bluefalcon-cod

[bluefalcon-cod]

I just never get around to draw a real couple scene

Also, I don't get around to writing a especially difficult scene in my COD Fanfic, "Blue Falcon on AO3" check it out if you want - I am a few chapters ahead, but still I wanna keep the update schedule.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Obviously, the other fanart didn't work out - so here's another try! Soap again :D

[bluefalcon-cod]

That's just the song for me - eh- I mean for Ghost.

🎵 Ekoh & Arankai – Broken Heart Collector

I love it like 🎵 Rain by Sleep Token ❤

What do ya think?

[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.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Chapter 4 - Excerpt

"Corporal.” His deep voice states it like a fact, not a greeting. Your eyes flit from MacTavish to the wall before you – Ghost, no, Lieutenant Riley. His massive frame blocks the fluorescent light for a moment, and if not for the rehearsed routine of this interaction, you might have shrunk back, too. You avoid his eyes – hell, you avoid the general area of his face. It’s not hard. Face forward you stare level at his SAS patch. Like aways, your chest heats up, breaths fighting against tension.

He’s a soldier, a grunt like you, but you’ve heard the stories. And after suffering his presence, his silence, you believe every single one.

You also know this is as intense as it going to get. Thank fuck. You’d die happily if this guy never muttered your given name or said anything more to you than “Careful of that latch—last thing I need is it sticking in the field.” And guiltily, you have also started to suffer through those silent moments with …. Something close to morbid fascination. Its all you ever allowed yourself to notice.

The way this big man handles his gear - fluid motions, no wasted effect, no unnecessary flourish. Efficiency over brute force, despite his sheer size. You watch as he dislocates his rifle from his backpack with a sharp tug, discharges its empty mag, and watch how he shoves the cold steel towards you with a precise thrust. You fumble to accept it, feeling your face heat when its so obvious that you lack the same skills, despite handling this stuff daily.

It feels almost intimate, to latch your hands onto warm steel where his fingers rested only a moment before.

[bluefalcon-cod]

🎆 Chapter 4 is live: “The Mind Is a Cheap Fuck”

Finally - more of our boys! ehm- MEN. ############

Soap is unraveling. Confidence shatters.

You don’t lift a finger. But every slip? Yours.

Until it all falls apart—under a dark, bottomless gaze.

Read Chapter 4 on AO3

#### Thank you so much for showing interest!

[bluefalcon-cod]

New Banner :-D Hope you like it!

Chapter 3 is live: All Wars Start with a Single Move 🔗 Read Chapter 3 on AO3 Power doesn’t shift with violence—it shifts with timing.

"In a battle of strength, you have already lost. But war is not over. It is only just beginning."

You make your first move. Soap stumbles. Is Ghost already watching?

EXCERPTS

(Who you are in this story.)

You are not an operator, not a front-line soldier. You are part of the hidden machine that keeps war running. And you'd been perfectly happy with that. Being called a gear-gremlin for not handing out ammo like free candy? The least of your worries now.

##########

(What's worse? That what follows SA (#sexualassaultinfiction)

The loudest; MacTavish.

A smirk over his coffee, shaking his head like it’s all so damn funny. A man whose words don’t just hang in the air—they land and linger on all those faces who glow in his glory. His smug expression just shy of another joke.

You wonder, not for the first time, if he even remembers you. If his fast-paced self-reliant adventurous life moved past you, without him ever thinking back on you – you, standing where they keep the empty trays in the mess hall, tears burning hot, wounds still healing.

His words loud. Setting the scene. Cementing your fate.

"Aye, whit d’ye reckon, lads? She tryin’ tae act like one o’ us, or is she just lapin’ up the attention? Lasses like that—pure gaggin’ fer it when a real man shows up."

A pause—half a second, no more.

Then it catches.

A snicker first. Then a chuckle. Then it rolls across the tables, spreading like a slow, lazy wave.

"Enjoyin’ the attention."

"Maybe she wants another round."

"Y’think she cried for real?"

Laughter. Sharp, easy, thoughtless.

Not for you.

MacTavish, being so funny. "Aye, can’t all be lucky, eh?"

Laughter. Then another. A wave pulling back before crashing forward.

You don’t need to turn your head to know who heard it. They will enlighten you.  Later.

In the corridor, the gym. Outside. You will hear his words echo. Lead. Strike.

“Look at her, man. Maybe she should be grateful someone paid her some attention.”

“Bunny hop along, don’t wanna give them ideas, now eh? I like my job.”  

The next time you hear it, it’s from someone who wasn’t even at his table.

