Billie Eilish X Fem!reader: I've Been Havin' Dreams

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: I've been havin' dreams

A/n: I've been stuck in this goddamn dream for like a month now, and you're bordering between the concept of God's blessing and sin's curse. I cling to your scarlet satin shirt like it's my last and only salvation, nearly ripping it off you, and you don't even mind.

Written on Billie's point of view, I'm just interested in experimenting with the presentation of the text.

"'BITTERSUITE'? Well, it sounds delicious just from the name alone," you purr in my ear, and I nearly jump two feet up in my chair in surprise, scattering all the thoughts and melodies going around in my head to dust. Shit.

Your short laugh, the palm of your hand that gently outlines my shoulder - that's all you are. And it's impossible to take offense at you, because you immediately draw a sincere "I'm sorry" in the air with just one lips, sitting down on the table, and I know you didn't do it on purpose, it just happened. A brief glance at you instantly turns into an uncompromising infinity.

"Finneas told me to tear you away from the monitor, and I fully support it." - You're slipping your leg over your foot, which in those straight-cut black pants is a total crime against my peace. - "You've both already done an incredible amount today, and it's barely lunchtime."

Nod silently in response, but my eyes only go higher. Past the supposedly aged eco-leather belt, I meet the expensive sheen of scarlet satin. The slightly carelessly arranged collar and neckline hiding the glitter of the pendant and, more importantly, your tantalizing collarbones.

"What, you like it that much, Eilish?" - the smirk on your face puts an intimate stroke on my heart, and I realize I've been staring at you too openly, for too long.

"Sometimes I wish I could erase all my pictures from the covers and put you in there, my girl," I cling to my desk with my hand (but wish I could cling to your damn collarbones) to pull myself up and move closer along with the office chair.

"Don't talk me into it, honey. Get away from the monitor and give yourself a well-deserved rest."

"Already ripped off, thanks for your presence," - the chair is a thing of the past, with the new tactic coming in. I come as close to you as possible, hands resting on either side of you. Behind you is a plethora of music equipment, in front of you is me. You're trapped, Y/n. - "And do you really think my compliments aren't sincere?"

The corner of your lips twitch as the smirk that was cheekily painted on your beautiful face is replaced by an embarrassed smile, and you look away. My hand touches your chin, bringing eye contact back. Be brave to the end, girl. Not like me.

"You can be expected to do anything when it comes to music."

"Only music?" - my fingers feel a pleasant coolness touching the collar of your shirt. A smile appears on face. It's invariable when you're around.

"Okay, me too," you chuckle warmly. You watch my movements with undisguised interest as I remove a few rings from my fingers.

"And yet what is the reason? Suddenly, the Met Gala was announced, and neither I nor my managers are aware?".

"Shut up!" - You cluck funny and ruffle my hair, wanting to hide the growing embarrassment. - "Your mom asked me to help her with a deal regarding a charity stock package."

"'Support And Feed'?" - I methodically slip my rings onto your fingers, one by one. The finishing touch is to intertwine our fingers into a lock, creating perfect symmetry.

"Absolutely right." - You bring our interlocked hands to your lips, showering them with short kisses. So trembling. - "И... Thanks for the compliments, really."

"Will you kiss me for this?" - I raise an eyebrow, catching the sparkle in your eyes.

And you kiss. Just because we both want it, other reasons are crumpled sheets of paper, something empty and unnecessary. Nibbling on your lower lip, pulling it back a little, pressing you closer to me when the only obstacle is only our clothes - this is my ambrosia. You throw your arms around my neck, burning yourself against the cold of the massive silver chain even through the thin satin, and I just grab your hips, tearing a ragged exhale from your hot lips. A pathetic plea for more in front of the eyes of affairs and circumstances.

"I have to go, Eilish..."

"Do you know I'm always crazy short of you?" - I take a moment to leave the hot touch of my lips on your neck. A new hitched exhale. The knot below your stomach slowly tightens, fiering.

"I know." - You hug me so tightly, completely disarming me with a feeling of all-consuming comfort. - "Still, try not to stay up too, okay? I'll be back late."

You disappeared out the door of my home studio half an hour ago, and I can still see the air trembling between us before you say it and I steal another hungry kiss. I lean back tiredly in my chair and shield my eyes from the blue light of the monitor while my fingers touch the keys of the midi keyboard in a half-sleep and your lips form an eloquent "love you" over and over again. Do you love my fears, too?

×××

The huge tiered chandelier was blinding, and the staircase in front of me twisted into a labyrinth with an incalculable number of ebony steps and equally incalculable meters of carpeting. Everything is as it should be: fabulously expensive carpeting, wood paneled walls, complete with ornate bas-reliefs, and as if that weren't enough - stained glass gilded lamps on the walls. The white light is irritating to the point of grinding teeth, and even if you try to cover your eyes - everything is absolutely useless.

I don't even try to get up from my knees, knowing that any effort will come to nothing. Something presses me so hard to the ground that there is no point in resisting: hundreds of attempts have yielded no result, so why resist, knowing the outcome? The only thing that gives an imaginary feeling of freedom is the feeling of baggy clothes on the body. Sneakers, long-sleeved shirt, pants, all white. And that only adds fuel to the furnace of irritation. The helplessness and the maddening whiteness. And your figure staring down at me, unreachably perched on the steps.

I've been stuck in this goddamn dream for like a month now, and you're bordering between the concept of God's blessing and sin's curse. Everything is unchanging, chiseled with detail in my memory, but not today. Your perpetually naked silhouette, taut as a string in a Stradivarius violin, today is swathed in the red satin of a weightless shirt and raven wing pants. My gaze clings to the silver glint playing on your devilish fingers: not magic, but my rings.

If things aren't the same today, will you be my long-awaited salvation?

"Open up the door for me." - mechanically and without a second thought. I know what I'm going to say, I know what you want to hear. I am but a defenseless lamb before you, a bowed-down bigot.

"Why should I?" - the flames of madness dance in your eyes. Your ringed hand touches the cold, spotless lacquered railing.

"'Cause I'm still on my knees, I'm stayin' off my feet."

And you descended lower, shaking the ghostly silence of the foyer with the stern sound of the heels of your shoes. Step by step, step by step. You keep your eyes on me, but I'm not lagging behind, looking at you as if I'm going to take you into my storm, the blue shards of my exhausted eyes. The closer you get, the higher I have to lift my head, just until you grab my chin imperiously. I catch a reflection of myself in your eyes: blue shards sharper than ever, ready to surrender to you at any moment, just say the word. I see the way you want me, I wanna be the one.

