Uncensored Part 🫣

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This story is completely fictional and made purely for entertainment. I have nothing but respect for Billie Eilish as a real person and artist. I love and admire her, and she’s one of my biggest inspirations. Nothing written here is meant to represent her real personality, private life, relationships, actions, opinions, or anything that has actually happened. Y/N and every situation in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to real events is coincidental. This is fanfiction, not a claim about Billie Eilish.

Where this part starts: right after Billie and Y/N finish breaking things at the abandoned spot and finally talk about what happened at the concert. After the argument/confession, Billie takes Y/N’s hand, tells her to come with her, and they start heading back toward the car. The uncensored part starts from the moment they reach the car.

UNCENSORED PART:

They reach the car half-running, still laughing under their breath from everything that just snapped open in the abandoned building. Billie yanks the driver’s door open and you slide into the passenger seat. Both doors slam. The quiet that hits is almost physical.

You’re both breathing hard. The air inside is already warm. Billie turns her head and just looks at you. Her hair is still damp at the ends, stuck to her neck in places. She smells clean and expensive and a little dangerous. Her eyes are dark and half-lidded, that same smug confidence locked right on you.

You try to keep your voice steady.

“Happy now?”

Billie doesn’t smile fully. Just the corner of her mouth lifts.

“Not even close.”

She leans across the console and kisses you like she’s been waiting all night to do it properly.

There’s no hesitation. Her hand finds your waist right away, fingers digging in just hard enough to pull you toward her. You grab the front of her hoodie and twist the fabric in your fist as her mouth opens against yours. The kiss is deep and wet and insistent. Her tongue slides against yours and you make a small sound into it before you can stop yourself.

Billie hums like she likes that sound.

She keeps pulling until you’re half out of your seat, practically straddling the console just to get closer. One hand stays locked on your waist while the other slides up your back and into your hair, gripping the base of your skull so she can tilt your head exactly how she wants. You feel the heat of her palm through your shirt. You feel how hard she’s breathing against your cheek every time you break for air.

You pull apart for half a second, both of you panting.

Billie looks at you with that cocky expression she always gets when she knows she’s winning.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and rough. “Trying so hard to act like you’re not completely fucked up right now.”

You swallow, still gripping her hoodie.

“Shut up, boss.”

She grins, slow and sharp.

“Camera girl.”

Then she’s kissing you again, harder. Her teeth catch your bottom lip and tug. You gasp and she takes the chance to deepen it, tongue sliding deeper, slower, filthy. Her hand on your waist tightens, then slips under the hem of your shirt just enough to press bare skin against bare skin. Her fingers are warm. They dig into the soft flesh just above your hipbone and stay there, possessive.

You fist both hands in her clothes now, pulling her closer even though there’s nowhere left to go. The gearshift digs into your thigh. You don’t care. Billie doesn’t either. She shifts so she’s leaning over you more, crowding you back into the passenger seat until your shoulders hit the door. One of her knees ends up between yours on the seat. She’s not fully on top of you—the car is too small—but she’s close enough that you feel every shift of her body, every controlled breath.

The windows start fogging almost immediately.

You break the kiss again, both of you gasping. A thin string of spit connects your mouths for a second before it breaks. Billie doesn’t pull away far. Her forehead rests against yours. Her hand is still under your shirt, thumb stroking slow circles against your bare waist.

“You’re so quiet,” she whispers. “Usually you talk so much shit.”

You manage a shaky laugh.

“Maybe you’re just kissing me too hard for once.”

“That a complaint?”

“Didn’t say that.”

She smiles against your mouth and kisses you again, slower this time but somehow dirtier. Her free hand comes up and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your lips before sliding down to your throat. She doesn’t squeeze. Just rests her fingers there, feeling your pulse race under her touch. You tip your head back a little without thinking and she makes a low, satisfied sound.

Time stops mattering.

You end up fully sideways in the seat at some point, one leg hooked over the console, the other pressed against the door. Billie’s body is half over yours. Her mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, then lower, dragging open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck. She bites gently at the sensitive skin just under your ear and you arch into her, a soft broken noise slipping out. She does it again, harder, sucking just long enough to leave a mark. Then another one lower. Then another.

Your hands are in her hair now, holding her there. She’s breathing heavy against your throat, lips wet, tongue occasionally tasting the skin she’s already marked. Every time you make a sound she seems to like it—presses closer, bites a little sharper, keeps you pinned exactly where she wants you.

At one point your elbow knocks the rearview mirror. It swings and you both freeze, then start laughing quietly into each other’s mouths. The laugh turns into another kiss almost immediately. Billie’s hand slides higher under your shirt, palm flat against your ribs, then higher still until her fingers brush the underside of your bra. She doesn’t go further yet. Just stays there, feeling the way your breathing stutters, giving you every chance to stop her.

