“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 bloodon 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, andfuckhis 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.”
