How Would Hesh Scream If His Bro Got Dragged By A Fish😔🙏🏻

Ok boomer

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.

thinking about zombie apocalypse with cod ghosts character (so unserious)

characters: logan walker, hesh walker, kick, keegan russ

X teammate reader

logan walker:

oppp- wrong picture

Logan walker:

The quietest dude ever—Logan wouldn’t say a word even if the world was ending (which it technically was).

You’d been fighting for your life, running for what felt like hours, until you finally found shelter in an abandoned store.

Exhausted, you crouched behind the desk, catching your breath, when you noticed something—or someone—lying a few feet away.

Instinct kicked in; you gripped your weapon, nerves on edge, and prepared yourself for the worst.

Creeping closer, your heart pounding, you got a better look and froze.

It was Logan.

He was asleep. Just lying there, arms crossed like it was nap time in kindergarten.

“Logan!,” you whispered, trying to wake him up.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

You sighed, lowering your weapon.

“Logan, you’re serious right now?” Still no response.

Apparently, Logan could sleep through the literal apocalypse without a care in the world.

As you kept muttering about how lucky you were to find someone alive, he finally opened his eyes.

Logan stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before letting out a quiet sigh and sitting up.

He didn’t say a word—of course—but glanced at his watch, completely ignoring your rant about surviving this nightmare.

You kept yapping about the horrors you’d faced, how relieved you were to see someone from the team, and how you thought you’d never make it.

Meanwhile, Logan was completely in his own world, barely listening.

His mind was already planning the next move, calculating every possibility, mapping out the escape like this was just another day.

At one point, he gave you the slightest nod, as if to acknowledge you were there, but his focus stayed locked on his plan.

You were half-annoyed, half-relieved—this was so typical Logan. Even in the apocalypse, he stayed the same: quiet, efficient, and impossible to read.

"by the way logan there is no food... i tried to go to that supermarket but it was...well crowded" you said feeling your stomach aching

You were mid-sentence, going on about how tough it had been out there, when Logan stood up abruptly and walked right past you.

He didn’t say a word (of course he didn’t), just moved with quiet determination, heading straight toward the back of the store.

For some reason, you weren’t scared—this was Logan, after all. The guy had been sleeping here like it was a Sunday afternoon nap. If anyone could survive this mess, it was him.

Minutes passed, and you heard him coming back, moving a little faster this time. Before you could ask, he grabbed you by the shoulder, his grip firm.

“What... what?” you stammered, caught off guard by his sudden urgency.

Logan took a steadying breath, his face calm but serious. Then, for the first time since you’d seen him, he spoke.

“Run.”

The single word made your stomach drop. You barely had time to process it before you looked behind him—and saw the wall practically bursting open with a swarm of zombies.

They were coming straight for you, groaning and stumbling over one another, and your survival instincts kicked in.

Without another thought, you both bolted, running as fast as your legs could carry you, with Logan leading the way like he had everything already figured out.

"DID YOU AT LEAST GET FOOD?"

Logan was a zombie magnet. No matter where you went, it was like they could sense him from miles away.

You’d be walking through a crowd, trying to stay low, and then—bam—the zombies would all suddenly turn and head straight for him, ignoring you completely.

You’d stand there, frozen in shock, as they chased him down like he was the main course.

It was honestly ridiculous. “What the hell, Logan?” you’d wonder, but you knew better than to ask. He had that effect, and it was like he was used to it.

But sometimes, when the noise and chaos calmed down, there’d be a brief moment where you could see the cracks in his otherwise stoic exterior.

As you sat eating, Logan would fall into rare moments of quiet, and it was then you could tell he was thinking about the people who weren’t there anymore.

You noticed the flicker in his eyes—like he missed Hesh and Elias, wishing they were with him, especially when things got too heavy to bear alone.

But there was no time for sentiment. Logan wasn’t the type to soften up, not when the world was falling apart around him.

Then, while you were both eating in silence, you heard Logan pause mid-bite, his expression distant.

“Leave some for—” He trailed off, and you looked at him, confused.

“For who?” you asked, your mouth still full.

His eyes dropped to the ground for a moment, a rare flicker of something sad in his gaze.

“...Riley,” he muttered quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself.

He didn’t say more, just continued eating, the weight of his words lingering in the air.

Logan’s weapon of choice? A crowbar.

