Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Current chapters, in no specific order (they will feature more than what is listed but I'm just highlighting the main themes):

1. Loki, MCU (gentle femdom, praise kink, cuddling) "can i"
2. Tony Stark, MCU (findom) "fuck boys get money"
3. Kylo Ren, Star Wars (praise kink, size kink, inappropriate use of the force) "hunger"
4. Armitage Hux, Star Wars (orgasm denial, breath play) "i hold you"
5. Solas, Dragon Age (voice kink, public place) "too much"
6. Blackwall/Thom Rainier, Dragon Age (size kink, kinbaku/rope bondage) "siren"
7. Steve Rogers, MCU (pegging America's ass because I'm patriotic like that) "god bless america's ass"
8. Adam, Only Lovers Left Alive (blood play, breath play) "blood in the cut"

This list will be marked and re-organized as I update.

Everything I write is between consenting adults. There are dangers to certain things I write about (breathplay, bloodplay, etc.) and, in real life, preemptive measures should be taken before attempting them. I might not always include these things because, well, flow and shit, but please please please be responsible when practicing BDSM. Be safe, loves!

This will be updated on an irregular schedule. This is going to primarily be used as a method to practice my smut writing skills and will be sort of an “as the mood strikes” kind of collection. Sorry. :c

Title from Fashionable Lectures: Composed and Delivered with Birch Discipline an old pornographic book from the 1800s that's all about dudes getting whipped by women. Femdom is nothing new, folks.

Chapter Text

“Stand up straight."

You circle him, slowly, trailing your hand down his arm as you pass by. He straightens his spine even though your warm fingers make him want to curl into your touch.

“Have you been a good boy, Loki?”

You pause at his back, tracing the lean muscles with your eyes. His torso is bare, open to your greedy eyes, and you drink in his pale flesh. You settle your hand at the base of his neck, digging your fingers into his long dark hair. He stiffens, unsure, and doesn't reply. You rub the bones of his skull in slow, gentle circles. He melts under your attention, shoulders sagging as he relishes each press of your hand.

“Answer me, pet.”

You wrap your arms around his waist and, because he's so much taller than you, bury your head against his shoulder blades. A soft kiss, then another. A warm trail that follows the lines of his body, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

“No,” he answers softly, “I have not.”

Your ministrations stop, your lips open against his skin. One hand rests against the hard plane of his chest, the other dips low to his waistband. Your fingers dance over each stitch along the line of his trousers.

“Are you sure?”

His breathing stutters then he inhales, slow and steady, “Yes.”

You hum softly. You pull your lips back over your teeth and drag them slowly down his flesh. The hand on his chest rises to his neck, open and possessive of his throat. You squeeze, gently, and flick the tiniest kitten lick over the reddened skin your teeth left behind.

Your hand slips beneath his waistband, warm and curious, to the growing hardness between his legs. Loki gasps as you surround his length with a loving pressure. His knees tremble and you push your body firmly against him, supporting his weight the best you can.

“You have not always been good,” you whisper. “But you try, love. You've changed.”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes tightly as he listens breathlessly. Harder, now. A rhythm that makes his jaw clench.

“You may disagree but you are good, Loki. You have made mistakes but you -”

A whimper escapes his lips and you clench your thighs together at the sweet sound of him falling apart. You rise to the balls of your feet and press your mouth to the tender spot where his jaw and ear meet. His heartbeat flutters against your tongue. Your other hand rubs his throat, pushing his head back so it rests against yours.

He is a mess, desperate and wanting, beneath your hands. You run your fingers over the head of his cock, eliciting a wanton moan from his traitorous mouth.

“You are good, Loki,” you plead into his ear.

A shudder runs through him. His breathing hitches. Tense, then a loose release that softens him entirely. A warmth floods your hand as he drops slowly to his knees. You follow, pulled by your points of contact, and envelop him in your arms. He shyly pulls your hand from his trousers and watches the cum settle in a pool in your palm. He sighs as you kiss the sweat that drips down his neck.

“Say it, pet. Say that you are good.”

