Human
He ran his hands through the damp, golden hair, his eyes fixated on the face which rested in a peaceful expression. Besides the blood that matted his hair and dried against the tan skin, he was beautiful. There was a cut on the plump bottom lip, and the blood from the wound had smudged onto the top. He ran his finger across the red surface, and for a moment he wondered, if it were still wet, would it look like lipstick smeared across his lips. The man would have looked nice with lipstick.
He moved his hand from his lips, moving to trace the sharp jaw line then down to his throat . There was a shallow cut there, one that was probably ment to be far deeper. He'd be dead now, his chest wouldn't be rising and falling, his heart wouldn't be beating as calmly as it was now. What would that be like? What would that cold, lifeless skin feel like beneath his fingertips? He wasn't familiar with the feeling; he had the opportunity to be, but he wasn't. Ivan wasn't familiar with death or the feel of a corpse. No, he had no idea..
There was a small scar on his shoulder, a scar from a biking accident. He and his brother had gone biking down a path, and a branch had torn through his shirt to cut deep into his skin. It was small, hardly noticeable, but Ivan knew. The man's birthmark was on the back of his knee, and he had this odd freckle right behind his ear. He didn't know about it, but Ivan did. The Russian had gone to shave off those beautiful golden locks, but he came across the marking, and then couldn't bring himself to do it.
He stood there silently, his eyes fixated on the man laying across the table. He took in the sight of the leather around his wrists and ankles. His body was bare, open for Ivan's eyes and no one else's. The single, bright light hung above his still body- it was the only illumination in the cold room. Violet eyes ran along his torso, taking in the freckles on his shoulders, the dusky pink of his nipples, and even the soft peach fuz covering his body. He looked on as the hairs got thicker, darker, trailing down to meet between his legs. He kept himself trimmed, but the days without a razor let the coarse blonde hair grow. Ivan's hand trailed down, brushing across the rough patch of growing hair, before grazing down further.
His cock was soft, laying limb between his his legs. The skin of the shaft and head felt like dragging his hands along a fine cotton sheet. His flesh here was warmer than the rest of his body. The penis that was now in Ivan's hand wasn't small, but it was a bit above average. Had he an erection, he probably would have been larger.
The pale hand glided down the skin, brushing along thighs, marveling at the feel of the thick hair. He caressed the knee caps that had been scraped hundreds of times when he was a child, and even a few times since adulthood. Playing pirates, then falling onto the wood chips of the playground. Racing bikes down the biggest hill in the neighborhood, only to hit the biggest pothole in the neighborhood. Tripping and falling up the stairs, falling over skateboards or out of moving dirtbikes. His fingers brushed against the shins that had been kicked during soccer or dumb games of courage and stupidity. Feet that had walked millions of miles, propelled him through water, rested in a wheelchair for a few months, only to spring up running as soon as the chance was there.
Nimble fingers pulled away, only to come again to the hands that lay bound by leather. He stared at long fingers that had been everywhere: his mouth, nose, eyes, in food, liquids, other people, himself. Finger paints, pudding and jams, clay, putty, oil and acrylic paints, ink, water, grease, ketchup and mustard- his fingers have touched them all. Ivan rubbed the ring finger, and wondered if anyone's ring would be there. It could have been his, it may be his. It probably will not be his.
He could kiss him, and he did. Ivan tasted blood against his lips, and his tongue slipped out to lick it from the other's. He lapped at it slowly, until it was all gone and those lips were clean and glistening. Ivan swiped a tongue across his lips to wipe the saliva off. A hot breath slipped past those now open lips, and his breath smelled of the chloroform he had inhaled an hour eariler. Inhaled wasn't really the word, because that made it sound voluntary.
He was beautiful, a dream in Ivan's reality. His lips, his hair, his hands- everything and anything about the man was glorious. Ivan leaned down again, pressing another kiss to those cleaned lips before he pulled back and retreated to the chair that sat in the shadow of the room.
Silently, he waited for him to wake.