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ll7esxs · 18 days ago

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✦ 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: Getting back to reader after a breakup. related to this ✦ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫(𝐬): Logan walker, Hesh walker, Keegan russ, Thomas merrick, Kick ✦ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: X G!n! Reader ✦ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 / 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐞: Angst/and with a lot of comfort. ✦ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Nothing too angst tbh, just them being sorry/thinking they did something wrong.

Logan walker:

Logan isn’t the kind to chase with big speeches. No long texts. No midnight confessions.

He respects space — maybe too much. And after you cut contact, he keeps his distance like it’s an order, even if it’s killing him a little every day.

The silence is brutal. He doesn’t say it, but you were the one soft spot in a life full of callouses. Now even the quiet feels louder.

He walks past coffee shops and bookstore windows (not stalking), half-hoping, half-dreading he might catch a glimpse of you. He never does.

And then it hits him — the bitter irony. The very reason you left was because of how much the military pulled him away.

Now that same life? It's the reason he can’t find you anymore.

Sitting on a chair/backseat, watching the camp blur through the window, he mutters under his breath: "I see why I’m left."

There’s no bitterness in his voice — just a tired kind of acceptance. The kind you feel when you know you messed it up, but not how to fix it.

Logan doesn’t wallow. He just folds the ache and tucks it somewhere deep, next to all the other things he never really says out loud.

And maybe, maybe one day he’ll see you again. But for now, he doesn’t chase. He just carries it. Quiet. Heavy. Like always.

Logan still has your number yeah. Saved, untouched. Under just your name. it’s there.

He doesn’t text. He won’t text. Not because he doesn’t want to — but because the second his finger hovers over the keyboard, his brain floods with. “What the hell am I even gonna say?”“You up?” Hell no. “Miss you?” Too soft. “Wanna grab a drink?” Like that’ll fix six months.

So he scrolls instead. Scrolls up. Past the last real convo. He remembers the moment behind each one. Not what you said —how it felt.

Lying in bed, phone in hand, just looking, Then somehow — call button. And the screen lights up: CALLING: [Your Name] His blood goes cold. He bolts upright like someone lit a fuse under him.

“Oh f—” He hits end like it’s defusing a bomb. Throws the phone on the bed. Stares at it. “Well it was quick. Hope it didn’t ring. Jesus Christ What the hell are you doing?” Runs a hand down his face like it’ll scrub the mistake out of existence.

You see it. Just a flicker on your screen. “Missed Call: Logan.” You freeze for a second. Brow furrows. Heart does that stupid skip. And despite everything — despite the mess, the silence, the months — A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Just a little. “Accident, huh?” But maybe not completely.

You don’t plan it. Not really. Maybe you’re half-bored, half-curious when you tap his name and call back. Maybe you just… want to see if he meant to call. Logan picks up like the phone is wired to his spine — voice tight, like it caught him mid-breath. “Hey.” One word. Careful, clipped. Maybe Somehow that turns into him at your door after he asked you if he could see because he can not take it anymore. You let him in. You’re not sure why, but you just want to see what he really wants to say. The room feels heavy. Familiar, but not warm, You break the silence first. “What are you trying to do, Logan?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften. Just says “Not mess it up again.” Eventually, you’re both sitting down. Not angry. Not even hurt. Just two people who knew what they had and watched it slip through a crack neither could close. You say it, because someone has to “You didn’t fight for me. Back then.” He flinches like it cut somewhere deeper than you meant to reach. Doesn’t defend himself. Just nods. Jaw tight. Like if he opens his mouth, it’ll all come spilling out wrong again. Then something shifts. Logan moves — gets up from his seat like something inside him snapped quiet. And then he does something unexpected: He kneels. Right there, by your side. Not dramatic. Not romantic. Just steady, low, grounded. He looks down first — like he’s asking himself if he deserves to meet your eyes. Then up. And reaches out — not to grab your hand, not to beg — just lets his fingers brush against yours, hesitant. Testing if you’ll pull away. And then, quiet “If you’re good without me… I’ll let it be.” A pause. “But if there’s still something left in you — even if it’s small — I won’t let it go again.” He doesn’t say it to win. He says it because it’s true. “I didn’t know how,” he says, voice low. Honest. “I thought giving you space was safer than saying something wrong.” He looks at you — and this time, it’s different. Not guilt. Not regret. Something heavier. Like silence finally has a weight, and he’s been dragging it behind him since the day you left. “But the space just filled with everything I didn’t say to you.”

Hesh Walker:

Hesh doesn't do silence well. Not the kind that lingers between people. Not the kind that means something’s wrong and no one’s saying it.

So when he sees you again — by accident, of course — it hits him like a punch to the ribs.

Grocery store, parking lot, maybe a late-night time. Doesn’t matter. You're there. And he stalls, physically stops moving, like he’s not sure if he’s seeing a memory or the real thing.

He recovers quick — tries to. Walks over casual, hands in his pockets like it doesn’t ache to be this close. “Oh—hey. I was just around…” His eyes flick up and down before he can stop himself. “Wow. You look good.”

You raise a brow. Classic Hesh. Too much, too quick, no brakes.

He winces, half-laughs at himself, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Not like— I mean, obviously you always did, but— whatever. I’m not here to flirt. Just… check in.”

You let a beat hang in the air. “Thanks, Hesh.”

His face shifts. Hesh.

“Hesh?” he echoes, looking at you like you just threw cold water at him. You give a shrug that hurts more than it should. “Isn’t that your name? You know—your beloved work name?”

The jab lands. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Guess David died somewhere along the way, huh?”

You don’t answer, and for a second he forgets how to keep eye contact. He looks down. Then back at you, lower this time. Honest.

“I miss the way it felt when you didn’t hate me.”

The words aren’t smooth. They’re not planned. They just spill out — because pride can’t stop what regret’s been chewing through.

And in his eyes, just for a second, is that old Hesh again. The one who made you laugh. The one who held your hand like he meant it. The one who never thought he’d lose you.

