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The first thing that hits him when consciousness returns is the overwhelming stench of old blood. Some fresh blood, but mostly old, drying blood that seems to be coming from everywhere.
His head aches as he turns it, cheek pressed against a hard mattress as he looks around the room, takes in the situation.
Haydn doesn’t have his armor, for one. The heavy weight of metal and leather gone from his body, leaving him in his shirt and jeans. His boots are gone, too, probably because his captor has experience with getting kicked in the face.
The second thing is his arms are bound behind his back so tightly he can feel the rope biting into his skin and rubbing it raw as he moves. His ankles are bound together as well, stopping half his ideas of escape.
The room itself is rather empty, a few broken bits of furniture and small boxes. The only unusual thing about it being the holes in the walls to the next few rooms, one by his head, the other carved into the far wall behind some bookshelves. The candles to his right burn bright, freshly lit.
There’s the creaking of stairs to his right, a soft, happy hum following the footsteps.
A man walks into the room and, fuck, if he isn’t some kind of wet dream wrapped in a patched tan suit.
“Oh good,” the man says, a smile forming on his face, “you’re already awake.”
His voice is almost dreamy, easy, it fits the calm demeanor he’s putting out. But his eyes are intense and almost hyper focused on Haydn’s body, running along the muscle exposed without his armor.
“Did you do this?” Haydn asks, and the man’s smile grows.
“Yes, I did. I have to say, I’m surprised. No ‘fuck you,’ no ‘you’ll pay for this,’ and no struggling? Color me impressed.” The man crosses the room and drops a knife beside Haydn. It’s an obvious test to see if Haydn goes for it, but he knows better. There’s nothing he can do with the knife, so he remains still, watching the man.
“Who are you?”
“The Commonwealth’s greatest and most controversial artist, but you may call me Pickman.”
Pickman climbs over Haydn, who tenses, tries to draw away but is stopped by a hand pressing down firmly into his chest. His grin grows wider as he runs a hand down Haydn’s face, moves his chin from side to side to get a better angle. He rests on Haydn’s hips, and Haydn swallows past the buzzing panic in his brain.
“What do you want?”
“I want,” Pickman says slowly, running his thumb across Haydn’s lower lip, “to immortalize you in my collection. You have such a pretty face, it’d be a shame to lose it in the Wasteland.” A pause, “Has your jaw always been this crooked?”
“Your collection?” Haydn deflects.
“Ah, I forget, you didn’t get to see it. My art is something better appreciated with sight than description, but in its simplest terms, I create human art. Out of Raiders, specifically. They’re better with me than on the streets.”
Pickman pulls at Haydn’s stained shirt, presses the tip of the blade against the hollow of Haydn’s throat as he does. “I have to admit,” he says, “you’re not who I usually go for, more Merc than Raider, right? But I saw your face, and I had to have it on my wall.”
The knife presses a little into Haydn’s throat and the bite burns, burns differently than any other blade he’s felt. Pickman hums to himself as he cuts Haydn’s shirt down the middle, blade cutting through cotton without any effort, sometimes scratching lightly across Haydn’s skin.
He feels his skin rise under Pickman’s hands as he parts the split shirt to reveal Haydn’s chest. Haydn tries not to rise into the touch as Pickman’s fingers trace the scars beneath his pecs, over his ribs, down every cut and scrape that dots Haydn’s body.
“Hmm, maybe you’ll be a full body piece,” Pickman thinks aloud, checking beneath the sleeves at the ghosts of narrow misses with bullets and combat knives.
There’s a panic still bubbling in Haydn, makes him tense with every movement. But, there’s also morbid curiosity that has his eyes follow the deliberate drag of Pickman’s knife over his skin. There’s no pressure to pinch through his skin, just enough to draw goosebumps in the wake of the cold metal.
“You know, people are usually begging by now. Screaming, trying to get away.” Pickman’s voice commands his attention and Haydn’s eyes lock onto the killer’s. “I think you like this.” He presses the knife down enough to knick the skin under Haydn’s right nipple, grinning at the sharp inhale he earns, “I think you’re getting off on it.”
Haydn feels the back of his neck heat up, but who is he kidding?
Of course he is.
His eyes are drawn back down to the flash of metal as Pickman turns the knife in his hand. He cuts a thick line under Haydn’s nipple, parallel to the scars under his pecs.
It’s the burning that feels off, the amount of blood that pools at the new wound, but really, Haydn’s distracted from both as his breath catches and his hips buck up on their own. He closes his eyes in embarrassment, listening to Pickman’s musical chuckle.
“Gorgeous.”
He feels a hand cupping his cheek, eyes opening to find Pickman peering down into his face. “Keep your eyes open, I want to make sure I see your expressions.” It’s not a request, the order making something in Haydn’s gut tighten as he lets out a soft breath.
There’s no warning as a second cut is made under his ribs on the opposite side. A third directly down the middle, right between his ribs, dipping dangerously into the soft skin of his belly.
Haydn grits his teeth, breath coming in short huffs as the blade is dragged under his collarbone next. Pickman’s hand moves from his cheek to run over the fresh wounds. The sting beneath his fingers light up again, and Haydn’s back arches.
