( danny's back hits the door, closing it soundly. his hand scruffs john's curls down to the scalp and reins him in, sinking his teeth into the plump meat of his bottom lip and doesn't let go until his blood films his canines. teeth for teeth, blood for blood, hungry void for hungriest void; it's been a while since his last eucharist.
he hooks john's bottom lip with his thumb and watches as it heals in real-time, his oldest magic trick. )
I don't care, ( stubbornly. the wrist john snapped like a toothpick aches in an unfamiliar way, and he wonders if this is how his daddy felt toward the end, a lifetime of injuries that never healed correctly set off by an aggressive sneeze or the weather dropping or raising half a degree. he eases up on john's hair, shaking out the needle-prick static of his hand the same way his daddy used to do, but with his bad leg.
he strips off his blood-soaked t-shirt by the collar, slopping it on the ground. in the two months they've been apart, danny hasn't changed at all: still a solid and broad piece of meat, john's moody slut with his tattoos and piercings and chubbed-up dick behind his denim fly, ready to fuck or kill on command. he kisses john again, harder. sticks his bloodied front to john's front, stamping his shirt possessively, naughtily. like all of danny's bones are his, so is all his blood. take it. he can't bear the thought that no one here knows who he really belongs to. )
I kept the knife and collar, even when I was so fuckin' mad at you for leaving us. ( he's still mad, he thinks. sometimes danny can't tell where his rage ends and the rest of him starts. he greedily palms john's hips, his firm ass. ) So I don't give a fuck. I don't care. I'm yours, ain't I?
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he hooks john's bottom lip with his thumb and watches as it heals in real-time, his oldest magic trick. )
I don't care, ( stubbornly. the wrist john snapped like a toothpick aches in an unfamiliar way, and he wonders if this is how his daddy felt toward the end, a lifetime of injuries that never healed correctly set off by an aggressive sneeze or the weather dropping or raising half a degree. he eases up on john's hair, shaking out the needle-prick static of his hand the same way his daddy used to do, but with his bad leg.
he strips off his blood-soaked t-shirt by the collar, slopping it on the ground. in the two months they've been apart, danny hasn't changed at all: still a solid and broad piece of meat, john's moody slut with his tattoos and piercings and chubbed-up dick behind his denim fly, ready to fuck or kill on command. he kisses john again, harder. sticks his bloodied front to john's front, stamping his shirt possessively, naughtily. like all of danny's bones are his, so is all his blood. take it. he can't bear the thought that no one here knows who he really belongs to. )
I kept the knife and collar, even when I was so fuckin' mad at you for leaving us. ( he's still mad, he thinks. sometimes danny can't tell where his rage ends and the rest of him starts. he greedily palms john's hips, his firm ass. ) So I don't give a fuck. I don't care. I'm yours, ain't I?