Chapter Text
Strade has been…off.
Some of it is barely perceptible, the equivalent of rubbing just-woken-up eyes until everything is misaligned then waiting for your vision to readjust. It's a hair's breadth off-center but it's enough for Lawrence to know something's up.
It's mostly little things: he’s less cheerful than usual, not quite grumpy but his attitude is definitely veering towards sour. Then one day he walked past Lawrence in the hall between their bedrooms and left behind a waft of a smell that was actually…pleasant? Slightly floral? And when Law glanced at him walking away, he could see water dripping from the chestnut curls at Strade’s neck, dampening his shirt collar.
Doing some quick math, Lawrence surmised that that was maybe the second time he could recall Strade washing his hair, or possibly washing at all in the entire time Lawrence had been a resident of the house. Odd, but not exactly concerning.
He’s also not physically taking his poor mood out on Lawrence or Ren either, which Ren has assured Law isn't normal, and his tone is far less sarcastic and cruel than usual. He is still sarcastic and cruel sometimes though, sneering when Ren and Lawrence show any sign of bonding.
Mocking them. Calling them cute. Sweet. Pathetic.
Lawrence knows Strade only means one of those words. It doesn't bother him, not in the way Strade hopes it will. He's called himself worse than pathetic. He knows he’s pathetic; the way he constantly tells Strade that he wants him, that he needs him, that they’re family now and nothing Strade could do could ever drive Lawrence away. He says it over and over and over any chance he gets because loves watching Strade act like it amuses and annoys him while visibly preening under the attention.
Plus, he knows Strade only means it because Strade is jealous. He wants their easy camaraderie, wants them to want him more than they want each other. Wants to be the main event, the favorite toy, and is pouting because as far as he thinks, he isn't.
But of course in reality, he is. To both Lawrence and Ren. Lawrence knows Ren would rip the eyes from his head if Strade asked him to. He might hesitate, might apologize for it, but he'd do it. And Lawrence can't promise he wouldn't do the same despite swearing he wouldn't hurt Ren.
If it means keeping Strade, staying by him, Lawrence would burn everything to the goddamned ground. Strade included. Lawrence would be just as fulfilled with Strades ashes in a jar on his bedside table as in his actual bed alive.
Some of the shifts are far more conspicuous. One night he comes banging out of the basement, which shakes the whole house, and barges into Ren's room, where Lawrence was perched on a newly-purchased beanbag in the corner, listening to Ren explain streaming and the different games he watches and plays and the intricacies of each. Lawrence has no idea what he's talking about but he enjoys Ren's company and Ren seems to enjoy knowing more about something than Law, and Law enjoys giving Ren these little moments of superiority. Ren is adorable when he's feeling dominant.
Strade doesn’t say a word, just beckons Ren to him with a finger, and Ren flits over instantly. Lawrence sees the flash of a metal ring in Strade's hand as he settles it around Ren's throat, and Ren's gaze flicks to Lawrence's as the same thought seems to shoot between them: that Lawrence mentioning the injuries caused by Ren's collar to Strade and suggesting he take it off inspired Strade to do what he does best: escalating the situation. Apparently by adding another collar to Ren's thin neck instead of removing the original.
Perhaps it's the one Strade made for Lawrence, the one Strade knew he wouldn't wear but maybe kept anyway. Maybe he’s going to punish Ren for Lawrence’s disobedience, heaping on worse and worse treatment out of sheer spite.
It's Strade taking Lawrence's fingers all over again.
A few minutes pass, the silence only broken by clicking sounds made by Strade fiddling with the collars. Until there's a louder snapping noise and he's stepping back, the larger, heavier collar still in his hand. Ren's hand shakes as he raises it to his throat. His fingers find a far thinner circlet of metal, rounded and featureless and seamless, loose enough for a few fingers to sit between it and his neck. Strade remains silent, just turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Ren looks at Lawrence, tears in his eyes. When Lawrence told Ren about his attempt to talk Strade into removing the collar, back when Strade was laying out his ultimatums, Ren was incredibly touched, knowing how badly it could've gone for Lawrence.