"Just want you to touch me..."

"Anything else?" - you snap your fingers and my throat immediately begins to tear with pain. You're depriving me of oxygen, it'll be over soon. The rings on your hand still glow hungrily. My rings.

"I've been overseas." - Like someone dragging a rusty chain across the floor, a wheeze cutting through my hearing, pushing the words out on the last volume of oxygen. - "I don't need to breathe when you look at me, all I see is green."

"So tell me for real." - Something you've never said before.

Click! And you disappear, a hazy haze dissipating into the air. I clutch at my throat, as if that will help me hold on to the last bits of oxygen. My eyes blur and pure panic runs through my veins.

"Billie!"

The foyer becomes a huge mosaic, disintegrating into a network of many cracks. Concrete crumbs are falling from the ceiling, and the gigantic chandelier is shaking to an outrage, wanting to fly down, glass fragments spread across the floor.

"Billie!"

And I finally take my first loud breath.

×××

I jerk out of bed, clutching at your scarlet satin shirt like it's my last and only salvation, almost tearing it off you, and you don't even mind. You wrap your arms around me like a lost child, stroking my head, whispering something, and I can't focus. I can't piece together the stained glass of my dreams and reality, so I just tearfully snuggle into your chest, seeking refuge like you're Noah's Ark.

"Shh, I'm right here, Billie, it was a dream." - You smell like night and street and ink. Wrapping my arms and legs around you, just so you don't leave again.

You don't ask me what I was dreaming about, just rocking me in your arms like a baby, telling me over and over that it's just a dream, offering me water. It's only when the two of us are on the bed, right on the blanket that was knocked over in the panic of the nightmare, that I tell you everything. You remain silent, listening intently, while I undo the buttons of your shirt. One by one, like a meditation.

"Who am I to you?" - A whisper in the dark when you are left completely unclothed. - "Who am I, along with all my fears?"

"L'amour de ma vie," - you whisper confidently as you gently touch your lips to my forehead.

L'amour de ma vie...

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Red light

A/n: she just sees you with your abusive ex-partner.

Eilish has millions of red exclamation points flashing in her head blinking barely every second, and blue eyes fixed on you like the frighteningly mighty and cold glaciers of the Arctic. The only thing that seems to calm her down even a little is Finneas' presence nearby and the feeling of weight on her own knees. It wasn't just the charming bouquet wrapped in scarlet kraft paper: Shark, sensing his mistress's excitement, rested his massive bulldog face on her legs for support.

"What fucking right does he have to approach her?" - the look of concern centered in her concern is replaced with a sizzling one, the moment she shifts her focus of attention to the male silhouette standing across from you. - "After everything he fucking did!"

Finneas exhales tensely, clasping his palms tighter on the steering wheel of his red Tesla: the eco-leather creaks slightly from the tension. Eilish, frankly, envies him, because the desire is now behind the wheel, and not in the passenger seat, is off the scale, reaching maximum values. Several scenarios of how she presses the gas pedal to the floor, heading for your ex, flash through her head. And no, she's not ashamed, none of you three are ashamed of it.

Billie is a small nuclear suitcase with enormous destructive power, and you're the only one who can handle her. As the O'Connells pull into a quiet residential neighborhood to pick you up and go to Claudia's house together, the figure of your ex looms around the corner, heading toward you. Billie was ready to jump out of the car almost as she goes, and she doesn't give a damn about the pavement or the passenger seat she's strapped into. She'll rip that seat right out of the car and put it on her back, just so she can run up to you as fast as she can and become your shield. He's a whole head taller than you and two heads taller than her? She don't care! Your gesture is the only thing that stops her: your open palm, held out in front of her for a quarter of a second, and your gaze, which resembles in its seriousness the sharp metal plate against which Eilish scratches his wrists in his sacrificial desire to protect you.

"I want to run him over, Finn."

"I know." - Her brother touches her shoulder, squeezing her slightly while Shark whines. Wise blue waters, concentrated in his eyes, are also watching you closely. - "Just let her figure it out for herself, and if something goes wrong, we'll step in right away."

"His fucking presence here is already something that's going wrong." - A deep exhale squeezes her chest, and a dark bandana squeezes head. She sees you ball your palms into fists, and he smirks cheekily. Fuck!

Your lips move, dropping the scalding words she's trying so hard to read onto the pavement, and your opponent winds up waving his arms in anger and poking you in the shoulder with his finger. Forcefully and sharply. Eilish genuinely enjoys, imagining his phalanges crunching under her hands from the exertion.

"I'm going to fuck him up!" - her blue eyes burst with stinging lightning, and her hand instantly touches the metal handle on the door. Shark, feeling the muscles in his mistress' legs contract, immediately retracts his muzzle, brave at her. His deep eyes look childishly trusting, waiting for any instructions.

Finneas unbuckled his seat belt, fumbling for the button with his long, musical fingers (the beige strip immediately slides into place by the mechanism), and then grabs his little sister around the waist with both hands, pinning her to the chair. The door of the red Tesla slams close.

"Fuck, Finn, that's just impossible!", - Eilish was boiling like a teapot.

"Don't, Billie! Chill out!"

"Why do I have to sit here when some asshole is harassing my girlfriend?" - she throws his hands off her but stays where she is. Elemental brotherly-sisterly respect. Finn pokes at the display in front of him and all four doors click shut, locking. Billie takes offense and that's still putting it mildly, but both are well aware of how impulsive Eilish is when differentiated into the merciless, unforgiving garb of anger.

Your posture is calm, but also tense: she can see how strain your back is and how the tendons play under the skin of your neck. The man is almost spitting in your face, loudly spewing all the bile he has accumulated. Billie can hear the word "whore!" blowing through the windshield with the warm breeze. She turned her head expectantly, and saw Finneas instantly mirror her own gaze: blue eyes filled with a gray sheen, reminiscent of geysers. Him excellent upbringing is making itself felt, and Billie clings to it with both hands, bowling her brother's cold mind.

"Would you put up with such a thing if it involved Claudia...?"

Finneas is silent, and his nostrils flare: sometimes too good a creative imagination becomes a punishment.

"No." - Coldly, and with a note of impending anger.

