andthethrill | "To sleep is an act of faith."

Stopping is annoying for J only because he isn't tired. Or, rather, he's gone well through tired and come out the other side all the more jittery and paranoid, but wide awake. Mitch won't let him drive, though, and so letting the guy sleep a while seems the only way to get moving again.

He sits on his own bed, scribbling on every page of a local directory that was next to the room phone. Adding to the business logos. Changing the text here and there. Finding patterns and altering messages. It only kills about an hour of his time. Then he pulls a knife from his boot and begins cutting shapes from the pages.

As he sits in the pile of torn and shredded paper, he looks over at Mitch sleeping. So peaceful. Mitch thinks he can' take care of J. Or maybe just protect everyone else... Mitch killed all those people. Just needed reason enough. He fights J and he enjoys it. He enjoys hurting J and J knows it. He likes that. Why does Mitch think he's better or different than J? They're just the same. Nearly.

J has been muttering to himself and humming on and off since they got to the hotel. That doesn't change as he slides off the bed and takes quiet steps over to Mitch's. It just gets quieter. Soft humming and a wild smile while he moves slow and quiet around the bed, shoving the blanket and sheets under the mattress to keep Mitch in place. Quiet humming until he's standing at the foot of Mitch's bed. He goes dead quiet, juggling the knife and watching Mitch sleep.

"...my hero... pouty, sad, little hero...y..you're a monster, too, Bruce...Just. Like. Me."
He climbs careful and slow up the bed as lightly as he can. He curls up next to Mitch.
"Shh shh shh... I'll be quick...and I'll put you back together..."
J throws a leg over Mitch and sets a hand against the boy's throat to keep him still enough to be able to carve a wide mouth for him. Not as happy. Flat or sad. Never happy. Not Mitch. If he can just get the knife in...can just keep Mitch pinned as he wakes...

He's a light sleeper, but falling asleep to J's noise, his approach doesn't raise any alarms. Even the movement of the blanket, the shift of the bed, isn't enough to fully wake him, just to ease him into that warm foggy grey, aware of what's happening but not really processing the meaning behind any of it.

J? On the bed... is he coming to bed? Good.

That is, until the blond's weight is pushing Mitch down, and his hand is around his throat. Thatdrags him out into consciousness, eyes snapping open and staring straight up at J. He doesn't question why the boy is there, or what he's doing. He knows, with the certainty of any trapped animal, that it's nothing he wants. He thrashes and twists, shouting wordlessly as he tries to throw him off.

Everyone enjoys a lullaby. Even a manic, jumbled, nonsense one. J doesn't want to upset Mitch. It was inevitable, though, so he's not shocked when his friend wakes angry. He gives Mitch a scolding slap on the chest for fidgeting and struggling.

"Hold still. I...ah...I wouldn't want to slip."
He turns the knife in his hand so he can press down on Mitch's shoulder with one hand and stroke his hair softly with the other.
"I'll be careful I..ah..I'm going to fix everything nice. Just like you did for me. Pretty as a picture."
He tightens his fingers in Mitch's hair to hold his head still a second and kisses his cheek.
"Close your eyes. Be still. ... It's going to hurt."

As he lifts up again, he seems enraptured with the process of and actions involved. Getting a firm grip on Mitch's jaw, feeling a strong and furious body writhing under him slowly pulling the blankets loose, guiding the knife between soft lips. It scrapes the boy's teeth and he pulls it away. It's so damn hard to keep Mitch from thrashing. He's too strong. J slaps his cheek, rapture broken and anger on his face.
"Stop it! You're ruining it!"

There's less fear than he would have expected, even when he sees the knife and realises what J intends to do. Anger overtakes and overwhelms it, not even giving him the chance to panic, skipping straight to rage, straight to fighting, trying to twist and buck J off of him, or at leat keep him from getting that knife in his mouth.

