Bill prefers a more hands-on approach when it comes to gaming.
cw: set between late 90s/early 2000s, fem!reader, r is not a #gamergirl for plot purposes, ooc to the max bc bill isn’t allowed within 50 feet of the opposite sex :P
Nailed to the wooden door, painted in bold, red letters, is a giant sign that reads ‘NO GIRLS ALLOWED’.
“You break a single thing in here, and I’ll call the cops, I swear to god.”
“Great, anything else?"
“Touch my comics, and you’re dead.”
The threat rolls off your shoulders as quickly as he said it.
It’s been like this ever since you walked through the front door.
After getting a call, at 2 a.m. might you add, Bill had been real adamant about you coming over; something about his usual visitors being 'too busy doing other stupid bullshit' and wanting to show off his mad skills at a new game he'd purchased.
Had you not been on the verge of falling back asleep, you would've called him on his shit and made him admit that he really just wanted to see you.
Regardless, and in hopes of putting an end to the semi-rantish call, you said yes.
Bill, having finally gone through his extensive rule list and coming close to having you sign a contract, unlocks the wooden door and pushes it open; the worn-out stairs squeak loudly as the two of you make your descent into the dark room.
As if it were second nature, he felt around in the air for a moment before yanking on a dangling cord. The only source of light reveals his magnum opus.
The basement was exactly as you pictured it.
Hanging on almost every wall that didn't have a giant bookshelf pushed in front of it, several shelves were bearing multiple miniature knick-knacks and large posters featuring what you assumed was every single sci-fi movie to have ever existed.
Towards one of the corners of the room was a beat-up table covered in a fictional map, surrounded by over a dozen mini figurines; a battle having clearly taken place the night before.
But what stuck out to you the most was that it was noticeably clean.
Y'know, for a guy.
Aside from the clutter of personal belongings that bordered on a novice level of hoarding, there was not a single speck of dust.
No crumpled papers, bits of plastic, fast food wrappers, or anything. You could be mistaken, but you’re almost positive he vacuumed, too; Hell, even the tiny waste basket shoved next to the couch was empty.
Was this all because you were coming over? Did he want to make a good impression?
The thought alone sends your guts aflutter with some bizarre version of flattery.
As your gaze flits all around the room, you feel a heat radiating from your host’s laser-focused gaze aimed directly at your face.
“What?”
“You look… different.”
Okay, so what if you actually put some effort into your appearance, doused yourself in your favorite perfume, and put on your nicest pair of jeans?
It’s not like you wanted to look somewhat decent for the guy you were maybe-kinda-sorta seeing or anything; even if said guy couldn’t give any less of a damn about how you looked.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” You shrug nonchalantly, hoping he wouldn’t see through your thinly-veiled ruse, “I always look like this. Are you just now paying attention?”
God only knows the amount of ridicule the little weasel’d dogpile you with if he found out you got all ‘prettified’ just for him.
Plus, his ego would over-inflate to unprecedented levels and take out all mankind like a modern-day version of the meteor that ended the reign of dinosaurs.
Luckily, with one last eye flicker and a low, noncommittal ‘hm’ from the back of his throat, the brief subject is dropped.
Guess you both did some light primping.
He moves further into the room, not before throwing back a witty 'You should take a picture; it'll last longer.'.
“I can’t help it; it’s not every day my pookie bear lets me into his holy sanctum to play with his little toys.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, earning a disturbed sneer in return.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? Pookie bear?” you feign innocence.
“Yes, that. Only pussywhipped normies use that cutesie crap and I refuse to subject myself to such standards.”
“Whatever you say, snookums.”
“I so loathe you.” Bill let out one last aggravating sigh before busying himself with the gaming system he’d mentioned over the phone.
As he connects a couple of wires to his TV, you awkwardly hang around for something more to do, settling on picking at a hang nail just to have something to busy your hands with.
The solution comes when you make eye contact with a nearby shelf, a couple of out-of-box action figures practically beckoning you over.
“Ooh! What if we each grabbed one and made them kiss and junk? Wouldn’t that be romantic?”
You snag a figure that had a very Baywatch David Hasselhoff-y vibe with puffier hair and a gun strapped to his hip and deepen your voice, holding it up close to Bill, “Listen to the chick, punk. She’s got the right idea.”
A certain lasso-handling heroine is also thrown into the mix as you adjust your tone to be more smooth and confident.
“I agree, Please help me declare my undying love for…” You pause for a moment in an attempt to recall the gunslinger’s name, “that guy.”
Bill scoffs 'unamusingly' at your childish display and (lightly) swats the hand holding the intergalactic smuggler away from his face, “Like Han Solo would ever be caught dead making out with a woman who wears her panties out in public to fight crime.”
