synopsis: didn’t he warn you about getting involved with a guy like him? well, he also told you not to get attached, you didn’t listen then either.
18+ WARNINGS: age gap! (19 & 34), toxic situationship, unrequited feelings, unprotected p in v, choking, allusions to blood and scars
you tasted copper before you tasted him. the metallic tang pooled around the corners of your mouth, so dark and rich. you remember how his eyes lit up, never leaving the picture of his blood smeared fingers sank between your pink lips.
he cut you, hurt you. that’s exactly why it was a mistake. to pluck the feathers from a pretty bird who still needed to fly. but as you smiled and nipped at the tips of his fingers, he wanted to stick them back in.
you gave him your number written on a paper towel. the one he’d used to wipe the dry, flaking blood from the side of your mouth. he’d lost his phone, probably fell somewhere between the mattress and the wall. neither of you were sane enough to notice while you were sucking him in so sweetly.
he takes it, “just to check up on ya” he says. he shouldn't, but he does. you tell him it's fine, that accidents happen, that you barely feel it. this is a lie. your mouth aches for days after. you run your tongue over the wound obsessively, feeling where his nail carved a small canyon into your flesh. you think about textures. about the way soft things tear.
and he thinks about it too. how you are that soft thing, and to be touched by his destructive hands would surely ruin you.
he texts you two days later:
you respond immediately even though you told yourself you wouldn't. you should push him away. stop being so easy, because easy would bore a guy like him. you couldn’t wait.
he shouldn’t have asked. maybe you’ll mistake it for care. for genuine concern. it’s not.
the texts come sporadically after that. you initiate most of them. you tell yourself you're just being friendly, just maintaining a connection, but really you're testing the wound. seeing if it still hurts. seeing if he'll respond. he usually does, but his messages arrive with increasing delays. hours. then days. each response a little shorter than the last, a little more clipped, like he's trying to file down his words until they can't cut you anymore.
you know what he’s doing. the connection between you two will simmer down until it’s evaporated and you never speak again. it’s how men are.
“we should probably keep some boundaries here”
he texts. you didn’t message him much. maybe the occasional “how are you?” or “are you busy?”. maybe a grown man didn’t have so much time to entertain a bored little girl like you, but you hoped he at least felt something too.
but you don't stop. you can't. he's become the thing you bite down on when everything else hurts too much. a month passes. then two. then three. you meet someone new, someone who actually wants to date you, who takes you to dinner and holds your hand in public and introduces you to his friends. you don't text ghost for at least two weeks. you think maybe you've finally healed over. so does he.
good, he thinks, this is better for both of us.
but the new someone turns out to be just another mouth full of sharp edges. he cancels plans. he goes quiet for days. he tells you he's "not ready for anything serious" three months in, after you've already started imagining futures, after you've already made space for him in the soft parts of yourself. you feel something tear. not dramatically. not all at once. just a slow ripping, like skin caught on a nail. but this time, the blood didn’t taste good.
“don’t have to ignore me, i was just gonna ask if you wanted to hang out.”
you text him, impulses getting the best of you. not because you missed him, not because you needed a quick fuck, but because something needed to fill the void. to fix the empty space you had in your life. all the space you made for nothing.
you watch the three dots appear and disappear. appear and disappear. he's chewing on his response, trying to find the words that won't encourage you, won't hurt you, won't make this worse than it already is.
he knew this would happen. he knew you’d come back. he knew he should have blocked your number months ago but didn't. and now you’re asking.. and he’s going to respond even though he shouldn't. even though this will only make you sink your teeth in deeper. even though he’s the worst possible person for you to turn to.
another long pause. you imagine him in his bed, phone glowing in the dark, jaw clenched. you imagine him wanting to say no. you imagine him saying yes anyway.
you do. you sit on your couch and wait, running your tongue over your teeth compulsively. they feel too sharp tonight. everything feels too sharp. you think about that first night, about the blood, about how pain and pleasure got confused in the dim light of his bedroom. you think about how some wounds never really close, they just learn to live inside you, tender and permanent.
when he arrives, he looks tired. more than you remember. he stands in your doorway like he's afraid to come in, like crossing the threshold might mean something he's not ready to mean.
"anyone home?" he asks, weary eyes darting around the house. because although this might be normal to you, slightly to him, it really isn’t.
he notices.. you look destroyed. but tells himself not to make this about anything except getting through the next few hours without making everything worse.
you let him in. he sits on the opposite end of your couch, maintaining distance, maintaining those boundaries he keeps insisting on. you want to laugh. you want to cry. you want to crawl across the cushions and put your head in his lap and let him touch your hair while you fall apart. but you don't. you just sit there, two people who've tasted each other, pretending proximity doesn't mean intimacy.
