#of self sacrificial bastards

[dyinggirldied]

HOLY TRINITY X SPY AU

In this modern world where technology and magic interwired, the existence of spy remains necessary more than ever.

We have an organization that immediately disbatches 3 of its top members to a prestige, highly publicized boarding school due to a rumor that a bomber blood mage criminal has hidden there.

1st spy, nicknamed the Silver Shield, real name: Kim Rok Soo.

2nd spy, nicknamed the Demon King, real name: Kim Dokja.

3rd spy, nicknamed Monster Mother, real name: Han Yoojin.

All three are talented but are desperate for their deserved retirement.

This mission will be the last. The three spies are confident this plan will go without a hitch since they have worked together before and any missions, no matter how impossible, are guaranteed to be succeed with the Unholy Trinity there.

Of course they jinx it.

The Academy they will be undercover turns out to not only housing the target but to also be a nestling pot of an incredibly secretive and dangerous crime organization that has existed since ancient time and is currently alarmingly large in number. There are hints that the org might have impacted the Holy Trinity's childhood before.

To add to the trouble, Rok Soo (who is half-Korean) had dyed his hair red and forged a fake name, as expected. It would have been no problem if it wasn't for the fact that Rok Soo, or Cale Margarita (he lost a bet), shares resemblance to the infamous wealthy deliquent, Cale Henituse down to the reddish-brown eyes. Or that the young boy Choi Han, whom he gives his sandwich to, would obediently follow him around like a puppy!

Kim Dokja, or rather Yoo Dokja, finds himself at odds with the professor Yoo Joonghyuk, who Dokja embarassibgly admires when he was young. Yoo Joonghyuk, through his keen sense and instinct, is suspicious of this "Yoo Dokja" and no, despite what Uriel and others say, he does NOT have a crush on that annoying man!

Han Yoojin, who uses his real name since unfortunately his overprotective younger brother (who doesn't know his older brother is in a dangerous career) is the star pupil of this school, enters as a sort of teaching assistant to one Sung Hyunjae, who keeps giving him exotic presents.

The retirement life filled with money and delicious food, suddenly seems far far away.

P.S: this is based on a dream where my OC asks the holy trinity this question: "How to hide oneself in plain sight?"

Kim Rok Soo/Cale: "Act cute, weak, helpless"

Han Yoojin: "Cuteness can save the world"

Kim Dokja: "Born ugly :)"

*the conversation derails into disaster*

P.S Again: Margarita is an alcoholic drink whose base is tequlia, orange liqueur and lime. And guess who hates sour thing 🤣

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[OLD ART ALERT] A COLLECTION OF SCENES FROM THE GILLIONS CATSCRATCH ARC THAT BROUGHT ME GREAT JOY. i love fishy chips especially when its just gillion being delirious and violent and hostile

[neominthe]

SSB WIPS

[chapinii]

had an idea for the concept of pac using the tazercraft mind link to switch bodies with mike in a situation where he's about to get hurt in order to take the brunt of the impact (and pain) for him and now I'm climbing the walls.

(he's done it so many times at this point that the switch is seamless enough that mike doesn't notice, he just thinks he has one hell of a pain tolerance)

[seiwas]

oh myg od togAME no Way NO Way NO WAYYYYYY how dare he go for MY HEART like that

[ancientforgcd]

Honestly a lot of the analysis I did on Goku yesterday applies to Ruby too.

[sparklecryptid]

Re: the last post I reblogged

Libertus whenever Nyx and Ace try to do something stupid and self sacrificing

[jamrroll]

Genshin Impact’s Self Sacrificial Little Bastards:

(Aka the playables whose skills cause HP loss and make my head want to explode. Respectfully.)

Xiao: I love you honey, but you gotta stop literally trying to get yourself killed. Please and thank you! 😊

Kuki Shinobu: What is even the point of literally slicing yourself open? Can’t you do the skill without that first step, or are you really just that clumsy? I wouldn’t be surprised if Kuki here has pulled this stunt so many times it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

Hu Tao: You do realize you can’t do business on yourself, right..?

