⊹ PENSAMIENTOS IMPUROS ⭑.ᐟ
⤷ kentin lerhay x fem!reader
Luego de una tarde a tu lado, inmerso en la cercanía y el calor de tu cuerpo, la imaginación de Kentin lo lleva a explorar deseos que hace mucho se esfuerza por reprimir.
ꕤ nota de autora 💬 : esto es canon porque yo lo dije 🤓☝️ (sean amables porfis, es mi primer smut aAA).
◞♡ masterlist ⋮ leer en ao3
Kentin no podía dejar de pensar en ti.
Ciertamente, era algo normal en él. Soñador nato y romántico empedernido, estaba acostumbrado a que invadieras su mente incluso en los momentos más banales de su existencia. Eras su musa, la principal motivación para salir y enfrentarse al mundo cada día. Dueña de sus deseos más sinceros y puros, protagonista de todas sus ensoñaciones.
Pero también eras su perdición.
Siempre lo habías sido, no había caso en negarlo. Pero Kentin se avergonzaba mucho de ello, y de lo obsesionado que había estado contigo en el pasado, sus actitudes tan desconsideradamente pegajosas y agobiantes. Así que, resuelto a obrar mejor tras su regreso, y buscando encontrar una forma más sana de relacionarse contigo, se castigó a sí mismo prohibiéndose pensar en ti de esa manera.
Porque dejar de pensar en ti por completo le era físicamente imposible.
Así, al menos, conseguiría mantener sus viejos hábitos a raya. Sería más cuidadoso, procurando no dejarse consumir por la tentación de desviar sus ojos un poquito más abajo, esos días calurosos en los que llegabas al instituto mostrando más piel de lo normal; ni tampoco por la vergüenza, ante el recuerdo de sus fantasías más indecentes.
Solo así podría, en su cabeza, tenerte presente lo justo y necesario para hacerte creer que se había olvidado por completo de ti.
El problema era que, últimamente, y cada vez más seguido, estos pensamientos que con tanto esfuerzo había conseguido evitar en los primeros meses tras el anhelado reencuentro estaban empezando a volver. Incontrolablemente. Y más pecaminosos que nunca.
Cuando antes se contentaba con pensar en la suavidad de tus manos sobre las suyas, ahora se preguntaba cómo se sentiría el tacto de tus dedos deslizándose por su piel… y por sus zonas más sensibles. Cuando antes conseguía deleitarse solo haciéndote sonreír, ahora se descubría a sí mismo observando tus labios, embobado, imaginando qué tal se sentiría besarlos… morderlos… o, incluso peor, cada uno de los deliciosos actos que podrías hacer con ellos.
Estaba en problemas.
Pero no se iba a dar por vencido, Kentin era mejor que eso. Su determinación y fuerza de voluntad se habían convertido en sus mejores cualidades. Siempre que estuviera en su mano, se esforzaría por ser lo más opuesto posible al patético y obsesionado Ken de antes. No iba a permitir que regresara. Así que, cada vez que sus pensamientos empezaban a deambular hacia terrenos impuros, contenía el aire y se alejaba. Sacudía la cabeza. Se lavaba la cara. Salía a correr.
Era una estrategia que le venía funcionando bastante bien… hasta que dejó de hacerlo, una fatídica tarde de verano, en la que tan cerca estuvo de hacer realidad una de sus mayores fantasías.
Kentin había intentado besarte. Y fracasó estrepitosamente en el proceso.
Conejos o no, se maldijo a sí mismo por siquiera haberlo intentado. ¿En qué estaba pensando? Evidentemente, en cosas que no debía, pues tan pronto como se quedó a solas contigo, encerrado en el aula de ciencias, sentado a tu lado en el suelo, había saltado sobre ti como un animal salvaje. Hiciste bien en detenerlo, se dijo. Era humillante lo fácil que sucumbió ante sus impulsos más primitivos, unos deseos que creía ya superados, pero que claramente estaban lejos de estar bajo su control. Un roce y un leve sonrojo por tu parte fue todo lo que necesitó para perder la cordura.
Las cosas no podían seguir así.
Tan pronto como llegó a su hogar esa tarde, se encerró en su cuarto y se tiró en la cama, boca abajo, ahogando su frustración con su almohada. Quería gritar. Desaparecer. O dejarte ir. Pero incluso en esos momentos, mortificado como estaba, seguía sin ser capaz. Así que solo le quedaba repasar lo sucedido, una y otra vez, deseando haber actuado de forma diferente, odiándose por no ser capaz de controlarse a sí mismo cuando se trataba de ti.
Con los ojos cerrados, aún podía ver tu rostro. Tu lindo, lindo rostro. La forma en la que te congelaste ante su cercanía, cómo tus labios se entreabrieron y empezaron a temblar ligeramente, tus ojos a intentar escapar de su mirada… y el calor a invadir tus mejillas.
Kentin sacudió su cabeza, intentando borrar esa imagen de su mente, pero la fricción en aquel inocente movimiento tuvo consecuencias palpables en otra zona de su cuerpo. Ahogó un gemido contra la almohada y, entonces, se dio cuenta de algo que en realidad ya sabía, pero que comenzaba a ser dolorosamente obvio. Estaba duro. Muy duro.
Tan duro como solo eras capaz de ponerlo tú.
Levantó la cabeza, apoyándose sobre sus codos, con la intención de levantarse. Pero sus caderas lo traicionaron y, antes de detenerse a pensar en lo que hacía, volvió a buscar esa deliciosa fricción con una estocada hacia delante. Los brazos casi le fallaron. Dejó caer su frente en la almohada una vez más, su mente repentinamente nublada por el placer. Quería más. Kentin no podía seguir negando que quería más, de ti, de tus miradas escurridizas, de tus labios tan perfectos como hipnotizantes, de tu rostro sonrojándose a causa de él.
Y, especialmente, quería tenerte debajo suyo ahora mismo, mientras balanceaba sus caderas en un ritmo que pronto se volvió tan frenético que le entrecortaba la respiración, y tan obsceno que agradecía estar solo en casa, para no tener que contener todos los sonidos y balbuceos que se le escapaban.
—Ah… Sí, así…
Kentin estaba completamente perdido en la fantasía de tu cercanía. Sus cuerpos, unidos, yendo a un mismo compás, bajo el mismo ardiente deseo de dejarse consumir el uno por el otro. Sabía que lo que estaba haciendo estaba mal. Se había prometido que ya no iba a pensar en ti de esa manera, pero, ¿cómo podía detenerse? Llevaba deseándolo durante toda la tarde, tal vez incluso todos los días, desde que tomó esa estúpida decisión. Y ahora ni siquiera recordaba el por qué. En su mente solo había lugar para una cosa, y era la idea de hacerte completa e inequívocamente suya.
Al recordar el tacto de tu piel, el roce de tus muslos desnudos contra su rodilla cuando se sentaron juntos, el contacto de tu mano contra su pecho cuando intentaste detener sus avances, fue como si algo se rompiera dentro de lo que quedaba del reprimido Ken. Sintió su miembro palpitar en sus pantalones, ansioso por ser liberado. Necesitaba sentirte más cerca, más profundo, más...
En un instante, sus pantalones militares estaban desparramados por el suelo, junto a la última pizca de restricción que le quedaba. Iba a hacerlo. Estaba a punto de dejarse corromper por sus deseos cuando una oleada de culpabilidad azotó su mente y, en ese mismo instante, su celular vibró en la mesita de noche.
Un nuevo mensaje.
¿Una señal, tal vez? Kentin dudó en continuar y, repentinamente sacado de su ensueño, el sentimiento de vergüenza cayó sobre él como un balde de agua fría. ¿Qué estaba haciendo? Había hecho una promesa consigo mismo, para protegerte a ti, y ni siquiera era capaz de cumplirla. No podía fallarte de esa manera. Se levantó de la cama, completamente frustrado, acalorado y perlado en sudor, con la intención de ir a darse una ducha, cuando su celular volvió a vibrar.
