerity in his words was almost overwhelming, especially given how tightly Logan usually kept his emotions in check. He was calm, always calm — but right now, there was a softness to him that made you realize just how much he’d been holding back.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just watched him, letting the words settle. Your heart was racing. You’d known for a while that the tension between you was real, but hearing him admit it, hearing him say it so plainly… it hit you hard.

Finally, you spoke, your voice quieter now, but filled with emotion. “Logan oh my god...what kept you away from saying this!?.”

Logan didn’t move, didn’t react right away. He just stood there, waiting. The briefest flash of uncertainty passed over his face, but it quickly faded as you stepped forward, closing the space between you.

And in that moment, everything fell away — the tension, the doubts, the barriers Logan had built so high. He didn’t hesitate. His hand found the back of yours, pulling you in, and the kiss was slow, hesitant at first, as if both of you were testing the waters. But soon, it deepened, the weight of the moment settling between you both, the relief of finally letting it happen.

When you pulled away, you both just looked at each other, breathless, knowing that this was the start of something real. Something that, no matter how complicated or dangerous the world around you was, was worth fighting for.

Logan’s voice, now quiet, but full of warmth, broke the silence. “I don’t know what’s ahead... but I know I want to face it with you.”

And for the first time in a long while, Logan allowed himself to feel at peace.

Price: *playing with marbles*

Roach: *staring*

Price: .... *Noticed*

Roach: ...my grandpa used to play with these.

Price: marbles, you mean.

Roach: yeah.

Price: hm..

Roach: ... 💧

Price: ...ya know how to play?

Roach: i- sir, no sir.

Price: c'mere.

Roach: ... ❓

Price: i'll teach ya.

Roach: ...❗

Price: Attention now lad, i wont explain twice..

Since i made so many updates in the server i should announce on them here.

Cod Ghost server

Hey! It seems like a lot of people still don’t know about our Call of Duty: Ghosts Discord server and keep asking around—even though it’s already pinned in my post! and i have already written in my bio about it.

So, just to clarify—we have a SFW Discord server that’s a safe space for minors. We share art, memes, chat, and just have fun together!

When you join, you’ll need to stay in the verification room for a bit. We’ll just ask about your Tumblr account to make sure you’re not someone we’ve banned before.

So, what are you waiting for? Here is the invite!

So hey your hcs are good written and i like them!, Although I really think it is too much if every boo crew character has a healthy breakup...

How anon expected cod ghosts to react when their s/o tells them they wanna break up with them:

. ˚◞♡ Hesh Walker ⃗ *ೃ༄

. ˚◞♡ Logan Walker ⃗ *ೃ༄

My home

Homecoming

Playing cod ghosts but i can't cry.

playing struck down mission and cry Doesn't count because ajax died.

playing sin city mission and cry Doesn't count because elias died and told logan everything is going to be okay before he dies.

playing all or nothing mission and cry Doesn't count because in the begining hesh talked about elias, and also doesn't count again because hesh saw the mask is given to logan and tried to play it off.

playing the ghost killer mission and cry Doesn't count because the ending is shit asf.

Crying at the end of the game Doesn't count because a pit scene showed up and logan is there.

When they bring up hesh walker and i didnt glaze On him at the slightest thing, like him being so wronged-treated, how he deserves better, how he needs a break from everything:

I want to give a friendly reminder and a lesson i have learned today!! ༊*·˚

Hey friends, Just a small reminder and something I learned today that I want to share with you:

Never let anyone's judgment shake you—especially when you’re not doing anything wrong. If what you’re doing brings you happiness, whether it’s writing, drawing, loving a character, or just enjoying your own space, then that’s enough. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, you have every right to enjoy what brings you joy.

Don’t let anyone make you feel strange, guilty, or “wrong” for simply being yourself. More often than not, the same people judging you are doing the very things they criticize—sometimes even more so!!.

I realized that today, and honestly, it made me feel sick. I was just vibing, minding my own business, and suddenly felt like I didn’t want to be around certain people anymore.

So please—keep doing what you love, no matter how “cringe” or just them judging you to make themselves look so good in front of you, This is your one life. Live it joyfully, authentically, and on your terms.

Have a nice day <3!!.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

✧ Title: The last command

Special thanks to @frenchfriesandhawtguys about the idea to the end of the oneshot!! <3

✧ Characters: G!N! Reader, Hesh walker, Logan walker, Riley,

✧ Summary: You were the one who found Riley—a helpless pup, lost and trembling. You raised him, trained him, gave him a name. Through battles and quiet nights, he was your shadow, your only constant. He knew you like no other, and you, him. But everything ends, and fate never spares even the deepest bonds…

✧ Warnings: Mention of death.

✧ Word Count: 3,986 words.

The world had unraveled, torn apart at the seams.

The ODIN strike had not simply reduced cities to rubble—it had rewritten the very landscape, turning once-thriving metropolises into smoldering graveyards. Ash clung to the air like a ghost that refused to leave, settling into the jagged ruins of homes, buildings, and streets now stripped of their purpose. Civilization had fractured, splintering into desperate clusters of survivors, each one grasping at the edges of a world that no longer existed.

You were not a soldier. Not yet. Just a lone figure in the wreckage, trying to outlast the end of everything.

The forest had become your refuge. Here, the air was still, untouched in some places, yet carrying an eerie stillness in others. Towering trees cast skeletal shadows over the ground, their branches whispering secrets to the wind. And always, there was the scent of smoke—distant but ever-present—a quiet testament to the devastation that loomed just beyond the tree line.

The rest stop was a ghost of what it once was.

Cracked pavement split apart by stubborn weeds, the remains of burned-out cars sitting like rusted tombstones, their hollowed frames whispering stories of those who never made it out. The air was thick with the scent of old smoke and decay, the kind of stillness that made your skin crawl.

