you will feed us little deaths (killing eve | eve/villanelle)

[fiachairecht]

you will feed us little deaths. killing eve, eve/villanelle. on knives and voids for hearts. 1.2k words, rated e. for kartaylir in EAD birthday bash 2020.

"The problem with you," Villanelle says, and she taps the blunt of the knife's hilt against Eve's breastbone, da-dum da-dum da-dum like an earthquake of a heartbeat, "Is that you've got a big black hole in the middle of your chest."

Eve strains against her bonds, and the movement presses her tits all up against Villanelle's, shoves against her wrists, traps the knife all tight and hot between their bodies. Like something phallic, Villanelle would think, if she had any need for such boring comparisons. "You're one to talk about being heartless."

"I am!" Villanelle says brightly. Pats Eve's cheek with the hand not holding the knife, because her face is too pretty to mark up just yet. "Except I know I've not got one, and you're too busy pretending you do to do anything fun."

"This is fun to you?" Fake disbelief doesn't suit Eve, Villanelle thinks, certainly not when Eve is so busy squirming underneath her that she must be able to feel Villanelle hot and wet where she's sat straddling her thighs.

Villanelle reaches down, gropes between Eve's legs. Wet, too — soaking, even, and Eve squeals and clenches her thighs around Villanelle's hand, and oh, Villanelle thinks as Eve hisses something that's absolutely not disapproval, should've done this earlier—

"I'm not the only one having fun." Villanelle smirks, flips the knife around so the flat of the blade squishes down against Eve's nipples and presses the seam of Eve's jeans hard into her cunt. "You could have had this earlier, you know."

"Fuck you," Eve says, and, boring, Villanelle thinks, the same retort every captive has, like Eve's reciting from a book and not pulling words out from that pretty void she still tries to call a heart.

"No," Villanelle says, and then, "Not yet," because she wants to fill Eve all up, all the empty space inside her jammed full of fingers and knives and maybe some of the toys Eve keeps hidden in the drawer under all her panties — the ones Villanelle's sent her, obviously, not the old ones that'd been god knew where, only the best for Eve. "Earn it," because giving's more fun than receiving, but forcing Eve to get over herself and give, take, whatever fucking Villanelle would be to her, that's fun, too.

She leans back, just a bit, and she loses the pressure of Eve's tits but she has enough space to slice open the shirt, the clatter of the buttons not hiding Eve's dismayed moan. Almost slices the bra, too, but: no, it's one of hers, purple silk and skimpy, and, fuck, Eve doesn't even know how hungry that gaping wound under her ribs is, does she?

Villanelle unclasps the bra, one-handed and deft except for how the motion digs the knife edge into Eve's chest. Hardly even a bite, except it's got Eve moaning again, thighs tightening, pressing against Villanelle's cunt just enough to remind her that there could be even more good fun later, if Eve earns it. "That's right," she says. "Big black hole right here where you stabbed me. Should I stab you back, and not fill it up with anything?" She leans forward again, her lips against the corner of Eve's mouth tender as Eve's skin, dipping open under the point of the knife. "We match, baby."

"You're fucking crazy," Eve says, but her eyes are wide and dark, shining with tears and arousal, bleeding out with the darkness buried inside her and Villanelle wants to cut her open more and more, see what else will fall out. See if she can crawl inside, if Eve will be brave enough to go after everything she wants, and everything Villanelle wants, which: was there ever a difference? 

Blood trickles down Eve's sternum, over the band of her bra. "Did you know knives hurt worse if you go slow? It's the opposite of sex, but better."

"I don't—" Eve's breath hitches, chest rising and falling to meet the knife as Villanelle pushes it further, further in. Villanelle's gaze drops down — how much would she have to move to fit her mouth over the wound? — "I don't think that's how anything works."

Villanelle settles for licking away the tears starting to spill over Eve's cheeks. The hole in her chest is widening: crimson-black nothing, and Eve screams as Villanelle pulls the knife back.

"Baby," she says. "It's not that deep."

But when she rests her free hand on Eve's chest in place of the knife it's wide enough for her to get a fingertip in — in to where Eve's slick all over, edges of the void so smooth: Villanelle's knife was too sharp for anything else. "Oh," Villanelle's eyes widen in mock surprise. "Or maybe it is. Maybe it's — oh, there's nothing inside you, is there, but there could be—"

She shifts on Eve's legs, the pulse of her cunt throbbing in time with the beating of Eve's heart, every one squeezing just a bit more blood out. Maybe she should have gotten naked too, her clothes are going to be ruined after this, but—

"You can't put the blood back," Eve says, and she's sobbing, the muscles of her abdomen contracting as she tries to curl around the hole in her chest, "I tried, with you, and it doesn't work, why doesn't it—"

"Oh, shh, shh." Villanelle brushes Eve's hair back from her face, from those glassy empty eyes, and gives her a proper kiss: soothing, it's only Eve's second time and she's — Villanelle's learning, now, good, Eve makes her want it a bit, has made her find all sorts of things that her own empty galaxy of a soul had eaten up without her even realisng. "You don't need it. I'll give you everything you need."

"What the fuck — of course people fucking need blood, what the fuck is wrong with you, I — oh, god, it hurts—"

The edge of hysteria is a surprise, but Villanelle looks down, to where Eve's bleeding all over her hand, making a mess of their jeans, and, hm, a distraction? She prises Eve's fingers away from the arms of the chair and slips the knife into her hand — Eve's fingers are limp but she knows better than to let it fall.

She doesn't do anything else with it, either, but: two hands free, Villanelle can undo Eve's jeans and shove her hand inside, pinch roughly at her hard clit with bloody fingers and—

Yes, Villanelle thinks, her own cunt clenching in anticipation — finding nothing, wishing for the hilt of the knife, wishing for Eve and her pretty cuts and her empty heart to do something. "Big black hole in the middle of your chest," she whispers. "Big black hole just waiting for me."

"Always," Eve breathes, "Always just — fucking about you, isn't it, like I'm not—"

"Like you're everything," Villanelle says, and has it really taken her this long to figure it out? "You didn't let me finish last time, baby, I'm not gonna do the same to you."

Eve laughs, a terrible, breathless thing that spikes straight into Villanelle's cunt, and she grinds down on Eve's thigh, rubs at her clit with a knuckle that never knew how to be gentle. "Why the fuck," she starts, and then Villanelle twists her fingers, drags a nail against the sensitive skin of her outer lips and Eve keens, bloody, aching, all Villanelle's.

"Because," she says. "Opposite, and better. You and me, hm? You and me and the knife, it's all we're even gonna need."

"Fucking crazy," Eve repeats, but she's coming against Villanelle's hand anyway, hot, slick and perfect.