He smiled, God, he was everything to me. The short, happy expression made my stomach flip and my heart flutter.
“It looks better on you, honestly,” He said, cocking his head to the side like a puppy. I wanted to die.
I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped my throat as I covered my face with the oversized sleeves of his sweater. Even through the thick polyester, I could feel how warm my cheeks were.
“Thanks, I guess,” I said with a flat tone, hiding how much his voice made my knees grow weak.
He shrugged, looking away. No, please. Keep your eyes on me!
I need to tell him. I need to tell him how madly in love I was. How happy his mere presence makes me. How I waited for him at the bus stop everyday even though he was always late. How much I loved him.
I opened my mouth.
“Hey, so I want-“ I stopped as I watched his gaze shift from me to behind me. His green eyes lit up like stars, the corners of his mouth turning up into a mesmerized smile.
That’s what I looked like when I saw him. My stomach dropped, my heart skipping a beat.
I turned around, to what he was looking at.
Her.
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Being personally victimized by my solo playthrough of Baldur’s Gate 3. I’ve done all the exact same things but Astarion just refuses to try and drink from me or flirt back with me.
Yet, on my playthrough with @ayeforscotland, I’m constantly anemic and bloodless from Astarion crawling into my camp bed every night and calling me a freak.
Like I’m not complaining about that part. I’ve got zero issues making horny bad decisions live on stream, but I’d also like to make them on my own time, too, thank you very much.
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wHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY won’t you loveee meeeeeeeee
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cw: you two have a son together, mention of being married, old man Bakugou
older retired pro hero Bakugou, who you find hunched over his desk one night. it’s late and the day was long and your son was whinier than he usually is. you’d think the old man would be in bed right now, but alas—he’s not beside you.
instead, as you round the corner to get a full look at him, he’s wearing his reading glasses, adorning an old ratty tank, his arms still big but softer than the years from before. he has a book open in front of him, desk scattered with pictures you can’t see from your angle, scissors, stickers, glue sticks.
“What are you getting up to at this hour, old man?” You ask softly, smiling when Bakugou doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. his tongue is sticking out in the corner as he cuts a squiggly line on a picture, posing it beside another on a blank piece of paper.
“Therapist said I should get into crafting,” he grunts, finally looking over at you from over his glasses. “Do things with my hands, feel busy, get my mind off’a shit.”
you pad over to where he sits, the overhead lamp on his desk focused on the big baby blue book with white pages. peeking over his shoulder, you rest your head on top of his, chin nestled in the still unruly blond and silver locks, overseeing his work.
and honestly? it almost makes you wanna cry. it’s a scrapbook, the page open to pictures of your wedding day, how pretty you looked, how big he smiled at you. you can see other scattered pictures on his desk—when you got a promotion at work, when he was number one for seven months in a row, a positive pregnancy test, the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, two little teeth coming in, baby being held in dads big ole arms that will always protect him.
“After this page, I gotta do the honeymoon.” Bakugou speaks gruffly, setting down a picture to wipe a hand down his face. “And then life accomplishment shit, the baby, his first steps.” He sounds so tired, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding down to smush your face against his own.
“You always have tomorrow. Come to bed.” You say against his cheek, squeezing him when you feel the rejection start up in his belly. But he deflates, pulling his glasses off, reaching around to pull you in his lap. He looks so grumpy, with his frown lines and crows feet, and yet so handsome with his small smile and soft eyes.
“I’ll print more pictures tomorrow. And maybe go by the store to get some more stickers, too.” He tells you in between kisses, his words soft, his hands rough through your pajamas. You hum against his mouth, holding his nape, afraid to ever let him go.
“You do that. Now let’s go to bed.” You whisper, standing up and pulling him with you. He closes the scrapbook for now, and you glimpse at the cover, heart melting at the picture of you two holding up your son, both kissing his cheeks. The picture is captioned with “Our Life” and you don’t think you’ve ever been more grateful to have met him.
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