#overlap: simulation

[tayfabe75]

"Not being invited to the parties and sleepovers in my hometown made me feel hopelessly lonely, but because I felt alone, I would sit in my room and write the songs that would get me a ticket somewhere else. Having label executives in Nashville tell me that only 35-year-old housewives listen to country music and there was no place for a 13-year-old on their roster made me cry in the car on the way home. But then I'd post my songs on my Myspace and yes, Myspace, and would message with other teenagers like me who loved country music, but just didn't have anyone singing from their perspective. Having journalists write in-depth, oftentimes critical, pieces about who they perceive me to be made me feel like I was living in some weird simulation, but it also made me look inward to learn about who I actually am. Having the world treat my love life like a spectator sport in which I lose every single game was not a great way to date in my teens and twenties, but it taught me to protect my private life fiercely. Being publicly humiliated over and over again at a young age was excruciatingly painful but it forced me to devalue the ridiculous notion of minute by minute, ever fluctuating social relevance and likability. Getting canceled on the internet and nearly losing my career gave me an excellent knowledge of all the types of wine."

May 18, 2022: During her commencement speech for NYU, Taylor mentions finding solace in other teenage country fans on Myspace when she was just starting out, and shares how those spectating her love life taught her to guard her private life fiercely. (source 1, 2)

[shimeji-simulation]

???

[cerealmonster15]

Rook hunt and yusuke kitagawa. Deuce spade and ryuji sakamoto. They’re hanging out in my mind place. Crossover event 🫡

[artheresy]

I am crumbling I AM CRUMBLING

…I just…

I’ll go for Blade’s lightcone just so I can finally have Kafka, but after Kafka, I’m saving to eventually have E6S5 Blade, I just need at least one of her

But the urge to just go for him fully is so strong

Also holy shit, Dr. Ratio?? For free?? AND THEY MADE IT MATCH HIS LORE/PERSONAL VALUES??? That is genuinely so genius what the hell, he’s quickly becoming a fav

[firebuug]

i am so lonely but l don't share brainrot with anyone around me and nothing is bringing me joy disease 8272638596 dead 5 injured

[maideninorange]

For the ask game, 7. Do you prefer to read short fics or long fics?

7. Do you prefer to read short fics or long fics?

Depends on my mood. I would generally say short fics though.

The thing you have to keep in mind here, you see, is that I consider a 3,000 word oneshot "short". I more just have a hard time getting into reading long multi-chapter fics than anything.

I think I just prefer reading all in one go lol. Which... isn't always feasible. But I certainly can read multi-chapter longfics if I find them intriguing enough!

[sendmyresignation]

the museum i volunteer pretty regularly at focuses singularity on black history which is very nice. i think many people forget the way black history is interwoven into ohio history anyway rant for another time there's something about watching people interact with the museum, feel invigorated by their own personal love of black history. which is really grounding for me idk. i feel like studying queer history sometimes feels like an indulgence or a hobby when i talk to the wrong person but it's a reflection of this same connection to the past and to the legacies you want to uphold but also the love. the love! that overlapping solidarity of caring so deeply for your own... it's really beautiful to see and it's so apparent in the interactions ive had with black history academics/professors and such.

[blueblcd]

( new tags!! ) pt 2

[unproduciblesmackdown]

tfw my shifting dream threads for a bit were all framed as Media & all had will roland acting a Role. first was "here's a short film w/him & some guy & he's wearing sort of a smock sort of a dress over pants & a sweater & we're like yeah cute. kind of about his role getting mentorship about performing a role but at first neither are sure they're that interested in this creative process & i suppose that will bear the plot" then was "idk the plot but i was also doing A Role & i heard a roger mentioned & i am like is this the will roland role? so i ad lib leaning over like [as in roger that] & he ad libs [never heard that one before XD] so yes" like can't go wrong, a [hop, skip] of a name as you can sort of glissade in & out on the R but with an untamed Short O &, looks something up, affricate in the mix for panache. third time i was the wrole b/c i advanced a Gay Love Interest? thread by leaning over like "amicable perhaps teasing interaction with this guy" then like "and what of beaming about it afterwards when it was simply momentary & even while you've turned away" & beyond that there was still a wrole in an ensemble plotline. thank you & goodnight

[tayfabe75]

