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luffyrose · 8 months

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Dp x Dc Blurb #5 (I think)

SO SO HAD THIS THOUGHT WHILE MAKING MYSELF FOOD!

We know, well, fandom kinda goes that ghosts form when around ectoplasm as well as have a strong enough desire to make a core. And Gotham is like Amity but less ley line more murder (so not as good ecto but still just as much, have to be a stronger ghost in general to be fine there).

Martha and Thomas Wayne are very much the type of people to come back as ghosts. No vengeance, no protection. They just wanted to see how Bruce, their little Brucie, grew up. They just wanted Family.

And that's exactly what they got!

They were thrilled when Alfred filled the role of father, even if he later claimed to just be a butler. Dick appearing in their lives was one of the happiest moments, how they wished they could tell him that his parents wished him well before moving on a few years later. Jason was adorable! Though it was upsetting to watch the other two begin too fight. It was even worse to find Jason joining them, even temporarily. Tim was a blessing to the family, keeping it from fully falling apart, and oh how they wished they could help all their little boys, because they knew where they all were and how they were feeling at all times.

With each addition they were thrilled for the large family, yet sad they could never interact, never help. Jason could sense them, but he'd only gotten help with his illness recently, poor child, he was still so ill.

The two Waynes had been there for it all. Watching, wishing, and gently tucking each of the boys in, even when they were far away from home.

But something was still missing. Both could feel that frail bond reaching out for another part of their family. A young boy they discovered while following it. He was about Damian's age, and could see them! He didn't seem aware he was adopted, let alone had a family waiting for him, but he also seemed so overwhelmed. The two decided to watch him but leave their little Danny alone. At least, they would until he was in danger.

And just like with the rest of the family, danger came.

It was just a random afternoon when they'd felt the pull of panic from the half ghost child, yet they couldn't leave Gotham so quickly. Bruce and Dick had a fight for the first time in a long time and...well it wasn't pretty and left ALL of the other children worried and confused.

So with the ectoplasm they'd gotten with their growing family, and even visiting their halfa on occasions, Martha and Thomas Wayne decided to do something about it.

The mansion was haunted. For the last few days things had been going completely haywire with no reasonable explanation but ghosts, or magic, but from what they knew the two went pretty hand in hand. So they decided to call Constantine to figure out why.

None of them expected Bruce's parents. Especially when they told them they needed to go save their brother Danny...a name that one particular batkid hadn't heard in a long time.

~~~

Open ended on which one, but sibling of batkid implied.

Martha and Thomas kept getting stronger with each kid Bruce adopted/got, Steph and Barbara inculded, and could feel a semi-frayed bond with one of the kid's biological brother and it led to Danny 🤗

They didn't plan to introduce themselves since the boy seemed happy enough despite the stress, they did not really see what his homelife was like. It was only after they felt something happen through their bond (which because they have obsessions based around family they can sense their own family) that they realized something was wrong and decided a good ol fashion haunting to catch their attention so they could find a way to tell them to get their brother.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny fenton #dpxdc #dcxdp #thomas wayne #martha wayne #I don't know #just them watching their boy and grandchildren over the years #yes this does imply they saw EVERY bad moment the kids had #including stuff like blockbuster :3c #cuz I'm evil #but also they want their newest boy to be fine #I don't know which one of the batkids I was thinking more #maybe Dick? but also idk how that'd work with Danny being Damian's afe #maybe he was a lab experiment before the Fenton's decided he was their son?#they do get a little TOO into their work so I wouldn't put it past them honestly

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takami-takami · 13 hours

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Keigo literally holds you like a teddy bear, by the way. No exaggeration, he holds you like a damn teddy bear and he's so happy.

#awh. poor birdie would never wanna say “mine” cuz that implies ownership and he wants you to be free but goddamn if he doesnt feel it #just a little #🐇 rambles

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theredcuyo · 3 months

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For the sumpie little things that happen while i write a fanfiction based on AA i decided to headcanon that Miles was the prosecutor who went against Dahlia after she was accused

And while he read the acusations, a familiar name made him annoyed

A familiar name, that sound just like the one from an old memory

A familiar name in the list of victims

And he feared the worst, until he kept reading and the fear was replaced by anger

And for some reason, the whole trial he felt like he had to make SURE she got her punishment

#ace attorney fanfic #ace attorney #aa #miles edgeworth #dahlia hawthorne #phoenix wright #implied wrightworth #wrigthworth #narumitsu #headcanon #aatat #just me wishin bratworth had a little bit of that man moments #ya think phoenix ever found out #cuz if he did he mightve had confusing feelings

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lady-tortilla-chip · 1 year

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Something which will always bother me is the depiction of Soukoku as being on uneven footing (in Fic/Fanart). Either because Chuuya is too stupid for Dazai or Dazai is too weak for Chuuya. Something something that’s literally counter to their entire purpose in the narrative. And to see them as being unbalanced is to completely miss the point of what makes them so effective as a team.

