Chapter 3 Slaughter 28 #6
“Fuck,” Conan said when they broke apart to breathe, his hips still rutting into Lam. They barely got a full breath before Lam was pulling him back in, urging him on and on and on to ruin.
There was hot wetness between them, blood from Conan’s chest, and Lam snuck a hand between them to touch it, to spread it across his skin and then bring messy fingers up to where they were kissing.
This time, he put his fingers into Conan’s mouth, and the man hungrily licked them clean.
When he was finished, Conan pushed himself up, muscles straining, breath punching out of him as his hips kicked into a harder fuck. The fingers at Lam’s neck teased the skin, and Lam moaned as he threw his head back.
“Do it,” he demanded on a hiccuping breath.
Conan growled, and the hand curled softly around Lam’s throat. It didn’t press down, didn’t constrict his breathing.
He needed more. Needed Conan to let go of the rules that other people played by.
Lam could tell he was used to being gentle with all of that strength, but Lam didn’t want gentle.
He wanted to edge up to the cliff of destruction and look over.
Wanted the thrill of not knowing whether either of them were going to tip over into something they couldn’t take back.
“Do it,” Lam snarled, tensing his thighs over Conan’s shoulder, his nails dragging in savage lines across Conan’s back. “Do it, and fuck me.”
That seemed to be the last thing he needed. Conan’s eyes burned into his, then that hand was gripping hard around Lam’s throat, choking him. He bore down on Lam, pinning him to the bed as his cock kept going.
It felt like Conan’s hand was around his heart, his lungs, tearing into him, ruining him.
Then he felt a hot drip hit his chest.
Blood.
The cuts on Conan’s chest were bleeding more now with the hard beat of his pulse.
Lam heard himself make a choking sound of want, and Conan shifted to support himself on just his wide spread knees.
He dragged his free hand through the blood on his own chest, and then shoved those fingers into Lam’s mouth.
It was enough to send Lam careening over into a breathless orgasm. All that pressure and pleasure twisted itself through him and then exploded outward.
He came in a dizzying crush, high from the lack of air, the taste of blood on his tongue, and the bright, wicked look in Conan’s eyes as he held him down and fucked him. It was blinding, and he heard himself choke as his vision dropped out and his come painted the space between them.
Conan was right behind him, slamming in deep, pulling the pressure off Lam’s throat just enough for him to breathe and feel Conan’s cock kicking inside him. The come burned, and Lam moaned pathetically, lost in it.
“Jesus Christ,” Conan said roughly as he finished. He had enough presence to pull out and collapse beside Lam instead of on him, which Lam was grateful for. He needed air, both in his lungs and on his overheated skin.
For a second, the room was silent.
“I thought–” Lam started and then broke off into a cough, his throat spasming.
“Shit, hold on,” Conan said. He got up out of the bed and went to the bathroom. Lam heard the tap turn on and then Conan was back at the bed with the cup Lam used for mouthwash.
Conan helped him sit up, and then gently tilted the cup to his mouth. Lam drank the water, soothing his aching throat.
“Sorry, what was that?” Conan asked, cheeky.
Lam sipped until he could raise his arm and hold the cup himself. “I was just–” He swallowed, and fuck his throat hurt, “I was going to make a joke about being demoted to Jesus Christ.”
Conan stared at him blankly for a second, and then a grin split his mouth.
“You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart,” he said. The drawl was back, something just on the tip of Southern. Most of his speech didn’t have it, like he’d hidden it away. Lam liked hearing it now, as if he was being given a secret.
“Not too shabby yourself.” Lam needed lozenges. There were some in his first aid kit.
But they should both go back to the bathroom anyway. He looked between the two of them. There was blood on Conan’s thighs, chest and face, and Lam was covered in that plus his own come. The bandage on Conan’s shoulder was a deep red now.
“Need to redo your stitches,” Lam said.
Conan looked and then nodded. “I think I’ll take the pain management this time.”