"That's the end of Act I, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much, now I can snap into broad TV presenter mode. 'How you feeling, London?' Actually, I don't feel like that. I'll tell you a funny story. We had a guy on tour with us 'cause George had a funny arm and he was trying to fix it, and one night there was a case of root beer on the bus, and he was quite a naive young guy, and he drank the root beers thinking it was beer and then he pretended to be drunk in front of everybody. And instead of laughing at him, I felt a bit sorry for him. I tell you what, now I feel sorry for him, because the placebo effect or the idea of… what I'm trying to do, simulating a breakdown, really, is like… as you know, the walls get a bit thin. Do you know what I mean? I know, it's all good. I'm all right. Thank you though. Like, genuinely. Thank you a lot."

February 13, 2024: On night two at the O2 in London, Matty shares a story about someone pretending to be drunk on root beer, drawing comparisons with his on-stage simulation of a breakdown.

[prokopetz]

I'm spinning this off of the main thread about tracing the origin of the term "d66" because it's not strictly germane to the topic – none of these examples actually use the term "d66" to describe their dice-rolling methods – but I'm going to post it anyway as a matter of general interest: following a conversation with Tumblr user @notclevr, it appears that before tabletop wargames (and, nearly concurrently, tabletop RPGs) got their hands on the mechanic, the principal (though by no means exclusive) users of the old "roll a six-sided die twice, reading one die as the 'tens' place and the other die as the 'ones' place" trick may have been tabletop American baseball simulators.

The most notable example of the type – and the only well-known example still in publication today – is J Richard Seitz' APBA Baseball, first published in either 1950 or 1951 (accounts vary). In this game, a d66 roll is cross-referenced with a card representing the active player and a "board" representing the current situation on the field:

For example, with Carlton Fisk at bat, a d66 roll of 31 would yield a result of "8". Assuming for the sake of argument that the situation on the field is a runner on first and a grade C pitcher, consulting the "Runner on First Base" board, this corresponds to an outcome of "SINGLE—line drive to left; runner to third".

(This example is, strictly speaking, incorrect, as Carlton Fisk didn't have his major league debut until 1969 and I'm using the wrong lookup tables for any year in which he played, but you get the idea!)

Interestingly, APBA Baseball is not the first game to use this setup. It's heavily derived from Clifford Van Beek's National Pastime, a game whose patent was registered in 1925, though it wasn't actually published until 1930. Even at a glance, the similarities are substantial:

Indeed, though National Pastime's lookup tables are much simpler than APBA Baseball's, where they overlap they're often word for word identical. It's generally accepted that Seitz plagiarised National Pastime without credit when creating APBA Baseball (ironically, given his own famously combative stance toward alleged imitators!), though he was within his rights to do so, as National Pastime had fallen into the public domain by the time APBA Baseball was published.

We can go back even further, though. As far as I've been able to determine, the earliest known tabletop baseball simulator to use d66 lookup tables for resolving plays is Edward K McGill's Our National Ball Game, first published in 1886:

A copy of the game's 1887 US patent application can be downloaded here. This one uses an unusual 21-entry variant of the standard d66 lookup table in which the order of the rolled digits is insignificant, with doubles being half as likely as non-doubles rolls; it's unclear whether McGill was aware of this when he laid out the table. Unlike later incarnations of the genre, there are no individual player statistics, with all at-bats being resolved via the same table.

[trashytracktales]

PLSSSS part 2 to this time tomorrow but it’s a year or so later and he’s dealt with his grief and guilt and happily ever after pls

Same time yesterday | MV³³

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪

*can’t be read as a standalone.

✦ summary ──── It’s been eleven months since she left, and her absence haunted every aspect of Max’s life.

✦ pairing ──── Max Verstappen x she/her reader

✦ rating ──── explicit

✦ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, feelings of unworthiness, emotional angst, isolation, themes of guilt, grief and self-doubt, panic attack with descriptions of physical symptoms, struggles with self-worth, insecurity and personal trauma, healing through intimacy, smut, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.

✦ word count ──── 8.5k

✦ date ──── Jun. 12, 2025

✦ a/n ──── This is not very I don’t do part 2s of me, but the amount of people requesting it made me feel guilty, so here we are. YOU WIN (ILY) 🙄. All jokes aside, writing this healed something in me. Goodnight 🤍✨

MAX DIDN’T EXPECT her to actually leave.

