✧ Title: The Last Command
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶
✧ 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.
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꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶
Ashes of Yesterday
18-19 hesh walker X fem!reader! [my idea]
summary: A once cozy and intimate evening with Hesh, filled with quiet affection and whispered promises, soon transformed into something darker, a love shadowed by impending ruin. The looming presence of ODIN disrupted everything, turning your shared moment into a fleeting memory of what could have been. In the aftermath, uncertainty reigns—was Hesh still alive, still breathing, or had the chaos swallowed him whole, leaving behind only echoes of a love now distant and unresolved?
notes: SFW, then slight NSFW
2017 JULY 10TH
The golden sun hung low in the sky, bleeding its last light across the horizon where the sea and sky met in a seamless embrace. Waves rolled in gently, their white foamy edges kissing the shore before retreating, leaving behind darkened patches of damp sand that clumped together before crumbling away. The scent of salt and the distant call of seagulls filled the air, mingling with the soft whispers of the evening breeze. You stood there, feet sinking ever so slightly into the cool, wet earth, your eyes fixed on the endless stretch of water that shimmered under the sun’s dying glow.
You were waiting.
The thought was almost enough to make your heart race, though you steadied it with a slow breath. Of course, it was him—you were waiting for your boyfriend. Hesh. Or David. You had always preferred that name, something about the way it rolled off your tongue, the way it carried a sense of quiet strength. You whispered it under your breath, testing how it sounded against the hush of the waves.
The sun’s reflection danced on the water, stretching out like golden veins against a shield of deepening blue. It was mesmerizing—the way the light clashed and intertwined with the restless sea, fighting to hold on just a little longer before the inevitable descent into night. Just like time, just like memories. Just like the feeling building up inside you as you stood there, waiting for him.
It was already 11 a.m.
A sigh slipped past your lips as you glanced at your phone, your patience wearing thin. You hated how he sometimes showed up late on dates, how time seemed to be nothing more than a suggestion to him. But then again… whatever that handsome face was doing, you could never stay mad for long.
Because David—yes, David—wasn't like the others. He wasn’t like the teenage boys who stumbled through their words or the young men who tried too hard to impress. He carried himself differently, with a quiet confidence that made your heart race. His strong, well-built frame, the kind that spoke of strength without arrogance. That voice—deep, rich, dripping with a natural charm that sent a thrill down your spine every time he spoke. Oh, and those lips. God, you could kiss him forever, drown in the warmth of his embrace, lose yourself in the way he made you feel…
A sudden sound shattered your thoughts.
The sharp crunch of footsteps against the sand. Steady, deliberate, familiar.
You turned instinctively, already knowing. The weight of his presence, the way he walked, the way even the smallest sounds seemed to carry meaning when he was near—you could recognize him anywhere.
And there he was.
David.
“David, you fuck—” The words shot out before you could stop them, frustration bubbling up as you turned to face him, ready to argue about his horrible sense of time.
But before you could go on, his arm was already around your waist, pulling you in with that effortless strength of his. And just like that, the fire in your chest wavered. He was smiling, that lazy, charming smile that had a way of making you forget why you were mad in the first place. His eyes drank you in like a man starved, like he had been counting the seconds until he could see you again.
“Miss me?” His voice was a low murmur, teasing, smooth as ever.
You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. A part of you wanted to melt into him, but you weren’t going to let him off that easily.
“I would keep missing you by not going out with you anymore. Is that what you want?” You arched a brow, your tone sharp, but he only sighed, his smile never faltering.
Shaking his head at your words, he met your gaze, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your waist. “Babe, you know how busy I get.” yup with daddy training.
There it was. The excuse. One you had heard before, one you understood but still hated.
The city hums softly around you as the cool air whispers past. But none of it touches you—not the chill, not the restless rhythm of the world—because his arms are wrapped securely around you, holding you close as you walk together. His dark grey jacket is thick and slick, carrying the scent of crisp air and something undeniably him. The fabric brushes against your cheek as you lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
His dark green pants rustle slightly with each step, a quiet rhythm against the pavement. The sound blends with his voice—low, rich, and endlessly smooth, like raindrops sliding down glass. It drips into your ears, every word soaked in something warm, something familiar. "How was your day?" he asks, his voice melting into the cool morning.
You sigh, your own voice slipping easily into the space he’s made for you. "It was fine," you murmur, though the way you relax against him says more than words ever could.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your skin. "Just fine?" There's something playful in his tone, something that makes the corner of your lips tug upward despite yourself.
The world feels distant, blurred behind the warmth of him, behind the quiet intimacy of a simple walk. And in this moment, wrapped in the sound of his voice and the steady warmth of his embrace, the rest of the night ceases to matter.
"I literally just started the day with you, david."
-----------------------------------------
small roadside diner, the kind that seems frozen in time. Neon lights buzz overhead, casting a soft pink and blue glow onto the pavement, their reflection shimmering in puddles left by a recent drizzle. Through the wide windows, the warm glow of the interior spills out, painting the time with something that feels familiar, something that feels like home.
Inside, the scent of sizzling burgers and fresh coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the distant hum of an old-school jukebox that crackles with a song from decades past. Red leather booths line the walls, their surfaces softened by years of late-night conversations and quiet moments shared over plates of fries and milkshakes. The clink of plates, the low murmur of conversations—it all feels like background noise to the only thing that really matters: him.
