#toxic perfectionist

[glitchyko]

Alright, so I feel like I need to say something about this since it has been on my mind for a long while and I want to address it.

I want to say I’m sorry for the times when I said I want/will draw something and then just never doing it. I feel bad for setting something up only to never fulfill it. I feel like I’m a liar and I’m just lazy, that I let myself down and failed, even though I know there’s circumstances in my life that make it difficult to do some of the things I wish to do. Things such as ADHD, school, mental health, and other things going on in my life. But I’ve been trying to get better at managing my time, getting things done faster, be more productive, and keep working on my art and perfectionism issues.

I want to do better, I want to actually be able to do and show the stories, aus, ocs, etc, that I constantly say that I think about and want to share with you guys. I want to become better as an artist and writer, and I don’t want to keep being scared to do things I want to do because of perfectionism to a point where I just can’t do anything out of fear of it looking bad and not meeting my unrealistically high standards.

I’m not completely sure where I’m going with this vent talk to be honest, I know I can’t guarantee changes and such immediately, and I don’t want to force myself to work on art stuff just to pump something out on social media as quickly as possible. That is not why I create, and to be honest that sounds like a recipe for burnout, more confidence issues, and not having fun with art anymore. I think what I’m trying to say is, I’m going to try to do things instead of just saying and thinking I want to do something and never doing it.

[lotus-pear]

what do you call this specific flavor of dynamic

[uncanny-tranny]

Yet another crochet and knit hack: the patterns are a mild suggestion. You can do what you want forever, you have free will 💛💛💛

[whump-queen]

《 scan the barcode at your own risk 》

fuckit it’s taglist time: @whumpshaped  @whumpsday @emmettnet @a-whump-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot @wolfeyedwitch  @whumper-soot  @unorganisedalienrubbish  @kira-the-whump-enthusiast  @hidden-dreamland @whumpedydump @lonesome--hunter @ashh-ed @whump-in-the-closet @oriantthegiant @banditosong @anonymustyou @feralwhump @jieunie-23 @whumpasaurus101 @morning-star-whump @whmp @captain-bo-bob-bobby @the-beasts-have-arrived @spooky-scary-vampires @burningkittypoet @veyroswin @painsandconfusion @skittles-the-whumpee

[dayurno]

i can’t cope with myself watching the bear because i’m always stumbling on the terrible certainty that carmen berzatto is not only kevin’s type but would probably be the man kevin drops everything for

[girl-that-wants-to-die]

[gods-favorite-autistic]

I take a small bit of pride in the idea that tiny me would be just a bit horrified by me now

[aedesluminis]

In 1785, a young 22 years old Prieur-Duvernois was tasked by his cher maître (Guyton) to do some experiment to prove the expansion coefficient of some gases. As far as I understood, he failed because the recipient of the substance wasn't dry enough: some extremely tiny droplets of water were enough to compromise his measurements.

In 2018, a young 19 years old Aedes and her peers were tasked the same by our lab teacher. We failed compared to the other groups which managed to do it surprisingly well and I remember I felt extremely bad and stupid because I couldn't even figure out what the problem was. Later we discovered that our machinery was the issue: one of the tubes that linked the gas recipient with the thermometer was broken, making the wet air (it was winter) of the room mix with the gas. :' )

[ruminate88]

Procrastination and Perfectionism: Also Being the Family Caretaker and In Multiple Toxic Relationships

12/09/24

School labeled me. By the seventh grade I felt so stupid in school, that I was basically giving up and not even trying. I refused to do my homework at that point and I was taking zeros and F’s left and right!! I just didn’t care and to this day honestly, I don’t think I really care all that much about meeting deadlines, being successful or trying to be “somebody” and that’s possibly because I’ve never felt good enough. My mother has always been a bit of a perfectionist in some ways in my childhood too.

I have a unique relationship with my mom that most can’t understand because school made me feel very stupid and weak, I always felt misunderstood even by my own father and I always felt like my mom was the ONLY one to try to understand me, protect me and speak up for me when everyone else came against me!!! Often my mom had to fight my battles for me as a kid, but then at 15 years old, I became the family caretaker and suddenly I have all the responsibilities around the house of cooking, cleaning and taking care of my grandmother and my brother’s kids (he had four of them)!!!! I helped to raise his kids as my own while him and his wife worked full-time, and I felt like the family mother, but yet I still needed my own mother to fight my battles…. (Accept with my ex boyfriends, I had to silently fight those battles alone)

I’m a person that works well under pressure and my mother says the same thing!!! As far as perfectionism goes, I feel like I won’t even start on something until I have all the tools and materials I need plus have a plan in place of how I’m going to attack whatever it is that I’m having to accomplish even if it’s just house cleaning, I put into my head where I’m going to start AND what cleaning products I’m going to use and if for some reason I feel overwhelmed by the project, then I won’t clean house at all ….. I just sit and doom scroll on social media 😣

All my ex-boyfriend’s were extremely critical of me as well as my dad not being very understanding of me and somewhat tough on me, I think that has also hurt my confidence and self-worth. So I’ve always been hard on myself and feeling like I can’t do certain things in life because I’m not “good enough” or “smart enough”. Even when I got my GED at 19 years old, I did not feel accomplished or successful. My mother told me a GED counts the same as a high school diploma, that I should be proud of myself for doing it BY MYSELF without help. No one had to read the test to me. The test was very long and there was various subjects. My least favorite subject was science and yet I passed it just fine so I don’t know what I was so worried about but yet I’ve never complimented myself or gave myself any credit. 🤷🏻‍♀️

I also think the whole “perfectionism” mindset is a way of trying to have control in your own life because let’s face it, we have no control over what happens in life. We can create boundaries and we can have self-respect, be self-aware and learn life lessons on ourselves and other people but still there is some things we cannot explain or have the answers to.

When you are critical of your own self or try to be perfect, you’re not allowing yourself to ever have any rest. You feel guilty when you sit on the couch and do nothing… Yet it feels overwhelming or daunting to start a project too. It seems that when I wait to do something suddenly, I have all this energy to get it done because I feel that I’m racing against the clock. I do think procrastination is also a form of laziness and when you’ve been the family caretaker so long, you took care of so many people that you are tired because you’ve done NOTHING for your own self plus, when you’ve been in multiple toxic relationships, they made you feel bad and they abused your mental health… So you DO need to rest, but not everyone understands that or understands what you’ve been through, so they expect you to continue to work hard. There is a real thing as being chronically tired and chronically stressed out. Being in toxic relationships often are completely filled with stress nonstop. They project all their stress on you and nothing you do makes it better. (I should know.)

Be gentle with yourself, continue to heal so you can get your energy back and so you can continue to thrive and do your best. Those exes or teachers that were critical, were just unhappy within themselves and they were projecting it on to you. It was not as personal as you’ve believed it was and let ALL the criticism grow you! Not crush your spirit!!!! I did let it crush my spirit for so long… I beat myself up because my exes had beat me up so much and I was so so sad because I love them deeply but yet, they’ll never love me back and it hurts so badly. 😭 I can’t put into words how badly it hurts even to this day. I still have a lot of sadness over them, but I know it will get better with each passing day. Don’t give up.❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

[fruitsofhell]

when i was looking stuff up about Sydney and The Bear in general on tumblr it was like a mountain of ship art (very annoying) so I went to Reddit and its a mountain of Sydney hate (annoying).

I love black women characters no one actually likes

[calltoamentor]

Cada Dia, Or the Ways Loving Makes You Learn

How can love and support be triggering? When you come from a toxic family system, it takes a lot of time and energy to unlearn the survival methods that kept you "safe" but also kept you in that space in some form. Unlearning that is a daily process.

Daily writing promptWhat was the last thing you searched for online? Why were you looking for it?View all responses Not sure if this prompt was hoping for something juicer, but my most recent search is more fluffy than juicy. Or at least, the intent behind it is.I wanted to know how to express to my Long Distance Partner on his visit that I was thinking of him each day while continuing to show…

[zzencat]

Your Future Spouse As A Mythical Creature + Qualities - ⏳

Welcome to the spooky season folks!! Thought this would be a pretty lightweight and goofy type of reading as we settle in. What are your FS’s qualities? Toxic habits?

Choose wisely. Applicable to future lover or spouse.

Warnings: super long read, suggestive comments (bordering NSFW), some exaggerated details for the fun of it (but the theme and characteristics are still consistent otherwise), toxic tendencies

🥀 THE RITUAL: Clear your mind. Time is now patient and still. Close your eyes, inhale deeply, fill your chest up to the fullest, feel the soft air brush up against the ridges of your nose. Breathe out.

———————————————————————

Pile 1 | The Werewolf

Perfectionistic as hell, likely a planner

The horniness comes and stays fellas…

Extremely careful before decision making, yet impatient (more mentally)

Hides what they really feel. Has a hard time expressing their emotions through words, so your person (well, half-person) shows you instead

Might be wealthy or does very well w/ business or business partners

ALWAYS thinks before they act

very PRIMAL tendencies; will bust major nuts when persuading you to be bred…literally. the need to breed you can become suffocating as it seeps into small actions of daily life. will never stop bugging you about it. eventually, these efforts will increase and become more desperate (but hey, if you like that, go for it 😳)

^^the thought of having a family with you gets them down real bad

EXTREMELY overprotective and possessive over how revealing your clothes might be. don’t be surprised if they finally let you out of the house after you choose to wear a hazmat suit

• will do anything for you!!!! provide food, shelter, money… as long as you depend on them, they feel at their highest.

•^^ this can also indicate an incessant need for control and control over you as well

• typically chooses the safe route; sticks to routes they’re already familiar with and practicality

•^^polite with people or at least acts like a civil person, but is easily misjudged regardless

• kind of old school and can be boring; follows reserved traditions very well

• actually is a beast in the sheets, but prob only does vanilla positions

• is very, very hesitant about letting you go out at night and will bust balls to get you to stay inside

• can get overly paranoid over small things that can potentially harm you

slow, sensual, deep lovemaking sometimes—rough and wild, sloppy and fast at others—just totally unable to control themselves. this is bc they exercise so much control during the day that nights leading up to the full moon, or on the night of, are relentless. Also likes doin’ the dirty in the kitchen (i also see boiling soup and an apron if those have any significance)

grumpy in the morning hahaha. grumpy when you order them to do anything for you, but they’ll do it anyway

When they love, they LOVE. Extremely big hearts and easily empathetic, but never/rarely shows it

for some reason, your fs has a solution or piece of advice for every problem in existence

strong or bold looking, big and broad, intimidating, or a very tall person. might have a resting bitch face

a very good listener

• full moons are equivalent to menstrual cycles where their senses are heightened by tenfold, sensitive to everything in their surroundings (ex: ears perk up to sounds as unnoticeable as leaves rustling…), more emotionally reactive, a ceaseless desire for sex everyday—which gets worse as the full moon approaches 🙈—hastier movements, increased moodiness and appetite, goes out hunting more often. 50/50 have a messier diet or a more strict one

• structured or routined day to day

• has probably talked/will probably talk about raising a family with you at least once, becoming more adamant about it over time

• can seem very insensitive or come off as an asshole at times

• EXTREMELY observant; almost nothing gets past their eyes. It’s almost like an intense OCD thing. Pretty sure a lot of FS in this pile are control freaks or have very specific triggers

• can smell when you’re aroused. if you deal with periods, they know exactly what phase you’re in and keep track of monthly cycles. this is also how they can keep an eye on your fertility and “breedability” levels. likely to show clinginess during these times and try to make moves on you. (it’s a manipulation tactic, don’t fall for it!! 😳)

•^^when you get aroused, they get aroused. they’ll decide to make a move depending on the circumstances

• they have good control and discipline over themselves in general. But they’re still prone to control issues, esp over other people, or obsessiveness

Definitely an overthinker. They don’t like to be vulnerable emotionally. It’s very hard to get close to this person, and even harder to open up

doesn’t care about your “flaws” and doesn’t notice until you point them out; will be genuinely surprised to hear you have insecurities, bc to your fs, there’s no such thing. they don’t understand how you could feel that way about yourself or certain things about yourself

In some kind of leadership role (in work, relationship, or the home) or in a high enough position to give and support. Dominant in the sheets—stubbornly prefers to be

Loves to travel or would travel more if they could

Extremely adaptable and an all rounder; does well under pressure and in uncomfortable situations/environments

Likes bantering and stirring things up on purpose sometimes. Sometimes they’re feelin kinda bratty and will instigate. They fight just to fight. They’re usually quiet, reserved, or introverted

• deep down they know this and they’d even admit it to you if you asked, but they’d be totally onboard with you never going outside again and just staying in the house (it’s a possessive wolf thing maybe)

• you might not know at first, and they might not show it evidently, but they love sad karaoke songs or sad songs overall

Primary love language: Acts of service, physical touch, quality time, and gift giving

• *sniffs you with suspicion* “…that’s not my scent…”

• standing watch over you when you use a knife to cut vegetables — says, “are you sure you don’t need my help?” at least 5x in 2 mins, and still doesn’t leave after that

• stare wars with birds on a pole bc they felt offended by the birds staring first

• randomly, abrupt howling on some nights

“You take what I give you”

Acts as your personal bodyguard- will actually fight anyone for you

• loves to smell around your neck area- that shit kinda tickles tho

• (if your werewolf is male): “change out. that’s too revealing. you know men are dogs.” (lmfaooo? says who, the werewolf??)

• scolds you like a damn parent because you went outside at night for a few minutes to get some fresh air

• massages your thighs and feet

• physical contact is a must for them when watching movies with you

—————————————

Pile 2 | The Vampire

• “I ‘vant tu zuck yur blud.”

• a bit of a vanity monster (as most vampires are.) they like the way they look, and also care about how they present themselves to other people and most importantly, looking hot as hell in front of you, maybe too much at times. but from your pov, they really don’t have to try. they’re just naturally…wow. Breathtaking. HOWEVER!!! They use it to their advantage.

• Actual sass-squashes. They’re sassy and for no reason, but you can’t take them seriously when they are 😂😂

• intentionally AND unintentionally funny. like those characters on Disney channel shows that are like “oh yeah? try me” and then some bigger, buffer person comes in and they flinch a little. if you squint, you’ll catch a gulp in there too. it’s funny. endearing even. but they gotta own up to their mistakes and tone down on overcompensating. If there’s one thing they do, it’s to make up for what they don’t have.

• L-O-Y-A-L….by the time they get with you, at least. they might’ve had an…interesting reputation in the past. they might seem selfish bc of it—which is partially true. they can charm people to get what they want. They might/might have had a history of partying, hella socializing, hanging out w/ friends whenever they could (haha get it? hanging out? yk…vampire stuff…)

A total charmer and a flirt. They like to bicker and tease you; playful,, sometimes it’s cute…others, kinda annoying

• if you talk to this person seriously and in a calm and diplomatic manner, they’ll get a little defensive, yes, but A LOT less so than if you were yelling and screaming at them outright. if you both just sit down on the edge of the bed, tilt your head to a 45 degree angle and show your concerns, they’ll reflect and maybe deflect here and there, but they’ll think about it throughout the day.

• I think this person goes through varying phases of heat. (Prob not even the right word here but-) By that I mean, sometimes they wanna get down and dirty for 30 hours straight or just session after session after session nonstop—OR they take what they need and leave for a couple hours, come back again, take, and leave. This is odd at first, but it just comes with the moodiness they inherently have, possibly sticking to them from the past life. They might have suffered with commitment issues, and I don’t mean them per se, but the people around them that didn’t know how to love: family, friends, anyone that was close and left abruptly or never showed love. (Made me a lil sad there...)

• Love is complicated. They didn’t believe in it before and was confident they wouldn’t ever. But when you ask them “What do vampires think about love? Are you allowed to love?”, they turn their heads, take a moment to skim over your face in silence. Love…is what I’m feeling with you. They want to admit this, but vampires can’t feel. Would you even believe them? They don’t even know what love is. They don’t even feel heartbeats anymore, but for some reason, when you look into their eyes like that, there’s a different kind of pulsing. A surge of desire that courses through them, screaming at them to keep you forever. They can’t ever let you go now.

•^ This leads us to possessiveness. They are…*phew* VERY possessive and very dramatic/petty/easily sulky about it. You’ll lose your mind over it. If you do something as simple as shopping, they will follow. Too insistent and stubborn not to. What if you encounter another vampire living among the humans during the day, and suddenly, said vampire wants you too? Sure, they get burnt with a bit of sun, so what? They’d evolved enough to wear a million layers of sunscreen and a million layers of clothing over that, all dressed up like a moving heap of clothes. They care about how others might see them like this, of course, but in moments like these, they don’t care when you’re on the line.

• they’ve never really had their emotions looked at carefully or taken care of. It’s always just been brushed off, not only by themselves but by others as well. I personally wouldn’t doubt if they claimed to never have had real friends or friends that cared about the inside substance rather than the outer. Your fs just seems like they’re trying to fit in, be accepted and validated. You wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance, but as you gradually get to know them, you’ll find that their heart is barely being held together by makeshift glue.

Very in tune with their inner divine feminine energy,, not afraid to tap into it and explore that side more

Not that emotionally developed but has major potential to with the right teacher

Nurturing and caring, but might be materialistic or putting too much importance on the material/physical pleasures. Truly lives for the fun of it

Works hard, plays hard—and will shamelessly chase you

Knows exactly what to say and do that will rile you up. Knows all of your weak spots physically

Down to try anything and everything with you, no complaints

Sensual and passionate personality and in the sheets

Super open minded and curious, easygoing and has no expectations. Makes a lot of jokes too.