The kiss, the kiss to his cheek... that stops him. For all of half a second, just because it's so unexpected. Close your eyes. Be still... And there's part of him that wants to. A tiny, mad something that babbles about how it would be fair, and they could match, and then he'd understand... But then there's cool steel between his lips, and fight shoves its way back to the forefront, and it's drowned out again.

When he's slapped, it's an opening, an opportunity. A deep growl tears its way out of his throat, and he follows that hand, jerking and twisting his head as he tries to bury his teeth in the soft flesh.

Mitch goes so still for just a moment. The boy trusts him --believes him. It's amazing. It makes J feel warm inside...and powerful. He could tear Mitch apart and roll happily in the remains and Mitch might let him if he just kept his calm and said the right things. It's for that very reason that he could never do it...but he wants to.

Then Mitch's teeth find his hand --soft meat between thumb and forefinger-- and dig in. There's so little resistance before canines break skin. J's hands have never done serious manual labor; the surface toughened only by harsh chemicals and dryness and not by work. He's surprised by it and it shakes him, but the cry he lets out is the same mix of shock and pleasure as when Mitch's teeth would close on him the night before. He bites his own lower lip and and sits up straight suddenly, jerking his hand away and rocking back where he straddles Mitch's hips.
"Owch. That wasn't nice."
Though, he looks as though it really was. He likes the little bit of red on Mitch's lips. It's got him distracted for the moment as he licks over the stitches around his own mouth.

Mitch stares up at J, when he sits back -- knowing that noise, and trying to reconcile it with the current situation, instead of the one they were in the last time he heard it. His shock, and J's retreat, make for a lull in the fighting. A moment where he does nothing but try to breathe, and lick the blood from his lips, unconsciously mirroring J. It only lasts, though, until he realises that it is a lull, that J's distracted, too, and his instincts scream NOW.

He listens to them. Clawing down the bunched-up covers, he throws himself up, reaching for J's throat.

A moment's distracted enjoyment of his position and suddenly J has large, strong hands closed on his throat. Mitch is sitting up with just a few inches between them and the heat off of him is amazing. He's a furnace fired by rage and it makes J smile. His own face is starting to go red, the way he's being choked, but he just smiles serenely at his friend.

For a couple beats --time counted out in the loud thrum of his heart pounding in his eardrums-- J just smiles and considers burying his knife in Mitch's gut. He considers feeling the boy's blood spilling out over his hand until he's released or blacks out. It would be good, but it would end the game. He struggles to swallow under the press of Mitch's hand and holds up his own hands for the boy to see. He drops the knife to the bed and gives up on this for now. The heat and lack of air makes his eyes water.
"Y...nngk....you win."

He wins. That should be the end of it.

But it isn't. It's the farthest thing from the end of it. He's still furious, still wanting so badly, so badly he can feel it in his fingertips, dug into J's skin, and on the tip of his tongue, to hurt the blond, even if he likes it, even if he doesn't fight back. He sneaks into his bed, tries to cut his mouth open, and -- no. You win isn't nearly enough. He wants his pound of flesh. He wants to make it clear that this is the last time this happens.

Mitch lets one hand drop, the other still wrapped loosely around J's neck... and then rears back and punches him square in the jaw. And then both hands are off of the blond, and he's pulling himself out from under J as he reaches for that knife, teeth bared in a snarl.

It should be the end of it, but J doesn't want it to be. He wants to know what Mitch will do with all that anger. He wants to know what the boy will let himself do.

The punch rattles his teeth and blurs his vision for a moment. It knocks him to the side and he falls in his clumsy efforts not to go completely off the bed. It feels like it tugged at every stitch in his face and his lip is left bleeding at that centered bit of stitching. It takes a moment to shake off the dull buzz and the blinding pain, but when J does he's left smiling. He pushes himself back up on one hand.
"So...ha...ahh...that's what it's like when you..heh..don't hold back. I'd been wondering."
He bets that Mitch has more in him too and would say so, but then he sees the knife.

