hush, blush, crush [ bill x reader ]
summary: billy draws (name)’s picture
a/n: this is written for @superwolfiestar ‘s “Beauty and the Beast Halloween prompt challenge”! this is day 11 and prompt scary story. YA I KNOW, I WAS SUPPOSED TO POST IT YESTERDAY BUT I HAD NO TIME OK. also! sortha this request from anon:
hi! can you please do a bill x reader where the reader is bill’s girlfriend/best friend who has a crush on him and she comes across his sketch book and the pictures he drew of beverly? and there’s just a lot of angst and jealousy and maybe ending with some fluff? :)
The forest oozes with dazing scents. Summer. The night’s sky is littered with bright stars with golden threads around them, and the moon hangs just above the tree tops, almost as if it’s watching over your notorious group of friends. A series of tents stand in a strange circle around a log fire that radiates warmth and nearly blinding light. The Losers Club sits on found logs, huddled together with marshmallows melting on the tips of their held sticks, with blankets over their shoulders. Your hair drips with chilly water sending a shudder down your spine. The wind rustles wet clothes hung on wires and branches.
“-And…and…it’s…” Richie is the one speaking in a hushed, raspy voice. Next to him Eddie looks anxious, grasping his inhaler fiercely and waiting for the story to end. All eight of you took turns in telling scary stories by the camp fire. Naturally, Richie’s is the longest and the most interesting one - the kid is quite a good storyteller, and if he was only half as annoying as he is now, you’d probably have a crush on him instead. A curious whisper rounds the crowd – who is it?, you all wonder – leaning in closer to the fire to hear Richie better, “It’s…it’s….EDDIE’S MOM!”
“Dude! What the hell is wrong with you?” Eddie bellows, inhaling deeply. You refrain from rolling your eyes as the rest of the group replies in weak snorts and an occasional snicker. Figures it was something to do with Eddie’s mom, why else would Richie Trashmouth Tozier be interested in flapping his mouth if it wasn’t to somehow insult or ridicule? You shake your head, and Beverly sends you a cheeky smile, nudging your shoulder. You glance at her. Wordless, she bites her lip and motions to the boy sitting next to you. You frown at her, but refrain from uttering a single word.
Speaking of crushes, yours is just a few inches away, leaning close to the fire and watching carefully when for his marshmallow is done cooking. William “Bill” Denbrough sits in a respectable distance – he had, by accident, sat too close and hurriedly apologized and moved to give you some personal space. Not that you could complain, he had been beside you (thanks to the strategic placing of Ben and Beverly) all day. You couldn’t ask for more than that, even if you did feel a tad of disappointment when he had scooted closer to Mike.
Little by little the gang trickles into their tents. Beverly stays for a while, mostly waiting up for you to be done eating, but you simply shoo her away. The camp fire grows smaller; the silhouettes of you and Bill shine clear to whoever peeks out their tents. Beverly gives a knowing smile before wishing the both of you goodnight. Finally, for the first time in a long while, you and Bill are left alone.
The crackling of the fire lulls your heavy eyes and you feel the first notes of sleep calls you. But you stay alert. Your heart hammers in an unruly pace once you glance at him; his childish face appears happier in the dark, the bags under his eyes aren’t that deep and a spark of genuine joy reflects in the depths of his irises. You blush, or perhaps it’s simply the hot flame that tickles your cheeks. You look down at your knees: a couple of bruises dot the surface of your skin, no doubt you had rammed into something by accident, though you can’t quite remember. A corner of a dark blue book catches your eye. With a curious brow raised you ask, “Hey, what’s that?”
“O-Oh…” Bill knows exactly what you’re talking about, and a bit unruly he swoops the sketchpad from the dry ground. He holds it, unsure of what to do next, “I-I-I-It’s my sketchb-b-book. Y-Y-Y-You c-can look, i-if you w-want t-t-to, t-that is.” He sounds nervous, more nervous than usual and his stutter is worse. With a soft smile you nod, hoping to ease him. He blinks rapidly as he places it on your lap. A chill creeps up your spine and you shiver. Bill licks his lower lip, “A-A-A-A-A” it takes almost thirty A’s for him to finally say “-are you c-co-cold, (N-Name)?” The wool blanket covering your shoulders has grown damp over the course of the day, but you simply shrug, not wanting to bother him. So he takes action on his own.
