Work Text:
He’d missed the gallery for a little while after he left it. The provision of four walls and a roof had given him an excellent place to lure raiders into, and certainly there had been ample space to showcase his work. But he’d realised the day they cornered him that it had also provided the perfect place to trap him once they got brave enough to track him down. At least wandering the Commonwealth gave him plenty of outlets to flee to. And this way, he could make much more art with access to larger numbers of raiders. He wasn’t able to take on large camps of the scum, but a few cut down here and there, little arrangements made of heads or bodies propped into positions, was just enough art for him.
He sometimes wondered just how Killer was getting on. He didn’t have any name for the woman who’d saved him from the Raiders, just the memory of wide blue eyes, thick lashes, a fine body beneath tight Vault-Tec standard issue, dark fingers wrapped around the handle of a sniper rifle. She’d been alone, invisible in the shadows of his old gallery, but her bullets had saved him and he’d repaid her with a little gift of his own. He grew warm whenever he thought of her. They sometimes talked about her on the radio but they never said her name. It was curious that they didn’t name their hero, but he supposed…there could be those wishing to hurt her.
Still, he’d made his way west, to the edge of the Commonwealth, hunting and killing Raiders. And now he was here at some Pre War roadside motel, rundown with just a few raiders. Hopefully after this he could do a little more painting with fresh ingredients. There was one circling the perimeter, already looking isolated, and he put a hand on his knife, having swapped his suit for darker, lightweight clothes the day he left the gallery. Just as the metal began to rasp softly, leaving its sheath, a shot rang through the darkness, and the raider ahead of him had suddenly lost her head. The others in the motel had perked up, and he cursed, balancing his knife to throw it. Before he could, another one dropped with a bullet in the chest, and suddenly the third one on the ground met their end. A few seconds later, he watched the raider on the roof be thrown back by the force of a bullet, and he looked behind him.
It was her. Killer. Her wrist was glowing with the soft pink light of a PipBoy, casting harsh shadows over her body, striding through the tall grass. Alone, again. He stood, and watched her jump in surprise, pointing her rifle at him.
“Pickman,” she finally realised. “What…ow!”
She bent over, her face a mask of pain.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you follow me?”
“Didn’t I say I worked alone?” he told her casually. “I was…hunting. After these raiders.”
“You’re a long…ow…way from the gallery,” she said, wincing again.
“I followed the trail of scum,” he told her. “Did you get shot? Are you hurt?”
“Lady things,” she panted, pressing the heel of her hand against her body, just above her mound. “Just that time of the month. God, I miss painkillers.”
What were painkillers?
She started towards the motel and holstered her rifle, kicking a corpse out the door and passing under the threshold. He followed, watching her take a seat on an old bed and press her hands to her head.
“Why’d you leave?” she finally asked. Pickman took a moment to rifle through his things in search of a syringe of Med-X he’d been saving, before looking up to reply.
“It was compromised,” he replied. “Too easy to trap me.”
“Shame,” she said with a shrug. “Would’ve made it easier to find you.”
“And you accuse me of following you,” he chided softly, finally locating the syringe. He flicked it to remove any air bubbles and pulled it from the bag. “Hold still.”
“Wait, what are you doing?” she hissed, pushing across the bed. “Pickman-”
“It’s just Med-X,” he told her, jabbing the needle into her thigh before she could get away. “It’ll dull the pain. And…yes, weaken the limbs, but you needn’t worry.”
“Needn’t…” she gasped, pushing at his arm uselessly. The syringe was emptied into her. “Could’ve…asked…”
“You might’ve said no,” he murmured. She glared at him as she fell, and he caught her, laying her across the old mattresses.
“Point,” she muttered.
He hadn’t dosed her enough to knock her out, just to alleviate the pain. She was now lying back across the bed, breathing evenly. He got up and closed the door, trying to decide the easiest way to give her more warmth and keep her happy. Well…as happy as a drugged up woman could be.
“You know, there are other ways to alleviate the pain,” he told her. “As part of my art I studied medical journals. I’ve read many interesting things about the female body. I can help relieve you of this.”