"So let me out, be a good brother." - The voice drops to a trance-inducing muffled wheezing.

He exhales, filling the silence hanging over them in the moment. A chest heaves the floor of his white t-shirt, and his hands while face covers exhaustedly, when he weighing his options. Eilish knows he'll never let her down, so she watches calmly, even though everything in her stomach turns over with burning tension. The soles of her high jordans tap out a rhythm, trying to tame the impatience.

"Just don't make a mess of things, please, Bils." - His earnest, confiding plea.

The doors click muffled again. It's open. Kindred blueness meets for a second: her mute and sincere 'thank you', confirming his expectations, is legitimized by his nod. The red hair ravels beautifully in the sun.

And as soon as Billie has one foot on the sun-hot asphalt, you turn your head in her direction: the steel of your gaze meets her anxious seas. She freezes, clinging to the open door as Shark comes down with an amused tinkle of his claws. "Paparazzi," she reads from the curve of your lips before your nose meets head-on with the man's fist.

Eilish's mind was blown, and she seemed to forget for a moment how to breathe, even though she'd been doing it for twenty-two years without a break. Her eyes gleam a deadly murky sapphire, and her eyebrows converge on the bridge of her nose in a torn, streaky stroke of ink on paper, heralding infernal retribution. Now your words of warning carry no weight with her. Finneas is like a tall, graceful pillar, leaping out of the parlor in one merged motion. Running toward you with clenched fists, driven by a sense of righteous anger.

"Protect!" - Eilish's loud voice shakes the heat of the street and the pit bull snaps out of his seat, growling menacingly. - "Protect!"

She runs towards you and the pendants make a silvery clinking noise around her neck. She outruns everyone: her brother, her thoughts of consequences and reputation. It's now completely colorless and unimportant, the only thing ahead of her is the faithful gray dog that lives up to its name. The gray powerful back flickers, cutting through the air like a shark through the water. You only clumsily dodge another powerful blow, falling to the asphalt by inertia: the palm of your hand burns with the lingering pain of contact with the ground, revealing a thin bloody web, and your nose buzzes disgustingly. The dripping blood settles on your lips with a metallic taste as you squint, either from the pain or from the blinding sun, shielding yourself with healthy hand from another incoming blow.

You're the lord of the whole little army. Billie immediately snuggles you in his arms, diving almost bare-kneed onto the pavement with the ease of a phoenix; Finneas stands immovably across from you, covering you both with his broad back, looking like a vengeful archangel in his white T-shirt; Shark, like the devil from the snuffbox, who has caught hold of your ex-boyfriend's long pant and pulls the hard material toward him with a growl. The man shrieks, and all this three pairs of blue eyes give him a punishing coldness that gives him no hint of mercy.

"With me." - her strong voice excites you, giving you an adrenaline rush. The gray pit bull abruptly lets go of the cloth (causing the guy to almost lose his balance) and obediently sits down next to her, snorting.

"You Hollywood rich guys sticking up for that slu..."

"You shut your damn mouth now!" - Finneas stiffly cuts him off halfheartedly.

Billie rises slowly and strides toward them with such haughty superiority and a smirk that somewhere a whole cast of movie villains are weeping at their insignificance. Small, but so majestic. She abruptly grabs the guy by the collar of his solid-colored shirt, bending him almost in half: now she looks him straight in the eyes without raising her head a millimeter. The cold splinters in her eyes make a warning noise like a rattle on a rattlesnake's tail, making her "victim" almost whimper like a Yorkshire terrier.

"You come near her again, I'll wipe you out. Knuckle by knuckle, you understand?"

"You have no proof, I can turn it against you!" - his voice reminds you of the pathetic bleating of a lousy sheep.

And you laugh, literally sink into laughing, smearing the blood on your face with your fist. Everyone turns to look at you, but all you do is throw your head up in a fit of laughter. A smirk smeared with blood is your best accessory.

"You've remained a complete idiot! Did it never occur to you that you started to sort things out right in front of a lot of video cameras?"

You nod your head at the wooden courtyards one by one, and the man's confidence shatters. Finneas smiles contentedly, Billie immediately realizes the source of your confidence, immediately comparing the details of your scheme. And how sweet revenge becomes! Eilish pulls him back on top of him, regaining eye contact. The blue maelstrom halves him, spitting him out instantly. Her uber-confident smirk is the final chord on his microscopic dignity

"So I repeat - get out of here, you pathetic puppy!"

Shark barked contentedly.

×××

The four of you arrive at Claudia's house right after your visit to the hospital. Once they're all in the living room together, Billie doesn't let go of you for a second, hugging you defensively from behind and just sucking in your scent with her nose, nuzzling into your shoulder, neck, hair, whatever.

"I was so worried about you, underdog..." - the whisper burns the curl of your ear as you try to gently touch your slightly swollen nose with your fingers, oohing. A bruise, and that's glorious. Much better than a possible fracture. - "I'm not going anywhere from you now, ever."

"Billie," - you turn to face her, kissing the chiseled line of her jaw. The tip of your nose touches her neck, and you squeeze your eyes shut, multicolored sparks of pain scattering before your eyes. She immediately pulls away from you slightly, gently touching her palms to your face. - "You, Finn, and Shark are my best protectors."

"Careful, my girl."

You feel warmth and a slight tickle as she strokes your cheekbones with her thumbs. The previously restless blue eyes are now like a calm marina.

You giggle, and you're not entirely sure why, whether it's because of a silly thought or because Shark, who's lying next to you on the couch, grunted loudly in his sleep.

"Did I look like you in the 'bad guy' music video? You know, with all that blood on my face..."

Eilish chuckles, brings your healthy hand to her lips and bestows a flock of little kisses on each knuckle. You want to purr.

"Very similar."

And you smack her on the lips, rewarding her for every second she spent tense, watching you. You don't care if your nose hurts. It'll heal.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Eau De Parfum

A/n: once you love the warm and calm fragrance of Eilish no. 1, you studiously avoid its diametrical opposite - the bold and dark no. 2. According to your first impression, the languid woody trail of the perfume is not your path. But why does it feel so appealing? Billie helps you decide, revealing this fragrance in a new light.

«... cause I feel like, it's weird, but I feel like a fan myself. I just... It doesn't feel real!» - A genuine smile for the camera and a slight shrug, that's what Billie is all about. A knack for the camera and an incorruptible amount of sincerity, even when she's actually on the other side of the screen from her fans.