MacTavish. Doesn’t even know your name. MacTavish, boasting his conquests like he’s hunting out deer or terrorists. Not women. Bet he doesn’t realize you have to suffer his presence every time missions and drills demand it. That you’re forced to stand beside him, under his command, after this.

Sergeant only smart enough to crack jokes, but not bright enough to notice what lingers.

Not bright enough to think past the moment, to hear his own words when they come back with someone else’s voice.

The words that followed.  

"Next time, we make sure you don’t get up.”

And what followed words.

#######

(You are on your own. Broken. Bruised. Left for the wolves.)

“Look, Corporal, this isn’t some fucking HR department. We don’t have time to litigate hurt feelings. We’ve got real soldiers out there doing real work. You should focus on that, too.”

You don’t file that report.

You are a soldier.

You focus on your attacker – the real threat out there.

They don’t press charges. You don’t press charges.

They don’t pursue it.

You listen to jokes about you because Hollywood operators just want to be funny in the mess hall. You stick to your close friends in logistics, the few you have left.

You just sit.

You eat.

You keep your head down.

And across the mess hall, every day, MacTavish’s grin slides over his coffee, unaware—or worse, unbothered. Cracking jokes like it means nothing.

Like you are nothing.

You sit.

You eat.

Another day.

You keep your head down.

Bodies stuck in your way on the way to your designation, soldiers blocking your way with laughter and lewd comments. Careless hands touching you - phantom touches lingering long after. Haunting you into sleepless nights.

Silence robbing your breath. Robbing you of your own bodies control. And out there, somewhere that man, soldier – assaulting other women, living his life. That exhale, your HR sharp representative erasing chances, comfort, trust. Inside - you – dying with every word that does not leave your lips.

Silence, threatening you with its promise.

It grinds you down, thought by thought, until payback is just problem-solving.

This is how it starts.

--------------

Survivors body dragged to the armoury, scars shielding injury, and intent outgrowing hopelessness. Music in your ears. Silence fenced off by hard beats.

MacTavish’s laughter ringing in your head.

Laser optics of MacTavish’s costume module M4 in your grasp, your devious fingers ghosting over the fine mechanism —just a whisper of pressure, just enough to loosen it a hair's breadth past regulation tightness. Not enough to be noticed during checks. Not enough to rattle. But enough that after a few shots, after the right amount of recoil, it will shift. Subtly. Unpredictably.

A click. A shift. A fraction of a degree that will betray him.

You know what a fraction of a degree does, how it fucks up the quick aim of anyone who relies on the dot to ensure his bullets hit true.

You are careful of your fingers work.

Unlike MacTavish, you remember every single push and flick, every change and adjustment you have laced into his gear over the last weeks. And unlike him, you have watched for the changes, for the ramifications of your own actions.

And you have not been disappointed.

Please feel free to leave a comment or a like - I'd appreciate any form of feedback or "Hello there!" I am desperate for some like-minded people to talk to.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Ghost: "I don’t recall giving you permission to speak, MacTavish."

His nostrils flare, but he sinks to his knees, knuckles pressing into the ground.

Ghost: "Better. Now, Corp—tell 'im what he did wrong."

(You hesitate. Soap’s head snaps to you, jaw twitching, his breath harsh. Ghost waits. You know what he wants.)

You: "…He’s careless. His kit’s a mess. His shots were off because he doesn't check his weapons like he should."

A sharp inhale, like you struck him.

Ghost: "And?"

Teaser - Blue Falcon Fanfiction (COD) Reader X Soap X Ghost Revenge Arc.

AO3

[bluefalcon-cod]

BLUE FALCON (COD Fanfic)

You loosen the sling on his HK416 rifle—just a bit. Miscalibrate his EOTech holographic sight. Shift the weight of his plate carrier just enough to throw him off balance. You sabotage his unrelenting confidence— Erode it, screw by screw, strap by strap. He doesn’t see it coming. But the shadows do.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64158349/chapters/164636719

[bluefalcon-cod]

(Excerpt) Chapter 1 COD (readerxsoapxghost) - The Armoury Knows no Names

She tweaked his kit.

Sabotaged his unrelenting confidence—

Eroded it, screw by screw.

He never saw it coming.

Only the shadows did.

Chapter 2 - Excerpt

Briefly, discarded armour rests in the dank, dark room like a defeated beast abandoned, only a small spectator standing witness, wallowing in its state. The faint beats of headphones tap into the silence in the room, deft, thoughtless fingers moving over gear and lists, sharp eyes following. Assessing, comparing, thinking about their words—but never losing track of the get-go.

