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.
“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 spreadit 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.
