dickinson supremacy

momo. she&her. writing for my harris brain rot

[tenebraewrites]

your writing is sooo wonderful and immersive!! thank you for sharing it with us <3

i'm just logging back in !! but i want to say thank you so much for these sweet words :) it means a lot !

[tenebraewrites]

just like heaven / bill farrah x reader

thank you so much for reading my first lil fic ! this is a follow up that very much lives in my bill x reader universe - it's another one shot, but after this, i plan on fleshing out a full story <3  this one is rather long hehe i got a bit carried away

 also EXPLICIT!!!!!!!! warning for the contents below !!!

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    Sleep has evaded you for hours now - while Bill has drifted silently beside you, something about the motel room denies you peace. Perhaps it’s the mattress, a scientific marvel beneath your back -- it is both too hard and too soft, consisting of lumps that feel like small animals, trapped beneath thread. Or it’s the light that pours through the faded gray curtains that cover the window -- the motel sign proudly beams down, declaring both vacancy and twenty four operating hours. Bill always loathes the notion of continuous service; anything that spits in his face as wholly capitalist makes him angry. 

Laying on your side, the only comfort in a sleepless ocean has been Bill. His breathing is steady, his hands holding you gently around your middle.. Bill’s breath tickles the back of your neck - he always parts your hair so that he can inhale you. He’ll hold you, nuzzling and kissing in a parking lot, in a restaurant booth, or waiting for the gas to pump. You’ve never met anyone who loves the way you smell; certainly not when so often you smell like the scent of 7-11 soap and cigarettes.

You move slowly, feeling the mattress dip and squeak as you adjust so that you can lay face to face with Bill. You knew it was love when you first met him; your heart did a flip, an urgent warning that you were in trouble. But you knew it’d be the only love, when the smallest details about Bill made you sigh happily.

His bangs, cut roughly (Bill lovingly maintains his mullet, but his bangs are a haphazard afterthought) rest against his forehead - the sun always brings out a deluge of freckles across his skin. The sun has been beating down against your skin for days; you’re out in Nevada, hunting ghosts and getting lost in Bill.  He’s adorned his face with a few tattoos - you trace them now over and over in your head, cataloging his ink for when sleep finally comes.

Maybe it’s the heat of your gaze on his skin that stirs Bill from his slumber, or maybe it’s that he’s no longer holding you, that interrupts his rest. Bill’s eyes slowly part, seeking out your needy stare.

“Hey.” Bill’s slowly blinking you into focus, pulling you to his chest as he shakes off the last vestiges of sleep. You know he’s tired from driving; you’d like to protest, tell him to go back to sleep, but he’d never listen.

“Hi.” Your words are slightly muffled as you burrow into his neck, adopting his beloved ritual of nuzzling; you breathe him in, and all is right in the world. 

His hands rub your back, dipping beneath the worn out shirt you’re wearing so he can touch you - his fingers are warm, his calloused fingertips heavenly across your skin.  

“You can’t sleep.” Bill says, his voice quiet and neutral - it’s neither an accusation of annoyance, nor is it a question.

You nod into his shoulder, slotting one of your legs between his. There isn’t a good reason why you can’t sleep and there never has been. It’s a terrible dichotomy you exist in; you always long for sleep, but your body violently revolts against the notion at appropriate hours for rest. Your mother used to say you were lazy, then you’re just a teenager, then simply you’re hell-bent on always making things harder for yourself. Unfortunately, you’ve developed a sneaking suspicion she was correct with the last assertion. You’re no longer a teenager, and lazy -- Bill says it's a mindset meant to shame the working class for not bleeding themselves dry. Only your self-destructive tendencies remain. 

“You could read me a bedtime story.” You pull back, resting your head beside his on the pillow. He matches your smile with an equally toothy grin - you love when his face lights up and it’s only for you. 

