May I Ask What You Think About Helen Comforting-being There For Simon If He Happens To Have Nightmares

May i ask what you think about Helen comforting-being there for Simon if he happens to have nightmares of his past and memories? i have this headcanon that he probably does have them given what has happened to the poor man so i wondered if you would ever consider doing something like that? :)

i am so sorry i took so long to answer this one, anon. i thought i could incorporate it into something, but alas it didn’t mesh well. but he 100% has them. and this is just something small of what i think could be.

simon ghost riley x f!reader (helen)

_____________

they first time he has one around her, it’s on base. her eyes full of sleep, lashes heavy as he wakes to murmuring and twitching. it takes her longer than she cares to admit—but then she touches him, hand to his chest, her other doing it’s best to slide under his balaclava, but it’s tight, so fucking tight, and he’s panicking—

his hand grabs her wrist. making it appear more dainty than it is in his grip. his chest rising and falling, all in quick succession—but it’s his eyes, swarming with darkness and disillusion.

“you’re okay…” ghost… simon. she’s not sure which of them is the one in peril. mainly, she knows how pitiful, and stupid her words were.

she’s not even sure why she lets the words escape, but she does. and he does seem to take a breath. does lessen his hold on her wrist.

he doesn’t talk about it, and she doesn’t ask. giving him space in the small bed they’re somehow sharing—letting him come round as he needs to, until his arm scoops around her waist, returning her flush against him.

sometimes they’re worse.

the one she can recall the easiest is at his place—his cries and groans rocking the house, never mind the bed. she’d been yanked from her sleep, her hand flicking on the light, half-jumping to conclusions before she saw simon, her simon.

the yellow touch of the light didn’t wake him. her eyes pinned to him, watching him somewhat thrashing, fists clenched and knuckles white. his words were twisted, messed up and hard to translate, her teeth biting her lip as she places her hand on his cheek.

a touch so similar to the one she’d give him when it’s just the two of them. simon and helen. helen and ghost. it would take a second, her palm flush with it before his breathing changed. a flicker of something.

if that didn’t work, she thought, she’d run her nails through his hair, she’d place her hand on his chest, his side—

but his eyes flip open, cold, distant—empty. they’re darker too, swirling with night and pain.

something inside of her unfurls. her anguish at seeing him like this bleeds, pooling inside of her, as vines from it begin wrapping around her insides—pulsing and tightening.

“i’m here.”

that’s all she can say, knowing him—knowing he needs to come around on his own. he needs a moment to give his brain the chance to touch reality. he blinks, adjusting—taking in that this isn’t a dream or a horrid nightmare. the walls of it crumbling, disappearing as the room comes to him.

she tried to say more, but it would be lost on him. his brain too tired and wound up to undo it all anyway. she knows him. she knows he wouldn’t want to be smothered.

it’s why she doesn’t take offence when he leaves the bed, the room—shutting the door behind him. he has a process, a way of working through things she won’t ever fathom—but he doesn’t understand hers either. her little things that keep her in reality and not off in some dark thought that envelops her.

silence ebbs at her, the room suddenly feeling larger, the air changed. the bed doesn’t feel as comfortable without him. but she remains, sliding her hand over the light to turn it off, grabbing her phone.

she reads until the door opens, him slowly entering—breath normal, hands occupied by mugs.

“did i hurt you?”

her heart drops, plummets. taking the mug, she shakes her head. “no.” hating that he even needs to ask.

she told him once before temperature would help. it would root him, remind him he’s awake and alive. since, he always get a drink—but he never drinks it. either a cold glass of water in his palm or a steaming hot drink. she further helps by tapping her nails against whatever drink she’s offered—something low, almost annoying.

in time, he’ll stop her. either placing his hand over hers, making her stop. this time he sits next to her, shooting her a glare. one she shoot’s back until be shakes his head.

“you good?”

“i’m good.”

he never wants to talk about it.

and she’ll never want to push.

she just waits until he asks her to come closer or just moves her, letting him do so until she’s where he needs her to be. just the same as he lets her when she’s had a bad night—or day.

white bandages (the process of healing) | simon "ghost" riley

part 2 to this fic. I will very likely have a part 3 to wrap things up. —tags: tw blood, ghost + therapy, mild angst, fluff too —running out of pictures to use of this man so this is an edit by @ave661

Fluorescent light falls over an unmasked face. It highlights every ridge of every scar, his shorn stubble, his pale skin. When was the last time Simon Riley took a good look in the mirror? He can't remember— there are many things he works hard to avoid, and his own name is scribbled at the top of the list.

