Attic Idea

🌿

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Connected

A/n: Billie is your under-bed demon that plagues you with nightmares every night to feed his hunger. She has no shame or any boundaries of decency, but she is the one who comes to your rescue when the world around you begins to fall apart, rumbling. When no one seems to notice you, content with your outward calm while inside everything is crumbling infernally.

Warning: suicidal thoughts, heavy atmosphere.

Inspired by "bury a friend."

Happy Halloween, dudes. Even though I'm late! xd 🦇

You come home as badly as you always do: you pile into the hallway so loudly that Eilish can hear everything perfectly well even in her sub-bed kingdom behind your closed bedroom door. You walk in as usual, but she senses that something is wrong. And no, it's not just the demonic flair for your emotions and thoughts, which for her resemble today especially viscous ink, splashing through the edge of sanity with their bituminous blackness in your skull. You jingle your keys, tossing them on the nightstand carelessly instead of putting them down neatly, walking twenty steps instead of the usual six, as if confused in a familiar space, you not shouting a greeting to her from the doorstep, disturbing her peace. You are different. And she notices it. In every possible detail.

Seven more extra steps and you confirm her hunch absolutely undeniably: you walk into your own bedroom quietly, toss your bag of university notebooks into the corner (it almost whistles like a bullet, slicing through the air and slamming onto the floor, spilling pens out of its «mouth», notebooks, phone and other stuff), and on top of that you press your back against the newly closed door and slide down it so bruised and tired that even Billie feels sorry for you for a quarter of a second. And to pity the dream demon that devours people's nightmares every night, it really takes a lot of effort.

"Someone in a good mood tonight?" Eilish snorts her usual sarcasm, hiding beneath the darkness of your bed and even beyond that, the dark haze of dusk beginning to fall outside from your window, and you don't even throw her the usual and ungracious "shut up!". You cover your face with your trembling hands, resting your head against them with a ragged exhale, and you don't drop a word. Now this is where Billie tenses up. What a day rich in phenomena. "My dear little human, what's the matter with you?"

"What do you want from me?" It's as if your voice mirrors the amplitude of your palms: also trembling, only barely more noticeable. You hesitate for a second, and then complement, mentally tentatively 'jogging' the numbers on the dial. It's almost ten o'clock. Usually, at this time, Eilish is already delicately annoying your elderly neighbors from the apartment across the hall with their early bedtime routine and feasting on their nightmares. "Why don't you run from me?.."

"What are you wondering?" She says, not even paying attention to your questions. It's not that she doesn't care, but... Just a 'but'. Demons don't need to answer to anyone, it's not in their nature. "I can feel the weight of your thoughts even from here, and it's rather... unaccustomed."

"What do you know...?" You whisper hoarsely, warily looking into the impenetrable darkness beneath the bed through your fingers. Honestly, Eilish is flattered that you're at least giving her a bit of your gaze right now. She's attention-hungry, but for some reason she's not taking offense today. Everything's going to hell today. Intriguing.

The bed creaks a little as she clings with her pale, cold alabaster hands from the darkness of the under-bed to the white blanket crawling to the floor, the soft mattress, and the sturdy wooden kingpins. A moment, and you see her face in all its glory: with neat and mesmerizing features, framed by untangled (she repeatedly steals your combs), long teal strands of hair, which makes her demonic eyes, shrouded in an impenetrable white veil, stand out especially strong and contrasting. She's in no hurry to come out in one piece, but she's not hiding either. It's like she's probing something, waiting.

"Your talk'll be somethin' that shouldn't be said out loud." She summarizes coolly, staring at you piercingly with her white solid sclerae. Your mind is her filing cabinet, she knows she can read you from and through with unobtrusive ease, but stays clear of the impromptu "allowed" boundary you've marked out to her many times, as many times experiencing collapse. Has the mighty demon of dreams just today suddenly started to take your rights into account? Or is it just more interesting? To play, to pry sounds, letters out of you..?

You bang your head lightly against the door, lean the back of your head against the cool varnish of the same sickly white-colored wood, and shift your gaze from her to the serene and at the same time pressing down on you ceiling, and exhale so heavily, as if you wanted to squeeze the soul out of your entrails. Ungodly hard, ungodly painful... Words sinfully and so fucking stuck in your throat, as if a swallowed blade were tearing and slicing your windpipe lengthwise, only upwards instead of downwards. You want to say something, but you can't. Fuck.