Daring, optimistic, brave and believes in no limits (but bc of this, they can be seen as naive or have an innocent nature inside.) Gets in half-fights/arguments w/ people for fun

A total switch in bed; can and literally will do/try anything

Now, dare I say…the FS for this pile have the best rizz and sex game

Some fs in here can get too naggy

They have a great fashion sense or an overwhelming appreciation for fashion, beauty, or aesthetics, and is more than willing to be involved in your fashion styles

Red flag moment: solves problems in your relationship w/ sex so that yall will just forget it and move on

In hindsight, this FS is so flamboyant or charming that you could get lost in what they’re trying to express. They’ve got very fiery energy (betting rn that they have extremely prominent fire sign placements).

P.S. yeah after writing this out and reviewing the format, seeing all the back and forth…pile 2 FS def has a perfection mask thing going on. They wanna make themselves appealing in one way or another, or the consequences will just break them into pieces. The last thing that they want is to be alone.

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Pile 3 | The Fairy

Alas, we’ve gotten to arguably the most healthy future spouse here out of the 3 😅 (and the most intuitive)

Introspective as hell and wise. Helps you with really anything

They’re ok w/ being alone; most introverted of the piles

Positive, hopeful, and optimistic when it comes to others. More pessimistic when it comes to themselves.

Balanced and a good mentor; suuuper patient (a lot of times to a fault)

Learns from their losses and mistakes and becomes a better person, improving almost immediately

Mediator type of person, but will defend you against others in argument—which they’ll win btw

They don’t like seeking help from others—if anything, your FS is usually the helper—even when they can ask for help right in front of them- even if it’s recommended to get help, they still won’t do it

Hella infj vibes tho (if you’re into mbti)

Every show of love is their love language. Bonus points if they wear matching clothes or secretly write poems to you that they’ll never tell you about

This future spouse group has the cheesiest and the sweetest person

Your person can lead a life more flexible financially than the other 2 piles

Also an all rounder! But thinks that they aren’t perfect when they literally are; struggles with their own low self-esteem so they try to build other people up

Putting others before themselves is second nature- they ALWAYS prioritize you or others; extremely selfless

^^Now, each fairy got a different role and purpose. The reasoning for your fs being overly selfless and self-sacrificial varies. The easy answer? Insecurity. Second? Obligation or a sense of duty. The list goes on…

They’ve got that Triple A Threat: Amazing Ass Adaptability. Your person has been thru quite a bit, hell and back. Sometimes, life just likes to mess with them for no apparent reason 🤷🏻‍♀️)

They’re always ready to face challenges; Incredibly strong person. They’ll be with you thru thick and thin!!

Strong sense of justice and equality. OH- and also they like traveling or would like to travel more!

A literal inspiration and hope (yes, with sparkles on top.) Not only do they inspire others, but your person—no matter how rock bottom you get—will never leave you.

gets jealous and easily possessive but doesn't wanna show it (shit's still pretty obvious tho)

The type that babbles their heart out when they get comfy with you. They don’t get like this with just anyone

Likely likes museums and art. Things that the media typically deems boring, weird, or unconventional your FS will prob find interesting. They like to look into deeper meanings and interpretations.

In bed, they’re pretty vanilla and soft. But are open to exploring things that aren’t too wild (like our vampire up above)

(Take this bit very lightly: I see that this person has grown up or has been around “broken” people their entire life, so they feel they need to take responsibility on behalf of those people. They might be some kind of counselor, mentor, or therapist. They’re prone to blaming themselves if situations take a bad turn or go unplanned. I’m also hinting here that some of your FS might have a savior complex, and not on purpose. They might always take some kind of leadership role or something directly beneficial to people- nurses, camp leaders, etc…)

They will take all of the burden so that you don’t have to

If your FS had any weirdo or pervy habits, it’d probably be compulsively stealing your panties or building a shrine with locks of your hair on it 😵‍💫 (which hopefully I hope doesn’t happen. I heard in some fairy folklore, they steal babies, like flying away with the newborn-in-a-basket typa thing- and for no reason too! Don’t let them steal yo babies now!!)

———————-

**Ending Teddy note:

As always, thank you so very much for tuning in with us! I hope you have a spooktacular Scorpio season as we are soon heading into it (depending on when you’re reading this), but really you can read this at any time. Rmr to take everything with a grain of salt! Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t. Stay safe out there and rock on people 🤩🤩 Feedback is very much appreciated in any form as it’d help me grow as a reader :)

*This is for entertainment purposes*

[creamflix]

ONCE MORE TO SEE YOU — toji fushiguro x female reader [oneshot]

summary: you’re a single mom with a schedule that leaves little room for anything but work and longing. twice a week, you get to hold your daughter close, pouring all your love into moments that always feel too short. across the hallway, there’s toji — a single dad who watches from a distance, arms crossed, jaw tight, as he wonders how you juggle work and parenting and still manage to make your kid so happy. at first, he’s envious. envious of your composure, your warmth, the way your daughter looks at you like you’re her whole world. but slowly, that envy shifts. what happens when two broken hearts start to lean on each other, finding strength in the spaces they thought would stay empty? can you let someone in without fear of breaking again? can he?

content warnings: fluff, slight angst with comfort. strangers to friends to lovers. slow burn. single parent/divorced (female) reader. single parent toji. reader has a girl [aged 8-9] no name specified, megumi is the same age as well. reader has a toxic/manipulative ex husband. happy ending. lot of feels. very personally penned </3 mentions of other characters: nanami, yuuji, nobara, gojo & sukuna

read on ao3!

toji didn’t usually care much about other people’s business, but you? you were impossible to ignore. 

it wasn’t just because your door slammed too loud when your kid came running out, or because you always seemed to be lugging some heavy-ass groceries up the stairs with that determined scowl of yours. it was how you did it all like some damn perfectionist. 

toji hated it. 

hated the way it made him feel like he should be trying harder too, especially when his kid, megumi, was busy leaving trails of destruction like a little tornado.

“megumi, stop throwing the damn ball against the wall!” he bellowed one evening, slumping further into his couch. the kid ignored him, of course. 

then, as if the universe hated him, your door creaked open, and there you were, strolling into the hallway like you had nothing better to do. arms crossed, brows raised, you peered down at him with that no-nonsense air of yours.

“maybe he’s bored?” you suggested, leaning casually against your doorframe.

toji snorted. “maybe he’s just an asshole.”

your face scrunched in disapproval, the kind he’d seen a million times from the PTA moms who used to glare at him when he showed up late to pick up megumi. but you didn’t launch into a lecture like he expected. instead, you glanced at megumi, who had paused mid-throw to stare at you, and crouched down to his level.

“hey, buddy,” you said, voice softening in a way that made toji’s stomach twist. “why don’t you try aiming for that spot over there?” you pointed to a section of the wall that wouldn’t drive everyone insane. megumi actually listened, and toji couldn’t decide if he was impressed or pissed off.

“what, you think you’re some kind of kid whisperer?” he muttered, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket.

you stood, brushing off your knees, and looked him dead in the eye. “no, but i know how to talk to them.”

toji scowled. “yeah, must be nice, being born with that magic ‘mom gene.’”

you blinked, then burst out laughing, and for some reason, that annoyed him even more. 

“mom gene? toji, i only have my kid on weekends. the rest of the time, it’s just me and a bottle of wine trying not to lose my mind.”

he frowned, caught off guard. “wait, what?”

“yeah, divorce does that to you.” your voice was breezy, but your eyes flickered with something darker for a split second. “not that it’s any of your business.”

toji chewed on that revelation, something prickling at the edges of his brain. you weren’t some perfect supermom after all. you were just...getting by, same as him. 

the realization didn’t sit well — it made you seem less annoying and more...real. vulnerable, even.

“huh,” he grunted, looking away, suddenly too aware of how quiet the hallway had gotten. megumi was still tossing the ball, but it was softer now, more controlled. “guess you’re not as put together as you seem.”

“and you’re not as big of a jerk as you seem,” you shot back, giving him a pointed look before retreating to your apartment.

toji stared after you, jaw tight, until the door clicked shut. something about you made him itch, made him feel like he needed to either punch a wall or figure out why he couldn’t stop thinking about how you smiled at his kid. 

damn it.

toji sat at the edge of his couch, one hand wrapped around a cold beer and the other flipping through a stack of bills. the TV was on, low volume, playing some mindless sports recap he wasn’t even watching. megumi was somewhere in his room, the faint clatter of toys filtering down the hall. the kid had been sulking since this morning, muttering about how “nobody does anything fun.”

he grunted, rubbing a hand down his face. it wasn’t like he didn’t want to take the kid out, but hell, it was hard enough keeping the lights on. trips to the park felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford — time or energy.

and then he heard it. your laugh, loud and unapologetic, echoing in the hallway like it owned the place. toji tilted his head back against the couch, scowling at the ceiling as if that would make the sound go away. it didn’t. instead, it was followed by the high-pitched giggle of your kid, shrieking with joy as the two of you stomped down the stairs.

“hold on, mama needs her shoes!” your voice floated up through the doorframe, playful but firm.

“hurry! we’re gonna miss the swings!” your daughter yelled back, her excitement enough to make toji wince. he could practically see the image of you two — hand in hand, all smiles, making your way to the park like you didn’t have a care in the world.

his jaw tightened. perfect. just another reminder of how much he sucked at this parenting thing.

he took a long swig of his beer and stared at the stack of bills like it was their fault he couldn’t be the kind of dad who made his kid laugh like that. no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t just...be you. he didn’t know how to make life look that easy.

“megumi,” he called, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

there was a pause, the kind that made him think the kid wasn’t going to answer, before a small, reluctant “yeah?” drifted back.

toji sighed, setting the beer down. “you wanna...go outside or somethin’?”

another pause. then: “what for?”

the response hit harder than he cared to admit. what for? shouldn’t his kid want to? shouldn’t he be the one excited to spend time with his old man? but megumi sounded skeptical, like he’d already decided it wouldn’t be fun.

“never mind,” toji muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “forget it.”

the sound of the door to megumi’s room clicking shut made toji’s shoulders sag further.

outside, your laughter faded, replaced by the echo of your footsteps retreating into the distance. he leaned back on the couch, staring at the flickering TV screen, feeling something in his chest tighten and pull.

toji didn’t know when exactly it had started bothering him — this stupid, begrudging little alliance the two of you had. you’d come over when megumi refused his medicine, talking to the kid with that low, steady voice of yours until he opened his mouth like it was no big deal. and toji would come over when your sink started leaking, muttering under his breath the whole time about how you should’ve called a damn plumber.

but this? this was different. it wasn’t about fixing a sink or calming a tantrum. it was about the fact that you always seemed to do better — better at this whole parenting thing, better at making life fun, better at...everything. 

and he hated that. hated how it made him feel like he was doing it all wrong.

maybe tomorrow would be different. maybe tomorrow he’d try harder. but for tonight, toji sat in the dim light of his living room, beer in hand, listening to the muffled sounds of megumi’s toys clattering in the other room, and let himself wonder — just for a second — what it’d be like to get it right.

your neighbors thought you had it all figured out — the strict yet cool mom who always had her shit together. you weren’t the one scrambling for groceries or apologizing to the pharmacist because you forgot to refill a prescription. no, your pantry was always stocked, the fridge had every snack your daughter loved, and there was always a pack of pads tucked in the bathroom cabinet, just in case. because if there was one thing you were going to do, it was prepare. even if it was only for two days a week.

but those two days weren’t enough. not for you, anyway. 

your daughter was happy, blissfully unaware of how unnatural this arrangement felt to you. she was too young to see what you saw, to feel the cracks in your chest every time sunday evening rolled around and your ex-husband came to pick her up. you watched her climb into the car without a second thought, giggling about whatever they had planned for the week ahead, and you stood on the curb with a smile that felt like it might crack your face in half.

because this wasn’t the norm. at least, it shouldn’t have been.

but she didn’t know that, and how could you tell her? how could you explain that the only reason the divorce had been so clean and quick was because you’d made sure it was? no yelling, no lawyers, no drawn-out battles over custody. you wanted it over before she could develop memories sharp enough to stick. 

and it worked — she was happy. unbothered. as if this was just how life was supposed to be.

you hated it. 

you hated it almost as much as you hated sitting alone in your too-quiet apartment for the other five days of the week, waiting. hoping. praying for something, anything, that would keep her with you longer.

sometimes, you’d stare at your phone, willing it to light up with a text from your ex. something like hey, last-minute work trip, can you take her this week? or she’s asking to stay with you, is that okay? 

but those texts never came. and your little girl never asked. she loved you, you knew that, but she didn’t need you in the way you wished she did. not yet. 

not like you needed her.

so, you waited. and in the waiting, you heard everything else. 

the muffled shouts of toji and his kid through the walls. the occasional crash of what was probably a wrestling match in their living room. the bark of laughter when megumi said something funny. the kind of noise that used to fill your own apartment, before the silence settled in like an unwelcome guest.

you missed that noise. you missed the mess of it, the chaos, the constant reminder that there was life happening right in front of you.

some nights, you’d hear megumi’s voice drift into the hallway, arguing with his dad about bedtime, and you’d feel a pang in your chest so sharp it made you suck in a breath. you didn’t even know what you were hoping for anymore — a reason to knock on toji’s door? an excuse to borrow sugar or offer some unsolicited parenting advice? maybe it was just the idea of not being alone that called to you, the longing for that noise to become a permanent fixture in your home.

but the door stayed closed, and you stayed on your side, waiting.

thanksgiving wasn’t something you cared much for anymore. your daughter was off with your ex, being doted on by her grandparents, and you were left standing in the middle of your apartment wondering what the hell you were supposed to do with yourself. the thought of spending the day bouncing from bar to bar, pretending like you didn’t care that you were alone, felt more pathetic than liberating.

you had just grabbed your coat, keys jangling in hand, when the knock came. not a gentle knock, either — a heavy, impatient pounding. opening the door, you found megumi standing there, arms crossed and wearing a scowl that was all too familiar.

“you need to come help my dad,” he said bluntly.

you blinked. “uh, what?”

“the turkey,” he clarified, rolling his eyes like you should’ve already known. “he’s gonna burn it. again.”

you almost said no. you really did. it wasn’t your problem if toji fushiguro couldn’t figure out how to roast a turkey. but then megumi fixed you with a look — stubborn, determined, his little fists clenching at his sides — and you saw your daughter in him. that same unyielding resolve she’d inherited from you. 

before you could stop yourself, you sighed and grabbed your shoes.

“fine,” you muttered. “but only because i don’t wanna smell burnt turkey through the walls for the next week.”

megumi led the way, not bothering to wait for you to catch up, and by the time you stepped into toji’s apartment, the chaos was already underway. toji was in the kitchen, glaring at the bird like it had personally insulted him, sleeves rolled up and hair a mess. megumi darted off to the living room, immediately digging through his toys, leaving you standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“you planning to just stand there, or are you gonna help?” toji barked without looking up.

“oh, i’m sorry,” you shot back, shrugging off your coat and stepping into the kitchen. “i didn’t realize i was signing up to save thanksgiving.”

“yeah, yeah, just don’t touch the knives,” he grumbled, handing you a bowl of stuffing. “last thing i need is you slicing a finger off.”

“cute,” you deadpanned, elbowing him out of the way to check the turkey. “you’re supposed to baste it, you know. not drown it in oil.”

toji huffed but stepped aside, muttering something under his breath about know-it-alls. for the next hour, the two of you worked in tandem — him grumbling every time you corrected him, you rolling your eyes every time he ignored your advice only to realize you were right. it was messy and loud, and megumi kept wandering into the kitchen to ask if he could “decorate the turkey” with his action figures.

“no,” you and toji said in unison, making megumi pout and stomp back to his toys.

you hated to admit it, but it felt...nice. domestic, even. like the kind of thanksgiving you used to dream about before everything fell apart.

when the turkey was finally done, golden and steaming, toji leaned against the counter, wiping his hands on a towel. “well, guess that’s not a total disaster,” he said, nodding toward the bird.

“you’re welcome,” you replied, smirking.

toji glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. then, in a tone that was almost shy — almost — he added, “you, uh...you should stay. for dinner, i mean. since you helped.”

you hesitated, the instinct to say no already on your tongue. but then megumi poked his head around the corner, grinning as he asked if it was time to eat yet, and something in your chest softened.

“yeah,” you said, surprising even yourself. “yeah, i guess i could stay.”

for once, you didn’t worry about whether it was selfish to want this — to sit at a table with someone else’s kid, someone else’s dad, and pretend, just for a little while, that it was your own family.

you barely had time to put your keys down when your daughter bolted out the door, still wearing her ballet costume — tutu, tights, and all. 

“where are you going?” you called after her, already regretting the question as you hurried to follow.

by the time you reached the hallway, she was standing in front of megumi, who looked as though he had just rolled out of bed. his hair stuck up in every direction, and he was clutching a carton of milk he’d clearly just retrieved from the grocery bag hanging outside his door. the poor kid froze like a deer caught in headlights as your daughter crossed her arms and declared, “you’re the same height as me. you have to practice with me.”

megumi blinked at her, then at you, then back at her. “what?”

“pirouettes,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing to her little satin shoes. “you just have to stand there and twirl, like this.” she spun in place, her tutu flaring out as she executed a clumsy turn.

