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( that just leaves him with more questions, like: how did she come back the first time? did she come back the second time? but when a lady asks you a question, you answer. danny's mama lived long enough to teach him that much, at least, before she choked on her own vomit in a gas station bathroom off i-80. )

I like it slow.

( romantic. indulgent. danny sighs into jem's sweaty nape and rocks his hips once, leisurely. )

Last place I was at — before this place, I mean — I killed my boyfriend. Pretended to be something I wasn't for six months, then took him out into the woods one early morning and Old Yellered him. He cried.

( danny cried, too, in the aftermath. dug him a grave and laid with him, humped his fucking corpse until he came in his trousers. )

That's probably the most fucked up thing I've ever done, and I did it 'cause I loved him.

Loved him so much you didn't want to lie to him?

( most people would probably argue danny isn't capable of love. it seems the general consensus on sociopaths.

regardless, it's a for purely egotistical reasons that parisa is more or less at ease with that admission. things she knows: it's easy to kill, would probably be easy to keep finding bodies if that was a particular itch you needed to scratch, a deadly void you needed filled. death could mean absolutely nothing, in the grand scheme — but at least danny makes it a point to make it special, when he loves someone enough, when it counts. letting out an oof sound, parisa takes a seat on the stone banister, back pressed against the wall, one leg dangling above 18th century stone, the other above foggy, misted oblivion. her hand goes back in her panties, fingers pressed up against her cunt. )

Is the mask because you're ashamed? ( her fingerpads rub in light, gentle circles around her clit. she pants into the phone's speaker, unsubtle. ) Or is it purely tactical?

Edited 2024-08-15 14:00 (UTC)

Nah, the lying is the easiest bit.

( it was the sharing, which danny couldn't tolerate. it was the knowing quentin would never want or love him as he was, because he couldn't, because why would he, why would anyone, and most importantly why had that mattered at all when it hadn't mattered for the twenty-four, twenty-five years danny lived and breathed without quentin smith possessing one whole half of his mind. fuck, he hates him. fuck, he loves him more than he hates him, still, still, and he cried the day that he killed him but it wasn't because he was sorry, then, now, or ever. he's only sorry he didn't get to kill him twice, really nail the point home.

fuck, he misses him.

no time for that. no room for it, either, between jem throbbing warm and velvet on his dick and parisa panting warm and velvet in his ear. danny's a hateful fucking whore before he's a romantic. speaking of, breezily bald-faced: )

I really like attention. Like, a lot of attention. Must be the childhood trauma. ( he's not just any prolific serial killer; he's a serial killer with a narrative, the most insufferable kind of serial killer. he drops his phone into the crook of his shoulder and tucks it tight against his ear, freeing up his hand to skate under jem's t-shirt. ) 'sides, the mask is kind of hot, right? You looked good in it.

( though danny suspects she'd look good in absolutely anything, and just as prepared to let you know it. )

( parisa huffs out a chilly laugh, her breath fogging in front of her face. ) I like attention. Childhood trauma.

( she'd certainly rather have nothing in common with danny. unfortunately, her wry amusement won't let her see anything but the places where she mirrors and matches a blatant, and not at all apologetic murderer. what does any of that say about her? nothing good, probably, but then she doesn't consider herself a good person — doesn't live in a world where "good" is a binary you fit into or sit outside of. )

I didn't realize it — belonged to a scary killer. ( she pushes her fingers inside her. wishes she had the foresight to bring a dildo out here or, failing that, wake embry up to act the part. of course, she could always go inside — but then she wouldn't have the death threat of falling twisting her insides, making her hot. ) I thought it was a kink thing. I liked wearing it. ( moaning thoughtfully, ) You should wear it for me sometime.

ic inbox.

cw: parental death mention, necrophilia

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