"There's a thought to keep in mind," Conor murmured, passing the knife to his other hand, just to see what would happen. That wasn't going to work, he didn't have nearly as much control. So back it went.
He hissed when he felt Byron's teeth cut into his fingers, but said nothing. This hardly seemed the time to quibble, after all. He shifted his hips as Byron moved his legs, leaning over to the other side of his torso. There weren't nearly enough marks there, apart from the one that had gotten too close to his heart. Conor fought the urge to poke at that one as well, but that might very well take this in a direction he really wouldn't like.
It was hard to carve round edges with a straight blade, but he gave it his best effort, and even if it looked a little ragged, it wasn't like he was being graded on artistry. Drops of blood snaked away from the cuts, some of them he let fall where they may, some he used in a more decorative manner. "You look like a Jackson Pollock painting," he huffed, amused.