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A showerhead is running, but no one is under it. It drowns out the noises in the stall next door, where behind the curtain Tommaso lifts Mark against the wall. The steam and the barest bumps and rubs against their fresh wounds keeps them both painted red, nothing but their own sweat and Tommaso's hungry tongue cuts through the blood. Mark's lower back screams. He clings with his legs around Tommaso's waist, one arm around his neck and scratching at his back. His free hand is wrapped just too tight around both of their dicks, too rough, too dry, until Tommaso pries himself away to spit a fat wad of pink between them.
Mark's head thumps back against the wall. His eyelids and teeth clench in a grimace that could be either pain or pleasure. Knowing him, probably a little of both. A fresh rivulet of blood trickles down his forehead. Tommaso follows it back up with the tip of his tongue, ending in an ironically tender kiss. Mark cracks his eyes open, but quickly closes them again at the sight of him smiling, blood outlining every tooth.
“Shit,” he grunts. “I can't look at you, man.”
“What, now you're squeamish?”
Before he even answers, Mark's cock twitches against his. “Naw. I'm gonna come too fast.”
With a growl, Tommaso pushes and crowds him even tighter against the wall. He digs his fingers in on either side of Mark's lower spine, making him hiss and arch. Even that just turns him on more. He's slack-jawed and half-lidded, drooling from the corner of his mouth as two strong sensations fight to overwhelm him, one way or another. There's nothing but static in his head. Tommaso tries to kiss him, but he has just enough sense left to turn away. The scent of iron and sweat permeates the air.
“Kiss me,” he demands. Mark shakes his head. “Come on. You want to taste my blood too.”
More than anything right now. But as soon as he does, that'll be the end of it. There's precious little he can do, though, as Tommaso shifts to support him with one hand, and squeezes the hinge of his jaw with the other. And as soon as Mark's lips part even the slightest bit, Tommaso coaxes them the rest of the way, lapping into the wide gap in his teeth like a dog. Mark tries to hold on, for what's left of his pride. He tries to slow his strokes, but Tommaso fucks up into his hand faster. Forcing him over the edge with the gory spoils of combat overwhelming his senses.
“A-ah, fuck–” his back spasms and seizes up as he spurts into his fist. “Hol– hold on, hold on, slow down–”
Mark's body isn't listening to him, and neither is Tommaso. His ice blue eyes stay locked intently on Mark, flickering between his face and dick while he keeps on grinding and humping, and the involuntary clenching of Mark's abdomen causes his bladder to release. And even under his crimson mask, he can see his face go pink.
Tommaso kisses him again when he comes, and Mark doesn't resist him this time. Exhausted, wrung dry in every possible way. Even his initial shame of pissing himself washes away under the shower. He gratefully allows Tommaso to help him stay standing, and to help him sit back down, and even help him with his socks and shoes when his back threatens to lock up again. By the time they're both dressed and Mark's got a bottle of water and a handful of ibuprofen in him, they're like old friends again, picking up right where they left off. Two fighting dogs licking each other's wounds, each the other's comfort.