“uh...” megumi glanced at the milk in his hand, clearly weighing his options. then, with a defeated grumble that sounded eerily like his dad, he said, “fine. but only for five minutes.”

you were about to step in, to scold her for bothering someone she didn’t know, but then megumi set the milk down and mimicked her spin, his movements stiff and awkward but surprisingly cooperative. the sight of the two of them twirling in the hallway — her with all the determination of a drill sergeant, him with the resigned patience of a kid who had long since accepted the absurdity of his life — made you pause.

“no, no, your arm’s supposed to go here,” she corrected, pulling his hand up into what you assumed was a ballet pose. megumi didn’t protest, just followed her instructions with a tiny scowl on his face.

you leaned against the doorframe, half-amused, half-stunned. the hallway was hardly the place for this — the flickering overhead light and slightly dingy carpet hardly screamed “dance studio” — but neither of them seemed to care. they were kids, after all. they didn’t need permission or a proper setting to make something fun out of nothing.

toji’s door creaked open, and he stepped out, rubbing the back of his neck. his eyes landed on the two kids, and his brows shot up. “what the hell’s goin’ on here?”

you smirked. “your kid’s being recruited as a dance partner.”

toji snorted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “looks like he’s takin’ it seriously.”

“he’s a good sport,” you admitted, watching as your daughter adjusted megumi’s stance like a tiny ballet instructor.

“yeah, well, don’t let him hear you say that. he’s already got enough of an attitude,” toji muttered, though there was a trace of pride in his voice.

you laughed softly, watching as the two kids twirled down the hallway like it was the most natural thing in the world. for a moment, you felt that familiar pang in your chest — the one that came from watching your daughter interact with someone so freely, so innocently. it reminded you of something you’d almost forgotten: kids didn’t care about the social rules adults imposed on them. they didn’t worry about boundaries or appearances. they just...were.

and maybe, just maybe, you could learn something from that.

you had rules. hard, fast rules you swore by, especially when it came to relationships. your daughter was your priority, and anything — or anyone — that complicated the fragile arrangement of custody and weekend visits was a hard no. 

you’d learned that the hard way.

it was supposed to be just another date. nothing serious, nothing special. just someone you’d met through a friend of a friend, someone who seemed decent enough at first glance. 

but “decent enough” didn’t cut it when he started poking around your home like it was his, asking invasive questions about your parenting and making himself far too comfortable in the space you shared with your daughter.

the final straw came when your girl, barely out of her toddler years, tugged on your sleeve and whispered, “i don’t like him.”

you snapped. you didn’t care about niceties or keeping things civil. your voice was sharp and unrelenting as you told him to leave, not sparing a second thought for his protests or excuses. when he didn’t take the hint, standing there like he had every right to argue with you in your own home, the commotion must have reached the hallway because toji showed up.

he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his eyes hard and unwavering. “you heard her,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge that could slice through steel. “get the hell out.”

the man hesitated, glancing between you and toji, before finally storming out with a string of muttered curses. the door slammed behind him, and you exhaled, your shoulders sagging under the weight of your anger.

toji didn’t say anything, just gave you a curt nod before disappearing back into his apartment. but his presence lingered, a silent reminder that someone else got it. someone else understood that when it came to your kids, there were no compromises. if they didn’t like someone, that was the end of it. no debate, no second chances.

because the truth was, kids had a steadfast sense of people. they could see what adults often ignored or rationalized away. and if your little girl didn’t like someone, then that was reason enough to show them the door.

it wasn’t about being strict or overprotective. it was about being selfless in the way only a parent could be — putting your child’s comfort and safety above your own needs, no matter how lonely or frustrating it could be. 

and as much as you hated that night, as much as it left you raw and questioning your own choices, it also reaffirmed something you already knew: your girl came first. always.

toji didn’t see the point of relationships. not when all he needed was a night of sex and no strings attached. a quick call, a casual meet-up, and back to their place or the backseat of his car — it was simple, clean, and didn’t involve his son. 

rules were rules. no bringing anyone home, ever. it wasn’t just about protecting megumi’s innocence; it was about maintaining some semblance of order in the chaos of their lives.

megumi wasn’t clueless, though. he’d catch on when his dad had a “special lady friend,” his young mind putting two and two together. but he never lingered on it — he was too preoccupied with his toys or his own little world to ask questions. still, toji made it a point to keep those two parts of his life separate. or at least, he tried to.

then there was that night. the one he wished he could erase entirely.

it started with a hookup — someone he barely knew, someone who got a flat tire on the way to meet him. she called him in a panic, and toji, feeling half-responsible, told her to wait downstairs while he scrounged up some cash to help her out. it was supposed to be quick, a simple transaction before he sent her on her way.

but when he opened his apartment door to check on megumi, there she was, standing in the hallway, looking between him and his son like she’d just uncovered some dirty secret.

“seriously?” she snapped, her voice rising. “you have a kid, and you didn’t tell me? what kinda man are you?”

toji froze, his jaw tightening. “it’s not like that,” he started, already regretting everything about this situation. “he’s my son, yeah, but —”

“oh my god,” she interrupted, her voice dripping with something he couldn’t quite place. 

“you’re a single dad? that’s so...hot. like, wow, you’re doing all this on your own? it’s inspiring.”

toji stared at her, horrified. was this some kind of joke? how the hell did she jump from being pissed to romanticizing his life? did she think being a single parent was some kind of aesthetic?

before he could say anything, you appeared from your apartment, drawn out by the commotion. one look at the scene and you put the pieces together — the woman’s flirtatious tone, toji’s visible irritation, megumi standing awkwardly behind his dad.

“are you serious right now?” you said, your voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “do you even hear yourself? you don’t just barge into someone’s home and start fantasizing about their struggles like it’s some rom-com plot.”

the woman blinked, clearly taken aback, but you didn’t stop. “being a single parent isn’t some cute little quirk, okay? it’s hard work. it’s messy and exhausting, and you don’t get to stand there and act like it’s sexy or whatever weird thing you’re doing right now. you’re embarrassing yourself.”

toji folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you with something close to amusement. “yeah,” he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “what she said.”

the woman huffed, muttered something about how she “didn’t mean it like that,” and stormed off, leaving behind a cloud of awkward silence.

you turned to toji, your arms crossed. “seriously, fushiguro? what the hell was that?”

“don’t look at me,” he grunted. “i told her to wait downstairs. didn’t think she’d take it as an invitation to meet my kid.”

“well, maybe next time, screen your hookups better,” you shot back before glancing at megumi. “you okay, honey?”

megumi shrugged, holding his pillow like it was a shield. “she was weird.”

toji sighed, running a hand through his hair. “tell me about it.”

as you headed back to your apartment, you muttered loud enough for him to hear, “unbelievable.”

toji couldn’t argue with that.

pta meetings were never on your radar — your ex had made sure of that. "you don’t need to stress about these things," he’d said, his tone dismissive, as if your role as a parent didn’t extend to showing up for your own kid. but the moment he insisted one too many times, you knew it was less about easing your workload and more about him basking in the spotlight of being the ever-dedicated single dad.

you weren’t having it anymore.

so, there you were, shuffling awkwardly through the school halls, feeling like a stranger in your own child’s life. asking for directions to the third-grade pta made you feel ridiculous, but not nearly as much as the sight that greeted you when you finally found the room.

your daughter sat next to her father, the picture of poise and politeness. her hands folded neatly in her lap, her back straight, nodding along as if she’d been practicing for a commercial. for a moment, you wondered if you’d walked into the wrong classroom.

but then her eyes flicked to the door, and the facade crumbled. she leaped out of her chair, her tiny legs carrying her toward you as she yelled, “mama!” loud enough to turn heads. the force of her hug nearly knocked the wind out of you, but you didn’t care. this — her joy, her excitement — was worth every awkward second of wandering the school halls.

your ex, however, looked less than thrilled. his jaw tightened, his smile turned brittle, and you swore his ears went red. 

“you’re not supposed to be here,” he hissed, his voice low but venomous. “we agreed —”

“you decided,” you cut him off, your voice calm but firm. “i have just as much right to be here as you do.”

your daughter, oblivious to the tension, looked up at both of you with wide, curious eyes. “but daddy said you don’t like school stuff,” she said, her little brow furrowed. “is that true?”

you knelt down, brushing a stray hair from her face. “of course not, sweetheart. i love being here for you. don’t ever think otherwise, okay?”

her face lit up again, but the moment was short-lived. your ex scoffed, muttering something under his breath about boundaries and making a scene. you felt the familiar heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck, the weight of the other parents’ stares pressing down on you.

and then, as if on cue, toji strolled in with megumi trailing behind him, looking as uninterested as ever.

toji’s eyes scanned the room, landing on the little drama unfolding between you and your ex. a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “looks like i’m not the only one dreading this circus,” he drawled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

megumi, clutching a slightly crumpled report card, muttered, “dad, can we just sit down?”

toji ignored him, stepping closer to where you were standing. “need backup?” he asked, his tone teasing but with a glint of seriousness in his eyes.

your ex bristled, standing a little straighter. “this isn’t any of your business.”

“maybe not,” toji said, crossing his arms, “but if you’re gonna start a scene in front of your kid, might as well make it entertaining for the rest of us.”

you bit back a laugh, your shoulders relaxing for the first time since you’d walked into the room. your ex muttered something incoherent before storming back to his seat, clearly deciding he’d rather sulk than argue with toji.

“thanks,” you said quietly, glancing at him.

“don’t mention it,” he replied, waving a hand. “besides, i could use the distraction. these meetings are the worst.”

megumi sighed dramatically, dragging his dad toward the nearest empty seats. your daughter tugged on your hand, pulling you toward her spot. “sit next to me, mommy!” she insisted, her voice brimming with excitement.

and just like that, the weight of embarrassment lifted. maybe the pta wasn’t so dreadful after all.

stationery shopping ranked high on toji’s list of things he’d rather not do. it wasn’t just the hassle of navigating cramped aisles and overly enthusiastic sales clerks — it was the quiet longing he saw in megumi’s eyes. his kid had always been practical, never asking for much. a pencil and eraser were all he ever said he needed. 

but toji wasn’t blind. he noticed the way megumi’s gaze lingered on superhero-themed pouches, colorful erasers, or fancy gel pens that clicked in three different colors.

today, however, megumi wasn’t eyeing superheroes. he stood rooted in front of the store’s most ridiculously pink setup — hello kitty galore. pink pouches, glittery pens, stickers with cartoon bows and sparkles. “what’re ya staring at, brat?” toji grumbled, leaning against the cart.

“nothing,” megumi mumbled, looking down at his sneakers.

toji raised a brow. “yeah, sure. ‘nothing’ has you glued there like a statue.”

“it’s for...her,” megumi muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

“her?” for a second, toji wondered if his kid had cooked up another imaginary friend. but then it clicked. “her” wasn’t imaginary — it was your daughter. ever since she had dragged megumi into practicing her ballet routine in the hallway, she’d been on his radar. toji had caught him talking about her in passing, dropping little comments about her sparkly shoes or how good she was at balancing on her toes.

toji scratched the back of his head, sighing. “alright, pick something out.”

megumi’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “really?”

“yeah, really. just don’t make me regret it.”

a few minutes later, toji was standing in line with a glittery-pen set, the kind of thing he never thought he’d buy in his lifetime. at checkout, he stared at the receipt longer than necessary, grumbling about how overpriced stationery had gotten. still, he couldn’t shake the thought of megumi’s sheepish little smile when he picked out the pen set.

later that day, toji knocked on your door, the pen set in hand. when you opened it, he held the package out awkwardly. “here,” he said gruffly. “megs wanted to give this to your girl.”

you blinked in surprise, looking between him and the gift. “oh, uh, thank you. that’s sweet of him.”

“yeah, well, don’t make a big deal out of it,” he muttered, already turning to leave.

“wait.” you disappeared into the apartment for a moment before coming back with a box in hand. “give this to megumi. my daughter won it in a raffle at school and insisted it was for him.”

toji frowned, taking the box. when he opened it, his jaw nearly dropped. inside was a limited-edition action figure of megumi’s favorite superhero, still in its pristine packaging. “seriously?” he asked, glancing up at you.

you shrugged, smiling. “she said he deserves it for helping her with ballet.”

when toji handed the box to megumi later, the boy’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “this is for me?” he asked, his voice almost disbelieving.

“yep,” toji said, leaning against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at his lips. “from her.”

megumi cradled the box like it was made of glass, his face lighting up in a way toji hadn’t seen in a while. “she’s...cool,” he mumbled, his ears turning red.

toji snorted, ruffling his son’s hair. “yeah, kid. guess she is.”

it started with the clatter of plastic pots and pans echoing in the hallway. toji peeked out, ready to bark at whoever was making the ruckus, only to see your kid — a whirlwind in a frilly dress — dragging megumi out of the apartment by his wrist. toji frowned, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “what’s she up to now?” he muttered to himself.

your girl had plopped her miniature kitchen set right in the middle of the hallway, setting it up with an authority that would make a professional chef jealous. “okay, megumi,” she declared, hands on her hips. “we’re playing house-house.”

megumi shuffled awkwardly, glancing at the scattered pink cookware. “uh...i don’t know how to play,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

your daughter waved off his hesitation with a dramatic flourish. “it’s easy! you’re the dad, and i’m the mom, and we make dinner together.”

toji suppressed a snort. the dad, huh? poor kid.

but then megumi, shifting uncomfortably, mumbled, “what’s...a dad supposed to do?”

your daughter blinked at him, pausing her bustling activity. “you don’t know?”

he shook his head, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“well,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, “my dad doesn’t play house-house much. but it’s okay! we’ll just figure it out.”

toji’s chest tightened at her words, his grip on the doorframe unconsciously tightening. he didn’t think a kid’s game could hit so close to home, but there it was. she said it so simply, so innocently, like it was a fact of life. and megumi just nodded, kneeling down next to her and fumbling with a tiny plastic frying pan, like he was trying to make sense of a concept he couldn’t quite grasp.

when he glanced across the hall, he saw you standing there. you weren’t smiling. the look in your eyes was a mirror of his own — quiet, pained recognition. you knew. how could you not? this was your life too, wasn’t it? this strange, fragmented version of what a “home” was supposed to be.

and for once, toji didn’t have a quip or a grumble. he just stood there, watching his kid try to figure out what “playing house” meant, wondering if maybe the real problem wasn’t the game at all.

there were days when the weight of work pressed so heavily on your shoulders, you didn’t know if you’d make it to bedtime without breaking. days when you stared at your laptop screen, the relentless deadlines pounding in your head, and wondered if anyone cared enough to ask how you were holding up. 

your daughter? what could you even tell an eight-year-old? that mamma’s work feels like it’s swallowing her whole? your ex? let’s not kid anyone — he didn’t give a damn.

so when you heard the faint knock on your door, you sighed, ready to dismiss whatever delivery or inconvenience had shown up at your doorstep. but it wasn’t a courier. it was megumi, standing there awkwardly, holding a casserole dish that looked far too heavy for him.

“uh, hi,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes. “my dad said you should eat this. and, um...are you okay?”

you blinked, caught completely off guard. “i — yeah, i’m fine. why are you —”

“dad said you looked ‘off.’” he shifted his weight, staring at the floor like the words were a script he was forced to read. “so he made food. and, uh...he said you should eat it. or something.”

you stared at the casserole, the steam fogging up the glass lid, before your gaze moved back to megumi. “your dad sent you?”

megumi nodded, still not looking up. “yeah. but also...uh, you shouldn’t be sad. ’cause my teacher says work is like a big test. and you can’t cry during tests.”

you let out a soft laugh despite yourself. “is that so?”

“yeah,” he said, more confidently now. “and also...you should have cookies after tests. or...or, like, cake. something sweet.”

you crouched down so you were eye level with him, your exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “thank you, megumi. you’re very thoughtful.”

he shrugged, his ears turning red. “it’s just what people do, right?”

“you’re absolutely right,” you said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “tell your dad thank you for the food, okay?”

megumi nodded, suddenly eager to escape, and darted back toward his apartment. as you stood, watching him go, you caught a glimpse of toji leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed, pretending like he wasn’t paying attention. your eyes met, and he gave a half-smirk, a silent acknowledgment that, yeah, he sent his kid over to do the emotional heavy lifting.

you didn’t know whether to laugh or roll your eyes, but as you brought the casserole inside and inhaled the warm, comforting aroma, you realized it didn’t matter. the gesture had worked. 

and for the first time that day, you felt a little less alone.

toji leaned against the garbage chute, the crumpled bag dangling from his grip like the weight of his entire day had been stuffed inside it. his head was pounding, his nerves frayed, and the sheer mental load of keeping everything together made his chest feel tight. 

just one drink, he thought. one drink to take the edge off. 

but the thought of megumi catching even a whiff of whiskey on his breath, of being the kind of dad who needed an escape like that, stopped him cold.

that’s when you showed up, bag in hand, hair disheveled from a long day. you gave him a quick glance, your usual mixture of mild irritation and casual acknowledgment, before tossing your garbage into the chute.

“you look like hell,” you said bluntly, folding your arms.

“gee, thanks,” toji shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “needed that.”

you didn’t flinch. instead, you just leaned against the wall beside him, watching as he seemed to wrestle with something internally. you weren’t dumb — you could tell when someone was running on fumes.

“you ever feel like you’re drowning?” he asked suddenly, surprising even himself with the admission.

you blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. “constantly,” you replied, your tone softer than usual. “but i’m guessing you mean with the whole...single parent thing.”

toji chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “ding, ding. i don’t know how you do it. you make it look...effortless.”