In his stubbornness, he hoped that he’d find her back in his apartment once he returned from work a week later, when her mind would clear up and the adrenaline of the breakup would be long gone. But when that didn’t happen, and he came back to an empty place, he slowly began to panic. On the inside, of course. Because Max is the kind of person who rarely ever displays his feelings out in the open, and when he does it, it’s usually his ruthless side that comes out. He would never admit in front of anyone that he has weaknesses. The only time he’s ever done it was in front of the mirror, in those mornings when everything became too heavy to carry for a pair of shoulders already weighed by the burdens of the past.

He did not expect her to leave.

Not after everything they’d said to each other, not after the way she’d touched his face the night she walked out, and the way her lips lingered on his cheek like a goodbye she didn’t want to make real. Not after she whispered that he knew where to find her. That she was still willing to give them a chance, but this time, they as a whole had a price. And he needed to cover it in its entirety.

When her absence has finally caught up to him, Max got angry.

Not at her, but at the hole she left behind. At himself for not begging her to stay, even though that goes against everything he is as a person. At the way grief still had its claws in his chest even when he thought he’d buried it deep enough to allow himself to love again.

She said she understood. She acted like she did for so long. But then she left. She promised she wasn’t asking for more than he could give, and then she still walked away when he couldn’t give it fast enough. It felt like betrayal to Max, twisted and misplaced, but real.

After that, he threw himself into work like he always did: training, simulation, back-to-back race weekends. Late nights at the gym, longer ones behind the wheel. But no matter how many laps he ran, no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outpace the noise inside his own head. At times, it felt as if it tried to deafen him completely. And sometimes, there were so many voices in there that they overlapped and he had the impression that he could go mad.

It got worse when doubts started creeping in.

What if he’d ruined something good once again?

What if she was right, and he never actually moved on, not from grief, not from guilt, not from his dead wife?

He couldn’t trust himself anymore. The same instincts that made him a four-time World Champion now betrayed him on track. He second-guessed overtakes, overcorrected in turns, and crashed into his rivals on purpose.

The paddock noticed it, so did the press. Max Verstappen didn’t make mistakes, until he did. And the worst part of all: he stopped caring.

His despair was subtle at first. It bled in during the long flights, in the lonely hotel rooms, and in the silence after a shitty race. He tried texting her a couple of times, but it was always short, dry, and empty. She responded kindly, as usual, but never let it go further. Though Max hated it, he respected that, because he respected her, even if he thought it was bullshit. All of it.

It wasn’t until one particularly sleepless night, many months after she left, that the loneliness finally did what the anger couldn’t: it made his mind quiet. It made him sit with himself and be brutally honest. Realistically, he realized that no trauma will ever completely heal. A shadow of guilt will always follow him, no matter who he ends up becoming, what he achieves in his career and who’s going to be there with him.

That night, Max stood in front of the mirror, the ring on his finger slightly sparkling in the bathroom light. It somehow looked dull, like it, too, got tired from being worn by a man who didn’t know how to let go. Only this time, he didn’t see his wife. Instead, he saw the woman who stayed even when he didn’t have the words to explain himself, the one who kissed him like she was pouring pieces of herself into the cracks of him, the one who left not to hurt him out of spite, but to save them both. Or at least try.

And he understood that the ring didn’t remind him of grief anymore. It reminded him of who managed to give it a whole another meaning. It reminded him of what he stood to lose if he didn’t start choosing life instead of loss. And just like that, still panicking on the inside, he figured a new way of feeling the pain and owning it without hurting so much.

Max’s fingers trembled, but he took it off. He took. The damn ring. Off.

And something about the silence cracked open the moment he did it. At first, it was a strange numbness, like his skin and limbs and even his thoughts didn’t belong to him. Then the trembling turned into tremors. His hands shook so badly that the ring slipped from his palm, clinking against the sink like a warning. He had a tiny impulse to put it back, but he didn’t. His breath hitched, chest rising in short bursts that couldn’t catch enough air. The walls of the room seemed to press in, tighter and tighter, so he gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His heart thudded violently between his lungs, and he could hear it.