He’s abandoned any sense of embarrassment, nails digging into what he can reach of his own skin. He’s struggling a little, but he’d be lying if he said it was to get out.
He’s a little concerned about the amount of bleeding, but Pickman clearly isn’t as he licks the finger coated with Haydn’s blood.
Pickman watches Haydn closely, eyes dropping across his body, to his throat with every hard swallow Haydn makes. His cock is hard where it’s pressed against Haydn’s abdomen, and Haydn grinds up into him at this realization. Pickman grabs his throat, heel in the hollow, turning his face up just a little, feeling his neck extend.
“Do you want to fuck me?” Haydn asks, question nearly lost as Pickman’s fingers tighten around his windpipe.
Pickman says nothing for a moment, before he narrows his eyes, blown wide with unmistakable want. “This isn’t a trick to get out?”
Haydn lifts a little from the bed, digging the tip of the blade into his skin in the process, sending a new wave of pain and delight down his spine. “Does it look like one?” He pants.
He’s not sure if it’s hormones, blood loss, or the start of oxygen deprivation as Pickman’s fingers testingly press in on his throat — but Haydn’s lightheaded mind goes blank with lust as he watches Pickman drag his tongue across his lower lip. Completely devoted, if for a little while, to the killer on his hips.
But Pickman doesn’t kiss him, just reaches back to slice the ropes binding Haydn’s ankles together. Haydn doesn’t get long to roll blood back into his ankles before he’s being picked up and flipped onto his front, face in the mattress with both halves of his shirt flanking his sides.
His blood drips down onto the already stained mattress, a tenseness crawling up his spine as he no longer can see Pickman. Haydn turns his face to try and look behind him, cheek squished against the bed.
Nimble hands run down his sides, over his hips, before they’re undoing his belt. It lands on the floor with a thunk, but it’s long forgotten as Pickman grinds the heel of his hand into Haydn’s crotch. Haydn gasps, tries again to move at an angle where he can see the man behind him.
His jeans are pulled down and off, with some assistance from Haydn kicking them from his ankles. His shirt is pushed up roughly and Haydn’s body shakes beneath the teeth Pickman sinks into his left hip, breath caught around a whine.
Pickman’s mouth moves from his hip, up his spine, until the wet trail of nips is gone entirely.
The back of his hair is grabbed and Haydn is balanced a little against Pickman’s back as he breathes hard in Haydn’s ear, “If I cut your ropes will you be good?”
Haydn’s breath leaves him like he’s been punched in the stomach, “Yes.”
He hears the sound of rope being split, feels the cool of the blade against his arm as it cuts through his binds. Blood rushes back to his arms when they fall to his sides, unbound, and aching. The first thing Haydn does is toss the ruined shirt from his body.
The fabric of Pickman’s suit presses into his back, as the man bites at the space behind Haydn’s ear, making him shudder. “What do you want?” Whispered into the shell of his ear.
Haydn’s body burns under Pickman, under the hand still gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. “Use me?” He asks, begs, voice hardly above a whisper.
Pickman’s grin is feral against his neck, before he drags Haydn’s earlobe with his teeth. “Of course.”
Haydn is hauled on his haunches, back against Pickman’s front as the killer gives him no warning before shoving two fingers into Haydn’s mouth. He chokes on them a little, as they grate harshly against the back of his tongue. Haydn tastes sweat and skin, and the traces of blood, old and metallic against his tongue as he runs it over Pickman’s fingers.
It’s distracting, having Pickman nipping down the side of his neck, but Haydn slicks up the fingers as best he can, tears forming in the corner of his eyes as Pickman pushes them in as far as they will go. Gagging as they brush the back of his throat, heart hammering in his chest, he sucks around them to an appreciative grunt from Pickman.
He’s pushed down again, and Haydn catches himself on his elbows, shivering under the nails Pickman drags down his back. There’s a spit slick finger at his hole, swirling around the tight muscle before pushing in. Haydn breathes past the resistance, breath hitching when Pickman is in to the knuckle, curling his finger inside Haydn.
“Absolutely gorgeous,” Pickman says above him. Haydn’s toes curl.
The hand not currently working a second finger inside Haydn pushes down at the space between his shoulder blades, pushing Haydn’s front nearly flat against the mattress, hips arched up more.
From what he can see of Pickman’s face, from where his own is pressed into the bed again, his eyes are intense on Haydn’s back, on his ass, then on his face. Pickman brushes the strands of auburn hair out of Haydn’s eyes and grins at him.
He makes quick work of stretching Haydn, scissoring the spit slick fingers and pumping them in and out of him. Haydn is mostly left breathless and twitching, breathing hard into the mattress, as Pickman is anything but gentle.
All at once they’re out of him, and he watches Pickman undo his own belt, pushing down his trousers and underwear just enough to let his cock slip free. It hangs hard and heavy between his legs, head slick with precome as Pickman spits into his hand and fists it around himself, the red tip poking out from his fingers.