“effortless?” you raised an eyebrow, almost laughing at the absurdity. “you think i have it together? newsflash, toji: my kid’s with me two days a week. that’s not parenting perfection. that’s a weekend babysitting gig.”

“still,” he muttered. “you make those two days count. i see it. i hear it.”

you exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “look, i don’t have all the answers. but what i’ve learned? you can’t do it all. not perfectly. no one can. and pretending you can is just setting yourself up to fail. so...cut yourself some slack. you’re not screwing up as bad as you think.”

he stared at you for a moment, the words sinking in like drops of water on parched earth. it wasn’t a grand revelation, but coming from you — iron mom of the year — it hit different.

“you really believe that?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

you shrugged. “not always. but it’s what i tell myself when i feel like i’m about to lose it. sometimes it helps. sometimes it doesn’t. but it’s better than drinking yourself stupid.”

toji’s eyes flicked to you, his brow furrowing. “how’d you —”

“please,” you cut him off. “you think i don’t know that look? seen it in the mirror too many times.”

he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “you’re something else, you know that?”

“so are you,” you countered, nudging his arm lightly. “whether you believe it or not. and whether you’ll admit it or not.”

he didn’t respond, just stood there for a moment, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. and as you turned to head back to your apartment, he found himself standing a little taller, the crushing weight of the day feeling just a little lighter.he still wouldn’t call it respect. but maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hate you as much as he thought.

your ex’s text had felt like a sucker punch, the kind that knocked the wind right out of you. you’d stared at the message for far too long, rereading his smug little declaration: “taking her on a trip she’ll never forget. don’t worry about the details.” 

no invite for you, no mention of her asking for you — just a cruel reminder that he still had ways to hurt you. and for her birthday, of all things.

you spent the next two weeks in a fog. the silence in your apartment was deafening without her, no shrieks of laughter, no tiny footsteps running to show you her latest masterpiece. it felt like someone had pressed pause on your life, leaving you stuck in this unbearable limbo. every day you’d get up, go to work, and come home to the same aching emptiness. you even avoided the hallway, unwilling to face anyone — not even toji and megumi.

but then, one evening, as you were sorting through yet another pile of takeout containers, you heard a soft knock on your door. when you opened it, there stood megumi, clutching a piece of paper in his small hands. he shoved it toward you without a word, his face unreadable, before bolting back down the hall.

you closed the door, confused, and unfolded the note. it was written in uneven, colorful crayon strokes, the kind only a kid could produce:

dear y/n, pls come to my bithday party. we having cake and maybe pizza dad said okay i want you to come :) from megumi

your breath caught in your throat, and before you knew it, hot tears were streaming down your face. it was the kind of pure, innocent gesture that knocked down every wall you’d tried to build over the past two weeks. megumi didn’t know the weight of what he’d just done — how he’d given you a reason to get out of bed, to care about something again.

you clutched the note to your chest, letting out a shaky laugh through your tears. for the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of warmth. maybe you couldn’t be there for your own daughter’s birthday this year, but for megumi? you’d show up.

and maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t feel so alone.

toji swore he hadn’t stopped pacing since he woke up that morning. 

megumi’s birthday. 

the kid had been talking about it for weeks, dropping subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints about what he wanted. toji had done his best — got the decorations, ordered the cake, and even splurged on superhero-themed plates and napkins. but standing in the middle of his living room, now transformed into a battlefield of action figure balloons and capes, he couldn’t help but feel like a superhero himself — one on the verge of a breakdown.

megumi had insisted on handling the invites, which in hindsight might’ve been a mistake. the first arrivals were fine enough: yuuji and nobara, two of megumi’s classmates. yuuji was all boundless energy and chaos, while nobara strutted in like she was already running the place. “where’s the cake?” she demanded, hands on her hips. toji grunted and pointed toward the kitchen.

then came the wild card. the bane of his existence.

“tooojjjji!” gojo’s voice echoed through the apartment, loud and grating as ever. “heard there’s a party! didn’t wanna miss out.” he waltzed in, sunglasses perched on his stupidly perfect nose, a massive gift bag in hand that screamed overcompensating. toji pinched the bridge of his nose. why me?

and then, you. you stepped in, looking a little hesitant, holding a neatly wrapped present in one hand. megumi practically lit up when he saw you, rushing over to tug you inside. “you came!” he exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. toji froze for a moment, then scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

“didn’t think you’d actually show,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes.

“megumi invited me,” you said simply, smiling down at the boy. “couldn’t say no to the birthday boy, now could i?”

toji grunted in response, but deep down, he was relieved. somehow, having you there made the chaos of the day feel a little more manageable.

the party was... chaotic, to say the least. yuuji inhaled pizza like it was a sport and promptly threw up in the kitchen sink, much to nobara’s disgust. “ewwwww, you’re so groooossss!” she shrieked, dodging as yuuji stumbled past her. toji was already on the phone with yuuji’s older brother, sukuna, who arrived not long after, looking pissed as hell.

“i told him not to eat like a damn vacuum,” sukuna growled, hauling yuuji out the door.

megumi, meanwhile, didn’t seem fazed by any of it. he was too busy showing off his new action figures to your daughter, who somehow managed to make it to the party just a few hours before her flight. you and toji exchanged a glance — a silent acknowledgment that, despite the chaos, the kids were happy.

and somehow, so were you.

with your daughter off on her dad's two-and-a-half-week escapade, you found yourself with something rare and unsettling: free time. the emptiness of your apartment felt heavier without her laughter filling the corners, so you did what any sane, lonely adult would do — you forced yourself to go out. and somehow, somehow, you ended up on a date with nanami kento.

god, he was perfect. the kind of perfect that made your chest ache. polite, well-mannered, and respectful, with a quiet intensity that felt... safe. he opened doors, listened like you were the only person in the world, and didn’t even bat an eye when you cried mid-dessert about how surreal it felt to be treated so kindly. nanami kento was a unicorn in human form. you left the date with a full heart and a nervous little hope tucked away in the corner of your mind.

but with that came distance. maybe you didn’t mean to pull back from the chaotic warmth of your hallway interactions with megumi and toji, but it happened all the same. when megumi called out a soft “hi” as you passed him by the mailboxes, you offered a quick smile but kept walking. the sink had been dripping for days, but instead of knocking on toji’s door, you’d booked a plumber. you weren’t doing anything wrong, you told yourself — they were just neighbors. neighbors.

not friends. not anything more than the people across the hall. right?

toji, though, noticed. the absence of your knock, the way megumi seemed a little more sullen, staring at the hall like he was waiting for someone. “you think she’s mad at us?” megumi asked one evening, poking at his rice.

toji’s response was a noncommittal grunt, but the truth was, he didn’t know. for some stupid reason, the distance stung. not that he’d ever admit it. not that he had any right to care.

you were just neighbors, after all.

when your girl came bounding through the door, her face glowing from the trip, the first thing she asked wasn’t about you or the gifts she’d brought back. no, it was, “how’s gumi? how’s uncle toji?”

the question hit harder than it should’ve. you realized with a pang of guilt how much distance you’d put between yourself and the fushiguros. brushing it off with a casual, “they’re fine,” didn’t sit well either. so, when your daughter insisted on running over to their apartment to see megumi, you didn’t stop her.

watching her skip down the hall, you thought it’d all smooth over naturally. kids were resilient like that, weren’t they? but then she came back. and she was crying.

between her sobs and hiccups, you managed to piece together the story. megumi, sweet, awkward megumi, had exploded in a torrent of childish frustration. how your daughter hadn’t been around. how you hadn’t been around. how he thought you both didn’t care anymore.

you felt your heart shatter as your girl bawled into your arms, her small hands clutching at your shirt. “why’s he mad at me, mama? i didn’t do anything!”

meanwhile, across the hall, megumi was in tears too, angrily wiping at his face as he sat cross-legged on the couch. “i hate her!” he shouted, voice wobbling. “she didn’t even say hi! she just left like everyone does!”

toji sat there, looking at his son, the beer he’d been nursing now warm and forgotten. the kid’s words were like a punch to the gut. he realized, with sinking clarity, that megumi wasn’t just upset with your daughter. the boy was lashing out because he felt abandoned.

when the knock came at the door, it was no surprise. you stood there, your girl clutching your hand, both of you looking just as frazzled as toji and megumi.

“we need to talk,” you said.

“yeah,” toji muttered, stepping aside to let you in.

the conversation wasn’t easy, with both kids sniffling, glaring at each other, and clutching onto their respective parents like lifelines. but as you and toji sat there, stumbling through apologies and promises to do better, you realized how much you’d hurt them by pulling away.

“friends don’t do this,” your girl said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“yeah,” megumi added, glaring at his lap. “friends don’t just leave.”

and in that moment, you and toji exchanged a look. it was one of understanding, of shared guilt and resolution. you weren’t just neighbors anymore, were you? whether you liked it or not, you’d become something more — something messier, but ultimately worth fighting for.

the fight left behind a new set of rules — some spoken, others understood. your daughter would spend one hour with megumi every weekend, no negotiations. an additional hour was set aside for assisted ballet practice, with megumi reluctantly twirling around like an uncoordinated giraffe under her direction. and then, as if her creative pursuits weren’t already ambitious, she insisted on an hour of practicing makeup.

on a very, very unwilling toji.

the first time she smeared blush across his cheekbones, a bright pink mess, toji grumbled the entire time. “this is ridiculous. i look like a clown.”

“no, you don’t,” your girl countered with all the confidence in the world. “you look beauuuutiful.”

megumi snickered behind her, holding up a hand mirror so his dad could see the finished product. toji groaned, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest twitch of amusement.

you leaned against the doorway, watching the scene unfold. the shared giggles, the clumsy but earnest teamwork — it was loud, chaotic, and beautiful in its own way. this was right. this was what you hadn’t even realized you were missing.

and kento? well, the date you thought could be something turned into a friendship you didn’t know you needed. he became a quiet presence, someone who checked in, who made you laugh when work got overwhelming, and who offered sage advice about life when you needed it most.

“you’re doing great,” he told you once over coffee, his calm reassurance soothing the doubts that often crept in.

between the budding chaos in your hallway ballet classes, the makeup artistry sessions that somehow always ended with toji pouting in pink lipstick, and the quiet stability kento offered, you realized that life had settled into something messy, imperfect, but undeniably nice.

maybe it wasn’t what you’d planned. maybe it wasn’t ideal. but as your daughter twirled around the room, megumi trailing after her with hesitant steps, and toji scowled half-heartedly at his reflection, you couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

exam season brought chaos, but not the kind you'd expected. with your daughter spending extra time at her dad's house to focus on studying, the silence in your apartment felt foreign. that is, until megumi started showing up more often, knocking on your door with his usual grumbles.

"why isn't the test about superheroes or football?" he'd complain, dragging his workbook into your living room as though it carried the weight of the world.

you’d chuckle softly, pulling up a chair next to him. “if multiplication was about superheroes, what would the question even look like?”

megumi furrowed his brow, considering. “uh... like, if spider-man saved five people every day for a week, how many people would he save?”

you smiled, leaning in. “exactly. now, how would you solve that?”

somehow, tailoring the lessons to his interests worked wonders. before long, megumi wasn’t just tolerating study time — he was coming over more and more, plopping onto your couch like he lived there.

toji, on the other hand, didn’t know what to make of it. sure, he appreciated that you were helping the kid, but every time he walked past your door and heard megumi's laughter ringing out, he felt... off.

he chalked it up to jealousy at first. not the bitter kind, but the kind that made him wonder why megumi could so easily open up to you, share his frustrations and laugh like the world wasn’t on his tiny shoulders.

then there was the other feeling, the one he buried as quickly as it surfaced. it was... comfort. relief, even. seeing megumi so at ease with you, so happy, made something in his chest tighten.

it didn’t help that when megumi came home, he’d mention you in passing, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “she said i’d ace the test if i think about it like superheroes. she’s kinda cool.”

toji would grunt, pretending not to care. “yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable over there.”

but the truth was, toji couldn’t decide if he envied you for being able to connect with his son so easily or if he was just... glad. glad that someone like you existed in megumi’s world.

he wouldn’t admit it, though. not even to himself. instead, he shut the feelings down, brushing them off like they were nothing. because, after all, you were just the neighbor who helped out when needed.

right?

toji had every intention of marching into your apartment to retrieve megumi with a grumble about bedtime. the kid was always strict about his sleep schedule — how the hell had he fallen asleep at your place?

but when he stepped inside, the sight stopped him dead in his tracks.

there you were, sprawled on the couch with megumi curled up next to you, both of you out cold. the TV flickered softly, playing megumi’s favorite superhero show. the coffee table was a chaotic mess of open textbooks, scattered pencils, and hastily scribbled notes.

toji stood there for a moment, unsure what to do with the weird tug in his chest. the scene was... domestic. 

painfully so.

megumi’s head was resting on your shoulder, your hand loosely draped over his back like you’d done this a thousand times before. the way you were both nestled together was too natural for something that should’ve felt foreign. it made something warm and uncomfortable rise in toji’s chest, a feeling he wasn’t ready to name.

he took a step closer, leaning against the doorframe. his frown deepened, not out of anger but out of frustration — mostly at himself.

this wasn’t anything, right? this was just you being nice to his kid. helping him out with schoolwork and keeping him company because you were a good person.

but then why did his heart feel like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest? why did seeing you with megumi like that make his throat tighten?

toji ran a hand through his hair, sighing quietly.

“dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

he knew he should’ve woken the both of you up, taken megumi home, and gone about his night like this didn’t mean anything. but instead, he found himself lingering, watching the two of you for a moment longer.

did neighbors really do this? take care of someone else’s kid like they were their own?

and did neighbors treat each other with such quiet, subtle affection? the kind that slipped into actions rather than words — the casseroles when someone was too tired to cook, the soft smiles exchanged in passing, the way you’d text him about the latest sale on megumi’s favorite snacks?

toji shook his head, trying to shove the thought away. god forbid, he might actually like you.

it was supposed to be a normal monday morning. drop your girl off at her ballet studio, exchange a quick goodbye, and then head to work like it wasn’t eating you alive that she was growing up too fast.

but then toji came out, coffee in one hand and his other scratching the back of his neck as he leaned against the doorframe, clearly still waking up. “hey, kid,” he called to your daughter, motioning her over with a lazy wave.

what happened next made you freeze mid-turn, your keys jangling awkwardly in your hand.

toji knelt to her level, his gruff voice taking on an edge of sincerity. “listen up, girlie. when you’re up there, you give ‘em hell, alright? don’t let anyone tell you you’re not good enough. and don’t worry about messin’ up — just keep goin’ like it never happened.”

your daughter nodded with wide eyes, hanging on to every word, her little face lit with admiration.

and god, he was trying so hard to keep it clean. but every so often, a “shit” or “hell yeah” would slip out, sending her into a fit of giggles. she tried so hard to be serious, biting her lip to stifle her laughter, but the sheer ridiculousness of him attempting to be PG while still being him was too much for a nine-year-old.

megumi, standing nearby with his arms crossed, was clearly torn. his little scowl was stuck somewhere between annoyance at your daughter for monopolizing his dad’s attention and longing to be spoken to like that himself.

and your daughter? she latched onto toji like he was some kind of life coach, her arms around his neck, thanking him in that sweet, sing-song voice she always used when she was truly happy.

your fingers tightened around your keys as your chest did a stupid thing.

because here was toji, your grumpy neighbor who could barely keep it together when megumi so much as sneezed during homework time, and yet here he was giving your girl the kind of pep talk that should’ve come from her own dad.

and worse? she listened. eagerly.

you fidgeted with your keys like that’d distract you from the warmth creeping into your chest, from the realization that maybe, just maybe, this tough, foul-mouthed, perpetually tired man wasn’t just good with kids. he was good for you. god forbid, you might actually be falling for toji fushiguro.

it wasn’t your finest moment — double-booking a work meeting during your daughter's pickup. you were already spiraling into guilt, pacing the room while trying to find a way to make it work, when toji grumbled his way into volunteering.

“don’t make a big deal outta it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “she’s comin’ over for megumi anyway. might as well save you the trouble.”

you barely had time to thank him before he was out the door, keys jingling in his hand.

but what toji walked into at your ex’s house was far from what he expected.

your ex was already on some power trip, standing in the doorway like he owned the world. the smugness on his face was palpable, and it only got worse when he saw toji, a man who didn’t give a damn about puffed-up egos.

“oh, so you’re her chauffeur now?” your ex sneered, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

toji ignored him at first, his sharp eyes scanning past him to find your babygirl. she was standing behind her dad, clutching her little backpack like it was a shield, her lips trembling as she peeked at toji with wide eyes.

“c’mon, kid,” toji said, his voice softer than you’d expect from a man like him. he extended a hand, but your ex stepped in the way.

“you got a lotta nerve coming here,” your ex spat, crossing his arms. “what, you think playing house makes you her dad?”

toji’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he took a deliberate step forward. “nah,” he said coolly, his voice dripping with menace. “but i’m a helluva lot better at it than you.”

that set your ex off, his voice rising with insults and accusations, not even caring that his daughter was right there, watching the whole thing unfold.

and toji? he had it. his patience snapped like a brittle twig.

“y’know what’s funny?” toji growled, stepping so close your ex had to tilt his head back to meet his glare. “you’re standin’ here flappin’ your gums about bein’ her dad, but you’re too busy bein’ a selfish prick to realize what you’re doin’ to her.”

before your ex could stammer out another insult, toji hoisted your girl into one of his arms like she weighed nothing, shielding her with his broad shoulders as he glared down at your ex.