Then his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the cold tile floor, curled onto his side, eyes wide and unfocused as his mind raced with fear — am I dying? Is this how it ends? All alone…

He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He just lay there, whispering to himself that he deserved this. That maybe this was part of it: the punishment, the penance, the cost of finally letting go. But he’d chosen grief so long, it felt wrong to be free of it. And, ultimately, he ended up convincing himself it was better that way, but every time he looked at the empty space on his finger, he wondered how long she’d wait. If she was still waiting at all.

He couldn’t stand the thought of her saying no after that, so he never texted her again.

IT’S A RANDOM Tuesday when Max is in the pet aisle, squinting at a row of identical cat food cans, wearing an old Red Bull hoodie from the early 2010s. The hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, a subtle shield against the world.

He isn’t expecting anything. Maybe a fan or two who may recognize him. But not her. However, the second she walks through the automatic doors, pushing her cart slowly, head tilted like she’s scanning the shelves for something specific, he sees her. Her hair is a little shorter now. Her coat swings open as she walks, and she’s humming softly to herself, unaware.

Until she turns, and her eyes meet his. Time doesn’t stop, but it does slow, just enough for Max’s chest to go tight. And they both realize it at the same time: they’re going to have to choose. Quickly. A nod and a half-smile, play it off like strangers passing in the middle of something ordinary.

Or talk.

Max does it before she gets the chance to. He doesn’t even glance at the shelves again. His hand reaches out and grabs two random cans of cat food, the labels facing the wrong way, something he wouldn’t normally touch. But it’s not about the cat food anymore.

It’s about how she notices the way Max squeezes the cans in his hands, and how his left hand, in particular, molds around the circular container, making her heart stop for a beat.

“Your hand’s all naked,” her mouth talks without her permission the moment he gets close enough for him to hear her; the fact that it’s the first thing she tells him doesn’t come as a suprise for either of them.

Max smiles a little, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at it like he hadn’t realized it himself until now. “It’s been for a while.”

They stand there, hands full of domestic normalcy, bodies not quite knowing what to do next.

“Hi,” her lips curl slightly into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.

“Hi,” he echoes, voice a little raspier than he’d like. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” adds Max, glancing around like maybe the store has changed since he last looked.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, looking anywhere but at him.

There’s too much unsaid between them to make small talk feel right. Too many memories that exist in kitchens and beds and mornings with whispers and kisses. And yet they try.

“You look good,” Max says, his eyes flicking up and down, unsure of where to land. “Shorter hair suits you.”

She nods. “Thanks. You look…,” her voice trails off, checking him out from head to toe in order to find something nice to connect with, but when she can’t do that, she chooses to be honest instead. “Tired.”

Max smiles, but looks defeated as he does. “Not sleeping much.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “And everything else.”

They both look like they want to leave but can’t quite make their feet move. It feels like there’s too much air between them, and yet, too many things have already been said, cried out, and broken open like bones that never healed right. Max can feel it rising in his throat. It’s bitter and sweet all at once. The fucking guilt. The longing. It’s her, actually. Right here, in front of him again, after eleven months and three days of not seeing her. Of only surviving her through old texts and ghost limbs.

His fingers twitch around the cans.

She’s standing like she’s braced for impact, but her eyes finally land all over him: his face, the hoodie she actually wore a few times before when she was waiting for him to come back home, his hand, his left hand. His bare left hand.

“This is weird, right?” Max finally asks, his voice sounding like he hasn’t spoken a single word for weeks.

She lets out a sigh. “A little, yeah,” she agrees, nodding.

And still, neither of them moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t come in,” she admits, fingers curling tighter around her cart. “I was parked outside for, like, ten minutes just sitting there. Because I realized this is your neighborhood and I’d risk seeing you,” she adds quickly.

Max feels his heart racing again before he even understands it. His throat goes dry, and when he speaks, he sounds hurt. “You didn’t want to see me?”

She blinks, startled, like she hadn’t expected the question to come out that way. “No,” she breathes. “No, Max, that’s not what I meant.”

He holds her gaze, and this close, he can see the sheen of emotion swimming in her eyes. There’s no anger in there anymore. Just, maybe, a little ache.

“It’s nice to see you,” she says. “I did want to see you so badly that I almost turned the car around, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”

Max’s chest caves inward, his brows drawn together like the weight of all those lost months just landed right between his ribs. “Well, I think you’re handling it very well,” he jokes, but she doesn’t laugh, which makes his smile fade a little, not knowing if he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.