#nothing in particular inspired this I was just thinking about how ANNOYING some takes are lmao #BSD #Soukoku #bungou stray dogs #they compliment and complete each other thats the point #they certainly contrast yes but in the same vein as shin soukoku they do nOT have a power imbalance #and I think that’s why Chuuya being pathetically in love with dazai annoys me too cuz it implies that like #he’s in love with someone who is using him almost #which implies an inherent power imbalance because dazai is the ‘smarter’ one

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shopcat · 1 year

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On a Tuesday afternoon, Steve announces, with no drama at all, "I'm going to kill myself."

Dustin spins around to face him so cartoonishly fast that Steve kind of expects a Looney Tunes-style sound effect to follow. "What? Don't say that," he says, voice pitching up high like it gets. "Don't say that!"

Somewhere to their left from the tucked-in, cozy depth of the Henderson's new kitchen, Steve hears the echo of Lucas's laugh.

Lucas gets him.

Steve turns, hair flopping, and screws his face up at the world's saddest baby cow impressionist standing above him. He's lying on the floor of their carpeted lounge, lazing like a cat in a sunbeam. Man, Mews 2 has it all figured out, if you think about it.

He can't remember what the invitation was originally headlined as – like most days lately, they kind of just want to make excuses to hang around each other and cling on like little freaky leeches and the starring act tends to be whatever bullshit they manage to get up to in the meantime. It’s in that codependent way that he hopes is endearing, and a healthy coping mechanism of solidifying bonds and not, like, weird. Dustin was like, "come over, you graduated a Scoops alum, we can make sick sundaes!" but they've just been lying around (literally!) waiting for that little unreliable shit second-act Wheeler to turn up with the supplies he said he would totally have covered, totally!

"Sorry, bud," he says and laughs like ah, what can you do? "I know you see me as like a– like, some sort of an older sister slash, ah, father figure, and this will be hard for you–"

Dustin moves to kick him, going right for his softest bits. "Hey!" Steve yelps, jolting away instinctively, ending up rolling around on the carpet. "You're such a bully!"

"Dickhead!" Dustin argues, "You're a dickhead!"

He's really getting out of control. "Be nice to me!" Steve whines and presses his face into the scratchy rug he landed on. He can feel the vibrating scrape-scrape of Dustin's shoes tapping around his head. "You gotta be nice to me. This isn't how you should be responding to someone who's trying to open up, you know, mentally–"

"Mentally?" Dustin cries over him. "You'd need a goddamn brain!"

Steve cracks an eye open. "You're a little fucker," he says like it's a compliment. "You want me to come up there? That window is pretty close, you know. And you're a little guy," he pinches his fingers together with a little impish squint of his eye.

"Cliché! Gonna throw me out the window, you goon? Or what, is it assisted suicide now?" Dustin blusters and scoffs, but he shrieks when Steve hauls himself up using the window ledge. Steve gives him a look like hey, c'mon, because hey, c'mon, tells him, "That's just straight up murder, dude."

Dustin huffs, hands on his hips, and there’s a little phantom tap on Steve's shoulder pointing out his sudden similarity to Mrs Henderson, which: cute.

"Ah, look, I'm just messing around with ya," Steve apologises, hand settling on the ledge and leaning back. "It's not a big deal. I get job rejections all the time. Worse comes to worst... we can set up a lemonade stand or some shit. Or like, walk dogs." He swirls his wrist around nebulously.

"You don't like dogs," Dustin argues.

Steve grins. "I put up with Munson, don't I?"

Dustin gasps, then laughs, then gasps again like he can't believe he betrayed his little friend. Or like, his big friend. Whatever. "You have something dark and twisted in your mind," he tells Steve solemnly, and Steve cackles. "And you're a– a little B-word, because you don't want to look for jobs without Robin holding your hand. Ha! Or, actually, your," Dustin looks around conspiratorially at exactly no one, then mouths: "Dick!"

Steve stares at him. Huh. Well, ew. "B-word? You mean, like... bitch?" he whispers, mocking, then pulls up. "Also, ew."

"What do you mean ew?!" Dustin exclaims, throwing his arms up. "Dude! Robin's a totally rockin' babe! Also, yes, the frickin' B-word. I respect women now, man."

"Wh– now?" Steve laughs out, shaking his head. "Like you didn't before? Also, don't look at me like that! It's ew because I don't want you talking about that stuff! It's gross!" He makes a little eurgh gesture as he says it.

"Also, are you fifty? Who says rockin'?" he goes on, sneering a little on the edge of too meanly. "I can't be the only one seeing the irony here that you just totally disrespected a woman, like, just now. Like not even a second ago!"

Dustin pulls a face at him, 'cause Steve's the one being unreasonable. "Robin's not a woman, Steve. She's a beautiful creature-girl starving among the toxic, governmental backwash fuelled, boot-licking sheeple we call Americans. And she doesn't say the B-word either."

This kid. Also, not even true – he's pretty sure Robin was the one who kept writing "bitch boy" on his fifth-draft resumé under "life skills". That or like, the librarian Hopper hopped on is mean as hell in a super unexpectedly wounding and targeting way.