Will Mitch really cut him? Finding out would almost be worth not trying to avoid it.
"What're you gonna do? Huh?.... "
J smiles wider --crazier-- and pulls himself up onto his knees again; presenting a larger target but not putting up a fight.
"C'mon. You'll feel sooooo much better."

"Shut up." His voice grinds out of his throat, pitch-black and rough as gravel, actually painful. It surprises him, that sound coming from his mouth.

He looks J over -- J, presenting himself like some crazy martyr, letting him do whatever he wants. Nice of him he thinks bitterly, balancing the knife in his grip. He has to hurry, do it before his anger cools. Wants to hurry. Wants to be able to hurt for once, and not feel bad about it afterward. Why should J be the only one who gets that luxury? Why should J be the only one who gets to go insane?

He shoves him back on the bed, hard, and climbs on top of him. Looking down at the other boy, looking him in the eyes, as he gets a tight grip on his right wrist.

When he's told to shut up in that voice --god help him-- he does it. J doesn't even breathe. His mouth hangs slightly open and his heart races while he wonders over the intense heat starting in the center of him and spreading out all the way to fingers and toes.

When he hits the bed, he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding with a rough grunt. J keeps his eyes on Mitch --keeps eye contact through it all. He's able to be here for this, to be completely focused, in way he couldn't for Mitch's softer attentions. Now he's being threatened and pinned and J couldn't be more exhilarated. His breath shakes and he writhes under Mitch, just to enjoy the feel of the struggle for a moment before going still again.

He wonders if Mitch intends to just hurt him or to kill him. J's mind casually acknowledges and accepts that he doesn't care which. As long as it's like this --the REAL, animal, honest Mitch free of any sense of moral propriety-- then being killed could be amazing.

"It's..ah..a filleting knife...so...you could get under the skin and do some real damage... But it's up to you."

J is enjoying this. He's more than enjoying this. So passive -- just briefly struggling, stopping before Mitch can even do anything about it -- and that focus on Mitch, the keen attention the blond is paying. If this is what it takes to get through to him... if this is what it takes...

"And you'd let me, wouldn't you?" he asks him, in that same inflection. He saw J's reaction. Saw that it got him to listen, and that's reason enough to keep using it, even if it hurts his throat.

He switches his grip, knife in the right hand and J's left wrist held down. He holds up the knife, letting the long, thin blade brush over J's skin without breaking it. Brushing the back of his hand... up his arm... the side of his neck. To rest against his carotid artery, the flat of the blade flush against his skin. Through the steel, J can feel Mitch's hand shaking.

"Why?" Quieter. Softer. Just a little.

The voice really does help. It's like a different person. Not flat, distant Mitch or that happy-go-lucky tone he can affect for other people when he wants. No. This is something else and it's so much more real than the other people Mitch pretends to be. J almost shivers. He starts to feel his pulse pounding in jeans that are becoming far too cramped, but he doesn't care and barely notices.

"Yes. If..mmm...if you'd do it."
Mitch is more fascinating every day, or J would be gone by now. Maybe with the boy's money. Maybe leaving him for dead. He could never leave when it would mean missing things like this, though.

He gasps at the cold touch of the blade, his smile widening. As the knife slides over sensitive flesh to find and press to his pulse, J breath quakes with what could be nervous shivers or silent laughter. Mitch is shaking. He wants to move his hand. J wanders how much of his friend wants to cut in and feel the skin give way and his life pump out, and how much wants to retreat from that raw power of life and death.

Speaking with the blade so close feels like taking part in his own death. J is silent a second, then answers partly for the added thrill.
"It would be worth it..to...to..ah...see you let go. And...I'm not afraid to die...Especially..when...I'll enjoy it."

J would let him. He'd enjoy it, he says, as long as it was Mitch who was doing it. And all he'd have to do is turn the knife in his grip, add just a little bit of pressure. He feels lightheaded, as that hits home, just how easy it would be. The power in a blade, in a gun, in his fingertips, to change the world around them. It's the same soaring feeling as just two nights ago, when he was sewing J up in the back of their van. This is why some people kill.