Before you even have a chance to glance at the menu, he orders—your usual. Not in a way that makes you feel small, but in a way that makes you feel known. Like he’s memorized the details of you without even trying, like he’s paid attention in all the little moments when no one else did.
"You always take forever to decide anyway,and end up with the same thing" he says with a smirk, his voice dripping with that effortless warmth, that teasing edge that makes you roll your eyes but smile anyway.
He doesn’t sit across from you. No, he slides into the booth right beside you, close enough that the heat of his body seeps through his jacket, through your sweater, through the space that barely exists between you. His thigh presses against yours under the table, solid, grounding. One arm stretches along the back of the booth, not quite touching you, but close enough that you feel the weight of him there. A quiet claim.
You reach over without hesitation, plucking a few golden fries from his plate and popping them into your mouth. The salty warmth melts on your tongue as you give him a defiant look, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Oh, really? Then gimme your fries."
He doesn’t protest—just watches you with that unreadable expression, shaking his head as he raises his hands in surrender. "I mean..." he drawls, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "they were there before we got here."
Your chewing slows. The flavor in your mouth suddenly seems questionable. You blink at him, processing his words, and his eyes flicker with amusement as he leans back against the booth, watching your reaction unfold.
"Bon appétit, babe," he adds smoothly, voice thick with mock innocence.
Your stomach drops. Your eyes widen. Wait... what?!
He doesn’t break character, just sits there, arms stretched along the back of the booth, looking effortlessly smug as you freeze mid-chew. The betrayal. The horror. Are these—were these—leftover fries?!
You stare at him, your entire existence now hinging on whether he’s serious or just messing with you. And that’s when you see it—the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips, the glimmer of laughter barely contained behind his cool expression.
You grab a napkin, ready to spit them out if necessary. "You’re kidding, right?"
He finally breaks, a low chuckle escaping as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Relax, princess. They’re fresh, took some before ya."
You shove his arm, groaning as he laughs, the sound deep and unbothered. You should’ve known better. He always does this—always keeps you on your toes, always finds a way to turn the moment into something his.
-----------------------------------
You can’t help the incredulous laugh that escapes your lips as you glance at David, eyebrows raised. "Oh my god, David. You must be tipsy or something. Why would you wanna order a milkshake with two straws? That’s just too cheesy!" You almost can’t believe your own words—yet here you are, staring at him as he casually sits back in his booth, the grin never leaving his face.
David chuckles softly, adjusting his position like he's already won. He stretches his arms out lazily, his casual demeanor only making him seem more dangerous in his charm. His eyes glint with mischief as he leans forward, elbows on the table.
"Come on, babe. It’s romantic," he says, voice dripping with that playful confidence that makes you both roll your eyes and want to punch him at the same time.
You stare at him, your lips parted in disbelief. Romantic? You feel your face scrunch in a mix of amusement and disbelief. The sheer cheesiness of it hits you all at once—yet, there’s a spark of something else, something you can’t quite place. "Oh, wow..." You shrug dramatically, trying to feign disinterest, but the way your lips curl upward betrays you.
David leans back, watching you with the same unshakable grin, as if he knows you’re secretly enjoying his ridiculousness. He knows he’s won, and the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s savoring the moment.
The waitress arrives a moment later, balancing the absurdity on her tray—a milkshake in a glass, topped with whipped cream and a cherry, two straws sticking out from either side. You look at it, then back at David, who meets your gaze with exaggerated sweetness.
"See? It’s just like the movies," he says, his voice a little too syrupy for comfort.
You roll your eyes, but deep down, you can’t help the warmth that spreads across your chest. Maybe it is cheesy, but it’s him. And you can’t deny that, despite yourself, there’s something a little romantic about this absurd moment.
"Fine," you sigh, grabbing one of the straws, and you watch his face light up as he grabs the other. He’s always so effortlessly him, and no matter how cheesy he gets, you kind of love it.
The laughter never stops, rippling through the both of you as you try to sip from the milkshake at the same time. It’s absurd, ridiculous, but you can’t seem to stop, even as you both end up laughing harder with every awkward slurp. David’s totally watching you out of the corner of his eye, trying to act all cool and nonchalant, but you can see the mischief dancing in his gaze. His lips curl with a grin every time you pull the straw from your mouth at the same time, as if he's savoring every goofy second of it.
You can feel him in your peripheral vision, that silent, confident he knew this would be fun vibe radiating off him, like he’s having the time of his life with this stupidly romantic moment. But the second his eyes meet yours, that playful glint falters. For a second, he hesitates, and you catch it—a flicker of something else. It’s almost as if the whole scene becomes suddenly too intimate for him, too real.
He pulls away with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if this whole thing was a little too much even for him. "This is so stupid," he mutters, but you can tell he’s loving every second of it—loving you.
You, on the other hand, are struggling to keep it together, your face turning pink as you hold the milkshake up to your lips, trying desperately to control your laughter. "David, stop! I’m gonna choke on it!" you manage to say between fits of giggles, though the words sound barely coherent because of the laughter bubbling up inside you.
He’s not making it any better. Each time you say something, he lets out another chuckle, the sound rich and warm, just enough to make you nearly lose it all over again. The look in his eyes softens as he watches you try to compose yourself, that lovestruck gaze creeping up on him despite his attempt to stay cool.
And there it is—that soft, unmistakable look on his face when he pulls back from the milkshake. It’s almost too much—he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in this little corner of the world, and all that teasing, all that laughter fades away into something much deeper. Something warm. Something real.