Eilish brought you along to shoot the launch of her fragrances Eilish and Eilish no. 2 for Ulta Beauty, and you just couldn't say no to her: your mutual desire to spend more time together and the opportunity to wander around a completely free (not counting the small film crew, a couple of consultants and security, of course) store is definitely what made you say yes. And enjoying Eilish's looseness in the crosshairs of the cameras is a huge pleasure, I must say.

After a few unsuccessful doubles, you realize that standing in the same position with your back against the wall for the last thirty minutes has been quite tiring. Darting between the many racks of cosmetics and perfumes, you try to entertain yourself a little to shake off the fatigue and late night slumber. Your gaze confusedly clings to the endless bottles of perfume, attracting you with their rich color or unusual shape. It is really difficult to concentrate on one thing, and not to lose your sense of smell after a dozen samples that you have managed to smell - something mind-bogglingly impossible. A short conversation with a nice female consultant pleasantly brightens up your wait, when you are already tired of circling the store for the third time. You come out from behind a row of boring shelves, wanting to go back, but you stop abruptly.

The confident gaze of the dark blue eyes, the seductive wet ink-black strands of hair mysteriously falling over her shoulders, the neat palms, on both sides closing black, like a symmetrically carved flacon. And, of course, devilishly inviting lips. Frankly speaking, you are staring hungry at a large advertising poster with your own girlfriend, as if you are seeing it for the first time. Well, I congratulate you.

Mixed with aesthetic admiration, thoughts of this tantalizing second perfume are in your head again: is it even worth trying it on yourself when you prefer the comfortable vanilla "hug" of the first one? Billie's languid, woody scent certainly suits her, but... what about you?

"Just a couple more minutes and you'll soon be making a hole in the glass," - the familiar velvet voice and the warmth of the palm that created a perfect 'lock' with yours, - "I'm wildly pleased, though."

Billie brings you out of your trance as suddenly as you entered it. Smiling, you close your fingers a little tighter for a few moments. A tacit confirmation that you are back in the real world.

"So... You want to give it a try after all?"

The tangle of tangled thoughts and doubts is back in motion in your head. You stare helplessly at the poster, then at Eilish herself. The better solution is to shrug your shoulders and sink your gaze into the socks of your slightly battered Jordans. Which is exactly what you're doing.

"Honestly, I don't even know, my love. On you it reveals itself so tantalizing. I don't think it would suit me."

"But you haven't even tried it," - her eyebrows come together gently the bridge of her nose in a confused squint, the word storm cloud over seas of blue.

"I know, but..."

The words remain unspoken: Billie, armed with a confident smirk, pulls you toward a rack of her own products and gallantly beckons the consultant over to you. By the end of the shoot, you're already sitting in her car with the "intimidating" dark box of a full-size bottle from the second collection on your lap.

"And yet I don't think it's mine."

"Relax, baby," Billie deftly slung the seat belt over her shoulder and turned the key in the ignition. The pleasant murmur of the engine is immediately heard in the Audi's interior, "Just let me prove how tantalizing you are. I'm sure you two will become friends."

The car slowly pulls out of the parking lot, remaining almost invisible in the night darkness that has descended on the city. And while Eilish drives the car relaxedly, biting the corner of her lips in thought, you nervously beat a rhythm with your fingers on the surface of the box that only you know. You're nervous, but you silently allow her. You allow her absolutely everything.

×××

The cool shower dampens your excitement until Billie enters the room: the singer looks like she's stepped out of that poster, except that instead of a black dress, she's wearing a long cotton T-shirt that reaches mid-thigh. Otherwise, the differences are nil, even in her hands she now has a weighty charcoal figure in the form of a woman's bust. You wince somewhat, bumping the tip of your nose against the collar of your terrycloth robe.

"I promise it won't hurt," - Billie's irony is what she finally disarms you with, sitting down at your side. Eilish's smile across from you and the rustle of the blanket, infused with a special warmth, is reassuring. You trust her, despite the childish stupidity of your situation.

"I'm ready," - you say confidently and clearly, eyes fixed on the eyes opposite, as if it were a lifeline. Billie chuckles, palm touching your cheek.

"Just let me put the finishing touches on it, my brave girl."

A second, and you're completely naked in front of her: in a few deliberately leisurely movements, Billie first loosens the knot in the waistband of your robe, then removes it altogether. The terry softness slips pleasantly off your shoulders, giving way to the sassy gaze of blue eyes. She freezes, admiring the etude that has emerged before her in the golden-warm semi-darkness of the bedroom, and you smirk. Confidence grows.

Picking up the cap of the flacon with her fingers, she apply three cool, but mentally scalding sprays: your collarbones, the area behind your ear, your wrist. Eilish takes her time, looking clearly into your eyes with each cloud of fragrance. You instantly smell the voluminous scent of ebony and palo santo, mysterious in its tranquility; you see the crazy blue lights dancing in Eilish's eyes.

"First sensations?" - The carved lid of the expensive vial taps lightly, like marble, returning to its rightful place, the vial itself flinged in the center of the bed - Eilish has no intention of being ceremonious, focusing all of her attention now on you alone.

"It's much more intimate than the no. 1. So... warm, lingering. It's like I'm in some kind of gothic cathedral with you."

"Very good, we can keep going."

And then it all blends into one continuous pleasure: hot kisses, sheets, bites, moans. Eilish is enjoying yourself, and you're absolutely lost, torn in half by the smells and sensations. Her hands seem to be everywhere; the barely husky whisper of over-the-top excitement penetrates your subcortex. When her tongue traces a path between your collarbones and downward, you can smell the poppy odor. Placing a few bright hickeys on your neck, a perfumed black pepper shoots into your nose, driving you both crazy. Eilish hungrily grabs your thighs, spreading them a little more - the scent of papyrus is more pronounced in the air. She kneels down, tongue placing the place where it's hottest right now - you smell vanilla, making you throw your head back and breathe intermittently. Only lastly, apple blossom and bergamot cover you with their tranquility as you cum, rhythmically thrusting yourself onto her fingers.

The diametric opposite in flavor perception is replaced by understanding. Eilish no. 2 is a long-awaited night shared by two, something that envelops you with desire and passion, something that gives you the confidence. It's a flavor closer than any other.