She looks down for a moment, biting at her kower lip, then back up. “I think you do, too.”

They both go quiet again, surrounded by fluorescent lights and grocery store music and the quiet chatter of other people, but none of it registers. The world has narrowed down to just them in the shortest time, like it always did. Knowing someone so intimately does that to a space, no matter how big or small.

Max rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to release the tension lodged there. “Listen, I don’t want to do this here. In front of the cat food and the Goldfish treats.”

His words earn the smallest smile from her, just for a second. “And what is this, exactly?”

He stops, looking around in order to get his thoughts together. “If you’re not busy, I was about to order a pizza for dinner,” Max hesitates, then adds quickly, “I swear, I just want to talk. I just…” he runs a hand over his jaw. “I haven’t been able to say anything that matters in a long time, and I want to. I owe you.”

She swallows, wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Max. Not anymore.”

He shakes his head. “I owe you my time.”

He sees the way her brow furrows, confusion flickering across her face, and Max knows she doesn’t understand what he means by that. And he can’t quite tell her that he means all the months he spent with her while only giving her a fraction of himself, because the most part was still buried in grief, clinging to a past he couldn’t change. He means the smiles she gave him that he didn’t return fast enough, the quiet ways she showed up for him while he kept one foot in a world that no longer existed. He means every second he spent being afraid to choose them, and every moment he let that fear win. What he owes her is his precious time, the kind that’s undivided, intentional, and fully present.

The time he should’ve been spending loving her without hesitation. Without conditions.

The time he still hopes to give, if she’ll let him.

THE MOMENT HE turns the key in the lock and nudges the door open, the apartment comes alive with a flurry of soft meows and pattering paws. Jimmy is the first to appear, coming out from the hallway with the usual cheeky air, followed by Sassy, who practically chirps in recognition when she sees that her owner is not alone.

The girl barely has time to step out of her shoes before the cats are circling her feet, tails high, meowing as if they’ve been abandoned for weeks. They don’t hesitate, don’t even sniff to confirm, yet the purring starts instantly, the kind of sound they only made when she used to come home late and curl up with them on the couch. Both cats cling to her like she’s their mother, like home walked back through the door after years of waiting.

Max watches it all unfold, frozen, with the cans stacked on top of the other still in hand.

“Fuckin’ assholes,” he complains under his breath, shutting the door behind him. “The only reason I even left the apartment was because they wouldn’t shut up about being hungry. And now they won’t even look at me,” adds Max, a little irritated.

She looks up with a smirk and gently takes the cans from his hand. “Allow me,” she says with a mock bow, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen with the ease of someone who still remembers exactly where everything is.

Max leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her open the cabinets to pull out the tiny cat dishes they once picked together at a pet store in Italy. Her movements are fluid, the muscle memory guiding her every gesture; the clink of the spoon against the dish, and the way she splits the food evenly, as if it still matters that Sassy used to pout when Jimmy got more.

The remembering. That’s what gets to him every single time. The way it all looks like she wasn’t away for months. The way his own pets remember her scent and presence — more than that, they crave it. And they’re not the only ones, he figures.

Eventually, Max leaves her to it and goes to order the food he promised, knowing that he will be ignored anyway, at least until the cats eat and get bored of playing. The pizza arrives just as she finishes washing her hands, and they settle on the couch like they’ve done a hundred times before, the box open between them, the cats finally dozing at their feet.

For a moment, the quiet sets peacefully around them and it almost feels like they never fell apart at all. Their legs don’t touch, but the distance isn’t as wide as it used to be. Between bites, their eyes meet, without causing unnecessary tension, just a bittersweet quiet wrapped in intimacy. He watches the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she catches the way he still wipes his fingers on his thighs, like always.

Finishing his second slice, Max finally decides to disturb the peace. “Thanks for giving them some attention,” he says, pointing at the cats that are now back in their donut beds. “They’ve been such jerks lately.”

She glances at the cats, her gaze softening. “You know they treat you like you treat them.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift. “I’ve been nothing but an endless fountain of joy around them since you left, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her smile falters the second his sarcasm slips out. And suddenly, the guilt wraps around her ribs like a vice, because she had no idea just how lonely it must have been. She tried to imagine it a few times, sure, but the truth is always harsher.

