Concept Art By Ryan Church, Of The Mandalorian, Din Djarin, In The Cockpit Of The Razor Crest As It Is

YES! YES! MY THOUGHTS EXACTLY! GLAD IM NOT THE ONLY ONE!!!

Duke Thomas looks after Tim Drake

Logically he doesn’t need to. Tim is Red Robin after all. A hero. And just like all heroes, they go through things. But the things Tim has been through?

Let’s just say they hit close to home.

Joker Junior—JJ—is a bit of an open secret in the Wayne household. Nobody talks about it, but everyone knows. Duke, a more recent addition, learns about it when he walks by Tim’s room one night, only to freeze as he catches the muffled sound of laughter. He knows that kind of laughter. It’s practically carved into his brain.

No warning is given before Duke busts into Tim room, expecting the worst. He finds Tim sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, laughing that terrible laugh.

“Tim!” Duke yells, panic spiking as he runs to his side. Had Joker broken in? Was Tim okay? He takes his shoulders and shakes him. Not again, please not again—

That seemed to be enough to snap Tim out of it, startling him lucid. “Duke?”

“Tim! You alright man? What happened—did Joker—”

Mortification dawns on Tim’s face, the detective immediately putting the pieces together. “Oh fuck. Sorry Duke I must’ve had a laughing fit. Sorry—someone should have warned you. God I’m so sorry.”

“You’re… you’re good? No Joker?” Duke moved away a bit, suddenly embarrassed by his reaction.

“No Joker. Sorry, this happens sometimes. Holdover from… well a bad run in with Joker when I was Robin. It um… was pretty messy.”

The explanation given after is… condensed, Duke suspects. Tim apologizes, knowing Duke’s own history with the joker. Duke tries to insist that’s bull, that he shouldn’t have to apologize for not telling him, but Tim gives a tight smile that says he doesn’t believe that.

Duke doesn’t push it. He’s not Dick, he doesn’t know how to make things like that better. After that night though, their dynamic seems to shift a bit.

Duke knows Tim is older than him, but that doesn’t matter. Whenever something Joker related comes up, Duke immediately volunteers himself to deal with it, no matter if it’s during the day or not. Duke is always happy to give a second pair of eyes to a case,

And secretly, while he likes making Tim (and everyone else) laugh, there’s something relieving when the laughter fades out and it stops. The pained smile on his mother’s face nowhere to be found.

For Tim’s credit, JJ hardly ever makes an appearance. Years on consistent therapy have helped. But healing is not a cure.

It’s after an all-hands-on-deck type mission that it happens. A laughing fit so hard the entire family wasn’t sure what to do. Tim JJ couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

He laughs, stumbling through the manor, a concerned Wayne family following after. He smiles so hard, so painfully, clutching his stomach for air.

He wouldn’t stop, and eventually the hysterics laughter turned to choking as he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Duke holds him down while Dick runs and grabs a sedative.

Later, Dick would remark how bad it was. The worst he’d seen in years. But the episode ends, and the sedatives wear off, and Tim manages to slip out of the medbay without anyone realizing. Anyone except Duke, who immediately looks for him, and finds him on the roof.

“Hey man.”

“Hey Duke.” Tim responds, voice raspy from overuse.

“Doing alright?”

They talk for a bit. Voices hushed. Duke tries not to joke, knowing there’s been enough laughter for one night.

Eventually, Tim’s worries come out.

“I don’t want to be a pity case. I’m know I’m not delicate, that I’m not going to break. I just…” Tim pauses, “slip sometimes. And sometimes it scares me.”

And Duke turns his head to look out at the city. “You know, Tim, you give me hope.”

Tim lifts his head to give Duke a confused look.

“Hope for my parents. That maybe they might… get better. Even if some of it’s still there. I know I probably won’t ever get to see them normal again, but… it’s nice to have hope.”

Ghost is starting to realise something.

