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thirst trap

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Eve is drunk when she downloads it. 


Later on she’ll tell herself that it was a joke, a gag to make fun of herself with her friends because no self-respecting 44-year-old woman seriously has an account on this fucking kids app.  


But the first problem is that 1) Eve doesn’t have any friends (ouch). 2) Since when has Eve given herself self respect (not since meeting her , at least)? 3) Eve really does have a TikTok account (not seriously, of course).


She’s not addicted or anything, it’s just a little bit of fun and maybe also, perhaps, to see what all the damn fuss was about. For weeks now, that’s all Bear has shown her, meme after meme, trend after trend, and an occasional cat video scattered in the mix for diversity’s sake. 


It was supposed to be innocent, that much Eve can swear on. She’s on her second glass of wine when she decides to bite the bullet, her fuzzy brain reasoning that it’s about time that she indulge in something that isn’t murder, or other self-destructive behaviors. 


Although at the time, Eve was trying to avoid a certain self-destructive behavior in particular. 


It’s been about three days since the bus incident. The one where Villanelle showed up out of fucking nowhere after shooting her , for Christ’s sake, and then had the audacity to be all suave and good looking - (like she always does, Eve’s subconscious supplants) - and then yes, Eve got pinned to a nasty bus seat and yes , Eve kissed her before bashing her skull into Villanelle’s. 


Her face fucking hurts


If anything, Eve will tell herself that this was all because she deserves something light, something to distract her hyper-sensitive brain from thoughts of blonde hair, the scent of designer perfume, and the pink heart on her nightstand that Eve 100% did not press until the early hours of the morning. 


What she didn’t expect however, was for her latest hobby to be so - well - dirty


It didn’t take long for whatever algorithm on the app to discover that Eve has been going through a sexuality crisis as of late, and deemed it necessary to place several consecutive videos - thirst traps, she learns - of lesbians onto her feed. 


Some of them are masculine in nature - all short hair and chains as they roughly chokeslam their camera into a wall. Others are more feminine - high heels, red lips and hooded eyes seducing an invisible viewer. And many have a refreshing mix of both that has Eve’s head spinning. Either way, she soon finds herself wide-eyed and slack jawed at half past midnight, watching a TikTok of an auburn haired woman whisper ‘on your knees’ to the camera as she flicks a riding crop into her hand over and over again. 


They are all very comfortable on this app, it seems. 


She watches in a haze as a short haired woman begins to sit down into a chair, audibly gasping as it transitions and flicks to said lesbian clad in a dark suit, shirt unbuttoned way too far down to be considered proper in contemporary society, as she crooks two fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion. 


They are insatiable, these people. They are insatiable, but Eve is hardly one to judge, which is exactly why she has taken a liking to said videos with a flurried double tap of her thumb. It’s supporting content creators, it’s supporting creativity, and who is Eve to deprive them of their proper recognition? 


It’s not to say that there aren’t wholesome videos, Eve has already seen a few starring happy couples snuggling under blankets, cooking together, - hell, renovating old RVs and living in the fucking desert


Eve makes sure to scroll quickly past those, however. She ignores the painful pang in her heart as she watches a girl trace patterns over her partner’s smooth, ebony skin as they wake up together in Alaska (because of course they live in Alaska, of all places), and how they curl into one another while soft music plays in the background. 


She especially ignores the tarot reading tiktok that predicts that her soulmate is tall, blonde, and has an unconventional career. 


Luckily enough, Eve scrolls past quickly enough to miss the back half of her ‘reading’ and ends back up onto the promiscuous side of her feed without much trouble. 


She’s just about to scroll past a more sub-par thirst trap, when she sees it


Eve slaps her phone face down onto the couch with an undignified gasp.




There’s no way. 


Eve’s actually lost her mind.


That little shit wouldn’t be that fucking stupid


Slowed bass reverberates out of the phone. 


It’s a bad idea. Even if Eve did see a strikingly familiar grey suit in the background, it doesn’t mean it’s her . This is exactly the reason why Eve needs to get out more, why she needs to just put her phone down and go to bed, because she is way too drunk and way too horny to properly process what she might see if she doesn’t. 