You moved carefully, each step deliberate. Silence was survival. A misplaced footstep, a careless sound—it could bring someone, or worse, something.

Then, you heard it.

A faint whimper.

It was soft, almost swallowed by the wind, but unmistakable. Your fingers tightened around the rusted metal pipe in your grip, your only weapon, its weight familiar yet useless against the unknown.

Heart pounding, you followed the sound, stepping over shattered glass, weaving between skeletal remains of vehicles. The whimper came again, fragile, almost pleading.

And then you saw him.

The pup was barely more than skin and bones, a fragile thing caught between the wreckage of a world that had forgotten him. His fur, once thick and proud, was now matted with dirt and dust. His ribs pressed against his skin, a silent testament to how long he had been fighting—how long he had been losing.

His wide, wary eyes met yours, flickering between fear and something else. Hope, maybe. But he didn’t trust it yet.

You crouched slowly, careful not to startle him, your voice soft against the quiet.

“Hey, buddy... it’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

He flinched but didn’t run. He couldn’t.

Reaching into your pack, you pulled out the last strip of jerky you had scavenged earlier. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. You tossed it gently onto the cracked pavement between you. The pup sniffed the air, hesitated, then, with a weak shuffle of paws, crept forward and took it.

The moment his small jaws closed around the food, something in your chest tightened.

He was alone. Just like you.

From the moment he took that first bite, Riley became a shadow at your side.

The first night, he barely slept. Every snap of a branch, every distant echo of destruction sent a tremor through his small frame. He would lift his head, ears twitching, eyes wide and searching. You found yourself murmuring reassurances in the dark, your hand resting over his frail body, offering what little warmth and comfort you could.

The forest became home. Together, you picked your way through the wreckage of a lost world—fallen trees, broken highways, the hollow husks of abandoned gas stations. Scavenging was a way of life now, and Riley learned fast. He stayed close, his sharp eyes watching your every move. When you signaled, he listened. When you stopped, he froze.

Days bled into nights, and Riley grew. His ribs became less pronounced, his legs steadier, his steps more confident. He was no longer the frightened pup trembling beneath the wreckage. He moved with purpose now, following your every step, learning your cues. He knew when to be silent, when to alert you with a quiet growl, when to run.

He was more than just a companion now.

He was family.

---------------------------------

The sky burned with the colors of a dying day—deep orange fading into crimson, casting long shadows over the broken world. The distant skyline stood jagged against the horizon, its skeletal remains silhouetted by the last light. What had once been towering monuments of civilization were now crumbling reminders of what was lost.

You sat beside the small fire, its flickering glow offering the only warmth in the cool evening air. Riley lay beside you, his head resting on your lap, eyes half-closed but still listening, always listening. His breathing was slow, steady, the rise and fall of his chest a quiet reassurance that, for now, you were both safe.

You exhaled, watching the flames dance, then glanced back at the ruins in the distance. The world had fallen apart, but here, in this moment, there was something left to hold onto.

“We’re gonna get through this, buddy.”

Riley’s tail thumped once against the dirt—a silent promise.

And in that moment, you knew—whatever came next, however dark the road ahead became, you wouldn’t walk it alone.

---------------------------------

You hadn’t realized naming a dog would be such a challenge.

There you were, perched on a fallen log near your makeshift camp, Riley—well, the pup—sitting in front of you, his wide, eager eyes fixed on you, ears perked. He tilted his small head slightly, as if waiting for a command, or maybe for you to finally settle on a name.

His fur was looking healthier now, the days of rest and the food you’d managed to find filling him out a bit. He was starting to trust you more, the tentative steps he’d once taken now replaced with more confident movements. But despite everything, he still had that look in his eyes, the one that said you’re still the one in charge.

"Alright, buddy… we gotta give you a name," you murmured, rolling a small stick between your hands. Riley’s tail thumped once on the dirt as if agreeing.

You tried a few out loud, each one punctuated by a hopeful glance at his reaction.

"Max?"

Nothing.

"Scout?"

A slow blink.

"Ace?"

A lazy yawn, like he couldn’t be bothered.

You huffed, exasperated, and stared at him with a raised brow. "You gotta help me out here, pal."

Riley tilted his head again, as though he was genuinely considering your words. But after a moment, he simply licked his paw and gave you that look—the one that said, You’re the one with the ideas, human.

You sighed. Naming him was going to take some time.

Then, out of nowhere, a memory surfaced—a distant echo from a time when the world still made sense.

It was from an old movie, the kind you used to watch on lazy afternoons before everything changed. There was This dog named Riley. The dog had saved his friends countless times, charging into danger without hesitation.

"Riley."

The pup’s ears perked instantly, his eyes locking on yours, curiosity sparking in them. His tail gave a tentative wag.

"Riley?" you tried again, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

This time, he let out a tiny, almost uncertain ruff—a sound so small, yet somehow, it felt like the weight of the world had shifted. His first bark since you’d found him.

You couldn’t help but laugh, a rare, genuine sound that felt good in your chest. You reached out, your hand finding his ears, ruffling them gently. "Alright, Riley it is. Hope you like it, 'cause it’s sticking."

From that moment forward, Riley wasn’t just a stray dog in a broken world. He was yours. And you were his.

----------------------------------

A few weeks had passed, and Riley had grown into his name—stronger, sharper, more confident. He stuck to your side like a shadow, his trust in you solidified by every meal shared, every long night spent keeping watch over each other.

It was during a routine scavenging trip to an abandoned military outpost that you found it—an old, dented dog tag machine, half-buried beneath layers of dust and rust. Most of the base had been stripped clean, but this? This was something special.

You grinned, glancing down at Riley, who sat attentively beside you, his ears perked.

"Looks like it’s time to make it official, huh?"

