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
you’re currently standing on top of a shaky plastic folding chair in semi’s tiny college apartment, trying to untangle a massive, knotted nest of warm fairy lights that he wanted hung up for an acoustic band party. he’s standing right below you, his hands braced firmly on the back of the chair to keep you from falling, looking up with his eyebrows knitted together in pure concentration.
“left,” he directs, his raspy voice vibrating right near your knee. “no, your other left. you’re going to loop it around the curtain rod if you—”
a sharp pop echoes through the room as one of the tiny glass bulbs snaps under your thumb, sending a tiny shard of glass straight into your palm. you let out a small hiss, dropping the strand.
the casual, slightly bossy persona vanishes in a fraction of a second. semi doesn’t even wait for you to step down; his hands slide from the chair straight to your waist, his large, calloused fingers gripping your hips with a sudden, unyielding strength that completely catches you off guard as he lifts you effortlessly down to the floor.
he keeps his hands locked on your hips, backing you up two steps until your spine hits his kitchen counter, trapping you between his broad frame and the linoleum.
“let me see,” he orders, his voice dropping into a rough, tight register. he grabs your left wrist, his fingers trembling just a tiny bit as he forces your palm open under the overhead light. his ash-blonde bangs fall forward, shadowing his eyes, but his entire face and the tips of his pierced ears have turned a violent, dark shade of crimson. his jaw is locked so tight a muscle is jumping.
“eita, it’s literally a microscopic scratch, i’m not dying,” you mutter, your heart hammering against your ribs because his chest is pressing flush against yours with every breath.
“be quiet,” he grumbles through his teeth, his thumb carefully, rhythmically pressing against the base of your thumb to squeeze out the tiny drop of blood. he doesn’t look up at you, his eyes fixed intently on your palm as his breathing comes in heavy, stressed huffs that hit your chest. “you’re clumsy as hell. if you get an infection, you won’t be able to turn the pages on my lyric sheets this weekend. just... stand still while i get the tweezers. and don’t move from this spot.”
n: to my dear auntie astra and my wife @karnevil @toorubae
rockstar bf!semi doesn't know how to softlaunch you
You stood in front of the stage, dim lights and sweaty bodies surrounding you, but you were only staring at the man centering the space.
You don't think anyone in this place knows who he is to you, no one knows that you were standing here in the VIP area before anybody else, and it's kind of pissing you off at this point.
semi eita, the newly popular rock-star that suddenly had everyone at their knees, you loved the popularity he was recently getting, he deserved it but you couldn't help but notice everyone throwing themselves at him, boys and girls and all the in between.
No one here knows that the guy they're gushing about was the same guy that tried countless times to take you out when you were both in your high school days, even though you've ignored him countless times, giving him an eye roll and leaving him hanging.
The same guy that got insanely red when you showed up to one of his high school volleyball games for the first time, he almost fainted right there even though he wasn't even sure if you were here for him or not.
The same guy who freaked out when you finally agreed to go out with him 'don't think too much about this semi.' you warned right after agreeing, then involuntarily smiling a little after turning around and making sure he couldn't see.
And you were the same girl he wrote all his sickeningly sweet love songs about, and no one in this room knew a damn thing.
He kept playing, guitar pick placed between his fingers and moving rapidly across the strings, he looked so captivating like this, all in his element and doing what he loves so beautifully, it had your head going all woozy.
And unfortunately, everyone else was feeling the same. But luckily for you, your man always knew how to read your expressions, walking up to you right before the beat-drop of his latest release.
You look up at him, having to turn your neck all the way up because of the high stage he was on. He kneels down right in front of you and your eyes widen, the cheers get louder, though they seem to drown from around you little by little.
You smile up at him and roll your eyes when you feel him start to lean in, he was never a subtle person and you have no idea how your relationship was kept a secret for this long.
His face is right in front of yours when he whispers against your lips 'this one's for you' a promise and a confession heard by no one but you two. your heart melts a little at the confession and you just can't resist the urge to grap his shirt and push your lips against his, right as the loud music push against everyone's eardrums.
He kisses you back with all his might, skilled hand still going and going over the guitar and everyone can't seem to stop screaming.
He pulls back with a sick grin on his face, going back to hold the mic stand for his bridge, staring at you while backing away, you just grin back as you fix up your now smudged lipstick.
Later that night, when you were all showered and ready to drift off, you hear eita calling from next to you.
