Gentle violence
Simon wasnât a violent man. Sure, he did violent things for work, but that didnât mean he enjoyed them
Heâd 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 couldnât save, the people he didnât know and the people he did, the ones whose footsteps he recognized.
He wasnât a violent person. Never wanted to be.
Thatâs why it hurt when thatâs 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 couldnât. 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 whoâd 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.
âI⌠Iâm just not, I like it gentleâ you murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, the moonlight casting a faint glow through the room.
He smiled faintly.
âYeah⌠I can do thatâ
I have too many different versions of Simon Iâve written for holy shit

