Dehya: Honestly, Fake Cat Girl II here already makes my head want to explode, so what’s a little more?

(Could you tell I listed them in order of how much I care about them? Hu Tao would’ve been last, but then Dehya happened so..)

[astratria]

girlhood is enjoying your fictional little guy™ going through hell and back

I see a man (fictional), I am generally like "okay". I see the same man (fictional) being put in a situation, covered in dirt and blood, perhaps soaking wet, actively sobbing and shaking like a chihuahua, and I am saying "yay" and "yippee" and things of this nature

[autisthottygoth]

Cdrama men all have rocks for brains and yet I still love them

[hespidere]

last words ,

left to right : peter parker of earth-1048 , peter b. parker of earth-616 , peter parker of earth-65 , and peter parker of earth-1610

[gay-panic-at-the-disco]

My type of men are pathetic, self-sacrificial bastards who have moody, stoic husbands

Not a requirement, but all three of them also have a bad bitch best friend with a bob

[rlaehrwk21]

you had one job.. 😔

*You have no other choice.

[wittyandobsessed]

𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Gregory House x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | stupid behavior, migraine.

𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

House’s schemes were rarely straightforward, and this one was no exception. It had all started when he stumbled upon an article in a prestigious medical journal, authored by none other than Dr. Walter Henson, a former colleague from his medical school days. Henson, the man who had publicly accused House of cheating during their final year, had gone on to carve out a respectable, if unremarkable, career in pharmacological research. The article detailed his latest work: a groundbreaking new drug for migraines.

The moment House saw Henson’s name, a storm of old grudges and biting curiosity brewed in his mind. The smug bastard finally thinks he’s relevant? House thought. He skimmed the article, snorting at its technical jargon and self-congratulatory tone. The idea that Henson’s drug could be as revolutionary as claimed was laughable. But what irked House most was the praise the paper was garnering—praised by people who should have known better.

House couldn’t resist the pull of vindication. He didn’t just want to discredit Henson; he wanted to obliterate his credibility in public. “The man’s ego deserves a migraine worse than his drug could ever cure,” House muttered to himself, spinning his cane in one hand as he considered his options.

The first step was to attend Henson’s upcoming conference, where he was presenting his findings. House, of course, couldn’t just sit quietly in the audience like any normal person. His plan was to interrupt the presentation with razor-sharp questions that would unravel Henson’s argument before the audience’s eyes. But Henson, smug and prepared, had all the right answers—or at least answers that satisfied everyone but House.

Frustrated but undeterred, House decided on a more audacious approach. If he couldn’t embarrass Henson on stage, he’d do it by disproving the efficacy of the drug itself. And what better test subject than the ever-sacrificial Dr. Gregory House?

“People fake migraines for sympathy all the time,” he said to Wilson over lunch. “I’m just taking it a step further by giving myself one for science. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Wilson raised an incredulous eyebrow. “The worst? How about you end up curled in a dark room for three days regretting every life decision that led you to this point?”

“Please. I already regret most of those,” House replied, popping a Vicodin. “This? This is for the greater good.”

And with that, he set his absurd plan in motion.

House’s process of inducing a migraine was, predictably, reckless and borderline masochistic. House reclined in his office chair, the empty syringe discarded on his desk like a grim trophy. He could already feel the subtle beginnings of the migraine taking hold—a dull throb behind his left eye, accompanied by the faint sensation of pressure building at his temples. It was like the prelude to a storm, the air thick with expectation. His lips curved into a small, satisfied smirk despite the discomfort. Another genius experiment, another inevitable victory.

The pain escalated rapidly. The throb became a pounding, and the pressure behind his eyes morphed into a relentless vise, tightening with each passing minute. He braced himself, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands pressing against his temples. A quiet groan slipped out before he could stop it.

House had endured pain before—lived with it, in fact—but this was different. It wasn’t the chronic ache of his leg or the manageable twinges that Vicodin could smooth over. This was acute, blinding, and utterly incapacitating. He reached for the bottle of water on his desk, but even the effort of unscrewing the cap sent a sharp jolt through his skull, forcing him to stop.