It wasn’t just any crowbar, though—he was obsessed with it.

You tried offering him a gun once, hoping he’d at least consider something with a bit more firepower, but he just shook his head.

Instead, he held up the crowbar like it was Excalibur, his eyes dead serious "seriously logan take this you may need it!"

“Don’t need a gun,” he muttered, his grip tightening. “Too noisy. I don’t want to attract attention, and ammo’s a waste.”

"BRO JUST SAY YOU RAN OUT OF AMMO" You didn’t argue. He was a master with that crowbar—silent, efficient, and downright unstoppable when it came to killing zombies.

It was like the weapon and Logan had become one. With one swing, he could clear a path, and before you knew it, the zombies were on the ground, barely a sound made.

Watching him work, you almost forgot how dangerous it all was—until you heard the sickening crack of bone as another zombie dropped.

Hesh walker:

The forest was dense and eerie, the kind of place that felt like it was hiding secrets behind every tree.

You had your path memorized—there was a safehouse somewhere through this mess, but the atmosphere here was off. Something felt... wrong.

You kept walking, eyes darting around, the rustling of leaves making you tense.

And then, it happened.

Without a word, you felt it—a shift in the air, something moving behind the thick trees.

You froze, taking a deep breath, gripping your weapon tightly. Every muscle in your body was on alert, ready for anything.

You stepped forward slowly, your eyes sharp, scanning the shadows, when suddenly—

Something pounced from behind.

A startled scream escaped your lips as you whipped around, weapon raised.

But then, you saw it—Riley.

His excited, goofy grin was unmistakable as he practically licked your face, like you hadn't just been in a fight for your life.

"Riley?" you said, voice full of surprise and relief, your heart finally slowing.

He stopped licking you, and you could practically feel him grinning even more.

You couldn’t help but laugh slightly, holding him back. “What the hell, man? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Riley just wagged his tail, clearly too happy to care.

Just as you were catching your breath from Riley’s surprise ambush, you heard a voice cut through the trees.

"Riley!"

You turned just in time to see Hesh emerge, his expression a mix of relief and caution.

But then, as soon as his eyes landed on you, his steps faltered. He froze, a look of shock spreading across his face.

"Y/N?"

A wave of relief washed over you, and you stood up, barely able to contain your smile. “Hesh!”

You both exchanged quick greetings, the tension from the forest momentarily easing. Hesh’s lips curled into a small but genuine smile, his eyes scanning you for any signs of injury.

“I’m just glad you’re alive,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. He looked you up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment, checking for any wounds.

“Not bitten?” he asked, You raised an eyebrow at the question, but before you could answer, he added, “I’m not asking because I’m worried you’re going to attack me. I’m asking because I’m scared for you.” yes he was straight with this

You paused, realizing how much that statement meant. He wasn’t worried about surviving the apocalypse with you, he was worried about you surviving it at all.

It hit you then—Hesh had always been protective, but now, with the world falling apart, the stakes felt higher.

You nodded, reassuring him, and then it dawned on both of you.

“Wait,” you said, glancing between him and Riley, “we’re heading to the same place, huh?”

Hesh nodded, the relief on his face mixing with the realization that, despite everything, you’d somehow ended up back together.

Every morning, Hesh had the same routine: a motivational speech to get everyone’s spirits up.

"WE SURVIVED YESTERDAY! WE’LL SURVIVE TODAY!" he’d shout, his voice booming, and for the first time, it’s inspiring.

After the hundredth time, though, it just got… annoying.

At least today, he brought food—sort of.

He insisted on being the one to cook, as usual, though you didn’t argue. It gave you time to relax.

As you two ate, Hesh just stood there, waiting, not touching his own plate.

"Man, I wonder if Dad knew this would happen—he trained us, me and Logan, to survive. Guess it paid off, huh?"

You nodded, chewing, before taking another bite—but then, just as you were about to finish, Hesh’s face dropped.

He peered down at the food product, his expression turning from casual to horrified.

"Okay, I fucked up," he muttered, eyeing the beans. “These are expired."

You froze, mid-bite, mouth wide open in shock. "You’re kidding, right?"

Just then, hesh noticed Riley still happily munching away at the beans.

“RILEY! STOP EATING THAT!” he shouted, leaping to his feet.

Hesh scrambled toward Riley, panic in his eyes. "No, no, no! Riley, stop!"