Loki hesitates. You squeeze him closer to your chest. He looks down silently at the mess he made in your palm. His long black hair forms a curtain over his face.

He pulls your hand to his mouth and, tentatively, licks his cum from your hand. You nuzzle his neck, repeating your request as he cleans your hand with broad strokes of his tongue.

“I -”

“Louder.”

“I am a good boy.”

Chapter Text

You walk down the hall to the closed door of your boss's office, the clicking of your heels echoing off of the walls as you try to steady your breathing. A paper is clutched in your hand, your tense fingers crumpling the words beneath your white-knuckled anger.

“No no no, listen. If it doesn't have the little gold flakes in it, then what's the point? You get me?”

You exhale a shaky breath and open the door so roughly it bounces off the wall behind it. The man behind the desk, Tony Stark, jumps in his seat with wide eyes.

“Shit. I gotta go,” he mutters into the phone as he hits the red button on-screen to hang up and drops it face down onto his desk. He fixes an easy smile on his face and watches as you stomp toward his desk.

“If it isn't my favorite accountant. Everything good in numbers? Numbers lookin' nice and, ah, big?”

You hold the paper in your hand up with a tight-lipped frown, “You went over the budget this month. Again.”

He shrugs and leans back in his chair. A new, expensive looking chair, you note, as you grit your teeth at his nonchalant attitude.

Suddenly, he whips forward and ducks his head as he rifles through a drawer. The sound of clinking glass drifts up from his desk. You close your eyes and try to think calming thoughts.

Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity -

“Hey, Bean counter, want to try some of this new whiskey I bought? Straight from Japan. Good stuff. Aged 50 years-”

You crumple the paper in your hand up into a wrinkled ball and throw it at his face. It whacks him directly in the forehead before landing soundlessly on the wooden floor. His mouth falls open in surprise as he continues to hold up the bottle of what you assume is something he wrote off as a business expense. It's not.

“Wow, rude.”

You stomp around his desk, heels thwacking the floor furiously. You reach down to the armrests of his chair and turn him to face you. You can't help but relish the way his goatee twitches as he watches you with shocked eyes.

“Every. Month. Stark.” You lean in close, bringing your face close to his as you hiss. “I come down here and yell at you for your frivolous spending.”

He swallows thickly then laughs nervously, “Well, what should I be spending my money on?”

You smile, crooked. Knowing. You grab his tie in your hand and pull him so he rises slightly off his seat.

“Me, of course.”

Stark gasps as you bring one knee up between his thighs, pulling them apart before settling against the growing bulge of his pants. He writhes as you wrap his tie around your fist. It tightens, slowly, around his neck. He drops the heavy glass bottle in his hand onto the desk; the brown liquid inside sloshes against the glass in rapid waves.

You pull at your skirt with your free hand, edging it over the lacy hem of your stockings. You grind your thigh against him and he repeats your movement, canting his greedy hips in a slow bucking motion. You continue pulling your skirt up until it exposes your bare cunt. Stark moans at the sight of you wet and waiting.

“Isn't this a shame,” you tease. “That a woman who works for the great Tony Stark can't even afford a nice pair of panties.”

You tilt your hips toward him, silently urging him to act. With a growing grin, Stark licks his lips before driving forward to bury his face between your legs.

He teases his tongue over your slit, relishing the taste of you. Salty. Sweet. He dives into your folds, tongue flicking and lips sucking your tender flesh. Stark grabs your hips with both hands and pushes you to hump his face. You oblige, burying your hands in his hair as you grind against his face.

Taking one hand, Tony slips it between your thighs to find your hole. One finger, then two. You groan and clench around him. His tongue sears a hot, circular path around your clit. The closed office fills with the wet, obscene sounds that spill from your cunt and it just makes you even more aroused.

It's too, too much. Your fingers dig into his scalp and pull at his hair as you fuck his face. It's building, overwhelming, and you can barely even remember why you came up to his office in the first place.

He pumps his fingers, in and out, while continuing to feast on your clit. You can feel your thighs tremble as your body pulls his fingers in deeper. White bursts behind your eyes as the desperation for completion overtakes you.

You come, shaking and gasping.

