#ghostsoapreader

[bluefalcon-cod]

Chapter 7 is live - Blue Falcon (COD fic reader-insert/Ghost/Soap)

Ghost enters the game for good. And you— you’ve just been weighed. Measured. And found trespassing on territory you were never meant to touch.

📖 Read Chapter 7 on AO3

Excerpt:

You shift backwards, an unconscious slight movement, and he is moving in. Taking that opening for himself. Stalking closer. Bit by bit your rigid posture erodes. A step back, then two, you can’t help it. The tall shadow owns the space you fled. Falls over you. Finally, you hold, force yourself still. Do not retract further. Do not. It feels like playing dead in a lion’s den. You force yourself to look. Look right past his face – past where you’d search fruitlessly for some kindling of emotions. There isn’t one.

You can only outlast him. Freeze up and endure. Inhale. Exhale. That whole ordeal, till it’s over.

This isn’t Sergeant Poster Boy Johnny MacTavish—flawed, impulsive, easy to tilt off-balance. You played your game in the noise he made. Broke him slow. Quiet.

But this— This is what stands behind him when the noise stops. The silence that gives shape to the drums. That holds the rhythm, sets the pace—decides when the song ends. The stillness that waits behind all sound. The kind that settles over the living, sooner or later.

You just didn’t see it. Didn’t see who you were circling when you struck.

The longer he stares, the clearer it gets: This isn’t retaliation. It’s correction. Repossession— Not of what, but who.

You laid your hands on something that was never yours to touch. And now, he doesn’t need to lift a finger to take it back.

The silence doesn’t stretch—it tightens. And he takes it. Fills it. Makes it his. The longer you suffer his scrutiny, the more it feels like your pain belongs to him. Like he’s claiming it. Keeping it.

And you realize—you’re not being watched. You’re being measured.

It’s more than his eyes. It’s the stillness behind them. The stillness of someone who decides when things end. He tilts his head, skull mask leering down at you. Controlled. Certain. Not curious—deciding.

"You are not much of a threat, are you?"

That cuts. Straight where it hurts. Your fingers cramp around air, then around the fabric of your sleeves.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Chapter 6 is live: No Escape

Blue Falcon (COD Fanfiction GhostxSoapxF!reader)

Back on base, everything tightens. The armory. The routine. Ghost’s gaze. And Soap—he’s starting to notice.

>>> Read Chapter 6 on AO3

Before Chapter 6 dropped: → 1,359 hits → 85 kudos → 40 bookmarks → 37 subscriptions

You stayed. You watched. You reached out.

Thank you.

A two-week update rhythm is now set. The boys are here to stay. Ghost is watching. Soap is unraveling. And you? You're in too deep to stop now. Right??

"Oi… D’ye reckon I know ye?" His eyes search your face. Your stomach does a flip and you forget his fucking eyes.

A slow blink later, you open your mouth.

“No. Sir.” You deflect, tongue too thick for your mouth. Inside, you fight to unclench your jaw, but the tension won’t break. Thousands of reasons are flashing bright in your mind why you must stay, but your feet are still close to bolting.

And MacTavish knows how close. He ducks his head and stalks across the cargo hold close to you, blocking your view of the exit. You fight each of his steps for control, the harder the closer he gets. He’s a tall man, not the tallest, but taller than you. You knew before– but only just now, it really registers. How tall he is, how powerful.

How easily he could handle you – push you up against the wall and -… The thought is a cold thing, sharp and jagged in your chest. It is ice crystals in your veins, freezing your blood until only the cold remains. Irrevocably, all sense and sensibilities discharged, until you, stand before him, like a see-through polycarbonate riot shield. Frigid. Outwardly, blank surface, but primed for battle.

Instinctually, he rises to the challenge. His muscles rolling with tension, he crowds you. On high alert, you see the dangerous edge around his eyes sharpen.

“Sir, “ A voice breaks the heavy pressure, and Soaps steps back and faces the breathless soldier who’d called. The very same is running up to you two and saluting in a hurry. “Sir, Captain Price, called-“

“Aye aye.” Soap grumbles, all tension broken, gives you one last long look, before he moves down the plank, and disappears. You almost want to crack a joke in relief, but when the Private turns his worried expression to you, you pause. Gratitude turning sourer with every second that passes.  

“Corporal, Ma’am,” His eyebrows furrow, eyes tense.  “Lieutenant Riley wants you. Now.” You should have dropped that grate when you had the chance.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Excerpt BLUE FLACON Chapter 10 - COD Fic COD/ f!reader

You sabotaged him quietly. You hid perfectly. Until now. Soap knows—and he’s coming for you.

Chapter: STRIKE

“Oh shit, guys- better shut up, real quick, our little Corp looks like she’s plotting your murder.”

Your jaw clenches tighter, till you feel your teeth’s edges biting into another. Forty meters.