“Do…I have…a choice?” she managed, already seeming to find speech difficult.
“You can ride out the Med-X alone, or I can do more to help you,” he offered. “I certainly won’t take a blade to artwork like you, Killer.”
Her face flushed. Oh. Oh, that was beautiful. The reddening of the dark flesh was finer than any painting he’d produced, the soft pink light throwing shades of purple into her dark hair, framing her high cheekbones and adding a sparkle to the slightly dulled eyes.
“What…would you do?”
He put his bag down by the side of the bed, the tips of his fingers drawing up her thigh, and she inhaled sharply.
“Oh.”
He reached for the zipper of her Vault suit and dragged it down, the blue peeling away to expose the soft, dark brown of her sternum and the tops of her breasts. He mouthed softly at the skin, listening to her moan softly as his stubble scratched against her. He slid the suit over her shoulders, peeling it down to her arms. The blue fabric was pulled over her wrists, then finally to her waist, before Pickman started to work it down to her knees. Her body was delicate beneath his hands, her blood thrumming in her veins, warmth pouring from her and bleeding into him. Her boots were easy to unlace and discard, and when they were gone he grasped her ankle and slid the fabric from one foot and then another, leaving her in just her underwear. She was a different build and breed from a Wastelander, that was certain.
His thumb stroked across her foot, digging softly into the flesh, and she let out a soft sound of contentment as he began to knead gently, slowly working up to her shin, before he started rubbing both fingers into the silky brown of her leg. He moved up, pressing a kiss to her knee as he massaged her calf, and Killer inhaled deeply. He dug his hands into her thigh to alleviate any tension, and to no surprise, she held quite a bit. He imagined she spent weeks on her feet, and the soft moans of delight she was quietly emitting were proof that she hadn’t been pampered like this for some time. Then again, in the Wasteland, it was doubtful anyone truly knew skills like this anymore, certainly other than relieving ache from hard labour.
He could see old white cloth poking from beneath the elastic of her underwear as he worked his hands into her thigh, and he wondered if that was what she was using to stop the blood flow. A breeze blew in from the open window, and he looked around for something to cover it up. There was a piece of plywood large enough to do just that not far away, and he drew his fingers over her thigh as he moved away to get it, pushing it over the gap and holding it there with a few heavy objects. He knelt back at her feet and began to caress her other leg, skilled hands working the tension from her. He drank in the soft moans she was letting out, watching her mouth part just a fraction to let them go. He pressed his lips against her calf and she jerked just a little. Sensitive? He trailed his tongue over where his mouth had been and her toes curled. Oh yes.
He began applying feather light touches to the backs of her legs and the moans turned into gentle, constant pants. Her hips began to roll slowly, and Pickman pressed his lips to her thigh, sucking a little to add some pressure, and grinning when he was rewarded with a loud moan.
“How…did you…”
“It’s not difficult to find the right spots, Killer,” he purred. “You just have to…” he trailed a finger up the muscle of her thigh, into the divot of skin, trailing over a tendon, “be attentive.”
She inhaled sharply, and he curled the digit softly into the little dip, tantalisingly close to her mound but just shy of it. She moved herself, seemingly unable to decide if that touch was ticklish or pleasurable, a short, closed-mouth exhale leaving her as he kept on.
“You…seem to be,” she whispered, as he returned to massaging her leg. “Why…are you…”
“Doing this?” he asked. “If you had the opportunity to admire a masterpiece, Killer, would you not take it?”
“Admiration?” she murmured. He trailed his tongue up her inner thigh and she whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as he flicked the muscle back and forth across her leg. “Oh, god!”
His own eyes closed momentarily as he placed scratchy, open-mouthed kisses up and down the skin, listening to her sharp, wet little gasps with a growing sense of pleasure. He could already feel the blood running through him, but he wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot. He finally released her thigh when he felt her start to tremble. Someone needed to kneel down and worship her body whenever they could. The little noises, the tight quiver she made, it was heavenly. His fingers hooked into her knickers and she stilled, but he wasn’t ready to slide into her just yet. Instead he worked the material down a little, over the soft flesh, until the first thick, dark curls surrounding her mound were visible.
