ncsdlr

[ncsdlr]

Album-making and Tour with a Plus Side of Romance

Billie Eilish x Reader

------------------

[Pre-tour - Winter]

The first rule you learn about working with Billie Eilish: She hates being touched.

Like—visibly recoils if anyone gets too close without warning. Even Finneas, who's her brother, gets a look if he forgets to announce himself before handing her a water bottle.

But you?

Apparently you’re exempt.

Which is weird, because you don’t like being touched either. Hugs make you tense. Group photos are your nightmare. You’ve perfected the art of the polite, just-out-of-reach wave.

And yet here you are. Studio couch. Billie’s foot brushing yours. Neither of you moves.

Her foot is cold. She’s not wearing socks. You could mention it. You don’t.

Instead, you stretch slightly, fingers drumming a lazy beat on the notebook in your lap, and say, “You always this handsy with your collaborators?”

Billie glances at your foot, still nudging hers. Then at your face. “You started it.”

You hum. “Did I?”

She raises a brow. “You’re the one who sat down here.”

“You’re the one who spread out like this was your bed.”

“It’s my couch.”

“It’s Finneas’s couch.”

Finneas, across the room, lifts a hand. “I don’t want to be part of this.”

Neither of you look away from each other.

“Do you want me to move?” you ask finally, low and light.

Billie exhales through her nose. “No. Stay.”

You nod once. “Wasn't gonna move anyway.”

The silence that follows is deceptively casual. Except your heart is doing that thing where it acts like a traitor in your chest, and Billie’s tongue is pressed to the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to smile too wide.

---

Billie steps out of the vocal booth, tugging one ear of her headphones off and letting the other dangle against her shoulder. Her voice is still warm in the room, caught in the echo of the track.

You’re leaned back in the chair by the board, spinning it slowly with your foot, arms crossed, watching her.

She catches the look you’re giving her and squints. “What.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”

She walks closer. “No. You’re looking at me like you just thought something filthy.”

“I did,” you say, casually, like you’re commenting on the weather.

She blinks. “Jesus.”

You smile, slow. “What, you want me to lie?”

Billie laughs, high and sharp, hand pressing over her mouth as she stops in front of you. Her fingers curl over the top of the chair you’re in. She leans forward, just slightly.

“You always think like that when I sing?” she asks, voice low and sugar-slick.

You lift your chin, eyes dragging slowly down her throat and back up. “Only when you sound like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sound like what?”

“Like you want me to feel you up halfway through the second verse.”

Billie sucks in a breath like you just slapped her.

And God, she looks good wrecked like that—even just from words. She glances over her shoulder quickly, checking that Finneas is still at the far end of the studio, pretending to fiddle with cables.

When she turns back, she’s smirking—but barely. Her eyes are darker now. She runs her tongue across her bottom lip, like she’s trying to bite back a thousand replies at once.

“You shouldn’t say shit like that,” she says.

You shrug, relaxed, confident. “Then stop singing like it’s foreplay.”

She stares at you. You stare back. The air stretches between you like a taut string.

“Seriously,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna fuck around and find out.”

You tilt your head. “You promise?”

She closes her eyes like she’s praying, then straightens, jaw tight. “I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. With you.”

You grin. “You’re already doing it, Billie.”

And she knows you’re right. You both do.

She turns away too quickly, muttering something under her breath that might be a curse or your name—same difference at this point.

You lean back in the chair, hands behind your head, smug as hell.

Behind you, Finneas sighs like he’s aged ten years in one session.

“Can you two either make out or finish the goddamn track,” he says flatly, “so I can go home and pretend I’m not a part of whatever’s happening in here?”

You and Billie say nothing.

But when she goes to sit across from you again, her knee presses against yours.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

---

There’s a beat of almost-silence after Finneas calls you out—just the soft hum of equipment, Billie’s laptop fan buzzing, and the residual heat of her pressed against your knee.

She doesn't move. Neither do you. Neither says a word.

The tension has curved inward—less flirty now, more loaded. You know what she’s thinking. You know because it’s exactly what you’re thinking.

If we weren’t being watched. If I just leaned in. If she said one more thing in that voice.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she grabs the half-empty bag of pretzels from the floor, tosses a few into her mouth like her teeth aren’t clenched and her neck isn’t flushed pink.

You glance over lazily with a small smirk. “Careful. You bite too hard on those.”

She chokes slightly on a chuckle. “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”

You shrug and laugh along with her.

She rolls her eyes to dismiss you, but lets herself laugh anyway.

And then—like the gods intervening—the door opens.

Maggie steps in, holding a coffee in each hand and the kind of look that says, I have news and you’re not gonna like it.

Billie immediately straightens up, the only time she’s ever moved away from you this fast.

“Hi, Mom,” she says. “Is that for me?”

Maggie hands her a coffee with a smile, then gives you the other. “And you. You both need caffeine. And a ten-foot barrier between you at all times.”

You blink, then smirk. “Is that the official tour policy?”

Billie freezes mid-sip. “Huh?”

Maggie sets her bag down, exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. “Yeah, so, about that…”

You and Billie both look at her.

She pauses.

Then sighs.

“So. Your managers and I had a call this morning. It's confirmed. You’re touring together.”

Billie stares. “Like… a feature? A couple shows?”

Maggie grimaces. “No, honey. Like the full tour. Eleven months. All over. Headline's still yours, but she’s on everything. Name’s on the posters. Setlist’s already being restructured.”

You blink. “Wait, since when?”

“Since your manager pitched the collab album as a dual tour strategy, and Billie's team didn’t exactly say no.” Maggie’s tone is way too calm for the explosion she just set off. “It’s happening.”

Billie sets her coffee down too hard. “No offense,” she says to you quickly, “but I didn’t agree to that.”

Maggie shrugs. “Neither did she. Management made the call.”

You narrow your eyes. “They pitched me as a guest and forgot to mention I’m being stapled to her for a year?”

Maggie holds up both hands. “Look. You two are obsessed with each other’s music, the album’s stupid good, the internet is already convinced you’re secretly dating—”

“We’re not,” you and Billie say at the exact same time.

Maggie doesn’t even blink. “—so this is a marketing dream. And let’s be honest, you’re not gonna say no.”

She’s right. You both know she’s right.

But Billie’s frowning. “Do they even have room for her? Like, tour bus, hotels—”

“They’re figuring that out,” Maggie says. “You’re being squeezed in where possible. Your manager said you're flexible.”

You blink. “Squeezed in?”

Maggie points her stir stick at you like it’s a sword. “Hotel room might be a shared situation until something opens up. They didn’t want to split the teams across buildings.”

Billie laughs—laughs—like it’s the most cursed joke in the world. “Oh my God.”

You nod slowly. “So just to recap—I’m the last-minute feature, I’m now touring across the world on someone else’s bus, and I’m sharing a hotel room with Billie Eilish?”

Maggie claps her hands. “Exactly!”

You turn to Billie. “You good with that?”

Billie stares at you like you just asked her to strip.

Then mutters, “I’m gonna need noise-canceling headphones.”

You smirk. “You'll like it when I'm loud.”

Meanwhile, Finneas is still in his seat casually watching the exchange with a "tired of this" expression on his face.

Maggie shakes her head. “I’m scheduling a chaperone.”

Billie downs the rest of her coffee in one go. “Yeah, make sure they’re deaf.”

****

[During Tour - Winter]

The venue smells like dust and LED lights. You’ve been here less than ten minutes and you’re already sweating.

There are cords everywhere, a guy named Kyle keeps asking for your “IEM preferences” like you know what that means, and Billie’s been muttering “where’s my fucking hoodie” under her breath like a prayer for the past half hour.

Rehearsals are chaos. Always are. But touring with Billie Eilish means chaos with an audience—her entire team, who all have their shit together, and you and your PA, who are very much making it up as you go.

You’re on stage running harmonies for the second track when Billie walks by, trailing a tangle of mic wire, and brushes her shoulder against yours.

Not accidentally.

You glance over. She doesn’t even look at you, but you can see the smirk she’s biting back.

You lean into your mic, still mid-run, and murmur, “Touch me like that again and I’m filing an HR complaint.”

Billie doesn’t miss a beat. “You think we have HR?”

You pause. “Oh god. We don’t, do we?”

She finally looks at you—smirks, full and slow. “Nope. No rules.”

You blink. “Terrifying.”

She keeps walking. “Sexy.”

Finneas groans from the soundboard. “I swear to God. Can you two act normal for fifteen minutes?”

You and Billie: “Absolutely not.”

---

By the time soundcheck wraps, you’re on the floor behind the stage, half-lying across a crate of coiled cables, sipping from a bottle of water like it’s alcohol.

Billie drops beside you, dramatic as ever. Her t-shirt’s stuck to her spine and her eyeliner’s smudged like she meant to cry.

She takes your water. You let her.

“Your voice sounded like sin today,” she says, too casually.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yours sounded like you’ve been keeping secrets.”

“Oh?” she glances at you. “You wanna dig ‘em out?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowed. “We doing innuendo again?”

“Again? Babe, I never stopped.”

You stare at her for a second too long. She’s flushed from the lights. Lips parted. Hands braced behind her to keep herself upright.

And then Maggie appears around the corner like a human fire extinguisher.

“There you two are,” she says, looking like she’s just barely holding onto patience. “Hotel assignments are in.”

You both sit up straighter.

Billie wipes her forehead with her sleeve. “Finally. I need a fucking shower.”

“Uh-huh,” Maggie says. “You’ll have to coordinate that with your roommate.”

Billie pauses. “Sorry, what?”

You don’t react. You knew this was coming. Your manager warned you. “They didn’t find me a separate room?”

Maggie shrugs. “Venue city’s small. Hotels are slammed. Your teams said it was fine since you worked together on the album.”

Billie’s jaw twitches. “Okay, but shared-shared? Like same room? Same bedroom?”

You look at Maggie. “One bed or two?”

Billie’s entire body turns toward you. “Why is that your first question?!”

You smile. “Because if it’s one, we’re gonna have to discuss what side of the bed you think you’re getting.”

“I’m not—” Billie blinks. “You think you’re getting a side?”

You stand, brushing dust off your jeans. “Well, I am the guest.”

“You’re the intruder.”

“I’m the feature.”

“You’re a menace.”

You shrug, smug. “Still the reason you’re not doing this tour solo.”

Billie opens her mouth to respond, then closes it like she’s thinking better of whatever was about to fall out.

Maggie sighs. “I’m giving the key to your PA. Figure it out before nightfall, or someone’s sleeping in the bathtub.”

She walks off.

You and Billie just stand there. Both pretending you’re fine. Both very much not fine.

Finally, Billie clears her throat. “So, uh. What do you wear to bed?”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Billie swallows hard.

And you walk away—slow, calm, victorious.

Behind you, you hear her mutter:

“Fuck.”

---

The hotel door clicks open with that cheap little beep. You shoulder it open with one hand, Billie behind you, dragging her suitcase like it personally insulted her.

“Bet it’s a shoebox,” she mutters.

You snort. “Bet it’s nicer than your attitude.”

The hallway light flickers once as you both step inside—and immediately freeze.

Two beds.

Two gloriously separate, freshly-made, blessedly individual beds.

You and Billie both let out the exact same sigh of relief.

And then:

“Damn,” you say, deadpan. “There goes my plan to spoon you until you give in.”

Billie scoffs, stepping past you. “Please. You’d fold the second I pushed a knee between your legs.”

You laugh, toss your bag onto the left bed, and glance over. “You’re awfully confident for someone who couldn’t even look at me during soundcheck.”

“I wasn’t looking away,” she lies.

“You were blushing.”

“I was sweating.”

“From me.”

She throws a pillow at your head. You catch it one-handed.

Then you both stand there for a moment too long, the space between you charged but not unfun. The kind of tension that keeps the corners of your mouth tilted up even when no one’s talking.

Billie flops back onto her bed with a dramatic exhale. Her hoodie rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of her stomach. She catches you looking. Doesn’t cover it.

“Stop staring,” she says.

“You wore that on purpose,” you reply easily.

She smirks. “You think I dress for you?”

You toe off your shoes, stretch your arms overhead like you know she’s watching. “I know you do.”

Billie groans and buries her face in her pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“Tallest, too,” you add.

She flips you off without lifting her head.

You glance around. “You want the bathroom first?”

Billie rolls over to face you. “Are you gonna take two hours like you’re prepping for the Met Gala?”

“I take exactly as long as it takes to look like this.” You gesture down your body. “You’re welcome.”

She laughs under her breath, and it’s real. Quiet. Honest.

“Okay,” she says, “go first. I need to text Finneas and tell him I survived a whole day without making out with you.”

You stop in the doorway and look back over your shoulder.

“Tell him tomorrow’s looking rough.”

She throws another pillow. You close the bathroom door with a smirk still stuck on your face.

---

When you come out—hair damp, teeth brushed, wearing a tank and shorts that definitely don’t leave enough to the imagination—Billie’s already curled up in bed, phone screen lighting her face.

She glances up and immediately does that thing where her eyes trail from your shoulders down to your thighs and then snap back to her phone too fast.

You don’t mention it.

She doesn’t stop blushing.

You pull back the covers of your bed and settle in, letting the quiet stretch between you. Not awkward. Just... full.

After a minute, Billie mumbles, “You snore?”

“Only when I’m being spooned wrong.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You smile into your pillow. “Goodnight, Billie.”

“Night,” she mutters, too soft.

You both lie there for a while.

Not sleeping.

Definitely thinking.

****

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wired on a performance day before.

It’s not nerves. Not the crowd. Not the fact that your name is now printed across the entire fucking LED wall behind Billie’s.

It’s her.

It’s Billie Eilish, standing at the edge of the stage during pre-show run-throughs, hair tied back, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, whisper-singing your lyrics back at you with a look like she’s got plans.

She mouths a line you wrote—“If I touch you, it’s over”—and then winks.

Right at you.

From behind her mic stand.

You aim your mic away from your face and mutter, “You wanna be careful doing that.”

Billie smirks. “Why?”

You flick your eyes down to her legs, then back up. “Might slip and fall.”

She laughs into her mic, loud enough the crew thinks it's part of the set. Your IEM crackles with Finneas groaning, “Oh my godddd, you two are insufferable.”

--

Onstage, the lights are blinding—but not enough to hide the looks you and Billie keep exchanging.

During her second verse, she circles you. You harmonize behind her, barely singing your part, watching the way her hands move like they’re talking too.

At one point, you brush past her on your way to the center riser. Your hand catches her wrist for half a second. Just long enough for her to inhale sharply.

She doesn’t miss her cue, but she does shoot you a look that could kill.

You smirk back. The crowd screams. Neither of you are acting.

---

Backstage, Billie’s peeling her performance hoodie off her shoulders, her skin flushed and glowing.

You lean against the green room doorway, sipping her water bottle just to annoy her.

“That part in 'Buried In Velvet’?” you say casually. “When you did the drop and spun? You know that was hot, right?”

She tosses a towel at your face. “Shut up.”

You catch it one-handed. “I’m just saying. Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

Billie narrows her eyes. “And what if I can finish?”

You tilt your head, grin slow. “Then you’re in trouble.”

She looks like she wants to punch you. Or climb you. Possibly both.

But instead, she just says, “We’re going out after. You coming?”

You arch a brow. “That a question or an invitation?”

She doesn't blink. “It’s a dare.”

---

Some vibey little local bar the crew found last-minute. Not loud enough to yell over, not quiet enough for comfort. The music hums in your chest. The drinks are sweet.

You’re both pressed into a booth with too many people. Billie ends up sitting beside you. Her thigh touches yours under the table. Neither of you moves.

At one point, she leans in to say something and her breath hits your ear. “You’re the reason I messed up that second chorus.”

You laugh. “You’re blaming me for forgetting your lyrics?”

“You kept looking at me like you wanted to kiss me mid-bridge.”

You sip your drink, don’t even blink. “Yeah, well. You kept singing like you’d let me.”

Billie blinks slowly. “You’re such a dick.”

You sip on your drink and mutter around the straw, “You'd like this dick though.”

She doesn't answer, merely hitting you over the head, thus causing you to choke and chuckle right on your drink.

---

Back at the hotel, it’s late. Everyone smells like stage sweat and vodka, but in that content, glowing kind of way.

You and Billie step into your room last—still laughing about something Finneas said about the sound tech’s haircut.

The door closes behind you.

Silence.

You both stand there for a beat. Still tipsy. Still buzzing.

You kick your boots off, flop face-down on your bed. “Can’t believe you forgot your own lyrics.”

Billie throws her jacket at your head. “Can’t believe you wore that onstage.”

You turn over to grin at her. “You mean the crop top that had you staring during your entire bridge?”

She unzips her boots like she’s pretending not to be affected. “No. I mean the pants that made your legs look seven feet long.”

You shrug. “They’re custom.”

She snorts. “You’re custom.”

You both go quiet.

Then you ask, voice low, “Is that a compliment?”

Billie looks at you from across the room. You’re still in your shirt, your hair messy, your mouth tilted up.

She hesitates. Then: “Yeah.”

You nod once. “Good.”

Neither of you moves toward your beds.

Not for a long, long minute.

Finally, Billie mutters, “I’m showering. Don’t steal my side.”

You roll onto your back, grinning at the ceiling. “I’ll just sleep on you instead.”

She freezes halfway to the bathroom. Then flips you off over her shoulder.

You wink at her retreating back. “You better lock that door.”

She doesn’t respond. She just disappears into the steam.

****

The bathroom door creaks open, steam curling out like smoke from something freshly ruined.

You’re half-asleep, phone in hand, barely blinking at the ceiling when Billie steps out—wearing nothing but a black tank top and a pair of sleep shorts that should be illegal for public hotel use.

Her hair’s damp. Her face is bare. There’s a towel slung over her shoulder and her legs go on for days—even if they’re not nearly as long as yours.

You glance at her once, then make a slow show of rolling onto your side, cheek pressed to your pillow.

“You done trying to kill me?”

Billie dries her hair with the towel, completely unfazed. “If I was trying, you’d be dead.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And yet I’m still breathing.”

She shoots you a look. “Not for long if you keep staring.”

You grin. “You walked out in that. I’m a victim.”

She laughs—quiet and real. Then walks over and drops into her bed with a sigh, back turned, one leg out of the blanket like she’s trying to cool down and tempt you at the same time.

You wait a beat.

Then: “You always sleep that close to the edge?”

Billie shifts to glance over her shoulder. “You always comment on my sleeping style?”

“Only when I can see your entire spine,” you say.

She throws a pillow at you, but her heart’s not in it. You both settle back down.

The room falls quiet.

Not awkward. Just... soft.

Somewhere between the buzz of the night and the crash of the silence after, it feels like something shifts.

You hear her exhale, slow and tired.

“You ever get scared you’re gonna mess this whole thing up?” she asks suddenly.

You look over. She’s still turned away. Her voice is low. Barely there.

“Mess what up?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then: “All of it. Music. Life. This tour. Us.”

Us.

The word hangs in the air.

You shift onto your back, stare at the ceiling.

“All the time,” you admit. “But... if it’s gonna blow up, I want it to be because I let it. Not because I never touched the fuse.”

She hums softly. “Dangerous mindset.”

You glance at her again. “You scared?”

“Terrified.”

You smile, soft. “Good. That means we’re doing it right.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Billie says, “If you snore, I’m putting a sock in your mouth.”

You snort. “Kinky.”

“Go to sleep, you freak.”

You do.

Eventually.

****

Tour goes on.

City after city. Night after night. Each stage feels louder than the last—but nothing drowns out her.

You’ve got your banter down to an art now. She throws the setups, you deliver the punchlines. You stand too close during duets. You share one mic for no reason.

The crowd eats it up.

You eat each other alive with your eyes.

---

She sings “Velvet” like it’s a secret. You hit your verse like a confession. She walks past you mid-bridge and whispers “You sound like sin tonight” into your mic.

The crowd (s)creams.

You almost do too.

---

You’re supposed to stay on opposite sides of the stage during “Six Seconds.” You don’t.

You cross the space, stop directly in front of her, and keep singing like your mouth doesn’t want to be on her neck.

She doesn’t move back. Doesn’t blink.

She leans in.

Forehead to forehead.

You’re both still singing—barely—but no one’s listening to the lyrics anymore.

The entire arena holds its breath.

Billie looks at your mouth. Just for a second.

And then grins, tilts her head, and backs away like it was a joke.

The crowd screams like they’re being stabbed.

You walk back to your side of the stage.

Your heart? You'll look for it later.

---

You’re both flushed. Breathless.

Billie bumps into you in the green room, cups her hand over her mouth and says, “You were gonna kiss me.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You were gonna let me.”

She smirks. “You wanted to.”

You lean in, murmur, “You still want me to?”

She stares. Just for a beat.

Then tosses her mic pack at you. “Fuck off.”

You grin. “Say that louder. The crowd might believe you.”

---

You unlock the room first.

She walks in behind you, drops her bag, and then—without a word—flops face-down onto your bed.

You look over. “That’s not yours.”

“Mmm,” she mumbles into your pillow. “You’re not stopping me.”

You sigh. “Don’t tempt me.”

She flips onto her back, eyes closed, lips parted.

And smirks.

You cross the room.

Sit on her bed.

She opens one eye.

“You scared?” she asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good,” she says. “That means we’re doing it right.”

****

The hotel room door slams shut behind you with a low, echoing thud. You’re laughing before it even clicks locked.

Billie stumbles in right after, hoodie falling off one shoulder, eyeliner smudged like she forgot how to wipe her face, and cheeks flushed in a way that has nothing to do with the cold outside.

She kicks her shoes off with a groan. “I’m, like, almost drunk.”

You raise an eyebrow, tossing your jacket over the chair. “Just almost?”

“I’m hanging on by a thread,” she says dramatically, then trips over your suitcase and catches herself on the edge of the desk. “A very frayed thread.”

You cross the room slowly, eyes locked on her. “Want me to cut it?”

She laughs—that laugh, the breathless one she only lets out when she’s tipsy and flustered and not thinking. “You are so full of shit.”

You’re in front of her now. Not touching. Not quite.

She’s half-sitting on the edge of the desk. You’re standing between her legs. Her breath hitches a little when you lean in.

You don’t say anything.

You just watch the way her pupils flicker—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. Her hands come up, light on your waist like she’s not even aware she’s holding you.

And then—without really meaning to—you lean forward.

Not all the way.

Just close enough to see the way her lashes flutter.

Your hands find the desk on either side of her hips. Your nose brushes hers.

One inch closer and she’d be kissing you.

She blinks, slow. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

She swallows. “The thing where you look like you’re gonna ruin me.”

You grin. “Is that a request?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s weak. Flirty. Her lips part. Your mouth is right there.

Then—just when the moment goes too still, too heavy—she bites her lip and ducks her head into your shoulder, giggling.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” she says into your collarbone.

You laugh, hands still caging her in. “Me? You’re the one who let me this close.”

“You did not need permission.”

You pull back, just enough to see her face again—still flushed, still grinning. There’s no sadness here. Just heat. Fun. Want.

Your forehead rests against hers, and she lets it.

You whisper, “You know we’re gonna actually do it someday, right?”

Billie closes her eyes like she’s praying.

And smiles.

“I know.”

---

You’re already awake by the time Billie stirs—barely—face half-smashed into her pillow, hoodie tangled around her waist, hair a disaster and one sock somehow hanging off the bottom of the bed like it gave up during the night.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your own bed, coffee in hand, scrolling through fan posts and pretending not to laugh every time someone tweets:

“OKAY BUT DID THEY ALMOST KISS ONSTAGE OR AM I DELULU??”

You hear Billie groan softly.

Then:

“Ugh... murder me.”

You glance over. “Was that an actual request or just general morning vibes?”

She flips onto her back, eyes still closed. “Both.”

You take a sip of your coffee. “You alive?”

“Barely. How are you vertical right now?”

You shrug. “Discipline. Strength. Raw sexual energy. I dunno.”

She throws her arm over her face. “Don’t talk to me about raw anything before noon.”

You smirk, toss a pack of gum at her. “Hydrate your soul, Eilish. You were drunk-flirty as hell last night.”

She groans again, but this time it’s the fake-dramatic kind. “Oh god. What did I do?”

You lean back against the wall. “You backed into a wall, let me stand all up on you forehead-to-forehead, gripped my hips, and told me I was gonna ruin you.”

Billie’s hand shoots off her face. “I did not.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You did. Then you nuzzled my neck and giggled. Like a flirtatious possum.”