It started off slow at first- pinpointing where soap was first in a room before the others, coincidentally spacing off in the same direction as soap, starting to follow soap wherever he went.

It’s nothing, really.

It’s nothing.

Nothing at all.

But it was really starting to bother him, the way Johnny started to get under his skin.

It pissed him off. Ghost always needs to be in his top condition during missions because one mistake could cost everything. How could he do that when before taking off soap would pat his shoulder and it felt like his ribs were caving in on him? How could anyone blame him when their thighs are pressed together, touching from ankle to shoulder and his heart would claw at his skin, begging to get out?

Or when soap would squeeze the nape of his neck as a friendly gesture and suddenly he was flushed and hot under the collar? Why was this happening to him? What is happening? Because all of a sudden Johnny’s summer, and he sinks into ghost’s bones and his skin, renders his muscles useless and his brain fuzzy and-

There’s something horribly wrong with him.

Johnny’s laughter makes his breathing pick up, it makes his fingers tremble and he wants to take that laughter and keep it in a locket to hang around his neck. Johnny makes ghost want to throw him against a wall and also cradle his face like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Johnny’s summer because he makes Ghost’s cold heart feel warmth again, makes him think of flip flops, missing teeth, shiny skin and a non stop itchiness. That’s what it is. It burrows under his skin, it makes his fingertips tingle and his heart ache and his ribs melt and his throat close up. This is soap’s fault. Ghost needs to kill soap.

That’s not quite right.

Because something in Ghost, in Simon wants to keep him away too, that terrorises his mind whenever he sees Johnny hurt. That he should steal him away and live in domestic paradise on the other side of the galaxy, because Simon knows better than to think that he can chase his past away that easily.

But then Ghost gets hurt, and it’s not that bad, really, he’s had worse. But now Soap’s tearing apart the place, face flushed and panicked. Panicked over Ghost. It might just be the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. So when he grabs Soap by the shoulders and orders him to calm the fuck down, his brain suddenly surges forward for things to say.

I love it when you get concerned for me.

I love it when you touch me.

I love it when you remember things about me

I love it that you let me double check your gear because I can’t lose you.

I love the stretch marks on your hips that I accidentally saw when you came out of the shower.

I love your fucked up accent.

I love the way you say “canny” it’s so dumb

I love your face

I love you,

I love you,

I love you.

And it comes to a point where Ghost has to actively hold himself back because he accidentally held soap’s face in his hands and he cherished all 0.7 seconds of it before he violently ripped his hands away and walked off without a word.

It felt like all his ribs had broken in half and punctured his lungs and heart, and he was slowly bleeding out and suffocating. Johnny makes him feel like summer. Ghost starts to look forward to tomorrow, he starts to get excited at the new promise of physical touch, at the chance to casual love. He’s warm and gooey and Johnny’s melted his skeleton down and what’s left is Simon.

It was like nothing to Soap, and it drives Ghost crazy how it happened so fast. Johnny’s cradled Simon’s corpse in his warm hands and decided that he would love again, simple as that. And if he could do it like it was as simple as breathing, then maybe Ghost could love him the same way.

ROACH!!! The son you are 🙏

This is funnier in my head

Duke in the back of the Batmobile covered in paint: Do you think different paints have different tastes?

Dick, in passenger seat as oldest rules staring absentmindedly out the window: They do.

Bruce, side eye in the cowl hits different: ...Why did you say that with such certainty?

Edit: now with a fanfic

Roach my beloved 🪳🧎‍♀️

😍😍😍

Duke is unapologetic for everything that comes out of his mouth. In fact, give him a mic, he'll say it louder.

Some way too old for that guy, trying to flirt with Cass: You know, you seem so mature for your age…

Duke, popping out of nowhere: And you're really fucking dumb for yours, man, fix this puddle of desperation on your head first and only then think about trying to fit into society. If even your hair doesn't want to be with you, what are you counting on?

