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sunasbabie · 9 days ago

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0720.

a/n: if u ever don't hear from me on 0720, it means i'm dead. i will never miss this day for the world. happy birthday, my beloved grand king <3

content: angst

word count: 3.3k+

[ oikawa x reader ]

–––––

Every year, Oikawa Tooru dies.

Again, and again, and again, and again.

Like his nightmares on repeat, like reliving lost dreams and mistaken one-time chances, he experiences the pain of a day that should be one of the happiest — that used to be one of his happiest — as if it’s a day of torture instead.

A torture unavoidable, a nightmare never ending, and an inevitable death that always, without fail, occurs on his birthday.

“I don’t really like my birthday.”

He glances at the faces of his friends who sit around the living room and coffee table, the three of them scattered along the floor and draped atop the couch’s armrests. He sits at the coffee table itself, fumbling with the corner of the cake box they’ve just set down in front of him.

Makki stares back at him. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Are you saying we just got this for nothing?”

“Makki,” says Hajime with a warning in his voice.

“What? I’m just—”

Tooru waves his hand quickly. “No, sorry, I really appreciate you guys doing this for me — the cake, the dinner, everything we did today, I’m grateful for it.” He scratches the back of his neck and leans back against the couch behind him. “I just…how do I say this…I liked thinking of today as just a reunion or a normal hangout for us, rather than for my birthday.”

Makki still stares at him blankly. “How can you not like your own birthday?”

Tooru shrugs. “Some things just lose the novelty of celebrating any more.”

“And yet you still celebrate every hit on the court. We see it on TV, you know, so don’t even bother denying it. But you won’t celebrate your own birthday?”

“Makki,” Hajime repeats, this time a little more forcefully. Then he shakes his head and turns to his best friend. “Is this still about…you know…”

Tooru waits for him to continue.

“…You know…”

At Hajime’s all-knowing hesitancy, Tooru sighs. “You can say her name, Iwa-chan.” He hangs his head back and closes his eyes against the lights of the ceiling. “And if it is, so what? You gonna tell me to get over it already?”

He hears a rustle of movement before the response. “ ’Course not. You really think I’m that insensitive, Shittykawa?”

Tooru shrugs again.

“Y/n?” says Makki slowly. “You don’t like your birthday because of Y/n?” He glances at Mattsun, who looks as clueless as he does, then back at Tooru. “But it’s been—”

“Five years,” he finishes. “Yeah. I know.”

Makki hums quizzically. “Okay, so…what does she have to do with not liking your birthday?”

He chuckles ruefully. “When the person who always greeted you first before everybody else suddenly stops greeting you, it’s a hard thing not to notice,” he replies swiftly. “Not to mention, the first person I’d wake up to holding the messiest cake I’d ever seen.” He catches himself smiling at the memory a little too late, darting his eyes away when he meets the pitiful gazes aimed towards him. He hates being pitied. Almost as much as he hates himself.

“It’s obvious, you know,” says Mattsun, breaking in with his two cents, “that you’re still in love with her.”

Tooru scoffs, his heart clenching a little at hearing the words out loud. He’s said them a million times in his head but never out loud, not since the last time he said them to you, which was far longer ago than he ever wants to admit. “Yeah, like that’s news to me. What of it?”

Mattsun pokes his tongue in his cheek, nonchalant as ever but voice level-headed as always. “You could tell her.”

Tooru gapes at him for a moment. “And why would I do that?” He immediately swivels when he hears a stifled laugh from Makki. “What’s so funny to you?”

“Why wouldn’t you do it?” asks Makki like nothing’s been simpler. Tooru fights the urge to hit him over the head. “What if she’s still in love with you too?”

“You think I haven’t thought about that?” snaps Tooru dismissively, his voice low, brain already running circles around itself with that same question and more since today started at midnight, like clockwork. Every year on this day, like clockwork. “I’ve told you guys before. It didn’t end well. She hates my guts, probably.”

“Probably?” Mattsun raises an eyebrow.

Hajime crosses his arms and nods. “Definitely,” he says, answering Mattsun but looking directly at Tooru. “After what you did to her—”

“Iwa-chan, not today, alright?” Tooru rubs the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He appreciates his friends, especially for being honest when no one else is, he really does. But there’s only so much he can take hearing while being bombarded with the same reprimanding full-throttle in his mind. “There’s nothing you can say that I’m not thinking enough about already.”

A few moments pass in silence and Tooru rests his forearms on his bent knees, lowering his head at the ground.

Makki clears his throat. “I still think you should call her sometime. After this long, with the way you still feel for her, you can.”

Tooru looks up at him, half-smiling on behalf of the sentiment, but shakes his head slowly. “I can’t, though.”

“Yes, you can,” Makki encourages, in a way Tooru both detests and feels grateful for as this is the gentlest Makki has ever sounded. But it’s hopeless; he knows that much. “Just punch in her numbers—”

“And tell her what?” Tooru shoots them all a look he hasn’t used since being their captain and doesn’t hide the self-resentment in his voice. And he knows they hear it too, because they all shut their mouths and avoid his searching eyes, not realizing he genuinely, desperately, hopes one of them can give him an answer; he’s been asking himself for one the past five years.

But as expected, none of them can, and he slowly rises to his feet. “See? None of you know, either.” He flips open the cake box and nudges it towards Hajime on the opposite side of the coffee table. “Don’t let this go to waste, eat up. Thanks for the faith in me, guys, but I promise you, I’ve run through every possible scenario for the last five years and none of them end the way I wish it did before. And it’s okay. It’s my fault anyway. I know that.” He takes in the way they all look up at him like he’s some sick puppy who needs help; and maybe he is, on the inside, just a child running blindly with no sense of where to go, no hand to grab ahold of, no home to return to because he left it far behind. Because he left you behind.