Stark leans back in his chair, his face slick with your arousal. You take a tissue from the box on his desk and blithely wipe yourself clean. He watches you with unfocused eyes as you pull down your skirt and dust off the fabric beneath your hands.

“You're getting a raise,” he sighs.

You smile and pat him gently on the head before smoothing down a few errant hairs. “Of course I am.” You look down at the tent in his pants and raise an eyebrow. “You can take care of that, I assume.” You indicate your head toward his erection and he slumps in his seat.

“Yeah, I got it.” Stark unzips his fly and shoves his filthy, come covered hand in his pants, watching you carefully as he begins to work himself over. He mutters, loud enough so you can hear him, “Mean.”

You snort and turn to leave, picking up the paper ball you threw at him and dropping it with the dirty tissue into the waste bin.

“I'll amend the budget for next month to account for my raise, Mr. Stark.”

Chapter Text

Under all of the layers of dark, black cloth (leather cotton linen), Kylo Ren is soft. Pliable. Skin pale, smooth white but for the crisscross of scars and moles that dot him like constellations.

He is unsure. Self-conscious. Thinks he takes up too much space. He is clumsy, rough, with large hands that tear through delicate things like a hot knife through butter.

You are not delicate, you remind him as you bite and roll the lobe of his ear between your teeth.

Under all that fabric, Kylo is big in the most wonderful, heartbreaking way. Broad chest with perfect pink nipples that stiffen in the most delicious way from your attention. Shoulders, wide with heavy bones, that tremble with each swipe of your tongue against his neck. Thick thighs that tense as you move against him; he wants more. More. Greedy little piggy who wants your praise, your heat, to drown out the running monologue of self-deprecation that buzzes constantly in his head.

His eyes are rings of molasses peeking from behind blown black pupils. A corona that sears into your brain as you close your own eyes in pleasure as he pushes the Force along your slit. Trailing the tendrils between your folds. Dipping in your core in a way that...oh.

It's sacrilege, he whispers with a smirk pressed against your collarbone.

You drag a hand through his dark waves and pull, exposing his wide pale throat to your teeth. You bite, then lick, then bite again. Gnashing his skin red with a growl that vibrates deep in your chest.

I don't care, you carve into his flesh.

Kylo is beautiful in a way that he hates. That he hides with a black hole of well-practiced villainy. The ghost that haunts the halls of the ship cannot be beautiful. It cannot be the plush-lipped, sad-eyed boy who writhes beneath you now. He wears the words ugly and monster in a way that rots him from the inside out. You push at the self-hatred that seeps from his pores and mold it in your hands.

You're beautiful, you chant to him. You are big. Strong. You are...

He pushes against you, shaking his head in a way that pulls tears from your eyes. A knot in your stomach. His fingers (large thick and so perfect) grasp your hips and lift you up. He enters you in one swift motion and you rock against him, murmuring a familiar hymn in your head.

You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

His hands tighten over your hips and his fingers curl into bruising tension over the flesh of your ass. You ride him as he continues to work you with the Force, circling your clit with a punishing rhythm. His cock, like the rest of him, is so overwhelmingly big that you feel stretched to your limit. You're slick, positively drenched, but it never seems like enough. Your walls clench as he moves inside you, rubbing and pounding your core in a way that makes your head feel like it is going to float off your shoulders.

Perfectperfectperfect.

You wonder what they would think, the worker bees that occupy this drab ship, if they saw him like this. Pink-cheeked, mouth open, begging. Dark hair sticking to his skin as sweat drips down his face. Fucking up into you as if his life depended on it. You want to broadcast this image across the universe. Kylo Ren, the great scourge of the galaxy, is gorgeous when he comes in you. Filling you up and making you ache in a way that shakes and inflames all the tiny nerves in your body. He whimpers like an injured animal. He moans soft little cries that make you clench him inside you tighter. Let them see him undone by you, an insignificant speck who is of no particular consequence to anyone.

Let them know that he is yours and you are his and he is perfect.

Chapter Text

General Armitage Hux is everything you hate about the well-oiled machine that is the First Order.

