MEMES TIIIIGHHHMMMMAA🗣️🗣️🗣️

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

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

Nurse for the Day

Logan walker X fem!reader! [requested!]

summary: Taking care of your sick bf logan, and staying by his side.

notes: SFW, sorry if this short I tried my best

Here he was, trapped in the prison of his own sheets, each breath a delicate negotiation through clogged passages. The flu had settled into his bones like an unwanted houseguest, making itself far too comfortable. His nose, betrayed him with every labored inhale, forcing him to breathe through his mouth in shallow, unsatisfying gasps.

The ceiling had become his unwilling companion, its blank canvas collecting the shadows of his boredom. Four hours? Five? Time had lost all meaning in this fevered state. His throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass, each attempt to swallow sending sharp reminders of his condition. Even the simple act of sipping water had become an exercise in courage.

The worst part wasn't the physical discomfort—though God knew that was bad enough—but the maddening stillness. The world continued its chaotic dance outside his window while he lay here, a reluctant monk in a monastery of misery.

You slipped into the room, wet cloth in hand, a silent angel in the afternoon light. His face lit up at the sight of you, even through the haze of his fever—though honestly, it was hard to tell if that was love or delirium at this point.

"Babe, I think I'm dying," he said, his voice rough as sandpaper. His eyes were barely open, heavy-lidded and glassy, but still tracking your movement like you were his last hope for salvation.

You just shrugged, going about your careful ministrations. When you reached for his wrist to check his pulse, he seized the moment—and your hand—with all the dramatic flair of a man on his deathbed.

"Yeah, babe, hold my hand before I go"

"Logan, you're not going to die," you sighed, but there was no real exasperation in it. Just the fond weariness of someone who'd signed up for this particular brand of drama when they fell in love.

His fingers intertwined with yours, clammy but determined. A weak smile played across his fever-flushed face. "Of course you know I'm not going to die," he murmured, squeezing your hand. "You're an angel."

The words came out soft and sincere, stripped of his earlier theatrics. Even sick as a dog, he had these moments—these little glimpses of the heart beneath the humor that made you fall in love with him in the first place. You pressed the cool cloth to his forehead, hiding your smile as he leaned into your touch like it was the only medicine he needed.

"Don't let me kiss you here, or you'll get me fever," you warned him, a soft smile playing on your lips as you tended to him. He looked so vulnerable there, wrapped in blankets, his usually bright eyes clouded with fever. The warning came naturally—protecting him was second nature, but protecting yourself from him? That was new.

He watched you through half-closed eyes, and even in his miserable state, the love in his gaze was unmistakable. If anyone had to be sick, he was glad it was him. The thought of you going through this—of you being the one burning up with fever—made his already aching chest tighten further. No, better him than you, gorgeous. Always better him than you.

"You should be out having some fun," he murmured, eyes finally drifting shut as you adjusted the cool cloth on his forehead. His voice was rough, scratchy, but the concern in it was clear as day. Here he was, feeling like death warmed over, and still worrying about you wasting your time.

"And let you suffer alone? No chance." The words came out firm, brooking no argument. You weren't going anywhere, and both of you knew it. Some people might call it stubborn, but this was love in its purest form—staying when it's inconvenient, when it's messy, when someone's used up three boxes of tissues and can't stop complaining about their throat.

His lips quirked up slightly at your response, even as he sank deeper into his pillow. Even sick, he was beautiful to you—fever-flushed cheeks and all. Maybe he looked like a mess, but he was your mess, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

The fever clung to him like a second skin, heat radiating from his body in waves. You pressed the cool, damp cloth against his forehead, feeling the way his skin burned beneath it. His hair was damp with sweat, strands sticking messily to his forehead. Absentmindedly, your fingers combed through them, a quiet attempt at comfort.

His breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling with effort, each inhale shaky, each exhale laced with exhaustion. The dim light in the room cast soft shadows over him, highlighting the hollowness in his cheeks, the way fever had stolen the usual sharpness from his expression.

"Better?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter him completely.

His lips curled into a weak smile, though his eyes remained shut. For a moment, it seemed as though he might actually drift into the sleep his body so desperately needed. But then, with a raspy chuckle, he muttered, "Nah. Kill me, please."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, shaking your head. Even sick, he couldn’t resist the dramatics. You brushed a few more damp strands away from his face, watching as his expression relaxed slightly under your touch.

----------------------

After a week of battling fever and exhaustion, Logan finally felt like himself again. The weight of sickness had lifted, leaving behind a sense of newfound freedom—no more aching muscles, no more suffocating warmth, no more restless, fevered dreams. He stretched his limbs as if testing them, relishing the absence of pain.

Wandering into the room, he found you at your desk, quietly organizing scattered papers and trinkets. The soft sound of shuffling filled the space, your focus entirely on the task at hand. A small smile tugged at his lips as he watched you, something warm and unspoken settling in his chest.

Without a word, he stepped forward, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he peered over to see what you were doing. You stilled for a moment but didn’t push him away, allowing his presence to settle against you like something familiar, something missed.

"You’re the best, you know that?" he murmured, voice still slightly rough from the remnants of his illness.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "I kept you alive, at least."

He chuckled, his grip tightening just slightly. "Exactly, angel." Logan turned his head slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the curve of your shoulder.

“And by the way,” you added, tilting your head slightly as his arms remained snug around your waist, “you’re only better because of the medication—not because of me.”

