Sharp Anger, Sharp Need

It took a lot to get Buck Wilmington really angry; the deep down, roil in your guts, who the hell do you think you are you sonuvabitch, wait till I get my hands on you kind of angry. The sort of angry that couldn't be let go, that no matter how much he tried not to, insisted on some kind of answer. So, having been pushed to that level of angry, he sat, waiting, needing to get his hands on the bastard who caused it.

It was slow and irritating, this waiting; sitting in the shadows of the stairwell, unmoving except for the whetstone and knife in his hands. He wanted it sharp and clean, he had a point to make with this blade. He knew that sooner or later, Chris Larabee would climb the stairs and Buck could let his anger loose.

When the knife was sharp, Buck wiped it clean with his bandanna and slid it back into the sheath at his belt. The leather thongs he would need were coiled loosely in his hand: soft, pliable and strong. The small tin was ready in his pocket.

The gloom in the stairwell deepened as night fell, and still he waited. Didn't matter how long it took, he'd keep to his shadows, sitting in ambush.

It was fully dark by the time he heard the jingle of familiar spurs on the stairs. A figure darker than the stairwell loomed in front of him and he stayed deathly still in the shadows, not wanting to alert Chris to his presence. As soon as his prey had passed him and turned down the hall, Buck moved, launching himself, catching Chris with his left arm around his neck and his right hand halting Chris' instinctive move to his gun.

"You ain't gonna need that, boy," he rasped into Chris' ear as he pushed the gun firmly back into its holster. A long moment passed before Chris relaxed and Buck let go his grip on both hand and neck. "Now, you just go right on into that room of yours. I'm gonna be right behind you here."

Nodding, Chris moved on down the hallway to the last door. "Mind if I get out my key?" he asked quietly.

"Do it carefully. Don't know when I might mistake the wrong move and have to kill you," Buck warned through clenched teeth. Tit for tat, his ma had called it. A blade for me today, one for you tonight. Bastard forgot when to stop, forgot that Buck wasn't scared of him, forgot who would fight back when he was pushed too far.

"Alright." Chris shifted his right hand to reach into his pocket, slowly came out with a key, and unlocked the door. Buck pushed him inside and slammed the door behind them.

Shoving him into the middle of the room, Buck pulled out his knife. "Strip down, Chris, and do it fast."

Chris turned and glared at him, but didn't argue, simply unbuckled his gun-belt, letting it fall to the floor with a thump, and shed his clothes, his eyes not leaving the knife gleaming in Buck's hand. When Chris was done, he stood in a pool of clothing, hands tightly fisted at his sides, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, half-hard cock showing his understanding of what was to happen.

"Just beautiful, boy. Now, don't you fight none while I get you ready for our talk." Chris nodded.

Taking a moment, he walked around Chris, trailing the point of his blade over Chris' skin, not marking him this time, but warning him that it was a very real possibility. Buck was damn near sure he could hear Chris' heart pounding, and it was right that Chris be afraid of him.

Uncoiling the straps, he took Chris' right hand and looped one around his wrist and did the same on the left. He pulled him to the bed with the straps, shoved him to the middle and tied both wrists to the bed-head so he was facing the wall. Chris didn't resist, but his arms were held out straight and his muscles tense. Buck nodded. This was going fine. Just fine. The last two straps went on Chris' ankles, just long enough to let him kneel, but not enough to allow more movement than that.

With Chris secure, Buck saw to his own clothing. He undressed more slowly than his captive had, drawing out the wait, folding his clothes carefully, taking a moment to lock the door. Standing there, he stared at Chris, the man's tension palpable, his short harsh breaths the only sound in the room. Buck's anger twisted inside him, demanding release. He nodded, then moved forward, his knife held loosely in his hand.

On his way back to the bed, he picked up the small tin he had brought, opened it and jammed his fingers into the goo, digging it all out and into his hand.

Chris' head shot up as the bed creaked under Buck's weight, but he made no sound. Buck caught his breath at the sight in front of him. Chris' ass was round and tight, his back slick with nervous perspiration, his muscles in high relief from his tension.

