what goes around comes around pt 2
part one masterlist prompt list
warnings: smut domtop!billie, subbottom!reader, strap r receiving, fingering r receiving, praise, degrading, spanking, scratching, aftercare
synopsis: you go to billies after the incident at the party, and she claims you as hers.
note: i have SO MANY requests asking for a pt2 of this fic, so here u go
The door slams shut behind you, the last echo of bass from the party fading into the night. Your legs carry you down the quiet street, the stillness a jarring contrast to the electric, buzzing chaos of the club. You’re unsteady on your feet, half from the champagne, half from the trembling aftermath of Billie’s fingers buried deep inside you against that cold alley wall. You feel the slick between your thighs even now, your body still dazed, still hot. The sensation makes you shift as you walk, thighs rubbing together uncomfortably, yet thrillingly, reminding you with every step that she had you.
You drag a hand down your face, trying to clear the haze.
Be mature. That’s what she said. You scoff out loud at the thought. Be mature? After she paraded herself in front of everyone like that? After grinding on every half-naked girl at the party just to punish you?
You pause at the street corner, glancing up. Billie’s house looms at the end of the block, porch light glowing faintly. Your stomach twists. You don’t know if you’re still angry or turned on, probably both. You want to scream at her. You want to fuck her again until she sobs your name. Mostly, though, you want clarity. Or something close to it.
You cross the street, climbing the front steps of her house. You raise your hand, knock once. Then again. No answer.
You sigh, glancing over your shoulder like someone might be watching this humiliating moment. You, waiting like a kicked puppy outside her house after she got you off and walked away. Just as you’re about to turn and leave, the door creaks open.
Billie leans heavily on the frame, one hand gripping it, the other rubbing her forehead. Her black tank top hangs loose, twisted slightly, revealing even more skin than before. The marks from your teeth are still bright red across her neck and collarbone. Her lips are parted, and her eyes narrow in the low light, zeroing in on you.
She doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t offer any apology.
She just steps aside, wordless, jerking her head toward the hallway. You move past her, the air between you sharp and thick.
“Kitchen,” she mutters behind you.
You follow her voice, the hardwood floor cool under your feet as the buzz in your body deepens into something heavier, a throb of anticipation, resentment, need. Billie shuts the front door, the deadbolt sliding home with a solid click. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see her pointing at one of the chairs by the island counter.
You hesitate. She arches a brow. You sit.
She steps forward until she’s right in front of you. Her bare thighs almost brush your knees. She plants both palms on them, slow and heavy. You feel the warmth of her hands through the fabric of your skirt. Her eyes are glassy but focused, that same intensity that always leaves your mouth dry.
She inhales deeply, then speaks, low, rough, her voice laced with something close to reverence.
Her fingers press in a little tighter. “That’s how it is now. I don’t want games. I don’t want to watch you touch other girls or flirt with anyone else like you don’t belong to me. I should’ve said it before tonight, but if I didn’t make it clear earlier…”
She trails off, letting it hang. The look in her eyes is raw, hungry, certain.
You open your mouth, some tangle of frustration surfacing again. “You could’ve just told me, Billie. Instead of flirting with every drunk bitch in the room like you were trying to”
Her finger is instantly on your lips.
“Ah ah.” She presses in, silencing you. “No debate.”
You frown, trying again, just a breath of protest, and she presses harder.
You fall quiet. A beat. She watches you, waiting. You nod slowly.
Your stomach flips. She steps back just enough to reach for the hem of her tank top and peels it up, slow, deliberate, revealing inch after inch of pale, marked skin. Her tits spill free as the shirt drops to the floor. Your breath stutters.
Then she straddles you, lowering herself onto your lap with a heat that scorches. Her nipples brush your chest through your top. You’re nearly panting.
She cups your face. “You’re mine, right?”
You’re speechless. The words feel like they’re caught somewhere in your throat. You nod, lost in her.
Billie tilts her head. “Answer me.”
“Sorry,” you whisper. “Yes. I’m yours.”
