Since I Made So Many Updates In The Server I Should Announce On Them Here.

HEADCANONS

Keegan is in love with a friend but won't admit it.

I will make the friend as a teammate!

iym "won't admit it" like he wouldn't confess and stay like this forver without expressing then hell yeah whatchu talkin' abt

and lastly before i start writing i don't wanna no one typing "Keegan would never be this emotionally gahook!🤓🤓" well guess what everyone fall in love and slip into it like a damn failure ballerina

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

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

I'm staying with the mask...

Keegan is the kind of person who doesn’t easily give in to feelings—especially when it comes to anything that might distract him from his duty. It takes a long time for him to realize what he’s feeling, and even longer for him to even consider acknowledging it. Here's how it could play out:

How Many Years Till Keegan Realizes His Feelings?

Keegan’s realization about his feelings for you takes a few years, especially because he’s constantly suppressing it.

At first, he’s just focused on the mission, on the job. But over time, as you continue to be a steady part of his life—his teammate, his friend, and the person he trusts most—those feelings slowly sneak up on him. It’s something that builds gradually, like a storm he can’t ignore.

but it’s only after 2-3 years that he finally realizes what he’s been feeling.

In the early years, Keegan is too focused on survival, on getting the job done, to think too much about it. The team dynamic is important to him, but his view of relationships is still influenced by his sense of duty—no attachments.

Over time, though, the small moments between you, the way you laugh, how you handle stress, and the way he feels when he’s around you, start to make him realize that he feels something more than friendship.He doesn't recognize it as "love" right away, though.

At first, it’s just this pull—this desire to be near you, to protect you, to make sure you’re safe. It’s subtle but undeniable. By the time the realization fully hits him, it’s more of a feeling he’s tried to bury than something he’s consciously thought about.

1. The Signs Are There—But He Won’t Acknowledge Them

Keegan isn’t the type to openly flirt or be obvious about his feelings, but it’s the little things that give him away.

You get injured on a mission? He’s the first one there, eyes scanning over you, jaw clenched.

“It’s just a scratch,” you try to joke, but he doesn’t smile. Just hands you a med kit and mutters, “Be more careful.”

When you’re on base, he always sits next to you during briefings. Never says why. Just does.

If someone else makes a joke about you or gets too friendly, there’s a shift in him—subtle, but noticeable. His eyes linger, his body tenses. But he won’t say a damn thing.

2. The Self-Denial Runs Deep

Keegan doesn’t do emotions. At least, not openly. So when he starts feeling something for you, his first instinct is to push it down.

If you ever get too close—physically or emotionally—he subtly pulls back. Keeps things professional.

“You’re overthinking it,” he tells himself when his heart races after you brush against him.

If someone teases him about you? He just gives them a deadpan look and changes the subject.

Even when he knows he’s looking at you too long, when he knows he’s thinking about you too much—he convinces himself it’s nothing.

You’re a teammate. A friend. That’s it.

He started to think he is so stupid and hating this.

3. The Breaking Point

It takes something big to crack through his walls.

Maybe it’s a mission gone wrong—maybe you get separated, and for a few agonizing hours, he thinks he’s lost you.

When he finds you again, relief crashes into him like a punch to the gut. But instead of saying anything, he just grips your shoulder a little too tightly.

“Don’t do that again.” His voice is low, rough.

“I didn’t exactly plan on it, Keegan.” You’re trying to keep things light, but he’s not laughing.

That’s when you realize—he was scared.

Not because he cared actually, he is caring for everyone is his team, but the times when sees you or anyone else in the team get injured he may lost it inside.

since *cough* ajax'x death *cough*

And that? That’s not something Keegan lets himself feel.

3. The Tension in Silence

Keegan is sitting across from you, eyes trained on something—anything but you. The silence between you two is thick.

You try to break it. “So… what’s been on your mind lately?”

Keegan’s eyes flicker to you for a moment, before he shrugs, clearly unwilling to open up. “Nothing. Just… tired.”

He doesn’t look tired though. He looks distant.

