The bedroom window is open. That’s her first mistake of the night.
Eve sleeps on her side and makes herself take up twice as much of the mattress as she might need. There’s a lamp on the side table, a pale and boring beige color that matches the plain coloring of the bedspread, Eve didn’t bother to untuck before falling asleep.
A book rests next to Eve’s head, pages fluttering in the slight breeze that comes through the window. The wind blows the sheer drapes in, a fluttering entrance that drags against Villanelle’s shoulders as she climbs through silently. Her black clothing makes Villanelle something like a shadow, cast on the wall, as she holds her breath to see if Eve will notice her presence in the room.
The night continues, time presses on, and Eve doesn’t stir. Villanelle lets herself inhale quietly through her nose. It flares, and she recognizes the smell in the air as distinctly Eve. Not just her perfume, but her laundry detergent - the dryer sheets she forgets to use every other wash.
Villanelle wants to exist in it. The aromas that fill her lungs. The dinner Eve cooked, the smell of her shower still fresh in the air coming from the bathroom. There’s a glass drained near Eve’s figure, only a ring of wine sitting at the bottom of its cup.
Her feet slip from her shoes; Leaves them by the window as her socks meet the plush carpet. Eve would like that. She likes to do what Eve would like. It is funny, trying to push different buttons than she is used to searching for. How many years has she been looking for the best ways to get deeper into someone’s mind to flay it from the inside?
But she does not want to cut up Eve’s brain into pieces beneath a blade or smash it like jelly on concrete. She does not need to. Because it is fascinating, to observe Eve’s thought process through her own actions and words. Villanelle doesn’t need to visually see the contents of the older woman’s skull because Eve is something more than the grey matter between her ears.
Polastri. Polastri. She isn’t fond of the man whose name Eve had taken, but it fits so nicely on her tongue when she says it out loud to herself for no reason other than to hear it. When she touches the scar on her stomach and wonders if, maybe, Eve wanted to see her insides, too.
She wants to show Eve she is also more than her firing nerves in her head. Carefully crafts her kills and waits to be noticed but she is impatient.
This approach seems more interesting, anyway.
The shorts on her are striped, and look soft. Villanelle wants to reach out and touch the curve of her ass underneath the satin material. It looks inviting. Welcomes her into the bedroom and she walks a few steps at a predatory pace; staring at Eve.
Maybe it is the wine keeping her asleep. The older woman snores lightly. It makes Villanelle’s lips quirk up. She steps and runs her fingers along the top of Eve’s dresser. There is makeup scattered, and Villanelle helps herself to apply lipgloss in the mirror. Behind her reflection, she stares through the polished surface at Eve on the bed.
She smells the nozzle of Eve’s hair spray. Would spritz the sticky product on her wrists but that would be loud and Villanelle cannot be loud yet.
Villanelle comes to the side of the mattress that hosts the least amount of Eve. Pretty, she thinks. Her hair is wet, and her lips are full and pouted against her pillow. Villanelle stands there and admires the woman for a long moment.
Gazes at her with her fingertips unfastening her belt.
The bulk of her dark cargo pants is guided to the floor all the way down, careful not to make noise as the leather and buckle meet the ground. Villanelle steps out of the material and leaves it xx there. The jacket on her shoulders is shrugged off, and she lets it hang on the foot post of the bed.
Villanelle climbs into bed beside Eve in a parody of domestic simplicity. Her muscles are tense under the fitted fabric of her white tank, trying to keep her weight from creaking the springs. She pulls her hair loose from its former low bun, letting blonde hair spill against the cool pillow.
The air is different laying down. A parallel to Paris. Villanelle glances to the side and checks on Eve’s sleep. Still deep, not minding the weight of another person in her bed. Is that what marriage does to you? Makes you soft, and underprepared.
A nice target for things that like to creep in the night. Second little mistake.
Villanelle’s eyes do not close, she keeps them on Eve’s resting face as her palm comes down between her own legs to press flatly over herself through her underwear. The cotton is warm under her touch.
Eve doesn’t waiver in her slumber. Villanelle admires the few places their bodies connect. Desperately seeks more of it. There are a few feelings Villanelle is sure she can feel; Lust, fear, and anger. Anger is important - It drives her on, and the fear keeps her from running off the deep end. Any person can pretend to be above the panic, but accepting is a different story.