Her eyes gleam. She kisses you slow, not angry like before, not punishing, but deep and claiming. Her lips mold to yours, her tongue brushing across your teeth.
Your hands find her waist, dragging her closer. Billie lets out a low hum of approval before reaching for your shirt, tugging it off without ceremony. Her palms cup your breasts, kneading them as your mouths clash harder. The slide of her tongue, the scrape of her teeth, it’s all heat and mess and ownership.
She pulls back, eyes flickering over your face. Then she stands, reaches down, and lifts you effortlessly.
You gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around her shoulders. She carries you down the hall to the living room, then almost throws you onto the couch, your back hitting the cushions with a bounce. Her jeans are unbuttoned and off in seconds. Your skirt is gone just as fast.
She crawls onto you, settling between your legs, lips crashing against yours again. Her hand snakes between your thighs, two fingers slipping back inside you with practiced ease. You groan, hips jerking.
Her other hand finds the back of your neck, holding you in place as you moan directly into her mouth. Your tongues slide, teeth clash, her fingers never stopping. You’re already soaked again, thighs trembling.
Billie pulls back just slightly, lips swollen. Her fingers curl.
You nod desperately, grinding down into her hand.
She hums thoughtfully, pulling her fingers out. You whimper at the loss.
“Okay,” she says, eyes dark. “Beg.”
You blink. You never do that. “Billie….”
“No. You want it? Prove it.”
You realize this isn’t about teasing. It’s a ritual. A claiming.
“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Billie. I need you.”
She watches you silently, waiting for more.
“Please, I’ll be good. I’ll do anything. Just want you to fuck me. Please, I’m yours. I’m only yours. I’ll say it again. I’ll say it however many times you want, just, please, Billie, I’m aching, I need it. I need you.”
Her eyes flash. She stands, walks away briefly, then returns, harness in hand.
Your heart leaps. Billie steps into it slowly, adjusting the harness over her hips with fluid, practiced confidence. The leather straps stretch tight over the curve of her thighs, hugging the dip of her waist, framing her pale, flushed skin. Her eyes don’t leave yours the entire time, dark and gleaming like she can already feel herself inside you, already owns the sound of your voice when you break.
She strokes the length of the strap-on once, her palm sliding up its glossy surface in a slow, deliberate glide that sends a pulse between your legs. It’s thick, just the right size, the kind she’s used on you before, the one you felt hours after last time. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She wants you sore. She wants you wrecked.
She climbs back onto the couch with slow, predatory steps, one knee planting between yours as she settles on top of you. You lie there under her, trembling, half-naked, breath coming in shallow gasps as the weight of the moment lands heavy in your chest. Her skin is warm, damp with sweat, her hair messy and wild around her face, and when she leans down, her breasts brush yours, her lips barely touching yours as she whispers:
“You’re gonna feel every inch of me. Every second.”
She kisses you hard, not to be sweet, but to shut you up, and your body arches into hers instinctively. The tip of the strap nudges between your folds, slick from how much you want her, from how long she’s teased you. Billie groans low in her throat as she presses in, not for her own pleasure, but because she wants to feel how tight you get when she fills you. She wants to watch your eyes roll back and your body seize up.
She pushes forward slowly, excruciatingly slowly, and your breath catches as your walls stretch to take her. You grip her shoulders, fingers digging in, needing something to hold onto. Inch by inch, she sinks the strap inside you, watching your face the whole time.
“That’s it,” she murmurs, voice thick. “Taking me so well. Look at you.”
You whimper, toes curling, thighs quivering. The stretch burns in the best way, just enough to make your eyes sting, just enough to make you feel completely, utterly claimed.
Billie doesn’t rush it. She grinds her hips in slow circles once she’s all the way in, letting you feel her in every place you’re sensitive, dragging the strap against your sweetest spots until your head falls back and you gasp.
Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, grounding you. “You okay?”
You nod, barely, voice gone.
She leans in and kisses your temple. “Good.”
Then she pulls back, just an inch, and slams back in with a sharp snap of her hips.
