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The pictures have been burning a hole in Accardi’s pocket since he took them.
Really it’d been a heat of the moment thing, in Accardi’s buzzed daze the stranger had looked so pretty, laid out on the road. It was all dark clothes, dark hair, and blood smeared across the asphalt. The moon and the headlights of Accardi’s car really brought out the sickly, almost deathly pallor of the stranger’s skin and the way the blood smeared across their face was a work of art in itself. It had been innocent, truthfully! Photos taken to simply capture the beauty of the moment, a beauty that only Accardi might see and appreciate.
Since those initial moments, though, it’s evolved.
Since Juliek and Vittorino left and passed out, respectively, those three polaroid photos are all Accardi can think about. He’d changed into something more comfortable at some point in the throws of his high. Clothes come off easily when he gets high with Juliek and Vittorino, it’s the natural way of things between them. Even then Accardi had been careful to take the photos out of the pocket of his suit pants, he’d laid them out face down on his dresser and from where he’s laying right now, he has a slightly obscured view of the flat little rectangles. Juliek and Vittorino teasing him for the pictures through the night hadn’t helped his fixation, and the sly mentions of them with his dick down Juliek’s throat and Vittorino straddling his lap might have twisted a few already crossed wires even tighter.
It’s just that Accardi has a peculiar taste, and bloodied, strange priests seem to fit perfectly into that taste. Their voice, hurt and disoriented, spoke through winces and gritted teeth and gasps of pain. Accardi recalls the noises near perfectly in his mind, he lays his head back against his pillows and stares up at the ceiling, ripping his eyes away from where the pictures lay only a couple of feet away on his dresser. A traveler, one that’d caught Accardi’s eye the first time they spoke with their pathetic puppy dog eyes and broken sentences. Dirty, skittish, lost. Accardi’s hand is resting on his chest, his fingers twitch and he forces them to still. His eyes drift, his mind wanders.
Laid out on the asphalt, under the moon, bloody and in pain. Accardi recalls a few situations he’s been in that are similar, most involving a certain blonde priest, but none stuck quite so firmly in his mind like this one. They’re something else really, their presence is a mystery to Accardi and they move through life with a listless, nervous sort of energy. Accardi wants to pick at their brain, wants to dissect their thoughts and fears and motivations. He thinks it’d be almost as fun as dissecting their body.
Accardi sits up, he makes his way a few steps to where his dresser is and grabs the photos gently. He sits on the edge of his bed, eyes drinking in every little detail. The way the stranger’s shirt had ridden up with the impact and the fall, the way their hat fell, the way they’d instinctively curled into a ball. The way they’d fit in his arms when he picked them up to put them in his car. Their reflection against the window, their blood on Accardi’s dashboard.
Accardi traces the lines of their body with his eyes, swallows hard and palms at the erection tenting his boxers. He can’t ignore it anymore and while maybe he should be shameful, he isn’t. He imagines those big, dark eyes and tears and blood and gasps of Accardi’s name and it lights a fire in Accardi’s gut. They really were quite pretty, Accardi wonders how pretty they look with their lashes clumped together with tears. He wonders how beautiful the bruises his car left will look against his beautiful stranger’s pale skin.
He slides his hand inside of his boxers, he’s leaking so much pre that he doesn’t need lube to smooth the glide.
The poor thing was cute and holds a certain innocence to them, the kind that Accardi wants to destroy. Accardi imagines bruises on their neck and thighs in the shape of his teeth, he hisses and speeds his hand from its previous leisurely pace. He looks down at the pictures, there’s blood from a split in their lip painting them a beautiful red that Accardi wants to kiss and bite until they're swollen.
Accardi is close, he wishes he felt embarrassed about it. He bites his lip and forces himself to keep his eyes open, looking at the three pictures of the strange traveler, helpless, beautiful. Blood and skin and dark hair creating a beautiful contrast against each other.
They’re something out of Accardi’s wet dreams.
He cums in his fist, groaning softly and gritting his teeth. He tries to feel bad about it, but all he feels is a lingering sense of need. He needs to see them again, needs to get his hands on them.
Accardi sets the pictures on his bedside table, he goes to his ensuite bathroom and washes his hands, he changes into a clean pair of boxers, and then lays back in
bed. He glances over at the pictures, then closes his eyes.
Vittorino said something about them sneaking around the Basilica, Accardi silently thanks the rotten old place for putting a creature like that stranger in his path not once but twice now. Well, in the path of his car the second time. He might need to pay it a visit, maybe he’d offer to drive Vittorino home tomorrow. The Basilica has always favored him after all, he trusts that if he wishes it, his stranger will be led straight to his path. Accardi can’t help the image of a lamb caught in a beartrap that springs to mind.
It’s not like Accardi wants to hurt them, not in any serious way, he just thinks they’re cute and he’s really curious to know what it is they’re doing in Rosso, and even deeper what they’re doing at the Basilica. However, this late at night it’s difficult to deny the part of himself that wants to squeeze and bite and hold. There’s space for the gentleman in him in the daylight, where he can ponder wining and dining them.
Tonight, though, Accardi falls asleep satisfied and dreams of blood and asphalt and moonlight.