( the morning danny leaves and never comes back, he wakes long before quentin and seats himself at the foot of the bed to watch him sleep. quentin is a baroque kind of pretty, all dainty pink strokes and long ivory lines to danny's heavy shadows, this macabre and unapologetically morbid nightmare encroaching on quentin's idyllic sunset. danny's thumb plumps out quentin's cherubic bottom lip so he can spit on it. he rolls up the sleeve of his nightshirt to his elbow and traces out the grooves and wrinkles of the scar wrapped around his forearm like the tidiest of bows. he strokes his hair, his nose, fans out his eyelashes with one thumbnail, then takes his nightshirt by one greedy fistful and licks his little budding nipples into peaks, sucks an angry bruise onto the soft knotted swell of belly beneath his navel until quentin stirs, moans, nearly wakes. danny johnson is a murderer. danny johnson is a devout worshiper of this body and only this body. danny johnson loves quentin smith forever. danny johnson will find quentin smith again and again and again. that's a threat.
when he's gotten his fill, he picks up their flat for the last time, laces up his boots for the last time, shrugs on one of his many jackets for the last time and spreads another jacket over quentin's sleeping body, baby-soft leather collar tucked up under his chin. on the table nearest the door, he carefully sets out: a kettle of warmed tea for when quentin wakes up, a well-loved hunter's knife wrapped in its leather sheath and laid on top of danny's thigh holster, a custom-made medallion, and scrap of paper containing five words and five words only, no signature, pinned down by a thin braid of hair, black and blond, morbid nightmare meet idyllic sunset. this sun bites back.
he leaves his second pair of boots on the rug by the door, like he'll return for them later. one of his shirts hangs out to dry on the back of a chair beside the table, still damp. the door makes no sound when he closes it behind him, nor do his descending footsteps on the stairwell.
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july 12th? ish cw: mild somno
when he's gotten his fill, he picks up their flat for the last time, laces up his boots for the last time, shrugs on one of his many jackets for the last time and spreads another jacket over quentin's sleeping body, baby-soft leather collar tucked up under his chin. on the table nearest the door, he carefully sets out: a kettle of warmed tea for when quentin wakes up, a well-loved hunter's knife wrapped in its leather sheath and laid on top of danny's thigh holster, a custom-made medallion, and scrap of paper containing five words and five words only, no signature, pinned down by a thin braid of hair, black and blond, morbid nightmare meet idyllic sunset. this sun bites back.
he leaves his second pair of boots on the rug by the door, like he'll return for them later. one of his shirts hangs out to dry on the back of a chair beside the table, still damp. the door makes no sound when he closes it behind him, nor do his descending footsteps on the stairwell.
five words, no signature. just a, )
You'll always be my girl.