Work Header

Tainted Love

Work Text:

“I am very angry with you.” Villanelle, her face framed in the open doorway of her motel room, reminds Eve suddenly of a wary dog, her want for contact and her distrust mingling her gaze into a cocktail of hurt that nettles at Eve’s heart until she can no longer stand to look.


“I know.” There’s a pause as guilt crescendos into self righteousness, and Eve catches her eye again, setting her jaw. “I am very angry with you too.”


There is no protest as Eve pushes her way into the room, but there is no gentle embrace either, no gesture of comfort or apology to be found, only frigid tension eating its way into their bones.


“Would you like a drink?”




Silence stretches between them as they assess each other only from the corners of their eyes, each unwilling to face the pain they may find in the other’s stare.


“You’re alive.”


“I am.”


“Did it hurt?”


“Like hell.”


The corners of Villanelle’s mouth twitch at that, quietly digesting. “I know the feeling.”


“This place is… Well it doesn’t really seem…”


“It’s a dump,” Villanelle finishes succinctly, pouring herself a shot of vodka in a plastic cup with no shortage of distaste. She only resorts to vodka as an anesthetic, and, after Rome, it’s been a staple. “They won’t look for me here.”


A noncommittal hum leaves Eve’s lips as self consciousness begins to creep its way up the base of her spine, sending tendrils of uncertain shame across her body. “Then I’m sure it’s for the best.”


“Do that.”




“Do not talk to me like that. If you’re going to talk to me, then talk to me, not at me. If you can’t do that…” Punctuation comes in the form of a brow raising gesture to the door. It comes as a shock, this sudden detachment from the very woman who would have done anything for Eve, the coldness from someone she had only known as infinitely passionate.


“I don’t want to talk.” There’s a flicker of something half surprise and half fear in dark eyes as Villanelle crosses to her, hand grasping at her face with more roughness than she had ever expected.


“Then what do you want, Eve?” It’s a question poised as venom, newfound disgust curling chapped lips into a sneer. Villanelle no longer smells of expensive perfume, but of sweat and hatred. She’s been neglecting herself in her misery, and the guilt in Eve’s stomach nearly makes her ill. “You want me to forgive you? Or do you want me to apologize, hm? Get down on my knees like a good girl and say I didn’t mean it, that I regret it more than anything in the world, that I would do anything to make it up to you because I am so fucking sorry?” The shouting comes as a surprise, but it feels deserved, each fleck of spittle hitting her like a tiny slap in the face. “You want me to say I love you?” Though her voice falls to a bare whisper, the pain and revulsion and sheer incredulity is far worse than the yelling. And’s not terror that has Eve’s heart racing as she fixates on the quiver of Villanelle’s mouth, the flaring of nostrils, the tightening of muscles in a defiant jaw. Blood roaring in her ears as she leans in, her advance is met with a forearm across her throat and her back slamming against the wall, effectively pinned into place. “No. No, you don’t get to do that. You had your chance for that and you shat all over it.”


The reemerging flicker of fear in wide, doe eyes sends a fissure through a heart Villanelle had sworn would remain like stone, the rise and fall of her own chest as rapid as that of Eve’s. “You’re afraid of me.” It’s spoken simply, underscored in disappointment, but a statement of fact all the same. “You should be.” Finally, she pulls her arm away, turning to make a grab for the half empty bottle on the table.


“Villanelle…” and then softer, “Oksana.” She doesn’t turn, but the pause is visible even from behind, a moment of resignation softening the angry rigidity of her shoulders. Timidly, Eve goes to smooth an open palm against the crook of her neck, only to be shrugged off again, rejected in much the same manner as she had rejected Villanelle’s seeking touches in the ruins, just that icily. “Please. Look at me.”


And she does, with the most hungry and still wounded gaze Eve thinks she has ever seen. “Get on the bed, Eve.”




“Get on the bed.” She watches, laser-focused as Eve does as she says, scooting back over the hideous spread on the heels of her hands, eyes never leaving Villanelle’s even as she swallows hard enough to make her throat bob. “Take everything off and get on your hands and knees.”




“You what?”


“Nothing.” Heart hammering against her ribs, Eve begins to disrobe, eyeing the blonde nervously as she crosses to dig through a small suitcase.


“Hands and knees. Do not make me ask you again. Eyes on the headboard.” It pains her to see the quivering that racks Eve’s body, and she’s tempted to caress her, to soothe it all away with soft kisses and supplications, but she holds firm, gripping both her own anger and the leather belt now doubled over in her right hand. “I would have been so gentle, Eve… I would have treated you so kindly before. I would have made love to you. But I don’t think that is what you want. And I know it is not what you deserve.” Still aching to touch, she watches instead as she trails cool leather over pale flesh. “If you ask me to stop, I will stop. Are you frightened, Eve?”