But he still knows the worst thing about death, and the most important thing about having that power over someone else. Once they're gone, you never get them back. And he's angry at J, yes. But not angry enough to lose him like that. To throw him away.

There's a hint of a smile on his lips, as he pulls the knife away. Hooks the tip of the blade under J's chin, like a lover's finger. (He shifts his position to get more comfortable, groin pressing briefly against J's, and -- oh, he really would enjoy it. He shifts again, more deliberately, watching J's eyes.)

"But then what would I do?"

It's so very easy. And it feels so good. But then it's over, and you can't do it again. There's a low after the high that makes it addictive. At least, that's how J feels. That and a sense that he's simplified the world just a little bit.

J sucks at his lower lip. He's excited and pleased to see Mitch nearly smiling down at him. There's a beat where that smile could be the decision to sink the blade in, but when he moves he keeps moving and the knife finds its way under his chin instead. J tilts his head back and his breath comes out more shaking than he meant for it to. Especially when he feels Mitch move against him and a stifled moan escapes his parted lips. His eyes widen and flutter a moment, trying to recover from his body's unexpected reactions.

"Mmmmnnnn.... You would...ah...have to clean up by yourself."

"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.

"I doubt that..."
He laughs, soft and breathy, wondering what Mitch would do. If Mitch killed him in a moment of passion. If they both enjoyed the act. Would he really be able to just slip back into a 'healthy', 'normal' every day life?

J doesn't have much time to devote to considering the possibilities. Mitch rocks against him and his head goes blank. Now Mitch is taking care of him. Does he even know? This is what he needs. There's been too much in his head and all too loud.

A shaking laugh and then he goes still and silent; the knife is on him and Mitch does it...he actually cuts him. A small, squeaking cry is stifled in his throat. J is torn between lashing out and attacking Mitch and just letting this happen. The real fun is in the line between; tightening his free hand in the blankets and holding himself back from striking as the sharp, searing pain moves down his chest. A shallow cut making a long line under the knife.

This is something new and he doesn't understand it but he likes it. He's more comfortable with things this way.
"Ahhnn..mmm....feel better?"

"Yeah." He sounds surprised. He does feel better. Hitting J. Cutting him. Even if he's letting him do it, even if he likes it, it's still cathartic. Still powerful. His fingers follow where the knife just was, smearing the welling blood into a thicker, smoother line down the other boy's chest, enjoying the warmth of the skin underneath.

"You?"

'Better' is so rare for him. J's spent his life accepting that there is no 'better'; that this was as good as it gets and he damn well better enjoy it as it is. Now there's this, and Mitch, and this question...

"...Yeah..."
It surprises him just as much. He laughs softly and lets up on his grip on the bed. Mitch's fingers prolong the sting of the fresh wound and it distracts him from the ache in the stitches on his face. The noise in his head and the overwhelming assault of the world around him is dulled down and tolerable and he and Mitch are the only two people in the world.

Right now, if they really were the only two people in the world, Mitch would be hard-pressed to mind. This is good, amazingly good to have come from a start so bad.

He smiles, at the answer and the laughter. (Just the existence of laughter means nothing, he knows, so far as J's state of mind goes. But the tone of it is encouraging.) "Good." The cut-up shirt, he pulls away from J's chest, and down his arms, baring his torso and shoulders. A whole canvas for him to explore. For him to experiment with. "Let me know if you want me to stop," he tells him. Just in case. Just so that he's said it.

He starts shifting back and forth again, steadier and more prolonged pressure. Rocks forward, and moans as the knife-tip breaks J's skin again, a little to the right of the first cut.

Nothing else in the world is good like this, so why should it matter? Nothing has ever mattered to J, and now this does. Increasingly, Mitch does.

The tension of forced smiling goes from his face and the manic edge is out of his laughter. It's still J, but more subdued and honest, that's for sure. Mitch pulls the shirt away, but doesn't discard the knife. That anxious nervousness over when or if it will be used stays and J is glad for it.
"...Ok...I'll...nnn..I'll tell you."
Maybe. He bites his lip. no plan of saying anything of the sort any time soon.

