Billie Eilish - Tumblr Posts

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: Fever

A/n: You fall into a strange fever dream, burning from the temperature. You wake up next to her, burning again, but now a sense of shame.

Inspired by the song "hostage."

You open your eyes half-asleep time after time, and the first thing you see is the invigorating coolness of her eyes, where you want to dive in headfirst.

"I would love to drown in you," you babble in a fever delirium, and Billie smiles knowingly gently, laying you back down. You feel her firm hand on your back before plopping back down on the sheets. The bed seems to be getting endless.

"Don't strain yourself until I get you some tea," her hand touches your forehead and a silver snake of sadness runs in her eyes for a second. - "You're hot as hell again."

"Of course, I'm right next to you!" - God! You'll be so embarrassed when the mercury column slowly creeps downward, releasing you from the captivity of the fever, mark my word.

"Little fool," - a smile and a pleasant chuckle adorning the next precious verbal clarification. - "My little fool."

Billie goes off to get another mug of green tea, the amount of which makes you feel nauseous, as if you were standing on the deck of a seagoing ship with your hands resting miserably on the rail. A new wave of heat sweeps over you and makes you want to peel off your skin, to say nothing of your ill-fated home T-shirt. Covering your eyes is the worst idea imaginable. The ceiling or any other interior object you throw your tired gaze at, zooms in at an imaginary x4 zoom. This only makes your ship rock more, causing more misery. You hear the button of the electric kettle in the kitchen click and the spoon rattle against the walls of the full cup. God, not the green tea...

Eilish returns with the mug in hand, sets it on the wooden stand resting on the bedside table. You watch as the green surface of the herbal tea reaches almost the most ceramic edges and your appearance becomes deader than dead.

"I understand, my heart," Eilish's hand accurate strokes your face, and you only caress closer because her hand is so cool and just because it's her, Billie.

"I'm going to throw out all the green tea in our house."

Billie nods and assures you of her help as swornly as if you were two partners in crime dumping a corpse in the river.

"We'll have a Boston Tea Party together, you just get better."

She bends down to touch your lips with her own, but you immediately put your hand on her shoulder, resisting. The previously sluggish muscles are now as tense as possible. Eilish meets your categorical "no" again, which is the only stoic thought in your infernal delirium.

"I don't want you to get sick." - Eilish doesn't make any extra effort, but you're in no hurry to remove your hand from her shoulder either, just in case.

"Please." - An ingratiating, pitiful whisper crawls into your skull, mingling with the sickening heat. Reality slowly slips away from you again, and Billie leans a little closer to you, participating as your muscles loosen again. - "I've missed your lips so damn much these past three days, Y/n. I miss being in bed without you at night so much."

"No." - you catch her sad look overriding all prudence and something breaks inside. You hastily try to make things a little better. - "Not until the temperature breaks."

Eilish sighs, but tacitly agrees to your condition. It's not clear what prompted her to do this more - the string of interviews next week or just a deep moistening to your wishes. It seems to be all of the above together. The sadness from her eyes travels over her entire face, freezing her like a mask: the corners of her plump lips are lowered, and the inner corners of her straight eyebrows are raised upward and slightly drawn together. Your resolve cracks, and you soften your sentence a little.

"If..." - The line is suddenly torn by a fit of your dry cough as you reach for the pills on the nightstand. - "If you take some antivirals, I think you can lie next to me for a while."

Billie's face shines brighter than the many gold figurines on her living room shelf, which will soon run out of room. She immediately scrambles out of her seat on your bed and disappears into the gradual silence of the house, retreating to the bathroom. You wash down the bitter pills with green tea, drowning in the world's sorrow with each sip, and fall back tiredly. You cover your eyes and return from a state of half-awakeness, only when you feel something fall sharply to your left on the bed: Billie is back and the smile on her face simply cannot be erased by anything in the world, which greatly alleviates the bitterness of any colorful pills.

"Do you want me to put some vinyl record on in the background?"

You nod, a little suspended in your thoughts, while she's already going through a lot of records. The albums slap against each other amusingly as Billie flips them back, as if digging through a filing cabinet. Slap, slap.

"Any number from one to forty?" - her neat fingers freeze in anticipation of your answer.

"Seven." - You squint, and yellow and red flashes flash before your eyes, giving you some sort of foreboding feeling. Eilish hums and you look at her with interest, lifting yourself up and folding your legs into a lotus position on the bed. She raises her arm as proudly as if it were a flagpole, and her flag cloth is indeed yellow and red. The "Don't smile at me" vinyl. The hunch really worked.

"You love me so much that you only pick my songs?" - she purrs contentedly like a cat, deftly pulling out an iridescent, two-color CD. Yellow and red echo the gamut of the cover and the smell of lemon and strawberries suddenly hits your nose. Sometimes you feel like the more you live with Billie, the more you feel this artificial synesthesia clinging to you.

The glass lid swings back, reflecting the rays of the setting sun from the window, and the record lies flat in its proper place. Billie gently lowers the turntable claw, and with a click of the button the needle runs leisurely along the embossed tracks of the record, filling the room with the sounds of her own voice, but younger and not as strong as it is now. Eilish is slightly embarrassed, and it's so beautiful to you.

"I love you always." - you spread your arms out to the side, inviting her in. - "Come here."

Billie smiles, settles on the bed with you and practically agrees to your terms, but adjusts them slightly. While you are sick, she is your caring big spoon, no objections. You feel the warmth of her body against your back as she chops the rhythm of a playful "my boy" with her fingers, hear her soft soprano entwining your heart with a satin ribbon as she intimately sings "party favor" in your ear and endlessly kissing your entire face, except for your lips, of course, which you have vetoed. You're basically her little spoon most of the time, though she so pleasantly loses and relents when you masterfully take the reins of leadership into your own hands.

"Rest, my girl," she whispers affectionately, biting you on the lobe (revenge for the kissing ban), "I'll be right there."

And with the first chords of "ocean eyes", filled with her two-voice, you fall into slumber.

×××

"I wanna steal your soul," - the hems of Eilish's white robes sweep upward slightly as she dives predatorily toward you, kneeling down for eye contact. - "And hide you in my treasure chest."

The two of you are in some incomprehensible space, where dark emptiness and the cool ripples of water on the floor coexist peacefully. You are the water-chained prisoner kneeling on your knees, she is your personal devil. The loneliness shared by two and the coolness of the water. Nothing more.

Eilish's lips bend in a tempting smile, so devilishly seductive that you feel attraction mixed with fear of incomprehension as goosebumps run through your body. Strangely, you freeze under her gaze, filled with Edenic blueness, and she just stares at you silently, and you don't try to free your hands behind your back again. The water chains no longer rattle.

She bends down a little closer to you and touches your neck with her lips gently, almost weightlessly - she leaves her mark on you. It feels like your body is being hit by a high-voltage current, although you are physically fine.

"What do you want from me?" - you mutter softly, not taking your dumbfounded gaze away from her. It is still unclear where you are, whether this is reality or something else, but the coolness unobtrusively enveloping you is pleasantly soothing. As if you needed it.

"Let me crawl inside your veins, I'll build a wall, give you a ball and chain," - she rises to her feet, towering over you. Her words have a musical tune to them that draws you in even more. And indeed: one click and you feel the weight of the water collar around your neck. Another click, and then she lifts you up, yanking you by the chain of the collar that appeared out of nowhere. It doesn't hurt at all. - "It's not like me to be so mean."

You reach up to her face to make sure it's just a dream. Your fingertips twitch with excitement, but Eilish walks calmly toward your thought and actions, her cheek resting against your palm. Devils dance in her blue eyes. It is completely tangible. You yank your hand away, like accidentally fell under a stream of boiling water, reflexively examine your palm and only further nurture the seed of confusion in the depths of your soul. O'Connell is still smiling the same way.

"What is it...?"

"Gold on your fingertips," - she approaches you with a soft step, like a misty haze over water, - "fingertips against my cheek."

"Say, I'm asleep now, aren't I?"

Billie shrugs her shoulders in a childishly funny way, and it seems to you that she really sincerely does not know what to say. Her hand gently touches your shoulder while the other finally weakness the tangle of water chains, opening up to you a great variability in the distance. In the end, you decide to relax, despite the curiosities of the environment: You trust Billie even in your sleep. She does not utter a single word, just looks at you with some mysterious note in her eyes, and the answer to her dumb question already comes into your head, which you are in a hurry to denounce in words.

"I don't know what feels true," - your lips almost touch hers, so close together, - "But this feels right so stay a sec."

"Gold leaf across your lips," - the chain rattles, the free end touching the water surface, which is why circles began to form on the surface under you, driven by the white foam of the splash. Both her hands gently touch your face, without pressure, but you feel that you personally want to obey her completely. Through her beautiful raven-colored hair, falling over her face, you catch a glint of precious yellowish luster: gold is spilling on her cheek, which you recently touched, resembling a thin twig. Her eyes hungrily catch the glare, as if turning greenish. So mesmerizing. - "Kiss me until I can't speak..."

You feel the heat on your lips and wake up.

×××

The record has stopped playing, the room is completely silent, and Eilish is kissing your lips more unabashedly than ever before. After such a strange dream, you juxtapose reality so difficult that you pull away in consternation at only the third kiss. Billie laughs loudly, bringing you back into her arms. You frankly remind her of a chicken just out of its shell. Slightly disheveled and completely lost.

"You were mumbling in your sleep and I couldn't find a better way to wake you up." - her voice sounds so playful that you don't even need to turn around to see her confident-skanky face. - "Foreshadowing your concern - your forehead is absolutely not hot. The fever's gone down."

"Such a crazy dream..." - you snuggle into her shoulder, and she's only glad, pulling you closer to her.

"I don't know what feels true?" - you see her eyebrow raise ironically. The gears in your head wind up, returning to their usual healthy mode and you bounce on the bed again, nearly falling off it from the weight of understanding the situation.

You experienced her song "hostage" in your fever dream and even spoke lines from it out loud! Oh my god...

Billie realizes just in time to keep your still sluggish but recovering body from an incredibly "pleasant" encounter with the floor: her hand deftly grips your waist and pulls you back. She smiles just as she did in your dream and you're instantly pierced by the ubiquitous lightning bolt of deja vu.

"Will you tell me more about it? Maybe we can even do it again?"

In her humble (no) opinion, your face in color now resembles the most beautiful pink rose while your state of mind is completely withdrawn under the aegis of feeling embarrassed. And before you can open your mouth, choosing words to describe the dream, she kisses you. With a groan of long-awaited pleasure and absolutely no modesty.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: O Captain! My Captain!

A/n: A slightly alcoholic cultural revelry in the warmth atmosphere of the O'Connell's family ends in a totally uncultured way. Billie relaxes and gets drunk, pestering you almost at the table. Finn looks too excited when he hears the notification sound on his phone and looks at Claudia. Later you find out that these talented duo have made a crazy bet.

"As far as I know," Patrick sips the drink with a funny sound and the amber column in his glass drops slightly after a sip, and the cinnamon wand sticks into his gray mustache like a straw, - "this drink came to be called 'rum on three waters,' or 'grog,' after Captain Old Grog, a nickname given to Vernon for his habit of strolling about the deck in bad weather in an old waterproof cape. "

"I didn't know you were so into alcohol, Mr. O'Connell." - you grin good-naturedly and twirl the cinnamon stick like a spoon, creating a small alcoholic tornado in the cup: the swirls of fruity berry tea mixed with golden rum are mesmerizing, making you stare for a few seconds before returning your gaze. A warm smile plays across Patrick's face as he looks at you, blue eyes sparkling with gratitude for your interest.

"Please, just Patrick." - the man gently corrects you and you nod in agreement. Eh, it's all the fault of your boundless reverence.

"And not so much the alcohol as its history, my dear," Maggie returned from the kitchen with a careful, soft step and stood next to Patrick, who immediately put his arm around her waist. It certainly adds to the comfort. As does the presence of a beautiful woman like Maggie in general. - "There's that traditional Irish trait about him. Will you help me, darling?"

Patrick nods in agreement, assuring you of his imminent continuation of the story, and the parents retire back to the kitchen to tackle the long-awaited tofu turkey, another of Maggie's proud culinary masterpieces. It looks like it's about five minutes away from being fully cooked, at most.

You hear a new chirp notification opposite and without hesitation turn your gaze to Finn, continuing to observe: the red-haired man grabs the phone from the table abruptly, and after recognizing the contents of the screen becomes even more flighty, staring at Claudia with a mute question. You literally see humped question marks appear above his head, almost getting tangled in slightly overgrown copper hair, to which the girl responds with an innocent smile.

"Guys, is something wrong?" - you put your cup to the lips to take a generous sip, but you nearly choke on it, coughing as you feel a sudden tight grip on your right thigh.

A sharp turn of the head and you meet head-on with the source of your mild asphyxia: cloudy drunken lights flash in Billie's blue eyes, accentuated by her cheeky grin.

"Careful, my girl." - Billie gives you a gentle pat on the back, and then shifts her gaze to Finn as if nothing had happened while her hand slowly slides down already on the inside of your thigh, keeping some decent-to-non-decent distance. - "Yes, brother, you look very... excited."

Finneas buries his face in a glass, almost with his nose, and all the secrets of the universe are concentrated in the amber surface of the grog. He doesn't even look at Claudia now, but for some reason it seems to you that the blush on the guy's cheeks and ears has become clearer. Perhaps alcohol is to blame for everything. A new notification bell and an attack of your asphyxia is already transferred to him, and the role of the rescuer is Claudia.

"I'm fine," he awkwardly picks up a few drops of diluted rum with his palm from his short red beard. Several images of the pirate aesthetic immediately run before your eyes. - "Just... can't let go of thoughts of the turmoil of the day."

"Relax, it's just a regular night out with your loved ones, right?" - Billie's heated voice is pleasantly husky, and you twitch slightly, catching the sudden goosebumps of arousal. And it's not just her voice that's to blame, it's also her cheeky palm, which has slid deftly from your thigh to the zipper of your jean shorts, playfully yanking the lock tongue down just a couple of links. Fuck! What's going on today...?

By God's miracle, you restrain your emotions of shock and embarrassment, which strive to play out with the whole palette on your face, and quickly intercept her hand, closing your fingers with a bracelet around her wrist. In your mind, you offered up over a dozen prayers to God so that no one would see this movement.

"Billie's right, love, you really should relax," Claudia gently pats her lover on the shoulder with the same perfectly simple-minded smile. But when she and Eilish glance over, you could swear you see some fleetingly conspiratorial, sly spark in her green whirlpools. Eilish herself echoes it. Both of their smiles turn predatory as Fin's phone beeps unobtrusively again, and the guy covers his face with his palms in anguish. You've obviously missed something.

"I'll tell you a little later," noticing your misunderstanding, Eilish smoothly moves closer to you, scorching your ear with an ingratiating whisper. - "In the meantime, I have something for you as well."

She slips out of your grasp in one imperceptible movement and intercepts your hand to place it on the fly of her incredibly voluminous shorts. You feel the hard bulge through the soft fabric and it seems to you in a moment that the chair beneath you will shockingly split on the floor, spreading all four legs in different directions, in pairs parallel to each other. Because you have mentally fainted about three times already.

"Pirate, what the hell is that?!" - you seem to whisper a little too loudly, but Billie even likes it. She only winks playfully and bites her lower lip a little too hotly, hiding it behind her cup when you hear the sound of footsteps from the kitchen.

You try to pull your hand away, but Billie only moves a little closer to you, squeaking the leg of her chair lightly, and springs your hand back. And you don't know what's stronger: your embarrassment at the possibility of total embarrassment in front of her parents, your growing arousal, or your trust in the reckless younger O'Connell. Fuck.

"Here we are!" - Patrick solemnly brings in a tray of flaming vegan turkey to set it on the table.

"I hope you enjoy it," Maggie steps a little behind him, smiling with a note of maternal awe.

"What's so stupid, Mom?" - Eilish drains the rest of her cup and then plops her chin on the palm of her arm bent at the elbow. - "You know you and bad cooking are categorically incompatible."

She sends a warm smile to her mother, then transfers the murky pre-storm seas to you afterward. "Trust me." And you, frothing with excitement, trust. Eilish is your favorite and authoritative captain, guiding your ship through this palpable absurdity of a situation.

Fin's phone pings again.