She sits up slowly, hair sticking out in twelve directions. “Okay but like… I was cute about it, right?”

You grin. “You were criminally adorable.”

Billie narrows her eyes. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I didn’t kiss you.”

You shrug. “I mean. Yeah. That would’ve made it a felony.”

She throws a pillow at your head. “Shut up.”

You catch it with one hand—again.

She stares at you. “Why are you so coordinated before coffee?”

You sip your mug. “Because I’m taller than you.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does the way you looked at me after shot number three, but we’re letting that slide too.”

Billie throws herself backward onto the bed with a groan. “God, last night was lit.”

You grin, stretching. “Yeah. ‘Ayeeee last night though!’”

Billie wheezes a laugh into the mattress. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying.” You pause for dramatic effect. “I can’t believe we didn’t make out.”

Billie lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes squinting. “I can. We’re still on tour, remember? You’re dangerous.”

You smirk. “I’m not dangerous. I’m just effective.”

She rolls back onto her stomach, mumbling into the sheets. “So effective I’m considering a restraining order.”

You finish your coffee. “Make sure it has a kiss clause.”

****

[During Tour - Spring - Tour Bus]

The first night on the bus, Billie refuses to admit she’s carsick. She lies down on the little couch near the mini-fridge, hoodie drawn over her head like a disgruntled gremlin, and grumbles “I’m fine” every time you glance her way.

You’re curled up across from her, knees pulled to your chest, nursing a bottle of ginger ale like a cocktail.

“I will vomit on your bed,” she says dramatically, not lifting her hood.

You sip. “Technically, it’s also your bed. I saw the bunk list.”

Billie peeks out, eyes squinting. “Don’t even play with me.”

You grin. “Top bunk. Same side. Across from me.”

She groans, flops back. “Kill me.”

You laugh. “You’re obsessed with me.”

She mumbles something into the cushion. You don’t catch it. You don’t have to.

---

[Philadelphia]

You and Billie climb up the venue fire escape at 2AM for no reason except that she said “I dare you.”

You sit on the edge of the roof, legs swinging. She sits beside you, hood pulled up, chewing on a piece of gum like it’s keeping her sane.

“Why’s it always feel better when we’re up here?” she asks.

You glance at her. “Because you like pretending the whole city’s your fan club.”

She shrugs. “Or maybe I like being alone with you in places no one can follow.”

You blink. Billie’s still chewing her gum like she didn’t just say something raw as hell.

You bump her shoulder. “You’re soft.”

She bumps you back. “You’re annoying.”

---

[Tour Bus]

You’re watching a movie neither of you care about. Billie’s legs are stretched across your lap. You’re drawing shapes on her shin without thinking about it.

She shifts. Doesn’t stop you.

You say, “You’re kind of clingy when you’re tired.”

She mutters, “You’re kind of hot when you’re not talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So... always?”

She groans. “See? There it is.”

But she doesn’t move.

Not for hours.

---

[Nashville]

You’re sharing a dressing room. Billie’s on the floor in front of the mirror, touching up her mascara. You’re half-dressed in your stage fit, shirt slung over your shoulder.

She looks up. Sees your reflection.

And says, “Can you not be hot for five seconds?”

You walk over, lean down beside her ear. “Not while you’re watching.”

She flicks her brush at you. It leaves a streak of black on your cheek.

You grin.

She doesn’t wipe it off. And neither do you. The little streak was on your face during the performance.

---

[Tour Bus]

It’s raining outside. The road hums under the wheels.

You and Billie are in your bunks, across from each other, separated by a stupid, thin little curtain.

You hear her whisper: “You awake?”

You whisper back: “No.”

She laughs.

Then silence.

Then—

“You ever think about it?” she says.

You blink into the dark. “About what?”

“You know.”

You know.

You swallow. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Silence again.

And then:

“Me too.”

Nothing happens. No one moves. But the bus keeps rolling forward. And so do you.

---

[Tour Bus]

It starts with the rain.

Soft at first. Then louder. Then louder—pelting the roof of the bus like it’s trying to punch through.

You’re lying in your bunk, staring at the ceiling two inches from your face, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder like it’s gonna make a difference.

Billie’s across from you. Her curtain’s drawn. You can tell she’s awake because she cleared her throat twenty minutes ago and then went suspiciously quiet.

Another crack of thunder splits the night.

And that’s it. You’re done.

You shove your curtain open, lean out, and tap on hers.

“Billie.”

No answer.

“Billie.”

Still nothing.

So you slide it open yourself.

She’s curled up like a cat, hoodie hood up, earbuds dangling around her neck like she gave up halfway through pretending to sleep.

Her eyes blink open. “No.”

You blink. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

She deadpans, “Whatever it is, no.”

You climb in anyway.

“Jesus—” she hisses, shifting fast. “Your knees are like weapons—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, squirming to fit. “I’m bored.”

“You’re huge.”

“You love it.”

Billie groans as your arm presses along her side. “There’s no room—”

You both freeze when the bus lurches slightly. Thunder crashes again.

You’re close enough now to count her lashes. To feel her breath on your collarbone.

“Comfortable?” she mutters.

You grin. “Actually, yeah.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re warm.”

Billie sighs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t push you out. Her hand shifts just slightly—ends up resting on your hip.

Not intentional.

Maybe.

“Still scared of storms?” you whisper.

She scoffs. “Please. I’m just not used to them on wheels.”

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t get scared?”

You shake your head, cheek brushing her temple. “Nope.”

She’s quiet a moment. Then: “Liar.”

You laugh into her hair. “Busted.”

The bunk is too quiet after that. Her fingers still resting against your waist. Yours brushing her thigh without meaning to—or maybe meaning to a little.

Then, so soft you barely hear it:

“Thanks for climbing in.”

You nuzzle her slightly. Just a second. Just long enough to feel her lean into it.

“Anytime.”

The thunder cracks again.

But neither of you flinch.

****

You don’t notice she’s wearing it at first.

You're too busy warming up backstage, bouncing on your heels and running scales while someone double-checks your mic pack. The air is sticky with August heat. Sweat already beads at your temples before you even hit the stage.

Then Billie walks past you.

And you stop.

Because that hoodie? The navy blue one with the frayed sleeve and the little bleach stain near the pocket? That’s yours.

That’s your hoodie.

You blink. “Hey—”

She turns around slowly. “Hmm?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

She shrugs. “You left it on the couch.”

You walk over. “That doesn’t mean it’s free real estate.”

Billie pulls the hem slightly. “It’s oversized. Looks better on me.”

You bite your smile back. “You’re out of control.”

She leans up a little, close enough for only you to hear. “And you’re not gonna do anything about it.”

---

Onstage, it’s chaos.

The heat. The lights. The sound of thousands screaming back your own lyrics like a dare.

Halfway through “Dead End Devotion,” Billie crosses to your side of the stage for a little call-and-response.

She holds the mic between you both, mouths “I know you want to.”

You lean in so close your noses brush. You smirk, don’t kiss her, and sing your line with your mouth a whisper from hers.

The crowd absolutely loses it.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize: They know. They see the hoodie. They see the way her fingers trail across your back when you turn. They see the way you look at each other like the world is a little quieter when you’re close.

---

After the show, someone from Billie’s team corners you in the hallway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You two together?”

You blink. “What?”

“You and Billie,” they say, tilting their head. “Everyone’s asking. The internet is—well.” They pull out their phone, flip it around.

There’s a still from the show. Billie, grinning mid-verse. You, two inches from her. The hoodie’s clearly not hers.

The caption reads:

“Billie Eilish wearing HER hoodie and smiling like that? be serious rn.”

You laugh. Loud. A little fake.

“Nah,” you say casually. “We’re just... performers.”

The team member nods slowly. “Right. Just performers.”

You walk off. Smirking.

Ten steps later, Billie falls into step beside you, face damp from her post-show towel.

“You lie good,” she murmurs.

You glance over. “You wore my hoodie onstage.”

She shrugs. “You didn’t stop me.”

You bump her shoulder. “You liked the attention.”

She grins. “So did you.”

---

You notice it first thing in the morning.

Billie’s curled up on the lounge couch of the bus, one leg tucked under her, face lit up by her phone screen.

And she’s wearing your hoodie again.

Like full-on sleeves-past-her-fingers, hood-up, slept-in-it-for-hours wearing it.

You pause in the hallway, toothbrush in one hand, squinting.

“That mine?”

She glances up, totally unfazed. “Mmhm.”

“You wore it yesterday.”

“Smells like you.”

You blink. “That’s not a reason—”

“Sure it is,” she says, and stretches like a cat. “Smells hot.”

You make a face. “What does that even mean?”

She grins. “You’re the musician. Write a song about it.”

---

She wears it the next night too. To dinner with the crew. To soundcheck. To bed. To your side of the bus just to “see what you’re doing.” (No one believes that.)

Every time you try to comment on it, she just goes, “It’s not a crime.” Like she didn’t just climb into your entire identity.

And then.

Then.

It happens.

---

You’re backstage. Sweaty, laughing, still high from the show. Billie’s got her hand on your chest, pushing you gently into the wall like she’s trying to stop you from making her laugh again.

You're grinning. “You’re obsessed with me.”

She huffs. “I barely tolerate you.”

But she’s close.

You’re close.

Too close.

She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers are still fisted in the front of your hoodie—her hoodie now, apparently—and she’s looking at your mouth like it’s a melody she knows too well.

Your hands slide to her waist.

She tilts her head.

And that’s when—

“Ayo!?”

You both flinch like you’ve been caught robbing a bank.

Finneas. Wide-eyed. Smirking. Holding a half-eaten granola bar like a weapon.

He stares.

Then grins.

“Oh my GOD,” he says, pointing between you two. “Are we—did I just interrupt a moment?”

Billie groans, stepping back so fast she nearly trips.

You rub your face. “Jesus Christ—”

“Oh no no no,” Finneas says, already fishing his phone out. “No one’s ever living this down.”

Billie tries to swipe it. “Don’t you dare—”

He skips away, laughing like a man possessed.

“HEY GUYS,” he yells into the hallway, “They were about to kiss—tell the security to evacuate the tension!”

Billie shouts after him while you're halfway down the wall, doubled over in wheezing laughter, “You're a menace!”

He shouts back, “You're in love with my sister!”

****

[During Tour - Autumn - Final Three Shows]

You're scheduled for three interviews today.

The first is solo. Second is with Billie. Third—back-to-back one-on-ones again, right across the hall.

You and Billie haven’t kissed. Haven’t said anything real. But somehow you’re still orbiting each other like gravity isn’t even pretending to be subtle.

---

The host grins. “You’ve been touring all year with Billie Eilish. What’s that like?”

You smile, casual. “It’s fun. Loud. Slightly chaotic.”

“Just slightly?”

“The woman is stealing my closet.”

The interviewer perks up. “Wait, really?”

You laugh, slow and knowing. “You’ll see.”

---

You’re both on the couch, Billie in that hoodie again—yours, stretched and worn and soft enough now to count as property damage.

The host notices instantly. “Is that—wait, Billie, is that the hoodie?”

Billie looks down like she forgot what she was wearing. Shrugs.

“Uh-huh.”

The host looks between you. “It’s theirs, right?”

You smile into your water bottle.

Billie doesn’t even flinch. “Yeah,” she says simply. “It’s theirs.”

No explanation. No attempt to make it a joke.

Just… acknowledgement.

You blink. Okay, then.

---

The rest of the interview is worse.

She touches your knee once. You say something stupid and she laughs so hard she leans fully into your shoulder. At one point you compliment her stage presence and she blushes.

Like visibly. On camera.

---

You watch from the hallway as she sits across from a different host. You’re sipping tea, trying not to stare.

It’s not working.

The host asks: “People are convinced that there’s something going on between you and Y/N Y/L/N. Anything you wanna clear up?”

Billie shrugs. Casual. Controlled.

Then says: “They’re my favorite person.”

You nearly choke on your tea.

The host goes, “Favorite how?”

Billie grins. “Let people wonder.”

---

Later, in the car, she nudges your thigh with hers.

“You good?”

You blink. “You called me your favorite person.”

She shrugs again. “You are 'cause you're hot.”

You deadpan at her, feigning unimpressed.

She chuckles and looks out the window.

Leaves fall outside. Gold and red and slow.

You could fall too. If you haven't already.

---

The venue is bigger tonight. Open roof. Packed crowd. That kind of restless electric in the air that only happens near endings.

You’re backstage, stretching your hands, trying to stay calm. This is show #87. There are three left.

You should be used to her by now.

You’re not.

Billie walks up behind you, gently bumps your shoulder with hers. “Ready to give them a heart attack?”

You glance at her. “That’s your job.”

She’s already wearing your hoodie again. Cropped under her stage jacket. No shame. Just claiming.

The lights shift.

The stage calls.

---

You hit the stage side by side. The roar of the crowd drowns everything for a moment.

And then: The music starts. And it’s just the two of you again.

---

Second verse.

You’re at your mic. Billie’s across the stage, singing her heart out like she’s never looked at anyone else the way she looks at you.

You hold eye contact.

Too long.

Your cue comes and you almost miss it.

You catch yourself just in time, smirking as you step forward. She bites her lip mid-lyric to stop herself from laughing.

The crowd screams.

---

You’re supposed to walk toward each other. Just a choreo note, nothing serious.

But something’s different tonight.

You don’t stop walking.

Neither does she.

You’re chest-to-chest, sharing one mic between you, harmonizing like the world’s closing in.

Her hand finds your jaw for just a second. Just enough.

You swear the fans collectively forget how to breathe.

---

Final chorus.

She’s behind you now. You’re singing the last line.

And Billie leans in—barely, subtly—and sings it with you.

Right into your ear.

You close your eyes.

It’s too much.

And not enough.

---

After the show.

You're dripping sweat, vibrating with adrenaline, half convinced you're hallucinating.

Billie’s beside you again, this time backstage, breathless and laughing.

She says, “You almost forgot your cue.”

You shrug. “You looked hot.”

She grins. “You sound jealous.”

“Of myself?”

She shrugs. “You’ve got range.”

You shake your head, smirking.

Then she reaches out, tugs lightly at your sleeve.

“Two more,” she says.

You nod. “Two more.”

And then what?

She doesn’t say.

You don’t ask.

But both of you are thinking it.

---

It’s 11:47 PM when you get back to the room.

Billie throws her jacket onto the armchair and kicks her shoes off like they personally offended her.

You flop onto your bed with a dramatic groan, face down, limbs spread like a crime scene victim. She snorts.

"You good?"

You groan louder.

“That was a lot.”

You lift your head just enough to look at her. She’s peeling off the hoodie—your hoodie—and tossing it on the bed before flopping onto her own mattress, hair messy and skin flushed from the stage lights.

You mutter, “You grinded on me during the bridge.”

Billie smirks at the ceiling. “And?”

You sit up. “Billie. You sang into my mouth.”

She turns her head slowly, meets your eyes with that lazy, wicked grin.

“I felt like projecting.”

You blink. “You’re gonna give people an aneurysm.”

She shrugs, one leg bent, one arm behind her head. “Let 'em suffer.”

There’s a moment.

Just a beat of silence.

And then:

“You stared at my mouth again,” she says softly.

You freeze.

She doesn’t let up. “You always do that after the third chorus. Like clockwork.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You keep track of when I look at your mouth?”

She shrugs again, grinning like she won. “You make it obvious.”

You sit back, arms crossed. “You’re literally always touching me.”

“That’s called stage chemistry, babe.”

“Stage chemistry doesn’t involve hand-holding between songs.”

“You looked nervous.”

“You winked at me while singing the line about taking someone home.”

Billie bites her lip. “I said what I said.”

You glare.

She smiles.

You toss a pillow at her. She catches it one-handed and hugs it to her chest.

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter:

“You gonna keep staring or what?”

You blink.

Your voice comes out low. “You gonna stop letting me?”

Another pause.

Billie breathes out a laugh. “God, we’re insufferable.”

You nod. “It’s honestly impressive how long we’ve lasted without making out.”

She nods back. “A miracle, really.”

More silence.

You both stare at the ceiling like it’ll give you a sign.

Then, without looking at you, Billie whispers, “You want your hoodie back?”

You glance over.

She’s holding it out with one hand.

You take it slowly.

But she doesn’t let go right away.

Your fingers brush.

It’s not much.

But it’s too much.

You both look away.

Nothing happens.

But everything almost does.

---

It’s the second-to-last show.

Your blood is loud in your ears. Your lungs are full of heat. Every nerve in your body is buzzing with Billie. The stage. The crowd. The countdown.

She’s been testing you all night.

Walking too close.

Singing too soft.

Touching your back between verses.

And then the last song starts.

The one where you always walk toward each other, meet center-stage, faces close. A moment. A tease.

But this time?

This time, something’s different.

---

You're mid-line, stepping forward, voice raw.

Billie steps up too—closer than usual.

Closer than ever.

You swear her mouth brushes your jaw when she sings her part, the crowd roaring so loud your heart stutters.

And then?

No one moves.

The music plays on.

But you don’t.

You just look at her. And she looks at you. And something in both of you snaps.

You almost drop your mic the same way she almost drops hers.

And then your hands are in her hair and her mouth’s on yours and she kisses you like she’s been starving since spring.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s months of wanting and waiting and breaking onstage in real time.

The crowd screams.

Like a collective gasp followed by stadium-shaking chaos.

Your name trends before the song even ends.

---

Backstage. No one says a word.

The team parts like the sea when you pass.

Finneas opens his mouth to say something and someone—bless them—shoves a mic pack in his hands to shut him up.

You and Billie walk in silence.

Not touching.

Not looking.

Just... thinking.

Still tasting.

---

You close the door behind you. Click.

Billie stands in the middle of the room like she forgot how to sit down.

You lean against the door. “Wanna talk about it?”

She runs a hand through her hair. “Do you?”

“Nope.”

She turns to look at you. “Good.”

You both stand there, two feet apart, staring.

Then, softer:

“You kissed me.”

You scoff. “You kissed me.”

Her eyes narrow. “You had your hand down my jacket.”

You throw up your arms. “I blacked out from horniness, Billie!”

She laughs.

Like really laughs.

You grin, breathless. “Jesus Christ.”

She’s still laughing when she crosses the room, grabs your collar, and pulls you in again—fast and full and this time with no crowd, no stage, no cameras.

Just you. Just her. Just the kiss that should’ve happened months ago.

You pull back barely an inch, lips brushing hers.

“So… we’re talking now?”

She nods. “Eventually.”

Then kisses you again.

---

It’s the day after the kiss.

Tour’s almost done, but tonight? No shows. No rehearsals. No interviews.

Just dinner.

You didn’t plan anything fancy. Billie didn’t want that. She texted you from her hotel bed:

“u hungry or in denial”

You replied:

“both but i could eat”

She sent back a pin to a quiet diner just two blocks from the hotel.

---

The diner’s nearly empty.

Dim lighting. Warm air. One sleepy waiter in the corner pretending not to watch them. You sit across from Billie in a red vinyl booth that squeaks every time either of you move. There’s sugar in the ketchup bottle. The jukebox is broken.

It’s perfect.

Billie looks half-asleep, hair tied up in some lazy knot, face clean of makeup. Your hoodie’s drowning her shoulders. She hasn’t even opened her menu.

“You gonna order?” you ask, eyes flicking up over the rim of your milkshake.

She shrugs. “Already know what I want.”

You roll your eyes. “How mysterious.”

“Right?” she smirks. “I’m so cool.”

You laugh, leaning back into the booth, socked foot nudging hers under the table. “So humble, too.”

She kicks you lightly in retaliation, then sits back and exhales like she’s been holding it in for years.

“...This is weird,” she says after a second.

“What, being somewhere normal?”

Billie nods slowly. “No stage. No bus. No crew. Just… this.”

You glance at the table between you, then back at her. “It’s kinda nice.”

She hums. “Yeah.”

A quiet minute passes. You both let the silence stretch.

Then she says it.

“So... that happened.”

Your heart kicks. But your smile stays easy. “Yeah.”

There’s a long beat.

Billie’s gaze flicks up from the table. Her voice is soft—serious in a way she doesn’t do often. “Do you regret it?”

Your fingers tap your glass. You glance at her, eyebrow raised.

“Would you do it again?”

She doesn’t flinch.

You pause. Let your mouth tilt into something crooked. “No regrets.”

She doesn’t blink.

“Ten out of ten,” you say, “would do again.”

She chuckles as her shoulders drop the tiniest bit, like she’s been bracing for something. You feel it in your own chest too, that nervous flutter, the almost-fear that this could’ve been a one-time thing. A glitch.

But now she knows.

You meant it.

“I like you,” she says then. Soft, but steady. “Like… a lot.”

You almost smile, but there’s something in your throat. Something warm and sharp and real.

Billie goes on before you can answer. “I know we’ve been doing this thing—flirting, pretending it’s for fun. But I’m tired of being weird about it.”

You breathe in. Exhale through your nose.

“I like you too,” you say, finally. “A stupid amount.”

She smiles, nose scrunching slightly. “Stupid?”

“Yeah.” You rest your elbow on the table, lean in. “You’re dramatic. And demanding. You take my hoodies without asking.”

“You leave them in reach,” she argues.

“Because I live with you on a bus, Billie!”

“That’s a you problem.”

You laugh—sharp, bright, totally yours.

Then softer, as you settle again: “I’d do the last eleven months over again just to get here.”

She looks at you for a long time. You let her.

Then she asks, “So… we’re doing this?”

You nod. “Yeah. We are.”

Billie’s eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. “Cool.”

You grin. “Cool.”

She smirks a little. “You gonna kiss me again or what?”

You blink. “We’re in public.”

She shrugs. “Pussy.”

You scoff, then lean across the table and kiss her anyway—slow, sure, and right there, beside the salt and pepper shakers.

It tastes like milkshake. And freedom. And finally.

****

[During Tour - Autumn - Final Show]

You feel it in your chest the second you step on stage.

This one’s different.

You’ve played eighty-eight shows together. Cities blurring. Airports forgotten. Dressing rooms, green rooms, soundcheck jokes and half-missed cues. But this?

This is the last one.

And this time, Billie reaches for your hand without thinking.

Fingers linked. Palms warm. The crowd roars.

You glance at her.

She’s already looking at you.

---

The show is everything.

Lights brighter. Crowd louder. Setlist tighter. Even the air feels thicker, golden and buzzing.

Billie dances like she’s weightless.

You sing like the words were born on your tongue.

And somewhere in the second verse of “Bleed Into You,” when she backs up against you and your hands find her waist automatically—

You realize the crowd already knows.

They’ve always known.

But tonight? You’re not pretending anymore.

---

The last song comes.

You hear the opening notes and your chest tightens in the best way.

The crowd’s already screaming. They know this part. They wait for it.

You walk toward center stage.

Billie walks toward you.

You meet.

Just like always.

But now… there’s no pause. No hesitation.

Billie looks at you and smiles like you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted.

And you—

You lean in.

Hands on her jaw.

And this time?

You kiss her.

Not rushed. Not stolen. Not hidden behind fog machines or chaos.

You kiss her like you mean it. Because you do.

And she kisses you back with both hands in your hair and a soft little sound in her throat that makes your knees weak.

The crowd is screaming. Crying. Filming. You don’t care.

The music plays on behind you.

And she whispers, right against your lips:

“Finally.”

You pull back, just enough to see her face. She’s glowing.

You grin, dizzy and sure. “Took us long enough.”

She laces your fingers again and turns you both toward the crowd.

You raise your hands.

They cheer like you just announced the second coming.

Billie tugs you close one more time and kisses your cheek, then murmurs against your temple:

“Let them look.”

You nod. “They’ve been watching the whole time.”

--------------------

Ayee

[ncsdlr]

Tit sucker

Billie x Fem!Reader

Summary: Billie being clingy

Warning: tit play and sucking

All day. That’s how long Billie had been sucking your tits. She had gotten so needy after she finished her album. Try to cook? She's sucking your tits. Try to read? She sucks your tits.

“Mmngh” she moans as you play with her hair. She’s being needy.

She’s not trying to take our pants off, get in your pants or strap. She just feels clingy and it's adorable.

“Can I go pee?” you ask her calmly.

“Fine but please hurry” she responded as she wiped her lips.

As you get back she lights up happily. You sit down and this time she doesn’t suck. She squeezes and mumbles “perfect stress ball”. She lays a few kisses on your clothed tits and sucks through your shirt and pats your ass as she continues being clingy cute

You’ve heard of pussy drunk never tit drunk which you assume that’s what she is.

