Work Text:
It was the perfect evening.
Through the open window, past the curtains wafting from a gentle breeze, the sky bled beautiful and vibrant across the horizon. Night was approaching, swallowing the hues of sunset in its abyssal maw, glistening teeth of stars soon to shine.
As the sunlight faded (soft glow replaced by the harsh white of the streetlights outside) the humidity plaguing Sable's small bedroom faded with it. With it gone, the lazily lounging (for even with the open window it had been too hot and humid for any activity) couple were given reprieve, were finally given the chance to take advantage of their day off.
For Danny, that meant getting messy.
Hauling his sketchbook out and plopping into a well-worn beanbag chair in the corner, his charcoals (current preferred medium) and sketch pencils within arm's reach. He started sketching with nothing specific in mind, trusting that before long something would spark inspiration— especially once Sable was finally ready to begin recording her podcast.
Sable never failed to inspire him, but like this? Headphones nestled among messy hair; pale legs awkwardly criss-crossed with her knees poking out from under the arms of her computer chair, the look of deep concentration on her face highlighted by the artificial glow of her monitor... She was breathtaking.
Mind you, Danny always thought Sable was attractive, there was simply something about her like this. Dressed down in a tank top and sleep shorts; emotions so free on her face, relaxed and open for him to see every flaw and perfect imperfection. Her vulnerability, her faith and trust in him— how could he ever ask for a more graceful, more beautiful sight?
"Good evening fine listeners."
Sable's voice broke Danny out of his starry-eyed staring, and he ducked his head to return his attention back to his sketchbook. He wouldn't want to psyche her out by so blatantly reminding her of her physical audience, after all.
"Tonight, I'll be talking about the mysterious "Love Letter Murderer". Strap yourselves in folks, this one's not your average serial killer— and if you're triggered by stalking, this is your warning to stop listening now."
For her, Danny had tried to resist. Had kept his gaze firmly on the paper in his hands, refused to be swayed... But Sable's voice (the passion, the melodic lilt, how powerful she made her words) was a siren's song his valiant attempts crumbled beneath.
By the time Sable was describing the murders, voice low and hushed for both dramatic effect and respect for the dead, Danny was ensnared. His hands skimmed listlessly over his sketchbook; his eyes transfixed on the way Sable gestured as she spoke, his ears hearing her voice but not taking in her words. She was beautiful, ethereal even. Something not of this world, brought into his life to tempt him— tempt him into what, he wasn't sure, but he had fallen hard.
Fallen into fantasies, his thoughts consumed by her. Thoughts of date nights and cozy mornings in. Of her pale skin, how easily it would bruise, how beautiful it would look blooming purple in the shape of his handprints. Of her voice, lovely and serene— the sounds of her screams (of pleasure, of pain) beneath him (his hands, his knife).
Danny didn't hear his sketchbook clatter to the ground as he stood, abrupt and urgent like a man entranced. Sable (headphones on and engrossed with her podcast) didn't notice his approach, his presence looming behind her or his hands reaching towards her.
"— One of many unanswered questions about these killings, is 'were they crimes of passion?'— huh?"
Danny's fingers pushed against Sable's jaw, tilting her head back so she could see him standing behind her. Confusion flickered across her face, but before she could finish asking "What's up?" Danny leaned in and rendered her silent by melding his mouth against hers.
Sable gasped, but didn't draw away. For those few heartbeats, this blissful eternity, nothing but this precious first kiss existed in the world.
It couldn't last forever, though, and soon Sable was pulling away from his touch and removing her headphones— the soft, fond look on her face was one Danny would cherish.
"What brought this on?" She asked, voice as gentle as her expression.
Danny shrugged and settled his hands on her shoulders, thumbs idly rubbing circles into them. "You're just..." he waffled for words before settling on kissing her forehead. "So damn beautiful."
Sable’s hands rose and settled over his, giving them an affectionate squeeze. “Am I now?” The bemused tone of her voice made Danny kiss her cheek, something very much like love unfurling in his chest.
“You’re spectacular.” Another kiss to her cheek, causing her to laugh oh-so-sweetly. “Breathtaking, inspirational,” his kisses swept over her face and pressed against her jaw, “simply amazing.”
“My my~” Sable laughed and titled her head to give him more room at her throat. “Should I talk about murderers more—” she cut herself off with a strangled sound, flailing slightly as she pulled away from Danny “—I’m still recording!”
Danny laughed and leaned over her shoulder, watching as she fussed with her recording and adjusted her equipment. Like this, flustered and huffy and real, she was less a fantasy and more… A tether to reality. This was what he wanted. Laughter, tender touches, the trust in her eyes when she gazed up at him with his hands so close to her neck.
“—I think if I just re-record from here, it should be fine—”
Content, he rested his head against Sable’s, soaking in her presence, allowing the warmth in his chest to take root. Maybe it wasn’t a fairy tale first kiss, but he was no Prince, and Sable was a witch not a Princess. He may have been charmed, swayed by dark temptation, but just as she had unwittingly bewitched him she had brought him to the light again.
Like this, Danny affectionately by Sable’s side, their perfect evening faded into a domestic night in. When the yawns seemed to never stop, when eyes were more closed than open, the couple retreated to bed. Sleep came for them quickly, but while Sable’s was restful and calm, Danny’s was plagued by murky dreams.
Dreams of a sketchbook filled with haunting and grotesque images, each page a different depiction of him intimately and violently murdering his muse, his beloved. A voice, timeless and ancient, spoke to him in these dreams, commanding him to follow, guiding him to a fog so dark it was a misty abyss.
If it wasn’t for Sable’s voice, faint yet pure and pleading, calling for him, a beacon for him to find his way home to her… Who knows if morning’s light would have shone on him again.