“Pssh, He’d be lucky if Wonder Woman even glanced in his general direction.”
He pauses, “How do you know who Wonder Woman is?”
“Can’t tell you; it’ll take the mystery out of our relationship.” (You thumbed through a stack of comics when he wasn’t looking.) “Are you going to show me how to play or what?”
As if on cue, the TV’s noisy static blaring through the speakers smoothens out to a more upbeat and inviting tune, making way to display the psychedelic home screen of one Mario Kart 64.
You let out a delighted ‘oooo!’ before plopping down next to your kinda-sorta boyfriend on his circular carpet as he fiddles around with two controllers, ensuring that both are fully functional and cooperating.
Bill messes around with the game select screen, making sure to pick two players before moving on to the character select screen, the more exciting of the two.
There are eight options for you to choose from, ranging from a human plumber to... you want to say a punk dragon with a mohawk?
Before you can make a decision, you're given some unwarranted advice: "You can be peach, obviously."
“Are you saying that because I’m dainty and pretty like her?”
“Uh, no. She’s pink and the only girl.”
As appealing as that sounds, another character had already caught your eye. “Forget that. I want to be the green dino thingy.”
“Yoshi? Out of the question, I already chose him.”
“No way, I want him!”
“No, fuck off! I picked him first!”
“BILL, PLEASEEE!”
“Get off of me!”
———
After the two of you take the time to have a well-rounded and productive discussion ("STOP THROWING CUSIONS AT ME!"), you come to an agreement.
“Whatever, I wanted to be Toad anyway.” He eventually concedes.
A triumphant giggle bubbles past your lips, earning a heatless scowl from Bill, as the game finally, finally begins.
You watch as a quick runthrough of the track displays itself: a hilly, rainbow-y mess set deep in outer space; cartoon logics, who were you to argue.
As the countdown begins and the competitors rev up their engines, a previously forgotten problem makes its way to the forefront of your mind. “Wait- Bill- I don’t know the controls!”
“Can’t help you, gotta win.”
And the race is on!
As he moves freely around the map and plays out maneuvers only capable of being done by someone who already knew every trick in the game, all you managed to do was move forward a couple feet, change the camera angles, and then crash straight into a wall, where you remained until the end of the race as Bill, as expected, effortlessly places first.
To add insult to injury, right before crossing the finish line, one of the last remaining CPUs nails you with a projectile. "Oh, come on!"
He lets out a victorious and annoyingly mocking cackle as the rankings are given, placing you at dead last, right underneath a literal ape.
You jut your bottom lip out in disdain, “Does unfairly beating me make you feel good about yourself, Dickey?”
“It really does. Thanks for asking.”
"Jerk."
"It's not my fault you're so bad at this."
“I am trying my-“ a sudden warmth descends upon you as a pair of flannel-covered arms wrap themselves atop of your own, “-best.”
He’s initiating contact! holy shit, holy shit, don't make any sudden moves or he’ll get spooked. Oh my god!
Bill ‘hand-holding is for douchebags’ Dickey was willingly pulling a slightly less messy version of the pottery scene from Ghost; all in the name of showing you how to play a game meant for kids.
During all this overthinking, he's also pointing out each multi-colored button and its designated purpose.
So it's possible he doesn't consciously realize the very intimate hold he has on your right now.
Oh well, you'll take what you can get.
Is that aftershave you're smelling? Since when has he ever worn that?
“-button to perform slides on turns so you don’t lose any speed, but it’s a move for more advanced players, such as myself, and I doubt you’d be able to do it correctly.”
Wait, how long has he been talking for?
Any sound tumbling out of his mouth sounds exactly like it’s coming from one of the offscreen adults in Peanuts.
"You’re holding it wrong.”
You blink. “W-what other way is there? I don’t have three hands.”
“The controller's only meant to be held by the middle and right part.”
You nearly swallow your tongue as Bill maneuvers your hands, which were getting embarrassingly clammier by the second, into the correct position.
He then chooses another track, one that was covered in cows, and the countdown begins once again.
Except this time, once the little guy on the cloud makes it to one, instead of focusing on winning and jetting off to remain ahead of the other racers, his cart remains at a standstill next to yours. “Okay, press A to go.”
That should be easy enough to find!
One measly little A shouldn’t be an issue.
You stare down at the controller, and a beat of awkward silence hangs thickly in the air.
“Uh...”
Unseen by you, Bill rolls his eyes. “Are you new to the English language? You’re hopeless.”
He presses your thumb down, and by some odd miracle, Yoshi is finally moving forward, this time without hitting any barriers.
Like the world's most annoying teacher, he helps remind you again and again what button serves what purpose, all while keeping his hold on you.
While it initially flustered you, you started to get used to the added heat and focused on actually winning.