He left the tempting vision where it was, but he trailed a finger over the top of her mound and smiled at the little tortured noise she made. That finger slid up her stomach, branching into his hand as he stroked over the lightly muscled plain, dotted with light brown stretch marks that he found himself intrigued by. He flicked his tongue out and began to work it over the little marks. She quivered at that, and his hands pinned her down roughly as she let out tiny, sharp gasps, seemingly swallowing a giggle.
“P-Pickman,” she managed. “Tickles…”
“Oh, I’m aware of that, killer,” he assured her. “Your body shivers so beautifully when I do this, though.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
He kissed her hipbones, teething a little over the harder area, and finally rose. His fingers caressed her sides and he watched her squirm, rising up her body before they slid around to her back and unclipped her bra. As he pulled it slowly from her, her arms raised weakly to cover herself, and he tossed the thing aside and grasped her wrists, thumbs rubbing her pulse. Little whimpers left her lips as the pads of his fingers touched her there.
“So sensitive, Killer,” he murmured. “The noises you make are so sweet.”
He released her wrists, and the Vaultie covered herself hurriedly. He tsked, sliding away from her briefly to pull his old tie out of his satchel. He caught her wrists again and bound them together, her struggles weak enough not to bother him. Finally, she was exposed, and, fascinated with the sight, he trailed a finger over the soft slope of her breast. The woman’s chest heaved, and she let out a soft gasp. He watched her stomach clench and release as she took in and expelled air, roving the single digit down over the curves of muscle and flesh. His eyes met hers, icy blue meeting cerulean for a second before he grasped an open palm full of her chest, tensing and relaxing his fingers briefly.
“Even softer here, just above your beating heart,” he murmured, his middle finger circling the tip of her nipple repeatedly. She stuttered for air, her eyes closing as her hips pushed upwards, seeking his thigh. He gave it, pressing the hard limb between her legs as his other hand began to caress her, gently enough that her sore breasts wouldn’t be hurt. He could feel her angling herself to press a sweet spot against him, a gentle whimper leaving her when she found the correct angle. “You see? I won’t hurt you. Not artwork like you.”
He could feel the steady beat of her life beneath his hands, her wrists twisting in their binds. Pickman leant down to her wrist, and flicked his tongue over her pulse, sweeping it over the skin. She cried out gently, his tongue dipping beneath the tie to get at the covered flesh, and she let out a soft whine. He murmured softly into the fluttering pulse, his lips slowly moving down her arm. He bit gently at the crook, near her elbow, and she jerked, crying out in surprise.
“I can play your body like an instrument, Killer,” he whispered. “There are parts of you that you never thought would feel this good.”
“Shit,” she hissed, as he drew his mouth over her upper arm and bit a little harder into the flesh of her shoulder. “Aren’t you…relieving…my pain?”
“Does it feel bad, Killer?” he asked, concerned. She shook her head. He relaxed. “Then, I am relieving it.”
“Oh GOD!” she cried as his lips closed around her nipple. He drew gently, palms pressing against her biceps and slowly massaging her upper arms, thumbs rubbing into the forearm as his tongue circled the hard nub. “Pickman, I-!”
She was pushing into his thigh vigorously, working against him to get herself off, her breathing now heavy and harsh. The soft dark expanse of her body was flushing a delight red-brown, her eyes sparkling. The Med-X was still working but god, the pleasure was getting her good. He moved his hands to shove her hips down, refusing to let her seek her own end and chuckling softly when she let out a frustrated cry. His tongue kept dancing, his fingers keeping her from twisting out of his grip.