She rubs your nipple through your shirt as she sucks your under creating a wet spot on your shirt “So pretty” she mumbles. “Thanks” you respond.

She doesn’t get embarrassed or blush. She continues to kiss and rub then realizes she’s been doing this without your consent, so now she feels bad. Consent is very important to even if you said it doesn’t matter since you’re dating and that you would tell her to stop if you didn’t like it.

She just lays there. “Im sorry, i'm not horny i promise, i just clingy” billie apologizes. As she takes her hand from your shirt and wipes her lips. And looks at you

“It’s ok, its cute” you respond as she falls asleep under your shirt not even sucking just sleep as your breasts are her stress balls, suckers, and pillow. You sigh in content and look at her in adoration. Your girl. The girl you wanna be with forever. And your tit sucker.

Sorry if this isn't good, I tried my best and it's my first time so

[ncsdlr]

"Acquainted by the weeknd" and it's one with like Billie and reader and it's like a casual/friends with benefits type thing but becomes more PLEASEEEE ✂️✂️😫😫

hola mi amorrrrr! Yes ofc! Hope you like it 🥰🙈 made it more angsty if you don’t mind xx

——————————————————————————

To say that you’re in love is bold.

Dangerous, even.

It’s during moments like these that make you believe that you’re more than what you both say that you are. More than passing glances and late-night touches. More than the silence after you both say, “This doesn’t mean anything.”

But it feels like it does.

And that’s the part that fucking terrifies you.

Because you promised yourself you’d never let it go this far. Never let the nights blur into mornings. Never let her voice linger in your head when she’s not there. But now, she’s everywhere. In your clothes. In your bed. In the way you forget yourself.

And tonight is no different.

You lay back on the plush pillows, pulse quickening in anticipation as Billie plants hot, open-mouth kisses along your inner thigh. A whimper escapes your lips, hips buckling instinctively, desperate for more of her touch, her heat. She takes her time with you— she always does— just how you like it.

“Please…” you half-moan, half-beg, the ache between your legs growing more and more.

She trails her fingers lightly up your thigh, teasing, before finally, mercifully, her hand finds its way to the apex of your legs. You gasp as she cups you, her touch electric, sending shivers through your entire body.

Billie leans in, her breath hot against your ear.

“Is this what you want?" she whispers, her voice a low, sultry purr. You can only nod, your words lost in a moan as she begins to touch you, her fingers deft and knowing.

Billie shifts, positioning herself with your limbs, her body pressing against yours. Gasps and moans begin to fill the bedroom, your bodies grinding and arching into one another, clits brushing. Billie's breath quickens as her body moves in sync with yours, her soft skin gliding against yours with each deliberate motion. Her hands explore your curves, tracing lines of pleasure that make you shiver. The room is filled with the intoxicating scent of arousal and the sound of your combined breaths, ragged and desperate.

Billie grunts. “F-Fuck, Y/N…”

Her lips find yours in a passionate kiss, tongues dancing and tasting. You can feel her heartbeat against your chest, matching the rhythm of your own. Her hips roll against you, creating a friction that sends waves of heat through your body. You both moan into each other's mouths, the sound muffled but intense. Her hands slide down your back, gripping your ass and pulling you closer. You grind against her, seeking more friction, more contact.

Billie's mouth moves to your neck, nibbling and sucking, marking you as hers. You tilt your head back, giving her more access, your body arching into her touch. Her hands roam your body, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples, making you gasp and writhe. You both move together, a dance of desire, your bodies slick with sweat and need. The room is a symphony of pleasure, your moans and gasps the only music. You can feel the pressure building, the tension coiling in your belly, ready to explode.

“Billie… Oh, my God—“ Your words become out in breathless moans. All you can think, breathe, feel is Billie.

Billie's hand slips between your legs, her fingers finding your clit, rubbing and circling. You cry out, your body convulsing as she pushes you over the edge. She follows soon after, her body shaking as she finds her own release. You both collapse, spent and breathless, your bodies still entwined. The room is quiet now, except for the sound of your hearts beating in unison.

And then it hits.

The reality.

It’s not real. None of it is.

The passion is real, of course, but soon after, she will leave. And come back like she always does. She always says she’s not trying to catch feelings. You say you aren’t either.

This isn’t love. You know it. And you keep denying it.

But some addictions don’t ask for permission.

Yet deep down, you know:

She’s not just an acquaintance anymore.

And neither are you.

[ncsdlr]

ride or cry (that is the stupidest name i've ever come up with, just go with it)

authors note: i finally wrote something other than angst (everyone cheer) warnings: smut

you were splayed out on silk pillows, hair a messy halo around you, skin slick with sweat, chest heaving. before getting bored and wanting to go annoy your girlfriend. bad idea though. billie had been edging you for hours making you grind down on her thigh while she worked, pulling you back every time you got too close. her fingers have been tracing slow, maddening patterns along your sides, lips brushing against the crook of your neck in teasing, featherlight kisses.

you whimper into her ear, hips stuttering as you press harder against her thigh, making the mess between your legs even more unbearable.

“you know, baby…” she murmurs, voice dripping with amusement, “i think you like when i tease you. hm?”

you nod helplessly, not even fully hearing her words—just chasing that high she keeps dangling in front of you.

“mommy, please…” you breathe, voice wrecked, trembling with need. “i just wanna be good for you…” she sighs, almost lazily, like she’s thinking about it. “mmm, but mommy’s tired…” she drawls, though there’s no real bite behind the words.

“please,” you beg, hips shifting uncontrollably, like they’re acting on instinct alone. “it hurts, i need you so bad, mommy…”

she clicks her tongue, eyes dark with faux pity. “tsk… my poor baby,” she whispers, brushing her fingers over your flushed cheek. “alright. come on, then.”

you climb onto her lap, shaky hands bracing against her shoulders. she holds you steady, her palm at your lower back, guiding you down slowly onto her length. you gasp, body arching as she fills you, the stretch making your thighs quake from overstimulation. you pause, breathing hard, letting yourself adjust before your hips start to roll. needy, languid, desperate. soft moans slip from your lips, little breathy whines that go straight to her core. billie watches you like you're a masterpiece, every twitch of your muscles, every trembling exhale, every inch of you unraveling just for her. “mommy… m’tired…” you whimper, voice barely there, cracked and aching. “need your help…” she smiles, sweet, slow, merciless, and wipes the sweat from your brow with her thumb. “mommy told you she was tired, didn’t she?” she coos. “come on, sweet girl. take what you need.”

you sob quietly, overwhelmed, but you obey, hips bouncing, rhythm messy and frantic now. the sound of skin slapping echoes through the room as you ride her, clinging to her like she’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. her hands rest on your waist, firm but not guiding, just watching you struggle, suffer, need.

your rhythm falters. thighs trembling, breath catching, your body shakes with effort, but you don’t stop. you can’t. you’ve been on edge for so long, and you're so close now you can taste it.

“that’s it, baby,” she whispers, voice low and velvety. “look at you, riding mommy’s cock like a good little slut. so desperate…” you choke on a moan, head falling to her shoulder, clutching at her like you might shatter. your muscles are screaming, nerves sparking, tension coiled so tight it’s almost unbearable.

“can’t- can’t do it, mommy,” you cry out, voice cracking as the tears finally spill. “too much… hurts…” she lifts your chin, forces your glassy eyes to meet hers. “thought you wanted to be good for me, baby?” she breathes. “thought you loved being mommy’s little whore…”

you nod, barely, tears spilling freely now, lips parted in a soft, gasping plea. “i do… i do, mommy,” you sob. “fuck, need you mommy please just wanna be good…”

she hums, almost lovingly, and one hand moves down, fingers sliding between your legs. they find your swollen clit with practiced ease, rubbing slow, torturous circles. you moan out, hips jerking wildly, movements turning feral, desperate. “there you go,” she whispers, eyes locked on your wrecked face. "that’s it. show me how much of a slut you are for mommy."

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @giannaeilish @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonglazesbillieeilish | send me an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[ncsdlr]

ᥫ᭡ DRUNKEN KISSES ── .✦ B.E.

Pairing: Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Synopsis: You got pushed to drink by your friends, even when you didn’t want to. And when you called Billie to come get you, she didn’t hesitate for a moment.

W/c: 2.2k

a/n: I got a little lazy towards the end so I’m sorry for that… but I hope you enjoy it took me like three hours to write this

The loud music thumped in your chest, vibrating through your entire body. You could hear voices laughing and talking around you, but you couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. The lights flashed all around you, a colorful burst of light going around the entire room.

The scent of the room was a mix of alcohol, sweat and strong perfumes, a scent that was awful and rather strong, but you got over it eventually. People were filled in the house, the expensive paintings and luxury all over the room. Even the sink looked like it cost a million bucks.

You didn’t exactly wanted to go to this party—you knew it was just going to be filled with people in their twenties that had nothing better to do with lives. Your friends had forced you to come. They had been pushing you to come to one of the parties they had been hosting for a while, and you always turned them down.

Because frankly, nothing was better than spending your weekend with your girlfriend, Billie. You liked the peace and quiet, the laziness of the weekends, spent in bed or the couch. All with Billie, cuddled under a blanket. But you haven’t been spending a lot of your time with your friends lately, barely texting them, so you felt like you owed them a bit. So you agreed to come.

But now, you were regretting that decision. You were sitting on the couch, your friends surrounding you. Riley, a friend from high school, was sitting on your left, and Bailey was sitting on your right. Your two other friends, Amelia and Charlotte were standing in front of you, arms crossed.

A red solo cup was resting in your hands, and you were acting as if it were a cup of poison. You had never drank before, and you didn’t really plan on ever doing it. You didn’t like the feeling of being out of control of your own body, especially if something else had that control. So you never tried it, not even a drop.

The smell was strong, but a mix of something fruity. Sense it was your first ever drink, your friends did decide to water it down a bit with some juice. The strong, alcoholic scent filled your nostrils, and it felt like your nose hairs would burn off just from smelling it. You made a face of disgust, pulling the cup away from your nose.

"Come on, it’s not that bad! Just some vodka and rum. I mixed it with some Hawaiian Punch. It shouldn’t be too bad. Just a little sip.“ Riley encouraged, placing a hand on your shoulder and gently shaking you.

"It’s so good, you’ll love it! We all had some before.“ Amelia spoke, a smile forming on her face. She looked between you and the cup, as if she was magically going to move the rim of the cup to your mouth.

You swallowed, the nervousness filling your chest. You wanted to turn them down, to say no and just hand the cup off. But you felt like you owed them. You had to at least try. You took a deep breath, bringing the rim of the cup closer to your mouth, taking in the scent of the fruity alcohol once more.

You tilted your head back, your friends all watching in anticipation. And once the liquid hit your tastebuds and went down your throat, the burning sensation immediately started, and you pulled the cup away. The taste was bitter, a little mix of the juice was there, but the alcohols overrided it. The burn reached your throat, and you felt like the muscles in your throat were melting from the burn.

You let out a series of coughs, almost choking on the drink. You heard your friends chuckling around you, and Bailey gently patted your back, trying to help with the digestion.

It took a few moments, but the coughing eventually subsided, and you were left with the bitter taste of alcohol on your tongue, making your face curl in disgust. Your tsked, trying to get the taste off your tongue.

"Take another sip!“ Charlotte encouraged, a wide smile plastering her face. Like she liked to see you suffer.

You shook your head, but before you could verbally respond, Amelia perked up. "Just one more, okay? It’ll get better over time.“

You wanted to say no, to get up and go home, but you felt tempted. Maybe they were right, maybe it would get better. You let out a sigh, rolling your eyes before you took another swing.

Then they encouraged you again. And you drank again. Then again. And again, and again, and again until the cup was empty, and they were already fetching you another cup. But without the juice. And you drank it.

As time passed and your friends chatted around you, you felt your vision started to become blurry and bouncy. Everything you were looking at suddenly had a shade of blur, and it looked like waves were going through your vision. You tried to blink multiple times to fix it, but it didn’t.

Your head was starting to feel heavy, and you felt like you were out of your own body. Like you were a piece of jello on the couch, melting into the cushions and becoming one. You didn’t like that feeling. You didn’t like it at all. It felt like you were out of your own body, and you were in third person. It felt so weird and unnatural. You hated it.

You slowly stood up from the couch, and your legs almost buckled under you. Your friends curiously looked at you, asking where you were going. You apologies for the early dismissal, and gave them all weak, half-assed smiles. You tried to walk, but you were stumbling over your own feet. But eventually, you got to the front door, and you stumbled out onto the porch, sitting down on the concrete.

You rubbed your temples, as if you were turning the gears in your brain to start working correctly again. You took a deep breath of the fresh air, letting it fill your lungs. It was the one natural thing you had in your grasp right now.

You didn’t want to stay here any longer. The smell of the alcohol you drank reeked off of your clothes, and your hair was a little messed up. You knew you couldn’t drive in your condition. Your vision was impaired and you could barely walk without tripping over your own feet. It was too late to be walking alone, even in this nice neighborhood.

So, you called Billie. You had to squint to look at your phone, making sure it was really her before clicking the 'call' button. You pressed speaker, feeling too weak to hold your phone to your ear. You put your phone on your legs, hanging your head as you heard the phone ringing.

Billie was quick to pick up, answering the phone on the second ring. She spoke with a sweet, loving voice, the adorable little tone she always had when she spoke rang through the air, practically healing your ears. "Hii, baby. How’s the party? You havin‘ fun?“

You let out a small groan, which somehow mixed with a giggle. You moved some hair out of your face as you spoke, your words completely slurred, and barely understood through the phone. "Heyyy, bils… it’s goin‘… amazing, here. Buttt I don’t feel too good. Everything’s all spinny an‘ blurry an‘ I feel like jelly… can you come f‘me?“

With your slurred words and how you described your symptoms, a worry built up in her chest. Were you safe? How much had you drank? She pushed her worries away, knowing she needed to be strong for you. She spoke again, her voice softer, sweeter, just to not worry you. "Of course, my love. I’m on my way right now. I’ll be there soon. I love you.“

"Love you too!“ you said with a small giggle. Apparently, your drunken self got really flustered when Billie showed affection. The blush on your face that Billie couldn’t yet see had spread all over your face, even to your ears. You hung up the phone giggling, almost kicking your feet. Almost.

When Billie arrived, she didn’t even bother to turn off the car. The bright headlights of the dodge challenger were pointed right your way, making your eyes squint and blink a few times.

Billie instantly hopped out of the car, and quickly jogged towards you. There was a hint of worry on her expression, but she hid it rather well. She kneeled down in front of you, gently taking your face into her hands. She scanned over your face and your body, checking for any injuries. She let out a sigh of relief as she found none, her shoulders slumping.

"Hey, love. How you feeling? Still all dizzy and blurry?“ she said softly, gently rubbing her thumbs over the soft skin of your cheeks. Her eyes held a delicateness to them, looking at you as if you would break under the slightest pressure.

You nodded, a giddy smile forming in your face as her hands touched your cheeks. Her palms were warm, a stark contrast to your cold cheeks. You didn’t wear a jacket, not thinking you would’ve been waiting outside, at night for 10 minutes. But you didn’t care now. You were with Billie, and that’s all your mind could focus on now.

Billie smiled softly, before gently helping you onto your feet. You wabbled a bit, but she helped you find your balance as she led you to the car. She gently placed you in the passenger seat, closing the door once you were buckled in and comfortable. She quickly rounded the car, getting into the drivers seat and backing out of the driveway.

The carride was mostly silent, except for your little babbles that you would spurt out, shifting every other minute. Billie’s hand stayed on your thigh, gently rubbing and squeezing the milky skin beneath her palm.

Billie could tell you were more of the sleepy drunk, seeing you barely awake in the passenger seat. But there was something keeping you awake. You didn’t know what, big it was something.

The car came to a stop as Billie pulled into the driveway of your shared house, and she killed the engine before rushing back over to your side. She opened the door for you, unbuckling you and letting you lean on her as you began to walk inside. You let out a small giggle, feeling Billie’s warmth against yours. She was always so warm. You never could understand how.

Billie helped you up the stairs and into the bedroom, gently sitting you down on the bed. "Stay here for a second, okay? I’ll be right back.“

Billie quickly jogged out the room and back down the stairs, entering the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water. She then went back upstairs and into the bedroom, opening the bottle of water as she approached you yet again.

"Drink it, love. It will help with the hangover tomorrow.“ Billid said softly, letting you take the water and drink it. It helped clear your mind a bit, and it was a soothing balm to the bitter taste that lingered in your throat.

You placed the waterbottle down on the bedside table, rubbing your eye. Billie quickly took notice, and gently began to take off all your jewelry, putting it in its designated spot in your jewelry box. She then began to change your clothes for you, placing you out of your shiny dress and into a pair of comfy shorts and one of Billie’s hoodies. It was always more comfortable to sleep in Billie’s hoodies.

You melted into the comfortable clothes, quickly warming up. You layed down on the bed, curling under the duvet. Billie quickly followed, gently pulling you into her chest, letting you listen to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. You felt your cheeks heating up again, a giddy giggle leaving your lips again.

Billie couldn’t help but laugh at your giddiness, seeing how flustered you could get just by simple acts and touches. She gently stroked your hair with her fingers, weaving through the soft locks. She gently leaned down and placed a soft, gentle kiss on your lips, whispering quietly to you. "My little angel.“

Your cheeks heated up even more at the petname and the kiss, which you leaned into. But when she pulled away, you instantly puckered up your lips, as if asking for another one.

Billie chuckled, playfully rolling her eyes. She never minded when you asked for kisses. It was her favorite thing anyways. She gently placed another kiss to your lips again, and you leaned into it, feeling at ease.

Once she pulled away again, you felt your eyes drooping, the tiredness taking over your body. Billie continued to gently comb through your hair, trying to help you fall asleep. She smiled at your sleepy face, just on the verge of passing out.

But then, you lips puckered up again weakly, asking for yet another kiss. Billie rolled her eyes with a sigh, speaking with faux annoyance. "You can’t get enough of my kisses while your drunk, can you?“ But it wasn’t a complaint. She leaned into a kiss once more, capturing your lips into the third kiss. Her soft lips brought your into your slumber, your lips falling limp as Billie gently pulled away.

She pulled your sleeping form into her chest, rubbing your back with her hand. She rested her chin on the top of your head, speaking quietly and softly to your sleeping, drunk form.

"Goodnight, my angel.“ ⋆. 𐙚 ̊

a/n: guys I just realized I accidentally forgot three ENTIREE paragraphs so if you re-read this and it looks different that’s why 😓 I’m sorry

[ncsdlr]

Lunch - b.e

warnings !! smut , head 👅 , receiving!billie , bottom!billie , top!reader , making out 💋 , marking!kink?

dividers by - @benardsbendystraws

Halloween day..

you and Billie had gone pumpkin picking earlier that afternoon. a small date that was amazing. it was so fun and cute. You took a million photos. you were invited to go to a party that night but decided to just stay home this year. telling eachother, ‘Halloween doesn’t have to be just partying. We do that every year.’ And this was hell of a good option instead of waking up hungover on November 1st. You were in the kitchen grabbing out all the tools to carve the two pumpkins that you set out on the counter. Billie rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie and you took yours off, now just wearing a tank top.

the way the tank top and sweatpants hugged your curves was so hot. billie just admired you as you took the supplies out of the bag. you brought a pumpkin carving kit.. it was shitty plastic. billie leant against the counter on her elbows while you did this and when you finished, she stood up properly.

“Let’s get started!” You said and she giggled. you both began carving a pumpkin each, but the plastic was not doing much. “Fucks sake.” Billie mumbled. The small tool that Billie was holding broke. You stop and grab a two kitchen knives from the nearby drawer. You both decide to use those instead. The music played low in the background as you carved the tops of the pumpkins and began removing the guts. The squelching sound it made caused you both to smirk and burst out laughing. Dirty minded. You both were to blame. laughing but still continuing to carve. the mood in the air was happy, but there was still a small tension. you finished de-gutting yours before Billie did so you decided to take a two minute break. after scooping the pumpkin seeds into the trash, you wash your hands and watch as the orange pieces fell down the sink. you walk up behind billie and wrap your cold hands around her waist. It sends a shiver down her spine. you smirk, and kiss her neck. You place small kisses all over her neck.. your lipstick leaves marks behind. she had a think for marks, you know she did.

“babe-“

you stopped but still held her close.. “yeah? Want me to stop? I can-“

Billie interrupted you, “No, god. Don’t stop.” She mumbled. You smirked again and giggled as you continued placing kisses and lipstick marks on her neck. it eventually smudging around your lips. Billie’s breath hitched. She removed her hands from the pumpkin and eventually gripped onto the counter. You pushed back a little, “cm’here.” you whispered. she turned around, confused. you guided her to the sink and washed her hands for her. with giving her no time to ask what you’re doing, you pushed her against the counter, billie wrapped her hands around your neck looking into your eyes. her mouth wrapped with yours, her tongue swirling around yours.. the music and the wet sounds of your mouths were all that could be heard. billie let out a soft moan which only caused you to be even more excited. you looked at her for a moment. “can I?” you whispered. she pulled you closer, “yes, please.”

you grabbed her and lifted her onto the counter.. barely missing the orange-stained pumpkin seeds that were scattered around. she bit her lip. you lifted down her shorts slightly. you kissed her as you went further, lifting her hoodie and leaving a few kiss marks on her stomach, then her lower waist, and her upper thighs.

you slipped off her pink thong as it fell to her knees and then followed the shorts by dropping to the floor. her legs dangled above the floor, too short to reach it.. and the counter was a little high anyways. she always justified her height like that, but you always know she’s just short with no excuses.

your cold fingers ran against her, as you continued placing kisses. two hickeys on her inner thigh.. which only made her even more turned on.

you looked up for approval, again. you never wanted to do anything she didn’t want to.

she nodded with another “please.”

you slowly rubbed her fingers against her folds as she threw her head back.

“fuck-..” She moaned.

you eventually brought your head closer, licking.. sucking.. swirling. your tongue hitting against the spots just right, the things she needed. she moaned louder.

“shhh, the neighbors will hear.” you teased, knowing neither of you gave a fuck anyways. she held a hand over her mouth as you continued to eat her out. you held both her hands down.

“let me hear you, pretty girl.”

she moaned louder.. she was begging everytime you stopped for even a second. you got faster, your mouth licking against her clit.

you slipped in a finger, the coldness made her shout even louder, your name in her voice echoing through the room. the music was still playing low in the background. your two fingers slipped in and out faster than she could even begin to process. it made her guts feel scrambled, her legs like jelly, and her head spinning. Her legs began to tense up and you could tell she was close. your mouth moved further down and you removed your fingers. your head bobbed faster, your tongue flickered against her folds. she wrapped her legs around your shoulders.

“you close?” you mumbled between her legs. she nodded so fast as you looked up at her continuing to eat her like she was breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert right in front of you.

Billie moaned louder, even though you thought she couldn’t. every sound you thought was hot, just got hotter every time. she began to whimper, “please I’m gonn- fuck- please.. baby-“

you nodded at her, “you can do it, pretty girl. let me taste it.”

you muttered and she let herself release around your mouth, dripping down your chin you continued to eat.. Billie’s hips buckled slightly and you pushed one of your hands on her stomach. she could’ve melted down off the counter and onto the floor any second. but you stopped that. she slowly came out of her climax.. still whimpering and catching her breath. you lifted your head up and pressed a few more kisses before stand up. your hands rested on her thighs after wiping your chin.

“you did so well, bils.”

she smiled, still panting.. “god I needed that all day.”

“you should’ve said sooner.”

you picked up Billie’s shorts and thong from the floor, putting them around her ankles and she lifted them up before she hopped down from the counter.

twenty minutes later, after some hickeys being noticed and laughed at, the music being turned up higher, and the carving was no complete. you were all over eachother now, soft and clingy. you never stopped comforting her, you never ignored her after anything intimate.

you turned your pumpkin around “ta-daaa!” it was the classic. triangle eyes and wide mouth. you placed the unlit candle inside. billie smiled, “so cute, babe.”

you turned over to look at the ‘big reveal’ of Billie’s pumpkin carving. you expected a picture or something. the words read out .. ‘I need some head’ You both burst out into laughter once again. “You just got that, baby.” You grabbed her hips and held her close to you. “had the idea before that even happened.”