×××

"That was too good, can I get the recipe?" - Claudia gently pushes her plate away, passing a paper napkin over her lips. You nod in agreement at her remark as well.

"Of course, girls!" - Maggie shone, the word of the August sun: blindingly bright, yet so warming. - "I'll be sure to describe everything to you in the morning, but now it's time for us all to rest."

And you exhale in awe, even though Eilish's hand under the table outlines your knee a little too flirtatiously. What's a kneecap! In these past thirty minutes, Eilish has replaced the biblical Tempter Serpent himself, getting you as hot as she can and can't. She's done everything from playful touching of your leg to overly explicit, lingering strokes of your thigh. She even managed to walk on the very blade: still unzip your fly and slip her fingers inside for a few moments, touching the very epicenter of your heat and tension through the thin fabric of your underwear. You nearly fly up in your chair, held up only by multi-ton shackles of awkwardness and adrenaline. God... Eilish is gorging himself on his third and final cup of grog, chugging from a teaspoon with the most satisfied smile on his lips, and you don't find the moment better. You press sharply on her bulge at the fly of her shorts and she nearly chokes, biting down on the spoon. The blue drunken seas churn with stormy foam, but how sweet is revenge!

And now you're blissfully thinking that the most dangerous stage of dinner seems to be behind you.

New notice. Oh, good lord....

"Son, is everything okay?"

Finneas is the perfect embodiment of a red traffic light, now tousling his hair with his pale hand. All nervous and hunched over.

"Yeah, Dad, I just think I overdid it today."

Billie bounces her fist with laughter and you catch her again, paying for all your patience with her own gold coin: another press and she bites her fist just barely visible to let out an embarrassed groan. You seem to have grown bolder after your second drink.

Patrick steers the conversation slightly into traditional fatherly admonishment, only to then return to the rails of everyday topics. You graciously agree to help Maggie with the dishes, acting as a precautionary measure (if Billie gets up from the table, there's a fifty percent chance that one unfortunate move will be a staggering disaster), but before you do, a small, crumpled piece of paper falls with filigree precision onto your lap. Billie, even under the influence of alcohol, is perfectly aware of her movements.

"I want you. Now." - The slightly smudged letters are eloquent, and her deep-blue gaze is a seal of assurance. You swallow nervously, silently letting out an exhale. Eilish is sure to drive you crazy someday. Would you mind?

"I'll help your mom out real quick, okay?"

And she nods silently, swallowing you whole, completely, in her deep blue waters. Eilish touches your cheek briefly with her hot lips, and Finneas stares at you like he's never stared before. As if you'd committed this smashing obscenity after all and you'd been noticed. Billie nods at him briefly, and a smile of incommensurate pride blossoms on his face, as if he'd won a dozen Grammys and as many Golden Globes. You are mentally ready to add everything, even the Illuminati, to this silent conspiracy, which has bypassed you in its details.

Relief only comes when these two golden talents of the music industry go upstairs with the speed of comets scattering across the sky, albeit not quite sober. You and Claudia stay behind to help, but there's a rush in her movements, too, so similar to yours.

"What's the matter, anyway?" - You ask quietly, grabbing the empty salad bowl from the table.

"Billie took my word that I wouldn't say anything," Sulewski gives a cat-like sly snort, summarizing. - "But... you and I are obviously going to have to be quieter tonight."

And you are sincerely lost, not knowing what to do: to raise an eyebrow in skepticism and break the roof of the cozy house O'Connells or to fall into a new, only now no longer imaginary fainting, embracing the salad bowl.

You finish the rest of the cleaning in silence, floating in your own rapidly changing thoughts, like a lone sailor on a huge Dutch galleon. You emerge from your thoughts only when you hear the creaking of the wooden stairs beneath your feet. Claudia ironically wishes you a "good night" before hiding behind the door of Finneas's old room and you die, burning the carpet beneath you with a mixture of feelings. It's too crazy an evening.

×××

"Now, Pirate, tell me what the fuck this-", you're unceremoniously silenced with a deep kiss, with force and accompanying rumble spurring to the door. A hiss from the painful meeting of your shoulder blades with the white-painted wood and a groan from the frenzy and duration of your arousal mingle together, sticking across your throat. You bite down on her bottom lip with force. Just the way she likes it.

"I'm sorry," her voice is husky and the blue sapphires glistening in the dark, mysteriously clouded with desire and rum, hypnotizing, turning you into a porcelain statue in her arms. You freeze, and she touches your shoulder blades with her hands through the thin fabric of your black shirt, stroking gently. - "Does it hurt much?"

"It never hurts with you," you whisper, your fingers wanting to sink into her tarry hair. The striped bandana immediately slips to the floor beneath your palms, reaching the floor completely silently. - "I want you, and I also want answers to tonight's performance."

"I can give you everything at once," the cold tip of her nose touches your neck, creating an unreal contrast to the hot, plump lips that slide ever so gently down to your collarbones and then back up to your earlobe. You feel the bite, and she presses closer to you, pressing her impromptu, artificial boner against your very needed spot, and you wrenching a strong exhale. - Finn and I have a bet for tonight."

"More details, Pirate," you cling to her shoulders, ready to climb the wall with excitement. Eilish moves mockingly, creating a friction that fogs your mind and dulls your desire for long-awaited answers. Another thrust of her hips and you gag, biting on your fist as she fast pulls your hand away. - "I fucking... need details..."

"We bet which of the two of us could handle arousal in public better, who could hold out longer," she grins as she sees you touch the waistband of her shorts with trembling hands, undoing the knot. The interfering piece of clothing falls off as you both look at it thoughtfully, as if you were watching the jets of a waterfall falling from high above the glistening cliffs. Actually, as expected: in the semi-darkness of Eilish's old little room, the dark straps of the strap-on glisten, highlighting her alabaster skin so well. How she'd managed to never once get caught with such a 'surprise' at fifteen centimeters - the eighth wonder of the world, no less. - "Well, Finn's condition you can see right now."

"And what did you confront him, Pirate?" - you take a few insistent steps, causing Billie to steps back and fall back onto the sheets of her bed with a smile, fleetingly touching the fabric of the open scarlet canopy. You dive in after her, hovering dominantly. The singer's gaze is breathtaking from the sultry and lustful look in your eyes.

"Not even Eilish anymore?"

She slides her palms under your shirt, stroking your waist. The warmth of her hands is so damn relaxing, you're already not even wanting to be angry for detailed shenanigans. Tugs on the bottom button with her fingers, taking a rhythmic route straight to your collar.

"It's not my fault you were sipping rum tea today like the most badass pirate of the seven seas." - You tease good-naturedly as the shirt slides off your shoulders, revealing it for the silver light of the moon from the window and the hungry blue gaze. Equal to her in terms of clothing, you peel Billie's T-shirt off as she obediently raises her arms for comfort. The smirk on her face mirrors yours exactly.

"I decided to keep Finneas' condition a secret for him, so he only realized at the table that I'd enlisted Clau's support," Eilish continued, watching with amusement as you first deftly tugged off her bodice and then personally exposed yourself like a model in front of a talented artist. - "Lucifer bless her multi-caliber concealed folder."

"Wait," you sit down on the bed next to her, knocked off your feet by the incoming information, the facts folding together in your head in a brisk fashion, like outstretched red threads on a detective's cork board. - "Are you telling me he was getting hot pictures of her all through dinner while you paralleled torturing both of us under the table?"

Billie nods slowly, savoring the pleasure of her own splendid prank, and you collapse into a histrionic laugh, finding a pillow with your hand. Remembering Finneas's sloppy exit from the table, pulling the already long edges of his sweatshirt taut, you nearly cry out in a fit of laughter, clutching the soft pillow tighter.

"You're such a bitch, Billie," you touch her lips as she gently takes the pillow back, hovering over you already.

"As it is," a new stroke on your neck, serving as her delicious dessert, setting her back to her former intimacy. Just below, near your collarbones is the slightly crooked scarlet flower of a hickey, eliciting a muffled moan from you. - "Kissing your partner on the cheek is a voluntary admission of defeat. And even though I lost, admit you're impressed."

"Oh, Captain, my Captain..." - you murmur, running your fingers along her ribs. He takes it as agreement.

Her gaze clings to the only thing left on you: blohsh's gold pendant, set with transparent white sapphires that look like stars in the night sky's companion light. Her heartly present. She grabs the pendant, pulling you gently toward her, so as not to break the chain, but you feel such indescribable strength from her in the gesture. Her free hand touches your cheek with all the tenderness she can muster.

"Mine," she whispers fervently through the kisses, your tongues clashing hotly. The tangy karamel, half bitter, golden rum flavor, the slightly stinging cinnamon, - "only mine precious girl. I can't tolerate stand to be around you."

"Only yours, Captain Eilish. Take me on a voyage of a lifetime with you, please."

And she speaks so confidently that you are ready to rip your heart out of your chest for her right now and present it to her in the palms of your hands, even hotter and only hers.

"I'll take you. Pirates always take their treasure with them forever."

×××

You lower yourself onto her strapon leisurely, trying not to make too much noise, though the knot of pleasure inside will soon burn through you like a magical sphere of fire. Billie holds you by the waist, thrusting only deeper, her mysterious night seas staring at you uninterrupted, wrapping you headlong in their warm waters. She burns out your naked body into her memory, noting that your most appropriate attire is only moon white light and nothing else. The rest is unnecessary tinsel.

"You're so flawless," the soft whisper of plump, templed lips is entirely polarized by the roughness of the thrust that follows. Her right palm slides down, smoothing over your pelvic bones, and then she touches your clit with her index finger, thrusting sharply again. You are immediately literally folded in half in an orgasm. And Eilish really can't get enough, she continues, "folding" you over and over like exquisite Chinese origami.

Even when you're off of her, you don't let yourself rest and drop to your knees, unbuckling the strap, peering into her already relatively sober oceans and touching the moist 'petals' with your tongue, taking you leisurely to the very bottom. You're still shaking slightly, and Eilish rumbles, her guttural moans barely audible.

A thump against the night stand and a cursing is heard from behind the wall opposite both of you. Billie chuckles.

"Maybe I lost," she throws her head back, gently pushing you closer with her hand. - "But the temptation is too sweet. And my girlfriend cum first, I won this one, sucker."

She lets out a chuckle, but immediately drowns in a silent moan as you lips press deliberately slow and pressurized. Someone has to teach your captain patience, right?

Eilish doesn't like alcohol, of course, but she definitely likes rum.

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: 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.

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.

The onyx-black Dodge, dear to her heart, native and irreplaceable, sways slightly from the trunk side, like a Venetian gondola on a small canal wave, and Eilish turned back as she was supposed to, not out of concern but out of interest. In the trunk now, in addition to the paper grocery bags, there is a pumpkin, jutting out its bright orange sides. Eilish's eyes widen in surprise, almost reflecting the real size of the fruit.

"Pumpkin?" - she stares at you, her hand simultaneously fumbling for the silver door handle to open it for you with a slight nudge. She looks as if you've stuffed an Irish goblin in her trunk.

"Pumpkin." - You innocently reply with a smile, taking your passenger seat to her left.The buckle of your belt snaps. - "I remember you saying a week ago that you really regretted not having time to carve a jack-o-lantern last Halloween."

"But it's July, girl!" - Eilish laughs ringingly, eyes shooting out sheaves of merry sparks. - "July!"

"So what? I don't need this stupid calendar to please my girlfriend."

The blue seas in front of you are warm and gentle, and no beach in California can compete. Eilish unbuckles her belt, and a soft palm, calloused only at the very tips of her fingers from the strings, lands on your knee. She uses it as a kind of thrust to pull herself practically flush to your lips. The pink petals of her lips fold into a budding smirk.

"Paparazzi, Bils," - you whisper, though inside you're already trembling with anticipation, as if you're both doing this for the first time. The self-assured curve of her lips is a can of gasoline spilling around you, your desire a burning match that you cover with the palm of your hand for save, gripping the wooden stick tightly with the fingers of your other hand.

"So what? I don't need someone else's stupid opinion to please my girlfriend." - she teasingly reworks your own phrase, dropping the words, the word expensive pearls across the marble floor. Defiantly and with a slight clatter. - "Relax and don't think about them, they're my responsibility."

"I know, it's just...," her palm touches your cheek, stroking, and you feel that slight roughness of her fingertips, contrasting interestingly with the overall softness of her alabaster skin, much more vividly than before. She seems about to play you, as if you were a musical instrument. - "I just don't want to let you down, or do anything wrong, or give you a problem-"

Hot lips interrupt you brazenly, and her hand slides from your cheek to your chin, touching with dominant pressure. You obediently open your mouth, and she immediately and treacherously seizes the opportunity. Her nimble tongue leaves a few strokes on your palate, hungrily pulling a few excited gasps out of you before she contentedly pulls away. The belt clicks back into position on her body and the engine rumbles with the turn of the key, as if to echo O'Connell's mood. You stare at her and swallow your words, mutely opening your mouth to close it again. You look like a cute fish.

"I appreciate that, I really do," Eilish touches the gear knob as if it were her royal scepter - honed and easy. - "But your disturbing idea that you're doing something wrong, I don't like it. It's a pure lie, and I'm willing to prove it with words and kisses like that for as long as it takes until you realize it."

"Thank you." - Your lips tremble in a grateful smile, and you place your hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. Only for a couple seconds, but so eloquent. She has time to touch your hand in return before she puts her palm back on the steering wheel and begins to pull out of the huge, accumulated parking lot by the afternoon sun. And even though all her attention is now focused on the road, you see her glow. You slowly but surely come to a realization.

"What are we going to do with the pumpkin pulp?" - Eilish touches the white playback triangle on the screen in a familiar gesture, and another indie song's musical rhythm spreads through the cabin.

"A pumpkin pie," - you playfully cover your ears, because Eilish is screaming childishly loud and overwhelmingly happy, as if she's five again instead of twenty-two. That's why you love her.

×××

"You never told me about your little dream," Billie wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a generous white smear of flour underneath. After all, as befits cooking, her nose always itches in a bad way especially when she has to roll out the dough. - "I think it's a little unfair."

You smile wistfully, rubbing the uniform puree through a sieve: Maggie had once shared her secret that it made the pumpkin pie filling incredibly tender. The image of the little black ukulele that stands in your bedroom near the nightstand (a slight negligence of Eilish, which only adds to the charm) comes to mind: many little people, showing beige outlines on the dark sapele surface, stand in rows, leaning one shoulder to the side, all of them connected by chains of even smaller squares to each other. On the smooth head of the fretboard proudly stand four metal pegs that gleam so seductively, reflecting both the morning and evening sun. The rolling pin behind you stops clattering, meeting the surface of the wooden board over and over again, rolling out the dough, and her arms close around your waist, entangling you like mythical vines. The ephemeral world of your thoughts immediately flutters into the air, soaked in the warm scent of pumpkin and cinnamon, and you twitch slightly, but immediately move closer to Eilish, keeping the sieve in your hands. A playful chuckle touches your ear.

"My little coward," - her lips touch your cheek before she happily prefers to snuggle her nose into your shoulder, inhaling the scent she loves and at the same time leaving imprints of flour on you as well. - "And yet what is your dream?"

"To be frank," - you tilt the strainer back into the sink to place your palms on top of hers. - "I've always wanted to learn to play a musical instrument."

"Piano? Guitar?" - Eilish purrs, feeling the warmth of your arms. Swaying moderately from side to side with you, it's as if she's lulling you into that feeling of comfort and security.

"Nah, you didn't guess, it's a ukulele." - you softly reply, and she immediately stops your impromptu "pendulum" by freezing in place. A moment, and you find yourself pressed against the counter when Eilish turns you around to face her and places her hands on either side of you.

"And you were silent for so long?!" - The childishly sincere surprise frozen in her eyes reminds you of the beautiful shells at the bottom of the blue waters, enchanting you. - "I can teach you!"

"Nonsense, I didn't want to distract you with such empty requests." - you giggle, as soon as her lips form an insult, pouting a little, and her palms invocatory located on your cheeks, moving you closer to her. Her eyebrows slid down the bridge of her nose in their seriousness.

"You are very important to me аnd music is not an empty request."

You see the pale remnants of flour under her nose, then you look again at her serious blue oceans and suddenly, even for yourself, you burst into laughter, appreciating this homely contrast. Eilish puffs loudly like a kettle, but seeing your satisfied look - immediately changes his mind to take offense, and only kisses, deliberately rubbing nose at you as often as possible. The leftover flour remains completely on you.