Billie rustles again in the back of your mental filing cabinet, drowning in black ink, and having dug something up, she comes out of her world of darkness and horror in one piece: a slight rustle of fabric, an even lighter creak, and she stands swaying in front of you in her white, shapeless and huge clothes, looking like a ghost. Short, but so powerful, able to make a mess of the whole neighborhood, if not the nearest three at once, with just a puppy of her fingers. Eilish is like a pendulum, attracting already scattered attention with sound and glitter: a dozen silver chains and pendants around her neck, steel rings on her fingers, and several thin bracelets on her wrists with flashing crosses and other figures. It all tinkles and clinks pleasantly as she moves, glistening, hypnotizing, giving off a slight chill... Beautiful. Insanely beautiful.

"Come here." Her velvet voice rustles pleasantly, drowning out the rustle of her paranormal white clothes as she invitingly opens her arms for a hug. And you swear that five more seconds and you'll be ready to burst into tears. And you don't deny yourself that. Because it's not every day that a nightmare demon expresses a desire to embrace you, inviting you into her bonds of arms, because you realize that you can no longer. Because aspidically, to the point of anger at everyone and everything on your soul is painful and lousy. That's why you spring springily, puppet-like, and push your palms away from the door, which resembles a tombstone today rather than a beautiful piece of embossed wood on hinges. That's why you bump your nose somewhere on her neck, the very tip running along the thin, smooth skin. That's why you cling to her as if your carcass is weighing over a sharp-edged cliff and about to plummet downward. Hypothetically, it is. You've fallen off the edge of your thoughts. And there's no way she's going to say she likes feeling you so close to her. You're such a contrast: warm, weak, broken... She won't say any of those things, but she will hug you so gently and tenderly that every demon who has ever lived and still exists today would condemn her for it. Well, if them dared.

"Say it, spit it out," she settles gently with you on the soft pile of the blue carpet without unclasping the ring of her hands, "what is it exactly?"

"Today, I'm thinkin' about the things that are deadly." Your voice is muffled by the soft fabric of her t-shirt, as if someone had put a silencer on the gun's rumbling single-shot silencer beforehand. The words rhyme so amusingly and effortlessly with Eilish's line that you want to giggle for a second. Billie tenses up like a string: she has long suspected such a thing from the chains of your thoughts she read, but it's still unexpected to hear you say it head-on. You're a smiling perpetual doofus, aren't you? Her favorite smiling perpetual doofus. She can't keep quiet anymore.

"The way I'm drinkin' you down," she reads your unspoken thought of your own irrelevance, which dangles in the inky-black sea of your depressive thoughts like a bright and teasing float. Grab it, and it will drag you like a multi-ton anchor to the very bottom. Not the top. "Like I wanna drown, like I wanna end me."

You frown softly, sniffing your nose. Understanding demonic confusing aphorisms is still difficult. Billie laughs velvetly and clarifies, and her dark, docile shadows wrap around you in an affectionate haze, stroking your shoulders and arms with her, tickling your neck as she places her palms masterfully on your shoulder blades, as if hiding your scarred but incredibly strong angel wings from everyone: "In the language of demons, it means that you are very important to someone. You are very important to me, Y/n."

"Say..." You snuggle closer to her, though it feels like there's nowhere closer to go. Gently open your fragile hoop of arms behind her back, hugging back. Billie shakes quietly, like a piece of paper in the wind. "When we all fall asleep, where do we go?"

"Careful." She whispers softly as one of her nimble shadows gently lifts your chin, forcing you to look directly at her. You see the blue, cool irises of her eyes for the first time, not the bottomless white sclerae, but exactly the ocean irises. Similar to human... The spirit is so breathtaking that you involuntarily open your lips on an exhalation, and she takes advantage of this momentarily: she kisses you softly, even if she accidentally, absolutely unintentionally bites your lower lip a little. She can't be contained, she wants to. And it's not only about kiss: she wants to protect you and show you exactly how important you are to her, so that you clearly understand everything. And you do.

You are a little person, who say that silly, uneven to her endless longing and ungodly expensive in human realities "I love you" and she's had enough. She is a powerful dream demon, whispering quietly that she will sleep with you in her arms tonight so she can chase away your bad dreams and inky thoughts. And you've had enough.

[sevenop]

crazy with your writing, it's all so perfect that it makes me cry

I'm so honored, damn! Thank you from the bottom of my heart buddy, thanks for reading!

🫂💐

[sevenop]

While I'm writing again to at least get something done in time for Halloween (already seems like I'm running out of time, heh), I had a fun question: what song from Billie's discography do you associate with me or this blog?

🌟✌🏻

[sevenop]

Once upon a time, I told myself as a child that I would never get a tattoo, once upon a time, I told myself that I would never can collect any of your merch, dear E. Once upon a time, I said I wouldn't fall in love, and then I glued and sewed my scarlet patchwork heart together in little pieces with my friends.... And my heart is now stronger, more judicious, more valuable.

