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nice and nasty

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Villanelle masturbates about Eve a lot.

Villanelle masturbates a lot. That’s another aspect of her luxurious existence, her life of couture and champagne, silk robes on antique couches and fingering herself whenever the mood strikes. Even when she’s with other people, she’s masturbating. It’s a snake eating its own tail, it’s a bowl of truffle pasta with gold leaf, it’s clicking buy now instead of add to cart. It’s conspicuous consumption and unbridled lushness, it’s something she has that most people wouldn’t even think to give to themselves.

But Eve is different. Eve is barreling down a road marked dead end and waiting for the impact. Villanelle has put knives and needles and bullets into so many people, but it’s only Eve she wants to do it to over and over again.

Villanelle thinks of Eve on the point of a knife. She thinks of Eve’s back against the wall. She thinks of the wet little tremble of Eve in a tight dress that Villanelle chose for her. She thinks about how she knew Eve was throbbing then, that she was so hot with it she hurt, that her pussy became the nexus of fear and whatever was on the other side of fear, the word Eve kept between the lines. Want.

Villanelle gets off about that a lot. Bored with a French boy underneath her. Bored with two women battling it out between her thighs. But inside her head a rich tapestry of dark curls and terror. She wonders if Eve would get on the floor and crawl if Villanelle told her to. She wonders if Eve would let Villanelle tie her hands, pulse wild in her throat, if she would hurt herself trying to get out of the bindings. Villanelle would use silk scarves.

No. She would use rope.

She gets off with Eve in her ear. Billie tucks herself into bedding nicer than anything even Villanelle owns, which is annoying, and she’s very still because of the cameras. She’s very still because normally she isn’t, normally she doesn’t care, but Eve is a singular thing. The pink wig itches and Villanelle can’t hear anything, but she knows Eve is listening, that Eve is breathing with that little skip-stop hitch, that same one she does when Villanelle is holding a knife to her body. Villanelle slides one finger slow against herself and smiles a little, is less bothered about getting off than knowing Eve is listening to her get off.

She thinks Eve would get on the floor. She thinks Eve would allow for little scrapes and slices, little bits of sharp tenderness. Eve would accept big showy bruises, the kind that hurt all over again when you put your finger against their pulsing centers. Like Villanelle has her little pet, her scar, the soft spot where Eve stabbed her.

(And then Villanelle thinks —

Wearing Billie’s clothes in some asshole’s borrowed bed, Villanelle thinks that maybe she would get on the floor and crawl if Eve told her to. That she would bit her lip and smirk while she was bound or put in a cage, metaphorical or not, that she would listen just enough to show Eve she wanted to listen, right before she disobeyed. And she would take whatever retribution Eve had to give her. The disappointment, oh, she would eat it up. Eve could be so disappointed in Villanelle. Even though Eve knew, even though she always knew what she was getting herself into.

It’s so hard to find good disappointment these days.)

Villanelle fingers her scar with the hand that is not angled awkwardly between unmoving thighs. It isn’t exactly a scar yet but there are no stitches anymore, just skin trying very hard to hold together over the memory of splitting apart. She gasps when she touches it and feels the internal echo of Eve hearing her gasp. Now the circle is unraveling into a straight line, now she’s going somewhere. She tips her fingers slightly to press the filed edges of her nails into the ragged line of flesh. She lets her nails scrape over her clit. She knows that for Eve she would be good until she was bad, that she could make it so good until it gets so bad.

But she’s not there yet. She’s here in this shithead’s showy bed getting his pompous sheets all wet and she’s masturbating but she’s not alone, there’s Eve in her head, Eve somewhere in a bad hotel waiting on a word from Villanelle. Waiting to be told what to do. Waiting to be put into action. And it’s knowing how easily she can do that that makes Villanelle come, laughing to herself, hoping the camera can see her.

Depraved little beast.