#his voice and the line delivery is so good

[velvet4510]

“Charles Xavier did more for mutants than you’ll ever know. My single greatest regret is that he had to die for our dream to live.”

This line has been talked about time and again for good reason, but can we please highlight Sir Ian McKellen’s magnificent delivery of it??

He’s calm and collected for most of it, with seething rage simmering beneath the surface of the first sentence. But the moment he says the word “die,” his voice starts trembling and doesn’t stop until his thought is finished … which so effectively conveys Erik’s feelings at this moment. Erik refuses to let anyone see him openly vulnerable, so he does his best to appear stoic. Yet that little tremble in his voice shows us the truth: this man is Heartbroken. Devastated. Gutted. Bereft of the love of his life, he is now only holding onto his sanity and composure by a thread.

McKellen understands Erik so perfectly, and does so much with just two little sentences. He maintains the Magneto facade yet gives us the briefest glimpse of the true Erik, of that lonely, lost soul on a bleak quest for vengeance who found hope and joy and life again in the eyes and words and touch of a beautiful telepath so long ago … who is now utterly shattered and made lonely and lost once again by the sight and memory of that very telepath disintegrating in front of him.

McKellen managed to pack all that inner agony into those few words, keeping it suppressed yet present.

Bravo to the Legend.

(Also, shoutout to the lighting designers. Erik is walking in shadows in most of the scene, but the moment he starts talking about Charles, he moves into the light of a sunbeam.)

[valentjin]

sorry this is the only thing i can think of when he says this

[amelikos]

Spinel.

[utterdrip]

the way neil is able to change the cadence/tone of astarion’s voice in spawn vs ascended is honestly so fucking compelling and at least HALF the reason why i keep coming back to astarion. like it is very obviously still astarion. both are obviously astarion but they are so fucking different its chilling

[rainc0at]

I LOVE THIS FUCKIJG FILM SO MUCH EVERYTHING ABOUT IT IS PERFECT

[pinchan]

this episode doesn't feel very emotional to me tbh... i really enjoyed geto's gestures in the cult scene though i missed his expressiveness mixing with all that fabric in his design. so fun

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

anyway putting that all aside for a moment major shout out to damon mills voice acting here

[diseasedcube]

Nooooooo a new trailer came out

I Literally Hate Bon's Voice So Much 🙃

[eff-plays]

Ok so I watched the interview with Stephen Rooney, Astarion's writer, and here are some highlights. (I'm an aspiring writer and current game design student who wants to write for games so I'm sorry if some of these insights aren't as interesting to you as they are to me <3)

He calls Astarion his "horrible little vampire boy"

He loves seeing the fandom around Astarion<3

He did write other characters in the game, but mostly NPCs surrounding Astarion or his storyline, so it mostly revolved around Astarion

Astarion is not as connected to other companions/Origins as, for example, Lae'zel and Shadowheart, or Wyll and Karlach are to each other, but he is still reactive to their stories, even if it's just to stand off to the side and laugh when something terrible happens

He had a clear sense of where Astarion's story would start and end, but it got "muddy in the middle", but those are also moments where the best ideas come from

They write from the general idea that every character has one "good" and one "evil" ending, in order to give the player choice. RIP Ascendant apologists :(

According to Stephen, two of the most important aspects of Astarion's character (to keep consistent when bringing him to Idle Champions, at least) is that he enjoys violence, but is also fun about it

"He has a certain appreciation for violence, I guess? A bit of a murdery streak. [...] He's a vampire, he's all about blood, and he's all about, kind of, those darker sides of humanity. [..] But at the same time, he is ... He is really fun, he's really fun to write, he's really fun to have in your party, and it's very important for me that that is also represented."

"He's gonna stab you, but will have a smile on his face as he does it? I mean, I dunno. That's kind of him in a nutshell."

Larian would not have allowed for Astarion to be a typical brooding Dracula type, and there were scenes that were shot down for not being original enough

The main thing about Astarion was trying to get a "sense of fun." It would be easy to write a character that was very unlikable, and they absolutely did not want to do that

Rooney says Astarion is consistently terrible throughout the game and awful in a whole lot of ways, but he also needed to be charming enough that you could tolerate his presence and wanted him around

Rooney also had a lot of input on Astarion's stats (meaning the 10 Charisma is probalby 100% intentional)

He also had input on how certain lines should be delivered, even though the writers didn't directly work with voice actors

The way Astarion moves and poses is "all Neil"

Apparently, Neil Newbon worked on the character for years and Rooney did not speak to him once, though his voice work did influence how Astarion's lines were written and it became a "feedback loop" (Possible context for "ONLY SLIGHTLY, NEIL")

There were no points where a line delivery drastically changed Astarion's writing; rather it was a constant, slow evolution

However, there was one very spoilery moment where Neil gave such emotion to some "basic" lines that it fundamentally changed the scene (WHAT IS IT OMG)

It's difficult to balance approval, as you don't want to straight up write a monster. Every character needs to have some humanity in them. So if it comes to leaving the party, it needed to be the result of something central to said character. They wanted to be mindful of situations that would cause actual rifts between characters. (I assume this is why most generic disapprovals/approvals are +/- 1 or 2, while character-related ones give +/-5 or more)

However, as they don't write straight up horrible people/monsters, it doesn't come up as often as one might think.

The interviewer makes a point about how characters like Astarion and Lae'zel are good examples of how to play "evil" characters, as they are maybe not the best people but are still eager and willing to stick around the other party members

They worked to make sure the characters would work as a group, no matter the configuration of the group. The characters needed to be on the same path, even if they don't always agree or walk that path the same way.

Stephen Rooney is very proud of the "climactic" scene of Astarion's story. (AS HE SHOULD BE.) He even had to step away from the computer and have an emotional moment. Me too, man.

He's also "extremely pleased" that there's a point where you can punch Astarion in the face. "Actually, that one might be my favorite part" A MAN OF THE PEOPLE!!

Stephen Rooney's tip on what specific thing you should try out with Astarion: When he's trying to get a "sneaky nibble" at night, you should "probably" let him bite you. Way ahead of you there, sir.

No discussion about Astarion's romance unfortunately, but that's that!

[wyvernest]

back massages

pairing: miguel o'hara x college roommate f!reader

warnings: smut, miguel is a bit cocky, unprotected piv, suggestive massages, dry jumping

summary: you give miguel the proverbial back massage, and he returns the favour

"Ugh, my back-" he groans loudly, entering the cramped dorm room and slamming the creaking door shut in frustration.

"Still?" you reply, absent-mindedly, not looking away from your laptop screen and the from project you're working on for tonight's delivery. "Didn't the trellises at the gym help?"

You hear the cot springs coil under his weight as he drops to the bed on his stomach. "Couldn't even use them."

"Hm?" You're still half focused on your research, briefly catching the last words of his replies.

"The gym was full." He groans, shuffling on the mattress.

He is increasingly frustrated with the lack of attention he's receiving from you. You two have been teasing eachother for a while; enough of a while to get him riled up late at night, and to considerably speed up your heart rate whenever he was around.

But even now, you were afraid of being more obvious than necessary. He seemed so confident and easy to talk to, but sometimes you could only wonder if that's just what he was like with everyone else.

He wasn't. He was only this open to you. This relaxed. At least he wasn't aware of how attractive and intimidating his confidence could be to you.

Your delicate fingers kept tapping on the keyboard, unrelenting. Nearly indifferent.

"Didn't you say you'd finish it this morning?" he groans, slightly muffled by the pillow he rested his head against.

"Yeah." You aren't paying attention. Truthfully, beneath the façade, you can barely understand what you're reading, your eyes mechanically darting across the text in front of you. All you can think about is how much you'd want to straddle him and make out right now. Especially with the way he's groaning from the back pain-

"- I overslept." You explain, scarce and somewhat cold. He sighs deeply, and you feel your heart sink into your stomach. Fuck. You don't even know if being roommates is either a blessing or a curse. How are you even supposed to study with-

"Can't you take a break? Por favor." He speaks, his voice down an octave. You can't take it anymore. You peek at him over your shoulder, pondering.

He's shirtless. Of course. He has to be doing it on purpose at this point.

Your attention drifts over the line of his back that bends just slightly for him to hold his beefy arms under his pillow. His muscles ripple as he shifts to get more comfortable into the greyish bedsheets.

