Work Text:
Is it happening?
It’s happening. You think it’s happening. It’s almost certainly fucking happening.
Blood dripping down your throat and into your trembling hands, you’re not sure if the dizziness is caused by fear or want. Touch it, lick it, drink it up.
You growl, desire spilling out of your mouth like vomit.
You’ve slit many throats but she’s the only one to ever open up yours. You’re willing, you’re ready, you’re begging:
More
More
More
She’ll oblige, you know she will, she always does when she thinks it’s her idea.
Whatever you might’ve thought of her, she’s exceeded your expectations. Sure, you felt like you knew her from the moment you pointed that gun to your chin but not like this, never like this. This is something else entirely.
“Do it,” you told her and she didn’t waste a moment. Blade at your neck like it belonged there; like she’d been waiting for it.
Eyes dark. Visceral. Full of want; a desire to ruin.
This is your love language - she takes and you let her.
Take
Take
Take
She’s so good at that.
Movements precise, she drags it down. Just the tip. She knows what she’s doing, it’s not her first time. Paris was messy and impulsive. Tonight, she’s totally focused.
You drip for her. She’s hungry.
“Take that off.”
You pull your top over your head, sticky. It clings to you, wet fabric brushing against skin, leaving a trail of angry red in its wake. Almost romantic.
She wastes no time in unclasping your bra and pulling down your trousers. Fingertips dancing at the wound she made, she continues by caressing your body, painting your skin crimson. A false sense of security.
You wait, breathless. You know she’s taunting you, hands everywhere but where you need them most, and a shiny knife at your pulse point to keep you in place.
She’s playing.
She looks at you like you’re prey - fascinated and ready to kill. Starting with flesh raw from her handiwork, she licks up your neck and whispers:
“Delicious.”
All you can smell is blood and arousal and you’re not sure how much more of it you can take so you shove your own hand down to where you’re soaked for her - a brave move, you know. Dangerous.
You pull your glistening fingers up for her. A challenge. An offering. You want her to taste you.
She accepts your invitation, licking up and down, sucking, not wasting a single drop. You moan.
She grabs you by the neck, blood spilling through her fingers, and licks deep inside your throat. Tongue meeting tongue, you taste all you have to give her. It hurts.
Delicious, disgusting, deranged. God, you’re horny.
You grab her hair and pull her closer. Teeth clashing, mouths moving at a rapid pace, you can’t stop, you won’t stop, you want her to take your breath away too.
She promises salvation, total catharsis through devouring you whole. And does she ever.
You think you’re inside her while she’s inside you, perhaps it’s both or neither but you feel her everywhere. You want her. You are her?
She’s you
She’s you
She’s you
Fuck, she’s deep inside you.
She breaks your bones and uses them like toothpicks. Needles, probing at your flesh from the inside.
“Eve.”
You beg and she picks up her pace. She fucks like it’ll kill you and you realise you’re ready to go, any ideas of tenderness out the window. She’ll be the fault of your demise; you’ve known this for a while.
She’s cruel.
She pulls and twists and prods, scars your body and reaches for your heart all at once, and you break and fall and spill against her violent hands.
You’re wet all over. An ocean of want, just for her.
Catching your breath, you look at her. Her dark eyes are staring right back at you.
She doesn’t say it, she might never say it but you know.
Cruelty can be love if you let it.