Red Lines

Insta-smut. No redeeming value, except for the whole kinky-slash-porn thing.


Mal watches, as Simon falls.

It's never quick, not with Simon. He's too wound up most of the time, too much in the "here" and the "now."

Simon thinks too hard. Which is why Mal has him restrained.

The bed is a mess. Mal had tumbled Simon onto the bed immediately, overwhelming him with kisses, undressing him and stroking along his skin slowly. Simon was trembling with lust long before Mal snapped on the collar and handcuffs. He let out a ragged gasp when Mal forced him to his knees and buckled the wrist restraints behind his back.

He bowed his head so prettily when Mal chained his wrists to the collar and placed the blindfold over Simon's eyes. That's when Mal stepped back, got out his crop, and began watching.

Mal taps and swirls the crop as he waits. It's smooth and stiff and cool in his hand and he wants to see the marks it's going to leave on Simon's skin.

It takes so long—Simon's sweating now, but his breath is evening out. Finally. A soft puff of air escapes his mouth, and a pink tongue flicks out briefly, wetting Simon's dry lips.

Close enough.

Mal steps in closer, and trails the crop across Simon's shoulder. He grips the muscles there, and whispers hoarsely into Simon's ear, "Stay absolutely still." It's the one rule he requires. Mal wants to hear Simon beg.

A shudder runs through Simon, but he nods as best he can. Mal sees him take a deep breath, sees him relax into it. And he brings the crop down across Simon's back.

Beautiful, utterly beautiful—the welt rises almost immediately, flushed with blood against Simon's pale skin. Simon gasps, makes a soft little whimper, but does not move.

"Good," Mal murmurs, tracing the area around the welt with the crop. "Good boy."

Again. And again. Patterns of red against fair skin, moans turning to choked cries turning to incoherent pleas.

It's not until Simon is trembling past his ability to control and the words spilling from his mouth are little more than "please" with an occasional choked sob that Mal stops.

"What do you want?" Mal asks quietly, running the crop down Simon's chest. He circles a nipple, watching it harden in response to the touch of the leather.

Simon shakes his head helplessly, his whole body leaning into the caress of the crop. Mal takes it away, replaces it with the warm weight of his hand around the back of Simon's neck. "Tell me," he repeats, quietly but firmly. "Tell me what you want."

Simon's nearly lost. Mal can see it. He's pliant in Mal's grip, his mouth is working soundlessly. Mal kisses him, hard, claiming his breath, and doesn't stop until Simon whimpers.

"Tell me." It's just barely a whisper, but the command is unmistakable. Simon shudders.

"Please." Gasping, hoarse. "Please, Malcolm. Fuck me."

Mal's smile is cold but pleased. A firm hand on Simon's shoulder pushes down, and the crop slides between Simon's thighs, spreading them apart.

Head down, ass in the air, Mal examines his work even as he slides a lubed finger roughly into Simon. He traces a welt with the crop, and Simon twitches back, impaling himself on Mal's hand.

He doesn't wait. Simon's more than ready, and Mal doesn't feel like teasing him tonight. He pulls his finger out abruptly and settles himself behind Simon, cock nudging at his entrance. "Ask me again," he says quietly, running one hand down the sweaty expanse of Simon's back.

"Please." Simon swallows hard. "Please, Malcolm..."

One strong, sure push and he's inside Simon, sheathed in tight heat and feeling Simon shudder and yield to him. "Please," Simon is saying, over and over, whimpering into the bedcovers. "Please..."

Mal bends forward, bites Simon's earlobe. "That's it," he murmurs. "You're mine, ain't you?" Simon makes a sound more like a keen than an actual answer, but it's enough for Mal.

He grips hard enough to leave bruises, and watches in near-fascination as he splits Simon's body. The heat of his skin and the throb of his pulse drive Mal forward and he can't stop moving. Wants and needs Simon inarticulate and desperate, yielding to him. Mal can't hold out for long, not with Simon gasping and begging with each stroke.

Mal feels it build, and doesn't hold back. Red spills over his vision, interrupted by a flash of hot white as he viciously fills Simon. He bites his lip, hard enough to leave a bruise, and stills as he lets the aftershocks subside.

Simon's still whimpering quietly, and moans when Mal pulls out.

"Easy," Mal whispers. "I'll take care of you. I'll take care of you." He turns Simon over onto his back, pinning his bound arms under him. Simon's cock is flushed angrily with blood, slick with pre-come and sweat. But Mal doesn't touch it, much as he wants to.

He reaches up and pulls the blindfold off Simon's face. "Look at me," he says softly, waiting as Simon blinks hazily and his eyes focus somewhere in the vicinity of Mal's face.

"Watch me, Simon. I want you to watch me as I make you come."

Simon moans, past all speech by now. His eyes are vague and not quite focused, but they're tracking Mal's motions and that's enough for the moment. Mal leans down to kiss him, gently, before taking Simon's cock in his hand and beginning to stroke it. "Come for me," he says, keeping up an even, steady rhythm. "Come for me..."

When he does, Simon's back arches and his mouth opens in a cry that's almost soundless. Semen spatters his stomach and Mal's hand before he falls back against the bed, utterly limp.

It's the work of a few moments to unfasten Simon's collar and handcuffs. The catches release, and Mal just slides them off, the chain jouncing noisily against itself. A warm washcloth follows, but Simon remains motionless, even as Mal kisses his hands and pulls them forward.

Simon curls up on his side, blinking sleepily as Mal kisses him gently. "Back yet?" He shakes his head quietly, burrowing into Mal's shoulder. Mal smiles and smoothes down Simon's hair again. "I'll be here when you are, baobei."

Compromising Collaborations | Compromising Positions