Why Does Every Blog I Try To Follow In This Fandom Do Nothing But Act Like Little Kids, Can Y'all Handle

Aha pt2

literally died while making these

How horror movies start:

WEEEE

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.

Chat who give this a "yeah..."

if I see another person mistake Keegan P. Russ as a Modern Warfare timeline character I swear I'm going to lose it PUT SOME RESPECT ON COD: GHOSTS NAME!! AND REALIZE THAT THE WALKER BROTHERS AND KICK ARE RIGHT!!! THERE!!!

Remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beyoncé, and what is her relationship with Call of Duty ghosts? (this is serious guys i can't take it anymore...)

if i disappear after this post yall know the reason

first of the GIMME SOME curse that came into hesh suddenly!

um like hello the way he squat his leg opened! come on now hesh babe i know you're so down to earth but not like that

let y'all all some photos that the Cod Ghosts fandom has been shut about! I know we are dead but not like that

i'm not thanking Beyonce let what is going to be be

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.

Finishing all the reqs so i can get asks and requests about mw og characters (tf141, delta force and army rangers)

Cod ww2 and cod bo😔🙏🏻