"Give me a back rub." He challenges, squinting his eyes and watching your face drop the second his request is processed in your brain.

"Come on." He chuckles lowly. A few ruffled strands of hair on his face make it look like he had just woken up. You can't resist. "Help me feel better."

Raising from the desk chair and moving to sit on the edge of the bed, you place your hands on his shoulder blades, pushing gently, kneading the tensed muscles there. He sighs deeply once again as he feels your small, warm palms on his broad back.

"Ugh." he groans, relaxing under your touch. "Push harder."

You comply, applying more pressure, digging the heels of your hands into his toned muscles.

Your vision washes over his body, comforted by the fact that he can't see you. His back is so much bigger than your whole body. You feel an unfathomably strong need to lay on him, to feel the heat of his skin invade yours. Or better yet, have him lay on you, feel the whole weight of him, cozy and constant.

"Oh-" He moans, raspy and low when you find another tensed up knot, "-feels so good." You're starting to soak your panties from the sounds he's making.

"You're so good at this." He halfly speaks into his pillow, evidently pleased with the special treatment. "Ah, yeah, right there- oh-"

Insisting on the spot, you start putting your upper body weight into the strokes, not having any more force in your arms. He groans again at the sudden change, only this time it comes out very much like a prolonged moan.

Soon enough your own back starts to hurt from the twisted position you're in, legs dangling on one side of the mattress and your torso turned to him. Ceasing your movements, you bring your hands to your lower back, pushing so you could straighten your spine as a faint ache begins to form.

"Get on the bed." He moves his head to gaze up at you over his shoulder. "Straddle my waist. Better for the both of us.", He advices, as if it's nothing.

Your heart rate picks up as uneasiness shoots through your veins as in a lighting strike. You've never been this close to him before. This physical, this intimate. Heart fluttering at the faint hope of reciprocated feelings and the possibility of something more, you silently accept the suggestion.

Climbing on the bed, you hop on his lower back, gradually and slowly laying your bodyweight on him.

"Is this okay?" You're finally settled, and he groans in an infinitely relieved exhale.

"More than okay." One of his hands slips away from under his pillow to tap on your thigh, nearly making you jump. "Continue, it was so good."

Trying to ignore his hand still resting two millimetres away from your leg, you resume the massage, searching for more knots over his broad back.

"That's it, that's it, oh fuck- ugh" His voice sultry and raspier, he flexes his back muscles involuntarily the second you finally reach the spot.

You have to use all that's left of your self control not to accidentally clench your cunt on his lower back. But you can't help it. Wearing a skirt wasn't the best idea today.

The way he's slightly squirming underneath you as you massage his huge shoulders, the way your clothed clit rubs against his skin with the motions have you shivering lightly.

"Yeah- oh, fuck" Your hands are behind his neck, undoing all the aches and rigidity from hours of hunching over his desk, of not taking long coveted breaks.

"I'm done, my arms are starting to hurt." You announce, partially true. You also couldn't stand his noises anymore, all the obscene groans and rough moans, fearing he might start feeling now wet you've actually gotten in the meantime.

In a surge of confidence, you lean forward, more or less intentionally letting your breasts squeeze flush against his back, and you kiss his cheek, soft and tender.

He's surprised and flustered for a flashing second, before letting a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Let me give you one too, cariño."

You shiver at the pet name, hearing him talk this way to you for the first time.

How could you possibly say no?

You lay on the bed where he had been, feeling the clean sheets warm and infused with his musk.

The mattress dips, springs creaking slightly as he adjusts his weight, finally straddling your upper thighs. Your breathing quickens in shock, not having expected him to take the same position as you did. You feel his weight on you, grounding you.

His broad hands start at your shoulders, questionably innocent at first. But just as you start to think that there isn't more to the way he's sat behind your ass, to the way he's touching you, his palms drift away from the usual motions of the massage he is supposed to give you.

Expert, cursory fingers pretend to knead down, to your waist, gripping hard.

You start feeling your pulse in your neck.

One of his thighs flexes on your side as he slightly adjusts, lifting himself a mere inch above you and settling back down. Only this time, you can feel his erection through his sweats, snugly sat between the globes of your ass.

Leaning forward, his grip on your waist remains strong as he slightly grinds his cock on you from behind, his hands mimicking his rhythm as if things aren't already obvious. It's still a massage, it's just not his main goal.

"Mm- Miguel-" you attempt to protest, only it comes out as a moan laced with anticipating pleasure.

A broad, warm hand slowly and unabashedly moves from your waist up to your shoulder, only for a mere second kneading the tensed muscles before drifting down. His fingers ever so slightly slip underneath you as he palms your right breast, not stopping his hips from rubbing his dick against you.

He's slow and careful, as if still hoping you hadn't noticed or aren't bothered to ask him to get off, even through your mewls and his moaned name.

“You're so..” He speaks quietly, for himself, “soft, and fragile-” He leans forward, much like you did, but instead he kisses your neck, down your spine. “I wanna-”

He leaves the voiced desire unfinished as he picks your torso up to his chest, his arms encompassing you, flipping you around.

Now with your body trapped in his embrace, thighs between his and hands squished together, he kisses your flushed cheeks with fervour.

“Tell me to stop.” A low whisper below your ear. Watching your face for any trace of doubt, you shake your head, ‘no’.

‘Don’t stop.’

Placing you back down on the mattress, he bunches your skirt up to your middle, moving your panties to the side as his other hand takes his rock hard cock out of his sweats.

You feel the precum coated head flush against your pussy lips, pushing in with a gravel groan.

As soon as he gathers the courage to advance, his length grazes your clit, your hips automatically jerking away, akin to having touched hot coal.

A shiver runs down your spine that makes your cunt flutter, his awaiting cock twitching in enthusiasm. He feels you spasm and grow wetter.

“Ugh, that- you feel so good-”

He’s only taking his time before he can bottom out inside you. With a look over your shoulder, you don’t trust your voice to respond. You nod and clench your pussy around him, aiming to viciously drive him mad.

He suddenly pushes forward, hands forcing you onto him, the contact with his own blazing flesh making your brain melt and eyes roll back into your head. You can almost feel his bulbous tip in your guts, messing with your nerves and sinews.

Quickly adapting to the new conditions your body has given him, he corrects his grip on your waist, hoisting you until your feet lose contact with the bed. Back now arched, ass well-adjusted to meet his height, upper body rested on the plush pillows. He drags out halfway before sinking back in.

His hips slowly rotate against yours, his tense abdomen waving into you

You can’t take it anymore. Your limbs feel like radio-static, heart sending its pulse into your pussy, breathing laboured and synced with his. The broad head flicks a spot deep inside you that curves your spine this time, feet no longer able to find balance away from the stimulation.

A strong forearm curls around your middle with snake-like speed. You settle obediently back into his hold.

Your hips wiggle closer into his, apologetically stuffing yourself full of him. He smirks at the gesture, satisfied.

“Fuck, Miguel-”, you moan for him, giving him exactly what he wanted before he started pounding into you.

A combination of his pelvis slamming into yours and his hands violently dragging you back onto his dick has high-pitched whimpers crawling out of your throat. Your head rings with the sound of the bed squeaking back and forth along with the harsh returns of his cock in between your come-soaked folds.

His firm hands hold you from flinching, fingers digging into your waist while his thumbs press down into your lower back.

It's when he changes his angle that you scream out, all consciousness dissolving into raw, carnal bliss. Ruptured cries and fractions of his name bloom out of your nearly-dry throat.

He feels his heavy cock pulsate as your ass jolts with each slap, your pussy choking his dick in the process.

With a suffocating groan, he releases inside you, his ecstasy drawn-out into fractured grunts blended with heavy breaths.

You sense his warm come spilling inside you. Your own climax sends your head spinning, your loud pulse dropping in your ears.

The thunder subsides through your veins like a candle being put out by the cold.

a/n: sorry for the delay i have a ton of stuff to do for college 💀

[luveline]

hi jade! ☺️☺️ ur one of my favorite writers gosh you feed my heart everyday

im currently going through my usual body-wrecking periods 🥲 ur fics are helping

could you write something for bombshell! x spencer where maybe deeper into their relationship she is open with him about her period and he comes over to take care of her when her body is aching or she feels nauseous. im thinking some hair playing or some tummy rubbing.

i hope your weekend is lovely 🫶

thank you ❤️❤️❤️ fem, 1k

Can I come over? Are you home 

You summon your first smile of the day, reading Spencer’s text. 