By the time Wilson arrived, the migraine had claimed complete dominion over House’s senses. His office was a cocoon of dim light, the blinds drawn tightly shut, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning. Wilson stepped inside, his usual look of bemused exasperation painted across his face.

“Well, if it isn’t the martyr of medical science,” Wilson drawled, glancing at the syringe on the desk. “How’s the great experiment going, House? Painful enough to regret it yet?”

House didn’t bother looking up. “Still better company than you,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. His head remained cradled in his hands, fingers digging into his temples as if he could squeeze the pain away.

Wilson, unimpressed, crossed his arms. “You injected yourself with migraine medication and something to induce a migraine? I’m not sure whether to call you insane or applaud your dedication to self-destruction.”

House’s response was a low grunt, barely audible. The pounding in his head drowned out most of Wilson’s words, but he caught the tone—somewhere between concern and annoyance.

“Well, since you’re clearly miserable,” Wilson continued, a wicked grin forming, “I think it’s only fair to make this moment educational.”

Before House could protest, Wilson marched to the windows and threw the blinds open, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. House recoiled instantly, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he shielded his eyes.

“Are you kidding me?!” he barked, his voice cracking under the strain.

“Oh, I’m just helping,” Wilson replied innocently, moving to the light switch and flicking it on. The fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life, their harsh glow cutting through the dim sanctuary House had created.

“Wilson,” House growled, his tone edged with genuine desperation, “if you don’t turn that off, I will murder you in your sleep.”

But Wilson wasn’t done. He began clinking items on the desk—his watch against the water bottle, the pen holder against the desk lamp—creating a cacophony of sound that reverberated through House’s skull like a sledgehammer.

“Get out!” House bellowed, clutching his head.

Satisfied he’d made his point, Wilson relented and left with a muttered “Idiot” under his breath.

Not long after Wilson’s departure, you arrived at House’s office, concern etched into your features. You had heard from one of the nurses about his latest stunt, and while you were used to House’s reckless experiments, the thought of him lying in agony was enough to bring you straight to his door.

What you found made your chest tighten. House was sprawled on the floor, his cane discarded nearby, his eyes squeezed shut as he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. His normally sharp, cutting presence was reduced to a vulnerable shadow of itself.

You stepped inside, careful to close the door softly behind you. “What were you thinking?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You crouched down beside him, your knees brushing the edge of his arm as you reached out to gently touch his shoulder.

House flinched at the contact but didn’t push you away. “What do you think?” he muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm despite the evident pain. “Science, brilliance, the usual.”

“There’s a fine line between brilliance and idiocy,” you said, your tone devoid of malice. You knew him too well to be surprised by his recklessness. Instead, there was a quiet sympathy in your voice, a soft understanding of the lengths he would go to prove himself right. “I hope the pain is worth it.”

House grunted, his hand shifting to cover his eyes. “It is,” he said flatly. “I’ve proved my point.”

“And it was that important?” you asked, leaning back slightly to study his face.

“Of course it was,” he snapped, though the bite in his words lacked conviction. After a pause, he added, “Henson’s drug is crap. The world needed to know.”

“And the world couldn’t have found out some other way?” you pressed, almost gently.

House groaned, turning his head slightly to face you. Even through the pain, there was a flicker of defiance in his expression. “Some truths are worth suffering for,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint smirk before another wave of pain wiped it away.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture was small, almost insignificant, but it seemed to ground him. His body relaxed minutely under your touch, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough for him to exhale a shaky breath.

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the sound of his labored breathing. 

After a moment of standing there, watching House curled up on the floor in obvious torment, you made a decision. You couldn’t just leave him like this, stubbornly suffering through the consequences of his reckless experiment. With a soft sigh, you knelt down next to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Move over,” you murmured, your tone firm but kind.

House cracked open one eye, his gaze sluggish and unfocused. Even in his haze of pain, there was a flicker of curiosity in his expression as he studied you.

“What?” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

“Move over,” you repeated. “I need you to sit up for a second. Come on, work with me here.”