The machine groaned to life after some trial and error, its gears grinding stubbornly. You fed in a blank tag, punched in the letters carefully, and waited as it clanked and stamped the metal.

When you pulled the tag free, you held it up to the dim light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling.

RILEY LOYAL TO THE END

You let out a low whistle, nodding in approval before threading the tag onto a spare chain. Kneeling, you gently fastened it around Riley’s neck, the metal cool against his fur.

“There you are.”

Riley shook his head, adjusting to the weight, then looked up at you with those bright, intelligent eyes. His tail thumped against the dusty floor, and then, for the first time since you found him, he let out a full, happy bark.

That was the moment you saw it—not just gratitude, not just trust.

Pure joy.

One afternoon, while resting near the crumbling remains of an old gas station, an idea struck you. Riley had grown sharper, faster—he had a knack for moving quietly when he wanted to. So, why not test it?

"Alright, riley," you said, stretching out on the cracked pavement. "We’re gonna play a game. If you can sneak up on me, you win."

Riley tilted his head, ears twitching as if considering the challenge.

You turned around, pretending to be unaware, staring off into the distance like you weren’t listening.

For a few moments, nothing. Just the wind rattling the rusted-out signs and the occasional creak of an abandoned car settling into the dirt. Then—so faint it was almost imperceptible—soft paw steps, the tiniest crunch of gravel shifting under careful weight.

You tensed, a grin tugging at your lips. He’s good.

But before you could react—

WHAM.

Riley pounced onto your back, sending you sprawling forward with an excited bark.

“Damn it—Riley!” you burst out, laughing as you hit the ground. He scrambled over you, tail wagging like crazy, tongue lolling out in sheer triumph.

You rolled onto your back, breathless, grinning up at him. "Fine, fine! You win!"

Riley let out another happy bark before flopping onto your chest, victorious.

----------------------------------

The tunnel was your only chance.

Above, the world had become a graveyard—charred buildings, shattered roads, the sky thick with the lingering ghosts of fire and death. The air reeked of ruin, the scent of the ODIN Strike’s wrath still clinging to everything like a curse. And now, the Feds were closing in.

You pressed your back against the cold concrete, every muscle tight, one hand gripping Riley’s collar. He was still small—still young—but he was smart. You had to believe in that. You had to believe in him.

"Riley," you whispered, your breath unsteady, barely audible over the distant hum of approaching boots. "You have to listen to me, okay?"

He looked up at you, ears twitching, his wide, trusting eyes searching yours. His tail—usually wagging, usually full of life—hung low. He could feel it, the weight of your fear, the edge of your desperation pressing into the space between you.

The tunnel’s exit loomed ahead, blocked by thick metal bars—rusted, unyielding. But near the bottom, just barely visible in the dim light, was a gap. Small. Too small for you. But just big enough for Riley.

You swallowed hard, nudging him forward. "Through there, boy. Go."

He hesitated. Whimpered. His paws barely moved.

Because he knew.

If he left, he might not see you again.

"Riley, please!" you begged, your voice barely more than a breath.

The sound of boots crunching over shattered concrete sent ice through your veins. They were close. Too close.

Desperation clawed at your chest as you reached down, running a trembling hand over Riley’s fur one last time. His body was tense, his wide eyes pleading with you, but there was no time. No choice.

You pushed him forward.

"Go."

He whined, resisting, his paws digging into the dirt. But you didn’t let up. With one last shove, he squeezed through the opening, his tail the last thing you saw before he slipped to the other side.

"Good boy," you whispered, your voice breaking.

Riley turned, ears perked, golden eyes locked onto yours. He waited, tail twitching. Waiting for you to follow.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed the nearest thing—an old, rusted metal sheet—and shoved it over the hole. The sharp screech of metal against stone made your skin crawl as you forced it into place, sealing the gap, locking him out.

Riley barked, panicked. Scratched at the barrier.

You pressed your hand against the cold metal, eyes squeezing shut.

"I’m sorry, buddy," you choked out.

Then, the shouting started.

Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, bouncing off the tunnel walls like hungry eyes searching, closing in.

The Feds.

They had found you.

But you didn’t turn. You didn’t listen. You didn’t care.

All that mattered was on the other side of that rusted metal barrier.

You pressed your forehead against the cold surface, your breath coming in quick, shaky gasps. “Riley, you gotta go!”

A sharp whine. Scraping paws. The sound of his nails against metal, desperate, refusing to leave. His ears flattened, his body low. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.

Tears burned hot, but you held them back. You had to stay steady. For him.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tight, your throat raw.

And then, with everything you had left, you gave the only command that mattered now.

“RILEY, RUN!”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence. Just pain.

Then—a hesitant shuffle. A broken whimper. And finally… footsteps retreating into the darkness.

He was gone.

And you let him go.

A single gunshot rang out, sharp and brutal, shattering the fragile silence that had settled between you and Riley.

The bark that followed was filled with fear—a terrified yelp that sent a raw, jagged pain through your chest.

You didn’t dare turn around.

Riley hesitated, just for a moment. You could almost feel the tug-of-war in his small frame—the pull of loyalty to you and the primal instinct to flee. But then, it happened.

Instinct took over.

You heard him move. His paws, frantic but determined, pounding against the tunnel floor, growing fainter with each passing second. He was gone. He was safe.

And you—you—you were left behind.

A cold chill wrapped itself around your spine, but you barely felt it. Your knees hit the ground with a dull thud, and you slumped forward, your hands pressing into the cracked, gritty surface beneath you. The weight of it all—everything—pressed down on your chest, suffocating you. You had done what needed to be done. He was safe.

The sound of boots crunching over debris drew closer. Their shadows moved across the tunnel walls, a harsh reminder of how little time you had left.

A voice. Harsh. Commanding.

And then, without warning, another gunshot.

This time, it wasn’t distant. It wasn’t a warning. It was meant for you.