She looks at her phone, still faced down. 


The song repeats. 


Eve takes a long, deep breath.


She’s alone in her apartment, and no one is here to stop her. Just one more video, then she’ll go to bed, and she can forget that this ever happened. Besides, even if it is Villanelle, there’s no way for her to actually tell that it was Eve who watched it. Eve is grown. She can handle it, whatever it may be. 


She lifts the phone.


The opening shot is simple enough. A darkened room, deep bass, and the striking, oversized grey suit draped over an expensive looking armchair in the background. The room looks like it’s in a hotel - none that Eve would ever be able to afford, of course - before a transition, and a silhouette. 


It’s then that Eve realizes she’s made a mistake. 


It’s Villanelle. 


Eve knows it is because she would know those legs anywhere, those shoulders anywhere , and that goddamn cocky posture that makes Eve want to punch her in her stupid, perfect face. 


The phone in Villanelle’s hand hides said face though, the flash on the camera obscuring her features so that all Eve can see is her body from the neck down. To her surprise, Villanelle isn’t wearing her usual ostentatious clothing, instead clothed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. It’s out of character, jarring even (maybe a disguise?), and just as soon as Eve begins to process this new development, Villanelle threads her long fingers into the fabric of her shirt and pulls .


The bass drops, the video transitions, and the shirt disappears. 


Oh fuck


Villanelle is chiseled for the gods , shoulders taught as they flow into defined arms. Her hand flexes powerfully as she grips onto the shirt, and Eve wonders how many people she’s ended with it, a familiar warmth rushing between her thighs at the thought. Normally Eve would feel guilty, but it completely fizzles out when her eyes drop to the maroon lingerie brassiere that accentuates Villanelle’s breasts, and the rippling muscles of her abdomen that flex as the video transitions. 


Suddenly, the camera is face up on what seems to be a bed, and Villanelle, still not showing her face, crawls into frame with what Eve swears is a moan. All that’s in frame is Villanelle’s sharp collarbones, the very beginnings of cleavage and strong-looking shoulders, and Eve is absolutely breathless. Because she’s been in this position before, with Villanelle towering above her, her voice tracing over Eve’s lips. 


“Good girl,” Villanelle whispers in an American - no, Billie’s - accent.  


This is what could have been, Eve’s brain replacing their scuffle on the bus with hushed whispers, wandering hands, hot breath against Eve’s neck as Villanelle slams her down onto the mattress-


She double taps. 




Oh no.




Eve looks at the red heart at the side of the screen in horror. 


She didn’t mean to do that.


She did not mean to do that.


Because Eve Polastri just accidentally liked an assassin’s thirst trap (an assassin that has tried to kill her, no less), and holy shit that means that Villanelle will know even if Eve unlikes the damned thing. She’s probably getting the notification now, a smile curling across her smug little face, and the mere thought makes Eve burn in humiliation. 


She takes a breath, makes her way to the kitchen. 


And cracks open another bottle of wine.




Eve awakes to a persistent knocking at her door and a dull throb in her temples.


Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptaptaptap. 


Eve groans, prying her eyes open to fling her hand to the coffee table where her phone sits, her recovering shoulder screaming at the motion. Her neck is already starting to ache from her position on the rickety couch, and it creaks painfully as she presses her phone’s screen to check the time. 






It’s then that she sees the strings of texts underneath. 


“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” Eve breathes. 


Unknown: eve. 

Unknown: evvveeeeeeeeee.

Unknown: did you like my tiktok ;)

Unknown: my face hurts a lot by the way 

Unknown: you left a nasty bruise 

Unknown: but you liked my tiktok?

Unknown: you are so confusing

Unknown: i think i will come see you 

Unknown: you are still in london, yes?

Unknown: i am leaving now

Unknown: i am here

Unknown: eve open your door 

Unknown: i will kick it down 


A loud bang reverberates through the door. 


What a dick.


Eve’s eyes widen as she tosses her blanket off of her barely covered legs and stomps to the front door, her hand wrapping around the handle and swinging it open. 


