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Hoffman tries to jerk away as the handcuffs click shut.
He doesn’t actually get very far. Lawrence has him right where he wants him, after all—on his stomach, spread naked in his bed, hands pulled fast behind his back.
Hoffman is flushed all over already. He runs so much hotter than Lawrence, pink flesh and warm skin, sweating all the time. Lawrence tugs on the handcuffs; hard unyielding steel. Not what he would have personally picked, but Hoffman gets odd about these things. Hoffman is just odd, he supposes.
Lawrence did pick the collar. He slides two fingers under the nice, thick leather and pulls—Hoffman struggles against it until he’s choking. Lawrence lets him go and sighs.
“Get on with it,” Hoffman grunts. It’s half-muffled by the pillow, but Lawrence can see the edge of his jaw and most of his right cheek. The scar looks pinkish under the warm light.
“Did you forget?” Lawrence shifts, leaning more of his weight on top of Hoffman, legs spread. It’s not nothing, but Hoffman can take so much more. He tugs on the back of the leather again. “I’m in charge here.”
It clearly rankles. Hoffman snarls a little—Lawrence can just make out the way it pulls at his scar, mouth twisted and ugly. Lawrence has half a mind to kiss it off him. Instead he spreads a palm over Hoffman’s back while he tugs on the handcuff’s chain with the other, dragging Hoffman’s shoulders back.
Hoffman relaxes and tenses simultaneously, in increments. His jaw clenches and his knees twitch, but the slope of his neck bows down further. Lawrence drags his hand over his back, scratches him a little. Hoffman’s width never fails to set a fire in his gut—muscle and fat all over, a cruel and brutal physique.
“I can feel you,” Hoffman murmurs, and grinds back against Lawrence where he’s pressed hard against his ass. It makes him groan, sensitive even through his clothes, and he catches the edge of Hoffman’s smirk.
“I know patience is not a foreign concept to you.” Hoffman fidgets more. He’s pulling at the handcuffs, too, trying to spread his hands and digging the metal into his wrists. It must hurt.
“Weren’t you the one begging for a hand on your cock the other day?” Hoffman rolls his hips, very slowly. Lawrence digs his nails into the meat of his back. He sounds smug.
Lawrence doesn’t reply, but he does nudge Hoffman’s legs open with his knees. Hoffman struggles, of course—Lawrence has to push him down into the bed with his whole weight and knee him in the thigh.
“You make everything so much more difficult than it needs to be,” he pants against Hoffman’s ear. Hoffman shivers in clear delight.
“You like it, baby,” he drawls, and Lawrence yanks on the collar until his breathing hitches and he goes loose in his grasp.
“I’ll chain your feet next time, too,” Lawrence tells him. Hoffman trembles, but the smile in his face when he cranes his neck towards Lawrence is predatory.
“Will you leave me the handsaw this time?”
“Very cute.”
Hoffman is obscenely wet. He makes a soft sound when Lawrence pushes a finger into him—he’s always ready for it, takes it with a crane of the neck and a moan. Lawrence thinks about adding another one and then reconsiders and unzips his pants. Hoffman squirms, shoulders tensing as he tugs on the handcuffs, hard enough that Lawrence has to put a hand on his wrists and squeeze.
“If I have to stop because you’ve dislocated your shoulder I will be angry.” Hoffman makes a noise.
“So don’t stop,” he says, voice high with excitement. Lawrence tries not to smile. He pushes his hand into Hoffman’s hair instead. It’s always softer than expected. A little sweaty, too.
“Sick little puppy,” he says, and Hoffman makes a noise that’s more a snarl than a hiss. Lawrence refrains from commenting on it.
He fucks into Hoffman in one hard push, without any fanfare. Hoffman tenses up all over—he’s wet enough that even without lubricant Lawrence slides all the way inside, but there’s a rubbing friction that must burn. Lawrence holds himself up; one hand pushing down on Hoffman’s wrists over his back, the other wrapped around the collar. Hoffman is twitching and so tight.
“Is that all you've got,” he breathes, almost animalistic. Lawrence thrusts into him brutally and Hoffman clenches around him so hard he almost comes on the spot.
Hoffman snarls when he pulls out a few minutes later. He’s relaxed into it now—Lawrence is big, but not impossible to take. Hoffman’s cunt is swollen and pink, dripping.