"Perfume always opens up on hot skin in a different way. And it suits you no less than it suits me," - she playfully whispers into your jaw line before you both fall asleep in each other's arms.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: But I already have love in LA

A/n: 5,692 miles is the distance between calm nighttime Paris and sweltering Los Angeles, which almost makes Eilish howl like a wolf. A Paris promo in honor of the album mercilessly separates the two of you on an important date, but you find a way out.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Little dreams

A/n: Billie hadn't had time to carve pumpkin jack-o-lanterns last Halloween, making this unclosed gestalt her little dream. So you buy her a pumpkin out of the blue. You don't know how to play any musical instrument, but a ukulele is your humble dream. So Billie teaches you.

Just one comfortable July evening spent together.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Can you open up the door?

A/n: she takes you to her home, lovingly sheltering you from the heavy downpour so rare in LA. Takes you, and it seems, your love and all the inner contradictions along with fears caused by the public.

Inspired by the atmosphere of "CHIHIRO".

You know perfectly well that arguing with Eilish's decisions is a losing proposition, not in all cases, but in the vast majority of them. Your clothes are soaked to the skin, and the wind, though not quite cold but assertive, hints that all this will leave a mark on your immunity in the near future. Only as long as you can hear her voice on the other line, you don't care at all, frankly. You clench your chilled fingers a little tighter and hold the phone closer to your ear, because the rain noise makes it hard to hear her.

"You don't even know where I am right now."

"I know and I'm on my way to Amir's Garden to pick you up," she says uncompromisingly, and you realize Billie is really serious when you hear the click of a seatbelt and the noise of an engine in the background. Fucking hell! A puzzle quickly forms in your head: surely Finneas must have told her everything, knowing your plans. You think, you're need to talk a little less about yourself.

"Wow, what a commanding tone, Ms. O'Connell," - your pathetic attempt at defensive irony is immediately shot down by her chuckle, but you don't want to end this game. - "Do you like to lead?"

"Do you still doubt it?" - the slight hoarseness in her voice awakens a short-term flash of current in the back of your head, dispersing a pack of goosebumps on your hands and speeding up your heartbeat. You almost exhale deeply into the tube, but you pulls yourself back in time - it's too ambiguous a gesture, she shouldn't know. Not now. There is a slight mutual silence on the wire and you are content with the barely perceptible rustle of wheels, bringing thoughts and feelings into relative order.

"Just don't go anywhere, okay?"

"I was waiting in the garden, contemplating, beg your pardon," - you smirk softly, humming the now so appropriate line.

"It's not fair to mock me with my own songs, girl."

"Leave me at least something, Eilish," - you smile, imagining her childishly sly expression frozen in imaginary offense.

You drop the call and lean your back against the trunk of a tree with a spreading crown. Well, all that's left is to wait.

×××

"Damn, you're all wet!"

"Can we be a little less blatant, Billie?" - you plop down into the passenger seat next to her, slipping your seatbelt on in one motion until it clicks into place. It's impossible to wipe the smirk off your face after this joke. Naturally, you lost in your verbal altercation and Eilish arrived as she wanted, but no one forbade you to get even at the expense of lewd jokes, right?

"Shut up, you know what I meant," - Billie snorts amusedly, blue eyes sweeping over you from head to toe. - "I just want to help you, my underdog and... I missed you."

You meet her eyes and sparks shoot up in the back of your head again, like multi-colored fireworks, and the cog of anxiety that has been a regular in your head lately starts to slowly spin, revealing before your eyes the endless lines of negative comments you've read today. What bad timing.

"Is something wrong?" - and you're not even surprised. Billie reads people like an open book, her incredible talent that you sometimes get a little jealous of.

"A little later, Bils, I promise," - the gray highlights merge with the infinite blue of her irises - understanding mixed with worry. You gently touch her hand resting calmly on the gearbox and deftly interlock your fingers, creating an overall perfect puzzle. The feel of her skin makes you feel so warm inside. - "I missed you too, love."

Eilish blurs into a smile, clinging to the last word, which is new to both of you, and your heart does a somersault. You've only been dating for a week and you need to get used to this. Going from being friends to lovers is a strange but pleasant thing.

"Shall we go?"

"You don't deserve her!", "Another affair, pfft...", "Disgusting!" - The cog speeds up, causing your single nervous exhalation to shatter the silence of the cabin as if you had shotgunned the roof above you two.

Her lips touch your knuckles on the palm still closed with her, saving you from the captivity of the stinging words of Internet strangers. The sound of rain rhythmically drumming on the body of the Dodge suddenly fills your ears. She seems to know everything.

"Please, can I stay with you?" you look at Eilish as if she were a prayer altar: blue eyes reflecting your deep hope mixed with fatigue and helplessness. Warm smile of her beautiful lips is your impulse to confessional.

"I wasn't going to let you go, silly."

×××

You reach her house in silence: no unnecessary questions and jokes, just the sound of a non-stop downpour. Billie is completely focused on the road, and with your finger you are already drawing the eighth heart on the fogged window, like amulets from voracious thoughts. Dodge smoothly pulls into the parking lot, and you don't really remember how you find yourself in her bedroom, sitting lost on a huge bed.

"Hey, my girl," - the back of her palm touches your cheek incredibly softly, causing you to immediately stare at her. Eilish is kneeling in front of you, in her arms a warm red sweater with two white stripes in it, and her eyes are pure silver steel. It's not clear if she's mirroring the frowning sky looming outside the huge panoramic bedroom window, or if anxiety is stirring so strongly within her, crowding out all the peaceful blue of her irises. - "Put it on, I don't want you to get sick."

"It's from the CHIHIRO shoot, right?" - you take off your wet T-shirt and folding it accurately, as if won't throw it in the wash. Billie pulls the sweater over you, nodding affirmatively. The gray steel of her eyes doesn't open from you for a second. - "I've never seen 'Spirited Away'. It's silly, but as a kid I was always scared about those pigs and turned off the TV right away, and over time I just plain forgot I wanted to watch it to the end."

"Do you want to watch it together?" - her hands touch your waist, gently stroking your sides as if supporting you through the touch. If you were in a different frame of mind, you'd let go of a million jokes. The domineering Eilish kneeling in front of you is quite a display.

"I don't think the person who wrote an entire song about this anime would be interested," her palms calculatingly slowly slide off your waist to obligingly offer you warm house shorts. - "You've probably reviewed it back to back."

