Billy time. Black Christmas was one of the first classic horror movies I watched and I really enjoyed Billy's ramblings and was surprised to hear... that kind of stuff from a movie made in the 70s. Even for nowadays that sort of talk and the noises aren't a common thing (at least not for me), so it was really interesting just letting myself run with his and the reader's dialogue.
Synopsis: Black Christmas (1974) Billy Lenz x Reader
Reader is a member of the sorority with fairly severe echolalia. After finally getting a chance to hear the Moaner the other girls discover she's the perfect person to take his calls with her penchant for mimicry and noise.
This post and my blog are not for minors! 18+ ONLY, all others will be blocked.
Contains explicit sexual talk and a mention of violence by the end. Reader is female but no defining traits are described. Both reader and Billy have echolalia in this interpretation, though not explicitly referenced by name.
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-Continued beneath cut-
You and Claude are the only ones who don't mind your noises. Claude is only a cat but you like him and want him to like you so you take his opinion to heart more often than not. The other girls in the house don't care for when you repeat things and hate when you're doing anything around them while making idle chatter that really is only to hear yourself talk. Making noises in class is also a no go. Any professor on campus- even the more laid back ones- would have your head if the other students didn't get to you first if you dared to make the quiet sounds. So your room at the sorority is your sanctuary and the walk to the house is your path to salvation.
You know you're strange. Your parents didn't dare have you tested for fear of what the doctors would tell them but they know as well as you that the truth is you're abnormal. With enough coaxing you can blend in, though, and that is your eternal key to freedom.
Your adaptability was once a hindering aspect of your personality. You went to school for the first time and saw other children playing together, running up to one another and doing activities with ease of companionship. So you tried to do the same. You chose a target- someone your age and not too sticky looking- and began pulling them toward the playground, confused when they protested that they didn't know you and ran crying for the teacher when you pulled them harder and insisted they play. You'd missed the crucial detail that the children you watched knew each other before the point of your observation. They'd set up a groundwork of shared experiences and playtime that made them capable of approaching and striking up a round of play without any forethought needed.
So over the years you've honed the craft of imitation. When you really try you can blend with just about any group. It's tiring and you can never feel fully satisfied with the connections you're making through the falsified persona you put forth but the sting of rejection is always worse than the bitterness of lies so you continue to do it.
Alone, though, there is no need to hide the baser instincts. Alone, you can mutter aimlessly to yourself and make soft popping noise with your lips, sucking in and releasing in a rapid fashion that fills your brain with happy bubbles like the overactive carbonation of a shaken bottle of root beer. Your steps are not measured but still even- it always takes you exactly 20 minutes to walk from your Tuesday class back to the house, not including the small pause at the corner where you have to wait for the crosswalk to turn before you can continue. Winter break finished last week but winter itself does not run on the same schedule. Despite the large chunks of salt coating the sidewalk and crunching beneath your shoes you watch the ground intently to check for any change in texture. You won't be caught by surprise if a patch of ice should have escaped the melting capabilities of the road salt. Your intensity makes the restrained sneeze behind you all the more startling and your head whips around to see the source of the noise.
He's tall and fairly thin, loose shock of brown curls stark against pale ivory skin but cheeks reddened in the cold. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of a dark tan corduroy car coat he has layered tightly over an evergreen turtleneck. He sneezes again as he approaches behind you, long stride letting him gain ground with ease. Ch Ch Ch Ch- the sound of his sneeze echoes in your head and you want to mimic it but past experience has proved mimicking the noises of others in front of them is never a good idea so you only return your gaze to the ground and continue walking.
You know you're not supposed to do so but the walk to the house is meant to be your time so after a few steps you resume your popping, soft and hoping he says nothing about it. You expect something from him, honestly. Possibly 'Can you shut the hell up I've got such a hangover'- Ah, no, that's Barb's usual admonishing tone. But the words are not so important as the overarching message behind them: you're annoying. You suppose he can't hear your soft sounds so well over the crunch of your tandem footsteps on the salt and sidewalk. You reach the crosswalk and stop dutifully, slowing the pace of your sound as you stare at the red hand that commands your stillness. The man behind you steps in line beside you, watching the sign silently.
