Unbetitelt

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the character Simon "Ghost" Riley or the Call of Duty franchise. The character is the property of its respective copyright holders. This story is a work of fan fiction and is entirely fictional. Any original plot elements, story developments, and the female protagonist featured in this work are my own creations and remain protected as original creative content.

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The roar of the Black Hawk helicopter's rotors pounded dully in my ears as the sky above the desert slowly faded into a dark, ominous purple. The adrenaline that had been surging through my veins only moments ago gave way to a leaden exhaustion. I rested my head against the vibrating wall of the cabin and closed my eyes.

Suddenly, I felt movement beside me.

The heavy chill of the night air was replaced by a familiar, consuming warmth. Simon had taken a seat next to me. In the relative darkness of the helicopter, he had pushed his skull mask up over his nose. His sharply defined jaw was covered in dark stubble and soot, his lips dry and weathered.

Without a word, he reached for my hand, pulled me closer by the wrist, and laced his rough, injured fingers firmly through mine.

"You're hurt," he rumbled.

His voice was little more than a deep growl swallowed by the thunder of the turbines, yet the vibration ran straight through me.

I blinked and looked down at my shoulder. A small tear in the fabric of my uniform, with a little blood seeping through—hardly worth mentioning.

"Just a graze. A scratch, Simon."

His grip on my hand tightened, almost painfully so, yet at the same time his thumb stroked soothingly across the back of my hand.

His dark eyes remained fixed on the small wound as though the bullet had struck him instead.

"Every drop of your blood is one too many," he murmured, moving even closer and gently pressing me against the cabin wall.

The other soldiers sat lost in their own thoughts, but in that moment, nothing existed for Simon except me.

He lowered his head until his lips brushed the sensitive skin of my neck.

"You're going to drive me insane, Blair. I can't focus in the field when all I can think about is whether you're still breathing."

A shiver ran down my spine as his warm lips moved along my jawline before finally lingering mere inches from mine.

His eyes burned with a dark, possessive intensity that stole my breath away.

"When we get back to base," he whispered so quietly that only I could hear, "you're coming straight to my quarters. No debriefing. No medical station. You're mine tonight."

When the heavy metal door to Simon's quarters closed behind us, the lock clicked shut with a dull metallic sound.

The room was sparsely furnished—a narrow bed, a desk, and the muted glow of a single lamp mounted on the wall.

Simon didn't waste a second.

His large hands moved to the buckles of my tactical vest and undid them with practiced haste. The heavy gear dropped to the floor.

Carefully, he pulled the fabric of my shirt down from my injured shoulder until the thin, bloodied cut was exposed.

He sat me on the edge of his bed and crossed the room in a few strides to retrieve the first-aid kit.

Though his hands were enormous and deadly in combat, he treated my wound with an incredible gentleness that almost hurt to witness.

He dabbed disinfectant onto the cut.

My skin flinched slightly, but he kept me anchored in place with one steady hand at my hip.

"Easy," he murmured roughly.

His skull mask had now been completely removed. His features were hard and sharp, but his gaze burned with a devotion he had to hide from the rest of the world.

"I've got you."

He placed a bandage over the wound and then left his hand resting on my thigh. His thumb traced slow circles against the fabric of my pants.

Kneeling in front of me, he looked up and narrowed his eyes.

"I swore I'd never let anyone get this close to me again," Simon whispered, his voice strained with suppressed emotion. "But you... you're my only weakness. And that makes you more dangerous than any enemy I've ever faced."

I leaned forward, threading my fingers through his short hair and pulling him closer.

Simon closed his eyes and buried his face against my neck, drawing in a deep breath as his arms wrapped tightly around my waist and pulled me against the solid warmth of his body.

