â tell me about the dream where we the pull bodies out of the lake â HOLY SHIT DUDE
POETRY STARTERS //Â creditÂ
 â Perhaps the late hour is making you charitable. We donât go back to where weâve buried a target. â
With his right arm supporting the back of his head, Risotto sent an amused glance in Prosciuttoâs way. The displeased scowl it earned him was enough reward that Risotto didnât need to add much more.
They laid in bed, tangled and more crowded than bullets in a cartridge. From the corner of his eye, Risotto could make out the outline of Prosciuttoâs figure leant back against the headboard, the lazy cloud of smoke that slipped through his parted mouth. Men like them werenât merciful enough that theyâd return to a grave dug by their own hands, much less unbury their dead. Prosciutto held his cigarette with effortless grace, the same kind with which heâd pulled the trigger and riddled bodies with bullets. His statement was cynical, at best. Risotto watched the smoke blend with the white ceiling, fading like mist in the heavy film of winter clouds. Something about the night made the minutes drag on at a different speed.Â
The bed shifted, and Prosciutto pulled himself closer to Risottoâs side of the bed. His fingers crawled along the line of Risottoâs stomach, sternum and made for the hard set of his collarbones. In spider-like motions, Prosciutto dug his nails with every inch covered, leaving a path of red marks where heâd touched. Risottoâs eyes followed his movements.
 â âŚYouâve leaving marks. â Risotto murmured.
  â And what of it?â
Their gazes met and locked in place. Prosciuttoâs face had always been hard to tear his attention from, but now, his sharp features were coated with something challenging, unkind. Hunger was familiar, an urge Risotto knew how to mitigate. Wanting, in this intensity, without much room between each of them to really call a distance, that was a feeling he couldnât yet grow used to. It was easier to say he could sweat this fever out than to ignore the stabbing feeling in his gut telling him to take as much as he could in a single mouthful. Risotto blinked, slowly, and let Prosciutto build confidence. Prosciutto buried his fingers into Risottoâs skin and dragged his hand down. Risotto let out a hiss and promptly reached out to grab a fistful of Prosciuttoâs hair, where the buns had come undone.
Prosciutto held his ground rather well for a man whose throat was bent back and exposed. Risotto liked the feeling of blond hair tightening in his palm. Risotto spoke next to his ear:  â âŚYouâve grown too greedy, too. â
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