Lust, on the other hand, can be tricky.
Controlling it is much like a beast shaking a cage; strong enough to bend the bars but unable to think of how to. Villanelle sighs as she lets herself relax into the bed. Her fingertips rub over her clit through her panties, the material thin and stretched over her center.
Villanelle turns her head and is hit in the face with Eve’s breath, still highlighted by toothpaste and bitter alcohol under the mint. She cannot help herself then, and her underwear slips against her the longer it goes on. The younger woman’s head starts to swim with a hazy lack of oxygen before she finally lets herself breathe too, afraid her own exhale will startle Eve.
The movement of pushing her underwear down her thighs, and then using her feet to kick it off her ankles, is a risky one. Villanelle takes the chance, considering how worth it the potential outcome will be.
She wonders if Eve woke up right now, if she stirred without opening her eyes, that she’d admire the ambrosial scent of Villanelle’s perfume laid against her side. If her wrist would flinch away instead of stay limp in Villanelle’s bold choice of grabbing it.
“ Eve,” Villanelle says silently, lips putting together the name but vocal cords keeping it from the room like a secret not ready to be revealed just yet. Just the weight of Eve’s hand against her bare skin makes a flush crawl up her chest - guided by Villanelle’s grasp as it drifts down over Eve’s knuckles to usher the older woman’s fingertips against her with more pressure.
She feels hot and wet against the side of Eve’s palm. A groan crawls out between her clenched teeth. Villanelle feels it bubble in her throat when Eve’s fingers twitch against her clit.
And Fuck if she isn’t getting too rash, directing Eve’s fingers lower and keeping them stiff with the brace of her own lined against the length of the older woman’s as she pushes them down and down.
“Mm,” Eve mumbles into her hair and it blends like honey and molasses with Villanelle’s whimper as she presses Eve’s pliable digits inside of herself. Sweet and thick in the heated moment, spilling out the contents of metaphorical glass mason jars that shatter with the confused sound that drops into the syrup.
Eve wakes and she manages to pull her fingers out halfway before Villanelle grips her wrists in a locked hold - keeping them inside herself as she squeezes her eyes tightly at the sudden feeling of the shifting dragging out, a stark contrast to the slow carefulness the evening’s been so far.
“What the...” Eve murmurs and her eyes blink at Villanelle’s dilated pupils as she takes in multiple factors all at once. Her thought process carries a gulp up her throat as she collects herself from the fog of sleep.
“Don’t,” Villanelle growls when Eve goes to tug her touch away, “Don’t do that.”
A flash of anger, darted right in the center of Villanelle’s glare as she turns into Eve’s figure as she feels the older woman start to move away.
“Stop it.” Villanelle’s free hand grabs her chin, cheeks indenting as her head’s held to the pillow. Villanelle uses her momentum to roll herself above Eve and keep her still. She doesn’t like Eve’s twisting, or her struggling hands trying to ruin the moment.
The blonde’s legs straddle Eve’s thigh and it lets her sit on her squirming hand. Two of Eve’s fingers find themselves curled up, inside of Villanelle and trapped between that or the muscle of her own leg.
Eve’s heart is racing. Running in her ears in a way that makes you wonder is this healthy? Are you supposed to feel your eyes water from the heat flooding your face?
Shock. It hits like a train with horns blaring silently and lights that shine off Villanelle’s hair as she flips it to the side. But there is no freight hauler in her bedroom; There’s Villanelle. Lit by the lamp at their side. Chest rising and falling from the effort to keep Eve from bucking her off.
Flushed and grinding down onto Eve’s fingers because the commotion of their struggle was shifting and jolting and Villanelle’s words come from her in a rush, “Aren’t you tired of playing pretend, Eve?”
Another rock of her pelvis, she rides Eve’s fingers without lifting her hips. Would rather chase friction with the cant of her hips than risk letting Eve’s fingers escape.
“You’re sick,” Eve chokes on it, gags on the speech filling her mouth, and tells herself it’s not because she can see Villanelle’s nipples through her top, “You need to stop.”
Villanelle whines and her face is dark and knowing and she stares into the abyss of Eve’s own blown eyes while reading each slight pull in her expression, “Do you want that, Eve?”