There’s a pause, before Haydn is grabbed by his hair and rolled onto his back, face to face with the killer above him as Pickman leans down. His blood runs cold, shakily reaching up to run his fingers through slick black hair.
Pickman growls and Haydn wraps his legs around Pickman’s waist, squeezing him with his thighs. Pickman lines himself up with Haydn and pushes in.
Haydn’s breathing hitches as Pickman fills him, easing into his body, hands exploring what they’re now allowed to touch. When Pickman bottoms out Haydn whimpers, nerves raw, Pickman’s body dragging over his new wounds as he lays over Haydn.
The stimulation from his cuts and having Pickman inside him fight Haydn into sensory overload but he pushes past it, breathing harshly through his nose as he holds eye contact with Pickman.
It’s surprising when Pickman kisses him, slow and almost unsure of what he wants out of Haydn. Until Haydn presses back into the kiss, and it becomes hungry, devouring. His tongue roughly pushing into Haydn’s mouth to swallow the small moans as he starts rocking into Haydn’s body.
One hand in Pickman’s hair, the other digging his nails into the back of his suit, Haydn whimpers into Pickman’s mouth as the killer’s hips snap roughly into his. There’s nothing slow or steady about it, something completely raw and dominating and needy. And Haydn loves it.
There’s no room for gentle between the two of them, and it shows.
Pickman’s fingers bruise Haydn’s hip, his pelvis grinding into Haydn’s cock for much needed friction. Their kiss only ends so Pickman can fist his hand around Haydn’s throat again. He looks almost wild, overwhelmed with something that is hard to read on his intense face, and Haydn wonders — distantly, with the ringing of blood in his ears — if he’s ever fucked any of his other works of art before.
He’s still grinding down into Haydn’s cock with every harsh thrust into the redhead’s body, supporting Haydn’s leg when the merc starts to go lax with loss of oxygen. As air floods back into his lungs Haydn chokes, holding onto Pickman’s arms for anything to ground himself.
Pickman laughs above him, soft and melodic, and Haydn thinks he sees something like adoration on the killer’s face.
It sends a surge of heat down his spine, pooling low in his belly. He’s getting close, pulls Pickman down for a kiss that is mostly teeth, splits his lip on the killer’s incisor. “Please,” he breathes into Pickman’s mouth.
“Please what?”
Haydn’s infuriation over the teasing lilt in his voice is lost as Pickman fucks into him harder, ripping a gasp from him. “Close, I’m — Pickman, please?” He grinds up into Pickman, meets the next thrust with his hips, at a complete loss for words.
Pickman’s teeth dig hard into his shoulder and Haydn is gone. Body locking around Pickman as he shudders, back arching with his release. The headrush that follows is definitely amplified by loss of oxygen and blood.
“Absolutely stunning,” Pickman breathes, watching Haydn’s face through his orgasm.
A few more thrusts is all it takes before Pickman finishes on Haydn’s abdomen, catching his mouth in another kiss that smears the pooled blood of his lip over their mouths.
The kiss slowly dwindles, and their breathing becomes less erratic, before Pickman pulls away. He looks down at Haydn, running his eyes over the redhead’s body again. He can really only guess what he must look like, because feeling it isn’t pleasant. A mixture of raw wounds, blood, come, and sweat. But whatever Pickman sees he must like, because he grins.
“I’m torn,” he says suddenly, not meeting Haydn’s eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I could keep you like this forever, I want to. But I also want more of this. I doubt you’ll be this expressive when you’re dead.” He leans back on his knees, running a hand through his ruffled black hair. Pickman laughs, “I guess you got out after all.”
“I mean,” Haydn sighs, stretching his sore muscles, “I’m not going to complain.”
Pickman smiles fondly at him, that look of adoration back for half a second. Something in Haydn feels like an exposed nerve, but it passes quickly. “I don’t see why I can’t make you my canvas while you’re still living.” He tucks himself back into his pants, fixing the front of his bloodstained suit.
He picks up the discarded knife under Haydn’s eyes, and Haydn doesn’t fight him as he’s turned onto his side. Pickman holds him by his thigh, meets Haydn’s confused look. “Try not to squirm.”
The first cut brings back that burning sensation, and Haydn breathes hard through it, tries not to tense. He can feel the fire curl a shape into his right hip, scraping up against the bone. Pickman takes his time drawing whatever it is he wants on Haydn’s body, and Haydn knows he wants it to scar.
They both do.
Pickman’s free hand moves to wrap his fingers lightly into Haydn’s hair, grounding him as he works. Haydn sees stars and his hip feels like it’s met a Deathclaw, but he manages to remain conscious through the process.
Haydn’s head feels light when he’s finally done, and he hisses as Pickman dips his head to place a kiss on whatever it is he’s drawn. His eyes slide closed, exhaustion catching up to him as he curls in on himself.
When Haydn wakes next he is alone, a blanket sticking to his naked body. There’s a deep ache throughout him, flaring up on his hip when he moves to take a look. It’s already scabbed, which leaves Haydn wondering how long he was out, but the shape is unmistakable.
A large, curled heart, just like the bloody symbols he would find on notes stuffed in dead Raiders’ pockets on his way out.