“Back at the store,” she begins, a little hesitant, “You said it’s been a while since you took it off.”

Max takes a moment before he nods, not immediately meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you… you know,” she says, gesturing at his hand. “I thought that was our agreement.”

He swallows, running his fingers over his jaw, which he often does when he’s struggling to think of the right thing to say. “And say what? Thank you for waiting, I’m ready to finally offer you more than the bare minimum?” he says in a sarcastic tone, shaded by a trace of anger. “You deserve better.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him with those eyes that always made him feel seen. Like she could read the gaps between his words, without needing anything else but him.

The girl shrugs. “That would’ve been a start,” she says casually, taking the pizza box and putting it on the coffee table in front of them.

Max almost flinches at the thought. It tastes so wrong in his mouth, because he doesn’t want to act as if the time they spent together was just a draft. He wants what they had and what they were. The laughter in the kitchen. Her voice humming in the bathroom. The weight of her body curling toward his in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

“I don’t want a start,” he insists. “I want what we left behind.”

Her brows lift slightly, her expression unreadable, but her lips part like she’s about to speak. He beats her to it.

“It’s been fucking awful,” the words come out unfiltered. “Missing you, I mean,” he explains, like the thought has been sitting on his brain for months, maybe since the second she walked out of his life. “Not just in passing. Every day.”

His hand moves without thinking, crossing a distance far greater than the space between them, and when his calloused fingers curl gently around hers, all those months of pain fade somewhere into a distant past. Her skin is just as he remembers, warm and soft like silk. The touch is tender, Max’s thumb brushing the back of her hand like he’s reminding himself that she’s real, and not just a figment of his twisted imagination.

He doesn’t want to go beyond the invisible line they’ve both drawn, but when she squeezes him gently, it’s more than a confirmation. It’s her equally strong desire to return to their own normalcy. And after that, it takes almost nothing, maybe just a look and the smallest shift in the air, and he pulls her in his lap.

Her legs straddle him, fitting there with maddening ease. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingertips threading into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly like it’s second nature.

The sudden closeness forces him to breathe in sharply, inhaling her scent that fans across his lips.

“Max...” she whispers, her face tilting toward his, eyes dropping to his mouth as if kissing him is inevitable.

But he can’t have that. What good thing has ever come so easily in his life? Twice.

Max’s hand presses against her waist to push her away, and his head turns as a response. At that, she stills in his arms, eyes searching his face.

“Liefje?” she whispers again, hurt and confused.

He shakes his head, still avoiding to look at her. “I can’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

Finally, Max’s eyes flick to hers as he swallows the lump in his throat. The blue in them is dark and faded, and it scares her a little. They’re glassy, full of things he’s never been good at saying out loud. “Because I don’t... I don’t deserve it,” he says, quiet like a confession passed through gritted teeth.

Her hands slide from his neck to either side of his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on her.

“Look at me,” she demands when he tries to look away again, but it sounds almost pleading. She can feel the way his muscles are tense beneath her, how hard he’s trying to stay composed. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t want to?” she asks.

His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, “How could you possibly still want this?”

Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, pressing closer, her nose brushing his. “Because you want this,” she replies simply. “I left because I thought you didn’t want us, and that hurt the most.”

Max flinches, “I did,” he nods, “Want us.”

“The ring on your finger told a different story at the time,” she smiles, a trace of sadness shadowing her face.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he says.

She tilts his chin slightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, careful. She understands that, after all, this is their dynamic. She’ll always have to wait for him, one way or another. Do everything at Max’s pace. It may not be ideal, but it has worked in the past, when the tallest walls separated them.

He lets out a trembling breath, arms circling her waist to bring her closer.

“Please,” she whispers, “Let me kiss you.”

This time, his lips crash into hers with a desperate need. Her attempt was soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way needs her. It’s heat and hunger and all the months of silence and aching compressed into one kiss. His fingers move to cup her face, and he groans against her mouth, finally letting go.

She shifts as the kiss deepens, slowing down until it becomes worshipful.

“I missed you,” he says again.

She smiles through the ache in her chest. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Her hips move unconsciously, but it’s enough for Max to catch her meaning. The girl slides forward and presses down right where he’s already hard beneath her. The friction hits hard between them, and they both still for a moment. Max breathes in through his teeth, and a silent gasp stutters out, all distance suddenly dissolved.

