summary: a girl hits on you at a party, billie gets jealous and fucks you when you get home
cw: SMUT, EXPLICIT CONTENT,thug!billie,sub!reader
ೀ angel’s note!🗒️~ bro that gif of billie has my shit pulsing in morse code, BRING THUG BILLIE BACK!!🥹
You’re not just saying that because Billie’s standing beside you, radiating a low-key aura of “I’m about to commit a felony,” though that’s definitely contributing. It’s objectively bad. A sonic assault. But it’s Chelsea’s birthday, and you’re wearing this new dress that makes you feel good, so you’re trying to have a good time.
Billie, on the other hand, looks like she’s being forced to watch a tax audit live. She’s leaning against the wall, a pillar of brooding energy in her oversized black hoodie. Her hands are tucked away, but you know they’re probably fidgeting with her rings or keys. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you got here, which is both head-spinningly hot and a little bit like being under the protection of a very grumpy, very stylish guard dog.
Your red cup is mostly sticky lemonade, and you’re listening to Chelsea animatedly tell a story about her cat, when someone slides up next to you.
“Hey,” a girl’s voice says, close to your ear. She smells like fruity perfume and something sharper, like tequila. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
You turn. She’s pretty, in a polished, intentional way. Dark hair, a bright smile, a dress that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe combined. Her eyes do a slow, obvious sweep down your body and back up. You take a small, instinctive step back, your back almost brushing against Billie’s solid warmth behind you.
“Oh, uh, hi,” you manage. “I’m just here for Chelsea.”
“Right, the birthday girl,” she says, not even glancing at Chelsea. Her focus is a laser beam on you. “I’m Jasmine.” She doesn’t offer her hand, just leans in a little closer. “Can I get you another drink? That one looks empty.”
“It’s not,” you say, a little too quickly. You hold up the cup. “I’m good.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I make a mean tequila sunrise.”
From behind you, you feel it. That shift in the air. The subtle tightening of Billie’s posture. You don’t even have to look to know her jaw is set, her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. The temperature around you seems to drop about ten degrees.
Jasmine either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “Don’t be shy. I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
That’s it. That’s the line. You feel Billie start to push off the wall, a low growl building in her chest that you feel more than hear.
Before she can take a full step, you turn around, pressing your free hand flat against the hard plane of her chest, right over her heart. Her hoodie is soft, but you can feel the furious beat underneath. Her blue eyes are stormy, fixed on the girl behind you.
“Hey,” you say, your voice soft but firm, a private sound just for her. Her gaze finally drops to yours, and the intensity there is enough to make your knees weak. “Look at me.”
For a second, she doesn’t. Her jaw works, the muscle flexing. She’s a loaded weapon, and you’re the only one who can unload her.
“Billie,” you whisper, your thumb stroking over her chest. “Eyes on me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, her focus shifts. The storm in her eyes doesn’t break, but it narrows, centering on you. On your face. On your lips. Good. That’s better.
“She’s nothing,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips brush her ear. “She’s a joke. You know who I’m with.”
You feel the tension in her body coil, ready to spring. You can’t let that happen. Your hand slides from her chest up to the back of her neck, your fingers tangling in the baby hairs at her nape. You pull her down, or maybe she meets you halfway, and you kiss her.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a claim. A branding. You pour everything into it—your want, your loyalty, the fact that no one, no pretty girl with tequila promises, comes close to the electric current that runs between you. You nip at her bottom lip, soothe it with your tongue, and feel a shudder run through her entire body.
When you pull back, she’s breathing hard, her pupils blown wide. The anger is still there, but it’s been eclipsed by something else. Something darker, hungrier.
“We’re leaving,” she says. Her voice is a low rasp, a command, not a suggestion.
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She grabs your hand, her grip firm and possessive, and pulls you away from the wall, away from Chelsea’s confused look, away from Jasmine’s startled expression. You push through the crowd, a flash of black hoodie and your tiny dress, and out the front door into the cool night air.
The drive home is silent. The engine of her car hums, the only sound besides your own thrumming heart. She drives a little too fast, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her other hand locked with yours in your lap. She doesn’t look at you, but you can feel her. The anger has crystallized into something else, something potent and focused entirely on you.