The world blurred as the bullet hit its mark—pain exploded in your side, white-hot and consuming. The world tilted, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your vision tunneling. The echoes of the Feds’ movements seemed to stretch endlessly, like the whole world had slowed down, as if time was offering you a moment of clarity before everything fell apart.

You fell.

Your body hit the ground with a sickening thud, your limbs stiffening as blood seeped from the wound, dark and thick. Your breath came slower, weaker, the pulse of life fading with each passing second.

But through it all, one thing remained—the thought of Riley.

You were going to die, but he was free.

And somehow, that was enough.

The last thing you felt was the cold concrete pressing into your cheek as darkness overtook you, swallowing everything—until there was nothing left.

--------------------------------------

The world was quieter now. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quieter. The aftermath of the Odin Strike had left behind a broken world, a barren wasteland of ruins and forgotten memories. The land was scarred, roads cracked and decayed, cities swallowed by ash and dust. And somewhere in that bleak emptiness, a lone German Shepherd sat beneath a crumbling highway overpass, staring at nothing.

His fur, once proud and sleek, was now darker than the debris that surrounded him—matted, tangled with dried mud and remnants of days spent surviving. His paws, once small and fragile, had grown into powerful things—calloused and worn, built for running, fighting, surviving in this new, unforgiving world.

But despite his strength, despite the muscles beneath his fur and the fire in his eyes, he looked small. He looked lost.

Hesh was the first to see him.

"Logan." The older brother’s voice was a low murmur, his gaze locked on the dog as he stepped carefully over the cracked pavement, eyes narrowed in thought. Logan barely had time to react before Hesh started walking ahead, rifle steady at his side. Logan followed, his steps silent, a practiced hand ready to grip his weapon at a moment’s notice. They had seen stray dogs before—feral, hungry, desperate for survival. But something about this one made them stop.

Maybe it was the way he sat so still, shoulders slumped, head bowed as if the weight of the world had crushed him down into the dirt. Maybe it was the faint, haunting glint in his eyes—something empty, something lost, like the dog had seen too much to ever trust again. Or maybe it was the dog tags hanging loosely from his collar, swinging in the wind, half-buried beneath the grime.

Hesh crouched down, lowering his rifle, his movements slow and deliberate. The dog’s ears twitched at the sound of his approach, but he didn’t snarl, didn’t growl, didn’t back away. He just… stared.

Logan stood back, rifle in hand, his eyes on the dog as Hesh extended his hand toward the collar. The dog made no move to resist—he was too tired, too broken. Hesh’s fingers brushed over the dog’s tags, gently wiping away the dirt to reveal the engraved letters.

The name struck him immediately.

RILEY

The second line made him pause, a soft exhale escaping his lips as his fingers traced the engraved words.

LOYAL TO THE END

"Riley."

The name hung in the air, a weight too heavy for the desolate world around them.

Logan blinked, his mind racing. Riley? That wasn’t a stray dog’s name. That wasn’t the kind of name you gave to something forgotten or abandoned. That was a name meant for someone who mattered, someone cherished. A name that had been given with care, with love, with meaning.

Hesh exhaled, his breath a quiet puff in the silence. His thumb traced the worn edges of the dog tags, rough against his skin. The metal was scratched, dented—scuffed with the wear and tear of time, but still legible. The kind of damage that came with a life lived, not a life discarded.

Someone had loved this dog once. Someone had named him. Someone had cared.

And yet, here he was—alone. Lost in the ruins.

And that look in his eyes? It wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was grief.

Hesh’s could not help but a pang of sympathy gnawing at him. He didn’t know what had happened to Riley, what had brought him to this broken place, but he could see it in the dog’s posture. The slump of his shoulders. The way he sat still, like he was waiting for something—someone—that might never come.

Something twisted inside Hesh’s chest, a silent ache that didn’t belong in a world like this.

Carefully, cautiously, Hesh reached out, his hand hovering for just a moment before it landed on Riley’s head. The dog stiffened at first, body rigid under the touch, but didn’t pull away. His ears twitched, the only sign that he was aware of the warmth that spread from Hesh’s palm, the unfamiliar but not unkind gesture.

"You're Riley, huh?" Hesh murmured, his voice softer now, quieter.

Riley blinked up at him, but didn’t wag his tail. Didn’t show any sign of comfort, but didn’t show fear either. His gaze, distant and unreadable, met Hesh’s for a long moment before shifting back to the ruins—those ruins that had stolen everything.

"What happened to you, boy?" Hesh whispered, fingers running lightly over the dog’s collar. It was old, but sturdy, built to last. The leather was weathered, but well-kept. Someone had taken care of this dog once. Someone had made sure he was protected.

Hesh let out a slow breath, shaking his head as he watched Riley. The world felt heavy around them, as if it was bearing down on them all. He had seen it before—animals discarded, forgotten, left behind in the wake of chaos. But this one… this one was different.

"Someone left him," Hesh muttered, his voice low, as if he was speaking to himself more than Logan.

"Or he lost them." Logan’s voice was steady, quieter than usual, his eyes never leaving the dog.

Riley’s response was a soft, pitiful whine. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t desperate. It was just… aching. The kind of sound that resonated deep in your bones, a sound that said the dog was feeling everything the world had taken from him. Everything he had endured.

Hesh stared at Riley for a long moment, his mouth slightly parted. The air between them hung thick, filled with the weight of everything unsaid.

Finally, he let out a sigh, a long exhale that seemed to release all the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding. He straightened up, his fingers brushing against Riley’s fur one last time. “You’re not alone, boy.”

Hesh nodded, giving the dog a firm pat on the head before standing. "C’mon, bud. You comin’ with us"

Riley didn’t move at first. His eyes flickered between the two men, uncertain, still unsure whether to trust, still wary of the world that had brought him to this place. The pain in his eyes was raw, but there was something else there now—a flicker of hope, a spark of something long buried.