Lam laughed, and it came out as more of a cough. He could use some himself before retiring for the night. The pain was fun in the moment, but the throbbing awareness would keep him up.
“Alright,” he said, and gave Conan a soft smile. He was feeling unaccountably fond.
Then Conan was leaning in, giving him a careful, closed-mouth kiss.
“Good?” Conan asked when he pulled back.
Lam wanted him to lean in again. “Yeah,” Lam said, with a strange new flutter in his stomach, “good.”
***
“It’s starting to snow,” Lam said. It was over an hour later in the small morning hours. Lam was sitting up against this pile of pillows in bed, Conan’s head in his lap. His eyes had drifted to the far window, and he could see in the moonlight the beginning drifts of snow.
Conan groaned, turning his head further into Lam’s hand that was carding through his hair. “Thanks for not leaving me out in the snow.”
“Like a sad puppy in a cardboard box?” Lam joked, amused at the image. His gaze drifted down to Conan’s face, his eyes were big and dark.
He chuckled. “Something like that.”
They were both freshly re-showered, and Conan was re-stitched and bandaged with a heavy dose of lidocaine for the shoulder.
Lam’s fingers traced from his temple to his brows and down the bristly plane of his cheek. His unmarked cheek. He’d taken a lot of Lam’s knife tonight, but not like that. Not a strike.
Lam’s thoughts wandered further that direction, and his eyes drifted back to the window.
He should already be asleep, but he was spooling the time out.
They’d gotten back into bed again after the sheets had been changed, but Lam hadn’t wanted to lie down.
Hadn’t wanted to sleep just yet. He’d been thinking of the morning, of the time when Conan would leave.
Now he was thinking, maybe…?
“If I wanted to…” Lam started slowly, turning the thought over in his head. The more he did though, the more he wanted it. It was interesting, this desire. Even after everything they’d done tonight to sate it, there was still undredged depths.
“Yes?” Conan prompted when he failed to continue.
Lam’s fingers traced the shape of Conan’s mouth, then jaw, and down to his neck. There was the tiniest of knicks there from earlier under the bridge. A pinprick really, but his fingers found the mark.
“If I wanted to, could I keep you?” Lam asked, putting this new desire on the table. He’d been more honest these last few hours than he’d been in collective years. It was like taking a full breath of air after being suffocated. He wanted more.
“I haven’t struck out?” Conan asked.
Lam could hear the smile in his voice. “No.”
Conan made a rumbling sound of pleasure. Then, “Do you like eggs?”
“Eggs?” Lam asked, confused at the non-sequitor.
“I make a mean egg scramble,” Conan said.
Oh. Breakfast. That warmed Lam all the way down.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lam said, but there was a smile in his own voice too. He took another step forward. “Tomorrow we’ll have to get you new clothes, I ruined your jacket.”
“And my shirt,” Conan added.
Lam’s fingers drew a line across Conan’s throat, the place where he’d ended so many men’s lives. For once, he felt no desire for it. Instead, his thoughts were preoccupied with shopping, with the places he could take Conan, the things he could put him in.
“Yes,” Lam said softly, already beginning to compile a list.
“I can hear you thinking.” Conan said. His hand came up and caught Lam’s own, lifting it off his throat. A moment later it was turned and Conan kissed the backside of his hand.
There were those butterfly feelings again. Strange.
“Going to dress me up?” Conan asked. “Sounds serious.”
“It could be,” Lam admitted. “What do you think?”
Conan pushed up from his recline, and Lam turned to look at him. One of Conan’s hands came up and gently wrapped around Lam’s throat, pressing over the sore, bruised skin. His thumb rubbed over the tenderness.
“I think I’d like to see where this goes, and not just for the sake of a warm bed.” Conan’s face was serious. They’d known each other for just a few hours, but Lam felt like he could trust it.
“Then stay,” Lam said.
The fingers around his neck squeezed a little, just enough for a zip of pleasure to go down Lam's spine.
Then Conan was leaning in and kissing him, soft.
In the morning Conan made eggs, and it was the best breakfast Lam had eaten in years.