if i loved you less i’d be alive
or, a bumbleby one-shot in the style of the show killing eve - spoilers for the s2 finale of killing eve (kinda, it’s been awhile since i’ve watched the finale so it might not be entirely accurate)
AO3 link
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Blake had been so close to her. Physically, mentally. Spiritually. Metaphysically. She’d invaded the cells of her skin and the oxygen of her blood and burrowed deep. And stayed there, like a beautiful cancer. She wanted to die from it, to pass on through the world like a faint breath and exist within whatever matter that she was contained by.
She knew that she wasn’t the only one.
“I’m on your mind,” she’d whispered in her ear, lips brushing against the hair of finest gold, and watched her shiver. Oh, she knew she was.
“I dream about you,” was Yang’s whispered reply. The words trembled, but her expression was fierce. Unwavering. Her lilac eyes glinted like steel. “I think about you all the time. What you eat. What you wear. What you think about. How fast your heart beats when you kill someone. How soft your hands are when they’re covered in blood.”
“Well,” Blake hummed, leaning back on her heels as a smirk played across her lips. Sanguine. “That last part is something you do know the answer to, is it not?”
Yang drifted forward, unconsciously following Blake’s gravity, as a memory flashed through her brain. A knife, covered blood, with barely any resistance. “Yes,” Yang replied, halting herself just shy of Blake’s golden eyes. “I stabbed you.”
Blake pouted teasingly, her bottom lip jutting out and drawing attention with its bold colour. “You didn’t do a very good job,” she said with a disapproving tisk. “I survived.”
Yang watched Blake bare a fang at her, and wondered what it would feel like to have it sink into her own lips. To have it draw blood. “It was… intoxicating,” Yang murmured, tracking her gaze down the column of Blake’s neck to her pulse point. The steady thrum of life was a hell of a thing - and Blake knew what it was like to snuff it out. And did so easily. Fascinating. “The danger. The… intimacy,” Yang husked, her palm drawing itself along on a red string towards the scar on Blake’s abdomen.
“You get used to it. When you’re paid,” Blake said matter-of-factly, turning her face so that she was cheek to cheek with Yang, mere millimeters apart from tangible warmth.
“Oh, no,” Yang disagreed. “I don’t think you do, Villanelle.”
“Please, why the formality Miss Xiao Long?” Blake growled, her mouth hot and open against the shell of Yang’s ear, her tongue nearly licking at her earlobe. “Afraid my name will humanize me?”
“Not at all Blake,” Yang said, brushing her thumb along the jagged scar that she had drawn not more than a few months ago. The subtle touch chased a chill down Blake’s spine, forcing her back a half-step. “I’m afraid to place myself on the same level as you. If we both have names, that means that there’s some part of me that can become you.”
“Afraid?” Blake scoffed, a disapproving frown tightening the corners of her lips. “Then it seems that I’ve misjudged you.”
“No,” Yang started, her grip tightening against Blake’s side, fabric riding up and baring the electric feel of skin against skin. “More than anything… I’m afraid of how much I’ll love it. Experiencing a small taste of your world has left me more alive than I’ve ever felt-”
“Then come with me!” Blake urged, grabbing onto Yang’s hand at her side and tugging forcefully, pulling their bodies flush against one another. “What life are you leaving behind? One that bores you - with a husband that could barely hold your attention and a job that left you daydreaming? Let’s escape together.”
Blake’s frantic grip burned where she dug in and it set Yang’s veins on fire. The inevitably of the thrill that Blake promised was addicting. And there was only so much resistance she could offer for her to play off of. If she gave in, let the inevitable climax of their game to reach its peak - to run away with Blake and, what? Spend Sunday mornings in bed like domestic partners? Make her coffee while she loaded up her arsenal for work that week? Kiss her goodbye and wonder which parts of her would be bruised the next time she saw her?
“No,” she said firmly, slipping her fingers out from Blake’s grasp with a sense of finality. It would all go away if she willingly gave up the role that she played in their Shakespearean tragedy. “I’m sorry, Blake. I don’t think I will.”
In that moment of denial, Blake pulled a gun on her. Her hand didn’t shake as she pointed it at Yang’s heart, her finger curling around the trigger, steady and unwavering. “I’ll shoot,” she said, emotionless on the surface. But Yang could feel the static of a twisting fabric of time, could feel the thrum of it igniting like gasoline. “Don’t even think about walking away from me, Yang!”
“I’m not thinking about it,” Yang replied coolly, watching the flames dance their way happily towards the gunpowder of Blake’s barrel. The ensuing explosion would be so beautiful to become engulfed in - and Yang had the final spark. “I’m doing it,” she finished, turning on her heel and walking away. Waiting for the reaction after playing her part so well.
But there was no scream, no dramatic shout of disbelief from the woman with a flair for theatrics that Yang had come to know as Blake Belladonna. Instead, there was a chilling silence. Yang managed three steps and, on her fourth, began to realize that she surely had misjudged the game they played - when a loud bang exploded behind her, cracking the sky in half.
Villanelle had shot. And she had shot to kill.
elliesgaymachete