"rockstar semi and the mystery girl are trending on twitter babe," he chuckles out, while shoving his phone in your face.
"Mystery girl my ass, I'm gonna start posting all your ugly pictures from high school so everyone knows I've been here since day one." you scoff and look away, frowning.
"Shit baby, is that jealousy i see?" he gets up from his laying position, suddenly way too energetic for someone who had a whole show a few hours ago, grinning an evil grin in the process.
Your frown deepens as you smack him with a pillow, "shut up, semi." you hear him wince, then he tries to throw the pillow back at you.
synopsis: Semi knows exactly what her hands do to you. The rings. The veins. The slow, deliberate flex of long fingers that leaves you soaked before she even touches you. Tonight, she makes you watch. Makes you beg. Makes you take every single one while she stays fully dressed and you fall apart on her hand...
genre: established relationship, smut, soft fluffy aftercare
Semi’s hands have always been your quiet obsession.
Long, veined fingers that move with lazy confidence, knuckles that flex with effortless strength, the subtle ridges of tendons shifting under skin when she curls them. And then those silver rings that catch every scrap of light like they’re just daring you to stare.
She wears them constantly: a thick, matte band on her thumb, slim stacked silver on her index, a signet style skull on her middle finger (tiny etched details you’ve memorized with your tongue), and a plain cool band on her ring finger just because it looks good. Sometimes a new one appears, like a thin chain that drapes between two fingers like solid sin forged of metal, or a hammered band that leaves faint impressions on your thighs when she grips too hard.
She knows.
Of course she knows.
It started with the smallest things. You’d watch the way her fingers drummed on the armrest during movie nights, the soft clink of the metal blending with the low bass of whatever soundtrack was playing, and your thighs would press together under the blanket. Then it was the casual brush of her knuckles against yours when she passed you a drink, her rings cool against your warm skin, your breath hitching like you’d just been touched somewhere far more intimate.
Then the teasing began.
Semi’s always been observant, but with you she’s merciless.
“You really like my hands, don’t you princess?” She murmured one evening when your friends were distracted, voice pitched low, only for your ears. She flexed her long fingers slowly in front of your face so you could watch every tendon slide, every ring catch the light, before casually resting her hand on your knee under the table. “You just can’t stop staring. Bet you’re imagining these fingers somewhere else… spreading you open, curling inside you.”
You sputtered denials, cheeks burning, insisting it was nothing and you were just zoning out. But Semi never believed you for a second.
Now the others are gone.
Her room is quiet except for your uneven breathing. She sits on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, while you stand between her thighs stripped down to your panties, skin already flushed and sensitive. The power imbalance is deliciously unfair.
She lifts one hand slowly, letting you drink in every detail: the elegant length of her fingers, the faint scars from guitar strings and careless teenage years, the way the veins stand out when she flexes.
“Look.” She says, voice husky and amused. She spreads her fingers wide, silver gleaming under the lamplight.
“These fingers-” she curls them once, slow, showing off the flex of muscle “-feel so good when I stretch you. And my thumb…” She wiggles it, thick band catching light. “…Mmm, you love when I press it right on your clit, don’t you? The metal is always cold, but God, it gets so warm from how wet you always are for me. And you always whimper the second it touches you.”
Your knees tremble.
“These,” she curls her index, rings shifting with a faint clink, “leave the prettiest little marks on your thighs when I hold you open. You pretend to hate the bruises but I know you trace them for days, don’t you?”
The signet ring on her middle finger gets a slow twist. “This one’s my favorite for inside you. The edge catches just right when I curl, drags along that sweet spot until you’re crying and clenching around me.”
She finally reaches for you, sliding her palm up your bare stomach, cool rings trailing icy paths over your heated flesh. You shiver violently, a soft sound escaping.
“Jesus...” She laughs, soft and fond. “One look at my hands and you’re already shaking. I haven’t even touched you yet, baby.”
She hooks two ringed fingers under the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs in one slow pull, letting the metal scrape lightly along your skin. When her long fingers brush the sensitive backs of your knees, you whine involuntarily.
“Step out.” She orders.
You obey instantly.
She spreads her thighs wider, pulling you forward until you straddle one of them. Her free hand cups your jaw, thumb ring pressing into the soft skin under your chin, tilting your face so you have to meet her eyes.