"Munson is teaching you bad words! Naughty, naughty fucking words!" Steve yelps, feeling weirdly like he’s being a grass or something. "What happened to being American heroes, huh?" The question, with a voice rasping like a drowned man, is directed to the slowly spinning ceiling fan.

Dustin grumbles something nasty that's definitely naughtier and definitely another tried and true Eddie-ism in the syllable count alone. Steve ignores him bravely, flopping down onto the couch and stirring up the same sort of warm perfumey smell Mrs Henderson favours. He slides down 'til he's comfy and crumpled up. Mews 2, who up until now was dozing on the knit-cover cushion, is in dire need of being scooped into his arms and held like a wittle baby.

"Anyway," Steve sighs. "Enough with the Robin stuff. There is no Robin stuff, I told you. It's just hard to find part-time hours right now, ever since, y'know."

"Y'know," Dustin repeats solemnly, nodding. He rocks back and forth on his heels, making the red afternoon sunbeam coming through the window shift and flick across the room. Steve shoves his face into the cat's fat little belly, sighing through fur and domestic cushion smell.

"Maybe I can sling ice cream again," he suggests, muffled, "It's not that hard. Actually, it's not hard at all." He lifts his head, scrunching his nose up. "And I probably don't have to wear a dumb little outfit at, like, Dairy Queen."

In the kitchen, Lucas drops something that skitters around in a way that can’t be good for the new French tile. He doesn't know what they're cooking in there, exactly, but through hearing Lucas knocking about like he's tripping on dustbunnies (like his Grandpa Otis would say, 'cause old people are always just inventing crazy shit to say) he can deduce it's something messy and/or gnarly. He also knows Max is nursing some sort of herbal tea because of the five-minute argument over, like, the amount of sugar she takes he listened to unashamedly before. Totally not the dramatic teen drama sesh he thought it’d be when he initially tuned in, though.

The drawers have ceased crashing open and shut in that grating, teenaged way – ambient noise for the single mothers and Adderall-soaked babysitters of the world – so he assumes whatever culinary delight it is is wrapping up.

He thinks to himself, with a fond little tug at his dumb bleeding heart, that Lucas has known how Max likes her fancy Californian tea for years now. He’s just like, like that.

In his peripheral, Dustin beams and crashes down next to him – hey – and tells him: "I loved your little outfit. Everyone loved your little outfit. The little outfit made the job. It was... cute! And, you were totally kickass and beat the shit out of a Soviet guard in that outfit!"

"Yeah," Steve suffers out. "It was pretty awesome. But I think I got zero play for a reason. And I'm all game!"

That uniform rode up like crazy, too, and not even in the kind of like, coy and coquettishly sexy way that he’d like to believe he could pull off if given the chance. He always felt like one, too-quick popping of a squat to grab another weird sticky bag of caramel topping from the storage closet would split the seam hole to pole. (Hole to hole?). Plus, according to the magazine he read forty minutes ago on the floor of Robin’s bedroom, that shade of blue so didn’t go with his skin tone. He’s an Autumn.

"Well, you'd have to wear a dumb hat again at DQ," Dustin points out, because he hates him. "And, gross. Don't gross me then– then gross yourself."

Steve carefully flattens Mews 2's ears down with his palms, then exclaims, "That hat!" He groans. "Gag me with a spoon, I think I really would kill myself if anyone saw me in that thing again. All I was missing is a fruity little lollipop."

He sees Dustin's eyebrows rise and the way he repeats fruity to himself quietly. "You are getting way more homophobic lately, Steve. And you're a misogynist," he declares, all puffed up.

What!

"What!" Steve splutters. "I'm not misogynist! I love women. And girls. All women, and girls, and ladies a-and moms. I love your mom! Okay– sorry. I got flustered."

He rubs the bridge of his nose with pinched fingers. "Also, I meant, like, fruity like strawberries and cream, not, like, a strawberry with, y'know... cream," He adds coyly with a little eyebrow wiggle.

Dustin sits there for a moment, then goes a little red and starts laughing, which makes Steve feel, like, nice. It's always a little thrilling when he can actually get any of these kids to laugh, for some reason.

"Shut up! This is what I'm talking about!" Dustin complains.

Steve turns his head, hiding the slip of his smile in the couch he's pillowed into. "I'm not homophobic, man," he tells him, trying to really show he's earnest through tone alone. Honestly, the very la-a-st thing he needs is Henderson actually believing this in one way or another, if not for his own lavender coated, closeted well-being then for the integrity of their weird little friendship. "You know that. If you ever catch me being actually homophobic you're allowed to fucking, I dunno, just kill me dead. Outsource it to Nancy or something. Or, hey, Mike!" he says, bringing his head up with his aha! moment accompanied by a click of his fingers.

"Mike?" Dustin repeats, acting out one of his exaggerated jeez, this fucking guy! routines, flapping his arms around like crazy. "First of all, if I was outsourcing your murder – which I can't buh-lieve this conversation has come back to, by the way – Mike would be last on my list."

Well that’s a little mean, maybe. Steve looks him up and down and decides to really ham up his disbelief. He clutches Mews to his chest all dramatic, like a fuzzy pearl necklace. "Why? Because you wanna murk me yourself? You're sick, dude!" he says.

