Ghost X Helen - Tumblr Posts

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)

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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.

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.

happy valentine's day, jo ❤️ for the #mmvalentinesevent can i request "carding your fingers through your lover’s hair after a bad nightmare" with ghost and helen please? love you, babes!!

sometimes, i dream

simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader [helen!reader]

Some nights, he falls asleep dreaming of nothing.

In others, the black space behind his eyes comes alive with all the failings—the blood, the loss, the sights. Sometimes they’re accurate depictions, a flashback, a reminder; sometimes they’re heightened, a lie created by the fears he carries.

He never knows when they’ll come, when they’ll crash into him, and when they do…

Nightmares pull Ghost under. The mask he applies so perfectly is yanked from his face, leaving him exposed—leaving him with Simon.

Simon has scars that are different to the ones Ghost has. Ones that aren’t on skin level, but far beneath the surface.

They choke him. They force strangled noises passed his lips as the darkness wraps around his throat. It unfurls inside of him. Needing to wake, needing to escape—

“Simon…”

It drips into his ear, calls to him: her voice.

An outline of her stepping like the brightest light into the peripheral of his dream. It’s something, but not quite enough. Needing more, internally pleading with her.

Save me. Help me.

“Shh, Simon. I’m here.”

She’s more corporeal. Pushing through the shadows of his guilt, trying to reach him, desperately fighting against memories and failures and—

“Baby, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Her nails brush through his hair as he dances between dreams and being awake. He knows them so well. A feeling he treasures and craves.

Her fingers, those healing hands, push past his slightly-too-long hair. Likely feeling the damper parts from his nightmare. Her nails occasionally scrape against his scalp, cementing him here and not wherever his mind keeps trying to take him.

Ghost flicks his eyes open. His sight meeting darkness, but not the same type his mind had conjured. This darkness has familiar shapes and calming shadows. It has outlines that make him relax.

It’s why all he does is stare.

Finding her eyes, even in the dark of the night. Needing them, having them guide him back to normal breathing.

He should admit it—tell her—that the mere whisper of his name had yanked him free of his nightmares hands. That when she repeated it again, it unlodged the grip around his lungs; untangled the knot in his stomach, and allowed his heart to thump again.

But when she called him baby... when her beautiful lips let those four letters slip out into the air—it had pulled him back to her.

Pulled him from sandy deserts, where there were screams of people he could have saved and his palms soaked with blood that wasn't his.

It’s why he stares at her like she is the sun. Because she is his sun. She lights him, both his world and his skin. She spreads warmth, even amongst the places he never thought he’d feel it again. Her smile, similar to the sunniest of days—makes everything okay, even when it couldn’t be further from it.

She has cloudy days, thunderstorms and rain, too. He knows she does. Has pulled her from them and brought her close to him.

He guesses she's returning the favour. Pull him close to her, feeling his panicked breath on her chest until he soothes and coats her skin in quick thank yous.

He will, thank her. For now, he slides his hand over her forearm, squeezing—letting her know he’s back, he’s here. A silent gratitude, one she must hear loud and clear because she drops the softest, sweetest kiss to his brow.

“Would you still love me if I was a rock, Simon?”

And he feels it before he acknowledges it: a smile.

The way it spreads like wildfire across his face. The way his mind wants to articulate some sarcastic comment, letting go of the last tendrils of his nightmare with ease.

She’s good. He thinks quickly—almost tempted to slide his palm up and feel her smirk. Using distraction.

“I’d carry you in my pocket. Maybe throw you at Johnny when he’s pissin' me off.”

She laughs the most beautiful sound, one which lulls him without trying. “You wouldn’t need to aim, either. I’ll always find the spot to hurt him. Just for you.”

He grips her arm a little tighter, thumb brushing in swipes. “S’why you’re too good for me,” he whispers, the words barely kissing the air.

“One day you’ll believe we deserve one another.”

He snorts, imagining the smile she's wearing at his grunt.

He just feels the most comfortable silence fall over them. Enough to make him close his eyes as her head meets his shoulder. Warmth spreads over him as her skin touches his.

He’s almost not afraid to try and sleep again.

Not with her by his side, his lips brushing her forehead, his hand remaining on her forearm—rooting himself with her.

an: i know this was supposed to be sweet and romantic, @halfmoth-halfman so i hope this is okay that i took it a little… angstier. loves ♥️