He heads towards the door and doesn’t look back. “I’m getting some air. Didn’t mean to bring the mood down,” he murmurs to them.

Didn’t mean for a lot of things I did, he thinks to you in his head.

–––––––

Tooru knew this was coming. He knew it, and yet when it came, he still didn’t expect it.

“You’re leaving?” You walked into his room just as he was zipping his suitcase shut. He winced to himself at what could only be the universe’s joke at impeccable timing. Your voice was out of breath, like you ran here without a second thought; Tooru figured you probably did, in all reality. “You didn’t even think to tell me that you’re leaving?”

He set his suitcase upright and rolled it towards you at the door, meeting your distraught eyes and wincing again to himself. These next few minutes were going to be hell. “I was going to tell you,” he started gently.

“When? Through the phone from Argentina?” You almost laughed, and he hated how sterile it sounded. He was always the one who made you laugh, but not that way. Your laughs were never supposed to sound like that, like you were laughing for the sake of staving off tears, all because of him. You chanced a long look at his eyes and blinked slowly, like you were holding your tongue or trying to catch your breath. He wished he was making you breathless in any other way than this right now. “Tooru, you promised me.”

He bit his lip. “I know I did, I—”

“You promised we would stay together,” you said softly, and he could hear the slight shake in your voice that you must’ve beenn trying so hard to hide from him. He wondered how much more of your suffering you’d been hiding from him, since he’d never taken the time to notice until now.

Not until now, when it was already too late.

Oikawa Tooru was always too late.

“University, pro league, whatever happened or wherever we went after we graduated…you promised you wouldn’t be gone anymore.” Your fingers started fiddling with the hem of your shirt, the nervous tic Tooru always put a stop to by holding your hands in his. You told him once that you were grateful he did that; now he didn’t know if he still had the right to again.

“What are we even supposed to do?” you asked him. “Does this mean we should date long-distance? Or are you…” Realizing he hadn’t said anything more yet, you tilted your head at him, brows drawing together as the suspecting truth crossed your expression. He could practically feel your heart squeezing before him, and when he looked down in shame, he saw your heart itself in the palm of his hand. Just the way you’d always given it to him, except now it was one clench away from bursting. He heard your voice whisper, “No—you’re not…are you saying this is it?”

He looked up again, daring to coast your brewing storm with nothing but empty excuses as his flimsy sail. “Y/n, look, I—” When he took a step forward, you took one back. Such a simple action paired with such harrowing disbelief on your face made his own chest seize in pain, and he tried once more to reach you, feeling a little more frantic now. Whether it was because you were slipping from his grasp or because his new team was all set on a plane he had to catch, he didn’t know. “Y/n, I’m sorry, but they’re waiting for me—”

You shook your head, so he stopped. “…I’ve been waiting for you for three years…” you replied quietly, and he clenched his jaw at the truth. “For all of high school,” you said, “I waited for you. When you said you couldn’t prioritize us because you were working towards your goals, I waited for you. Because I said I would. When you lost yourself after losing the chance to go to nationals—”

“Don’t—”

“I waited for you! Every day, when I tried to comfort you—” you crossed your arms like you were trying to protect yourself from something you didn’t want to see anymore, like you were protecting yourself from him, and Tooru had never felt like more of a failure in your eyes “—when I tried to make you feel better or ask you how I could, even when you pushed me away, I still tried to be there and waited for you! Because I promised I would…” You sniffled and looked away to drag your sleeve across your face, wiping away the tears that he should have prevented in the first place. Those tears were his to wipe, that face his to keep a smile on…where had he steered so wrong to feel so useless now? You bit the inside of your cheek as your voice wobbled in anxiety again. “I told you I would, Tooru…because I promised you…”

In that moment, you’d never looked so lonely. Wrapped around your own body, shrinking away from him like he was your biggest fear itself, you’d never looked like you needed him more. The image stabbed him in his heart, and he could only stand there and take the blade.

“Do you know how bad it hurts?” you asked him, giving up on hiding anymore and allowing the tears to fall freely down your cheeks. With each one, Tooru felt a stab again. “When the person you love the most not only tells you they can’t prioritize you or give you the love you ask for, but also refuses to accept the love you try to give them and pushes you away? Like it’s not enough? Like you aren’t good enough to help them?”

He choked on his own breath. “That’s not how I ever meant to make you feel—”

“I did, though,” you said sadly. “I did feel that way. And I couldn’t tell you because you had your own things to deal with. Because there was always something. Your words for three years, right? ‘There’s something going on, Y/n. I have something to do today.’ Every day, always. Anniversaries, weekends, holidays…even when I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t…because I didn’t want to add to your problems. I wanted to help you, not be another burden. And I trusted you.” He saw your jaw clench and your fingers dig into your arms, like you were trying to cement the fact this was real, that this was actually happening and not the nightmare you both wished it was. “Because you always said, ‘Just a little longer and I’ll have time for us.’ So I trusted you and waited.”

He did say those words, didn’t he? On all the days you silently pleaded for reassurance, never needing words for him to see how much you longed for his love, he gave you the same routine, unthinking reply and pretended not to notice how it killed the light in your eyes a little more each time.

You took a breath and let it out slowly, trembling. “You’re really saying this is it, Tooru?”

And the words were out before he could stop them. “It’s like you said,” he mustered up, pathetically echoing you because none of his own thoughts seemed good enough to voice. “For three years, I kept you waiting…I can’t keep you waiting for me any longer, Y/n.”