Never say never.

[sevenop]

may you feed the angst monster? it yearns the pain and ache of a childhood friends to lovers but they never actually get to be lovers? perhaps one's moves away or billie thinks she's too busy and won't be enough? (happy ending though cuz angst monster is a little sensitive baby)

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Parallel lines

A/n: Broken knees, unspoken words at one time, and a bunch of motley band-aids . As a child, you carefully tend to Billie's every bruise and wound, hiding them behind the surface of funny band-aids, while she herself hides from you like seven seals, covering herself with a half-hearted smile. A few years later, having suddenly cut off all ties with each other, you meet again - she is a world-famous star, still breaking her knees, you are a paramedic assigned to her in a hurry, who has a set of absurd band-aids in your pocket.

"Billie!" The child's voice trembles fearfully, picked up by the sultry wind of early morning, which is already spilling across the sky with the barely rolled orange disk of the sun, so seductively reminiscent of a juicy orange. The wind blasts you with a new wave of heat, and you shaking as if you'd been thrown out the door into a crackling, freeze-stinging winter in just a t-shirt - fear creeps to the very bottom of your soul, clinging to the strings of your nerves along the way. You clutch the half-full water bottle restlessly in your palms a few times, making the plastic crunch loudly. "Billie! Please get off!"

"There's more!" Eilish chuckles sonorously, gleefully, like a bird, and climbs up the tree farther and higher, as if he wants to touch the lush green leaves of the spreading crown with his fingers. "I'll prove to you that it's not the least bit scary, Y/n!"

You bite your lower lip in excitement, and it's as if it's the only thing that helps you hold back the hailstones of tears coming insistently to your eyes: such an interesting and bizarre contrast, with you on the ground almost sobbing and her laughing aloft.

"Please, Billie..." You sniffle your nose, wiping the very tip with the stretched sleeve of your red sweatshirt, making the fabric immediately get a little wet. Your voice is about to break in its pitifulness and break.

Billie turns around, looking over her shoulder at you from above, and for a few moments her confident, clear-blue river softens in her gaze, causing her eyebrows to arch and arch, and her small lips to stretch at the very corners in an awkward but understanding smile.

"Okay, I'll-" her phrase-agreement is immediately drowned out in her own shriek as Billie puts her foot lower on the tree trunk without looking, too hastily, and as a result: slips sharply on the sandpaper-like bark, clinging with palms in fear. She snaps off, and with indescribable frustration flopping backwards on the ground, right up to the roots of the young oak tree, onto the grass spread out around you like a green carpet.

"Eilish!" You immediately run up to her, snapping in an asynchronous ricochet like a frightened gopher gerbil. You plop down on the ground in front of her, palms on her shoulders, squeezing them a little, either for support or for your own reassurance.

Billie whimpers softly, dropping her gaze into the green of the park lawn as mournfully as if she'd lost the war: more, clear beads of tears rolling down her face, her cheeks starting to turn pink. Confusion mixed with the blush of weeping.

"Does it hurt much...?" You ask quietly, stroking her head soothingly with your small palm. She sniffs her nose loudly, shows you her bloodied palms and nods silently, stoically swallowing a loud, tearful howl. You release your gaze a little lower and stare at her bloody mottled knees, only now the mottling, unlike her hands, is covered with black smears of dirt and green grass sap. Actively appearing scarlet beads of blood on her skin make you cringe and fumble with trembling fingers in your shorts pocket for a crumpled pack of band-aids, a small permanent "amulet" handed to you every day. handed to you repeatedly by your mom. "I'll help..."

You hurriedly unscrew the bright yellow cap from the bottle, and a dozen images flash before your eyes: how did your mom do it? What did she say? It seems like you should always wash the wound first, right? You nod confidently to your thoughts, and then you tilt the bottle gently, lifting the neck to her skinned knees: a clean, cool trickle of water pulls all the dirt right down with it, dripping onto the ground as you help with your palm, barely touching the tortured skin, and Billie only hisses painfully, but doesn't move away from you, only her legs twitching faintly in pain. You rustle a few strips of Band-Aids out of the box, frowning seriously like a doctor, and pick up the paper protecting the soft pad of the Band-Aid and its sticky layer with your fingertips. When the bloody meshes and peeled skin fall under the undeniable protection of your pink Hello Kitty patches, glued on a little crookedly but firmly, Eilish holds out her palms to you, looking straight at you, trust, gratitude, and a silent plea for forgiveness in her weeping blue eyes. You silently rinse her hands, too, cover the wounds with rectangles of girl's band-aids, and hold her close in a comforting embrace. Billie sniffs, but clings to you in response, her hands buzzing and burning with pain tightly clasped behind your back. Unconditional mutual reassurance and trust.