For the first time, Riley moved.

He lifted his head, his gaze locking with Hesh’s for just a moment. Then, without warning, he glanced at Logan, the young man who had stood back, silent but understanding. And as he looked between them, something in his posture shifted—his shoulders relaxed just a fraction, the tension easing.

Slowly, tentatively, Riley’s tail gave a hesitant wag.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t a joyful greeting or a sign of excitement. But it was enough. It was enough to let them know that, for the first time in a long while, the dog was willing to trust again. He wasn’t just a stray anymore. He wasn’t just a creature wandering the ruins. He was Riley—and for whatever reason, these two strangers weren’t strangers anymore.

They saw him.

Hesh and Logan exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. No more words were needed. They had all been through too much to waste time with them.

Hesh extended his hand again, this time offering it not just to Riley but to the bond that was beginning to form—between them, the dog, the broken world around them.

Riley took a step forward. Then another. And as his tail wagged just a little more freely, they all took their first steps toward something new, something uncertain, but something together.

In the silence that followed, it wasn’t just the ruins that felt a little less broken. The world, the future—everything felt a little more hopeful.

Remember

Call of Duty: Ghosts always felt... off. Not just in the graphics, the textures, or whatever technical flaw caught your eyes—it was deeper than that. It was in the way the game was put together, the way scenes unfolded without care, like the developers were just going through the motions.

Take that infamous kick scene. The driving sequence. The way he wasn’t even there when he clearly should have been. And then there’s Hesh—his own father, Elias wearing the ghost mask, speaks to him in his natural voice, says, "That is really admirable of you," and yet Hesh doesn’t recognize him until he takes off the mask. Really? That’s how that moment plays out?

And then there’s Rorke. Somehow, impossibly, he appears out of nowhere, defying all logic and any sense of realism. Sure, you can bring a character back from the dead, but not like that. Not in a way that feels rushed, forced, as if the writers just needed him there and didn’t care how it happened.

That’s what Ghosts was—a game that could have been great but felt like it was thrown together in a hurry. A story that had moments of potential but was buried under careless execution. And you can’t tell me otherwise.

For me, I never really went deep into Call of Duty: Ghosts looking for hidden secrets—things like mask paintings or small details—because honestly, it felt like they were just thrown in for fun, without much care. It never seemed like the devs put real meaning behind them.

But even with all its flaws, Ghosts will always be the best Call of Duty story game in my eyes. There’s just something about it—it carved out a place in my heart, and no other COD has really done that since. I can only hope it makes a return in 2027, but at the same time... I’m scared.

Scared that Activision will ruin the beauty of it. That they’ll strip away what made the characters special. Or worse—just erase them completely, the same way they did with Roach, the Army Rangers (ramirez, foley and dunn), and Delta Force (sandman, frost, truck and grinch). What, were they too cool for you, Activision?

Whatever. No matter what happens, Ghosts will always stand out to me.

Any other solutions kick?😔

Relationship Alphabet series with Cod ghosts!

Kick

✧ Pairing: Romantic.

✧ Genre: Fluff.

X GN READER

Hesh is a natural leader—strong, confident, and brave. But beneath that, he has a good heart and a gentle soul. He loves deeply, respects his partner, and would go to the ends of the earth to protect them. He’s the kind of man who makes you feel safe, loved, and cherished.

✧ Warnings: Light NSFW, and mention of NSFW content MDNI.

A – Affection

SFW: Kick isn’t overly affectionate in public, He got the courage to show his love for you in front of people and has no care, but in private? He’s got this effortless way of showing love without making a big deal out of it. A casual arm over your shoulders, a hand on the small around your waist walking through a crowd, or passing you a drink before you even ask. He’s the kind of guy who’ll sit next to you after a long day and just chatting, his presence alone making things feel lighter.

Light NSFW: He has a habit of pulling you close by the belt loops or wrapping an arm around your waist, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your skin. And when no one’s around? His lips find that spot right below your jaw, his voice low and teasing.

“Damn, you really just stand there looking this good all day, huh?”

B – Boundaries

SFW: Kick respects space and expects the same in return. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t push—he trusts you’ll come to him when you’re ready. That being said, he’s got an unspoken boundary about his past. He’ll tell you things on his own time, but he won’t be forced into it, since kick is an information technology specialist and wanted, he trained himself most importantly to be cautious.

Light NSFW: He’s down for a little teasing, but there’s a time and place. You try anything in the middle of his tech working? He’s shutting that down real quick. “Focusing, sweetheart. Save it for later.”

C – Communication

SFW: Kick is direct but reserved. If something’s wrong, he’ll tell you—but in few words, He’s a listener first, always taking in more than he says. If he’s upset, he needs time to process before talking, but when he does, it’s straight to the point. he expects the same. He’s a problem-solver, so if there’s an issue, he wants to fix it, not dance around it, Never talks about his work with you, work stays in work section, cause he don't want to mess with your head with the fucked up things he saw.

Light NSFW: He has this low, slow drawl when he talks in that tone. He doesn’t just say things; he makes sure you feel them, He is a talker, a mid one. Likes to ask you, or praising. and these words came a lot from his lips.

“Goddamit yes, You keep look at me like that!”

D – Devotion

SFW: Ride or die. If Kick is with you, he’s with you. He won’t say things like “I’d do anything for you”—he just does it. You’re his priority, simple as that. The way he looks out for you—making sure you eat, remembering little things like how you take your coffee/tea—it’s all quiet but unmistakable devotion.

I always thought because kick is a technology specialist, he is wanted especially when his pic was on the kill list, he never thought about having a partner but here he is with you, and he would kill a fed soldier if it means staying with you.