The second you’re inside your apartment, the door slamming shut behind you, she’s on you. The bag with your dress from earlier falls from your shoulder, forgotten on the floor. She pins you against the door, her hands framing your face, her body pressing into yours. There’s no gentleness, no preamble. Her kiss is punishing, desperate, a mix of leftover anger and pure, unadulterated lust. She tastes like mint and the faint trace of the shitty lemonade you’d been drinking.
“Did you like it?” she pants against your lips, her hands moving down to grip your hips, her fingers digging into your flesh. “Her attention? Did it make you feel good?”
The question is a taunt, a test. You know what she wants to hear.
“No,” you gasp as her mouth moves to your neck, her teeth scraping over your pulse point. “It was annoying. I only want you.”
That’s the answer she needs. With a groan, she hauls you up, your legs automatically wrapping around her waist. She carries you like you weigh nothing, her hands gripping your ass, heading straight for the bedroom. She doesn’t bother with the light, just dumps you onto the bed.
You land in a tangle of limbs, bouncing slightly on the mattress. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch her. She stands at the foot of the bed, her chest heaving, her silhouette stark in the moonlight filtering through the window. She yanks her hoodie over her head, tossing it aside, revealing the simple black sports bra underneath and the intricate web of tattoos on her arms and torso. She looks like a fucking goddess. A vengeful, beautiful goddess who’s about to ruin you.
“Lose the dress,” she commands. Her voice is low, rough.
You don’t hesitate. You sit up, reach behind you to pull the zipper, and shimmy out of the thin fabric. It pools around your waist, leaving you in just your black lace panties. Her eyes sweep over you, dark and hungry.
“All of it,” she says, taking a step closer. “I want you naked. Now.”
You hook your thumbs into your panties and slide them down your legs, kicking them off. You’re completely exposed to her, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin. She reaches out, her fingers tracing the line of your hip, her touch leaving a trail of fire.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “So fucking pretty. All mine.”
She kneels on the bed, crawling over you, caging you in with her arms. Her hair falls around you, creating a private, shadowed world. She lowers her head, her lips hovering just above yours.
“Gonna show you who you belong to,” she whispers—and then she kisses you again, a deep, filthy kiss that steals the air from your lungs. One of her hands slides down your stomach, through the curls at the apex of your thighs, finding you already wet and wanting.
She doesn’t tease. She doesn’t hesitate. Two of her long, deft fingers push inside you in one smooth, deliberate stroke. You arch off the bed with a choked cry, your hands flying to her shoulders to hold on.
“Fuck,” you gasp. “Billie.”
“Yeah,” she grunts, starting a slow, punishing rhythm. “That’s it. Say my name. Let everyone know who’s fucking you.”
She sets a devastating pace, her palm grinding against your clit with each thrust. Her other hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. Her mouth is everywhere, on your neck, your collarbone, your jaw, sucking marks into your skin, little purple bruises that scream possession.
“She couldn’t make you feel like this,” she pants against your ear, her fingers crooking inside you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. “No one can. Only me.”
She’s right. She’s so fucking right. Every nerve ending is on fire, electricity zinging through your veins. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, a tight, winding spring.
“Please,” you whimper, completely lost to it. “Please, Billie. I’m close.”
“What do you want, baby?” she asks, her voice a wicked taunt. “Use your words.”
“You,” you gasp, your hips bucking to meet her hand. “I want you to make me come. Please, I need it.”
She shifts, moving down your body, her fingers never stopping their relentless assault. You feel her breath on your inner thigh, a hot, wet promise. And then her mouth is on you, her tongue replacing her palm on your clit.
The sensation is overwhelming. The dual stimulation is too much, not enough. Her tongue is clever and insistent, swirling and flicking, her lips sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves. You’re babbling now, a stream of nonsense and her name, your hands fisted in the sheets.
“That’s it,” she murmurs against you, the vibrations sending another jolt through you. “Come for me. Let go. Show me who you belong to.”
With a final, desperate cry, you shatter. The orgasm rips through you, blinding and all-consuming. Your back bows, your thighs shaking, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you. She works you through it, her fingers and tongue slowing, drawing out every last drop of sensation until you’re a boneless, gasping mess on the bed.
When you finally come back to yourself, she’s hovering over you, a smirk playing on her lips. Her chin is glistening. She looks smug. Satisfied. Like a predator that’s just devoured its prey.
She leans down and kisses you, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
“Mine,” she whispers against your lips, a final, possessive claim.
And you are. Completely. Utterly. Hers.
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