His outer appearance is so meticulous that you're pretty sure lint is afraid to land on the impeccably tailored uniform he wears. His hair is slicked back but not so much that it appears greasy. His face is clean with no pockmarks, no ginger-colored stubble, not even an eyebrow hair out of place. His nails are trimmed neatly and clean with no ragged, chewed on cuticles to reveal he is even minutely human. Even his sideburns are in regulation, not a millimeter too long or thick on his pale, smarmy face.

But when he lies underneath you, between your thighs, none of that really matters.

He's fully dressed because the idea of making him soil that neat suit makes you clench your thighs around his waist with a low growl that makes him sweat. Your hand is around his throat over the stiff collar he wears a little tighter than he should because he likes how it presses against his neck. You lean into his chest, applying a slight bit of pressure on his Adam's apple. It bobs up and down when he swallows, his pale eyes watching you and your calmly violent actions with rapturous worship.

He likes it because of course he does.

You squeeze, gently, just enough to make the air in his lungs escape his flared nostrils. He is hard, straining against his fine trousers, and his gloved hands clench at the sheets beneath him. The leather strains over his knuckles and you just know they are pushed white, bloodless, under the supple second skin. You lean forward on his chest, releasing your straining leg muscles, and sit on him with your full weight. The apples of his cheeks are delightfully pink and you lick sweetly at the sweat pricking his forehead.

Hux inhales through his nose and, by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, it is difficult. He moans and you loosen your grip as he sucks in some air before you cut off his air supply again. You press your mouth to his temple, the wild beating of his heart pounding against your lips. It's irregular, tuneless, and it makes you dig your fingers into the pale skin of his neck just a little bit more. His hips are jerking against the mattress restlessly, looking for purchase, for friction. Looking for something to relieve the ache building in his sack. The heels of his leather boots, shined to perfection, dig into the sheets and you click your tongue at him for messing up the bed.

You decide to be nice. For once.

You sit up and watch his pale eyes follow your movements. Your hand softens over his throat, massaging the sore tendons of his neck. You slide down from his chest and meet his desperate hips. He groans, appreciative, at the weight of you against his cock. Hux tries to seize you at the waist, to move you in the way that he wants, but you grab the wrist of one hand and push it back to the bed. The other you bring to your lips, smiling at him briefly before you open your mouth and suck at the fabric covering his fingers. Your spit soaks into the leather and he mutters something under his breath. You take his fingers out of your mouth and tilt your head, silently asking him to repeat himself.

“Please.” His voice is thin, reedy.

You shake your head. You put his hand back down.

“Please.” He asks again. Squirming.

The front of his trousers are slightly damp from the pre-cum leaking from his cock. You sigh at the sight of him. His buttoned shirt is wrinkled, untucked, and his pale stomach is exposed. Starting from his belly button soft ginger curls trail down in a neat, trimmed line before disappearing under his waistband. His face is flushed and his mouth is swollen, cherry red and wet. You run a hand through his combed hair and ruffle it between your fingers. It's soft, clean, and the smell of his austere First Order issued shampoo wafts up as you dig your nails into his scalp.

Hux doesn't bother with verbal begging anymore and dissolves into childish whimpers. You put your hand back at his throat and choke him, slowly, as he grinds his hips. He pushes his head back into the bed and his mouth drops open, tongue lolling between his teeth as he becomes single-minded in his goals: he wants to come and he wants to do it now.

But, you decide, you're not that nice. Not today.

He's closer, body moving in a pattern that he knows will bring him to completion. He is panting, chest rising with the slight panic that comes when your body is experiencing over stimulation. You smile as you watch his eyes close and he's so close that you just kind of feel bad for the guy.

Kind of.

You loosen your grip and slide your body off of his, planting your feet onto the floor as you pull yourself to standing. His eyes fly open and rage flushes dark red over his cheeks.

“You – what –“ he sputters.

“Not today.”

He groans, guttural, and moves to grab you. You step forward and cross your arms, looking down at him sternly.

“You don't get to come today, Armitage.”

