lost cause
masterlist prompt list
warnings: smut, switch!billie, switch!reader, filming, scissoring, oral, masturbation, teasing
synopsis: billie takes an interest in you on the set of the lost cause mv
note: i have literally been imagining this since this mv came out
The set feels like something out of a dream, low haze clinging to the air, stage lights softened through gauzy drapes, everything bathed in smoky indigos and muted silver. It’s all silk and breath and motion, and the center of gravity is that bed, unmade, expansive, draped in layers like it was dressed for sin. The faint throb of the track loops in the background, low and pulsing like blood under skin, syncing perfectly with the damp heat rising beneath your pajamas.
You’re not one of them, not Billie’s regulars, not the close-knit circle of girls always in orbit. You’re just cast for the shoot. Slotted into a slinky set like the rest, laughing, grinding, lip-syncing. Playing a part. But even surrounded by bodies and lights and cameras, you feel her.
Billie dances next to you in a deep blue satin set, robe slipping off one shoulder. Her fingers skim the air near your hip, too close, too purposeful. The eye contact is worse. Heated. Lingering. She’s not subtle, and she’s not trying to be.
You tell yourself it’s work. Just choreography. Just angles. Just lighting. But it’s bullshit and you both know it.
She watches your mouth when you speak. When the camera rolls, she stays near, too near. At one point, she’s behind you on the bed, hands planted in the mattress at your sides, voice just behind your ear as she mouths her own lyrics. Her breath is warmer than the lights.
“You’re good at this,” Billie murmurs, low and close enough that your skin prickles.
You glance back, brow raised, amused. “The dancing?”
Her smirk widens, lazy and predatory. “That too.”
The camera keeps rolling. The girls giggle. Lights flash. Sweat glistens on collarbones and thighs. Her hand rests on your waist a second too long during a take, and your body remembers it even after it’s gone.
Then, “Cut.”
The lights don’t dim, but the spell breaks. Crew members scatter, girls start talking about drinks and rides and afterparties. One by one, they peel off, disappearing into the darkened hallway.
You move to stand, only for her hand to find your waist again, firm, grounding.
You glance down. “What are you…”
“Nuh uh,” she murmurs, voice thick, almost lazy. Her cheek’s pressed into the pillow behind you, her body stretched out across the bed like she owns it, and you.
“I rented this place for the night,” she adds, casual, like she’s mentioning the weather.
Your brow lifts, amused. “Did you?”
“Mmhm.” Her thumb dips just beneath the hem of your top, slow. “Didn’t think anyone’d leave so fast. Especially not you.”
Your breath catches before you smirk, slow and knowing. “You’re not subtle.”
Her eyes drag up your body. “Didn’t try to be.”
The silence now isn’t empty. It’s charged. The kind that hums in your chest and curls low in your belly. Just you, Billie, the bed, still warm from bodies and lights, and the echo of something inevitable.
Your fingers toy with the edge of the sheets. “So what now?”
Billie shifts onto one elbow, gaze locked on yours, voice husky. “Now,” she says, “you take that off.”
A beat. Then you laugh, slow, teasing. “And just give you a show?”
Her mouth brushes your jaw, not quite a kiss. “Only if you want me to film it.”
That hits you like a jolt, liquid heat shooting through your spine. She reaches for her phone, slow and deliberate, but her eyes stay on you.
“You okay with that?”
Your mouth’s already parted when you nod. Your voice would betray how badly you want this. She props her phone on the dresser, angles it toward the bed. The red light blinks. Recording. You climb onto her lap with aching deliberation. Her robe parts beneath you, camisole bunched at her waist, thighs bare and gleaming under the soft haze of stage light. Your own straps are loose now, the silk sliding off your shoulders, nipples visible through the sheer fabric with every breath. You settle your hips over hers, close enough to feel the heat between her legs but not close enough to relieve the tension.
Billie stares up at you, eyes gone heavy. You tilt your head, cocky. “You gonna do something, or just keep staring?”
Her hands trail up your thighs, warm and sure. “You’re on top, baby. You tell me.”
