#billieeilishfluff

[bills5lut]

unseen

synopsis: billie holds your hand in the shadows, and you keep pretending that’s enough

warnings: fluff, angst, smut halfway thru, oral, mentions and description of sa, sorta hints at internalised homophobia. 

w/c: 14k

note: happy pride angels!!!!!!

The engine of the tour bus hums like a lullaby that won’t quite settle. You lie still, but your body’s half-tensed under the thin scratchy blanket, trying to pretend sleep will come just because your eyes are closed. It doesn’t.

You check your phone again.

11:32pm.

The glow of the screen lights up your little rectangle of space. A narrow metal coffin lined with a cheap fitted sheet and a fleece throw you stole from Billie’s dressing room. Smells like her shampoo still, kind of vanilla, kind of like rose, kind of like her skin after shows when she’s damp and tired and leaning on you like she can’t carry herself anymore. You tug the blanket up over your shoulder. 

You’re on the lower bunk, second from the back. Her bunk’s at the very end, curtain drawn tight like always. Nobody shares bunks on this bus, not officially, not out loud.

You shift onto your side, cheek pressing into the pillow. The fabric’s gone cool, a little damp with sweat. Your shirt’s sticking to your back. Too hot, but you keep the blanket on anyway. Something about the weight. The illusion of being held. The illusion of anything.

There’s a bump in the road, a brief sway. You hear it then, her voice. Muffled through the thin vinyl walls, a soft, irritated sigh. Then silence again. She’s awake. You hold your breath for a second. Listen.

Nothing but the gentle creak of the chassis and the highway drone.

She’s always quiet at night. You’ve learned to read her silence. The difference between her knocked out sleep and her not asleep. The difference between peace and avoidance. This is avoidance. The kind where she knows you’re awake too, but pretends you aren’t. Pretends she isn’t.

You roll onto your back. Close your eyes.

You want her. Want her here. Want her hand on your chest, fingers brushing your collarbone, just barely there. You want the weight of her arm draped over your stomach, heavy and warm and real. You want her breath on your jaw, the way she does it when she’s too tired to kiss properly but still wants to touch you. You want the soft little noise she makes when she’s not fully asleep yet but already curling into you like you’re gravity. Like you’re safe. Like you’re hers.

You want to be hers.

You think maybe you are.

But you’re not sure. Not really.

You haven’t talked about it, not directly, not in the way that would make it undeniable. You know what it feels like when she’s curled up in your lap backstage, arms slung around your neck, face buried in your shoulder. You know what it feels like when she drags you away from crowds just to kiss you hard and fast in some storage closet and then makes you promise not to tell anyone. You know the feeling of her hand in yours in the dark, under the cover of a blanket, her thumb rubbing circles into your palm like a secret.

But in the daylight?

You’re her friend. Her really close friend.

To everyone else, anyway.

The label makes your skin itch.

Sometimes she says your name soft and slow, like it’s something she’s memorized in her mouth. Other times she says nothing at all. Days go by and she barely looks at you in front of other people. You laugh at her jokes like everyone else does. You sit next to her at catering but never too close. She ruffles your hair in a friendly way, like a sibling might. Sometimes she winks at you when no one else is looking, and you swear your heart jumps out of your chest.

You think Finneas knows. Or at least suspects. He’s not stupid. He’s caught the tail end of things too many times, heard movement in her bunk when there shouldn’t have been any, maybe saw a shirt on the floor that used to be yours. But he hasn’t said anything. Not to you.

If she’s told him, she hasn’t told you that she told him.

You’re not sure what’s worse, if she has, or if she hasn’t.

You reach down and hook your fingers into the hem of your shirt. Fidgeting. Skin warm underneath. Your stomach knots with that familiar dull tension you’ve stopped trying to name. You don’t let yourself spiral tonight. Not fully. But the feeling’s still there, like you’re on the edge of something that won’t define itself. Like the relationship is a hallway with no lights on. You’re stumbling through it, waiting for her to flick the switch.

You shift again. The mattress groans under you.

You can hear Billie shifting too now, definitely her. A rustle of sheets. The faint creak of her bunk door. Not opening. Just moving. Maybe she’s lying on her back like you. Maybe her fingers are twitching at her side like yours. Maybe she’s thinking about you.

Maybe she wants you, too. But if she does, she’ll never say it out loud. So you lie there. Still. Awake.

Breathing in the scent of her blanket. Listening to the sound of her silence.

Wanting her.

Not knowing if you’re allowed to.

You lie there for another few minutes after she stirs. The soft creak of her bunk has gone quiet again, and you hate how heavy it sits in your chest, knowing she’s just a few feet away and not touching you. Not talking. Not even trying.

You unlock your phone. The glow feels too bright, the screen harsh against the soft dark of the bunk.

You open your messages with Billie.

It’s mostly empty. Little things here and there. A photo she sent two days ago you asked her to send to you. A tiktok you didn’t open. You used to text more. Before it got complicated. Before it started to feel like all the real stuff was only allowed to exist behind closed doors.

You type it slow.

“pls can u come my bunk. just for 5. nobody’s up”

You don’t send it right away. Thumb hovering over the blue arrow, heart thumping like it might crack your ribs. It’s so small, the ask. Just five minutes. But you know the weight it carries.

You hit send.

Now all there is to do is wait. You lock your phone and flip it face-down. Curl tighter into yourself. You don’t know what answer you’ll get, if you’ll get one at all.

But less than five minutes later, you hear her. Soft steps. No shoes. The faintest drag of her fingertips on the wood as she walks past the other bunks. You don’t look. Just keep your eyes closed, even when you hear the curtain whisper open.

“Move over, baby,” Billie breathes.

The sound of her voice cracks something in you. You shift without a word, body sliding back toward the wall, and she presses her hands to the edge of the mattress, hoisting herself up, folding into the tiny space like she belongs there. Like she’s done it a thousand times before.

Because she has.

Her arms come around you the second she’s settled, pulling you into her like muscle memory. Like gravity. Your face tucks instinctively into her chest, just under her chin, breathing her in. Warm cotton. Faint perfume. The sharp little kick of deodorant after the show, still lingering in the dip of her collarbone.

You curl into her so tightly it’s like you want to disappear inside her. And maybe you do. Because even here, in her arms, you still feel so fucking lonely.

Not because she doesn’t love you, you think she does.

But because it isn’t enough to just be loved. Not when you’re being hidden. Erased.

You’re already out. You’ve been out. There’s nothing to hide on your end. You could be with anyone else, and hold their hand in public, and post a picture of them, and not feel like you were doing something wrong. But it’s Billie. And she’s not ready.

And you tell yourself she’s worth it.

You tell yourself that so often it’s started to sound like a warning instead of a comfort.

Your lips brush her jaw, a soft chain of kisses that mean I’m here and I need you and please say this is real all at once. She turns her face toward you slightly, nuzzling your forehead.

“You good?” she murmurs.

You nod, your cheek moving against her shirt. “Missed you.”

Her hand moves to your back, slow and light, fingers trailing up your spine like she’s trying to count the knots in it.

“I was only on stage for like two hours,” she says, teasing, but soft.

You sigh into her shirt. “Mhm. But then you were busy with those people.”

Her fingers hesitate.

“You’re making it sound like something it wasn’t,” she says, her tone clipped. “By ‘those people,’ do you mean tour managers and press?”

You stiffen. Just a little. You can’t tell if she’s mad. Joking. Defensive. Her voice is low, but sharp enough to nick.

You press your hands into her sides, pulling her closer before she can wriggle away.

“I know, baby. I know,” you say, maybe too loud. Maybe too needy. The edge of your voice cuts the air. “Just missed you. Missed your pretty face and your voice and…”

“Can you just, like, be quiet please?” she cuts in. “I don’t know who’s awake.”

You bite your lip. Your stomach twists.

“Yeah,” you mumble, voice already shrinking. “Sorry.”

You bury your face against her collarbone, embarrassed. Ache blooming in your throat. You press yourself into her like that might fix something. Like you can hide in her the same way she hides you.

And she lets you. She doesn’t say anything else.

Her hand finds yours in the dark, fingers threading through your knuckles. She brings it to her mouth and kisses it once, quick and distracted, then keeps it pressed between your chests like a truce.

And you just… lie there.

Her thumb draws slow shapes into your wrist. You breathe into the crook of her neck. You memorize the rhythm of her breath, the way it slows gradually, but never fully drops into sleep.

You feel the way she’s holding you, like she wants to protect you. Like she loves you. And you know she does. You’re just not sure she loves you out loud. You’re not sure she ever will.

Eventually, she kisses your temple. Once. Then twice. You’re almost asleep. Drifting.

But then she shifts. Pulls back slightly.

You groan softly, reaching for her shirt, fingertips catching the hem. “Five more minutes,” you whisper. “Please. Five more minutes.”

She shakes her head, already starting to climb out. Her thumb brushes over your palm once as she untangles herself from you.

“No, baby,” she says, barely audible. “I’m sleepy too. Can’t be falling asleep and everyone wondering where I am in the morning, finding me in your bunk.”

She says it so casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t hurt.

You nod, even though your heart’s cracking under your ribs.

She leans in one more time and presses a soft peck to your lips, brief, like punctuation, and then she’s gone.

Back to her bunk.

Back to the version of her life where you don’t exist.

You let out a long breath. Your face crumples into the pillow, eyes stinging. You squeeze them shut. Try not to think. Try not to feel. Try to convince yourself it’s okay. That this is just temporary. That she’s worth it.

You fold your arms under your head. Curl your knees slightly. Try to sink back into the leftover warmth of her body in your bed. But it fades fast.

Everything does. Eventually, you force yourself to sleep. Even though every part of you is still wide awake, screaming.

But somehow, hours pass. You shower. You move through the motions. You show up. You don’t know why. Maybe just because she’ll be here. You still feel hollow.

The venue smells like metal and dust and leftover echoes.

It’s late afternoon, edging into early evening, but you haven’t checked the time in hours. The sun is dying slow and gold through the high backstage windows, streaking pale across the scuffed up concrete and half coiled cables. Billie’s already finished her soundcheck. You heard the last few notes of it drifting out the hallway speakers on your way in. She sounded incredible, obviously, even if you know she’ll complain she didn’t.

You’re holding a paper cup of peppermint tea in one hand, half warm at best, and your free hand is curled loose around your phone, not checking it, just holding it. Just giving your fingers something to do.

You walk through the hallway slow. Low hum of production crew, muffled laughter from the dressing rooms down the hall, someone hauling a lighting rig past. You nod at a few people. They nod back. To everyone else, you’re Billie’s friend. You’re always around. You always have been.

You reach her door and pause.

It’s slightly ajar. Not wide open, not closed.

You knock softly, twice. There’s a beat of silence.

Then her voice, flat, distracted, slightly guarded “Yeah?”

You slip in quietly, pushing the door open just a little. Your heart does that stupid thing it always does when you see her, leaps and folds and does a fucking cartwheel all at once. Like you haven’t already had your mouth on hers three times this week. Like she isn’t the one who snuck into your bunk last night like you were her secret safe place.

Billie’s sitting in the dressing room chair, slouched low, legs kicked out in front of her, one socked foot dangling off the heel of her croc. Her phone is balanced in both hands. There’s a bottle of green juice open on the table beside her and a small pile of rings and discarded hair ties.