God, you love him, you think, and in that split second, you can see he feels the same way, too.
You pull away from the milkshake, nearly spilling it, as your laughter bubbles over. "Stop it!!" you gasp between giggles, swatting at him playfully. The sound of his deep, wholesome laughter fills the diner, the kind that makes everything around you seem a little brighter, a little warmer. The moment stretches between the two of you like a beautiful, shared secret, and he turns his head away to stifle another chuckle, but you can still hear it—soft, full of love, the kind of laughter that makes your heart skip a beat. He just loves the way your eyes shine when you’re happy, loves seeing you this carefree.
Finally, the milkshake sits forgotten between you as you both catch your breath, the laughter dying down to a soft hum that lingers in the air, like a melody that won’t fade. You both smile at each other, the playful tension slowly melting away into something quieter, something more intimate.
And then it’s back to the streets again, your hands casually brushing against each other as you walk side by side. The time feels like it’s made just for you two—your feet moving in sync, It’s almost magical, the way everything feels so effortlessly right.
You both stop at a nearby ice cream cart, and he orders two cones—one chocolate, one vanilla. You lick at yours, slowly, savoring each bite. But before you can finish, he’s already done with his. Of course. Typical. He looks down at you with that mischievous smile of his, his eyes bright under the streetlights.
"You gonna finish that?" he asks, a playful edge to his voice, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. But before you can even answer, you’re standing between his legs, your back resting against his chest as you keep eating, your ice cream melting slowly in the warmth of the light.
His arms slip around you, settling comfortably at your waist, pulling you closer. He leans against the brick wall, his chest solid and steady behind you, and for a moment, just feeling. The world feels distant, muted, like it’s all happening in slow motion around you.
You tilt your head back just slightly, meeting his gaze with that same teasing smile, and in that moment, everything is perfect. He holds you, not tightly, but enough to remind you that he’s there, that he’s yours, and this simple, silly time is the kind of memory that will last forever.
You finish your ice cream, the sweetness lingering on your lips, but it’s the warmth of his arms around you that makes your heart feel full—like you’ve found exactly where you’re meant to be.
---------------------------------
The date lingers like the final notes of a favorite song, the world around you quieting as the air grows colder, the warmth between the two of you still burning strong. You feel the weight of the moment, the way everything—every laugh, every glance, every touch—has led to this. But deep down, you both know it’s time to wrap up. And even though neither of you wants to face it, the inevitable is here.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen, his expression shifting just slightly. You know what’s coming before it even happens. "Hate saying goodbye," he mutters, his voice tinged with reluctant fondness as his thumb hovers over the call button. His eyes meet yours, the unspoken words hanging between you two. You both know the date is winding down, but neither of you is quite ready to let go.
his phone buzzed with a call from Elias, his campfire plans waiting. Of course, you think, feeling a twinge of disappointment in your chest. He takes the call, his voice low but laced with that same playful edge he always has.
"I should probably head back… but I don’t want to," he says, his words drifting into the cool air between you two, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else. The sincerity in his voice is enough to make your heart ache, a quiet longing tugging at you.
You turn toward him, giving him a little pout, and holding his arm like you don’t want to let go. "Seriously, just a few more minutes!" You’re pleading now, though you know it won’t make much difference. You’re asking for the impossible, but you can’t help it. You want more of this moment, more of him.
He chuckles softly, looking down at you with that same mixture of affection and reluctant amusement. "I don’t wanna go, ya know?" he admits, his voice softer now, like he’s wishing he could stretch the moment out forever too. "But the old man’s gonna lose it if I don’t show up for the campfire."
You can hear the quiet laughter in his voice, but there’s a flicker of something else—something real, something that tells you he feels it too. That feeling of not wanting to leave, not wanting this night, this connection to slip away. You both know the clock is ticking, and no matter how much you wish for more time, it’s slipping through your fingers.
As he reach up to your place, the step slows to a stop, the time now settled around you both like a soft blanket, almost too perfect to end. He glances over at you, his lips curling up into that familiar, lazy smile of his.
"Best damn date I’ve ever had." He says it like it's a simple fact, like there's no debate, and for a moment, you're not sure whether he’s talking about the milkshakes or the laughter, or maybe just you. It doesn’t matter. You feel the warmth of the moment settle between you, just as real and as easy as breathing.
You reach for the door handle, but before you can even make a move, he leans in, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. The sudden proximity, the softness of his touch, makes your heart skip. You freeze, your breath catching as he leans in, his lips brushing yours, slow and lingering—like he's savoring the moment, like he's trying to make sure it doesn’t slip away. You could stay like this forever, the world outside fading, everything narrowing down to just this—a kiss between two people who don’t want the night to end.
As his lips met yours, you could feel the intensity behind the kiss—a rush of warmth that made everything around you fade into the background. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, a quiet expression of concentration flickering across his face as if he was trying to savor every second, trying to make the moment last as long as possible. But there was something more behind it, something raw. It was clear: he didn’t just want this kiss, he wanted more. The way his body leaned into you, his lips pressed against yours with an almost desperate slowness, told you everything you needed to know.
Your breath hitched as his lips moved with a deep, unhurried tenderness, and you could feel the intensity building between you both. But before you even had a chance to process it, he pulled away just enough to look at you, eyes dark with something that felt like both hesitation and longing. And without another word, he leaned in again, this time kissing you more deeply, more urgently. His lips met yours with a heat that sent a rush of fire through your veins, and you found yourself pulling him closer, instinctively, your hands reaching up to wrap around the back of his neck, drawing him in.