“Show me how much you love them.” She murmurs. “These fingers. These rings. These hands.”
She slides her other hand between your legs without warning, middle and ring fingers parting your folds, cool metal kissing slick heat. Her palm presses flush against your clit, rings nestling against you while her fingers sink deep.
You gasp, hips jerking forward on instinct.
“There she is…” Semi breathes, watching every flicker across your face. She doesn’t thrust yet, just lets you feel the fullness, the weight of her fingers inside you, the texture of engraved silver warming fast against your walls.
You rock helplessly against her palm, chasing more.
“Use your words, baby.” She coaxes. “Tell me what you want from my hands.”
Your voice cracks. “Your-your fingers. All of them. Inside. Please.”
She smirks, victorious.
“Gooood girl.”
Then she moves, slow, deep strokes, rings dragging along every sensitive inch, long fingers curling perfectly. The signet ring catches that spot again and again, sending sparks up your spine.
“Look how pretty you take them.” She whispers, drinking in the feeling of your walls fluttering around her knuckles. “All because of these hands. These fingers. Who knew they’d drive you this mad?”
You can’t answer, only cling to her shoulders, ride her hand, moan brokenly every time her rings shift, every time her thumb presses a firm circle over your clit.
She adds a third finger, long and elegant, stretching you further, more metal, more pressure, more her.
“Bet you’d cum just from me letting you suck on them.” She teases, voice rough with want. “Your glossy little lips wrapped around my fingers, tasting yourself while I watch.”
The image alone nearly breaks you. Semi feels you clench hard around her and laughs, the sound low, dark, delighted.
“Yeah? You like that idea?” She pumps faster, rings clinking faintly with every thrust, thumb never leaving your clit. “Then how about after this, I have you clean my whole hand. Every single finger, every single ring. You can thank them one by one while you’re still shaking.”
That thought shatters you.
You cum with a broken cry, soaking her fingers, her palm, her rings, her jeans. She works you through it mercilessly - long strokes, curling fingers, circling thumb - drawing it out until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, thighs trembling around her hand.
When she finally eases out her fingers are glistening obscenely, absolutely dripping with your release, rings shining wetly. She holds them up between your faces, spreading them so you can see every detail.
“Baby… Look at the mess you made.” She says, almost proud. Then she brings them to your lips. “Clean up, princess. Show me how grateful you are for the hands that own you.”
You part your lips without hesitation, tongue tracing every long digit, every knuckle, every engraved ring, tasting yourself and metal and the faint salt of her skin. Semi watches with hooded eyes, voice a wrecked whisper.
“That’s my good girl, obsessed with my hands… and God, I’m obsessed with what they do to you.”
She eases you down on to the bed slowly, guiding your trembling body until you’re curled against her chest, legs still draped over her thigh. Your breathing is ragged, little hiccuping sighs that make her heart do something soft and stupid in her chest.
She doesn’t say anything at first. She doesn’t need to. She just wraps both arms around you, one splaying wide across your bare back, the other cradling the nape of your neck. Her rings are still warm from being inside you, the metal carrying your heat now instead of stealing it. She presses her lips to your temple, lingering there, breathing you in like she’s trying to memorize the exact scent of you post orgasm: sweet sweat, sex, and the faint vanilla of your gloss.
“You okay?” She murmurs, voice stripped of all its earlier teasing. It’s low, gentle, the kind of quiet she only ever uses when it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
You nod against her collarbone, too blissed out and boneless for words yet. Your cheek rests over her heartbeat, steady and strong, grounding.
Soon she starts moving her hand - the same one that just ruined you - in slow, soothing strokes up and down your spine. Her long fingers trace lazy patterns, rings occasionally catching on the tiny ridges of your vertebrae, but never hard, just present. Reminding you she’s still here. That she’s got you.
After a minute she shifts just enough to reach over and tug the blanket from the foot of the bed, draping it over your shoulders. The fabric is soft, and it smells like her laundry detergent and the faint smoke from last week’s late night balcony session. You burrow closer instinctively.
Her free hand finds your hair next.
Her fingers thread slowly, rings catching faintly on strands as she pets you in long, soothing strokes, untangling little knots with the patience of someone who has nowhere else to be. Every pass is deliberate, root to tip, gentle scratches at the base of your skull, then back up again. It’s hypnotic. You melt further into her with every stroke.