House groaned in protest, but he grudgingly shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His movements were slow and deliberate, each motion accompanied by a wince or a muttered curse. You guided him with a steady hand, helping him adjust until there was enough space for you to sit down on the floor.

“Lie back,” you instructed, patting your lap.

House raised an eyebrow. You rolled your eyes but smiled softly. “Just lie back, House. Humor me.”

He hesitated for a moment, but the exhaustion etched into his features betrayed him. Finally, he relented, lowering himself until his head rested on your lap. The tension in his body didn’t dissipate entirely, but there was a noticeable shift—a subtle surrender to your care.

With his head cradled against you, you reached up and began to stroke his hair. Your fingers moved slowly, gliding through the unruly strands with gentle precision. The repetitive motion was soothing, each stroke a silent reassurance that he wasn’t alone in his misery.

“What are you doing?” House mumbled, his voice muffled against your thigh.

“Helping,” you replied simply.

He opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off.

“I don’t know much about this miracle drug Henson’s been peddling, but I do know a thing or two about pressure points,” you said. “They help with circulation, and circulation helps with migraines.”

House didn’t respond, but his breathing had slowed slightly, the rhythm of your fingers in his hair lulling him into a marginally calmer state.

You shifted your focus, moving your hands from his hair to his forehead. Using your thumbs, you applied light pressure to the center of his brow, working in small, deliberate circles. The skin beneath your fingers was warm, slightly damp with sweat, and you could feel the faint flutter of his pulse as you worked.

House made a low sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“Does that hurt?” you asked, pausing to gauge his reaction.

“No,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Feels... good.”

Encouraged, you continued, your fingers tracing the lines of his forehead with gentle precision. You pressed slightly harder, massaging the area around his temples in slow, circular motions. His face, usually so guarded and sharp, had begun to soften, the tight lines of pain easing under your touch.

“House,” you said softly, “you need to stop doing things like this to yourself.”

He didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with defiance but lacked the usual venom. “I wouldn’t have to if people weren’t so damn wrong all the time.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “And you think giving yourself a migraine is the best way to prove that?”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Shaking your head, you moved your hands to his cheeks, using your fingertips to apply gentle pressure along his jawline. His stubble scratched against your skin, a tactile reminder of his humanity—the man beneath the bravado.

“You’re impossible,” you said softly, though there was no real bite to your words.

“Thanks,” he muttered, the sarcasm dulled by the drowsy tone in his voice.

You shifted your hands again, this time tracing the sides of his neck. Your fingers glided over the taut muscles, kneading the tension away with slow, deliberate motions. House’s body relaxed further, his head sinking more heavily against your lap.

“You’re going to put massage therapists out of business,” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly as he drifted closer to the edge of sleep.

“Good thing I’m not charging you,” you quipped, your smile softening as you continued to work.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning and the sound of House’s measured breathing. You lost track of time as you moved your hands over his temples, his cheeks, the nape of his neck. Each motion was an unspoken promise—a quiet reassurance that, for this moment, he didn’t have to bear his pain alone.

Eventually, House let out a soft sigh, his body going limp against you. The lines of pain on his face had faded, replaced by an expression of tentative peace.

“Thanks,” he murmured, the word barely audible.

You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment before resting gently against his temple. “Anytime,” you whispered, your voice filled with a tenderness you knew he wouldn’t acknowledge out loud.

And so you stayed there, the two of you on the floor of his office, sharing a rare moment of quiet vulnerability in the midst of his self-inflicted chaos.

[briebysabs]

I’ve been deliberating for a couple days now and have decided to discuss in-depth about Kim Dokja and the tendencies of putting his life on the line. For most of the novel, I was split on whether I should view KDJ as a self-sacrificial bastard or a suicidal character. And by the end, I’ve reached the conclusion that he is both.

