"And it would be the last mess I'd have to clean up." Mitch can't keep that voice up any longer. The pitch lifts, just enough that his throat doesn't burn so much. Still deeper than it ever is in normal conversation.
He rocks against J again, briefly closing his eyes. He was going to hurt him, going to teach him a lesson, but now he wants something else entirely. This is insane, he thinks, but what about either of them isn't, anymore?
"No one getting me shot at..." The knife moves down. To J's chest, slowly down the front of his shirt. Cutting through cloth, and the skin underneath, the blade rending both with equal ease.
"...keeping me up when I need to sleep..." He misses the warmth and shape and solidity of J's body, and he moves again to get it back, panting as heat blossoms in the pit of his own stomach. God. What would he do without him? He doesn't let himself think about it. Not now.
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He rocks against J again, briefly closing his eyes. He was going to hurt him, going to teach him a lesson, but now he wants something else entirely. This is insane, he thinks, but what about either of them isn't, anymore?
"No one getting me shot at..." The knife moves down. To J's chest, slowly down the front of his shirt. Cutting through cloth, and the skin underneath, the blade rending both with equal ease.
"...keeping me up when I need to sleep..." He misses the warmth and shape and solidity of J's body, and he moves again to get it back, panting as heat blossoms in the pit of his own stomach. God. What would he do without him? He doesn't let himself think about it. Not now.