His hands flex, the leather squeaking as he clenches them into impotent fists. He swallows thickly and sits up, pulling down his rumpled clothing in a discinct pouty way. With a sigh, he runs a gloved hand through his hair and fixes his expression to the wall. A cold, familiar look washes over his eyes.

He smiles, thin-lipped, and nods.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Chapter Text

His words are honey in your ears; dripping sweet and thick as you watch the back of his bald head from your sitting place. The library is quiet except for the sound of pages turning softly and Solas reading aloud from some rather boring text about herbs and their applications. It's fine, though, because it gives you an excuse to listen to the warm timbre of his voice even if the words themselves are making your eyelids droop into sleep.

The alcove the two of you are sitting in is slightly hidden on the far end of the library where few people bother to go. You're curled into the wide frame of a window as you watch him; your legs bent and head resting on your knees. The high-backed chair Solas is sitting in nearly hides him from view, only the back of his shiny head and pointed ears peeking out. You wish the chair was turned the other way round so you could see his elegant tapered fingers turning the pages. See his impossibly long legs stretched out, lean muscle relaxed under the thin fabric of his leggings. You rub your thighs together unconsciously and tap the heels of your feet on the windowsill anxiously as your mind starts to wander into less pure territory.

'No! Herbs! Focus!' You chide yourself mentally.

But his voice is sweet and warming like a cup of milk tea. It's soothing. Your eyes droop again, threatening to pull you into sleep.

He continues to read, something about deathroot you think, and pauses for a moment to turn the page. You think about him bringing a fingertip to his mouth and darting his thick pink tongue to wet the pad of his finger. You think about that same tongue licking you instead. A little heat coils in your belly, familiar and hungry. A idle thought whispers in your head, pink-cheeked with a sly glimmer in its eyes.

The day is short and let no man ever say you weren't one to give in to impulsive thoughts (even if they were usually of the dirty variety).

You drop your feet to the carpet and pad over silently to the chair. Stretching to the tips of your toes, you drape your arms over his shoulders, sliding your hands over the rough, threadbare tunic he wore. Solas hums softly at your touch.

“What are you doing? I thought you wanted me to read to you.” His voice is low, appropriate for the library, but it sends shivers down your spine.

“I do. I just want to watch you as you do it.”

You sigh. Despite all of the jokes from the others about his appearance, the way he dresses like a 'hobo', you find yourself suddenly grateful for the humble clothing he wears. It hardly leaves anything to the imagination. His legs are straightened in front of him, legs crossed at the ankle, and the long lines of his body make your mouth go dry. The thin fabric is taut against his skin and each curve, every delicious plane, of his body is on display for you. For a hermit from the woods, he's curiously well-cut and carved like a marble statue. You run your fingers over the muscles of his shoulders, then rub gentle circles over his biceps as he sighs in approval.

Without even a second thought, your hands slip down his chest past the jawbone he wore on his neck.

“Ah – what are you doing?” He stiffens. A little pink colors his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

They drop further to his lap where his hands hold the open book he's reading to you from.

“Nothing. Keep reading.”

Solas, Maker bless him, tries so hard to ignore what you're doing. He continues to read, his voice betraying nothing as your mischievous fingers run down the growing length of him. His hands tense on the book, fingers slightly trembling as they turn the page. You flatten your palm against his groin, applying a sweet pressure that makes him buck upward slightly. His voice catches and he peers up at you with wide eyes.

“I didn't say stop, Solas.” You smile innocently down at the blushing man before you.

He coughs and continues to read. His voice echos slightly in the alcove, bouncing off the overstuffed bookshelves around you. Your hand moves with a mind of its own, up and down his seated crotch until the undeniable tenting of his growing arousal demands for release. You oblige and pull up the bottom hem of his tunic then slide his leggings down to expose him to the slightly cool air. He hisses at the sudden temperature change and loses his place, repeating the same line about elfroot three times. You whisper an apology and place a close-lipped kiss to his temple, relishing the heat from his skin on yours.