His arm slid around your waist, lifting you just slightly off the ground, pulling you even closer. The movement was effortless for him, like he knew exactly how to hold you, how to make you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. The kiss deepened, both of you lost in it, in the warmth and the pressure that seemed to build with every passing second.
And then, in the midst of it all, you both heard it. A loud whistle that traveled from one of the nearby houses—a neighbor who must’ve been watching. The sound of it, light and amused, almost seemed to break the bubble of heat surrounding you both, but it only made you both smile against each others lips, knowing you didn’t care who was watching, because this moment—this heated, tangled mess of emotions—was yours and his alone.
He pulled away just enough to glance at you, his breath ragged, both of you caught in the aftershock of what you’d just shared. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the neighbor’s teasing, not the time, not even the fact that the night had to end. You were right here, with him, wrapped up in something that felt both too big to fully understand and too perfect to let go of.
When he pulls away, it's with just enough space for him to look into your eyes, his voice a whisper, soft and teasing, just enough to make you smile. "Don’t get yourself too emotional to miss me, sweetheart," he says, the words wrapped in that familiar playful edge, a wink accompanying them.
You laugh softly, shaking your head, the lingering warmth of his kiss still dancing on your lips. "You’re such a tease," you reply, a smile tugging at your own lips.
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling with amusement, the teasing smile never leaving. There’s a moment of silence between you, but it’s comfortable, easy, like you both know this isn’t quite over—not yet.
With one last wink, he pulls back just a little, his fingers brushing over yours before he finally lets go. You watch him, standing there just a moment longer, like he’s reluctant to leave but knows he has to. And even as he walks off, part of you knows this goodbye is just a brief pause, a chapter that’s far from finished.
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me writing this fic to heal myself because i am like this rn with the problems are happening to me
hmu, walker😔
drew my last reblog yayayyy, yall dont have any idea of how much i love hesh, its so dumb MA SHAYLAAAUUGHHHH OUGHH
My Journey to Escape the War in Gaza
My name is Abdelmajed. I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.
The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.
Basic needs have become luxuries. Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.
I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.
Escape from Gaza is my only hope, but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.
I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.
Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety. Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.
Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.
Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.
Vetted by @gazavetters
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.
Hesh stopping fed logan!
warning; emotional! and angst
hesh: logan! this is not you!!
logan: Gahook!🤓 I know.
u will be missed lo
Forsaken
Logans POV from the Pit
One - The beginning, or the aftermath?
Just when he thought that everything was alright, that everything was over and done with, that they had got their revenge and justice for all those people that had died, for Ajax - it all crumbled down in one minute
Rorke.
How the fuck did he survive?
He remembered Hesh had smashed his skull with a fire extinguisher, he himself had shot him straight in the chest with a twisting speeding bullet, and Rorke was drowned in water almost an instance after the glass broke. How could he survive?
Maybe this is why Rorke was such a dangerous Ghost. Keyword, was. He was no longer a Ghost, he had lost that title a long time ago when he had betrayed the squad. Elias had told him.
But why did he come back even if he did survive all that? Why was he so intent on taking him? Why not his brother? Why not both of them? Shouldn't Rorke have just run back to whatever hole he came out from and went back into hiding and recover from that hit? So why? Why did he take him with him despite everything?
Did he really remind Rorke that much of Elias?
────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────
Two - The Silent Mind
He abruptly coughed dryly as the thoughts in his mind swirled around, lying on his side, choking for those few seconds as he gasped for air.
Eventually, the coughing fit of a storm calmed down - not without leaving tears in his eyes, that is.
He was dehydrated. Thirsty and starving. Weak and frail. His throat felt like it was burning, an irritating tightness being felt as the reflex to cough kept attacking him over and over again like raining bullets. Like a thorn was lodged in his throat, and he couldn't get it out, an endless cycle.
He weakly shifted his head from the side-laying position to look up, eyes bleary. All he could see was that same old metal wire barrier between him and the outside world. It was dark outside, the dark looming trees blocking out any sort of excess moonlight as they silently wavered in the breeze, the scent of all sorts of vegetation and dark mushy wet soil wafting down to him.
It was quiet, too quiet.
Too peaceful. Like the calm after a storm. Expect, he was in the storm still.
He would have used this time to take a moment to collect his thoughts and maybe even get some rest - if only it weren't for the fact that pipes were all up his ass, to clense his bowels, and the dirt ground was crawling with insects. He couldn't lay down even a second without hearing the sounds of those fucking teeny tiny legs scittering and scattering around. It grossed him out, even if those things couldn't exactly hurt him. His limbs were tied, keeping him in place with no way to move around into a better position to avoid the bugs on the ground. Zero proper blood circulation, so he felt tense and tight in place.
He was literally kissing the filt on the floor, even if it was just the side of his face. It smelled like shit, like grime. He really wished he didn't have the sense to smell right now. Didn't it smell worse because one of the Fed's took a piss on him?
Well—not on him, more like near where he was placed. He couldn't remember exactly, though. His mind was fogged up.
He knew this wasn't even the beginning of what he would have to go through. All he knew was that his brother and the entire Ghost Team were coming to save him. They wouldn't leave him behind, now would they? He was sure that they were currently trying to track down his location. Maybe they had already found it and were making a plan to attack - though that was probably a stretch.