“Villanelle I swear to god, if you break down this fucking door I will stab you so fucking hard-”


She stops her tirade when she sees the woman that has made an utter mockery of her life. 




She is statue-still, eyes as wide as saucers as her eyes flit from Eve’s face, to her exposed collarbones and legs. It lasts merely a second, maybe two, but Eve can already feel herself burn with it, as Villanelle’s gaze blazes trails across every inch of her skin. She is wearing the same clothes from the video, t-shirt hugging her frame in a way that accentuates the muscle of her arms, her chest. 


Eve thinks that Villanelle didn’t actually expect her to open the door, judging from the slightly incredulous look on her face. Her jaw clenches, loosening when her eyes finally work their way to Eve’s. A bruise has begun forming along her brow bone, the delicate skin of her eyelid marred with purple. Eve thinks it contrasts nicely with the gold in her eyes. 


They don’t speak for several seconds, a mirror image of their meeting on the bus. Except where there was once hot, blinding fury on Eve’s part, there’s only a thick, warm tension that threatens to swallow them both.


Villanelle licks her lips, her feet shuffling against the paper thin carpet as she dons an expression that Eve would almost consider uneasy. 


“Are you going to stab me again?” she asks, no trace of humor in her voice. 


It’s such a juxtaposition from the cocky “Hi Eve” of their last meeting, that Eve almost forgets to respond. 


She takes a shaky intake of air through her nose, squares her shoulders. 


“Depends,” Eve mutters. “Are you going to shoot me again?” 


Something flashes across Villanelle’s face, but before Eve can even begin to glimpse it, it disappears into the void. The assassin looks down, gathers herself by stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jeans before lifting her head with an intentional sort of pause. 


“No,” she says eventually, her eyes hued in pink, unusually bare and open looking. “I’m not.” 


For once, Eve doesn’t think it’s entirely bullshit. Villanelle has lied to her face before, in her old kitchen ( “I don’t want to do this anymore” ), Rome ("You saved me” ). But Villanelle has also been truthful, in her flat in London ( “I feel things when I’m with you” ), over a microphone at an AA meeting ( “I’m just so bored” ). 


Eve knows her well enough by now to recognize the slight wavers in Villanelle’s voice as unpracticed honesty, the almost invisible tremor in her left fingertips as nervous integrity. While Villanelle’s skills lie in her affinity for languages and her acute ability to kill, Eve’s lie in the fact that in times like these, she can read Villanelle like a fucking book.


Which is why Eve decides against her better judgement, moving aside and gesturing for Villanelle to come inside. 


“Is that really all I had to-” 


“Do it before I change my mind,” Eve snaps. 


Villanelle nods once, crossing the barrier into her apartment with only a hint of her usual swagger. Eve follows on her heels, closing the door with a swift smack that doesn’t startle Villanelle in the slightest. She’s already preoccupied with examining the wood grain of her countertop, gently fiddling with the loose end piece that Eve has been trying to glue back on for a week. 


“I didn’t notice this the first time I was here,” she muses, “If I had seen, I would’ve fixed it for you.” 


Eve huffs slightly through her nose, the action barely passing as a chuckle if that. 


“I didn’t peg you as the fixing type.” 


Villanelle chooses to ignore her comment, pacing around the small expanse of her kitchen like a lion in a cage, making her way to Eve’s couch where she picks up the haphazardly tossed blanket, her thumbs smoothing almost absently over the worn, soft material. 


“Sit,” Eve commands, folding her arms over her chest. 


The emotional and physical pain of the past months sits heavy in her chest, in her shoulder, but she tries her damndest to keep her face impassive despite it as Villanelle sighs and drops heavily into the seat of the couch. 


Her face betrays nothing, per usual.


Eve steels herself, and grips the skin of her forearms painfully as she formulates her thoughts that have sat weary in her brain for the past months. It’s hard, and makes Eve contemplate hitting her again like she did on the bus.  


“I hate you.” 


Villanelle raises an eyebrow, but remains silent. 


“You shot me. You fucking shot me and you left me for dead.” 


Villanelle’s eyes stay trained on her. 


