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Repression makes a man creative. Hungry in ways other men would balk at, the mother of obscure and warped desires. Not that voyeur has the rights to condemn, he's simply familiar with more than most.
It took along time for him to be okay with the sight of blood again. His own especially. He's always been hot blooded, it must run constantly boiling and viscous through his veins. Red like the light in his developing room.
How does one sleep well when the image of Zep's head burst open like a grape waited just behind his eyelids? Or Lawrence hacking away at his own leg in a feral furor? The click-whirr of his camera capturing the moments before his life changed forever. It stirs and churns the hysterical thoughts in the back of his mind of lovers meeting through the lens of a camera, fingers soaked in developing solution hanging candid photos. Sordid habits and clandestine meetings.
The war of wanting and resenting the man at the same time as he watched him sip his silly little expensive coffee. Imagining Lawrence between his legs, just as he is now.
He often wonders if Lawrence sees his own face the moment he pulled the trigger when he closes his eyes. Adam takes a deep breath and tries to focus as Lawrence slides a towel beneath his thighs.
One can understand the old belief that taking photos would steal your soul, what if each one stole it bit by bit? How many photos of Lawrence had he taken for his own gain? His own sin and now Lawrence is eating the rot out of him, cleaning him out with a clinical touch.
Every cycle of the moon he bleeds, a man with little money, or much else to his name. He shed his old name like a snake, swallowed his pride and walked out of his family a new man. Sure, binding his chest was impractical but he was living off scraps in the first place. Lawrence could get him testosterone now, but Adam feels he has already taken so much charity from the man, as much as the offer appeals to him. Maybe one day he'll accept kindness without the trepidation of a once abused shelter dog, shying away from every kind touch.
The hickies and bites on his pallid stomach and thighs are a dark red, soon to darken into a near black. Some stretch crookedly over his sharp hipbones where the skin was so much thinner.
Lawrence's fingers and tongue were just like him - clever and quick.
All of his emotions are heightened; that familiar thrum of annoyance and anxiety. Red is anger- they say 'seeing red' for a reason. Red is blood, anger, loss, life. Red like the walls inside and outside his shit-hole apartment. Pleasure too.
Maybe he wasn't ready, even after he insisted with a few flippant "It's fine." and a few "Don't worry about it." sprinkled in. Being in a bathroom hadn't changed his bullshitting tendency.
Running his hands through his perfect golden hair, scratching his scalp gently despite every cell in his body screaming at him to pull on it. Lawrence looks picture perfect, even more so than usual, for a man who lived like he was on camera 24/7. Effortless and yet a little clumsy in a charming way, the middle-aged dad fumbling around type way.
If that said anything about his own proclivities, well...
Death makes people do unfair things, wanting to live even when you know you're going to die is unfair. Well, the game had been rigged against him since the start and wasn't that the most unfair? It changes you - for better or worse.
He'd always had an intimate knowledge of just how dark old blood got. Now he knew the particular thud of a blade hitting bone after effortlessly sliding through flesh, too. This is supposed to be therapeutic, but he's unsure how many therapists would agree with therapy sex as a method. Less so when it involved his lover face first in his menstrual blood, coating his tongue and teeth like a wolf after a kill.
The shock of red staining his soft white thighs, like blood in the snow is almost nauseating. Still thick and rich. The smell hung heavy and pungent in the air. Lawrence eagerly pawing at his supple skin, voice reverent as he reminded him to breathe. For once in his life he's no longer transient, he's anchored here. The reminder that they can stop anytime and come back to this, kisses him softly to top it off.
He'll always be in a bathroom somewhere and that bathroom will be filled with blood. They both are here now and Lawrence isn't leaving him.
Lawrence leans in and swipes his tongue through Adam's folds with very little hesitancy. His hands slipping around to hold Adam still by his thighs, sliding around to squeeze his ass. He's practically kissing his vulva, lips tinted red like gaudy lipstick. His thick, steady fingers part him open so he can kiss deeper. Reach as deep into his hot center as possible.
Adam breathes in raggedly as his finger dig into Lawrence's soft, well styled hair. Tugging softly in encouragement. It got him a firm lick from bottom to top, lips pursing and sucking the tip of his swollen cock. Tongue eagerly coaxing it from its hood, swirling around it while the younger man writhed beneath him.
"Don't... stop. Please!" He groans, ashamed at his neediness. "Fuck me!" his breath rattles his thin rib cage, trapped birds fluttering. He was just so sensitive. He didn't know what it was about the turning of the moon that made the advent of dull ache and sweet pleasure congregate just so between his thighs. So he hides his face in the cradle between his shoulder, trying to muffle his pleas. Lawrence drinks him in and swallows.
Lawrence was benevolent despite the pleasure he seemingly took in making Adam beg. It made the thing inside him stir, a creature shuddering in anticipation. His thighs are trembling as he whispers "Please." over and over. Lawrence's tongue was hot as a brand and thick inside his cunt.
Beautiful calm blue eyes, depth-less and sparkling like the ocean in summer. It unmoored him, sends him tumbling into the depths again and he treads water. Lawrence won't let him drown. There was patience and understanding in them.
He almost laughs hysterically at the thought that Lawrence was eating a part of him. Taking it into his body. The remnants tacky and black. If he took a photo of this moment it would probably look like a crime scene.
He pulls Lawrence up and kisses his bloody lips. He's beautiful smeared in it, a macabre self-portrait of their shared trauma. The abyss yawning between them is bloody, warm as the apex between his thighs.
If Lawrence had cum untouched in his nice slacks, well... that was another thing that would never leave the bathroom.