There’s a pause, and you both continue to sit there in the quiet, and for a moment, it feels like he wants to say something—wants to talk—but he can’t.

"You sure?" you push, but when your eyes meet, Keegan’s gaze softens for just a split second before he pulls back.

“I’m good. worry about yourself.” typical he always talks like that.

But you know it’s more than that. And so does he.

4. The Small Acts of Thoughtfulness

After a particularly tough mission, everyone’s gathered around, sharing drinks and stories from the field. Keegan, ever the lone wolf, sits in the corner, keeping to himself from talking to the others.

But when you walk past him, you notice something: a fresh pack of bandages sitting on the table next to his gear, alongside some protein bars you hadn’t seen before.

“What’s all this?”

Keegan looks up from his seat, nonchalantly leaning back. “Nothing. Just thought you might need it.”

“Need what?”

“Bandages, snacks... whatever. You’re always running low on stuff after a mission.”

It’s a small gesture, but it doesn’t escape your notice. He’s paying attention to you. And somehow, it feels more significant than anything he’s said.

“Thanks.” You nod at him, unsure of what to say.

Keegan just gives a short, tight smile. “Yeah. No problem.”

But in that moment, you know it’s not just about the bandages. It’s about the care he doesn’t know how to express.

sorry i gave yall some boring missions-moments but guess what be prepared for base moments when the fun would happen

Base moments:

1. The Way He Always Ends Up Near You

Keegan doesn’t mean to always sit next to you. It just happens.

During mission briefings, in the mess hall, even just sitting around waiting for orders—somehow, he always gravitates toward you.

At first, it’s subconscious. But then one day, Merrick calls him out on it. “Didn’t know you two were attached at the hip.”

Keegan freezes mid-motion, his fork hovering over his plate. His response is as dry as ever. “I sit where there’s space.”

But the moment he realizes how obvious he’s being, he starts overcorrecting—purposefully sitting across the room, trying too hard not to make it look like he cares.

It doesn’t last long. Eventually, he gives up because avoiding you makes him more irritated than anything else.

2. Patch-Ups That Last Too Long

Being in the field means getting injured—a lot. And while Keegan prefers patching himself up, there are times when someone else has to do it.

After a particularly rough mission, you’re the one tending to a cut above his eyebrow. He sits still, jaw clenched, letting you clean the wound.

The problem? You’re too damn close. He can feel your breath, the warmth of your hands.

His brain tells him to pull away, but his body stays frozen. His heartbeat is a little too fast, and he swears the air feels heavier than it should.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters.

You gave a confused look with a smile, not missing a beat. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares straight ahead, refusing to meet your eyes. The moment you’re done, he mutters a quick “Thanks” and bolts before he does something stupid.

3. The Jealousy He Pretends Not to Feel

There’s a new guy on base, and he’s been way too friendly with you. Keegan doesn’t react—outwardly.

But you notice the shift in him. The way his responses are a little more clipped. The way he suddenly has a lot to say whenever this guy is around, mostly in the form of sarcastic comments.

The moment that really gives him away?

One evening, you’re joking around with the new recruit, laughing at something stupid like yall being just some sillies. Keegan, who’s cleaning his rifle nearby, suddenly snaps the bolt back a little too aggressively.

It’s not subtle. Everyone notices. Merrick raises an eyebrow.

“Problem, Keegan?”

“No.” His voice is flat. “Just making sure my rifle’s working.”

He doesn’t talk to you for the rest of the night, and you know exactly why.

4. The Way He Watches Over You Without Realizing It

Keegan doesn’t hover. At least, he thinks he doesn’t.

But you start noticing how often he’s the first one to check on you after a mission. Even if he doesn’t say anything, even if he just passes by while you’re getting patched up, there’s always a moment where his eyes flicker over to you, assessing.

One night, after a particularly bad op, you find him sitting in the common area, pretending to clean his gear HELP WHY AM I MAKING HIM ONLY DOING THAT—but it’s clear he’s waiting for you to come back from the med bay.

“You could just ask if I’m okay, you know.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps working. “I know you’re fine.”

