( "do you know that guy?" his tablemate asks over a roasted duck and champagne dinner, exactly half a second before danny looks over and realizes yes, he does that know guy and he also knows that guy isn't a guy.
"excuse me," he says back, polite. "i need to borrow this for a second."this being their table, danny's first sacrifice, hoisted onto its side and sent skidding toward an approaching nightmare with one hard-booted kick to its center. it's a popsicle stick barrier to a hurricane that doesn't need to touch him or look at him to fuck him up, and the first wave of john's familiar rage hits him like a freight train, blood bursting hot under these expensive clothes he fucking hates anyway, soaking him down in red.
oh fuck, a regular mantra when in the presence of john gaius, his celestial kindliness, temperamental bastard, this cunt, this motherfucker. shock or adrenaline pushes blood up danny's esophagus, and he retches into his tablemate's lap and the dinner he'd managed to save from danny's assault on their table, peppering his roasted duck in his daily dose and then some of iron. his shoulder crashes into the underside of the table as he hits the floor, seething. chubbed up, hard in black denim. his body doesn't know how to be anything except his, always his, just a collection of holes filled with john's name written in cum. traitor.
danny spits blood and smashes some fine china plate into icepick shards. counts to three, then vaults up and over the table, tiny firework blood splatters flying as he smashes his shiv into john's throat, just above his collar. )
Missed you, too, John, ( bitter, wet, some ugly cross between a snarl and a hiccuped sob and the daddy, you left me he really wants to say, oh fuck, fuck. he fights gravity and buckling knees to knuckle deeper, grind john's throat into a yawning gash. )
cw: chronic daddykink, blood/gore, vomit, violence in general we in it now
"excuse me," he says back, polite. "i need to borrow this for a second." this being their table, danny's first sacrifice, hoisted onto its side and sent skidding toward an approaching nightmare with one hard-booted kick to its center. it's a popsicle stick barrier to a hurricane that doesn't need to touch him or look at him to fuck him up, and the first wave of john's familiar rage hits him like a freight train, blood bursting hot under these expensive clothes he fucking hates anyway, soaking him down in red.
oh fuck, a regular mantra when in the presence of john gaius, his celestial kindliness, temperamental bastard, this cunt, this motherfucker. shock or adrenaline pushes blood up danny's esophagus, and he retches into his tablemate's lap and the dinner he'd managed to save from danny's assault on their table, peppering his roasted duck in his daily dose and then some of iron. his shoulder crashes into the underside of the table as he hits the floor, seething. chubbed up, hard in black denim. his body doesn't know how to be anything except his, always his, just a collection of holes filled with john's name written in cum. traitor.
danny spits blood and smashes some fine china plate into icepick shards. counts to three, then vaults up and over the table, tiny firework blood splatters flying as he smashes his shiv into john's throat, just above his collar. )
Missed you, too, John, ( bitter, wet, some ugly cross between a snarl and a hiccuped sob and the daddy, you left me he really wants to say, oh fuck, fuck. he fights gravity and buckling knees to knuckle deeper, grind john's throat into a yawning gash. )