RepairedbackMountain
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(Mo) Faodail | (My) Lucky Find by RepairedbackMountain
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
30 Jul 2025
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Alltanabhraige is another dying village in the Scottish Highlands, hugging the shores of Loch Bhuineadh where it sits nestled between great peaks. Its population could fit in your pocket with room enough for your hands to hide from the cold, making it the perfect place for people like the Rileys who don’t care to be found.
John MacTavish is Alltanabhraige born and bred; knows the middle name of each resident, and their dogs’ birthdays too. He’s the good Catholic boy, the chemistry tutor and best goalkeeper the school has on record – straight and proper with a smile that warms the valley where the sun so rarely seems to reach.
With Simon's father officially declared missing, his mum took her chance to move the boys in search of a more permanent freedom. They’re the fresh meat where nothing goes unseen and your laundry is everyone’s laundry too, which isn’t ideal when you’re someone with a lot to hide and have known nothing other than the need to keep what little is yours close. Simon keeps his legs uncrossed, doesn’t roll his sleeves up to the elbow until the cigarette burns there are silvery, and most importantly never lets his eye linger on another boy for too long – until Johnny, that is. -
(you belong) Eadar Nithean Matha by RepairedbackMountain
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
12 Mar 2023
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"Eadar nithean matha" - Soap never learned much Gaelic, but he can say one thing with complete confidence: between good things is where Ghost belongs
“I belong nowhere, Soap. Belonging is reserved for things that are wanted, so where does that leave me?”
“Eadar nithean matha, Simon. You belong between good things.”or: the fic where Konig joins Task Force 141 and Ghost flees, having decided that facing the mortifying ideal of being known by another is far too harrowing, and that it was due time someone more deserving took his place. Soap and Konig bring him back, and prove that Ghost belongs between good things -- whether it's them or all of 141.
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There was a rumor that Dutch van der Linde sold his soul at a crossroad in exchange for the shapechanging beasts that followed at his beck and call. Frankly, Arthur didn’t buy it. He followed Dutch and Hosea because they fed him. Some deal with a devil had nothing to do with it.
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Bookmarked by RepairedbackMountain
18 May 2024
Bookmarker's Notes
Fucking masterpiece shit had me gripping my phone so hard I thought I'd crush it
Words actually can't express the genius, the originality, the intricacy put into and of this fic -- the privilege of being able to consume this piece of peak literature is a great one
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“How was the mission?” Logan asks, both because he’s interested in the answer but also to hear Keegan’s voice—he’d been gone for almost three weeks, and the group had needed to go dark for over half of it; he’d spent days worrying about all of them, and he would never admit it, but Keegan’s mockery had been right: Logan barely sleeps when he doesn’t know he’s safe.
All he gets in response is a low hum, an intentional brush of the backs of their hands. When he glances over, he sees Keegan’s eyes trained on the ground, watching every footstep.
Logan frowns. He looks over his shoulder, looks ahead, carefully grabs Keegan’s hand in his own. Their fingers lock easily, naturally, and he gives it what he hopes to be a comforting squeeze.
“You sleep much out there?” He knows the answer, yet asks anyway.
“Slept enough.”
“You’re a shit liar. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Keegan lets out a little laugh, low in his throat. “Only you, kid.”
Logan smiles, squeezes his hand again. “Everyone else is too nice.”
or;
In which Keegan denies being sappy.
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"Arthur had learned this dance over the past decade. It was much more delicate than the ugly tumble it took to start a fight. Finding out if someone was itching for violence was simple, the signs often plain and in the open. It was expected of men to have the urge sometimes, as if they had a build-in affinity towards bloodied knuckles and bruised skin.
But the other dance was more complicated. It worked through small gestures, lingering gazes, fleeting touches. It had taken Arthur years to learn the intricacies of it.
He had also learned the prize for any misstep."
A look at Arthur's life, 1877-1898.
Bookmarked by RepairedbackMountain
23 Apr 2023
Bookmarker's Notes
If there is one piece of writing you ever read in your life, this fic should be it
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“Hey.”
Charles looks up, squinting against the sun, and focuses on the figure looming above him. It’s a bright day on the mountain, and all this damned snow is doing nobody any favors. “Arthur,” he says. “Good morning.”
“Huh? Yeah, mornin’.” Arthur tilts his head, scratches at his jaw, and tucks his chin down towards his chest. It’s a very particular mannerism, one that Charles has watched him perform countless times.
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Bookmarked by RepairedbackMountain
09 Apr 2023
Bookmarker's Notes
If I wanted dead gay cowboys I'd watch Brokeback so I read this fuckin masterpiece instead