You cry out, the force of it making your back arch. She growls softly and sets a pace, hard, deep, rhythmic, and with every thrust, her body rolls perfectly, her pelvis grinding against your clit as the toy pounds into you over and over.
“Mine,” she pants, breath hot on your throat. “Say it.”
You can’t think. You can barely breathe. But you manage it, choked and breathless.
She drives into you harder. “Again.”
“Yours, Billie. Fuck I’m yours.”
Her hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles while she continues to thrust into you. Your mouth falls open, a desperate moan ripping out of you as you start to unravel.
Your body trembles beneath her, hips stuttering, thighs twitching. You’re so full, so overwhelmed, you feel like you’re going to come apart, and Billie knows. She sees it. She feels your walls tightening around the strap, your legs squeezing her waist.
“Gonna come for me?” she whispers, licking into your open mouth. “Do it. I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.”
You don’t last another second.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave , sharp, hot, all-consuming. Your body jerks, legs spasming, your cry muffled against her shoulder as your nails drag down her back. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. She fucks you through it, her voice in your ear, raspy and adoring and possessive.
“That’s it. Come for me. Such a good girl. That’s my pussy. Mine.”
You barely register when she finally slows down, then withdraws. You’re shaking, panting, skin dewed in sweat, your thighs soaked, your lips swollen and red. Billie looks down at you, flushed and gorgeous, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Then, wordless, she flips you over.
Your body is pliant, dazed, but she handles you gently. One hand on your hip, the other guiding your movements. She bends you forward over the back of the couch, your knees still on the cushions, your cheek pressing into the fabric.
And then, she enters you again.
From behind, it’s deeper. She moves slow at first, dragging the strap out almost entirely before pushing back in with a deliberate, claiming thrust. You cry out, legs trembling, back arching for her instinctively.
She sets a punishing rhythm this time, fucking you like she’s trying to brand you from the inside, her hands gripping your hips, her nails leaving crescents in your skin. She leans over your back, her sweat-damp chest pressed to your spine, her breath hitting your neck in ragged bursts.
“Say it again,” she pants. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you cry, voice broken, desperate. “I’m fucking yours, Billie.”
Her hand lifts, then smack, lands on your ass, sending a sting through your body that only makes your orgasm build again, sharp and fast. You’re so overstimulated it almost hurts, but it’s perfect, addictive.
You come again, harder than before, your body spasming, legs shaking, moans caught in your throat.
Billie rides it out with you, thrusting until you’re begging her to stop, until you’re limp and twitching under her. She withdraws slowly, watching your thighs tremble and glisten in the dim light.
Then, without a word, she lowers herself to her knees behind you and kisses the back of your thigh. Soft. Worshipful.
You collapse into the cushions, chest heaving. You hear her shift behind you, then the click of a camera. You twist your head weakly, confused.
Billie’s holding up her phone. She shows you the screen. It’s a photo, your bare back, sweaty, flushed, and scratched into your skin: a crude but clear “B.”
You blink, stunned, then laugh breathlessly, collapsing again.
She drops her phone to the floor and her voice softens, a gentle hush replacing the possessive snarl from minutes before. Her hands stroke down your back. Her lips press light kisses to your spine.
“Too much?” she whispers.
You shake your head. “No. Just… tired.”
Still, she moves gently now, carefully turning you over. She peels the strap off, sets it aside, then disappears for a moment before returning with a warm, damp cloth. She wipes your thighs clean, murmuring little praises under her breath.
“You did so good,” she whispers. “So fucking good. You’re so pretty like this. Look at you.”
She runs her lips along the marks she left, the scratches, the hickeys, the bruises. Her hands are gentle now, guiding you down into her arms, lifting you back onto the couch like you’re fragile. You are.
She helps you into one of her oversized t-shirts, then curls up beside you on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over both of you. Her arm wraps tight around your waist. Her mouth finds your ear.
“You’re mine,” she breathes again. “And I’m not letting go.”
You nod, drowsy, safe, aching and owned. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.
