Work Header

if it means a lot to you

Work Text:

In your last moments, you think of him.

The world surrounding your motionless body is burning, screams and dark clouds made of smoke and shattered dreams rise towards the heavens, the smell of fire and blood and death is a most familiar companion, the woman you failed to protect-the woman you’ve shared intimate, tender and hidden moments with -is lying close to you still, still in danger of the same hands that are leaving you bloodied and numb, the few vestiges of consciousness you have left are starting to fade into the black void of oblivion that is pulling at you vehemently, you can’t even hear your thoughts properly anymore and-


You think of him, you think of the first time you saw him, lying unconscious on the side of the road. Bad Angel  was the name they’d baptize him with later, because even asleep (eyes closed, mouth relaxed, no twist of anger, no sign of rage, just a peaceful visage) he looked like the enemy, he looked threatening, he looked every bit as the kind of man they ought to despise and dishonor. But you didn’t see that, the threat of the danger, you couldn’t see what they saw that day. At least, not at first. Too entranced were you by his large size, by the strange but beautiful dark skin-unfamiliar, tempting skin you wished to press cracked lips upon- which seemed to glimmer under the bleak rays of sunlight, the attractive curve of his mouth, the strong, rugged and handsome features of his face and the shiny smooth looking strands of ebony hair splayed around his head like spilled ink, to notice the death sentence written on him.

It was madness, it was insanity, it was a sickness that overcame you when you laid unsuspecting eyes on his silhouette that day. It was right then and there that you came to discover a myriad of hungers that had been resting within you, untouched and unrealized until a sea of cold grey that reminded you of early mornings in London met your intrigued stare. Appetites you had never known you possessed were awakened the moment he spoke, and again you thought you had never felt so much heat inside you, warmth so strong that for a while thoughts of blond hair and frail figures were forgotten entirely.

Oh, how he drew you in. Like a moth to a flame. (And like a moth to a flame, you keep returning to him, over and over, even in your last moments, despite knowing what happens to those that become intimate with fire).

Inflamed by this sudden need he aroused, you felt compelled to take one lock of silky black hair with you. You remember it, feeling the soft strands between your feverish fingers, imagining what it would be actually like to touch the ones still firmly attached to his head. You remember the simmering guilt in the pit of your stomach, for you began craving for what you should not, started preferring that which you had despised in what seemed to be now another life: fantasies of his figure, so much broader and bigger than yours, enveloping your body, pushing you down, a communion of his flesh with your flesh, the contrast between fair and tawny as he pushed into you and you pushed back to meet him in the middle, his moans entwining with your own… Often were the times where instead of focusing on kind, blue orbs, you could only fantasize about those strong and calloused hands pushing your thighs apart, his voice rough with pleasure on the shell of your ear and his thickness filling your insides in the most deliciously painful of ways.

In your last moments, you think of his beautiful face morphing into a mask of hatred, the glimmer in his eyes promising threats of murder, the palms that had handled you so tenderly turning into weapons of destruction. His shy, hopeful smile and the sanguine shard of glass, with letters engraved in it as a last resort at defiance, held in his hands, and the maddening beat of your heart as you smiled back, said in the voice of someone who cannot help being mesmerized by wild beasts “What shall I do with you, Prince Rupert?”.

 As every semblance of light starts to fade you think of his voice, raspy and throaty as if he couldn’t breathe, of his kisses on your naked skin, of the nights spent together entwined on your bed. The very first time he barged inside your room, licked the trails of tears from your cheeks and took his first taste of your mouth. The wild look on his face, the desperate confession of a man driven mad with passion lying on top of the sheets, a loud thump thump echoing in your ears as you locked the door and he grabbed you by the waist and finally consummated that which had been brewing since your very first meeting. His laugh, rusty, the type of laugh that only comes out of those who are not used to making that kind of sound and is the more enchanting and beautiful for it.

Your life, synthesized in those raw and fleeting moments where he made your heart burn like no other person ever has.

And with your last dying breath, you allow his name to revive in your lips.