[ the cold is unbearable. Villanelle can’t remember even the chill of Moscow winter being as penetrating as this. Straight to the bone, like flesh doesn’t mean a thing. Her fancy fur coat, the one with the mole skin finish with large clumps of rabbit fur trimming the inside, cuffs and neck. It looked so good. Especially with a sharp pair of cat eyed sunglasses embedded with rhinestones. But she lost that ages ago. Somewhere between Prague and Dresden, certainly worlds away from this little shit hole.
So when the matches show up, everywhere, with her real name scrawled on a tiny note, she stares at it for just a moment before finally picking it up. Muttering “stalker” under her breath she flips it over to do a quick check under the lid and bottom for any laughable attempt of some sort of booby trap before she slides it open. ]
Three? Are you kidding me? What the hell am I supposed to do with three?
[ she spots someone close by and gives a shout and snaps her unbelievably frozen fingers together to get their attention ]
Hey! Do you still have all yours? Hand them over and I’ll give you something good for it.
🔪 I MAKE SINS AND TRAGEDIES
possible cw: mentions of psychopathy, murder, gore, castration, suicide
[ She feels nothing. Always. She had admitted that to Eve, maybe even more to herself. Every hour that ticks by, leaving the stink of empty, the echo of it when the rustle of crepe paper of a new purchase or a shriek of someone begging for their lives is absent. The annoying reminder of what separates her from everyone else. It’s confronting her one and only true problem, really.
So the voice begins. She recognizes it. She’d recognize it anywhere. Anna’s voice. Soft, reassuring, terribly domestic in her complacent house wife way. It had burnt Villanelle with wild passion all the same. It’s Anna’s voice shrieking at her, accusations and denial. That made her feel something at the time. Anger mostly. Some people were so ungrateful, she had to learn that the hard way.
But Anna never retaliated. Would never follow. Would never run her blunt and sensibly trimmed nails down the side of Villanelle’s bedpost as she slept. That kind of torture was well beneath her.
This is something else. She is so used to dealing with things on her own. But she can’t get a glimpse of whoever it is. Let alone any information. This calls for drastic measures.
Finding the first sucker she can, she swaggers up to them. Bright smile with just the right touch of vulnerability. That old shtick ]
You wanna grab a drink? I’ve been stalked by a match box all this week. I’m pretty shaken up by it. Could use a little comfort, you know?
[ comfort or someone as insurance. Something is watching. Better to have two pairs of eyes than one, right? ]
( ooc; feel free to pm me to talk over any of the prompts! )
villanelle 🔪 killing eve
[ the cold is unbearable. Villanelle can’t remember even the chill of Moscow winter being as penetrating as this. Straight to the bone, like flesh doesn’t mean a thing. Her fancy fur coat, the one with the mole skin finish with large clumps of rabbit fur trimming the inside, cuffs and neck. It looked so good. Especially with a sharp pair of cat eyed sunglasses embedded with rhinestones. But she lost that ages ago. Somewhere between Prague and Dresden, certainly worlds away from this little shit hole.
So when the matches show up, everywhere, with her real name scrawled on a tiny note, she stares at it for just a moment before finally picking it up. Muttering “stalker” under her breath she flips it over to do a quick check under the lid and bottom for any laughable attempt of some sort of booby trap before she slides it open. ]
Three? Are you kidding me? What the hell am I supposed to do with three?
[ she spots someone close by and gives a shout and snaps her unbelievably frozen fingers together to get their attention ]
Hey! Do you still have all yours? Hand them over and I’ll give you something good for it.
🔪 I MAKE SINS AND TRAGEDIES
possible cw: mentions of psychopathy, murder, gore, castration, suicide
[ She feels nothing. Always. She had admitted that to Eve, maybe even more to herself. Every hour that ticks by, leaving the stink of empty, the echo of it when the rustle of crepe paper of a new purchase or a shriek of someone begging for their lives is absent. The annoying reminder of what separates her from everyone else. It’s confronting her one and only true problem, really.
So the voice begins. She recognizes it. She’d recognize it anywhere. Anna’s voice. Soft, reassuring, terribly domestic in her complacent house wife way. It had burnt Villanelle with wild passion all the same. It’s Anna’s voice shrieking at her, accusations and denial. That made her feel something at the time. Anger mostly. Some people were so ungrateful, she had to learn that the hard way.
But Anna never retaliated. Would never follow. Would never run her blunt and sensibly trimmed nails down the side of Villanelle’s bedpost as she slept. That kind of torture was well beneath her.
This is something else. She is so used to dealing with things on her own. But she can’t get a glimpse of whoever it is. Let alone any information. This calls for drastic measures.
Finding the first sucker she can, she swaggers up to them. Bright smile with just the right touch of vulnerability. That old shtick ]
You wanna grab a drink? I’ve been stalked by a match box all this week. I’m pretty shaken up by it. Could use a little comfort, you know?
[ comfort or someone as insurance. Something is watching. Better to have two pairs of eyes than one, right? ]
( ooc; feel free to pm me to talk over any of the prompts! )