She traces down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones and lower, palms gliding across the fabric of his hoodie. It’s soft and worn, but it hides too much for her liking. So she hooks her fingers underneath it, pushing up, and Max doesn’t stop her. He lifts his arms, helps her peel it off, and the warmth of his skin underneath makes her breath catch in her throat. The muscles of his torso flex as he breathes, tight and lean, built by years of control and discipline.

But right now, he’s giving her none of that control. He just looks at her like he’s ready to rip his heart out and give it to her on a silver platter. With a smile on his face.

Her blouse is next, coming off in a smooth motion. And then, before she can say anything more, he shifts quickly underneath her. In a blink of an eye, he has her on her back, stretched out along the couch, his body poised above hers.

She barely has time to register the change in position before his mouth is back on hers, as possessive as it used to be, like the last kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Max’s lips trail down over her jaw and neck, leaving heat in his wake. Patient, he kisses along the edge of her bra, then he looks up at her. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s still that sliver of restraint behind them.

“Can I?” he asks, a tiny smile blooming in the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.

She nods. “Yes.”

Swiftly, he unclasps her bra and slips it away, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hands slide down her sides as his mouth drops to her chest, breathing her in deeply. The first touch of his tongue on her nipple makes her inhale sharply, her hands flying to his back, gripping and squeezing. Max groans quietly against her skin when she arches up into him, and his hands weld themselves to her thighs to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. After that, he changes his position just slightly and grinds down into her, swallowing her whimpers with his mouth still latched onto her breast.

She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel everything, all at once. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, teasing, sucking, and she pulls him closer and closer by the shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of his weight. His presence. Him.

“Can you stay like this for a sec?” she asks in a trembling voice, the emotion evident in every word. She keeps him pressed down against her with her arms locked around his shoulders before Max can even process. “Just stay here, please.”

He lifts his head to search for her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Then, he kisses between her breasts, and rests his forehead there, listening to her heartbeat decrease in intensity with each passing second. His weight is warm and secure around her, his breathing slowing, too. She brushes his hair back with one hand, and the other strokes his spine.

“I missed you, too,” she finally says. “So much it started making me sick.”

Max’s eyes flutter closed, but he’s content to just listen, offering her the space to speak her mind.

“I had to buy a weighted blanket,” she chuckles shyly. “I couldn’t sleep, either. My anxiety was so bad I felt like I was floating out of my skin.”

Max blinks, then slowly pushes up on his forearms to look at her fully. There’s concern etched into every inch of his face, and he sounds stern when he speaks again, “You never told me it got that bad.”

She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make you feel worse. You already blame yourself for everything else.”

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching against her ribs. “That’s for me to worry, right? You should’ve told me.”

With a small sigh, she shakes her head as if it doesn’t even matter anymore. “I’m telling you now.”

Her words settle into the air between them like a sudden change in gravity, and it makes Max still completely. It takes him a second to process what she’s said, and not just the meaning, but the weight of it. That she hurt too. That while he was spiraling in silence, buried in self-loathing and racing to outrun emotions he couldn’t face, she was also falling apart as quietly.

His forehead presses against hers, but this time, the tension in his shoulders give away the war he carries in his mind, the guilt and regret in his soul, the anger, and the fear that he might still mess this up. He chokes on a breath, the kind of harsh inhale you take before something breaks and can’t be stopped.

She can feel him slowly but surely detaching, so she doesn’t hesitate to bring him back to the present moment with her. She kisses him all over, not just his lips. A sweet series of soft, scattered kisses along his cheek, his temple, his nose. His shoulders. His collarbones. She kisses him as if that would cure him of all his guilt, insecurities and self-hatred.

Max lets out a broken laugh, unexpected yet warm, as she keeps going, clumsier now. “That’s how you used to kiss Sassy when you stepped on her paws,” he reminds her. “You didn’t break me, baby,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault.”

The words hang there, heavy with understanding, because he can see she feels guilty, as if his pain is somehow hers to fix. Even now. His heart cracks at the thought of her carrying that weight, but it also warms at her tenderness and the quiet way she’s trying to make everything stop hurting. For both of them.

