Blue Falcon COD Reader Fanfic

COD Fanfiction, GhostxSoapxReader, Trauma-Fiction, Psychological Warfare, Enemies-to-Lovers, Slow-Burn, morally-grey Heros

“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.

"Maybe she wants another round."

You’re the base’s joke. The liar, the whore, the “Blue Falcon.” Yet you sit. You eat. You keep your head down. Always kept your head down. Till there isn't a choice anymore. The loudest; MacTavish. Justice is so far out, you don’t even feel the need for vengeance. But you could. You start fucking with Soap’s gear. Quiet moves. Invisible sabotage. MacTavish all a mess. Because of you. You. Finally, not prey.

Until dead skull eyes settle on you. His head barely turning. Gaze cutting sideways, sharp as a blade. One glance. You. You are a dead woman walking.

Read if you like the slow kind of tension—the kind that presses in, inch by inch: Ghost turns you, a threat to his Johnny, into his own fucked up lesson of discipline. No matter the cost to you. And fuck if he cared. He doesn't. Not at the beginning.

"She’s still here?"

On the wide stretch of your single bed, you take up as little space as you manage. Your head’s pulled in, your eyes are open wide. You watch skinny toes. Watch how they curl inward, tugging on the white sheet, pulling wrinkles.

You watch them move. You move them. Just to make sure they’re yours. They are. They’re cold. Ten naked toes that are yours. You don’t know why, but your feet are bare. Naked, pebbled skin leading up to bare thighs. No trousers. Only goosebumps covering your legs.

You know this isn’t how you went to work. There it is again. The difference between knowing and remembering.

There is an answer for this riddle dancing elusively in your head. It’s there -  but you can’t make it settle. The void surrounds it, hedged in by a wall of hush.

It makes you forget.

Ssshh.

That’s usual. You forget things. It’s the only mercy left. Breakfast. Last Tuesday. The whole day before that. Sometimes people tell you about things you were there for—but you can’t recall a second of it. You answer questions you don’t even remember being asked. And they stare. “Don’t you remember, girl?” “Do you ever listen?”

Why would you think about that now?

You remember a lot, hear a lot, but always the wrong things.

You are a passenger again. Riding something that doesn’t ask. It moves you. Drops you. Leaves you. No shoes. No trousers. Your skin’s cold. Your nails are split. Your arm is bruised.

Scars exposed.

None of this is new. You’ve been here before.

Same corner. Same wall. Same thoughts.

You’ll remember. You always remember the bad things-

Your hands slide down your knees, till they end up clutching the inner part of your thighs. Fingers digging into ruined skin.

Grip. Tight. Tighter. You clench. You don’t know why. But it feels right. Flesh and hardened scar tissue, presses back. Pain answers.

It’s the only thing that holds.

You know you’ll remember running. The ache’s familiar. Questions come next. They always follow. Someone must have seen. Seen the marks. White and ugly. Seen what he said.

Virgin. Jungfrau. He spat it like it mattered, like praise. Carved it like it owned you.

Filth. That’s what he made you. That’s what they said. That’s what he saw. MacTavish.

A vision of blue eyes bites into you— too bright. Too full of pity. "Blue Falcon," the eyes say. But you don’t hear it. Not now. Not again.

You press your fingers tighter. Joints aching. You embrace the pain—because it’s yours. Because it’s not that.

Not the other thing. The thing they forced into you while you cried for help. The thing the German KSK left behind.

No word fits. Shame is too clean. Too light.

This is deeper. Carved. Filed under bone.

You are hollow. A casing pretending to be something alive. Nothing moves unless pushed.

A soldier.

You know better. You know you’re anything but. But knowing doesn’t mean you get to be right.

You want to scream it. But you don’t.

Wanting isn’t part of you right now. Only the pressure.

Is it taking you anywhere?

Anywhere?

Anywhere but here.

You lie back, arms like Cevlar plates around your heart. Eyes on the ceiling. There’s a crack in the paint. On a high white ceiling, cowebs weave a different pattern, your eyes stick to the damage in the wall. You trace it. Like it might split wider. Like it might give.

It doesn’t.

You blink once— and the pressure on your throat returns.

You choke it out – down. His hands. His breath. Down. His voice.