“Pickman,” she whimpered, “Pickman, please! Oh god, please…”
“Please?” he murmured into her breast, pulling his head away and attending her other nipple. There was a long pause from him as the woman beneath him started up a constant, repeated whimper, her thighs clasping around him in an attempt to pull him down to her. He resisted, though he marvelled at the strength she contained in her limbs, but he slid a hand down to the exposed mound, a thumb hooking beneath the waistband and sliding between the sensitive lips to stop over her clit. She lost her breath for a sheer, beautiful moment, and then she let out a cry that shattered the air. He made no pretense of the roughness of his fingers and simply began to circle his thumb constantly over her nub. If she’d writhed before this was nothing compared to then. She was close to jerking out of his hands. Only the short bite of teeth on her nipple kept her grounded to him, but the sound of her sucking in air to whimper it out was pure music.
The singular digit moved hard, pressing into the hot, sensitive flesh, and he rolled with her as she keened into her climax, crying out his name as he slowed the pressure and pace of his thumb, winding her down. Killer panted softly, and he eased off her breast to pull his head up and get a good look at her. Her mouth was wide open, eyes shut with brows drawn up in a tortured expression. She finally cracked her lids open to meet his gaze, cerulean irises clouded with lust. The flush covering her face highlighted the dark freckles dotting her skin, and a few wisps of hair had escaped her bun.
“Feeling a little better, Killer?” he chuckled, pressing a kiss against her collarbone. She nodded weakly, whimpering when he slowly sank his teeth into her neck. He sucked, alternating between hard and soft pulls, flicking his tongue over the marks. She mewled, Pickman’s fingers slowly stroking over her breasts until they finally glided down her stomach to the faded white of her underwear. They slid beneath the waistband, stroking the skin beneath, before he grasped and pulled, skimming over her thighs. He pulled back, pushing her legs close together to allow the cloth to drop over her knees and off her feet. They were kicked aside, and the man reached for his bag, pulling out a canister of purified water and a paintbrush. He tested the bristles and found them soft, laying it aside as he pressed a hand against her sternum, sliding the fingers slowly down her stomach. A single finger flicked softly against her nub and she whimpered. He grasped the white cloth he’d left between her legs and began to pull it away. There was a large, red stain seeping into the material, and he discarded it, kneeling to look at her.
Her sex was flushed, her orgasm making her slick even without the bright glossy red of her blood. He found a spare clean rag in his things and poured some of the water over it, letting it soak until it was ready. The thick, soft cloth pressed against her labia, stroking gently over her sex as he cleaned her. His middle finger pushed upwards and over her clit, thumb pressing into her entrance as he slowly clenched and released them. The attention was clearly doing wonders for her, because she was back to moaning again, that sweet noise that had him aching for her. He finally relented, pulling the cloth away and moaning at the sharp gasp that its loss wrought from her. He reached for the brush, unscrewing the cap of the water and dipping the brush in. Killer looked up blearily, confused.
“A brush?” she asked softly. He grinned. Oh, she’d never…? Oh, wonderful.
“What’s a painter without a canvas?” he murmured. He ran the tip of the wet brush over her thigh and she inhaled. “Tell me what that feels like, Killer.”
He hazarded a glance at her face. She was blushing. Beneath the flush of her orgasm, a shy blush had stolen over her beautiful features. Oh how lovely.
“Killer,” he murmured, and twirled the brush across her hip as if to remind her.
“Like…it’s like…a cool…wet tongue,” she whispered, jerking as he slicked it over the muscle at the joint of thigh and pelvis.
“That’s right,” he purred. “Here in the Wasteland, it’s never a good idea to expose yourself to anything that could make you sick. And even though I’d love to taste your body, at this time, with your blood, I could get ill. But this…” he teased the bristle over her lower lips and she cried out in need. “This is an excellent replacement.”
“Oh my god,” she whimpered, as he switched hands, the left now holding the slender art tool, flicking it over her sensitive nub. His right hand dipped, two fingers sliding slowly inside her. She let out a somewhat winded gasp as they brushed over her inner walls. He drew them out gently almost to the last joint. The bristles were moving a little faster, and as he slid his fingers back within her she seemed to find it difficult to breathe.