Don’t know, you text back, can you handle me? 

Usually not, but that hasn’t stopped me so far. I’ll bring dinner? 

What kind of dinner my love  

Maybe Indian? What do you want? I want tandoori chicken 

Indian food is awesome if that’s what you want, I’m just messing with you 

You can hear his voice in his next text, I know that. So I can come?

You can always come over but I have to warn you, I’m irritable 

What’s wrong??? 

Spencer texts again before you can answer, I’ll come now and we can order delivery, I’ll be right there 

You decide to call him before he can make the wrong conclusions. He answers so quickly you laugh down the line. “Spencer, hi, there’s nothing that wrong.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You don’t have to rush over.” 

“Well, what’s wrong? Did I do something?” 

“Why do you always think that, babe? No, you didn’t do anything. You’re actively making me feel better just talking to me.” 

Spencer pauses briefly. “Really?” 

“Really. I’m on my period, it’s kicking my ass,” you mumble, dropping your face into the soft top of your couch. “It would make me feel so much better if you were here. I want a hug.” 

“I’m coming. I haven’t brushed up on my hug skills for a while–”

“You hugged me yesterday before I went home?” 

“How would you rate that? On a scale of one to ten?” 

“Ten, definitely.” You sigh and stretch out your legs. “No, just, my stomach is hurting and I feel sort of sick from the cramps. I’m a bit… depressed, maybe, so you don’t have to come over if you don’t want to. I might not be good company.” 

“You’re always good company, you loon.” 

“You what?” 

“Sorry, I’m trying to be playful.” 

“I know that, you loon,” you say, grinning. “Okay, you better be putting your shoes on. My patience is running out.” 

“I’m by the door!” he says, giggles woven through each word. You can picture his smile, his unbuttoned coat. “You feel sick, should I still get dinner?” 

“Yes, please. Tandoori chicken for me too, and–”

“I know what you want.” 

“Okay, I’m gonna go shower before you get here and see me all disgusting–”

“Don’t you dare.” 

“Spencer!” you laugh. 

“I’ll run you a bath when I get there. Can you sit down until then?” 

“I can’t believe how you’re speaking to me. You used to blush when I said hi.” 

“Because you never just say hi. And it’s not like anyone else saying hi, it’s you.” 

Spencer lets that kindness sit with you and says goodbye, promising he’ll be there soon with dinner. You hold your sore stomach and wait, flicking through tv channels, craving something warm to eat and a warmer chest to lay your head. Spencer’s hugs are without doubt a ten out of ten experience, he’s weirdly good at them for someone who maybe hasn’t had as many as he deserves. His hands are active as the rest of him stills, rubbing over your shoulders or your chest with care, his hair soft and ticklish on your cheek or his lips right next to your ear. 

You’re dozing when he lets himself in. The rustle of a plastic bag awakens your dormant appetite, and you force yourself to meet him in the hallway. 

He drops the bag like it isn’t forty dollars worth of food and beams at you. “Hi,” he says, fawning at your sloppy pyjamas. “These are cute, they’re way too big for you.” 

You manage to hug him first, your arms around him and face screwed up in his chest. “Hi. My stomach hurts so bad, I missed you.” 

“How bad?” he says, dropping his volume. “Have you ever considered you might have endometriosis?” 

“Spencer, I love you, can you hug me for now and tell me about it later?” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. “Where does it hurt, everywhere?” 

“It’s in my back.” 

Spencer drops his hand lower. “Oh, here?” He rubs your back, and he leans away enough to see you eye to eye. “Let’s have dinner, then at least you’ll have a full stomach.” 

“I don’t know if I can manage it, but I’m starving.” 

“You don’t have to eat everything.” He visibly looks you over, one feature at a time. His eyes get stuck on yours, your lashes, and his lovely mouth tips down. “Were you sleeping?” 

“Got bored waiting for you. I’m not tired,” you promise. 

“It’s okay.” He grasps your back and rubs at it with good pressure, the shard of a cramp held back by his touch. “You okay?” 

You lift your chin, turn your head just a touch to one side, asking and not asking. He smiles in that not so secret pleasure as he gives you a quick peck. It’s quick and chaste and everything you need, better when he encourages your face into his neck to give you a last good rub on the back. “Do you wanna sit down? I’ll make you a plate and we can eat on the couch.” He dots a kiss against the highest point of your cheek. “I got you motrin. And tylenol, too.” 

“I don’t need any painkillers, you’re gonna rub my back.”

Spencer smiles into your cheek. “Mm, I’ll relax your uterus. Rhythmic touches.” 

“That’s one way to say it, sweetheart.” 

“How would you say it?” he asks, cupping the back of your neck tenderly. 

You deflect, not wanting to make fun of him. “I love you.”

He pulls away, grinning, failing to talk. He's smiling so hard. When he goes in for a third round of hugs, you aren’t surprised. 

[a-pastel-edgelord]

Shinsuke Kita is a man who likes what he likes and gives little thought to things he doesn't. He'll go about his daily routine: rise with the sun, eat, morning ablutions, out to the fields until lunch, take a break, then back into the fields until dinner, do chores around the house then a small past time or two until it's time for bed. Unless it's the weekend or a game day, then he goes to Onigiri Miya to catch up with Osamu, Gin, Akagi and Omimi around lunch time.

However, he finds himself going to Onigiri Miya a little earlier on some days with the hopes of catching you while you're on shift. You're a part-timer and university student—but Osamu has been telling him that you have the chops to run the restaurant by yourself. "I know I don't hafta worry about leavin' for an hour or so. S'good feeling, Kita."

It's easier to like someone if a friend vouches for them. Yes, that must be the reason he's fond of you, because Osamu is. He arrives at the restaurant an hour early—an electronic bell chimes through as he enters. It's busy as usual but there's no line.

"Welcome!" You look up from the register and beam. "Kita-san! I'll call the boss over, he's in the back doing inventory."

Before he can protest, you've bounced away. He hears a muffled conversation the opening of a door and a moment later Osamu takes your place with a raised eyebrow. "Yer awfully early, Kita. S'not delivery day is it?"

"Nah, nothin' like that. Just... Had some spare time."

"Spare time huh." Osamu repeats, like he's tasting the words for the first time. "Well, did ya want anythin' ta eat? The usual?"

"Sure, that'll do."

"Uh-huh." Osamu leans back to shout into the kitchen. "Go ahead and make Kita his usual!"

You respond in a sing-song voice. "Already started!"

Shinsuke can't help the grin that hitches onto his features even as Osamu casts a wary but amused eye over him. The two men make eye contact for a few beats before Osamu sighs. "Please don't go scarin' off some of the only good help I've been able ta find."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Yeah-huh."

But nothing else can be said on the subject because you emerge from the back with a tray laden with food. There's even a side of fried tofu—not typically part of his order. You must have seen him looking because you hurriedly explain, "The boss said you like tofu, so I just did some up. I hope that's ok." Osamu rolls his eyes and walks back to the kitchen, catching Kita's eye as he goes.

"S'just fine." Kita takes the tray. "But I'd like to repay ya."

"You don't have to do that! It's my pleasure." You try and reassure.

"Then it'd be my pleasure to make ya dinner some time. Could do it today, after the game if that's ok?"

As you fumble through saying yes, Shinsuke savors his first bite of food. Yeah, he could eat your cooking for the rest of his life he thinks. It would be a nice addition to his routine.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Together and More

Daddy!Benny Cross x Momma!Reader

Summary: Daddy!Benny moments from the birth of his baby to a parenting anxiety episode to a few years down the line with a little toddler.

Notes/Warnings: *Spoiler free* Unofficial Part 3 to Come Back Knockin’ and Come Back Together. I say ‘unofficial’ because it’s more like an epilogue-y time-jump thing and I might go back later and add more fics between the last part and this to bulk up the story (if people are interested. If not I’ll probably just move on to new Benny fics unrelated to this story). Fluffy family cuteness. Girl dad!Benny. Angsty-ish at brief points (if you squint, I suppose). Kissing. Mention of pregnancy. Typos.