Frunció el entrecejo. Lo que menos necesitaba en esos momentos era seguir conectado al mundo exterior, así que lo tomó para apagarlo cuando, por reflejo, leyó el remitente de aquellos mensajes y el corazón casi le explota en el pecho.
Eras tú.
“Todo bien, Kentin?”
“Lamento lo de hoy, me puse un poco nerviosa, con todo este tema de los conejos jaja… en fin. Fue divertido”
“Deberíamos repetirlo”
“Lo de hacer locuras juntos, quiero decir”
“Como en los viejos tiempos”
“Que tengas una linda tarde ♡”
Estabas… nerviosa.
Tal vez incluso tan avergonzada o arrepentida como él.
Y deseabas repetirlo.
Kentin soltó el aire, sentándose nuevamente en su cama, se cubrió la cara con sus manos, sintiendo cómo empezaba a arder, y sonrió como un idiota.
Realmente ibas a ser su perdición.
Te deseaba más que a nada en el mundo entero y, ¿qué iba a hacer con eso? ¿Acaso existía una salida honorable de todos aquellos sentimientos? ¿Podía realmente escapar para siempre de ellos, ocultarlos, reprimirlos incluso de sí mismo, en todo momento, bajo cualquier circunstancia?
¿Y si en realidad… no necesitara hacerlo?
Deberíamos repetirlo.
Kentin volvió a leer tus mensajes una, dos, tres veces, hasta que sintió sus extremidades cosquillear una vez más, su corazón acelerarse al ritmo de sus pensamientos, cada vez más bochornosos, y sus mejillas arder tanto que creía estar a punto de derretirse ante tus inocentes palabras de amabilidad.
Tal vez esto era exactamente lo que necesitaba.
Sí, Kentin tenía que aprender a controlarse, pero enfrente de ti. No quería hacerte sentir incómoda ni presionarte con su amor. Y si esto era lo que necesitaba para dejar de actuar tan impulsivamente en tu presencia, para comportarse como un caballero y no un animal cada vez que percibía el calor de tu piel sobre la suya, entonces…
Deberá hacerlo.
Seguido.
Por ti.
Con menos culpa oprimiendo su pecho, volvió a dejarse caer sobre la cama. Estaba nervioso, pero ansioso por hacerlo, y preocupado, pero aún más excitado. Hace ya largos meses que dejó atrás el adictivo placer que solo la imaginación de tu persona podía brindarle. Uno que incluso llegó a convertirse en obsesión. Pero el pasado era el pasado, y había tomado una decisión, con las emociones a flor de piel, pero estando lo suficientemente lúcido —y desesperado— como para creer de todo corazón que era la correcta.
Entonces, iba a hacerlo.
Primero se acarició por encima del bóxer, sintiendo la rigidez y humedad que evidenciaba lo mucho que necesitaba ser atendido. Ojalá estuvieses ahí para hacerlo. Aquel pensamiento sumado al contacto de sus propias caricias hizo que diera un espasmo y, cuando cerró los ojos y lo único que pudo ver fueron tus lindos dedos, tuvo que morderse el labio para contener un gemido.
Sin embargo, se conocía lo suficientemente bien como para saber que si seguía así iba a causar un desastre, por lo que, antes de sumergirse nuevamente en la tentadora fantasía, se libró de la última capa de ropa. Kentin estaba desnudo, tirado en su cama con la cabeza apoyada en la almohada, su mano izquierda recostada en su vientre, bajo la camiseta que aún llevaba puesta, y su mano derecha sujetando tímidamente la base de su pene. Por un segundo, se sintió más expuesto que nunca. Pero cuando dio el primer jalón, cualquier rastro de culpa o vergüenza abandonó su mente. Y tú lo reemplazaste.
Estaba más sensible de lo normal, como era de esperarse, llevaba meses reprimiéndose cruelmente, y las ganas contenidas habían vuelto al deseo tan intenso que amenazaba con consumirlo por completo apenas empezar. Pronto, la habitación se llenó de sus suspiros y jadeos, del sonido tan obsceno de su mano chocando una y otra vez contra la humedad de su piel, y del olor tan inconfundible a la esencia masculina de Kentin.
La idea de lo que hubiera pasado si correspondías su beso se instaló en su mente y, esta vez, no la dejó ir. Dios, aún podía sentirte, el calor de tu cuerpo, la suavidad de tu piel, tu respiración entremezclándose con la suya. Había estado tan, tan cerca. Se odió a sí mismo en aquel momento, pero ahora mismo estaba agradecido, pues aquellos milímetros que los separaban fueron tan fáciles de rellenar en su mente como en ningún otro escenario que se haya imaginado en la vida.
Sus pensamientos se fueron enredando, mutando, volviéndose cada vez más oscuros y más húmedos. En un momento estaban en el suelo, enroscados en la deliciosa fricción de sus pelvis al besarse, y un segundo después, te tenía arriba de una de las mesas del aula, completamente abierta y entregada a él.
Se preguntaba qué tipo de sonidos harías. Si dirías su nombre. Si el rubor en tus mejillas se extendería hasta el borde de tu cuello, o tus hombros, que él mordería con posesividad. Si extenderías tus brazos hacia su cuerpo para tocarlo, arañarlo, o atraerlo hacia ti. Comenzó a hundir su otra mano bajo su camiseta ante este pensamiento, dejando que sus dedos recorrieran la piel pecosa y ardiente como si fueran los tuyos. Cómo desearía que lo fueran.
El ritmo de su muñeca aceleró a la par de sus pensamientos, que pronto se volvió tan desenfrenado como el que había marcado minutos antes, cuando aún estaba vestido y la fricción contra su cama bastó para llevarlo a perderse en la posibilidad de que fueras tú.
Ahora, cada segundo que pasaba lo acercaba más al límite. No se permitió abrir los ojos, simplemente se dejó desbordar en la fantasía de tenerte encima de él, hundido por completo en ti, entre besos demandantes y exhalantes súplicas. Él sería la causa de ellas. De tenerte tan húmeda, sonrojada y nublada de placer que le implorarías, con tu delicada vocecita, que termine dentro de ti.
Y aquel pensamiento terminaría por enviarlo al mismísimo infierno.
Kentin se dejó llevar, dando una, dos, tres sacudidas más, hasta que la presión que llevaba acumulándose en su vientre terminó por explotar, tensando y relajando los músculos de su cuerpo en un orgasmo que terminó siendo tan abrumador que lo dejó al borde de las lágrimas. Se vino con tu nombre en los labios, entre gemidos, jadeos y súplicas para nada decentes. Tuvieron que pasar varios minutos antes de que dejara de temblar. Pero luego se sintió tan relajado como pocas veces en su vida, y sonrió tontamente, al darse cuenta de que podría volver a hacerlo tantas veces como lo necesitara.
Cuando finalmente abrió los ojos y miró hacia abajo, resopló.
summary: you’re hired last-minute for sabrina’s tour and immediately clash over your blunt attitude and disdain for pop culture. sabrina isn’t used to being challenged or ignored, fueling her curiosity about you.
warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, tension
miss u guyssss, hope u enjoy. <3
masterlist
୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧
you push through the heavy backstage doors, already hating every single thing about this place. your boots—scuffed and well-loved—drag irritably over scattered cables and cheap carpeting. somewhere behind you, equipment clangs loudly as crew members shout frantic instructions at each other, voices edged with panic and unnecessary drama. your camera bag bumps clumsily against your hip, already feeling heavier than usual.
it’s exactly the kind of chaos you’ve spent the past decade trying to avoid—loud, bright, cluttered with glitter and empty promises, all soundtracked by the aggressively synthetic bassline leaking through the venue walls. this job had been pitched as a last-minute emergency, a favor for a friend who owed you money and knew better than to call unless desperation was involved. it’s painfully clear why the previous photographer quit. you might have to ask for double.