He reminded himself to relax, to not get too hopeful or excited. It had only been a couple of months, right? He wasn't too sure as to how much time had passed, but he knew it had a long time judging by the amount of weight and muscle mass he had lost. He knew his hands would be all shaky if he was told to hold a rilfe, hell, even the same pistol he used to shoot Rorke would have the same result.
If he was given a mirror, he knew that he wouldn't even be recognizable...would his brother even recognize him after all this? Would he have changed that much?
He tried not to think about the bad parts too intently. He knew the team was working on his case, after all...
No Ghost ever got left behind.
────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────
Three - Denial and Acceptance
Hesh?
Is...is that you?
He couldn't believe it
After so long, he had finally been found
Finally. Finally he would be given freedom and be reunited with the only family he had left. He would tell them all about what the Feds had done to him and they'll all help burn the place down, first was getting him to safety
He waited in the hole patiently, his heart pounding in anticipation. He waited, his body language tense and trembling in faint happiness. He knew he had heard his brother's voice, he swore he also heard that same rumble of Keegan's voice in line with Hesh's.
So, where were they?
His head was spinning as his back slumped against the dirt wall after waiting in place for 10 minutes. Did they lose his trail? Did they retreat? Did they get caught? What happened? There was no way they would leave him here.
No.
No, they weren't like that
Had he been dreaming about them?
No, it couldn't be. It felt too vivid, their voices, to be fake. He hadn't lost his sanity that much, right? Right. There was no way...
...then why would the voices suddenly disappear when he paid attention to them and expected something to happen?
He started to repeat the names of all the Ghosts to himself, mumbling silently from his bloody and cracked lips as his hands clasped together in almost a last attempt of desperation - as if he was praying. The memories of everyone he had flooding his mind like a tidal wave, the more notable memories featuring him and Hesh in the past, before they got into any of this, this whole mess. They had wanted to become something, not immediate soliders. But when Hesh joined, thanks to their dad, he also found himself joining, wanting to follow his brother...
If only he knew that he would be ending up here. And probably end up losing his brother, too. He had already lost his dad due to this job. Who else did he have to lose? Hell, even Ajax was dead. So, who was next? Him?
No.
They wouldn't kill him. He knew Rorke wanted him to himself. That man himself said he wasn't going to let him be a Ghost, ever.
Truly, he wanted to die. To kill himself to end all of this. But he didn't. His brother kept him alive. The idea that survival and freedom were still on the plate for him kept him alive. Even if it was slowly starting to slip away from his fingertips.
Qestion was, how long could he maintain this for before Rorke ripped his mind apart from the very stem and took a look inside to see what he could tweak and eliminate.
Could Rorke really make him forget who he was? He didn't want to believe it. But he knew what the Fed's were capable of. If someone like Rorke lost his way, there was no doubt that someone like him would have the same fate.
Question was how long his stubbornness could keep him going. Question was how long he could resist the Federation's advances. Question was how long he could hold on to his identity.
Hopefully, the name "Logan Walker" wouldn't become a former.
Hopefully, it wouldn't become a lost identity.
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶
Sir kick.
Knigh! kick! X Queen! F!reader
notes: slight nsfw? I know this rlly can't happen or the moments been kinda illogical but come on chat this century has become extinct, Let's have fun.
Words: 3,583
also not using thou, art etc... idrk abt them chat
For years, you have been bound in chains of duty, shackled to a marriage not of love but of power. A union sealed in ink and coldly witnessed by courtiers who care not for the heart that beats beneath brocade and gold. You were promised to a man who holds dominion over kingdoms, yet none over your affections.
The king—your husband—is a fortress of ice, impenetrable and unyielding. His gaze, when it does fall upon you, is one of obligation, not devotion. His hands, ever steady in matters of state, have never trembled with longing for you. And so, the years have passed in a silent war, your heart waging battles he will never deign to notice.
One evening, beneath the weight of candlelight and crushed velvet, you dare to speak.
"Is there anything within these walls that you do love, Your Majesty?"
He does not look up from his documents. His quill moves, steady and unhurried.
"Do you expect a sentimental answer, my queen?"
"I expect a truth, if you still recall how to speak one."
At that, he pauses. The fire crackles, filling the space between you. When he finally meets your gaze, his expression is unreadable, a mask carved from stone.
"My duty is to the realm. Love is a luxury I was never granted."
"No," you say, voice sharper than the jeweled dagger at your hip. "Love is a luxury you never desired."
He does not deny it.
And so, your restlessness grows, a storm stirring beneath silken gowns and polished smiles. One day, the storm will break. And when it does, the king will be forced to see what he has long ignored—whether it be your wrath, your departure… or your betrayal.
---------------------------
Then, Sir Kick steps into the picture.
You sense him before you see him—the shift in the air, the low murmur of courtiers parting as he strides through the chamber. When your gaze finally finds him, he is already watching. He stands at the far side of the royal court, his armor gleaming beneath the chandelier’s golden glow, every inch of him a warrior among men who speak only in parchment and coin. His presence commands attention, but it is the way his eyes sweep over the room—then settle upon you—that sends a spark racing up your spine.
That gaze… it is dangerous. Familiar.
You have felt it before, lingering when it ought not to, igniting something within you that has long been smothered beneath duty and decorum. Unlike your husband, Sir Kick is a man of action, a man who does not waste breath on empty speeches or politics spun from dust. His wit is as quick as his sword, his charm sharper still.
And most of all, he does not fawn over your crown.