Words: 3400

Benny Cross Masterlist

When the nurse escorts him into the delivery room, Benny freezes. Wide blue orbs flick between you and the bundle in your arms, and despite the distance, you can see his hard swallow. You can practically feel his heart thumping, reverberating off the walls, and when his lips part, you’re unsure if it’s from awe or anxiety or a mix of the both. 

When it comes to your husband’s emotions over the birth of his child, it has varied by the day. There’s been a steadiness and consistency to his excitement, thankfully, but he has vacillated between trusting in his ability to be a father and questioning what good he can bring to a kid’s life. This last week in particular was the most chaotic for his ups and downs knowing your due date was around the corner.

“Hi Daddy,” you say, hoping your smile will ease any brewing discomfort in his system. Benny doesn’t move, but his gaze has officially decided to glue to the baby. For the moment, you’ll take that as a win. Had you given birth eight months ago, you’re not sure he would have touched his child with a ten-foot pole, let alone looked at them. “Well, are you going to come see her or what?”

Benny snaps out of the shock gripping his body and he blinks. Swallows again. “It’s a girl?” he asks, a mild tremble in his voice.

With your nod, he takes a deep breath, and from the continuation of your encouraging smile, his limbs regain their functioning. It’s a snails-pace twenty steps, but eventually, he makes it to your side. 

There’s a twinge of guilt in your gut from feeling relieved while he’s tightly wound with tension, but you can’t help it. Benny is unpredictable until the last second. As much as he’s been reliable during your final months of pregnancy, nipping at your mind was the possibility of a second disappearance. But he didn’t run. He’s here. He came to you. He came for her. 

Benny’s knuckles whiten around the railing of your bed as you pull your daughter away from your chest and tilt her forward so he can take in her sleeping face. 

“Hold her,” you say, raising your arms toward him. Benny’s eyes widen. He backs up and you sigh, having expected that response. “Benny.”

“I’ll drop her.”

“Yea, because you’re so weak-muscled,” you tease with a playful roll of your eyes. You cradle your baby against your body so you have a free hand to reach out and grab him by the wrist, guiding him back to the edge of the bed. 

“Hold your arm out,” you instruct. A beat passes but he does as you say, allowing you to nestle her into the curl of his strong arm. “Cup her head with your other hand. Like that. Good. See? You’re perfect.”

He’s holding her like she’s some sort of rare, expensive bike part that took a year of his life to track down, but his shoulders slowly untighten as he starts to rock her back and forth like the natural you suspected he would be. When she opens her doe eyes to stare up at him, Benny’s brow pinches and tears start falling down your cheeks because his eyes have turned glassy and you’ve never before witnessed the sight. It’s unlikely anyone has.

“So?” you ask. “What do you think?”

Benny nods. “You did so good, baby,” he says, glancing up at you with a grin. He’s quick to return his gaze to his daughter. “You made us a beauty.”

You sniffle. “You contributed to that as well.”

“Yea, but she looks like you.”

It’s possible as she ages that she’ll develop a feature of yours here and there, but when you look at your daughter now, all you see is him. His nose, his eyes, his lips. She’s him, and you’d tell him so, but you’re not sure your words would break through the trance the baby has him in. 

—

When you wake, he’s not beside you. The sun is long from rising, and yet there’s no warmth, no lingering scent of his cologne, and when you flip over, the comforter remains smoothly spread out on his side. 

You kick the covering off your legs and stand, snatching your silk robe off the closet's doorknob to slip over its matching nightie. You know where he is. It’s where he’s spent many of his nights in the past three weeks. 

In the corner of the nursery, perched in the quilted chair, Benny is hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers woven and clenched as he stares at the crib where your daughter lies fast asleep under the low glow of her nightlight.

“Benny…” you start, making your way to him. His stare doesn’t break from the baby as he leans back against the cushion and spreads his legs so you can take your place on his lap. An arm slides across your lower back, a palm plants on your bare thigh, and you cuddle into his chest.

“You didn’t come to bed,” you say.

Benny hums in acknowledgment.

“You’ve got to be at the shop in four hours.” To that, he doesn’t even utter a sound. 

It’s not until you say, “Are you ready to tell me what's been going on in that head of yours?” that you get a response. 

He exhales heavily, then says, “What if I’m not good enough for her?” 

The question doesn’t surprise you. You assumed it was something along those lines, simply from observing his behaviors since you came home from the hospital. 

Benny’s smile rivals the sun whenever he takes his daughter in his arms, but the longer he looks at her, the more he thinks, and the more he thinks, the further that smile falls. He cradles his baby and his mind runs away with him. He peers too far into the future, digging up every possible problem and road bump ahead. Problems and road bumps—some of which you have no doubt are outlandish—that may never come to fruition. 

Your fingers weave into the blond tips at the nape of his neck and you delicately scrape the base of his skull with your nails. 

“That’s crazy. You’re amazing with her,” you tell him.

“She’s only three weeks old,” Benny argues. “There’s plenty of time to fuck it up.” 

“Ben–”

You’re cut off by the intensity with which his eyes drill into yours. A raw realness of concern swirls in blue irises. “What if she needs things that I can't afford to get her?”

Your brow raises. “Like what?”

“Anything,” he tells you. “What if she resents me for not havin’ better to offer? Her friends’ pops will have better jobs than me—more money in their pockets. We don’t even have a car to take her places; we’ve been borrowin’ Betty’s, for fuck’s sake. And this neighborhood? Baby, this street isn’t as safe as it used to be.”

You sigh. He’s right. You hate to admit it because you hoped he was worried over sillier matters, but every bit of what he said is fair. Your daughter will have friends whose fathers have established careers and the salaries to match. There will be lawyers and doctors and financiers living in areas that, while vastly nicer, still feed into the same schools your child will attend. You will need a car, ideally within the next few months because Benny can’t be riding to daycare with the baby clipped into the side satchel on the seat of his bike. And yes, the neighborhood has undeniably taken a turn in the past year. You should start planning your lives on a budget so you can get a small place outside the city. 

But the difference between you and Benny is that you know all of this is attainable. You know the two of you can do this. You know you’re both good enough and smart enough and resourceful enough to raise your baby. 

Benny removes his palm from your thigh and rubs his fingers across his forehead. You put your hands on his cheeks to turn his face back to yours. 

“Benny Cross, you are not going to fuck up. Our daughter is not going to resent you,” you say with absolute certainty, adding extra force to your tone. “She needs you and she needs me, and that's it. Everything else we will figure out in time.”

—

Three Years Later

You love to watch them. You love to watch how they exist together. You love how Benny tucks her into bed at night; how he wakes her extra early on Saturdays to make pancakes—one of the few meals he managed to master; how she stares up at him with a trembling bottom lip until he reluctantly agrees to play dollies with her; and how eager she is to take interest in anything and everything he has to show her. 

In the beginning, it wiggled your nerves to see her so curious about bikes—what mother wants to imagine her daughter on the back of a motorcycle—but she is her father’s daughter. Trying to shield her from her interests would only make her want to pursue them more, whether you agreed to it or not, so you took a step back and let it happen, knowing Benny would approach it appropriately. 

Now, it’s another one of those moments between them that you love to watch—this time watching without their knowledge as you peek through the sliver of space in the barely open door that connects the kitchen to the garage. 

The garage door is up to permit some natural lighting, and Benny, ratchet in hand, sits on a section of concrete that is shaded from the prying heat of Summer’s sun. He’s messing with the body of his bike as Lucy stands to his side; close, but not so close that she could be harmed should he accidentally lose his grip on a tool. 

“Ok,” he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He offers Lucy the ratchet and says, “Wrench please.”

Lucy carefully takes the tool by the handle—just as Benny taught her—before looking into the open box at her feet. Her head tilts as she examines its contents, and then she leans down, places the ratchet back where it belongs, and wraps her little fingers around the wrench. Pulling it out, she waves it back and forth with great enthusiasm before presenting it to her father. 

Benny smiles and she places the tool in his open palm. “Good job, nugget,” he praises as he softly pinches her round cheek. She giggles. 

Lucy takes in Benny’s every movement, observing like a tiny apprentice would a master. She’s attentive and nods along with everything he says even though she has no idea what a lick of it means. She does so until Benny finishes the job and closes up the toolbox. 

The second both of his hands are free, Lucy vaults herself into her father’s arms with such vigor that she nearly knocks him onto his back.