“oh yeah?” you said.

NOT proofread !

first time writing smut .. loved it

lowkey horny now

literally me ! anyways.

love uuu

- Rye 💝

[ncsdlr]

I've always wanted to see reader hurt after sex and doesn't tell her straight away but she figures it out.

hurt

masterlist prompt list

warnings: mentions of smut, but no smut. mentions of injury. fluff

synopsis: after rough sex, you try walk off the consequences, but billie quickly realises.

You’re both tangled in the sheets, the room still thick with the warmth of what just happened,your chest rising fast, Billie’s breath brushing your collarbone, skin hot and damp.

She’s sprawled halfway on top of you, her thigh slotted between yours, one hand lazily tracing your stomach like she’s still coming down. “Holy shit,” she whispers, grinning against your skin. “You okay?”

You laugh softly, brushing sweaty hair off your forehead. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Yeah, just… catching up to me.”

She hums, pressing a soft kiss under your jaw. “That was so good fuck, you were so good” she says, voice gone scratchy and satisfied. “You’re unreal.”

You smile, but your thighs are starting to ache a little. There’s a throb, nothing sharp, just tender. Your hips shift instinctively, trying to get more comfortable, but the movement makes you wince.

Billie doesn’t notice at first. She rolls off you, flopping on her back, hair fanned out over the pillow. “God, I’m gonna feel that tomorrow.”

You sit up carefully, letting the sheet fall from your chest, and you try to stand,but the moment your foot hits the floor, your legs go weak, and you stumble, catching the edge of the dresser with a quiet, “Shit,”

Billie’s head snaps up. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, waving her off. “I’m fine. Just, uh, legs are jelly, that’s all.”

But you’re moving stiff, half-limping toward the bathroom, and it’s not subtle. She’s already scrambling upright, the haze gone from her face. “Wait. Are you hurt?”

“No,” you lie, too fast. “Just sore, like, normal sore. It’s fine, Bills.”

She slides out of bed, bare feet padding across the floor, catching your wrist gently before you can shut the door. “Wait. Look at me.”

You do, reluctantly, and she searches your face, eyes narrowing. “Did I… Did I hurt you?”

Your throat tightens. “Not like,bad. It’s just, I think I hit my hip or something. On the edge of the bed maybe? Or the drawer. I don’t know, I wasn’t really… thinking about it.”

Billie’s face softens instantly, guilt crawling in fast. “Baby…” Her hands come up to your waist, gentle. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrug. “Didn’t wanna ruin the moment. And it’s not, like, an emergency. It just aches.”

Her hands rub slow over your sides. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t even notice ‘til I tried to stand,” you admit, leaning into her touch. “It’s not your fault.”

But she’s already guiding you back toward the bed. “C’mere, lie down. Let me see.”

You grumble, “It’s not serious, Billie.”

“Don’t care. Let me check anyway.”

You lie back with a sigh, Billie kneeling beside you, pulling the covers down just enough to see the faint red mark blooming across your hipbone. She frowns, fingers ghosting over it.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Right on the corner. That’s gonna bruise.”

You glance down. “Oh. Huh. I didn’t think it looked that bad.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second,just presses a soft kiss beside the mark, then another, like an apology in slow motion.

“Don’t do that,” you murmur, brushing her hair back. “Don’t act like you broke me.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” she says, quiet.

“You didn’t. Not really.”

Billie sighs, laying her head gently on your stomach. “Still. I hate that I didn’t notice.”

You run your fingers through her hair. “You were kinda busy blowing my mind.”

She huffs a laugh, nose nuzzling your skin. “Still.”

A few seconds pass in quiet, then you say, “I think I also might’ve pulled something trying to hold my leg up that long.”

Billie groans into your stomach. “Okay, I definitely broke you.”

You laugh, wincing a little. “Sore. Not broken.”

She shifts up, kissing you slowly. “Okay. I’m gonna go get you an ice pack, your favorite hoodie, and I do literally everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. You’re on princess treatment until further notice.”

You grin against her mouth. “Even if I milk this for like… a week?”

She smiles back. “Especially if you do.”

[ncsdlr]

JUST WANNA GET HER OFF 𓂃 billie eilish

⤷ dry humping, dirty talk, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, dom!billie, kissing.

a wave of arousal washes over you as you watch billie, her bright eyes locked on yours with an unspoken challenge. the air is thick with tension and desire, the silence between you both broken only by the sound of your heavy breathing.

"cmere," she commands, her voice dripping with lust as she pats her knee, a devious smirk playing on her full lips. swallowing hard, you hesitantly move closer to her, your heart racing with both excitement and nervousness. as you straddle her knee, the rough denim of her jeans rubs against your soaked panties, sending sparks of pleasure coursing through your body.

"good girl," she praises, her voice low and sultry as she begins to gently move her leg up and down, creating delicious friction between your throbbing pussy and her knee. "fuck...billie," you moan, unable to hold back your desire any longer. your hands grip her thighs tightly, your nails digging into her skin as you grind against her knee harder, desperate for more of that intoxicating sensation.

"that's it, baby," she groans, her hands moving to grip your hips tightly, guiding your movements. "show me how much you want it..” your breath hitches as you obey her command, moving your hips faster and harder against her knee. the rough denim of her jeans rubbing against your panties is enough to drive you wild with lust, your juices soaking through the thin fabric and onto her jeans.

"you like that, don't you?” she teases, her voice filled with dark promise. "you're so fucking wet for me, aren't you?" a loud moan rips from your throat as she thrusts her knee up against you, hitting that perfect spot inside you that has you seeing stars. your whole body shakes with the force of your building orgasm, your pussy clenching and unclenching in desperation.

"oh god...billie...i'm...i'm going to cum," you pant, your voice shaky with desire and need. "cum for me, baby," she growls, her voice low and commanding. "show me how much you love this." with a loud cry, you cum hard against her knee, your juices soaking through your panties and onto her jeans. you collapse against her chest, panting heavily as she strokes your hair gently.

"good girl," she whispers, a satisfied smile on her face. "go again." breathless and still trembling from your orgasm, you quickly straddle her knee once more. this time, however, she has a surprise in store for you. "take off your panties," she orders, her voice firm and commanding. "i want to see that beautiful pussy of yours."

without hesitation, you slip off your soaked panties, exposing your glistening pussy to her hungry gaze. a wave of arousal washes over you as you watch her lick her lips in desire. "fuck...you're gorgeous," she breathes, her eyes locked on your pussy. "now, ride my knee again. i want to see that perfect pussy of yours cum all over me.”

moaning loudly, you obey her command, grinding your pussy against her knee harder and faster than before. the sensation of her rough jeans rubbing against your sensitive clit drives you wild, your juices flowing freely onto her jeans.

"that's it, baby," she groans, her hands gripping your hips tightly. "keep movin’ those hips..." a loud cry rips from your throat as she thrusts her knee up against you, hitting that perfect spot inside you once more. your whole body shakes with the force of your orgasm, your pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing as you cum hard against her knee.

with a satisfied smile on her face, billie eilish pulls you closer, her lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss. as you kiss her back passionately, you both know this is far from over.

© delilaheilish

💌: surprise motherfuckers this has been marinating in my drafts for a while

[ncsdlr]

Soft Girls Don’t Stand a Chance (except you did. and it ruined her)

Regina George x Reader

------------------

The room buzzes with casual chaos — cliques clicking, plastics sparkling. Regina George sits dead center, polished and dangerous, flanked by Gretchen and Karen like she’s royalty on her stupid glitter throne.

You walk in — new kid energy, sure — but you don’t scan the room. You already know who you’re looking for.

No one notices you until you’re standing right in front of her table.

Regina looks up slowly, like she can’t believe someone’s blocking her light.

“Can I help you?”

You smile. Calm. Confident. Hands in your pockets like you have all the time in the world.

“Yeah. I’m taking you out this weekend.”

The entire table stills.

Karen pauses mid-chew. Gretchen audibly gasps.

Regina scoffs, leaning back in her seat.

“Do you even know who I am?”

You nod, still smiling.

“Regina George. Queen bee. Heartbreaker. Looks good in pink. I know who you are. The question is — do you know who I am?”

She blinks.

“...No?”

You lean down slightly, not breaking eye contact.

“Then come find out.”

You straighten up.

“Saturday. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

And then? You walk away. Like you didn’t just declare romantic war in the middle of the cafeteria.

Regina stares after you, jaw slack, cheeks flushed.

Gretchen turns to her, whisper-shouting.

“What just happened?!”

Regina doesn’t answer.

Because she has no idea.

****

The front porch light is warm, but not as warm as the look on your face when the door finally swings open.

Regina’s standing there in a deep burgundy satin dress that hugs like a threat. Her heels are dagger-thin, her hair curled to death, and she’s wearing the kind of lip gloss that makes men cry and girls question their entire identity. She’s the devil dressed for dinner — and she knows it.

You, on the other hand, are in a crisp black suit — no tie, collar slightly undone, sleeves rolled just enough to flex. The kind of look that says I can flirt with your dad, then walk you to the door like a gentleman.

Your eyes sweep over her. One slow, deliberate pass.

“You clean up dangerously well.”

Regina scoffs, leaning on the frame.

“You act like you didn’t expect me to.”

You grin. “I did. I just like being right.”

She raises a brow. “Cocky.”

“Observant.”

Her eyes flick down your outfit.

“You wore a suit?”

You shrug, calm and casual. “You wore temptation.”

Her lips twitch — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

“Careful. Compliments like that get people punched.”

You lean a little closer.

“I don’t mind bruises.”

Regina pauses. Just for a second. Then rolls her eyes, stepping outside and locking the door behind her.

“You always flirt like you’re narrating a perfume ad?”

You smirk, already walking her to the car.

“Only when the girl looks like sin in red.”

She slips into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh — but her cheeks are pink.

“You’re exhausting.”

“You’ll live.”

The door clicks shut behind her. You walk around to your side, slow and composed, like you’ve already won — and Regina’s sitting there fuming because she’s not sure you haven’t.

--

The interior of your car smells like leather and something faintly citrus. The dashboard lights cast you in sharp, elegant angles as you drive — one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed near the gear shift, rings catching light every time you move.

Regina crosses her legs like she’s trying to look unbothered. She is not unbothered.

“So. Where are you taking me?” she asks, studying you sideways.

You glance over, smirk tugging slow at your mouth.

“You’ll see.”

“If this ends at a Cheesecake Factory, I’m setting your car on fire.”

You chuckle. “You’re way too pretty for Cheesecake Factory.”

“Flattery’s cheap.”

You hum, pulling smoothly onto the freeway. “Good thing the restaurant isn’t.”

Regina raises a brow, arms folding.

“What, Daddy’s card paying for this little ego trip?”

You flash her a sidelong look, calm as ever.

“Please. I wouldn’t risk impressing you with someone else’s money.”

She looks at you for a long second. You don’t break eye contact. She looks away first.

Note to self, she thinks, this bitch is dangerous.

--

The valet opens her door and you’re already there — hand out, waiting for hers like it’s instinct. Regina hesitates only for half a second before slipping her fingers into yours.

The restaurant is dim, intimate, all glass chandeliers and white linen and waiters who definitely know who you are.

Regina doesn’t say anything when the hostess greets you by name. Doesn’t flinch when the maître d’ leads you to a corner booth with actual privacy. Doesn’t ask why there’s already a bottle of wine waiting at your table.

But she’s definitely noticing.

“You come here often?” she asks as you slide her chair out for her.

“Only when I want to impress someone.”

Regina rolls her eyes — but she’s smiling now. Just a little.

“Still working on that, huh?”

You pour her wine with practiced ease, never once breaking eye contact.

“Is it working?”

She sips the wine you poured for her. Looks you over.

“You’re lucky I’m into delusional people.”

“And you’re lucky I’m into girls who pretend not to be impressed.”

She smirks. “Oh, I’m impressed. That doesn’t mean you’re winning.”

You lean in slightly.

“Winning what?”

“This.”

“Is this a game now?”

Regina leans in too — elbows on the table, lips barely parted.

“It’s always a game.”

You laugh once, low and easy.

“I love games.”

They order. Something rich and rare, and you barely look at the menu. You’ve clearly been here before — another flex Regina silently clocks, right alongside the waiter who seems to know to bring her extra lemon with her water without being asked.

“Do you always take girls here?” she asks, folding her napkin into her lap with perfect poise.

You shrug, sipping from your wine glass like a Bond girl who also took AP Lit.

“Only the ones worth remembering.”

Regina scoffs, stabbing her salad a little too hard.

“Bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones who make it past lunch.”

She side-eyes you. “You’re annoying.”

You grin. “You’re blushing.”

She glares because she really is blushing.

It’s casual and intense at the same time. Every story told becomes a challenge. She tells you about Gretchen’s weird food phase — you counter with a perfectly timed joke about how you used to paint your exes and now they’re all convinced they’re cursed. You talk about moving from Boston. She talks about how everyone here’s obsessed with her — but the way she says it sounds like a warning more than a brag.

“What, no big tragic backstory?” she asks, tipping her chin.

“Would it make me hotter?”

“Depends. Is there crying?”

“Only if you beg.”

She laughs. Loud and real.

And it slips — just for a second — how easy this is. How comfortable you are. How quickly you’ve made her feel seen.

She hates that.

--

The last bite sits between you like bait — dark chocolate velvet, raspberry glaze bleeding into whipped cream. One fork, two of you. And she gets to it first.

Not in a rush. Not aggressive. Just inevitable.

Regina’s hand drapes over the handle like it belongs to her. Like everything on this table does. She drags the fork through that final bite like she’s brushing the edge of something forbidden.

She doesn’t look at you. Not at first.

She lifts the fork slowly — deliberate, elegant — and when her eyes finally meet yours, her mouth parts just slightly.

And then she bites.

Not polite. Not shy. She pulls the fork out with her teeth, lips curling around it as if it were something more than silver. Her tongue slips forward to catch the cream at the corner of her mouth and she lingers there, licking slow and thoughtful.

“You gonna offer me some of that,” you murmur, voice suddenly low, “or just keep seducing me with crumbs?”

She hums like she’s thinking it over. Then holds the fork against her lower lip — like she’s still tasting it, like it’s still you.

“You’re a big girl,” she purrs. “Take what you want.”

You lean in. Close enough to smell her perfume — some sweet, devastating thing that shouldn’t be legal on a schoolgirl.

“Careful,” you say, “I will.”

Regina places the fork down slowly. Her fingers trace the metal like she’s reluctant to let go. Then she rests her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the white tablecloth, eyes locked on yours with all the heat of a sun about to explode.

“Maybe I want you to.”

There’s nothing fake in her voice. It’s soft. Dangerous. The kind of tone people use before they ask you to ruin them.

And maybe that’s what she wants.

Or maybe she’s bluffing just to see if you’ll call it.

You drag your own fork through the leftovers. You don’t break eye contact, not once. You bring it to your mouth, slow as anything.

“You sure about that?”

She tilts her head, mouth curved in a smirk so lazy it should be criminal. Her voice is velvet soaked in sin:

“What do you think?”

You don’t flinch.

You eat the bite — and then you lean back, slow and casual, like you didn’t just swallow the taste of her mouth.

“I think if I asked you to feed me the next one, you’d do it just to watch me fall apart.”

And Regina — God help her — falters.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to see.

But you catch it — the subtle hitch in her breath, the twitch at her jaw. Her legs cross under the table like she’s trying to keep something in place.

“You think I want you to fall apart?” she asks, voice all smoke and glass.

“No,” you say, smile carving into something too honest, too bold. “I think you want to be the reason.”

Her breath stutters. Her lips part — maybe to reply, maybe to curse, maybe to lean across the table and end this whole fucking standoff with her mouth on yours.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she downs the last of her wine in a single breathless motion, eyes still locked on you like she’ll lose something if she looks away.

She’s not flustered. She’s furious.

Furious that you’re winning.

Furious that she cares.

Furious that she might be the one falling apart.

--

Goddammit.

You’re charming. Effortlessly. The kind of charming that doesn’t ask for permission — just walks in and rearranges the furniture.

She can’t tell if she wants to flirt back or flee. She can’t tell if you’re being sincere or playing the long game.

…But she kind of wants you to be playing. Because that means she can win.

Even now — while you’re telling her a story about getting caught in the rain at a museum gala and making it sound romantic instead of humiliating — she’s plotting.

You’re confident. You’re soft. You’re dangerous.

So she’s thinking:

If I pull her close enough, she won’t see it coming when I let her go.

But then you smile at her like she’s already worth the risk. Like you’d wait for her to come around without saying it out loud.

And it makes something ache in her chest that she doesn’t know how to name.

****

The hallway’s alive with chaos — lockers slamming, gum snapping, whispers loud enough to be intentional.

And then it parts.

Like the sea.

Like God herself hit pause.

Because they’re coming.

Regina, Gretchen, and Karen — The Plastics in full pink regalia. Mini skirts. Blazers. High heels that have no business sounding like they do on linoleum.

Regina walks like the hallway belongs to her. Like she built it. Like her heels are the law and her lip gloss is a loaded weapon.

But then she sees you.

Leaning against a locker like you’ve got nowhere to be. Not pink. Not smiling. Just… there. In black. In control. With your sleeves rolled up and your arms crossed, like you're the storm she didn't plan for.

You meet her eyes. And smile — just a flicker, just enough.

Regina falters. Not in her step. God, no. She wouldn’t give you that.

But it’s the eyes. That little shift. That flash of recognition.

She came to win, and you showed up like you already did.

Karen waves at you with both hands. Gretchen blinks twice, then leans into Regina’s shoulder.

“Is she looking at us?” Gretchen hisses.

“Obviously,” Regina mutters, straightening her spine. “She’s obsessed with me.”

You start walking.

Regina pretends not to care.

You’re close now. Real close. So close Regina has to fight the urge to glance at your mouth.

“Nice outfit,” you say, smooth as satin. “You always this subtle?”

She scoffs. Loud. Like she’s unbothered. But her voice betrays her — too sharp, too quick.

“Is this supposed to be flirting?”

“Would it work if it was?”

“Try harder.”

“You sure you want me to?”

And that’s it.

That tiny crack in her lipstick-perfect exterior. You see it — the way her tongue wets her bottom lip, how her eyes flicker down your neck for half a second too long.

“You’re not special,” she says, voice honeyed and acid-dipped. “Just because you walk around like you invented confidence.”

“And yet,” you murmur, stepping just a bit closer, “here you are, wearing pink on purpose. For me?”

She almost smirks. Almost.

“It’s Wednesday. It’s a rule.”

“You break rules all the time.”

She hates how true that is.

You lean in — not enough to touch, but close enough that she can smell you.

“You look good in pink, Regina.”

She rolls her eyes. Too late. Her pulse is already in her ears.

You don’t wait for a response.

You walk past her, all quiet confidence and subtle amusement — leaving perfume and ruin behind you.

Regina turns, jaw clenched, trying not to watch you go.

But she does.

Karen giggles. “She’s so cool.”

“She’s annoying,” Regina snaps, eyes still locked on your retreating back.

Why the hell does she smell good? Why the hell does she walk like that? Why the hell does she know she has me without doing anything?

Why do I like it?

----

Her bedroom’s quiet. Too quiet.

Except for the pacing. The click of designer slippers on hardwood. The sound of seething.

Regina George does not get flustered. She flusters.

She owns this school, this town, this zip code. And yet… She can’t stop thinking about the way you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing. The way you said “You sure you want me to?” like she was already halfway to yes.

She runs a hand through her hair — perfectly blown out, and now ruined — and groans at the ceiling.

“No. No. Absolutely not. This is not happening.”

She flops down on her bed like a woman freshly betrayed. Her phone lights up with notifications — Shane double-texting, Aaron posting thirst traps, someone asking her to prom already.

She sits up fast.

An idea.

A wicked, glittering, morally bankrupt idea.

“Okay. Okay. You wanna act like you’re unbothered?” she mutters, opening her phone, swiping fast. “Cool. Let’s see how you like it when I’ve got backup dancers.”

She types with manicured fury.

🧠 PLAN: REGAIN POWER

Reintroduce Shane to the chessboard. He’s hot, dumb, loyal. Safe.

Aaron = visual chaos. One hallway makeout should rattle any ego.

Casual flirts with random JV boys — diversify the field.

Act like you forgot reader’s name. Even though it’s burned into her eyelids.

She texts Shane something scandalous and vague, sends Aaron a pic of her lip gloss with zero context.

“Let’s see if she smiles like that when I’m on someone else’s lap.”

Still, even as she types, her jaw’s tight.

Because the truth — the ugly, painful, unRegina George truth — is that you didn’t even do anything dramatic. You didn’t flirt with anyone else. You didn’t even try to show her up.

You just stood there. Confident. Present. Powerful.

And for a second — just a second — she didn’t feel like the top of the food chain.

She felt… like prey.

She’s not even trying. That’s what’s so annoying. Like she doesn’t care if I bite, as long as she gets close enough to watch me twitch.

Regina kicks her legs off the bed. Stands again. Adjusts her robe like she’s about to walk onto a stage.

“Fine,” she says out loud. “You want a war? You got one.”

I’m Regina freaking George. You don’t make me nervous. I make you beg.

----

It starts in the hallway. Again.

But this time?

You’re not leaning. You’re walking.

No backpack. Just a hand tucked in your jacket pocket, the other holding a $7 matcha in a reusable glass bottle. Earrings in. Designer belt on. You’re glowing — not sweaty from gym or smudged from math class. Glowing like someone who sleeps well and has never once begged for attention.

And Regina sees you.

Of course she does.

She’s with Shane this time — hanging off her arm like a slightly evolved frat boy. His hand is on her waist. He laughs like he's proud to be seen.

You don’t stop.

But you do look.

And it’s the look that does it.

Cool. Curious. Like Regina’s a passing exhibit at a zoo. Cute. Predictable. Domesticated.

“Damn,” Gretchen mutters beside her, “She’s really—”

“Trying too hard,” Regina snaps quickly. “She wants me to look.”

But you don’t even glance back.

Instead? You slip your sunglasses on. Indoors. And walk straight into the advanced art room with a teacher keycard you’re definitely not supposed to have — like the rules weren’t made for you in the first place.

Regina’s jaw tightens.

Why the hell do you walk like you know something I don’t? Why does your silence feel louder than my entire goddamn Instagram feed?

----

Of course there’s a party.

A Friday night rager hosted by one of the trust fund kids in the next town over. Everyone who’s anyone is there.

Regina walks in with Shane in her passenger seat, pink mini dress blinding, lips glossy, neck strategically bitten. She’s the moment. Or she should be.

But then someone turns.

And whispers:

“She’s here.”

Not about Regina.

About you.

And when Regina sees you — she wants to scream.

You’re on the back patio, half-lounging on an outdoor sectional, drink in hand, some college senior laughing too hard at something you definitely said on purpose. Your jacket is off. You’re in dark silk and silver rings. Your watch glints. Your posture is perfect.

You don’t even flinch when Regina walks up.

“Wow,” she says, arms crossed, venom light in her voice. “Didn’t know you were into undergrads.”

You smile — all teeth and patience.

“He’s into me. I was just being polite.”

Regina narrows her eyes.

“You always this full of yourself?”

“Only when I’m right.”

“About what?”

“That I never had to compete.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Regina’s mouth opens — then shuts. Her fingers curl around her clutch like a threat. She’s ready to fight. To bite. To lash out.

But you?

You just glance at her drink.

“Still doing vodka cranberries?” you ask, soft. “You always drink that when you’re pretending you’re fine.”

She blinks. And suddenly she’s naked under your gaze. Not literally. Worse. Emotionally.

How the hell do you know that?

You smile again — quieter this time.

Then you stand.

“It was nice catching up, Regina.”

You walk away before she can answer.

Because that’s what power is.

Walking away while they’re still standing there, wanting more.

----

She doesn’t cry.

Let’s start there.

Regina George does not cry over a girl who wears matching socks and walks like a closing argument. She doesn’t sit on her bed and worry about someone else taking her power.

She just… spirals. Elegantly.

The lights are off. The LED vanity’s still glowing faint pink. Her phone is buzzing — Aaron liked her story. Shane sent a shirtless selfie. Someone from the lacrosse team asked if she was “free rn.”

And she’s never felt less wanted.

Why the hell won’t she look at me?

She paces again.

Her closet door is half open. Her lip gloss drawer is still slightly cracked. Everything in her room looks used. Touched. Lived in. And suddenly, she hates it.