"tell me what happened," he says.
so you do. you tell him about the new someone, about the slow unraveling, about how you thought this time would be different. about how you're starting to think maybe you're the problem, maybe you're too much, too hungry, too ready to bite down on anyone who shows you the slightest bit of attention. and it’s true. every bit of it.
he listens. he's good at that, you realize. listening without trying to fix. listening without judgment. it's probably why you keep coming back. why you keep texting. why you keep reopening this wound.
"you're not the problem," he says finally. "you just keep choosing people who can't give you what you need."
"yeah," he admits. "like me."
you move closer. not touching, but close enough that you can feel his warmth. close enough that if you wanted to, you could reach out. he knows. that this is bad. you’re seeking something to make you feel what you felt that night. he knows that feeling all too well. the adrenaline rush of being with someone you shouldn’t. the wound they leave when they disappear. after all, lovie, he’s almost twice your age. you haven’t been through anything he hasn’t been through himself.
"why did you come?" you ask.
he's quiet for a long time. outside, you hear sirens. a dog barking. the ambient sounds of a city that never fully sleeps. inside, there's just breathing. just the space between you, thick with everything unsaid.
"because you asked," he says finally. "i don’t fucking know, i-" he stops. swallows. you watch his throat work. "i can't seem to stay away even though i should."
the truth is, there's something about you that makes him want to be cruel and kind at the same time. because he’s fucked up too and misery loves company and this is the closest he lets anyone get. his career, his trauma, hell, everything about him is slowly causing him to deteriorate, and now it’s latching onto you.
you reach out. put your hand on his. he doesn't pull away.
"i miss you sometimes," you say.
but he doesn't move. and neither do you. you just sit there in your dim living room, holding hands like children, like people who don't know any better, but you do.
he squeezes your hand once. twice. a morse code you don't know how to translate.
outside, the sirens fade. the dog stops barking. the city holds its breath.
and you sit there together in the dark, two people who know better, two people who can't seem to help themselves, waiting for someone to finally draw blood.
he pauses for a second, eyes lingering on your lips for a second before he speaks “look.. i had fun with ya.” he says, and those words make your heart drop “you’re a sweet girl, but, we can’t keep doing this.”
“doing what?” your brows furrow
“going back n’ forth. i’m too old for you, too fucked up to give you what ya need.”
“what do you think i need?” you sit on the edge of your couch, knees pulled up to your chest, tears threatening to fall. it's been months since that one night with him, and you still couldn’t let go.
"i don’t know," ghost says, his voice low and gravelly, eyes fixed on the floor. "you're fresh out of a mess with that lad, and i'm... i'm not the answer. one night was a mistake. i shouldn't have let it happen."
you shake your head, wiping at your eyes. "but you did. i just- you’re the only one who gets me."
he shifts, his thigh brushing yours accidentally, and you feel that spark again. "because i'm twice your age, yeah? i've got scars and baggage that'd drown you. you need someone who can build a life with you, not some guy like me. you'll get hurt worse than with him."
your heart twists, anger bubbling up. "you’re telling me you just fucked me and now you don’t care? how can you do that?”
he sighs, finally meeting your gaze, his blue eyes stormy. "we don’t have no future together. go find a proper bloke, be happy."
the words make your throat sting with sour tears, but they only make you lean closer, your hand reaching for his arm. "i don't want proper. i want you." before he can pull away, you surge forward, pressing your lips to his. it's desperate, salty from your tears, and for a split second, he freezes.
his hands come up, gripping your shoulders to push you back gently. "stop. you don’t know what you’re—"
but you don't. you kiss him harder, fingers tangling in his shirt, and something in him snaps. his resistance crumbles, and he kisses you back, hesitant, slow. like he’s trying to fight it but he can’t.
his breaths falter as he whimpers slightly, tongue brushing against yours lips. he’s backed up as far as he can go against the cushions, trying to pull away. but when he feels your soft hands against his pecs for support, he loses it. he holds the back of your neck like he did that one night, pulling you unbelievably close.
you moan into it, climbing into his lap as the couch creaks under your weight. his body is solid, unyielding, and you grind against him, feeling him harden beneath you. "i missed you," you whisper against his lips.
he groans, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck, nipping at the skin. "this is a bad idea. you're gonna regret it." but his hands are already roaming, one slipping under your shirt to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaks.
you arch into his touch, fumbling with his belt. "i won't. i need this. need you." your fingers free his cock, thick and heavy in your hand, and you stroke him slowly, watching his jaw clench.