Thinking of unloading the chamber of the HK416, like Blap. Blap Blap. Click.

Tapped out.

Chamber empty.

Chest heavy.

The taste of iron coats her tongue.

Music dances, beat going bump, dancing some of the dark away.

Sometimes, deft fingers are coaxed into following the music’s strong lead, tapping on steel. Feeling nothing at all.

Floating.

Then, the heavy-duty door shoves open, stressed brain coming back to its bodily anchor with a jerk.

“Fuck.” That deep rasp.

“FUCK.” That voice.

Him.

Here.

Fingers don’t react. Don’t sit still. Fingers dance—over handrails, over broken silences, checking lists, down down down on that list.

To his name.

MacTavish. John. Assault Operator, designated frontliner, listed for re-charge of primary HK416 D10RS 10.4” barrel and EOTech EXPS3—secondary weapon Glock 19X, Trijicon RMR, and SureFire X300U-A.

Two dark silhouettes cut into the enlightened square of threshold, staccato flickers of light spilling in. The ghost of gunpowder crawls over the concrete to where they come to stand.

Sergeant MacTavish and Sergeant Garrick, SAS. Task Force 141.

The frontman and the bassline under his noise.

“Could’ve been worse, mate.” There is a sound that might be the bastard sister of a cough—or a laugh.

"Y’lot got somethin’ to say, say it to ma face."

There is a coiled, electric pause. Then, MacTavish is moving, almost crawling up the walls, shoulders like bricks in all that gear. The figure in the back shrinks, merging with high-stacked crates and shelves.

Seargant Garrick shrugs, laughing quietly.

Velcro parts rip under the other man’s violent grip. Rifle guard torn off. Utterly disregarding everything strapped to the Geissele MK4 rail—optics, laser, magnifier, grip he slams the whole thing down like it’s failed him personally.

The SureFire suppressor grates against the flat surface of the table, packed with grit. EOTech EXPS3, still powered, flickers once, barely holding its zero. G33 magnifier hangs off its hinge—forgotten. Field tape peeling. Pressure pad torn half-free from the rail. The Magpul grip’s worn smooth where his hand always rests. Trigger guard bears the ghost of a scratch—LET ‘EM COME.

Mud sticks to the inner edges.

Mud trickles over his boots. Leaving little flecks of his body’s trail like blood splatter on the floor.

Sergeant MacTavish doesn’t pause. Doesn’t consider.

Velcro tears again, the neck gaiter is shoved down. Plate carrier, MOLLE-vest module for tactical holster with the holster still attached, gun inside and loaded, is shoved on top of what’s already been dumped.

He’ll be back.

Demanding things.

Making demands about careless, mud-covered, dripping-wet messes.

Like himself.

Hands shove into damp hair, making it even more of a mess. On the floor, of himself.

Muscles tense, this way and that—

“Fuck.”

Tension bunches under his damp shirt.

Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, a face that would be bearable, if not handsome, if not for the cocky grin that regularly ruins it.

It’s absent now.

A deep scowl curls his lips, revealing sharp, white teeth. All that muscular, compact strength, built for explosive power, messed up. Easy smile missing.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Blue Falcon (noun, U.S. military slang) A soldier accused of betraying their own unit—“Buddy Fucker.” Used to shame, to simplify. But not every act of survival is treason.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Chapter 0 - Blue Falcon FF COD

WARNING: This chapter contains a non-explicit scene of sexual assault and its emotional aftermath. Nothing graphic is described, but the experience and its impact are central to the story. Please take care of yourself while reading. If this content is too close to home, it’s okay to step away. Your wellbeing comes first. If you are troubled but intrigued, stay with the reader - we/ you will pull through together.

Softly, the door clicks shut.

You feel the air shift. Like a hand around your throat relenting, finger by bruising finger. As it goes, acid air floods you, poisoning your desperate lungs. Invigorating you, your body with oxygen. Only it fails to reanimate your breath. It flails shallowly, reaching, but never grasping. You are frozen in this fight. And the stillness around you, settles on your bare back like a true weigh, trapping you further.

Your ears strain for a sound – a tell-tale – a warning -… the one you missed before. Silence. Not like comforting stillness that came before, when the absence of sound lulled you into a peaceful contentment. This silence irrevocably changed. Charged with evil intent.

The longer you are left suspended in this mute environment, the stronger the feeling grows. Your body recognized it. Clenches. Spasms. Won’t obey. Something else, something uncalled but instinctive rolls it around, to face the door. It makes your red eyes haunt the unmoving doorknob.

It knows better than you do, not to trust yourself. It remembers your mistake.