“You shot me, you made me leave Hugo to come save you. You manipulated me, you lied to me. You made me think Raymond was going to kill you-” 


A hot prickling begins to form behind her eyes as a hard lump pushes into her throat. 


“You used me, you told me that you loved me-” 


Her eyes burn.


A single sob rears its ugly head.


Tears begin to leak from between Eve’s eyelids.


If it didn’t already hurt so much, she’d be embarrassed at herself.


Where the fuck is this even coming from? 


“And you left me there, Villanelle. You left me there, bleeding out, and all this time I’ve felt so fucking stupid-” 


She didn't plan this, she was supposed to be angry, supposed to scream and hurtle words like 'psychopath' and 'monster'  - but they don't come. 


Eve doesn’t notice when Villanelle stands, pushes closer into her space without a sound. Warm arms envelop around her back, pulling her into a tight embrace that makes Eve wonder when she was held like this last. She lets herself cry at that, tired and angry as her fists hit Villanelle’s chest. Villanelle only holds her closer, unaffected by Eve’s blows and resting her chin atop Eve’s curls with such tenderness that it makes her sob even harder.  


“I had to recover alone in that hospital, i-in fucking Rome, and half the time I didn’t even k-know what was happening-” 


Eve slams her knuckles weakly into Villanelle’s clavicle, her fingers resting against the fabric of her shirt before instinctively curling into a tight hold. She buries her head there, feels a twisting sort of resentment that she can still find comfort in Villanelle after everything she’s done - but can’t help the soft, fragile feeling in her chest grow when Villanelle’s hand slides to cover Eve’s hand over her own. 


Warm. Gentle. Everything that Villanelle isn’t supposed to be. 


“And then t-they sent me back here , and I’ve just been so bored . I spent m-months thinking you’d turn up, and you never did.” 


Villanelle nods, a sign that she’s still listening. She waits until Eve’s sobs subside, until they are reduced to gentle tears running down her cheeks and the occasional shake of her shoulders, before whispering into her ear. 


“I thought I had killed you,” she says, emotion thickening her accent. “I really thought I had done it, so much so that I would see you in my dreams. I tried so hard to forget about you, but you were always there.” 


She takes a great, heaving breath. 


“Konstantin told me you were alive, that you were in London. The bear was on purpose, the bus was a coincidence.”


Eve smiles at the thought of the stuffed bear, torn open and stuffed securely in her sheets. In addition to pressing the heart, Eve had pressed the toy to her nose, and swore she could smell the heavy aroma of Villanelle’s perfume. 


The very same perfume that she had worn on the bus, that she was wearing at this very moment.  


“And now?” Eve questions.


Villanelle chuckles, the sound reverberating dark and low in her chest.


“Now I’m wondering how you found my tiktok.”


Eve scoffs. 


“I can’t believe you did that, you absolute fuckhead,” Eve mutters. “Someone could trace you if you aren’t careful.” 


“Not someone, just you,” Villanelle answers matter-of-factly. 


Eve can’t tell if she hates or loves the way her heart somersaults inside her ribcage. 


She turns her gaze upwards into pools of gold. Villanelle’s face softens, and Eve already knows that she’s thinking, feeling , and that she’s still trying to work it all out in her infuriating, brillant head. Her mouth parts once, twice in an attempt to gather herself before saying it. 


“I can’t stop thinking about you, Eve.” 


Villanelle’s eyes begin to water. 


“I’m sor-” 


Eve reaches up to silence her apology with a swift hand and tries not to relish the softness of her mouth against the pads of her fingers.


“We haven’t apologized before, I don’t think we should start now,” Eve tells her.


Eve never said sorry for stabbing Villanelle. Villanelle never said sorry for killing Bill. It only makes sense that this too should follow the same unconventional formula. Eve has said everything she’s wanted, and yes, she’s still off-the-fucking-wall furious at Villanelle. But she’s also known since bleeding out in Rome - hell, since their first meeting in that bathroom - that she’s absolutely obsessed with her, unable to imagine her life without the chaos that clings to Villanelle like the metallic trousers she likes to wear.


“Okay,” Villanelle whispers back, her breath warm against Eve’s lips. 


Her eyes flick downwards, then up. 