Before I elaborate further, it should be noted that while we all meme about KDJ’s dying count, he actually isn’t that careless with his life. What I mean is he sacrifices himself usually as a last resort, plans A to F didn’t work and it’s the only option left to hope for kimcom’s safety-ditch effort. Usually. We’ll circle back to that when we bring up OD. But his sacrifices are always done as granting his companions salvation, utterly blind to how they feel about it. But to understand his constant need to do this you have to first start with where he learned how to love. Lee Sookyoung’s love was sacrificial, she’d take the brunt of her husband’s rage to shield KDJ, she’d take on blame for his death and be incarcerated for years so Kim Dokja won’t discover the truth. All of this, in my opinion, unbeknownst to KDJ, imprinted onto him this interpretation of love. As nobody else until the scenarios began had loved him (Yes HSY technically but he doesn’t know that). Which gives the irony that multiple characters KDJ resent in the story such as Kim Namwoon, his mother, the constellations are ultimately revealed to be reflections of himself.

Another component to his self-sacrificing is “Kim Dokja the reader”. I’m not going to dive deep into how orv interweaves dissociation and escapism into its narrative, I’ll do that some other day. But KDJ views himself as the reader, an outsider, the sole member in the audience watching the story unfold before him. Yes he grants commentary, the players notice and acknowledge his existence, but he isn’t part of the play. So if he decides to step out of the auditorium for a while, if he decides to leave a bookmark where he left off and close the book, nothing should change. The story will continue in his absence, the characters cannot possibly miss him because Kim Dokja was not a character. He was not part of their world so even if he’s gone, the ending will still happen. And that is something I want to stress here.

KDJ says “he wants to see a certain story’s epilogue”. Specific choice of words, “see”. He doesn’t say he’ll be part of it,that he’ll be with them, or any close variation of those phrases.

This is where I want to diverge to talk about KDJ's suicidality. You can say “Ok then, KDJ has a clear goal in mind to reach the ending he desires. Yes he may feel the need to step out of the story every now and then, but he does so reluctantly. So obviously, he doesn’t want to die.” And you wouldn’t be wrong really but that simplifies it to an overwhelming degree. That’s how I initially thought of it until I realized how complicated it actually is. Because most people who deal with suicidal thoughts aren’t searching for death but rather feel there’s no other choice. It often isn’t as clear cut as 1863 YJH who, anyone that read this arc will say with certainty that he was suicidal. Yes KDJ isn’t chanting in his mind over and over that he wants to die but why does he want to live? To see the proper ending of a web novel that stopped him from attempting again to begin with. Over the course of orv he finds people he loves and who love him back deeply. People he longs to live for but despite that because of the disconnect between them, his self-loathing, accompanied with what I said before, believing he has no other way out of these threatening situations. Yeah it’s to save his companions but in the end Kim Dokja still feels the need to die. Even if you do not see KDJ as a suicidal character, it is undeniable that so much revolving him, the impact it has on those who care for him, and the visceral descriptions used to convey their thoughts, is a direct metaphor for that.

Or in a few cases, straight up what’s going on and now we arrive at what I think was the final straw for Kim Dokja. Meeting the Oldest Dream. For me, this is THE scene of orv. The biggest twist and what finally irreparably broke KDJ. Prior to this, Kim Dokja had become the “Enemy of the story” but it was unlike his previous dances with death. This time he truly had no intention of dying, he wants to be a part of the ending with his companions, he understands now that his sacrifices do hurt them. That according to him “I, someone of no redeeming quality, could be loved by the others.” That he is a character and that just maybe, he does deserve to live happily ever after with them. And then Kim Dokja meets a 15-year old boy with the same face as his, doodling in a notebook his ideas for Ways of Survival and a notification tells him to ‘Please end the Oldest Dream’. All of that progress is shattered in an instant.

KDJ tries to excuse himself by recalling his promise to SP to kill OD but we all know if that was any other kid, he would not have tried to kill them. He would’ve hesitated much more, he’d look for a loophole, he would’ve tried talking which is his biggest strength for every corner he gets into. Killing them would not be the first option but now it is. Because this isn’t an instance of sacrifice anymore, KDJ is sick of himself. OD is a presence that confirms KDJ’s worst fears. That he’s meant to be weak and pitiful and alone, that he was always an outsider, that he unintentionally causes pain and misfortune to people he loves, that everyone would be perfectly fine and better even without him. And Kim Dokja is the physical manifestation of them: a monster. And there’s only one way to get rid of this monster.