You move, not fast, not desperate, just a slow, testing grind. Your soaked panties catch against the satin of hers, friction sparking through your core.
Her breath stutters. You smile. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You lean in, teeth brushing her neck. Her groan vibrates through your lips.
“Fuck, you’re hot.”
Your hips roll deeper now, her hands locking on your waist, encouraging every movement without stealing your control. Just the drag of wet silk on silk, heat building slow and excruciating.
Then her voice cuts through the haze, rough and sharp:
“Touch yourself.”
You blink, thrown for a second.
She’s watching you with open hunger, her lips parted, her chest rising quick beneath you. “Right here,” she says. “Like this. I wanna watch.”
One hand braces on her chest, the other slips down. Your fingers slide through soaked fabric, a low moan ripping from your throat as your touch finds home. Her eyes don’t leave yours.
You start slow, circling your clit through the wet cotton, hips still rolling. “Thought you wanted a show.”
Billie’s mouth curves into something wicked. “Keep talking and I’ll flip you over.”
You smirk. “Promises.”
She doesn’t hesitate, her hand shoots up, grabs your wrist, and brings your wet fingers to her mouth. Her lips part. Her tongue drags over your skin like she’s starving.
She sucks two fingers into her mouth, eyes fluttering closed, a low sound vibrating in her throat that goes straight to your core.
“Oh my…”
She’s on you before the words finish, kissing you hard, mouth hot and messy. Her grip tightens on your ass as she flips you onto your back, pressing you into the mattress with the full weight of her body. Her knee drives between your thighs, opening you with ease, settling between them like she’s meant to be there. Her hips grind into yours, no layers left now. Just skin, slick heat, and pressure that makes your breath catch and your eyes flutter.
You both moan into the kiss, helpless.
She kisses down your chest, tongue warm and wet as she drags it between your breasts, sucking a nipple into her mouth and groaning like she’s finally getting what she needed.
You gasp, arching into her. Your thighs tremble.
“Say it,” Billie murmurs, teeth grazing your skin. “Tell me what you want.”
“Your mouth,” you pant. “Please, Billie, fuck. Please.”
That’s all she needs. Her body slips lower, her hands pressing your thighs apart as she lowers between them. Her breath is hot against your pussy. Her tongue slides through your folds, slow and filthy, moaning as she tastes you.
You cry out, hands gripping the sheets. Her mouth works you with lazy precision, like she’s got all the time in the world to ruin you.
“You taste,” she pants between licks, “fuck, you taste so good.”
Your whole body’s tensing, hips grinding against her face. She holds your thighs wide, licks slow when you want fast, fast when you’re begging her to slow. It’s torment, perfect, unbearable torment. When she finally sucks hard around your clit, tongue flicking just right, your orgasm crashes through you like a wave tearing down a dam. You cry out, body jerking, legs locking around her shoulders. She groans into your pussy, devouring everything you give her, not stopping until you’re trembling uncontrollably, tears in your eyes.
Only then does she crawl back up your body, her face slick with you, her mouth sticky and smiling as she kisses you deep, lets you taste yourself on her tongue.
She pulls you into her lap, your limbs limp, your face buried in her neck. The camera is still rolling.
For a long, quiet stretch, you stay like that. Breathless. Tangled. Billie reaches for the phone, taps the screen. The red light dies.
She glances down at you, brushing damp hair from your cheek. “You okay?”
You nod, still dazed, still warm all over.
She kisses your temple. “Wanna shower?”
Your body hums, too soft, too spent. “Later,” you mumble.
Her arms wrap tighter around you. Fingers stroke lazy paths down your spine. Silence again. Just the sound of your breathing. The scent of sweat and sex, thick in the air.
Then Billie grins against your skin, low and smug. “Bet that footage’s better than the music video.”
You giggle, already slipping toward sleep, lulled by the rhythm of her breath and the silk of her body against yours.
The sheets are twisted. The lights are low. And you melt into her, fully, finally. Into the haze. Into the heat. Into Billie.