A request for permission. 


Eve feels herself push a little more solidly against Villanelle’s form, reaching around her neck to push her fingers into thick blonde hair. She’s never seen it down like this, golden tresses loose and free. 


“I still hate you,” she mutters breathily, pressing her forehead to Villanelle’s. 


“I’ve missed you,” Villanelle responds sincerely, fingers pressing into Eve’s hips. 


“I think your stupid tiktok was shit.” 


“I think you’re just upset that you liked it.” 


Eve answers by crashing her lips into Villanelle’s. 


Their first kiss on the bus was fucking ass as far as kisses go. It had been nothing more than a dry press of lips, two pairs of eyes trained stiffly on one another as the gravity of it all laid heavy between them. It was spontaneous, unexpected. Something that only lasted a few seconds at most, but has wrecked what is left of Eve’s brain. 


This one plans to ruin her entirely. 


Villanelle’s lips move boldly across Eve’s, her tongue tracing lightly along her bottom lip before pristine white teeth sink into it. Eve feels herself moan into Villanelle’s mouth, her fingers gripping into the fabric of her shirt as she pushes herself flush against Villanelle’s front. 


She savors the surprised gasp that escapes Villanelle’s lips when they fall clumsily onto the couch, Eve clambering over her as they move with an increasing sense of urgency. Villanelle’s head collides with the arm of the couch, but she’s predictably unrelenting as she pushes her thigh between Eve’s legs as her hands flit across Eve’s hips, her back, her shoulders, toying with the ends of her hair as if they can’t decide where to land. Eve groans when they skit up her front, huffing impatiently before she literally takes matters into her own hands, grasping Villanelle’s and pressing them to her breasts. 


“Fuck Vill, just touch me-”


Villanelle gets the memo quickly. 


Eve whimpers desperately when she palms them roughly, squeezing through the thin material of her shirt. Braless, she feels the slight callousness of Villanelle’s hands, the frankly unreal length of her fingers, the underlying strength beneath the skin. She remembers the way they slit Aaron Peel’s throat with precision, and the memory makes her mouth slacken against Villanelle’s tongue, juxtaposing the rough grinds of her center against the assassin’s thigh. 


The friction isn’t enough, isn’t nearly enough, but succeeds in making her cunt throb with want, increasing the already copious amount of wetness between her thighs. Eve half worries that she’s leaving a mark on Villanelle’s leg, but it quickly dissipates when hands grip into her hips and aid in Eve’s frantic, ragged movements. 


“Eve, Eve- ” Villanelle gasps against her lips. “I want to put my mouth on you, taste you, anything, please- ” 


Eve can only nod - quickly, frantically - as she strips off her drenched shorts and underwear and tugging Villanelle farther down the couch before mounting her face, dripping center above her waiting mouth. 


She doesn’t want to think about Niko - poor, traumatized Niko - but how could she not when a literal goddess of a woman is actively putting him to shame? He would go down on her, sure, but never with the sheer vigor and enthusiasm of Villanelle Astankova. 


Eve groans as Villanelle licks a long, firm stripe along her folds. She pants and shamelessly grinds into her tongue, whining when the assassin takes her clit between her lips. Hands fly into silky hair, tugging in time with the strokes Villanelle lashes upon Eve’s center. Long fingers dig shamelessly into the muscle of her thighs, forcing a gasp from Eve’s lips as fingernails paint red half-moons into her skin. 


“Fuck - Vill, I - ” she chokes, her legs tightening dangerously around Villanelle’s temples, a building pressure in her core stifling her words. She’s on the cusp, mere seconds away from the sweetest sort of relief, when Villanelle detaches herself from Eve’s sopping cunt. 


“I swear to god Villanelle, I am not in the mood to be edged right now-” 


Eve," Villanelle stage whispers, grinning impishly. "So greedy , ow-! You pulled my hair!” she yelps, betrayed eyes peering from below. 


On any other day, Eve’s brain would call it cute. 


Today is not that day. 


She threads her fingers through the assassin’s locks, gripping vice-like as she drags Villanelle up from underneath her so that they come face to face, relishing the slow backward roll of her eyes. 


