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tigerlily-doll · 1 month

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man of war

simon riley x f!reader, comfort

🌺

soft cries fill your room in the safe house, the salty tears stinging at your rosy cheeks as you weep feebly. the guilt was overwhelming. why were you put on this job? out of all who work for HM’s treasury? it felt unfair. cruel, perhaps. you were assigned to a task force a week ago, mostly made up of british personnel, to track their spendings of the treasury’s money to make sure it’s adequate. it was proving to be a much harder job than you thought it’d be.

“shoot,”

the gruff soldier spoke urgently, unarmed, holding down the writhing body of a target under him. your hand softly shook as you pointed the handgun at the struggling, sweaty man, your heart beating rapidly, pumping your red blood ferociously around your body. blood stained the hotel stairs where they had fought and you had ran, the enemy wielding a machete before he was apprehended by the masked spectre.

“close your eyes, y/n, and pull the bloody trigger!”

he strained, his opponent matching his physical strength as ghost held him down with brute force. you shut your eyes tightly and reluctantly obey, the shot reverberating throughout your whole body as you open your eyes to see a limp body and a red-hot pool of blood under him. your chest heaves up and down and you drop the gun on the floor, pushing it towards ghost with your foot, as you lean against the wall of the hallway. you gaze at the lifeless corpse, your pillowy lips parting as you take in the sight. ghost looks up at you for a few seconds, still on the floor next to the dead body, his expression hidden behind his mask before he reaches for the gun and quickly runs back up the stairs, multiple threats near your hotel room.

your silky hair is messy when you look in the mirror opposite your bed, taking in your disheveled appearance and glassy eyes. you feel dirty, even though your disturbed shower lasted two and a half hours. you feel a shot of pain in your chest when you remember that the dead body, the body that is dead because of you, will be cool to the touch in 6 hours and cool to it’s core in 18. price made you a cup of tea after he drove you to the safe house, but it’s untouched and since gone cold. you hear rustling from downstairs and around your room, but you pay no mind to it, various personnel returning from various places, the skies dark.

a few minutes pass before you hear a melodic knock at the door. you assume it’s john, here to give you an update or perhaps another strong cup of tea. your assumptions are proven incorrect when you hear a husky voice.

“y’alright?”

his voice is blunt. almost humorously blunt, and you would tease him if you didn’t just kill a man. you don’t reply, the words not forming in your throat, your knees pressed to your chest and your head pressed into your knees as your luscious hair sprawls out over the entirety. two minutes and a half passes before you hear the door squeak open, the soft light from the hallway shining into your dark room. you can almost feel his eyes and imposing presence, the sudden feeling of scrutiny causing more tears to wander down those porcelain cheeks. please don’t let me be misunderstood.

you wonder why he’s doing this. you don’t think he’s a bad man, he’s just… closed off. and this seems a little out-of-character for a person like him. perhaps that’s just what he wants you to think. hm. an elusive man with an elusive presence, you can’t tell whether he’s standing at your door to comfort you or to tell you you should’ve pulled the trigger faster. he takes your silence as consent and steps in the room, closing the door gently behind him. actually, it wasn’t that gentle. does a man like him have the capacity to be gentle?

you hear the spectre walk towards where you sit on the floor, your body leaning against the bed as your head stays between your knees. he grunts as he sits down next to you, his beefy, muscular legs a stark contrast to yours.

“shunn’t ‘ave made you do that. we shunn’t ‘ave put you in a situation where you had to do that.”

you raise your head, your eyes still glassy with tears, your cheeks rosy, and your locks disheveled. you look up to meet his dark eyes, in this light they looked like coal. he still wore a mask, but not the one you’ve noticed he wears usually. you can make out more of his face, the shape of it, your thighs mere metres apart. the delivery of his words is awkward and rough, but it sounds like he’s trying his best not to be. a tear wanders down your cheek as your eyes stay on each others, and you quickly wipe it away, breaking eye contact and looking away from him in shame. you can’t help but feel humiliated.

your body runs cold when you feel a gentle but firm hand cup your head, the sensation from the touch causing sobs to rack your body. you close your eyes as his thumb strokes your hair, the hand careful, as if he’s holding fragile ceramic or running a brush across a cat’s soft fur. you can feel that it’s reluctant, almost timid, but he pulls you effortlessly into an embrace. the tears still fall, and the hug only amplifies your big and overwhelming feelings. his hand still stays in your hair.

“want some water or anythin’?”

his throaty voice asks, and you shake your head into his chest. you can hear the drum of his slightly sped-up heartbeat, and the sound slightly brings you back down to reality. he’s alive. he’s alive. the blood pumping through his veins distracts you from the problem at hand, and you begin to feel drowsy, the tears stopping and the feelings fading as your eyes flutter shut once again, this time more peacefully as he rocks you back and forth, his strong grip steadying and grounding as you gently glide into a deep sleep, the abyss washing over you like a cool wave.

🌺

the sun peeks through the curtains as you open your eyes, your hair sprawled out on the pillows as you wake inside your bed, the covers tucked gently and carefully over you.

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