You shake your head with a small smile. “Then why are you still sitting here?”

He still doesn’t look up. “Gear needed cleaning.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut up.”

5. The Night He Almost Said Something

It’s late, and the base is quiet. You and Keegan are the last ones in the training area, neither of you wanting to sleep yet.

You’re sitting side by side, backs against the wall, exhaustion settling in after a long day.

“Ever think about what comes after this?” you ask, voice softer than usual.

He doesn’t answer right away.

When he does, his voice is lower than usual. “No point.”

“Why not?”

He hesitates. And for a split second, there’s something in his expression—something unreadable.

Then, he shifts, standing up abruptly. “Too much to do tomorrow.”

You watch as he walks away, and for the first time, you realize something.

He’s not avoiding the idea of the future.

He’s avoiding you in it.

The Almost-Kiss – Keegan’s Sudden Realization

The base was quiet, the hum of distant machinery and the occasional crackle of a radio the only sounds breaking the silence. You and Keegan sat side by side on a supply crate near the vehicle bay, the faint glow of the overhead light casting soft shadows across his sharp features.

It had started as another late-night conversation. The kind that happened when neither of you felt like sleeping, when exhaustion lingered but something unspoken kept you both awake.

You nudged his arm. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a ghost, you suck at disappearing when I need peace and quiet.”

Keegan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? Funny, ‘cause you keep showing up in all the places I go to be alone.”

You smirked. “Almost like you don’t mind the company.”

He didn’t deny it. Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his usual deadpan expression softening just a little.

There was a pause. A long, lingering moment where the air seemed different. He wasn’t looking away this time. And for some reason, neither were you.

Something about the quiet, the dim light, the sheer familiarity of sitting next to him made everything else fade. His face was close—closer than usual.

“You always do that,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

His eyes flickered downward for a second, barely noticeable, before he let out a slow exhale. “Make things... complicated.”

You tilted your head slightly, searching his face. His voice wasn’t irritated, wasn’t accusatory. If anything, he almost sounded... unsure. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be saying this at all.

You swallowed. “Is that what I do?”

Keegan’s fingers twitched where they rested against his knee. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t move away. He didn’t shift back into his usual guarded distance. If anything, he leaned in just a fraction—subtle, almost imperceptible.

And you mirrored him.

It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t something either of you planned. It was just happening.

His breath was steady, controlled, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his body tensed like he was warring with himself.

“Keegan…” you murmured.

His gaze dropped—to your lips, just for a second. His shoulders rose with a slow inhale, his hand flexing like he was fighting every instinct in his body.

The space between you was gone now, barely an inch left. Your nose almost brushed his, and he didn’t pull back.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

And for a moment, you thought he was going to close that last bit of distance.

But then—he stopped.

His entire body tensed, his breath hitching like he’d suddenly realized exactly what he was doing.

Like he’d been caught off guard by himself.

His eyes flickered with something—panic, hesitation, restraint—before he pulled away.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow enough that it felt deliberate. Like he was forcing himself to retreat before he did something he couldn’t take back.

He cleared his throat, looking away. “I—” He shook his head. “Forget it.”

Your brows furrowed. “Forget what?”

He pushed off the crate, running a hand over his face, avoiding your gaze completely. “I gotta go.”

And just like that, he walked off, leaving you sitting there, your heart still racing, the warmth of his breath still lingering against your skin.

And wondering if he’d ever let himself stop running from whatever this was.

Keegan had already turned to leave, but you weren’t going to let him walk away again.

Not this time.

Before he could disappear into the dark hallways of the base, you reached out, grabbing his wrist. His body tensed immediately, like he expected you to let go, but you didn’t.

“Keegan.” Your voice was firm, unwavering.

He exhaled through his nose, not turning to face you. “Let it go.”

You scoffed. “That’s it? You’re just gonna walk off like nothing happened?”

Finally, he turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see his expression—calm, unreadable, but there was something underneath it. Something forced.

“Because nothing did,” he said flatly.

You let out a humorless laugh. “Right. So you just—what? Lean in like that for fun? Just a casual thing between teammates?”