Logan hummed in fake consideration, lips grazing your cheek in lazy, repeated pecks. “Mmm, debatable,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, though a smirk played at your lips. “Oh, please. You barely took them. I had to bribe, threaten, and practically beg you.”

He groaned, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “They taste like absolute shit.”

You scoffed, pulling back just enough to glance at him. “Either you take them, or I put them into you myself.” Your voice carried a teasing warning, but the glint in your eyes said you meant business.

Logan lifted his head, eyes flickering with mischief. “Kinda into that,” he muttered with a smirk.

Before you could react, he grabbed your arms and spun you effortlessly, flipping you around until you were pressed against him, face to face. Your breath hitched as he grinned, mischief painted all over his expression.

Without another word, Logan leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss, you leaned into him, his grip on your arms tightened, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened, warm and consuming, and you forgot all about the teasing, the frustrations over the medicine, the playful banter that had filled the room moments before. It was just the two of you—lost in the softness of the moment, the world outside slipping away.

His lips moved against yours with a quiet urgency, as though making up for lost time, a week of illness and silence melting into something sweeter. You responded in kind, your hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, the touch so familiar, yet still full of that spark that made your heart race.

When the kiss finally broke, you both lingered close, breaths mingling, foreheads resting together as the room fell into a peaceful silence.

“Guess the meds worked after all,” you whispered with a smile, your voice still a little breathless.

Logan chuckled, his nose brushing against yours in that way he always did when he was being affectionate, but still trying to keep things light. “Yeah, well, I'd be a gooner if it weren't you"

You laughed softly, and he pulled you back into a tighter hold, All that matter is that your sweet boy is alright and breathing.

Announcement

I May not be so active but i had to post from my drafts and disappear😭🙏🏻

Info and stuff updated😔🙏🏻 plz check the rules.

✧･ﾟ: WELCOME MY FRIEND :･ﾟ✧

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✦ 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐌𝐞 ✦ 𖥔 Name: Esraa. 𖥔 Pronouns: She/Her 𖥔 Fandoms: Cod ghosts, cod mw2 og, cod mw3 og, And DMC!

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✦ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✦ → [Cod ghosts!] ✿ Link to Work

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✨ 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 & 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ✨ ☾ I write: SFW, Angst and sligth NSFW (only kissing lol) ☾ I don’t write: NSFW deep stuff. that's it!. so my place is a safe zone for minors?. ☾ Feel free to request! and be so specific about ur request even if it's going to be a long ask! ☾ I write for cod ghosts but May write for other fandome that i am in! but soon enough.

𓆩♡𓆪 ✧ 𓂃 Discord server for cod ghosts fans!

I will write for the most forgettable character in cod ghosts guess who?

ೃ Random cod ghosts hc༄༊·˚

Warning: emotional numbness, implied depression, Angst. Character: Hesh walker Song rec: Mice On Venus

○ Hesh Walker no longer looks in the mirror the way he once did.

○ It’s not melodrama. It’s just a quiet, unspoken truth. Since the day his father’s heart gave out and Logan vanished like dust on the wind, something hollowed out inside him. Not shattered — not broken in any obvious way — just emptied. A soft erasure, like someone had scraped out all the color from within him with the edge of a dull blade.

○ He doesn’t know what he's supposed to feel. Anger? Maybe. Sadness? Probably. Mourning? Grief? Words like those seem too clean, too neat. Emotions are supposed to arrive with names, faces, pulses — but what he feels doesn’t. It just sits there, shapeless and heavy, like fog that never lifts.

○ So he doesn’t say much. He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t rage. He does what he knows how to do: he keeps quiet and keeps working. The way a lieutenant should. The way he always has.

○ But the team notice.

○ They see the dark, sharp lines etched under his eyes — not just from sleepless nights, but from something deeper, something lodged in the bones. They see the tension in his jaw, the way he stands a little too still, as if movement might shake something loose inside him that he’s not ready to face.

○ Yet he remains what he’s always been: a born leader. Natural. Unyielding. Even when hollow, Hesh Walker is still the man others follow without question — the kind of man who doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

me after reading this

When the Smoke Clears

Hesh's thoughts aftermath after Logan gets taken

Horror.

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

Actually...

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

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

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

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

Was I lacking something? Did I try too hard?

I didn't know.

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

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

So why?

What did I get in return?

Nothing.

Just death.

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

I failed.

I failed to protect both of them.

I failed to be a good soldier.

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

How could I have been so careless?

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

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

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

Why did my body lock up?

Why?

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

Besides one.

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

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

I tried, I really did. But I failed.

Was all of my effort for nothing?

So far, it's being proven that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she isn't here anymore either.

It's just me.

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

To be the one who gets a headshot.

A bullseye.

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

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

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

No one.

God, Logan, please be alive.

I miss you.

We all miss you.

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

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

For you.

Ok boomer

Reference for artists. draw logan hugging hesh from the last mission scene cuz he knows something will happen, you will do it? thank you.

art belongs to the artists!

Ajax: Alrighty man, I didn't actually dodge your knife but see when i get to these motherfuckers and show them.

Keegan in front of ajax's grave died due to federation soldier's knife

Keegan: And you still fucking missed.

“They wouldn’t enjoy/do/act like that!” How do you know? Did you ask the fictional character that does not exist and is fictional?