Warning: some nsfw
Bill wakes once again from his recurring dream, feeling strangely warm and cold at the same time. He catches his breath, trying to hold on to every second of it. When he's finally able to cool down, he walks over to his desk.
He picks up a pen and neatly writes something down on a piece of stationary. When he finishes, Bill folds it in half, hides it under his sketchbooks, and crawls back into bed.
Three years later
"Bill, are you with me?"
"Hm?" the redhead snaps out of his reverie, picking up his pencil. "Sorry..."
"Come on, Bill. This is our final test of our entire high school career. I'd really like to do well on it," Y/n insists. "Where have you been all evening?"
Bill knows exactly where he's been. All the things that he'd like to do to the girl are swimming around in his mind, and they aren't particularly pure. It doesn't help that Y/n is wearing short lounge shorts and a floppy, thin sweater. He can see right through that threadbare sweater... not that he's looking.
"J-j-just... ruh-ready to graduate, th-that's all," he chuckles nervously.
Y/n smiles. "Aren't we all? God, I'm so excited to just get out of this school. But in order to do that, we need to pass our pre-calc final."
"Right. St-studying."
Math is neither of their strong suits, so they decided to study/have a therapy session to give each other moral support before their final exam. It obviously isn't going too well.
"So what's the sine of the triangle in number forty-six?" Y/n asks, face buried in the textbook.
"Um..." he scans the page for it. "Tw-twenty five o-o-over el-eleven?"
"That's not what I got," she laughs gently.
"And wh-when was the l-l-last time you p-passed a test?"
"It was more recent than when you did."
Bill hesitates. "Fair."
"We should probably work on graphing the functions. That's what we were really struggling with."
"Okay. C-c-can I at least take a p-p-piss first?"
Y/n smirks. "I suppose."
Bill leaves his room, and Y/n turns to the graphing chapter. I want to use colored pencils for the graphs, she thinks. I'm sure Bill has a few in this art studio of a desk.
So she starts rummaging through the desk, moving around sketches and writing drafts.
However, Y/n doesn't find colored pencils because something else catches her eye. A piece of paper, neatly folded with someone's name written on it in Bill's cursive handwriting.
It's her name.
She extricates it from under a couple sketchbooks, and hastily unfolds it. There is only one sentence on the page, but it gives Y/n whiplash. Heart pounding out of her chest, she reads it again.
In my dreams I kiss your c*nt, your sweet, wet c*nt.
Her body goes slack. Butterflies are in her stomach and down there. Her whole face goes beet red.
"H-h-hey, I'm ready to st-start graphing," Bill says as he comes back into the room.
Y/n doesn't answer.
"Y-Y/n?"
He glances at what she's clutching and freezes.
"I-I-I-I....."