Her head pops up when she sees you.

“Hey baby,” she says, and the way her whole face lights up, her body uncurling slightly, the curve of her lips blooming like instinct, you feel it ripple through you.

You smile, immediately, warmth crawling up your neck. You walk over without speaking, set your lukewarm tea down, and wrap your arms around her from behind. She’s still sitting, but she leans back into you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your lips press to the side of her head, half into her hair, half onto the soft skin just above her temple.

“Mm,” she hums. “You smell like cinnamon.”

You grin, murmuring into her hair. “You smell like stress.”

Billie scoffs. “True. Soundcheck was shit.”

You hum again, breath warm against her cheek. “It wasn’t.”

She glances back at you. “It was. You weren’t even there for the whole thing.”

“I heard enough,” you mumble.

Billie rolls her eyes, lazily. You move around her a little, still wrapped around her shoulders from behind, until you can see her face better. Her lashes are thick with leftover mascara. The softest bags under her eyes, she’s tired, but she always is.

“You never sound bad,” you say, clearer this time.

She scoffs again, a little dismissive, but she doesn’t argue.

You lean back slightly, hands still on her shoulders. “Hey,” you say, like you need her to really hear it. “I mean it.”

Billie turns in the chair, eyes finding yours. She reaches up, one hand settling on your jaw, thumb brushing along the bone like she’s tracing the truth there.

“Keep flattering me, baby,” she murmurs, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You giggle softly, leaning into her touch. “Not flattery. Just truth.”

She raises an eyebrow, still joking, still teasing.

You laugh, leaning forward just a little. The smell of her shampoo is faint, rose water and almond, something expensive and understated.

“Oh, shut up,” you say, bumping your nose into hers. “You know you always sound amazing.”

She opens her mouth like she’s about to fire something back, but you cut her off with a kiss.

Her lips meet yours hard, hot and fast like she was waiting for an excuse. You feel her hand tighten in your hair, the other still at your jaw, keeping you in place like she needs you close.

You giggle into it, and she doesn’t stop kissing you. If anything, she deepens it. You open for her easily. Let her tug your bottom lip between her teeth just a little. It sends a pulse through your stomach.

Billie speaks between kisses, barely pulling back at all.

“Baby…” Another kiss. “Stop…” She laughs into your mouth. “Gonna make me wet…” Another breathless kiss.

“And… people… Fin… my mom… manager…” Her voice is full of air now. “They all wanna see me… going for dinner…”

You press your forehead to hers, both of you a little flushed. The kiss breaks but your faces stay close. You nod, still catching your breath, still smiling. “Okay. Okay,” you whisper, laughter bubbling. “I’ll be good.”

She brushes her fingers across the edge of your face, light, soft, like she can’t stop touching you even when she should. Then she presses a kiss to your forehead. Slow. Still.

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” she says, like it hurts a little. Like it’s a secret she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

Then one last kiss to your lips. It lingers. Like she wants to stay.

You stay there a beat longer, just breathing together, her forehead leaning into yours.

Then she pulls away.

You feel it the second she steps back, like a room gone cold. Like being tucked back into the shadows.

Billie stretches, adjusting the waistband of her sweats. “I’ll be back in like two hours,” she says casually, reaching for her phone again, like she’s resetting the mask. “We’re doing sushi with the press team.”

You nod. “Okay.”

She gives you a quick wink, still playful, still pretending nothing’s wrong, and walks out the door, pulling her hoodie up.

You’re left in her dressing room, alone, with the ghost of her kiss still wet on your mouth.

And all you can think is, She kissed you like she was yours. But walked away like she wasn’t.

You’ve been to three cities since she kissed you like that. Not that it’s changed anything. A few days later, another venue. 

The green room smells like hotel air, filtered, faintly floral, and somehow both too clean and slightly stale. The lighting’s dim, amber yellow from two mismatched lamps in opposite corners of the room. The overhead fluorescents are switched off. No one likes how they make your skin look.

It’s a cozy enough space for what it is. Posters from past shows paper the walls, some framed, some thumbtacked up. A little couch with a throw blanket sits against one wall, barely used. The floor is layered with a cheap patterned rug that someone probably bought in a rush off Amazon. Scattered around the rug is some mugs, a few drafts of tonight’s set list, two bags of candy someone left in here hours ago, a hoodie Billie discarded after soundcheck, and a small pile of worn, uno cards.

The three of you are sitting cross legged on the rug, in a loose triangle, heads tipped forward slightly as you lean over the game.

Outside the room, you can still hear the low hum of crew footsteps, a muted snare from the drum check, a walkie talkie buzz. The venue is coming alive, just under three hours ‘til doors.

Billie’s got one knee pulled up under her, back curved as she leans into her cards. She’s in that off duty version of herself, hair twisted up in a clip, oversized jumper slouching off one shoulder, track pants baggy and bunched at the ankles. Her hands are slightly shaky, small tremors that most people wouldn’t catch, but you do. You always do.

She’s trying to hide it, trying to be casual, but there’s a tension underneath her skin. The kind that creeps in before shows. Nerves. Pressure. That heaviness she carries before having to become Billie Eilish in front of tens of thousands of people again.

Finneas is sitting opposite her, legs crossed, holding a handful of cards like they’re sacred texts. He’s calm, always is, and grinning just a little as he eyes Billie over the top of his hand.

You’re sitting next to her, your thigh brushing hers where your knees angle toward the center of the circle. You’re in a soft black tee and sweats, one sock pulled halfway off without realizing. Your cards are crumpled slightly from over shuffling.

“Uno,” Billie says, smug, dropping her second to last card with a little snap.

Finneas groans dramatically. “You’re kidding me.”

“You suck at this,” Billie says, grinning wide now. “It’s actually impressive.”

You laugh, sliding a card from your pile and dropping it into place. “He’s not that bad,” you offer, teasing. “Just… emotionally fragile when he loses.”

“False,” Finneas deadpans. “I’m a picture of grace under pressure.”

Billie rolls her eyes. “You’re a picture of someone who just got destroyed.”

You’re smiling as you peek toward Billie’s hand, curious what her last card is. You don’t do it secretly. It’s playful. You tilt your head a little toward her, leaning just close enough to fake snoop, eyebrows raised.

She catches your look and laughs under her breath. Then, 

“Come on, baby, that’s not fair,” she says, soft. Automatic.

She’s still smiling when she says it, voice low and teasing. But the second the word baby slips out, it’s like someone pressed pause on the air itself.

The warmth of the room holds still.

Not sharply. Not dramatically. Just, quiet. A breath held.

You feel it before you register it. Billie does too.

Her fingers twitch slightly around her cards. She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t look at Finneas either. Her face is still tipped forward, still vaguely smiling, but her posture changes in that micro way, like something curled inward. Like she’s bracing for impact.

Finneas’s head tilts just a fraction. His expression doesn’t shift much, but his eyes are sharp, trained on the space between the two of you.

He raises one eyebrow.

Just the one.

You glance at Billie. Her jaw’s clenched now. Slight. Her nails press into the corner of her card deck. Her shoulders pull a little tighter around her neck.

So you move like it’s nothing. Like everything’s fine.

Your pinky brushes the side of her hand, accidental, except it isn’t. You don’t press. You don’t linger. Just a featherlight drag of your skin against hers. Enough to say,  I’m here.

Her body stills. Then releases. Just a little.

She breathes in.

Exhales softly through her nose. You feel it against your forearm.

You don’t look at her. She doesn’t look at you. But the weight of her hand relaxes. She draws her shoulders down. You hear her swallow.

Finneas glances between the two of you one more time. Then shifts his weight slightly, looks back at his cards, and says nothing.

The silence breaks.

You reach for the discard pile like nothing happened. “Reverse,” you mutter, tossing a green card down.

Billie huffs out a little laugh, fragile, but genuine. She mirrors you. “Skip.”

Finneas groans again. “You’re both against me now?”

You shrug. “She’s winning. I’m just trying to get close to greatness.”

You glance over at Billie. She’s not looking at you. Her cheeks are slightly pink, hands no longer shaking. There’s something new in her posture, like maybe that word, baby, wasn’t a mistake after all.

Or maybe it was.

But it’s out there now. In the middle of the room, soft and floating between the three of you. Not named. Not acknowledged. Just real.

The next round starts.

Cards shuffle. Finneas makes a joke about changing the game to blackjack. Billie’s laugh is freer now. Looser.

Her leg presses against yours again, and this time she doesn’t move it away.

You say nothing. You don’t need to.

But a part of you wonders what Finneas is thinking. What he knows. Whether that raised eyebrow was silent permission or quiet curiosity.

Still, he hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t teased. Hasn’t broken the moment open.

And somehow, that feels like love, too.

You stay there on the floor a little longer. The room softens around you. Billie relaxes deeper into her sweatshirt. Her foot nudges yours once, then again, like a rhythm she doesn’t realize she’s keeping.

The moment doesn’t explode. It lingers.

Now it’s louder. Darker. Billie’s a little tipsy, and you’re trying to keep up

The bar’s loud, bass pounding through the floor, laughter spilling over the clink of glasses. The air is warm and thick with the smell of beer and sweat and something electric underneath it all. You sit at the bar, watching Billie. Her eyeliner’s smudged, lips softly stained, cheeks flushed from the heat and the drinks. She’s laughing at something Finneas said, light and a little off kilter.

Suddenly, she leans in close, breath warm against your ear, voice low and quick.

“Tour bus is empty.”

Your heart jumps, that simple, that urgent. You blink, nod. She pulls back, smirks, picks up her drink, and heads toward the back door.

You wait a moment, then follow, stepping out into the cooler night air. The pavement is still warm underfoot, the distant music humming through the walls.

Before you can think, her hand is on your waist, steady and sure. No words, just the press of her palm, the pull of her close as she walks fast, fingers lacing into your shirt.

You don’t say anything. Neither does Billie.

The door of the tour bus clicks shut behind you, sealing out the world. No words, just the electricity crackling between you. Her lips crash onto yours with fierce urgency, hungry and desperate, teeth grazing, tongues tangling in a way that makes your knees weak. Her hands grab at your jacket, fingers clutching the fabric like she needs to feel every inch of you right now.

You stumble backward together toward the front couch, bodies pressed tight, heat radiating off her skin, her breath hot and ragged against your neck. She pulls you down into her lap with a possessive grip, legs spreading slightly to invite you in. The denim of her shorts is rough and cool under your bare thighs, sending an unexpected jolt through you when you shift your hips to grind lightly. The pressure of her thigh between your legs is maddening, you gasp, chest tightening.

Her breath catches at your neck, voice low, ragged, full of want.

“Wanted you all night,” she murmurs, teeth brushing your skin. “Whole night. Fuck.”

Her hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers cool against the hot skin of your ribs, palming your breast, thumb circling the sensitive curve. You arch against her, hands threading through her soft, tangled hair, pulling gently as she kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of wet heat that sets your skin ablaze.

You tug at her shirt, pulling it over her head, fingers brushing bare skin, warm shoulders, delicate collarbones, and she lifts her arms, eyes dark and heavy with need. Your shirt follows, discarded clumsily as your mouths meet again, deeper now, slower, more urgent, skin on skin, heat building like wildfire.

Her hands trail down your body, tugging at your shorts, fingers skating over your thighs, nails grazing lightly. You hook your thumbs into the waistband, tugging your panties down and kicking them off. She sinks lower on the couch, head resting on the armrest, eyes hooded, voice low but playful.