“Fixed it?” she asks, placing her hands on his shoulders and hoisting herself up so she’s at his eye level. 

“Fixed it,” Benny confirms with a nod, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

When you push the door open, their heads whip in your direction. Benny’s face splits to reveal a row of white teeth, and Lucy’s eyes—the same shade as Benny’s—light up, sparkling so stunningly that you almost don’t want to let the next words out of your mouth. 

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” you say, “but it’s nap time Lady Lu.”

Lucy gasps and looks at Benny to verify that he’s just as shocked. To her great enjoyment, he plays the part. 

“Momma’s got us on a schedule,” he tells her.

Her face scrunches in distaste. “Yucky!”

“Yucky?” Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead in mock offense. “Sounds like Daddy is teaching you to rebel against authority,” you say, crossing your arms as you give your husband a pointed look, “which I would really prefer he hold off on for a few years.”

Benny’s faux shock fades to a chuckle. “Alright,” he concedes, setting Lucy on her feet so he can stand. “Momma’s right, nugget.”

He winks at you and you grin as you reach toward him, grabbing his face to draw him in for a quick, thankful kiss. Just as he’s about to go in for a second peck, Lucy tugs on his hand to redirect his attention where she wants it: on her distress. 

“But–But you guys don’t have nap time!”

“Oh sure we do,” Benny says as he lifts her into his arms and settles her on his hip. “We nap when you nap.”

She glances at you, and when you nod she mutters an unconfident “Oh.” 

Not wanting to insult her feelings, you suck in your laugh. Your daughter despises the thought of missing out on any fun and has decided that it must be when she naps that her parents go wild. Little does she know that you take any opportunity to rest, and if Benny is home, so does he. 

It’s been a hardworking three years. Exhausting. Taxing to a degree that your bodies still haven’t fully recovered. Benny spent the majority of his waking hours at the shop while Kathy and Betty offered to watch Lucy so you could get a job as an office assistant; painfully dull work, but not an opportunity you took for granted considering you had no training in the area before you were hired. You both worked as often as you could for as many hours as your employers would allow, so much so that Benny would hold you through the tears you shed worrying if it was subconsciously affecting Lucy. You didn’t want her to know her parents for their absence, but at the end of the day, it was all for her, so you pressed on. 

You and Benny found peace and relaxation in the simple things—late-night rides; bonfires with the club; Saturday morning cartoons with Lu—but the rest of the time you were wearing yourselves out, and not always in the pleasurable way. 

But it was worth it. Every headache from lack of sleep, every aching joint from your constant desk sitting and Benny’s physical labor, every emotional outburst that the two of you would coax one another out of—worth it. 

Six months in, you got that car you needed. By a year, Benny had bought into the shop for fifty percent. And at the end of two years, you found a house just outside the city—a modest three-bedroom with a yard and a garage.

“Are you sleepy now?” Lucy asks, her voice already beginning to lose the oomph of its energy.

You softly snicker. Your daughter always hits her marks. Like clockwork, about two minutes post-nap-time announcement, regardless of whether or not she fights you on it, her eyelids struggle to open after each blink and her words leave her mouth at a more sluggish pace. 

“Very,” you nod again. “But we certainly won't nap if you won't. We wouldn’t want to miss out on any fun with you.” The tip of your index finger taps her tiny nose. 

“N-No, I'll do it,” she says, “if you guys are tired too.”

“We are, nugget,” Benny tells her. “So let's get you to bed, sound good?”

She’s fading fast but she uses some of that remaining energy to give a little grin before laying her head on her father’s shoulder and releasing a yawn. “Yea, Daddy.”

—

“Well, that took all of fifteen seconds,” you say as Benny gently closes Lucy’s bedroom door behind him. 

You start heading for your room with your husband trailing after you, but then there’s a tight grip on your waist and you’re spun to face in the opposite direction. Fumbling your steps, your chest bumps against Benny’s before he bends down, wraps a thick arm around your thighs, and tosses you over his shoulder. 

When you yelp, you’re punished with a swat on the ass. “Hush, baby. You wake Lu and we don’t get our nap, and after workin’ on the bike all mornin’, I could really use one.”

He carries you to your bedroom, sets you on the edge of the bed, and throws himself onto his back atop the mattress. Then, arms spread wide, smirk across his face, he says, “C’mere,” and you crawl into your usual space against his body. After a synced sigh, Benny crooks his knuckle under your chin and tips your head back so he can seal his lips to yours. 

You’ll never tire of this. Of him. The feel of him around you. The taste of him. The scent of cologne and motor oil. The way he nips at your bottom lip to pull a muffled squeak from your throat and how he smiles into the kiss at his achievement. It’s too damn good and nothing could match it. 

Knowing how your future would have evolved if Benny hadn’t returned after learning of your pregnancy is impossible. Maybe you would have found happiness if you had moved on and met another man, but you wholeheartedly believe that that man, whoever he might have been, wouldn’t have had the capacity to be what you need. When Benny stepped into your world, he took the mold—your ideal image of the love of your life—and stretched it out to fit him perfectly, and then he immediately broke it so no man could so much as attempt to take his place. And it worked. There was never going to be anyone else for you. At least, not anyone who could give you what you have now. 

As Benny’s fingertips graze over your cheek and bury into your hair, he shifts his weight, rolling you onto your back. Lips press harder into yours and then they disappear. Your eyes snap open, a pout rapidly forming that he quickly kisses away. 

“Wanna talk to you about somethin’,” Benny says lowly, whisper-like as his nose nudges yours. You do your best to straighten out your thoughts and pay attention, but it’s made difficult by the comforting weight of his body bleeding into yours and his thumb brushing back and forth along your cheekbone. “You know, Johnny and Betty said they’d watch Lu tonight if we want.”

With narrowing eyes, you reply “Yes,” drawing out the word, wondering where he’s going with this and why it has to interrupt the kissing.

“If you wanna take ‘em up on that, I was thinkin’ we could go for a ride, and then—” he shrugs the shoulder not supporting his weight above you, “I don’t know, maybe we come home and make another kid.”

Your eyes shift from mildly irritated slits to round saucers. “What?”

“Yea,” he says. “Thought it might be nice.” 

“Seriously?” 

“I mean, if you’re willin’ to birth another one, I’d be happy to put one in you.”

A laugh bubbles from your chest. “Would you now?”

Benny nods, planting a kiss on your mouth. That kiss moves to your cheek, then his lips ghost along your jawline before landing on the sensitive spot just under your ear. “You just gotta say yes, baby,” he says, warm breath heating your skin, “and nine months from tonight, we could have our second one.”

Your fingers glide through his hair, fisting the strands as you angle your head to give him better access to your neck. He licks and sucks until you moan, and then you say, “You’re that confident you can get me pregnant on the first shot?”

Benny pulls his head back to look at you. “Course I am. When I did it last time, I wasn’t even tryin’,” he says, cocky grin in place. But then his features soften. “So? What do you think?”

Your lips quirk to the side and you hum. “Alright, Benny Cross,” you say. “Let’s make another baby.”

---

A/N: I keep writing scenes with mothers eavesdropping on father/child bonding moments 🫣

Taglist (if you wanna join)

[revasserium]

know, know better

suo hayato; 3,591 words; fluff, fem!reader, no "y/n", banter, so much flirting, mentions of bodily harm (its wind breaker lol), first!kisses, semi-whipped!suo, suo will break the world for the one he loves likes, suo is a jackass gentleman exhibit 329048293

summary: the only difference between a garden and a graveyard is what you decide to put in the ground

a/n: yes, i know i've used that metaphor before in another fic for another fandom. no, i do not care. yes, i will continue to reuse this metaphor bc i love it.

001.

He sees you for the first time on the roof, and for a second, he wonders if he’s hallucinating because — well, no one else wears dresses at Fuurin other than Tsubaki-chan and he’s certain he just saw them downstairs, arm slung through Umemiya’s, squealing about a new line of glittery eyeshadows that just launched over the weekend.

“Ah — excuse me!”

“I know, I know — but I couldn’t just let the poor cherry tomatoes suffer like this! Go tell Ume-nii that he’s been neglecting — oh!”

By the time you look up, Suo is already bending over your shoulder to peer politely down into the garden trough, his single eye wide and bright and curious.

“Uwah… you seem really good at this!”