You lift one shaky hand to find hers, the one still resting against your neck. Without thinking, you lace your fingers through hers, thumb brushing over the thick band on her thumb, then tracing the slim stack on her index, circling the tiny signet on her middle finger like it’s a talisman.
She lets you play. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pull away.
Instead she turns her hand so you have better access, flexing her fingers just enough for you to feel every subtle shift of muscle and tendon under the skin. You map her knuckles one by one, following the faint scars from old guitar strings, pressing your fingertips to the calluses on her pads like you’re learning her by touch alone.
She watches you with soft eyes, the cocky smirk long gone and replaced by something quieter, something that lives only in these after moments.
“Still obsessed?” She whispers, lips brushing your hairline.
You nod, small and sleepy. “Always.”
A tiny huff of laughter vibrates through her chest. “Good, ‘cause these hands aren’t going anywhere.”
She keeps petting your hair in that same slow rhythm, while you keep tracing her fingers, thumb to pinky and back again, like it’s the most important thing in the world.
Eventually your eyelids grow heavy and your breathing evens out. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is Semi pressing one final kiss to your forehead, her ringed hand cradling the back of your head like she’s holding the entire universe.
“Sleep, princess.” She murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got you.”
And in the quiet dark of her room, with her heartbeat under your cheek and her fingers still tangled gently in your hair, you know she means it.
you and semi have been married for years—secretly married. no one in the public sphere has the slightest clue—not his fans, not the media, not even most of his closest friends. it’s your little secret—a bubble you both protect fiercely.
you keep your personal instagram lowkey—some casual selfies, food pics, the occasional travel shot. nothing flashy, nothing to attract too much attention. then there’s your stan account—a totally different vibe. this is where you’re the ultimate semi fangirl, posting unreleased photos, candid moments from shows, screenshots of interviews, even the occasional silly meme you know semi would roll his eyes at.
semi knows about the stan account—he catches your notifications sometimes and always lets out this dry, “seriously?” but he never tells you to stop. maybe because he secretly loves it.
the stan account isn’t without drama, though. some fans call you obsessed—a stalker even. people accuse you of crossing boundaries, posting private pictures, and being “too much.” but honestly? you’re not bothered. you just laugh it off with a shake of your head. it’s all just shits and giggles to you—fans being dramatic is nothing new.
then one day, the unimaginable happens. semi—the man who follows exactly zero people on social media—suddenly follows not just your stan account but also your personal one on his official public profile.
the fandom explodes. theories run wild. “is he going to sue her for privacy invasion?” “maybe they’re secretly dating.” “or is this some weird way to put a stop to her?”
semi’s fans start bashing you on your stan account—the usual accusations of being a creepy stalker—but again, you brush it off. the comments are childish, and honestly, you have better things to do than waste energy on anonymous trolls.
but then it spreads to your personal account—and suddenly, it’s different. people start face-shaming—calling you ugly, mocking your photos, making comments that hit below the belt. stuff that’s not about obsession or fandom anymore—it’s personal, targeted, and cruel.
you’re still unfazed. you’ve got thick skin. those comments bounce right off. you delete a few, block some accounts—but mostly you ignore it because you know this internet drama will blow over.
semi, on the other hand, doesn’t take it lightly. he watches you scrolling through the hate one night, his jaw tightening with every nasty comment you show him.
“hey,” he says quietly, voice low but serious. “they’re messing with the wrong person.”
you give him a tired smile, “it’s just the internet, eita. you know how it goes.”
“doesn’t mean i have to like it.” he grabs your phone, his fingers brushing over your screen like he’s wiping away the bad vibes.
the next day, you wake up to a notification flood. on your stan account, semi’s posted a selfie—him kissing you softly on the lips, his hand cupping your cheek, the wedding band shining unmistakably.
caption: “meet my wife. the only fan i follow.”
the fandom goes ballistic. social media explodes. news outlets pick up on the story. semi trends worldwide for days.
and somewhere in the middle of it all, you just laugh. you turn to semi, eyes sparkling, “see? told you it was all just shits and giggles.”
he smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear, “yeah. but some jokes stop being funny when they’re about you.”
you lean into him, “guess it’s good you’re here to remind me.”
he pulls you close, “always. i’ve got your back—in public, private, and everywhere in between.”
and just like that, your secret’s out. but it’s no longer a secret you’re afraid of. it’s a secret you’re proud of—because it’s yours. and his.