Down. The residue of him lives under your skin. You’d peel it back if it meant you could be clean.

It’s the only way you want to be seen.

You close your eyes, your thoughts empty. Willing them to be empty.

Yet ice blue orbs, dancing over your face, tracing every crack and smudge, devour you. You feel him, feel him in your space, where he doesn’t belong.  

Shredded nails bite into skin, leaving a trail of blood flakes in their wake. How come you see the crack when your eyes are closed?

How come you want to open your eyes and scream your pain into the blue until it all stops?! There’s a friction that you crave, an abrasive power that brings the heat you need to melt the ice inside your veins.

Unbidden words rush through you. “You like leavin’ marks, don’t ye?”  

An echo, that heats your limbs; skin burning skin in your quiet huddle. In your head, more echoes.

"Ye dinnae get tae check out on me, soldier."

It lands hard. Like you have heard them before. Inside, they move. Your ribcage outwards, then inwards.  Air in, air out. Air in. Air out.

"Ye dinnae get tae check out on me, soldier."

You can’t put words into context, into their rightful slot next to other things you should recall – you know you do. There is heat where the rest lies.

Your eyes open, a burning pain framing your lashes. Your body shifts with your pain, you turn sideways, curl up. The bed sheet twists with you.

You chase the burn, your palm rushing over skin. Goosebumps vanish into red streaks. Your palm rakes down your calf. Again. Harder. Again. Goosebumps vanish. Replaced by red. By heat. You chase the fire. Until you’re all heat.

And still it echoes. His damn voice.

“You like leavin’ marks, don’t ye?” 

Amid this blaze, a deep voice whispers. It sounds like an ember.

“Breathe, lass.” And you breathe, breathe. You inhale heat. Exhale frost. Again. And again. Until the ice retreats.

And blue eyes remain.

When your bunkmate walks in, you don’t hear her talk. Don’t hear the question: “Is that girl on Adderall, or what?” Don’t hear the laugh: “Creeps me the fuck out.”

You don’t move. Not for a long time. Yet you are here. Here. Your bodies weigh on the mattress. Your cold sweat. Almost a scent in your nose; almost.

You are here.

Not back there with him, in that storage room.

Not back there with him, Johnny MacTavish, in that abandoned office. His voice in your ears, his rough hands on your throat. A scream coils in your throat, sharp and rising. You swallow it.

And something cracks.

A shuddering exhale. Hands fall away. Your skin is a reddened map—white streaks, claw marks, memories. Old scars don’t heal today.

But suddenly—you want. You want everything you were supposed to have. Help. Justice. A voice. A fucking chance. It floods in fast—too fast. So much wanting—too big for this body. Too loud for the silence you’ve kept.

And just like that—

-your eyes catch on a loose thread of your blanket. Get stuck there. The way the loose thread sticks out doesn’t sit right with you.

It’s easier to fix what you can touch.

Your hand moves on instinct. Smooths it down. There.

Your gaze trails along the blanket’s crumpled edge, where it spills onto the floor.

Dirt. Dust. Your boots lie scattered.

Chaos. Visible. Yours. You can’t leave it like this. Not when someone might walk in. Not when they might see the disarray. See you.

You move. Heft the blanket back into place. Make your bed, soldier. Tight corners. Flat lines. You smooth every wrinkle. Line up your boots at the bedframe. Fold your socks—meticulous, slow. Shake out hairs. Pick off lint. Tuck the seams.

Neatly. Always neatly.

With each movement, the storm inside loosens its grip. Until all that’s left is a dull ache behind your ribs.

There. Your life, stacked and folded, like it still belongs to you.

It’s gonna be okay.

It’s gonna be okay.

Tomorrow, you’ll wake again. Run the same checks. Fold the same socks. Watch the same loose thread reappear no matter how many times you smooth it down.

Because this is what’s left.

Not healing.

Not closure.

Just survival. Muscle-deep. Quiet.

You pull your shoulders back.

And -

His hands grab onto air, then he steadies himself on the table. His eye won’t leave her, though. He can’t look away. Won’t.

The lass eyes are wide, the white luminous and too visible in that pale face. He slender body shaking. Her throat is red where he’d grabbed her, made her bend to his will, had her pleading a soft “Don’t.”