The chain of events from him swinging his sword at OD, trying to stab himself with the blade only for YJH to stop it desperately with his hand, everyone restraining and begging him to stop, KDJ crying and screaming for SP + the other Outer Gods to kill OD. Everyone else is forgiving him and KDJ is only thinking of getting a blade.

This is Kim Dokja’s relapse. It’s real, it’s harrowing, and he never recovers from it. He reaches the conclusion that he has to be alone, it’s his atonement, it's what he deserves. So he splits himself 49-51. I interpreted this when I first read it as presenting 49% of what you believe people want to see. More real than a facade but it’s not the true you. The true, fucked up version of who you are is trapped in a prison of your making, trapped in a darkness you feel you don’t deserve to escape. Which is why it’s so powerful that KimCom went after that 51%. They didn’t want just their version of KDJ, they wanted everything KDJ is including the larger side of him that he wishes didn’t exist. But the plan fails, they managed to turn that full stop into a comma but they couldn’t save KDJ. Because you can’t drag someone out of that train, out of that mentality, you can’t force someone to love themself. All you can do is reach out to any corner, every worldline you can and let them know you’ll always love them. That you’ll always love every aspect of their story and hope that perhaps one day, they’ll accept your hand and believe it.

[ID: Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint art by Blackbox: first of Kim DOkja smiling, seen through a space in a bookshelf, and second of astronaut Yoo Joonghyuk floating upside down as letters float around him. End ID]

[ghcstao3]

some AU rambles again :>

anyway. shadow!soap AU except soap doesn't really have any loyalty to them—doesn't have loyalties to anyone, for that matter. he operates on a self-preservation basis, for whatever outcome would benefit him the most; he doesn't care what or who he's fighting for, so long as they're the highest bidder. moral ground rocky at best, soap has a habit of completing a job, reaping the rewards, and disappearing before things get hairy.

and right now, it just so happens that shadow company is paying the most.

everything is going as expected, at first. but then the betrayal happens—and while soap doesn't care, doesn't feeling anything about it, he does wish someone would have told him beforehand. because now, dealing with the fallout, that need for survival presents him with two options: stay with the company that pays him well, or decrease his chance of getting killed by the 141 by ditching the company’s side.

because while the 141 is small, they're also mighty. soap has witnessed how efficient they are and, ultimately, decides that it's their side he'd rather be on. he does some mental calculations, and figures his benefit lies with the side that was betrayed. so, during that initial fiasco, soap follows ghost to las almas.

the bastard, however, is incredibly good at getting away—but after searching for the right channel and pestering and persuading the lieutenant some, ghost reluctantly agrees to let soap tag along, so long as he can make it to the cathedral on his own. and then, maybe then, he'll consider soap one of their own, at least temporarily.

obviously that's what soap wants, so soap does. he demonstrates his competence ten times over, proves he has no qualms with killing other shadows, and eventually makes it to the cathedral—all while being an unabashed flirt with ghost. he takes great joy in doing it, getting to hear the eye rolls in ghost's unimpressed replies, and see his irritation when they finally meet up.

soap does mean it, though; ever since he'd first met the man, soap knew he was going to make advances at one point or another. ghost was a tree he damn well wanted to climb. but it appears ghost has no mutual interest.

anyway, so on so forth, at some point ghost has a close call and for the first time since maybe childhood, soap does something self-sacrificial to save him after a lot of inner turmoil. thankfully, they both survive in the end, and soap realizes he has feelings going beyond a basic attraction—and learns that ghost had started feeling the same too, eventually, he'd just been reluctant to indulge since he hadn't thought soap trustworthy just yet. after all, he'd switched sides like it was nothing.

after everything is said and done, soap still operates with his selfish mindset, and still refuses to owe loyalty to others—others except for ghost, to whom he willing hands his heart; his entire being.