TypedByNight
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He can’t get the thought of death out of his mind, the images blurring together like a painting made from blood in his mind. The picture shifts constantly, and Soap could handle it if it would just stop changing. He can handle death. He can handle dying. He can’t handle a thousand possibilities of how he might die. He does the only thing he can think of.
“If you were going to kill me, would you do it fast or slow?”
A beat passed. Long enough that Soap thinks that Ghost isn't going to reply and that will be the end of it.
“Slowly,” Ghost says eventually, startling Soap.
“How would you do it?”
Ghost looks over him, eyes sweeping over his body, and Soap feels somehow, achingly seen. “I'd cut you up. Make you bleed all pretty for me.”
OR
After Ghost rescues Soap from being tortured, Soap is unable to get all the ways his captors threatened to kill him out of his mind. Ghost helps him deal with his intrusive thoughts.
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They found a shared flat in Glasgow. Shared kisses in civvie clothes, shared meals, shared their bed, shared their pleasure, but not the words. Never the words.
Now he never will. He won’t even say them to Johnny’s body. He was too much of a coward while the man was alive. He doesn't deserve to say them now. Doesn’t deserve to say them while Johnny can’t hear. Doesn’t deserve the absolution.
He thinks briefly about reaching for his gun and putting a bullet through his head. He can’t. Not yet. Not until he’s laid Johnny to rest, and then hunted down Makarov.
OR
Soap is killed at the end of MWIII, Ghost has to deal with the aftermath. Except there's something not quite right, and Soap's not really dead.
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A loud click sounded through the room and Soap’s pulse jumped. He hadn’t felt so on edge since Las Almas.
Any previous emotion from Ghost’s face burned away—replaced with a steel gaze that Soap knew very well.
Soap’s blood ran cold when he saw what now lay before him. A light had switched on behind the glass, illuminating several figures standing behind it. Soap had suspected it wouldn’t just be a mirror—he still wished he had been wrong.OR
Ghost and Soap get captured on a mission, and some experimentation leads to Ghost becoming a little more like his namesakeBookmarked by TypedByNight
11 Nov 2025
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“You were going to spend Christmas with your mum.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Aye,” Soap answered honestly. He didn’t look away from the TV. They sat there, feet apart.
“I’m sorry you’re stuck here with me,” said Ghost.
Soap, mouth falling open at the apology, turned to Ghost to say something. Anything. It’s alright. You should be. I don’t mind it, if it’s you.
None of this actually made it out and Ghost beat him to the punch. “What the fuck movie is this, MacTavish?”
Soap turned in time to see Tom Hanks appear. But it wasn’t quite Tom Hanks, something was wrong with his-
Oh. Soap laughed. “This is Polar Express! It’s my sister’s favorite.”“What’s wrong with him?”
“It’s a cartoon.” Soap yawned and thought about what he’d just said. “But…not really.”
“I hate it.”
“Like me to change it, sir?”
“...No.”
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Soap's been shipped out to a safehouse in the Canadian Wilderness alone, except then Ghost shows up, but maybe Soap wasn't supposed to be shipped out in the first place? And Soap's been running on zero sleep and pure angst since they left Chicago. 'Tis the season.
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Bookmarked by TypedByNight
10 Nov 2025
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Ghost is motionless, staring down at John's outstretched hand like he's trying to recall on which page of How to Behave Like a Real Human in Polite Society he’s previously seen the gesture.
Before things can get awkward, John turns the aborted handshake into a jovial, manly sort of punch to Ghost’s shoulder. It's rather like how he imagines it would be to hit an adult moose, both in the physical sensation and in the frisson of anticipated danger it elicits. Gamely, he says, “Truck’s just about set, sir. Glad to be working with you.”
Ghost’s eyes flick up to John’s face, and then higher, to his hair. He frowns.
~
Two idiots are assigned to an ambulance. They fall in love.
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09 Nov 2025
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its just a shot away by Bluejay141519 for Plz2daysatan
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
26 Oct 2024
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On a foreign base, Soap has the opportunity to go out on a recon mission. By himself.
It goes, rather predictably, very bad.
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(Turns out Soap doesn't react well to stims. Who knew?)
Bookmarked by TypedByNight
09 Nov 2025
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Soap's wearing only a pair of dark boxer briefs—standard issue, thin with too many washes, clinging damp to his hips and thighs. The waistband is twisted slightly, like he'd stripped off the rest of his gear in a half-daze and collapsed into bed without bothering to fix it.
The fabric is soaked through at the front now, stretched tight where his cock presses upwards, twitching as the rhythm of his dream grips him. A shiver runs down his leg, his heel sliding down along the mattress, hips giving another subtle rut into the sheets. The motion pushes the briefs down a fraction, the elastic dragging over his hipbone.
Another grind, slower this time, and the waistband dips lower. Not intentional, not aware, but eager.
Ghost's pulse kicks up.
He shifts closer, crouched now beside the bed, one hand braced on the frame. His other hand hovers above Soap’s thigh, fingers flexing. He tells himself he’s just watching. Just waiting.
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Or; Ghost fucks Soap in his sleep.
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Bookmarked by TypedByNight
08 Nov 2025