And now? He just wants to know if that version of him is still in there —or if you left him behind, too.

After that run-in, Hesh doesn’t push. Doesn’t beg, doesn’t make it messy. But he doesn’t vanish, either.

One night, He just got straight up and asked for a drink with you. “Just… a drink. Unless you’d rather not.” Later, he insists on walking you home — not because you can’t handle yourself, and he knows that — but because he wants to. Because it’s dark, and it’s late. You’re near your door when he finally says something real. “You made me feel....safe, y’know that? And I didn’t know how to sit with it.” You pause, keys in hand. “I thought if I pretended I didn’t need it, I’d be tougher. Stronger. But... I just got stupid.” He glances at you — not with expectation, just searching. Hoping. You don’t interrupt. So he keeps going, quieter this time. Like it costs him a little to speak. “I’m not trying to talk you into anything. I just want you to know I remember all of it. The good. The bad. And the part where I stopped listening when I should’ve shut up and held on.” You study him. He’s close — not too close — but enough. His face is still, waiting. Maybe bracing. You say it simple “Go on…” He chuckles under his breath, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Damn. You’d think I’d be good at speeches.”“If you ever feel like yelling at me again instead of walking out — I’d take it.Hell, I’d thank you for it.” The words sit in the air for a second. Then that smile — that real Hesh smile — curls at his mouth. The one you used to know too well. You’re already smiling too. And without needing to ask, he leans in. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just sure. Just Hesh. And yeah — damn him — it works.

Keegan russ

Keegan wasn’t the type to spiral. He didn’t drink himself to sleep or punch walls over heartbreak. But after you left — after the quiet end that neither of you screamed about — something in him shifted.

It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was… clarity. Heavy and late. He never thought you’d actually walk. Not because he didn’t care — but because he assumed you understood him. The distance, the silence, the way he disappeared into the job �� that was just him. Not personal. Never meant to push you.

But he learned the hard way that not everyone lives in silence comfortably. Not everyone finds warmth in a man who forgets to speak but always shows up armed.

A week after a mission — blood gone from his knuckles, gear cleaned, boots lined by the door — Keegan sat alone. No helmet. No team chatter. Just himself and the sound of the base humming low in the distance.

He thought about the mornings you used to be in the same room, not saying much — just existing beside him.

He thought about how you used to ask him things like “Do you ever get tired of being unreachable?”

He never answered. He thought it was rhetorical. Now he knows it wasn’t.

You’d been with him long enough to leave fingerprints behind. In his routines. In the way he double-checks gear now for someone else’s comfort, not just function. In the quiet ache of knowing what peace felt like, because he had it once — in the form of you curled up beside him, unbothered by the world.

He still doesn’t blame you. Not even now. But he thinks maybe you didn’t think it through either. That maybe you were tired, frustrated, needed more. And maybe if either of you had said something instead of waiting for the other to blink… things would be different.

He loves you. Still. Even if it’s the quiet kind Just the kind that stays. Even when you don’t.

When Keegan calls, it’s like he’s reading coordinates, not emotions. “I’m in town. Want to talk.” Simple. Firm. Like he’s giving you a window and won’t be offended if you close it. But when he’s waiting — seated somewhere with his arms crossed, gaze flicking past street corners, store signs, people’s shoes — he’s not calm. He looks up only once when you arrive. Those eyes, always steeled in missions, flicker with something unreadable. Slight surprise. Maybe relief that you gave a f about him. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t show. You looked down, and for a moment, silence settles between you like it always used to. But this time, he doesn’t let it linger. “I kept you at arm’s length when I shouldn’t have.” His voice is steady, like he rehearsed it. But his jaw ticks — just once. “I thought it was normal. Turns out, it was the opposite.” You stare at him. The man who used to let your words drift past him like background noise now looks at you, waits. You ask the questions you buried, Why he thought “being there” was enough when he wouldn’t let you in. And Keegan doesn’t explain. Doesn’t excuse. He just says “I’m not good at this. At people.” “I thought I’d just pass this shit. Get over it. Move on.” His eyes drop for a second. “I didn’t.” No reach for your hand. No attempt to pull you back. Just truth, laid bare like a weapon stripped and cleaned. Before he goes, he leaves it in your hands “If you want me here, say it.” “If not, I’ll stay out of your way.” He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t beg. Just looks at you once, and waits — the same way he waits in the field after radioing in backup. And if you answer…he’ll treat it like mission code. Nothing reckless. Just all-in.

Thomas merrick:

Merrick never circled the block hoping to bump into you. He’s not that man.

When it ended, he didn’t chase. Didn’t knock on your door with flowers or regret. He just… accepted it. Shoulders squared, back straight — the way he handles every loss.

But the quiet hours, the ones when even the weight room feels hollow, you’d show up in flashes: laughing in his kitchen, calling his name from the next room, arguing about whose turn it was to sweep the damn porch.

He didn’t reach out. But not because he didn’t care. Because he thought maybe you were better off.

Until he didn’t.

When he sees you again, it’s not fate. He asked to talk. Directly. Like a man with no time to waste.

He doesn’t come with flowers or charm, just himself — steady, clean-cut, gaze unwavering.

“I know what I gave priority to. And I know what I lost in return.” “You weren’t secondary. I just ain’t show up. That’s on me.” It’s not a performance. He isn’t trying to win you back. He’s just… finally standing in it. You stare at him. He doesn’t fill the silence. Eventually, you ask: “Why now?” “Why come back?” And Merrick, who could lead men through hell without blinking, doesn’t flinch. “Because I never stopped wanting to.” “I just... kept telling myself you were better off without someone whose life is half a warzone.” His voice doesn’t shake. His hands don’t twitch. But his eyes — they stay on you. “But I was wrong. And if there’s any part of you that still wants to try, I won’t waste it this time.” And you believe him. Because Merrick’s not a man who makes empty promises. He’s the kind who only ever says it when he means to follow through.