"I'll teach you after dinner, klutz. Deal?"

"Deal." - you throw your arms around her neck, so treacherously unwilling to pull away from her, and she gallantly wipes the remnants of flour from your face. Incredible royal mercy.

The timer on the stove dings, announcing the end of the warm-up. It seems you should continue making the pie after all.

×××

And though the pie was deliciously delicate, and the cooking together was marvelously seductive, what was happening to you now opened up some new horizons in the definition of such words as "captivating" and "matchless". Eilish hardly glares at you, waiting for you to finish with the last piece, and you deliberately mockingly bite the flour crust slowly, throwing glances at her in response. O'connell, because of the enthusiasm bubbling in her blood, ate her portion almost chewing, which makes watching her impatience even more fun. It seems that if you had put your hand under her T-shirt, you would have easily found the wick, because Eilish, from his own impatience, almost resembles a cartoon stick of dynamite. Finally, when the empty plate finds its place on the glass coffee table next to the wide white sofa, Eilish already flies up to the second floor with the speed of a bullet, stumbling on the steps in the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the cheerful face of a pumpkin carved by her. The harbingers of her return are the faint tinkling of strings and cursing.

And here you are, sitting in her arms on the floor, moving closer to the silly pumpkin face so that the picture before your eyes doesn't fade into the oblivion of darkness. Four strings catch the sparkling, warm glow of the candle, and you stare at your girlfriend's fingers as openly as you ever have before. It's getting kind of hot, and yes, you're ready to blame it on the poor pumpkin, in no case is your feeling of embarrassment from the obscenity of your own thoughts, no.

"We'll start with the easiest, I think you'll like it." - It's impossible to hold back a chuckle at her conspiratorial whisper in your ear. You can literally feel her satisfied smirk, you don't even need to turn around. Her sly intonation says it all.

"Won't you even tell me what song we're going to learn?" - you raise your eyebrows with interest, which flick upward like an askance birds.

"I want you to guess, my girl," Eilish touches your right palm gently to place it on the strings just above the resonating hole. The close bodily contact makes you shiver for some reason, as if this is new to you. Perhaps it's all the influence of the intimate semi-darkness and evening silence. "Do you know the fretboard mean yet?"

You nod confidently, recalling Finneas's long-ago explanation. Eilish smiles contentedly.

"I have a very capable apprentice. So, let's start with a rhythm, with me for now."

Eilish muffles the strings with her left hand, pressing them slightly against the fingerboard with her four fingers, her thumb resting lightly on the back of the fingerboard. And then she moves along the strings with you, leaving her palm on top of yours: twice down, twice up, once down, then up. You watch each movement mesmerized, and Billie only murmurs softly in your ear the desired rhythm, helping you memorize it. After a while, she removes her palm (which is somewhat saddening), honoring you and giving you autonomy. After a few successful attempts, she opens her fingers on the fingerboard, and a sound that is not quite slender, but definitely pleasant, spills into the room. You gasp in surprise.

"You're doing great," - you can feel her leaning closer against your, giving you a strong and support hug. Embarrassed heat spills over your entire body, growing especially hot in your heart. It feels insanely good. - "Now you and I need to learn proper finger placement and memorize a few simple chords."

And Billie shows you: she puts not the whole pad of her finger on the strings, but only the very tip, slightly bending the phalanges and gently pressing the nylon musical "threads". Having tried it, you now really understand why her fingertips are so different from the softness of her palm. It hurts a little, but it's not critical.

"Over time you'll develop a kind of 'calluses', or rather your skin will just ogoubet from rubbing against the strings and it'll be much more pleasant to play." - Billie explains softly, and you nod silently again. It's like you're a first-grader seeing a beautiful and good-natured teacher for the first time, listening with your mouth almost open. - "Now put your beautiful middle finger on the first string, third fretboard. That will be a C chord."

And you obediently put it down. Eilish runs her hand over the strings in rhythm, and the pleasant dissonance of the past sounds merges into one - slender and precise, soft. You repeat after her, with your left hand not letting go of the string, and you feel like a magician, still with your mouth ajar in surprise, like a child. Eilish notices and laughs loudly.

Next, you learn the next chords - cmaj7, F, G. Billie instructs so gently and tactfully, and you feel like a cube of sugar in warm berry tea. You don't want it to end. And even though your fingertips ache under the unfamiliar hardness of the strings, even though combining rhythm and chords transposition is hard at first, you're slowly but surely getting the hang of it. After an hour, the awkward movements of your fingers when changing chords become more confident and faster, and the melody is almost uninterrupted. You smile warmly at the realization of exactly what you are performing.

When you completely play the tune without mistakes, Eilish unlocks such cozy embrace and almost drops you on the floor, kissing you to the absolute. The pumpkin from such a trick jiggles gently, flickering with flames. A toothy grin, a triangular nose, and eyes, one of which resembles a pirate's patch - a little pumpkin pirate.

"I'm so proud of you!"

"I want to learn more from you, Eilish." - You whisper softly and a smile immediately spreads across your face. She's so close to you now, so beautiful...

"And I want to teach you more, Y/n." - blue eyes catch the glare from the candlelight for just a moment before she squints slyly, playfully mocking you. The solemn little vow between you is sealed with a leisurely kiss.

Then you play again and again until the wick sinks into the hot wax and the little candle goes out. Billie just purrs lovingly against your shoulder, rest assured, she is bursting with a disproportionate pride in you and you can literally feel it in the air. As the living room sinks into darkness, she lightly touches her lips to your fingertips - exactly where it hurts so much so far. Her blue eyes are so attentive, glistening in the July darkness, and her lips glide over your skin so slowly and smoothly, like a little boat.

She hums "8" to your playing, and you're only more convinced that playing the ukulele is truly your little dream.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: There's nothing you could do or say

A/n: I just want to shove a revolver down my throat and pull the trigger with some indescribable pleasure of primacy. It would break my heart to see you die slowly, fade away and become a ghost of the past.

Inspired by 'i love you,' Billie's point of view. The person this is meant for, I hope you especially like this text. Let me know, dude!

Caution: mention of illness. I apologize if this offends you in any way.

There are only three hours left before the night flight to Berlin, and I still haven't seen you all day: waking up in the same bed together doesn't really count, because I'm always so short of you, you know that. I overslept godlessly, jumped out of bed in one merged impulse, like a Hellhound, and you just smiled, reminding with your calmness the mistress of the underworld - Persephone. You helped me get ready as quickly as possible, reducing my small gap in the schedule to almost zero, even though you just got up.: with slightly swollen and reddened eyes, battered, so homely in my clothes, which I always throw under your palms on purpose. In my clothes, you look so ethereal, protected, so... mine.

For you, I am a hasty whirlwind of branded clothes with a fabulous price tag and my own defenseless nakedness, demolishing everything in my path except you. I hurriedly screw up an awkward, such an unequal to your care "thank you", while my head is quickly filled to the brim with lines-schedules with the time of events for today. The usual madness.

"'Merci', we're still in France," you correct jokingly, perched on the edge of the bed and smile, with the very corners of your lips. Your pale cheek is imprinted with the silhouette of a pillow after sleep, and that smile on your lips is pure fissure.

Your hands twitch a little as you daintily dig your aristocratically skinny fingers into the fabric and take turns holding out the clothes you'd prepared for me while I was in the bathroom. You chalk it up to your over-indulgence in coffee these days, and give me the traditional neat kiss goodbye while I'm so reluctant to let you out of the protection of my palms, which look so good on your waist. You smile again, and again your smile is an immaculate fracture, your eyes a deafening abyss for the first time, unreadable to me.

"How are you feeling, my heart?" - I run my hand over your cheek. You're still too pale even by my standards, and you're also unusually cold. My own heart falls down a little, like a balloon under a weight.

"It's okay, Eilish." - You croak softly in my ear, and it feels so good, it gives me goosebumps. I bite playfully on your lobe, unable to contain myself, and close my fingers around your waist a little tighter. - I'll pack our bags, run or you'll be really late."

Something is really wrong, and I don't have time to ask: the phone in the pocket of my shorts is literally bursting with the trill of a dozen calls, and I'm really far behind schedule. So this "something" is sluggishly drowned out in the noise of my mind as I listen to the manager's plans, drive with my mom and brother from place to place, sit through several consecutive interviews, answering semi-automatically, albeit diligently sincere. Thoughts about you are silenced, resembling furniture still untouched by the hungry tongues of flame, on which the burning roof of the house immediately collapses: it is only necessary to "dive" me back into the car, bypassing the noisy and curious crowd, to not meet the usually extremely warm, understanding and peaceful lakes in mom's eyes - this lingering "something" clicks loudly, again burdening not only the head, but also the whole heart. Blinding sparks of worry gleam in her gaze, like lake pebbles catching the light of the sun through the thickness of the waters. Are there secrets again?

"Mom, is something wrong?" - the sliding door slams shut with a bang as soon as several managers and Finn deftly run into the salon, who is almost dragging the setting sun behind him, like a gel ball on a string: his shaggy red hair playfully winking golden lights in the light. The stocky guard taps the side of the van several times with a massive fist, announcing readiness, and And mom is twitching, as if someone fired a cannon - "Mom?"

"I... I don't think I'm at liberty to tell you just yet, dear." - She self-effacing, wanting to look away, but she doesn't let herself, just catches Finneas's gaze for a second, turning back to me.

"What do you mean?" - I frown, leisurely glancing over her: a little hunched over in her unnaturally, stiff, confused. Not at all like her. His heart began to rattle, climbing up his ribs and all the way to his throat, to lodge there in a lump of excitement and foreboding. Finneas coughs awkwardly, drawing attention to himself, as ungainly as our mother, except that his eyes are cold icebergs of concentration and utter seriousness, and his hands are resting on his knees in a tight grip, as if he's on the scariest attraction of his life. The blood in my arteries boils from the pressurization, from mine own blunt ignorance. - "Tell me, I want to know."

"Y/n hasn't told you yet?" - his voice sounds disproportionately ingratiating in the noise of people's shouts of adoration and the soft rustle of wheels gradually gaining momentum. The van moves smoothly back toward the hotel and It's not long before we'll be leave, all that's left is to pick you up, the rest of the faithful crew and a couple of our suitcases. Except to cut that anger-inducing Gordian knot of misunderstandings that has been wagging since I woke up.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" - the words come out like bright, rustling confetti from a naughty firecracker. I still couldn't help myself.

They look at each other in silence, almost shouting a heartfelt epitaph in the harmony of their voices. Finneas touches my shoulder gently with his palm, and mother takes my hands in her warm palms, and I feel a slight tremor creep through her. I feel that now I find myself along with them on this unknown attraction, that twists nerves and veins on its mechanism, being driven by fear.

"About her leukemia, Bils."

And the world immediately collapses to the size of an atom, ceasing to exist and sound at all. Boom! A shot from a shotgun at point-blank range, what smearing my bloody remains, the remnants of my mind on the darkened glass and the entire cabin. From the floor to the roof.

"What?..." - Like the four pearls clicked quietly on the stone tiles of the floor, as my the letters bounced lightly off the silence of the salon, echoing them. Even the small bunch of managers shut up instantly, looking in our direction with a kind of pity, as soon as this harbinger of doom reaches their ears. Leukemia.

"We don't know if it's really true, because the first symptoms could be conjugated by their similarity to simple severe overexertion, and the resulting diagnosis is a likely paperwork error," - Mom closes her gently fingers on my palms tighter, but my blood is already cold and I can't feel anything, as if I've ducked under the thickest of ice, - "We all just hoping that the new test show it's really true, but..."

"But she asked to be ready." - Finn's voice trembles, but he heroically finishes. - "Just in case."

"What?..." - like a wind-up puppet I scatter these long-suffering four letters again, and I don't have enough for more. In an elusive mind, a puzzle flimsily develops, answering a question that has been stuck into my head since the morning, and I see that smile of yours before my eyes - a delicate pink stroke protecting me from the catastrophe of Vesuvius: "It's okay, Eilish...". And immediately so wants seeing the world blurred, drowning in stinging salt from tears.

And I remember jumping out of the van, remember flying into the elevator, hitting the floor button a hundred thousand times in a few seconds just to get to the top faster, remember how kicking the door to our hotelroom with my whole body, catching you off guard. All of this is completely unimportant, a merged sequence that is so treacherously imprinted on my brain while being completely insignificant. You're sitting near the entrance, perched upright on your large suitcase: your sharp shoulders are outlined by my ridiculously colored T-shirt, and your long legs in baggy jeans are stretched out while you tap your converses socks against each other. You jumping up with a startle, like the devil out of a snuffbox under the force of a steel spring, when the door meets the wall with a distinctive slam. The unreadable morning abysses in your eyes are fathomlessly sad now, while I am devoid of words, all the letters of the alphabet, every possible sound. And you understand just so, without any of those empty air vibrations stealing up the already precious now time. You understand what they told me.

"It's not true," - I kneel down, not even closing the door behind me, I don't care. Wrap both palms around your face, but you just stare at me with a look of worldwide sorrow, cuddling up to me like a beaten kitten. - "Tell me I've been lied to..."

"I'm sorry, Eilish," - your soft whisper that hits me exactly in the solar plexus, - "It's true."

It's true. It feels like my guts have been left somewhere in an elevator office, a bloody trail leading right here to you. I was completely blown away.

"Billie, I-"

"Okey, listen, I'll help! I'll pay whatever it takes, I'll give them everything!" - My ligaments were tearing with excitement, turning my own measured whisper into a pathetic whimper.

"There's nothing you could do or say." - You raking me up into your arms, and without a second thought, I burst into tears: the world in front of me was starting to blur and my eyes stinging. Why? Why you? All you do is stroke my head like a whiny little baby while I crumple the fabric of your t-shirt with my hands, choking on my own despair. - "All we have to do for now is wait. We'll find out in Berlin."

"W-why didn't you tell me this morning?"

"I knew you wouldn't go anywhere after that, I didn't want to cause trouble." - You chuckle softly, and I just press myself into you tighter, my wet nose against your neck, my arms wrapped around you. Suddenly, if I let go now, you're gone forever? - "I'm sorry, I know I should have told you sooner. I just..."

"Please don't leave!" - The tears and nerves are starting to make me shake. The feeling of coldness behind my back mixes with a small flame of hope as your hands stroke my shoulder blades. - "Please, please, please..."

"I won't leave, Eilish," - your hand touches my chin, lifting my head to touch my lips with yours, and I gasp, memorizing absolutely every crack on them as if for the last time. - "I won't leave."

I don't remember how much I was hysterical, but the life-giving warmth of your hands lingered in my memory, which spread down my back, giving me like demonic wings, behind which I so want to hide you from everyone and everything. I remember how I collected your tears with my lips, resembling transparent snakes, as two worried heads appeared in the doorway - a copper-red and a light sandy one, it's mom with Finn. We leave the hotel, and I don't let go of your hand for a second: not when you're carrying a heavy suitcase that I'm trying so hard to take away, not when you jump into the car with me, not when we're sitting in line for a flight. Mom tries to defuse the situation, from time to time timidly and tenderly asking about how you feels, Finneas and dad offer all kinds of help here and there, and you just laugh it off, hiding behind this cunning, and even now beautiful in its falsity fracture playing on your lips. You squeeze my hand tighter, stoically swallowing your own excitement, devouring from the inside.

After a while, we are already climbing the airplane ramp, surrounded by the dense darkness of the night, and you are smiling again, when I look at you anxiously again: the smile that you gave me, even when you felt like dying. An old line, personally composed and now my personal nightmare in an instant, become much stronger than before. What else can I do but wait endlessly? Up all night on another red-eye I stared at you just as endlessly, when fatigue took over and you dozed off, trustingly resting your head on my shoulder. I silently memorizing absolutely every feature of your face to plug the abyss in my head. It's all infinity multiplied by infinity.

The porthole is gradually being colored in light blue tones. We have arrived in Berlin.

×××

A ragged breath bounces off the tiled walls, mixing with a loud splash: I emerge from under the thickness of the already almost cooled water, just to hang limply in the wide bathtub. There is an absolute emptiness in my head, shackle me with it's coolness, like this water around my body. So perfectly. I hear a light knock on the bathroom door, so sonorous, as if you are touching the wood with your very knuckles: they are slightly reddish, beautiful. Yes, I think I was too loud. When you don't hear an answer, you press down on the door handle and walk softly through to carefully sit on the side of the bathad. Excitement spreads in your eyes, like rainbow spots of gasoline on the surface of a puddle.