The change in Ren is already noticeable. Though there's no doubt this collar contains the same technology, it must literally feel like a weight off his shoulders. As if saying thank you he dives across the room and throws himself into Lawrence's lap, burying his face in Law's neck and nuzzling there. Lawrence can feel tears on Ren’s cheeks.
The bruises on Ren's neck and collarbones, livid and mottled, are still upsetting to Lawrence. Ren makes no attempt to stop him when Lawrence decides to kiss each and every one better.
That moment with Ren was the closest Lawrence had come to being intimate in a while too. In the weeks since their …first times, Strade has spent most of his time basically ignoring Lawrence and leaving him to his own devices, no doubt thinking he was somehow tormenting him by doing so. Playing his favorite game of giving an ounce of kindness before taking a pound of flesh. Thinking that he finally has Lawrence figured out and pressing at the fragile boundaries of Lawrence's mind, his love, his devotion. His generosity, because Strade knows fine well that Lawrence could take him down with minimal effort. That had initially been a concern; Lawrence is only really able to physically dominate Strade due to the strength built up through his work in the warehouse. Without that, he runs the risk of becoming powerless against him. He can’t have that happen. Not just because he needs to be able to defend himself, but because he couldn’t deal with not having the chance to overpower Strade in bed again. He replays that in his head every day when he goes to bed, uses the mental image of Strade so viscerally furious and beautiful and in the palm of Lawrence’s hand to soothe himself to sleep when his home remedies don't work. So he’s started working out with what little he can: he lifts his bed, he does push-ups and sit-ups. Let Strade think that Law’s losing his strength from disuse. Let him think he’s got it all figured out.
Of course, Strade hasn't really, truly figured anything out. That would require him to properly pay attention, to focus on something outside his own immediate desires, which isn't his strong point. He admitted as much to Lawrence, that he has issues with restraint. Lawrence knows how to exploit that.
The current set up is fine by Lawrence; his fingers and other injuries have healed well thanks to time and Ren's diligent care, and his plants are nearly back to their old selves. Strade had gotten him the humidifier he'd asked for too, and the special lamps for the plants, and he'd let Lawrence hang up the plants that needed special conditions in the rarely-used shower on the bottom floor of the house. He even has has his own electric kettle now so he can make some of his teas in his room (so they don’t “stink the fucking house out again” was Strade’s reasoning.). Another odd behavior, but one Lawrence chose to take as a win. Spending most of his time in his room? Reading in bed, sipping tea, tending his plants? Could be a lot worse.
Lawrence realizes his life really hasn’t changed that much—permanent disfigurements notwithstanding. His new normal is, surprisingly, pretty normal. His new friends ? Are effectively crepuscular, leaning towards nocturnal, so he's awake and active at the same hours as he previously would have been at work, which of course he no longer has to worry about, and it means he can sleep at his usual times. With the sun warming his bones, sweat-sticky with the humidifier misting him.
He is getting antsy for the woods, really wants to check on the contents of his barrels, but he’s loath to bring anything like that up to Strade at the moment in case Strade decides to be in one of his spitefully literal moments and takes him there, only to toss him into a barrel again, this time with one of the animals. Or he wakes up in the basement again, about to lose a foot. Or worse, to end up in a collar like Ren.
Ren, who has taken to coming into Lawrence's room at bedtime like he said he would, just as the sun starts cresting the rooftops. Just to curl up at the foot of his bed, eye's glinting in the low light peeking around the clouds. How long he stays Law has no idea, because Ren's always gone by the time he wakes up, but it's nice to have another heartbeat nearby.
One evening Lawrence was encouraged by Ren to come to the living room and watch tv with him and Strade. It struck him as strange given how the living areas of the house looked completely unused. He’d perched uncomfortably at one side of the couch until Strade had grabbed him and pulled him down to lie with his head in Strade's lap, where they continued to watch the show, something about sharks that Lawrence was too bewildered to pay attention to. His heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his head that he couldn’t hear a word of the dialogue coming from the screen, horribly aware of the correlation between the amount of blood on the screen versus the amount flooding his groin.
Lawrence loves all of Strade, but especially his thighs. They're thick, muscular and strong. When they'd briefly been wrapped around his hips as Lawrence fucked into him and Strade struggled against him, he'd vividly pictured the stria of his muscles. The tension and release of every tendon. He wants to bite into them, through them, into the meaty flesh that he knows would be unbearably delicious. So yeah, Law was more than happy to rest his head there.
