Bill Skarsgård • Roman Godfrey Imagines

Magic-Bill x interracial reader

The sun peaks through your balconies glass doors, turning your living space into a hue of yellow and orange. Your lover sits opposite of you at the kitchen island, both of you seated on swiveling bar stools, a book in each of your hands.

You both do this when you're not busy, it's a hobby you've had since you met; exchanging your favorite books and telling each other your favorite parts after your hungry eyes have read every word.

You're so engrossed in the pre historic novel opened between your fingers, chin in your palm; that you don't even realize his blazing eyes are on you. Your legs are crossed at the ankles, dangling from your seat as your toes stray inches away from the cold hard wood floor.

He admires you in your quiet, concentrated state, a soft, almost drunk smile curved at the corner of his plump lips. He feels his heart swell, something he's never experienced to this extent until he met you. The sunlight turns your big brown eyes a shade of sparkling gold, like rings of fire that hold ever single star that he's ever been captivated by.

His eyes search everything, your skin, the richest and most beautiful shade of brown, your hair; sitting atop your head confined by an elastic band, stray pieces of kinky rings framing your features that he swears he melts over even though he's seen them a thousand times.

You look like an angel. His angel, his y/n, dressed in one of his old baseball tees and soft lounging shorts that you wear so often, he can decipher them just by touch.

Touch.

He loves how they feel against your skin, the way they cling to your figure so deliciously. He can almost feel the softness of your skin against his fingertips as he closes his eyes for a split second, skin prickling the more detail his mind goes into. He has to stop himself, clearing his throat and sitting upright.

You are drawn out of your day dream like thoughts about the book you're reading as you hear him. Your eyes dart up, eyebrows raising as you look over at his large figure, elbows on the table as he pretends to act as if nothing has happened. His arms look heart achingly good in the shirt he's wearing, the thin beige material grasping at his every muscle and tendon.

"Say something?" You playfully prod, setting your book down and giving him squinty eyes. He can't break his gaze away from you, even if he tried, his irises connecting with yours in an instant. A smile grown on both of your faces, and he admires the way your dark lashes hit your cheeks as you grin, love sickeningly so.

"Me? I didn't say anything, was just admiring. Can't I admire my girlfriend?" A faux offended expressions feigns its way across his fierce features, making you giggle as you twirl your feet. "I guess." You tease with a roll of your eyes, a bright smile revealing its way from behind your lips. Your lips. Plump, soft, tasting of one of the (many) strawberry chapsticks you keep with you.

He's about to say something else, probably inappropriate; no, definitely inappropriate, but soft feet padding into the room stops him mid sentence. You look over your shoulder at the sudden feeling of a small hand tugging your shirt, heart feeling warm at the sight of the small child below.

Her lips are set down, in a confused pout of sorts. Her eyes wide and wondrous. What's she thinking in that little head of hers? "Hi baby, what's wrong?" You gently stroke her soft cheek, admiring how plush and free of blemish it is. Why can't all of us have baby skin? Unfair. Your thoughts revert back to your daughter as she speaks.

"I have a question." She fiddles with her fingers nervously, head quirking to the side as you look down at her. "Ok, you can ask us. Tell us what you're all pouty for." You give her a playful smile, lightening her spirits a bit as she reaches up with grabby hands, silently asking you to hold her.