A Raw Ache
Rating: 18+ 🍋 minors DNI or I take ya knees
Pairing: Billy Lenz x Reader (second-person POV)
Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night to a figure on top of you. You do not mind him, and in fact, welcome him.
Contains/warnings: Choking, gender neutral reader, transmasc Billy, mutual masturbation, general dirty talk, nipple play, finger sucking/oral fixation, some themes or somno
A/N: it’s Christmas time aka Billy Time (at least where I’m at), so of course this was the day I needed to try my hand at some Billy Lenz smut 😌 Really wanted to play up Billy’s more regretful, thoughtful lucid side as well as the scene in which Barb thinks she’s dreaming about him. Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, and happy smut Saturday to everyone else 💕💕
You weren’t quite sure when it had all happened, when the line between dream and reality crumbled away. You couldn’t even remember the dream now; what was once so vivid, so touchable, had already retreated to the shadows of your consciousness. Absently, you were aware of your eyes moving under your eyelids, still shut so tight, as if to will yourself back to sleep despite the new, foriegn weight on top of you.
“S-Shh… Just… Just go b-back to sl-sleep--”
That stuttering voice—where had you heard it before? Was it your own, your own mind willing you back to dreamland? No, no it was too hoarse, too broken and strained to be your own. Childlike, almost, in its pleas.
“What…?” The question dies almost immediately in your throat as a clammy hand presses against your lips; you can taste the sweat on its palms, can feel the hestiance in this domineering motion. Briefly, your eyes open wide, crossed together as you try to see who is above you, who’s hand is clamped so shakily on your mouth. But then your vision is cut off again; another hand, another large hand, covers both your eyes easily.
There is a fear in all these movements, a regret embedded with every twitch of those fingers. You grow more aware of the knees digging into your waist, pinning you in place. You writhe, just a little, because you are aware that’s what you should be doing. You should be kicking and screaming, should be clawing at that shadowy face you barely got a glimpse of. But instead, you close your eyes once again, leaning into those trembling hands. You close your mouth tightly too, bite down on your bottom lip. A show of retreat, of compliance.
“See? See? Good… G-Go back to sleep… You can be good? I-I’m… I’m not bad. Not bad at all. S-See? Do you see…? You see.”
But you don’t; you keep your eyes closed even as those hands move away from them. Instead, they slowly trace along your hairline, brushing stray hairs from your sweaty face. The other begins to lightly drag along your jaw, inching down to your throat. You tilt your neck without thinking, an unspoken invitation. You hear the figure gasp, as if he too is surprised you are being so good.
“P-Pretty… pretty, pretty, pretty…” he keeps murmuring, each “pretty” a bit more frantic than the last. Still, you feel flattered, flustered even. You shift under him, not to get away, but to become more comfortable.
His fingers are running through your hair now, untangling it and smoothing it down against your pillows. With his other hand, he gropes and rubs your shoulder and arm. It slips to the front of your chest, feeling for your warm skin underneath your thin nightclothes--a tank and flimsy shorts, perhaps too short for the winter, though now you are not complaining.
And he keeps whispering to you, or perhaps is it to himself? Constant reassurance, constant repetition. Though you catch a twisted little giggle once or twice too, as if he also can’t believe this is all happening, that it’s all working so well. You can’t believe it either, truthfully, and feel a mad smile tug at your own lips. Can’t believe how easily the thin straps of your tank are brushed down, can’t believe the contrast of the chill of the room and his hot breath, can’t believe how your thighs are rubbing together, brushing against his.
Suddenly, your tank is yanked down. Your shorts are quick to follow. The fabric drags against your skin. It is the roughest he has been the entire time, and you cannot help but whimper, caught off guard. That seems to snap him back; his lips are right on your cheek, kissing and cooing to you, to himself.
“No, no, no--it’s okay. S-See? See? Just a little… Excited. Pretty. You’re so so pretty. See? I’m not a… n-not a bad B-Bill--man.”