Bill’s still stroking your back, his movements languid; but his expression has shifted. He’s wide awake now, and a tell tale smile has begun to spread across his features. It’s a sly and quiet expression you know well. The hands beneath your shirt gently roll you onto your back, as he moves to hover above you. His face is pressed against yours, his nose gently kissing the tip of yours; you’re both still for a moment, enjoying the moment.

“Maybe.” 

He kisses you, his lips soft and warm against yours. Your kisses are sweet and slow, as your arms wind across his back. Bill’s pressed against you, holding your bottom lip hostage until he earns a muted whimper. His hands are roaming beneath your shirt, inching the fabric up bit by bit, until common sense demands you discard it altogether. 

The shirt slips above your head, making every inch of your skin known to him, you’re laid utterly bare. Bill always gazes at you like it’s his first time seeing you naked; he pauses, his face marked with awe. A blush across your skin always follows, bringing him back to you - he kisses you again, before dipping his head. 

He takes your left nipple into his mouth, gently pulling and twisting it with his lips; each of these ministrations sending a jolt down your body. Bill knows how sensitive your breasts are, and so he takes great care to lavish each breast with attention. He licks your right nipple twice, before taking it between his lips; you moan contentedly, teasing his hair with your fingers. You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, and though you’d never want to, it’d be impossible to deny how much you needed him.

“Bill.” Already you’re reduced to a status where his name is your only anchor, your only refuge. The fingers that were lightly tugging his hair, are now trying to push him away; to make him go to where you need him the most. But Bill adores teasing you, pushing and pulling you to the brink until you finally explode. He hums quietly, his mouth continuing to alternate between your breasts. 

You huff, tugging his hair. “You’re supposed to be getting me to sleep.”

In lieu of treating you to a verbal reply or rebuff, Bill simply lifts his head - his eyes are wide, calm. He pushes himself forward, giving you a quick kiss. Your hands shift to hold him once more, but he’s gone before you’ve finished moving - his lips cover the expanse of your stomach, your hips, the soft skin of your thighs. The day had been so long that you’d slipped into bed without bothering to put on underwear; you’re thankful now that Bill won’t have a slip of fabric to tease you with. 

Bill’s fingers part your folds gently, brushing gently across your clit to test your sensitivity - your hips raise involuntarily, eagerly anticipating the replacement of his tongue. But Bill pauses as he always does, raising his eyes to meet yours. A hot flash covers your skin when he looks up at you - you’ve never been able to look at anyone eating you out before. His eyes are so blue, so wonderfully aflame. 

“Yes?” Bill’s hands are stagnant, awaiting your reply.

“Yes. Please.” A year ago you wouldn’t have recognized the needy whine of your own voice; no one has ever made you need this so bad.

Bill doesn’t offer a verbal reply - he doesn’t need to. His tongue swipes against your clit, once, twice; he’s teasing you. Gripping your hips, Bill’s grounding you to the bed; you can plead, push, pull his hair all you like. You’re bent to the mercy of his pace, which is always grueling. 

He’s kissing every inch of you, alternating between artfully using his lips against where you’re most sensitive, and sweetly kissing your thighs. With your head propped up on the pillow, you are afforded a perfect view - his lips are wet, and you’re leaving a mess across the sheets. Attentively, Bill looks at you, as he suckles and laps at your clit - his gaze is as potent as anything he can do with his mouth. 

“Bill, Bill, Bill.” You’re sweating, your legs now propped up against his shoulders; toes beginning to curl, hips rotating in gentle circles, chasing your high. Bill has never demanded you moan his name or call him anything in particular; he gets off on whatever pleases you. But you know whimpering his name sends a flush down his neck, and if you were positioned differently, you’d see a rough outline in his boxers. 

His hands leave your hips to trail across your stomach, to envelope your skin in his touch. All of you desire Bill; he’d never accept such a thing, but every fiber of your being is his. There is never the slightest moment of melancholy spared for past lovers - no one could have reduced you to this. Bill’s pace has increased, no longer playful and teasing. His mouth never leaves you, and he works you with fervor. Bill had been almost shy the first time you’d had sex; you’d remarked on his racing heartbeat until he’d eaten you out, and you’d temporarily forgotten how to speak.