“Come here, baby. You know what I want.”

You start to straddle her face, heart hammering, breath catching in anticipation. But just as you settle, she tugs you back, voice hoarse but firm.

“Nuh uh. Turn around.”

The sudden command tightens your chest, sends a thrill through you. You nod, breath caught, and shift until you’re facing her feet, thighs hovering just above her head.

Her hands grip your ass, pulling you gently down as her tongue traces a slow, deliberate line up your folds. You tremble immediately, whimpering, pressing forward, craving the pressure, the wet heat.

You lean over, resting your weight on your forearms across her lower stomach, cheek pressed against her warm skin. You trace the curve of her hips with the tip of your tongue whilst sliding your hand beneath the waistband of her panties, fingers brushing the soft skin there. She moans low and needy into your cunt, sending shivers down your spine.

A sly grin curls at the corner of your mouth, desperate, smug, all at once. She’s already soaking wet, dripping for you. You carefully pull her panties down to her knees, letting the fabric catch on her thighs before tugging harder, hearing the soft rip of the material. She whines softly, but her mouth never stops its relentless worship.

Her tongue presses deeper, swirling and teasing, coaxing you open. You slip two fingers inside her pussy, curling just so, feeling Billie’s body jerk and tremble beneath your touch. She spreads her legs wider without needing to be asked, hungry and unrestrained.

You trail kisses up her inner thigh, soft and teasing, then plant your lips on her slick folds, tasting her wetness. Her gasp is sharp and raw, a sound that echoes through both your bodies. You lick slow, savoring the taste, matching the rhythm of her tongue on you, then faster, demanding and frantic.

She sucks your clit, lips wrapping around it, and you gasp around her mouth, hips bucking wildly despite the couch beneath you. Your nails dig into her thighs, clutching tight, while her fingers curl into the flesh of your hips, holding you steady as waves of pleasure crash through you.

Billie’s legs tremble, shaking with the intensity. Your own thighs quiver from the effort, muscles tight and burning. She pushes her tongue deeper, relentless and perfect, as you slip two fingers inside her, curling them expertly. She arches, desperate and open, grinding down hard onto your mouth, hips jerking with mounting need. 

You’re so close you can hardly breathe, the pressure building unbearably. Then she shudders first, legs locking tight around your head, body trembling violently in release. Her moans are muffled, broken and raw, vibrating against your wet cunt, her cum dribbling across your chin. 

But you don’t stop.

Not yet.

You ride your orgasm out with her mouth still working, hips bucking, fingers slipping, breath ragged and gasping. When it finally hits, loud and desperate, it rips through you, leaving you trembling and undone.

You collapse forward, your forearms resting on her thighs, both of you shaking, sweat slicking your skin, hearts pounding loud in the silence.

A pause, just the sound of panting, shallow breaths mingling in the quiet.

Her arms snake around your waist, pulling you impossibly close, warm and steady. She presses soft kisses along the inside of your thigh, lips feather-light against your skin.

You respond with a gentle kiss on her hip, soft and slow, lingering.

Quiet laughter bubbles up between you, breathless and tender.

You carefully slide off her lap, sticky and breathless, still catching your breath.

She pulls you down beside her on the couch, bodies tangled, chest to chest, faces inches apart.

The world shrinks to just this, just the two of you, utterly tangled in heat, quiet and complete.

The bus feels impossibly warm, heat pooling under your skin like a soft, heavy blanket. The faint hum of the engine idling somewhere in the background, a constant low thrum beneath your breaths. Outside, the city lights bleed in through the narrow windows, casting a blurred golden haze over everything, painting everything soft and unreal.

You’re tangled up against Billie, limbs knotted, skin slick with the lingering heat of what just happened between you. Her body curves against yours perfectly, warm and solid, steady beneath your cheek. The small lamp by the couch glows faintly, a soft pool of yellow light that barely touches the edges of the space around you, leaving the rest of the bus swallowed in deep shadow.

Billie’s breath is slow and warm on your skin as her lips trail down your neck, light, teasing, soft against the spot just behind your ear. A little laugh vibrates through her chest, low and effortless.

“Missed you, Bills,” she murmurs, voice rough from sleep and desire. Her fingers trace lazy circles along your ribs, nails barely grazing your skin.

You blink up at her, tired but content. “Been around you all day,” you whisper back, voice thick with sleep and the softness of the moment.

She smiles, eyes hooded but bright, pulling you a little closer. You stay like that for a while, just lying there, warm and quiet, the space between you shrinking until it disappears. You share little kisses, soft and slow, pressing your lips to hers and then along her jaw, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest against your own.

Eventually, Billie shifts, slipping a loose T-shirt over her head, the fabric falling soft and cool over her skin. You do the same, tugging your own shirt back on, the worn cotton soothing against the sensitive skin still tingling where her hands and lips touched.

You catch her eye and grin, the quiet contentment in the air making you feel like you could stay here forever. She leans in again, brushing her mouth against your neck.

“I missed you,” she says softly, voice playful but real.

You hum, half smiling, “Still here.”

Your hands find hers, fingers curling together, squeezing gently. The weight of everything, the exhaustion, the closeness, the unsaid things, settles around you like a heavy but comforting fog.

Then, almost imperceptible at first, you hear it. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Steady.

Your breath catches, heart flickering uneasily.

The front door of the bus creaks open.

Billie stiffens instantly, her body snapping upright like a wire pulled tight. The warm, sleepy girl you’ve been holding vanishes in an instant, replaced by something sharper, harder, tense.

Her eyes flick to the door, then to you, dark and guarded.

“Get off,” she hisses, voice low but fierce, urgency biting through the soft atmosphere. “Get off. Go to your bunk.”

You blink, caught somewhere between groggy and confused. “Hm?” you mumble, trying to nuzzle closer again.

She flinches at the movement, hands trembling just slightly as she pushes you away, firm but gentle, almost like she’s afraid she might hurt you if she doesn’t stop herself.

“Seriously. Now,” she snaps, voice clipped, breath sharp.

You stumble back, unbalanced in the sudden shift. Your elbow catches the edge of the couch with a sharp jab of pain. You wince, biting your lip to keep quiet, but the sting lingers, real and raw.

Billie’s eyes flick to your arm for a brief second, a flicker of concern that’s there and gone in a flash, replaced by the same tense urgency.

You want to stay. Just a minute more. But she’s already moving, pulling the curtain closed around her bunk. You shuffle back, holding your arm gently, the sting a physical echo of the ache twisting deep inside you. Your bunk feels cold, the metal frame rough against your skin. You sit up a little, cradling your arm like it might break open again, trying to soothe both the physical pain and the gnawing ache in your chest.

The bus is quiet now except for faint murmurs and the occasional soft laugh drifting through the vents and thin walls.

You catch Billie’s voice, light, casual, easy. Laughing with Finneas, joking with the crew or maybe friends who have come aboard.

You listen for your name. For any sign that the warm, messy, tender Billie from moments ago is still there.

But there’s nothing.

No mention of you.

No hint of the closeness you just shared.

Just the cold, hollow echo of a Billie who’s already slipping back into the world she keeps so carefully hidden.

The cramped quiet of your bunk presses in on you, the rough blanket tangled beneath your legs, the metal frame cold against your skin where it peeks from under the sheets. You sit up, still holding your arm where the sharp jab from earlier burns, both the sting on your skin and the ache beneath it, deeper, heavier. Your breath catches now and then, half from the pain, half from the tight knot of something raw and twisting in your chest. The heat from your body feels too little against the chill settling inside you.

Minutes stretch, slow and heavy, but finally the silence becomes unbearable, a weight dragging at your bones. You push yourself upright, heart tight, and slip out of your bunk, careful not to wake anyone else.

The bus feels different out here, smaller, colder, less forgiving. You cross the narrow aisle, the worn carpet muffling your steps. Your hand reaches out, trembling just a little, and taps gently on Billie’s bunk curtain.

Her head pops out almost immediately. There’s a flicker of surprise, then amusement, maybe even a little showiness for whoever else might be listening nearby, a playful laugh that sounds too light, like she’s pretending this is no big deal.

You meet her gaze, steady now, voice soft but firm. “Talk to me. Outside. Please.”

Her eyes flick toward the door and then back to you. Without a word, she pulls back the curtain and steps out, following you silently.

The bus door opens with a low creak, and a rush of cold night air sweeps in. The sky is low and thick with clouds, and a steady rain falls, small beads soaking through your hair, wetting your skin beneath your thin shirt. The cold bites, making your breath fog in front of you, pale ghosts disappearing into the night.

You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself, the dampness mixing with the ache in your arm, the cold layering over the raw heat in your chest.

The parking lot around the bus is empty and quiet, lit only by the dim orange glow of distant street lamps, the headlights of a few passing cars streaking faintly across the wet asphalt.

You turn to Billie, voice breaking slightly, fragile as the mist around you. “Billie… what the fuck was that back there? Why did you shut me out like that?”

She stiffens, folding her arms, biting back a bitter laugh. “I’m tired,” she snaps, sharp, defensive. “I’m on edge. You wouldn’t get it.”

The words hit you harder than the cold, but you push on, voice growing more urgent, a desperate tremor rising. “No, Billie, it’s not just that. You pushed me away. You made me feel like I don’t matter. Like I’m nothing.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line. There’s something flickering beneath her eyes, frustration? Fear? Something you’ve never quite reached before. But she keeps her walls up, not letting it show.

“Look,” she says finally, voice low but hard, “you knew what this was. What this is. You knew it’s complicated.”

You shake your head slowly, voice barely steady as it cracks. “You act like you want me, like you want me so badly, only when no one’s looking. You hide me, Billie.”

Her eyes flash, defensive and sharp. “I’m not hiding you,” she says.

You bite back tears, voice shaking with the weight of everything bottled up for years. “You literally told your brother we’re just friends, after you came in my mouth on the tour bus.”

The words hang in the cold night air like a stone. Billie flinches, like you’ve hit her. Her eyes glisten, bright, shimmering tears welling up in the dark. You hate yourself for that, for breaking her open, but you can’t hold it in any longer.

She presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders curling forward as if trying to fold into herself, retreat away from everything.

The rain starts falling heavier now, drumming steady on the roof of the bus, soft but relentless. Your breath clouds between you in pale, quick bursts.

You almost turn away, the words catching in your throat but spilling out anyway, quiet but sharp, “Maybe I shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Billie’s eyes widen, panic flashing so fast you almost miss it. Her tough mask cracks, and she steps forward, voice suddenly softer, urgent, real. “Wait, don’t say that. I’m sorry. I’ll make it better. I promise I’ll try.”

You want to believe her. You want to believe the words will be different this time. But you’ve heard promises like this before, fragile as glass and just as easy to shatter.

Still, the ache and loneliness are heavier than your doubt. You nod slowly, voice barely a whisper, raw with tiredness. “Okay. But I can’t keep getting hurt like this.”

She pulls you close then, arms wrapping around you, shaky, hesitant, imperfect but honest. The rain soaks both of you, cold seeping through your clothes, but for a moment, it doesn’t matter. You hold onto each other like it might be the only thing keeping you both from falling apart.