You lick your lips, tasting salt, feeling an unfamiliar heat creep up the back of your neck.

“Uhm… yeah — well —” your clear your throat and turn back towards the cherry tomato plants, reaching out with a gloved hand to flick one of the budding green tomatoes, “these lil guys need a lot of sunlight and Ume-nii let them in a patch of shade, so I couldn’t just leave them there, yknow?”

You smile as you get to your feet, Suo backing up politely, his hands tucked behind his back, his eye following the graceful lilt of your movements, the lithe, slenderness of your arms and legs. He can’t help the way his gaze catches on the hem of your skirt, the way it brushes the creamy skin of your leg just above your knees.

He forces himself to look away.

“You… must be one of the new first-years, right? I heard Kotoha-chan talking about you guys!”

Your voice is clear as a bell-chime, and almost as sweet, but its your eyes he can’t stop himself from coming back to. Irises purled with gold, limned by dark lashes that cast shadows against the round of your cheeks. He feels something inside him stutter as he tries to focus back on the way you’re reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, how the other errant strands frame your face so perfectly that he has to fight down the urge to reach out and tug the slip of hair back down.

“… your name?”

“Hm?” Suo smiles before he realizes you’re waiting for him to say something, “Ah — apologies — how rude of me. Suo Hayato, it’s a pleasure.”

He dips his head in greeting as you extend a hand.

“Pleasure, huh?” you giggle as he takes your hand in his and shakes. Your skin is warm and soft, and Suo finds — for the first time in a long while — that he doesn’t really want to let go.

002.

He sees you the second time at Cafe Pothos, laughing behind the counter with Kotoha. He pauses in the doorway and lets the sound wash over him, even as you both look over at the sound of the doorbell.

“Oh! It’s you!” your smile sets his world spinning off on it’s axis and it’s all he can do to keep it from showing. Beside him, Sakura frowns.

“You know each other?”

Suo grins, stepping over the threshold to slip into one of the bar chairs.

“Yep! We met on the school roof the other day!”

“School roof — wait, I thought there weren’t any girls in Fuurin — unless —” Sakura cuts off as he whips back towards you, his eyes wide as he looks you over once, twice — before Kotoha rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers in front of his face.

“Oi! Quit ogling my friend — and no, there aren’t any girls in Fuurin, but we do have a delivery service for the VIP clients.” Kotoha winks as Sakura’s cheeks go pink. Suo props his chin on the heel of his hand and offers you a bright smile; your mirrored smile back makes his chest squeeze.

“So… how’re the cherry tomatoes doing?” you ask, reaching out to set a traditional tea service in front of Suo, your fingers light as they pluck a tiny porcelain cup from a shelf to place it on a small, bamboo tray.

“They’re getting really ripe! I’ve been checking on them like you asked…” Suo’s voice trails off as you go about the work of putting loose leaf tea in a tea bowl and warming it before pouring out the first wash of liquid.

“How… did you know I’d like this kind of tea?”

You grin, shrugging, “I just… had a feeling.”

“It’s her superpower,” Kotoha leans over with a sly smile, “she can usually guess a person’s favorite kind of food and drink within… about five minutes of getting to know them!”

“Oh stop it — it’s nothing like that! I just… had a hunch is all.” You glance up to catch Suo staring, his gaze so intense you almost fumble the teapot in your hands. It clinks against the empty cup, but before the cup has a chance to tumble off the table, Suo reaches out with a deft hand to catch it, placing it smoothly back onto the tea tray.

There’s a faint stutter in the fluidity of your movements as you blink at the cup now sitting innocently, perfectly centered, on the tray. And then you’re reaching out to fill the cup with a steaming, golden liquid, fragrant enough to fill half the room. Even Sakura leans over with a curious sniff.

“Whoa. Smells good,” he says, “smells like…”

Suo smiles, reaching down to trace a finger along the razor-thin rim of the tiny glass, “Smells like flowers.”

003.

You are young in all the ways that teenage girls can be young, and old in the all the ways that people have to be in Makochi. Your ribs hurt, your lip’s split, and there’s an ache settling over your right eye that tells you there’s probably an incredible bruise blooming into existence there.

“Ouch… damnit… I’ve really… done it this time…” you groan as you try to push yourself up off the dark alley wall. You wiggle each of your fingers in turn and say a silent prayer when you find that they all respond. Good, you think, so nothing’s broken. **

Not yet, at least.

Footsteps to your right. Light, but hurried. You squeeze your eyes shut and brace for the worst but instead — there’s only warmth, and a soft palm cupping the curve of your face.

“Hey… it’s okay — you’re alright.”

“S-Suo…kun?”

“That’s right — it’s me —” a soft, exasperated sigh, “we were looking for you afternoon —” arms wrapping around you, lifting you up. You hear the soft rustle of bags and groan as you try to reach out but a firm hand stops you.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

He doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounds just as measured as he usually is. But pressed up against his chest like this, you can feel the wild, racehorse hoofbeats of his heart, feel the shakiness in his every breath. His fingers are tight as he cradles you to him, carrying you from the alleyway.

“I wanted… yokan…” your voice is hoarse, and a bit ragged. Suo casts his eyes up toward the sunset sky and counts down from ten.

When he’s certain his voice won’t shake, he says —

“Eh? But the Minami tea store always sells really good yokan — why’d you… ah… you wanted to get the famous mizu yokan from across the tracks, didn’t you?” Suo sighs, gently adjusting his hold around your body, pressing you ever closer to his chest. Your breathing is shallow but even; like this, he can almost hear the faint fluttering of your heart deep inside your chest, see the soft quiver of your lashes as you shift in his arms.

“Silly girl,” he whispers, leaning down to press his lips into the seam of your hair, “next time, just tell me and I’ll go with you.”

He can sense your consciousness fading, and though the logical part of him knows that you’re in no immediate danger, he still hastens his steps, his stomach twisting inside him like a wrung-out towel, dry and aching.

“But…” he leans in; your voice is barely a whisper. He almost jumps as you reach up to trace a finger along his eyepatch, “Then it wouldn’t have been… a surprise.”

004.

“Happy Birthday!”

“Wow! Thank you!” Suo blinks for a second before his expression breaks into a bright smile. He’d had an inkling, after the “yokan-incident”, that this might’ve been the reason. But still, it twists something deep inside his gut to know that you’d gotten so hurt because of — well — something to do with him.

Even unsolicited. Even then. He detests the thought of it.

Nearly the entire first year class is there, and a good few students from the second and third years, crammed into Cafe Pothos. There’s a full traditional tea service set out on the tables, pieced together into the center of the room, and an array of tea snacks enough to make even the most ascetic eaters take pause.

“Suo-kun! C’mon, you shouldn’t keep everyone waiting, right?” Kotoha waves him towards the center table, where a multicolored display of mochis are placed in a barely legible “Happy Birthday”, each with a matching colored candle shoved into the middle.

“Sakura-kun did the mochis!” Nirei offers, pointing, seconds before Sakura smacks him upside the head.

“You don’t have’ta single it out!”

Suo takes his time, moving from person to person, chatting and laughing and thanking them in turn. There’s a softness pulsing inside him, something warm and growing, purring, curling up with a creamy, spine-deep contentment. Until he gets to you, busy wowing a group of first-year boys with your kung-fu tea skills, pouring the steaming water from higher and higher, never spilling a single drop.

“— the water can’t be too hot, or else the tea will get burnt — and that’s why sometimes —”

“Sometimes, when you make tea at home, it tastes awful and bitter, right?” Suo sits down, smiling even as he purposefully encroaches on the personal space of the freshman closest to you. To his credit, the freshman boy laughs, inching back as Suo props his chin on his palm and turns to look at them.

“A-ah… that’s really uh — cool! Wow — those shortcakes over there look really good — guys, let’s go grab some before they’re all gone!”

They scurry off, dipping their heads in your direction before ducking away.

“Mm… you’re lucky its your birthday,” you say, placing a warmed cup of tea in front of him, reaching over to slide over a glistening piece of mizu-yokan.

“Hm?” Suo takes a sip of the tea, savoring it’s depth of flavor, before taking a bite of the tea-snack.

“Otherwise, I wouldn’t be so nice to someone who’s driving off all my best customers,” you say, flashing him a knowing, indulgent smile. Suo doesn’t miss a beat.