Cass, who really didn't want to ruin her cute dress with blood: 👍🏻

A really annoying paparazzi: Hey, boy, how does it feel to become rich after, well, whatever you were before? Have your, erm, extracurricular activities changed? What's your favourite thing to do now?

Duke, with the straightest face known to mankind: No, it's still your mom. My favourite extracurricular activity, planning to do her more actually, thanks for the question.

Bruce, trying to parent a whole ass teen: So…

Duke: I really shouldn't have told this terrible, rude, insufferable piece of person to go eat shit. I genuinely regret it. I should have told her to go eat shit and die choking, such a missed opportunity, damn, I'm still upset.

Bruce: ...

Bruce, to himself: Why am I even trying?

There are a bunch of compilations on YouTube and Tiktok “Duke Thomas-Wayne has no PR training whatsoever”. Duke personally likes every single one of them.

Duke comes home one day from school looking down in the dumps and a bunch of paper work.

"Hey Duke, what's all that paper work for?" Dick asks from the couch as Duke sets the foot tall pile of papers on the coffee table.

"Oh you know, just, bullies making me do their work." The whole room freezes.

Bullies?

"Duke, you're being bullied?" Duke seems to realize his mistake of words. Instead of the excuse he made up to tell them about how he missed a lot of work because of Signal work, he said the truth which was the fact that he had bullies.

"Erm-"

"Duke, why didn't you tell us?" Dick nearly whines out, hurt his foster-brother didn't tell him about having bullies.

"No- guys, it's okay. Seriously. You don't have to do anything about it. Seriously." He eyes Bruce from where the man was about to type in *probably* the school's number to complain.

"Why not? We can deal with those punks for you. Are they being racist or some'n?" Jason crosses his arms, standing in front of Duke with a raised brow.

"A little. But seriously, it's nothing I can't handle."

Bruce rubs his temple.

"Are you sure? Are you sure you can handle this?"

"Yes."

"Thomas, just know, we can step in whenever." Duke turns a smile towards Damian, and places his hand on Cass's when she hugs him from behind.

"Hey- it's the weekend. Let me handle those papers since I've got nothing to do and I'm ban from case work." Tim says, holding his hand out.

"Uh- okay?" Duke hands him the stack, thinking nothing of it, because it's Tim.

Tim takes a look through the papers, scrunching his face a bit before shrugging, a smirk appearing on his face.

"Uh- should I be worried?" Tim looks at him and waves him off. "Nah, don't worry 'bout it. I got this handled."

Uh. Okay?

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

The following Monday, Duke shows up and puts his stuff in his locker.

Or at least he was until it was slammed shut.

"Hey Thomas. Got our work?" Turning around, Duke faced his three bullies; seniors Clint Rodriguez (the "big dog" as he called himself) and his lackies, Arion Centry and Pete Swinez.

"N-No.."

"No? Where is it, bitch? I told you to have it done by Monday." Rodriguez held him up to the locker. "Oh you mean these papers?"

Turning around, there stood Timothy Drake-Wayne; two three time nepo-baby and the biggest reputation in the school. The real life Regina George and Heather Chandler. He was with his two best friends, also big popular kids and his two Gretchen Wieners, Karen Smith, and Heathers.

"Drake." The mere face of him made the trio seethe. "Hah! You should see your face right now. Anyways, I did your college essays for you, hope you enjoy them. Would be a shame if you had to repurchase the papers for them."

Tim tosses them in the air, and everyone watches as they all fall to the ground.

"What the hell did you do."

"Oh, ya know, the basics of what you should put. Also, this your girl?" A girl, a cheerleader, goes and slides herself under Tim's arm.

"Babe!?"

"Sorry, Clint, but I have a reputation, people can't know we dated. Also, Tim's better looking and a better kisser." Morgan Letto, another popular nepo-baby in Gotham High, turns and kisses Tim right in the hallway, before stalking off.

Tim's trio laughs at their faces.

"Hey! You should probably pick these up, ya know, since they have your names on them. Wouldn't want to get sent to the principles for littering the school. Bad reputation means you can't go to Princeton." Bernard says.