Light NSFW: He’s a patient man, but there are moments he just wants. When that switch flips, his devotion turns into something intense, lips against your ear, hands gripping just tight enough.

“You are my love. You know that, right?”

E – Empathy

SFW: Kick isn’t the kind of guy to sugarcoat things, but he’s good at reading you. He picks up on the small things—the shift in your voice, the way your shoulders tense. He won’t ask if you’re okay in front of others, but later? When it’s just the two of you? He’ll casually sit beside you, suddenly kneeling in front of you while you are sitting on the couch holding one of your knee. “Talk to me.” And not in a pleading or softy way.

Light NSFW: He knows what you like, and he will gladly listen to what you want, knows when to take his time and when to push. He listens—to words, to the way you react. It’s all about you, and he makes sure you know it.

F – Forgiveness

SFW: He doesn’t hold grudges, but he doesn’t forget either. If you mess up, own it. Apologize, and he’ll move forward, no problem. But betray his trust? That’s not something easily fixed, especially if it's after a long time of dating he didn't expect it from you so he will have two choices, leave everything behind and move on with you, or leave you with everything behind him.

Light NSFW: He doesn’t do “angry” intimacy. If he’s pissed, he walks it off before even thinking about touching you. But the reconciliation after a fight? Slow, deliberate, leaving no room for doubt that everything’s okay again.

G – Growth

SFW: Kick isn’t someone who rushes things. He understands that relationships evolve, that people change, and he’s good with that. He sees growth as something you do together, not just individually. If you’re trying to be better, he supports it. If he needs to work on something, he will—without needing to be told twice.

Light NSFW: Growth in intimacy means learning what works and what doesn’t, figuring out the unspoken rhythms between you. He’s patient, always watching for what you respond to, never making it feel rushed or forced.

H – Honesty

SFW: Kick doesn’t sugarcoat anything. If you ask for his opinion, expect the truth. Not in a harsh way, but in a direct way. If you’re upset about something and he doesn’t understand why? He’ll ask. If he screws up? He owns it.

Light NSFW: There’s no faking with Kick. He’s attuned to you, knows when you’re holding back or if something’s off. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you’ don't know what you want.” He wants the truth, even when it’s just the two of you tangled up in sheets, breathing against each other’s skin.

I – Intimacy

SFW: Kick isn’t big on grand gestures, but his intimacy shows in small, constant ways—his hand resting on your back absentmindedly, leaning against you when he’s tired he likes it even more when he rests his head on your lap, he feels peaceful, especially that feeling when he knows he is comfortable finally with someone, pulling you into his side on the couch. It’s comfort. Security. He’s not loud about it, but you feel it.

Light NSFW: When it’s just the two of you, his usual calm takes on an edge of intensity. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t get sloppy. He watches you, listens, and takes his time learning.

“Relax. Let me take care of you.” His voice is low, all confidence, all promise.

J – Joy

SFW: His humor is dry, always the one who makes you laugh but when he laughs? Really laughs? It’s rare and warm, and it lingers. His joy isn’t big or loud—it’s in the quiet moments, in teasing you under his breath, in the way his eyes soften when you’re happy. He likes making you laugh. That’s his favorite sound.

Light NSFW: There’s a playful side to him in private, smirking against your skin, teasing just enough to make you squirm and this his joy, especually if you are a tough partner and thinks he got this power to lead you like this state.

“That’s cute. Keep making that.”

K – Kindness

SFW: Kick’s kindness isn’t in words—it’s in actions. It’s carrying your stuff when he knows you’re exhausted. It’s passing you a water bottle before you realize you need it. It’s making sure you get the last bite of something good. He doesn’t announce his kindness; he just does it.

Light NSFW: He’s attentive, making sure you’re comfortable, that you’re getting as much as you’re giving. It’s never just about him—it’s you, always both of you.

L – Love

SFW: Kick’s love isn’t flashy. It’s consistent. It’s steady hands and a quiet “I got you.” It’s trust, built over time. He might not say I love you every second, but when he does? He means it.

Light NSFW: When he really loves you, it shows in how he touches you—every movement slow, intentional, lingering. It’s in the way he whispers against your neck, the way his breath hitches slightly when you say his name. “You’re everything to me, you know that?”

M – Memories

SFW: He holds onto things—small details, fleeting moments. The first time he made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe, the exact way you look when you’re happy. He remembers. And sometimes, late at time, when it’s quiet, he’ll tell you.

Light NSFW: His memories are the time when he remembers the most new intimate experiences you guys had, he just likes the way he made you felt, the way when you have the full guts to tell him what you like and what you wanna do.

N – Nurturing

SFW: Kick doesn’t come across as the nurturing type, but he is—just in his own way. If you’re exhausted, he won’t say, “You need to rest.” Instead, he’ll shut down whatever’s keeping you up and quietly make sure you have what you need. He’s not a fan of coddling, but he’ll take care of you in the most practical, effective way possible.

If you’re sick? He’s grumbling while making sure you drink enough water, tossing a blanket over you without a word.

If you’re injured or hurt? He’s shaking his head but cleaning the wound himself, precise and careful.

If you’re having a bad day? He won’t push. Just silently hands you your favorite whatever thing and sits with you until you feel better.

Light NSFW: He’s all about taking care of you. He’s observant, knows when you need something without you having to say it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, but you can tell by the way his hands are so careful with you. “Relax. Let me handle it.”

O – Openness

SFW: Kick’s not one to easily open up. He keeps things locked up tight, prefers actions over words. But when he trusts you? When he really lets you in? It’s rare, but it’s everything.

He’s not a fan of long talks about feelings, but he’ll give you small truths in quiet moments.

Maybe it’s “I don’t talk about this shit with anyone else.” said in a rare moment of honesty.

Maybe it’s the way he leans into you when he’s had a long day, his body language saying everything he won’t.