"Billie, are you okay?"

No, are you? It's so ironic that it's being asked by the person who is now in pathological danger more than anyone else. I'm supposed to be strong for you, but somehow I've suddenly broken down on my own, staring so blankly at that spotless white-washed ceiling for half an hour. Worthlessness. The water splashes again, makeshift waves rising slightly over the tub's rims, leaking onto the tile floor as I assume a sitting position and stare at you after all, eye to eye. Naked and insignificant. I can't do nothing with everything I have, I just want to shove a revolver down my throat and pull the trigger with some indescribable pleasure of primacy. It would break my heart if I see how you die slowly, fade away and become a ghost of the past.

"Yes." - My own hoarse echo, covering weakness.

"Your water's cold, a klutz," - you touch your fingertips to the cold surface and shiver. - "and you're also lying."

We stare at each other in silence, and then I break again like a branch of a flowering tree: rustling and crunching. You and the bathroom start to shake, so I cover my eyes to hold back the hailstones of tears.

"I'm sorry."

"Crying isn't like you," your hot palms touch my cheeks with indescribable care, brushing away the droplets of tears and wiping away the clear paths of sadness. - "Never been the type to let someone see right through."

You speak in my own lines, either from the fact that your thoughts are so close to my soul lyrics, or just to cheer me up. You know how much I enjoy it, how much it amuses me. But right now it's not funny, it hurts. You catch my gaze and your lips quickly fold into a sincere "sorry" before kissing my water-damp forehead.

"What will I do without you if this turns out to be true?" - I grab your wrists, pulling you closer, and you smile for the thousandth time in these two days, while the irises of your beautiful eyes reflect my praying glaciers, which melt in despondency, creating new salty rivers that flow between your slender fingers. You never let go of my face. - "What should I do, Y/n?"

"First off, get out of the cold bath so you don't get sick." - you coo, hiding mutual shards of sharp pain in a gaze that's as variable in its spectrum of light as a gothic stained glass window. - "And we'll decide the rest in a warm bed, okay?"

I climb out of the tub, stepping barefoot onto the bare tile, and you deftly throw a huge, soft towel over me and hold out another, smaller one for my hair.

"I'll be waiting, Eilish." - You kiss my lips, and I don't want to pull away, just hang on to your neck with both arms. The soft towel immediately falls to the floor, once again exposing the pale curves of my body, which you look at fleetingly, shyly.

"Stay with me, don't go, please."

And you stay, leaning patiently on the sink built into the nightstand, waiting for me to run a soft towel over the alabaster skin, collecting all the moisture, waiting for me to put on clean clothes. Silently staring, so attentive, as if memorizing.

"You're so beautiful, O'Connell." - You catch me off guard with your words just as I bend over to open the stopper in the tub. The water immediately swirls into a small spiral vortex, dancing over the drain, and your words make it an order of magnitude harder to breathe. - "My insanity.

We go back to the bedroom: I pull you with me, accompanying you confidently between the coffee table and other furnishings in the dark, and you follow obediently, understanding without any words. We lie down on the bed, and I immediately cling to you in a hug like a baby koala and you cover us with a heavy blanket and I exhale for the first time in two days as if nothing had happened. It would be so nice if it were true.

"You need to rest, Bils." - you gently pull me closer to you, though it feels like it's getting no closer, as I lavish light kisses on your face, -"You're tired."

"You still haven't answered my question."

You sigh heavily, as if your lungs are in a vise and your thoughts are trapped in a snare of fears and your own fear of choosing the wrong words. You look away, but I immediately stroke your face, bringing you back to me. I try to look warmly, even though I'm as scared as you are.

"Let's hope? And if it still don't, then... forget me, please."

I covered my eyes to collect my thoughts, but the same picture was in front of them: tourniquet, needles, thick syringe. I watch from the couch as your dark scarlet blood first spreads moderately along the transparent walls of the cylinder, and then quickly runs upwards, following the piston of the pressurized syringe. I fold my hands in front of me between my apart knees, and I can see them trembling with excitement. You told me not to go, and I just couldn't do it, I'm too worried about you. It's only when the thin needle catches a glimmer in the light, darting out of your vein, that I exhale, diligently watching the shiver. My head wants to twitch in a tic, but I don't let it. For your sake I coped then, I need to cope with the words now.

"Do you want to leave?" - The voice twitches so stupidly, echoing the heart that's throbbing behind my sternum. - "What about your promise?"

"I don't want to, but I love you," - and you don't smile anymore, just pull the corners of your lips down, exposing your own weariness. - "And I don't want you to get hurt even when just looking at me."

"Maybe won't you take it back? Say you were tryingna make me laugh." - I bump my nose against your collarbone, sending goosebumps through your body with my hot breath. - "It'll hurt me even more when I know you'll be alone, that I won't be able to be there for you when I can help in any way, Y/n."

"But now you feel weak and insignificant, I can see that, Eilish! And it's all my fault!" - You furies on, and I deftly catch your lips with mine for a soothing kiss. You exhale stunned, but immediately calm down, becoming so soft and supple in my arms. Only now do I realize how much you've broken yourself under the strain of waiting, realize I can't let go.

"I can't escape the way I love you..." - softly humming just one line, and the embers of hope are already kindling in your eyes.

"I can't escape the way I love you." - you whisper repeat confidently, quieting my restless seas in response.

And we touch each other's lips an infinite number of times, without any words or oppressive thoughts, because they are not necessary now. The excited exhalations, looks, and sensations mean so much more now. You drift off to sleep unnoticed by exhaustion, not breaking the safe warmth of the embrace, sniffle amusedly into my shoulder, and I finally smile with more than a serene smile before I drift off into the realm of Morpheus after you, gulping down a thousand hopes.

It's just over ten hours to the rubicon crossing.

×××

Finneas awkwardly grips the long fingerboard of the bass guitar, touching the thick strings with his fingers, not so much testing as seeking reassurance in the sound. He looks at me, and I shudder as I lean on the microphone stand. The stage lights flared up in one loud click, blinding me, making me frown.

"Are you ready?" - From afar, somewhere in the darkness, the cameraman's cheerful voice is heard.

"One second!" - Mom shrieks from backstage as I almost nod. Synchronously, my brother and I turn our heads in the direction of the shout, and this action also recurs by the rest of the studio staff. Mom is glowing brighter than any spotlight, Dad is almost dancing with a mixture of emotions, and you're standing backstage with them, clutching a folded sheet of paper in your hands. And you smile. At last, without a fracture, so sincerely.

Finn jumps up from his seat like a rocket, and I keep up: flying into your arms with the microphone in hand, making you stagger, but with light laugh.

"Negative." - you whisper gently in my ear, and I'm ready to burst into millions of brightest fireworks. - "The hospital really just mixed up the paperwork back then."

And when the rest of the family joins the hug with joyful hooting, and we all jump together like a football team that won a world match, the heart finally finds peace, getting into the precisely designed groove between the ribs.

You're all right.

I have three awesome ideas fluttering at my very fingertips, so it's business as usual, ladies and gentlemen! Where do I start? (The works will be written in order of votes, but as always I will complete all of them, don't worry).

1. Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Three nine five six

A/n: Eilish plunges headfirst into the maelstrom of the downside of his popularity when a crazed fan kidnaps you.

Inspired by "THE DINER".

Warning: blood, kidnapping, moral suasion!

2. Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: The Countess's carriage

A/n: You get your driver's license, and Billie just likes to mess around sometimes.

3. Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: But now I'm underwater

A/n: Because of tight deadlines at work, you're stressed out, critically sleep deprived and overly addicted to coffee. Billie suggests that you distract yourself by watching a horror film, and you agree good-naturedly, unable to refuse her. What you haven't considered is the fact that stress, coffee and imagination are a potent mix. Billie finds an ingenious way to calm you down and unload the thoughts from your head.

Anyone besides me want to talk about the fact that Eilish literally broke a WALL while driving a backhoe with the most mischievous face in the world? No one? Hotter than hell itself. I want to go on such a crazy ride with her now, lol

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Vroom Vroom

A/n: Billie brings you along for the shoot, but in the end she's suddenly jealous you not so much of Charli as of your attention to her as a celebrity. Charli playfully teases at her, but no doubt Eilish finds an original way to remind you about herself.

Their music video for "Guess" is a sudden bomb for my inspiration! And it doesn't have much to do with the text, but I do want to point out that Charlotte is an icon of my teenage years, lol.

Talking to Charlotte Aitchison, or more popularly Charli XCX, is definitely an exciting moment for you, given your strong fascination with her as a teenager. You're extremely visibly shaken from exactly the moment she gives you a welcoming hug and you're still in that excited mood. You've fainted about forty times in your mind, and you'd probably have realized one of those dramatic falls if it weren't for Billie's hand on your waist, which is clasping your side a little tighter than usual by the minute, or beating out some nervous rhythm of its own.

"It's very nice to meet you, Y/n!" - Charlotte smiles incredibly warmly, and for a second it seems to you that you are going to kiss the asphalt fantastically with your lips. Well, and with the whole face as a whole. - "Billie told me that you're an old fan of mine, you know, I'm really pleased."

"Gosh, uh... thank you!" - you touch the back of your head with the palm of your hand in burning awkwardness, only to then bring that hand back down sharply, as if spurring yourself on and sobering up. - "I just momentarily lost all the words I wanted to say to you, I'm sorry."

You're feeling incredibly uncomfortable with your surroundings under the weight of your own excitement and trepidation, even though Charli is looking at you as relaxed and friendly as possible-what's more, her dark brown eyes remind you of two mugs of hot tea, which with each sip envelope you with comfortable warmth, dispersing the delicious boiling water through your arteries.

Eilish, who has been gallantly silent all this time, understands you without any words, simply by reading your broken body language. In one deft but at the same time masterfully hidden in her persistence movement, she pulls you closer to her, right to her side, as if she were a mother duck and you were her obedient but confused duckling.

"Relax, my girl." - Eilish throws a slight smile on her lips, and puts her hand possessively much lower than your back, or rather, right on your ass. Just for a few moments, but you also instantly feel your ears light up like warning lights. - "Charlotte is exactly the same person as you, remember?"

Charli chuckles playfully as you nod and exhale slightly, gathering all the words and thoughts into the formerly organized piles in your head.

"Okay, let's start with something simple to bring you to your senses, hot chick." - you side-eye Eilish's eyebrows almost twitch, wanting to come together at the bridge of her nose, and that little silver snake rattling the tip of the tail foreshadowingly in her blue eyes. But the smile doesn't leave her face a quarter of an inch, so chalk it up to your nervous imagination: good idea, right? - "Name me your favorite song from my recent album."

And you babble inspirationally, like a renaissance poet who has met a sacred and previously unattainable muse: you note the meaning of your favorite lyrics, or the beat that comes into your soul, like was as if someone had unceremoniously opened the door with his hit foot. You praise almost every track on the album, unable to decide what you like best, and Charlotte laughs loudly, touching your shoulder lightly with a little pressure. And Billie sees how shocked you look at the singer, being doused head over heels in euphoria. She sees your gaze, with a million stars floating in it, sees your quivering smile. She sees it, and almost sending sparks of pure current straight into the asphalt. You don't admire her, but someone else, even if it is well extremely deserved for Charli. And the realization of your admiration definitely stings her painfully, like an angry wasp out of the blue. Sure, you're her girlfriend, but aren't you her fan anymore?..

When she notices this dazzling spark in your eyes, which ran through the moment when Charlotte offered to personally give you her autograph, O'Connell frankly breaks the first lock of self-control out of a possible three. She doesn't even have time to think properly, almost leans on you with her whole body, throwing her arm over your shoulder, hanging on you in mute demand. You immediately shift your gaze worriedly, shifting all your attention to her. For Eilish, holding back a satisfied smile, which is coming out of her cunning interior, is now a difficult task to heaven, but doable.

"Tired, dear?" - you ask sensitively, deftly reversing roles: your hand now firmly and securely on her waist. - "Do you want me to get you some water?"

"Or you can take a break in the dressing room," Charlotte gently advises, while devils dance invitingly in her eyes, as if her irises are bursting with the heat of inquisition bonfires. Oh, she definitely got it. That's why Eilish stabs her in response with her zealous blue blizzard, wrinkling her nose. Just a second, so that only she can see, but in no case not you.

As Billie opens her lips for a made-up answer, a thin female voice cuts through the air beside you:

"Ms. O'Connell, I'm sorry, but can I talk to you for a minute?

You all three of you look at the girl at once, as if the request wasn't addressed to Billie alone, which makes the petite blond stew, clutching the clipboard with neat palms to her chest, but then she finds the necessary composure.

"Your presence is required at the site to clarify a working point."

"Sure, no problem." - she moves out from under your palm ever so unwelcome, swaying slightly from side to side to prolong her contact with you for a few moments. Turning on her heel and shouting to you, she's already following the fast-paced assistant director. - "I'm fine!"

She feels your gaze on her with the back of her head, mixed with misunderstanding and slight excitement, and she almost choke on her own pride, finally allowing herself a cheeky smile. Suddenly, the tingle from the back of her neck is gone, and behind her your hear your loud laughter and Charlotte's azartic shout: "I'm going to steal your loyal groupie to show her the set, Billie! I can't promise I'll get her back!"

Eilish turns around, and Charli smiles at her like a cat contented under the heat of the sun. No, it won't work like that!

×××

"Really? I never thought you'd still love «Vroom Vroom» more than anything."

Stepping over millions of wires and stage markings, you survey location after location, noting how your excitement is gently shifting into confidence, and confidence into a slight premonition of anxiety warming at your fingertips and deep in your heart. Talking to your living dream in the world of Hollywood is extremely comfortable and desirable, but still you feel in your gut that something is wrong with Eilish, even if you can't explain what it is.

"This is my loudest baby, if I may say so," - Charlotte smirks, gently putting her hand out in front of you in a warning gesture, - "careful, there's another one here."

You step over the thick camera cord, suddenly feeling the ground beneath your feet shake slightly, or should I say vibrate. Far behind the two of you, you hear a mechanical, rumbling noise reminiscent of a construction site. Charli puts her tanned palm on your shoulder, instantly stopping you in your tracks.

"Turn around," - she smiles at you extremely contentedly, meeting a catchy sketch of misunderstanding on your face, - "I'm sure you'll like it."

One hundred and eighty degree turn around your own axis and you don't know what's deafeningly louder right now - the gushing laughter of Charli seeing your bulging eyes in amazement, or the helling murmur of the damn construction excavator that's coming your way slowly, led by her majesty Eilish, sitting regally behind the wheel.

"What the fuck, O'Connell?!" - you announce, folding your palms in a report-like fashion and bringing it to your lips: the only thing that helps a bit to overcome this sonic behemoth with a multi-ton bucket.

"Get ready to jump in!" - Eilish's eyes are burning a confident blue enough that you don't even need to squint to see it, and about a smile would be needless to say. - "I'm taking my loved groupie back, Charlotte!"

"I give up!" - Aitchison shouts, mixing the echo of his own voice with the roar of the engine, raising both hands in a surrendering gesture, grinning good-naturedly.

The excavator clanks, sliding at first a little to the left side of the wide area, and then leveling off again, still on course with the two of you, except now it's traveling at a safe distance from you instead of straight ahead.

"I wouldn't keep her waiting if I were you, or she'll burn with jealousy," - Charli puts her palm to your ear conspiratorially, except instead of the classic whisper: a shout. - "Come by my dressing room afterward, I promised you an autograph after all."

Something clicks shrewdly in your head as you smile, hugging the star briefly: you barely touch her waist and she pats you on the shoulders in return, and the excavator seems to make an even louder noise, like an iron bull spewing anger in the heat of a bullfight. The only one subduing him is Eilish. Charli hurriedly steps aside, watching with undisguised interest, and you only catch Eilish's outstretched left palm as you climb up the step. Her fingers grip you so tightly and securely that even the tattooed three of winged fairies embossed on her skin seems to be pulling at you with their little hands.

"You're crazy, Eilish!" - you shout with an outburst of laughter, wrapping both hands around the iron handrail.