Because you are untouched.

Unbothered. Uncluttered. Untouchable.

And it’s driving her insane.

She opens her phone again. Starts typing.

TO: Shane

You still wanna make Y/N jealous? Meet me at 7AM tomorrow. Wear grey. I want them to see you.

Deletes it.

She doesn’t need you to see her with Shane.

She needs you to want to interrupt it.

She scrolls again. Finds a selfie she never posted — the one where her tank top hangs too low and her lips are parted just enough.

If she doesn’t flinch at this, she’s not human.

But she doesn’t post it.

Because you don’t play that game.

You don’t fight for attention. You don’t beg for love. You don’t even flinch when she walks by.

And it’s starting to make her feel like she’s the one auditioning.

“Nope,” she says to the mirror. “Absolutely not.”

She straightens her robe. Sits at her desk. Opens a notebook because her last little thing like this didn't even make your eye twitch — one of her old Burn Book ones with rhinestones and chaos scribbled into the spine.

She writes in pink ink:

OPERATION: RECLAIM POWER

Post thirst trap (but caption it like you’re laughing at something private. That gets her.)

Get Shane to walk you to class, touch your hip.

Make eye contact, then look away.

Pretend you forgot her name.

Or better — call her something wrong. Baby. Angel. Honey. Something sarcastic. Something flirty. Make her wonder if you’re playing her back.

She pauses.

Bites her pen.

Adds:

Do NOT fall in love with her.

Seriously.

STOP IT.

Slams the notebook shut.

I’m Regina George. I don’t chase. I get chosen.

But god — She’s starting to hate how it feels not to be picked.

----

The thirst trap goes up first.

A mirror pic, loose off-the-shoulder sweater and perfect hair, captioned:

“accidentally hot today 😅 oops”

It’s bait. Perfect, shiny bait.

She posts it right before school. Times it with precision — knowing you’ll be on your phone sometime before first period, even if just for a second. And if you don’t double tap?

Good. That’s worse.

Next move?

Shane.

He’s already waiting by her locker like a well-trained accessory — hoodie on, smelling like Axe and sports anxiety. He grins when she walks up, already slinging an arm around her shoulders.

“So, are we like... fake dating now or—”

“Shut up,” she says sweetly. “Just look cute.”

She laughs loud. Tosses her hair. Grabs his hand and pulls it to her hip. Shane’s confused, but he doesn’t ask. Boys like him never do.

They start walking — down the hall. Right past you.

You don’t stop.

You look.

Of course you look. But it’s so brief she almost misses it. And then you nod — like you’re greeting a classmate, not the girl you once called breathtaking between bites of tiramisu.

Why does she always look like she knows something I don’t?

She laughs louder. Touches Shane’s shoulder. Throws a glance over at you like she’s unbothered, amused, barely interested. But inside?

Inside, she’s watching your every breath.

--

Lunch comes.

You’re sitting alone. Not because you’re lonely — but because people leave you alone. There’s a difference.

She walks past your table, tray in hand, Shane trailing behind.

“Hi,” she says, voice sugary. “Didn’t see you there.”

You look up. Blink once. “Hi, Regina.”

Not ‘babe’? Not ‘gorgeous’? Nothing flirty?

She smiles — wide, blinding, fake.

“Did you see my story this morning?”

You sip your drink.

“Nope. I was busy.”

Busy. BUSY???

Busy doing what? Being hotter than me by accident? Thinking about me and pretending not to?

Shane laughs at something she didn’t say.

She sits two tables away. But it’s not far enough to ignore the way you lean back in your chair. How calm you look. Like a storm made of manners.

Why won’t she just flinch? Why won’t she blink?

It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to pretend this isn’t all slipping through her manicured fingers.

So at the end of the day, she tries one last thing.

A direct hit.

She finds you by your locker — alone again, like you planned it. Calm. Clean. Cool.

She smirks.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Yes?”

“Are you stalking me or something?” she smirks. “I feel like you keep appearing.”

You laugh — not mean, not amused. Just knowing.

“Regina, you’re the one standing in front of my locker.”

She doesn’t move.

You step in, just half a breath closer, and rest your hand — light, effortless — on her forearm.

Not a squeeze. Not a pull. Just a touch. Warm. Brief. Intentional.

Her skin buzzes.

why did that feel like a threat disguised as a compliment

Your voice drops.

“But if you’re trying to make me jealous…” Your thumb strokes her arm — barely there. “…try harder.”

And with that, you let go.

Walk away.

Sunglasses on. Not looking back.

Again.

--

She goes to Aaron next.

Reignites that old flame in the hallway between chem and calculus.

They’re laughing too loud. She touches his arm too much. It’s rehearsed and obvious.

You stroll past them, slow and unbothered.

“Careful, Aaron,” you say. “Wouldn’t want you thinking she likes you again.”

She shoots daggers. You wink.

--

Then she grabs Shane again.

Lets him carry her bag. Sits close at lunch. Asks him to help her stretch before gym.

You lean against the lockers, sipping iced coffee like it’s an art form.

“You know he peaked in middle school, right?”

She glares at you.

You smile. “But hey, I love that you're giving back to the community.”

--

She wears short skirts and taller heels. Laughs at every boy’s joke. Posts thirst traps with misleading captions.

You comment once.

Just:

“Cute. But I like the dress you wore on our date better.”

Regina throws her hands up in exasperation when she reads it because please, explain why it still feels like you're winning whatever this not-game is.

--

She corners you at your locker one day — eyes sharp, gloss glinting.

“You bored yet?”

You cock a brow. “Of you? Not even close.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of chasing me?”

“Sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder, “you’ve been chasing my attention since the first day I walked in.”

Her breath catches.

And still. She doesn’t stop.

--

She walks into class late one morning wearing your jacket.

You know it’s yours — monogrammed on the sleeve, for god’s sake.

You lean forward in your seat.

“You look good in my clothes.”

“Didn’t say it was yours.”

“Didn’t say you could take it, either.”

You don’t ask for it back. But it did make you wonder how she got it.

--

She kisses Shane in front of you after 6th period one day — quick, performative, lips on his cheek but eyes on you.

You just grin while you pass them.

“A little sloppy,” you say, breezing past. “You usually aim higher.”

She doesn’t kiss Shane again.

--

She’s spiraling. You’re serene.

She’s throwing matches. You’re already flameproof.

And for every cruel little power play she tosses your way?

You throw back a compliment that makes her knees weak.

Every move she makes to tip the scale?

You’re already tipping her off balance with nothing but a well-placed glance and a whispered line that lives in her head for days.

--

And when she finally storms up to you — cheeks flushed, mouth set, hands clenched at her sides?

You just tilt your head and say,

“Tell me, Regina. Are you trying to win this little war, or are you trying to get my attention?”

She doesn’t answer.

But her silence is screaming.

****

You decided to take Regina out on another date. Finally, Regina thought, but you don't have to know that to survive.

She shows up looking like trouble.

You open the car door and smirk.

“God, you’re unreal,” you say, helping her in.

“Don’t start.”

“But I haven’t even told you you’re the most beautiful woman alive yet. Should I save it for dessert?”

She stares. “You’re exhausting.”

“And still, you showed up.”

--

At the rooftop, she looks around like she might start floating off the edge.

“What is this place?”

“Private. Quiet. Gorgeous.” You glance at her. “Just like you.”

She glares — but her lip twitches.

Seated, drinks served, she tries to gain ground.

“So. You’re rich. Mysterious. Confident. What’s the catch?”

You sip your drink.

“I cry during Pixar movies and I flirt like it’s a sport.”

She nearly chokes on her cocktail.

“You’re not that smooth.”

“You’re sitting across from me in a red dress. I think I am.”

The waiter brings over a shared dessert — chocolate ganache, edible gold, something ridiculous. She lifts a fork.

And it begins.

She slowly feeds herself a bite. Licks a bit from the corner of her lip, not breaking eye contact.

“You’re staring.”

“You want me to stop?”

She tilts her head. “And if I said yes?”

You smile. “Then I’d stop staring… and start touching.”

She makes a noise — half gasp, half threat.

“God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“Only when I’ve got something this delicious in front of me.”

She scoffs — but there’s heat in her cheeks, something she covers by throwing back the rest of her drink.

“You’re dangerous.”

“And you’re used to being the predator. How’s that working out for you?”

--

By the end of the night, she’s breathless.

Not from dancing. Not from the rooftop wind.

But from the way you make her feel like she’s never had the upper hand, not really. Like the game changed the second you walked in the door.

And the worst part?

She likes it.

****

It starts with her pacing.

Back and forth, barefoot in her room, phone untouched on her bed, your last text still unread. You hadn’t even said anything suggestive—just:

“Don’t forget you’ve still got my jacket.”

Simple. Innocent. Torturous.

Because she hadn’t forgotten. She’d tried it on again this morning. And again just before dinner. And five minutes ago.

She sits. Stands. Swears.

She thinks about how you never begged. Never chased.

How you just were—charming and calm and terrifyingly composed. How you never fought for her… and somehow that made her want to fight for you.

How you let her pull every petty move in the book, and you just kept showing up—chivalrous, infuriatingly patient, always three steps ahead.

It’s humiliating, really.

To know that you were never trying to win. You just wanted her.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

She grabs her keys before she can stop herself.

----

You answer the door in a hoodie. Barefoot. Calm.

Like her showing up at 11:42 PM isn’t a category-five storm waiting to happen.

She doesn’t say hello.

She just walks in, stands in the middle of your living room like she’s been there before—because she has.

“I’m not doing this to be sweet,” she says.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t think you were.”

“And I’m not here because I’ve changed, or grown, or healed, or whatever bullshit you probably expect from people.”

You nod once. “Okay.”

“I’m still mean,” she says. “Still selfish. Still… so fucking scared of being the one who ends up with more to lose.”

You just look at her.

“You make not loving you so fucking hard,” she says finally, voice cracking right down the middle. “And I’ve tried. Believe me.”

"Trust me, I know."

Then:

“I don’t want to owe you anything,” she adds. “I don’t want to feel like I’ve been tamed, or reformed, or whatever happy ending cliché this looks like.”

You step forward—slowly.

“Then don’t owe me,” you say. “Just… stay.”

She blinks hard.

Then lets out a breath like surrender.

Like pulling the pin and handing it to you. Like falling into something soft and terrifying.

She walks up. Wraps your jacket tighter around herself.

“Fine,” she mutters. “Fuck. You win.”

And maybe it sounds bitter. Maybe it is.

But the way she leans into you?

That’s not bitterness.

That’s home.

[ncsdlr]

Reneé's interview with Hits Radio available on Youtube

[ncsdlr]

Kathryn Hahn gets it.

[ncsdlr]

Art

Regina George x Reader & Janis Ime'ike x Regina George

------------------

The museum is the kind that smells like floor polish and old air. It’s quiet, intimate, half-forgotten by the city but full of life if you know where to look. You picked it for that reason—it’s easy to disappear in, or to impress someone who thinks she’s seen it all.

Regina walks beside you, glossy hair tucked behind one ear, arms crossed like she’s just enduring the afternoon, pretending to be completely unimpressed. But you’ve caught her glancing at you when she thinks you’re not looking. Twice.

“So,” she says, voice echoing a little too loud off the tile walls. “I still think you’re gonna lose.”

You blink, smirk cocky. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Janis already has a head start. She used to know me. You? You’re just a random girl who knows how to flirt and hold a pencil.”

You shoot her a look. “You forgot charming. And hot.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

You stop in front of a wall of amateur submissions—bold brush strokes, uneven canvases, a section of the museum curated by people who still believe their work can matter. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, heart already picking up speed. You say it before you can talk yourself out of it.

“You should be up there.”

Regina scoffs. “Yeah, okay. That’ll be the day.”

“I’m serious.” You step a little closer, tilt your head like you’re already studying her light source. “You belong in a frame. Center of attention. Little plaque under your name. ‘Regina George: Untouchable.’”

“You’re ridiculous.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But let me paint you. Submit it. If I’m gonna lose, I want the museum to know who beat me.”

There’s a flicker in her face—something unreadable, something not as sure of itself. But then she laughs. “Fine. Paint me. Knock yourself out.”

You grin like it’s nothing, like the idea doesn’t already have roots wrapping tight around your chest.

----

You’re at some tiny place with cheap wine and candles shoved in old glass bottles now. Regina’s halfway through a salad she doesn’t like, and a story about a cheerleading competition gone wrong. You laugh at all the right parts.

“You’re not bad at this,” she says eventually, sipping from your glass instead of her own.

“At what?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Dating. Wooing. Whatever.”

You smile. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

That part is a lie. You’ve never cared enough to try like this. Never wanted to be chosen so badly it hurt.

“You’re confident. Like... weirdly confident,” Regina says again, crossing her legs and leaning back like she’s interviewing you for a job you’re already underqualified for.

You shrug, sip your wine, keep your expression loose. “Fake it till you make it.”

She clicks her tongue, eyes narrowing slightly. “So it’s fake. All this charming, flirty, I’m-so-mysterious crap—it’s just a performance?”

You meet her gaze, something flickering just behind your smile. “Not the part where I like you.”

And she freezes—just a second, just a flicker—before she looks away and says, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Regina raises a brow. “God, you’re so earnest. You really think you’re gonna paint me into a museum and I’ll suddenly fall in love with you?”

You hold her gaze. “No. I think I’m gonna paint you into a museum and you’ll realize you already do.”

That one gets her.

She blinks—quick, sharp. Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but then she cuts it with a scoff.

“Janis is gonna eat you alive.”

You laugh, even though it hits you low in the chest. “Probably.”

“Like, I don’t even think you know how much of a head start she has. We used to be inseparable. She knows everything about me.”

You don’t flinch. “Then I guess I’ll just have to learn new things.”

Regina leans forward, fingers trailing the rim of her glass. “See, that’s your problem. You think this is about who tries harder. It’s not.”

“What’s it about then?”

“Proximity. Timing. History. Not getting caught up in the fantasy of some art girl who thinks love is something you can paint into existence.”

You smile, but it’s smaller now. “Then why’d you let me try?”

She sits back. Smirks. “Because I wanted to see if you can handle losing.”

****

It started like a joke. Something stupid and flippant Janis tossed across the lunch table between sips of orange soda and mutual delusion.

“We should just make it a game,” she said. “One month. One Regina. Winner takes all.”

And you—you laughed, because what else do you do when the person you maybe almost kissed last summer dares you to fight for the same girl they’ve been lowkey in love with for years?

You said yes. Said “may the best girl win” with a wink, like your bones weren’t already shaking.

The rules were simple:

One month.

No sabotage.

Whoever Regina chooses by the end gets her and a hundred dollars.

The loser gets a broken heart and a pat on the back.

It was supposed to be fun. Light.

But then you took Regina to a museum, and she looked at a painting like it mattered. And then you told her you’d make her one. And she let you.

Now you’re on your third draft of her mouth alone, wondering if anyone’s ever loved her the way you do now—quietly. Stupidly. With a brush instead of a spotlight.

And the worst part?

You already know you’re going to lose. But you’d still rather love her the right way once than win her the wrong way forever.

****

It starts with a playlist.

Regina gets a link at 2 a.m. JANIS: remember this song? we made fun of it in 8th grade but secretly loved it. REGINA: omg. i literally haven’t heard this since middle school. JANIS: some things just stick in your brain. like you.

Then it’s walks home after practice, catching Regina outside the gym and offering her half a Slurpee like nothing ever broke between them.

Inside jokes resurface like ghosts. They laugh too hard in the hallway. They linger. Janis buys Regina sour candy and pretends not to care when Regina steals the last piece.

“I forgot how fun you used to be,” Regina teases once.

Janis shrugs. “I forgot how soft you used to be.”

The silence that follows that isn’t awkward—it’s heavy. Like they both remember everything they never got to say.

And the worst part? Regina looks happy. She glows in those moments. You see it from across the room. And you wonder if you ever made her shine like that, or if all your light just pooled on the canvas instead.

----

You haven’t texted her in a day.

Not because you don’t want to. But because your hands are full—with brushes, with color, with the ache of trying to get her right.

Your room’s a mess. Cups of cloudy paint water. Paper towels crusted with smears of gold and red. And in the center: the canvas.

It’s her face, half-finished. Her mouth, slightly parted. Her eyes—god, her eyes are wrong. You’ve painted them over twice already.

You pause, stare at the photo you took of her on your second date. She wasn’t even posing. She was talking about how much she hated bad lighting in restaurants.

But her face was lit up—candles and carelessness. That’s what you’re trying to paint. Not her beauty. Her being.

And you’re running out of time.

You cancel plans. Skip two of your elective classes. Tell your friends you’re just “busy.” But the truth is you can’t look at Regina right now without feeling like she’s slipping away.

So you stay in your room. Painting. Loving her in silence. Letting Janis do it out loud.

****

You’re already at the park when she texts “on my way.” It’s gray out, cold enough for a hoodie and warm enough for regret.

You sit on a bench with two cups in hand and your head full of static.

The painting isn’t going well. You redid her eyes three times and still couldn’t get the look right. You have a paper due. You haven’t started it. You told yourself you would last night, but instead you stared at a blank document while imagining Regina’s mouth spelling someone else’s name. Janis is winning. You can feel it. You see it in the way Regina smiles at her now—like something familiar is warming back up.

You grip the cups tighter and try to breathe. You’re here now. You’ll be sweet. You’ll be funny. You’ll hold on as long as she lets you.

She arrives ten minutes late, no apology.

“Wow,” Regina says, sweeping her gaze across the park. “Really went all out, huh?”

You smile, standing. “Exotic locale. Very niche.”

She eyes the bench like it might infect her. “This place smells like... damp wood and disappointment.”

You hold out the drink. “Thought you might like something warm.”

She takes it. Doesn’t say thank you. Sips it and winces.

“Oh my god, this is sugar in a cup.”

You nod. “Sweet for someone sweeter.”

She glares. “Don’t flirt. It’s embarrassing.”

god, she’s so easy to tease. why is she so calm? why does she just—take it? she looks at me like she’s not afraid. she should be. i don’t want to be mean, but it keeps happening. if i let myself be soft back, it’ll feel like picking her. and i’m not ready to admit she might be worth it.

You sit back down on the bench, patting the spot beside you. She doesn’t sit for a beat too long—like she doesn’t want to be seen accepting it.

“Five-star bench,” you say. “Real wood.”

“Splinters guaranteed?”

“Authenticity.”

She sips again and mutters, “Janis would’ve taken me to a rooftop or something. Somewhere with actual atmosphere.”

You hum. “Guess I’ll just have to make this one feel like the stars.”

She goes quiet.

----

You walk through the park after that.

She critiques everything.

“This path’s cracked.” “The ducks are weirdly aggressive.” “That man is staring. Why is that man staring?” “Ugh. Children. Gross.”

You nod. You smile. You let it happen.

At one point, she almost steps in mud. You stop her with a gentle hand on her wrist. She yanks it back like you burned her.

“Don’t touch me like that.”

You pull your hand away, slow. “Sorry.”

fuck, that was too much. i didn’t mean to snap. why is she so gentle about it? she should be pissed. she should fight back. it’d be easier if she yelled. if she stopped looking at me like i’m someone worth caring about.

Eventually, you end up on the swings.

You’re quiet. It’s the first moment where she doesn’t speak just to fill the space.

You push off the ground, let the chains creak, let the breeze tug at your sleeves.

Regina watches you out of the corner of her eye.

“You really think this is working?” she asks eventually. “This whole ‘soft and sweet’ thing?”

“I’m not doing a thing,” you say. “This is just me.”

She exhales sharply. “That’s worse.”

You grin. “You’re still here.”

She kicks at the dirt, barely swinging. “Because I’m bored.”

“Sure.”

She glares. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say, still smiling, “here I am.”

she’s patient. it’s infuriating. janis would’ve told me to shut up by now. would’ve matched me. this one just... breathes through it. stays kind. i hate it. i hate that i don’t hate it. i hate that it feels like maybe... she sees me. and i don’t know if i can stand being seen. not like that. not by her.

You both sit there for a while, not talking.

And for the first time that day, Regina doesn’t complain.

She just lets the swing sway and pretends her chest isn’t tight.

----

Eventually, your stomach growls.

Loud enough that Regina raises an eyebrow and glances over. “Charming.”

You laugh, not embarrassed in the slightest. “It’s part of the experience.”

“What experience? Starving on a swing set?”

“I brought food.”

“You brought—what?”

You hop off the swing, dusting off your jeans, and walk to your backpack sitting by the bench. From inside, you pull out two foil-wrapped hot dogs and a small paper bag of chips.

Regina makes a face as you sit back down beside her. “You brought me gas station hot dogs.”

“Carefully selected,” you say, handing her one. “They’re not that sketchy. The lady who sold them had kind eyes.”

“I hate this.”

“No you don’t.”

She glares at you—but takes the hot dog.

this is so dumb. it’s dumb and gross and she’s smiling at me like i just gave her flowers. why am i eating this. why am i still sitting here. janis would’ve taken me to some weird indie place. made me try shit with pickled radishes. this girl brought me trash food in tinfoil and made me feel like it’s an offering. i’m going to lose my goddamn mind.

“I really hate this,” she mutters again after her first bite.

You nod, chewing. “Of course. That’s why you’re halfway through it already.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and scowls. “Do you think this pathetic attempt is actually gonna win me over?”

You swallow and take a sip from your drink before answering. “No. I just wanted to feed you.”

She blinks. Doesn’t respond.

You hand her a napkin from your hoodie pocket because the last time you touched her, she snatched herself away from you like you hurt her. “You’ve got mustard.”

She takes it. Doesn’t say thank you.

stop being nice. stop being sweet. stop acting like this matters. you’re gonna lose. i’m not going to choose you. i can’t. but god, why do you keep making it so hard to not love you?

You lean back again, stretching your legs out. “You know, this date would be a lot more enjoyable if my company didn’t hate every second of it.”

“I don’t hate it,” she says, surprising herself.

You glance over, eyebrows raised. “No?”

“I just... expected more.”

“More what?”

She doesn’t answer. You watch her look away, chewing on a chip too hard.

You nod, thoughtful. “More flash? More drama? You want me to serenade you in front of a fountain or something?”

Regina snorts. “You can’t sing.”

“You’ve never heard me sing.”

“I can tell.”

You laugh again, soft and real. “You’re brutal.”

“You’re an idiot.”

You nudge her knee with yours, gently. “And yet, here we are.”

she keeps doing this. soft touches. soft words. soft smiles. i want to bite. i want to push her away. but all she ever does is look at me like she’s already forgiven me for not loving her back. and that’s the scariest part. because i think i might be. i think i might be loving her. and if i admit that, i have to admit janis might lose. and i don’t want janis to lose. but i don’t want to hurt her either. not this girl. not this stupid sweet girl who brought me hot dogs and patience.

----

The sun’s dipping low, casting that soft golden light that makes even this cracked old sidewalk look cinematic.

You walk beside her, your hands tucked into your jacket, her cup empty and swinging by her side.

She hasn’t said much since the hot dogs. Just a few complaints, one exaggerated groan when a bug flew near her face, and a mumbled “gross” at a couple holding hands too aggressively on a bench.

But she’s still walking with you.

And you’re still smiling.

“You like movies?” you ask casually, nudging a pebble down the path with your foot.

Regina glances over, suspicious. “That’s a weird way to ask me on a second date.”

You fake surprise. “Who said anything about a second date?”

“You’re transparent.”

You shrug. “I’m curious. You seem like someone who hates most movies. But I feel like there's a secret list you’ll defend to the death.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “I don’t like things that waste my time.”

“Good to know.” You nod. “No boring indie flicks. What about concerts?”

She stops walking for a second, then keeps going. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Small talk.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Giant talk, then.”

“You’re trying to figure out what to do next.”

You smile, caught. “And you’re dodging all my attempts.”

She smirks. “Why would I help you win?”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe you like spending time with me.”

“I think I’m just tolerating you.”

“Mm. Strong word. Sounds like affection.”

She glares with an exasperated sigh, but she’s not walking faster. Not leaving. Not hanging up this conversation.

----

The sidewalk gives way to a street of nicer houses, and Regina starts unlocking the gate in front of hers.

You stop at the bottom of the steps, hands still in your pockets, rocking slightly on your heels.

“Well,” you say softly. “Thanks for tolerating me.”