"Aren't you going to tell mom...?" Her hot, low whisper tickles your ear pleasantly.

And you answer, snuggling only closer to her, "I won't."

And you two don't care that everything will be absurdly obvious to Maggie when you get back home.

×××

"Eilish, you're going to kill yourself someday!" You frown, grasping the weighty cotton roll with your fingers and pulling hard, sharply: the little fluffy lump is on your clinging fingertips in no time. You immediately deftly pick up the bottle with a sharp-smelling antiseptic, blotting the absorbent cotton and pre-treating your palms. The open wounds on your fingers (stupid habit of tearing cuticles) are instantly stung by the alcohol, but you don't even twitch: it's a matter of habit. "Do you want to be without knees at all by the time you're old?"

Eilish hums, shaking her head to brush ash-gray strands of hair out of her eyes. She bites her lip and staring childishly into the bedroom floor, never admitting that her bloody knees stung, never making a sound, proudly swallowing every it, even the ones that came up in the back of her throat.

"I had to put my best foot forward today." Her detached voice draws your tenacious, frowning gaze to the top of her head in an instant.

"That doesn't mean you have to paint the dance studio floors maroon!" You hissing at her in a parental manner, fumbling with your hands in your small makeshift med-bag for cooling ointment for bruises.

You mutter to yourself, and Eilish smiles dully, impenetrable and silent, no longer answering. She twitches slightly a couple times, the first from the sharp contrast of the cold ointment against her skin temperature as you gently rub the ointment into her knees, and the second from a mild fit of tics, her head jerking toward the ceiling. You can tell now that she's definitely nervous about something. You gently touch her face with your chiseled palms only when you finish gluing stupid plasters with painted spiders on her wounds, and wiping your hands with a damp cloth. The sterility habit attaches itself to you so imperceptibly that you don't even realize it.

"Hey," you whisper softly, and Billie immediately flatters her cheek against your palm. "I'm sorry if I grumbled like a grandmother again."

The blue oceans in her eyes murmur, foaming with something incomprehensible, but clearly not malicious. A soft smile crossed by a glance back to the pile of the carpet as her head jerks sharply again in a Tourette's tic. "It's nothing." Her quiet whisper.

You only put your arms around her, gently wrapping your long arms around her in the manner of a life preserver, the only thing that will keep Eilish from drowning in the murk of her own thoughts right now. Her shoulders and back are tense like a tight string, but her hands, sliding down somewhat lazily over your shoulder blades through the cotton of your voluminous black t-shirt, are gentle, careful.

"Will you tell me?" You whisper softly, trying not to sneeze as her ash-gray strands climb up your nose: soft, pear-scented. "And hey, how many times have I told you tics are normal."

And her shoulders relax in an instant, and she seems to become boneless almost entirely, spreading out in our arms, nestling close to you like a warm, California sea wave. Nestled, but also immediately "caught": you feel the warmth of her slightly trembling palms on your shoulder blades again, but now it is static, immovable.

And she tells you. Tells you about every thought languishing under her skull, every worry about the upcoming tryouts for the dance production. She tells you, exactly one week before the upcoming incident that will turn her life upside down a hundred and eighty degrees, while you whisper words of encouragement to her, and she gulps inquisitively into your eyes, saying nothing and at the same time saying everything in the world.

×××

Her sobs shake her body silently, and she clutches at you with trembling fingers, nearly pulling your t-shirt off your shoulders through a collar that has been stretched by time and many washings. No longer screaming, no longer howling loudly, bringing even her favorite old bulldog Pepper to her ears, but trembling like the flame of a nearly extinguished candle that reaches the hot, melted wax with a hiss. She's been crying for the beat three hours, the sun having long since rolled indifferently away over the horizon, straining the string of stars and the darkness of the sky with its hot, round side as if they were caught on it. And you keep stroking her just as gently, not even changing the diligent, soft amplitude, you crumble in a huge number of quiet words of support, modestly reaching almost the second million. She's trembling, and there's nothing you can do - such an injury can't be sealed with any of your even stupidest band-aids.

"I won't be able to dance anymore..." Her sob-weary voice is hoarse, and you're in so much pain it feels like someone is mercilessly tearing expensive velvet with their bare hands. "I'm nothing now..."

You can only choke mournfully on your unspoken words and thoughts as you continue to pet her-you'd rather die right now under her tired body than tell her that you have to move to another state this morning. She crumbles in thoughts of her own insignificance, you in the realization that there's nothing you can do to help now.

"Please leave me..." She also wheezes hotly. "I'm nothing now, I'm nobody, I can't do anything..."