Your hips are moving against his mouth, as your hand anchors his mouth to your core; you’re panting, breaths coming in fast and hard. The pleasure is all encompassing, and you’ve begun to lose focus of anything that isn’t Bill and your building orgasm. Bill’s tongue has resumed its strokes against your clit, but he’s increased his pace; Bill always knows when you’re close. 

“Bill.” It’s a quiet declaration, squeaked out before you’re lost to the sensation. You close your eyes when you come, pleasure overtaking every inch of your body; it is a white hot flame, making you forget everything - only Bill and his mouth, unrelenting in its pace, remain. Your toes are locked in a tight curl as your hips grind against him, prolonging the electric pleasure that’s arched your back and made you dig your nails into his scalp. The motel and its thin walls have faded away- you’re vaguely aware of your strangled cry, and the rough way that you’re pulling his hair -- his teasing has made your orgasm last a lifetime. 

Only when you’re so overspent and sensitive touch becomes unbearable, do you open your eyes - squirming, you wiggle beneath Bill’s hold. His eyes meet your for a second, and there’s something wonderfully devilish and indignant in his gaze; he’s held you like this before, bringing you to the brink so many times you’ve forgotten your own name. 

When you find your voice, it is high pitched and breathless. But your request is pure, and your ardent intention breaks through the squeaky cadence. “Come here.” 

It’s a simple demand, and Bill is never one to deny you. Bill releases your hips, and pulls back, kissing your thighs gently. His kisses aren’t wanton, they’re sweet - tender expressions of love. You reach your arms out to him lazily, lacking the energy to pull him to you.

Bill presses a final kiss to your pelvic bone, before climbing back onto the bed - he’s gentle as he slides onto the mattress beside you, pulling you across his chest. You curl into his side, eager for the sensation of your skin against his. He kisses you sweetly, holding your chin like an anchor. You kiss him back eagerly, satisfied but never depleted of desire for him in any way. When a need for air and exhaustion finds you both, you pull back and rest your head against his chest. Sliding your leg across his, you’re aware of how hard he is. But Bill’s eyes are closed, a look of content across his face - he looks like he’s seconds away from falling asleep. 

He knows you’re studying him, and answers your gaze with a wry smile, his eyes still closed. “I love you.” 

You pause, the instinct to return the phrase disrupted by a lingering question. Your hand trails down his stomach, pausing to touch each tattoo, before resting at the base of his stomach. 

“I love you too, Bill.” 

One eye opens, squinting at you. Bill’s chest is rising at an accelerated pace, his peace once more disrupted. 

“I thought you wanted to go to sleep.” He begins, opening both eyes now. His gaze alternates between your hand, tenderly stroking his skin, and your eyes. 

“Sleep can wait.” 

[shivygifs]

HARRIS DICKINSON as BILL FARRAH in A MURDER AT THE END OF THE WORLD (2023-) | S01 E02 "THE SILVER DOE"

[tenebraewrites]

ribs / bill farrah x reader

  I’d like to preface this by saying I love Darby and Bill beyond words -- but I wanted to start off with a one-shot/drabble  which my brain only saw through Bill x Reader. My unrealistic desire for Darby and Bill is to write about them spending the rest of their days solving crimes and living on the road. 

Anyway, for the sake of clarity, this is Bill x Reader, off on a road trip -- short musings and some tenderness in a motel room -- mildly nsfw!! <33 if anyone enjoys this i’ll probably flesh this out into an actual fic

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 Bill’s hand never wavers from its place atop your thigh - no matter the sharp turn he has to take, no matter the winding road he’s forced to slowly navigate. It rests upon your thigh, his fingers brushing beneath the hem of your skirt. Like all things with Bill, intimacy is an act of true tenderness; the circles he traces upon your skin send a flush down your neck, but they are foremost a simple, constant reminder of his affection.   