A couple of days later, the bus feels heavy with absence. Billie’s disappeared into whatever chaos her world is, maybe a press thing, maybe soundcheck, maybe a meeting with managers. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know. The only constant is the quiet, and the dull ache in your arm that no amount of rubbing will fix.

You’re sitting on the faded leather couch in the back, absently tracing the frayed seam with your thumb. The bus hums softly beneath you, the engine idling, lights blinking outside. Rain splatters against the windows, a muted rhythm that presses against the silence.

The curtain at the back shifts. You glance up.

Finneas steps out, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, eyes clear and calm. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved deep in his pockets, like he’s trying to seem casual but isn’t fooling you.

“Hey,” he says, voice low enough not to break the quiet too much.

“Hey,” you answer, voice rough and small.

He shrugs, glancing around as if weighing if he should leave. Then he sits down beside you, careful not to crowd but close enough that you can smell the faint trace of coffee on his jacket.

“I know stuff,” he says bluntly. No preamble.

You blink, surprised. “What kind of stuff?”

He looks at you, eyes steady but not invasive. “About you and Billie. She told me. A while ago. Before whatever the other day was.”

You swallow, heart ticking faster. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’s… she’s protective. And honestly, I wasn’t sure what to say. It’s complicated.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “But I want you to know she cares. Even when it doesn’t look like it.”

You laugh, bitter, short. “Cares? She pushed me away the other night like I was disgusting.”

Finneas shrugs again, like it’s just one more thing on a long list. “She’s scared. I don’t think it’s about you. It’s everything else. The pressure, the fame, the way people talk, watch. It makes her close up tight.”

You stare at your hands, curling into fists. “I don’t think she’s scared of anything except being real with me.”

He nods slowly. “Maybe. But sometimes scared looks like pushing away.”

You bite your lip, thinking about all the nights you’ve spent folding yourself smaller, pretending not to want more than secret touches, stolen moments. The quiet, the hiding, it’s been so long you almost don’t remember what it feels like to be seen.

“Fin,” you say, voice breaking a little, “do you really think she cares? Because sometimes it feels like I’m holding onto a ghost.”

Finneas meets your gaze, eyes steady and softer than before. “Yeah. She does. More than you think. But she’s got her own battles. Just because you’re okay with people knowing things, about you, about you and her, about your identity, doesn’t mean she feels the same way about herself.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

He gives you a small, almost shy smile. “Anytime. And if you ever need someone who’s not her… you know where to find me.”

You nod, the weight in your chest shifting just a fraction. It’s not perfect, not even close. But maybe it’s a start.

The tour bus starts to feel different day by day. The constant low hum of the engine is no longer just background noise, it’s a quiet pulse underneath the soft shifts in Billie’s behavior. Small things that shouldn’t mean anything but mean everything. Like the way she lingers in your space a little longer when she’s backstage. Or how, during soundchecks or interviews, she throws you quick, electric glances from across the room. There’s a secret language between you now, half spoken, half glanced, that no one else sees.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. And you notice everything.

You’re sitting in the green room before a show, a quiet space filled with the hum of crew chatter. Billie’s there too, sprawled on the couch with her head resting against your shoulder. It feels like the first time she’s let herself do this in front of anyone, not fully out, but no longer hiding entirely either. Your heart stutters at the weight of her presence, warm and soft, her breath hitching slightly as she closes her eyes.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice low and a little rough, like she’s holding back something.

You shift so you’re leaning back, careful not to disturb her too much. “Hi” you answer, feeling the familiar comfort of her against you, but also the flicker of something fragile and new.

She hums, a soft vibration that feels like a promise or a question, and you realize she’s testing the water, this closeness, this small public display of affection without a word. Your fingers twitch, itching to lace through her hair, to hold her closer. You resist, not wanting to push too fast, but also desperate to show her you’re here, always.

After the show, when the adrenaline is still buzzing in her veins, she finds you instantly. You’re backstage, the noise from the crowd fading, replaced by the quiet bustle of the crew packing up. She pulls you close, fingers tangling in your hair, and kisses you, soft, urgent, like she’s trying to memorize the moment so it can’t be taken away.

“I missed you,” she breathes against your mouth, voice cracking just a little.

You smile, lips brushing hers again. “Been here all day.”

Her laugh is a whisper, and she presses her forehead to yours. “It’s stupid, but… I don’t want to hide it as much anymore. Not with you.”

You squeeze her hand, heart thudding with something wild and hopeful. “I’m right here. Always.”

Days blend into nights and back again. Billie spends more time with you, long afternoons in quiet hotel rooms where the world feels miles away, late night walks in rain soaked streets where the city lights reflect in puddles, and in those moments, the secret edges soften.

She still won’t say it aloud. No public declarations, no instagram photos, or any photos for that matter, or bold announcements. But she’s leaning on you, touching you just enough in public to make your breath hitch. Her hand finds yours when no one’s looking. She rests her head lightly on your shoulder during long tour bus rides, the corner of her mouth quirking in a private smile only you catch.

It’s like she’s testing it all, feeling out what it would mean to step into the light with you. And you let her.

You wonder what Billie’s up to right now. It’s been a few days since you last saw her, but the question sticks, like the faint hum of the city leaking through your walls. You check your phone again, fingers hovering over the screen, then decide against it, no new messages. You stand by the window, watching the streets blur into evening, the sounds drifting up: distant sirens, the murmur of strangers, tires skimming wet pavement.

Somewhere out there, Billie moves through all that noise, that chaos. You picture her, always so calm, so steady, but maybe not tonight.

Billie steps out of the black SUV and instantly regrets it.

Her heels hit the curb awkwardly, the sharp edge biting into her skin through the thin sole. A camera flash goes off before the door even fully closes. It stings her eyes, blue and white and unrelenting, she squints without thinking, which she knows they’ll catch. They always do. “Don’t frown,” someone once told her. “You have to look like you’re enjoying yourself.” 

Her dress is tight, too tight. Not in a flattering way. Not in the way the stylist had chirped, “snatched” as she zipped Billie in an hour ago. It’s tight in the ribs, high under her arms, pressing against her chest with every shallow breath. The neckline dips lower than she’d wanted. Her bra keeps slipping, the underwire pinching, the straps digging into her shoulders. She’s already adjusted them twice. No, her stylist adjusted them, fingers poking into Billie’s cleavage like she was a hanger instead of a human. 

She’s wearing sheer gloves because “soft femme is in” and her nails are long, impractical, a pain to live in. Her hands are sweating in the gloves. She can’t wipe them dry. Her lipstick sticks to her teeth. There’s a blister forming on the back of her left heel. Every step toward the venue feels like walking into a trap, and for a moment, she wishes she could disappear back into the car, back into the quiet you’re waiting in.

She tries to walk like she’s confident, like this is easy. Her hips sway too much, too forced, her thighs chafing. Cameras flash again. She smiles, too wide, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. She already knows how fake it looks.

She hates this.

She feels like she’s wearing someone else’s body. Like she’s walking around inside a version of herself built for men, a puppet. Not for the first time, she wonders if they can tell.

Inside the venue, it’s worse.

The lighting is low and moody, purples and blues with sharp accents of gold. Her heels click against the polished floor. Everyone smells like perfume and money. Too many bodies, too close. People look her up and down, not subtly. There are eyes on her chest, her waist, the curve of her ass in the mirror, like sheen of her dress. Men approach her like they already own the right.

“You look beautiful tonight, Billie,” one producer, late 30s, too confident, says, his voice all smooth velvet. His hand slides to her waist, rests there. Lingers. Not a graze. A hold. Possessive.

She laughs, sharp, too loud, and takes a half-step away. “Thanks,” she says, looking over his shoulder, hoping to spot someone, anyone. A lifeline. There’s no one.

She feels him move closer again a few minutes later. During a photo with a group, label people, industry names, his hand slides low, onto her thigh. She doesn’t even feel it at first. Then she does. Heat, pressure. Fingers brushing the slit in her dress. Too high.

She jolts — not enough to be noticed on camera, just enough to tense. Her smile freezes. Her shoulders go stiff. Her stomach tightens, as if she’s swallowed something sharp.

He leans in. Too close.

Whispers, breath hot against her neck, “I bet you drive men crazy in that thing, huh?”

She stares ahead. Her ears ring. Her jaw locks.

She laughs, hollow, because the camera’s still pointed at her. Because people are still watching. Because she’s not allowed to cause a scene. Not Billie Eilish, the cool one, the approachable one, the not too queer, not too angry, not too difficult celebrity. She plays along. For now.

Later, she slips away. Finds a corridor near the back, dim, lined with storage cases and half empty glasses on a catering tray. Her head’s spinning. She wants to rip the gloves off. Her chest aches. Her heels hurt. Her skin crawls. She just needs a second. Just one second to breathe.

She leans against the wall, exhaling, heart still racing.

Then she hears footsteps. Him.

“Hey,” he says, like they’re in on a secret together.

Billie stiffens. She pushes off the wall, tries to walk past him, eyes fixed on the exit ahead. He shifts sideways, blocks her path. His hand catches her arm. Tight grip. Fingers on her bare skin, just above the glove.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be so shy.”

His other hand presses low on Billie’s hip. Her stomach flips.

She tries to step around him again, but he moves with her. He’s taller. Bigger. Too close. The hallway feels smaller. Farther from sound. Farther from people. She can smell his cologne, sharp and synthetic. Her skin crawls.

“Stop,” she says, voice quiet but clear. She tries to pull back. His fingers dig harder. Now it hurts.

He moves faster than she expects, crowding her back against the wall. A thud behind her as her spine hits the plaster. His hand presses harder, flat against her thigh now. His leg between hers. Her heart is in her throat.

Her gloves squeak against the wall. Her breath comes in shallow gasps.

“Don’t,” she says, louder this time, almost a cry.

He touches her again, not her thigh this time, higher, and something in her brain snaps.

She shoves him.

Hard.

Not enough to knock him over, but enough to make him stumble back a step, startled.

He grabs her wrist reflexively. “Hey,” he says, like she’s the one out of line. “Relax. You’re so fucking uptight.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Billie says, voice shaking, eyes wild.

There’s a beat, a heavy, quiet moment, and then a voice from the other end of the corridor. A woman, someone vaguely familiar, maybe from another label, turns the corner. The man’s hands drop instantly.

He steps back, smooths his jacket. Smiles. “Just talking,” he says, too easily.

He walks off. Billie stands there, shaking.

Her gloves feel like they’re strangling her hands. Her chest is tight. Her throat burns. Her mouth tastes like bile. She pushes past the woman without a word. Finds the first bathroom. Locks the stall. Sits down on the toilet fully clothed. And finally, finally, lets herself cry.

You’re lying on your couch, still wondering what Billie is up to, TV flickering silently, some half watched rerun of something you’ve seen a thousand times playing in the dark. The city hums faintly beyond your window, distant car horns, the occasional siren, a dog barking three blocks away. You almost don’t check your phone ringing at your side. You’re used to ignoring it this late. But when you do, when you see Billie’s name, everything in you stills.

You answer immediately.

“Billie?”

There’s noise on the other end. Nothing for a second. Then, 

“Hey..Uh. Fuck god I’m sorry I’m sorry. I uh. Can I come over? Please?” Her voice stumbles out fast, too fast. Like she’s trying to keep it together through shallow, ragged breaths.

Your body jerks upright. “What? Billie, are you okay? Talk to me what’s going on.”