In truth you could ignore the sign and cross. The road is never very busy, most especially at this time of day, and even if it were it hardly warrants the extent of the wait between light changes. But you won't. You adamantly refuse. You pop at a measured pace of once a second like a childish metronome, knowing the man beside you must hear you now but determined not to let the fact stop you. After eight counts you hear the faltering beat of him joining the rhythm, catching on to the pace of it quickly after a poor start. Your first instinct is to assume he's making fun of you but looking out the corner of your eye his face is blank- not a trace of mockery to him or a trace of much of anything, really. You change the tone of your pops and the rhythm quickly, stopping to listen as he copies the pattern without hesitation. Startled, he realizes the change and meets your eye- a stark green-hazel that's pretty despite the way the unexpected eye contact makes your brain wrinkle. His eyes are wide enough to see the entirety of his iris and you note that he's the first you've ever seen with eyes that can get so wide. His entire body seems to tense at once and he turns on his heel, marching quickly across the other crosswalk. You watch as he continues on the same path and realize he's completely changed his route rather than just opted to walk on the other side of the street. You don't believe you've done anything so wrong but clearly this was not an acceptable course of action.
You spend the rest of the walk to the sorority popping thoughtfully, mulling over the interaction and trying to decipher where you went so wrong that he'd completely derail his intended path. You open the door and prepare to call that you're back but the other girls are crowded in the hall and shush you before you can begin to make a sound, flapping their hands to silence you and huddling closer to Barb as she holds the phone by her head with an exhausted expression. You shut the door quietly and pad to the stairs, hopping up a couple steps and pressing yourself against the contours of them to smush your face against the balusters and listen as they do.
"- stick my tongue in your prrrrettypiggycunt!" Ah. The girls have told you of him but you've never gotten the chance to hear the fabled Moaner for yourself. His voice is different than you anticipated from such a name. Quite manic and not at all smooth as his title would imply- more choppy and strained in tone. He makes a sound mimicking the squeals of pigs and you giggle involuntarily.
"Cunt!" You blurt in the same tone and intensity as him, giggling again before you cut yourself off at the horrified looks some of the girls give you. The sounds on the other end of the line cease and silence reigns for a long moment before the dial tone takes over.
Barb nods, seeming impressed as she returns the phone to its place on the hook. "Well, that shut him up."
"It's not funny!" Clare protests. "She shouldn't do things like that, it'll encourage him."
"Nothing we've ever done has gotten him off the line like that before," Jess points out. "Maybe she's onto something."
"I don't see how she can laugh," one of the other girls says, seeming horrified at the idea of following the Moaner's lead. "It makes me sick hearing him talk like that."
"I think he sounds funny," you offer lamely. It's a half truth- you admire the range he possesses and you'd admit to anyone who asked that you're jealous that he can mimic the sound of a pig so easily. Animals more complex than house pets are troublesome to you but your ability to mimic accents is nigh unmatchable by anyone but professional cartoon voice actors. It's a point of pride for you.
"Well, I think it's great!" Barb cuts in. "Now she can take the calls. You pass them off to me every time and I'm sick of hearing his shit. Let's see how well he takes to our own personal Moaner." She grins at you, not completely kindly, and you flush at the name. At the very least it's the nicest thing she's ever said in regards to you. It's progress.
He calls again later. Jess beckons you down from your room when she answers the call and you look down the stairs to see her holding the receiver to her shoulder to muffle her voice and the Moaner's. “He's called again. I know Barb foisted this onto you but would you mind? Maybe he'll stop calling if you talk to him.”
“... I'll try,” you say quietly, sitting down on the stairs and taking the phone from her.
Obscene slurping noises come from the other end of the line. “LLLet me lick it.” He's gritting it out, strained and creepy. Something like Gollum from the movies. “Lemme lick iiiit.” He laughs, tone shifting to what you assume is his standard and you find it's a fairly pleasing and attractive tenor.
You giggle back, chattering out “Lemmelemmelemmelemmelemme” and ending in another manic giggle. Jess gives you a look but, seeing that you're not bothered by the task, moves on and returns to the living room.
There's a long pause on the Moaner's end but he continues haltingly. “Stick my tongue in iiit. Pretty pink cunt. Pretty piggy cuuuunt,” he laughs, high and fast. “Piggy cunt. Piggy piggy.”
“Piggy,” you repeat quietly, testing the feel of the word in your mouth. “Pre-tty. Pretty pretty. Pretty piggy cunt.” You giggle, feeling the appeal of the phrase. “T-Try this. Ch ch ch ch ch ch ch ch.” Each one is short and punctuated, forced from between your teeth and partially through your noise to mimic the man from earlier. You feel a weight lift from within you at the relief of being able to release the sound.