“oh, thank god you’re here.” margot’s voice slices through the noise as she hurries toward you, clipboard in hand, headset clamped firmly over her slick black hair. she’s professionally calm, but her eyes betray the hint of controlled anxiety—like cracks in a porcelain mask.
you stop walking, dropping your bag unceremoniously at your feet. “that bad, huh?”
she sighs, eyes flicking briefly toward the stage door. “well, let’s just say, sabrina isn’t used to waiting.”
you roll your eyes, irritation already prickling the edges of your nerves. “guess she’s about to learn.”
margot’s mouth twists briefly in amusement before settling back into a careful neutral. “come on, i’ll introduce you. play nice.”
“no promises.”
you trail after margot, barely registering the crew bustling around you, bodies rushing past in coordinated panic. you avoid making eye contact with anyone, determined not to engage more than necessary. the hallway to sabrina’s dressing room is lined with fluorescent bulbs, harshly lighting walls plastered with glossy, airbrushed photos of sabrina carpenter—every inch the manufactured starlet. you nearly laugh at the absurdity of your life choices.
margot knocks lightly before opening the door without waiting for a response. the dressing room inside is cluttered but expensive: silk robes tossed carelessly across plush chairs, an untouched platter of fruit, mirrors lined with lights that reflect brightly against spotless makeup brushes. it smells of overpriced perfume and bottled perfection.
in the middle of the room, back to the door, stands sabrina carpenter. she’s shorter than you expected, dressed casually in faded jeans and a black tank top, blonde hair tumbling loose down her back. she’s typing quickly on her phone, visibly annoyed. she doesn’t immediately turn around when the door opens.
“sabrina, your photographer’s finally arrived,” margot says pointedly.
sabrina pauses, just a beat, fingers hovering over her screen. she turns slowly, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours in a practiced glare, clearly meant to intimidate. “finally?”
her voice is softer than you expected, edged with that familiar irritation of someone accustomed to punctuality from others, but never having to offer it herself. your gaze flicks briefly over her, unimpressed, as you lean casually against the doorframe, crossing your arms loosely.
“traffic,” you reply, your voice lazy, entirely unbothered.
a brief silence falls over the room, sabrina’s eyes widening slightly, clearly unused to anyone meeting her annoyance with such blunt indifference. margot clears her throat, awkwardly attempting to break the sudden quiet.
“right. sabrina, this is—”
“i know who she is,” sabrina interrupts, clearly irritated by your casual dismissal. “i’ve seen her work.”
you raise an eyebrow, sensing the faint hostility beneath her carefully controlled tone. “funny. i’ve never heard your music.”
sabrina’s eyes sharpen instantly, narrowing dangerously, though something else flickers beneath the surface—curiosity, maybe even reluctant amusement. margot’s eyes dart anxiously between the two of you, already sensing trouble.
“well,” margot says, overly bright and tense, attempting damage control. “glad everyone’s acquainted. showtime in thirty minutes. let’s make it count.”
you and sabrina both remain silent, neither moving first, tension sparking in the empty space between you. finally, sabrina breaks the stare, looking down at her phone again with forced disinterest. “just don’t get in my way.”
your lips curl slightly, amused despite yourself, as you push away from the doorframe. “trust me, i have no interest in that.”
as you turn to leave the dressing room, camera bag swinging lazily over your shoulder, you feel sabrina’s gaze burning stubbornly into your back, refusing to fade until you disappear into the noise and chaos outside the door.
her gaze burns stubbornly into your back, refusing to fade until you disappear into the noise and chaos outside the door.
the hallway swallows you whole again, bright lights and harried stage crew reminding you exactly why pop music felt like nails scraping down your spine. you consider, briefly, that you should at least pretend to be grateful for this paycheck. but the sharp satisfaction from sabrina’s irritation still lingers on your tongue—unexpectedly enjoyable.
you barely make it ten steps down the hallway when margot’s clipped footsteps catch up, pulling you back by lightly gripping your elbow. the headset around her neck blinks with scattered lights, her eyes sharper now that sabrina isn’t watching.
“was that really necessary?” she whispers harshly, glancing back at sabrina’s room. “you couldn’t pretend, for like five seconds, that you don’t despise pop music?”
you shrug, adjusting the strap of your camera bag with purposeful nonchalance. “you hired me because i’m good at my job, margot. not because i play pretend.”
she sighs, clearly conflicted between irritation and respect for your bluntness. finally, her shoulders sag slightly in reluctant agreement. “just—try not to antagonize her too much. sabrina’s used to being loved.”
“maybe that’s her problem,” you reply flatly.
margot bites her lip, clearly holding back a laugh, but her eyes flash a warning. “seriously. careful.”
you wave her off. “i’ve handled worse.”
“somehow, i doubt that,” margot mutters, already turning away toward the stage. “meet us stage left in fifteen.”
as margot disappears into the chaotic current of crew and assistants, you find yourself staring back toward the dressing room door, half-expecting sabrina to storm out, ready to continue your terse little interaction. but the door remains stubbornly closed, leaving you oddly disappointed. irritation flickers in your chest, quickly dismissed as nonsense.
ten minutes later, you return quietly to sabrina’s dressing room, more out of curiosity than duty, camera already in hand. when you enter, she’s absorbed again in her phone, lips moving silently as if memorizing lyrics. she doesn’t look up immediately, clearly intent on ignoring you, her body language dripping with pointed disdain. you quietly snap a single candid photo, the shutter clicking softly.
her head jerks up instantly. “really? paparazzi shots backstage?”
“just doing my job,” you reply lazily, framing another shot.
she turns deliberately toward you, irritation brightening her blue eyes, posture stiffening defensively. “do you get off on being difficult?”
“do you always assume everyone has to like you?” you counter smoothly, lowering the camera to meet her gaze directly. “because, believe it or not, some people actually don’t.”
her eyes narrow, the sarcasm dripping from her voice sharper now. “and i suppose indie photographers are too sophisticated for us shallow pop stars?”
you tilt your head, deliberately considering her with exaggerated slowness, your voice dripping mock sincerity. “at least you said it, not me.”
she scoffs, shaking her head incredulously, frustration evident in the way her fingers tighten around the phone. “god, you really don’t care, do you?”
you offer a casual, half-hearted shrug. “i’m here to shoot photos, not feed your ego.”
“is it possible for you to just do your job without insulting mine?” she snaps back.
“probably not,” you reply easily, lifting your camera again. “but if you keep glaring like that, i’ll at least get some interesting shots.”
she opens her mouth, clearly wanting to retort, but the stagehand interrupts from the open doorway. “miss carpenter, five minutes.”
sabrina bites down sharply on whatever remark she planned to throw your way, instead brushing past you with an irritated toss of her blonde hair. you watch her reflection flicker across the mirrors as she gathers her composure, practiced calm smoothing across her face like porcelain armor.
“just stay out of my way,” she repeats, voice quiet but unsteady, eyes stubbornly fixed away from you.
“again,” you respond lightly, already following her out, camera balanced expertly between your fingers, “zero interest.”
but this time, as sabrina moves past you, you catch the briefest flash of uncertainty in her eyes, mingling oddly with curiosity and something deeper—something raw and unresolved.
and despite your best efforts, you find yourself strangely compelled to follow.
despite your best efforts, you find yourself strangely compelled to follow.
sabrina’s steps echo purposefully down the hallway as she moves toward the stage entrance, her shoulders pulled back, radiating an authority she's perfected over countless performances. you trail slightly behind, camera in hand, slipping easily between stage crew and roadies, eyes trained carefully on her rigid spine and poised demeanor.
backstage feels crowded, air thick with excitement and anticipation. crew members shuffle hurriedly, murmuring into headsets, making frantic adjustments to microphones, lights, and cables. sabrina steps into a small taped-off area marked with bright pink tape, pausing briefly as a stylist rushes forward to smooth down an invisible wrinkle in her shirt.