“No. No, I just…I didn’t know who else to call. Please. Please…don’t ask. I just need you.”

There’s no hesitation. “Come. I’m here. Just come.”

She hangs up before you can say more. The line goes dead like she’s afraid to be heard. You’re left holding the phone against your ear for another five seconds, heart pounding like it knows something you don’t yet.

You flick the light on, suddenly cold. You pace the apartment. Turn the TV off. Unlock the door. Pull your hoodie off, then back on again. Your hands are shaking.

It’s twenty eight minutes before there’s a soft, uneven knock. You open the door fast, too fast, and she’s just… standing there.

Billie.

You blink once.

She’s soaked. The kind of soaked that isn’t just weather. Like the world tried to peel her apart on the way here. Her makeup’s smudged, mascara pooled under her eyes in streaks like shadows. One earring dangles loosely, the other completely gone. Her lipstick is worn off, smudged slightly at the edge of her mouth, like someone wiped it away. Lip liner faded in all the wrong places. Her hair’s tangled, wind mussed. The lace strap of her black dress is torn, one side hanging lower, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone.

You don’t speak. You just open your arms, and she folds into you like it’s the only thing holding her up. She doesn’t fall so much as collapse, limbs heavy, breath uneven, head pressed hard into your shoulder. Her whole body trembles. Not sobbing, not yet, but shaking like something is coming undone inside her and she doesn’t know where to put it.

You wrap your arms around her back. Feel the slight damp chill of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress. Her chest pushes against yours with each rough breath she takes, the kind that feel caught halfway in her throat. She smells like perfume and cold air and sweat and something acidic beneath it, something sharp. You try not to breathe that part in.

She doesn’t speak for a long time. Her fingers clutch at your shirt like she’s scared you’ll pull away. You don’t. You don’t move.

Finally, her voice breaks the silence, barely a whisper, muffled into your collar. “It was… I didn’t think it would.. he..”

You tighten your hold just slightly, saying nothing.

“I was just standing there,” she breathes. “In the corner. And he came over. I couldn’t move. I just” Her voice breaks, “he touched me.”

Your hands are shaking now too.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her lips are chapped. There’s a rawness at the edge of her mouth, like maybe she bit it too hard. Her eyes won’t quite meet yours.

“I pushed him. I did. I said stop,” she says, almost like she’s convincing herself. “I told him. I said get off. I said it.”

You nod. You don’t interrupt. Just press your hand over hers where it still trembles against your chest. Her palm is cold. Her fingers twitch like they still feel him.

She exhales sharply. “Everyone saw him before. The way he was touching me. No one said anything.”

The sentence cracks in the middle. She blinks fast, jaw clenched. Her mouth opens like she’s going to say more, then closes again.

You don’t push. Not yet.

You just stand there, her arms around your waist, her body pressed to yours like a question without an answer. You run your hand slowly down her back. She flinches at first, just barely, then lets herself lean in harder.

You whisper, “You’re safe now,” even if you don’t know if it’s true. Even if you can feel how not-okay she is. Even if the trembling doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t say anything else.

And you don’t ask her to.

Not tonight.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just sits there, right on the edge of your bed. Her body still hasn’t fully relaxed. Shoulders hunched forward like she’s still bracing for something. One hand grips the hem of her torn dress, fingers twitching, as if replaying it all in the fabric. Her other arm is loosely folded over her stomach like she’s holding herself in. The room is quiet except for the hum of your fridge in the next room and the soft, uneven sound of her breathing, not quite crying anymore, but not settled either.

You don’t ask questions. Don’t press. You just move slowly, barefoot on the hardwood, padding into the bathroom. The overhead light is too harsh, so you leave it off and flick on the small side lamp near the mirror instead, a warm, amber glow. You twist the faucet, let the water run hot, toss in a handful of the lavender salts she used the last time she stayed over. They fizzle in a soft hiss, steam rising to fog the mirror. You make it as gentle as you can.

You don’t tell Billie it’s ready, you just return to the bedroom doorway, standing there quietly until her eyes flick toward you. She looks small. Smaller than you’ve ever seen her. Her voice is quiet, almost hoarse, “You ran me a bath?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She stands slowly. Movements tight. One hand tugs at the side of her dress like she forgot it’s ripped. Her mascara is smeared under both eyes, tear tracks drying there. As she walks past you into the bathroom, you reach out and gently, briefly, touch her wrist. Just a light graze. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t say anything either.

When the bathroom door closes behind her, you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The faint splash of water behind the door feels like proof she’s still here. You grab one of your oversized shirts, the one she always steals, and a pair of soft shorts, fold them neatly, and leave them just outside the bathroom. You don’t knock. You don’t say anything through the door.

Time passes. You don’t know how long. The apartment is dim now, lit only by the dull streetlights through the blinds. You sit for a while, then shift. Pick up the hoodie you left on the floor. Fold it. Set it on the arm of the couch. You keep yourself busy because the silence feels like it might crush you if you don’t. She’s still in there. Maybe curled up in the tub. Maybe trying not to cry again. You don’t want her to feel rushed.

Eventually, you press your hand lightly against the door, speak through it, voice quiet. “I’m gonna lie down, alright? On the couch. You take your time.”

There’s a pause. A soft splash. Then, through the door, her voice, faint “Okay. I’m sorry.”

You blink. That word hits you sideways. You swallow hard and press your palm firmer against the wood.

“Don’t be,” you say. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Silence. Then a small rustle. That’s it.

You leave her alone.

The couch isn’t comfortable. Your body curls automatically, searching for warmth you gave away. You didn’t want to assume she’d want you in the bed. Not after what happened. Not when her skin still trembled under your touch. She didn’t push you away earlier, but she didn’t hold you either. You respect that. You don’t want to take more than she can give.

But hours pass. You can’t sleep. Not really. You drift and jolt back awake. You stare at the ceiling. Then at your phone. Nothing new. You try not to imagine her crying again behind that door. You try not to think about that word “touched.” The way her voice broke on it.

You must doze off because the next thing you hear is your name. Soft. From the hallway. Barely above a whisper. You sit up, heart thudding, Billie’s shadow cast across the sofa. 

“Billie?” you call, voice scratchy.

“Yeah,” she says.

She’s standing there in your shirt. Damp hair clinging to her neck, collarbone glinting with the remnants of water. Her legs are bare, skin blotchy from the heat of the bath. She looks like she’s been staring at the floor for a while before speaking.

“Can you… will you come lay down with me?”

You’re already moving before she finishes the sentence. She doesn’t step aside, just turns, walks back down the hall, and you follow. Quiet. Careful.

Your bedroom is dim. The sheets are rumpled where she sat earlier. She climbs back into the bed and pulls the covers up to her chest. You slip in next to her, giving her space until her hand reaches for yours under the blanket. Her fingers are damp and cold, and they curl into yours slowly, like she’s still deciding if she’s allowed.

She’s not crying. Not now. Her face is blank, staring at the ceiling, but her breath is unsteady.

“I can’t sleep,” she says quietly.

You shift slightly, close enough for your knees to bump beneath the covers. You keep your voice low, even, soothing. “You don’t have to. Just rest. I’ve got you.”

Billie turns her head toward you. Her eyes look darker in the low light, shadows catching the curve of her cheek. Her lip quivers slightly before she presses it tight. You don’t mention it.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. You just lie there, her hand in yours. Your thumb brushes across her knuckles, slow, steady. You’re not sure she’s even really with you right now, her eyes are open, but far away.

And then, quietly, she whispers, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” you say.

You mean it with your whole body.

Then finally, Billie exhales, slow and trembly. Her voice comes out like something cracked open.

“I hated it.”

You shift your head to face her, eyes adjusting to the dark. There’s enough light bleeding in through the curtain from the streetlamp outside that you can make out the curve of her cheek, the hollow under her eyes.

“What?” you say softly.

“That place,” Billie murmurs. “That night. That dress. That smile. All of it.”

Her eyes are wide, staring somewhere past you. You wait.

“I felt like I was… performing. Like I always do. But more. Worse.” Her mouth twitches. “Like I had to prove something I’m not. Just to make everyone else comfortable.”

She swallows hard, and her throat clicks. She’s facing you now, side on, her arms folded up between your chests like she’s trying to shield something.

“I didn’t want to go. But they said it’d be good for optics. Said I should look soft. Feminine. Sexy. Approachable.” She lets out a dry laugh. “I wore a fucking corset. I let them glue lashes on me. And I smiled for men. I let them touch me.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t interrupt.

“I let him…” she trails off, eyes flickering, “…because that’s what I was supposed to do. Because I thought that’s what being straight and normal and easy to market looks like. And I let it go too far. I froze.”

You reach for her hand. Her fingers don’t move at first, but then they slowly curl around yours, hesitant, then tighter. You can feel her pulse in her palm.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, quiet but firm.

She nods, but it’s shallow, like she doesn’t quite believe you yet.

Another pause. The sheets shift as she moves closer, her breath grazing your collarbone. You can feel how tense she is, how she hasn’t really let her body relax all night, like she’s still stuck in that moment, in that corner, in that skin.

“I kept thinking… what if I’d said no earlier?” she whispers. “What if I hadn’t smiled so much? What if I hadn’t worn that dress?” Her voice goes sharp at the edges, like she’s angry at herself. “What if he could tell? That I’m not even into him…that I’m…”

She stops. You already know what she meant. But the word doesn’t come.

You don’t make her say it.

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Billie,” you say, your thumb moving gently over her knuckles. “Not a smile. Not your body. Not a lie.”

She shakes her head, her forehead nudging against your collarbone. “I just… I felt like I had to pick. You or them. Me or the version of me they want.”

You’re silent, but your grip on her hand tightens slightly, just to say: I hear you. I’m still here.

“And I keep trying to choose both,” she says, voice cracking, “but it’s not working. Because I keep hurting you.”

You feel a hot sting rise in your throat. She’s not wrong. But hearing her say it out loud cuts in a different way, like a splinter finally getting pulled, like a wound starting to bleed in order to heal.

“I hate that I’ve made you feel like a secret,” she says. “You’re not. You’re not a secret to me.”

Your eyes close. Her voice is so small now.

“I think about you all the time when I’m out there. Every time I’m fake smiling in some photoshoot or flirting with some guy I don’t care about. You’re in the back of my head. You’re in my chest. You’re what feels real.”

The heat behind your eyes sharpens. Your chest swells with so many things at once, grief, tenderness, longing.

“I know it’s not enough,” she continues. “I know I’ve made it hard. I’ve made you doubt. I’ve made you wait.”

You don’t say anything yet. You wait. Because she’s still talking, and something in her is unraveling.

“But last night…” She pauses. Her throat tightens. “It scared me. Like, deep down scared. Because I didn’t just feel violated. I felt invisible. I felt like nothing.”

She pulls in a shuddering breath. “And I thought… if something happened to me, if I didn’t make it home, if I disappeared into that corner or let myself go numb just to survive, no one would even know the truth. Not really. Not about me. Not about us.”

You feel her shake. Her body, fragile and tense against yours, finally starts to soften as you hold her.

“I don’t want to live like that,” she says, voice almost inaudible. “I don’t want to keep pretending. Not if it means losing who I am. Not if it means losing you.”

You move your hand gently to her face, brushing your thumb under her eye. Her skin’s damp. Her cheek is hot from crying.