The door stays shut. No sound, no approaching footsteps, or retreating shuffle. No words, no warning. Your world’s been muffled. Like a chokehold around your throat that won’t leave. Won’t let you forget the suffocating agony it suffered.

The weight of the silence.

You face is dry. Pale. Blank. On your bare back, flesh bears red tears. Trickling down between tattered cloth. You don’t feel a thing, except liquid blood running down your cheek, your back, between your legs.

As you stay unmoving, crouched on the floor, your body bears more tears, until there is an angry red puddle on the storage floor. Your eyes, still glued to the door, catch on its vibrant hue.

Immediately you move towards the rack where you keep the cleaning supplies.

Cleaning wipes already stained red between your fingers, your hand moves angry and fast into the puddle. Blood – your blood sprinkles everywhere. Onto the 9mm ammo boxes, only just catalogued, half of the load still sitting on the pallet where you left them. Neatly stacked so they don’t fall, just ready to be scanned and registered. It falls on the flasks of cleaning oils, and the delivery note, which lies on the floor where it fell.

You lean down to pick it up, your blood runs down its pages, like paint on a white canvas.

Stark red. Unmistakeably wrong –

You stare at it, only now realising -

You have to get it off. Or they will know.

You set to work. First getting red everywhere. Grimsome paint on the floor, the cannisters. Everywhere you don’t want to look. Your body resists. Won’t obey. It knows before you do. The grim juice. The one for bad stains. You get rid of the cardboard boxes, now irrevocably stained with red dots, and stack the 9mm ammo boxes neatly into the rack, where they belong- where they were supposed to go, before you were…. You clean off the oil bottles, set them straight, label facing forward, back into their place. Neat in four rows, set evenly apart like little good soldiers. Not ruined. Not stained.

The smell of blood, of your fear, is gravelly drowned by the stink of chemical solvent.

You right every wrong, until the room lies in stark artificial light, and the only dirty smeared thing is …. You. Your hand trembles against your breast, where it still clutches the tatters of your uniform. More brown than green now, its ripped fabric smeared with blood.

Slowly, your other hand, joins it. Slowly, your eyes fall farther down your body. To your naked hips, your thighs painted in red streaks.

Your breath hitches. Your body’s own weight falling away. Floating.

“Now, now, open those legs for me, Schätzchen.” A need to cover yourself overwhelms you.

Where are your trousers? You see it lying near the door, yet somehow, you can’t move towards it. Your body - it is yours isn’t it? Isn’t it? You try move it, but throbs against your will to claim it for yourself. It won’t move. It won’t obey. Now, that you have done away with the blood, the evidence reminder all it wants is to hurt.

And hurt.

A tear burns your cheek.

Now. Now-

Thinking is difficult, between all the hurt – you know you have to move. First, towards your cloth, then –

Where will you go?

You have to leave. Yes. Leave this room, this silence, before he comes back.

Your head head snaps up, eyes on the door. Air won’t come to you, your mouth drops open in a harsh pant. Your stomach cramps, your hands fall to the ground, to keep yourself suspended, barely above the floor.

Closed. Its closed.

You can’t hear a thing. Except your heartbeat.

But.

You haven’t heard before. Have you?

A feeling – you can’t place it, cannot name its reason or source - crawls over your thoughts, ruining you for anything else. You know one thing only: You haven’t been vigilant. God, how could have been so stupid as to let yourself be lulled into safety by such an unnatural sound as this silence? You have been blind to the danger. What kind of soldier are you?

The stupid kind. The naïve kind.

Your pulse slams in your throat. Hands curl. Nails pressing. Skin yielding.

But it won’t happen again. It won’t happen again. Won’t happen again. Won’thappenagain.

You swear it to the silence.

Softly, the door clicks shut.

You feel the air shift. Like a hand around your throat relenting, finger by bruising finger. As it goes, acid air floods you, poisoning your desperate lungs. Invigorating you, your body with oxygen. Only it fails to reanimate your breath. It flails shallowly, reaching, but never grasping. You are frozen in this fight. And the stillness around you, settles on your bare back like a true weigh, trapping you further.

Your ears strain for a sound – a tell-tale – a warning -… the one you missed before. Silence. Not like comforting stillness that came before, when the absence of sound lulled you into a peaceful contentment. This silence irrevocably changed. Charged with evil intent.

The longer you are left suspended in this mute environment, the stronger the feeling grows. Your body recognized it. Clenches. Spasms. Won’t obey. Something else, something uncalled but instinctive rolls it around, to face the door. It makes your red eyes haunt the unmoving doorknob.