“No, bro, she figuring out how to sabotage your gun and make you look like a dumbshit in front of your squad.”

“What,” A deep voice growls. “Did ye just say?”  MacTavish.

Your eyes meet. And for one impossible second, he’s still.

Eerily still.

The tension doesn't build—it drops, hard and heavy, like something snapping tight inside him.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t speak.

Just stares. And that stare—that look—isn’t confusion or amusement anymore.

And in a voice that shouldn’t sound so calm, not from him, not now, he says—

“You.”

Uh-oh.

You better run. Soap's finally figured out what YOU (the reader) have been doing... Read more here Read now on AO3: Chapter 10: Strike

[bluefalcon-cod]

Chapter 8 is live — The Line Between Predator and Prey

The 141 is gone, but danger isn’t. The silence only gives the others more room to watch, whisper, close in. You keep your head down, cling to routine—but the base feels smaller now, tighter. Like it’s closing in. And you’re not sure who’s worse: the ones who left… or the ones still here.

Reader-insert. Psychological warfare. Military trauma. Dubious consent. Ghost watches. Soap unravels.

Chapter 8: Read now on AO3

Updated every second Sunday.

Beginning - Chapter 8 The 141 leave and don’t come back the following week, or the one after that.

Once upon a time—some distant, long-lost reality—that would’ve been a relief. Now, though, it’s a slow drag of a blade, just enough pressure to split skin but never enough to finish the job.

Torture.

Your dad would’ve called it an exercise in perseverance, but he’s at home, nursing bottlenecks for therapy, so there goes that advice. You’re halfway through getting admission for leave when it hits—going home, that home, means standing in front of that sometimes-sober, always-perceptive, middle-aged ex-army man.

Three steps inside your little rickety country home, before the questions start. What would you even tell him?

"Hey Dad. Sorry I forgot to mention your daughter’s military career came with the extra bonus of getting raped in a fucking storage room by some Tier 1 asshole—a real golden boy operator. Brass handed him a 'suspension' instead of a court-martial, because apparently, justice isn't worth all the paperwork when it's one of their own elite poster boys.”

“But hey, no worries. I'm doing great. Everyone thinks I’m the lying bitch who ruined some poor hero’s spotless record. And recently another skull-faced psycho figured he'd test how far he could push me.”

“Don't worry though, Dad. You raised a tough little soldier. Only labelled myself a ‘snitch’ at the cost of my whole fucking reputation. And now that you are asking, I’m kind of post-traumatic stressing over the whole ordeal, so how ‘bout you hand me that bottle you’re holding, and we finally bond over something real?”

“Cheers.”

You’d break his fucking heart.

Again.

[...]

Read more on AO3

[bluefalcon-cod]

UPCOMING SCENE, fanart for my fanfic readerxsoapxghost They are in Soaps and Sgt. Garrick room. Soap is shirtless, Trousers undone. He looks really buff and all and the reader is properly intimated and fucking flushed. Soap is already hard, his shaft poking out of his boxers - flush and leaking onto his clenching stomach muscles.

Ghost: Go sit in him.

You: Sir -

Ghost: Do as I say or i am going to let you undress first, Corporal. Seargeant is gonna learn how to take care of his weapons properly, is that right?

Soap: Yes sir +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

scene from the upcoming chapter of Blue Falcon

🔗 Read the full fic on AO3

COD-Fanfic #BlueFalcon #ghostsoapreader

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Guys, I am trying- though, as you can see (T.T) I didn't get Soap's face right... and let's not (yet) talk about his expression. I migh discard this alltogehter, but wanted to share it nonetheless. Really, this feels like multilating the words I have saved for a later smut-heavy chapter in my fanfiction.

Aaaah the torture of putting ideas in my head into real, phyiscal forms. It huuuuurts. It's just never good enough!

[bluefalcon-cod]

Chapter 5 Excerpt

Chapter 5 is live: “Hunted by the Wolf”

Ghost hasn’t called you out—yet. The moment he strikes draws closer. So close you can feel the teeth at your back.

Or can you?

Maybe you're imagining it all.

🔗 Read Chapter 5 on AO3 EXCERPT

...

Then he’s moving.  His body merges with the low fog slowly. He walks off into the twilight until he’s finally one with the shade.

"Fucking hell, that was intense." You glance at the Private. Pale. Stiff. Eyes too wide.

You stand there, the shape of his voice still pressed against your skin.

Your own stiff hands press into your jacket pocket, fabric stretching around your hands and the riflescope. The Elcan Specter feels like contraband. No, worse. A marker. A thread in the noose. A single, silent accusation pressing against your ribs. You press your fingers over it, feeling the screws rasp against your skin. The weight of your own sabotage.

The Private exhales, trying to laugh it off.

But you don't.

You just press your hand tighter to your pocket.

To the weight that shouldn’t be there.

You don’t answer him.

You don't need to.

Because you both know—

this wasn’t the end.

Just the warning.