No, he does not see a queen, a figurehead draped in velvet and restraint. He sees a woman. And that—above all—is what makes him dangerous.
Kick tilts his head slightly, a silent challenge in his expression. He knows precisely what he is doing.
And worse still?
So do you.
You already know that tonight, it is happening.
The thought lingers at the edges of your mind, winding through your veins like a slow-burning flame. There is no hesitation, no wavering. The moment has been inching closer with every stolen glance, every unspoken word exchanged across the great hall, every quiet yearning left to fester in the dark.
And tonight, the dark will no longer be empty.
The court is still alive with laughter and politics, the air thick with the scent of wine and candle smoke. The king, ever dutiful, is engrossed in matters of state, his back to you as he bends over parchment, sealing his attention to anything but you.
It is almost too easy.
You rise from your seat with practiced grace, your departure barely noticed amid the swirl of conversation and music. Your footsteps are quiet, measured, as you weave through corridors draped in shadow, the weight of your gown trailing like whispers against the stone floor.
Then, the signal—small, deliberate, undeniable.
Your fingers brush the edge of your collar as you pass through the archway, a movement so subtle that only a man accustomed to watching you closely would notice.
And Sir Kick does.
No words are needed. The silent command is clear.
The small chamber at the far end of the castle—the one hidden away from prying eyes, where the last bell will toll, and where, at long last, this night will unfold exactly as you have both willed it to.
And as you disappear into the shadows, you know he will follow.
The door closes behind him with a quiet click, sealing you both away from the world beyond these walls. The moment Sir Kick steps into the dim glow of candlelight, his smirk unfurls—slow, knowing, edged with danger. He removes his helmet with a practiced ease, shaking loose the mess of black hair that falls over sharp, amber eyes. Those eyes flicker as they settle on you, brimming with that same reckless, playful confidence you have come to recognize.
And yet, beneath the bravado, there is something else. Something unspoken.
He takes a step forward. Then another.
His movements are unhurried, deliberate, until the space between you is little more than a breath. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the steel and leather of his armor mingling with the faint trace of something unmistakably him.
Kick does not waste time.
"It seems your king has left you quite lonely," he murmurs, voice low, teasing—but not entirely mocking. No, he is far too perceptive for that. He knows what this is. What this could be.
Your spine remains straight, chin lifted with the pride of a woman who was never meant to be ignored. The soft breeze tugs at the silk of your gown, brushing against your skin like a ghost of a touch.
"Mind your discipline, Sir Kick," you reply coolly. "He is your king, too."
Your words are firm, but the fire in your chest betrays you—burning, roaring to life after years of being buried beneath duty and cold indifference. And Kick… Kick sees it.
He always has.
A slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Ah, but a crown does not make a man worthy." His voice is quieter now, his gaze tracing over you with an intensity that sends a shiver through you. "Nor does it make a woman any less deserving of being seen."
And in that moment, as the distance between you teeters on the edge of something irreversible, you realize—he is not asking permission.
He is waiting to see if you will grant it.
"Do you think you’re the first knight to think such things?" Your voice is steady, unwavering, yet threaded with something hotter, something undeniable. Your gaze narrows just slightly—not in warning, but in challenge.
Sir Kick does not falter. He only smiles, slow and deliberate, before a laugh escapes him—low, rich, tinged with arrogance. The sound curls around you like smoke.
"I am not like the others," he muses, tilting his head as if amused by the very idea. "They are noblemen draped in steel, men who wear titles as if they are armor. Nothing more."
He takes a step closer, his presence pressing into yours, the warmth of him cutting through the cool night air.
"But—" he leans in just enough that you can feel his breath against your skin, his voice dipping into something hushed, something edged with certainty— "we are not here for just talk, Your Majesty."
Your pulse does not betray you, but he knows. He always knows.
The air between you is charged, a thin thread pulled too tight, waiting—daring—to snap.
And this time, you are the one who must decide.
With a single step forward, Kick closes the distance, his presence wrapping around you like a silent vow. His gloved hand settles lightly against your back, his touch barely more than a whisper against the delicate fabric of your gown. And yet, it is enough. A shiver dances down your spine, betraying you in ways words never could.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
His charm is effortless, woven into the very way he moves—every shift, every glance brimming with an unshakable confidence that sets him apart from the lifeless courtiers who whisper empty praises in your ear. He does not hesitate. He does not ask.
He simply takes.
And for once, you welcome it.
Because this—this is what you have longed for. The spark. The fire. The undeniable sense of being seen, not as a queen bound by duty, but as a woman aching to be touched, to be wanted.
Kick’s fingers press just slightly, guiding you closer—not enough to overstep, but enough to remind you of the choice that lingers between you. A choice you are more than ready to make.
Without another word, Kick closes the space between you, his lips descending in a deliberate, slow motion. The first brush of his mouth against yours is light—teasing, almost as if he's savoring the moment, testing the boundaries. The faint pressure lingers, a quiet invitation, but it does not take long for you to pull him closer.
The yearning inside you surges, a wave that has been building for years, drowning out all the hesitation and restraint. You need this. You want this.
With a boldness that surprises even you, your lips part and meet his in a kiss that is anything but tentative. It is deep, hungry, and without reservation. The pressure between you builds, both urgent and reckless, as if your souls are calling to each other—demanding, aching for something only this moment can fulfill.
Kick’s hands move swiftly, finding the curve of your waist, his fingers grasping the soft fabric of your gown. He pulls you against him with such intensity, your body flush against his. The cool bite of his armor against your skin contrasts with the scorching heat that radiates from his chest, the firm press of muscle beneath the metal.