That first night without you, he finds himself in front of the mirror and half expects to see a ghost staring back at him. A corpse, maybe.

But, instead, he sees a man who lives and breathes. A man whose need for sleep is evident in the grey blotches under his eyes. A man whose eyes are anything but empty.

I feel nothing.

No—a ghost feels nothing. A ghost would've been able to forget how you looked at him, your eyes wide with the same fear he used to stare at his old man in. But Simon is not a ghost, and he remembers the fresh images with a pain that starts in his ribs and works its way to the pit of his stomach. Burning. It is a pain so unfamiliar that he doesn't know what to do with it—

—so he seeks a pain that he does know.

Pain that bursts in his hand the moment it meets the mirror. Pain accompanied by the splintering of glass as he hits the mirror over and over, and not once does he make a sound or cry or anything of the sort. He just breathes heavily and, once the mirror is not much of a mirror anymore, he looks at his hand and sees the bits of glass and the blood, and - fucking hell - it does nothing to mask what he feels in his chest.

"Jesus Christ."

He sighs.

His breathing slowly begins to settle.

And then he gets out the medical kit he keeps in the cabinet, sits with it on his bed, and carefully picks out the glass from his hand.

He knows how to take care of this wound. Knows exactly what to do to fix it.

But there are some things Ghost— Simon— doesn't know how to fix; wounds that are far too deep for him to reach. And as he wraps his hand up with some gauze, he remembers what you'd said to him earlier that day, so damn caring and gentle, even in your desire to get away from him:

I think you need help. You deserve it, Simon.

------

You loved the snow.

One time, you made Simon build a snowman with you. Well— it was more like you building the snowman while he watched and critiqued it. Your snowman looks like he's seen some rough shit, pet. Jesus, where is his smile? You had pouted through your laughter, nudging his shoulder. You can't judge him for not smiling, Si. Just like I don't judge you for it.

Of course, you ended up with a handful of snow in your hair for that one.

Quite the mouth on you today, huh?

And then he was rolling his eyes and lifting up his mask to kiss you as your hands combed out the ice from your hair, and you swore you felt him smiling against your lips— but you could never know for sure.

You loved that snowy day with him.

But now—

Now you're not sure if you're so happy about the snow you wake up to.

It's been a week of space. Work has been your main distraction, and you know you need to get the fallen snow off your windshield before you can make it there today.

But when you walk out into the white morning with a coat slipped over your pajamas, you find that your car is already being cleared off by a familiar silhouette with broad shoulders and a black, winter coat.

The cold squeezes your chest. Your heartbeat is swallowed up.

Seven days ago, you had begged him for space. Seven days ago, you left his place with defeat thick in your veins.

Today, you're not sure what you feel as you simply stand there for a moment. Your cheeks bitten to pink by the air and your arms crossed over your body. You watch him draw the brush over the hood, so easily, with one hand stuffed in his pocket, but then his eyes are drifting up— up until they land on where you stand a few meters away, and your fingertips dig into the palms of your hands.

He's the first one to speak. A man of few words who leans the brush against your car and utters a simple:

"Hey."

"Hey," you clear your throat, "Um, why are you doing this?”

He takes a step closer to you, but only one. A tentative step that keeps a good gap between your bodies, where faint flakes of snow fill the space.

“I know we are havin’ space right now," he murmurs. Gentle, murky eyes hold your stare. He slips the hidden hand out from his pocket, only for a short moment, to brush off the snow from his other hand, and you spot the flash of white bandages before it disappears into his coat again.

"But I also know you're workin' today so I thought I'd just... make your morning easier.”

"Thanks," your eyes drift to the ground. "But I don't know— I'm not sure if I'm ready..."

"S'okay," he says, gruff yet incredibly careful, a tiptoe over what lays damaged. "I'm not askin' anything of you, alright?"

“Alright,” you say quietly before your eyes drift to his pocket. “What happened to your hand?”

You’re not sure why you are asking him, and you doubt if the truth will even leave his lips. Wounds— over a year with him, and you’d witnessed plenty. Wounds that you only ever found out about when your fingers would graze under his shirt as he fucked you, and you’d carefully ask what happened as you both lay there breathless. Nothin’ worth telling you about, was his usual answer.

