Fic: love me dead [The Borgias; Lucrezia/Alfonso of Naples
Title: love me dead
Word Count: ~500
Fandom/Characters: The Borgias; Lucrezia Borgia/Alfonso of Naples
Rating: T (for references to blood and murder)
Disclaimer: The Borgias does not belong to me, it just killed the wrong damn character.
Summary: He can't look away. [Alfonso/Lucrezia serial killers au]
Note: Prompted by machiavelliss on tumblr.
Alternative sites: AO3 | FFN | Tumblr
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She walks into the bar and it's like sunlight walking into midnight; she must have caught it in her hair, pulled from the morning sky and woven into each strand and-
He's waxing poetic and he hasn't even gotten past her hair yet, she hasn't even gotten out of the door yet; that can't be a good sign. He turns back to his scotch and his lonely corner of the bar and resigns himself firmly to another cold night.
Suddenly there's the heat of a warm body beside him, not quite touching. He jerks slightly, eyes wide.
"I'll have what he's having." A crook of the wrist, a curve of the lips, a subtle side-ways glance; already he can't look away.
"Lucrezia."
"Eh?" He'd smack himself if it wouldn't make him look even more ridiculous, a lowly mortal gaping at a goddess. (The poetics, they persist--a veritable cascade.)
"Lucrezia. My name. If you wanted to know."
"Yes. I mean. I did want to know. I mean." Would that he could cut out his own tongue. "I'm Alfonso."
"Alfonso," she repeats, as though tasting the contours of his name. He swallows convulsively, takes a sloppy gulp of his drink. "What a fine name. Tell me, Alfonso, did you come by it honestly?"
He thinks she is teasing him by the quirk of her mouth, but he finds it hard to trust anything his eyes are telling him right now. He hopes she is teasing him. (Smile, you fool.) "As honestly as a dishonest man can." Oooh, how clever he sounded just then. He hopes she thinks he is clever.
She smiles like a secret. Maybe that's a yes.
"Oh Alfonso," she hums; a shiver races up and down his spine, fire and lightning and desire not to be denied. "We are going to get along so well, I can tell already." She brings her glass to her lips, tipping her head back. His eyes follow the lines of her pale throat as it works. (He is almost positive that the woman beside him is very, very dangerous.)
He can't look away.
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Later:
"Oh, I have so much to show you!" She tugs on his hand, pulls him from the bar out into the chill, dark night, hair glowing in the moonlight, her lips red and her eyes just for him. (Her eyes promise wonders.)
He can't look away.
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Much later:
"I just knew we'd get along swimmingly, darling." She pulls him to her before he can think too long--kisses him breathless, senseless, careless and wild and free, the only warm thing in this cold cold world. Then she spins away, dancing with fierce joy beneath the trees and the wind and the stars. (Her hands leave red red stains on his shirt. He'll have to burn it tomorrow.)
He can't look away.