Disclaimer: ("Ich habe keinerlei rechte an der Person Simon Ghost Riley, alles was in der Geschichte erzählt wird ist frei erfunden. Lediglich die Geschichte so wie die weibliche Protagonisten sind rechtlich geschützt")

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Der Rotorlärm des Black-Hawk-helikopters dröhnte taub in meine Ohren, während der Himmel über der Wüste langsam in ein düsteres Purpur tauchte. Das Adrenalin, das eben noch durch meine Adern gepeitsch war, wich einer bleiernen Müdigkeit. Ich lehnte den Kopf gegen die vibrierende Wand der Kabine und schloss die Augen. Plötzlich spürte ich eine Bewegung neben mir. Die schwere Kälte der Nachtluft wurde von der vertrauten, einnehmende Wärme vertrieben. Simon hatte sich neben mich gesetzt. In der relativen Dunkelheit der Helikopters hatte er die Totenkopf-Maske bis über die Nase nach oben geschoben. Sein scharf geschnittener Kiefer war von dunklen Stoppeln und Ruß bedeckt, seine Lippen trocken. Ohne ein Wort zu sagen, griff er nach meiner Hand, zog mich am Handgelenk zu sich heran und verschränkte seine groben, verletzten Fingern fest mit meinen.

„du bist verletzt“, brummte er. Seine Stimme war kaum mehr als ein tiefes Grollen, das im Dröhnen der Turbinen unterging, aber die Vibration fuhr mir direkt durch Mark und Bein. Ich blinzelte und sah an meiner Schulter herunter. Ein kleiner Schnitt im Stoff der Uniform, aus dem etwas Blut sickerte – kaum der Rede wert. „Nur ein Streifschuss. Ein Kratzer, Simon.“ Sein Griff um meine Hand wurde strammer, fast schmerzhaft fest, doch seine Daumenkuppe strich im selben Moment beruhigend über meinen Handrücken. Seine Augen starren dunkel auf die kleine Wunde, als hätte die Kugel ihn selbst getroffen. „Jeder tropfen Blut von dir ist einer zu viel“, raunte er, trat noch ein Stück näher und drückte mich sanft gegen die Kabinenwand. Die anderen Soldaten der Einheit saßen tief in ihre eigenen Gedanken versunken, doch in diesem Moment existierte für Simon nichts außer mir. Er senkte den Kopf, bis seine Lippen die empfindliche Haut an meinem Hals berührten. „Du bringst mich noch um den Verstand, Blair. Ich kann mich im Feld nicht konzentrieren, wenn ich nur darauf

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the character Simon "Ghost" Riley or the Call of Duty franchise. The character is the property of its respective copyright holders. This story is a work of fan fiction and is entirely fictional. Any original plot elements, story developments, and the female protagonist featured in this work are my own creations and remain protected as original creative content.

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The dust in the abandoned warehouse near the Syrian border hung thick in the air, pierced only by the red laser dots of my unit. My breathing was shallow as the weight of my tactical vest pressed heavily against my shoulders. I gripped my assault rifle tightly, but the pulse of frantic fear wasn't only for the enemy outside.

"They're not moving," I whispered over the encrypted comms.

A long, icy shadow fell over me from behind. A gloved hand settled firmly against my neck, the fingers pressing gently yet possessively against my carotid artery, right where my pulse was racing wildly.

"Not yet," came the deep, rough voice of Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley directly beside my ear.

His imposing frame towered over me completely, shielding me from the darkness. Beneath the iconic skull-Mask, his usually cold, dark eyes softened for the briefest moment as his gaze flickered across my lips.

"But when they do, you stay right behind me. Understood?"

"Simon, we're on a mission..." I murmured, the heat of his presence instantly driving away the chill of the room.

Before he could answer, the heavy wooden entrance doors exploded apart. Bullets ripped through the air, accompanied by the deafening roar of explosions. Before I could react, Simon pulled me behind a thick concrete pillar in one smooth motion. He pressed me firmly but gently against the wall and positioned his massive body in front of mine, an impenetrable shield against the incoming fire.

His face was only inches from mine. His eyes burned with a dangerous obsession of icy intensity. To the rest of the world, Simon was a ruthless killing machine, but in the middle of this chaos, his entire focus was on me.

"I told you to stay close to me," he growled darkly as gunfire thundered around us.

His hand moved from my neck to my cheek, the rough texture of his glove brushing carefully across my skin.

"If so much as a single hair on your head gets hurt in here, I'll burn this damn place to the ground. And every last one of them with it."

"I can take care of myself, Ghost," I managed to say, even as my heart hammered against my ribs beneath my tactical vest.

"Not when your life is on the line. That's one thing I never leave to chance," he murmured.