Begging like they do, he hadn’t listened. Didn’t stop the intimation game, because all he’d seen was a target. A threat. A fucking name on the wall. Blue Falcon.

He’d spat those words. Laughed at them. Fuck. Maybe he said it one time too many.

But the lass before him? Turns out, she ain’t lying.

There they are—red, raw, right where no one should ever have to mark pain. Crude lines, carved deep—like the knife swapped precision for cruelty. Two big Js, one on each inner thigh. Messy, but clear. You’d have to be blind not to see it. Blood. Flesh. Proof. Etched into soft skin like someone wanted it permanent.

As if it needed spelling out.

He had seen people break before. Seen fear, pain, regret—but this isn’t fear. This isn’t even defiance. This is something deeper. Something colder.

Something, he had seen no person faking.

And fuck, that realization burned through his gut like a live wire.

She is a survivor.

Not a traitor.

But he – he might be one.

The one who backed the wrong bastard. Who’d betrayed the victim and applauded the villain.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters under his breath. His chest rises and falls, the weight of the realization settling deep. His confidence wavers—just long enough for something raw to creep in at the edges. Because for the first time since dragging her into this room—

Soap isn’t sure who the villain is.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t breathe.

Because if he does—if he dares to—then this is real. Then he’s here. In this room. Facing what he did.

But he won’t run.

“Fuck.” He says, lost for words, but the rawness inside him won’t let this go. He tries again. “Dinnae szone out now, lass.”

She doesn’t even flinch.

And fuck, he hates how much that makes his stomach twist.

His own breath is steady, controlled, but his heart is hammering against his ribs, drowning out the sharp edge of his thoughts.

Because this isn’t just about his gear. It never was.

And it isn’t just about espionage or orchestrated sabotage.

This is something deeper. Something rotten. Personal.

Revenge.

"Breathe, lass," he orders, voice rough, unsteady in a way that makes his own skin itch.

Her breath grows shallow, too measured, too disconnected. He fights the urge to close his eyes and curse. He is the bastard that has no right to zone out like her. He is man enough to deal with the damage he has caused.

The regiment raised him better than this. So did Simon—on the days he came back. Staring down air like a corpse, now that look is familiar.

"Ye dinnae get tae check out on me, soldier." His voice drops, lower now, almost warning. "Not after all the shite ye pulled." It doesn’t help though. She doesn’t fall back into command.

Just rotting silence. It fills the space between them, heavy and suffocating. His shoulders won’t settle under its weigh. He rolls them, tries to fight that sticky oily feeling off that crept up on him.

“Fuck.”

Soap’s jaw flexes, something sour curling at the back of his throat.

This isn’t over.

This isn’t over. Not until he figures this out. Not until he marks it. Owns it. Stops pretending it’s something else.

Who dares wins.

Yet, for once in a very long while, he isn’t entirely sure what the fuck he is doing anymore. And if he can succeed.

And if he should.

She’s hunched over.

Shoulders curled in. Arms tight.

Like prey.

Fucking pathetic.

He watches her duck under the pressure. Dodge confrontations in the mess hall. Eyes shifting from one exit to another.

Ghost watches the way she locks up when soldiers crack jokes —not shyness, not shame, not even fear.

Worse.

Instinct.

A built-in reaction. Learned. Conditioned. Too deep to be undone.

It’s not his problem.

She’s not the issue.

Soap is.

Soap who fucked up. Who got his kit messed with like a fucking rookie. Unacceptable.

He’s no better. Should’ve caught it sooner. Weeks ago. He should’ve noticed the second Soap started slipping.

The first sign was in the details. Had he assessed the factors: Fatigue? Stress? External pressure?

None of it fit. Then—her.

Right. Noticed that little soldier watching too closely. Her agile eyes tracking his Sergeant every move. The slip ups – no slip ups at all. Didn’t need to dig deep to unhand her. Didn’t take long at all to figure out her agenda.

And fuck if he cared.

Her reasons? Irrelevant.

He doesn’t give a shit.

What pisses him off is how. Next time, fuck – Next time. No. Not on his watch –… Yet the possibility’s there - and it’s not gonna be soft hands messing with that bastard’s rifle. Fuck it. He’s not gonna let this be a fucking liability.