“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, watching how she rolled her hips. She managed a nod, her thighs clenching. Pickman admired his fingers as they whisked in and out of her, his pale skin coloured red by the blood from within her. It was unusual for such blood not to have come from his enemy’s wounds. Indeed, this red was weaker than other types, diluted by the translucent slick of her arousal, and as he swirled the brush over her clit, more of the mixture leaked from her. He watched her arch as his fingers curved into a sweet spot, working her soft body and drinking in each slowly growing cry. It was a wonder Killer’s sounds of pleasure hadn’t lured curious travellers by – though, at this time of night, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. He was enjoying them, though – her voice was husky, a beautiful, soft and sensual sound that had likely been tempered by cigarettes once.
“Don’t hold back your sounds,” he told her, and leaned down, capturing her nipple with his mouth. The volume of her cries increased, her struggles suddenly renewing with interest as he stroked her clit with the brush with long, firm strokes. His tongue played with her breast, his fingers moving faster and harder, and his Killer choked out a cry and came once more. He felt the tight pressure of her walls and moaned at the thought of them constricting around his cock. Oh, he’d been so busy attending to her he’d forgotten his own pleasure. It didn’t matter.
He pulled his fingers out of her, admiring the red slicked up and down them, and then gazed at her shivering body. He reached the hand down, and painted his little heart on her hip, curving another one around her ribs, a third on top of her soft thigh. He found himself caught up in hearting her skin, finally abating when most of the visible flesh was marked with red hearts of all shapes and sizes. He slid his fingers back in and crooked, and she jolted, eyes rolling upwards.
“How do you feel, Killer?” he asked, his clean fingers dropping the brush aside and stroking her unpainted nipple.
“…my god,” she breathed. He let out a low laugh, wiping his fingers clean. Pickman leaned over her to untie her wrists, and as he unlooped the old, red silk tie, Killer hesitantly pushed her head up until their lips were just a fraction away from each other. His brows raised.
“…Well, well,” he breathed. “This is…surprising.”
“Maybe it’s the Med-X,” she panted. “Maybe…maybe my head’s going funny. I don’t care. Pickman-”
He grasped her hair gently and pulled her that last fraction towards him, their mouths meeting. He moaned at the softness of her lips, stifling whatever she’d been going to say, biting softly on her full, lower lip. She gasped into his mouth as her free hands tangled into his hair, repeatedly moaning gently into the suddenly passionate embrace she’d caught him in. Heat rolled through him, stiffening him, and he pulled back.
“What-”
Pickman rolled her onto her front, stripping off his leather jacket and pulling off the old, faded shirt beneath it. He unbelted the trousers and stripped them off, getting himself naked, exposed, before grabbing her wrists and tying them behind her back. Her head pressed against the old mattresses, and then she was gasping in pleasure as his fingers filled her again, a brief shock of pleasure before he grasped hold of her hips and sunk deep inside her. Oh, god. Killer was like heated wet silk around him, and he didn’t bother treating her gently. He was going to get this work of art writhing again, even if it spoiled the field of red love hearts he’d painted on her skin. He grasped handfuls of her ass, his hips slapping against the backs of her thighs.
“You,” he breathed, “you, Killer, have one hell of a soft spot.”
“Pickman!” she gasped, and he watched the play of her back muscles as she arched and rolled with his thrusts. He loved the sound of her voice when she said anything, but when she said his name, pleasure curled down his spine.
“You’re a ruthless Killer,” he told her, panting. “Oh, but you…oh fuck...you’re not just an artist, you’re a masterpiece.”
“Keep…keep talking,” she told him, her voice quiet as she tried to summon air to breathe.
“What you did to those Raiders, Killer,” he hissed, his nails digging into her ass, “that was artwork. I have so-fuck! OH…”
His head dropped into the curve of her shoulder, and he bit at her skin until she was crying out. He couldn’t think, her body arching into his, and he pulled back to watch himself disappear inside her. His cock was a red, bloody slash thrusting in and out of her wetness, gleaming with her arousal and the runnels of blood covering him. He’d need to clean up thoroughly when he was done, but god, this was worth every moment. A hand curved up her spine, and he leaned back over her, pressing bites to the back of her neck and shoulders, digging his nails in and slowly scoring lines down her back. The sound that left her made him twitch in delight. It was a heady little mewl filled with need, a weak sound that flared up every killer instinct he had, and it spurred him on, hips smacking against her as he pressed her into the mattress and began to scratch hard. She bucked, rolling and writhing against her admirer, a sheen of sweat running over her skin.