“Tooru,” you said quickly, like now you were the one desperately trying to reach him. You always had been, and he’d never allowed you in. “You already decided all of this by yourself?” When he didn’t answer and simply gazed at you like it was the last time he ever would, his silent answer seemed to settle on your face. You shook your head again slowly, alarm and fear replacing confusion and frustration. “Tooru…”

Looking back now, maybe that was his last chance. Maybe you were as desperate as he was, willing to pull him back again if he asked you to, willing to wait a little longer if he still asked you to, and he could have grabbed hold of your hand, returned your heart to your chest and given you his alongside it because it belonged with you, anyway. His heart always belonged with you. Maybe he could have saved years of heartache in that split-second moment, in that fleeting light of chance, instead of thinking he’d have another and it would never be too late.

But Oikawa Tooru was always too late.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and his heart shattered as he watched you sink to the floor, holding your head in your hands and crying against his words that didn’t mean anything anymore. When he looked down at you, he saw the blood of your torn heart trailing straight from his guilty palms. He swallowed hard against the cracking vision and the blur of his own tears, grabbing his suitcase for some sort of stronghold, anything to ground himself before he collapsed right next to you, and he walked out the door without a single pause in his steps. “They’re waiting for me, I can’t—I…I’m so sorry…”

As he hauled his luggage to the bottom of the steps and forced himself out of his house before he could give in to the sounds of your sobs, to his urge of running back and holding you close and promising this was just a mistake, all he could do was repeat himself in his head as if it would somehow make everything better, as if it would change the fact that he’d left you alone the way he always did, the first birthday he was leaving you instead of staying by your side.

But nothing could change what he’d done, the choice he’d decided to make over you, and hours later as he stepped on that plane, wiping his own tears from his eyes so no one could see, his unspoken mantra simply continued falling unheard.

Y/n, I’m so sorry.

–––––––

Stretching his legs out on the front steps of the house he grew up in, Tooru unsettles a stone embedded in the dirt and knocks it back and forth between his feet. It’s how he feels being tossed like a plaything between the hands of his own undoing, stuck in a loop of his consequences with no hope of escaping or cutting the path. He’s a rocket with no coordinates, a spaceship with limitless fuel but no destination in sight, passing barren planet after barren planet as if trapped in a maze with no reprieve. He’s stuck here like this, been stuck like this, and after years of trying to find a way out, he’s been left with no choice but to accept it. Because maybe he does deserve it. After what he did to you, for his years of neglect and taking you for granted and giving you hope for a love he failed to follow through on, maybe this is his only repentance.

Every year on his birthday, Oikawa Tooru feels himself die — a little more, again and again and again and again, the pain a little harder to bear and his regret pooling longer than it did the year before; no matter how he braces for it, and no matter how much time passes the same as it always has, it seems he’s never prepared enough for the sting. And maybe he never will be. Maybe, like every mistake he’s ever made, he’s meant to relive the pain you once felt, a thousand times over, to remind him of the biggest mistake that makes all the rest seem like child’s play.

He misses you.

Gods, he misses you…and he can’t even do anything about it.

The man whom the world thinks is capable of anything on the court is rendered defenseless, frozen, on the playing field of a reality that mattered — still matters — the most. Because all is fair in love and war, and he was a fool to think it was a game all the same. He’s never been a genius, after all.

He finally kicks away the stone at his feet and stares up at the night sky, feeling his heart sink even lower beneath the endless waves capsizing his cage of a chest, carving him hollow from the inside out, and wonders if or when his drowning will ever stop.

The stars twinkle in cold silence back at his swirl of dead-end thoughts. He wonders if tonight, or any other night, you’re staring up at them too. He wonders if you think about him the way he still thinks about you in his every waking moment, whether you remember the way you used to wake him up with a burnt, sloppily-frosted, homemade cake and that smile on your face every year on this exact day. That smile that made him feel higher above the world than any trophy or title ever could, the smile that he doesn’t know how he forgot to cherish but now still recalls its warmth as if you’re here, as if you’re cradled tightly in his arms the way he always held you as you fell asleep every night.

He wonders if you remember today is his birthday.

Because now, every year on his birthday, Oikawa Tooru dies a little more...without fail, and without you.

#.recs #i love angst

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sunasbabie · 23 days ago

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love comes in small sizes

chapter three: glitter never really comes off (and neither do regrets)

pairing – ex situationship satoru x fem reader

summary : you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your dynamic is a mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his infuriating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention.

but when the weight of loss and pride tears you apart, you walk away—until fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his orbit six years later.

tags –> canon divergence au, fluff, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, unlabeled relationship, grovelling satoru, secret child trope, reunions, miscommunications, second chances, happy ending for my own sanity, reader is petty for a valid reason

wc — 5.9k | prev. | series mlist. | gen. mlist. | next.

sometimes the world just throws you into things you’re not ready for.

like babysitting duty. like a daughter you didn’t know existed. or the sudden, terrifying responsibility of deciding what to do with the rest of the afternoon because the kid’s got nowhere else to go.

sometimes it feels like the world doesn’t ask, it just shoves you into the deep end and dares you to keep swimming.

satoru’s still reeling, still caught in the leftover adrenaline from the father’s day games, his mind spinning in endless circles, looping like a faulty carousel. shiyana—shia—had blackmailed him into the whole thing, her tiny hands planted on her hips, that sharp glint in her ceruelean eyes like she already knew he’d cave. she didn’t even have to try that hard.

and now here they are, two hours deep into this makeshift playdate, stranded in the middle of a crowded mall because he panicked and told her to pick where to go next. his throat had gone dry when she’d asked, and he thought, how hard can it be? it was supposed to be easy. a few more hours, then he’d drop her off and everything would fall back into place.

nothing feels easy now.

so here they are. the mall is a living, breathing monster, a symphony of clattering trays, shrieking kids, and the occasional dull roar of a blender whirring somewhere behind a juice stand.