“perfect, sabrina. gorgeous,” the stylist chirps automatically, retreating quickly into the chaos.
you roll your eyes, lifting your camera to your face, framing sabrina against the stage lights glowing softly behind her. the shutter clicks decisively, breaking the silence between you with a sharp snap.
you lower the camera, adjusting the focus casually. “candids work better when the subject’s uncomfortable.”
“then i suppose i’ll look incredible tonight,” she retorts bitterly, glancing over her shoulder toward you with narrowed eyes.
“guess we’ll see,” you say evenly, unfazed by her irritation. “now, step left.”
she hesitates, brows knitting in confusion. “why?”
“lighting,” you reply simply, voice patient yet indifferent. “you hired me to make you look good, remember?”
her eyes flash sharply, lips pressing into a thin line of stubborn resistance. but she steps left anyway, irritated at obeying yet clearly drawn to your confidence. you lean forward slightly, angling your lens to catch the warm glow of the stage lights illuminating her features—softening her stubbornness, catching her off-guard for half a heartbeat.
“chin up,” you instruct firmly.
she obeys instantly this time, before realizing her compliance and blinking sharply, frustrated at herself. the camera clicks again, capturing the tension subtly lining her jaw, the defiance in her blue eyes.
“what next, photographer?” she challenges softly, irritation mixing oddly with something close to intrigue.
“relax,” you reply dryly, lowering your camera slightly. “you look like you’re about to go into battle.”
“isn’t that what performing is?” she counters, voice oddly earnest despite her forced sarcasm. “fighting for approval?”
you pause, genuinely surprised by her honesty, though your expression doesn’t shift. “approval’s overrated. makes you soft.”
her eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, clearly never having considered that perspective before. “you don’t care if people like your photos?”
“not particularly,” you reply, shifting your stance, camera clicking softly again. “they either get it, or they don’t. the photos aren’t for them.”
“then who are they for?” she asks, softer now, eyes carefully studying you, trying to dissect your meaning.
“me,” you reply simply. “truth matters more than applause.”
she blinks, thrown off-balance by your blunt sincerity, silent for a long moment. you watch as her guard momentarily lowers, blue eyes suddenly vulnerable beneath the mask of practiced confidence. your finger hovers lightly over the shutter, hesitating deliberately, waiting.
“there,” you whisper quietly, shutter clicking softly again, capturing the moment perfectly. “that’s what i wanted.”
“what?” she breathes, voice barely audible.
“you stopped performing,” you explain, voice gentler now, slightly surprised at your own honesty. “just for a second.”
her expression freezes briefly in shock, startled by your observation, before quickly shuttering again into a carefully rehearsed scowl. “i think i liked you better when you were insulting me.”
you shrug, returning smoothly to professional detachment, pretending not to notice the faint flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “give me time. we just met.”
a stagehand breaks the tense silence, stepping quickly into your shared space. “miss carpenter, it’s time.”
sabrina nods briefly, shoulders lifting again, armor locking firmly back in place as she moves past you toward the stage. as she steps beneath the brilliant glare of the stage lights, disappearing into a sea of cheers and applause, you linger quietly in the shadows. watching and waiting.
and for the first time tonight, reluctantly intrigued.
the performance itself passes in a blur of bright lights, glossy costumes, and perfectly choreographed moves. from your spot near the side-stage, you lift your camera, snapping occasional shots without much enthusiasm, capturing the careful choreography of each practiced smile and exaggerated wave. the audience screams loudly, singing every lyric with unwavering devotion, their voices blending into a deafening wall of adoration.
you sigh, lowering your camera momentarily to rub tiredly at your eyes. every show looks exactly the same—polished, rehearsed, empty. from your peripheral vision, you catch sight of margot watching you anxiously, silently begging you to at least pretend enthusiasm. you stubbornly ignore her, returning your gaze lazily back toward the stage.
finally, the music fades, sabrina bows deeply, and the lights dim briefly, signaling the end of the set. instantly, you step back into the shadows, letting sabrina brush past you as she rushes offstage, face flushed from adrenaline, skin glittering beneath a fine sheen of sweat.
“amazing show, sabrina!” liv calls out from the wings, arms extended warmly to her friend.
“thanks,” sabrina replies breathlessly, briefly returning liv’s hug before pulling back, glancing irritably toward the corner where you lean, adjusting camera settings with casual indifference.
“what’s wrong?” liv follows sabrina’s gaze curiously, eyebrows lifting slightly when she sees you. “ah. the photographer giving you trouble already?”
“she’s impossible,” sabrina snaps quietly, voice carrying louder than intended. she grabs a water bottle from the stage assistant and unscrews it roughly. “acts like she’s too good to even be here.”
you bite back a smile, pretending to be engrossed in adjusting your lens, though your ears remain carefully tuned to their conversation.
“well, isn’t that her thing?” liv’s voice softens, amused. “the tortured artist who hates anything mainstream? you knew that when margot hired her.”
sabrina sighs heavily, glancing again toward you, irritation giving way slightly to confusion. “i don’t get it. she clearly hates this, but then—i don’t know—sometimes she’s almost nice. or maybe not nice exactly, but interesting.”
“oh no,” liv teases gently, nudging sabrina’s shoulder. “don’t tell me you actually want her approval?”
“of course not!” sabrina snaps quickly, voice defensive. “i just don’t get how someone could be so deliberately irritating.”
you finally let yourself smile, unable to fully suppress your amusement. when you glance up, sabrina’s eyes instantly meet yours across the crowded backstage space. she freezes briefly, realizing you’ve overheard every word. her cheeks flush bright red, mortified.
“enjoying the gossip?” sabrina’s voice is sharp as she strides toward you, embarrassment fueling fresh irritation.
“thoroughly,” you reply lightly, completely unbothered. “though i’d hardly call that gossip. more like character analysis.”
“were you spying on me?” her voice drips accusation.
you raise an eyebrow calmly, lips quirking slightly. “it’s a small stage, sabrina. if you want privacy, maybe don’t discuss your photographer ten feet away from her.”
liv unsuccessfully hides her laughter behind her hand, making sabrina’s embarrassment deepen further.
“whatever,” sabrina mutters, flustered. “maybe if you weren’t so insufferable, i wouldn’t have to talk about you.”
“or maybe if you weren’t so concerned with my opinion, you wouldn’t have to,” you counter smoothly, deliberately provoking her further. “it’s a vicious cycle.”
sabrina glares, but her eyes betray something else beneath the anger—curiosity, intrigue, maybe even a tiny spark of admiration at your bluntness. “trust me, i don’t care what you think of me.”
“you’re making that abundantly clear,” you reply, voice heavy with exaggerated sincerity. “talking about me backstage, glaring every ten seconds... textbook indifference.”
sabrina opens her mouth to respond, then abruptly shuts it again, visibly frustrated by your easy comebacks. liv discreetly steps away, biting her lip to suppress laughter, leaving sabrina standing awkwardly close, forced into your amused gaze.
“fine,” sabrina finally relents, exasperated but clearly unwilling to admit defeat. “if i stop glaring, will you stop being—”
“impossible?” you supply helpfully, smirking openly.
“exactly,” she mutters, though the corner of her mouth twitches almost reluctantly.
“unlikely,” you say, voice softer, eyes briefly searching hers, curious despite yourself. “but feel free to keep trying.”
for a brief moment, the tension shifts between you, less combative and strangely charged. sabrina’s gaze wavers, lingering on your eyes a second longer than necessary, suddenly unsure how to respond.