You were left there, holding the spoon, still shocked by the mess Hesh has just made

like hell he would send riley to attack the zombie or protect him

i see him use stick shapren it so it can use as a weapon cuz elias training didnt got waste

Keegan p russ:

You were fighting for your life—sweat dripping down your face, every move a calculated risk. The world was chaos, but you were doing your best to keep it quiet, avoiding the sound of gunshots to keep the zombies off your trail.

But that plan was quickly falling apart when a zombie dog lunged at you, its snarls sending a cold shiver down your spine.

You gritted your teeth, refusing to scream, but the dog wasn’t letting go.

Desperate, you shoved your hands into its face, trying to pry it off you, but it only snapped back harder.

You were about to lose it when—BAM!

The shot rang out, echoing through the silence of the forest, and the dog’s head exploded, its body going limp in an instant.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

The familiar cold efficiency of Keegan.

The dog’s body hit the ground "Rest in pieces," he said simply, deadpan, eyes still on the now-lifeless head blown zombie dog.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, exhausted, and dropped onto the ground, trying to catch your breath.

Keegan stood there for a moment, his face unreadable, before offering a hand to help you up.

"Been through hell, kid," he muttered, pulling you to your feet.

His tone was dry, but there was a quiet understanding in it—a recognition of how close you had come to not making it out of that one.

Keegan turned around, walking a few steps ahead, expecting you to follow his lead as usual.

“So, what’s up?” he asked, the words casual but his tone sharp, as if expecting more than the usual small talk.

You shrugged, still a little shaken, trying to shake off the adrenaline. “Uh, you know, just zombie apocalypse…” You trailed off, not really having anything new to say.

Keegan stopped in his tracks, turning around to face you, his eyebrow cocked.

“Yeah, I gathered that, idiot," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Why don’t you just tell me something I don’t know?” this is from snapcube re2 lol

You thought the days of endless training were over, but Keegan had other plans.

He had this uncanny ability to sneak up behind you, completely silent, and scare the living daylights out of you.

"Keeps you sharp," he'd always say with that smug grin of his after watching you jump out of your skin.

Honestly, you hated it, but you couldn't argue that it worked.

Still, you didn’t exactly appreciate the fact that you almost died because of a zombie dog, and Keegan didn’t either.

The moment it was over, you could feel his piercing gaze on you, making sure you were in one piece.

"Next time, don’t let a dog get the drop on you," he muttered, his voice like a low growl.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but feel a small sense of gratitude. Keegan may have been a pain in the ass, but he knew how to keep you alive.

Keegan has this bizarre talent—he can somehow sense how many zombies are nearby, just by sniffing the air.

No one knows how he does it, and honestly, you’re too scared to ask. The way he just casually inhales and then rattles off a number is honestly a little unsettling.

On supply runs, though, he’s a stealth master. You’ll lose track of him for hours, and when he reappears, he’s holding something ridiculous like gourmet chocolate.

"Found it in a mansion," he’ll say, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You just shake your head—Keegan had a way of disappearing into thin air and showing up with treasures from places you never would’ve dared to enter.

He’s a knife guy, too—silent, deadly, and incredibly skilled.

You’ve seen him take down a zombie in one swift motion, barely making a sound.

If you ever need to sneak through a hoard or take something down quietly, Keegan’s the one you turn to.

The camp was in chaos—zombies were breaking through the perimeter, and you were freaking out, trying to gather everything together.

"Keegan, come on! Let’s go!!" you shouted, grabbing your gear.

But there he was, sitting calmly on the ground, sharpening his knife with a whetstone like it was just another day.

He didn’t even look up at you. “They’re slow. We’ll be fine,” he said, his voice as calm as ever.

"KEEGAN!!" you yelled, but it didn’t faze him.

The guy had no sense of urgency, and somehow, it worked. You couldn’t even remember the last time you saw him stressed.

liner kind using "should have stayed dead" when he shot a zombie.

kick:

You were fighting for your life when, out of nowhere, Kick made his grand entrance with a flamethrower.

Yes, a flamethrower—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Totally practical!” he shouted, firing the flames at the zombies with reckless abandon.

But of course, things went sideways, and before you knew it, half your shelter was on fire.

"WHAT IN THE ACTUAL—?? KICK, YOU BURNED EVERYTHING!" you yelled, frantically trying to douse the flames as your safe space turned into a disaster.

