( he's my kid shouldn't hit like a bomb, but it does somehow, little missiles air-dropped directly over the wrinkled fold of his auditory cortex again and again, he's my kid, he's my kid, he's my kid. daddy nukes. daddy shrapnel shreds his insides. daddy magic sputters another fresh gush of blood from his nose, sticking thin and slippery to his gums.
as john falls back and the servants descend, danny wheezes and doubles forward, dribbling pinkish saliva onto his skinned knees. )
I'm sorry, apa. ( not i won't disappoint you again, because danny johnson is a chronic sinner. not cowed, either, but submissive the only way john's ever stripped out of him, blood by blood, flesh by flesh, because danny johnson's only ever knelt for one man.
he sucks blood-clotted saliva to the fronts of his teeth and spits again, edging into delirium, chin lolling up and eyes fixing on john's wrist, bare and pretty. his pinky skims the heel of his palm. that he doesn't have danny's rib around his wrist anymore feels worse than danny not having john around his throat. in the middle of this tentative stalemate, a servant gingerly picks up the jagged piece of china danny had used to pummel john's throat into mangled meat; danny takes it back with a snarl and greedily shoves the bloodied edge into his mouth, licking it clean.
hiking up his shirt to his tits, he slants the spit-shiny shiv into his ribs, one little dot of pressure crowning john's j, his silvery signature. )
Let me give you another.
( right here, in front of everyone. he pushes in, all his doe-eyed, reverent focus on john's face, john's eyes, adam at his feet, ready to give him every rib. )
cw: self-harm, fanaticism, pseudo incest
as john falls back and the servants descend, danny wheezes and doubles forward, dribbling pinkish saliva onto his skinned knees. )
I'm sorry, apa. ( not i won't disappoint you again, because danny johnson is a chronic sinner. not cowed, either, but submissive the only way john's ever stripped out of him, blood by blood, flesh by flesh, because danny johnson's only ever knelt for one man.
he sucks blood-clotted saliva to the fronts of his teeth and spits again, edging into delirium, chin lolling up and eyes fixing on john's wrist, bare and pretty. his pinky skims the heel of his palm. that he doesn't have danny's rib around his wrist anymore feels worse than danny not having john around his throat. in the middle of this tentative stalemate, a servant gingerly picks up the jagged piece of china danny had used to pummel john's throat into mangled meat; danny takes it back with a snarl and greedily shoves the bloodied edge into his mouth, licking it clean.
hiking up his shirt to his tits, he slants the spit-shiny shiv into his ribs, one little dot of pressure crowning john's j, his silvery signature. )
Let me give you another.
( right here, in front of everyone. he pushes in, all his doe-eyed, reverent focus on john's face, john's eyes, adam at his feet, ready to give him every rib. )
Daddy, I wanna do it. Let me do it, please.