“I don’t want to be someone I’m not,” she whispers. “Not anymore.”

Your own throat is thick, but you nod, once, slowly.

“I don’t need it to happen right now,” you say. “But I needed to know you felt that way. That it mattered to you.”

“It does,” she says quickly. “It does.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s careful. Muted. Like two people holding a truth between them that’s too new to be loud.

You lay there for a long while. Eventually, her breathing steadies. Her body starts to really rest, limbs slackening into the mattress, her hand still holding yours, chest warm against your ribs.

She doesn’t fall asleep for a long time. Neither do you.

But when she does, it’s the first time since that night that her face doesn’t look tense.

Weeks later, the bedside lamp glows faint gold, soft as breath, casting low shadows across the creased bedsheets of Billie’s room and the bare skin tangled in them. It’s hot in the room, not temperature hot, but the kind of heat that lingers after bodies have pressed together too long, too close, and too desperately. The kind that smells like sweat and sex and Billie’s perfume, that strange citrusy woodsy smell she always wears that clings to her sheets like memory.

You’re curled against her, one leg hooked loosely over hers, your cheek resting against her stomach, the gentle slope of it rising and falling beneath your skin with each slow breath she takes. Billie lies on her back, arm behind her head, the other hand tracing lazy patterns down your spine, fingers light and aimless like she’s drawing nothing at all. The air’s quiet, the silence swollen and intimate, pierced only by the faint creak of the walls and the rhythmic click of the ceiling fan overhead.

Your muscles ache in that way you like. Your body feels heavy in the good way. Billie hasn’t said much for the last ten minutes, but it’s not awkward. It never is, afterward.

You’re just letting it stretch out, the stillness. Letting your breathing slow down. Letting it be.

Then, her voice cuts through the dark, low and casual, like she’s asking you if you want tea or what time it is.

“Oh. The Grammy noms came out today, by the way.”

Your eyes stay closed at first. You hum something that could mean anything, “Mmm?”,  sleep thick in your throat. A second later, it registers.

“…Wait..what?”

You blink up at her. Her face is half in shadow, lips parted, eyes distant. You shift up on one elbow.

“And you didn’t say anything?”

She shrugs. Her left shoulder lifts, smooth and slow, then sinks again against the pillow. “Didn’t feel like a big deal.”

You scoff. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Billie turns her head slightly, that crooked little smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth, the one she does when she knows she’s messing with you. You reach for her face and kiss her jaw, warm and clumsy.

“Well?” you murmur. “Did you get any?”

She blinks at the ceiling, then back to you. Her voice is low. “Yeah. ‘Hit Me Hard and Soft’ got pretty much everything. Album. Song. Record. All of it.”

You blink. Then laugh, half in disbelief, half in awe. You sit up straighter, arm draped across her middle. “Billie, what the fuck? That’s huge.”

“I guess,” she says softly. Her hand finds your forearm, gives it a lazy squeeze.

You kiss her again. Quick. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

She just breathes, steady and quiet. You let yourself settle back down, nestling against her chest this time. Your cheek against her collarbone. You close your eyes again, body still but mind suddenly awake. The ache in your thighs has dulled into a warm hum. Your fingers absently trace her ribs, feel the curve of her side, the soft swell of her breast under your arm.

“Is it fun?” you ask quietly. “Or is it just like… four hours of clapping and pretending you’re not dead inside?”

She snorts, a breathy, half-muffled laugh.

“It’s both. Fun if you win. A nightmare if you don’t. And then there’s the red carpet, the hair, the interviews, the seats that make your ass go numb… so yeah. Mostly a mask. But free booze.”

You laugh too, quiet into her skin. “Mmm. The perks.”

You fall silent again, the kind of silence that stretches easy between people who know each other too well. You’re tired, your limbs slack and heavy, but Billie’s fingers keep drifting along your shoulder, fingertips just barely grazing your skin.

Then she says it.

“You wanna come?”

You freeze. Not stiff, not panicked, just paused. The question dangles in the air like it’s nothing. Like she just asked if you wanted pancakes in the morning. But you know it’s not nothing. You know it’s everything.

You lift your head slightly. “Yeah, right.”

She turns to look at you, slowly. Her expression is unreadable. Not pissed, not hurt, just flat. “I’m being serious. But never mind.”

She shifts beneath you, adjusting the pillow, moving like she’s closing the door again. Like whatever nerve she had to say it is gone now.

Your chest goes tight. “Wait”

You sit up a little more. The air’s cooler now. It touches your skin in a way it didn’t before.

“I mean… yeah. Of course. I’ll come. I just didn’t think…”

You trail off, because you don’t know how to say what you mean without sounding desperate.

You didn’t think she’d ask.

Not like this.

Not after everything. Not after months of being hidden behind curtains and backstage doors. After all the green rooms where she held your hand but never let go in public. After that night she collapsed in your arms and didn’t say your name.

You swallow.

You wonder what this means. If she wants you there to sit beside her. Or just near her. If she’s thinking about the carpet. The photos. The headlines. If she’s imagining you in her frame. If she’s even thinking that far.

You say, quietly, “Thank you.”

Her face softens. Eyes heavy, but still awake. “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”

You nod. Press your mouth to her shoulder. You don’t say anything else. Because you don’t want to ask the questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.

You lie back down beside her. Her arm wraps around you. You both close your eyes.

The air smells like her. Like citrus and skin and something slightly bitter beneath it. The sheets are still warm.

And for the first time in months, you let yourself imagine being seen.

The hotel suite only a few meters from the Grammys smells like hairspray, expensive perfume, and nervous energy. The room is a whirlwind of movement, stylists darting in and out, adjusting the hem of a dress here, smoothing the sharp crease of a sleeve there. The hum of conversation is punctuated by soft laughter, clipped commands, and the steady tapping of shoes on the polished floor. Finneas stands near the window, scrolling on his phone, the tension behind his calm face barely concealed.

You sit on the edge of a plush velvet chair, fingers entwined in your lap, wearing a black dress that feels both elegant and alien on your body. Technically, you’re “just her friend,” the phrase echoing hollow in your mind as you watch Billie move around the room. She’s half dressed, the silk of the designer gown slipping between her fingers as the stylist works the zipper up her back. Her skin glows under the warm light, the delicate curve of her collarbone exposed where the dress dips low.

Billie glances at you in the mirror, eyes catching yours briefly. For a heartbeat, her hand twitches and she reaches out, fingers brushing yours on the armrest of the chair. But then, someone’s gaze flickers over, and she pulls back immediately, like a secret being tucked away. You feel the electric pulse of that tiny, stolen touch, and she knows you feel it. Neither of you says anything. There’s a wall there, but behind it, a quiet understanding.

“I’ll see you out there,” she murmurs, voice soft but steady.

You nod, swallowing the lump of nerves in your throat. “Yeah.”

The journey to the ceremony is surreal, you’re led in through a side entrance, your staff badges flashing past security without the flash of cameras or the buzz of fans. It feels like you’re a ghost, shadows trailing Billie’s orbit but never quite part of the spotlight.

Out on the red carpet, you watch from behind the scenes as Billie steps into the glare of the cameras. She smiles, effortless and radiant, posing with other artists and industry faces who are all public in her life. The flashing lights feel distant, surreal. No one asks who you are. No one even looks your way. Your heart aches with that familiar sting, the ache of invisibility.

Inside the arena, the atmosphere hums with anticipation and buzz. You sit in Billie’s row, a few seats away. Finneas sits between you, his calm presence a buffer against the tension. Managers and handlers hover nearby like shadows. There’s a barrier, physical and invisible, that keeps you just outside the inner circle.

During a lull in the proceedings, Billie shifts in her seat. With a quick, barely perceptible motion, she swaps places with Finneas, sliding silently over to sit next to you. Your leg brushes against hers beneath the seat. Your breath catches.

Her hand finds yours under the armrest, pinky threading slowly around yours. It’s a small, secret gesture, but it feels like fire, raw and electric. Neither of you looks around. No one notices. No one sees.

The room hushes as the Album of the Year is announced.

“Hit Me Hard and Soft.”

The words hang in the air like thunder.

Billie freezes for a moment, stunned. You see it in her eyes, disbelief, joy, fear, relief all tangled together. Finneas leans in close, whispering congratulations. She breathes in, then stands to accept the award, her face shimmering with tears.

At the microphone, her voice trembles slightly.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. To my fans, you are everything. To my family, my heart. And to the people who see me, even when I’m hiding.”

Your brow quirks in surprise at the cryptic phrase, your cheeks flushing. What did that mean, exactly? You want to ask, but the moment is already shifting, dissolving.

Back in her seat, Billie’s hands shake as she clasps the award to her chest. You lean in quickly, wrapping your arms around her in a hug, whispering, “I’m so proud of you.”

She laughs, the sound soft and shaky, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Then, her voice is low,  urgent and real.

“I want to kiss you.”

You freeze, heart hammering. “You want to what?”

Her hand squeezes yours, her eyes locked on yours, vulnerability raw and unguarded.

“I want to kiss you.”

Before you can react, she leans in, brushing her lips against yours. It’s quick,  a secret pressed into shadow, hidden behind the bulky figure standing in front of you. No flashes catch the moment. No one notices.

But you do.

And in that stolen kiss, beneath the weight of a thousand eyes that don’t see, you feel something terrifying and real.

A fragile hope.

Hours later, the afterglow of the ceremony buzzes in your veins, but the world feels miles away now, a distant hum behind the close, steady rhythm of Billie’s breathing against your shoulder. You’re tucked together in a quiet corner of the hotel suite, far from flashing cameras and the staged smiles of the red carpet.

Billie’s still in that ethereal dress, the fabric cool and smooth beneath your fingers as you absentmindedly trace the line of her collarbone. Her hair is loose now, soft waves tumbling around her face, and the tension you saw on stage has melted into something tender, fragile.

You can feel the weight of the kiss just given, quick, hidden, impossible, but real. Your fingers twitch with the memory, and you swallow, unsure what to say, or if words even matter right now.

She shifts beside you, the side of her face pressed to your temple. Her voice is a soft murmur, not quite a question. “I know it’s still… complicated.”

You nod, because it is. Because she’s still afraid. Because the world isn’t ready, or maybe she isn’t yet. But here, now, it’s just the two of you.

“I’m here,” you whisper, the words more for yourself than her. “For all of it.”

Her hand finds yours, fingers lacing through yours in a slow, deliberate squeeze. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Me too.”

For a long time, you just sit like that, two quiet heartbeats in a vast, noisy world that doesn’t have to see you. The soft hum of the city through the windows, the subtle scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

You don’t talk about the cameras, the applause, or the forced smiles. You don’t talk about secrets or fear or what comes next. You just breathe, together, holding onto this small moment like it’s the only thing that matters. Because maybe it is.

Your apartment is quiet. Still. That particular hush that only happens on a weekday afternoon when no one’s texting, no one’s calling, and the world outside is going on without you. Just the hum of the washer, the clink of a button tapping against the glass as it spins, and Billie’s footsteps somewhere down the hall.

She’s been here for two days straight, not that she said she would be. Not that she ever does. She just shows up now, suitcase half-zipped, hair in a messy bun, eyes tired but relieved in that particular way she gets when she walks in your door like she’s finally able to drop her shoulders. She doesn’t say it, but you know why. After what happened, after the assault, being here is something like safety. And maybe it’s healing something in her or trying to.

