( danny figures that must be some kind of right, because isn't that what the entity wanted? suffering, but only delivered to her mouth drenched in fear, her favorite condiment. danny's not afraid to die, never has been. danny's afraid of never being able to die again.
the secret is a little harder — not because he has none, but because he has too many. danny thinks about it as he watches luci work. when i was seventeen, i killed my daddy is always a good one, a real killjoy at parties. i dream about fucking my daddy is, too, or the more recent i murdered my boyfriend. there's no winning in a game of horrifying secret chicken against danny johnson, usually, except when you're playing chicken against the literal devil. luci has shy eyes, but danny guesses it's an act. the king cobra doesn't need to prove that it's a fucking king to a rattlesnake; it just is.
blood rolls down his arm and siphons off his fingertips, hitting the pavement with a rhythmic plip in threes. his eyes jerk, following a shard of pink-orange evening sunlight onto the crown of luci's dark head. he's bleeding. has he been bleeding this whole time, on his back where danny couldn't see? is it the magic? does he sweat blood like john?
his blood-slippery fingers graze luci's collar, then the first few vertebrae of his spine. he smears his blood and luci's both into his gums, and says, monotonously, ) You look like my father.
cw: incest, patricide
the secret is a little harder — not because he has none, but because he has too many. danny thinks about it as he watches luci work. when i was seventeen, i killed my daddy is always a good one, a real killjoy at parties. i dream about fucking my daddy is, too, or the more recent i murdered my boyfriend. there's no winning in a game of horrifying secret chicken against danny johnson, usually, except when you're playing chicken against the literal devil. luci has shy eyes, but danny guesses it's an act. the king cobra doesn't need to prove that it's a fucking king to a rattlesnake; it just is.
blood rolls down his arm and siphons off his fingertips, hitting the pavement with a rhythmic plip in threes. his eyes jerk, following a shard of pink-orange evening sunlight onto the crown of luci's dark head. he's bleeding. has he been bleeding this whole time, on his back where danny couldn't see? is it the magic? does he sweat blood like john?
his blood-slippery fingers graze luci's collar, then the first few vertebrae of his spine. he smears his blood and luci's both into his gums, and says, monotonously, ) You look like my father.
( one of them, anyway. his secret. )