For a brief second, he pulls away just enough to breathe, his gaze locking with yours. His eyes search yours, intense and focused, measuring the weight of this moment—this choice.
A silent question lingers in the air. Will you go further? Will you let this consume you both?
But you know. Neither of you will pull back now.
"You're not shy, Your Majesty," he breathes, the words slipping from his lips with a hint of amusement. A smirk dances across his face, pulling at the corner of his mouth as his eyes study you—devouring the fire in your gaze.
You meet his stare without flinching, unwavering in the heat of the moment. "Shyness was never an option, Sir Kick," you reply, your voice steady, a trace of something darker in your tone. "I have nothing to lose."
His smirk deepens, but there’s a flicker of something more—recognition, perhaps, or admiration.
You’ve made your choice. And it is clear, to both of you, that nothing will stand in the way of what comes next.
As Kick’s hand slides down to your waist, pulling you further into the heat of the kiss, time seems to slow. You melt into him, the world around you fading, leaving only the intoxicating feeling of him against you. But then, without warning, there’s the unmistakable creak of a door opening—a soft, hesitant shuffle of footsteps.
A breath catches in your throat.
The man freezes in the doorway, his wide eyes taking in the scene before him. His hands twitch instinctively toward his weapon, unsure whether to flee or to sound the alarm. He’s seen enough to understand the situation unfolding before him, but uncertainty hangs in the air.
But Kick—ever the confident knight—doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch.
You, on the other hand, gasp against his lips, trying to pull away, startled by the intrusion.
Kick does not yield. He does not break the kiss, instead drawing you closer still, his lips lingering on yours for just a moment longer—slow, deliberate, as if to make sure every ounce of the moment is savored before he pulls away.
When he does finally pull back, his eyes do not seek you. They turn, effortlessly locking onto the crew member standing frozen in the doorway. His gaze is cool, amused even, as if this were nothing more than an amusing interruption, rather than an undeniable breach of decorum.
Kick remains close, his body still pressed against yours, the heat of him never fading. His voice, deep and laced with that characteristic playfulness, cuts through the tension in the air. “Ah, a late-night wanderer, is it? I must admit, I don’t recall sending for company.”
The crew member’s face goes a shade lighter, his eyes darting nervously between you and Kick, unsure where to settle his gaze. He can’t seem to tear his attention away from the knight who stands so confidently, every inch of him exuding power and daring.
“My… my apologies, milady, Sir Kick. I did not intend to... interrupt.” The words stumble from his mouth, his voice quivering slightly under the weight of the situation.
Kick’s smirk widens, and he steps closer to the man, completely unbothered by the interruption. His tone shifts, deepening with a subtle threat wrapped in amusement. “Interrupt, you say? How unfortunate.” His gaze never leaves the crew member’s face, studying him like a predator eyeing its prey.
The tension in the air is thick, suffocating, and for a moment, it seems as if the world has gone still, the only sound the beating of your own heart.
“Now,” Kick continues, his voice low and dangerous, “tell me, good man, does this situation call for... the death of a loyal subject, or shall we let you return to your duties?”
The crew member’s breath catches in his throat. His hands tremble slightly, torn between fear and the bewildering absurdity of Kick’s words. He knows—he knows well enough that, despite the knight’s playful tone, this is not a question one would answer lightly.
The room hangs suspended between two worlds: one of royal consequence, the other of recklessness and daring.
The crew member stiffens, his body rigid with nerves as he scans the room. His eyes flicker to you, searching for a sign—an indication of whether he should flee or stay, whether he will be met with mercy or wrath.
Kick, still standing close, keeps that infuriating smirk on his lips. His voice drops lower, tinged now with mocking amusement. “Do you need to be reminded of your place, or is it clear enough for you to depart without further need of... persuasion?”
The words hang heavy in the air, each syllable dripping with the promise of consequence, but there’s something else beneath it—a dark playfulness, as if this is all a game to him, one in which the crew member is an unwilling pawn.
The poor man shifts uneasily, his feet planted but clearly uncomfortable. He stands frozen, caught in the middle of a situation he was never meant to witness. The awkwardness is palpable, and you can almost feel his pulse quickening. He tries desperately to hold onto his composure, but it’s slipping.
He is a man who knows well enough the power of royalty—but what does he know of knights who mock it so boldly? What does he know of the dark games played beneath the surface of titles and crowns?
Kick watches him with those dangerous eyes, waiting for the crew member to make his choice. Every breath in the room seems drawn tight, as if the next move will send the entire situation spiraling out of control.
For a brief, tense moment, you stand still, caught between the weight of the situation and the undeniable pull of the power that Kick exudes. His presence looms like a storm—unfazed, teasing, his every word a sharp note, his smirk never wavering. But beneath it all, you know this could go one of two ways: You could end this charade, banish the crew member and regain control—or you could allow Kick to toy with him, a choice that might reveal more than either of you are prepared to handle.
With a deliberate breath, you step forward, breaking the stillness. Your voice rings out, calm and measured, but beneath it lies the unspoken weight of royalty. “There is no need for dramatics, good sir. You may leave now, and I trust you shall say nothing of this to anyone.”
The command is clear. Your words leave no room for debate, no space for disobedience. The crew member nods quickly, clearly grateful for the queen’s composed, regal demeanor.