She pauses, halfway through the gate. Doesn’t look back. “Don’t expect me to be nice and say thank you.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

i caught her trying. she thought she was being smooth. it was obvious. she wants another chance. another date. another hour to make me feel soft again. and i didn’t help. because i can’t. because if i help, i might want it. and if i want it, then she’s not the underdog anymore. she’s not losing. and that scares the shit out of me. but the worst part? even with me giving her nothing... she still might figure me out.

****

They’re in some no-name bar, lights too dim, energy just right. A beat-up mic. A playlist full of nostalgia.

Janis is already waving down the host. Regina’s pretending not to smile, arms crossed, legs crossed tighter. She looks good and knows it.

“You sang this in my room when we were, like, thirteen,” Janis says, teasing.

Regina scoffs. “That was before I had shame.”

Janis gives her a look. “You still don’t. You just pretend better now.”

she’s not wrong. janis knows me. like, knows me knows me. every version of me. the ugly ones, the dramatic ones, the insecure ones. she saw them all and never left. it’s comfortable with her. easy. like i don’t have to prove anything.

She grabs the mic anyway. Doesn’t let Janis see the way her hand trembles, just a little.

The song starts. The room tilts warm.

By the time the second verse hits, Regina’s singing for real. Janis is shouting beside her, tone-deaf as ever. They’re ridiculous. A mess. It’s fun.

They’re outside after, Regina’s makeup slightly smudged from laughing too hard.

“You were good,” Janis says, handing her water.

“That’s a lie,” Regina mutters, unscrewing the cap.

“Still better than everyone else tonight.”

Regina leans back against the wall, quiet.

this feels right. janis makes me feel like i never left. like the world pressed pause the second she looked at me again. but there’s something missing. no. not missing. just... different.

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes.

because with janis, it’s history. safety. a book i already know how to read. but with her—the other one—the one who paints like it’s prayer— it’s tension. it’s soft chaos. she looks at me like i’m a living poem. like she’s memorizing every line i try to cover up. and i don’t know why that’s terrifying. or why it keeps showing up in my head now.

She opens her eyes. Janis is mid-sentence, talking about some song she wants to cover next time.

Regina nods, smiling. But something’s unsettled now.

i should be happy. i am happy. but i can’t stop thinking about the park. about the stupid hot dogs. about how she tried so hard to pretend it was enough. and how part of me wanted to believe it was.

****

Back in her room, reader is bent over the canvas under too-yellow desk light. It’s quiet, except for the soft scratch of a brush, a pencil rolling off the table, the occasional sound of her own exhale.

The painting is almost done.

Almost.

The shadows of Regina’s face are perfect. Her mouth—set in that particular soft smirk she gave reader once during a joke about Greek statues—took four hours alone. The collar of her shirt is crooked on purpose. The background is a swirl of gold and warmth.

But it’s not done. Not really.

Because the eyes are still wrong.

You’ve painted them four times.

You tried curiosity. You tried power. You tried softness.

But nothing quite captures it—the way Regina looks at you when she’s pretending not to care while listening anyway.

You sit back, brush between your fingers, and stare at her face. Realer than memory. Sharper than a photo.

Your phone buzzes beside you. A picture on your feed. Janis and Regina, blurry under karaoke lights. Laughing.

You turn it face down and go back to painting.

Your hands are steady. Your stomach isn’t.

You whisper to no one, “Just a few more days.”

And in your head, you hope—please let it be enough.

**** One Week Until The End Of The Bet ****

The final brushstroke goes down at 3:47 a.m.

The room is still. Her hands ache. The light buzzes faintly overhead. The canvas looks back at her—not just Regina’s face, but everything about her that was too loud to say aloud.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even smile. She just sits there for a long time, paint drying on her fingers, chest hollow with the weight of the word almost.

She thinks about taking a picture. Thinks about texting Regina. Thinks about saying look.

But instead, she wraps the painting in brown paper, ties it gently with string, and writes her name on the submission form at the museum front desk.

If Regina picks her, she’ll take her on a date there. If she doesn’t—well. The painting’s there either way. A piece of her will hang in that place where they laughed, where Regina rolled her eyes and called her weird and still smiled when she thought she wasn’t looking.

She leaves the museum quietly. Doesn’t look back.

****

It’s after class. Hallway mostly empty. Reader’s shoulders are heavy with sleeplessness and things unsaid.

Janis leans against the lockers, arms crossed. “Can I ask you something?”

Reader nods. Too tired to say anything first.

“Why’d you agree to the bet?”

Reader tilts her head. “You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but…” Janis pauses. “You’re taking it seriously.”

There’s no sarcasm in her voice. Just something… surprised. Maybe even guilty.

Reader smiles softly. “You didn’t think I would.”

Janis looks down. Shrugs. “Thought you’d flake. Give up. I mean—it’s Regina.”

“I didn’t agree to win.” Reader’s voice stays calm. “I agreed because I knew I’d try. And because I already liked her.”

There’s no bitterness. No blame.

Just love. Quiet and doomed.

Janis doesn’t say anything after that. She doesn’t need to.

****

She finds you outside the building, hunched over your sketchbook in the fading light.

“Hey,” Regina says, tone sharp and indifferent, like she regrets showing up the second she speaks. “Here.”

You blink, take the iced drink without hesitation. “What’s this?”

“Accidentally ordered an extra.” A lie.

You smile anyway. “Thank you.”

You sit together. Not close. But not apart.

Regina watches you for a second too long as you flip through pencil-sketched portraits of nothing in particular. Her fingers twitch. Her mouth softens.

You glance up, smiling. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem—”

“I said I’m fine.” Regina’s voice cuts like glass.

you're so quiet. Like you're waiting for me to say something wrong. Or right. i doesn’t know which would be worse.

“You’re weird,” she says.

You laugh gently. “That’s been established.”

“I mean it.” Her voice sharpens. “You’re weird. Like... emotionally weird. You just take things. Every time I’m mean to you, you just sit there and smile like it doesn’t matter.”

“I never said it didn’t matter.”

“Then why don’t you do anything?”

You glance at her, finally. “What do you want me to do, Regina?”

She’s breathing harder now. “I don’t know. Get mad. Get annoyed. Push back. Something.”

“Why?”

“Because this—” she gestures to you, wild and careless, “—this perfect little forgiving act makes me want to scream.”

“I’m not pretending to forgive you.”

“Oh my God, stop.” She stands up, pacing a few steps away, voice rising. “Do you think you’re better than me? Because you’re sweet and patient and quiet? You think that makes you worthy? Is that it?”

“Regina—”

“Like—like I don’t get you,” she spits. “Why are you like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“So nice. All the time. It’s exhausting. Do you think that makes you interesting? You think that’s gonna be enough to make someone fall in love with you?”

Your fingers tighten around the drink.

“I’m not trying to—”

“Yes, you are. You’re trying to be the better choice. With your painting and your quiet looks and your tragic little dates. You think if you suffer politely enough, you’ll win.”

Regina sighs. “Don’t wait around for another date,” she snaps. “It’s not happening.”

You nod. “If that's what you want.”

again with shit like that. always what I want. just walk away. walk away. walk away. before i say something worse.

But she doesn’t. Not yet.

Because something in her snapped.

“You’re performing. Always. Acting like you’re this gentle little saint who doesn’t care if she loses, but you do, don’t you?”

Your throat is tight. But your voice doesn’t waver. “Of course I do.”

Regina stares at you like she hates you. Maybe she does. Or maybe she hates that you’re still not fighting back.

“No one wants people like you," she says coldly. “People want people who make them run.”

say something. please. tell me i’m awful. tell me i’m pushing you too far. tell me you hate me so i don’t have to keep doing this.

“You think just because you feel big feelings and paint them onto a canvas that makes them matter?” she spits. “You think because you’re soft and sweet and quietly obsessed with me, I’m gonna suddenly realize I love you back?”

"No, Regina, I just—"

“Then why the fuck are you still here? Why the fuck do you even try?”

You blink. “Because I like you.”

She laughs. Bitter. Loud. “Yeah, well, that’s a mistake.”

It hangs there—mean, and cold, and loud.

god, she’s still not yelling back. why won’t she scream at me. hate me. cry. it’d be so much easier if she did. i don’t know why i want her to hurt. maybe because she’s the only one who doesn’t deserve to.

She glares, "You are so pathetic—This is so pathetic."

Your breath catches.

She turns and walks away.

And you just sit there.

Still holding the drink.

****

They’re sitting on Regina’s bed, spread out in a comfort Regina doesn’t allow anyone else. Karen is painting her nails. Gretchen is halfway through a story about a guy from math class when Regina blurts out as she thinks of all the ways she's snapped at you and all the ways she just let Janis back into her life:

“I don’t know who to choose.”

Gretchen stops mid-sentence. Karen pauses, brush in the air.

Regina picks at the blanket under her, eyes tight. “Janis feels like home. I look at her and remember exactly who I used to be. And who I wanted to be.”

She swallows.

“And this bitch Y/N... oh, my god—she makes me feel like someone else entirely. Like I’m a stranger with a heart.”

Karen blinks. “Isn’t that, like, a good thing?”

Gretchen’s quiet. Then she says, “Which one makes you feel like you could actually be happy?”

Regina laughs, bitter. “They both do. That’s the problem.”

****

You’d written it days ago. Hidden in your drafts. Just in case.

It said things like:

“You were never supposed to matter this much.” “I tried not to fall.” “I hope she makes you feel safe.”

But you reread it again now, and suddenly, it feels embarrassing. Too exposed. Too raw.

You delete it in one motion.

Instead, you write one line. For the title card. Just that.

For the girl who never believed I saw her.

It’s short. It’s real. It’s not a plea. It’s the only thing left to say.

****

reginaa💖: you up

The sudden message makes you pause because you remember the way she last talked to you. You decide not to hold that against her.

You: yeah are you okay?

reginaa💖: no

You: want to talk about it?

reginaa💖: do you think it’s possible to love 2 people at once like actually love. not fake love.

You: yes i think love’s not as clean as people want it to be you can love someone who hurt you someone you’re afraid to want someone who makes you feel new all at once

reginaa💖: what if i don’t know who makes me feel what

You: then you’re human

reginaa💖: that sounds like something you’d say

You: thats cause i did say it;)

reginaa💖: you always say the right thing even when i’m awful to you

You: you’re not awful

reginaa💖: you don’t know me well enough to say that

You: i think i do

Regina doesn’t respond after that. not because she’s asleep. but because that’s the kind of love she doesn’t know what to do with. not loud. not flashy. just… forgiving. and maybe she doesn’t think she deserves to be forgiven. especially by you.

**** Two Days Before The Bet Ends ****

You text Regina in the morning, calm and simple:

You: wanna go out today? nothing huge one more date before you break my heart?

She responds ten minutes later.

reginaa💖: fine but if this is some pity play i’m leaving

You smile because it’s not. it’s a goodbye.

----

You pick her up with two wristbands already in your hand.

She blinks down at them, unimpressed. “A fair?”

You smile. “You said you liked chaos.”

“I meant emotionally.”

You grin wider. “Perfect.”

She rolls her eyes but gets in the car.

----

The fair is noisy, bright, and smells like sugar and metal. Regina complains the second you park.

“My shoes are gonna get wrecked.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Don’t say shit like that.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just walk next to her, keeping your hands to yourself.

She doesn’t grab yours, but she also doesn’t tell you to leave.

----

You win her a stuffed animal at one of the booths — a floppy little duck that looks like it’s been through hell.

She stares at it.

Then at you.

“You know this doesn’t change anything, right?”

You nod. “I just thought you’d like it.”

She doesn’t say thank you. But she holds onto it like someone's going to steal it away from her.

----

You both get hot dogs. She judges you for how much mustard you use.

“Disgusting.”

“You still gonna kiss me after this?”

She snorts, eyes flickering. “Who said I was going to?”

You don’t push it.

You just smile and wipe a smear off your lip with the back of your hand.

why are you always like this. soft. honest. impossible.

----

Later, you take her to dinner.

It’s a tucked-away, neon-lit noodle place you overheard her say was “shockingly good” during a conversation she didn’t know you were listening to.

When she realizes where you’ve brought her, she pauses.

“…You remembered that?”

“Yeah.”

“That was weeks ago.”

You nod. “Was it wrong?”

She looks at you like she wants to say no.

Instead, she says, “This place smells like feet.”

You laugh, not even hurt. “But, like, good feet.”

She rolls her eyes. But she doesn’t get out of the car. Not for another ten seconds.

Then she sighs and says, “Come on. They’ll run out of pork buns.”

----

You eat across from her, under string lights and loud laughter from the kitchen. You let her steal the better half of your plate. You don’t say anything when she keeps glancing at her phone.

When she catches you watching her, she glares. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna break.”

You go quiet.

“I don’t think you’re gonna break, Regina.”

She scoffs. “Right.”

You lean forward, voice low. “I just think you already have. A long time ago. And you’ve been pretending ever since.”

She freezes.

Then stabs at a dumpling.

You don’t speak again for the rest of the meal.

----

On the drive home, she doesn’t say much. But she doesn’t tell you to shut up when you start humming. Doesn’t flinch when your hand rests near hers on the gearshift again.

You drop her off two houses down. She doesn’t want her mom to see your car.

When she gets out, she holds the duck under her arm. Glances at you like she wants to say something.

Instead, she says, “If you think this night gives you bonus points, it doesn’t.”

You smile. “I know.”

She shuts the door harder than necessary.

You stay parked for a while after she’s gone.

if i lose, at least i lost trying.

****

She sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor, phone balanced on her knee, Janis’s name highlighted in her inbox.

The cursor blinks in the group chat she made. The one where she’s going to announce her decision like it’s a press release.

Her fingers don’t move.

The duck Reader won for her sits on her dresser. Stupid. Yellow. One eye a little off-center. She's tried to throw it out twice. Keeps putting it back.

She stares at it for a long time before whispering, “You’re not even that cute.”

No one responds.

She exhales. Loud. Tired. Angry.

----

they would’ve waited forever. that’s the worst part.

like—no matter how cruel i got. how many times i told them they didn’t have a chance. they still showed up with hot dogs and jokes and art and patience.

who does that? who keeps showing up after the fourth time i bite their hand?

i hate that they did. i hate that it made me want to be softer.

She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling.

----

Janis sends a selfie. Something casual. A stupid little caption: “thinking about u, unfortunately.”

She’s got that smug look on her face — like she knows she’s already won.

Regina opens it. Stares for a second. Then locks her phone again.

----

janis makes sense. janis is smart and sharp and knows when i’m lying. she won’t let me get away with shit.

she makes me feel like i’m on fire.

but you—

She swallows.

reader makes me feel like i’m underwater. quiet. still. terrifying.

----

Her throat tightens suddenly, and she sits up too fast.

“God,” she mutters. “Why is this so hard.”

She grabs her phone again. Open your contact. Just... sits there.

No text.

No call.

She flips to the group chat.

----

they’re so fragile. i’d break them. not on purpose. but eventually. i always do.

and maybe that’s the problem. i don’t want to watch them shatter and know it was me who did it.

janis wouldn’t break. janis would fight back. reader would just take it.

and i don’t want that on my conscience.

----

She types the message out fast. Like pulling off a bandage.

Regina: hey. just wanted to make it clear so no one’s confused. i’m with janis. that’s who i’m choosing. thanks for the fun or whatever.

She doesn’t reread it.

She doesn’t check if anyone’s typing.

She throws her phone onto her bed and curls up like something inside her might come out if she doesn’t fold small enough.

this is better. this is safer. this is right.

...right?

****

It’s been a week.

Regina’s still not used to the way Janis kisses her. Fast. Certain. Like claiming territory instead of asking for it.

They don’t hold hands much in public, but today Janis reaches for hers and laces their fingers together anyway.

“We’re doing a culture date,” she says, swinging their arms. “You’re gonna hate it.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Where?”

Janis grins. “Museum. Local stuff. It’s weird, but cool.”

Something twists in Regina’s stomach. She doesn’t say no.

They go.

----

It’s the same museum.

Smaller than she remembers. Warmer. A little dusty around the corners.

Her steps slow as they move past the front desk, and for a second she swears she can still hear someone saying “you should be in here someday.”

She shakes it off.

Janis is leading her toward the back. Toward the new exhibit.

“This way,” Janis says. “They actually put up one of mine.”

“You’re so humble,” Regina mutters, but she follows.

They turn a corner.

Janis stops.

“Here,” she says, pointing.

It’s a charcoal cityscape, jagged and loud and unmistakably hers.

Regina nods once, studying the piece. “It’s cool.”

But Janis isn’t looking at her painting anymore.

She’s looking at something else.

So Regina turns.

And sees it.

It’s her.

Painted like a secret. Framed like something holy.

She’s not even smiling in the piece — just staring off to the side, half-lit and half-lost, like she wasn’t supposed to be caught in the moment. Like someone had captured her when she wasn’t looking. Like she mattered.

She reads the tiny plaque underneath:

For the girl who never believed I saw her. by Y/N Y/L/N

Her stomach drops.

“What the hell…” she breathes.

Janis doesn’t say anything.

She’s still staring at the painting.

Still staring at her.

Then she looks at Regina.

And sees it.

The flicker. The sting. The ache.

The realization.

That this isn’t just a painting. That it never was.

Regina takes a half step forward. Her fingers hover over the frame but don’t touch.

they did it. they actually did it. they painted me like i was worth something. and i never even said thank you.

Behind her, Janis exhales softly.

And smiles.

But it’s the kind of smile that knows the joke’s on her.

She doesn’t say you chose wrong.

She doesn’t have to.

Regina looks at the painting one last time.

Then says, barely above a whisper:

“…I think I fucked up.”

------------------------

et voila

[ncsdlr]

SOFTDOM EVA X F!READER COMING OUT TODAYYYY

Get ready…❣️

[ncsdlr]

Until You Touched Me

Elizabeth Olsen x G!P Reader

Summary: After a month of teasing, Lizzie finally confronts Y/N about why they haven’t taken the next step.

Word Count: 7,346

Request: Yes

Warnings: fluff, smut, (18+), insecurities.

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

****: Smut Alert

---

It had been a month since they made things official.

One month of soft good mornings and sleepy goodnights. One month of tangled limbs during weekend movie marathons and shared meals at half-finished kitchen tables. One month of holding hands beneath tables, secret smiles across crowded rooms, and kisses that grew deeper every time they lingered in the shadows just long enough to breathe each other in.

But not once had they crossed the line they were both circling.

And it wasn’t from lack of want — God, no.

The tension between them was like a live wire humming under skin. Magnetic. Constant. Dangerous in the best way.

And yet, every time they kissed — deeply, breathlessly, hungrily — and Lizzie let her hands wander, let her hips shift closer, Y/N would still pull back. Still catch her breath and rest her forehead against Lizzie’s, chest rising and falling like she was steadying herself.

“We should stop,” she’d whisper. And it always left Lizzie aching.

Worse than the ache was the confusion. Because it wasn’t like Y/N had ever hidden herself. Not from Lizzie. Not from anyone, really.

She was out. Proud. Honest. The world knew Y/N was intersex — and she didn’t soften it for anyone. Not in her lyrics. Not in her interviews. Not in her clothes.

And definitely not with Lizzie.

She never shied away from walking around in just a tank and boxers, her curves and the natural weight between her legs obvious — even when she knew Lizzie was looking. Even when she smirked as Lizzie looked, once.

Y/N was all soft cotton and heat and boldness, and Lizzie loved every part of her for it.

So it wasn’t modesty. And it wasn’t shame.

Which left only one other explanation — and it was driving Lizzie insane.

Because she wanted her. Badly.

Not just her body — though yes, desperately — but her. Every messy, thoughtful, scarred, sweet, funny inch of her. She wanted to worship her, learn her, love her fully.

And yet here they were. Still circling. Still stuck in this beautiful, frustrating dance.

That night, they were curled together on Wanda’s couch. Lizzie was tucked under her arm, one leg over Y/N’s thigh, their bodies pressed from hip to shoulder. The end credits of some old rom-com were rolling on the screen. Neither of them moved to turn it off.

Y/N’s fingers traced lazy patterns on the inside of Lizzie’s thigh. Casual. Thoughtless.

But Lizzie wasn’t feeling casual at all.

She turned slightly, watching Y/N’s profile in the flickering blue light.

“Can I ask you something?” Lizzie said quietly.

Y/N looked down, surprised at the shift in tone. “Of course.”

“But really answer me this time, okay?” Lizzie added gently. “No jokes. No changing the subject.”

Y/N straightened just a bit, the playful curve of her lips fading. “Okay. What is it?”

Lizzie took a breath. “Why haven’t you… made a move? I mean, really made a move?”

Y/N blinked.

Lizzie kept going, her voice soft but steady. “I know you want me. I feel it when we kiss. I feel it when you stop. And I know you’ve had a boner the last three times we made out—”

Y/N immediately groaned, dropping her head back with a hand over her eyes. “Jesus.”

Lizzie laughed — flustered but bold. “Don’t ‘Jesus’ me! You think I don’t notice? I’m literally straddling your thigh half the time and you still try to play it off like we’re in a PG-13 movie!”

Y/N dragged a hand down her face. “It’s not because I don’t want you.”

“I know that,” Lizzie said, then softened. “That’s why it’s driving me crazy. So if you’re not nervous about me, and you’re not uncomfortable with you… then what is it?”

There was a long pause.

Y/N sat up straighter, disentangling herself gently, like she needed room to think. She rubbed the back of her neck, avoiding Lizzie’s eyes for a moment.

Then finally, she spoke.

“I’ve had people tell me they were okay with everything,” she said. “That they loved how open I was, how different I was. But the second things got real, they flinched. Or hesitated. Or asked questions that made it clear they’d never really thought it through.”

Lizzie watched her. Silent. Heart squeezing.

“I’ve had people sleep with me because they were curious,” Y/N said, her voice quieter now. “And people who backed out halfway because they thought they were ready… but weren’t.”

She finally looked at Lizzie again. “But you — you’re different. You don’t treat me like some novelty. You don’t pretend you’re not looking at me. You look at me like you see me.”

“I do,” Lizzie whispered.

“And that scares the hell out of me,” Y/N admitted. “Because I want you so much I can barely think straight, and the last thing I want to do is make you feel like you have to want me back in the same way. I’ve waited my whole life to be seen like this — and I just don’t want to rush it and ruin what we have.”

Lizzie leaned forward, took Y/N’s hand.

“I want you,” she said, slowly and clearly. “I’m not confused. I’m not experimenting. I don’t just want your hands on me, I want you. All of you.”

Y/N’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.

Lizzie leaned in, kissed her — soft and steady, and sure. Her fingers brushed the curve of Y/N’s neck, her other hand finding the waistband of those damn boxers that had been haunting her thoughts for weeks.

Y/N’s breath hitched the moment Lizzie’s fingers dipped just under the hem, not fully touching — just there. A silent question wrapped in a feather-light caress.

Y/N didn’t stop her.

That was new.

And that was all Lizzie needed.

The next kiss wasn’t soft. It was hungry — weeks of slow-burning tension snapping like a live wire. She climbed into Y/N’s lap without thinking, thighs straddling her, hands in her hair as she tilted her head and deepened the kiss until they were both breathless.

Y/N’s hands settled on Lizzie’s hips, squeezing, grounding them both — but she didn’t pull away. This time, she held on.

Lizzie gasped against her mouth when their hips met — the hard line pressing beneath those boxers unmistakable. She rocked once, experimentally, and Y/N let out a low, helpless sound that shot straight through her.

“God,” Y/N muttered, her hands flexing on Lizzie’s waist. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ve been killing me for weeks,” Lizzie breathed, dragging her lips down Y/N’s jaw, her neck. “Walking around in your boxers. Teasing me without even realizing.”

“Oh, I realized,” Y/N said hoarsely, tipping her head back when Lizzie kissed beneath her ear. “I realized every damn time you looked at me like you wanted to devour me.”

Lizzie hummed, her hand finally slipping under the waistband, just enough to trace the edge of skin, the heat. She wasn’t rushing — she wanted Y/N to feel everything. To feel wanted in every way.

“I meant what I said,” Lizzie whispered, lifting her head to meet her eyes again. “I want all of you. If you want me too… we don’t have to wait anymore.”

Y/N’s eyes searched hers, like she was double-checking that this was real. That Lizzie still saw her. Still wanted her — now more than ever.

She did.

And Y/N finally nodded. Slowly. Breathlessly. “Okay.”