Taking a deep breath and a firmer grip on the haft of the knife, Buck drove his gooey fingers deep into Chris' body, preparing the way, but not playing at any sort of gentleness. He shifted one hand to grasp Chris on the hip, holding tight enough to bruise, laid his blade against Chris' neck with the other, and drove his cock in deep, hard, ignoring the hiss of pain.

Hands clenched tight on the bed-head, Chris' body was taut, resisting, and Buck drove into him over and over, feeling the burn on his cock, hearing Chris' grunts at each thrust.

Harder and harder he fucked Chris, sweat dripping from his nose onto Chris' back, his fingers digging into Chris' hip and shoulder as he tightened his grip. There would be marks left, and he didn't care. On and on, not for pleasure, but for his anger, for Chris' need and his own, he kept up the pounding.

Buck didn't need the knife to master Chris; he needed it to focus his anger. The control it took to let his body surge, all the while holding Chris' life on that finely honed edge gave witness to the depth of his anger, to how close he was to letting himself give over to the darkness within.

His lips pulled back in a feral grin as he felt the trembling start in Chris' body. He hated pushing so hard, hated the need in Chris that demanded it, hated being driven to this kind of anger, but in a twisted way, he loved it, loved being able to let loose that anger and fuck Chris this way, pushing both of them past the edge of need.

Chris' trembling heightened as his body shuddered and slumped, and Buck stopped moving, buried deep inside him. Snaking one arm around Chris' waist, he braced him as he reached quickly to slash the straps at hand and foot, then stabbed the knife into the table by the bed. Still holding on, Buck eased them both to the bed on their sides, holding Chris spooned to his chest.

"Buck -- I ... I'm sorry," Chris breathed softly.

Quick as that, Buck's anger left him. Surprised him how it could build so high, but that single word, so seldom offered, could wash it all away. Chris was shaking and for several moments the only other movement was Buck's gentle caress of Chris' hair and face, barely touching, simply reassuring. In time, Chris stilled.

"You with me here, stud?" Buck whispered in Chris' ear.

A nod against his cheek and a soft exhalation. "Yeah." Gently, Buck started to move, slow, easy thrusts accompanied by touches on as much of Chris' body as he could reach. Thighs, chest, arms, cock were all brushed by his fingers until Chris began to move to meet him, pushing back, grunting softly. It all built higher and higher until Buck was feeling it all, knowing what Chris felt, the roil in his own gut that was no longer anger but lust and maybe that other l-word, and he moved and stroked and it was time to hold Chris' cock and pull and feel, and then it was too much and he exploded, noises finding their way out through his clenched teeth, the ache in his balls as he pumped everything he was into Chris, and when he was done, he still moved, still pulled on Chris, needing more and finally, finally Chris tensed again, but this was good tension and his hips jerked as he came hard, covering Buck's hand and the bed with his stuff.

Hot and sweaty, they lay together, Buck's cock still deep in Chris where it belonged, and they breathed, long, harsh breaths as trembling ceased and hearts slowed toward normal.

"Chris?" Barely a whisper.

"Yeah." No louder.

"Have I made my point?" Buck eyed his knife, the blade glinting in the moonlight.

Moments passed. "Yeah." Chris' voice trailed away and Buck waited for more, needing more to be sure. "It's just ... it hurts ... so damn much." That was it.

"I know." He hugged Chris tighter, holding on for both of them. But there was one more thing Chris needed to know. "You can't stop people from asking. And you can't stop me from answering." Chris was shaking again, and Buck didn't have to look to know it was from crying silently. "But you gotta know how much it hurts me not to think about them. To pretend they were never here. They were yours, but I loved 'em damn near as much as you did."

Chris nodded. "I know." Painful and beautiful at the same time, Buck ached for his friend, for the hurt that drove Chris to behave as he did, for the pain he had to inflict to help Chris find his center again, if only for a while.

"Fine, then." Buck nestled his head against the pillows and Chris, reaching down to grab the blanket and pull it up over them both.

Now they could rest. Everything would be right for tonight, nothing would be said come morning, and the best of it was the feel of the strong body tight against his chest and still surrounding his cock. It was without a doubt his favorite way to sleep, buried deep in Chris Larabee.