Kick:

You huffed, an exhausted little "ahh," as the screen lit up. Kick.Of course. Not shocked. Not even close.

You swiped the call and barked without a greeting,

“Kick, I didn’t leave anything at your place. Just stop calling me.”

His voice came smooth, casual “Nah, not lying this time. You forgot your sunglasses.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

“You kept my sunglasses for months to tell me now?” “I mean,” he drawled, and you could hear the grin in his voice, “I’ll no longer have a reason to call you.”

You scoffed, sharp.

“Stop calling me, Kick. I have a partner now.”

There was a beat. Just enough silence for you to hear the arrogance falter.

“No you don—”

You hung up. Just like that. No drama. No breath. Just cut. Clean.

On the other side, Kick stared at the screen like it had betrayed him. Phone still against his ear. Glasses still on his face.Mouth twitching, somewhere between disbelief and pissed-off pride.

“Forget you then, man,” he muttered, pulling the sunglasses off with one hand. But he didn’t put the phone down right away.

After the breakup, his silence didn’t mean absence of care. It meant restraint.

It meant every word unsaid was one he was afraid might push you farther. So he said nothing.

But it haunted him — not in the loud moments, in the quiet, in the mundane, in the in-between.

When he passed by a place you once pointed out, when he sat down with a plate and instinctively shifted to make room for someone who wasn’t there. What hurt wasn’t losing you. It was losing the habit of you.

He doesn’t show up with flowers. He doesn’t call late at night with apologies tumbling out. That’s not who he is.

He reaches out when things have settled — or maybe when he has. Not to start over. Not to rewrite the past. But to say, finally, with his chest “I know why you walked away. You needed something I wasn’t giving.” Then, softer — but not hesitant “I don’t want to rewrite what we had. I want to show you what I didn’t know how to say back then.” There’s no fight. No drama. You meet. Somewhere quiet. No arguing, no tension — just that thick, heavy air of everything that never made it out. He sits across from you, posture still, eyes steady. Not nervous. Not begging. Just there. And then “You don’t owe me your time. But I’m here because I want to earn it again. Not ask for it.” And that? That’s the first thing he’s gotten right in a long, long time. He doesn’t pace. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t try to dress the words up pretty. Kick just says it — raw and steady, like pulling something from deep inside and setting it down in front of you. “When we broke up, I felt relieved.” Your eyes lift, sharp — but he keeps going. “Not 'cause I wanted it. Because I was still calculating the risk. Of you. With someone like me.” There’s no drama in his voice, just weight. That calm, quiet weight of a man who’s carried his silence too long. Then — softer. Not cracked. Just real “You were never the risk. Losing you was.” The air between you shifts. Not lighter, not heavier. Just… honest now. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low — not pleading, not desperate “If there’s even a small part of you that thinks we could be better than we were… I’d rather fail trying than regret staying quiet.” And that’s it. Not a speech. Not a plea. Just Kick. Unfiltered. Finally.

#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's requests #call of duty ghosts #cod ghosts #hesh walker #david hesh walker #logan walker #call of duty #keegan p russ #kick cod #thomas merrick #call of duty ghosts x reader #cod ghosts x reader #hesh walker x reader #david hesh walker x reader #logan walker x reader #keegan russ x reader #thomas merrick x reader #kick cod x reader #kick cod ghosts

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ll7esxs · 18 days ago

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Gentle writing is not going to work anymore i will hunt you if you dont follow me esp my moots🤬

Hey there, lovely people! <3

Just wanted to let you all know that I’ve officially made my second blog a personal blog! This main one is now dedicated exclusively to my writing so if you're here for my fics, headcanons, and rambles, you’re in the right place 💌✍️

But if you’d like to connect with me more casually — for art, OC content, reblogs, and just vibing — please give my second blog a follow! I’ll be way more active over there and would love to be mutuals <3!! @heshmylover

Follow me there and let’s be moots! I’ll follow back 💕

#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's reblog

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ll7esxs · 20 days ago

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Important for dual minds signle heart! Reader's file :)

Ghosts Operator Profile

Name: [REDACTED] Callsign: Viper Affiliation: U.S Army | Ghosts Rank: Staff Sergeant (SSgt) Status: Alive

SKILLS & TACTICS:

Infiltration & sabotage (night ops certified)

Advanced reconnaissance (thermal/counter-drone specialist)

Knife-close CQB (silent kill record: 100+ confirmed)

Foreign language proficiency (Spanish)

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#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ dual minds single heart #𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's fics/hcs/drubbles #cod ghosts #call of duty ghosts #logan walker #logan walker x reader

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ll7esxs · 24 days ago

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✦ 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: Living with thomas merrick as his partner. ✦ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫(𝐬): Thomas merrick ✦ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: G!N! Reader x reader ✦ 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞: Headcanons ✦ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 / 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐞: Fluff ✦ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: This is your safe place merrick's fans.

Morning moments with him are quietly intimate: you resting your head on his chest, tracing the rough edges of his fingers with your fingertips.

He might just stare up at the ceiling, or gently press a kiss to the top of your head without saying a word.

If you wake up before him, it’s rare — Merrick’s usually up before you, often with Merrick. He’s used to early mornings, making his own coffee/drink, handling his routine without help.

But on the days you do beat him to it, he always notices. You’re mid-way through making breakfast

“Thought I told you I’d handle that,” he mutters, voice rough and low.

You don’t turn, just answer over your shoulder “You were still dead asleep.”

He slides a hand across your stomach, pulling you slightly back into him.

“I ain't ever dead asleep,” he murmurs. “I just pretend real good.”

You smile, shaking your head.

He moves with purpose: boots off by the door, jacket hung properly, keys placed on the tray. He keeps order even in the mundane.

Doesn’t like clutter. Not obsessive, but if he notices something out of place, you’ll quietly find it put back later without a word.