Light NSFW: His openness in intimacy comes slowly, in layers. At first, he keeps things more physical, but as his walls come down, you start to see how much he really feels. The way his breath stutters when you touch him a certain way. The way he lingers afterward, tracing patterns into your skin, the only openness he got when he let you do whatever he wants.

P – Patience

SFW: Kick is absurdly patient. He’s a sniper—waiting is what he does. He won’t rush you, won’t push you into anything before you’re ready. His patience shows in how he listens, how he lets you come to him rather than demanding answers.

If you’re struggling to say something? He won’t press, just sits there quietly, waiting.

If you’re upset? He won’t tell you to calm down—he’ll just be there, solid and steady.

If you’re learning something new? He’ll go over it as many times as you need without making you feel stupid.

Light NSFW: He takes his time. He enjoys drawing things out, watching your reactions, figuring out exactly what gets to you. He doesn’t rush—he savors. “No need to rush, love.”

Q – Quality Time

SFW: Kick is so big on flashy dates or extravagant plans. His idea of quality time is just being with you and sparkle these times with sweet places. He’s always talkative, he likes having you there. Whether it’s sitting in comfortable any place, working out together, or just driving somewhere with the windows down and the radio low—it counts.

He’ll remember what you like, will adjust to your preferences without thinking.

If you need excitement? He’ll take you somewhere fun, something active.

If you need peace? He’s all for long walks at night, quiet conversations under night sky.

His favorite? Lying in bed late at night, just existing together, no pressure to talk or do anything.

R – Respect

SFW: Kick doesn’t throw respect around lightly—you earn it. That’s why, when he’s with you, it means something. He won’t undermine you, won’t treat you like you can’t handle yourself.

He values competence, effort, and genuine strength—and he respects you because of who you are, not just because you’re his partner.

If someone talks down to you or disrespected? He doesn’t have to say much—already tracking their location and threaten them to shut down all of them devices, and not even try to think about it again.

He listens when you talk, actually takes in what you’re saying. If you have different opinions? He won’t dismiss them—he’ll challenge them, push you to think, but he won’t ever invalidate you.

He respects your independence but won’t hesitate to step in if you need him.

S – Support

SFW: Kick isn’t the type to coddle or sugarcoat things, but he will have your back no matter what. His way of supporting you isn’t about words—it’s actions.

If you’re struggling? He won’t say “It’ll be okay.” He’ll say, “What do you want to do next?” that question means don't you dare hold back

If you fail? He won’t pity you. He’ll help you figure out what went wrong and how to fix it.

If you’re exhausted? He won’t tell you to rest—he’ll make sure you do, taking care of whatever’s weighing on you.

He’s always in your corner, even if he doesn’t always say it outright.

Light NSFW: His support extends to everything, including this. If you’re feeling insecure? He won’t brush it off—he’ll show you exactly how much he wants you, no hesitation. “You’re a goddam perfect. That’s all that matters.”

T – Trust

SFW: Trust is everything to Kick. He doesn’t trust easily, and he doesn’t give it freely. But once he does? It’s unshakable. If he’s with you, it means he trusts you—fully, completely.

He doesn’t need constant reassurances. If he trusts you, he trusts you.

He won’t lie to you, won’t sugarcoat things. If you ask for the truth, you get the truth.

If you ever break that trust? It won’t be an explosion—it’ll be quiet. Cold. And final.

He expects the same in return—if you don’t trust him, it won’t work.

Light NSFW: Trust plays a huge role in intimacy for him. If he trusts you, he lets his guard down, becomes softer in ways no one else gets to see. It’s in the way he lets you touch him, in how he lets go when he’s with you.

U – Understanding

SFW: Kick isn’t the type to push for explanations when you’re not ready to talk. If you need space, he gives it. If you need time, he waits. He’s observant—he can tell when something’s off, but he won’t force you to spill your feelings. Instead, he’ll let you come to him when you’re ready.

If you have a bad day and don’t want to talk? He just exists beside you—silent company, steady presence.

If you mess up? He won’t hold it over you. He understands that everyone screws up sometimes.

He’s not overly emotional, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get emotions. He just processes things differently, and he gives you room to do the same.

Light NSFW: He’s perceptive in every way, which means he learns you—what you like, what makes you tick. He doesn’t need you to say everything out loud; he figures some of me out and uses that understanding to drive you absolutely wild.

V – Vulnerability

SFW: If Kick is vulnerable with you, it’s serious. It's literally another story, He’s not a man who wears his heart on his sleeve. It takes time for him to open up, but when he does? It’s rare—and it’s real.

You’re the only one who gets to see him tired, frustrated, or uncertain.

If he lets you comfort him? That’s a huge deal. He trusts you enough to lean on you, and that means everything, because since his job was so pressure on him he never had a one to reassure him everything is okay, so now you opened a new kick.

Sometimes, his vulnerability isn’t in words—it’s in letting you be close when he’s feeling worn down, seeing him in this statement, when he is at the loss of words how to tell he is not feeling good he will show his weaknesses with no shame at all.

Light NSFW: This applies to intimacy, too. It’s not just physical for him—it’s personal. If he lets you see him like that, it’s because he wants you to see all of him, not just the hardened soldier.

W – Warmth

SFW: He might not be the softest person in the world, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t warm in his own way. His warmth isn’t loud—it’s quiet, steady, constant.

The way he hands you a cup of coffee/tea without a word, already made exactly how you like it.

The way he would try to cook for you, both of you knowing damn well he sucks and ends up you helping him.

The way he knows when you need comfort, even when you don’t ask for it.

Light NSFW: His warmth is physical, too. His body heat is insane—if you’re cold, he’ll just pull you against him with zero hesitation. And in more intimate moments? Let’s just say, that warmth turns into heat.

X – XO (Hugs & Kisses)

SFW: Kick’s not that super affectionate in public, but when it’s just the two of you? Different story.