"I'm your crazy!" - Billie returns both hands to the steering wheel, confident that you have a firm grip these.

"When did you even learn to drive this multi-ton monster?"

"Exactly half an hour ago," - an undisguised contentment plays on her lips as her gaze drifts forward. - "Not much different from a normal car, though there are nuances."

Glancing in the rearview mirror, you notice not only the surprised set workers, but also Charli waving at you. A grin spreads across your face.

"As nuanced as your jealousy of Charli?"

"I'm not jealous," - O'Connell lets a chuckle pass through her lips, and even drowned in the rumble of the car it doesn't seem sincere.

"Oh, what are you saying?" - you raise an eyebrow, and Eilish casts a quick glance at you-the blue sea is completely draped in eloquent silver serpents, to see which: an honor purely for you and no one else.

"Okay, yeah. I'm jealous." - Eilish exhales in astonishment, jerking the long clutch lever with her hand, to which the iron hulk rumbles, going leisurely to the right on its powerful tires. You see parking lot markings in the distance and a small silhouette waving two neon-orange flags: obviously the parking attendant himself. - "I don't like it when your attention and admiration isn't on me."

"My, you're greedy," - Billie tsked, rolling her eyes, but you only smiled affectionately. - "Would a kissing session make up for my shortcoming?"

Billie hesitates for a moment, rubbing her chin with one hand, then playfully pouts her lips in an olfactory pink bow like a child.

"If you also stand behind the cameras with the cameramen, catching my every glance, then quite possibly yes."

"Okay, I agree!" - You laugh, throwing your head back, and Eilish doesn't hold back in her supposed seriousness, drowning in laughter following you.

"Now get ready to get off. We'll walk from here. I have to see what kind of wall I have to break down."

You are silent, choking on air in a flash. Well, this is going to be an interesting shoot, though it's always just that way with Billie.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: The Countess's carriage

A/n: You get your driver's license, and Billie just likes to mess around sometimes.

Billie's point of view. Small references to "Oxytocin".

"Okay guys, we're done, you're packing up the equipment! You all did a great job!" - The photographer gives the command and his booming voice shaking the bright studio like a fairy-tale giant easily lifting a log cabin into the air, and for a second it seems that even the huge vertical plane of the cyclorama behind me is swaying, absorbing his powerful, bassy voice. Something reminiscent of huge stage speakers, quite amusing. - "Thank you more for such a pleasant cooperation, Ms. O'Connell."

The stocky man smiles as kindly as if he were a boy of five, making his truly French mustache bounce upward in curls. And he himself is a living embodiment of Parisian chic, making an impression of some incompatible between windiness and seriousness. Chinos pants in gray plaid, expensive white shirt that is deliberately not buttoned up on the first button, black classic Vans slip-ons, brown jacket, and his majesty - yellow scarf. It's like I never left Paris, a really wonderful photographer.

"Just Billie," - I sank blissfully into the blue pouffe with my foot on the leg, - "and thank you, it's mutual."

The good-natured uncle walks away, looking at the camera screen with incredible satisfaction as he walks (perhaps even calculating the profits from the magazine covers, as evidenced by his dreamy feline smile), and I can finally exhale, relaxed. When I lean my head back and close my eyes for a few seconds, the studio around me is as noisy as a forest: someone removes the nozzle from the softboxes with a characteristic rustle like the sound of leaves, or heared alternating clicks that make the studio lights go out, reminiscent of a woodpecker's knocking on wood. And it's all mixed in with the rushing of people stomping around, muffled speech that I'm not really trying to make out. With an exhalation I open my eyes leisurely, and while long-legged tripods and reflectors, so similar to buds opened under the sun, are "flying by", I fumble for my phone in the pocket of baggy jeans. Even in this consonance of work noise, I hear most sensitively the sound of the notification from you. Or maybe I don't hear it, but already feel it in my heart, who knows? A light swipe up and our chat window obediently pops up. Emoji of a burning heart in place of name and your photo in the profile circle, where you deliberately playfully shine your sharpened bare collarbones, which for me is the most delicious cherry that I want to savor on my tongue.

"Hey, guess who can surpass you on the road now? 〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜"

A warm smile spreads on my lips: your efforts have really paid off despite the itchy worries in your soul. So proud of you, though I can't help but tease jokingly - the newfound opportunity is too sweet, since you and I can have such an unconditionally good time.

"Debatable about surpassing me, my girl..." - And immediately followed by a new blue cloud of a message that slipped right out from under my fingers. - "But I'm eternally proud of you, you're incredible."

"Then why does it look like you want to take me on as a bet, Eilish?"

Bingo. As soon as I slyly cast my rod, you immediately swallow the bait, even knowing full well what's involved. Your deliberate submissiveness is so enticing, it makes me bite my lower lip, automatically stoking the hungry flames of my obscene thoughts. The false fang scratches my lip from the excessive pressure. Shit... Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a tall, thin shadow looming over me, causing me to raise my head, reflexively blocking my screen.

"Billie, ready to go yet?" - Laura smiles, holding the thick day planner in one hand and holding it out to me with the other like a caring fairy godmother. I nod and immediately brag to get up from the blue ottoman in one motion. - "You look a little tired, dear, but luckily that was the last activity for today."

"And this is coming from a person who should be on a well-deserved vacation twice already, but has been putting it off for about six months now," - I chuckle, and Laura playfully folds her fingers pistol-wise, tucking her "sacred" texts under her armpit. A few impromptu shots, and I play along like an unlikely Hollywood movie actor, grabbing dramatically at the heart. - "Okey, my lip zipped."

"That's right!" - Ramsey, with a cheeky grin, alternately blows imaginary smoke off her fatal "weapon" before she get back in the same mood. - "Should I call a driver to give you a ride home?"

"No, that's okay,"- I sluggishly wave her off as the two of us weave our way toward the exit of the room, keeping our course toward the intricate weave of several dark corridors and dressing rooms. - "Better tell me, can I keep those awesome fangs?".

"I think, for a small fee, it's quite possible."

"Great!" - I dip my hand into my pocket again, unintentionally blinding myself with the display in the unfamiliar darkness at first. My fingers immediately touch the necessary letters, as if in a sharp and passionate tango. - "Simply marvelous."

One can now tread on this fragile ice far more confidently than before.

"It is, I want." - The blue cloudlet goes to you, losing the final "you" along the way, which I did, after all, erase as soon as I typed it. Not because it's not true, but because it's too boring and stupid to open all the cards at once. - "Will you pick me up?"

Two thin, white checkmarks appear almost immediately in the corner, notifying me that it's been read. The three dots at the top of the screen bounce meditatively as I say goodbye to Laura, who's walking further down the maze of narrow corridors, and I'm touch the handle of the dressing room with the palm of my hand as I make mine way inside.

"Yeah, only if you're want ride on a bicycle." - The words skillfully build into your traditional irony, and I can hold back a burst of laughter. - "I don't have a car yet, and I don't think you're so dreamy about having all of LA running after us when they recognize you."

"Take my Dragon, and show me what you can do. I'll be waiting."

I write the address and set the phone back down on the table contentedly, settling into the high chair in front of the mirror: I smile languidly, and a pair of snow-white fangs and silver grillz catch the glow of light from the warm backlighting running along the mirror frame. The silver star shining especially brightly. I notice the playful blue sparks in my gaze that flicker with the stirring dirty thoughts already running rampant in my head. Well, this is going to be fun!

×××

As soon as I leave the building through the back door, under the usual escort of two trustworthy guards and the responsible Laura, I hear the familiar, soft rumble of the engine and my favorite rustle of wheels in the deep dark blue twilight: you pull into the parking lot like a careful panther, so as not to attract unnecessary attention. Although I know how much you want to make noise for the whole block and press the gas pedal to the floor. I like to do that. And I think I like to see you driving my car, which I'm just now finding out.

"You're too sexy against the obsidian black metallic, you know that?" - I dive into the passenger seat, which feels a little unfamiliar, and you almost drop your jaw to the floor of the cabin in surprise when I look at you defiantly from under my dark glasses and smile. I bite my lip deliberately, setting the stage. - "You like it?"

"Insanely." - You look adoringly into my blue waters, so beloved of you, and I can't hold back a slight blush, immediately covering myself with a smirk. - "You seem to have surpassed even Carmilla herself, Countess."

"I hope the first vampire in the history of literature doesn't take too much offense at me." - I grab to my seatbelt, letting a chuckle pass through my lips.

"She will. It's impossible to be offended by you."

As we pull out of the parking lot, the right to stare elegantly becomes my authority, which you've unknowingly handed over to me, as if you've performed a gothic sacrament in the semi-darkness of the cabin by your mere appearance and demeanor. The massive gold chain that weighs so seductively on your neat neck is worth it. And the long coffee-colored jacket that accentuates your sculpted shoulders? My gaze falls on the thin strap threaded into the laces of your casual pants - the belt plaque is gold-plated, too. You lower your right hand, gently touching the gearshift knob, and I stare so dumbly, hungrily outlining each phalanx and the line of rings playing on your beautiful fingers. Oh my God... You're doing absolutely nothing obscene, and I'm practically dying already.

"Is everything okay?" - you ask, not taking your eyes off the road. Your face is so unaccustomedly focused, though I catch some concern in your gaze.

"Just admiring you," - I take off my sunglasses, clinging them with one earpiece on the collar of my T-shirt. - "And... I wanted to offer you something."

"Listening attentively, my Countess." - You look at me expectantly, just as we slow down at the stoplight waiting for the signal, a purring chuckle on your lips. - "Anything for your gothic majesty, the finest carriage at your service."

"Is it really the best? It's not like I'm driving right now." - A smirk shoots up on its own, causing you to do nothing but tsk tsk and roll your eyes theatrically. You're my flawless opera.

"Stop taunting and tormenting me and tell me what you're up to, slick."

The air sticks in my throat barely in time to form meaningful words, or at least syllables: a red Audi comes nose to nose, honking softly. My hands reach for mine glasses, clawing them back onto my face as a kind of reflex. And you're instantly taut, like a string twisted in the right direction by a peg on top of the fingerboard. Hands on the handlebars in perfect position, for all the flashy high marks. Again another slight honk of a car suddenly appearing nearby breaks the silence of the night.

"Did I do something wrong?" - You ask perplexedly, arching your eyebrows slightly in a frown and turning your head toward the window, just in time for the expensive source of the rich scarlet-colored sound. The Audi immediately winks playfully at you a couple times with its high beam lights, making you squint more and more with the question hovering right above your head.

"No, relax." - I run my hand down your thigh, which immediately tenses under my palm. You turn your gaze back to me, still as questioning, but you spread your leg closer to me without further ado. You're so obedient, it's a miracle. - "It's just that you're being called to a stoplight race."

"Uh, just like in the movies?"

"Uh-huh." - I slide my hand thigh , down to your knee to come back up and rest on the border of my inner thigh. The look is attentive, eye to eye, you're not even looking down yet. - "When two or more drivers in expensive cars meet randomly on the road and try to prove who is 'cooler' by overtaking each other, flashing high beams, playing 'checkers' usually with significant speeding."

"And... How do I win?" - My palm dives down, and you start breathing a little confused, which someone else wouldn't even notice unless you knew you properly. But I do know, and that brings a satisfied smile as if on cue. - "Eilish..."

"I'll tell you if you promise to grant my wish," I return back, squeezing your thigh through the fabric of your pants. - "Whatever it is."

"I promise." - You nod confidently, even without any pause. A small spark of excitement shines in the depths of your pupils. Wonderful.

"Usually this sort of thing ends with one heavily outmaneuvering the 'opponent', like while he's stopped at a stoplight, bumping into slow traffic, and stuff like that." - I lower my glasses a little, peeking over the edge of the frame. Your gaze drifts momentarily to the rich blue of my lashes, and then you're back at the mercy of my calculating eyes. - "Racing from stoplight to stoplight, usually starting on green, then rapid acceleration, 'checkers' and braking before the next stoplight.

"Well, there's no other cars here now, obviously."

"In our case, all we have to do is run a green light to get our opponent 'stuck' into a red light." - feeling the coolness of the gearbox knob with the palm of my hand is nice, even sitting in the passenger seat, even if it feels completely different. - "Roar if you want to compete."

You pause for a second, arching your back into the seat, staring appraisingly at the distant traffic light in front of you, and then place your hands on the steering wheel. Seeing the blue ribbons of your veins on your tense wrists is pure sex. You squeeze the gas pedal, shaking the silence of the intersection with a powerful roar - and that's sex multiplied by x-two. You really know how to make the Dragon sound. And I know how to make you sound. The scarlet Audi responds immediately, making noise and "shooting" the engine in a cocky, open and brazen challenge.

"I dibs pay on the fines, Eilish." - you exhale tensely with a chuckle, staring at the red light as if someone's life depends on it. Oh, you're nervous as if you're on your deathbed, waiting with your hand clasped on the handle.

"The Countess is betting all her treasure on you, my coachman." - I lean back in my chair with too much wimpy pathos on my tongue, and as I smile my teeth catch the glow of the streetlights again, which is especially visible in the side mirror. Red changes to yellow, to which the Audi growls again, and you don't make a single extra move, just wait. - "Prove it to me what you better."

Five seconds of silence - the yellow cycles to green. And you sharply push the knob on the box forward in a split second, at the same time pressing the pedal to the floor. The wheels grind to a devilish speed, and I'm immediately sealed into the seat. It's pure madness, but I like it. The Audi pathetically "shooting" the exhaust pipe, being bumper to bumper with you again. At the last decisive meters, when the green circle blinks, as if saying goodbye for a while, and the "Dragon" on half a bumper rushes forward, you confidently pull the handle a little on itself, including the second gear, then - clutch, smooth wheel spin, gas. With a whistle of tires, you fly sideways behind the traffic light hanging from above, immediately leveling off to the proper lane and driving away, kicking up dust. The red Audi stays behind the red light, a little further away.

With the realization of the outcome, we yell something unintelligible to each other, me nearly bouncing out of my seat even though I'm buckled in, you, a five-finger running through your hair disbelievingly while the road is still empty.

"Wow, I definitely have one of the best carriages of all," I whisper half hoarsely, feeling the tight ligaments in my throat peppering.

"And yet not the best?" - you pout playfully, biting down on the bottom one so your smile doesn't give you away. Still too flighty and excited from the dose of adrenaline shooting through your bloodstream. - "I won, hey!"

"You won, but you didn't win against me," - I show you my tongue, sticking it exactly in the gap between my fangs, and you laugh childishly. There's no hint of resentment or anything like that on your face.

"So be it, Eilish." - You look distractedly at the rearview mirror, as if convincing yourself that this isn't all a figment of your imagination. - "So what about your wish?"

And here comes the prize for audience sympathy! Personal and unique, so long awaited.

"Remember my apartment in the apartments near the center?" - I place my hand back on your thigh, stroking extremely close, making you almost hiss, "Head over there, right into the underground parking lot."

×××

Passing the security checkpoint without the slightest problem, and pulling into the parking lot just out of camera range - good idea, great even. Unbuckling the seatbelts on both of us and getting my lips on yours before your mechanism hit the car wall with its metal detail was great. Ordering you, so panting and disheveled from my hands and lips, to move into the back seats right out of the front seats, following me is stunning in its uniqueness. You are sprinted by me to the back seat without any mercy or excuse, with your lips slightly swollen and reddened from biting. And I deeply don't care that we're somewhat cramped right now, perhaps that only plays to our advantage. I don't care because it's my wish, and you promised to fulfill it.

"You're crazy, you know that?" - Your gaze is so serious - pure surgical steel, but you're breathing intermittently and without noticing it you're fawning your body only closer to me, your legs in expensive pants spread wider, giving more space. - "Why don't you back off and pick something safer?"

Sitting on you in the small interior of Dodge: pure insanity. Hovering over you again and tongue leaving a lust-hot stroke on your neck, pulling back the collar of your thin white turtleneck: a complete breakdown of brakes and decency. But can't I be bad sometimes? Oh, yes, I can! Especially when there's a hot girl like you in my car.

"Can't take it back once it's been set in motion," - I clutch that most fucking licentious gold and massive chain in my fist, pulling you closer by it so you're sure to hear every word crystal clear in my whisper. - "Cause I like to do things God doesn't approve of if she saw us."