“...Ch!” You're surprised but giddy to hear him make the noise, perfectly copying your rendition. “Ch ch ch ch ch ch ch ch ch-”
“Ch ch ch ch ch ch ch.” You dissolve into giggles, stomping your heels on the stairs. “You're fun!” The dial tone begins almost immediately. In some way you're disappointed but you head back up to your room.
He doesn't call again in the next week. You're walking back from your Tuesday class when you see the man from last week. You walk faster, popping with each step until you're right behind him. He glances back and tucks himself into his turtleneck when he faces forward. You pop louder, making sure you're audible, like a call to him. He side eyes the street and you expect he'll make another run for it. Instead you see his mouth move and hear the pop. You grin and try not to smile too hard to pop, keeping a pace he can match easily. You both stop at the crosswalk and you shiver in excitement. “No one else likes my noises,” you blurt. “Except the cat. Do you make noises a lot, too?”
You hear the scrape of his boots on the asphalt and look over in time to see him booking it through the other crosswalk. He makes sounds like you but from the looks of it he's not interested in interacting with you past the shared affection for the noise. You suppose you can be satisfied with the bare minimum of interaction. Maybe he's only shy. You can be overeager to compensate for your own difficulties making friends.
The Moaner calls late that night. Barb shouts for you to come down, waking the entire house with her drunken yells to get you to take the phone. She practically shoves it into your hands, muttering something about going to bed and making her way up the stairs. You press the phone to your ear and wait, hearing nothing but dead air. “...Hello?”
“Ch!” You jump at the sudden noise and your lips tighten in irritation.
“Ch!” you spit back, filling the noise with admonishment.
He laughs, the noise devolving into slurping and sucking noises before he coughs and breathes hard. He puts a lot of effort into his theatrics. You almost admire that before remembering you're not supposed to think well of him. He's been harassing the other girls and you're only on with him because of their hopes you can get him to stop calling. His pace slowed for certain but clearly your disinterest in playing along the way he seems to enjoy hasn't completely dissuaded him. Still, you like his noises. He makes such a variety and you're inclined to mimic so much of it.
Your eyes flick around the area to see Barb was the last one awake and you're alone on the first floor. Hesitantly you swirl your tongue around your mouth noisily, testing your range of sound and trying a variety of sucking noises as your mouth dries out with anxiety. You laugh nervously, drawing your attempt to an unsatisfying close.
His laugh is shrill. “Loud loud- noisy piggy. Piggy piggy piggy ssssuck my juicy cock, piggy. Slut piggy pretty piiiiIIIiink cunt.” He draws his words out and shifts between tones and inflections mid word and soon devolves into the pig squealing.
After listening to him squeal for a few seconds you grow frustrated that you can't mimic the noise and cut in with your own loud “Mreow!”, cutting him off and making a low growl deep in your throat. He responds with his own meow, much more realistic than yours and trilling in the same way that Claude does when he wants something. You meow back and forth, his more realistic but yours filled with more humanized inflection. You don't know how long this goes on, the small noises you make with a call and response pattern. Sometimes you meow in a specific way and wait for him to copy the sound before switching to something more conversational. Soon the sounds you make are small and soft, his still full of energy but it's not enough to keep you alert. When you fail to respond to him he speaks and that does manage to startle you awake if only temporarily.
“Piggyyyy,” he whines out, voice pitchy and breathing inconsistent. “Piggy pussyyyy pussy pussy pussy cat here kitty kitty kitty kitty.”
You smile. “Kit kit kittyyyy.”
“Pussy cat pretty pink pussy lllick it lick it suck my ccccCOCK!” The receiver on his end slams down and you drop the phone in shock.You replace the phone gently and crawl your way to bed. You sleep deeply, mind content from the release of so much noise trapped within you.
He calls more in the next week, and the girls continue to pass the calls off to you whenever they have the chance. He's changed his script a bit; he yowls like a cat in heat and purrs deep and crackling through the phone lines and summons here kitty kitty until you're the one to take the phone. You make fewer and fewer proper words with each call, conversing through your favorite snippets that get caught on your brain like flypaper until all anyone who hears the conversations can discern is babble and gibberish. Finally on Sunday Barb yanks the phone from your hands in the middle of you singing through a commercial jingle that's haunted you all day and slams the phone down.