“just—whatever,” sabrina finally mumbles, turning abruptly away, frustration melting into confusion. “forget i said anything.”
but even as she retreats, your eyes follow closely, amused but intrigued by how quickly irritation seems to give way to something else entirely.
the dressing room door slams harder than necessary.
sabrina drops onto the velvet chair near the mirrors, kicking off her boots with a frustrated grunt. a half-empty water bottle thuds to the floor. her breath is still shallow from the show, but it's no longer adrenaline keeping her wound tight—it’s you.
your voice, your smirk, the maddening calm in the way you never flinched. sabrina runs a hand through her damp hair and lets out a long, irritated sigh.
“she’s the most arrogant person i’ve ever met,” she mutters to herself, then louder: “why the hell did we even hire her?”
as if summoned, margot pokes her head in from the hallway, tablet tucked under her arm. “you called?”
sabrina gestures vaguely, exasperated. “why her? of all people?”
margot steps in, unbothered, letting the door close behind her. “she’s the best available on such short notice. and her portfolio speaks for itself.”
“yeah, and so does her mouth,” sabrina mutters. “she doesn’t even like pop music. i don’t think she even likes me.”
“she’s not supposed to like you,” margot replies evenly. “she’s supposed to shoot you.”
sabrina narrows her eyes. “are you kidding? she acts like this is punishment. like she’s doing us a favor.”
margot sits on the edge of the makeup table, crossing her legs. “look, i know she’s... abrasive. but the last guy walked. we had four days to find someone who could drop into a national tour mid-run, fly out, adapt fast, and still make you look iconic. she’s that person. she just doesn’t kiss ass while doing it.”
“is that the bar now?” sabrina scoffs. “you think it’s cool that she’s rude as long as she can shoot with a vintage lens?”
“i think,” margot says, her voice dipping slightly lower, “you’re not actually mad about the job she’s doing. you’re mad because she sees through the act.”
sabrina blinks, stunned silent for half a second.
margot doesn’t wait for a reply. “you’re used to being adored the second you walk in the room. she doesn’t care. that’s what’s throwing you off.”
sabrina scoffs, but it’s weaker now, her arms crossing over her chest. “she’s not special. she just thinks she is.”
“she is special,” margot says firmly, pushing off the table. “and she was recommended by three industry names who don’t even like each other. she’s done punk tours, film sets, studio sessions. and her work is honest—uncomfortably honest. you want the real thing? you’ve got it.”
sabrina shifts in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the warm lights of the mirror. “maybe i don’t want real. maybe i want someone who knows how to fake it with me.”
margot softens slightly. “you’ve been faking it for years. maybe it’s time someone called you on it.”
“she doesn’t know me,” sabrina replies sharply. “she just decided i’m another sugar-coated product.”
“maybe,” margot says, already walking toward the door again. “or maybe she’s waiting to see if there’s anything underneath.”
the door shuts softly behind her.
sabrina stares at her reflection for a long time, watching herself—mascara perfect, cheeks still flushed from the stage, lips glossed and pouty. she looks like every photograph that’s ever been taken of her.
and for the first time tonight, she wonders how you see her. what version of her is forming behind your lens. how much you’re already figuring out—what parts she didn’t mean to show.
and whether you already know more than you’re letting on.
the next afternoon, soundcheck rolls around under dull fluorescent lights and half-awake crew chatter. the venue is still empty, rows of chairs stretching out like a yawning mouth, the space echoing with mic tests and clumsy guitar tuning.
you arrive early, not out of eagerness but habit, slinking down one of the side aisles with your camera already strapped across your chest. the air smells like dust, stale soda syrup, and faint anxiety. you breathe through your nose, unbothered.
sabrina’s perched center stage in sweatpants and a hoodie, one foot resting on a monitor, sipping a green smoothie. her voice is low as she runs through lines with the sound engineer, a quiet hum of melody beneath the white noise of setup.
you hang back, slipping into a shadowed corner just past the speakers, lifting your camera to scan the room through the viewfinder. it’s a habit you don’t think about—letting the lens mediate the space between you and everything else.
you focus on her without hitting the shutter. the way she presses her lips together between notes. the way her foot taps even when there’s no beat. little things you’re already cataloging without realizing it.
someone calls for a mic test. sabrina steps to the front and begins a stripped-down rehearsal of one of her newer singles. it’s bright. glittery. annoyingly catchy. the kind of song that would play in a skincare ad or teen drama breakup montage.
you lower your camera just slightly and mutter under your breath, “jesus christ.”
the guy next to you—a young tech wearing a headset and eating doritos at 10 a.m.—chuckles. “not a fan?”
you smirk, barely audible. “it’s like if bubblegum had a personality disorder.”
what you don’t realize is sabrina has just finished the chorus.
and the room, for one small beat, is quiet enough to hear the remark.
she doesn’t turn around. doesn’t even flinch. just stands there, shoulders rigid, staring out across the empty chairs.
but you see it. the stillness. the way her jaw shifts.
you glance up again through the viewfinder, half-expecting a storm, a look, anything. but sabrina stays facing forward, nodding once to the tech crew before speaking calmly into the mic.
“can we take that again?” she says, voice level but colder now. “slower this time.”
the engineer nods from the booth. sabrina launches back into the first verse.
you keep your camera at your hip now, something in you hesitating—not from guilt, but from interest. she didn’t call you out. didn’t even acknowledge you. that kind of silence, you’ve learned, is more dangerous than a scene.
you lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her from a distance as she finishes the second take—voice smooth, posture perfect, not a single crack in the performance.
and when she finishes this time, she does glance over her shoulder. just once. barely a second.
but the look lands.
a flash of something in her eyes—cool, unreadable, but sharp. like she’s filing you away for later.
you smirk to yourself, almost impressed.
good.
let her.
the dressing room is quieter now.
late afternoon sun filters weakly through the high, narrow window, casting long shadows across the tile floor. sabrina’s perched in the makeup chair again, hoodie off now, hair damp from a post-soundcheck shower, legs curled up beneath her in an oversized sweatshirt. someone left a granola bar on the table. she hasn’t touched it.
you enter without knocking.
her eyes lift immediately, and she doesn’t even try to hide the irritation this time.
“if you’re here to compare my lyrics to snack food again,” she says, voice flat, “you can leave.”
you toss your camera bag on the couch, unzip it with one hand. “that wasn’t a metaphor. it was a direct comparison.”
she snorts once, almost surprised by herself. “you’re not charming, you know.”
“not trying to be.”
you sit on the edge of the couch, pull your camera into your lap. there’s a long silence between you. she stares at the mirror. you stare at her reflection.
finally, she turns in her chair. “do you seriously hate everything i do?”
you blink, slowly. “no.”
she waits. arms crossed. skeptical.
“i hate most of it,” you clarify. “but not all.”
she laughs once, sharp and defensive. “wow. thanks.”
you lean back against the couch. “you asked.”
“yeah, i didn’t think you’d actually answer.”
“why not?”
“because you don’t talk to anyone,” she says, studying you now. “you just... hover and watch and mutter smartass things under your breath like some disgruntled vampire.”
you shrug. “it’s a living.”
sabrina shakes her head, exasperated. “so what is it, really? you think i’m fake? you think pop music’s trash? you think i haven’t written anything worth listening to?”
you tilt your head. “is that what you think i think?”
she stares you down.
you stare right back.
then you speak, voice quieter this time, but still unwavering.
“i think you’re smart. i think you know exactly what people want to hear. and i think you give it to them in perfect little three-minute doses because it’s safer than showing them something real.”
her expression falters.
you keep going.