The air is thick, and her bedroom feels both uncomfortably warm but also unbearably cold where Villanelle does not touch her. Villanelle reads her like an open book, leaning down to breathe fire across her pages.
“Or is that what you should want?”
Villanelle reaches down and lets her fingertips touch her clit, her arm pushes her breasts together. Eve glances at her chest.
“Maybe,” Villanelle clicks her tongue and it feels so nice, the curl of Eve’s fingers slightly at the minor noise. Like a trained reaction that didn’t need to be taught, “ Maybe you need this. Someone to blame.”
Villanelle has played the bad guy so many times. She’s painted on the mask of villain before like the role is natural when showcased with her flair. She can do it again. Hold Eve down, give her someone to shoulder the burden of blame in the shitshow that Eve’s life became because -
“Tell me, Eve,” Villanelle asks, a question sparked in her mind as it rambles through thoughts. Her stomach feels simmering with warmth, “Is it easier to put my face on your demons than your own?”
Looking down at Eve, her damp hair fanned around her in a shadowed halo, Villanelle is reminded of the mirror earlier. Instead of glass reflecting her own image, she sees a familiar glint in Eve’s facial features. The false fear, the facade of panic.
“Get off of me,” Eve states.
Villanelle laughs at her; airy and light. The arousal pooling between her legs sparks down her legs framing Eve’s thigh.
“Would you have ever done this?” Villanelle asks and she truly wonders if Eve would have. How long it would have taken for them to fall into bed together. If either of them would have lived long enough to let it happen.
Villanelle sighs, “Doesn’t it feel good though?”
But no Eve isn’t dumb, and she isn’t coy. Eve Polastri glares up at every movement Villanelle partakes in. The swirl of her hips and her fingers dragging up from her clit, dragging up her tank top until her wet touch dips into the clevage of her own bra.
Villanelle pulls out the pink cardstock, the folded note creased carefully and now marked with her wet prints from her slick hold on it.
The small letter comes down to smooth out and open against Eve’s torso. The black ink is messy in the elegance of Eve’s handwriting as well as the sharp ends of it. Villanelle rocks on her leg. Eve tilts her chin up and looks… well,
The font starts to blot, black coloring smearing and paper crinkling as Villanelle chases the orgasm building behind her navel.
The paper falls down Eve’s side, landing face up on the bed and nearly slipping underneath her with the force of the younger woman’s rough riding. Though dimly lit, the characters aren’t marred enough to be unreadable.
Come take me. - E
“When you sent this to me,” Villanelle breaks up to inhale sharply, but otherwise her voice remains steady even as her motions pick up speed, “Did you think I was going to come running?”
Villanelle touches herself again, rubbing furiously fast against her herself with stiff fingertips, “When you left your windows o-open, did you picture me between your legs?”
Eve’s fingers flex, curling against Villanelle’s insides in a deep, undeniably addictive way.
“Eve,” Villanelle nearly moans the name, does moan it. Repeats herself three times before the rest of her question comes out, “Did you want my fingers in your pussy?”
The word makes Eve groan, and the sound shakes Villanelle’s thighs.
Fuck she’s going to come. There’s the build of her climax cresting in every nerve ending up from her toes. Villanelle can’t just stop though. Not with Eve inside her, Eve underneath her, Eve and all her flaws swept free from their prison under the rug.
“You cannot take without giving,” Villanelle needs it, so desperately. Her eyes want to flutter shut but she can’t stop staring at her. It fuels the stutter of Villanelle’s motion as she gets caught in the chase, in the prey below her.
“Without expecting the monster to take back.”
Eve’s eyes don’t narrow, but they relax from being so wide. The older woman looks the picture of impressed, tinted with the bitterness of being caught. She doesn’t say anything at first, but her fingers start to pump; it sends Villanelle leaning back into her heels to bite her own wrist.
“I thought about this,” Eve then amends, “I think about this.”
Her voice lowers, but also sounds so sure of herself it nearly knocks the wind out of Villanelle,
“All the time.”
She curls her fingers harder, rougher. Eve glares at Villanelle in the softest version of the word, no malice but a challenge nonetheless.
Villanelle doesn’t ask and Eve doesn’t tell but both of them know the exact moment the younger woman comes. Her muscles spasm and she pitches forward so quickly that Eve’s fast reflexes have to follow the sudden change through, keeping her fingers inside the other woman as she’s finally kissed.
