big fan of Simon who’s just a little too rough with his affection.
he’s got a vice grip on your jaw, digging dimples into your flesh so ironclad that it hurts anytime you do anything remotely cute. His teeth clenched, nose scrunched, voice gruff when he utters—
“Precious little thing.”
his lips bruise yours next, suffocating you so all that remains is him.
“Gon’ be the death o’me, you know tha’?”







