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Summary
Patrick’s eyes narrow, the smile fixed. Beneath his skin, the itch starts again—fingers twitching, a compulsion gnawing at control. He wants to split Paul open, crack him apart like a lobster shell, let the marrow bleed and stain white tile. A craving deep in his bones. The world thins, sound fading as Patrick drowns in the thought—gore painting porcelain, red creeping like art.
Paul trembles, pupils blown wide, voice hoarse. “You’re fucking insane.”
Patrick smirks. “You’re hard.”