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Vincent’s charm is that of the second-hand and gently-used; a coat too young to be an antique but old enough to be threadbare, too long or too wide, holes in the pockets and tears in the lining, and yet the moment you lay eyes on it you want to take it home.
It might sound insensitive but you really do mean it in the best way. There’s something endearing about the abandoned, something familiar and comforting about faded colors and cracked lacquer. You step into Vincent’s apartment where the wallpaper is peeling and the carpet is stained, and you let out the breath you’ve been holding since the last time you saw him.
“Sorry,” he says on behalf of the overheating radiator, and you shake your head, begging him not to be.
You don’t think he realizes that you understand. That’s why he always looks uneasy like he’s just waiting for you to run, why he drinks in the sight of your bare skin as you shed every layer of clothing like he’ll never see it again, and when he finally does touch you, it’s hesitant and gentle and not what you want at all.
“Vincent,” you say, and he flinches, shrinks back, tries to pull away so you have to catch his wrist and press his hand to your chest so he knows you want it to be there, “it’s okay. You’re not going to break me.”
He swallows, the apprehension visible in every inch of his body. “You don’t know that,” he says.
He kisses you so softly you hardly feel it, runs his hand along your side with shaking hands as though he’s holding fine china and fears it’ll crack beneath his fingers if he isn’t careful.
He looks at you and sees something that he isn’t sure he should be holding, something fragile that came into his hands by mistake. He thinks you’re high art meant for more cultured eyes and more delicate fingers, perfect and spotless and whole, and he’s wrong.
“Vincent,” you call again, more softly this time. You lie back and reach for him, feel the callouses on his palms, and guide him to wrap his hands around your neck. You see his eyes widen but you feel his pulse quicken, his breath hitch in his throat, his skin heating against you. “Please.”
“I’m gonna hurt you,” he says.
But he doesn’t let go. His eyes are the same metallic silver you might find when all the gold paint flakes off, and anyone else might find that unappealing, might turn their nose up at something so worn, but you know better.
“I want that,” you tell him.
“I can’t.” He takes a shaky breath but he still doesn’t move. You feel your pulse hammering beneath his palm. “You’re…one of the best things I have right now. You mean a lot to me. I don’t wanna take any chances.”
You close your eyes and smooth your hands up his arms, feeling his muscles straining. “You don’t have to,” you say gently. “But if you want to, I don’t mind. You mean a lot to me, too, Vincent, that’s why I even brought it up.”
He makes a frustrated, growling sound, and you feel him throbbing at your entrance, prodding and teasing
(hesitant).
“I don’t have to hurt you to get off,” he scoffs. He hasn’t moved his hands.
“I don’t have to be hurt by you to get off.” You touch his cheek. “But I don’t think it would just hurt. I think it would feel good, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Because it would be you doing it.”
You feel his fingers tighten only slightly.
“You’re important to me, Vincent,” you tell him. “I want this. I don’t want to just feel you on my skin, I want you deeper than that.”
He squeezes your throat once, briefly, and then you feel him slowly stretching you as he moves his hips and thrusts into you, not stopping until you feel him as close as he can get, your hips meeting. He leans in to kiss and bite your ear, but still, his fingers are trembling, grip loose as his hips move in an irregular rhythm.
“Deeper than this,” you beg. “Vincent, please, I want you to hurt me. You don’t have to hold back. I want it. You mean so much to me. I lo—!”
Finally, his hand constricts around your throat, so suddenly that you’re startled. Vincent fucks you slowly and never breaks eye contact, his gaze soft and almost wounded. He squeezes harder as if he wants to destroy the words before they can come out, like he’s afraid to have them in the open.
Everything is brighter and sharper as your lungs start to burn for air. Vincent moves faster and you see him panting, hear him calling your name and telling you how good you feel, how long he’s wanted to do this, how he’s going to leave you with marks all over you so you won’t be able to forget.
You feel his teeth at your shoulder dragging across your flesh before he finds a spot that makes you shiver and then he’s biting you as hard as he can. Your eyelids flutter when he draws blood and it runs warm and soothing down your skin.
He loosens his hold on your neck just enough for you to gasp and answer him when he asks you, “Is this what you wanted?”
“Yes,” you whisper, and you take just a moment longer to watch a comforted smile form on his face before you stroke his wrist and ask for more.
When you found him, you were just the same; weary and wind-dragged with your ends fraying and your seams coming undone, second-hand and gently-used. You don’t want him to think you’re without your tears and your fractures.
But if you get any more, you want them to be from him.