But today, with a peppering of snow on his mask and a sigh pooling from his breath, he tells you earnestly, “Broke my bloody mirror, is what happened.”

“What?”

“Look— it’s not important, yeah? There’s somethin’ else… somethin' else I wanted to tell you before you go to work, and I don’t expect anythin’ from you, but I just thought I should tell you.”

“I— okay,” you blink rapidly, still hung up on the mirror part. But you nod your head and shift your weight from foot to foot, willing yourself to listen to what he wants to tell you because maybe your heart is beginning to thump firm, expectant beats against your ribs, and maybe there are flakes of hope peppering the defeat in your chest, just like the snow that dusts Simon’s shoulders.

But what Simon has to tell you feels like pebbles in his mouth. He’s not good with words; his failure with them seven days ago is a testament to that. These pebbles sit behind his teeth for a lingering moment, before he finds the strength to push them out between the cracks.

(Perhaps, it’s all your patience and care for even the darkest parts of him that has finally given him this strength.)

“I talked to someone yesterday,” he tells you.

He exhales immediately.

You’re not sure if you’ve heard him correctly at first - there is no way? - but the words hang in the cold air as he stares at you with lowered brows, studying the expression on your face, and your lips part open like a bloody koi fish because this is not at all what you expected him to say.

“Really?” you finally breathe, a lilt of relief catching at the end. “You did?”

“Get it free through the military,” he mumbles with a nod, clearing his throat. “Thought a lot about what you said, yeah?”

Numbly, you sputter again, “You did?” But then you shake your head and rub your arms, “Sorry, I mean— that’s so good to hear, Simon. That’s just… How was it?”

“Bloody difficult,” he admits in a mumble, and only you, the person closest to him these days, are able to detect the minor tremor in his voice. “But - fuck - I’m gonna keep doin’ it.”

“Maybe it’ll get easier,” you tell him, drawing an arm over your eyes.

“Yeah.”

“I’m… really proud of you.”

You’re not even fully aware of your crying— no, you’re too focused on the sudden warmth that floods your chest because it is now you realize that if there is no worse feeling than watching someone you care for refuse to help themselves, then there is also no better feeling than hearing that help is something they are finally seeking.

And you care about Simon.

You have for so long, even when the agreement was just sex. Even when you'd flinched away. Even when you spent a week distracting yourself from thoughts of him.

This agreement you shared had turned into care. And you care, you care, you care. You care so much that you forget about the space you'd begged him for in this moment that you rush over to him, closing the cold and hesitant gap as your arms wrap around his neck and your forehead presses into his coat.

But the body against you is stiff and unmoving.

Your smile of relief turns into something apologetic and confused when two strong hands gently push you away.

You peer up at him.

"Don't think that's a good idea, pet."

"What?" you exhale, frowning.

He puts his hands back into his pockets. "I've hurt you, yeah?"

"I know, but—"

"I never want to do that again," he murmurs firmly. "Need some more time before I can make that promise to you."

Your heart sinks and floats and tries to swim through everything you feel. You can't discern all the feelings— there's so much. A flood. He's looking down at you as if you are the most fragile thing and as if, even by just getting too close, he might frighten you again.

"More space, then?" you whisper, stepping back.

Where you'd been the one to start it, now you are the one disappointed by it.

The short nod he gives is confirmation, but before you can get too down about it, he allows this: his good hand reaching out to grab yours. He kisses your knuckles with warm, masked lips.

"I care about you," he murmurs against your hand. "So goddamn much."

"I care about you, too."

"I know," and he lowers your hand, carefully rubbing the back of it. "Wanna be the kind of man you deserve. But I need to—" and his bandaged hand lifts up to tap a finger against his temple, "Need to sort through all the shit in here, yeah?"

"Okay," you whisper, nod, and sniffle. "They'll help you with it. You just have to let them in, Simon."

But he doesn't have anything to say to that— his source of words is a bit depleted. This week has drained him in every way possible, visible to you in the bags under his eyes. A squeeze of your hand is the last thing he has to offer before he lets it go, and then he is off to finish clearing your car.

(Although, you already know you will have a hard time getting to work on time this morning.)