“Your best customers?” he makes a show of pivoting towards where the clueless freshmen boys had run off to, now crowded around Sakura, laughing all too loudly, “if I didn’t know better… I’d say you need to raise your standards.”

You cock your head, hands pausing over a fresh pour of tea.

“But you do, don’t you?” you ask, resuming your movements. A second later, you place a fresh cup of tea in front of him.

“Don’t I… what?” he asks, playing at innocence.

“You should,” you parry, propping open the lid of the tiny teapot with two fingers, bending down to take a deep breath of the fragrant leaves.

The lid snaps back onto the pot with a solid click.

Suo blows at the surface of his teacup, pausing at the sound. He looks up to meet your knife-sharp gaze.

“Know — better.”

A shiver kisses up the length of his spine, and he nearly drops the fresh cup of tea. He clears his throat and takes a long sip. The heat drips down his throat, unfurling in his stomach, setting his whole body ablaze with the kind of fire that refuses to go out.

“Mm… this tea is delicious! Where’s it from?”

You shake your head, the motion just on the other side of innocent. But as you said — he knows better now.

“Somewhere… over the rainbow, I suppose.”

In a flicker, faster than a flash, he reaches out, fingers skimming along a thin line marring the perfect skin of your left cheek.

“This wasn’t there two days ago,” he says, almost casually, before his voice drops in register and his eyes go dark beneath his curtain of too-long lashes, “where’s it from?”

You make you shake off his hand but he’s too quick, catching your chin between two fingers.

“Don’t know. Must’ve been an accident.”

Suo tugs you towards him, his grip now bordering on too tight, “Ah… pretty girls like you shouldn’t make a habit of lying so much.”

You lick your lips, breath caught in your chest as you tug your face from his grasp, flicking a strand of hair over your shoulder.

“And pretty boys like you should really know better than to ask questions they don’t want to know the answers to.”

“And if I don’t?” Suo’s voice is sweet and soft and low. He sets down his empty teacup; you reach out to refill it.

“Don’t what?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

He catches your wrist, pulling up your sleeve before you can protest to reveal a series of dark bruises scattered up the length of your arm. The air around him seems to condense and cool as he stares for a second before his expression fixes itself back into one of detached sweetness.

“Know — better,” he answers, simply, letting his hand fall as you snatch your arm back, massaging the place where his fingers had been.

You narrow your eyes, but before you can say anything else, a group of boys all stumble over, singing loudly as they pull Suo back towards the center of the room, where yet another cake has materialized out of god knows where. He laughs, clapping along, blowing out the candles on instruction.

But for the rest of the night, you can’t help feeling the weight of his eyes on you, though you never again catch him staring.

005.

“They’re doing well, aren’t they?”

You jump, jerking upright even as Suo approaches you on the rooftop garden, hands laced behind his back, his earrings fluttering in the light breeze.

“Y-yeah. They really are.” You turn back to your cherry tomato plants, a few of them ripe to bursting. You reach out to pluck one off a vine, turning to offer it to the boy crouching down next to you.

He takes it from you, examining it for a second before popping into his mouth.

“Mm… sweet!”

You laugh, reaching out to tug another one off the vine. You bite into the soft flesh, feeling the explosion of flavor on your tongue.

“So much better than the ones from the supermarket, right?”

Suo sighs, nodding, but his expression sobers a second later.

“You shouldn’t have done that — just for my birthday.”

You pause, hands halfway towards another tomato. Suo reaches out to pluck it for you. As he presses it into your hand, you sigh, shaking your head.

“I didn’t do it just for you.”

“Oh?”

You roll the bright red fruit between your thumb and forefingers, holding it up to the light.

“Do you know what the difference is between a garden and a graveyard?” you ask, dropping your hand back down, your eyes trained on the plump little tomato now sitting in the palm of your hand.

“Tell me,” Suo says, watching you intently.

You turn to glance at him, a sad little smile on your lips.

“What you choose to put in the ground,” you say, before reaching out to press the cherry tomato to his lips. Suo blinks at you for a second before slowly opening his mouth to let the tomato slip through. He bites down, doesn’t reach up to wipe at the thin streak of juice slicking down his chin. He watches as your eyes flicker down, feels the pad of your thumb swipe across his skin.

He’s tugging you forward before he can stop himself; you taste the bright burst of sweet and sour on your tongue seconds before he pulls back, eyes wide. You lick your lips, expression half-shocked, half-satisfied. He opens his mouth to apologize —

“S-sorry, I should’ve asked — mmphf!”

You reach up and pull him towards you by the collar of his school uniform. It’s all he can do to catch himself against the rough ground of the rooftop garden, bits of gravel biting into his palm.

The kiss is sweet, is savory, is tentative — and then, suddenly, it bursts into something more — like a bite of over-ripe fruit, with juice sluicing down it’s seams — he surges forward, catching you around the waist. He savors in the friction of your lips against his, the teeth-aching sweetness of your warm breath as you gasp open for him, and only him. And by the gods, he tries to be a good man — a respectful man, but the tiny noise you make as he curls his fingers into the bend of your waist threatens to render all his flighty codes and morals to ash.

It is a noble pursuit, he decides later on, this of all things — to kiss you until there is no other way for you to be kissed. To kiss you just like this, until your mouth is ruined for all other tastes but the one of his tongue. He’s never thought himself a greedy man, but like this — with your body pressed to his on this rooftop garden, he thinks he might’ve learned a few more things about the depths and widths of why greed is considered such a cardinal sin.

When he finally lets you go, he’s satisfied to see there’s a dazed, unfocused haze to your eyes as you blink up at him, fingers fisted into the front of his school uniform.

“You still haven’t told me —” he leans down to press his forehead to yours, reveling in the way you gasp, the hitch in your voice as you lick your lips and he fights back a thick groan.

“Told you what?”

“Why you’d go out of the city bounds to get all those things for my birthday.”

You sigh, pursing your kiss-swollen lips.

“Because… those stores, like the earth, they… they might just need one good seed — one nice interaction —” your lashes flutter and Suo has to physically bat down the urge to lean down and kiss you again. Perhaps, he thinks, this is how dragons are made of fairy tale princes — perhaps, all the dragons ever needed was just one more kiss from their fairy tale princess.

“So… you thought to take it upon yourself to be that one nice interaction? To turn all those graveyards… into gardens?”

You crinkle your nose, glancing up at him from beneath your lashes as he pulls back to stare down at you.

“It’s a stupid thing to do, I know.”

Suo nods, “It is. But… only because you thought you could do it by yourself.”

He shifts, tugging you up into his lap as he readjusts himself to lean back against one of the taller planter boxes, his arms now comfortably looped around your middle.

“Well, if I’d told anyone… they would’ve tried to stop me.”

Suo tuts, reaching up to flick your nose with a gentle finger, “Oh ye of little faith,” he admonishes, grinning as you swat at his hand. He catches you by the wrist, pulling it in to press his lips to your palm, sighing as he nuzzles into your warmth.

“Do you really think we would’ve written off your feelings that easily? That I wouldn’t have at least tried to listen?”

You make to look away, embarrassed at your own oversight, but he tugs your chin back, forcing you to face him properly again.

“C’mon now… smart girl like you… should know better than that, shouldn’t you?”

You narrow your eyes, a feline glint alighting behind your eyes as you reach up to lace your fingers through his, leaning in with a challenge clear in your voice.

“And… if I don’t?”

Suo meets your gaze, a wide smile splitting his face as he tugs you closer, shifting your legs to settle on either side of his hips, his fingers now digging into the plush of your thighs, inching up to tease at the hemline of your skirt.

“Then I suppose… someone’ll just have to teach you better, won’t they?”

[the-second-hand-unwinds]

1x04: "just kind of an asshole and a bad friend" - this scene, though!!

I don't see this scene discussed all that much, but for me it's a massive turning point, not just in the Lokius friendship but for Loki's own growth as a person who doesn't want to let down the people he respects and cares about. Mobius completely blows Loki's mind here and cuts him down with a graceful, yet blunt skill. He can almost read Loki's mind; no one has ever understood Loki like this before. But more importantly, why Mobius' reply here means so much:

He's not raising his voice. He's not giving Loki the angry and hurtful response that Loki expects and wants right now. That's because if Mobius hurts Loki back, if he retaliates in kind, it will distract Loki from the fact that he was a dick to the first real friend he ever had. It will make it much easier for Loki to lie to himself and excuse his actions, while avoiding any guilty feelings. Mobius is not going to give him that.