Your other hand joins in the fun and cups his balls, squeezing gently and rolling the tender flesh between your fingers. The sweet flush on his cheeks has spread down to his neck and it nearly makes you moan. His cock is red and aching from your loving attention, blood pounding under the skin as you pull and work him into a quiet frenzy. You press your crotch against the back of the chair to help relieve the growing tension in your own body. You bounce on your feet and grind your hips to build up friction to ease your aching clit.

His reading is stuttered and he drops words from sentences, rendering some of the phrases nonsensical. When he pauses to swallow down a moan, you stop with him and nip at his ear until he starts again. At this point, the words have lost all meaning and all you hear is the warmth of his voice. The way his tongue slips between his teeth and his throat vibrates as he speaks sends sparks that roil in your belly. His toes curl against the carpet as you move your hand faster, the purple-red head of his cock weeping pre-cum over your fist.

The wooden frame of the chair creaks a little bit as your movements speed up. Your hips have found the perfect spot, perfect rhythm, and white static builds in the corner of your eyesight. Solas rolls his head back and catches your lips in his, his tongue filling your mouth as you press desperately against him. Your hand is blur over his cock, fingers pressing and slamming into his crotch as he fucks into your fist. You grip his balls tighter and he moans into your mouth, sending you over the edge to completion. Your toes clench into the fibers of the carpet and a slight cramp tenses over your feet as your thighs shake. You grit your teeth for a moment as the pain courses through your legs. Growling softly, you drag your teeth over his bottom lip, silently urging him to come.

Solas, wonderfully obedient, gasps and jerks his hips up as he comes. Hot ropes of cum spurt all over his lap, the open book lying there, and your hands. All of the beautiful muscles in his legs tense, his knees and feet pressing him up in a rigid arch, and then relax as he drops back into his seat. He pants, open-mouthed, and gazes up at you with an affectionate, rapturous look that makes your stomach flutter. His softened cock slips from your hand as you look down at the desecrated book in his lap.

“I, uh, think that's your book now, Solas.” You giggle softly into his ear. He furrows his brow, confused, before following your eye line to the book he still held. He gasps and sits up swiftly, dropping the book to the floor. The pages shine sticky and wet under the light pouring in from the window. You muffle a laugh against the crown of his head as he rubs a hand over his face with a low groan.

Chapter Text

“Safeword, love?”

He chuckles and darts a tongue out to lick his bottom lip. He thinks for a moment, then smiles softly up at you with his impossibly warm brown eyes. “Griffon.”

You roll your eyes and tighten the knot on his back. You place a surprisingly chaste kiss on his cheek and survey your handiwork. Diamond shapes cut out by rope dig into the flesh of his chest. He squirms against the bindings, faint red marks blossoming like watercolor under the paths they carve into his skin. Blackwall groans, a low sound that vibrates in his chest, and follows your movements with hot, bleary eyes. You dig a finger under the cord that restricts his shoulders and tug gently to ensure it's not too tight.

You smile as you watch thick muscles work under his skin. He's bound to a low wooden chair, his torso tied to the backrest and his legs straining against each other. The rope, hemp woven but soft from use, wraps around his large, bare body. You stifle a laugh at the thought of the word bare since Blackwall is pretty much the embodiment of the word bear. His chest is a wide expanse of muscle and dark hair that covers him like a fine carpet. You run your hand over his pecs, pausing for a moment to give his nipples a playful tweak, and sigh at the feeling of his soft body hair under your fingers. It meanders down over his firm yet wonderfully soft stomach before expanding over his crotch and his solid thighs in a way that makes you bite your lip. At his core, between his legs where the hair is at its densest, his cock is heavy and growing stiffer with each passing moment. The rope digs into the creases of his hips, circling his groin, and as he tenses his legs a delicious pressure that makes him feel a bit faint pulses at the base of his cock.

The rope squeaks when he shifts in his seat, the heels of his feet digging into the floor as he watches you examine him like a piece of meat. You catch his eye and hold his gaze as you drop a hand to his length, running a finger over the slit teasingly. He moans and his eyes flutter shut as you move over him at a languid pace. When pre-cum leaks out, you tut quietly and pull back. Blackwall grunts, jerking at his restraints, and opens his eyes; the honey brown of his iris nearly swallowed by his blown pupils.