For a moment, they stay statue-still - eyes trained, chests heaving. An unspoken challenge - who will blink first, submit first, lose first. Everything they’ve done has been a game, albeit a dangerous one. One that Eve could never give up. 


Not now, not after she’s finally gotten a taste of the forbidden fruit in front of her. 


Eve traces the hand that’s not tangled in Villanelle’s hair across her cheek, before quickly snatching her jaw into her hand. Instead of pulling away, fighting it, Villanelle embraces it - sinks into the firm pressure of Eve’s palm, a soft whimper gracing her pretty lips. 


“Mine,” Eve smirks. 


The context of the word is evident.


Except now, Eve is the one claiming. Staking her territory. She’s the one with the plan, with the gun, with the power


It’s intoxicating, and suddenly Eve understands why Villanelle is so obsessed with it. 


“I was yours long before this, Eve” Villanelle whispers.


Eve grins. 


“Then prove it.”


In a flurry of motion, Eve’s head hits the arm of the couch as two slender fingers press swiftly into her, forcing a gasp from her throat. They curl, stroke the interiors of her walls torturously slow, amplified by the thumb swiping over her swollen clit. 


“Oh my god, fuck- more, please -” 


To know that it’s Eve that brings this out of Villanelle, this heavenly contrast between hard and soft, cruel and kind threatens to make her cum on its own. But she hangs on, wanting to drag out this feeling of both power and submission for everything that it’s worth, as if Villanelle could disappear in a moment.


Almost as if Villanelle has a window into her soul, she reaches forward and laces her hand with Eve’s, grounding her. Eve manages to choke out a muffled noise of relief, her heart swelling at the feeling of Villanelle’s finger interlocked tightly in hers, before spreading her legs and wrapping them around her lover’s hips, pulling them flush against each other. 


The assassin grins devilishly above her, forearm flexing powerfully as it drives home thrusts that Eve can feel pounding in her gut. Her lower abdomen twists, builds toward that pressure that she had been so close to before. Eve moans, high pitched and keeling as she grabs onto Villanelle’s shoulders, hips rolling into her movements until she hurtles into white oblivion. 


For a brief moment, there’s nothing but the soft beating of her heart. 


Villanelle presses gentle kisses along her flushed skin, like balm on a wound, bringing her down slowly as if they have all the time in the world. As if the two of them aren’t mortal enemies, ensnared in an international game of chess between secret organizations that have almost ended them more times than Eve cares to remember. 


No, for a moment they are just two lovers, ensnared in nothing but each other. 




“I still don’t know how we got here,” Eve says after a while. 


Villanelle pauses her lazy kisses along the scar on Eve’s shoulder, shifting onto an elbow to slightly hover above her. 


They’ve ended up on the floor, by the way. 


Oh, and they’ve discarded all their clothes too. 




“I would say that it was due to my impeccable editing skills and my algorithmic planning to get my thirst trap onto your feed in order to seduce you into forgiving me,” Villanelle chirps. 


Eve raises an eyebrow. 


“Okay, I did not see this coming either,”  Villanelle mutters after a beat.


Eve laughs - actually laughs - from the owlish look crossing her lover’s face. She reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind Villanelle’s ear that glows golden in the early morning sunlight, and lets herself finally think without the feeling of impending doom. 


“To be honest, I was just really horny after the bus, you hitting me in the head was soooo sexy-” 


Eve pinches her nipple, earning herself a yelp and an unceremonious flick to the forehead.


“You’re a child.” 


“You are just as bad as I am,” Villanelle smiles, softly soothing the ache that’s already building in her shoulder with gentle passes of her palm.


Eve traces the small pink line above Villanelle’s navel idly, reaching up to press a soft kiss to her lips. 


“Yes, I think I am.” 


Villanelle hums happily, dragging Eve back down to the floor unceremoniously in a tangle of bare limbs, peppering her face with pecks that have Eve squirming and laughing in her arms.


So yes, Eve will tell people that it was because she was drunk, that it was merely a gag that she downloaded that stupid app. 


But Villanelle knows. 


And Eve knows. 


And for now, that’s enough for her.