Hi honey! I don't know if u r taking requests right now but if you do I have one. Can you make a standalone where Ghost and F/reader are together for like 1/2 year(s) and she is always like really nervous around Ghost and can't look him in the eye for too long because she is really shy and Ghost kind of like the effect he has on her. Something along that way :)

Thank you so much and have a great day!!🤍

ɞ - 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝚑𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑠

𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑛 "𝑔𝚑𝑜𝑠𝑡" 𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑦 𝑥 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝚑𝑒 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠- 𝚑𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑎𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑? 𝑔𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ( 𝑖 𝑡𝚑𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑚𝑏 𝑖𝑓 𝑛𝑜𝑡) 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑎?? 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑙

𝑤𝑐: 830

𝑎/𝑛: 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑞!!!! 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝚑𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑜𝑙 𝑖 𝑎𝑚 𝑡𝚑𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑏𝑚𝑏. 𝚑𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑡𝚑𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𖠌

anyone would be nervous if a 6’4 buff military man locked eyes with you. right? possibly- but does knowing him for 4 years make it any better? does dating for two of those years help? nope. looking this hunk of a guy in the eyes didn’t get any less nerving, even after knowing him for so long.

the way he trapped you under your gaze made you nervous. it made your fingers drum against your cargo pants -it made your heavy boots tap on the concrete. he must know, he gave it away by the way he held his stare- not daring to look away. he knew it made you nervous- he knew it made you weak in the knees. maybe if you could look him in the eyes for longer, you’d see the glimmer in them when your eyes drifted down and your face went hot.

the first time he noticed- it was a team briefing. you were sat across from him, he was looking at you- as always- and he began to zone out. he admired your face- your beauty. the way you chewed on your cheek in concentration as you listened carefully to the orders price was giving out . he was lucky to have someone like you in his life. someone to trust, someone to kiss, someone to hug.

at first- he didn’t notice he was staring at you. but when price slammed something onto the table - most likely harder than he intended to - it snapped him out of his trace. he was confused- to say the least- he didn’t understand the ways your eyes were darting all over the place… until he did.

your fingers - which were resting against the table - were fighting against each other and your knee was bouncing at a particular pace. he knew it was yours- the table was rocking and soap - who was sitting on his right -  was completely still. as for gaz, he was sat, on a chair, away from the table, why? god knows - but that left you.

 he understood now- you were nervous. why? because you were caught under his gaze.

that moment, he was thankful for the mask. it hid the smirk on his face. well- not that you could look for long enough to see it. he was still staring at you- he realised. maybe he should stop. let you focus. so he, thoughtfully, looked away- though not before taking one last glance, just for fun.

the second time, he’d actually forgotten. you were all cramped into a little plane, on the route to a mission. soap was squashed up beside you, practically locking you into the wall. ghost, however, was facing you, the tip of his boots pressed against yours. he was looking at soap, who was waffling about god knows what- it was always hard to keep up with what the scot was saying.

you- were also listening. just not so intensely. you didn’t bother to turn your body to look at soap, you couldn’t, he had you trapped against the wall. so, you had to look straight ahead. right at ghost.

you did your best to avoid his eyes. you stared at the wall of the plane, his vest, the badge on his jacket - hell even his gun. but you found yourself staring back into his eyes. you loved his eyes- you did, even if it didn’t seem like it. you loved the way they sparkled in the sunlight- the way they lit up when you walked into a room. but you just couldn’t maintain eye contact.

he tried to listen to soap- for a change - he really did, but eventually, the man became a buzzing in his ears. so he turned his attention back to you. as soon as his eyes began to move, so did yours. you looked away as quickly as possible- deciding the marks on the floor were much more interesting to look at.

ghost, although hidden by the mask, raised an eyebrow at this. again, he didn’t understand why. he racked his brain for the memory or the reason. oh. right.

the corners of his lips perked up, and he kicked his foot against your boot. he watched your eyebrows furrow, and your teeth gnaw at your bottom lip. he kicked again, and again until you were forced to look at him. he was having far too much fun for a man about to head onto the battlefield.

you- on the other hand. god, this was the furthest thing from fun you could imagine. he was your boyfriend for christ’s sake. you hoped he would never notice. the height difference between you two always meant you stared directly at his chest and you almost always sat next to him. maybe you cold try look at him, just once more.

so the next minute- you were staring right into his eyes. maybe a couple of seconds passed, you could already feel your face getting hot, your fingers start to twitch against your knee. fuck sake. you caved in again, looking away. 

and you swear you heard the faintest sound of a deep chuckle come from him.

MY RIGHT PERSON, OUR WRONG TIME

☾ ─ summary. wanting to start a new life, y/n suggest to her lover running away, but he obviously disagrees. he soons regrets not begging her to stay a little more.