You hum, pondering over your next move, and savor the way he wriggles in his seat in agony. You run a hand over his beard, pulling at the hairs between your fingers and he juts his chin out so you can grab at more. You pinch his chin between your fingers, shaking your head slowly at his impatience, before lowering it back down. Leaning forward, you capture his lips with your own and kiss him gently. He moans into your mouth, the chair groaning as he tries to move in closer. Pulling back, you pat him on the cheek and step backward. He observes, waiting on his forced throne, as you sit down on the floor before him and spread your legs wide.

Maintaining eye contact, you lower your hand between your legs and cup yourself. Blackwall worries his bottom lip between his teeth. You spread your fingers, allowing him a slight peek at your dripping cunt, and he groans aloud at the sight of you bare.

“Maker, woman, you're going to drive me mad.” He shakes his head and writhes against his bindings. The rope cuts into him, causing him to growl lowly. His hands, bound at the wrists behind his back, clench into fists.

You move your fingers over your folds, spreading them so he can see the arousal wetting your tender flesh. A smile then a sigh as you dip into your core, one finger then another. You press the heel of your palm to your clit, the pressure so good a moan escapes from your lips. You close your eyes momentarily, savoring the feeling of fucking yourself while he looks on, and all you can hear is the wetness of your cunt and the heavy breathing of the man watching you.

When you open your eyes again, Blackwall is watching you like a starving man. His eyes are wide, slightly bulging in the socket, as he jerks lamely at the rope. He's murmuring now, barely decipherable over the vulgar sounds coming from your body. You slow down your ministrations, pausing as you regard the desperate man.

“Please,” he chokes out as he jolts his hips up into nothing. The ropes restrict his movement and he growls loudly at the lack of friction. “Please touch me.”

Sweat drips down his brow and his burly chest shakes with each breath he takes. His cock is an angry shade of blood red, the head weeping openly as his pre-cum drips down his shaft. Taking pity on the man, you roll to your knees and crawl to his bound legs. You push down on his thighs, forcing him to straighten his legs slightly so you can lean over his lap. He nearly jumps at your touch, dragging the chair legs forward with a loud screech. You tense a hand over one thigh, squeezing him as a warning not to be impatient. Your hand is so small compared to the thickness of him, your outstretched fingers barely spanning the top of his thigh, as his legs quiver with anticipation.

Blackwall whimpers, his wide shoulders shaking as he regards you with teary eyes. “Please, miss. Please let me come.”

You kiss his knee then stand up. Before he has time to even open his mouth, you've taken him inside in one rough movement. He throws his head back and gasps loudly at the sudden feeling of encompassing warmth around his cock. You roll your hips against his, grinding into him at a furious pace. He can't take it, his Adam's apple bobbing wildly in his strained throat as he swallows down a sob. You, admittedly, are not better off by much. He's big in all sense of the word, the sheer girth of him stretching your walls to their limit. Your head lolls to the side as you ride him at a punishing tempo. On more than one occasion the head of his cock smashes into your cervix, sending a dizzying mix of pain and pleasure to your core.

At this brutal pace, neither of you last very long and as you drop down to fully sheath him inside you again, he grunts and goes limp against the rope as he fills you with his cum. His cock pulses inside you as you feel your cunt milk him for everything he has to give. You slow your movements, panting as your own orgasm washes over you. You arch your back, tensing your chest against his before falling slack and dropping your head to his shoulder. You place a kiss on the rope there, eliciting a small laugh from the man beneath you.

The two of you are silent for a moment, only the sounds of heavy breathing fill the room as the wild beating of your heart slows into the afterglow. You run a hand over the cord wrapped over his forearm and gently stroke the hair there. You nuzzle his neck and the hairs of his beard tickle your nose. You laugh into his skin, warm breath causing him to shiver.

Blackwall swallows loudly and relaxes his shoulders as much as his bindings allow. “Maker, you'll be the death of me.”

Chapter Text

"a - ah!"

Chapter Text

It falls in rhythm with the droning of distorted synthesizers. One drop, then another, grows fat from your finger then falls into his open mouth.  

"Who is this?"