"With a girl like that, looking so mind-blowing in my sweater, I'm ready to look at least a thousand more times," - she moves a little closer to your face, lifting herself slightly on the arms on either side of your hips. Her lips, where you instantly shifted your gaze to, now have the hottest smirk you've ever seen in your entire life. You feel the flame of embarrassment flicker across your cheeks. Billie bites her lower lip and you immediately look at the top of her head, out of harm's way. For the first time, you notice that she's a little wet herself, running out of the car with you.

"Only if you wear a sweater too so you don't get sick, O'Connell." - you kiss her gently on the forehead, because kissing on the lips is still embarrassing. She agrees.

×××

"Haku, you know, my mom told me... I don't remember much myself. When I was little, I fell into a river once. Now the river's been filled in. They built houses there. But I just remembered! I remembered what it was called." - You watch the little girl fly on the dragon under the moon itself, holding onto its horns, and suddenly you feel Еilish's hands pull you closer into her arms. You only rest your head on her shoulder, relaxing completely and covering your eyes for a second against the coziness around you. - "It was called - Amber River. Kohakugawa. Your real name is Kohakugawa."

"I know everything, y/n. I know they write everything," Billie whispers softly, scorching your ear with hot breathing. You immediately jump up, open your eyes abruptly, and stare at her with an understanding and frightened look, echoing exactly the emotion of Kohakugawa himself. - "Hey, hey, hey! Relax, baby, I'm right here."

Billie deftly grabs the remote and pauses the footage with a barely audible click of a button, and your anxiety cog is spinning in your head again, winding up your sanity at an insanely fast pace. Again a shroud of avatars with mostly pictures of her, again a cluster of venomous the letters, "You don't deserve her!", "She's probably with her out of pity.", "Billie has everything but taste in girls." Click, click, click! You put your hands on your head like you're covering your ears. O'Connell reaches her hands toward you, and you leap out of bed in one strong and sharp, the word of a bucket of boiling water being splashed on you. It becomes so damn hard to breathe. The steel in her eyes, even in the semi-darkness of the room is intense and red-hot to the extreme.

"Y/n..."

"They're all right, Billie! I don't deserve you! I'm such a fucking coward!"

You grab desperately at the collar of your sweater, the word that imaginary lump in your throat is about to cause asphyxiation if you don't. Your hands shake uncontrollably, your gaze darting from side to side, clinging to the huge plasma, to the chair, to the corners of the sheets hanging from the bed, but returning to her each time. You see her slowly rise from the bed. You see it, and you immediately run to the stairs without even thinking about it. The cog clicks wildly, drowning out even the sound of footsteps that immediately overtake you. Your hands cling to the railing as you twisted your ankle on a hurried descent. Close your teeth tightly against the waves of acute pain and run, run, run!

But you realize you can't, leaning back powerlessly against the wall, already near the door. You can't because it hurts too much to run, and you can't because you love her too much. Billie pushes you against the wall even tighter in a second, looming over you like a hurricane. Arms spread on either side of you. You're trapped. Her breath hitches a little, scorching your neck, but her face shows nothing like anger, only seriousness and concern. She stares at you so intently that you think the wall behind you is about to crack and fall to dust.

Confident, yet lost in words, she finds nothing better than her own lines

"Open up the door, can you open up the door?" - she touches both palms to your face and you feel for the first time how much they shaking, - "I know you said before you can't cope with any more..."

"That's my favorite line from your song," - you flap your nose, realizing you really can't take it anymore.

"I know."

And you cry, shamelessly and right in front of her. You feel the salty, clear paths from your eyes dripping down her arms, see the worried silver in her eyes change to their usual tantalizing ghostly blue. You feel her clutch you in hers tightly, sliding down the wall with you. You hiss at the pain in your ankle and she shudders fearfully, fingers touching your chin and lifting your head. Your gazes meet and you see the weeping oceans opposite, so bright against the pinkish whites. She is crying along with you.

"Did you fall? God, y/n, we have to...," - her pleasant husky voice twitches with worry and tears, and you cover her neat, plump lips with yours, silencing her. She responds immediately, biting your lower lip lightly in a silent plea for more. You obediently open your mouth, immediately meeting her tongue. You feel the salt from your tears and the heat in your heart. True, and much lower, too.

"I'm scared, Billie," - you say honestly, palms resting on her collarbones. The cog in your head immediately fall with a clatter, crack in two. - "I said I wouldn't be afraid of some strangers' opinions, but it turned out not to be like that at all. I seem to be hated now, even for just breathing."

"I understand, my heart," - Billie put her arm around you, her hands stroking your back. From your shoulder blades to your tailbone, over and over again. - "But I chose you, not any of them, remember. You are my conscious choice. You are my love."

You hear her reply, finally finding the reassurance you need. "You are my conscious choice." The storm of words subsides as you standing this phrase on a shelf in your head like a trophy. The wreckage of the cogwheel of worry dissolves altogether, disappearing into infinity.

Eilish catches your smile and kisses you immediately. Your hands cling at her neck, and she moans gutturally as she gets what she wants. But she pulls away immediately:

"We need to take care of your ankle first, dumbass. I'll dial the number of a docotra I know."

"And then?" - you ask so childishly naive as Billie helps you gently stand up and you walk leisurely toward the couch in her living room.

"And then we'll watch this anime and I'll take back every kiss you owe me when I've been gentlemanly patient." - She sits you down on the soft couch, plopping down next to you. With her hand, she immediately pulls out her cell phone from the pocket of her home shorts. - " To make sure you heard exactly what I said."

"Thank you. For everything."

And later you do make out to one of Hayao Miyazaki's great masterpieces, just as she promised.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: But I already have love in LA

A/n: 5,692 milli is the distance between calm nighttime Paris and sweltering Los Angeles, which almost makes Eilish howl like a wolf. A Paris promo in honor of the album mercilessly separates the two of you on an important date, but you find a way out.

Billie's point of view. 'Cause I like it.

"The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable, please call back later," is the peremptory verdict unchanged over these endless eight hours, echoing coldly from a woman's voice on the other side of the handset. Not the voice I want to hear so much, not the timbre that makes my heart flutter so incredibly, as if it were your most expensive wind-up toy. Not your voice, absolutely not. You don't get in touch for such an ungodly long time, and I just diligently shut up the feeling of anxiety devouring from within throughout the day: a dark woolly monster grins hungrily with its wide mouth, loudly clicking its massive, fanged jaw. Each click is a new, painstakingly detailed picture in my head, causing hot anxiety. What if you're really lying helplessly on the hot as hell asphalt of LA, caught under the spiked wheels that tried to slow down with a soul-shattering screech? I know how hurried you are. What if you turned into a disadvantaged area, taking a shortcut, and now your lifeless body is lying in the nearest ditch, turning paler and colder by the minute? What if you just stopped breathing in your sleep for no reason?...