He avoids your gaze, opting to stare into the fire as if trying to engrave its mesmerizing dance into his mind. He takes his blanket and throws it over your shoulders, scooting close to you so you’d both share it equally. The proximity is a bit alarming; you fear your heart may pop out, but most of all you fear that he can hear the drumming from this close up. You gulp. Daze seeps into you, into your very bones and warms from within. It’s nice. After a moment you get used to this feeling, the feeling that the whole universe is at your fingertips and planets collide at the simple touch. Bill waits patiently for you to open the first page, and with a new wave of energy, you pry it open and—
Your heart shatters into a million brilliant pieces, like glass it spews all over the sky and becomes stars. Beverly. Beverly’s face drawn in a pretty red color; she looks just as beautiful as she does in real life. Of course he would draw her, why wouldn’t he? They kissed in third grade, you can’t fake such passion! A spike of jealousy pools in your stomach and the idea of simply throwing his sketchbook straight into the fire is tempting. But you refrain. You dive deep into sadness – there is no hope for you, is there? – just like you dived deep into the quarry this morning. Your throat ties in knots and shakily you breathe out, “Beautiful…” You murmur, a somber note in your voice but whether Bill can tell you have no clue.
He looks at you, examines the curl of your lashes, the waves your wet hair makes, the way orange and yellow colors play on your face and says, “Not as beautiful as you, (Name).” It’s a whisper, one you almost fail to catch but you do. You gulp hard, a spark of hope lighting up like a small flame that gradually grows larger as you tilt your head to look at him; your eyes meet in the dark, you note sparks of embers dance in his gaze as he catches each and every detail of your face. Grasshoppers play their silent tune somewhere behind you. Magnetic. The touch is magnetic, his touch on your wrist as it slowly glides into your palm and your fingers intertwine. “W-W-W-Would you l-like me t-to draw you, too?”
“N-Now?” You ask flustered. He gives a curt nod. You almost want to say ‘No’ because you don’t want to part, but the thought of having him sketch you grows more appealing by the moment. So you agree. He grins sheepishly and excuses himself to get some pencils from his tent. Your side grows cold much too soon as you wait for him to return. Is this real? You wonder. And will this exist even after the night fades into dawn and all of your friends awake? These questions are pressing and difficult, much too difficult for someone as young as you.
Bill emerges from the tent with a goofy smile and tip-toes back to you, sitting just as close as he did before leaving, taking his sketchpad and opening a blank page he grabs a red pencil and looks at you, “Oh, uhm, what should I do?”
“S-S-Smile.” The reaction is automatic to his request – the biggest, dorkiest grin blooms on your lips in a show of pure happiness. Bill stares for a long while, a small smile of his own pulling on the corner of his lip.
“You’re not drawing.”
He hurriedly gets to work. His hand glides through the paper, shapes slowly start forming; he glances up at you every two to three seconds to make sure each detail is created with impeccable precision. The night goes in silence, but neither of you mind. The real world fades into the back of your mind and for the time being only you and Bill exist in the warm glow of the campfire. But the sweet dream ends much too soon, and when he finally looks up one last time, you inhale sharply and the grin that had dimmed over the course of an hour comes back in full swing. Bill scribbles something on the top of the picture; thinking he’s done drawing you lean in and rest your head on his shoulder to get a better look.
There lies your portrait, a bit cartoonish, but it’s still you and surprising accurate, too. Like Beverly’s, but it would be obvious to anyone that he had put much more work into yours. On the top left corner there are two words scribbled, which is your name.
“I-I-I-I wi-will k-keep it, if-if you d-d-d-doo-don’t mind, (Name).” Bill says, “I-I can d-d-d-d-raw you another o-one n-next t-t-t-t-t-t-tim-me.”
Bill nods, “M-M-Maybe th-then there c-c-c-could b-be just t-the tw-two of us.”
The best way to describe this feeling is to name it as a firework, powerful and ultraviolet, “O…okay. Just the two of us, Billy.”
“J-Just the two o-of us, (N-Nickn-name).”
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