somewhere nearby, a kid drops a soda, the plastic cup clattering to the tiles as the brown fizz puddles around his sneakers. a toddler waddles past with a balloon animal in hand, his dad trailing behind, muttering apologies as he dodges a teenager on roller shoes. teenagers huddle in corners, their laughter sharp, filling the space between store announcements and the tinny music piping from broken speakers.

satoru watches the scene in muted detachment, the buzz of overhead lights drilling into his skull, the greasy scent of fried dough and burnt pretzels clinging stubbornly to his sleeves. his jacket feels too heavy, his hair clings to the back of his neck. it smells like the kind of place he wouldn’t usually waste time in. he hates it. but he can’t leave.

he leans against the sticky food court table, the plastic surface still damp from a hurried wipe-down. his sunglasses slip down his nose, the metal bridge cooling against his skin. his jacket hangs a little too heavy on his shoulders, the fabric clinging to his neck in the humid air. a faint smudge of powdered sugar dusts his sleeve from brushing past a table.

across from him, shia wages war against a pile of fries, her tiny fingers moving with the speed and efficiency of a seasoned strategist. each flick of her pale hair is punctuated by the glint of her tiny blue barrettes, catching the light as she stubbornly tucks stray strands behind her ear. her hair sticks out in places from the day’s chaos, the ends slightly curled from where she probably slept on it funny.

her pink kindergarten uniform, now wrinkled and dusted with crumbs, hangs slightly crooked over her shoulder, one button undone where her backpack strap tugged at it earlier. her sparkly-laced sneakers swing under the table in a steady rhythm, scuffing faint gray lines onto the chair leg with each impatient kick.

a soft, familiar scent lingers in the air—vanilla and peach lotion, something that clings to her like a signature, cutting through the mall's thick haze. her lips are stained slightly red from the strawberry-flavored juice she insisted on earlier, and there’s a faint smear of chocolate near her wrist.

“you always eat this fast?” satoru asks, grabbing a fry from her tray, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

shia doesn’t even hesitate. her eyes narrow, sharp and unamused. “that’s mine,” she says, voice clipped, chin tilting up like he just challenged her royal decree.

he pops the fry into his mouth with a grin, chewing leisurely. “finders keepers.”

“thief.” she snaps back, shoving another fry into her mouth with exaggerated flair, ketchup smudging at the corner of her lips. her sneaker scrapes loudly against the chair leg, a deliberate squeak that earns a glance from a passing waiter. her arms cross over her chest, the classic stubborn kid stance, though she keeps sneaking glances at her rapidly disappearing fries.

he huffs a soft laugh, the sound slipping out before he can catch it. leaning back, his jacket snags on the plastic seat, crumpling beneath him. his fingers tap restlessly against the table—a quiet rhythm, sharp and persistent. the hum of the lights needles into his ears, the chaos of the food court pressing in around him. his grin flickers, falters, half-alive as he watches her dunk a fry into her milkshake, the movement somehow cementing itself deep in his chest, like something he won’t be able to forget.

he’s still spiraling. still trying to wrap his head around it. his daughter. his daughter. five years. he’s missed five years of this.

she slurps her milkshake with abandon, the straw making that hollow, scraping sound that signals she’s already hit the bottom. she wipes her mouth with her sleeve, leaving a faint pink streak along the cuff. her feet swing in perfect rhythm as she chews, entirely absorbed in the art of food demolition.

“you gonna finish that burger, kiddo?” he asks, nodding toward her tray. his voice holds steady, the teasing lilt in place, but his thumb taps a frenetic rhythm against the table, the beat only he can hear. it echoes in his head, louder than it should.

shia glances up, her chin tilted, a glimmer of playful mischief in her eyes. “maybe. you can have one fry. but you already stole one, so...” she drags the pause out, fingers drumming theatrically against her tray. “i’ll think about it.”

he flicks his sunglasses up with a knuckle, pushing them to sit properly on the bridge of his nose, though they slip again almost immediately. his grin stretches wider, brittle at the edges. “so, what’s next on your royal agenda?”

shia leans back, savoring the final slurp of her milkshake, the sound obnoxiously loud, drawing amused stares from nearby tables. she dabs at her mouth with a crumpled napkin, her tiny hands moving with deliberate grace, as if she’s grown used to commanding attention. her legs dangle, her toes just barely brushing the edge of the chair.

“toy store,” she proclaims, her voice ringing clear over the din of the food court. she slides out of her chair with a soft hop, the glittery backpack on her shoulders bouncing with each step she takes. “now.”

she doesn’t wait. her sneakers squeak against the polished floor, her tiny frame weaving through the crowd with the kind of purpose that makes people step aside. she weaves between couples, past a teenage girl snapping selfies near the trash bins, through a pair of boys sharing a bag of candy, their voices trailing behind them in bursts of laughter.

satoru scrambles to gather their trays, tossing the trash with a clatter, his long legs closing the distance to her in a few easy strides. he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, pretending like his heart isn’t pulling something reckless in his chest.

“been here before, huh?” he asks, falling into step beside her, his voice lazy, casual, but he’s fishing. always fishing. always reaching for threads he missed.

shia steps onto the escalator like it’s a grand entrance, one hand gripping the rail, the other resting on her hip like she owns the place. her sneakers squeak with each tiny shift of her weight. “yep. mommy brings me sometimes. we just look, though. she says we can’t afford the good stuff.”

her words are too light, practiced. satoru catches the flicker—the slight scrunch of her nose, the way her voice dips, the tiny glance at her shoes before she forces her head back up.

his chest tightens, something sharp and familiar pressing beneath his ribs. he can see it, clear as day—you walking beside her, tugging her away from price tags, smoothing over quiet tantrums with promises of next time, not today. he wasn’t there. he could’ve been. should’ve been.

his fists curl in his pockets, nails biting into his palms. the laugh that bubbles out is too sharp, too loud, scraping his throat on the way out. “good thing you’ve got me now, huh?” he says, the grin that stretches across his face feeling dangerously close to cracking.

shia peeks up at him, her bangs brushing her lashes, her blue eyes glittering with something unreadable. but she just rolls her eyes like it’s nothing and steps off the escalator like she’s already moved on.

satoru follows, his sunglasses slipping down his nose again, and this time, he lets them fall.

his gaze lingers on her as she marches ahead, her glittery backpack bouncing with each determined step, her sneakers scuffing faint gray lines onto the polished tiles. a little boy runs past, clutching a balloon, his mother’s hurried steps trailing close behind. a mall security guard leans lazily against a pillar, sipping a coffee, his radio crackling with static in the background. a couple argues near a directory map, their voices low and tense, one of them gesturing sharply toward the exit.