I take a deep breath, and the chains behind the monster immediately tighten with the deafening clang of massive links: it leaps, wanting to grab at me with its clawed paws, to pull me into the viscous pools of panic, but it still can't reach me. With a menacing guttural growl, its fangs gleam faintly in the semi-darkness, covered in viscous saliva. It's actually easier to contain my anxiety when my head is full of thoughts about the shoot, about the phrases I have to elegantly slip into the interviewers, turning their question marks into confident dots. It's easier when you're surrounded by a horde of people: security, staff, family. But when I'm in the silence of an insanely expensive French hotel, drowning in the uncompromising gloss of the surroundings, still perfectly styled and dressed in expensive dark clothes, coming straight from the shoot, nervous and clutching my phone in my hands with hope - it all becomes so impossible.

I'm dialing twelve digits again, just a little more and I'll be able to dial your number blind. "The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable, please call back later." I lean back noisily on the cold silk of the sheets while that toothy, infinitely dark ball of anxiety laughs snidely. I check all the messengers, only to fling my phone away in a brief flash of anger somewhere upward, toward the ruched beige pillows: you still haven't been online in eleven hours, my messages unanswered. Fuck! It's becoming more and more like Jenga, where with each passing hour I take one wooden brick out of the structure and put it on top, making it even more rickety than before. Indeed, something has definitely happened, you couldn't just disappear from everyone's radar for no good reason, especially when today is our little celebration of a month-long relationship. There's five thousand six hundred and ninety-two miles between us, and the silence on the wire makes me want to howl. God, I'm going to go crazy...

Beep! It sounded like someone had thrown a grenade with the pin pulled right under the bed. I reacted immediately, but on the desplay is just a message from Fin in an endless string of unnecessary things. Well, better than nothing. Better than drowning in madness alone.

"Are you asleep?"

"No." How the fuck can I, bro?

"She still hasn't responded?"

"No."

The three dots bounce around again as my brother puts the right letters into words. Maybe I should call you again.

"Can you open the hotel room door right now?"

The restless gears in my head rumble to a grinding halt. Now? For what?

"For what?"

"Just open it, sis." - so unobtrusive and unexplanatory, followed by another gray block of letters: "You'll thank me later :)"

"Don't smile at me."

":)" - naturally, a smile. Damn Finn.

I dial you again and reluctantly get out of bed, shuffling my feet as if I were going to the lacquered scaffold under the shouts and whistles of the French Revolution crowd, but in fact only the thin tulle is swaying in the night wind, and the noise of rare cars, which enters the room so valiantly with the help of the open balcony. And here is the guillotine itself in the form of an oak door. I touch the gilded cold handle with the palm of my hand with pressure, and feel the massive blade whistling as it flies straight at my neck, severing my head. You're standing in front of me.

You look me in the eye and leisurely take the phone out of the pocket of your wide bard palazzo pants. Your accurate fingers finally touch the ill-fated green answer button before you bring the display to your ear. There's a slight, confused smirk on your lips, and on my end of the line there's finally the beeps and this mechanical female voice have finally died down. But it is still impossible to answer you, I can only stare at you in disbelief, as if you were a masterpiece that had escaped from the Louvre and had personally come to my doorstep.

"Bonsoir, Madame Eilish," your soft, purring timbre mightily shatters all anxiety, defeating the monster in my head. The only thing left were the massive chains of patience and self-control that held it back. You say what I've been longing to hear for these fucking eleven hours. You sound the way you've imprinted on my memory for the many hours we've spent together. - "A special gift exclusively for number one hundred and eleven."

I grab you into my hage, pulling you into the room in a flash. The door slams too loudly for midnight, but I don't care, you gasp, rustling a small package - I don't care, you babbling a hundred apologies for this frightening silence - I also don't care, girl. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care! I just leave a lot of barely visible lip gloss prints on your face, showering you with hot kisses, clinging to your lips with mutual hunger, making you almost choke, but I don't care! You don't pull away, just squeeze tighter, sliding down the wall a little. You're here right now, and the rest of it doesn't matter. And how can I take offense at you, when you have overcome five thousand six hundred and ninety-two miles...? At least not right now.

We calm down only when we reach the floor and settle down on the soft pile of the carpet. Your face now gleams beautifully in the warm light of the bedside lamp, your hair slightly ruffled either from my hands or the wind outside.

"I'm sorry." - You gulp in air with your mouth and repeat again, touching my cheek gently as if I were fragile Chinese porcelain.

"I almost lost my mind, Y/n." - I snuggle closer into your palm, finding the needed reassurance finally. - "But I'm so glad you're here now, my dumbass."

You chuckle lightly before rising to your feet in one merged motion, then gallantly offering your hand to me. My gaze first clings to the not-so-little bard stain spilling over the once flawless whiteness of your favorite shirt.

"What's this?"

"It's wine," you answer innocently as we walk to the back of the room, me holding your hand and intertwining our fingers, you holding the paper bag in front of you in your free left. - "I thought it unseemly to show up on a deep Parisian night and on our little holiday without a present. While we were choosing a variety with a nice elderly sommelier, he accidentally spilled some on me, for which he apologized for an extremely long time and stuffed a whole assortment of vegan sweets into the gift."

"Actually, it looks pretty good," I touch my hands to the damaged fabric where the wine petals had opened exactly opposite the heart. - "It looks like a flower, and it goes well with the pants."

"I told him the same thing, only in broken French!" - you laugh, sitting down on the bed. The package drops to the floor for nothing, revealing a dark bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a corkscrew, and a dark blue box of obviously not cheap candy. - "Got a cup of any kind?"

"Only if it's cup after some coffee," the porcelain taps lightly as I hand you the cup along with the saucer that was on the bedside table. Drinking coffee at night is a little professional whim.

The cork easily yields to you under the spiraled steel of the corkscrew, so the generous scarlet stream quickly fills the porcelain cup almost to the brim, cleverly masking the coffee ring, which has already managed to imprint on the white dishes. You carefully pass the cup back to me, giving me the honorable right of the first sip. You already have a chocolate candy hiding behind your cheek. Sweet tooth.

