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People have a pretty strong tendency to believe that Simon - no, *Ghost*, is...kinky.
*"Oh, bet yer a real kinky fucker in bed, aye, Lt?"* Johnny - *especially* Johnny - always jokes with an annoyingly suggestive waggle of his eyebrows after a night out at the pub drinking a few pints - to which Simon would simply respond with a roll of his eyes and trademark grunt. *Christ...* Letting Johnny's assumptions about the Mancunian's supposed kinkiness run wild and uncorrected.
A man like him, a soldier, a man riddled with trauma, a man who's been to hell and back, *must* be into rough sex. Stereotypes are inevitable - Simon knows and understands that. After all, he *does* come across as pretty intense at times. He can see how people think that violence on the battlefield extends to the bedroom, leaving behind bruises and bite marks and tears and drool in his wake. *They're not entirely wrong.* But they're still wrong.
Some marks here and there in the heat of the moment are bound to occur, and fuck, Simon doesn't mind them all that much. But harm for the sake of harm isn't something he gets off on.
Because, in truth, Simon is...well, *far* more vanilla than anyone realises.
The notion of anything kinky or BDSM-related in general has never really appealed to him, honestly. *Personal preference, innit?* He's more of the kind of man who makes love rather than fucks. What *does* appeal to him, though - is making slow, passionate *love* and gently worshipping the love of his life's body the way it should be. Hands reverential and eyes adoring. Calloused and tired and full of so much love.
For Simon, sex is more about the connection, not so much about seeing who can be more dominant or whatever the hell some people - *kinksters, they call it* - are on about. *Not that I'm shamin' 'em, though...* It's just that Simon has no desire, really, for power plays or anything of the sort when he's having sex. *As simple as that.* All he wants to do is to cherish the body beneath him. Savour it. And God, does he live for the moments when he can return from excruciatingly harrowing missions, gaze into familiar eyes, and kiss those sweet lips that part in bliss with each gasped moan and whispered praise while his dog tags jingle harmoniously.
*Clink, clink, clink.*
Honestly, just the idea of having rough sex makes Simon feel sort of...guilty. The mere thought of it is like scratching at wounds that never truly healed. Until they bleed and scab. All because of the idea of causing the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with *harm*, bringing pain into what, for him, should be an intimate act of love. It makes him doubt himself like he's no better than his dad - a terrible and haunting thought.
So, he purposefully avoids it by treating you right, both *in* bed and *out*.
A grunt falls from his lips at a particularly unhurried roll of his hips - slow and shallow, lazy thrusts into the warm hole that hugs his cock so snugly. Muscles tensing and flexing just barely beneath scarred skin. Thick cock dragging along sensitive walls, leaving only the fat tip inside. Nearly pulling out - only to slide back inside with an indulgent groan. "Fuck..."
People like what they like, and for Simon, it just so happens to be that he prefers sweet and slow vanilla sex and the profound love, trust, and connection that comes with it. And there's nothing wrong with that.
Unity - fitting together like long-lost puzzle pieces made by God himself solely for each other and no one else - brings such sweet satisfaction to Simon. True pleasure. Souls entwined like vines. Taking and giving in equal measure, never stealing. Vulnerability and love, souls bared, scars exposed and kissed and traced. Gentle, adoring, devout.
Simon craves intimacy.
But he also craves *privacy*.
So, that's why he lets the misconceptions continue.
Nobody knows what truly transpires when tangled in snug linen sheets and cosy cotton blankets, nor do they need to. This is *his* connection with you. *Nobody else needs to be in on it, that's for bloody sure...*
Then, Simon lets out a hitched and needy moan. Christ, it's *embarrassingly* needy. But Simon can't find it in himself to give a fuck. Not when the love of his life, his soulmate, looks so captivating beneath him. Fuck, *spellbinding*, even. His hips press flush to your hips, and he bottoms out with a moan, grinding his hips and sliding a hand down your thigh to shift the angle just slightly.
"So perfect, love..." His lashes flutter, yet his tired brown eyes stay fixated on every expression that contorts your face. "Y'feel so good. *Always* so damn good. Wrapped so nicely around me..." Emphasising his heartfelt words with another deep grind of his hips.
"*Fuuuckin' hell*...love makin' you feel good...love showin' how much I *love* you." Simon doesn't say those three words often. *I love you.* They scare him. Afraid he might jinx it. But he's getting over that fear, slowly but surely. So, he says it again. "I love you, you."
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