Gotta teach that runt a lesson.

That’s what Soap needs.

Precision. Focus. A goddamn edge.

Yes, he can work with that.

This time he lets her be.

He will be back.

He’s back again. Back to watch her hop around like prey.

The room they are in is dark; not dark enough to slit a throat without casting shadows, but dark enough.

He tilts his head. The girl is cleaning the A3 sniper rifle like it’s the only thing she can do.

Hasn’t noticed him. Hasn’t noticed him for a while now. Makes him mad, how the fuck does someone this unaware, this fragile, this fucking weak manage to slip under his radar?

How she could do the damage. Fucking manoeuvring her little hands in his blind spot. He’s a patient man, but it makes him wanna shake that damn complacency out of her head.

Hard.

30 more seconds. He’s patient.

“Corp.”

Girl blinks at him like he’s the fucking creeper. Wide eyes, pupils blown impossible wide, staring up at him like a spooked owl. Still caught in that dead-space.

That’s not gonna work. He moves in on her, startling her enough to break her locked-up freeze. Her breath stutters, a sharp inhale—she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

Her fingers grip the A3’s long shaft near the folding stock. Like she’s holding onto a lifeline.

Bloody hell.

If it weren’t for Johnny, he’d rip her needy little hands off that grip himself.

Girl doesn’t even know how to use half the weapons she clings to like a goddamn security blanket.

And for whatever reason he’s honestly mad about it.

He shoves the itch aside.

He needs her. Needs her fucking functioning enough to be useful. She’s a tool. A malfunctioning one. And that’s a problem. Tools need to function.

“Get your head back in the game.”

A twitch. Fingers barely move. The command hits, but the body takes time catching up.

So, there is some soldier somewhere in that head of hers. Good, but not good enough.

“You buffering?”

“W-what?” An improvement. Fucking finally.

“You done staring?” He decides to give her some slack. Let’s her gaze crawl over his form like a little critter. Only it doesn’t stop. Girl’s caught in that loop.

If it weren’t so fucking pathetic, he’d indulge those agile eyes a bit longer.

“So we doin’ this again?” That hits a nerve. He can tell how her breathing hitches. He waits it out.

“I- you, “  Patience, it’s not always a virtue. Girl should hand over that rifle, and he can clean it himself by the time she’d done stuttering. “- I mean you mean for me to continue…?”

He gives her the time she needs to figure it out. He is a patient man.

“You want me to mess with his kit?” She whisper-croaks. She needn’t worry. There is no one in the armoury. Beside him. Beside her.

“Why?” Is he supposed to answer that? This better not be a waste of his fucking time. “I don’t get it.” He hopes she does. And fast.

“Corporal, do I need you to figure it out?” He doesn’t really need her fully functioning, though.  He needs her working. He doesn’t wait out her answer this time, but he analyses her reaction. Sees her nostril flare, that twitch in her right jaw muscles dance.

There still some fight left in that beaten dog. He’s good with all kinds of them. “Just do as you’re told.” He can work either way. He’s confident he can make her work for him, if he puts his mind to it.

“Now?” She croaks, still holding onto that rifle like it will save her. He has a will to yank it from her, just because.

“Now.”

Subconsciously, her hands move over the long gun. His eyes are locked onto the motion.

Nimble. Quiet. Her fingers slicked in oil, crawling over steel like they’ve got instincts of their own. He watches them.

They find latches. Creep into seams. Same way she’s been crawling through this place. Unnoticed. Uninvited. Subconsciously doing what she’d done all those weeks.

Fuck.

He shifts his gaze. Stares her down.

She reads it— girl’s smart enough for that. The fiddling stops.

Still hasn’t clocked he’s waiting, though.

Two blinks later, her eyes crunch up, then-  “Now.” She breathes, and launches herself into motion.  

Hands unsteady. Face blank.

But she moves. Does what needs doing.

Animal instinct, or the hunger for survival. Either way, this one’s been running on fumes. Running on the low for some time now. He can tell. Surviving what’s better off dead. Sunken eyes, clammy skin. Always scanning. Just waiting for one lucky moment to turn the game.

Used to scraps. Used to pain.

Still a shadow. Still broken.

But fuck—

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.

[...]

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?"

"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.