“i think you’re better than the songs they make you sing. and i think you’re terrified no one would care if you stopped.”
sabrina doesn’t speak. her mouth opens slightly, then closes. her hands tighten on the armrests.
you glance down at your camera, start adjusting settings like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“don’t worry,” you add, voice flat again. “you’re not special. most people are pretending.”
sabrina inhales sharply, like she’s going to say something—angry, cutting, maybe a little wounded—but then she stops.
she just stares at you.
no glare. no performance. no comeback.
and that silence says more than anything she could’ve thrown back.
so you lift the camera. one click. no flash.
sabrina doesn’t even flinch.
you lower it again. pack it away without speaking.
and when you leave the room, she stays exactly where she is. still staring. not at the mirror this time.
but at the space where you were.
the tour bus hums faintly beneath sabrina’s feet, vibrating through the soles of her socks as she crosses the dimly lit lounge area. everyone else has long gone to bed—crew tucked into narrow bunks, assistants crashed on couches, even margot’s voice has finally stopped buzzing through her earpiece.
the silence is rare. almost unsettling.
she finds herself hovering near the small built-in table where your camera sits, surrounded by memory cards and an open laptop. the glow from the screen is faint but enough to cast soft shadows on the floor. she shouldn’t touch it. she knows better.
and yet, her fingers drift to the trackpad.
just a peek.
you’ve left your editing software open—sloppy, or maybe intentional. sabrina pauses, then scrolls.
the first photo that loads isn’t glamorous. it’s from earlier that day, sometime during the last fifteen minutes of prep. she’s bent forward slightly, reaching for a mic, hair tied up messily, eyes downcast. the light catches along her cheekbone, casting the softest contrast beneath her lashes.
she doesn’t even remember you taking it.
it doesn’t look like a pop star photo. it doesn’t even look professional. it looks… honest. like a girl caught thinking about something she won’t say out loud.
she clicks again. and again. more of the same. nothing staged. no fake smiles. just little in-between moments. fingers fidgeting. hair being tucked behind ears. the crease in her brow when she listens too hard.
then she hits one that stops her cold.
it’s her, mid-soundcheck. hoodie half-zipped, lip caught between her teeth, standing dead center stage. there’s nothing flattering about the angle—her stance is uneven, the mic cord tangled—but there’s something in her eyes. something caught off-guard. sharp. real.
her thumb hovers over the trackpad.
this is what you see. this is what you choose to keep.
sabrina leans back slowly in the booth, arms folding across her chest. her first instinct is to feel violated—like she’s been studied, taken apart, catalogued without permission.
but it’s not that. not really.
it’s something closer to wonder. reluctant admiration. even now, she doesn’t fully get you. your mouth runs like a scalpel, but your camera is almost… gentle. observant. kind, even.
and if your words earlier had cut, this collection of images feels like the apology you didn’t bother giving.
she lingers there for another minute, then gently shuts the laptop, careful not to disturb anything.
she doesn’t touch your camera.
but she does glance back at it one more time as she slips toward the sleeping bunks, biting the inside of her cheek, pulse a little unsteady.
maybe you are watching.
but maybe it’s not in the way she thought.
the crowd is already screaming before the lights even drop.
you’re planted just off stage left, knees bent, camera pressed to your face, headphones around your neck filtering in muffled bursts of sabrina’s vocals as the intro track swells. your stance is practiced—still, alert, distant. years of this. different artists. different genres. the shape of the chaos is always the same.
but sabrina is not.
she strides out onto the stage like it’s a battlefield she owns, wind machine hitting her just right, the crowd losing its mind. she smiles on cue, nails every beat, swings her mic in rhythm. it's almost mechanical, but from your viewfinder, you see the micro-cracks. the fraction-of-a-second hesitations. the way her fingers twitch slightly between verses.
you catch them all.
click.
click.
click.
what you don’t realize—what she doesn’t want you to realize—is that she’s looking for you.
not constantly. not obviously. but between lyrics, between steps. scanning the wings, the pit, the shadows. her eyes snag on your silhouette every few minutes like they’re trying not to. like it’s accidental.
and every time they land, you’re there. calm. impassive. not smiling. not cheering. just watching.
recording.
at first, it had pissed her off. your unreadable expression, the way you observed her like a science project. she used to thrive off audience energy, feed on the attention. but now—somehow—it’s not the screams she hears.
it’s the silence of your camera shutter. the subtle movements you make when repositioning. the way you tilt your head slightly to line up a better shot.
and the fact that you still don’t look impressed.
at one point, halfway through a ballad, she catches you again.
you’re kneeling in the pit, camera raised. her spotlight hits you just enough for her to see your face.
expressionless.
not bored. not amused. just focused.
and for some reason, that stings more than applause ever satisfied.
her voice wavers for half a note. the pianist behind her adjusts instinctively, covering the hiccup. no one in the audience notices. but you do.
she knows you do.
the next time she steps near the edge of the stage, she doesn’t look for you.
but she still angles toward your side without thinking.
and you still raise the camera. without smiling. without stopping.
and she still hates—more than anything—that she wants your approval so badly it’s throwing off her timing.
the crowd is gone.
just sweat on the floor now, stray glow sticks and crushed plastic cups glinting under dimmed house lights. the crew buzzes around with quiet efficiency, rolling cables, wheeling flight cases, barking into walkies. the rush is over.
sabrina leans in the doorway between backstage and the loading dock, a bottle of water sweating in her hand. her post-show adrenaline has burned off, leaving a strange restlessness under her skin. she doesn’t go back to her dressing room. doesn’t ask for anyone. she just… watches.
watches you.
you’re crouched near the stage stairs, sorting through gear with mechanical calm, like none of it matters. your black bag’s open beside you, camera lenses arranged in a careful line. you test one by holding it up to the light. adjust a cap. clean a smudge with your shirt.
you haven’t looked at her once.
not when she came offstage. not during the bows. not even when margot congratulated her on a “perfect recovery” after the second chorus falter. you were already halfway through packing up by then, like the whole thing had bored you.
but you had seen it. sabrina knows. she saw you flinch—just barely—when she missed that note.
and still, you said nothing.
not good job. not bad job.
just silence.
which somehow, for her, is worse than criticism.
she leans a little further into the doorway, watching the way your fingers move. efficient, precise, borderline obsessive. you test your camera again, holding it up and firing a silent click toward the rafters, checking the battery. the tiny red light glows in your palm, then disappears.
your jaw clenches slightly, just for a second. tired, maybe.
but not satisfied.
that unsettles her. the thought that maybe you’re not satisfied with her.
she shifts her weight, about to say something—anything, she doesn’t even know what—but you beat her to it.
“you need something?” you ask without looking up.
your voice is even, low. not cold exactly, but not warm either. like you already know she’s there, and you don’t care.
she stiffens slightly. then shrugs, recovering. “just… walking through.”
“looks like you’re standing.”
you glance up.
her face is flushed from the show still, hair pulled into a messy braid, baby hairs stuck to her temple. she’s gripping her water bottle like it owes her money.
“didn’t realize the hallway was private property,” she replies, dryly.
you raise an eyebrow. “it’s not.”
silence stretches between you again.
sabrina shifts her weight. “i saw some of your shots. earlier.”
you nod once. “yeah?”
“yeah,” she says, then hesitates. “they’re… not what i expected.”
you smirk, finally meeting her gaze. “you expected selfies with glitter.”
she rolls her eyes. “i expected a little effort at flattery.”
“i don’t shoot flattery,” you reply simply, zipping your bag. “i shoot truth.”
you stand, sling the camera strap over your shoulder. sabrina watches you take your time, tucking cords away, clicking latches closed, completely unbothered by her presence.
and yet she doesn’t leave.
“so what’s the truth, then?” she asks, quieter now.
you pause, glance at her again—really look at her this time.
your eyes are steady. unreadable.