“You like a little pain, Killer,” he breathed into her ear.
“A little!” she warned softly, her eyes flicking up to him. The moment her eyes met his he felt fear and want in equal measure. Those cerulean irises held untold vengeance if he even thought about hurting her more than she liked. It was so very stimulating to see that his Killer, despite her arms being bound, weak with pleasure and beneath him, was a soul with a burning, iron-hard will. The Raiders hadn’t broken her. His attentions hadn’t broken her. Shit, he was going to come if she kept looking at him like that.
Her gaze dropped away as his hand slid between her legs and over her nub, rolling again and again until she was gritting her teeth. He could feel her teetering on the edge, and to his shame, so was he. It had been so long since he’d fucked a woman, and his Killer was all soft, wet heat and blazing blue eyes.
“Are you close?” he whispered.
“Yes!” she gasped, and he could feel her fingers clenching helplessly near his stomach, secure in their bindings.
“So am I,” he told her quietly, lips tracing her ear. “Come for me…Killer.”
He watched the pleasure overtake her slowly, her back pressing into a beautiful curve and keeping her tight against him, her inner walls milking him slowly until he couldn’t take it anymore. Her voice was calling desperately, and as he began to twitch, he moved to pull out, and like lightning, Killer’s calf curled around his hip and drew him back against her, hard. He found himself spilling inside the Vault dweller, feeling her ass pushing upwards as she almost fell onto the bed. He finally pulled out, leaning heavily over her, and her eyes flicked up to him. He found another cloth and cleaned himself up, first locating and then pulling his t-shirt over his head before he began to untie her.
The red silk flowed off her wrists, and she sat up slowly. He took a swig from the purified water and handed her the canister, watching her lipstick-smeared mouth wrap around the opening before she tilted the metal container back and chugged a lot of it. Her hair was a mess, body smeared with blood red hearts, but Pickman didn’t think he’d ever seen anything better.
“Like I said,” he managed, finding his underwear. “You, Killer, are a masterpiece.”
“Thanks,” she whispered. “I…I do feel better.”
He laughed. “Was that not the idea? I’m glad to have been of assistance.”
“Are you leaving?” she asked, her legs shaky as she stood, finding her faded white underwear and pulling a clean cloth out of her own bag. She padded the old white clothes with the cloth and slid them back up her legs, pulling a blue t-shirt out of her bag.
“Oh, I think I’m staying here,” he murmured, eyeing his satchel. There was more Med-X in there if he needed it. “You might require more pain relief tomorrow…and this place is so out of the way, Killer. I think it’d be perfect if you want to stay.”
He watched the fear flicker through her eyes, briefly blinded by the large blue t-shirt she put on. He felt a sting of possessiveness. The shirt was too big to be her own.
“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised. “The only thing I’m going to make you feel is pleasure, my Killer.”
“You promise?” she asked a little shakily.
“I promise,” he told her, approaching the bed. The back of her legs hit the mattress and he eased her gently down, her heartbeat pattering in her chest. “Are you so surprised, Killer?”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be,” she murmured. “You…you do kill people and paint with them.”
“It’s art, and I am an artist without a good audience,” he said, pressing his face against her hair and inhaling slowly. “You look tired, Killer. Sleep. The Med-X will wear off soon.”
She yawned, and he laid down and curled into her, an arm slipping around her waist. He pressed his lips to her neck and she jumped, finally rubbing back against him into his body heat.
“I actually dropped my guard,” she chuckled softly. He nipped her jaw, and she moaned.
“In the Wasteland, that’s the most dangerous thing you could ever do. Sleep tight, Killer.”