You’re bent over the hamper, sorting through clothes. Half of what’s in the basket is hers. She’s taken over your drawers without asking. Her perfume lingers on your sheets, your hoodies, even your towels. You don’t mind. You never did.

You call out casually, “Hey, you need anything washing?”

“Uh…” Her voice drifts from the bedroom, muffled and distracted. “Yeah, actually.”

A few seconds later, she appears. She’s barefoot, sweatshirt sleeves shoved up past her elbows. She pads in holding a bundle of stuff, a couple of soft t-shirts, a black tank top, underwear. You take it without comment and add it to the drum. Press the button. The machine lurches into life, slow at first, then faster, water soaking in. Her shirts tumble with yours, tangling. White and black, blue and soft lilac. Her lace underwear loops through the sleeve of one of your sweatshirts. Your jeans wrap around the tank top she wore the night she arrived. Everything merges.

You step back, wiping your hands on your thighs. “Done,” you mutter.

But she doesn’t move.

Billie’s just… standing there. Still. Staring at the washer.

You watch her.

It’s not casual, the way she’s watching. She’s not zoning out. She’s studying it, head tilted slightly, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes trace every slow spin, every slip of cotton over lace, the gentle chaos of it all. You glance at her again, confused, then half smiling.

“What’re you looking at?” you ask, voice light.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, she shifts toward you and lays her head on your shoulder. Her body leans into yours, soft and warm and slightly damp from a recent shower.

You let her rest there.

“Our stuff,” she says, pointing faintly toward the machine. “Swirling together.”

You huff out a laugh under your breath, tilting your head to glance at her. “You had a drink?”

She shakes her head without looking away, still watching the whirl of damp cotton and thread.

“No,” she says. Her voice is small. Different. “I just… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

You don’t say anything. You know it’s not stupid. Not at all.

She shifts again, more fully pressed against your side now, arms loosely circling your waist. Her voice is muffled against your hoodie when she speaks again. “It’s just… this. All of it. It’s yours and mine. It’s ours. It’s together. Not separated.”

You blink. Something about the word ours echoes in your chest like a bell.

“I like that,” she adds, almost too quiet to hear. “The way it all gets tangled. Like, you can’t tell what’s what anymore. It’s all just us.”

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

She turns then, finally meeting your eyes. Her fingers still looped through your sweatshirt hem, like she’s anchoring herself to you.

And then, so fast you almost miss it,

“Can I be your girlfriend?”

It’s not dramatic. Not some grand, orchestrated thing. She doesn’t even fully look at you when she says it. Her eyes flick toward the washer again like maybe it gave her courage. The words fall out like breath. Like something she’s been keeping pressed between her teeth for weeks.

You freeze.

You swallow.

She doesn’t take it back.

You want to say something but your mouth feels full of static. Your heart starts racing.

“You want to be?” you whisper, just barely.

She gives this tiny, incredulous laugh, almost like she doesn’t believe you’d even question it. “Um. Yeah?” she says, eyebrows raised. “Why would I ask if not?”

You giggle too, suddenly breathless, nerves fizzing through your veins. “Because…” You glance away, hands twitching at your sides. “Because you’ve never wanted that. And… well.” You don’t have to finish. The rest hangs in the air, obvious. You mean: because you’ve always said no before. Because you didn’t want to be out. Because you were scared. Because loving me in secret was easier than loving me in daylight.

But Billie’s not looking away. Her expression doesn’t shift.

And maybe you should ask her more, ask her what’s changed, if she’s ready, if she’s sure, but you don’t. Because the look in her eyes answers all of it.

You breathe in slow. “I want that,” you say, your voice raw and shaking. “Please.”

Her mouth lifts at the corner. And then she’s stepping between your legs, hands at your hips, and you don’t even have time to think before she kisses you.

Hard.

It’s not soft. It’s not shy. It’s all teeth and heat and urgency, like she’s afraid the moment might vanish if she doesn’t claim it now. Her hands are gripping your thighs, your shirt, your jaw. She pushes you up onto the counter like she needs you close, like she doesn’t want space to exist between you ever again.

And you let her.

You kiss her back just as hard, hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. There’s detergent in the air and steam rising from the machine, and Billie’s hands are under your shirt and her mouth is at your neck and the hum of the washer sounds like something alive.

You feel like you might cry.

Because this, this tiny afternoon in your kitchen with your laundry spinning in a drum and Billie’s breath catching in your mouth, it feels like everything.

She pulls back for half a second, lips red, breathing uneven, forehead pressed to yours.

She swallows, then says low, almost like it slips out, “It’s all mixed up now. Can’t tell what’s mine and what’s yours.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t say anything, just nod once, because yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.

[luvstarss]

Clingy

Billiexreader

Warnings:None!

Billie had never been a super clingy person.She loved physical touch and had always been super affectionate but she never came across as clingy but recently I feel as though she’s attached to my hip.Im in our kitchen quietly humming along to the music coming from the TV as I cook me and Billie vegan burritos.

I jump slightly as I feel a pair of hands slither around my waist from behind “you scared me”I giggle . She hums contently as she rests her head against my back “you hungry?”I say as I stir the contents in the pan .She just nods as she nuzzle her head now into the crook of my neck “did you end up having a nap this morning?”I hum as I plate up our food “mhm”she whispers as she plants a soft kiss on my neck. “I’ve missed you”she whispers.

“I know works had my ass recently”I agree as I begin to plate up our food . She peppers soft kisses on my neck “cmon sit down let’s eat”I smile as we sit down and I put the plate in front of her at the other end of the table. “Can I sit next to you?”she says softly . I give her a look but non the less I move her plate next to me .

She comes and sits next to me as she continues to eat her food her head rested on my shoulder “are you okay baby?”I whisper as I scratch her scalp softly . She nods as she finishes up eating “promise?”I say “yeah”she whispers as she kisses my cheek quickly then gets up and clears our plates.

Me and Billie eventually settle down on the couch she’s laid buried into my chest as I run my finger up and down her spine. “B?”I whisper “you sureeee you’re okay?”I add softly as I continue my movements “just stressed with the album and shit”she hums as she watches tv.

“Take a few days off”i reply as i brush her blonde hair out her face “i can’t too much planning for tour “she huffs “Billie “I say . She looks up at me “you deserve it “I whisper as I kiss her forehead . She just shrugs and gives me a look of hesitance “I’ll call Finneas and let him know now cmhere”I smile as my grip around her tightens.

[bills5lut]

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

hurt

masterlist prompt list

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t care. Let me check anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t. Not really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything?”

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

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

She smiles back. “Especially if you do.”

[bills5lut]

sleepy

warnings: no warnings, just fluff.

synopsis: cuddling billie, falling asleep in her arms.

Finneas’s living room is full, but not loud, warm with the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses, the sound of old friends catching up over soft music pulsing from speakers tucked into corners. Laughter moves in waves across the room, easy and familiar. You sit tucked beside Billie on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket that someone had tossed over the backrest earlier, your legs curled beneath you, shoulder resting against her side. She’s animated, talking with her hands, eyes lit as she adds something to a story that has the rest of the room laughing. But you’re quiet. Not from discomfort, just… tired in a way that doesn’t fully make sense. Your body feels heavy and still, like you’ve folded yourself down smaller than usual, a little closer into the corner of the couch, a little deeper into Billie’s space than normal.

You blink slowly, your gaze unfocused as it drifts across the room, not really seeing. The heat from Billie’s body beside you is constant, her thigh pressed to yours, the edge of her hoodie brushing your arm, her perfume soft and grounding. Your head tilts, barely thinking about it, until it’s resting lightly against her bicep. She notices, of course she does, but doesn’t make a thing of it. She doesn’t pause her sentence, doesn’t shift, just gently adjusts so you’re better supported, her arm curling behind you like it belongs there. Her voice lowers not dramatically, not pointedly just enough that it slips into something quieter, softer. She keeps talking to the others, laughing still, but her hand finds your hair, her fingers combing slowly through it in a rhythm that’s comforting without drawing attention. She keeps you close. Protective without being outwardly overt about it.

Minutes stretch. You don’t say much, if anything, but Billie doesn’t push. She knows when to fill silence and when to let it be. Her fingers continue to drift through your hair, and then down your arm, drawing small circles with her thumb at your elbow. Your eyes are barely open now, each blink longer than the last. You’re not exactly sad but you’re not really okay, either. It feels like a low fog hanging just behind your ribs, something unnamed and thick and a little cold.

Eventually, Billie leans in slightly, her breath warm above your ear, her lips brushing just barely against your hair. 

“Are you falling asleep on me?” she whispers, her tone low, not teasing. You nod faintly against her shoulder, a small crease forming between your brows. 

She tilts her head, voice barely audible now. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You shrug, slow and tired. Your lips part, barely enough to let the words slip out, “Not sure.”

She doesn’t press. She just hums quietly in understanding, like she already knows. Her fingers move again, soothing and slow, her touch more deliberate now long strokes down your back, soft circles on your arm. You breathe in deeper. Your hearing dulls at the edges, the voices around you slipping into a muffled blur. Billie doesn’t move away. She doesn’t stop talking to the others, but her voice stays quiet, her body still molded to yours. One of her hands tucks the blanket closer around your shoulders. The other never leaves your arm. As your face turns into her hoodie, your nose presses lightly against her skin, and you let go. The weight in your chest eases just slightly, and you fall asleep to the sound of her heartbeat under your cheek and her fingers moving in quiet, endless circles, Billie’s lips slowly coming down and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

[bills5lut]

firsts

masterlist prompt list

warnings: fluff, mentions of sa. pls don’t read if you’re uncomfortable. 

synopsis: you and billie have a late night talk, about almost everything. the topic of your first time comes up, and billie tries to help you understand what you actually just retold. 

It’s late. The kind of late that makes the walls feel softer, like the dark has weight. The kind of late where neither of you are really making sense anymore. Billie’s cheek is warm against your shoulder, her arm slung across your middle. You’ve stopped scrolling. Just lying there, tangled up, breathing slow. Talking about nothing.

She mumbles something about her worst kiss. You laugh, half-asleep, tell her about yours.

Somehow, things just keep unspooling.

“So what about your first time?” she asks eventually, voice low, casual, like it’s just part of the game. “Was it, like, with someone you were dating?”

You shake your head against the pillow. “Nah. It was just at a party. Random.”

Billie doesn’t react. Just shifts a little, her fingers resting on your stomach now.

“I was sixteen,” you say. “Kind of a mess. I hadn’t really drank before that, or barely. So I went way too hard. Like, cheap vodka and no food all day. Classic.”

She hums, amused, relaxed.

“I didn’t really know a lot of people there. I went with someone I kinda knew, but they ditched me pretty early. So I was just… wandering around. Holding some drink someone handed me. Sitting on stairs. Talking to people whose names I never learned.”

Her fingers pause just briefly, then start tracing again.

“I remember I kept telling people it was my first time drinking. Which, like, probably made me look super cool and in control, obviously,” you say dryly.

She chuckles softly into your skin.

“And there was this guy. I don’t know who he came with, but he was in the kitchen. Or maybe the backyard. At some point we ended up smoking together. He was older. I remember thinking that was kind of hot at the time.”

You smile faintly. “I think I told him I liked his shoes which was weird of me.”