“don’t bother callin’. she’s got enough on her plate without dealin’ with your crap,” he bit out before turning on his heel and walking away, your girl clutching his shirt like it was her lifeline.

the ride back was quiet, your girl’s sniffles filling the air as toji’s hand rested protectively on the wheel. he didn’t say much — just an occasional grunt to reassure her. when they arrived, he handed her off to you without a word, but the fire in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

and you? you were floored. because for all of toji’s grumbling and rough edges, he wasn’t just stepping up when you couldn’t — he was fighting for your girl like she was his own.

evening walks were supposed to be your moment of calm, a chance to clear your head after a long day. but calm went out the window the moment you saw megumi in the park, his usual quiet confidence missing as a group of older kids cornered him.

his small frame was tense, shoulders squared, but you could see the way his hands trembled as he balled them into fists at his sides. it wasn’t like megumi to let himself be pushed around, but whatever the bullies were saying had struck a nerve.

you didn’t even have to get close to catch the cruel words that slipped out of their mouths.

“no wonder your mom didn’t stick around.”

“bet she took one look at you and ran.”

“you’re just some charity case with a deadbeat dad.”

your heart twisted at the look on megumi’s face — his jaw clenched, eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. you weren’t his mom, but you felt the instinctive flare of protectiveness that made you forget every rule of decorum.

marching over, you didn’t bark at the kids or shoo them off like some passerby might. no, you planted yourself right beside megumi, crossing your arms with a look so sharp it could cut steel.

“is there a problem here?” you asked, voice calm but carrying a weight that made the kids shrink back.

they glanced between each other, suddenly unsure. “we were just talking —”

“talking?” you cut in, your tone sharp enough to make them flinch. “sounds to me like you’re all just jealous.”

the kids froze, confusion written all over their faces. “jealous of what?” one of them finally asked, voice cracking slightly.

you placed a hand on megumi’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “jealous that you’ll never have the heart or the strength this kid has. it’s easy to gang up on someone when you’ve got a pack behind you. try standing on your own for once. but then again, maybe that’s asking too much.”

megumi didn’t say a word, but you felt him lean into your touch, his small hand brushing against yours as if testing its solidity.

the bullies sputtered, trying to save face, but one by one, they slunk away, muttering excuses as they disappeared into the distance.

the moment they were gone, megumi’s tough facade crumbled. his shoulders sagged, his head dropping as the tears he had been holding back finally spilled over.

you crouched down to his level, wrapping your arms around him as much as his wiry frame would allow. “it’s okay, sweetheart,” you murmured, brushing a hand through his unruly hair. “you’re okay now.”

and just like that, this tough, guarded nine-year-old melted into your embrace, his small sobs muffled against your shoulder.

you stayed there, holding him as the evening light faded, your heart breaking and swelling all at once. you weren’t his mom, but in that moment, you might as well have been.

toji wasn’t the type to lose his composure, not even when megumi brought home bruised knees or a bad grade. he was a man of steady hands and a guarded heart, but tonight? tonight was different.

he was sitting on the couch, beer in hand, when megumi hesitated in front of him, nervously fiddling with his sleeve. “dad, something happened today,” he mumbled, voice low.

toji raised an eyebrow, setting his drink on the table. “what kind of something?”

and then megumi started talking — about the bullies, about their cruel words, and then about you stepping in. how you stood there, firm and unyielding, pretending to be his mom without hesitation. megumi’s voice cracked when he got to the part where he cried in your arms, and toji swore he felt something shatter in him.

he didn’t know if it was anger, gratitude, or guilt — maybe all three twisting together into a storm that made his chest ache.

"you didn’t say anything stupid to her, did you?" toji asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

megumi shook his head quickly. "no, but... she was really nice. it felt... it felt okay."

toji sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back into the couch. he should’ve been mad. should’ve been upset at megumi for dragging you into their lives like that, but instead, all he could think about was the way his chest tightened at the thought of you.

he needed to see you. not because he owed you, not because of some sense of duty, but because the idea of you stepping up for his kid like that made him feel something he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

he stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. megumi looked up at him, startled. “where are you going?”

toji paused for a moment. “i’ll be back. don’t stay up too late.”

megumi didn’t ask questions, just nodded and watched his dad leave the apartment.

when toji knocked on your door, he didn’t even know what he was going to say. a simple “thank you” didn’t feel like enough, but what else could he offer? the way his hands flexed at his sides and the way his heart pounded in his chest betrayed the calm exterior he was trying to maintain.

when you opened the door, he saw the surprise flash in your eyes. “toji?”

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish — a sight you never thought you’d see. “can i come in?”

and that’s when you felt it too — something bubbling between you both, something that had been building for a while, but neither of you had been ready to face. until now.

toji stood there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his eyes flicking between you and the floor like the words he was searching for might be scrawled on the ground. he wasn’t the kind of man who talked about his feelings, let alone spilled them out like this.

but he had to say something.

“look,” he started, voice low and gruff, “i’m not great with... this kind of thing.”

you tilted your head, waiting patiently, and that just made it harder for him.

he huffed out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “megumi told me what happened today. how you... stepped in. and, uh —” he paused, almost wincing at how clumsy his words sounded, “ — just... thanks. for being there. for him.”

you smiled softly, opening your mouth to respond, but he held up a hand, cutting you off. “no, wait. i’m not done.”

he shifted, clearly uncomfortable but pushing through it anyway. “it’s not just today. it’s all of it. you’ve done more for that kid than most people ever have. hell, more than i probably have, and i’m his dad.” his laugh was bitter, self-deprecating. “you didn’t have to, but you did. and i —” he faltered, swallowing hard.

you could see it then, all of it — the gratitude, the guilt, the admiration, the something more he was too scared to name. it was all there, plain as day in the way he looked at you.

he sighed, shoulders slumping as if the weight of his words had exhausted him. “just... thanks. for him. for me. for... everything.”

and maybe you didn’t need to say anything. because as clumsy and awkward as his words were, you understood. you really did.

so you stepped forward, just close enough that he couldn’t avoid meeting your eyes anymore, and gave him a small, understanding smile. “you don’t need to thank me, toji. i care about him. about you both.”

something flickered in his expression — relief, maybe, or something even deeper. he nodded, just once, and it felt like enough. no confessions, no big speeches.

just this.

something had changed, though neither of you dared to put it into words. it was in the little things, the quiet moments that made your lives blur together in ways that felt natural, almost inevitable.

like how megumi, who usually kept his friends at arm’s length, started demanding your baby girl's presence at every outing, loudly justifying it as “she’ll get bored otherwise,” when really, he just liked having her around. and during those movie nights, when the kids were too engrossed in the screen, you and toji sat closer than necessary, your fingers brushing as you both reached for the popcorn. neither of you pulled away.

it was in how you became megumi’s loudest cheerleader at his little league matches, rivaling even toji’s booming encouragement. and the way he’d grin at you like you were the reason he hit that home run, his awkwardly mumbled, “did you see that?” enough to warm your heart.

toji wasn’t any different. no matter how busy he was, he showed up to every single one of your baby girl's ballet recitals, clapping so obnoxiously loud at the end that even the other parents gave him side-eyes. and after each recital, he’d crouch down, looking absurdly out of place with his towering frame, to tell her exactly how amazing she was — always with a teasing grin and a “guess megumi’ll have to step it up to keep up with you, huh?”

and then there were the practices. toji, of all people, trying to mimic ballet moves while your daughter giggled at how his long legs never quite landed in the right positions. megumi tried to feign disinterest but ended up joining too, his face as serious as ever as he attempted a plié.

you’d think the makeup thing would’ve been too much for him, but no. those butterfly-drawn cheeks and glittery nails stayed with toji for hours after your daughter left, and he never wiped them off — not until bedtime. megumi pretended not to notice, but you’d catch him smirking when toji forgot to scrub off a particularly bright streak of pink before heading out.

it all felt so... domestic. so easy. yet, neither of you dared to name it.

because neighbors helped neighbors, right? neighbors went to movies together. neighbors cheered for each other’s kids. neighbors shared popcorn and let their walls crumble, piece by piece.

this was okay. just neighbors looking out for each other. nothing more.

...right?

until it wasn’t.

you barely managed to get out of the cab, your heels clicking against the pavement, your dress clinging uncomfortably after hours of fake smiles and firm handshakes. all you could think about was peeling everything off, crashing into bed, and hoping the world would let you sleep in for once.

but then you saw him — toji, leaning against your apartment door, his broad frame tense, his head snapping up the moment he heard your footsteps.

"where the hell were you?" his voice was rough, low, but not angry. it was something else.

you froze, your bag slipping off your shoulder. “what are you doing here?”

his eyes, bloodshot and desperate, locked onto yours, scanning every inch of you like he was checking for injuries. “it’s one a.m., on a thursday,” he said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “your lights were off. you weren’t answering your phone.”

it hit you then — he’d been worried. toji fushiguro, the man who grumbled more than he talked, who deflected every feeling with a snarky comment, was pacing the hallway outside your apartment because he thought something had happened to you.

“i had a business meeting,” you said, the exhaustion seeping into your voice. “it ran late.”

but your explanation didn’t seem to matter. he took a step closer, his shoulders sagging in relief but still stiff with whatever storm had been brewing inside him.

“you could’ve told me,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “what if something happened? what if —”

“toji.” your voice was soft, cutting through his spiraling thoughts.

he stopped, his hand dropping to his side as he looked at you, his expression raw and unguarded. he wasn’t just worried. he was terrified. terrified that whatever this strange, fragile thing between you might be, it could slip away in an instant.

and before either of you could think better of it, you closed the distance. your arms wrapped around his torso, pulling him into a hug that felt as natural as breathing.

he stiffened at first, his body caught off guard, but then his arms came up around you, pulling you closer with a quiet exhale that sounded like he’d been holding it in all night.

neither of you said a word. you didn’t need to. whatever this was — this thing that had been building between you — it was no longer just neighbors helping neighbors.

it was so much more.

sure, the hug wasn’t something life-changing, but it definitely shifted something, like a tiny crack in the wall that neither of you were ready to knock down completely. there was this... tension now. not bad, not awkward, just there. like some invisible thread pulling you two closer, though never quite crossing a line — both of you too cautious, too unsure, to see what might happen if you did.

and damn those kids. they picked up on it almost immediately, their sharp little eyes catching every glance that lingered too long or every time toji grumbled just a little less around you.

megumi, of course, was the worst of the two, his quiet observations turning into pointed stares and a knowing smirk that made you want to sink into the floor.

“so,” he started one evening as he watched you and toji navigate an unspoken argument over whether you’d be the one to drive the kids to practice. “are you gonna be my dad’s special lady friend now or what?”

you nearly choked on air, and toji’s head snapped around so fast you were sure he’d pull a muscle.

“megumi,” toji growled, the warning clear in his voice.

megumi just shrugged, completely unbothered. “what? i like her. she’s nice. and you’re less grumpy when she’s around. that’s what matters, right?”

toji pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about smartass kids. but there was a faint flush on his face, one that made you glance away quickly before your own cheeks betrayed you.

megumi’s logic was simple, blunt, and so very megumi. but it stuck with you more than you wanted to admit. if he was okay with whatever this was between you and his dad, maybe... just maybe, that was enough.

you sat cross-legged on the couch, sorting through some old receipts and papers, while your babygirl sprawled on the floor with her coloring book. the soft scratch of her crayons filled the room, a soothing sound that made the evening feel warm and easy.

“mom?” she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet.

you glanced up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “yeah, baby?”

she didn’t look up from her coloring, her little fingers gripping the green crayon a bit too tightly as she focused on staying inside the lines. “i like him.”

you blinked, confused at first. “like who, sweetie?”

she paused, tilting her head as if the answer was obvious. “uncle jiji.”

the crayon stilled in her hand, and she finally looked up at you, her eyes wide and sincere. your breath hitched, a small wave of surprise washing over you.

“oh?” you tried to keep your tone light, your fingers fiddling with the papers in your lap. “why’s that?”

“he’s funny,” she said matter-of-factly, returning to her coloring. “and he’s nice. he always listens to megumi, even when megumi’s being bossy. and he told me i’m the best ballerina ever — even better than on tv!”

you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. of course, toji had said that.

“he’s just really cool,” she added, as if that sealed the deal.

you set the papers down, your chest tightening in a way that felt both overwhelming and oddly comforting. her words felt like a weight being lifted off your shoulders, one you hadn’t even realized you were carrying.

“you really like him, huh?” you asked softly.

she nodded vigorously, her pigtails bouncing with the motion. “yeah. and megumi’s cool too. he always shares his toys, even his superheroes. i think he’s my best friend.”

the corners of your mouth tugged upward as you leaned back against the couch. “well, i’m glad you think so, baby.”

“do you like him?” she asked suddenly, her eyes locking onto yours, filled with that unnerving, sharp perception only kids seemed to have.

your cheeks warmed, and you glanced down at the papers in your lap, pretending to shuffle them aimlessly. “well… yeah, i think he’s nice too.”

she studied you for a moment before shrugging and returning to her coloring. “good. because you’re happy when you talk to him. and he looks at you like daddy never does.”

your breath caught. her words were simple, innocent even, but they struck something deep. you reached out, smoothing a hand over her hair.

“you’re pretty wise for someone not even ten yet, you know that?” you murmured.

she giggled, leaning into your touch. “i know.”

as she went back to her coloring, you leaned back into the couch, letting the relief settle in. maybe she was right. maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. maybe… it was something good. something you both deserved.

toji sat on the worn couch in his living room, staring blankly at the muted television. the house was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle from megumi’s room. it should’ve been peaceful, but instead, it felt like the silence was screaming at him, pressing all those thoughts he’d been trying to ignore right to the surface.

what the hell was this?

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand down his face as he let out a low sigh. you were in his house so often now that it was hard to tell where the line was anymore. your girl's kid-sized ballet slippers were right by the door next to megumi’s sneakers. a casserole dish you’d returned sat drying on the counter. you had this way of slotting into his life that felt so natural it scared him.

did he want to address it? maybe. 

maybe not.

you were busy as hell — a working mom with your own kid to think about. toji wasn’t stupid. he knew what he came with. a nine-year-old son, a messy history, and enough emotional baggage to sink a ship. did he really want to drag you into all that?

but then there were moments, like tonight, when the kids had dragged you into some elaborate roleplay involving superheroes and ballerinas. you’d sat cross-legged on the floor, a makeshift cape tied around your shoulders, pretending to be "supermom," and he hadn’t been able to look away.

when you’d caught him staring, you’d just laughed, “what? do i have pizza sauce on my face or something?”

he’d grunted something noncommittal, shaking his head, but his chest had felt tight in a way he couldn’t explain.

and now, here he was, thinking about it again.

his thoughts were interrupted by the soft click of the front door opening. you peeked your head in, a sheepish smile on your face. “hey. sorry, megs forgot his backpack at my place. figured i’d drop it off before i forgot, too.”

he stood, shoving his hands in his pockets as you walked in, setting the backpack down by the door. you were still in your work clothes, your shoulders looking a little more tired than usual.

“you could’ve waited till tomorrow,” he muttered, his voice low but not unkind.

“it’s no big deal,” you replied, brushing him off.

he watched as you straightened, lingering in the doorway, and something about the way you hesitated made him speak. “you eaten yet?”

you blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “uh, no, actually.”

he motioned toward the kitchen. “there’s leftovers. you want some?”

your smile softened as you stepped closer. “sure. thanks, toji.”

as you walked past him, his hand twitched at his side, like it wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.

in the kitchen, you moved around like you belonged there, grabbing a plate and heating up the food. he leaned against the counter, watching you in silence, and for the first time, he let himself think about what it would mean to let this thing between you be more than unspoken.

“hey,” he said after a moment, his voice rougher than he intended.

you glanced at him over your shoulder. “yeah?”

he opened his mouth, then closed it, the words catching in his throat. instead, he just muttered, “nothing. never mind.”

you tilted your head, studying him for a second, before giving a small nod. “okay.”

but there was something in your eyes, like you knew what he wasn’t saying, and it made his chest ache.

he wasn’t sure if addressing whatever the hell this was would change anything, but seeing the way you fit into his life — into megumi’s life — made the idea of trying feel a little less terrifying.

it wasn’t like you and toji had made any grand declarations. it was all small things, gestures that felt normal but carried an undercurrent of something deeper. grocery runs were the easiest excuse. you’d bump into him on your way home, still in your blazer and heels, and he’d grumble about needing to pick up some snacks for megumi. before you knew it, you’d both be walking side by side, bickering over the best brand of chips.

“you’re seriously buying that brand?” you teased, holding up a bag of chips that toji had tossed into the cart.

“megumi likes ‘em,” he retorted, leaning on the cart with that stupidly casual confidence that annoyed you just enough to make your heart flutter. “and besides, it’s not like your kid’s picky when she raids our pantry.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled all the same, because he wasn’t wrong.

then there were the little fixes around your apartment that seemed to magically get done whenever toji was around. your leaky faucet, the busted door hinge, your temperamental car — he waved off every attempt you made to pay him. “mechanic perks,” he’d say with a shrug, wiping his hands on a rag and giving you a smirk that made you want to both thank him and punch him.

and those car rides? the ones where the kids didn’t even need to be there? yeah, those were starting to feel more like a habit. you’d offer to drop toji off after picking megumi up from practice, and somehow, the drive would extend into picking up your girl from ballet class.