And you cry for the first time in three hours, burying your wet nose against the top of her head. Hot tears flow down your cheeks, dripping onto her gray hair like mournful rain on ashes after a fire. Your two million words about her importance don't work.

"Are you sure...?" You ask her softly-quietly, and she only nods, lying lifelessly on top of you as she does.

You take a dozen promises from her that she won't do anything stupid, and then leave as she wishes. After five hours you roll the wheels of your yellow suitcase down the lane in the early morning, shuffling your feet languidly while the whole neighborhood of Highland Park is asleep (you'd be happier going to the scaffold of the French Revolution), and Billie lies sleepless in her bed, shrunken into a life-beaten lump. Her heart aches for the closed road of the future, but even more for the loss of you. She's well aware of your move, heard snippets of it from her mother's conversations. The thought that it will be better acts like a dulling but not curing painkiller - she's broken now anyway, she has no future with you. She is nothing, and she now nothing can give anything to the person for whom she was willing to sell the whole world to the devil.

"I take no offense." Said in a whisper in the emptiness of her own room, as if you'd hear it, it masks something else. "I love you so damn much." Screams her thoughts. As if you'll actually hear it.

"I love you." You think and slam the door of your mom's old sedan. Your thoughts scream parallel to each other, wanting to break all the laws of geometry and converge into one smooth, clear line. Screaming, but they can't hear.

×××

You meet exactly seven years later: she is not a broken girl, but a singer, with her voice and even a single gesture able to control almost the entire auditorium of millions of people on every continent; you are a paramedic, a little tired of life, but faithful to your chosen profession, who no longer holds a stupid homemade first aid kit, but a weighty, professional first aid bag behind your back. You meet, knowing perfectly well who's in front of you, and she even now recognizes you in seconds - no badges, no introductions. You sit down gently on your knees in front of her, spreading the ight worn medic bag out on the floor, and she can't tear her gaze away from you, raging oceans of irises in recognition. Your face is hidden behind the pale blue fabric of a medical mask, you haven't uttered a word since entering her dressing room after the show, and she doesn't care at all - she recognizes you by your grown-up, tired eyes, as if she's found a warm glow of caring in them, familiar from childhood. From your past lives.

"You..." Eilish's voice is a little husky from the concert, but it still feels pleasant, velvety. Expensive.

"Hello, Ms. O'Connell." You smile with the very corners of your lips, which is made vaguely clear by the slight squint. Billie squirms a little on the huge black couch, as if the detailed address from your lips scratches her heart like a rusty nail.

She looks at you throughout the whole process: hungrily, almost prayerfully, catching your movements, which have become a little sharper, more refined, more mechanical over the years. She tries to catch your gaze, but it's as if you are deliberately avoiding the murmuring, restless oceans. Your fingertips twitch so treacherously, though almost imperceptibly. As when you were a child, you carefully treat her wounds on your knees with antiseptic and ointment (Billie shudders at the touch of the cool, thin latex of your gloves and the even colder ointment), and then lean over to the medicine cabinet to find band-aids. Billie has words stuck deep in her song-weary windpipe, you have stuck thoughts in your head that resemble bubblegum. You lean over her lap, pulling a piece of paper off a couple of Band-Aids at once, and suddenly you're hovering.

"Y/n, I..." Billie's voice is drowned out by rustling and light thudding. You tuck the pack of Band-Aids back into the medicine cabinet and reach into the pockets of your medically bright red jacket with your hand.

"You... Do you need a 'fuck,' 'crap' or 'shit' patch?" Your voice quivers in laughter as you unfurl strips of band-aids fan-like in front of her and see the dazed, confused look in her eyes. You remember.

"There's with "I love you?" She whispers softly, and looks into your eyes ever so gently and a little fearfully, as if wanting to wrap herself in your gaze like a warm plaid.

"No, but..." You stumble quietly over the words, unzipping three ridiculous patches and gluing them from gently onto her right knee. "I can say it out loud, if that's possible." Your hands shake more visibly as you also cover her now left knee behind the strips of silly words.

Barely do the sticky strips lock onto her skin as she suddenly jumps up like a wound up spring, plopping onto the newly healed lap bravely and eagerly clinging to your lips with hers, shifting the mask so deftly that you don't even realize it before you do, only lips obediently opening for her. It feels right. You involuntarily exhale hotly into the kiss, as if you'd forgotten how to breathe at all.

"I love you." You say it almost simultaneously as she pulls away and presses gently against your forehead with hers.

Two parallel lines of thought come together against all odds. And it's the right thing to do. With her, it's definitely right.

[sevenop]

We miss youu!!

Something is quietly coming this night 🫂

I really miss you too, guys!

[sevenop]

Authoor, we miss you here!! Do you have anything planned for this Halloween?