"Be still,” Lawrence says, and wraps an arm around his stomach to shift Hoffman onto his side.
Hoffman resists again. Lawrence leans up and bites him on the shoulder, hard enough to dent; Hoffman laughs. His hair brushes Lawrence’s nose. They end up pressed together closer than before—it feels more intimate, Lawrence’s hand splayed over Hoffman’s belly. He drags his cock in the space between his legs a few times, slow, lazy thrusts. The thick hair in Hoffman’s thighs turns slick with precome.
“The fuck are you waiting for?” Hoffman says, which is the closest he will get to asking. Lawrence’s hand slides down until he’s brushing two fingers against the head of his cock, fucking in between Hoffman’s thighs. “A handwritten invitation? Sorry, I left all my nice stationery at home.”
“Please and thank you would be nice,” Lawrence sighs, and Hoffman laughs. He’s burning hot—Lawrence is sweating into his shirt.
“Put your cock back in my cunt,” he says, “and that’s the best you’re gonna get.”
Lawrence huffs against his neck, hips faltering. Hoffman’s thighs are big and supple. He mouths at Hoffman’s shoulder blade, teasing the tip of his own cock with a finger, and goes back to trace a few circles around Hoffman’s clit. Then, out of his mouth without much thought:
“You do get desperate to be filled.” And Hoffman stutters, all at the same time—breath hitching, back spasming. His jaw is clenched so hard Lawrence worries for his enamel.
“You,” Hoffman grits out, and the rest of the sentence dissipates as Lawrence fucks back into him.
It coalesces into shape pretty fast. Lawrence slides his open hand back over Hoffman’s abdomen and pushes down slightly. Hoffman is scrabbling behind himself, hands reaching for Lawrence where he’s plastered to his back, scratching wherever they can reach—his chest, his stomach. Lawrence hisses.
“Behave,” he grits out. Hoffman turns to flash him a smirk, tongue peeking out.
“Or what?” Hoffman digs his nails in. “Gonna cane me, doctor?”
It’s a thought. Lawrence tries and fails to catch a whine between his teeth—Hoffman is radiating victory. He thrusts harder, until the smugness deflates to its normal size.
“Or you won’t get what you want.”
“And that is?”
Lawrence trails fingers over the swell of his stomach, right over thick scar tissue.
“A full womb.”
Hoffman jerks. Lawrence puts his entire weight into holding him down—he’s taller than Hoffman, but that and gravity is all he has going for himself. The steel of the handcuffs presses against Lawrence’s stomach as he ruts against Hoffman, warmed by the heat of their bodies.
“I could keep you here for it,” he says, voice low against Hoffman’s shoulder. “Tied up, ready to fill over and over. It’s not like you have much else to do these days.”
“Fuck you,” Hoffman tells him, but his voice has gone breathy and high. He’s panting desperately, body loosening against Lawrence, going as pliant as Mark Hoffman can go. It makes something in Lawrence’s chest struggle.
“I wouldn’t even need to tie you up, would I. You’d stay warm and docile for me.” He has to shut his eyes for a moment to stave off the conjured mirage—Hoffman bound and spread wide, ready for Lawrence’s come at any moment of the day. When he opens his eyes Hoffman has pushed his head into the corner between the pillow and his shoulder. His hands are clasped together tightly.
Lawrence pulls out. There’s a noise of dissent.
“Your technique is shit,” Hoffman grunts, face still hidden in the pillow. Lawrence crawls over his body and roughly pushes him over, sitting on top of his stomach until he has no choice but to budge.
Hoffman has chewed open his lip. Lawrence reaches for it, smears blood over the corner. Hoffman opens his mouth and looks up at him as Lawrence pushes two bloody fingers against his tongue. His eyes have gone round and wide, pupils blown, and he looks burst open. It’s terrifying. Sliding back inside him is a relief, if only because it pours easy pleasure over the cracks.
It’s more physically demanding like this, but the way he looks. Lawrence grabs his fleshy side as he fucks into him more and more frantically. Hoffman’s chest is bouncing a little.
“Yeah,” Hoffman breathes. “Fuck.” There's the jagged start of a scar on his neck, and it shines up at Lawrence as Hoffman tilts his head back, mouth hanging open. Lawrence bends down to kiss it—Hoffman opens up for him in a manner that feels surprised. He tastes like pennies. His tongue licks against Lawrence’s teeth with a hungry sort of desperation.