“they gotta meet anyway,” toji would say, his tone so nonchalant it was almost believable. but the way his eyes softened when your babygirl came running out, arms wide open for both of you? that was something he couldn’t fake.

then there was the day your ex finally had enough of whatever this was. the two of you had shown up together, a united front, to pick up your daughter from his place. she’d lit up like a firework when she saw you and toji standing side by side, and you couldn’t help but revel in the sight of her running straight into toji’s waiting arms before hugging you just as tightly.

“this is the guy you’ve been parading around with?” your ex sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he leaned against the doorframe. “what, you think a deadbeat like him is an upgrade?”

toji’s posture stiffened, his grip on your daughter tightening just slightly as she clung to his neck. you opened your mouth to retort, but toji beat you to it, his voice calm but laced with steel.

“funny coming from you,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he stared your ex down. “least i actually show up for her.”

your ex faltered, his face contorting in anger, but he didn’t have a comeback. you didn’t stick around long enough for him to try.

as you buckled your daughter into the car, her voice piped up, innocent and bright. “jiji, are you coming over for dinner?”

toji glanced at you, and for a moment, something passed between you. a silent understanding, an acknowledgment of whatever the hell this was.

“yeah, kid,” he said, ruffling her hair with a small grin. “i’m coming over.”

and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were walking this road alone.

the house was warm with the kind of peace that only came after a long, chaotic day. your babygirl and megumi were a tangled heap on the couch, her tiny head resting on his shoulder while he leaned back with his mouth slightly open, fast asleep. the tv played muted scenes of superheroes saving the world, but the real action was in the kitchen, where you and toji stood shoulder to shoulder by the sink.

"you sure you’re not just washing that same plate for the third time?” you teased softly, nudging him with your elbow as he scrubbed with more focus than seemed necessary.

toji smirked but didn’t look up, his voice low and gravelly. “just making sure it’s clean. you don’t want megumi whining about leftover crumbs, trust me.”

you chuckled, rinsing another dish under the warm water, and for a moment, it was just the soft clink of plates, the jazz playing quietly from your speaker, and the faint sound of your daughter’s steady breathing in the living room.

but something was different tonight. the air felt heavier, charged, like it was holding its breath. you could feel it in the way toji’s arm brushed against yours as he passed a dish to you, in the way his fingers lingered a second too long when he handed you the towel.

“you really didn’t have to stay and help with this,” you said, glancing at him.

he shrugged, still not meeting your gaze. “figured i owed you. besides, you cooked. least i can do is clean up.”

his voice was quieter than usual, almost shy, and that wasn’t a word you’d ever thought you’d associate with toji fushiguro. it made something in your chest tighten.

you turned off the faucet, drying your hands as you looked over at him. he was still focused on the plate in his hands, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set like he was bracing himself.

“toji?”

he finally looked at you, and there it was — that softness in his eyes that he didn’t let show often. it made your breath catch, made the world feel like it had shrunk down to just the two of you standing in this little kitchen.

he set the plate down slowly, wiping his hands on a towel before turning to face you fully. for a moment, neither of you said anything. the jazz filled the silence, but the air between you was louder than words.

his hand came up hesitantly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his calloused fingers grazing your cheek. “you’ve been good to him, y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough but soft in the way he said it. “to us.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. all you could do was nod, your throat tight as you looked up at him. his face was closer now, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips like he was searching for something — permission, maybe, or courage.

you didn’t even realize you’d moved until your hand rested lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

and then it happened.

he leaned in, slowly, almost cautiously, and your eyes fluttered shut just as his lips brushed against yours. it was tentative at first, as if testing the waters, but when you didn’t pull away — when you leaned into him instead — it deepened.

toji kissed like he did everything else: fully, unapologetically, with an intensity that left you breathless. his hands found your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and you slid yours up to rest on his shoulders, feeling the strength there, the way he held you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.

the kiss wasn’t hurried or frantic; it was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every second of it. it was the kind of kiss that left your knees weak, your head spinning, and your heart pounding in your chest.

when you finally pulled back, both of you a little breathless, his forehead rested against yours.

“damn,” he muttered, his voice low and a little shaky.

you couldn’t help but laugh softly, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt. “yeah,” you agreed, your voice barely above a whisper.

the moment stretched between you, warm and heavy and perfect. and for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

megumi stirred awake first, his sharp eyes blinking groggily as he took in the scene. your baby girl was still curled up against him, her face smushed against his shoulder, and he wrinkled his nose, trying to shake her off gently without waking her. it was only when he looked over to the kitchen that he paused, his brain catching up with what he was seeing.

his dad. toji. standing ridiculously close to you by the sink, both of you talking in low voices like the world outside didn’t exist. toji’s hand brushed your arm lightly as he reached for a towel, and you laughed softly, a sound that felt too intimate for megumi to process this early in his half-asleep state.

“ugh, gross,” he mumbled under his breath, sitting up straighter and inadvertently jostling your babygirl awake.

she yawned, rubbing her eyes and giving him a confused look. “what’s gross?”

“nothing,” megumi said quickly, his face heating up as he avoided looking at her — or at the scene in the kitchen that was playing out like the ending of one of those superhero movies he loved but would never admit made him feel things.

by the time you and toji noticed the kids were awake, megumi had already schooled his expression into something neutral, though his sharp eyes flicked between the two of you as you made your way over.

“sorry for waking you up, sweetheart,” you said softly to your kid, crouching down to smooth her hair.

toji, ever the blunt one, crossed his arms and grunted, “time to get going, brats.”

megumi shot him a look, one that said you’re not fooling me, old man, but he didn’t say anything. instead, he stood up and stretched, deliberately not looking at how his dad’s gaze lingered on you for just a second too long.

at the door, the kids exchanged their goodbyes in their usual awkward but affectionate way — your baby girl giving megumi a quick hug that he tolerated with a huff.

toji ruffled megumi’s hair roughly, earning an annoyed grunt. “come on, kid. say thank you.”

megumi rolled his eyes but muttered a grudging, “thanks for dinner,” before looking up at you.

and then, because megumi was too perceptive for his own good, he added, “and for putting up with him.”

toji frowned, his brows knitting together. “watch it, smartass.”

but the way you laughed — soft and warm and filled with something megumi couldn’t quite name — made toji’s expression soften.

as you leaned down to hug your babygirl goodnight, megumi caught his dad watching you again, his face doing that weird thing it did when he was proud of a home run or secretly enjoying one of megumi’s superhero tangents.

“dad,” megumi said as they stepped into the hallway.

“what?” toji grunted, avoiding his son’s gaze.

megumi smirked, the kind that made him look way older than his nine years. “you’re doing that thing.”

toji frowned, feigning ignorance. “what thing?”

“you know. that thing my favorite superhero does when he saves his secret girlfriend,” megumi said with a dramatic air, glancing back at your door before looking at his dad again.

toji snorted, trying — and failing — not to look flustered. “quit it, kid.”

but megumi didn’t miss the way his dad’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. he knew exactly what was going on.

love? probably.

yeah, megumi was pretty sure his dad loved you.

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it was funny, really, how quickly time had flown. one moment, you were corralling a tutu-clad, glitter-faced babygirl to ballet class, and the next, you were breaking up arguments between her and megumi over whose superhero knowledge was superior. 

"they’re literally fake, megumi!" she'd shriek. 

"so are ballerinas in space!" he’d yell back. 

and there you and toji would be, slumped at the dining table, each nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee as you exchanged weary, knowing looks.

“how do ten-year-olds even have this much energy?” you’d mutter, pressing your fingertips into your temples.

toji, half-laughing, half-grumbling, would reply, “they don’t. they’re siphoning it off us.”

it had been a year and a half of this — this weird, beautiful, chaotic thing you’d built. the kids, their shared antics, and the way they declared every single dinner a sleepover had woven your lives together so seamlessly that it felt like you’d never been apart in the first place.

but the truth? the sleepover excuse wasn’t just for the kids anymore. you and toji had grown so comfortable in this rhythm, this routine, that it felt like breathing. and yet, there was still this unspoken thing between you, hanging in the air like a question neither of you wanted to ask.

it was easy to ignore, easier still to pretend that this was just how things were. you’d watch as toji threw his head back in laughter at one of megumi’s sarcastic comments, his broad shoulders shaking, or when he’d lean in to help your girl tie her ballet shoes — his fingers oddly gentle for someone so rough around the edges. those moments made your heart ache in ways you didn’t want to name.

and then there was the way he looked at you when the kids weren’t paying attention. like when megumi would drag your babygirl out into the yard to “train” her in superhero moves, and you’d catch toji’s eyes lingering on you just a second too long.

“what?” you’d ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

“nothin’,” he’d say, but the way his lips twitched into a small smile betrayed him.

but you knew it wasn’t nothing. it hadn’t been nothing for a while now. and maybe it was time to stop pretending.

your ex hadn’t made it easy, of course. every time he paraded some new flavor of the month in front of your girl, you’d see the disappointment in her eyes, and it made your chest tighten. but then there’d be toji — steady, dependable, his quiet reassurances and the way he always managed to make her smile again.

“he’s better than dad,” she’d told you once, out of the blue, her voice small but firm.

and maybe that was the final nudge you needed.

the night felt heavier than usual, the quiet hum of the dishwasher and the occasional creak of the floorboards the only sounds accompanying you as you stood side by side in the kitchen. toji rinsed the last plate, handing it to you with a quick glance that lingered a little too long.

“they’re getting wilder,” he muttered, nodding toward the living room where your girl and megumi were sprawled on the sofa, limbs tangled as if they'd fought sleep until it finally won.

you chuckled softly, drying the plate and setting it aside. “they’re ten. this is the warm-up for what’s coming in a few years.”

he let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair. “don’t remind me. thought i’d have more time before the hormones kicked in.”

you smirked, leaning against the counter as he dried his hands on a dishtowel. it was domestic in a way that felt almost too intimate, like crossing an invisible line. and yet, neither of you had stepped back.

“toji,” you said, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

he looked up, the weight in your tone pulling his full attention. “yeah?”

you hesitated, biting your lip as you fidgeted with the edge of the dish towel. how do you even start this? you thought about the past year and a half, the shared laughter, the quiet moments, the way his presence had become a constant in your life. the way your girl lit up when he was around. the way you lit up.

“this,” you finally said, gesturing between the two of you, your words coming out softer than you intended. “whatever this is... do you think we should talk about it?”

his brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, your heart sank. but then he nodded, setting the towel down on the counter.

“i’ve been thinkin’ about it,” he admitted, his voice low.

“and?” you prompted, your heart pounding in your chest.

he sighed, leaning against the counter beside you, his gaze fixed on the floor. “look, i’m not great at this kinda thing,” he began, his fingers tapping absently against the edge of the counter. “but... you’ve been good for me. for megumi. hell, for both of us.”

your breath caught, and you turned to face him fully. “toji...”

he held up a hand, cutting you off gently. “lemme finish,” he said, his voice a little rough. he looked at you then, really looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to figure out how to say something he’d been holding onto for too long.

“i didn’t think this was gonna happen,” he said finally. “not for me. not again.” he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “but you... you made it so easy. like it’s not somethin’ to be scared of. like it’s just... there. y’know?”

you nodded, your throat tight as you listened.

“and it’s not just about me,” he continued, his voice softening. “it’s about them. megumi... he’s happier than i’ve seen him in years. and your girl? she’s somethin’ special, and the way you’ve raised her... damn.” he shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “you’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

you felt your cheeks heat, and you looked down, trying to compose yourself.

“so yeah,” he said, his voice steady now. “i don’t know what this is, but if you’re askin’ me if i want more of it... then yeah. i do.”

your breath hitched, and when you looked up, the sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten.

“toji,” you said again, your voice barely above a whisper. “i’ve wanted to say something for a while now, but I didn’t know how. you’ve been... everything we didn’t know we needed. me and my girl. you’ve been there in ways no one else ever has, and it’s just... it’s so easy with you. i want this too.”

his lips curved into a small, relieved smile, and for a moment, the weight of the unspoken words between you lifted.

“yeah?” he asked softly, his voice almost teasing.

you smiled back, nodding. “yeah.”

and then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he reached out and pulled you into a hug. it wasn’t rushed or desperate — it was steady, grounding, the kind of hug that felt like coming home. and when he whispered, “i’m all in if you are,” into your hair, you felt the last of your hesitation melt away.

because with toji, love wasn’t just a possibility — it was a promise.

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another two years later, and the kids were twelve. twelve. a big deal, according to them. suddenly they were "basically teenagers," and with that came a whole new level of attitude and pride. and you and toji? you were more than grateful for the chaos. or, as he liked to tease, “engaged to it.” yeah, engaged. took the man long enough — three and a half, maybe four years — but who’s counting?

your kids, of course, had taken the news with the kind of casual confidence only twelve-year-olds could muster. “about time,” megumi had muttered, earning an elbow in the ribs from your girl, who’d just grinned and said, “told you he liked her.”

and publicly? they carried themselves with the kind of poise that made you and toji bite back laughter more than once. “yeah, that’s my dad,” your girl would say with a shrug as toji dropped her off at ballet, towering over all the other dads and somehow looking both intimidating and incredibly proud as she disappeared into the studio.

megumi was just as bad. “that’s my mom,” he’d say to anyone within earshot at his little league games, pointing you out as you cheered the loudest from the stands, sometimes alongside toji who couldn’t help but smirk at your enthusiasm. “and yeah, that’s my sister,” he’d add, nonchalantly, as if it wasn’t a big deal that they’d practically become inseparable siblings over the years.

of course, behind closed doors, they were just kids. kids who still watched superhero movies while pretending not to, kids who choreographed ballet routines to superhero soundtracks because cool kids don’t watch superhero movies.

and you? you were still on that hustle, balancing work, motherhood, and planning a wedding with the kind of grace that made toji shake his head in awe every time.

“how do you do it?” he’d asked one night, watching you juggle your laptop and the kids’ school schedules.

“coffee and pure spite,” you’d replied, smirking over the rim of your mug.

toji, though? he’d built something solid too. his mechanic shop was finally open, a dream he’d quietly nurtured for years. seeing him in his element, sleeves rolled up, hands covered in grease, and that signature smirk plastered across his face, was enough to make your heart skip a beat every damn time.

life wasn’t perfect — there were still late nights, homework battles, and the occasional tantrum — but it was good. no, scratch that. it was damn good.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost. banners by cafekitsune — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

[rafecameronssl4t]

Unfinished Lap || F1 driver!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: One moment, Rafe was dominating the race; the next, it all slipped away. You tried to steady his rising emotions, but his frustration overwhelmed him, leaving you no choice but to walk away from the paddock.

Warnings: angst, kinda toxic!rafe if there’s anything else lmk!

Word count: 1,865

A/n: nfl!rafe x dcc!reader later today!!! (Second part is up!)

MASTERLIST (F1 driver!rafe x fem!reader au masterlist)

“No! No! What happened?” Rafe’s voice crackles through the radio, his panic lacing every syllable as the chaos unfolds on the screen. Your gaze flickers back to the broadcast, watching his Ferrari crawl around the track, smoke billowing from the engine.

One moment, he was dominating the race, leading effortlessly—now, he’s barely moving. A mechanic’s voice cuts through the air, sharp with frustration. “His engine’s fucked,” a mechanic mutters, his voice heavy with disappointment. The team around them exchanges grim looks, all too aware of what this means for Rafe.

In your head, you can already hear his inner monologue—his fury at the failure, his frustration bubbling to the surface. Rafe was the kind of guy who measures his worth by every lap, every second on the track. Failure doesn’t sit well with him—especially failure that isn’t within his control.

You swallow the lump in your throat. The best you can do now is try to stay positive, to soothe the storm he’s bound to unleash on himself. But you know how hard that will be. Rafe is a perfectionist. The smallest misstep, the smallest flaw, eats away at him. Problems that he can’t control, like this—like his car giving out—will be the ones that break him.

Your gaze shifts back to the screen, where Rafe’s car is now completely immobilized. Smoke still rising, he’s done for the day. You exhale sharply. The screen zooms in on him, his face a mask of frustration. He’s already agitated, you can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way he rips his gloves off his hands. You sigh, half in pity, half in resignation, when hand suddenly appears on your shoulder.

Austin gives you a sympathetic look. You force a smile, trying to lighten the moment, you both know the storm Rafe’s about to bring. You watch as the safety car pulls up in front of the garage, Rafe soon emerges, his movements stiff, every step heavy with the weight of his disappointment.

He walks past his team, offering a few terse pats on the back, but his face is an unreadable mask. It’s clear he’s holding everything inside, and that’s never a good sign. When he finally approaches you, your heart sinks. You open your arms, ready to offer the comfort you know he needs.

But Rafe, eyes dark with frustration, only snakes his hand briefly around your waist, his touch cold, distant. “It’s okay-“ You start but is cut off my him, “It’s not. It was a fucking shit show, so don’t say that it’s okay,” he spits, his voice low but sharp, full of venom as he practically hisses the words into your ear before brushing past you.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. His words hit harder than you expected, the sting of them sharper than you imagined. You can feel your heart beat erratically in your chest, a mix of shock and hurt washing over you. You scoff, trying to hold yourself together, trying not to let his outburst tear you apart.

His behavior is worse than you thought—this rage, this venom he’s spewing, it’s not just at the race. It’s at everything. And you, standing here, helpless to make him see reason, feel like the target. Rafe’s PR manager, Mia, watches the exchange from a distance, her eyes filled with sympathy.