☾ ─ contents. fem!omaticaya!reader, hurt no comfort, wc: 1.5k

☾ ─ notes. i fucking love hurt no comfort hihi👹👹 also this sucks, but i have over 8 unfinished drafts, so i'm trying to get rid of 'em :pp

THE ECLIPSE WAS getting closer, and with each passing second, Y/N's worries only grew. It was now or never, Y/N reminded herself, as she harshly bit her lower lip. Her body tensed upon the sudden sting. She swallowed the taste of metal, wiping away the small amount of blood leaking from her mouth with the back of her hand.

Y/N took in the view front of her, sharply inhaling. The tree of voices. It was a strange place to simply hang out at with your lover, but Y/N had a reason for bringing Neteyam there. This night might be the last one in their village, and Y/N wanted to cherish it. After all, she grew up there. It was the place where she met Neteyam, the person who changed her and her life forever.

All her memories begun to replay in her head, causing Y/N's eyes to flutter, as tears begun to form in her eyes. Letting her eyelids fall, Y/N harshly blinked the tears away, finally taking her eyes off the tree. "Nete..?" She whispered over her shoulder in an attempt to wake up the older boy. Almost every day, the duo would hang out late at night and Neteyam would fall asleep with Y/N in his arms, while she silently adored him, playing with his hair or just taking in his beautiful features. His back was pressed against one of the many trees, while his arms were loosely wrapped around Y/N's body. Her back pressed against his chest, sitting between his legs with Neteyam's head resting in the crook of her neck.

"Mhm? Is everything okay?" Tiredness laced his voice, as Neteyam finally raised his head to look at Y/N. "Yeah, yeah... I--" Y/N couldn't help, but already miss his warm touch, as she sat up and turned to face the older boy, his arms falling freely to the ground. "I need to talk to you about something." Y/N confessed, playing with the dead skin around her fingernails anxiously.

"You can talk to me." Placing his hand on top of hers, Neteyam explained, as he rubbed his thumb over the bracelet decorating Y/N's wrist. No matter the amount of love Y/N held for her clan, Neteyam and his family, who took her in after she was left all alone, her past continued to haunt her. Every place in the village she'd lay her eyes upon reminded her of unpleasant memories, and with that, Y/N came to a conclusion. She needed to get as far away as possible with the hope of finally leaving her traumatic past behind.

A lump grew inside Y/N's throat, as she grasped Neteyam's hands in hers. "Let's run away." Silence fell over duo, as Y/N desperately looked in her lover's eyes. Neteyam could see the forming tears in her eyes, signalling what she just said wasn't some kind of a prank. "I'm serious, Neteyam, let's get away from this place. Just the two of us." Y/N begged, as a single tear ran down her cheek. Her stomach twisted with anxiety, when Neteyam only stared at her in silence with an unreadable expression.

"What are you talking about, Y/N?" Neteyam furrowed his brows in confusion, before pulling his hands back. Y/N's heart dropped at his move. "This is our home." He added, as Y/N quickly shook her head from side to side, gulping down. "No... You're my home, Neteyam. Please." Once again, Y/N reached out for his comforting touch, but Neteyam dodged away. Swiftly standing up, he looked down at Y/N with a strange expression, his own heart beating fast.

"Is this... about what happened?" Neteyam begun, "Y/N, I understand it's hard to live in the same village all those awful things took place, but you cannot just- just run away from your past." As Y/N got up from the ground, hugging herself while desperately searching for even the smallest bit of comfort, Neteyam held out his shaky hand, but Y/N only looked at him with a dejected face. "Neteyam, you don't get it. We have to get away. I have to get away." Y/N tried to hold back her tears. "So what? You expect me to leave me family here? I'm the next Olo'eyktan, I have responsibilities-- I can't leave." Neteyam's voice grew louder, as he begun to get upset over his lover's request. "I love you, Y/N, I truly do, but..." Shaking his head from side to side, Neteyam averted his gaze.

Staring at his distressed expression and hearing his words echo inside her ears, Y/N felt her stomach drop. She didn't think about it that way. She only thought about herself and her own feelings, as she wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow her whole at the moment. Her expression falling at the sudden realization, Y/N begun to uncontrollably sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." She muttered, before Neteyam took a step closer, pulling her into his chest. His touch gentle, as if Y/N was about to fall apart any minute. He understood her struggle and wanted only the best for her, but he couldn't leave his parents and siblings behind. "I'm so selfish, I wasn't thinking--" Y/N continued to cry into his chest, as Neteyam caressed the back of her head. "It's alright. But please don't say stuff like that anymore." He attempted to assure her.