"fuck," he mutters, eyes darkening. he yanks your shorts down in one swift motion, exposing you, and his fingers find your slick folds, sliding through them with ease. "what the fucks got you so wet? i don’t get it. not one bit."
you lean into him, gasping as he circles your clit. tears drying. he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you ride his hand, the argument forgotten in the heat.
but he doesn't let it drop. as he pumps his fingers deeper, his other hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough pressure to make your pulse race. "listen to me," he says, voice rough. "i’m gonna fuck you one good time. after this, you’ll get your shit together and move on."
you whimper, the slight choke sending sparks through you, heightening every thrust of his fingers. "i don’t know if i can, and i don’t care."
he pulls his hand away, positioning you so your back hits the couch arm, legs spread wide. his cock nudges your entrance, teasing. "you will care. when i'm gone on deployment, or when the age hits you. men like me don't stick."
before you can argue, he thrusts in, filling you completely in one deep stroke. you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as he sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against yours. the couch shifts with each pound, your body jolting.
you watch, mesmerized, as he sinks into you slowly, then fast, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge stretching your walls. it's deliberate, controlled, and the way he fills you makes your toes curl.
"so good," you breathe, hands clutching the cushions. he slows, not the brutal pace, but deep, rolling thrusts that grind against your inner walls, hitting spots that make your vision blur.
he leans over you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand returning to your throat with that firm, careful grip. his hips circle on the next plunge, rubbing his pelvis against your clit, and you buck up to meet him, a whine escaping your lips. he knows exactly where to angle, how to twist just enough to send jolts of pleasure radiating through your core.
"you like that?" he murmurs, voice husky, eyes locked on yours as he watches your face contort. he pulls out almost fully, then slams back in, the wet slap of skin echoing. "i know what i'm doing, don't i? every little trick to make you shake."
you nod frantically, the pressure on your neck making your head swim in the best way. "yes—fuck, yes. don't stop."
he chuckles darkly, picking up speed, his free hand sliding down to hitch your leg higher on his hip, opening you wider. the new angle lets him drive deeper, his cock dragging along that sensitive ridge inside you with every stroke. he pinches your nipple between his fingers, rolling it until you gasp, then soothes it with his thumb. it's all so precise, like he's mapped out your body already, knowing when to tease and when to take.
"that's 'cause i've had plenty before you," he says, the words cutting even as his body worships yours. he thrusts harder, making you jolt, but his thumb strokes your throat gently, a silent check-in. "dozens, love. women who thought they could handle me, just like you. you're not special. not the first."
his voice is rough, laced with that gravelly edge, but you see the flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or something softer he won't admit. it's a lie to push you away, you know it deep down, because no one else has ever made you feel this alive, this consumed. but the words sting just enough to make you tighten around him, defiant.
"liar," you gasp, nails raking down his back under his shirt. "feels like you mean it to me."
he growls, the hand on your throat tightening fractionally, enough to make your breath hitch, then loosens as he kisses you fiercely, swallowing your moans. he shifts again, hooking both your legs over his shoulders now, folding you nearly in half as he pounds into you. the position lets him grind relentlessly against your g-spot, his balls slapping your ass with each forceful drive. sweat slicks his skin, dripping onto your chest, and he reaches down to rub your clit in tight circles, syncing with his thrusts.
every motion is expert— the way he varies his pace, slow and deep to build the ache, then fast and shallow to tease the edge. he sucks a mark into your collarbone, teeth grazing without breaking skin, his breath hot against you. "i can make you come like this, over and over. but it's nothing new for me. you'll forget it tomorrow, find someone good for you who won't know half this."
but you won't, you think, as the coil in your belly winds tighter. the slight choke of his hand grounds you, a caring anchor in the storm of sensation, reminding you he's there, fully present despite his words.
"simon—please, i'm so close," you plead, body trembling.
he obliges, railing you deeper, his cock throbbing inside you. "come on, then. show me how good it feels, love— this is all it is. no more."
you shatter around him, pussy pulsing in waves, milking his length as ecstasy rips through you. he doesn't stop, drawing it out with expert rolls of his hips until you're oversensitive, whimpering.
"fuck, missed you so much" you gasp, wrapping your legs around him. he's rough, unrelenting, but his eyes stay locked on yours, checking, caring even in the frenzy.
he angles his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
you clench around him, pleasure coiling tight, still sensitive and slightly sore from your high. "harder. please."
he obliges, fucking you deeper, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady. sweat beads on his forehead, muscles flexing under his shirt. "grip me so fucking tight, too bad i can’t keep ya."
he's railing you senseless but watching every reaction, adjusting when you gasp too sharply.
"fuck, i'm—" your second orgasm crashes over you, walls fluttering around him as you cum quickly, soaking his length.
he follows soon after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you. his hand leaves your throat to stroke your hair, body collapsing over yours protectively.
for a moment, you both pant, tangled on the couch. he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "dangerous, love. remember that." but he doesn't pull away, holding you close as the aftershocks fade.
“doesn’t matter to me.” you whisper against his neck, tongue darting out to taste the salty sweat against his skin. then you savor the taste, running your tongue back over the closing scar that should’ve served as a lesson.
but truly, you couldn’t eat, drink, or sleep without feeling it’s gentle sting etched into your flesh.
a/n: seems like you guys want a part three? :P send me some ideas
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