"Or Oxford, or Harvard. See ya losers!" Ives laughs along with Bernard and Tim as they walk through the halls.

As if a bomb dropped, the three seniors scramble to pick up hundreds of papers worth of applications.

" "I'm racist towards black people because they're below white people like me" " Someone reads off of one paper down the hall.

" "I use grades that aren't mine that I bully people into doing for me." " Another person reads nearby.

"Give me those!"

Duke is left standing there, struck by the scene that just unfolded before his eyes.

He didn't know what to say, do, or act.

Should he laugh? Play it off? Call Bruce? Or Tim? Or anyone? Get picked up?

It's fine. It's just one day. Right?

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

Lunch time rolls around.

Duke is sitting at his table with his friends eating. They were prime targets for Clint and his group.

As if on cue, the three stride up.

"Hey Thomas, got Tim Drake to do your work for you, huh? Well guess what?"

He was spun around and picked up by the collar, his two friends being held back by Arion and Pete.

"You ain't getting away with it here." Clint grits out. Of course he chose the cafeteria, the pretty much only place teachers don't monitor 24/7 and is void of any supervision, even with every grade in there for lunch.

Clint set Duke down and lined his fist up ready to punch him. Duke flinched as the fist came swinging.

"Hey loser!"

Cheers and shocked 'Oooh!'s were heard from around. He squinted one eye open and saw food fall from Clint's red face and a tray in Tim's right hand.

"Woops! Sorry! Guess my hand slipped!" That got a laugh from the crowd. Tim set the tray down and pat Duke's should before stalking towards Clint.

Duke saw behind them at the far wall where everyone could see Ives and Bernard setting three trays of food down (The senior trio's trays).

"You'll pay for that, Drake!" Clint took a swing, which Tim dodged easily and side sweeped him onto his knees.

Ives and Bernard did the same to Arion and Pete.

The three took the seniors by the hair and dragged them to the trays the two laid out previously.

Cameras went up and Duke watched in muted awe and terror at what Tim was doing. Was Tim really like this when he still went to high school? He was a junior now and he dropped out sophomore year? Was he like this as a freshman?

The three pushed the seniors faces into the trays.

"Since you're the big dog maybe you should eat like a real dog then, bitch. Here's some kibble. Dogs enjoy this one!" Tim poured dog kibble onto Clint's tray, seeing as his face turns redder and shows more humiliation than he's ever seen on anyone.

"Eat it, bitch! Like the dog you are! Or start barking and begging for forgiveness!" Tim says it through his teeth in such a grueling tone it sends shivers down Duke's spine.

"Hey Arion! If you actually did your work, you'd know that your name is a horse in Greek Myth. So maybe you should neigh like one too! Neigh, neigh. Get to eating horsey! You should start prancing for the rodeo. Giddey'yup!" Ives mocks him pushing his head into the tray over and over.

"Swinez? More like Swine-ez! Oink-oink! You stink like a pig. And you're eating like one too! Ewwww! Disgusting. Hahahahhaha!" Bernard's name change made the whole cafeteria roar in laughter.

What made the laughter stronger was when the three brought out collars with leashes and attached them to it.

"Come boys! Start walking like the animals you are!" Tim called, pulling on Clint's leash, dragging him mostly until Clint got up and started crawling in front of him.

Everytime they tried to get up, the three juniors were behind them to push them down to the ground again.

Almost everyone was recording.

"Look everyone! Look at our new pets!" Ives called out.

"If you know any better, you three better keep your collars on. You should better than to make your owners mad!" Bernard barked out a laugh.

"I think, you guys should start speaking in woofs, neighs, and oinks from now on. Especially, when we make you ask forgiveness to those you bullied." Tim said, grabbing the collar and forcing Clint to look at Duke.

The bell rang, lucky for those three.