Lizzie kissed her again — deeper, slower now — and the world narrowed to just them: the warmth of shared breath, the heat between them, the feel of hands exploring without fear.

No shame. No hesitation.

Just them.

****

Y/N’s hands, previously grounding Lizzie, now moved with a purpose that sent shivers through Lizzie’s core. One hand curved around Lizzie’s lower back, pulling her even closer until there was no space left between them. The other found the hem of Lizzie’s shirt, slowly, deliberately, as the kiss deepened.

It was a languid, knowing kiss, no longer frantic but laced with a profound promise. Y/N tasted like desire and relief, and Lizzie drowned in it, her own body humming with a reciprocal wanting. As Y/N’s fingers traced the skin beneath the fabric, Lizzie arched into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

With a final, lingering brush of her thumb against Lizzie’s spine, Y/N broke the kiss, just enough to gaze into Lizzie’s eyes. There was a raw, unshielded intensity there that made Lizzie’s breath hitch. A silent question, a shared understanding.

"Okay," Y/N whispered again, the word a soft exhalation of acceptance. Her eyes flickered to Lizzie’s shirt, then back to her face, seeking confirmation.

Lizzie simply nodded, her own gaze unwavering, her hands still tangled in Y/N’s hair. The unspoken permission hung in the air, thick and sweet.

Y/N’s hands moved then, with a confident grace that stole Lizzie’s breath. One hand remained at Lizzie’s back, supporting her as the other deftly peeled away the fabric of her shirt, sliding it up and over her head. The cool air on her skin, followed by the immediate warmth of Y/N’s gaze, was an intoxicating contrast.

Lizzie’s shirt landed with a soft rustle on the floor beside the couch. As Y/N’s eyes swept over her, a slow, appreciative smile curved her lips. It was a look that wasn’t just about physical attraction, but about genuine adoration, and it made Lizzie feel utterly beautiful, utterly seen.

Y/N leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Lizzie’s bare shoulder, then another to the sensitive skin just beneath her collarbone. Each touch was deliberate, worshipful. Lizzie shivered, her fingers tightening their grip on Y/N’s hair, silently urging her on.

"You're incredible," Y/N murmured against her skin, her voice rough with emotion.

With a gentle shift, Y/N adjusted their position, one hand sliding under Lizzie’s thigh, the other still at her back. Slowly, carefully, she began to ease Lizzie off her lap and onto the cushions of the couch. Lizzie helped, shifting her weight, her eyes locked on Y/N’s, never breaking the connection.

In moments, Lizzie was lying on the soft cushions, the lingering warmth of Y/N’s body still radiating around her. Y/N hovered above her, propped on her forearms, her gaze unwavering, her hair falling forward to frame her face. The blue light from the television cast long, dancing shadows across their forms, making the moment feel both intimate and otherworldly.

Y/N’s fingers, now free, drifted to Lizzie’s waist, tracing the curve of her hip, then sliding upward, brushing against her ribs, teasingly close to the swell of her breast. Lizzie gasped, a small, involuntary sound, and arched into the touch, her desire a palpable ache.

"Are you still okay?" Y/N asked, her voice a low rumble, her eyes searching Lizzie’s for any sign of hesitation. The question was soft, but the depth of concern in her gaze was profound.

"More than okay," Lizzie breathed, her voice a little shaky, but firm. She reached up, pulling Y/N’s head down for another kiss, this one a sweet promise of everything that was to come. Their lips met, soft at first, then deepening, a symphony of unspoken words and long-held desires finally being unleashed.

Y/N's lips left Lizzie's, trailing a path of fire down her jawline, across her collarbone, and finally settling just above her breast, where her breath hitched with every rapid beat of Lizzie’s heart.

Lizzie’s hands, no longer just in Y/N’s hair, moved to her shoulders, gripping the soft fabric of her shirt, feeling the lean muscle beneath.

The scent of Y/N’s skin—a clean, warm musk with a hint of something sweet—filled Lizzie’s senses, mixing with the heady aroma of their shared desire. She could feel the steady press of Y/N’s body above her, the hard line of her cock still distinct beneath her boxers.

Y/N lifted her head slightly, her eyes dark and intense, a question still lingering there despite Lizzie’s earlier affirmation. "Are you sure?" she murmured, her voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent shivers down Lizzie’s spine. It wasn't a question of consent, but of emotional readiness, a deep-seated need for Lizzie to be truly present and unburdened.

Lizzie reached up, her fingers cupping Y/N’s cheek, feeling the slight stubble there. "I’ve never been surer," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. She pulled Y/N down again, meeting her lips in a kiss that was both a promise and a desperate plea.

This time, the kiss was deeper, a slow, sensual exploration. Y/N's hands moved from Lizzie's hips, one sliding under her back, cradling her, while the other began to trace patterns along her bare side, dipping into the soft curve of her waist. Lizzie whimpered softly, arching into the touch, her own hips beginning to shift against Y/N's.

Y/N responded instantly, a low groan rumbling in her chest. Her leg, still tucked between Lizzie’s, pressed more firmly, the undeniable evidence of her desire a searing brand against Lizzie's inner thigh. Lizzie instinctively wrapped her leg around Y/N's, pulling her closer, wanting more, wanting all of her.

A soft chuckle vibrated through Y/N's chest as she broke the kiss again, her gaze lingering on Lizzie's flushed face. "You're beautiful," she whispered, her thumb stroking the curve of Lizzie's cheekbone. "Absolutely beautiful."

Lizzie blushed, a soft smile playing on her lips. "You're not so bad yourself," she countered, her eyes dropping to Y/N's still-clothed form. "But you're still dressed."

Y/N’s smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Are you in a hurry?" she teased, though her own breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Yes," Lizzie said, her voice firm, but a playful glint in her own eyes. She lifted her hands, tracing the line of Y/N’s shoulders, then down her arms, letting her fingers brush against the hem of Y/N’s t-shirt. "Very much so."

Y/N’s eyes searched hers again, a silent confirmation passing between them. Then, with a soft exhale, she shifted, her movements becoming more deliberate. She lifted herself slightly, just enough to give Lizzie room to move, her hands still caressing Lizzie’s sides.

Lizzie didn't hesitate. Her fingers found the hem of Y/N’s t-shirt, tugging lightly. Y/N arched her back, helping Lizzie pull the fabric up, over her chest, and then finally, over her head. The shirt joined Lizzie’s on the floor, a testament to the shedding of inhibitions.

With Y/N's shirt gone, the flickering blue light from the TV now bathed her in its glow, highlighting the toned expanse of her abdomen. Lizzie’s gaze lingered on the sculpted lines of Y/N’s abs, a testament to her dedication, before finally landing on the sleek black fabric of a Calvin Klein bra. It was simple, athletic, and utterly captivating against her skin.

"There," Lizzie murmured, her voice a little breathless as she reached out to trace the taut line of Y/N’s obliques. "Much better."

Y/N let out a low chuckle, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through Lizzie. Her hands, no longer supporting herself, settled on either side of Lizzie’s head, her fingers tangling gently in Lizzie’s hair. Their eyes met, and in that silent exchange, the last vestiges of hesitation dissolved.

The kiss that followed was a deepening current, pulling them both under. It was slower, more deliberate, as if they were savoring each moment, each new layer of intimacy unveiled. Y/N’s lips were soft yet firm, tasting of warmth and longing, and Lizzie responded with equal fervor, her fingers now splayed across Y/N’s toned back, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath her touch.

Y/N shifted, her weight settling more fully between Lizzie’s legs, the hard evidence of her desire pressing against Lizzie’s inner thigh through Y/N’s pants. Lizzie gasped against Y/N’s mouth, a thrill shooting through her. She instinctively arched upward, wanting more, wanting to feel the full, hardness and heat in Y/N’s pants.

"God, Lizzie," Y/N whispered against her lips, pulling back just enough for a ragged breath. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated with desire, reflecting the same hunger Lizzie felt. "You're going to be the death of me."

Lizzie chuckled, a triumphant, breathless sound. "Only if you let me be." She pulled Y/N back down, deepening the kiss once more, her hands sliding from Y/N’s back to the waistband of her boxers that peaked out of her pants, a silent question hanging in the air. This time, there was no pulling away, only a soft moan of assent from Y/N as Lizzie’s fingers slipped under the elastic, brushing against the warm skin beneath.

Lizzie’s fingers, now beneath the waistband of Y/N’s boxers, grazed skin that was already hot and damp. The subtle, feather-light touch was enough. A low, guttural moan rumbled from Y/N’s chest, a sound of pure pleasure and desperate anticipation. Her hips instinctively bucked once, a hard, undeniable press against Lizzie’s covered center, the significant bulge in her pants a clear testament to her arousal.

"God," Y/N breathed, her voice thick with desire, eyes squeezed shut as she leaned her forehead against Lizzie’s. Her hands tightened in Lizzie’s hair, not pulling, but holding on, like she was grounding herself against a rising tide. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Lizzie chuckled softly, a triumphant, breathless sound. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea," she whispered back, her own hips beginning to move in a slow, experimental grind against Y/N’s. The friction, even through the layers of clothing, was electric, sending a jolt straight through her. She felt the immediate surge of Y/N’s response, the low growl that vibrated against her.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, dark and hungry, meeting Lizzie’s. There was no hesitation now, only a raw, unyielding want that mirrored Lizzie’s own. "Lizzie," she murmured, a warning and a plea wrapped into one word.

"Mmm?" Lizzie hummed, her smile teasing, her hips continuing their slow, deliberate rhythm. She felt the insistent press against her, growing harder, more demanding with every movement.

Y/N let out a shuddering breath, her hands leaving Lizzie’s hair to cup her face, her thumbs stroking gently along her cheekbones. "I want you out of those pants," she stated, her voice raspy, direct. "Now."

Lizzie's smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Only if you are too," she countered, her hands now boldly exploring the hard curve of Y/N’s butt through the fabric of her boxers, pulling her even closer. The sheer, heat radiating from Y/N was intoxicating.

The last vestiges of the rom-com credits had faded from the screen, leaving the room in a soft, blue-tinged darkness that felt entirely private, entirely theirs. And in that intimate space, the final barriers between them began to crumble, replaced by a tangible, aching need that had been building for weeks, finally ready to consume them both.

With a decisive movement, Y/N reached for the remote and clicked off the TV, plunging the living room into near darkness, save for the soft glow from the city outside. The sudden silence was potent, amplifying the sound of their ragged breaths and pounding hearts.

Without a word, Y/N scooped Lizzie into her arms. Lizzie gasped, a surprised laugh escaping her lips as she instinctively wrapped her legs around Y/N's waist, burying her face in the curve of Y/N's neck.

The short journey to the bedroom was a blur of motion and electric anticipation. Y/N kicked the door shut with her heel, then gently lowered Lizzie onto the soft mattress. As Lizzie’s feet touched the floor, Y/N knelt before her, her hands already reaching for the waistband of Lizzie’s jeans. The denim slid down with a whisper, pooling around her ankles, and Lizzie kicked them off, her eyes fixed on Y/N.

Y/N stood, her gaze locked with Lizzie’s, and with a quick tug, shed her own pants. The sight of Y/N’s boxers, now taut and undeniably bulging with her arousal, sent a shiver of intense hunger through Lizzie. She watched, captivated, as Y/N's raw desire was so visibly displayed.

Lizzie, perched on the edge of the bed, slowly reached behind her back, her fingers finding the clasp of her bra. With a soft click, the lace fell away, revealing her breasts. She tossed it aside, her gaze never leaving Y/N’s, a silent invitation in her eyes.

Y/N’s breath hitched. Her own hands went to her chest, and in one fluid motion, she unhooked her bra, letting it drop to the floor. She remained in her boxers, a powerful, magnetic presence.

Then, with a low growl, Y/N climbed onto the bed, looming over Lizzie. She settled herself between Lizzie’s legs, but didn't press down fully, hovering just above her. Her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, devoured Lizzie’s form before locking with her gaze.

"Finally," Y/N murmured, her voice rough with a primal hunger, before she lowered herself, her lips finding Lizzie’s in a deep, ravenous kiss. It was a kiss that devoured, that consumed, weeks of pent-up yearning finally unleashed.

Y/N’s hands slid down Lizzie’s sides, finding the soft curve of her breasts. Her thumbs stroked the sensitive peaks, lightly at first, then with more pressure, eliciting a soft moan from Lizzie that was swallowed by the kiss. Lizzie arched into the touch, her body alive with sensation, her fingers tangling in Y/N’s hair, pulling her closer, deeper into the intoxicating swirl of their shared passion. The thin lace of Lizzie's underwear was the only barrier left.

Y/N’s mouth left Lizzie’s, leaving a trail of electric heat as she moved lower, drawing a soft gasp from Lizzie when her lips grazed the sensitive skin of her neck, then the hollow of her throat. Her hands continued their tender assault on Lizzie’s breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, making them tighten and peak. Lizzie arched into the touch, a low hum of pleasure vibrating deep in her chest.

"You feel incredible," Y/N murmured, her breath warm against Lizzie’s skin as her mouth found one of Lizzie’s breasts. She teased the tip with her tongue before drawing it gently into her mouth, a soft suckle that sent a shockwave through Lizzie’s entire body. Lizzie cried out, her fingers tangling in Y/N’s hair, holding her close, urging her on.

Y/N nursed at Lizzie’s breast, alternating between soft tugs and languid swirls of her tongue, driving Lizzie to the brink. Lizzie’s hips began to writhe instinctively, pressing into the undeniable bulge in Y/N’s boxers. The friction was a sweet torment, a promise of what was to come.

"Please," Lizzie whimpered, her voice strained with desire, "Y/N, please."

Y/N lifted her head, her eyes dark and heavy with passion, meeting Lizzie’s pleading gaze. A slow, knowing smile played on her lips. "Patience, love," she rasped, "we have all night." But her actions betrayed her words. With a soft groan, Y/N shifted, her hand leaving Lizzie’s breast to slide lower, over her stomach, then resting just above the lacy edge of Lizzie’s underwear.

Lizzie’s breath hitched, her body tensing in delicious anticipation. Y/N’s fingers lingered there, teasingly close, tracing the line of the lace without fully touching. The unspoken question hung in the air, a silent permission seeking to be granted.

Lizzie’s hips lifted, a clear, desperate invitation. "Yes," she whispered, "Please, Y/N. Yes."

Y/N let out a low, satisfied hum, a deep rumble that Lizzie felt in her very core. Her fingers, which had been teasing, now slipped beneath the delicate lace of Lizzie’s underwear. 

Y/N’s fingers, which had been teasing, now slipped beneath the delicate lace of Lizzie’s underwear. Lizzie gasped, a sharp intake of breath as Y/N's warm, firm touch finally met her, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through her.

Y/N’s touch was everything Lizzie had imagined, and more. Her fingers slid expertly between Lizzie’s slick folds, exploring with a slow, deliberate grace, mapping the contours of Lizzie’s desire. Every stroke sent waves of exquisite sensation through her. Lizzie’s hips instinctively lifted, arching into the touch, silently begging for more. Her legs parted wider, inviting deeper exploration.

Y/N leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Lizzie’s neck, just beneath her ear. "So ready for you," she whispered, her voice rough with escalating desire.

Lizzie whimpered, her hands finding Y/N’s shoulders and squeezing, her nails digging in slightly. The combination of Y/N’s mouth on her neck and the masterful touch below was almost unbearable. Her body tightened, vibrating with a delicious tension.

Y/N’s fingers, which had been teasing, now slipped beneath the delicate lace of Lizzie’s underwear, sliding expertly between Lizzie’s slick folds. Lizzie gasped, a sharp intake of breath as Y/N's warm, firm touch finally met her, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through her.

Y/N’s touch was everything Lizzie had imagined, and more. Her finger slid inside, a slow, deliberate invasion that made Lizzie arch her back, a soft cry escaping her lips. Lizzie’s hips instinctively lifted, urging Y/N deeper, inviting more. Her legs parted wider, trembling slightly with the intensity of the sensation.

Y/N leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Lizzie’s neck, just beneath her ear. "So ready for me,” she whispered, her voice rough with escalating desire.

Lizzie whimpered, her hands finding Y/N’s shoulders and squeezing, her nails digging in slightly. The combination of Y/N’s mouth on her neck and the masterful touch below was almost unbearable. Her body tightened, vibrating with a delicious tension.

Y/N continued her rhythmic work, her single finger expertly circling and pressing, building the pressure within Lizzie. Lizzie’s breathing became ragged, her moans soft cries that filled the quiet bedroom. She could feel herself spiraling, every nerve ending alive and tingling.

Then, with a low groan that reverberated against Lizzie’s lips as Y/N captured them in a deep, hungry kiss, Y/N added another finger. Lizzie’s body convulsed around her, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as the added fullness brought her to the brink. Y/N's touch intensified, sending Lizzie soaring, her hips bucking against the exquisite pressure.

A soft cry escaped Lizzie’s throat, muffled by Y/N’s kiss, as her body convulsed around Y/N’s fingers, tremors shaking her from head to toe. Y/N held her, her body pressed firmly against Lizzie’s, absorbing every shiver, every delicious tremor.

When the last echoes of the orgasm faded, Lizzie lay breathless, utterly sated, yet already yearning for more. Y/N pulled back just enough to look at her, a triumphant, tender smile gracing her lips.

“So beautiful,” Y/N murmured, her voice husky with lingering desire as she leaned down to kiss Lizzie’s cheek, the soft brush of her lips sending another shiver through Lizzie’s cooling skin. Y/N then slowly, carefully, pulled her fingers out from inside Lizzie. Lizzie felt the absence immediately, a fresh ache already building.

Y/N leaned in, her lips finding Lizzie’s for a soft, tender kiss, allowing Lizzie a moment to recover from the intense high. But recovery wasn't what Lizzie wanted. Her body was already humming with a renewed, insistent demand. Without a moment's hesitation, Lizzie deepened the kiss, her own lips pressing more firmly against Y/N's, her tongue boldly seeking entry.

At the same time, Lizzie’s hands, driven by an undeniable hunger, reached down. Her fingers found the prominent bulge in Y/N’s boxers, gently cupping the significant weight she’d been circling for weeks. A soft groan rumbled from Y/N’s chest as Lizzie began to stroke her hard member through the fabric, a silent promise of all the pleasure yet to come.

A low, helpless sound escaped Y/N's throat, a mixture of surprise and pure, unadulterated pleasure, as Lizzie's fingers closed around her hard member through the soft cotton of her boxers. The immediate, intense friction sent a jolt of fire through Y/N, making her hips instinctively buck against Lizzie's hand. The kiss deepened, becoming more fervent, a desperate clash of mouths.

Lizzie, emboldened by Y/N's reaction, continued to stroke, feeling the impressive length and heat beneath her palm. She shifted slightly, allowing her hips to grind against Y/N's, the thin fabric of her own lace underwear doing little to dampen the exquisite friction.

Y/N groaned against Lizzie's lips, pulling back just enough to gasp for air, her eyes squeezed shut. "Lizzie," she choked out, her voice ragged with desire. Her hands, which had been gently cupping Lizzie's face, moved to grip her wrists, not to stop her, but to hold on, to anchor herself against the overwhelming sensation. "You're going to make me come right through these damn boxers."

Lizzie's eyes glinted with mischief, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Is that a threat?" she purred, her fingers continuing their delicious work. She felt the palpable tremors running through Y/N's body, the desperate clench of her muscles.

"It's a promise," Y/N countered, her voice barely a whisper, as she leaned back in for another hungry kiss, her tongue tangling with Lizzie's. The taste of Lizzie, sharp and sweet with desire, was all she could focus on. This was it. This was the moment they had both been waiting for, circling for. No more hesitation, no more holding back. Just pure, unadulterated want, finally unleashed.

With a final, decisive movement, Lizzie’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Y/N’s boxers, pulling them down. Y/N gasped, a sharp, choked sound, as the fabric slid past her hips, freeing her. Lizzie’s hand was instantly there, wrapping around Y/N's exposed, throbbing arousal.

Lizzie then gently, but firmly, pushed Y/N down onto the bed. Y/N landed with a soft thump, a surprised groan escaping her lips as Lizzie shifted, now hovering over her. Her eyes, wide and dark with desire, met Lizzie’s. This was a new position, a new dynamic, and the raw hunger in Lizzie’s gaze made Y/N’s breath hitch.

Lizzie leaned down, her lips brushing Y/N's ear. "My turn," she whispered, her voice husky, before she lowered her head, her eyes fixed on Y/N’s magnificent, now fully revealed, form.

Lizzie's gaze devoured Y/N's exposed form. The sight of her hard, engorged member, heavy and pulsing, was breathtaking. It was a tangible expression of the desire that had been simmering between them for weeks, now laid bare and glorious. Lizzie reached out, her fingers tentatively tracing the length of Y/N's shaft, feeling the heat, the slick readiness of her.

Y/N let out a shuddering breath, her hands clenching the sheets beside her, her head tilting back as Lizzie’s touch ignited a new wave of sensation. "Oh, God, Lizzie," she rasped, her voice thick with a mixture of awe and desperate yearning.

Lizzie’s fingers tightened, a confident, possessive grip. She watched Y/N’s face, tracing the exquisite lines of pleasure and vulnerability there. It was a powerful, intoxicating feeling to be the one to bring Y/N to this point, to see her so utterly consumed. With a soft sigh, Lizzie leaned down, her lips brushing the tip of Y/N's arousal. The taste was sharp, musky, and utterly intoxicating.

Lizzie's gaze devoured Y/N's exposed form. The sight of her hard, engorged member, heavy and pulsing, was breathtaking. It was a tangible expression of the desire that had been simmering between them for weeks, now laid bare and glorious. Lizzie reached out, her fingers tentatively tracing the length of Y/N's shaft, feeling the heat, the slick readiness of her.

Y/N let out a shuddering breath, her hands clenching the sheets beside her, her head tilting back as Lizzie’s touch ignited a new wave of sensation. "Oh, God, Lizzie," she rasped, her voice thick with a mixture of awe and desperate yearning.

Lizzie’s fingers tightened, a confident, possessive grip. She watched Y/N’s face, tracing the exquisite lines of pleasure and vulnerability there. It was a powerful, intoxicating feeling to be the one to bring Y/N to this point, to see her so utterly consumed. With a soft sigh, Lizzie leaned down, her lips brushing the tip of Y/N's arousal. The taste was sharp, musky, and utterly intoxicating.

Y/N arched into Lizzie’s touch, a guttural groan vibrating through her chest. Her hips lifted instinctively from the bed, meeting Lizzie’s mouth with a desperate urgency. Lizzie took her in, slowly, deliberately, drawing Y/N deeper into her mouth. The sheer size, the intense heat, the rhythmic pulse against her tongue – it was overwhelming in the best possible way.

Lizzie worked her magic, her tongue flicking, swirling, and tracing, while her hands continued to stroke and guide. Y/N’s breathing became ragged, a series of short, sharp gasps, as her fingers dug into the sheets, her body trembling under Lizzie’s ministrations.

"Lizzie," Y/N choked out, her voice barely recognizable, strained with building pleasure. Her legs began to tremble, her entire body taut with the exquisite tension. "I'm... I'm going to—"

Lizzie didn't let her finish, deepening her efforts, wanting to be the one to bring Y/N over the edge. She felt Y/N’s entire body clench, a deep moan tearing from her throat as she pulsed against Lizzie’s mouth. The taste of her release, hot and musky, filled Lizzie’s mouth, a sweet victory.

Y/N collapsed back onto the bed, breathless, her body still quivering from the aftershocks. Lizzie stayed with her for a moment, savoring the taste, before slowly pulling away, a triumphant smile on her lips. She looked at Y/N, her eyes shining with affection and fierce satisfaction.

"Now," Lizzie whispered, her voice husky, "I think it's time to get rid of this." She reached down, her fingers finding the lace at her own hips, a clear invitation for Y/N to finish what they had started.

Lizzie pulled back, her eyes shining with affection and fierce satisfaction. "Now," she whispered, her voice husky, "I think it's time to get rid of this." Her fingers found the lace at her own hips, and with a swift, deliberate movement, she slid the delicate fabric down her legs. It joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor, leaving her entirely bare.

Lizzie then parted her legs, a silent, open invitation. Y/N's eyes, still glazed with the afterglow of her own release, widened, now fixed on the sight of Lizzie's nakedness. A fresh wave of desire surged through Y/N, replacing the lingering pleasure with a new, potent ache.