“Say it.”
Hoffman’s hair is falling all over his forehead. Lawrence grips his hip tightly.
“What?” The wide-eyed, confused look is good on him. Lawrence tugs a little on the hair trailing down his belly.
“Ask me for it.”
“You’re a fucking lunatic,” Hoffman laughs, and it almost sounds fond, “you know that?”
“And you,” Lawrence says, leaning his weight on Hoffman’s abdomen hard enough to hurt, “are a very bad dog.”
Hoffman comes all over himself like a gunshot. It shocks him too, Lawrence sees it in his face—he makes a strangled groan and clenches around Lawrence, shoulders rolling, mouth gone lax and dumb.
Lawrence fucks him through it, after a stutter, and keeps going even when Hoffman starts squirming. The corners of his eyes are wet; with the windswept-looking hair curling over his forehead and his red bitten mouth he looks boyish and innocent. Lawrence snorts.
“Still haven’t changed your mind?”
Hoffman gives him a look from beneath his eyelashes, low-lidded, eyebrow arched. He licks his lower lip and pushes his hips out, relaxed. Lawrence looks at him for a bit and then pulls out.
“Huh,” Hoffman says questioningly. He’s still pinned beneath Lawrence.
“If you don’t want it,” Lawrence breathes, and fucks into his fist, “it’s not very fun, is it?”
It’s delightful, watching the synapses fire behind Hoffman’s eyes. Lawrence lets his eyes shut and tightens his hand around himself. It’s dry enough to sting. He reaches with his right hand and sticks three fingers into Hoffman until they’re wet enough and then goes back to stroking himself. Hoffman watches him do this with a dumbstruck expression on his face that feels more satisfying than any sex ever could.
Well, almost. Because almost immediately, Hoffman goes:
“That’s not the deal.” Lawrence hums.
“You came, didn’t you? It seems like a fair deal to me.”
“Fuck you,” Hoffman says automatically. “Put it back in.”
“You can do better than that.” Lawrence bites his lower lip as he twists his wrist.
“I want you,” Hoffman enunciates very carefully, through gritted teeth, “to put your stupid big cock back in me, and then come inside me, and I swear to you if you don’t what I did to Jill Tuck will seem like a nice afternoon in the park.”
“Thank you for that reminder,” Lawrence murmurs. Hoffman thrashes around.
“How much nicer d’you want me to get? C’mon, doctor. Breed me.”
“Shit,” Lawrence hisses. Hoffman looks more taken aback at himself than anything else. “You’d make a terrible father.”
“Speaking from experience? Oh, fuck.” There’s a ripping noise—Hoffman tearing at the sheets. His cunt feels heavenly after just his own fist; Lawrence feels sweat dripping into his eyes and thrusts in deep. Hoffman is making increasingly incoherent sounds.
“Please,” he stutters out, and Lawrence scratches his side bloody with one hand and reaches to tug at the collar’s ring with the other, leather digging into Hoffman’s neck. “Breed me, that's right, b—”
Lawrence comes with a hitched breath and a moan, spilling hot and thick inside him. Hoffman goes loose-limbed beneath him, muscles relaxing. He looks blissful. Lawrence keeps coming for what feels like ages, twitching. Then he slumps over the side of the mattress.
“Hey, asshole,” Hoffman says a minute later, instantly back to his annoying self. “The handcuffs.”
“I could leave them on,” Lawrence mutters, but he reaches over to the bedside table for the key. Hoffman winces when they’re off, groaning as he shifts his elbows forward. Lawrence clicks his tongue and reaches to rub his shoulder, crouched over him.
“Your leg’s gonna cramp in a minute." He already looks half asleep with Lawrence’s hands on him, the ingrate. “Shove over.”
Hoffman sprawls over the bed and pulls Lawrence in with him. He hooks a hand under his thigh and draws it up, strong fingers drifting down to rub over his calf. Meanwhile Lawrence slides two fingers beneath the leather collar and rubs at the raw skin of his neck. Hoffman preens a little.
“You should get me a muzzle." Hoffman's face is set on that smug smile again. Lawrence tugs on the collar.
“Don’t push it,” he says. “I like you gagged better.”
“You always know what to say to a girl,” Hoffman drawls. His mouth still tastes like blood when Lawrence goes to bite it.