But before he can take his leave, Kick’s voice slithers through the air, full of mischief, his tone laced with a dangerous undertone that threatens to undo any calm you’ve offered. “You heard her, good man,” he says, still leaning casually against the space between you and the crew member, his eyes alight with an unmistakable gleam. “Leave now, and we won’t need to have a longer conversation about your future... unless, of course, you find the idea of becoming a knight’s plaything more to your liking.”
The implication hangs heavy between them, a challenge wrapped in a jest that leaves the poor crew member trembling in his boots. His eyes flick nervously between you and Kick, his grip tightening on the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored.
The door clicks closed with a soft thud behind the retreating crew member, leaving you and Kick in the dim light of the chamber.
You turn to face him, arms crossed, an eyebrow arched in mock disapproval, but there’s the slightest curve of a smile on your lips—one that speaks of both amusement and challenge. “You’re insufferable. We are in the royal chambers, Kick, not some tavern. Have a bit of decorum.”
Kick’s smirk has only grown, his gaze never leaving you as he steps closer. His grin widens, and the mischief in his eyes dances like flames on the edge of a storm. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that, my lady?” he says, his voice smooth, laced with the promise of trouble. “I did not expect such... eagerness from you. I must admit, your taste for the forbidden is... intoxicating.”
His words hang in the air, just as the space between you and him shrinks. Every syllable a challenge, every inch of him a magnet pulling you in. He knows. You know. There’s something about this dangerous edge, the way he pushes, the way you can’t help but lean into it.
You hold his gaze, the playful tone in your voice not quite hiding the heat that flickers beneath it. “And what if I told you, Sir Kick, that the only thing more intoxicating than that is the danger of making it real?”
The air between you thickens, becoming something both dangerous and thrilling. You’ve found what you’ve longed for in Kick—the passion, the confidence, the very thing that’s been absent from your life for far too long. In his presence, you are no longer just the queen, the dutiful wife; you are a woman who has reclaimed something for herself.
Without a word, you step forward, your movements deliberate and fluid. With a swift, commanding gesture, your hands reach for the iron of his armor, and in one smooth motion, it falls to the ground with a soft clink, the weight of it no longer between you.
Kick exhales slowly, his chest rising and falling beneath the remaining layers of his attire. He looks down at the discarded armor, a side smile tugging at his lips, a quiet acknowledgment of your boldness. His eyes lift to meet yours, and there’s something in his gaze—a flicker of both surprise and admiration. He isn’t used to being unseated so easily, but something about you is different.
“I do believe you’re starting to make your intentions clear, my lady,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with an unmistakable edge of excitement. He doesn't move yet, still lingering in the moment, as if savoring the shift that has happened between you.
You gasp softly, caught off guard, and a surprised laugh escapes you. You've never experienced anything quite like this—this bold, fearless display of power. In an instant, Kick’s strong hands are at your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. With a swift, confident motion, he throws you onto the bed, the soft thud of your landing muted by the lavish fabric, but the effect is undeniable.
You steady yourself on your hands, bracing against the softness of the sheets as your eyes meet his, a mixture of shock and anticipation flooding your chest. you saw him. taking his shirt off, His build is evident—solid, controlled, each movement a reflection of the strength he carries with him, and yet, there’s something gentler in the way he looks at you now.
Kick, for all his cocky bravado, is never careless. He’s always mindful, always aware of the power dynamics at play. He's careful not to make any overt move that might call attention, even now, as his eyes scan you with a mixture of hunger and respect. But here, in the hidden corners of the castle, in the quiet shadows of the royal garden where the walls can't listen, you and Kick have carved out a dangerous, intoxicating space just for yourselves.
You sit up, looking at him, the weight of the moment sinking in. “One day, this will be over, won’t it?” you ask, your voice quiet, carrying with it an understanding that only the two of you share in this fleeting space of freedom.
Kick’s grin widens as he steps closer, the playful edge still lingering in his gaze. “Perhaps,” he says, his voice thick with promise. “But tonight, Your Majesty, let’s enjoy the here and now.”
Kick leans down, his breath brushing against your skin as he moves closer, his hands steady and sure as he guides you back onto the bed. The kiss comes swiftly, claiming you with a fire that burns away any hesitation. In that instant, the world outside the room disappears. The soft pressure of his lips is a promise, a stark contrast to the cold neglect you’ve known for years.
You fall back against the bed, your heart racing as his kiss deepens. You’ve never known anything like this—never felt so desired, so alive. The emotions that surge through you now are a sharp contrast to the emptiness that’s haunted you for so long. Deprived of tenderness, of passion, of connection—what did you endure all of this for? To live beside a king who could never see you, never understand you, only the crown you wear? A man who’s a bastard to treat you this way.
But Kick—Kick has filled the emptiness in your heart. Where there was cold distance, there is now warmth. Where there was neglect, there is now care. His touch, his kiss, they have filled every vacant corner of your soul with a fire you never thought you’d feel again.
And in that moment, with the world outside forgotten, you are free.
he is driving like the brakes are optional
Keegan hand the keys over
Doing the "relationship alphabet" series with cod ghosts characters (all of them!!) and starting with logan walker!
also it is SFW! and maybe light NSFW
I have so many Requests HOLY MOTHER!! thank you guys for sending me requests and trusting me with yalls ideas😔🙏🏻
I might take so many times! because i have studying but i have so many already in my drafts, so yeah! will post whenever i want to!
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Discord server for cod ghosts fans in pinned post!also check rules before requesting!
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