"No!" Dustin shoves him, and Steve repeats, "si-i-ick!" until he shoves him again.

"I could never assassinate you, Steve. We're brothers in arms. You'd have to, like, be really evil. And even then, it'd have to be really evil stuff. No, I've thought about this," – and he ignores Steve, going up three octaves, You've thought about this?! – "You're forgetting we actually know a superpowered death weapon who can explode your mind into goo in like, uh, a nanosecond. But, well, El likes you too much…" He clicks his tongue like, darn.

This is kind of news to Steve. He's always gotten the impression that El, while cute as a button and much like some sort of fucked up amalgamation of this adorable, curly-headed baby deer and velociraptor, didn't think of him in any sort of particular way. But maybe he's always been too busy feeling that weird mix of genuine fear and genuine aw whenever he's around her to really focus on like, the dynamics.

Dustin is saying, "I don't know if Robin would do it, but she probably knows you the best so she'd be able to figure out the perfect way. And she'd be really nice about it, too, because of your big, freaky bond. But that wouldn't stop her," he book-ends, nodding sadly.

"It wouldn't," Steve says with a sappy smile. He loves her, not that he'd ever admit that outside of his like, car. She'd probably lace his favourite drink with something, then freak out that he wouldn't feel like peach-flavoured iced tea that day, and end up lacing his whole fridge. Then it wouldn't even be poison, it'd just be like, sleeping pills, and she'd just put a pillow over his head. Slit his throat with a freshly plucked thorn from a rose, or something. Or, maybe she'd just go super-crazy-murder and cut him up like the fancy cheese her mom likes.

"Mike could snag a piece from Nance's stash," Steve suggests, to attempt to derail where he knows this is going, and because he kind of believes this, really. The ka-chik finger gun gesture he does stops Dustin from talking about whatever he was saying about Max throwing his body in the quarry "like, for the irony" just to shriek until his voice cracked.

"Why are you so caught up on Mike?" Dustin slaps his hands down. "Mike would shit his pants!"

"He's got hidden depths," Steve protests, feeling weirdly protective now. It's not Mike's fault he's sixteen or whatever. Plus, he's got a shit dad, too. Steve likes Mike. "He's loyal," he nods, like he's convincing himself now, gesturing with a closed fist, thumb folded like a politician would. "If someone needed to take me out, he wouldn't want anyone else to get blood on their hands. He thinks about that stuff!"

Dustin's got his face smooshed in his hands, but he's sunk down into the couch alongside him by now, pressed against his side. Steve's warm at every angle, sandwiched between a boy and his cat. "He wouldn't do it. He's squeamish. He'd only do something like that for, well, Will, probably?" And that's a little interesting. "No, no, Mike wouldn't do it. But Eddie would."

"Munson?" Steve gapes. "No way, man! It took two months to clear his name for a murder he didn't even do! And that was with grodie government guy help, too!"

Dustin waves him off. "No, listen. Listen! The aftermath isn't in play here, okay? Eddie would kill you so-o-o good, no questions asked. He's got the means, he'd have the motive, he's bigger than you–"

"Oh, get real, you know that's a lie!"

"– he's scrappy, and! He'd like it." Dustin finishes, leaning in and slapping it down like a period on a sentence, and something fizzy oozes around Steve's insides, and, uh. Suddenly he remembers the way, last Fall, that a shattered beer bottle was held to his neck instead of "hello," and now he’s a little on edge, he thinks. Is it being on edge when you’re like flushed and squirmy? And scared? But like, nervous-scared? Like, why does the thought of Eddie not liking him make him want to throw his guts up?

Steve clears his throat. (Is it like butterflies? Or something?) "Okay, you're crazy," he says. "Are you saying Munson hates me, now? Or is this some sort of, like, my dad can fight your dad thing?”

Dustin flushes and says no emphatically, but Steve doesn't fully believe him. "I'm not saying he hates you. I'm just saying he's your best bet. And that he'd think it was super punk rock. It's like, y'know, cemeteries. He'd turn your skull into a bowl or something."

"What do you mean it's like cemeteries?! Also, that's not even punk, it's like, goth," Steve corrects, a little too quick to not be suspicious, but barely thinking about it all the same. "Plus, you're saying he doesn't hate me, but now you're actually making me feel worse about it. Munson doesn't hate me! He likes me!" Steve's eyes widen, a little comically, and now his heart picks up oddly, and he looks into Dustin's eyes like the man starved for validation he is. "Wait, Dusty. Eddie likes me, right? Right?"

Dustin's smile turns strained and ends kind of serial-killery, which fits the conversation but doesn't pan out well for Steve, predictably. "Um," he starts, slowly, and carefully says, "Okay, you seem to be freaking out. Don't freak out."

"What do you mean, don't freak out!" Steve picks at it, feeling totally justified here – he's been hysterical before, he feels pretty entitled to screaming and crying in response to the occasional state of the world that seems to try to eat him as the worst bi-annual event ever, and he feels this is almost tantamount to that. Almost. And he’s nervous! "You just told me Eddie Munson actually wants to knife me!"