The only answer is the sharp snap of the belt against Eve’s ass, met with an open mouthed gasp, and with her free hand, Villanelle takes a fistful of dark curls and jerks the other’s head back. “I said eyes on the headboard.” Another snap splits the stuffy air of the motel room and this time Eve cries out, nails digging into the cheap comforter. Villanelle doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath before she does it again and then once more, fingers still knotted mercilessly in the other’s hair as she reaches to grasp her throat. Lips brushing ear, she growls, “I thought you loved me. I really did think you would be different, special…”


Dropping Eve’s head with the same carelessness as one might drop a soiled napkin, she palms now crimson flesh, squeezing every last ounce of pain from the quickly forming whelts the belt has left behind as Eve lets out a hiss, face buried in the mattress. “You’re wet.” It sounds accusatory, perhaps even revolted, but all Eve can focus on is the pad of a thumb tracing its way down her center. A whimper of protest leaves her open mouth when Villanelle withdraws entirely, only to careen upwards into a whine when she returns with a single cube of ice between her fingers and begins to drag it across inflamed skin. “I didn’t say you could make any noise.” Even so, it’s hard to stifle a gasp when the melting cube finds its way inside her, earning a sound and unexpected slap between the legs.


Taking up the belt again, Villanelle takes Eve by the wrists, her expression unreadable as she stares down at their hands for a moment before cinching it tightly around them, leaving the flushed brunette bound and blinking up at her. She meets her gaze with an ironclad intensity as she too begins to strip, letting her watch but wordlessly demanding that she not try to touch. Climbing onto the bed behind her, Villanelle finally allows herself a chance to run her hands down the subtle curves of Eve’s body, her concentration unwavering as she traces the planes of her back, fingers splayed as they move to fondle her breasts, pinching roughly at her nipples. There’s an undeniable reverence in the way that she runs her tongue from the sweat slicked nape of her neck to the base of her spine, over every angry mark on her ass, and, finally, along the water and arousal soaked split of her vulva. The groan rumbling in Eve’s throat hikes into a cry of pain as Villanelle’s teeth mark the inside of one thigh. “You’re mine, Eve. Do you understand that? This is because of me. This is for me.”


Breathlessly, Eve nods, voice little more than a hoarse whisper as she agrees, “Yours. Only yours, all yours… Please…”


“Good girl.” Raising herself to her knees, Villanelle wastes no time in thrusting two hooked fingers past the other’s entrance, the heel of her hand resting against her own pubic bone as she begins to buck her hips, free hand gripping Eve’s waist. There is no room for ceremony here, no tenderness in the way that hips and hand slam forward, eliciting yelp after yelp from someone who is both enemy and lover, beloved and property.


“V-Villanelle! Shit… Fuck…”


“You have a dirty mouth.” When the both of them begin panting, Villanelle digs her nails sharply into Eve’s side, pulling her back against her as she thrusts forward and ruts again and again into tightening muscle. “Do you always make such a mess?”


A low moan begins to build in Eve’s throat and she starts to tremble, pressing up into Villanelle’s unrelenting fingers. “I’m...I’m…”


“Already? But I’m not finished yet.” The rasp in Villanelle’s voice is what truly sends her careening over the edge but, true to her word, the assassin does not stop or even slow as Eve rides out her orgasm, another building before she has recovered from the first. Shaking like a leaf, the both of them damp with sweat and the product of Eve’s continual climax, she loses count of how many times Villanelle does this to her, loses all vocabulary save Villanelle’s name. By the time she withdraws, they’re both in tears.


Breathing ragged, Villanelle runs the flat of her tongue over Eve’s dripping center and down both thighs, savoring every drop of Eve that she can find with as much rediscovered softness as desperation. It’s affectionately this time that she rolls Eve over onto her back and settles above her hips with fingers poised over full lips. “Clean them?” she whispers, watching with rapt attention as Eve obliges, eyes glazed and passive. Tenderly, she takes Eve’s hands again, caressing them and pressing kisses to the knuckles, the palms, the pad of each finger, before uncinching the belt and tossing it aside.


Every trace of furious disgust has evaporated by the time she lies down beside the brunette, chasing her tears away with the pad of her thumb and brushing the damp curls from her flushed face. “You are mine, Eve,” comes out in a warm, husky whisper murmured against the skin as Villanelle cradles her, stamping kisses across every inch of her she can reach. “I am sorry… For what I did. I’m glad that you are alive. I love you.”


“Me too.”


”If you do that to me again, I will kill you.”


”I know.”