He groans and arches as Mitch rocks against him again. Then the electric waves of dulled pleasure are combined with the sharper pain of the knife point digging in and J cries out. His hands come off the covers to dig his fingers into Mitch's thighs. The cry tapers down into a low, shuddering moan and Mitch becomes the single, focused point of light in the universe.

The look on his face, and the sounds he makes... God. Mitch feels his heart skip a beat and pick back up again, double-time. He wants to say, wants to tell J, just how beautiful he is, stitches or no stitches. But it wouldn't make anything better, and he probably wouldn't care... or worse, it would send him into a rage... so he swallows the words down and just sinks down to be closer to him, hands on either side of his chest, the knife still held tight. Kissing him, slower and more careful than he wants to, but not nearly as much as he probably should be. His tongue flicks along his bottom lip, then between them.

Maybe one day Mitch can tell J how he feels, but now is not the time. Being called beautiful... It would be too painful and too funny and too strange. He's still learning how to let himself be touched without lashing out..or planning to. There's that cut on Mitch's cheek and J enjoys focusing on it. That and the intensity in the boy's eyes. It scares him --just a little-- and that's where the thrill comes from.

It's a slow transition in activity and he's grateful for it. There's still the burn of the fresh cut to his chest and the wet warmth of his blood between them as Mitch lowers down close. Mitch's lips feel so soft and so much wetter than his own --pulled taught with the stitches and drying from it-- but soon that moisture is being shared. Mitch's tongue runs between his lips and J parts them for it...then bites, smiling. It's quick and sharp, then he licks back. He moves his hands up to set his nails into Mitch's lower back and drag them up to the shoulders.

Mitch yelps, jerking back when J bites him. Suspects for a few painful heartbeats that he's been betrayed, that J's mood has turned again. But then the blond licks at his lips and he realises the intent behind the bite. He laughs under his breath, then moves back to kiss him again, slow and sweet and then, after a moment, biting back, sinking his teeth into J's lower lip.

His lips start to curve in a smile -- see? two can play that game -- but then J is leaving pink-red scratches up his back, sweet little lines of pain, and instead of smiling at his own cleverness he's moaning into J's mouth, trying to arch his back and grind against him, both at once, and not getting near enough of either. He wants more.

He shifts his weight so that he's held up just by the hand holding the knife (less 'holding,' now, admittedly, than 'hand resting on top of'), and moves the other one down J's side, fingernails trailing.

He's surprised that Mitch retreats and laughs that, when compared to a knife in his chest, Mitch pulls away from a little bite. The boy's attitude quickly shifts to retribution, though, and J couldn't be happier to have his sore, wounded lip chewed upon.

That moan means he's done something right and J is sort of proud of himself. He sets his nails hard into Mitch's shoulders when it seems the boy might arch enough to pull away. He's not allowed. Not yet. J isn't done with this.
His side is clawed at and he tilts his head back, groaning in pain and pleasure. He grinds up against Mitch wanting more without knowing which feeling he wants more of. All of it, maybe; even at the risk of sensory overload.

Don't worry, J. Moving away is the farthest thing from Mitch's mind, right now. That tightened grip doesn't do much to alter his opinion, either.

J arches and Mitch loses his mouth, but that's alright. He moves his attention down to the other boy's neck, sucking at his pulse, dragging his teeth against his skin, wanting to leave even more marks on J, marks he makes with his mouth, not just the knife or his fists.

He slips his hand between them, adding friction and pressure for them both, and the feel of his fingers wrestling blindly with J's pants. Bites at his neck in celebration, when he finds the zipper.

Mitch's mouth on his neck is almost better than on his lips, though it leaves J unsure of what to do with his mouth and with nothing to muffle the noises Mitch pulls out of him. Short, sharp little moans and breathy laughter often cut short in his throat.

