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The air in the apartment was filled with the metallic tang of blood, and the low buzz of the air conditioner. His gaze was drawn to the figure in the centre of the room, the source of the coppery scent. Bro.
He was the undeniable focal point of the room, slumped back in his computer chair. A gash on his arm, deliberately cut deep and precise. It wept a steady, dark crimson. The flow was a steady thing as Bro would tense his fist. The viscous liquid all collecting into a glass bowl held in his lap.
He was to be the patron saint, the source and simultaneously the overseer of this little fucked up passion play.
Dave was on his knees on the cold hardwood, trying to get a grip. Metaphorically, of course.
His heart was a frantic flutter beating against his chest. A nervous tempo that felt completely out of sync with the stillness in the room.
This was the line, wasn't it? The kind of thing you didn’t just cross over one day, it was kind you blew past due enough Freudian slips to fill a psychology textbook. He could almost hear the pages flipping in the back of his mind.
Dirk knelt to the side of him, his mirror image of posture. However, worlds apart in presence. He was calm, always so fucking calm. His expression was completely concentrated, jaw set tight. It was a practiced composure, since every part of him seemed feverishly focused on the slow roll of the crimson. He watched the bowl fill with a growing interest, eyebrows raising.
Before he slowly turned his head towards Dave.
“Ready?” Dirk murmured, voice cutting through the haze of Dave’s steadily growing anxiety.
Dave gave a jerky nod, not fully trusting his voice.
Bro then shifted, the leather of his chair groaning against the movement. He extended the bowl out to Dirk. Almost a fucked-up offering, a sacrament of blood. Just without the stale crackers for the body.
Dirk reached out, hand steady as he dipped his hand into the warm, viscous liquid. He brought his hand to his face, inhaling the smell of copper, a flicker of something satisfied in his eyes. Then he looked at Dave again, cocking his head silently towards the bowl.
It was his go.
Dave’s own hand trembled as he mimicked Dirk. The blood was even warmer he expected, almost burning on the skin. It clung in thick rivulets to his fingers, both thick and slick as he moved his fingers against each other. The scent though, it was overwhelming up close. Metallic, with a hint of cloying sweetness. It was impossibly intimate. Dave felt a dizzying wave of vertigo, chest tightening as his vision pinpointed on the feverish feeling the blood, not even his own, was sending coursing through his body.
Dirk moved first, turning on his knees and closing the small distance between himself and Dave. He cupped Dave’s face with his bloody hand, his thumb smearing a crimson streak across a cheekbone. The touch itself was electric. The heat of the blood. The scent, even more consuming so close to his nose. He flinched, sending a shiver through his body that he couldn’t control.
“Easy,” Dirk breathed, his voice right next to Dave’s ear as he leant in closer.
Dirk leaned in. Dave knew what was coming. He kissed the smear on Dave’s cheek, leaving an imprint of his lips in the wet smear. Dirk lingered there. A small inaudible inhale. Dave could also feel the faint vibration of a satisfied hum deep in Dirk’s chest.
Dirk was tasting it. Tasting them both, the mix of them. The thought sent of a rush of something hot, and simultaneously shameful through Dave. His dick, the traitor that it was, gave a hopeful little twitch.
Dave was frozen. Until Dirk’s other hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in closer. Their mouths found each other, and it was nothing like Dave had ever imagined. It wasn’t chaste or hesitant. The kiss was deep, flavoured with the sharp coppery-ness of Bro’s blood. Dirk’s tongue swept against Dave’s, and he could taste the metal.
He kissed back. He couldn’t not. His reciprocation a messy, desperate thing. He was drowning in it, the scent, the taste, and the sheer, hedonistic wrongness. His hands, slick with blood, came up to grip at Dirk’s shoulders. Smearing red across the black fabric of his shirt.
Dirk broke the kiss, panting slightly. His eyes were hazy. He looked beautiful.
“More,” he breathed, voice husky and clearly just as affected as Dave was.
Dirk reached back into the bowl, now situated on the floor near them. He coated his palms and fingers. Before reaching over and taking Dave’s wrist and dunking his hand into the warm pool until his hand was dripping. Repeating with Dave’s other hand, as Dave watched. Jaw a little slack, hot breaths puffing from parted lips.
Shirts were discarded, fabric ripped off in a desperate rush.
Then Dirk began to paint.
He traced the lines of Dave’s collarbones, deft fingers painted swirling patterns on his chest. Smearing the blood over his nipples until they pebbled.
It wasn’t cold, the heat of the blood seeping into his skin, causing a small gasping sound to be ripped from Dave. However, it was like flipping a switch.
Dave wasn’t passive anymore.
The initial shock was giving way to an intoxicating arousal.
He followed Dirk’s lead, his own bloody hands exploring Dirk’s torso. Feeling the lean muscle, and sharp angles of Dirk’s chest. Dave painted his chest, his stomach and the lines of his hips that peaked above his jeans. Dave could feel Dirk’s muscles tense, tightening under his touch, he could hear Dirk’s breath hitch when his thumb brushed over a particularly sensitive spot.
The low light of the apartment caught the wet mess painting their skin. It glistened red, shifting various hues of cherry red, crimson and rust as cooled and dried, before being refreshed anew, mixing the brighter shades back into the abstract smear.
“Come here,” he gasped, pulling Dave into his lap.
