NEEDY - B.E. IMAGINES

spoiled*

gxg soft dom billie

-

The first time Billie paid for something, Y/n didn't think much of it. It was a second date latte—a rather pricey one—the casual offer of "I got it" as she pulled out a sleek black card.

The coffee tasted way better knowing that it didn't make a dent in Y/n's account.

But then it kept happening.

Dinner, Ubers, tickets to the art museum. Flowers delivered to Y/n's apartment with little cards, like she'd stepped into a romance novel.

Billie was a trust fund baby, with old money sophistication hidden behind sneakers and oversized hoodies, and when she spoiled Y/n, it wasn't flashy. It was smooth; seamless.

Y/n hadn't realized Billie came from money at first. Billie didn't flaunt it, although the signs were there; the custom leather wallet, the way she always knew what wine to order, the expensive watches she rotated like accessories. When Billie finally invited her over to "her little place downtown," Y/n almost laughed at the irony. Her "little" place had twenty-foot windows and marble countertops, like something out of an interior design magazine.

Still, Billie never made her feel less than. She looked at Y/n like she was art; like she was worth it.

And at first, Y/n let herself enjoy it.

-

It was Friday night, the kind of night that felt heavier than usual, but soft around the edges.

The rain had started just as they got in—light at first, but steady enough to cancel their usual plans. Instead of dinner out, Billie ordered Thai from the place down the block. Y/n insisted on paying for it, joking that it was her turn, but Billie shot her a warning look from the kitchen island and tapped her phone twice like it was settled.

"It's already ordered," she said, smug.

"You're annoying," Y/n rolled her eyes.

"You love it." Billie leaned her elbows on the counter, watching her with that stupid little grin.

Y/n couldn't help but smile.

They ate cross legged on the living room floor, sitting on the oversized rug in Billie's apartment. The city stretched out behind her massive windows—misty and humming, streetlights illuminating the rainfall. Everything inside was dim, cozy, warm. There was no TV, no music, just the soft clink of chopsticks and the occasional sound of Billie reaching for her wine glass.

Y/n loved moments like this, nothing fancy, over the top. It was just them, sitting on the floor like chairs didn't exist, and not minding at all. Food seemed to taste better when they ate it on the floor anyways.

They were halfway through dinner when Billie reached across with her chopsticks and dropped a piece of tofu on Y/n's rice. It was instinctive—almost absentminded—casual, affectionate. Billie did things like that all the time, as if feeding her was a love language.

"Careful," Y/n teased. "You keep doing things like that and I'll never leave."

"Good," Billie shrugged, licking sauce off her thumb.

The word sat in the air for a moment, solid, real.

Y/n looked down at her plate.

"You know none of my exes ever paid for dinner?" It came out quiet, almost like a confession. In a way it was.

Billie physically paused, her chopsticks frozen mid-air.

"Excuse me?"

Y/n didn't meet her eyes. She shrugged sheepishly, prodding at a piece of broccoli with her chopstick.