His hugs are solid—not soft, but firm, secure, grounding.

Kisses? He’s purposeful about them. He gives them whenever you want to or he want to and adore you—when he kisses you, it means everything to him.

Light NSFW: Slow. Intense. He’s not one for rushed, frantic affection—he takes his time, makes sure you feel it. And once he’s in the mood? Yeah, good luck walking straight afterward (what an odd (cringy) thing to say😍)

Y – Yearning

SFW: Kick doesn’t pine—he wants, and he waits. He’s disciplined enough to keep his feelings in check, but when he’s away on missions, you’re always on his mind.

He always flood you with texts, and the ones he does send? They matter.

He’ll quietly hold onto something small that reminds him of you—a photo, a note, something personal.

He don't do it so much but sometimes he Finds himself talking unconsciously talking about you or anything remind him of you he just goes with "Oh yeah Y/n----" says with a smile on his face a warm one.

The first thing he does when he’s back? Find you. Always.

Light NSFW: When he wants you, he wants you. No hesitation, no uncertainty. He doesn’t just miss you—he craves you. And when he gets back? You’re his for the night. Period.

Z – Zeal

SFW: Kick doesn’t do things halfway. If he’s with you, he’s all in.

He’ll push you to be your best, not because he thinks you need to change, but because he believes in you.

If someone disrespects you? They’re done. No debate, no second chances.

He’s not the loudest person in the room, but when it comes to you, he’s unshakable.

Light NSFW: His intensity applies everywhere—especially when it comes to showing you exactly how much he wants you. He doesn’t just go through the motions—he devours you, like he’s making up for lost time.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

shhh let bro sleep.

Headcanon that Keegan has horrible migraines but refuses to acknowledge he has them because that makes him weak. He refuses to admit it to anyone when asked but the team can tell and try to help by giving him ibuprofen and water but refuses to listen to.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

Stubborn as hell.

Characters: Keegan p. russ, Gn reader.

Notes: Headaches. idk.

The Beginning – The First Signs

Keegan was good at ignoring pain. It was part of the job, part of who he was. A Ghost didn’t stop just because they were uncomfortable.

So, when the first sharp throbs of pain started behind his eyes, he did what he always did—pushed through it.

No complaints, no mention of it.

But the others noticed.

You saw the way Keegan clenched his jaw a little too tight, how his usual sharp movements were just a fraction slower.

Kick caught the way Keegan subtly rubbed his temples when he thought no one was looking.

It was small things. Almost unnoticeable.

But not to them.

“You good?” Merrick asked casually one evening, tossing Keegan a bottle of ibuprofen.

Keegan barely glanced at it before scoffing. “Fine.”

Kick raised a brow. “You sure? You look like you wanna throw up.”

Keegan gave him a flat look before deadpanning, “That’s just my face.”

Keegan exhaled through his nose, standing up and walking off like he hadn’t even heard them.

He wasn’t weak.

And admitting to something as stupid as a migraine? That was weak.

The Middle – Getting Worse

The next few days were hell.

The pain wasn’t just behind his eyes anymore—it was drilling into his skull, a constant, unbearable pounding. Light made it worse, sound made it worse, existing made it worse.

But Keegan still refused to say anything.

His movements were stiffer, his grip on his rifle just a little too tight. His patience, which was already thin on a good day, was damn near nonexistent.

He just it would be gone at any time.

The breaking point came during a training drill.

Keegan was lining up a shot when a sharp, blinding pain lanced through his skull, making him flinch. He missed the target—barely—but that was enough.

But damn he was so professional at hiding them, But that doesn't mean you didn't notice.

No one said anything immediately, but as soon as the drill ended, You called out, “Keegan. A minute?.”

Keegan sighed, already knowing where this was going, but followed you anyway.

The moment you were out of earshot from the others, you turned to face him, expression unreadable.

“How long?”

Keegan feigned ignorance. “How long what?”

You didn’t take the bait.

“The migraines, keegan.”

Keegan tensed slightly before shaking his head. “I don’t get migraines.”

You sighed through his nose, patience running thin. “Keegan—”

“I said I’m fine.” Keegan’s voice was sharp, a little too sharp. He went to turn away, but You caught his arm. Not harshly. Just enough to make him stop.

The room was silent for a long second before You finally spoke again, voice lower this time.

“Being in pain doesn’t make you weak. Ignoring it does.”

Keegan’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, wanted to fight the point—but the throbbing in his skull was making it damn near impossible to think straight.

So instead, he just yanked your arm free and walked away.

The End – Finally Giving In

It got worse.

It always got worse.

By the time the next mission rolled around, Keegan was running on fumes. The pain hadn’t stopped, the lack of sleep was making it worse, and he could feel the nausea creeping up every time he moved too fast.

And of course, You noticed.

The mission had barely started when You, without looking away from his rifle, muttered into comms, “Take the ibuprofen.”

Keegan, crouched behind cover, scowled. “Fuck no.”

You exhaled sharply, like You expected that answer. “You’re useless like this. Take the damn meds!.”

Keegan swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. The pain was unbearable now, like his skull was being split in two. His hands weren’t as steady as they should’ve been. His vision was a little too blurry.

And he hated that You were right.

With a frustrated sigh, he dug into his vest pocket, pulling out the bottle You had definitely slipped in there at some point, and dry-swallowed two pills.

Silence on comms for a beat.

Then You simply said, “Good.”

Keegan sighed, adjusting his grip on his rifle. “Still fuckin’ hate you.”

Your voice was unreadable. “Yeah, yeah. Get in position.”

The headache didn’t go away immediately. It never did.

But for the first time in days, it eased.

And Keegan finally admitted to himself—maybe, just maybe—listening wasn’t so bad after all.

But he still don't give a damn fuck XD.