With her face hiding in the crook of Neteyam's neck, Y/N opened her mouth, but closed it as soon as no words came out, just another painful sob. She wanted nothing more than to tell Neteyam how much it pained her to have her past follow her for every second of the day, even in her sleep.

Few minutes have passed and Y/N's crying begun to calm down. "Y/N?" Neteyam softly whispered, as she looked up at him with tear-stained face. "Promise me you won't leave?" At his words, Y/N felt her chest tighten. She couldn't lie. Especially not to Neteyam, so instead, she pulled him closer for a kiss. But this kiss wasn't like any other ones they've shared. And it didn't go unnoticed by Neteyam, the way Y/N held him like he'd disappear the second she lets go.

"Let's go home, okay?" Gently caressing her cheek with his thumb, Neteyam offered, earning a nod from Y/N. Intertwining their hands, Neteyam begun to pull Y/N with him, as she stole one last glance at the tree of voices. "I'm sorry. Forgive me, Eywa." She quietly whispered, the wind carrying her words away.

Y/N gave Neteyam's hand one last squeeze, before they parted, each taking off on their ikrans. With an aching heart, she watched as Neteyam slowly disappeared into the dark night, before letting out a long shaky breath. "We're gonna be alright..." Gently caressing the side of her ikran, Y/N muttered, more to herself than to her ikran.

"Neteyam!" A hand waving in front of the older boy's face snapped him out of his thoughts, as he threw a confused look at his brother. "What's going on with you, bro?" Lo'ak nudged Neteyam's shoulder, expecting a snarky comment in response, but instead Neteyam's eyes fell to the floor once again, as he stayed silent.

Ever since the moment he woke up, Neteyam had a strange feeling growing inside his stomach - like something bad was about to happen, yet he couldn't place his finger on it. Looking around, he made sure his parents and siblings were all nearby and well, and they were. Furrowing his brows in pure confusion, Neteyam got lost in his thoughts once again.

He thought about everything over and over again, desperate to know why he felt so strange. His parents and siblings were barely a few feet away from him and okay, he wasn't late to a training nor forgot any of his chores, and Y/N, who'd never break a promise, promised she wouldn't leave- Y/N promised...? The last night played on repeat inside Neteyam's mind, until he realised one thing. Y/N did in fact not promise anything.

Eyes widening, Neteyam's heart skipped a beat as he jumped out of his bed, before running as fast as he could towards Y/N's place. She wouldn't leave, would she? Neteyam questioned himself, ignoring the worried calls of his name. Thank Eywa, Y/N lived quite close, meaning it only took Neteyam about a minute to get to her place, especially with how fast he was running.

Heavy breaths escaped Neteyam's lips, as he frantically looked around Y/N's place, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but he didn't. Instead, his eyes fell on the bracelet laying on top of Y/N's bed. The same bracelet Neteyam was looking at last night - the same bracelet Y/N never took off. "No, no..." Gulping down, Neteyam muttered to himself, quickly grabbing the bracelet, before desperately looking around once again.

The realization begun to set in, causing his heart to painfully ache. His knuckles turned white, as the grip on the bracelet grew stronger. But Neteyam couldn't care less how the beads pricked at his skin, because all he could think about - is how he should have begged her to stay a little more.

simon 'ghost' riley (cod mw)

all works contain fem!reader and are for 18+ readers only, minors do not interact. back to main masterlist

standalone one-shots

• you don't learn | 1.2k (s)

• keep you close | 3.6k & i'm with you | 3.7k

• this year's love | 5.5k (non-military!reader)

drabble: christmas with ghost

drabble: ghost x non-military!reader

ghost x reader!rain

• had to see you | 5.7k (r: part one)

• need to see you | 4.7k (r: part two)

drabble: it begins in the bar | light 18+

drabble: solo party | fluff (drabble) *newest*

ghost x reader!helen

(can be read as individual pieces. helen is not the reader's name, she is a medic and Helen is a nickname after Helen of Troy — ghodt thought he was being hilarious)

• helen. simon | 4.3k (the original)