Dude, I want a day off so-o-o bad! :<

I hate to feel like I'm going to make you guys wait (especially those who have made those requests so long ago), but for the past month my life has been reduced to perpetual lectures, seminars, and a killer desire for sleep. I apologize for such a long silence, but unfortunately the circumstances so far are like this, although sometimes I can scribble something, but it's so little and not significant, because of which the texts are written insanely slow.

About Halloween: I really want to work and write something on "bury a friend", yeah.

All good for you! 🌌

[sevenop]

I just read your latest work and I went crazy, that increases my dementia hahah, your way of writing and describing things, hello? I felt like a great spectator.

Your words warm me and give birth to some special flower of love for writing deep inside. Thank you sincerely! 🌀🌺

Have a great day!

[sevenop]

hello?? redhead?? clearly I wasn't expecting that, I was about to say that you had black hair lmao! brown eyes? and you are definitely piscess

I'm pleasantly embarrassed, thank you very much! 〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜

My red hair is dyed, not my native hair, but I wish it was, heh (natural color is dark shade of brown). And my eyes aren't brown, it's just insidious shadow on photo. It's gray-green (I usually call them dark aspic gray). On a fun side note, I'm a Libra.

Have a good day! 🔥✌🏻

[sevenop]

Dudee, I would kill to see the snow, God it's hot here almost all fucking year, I fully agree with autumn, it's... peaceful and it is rare that it rains

The snow is really beautiful, I especially like the hoarfrost on the tree branches. Winters in Russia are cool: snowy, cold, but it has its own atmosphere. And even though I hate going at minus one mile per hour because of the abundance of snow, I'd still be lying if I said I didn't like snow at least a little bit. There's just something about it... Magical, yep.

I hope you get to see the snow (I'll share a bit snow via long ago photos, heh). Remember to drink more water and take care of yourself! 🫂✨

[sevenop]

How do I imagine you? well you are definitely brown... clear maybe? you like to read... and you are a fan of winter!

Nice try, buddy. I definitely love to read (even though I'm now under the rubble of academic literature, help ヘ(￣ω￣ヘ) ), I've been pale since childhood because I blush under sun more often than I tan, though now it's like I've gotten quite a bit swarthier. You're wrong about winter though - I can't tolerate snowdrifts, because I like to walk fast, like I'm late for all the trains and planes in the world, lol. I'm more into May/warm fall, somehow.

[sevenop]

As I'm sketching and sketching, I suddenly wondered: what do you envision me to be like? It doesn't matter if it doesn't resonate, let it hang on the verge of my strange thoughts out loud. I can just answer your questions, if there are any, of course.

[sevenop]

five requests?? that's a lot god!! you are going to be feeding us I can't wait anymore, its going insanee that you are backk❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Thank you, lovely, I'm so pleased to read this!

Five requests, quite weighty, it's true, and will have to wait for a while - it's possible to combine writing with studies, but sometimes it's too difficult, and I don't want to rush and put out ragged text.

Thanks again for your support, you are incredible! 🪷✨

[sevenop]

Okay guys, I've collected five requests with your help and will now be working on them all, so for now the order table will be closed until next time. Thanks to everyone who submitted a request, know you guys are incredible! 🫂🌟

[sevenop]

Hey pretty, do you still have the requests open?

Yep, my friend, the requisitions are still open.

I think I may take two more before I write all the others.

🫂🌟

[sevenop]

lot I just saw about the requests!! How exciting, I can't think of anything compared to your imagination... I can only think of one in which we live Billie's figure with her... you already know the photo sessions, her meetings with fans, the first concert and its celebration. !!..

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: I'm to follow with your soul

A/n: What about text without dialogs?.. It was quite entertaining, and yes, I've strayed quite a bit from the request, but I hope you enjoy it, anon. Please let me know when you get a chance.

Hidden by a cloth mask and a soft hoodie, Eilish enters the room carefully, trying to be inconspicuous in her black, not at all flashy clothes, and everyone is almost immediately swept off their feet, as if it were the fault of a hurricane suddenly raging in the middle of the huge waiting room. You smile from across the room, completely used to it. You lean your back relaxed against the concrete wall painted a calm milky white while Billie arms every her fans with tact and friendliness, being herself surrounded by a crowd of people hungry for her attention. Eager for her. They're having a blast, and you smile so calmly, as if you're on a desert island, somewhere so far away and out of reach of everything in the world. Eilish is like a chess king - in the very epicenter of the field, under the reliable guardianship of the guards, who are like brave pawns and rooks pushing back the especially insistent, who breaking the boundaries of her propriety and privacy, but you still feel a light, tickling under your ribs bright blue feather of excitement, even though outwardly it's not visible. Outwardly, you put on your face the most elegant, partly truthful mask, behind which no one can see this pile and confusion inside you, so eager to break out. And everyone believes it. Everyone except her.