“you got a favorite store?” satoru asks, his voice light, but the question tastes too heavy in his mouth. too many gaps. too many missing pieces.

shia glances over her shoulder, her lips twitching into something just shy of a smirk. “you’ll see.”

he lets her lead, lets her set the pace, lets her carve the path while he trails behind, watching the way her hair sways, the way she holds her arms like she’s already made her peace with the world. he memorizes the bounce in her step, the tilt of her head when she’s thinking, the way her hands sometimes curl into tiny fists when she’s focused.

they pause in front of a vending machine, its metal surface dented, one of the glass panels slightly fogged from years of sticky fingers pressing against it. the hum of the machine vibrates faintly beneath their feet.

“daddy,” shia hums, pressing her nose to the glass, her breath fogging a tiny circle on the surface, “think i can get two snacks if i shake it just right?”

satoru raises a brow, his grin tugging lazily at his lips. “you shaking vending machines now? what kind of habits are you picking up from your mom?”

“she says that’s illegal,” shia says, but she tests the side of the machine with her sneaker anyway, delivering a soft kick that barely rattles the frame. her reflection warps slightly in the glass, her tiny fist pressing against the side as she inspects the rows of snacks.

he hums, pretending to consider it. “i won’t tell if you won’t.”

her laugh bursts out, bright and unfiltered, and satoru catches it, folds it into his chest, stores it somewhere quiet, somewhere he knows he’ll reach for later when it’s just him and the silence.

“come on,” she says, already moving again, her steps light, her pace steady. “toy store’s this way.”

he trails after her, his hands still shoved into his pockets, his chest still aching, but his steps are a little lighter than before.

satoru decided the moment they stepped into the toy store that he would let her buy anything she wanted.

maybe it was guilt, maybe it was pride, maybe it was just him being weak to those sharp little blue eyes, but the decision was easy. if she wanted it, she could have it. no questions. no rules. he would spoil her rotten, until the bags tore, until his wallet thinned, until she ran out of shelves to empty.

it was the least he could do—a desperate, clumsy attempt to make up for years he never even tried to claim. he wasn’t there for the scraped knees, the wobbly first steps, the muffled bedtime stories. he wasn’t there, and maybe a mountain of glitter-covered toys could fill the canyon he left behind. he knew it wouldn’t, but he was desperate enough to try.

and shia—of course she took to the power like she was born for it. like she knew he wouldn’t say no.

the toy store was a pink and glittering battlefield, buzzing like a thousand angry bees trapped in plastic cages. the air was thick with the synthetic scent of strawberry-scented dolls and the sterile sharpness of freshly unboxed toys. fluorescent lights hummed relentlessly above them, reflecting off the gleaming tiles and casting long shadows behind display stands.

the faint chatter of other children echoed off the walls, some dragging their tired parents, some squealing in delight as they clutched their prizes, their high-pitched voices tangling in the air alongside the crackling music blaring from the speakers.

shia’s cart rattled ahead of him, her sparkly-laced sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as she zipped from shelf to shelf. her pale hair bounced with every quick turn, the blue barrettes clipped into her messy strands catching the light like tiny stars.

her kindergarten uniform was now wrinkled, a faint ketchup stain marking her collar from their earlier fast-food stop, her skirt slightly twisted from the way she’d thrown her backpack over one shoulder with her usual flair. one sock sagged around her ankle, stubbornly refusing to stay up, but she didn’t seem to notice.

she was fast, decisive, like she had memorized every inch of this place. her tiny hands swept plush unicorns into the cart, tiaras that immediately began shedding glitter like they had a personal vendetta, and dolls whose wide, glassy eyes seemed to track satoru wherever he went.

one particularly unsettling doll seemed to follow him with every step, its unblinking stare digging into his back until he finally turned it around to face the shelf, muttering under his breath about cursed objects.

she didn’t look back to check if he could keep up. she didn’t need to. she had him wrapped around her pinky finger, and they both knew it.

his arms were already full—overflowing with her overflow. the pile of plushies and wands climbed dangerously high, teetering with every step. a sparkly notebook pressed awkwardly against his ribs, its glitter dusting his black jacket like he’d rolled through a fairy explosion. the fine flecks clung to his sleeves, to his silver hair, to his sunglasses slipping down his nose.

he knew the glitter would haunt him for days, but he didn’t care. there was something about the way she paused at each shelf, her fingers brushing reverently over the toys, her gaze precise and searching, that twisted something in his chest. she didn’t just grab things at random. she studied them, inspected the stitching, squeezed the softness. she chose carefully, even in indulgence.

she was him, but softer. sharper in some ways, too.

“you’re gonna need a bigger cart, kid,” he called, adjusting the precarious mountain in his arms as a plastic wand poked him under his ribs. his voice was casual, but his grin was shaky, something stretched too thin over the mess churning in his chest.