When he feels that you've finally got a grasp on the controls, he gives you full-reign of the controller and drops his arms; although, Bill doesn't seem to go too far, simply choosing to hang them loosely around your waist.
You don't think much of it, too preoccupied dodging a few cows whose life mission was to be run over.
"Stupid asshole," you murmur angrily under your breathe as a green plumber bumps into your kart and nearly sends you veering off course.
The race gets even more intense when you finally manage to catch up and riding the red plumber's ass for first.
"Throw it already, he's right fucking there!" Bill encourages, his grip tightening from excitement.
Your arm jerks to the right as if the movement will help Yoshi avoid a banana placed by the unfair CPU racer. "I'm trying, I'm trying!"
"Then throw the damn shell!"
"Stop backseat driving!"
With the checkered finish line in sight, you make the last ditch effort to twart your opponent and toss the green shell.
You both watch with bated breath as it hits the white fences along the sides like the world's most annoying pinball, inching closer and closer to its intended target before it finally makes a-
"Direct hit!"
At the absolute last second, Mario is sent toppling over like the giant tool he is, making a clear path for Yoshi, the ambitious little dinosaur, to take first place.
"I did it!" The wide grin on your face nearly splits your face in two as Yoshi lets out his victory... cheer?
You don't dwell too much on it.
Maneuvering yourself around and then tossing your arms around his neck, you relish in the small, dare you say, proud expression displayed on your boyfriend's face, "Did you see that?"
This time, you can see when he rolls his eyes, "Duh, I was right here."
"How does it feel to be dating someone with better gaming skills than you?"
"Please, I could've played better than that in my sleep."
"Is that a bet I hear, Mr. Dickey?" You twirl a lock of his auburn hair in between your fingers.
You're not sure exactly when it clicks, but the sudden realization of the extremely close proximity he's placed himself in brings an abrupt end to the light teasing between you two.
Bill's entire face turns a brilliantly bright cherry red as he scrambles back over to his side of the floor, accidently knocking you on your ass and stammering the whole way, “T-tell anyone about this and I-I’ll just say you were c-coming onto me.”
Initially, you thought that you accidentally overstepped your boundaries and caused him some grief, knowing how weird he is with physical contact, all of which is thrown out the window when he keeps glancing over at you.
You snicker, "Don't worry, I liked it too."
He sucks his teeth in what you took as dismissal, "whatever."
The tiny smile he's fighting so hard to stamp down says otherwise.
He quietly grabs his controller and returns to the map selection screen, scrolling through the submenus until he finally settles on one.
You take the silent hint and reach for yours, keeping your distance and refocusing on the screen.
As the two of you settle back in, Bill not-so-subtly scooches himself closer to you, tensing slightly when his leg makes contact.
Not wanting to ruin the moment, you just slump further into his side, leaning your head on his shoulder.
It takes every fiber in your body and then some to not squeal in pure ecstasy when he returns the small gesture by squishing his head on top of yours.
"YEAHHH, EAT SHIT!”
“WHEN DID YOU GET A RED SHELL?!”
extra:
"Hey, freak. Have you seen my sewing kit? I got a couple grudges to- what the hell?”
Jane watches in complete shock as the whirlwind formerly known as her brother frantically shoves pile after pile of trash into a large bag.
There’s a couple more just like it in terms of size piled up in the corner; right beside them is a discarded feather duster and a tangled-up vacuum cleaner.
"I didn't touch your shit," Bill calls over his shoulder, "can't you see I'm busy?"
“Since when do you clean?”
Her only answer is a grumbled 'mind your damn business' as her brother proceeds to dump last night's leftover campaign fuel into the overstuffed garbage bag in his tight grasp.
"Is it for a girl? It's a girl, isn't it?"
The younger Dickey takes a moment to soak in the fact that her brother, the selfish bastard that couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about other people, was actively making an effort to try and impress another human being and allowing them to step foot into his ‘nerd cave’.
You really can’t make this stuff up.
"Y'know,” she drawls after a moment of complete silence, an almost cat-like smirk stretching itself across her pale cheeks, “for a while there, I thought you weren't interested in girls."
“It’s in stock,” a brief look over of the inventory sheet confirms it for you, “Why do you even care if we have it? Didn’t you and the insane dweeb posse watch it like twenty times when it came out?”
“Have you been spying on official club business? That’s a total violation of our privacy!”
“It’s hard not to hear your constant bitching when the only volume you know how to speak in is loud.”
Bill stumbles over his words for a moment, “Hey! You better watch who you’re talking to like that, I know where you live!”
“Of course you fucking do! We live on the same street, smart ass!”
“Stupid bitch!”
“Pizza-faced virgin!”
“Worthless slut!”
“Jokes on you, loser. Even if I were one, I still wouldn’t suck your sorry little dick!”