"Eilish, fuck...," - I rest my knee so shamelessly between your thighs, deliberately creating friction, and you melting, letting go of any moral guardrails, your face hidden behind your Artemis palm: fingers so thin and chiseled and beautiful, like you're a perfect portrait descended from the paintings of antiquity. Mine. So excited and almost swaggering.

"Girl, I'm going to drive you crazy," - I run the very tip of a fang along the curl of your ear, and you pant in heat, swallowing your own moan so obediently that my own thighs shake from the tension. Gently I wrap my fingers around your hand, moving my hand away from your face. - "Wanna see what you can take, take you right in the my car, such a deadly hot girl. Will you be obedient for me?"

"Yes," - you wheeze, clinging to my lips, and I allow it, only biting lightly. It seems like you're about to have bloody scratchy cracks on your lips as it is, my weakness. I leave a few hickeys on your neck, and I almost laugh as you purr a muffled moan: I think I'm getting too into the vampire role, don't you think?

I touch you just everywhere, every precious cell of your body, and you still don't beg: you endure and only occasionally look away from me, wishing you could find some respite to save your soul in this four-wheeled Purgatory that is more sinful than hell itself.

"You couldn't look away, look away, look away..." - I hum mockingly right in your face, grabbing your chin, but you only roll your eyes with the new thrust of my knee. You're so interesting to 'break', my dear, so unadulterated and interesting to me.

"She'd wanna get involved, involved, involved..." - you deftly parry my own sentence. A slight smirk flashes across your lips, and then I'm nearly folded in half when you thoughtfully shut my mouth with your hand and wedge your knee into the very point of infernal heat in my body. There, between my thighs.

"Slut..." - I feel the sweat begin to trickle down my forehead, and a bitchy smile spreads across my lips. You don't look away, staring straight into my irises, wanting to swim in those seas, to stay there forever. But I won't let you - I just can't do it without you. Your parched lips fold silently into "yours," and so hard tightens the knot of heat in my lower abdomen as if all five letters were belladonna petals.

Deftly I unbuckle your belt, pull the zipper tongue down and you instantly break down, no longer having any strength to continue this teenage game we're playing.

"I'm begging, Billie, please..."

Click! And you broke, just seconds before I would have lost all patience myself, pounding into you with fingers so frantic and selfless that you never dreamed. Good girl. And good girls should be encouraged, shouldn't they?

Already half-naked, you crawl back to the narrow window with your back to the max distance, and I slide down the seat to the opposite side with my feet on the floor. I run my hands over your absolutely uncovered thighs, touching them smoothly with my lips as if they were expensive velvet. You want to grab my hair with your hands, speeding up the process, but you stopped yourself so obediently that I personally place your hand on the back of my head-you deserve it.

I run my tongue between the hot petals, and you nearly bang your head on the roof, wanting to arch your body in a beautiful arc of pleasure. Your hands are tangled in my dark hair, and I'm just trying not to scratch you with my two snow-white "gothic blade", stolen from the photo shoot so successfully. The star-shaped grillz are so contrastly, it's so cold on your aroused clit at first, isn't it?

You cum even without fingers, too taken to extremes in foreplay. All I do is suck in the pot of your clit with my lips, and you do fly into the low ceiling of the car with your forehead, jerking from your orgasm too sharply. You squeeze your eyes shut in pain, barely able to recover again from the new wave of small shudders.

"Hey, hey, hey," - I'm settling in just as you do, pulling you closer to me, resting your head on my chest. Your feet dangle to the floor, but you don't seem to care. You only squint, trying to calm the mottled galaxy before your eyes, and poke your lips against my neck. - "Gently, be accurate, my girl."

You open your eyes, and you look at me so wildly, the word Fallen Angel on Alexander Cabanel's canvas. Madly, with burning eyes, with unknown power. You don't say a word only kiss endlessly, and with one hand you manage the thin Gucci belt and the zipper on my jeans. You enter with two fingers so unexpectedly and precisely that I would have left a hole in the roof with my head if you hadn't put your hand there in time.

"The Grammy Academy still needs some talented twists, careful," - you chuckle, but I'm just feverishly thrusting against your tense fingers, eager for release. I bite my lip until it's bloody, and the star-shaped grillz blinks silver. - "Nah, that won't do..."

You pull your fingers out, and I feel like crying or biting "vampire-style."

You slide down between my thighs, throwing my legs over your back as best you can by virtue of the space, and then you say, looking into my eyes with Edenic pleasure like you've tasted forbidden fruit:

"Beg me, Billie Eilish."

Click! And I break under you in my own car, burning with excitement.

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Three nine five six

A/n: Eilish plunges headfirst into the maelstrom of the downside of his popularity when a crazed fan kidnaps you.

Inspired by "THE DINER".

Warning: blood, kidnapping, moral suasion!

"Relax, Eilish, it's okay!" - is a kind of mantra that you say for nearly the hundredth time that day. Billie is frantic with worry, having been on alert all day, not realizing the truth of the reason herself, but her gut is churning and choking in panic attacks, causing you to repeat it again and again, scattering the letters in the air as many times as she needs.

"Really sure you don't need security? I still want to put some trustworthy guys on you."

Billie's voice twitches slightly on the other side of the tube, and you only let a slight, almost audible chuckle pass through your lips. Security? You're just her girlfriend, not a Hollywood celebrity like her or her brother, why would you want that? You hum to yourself and grip the steering wheel a little tighter with your hand, steering a little to the right along the highway markings.

"Is it just me, or did something happen?" - You glance in the rearview mirror, making sure there's no one behind you, and level off in the lane. Your eyes cling one last time to the red numbers on the dashboard before they stick to the windshield again. It's almost midnight. No wonder you're alone.

"No, it's just..." - Billie stumbles over the letters in confusion, hovering in silence for a couple seconds as you drive into the sprawling tunnel in front of you. - "Just some kind of bad feeling."

"Relax, Eilish," - you chant for the hundred and first time, which makes your phone exhaling heavily in your ear. You smile, imagining her rolling her blue skies slightly in a characteristic gesture. - "Yeah, yeah, I know I've been telling you that all day, honey."

"Where are you now?" - you hear the rustle of sheets in the background, which in the darkness of the tunnel seems very seductively intimate, making you want to cover your eyes in the moment and give in to your not-so-decent daydreams, but you can't. - "How much farther?"

"No, not much left," you reply, clasping the phone tighter in your left hand. - "About twelve and a half miles, I think."

"Call me as you pull up, I'll meet you," Billie purrs huskily, and pleasant goosebumps run up the back of your neck in a sly flock. - "And please be careful on the road."

You nod, but then you're immediately catching yourself, realizing she can't see you. You say yes with a warm tenderness under your heart, and then she's resets the call, leaving you alone with the silence of the salon car. You are too lazy to touch the media panel to let the music flow through the cabin, too well in the flow of your thoughts, from which you surface periodically, without losing sight of the rapid asphalt ribbon, located under the four wheels. And only a huge white SUV, suddenly appearing on your left side, makes you deafeningly confused, especially if you take into account the fact that it is stubbornly following you, not missing a single turn for ten minutes already. Maybe you're just getting yourself worked up for nothing. Is there any chance it's just Billie's mood transferring to you? You fumble for your cell phone in your jacket pocket, unmistakably dialing the numbers from memory: three one zero-eight zero seven-three nine five six. The green call button is like the final cherry on the creamy top of a cupcake of worry and suspicion.

You nod, but then you're immediately catching yourself, realizing she can't see you. You say yes with a warm tenderness under your heart, and then she's resets the call, leaving you alone with the silence of the salon car. You are too lazy to touch the media panel to let the music flow through the cabin, too well in the flow of your thoughts, from which you surface periodically, without losing sight of the rapid asphalt ribbon, located under the four wheels. And only a huge white SUV, suddenly appearing on your left side, makes you deafeningly confused, especially if you take into account the fact that it is stubbornly following you, not missing a single turn for ten minutes already. Maybe you're just getting yourself worked up for nothing. Is there any chance it's just Billie's mood transferring to you? You fumble for your cell phone in your jacket pocket, unmistakably dialing the numbers from memory: three one zero-eight zero seven-three nine five six. The green call button is like the final cherry on the creamy top of a cupcake of worry and suspicion.

"Wow, you're here already?" - Billie grins softly at you through the tube, and your heart, stuck in your very windpipe, settles a little, lulled by her voice. - "That was quick, I wasn't expecting that."

"I suspect I'm in a bind," you frown, running your eyes over the white metallic of the car in your rearview mirror again. Damn, you going to have to bother her after all. - "Your bad felling may have turned out to be extremely correct, Eilish."

Silence spreads through the tube like a spider cunningly weaving a beautiful web of webs. Eilish exhales raggedly and scowls seriously, like a proud eagle. You can't see her, but you're absolutely certain it is.

"What do you mean?"

"Some car has been following me for about ten minutes now," - you cling reflexively with your fingers to the metal knob of the lever from the gearbox, as if to fit all the experiences of three seconds in there. - "And he almost bumps his bumper into my ass from his own eagerness."

"Where are you now?" - you hear the stomping and rustling of fabric dissected by the seriousness of her voice. - "I'm on my way to meet you right now!"

"Chill out, Bils, this just might be you and I sharing a little paranoia," - you push the gas pedal a little harder, tilting it to the floor with the very tip of it. No one's going to ban you in an attempted breakaway, right? - "Just... memorize this asshole's number just in case, okay?"

And you dictate the number from the iron plate of the next car, and Billie obediently swallows digit after digit, drinking the rattling mixture with her own rushing excitement, which is like a hot geyser. She asks you to stay in touch and her voice is jarring, and she's not even going to hide it, because you're far more important than her own sense of cool and cool.

"I have something to tell you about, so don't you dare disappear now," - the chains around her neck jingle threateningly. - "Otherwise I'll go crazy."

You only have to open your lips in response, as everything blends into a continuous lump of actions, pictures and sounds: the engine of the Japanese SUV rumbles at the very exit of the tunnel, in a couple of seconds equal to you side by side, and you in one sharp movement find yourself as if between a hammer and anvil, when the car wiggles in your direction, clamping uncompromisingly your sedan between the concrete wall of the tunnel that knows no mercy and themself. By virtue of inertia, shards of left door glass fly loudly into the cabin, the word shrapnel, predatorily scratching your face and hands, and the body sags in an arc to the left. You smack the back of your head against the back of the seat and the world blurs a little, it is only nausea that comes from the very bowels to your throat. You feel the heat in your rib area and yelp, immediately placing your palm there.

"Y/n!" - Billie yells, wheezing with her marvelous vocal cords, and you squint, trying to piece together what happened. - "What happened? Don't be quiet!"

"Call the police," - you sluggishly move your tongue as the imaginary hoop closes around your head, manifesting as a throbbing pain. Your ears begin to buzz as if you were leaning expectantly against a shell, wanting to hear the sound of waves raging near the shore. Eilish is shouting something again uncontrollably, and you can't make it out behind the veil of sounds anymore. - "I'm sorry."

The light ahead of you cuts your eyes so hard that you cover your eyelids, exhaling, albeit with a dull ache, as blissfully as after confession. Your consciousness drifts somewhere through the darkness and the only thing you can make out in the cacophony of noise is the slamming of a Japanese car door.

×××

Billie is like a mentally ill person, shackled in a straitjacket. She sits in the back seat of one of the police cars, stiff and hunched over like an old woman, although inside she is tearing up and rushing, pulling out her own hair with her fingers. Maggie hugs her daughter as best she can because of the tension in her seatbelt, strokes her parentally on the shoulder, and Eilish sinks into the maelstrom of tics that has long since subsided in the last few years. She throws her head up, twitching as if she were a broken puppet in the hands of a puppeteer, her hands digging into her own knees: she wants to howl, like a devil rejected even by hell itself. From the understanding of her own guilt, tears flow stream after stream, outlining the salty "rivers" of tears that have just dried up and wiped away by the hurried hand again. She dials your number again, and in response only silent beeps and nothing more. Nothing that will calm her down even a little.

She'd noticed the tape recorder and note threateningly planted in the kitchen of her country house through the window a week ago and hadn't done a damn thing about it, writing you off as It's all up to chance. Without revealing anything so as not to scare you, she became extremely insistent on offering you a security escort, to which you responded with a clear refusal every time. She listened to you, believed like a foolish heretic your arguments about your relative obscurity to the public and is now paying the price. At that time the proceedings of an entire police force yielded no results and no answers, and now she's riding in that damned police car accompanied by three more.

"It's my fault, Mom," - her voice is hoarse and her gaze is like a solid blue abyss, so dead cold. - "It's my fault to her, so fucking guilty..."

Eilish babbled like a lunatic, but Maggie only snuggled closer to her, hugging her in a head-to-toe embrace. The seat belt has long since been sent to hell, and she frankly doesn't care when her child suffers. She says something comforting, and Billie doesn't hear much, because there's only one thing in her head, round and round, like expensive vinyl: "Relax, Eilish, it's okay."

"Relax, Eilish, it's okay," - the younger O'Connell sniffles, howling like a wolf cub, snuggling into her mother's neck and nose drawing out the pleasant scent of vintage floral perfume, as she used to do as a child. - "That's what she used to tell me, Mom."

When they arrive, Eilish's legs are shaky and she almost tends to collapse to the pavement like a downed bird in flight, if it weren't for her father's timely arrival. Maggie looks down at the side of the sedan and sighs, holding both her palms to her mouth, Finn's arms around her. The cops are quick and efficient in fencing off the car, stretching yellow ribbons around the perimeter, a color that makes Eilish grind her teeth, but they ask them to stay close, and the four of them walk on: Billie on her stiff legs, Meggie dropping tears quietly, and Finneas and Patrick, silent and as focused as they've ever been. The tall, like stern cane-wielding investigator asks for a statement, and Eilish notices the small specks of blood on the steering wheel, wanders with eyes maddened in their mute scream at the dents on the left side of the hull and wants to just disappear, to fall through the cold asphalt. Straight to where you are now, and she doesn't care what hell she's in. The man steps back and Billie - shaking hands in her pockets, an icy stare and not a hint of a smile. She doesn't cry anymore, just stares at the crumpled car for half an hour and waits. She has nothing else to do but berate herself every second, putting weights on her innocent heart, conscience and soul.

"She's alive, I can feel it." - Billie babbles as the small black van moves in their direction, and Finn throws the plaid over her fragile shoulders, and with it a new exorbitant weight that makes her heart nearly rip into scarlet shreds in her sternum from the excess weight.

The phone in her hand vibrates and hums a familiar tune that makes you forget how to breathe at all: your contact is flashing on the display. The officer standing next to the O'Connells immediately shouts loudly, summoning an equipment specialist before Eilish can even pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

×××

You close your eyelids over and over again, and the result is the same, no matter how much effort and faith you put into it - the coldness of the concrete walls of a small garage painted a hideous deep blue, the psychedelically blinding light from a light bulb hanging from above that lives only on a thin wire. Tied with a strong knot of rope, your hands become numb behind your back with the approach of time, which adds to the apathy of your position. You try one more time, shaking the possible nightmare from your tired eyes, but to no avail. This is reality.

"Fuck..." - You swallow tightly, kneading at least your shoulders as best you can. In other respects you're hindered by the chair you're also firmly tied to. It's just like the cliched, low-budget Hollywood movies you hate so much. - "Oh, shit."

The words in your head are still confused, while you are so mercilessly sick for the hundredth time. On the plus side, it's like your head hurts a little less, and you can finally hear something other than the maddening noise, and on the minus side, you can feel your rib flare off with every breath you take, sending swirls of pain through your body. You also hear footsteps clawing purposefully towards you. Fuck.

"Hey, you," - the wooden door slams shut, and you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to cover your ears with your palms. Immediately, however, you looking around full dazedly, feeling the guy roughly put your own cell phone to your ear. - "Say 'hi' to my girl!"

He smiles, and you frown your eyebrows, defensively hiding the burning fear burning through your insides behind the supposed steel in your gaze. He squeezes out that nasty grin, and you want to either spit in his face or laugh, babbling madly and throwing back your head as high as you can.

"Hello?" - you hear Eilish's infinitely nervous voice and all the steel falls to the floor, leaving you completely defenseless and helpless. - "Please tell me it's really you..."

"I'm sorry," it's so stupid and inappropriate, but you don't really know what else to say when silver rivers start to come to your eyes, stoically lodged in the very corners of your eyes. A frozen desperation that you will only show to her and no one else. - "I... yes, my dear, it's me."