Mobius also refuses to play along with Loki's bratty drama, instead speaking to him in an honest way, showing that yeah, Loki did let him down and hurt his feelings. And that Mobius is angry, sure. But it's not a moment for petty, fake drama such as Loki tries to ignite.

Instead, it's his friend saying "I trusted you and put myself on the line for you and you betrayed me. You don't get to make this about anything else." (more below the break)

Owen Wilson's delivery on these lines could not have been more flawless. We get all of Mobius' feelings; he's just a regular guy at the end of the day, and his genuineness, his integrity is not what Loki is used to dealing with. He's knocked the ground out from under Loki, this simply, this easily.

Emotional stakes instead of shallow, selfish ones. Loki is thrown into real shock by this turn of events. This is not how he's used to being dealt with when he's been "bad." The child in Loki never matured past these tantrums, for reasons we can easily guess.

Instead of being enraged or saying a bunch of mean stuff back at him, Mobius calls it like it is, then moves on, as if Loki no longer deserves his attention. That is going to drive Loki so crazy.

Plus, Mobius gets Loki so completely that he already knows how his statement is going to hit him. That's why, when Loki's surprised expression appears, Mobius is expecting it and says, "Yeah, chew on that for a little bit."

In other words, "How do you like being treated like a person who is expected to be decent and considerate, as opposed to being treated like a threat or problem to be destroyed?"

I think the latter was damaging to Loki at first, but then, over time, so much easier for Loki to cope with. Enemies were playing into his hands by repeating back the same insults he's gotten used to, has toughened up to.

Nobody has believed in him and expected - not just demanded - but expected better from Loki, until Mobius.

Knowing that he almost immediately tarnished such a friendship hits completely different and Loki is thrown by it.

Mobius sees Loki 100% for who he is and knows how to get under his skin when necessary, knows how to get past Loki's bravado in a way no one else has done.

But part of that skill is because Mobius really still can't help loving Loki to bits, and as hurt as he is here, he has not completely given up on Loki. It's Mobius' genuine, heartfelt responses to Loki that allow him the empathy to give as good as he gets, but more than that, to care enough, specifically, to try and help Loki learn to be better.

I just love them so much-- 😭💓💞

[satoruxx]

pairing: toji fushiguro x reader | 1.2k words summary: fluff, toji being his sarcastic asshole self, but secretly a softie, more grumpy x sunshine content to feed the soul, reader is a uni student, toji ACTUALLY having MONEY???? rheya's note: more grumpy toji bc i'm in love w him !! this is lowkey not great but i have nothing else to post so here <33

you drum your fingers against your lips, eyes scouring the racks of pastries and sweets to satisfy the steady rumble brewing low in your stomach.

a quick snack before your final exam—that's the plan. so you let your eyes wander until they fall on a warm croissant, looking oh so delectable with its crusted flakes and buttery goodness. so you smile to yourself and head over to the register, eager to get your hands on the snack after a long morning of hard work and studying.

you wait patiently behind the customer in front of you, tapping your foot idly as you scroll on your phone to pass the time, until the cashier calls you up with a wave of his hand.

"what can i get for you?" he asks, and you immediately tap your finger against the glass.

"a croissant please."

he nods, reaching out to grab it with a napkin before dropping it into a paper bag. you fiddle with your wallet, pulling out your credit card and handing it to him, but his expression turns slightly awkward.

"oh sorry," he winces, turning around a sign next to the register. there in bold letters it reads: CARDS NOT ACCEPTED. CASH ONLY.

your shoulders drop, fingers frantically digging into the crevices of your wallet even though you know there isn't any cash in there.

dammit. should've gone to the bank to withdraw some after tipping the delivery guy last week.

"i don't think i have cash on me…" you trail off, face heating up because you're sure that the customers waiting behind you are now slightly ticked off.

the cashier scratches at his wrist awkwardly, giving you a half apologetic shrug. "sorry…"

your face twists, embarrassment thrumming low in your stomach as you shut your wallet with a resigned sigh. "it's fine, you can just leave it—"

"i got it." a deep voice utters from behind you, tone careless. you turn to look over your shoulder only to find your throat going dry, because whoever you were expecting to see was nothing like what this man looked like.

a towering, imposing build, heavy with muscle. sharp, angular features framed by jet black hair that just barely tickled his neck. and deep green eyes that are staring down at you, emotionless. the only change in his features is the tug of his scarred lips when they take in your wide eyed expression.

"oh—uh—" you stumble, caught off guard, the words coming up all jumbled like you've forgotten how to speak. the man moves closer, now hovering right behind you as he reaches a bulky arm out to drop a few bills onto the counter. you inhale sharply, not expecting the proximity.

"that about cover it?" he tilts his head at the cashier, who has gone quiet. he nods, too quickly, a nervous dip in his brows that you don't quite comprehend. but then you glance at the man again—at his hulking frame and narrowed eyes and his unkind expression, and you guess you understand.

and yet, nothing about him is inherently scary. he's intimidating, but in an oddly comforting way.

"a-and anything for you sir?" the cashier asks, giving the man a nervous smile.

"coffee. black." his tone is clipped, unbothered, and the cashier nods. he reaches over and hands you your bagged croissant.

"then if you could just wait to the side and we'll have your coffee ready in a minute, sir."

the man nods once, glancing at you briefly before taking a few steps to wait to the side.

"thank you," you say quietly, feeling oddly parched as you look at him. he peers down at you with those striking eyes, and you offer him a smile—half sheepish and half grateful.

"don't worry about it," he replies with a shrug, casually shoving his hands into his pockets. "couldn't have you holdin' up the line."

he nods behind you, motioning to the line, and you huff indignantly, ignoring the flare up of embarrassment once again.

"well if they put the sign on the door then i wouldn't have walked in here like an idiot," you mutter, crossing your arms. he chuckles, low and deep, shaking his head with amusement.

"'s true," he grins. "pretty fuckin' stupid of them."

you don't expect him to agree, so you just nod, mildly surprised.

"you look like you haven't eaten all day," he comments offhandedly, glancing around the cafe like he's bored. you fiddle with your hair somewhat self-consciously, and he glances down at you from the corner of his eyes. "i just mean you look exhausted."

"oh," you reply lamely, a helpless shrug of your shoulders following. "well i have a final exam in an hour and i didn't get much sleep last night."

"at least you studied hard," he hums, reaching out over the counter to take the cup of black coffee the barista hands him. he turns to look down at you with a haphazard shrug. "you did what you could. no point stressin' about it now."

"i guess…" you trail off. "still nervous though."

his lips curl upward, eyes glinting. "you should be more confident in yourself, kid." he takes a sip, tilting his head down at you, before turning and heading out into the cold.

you stare after him, not sure what to do with yourself. somehow you didn't expect it to be so easy to talk to a man who looked like he wanted to burn the world to the ground, but surprises can come in all shapes and forms.

and for some reason, his intimidating aura and indifferent stare has you oddly curious.

it's only when you peer into your paper bag, seeing the croissant that you've heroically been gifted, do you come up with a plan, pushing the door open and hurrying out into the cold. your eyes immediately catch his retreating figure, still large and imposing even with how he's hunched over to escape the bite of the cold.

"wait!" you call out after him, catching yourself before you trip on your own two feet. he pauses, turning to look down at you while arching a brow as you try to compose yourself. "uh—"

"toji." he fills in, huffing quietly as his hands remain shoved deep into his pockets.

"toji," you repeat, not admitting to enjoying the way it rolls off of your tongue so easily. "i need to pay you back."

he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "ah, don't worry about it, doll." the scar on his lips tilt upward into a half smirk. "just ace that test of yours, yeah?"

something leaps in your ribcage, and you blame the flush crawling up your neck on the stinging cold. you're not sure what to say for a second, but then an unfamiliar confidence crawls through your veins, culminating in a burst of determination.

"i'll buy you something here next time!" you don't know how or why you say it, lips clamping shut because you're sure that you're coming on too strong or coming off weird or something.

a low chuckle. you look up in surprise.

"sure." toji's grin widens, eyes shining with mirth. "i'll hold you to that one, kid."

and later, when you bite into the croissant, it's warmer than you expected it to be.