"That's not what I said," Dustin protests quickly, placing a hand on his shoulder, soothing, and tells him, all smiles, "I said he'd be happy if he had to."

"I thought we were friends!" Steve whines. "I gave him an apple last week and he said thank you, that's significant! It's friends! We're totally friends!"

Dustin says, "Steve, Eddie's allergic to apples," in that obnoxious tone of his, and the last of Steve's sanity is smothered in its sleep.

#🍦#sts #hiii decided to just post this after sending it around to like 6 different people over the months #i have never written anything in my life and never will again but it is a little bit funnies #the premise is a conversation where steve is gay and dustin doesn't know that obviously. but he does know eddie has a CRUUUSH #so two conversations about the same thing meaning the complete opposite 🫶#steddie #and also just them hanging. hashtag hanging #oh steve is also trans gay in this cuz he is all the time anyway . to me . hashtag implied transgender

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sallymew4 · 17 days

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"Such a massive skull....

It must be hiding an equally massive brain!"

TerukiWeek 2024, Day Five

Hair AND Trauma...

#terukiweek2024 #i wanted this 1ne 2 b a little silly #i think its funny that ritsu thought he just had a bigass noggin when he first met him so i played off of that :)#also the trauma is ritsu's raging jealousy of teru's enormous intellect in case you couldnt tell [joke]#AGAIN I THINK ITS HILARIOUS EVERYONE DID HAIR AND TRAUMA CUZ I KNEW I WAS GONNA DO THE SAME THING #ritsu teru friendies is so funny 2 mi. like they are crazee #i like the wig btw guys. like actually its so fun to just draw upwards and have it kinda fizzle out #now im out til birthday day..... gotta work on that 1ne gang...........#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #mob psycho fanart #teruki hanazawa #hanazawa teruki #ritsu kageyama #kageyama ritsu #implied terumob as always

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teisubrainrot · 24 days

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#i just like to think he would #y’know all emo fucks at least ATTEMPT #anyway sketchy sketch cuz im sick im dyingg #back to bed #rgg #yakuza #ryu ga gotoku #like a dragon #daigo dojima #dojima daigo #minedai #implied #art #fanart #doodle #teisuart #wanted to drop the audio file but tuMBLR IS NOT LETTING ME #so spotify link it is ✌️😔

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simplerainbow · 3 months

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The fact that Sabo made a vivre card for Luffy that no one knew about means one things. At some point he had to have taken one of Luffy fingernails and not mentioned it

#thats what being implied #cuz he just shows up with it #everyone like cool now we can keep track of him #asl brothers

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boxofthings · 5 months

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Originally was gonna write 09 soaproach angst but decided to fulfill this request that was sent months ago (anon I'm so sorry but if you're still around I hope you enjoy!)

This was heavily inspired by THIS art post by @miilkybnn (it hurts me deeply)

09 ghostsoaproach for all you masochists :)

Read on AO3

-- -- --

He can feel the painful snap of his fingernails underneath gloves that claw desperately into rust. The roof tile comes away from the sudden pressure of his weight.

There's heavy smoke in his lungs, and if the universe had given him an extra ounce of precious time, maybe he'd let the smell funnel down into his stomach, imagining for just a moment that it tasted like Villa Clara's.

His heart races as the hand that shoots out for him falls short by mere inches, and his body drops to the ground in a blackened hush.

It doesn't help that their worried voices screech into his shock-delirious brain as he comes to. If he were a less determined man, he'd stay right where he was, admit defeat and fall right back into that blissful, unconscious nothing.

"Roach!"

But he's not. Because despite his wounds, his defeats, his lack of a weapon, and the sheer absurdity of his chances of survival—he wants to live.

And if not that, then at least he wishes hopelessly to have a sendoff with blue and brown eyes to watch over him like guardian angels.

He pulls himself to his feet, limbs screaming at him for mercy, and he runs like it'll be the last time he ever will, and it just might well be.

Bullets and their casings fly through the air like deadly confetti, and Roach can only push forward as the captain's poignant concern rings deep in his ears.

He's probably been shot—multiple times likely, but there's a red over his mind that pumps wild adrenaline through his body. He wonders if, from the safety of the carrier, he must look like a madman.

"Thirty seconds! We're runnin' on fumes here!"

If he makes it out of this, if he lives to tell the tale, this'll be one hell of a conversation starter—one for the history books, that's for sure.

His chest is beginning to burn, and he can feel the familiar, dreadful indication that his legs are starting to drag like stones.

Not yet.

The only thing that keeps his blood boiling with stubborn life is what awaits for him on that carrier, no doubt with bated breaths and mirrored anxieties.

Fifteen seconds.

Blades slice the air of the sky in pulsating waves; each gust feels like it hits Roach harder as he hangs onto his last drop of fuel like a fraying rope.

So close.

Sliding down the debris of the favelas, each bump another bruise to his body, he can only think of how hard he'll collapse after and if he makes that final leap.