Billie doesn’t say anything, but she’s still listening. You can feel it in the way her arm tightens just a bit around your waist.

“I think I also told him I hadn’t hooked up with anyone before. It was one of those dumb things you say when you’re trying to sound casual but it’s obviously a big deal.”

You pause. “I don’t remember exactly how it happened. Like, I remember bits. Him leading me upstairs. Me tripping on the stairs and laughing. Him saying something like ‘You good?’ and me nodding too hard.”

You glance at the ceiling, blinking slowly.

“I think we were in someone’s bedroom. It smelled like weed and Febreze. There were, like, posters everywhere. Weird choice for a host, honestly.”

Billie makes a soft noise, almost a laugh, but it dies in her throat.

“I don’t really remember how it started. He kissed me, I think. Or maybe he just… started touching me. I do remember thinking, ‘Oh, this is really happening.’ And then immediately being like, ‘Okay, don’t mess it up. Don’t be weird.’”

Your voice is light. Not mocking, just distant. Like you’re telling someone else’s story.

“And then… yeah. It happened. It was kind of fast. Not great. Definitely not what I thought it’d be like. It kinda hurt. I kept laughing, I think because I didn’t know what else to do.”

You frown faintly, still staring at the ceiling.

“I remember thinking I probably looked dumb. Like I wasn’t doing it right. And I didn’t want him to think I was a kid or something. So I kept trying to act, like, into it? But my head was spinning and I couldn’t really… keep track of what was happening.”

You’re quiet for a second. Billie hasn’t moved.

“I don’t remember if I said yes, but I think I did. I don’t know. I didn’t say no. I don’t think.”

There’s a longer silence this time. The air shifts.

Then, very softly, Billie says, “How old was he?”

You shrug. “Older. I don’t know. Twenty-five, maybe?”

You don’t say it like it’s shocking. You say it like it’s weather.

And then you notice, she’s not breathing against you anymore. Or she is, but it’s tighter. Still.

You glance at her.

“What?”

Her eyes are open now. She’s not looking at you. Just staring past your shoulder like she’s trying to figure out how to say something without making it worse.

She swallows. “You were sixteen.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

Her eyes flick to yours. “And he was, like, twenty-five.”

“I guess.”

Billie props herself up on one elbow, very slowly. “Babe…”

You sit up a little too, suddenly weirdly defensive. “What?”

She doesn’t speak right away.

“I mean, I said yes,” you add, trying to fill the silence. “Or I think I did. I was drunk, yeah, but… I wasn’t, like, passed out or anything.”

She just looks at you. Not judging. Not angry. Just… sad.

You feel your stomach tighten. “What?”

“That’s not okay.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t, like… a big thing. I didn’t think about it that much after.”

Her hand touches your arm, gentle. “You were sixteen. And drunk. And alone. He was a grown-ass man. That’s not a hookup story. That’s someone taking advantage.”

You flinch, almost without meaning to. “But I didn’t even, I wasn’t, like, traumatized. I didn’t feel violated. I just felt kind of… embarrassed. Like I’d done it wrong.”

She shakes her head, slow. “It’s not about how you felt. It’s about what actually happened. He knew better. You were a kid, and he didn’t stop to think about that for even a second.”

You look down, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “I never told anyone that story like it was a bad thing.”

“Because you didn’t know it was a bad thing,” she says quietly.

Silence again. You’re both upright now, facing each other in the near-dark. Your chest feels heavy and hollow at the same time.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to be upset about it,” you say finally. “I thought it just… was what it was.”

Billie pulls you into her arms. Not forcefully. Just enough to hold you, settle you against her chest.

“You’re allowed to feel however you feel,” she whispers. “But you should know that what happened wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t okay.”

You nod, though your brain feels like static. Like the story is unraveling in your mind as you sit with it. You lie like that for a while. Not talking. Just breathing.

Eventually, you murmur, “I keep thinking about how I thought I needed to impress him. Like, I needed him to think I was cool. Mature. Whatever. And he just… let me believe it.”

You feel her chin rest lightly on top of your head. “Of course you did. That’s what kids do. That’s what they’re supposed to do. Trust people.”

You’re quiet again.

Then, “Do you think he knew what he was doing?”

Billie doesn’t answer right away. Her breath is steady, but there’s tension in her voice when she finally speaks.

“I think men like that don’t ask themselves questions like that. I think they don’t have to. They do what they want, and let everyone else live with it.”

You nod slowly, hollow. “I feel kind of… stupid.”

“Don’t,” she says immediately. “Please don’t.”

You let her hold you again. Her skin is warm. Her hand slides slow across your back, grounding.

Eventually, you whisper, “Thanks for… saying something. I don’t think I ever would’ve, ”

“I know,” she says softly.

The silence after that is different. Heavier, but cleaner. Like something old has been dug up and aired out. It still stings, but it’s not festering in the dark anymore.

Eventually, Billie says, “You wanna stay like this a while?”

You nod into Billie and she softly kisses the top of your head.

[bills5lut]

⋆˚࿔ rest

warnings: nothing, just fluff. 

synopsis: billie takes gentle care of you whilst youre sick. 

You shift beneath the tangled sheets, muscles aching and skin slick with sweat. The pillow smells like Billie, faintly of vanilla and something warm, like worn cotton and quiet afternoons. Your forehead presses lightly against the curve of her neck, your nose nuzzling in as if you can breathe better there, but it only helps a little.

Billie stirs beside you, murmurs a soft sound, and pulls you closer without opening her eyes. Her hand finds your hair, fingers threading through the messy strands tangled across your face.

“You’re restless,” she says quietly, voice low and calm, slightly muffled by the rain tapping against the window.

You exhale a shaky breath. “Feel so warm. Not good warm.”

Billie’s fingers move slow, soothing, almost hypnotic. “That fever’s got you wired.”

You try to still yourself, but the aches twist your body, and you wince softly. “I can’t really like get comfortable.”

Billie shifts, careful not to jar you, and presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Wanna try cooling down a bit? Maybe I can help.”

You nod against her skin. “Please.”

She slides out from under the covers, the cool air immediately making you shiver. You watch as Billie moves,  bare feet on the carpet, hair messy in soft waves that catch the dim light. She disappears for a moment, then returns with a damp washcloth, fingers curling around the soft fabric, a couple of drops of water falling from it and fading into her fingers

“Hold still,” Billie says softly.

Her touch is tentative at first, a featherlight brush along your forehead. The cool cloth feels like a small reprieve, a brief sigh from your overheated body. You close your eyes, pressing your cheek into the pillow, letting her work slow circles on your skin.

“That’s good,” Billie murmurs. “Better?”

You nod, voice hoarse. “Yeah… much.”

Billie doesn’t say anything more, just keeps the cloth moving. Then she pulls it away, presses her palm to your forehead, and lets it linger, warm again beneath her hand.

“You’re burning up,” she whispers, thumb tracing light lines along your brow. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You swallow against the lump in your throat. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

Her fingers tighten around your hair gently. “You could never bother me. Ever.”

The way she says it, calm and certain, makes your chest ache in a different way. She shifts beside you, pulling the covers up a little higher, and then tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that feels like a promise.

“Let me get you some tea,” she says quietly, slipping out of bed again.

You don’t argue. You just rest your head against the pillow, listening to the soft patter of rain and the faint scrape of furniture as she moves.

When she returns with the mug, she helps you sit up just enough to sip, careful with every movement so you don’t pull away. You catch her watching you, eyes soft but alert.

“Hydrate,” she says simply. “That’s what you need.”

You manage a tired smile, voice barely a whisper. “Thanks, Billie.”

She leans down, resting her forehead against yours, breath warm and steady. “Always, baby. I’ve got you.”

You close your eyes again, the warmth of her there enough to chase away the worst of the chills, just enough to let you rest.

You lean back against the pillows, Billie settling beside you again, her body warm and steady. The mug of tea in your hands is almost too hot, but you sip carefully, eyes half-closed as the warmth trickles down your throat. Outside, the rain softens, a steady hush that seems to wrap the apartment in its own kind of quiet comfort.

Billie brushes a stray damp curl off your forehead, her fingers lingering there like she doesn’t want to let go. “You’re still really warm” she says, voice low, worry threading through the calm.

“I know,” you admit, voice hoarse and barely there. “Feels like I’m melting.”

Billie doesn’t say anything, just slides a hand down your arm, her touch light but grounding. You turn your head, looking for her eyes.

“You want me to stay here?” Billie asks, voice barely a whisper.

You nod without hesitation. “Please.”

Billie shifts closer, curling against your side, one arm draping over your waist. The steady rhythm of her breathing calming you, pulling you back to something softer.

“Got some cold water on the nightstand,” she says after a moment, voice gentle. “Drink when you can.”

You nod again, feeling the cool press of her hand on your back. Her fingers move slowly, tracing lazy circles just beneath your ribs, soothing the ache that ripples across you. 

After a while, you feel your eyelids growing heavier, but the fever makes sleep slippery, teasing just out of reach. You shift slightly, groaning softly as a wave of nausea hits.

Billie’s hands are suddenly everywhere, steady on your shoulders, gentle on your back. “Hey,” she murmurs, voice a soft tether. “Easy, baby. I’m here.”

You close your eyes, breathing deep, and she hums low, a quiet sound that settles in your chest. You can feel her pulse beneath your fingers, steady and warm. A reminder she’s here.

Minutes later, your head finds her shoulder, and you let yourself go, sinking into the quiet comfort of her presence. The fever is still there, but now it’s something you can bear, with Billie holding you close.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice raw.

She presses a kiss to your temple, soft and sure. “I’ll always take care of you.”

[luvstarss]

We need some billie family snaps 😍

Life as a family with Billie

Warnings:None!

[luvstarss]

𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐚𝐲

Readerxbillie

Warnings:None! Just fluff :)

I wake up with one of the worst headaches I've ever had in my life. I go to sit up but I feel a strong hand pull me down and slither around my waist "Bills" I say sleepily with a groan "cmon stay in bed for a bit" she mumbles half asleep "Billie" I warn as I rub my eyes sleepily. she lets out a groan as she releases her grip hesitantly.

I slowly get up and try to balance myself as my head continues to throb. I go to the bathroom and splash my face with water. Suddenly I feel my stomach rumble, then I rush to the toilet and throw up "shit" I groan as I wipe my mouth. I feel a hand brush through my hair and pull it into a makeshift pony tail to hold it back "you okay baby?" Billie says softly as her other hand rubs circles soothingly on my back "Mhm" I mumble as I grab a cloth wipe the vomit of my mouth and flush the toilet. "God I feel horrible"I groan as Billie helps me stand up

"u need anything?" she says comfortingly. I shake my head "All alright sweetheart cmon let's get you to bed" she whispers as she helps me to bed.Billie lays next to me and scratches my scalp softly. "Do we have paracetamol b?"I ask softly "Yeah I think so I’ll go check" she whispers as she kisses my forehead. I groan in pain as Billie heads downstairs. Moments later she returns with a paracetamol and a glass of water. She sits down on the bed next to me and brushes my hair out my face "Here baby" she whispers as she hands me the pill and glass of water.

I sit up slowly put the pill on my tongue and swallow it with a swig of water. "that's my girl" she says softly as shekisses my forehead."I love you" she whispers as she kisses my temple, I lay down on her chest. "love you too"I whisper as I fall asleep.

Safe to say I felt better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My first post!💞