Their teeth bump and their noses smash together. Villanelle gasps into Eve’s mouth and the older woman takes the chance to lick into the kiss. The skin of Villanelle’s inner thighs is slick, and a vulgar sound of wetness fills the room as Eve pushes her through it.
Villanelle’s head drops to Eve’s collarbone. She laughs against the line of Eve’s shirt. Giddy, satisfied. Her legs feel like they will not work if she tries to lean back up on her knees. Instead, she works her way down and her hairline feels damp with sweat as it drags on Eve’s stomach.
She sucks marks into the skin she passes, like waypoints.
Eve huffs, sides being tickled by Villanelle’s hair draping across her middle. Her fingers are still covered in come from being inside the blonde. She pops them into her mouth, sucking the two digits with a pop that makes Villanelle look up.
Her chin props almost painfully on Eve’s hipbone. Possibly, it would have hurt, but with her position and her breasts pressing against eve through her shorts - it doesn’t.
“Do I taste good?” Villanelle asks.
She’s so obviously fishing for the compliment. Eve won’t deny her it, but makes it clear, “Yes, wanna try?”
She offers the mostly cleaned fingers to Villanelle; the lewd scene of them pressing against the younger woman’s tongue makes her lower half throb. Villanelle hollows her cheeks and sucks until they’re taken away.
“Mhm,” Villanelle agrees. She likes the taste, and she can still feel Eve’s kiss tingling on her lips. She wants to feel more of Eve, all over her face.
Her palms fit between Eve and the mattress to soothe a long curve over Eve’s ass, lifting it in the air, and the position plants Eve’s feet into the bed as Villanelle only gets her shorts down to her ankles before meeting her center with a long, flatten stroke of an eager tongue.
“Shit,” Eve pants.
Villanelle smirks into her. Eve feels it. Tugs on her hair and urges more. More everything. The sound of Villanelle going down on her is it’s own language; and Villanelle is something of a gifted student, regarding those.
She sucks and she flicks; Villanelle’s lips seal and pop in the right places at the right times. When she finds the spot that makes Eve say her name she stays there.
A voice in her head chants - say it again.
Eve’s thighs hold tightly against the sides of Villanelle’s face. Her hips raised off the bed, meeting Villanelle’s mouth as she searches for an orgasm on the tongue she’d laid her fingers against a handful of minutes ago.
Villanelle hums, proud of herself, and the vibrations are what start the effect of her climax charging through her. Eve comes like a bolt of lightning, striking in the way her legs cross at the knees and lock behind Villanelle’s neck to keep her where she is.
Eve moans nothing like a name or a word but an opening act to a long-delayed show. She holds so tightly to Villanelle’s hair her knuckles turn white. Just when she’s feeling it tip over into the tail-end of her orgasm, there’s a quick and unexpected push of two slender fingers inside her.
Right under Villanelle’s chin, she looks delighted to be trapped between Eve’s thighs. Her hand up under her, fucking Eve at a rough and unmerciful pace.
One that gets her to yelp at first, and then she yells. Eve feels a flush of liquid spill from herself. She’s coming again, and the rapid turnover from her first makes the two bleed together.
When she finally uncrosses her legs and lets Villanelle sit back, she notices the amount of wetness coating the younger woman’s chest.
Her arm slings across her eyes, and she blinks against them. They feel hot, and her body buzzes with a comfortable sting of oversensitivity when Villanelle crawls back up her. Eve swallows, not minding the mess Villanelle’s making with her mess.
“You did,” Villanelle confirms, and she kisses Eve again as a sort of congratulations and job well done. Her hips tilt inward and Eve notices the searching.
Eve goes to offer her hand again, is stopped by Villanelle’s pushing it away.
“Again,” Villanelle commands, and she’s sitting up to readjust herself better between Eve’s spread legs, “You.”
It seems as if language does fail Villanelle, sometimes.
Eve hesitates, “I don’t know if I can.”
“What are you going to do?” There it is. That smile. Pulled up in the corners, that sparkles Villanelle’s eyes with mischief. The room feels like sex; hot and humid, with dampness clinging to both of them from sweat and other bodily fluids.
Villanelle’s lips graze Eve’s neck as she leans in to whisper below the older woman’s ear,
“Ask me to stop?”