miennien
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"Cannae do it myself. Humpin' the bed like a dog was the closest I got. If I could do it right I'd be off like a flashbang in minutes. Since yer here if ye could help me wrap my arm, I'm gonna take a cold shower."
"Thought you were gonna ask me to give ya a hand."
"Oh steamin' Jesus L.T. no, would never try to ask that from you."
"Would you take it if offered?"
"Depends on who's offering."
"I am."
"Yer aff yer heid, L.T."or
Soap gets injured and goes on medical leave on base. Ghost takes care of him in more ways than a superior should.
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John MacTavish, known to most of his friends simply as “Soap”, is about as unlucky in love as you could get, never finding someone that would give him enough of a chance for a second date, resorting to sleeping around when he gets stood up. Simon Riley (aka Ghost), his best friend, seems to be the only person in the world willing to give Soap a chance, but the dumbass (Soap, that is) can’t see past the fact that Ghost isn’t very good at talking about things, and is completely and utterly oblivious to how Ghost feels about him.
It reaches breaking point when, after dancing around each other for years, one of them cracks, starting a cataclysmic chain of events that will either make, or break, their friendship (and also win, or lose, Gaz about £200).
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What the fuck.
Soap brings his hand closer to his face, squinting hard. Making his already pounding headache worse. This isn’t real. Has to be a prank. For some reason, Gaz must’ve sneaked in here. Funny guy.
He’s heard—even seen it, once—the stories. It’s rare, but real, or at least an elaborate hoax, spanning countries and hundreds of years.
People brought together, Fate intervening. Everyone is supposed to have one, a red thread leading and binding them to the person they’re supposed to spend their life with, though Soap isn’t sure how true that is. No one falls in love once. But it’s not just for love, as he heard it. Maybe this is that. He’s not in love with Ghost. Wants him, sure, crushing…not something he wants to admit to in the cold light of day, but okay.
It’s not love.
- Language:
- English
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- 25/25
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Bookmarked by miennien
05 Jan 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Almost as long as The count of Mount Cristo, obviously better.
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Summary
734 days. You'd been a prisoner, locked and hidden away in this solitary cell for over two years. Others there had committed petty crimes or made themselves an enemy of the Ultranationalists, and before them— the Soviet Union.
A majority of prisoners hadn't done anything wrong at all, though they were too poor, too educated, or simply too much of a threat to the regime. Anyone could have been in the cell next to yours for any reason. But you? You knew why you were expected to rot away there.
It was either die of disease or malnutrition in your cell, long forgotten by anyone who'd known your name, or be found by either side of the conflict and be killed. Death had called to you for a while; you didn't fear it. And you didn't fear the three, foreign operators when they broke through the door to your prison cell— or when the one with the skull mask held an assault rifle to your head.
❝And who the fuck is this?❞
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After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.