The house has a lived-in weight, not decorated much but functional — leather, dark woods, metal accents. Smells faintly like clean gear oil.

Merrick doesn’t need to say much — the moment he steps into the room, you just feel his presence.

His quiet, dominant energy isn’t loud or showy around you; it’s just there, steady, like a rock.

He’s the kind of man who believes family time is sacred, so when he’s with you, he wants it to count.

But he can’t resist teasing you a little with that quiet confidence.

“Why don’t you sit down a minute ’fore you push me to remind you who’s in charge?”

You smirk, “Maybe I’m just testing.”

Or giving you words like “Eat somethin’. You skipped breakfast, I know you did.” He’s not asking.

When it’s his turn to cook, Merrick’s always tidying up behind himself — mess and extra plates? Nope, not on his watch.

“You leave it, you clean it. Simple.”

At home, he checks the locks and doors before bed—not because he’s paranoid, but because it’s just how he looks out for you.

You barely even notice anymore; you just feel safe.

He likes it quiet — not silent, just easy. You tucked under his arm on the couch, his rough hand lazily tracing your arm, the weight of him around you making the rest of the world feel like it can wait.

With you, it’s the first time he’s felt like he could breathe. Like maybe he doesn’t need to hold up the whole damn sky.

When you talk — even when you're just venting — he listens, smile creeping in slow like sunrise.

He finds it endearing when you get all fired up over your day, especially when it’s about work.

“Looks like you’ve been run ragged today,” he mutters, rubbing a thumb over your arm. “Tell me when you wanna quit. Ain’t shame in that.

And when you blurt out something like “Tom!! You really can’t help!!” all dramatic and full of disbelief — he just chuckles, warm and low, pulling you closer against his chest.

He’s a man of his hands — fixes everything before it even fully breaks. The leaky faucet, the back door hinge, even the shelf you didn’t realize was off-level. If he senses it’s wearing out, it’s already on his list.

Chopping wood? That’s his peace. Arms flexing, jaw set, shirt clinging to his back in the sun — it’s more than a chore, it’s a ritual. Keeps him grounded. Keeps him sharp.

You catch yourself watching too long sometimes — maybe not even trying to hide it anymore. Smile soft and a little stupid on your face.

Without even looking up, he knows. “What?” he says, tone dry and teasing. “Something on my face?”

You shrug, still staring. “Just thinking how damn lucky I am.”

He pauses mid-swing, glancing over his shoulder with that look. That one that says he heard you loud and clear… even if he won’t say anything back yet.

The next log hits harder. And when he’s done, he walks over, sweat at his brow, presses a kiss to the side of your head and mutters, “Right back at you.”

Bedtime in cold weather hits different — especially out there, where the wind creeps through old windows and the heater always sounds like it’s thinking too hard.

You shift under the blankets, maybe with a little shiver, trying not to make it obvious. But he always notices.

Without a word, his arm slides around your waist — no asking, no fumbling. Just solid and warm, pulling you back into him like he’s done it a thousand times.

He curls in behind you, his body heat sinking into your spine. You feel his breath near your neck, that slow inhale like he’s just now relaxed.

Sometimes, it’s more direct — a grumble low in his chest as he pulls you closer with a rough tug: “Damn, you’re freezing. Can’t have that here.”

His favorite sleep position? You in front of him, tucked right under his chin where he can smell your hair and breathe you in like comfort.

On the rare nights when you turn to face him, head on his chest — that solid, warm chest that moves slow with every breath — you swear you can feel his heart calm down beneath your cheek.

He might light a cigarette after a long day, ash tray by the bed, one arm still around you. You don’t even mind the smoke tonight. It’s warm. It’s quiet.

And he won’t say it out loud, not even close — but when you rest on him like that, so safe, so sure of him? That’s the part he loves most. The kind of peace that never needed words.

#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's fics/hcs/drubbles #cod ghosts #call of duty ghosts #cod ghost x reader #call of duty ghosts x reader #thomas a merrick #thomas merrick #thomas merrick x reader

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ll7esxs · 24 days ago

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gonna post smth about merrick girlies

Oh man can not wait to finish my finals so i can write again💋

#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's reblog

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ll7esxs · 25 days ago

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Oh man can not wait to finish my finals so i can write again💋

#writing is my passion #i can not wait to cook some black ops and WW2 Things😫

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ll7esxs · 27 days ago

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𖦹 ࣪ ˖ 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼 ₊˚✧

⌗ name: esraa ⌗ pronouns: she/her ⌗ age: 19 ⌗ timezone: GMT+3 ⌗ MBTI: ISTJ ════════════════════════════════════════════

✦ what this blog is for: → ramblings about my ocs → headcanons, moodboards, scenes stuck in my head at 3AM → reblogs to support my fellow artists and other people → self-indulgent posting & being dramatic about fictional people ════════════════════════════════════════════

💌 currently rotating in my mind: ⋆ viktoria "vika" balshov (my cold war darling) ⋆ venus turner (ghosts-era loyal girly) ⋆ cole turner (my prideful fella) ════════════════════════════════════════════

✧ other things I love here: → art, music, literature. → bonding over shared OC brainrot with mutuals ════════════════════════════════════════════

𓆩♡𓆪 this is a sideblog from my writing one — more chaotic, more personal, and 100% OC-obsessed. I will overshare.

#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's reblog #yep

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ll7esxs · 27 days ago

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Hey there, lovely people! <3

Follow me there and let’s be moots! I’ll follow back 💕

#beside the ghosts

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ll7esxs · 27 days ago

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🦌🌸

#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's reblog

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ll7esxs · 27 days ago

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✦ 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: Dual minds, single heart. chapter 1 ✦ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫(𝐬): Logan walker, Hesh walker, Keegan p. russ, Thomas A. merrick, Elias walker, Kick, Gabriel rorke. ✦ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: X g!n! Reader ✦ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Angst, Nightmare sequence, Intense feelings of isolation and fear, Aggressive and violent behavior, Panic, helplessness, and emotional distress ✦ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4k

"They say Ghosts don’t break, But that when they’ve never had one taken — Logan wasn’t just my brother. He was my shadow — always one step behind me, always watching, always ready. We just knew how to move together And now he's gone. Taken by the man we swore to bury, Rorke didn’t just break through the lines — He broke something in me, This isn’t about orders anymore. It’s become personal, logan’s still in there… somewhere. And if Rorke thinks we’re walking away—he’s not just wrong. He’s already lost."

