Gentle violence
Simon wasn’t a violent man. Sure, he did violent things for work, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed them
He’d stayed up more nights than he or anyone else could count, head in his trembling scarred hands, wishing it would stop, the memories, the guilt he carried, the lump in his throat that still hurt even after he tried to swallow it.
Everyone he couldn’t save, the people he didn’t know and the people he did, the ones whose footsteps he recognized.
He wasn’t a violent person. Never wanted to be.
That’s why it hurt when that’s what people expected from him. when they saw his outside, his scarred and intimidating form, and just assumed the inside was the same. When partners wanted him to be rough and dominant in bed.
He tried, but couldn’t. The slaps they requested always landing too light, the hair pulling always hesitant, his grip loosening before it could ever sting.
He just wanted to be gentle with someone. Wanted someone to be gentle with him.
Someone he could kiss softly, cupping their jaw while they loosely ran their fingers through his hair.
Someone who’d trace his scars as they lay bare beside him, asking where each one was from, kissing away the pain and bad memories as he told them.
Then he met you.
“I… I’m just not, I like it gentle” you murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, the moonlight casting a faint glow through the room.
He smiled faintly.
“Yeah… I can do that”
I have too many different versions of Simon I’ve written for holy shit
