#pickman fo4

Body Modification with Pickman x g/n!Sole

Ohhhhh, Pickman. What a strange, intriguing character. His dialogue makes for very fun writing, though. Definitely a killer aesthetic to go with the homicidal tendencies, lol.

Anyways, I hope you all enjoy!

Here is the link to my  Kinktober 2023 Event List so you can stay up-to-date, or re-visit these works as you please.

Included: Body Modification, knifeplay, non-explicit gore, blood, cutting, marking, masochism, painplay, scarring, all very consensual, just kinky, restraints, dirty talk? kind of? (mostly very flowery), oral sex, cum eating.

Words: 1.9k

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“This one, I’m liking, darling. How much bigger were you thinking?” 

He spoke to them softly, in that painfully honeyed tone of his– the one where you could practically hear the smile on his face, whether or not he actually wore one.

Pickman wasn’t now.

He rarely smiled in the midst of his work; no, he was concentrating. Especially when it came to the canvas of his beloved. The myriad of scars upon them was faultless, due to the level of focus he always maintained throughout their carving. Despite his unwavering attention, those certainly furrowed brows he looked upon them with, Sole knew the way that this undertaking of his, it… excited him. The unmistakable bulge forming in the front of his worn, beige dress slacks told that tale of yearning. Loudly and with urgency.

Their gaze remained at his waist, as Pickman’s knife moved in small, careful increments over their collarbone and down to the left side of their chest. Sole was restrained. Their wrists, chest and forehead all held down against the firm table beneath them– it made it less likely for them to flinch away and perhaps ruin the intricate scrawl of their partner's blade over their once-smooth flesh. 

And it was more thrilling this way. 

Sole’s heart pounded in their chest, they felt sweat lingering on the surface, felt a heat of their own pooling low in their belly, with each spike of pain, it made their eyes roll back and their breath come out in increasingly fevered pants. 

They didn’t even need to hear Pickman’s smile, to know the way he wore one now, as he pulled the knife away to admire his work. 

He delighted in their delight. Relished their love of the pain he gifts them, and the art he makes of them.

“We were made for each other, you know.” He put their thoughts to words, almost as if he could hear into their mind. 

“And this… This is a reflection of that.” 

Their names, penned together with the keen blade and combined in an ornate, calligraphic inscription barely legible, but to the artist himself… It was a masterpiece. 

“In all my art pieces, we have never seen the like of this. None compare.” 

He etched another line, and Sole’s breath came out a whimper. 

“Shh, shh, my love. Nearly there. Don’t worry.” 

A sweet kiss planted on their forehead, and Sole leaned into it. 

“M’not.” They managed, despite the delectably overwhelming pain. 

“Hmm?” 

“Not worried. Take as long as you need.” 

They wished they could reach out and touch him, then. Reassure him that this was undoubtedly what they wanted, but that would be counterintuitive. They didn’t want to ruin his work by moving. 

Pickman pulled the knife away, grabbed the soft, thin rag off the table beside him, and wiped clean the blade, before dabbing the cloth on their skin, absorbing the excess scarlet so he could see what lay beneath.

“My, it’s… breathtaking, my dear.” 

“I’m sure it is.” They said with a small grin, “You are a fine artist, my love.” 

He hmm-ed happily at that, before they felt the cold metal against their hot skin again. 

He made a few more carvings, the sting of which shot up their whole arm, protesting within the survival portion of their brain, urging them to shy away, to stop the wounding in its tracks, but Sole closed their eyes and ignored it. Their mind went foggy, the pain all that they could focus on, and the last thing they could focus on, all at once.

A particularly deep cut made them shudder unwittingly, releasing a moan at the same such time. Between their legs, they felt a distinct reaction, and Pickman let loose another knowing hum. 

“Shall we take a break, then? Don’t want to… overwhelm you, dearest.” 

“Do we have to?” They croaked, and Pickman chuckled in response, letting the flat of his blade tap down their bare body in increments, before it clattered onto the steel table just out of their peripheral vision. 

“No, we don’t have to. But oh… it should be fun. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.” 

Another kiss had Sole opening their eyes, straining to look down at his shining hair as Pickman set his lips over their neck, down their collarbone, and achingly close to the open wounds on their chest. 

“Would you like to stay tied?” He whispered between presses of his mouth over them. 

“Let me touch you.” Sole pleaded, adrenaline still coursing through them from the stinging in their chest, from that building heat within. 

“As you wish.” He kissed them square in the middle of his newest art piece, and Sole’s shoulder tensed. 

He licked his reddened lips as he pulled away.

Pickman then moved out of their sights, and soon the rope over one wrist was being cut. It snapped, and the pressure released. Pickman moved to the other as Sole twisted their wrist, flexed their fingers, feeling the blood return to their hand. 

He always secured them just a tinge too tight, knowing how that pain acted as an appetizer for what was to come. 

Another snap of rope released the pressure over their collarbones, which had been effectively holding their chest in place, and Sole looked down to see marks there too. Just the reddened rashes and imprints of the rope, but now with their forehead being set free of its bounds against the hard table, they let their head raise up to admire those, as well as the new scar-work over their heart.