After the chaos settled and you were finally safe, Kick walked over, completely unfazed by the damage he caused.

“You’re alive now, right?” he asked, checking to make sure you were okay.

You nodded, still catching your breath.

“Then shut the fuck up,” he said, offering you a look that was somewhere between a smirk and indifference.

Kick was always the first to come up with outlandish ideas, and one of his most "brilliant" suggestions was duct-taping machetes to shopping carts.

“Zombies won’t stand a chance!” he’d declare with an enthusiastic grin, already getting to work on the "weaponized" carts.

At first, it seemed like a fun, creative idea—until the zombies got too close.

The machetes were heavy, unwieldy, and the shopping carts? They just weren’t built for battle.

Spoiler: The zombies did stand a chance.

It all turned into chaos, the carts getting stuck, the machetes swinging wildly and missing their mark, and you both barely managing to stay alive.

Kick was grinning through it all, still having fun in the madness. But the truth was, this kind of reckless thinking was bound to get you both killed if you kept it up.

The fun was wearing thin, and you were starting to realize just how dangerous his chaotic ideas really were. "ok fuck me let's get serious" he said panting "thank you?"

Kick's chaotic creativity knew no bounds. One day, he decided to strap dynamite to a remote-controlled car and drive it straight into a horde of zombies.

The explosion was massive, taking out the zombies... but also knocking over half the shelter in the process.

As the dust settled, Kick turned to you with a grin. "Scale out of 10 if Merrick would kill me here when he sees what I’m doing?"

You just sighed, rubbing your temples. This was getting ridiculous.

And then there was his "Machete Madness" phase, where he duct-taped three machetes together and proudly called it the "Tri-Chop 3000."

It was supposed to be the ultimate zombie-killing weapon.

Except after one swing, the whole thing snapped in half.

"Well, shit," he muttered.

You couldn’t help but think, This kind of chaos is going to get us killed one day bur weirdly you are surviving because of him

At night, Kick would sit around the fire, telling spooky theories in his head

They were so terrifying that you couldn’t help but flinch at certain parts, and Kick loved it. He’d practically beam with amusement at your reactions.

he would say something like "what was the last they think before they turn to a zombie?" or "we killed humans by the way..."

but you were pretty sure he was just having too much fun watching you squirm.

One time, Kick suggested using fireworks to distract the zombies.

You shot him a look and replied, “Or we could not die.”

He just shrugged with a grin, muttering, “Alright, alright, never again.”

But the most puzzling thing about Kick? He always had a spare weapon.

Broke your bat? He had an extra one.

Out of bullets? He’d casually hand you a mag.

No one knew how or where he kept it all, but somehow, Kick always had exactly what you needed when things went south.

When the car ran out of gas, Kick’s first solution was to suggest pushing it to the next town.

"I can totally do it," he insisted with confidence, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

(Spoiler: He couldn’t.) The attempt ended in a lot of frustration, sweat, and a very not moving car.

Then there was the time he found a stash of protein powder and decided to make “zombie apocalypse shakes.”

They were awful. Honestly, you couldn’t tell if they were meant to be a joke or if Kick was serious, but you couldn’t bring yourself to drink another one after the first try.

He also bet he could wrestle a zombie to the ground without killing it.

And somehow, he won. But now, no one was eager to sit near him, especially after hearing the grisly details of his "win."

On the plus side, he was always entertaining, especially when it came to killing zombies.

Every time he took one down, he’d say, “That’s one more for the highlight reel kid!” as if he was on some sort of twisted reality show.

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

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

Brush of brave

Hesh "david" walker X fem!reader! [requested!]

summary: You help your boyfriend, Hesh Walker, apply his ghost face paint before his mission, His soft smile warms your heart, thankful for your quiet support. In these moments, the world outside feels a little less intense, with only the two of you.

note: fluff

The morning was wrapped in an almost unsettling stillness, the kind that only exists in the quiet depths of 4 a.m. The air felt heavy with the weight of unsaid words and fleeting moments. You lay on your bed, eyes half-open, tracing the edges of shadows that danced across the ceiling of your dimly lit room. The faint golden glow from the bathroom spilled out into the hallway, like a quiet reminder of reality intruding upon your cocoon of comfort.