"H-hey, I was-"
"You were encouraging him! He's been calling more since you started talking to him! No more- you're going to get us kicked out with the way you're running up the phone bill. I'm sick of hearing those damn noises you two make, anyway- you're both so disgusting."
The words punch through you like a shotgun blast, leaving the back of your head wide open and raw in the breeze. Tears sting your eyes. "I was just trying to help!" you shout at her, stomping up the stairs and hiding away in your room for the rest of the afternoon.
The next day the phone rings almost incessantly but you refuse to so much as enter the hall let alone make a move to go downstairs. By midday you hear arguing outside your door.
"Just let her try!" Jess pleads. "He's calling every five minutes now-"
"He's only calling so much because of her!" Barb snaps. "Don't you touch that doorknob- she egged him on and now you're letting him run the place just because of a few calls."
"He's getting more obscene. Have you heard the way he shouts into the phone?" Jess sounds disgusted with it and you can imagine the Moaners' noises vividly at her words. "He won't stay on with any of us. He wants her."
"Well, he can't have her. We should just ignore him, he'll get sick of calling eventually. He has to." But he doesn't, and as the sun goes down and the ringing becomes too much to bear it's a unanimous decision when they unplug the phones for the night.
You're in a poor mood on Tuesday. You didn't eat for the whole of Monday, too scared to leave your room between the possibility of Barb saying anything more to you and the probability of anyone else trying to get you on the phone despite Barb's wishes. You can't bring yourself to make any noise on the way back from class, scuffing your shoes on the grit and salt of the sidewalk. You know you shouldn't feel any sort of companionship with the Moaner. The other girls are so stressed from the things he'll say; you've felt their relief when they were giving you the brunt of the calls and know that despite your own ease with him they haven't been having a good time. In some way you feel guilty for your own enjoyment and the fact that you miss taking the calls already. It's unfair to them to want to talk to him so you suppose Barb is right and you should just ignore him until he stops calling altogether.
A pop sounds from behind you and you stiffen. Given his coldness you'd be surprised if it's the same man and that he's initiating the sound so you decide to ignore it under the assumption you're only imagining things. But the pop is audible once again, louder and closer this time. There's a snaking bit of excitement trying to crawl through your mind but it can't hold up against the sourness of your mood, and again you ignore it.
"Ch!" You stop walking altogether. It's not the sound of his sneeze- it's the sound of your imitation. "Ch ch ch ch ch!" He walks closer with each iteration until he's directly beside you and you can feel his stare boring into you. You swallow hard and look up. His eyes are as wide as they were the day you met him but his gaze is unsteady- twitchy- and you can see movement in his jacket pockets from his hands fidgeting from within.
You're uncertain but you make the leap and blurt out, fast and rough- "Cunt!". On the otherwise abandoned walkway the word seems to echo and your cheeks heat painfully against the cold.
He grins, smiling wider than you think any person should be able to and suddenly he's tackling you into the snowbank on the inside of the sidewalk. You land soft, braced against a heavy fall by his arms. He babbles, hugging onto you and smushing your cheek into his as he nuzzles and laughs high and fast. You can't help but giggle, yourself- the pure sound of him untainted by the warping of telephone lines is even better in person. “Piggy,” he coos affectionately. “P-Pretty kitty.” He drops the strained teasing creep voice halfway through the second statement, shifting to the lower and natural tone and growing quieter. Like he's shy, of all things.
“So you're him? They call you the Moaner at the house.” He giggles and you grin. “They're mad at me, you know. You called so much yesterday.”
He growls, “Ssssssluts wouldn't put kitty on the phone. Kit kit kittyyyyy pretty pussycat prettyyyyy. Billy wanted his pussy.”
Billy. It must be his name. “Y... You can talk to me now. In person. You wouldn't have to call anymore.”
"Wanna call kitty. Billy likes kitty kitty. Talks like Billy sounds like Billy pretty pretty kitty pretty pussy."
"Th-they won't let me answer the phone-"
He rolls over you, looking you in the eye with a tight expression. "I'll kill them," he says in his normal voice. No alteration, no tone, no laughter.
Yet you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you half from nerves and half from the way the word sticks in your brain. "Kill," you repeat. "Kill kill kill kill ki~ll."