The same happened the next night.
Then again the next night.
Then again the night after that. Until it became a near-nightly occurrence whenever Strade wasn't busy in the basement. Because of course Strade was back at work now that he wasn't torturing Lawrence down there. Currently, anyway. Law isn't stupid; he knows he could wake up down in that fetid pit at any time. Back in the barrel. Against the pole, limbs tied or missing altogether.
He shakes his head whenever he thinks about it, as though he could physically shake the thoughts out his head.
Anyway. Every time Lawrence was eventually sent on his way with a "Time for bed, buddy," and a pat on the ass. Like a kid who'd stayed up past his bedtime. Another mark on the list of strange behavior from Strade.
At first he would effectively still ignore Lawrence's presence on the couch, instead staring at the tv with his arms crossed and sometimes just thumbing through his phone, but he always instructed Lawrence to lie down in his lap eventually. Usually Ren was pressed against his arm on the opposite side, or sometimes he pillowed his head on the other thick thigh, ears tickling the top of Lawrence's head.
After a few days, Strade started petting Lawrence’s hair, softly. Almost nervously, like you would an animal you're not sure will purr or bite. The stroking wasn’t strange; he'd buried his hands in Lawrence's hair so many times with such fervor that it was clear he had a thing for it, and Lawrence had never hidden how much he enjoyed it.
But it was how soft his touch was that made Lawrence confused. That was unusual. Usually Strade was rough, not caring when he pulled at a knot or tugged harder than necessary. Like pulling weeds. But then his touch turned tentative. He hesitated when placing his hand down and was careful when he pulled the hair tie out, slow when he ran his fingers through the blonde tresses. When Lawrence glanced up he could still see Strade with his face buried in his phone, but also his forehead creased in concentration, as though being gentle was requiring serious effort on Strades part.
One time when Ren was upstairs busy with his games, Strade put his phone down. Law didn’t even realize until there was more than one hand touching him, one in his hair and the other settled on the dip of his waist. He tried not to freeze, tried not to draw attention to the fact he’d noticed the change in behavior lest the affection be withdrawn, but he couldn’t stop the way his breathing hitched and his stomach twitched when Strade slid that hand under his shirt, trailed up the soft skin of his stomach, stopping just shy of his chest.
Through quickly learned habit and instinct he waited for Strade to say something cutting and snide, for him to make fun of Lawrence for overreacting to the tiniest hint of affection, but. It never came. Chancing a glance out of the corner of his eye, all Lawrence could see was Strade still paying attention to the tv. As if Lawrence wasn’t even there.
It was a small gesture. Should have felt normal and close and…caring.
But Strade is none of those things, evidenced by him standing up so sharply that Law nearly ended up on the floor, eliciting a barking chuckle from Strade as he walked away, slamming the basement door behind him.
Lawrence went to bed very very confused.
Another night, and Lawrence comes down the stairs to find Ren already curled up in Strades lap. No room for Law. Not surprising. Ren clearly has territory issues that don’t just stem from his clear case of Stockholm Syndrome, but his animal nature. Lawrence forgets about that sometimes.
Forgets that despite the tacit peace in the house, there’s still a pecking order, and Ren is way above Lawrence in that order. That the way his body reacts with nauseating jealousy when he sees someone else leeching Strade’s warmth makes him feel ridiculous. He's too old to feel so possessive, has no right to be territorial over territory that isn't his to begin with. No matter how infatuated he is with Strade, no matter how much Strade might reciprocate, Ren will always come first and Law just has to deal with it.
That doesn't mean he's not going to be petulant about it. He doesn't go to the couch that night, instead turning around and creeping back up the stairs, hoping no one noticed his failed attempt at seeking out affection.
Sometimes he still comes to the couch though, when the need to just be in Strade's vicinity wins out. It’s one of those nights where Lawrence has to curl up on his side of the couch because Ren is in Strade's lap first, when Ren stretches and gets up. He's bored, apparently. Wants to go to his room and watch gaming streams apparently. Ok? That's. Fine? Lawrence thinks.
Is too fucking inexperienced and dim to hear the dripping hints in Ren's voice.