You give her a small, dismissive wave, brushing off the weight of the situation as best as you can before turning sharply to head toward Rafe’s room. You close the door behind you, and the silence envelops you both. Rafe sits hunched over, his head in his hands, but when you speak, he doesn’t respond.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, your voice soft but firm as Rafe lifts his head from his hands. His eyes lock onto yours—cold, distant, unreadable. The usual fire you know him for is gone, replaced by a storm you can’t understand. You step closer, your heart tightening in your chest as you meet his gaze. “You know that, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just stares at you, his jaw clenched tight, his expression a mask of frustration. There’s something else behind his eyes, something that feels like defeat. “I don’t need your sympathy, Y/n,” Rafe mutters, the words barely escaping his lips, low and edged with annoyance.

You flinch, but you don’t back down. You refuse to let him push you away, not now, not when he’s clearly falling apart inside. “I’m not trying to pity you,” you reply softly, crossing your arms as you take another step forward. “I’m trying to help you.”Rafe growls under his breath, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“I don’t need help. I need things to fucking work out for once,” he snaps, the bitterness in his tone cutting through the air like a blade. Your chest tightens at his words, but you stay calm, your hand trembling slightly as you reach out to him, your fingers running through his hair, offering a fragile comfort.

You lean his head against your stomach, holding him in the way you know he needs, even if he doesn’t want it. “You were doing great out there, Rafe,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t your fault the car broke down. You couldn’t have known—”

“Just stop, Y/n,” he interrupts, his voice rising, harsh and guttural. He jerks his head away from your touch, the movement quick and sharp. He stands up abruptly, pacing away from you as his frustration boils over. “I’m fucking tired of this. Tired of everyone pretending like it’s fine when it’s not.”

You watch him, unsure of how to respond. He’s pacing now, back and forth, his movements agitated, like he’s trying to escape the tension that’s building up inside of him. The room feels smaller now, and you feel more distant from him than ever before. “Why do you have to keep pretending everything’s okay?”

He spits, his eyes flashing with something fierce, something you can’t quite pinpoint. “You keep telling me I’m fine- that I did well- but it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s not fine.” You stand frozen, trying to make sense of his words, your heart sinking with every second. “I’m not pretending, Rafe,” you say softly, trying to make him see, trying to make him understand.

“I know you hate losing, but you were amazing out there. I just… I just don’t want you to beat yourself up over something you couldn’t control.” “You don’t get it, do you?” he snaps, his voice breaking with the weight of his own frustration. “I don’t need your fucking sympathy. I don’t need you trying to make it better with your damn words. Words don’t fix this.”

The sting of his words hits you like a slap in the face, but you hold your ground, refusing to let the hurt show. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Rafe. You think I don’t know how much you’re killing yourself over this? You’re destroying yourself from the inside out when things you can’t control go wrong. But I can’t just sit here and watch you do that to yourself.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes with a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want your fucking help.” His voice is cold now, empty of anything resembling warmth. He sinks into a chair in the corner of the room, slumping back as if the weight of the world has finally crushed him under its pressure. “I’ll deal with it myself.”

You stand there for a moment, the silence deafening, before the frustration boils over, spilling from your lips before you can stop it. “I’m sorry for caring about you,” you mutter bitterly, the hurt in your voice unmistakable as you turn away. You can’t stand to be near him right now, not when he’s pushing you away like this.

You grab your bag, the strap slipping off your shoulder as you prepare to leave the Ferrari garage. Your pace quickens, the footsteps echoing too loudly against the concrete floor. The people around you, the team members, staff, mechanics—they all seem to part in front of you, but their gazes follow you, like they know something’s wrong.

And it makes everything worse. As you make your way towards the exit, Austin steps into your path, his eyes scanning you with concern. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, his voice low but urgent. You freeze for a moment, his gaze locking with yours. You don’t even know how to begin explaining what just happened.

The words that Rafe had spat at you earlier still sting, his anger, his frustration—none of it was about you, but somehow it felt like it was. “I… I need to get out of here,” you mutter, trying to sidestep him, but Austin’s hand gently grips your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

It’s as if he’s waiting for you to break down, to tell him what’s going on. But you can’t. You just can’t. You feel your chest tighten, your throat constricting. Every part of you wants to leave, to get away from the suffocating atmosphere of the garage, the pitying looks, and the questions you don’t want to answer.

“I… I just can’t right now,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t want to break down in front of him, especially not here. Not now. Not when everything feels like it’s crumbling around you. You shake your head, blinking away the tears threatening to fall. “I just need space,” you choke out, your voice cracking under the weight of it all.

“Please, I just need to go.” Austin doesn’t stop you this time. You step out of the garage, the cool air hitting your face, but it does nothing to numb the pain inside. As you walk past the crowd, the stares feel even sharper now, their judgment cutting through you like a knife. You ignore them, but the weight of their eyes only adds to the heaviness in your chest.

“Y/n, why are you leaving so soon?” A voice calls out from behind, but you don’t turn. Paparazzi surround you almost instantly, their cameras flashing in rapid succession, each click a reminder of the chaos you’re trying to escape. You keep walking, your head held high, your face stoic, their questions are nothing but noise.

You reach your car, your hands trembling as you unlock it, your phone buzzing relentlessly in your pocket. Your phone buzzes in your pocket again, persistent, like it won’t let you escape. You pull it out, knowing who it’s from before you even look at the screen. Rafe’s name is there, multiple texts, all apologies and pleading, the usual dance he does when he’s trying to fix something.

But this time, you can’t bring yourself to read them. Not now. Not after everything that just happened. You scoff, a bitter sound, the frustration and hurt bubbling up again. With a harsh swipe, you shove the phone back into your bag and slam the door of your car shut, the sound of the engine roaring to life offering you a strange kind of relief.

PART TWO HERE

[kamisatomay018]

I’ll Always Stand Up For You

Zayne x fem!reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst with lots of comfort and love, him being protective over reader. Reader is not MC. Mentions of childhood trauma and toxic parents and family members.

Plot: you take him to meet your family after the two of you got engaged, upon his insistence. What he never knew was just how bad the situation at your home truly was. But one thing is clear: he will not sit quietly and listen.

The day Zayne proposed was the happiest day of your life. He was everything you could’ve ever asked for. He made you the happiest woman alive, and taking this next big step with him felt so right.

Even though his parents were always travelling around in the most perilous locations in the world, upon hearing of the news of your engagement, they immediately came to linkon, absolutely overjoyed for you both. Zayne was ecstatic to see his parents again; and your time with them was filled with laughter and nostalgic conversations of when the two of you were young.

Being with his parents seemed to heal a deeply wounded side of you, one that had never known the comfort of parental love and warmth. Zayne knew that your relationship with your parents was…strained, to put it lightly. And so seeing you bond with his parents, laugh and converse with them warmed his heart.

But then came the dreaded moment you had been praying earnestly to avoid: Zayne requesting to pay your parents a visit. He had been very patient and understanding, reinforcing the fact that he would never force you to go if you truly did not wish to see them again. But being the traditional man he was, he wanted your parents to know that their daughter was getting married. He didn’t care if they gave their blessings or not, he simply wanted his conscience to be clear.

You had been very hesitant about the matter, as it had been years since you had left your parents’ house. Each day you had spent living with them was pure agony: they seemed to hate you for simply existing. All your life, you tried to do everything you could to make them proud, to make them happy and become worthy of their affection. But you couldn’t even come close. They would always compare you to your older sister, reminding you that you would never be able to live upto her legacy.

Each word they had spoken haunted you well into your adulthood. You grew up to become a perfectionist, deeply insecure of your own abilities and deathly afraid of failure, of not being good enough. Zayne was the only person who had been able to help you through it, even though many a times he didn’t even realise that his quiet and gentle assurance was healing something he had never broken.

He had been your pillar, always supporting you and believing in you. He had loved you when you felt undeserving of it, he had cradled you through failure and cheered you through success. He was your everything.

Which is why you decided to agree to his request. Even though Zayne knew of your difficult relationship with your family, he never fully knew just till what extent it used to go to, because you had been too traumatised to speak of it, and he never pressurised you. He instead focused on making every day you spent with him the happiest day you could possibly imagine.

So here you were, sitting beside Zayne in front of your parents, staring blankly at your plate of food. To say that your parents had been baffled hearing of your engagement was an understatement. After all, they never thought someone would want to marry you. And the moment they saw Zayne, the epitome of perfection in a man walk in, they were certain you had either threatened him, or manipulated him into marrying you.

The conversations between Zayne and your parents had been…Stressful. The way they spoke so condescendingly of you while covering it up with mock laughter baffled him. But he wanted to be a respectful gentleman, so he would refute their every nonsensical claim with high praise of you. He boasted proudly of your achievements in linkon, of your success. But to his utter astonishment, they never seemed to care, only talking endlessly about their older daughter. What was wrong with these people?

He regretted asking you to come here so much. Seeing how quiet and dejected you had gotten only pained him further. So he would hold your hand, squeezing it softly as if he was apologetic, which he truly was. You only gave him a soft smile in response, not wanting him to feel guilty.

For a while everything was quiet as lunch was served. But of course, your parents had to stir up trouble.

“So Zayne, does this girl cook for you or not? When she was here, she would barely get out of her room. I hope she’s not that lazy anymore?” Your mom said, once again covering up the insult aimed at you with laughter. You stopped chewing immediately, feeling sick to your stomach. God, when would this end.

Zayne’s patience was running thin now. Respect be damned, he would not stand this behaviour anymore. He looked at your mother with cold eyes. “Ma’am, I asked her to be my wife, not my servant. As a doctor and her fiance, I generally like to prepare healthy meals for the both of us daily because she works very hard. And at night, we cook together.”

Your mother scoffed at that, glaring at you. “How could you make your fiance cook for you huh!? He’s a doctor, a renowned one at that! Do you think you work so hard? God knows how you managed to seduce such a perfect man, and now you don’t even treat him properly!? Your sister deserves him, not you!”

Tears filled your eyes as you felt the wounds from your childhood reopen. You looked down, breathing shakily. That didn’t last long though as Zayne stood up abruptly, his eyes glaring daggers at your parents. His evol caused the temperature in the room to drop, signalling just how angry he had gotten.

“Enough is enough. How dare you insult my fiance like this? All evening I have watched you tear her down, insult her and disregard her achievements. And now you have the audacity to raise your voice at MY soon to be wife? I did not come here to watch you ridicule the love of my life. People like you should be ashamed to even call yourself parents.”

You looked up at him through teary eyes, your heart skipping a beat. No one had ever stood up for you like that, no one had ever fought for your respect the way he was doing right now. Your parents were stunned, scrambling for words to respond with.

“Your daughter is the most precious woman I have ever met in my life. The most thoughtful, loving, kind and beautiful girl that I never thought fate would bless me with. Every day, she makes me so proud, and I feel blessed, knowing that I get to spend the rest of my life with her. I feel nothing but pity and anger for people like you, because you are too narrowly concerned with yourselves and your older daughter. This is the last time you will be seeing or hearing from either of us. Oh and, do not even try to expect an invitation to the wedding.”

Zayne then looked at you; your teary eyes hurting his soul. But he smiled at you reassuringly, holding your hand as he lead you away from the wretched place. He would make sure to love you even more to replace the pain your parents had inflicted on you in all these years. As soon as you both reached near his car, he pulled you into an embrace.

“I am so unbelievably sorry my love. I should’ve never asked you to do this..”

You shook your head, looking up at him with teary eyes. “No zayne, in fact..I’m so glad you did..” you cupped his cheeks softly, holding him close. “Do you have any idea just how much you’ve healed me, when you never even broke me..? And what you did back there..I never felt so loved and protected before. No one has ever stood up for me like that..”

Zayne felt his eyes soften so much, as he held your hand, kissing your knuckles. “I will always stand up for you. You are my pride, you are my strength and you are my love. I am the luckiest man ever to have you in my life, my jasmine.”

You felt yourself smile so much, the inner child in you healing after so many years because she knew that her knight in shining armour was here now. With his protection, no one would harm you again.

Author’s note: hii you guys I hope you enjoyed reading this! Should I turn this plot into a series for the rest of the boys? Lemme know in the comments or feel free to send in any requests you have!🫶

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT ─── cillian murphy ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I am turned inside out by the ache in your voice, the taste of your tongue." — ‘Afternoon Masala: Poems’, Vandana Khanna

pairing. cillian murphy x actor!reader

summary. you and your co-star, cillian, are having a hard time performing a sex scene for your movie. they do say, however, practice makes perfect.

warnings. swearing, thigh-riding, creampie, p in v, unprotected sex, mentioned/implied age gap, probably inaccurate depictions of actor-life, mirror sex, slight breeding kink, kinda innocent reader(?), AU cillian murphy (not married/no kids), SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 4.5k

a/n. this is not in any way meant to disrespect cillians wife😭 i js made this a not married AU to be convenient!

i.

“Cut - cut, cut!” The director repeated, his increasing irritation colouring his voice completely. “Now, I said it earlier, but—“

You scrubbed your face with a sigh, getting up off of Cillian and the desk, who was propping himself up by the elbows. “It’s not passionate enough,” you finished flatly for your director, who nodded earnestly. 

“I promise, this is as tiring for me as it is for you. Remember,” the director continued, the script half curled in his hands and making a thin flapping noise, “it’s the culmination of six months of pining. Six months of taboo, unrelenting, electric tension. Nothing more than stares in class and brief touches- you are supposed to be bordering feral for one another.”

You, and your co-star, Cillian, were currently filming the first sex scene of a movie portraying the forbidden, toxic love affair between a barely 18 teenage student and her much older teacher. Well, not exactly filming- you weren’t getting far with the scene, for the two of you just couldn’t get it right. Or, as the director liked to say, passionate enough. 

The role was already incredibly taxing, even without the added stress of the sex scene: it was 20 hour work days, living on set in a trailer far from home, having to devote at least half of those hours to filming this very sex scene, and had a perfectionist director like yours. 

The problem was that it was long, and the director wanted it done in one take. Brilliant man, he was, and had a love for this project you wished every director had for theirs, but he was adamant on it being done perfectly. He said it was intended to be the “primary and most iconic” scene of the entire film, for it was the crux of the story; the point of no return for the characters. 

“With all due respect, I’ve never imagined such a scenario, much less had experience. Just how can you expect me to portray a student-teacher romance accurately?“

“That’s your job: to imagine and perform.” The director demanded, obviously up to his ears in frustration.

Just before you retorted irately, Cillian cut in smoothly. “I think what she means,” he said, watching the veins in the director’s forehead nearly burst, “is that it’s hard to perform because it’s not common. S’easy to act in love because there’s love all around, yeah? We don’t have much to go off of, visually.”

The director’s gaze rapidly flitted between you and Cillian for a moment, before letting go of his anger and sighing wearily. “You’ve never even thought about a superior that way? Someone older than you?” he pressed, obviously joking and trying to lighten the set’s mood. 

You paused, and tried not to look at Cillian, your blatantly gorgeous forty-something co-star who was chosen for this role firstly, because of his stellar acting and secondly, because of how fucking attractive he was. 

His character was a total fucking creep, and you knew casting Cillian had been a calculated choice; all in the name of making the audience’s guard come down to be smacked in the face by his immorality later. He was meant to be charming, handsome, and terribly, totally, off-limits: the object of completely forbidden desire, the line your character was desperate to cross. 

It seemed the same in real life, too: the young inexperienced actress wanting to ignore those societal niceties and pine wholeheartedly over the middle-aged actor with decades of knowledge under his belt. 

You weren’t, like, in love or anything, but you certainly reveled in his presence: he was patient, kind, and completely understanding of your lack of experience, always guiding you through all the steps an actor takes during filming like when to take off hair and makeup, what best to say to family and friends prying for details- all the things, he said, he wished someone told him when he was first starting out. 

You were afraid you two had unknowingly fallen into a mentor-mentee dynamic, but there were always those spare moments, between hearty fits of laughter and silly conversation that you’d never expected to come from such an intimidating man as Cillian, where his rough hands would brush past your waist, gaze dragging up and down your body, sounding sensual and provocative despite nothing dirty leaving his mouth at all. 

He made your insides pulse, especially when your more intimate scenes came about, and you could only have a lusting woman’s pipedream that he felt the same. 

You still remember the first sequence you’d done with him: in the movie, your characters met after-class to make up for a missed exam, and it was the start of their corrupt attraction. Cillian had been pressed against your back, leaning over you to pressuringly peer at the test, large hand gripping your shoulder. The air felt steamy then, his body warm, low voice making you feel lightheaded as he recited his lines. 

You shivered at the remembrance of the moment, coming back to reality, and you answered the director’s question with a vehement shake of the head. 

The director let out a (strained) laugh, and smacked his palm lightly with the script, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Okay, we’ll - we’ll break for today. Take this extra time to imagine, research, anything- just practice the scene, alright? Practice makes perfect.” 

You and Cillian nodded simultaneously, giving eachother a look that just screamed “he’s ridiculous” before tearing away from each other's stare to return to your trailers. 

Later, you were getting ready to go to bed, peeling your freshly showered hair out of a small towel, when there was a knock at your trailer door. 

“One second,” you called out, pulling on your silk sleep shorts. You vaguely registered how awkward it might be to be seen in your pajamas if the director or one of your fellow actors came about, but you were way too tired to care. 

You did care, however, self-consciously crossing your arms and covering your thinly-clothed chest, when you opened the door and there on the steps stood your co-star, Cillian.