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The sun bled gold across the sky, dripping between the silhouettes of palm trees and smearing its warmth across the cracked sidewalks of California City. Morning had arrived lazily, with that familiar hush—the kind of quiet that only belongs to a place where life hasn’t stirred yet. It was the kind of silence that stretched, yawning like the sky before dawn, until something broke it.

Logan’s consciousness floated somewhere between sleep and waking. The light was soft and smeared, like watercolor across canvas—sunny, bright, and unreal. He blinked, once, twice. Everything felt hazy. The world trembled slightly beneath him, or maybe inside him. At first, it was hard to tell where the shaking began.

Then came the voices.

They weren’t the usual waking murmurs—the hum of a TV, the distant bark of a restless dog. These voices whispered at first, then climbed. Louder. Sharper. Realer. They echoed through the corridors of his skull like wind through an abandoned house. Were they in his mind? Or somewhere outside it?

It felt too real.

Is it real?

He didn’t know yet.

“LOGAN!”

The voice cracked through the air like lightning. Urgent. Raw. Familiar.

His eyes snapped open.

The world around him greeted him with chaos. The pavement beneath him roared, heaving in waves as if the Earth itself had grown tired of lying still. Buildings swayed like drunk giants. Asphalt split in jagged scars. A streetlight crashed nearby, sparks spitting like angry fireflies. Dust rose in clouds, blinding and choking.

Logan lay sprawled across the concrete, his body aching, his head pounding. He must have been thrown there when it all began. His limbs trembled as he pushed himself up, heart hammering a desperate rhythm against his ribs. All around him was madness—people running, screaming, sirens did not even make a sound from how chaose california is right now.

And then—there he was. That voice.

“LOGAN, I GOT YOU!”

Logan looked toward it, his vision slightly cleared up. Through the dust and panic, he saw Hesh. Just eighteen, logan was sixteen—logan's eyes were wide, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, a torn shirt clinging to him. He looked like a soldier lost in a war he never signed up for.

Logan’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, everything slowed.

A low rumble came from behind hesh. Tires squealing. Metal groaning.

A truck.

Logan turned his head just in time to see it barreling down the cracked street, swerving, out of control. Time broke. The world held its breath.

And then—another voice. Deeper. Rough like gravel and smoke.

“My God...logan...”

Logan didn’t feel the world anymore—not the dust in his lungs, not the tremble in the air, not even the way the light danced and bent through the smoke. All he could feel was that look.

He was staring, unmoving, into the eyes of the man standing before him. His father. Elias Walker.

The chaos blurred around him—sirens howling like phantoms, concrete groaning beneath the city’s weight, people sobbing or screaming as the sky darkened with dust. But Logan’s gaze stayed fixed, pinned like a moth to flame.

Elias was there on the truck like a statue carved from war and time, his frame motionless amid the trembling street. His face was unreadable—too still, too calm, too something. Not fear. Not relief. Was it sadness? Disappointment? Or just that same cold, distant look that had haunted Logan since childhood?

His chest ached. His throat tightened.

Don’t cry, he told himself. Not now. Not in front of him.

But his heart… god, his heart was being squeezed in some invisible fist. A raw, aching pressure behind his ribs. His lips parted slightly, a breath hitching like a broken note. He wanted to pout like a boy again, wanted the tears to fall—loud and messy and honest. But they didn’t come.

Only pain did. That look… it tore through him.

Then—crack.

The Earth snarled beneath him, the silence between him and his father shattered by the roar of tectonic fury. The street groaned and split like flesh under a blade. Without warning, a jagged line tore open the pavement inches from Logan’s hands. The tremor knocked him backward with such force that his body slid across the asphalt, and he scrambled, gasping, heart hammering like a drum of war.

He was on his back, then on his hands, dragging himself away on his palms and heels like a child scuttling from fire. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts—panic drowning his lungs. His fingers scraped against broken gravel. Dust burned his throat.

The crack widened, gaping like the mouth of hell.

“Logan…?”

That voice again—Hesh.

Softer this time. Concerned. A lifeline cast into the noise.

And then… everything stopped.

The quake, the noise, the rumbling chaos—it all faded into an unnatural silence. Like the world itself had inhaled and held its breath.

Logan froze mid-crawl, hands raw and trembling against the asphalt. His eyes blinked into the thick air as he realized—he was alone. Not alone as in abandoned, but separated. Isolated. A line had been drawn by the earth itself.

He was several feet from them now—his brother and his father.

He could see them clearly. Hesh, standing stiff with worry, his dark eyes wide, mouth parted in breathless concern. And Elias… motionless. The same look on his face. That unreadable expression—like carved stone. It hadn't changed. It never did.

Logan’s breath caught in his chest. Something shifted in his mind.

Are they both really there?

He looked from Hesh to Elias and back again, the silence stretching like thin wire between them. He wanted to speak. To ask. To scream even. But his voice had slipped somewhere into the dust.

His fingers dug into the ground. Hesh was looking directly at him—wasn’t he? Elias too. But one looked like a brother. The other like a dream—or a ghost. A flickering thought that Logan couldn't pin down.

Was his father even real?

Does Hesh see him too? Or is it just me?

That question hung in the silence like a thread of fog—and then the earth answered.

With a roar, the ground beneath Logan groaned and cracked, louder than before, angrier. A split tore open directly under him like the street itself had been holding its hunger in, waiting for just the right moment.

It opened fast—too fast.

Logan’s eyes snapped to Elias. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met.