As soon as he's out of sight, Strade puts an arm around Lawrence and guides him to lie in his lap. Lawrence burrows in, curls up. Happy.
Then there's a hand on his side again. It slides low, towards his belly button. Then lower, to mold around the soft flesh of his gut. Fingertips find the scar Strade gave him during their first time together, stroke it a few times, nails digging in a little and making it burn. Like Strade's trying to resist opening it again. Resist fulfilling that promise to fucking tear Lawrence apart. Showing restraint.
He wants Strade to stop, to never stop, to reach in and pull the contents out and fuck the wound like he wanted to so badly. Lawrence wants it so badly. Wants it so badly he feels sick, for myriad reasons. Because he shouldn't think like that, it's wrong and fucked up and too horrible a thing for a person to want. He’s always wanted the horrible and wrong things. Like Strade, and he wants to please Strade so badly that he'd let him split him open and sodomise his innards and Strade wouldn't even have to say "please".
They sit like this for a few minutes before Lawrence realizes: Strade's half-hard. That's something of a surprise; it's not like Law's doing anything particularly alluring. And he's never felt like he himself was particularly alluring, so the fact Lawrence doing practically nothing except being here would have this effect on another person is utterly perplexing.
But he's been desperate to taste Strade. To please Strade. To see what he looks like when he falls apart again. That one time wasn’t enough. And Strade said he was going to put his mouth on Lawrence so…maybe that means…
Throwing his usually obsessive commitment to self-preservation to the wind, Lawrence takes a chance, and rolls over in place until he's facing the soft swell of Strade's belly. He'd done the same that night, the night Strade took his virginity. Rubbed his face into the flesh of Strade's stomach and for the first time felt somewhat at peace with his new life.
It had been short-lived peace, and he's pretty sure it was the rest of his actions that night that cost him two fingers regardless of Strade's assertions to the contrary, but he'd be lying if he said he regretted it. The chance to have Strade writhe and rumble below him, furious and beautiful and raw? Not something Law would pass up no matter how many body parts he'd pay with.
Strade's body is so warm. Lawrence still isn't used to contact with humans who are still warm. And it's comfortable, rounded and soft. It's so at odds with who he is as a person, which is vicious and jagged and cold. But none of that puts Lawrence off. He nuzzles closer into the fabric of Strade's shirt, and the hand in his hair never stops petting him even when he expects it to be used to tear him away. The other shifts along with Lawrence and now cups the curve of his hip, hot against his skin. The fingers keep squeezing and releasing, like a twitch. Lawrence likes twitching; he's had his hand — amongst other things — inside still-twitching bodies, and the clench–unclench–clench sensations make his stomach quiver. The idea of Strade twitching in his mouth nearly makes him sob out loud from sheer need. He's so confused because he wants this so so much but he's still so so scared, because this isn't what happens to him. He isn't desired. He isn't allowed to desire.
It never ends well.
But he isn't so confused as to ignore the rush of interest flooding his stomach. The bulge in Strade's pants is growing and with it is the amount of saliva in Law's mouth. He wants it. He wants to feel Strade's dick in his mouth. To feel the weight on his tongue, to taste it. To find out what might make him react similarly to the way Ren did that night, the last time Strade had been in any way intimate with Lawrence.
Keeping his movements slow, he shifts so he can rub his face against the rough khaki fabric, wordlessly showing that he knows what's under there, what it means, that he's interested.
Lawrence is also terrified, but hopefully Strade doesn’t realize that. He presses kisses on it, mouths at the fabric and feels it swell under his lips, breathing hard to make Strade think harder about the warmth of Lawrence's mouth. Strade's breathing gets heavier, rougher. Expectant. Lawrence still really has no idea how to give a decent blowjob or how one should work up to one that hasn't literally been thrust upon you, so he's mostly moving by instinct now.
What's next? Move the clothes. Can't suck a dick with clothes in the way. His hand shakes as he raises it to Strade's belt, his other arm pinned under himself. He strokes the warm worn leather for a second, remembering the lashes and the welts it left in its wake when Strade used it on him. Remembers the hungry, feral look in those honey eyes that night in Law's apartment when Strade had taken his belt off and Lawrence practically had a heart attack at the idea of having sex with this man.
