Bill Skarsgård • Roman Godfrey Imagines

You should be

Angst/fluff

"You're really going to start this?" Your voice is cracking with annoyance, your fingers rubbing your temples as you sit with your knees to your chest on the leather couch in your living room, your boyfriend in the kitchen making something unbeknownst to you. "Why do you say it like that? Like what I feel isn't important? All I'm saying is that maybe you could take some time off so we can spend time together."

You practically scoff, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit in disbelief. You work nearly seven days a week, despite Bill pressing on and on for you to let him take care of you. You want to be independent, not having to rely on a man-or anyone, to take care of you. You won't admit to him that you secretly want to take a break from work though, your ignorance is already too far ignited.

"You are telling me to take time off of work? When you're gone every month? What I do is actual work Bill, I don't sit there and look pretty in front of a screen." As soon as the words leave your mouth, your heart drops to your stomach, regret creating a bitter tastes in your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut in a visible wince. No no no, I didn't mean that.

You hear whatever spoon he has in hand drop to the floor, anger evident in the way you hear his large footsteps stomp to the bedroom behind you. He pauses, voice barely audible as if he's on the verge of responding-but instead, he shrinks back, continuing his trek to the room until you hear the door slam viciously, your body jumping in a moment of surprise as you let out a frustrated sigh, leaning your forehead against your palm.

You know you fucked up, you feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in your bones. You hate this feeling, knowing that you've said something so hurtful to the person you love most. It makes you feel sick and uneasy.

You don't even want to look at yourself right now, considering that you've been the only one who has held Bill while he nearly breaks down from how hard he's been on himself for whatever new project he's working on, or sat there and watched him pull his hair out from frustration because he wants his lines and each move he makes to be perfect.

You have been the one there with him through his most major films, seeing the pressure he has weighing on his shoulders and the burdens he places on himself that the audience outside of your lives is completely oblivious to. This fact, is why you hate yourself, knowing that those words that passed your lips must have been infuriating and utterly painful to hear from his y/n. The only one who understands how hard what he does actually is.

And you had the nerve to belittle him about it.

With this thought, you get up, sighing with sorrow as you see the stove is still on. You trot over and flick it off, looking down at the pot of whatever it was he was cooking-that admittedly, smells amazing. You feel your heart ache even further as you realize he was cooking your favorite food, the sauce already done and the noodles barely al dente.

You almost want to cry as your feet slowly move towards the room, your eyes not even wanting to look into his. This is probably the most nervous you've ever been to look at him since your first date, funny how different the circumstances are.

Your hand nervously clamps around the cold silver doorknob, twisting it hesitantly as you push the door open, eyes shy to what sight might be inside. Your heart drops again as you see him, broad back facing you, shoulders slumped and elbows on his knees as he looks out the window in front of him. He's on your side of the bed, right at the edge, and he doesn't make a sound; even though he feels your presence.

You let the door close softly, the black area rug in the center of your room, soft against your bare feet as you meekly pad over to him. You pause before climbing on the bed, a sorrowful pout on your lips as your knees meet his lower back, spreading so you can place them on either side of him as your hands hesitate to rest on his broad, tense shoulders.

He visibly winces, making you feel even more awful, stomach feeling queasy. "I'm sorry." These words still don't make him less stiff, his anger ridden gaze still set in front of him. Your hands then slowly make their way around him, smoothing against the fabric covering his firm chest as your cheek comes to rest at the nape of his neck. He feels warm, sturdy, and safe. You can't explain the sinking feeling you have in your chest knowing you must have really hurt him.

The scent of his shampoo, cologne, and aftershave almost lulls you into a familiar and nostalgic daydream, but you're quickly snapped from it as he speaks, voice resonating through his body and vibrating against your ear drum. "You should be." It's been silent for so long, you nearly furrow your eyebrows in confusion at his statement, but you're quick to swallow hard and shrink on yourself as you realize he's responding to your apology.

"I know baby, I know. I'm so sorry. I never should have said that, I didn't mean it. Not one bit. I know how hard your job is, I'm so..." you slump against his large figure against, fisting at his shirt and hugging him so close you hope he can feel the rapid beating of your heart against his shoulder blades. You just want to hold him, until both of you are one, until every breath he takes is one you take as well.

A sigh of relief fills your lungs as you feel one of his large hands being placed on top of your own that are on his rising and falling chest. He squeezes yours with tenderness, head turning to the side just a bit so he can speak to you. "I know you are, I know." He closes his eyes as you apologetically press a kiss to the sensitive area below his ear, before shifting to the side so you can take his face in your palms and press a kiss to his lips.

You'll never not love this feeling, the plushness of his mouth, the feeling of his skin against yours. He kisses you back with a hand moving to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer against him. Your hand rests on his firm thigh, one leg slung over his. This feels right. It feels like unity.

"I love you." You mutter it softly against his mouth so quietly, if it weren't for how familiar he is with the movement of your lips when you say it; he might have missed it completely. He presses his forehead against yours, noses touching and mouths grazing against each other. "I love you too. Always. We will figure this out." He strokes your cheek with his thumb, softly and gently as if you're the most fragile thing he's ever held.

There are no more words to exchange after that. Just exhales, kisses, skin on skin.

You know he's right. You'll both figure it out. Love always has a sneaky way of doing things you'd never expect. After all, isn't that why you two are in each other's arms in the first place?

I had a bad urge to turn this into smut but I was like NO YOU HAVE TO MAKE AT LEAST ONE PURE IMAGINE

and I'm glad I did cause :(

I love

And I also love you all and I hope you're all doing swell

💜-xx