You can barely understand it; you cling to the word “pretty,” cling to the butterflies it gives you.
“Not bad…” you whisper back, absently parroting him. He lets out a wet breath; is he crying? You can’t tell. You don’t think about it too hard, though, because those hands are groping lower now. He’s exploring you, shakily taking in every inch of skin, pausing to see every small reaction.
“Lemme lick it… lick it… wana… wana taste it.”
God, you feel so exposed, so put on display. But you don't hate the attention either; you moan weakly as he brushes against your nipples, arching your back as a silent cue for him to keep going. He gasps, his hands freezing in place. For a moment you think to open your eyes, to say something to him. To encourage and goad him on.
But almost immediately, any further hesitance is gone, snuffed out like a candle.
You’re nearly screaming as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. That other large hand is back to your lips, his fingers pressing against them, against your teeth. Without thinking you suck on them, licking the pads of his fingers as he curls them inside of you. He’s moaning, too, panting and moaning as he’s no doubt watching your face. Watching as you lick and suck on his fingers.
“Pretty pretty piggy…. Suck it. Suck it good. Suck me good. It’s alright. That’s right. Shh…. Shhh…”
The thought of him looking at you tickles your skin more, makes every fervent lick all the more pleasurable.
You spread your legs, your shorts stretching as you do. Without thinking, your own hand reaches for your sex. The figure makes a low noise, almost a growl, and you stop, unsure.
“Keep… going….”
He growls it into your chest. You melt into his words, your hand now working yourself up faster. You twitch and moan, uncaring if the others can hear. For all you know, this is just a dream. And who cares, honestly, if they can hear you? The thought is comforting; you lap at his fingers in your mouth with excess, drool slipping out of the corners of your lips. You feel him work off his own pants, enough so that his other hand can bury itself before his own legs. You lift your knee up between his bare thighs; he rubs against you and his hand, growling and moaning into your skin.
You can feel how wet he is on your leg; you press against him more, milking out more moans and mewls. You bob your knee, relishing this new sense of control. None of the noises he makes are consistent; at times he sounds guttural and animalistic, deep and dark. And then, in an instant, he sounds catlike, mewling and whimpering. You can’t help but find it all so endearing, and your hand works faster between your thighs, your orgasm nudging closer and closer.
Your mind blanks as the fingers in your mouth are suddenly wrapped around your throat. You sputter out something—is it a plea to stop or to keep going? A question of why? You don’t know, but the man doesn’t hear you, or rather, doesn’t listen. You can feel his hand move from his cunt to your throat as he humps against your thigh, panting and giggling as he uses both hands to choke you.
You can no longer resist. You open your eyes, mouth agape and soundless.
The shadows of the room obscure his face, but you can make out those eyes, those teeth. The big bad wolf right in your bed. Your hand is pumping your sex on its own; you croak out nonsense, the words lost. He throttles you more as he ruts against you with abandon, his eyes crossing, teeth gnashed together. Your other hand is tightened around his wrist, but you don’t try to pull him away. You hold him there, choking you, as you rub out your own climax.
He all but screams as he feels you tense up and spasm; his orgasm is quick to follow, wet and hot against your leg.
Those hands that had choked you are now rubbing your face, smoothing down your hair again, as he shushes you.
“Pretty… pretty piggy… so good for Billy…”
He goes back to babbling the usual nonsense and you welcome his words as your eyelids drift shut again. Your orgasm leaves you feeling languid and exhausted. Your bed seems to be swallowing you up; you are absently aware that he is tucking you back in, reclothing you too.
You want to tell him to stay, to sleep here with you. But you say nothing, keeping your eyes and lips closed as the room grows colder, silent.
When you wake, you are alone. You wonder if it was all just a dream after all, your lonely mind playing tricks on you. But the raw ache on your throat is a cold indication that no, no you had been visited. And you had welcomed him. Sitting up in bed, you cannot help but feel there are eyes on you, somewhere, somehow.
You welcomed him and would welcome him again, should he so wish. The thought brings a smile to your face.