"Jump for it!"

With his tank nearly empty, he musters the remaining energy he has and jumps with his whole heart in his throat. The murky waters below will not be as merciful as the ground of militia-ridden streets.

His fingers make jarred contact with the ladder of the carrier, and he clings to it with heaving breaths that rattle his entire body. In his ear, he hears the sharp intake of a gasp as Nikolai flies them further away from the chaos of gunfire.

He's alive. And he's damn well feeling it if his aching bones and bleeding flesh have anything to say for it.

As soon as he's dragged into the opening of the Pave Low, a deadly grip yanks him into a shuttering embrace.

The lieutenant says nothing at first, only holding him with a restlessness typically reserved for dying men.

"Fuckin' hell."

Fucking hell's right. He falls into Ghost's solid weight with laboured limbs and a pounding heart. If, from now on, the captain decides to bench him for his deficiency in acrobatics, he's not so sure he'll protest.

Behind him, he can feel how Soap's eyes pierce scrutinizing daggers into his back, and he fears the tongue-lashing he'll receive as soon as he turns around.

But when he finally releases from Ghost's arms and meets icy blues, there's a pause in the air from the silence that meets him.

Mouth set in a grim line, fists clenched at his sides, the captain is the epitome of tension. As he watches Roach longer with that look of grievance, his head hangs, shaking it frustratingly and turning away to speak to Nikolai.

Roach can't help how his heart drops down to his stomach, shame pooling hotly down his throat.

The post-adrenaline rush makes his head float, and he's not too certain he didn't earn a concussion from that fall. A shaky exhale takes with it the muscles that keep him standing, and all of a sudden, he feels the brittleness of his bones.

"Bug," Ghost says, hand intertwining with his, pulling him down gently to sit next to him.

Roach acquiesces easily, slumping down like a sack of flour.

His lieutenant holds his hand tighter, and Roach leans his head on the older's shoulder.

Despite this victory, he can't help but feel the looming fear of what will come next. His injuries hurt terribly, but he's content to sit like this for just a little bit, pretending for just a moment that everything will be okay.

– – –

The safe house they hunker down in becomes blanketed in a constricted silence as they wait for US forces to transfer them to their next location.

The captain ushers him to the kitchen, first aid kit supplies already splayed out on the table.

Roach feels the beginnings of a timer go off in the space between them.

His commanding officers bracket him, dabbing saline into his wounds and applying gauze over the reds that spread across his skin.

It's only when Soap begins to wrap bandages around his middle does the air around them suddenly freeze into a tangible outrage.

"You bloody fool," he hisses, fingers ripped away from the bandages and digging urgently into the flesh of his arms.

Beside him, Ghost goes still.

"Just how many jumps are you going to miss until it kills you?"

There it is, the bated agony that masks itself as scorn—the dam Roach had been anticipating to burst any minute since he'd made contact with that ladder.

There's anger in the air that feels sharp and critical, but Roach can't fight against it because the underlayer of that deadly heat swirls a deep, visceral anguish. Fear that threatens to rip them apart right through the heart.

"I-" his wretched throat scratches out. There are words he wants to say out loud, words that his captain and lieutenant deserve to hear, but that burn on his tongue trickles deep into his larynx, and it renders him quiet, like a pathetic coward in the face of blame.

"I'm sorry," his hands finish for him, fingers never heavier. And he watches as the captain's face falls so awfully, how the lieutenant turns away like he can't bear to watch him any longer.

Is this what they are doomed to be? Three lovers trapped in a perpetual cycle of fear and loathing, trapped in an echo chamber of a cacophonous "who will be next?"

There are no words to ease their ailing minds because, at the end of the day, who knows if and when they'll become lies?

A sigh. The hands gripped so tightly around his arms drop defeatedly.

Soap wordlessly exits the room, leaving Roach with a heavy tongue of unspoken atonements. The unfinished wrap of bandages feels like it scalds his skin.

Ghost looks back at him, eyes crushing but quietly soft, something only reserved for Roach and the captain.

He takes up the space Soap had emptied and continues where the other had left off, holding the bandages with sure hands.

"He's just worried," Ghost says as soon as the wrap is secured, helping him slowly put on his shirt.

Roach can't muster the will to look Ghost in the eye, which is a first for them.

The other takes both his hands into his, urging Roach's gaze to land on him.

"Just–be more careful, yeah?"

The fingers that smooth over his battered hands shake like there's an all-consuming dread that threatens to spill right out of every pore.

In a second, they retreat, replaced instead by the warmth of a full body wrapped around him in a desperate embrace.

"You have no idea how it felt, watching it all from the Pave Low."

It's so rare to hear his lieutenant speak so weakly. Such a voice did not suit Ghost, or perhaps it did, as how else were battered and spent soldiers meant to sound? But Roach did not like knowing he was the cause for it.

"You're one hell of a fighter, bug."

So are you, he wants to say, but he knows Ghost won't care for it.