Your gaze lingered on that light, knowing it wasn’t just an empty room. It was him—Hesh. You could hear the faint shuffle of his movements, the metallic clink of his belt, the sound of water running briefly, all part of the rhythm of his early morning ritual. He was heading back to base. Two months of stolen time together had evaporated, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand, and now, here you were, at the end of it.

Your chest tightened, an ache you couldn't ignore. It wasn’t fair how quickly those days had flown.

You let out a soft tut, barely audible, as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the coolness of the floor against your feet grounding you for a fleeting moment. Your chest felt heavy, the ache of goodbye already gnawing at the edges of your resolve. Staying in bed, pretending to sleep, would only make it worse. If you didn’t say goodbye now, the regret would linger longer than the silence.

Quietly, you padded over to the bathroom door, the soft glow of light spilling over your features as you stopped just short of the threshold. There he was, Hesh, standing at the mirror, razor in hand, the sharp rasp of it cutting through the stillness as he worked on the other side of his face. He looked so calm, so methodical—an effortless confidence in the way he moved, even in these small, mundane moments.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching. The way his jaw tensed slightly as the blade glided over his skin, the faint shadow of a grin lingering at the corners of his mouth, as if he already knew you were there. And then, as though sensing the weight of your gaze, he glanced at you. His eyes met yours briefly before shifting back to the mirror, his shoulders rising and falling in a comfortable shrug.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, his voice low and warm, tinged with sleep and familiarity. “Didn’t mean to wake you up with the lights.”

It wasn’t the lights that woke you, but you didn’t correct him. You just stood there, taking him in, the ache in your chest softening for just a second as you realized how much you’d miss even this—the quiet, unassuming moments that made everything feel like home.

“Okay... I’m sad,” you admitted softly, the words slipping out with a simplicity that belied the heaviness in your heart. You stepped into the bathroom, drawn to him like a moth to the light, your arms folding loosely across your chest. Hesh paused mid-motion, his razor hovering just above the sink, as a knowing smile tugged at his lips.

“Being greedy, are you?” he teased, that familiar hint of arrogance lacing his voice. His words held no malice, only the playful pride he carried so effortlessly. “Should’ve spent more time with me.”

You rolled your eyes but said nothing. You were used to the way he spoke, like every moment spent with him was a privilege you were lucky to claim. And maybe it was. It was infuriating and endearing all at once, a balance only he could manage.

Your gaze flicked to his reflection in the mirror, catching the faint stubble he had left untouched. “Your hair’s growing...” you remarked, your tone a mix of teasing and warning. “Don’t you dare do something to it.”

That made him chuckle, the sound deep and rich like a ripple of warmth cutting through the cool morning air. His dripping voice, as you liked to think of it, had that velvety quality that always left you both annoyed and utterly charmed.

He turned his attention back to the counter, The familiar black-and-white paint sat nearby, and you watched as he began preparing it with practiced ease. The ghost mask, a part of him as much as his smile, stood silently between you, its empty eyes staring back like a reminder of what was coming.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him work. The way his hands moved—steady, confident, and unhurried—was mesmerizing. You hated how much you loved these moments, hated how fleeting they always felt. But you stayed anyway, soaking it in, because for now, he was still here. And for now, that was enough.

Hesh glanced at the paintings for a moment, then at the black-and-white paint pots resting neatly on the counter. He dipped his finger into one, smudging a streak of white across his palm as if testing its consistency. Then, without looking up, his voice rolled out, smooth and sure of itself.

“You know,” he started, the edge of his mouth quirking into a faint smirk as he glanced at you through the mirror, “I’ve been thinking…” His tone carried that familiar weight of ego, teasing but not overbearing, as if he already knew what your answer would be. “You should do it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

He turned then, leaning casually against the counter, his arms folding over his chest. “Paint my face. For the mask.” His gaze was steady, soft in a way that caught you off guard, even as his words carried that trademark Hesh pride. “I mean, you’re always going on about how good you are with details. Might as well prove it.”

You stared at him, unsured to be flattered. He had a way of doing that—threading arrogance with a strange kind of tenderness that always left you guessing. “Oh, so now I’m your artist?” you shot back, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled, low and rich, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Why not? I trust you not to mess it up,” he said, and then after a beat, his voice softened. “Besides… it’d feel good knowing you put something of yourself into it. Something I can carry with me.”