“you’re still figuring out which version of you matters,” you say.
then you walk past her, the strap of your camera bumping gently against her arm as you pass.
she doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.
just stares forward, completely still, her heart doing something sharp and stupid in her chest.
she hates how much she wants to turn around and ask you to stay.
Perdón team Lysandro, pero para mi de las imágenes mas meh del juego u_u (tanto que recordé su existencia hasta que me puse a buscar que imagen dibujar lol) pero bueno tampoco es que un episodio de estudiar sea muy memorable xd
CONTENT
SMUT, strap usage—reader receiving, slight exhibitionism, lots of kissing, recording — billie's phone, use of "cum"
lmk if there's more i should add
Pairing: Billie Eilish x AFAB Reader — no pronouns used, established relationship
Dynamic: Top!Billie x Bottom!Reader
Synopsis: After months of shared hotels with no privacy, rushed kisses, and being utterly overworked from her tour, Billie takes the last day to finally relieve the tension building between you.
A/N: something to keep yall fed cuz im procrastinating everything else
masterlist ┊ rules and guidelines ┊ taglist
The second the click of the lock on her dressing room door rang through her ears, Billie pounced.
Two months on the road, two months of stolen glances between shows, shared hotel beds with no privacy, and nothing but rushed kisses in dressing rooms. You hadn’t had a real moment to yourselves since before you left for the tour.
Now? Now she was crashing her lips into yours the second you were alone backstage at her final show.
That feeling pulled a soft gasp from you, eyes widening with surprise before they fluttered shut. You knew this hunger—this need—she'd been so overworked lately, she needed a break, she needed you.
Your hands found her waist, pulling her close and digging your nails into the warmth of her skin. Billie melted—finally getting the closeness she’d been craving for weeks.
No stage lights, no crew shouting last-minute cues—just you. Just your hands on her waist like an anchor, your mouth hungry against hers after so long without this.
She kissed you deeper, backing you up against a wall as one hand tangled in your hair—messy—desperate kisses with teeth and tongue and zero patience left.
It wasn't long before your clothes were off, carelessly tossed across the floor as you got to the large sofa by her vanity.
Billie was left in her bra and panties, chest rising and falling as she pulled away from you for just a moment to reach for something.
You were also half-naked, adorning only your underwear which were already being slid down your thighs.
And when Billie rose back up, in her hand was a silicone strapon—of course she brought it on tour—but you weren’t complaining.
The sight of the strapon in her hand made your stomach flip—god, you’ve missed this.
You hadn’t had a chance to use it on tour, too risky with shared rooms and thin walls. But now? Now you were alone—now you could finally have some proper time to yourselves.
You smirked, watching as she quickly fastened it around her hips—admiring how effortlessly hot she looked like this; flushed cheeks, messy hair from kissing you senseless… ready for you.
You were already soaked, thighs spread for her as she slotted herself between them—not inserting just yet—and crashing into your lips.
A whimper fell from you at the friction of her body, not even being fucked yet but utterly shameless about how sensitive you were.
"God…" You rasped, breathless. "Fuck me already, Bils." The demand came out more like a plea with how needy you were.
The way you said that—begging, demanding, needy—sent a thrill straight through her.
She didn’t make you wait.
With one smooth motion, she pressed the tip against you and pushed in slowly—watching your face the whole time as she filled you up… inch by inch…. until you were flush together.
A groan rumbled from her chest at how tight you felt around her. She kissed you hard again before starting to move.
The feeling of being so utterly full made you dizzy—stars sparking behind your eyes. As Billie thrusted into you, you let out soft, broken moans into her mouth, fingers digging into her waist for purchase.
You could hear the soft rustling just above your head before Billie pulled away. She hadn’t broken her rhythm—still moving inside you as she grabbed her phone off the vanity, angling it just right.
She knew you’d would want this later—the proof of their first time like this on tour, finally together properly after weeks of pent-up tension. So without stopping, she hit record and kept the camera steady with each thrust thrusts, making sure the it caught every gasp—every whimper that fell from your lips.
You hid your face with your hands, still making eye-contact with the camera for her future pleasure, but just a little self-aware of just how flushed you looked. Though, when you met Billie's gaze, the sight gave you the confidence to pull them away and moan shamelessly.
The feeling of her thick silicone sliding in and out of you made every nerve buzz with heat, it felt so fucking good...
The way you looked at the camera—flushed, messy, eyes half-lidded with pleasure—made her stomach flip. The sounds were filthy, loud enough to be picked up clearly by the mic on her phone.
Billie bit her lip as she watched you through the screen—her thrusts growing deeper, more deliberate now that she had this footage for later… something private just for you.
You were a wreck, back arching off the couch as she picked up the pace—fuck, it felt incredible. Every drag of silicone against your walls had you seeing stars, every thrust pushed you closer to that edge you’d been chasing since they got on tour.
And knowing Billie was filming this? That she wanted to remember it too? It made something possessive and hot flare in your chest—you loved being hers like this.
Billie’s hips snapped forward harder, chasing that perfect angle—the one that made your eyes roll back and your moans pitch higher. She could feel you tightening around her, your body getting closer and closer to the edge with every thrust… and she wanted to be the one to push you over.
Her free hand—still holding the phone—slid down to press against your stomach, feeling the tension there as she leaned in close… nipping softly at your earlobe before whispering.
“Cum for me.”
The command—whispered like that, right against your ear—was everything.
Your breath hitched, your whole body tensing as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. A choked cry tore from you as you came—the sensation of her inside you combined with the filthy words sending you straight over the edge. Your thighs trembled violently around her hips.
Billie loved the way you fell apart—completely undone by her, just from her thrusts and a single whispered command.
She kept moving through it, gentler now but still riding out your orgasm with slow rolls of her hips—watching your face twist in oversensitive bliss.
Only when she felt you go boneless beneath her did she finally stop, setting the phone down on the couch beside you before kissing you deeply, tasting every gasp on your lips.
The kiss was soft now—affectionate—a stark contrast to the feverish intensity from before.
Billie nuzzled her nose against yours, smiling as she took in your dazed expression, the flush still staining your cheeks.
She kissed you again—slow and sweet this time—then one more on the forehead before collapsing beside you on the couch with a sigh of contentment.
a/n: Apologies if its sucky, I haven't wrote fanfiction in so damn long so please enjoy!
Btw buckle up babes its a long one;)
It was a blazing hot day in July at Texas, Mary was the only one living in her own cottage home at some unpopular spot in town. Well...she used to have an husband a year back before he cheated and manipulated her to stay with him.
She immediately got rid of him with no excuse and she was happy at where she's at cause he was not a good man that treated her right.
(Just a little explanation of Mary's love life)
*Mary's POV*
Anyways, it was the beginning of July and my frontyard was getting covered with dry weeds and dead bushes that was stuck on the ground no matter how hard I tried to pull them off the ground while I did my gardening.
Now I was thinking what I can damn do while I was in the kitchen, til I looked at a card was was sticked on the fridge door, it was an number I didn't remember but with the name was Billie that I got months ago if there was any problems with the house or the yards which I was guessing a company or someone??
I furrowed my eyebrows and took the card off the door and try to dial the number and waited for at least someone to pick up
(3rd person)
"Hello, this is Billie"
Oh..
She expected it was some middle aged man that would answer in every call she took but..
It was surprisingly not which she was kinda relieved about
"Hello, I was just making sure if i called the right number, that works on any problems with houses and yards? I'm so sorry I really don't know if this is the right person" Mary nervously smoothed down her summer dress.
"Oh no worries! you got the right number!, well actually my dad used to own an construction company but I still do the work, what can I do to help?"
God, her voice is so...deep
Like smoothly deep. With a western drawl along with it.
Why am I thinking about this right now?-
"Uh, Ma'am?"
"Oh my apologies, I was just saying that- I have a weed problem out in my front yard and I don't know any way how to get rid of them" She turls her soft hair inbetween her fingers, cheeks slightly pink of trying to shake off her thoughts.