You ask me about the past day, listening with incorruptible interest, you ask about the progress of the promo, about my dreams, I listening about your flight, about our first meeting, about Paris at night. We just talk about everything that comes into our heads, while the candy slowly runs out and the scarlet column of alcohol reaches the glass bottom of the bottle, and the bottle becomes more transparent than before in the weak light.

"You look ravishing, did I mention?" - My throat burns a little with the slight spice mixed with the flavor of currants and cherries, and your careful and transfixed gaze, albeit slightly cloudy from the wine, pleasantly burns my heart. - "Although, you absolutely always have that."

And I see you blush and your lips bend into a pleasant smile. When you're drunk, you're so sweetly embarrassed every time, like the word compliments are received by you, not me. Insanely nice. Insanely beautiful.

"Merci beaucoup, L'amour de ma vie." - in sweet, purring French, because you are a total provocation today, presented so elegantly and unobtrusively that I can't think of anything else. The chiseled collarbones are not only hidden under the thin fabric of the branded shirt, but also topped with a weighty gold chain. I catch myself thinking that you remind me of exactly this wine in the porcelain of the cup, which I want to sip leisurely, enjoying it alone. To taste you on my tongue is much more desirable than that cedar-currant flavor in the cup.

The bottle is almost empty, and you will soon begin to look like this pink wine stain blooming on your shirt. You giggle, shifting your gaze in embarrassment to the rich black lacquered wood that elegantly fills the bedroom space.

"Wow, is that a piano?" - so childishly naive, just to avoid my gaze. Gently I place the cup in your palms and then touch your chin with my fingers, turning you straight toward me. - "it's beautiful."

Along with the alcohol and fever rushing through my arteries, an absurd idea popped into my head, and it was an original sin not to realize it. I lean closer, deliberately slowly, though the knot of heat has tightened quite a bit. I like getting you so hot, Y/n, you'd know.

"It's beautiful, but it's only missing your nakedness," a languid whisper in your ear and you're already burning like a match. It's gorgeous. - "Shall we fix it?"

And you nod so obediently that even an expensive room in the best hotel in France and the same expensive wine are nothing compared to this one gesture. This will be the first time for you, the first time for the two of us, and believe me, I'll do everything I can to make sure that it goes well. I won't disappoint you, because all I really want is to drown you in a sea of pleasure. Think of it as my little gift to honor our date, like this wine.

×××

You moan so sweetly, and the only thing I really want right now is to seal your voice in a bottle so that I can open it later at any opportunity when you're not around again. You rest both palms against the shiny black lacquer on the closed top of the grand piano, standing with your back to the most elegant instrument and your face to me. You're standing completely naked, just a pile of clothes under your feet, and I'm already face between your thighs, kneeling. You grip the fabric of my black cardigan with trembling fingers, and like a whimpering child, you pull it on yourself. And it's so exciting to fulfill your little whims, knowing that it's still going to be the way I want it. I throw the dark, soft cotton off of me - a "storm cloud" glistens and shimmers slightly in the light of one dim lamp before falling to the carpet with the rest of my clothes. I'm completely naked now, too. Your lustful eyes dance on the ink of my tattoos, as if not knowing where to stop.

"Do you like the view too much, my girl?" - a grin, and you look away a little in renewed embarrassment. I touch your beautiful thigh, stroking it. "Hey, I like it when you watch."

And you watch again, only now you're looking clearly into my eyes, looking into the depths of my abysses, which for you alone are ready to serve not as destruction but as an unbreakable refuge. Your gaze is so focused, as if you want to dive in headfirst into my seas.

"I just... I just like absolutely everything, and I really don't know where to stop."

"So look, you can even touch me, as much as you want and wherever you want. You're allowed, Y/n." - I rise from my knees to push the banquette back to the piano again and sit down. - "Just for you."

And you explore, touching my skin with a gentle that the most distinguished musicians of classical orchestras will envy. Your hands outline my hips, my waist. You cling to my ribs with your fingers, then you stroke my shoulders and arms. I see a spark of delight in your eyes when you feel how the muscles are easily felt under the alabaster of my skin, while you reach to the very tips of my fingers, interlacing one hand in a lock with yours. Your other hand touches my chest, alternately slightly squeezing each one, and frankly speaking, it becomes infinitely difficult to breathe evenly. The same your hand slides over the stomach, heading to the bottom with like a sharpened arrow. Oh, my Goodness...

"Does that feel good?" - you whisper, touching two fingers to my clit with light pressure, alternating with circular motions. It feels good. Crazy.

So much so that all the words suddenly disappear from my head and stick in my throat in broken syllables, unwilling to form into something intelligible. I had to make an effort not to just nod like a silly dummy, chiseling out a single: "good."

You smile, feeling a gradual confidence, as if you're finally stepping on solid ground after the weightlessness of space, having been successfully rehabilitated. And I finally realize I don't have to hold back anymore. I can pull you close to me, rewarding you with a dozen deep, hot kisses, I can marked you with a bright hickeys on your neck, I can pick you up under your hips and lay you top of the piano cover with your shoulder blades, under which steel strings are silently stretched. While you're trapped in a haze of excitement, I can trace a path with my tongue and lips from your breasts to the bottom of your belly, where everything is burning Vesuvius flame. I can, I can, I can...

"It's so romantic in Paris, isn't it? Won't even try to compare it, it's all love everywhere." - I make the first quick stroke of my tongue and then pull away, hovering over your face again. You barely keep the back of your head from banging against the wooden lid, arching your back in longing. Who says I forgot to get back at you for my nerves?

"I don't know, I guess, but I already have love in LA." - You exhale so hotly, but you endure stoically. You realize you deserve it, yes. - "And I don't need anyone else."

My own heart begs for mercy on your account with a solid thump against my sternum, and I'm back down in a flash, repeating the strokes again, playing with your folds to the accompaniment of your moans. You're delicious.

And when you thrust yourself on my fingers so obediently, waiting for the denouement, which burns you to the point of shaking, and then you spur me with my back to the lid, hovering over me with intermittent heavy breathing, but with such selfless love in your eyes; when you enter me with two fingers sharply, but so necessary and precise, easily beating out moan after moan from my lungs and ligaments, that I really realize how suitable an instrument like a piano is for you.

I realize that I also definitely already have love in LA, in the form of you.