dreamland (bill skarsgard one shots)

11. silent falls the winter snow

WARNINGS: angst, smut, swearing, choking, roughness

↭

It was late afternoon. Thursday, to be exact. The air was cold and bitter, with winds blowing enough to chap any bit of exposed skin. Amongst it all, the snow and ice, a certain tall Swede was climbing out of his car.

Despite the wicked cold that burned his lungs the moment he breathed in, there was a stupid grin on his handsome face, wide eyes flickering about to take in his surroundings.

A quaint front yard, covered in blankets of white. A wide, inviting front porch, and a modest, tasteful house right in the center. A familiar warmth spread through his chest at the mere sight of it all.

This was it. He was home.

With a sigh, Bill fumbled with his keys, heading round the car to open the trunk. He heaved his luggage out, nearly falling overtop of it as he attempted to keep it out of the snow and close the trunk at the same time. Once he was situated, he trekked up to the house, all too giddy with excitement.

He wasn't even supposed to be home today. He'd told you that he would be home on Saturday, the day before Christmas Eve, but things had worked out in his favor, and he'd been able to get home two days earlier. He had decided to keep it a surprise, so not a word of it had been uttered to you.

Now here he was, jet lagged, cold, and currently struggling to find the house key on his keyring, but here nonetheless. He managed to pull up the correct key, and moments later, he was stepping into the warm house.

He kicked the snow off his shoes, set down his suitcase, and began to shrug off his many layers. Gloves, a coat, a scarf, a sweater beneath. That left him in his jeans, a t-shirt, and some festive socks that had little pictures of the Grinch sewn in.

Bill left his suitcase as the door, and ventured further into the house, which was decked out in Christmas decor. Everything was quiet, as far as he could tell. In the kitchen, he found a half empty cup of coffee sitting on the counter, most likely where you'd stood to eat breakfast that morning.

Carrying on, he strolled through the living room, which was void of any signs of life. So, further he went, humming quietly to himself as he headed towards the stairs, figuring you were on the second floor. As he reached the top of the staircase, he took pause, for a certain sound had brushed past his ears.

He went quiet entirely, listening closely. It didn't take him long to figure out that those sounds were moans. Soft and sweet and so familiar. Bill crept further down the hall, pausing at your bedroom door, which was cracked open. Inside, he was met with the sight of you, your beautiful body completely bare, writhing against the unkempt sheets.

A thousand thoughts filled his head at once as he watched, seemingly frozen in place. He considered joining in on your fun. The image of you in such a state was enough to arouse him considerably. But the longer he stood there, the more things he noticed.

His eyes, always calculating, drifted over your form. Your hand was between your legs, a cylindrical vibrator buried within you. The look on your face was what got him. Desperate, twisted into such a breathtaking, sweet agony.

Your free hand gripped at the sheets, the pillows, anything you could get ahold of. He knew the telltale signs of your approaching orgasm, he had your body memorized, and could tell that you were quickly approaching that peak. Your hips bucked, and Bill's name, as well as a mantra of please, fell from your lips in strangled gasps.