It knows better than you do, not to trust yourself. It remembers your mistake.

The door stays shut. No sound, no approaching footsteps, or retreating shuffle. No words, no warning. Your world’s been muffled. Like a chokehold around your throat that won’t leave. Won’t let you forget the suffocating agony it suffered.

The weight of the silence.

You face is dry. Pale. Blank. On your bare back, flesh bears red tears. Trickling down between tattered cloth. You don’t feel a thing, except liquid blood running down your cheek, your back, between your legs.

As you stay unmoving, crouched on the floor, your body bears more tears, until there is an angry red puddle on the storage floor. Your eyes, still glued to the door, catch on its vibrant hue.

Immediately you move towards the rack where you keep the cleaning supplies.

Cleaning wipes already stained red between your fingers, your hand moves angry and fast into the puddle. Blood – your blood sprinkles everywhere. Onto the 9mm ammo boxes, only just catalogued, half of the load still sitting on the pallet where you left them. Neatly stacked so they don’t fall, just ready to be scanned and registered. It falls on the flasks of cleaning oils, and the delivery note, which lies on the floor where it fell.

You lean down to pick it up, your blood runs down its pages, like paint on a white canvas.

Stark red. Unmistakeably wrong –

You stare at it, only now realising -

You have to get it off. Or they will know.

You set to work. First getting red everywhere. Grimsome paint on the floor, the cannisters. Everywhere you don’t want to look. Your body resists. Won’t obey. It knows before you do. The grim juice. The one for bad stains. You get rid of the cardboard boxes, now irrevocably stained with red dots, and stack the 9mm ammo boxes neatly into the rack, where they belong- where they were supposed to go, before you were…. You clean off the oil bottles, set them straight, label facing forward, back into their place. Neat in four rows, set evenly apart like little good soldiers. Not ruined. Not stained.

The smell of blood, of your fear, is gravelly drowned by the stink of chemical solvent.

You right every wrong, until the room lies in stark artificial light, and the only dirty smeared thing is …. You. Your hand trembles against your breast, where it still clutches the tatters of your uniform. More brown than green now, its ripped fabric smeared with blood.

Slowly, your other hand, joins it. Slowly, your eyes fall farther down your body. To your naked hips, your thighs painted in red streaks.

Your breath hitches. Your body’s own weight falling away. Floating.

“Now, now, open those legs for me, Schätzchen.” A need to cover yourself overwhelms you.

Where are your trousers? You see it lying near the door, yet somehow, you can’t move towards it. Your body - it is yours isn’t it? Isn’t it? You try move it, but throbs against your will to claim it for yourself. It won’t move. It won’t obey. Now, that you have done away with the blood, the evidence reminder all it wants is to hurt.

And hurt.

A tear burns your cheek.

Now. Now-

Thinking is difficult, between all the hurt – you know you have to move. First, towards your cloth, then –

Where will you go?

You have to leave. Yes. Leave this room, this silence, before he comes back.

Your head head snaps up, eyes on the door. Air won’t come to you, your mouth drops open in a harsh pant. Your stomach cramps, your hands fall to the ground, to keep yourself suspended, barely above the floor.

Closed. Its closed.

You can’t hear a thing. Except your heartbeat.

But.

You haven’t heard before. Have you?

A feeling – you can’t place it, cannot name its reason or source - crawls over your thoughts, ruining you for anything else. You know one thing only: You haven’t been vigilant. God, how could have been so stupid as to let yourself be lulled into safety by such an unnatural sound as this silence? You have been blind to the danger. What kind of soldier are you?

The stupid kind. The naïve kind.

Your pulse slams in your throat. Hands curl. Nails pressing. Skin yielding.

But it won’t happen again. It won’t happen again. Won’t happen again. Won’thappenagain.

You swear it to the silence.

[bluefalcon-cod]

Blue Falcon – Chapter 1 Teaser

Breaking Sergeant MacTavish was supposed to be revenge. Break Sergeant MacTavish in silence, ruin him piece by piece, and reclaim what was stolen from you. Your name. Your control. Your story. But Ghost saw potential. Now he’s using you. On Soap. For Soap. Sabotage becomes discipline. Discipline becomes control. And control? Control gets complicated when someone starts enjoying it. — Read Chapter 1 on AO3: 🔗 Blue Falcon – Chapter 1: The First Shot Is Silent First time posting. First time sharing anything. This fic is dark, slow, and personal. Full of trauma, control, and the kind of revenge that doesn’t fix anything. If you read it, thank you. If you see yourself in it—hi. You're not alone.

Looking for like-minded COD Fanfic-writers and readers. Message me!