He darts a tongue out to taste an errant drop that rolls down his chin. "Merzbow."

The blood diffuses on his tongue, wet with his spit, and trickles down his throat. Just a taste, not enough to satisfy the hunger building in his stomach.

You hum and rub your free hand through your hair. Adam, wrapped in that old striped bathrobe you find yourself growing fond of, presses his chin up to catch another drop of blood. He lies between your knees, his arms outstretched languidly above his head, and you examine the long pale column of his neck. The tendons stretch, press through his skin, as he strains to make sure every drop of blood isn't wasted. You hold your bleeding finger just out of reach, hovering over his face, and wiggle it teasingly. Adam groans and bucks his hips up in response. You know he'd never pout, never express how he hates being teased, and you flick him in the forehead just to see him respond. He growls and twists against the rug.

Lying on the floor with him and listening to music is usually how you spend your nights with him. Sometime he'd putz around with his own instruments, playing you something he'd written during the hazy moments before he fell asleep in the morning. Somehow this night was different and you found yourself straddling him, teasing him with the promise of fresh blood straight from the source.

You pull your finger into your own mouth and suck. He watches you, his eyes impossibly dark and shining from behind his lank hair. You pull your finger out, slowly, and drag it across your bottom lip. The taste of copper coats your tongue and you feel a sickly oily feeling rising in the back of your throat. The low light reflects off the mix of spit and blood that paints your lip.

You take your non-bleeding hand and rub it delicately over his throat, testing the waters as you squeeze your thumb over his aptly named Adam's apple. To your surprise, he responds favorably and pushes his chin back to give you more access. You press harder, the sound of the ambient music crowding your ears as everything else fades away to background noise. All you see and hear is harsh electronics and his chest rising and falling with labored breathing.

Adam's mouth grows slack as he writhes between your thighs, his robe falling open and exposing his thin pale chest. His trousers hang low, a dark line of hair trailing over his stomach before disappearing under his waistband. He pulls his arms back to his side to rest his hands on your hips. He grips your flesh, fingers digging into your bones with bruising pressure. You respond in kind, tightening your hand over his neck and smiling when he chokes at the unexpected display of strength. You slip your red dripping finger past his open lips, curling over his sharp teeth and pressing the pad against his wet tongue. With a moan, Adam puckers his lips around the digit and sucks hard, his cheeks hollowing out as he greedily drinks from you. It's not enough to sate his hunger but just enough to make his cheeks burn with effort. 

You squeeze his throat harder and he groans as his eyelids flutter. He takes one hand and covers the one you have on his throat, urging you to apply more pressure. Spit pools in the corner of his lips as he continues to suckle your finger and you can feel the rough texture of his tongue as it coils, working, over your skin. 

"Greedy boy," you murmur. He nips your finger with his teeth and growls lowly in response. You snort and pull your finger from his mouth in one quick movement. He gasps, his mouth wide open and wet. You examine your soaked finger, the skin of the tip puckered and wrinkled from the heat of his mouth. The hand on his throat loosens and for one beautiful moment, you swear Adam is just about to pout.

You wiggle your finger and grin. "Beg for it." 

He's clearly struggling, too proud to beg but he just wants it so badly. He darts his eyes from the blood bubbling, dripping slowly down your finger to the other hand that lays slack against his neck. His chews on his bottom lip, a bit of red mixed into the spittle that he wipes away with a frown. He looks at the smeared blood on his hand and sighs.

"Please."

You shake your head. "Please what? Use your words, Adam." You enjoy this too much.

"Please let me suck your finger while you choke me," he growls. Merzbow continues to play in the background - glitching, popping as the vinyl spins ever faster on the turntable.

You widen your eyes in mock surprise and hold a hand to your chest. "Oh my!" 

In a blur of movement, Adam swipes your bleeding finger and pulls it to his mouth. He sucks, loudly, and moans as the taste of blood fills his mouth again. You laugh, draping yourself over his chest to rest your lips against his neck. Your other hand finds its way back to his throat, rubbing the tendons absentmindedly as you nip at his jaw with your dull teeth.

"Greedy, greedy boy."