( there's that first thorn, broken bird bone wings pricking danny like something alive and summoning a hot gush of blood onto his tongue that he spits into one of luci's holes. he knuckles the glob of blood and saliva deeper into him, past his severed flesh into his wet meat, and cuts himself again, right on his ring finger. oh, if he lifted his chin a little, put his cheek against luci's spine, and waited patiently like a good little boy, he could just bleed the fuck out in short order. you can't make broken little boys whole again, no matter how much you feed them. you can't give danny something sharp.

he puts his mouth over luci's jagged wingbone and sucks like he'd suck on a fat cockhead, trading cum for marrow. when he moans, it comes out garbled, muffled into luci's hollow parts, his tongue full and blood-boarded, his little human face cunt-slick. he knocks his chubby dick against luci's hip — flinches, as luci takes his hand. don't, he nearly says. i'm not made for things like that.

his hand turns under luci's fingers and cinches, dragging him by the wrist between his thighs, making him palm his own dick through his basketball shorts. does the devil get hard? )

You make deals, right? ( or is that like an underling's job? making deals for the devil? danny never claimed to be an expert in this shit. either way, sluggishly, talking with his mouth full: ) Get me a knife, a real knife and not, like, a fuckin' steak or butter knife. I'll give you my name for a knife.

( a trade. he's made this trade before. it was a good trade then, and it's a good trade now. )