He feels that hand between them and his body moves on its own to seek Mitch's touch. J surprises himself with how much he wants this again. The fear and confusion are so much less now and he accepts this all so much more easily. He's ashamed, on some strange level, but it feels good and shame isn't something he's good at. Mitch's teeth dig in and nothing else matters. J gasps and cries out, one hand finding its way to knot in Mitch's hair and hold that mouth to his throat.

Mitch turns his head, pulling against the hand in his hair. Not to get away. no. Just to feel the tug against his scalp, the little bit more of a milder kind of pain.

He gets J's pants undone, then turns his hand, working at the fastenings for his own. Still pressed tight against J, able to feel both of their pulses, the heat and hardness on both sides. But him, his hand, both of them... it may be selfish (he doesn't care that much) but he wants J to touch him, too. Wants what he didn't get last time.

"Your hand," he mutters against J's skin, letting his voice dip lower again. Licks at his neck, then elaborates, reaching up to grab J's wrist. "Let me..."

J pulls against Mith's movement, more than happy to add tension and pain to the grip he has. It's like brawling, almost, but it's something very different. It just happens that the similarity to fighting and the inclusion of violence are the parts J is familiar and comfortable with.

Mitch speaks and it takes a moment to make sense of the words. J's wrist is seized. And he wonders if he did wrong somehow. He didn't even go for the knife and he could so easily. Then he realizes what's going on. J bites at his lip, considering escape, then nods and lets himself be moved and posed.
"Alright...I just... I don't know how..."

The immediate assumption is just that he doesn't know how to do this to another person. But J... it could just as easily be to himself, too. As unlikely as that seems, if there's anything he knows about his friend, it's that he's the unlikeliest thing Mitch has ever encountered.

His hair free from J's grip, he pulls himself up to kiss him, just a light peck on the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry," he says, feeling stitches scratch his lips, "It's not hard. Just..." He guides the other boy's hand down, to the front of Mitch's opened pants. His breath stutters, and he shifts forward at just the guided, non-participatory touch. Losing himself for a heated moment before he remembers -- teaching. And reciprocation. He slips his own hand down the front of J's pants, wrapping his hand around his cock and giving a demonstrative stroke. "Do what I do."

His hand is led and his fingers brushed against Mitch's cock and J's surprised at how warm it is. Of course his own is as well, but he's rarely this hard --or that's how it used to be-- and doesn't often touch himself. Technically, he knows how to get himself off, though he would argue he's not good at it and doesn't have as much practice as most guys. He took up a brief fascination with his body and its behaviors as an adolescent, but grew out of that within a year.

Mitch works to set him at ease and J swallows and nods, finding himself in this position again ...someone wanting him to share something he's so sure he doesn't have to give. He wonders why Mitch doesn't just screw him. It would have to be so much easier from the bottom and he could deal with whatever discomfort there might be. It would be quicker and he wouldn't be doing it wrong.

J closes his fingers around Mitch, the same as the boy does to him, and his breath shakes. He moves his hand the way it's demonstrated and there's slick, wet precum sliding under his fingers. His hand tightens as he tries again. He lets Mitch set a rhythm and keeps his hand tight just to keep from shaking.

Even with J scared and uncertain, inexperienced, being touched makes any fledgling qualms Mitch had fly out the window. He gives a low, breathy groan, and bucks into J's hand, pressing his face into his neck. "God. Yeah..." His own hand stays in motion, grip tightening. And with all the movement and resulting sensation, it's probably difficult to notice him shifting his weight, reaffirming his grip on the knife. Until it's dragging down J's arm, jouging deep along the curve of his deltoid.

He can tell -- even he can tell, that J is scared. It would probably be kinder to just let him lay back. Or to not be doing this at all. But he doesn't want to do that. He isn't that selfless anymore. He wants to feel the other boy, and be felt. And he can give him this, give him pain in return, at least. If that's what he wants.

Even if he doesn't understand it, J likes the sounds Mitch makes when he touches back. He likes the way the boy tenses and moves. He's never caused reactions like this in a person before. He's never had this kind of control...in this way. It's interesting. It's worth continuing just for the sake of experimentation.