The shift in his tone caught you off guard. It wasn’t just an offer—it was a quiet, unspoken connection. A way of bringing you with him, even when he couldn’t be here. And just like that, his arrogance melted into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in the best way.

You couldn’t help but smile, a small curve of your lips that betrayed the bittersweet feeling lingering in your chest. You stepped closer to him, the warmth of his presence drawing you in. Hesh leaned back slightly, resting his hands on the edge of the sink, watching you with that easy confidence that always made him seem larger than life. His smile wasn’t forced or calculated—no, it was real, genuine. But there was no mistaking the pride that radiated from him. He was the kind of man who wore leadership like a second skin, born to carry the weight of it.

“I don’t even remember the details of your mask,” you teased, letting your fingers hover near the paints laid out on the counter. Your words carried a playful jab, though your gaze lingered on him, cataloging every inch of his face as if to disprove your own claim. The strength in his jaw, the faint lines near his mouth from all the smirks he wore like a badge, the way his dark eyes softened just enough when they met yours. You couldn’t help but notice the details now, even if you tried not to.

Hesh’s grin widened slightly, that self-assured look of his making an appearance. “Then I guess you’ve got some work to do,” he said, his voice low, dipping into that teasing, velvety tone that always got under your skin in the worst—and best—ways. “Just don’t get distracted, hm?.” he said propping a peck on your temple.

reached for the black paint anyway, dipping your fingers in hesitantly. The cool, slick texture made you wince, and you held up your hand with mock horror. “Ah, I’m gonna dirt myself,” you muttered, glancing up at him.

Hesh chuckled, that deep, effortless sound that always seemed to ground you. “Takes a little mess to make something worth keeping,” he said, his gaze unwavering, the faintest glint of warmth hidden beneath his usual pride.

You shook your head, biting back a smile, but as you reached for his face, you felt the strange, comforting weight of his trust. For all his pride and ego, in this moment, he was letting you leave your mark—literally and figuratively. And that, more than anything, was enough to make you steady your hand and begin.

Hesh glanced at his reflection in the mirror again, turning his head slightly to admire your work. The black and white patterns of the ghost mask were sharp and clean, perfectly crafted, but his attention quickly shifted back to you. He turned fully now, leaning one shoulder against the counter, his arms crossing over his chest as he gazed at you.

“You’ve got some talent, you know that?” he said, his tone carrying that faint teasing lilt. “You might’ve just made me look even better.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at his arrogance, but the warmth in his gaze kept your irritation at bay. “Oh, please. The mask is doing all the work,” you shot back, wiping your paint-streaked hands on the towel nearby. “I’m just the artist. The rest is up to you.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was committing every detail of your face to memory—the curve of your lips, the way your hair fell slightly out of place, the gentle crease of your brow as you avoided his intense gaze.

“You know,” he started, his voice soft now, deeper, “I don’t say this often, but... I’m gonna miss this. You. More than I probably should.”

That caught you off guard. You blinked, looking up at him, your chest tightening at the vulnerability in his tone. “You don’t have to say it like that,” you whispered. “Like you’re not coming back!”

His expression softened even further, and he took a small step closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly against your cheek. “I’ll come back. I always do,” he murmured, his voice steady, reassuring. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to leave.”

You felt your throat tighten, emotions threatening to spill over. But before you could say anything, he leaned in, closing the small distance between you. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t.

His lips met yours gently, softly at first, like he was testing the waters. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there with a tender firmness, and you couldn’t help but melt into him. The kiss deepened, unhurried but filled with all the emotions neither of you could put into words—the longing, the sadness, the love.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed for a moment before he opened them to look at you again. “That’s for when I’m gone,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “So you don’t forget.”

You smiled through the ache in your chest, your hand brushing against his jaw where the paint hadn’t touched. “As if I ever could.”

BORED I need moots in my life😔

me after reading this

When the Smoke Clears

Hesh's thoughts aftermath after Logan gets taken

Horror.

I didn't know how to feel after Elias was killed in front of me with a bullet to his brains. I had watched the way the blood pooled around him, the same blood that was pumping through my veins, through Logan's veins.

Actually...

How was I supposed to react when he told Logan that he was proud of him as his last words? Why not me? Why not us? I had always tried to be a better person by taking care of Logan, I loved him dearly as a brother. I was there for him when dad wasn't.

So why was he given all the credit? What did I miss through the years to not even get a single word of appreciation?