"Well you're in luck, I can come down and fix that problem."
"Oh thank you so much, I'll send you my location."
Once she was done discussing the problem, Mary sent Billie her location and waited for a couple of minutes while she was drinking her iced tea and heard the knock on the door.
Mary took a few steps to open the door and revealed Billie.
Mary had a little rush of butterflies in her stomach, something she never felt in...god who knows how long.
Billie looked so masculine of what Mary imagined she'll look like, Billie had this toned body form and, damn even taller than her, and how her blue eyes stand out with her short dark hair beneath her hat, and her flannel shirt rolled up to her forearms and the casual blue jeans with boots. Now that's a real cowboy she's never seen in a while.
"Hello Billie its so nice to meet you"
Billie smiles softly, showing her pearly whites as she came in for a hand shake
"Same for you..-"
"Mary. Mary Coleman." She smiles as she shook her hand, longer than usual.
"Mary, such a beautiful name. It fits you well darlin"
Mary smiled back, her cheeks getting more flushed then before
Mary hopes that Billie didn't notice it.
"Well I definitely see the problem here" Billie turns behind her to look at the yard
"You have a lot of dead weeds and those can be dangerous for the summer, fires has been out of control out in the dry fields like these. But no worries darlin' I can take care of it with no problem.
Billie rests her hands on her own hips looking back at Mary
"I really appreciate it Billie, if you need any thing like water please let me know. I don't want you to have a heat stroke out there so make yourself at home"
Mary giggled softly which made Billie smile and chuckle back
"No worries, but that's very sweet of you"
Billie looked at Mary's hand, thinking that she had a ring. She didn't.
How could someone that is so beautiful and sweet don't have a partner?
"Well I'm gonna start to get to work now, thank you again for calling me up on perfect timing" Billie smiles at Mary then starts walking to her work truck to get equipment for the yard.
As an hour or two passes by and the sun is beginning to dip low behind the mountains, mary left the screen door closed and main door open now since the outside is getting cooler and she would sometimes come out to give Billie company and talk about each other which was nice to open up to, mostly about what Mary had to go though during her being married to that dickhead.
But Billie on the other hand, she really listened.
She actually cared.
Mary had a arching ache in her chest of...affection?
Billie is such a kind soul. Mary thought.
Billie also had some affectionate towards her too, the way her hair flows in the breeze.
How she fidgets with her fingers when she's shy.
Always checking up on Billie.
Too fucking sweet.
But Billie loved it.
~~~~~
Mary was reading one of her favorite books in the living room and heard heavy footsteps towards the door, Mary turn her head and got up and open the screen door for Billie to come in and cool down
And damn...She looked good.
Like really good.
Billie was panting softly as she walked up, took off her hat and run her fingers though her sweaty hair as some of her baby hairs sticked on her forehead and sighed as she smiles
"All finished cowgirl"
Mary's breath hitched.
And Billie noticed it.
"Oh Billie thank you, you deserve to rest, I'll make you a nice glass of iced water, come sit."
Billie followed Mary to the kitchen and sat manspread on the stools and placed her hat on the counter
Mary slid the glass across the counter towards Billie
Billie took it in one go.
"Ugh thank you darlin' you saved me"
Billie grinned as she wiped the sweat off her brow
"You must be real thirsty, cowboy."
Mary didn't know what came to her but, Billie loved every. Single. Inch of it.
Billie would not stop adding little flirt remarks as they talked, and how Billie would stretch and her shirt lift up and show her smooth skin beneath, and ripples of her abs along with the little speckles of hair with the waistband of her boxers peaking out was too hard to look away from. Holy mother of God.
Mary noticed every teasing gesture.
Every Look.
Mary felt something inside of her that she never felt.
Something she missed in so fucking long.
"You're so beautiful do you know that, Mary?"
Mary cut off her thoughts and looked at Billie in awe.
"I...-I never been told that in forever. That means so much to me Billie."
Tears slightly swelled in Mary's eyes of how much Billie told her, no man in her life could do as good as Billie.
Mary just wanted to kiss Billie so bad. How hard she worked, she wanted to show she deserved whatever she did for Mary.
She didn't care if they just met.
She knows this is Love.
Billie knows, she wants it too.
Billie got up and walked around to Mary
"I have a important question to ask...but can I kiss you?"
Mary's face was red, waiting for a moment like this for so long.
"Yes, Billie."
Billie smiles as she slightly leaned down and cupped Mary's cheek and the back of her neck with her other hand and placed her soft lips with Mary's
The kiss deepens and Mary completely melted. Wrapping her arms around Billie's broad shoulders tightly, afraid that Billie would fade away.
As they break the kiss Billie just looked deeply into her eyes as she trail her hands to her hips and kissed her again with passion, making her eyebrows frowning together as she hummed deeply
Oh that sound.
Made Mary whimper.
Billie tapped on Mary's thigh, telling her to jump and she did, Billie held her like she weighted like a feather then Mary wrapped her legs around Billie's hips tightly
Billie moved to the counter and sat Mary down, trailing her lips down her neck, adding tiny scrapes of her teeth to her skin which made Mary moan
"Oh baby"
Mary held Billie's hair and shirt as Billie hummed back
"You missed this, hm? Let me show you what real love is like darlin'."
Billie carried Mary to her room which she remembered when she took her bathroom break as she was on her way though the hall a few hours back
Billie closed the door with her boot and took her to the bed and continued to kiss and removing of eachothers clothing (and Billie's boots ofc)
God Billie looked stunning.
Her toned arms standing out so as her torso, she left her sports bra on and started to remove her belt as Mary smiles like a idiot
Billie noticed, the way Mary's chest rise up and down, how her red bra and matching underwear clings to her body so perfectly.
Oh she was in love.
As they are bare, Billie was being patient and careful every minute they had, and Mary fucking loved it.
"Okay, are you ready love?"
Billie teased her entrance
"Yes Billie...I need you."
Billie slowly pushed in so Mary can get used to the feeling and made sure Mary wasn't in pain either
"Are you alright baby?"
Billie breathed
"Oh fuck...mhm keep going baby im okay"
Mary whimpered in pleasure
Billie sighed in relief and started moving slow at first then going faster
"Mmh you're so warm love.."
Billie whimpered
"Keep going baby, you're doing so good"
Mary gripped the sheets as she threw her head back as Billie hit her g-spot
"Oh my god you feel so good"
Billie was holding herself back from losing control and whimpered softly against Mary's neck
"Mmh right there, God yes!"
Mary slightly clawed Billie's back as she curled her toes as her back was flexing tightly
Billie hissed slightly as she's getting closer
"Mmh I need to pull out"
Billie panted
Mary wrapped her legs around Billie
"I-Im on birth control, don't worry~"
Mary whimpered loudly as she was coming closer to the climax
Billie hummed deeply
"Fuck I'm close..."
Billie was grabbing Mary's neck and rubbing her skin softly as she whimpered higher pitched
"Oh Billie!~"
Mary moaned loudly as she came as she tightened around Billie which made her groan as she also came inside of her as Billie kissed her hard as they both come to an end and left them panting heavily
Billie rolled to her back and held Mary tightly
Mary breathed softly as she smiled tiredly as she looked at Billie
Billie smiled back and tucked Mary's hair behind her ear and caressed her cheek with her thumb
"Are you okay hun?"
Billie asked softly
"I'm more than okay...Thank you."
Mary kissed Billie on the temple
"Anytime darlin', Here let me get you cleaned up yeah?"
You know what they say, Save a house, ride a cowboy🫡
I really wonder how it'd be like to spend a whole day with her, like idk go shopping or to the cinema, or just stay home and take care of her after work, eat dinner and then rest on the couch while i give her lazy neck kisses