And Elias… he was looking back now. Not through Logan. Not past him.

At him.

And in those eyes—for the first time—Logan saw something. A flicker. Maybe fear. Maybe regret. Maybe… hope?

But there was no time.

Logan’s mouth opened in a soft, scared gasp. A breath stolen by terror.

And then—he fell.

The world tilted, the ground disappeared, and darkness rushed up to greet him like water swallowing light. He was weightless. Falling into nothing. Into silence again. The last sound he heard before the dark swallowed everything—

“LOGAN!!”

Hesh’s voice, cracking with panic, broke through the air like lightning trying to reach him.

Then—silence again.

And the void.

He hit the ground like a thought slipping from memory.

Soft, wet, cold. Not pain—just real. A thud that didn’t hurt but reminded him he had a body, skin, bones. That he hadn’t disappeared completely.

It was dark. Not the kind of darkness you get when someone turns out the lights. No—this was thick, breathing dark. Wet and alive. Like a mouth. Like a pit dug for something forgotten.

Logan lay there, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Tired. Not just physically—tired in the way souls get tired. Like he had been here a long time. Too long. A month? A year? Or had it only been days?

Time had no edges here. No clocks. No sun. Just the endless drip of unseen water and the coldness of stone walls. Or roots. He didn’t know anymore. He had stopped counting somewhere between the hundredth breath and the thousandth silence.

His hands curled around the dirt beneath him—slick, gritty, and warm like blood-soaked soil. He moved only slightly. A slow shift. Hair damp against his forehead. Clothes wet. Mud smudged like bruises across his skin.

A stale crust of bread lay near him. Half-eaten. Hardened. He didn’t remember the last bite, but it must’ve been his. Something was growing in the corner—moss or mold? It didn’t matter.

His voice came out like something foreign. Not even a whisper. Just a breath wrapped in words.

“…It’s that dream again.”

Unemotional. Empty. Like he had said it too many times already.

He stared down at the slick earth beneath him, water glistening in shallow puddles, reflecting no stars. Then his eyes drifted upward. He saw the void above, tall and open like a broken throat. Rain poured from it, cruel and endless—each drop like a needle on his skin. And beyond that—

Night.

It was always night here.

Even when his eyes adjusted, it didn’t feel like the kind of night you could escape. There were trees above. Thick ones. Twisted roots curled like fingers reaching from the ceiling of the world. The smell of wet leaves, decay, and jungle breath clung to everything.

Jungle…

Yes. He knew now.

He was in a jungle.

Not one from maps or postcards. Not the kind with parrots and explorers. This was something older. Wilder. Like it had been waiting for him.

He sat up slowly, mud sliding from his back, his bones creaking like old wood. His body remembered things he didn’t—fights, scrapes, running, hiding. But his mind floated just behind the moment, lagging.

Still, one thing was clear:

He had fallen into another world.

Or maybe he had just woken up in this one—the real one. The one that had always been underneath.

Then—movement.

A flicker of light, faint at first, like a firefly lost in fog. Logan didn’t react at first. He thought it might be another dream. Or a memory. Or one of those visions that came when hunger and isolation turned the mind sideways.

But it grew brighter. Closer.

The soft glow fractured the shadows, casting long, spidery limbs across the jungle floor. Roots and vines shifted as if recoiling from the intrusion, the peace—the strange, twisted calm—that had once covered the pit now scattered like frightened insects.

Voices followed. Heavy boots against wet ground. Clinks of gear. Breathing. Men.

Four?

Maybe five. Logan didn’t care to count. The numbers didn’t matter. It had been so long since he’d seen anything human, he almost didn’t believe they were real. Their silhouettes loomed like ghosts born from the dirt—figures dressed in patchwork uniforms, weapons slung over shoulders, jungle mud splattered across their armor like war paint.

And the light—harsh, unnatural—was now squarely in his face.

Logan flinched instinctively, his hand rising to shield his eyes. A hiss escaped his throat, not from pain, but irritation. The light burned. Not his skin—his memory. He hadn’t seen a proper light in… who knows how long. Days? Weeks? The rain kept falling.

Then came the voice. Thick accent. Harsh vowels. The kind that made the English language sound like a blade being pulled across gravel.

“Well, look at that... the ghost. Ruining your pride to be here, huh?”

A rough laugh followed, not from humor but the kind of tired cruelty that comes from too many battles and too few wins, at least that is a revenge for them. The man who spoke stepped forward.

Logan didn’t answer. Not yet. He let the words hang in the rain while he lowered his hand slowly, letting the light fill his vision again. His face was half-shadowed, beard damp and unkempt, cheeks sunken but jaw clenched.

No sharpness in his eyes—just a dull, stubborn fire that refused to be snuffed out. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone and storm. He looked at them like one might look at a pack of wolves—calm, tired, and unafraid.

Another soldier muttered, voice cocky and amused, nudging his companion with the muzzle of his rifle. “Chet, look at those nasty eyes, man. He’s still got ‘em.”

“Get up. Now.”

The command was cold, flat. This one didn’t want games. Just control.

Logan blinked once. Then, with an exhale so deep it almost sounded like a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, slow and heavy. The mud clung to him like memory. His joints popped. Muscles trembled beneath layers of dirt and exhaustion.

He stood not in defiance—but in silence.

No salute. No plea. Just that same blank, stubborn stare, like gravity itself needed permission to pull him down again.

Rain dripped from his chin.

And somewhere, beneath it all, he was thinking:

So the Federation’s still alive. How disappointing.

They didn’t bother to tie him.

Why would they?

Five men with rifles and full stomachs versus one half-starved ghost with tired bones and a beard that looked more like decay than survival. The Federation soldiers saw no threat—just a trophy that had wandered back from whatever pit he’d crawled into. Logan walked because they made him, not with rope, but with shoves and jeers and the weight of mocking voices.