How come the mask was given to him instead? Was I not worthy to inherit it?

Did I not resemble dad enough to even be considered to be given it?

Was I lacking something? Did I try too hard?

I didn't know.

All I knew was that I wanted Logan back. Even if I did envy him a little bit after Elias's death. Sure, I was angry at Rorke for killing him - but I was even angrier that dad never told me that he was proud of me, that he actually cared for me, to tell me that he was glad that I held my ground and gave support even when the world was crumbling around us, Odin.

That I had taken care of Logan when he wasn't there to do it himself. That I had taken the responsibility even if I didn't have to, there was no need to yet I did. My brother looked up more to me than Elias.

So why?

What did I get in return?

Nothing.

Just death.

Just the sight of dad dying and Logan getting taken away from me.

I failed.

I failed to protect both of them.

I failed to be a good soldier.

But most importantly, I failed to he a good big brother.

How could I have been so careless?

How could I have been so sure that Rorke was gone? Dead? How?

I should have known better that Rorke could come crawling back immediately for revenge. I knew how he was, we all knew, so why? Why couldn't I have been more cautious to prevent this?

Why couldn't I have been stronger to go after him?

Why did my body lock up?

Why?

All of these were questions I didn't know the answer to. No matter how much I tried to think, to figure, to solve, I couldn't come across a conclusion.

Besides one.

I wasn't worthy enough to be any of the things I was.

Logan was, he was ruthless, silent. There was a reason why Rorke took him instead of me. He reminded him of Elias - of himself. That same silent courage Logan showed, and I didn't.

I tried, I really did. But I failed.

Was all of my effort for nothing?

So far, it's being proven that way.

No matter how much me and the team are trying, we can't find Logan's location. His last known location was more than half a year ago, who knows where he could be now.

Who even knows if he's still alive or not.

What if he had already been turned into a Fed and was being trained to hunt the rest of the Ghosts down right now?

I don't want to think of it like this, but the dreaded possibility is starting to become a true fact as the days pass.

I don't want to lose Logan, my baby brother. I just can't.

I have already lost dad, and I can't lose Logan, too. Hell, even mom isn't with us anymore. She would have known what to tell me, what to do.

But she isn't here anymore either.

It's just me.

I would have to step up to bat, to be the lone player, and score the point.

To be the one who gets a headshot.

A bullseye.

I've prayed to God, even though my belief in him had been teetering on the edge of completely dissolving. But after everything that happened, I found myself clasping my hands together, on my knees, and mumbling the prayers mom had taught me. After all these years, I still remembered them by heart.

I've prayed for forgiveness, for Logan's health and well-being, that he's still alive, still fighting, still being stubborn to not turn into a Fed.

I don't know what else to do besides pray. I know it's a desprete action, but who else can I go to for help? There's no one here for me.

No one.

God, Logan, please be alive.

I miss you.

We all miss you.

Dont worry, we're all coming for you. We're searching, planning.

And when we do find you, God will, I will fucking kill that motherfucker Rorke and burn the Federation bastards down to the ground. For dad. For all of us Ghosts.

For you.

But hey i am not like those "grumby" peopel yall if you see something funny you can share and i shall destroy my bones system with yall😇

If you see something funny like too funny that crackled your whole bones, do not share it to anyone and don't ask me why

Very sleepy so I’m ranking how I think Cold War Characters would cuddle

Bell: 4/10. Theyre very stiff at first, but they soak up the attention like a sponge so it’s not bad

Park: 0/10. Her idea of cuddling is sitting three feet apart while working.

Woods: 5/10. He’s good at bear hugs, and theyre comforting, but he’s not good at sustained cuddling

Mason: 7/10. He’s so very touch staved after his wife died. Someone PLEASE cuddle this man.

Lazar: 10/10. Incredible. Showstopping. Amazing. He plays with your hair.

Hudson: 1/10. He doesn’t touch anyone but his wife. It’s 10/10 for her and her ONLY.

Adler: -70000/10. He injects you with substances and talks about his ex-wife the whole time

Perseus: 4/10. Decent except he won’t stop yapping about how superior he is to the Americans

Arash: 0/10. Fucking shoots you.

*sigh* okay imma let out my cursed pics from the studio

Yes i have.

No i have not.

Maybe!

...

do you have a wip? have you worked on your wip? will you work on your wip? when will you work on your wip?