Funny how things change.
Ah. One problem. Lawrence manages to snap Strade's belt buckle open easily enough with one hand, but the angle and the fact Lawrence is still relearning how to do things without his now healed but obviously still missing digits make undoing the buttons and zip of the pants far more difficult than he expected. He makes a frustrated noise, and feels a stab of shame and defeat when Strade shoves his hand out the way to unfasten everything himself.
He leaves actually getting his dick out to Lawrence though. With a trembling hand he reaches for the waistband of black boxer briefs, tugging it down so slowly he's nearly crying in anticipation, he wants this so badly but is so scared of failing Strade. He doesn’t care if he's punished for being bad at giving head, no he's far more worried about just being bad at it in the first place. The idea of not pleasing Strade is just…so unthinkably upsetting.
Strade's dick finally springs out, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. Lawrence feels stupid when his first thought is that it's a lot bigger up close. He's definitely thicker than Ren, and Lawrence's jaw had ached a little after that incident.
He's groomed his pubes a bit too, the thick thatch of hair now short and fairly tidy, though a bit patchy in places. Like it was done by a very unpracticed hand. That takes Lawrence aback. And he's slightly disappointed. He wanted …Strade. Just as he was. Without any pretense or primping. He was always dimly aware that public hair was supposed to be a bad thing when it comes to blow jobs, but it's not a thing he's ever worried about when exploring his previous…partners. He likes nature. He likes natural.
But then the idea that Strade prepared himself for Lawrence, wanted this to happen and did something he normally wouldn't because he thought that perhaps Lawrence would prefer him like this hits him between the eyes, and every other worry goes flying out the window.
Licking his hand, he tentatively circles his fingers around the base and moves them up and down a little, trembling, amazed to be touching an actual living hot pulsing cock that isn't his own for the first time. He hadn't been able to use his hands with Ren. This feels completely different. Dizzy with want and fear and sheer elation, he leans in and licks at the tip like he had before. It seems like a good way to start. If the small sigh Strade lets out is anything to go by, it definitely was.
He sucks kisses into the skin he can reach, marveling at the little red blotches he leaves behind on the flushed flesh. Lividity. Proof of blood flowing below the skin, the blood that's making Strade's dick rock-solid in his grip. Still such a…a novelty. Strade grunts, fingers flexing where they sit on Lawrence's hip, nails digging in again. Lawrence wants more of a reaction. Wants to hear more proof that he's doing the right thing.
Slowly he takes more into his mouth, sucking gently, wrapping his tongue around the head and cradling it. Slow. Taking his time. Determined to savor the moment for as long as possible. It tastes remarkably clean given Strade's generally lax attitude towards personal hygiene. Just skin with the slight musk of sweat. Slightly salty. Fucking delicious. He lets the saliva flow from the corner of his mouth. Drooling and soaking Strade's pants. Using it to make the movements of his hand easy and slick.
He's working his way down, still working his hand, just reminding himself to be careful of his teeth as they graze skin slightly, when Strade says, "Don't bite me - ngh - too hard," in a shaky, husky voice.
Too hard.
That makes Lawrence's brain spin off its fucking hinges. He'd clocked Strades sexual sadism in the first few minutes of the time they spent in Lawrence's apartment, but masochism hadn't been on his radar. But apparently Strade likes his own pleasure spiked with a little pain. Lawrence makes a mental note to see how far he can push the theory.
Thinking about all the ways he wants to hurt Strade, Lawrence moans, loud and hard, making Strade gasp and buck into his mouth as the vibrations shoot through him. Closing his jaw a bit, he pulls his head back, raking his teeth up Strade's dick as he goes, making Strade jerk and swear in German. Then tell Lawrence to do it again.
Lawrence is only too happy to oblige. Slowly he sinks his teeth into the firm flesh, humming as he does so. Strade huffs a heavy breath and swears and mumbles an endearment, in German again before the hand on Lawrences hip moves.