He stumbled forward under the jungle’s dripping canopy, his feet half-filled with mud, shoulders slumped under the press of the night. And every few steps, another nudge—another sharp jab to the spine, or a palm slapping the back of his head like he was some lost dog.

Words followed, but Logan didn’t flinch. Spanish, mostly. Quick and cutting, dressed in laughter. Words he didn't always understand, but tones that needed no translation. Insults. Derision. The slow erosion of dignity.

"¿Dónde está tu corona ahora, fantasma?" "Joder, mira su cara… una rata mojada."

Each remark was followed by snickers. One spit near his feet. Another passed him and barked a laugh in his face. Logan didn’t speak. Didn’t rise to it. He let their voices roll over him like distant thunder. Not because he was numb—but because something else was stirring inside him.

He was walking, yes. But not just through the jungle.

Through memory.

Through the solitude that had become his second skin.

His eyes stayed low, watching the mud shift beneath his steps, but his mind reached out, grasping—pulling at the frayed edges of thought. Who brought me here? he wondered. Who wanted me alive?

There had been peace, in that pit. A kind of quiet that hurt less than this noise. But now—now his mind itched. A whispering itch that moved behind his eyes.

He blinked. Stepped again. Pushed forward by a hand to the shoulder.

And then—

He looked up.

Just ahead, walking several paces in front of the soldiers, was a man. No uniform. Just a thick outfit because of the rain obviously, and damp from the rain, boots stepping carefully as if proudly giving logan a look of his face. The others gave him space. Even the snickering ones fell quiet around logan.

Logan’s eyes narrowed.

There was something wrong with the way he moved. Not awkward, not weak—but familiar. The silhouette struck something deep in Logan’s mind like a chord vibrating after too many years of silence.

The jungle blurred. The cold faded.

And suddenly… it all cleared.

A fog lifted from his thoughts, and Logan saw the man.

Gabriel Rorke.

And Logan stopped walking.

His feet planted in the mud like the jungle itself had grabbed hold of him. The world fell away in pieces—one heartbeat at a time—until there was only that man ahead, standing like a statue carved from Logan’s worst memories.

The soldiers didn’t notice at first. One barked a command, another gave him a sharp shove between the shoulder blades. But the moment had already gone silent for Logan. The noise faded, the rain grew distant, and all he could hear was the thundering of his own pulse. Fast. Choking. Anger That voice.

The man who had dragged him from his brother’s hands, the man who had broken him in silence and humiliation. Who had smeared his face into the beach sand like he was nothing more than a sack of flesh—not a soldier, not a son, not even human.

The man who killed his father.

And now, Gabriel Rorke stood just a few steps ahead, turning with slow, theatrical ease. The light caught his face—weathered, older, but unmistakable. That proud tilt of the head. That calm, smug look. A hunter. A traitor. The man who used to wear the same durag.

Logan’s breath caught in his throat. Sweat slid down his temples, mixing with the rain and the grime caked on his face. His vision split at the corners, tunneling around that one face—that one voice—burned into his memory like a brand.

Rorke stepped closer as the fed soldiers held logan down by his shoulders. His boots crunched the wet earth. He tilted his head slightly, looking Logan over like a craftsman admiring his work.

“You still breathing, son?”

Logan didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

His mouth was dry. His teeth clenched so tight it hurt. His hands curled at his sides, every nerve screaming to move, to strike, to end it. But his body felt frozen by something deeper than fear. Something heavier.

Rorke smiled—not wide, not mocking, just… pleased.

“Takes more than a train and a couple of bullets to put a Walker down, huh?”

His voice was calm. Friendly, almost. That horrible, snake-oil charm he used when he wanted to play games.

A chill ran through Logan’s spine—not from cold, but from rage. Boiling and rising in his chest like pressure behind a dam.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to rip the jungle apart.

But all he could do was breathe—fast, shallow, trembling like something inside him was shaking loose after being caged too long.

Rorke took another step forward, close now. Too close. The soldiers had gone quiet. They were watching, unsure whether to laugh or raise their rifles.

But Logan didn’t see them anymore.

He saw the beach. He saw his father’s blood.

He saw Hesh, screaming his name.

And he saw Gabriel Rorke, standing here now like none of it mattered.

“Look at you—”

That voice again. Smooth. Confident. Tipped with venom and arrogance.

But it was the last word Rorke got out.

Logan snapped.

His body moved faster than his mind, faster than the soldiers holding him could anticipate. A lifetime of pain surged through his veins, and in a single heartbeat, his fist collided with Gabriel Rorke’s face.

Crack.

The sound was visceral—knuckle against bone. Rorke’s head snapped sideways, and his body reeled, boots sliding in the mud as he hit the ground hard.

Chaos erupted.

Shouting. Barking orders in two languages. The Federation soldiers scrambled—some reaching for their weapons, others caught in stunned hesitation. They hadn’t tied him because they thought he was broken. Because they thought fear had replaced his fire.

They were wrong.

Logan stood over them like a storm given shape. His chest heaved, but his hands were steady. He didn’t flinch as rifles were raised around him. Didn’t blink. His eyes burned—not wild, not mad, but focused. Alive.

And for the first time since they dragged him out of that pit, they were afraid.

One of the soldiers helped Rorke to his feet. The former Ghost’s nose dripped red, a slow trail of blood across his lip. He didn’t lash out—he simply wiped it with the back of his glove, examining the crimson smear like a man curious about his own mortality.

Then Rorke shoved the soldier beside him—hard. Not out of anger. Out of irritation. Like the blood wasn’t the problem—it was being helped.

He stepped forward again, meeting Logan’s gaze. No smile now. His mouth was a hard line, but his eyes glittered—almost impressed.

The circle around Logan tightened. Federation rifles trained on his chest. One soldier’s finger twitched near the trigger.

But no one fired.

They didn’t dare.

He had hit Rorke. And survived it.

The legend of Logan Walker wasn’t dead.