“this is essential,” shia declared, tossing in another sparkly pony with a cotton candy mane. her voice left no room for argument. it never did.

his laugh stumbled out of him, too light, like it didn’t know where to land. it rattled in his throat, fragile, as his thoughts spun back to you—to where you might be right now, to whether you’d still slam the door in his face if he knocked. would you still think of him when the apartment got too quiet? when shia went to bed? did you ever?

he wanted to ask her. wanted to ask so much.

“hey,” he said, leaning against a shelf, ignoring the soft thud of a stuffed bear tumbling to the floor beside him. his sunglasses slipped further down his nose, and this time, he didn’t bother fixing them. “so, your mom… she got anyone special in her life?”

his voice stayed light, playful even, but his pulse thundered, pounding in his ears as he watched her closely, his fingers tightening on the squishy pink bunny wedged against his chest.

shia paused, her hand still clutching the pony’s plastic neck. she didn’t answer right away. her fingers combed through the toy’s tangled mane, slow, deliberate. when her gaze finally flicked up, her blue eyes pinned him in place, sharp and suspicious.

“you’re asking weird questions,” she said, squinting at him, tilting her chin as if she was piecing him together. “aren’t you mama’s friend? why don’t you know?”

his grin twitched, small and brittle. “we’re old friends,” he lied, shifting the weight in his arms, feeling the plushies wobble dangerously. “haven’t caught up in a while.”

she hummed, not entirely buying it, but too busy to argue. the toy aisle had her again, pulling her attention back as she steered her cart toward a rack of glittery backpacks, her fingers dancing over the sequins, flipping them back and forth to change the colors.

“mommy doesn’t date,” she said after a pause, her sneakers scuffing the polished tiles as she pushed the cart along. “she says my dad died. choked on a corndog. on a date. tragic.”

satoru blinked. the words landed like a slap. his grip tightened until his knuckles burned. a plush bunny slipped from his arms, flopping to the floor with a pitiful squeak.

“she said it was so embarrassing,” shia went on, wrinkling her nose, her smirk curling in that painfully familiar way that made his stomach twist. “who dies like that? he must’ve been dumb. mommy was really sad though. like, really sad.”

her voice softened, dipping just above a whisper as her fingers trailed over the edge of the cart, her thumb tracing slow circles against the handlebar. “sometimes i think about him. sometimes i miss him.”

she said it like she didn’t mean it, like it was just something to say, but her thumb rubbed those small circles into the cart’s handlebar, and her sneakers scuffed nervously against the floor, a little too long, like she didn’t know where to put that feeling.

“i bet he was boring though,” she added quickly, tripping over the words like she was scrambling to patch the softness she’d let slip. “i mean, if he made mommy cry, i don’t like him. i don’t miss him. he was stupid. choking on a corndog? that’s so dumb.”

satoru’s breath snagged, catching painfully in his throat. his chest caved in on itself, too tight, too small, and the hum of the fluorescent lights blurred into a low buzz in his ears, the synthetic sweetness of plastic pressing against his lungs. the other parents drifted past them, tugging along their children, oblivious to the way the world was collapsing in his hands. a cashier’s voice floated from the distance, calling for a price check on aisle seven, the ordinary pace of life moving on as if nothing had just cracked open inside him.

he wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to rewind it all. he wanted to tell her he was here, that he didn’t choke on anything, that he was real, that he should’ve been there. but he had driven you to that point, hadn’t he? maybe you killed him off in her head because it was easier than telling her the truth. maybe you hated him enough to bury him under a corndog. maybe he made it that easy.

“you okay, daddy?”

her voice yanked him back. she was watching him now, her head tilted, her pale hair falling over one barrettes, a plastic pony clutched tightly in her small hands. her blue eyes squinted up at him, sharp and knowing, like she already understood he was a terrible liar.

“y-yeah,” he choked out, clearing his throat, forcing his grin back into place. “just… thinking about that corndog. rough way to go.”

he winked, clumsy and weak, the gesture missing its mark. his fingers drummed restlessly against the edge of the shelf, tapping out a nervous rhythm he couldn’t seem to stop, his pulse tripping over itself.

shia huffed, unimpressed, already tugging her cart toward the next aisle. “c’mon,” she called over her shoulder, her glittery backpack bouncing with each brisk step, her sneakers squeaking against the floor.

he followed, his thoughts a frantic mess, his chest sinking under the weight of it all. she thought her dad was embarrassing. that he was dumb. that he made her mom cry. she said she didn’t miss him.

but maybe she did. maybe it was just easier to say she didn’t.

and maybe the worst part was… maybe he deserved it.

so he bought everything she touched. every toy. every plush. every glittering, plastic thing. because maybe that was the only thing he knew how to do. because maybe that was the only way he knew how to stay.

the thing about kids is they don’t know when they’ve gutted you.

they just speak, careless and bold, because the world hasn’t taught them yet how to bite their tongues, how to watch their words stitch and unpick a person apart. satoru’s pretty sure shia doesn’t know she’s tearing him open with every little thing she says. or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t care. either way, it’s wrecking him.

he’s leaning against his car now, sleek and black, its surface still warm under his palm, the soft hum of the engine coiling in the silence like it’s waiting for him to get his act together. the parking lot around them is a low buzz of activity—other parents wrangling their kids into backseats, shopping bags rustling, the occasional beep of car doors locking. his sunglasses dangle forgotten from his collar, and the faint glint of glitter still clings to his sleeves, to his hair, stubborn and inescapable, like her. like all of this.

shia is perched in the backseat, cross-legged like she owns the space, sorting through her loot with the precision of someone plotting a master plan. her tiny hands brush over her prizes, each plushie and trinket meticulously inspected and placed, as if she’s mapping out where they belong in this new kingdom she’s building.

the panda from the father’s day event pokes out of her backpack, its ear caught in her fingers, twisting and twisting like she’s deep in thought, like the soft fur is a stand-in for whatever’s weighing on her small mind.