The metronome of thoughts clicking from side to side and stops only when she gently, gently takes your hand, intertwining your fingers securely as you sit in the cabin of an airplane flying to another continent. Eilish's blue eyes, entering into open rivalry with the blueness of the celestial horizon in the porthole to your right - piercing, sensitive to your experiences, which you hold behind seven chains, tightly, tightly. The lips outlining your knuckles, by contrast, are soft, hot, soothing. Like velvet. She says everything is fine, and you have a series of flashes and phones in front of your eyes so detailed that you think for a second that it was you, not her, who was at this epicenter of glory. Your nagging occasional worry about her and her emotional state is parried by her familiarity with such a life, which rustles on Billie's lips with a light laugh.. She pulls you out of the stream of thoughts that drags you down like the Styx: kisses you directly on the lips, catches your quiet, downed exhalation, slides the very tip of her tongue across your slightly bitten lips. She whispers that she needs you, your shared serenity, and you let go of the handrail of excitement. Again. The smile on your lips is deftly mirrored on her face before Billie rests his head cozily on your shoulder, falling quietly into slumber for the rest of the flight. O'Connell considers you her safest, most secure haven, one she's willing to nurture day after day, nurturing the blossoms of peace and confidence in your soul, and you don't mind, you're all for it. Ready to shelter her from everything in the world, giving her that rare, so humanly necessary mutual love and serenity.

You softly murmur three words of love into her ear, and Billie just snuggles even closer to you, as close as the seat and the flatness of the seatbelt will allow. Her true-coral lips hotly drop a scattering of words that make your heart flutter so high, so high that the sky doesn't even have such boundaries.

×××

Eilish is staring into the camera, and you're almost devouring yourself, wanting to become that damn, expensive lens with the green glass. Or better yet, right now you want to bite through the case of the tablet on which you're proofreading the next block of text from the interview, and lock your jaws together so that you can slice went right through, to a fine grid of chips on the display and a characteristic crunch. Because with Billie, motherfucker, Eilish, it's just impossible to be at a photo shoot, no matter how much you get used to it.. Impossibly hard burns a hole in you carnal lust and sublime aesthetic pleasure, which, by definition, and together should not be in any way, but inside you, on the contrary, mixed into the most scraggly and fiery Molotov. Eilish is the matchstick, you are so obedient and begging for the makeshift fabric "wick" that sticks out of the narrowest neck of the murky, amber-yellow bottle.

Billie puts both palms of her hands, practically fingertips to the plaid cap that covers her head in a skater's swagger, a hard visor to her right side, and you feel your lungs shudder, wanting to squeeze together in a scream like a pressurized balloon. You mutely swallow your own scream, staring back at the black, printed letters dancing in nonsense, only to stare at her again five seconds later, just for the last time. Just to feel like an elegant woodland deer running blindly into the headlights. And then she looks right at you.

She looks at you, and she doesn't even hide that assertive, confident grin of her, just raising the degree, while you stare at her like a statue. Because it's too beautiful, too hot, too natural. It's so O'Connell way alluring and trance-inducing, some kind of hypnosis of its own. Billie catches your embarrassment in a split second, when you barely a glance, not to fall, but to literally collapse into your proofreading and editing screen like an angel fallen from heaven. She waves her palm to the photographer, and therefore to the entire set crew, demanding a break, and she doesn't give a damn what they might think of her, what they already think. She walks toward you with a swift, imperious gait and she doesn't care. She grabs you by the waist in a bossy way, not forgetting the some tenderness inherent in her nature, and sneaks you into her dressing room, slamming the door shut, seemingly too loudly, but she's really indifferent. She tosses your clipboard, which you're prayerfully clutching, to her dressing table, and clutches you right in front of the same mirror, whispering fervently and seductively into your neck, her hands going under your shirt. Because she doesn't give a fuck. She wants you and you want her. And this reciprocity, this your unique gaze no one else, ready to stare at her forever, is more than enough. Her hoarse soprano whispers velvet "I want you" interspersed with "I love you" and it's enough for you, too.

Billie touches the fly of your dark jeans with her impatient fingers, "burns" the skin of your thighs with the silver of her rings, and you allow her everything, because you want it too. Because you love her.

×××

There is something particularly intimate about your life with Billie - your emotions, which you often hide from everyone, covering yourself with a safe smile like "lock", the "key" to which only she has, and the fact that she "steals" your clothes, often wearing them not only when you two are alone, but also when she go out in public. The second one works both for you and for you, because her closet - a priori completely yours, and your things forever smelled her warm, woody-vanilla scent, especially sharply imprinted on the collars, and it only soothes, protects, reminds of her. And one day these moments clash into one, the most special for you two.