He stood in the center like a wolf backed into a corner, no longer hungry, just ready. His posture screamed that he’d die here if he had to—but they’d have to earn it.

One of the soldiers shifted, stepping forward hesitantly, trying to summon courage through the barrel of his rifle.

Logan’s eyes snapped to him—sharp and cutting like a blade unsheathed.

The soldier froze.

They saw it now.

Not a prisoner.

Not a ghost.

Not a beaten man.

A threat.

Rorke raised one hand. Calm. Slow. And the soldiers stopped.

Every breath in the jungle stilled.

The rain seemed to wait.

Logan’s fists remained clenched, blood and mud streaked across his arms, but his eyes—those Walker eyes—held the entire unit in place.

And for the first time in a long, long while…

He had power again.

Logan stood, chest rising and falling like the lungs of something caged too long. His eyes locked onto Rorke, a storm of fire behind the dirt and bruises. Rage, memory, loss—they all pulsed in him like a second heartbeat.

Rorke only smiled.

That infuriating, calm smile. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… knowing. As if he'd already written the ending of this chapter, and was now watching the story play itself out.

“You look like your old man,” Rorke finally said, voice low—eerily gentle, like it was meant for Logan alone. “He bled out like a soldier.”

He paused.

Then, he tilted his head slightly, the smile turning just a touch more bitter.

“You—You’re still trying to be one.”

It hit harder than a bullet. Logan’s breath hitched. His fists trembled at his sides.

He wanted to kill him.

Right here. In the mud. With bare hands and fury.

And Rorke knew it.

That’s why he dropped his weapons.

His rifle hit the ground with a thud. A sidearm followed, then a slow, dramatic shrug of his shoulders. Rorke stepped forward, the rain slicking his coat to his body. His smile had faded into something else—curiosity. Hunger.

“I want to see him,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving Logan’s. “The son of Elias Walker.”

Logan moved. His muscles coiled, ready to launch forward and tear into him. Pain or death—it didn’t matter. He was going to fight him.

But he never got the chance.

Crack.

A sharp, brutal blow to the back of Logan’s skull.

His body collapsed like a tower torn at its foundation. Limbs limp, mud splashing up around him as he hit the ground. Not unconscious—but stunned, dazed, gasping through clenched teeth.

His world spun.

Blurred figures loomed above him. Rain hitting his back. Voices murmuring—but one silence louder than all.

The Federation soldiers stood frozen.

All eyes turned to the one who had struck the blow. A young soldier, nervous hands still gripping the butt of his rifle, as if unsure whether he'd just stopped a disaster or caused one.

Rorke looked slowly.

His face was blank at first, unreadable.

The soldier swallowed hard, lowering his rifle instinctively. “Sir, I—he was going to attack—”

But he stopped speaking.

Because of the look.

Rorke’s lips curled into a clipped, sarcastic little smile. Not amused. Not angry.

Disappointed.

Like watching a child ruin a game you were enjoying far too much.

Then, without a word, Rorke drew his sidearm from his belt—not the one he had dropped, but a smaller piece, almost ceremonial. Polished. Precise.

Bang.

The sound cracked through the jungle like lightning.

The soldier who struck Logan staggered back, a bloom of red erupting from his chest. He collapsed with a thud next to Logan, eyes wide in shock, fingers twitching once before going still.

Silence.

Even the rain seemed to hesitate.

The other soldiers stared—no one moved. No one spoke.

Rorke holstered the pistol slowly, calmly, and looked back down at Logan—still breathing, still barely conscious, the blood on his scalp mixing with the mud.

He crouched beside him, voice like gravel in the storm.

“That was our fight.”

“Thought you’d fall later,” Rorke muttered, crouching now, his voice like coals glowing low in the ashes. He sat across from Logan’s crumpled form—no longer mocking, but watching. Waiting.

Logan was on his side, breathing shallow, his strength bleeding into the mud beneath him. Every limb felt like sandbags. His ribs protested with each inhale, but it wasn’t the pain that left him still—it was the exhaustion. Stamina spent. Food long gone. Hope, somewhere between memory and myth.

“You think this ends in fire or freedom,” Rorke continued, voice even. “But that’s not how this works.”

Logan looked up, rain dripping down his brow.

“I didn’t die when they left me behind. I was reborn.”

Logan’s eyes cracked open—heavy, red-rimmed, unfocused. But they locked on Rorke’s.

Tired.

Burning.

“You’re not really here… motherfucker,” Logan rasped, voice low, bitter, and trembling not from fear but fury denied.

But Rorke just tilted his head, as if amused by the accusation. Or indifferent. His lips pressed into a thin line, but there was something too human in his eyes—something terrifying.

“You will be reborn too…”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Then he stood.

Turned.

Took a few slow steps away through the thick mud and torchlight haze.

No parting look. No command.

Just silence heavy enough to be a sentence in itself.

And then he was gone—his shadow swallowed by the wall of green and storm. The jungle drank him back, leaving only the memory of his voice, and the soft, slow echo of footsteps vanishing into mist.

Logan lay there in the dark.

The rain hit his face. His heart still beat—wounded, but stubborn.

He closed his eyes for just a second.

Tried to summon peace. Any peace.

But there was only ache. Ache and questions.

Where was Hesh? His brother—the one he swore to protect. Had he moved on? Was he even alive? Was he still out there looking for him?

And the others…

The team. Y/N.

A flicker of your voice brushed the edge of his thoughts, something warm and human in a world turned to teeth and mud. He didn’t even know where you are, hell he forgot what was your mission lastly before he leave the place. If you’d escaped. If you thought he was dead.

Logan exhaled shakily.

And in the cold, tangled dark of the jungle, with blood on his scalp and ghosts in his chest, he realized something cruel:

He was still alive.

And now—he had to decide what that meant.

But somewhere above, the sky rumbled.

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#𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ esraa's fics/hcs/drubbles #cod ghosts #call of duty ghosts #logan walker #logan walker X reader #x gn reader

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