He smiles slowly. "I'll kill them all for kitty kitty." He moves in closer, his breath meeting yours in a crystalline cloud against the cold. "Kill those cunt piggies for kitty." His lips crash into yours and you squeak into the kiss, unprepared to meet his fervor and mess. He kisses like he's trying to eat you alive and your brain hums into overdrive to keep up- surprised to find you want to keep up. You're a mess of tongues and spit and his long limbs tangling frantically with yours and shoving deft fingers beneath your clothes. You squeal and push his hands away, shifting in the snowbank and yanking yourself away from the kiss.
"Not here!" you laugh, breathing erratically trying to catch a decent lungful of air. "Naughty Billy."
He grins, twining his fingers with yours. "Naughty kitty. Billy's kitty. Pre-tty kit-ty." He giggles and you join, pulling each other so close anyone passing by would think you're trying to crawl beneath the others' skin.
You don't think he's serious about killing your sisters. Pretty sure, anyway. You might have to talk to him about it. Later. Maybe.
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Would love to requests headcanons for all the characters that you feel like writing for proposing to their SO.
Oh this will be fun. And long.
Hi how ya doin this is editing squash and this took me way too long￼ because a tropical storm kind of ruined my day. I apologize for the delay and hopefully this won’t happen again.￼￼
So like. Where would he even get a ring?
Turns out all he needs is a couple quarters and access to one of those little toy machines that have rings
He’s very nervous about it. He just gets down on one knee and holds out the ring and his hands are shaking and he just hopes you get the message.
He’s trying. You just move things along yourself so you don’t have to see him flounder like this anymore.
He’s a regular Romeo, he’s gonna go all out.
A nice dinner, he’s got a beautiful ring picked out, he’s got a whole speech leading up to the big question
The thing that makes a proposal special is how you go about it, as far as he’s concerned. So why not? Go big or go home. Nothing less than the best for his beloved. Bee-loved? Too soon?
Another very devoted lover, but with less words and more candlelight.
Despite the fact that he knows you love him he’s still a bit nervous. For all he knows, you could still shun him.
A good ring isn’t cheap, but if it’s for you, he’ll do anything.
Much more down-to-earth than Vincent or Daniel. Not a fan of public proposals, so it’s somewhere private, like at home or in a secluded area outside.
He’s worried if this is gonna jinx it. He’s seen so much bloodshed and so many people around him have lost their lives. What if you’re next? For all he knows disaster could strike on the big day.
He’s held onto the ring for quite some time now. He knew for years you were the one, he’s just constantly getting stopped by the fear of losing you. But sometimes you’ve gotta run before you can walk, and he’s just gonna go for it.
Leon S. Kennedy
There’s like zero planning on his part. It’s a spur of the moment kind of thing, after you’ve both just gotten to safety and he’s hurt. When you start trying to find a temporary fix, the question just slips out. “If we make it out of this… will you marry me?”
You’re not sure if he’s thinking straight, it could just be the adrenaline, so you save the question for when you’re not in mortal peril.
After it’s all said and done, you visit him in the hospital. He’s calm and in a better headspace now, and he stands by his proposal. He doesn’t have a ring, but you’ll burn that bridge when you come to it.
Kind of a less messy combination of Chris and Leon. Another down-to-earth type of person, but will pop the question after the danger has completely passed and everyone can properly lick their wounds.
During the first week of recovery she goes out and finds a ring. If you’re still laid up she gets a little romantic with it, brings or makes you your favorite food and cuddles up with you for the evening.
It’s not too flashy and it’s all intimate, just the way she likes it. If you’re up for getting frisky immediately after, she’s down, as long as you won’t hurt yourself. Otherwise she’s happy to just fall asleep with you and your pretty new engagement ring.
Daniel Robitaille but taller. All the romance and chivalry she can possibly put into it. And she’s still taller than you on one knee.
You know she’s either bought a ring from the Duke or commissioned Heisenberg to make you one. Just because everything in his factory looks like the love child of grunge and steampunk doesn’t mean that’s all he knows.
So does this mean Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela are going to refer to you as their parent? Yes.
She doesn’t want Angie to do the talking, but she just gets so nervous there’s no way she could possibly ASK you!
She does find a solution: she writes you a letter and gives it to you in person. It takes up an entire page of that good stationery paper and the whole thing’s got a red wax seal with the family crest on the envelope. The content of the letter itself is very heartfelt and by the time you’ve finished reading it she’s already down on one knee and presenting the ring
It’s like she’s confessing to a crush from her school but she put so much thought into it holy shit you gotta frame this.