"Woops! Looks like the fun's over! You better clean up for mess! Wouldn't want to make the janitors work more." Tim walked off. "Or look like complete idiots with all that gunk on your face." Bernard said as he and Ives followed Tim.

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

Later, when Duke got home, he was silent. Bruce was silent too, despite him being the one Duke expected to ask about the bullies since he slipped up and told them.

"Hey Duke, how was school? Did they mess with you again?" Dick asked.

He looked at him, then at the rest of his siblings, noting Tim wasn't there, swallowed and shook his head.

"N-Not really."

"Not really?" Jason looked confused, as did the rest of them.

Before Duke could explain more, Tim came in laughing, tossing his bag on a couch before hopping on Bruce's arm rest.

"Bruce! You won't believe what I did today." Bruce looked at him and smirked. Smirked.

Tim relayed the entire story of what he, Bernard, and Ives did to Clint, Arion, and Pete. Bruce looked proud and the rest looked shocked.

"My reputation still stands even after I've been gone a year!" Tim seemed very proud of that.

"Atta boy!" Bruce ruffled his hair. "Yes, here's the tray of cookies you were promised all to yourself, master Tim." Alfred handed him a whole plate of cookies. "Thank you!"

"What!?"

"Hold on! He gets a whole plate of cookies for that? Why isn't he in trouble!? When did you enroll back?" Jason was beyond furious.

"Tim had a reputation in school for being like that towards bullies. Which is why no one bullied anyone with him around. Guess they all came back when he was gone. Duke didn't want us doing anything, and he didn't expect Tim to do anything because you all think he's a goody two shoes, so I sent my calvary in." Bruce explained.

Tim laughed at their faces.

"Oh please! I'm just getting started with them! Just wait till the end of the week. Then! I'll be done with them and they won't ever come back to the school."

Bait & Switch, pt. 1

Part 2 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, implied soapghost, hopeful ending cw: torture, angst, MWIII spoilers

---

Soap turns hazy, unfocused eyes toward the screen and watches the man with his face run down the tunnels under the English Channel. The man shoots at Konni soldiers, ferocity and desperation painted over every twitch of his brows and silent shout from his lips. 

It all seems so real.

But it can't be. It's not.

He watches Price and the man with his face cut through the enemy. Watches them attempt to disarm the bomb.

Watches Marakov approach.

Their bodies jerk in succession as Makarov's bullets rip through them both. They hit the ground, and sympathetic pain throbs through Soap's shoulder. 

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Not his wound. Not him. Just a man with his face bleeding onto dirty concrete on the other side of a black and white screen.

Makarov goes after Price. The man with Soap's face rises up to stab Makarov and–

Makarov blows a hole through the man's head.

It's surreal to watch his own face go blank. To watch the life drain from wide eyes within seconds. To see the others barely pause. Only standing beside the body for a few moments before continuing on because they have a fucking job to do. No time to pause and mourn the perpetual FNG.

Except for Ghost.

Soap's vision darkens on his right side, and he blinks away the sweat or blood – could be either or both but he's too numb to care – as Ghost falls to his knees beside the body of the man with Soap's face. The CCTV cameras are too shitty to see his eyes as he gazes down at the body leaking blood across the floor, but Soap hopes.

Hopes there's real emotion there. Hopes even more that Ghost finally sees it – finally sees that the dead man whose chest he's so tenderly pressing with his hand isn't his *Johnny.*

This time the watery blur appears in both eyes, and he doesn't bother to blink it away. Because he's seen all this before, and it never changes.

The door behind him opens, but he keeps his focus on the screen. He watches his former teammates leave the body behind in their desperation to follow Makarov.

But they won't find him. Soap knows because he recognizes the footsteps behind him as easily as he once recognized Ghost's.

Ghost, who made his gait purposefully distinct to alert Soap to his presence before slipping into Soap's bed late at night and who murmured soft words in his ear, words no one would ever believe the hardened man would say out loud. But he did. He said them to Soap as he took him apart piece by piece like he would a favorite gun, slow and deliberate, before putting him back together with love and care.