And you are immediately struck on the cheek by a wiry palm, painful and whiplashing. You pull the steel mask back on, as if picking up the remnants of the metal from the floor with your hands. It doesn't matter if your palms trembling feverishly.

"Shut up! Don't call her that!" - A shout right in your face chips a spray of spit, and you frown your eyebrows again, remaining silent. The guy takes the phone back and the smile on his face returns, calm and dreamy enough to turn any notion of surrealism into sharp shards. You catch the rumbling notes of lingering madness in his eyes and you twitch. A chair leg creaks. - "I've done everything you asked, my love, now it's your turn."

"I'll be there, love." - Billie's voice echoes on the speakerphone, contributing to the illusion of your madness, which makes you almost jumping up in a chair, but all the fervor fades as soon as you catch the glint of a revolver across the room. - "I keep my promises, don't I, baby?"

"I saw you on the screens," the guy's hands lock on the massive grip, releasing the revolver from its holster, and you swallow your anxiety in barely cisterns. The smile on his smooth-shaven face is a schizophrenic spasm, a grimace of pure terror. - "I know we're meant to be, but please don't call the cops, they'll make me stop and I just wanna talk."

"Never." - Billie's voice is sweet and cloying enough that a other man would smell a catch a hundred thousand miles away, but your captor doesn't care so much, he's completely oblivious to it, stumbling into another raking wave of madness in his head. The pictures of events in your head add up, probing her idea: they take time to track the signal of your phone. - "Only if you promise not to do anything with my... toy, right?"

"You could be my wife..." - The skinny madman pulls the trigger, pacing back and forth from you, and you just stare, ducking your head to the floor like an innocent lamb. As long as you don't provoke him, you give police the time what it's needs. - "Could get into a fight I'll say you're right and you'll kiss me goodnight."

"Bet I could-"

The shot is an aggressive clapper bouncing off the walls with a pop. Billie fractures every unspoken letters and screams into the throat like a gargoyle offended by the fire of the Inquisition: nettlesome and hoarse, until his ligaments burst. Only then do you feel the heat in your knee, and the growing pain with every millisecond that paralyzes you almost entirely. You look down and gasp: a scarlet bud is blooming on your light-colored pant leg, spreading rapidly across the fabric. You sigh too loudly, biting your lower lip until it bleeds, and the pain irrodes copper-hot through your leg.

"Three nine five six." - The guy laughs gleefully, cranking the hot drum of his revolver with his thumb, and you howl wolfishly as you naively try to straighten your leg before everything turns back into a jumble of indistinct images: the door flies off its hinges, practically splintering into splinters, and like confetti for a show, reveals not a celebrity but a five-man SWAT team in full communication. One second, and your kidnapper is face-impressed into the floor to the measured murmur of men's voices. Another, and you realize that one of them is cutting the ropes knots restraining you with a knife.

"All clear, over."

×××

The paramedics carefully transfer you to the stretcher, and you only watch as space is blurred ahead by a swift, low figure. Eilish runs, no, practically flies, having previously sent any yells flying at her back far away.

"Alive, alive... My girl..." - And her arms wrapped gently around your shoulders are such hot, sensory-enhancing amulets.

And you cry, dropping silver snakes of fear on the sleeves of her voluminous sweater, bumping your nose with a howl of despair, but she only moves closer, giving you a breath puffed up in a hurry and hoarseness settled in the most secret place of your heart:

"Alive..."

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: But now I'm underwater

A/n: Because of tight deadlines at work, you're stressed out, critically sleep deprived and overly addicted to coffee. Billie suggests that you distract yourself by watching a horror film, and you agree good-naturedly, unable to refuse her. What you haven't considered is the fact that stress, coffee and imagination are a potent mix. Billie finds an ingenious way to calm you down and unload the thoughts from your head.

Inspired by "WHEN I WAS OLDER".

The coffee, to put it as honestly as possible, makes you sick and nauseous to the point of godlessness, but you bring your lips to the ceramic edge of the beige mug once again, gulping down this dark concoction, drenched in milk for salvation. Over the past three days, it's become frankly unclear what your goals are: to finish the unfortunate paperwork, where the stack of documents resembles the world-famous Tower of Pisa? Or to completely eradicate the countless red blood cells in your body by forcing your heart to pump not blood but tart caffeine through your arteries? Too complicated a question to answer honestly, especially considering the almost three days where you slept a maximum of four hours at most, if not less.

You rest your elbows on the surface of the desk, buried in a makeshift fan of papers, and put your palms against your weary face, as if hiding from the letters. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out... You try not to go crazy in this stream of meaningless bureaucracy, and the phone under the pile of papers so treacherously pinging and you instantly want to start sobbing. Is it really again this annoying bosses?.. With your hands as if you were wiping off the accumulated fatigue from your face, getting out from under the saving "curtain" of your own fingers, but it's a sincere self-deception: the circles under your eyes as blue, and continue to blue, approaching the shade of indigo, and your fingers shake a little when you fish the phone out of the snow-white ocean of ink letters. A relaxed exhale rolls through the office and you allow yourself a slight smile, the very corner of your lips. It's just Billie. Although, considering that she's lowered your anxiety level with just one message, it's silly to use such a crude phrase as "just" in reference to her. Except you've been a little tight lately under the weight of circumstances, so you're forgiven.

"Hey."

Just like that, in three letters and without much meaning. You snort with a chuckle, interlocking the bridge of your nose with your fingers. The best you can come up with is to mirror her own message:

"Hey."

The dots under her avatar bounce around, revealing a response so fast that you don't even have time to think about blissfully covering your work-weary eyes for a moment.

"Oh, you haven't died over that nonsense yet, my workaholic."

"I swear I'd slap you a couple times if you were here, Eilish..."

Three dots bounce harmlessly, and with the appearance of a gray text border, hit you squarely in the solar plexus:

"I hope you'll slap my ass, Mommy? :)"

You are confused in words and thoughts that replace each other in your head with the third cosmic speed. You squint hard to stare stupidly at the display. Have I mentioned yet that your relationship with Billie is a highly ambiguous thing? No? Well, don't be surprised that you often have to deftly balance on the sharp edge of under-friendship and under-relationship as a couple. It's all too confusing, and you two just don't have time to deal with it: Eilish is flying to the other side of the world, or you're swamped with paperwork and frequent business trips. But with all this chaos you feel a strange comfort, that's why you don't hurry to change something, even if your heart beats much faster in the presence of her, it's don't care. Why touch something that already works, albeit with a kind of "crutch"?

"Yes, exclusively the your delightful ass. So sorry you're not here, such a moment gone."

Underneath the blue frame of your message, little gray letters and one thin check mark instantly pop up: 'read'. Billie's status changes to offline, but the phone in the palm of your hand immediately announces itself by ringing loudly. The screen offers two buttons as standard and snidely glares with letters and a pink emoji: "talented runt🩷". Okay, this is something you really didn't expect. You squeeze the green icon and your heart is already doing backflips right in your sternum, hitting your trachea just as you take a breath and lick your momentarily parched lips.

"Come out, dumbass, I'm waiting." - Eilish shoots out the words confidently, with a smirk audible even on the wire.

"What do you mean?" - you get up from your chair instantly, either feeling some sudden surge of long-abandoned strength or obeying her words unknowingly. You walk over to the window, and with both hands clasping the phone between your ear and shoulder, you wrap both hands around the rope hanging from the side of the blinds. The wide, vertical strips of lamellae rustle to become sideways, revealing a view of your front patio, and you ooze in surprise. - "Are you serious?.."

"That's the only way with you," - you see Billie leave the cabin, palm running her hand over the dark side of her Dodge, warmed by the verdant sun. - "I'm taking you to my place for a few days, no refusals are accepted."

"Why so royal, O'Connell?" - Sticking your gaze to the window, you frown, running your palm through your hair and ruffling it. - "What are you, my asshole boss?"

"With the way you're about to die at that fucking desk of yours if you don't have at least one distraction a night." - Eilish gales of giggles into the tube and turns around on the heels exactly to the window from which you stare at her, a word from the watchtower. She waves her hand at you, catching your stare and you can't contain the smile that blossoms on your face. - "And I'm deeply offended that you're comparing me to that old turd, know that!"

"And how do I make it up to you?" - you squint slyly, and Billie tsks so theatrically that it looks like some kind of acting sin.

"Going to see a horror movie with me right now, naturally."

"I'll be fired if I don't turn in my report today, Eilish." - you sigh heavily, turning your head toward your desk: the paper tower is momentarily overtaken by a wave of doom hidden in your gaze.

"It's high time you got the fuck out of there, and we both know it." - the voice from the phone has a seductively truthful huskiness and wind noise. - "And I just... I genuinely hate it when you're not appreciated, Y/n."

You sigh again, it seemingly heavier by another seventy and a half ounces than before, shifting your gaze back and forth to the ginormous stack, then to the window. A silence hangs on the wire and neither of you two are in a hurry to break it, only the occasional breeze walking down the street. A new deep breath makes the tired gears in your head finally stop, giving birth to the long awaited answer.

"Give me a couple minutes, I'll put on some decent clothes."

"I don't mind if you come out completely naked to me." - The huskiness in her voice immediately became more draughty, like the sweetest and most desirable molasses.

"Shut up, O'Connell," - you jump with a laugh without malice, covering your eyes with your hand and your newly leaping heart with a silly joke. With Eilish, sometimes it's just impossible. In every sense of the word.

×××

The shark cuts through the murky ocean surface with its sharp fin as easily and effortlessly as a sharp pair of scissors cuts through paper. Because of its nimbleness, you can't tell at once that it is a multi-pound killing machine created by the most peace-loving Mother Nature. The guy on the screen staggers away from the edge of the shoreline, landing with a thud on the loose sand on his ass covered in red pants. He crawls farther and farther away from the water, his feet digging into the sand, and the shark snaps its two rows of sharp teeth several times, not so much to get the poor guy as to laugh at him. You cover your eyes for a second, thinking about the fact that the shark is still too big even for the category of a giant, and then you are immediately and imperceptibly pulled into the darkness of the stubborn waves of sleep. Waves... Just like on a big TV screen: dark blue, in their foamy restlessness.

"Well, that's just downright idiotic, isn't it?" - Eilish chuckles softly, mingling annoyance with irony, and you open your eyes lazily, once again slipping back into tired reality. Lying on her soft thighs with your head overdone is lulling. - "Why don't you just wait for the rescuers?"

"Because it's a second-rate movie, Eilish," - you cover your lips with the palm of your hand, nimbly catching a bursting yawn. - "And in mainstream movies like this, the characters are, properly, genre stupid."

"I was betting on high internet ratings." - Billie mutters resentfully, swinging both arms out to the sides in a way so amusing that you chuckle quietly. Your eyes inadvertently cling to the line of her jaw so perfect in its perfection, sliding down her neck and next - her collarbones mostly exposed because of her tank top. Shit...

"A collapse of hope?" - Your voice is uncharacteristically husky, causing Billie to tilt her head down, leisurely examining every feature of your face. Blue irises immediately draw in the blue light from the TV, hypnotizing you into darkness. It seems that another minute of this gaze and you will drown. In her seas, however, it's only honor and out-of-this-world joy.

"You're sleepy, hey," - Eilish smiles that warm, motherly tinged smile and strokes your cheekbone with her thumb. You give in closer, almost falling apart in a purring sound like a petted cat, but you immediately pull yourself back. It seems unnecessary. Billie seems to have read you by your body language, because the calm blue of her eyes is broken by a prehensile whitish light of excitement. - "Relax, I'm all for it."

You smile softly, inhaling, and Billie looks with a mute question directly at you, stopping the rhythmic stroking. You squint slyly, mirroring her same line, only now live:

"Relax, I'm all for it..."

You cover your eyes again, blissfully letting go of your inner handrail of total control and anxiety. Should you grasp it so tightly when you two are happy with everything right now? Absolutely not. Eilish, who had previously been exploring your face with her gaze, now traces your features with her fingers, as if reading you like a kind of Braille script. The tips of her fingers feel so weightless, so pleasantly warm.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to sleep?" - her fingers touch the thin skin beneath your eyes, and you snort to yourself barely audible: her fingertips 'waltzing' on your blueness, mentally estimating how many mugs of coffee are now inside you. Oh, you don't even doubt it. - "Four?"

"Five." - you challenge her guess, receiving a sensual poke in the shoulder. - "The mug was always half milk, don't get mad."

"Knock it off, dumbass." - she touches your cheeks with her palms and you open your eyes, feeling the dreamy velvet of her skin. - "Your heart's going to pop out."

"Afraid someone will pick it up faster than you, Eilish?"

Billie is silent at first, flashing her eyes somehow unreadable to you, and then also smirking with that cheeky stroke of hers, smearing over any perception of her true emotions, but it doesn't all feel cloying, just hidden beneath a thin smoky veil.

"I don't like to lose my treasures, you know that."

"So I won't get lost." - you gently catch her wrist, entwining your fingers in a unique mutual symmetry, and Eilish leans a little lower and her well-groomed dark hair falls down over her face, hiding you both. - "And... I didn't tell you because I really enjoy spending time with you, even when I look more like the semblance of a walking corpse."

Also because I'm slowly falling in love with you, but I can't admit it.

"Stupid, I love you, you know?" - a white twinkle flickers again in the water's surface, reminiscent of the light of a saving beacon in the midst of a silent abyss. It seems to you that Billie leans even a little closer, even though in the semi-darkness it can really be written off as a work-weary mind. - "Go to sleep, I can't watch you torture yourself for me."

"Not until after the lullaby, Mom," - you twist your voice deliberately, making it sound childish and quiet. You rest your head comfortably on her delightful hips and stare expectantly, caressed by the intimacy of her gaze and strands of soft hair: like a single boat in a vast ocean, guarded reverently by sea nymphs and noisy sea foam, you are hidden in the darkness of a starless night from everyone and everything. - "Please."

Billie only smiles and takes the first note quietly, stroking your head leisurely and lovingly.

"Hmm..."

×××

"I'm on my back again."

You slam your shoulder blades into the boardwalk of the flimsy raft, and you really don't know if it's the cracking of the tall strips of wood or your own weary bones. You squint hard, echoing the hissing of the waves, and they immediately pelt you from head to toe, tearing you down and showering you with dead, salty cold. Your clothes, soaked to the skin, have long ago stuck to your body like a second skin, giving you no chance of even one fahrenheit of warmth, but only echoing the angry, howling owl-like wind and the ravenous, dark murk of the ocean water. You surface, it seems, for the seventh time, and with trembling hands you grasp again the edge of the raft, like a poor priest in exile for the Bible: desperately, with the last grains of faith falling through your fingers.

"Dreaming of a time and place, where you and I remain the best of friends. Even after all this ends..."

The waves are raging, whipping at your eyes fiercely, wanting to blind you and to penetrate your throat with their scalding drops. You are paddling with your legs with all your might, struggling, pulling yourself up on your weakened arms, and still nothing comes out. A new clap and you're off completely, the merciless waves press you with their thickness, drowning you. You twitch, wanting to dive out, and with your hands and feet you push the dark sea maelstrom away, but something seems to pull you to the deepest bottom, closing around your waist.

"Can we pretend?" - her voice, melded with the sound of the water, fills your ears and for a second you feel the warmth and softness of her palm, which grips you lifesavingly, closing your fingers gently. Your lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and you scream silently, releasing bubbles glistening under the faint rays into the blue darkness: you want to just drown, die and to stop this exhausting uraboros forever. But not with her.

"I'm on my, I'm on my back again."

A new pop shoots into the air as you touch your back to the raft again with force, as if falling from somewhere in the frowning, impenetrable black cloud-covered sky. A ragged exhalation leaves your sea-worn body, making your lungs rattle and tear streaks run down your pale, thin skin. With each such fall, you become more and more like a ghost. And you hear her more and more clearly.

"It's seeming more and more like all we ever do is see how far it bends," - your cold-blue lips move, releasing a white cloud of vapor into the aspic space of the sky, the only thing still warm here besides Eilish's palms. - "Before it breaks in half and then..."

"We bend it back again," - her whisper rustles in the storm as the sea picks up your raft like a feather. Her whisper is the only thing keeping you here. - "You'd really like it in the limelight, you'd sympathize with all the bad guys?"