It's not just the sheer, dumb luck that keeps him alive. It's the two men he found at the wrong and right time, in the midst of a war that offers them no comforting promises for the future, but also bringing a lightness at a time where his life had never felt so dark.

He doesn't want to lose this.

He sees a small grin begin to imprint on the lieutenant's balaclava.

At the arch of Roach's brow, he chuckles minutely.

"It's just funny, 'innit? How the roles 'ave swapped." Ghost's eyes crinkle in soft reminiscence. "Years ago, it would've been me stormin' out that door."

Roach mirrors his smile. He remembers the start of it all, how the captain had so readily accepted Roach's affections, open and carefree, before the stakes of war had tipped so precariously to where it was now.

"Probably be needin' me to swoop in and save yer arse wherever we go," the captain had said after Roach had bashfully pressed cold lips to warm ones in an impulsive confession of love.

It was so easy to talk to Soap, as he was everything Roach had strived to be and more. A stable force in his life that made him feel nearly invincible.

And Ghost...well, he was much the opposite, almost averse to that same tenderheartedness that had won over the captain.

He remembers how he got shot, pushing the lieutenant out of harm's way, how the lieutenant had screamed at him once they arrived back on base, how Soap had held him back, and how distraught Roach had felt once he'd stormed out the room, a sizzling anger that took Roach weeks to understand was, in reality, fear.

It's so strange to look back on now, to envision a Ghost who was so pent up with wrath it followed him wherever he went.

It makes him realize how much has changed—is still changing.

Ghost takes off his sunglasses, and like this, Roach can stare into pretty browns that gaze at him lovingly.

"Back then, I just never knew how to express my damn emotions."

Roach brings the lieutenant's face closer to him, kissing slowly regardless of the fabric that separates them.

"You do now, though," Roach signs when they break apart.

Ghost eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Only for you two."

– – –

Ghost had shooed him away when he tried to help clean up the mess of bloodied cotton balls and scattered gauze pads.

He'd taken this as his sign to seek out the captain. Pushing the door to the only bedroom slowly, like a child in worry of waking their parents.

Soap sits on the edge of the bed, hands clamped together with his head hung low—lost in turbulent thought. It shoots right up at the creak of the door hinge.

For a moment, neither man knows what to say, Roach shuffling closer till the older has to look up at him.

When he opens his mouth, the captain's arms shoot up to drag the sergeant down onto his lap in the tightest hug he's ever received from the other.

"God, you're so stupid," he whispers, head burying deep into Roach's chest as if he wanted to be merged with it. "Why'd I get assigned such a dafty for a sergeant?"

A melancholic lilt seeps to his lips as he rests his cheek on Soap's head.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, as sincere as his love is true.

Soap's head lifts, hands flying to Roach's face, and he can see the desperate ache in those eyes.

"Don't be sorry, you oaf. You nearly died." The crack in the captain’s voice strikes a chord so deep in Roach’s chest that it almost makes him cry.

There's a weight that sits like a thousand marble statues on the captain's shoulders, and with each passing day, Roach sees as that load drags heavier behind him.

"Funny how history repeats itself. First mission with my captain, nearly falling to my death. First mission as captain with my sergeant doing the exact same."

He'd said it right after their first stint in Kazakhstan.

It was meant as a jest to lighten the post-haze of a near-death experience, but Roach had seen the slight cynicism in the captain's eyes that he had yet to pick apart.

Weeks later, he'd sit outside the base during the quiet of the night, with MacTavish's cigar flicking soft light into the darkness, and understand, for the first time, that the captain was just a man, just like him. A soldier with burdens like everyone else.

"With every man that I lose on a mission is another ghost that haunts me when I go to sleep."

"It's not your fault," the sergeant had said then, and meant it earnestly, because how could Captain John MacTavish—the man who'd jump after you if you fell into a pool of molten lava if it meant even the slightest chance of saving you—ever be to blame for the death of a soldier?

But it was more than just that. It was the spectre of a past mentor, one that left daunting footsteps to fill that Soap had fought with every breath to satiate with justice.

It had made the beast of a man before him appear so painfully human, and Roach had only yearned for him more because of it.

Now, as they hold each other, Roach can see how that weight must feel like the most crippling force. And he knows how deeply every failure hits the other like real bullets.

When he'd nearly drifted off in the Pave Low, he'd caught the tail-end of a hushed exchange between Ghost and Soap. Voices tense, waiting to snap any minute.

"I couldn't catch him," the captain had muttered, broken off and deprecating.

Soap picks at the hem of Roach's shirt, inhaling sharply when he sees the bandage peek out.

"One day," he starts, and it's melancholic yet intimate like Soap had thought of it a million times. "There'll be a mission where I won't be there to catch you."

Roach frowns, seeing that familiar burden of responsibility that the captain readily throws onto his shoulders.

"It's not your job to."

Fists clench around his shirt.

"Yes, it is," he says fiercely. "If not as your captain, then-"

His mouth hangs open, words caught in the emptiness of the air around them, and Roach can't bear to look at that awful anguish in Soap's eyes.

Then as someone who loves you.