The movement was clumsy. Dave ended up straddling Dirk’s thighs, knees pressed to the floor either side of his legs. Their chests pressed together and Dave pressed forward for another kiss. The blood acted as a lubricant, their skin sliding together in a sticky friction. Every shift, every gasp for air, caused their chests to glide together, smearing once painted patterns into streaks of gore.
Dirk’s hands were on Dave’s back, smearing blood down his spine and leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Dave buried his face in the crook of Dirk’s neck, taking in the scent of his skin mixed with the cloying smell of the blood. It was an aphrodisiac for his already burning arousal, more potent than anything he could have ever imagined.
His hips rocked forward instinctively, a small, experimental grind.
The friction was perfect, but it wasn't enough. The barrier of their jeans was almost an insult.
Dirk seemed to share that sentiment.
With a grunt of impatience, he fumbled with the button of Dave’s jeans, bloody fingers making the task difficult. Dave helped, his own hands shaking as he shoved the denim down his hips, not bothering with the button. Dirk did the same, kicking his own pants away, boxers and all.
The moment their cock touched, guided by a blood-soaked hand, it was like a bolt of electricity struck through them both. The warm, wet glide was far more intense than the friction beneath the denim had been. Dave gasped, breath hitching as it came out, his head lolling back as Dirk’s hand slid to his hips, gripping tightly. Pulling them both into a proper desperate rhythm.
The grinding began, skin of blood slick skin. It was a dirty desperate frot. Dave was clawing at Dirk’s back, his bloody fingers leaving streaks down his back and before long, Dirk was kissing him again. His teeth scraping Dave’s lip. It drew a small bead of his own blood to the surface. Dirk didn’t hesitate, licking it away, adding another flavour of blood into his mouth. A groan coming from Dirk as he savoured that mix.
The sounds were desperately obscene. The wet, slick sound of their bodies sliding together, the panting breaths, the low moans and sharp gasps. But through it all, someone was still there very much watching. Dave risked a glance at him.
Bro hadn’t moved. The bowl was still on the floor beside his chair, utterly forgotten. His injured arm was rested on the arm rest, now only bleeding sluggishly as it began to finally clot. His other hand though, was in his lap. His palm pressed down, and he could see the bulge beneath his jeans. Bro was getting off on this. On them. By watching the utter spectacle of his own blood being used as lubricant for his blood’s slip n’ slide grind session.
The realisation was the final straw for Dave. It was a flurrying mix of validation, mortification and arousal he had ever felt. In a way, it was the most fulfilling praise he’s ever gotten from Bro in his life. Possibly, the only praise.
His orgasm built fast, a wave of heat and growing pressure gathering in his stomach. He broke the kiss, his head lolling back as he panted for air, a whimper coming from him.
“Dirk, I’m—“ Dave couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“I know,” Dirk grunted, the rhythm of his own hips becoming erratic. “Me too. Look at me, Dave”
Dave forced his eyes to open, meeting Dirk’s eyes. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. Just the bloody, sweaty, desperate knot of their limbs and need. Dirk gripped Dave’s hips tighter, slamming him down against him one last time as Dirk rutted up. Dave broke.
His climax tore through him with a force. He cried out, his voice a strangled, broken thing as he came hard. The stripes of white painting their already messy stomachs. The pleasure coursing through him was so intense, it was almost painful. A complete white-hot flash.
Dirk followed him over that edge a second later, his body arching against Dave as he let out a sudden higher moan. His own release mingling in the warm, slick mess. For a long moment, they just stayed there, slumped against each other. Between the panting and trembling, the blood was starting to cool on their skin, becoming sticky and tacky. The air around them smelled of sex, sweat and that ever-presence copper.
Slowly, almost carefully, they detangled themselves. Dave looked down at the mess between them. Their skin was now a drying canvas of smeared reds and drying browns. But now marbled with the pearly white evidence of their releases, mixing in with what was left of the fresh blood.
Dirk’s chest was heaving, his breath coming in pants as he slumped forward against Dave’s shoulder. Dave could feel the weight of Dirk’s forehead resting against him. Dave could fell he was exhausted, but even then, Dirk shifted back just enough to look at him. Look between them.
He reached out, his finger nor tracing a line, so much as dipping into a particularly thick puddle of marbled blood and cum on Dave’s stomach. He brought it to his own lips, his tongue darting out to taste it. His eyes flickering from the mess on Dave’s stomach to his face.
“You’re a mess,” Dirk stated, it wasn’t a complaint. Not really. Just the highest compliment he could offer while so utterly exhausted.
Dave managed a breathless, shaky laugh. “No shit.”
Dave allowed himself to finally glance over at Bro again. He was still in the chair. Injured arm still on the arm rest, the bleeding having almost completed stopped by now. The bulge in his lap was still there, an obvious sign that he has obviously enjoyed the show. His gaze met Dave’s and he gave a single, slow nod.
Dirk followed Dave’s line of sight, then looked back at him. He didn’t smile. Any satisfaction he had was gone, replaced with an unreadable neutrality. He pushed himself up from the floor, surprisingly steadily. He stood over Dave for a second, before holding out his clean-ish hand.
“Shower,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. But who was Dave kidding, a shower sounded great. He probably looked like Carrie, if Dirk’s state was anything to go by.
Dave took his hand, letting Dirk pull him. His legs felt like jelly as he let Dirk lead him from the room.
If he had seen a telltale blinking red light behind Bro buried in on one of the shelves.
He wasn’t going to mention it.
He might ask for that footage later though.