You walk around your office in a restless whirlwind, unable to find such a necessary lunchtime calm, blazing with selective anger, absolutely uninhibited and unconstrained by the limits of censored and uncensored language, swing so much that the thin fabric of your paper-white, and like ink-stained shirt, so amusingly resembling a newspaper (a clever gift from Billie) swells up, rises up over and over again, almost extending beyond the line of your sturdy belt and the ridge of the waistband of your darkness pants. The censor clutches the magazine with sweaty palms, rustling the colorful gloss, shaking like a leaf, and you seem ready to kill. The veins in your neck are roiling from the flames of aggression, so conspicuous by the lack of the first buttoned button of your collar, and the poor guy swallows tightly as you repeatedly hissing "compliments" for him through your teeth. The mistake he rudely overlooked in print has given you headaches for days and provided the cell phone company with the lion's share of the profits - you're hanging on to several international calls at once, hopping from one line to another. And not even her perfume deposited on your collar calms your frantic thoughts, which is rare.

A knock on the door almost makes you hard slam your phone into the table you're leaning your hips against, eliciting a dragon-like loud, growling "request" that you not be disturbed. A second - and the coffee-dark door immediately opens fearlessly, revealing Billie. In her (your) black, space-glittering designer suit, at the ready with her serious, stinging cold endlessly permafrost blue gaze. The pearl necklace around her neck snaps tantalizingly as she points to the door with a nod to the intern, and he turns white as a sheet, shakes nervously, and tumbles, almost crawls out of the office on his knees - if only he would.

You close your fingers on the wooden surface of the desk hard and strong, trying to get your breathing back to a steady rhythm, but Billie only turns the locking mechanism on the door, disconnecting you from the rest of the world with a click, before he takes a few steps toward you and touches your face with his soft, delicate palms with slightly rough musical fingertips.

Her languid perfume hits your nose immediately, and like a concentrated dose of sedative, it travels through your blood vessels, reaching your heart, making it so warm-warm. Eilish catches the remnants of strong anger in the depths of your eyes and smiles so softly-softly, making them disappear quickly, like salt crystals in hot water. She, so specially beautiful, right off the carpet, styled and in your clothes, with sparkling silver sequins on her face and massive earrings that catch the glare of the white lamp. So beautiful and expensive. And you - so disheveled in your own fading aggression, panting. You whisper a million apologies about the defect of the upcoming issue of the magazine, and she just kisses you fervently - hotter, sweet, like the most delicious caramel. She bites your lip, demanding access, and then whispers into your mouth so swaggeringly about your sexy, hot-in-evil appearance that she get away with her ridiculous joke when she assures you that she "only wants to be on this front page", running her palms over your "newspaper" collarbones. Oh, and she gets on it! Her hickeys on your collarbones sting with fire, reminding you of themselves even under the thin fabric, and Eilish only laughs softly-softly, before settling into the chair across from you with her legs crossed in the lotus position. It's only an hour until the end of your workday, and she's here to pick you up. And to calm down, of course (but also to inflame you at home again).

×××

Billie sings and it is truly the most enchanting thing you've ever seen. Taking a place of honor backstage, you feel the waves of basses vibrating in your chest, rumbling all over the concert stage, and Billie shouts the words of new melodies into the crowd in a childish way, or musically pulls the notes, reminding the nymph herself by her charming sound, and you understand that you melt, melt from this whole contrast, from her energy, from herself. You like the way Eilish jumps, runs around the stage like an eagle, which makes her perfect earlier styling become outrageously careless, but so beloved and charismatic. I like how she languidly bends on the very floor of the stage, languidly whispering words into the microphone, than tears off the voices of thousands of spectators, and you every time become grateful to the red illumination as never before - Maggie behind it does not see your embarrassed blush, though she smiles understandingly, in a kindly sly way. But you favorite part is catching her at the end of the performances, when Billie rushes toward you, nearly leaping up a series of treacherous steps covered for a few moments by semi-darkness. She flies into your open arms with a force like a triumphant cannonball, and all you do is kiss the top of her shaggy head, clasping her in your arms, one hand holding a full, unopened bottle of water - especially for her. She laughs out loud, all sweaty and disheveled and wound up, with eyes that shine like footlights and you realize.

How much you want to follow her soul, protecting her.

[sevenop]

I feel like it's been an eternity since you wrote, we miss you!!❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Duuude! ♪⁠ ⁠\⁠(⁠^⁠ω⁠^⁠\⁠ ⁠)

I am so in awe of your message! ❤️‍🩹