It makes his chest hurt how easy it all was before—or maybe not easy, but how much less consequential their actions meant back then—when their love had only been labelled as one-off jokes, when the task force wasn't stretched so thin and smaller than when it had started. When Roach could say he cared for someone and not have to worry whether they'd disappear to ash the next day.

"I'm sorry," Roach offers instead, "for making you worry." It feels like it's all he can say.

The smile he receives is bittersweet, but it's such a rarity nowadays to see anything happier. Even so, he wishes he could fix it—to smooth out those worry lines that make the other look so haggard.

The captain tilts his head, surging tentatively to capture Roach's lips in his own, and the kiss makes him think of everything that defines their relationship.

When rough lips touch his own, it's so familiar, like the nostalgia of a home that exists only in his mind. The tang of cigars and the bitterness of Earl Grey tea. How does he even begin to describe how intrinsically this love has changed him?

Such small things that he previously couldn't have cared less about now mean everything to him. And it makes him notice all the things that only he is meant to notice.

Like how Ghost prepares coffee in the mornings, despite preferring tea, all because the captain and himself once mentioned they only slightly prefer it to the latter.

Like how Soap begrudgingly supplies the base with that shitty off-brand version of Earl Grey that Ghost, for some reason, likes so much.

Like how when the lieutenant or sergeant go to bed aching, there's an unsuspecting bottle of painkillers and water glasses on their nightstands that they don't remember leaving there.

Like how little aspects of himself change to become a little bit more like the ones he loves.

Despite preferring coffee, he thinks he'd choose tea over it now.

And every time the captain offers out a cig, Roach easily declines because there's a much better way for him to enjoy the taste.

Every kiss they share is one that could be their last. So Roach savours every minute of it, commits to memory the feel of Soap's hands on his waist, the way the other breathes heavily as their lips intertwine in a longing embrace, the heat that emanates between them because the other is a living space heater, the way how every time, without fail, the touch of Soap's lips makes his heart soar like a teenage girl's on prom night.

I love you, he mouths against the other, and even though his soundless words disappear into the air, at least he knows the universe will bear witness to this truth.

"My sergeant," the captain purrs adoringly, and it makes the blood rush faster in his veins. "Just don't know when to die, do you?"

Their foreheads touch, an unspoken moment of peace between them that they pretend will keep them safe.

They know that today, they are alive, but tomorrow may not bring such luck.

The arms around his middle move to his thighs as Soap stands up abruptly, hoisting Roach up with him and moving towards the side of the bed.

Roach grins, wrapping strong arms around the captain's neck, even as he's laid down on soft sheets.

Soap pulls him till they're flush together, with Roach's back to his chest, and the older snakes an arm around his front, resting a hand atop Roach's heart.

"Just to make sure you're still alive by mornin'," Soap had joked the first time he did it. But it was after Roach had taken a nasty stab to the lung, and the captain's fixation with feeling for his heartbeat had not been lost on the sergeant at all.

"In pain?" he asks softly into the crook of the Roach's neck.

The younger shakes his head, exhaling soft exasperation.

"Sorry. Just can't help but worry."

Roach knows how that feels.

He lets his eyes droop to a close, letting his hand climb atop Soap's, intertwining them so that they lock together solidly on his steady pulse.

He breathes in the captain's grounding, pine scent and hopes with every fibre of his being that they'll be okay in the morning—that after this shitstorm passes, they'll make it out the other end only slightly dishevelled.

He always did have plans to introduce Soap and Ghost to his family one day.

– – –

Later, with his mind drowsy and battling the final drops of wakefulness, he'll feel the bed dip beside him along with Ghost's hushed "All good?" and the captain's answering kiss that calms the lieutenant's concern.

He'll lay in bed, held by two people he loves with all his heart, who love him just the same, and he'll thank the world for granting him this rare moment of tranquillity.

Tomorrow, they'll be extracted for their next operation. They'll break into the gulag and find whoever this prisoner is that Makarov hates so much, and who knows what will happen?

But until then, Roach will sleep, knowing that the two things important to him are safe next to him.

– – –

Brown eyes hidden behind a screen of shade, and Roach wishes he could rip them off.

His body aches, as does his heart.

Price's shouts carry over his earpiece, and he can't help but feel bitter.

He wishes to hear his captain's voice one last time, wishes for once in his life, Simon didn't wear those blasted sunglasses. He wishes, so pathetically, that it didn't end like this, with one piece of himself dead beside him and the other miles away.

His mind grasps at threads, trying to find comfort in the gaps where pain has not yet sullied.

Despite how lonely he feels, staring at the face of an already dead lover, he'll thank any God above that he'll join him soon, that at least two of them are adjoined, even in death.

In a way, all three of them are together, connected by a commlink that spans the entire distance of their longing, like a tether.

It's such a sad, desperate pull at a sliver of comfort, but it quiets Roach's aching chest just a little.

There's the tang of Earl Grey tea leaves on his tongue, and as he closes his eyes for the last time, he can imagine that the smoke that suffocates his lungs tastes like Villa Clara's.

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