You know he’s got something sweet and romantic planned. Maybe a movie night at home with dinner or a walk through town.
Honestly he’s more emotional than you are because he never thought any of this would be happening.
Since he’s so familiar with old romance movies he draws inspiration from some of his favorites, quoting lines that best fit and playing up the theatricality of it a little. It’s honestly the most charming you’ve ever seen him.
He makes the ring. He spends weeks looking at your ring finger to try to gauge how to size it, trying to be covert about it. But oops! He actually really likes your hands and now he has a hand kink
Carries it around in his pocket all the time, never know when today might be the day. It happens spontaneously, like he’s not even aware of what he’s doing until he’s down on one knee and holding your hand in his.
He’s more nervous than he’s ever been, stuttering and getting tongue-tied, but he’s more than made his point.
You know how people put rings in a little dessert or a box made to look like something else or something fun like that? He’s doing that. Maybe also get you flowers or a teddy bear or something along with it.
Don’t get him wrong it’s not like he bought donuts and just gave you a donut bag with a ring and nothing else no there’s donuts in there too. Because you probably also wanted donuts.￼
He gives it to you and he can hardly wait, he’s so excited to see your reaction.
This ring was carved out of the bones of a deer whose carcass was found laying on the side of the road. That’s romantic, right?
It’s the thought that counts. And you can tell by the look on his face he loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you.
But let’s make sure there are proper rings for the big day, okay, honey?￼
Chop Top Sawyer
Bought a ring from a thrift store because it was so shiny and pretty. The ring itself is one of those commemorative sports rings but he was in magpie mode when he got it and you know what we’re doing this. ￼
When he finally pops the question it takes him a good five minutes to get to the point, that’s just how he is and the only way he can properly express his love for you is just giving you the full unabridged Snyder cut.
The sports engagement ring becomes a hilarious inside joke between the two of you even after you pick out actual wedding rings.
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Billy Lenz x GN!Reader
AN: delivering on my promise for New Content, some billy for the soul (yes im still thinking about that ask complimenting how i write billy), so have a real quick lil fluffy fic =D
summary: the linear passage of time, and how it is changing billy’s appearance.
Billy has never been to a barber.
His parents cut his hair, then he cut his hair, and then he just stopped cutting it altogether. It got quite long- the wild, unkempt nature of it has always allured you.
But, as you come up behind him for an unprompted hug (as you frequently do), you notice just how long it’s gotten.
“Hair?” Billy asks, looking over his shoulder at you.
When you first encountered Billy, his hair came just below his jaw. Now, it’s tickling the tops of his shoulders. You take the thick brunette mass of hair in your hands and play with it. Billy likes that.
“What about Billy’s hair?” He asks again, softer this time. “’S there a dust- dust bunny stuck in it?”
You laugh. “No. It’s long.”
Billy turns around and leans against the counter, enjoying your fussing with his hair. “Baby wants to cutcut it?” He asks, testing his hair with his own hand. It is a little long, isn’t it? “You have sci- scissors?”
“No, no, I want.. I like it,” you tell him quickly. “It’s really pretty.”
“Pretty,” Billy repeats. “Billy’s pretty.”
“You know you’re pretty,” you scoff, mostly joking. Billy’s face twists into a grin, and he nods. He knows.
Billy buries his face into your hair, inhaling its smell and kissing your hairline eagerly. “Baby’s pretty too,” he murmurs. “Pretty, pretty, pretty. Billy will keep his hair- hair long for (Y/N).”
Billy does like how his hair looks now, though he won’t admit it to you- he loves when you brush it for him. Longer hair, most likely, means more brushing. Plus, reflecting on your situation right now (leaning against the counter, embracing, hands exploring one another’s hair, giggling and talking), Billy can’t find anything wrong with letting his hair grow out, at least for a bit.
You kiss his jaw, and pull away. Billy’s hair is more gorgeous the longer you look at it. “You’ve got to let me play with this all day sometime,” you murmur.
Billy has the instinct to make a nasty joke, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods. “Do it now, do it nownow. Billy’s not busy,” he pleads with that same devilish grin, those elegant hands snaking around your waist and trying to keep you in his arms.
You pretend to try and get away, but you’ve certainly got nowhere to be. Billy, who is also aware of this, just holds you tighter. “Magic word?” You ask, playful.
Billy grabs your wrist and holds it tightly, just the way you like. “Now.”
Who are you to deny him, when he used the magic word?
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