With a low groan, Y/N shifted, moving to lay fully on top of Lizzie. The press of her heavy, satisfied body against Lizzie's eager one was a sensation Lizzie had craved for weeks. Y/N captured Lizzie's mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, tasting her own desire, her own triumph, on Lizzie's lips. Their bodies molded together, skin against skin, the heat between them electric and undeniable.

Y/N broke the kiss, her forehead resting against Lizzie's, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. Her eyes, still dark with desire, searched Lizzie's. "Do you... do you have a condom here?" Y/N asked, her voice a little breathless, her gaze sweeping around Lizzie’s familiar bedroom.

Lizzie smiled, a soft, reassuring curve of her lips. She reached up, cupping Y/N’s cheek. "No need, love," she murmured, her thumb stroking Y/N’s skin. "I'm on the pill."

A relieved sigh escaped Y/N’s lips, the last flicker of concern vanishing from her eyes as Lizzie confirmed she was on the pill. The unspoken barrier of protection, now unnecessary, melted away, leaving only raw, uninhibited desire. Y/N’s body, already primed and throbbing, pressed more intimately against Lizzie’s.

"Good," Y/N breathed, her voice a low growl, her lips finding Lizzie’s again. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, a testament to the sheer relief and burgeoning excitement. There were no more words, only a primal language of touch and sensation.

Y/N shifted, her hips grinding slowly against Lizzie’s. The friction, skin on skin, sent shivers through Lizzie’s core. She wrapped her legs around Y/N’s waist, pulling her closer, higher, her body instinctively arching to meet Y/N’s palpable need.

A soft moan tore from Y/N’s throat as their bodies finally aligned. She poised herself at Lizzie’s entrance, her gaze locking with Lizzie’s, a silent question in her eyes. It was a moment of profound connection, of shared vulnerability and undeniable anticipation.

Lizzie’s eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of desperate yearning and utter trust. She nodded, a small, eager movement of her head, her hips lifting in an undeniable invitation. "Yes," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Please, Y/N."

With a guttural groan, Y/N began to move, slowly at first, easing herself into Lizzie’s warmth. Lizzie gasped, her body adjusting, accommodating the delicious invasion. The sensation was intense, a deep, satisfying fullness that made her arch her back and cling to Y/N, her nails digging into Y/N’s shoulders.

But then, as Y/N pushed a little deeper, Lizzie’s breath hitched, and a sharp, involuntary hiss escaped her lips.

Y/N froze, stopping immediately. Her body tensed above Lizzie, her breath catching in her throat. She looked down, her eyes wide with immediate concern. "Lizzie? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" Her voice was tight with worry, her movements still.

Lizzie reached up, her hands finding Y/N's face, her fingers stroking her cheeks. "No," she whispered, her voice a little breathless but firm, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "No, you didn't hurt me." Her hips lifted again, a soft, insistent demand. "It's just… you're bigger than I'm used to." She arched into Y/N, urging her closer. "But it feels so good. Perfect."

Her eyes, still wide with desire, pleaded with Y/N. "Don't stop," she breathed, pulling Y/N's head down for a fierce, hungry kiss. "Please, Y/N. Just… move."

Y/N’s gaze searched Lizzie’s, finding nothing but raw desire and unwavering trust. A wave of relief washed over her, quickly replaced by a surge of desperate longing. With a low, guttural groan, Y/N began to move again, slowly at first, carefully, allowing Lizzie’s body to stretch and adapt.

Lizzie gasped, a sound of both pain and exquisite pleasure, as Y/N eased deeper. Her fingers tightened on Y/N’s shoulders, her legs locking around Y/N’s waist, pulling her closer, higher. The initial discomfort quickly faded, replaced by a deep, fulfilling pressure that spread through her core.

Y/N watched Lizzie's face, meticulously gauging her reactions, slowing her rhythm when Lizzie tensed, then picking up the pace when Lizzie arched into her. She moved with a primal instinct, a dance of give and take, pushing Lizzie to the edge of her comfort zone only to pull her back into a world of pure sensation.

The bed beneath them began to creak a rhythmic protest as their movements grew more fervent. Lizzie’s moans became louder, more uninhibited, mirroring the raw, guttural sounds that tore from Y/N’s throat. Their bodies slapped together, slick with sweat and desire, a symphony of pleasure echoing in the quiet bedroom. The air grew thick with their shared heat and the scent of aroused skin.

Lizzie was lost, utterly consumed by the rhythm, by the feel of Y/N so completely within her. She clung to Y/N, her nails digging into Y/N’s back, urging her faster, deeper. Each thrust brought her closer, building a coil of tension that hummed through her entire body.

"Y/N," Lizzie cried out, her voice ragged, "I’m… oh God, Y/N!"

Y/N responded instantly, her movements becoming a powerful, relentless drive. She pressed into Lizzie, feeling the delicious tightening around her, knowing they were both on the brink. Her own climax was building fast, a fire roaring through her veins. "Lizzie!" she roared, her voice raw with passion, pushing in one final, deep thrust.

A wave of intense pleasure crashed over Lizzie, a breathless, shuddering orgasm that rippled through her. Her body convulsed around Y/N, clinging to her, as a simultaneous groan tore from Y/N’s throat, her own body arching and trembling above Lizzie as she poured herself into her.

****

They collapsed together, heavy and breathless, bodies slick with sweat, heartbeats slowly synchronizing. Y/N buried her face in the crook of Lizzie’s neck, her arm tightening around Lizzie’s waist, holding her close, utterly spent yet utterly content. The air around them thrummed with the fading echoes of their climax, leaving behind a profound sense of peace and deep, satiated connection.

After a few quiet moments, Y/N stirred, lifting her head to look at Lizzie. Her eyes, though still heavy-lidded, were full of a soft, tender adoration. She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Lizzie’s temple, then her nose, then finally, a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

"Are you... are you really okay?" Y/N whispered, her voice still a little rough, but laced with genuine concern. The memory of Lizzie's initial hiss still lingered.

Lizzie smiled, her own eyes soft and hazy with contentment. She reached up, stroking Y/N’s damp hair back from her forehead. "More than okay, Y/N," she murmured, her voice husky. "Perfect. You were absolutely perfect." She tightened her arms around Y/N, pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s shoulder. "See? I told you. No confusion. Just... you."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, a sound of profound relief and happiness. She shifted slightly, easing some of her weight off Lizzie, but still keeping their bodies intimately connected. Her fingers began to trace lazy patterns on Lizzie’s hip, a calming, possessive touch.

"I didn't rush it this time, did I?" Y/N asked, a hint of vulnerability in her tone.

Lizzie chuckled softly. "Definitely not. But I think we've made up for lost time, wouldn't you say?"

Y/N laughed, a rich, satisfied sound. She pulled back just enough to meet Lizzie’s gaze, her eyes shining. "I'd say. And I'd say it was worth every damn second of the wait." She leaned down and kissed Lizzie again, a slow, deep kiss that promised many more nights just like this one, finally unburdened by hesitation or fear. The beautiful, frustrating dance was over. Now, there was just them.

A few contented moments later, Y/N stirred, gently pulling herself out of Lizzie. Lizzie let out a soft murmur of protest at the loss of contact, but Y/N just smiled, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead.

"Stay right there," Y/N whispered, her voice husky. She swung her legs off the bed, her movements fluid and unhurried as she padded towards the en-suite bathroom. Lizzie watched her go, a warm flush spreading through her body.

Y/N returned quickly, a soft, damp washcloth in hand. She sat on the edge of the bed, facing Lizzie, and with tender care, began to gently wipe away the evidence of their passion from Lizzie's inner thighs and stomach. Her touch was warm, intimate, and full of quiet reverence. Lizzie simply closed her eyes, basking in the tenderness, feeling utterly cherished.

Once Lizzie was clean, Y/N moved to herself, carefully wiping down her own body with the same cloth. She took a moment, her eyes briefly closing as she savored the afterglow, before meeting Lizzie's gaze again.

"Comfy?" Y/N asked, her voice soft, as she tossed the washcloth aside and then leaned over Lizzie, propping herself up on one arm. She pressed a gentle kiss to Lizzie’s lips, then another, a slow, lingering exploration. "Sleepy?"

Lizzie hummed, her eyes still heavy-lidded, but a contented smile playing on her lips. "Content," she corrected, her voice a soft murmur. She reached out, tracing the curve of Y/N's jaw. "Very, very content."

Y/N smiled, a genuinely happy, relaxed smile that reached her eyes. She shifted, pulling Lizzie closer until they were curled together, skin to skin under the covers. Lizzie nestled her head on Y/N's shoulder, feeling the steady beat of her heart against her ear.

Lizzie's fingers began to trace languid patterns over Y/N’s toned abs, feeling the lean, sculpted muscle beneath her touch. She moved her hand up and down, from Y/N’s ribs to the soft curve of her lower abdomen. Sometimes, her touch would linger closer to Y/N’s soft member, a silent, teasing reminder of the passion they had just shared, and a gentle promise of more to come. Y/N let out a soft sigh, pressing a kiss into Lizzie’s hair, utterly relaxed in her embrace.

"Good," Y/N whispered, her lips brushing Lizzie's hair. "Me too." She held Lizzie tight, the comfortable silence of the room punctuated only by their synchronized breathing. This was the peace she’d longed for, the quiet intimacy that felt like coming home.

---

[ncsdlr]

i hate you summer i hate you heat i hate you sweating i hate you burning sun i hate you warm weather i hate you climate change

[ncsdlr]

☆ It's okay though cause I'm cute and funny ☆

[ncsdlr]

Willing (To Be Manipulated And To Manipulate)

Eva x Reader

Warnings: Dubious Consent & Manipulation

------------------

You grew up with Eva.

Before the sermons, before the followers with glassy eyes and matching linen dresses, before the voice that dripped like honey and stuck to everything it touched—there was just her. A girl who burned bright in every room. Who spoke like she’d swallowed poetry and made you believe in things you couldn’t name yet.

She was radiant. Even then.

You used to follow her everywhere. Down cracked sidewalks and into abandoned parking lots, flashlight in hand because she said she saw something “magical” in the dark. You believed her every time. You always did.

Eva made you feel like you could be something more. Not prettier. Not louder. Just sharper. Like the way she looked at you made you clearer.

You started writing because she told you that your words mattered. You tried harder in school because she said you were smart. You kept your voice steady, even when you were scared, because Eva never flinched—and you wanted to be like her.

She inspired you.

She shaped you.

And then she ruined herself.

You don’t know exactly when it changed—maybe after that first “gathering,” maybe after she shaved her head and started speaking in metaphors instead of full sentences. But at some point, the girl you loved became someone else entirely. Someone you didn’t recognize.

Someone who knew exactly how to make people fall in love with her, and did it anyway. Over and over. Just to prove she could.

She started calling herself a guide. A vessel. A mirror. She built something from nothing—pulled lonely people into her orbit like it was gravity. And the worst part? She looked good doing it. Barefoot. Angelic. Untouchable.

You stayed away at first. You told yourself you were done.

But something in you cracked when she texted you out of nowhere. “Come see what I’ve built.” Three years of silence, and that’s all it took.

Now you’re here. Living on the edge of her little commune, in a guest room with no locks, surrounded by people who whisper her name like it’s sacred.

You hate her for it.

You hate how easy it was for her to change. You hate how beautiful she still is when she talks to a room like she owns it. You hate that she remembers your favorite wine. You hate that you drink it with her.

You hate her.

God, you hate her.

****

Eva’s in the kitchen when you walk in, barefoot and bathed in golden light like she fucking planned it that way. She’s pouring coffee—slow, precise, theatrical. The steam curls around her like it worships her too.

For a second, you almost forget.

Then she speaks.

“You sleep okay?” she asks, not looking at you, like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.

Like you didn’t grow up next to her heartbeat.

You open the fridge. It’s mostly wine and some sad, untouched fruit. Typical. You close it again with a soft thud.

“I made you a cup,” Eva offers, already holding out the mug she definitely poured for you.

“I’m not drinking your cult brew,” you mutter.

She chuckles. “You think I laced it or something?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Eva finally looks at you. Her eyes are so annoyingly soft it almost stings. “I missed you, you know.”

You ignore the weight of that. The way it slides under your skin.

“Still giving me the silent treatment?” she teases. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

You shoot her a look. “Dramatic says the woman who made twelve people quit their jobs and live in the woods for ‘spiritual alignment.’”

“They wanted something real.”

“They wanted therapy and maybe a hobby. Not a prophet in silk robes with a god complex.”

Eva smirks, leans against the counter like she owns the whole damn world—and maybe, in her mind, she does. “You’re jealous.”

“Of what?” You fold your arms. “Your aesthetic?”

“My attention,” she says, eyes flicking to yours. “And maybe the way I still get to you.”

Your pulse stutters.

You keep your voice even- just like how she taught you. “Get over yourself.”

“You used to like the way I talked.”

“That was before you turned every sentence into a sermon.”

Eva shrugs, unbothered. “Still hanging on every word, though.”

She moves closer. Two steps. No permission. No hesitation. Now she’s near enough to make your ribs tighten.

“You're impossible,” you say quietly.

She smiles like she knows. “And you’re still here.”

That lands heavier than it should. Your throat tightens, just for a second.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper.

Eva softens. Just slightly. “I’m not. I’m just… surprised you came back.”

You hold her gaze, and for a moment it feels like you’re sixteen again—sneaking out after curfew, laying side-by-side on the roof of her parents' house, trading secrets and daring the stars to fall.

And then you blink. And it’s now. And she’s not yours anymore.

Maybe she never was.

You step back. Put space between you.

“You’re not the person I grew up with.”

Eva’s smile fades into something else—sadness maybe, or understanding. Or just a really good performance.

“I could say the same about you,” she says softly.

You walk out before you let it sink in.

****

You try to stay away from her that night.

You tell yourself you’ll stay in your room, read something pointless, maybe pretend to journal even though your pen’s been dry for weeks. You hear the soft laughter of her followers outside by the firepit, the clink of bottles, the low hum of someone playing guitar like you’re all in a damn indie film.

But it’s the way the house feels that gets to you. Empty. Hollow in places. Like Eva took all the air with her when she left the room.

So you drift out to the living room eventually. Not to talk. Not to join. Just to sit on the edge of the couch with your legs pulled up and your arms crossed like armor.

You don’t even notice her watching you until she sits down.

Not next to you. Not right away.

But closer than she was before.

You sip slowly from your glass, eyes on the flickering candle in the center of the table. It smells like sage and eucalyptus. She probably made one of her followers hand-pour it.

“You always drink like it’s a punishment,” Eva says, voice soft and amused.

“I’m drinking because it’s the only way to survive your bullshit.”

She laughs gently, like that didn’t sting. “Still got that bite.”

“You still got that god complex?”

“Only when I’m around you.”

That earns her a look.

She’s already moved closer. Just enough that you can feel the heat of her thigh near yours. Not touching, but near enough that it makes you acutely aware of the space between you. And how fast it’s shrinking.

You down half your glass in one go.

“Slow down,” she murmurs, brushing a fingertip along the rim of her own. “No one’s chasing you.”

You glance at her. “You say that like you’re not the one doing the chasing.”

She tilts her head. “You think I’m chasing you?”

“I think you’re always chasing whoever gives you the best mirror.”

Her eyes flicker, just for a second. You hit a nerve.

But then she smiles, slow and deliberate. “You always did know how to read me. That’s what I missed most.”

“You didn’t miss me,” you say. “You missed how easy I used to be to control.”

That’s when she gets bold—shifts a little closer. Her leg brushes yours, and she doesn’t move it. Her voice drops, syrupy and low.

“I don’t need to control you,” Eva says. “You always came willingly.”

The heat that flushes your chest has nothing to do with the wine.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, looking away.

“And yet… here you are.”

You laugh bitterly. “Here I am. Wasting wine and oxygen.”

“Sharing space,” she corrects, smiling like she’s won something. “You could’ve stayed away. Could’ve gone home. Blocked my number. Burned your little yearbooks.”

You don’t respond.

She pours you more wine.

You let her with a flaming glare.

You’re not sure when the conversation fades.

Somewhere between the third glass and the fourth, the words start to feel too careful. Like she’s guiding them, steering the night like a slow river, pretending to drift while secretly pulling you toward the rocks.

She’s always been good at that.

Eva lounges beside you, glass loose in hand, eyes soft and calculating. She watches you like she already knows what you’ll do next. Like she’s already counted your moves.

“You always looked better like this,” she says gently. “Unwound. A little flushed.”

You glare, but your body betrays you—cheeks warm, breath just slightly uneven.

“I think it’s the wine,” she adds, tilting her head. “Or maybe it’s me.”

“You really can’t go five minutes without making it about you, can you?”

Eva smiles like she’s proud of the observation. “I only talk about what’s in front of me. And right now? You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes, but your legs have stopped tensing. Your shoulders have dropped. Just a little. You don’t realize it yet.

She leans back, swirling her drink lazily. “I missed this. You, getting all riled up. Always so sure you were above me, but still sitting at my table.”

“I’m not sitting at your table,” you mutter.

“You’re here.” Her voice goes quiet. “You didn’t have to be.”

You say nothing. You know she wants you to fill the silence.

“You could’ve left a hundred times,” she continues. “But you didn’t. You stayed. You stayed with me. Why?”

You clench your jaw. “I wanted to see for myself what you’d turned into.”

Her smile softens. “You wanted to make sure I wasn’t lost.”

Your breath hitches.

“You wanted me to still be her.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“You lie to yourself more than you ever lied to me,” Eva says, and it doesn’t sound cruel—it sounds like a prayer. “That’s why I never hated you. You wanted goodness so bad it made you blind.”

“I wanted you to be good,” you whisper. “And you turned into this.”

“And yet you still drink with me,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers along the stem of her glass. “You still sit close. You still look at me like you did when we were seventeen.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Her voice drops. Low, coaxing. “Do you remember that summer? The one where we snuck out every night? You brought a blanket. I brought that old CD player.”

You blink. You do remember. You hate that you do.

“You said the stars made you feel small. I said that meant you were lucky—because I’d never felt small a day in my life.”

She leans in just a little, her hand resting beside yours on the couch.

“I think that’s when you started loving me.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Eva—”

“Shh,” she whispers. “You don’t have to say it.”

She’s too close. Her skin warm. Her breath impossibly steady. Her eyes locked on yours like a dare, like a promise, like a trap.

“You always liked it when I got close,” she says. “Didn’t matter what I said.”

You want to push her away. You want to pull her in.

You hate that you’re still here. You hate that she knows it.

“Eva…”

“Shh,” she murmurs again, and her fingers brush your cheek. “Don’t overthink it.”

And before you can—before your shame catches up to your pulse— She kisses you.

****

The kiss deepens before you can stop it—before your brain catches up to your body. Her lips move like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s trained for this. You hate how easily your mouth parts for her, how natural it feels to fall back into something you promised yourself you’d never touch again.

Her hand slides over your thigh, and somewhere in the haze you realize: you’re in her room. You didn’t mean to end up here. But you’re here.

Everything smells like her—jasmine, wine, something sweet and burning in the incense dish by the window. The lighting’s low and warm, amber from the salt lamp on the nightstand. The sheets are soft. Of course they are.

This whole room is a trap.

“Let me fix it,” she whispers against your skin. “I’ve been too distant with you.”

You’re still catching your breath when she pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, voice syrupy soft.

“Take this,” she says gently. “As an opportunity to take what you lost.”

And because the room is warm, and your chest aches, and the way she’s looking at you feels like a dare—you give in.

You move first.

You touch her like you’re owed something. Like reclaiming her body might heal what she stole. You kiss her throat, trail your fingers lower, drown her in pleasure until her back arches and her breath comes in choked sobs against the headboard.

The sheets twist under your knees. She clutches the pillows like she’s breaking.

You think you’re winning.

But the whole time, she watches you. Quiet. Sharp. Like a queen surveying her most loyal follower.

You don’t notice.

You just think—this is it. This is mine again.

"I've already made you cum so much, Eva...think you can still take this?" You grin as you speak because you think you're the one in control- that's how it feels.

Eva's wet velvet walls flutter around you as you curl your fingers just perfectly. The slow yet deep thrusts of your fingers are what takes Eva right over as you coax another orgasm out of her, her mind unsure of whether or not she can take more of this. She really underestimated how good at this you could be.

"F—fucking hell, Y/N! You're really—ah... you're really taking me, huh?"

The small, smug grin on Eva's lips makes you tick. It makes your finger curl inside her harder. Reach deeper. And it makes Eva cum one more time with a violent moan, one of her hands reaching for your forearm and holding onto it as if it would help her in anyway.

But it doesn't.

If anything, it only makes you fuck her more- claim her more. And with a suddenly quick pistoning of your fingers in and out of Eva's cunt, her orgasm gushes out of her, jetting around you finger and soaking everything within range.

The look of utter exhaustion on Eva's face makes you stop just to give her a minute to breathe, at least. You pull your fingers from her depths and cup her cunt gently. Almost as if you're afraid she'll blow away in the wind. Like now you want to cradle her after all you've taken back from her.

But like you didn't just give her transforming orgasms back to back, she flips you over. Like you've always belonged beneath her. Like she's been waiting to have you under her since forever.

The flip makes your breath catch, and the air feels a little too thick. You notice how soft the sheets feel now. Like you're more open and more vulnerable now than ever before.

And then it begins.

Eva's hands move like they remember you better than you remember yourself. Her mouth finds all the places you thought you buried. Her fingers slip inside like they belong there.

"Holy fuck." You moan into the air, the feeling of Eva's fingers deep inside you, feeling like a soothing balm.

You come too fast. Then again, "Shit, Eva!" Then again, gasping into her neck like you’ve forgotten who you are, "Oh, my god."

It’s effortless for her.

And that’s the worst part.

By the time your body stills and your chest stops shaking, you’re half-draped across her lap, legs limp, heart pounding in your throat. You can still hear your own voice echoing in the room. You hate how loud you got. You hate how smug she looks, all calm and golden in the afterglow.

She kisses your temple like she didn't just ruin you.

“See?” she murmurs. “You didn’t lose anything.”

But this bed doesn’t feel like sanctuary. It feels like a throne. And you—you’re not lying next to her.

You’re laid out in offering.

****

You wake up sore, warm, and furious.

The sun is barely up. Pale light spills across the room, lighting the sheets in gold, and you’re still in her bed, tangled in her sheets, still tasting the night before on your tongue like a crime you meant to commit.

She’s not beside you.

Of course she’s not.

You sit up, hair a mess, throat dry, heart hammering. The room smells like sex and incense and smug satisfaction. You find your clothes scattered near the foot of the bed—your shirt inside out, your underwear nearly under the nightstand.

You dress quickly, almost violently. Like every second you spend here makes it worse.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, Eva’s already there.

Barefoot again. Mug in hand. Wearing one of those thin white shirts that might as well be transparent. She doesn’t even flinch when she sees you.

“Morning,” she says casually, like she didn’t have you begging under her last night.

You don’t answer. You go straight for the sink and splash water on your face like it’ll burn the memory off your skin.

“I made coffee,” she offers.

You look at her. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

You blink at her like she’s insane. “Don’t ‘what’ me. You don’t get to act like nothing happened.”

Eva shrugs, completely unfazed. “I’m not acting like anything.”

“You’re humming.”

She sips from her mug, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re grumpy in the mornings. I forgot how cute that was.”

You stare at her, jaw tight. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

She sits on the counter like it’s hers—legs dangling, eyes glinting. You hate how calm she is. How put-together. How she looks like last night only confirmed something she already knew.

“You’re not going to ask if I regret it?” you say bitterly.

Eva raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You pause.

And that pause—that one second too long—gives her all the confirmation she needs.

Her smile widens just slightly.

You glare at her, throat tight. “Don’t think this means anything.”

“I don’t.”

She sips her coffee again. “You do.”

Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. You want to scream. You want to grab her and kiss her again. You want to leave.

Instead you mutter, “It was a mistake.”

Eva hums. “Maybe. But you make mistakes beautifully.”

Your heart skips.

She hops down from the counter, brushes past you on the way to the sink, and whispers as she passes:

“You looked so good falling apart.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

You just stand there. Burning. Remembering. Wanting.

And hating that you still do.

You stare at the back of her head as she hums and washes her mug, like last night wasn’t carved into both your bodies. You wonder if she’ll ever bring it up again. You hope she doesn’t. Because if she does—you’re not sure you’d be strong enough to lie.