Lowering his head, he pressed his forehead against mine for the briefest heartbeat. The warmth of his breath seeped through the fabric of his mask.

"Rule number one, recruit: you stay alive. Because otherwise, there won't be anyone left worth crawling back from hell for."

He pulled away, raised his rifle, and with lethal precision eliminated the attackers advancing down the corridor. Before moving to secure the next corner, he threw me a glance over his shoulder that left no room for argument.

("Ich habe keinerlei rechte an der Person Simon Ghost Riley, alles was in der Geschichte erzählt wird ist frei erfunden. Lediglich die Geschichte so wie die weibliche Protagonisten sind rechtlich geschützt")

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Der Staub in der verlassenen Lagerhalle nahe der syrischen Grenze hing dick in der Luft, durchschnitten nur von den roten Laserpunkten meiner Kampfeinheit. Mein Atem ging flach, während das Gewicht der taktischen Weste schwer auf meinen Schulter lag. Ich umklammerte mein Sturmgewehr, doch der Puls rasender Angst galt nicht nur dem Fein da Draußen.

„Sie bewegen sich nicht“ flüstere ich üben den verschlüsselten Funk.

Ein langer, eiskalter Schatten legte sich von hinten über mich. Eine schwere, taktische handschuh beschwerte Hand legte sich von hinten fest an meinen Hals, die Finger drücken sanft, aber bestimmend genau dort auf meine Schlagader, wo der Puls wie wild schlug.

„Noch nicht“ ertönte die tiefe, raue Stimme von Lieutenant Simon „Ghost“ Riley direkt an mein Ohr. Seine Statur überragte mich komplett, schirmte mich gegen die Dunkelheit ab. Unter der Ikonischen Totenkopf-Sturmhaube wichen seine sonst kühlen, dunklen Augen für Millisekunden auf, als sein Blick über meine Lippen glitt. „Aber wenn sie kommen, bleibst du genau hinter mir. Verstanden?“

„Simon, wir sind im Einsatz...“, raunte ich, während die Hitze seiner nähe die Kälte des Raumes sofort verdrängt.

Bevor er antworten konnte, zersplitterte das Holz der massiven Eingangstür. Kugel peitschten durch die Luft, begleitet vom betäubenden Lärm von Explosionen. Noch bevor ich reagieren konnte, riss Simon mich mit einer einzigen flüssigen Bewegung hinter eine dicke Beton-Säule. Er drückte mich sanft, aber unumstößlich gegen die Wand und schob seinen massiven Körper als undurchdringlichen Schutzschild vor das Sperrfeuer.

Sein Gesicht war nur Zentimeter von meinem entfernt. Seine Augen brannten vor einer gefährlichen, Besessenheit aus strahlendem Eis. Simon war für die Welt eine eiskalte Tötungsmaschine, aber in diesem Chaos gehörte sein gesamter Fokus nur mir.

„Ich habe dir gesagt, du sollt in meiner Nähe bleiben“, knurrte er dunkel, während der Lärm der Schüsse um uns herum toste. Seine Hand wanderte von meinem Hals zu meiner Wange, die raue Textur seiner Handschuhe strich vorsichtig über meine Haut. „Wenn dir hier drinnen auch nur ein Haar gekrümmt wird, verbrenne ich diesen verdammten Ort. Und jeden einzelnen von ihnen.“

„Ich kann auf mich aufpassen, Ghost“, brachte ich heraus, obwohl mein Herz unter der taktischen Weste gegen meine Rippen hämmerte.

„Nicht, wenn es um dein leben geht. Da überlasse ich nichts dem Zufall“, raunte er, senkte den Kopf drückte seine Stirn für einen Herzschlag gegen meinen. Der heiße Atem stach durch den Stoff seiner Maske. „Regel Nummer eins, Rekrutin: Du bleibst am Leben. Weil ich sonst niemanden mehr habe, für den es sich lohnt, aus der Hölle zurückzukehren“. Er löste sich von mir, zog sein Sturmgewehr hoch und traf mit tödlicher Präzision aus der Deckung, um die Angreifer im Flur auszuschalten. Bevor er die nächste Ecke sicherte, warf er mir über die Schulter einen Blick zu, der keinen Raum für Widerreden ließ.