“mommy can’t see these,” she says eventually, her voice dropping low, sharp with mischief, as if she’s inviting him into a secret. her gaze flicks up to him, conspiratorial, her sharp little blue eyes catching the soft shimmer of the fading sunlight. “she’ll know i went to the event.”

his heart stutters, tripping over itself in his chest.

“i’ll keep ‘em at my place,” he says, pushing off the car, trying to sound easy, like he isn’t clinging to this chance to stay in her life, even if it’s just as the keeper of her contraband. “plenty of room for your kingdom.”

she hums, tilting her head, her bangs shifting, half falling into her eyes before she absently pushes them back. “you’re rich.” it rolls off her tongue like it’s an absolute truth, like it’s the most defining thing about him now.

she lets that hang in the air for a beat, her eyes squinting, calculating. then, like it’s the next logical step in her thought process: “you should marry mommy.”

satoru nearly chokes, his hand shooting out to the car door to steady himself. the laugh that escapes him is unhinged, too loud, too brittle. a couple nearby glance over briefly before moving on, uninterested. his knees protest as he crouches to her level, his grin a messy thing tugging at the corners of his mouth, trembling where it shouldn’t.

“marry her, huh?” he says, aiming for light but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “think i’m good enough for your mom?”

shia’s lips purse, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement as she steps closer, still clutching the panda like it’s her most precious ally. “i guess,” she shrugs, but then her eyes glimmer, her brows arching with a mischief he knows all too well. “but you gotta be open-minded.”

“yeah?” he plays along, tilting his head, brushing a speck of glitter off his wrist. “about what?”

she darts her gaze around the parking lot, dramatic, as if spies might be lurking behind every car. the distant jingle of shopping carts rolls past. she leans in with all the gravity of someone handing off state secrets, cupping her small hand around her mouth. “mommy’s a fairy.”

his grin falters, slipping like sand through his fingers. “a fairy?” he echoes, soft, his fingers tapping a restless beat against his thigh.

“mm-hm,” she nods, stepping back with a sage little nod, her barrettes catching the light as she readjusts her backpack straps. “when i get scrapes or fevers, she makes them go away. her hands glow.”

her small fingers trace slow, deliberate circles in the air, her voice laced with quiet awe. “it’s warm. it’s pretty. it feels like… magic. like it knows how to find the hurt. it makes the bad stuff go away.”

his chest caves in, hollow and sharp. he remembers that glow. he remembers the way your cursed energy used to press into his wounds, the warmth of it, the way it sunk into his bones like it was home. he remembers the way your hands used to linger just a second longer than necessary, the way your brows would furrow, the way your thumb would brush along the edge of a bandage. it’s been years, but his body still remembers, still aches for it like a ghost limb.

he needs it back.

he can almost feel it now, buzzing under his skin, phantom warmth where your touch used to settle. the memory drapes over him like a fever dream he doesn’t want to wake from.

his grip tightens on the door until his knuckles sting, until his nails bite into his palms. “that’s pretty cool,” he rasps, but the words scrape up his throat, raw and splintered. “your mom’s always been… special.”

shia’s already busy rearranging her haul again, the secret dropped, the moment already past for her, but satoru stands there, gutted, dizzy with the sharp pull of want. of missing.

he never asked for your address. didn’t need to. shia just pointed, her chin high, her voice confident. “just drive. i know where to go.”

so he drives. lets her navigate him through unfamiliar streets, lets her giggle when he misses a turn, lets her scold him like she’s the adult and he’s the kid. the car fills with the sound of her swinging her legs, the occasional crinkle of plastic bags, the shuffle of toys being rearranged. he soaks it all in, stores it in the hollow places of his chest like it’ll keep him afloat.

when she finally tells him to stop, it’s not right at your door. it’s a street over, just far enough that it’ll look like she walked home from school all by herself.

“bye, daddy,” she chirps as she hops out, her backpack bouncing against her back, her sneakers hitting the pavement with quick, determined steps.

he watches her run, his throat thick, his hands clenched too tight on the wheel.

he doesn’t drive away.

you’re there—watering the blooms you’ve planted along the front walkway, your head bowed, focused, your hair falling like soft curtains framing your face. the sunlight curls against your skin, warm and familiar, gilding the curve of your cheek, catching on the delicate arch of your lashes. the soft rhythm of the watering can tapping against the leaves fills the silence.

shia collides into you, arms flung around your waist, her laughter echoing back to him, bright and unguarded. you startle, your shoulders jerking before you glance down, a slow smile blooming across your lips as you steady her, your free hand carding gently through her hair, smoothing the messy strands and crooked barrettes. your fingers linger at her temple, brushing something away, your movements slow, practiced, achingly familiar.

he can almost feel the way your cursed energy would’ve pulsed beneath your fingertips, that soft golden glow sinking into him like it always did. he can almost feel it humming against his skin, stitching the broken parts back together.

it guts him. it’s unbearable, how much he misses it. how much he misses you.

he lingers there, parked at the curb, drinking in the sight of you, of her, of what he’s missed, what he’s still missing. he watches until you guide shia inside, your hand resting gently on her back, until the door closes behind you, sealing him out of a life he still doesn’t know how to reach.

saturday mornings are usually quiet. not peaceful, not soft—just quiet. the kind of quiet that seeps into the walls, curling around chipped countertops and sunlit streaks on the floor. the kind of quiet that settles into the clinking of utensils and the slow, syrupy drip of maple from a fork left abandoned on the plate. the kind of quiet that usually tastes like routine, but today it clings to the air, strange and sweet, like something’s shifted just out of sight.

shia’s been in a strangely good mood today. suspiciously good. she hums to herself as she sways in her chair, legs swinging beneath the table, mismatched socks peeking out above her sparkly-laced sneakers. her hair clips stubbornly cling to her pale hair that tumbles past her shoulders in soft, tangled waves.