• i don't want to miss you | 1.2k

• rusty knife (drabble-ish) | 1k

• hands | 1.7k

• rattled your bones | 2.2K (wounded!helen, hea)

• i and love and you | 2.7k fluff

• borrowed | 1.2k *spice*

• those three words | 2.4k

• it's you. it's me. | 5.3k (smut, angst, proposal)

drabble: what made ghost fall in love

drabble/ask: would ghost marry helen (longer piece incoming)

drabble/ask: ghost and helen on the road

ghost x helen tag

to soap mactavish masterlist

I am excited for ghost and helen car ride 👀 we need more sass and snark hehe

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader (Helen!Reader)

an: just a little something for a Saturday 🚘

He doesn’t elaborate on why he’s here instead of Soap, not when he loads the car, not even when the tyres hit the open road.

No explanation provided an hour in or after your two’s pit-stop-fuck. It niggled, tightened in the back of your mind that he was keeping things from you that he could tell you. Something he promised he’d never to do.

But then, you equally had promised not to put yourself in danger, and here you were accepting a mission not necessary for a medic.

You had ways of pulling information from Ghost, and even ways of retrieving it from Simon.

Both begin in the same way, following a similar pattern: indifference. You lull him into believing telling you would be better than whatever the fuck you’re doing. A bribe, an exchange.

Your chosen play was to keep messing with the radio volume and station until it wound him up. Watching his eyes dart in your direction, even if you never met them. His hips shifted periodically, making your eyes stare at the thighs you’d between your own only hours ago.

That was his play—his line of defence: his ridiculous body and his ridiculous way of knowing every inch of yours.

Except, he’d played his hand too soon. Your knickers are still in his pocket, and his cum is still very much inside of you. So, you turned the volume up another two notches, wondering how tight his jaw was under the thin fabric on his face.

You can’t assume you’re getting to him.

That’s how you fail. But, the volume is piercing your ears, so you have to wonder if it is for him. The songs neither of you know blaring, filling the small space with sounds both irritating to you, and him.

So, naturally, you turn it up again. Almost pulling your hand back when his wraps around yours, gripping it with enough purpose to tell you you’re getting to him—but not enough to hurt.

“You not like that song?”

“Enough, Helen. For fuck sake.”

You grin, keeping score as the sun sets. The ambient temperature lessens as the breezes rushes through both of your open windows. Allowing clothes to fall away from damp skin as the low light catches the metal in the car and the metal on his left hand—the evidence of your cover.

A story not far from the truth. One you’d supposed to be spinning with Soap, and not your actual lover.

Soap would also have been bare faced.

“I’d have been fine with Soap, if that’s what you were worried about.”

His hands tightens on the steering wheel. “Wasn’t worried.”

“And, as good as his singing is, it wouldn’t have swayed me from your broody nature. In case, you’re jealous that he’d get to spend two to three days with me.”

He shoots you a glare—eyes standing out due to the lack of paint around them. The same ones you see when he’s bare to you, all walls down, and willing to let you in.

Pieces of truth slide into place in front of your eyes, the puzzle almost readable—almost identifiable.

“How you going to be explain the balaclava, hubby?”

You watch for him tensing at the affectionate name. He doesn’t. If anything, he doesn’t react at all. Likely knowing it’s what you want—that right now the best the two of you have is fighting and fucking to make up for it.

He won’t tell you what’s wrong, and you’re already bored of him being difficult.

“Tell them I’m ugly. Warn ‘em I’m doing them a favour by keepin’ it on.”

You smirk, letting your head roll back on the seat as the breeze whips your hair around your neck. “Next to me, they won’t believe that.”

“Bit full of yourself, Helen.”

“If I remember, I’ma bit full of you.”

“Watch it.”

Snorting, you roll your head to look at him. “Or what? You’ll pull over and stuff more of yourself in me… cause I’ll tell you now, Simon. I’d like that too much for it to be a punishment.”

“You’re something else.”

“It’s why you married me, remember?”

“Engaged, Helen,” he snarls, and your eyes narrow at his side-profile and his tone.

Because you know that, know that the two of you haven’t quite crossed that line just yet. But for this… you’re married. A lie that you’ll need to spin when you reach the end of this particular half of the journey.

You almost saying that, it fermenting on the tip of your tongue.

But his hand takes yours again, clutching it, weaving his bare fingers in between yours. And you let the words die, wilt and fade. Beginning to maybe see what may have been bothering him.

Maybe.