( there are things danny knows he needs to confess, and things that he's sure john already knows as he glides his fingers into danny's meat, butcherer and protector and keeper of danny's body. still, a rotten temptation: what if he just never confessed? always that slithering snake in god's garden, believing he can pull one over on his father; not because he can because he certainly can't, but because danny might take a knife to his throat all over again right in front of him if he rejects him, turns him away for his sins.
he missed him. living in a universe where john doesn't love or want him is an unbearable thought, as close as anyone has ever come to torturing him. god's most wicked son has nightmares, too, but they only take one shape, and it's not the grotesque horror of john's hand being where john's hand should never be. john's hand should always be inside him. john's hand should always love him just like this, by gutting out his ugly insides and growing them into something prettier.
instead of a scream, smothered into the cradle of john's shoulder closest to his neck: ) I love you.
( his fist scrunches john's shirt, clenched tight over the small of his back. he latches mouth and teeth onto his throat and nurses the skin like he's milking a tit, through the trembling shock of this intrusion. danny's brain knows it belongs to him, but the body is a slow learner. )
I'm sorry. I — fuck ( strangled, lodged in his throat ), I really am, John, I'm sorry.
( for all the ways he continued to disappoint him after he left, for not having house and jem in tow. he scrubs his weepy eyes over john's beard and licks away what sparkles in the prickly thatch, hips riding up john's thigh for support, draped over him close but not so close that he can't spy on everything john is doing. he prods a few fingers at his new hole and resists a second rotten temptation to slide them in there next to john's fingers, letting his daddy do his good work uninhibited. )
no subject
he missed him. living in a universe where john doesn't love or want him is an unbearable thought, as close as anyone has ever come to torturing him. god's most wicked son has nightmares, too, but they only take one shape, and it's not the grotesque horror of john's hand being where john's hand should never be. john's hand should always be inside him. john's hand should always love him just like this, by gutting out his ugly insides and growing them into something prettier.
instead of a scream, smothered into the cradle of john's shoulder closest to his neck: ) I love you.
( his fist scrunches john's shirt, clenched tight over the small of his back. he latches mouth and teeth onto his throat and nurses the skin like he's milking a tit, through the trembling shock of this intrusion. danny's brain knows it belongs to him, but the body is a slow learner. )
I'm sorry. I — fuck ( strangled, lodged in his throat ), I really am, John, I'm sorry.
( for all the ways he continued to disappoint him after he left, for not having house and jem in tow. he scrubs his weepy eyes over john's beard and licks away what sparkles in the prickly thatch, hips riding up john's thigh for support, draped over him close but not so close that he can't spy on everything john is doing. he prods a few fingers at his new hole and resists a second rotten temptation to slide them in there next to john's fingers, letting his daddy do his good work uninhibited. )