Before speaking, he looked you up and down, icy blue eyes gleaming behind an unfamiliar pair of tortoise shell frames. “You goin’ to bed?” he finally asked, tone husky. 

His gaze lingered on the bare skin of your legs for a few seconds longer and you shifted uncomfortably, crossing your ankles together in a poor attempt to hide yourself. 

“What do you need?” you asked briskly, more sharp than you meant it to be. 

“Sorry,” he corrected himself, shaking his head and finally looking you in the eye. “I meant’a come by earlier… got caught up. I know this, ah, sex scene is tripping us up, so…” he trailed off, lifting up the white script he’d been holding behind his back. “Y’up for some practice?”

You blinked rapidly at the simple, innocent request. Mere rehearsal, not some lecherous late-night escapade you’d been dreaming up in your mind. “Oh… yes, of course,” you nodded numbly, moving out of the way to let him step in. 

Only moments later, when he’d perched onto the edge of your vanity — looking uniquely casual in what you assumed was his version of pajamas: baggy gray sweatpants and a fitted, well-worn black t-shirt — did you realize the connotations of rehearsing your sex scene. 

Sure, it was all pre-determined, every word you’d say and every action you’d perform, but still. Saying- and doing, such suggestive things after-hours? That was beyond your dirtiest fantasies.

However, you shook yourself internally: Cillian had come to rehearse the scene with professional intentions. Honestly, he’d probably done so because he was tired of you messing up the scene. He could do his own part masterfully, and you knew that if it’d been a better, more experienced actress by his side, filming would’ve moved on ages ago. 

You took shaky, tentative steps near him, settling on your bed, watching him flip through the script— when he looked up and frowned. 

“What’re you doing? Come here,” he gestured for you to come closer, almost a command. “We don’t have a desk, so we can use your vanity.”

You nodded, biting your lip and nervously complying with his words. “So, we’ll start from the beginning?” you asked, your voice -- and legs -- suddenly feeling terribly weak.

His eyes were still trained on the paper as he answered. “Not necessarily. The sex part s’really the only thing we’re having trouble with, yeah?” 

You gulped, throat dry. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

With that, he chanced one last look at the script, before diving into the scene. His actions were ones you were extremely familiar with, having attempted this scene everyday for at least a week now. 

His body turned to yours, hands coming up to your jaw, and pressing your back onto the table slightly. He held you tightly, and made you look at him, while delivering his lines softly, memorable Irish accent replaced by his character’s generic American one.

Jiltedly, you did the same, poorly remembering what you needed to say and dragging through it like some amateur. “Fuck, sorry,” you cursed suddenly, tearing away from his touch and sighing. 

He gave you a small, careful smile, immediately breaking out of character and taking a step away from the vanity. “No need t’be nervous. Practice makes perfect, right?” 

You snorted at his quoting of the director. “I just… I don’t know what he means by passionate. I’m trying to be professional about this but - but I’ve seriously never been in some steamy love-affair.”

“Can’t really expect that of you, can we? You’re too young, too much’ve a good girl for that kinda ‘ting.” He said, hand coming up to your shoulder, the one where your silk tanktop’s spaghetti strap had slipped off, rubbing it soothingly. 

You practically melted into a puddle at both the pet name and how the rough pads of his fingers brushed against your sensitive skin. You were so entranced you almost whined when he stopped and pulled up your fallen strap, but instead you wordlessly snatched the script that was dropped onto the table and found one of the lines, inhaling sharply and readying yourself. 

Your hand came up to tug on the sleeve of Cillian’s shirt, as dictated by the script. “Sir, please,” you whispered out in your character’s high pitched voice, “I - I… want you to touch me.”

“This is -- wrong. I’m your teacher, and I…” Cillian responded, swiftly back in character, the back of his palm grazing your cheek. “I gotta break your heart, darling.”

You looked up at Cillian, summoning crocodile tears to fill your gaze. “Please. I need you.” Then, one of your clammy hands ran down Cillian’s chest as you spoke, like it did back on set. “I think of you, at night. I soaked through my shorts the day you scolded me.”

You heard Cillian’s breath hitch- his character, you reminded yourself. “Fucking hell… I think of you in class, sweetheart,” he growled out perfectly. 

So far, so good, you thought. It wasn’t awkward, and was already miles better than the lackluster performances you’d given previously. You continued by leaning into Cillian’s touch, making him sit on the vanity— the part of the scene you’d gotten to this morning, before the director called cut.

This time, however, Cillian’s actions differed from the ones he was supposed to perform: instead of petting the crown of your head, his fingers trailed down your hips, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’ll be good for you, sir,” you recited, face growing hot as his hand inched closer to the curve of your ass. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

Cillian’s gaze had darkened now, flitting over your features. He didn’t say his line - or, had at least missed the timing, and you removed your hands from his body worriedly. “Are you alright—“

Before you could finish your sentence, Cillian had grabbed you by the ass, switching your places and setting you down on the edge of the vanity. 

“Cillian!“ you squeaked out, the only thing you could really say as you processed what exactly just happened. Your mind was swimming with confusion — and anticipation — as he stood before you, legs pressing on either side of your knees and trapping you on the vanity. 

“Improv,” he promised quietly in his telltale Irish accent, a sly wink appearing on his sharp features. 

You bit your lip, nodded, and repeated your line. You trusted him to guide you — and the rehearsal — because, as mentioned before, he did these kinds of things often. If he thought you’d act better if you sat on the vanity, you’d sit on the vanity. 

His hand then pet your hair, the other hand coming up to your chin and making you look up at him. “Whatever I want?” he murmured, back on track with the script. 

You bat your lashes at him. “Everything. I’m yours.”

Now, this is where you thought Cillian would stop— because after your line came the kissing and the touching and the heavy petting: all things you thus far hadn’t filmed at all, because you couldn’t even get the dialogue out right. 

Instead, he leaned down and began to press hungry kisses down your neck, making you gasp.

“What are you—“

“Shh,” he demanded softly, “it's all part of the scene, remember?”

You blinked dumbly, mouth opening and closing, unable to register a coherent thought or word. He said it was part of the scene but you’d read that script, and his teeth nipping lightly at your skin was not written anywhere within it.

But, you gulped down your thoughts, and belted out several more of your lines in tandem to his own. With his other hand gripping your thigh so tight you thought it might bruise, you were starting to think that maybe this was one of those lecherous late-night escapades you were dreaming of. 

All you’d been doing was acting, like he’d asked, but still, you could see clear as day how that’d affect him— how easily it could be to succumb. After all, you were just barely restraining yourself from jumping his bones: how could you not, with his gorgeous face just inches away from yours?

Well, acting or not, you’d enjoy every minute of this.

When one of his hands began playing with the waistband of your shorts as he suckled on your pulse, that just right spot on your neck, you couldn’t help the whimper that left your mouth. 

However, the noise seemed to startle him; jumpshock him back to reality, and your suspicions became completely confirmed when he pulled away from you roughly. 

“Fuck, I’m—“ a pained grimace washed over his features, looking you up and down like he just realized what he’d been doing. “I don’t know what came over me, I— shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

You stared at him, body disappointed at the lack of touch, watching him press his pink lips into a conflicted white line. “What - what d’you mean?”

His gaze coursed over your every feature, so intently you thought he was admiring your face. “I can’t— we can’t happen. Y’too young, you’re, you’re too…”

“Then we can stop. If that’s what you want,” you murmured coyly, hand coming up to pick a piece of thread off his thin shirt. “But only if you ask. C’mon, say it: I don’t want you and I want this to stop.”

He groaned, biting his lip. “Don’t do that. I can’t do that.”

“Do what?” You tilted your head to the side. 

“Tease. Because you know I won’t tell you to stop. ‘Cause I won’t be able to fucking control m’self,” he grumbled, before pressing a desperate, deep kiss to your lips, pulling you off the vanity and continuing down your chest.

“Then don’t. Take me for everything I have,” you whined, following his every move and manhandling touch. 

He breathed heavily between kisses. “Saying those kinds’a words with that pretty voice of yours… fuck, you’re doing things to me.” 

Your hands were trailing all over his body, and then you tugged his shirt off, desperate to feel him. He had similar thoughts, fingers dipping into your silk shorts and petting your hot mound. 

“Need you,” you panted, and, at your words, he suddenly tore off your silk shorts and panties in one clean go, making you shiver.

He then sat down on your vanity chair and roughly grabbed you by the hips to place yourself onto one of his thighs. The thick fabric of his sweatpants, taking in your wetness like a sponge, made you wince.

“Go on then,” he demanded darkly, “get y’self off on my fucking thigh. Show me how bad you need me.”

You bit your lip, face burning with shame at the order. But there was an aching need in your gut, and the way he crossed his arms, watching and waiting for you to get the hell on with it, had you clenching around his thigh.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, and you began slowly rutting against him, the soft fabric of his pants doing poor work for pleasuring your core. You pressed your face into his shoulder, screwed up at the lack of friction. 

“Can’t do it,” you whined, “Please.” 

He rolled his eyes. “You said you needed me. You’ve got me,” he gestured to his thigh, “so get to work.” Then, he suddenly flexed, making an unwarranted mewl leave your mouth.

You wanted nothing more than his fucking cock, but here you were, pathetically pleasuring yourself on his thigh until he allowed otherwise. You nodded resignedly, and dug your fingernails into his shoulders, starting to set a steady pace of grinding down on him, slowly building up the heat within your insides. 

You were moaning now, vigorously dragging your hips against him harder, needier, feeling the pressure in your cunt grow hotter and more rampant. 

“Y’hear that?” He asked, one of his fingers tilting your chin back up to face him. “D’you even realize how fucking delicious you sound, all needy f’me?”

You nodded, but weren’t really paying attention: you were closer than ever, just moments away from falling off the edge— when Cillian stopped you. 

“Stop,” he spoke, voice filled with sheer lust, and you whimpered at the abrupt loss of momentum. Then, he got up, holding you against him by the waist, looking down at his sweatpants. “You made such a mess… soaked all over m’pants.”

You didn’t — no, couldn’t respond to his musings, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to return friction to your needy pussy, biting down on your lip to muffle your breathy pants. 

He noticed this, however, smirking and quickly pressing you stomach down onto the vanity. You caught a glimpse of yourself for the first time since your shower, and you flushed with shame: your eyes were heavy-lidded and dilated, lips pink and slick with drool, your brows in a perpetual knit.

You looked fucking filthy, and when you felt Cillian press his thick head to your entrance, something you hadn’t noticed he’d pulled out, too enraptured in your dirty expression, you shut your eyes. 

You were suddenly so much more aware of the situation: you’d fucked yourself silly on your co-stars thigh, the co-star who was twice your age. He now knew you weren’t a talented aspiring actress, no, you were just a desperate little thing begging to be fucked. 

“Hey, hey,” He tutted in mock-disappointment, “open your eyes, and fucking watch yourself. It’ll be good for our scene.”

You whimpered helplessly, obeying him and fluttering your eyes open, as he pushed his cock past your dripping folds inch by inch. 

“Oh my god,” you cried out when he finally pressed all the way in. You felt so full, stretched to the brim with his hardened cock, so deep his balls touched your sticky clit.

“So fucking wet,” he commented, chuckling darkly behind you. You were totally slick, helping him enter you faster, but his cock was still a foreign intrusion to your inexperienced cunt: you were young, and had never been the type to “get around” — at least not with the intentions of getting fucked so much you could take any length of dick easily. 

You clenched around him, a groan leaving his mouth at the increased pressure around his cock, and he snapped into you, making you bounce forward as your lips parted with a sweet moan. 

You’d been focussed on his face, in the mirror, but Cillian’s hand suddenly tangled through your hair, grabbing a fistful of it and lifting your head to face yourself. “I told you to fucking watch yourself,” he spat, gripping your hair tightly. “you’re the reason we can’t wrap up, so do your job and fuckin’ practice.”

With that, Cillian started pounding into you, digging the rough pads of his fingers into your hip, and you would’ve protested such a fast progression — having been given barely any time to get used to his long cock — but your expression was even worse than before, if that was even possible. 

Your mouth was open, tongue out and panting like a fucking dog, your lustfully sticky spit spilling down your chin to your chest, and your eyes were rolling into the back of your head with each hearty thrust Cillian delivered you. The sounds you were making weren’t helping your embarrassment either, all unintelligible mewls and needy whines for his cock. 

“You’ve wanted me for so long, haven’t you? I always knew what a filthy desperate girl you were, pressing up against me during shooting… those naughty hands on my thighs,” he snickered. 

“Needed you in me so bad,” you whimpered, nodding enthusiastically, barely able to register what you were doing now with the pleasure washing over you and clouding your senses. Your back was arching into him, sucking in his cock and never wanting him to leave despite the mind-breaking ecstasy that was coming from his pounding. 

“Just look at your dirty fuckin’ face… so pathetic.” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek; sweet and lovely, a stark juxtaposition to his unrelenting rutting and degrading words. 

You whined at his words, but you knew they were true: you’d never seen yourself get fucked, always too busy with, well, getting fucked, but seeing yourself in the mirror like this had you unexpectedly hotter than before. There was just something about it, your face unabashedly contorting around the pleasure, Cillian’s hands snaking up your body as he rammed into you in the background. 

Kind of like your own personal porno, you thought offhandedly, and you wondered how it’d affect you if you filmed yourself. Hopefully, with Cillian. 

His other hand then came up to your folds, spreading them apart so he could see himself disappear into your hole. “Fuck, your cunt’s so perfect,” he growled, his head falling back, losing himself in the pleasure. 

The orgasm building in your gut wasn’t like the one when you’d been grinding down on his thick thigh, no, it came faster, making you sweat and your knees shake. You wanted more, and you gasped out “faster,” and “harder,” to Cillian, needing him in the stick spongy spot deep in your cunt. 

“Please,” you begged without any expectation of a real answer or action, “please, Cillian, please.”

He did go faster, though, to your apparent shock, both hands coming to your thighs to steady himself. “So needy,” he grumbled, pushing himself deeper and more swiftly into you, feeling how deliciously your fleshy walls tightened around his new pace. 

With that, your high came just as quick, hitting you like a fucking freight train and making you scream out his name. Your orgasm wrecked you, made your vision go white and your thoughts stutter to a complete halt, and you vaguely made out Cillian’s proud hum, whispering “Good girl,” in your ear. 

When you came to, your head was hanging low, your eyes blown out, lips puffy. Cillian was still thrusting into your worn-out pussy, but it was more jilted, shaky and needy. 

“Come in me,” you pleaded suddenly, gripping the vanity to keep your trembling legs up, “fill me up, please, make your come spill out of me.”

“Good god, girl,” he groaned, pounding one last thrust into you before letting go, his cock pulsing around your wet core. He was pressed up to you so deep you could feel him shoot his load right into your cervix, and you grinned weakly, a sweet image of you: knocked up with his kid, your cunt so young and fertile you’d get pregnant from just about anything from him, entering your mind. 

After a moment, he slipped his softening cock out of your filthy cunt and picked you up by the waist to set you down on the vanity and keep you from falling onto the floor. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled, looking up at him through your lashes. You then bit your lip, feeling his thick load of creamy come ooze out of your used hole onto your vanity. 

He noticed too, letting out a satisfied groan, spreading your legs lightly, before collecting himself on his finger and pushing his come back into your cunt. “Such a good girl,” he reiterated, going back to being sweet and petting your hair, doting on your weak form, looking deep into your eyes. 

You swooned at his delicate actions. “Is this a good time to say I like you?” 

He laughed, all adoringly. “It’s as good a time as any. I like you, too, if it’s any consolation.” 

“But you, y’know… you said I was too young,” you reminded him, frowning slightly. 

He sighed, gaze drifting away nervously for a moment before coming back to you. “That I did, but, well… if you wanna take this old man for a ride before I keel over,” he shrugged.

You couldn’t help the laugh that belted out of you, his words so ridiculous and completely not based in reality. “Oh, sure,” you said, shaking your head, lips still in an amused tilt, “you’re mine, old man.”

Before he could speak, probably say another stupid joke, your hands wrapped around his neck and you pulled him toward you, pressing a soft kiss to his plump lips. 

“I like you like you, okay?” You whispered, sounding incredibly juvenile but twice as heartfelt, your tone wavering and self-conscious. You were bearing your heart on your sleeve here, okay, acknowledging feelings you thought should never come to light. 

His hands came up to your face, gently holding you. “Good thing I like you like you, too.”

ii.

“Cut!” The director called, and you swore you felt your heart drop to the floor. Fuck, you thought, mind racing, what went wrong this time? Was it the kissing, or the hands in the hair?

However, the director came up to you and Cillian and let out an uncharacteristic shriek of delight. “Perfection,” he said simply, bordering on catatonic with how content he was. 

Your shoulders slumped with relief, and you leaned into Cillian, who was subtly dancing his fingers across your thigh. “It’s finished?” you asked, breathless with excitement.

The director nodded. “That was electric, needy, tense, delicious, passionate, so, so passionate,” he continued with a gasp, hands clasping together tightly.  “You are two of the most amazing actors I have ever worked with— you are incredibly talented, so convincing I’d have thought you did sleep together.” 

You preened at his praise, but not without looking up at Cillian, meeting his gaze and barely keeping your expression happy and neutral and not at all warm at the thought of the other night's events. 

As the director went off rambling about the utter masterpiece the movie was to be, Cillian trailed behind you off the set, murmuring lowly in your ear, “I guess practice does make perfect.”