There's a moment of quick fumbling and then Strade's hand is under Law's sweatpants and wrapped around his cock, which is rock hard but completely unnoticed by Lawrence in favor of concentrating on the blow job. The sudden contact makes him squeak, biting down a little harder in shock, and for a moment the air is just full of whines and shocked groans until they settle into an impression of a rhythm. The hand that Strade had carded through his hair now cradles the back of Lawrence's head, fingers still threaded in, holding on. Not really pressing him down onto Strade's dick but definitely restricting his ability to pull back much. Law doesn't mind; it actually makes it easier to keep in his mouth this time, given his hand keeps cramping from barely being used for weeks.
They fall into a rhythm; sucking, licking, jerking in perfect sync. Like they were built to do this to each other. Their noises are loud and unabashed—something else for Lawrence to get used to. In his cramped little apartment he got used to keeping people quiet lest his neighbors overhear. Out in the woods, part of the whole appeal was the near silence. These pornographic sounds feel deafening by comparison.
And the noises Strade is finally making? Lawrence wishes he had his phone so he could record them to keep forever. Husky, raspy panting, and the occasional growl that turns into a whine at the end when Lawrence sucks particularly hard. Lawrence can't quite believe it's him that's coaxing them from Strade. He glances upward as best he can, expecting to see Strade with his head tipped back, eyes closed. Perfect for pretending Lawrence is someone else, because he still can't quite believe Strade wants this from him. That he's enjoying something Lawrence is doing to him.
His eyes definitely are not closed. He's panting. And staring at Lawrence. The eye contact is so intense Lawrence feels like he's about to spontaneously combust. He whines, embarrassed at being watched while so debauched. Strade is flushed red from his hairline to his chest, mouth open and wet and his tongue just visible between his teeth. Lawrence wants to suck it, bite it off.
"Uh - uhf… mein lieber gott… " Strade grits out, eyes squeezing shut, forehead beading with sweat. "I'm going to sink my fucking teeth into you someday. Going to - uh! Going to fucking ruin you…"
The words sink into Lawrence like molten tar, making him groan as Strade quickens his strokes. The noises they're making are grotesque, so fleshy and raw and human. Lawrence has never heard anything like it, never thought he would. Especially not mutually with another person actually participating.
He drags his teeth over the edge of the head of Strade's dick, and with a shocked wheeze and a grunted "Scheisse!", the grip on his hair tightens so hard he's sure he'll lose a handful, and then his mouth is full. It's no more pleasant a sensation than the last time, but the taste and texture are remarkably more bearable. Less gamey, less thick and unctuous. His throat closes over before he can tell himself to just relax and swallow. Shit shit. He panics, no idea if he's going to manage to swallow or if he's going to splutter it everywhere.
He's barely managed to swallow a mouthful before he's being pulled back by his hair, Strade's cock falling from his mouth before he has a chance to lick it clean, hand smearing the last few pumps of come the length of it. He makes a confused sound, mouth still thick with sticky fluid. Strade stares down at him again, sweat dripping from his face, eyes transfixed at the sliver of come running from the corner of Lawrence's mouth as Strade keeps moving his fist over Lawrence's dick. Lawrence is so close but his brain won't let him come, is waiting so for the moment that Strade rips his orgasm away from him. It's a delicious precipice, horrible in its certainty. Knowing that Strade can be as selfish as he is generous, and ultimately only cares that he gets what he wants, Law's already filing the look on his face, the redness of his cheeks, the way he tastes away for finishing himself off later.
Then Strade is letting out a long hard heavy breath and Lawrence is being hauled upwards by his hair so Strade can crash their mouths together. The moan he breathes into Lawrence's mouth sounds legitimately fragile, wobbling slightly, his tongue invading and licking his own come from Lawrence's taste buds, and Law just goes slack in Strade's grip as his climax hits him. All he can do is groan, reaching up to bury his hand in Strade's sweaty curls, spit and come and all. It's all teeth and animal instinct, almost more biting than kissing, but Lawrence never wants to stop. Sharing Strades breath like this, his orgasm like this, is better than any tea Lawrence could ever brew.
Pulling Law's head away again, ignoring the way he whines, Strade raises his shaking, semen-soaked hand between their faces, and their eyes remain locked as they both work to lick it clean.
"I told you you tasted good, didn't I, buddy?" Strade says, eyes lidded, grin lazy and sated. Lawrence can't help but agree.
Neither see the flash of red darting around the doorway.