dreamland (bill skarsgard one shots)

07. wanting

WARNINGS: this work contains adult themes, such as: daddy kink, roughness, choking, swearing, dirty talk, slight bondage, general filth

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He was on edge.

Muscles tight, jaw set, hands sliding up and down his thighs as he attempted to calm himself for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Normally, he was good at keeping his emotions in check. He stayed composed, pulled together, taking everything with grace.

But not this time. Oh no, he was far from keeping it together. In fact, he felt like a spool of thread coming unravelled. The only thing, or rather, only person, that could put him back together again, was you.

And that was precisely why he was on his way home that very moment.

It was raining outside, pounding angrily against the roof of the car he was currently enclosed in. It matched his mood. He normally made small talk with his driver, but not tonight. He was too wound up, and didn't want to make a fool of himself by being short with the man. Then he'd end up having to apologize later on for being a grade a jerk.

So, he kept his mouth shut, opening it only to utter the words "thank you" when he was dropped off at his doorstep. He braved the relentless rain, ducking his head as he rushed for the door, letting himself in.

The smell of fall scented candles and food greeted him the moment he stepped inside. The comforting warmth of home settled in his bones, and he relaxed only slightly, though there was still that overwhelming frustration swirling within him like the storm clouds that currently filled the sky.

He could hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen as he kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on the coat tree to dry before padding across the hall in sock clad feet. The sight he was met with only deepened his need to relieve his tensions. You were only dressed in one of his shirts, your legs on full display. And when you bent over to open a cabinet, he got an eyeful of your panty clad ass. But nonetheless, he resisted the urge to approach you and slam you against the nearest counter.

Instead, he leaned against the archway leading into the kitchen, watching you as you flitted about, putting the finishing touches on the dinner you'd carefully prepared. He'd called you earlier in the day, telling you what a miserable time he was having, and you'd taken compassion on him and decided to have a nice dinner ready when he came home, knowing some hearty food would help a little.

When you turned to place the pot of soup on the table, you found Bill watching you, and you beamed at him. "You're right on time," you mused, beaming at him.

"I see that," he replied, lips tugging into a soft smile.

"I made soup."

So, he sauntered over to the table, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. You came to stand beside him, grabbing the bowl you'd set out and moving to ladle some soup into it.

At such close proximity, Bill could reach out and touch your leg. So that's what he did, hand coming out to brush over the back of your thigh.

Featherlight, hardly enough to cause anything. But you noticed, and you bent your knee, pulling your leg away slightly.