there’s a faint smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth, a forgotten souvenir from breakfast, but she doesn’t seem to care. there’s something light about her today, something untouchable, like she’s carrying a secret she knows she doesn’t have to share.

she slides into her pink cardigan with clumsy hands, her arms moving too fast, the sleeve twisted awkwardly around her elbow. she doesn’t even stop to fix it. “going to the playground,” she chirps, her shoes half-laced, her backpack bouncing against her spine as she races to the door. her tiny fingers fumble with the handle, too impatient to wait. the scent of her vanilla lotion trails behind her as she skips into the morning, sunlight glinting off the keychains jangling on her bag.

for once, you don’t stop her. you don’t remind her to finish her juice. you don’t tell her to fix her hair. you just watch as the door clicks shut, her laughter echoing faintly down the hallway. it’s like you can’t quite touch her today. like she’s floating somewhere just out of reach, her smile painted a little too wide, her steps a little too quick.

you head to one of your weekend jobs, your mind hazy, your thumb absentmindedly scrolling through the endless pta group chats on your phone. fee reminders, sign-up sheets, and ms. yui’s annoyingly enthusiastic messages pile on top of each other. ms. yui. your eye twitches. she always pretends to be friendly while reminding you that you’re behind on contributions.

you’re sure she’s the reason you owe more fees than you actually signed up for. you think you might actually hate her. she smiles too much. her handwriting’s too round. her fees are too high. she’s too good with the kids. and worst of all, she knows it.

your phone buzzes, and you brace yourself for the inevitable. another fundraising drive? another field trip you can’t afford? maybe she’s about to tell you that the school’s mascot needs a new costume and, surprise, you’re covering half the cost.

but it isn’t about fees.

it’s hearts. too many. exclamation points tumbling over each other. a breathless wall of giddy text that makes your stomach drop.

shia’s daddy came yesterday!! he’s soooo cool! tall, handsome, and so good with shia! she was SO happy! i didn’t know you two were co-parenting so well!!! he’s honestly such a dream, you’re so lucky!!

you stare at the screen. blink once. twice. the words don’t shift. they don’t rearrange into something that makes sense.

shia’s… what?

shia’s daddy?

no. no, no, no.

your fingers move stiffly as you type out a reply.

what does he look like?

the typing bubble appears. disappears. appears again. you grit your teeth, willing her to type faster.

white hair! blue eyes! sunglasses!!

your stomach drops. your breath lodges in your throat.

it’s him.

it’s always him.

the air feels sharp in your lungs, your grip tightening around your phone until your knuckles ache.

he found her. he sweet-talked her. he manipulated your sweet, innocent shiyana—your baby who would never lie, who would never scheme. she’s incapable of deceit. she’s your sunshine, your anchor, your world. he planted himself in her life like he belonged there. like he had the right.

he has no right.

he wasn’t there. he missed her first steps. her first words. he missed the nights she cried for you, the mornings she curled into your side. he missed the stories, the scraped knees, the lost teeth. he wasn’t there. he doesn’t get to just show up now and rewrite his name into her story.

you slam your bag over your shoulder, storming out of work without a word, your footsteps quick and sharp against the pavement. your heart beats too loud, too fast, each step vibrating through your ribs. your breath is ragged, heat prickling under your skin, but you don’t stop. you can’t stop.

you barrel through crowds, weaving between street vendors and bustling market stalls, the smell of grilled meat and sweet bread clinging to your senses, but it’s distant, unimportant.

the world spins around you, your thoughts replaying ms. yui’s giddy message, her stupid little hearts, her unprofessional simping. you already hated her before. now you want to block her, erase her from the planet. how dare she gush like that? how dare she laugh like you and satoru are a team? as if you’re coparents. as if you’re… something.

your pulse pounds in your ears, fury and disbelief bleeding into each frantic step. the heat clings to you, the summer air suffocating, but it’s nothing compared to the fire beneath your skin. you can see him in your head—smug, charming, twisting shia around his finger like she’s a new toy he’s decided to claim.

you should’ve known. of course he’d pull something like this.

you hammer your fists against his apartment door, the sound echoing down the hallway, your chest heaving, your hands trembling, the ache from the force blooming through your wrists.

“satoru gojo! open up!”

the door creaks open, hesitating like it knows what’s coming.

and there he is.

he’s wearing a plain white shirt, slightly rumpled, the collar loose against his neck. his sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, messy from where his fingers must’ve raked through it. his blue eyes widen when they land on you, his whole frame stiffening like he’s been caught mid-crime.

there’s guilt there. panic. like he’s bracing for impact, like he knows you’re seconds away from setting the entire building on fire.

he should.

because you’re about to bring it.

tag list: @funicidals @coffeeluvr96 @wolywolymoley @ineednanami @luv3nti @nikilig @linaaeatsfamilies @nariminsstuff @cherryredkissez @lolightrealm @simplymygojo @kaged-kitty @s4ikooo1 @buni-bunnydoll @ssetsuka @mintcheery @starsyoongi @sorilyae @mashtura @enhasrii @kunisnaomi @susususukanana @seikamuzu @asahinasstuff @venusss-ss @satoruxsc @emochosoluvr @sleepykittyenergy @moncher-ire @byakuya61085 @ayumilk @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron-blog @balsalmic-vinegar @altgojo @esotericsorrow @44ina @jkslvsnella @reihimbo @flowerpot113 @kxgumi @emryb @yukinemaroop @nonamebbsblog @1uv4jiya @bibisaur @juujujs @kanekisheart @katsukiseyebrows @alygator77

#i was literally just talking to my bestie about a secret child fic and i see this omg #.recs

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