He's not connected to it --not involved more than by physical contact-- until the tip of the knife digs in. J cries out in shock, pain, and adoring gratitude. It's going to be such a mess when they're done...if he lives to see it. Every movement of that sliced arm seems to make the pain in the muscle fresh and new. There's a stunted pause in his strokes and his hand tightens intensely, then relaxes with some effort.
"..Ahh..not so...so...oh god."
He just laughs nervously, not seeing the point in telling Mitch he's at risk of cutting too deep.

J now has his focus split between the searing pain that throbs with his heartbeat and movements and the rising heat and pressure of approaching orgasm. J tries to regain his matched pace with Mitch and tilts his head back, gasping for air. He feels sure he could stop breathing at any moment.

J's reaction is as positive as he'd hoped it might be, and Mitch smiles against his neck, and bites him, playfully, right by his adam's apple. See? He can get the hang of this, too. Figure out what J wants and needs, and give it to him. That's how this works.

He knows it was a deep cut, can feel the blood flowing. He isn't going to cut that deep again. (Not this time, part of him amends, and he agrees to that. Not even questioning whether there'll be a next time.) But he does just scrape the blade down his upper arm, and tighten his grip on the other boy's cock, as he feels himself getting closer, nearly-nearly-almost there. Some ever-analytical part of him wanting to see what that does to push J toward the edge. And the rest of him just wanting to see him go over, and follow him.

He wonders if, with experience, this feeling will stop seeming like he's going to die or lose his mind. Stop seeming so urgent and dangerous. J isn't sure what he wants the answer to that to be. It scares him, but so little does anymore that it's exciting. Upsetting, confusing, somewhat angering, and exciting. He doesn't know if he even trusts himself for the fact that he likes it, but he does like it. As long as there's something to balance the strangeness of it and keep his mind focused.

The knife scrapes over him again, less deeply, and he arches --thrusts-- into Mitch's grip. A grip that tightens painfully, only sliding freely care of a steady flow of precum. J's shoulders are driven down to press hard into the mattress as his body attempts to thrust up off of the bed, lifting himself and Mitch, but falls short.
"Nnn...gah.."

He pants, feeling himself teetering on the edge of that still-unfamiliar abyss. It's so much harder to keep pace with his hand like this, but he just barely manages. The rhythm only stalls and stutters a moment or two as Mitch's steady, firm pumping drags J's climax from him. He wanted more. He wanted to see what Mitch would do to him next. J still hasn't learned to show stamina, though. He cums in several short bursts and shuddering moans. He tightens his hand and tries to mimic the same for Mitch. He wants to see Mitch feel that; wants to be the one that does it.

Just the experience of J coming nearly pushes him over, drinking in the expression and sounds he makes, the sticky heat spilling over his hand. Knowing that he did that, he made J do that. (That he's pushing the other boy as far as he's pushing Mitch, that they're breaking down boundaries for each other, breaking each other and building back up again. Where will it end?)

What the sight doesn't do, J's hand -- too tight, if he'd started out that way, but now, pushed this far, nerves raw and hungry, it's perfect -- accomplishes. He makes a choked sound, a groan he isn't quite able to let out, let go enough to let out, as he jerks against J, coming in his hand. His other hand tightens around the knife, then drops it entirely.

J did that to him, he thinks, not quite in words. J did that, and he did that to J. They just keep getting more tangled up in each other.

Both young men have only the barest and --in some cases-- strangely chosen personal boundaries. Those few limits and rules seem to be what each wants to see stripped away and broken in the other. However terrifying that may be, it's the most consistently engaged and entertained J's been in his life.

The changes in Mitch's body as he's pushed to and over that final edge are so multisensory. J enjoys that it's something he can see, hear and feel. That tension under his fingers, the changes in the man's breath, then Mitch's cum flowing out hot and slow over his fingers. It's beautiful to watch, in its way. The expression looks so similar to pain, but it's so different... So much of it is the same as hurting someone.

