( certainly this is not so unlike eve and the apple, though danny's already got an apple. maybe the tree of knowledge was just lucifer's bare back, tufted feathers like beckoning branches tempting anyone with eyes to come closer and take a little lick of his gold tinsel tree sap. yes, he wants more. what starved child wouldn't? not for the first time, he wonders: who put the snake in the fucking tree? the snake is just a snake. god is god.
he'd never gotten around to asking john. maybe he'll ask luci later, if he remembers. there's only one right answer, anyway. )
You're pretty, ( isn't a sufficient enough compliment for what he's looking at, but it's what comes out of danny's gold-glossy mouth, dull and wondering. it's something you'd say to a girl when you've got your face between her thighs, mumbled around her pink cunt. danny's good at making cunts out of nothing, so he'll pretend that's what the gouges in luci's back are, cunts for his tongue.
danny's a leggy menace of a brick shithouse in all black, but he's cat-quiet as he steps behind luci, taking stock of what he's been given. should he bow his head and say grace? maybe not. his fingers touch his middle spine first and irreverently play this little piggy went to market with each vertebra, painting lines on luci's back in danny's own sticky, red blood — two dots and a lazy swoop, a little smiley-face between his would-be wings.
he licks his nape, then a feather. then he goes right for the source, dipping his tongue in one waiting well, this injury-turned-cunt, this little piggy had blood and blood and blood. )
no subject
he'd never gotten around to asking john. maybe he'll ask luci later, if he remembers. there's only one right answer, anyway. )
You're pretty, ( isn't a sufficient enough compliment for what he's looking at, but it's what comes out of danny's gold-glossy mouth, dull and wondering. it's something you'd say to a girl when you've got your face between her thighs, mumbled around her pink cunt. danny's good at making cunts out of nothing, so he'll pretend that's what the gouges in luci's back are, cunts for his tongue.
danny's a leggy menace of a brick shithouse in all black, but he's cat-quiet as he steps behind luci, taking stock of what he's been given. should he bow his head and say grace? maybe not. his fingers touch his middle spine first and irreverently play this little piggy went to market with each vertebra, painting lines on luci's back in danny's own sticky, red blood — two dots and a lazy swoop, a little smiley-face between his would-be wings.
he licks his nape, then a feather. then he goes right for the source, dipping his tongue in one waiting well, this injury-turned-cunt, this little piggy had blood and blood and blood. )