A hand slides into his long, filthy hair. Soap braces for the pain, and Makarov doesn't disappoint as he yanks Soap's head back.

"Enjoying the show?"

Soap doesn't respond. He never does, though it enrages Makarov.

On the screen, soldiers fill the tunnel, taking up the space won back by the 141. They set up a perimeter around the bomb.

The dead man remains sprawled on the ground, lifeless and forgotten.

"Look how they just left you behind. Left you to be picked up and brought here to wallow in misery."

A surge of anger burns through him—

But.

No. That's not right. Soap was never in that tunnel.

He's been in this cold, dark room since the mission in Siberia, taken down by a bullet and dragged away before he could radio for help. He has no idea how long he's been here, but he's endured every kind of torture: electrocution, waterboarding, frostbite, knives, pliers, hot pokers, and more. His body is a canvas of scars and burns

Through it all, he held on to his faith with ragged, broken fingers, with bloody teeth sunk into the promise of hope, that his team would find him. That *Ghost* would find him, rescue him from this hell, and wreak havoc on their enemies.

Until Makarov showed him why no one had come for him. Why no one will ever come for him.

A knife flashes in front of his eyes, fluorescent light reflecting off silver. Soap's voice grates through the air like steel against steel.

"Who was he?"

Makarov lets go of his hair, leaving behind a dull throb of residual pain, and rounds the chair Soap is tied to, hands on his hips and a sadistic glint in his eye.

"Him? Oh, just someone who got confused about his role in this lovely little play. Perhaps the serum was a bit too effective at turning him into you, disgusting loyalty and all, hmmm?"

Serum.

Memories resurface slowly. He's had this conversation with Makarov before. A sliver of panic bleeds into his numbness.

Christ have mercy. He's fucking losing it. How long before he stops remembering? How long before he becomes a shell of himself?

Maybe it doesn't matter. After all, no one is coming for him.

When Soap doesn't say anything more, Makarov's glee sours into a frown. The blade flashes in front of his blurred vision once more before pressing against his neck.

"I admit I thought you would be easier to break. You seemed so obedient in Verdansk. You could've ended me, but instead you followed orders like a good little soldier. And here you are."

The knife digs in, but pain is a familiar friend he's learned to ignore. When Soap doesn't react, Makarov sighs.

"I suppose if you won't break on your own, it's time to get experimental."

He brings out a syringe and holds it up as if considering his next action. The liquid inside glows a sickly yellow green, and Soap's stomach churns at the thought of what new pain this torture it might bring. Because he knows Makarov's pause is just for show. There is no escape.

The gleeful grin returns as he jabs the needle into Soap's neck in the same spot he'd just cut him open. The liquid is brutally cold as it enters his blood stream, his muscles seizing from the rapid temperature change.

WIthin seconds, Soap's world tilts sideways. His eyes blur yet again. He blinks and blinks, but the room goes softer with every passing second. His muscles relax, and he slumps forward in his chair, the bonds securing his wrists behind him cutting into his skin, though he can't feel it anymore.

Makarov sounds like he's underwater when he speaks. "Good. Let us begin."

Blackness takes him.

---

When Soap wakes, he's no longer in a dark, cold room. Through the broken out window of his full helmet, he sees strange buildings rising up into a swath of blue sky. Giddiness that borders on panic wells up in his chest.

He's outside. He made it outside. Did he escape? He doesn't remember.

His gaze falls, and the world stops.

He's surrounded by rivers of blood, knife in hand. His heart pounds like he's dying.

And on the ground lies a Ghost, splayed out like a sacrifice, bloodied and beaten and looking up at Soap like he's seen God.

"Johnny?"

Part 2 >>

Roach my beloved. Our fallen hero 🪳🧎‍♀️

roach is OBJECTIVELY the best cod character. i dont know what about him but like mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. we NEED more roaach content in this world like where is he !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!