“We’ll be there in about ten.” Bill’s voice gently breaks through the quiet reverie of your thoughts. He accompanies this announcement with a gentle squeeze of your thigh, the corners of his lips twitching at the sigh of contentment that you can’t contain. 

Scoffing, you feign annoyance. “Shut up, Bill.” You shift in your seat, Bill’s hand dropping from your thigh. Rolling the window down a sliver, you let a small, tender stream blow across your skin. His hand returns, slowly inching across your thigh to make you laugh -- it resumes its natural place, and you fall back into quiet harmony. 

   He’s watching the road, and you’re watching him -- you’re counting his freckles again, thinking he’s gained three new ones. The radio offers the greatest source of sound in the car; Bill’s a focused driver, and the road makes you feel wonderfully melancholy. It isn’t sadness -- but your thoughts stir, faced with great expanses and endless roads. Bill’s presence is grounding, but it too, makes you reflective; you ponder your life before him, afraid to conceptualise one without him now. Bill told you once, late at night, curled into his side on a fractured hotel mattress, that he loves your moody tendencies . The parts of you that have deterred past lovers only endear you to him.

Your parents struggle to understand why you’ve become so wholly devoted to Bill - he is not the son in law they had dreamed of. His tattoos, dry ruminations on capitalism, his mullet; your parents can’t move past these things. You love them, still; it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Bill’s all you need. He’s a best friend, a companion, a lover, a partner in crime -- it took you a long time to realize that’s what the love of your life should be. 

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   The motel you two are staying in would surely rank amongst the dredges of the hospitality business - but you’ve hardly noticed the flickering hallway lights, or how the water only runs ice cold. 

Bill’s lips are on yours, gently seeking you again and again; his kisses are soft, coaxing, pleading. Sitting on his lap, his chest is firmly pressed against yours -- his arms hold you to him tightly, as if an inch of space between you two would be a chief insult. His hands are beneath your sundress, canvassing the expanse of your back like its newfound territory; he treats your body like a wondrous delight every time you two make love. Your body is forced to alternate between the burning need you have for him, and the sweet heaven of this moment -- the endless kisses are the finest precursor to what is to come. When you’re laying across the bed, your limbs splayed as Bill works you with his mouth, this moment now will have played its part. 

Reflexively you brush against him, needing friction to relieve the burning need your thoughts have unleashed. Bill senses this (he knows, he always knows), a hand moving to untie your dress - the fabric gathers at the top of your chest, because you’re too inraptured with kissing to brush it aside. Your hands are cupping his jaw, tracing lines across his fine symmetry - your fingers find the tattoos upon his shoulders, tracing the ink you could identify in your sleep. 

Pulling away from him, you move forward to kiss his cheeks; you press your lips to the small tattoo lying there, pepper love bites against the soft skin beneath the curve of his jaw. Bill tenses beneath you, his grip upon you becoming desperate; his fingers press into your skin, as he drags you across his lap in a languid motion. 

Emboldened, you cease your ministrations; placing your lips to his ear, so that your breath will flush his skin, you tease him. “I feel your heart racing.” 

“Shut up.” You can feel his skin flushing, your cheek pressed against his. Shifting so that your hands can cup his face, you’re given a clear view of Bill’s warm cheeks -- he’s smiling at you, so wholly uninhibited and happy. 

“Yeah?” Your voice is tender, caressing the back of his neck.

“Yes.” Bill is succinct, his affirmation quickly accompanied by his lips finding yours once more; what was once a slow, aimless pace, has been quickened. His hands move to cup your breasts, his fingers brushing against your nipples; you moan, an aching feeling building in your core. 

It is always like this with Bill. It’ll never matter how many times you’ve had sex - it’ll never matter how many times he’s made you cum on a motel mattress. He’ll always worship you like it's the very first time.