You don’t.

You pull her closer instead, mouth finding hers again, kissing her like you’re trying to climb inside her skin. She lets out a quiet groan against your lips and the sound goes straight through you. Her thigh presses more firmly between yours. The friction is deliberate, slow, controlled. She rocks against you just enough to make your head fall back against the window with a soft thud.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

Billie lifts her head just enough to look at you. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are dark and pleased.

“There she is,” she murmurs. “Was wondering when you’d stop pretending you’re not into this.”

You try to glare at her. It doesn’t work very well when you’re this flushed and this close.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You like it.”

She kisses you again before you can answer, swallowing whatever comeback you had. Her hand stays under your shirt for a second longer, then slides down. Past your waistband. Past the edge of your underwear. Her fingers skim over the front of your panties first, slow and testing, feeling how damp the fabric already is. She presses the heel of her hand against you through the thin material and watches your face when your hips twitch up into the contact.

“Yeah,” she breathes against your mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

You don’t have a smart answer ready. Your fingers tighten in her hoodie.

Billie keeps looking at you while she slips two fingers under the waistband of your underwear and lower. The first touch of skin on skin makes you suck in a sharp breath. She’s warm, and she doesn’t rush. She just traces along your slit, gathering the wetness already there, spreading it with slow, deliberate strokes. When she finds your clit she circles it once, twice, light enough that it’s almost teasing, and the sound that leaves your throat is embarrassingly soft.

“Billie—”

“Shh.” She kisses the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”

She presses harder, rubbing tight little circles that make your thighs tense. Then she slides lower again, and one finger sinks into you without warning. You’re so wet it goes in easy, and the stretch is sudden and perfect. Your head drops back against the window. Billie watches every second of it, eyes dark, that same confident half-smile on her face like she’s cataloguing exactly how you look when she does this to you.

She adds a second finger almost right away. The fit is tighter this time. You feel every inch of them as she pushes in deep and curls them upward, searching. When she finds the spot that makes your whole body jolt she does it again, slower, more precise, rubbing there while the heel of her hand grinds against your clit. Your hips start moving without permission, riding her hand in small, desperate rolls.

“Fuck, look at you,” she murmurs. “Taking it so well already.”

You try to say something back—some version of “shut up” or “don’t get cocky”—but it comes out as a broken moan when she thrusts a little harder. The wet sound of her fingers moving in and out of you is loud in the quiet car. Embarrassing. Hot. You can feel how soaked you are, how easily she’s sliding in now, how every curl of her fingers makes your stomach tighten.

Billie leans in and kisses you while she fucks you with her hand. Deep, messy kisses that match the rhythm of her fingers. When you get too loud she swallows the sounds, smiling against your mouth like she’s proud of every noise she’s pulling out of you. Her other hand stays in your hair, keeping your head tilted so she can keep kissing you through it.

You lose track of time again. The windows are completely fogged. Your shirt is pushed up under your bra. Billie’s hoodie is half off one shoulder from how hard you’ve been pulling at it. She’s still fully dressed otherwise, still completely in control, still looking at you like she owns every reaction you’re giving her.

She speeds up just enough to make your breath hitch and stay there. Her fingers work you open, curling, thrusting, rubbing that same perfect spot over and over while her palm keeps steady pressure on your clit. You’re shaking. Your legs are starting to tremble around her wrist. You can feel yourself getting close, the tension coiling low and sharp.

“Billie—fuck—I’m—”

“I know.” Her voice is rough against your ear. “Come on. Let me feel it.”

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. Just keeps working you with the same confident, relentless pace until the pleasure tips over and you come hard around her fingers, clenching, pulsing, a broken sound ripped out of your throat that she immediately kisses quiet. She keeps moving through it, slower now, drawing it out until you’re twitching and oversensitive and trying to push her hand away with weak fingers.

Only then does she ease out of you. She brings her fingers up between you, wet and shiny, and looks at them for a second before wiping them casually on the inside of her own hoodie like it’s nothing. Then she leans in and kisses you again, softer this time, almost gentle, while your body is still shaking.

You’re both breathing hard. The car smells like sex and her perfume. Your underwear is ruined. Your neck is covered in marks. Billie looks completely unbothered, just a little flushed, still wearing that same smug little smile.

She brushes your hair out of your face with the back of her clean hand.

“You good?”

You nod, still trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m fucking great, camera girl.”

She kisses you one more time, slow and deep, before sitting back just enough to give you space to fix your clothes. Her hand finds yours as she starts the engine. The drive back into the city is quiet, her fingers laced with yours the whole way, the windows still half-fogged from everything that just happened.