"I'm still a victim in my own right," - you grin with a grin at the menacing clouds, and hungry water crawls onto your murdered raft, heralding a new upheaval. Intuition alarms the back of your head, telling you it could be fatal. - "But I'm the villain in my own eyes, yeah."

Clap! And you're underwater again, staring helplessly at your ungodly pale palms, stretched upward by the pressure of the water, to its very surface. Eilish is no longer whispering, and you see no point in fighting, accepting your own bitter lot that you have been hiding. No, not from her. From yourself.

"I love you, Eilish," - your lips are ajar, releasing small bubbles as your lungs slowly fill with water, burning through your ribs from lack. You stare after the bubbles, watching mortally as they float upwards and then burst. It's the only thing you have left. Now you slam your back against the side again and everything will be started again.... But only this time an incomprehensible dark spot is coming towards you like a torpedo from a submarine, cutting through the infinity of space around you with its powerful body. You catch the glint of sharp teeth bared in two aligned rows and forcefully push the oxygen out of your chest, shaking the abyss in a scream that finally sounds.

×××

"Shark!" - You jump up startled from the couch, spinning the soft plaid over you in an awkward whirlwind. Your heel steps on the very edge of the fabric and you fall thunderously to the floor, driving your back on the gray armrest of the sofa, causing a lump of deja vu to stick in your throat, preventing you from breathing properly. It's almost like being on that damn raft. You hear something in the hallway quickly tsk in your direction and just stare, shivering in the imaginary cold. Have you lost your mind already?

A gray pit bull snorts, appearing in the doorway, expressing concern. His blue eyes stare at you unblinkingly before he runs up to you and sits his full weight on your legs. The dog whines, licking you on the line of your chin, his muzzle pulling higher and higher as if It's like he feels and wants to figure out what you're scared of. Just like his mistress. It's just Shark's goody-goody in front of you, which means it was just a dream. You take your first steady, almost relaxed breath.

"Thanks, buddy." - you gently stroke Shark's stately muzzle, to which he squints his eyes contentedly, snuggling closer and you feel warm. - "Don't worry, just a mine bad dream."

A new stomp disrupts your little idyll, making look into the doorway with not one, but two pairs of eyes anymore. You both know who it is, but you stare mesmerized anyway, until the inky head and piercing ocean blue of the gaze emerge from the darkness.

"Hey, are you okay?" - Billie crosses the space of the room so quickly, ending up next to you, that you have to blink in disbelief. She sits down next to you, leaning side by side, and burrows her fingers into the short gray fur on Shark's sturdy side, scratching. The pit bull grunts, summarizing contentment with the whole situation. - "I heard a shriek, and then this little brat ran toward you. Bad dream?"

"There is such a thing." - you smile, feeling the warmth around you crawl almost into your very heart, nesting there as a brightly colored bird. - "I guess you could say I dreamt about you."

"You gonna tell me?" - Billie spreads her legs a little to the side, bumping her knee against yours unobtrusively, but you sense something in that small movement, as you do in her attentive gaze.

You draw in a breath to start arranging your words properly in the air, and Eilish immediately puts her index finger to your lips.

"Wait, I have a weird idea." - her warm chuckle purrs pleasantly in the semi-darkness before drowning out in the rustle of clothes as Billie rises to her feet, giving you a hand. - "Take the plaid and come with me, please."

And now you are here - sitting together in the cabin of her car, wrapped in a home-made plaid, and through the open door looking at the quietly splashing ocean of a deserted night beach, while she embraces you from behind securely, firmly. Shark scurries along the sandy edge of the shore, trying to bite the playful sea foam with his teeth, but immediately sticks out his tongue in frustration: it's too salty. You chuckle as Billie remains philosophically silent, digesting your story. Indeed, she was right: the view of the calm seascape is soothing, even with your nightmare fresh in your mind. What can I say, Billie's embrace is the perfect lifeline.

"So... How did the sensation of my presence make you feel?" - her hot fingers nervously rub the edge of your voluminous T-shirt as if waiting for a command or a starting shot. - "Were you afraid of the sea?"

"I wanted to fight to the end, as long as I could hear you," - you smile, watching Shark stride toward you, awkwardly shaking her hind paws off the wet sand. - "Even though the sea was insanely cold."

You cover her palms with yours, deftly ducking under the hem of your t-shirt with her, deliberately slow, giving her a chance to pull back if she wants to. The skin-to-skin contract makes you both flinch (you can literally feel Eilish's anxiety in your backs), but Billie pauses for a second, then rises a little higher, reaching her palms to the center of your waist. Her palms, devoid of any of the silver bands of the rings now feel especially trembling, hot. You are both defenseless against each other.

"But why?" - Her husky voice excitement, tickles touching the curl of your ear.

"I just... realized something back there in the dream," - The dog flops to your feet, spinning playfully in the sand and you parenthetically groan. - "While I was underwater."

Eilish so deftly turns you around to face her, ignoring the height difference, and palms your face. In the white light of the salon, her blue eyes sparkle with intense blue luminescence, dissected by a white light of hope. Everything confusing instantly becomes so clear and readable when she finally allows you to peer into her soul straight through her captivating oceanic abysses.

"Nobody lonely like I'm lonely and I don't know whether," - the thumb of her right hand gently strokes the very corner of your lips as she clings to your soul with her eyes, as if afraid to let herself off the hook of her own conjecture into the wading cold waters of despair. - "But really, why? Tell me the truth."

"I could drown, but now I'm under the water of only your stupid and unforgettable beautiful eyes, Eilish. It's simply impossible to drown twice." - you hide your hands behind your back in embarrassment, but you don't take your eyes off her an inch. - "And I love you, it's just that simple."

Billie stares at you in silence, and then in one movement she touches your cold lips with her heated ones so leisurely and tastefully that you cover your eyes in pleasure, realizing that she is smiling right in the middle of a kiss. Her hands, having been on your cheeks all this time, slide slowly back to your waist, stroking your shoulders with pressure and very lightly, as if in counterbalance, your breasts. She bites your lip, asking for more and dropping a lot "I love you" with an excited gasp, like a precious sea pearl.

"Please let me be your personal sea for life, my brave sailor."

And you only manage to nod in agreement, tearing breaths before she pulls you into another kiss, knocking your pulse racing. Just like the sea. Your own private sea.

Okay guys, I've tried long enough to sketch something solid, but I'm so unhappy with what I'm getting with each attempt. I think I really need to pick up some ideas in my own head, but in the meantime I really want to hear a couple of your requests to refresh myself and find inspiration again.

Come on, ladies and gentlemen, the time for requests is now more than ever! 🍾🤭

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

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

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

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

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

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

×××

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

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

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

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

×××

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

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

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

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

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

×××

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

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

Interlude: These Little Scraps of Misery

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue, Chapter One; Chapter Two, Chapter 3, Interlude Chapter 4 Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Interlude 2 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 , Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, flashbacks to sexual violence, discussions of sexual violence, dubious boundaries, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 119k

Warning: Hey everyone 💖—I just wanted to give a quick heads-up before diving into These Little Scraps of Misery. This interlude gets pretty heavy, dealing with emotional distance, power struggles, and some tough moments between Sima and Astarion after Chapter 16. If you find yourself sensitive to themes like dominance, manipulation, or trauma in relationships, please take care of yourself first. Your well-being matters more than anything, so feel free to skip or pause if it gets too much. I’ve included this interlude to really show how the cracks are forming in their relationship. There’s love, but it’s complicated, and this is a pivotal moment for them both. Thank you all for sticking with this story—it means the world to me. Take care, and as always, I’m here for any questions or thoughts. 💕

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 17: Oct 23 2024

Song of the Hour: When the Party's Over - Billie Eilish

Entire Story Link on AO3 Spotify Playlist AO3

After the Cut!

Interlude: These Little Scraps of Misery

Five days. It had been five days since Astarion’s hands had last touched her. Since his breath, hot against her neck, had sent both pleasure and pain rippling through her skin. Five days since she had felt that correction. The marks it left were far more than physical.

She hadn't let him near her since.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t press. But she felt his eyes on her, probing, wondering, waiting. Astarion was patient, and she wondered if he was counting the days, too.

Five days. Has it really been that long?

The question drifted through her mind, but she let it fall away, unimportant now. Everything felt unimportant now. The palace was quiet, save for the low murmurs of the spies and servants, moving like shadows beyond her closed doors. The same doors that separated her from him.

Sima found herself staring, hours passing without notice. She sat in her chambers, lists and papers spread before her, detailing plans for expansion, ideas for their future domain. Their domain —that’s what it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? She was supposed to be his partner, the one to stand by his side. To turn, to become what he was. What he wanted her to be.

Her fingers trembled as they grazed the parchment, a reminder that her body still reacted, even when her mind did not. She felt the echoes of that night in every step, in every breath. She had told herself she enjoyed it. Hadn’t she? I did. I wanted it... But the more she thought about it, the further away the truth seemed to drift, until it was swallowed up by the quiet void that had taken root inside her.

A part of her wished to forget, but the memories lingered. His hands on her body, his breath against her skin. His voice, sharp with dominance, with possession. It had thrilled her once— hadn't it? But now... it was like a shadow creeping over her, making her shudder in ways that had nothing to do with desire.

She had wanted him, right until she hadn’t.

That was the worst part. She had wanted it. Right up until the moment when his strength became too much, his grasp too tight, his words too cruel. Until the game shifted and she found herself no longer playing. She had become the piece to be moved, controlled, corrected.

And she had let him.

The memory came unbidden, slipping through the cracks in her resolve.

She had been in bed, beneath him. The sheets had felt too cold against her skin, but his body was hot, almost suffocating. His hands had moved over her, rough, demanding, and she had responded—out of habit, out of reflex. She had touched him like she always did, traced the familiar lines of his muscles, the planes of his body.

But inside, she had felt nothing.

She went through the motions, her fingers grazing his skin, her lips parting with practiced ease. She had played her part well enough, but somewhere in the middle of it all, she had drifted. She had become numb.

His hand had tightened around her thigh, and still, she hadn’t flinched. His breath was hot against her neck, his voice a low growl in her ear, but all she had heard was the distant echo of her own thoughts, spiraling deeper and deeper into the hollow space inside her.

And then, he had looked at her.

He had paused, his gaze searching, probing, trying to find something in her expression. His fingers had brushed her cheek, a gesture that might have been tender, but it felt foreign. Alien. Like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

Her eyes had remained open, staring at him, but she didn’t see him. She wasn’t really there.

He had noticed. She knew he had. The way his movements slowed, the slight tension in his body... he had known something was wrong. But he had said nothing.

When he finished, he had left the bed without a word, slipping from her chambers and leaving her alone in the cold sheets. He hadn’t come back.

That had been five days ago.

She had avoided him since, avoided his touch, his voice, his presence. He gave her space, but she knew it wouldn’t last forever. He was waiting, watching, always watching, as if waiting for her to slip, to fall, so he could pick up the pieces and mold them back into what he wanted.

The weight of it all pressed down on her, suffocating. She was slipping, falling into herself, the world around her becoming distant, muted, as if she were watching from far away. She went through the motions—plans, meetings, strategies for the upcoming ball—but none of it felt real. None of it mattered.

The nights were the worst. Alone in her chambers, the silence wrapped around her like a shroud, and she could feel the distance between them widening with every passing hour.

Five days.

Has it really only been five days?

She had tried to keep herself busy, to focus on the ball, on the intrigues Astarion had set before her. It was supposed to be her chance, her opportunity to prove her value, her skill. He had praised her for her persuasive tongue before, the way she could bend others to her will with nothing more than a few well-placed words. She was supposed to use that skill tonight.

But all she could think about was his hands. The memory of them on her throat. The bruises they had left, both visible and invisible.

Her mind drifted again, back to the moment when she had first realized how wrong it had all gone. She had told herself it was still part of the game, still part of their dangerous dance.

That this was what she had wanted, what she had craved. But the truth was colder, sharper. The line between pleasure and pain had blurred, and she had let it happen. She had let him cross that line, without a word, without protest. She had allowed him to take what he wanted, and now she was the one left with the scars.

You wanted this... didn't you?

The question echoed in her mind, but no answer came. She couldn't bring herself to confront the truth, couldn't face the weight of her own complicity. So, she pushed it down, buried it deep inside the hollow place where the rest of her emotions had retreated.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the vanity, her knuckles white as she held on, trying to anchor herself in the present. But the memories kept pulling her back, dragging her under.

Five days...

She could hear his voice now, distant but clear, discussing the ball, the upcoming intrigues, the schemes they were meant to execute together. He spoke of power, of control, of manipulation, and all she could think of was his hands. His breath on her skin. The way he had looked at her that night, with something that wasn’t love, wasn’t passion.

It was dominance. It was possession.

And now, as she sat in the silence of her chambers, she could still feel that dominance clinging to her, wrapping around her like chains. The more she thought about it, the tighter those chains became, until she could barely breathe.

She closed her eyes, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest, making it impossible to think, impossible to feel anything except the cold, creeping numbness that had taken hold of her heart.

But she couldn't afford to fall apart. Not yet. Not tonight.

Tonight was the ball. Tonight, she had to play her part. The Veiled Night Ball was her chance to prove her worth, her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of vampire politics. Astarion had said so himself, in those quiet moments over breakfast, when he had tried—and failed—to pull her back into their usual games of flirtation and innuendo.

She had deflected with precision, dodging his verbal traps with ease. He hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t questioned why she hadn’t slept in his chambers for the past five nights. Maybe he was giving her space. Or maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for her to come to him.

But she wouldn't. Not yet. She couldn't.

The thought of his touch made her stomach twist, made her skin crawl. She had once craved his touch, the way it had made her feel alive, powerful. But now, it was a reminder of how quickly that power could be taken away, how easily the balance could shift.

She wasn’t ready to face him. She wasn’t ready to admit that something had broken between them. That something inside her had cracked, and she wasn’t sure if it could be mended.

Five days.

Sima's reflection stared back at her, but it wasn’t the woman she had once been. Her skin, rich and dark like the earth beneath a setting sun, had always carried strength, a beauty that defied the scars of her past. But now, her features seemed dulled, her spirit suffocated beneath layers of silence and pain. Her eyes, usually fierce and unwavering, were hollow, distant—a reflection of the woman she had become.

A hollow version of herself.

But she couldn’t allow that. Not anymore.

She took a deep breath, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the vanity as she straightened her spine. Her body responded instinctively, as if reclaiming the posture she had once mastered. The gown clung to her form, the corset cinching tighter, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt... grounding.

The woman in the mirror was still there, waiting to be called upon.

Her eyes flickered, the hollowness replaced by something else. A spark of defiance. A slow-burning ember of strength. She wouldn’t fall apart. Not tonight. Not ever. Astarion was watching, always watching, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Sima adjusted her gown, smoothing the fabric over her hips. Her hands steadied, no longer trembling as they had been just moments before. Her gaze sharpened, no longer lost in the haze of memories and pain. Instead, her mind settled on the present, on the ball, on the role she was meant to play.

You are stronger than this, she reminded herself.

And she was. She had survived worse. She had endured the horrors of Calimport, had clawed her way out of the shadows. She had rebuilt herself once, and she would do it again. Piece by piece, she would reclaim what had been taken from her.

Her back straightened, her shoulders pulled back as she lifted her chin. Her eyes, no longer distant, gleamed with a quiet fire, the kind that could burn through anything, even the silence that had threatened to swallow her whole.

She was ready now. Ready to face the world again, to wear the painted face of grace and strength that had carried her through so much before. Tonight, she would step into the ballroom with her head held high, her heart steady, her gaze unwavering.

Astarion might be waiting for her, but he wouldn’t see the woman who had crumbled beneath his touch. He would see the woman who had survived it, who had taken that pain and turned it into something stronger.

The mask was in place.

Sima rose to her feet, her movements fluid and deliberate, the embodiment of grace and control. She drew in the last of her makeup; a small black dot, behind the ear, drawn to ward away the evil eye. It was a reminder of her mother, her power, and her resilience in the face of whatever lay ahead.

She would play her part tonight, but it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for herself. To prove that no matter what had happened, no matter what corrections he had imposed, she was still her own.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced once more at her reflection. Not broken. Not lost.

And certainly not his to fix.

I usually listen to “i love you” when am sad...lol😋

Sally’s song by Billie Eilish