“Beautiful.” They agreed, and saw the way their partner grinned, the appreciation for them shining honestly in their stark, grey depths.  

“Ah, like you.” He pulled a hand to his lips then, pressing another kiss there as he released the last of their bounds. “A masterpiece to match a masterpiece.” 

A blush heated their skin, and Sole looked away shyly, like Pickman didn’t spoil them with his poetic dictation on a daily basis. 

“Now, you wanted to–”

“Touch you.” Sole said easily, quick enough to interrupt as they shifted upwards and slid off the end of the table. 

Dark air surrounded them both outside the ring that illuminated Pickman’s work area. Crimson brick walls looked in from every side, and without preference, Sole chose one to push their partner into. 

Pickman yielded to their touch instantly, until his back rested against the bricks, and Sole had both arms wrapped firmly about his shoulders. His kisses were magnetic, as they pressed forward into him; they felt they could never pull away, not without another catalyst to force their lips away. His skin was soft, his lips no exception, and Sole– as they often did– asked themself how, in a world such as this, Pickman managed to keep himself so tidy. 

His hair was slicked just a certain way, that when they combed their fingers over it, it remained in place. He smelled of aftershave and starch powder, and tasted like spearmint toothpaste. 

It brought Sole back. 

How they’ve changed since then, they thought, as their hands explored him, as their fingers brushed over their own marked, scarred forearms– forever changed, by the man pressed against them. 

“My love,” Pickman mumbled into their mouth, before gently pushing them away. “I’m meant to console you. Remember?” 

Sole looked away again, like a dog being reprimanded for going after a food scrap they know they’re not meant to have. 

He tutted at them, drawing their gaze back to his. 

“Here, let us switch, dearest.” 

They did as he asked, moving like dancers as he grasped their hands and twirled them about until their back was resting against the cold brick. A shiver ran through them, but soon enough, Pickman became a distraction from that as well. 

He ran his hands, ripe with scars of their own, up and down their form, like he was trying to smooth out wrinkles. His touch was firm, but light enough not to ruffle.

One hand smoothed right down to their center on its journey, palming over their heat, feeling their pleasure, so evident against his touch. 

“Darling, you are perfection.” He kissed their lips again, savoring the sighs they released at his undulating contact over them. “To have my work displayed on you… it’s the greatest honor I can fathom.” 

All his words were heady whispers against them, as his hand increased its movement, as the other drew lines with his fingers over the path of raised scars he was responsible for. 

“The most perfect gallery.” 

Any words they wished to speak in return paled in comparison. Pickman’s natural pomp, his archaic charm had them swooning and leaning into his every touch, his every word. The feel of his hand over them, over the most sensitive of spots, just firm enough to thread the needle between intense and overwhelming. 

“I hope you can forgive my absence, here.” He said, a despondent look in his eyes, and Sole blinked as a question in their mind made their brows furrow together. “I’m needed elsewhere.”

With that and a distinct clench of Pickman's hand between their legs, his lips were descending their body. He paused only once, to press a handful of kisses over their newest linework, and then he was on his knees before them, lifting one thigh up to rest on his suit’s shoulder pad. 

Sole’s hands dove down to his hair, to the back of his neck, writhing their fingers over the skin there, until they could all but feel the goosebumps their touch, their gasps of pleasure, inspired upon him. The contact only seemed to encourage the artist, as he mouthed fervently over their heat, as though this were the only sustenance that could sate him. 

His noises became more carnal the further he buried himself between their legs, the more slick skin rubbing together, moans catching in his throat, breaths rattling in his chest as he opted to breathe them rather than the air. 

Sole’s fingers clung to him, nails digging into his skin as the back of their head dug into the brick wall behind them. Their muscles tensed, sweat stung their open wounds, and a moan escaped their straining throat as their partner relished in their pleasure, tasting all they had to offer him, and pleading for more with every lave of his tongue, every hollow of his pronounced cheeks. 

“Seems you needed this break just as I did.” Sole chuckled, and Pickman hummed out his agreement. 

“More so, even.” He pulled away to answer in a flash, before his lips were firmly back upon them. 

He tilted his head this way and that, dove forward and then released the pressure in rapid movements that gave Sole no time at all to recover. Their pleasure could only build as his teeth entered the equation, nipping over those sensitive places between their legs, scraping over the skin there until jolts of pain-infused bliss ran up through their veins. 

Pickman gave an answering moan as their hands clenched him all the tighter, as their leg tensed from its place on his shoulder and their hips thrust their heat against his mouth with each passing second. 

He carried on though, always one to see his work through to the end, Pickman ran a hand over them as his lips refused to relent, as he nearly bit into his tongue in the euphoric turmoil of their combined actions. 

Then, Sole was crying out their release, bursting onto his asking tongue as he pressed further into them, crazed and wanting for all they could give. 

It’s what he craved most about them. The way they gave themself over to him, his work, his craft. Let him mark them in every way possible, both physically and mentally, and let him love them in every way Pickman wished to display it. 

He was right, they both decided in tandem.