His jaw tightened at that word. Teammates.

You stepped in front of him now, forcing him to actually look at you. His expression didn’t change. Not irritated, not angry—just cold.

“I don’t know what you think this is,” he said, voice steady, “but you need to stop.”

The sheer calmness in his tone pissed you off more than if he had just yelled at you.

“Stop what?” You folded your arms. “Want to spell it out for me? Since apparently, I’m the only one here acknowledging the fact that something’s changed.”

Keegan didn’t blink. “That’s exactly the problem.”

You stared at him, heartbeat loud in your ears. “What does that even mean?”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “We were fine before. You, me—this team. Things were simple.”

Simple. The word hit deeper than it should have.

You swallowed, voice quieter now. “And what? You’re afraid that if we cross some invisible line, everything falls apart?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at you, expression unreadable, but you could see the battle happening in his head.

Finally, he sighed. “I’m saying I don’t want to do this with you.”

It was calm. Unshaken. Almost like he was convincing himself more than you.

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t back down. “Liar.”

Keegan’s gaze darkened slightly, but his voice remained steady. “I don’t care what you think you saw back there. I wasn’t thinking. And I won’t make that mistake again.”

You let out a breath, something heavy settling in your chest. “That’s what this is to you? A mistake?”

His fingers curled into a loose fist at his side, but he gave you nothing. No reaction.

“Go back to how things were,” he finally said. “Because this? This isn’t happening not with this kind of damn half apocalypse world.”

It was final. A solid wall thrown between you, built up in seconds.

You stared at him, searching his face for any crack, any sign that he was feeling what you were. But Keegan was a master at locking everything away.

And yet…

There was something in his eyes. The way he looked at you, the way his shoulders were too tense, his jaw clenched a fraction too tight.

He was lying.

You knew it.

But you also knew that no matter what you said, he wasn’t going to admit it. Not now.

Not yet.

So you stepped back. Swallowed the lump in your throat. “You're a piece of shit keegan.”

Keegan didn’t say anything. Just gave you one last look before turning and walking away.

And this time, you let him.

But deep down, you both knew—this wasn’t over.

angst

MEMES TIIIIGHHHMMMMAA🗣️🗣️🗣️

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.

I’m still very sleepy so I’m ranking how I think Ghosts Characters would cuddle

Elias: 5/10. He’s kind of like Woods (pt 1)—good at short hugs/hair ruffles, but doesn’t really cuddle.

Hesh: 12/10. D1 CUDDLER. THIS MAN’S TALENT FOR HUGS NEEDS TO BE STUDIED.

Logan: 7/10. More like his dad when it comes to giving affection, but he’s happy to cuddle if someone asks (especially after a mission).

Merrick: 9/10. Bro is like a furnace, and he has a knack for knowing when someone needs a hug.

Ajax: 10/10. Just kinda snatches you whenever he wants cuddles, but the vibes are always elite, and he shares blankets

Keegan: 3/10. This man does not SLEEP. He doesn’t have time to cuddle. Whenever you get him to lay down though, it’s 10/10.

Kick: 4/10. He plays block blast on his phone and rage quits, but he’s very warm and sweet to you.

Rorke: 2/10. He plots vengeance aloud the entire time.

Here we go again.

HEAR ME OUT

A GOOD GHOSTS ENDING

where fed! logan! gets back to his nature and fight rorke😏!

I'v always thought abt this! when i started writing dual minds, single heart! but i felt ehh...no....

That's why i wrote this It's kind of not really satisfying fic? but i let out all of my angst lol.

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Imo this game is kinda hard and puzzled to write this level of good ending!

just a drip.

July day in California…bro had to have been sweating in the jacket

hmu, walker😔

drew my last reblog yayayyy, yall dont have any idea of how much i love hesh, its so dumb MA SHAYLAAAUUGHHHH OUGHH

Y/N: Keegan you can literally take the mask off, Nobody gives a fuck to your face.

Keegan: Well that's why i'm keeping the mask. nobody gives a fuck.

Y/N: Oh ok I give a fuck to your fac-....

Keegan: