Chapter 3 Slaughter 28 #5
But he liked the anticipation too, the way all of this was being drawn out. He always got what he wanted when he went out to bars, and it was interesting to play a different game.
He pulled his lip into his teeth slowly, and Conan didn’t take his eyes away from him even as his fingers kept moving.
“I think you have to earn that first,” Lam said.
“Do I?” Conan asked, but he seemed excited at the prospect. His eyes were dark and bright, almost fevered.
Then his fingers were slipping out of Lam, and he was up on his knees, then feet.
Before Lam could ask, hands landed back on him.
Conan flipped him over unto his belly with ease, like it cost him nothing.
A second later Lam was hiked up onto his knees and dragged to the edge of the bed.
A heavy hand landed on the back of his head, shoving Lam’s face down into the comforter.
Conan’s cock bullied its way inside him without caution.
It happened so fast that Lam felt a spike of panic, the fear of not being in control. It was exhilarating, and he yelped at the pain of that cock filling him again.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” Conan grit. The hand in Lam’s hair tightened, and he used it to hold him in place as he pulled all the way back out and bucked back in.
“You’re just–you’re just big,” Lam said through gasping breaths. It was hard to breathe with his face pressed down, but even that was good.
“Is it enough?” Conan accented the last word with the heavy fuck of his hips. He’d just started, but already his cock was brutalizing Lam. He was sore and swollen, and every fuck made his nerves jangle, his muscles tense.
“Y-yes,” Lam sighed, his words muffled in the sheets.
A moment later the hand in his hair was pulling him up, yanking hard to drag his face from the sheets, to arch his body more precariously.
“What was that?” Conan demanded.
Lam swore, and his legs trembled. He was close, so close. “Yes,” He moaned.
“You fucking love this,” Conan said with a hard edge. Then that hand was shoving Lam’s face back down, hips starting a punishing fuck.
Lam’s hands curled in the sheets and around the knife handle, trying to hold on. His thumb found the blade tab and flicked it out, and when Conan got the perfect angle, Lam drove the blade into the sheets, and into his mattress.
He did so with the same desire he had to drive it into Conan. But he couldn’t–wouldn’t. This was something better than a temporary thrill, and if he killed Conan he couldn’t have it anymore.
Conan snarled, bending over him, hips thrusting savagely now. He was a force, a beast, and from where Lam was, he couldn’t stop it.
It was that thought more than anything that tripped him over the edge. Lam keened as he started to come, dragging the knife to shred roughly through his sheets, moaning hot and half suffocated into the bedding.
And Conan didn’t stop. There was another growl, and the continued heavy, relentless drive of his hips, as Lam spilled all over the sheets. His head was filled with sparkling nothingness as the pulses of pleasure went through him. It was a high almost as good as driving his knife in.
It was only when Lam finished, when his body started to sag that Conan pulled out. He turned Lam back over just as easily, and Lam collapsed on his back in the sticky mess, breathing hard.
It took him a moment to blink his eyes open. When he was able to focus, Conan was again standing above him at the edge of the bed.
The first thing that caught Lam’s eye was the red bleeding through gauze on his shoulder. He’d definitely ruined at least a stitch or two.
Vicious desire reared back up. It was devastating how willing he was to be hurt for Lam’s pleasure.
Then he looked to Conan’s cock that was still hard, jutting straight out, cherry red and wet. They weren’t finished.
“How’re we doin’, sweetheart?” Conan asked with a slow drawl. He looked like the cat that had gotten the canary, and crushed it in his maw.
For once, it was a look Lam was appreciating on another man. He still had his knife in hand, but he felt no real need to drive it into Conan’s chest.
“You sure know what to do with that,” Lam said. His voice was raspy.
Conan’s smile only widened. “Ready for more?”
He’d never been more ready for anything.
“Yes.”
Conan reached for the knife. At least, Lam thought at first. Then his hand was curling around Lam’s own, tightening his hold on the pearl handle, pulling the blade out of the shredded sheets.
Conan got back on the bed, straddling Lam. He guided their joined hands and brought the tip of the blade to his own thigh.
Lam’s heartbeat skittered. The arousal he’d just satiated came rushing back so fast he was dizzy.
Their eyes met in a tense, heated moment.
“Do it,” Conan said.
Lam had to swallow a flood of saliva in his mouth. He’d never been a nervous person, but the twinges in his stomach might be nerves now. He’d put his knives into a lot of bodies, but never once gotten permission for it.