He's still panting himself when Mitch is finished. J stops moving his hand, but his griop remains firm, unsure if he's supposed to let go or not. Unsure what he'd do with his hand if he did. His body is over sensitive, his head is filled with cotton, and the pain throbbing in time to his heartbeat from every cut left on him has blended in with it all to be a dull buzzing of background sensation. He sighs and sucks at his lower lip, smiling almost coyly. Looking, somehow, like he still won here.

The afterglow is just as nice as the act itself, really. In its way. The warmth and the slowness, the comfortable tiredness that blurs so easily into sleep.

Still... Mitch doesn't let himself follow the natural sequence, just yet. That smile, the look on J's face, presses deeper buttons, and makes him want to stay awake just a little longer.

He makes a quiet hm sound, as he reaches down and carefully removes J's hand from his body, threading his fingers in with the other boy's. Pulling both their hands up and pressing them to the sheets beside J's head, as he lets himself relax and move in closer to the other boy. (Snuggling is such an effeminate word for it.)

His other hand rests on top of the knife again.

The feeling has a less relaxing quality when you don't trust it yet. It's warm and soft and he feels more tired than he usually allows himself to be. The idea of falling asleep worries him, though.

When Mitch is pinning his hands, J feels sure he's going to be shaken out of this state and maybe they'll be fighting again...but Mitch is gentle and just lays with him. It's warm. It's like being pinned down or restrained, but...not. It feels strange but also an unfamiliar sort of safe. J lets out a frustrated sigh, seeing the knife is kept out of reach by Mitch's other hand. A soft noise between a whine and a comfortable hum sounds in his throat and, god help him, J thinks he could actually sleep... He just still doesn't know if he wants to. Another little whine and he settles into it. He relents to being 'snuggled' for now. Maybe sleep is ok...just for now. Just like this.

He was going to. It's why he took J's hand. All he'd have to do is shift his grip a little bit, grab one finger and pull back.

Snap.

He still wants to. J turned on him, tried to hurt him, and he needs to be taught that there's consequences for that. And even if it wouldn't keep J from doing it again, it would make him feel better. But one violent act would beget another, start the fighting again, and he's comfortable. They both are. A threat seems just as good.

"If you do that again, I'll break your fingers," he mutters, squeezing J's hand, then relaxing his grip. Closing his eyes.

The threat and the little squeeze to make it real somehow help put J the rest of the way at ease. Mitch could hurt him --badly-- or even kill him, if he wanted to. He could turn on him any moment, but he doesn't and it seems like he won't. The subtle uncertainty --that possibility that he could be wrong and that Mitch could take him down one day-- makes the safety of being with the boy more understandable. It isn't complete. There's still risk. ... And Mitch won't let him lose control or go to pieces. He'll hold him down or break him before things go too far. It's frustrating, but also sort of gratifying.

J relaxes with a soft smile and squeezes Mitch's hand back.
"Ok. Only one hand, though, or...ah...you'd have to finish on your own."
It's an acceptance of the rules being laid down, as well as a subtle agreement to the strange developments in their relationship. He lowers his head closer to Mitch and lets himself start to drift off.

He mumbles and mutters in his sleep and curls up more tightly with Mitch. It's not so terrible to get some rest...

He raises his head, for just a few seconds, looking J over. Checking on him. But the cuts, none of the cuts he gave him are still bleeding, and though the deepest one on his shoulder looks pretty rough, he can deal with it in the morning, he thinks, without too much more damage.

He falls back on the pillow with a quiet grunt. "Mmm."

J's on his way to a good night's rest for the second time in as many days. More sleep, total, than he's probably had in the two weeks previous. God only knows what that will do for him. Or if it becomes a habit.

Mitch closes his eyes too, and surrenders himself, J'd mutterings familiar and comfortable as he slips under. Tomorrow... tomorrow is another day. And they'll just have to take it as such. See where it leads them.

"To sleep is an act of faith."

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