dreamland (bill skarsgard one shots)

20. some days

WARNINGS: smut

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It was raining.

This was the first, and only, thing he noticed when he stepped outside that evening. A cold drizzle, pelting against his face, soaking through the long sleeved shirt he was wearing. He was not dressed for this weather at all.

He groaned to himself, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. For a moment, he felt as if he might cry, but he stopped himself. Who the fuck cries over rain? He silently demanded. Apparently, he cried over rain.

To be completely honest, it wasn't the rain that had him upset. In fact, it wasn't the rain at all. On any normal occasion, He quite liked rainy, stormy weather. It had a calming effect on him. But today had truly been the lousiest day he'd had in a long, long time, and he was completely exhausted. Not even the quiet drizzle falling from the sky could calm him.

What he needed right then and there was to go home. Not to a place, but to a person. To you, the only one who could calm him down, the only one who could ground him. You were his home, and he was coming back to you, running to your arms, just as he always did.

He climbed into the car, sitting there in the quiet for a few moments, listening to the rain and the sound of his own breath. Then he turned the ignition over, and he was headed off towards the house the two of you lived in.

An ache had settled within his joints, a crick in his neck, and a discomfort behind his eyes. Tension, it was riddled through him. All he wanted was your soft hands pressing into his taut muscles, aiding him in relieving that tension and stress.

The drive felt long to him, longer than usual. The entire time, all he could think of was you, snug inside the warm house, probably curled up on the couch with a book cracked open in your lap, Netflix playing in the background while you waited for him to come home.

Surely dinner would be ready when he got there. You'd told him through a text that you'd put something in the Crock Pot, a new recipe you were trying. Even a text as simple, plain, and boring as that was enough to make him smile if it was coming from you. Sounds good babe, was what he'd responded with. His appetite was hardly there now, though. He couldn't even think of food, he just wanted your comfort.

When he finally pulled into the driveway, he took notice of the warm glow coming from within the house, and he sighed, relief already flooding through his chest. He could finally put the day behind him, put all pretenses, disappointments, and upsets aside and just be himself, with you.

Just as he'd suspected, you were on the couch, watching tv, with your cat Matilda curled up at your feet. The moment you heard Bill's keys at the front door, you paused what you were watching, and tossed your blanket aside, scratching Matilda behind the ears as you rose to stand.

As you rounded the corner, Bill was stepping inside, closing and locking the door behind him before he moved to step out of his shoes and hang up his keys. He was completely silent as he did so, hardly acknowledging you, which wasn't typical of him at all. When he turned, he attempted a smile, but you saw right through it, straight to the weariness in his eyes.

You didn't say anything, you only watched him approach you. He leaned down to kiss you, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. Once he pulled away, he took your hand in his, and without a word, led you upstairs. You just followed him, not bothering to question him. He'd speak when he was ready.