He moved the blade to the outside of Conan’s thigh. Lam had no intention of cutting deep, but he didn’t want to be careless. He set the tip to a safe area and then his eyes went back to Conan’s. He wanted to watch his face when he did it.
With gentle pressure, Lam drew the blade up his thigh. It was barely anything, would leave a mark akin to a kitten scratch, but he caught the small inhale of breath from Conan. The cut couldn’t hurt, especially in comparison to the shoulder, so the unrepressed reaction was just for Lam’s enjoyment.
“That can’t be all you want.” Conan goaded.
Lam looked down at the cut he’d made. It was small, and only a drop of blood at the center, the deepest point, was starting to well up.
Lam moved the knife to the right and did another cut, pressing harder. Blood appeared immediately this time, but it was Lam that gasped. It was a strange and exciting experience to be allowed to do this, to have it contained between them.
Conan’s fingers entered his periphery and then the pointer touched the line of red, smearing blood. Before Lam could comment, that same finger moved to Lam's face, pushing past his lips, and over his tongue.
The sharp copper taste hit Lam first, and he groaned, hips trying to jerk up against where Conan was seated. The finger traced along his tongue, painting blood there. Lam’s eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy, overcome.
“That’s it,” Conan said as his finger slid to the back of Lam’s tongue and caused a small rupture of automatic resistance. “Swallow,” he said.
Lam swallowed.
The retreat of the finger was slow, and when Lam opened his eyes, Conan was boring down on him. The back of his neck prickled like he was prey seeing a predator across the field. The moment drew itself out as the wet digit slid over the shape of Lam’s bottom lip, tracing it.
He was frozen, the tallest thing in a lightning field, feeling the energy ripple closer and closer.
Then Conan leaned forward, hand dropping away from Lam’s lips as he replaced it with his own.
Lam pushed into the kiss, making a wet moan, one of his hands coming up to fist into Conan’s still damp hair as the other tightened painfully on the handle of the knife. Their mouths opened and Conan’s tongue was there, licking into him.
The blood was already fading, but Conan tasted like the remnants of beer, something sour and deep. He kissed like a rockslide, like a conquering. It wasn’t gentle or careful, his teeth bit at Lam’s lip, making sharp trickles of pain that coiled tight in his lower belly.
Lam couldn’t keep up all of it. He was being swept under, crushed by the force and strength of this man, and he wanted to give in.
Conan had done everything to ensure that. He’d listened, but still pushed the boundaries, if only to prove he wasn’t a threat. He’d created this liminal space where Lam could be the predator and the prey, could be the thing struggling in the trap if he wanted to be.
Blindly, Lam moved the knife up the tight space between them, feeling with clumsy fingers the shape of Conan’s chest. Between ravenous kisses he found a patch of skin in a safe area, and he took the knife to it.
He drew one, two, three lines in quick succession, and felt Conan’s teeth cut his lip, just enough to put the taste of blood between them again.
It was wild, out of control. Lam dropped the knife somewhere, and took his bare hand to Conan’s chest that was starting to bleed. He’d been less careful and these cuts were deeper, already wet.
Conan groaned into his mouth, licking the blood between them, not slowing down. Lam’s thighs came up on either side of him, pulling him in, forcing the smear of their bodies.
Lam was hard again, and Conan still hadn’t come. He desperately wanted to see it. To be destroyed by it.
The next time Conan pulled back for a clutch of breath, the words were on Lam’s tongue.
“Inside me,” he demanded. Bloodied nails scraped up Conan’s side to incentivize.
Conan moved like a man possessed, forcing Lam into a deeper bend, throwing both legs over his shoulders now, careless of his injuries.
There was a brief scramble to find the lubricant, to douse himself again, and then Conan slammed back inside him.
The sharp pain of overuse shocked through him. Lam’d gone three rounds in a night and he felt it. It was sublime. Conan leaned in close and their mouths found each other again. The first rough kiss made Lam’s lip bleed anew, and he groaned as Conan started to move.
There was desperation now in the air. Conan had been holding off all evening, and Lam felt it in every rolling slam of his hips. The bed knocked the wall in a vicious rhythm, and Lam dug his nails in to hold on.
Conan’s arms were planted on either side of Lam’s throat, the good arm holding most of the weight as he moved. The other fingers touched his throat as they kissed, and Lam moaned into his mouth.