He sighs. “Maybe we should just finish the food, hm?” Max offers, his tone laced with hesitation, trying to give her an out, without putting too much pressure.

She shakes her head instead, then stares at him for a second. While continuing to maintain eye contact, her hand moves down between them with purpose. The metallic sound of his zipper being undone slices through the air like a whip in an empty room, and Max’s body responds instantly, looking like he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as she pushes his pants lower over his hips.

“I’m hungry for something else,” she says, smirking at him.

The last of their clothes disappear in a blur of heat and touch, the space between them closing until it’s completely gone, and not a speck of dust can seep in. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, making Max curse under his breath, his hands roaming her waist, thighs, and ribs, remembering the shape of her all over again. After taking the ring off, he convinced himself that being alone and deprived of her entirely was the new punishment. But now, he’s surprised to find out that no amount of penance could ever be worth losing her again.

She gasps when his lips catch her off guard, kissing her deeply, hand sliding south, slipping between silk folds already wet with want.

“Shit,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself. “I forgot how soaked you get from a little nipple play.”

She moans faintly into his mouth, hips lifting with ease toward his touch. His fingers stroke through her slowly, savoring her sounds, while his middle finger presses in. Just the tip, to test her patience and give her all the time in the world to open up for him.

As if he’s under a spell, Max watches her face, completely transfixed. “I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he praises her deliriously, pushing his finger deeper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” she hums, her nails digging lightly into his back, leaving faint love scratches behind.

At that, he smiles a little smug, and starts pumping his finger with much purpose. He’s on a mission now, intending to relearn every twitch and tiny flinch, because for some reason, making her come like this has become his new life’s purpose. And the fact that she’s obscenely wet, encourages him to keep going, gliding his finger in effortlessly, the slick noises echoing between them like he’s already halfway inside her with his cock instead.

“I fucking missed it, too,” he admits, voice cracking at the way he feels her clenching around him. Every time his finger strokes against that soft, spongy spot inside, her thighs lock around his wrist like Max is her puppeteer, hips canting up, chasing more. “There it is,” he says with satisfaction.

Without pulling away, he eases in another finger, curling them with surgical precision, dragging against that same spot until she’s shaking. Her tiny gasps turns into broken moans, high and breathless, her palms squeezing his shoulders harder. Max starts scissoring them in the way he knows it’ll make her see stars, stretching her open, happy to watch her squirm and melt because of him.

“Want me to keep going until you can’t think straight?”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is just another pathetic whimper. Her slick coats his knuckles, dripping down his palm, earning a low hum from Max while driving his fingers faster.

“So tight and desperate,” he says mostly to himself. “Let me see you,” his thumb finds her clit, rubbing delicious circles as his fingers keep fucking up into her, stretching her sweetly.

Her reaction is immediate: her whole body jerks, thighs quivering as her pussy fights to hold him in, harder than before.

“Max,” she tries to warn him in a shaky voice.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, he pulls his fingers out and dives in on instinct, burying his face between her thighs like a man starved. His tongue replaces where his fingers had just been, fucking into her with messy, greedy strokes. Max grips her thighs, making sure to groan loudly into her, wanting her to hear exactly how much he’s enjoying this. She keens, hands flying to his hair as he eats her out with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves her gasping for air.

Her orgasm crashes over her with an unexpected loud cry. Her hips arch off the couch, body convulsing as she soaks his face, a warm flood dripping down his chin and onto the cushion beneath him. Max agrees satisfied, like he lives for this, licking her through it until she’s shuddering and whimpering and very much not thinking straight, trying to push him away from overstimulation.

He pulls back with a glossy mouth, chin dripping, and eyes blown wide. That clear blue has finally returned, contrasting beautifully against the bright pink of his flushed face. His hair is a mess, and he’s breathing hard like he just came. She wishes she could paint him like that, but she knows that no brush would ever do justice to the beauty she sees in him.

“My god, Max,” she laughs, still breathless, reaching up to pull him toward her. She wipes his chin with her palm, eyes half-lidded, before tugging him in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re such a show-off.”

He smirks, resting his forehead to hers. “Well, I am a professional.”

“Oh yeah?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Did they add that as part of your pre-race routine?”

Max shrugs with a deceptively serious expression on his face. “Helps with focus. And finger control.”

The girl chuckles. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies quickly, leaning in to finish their kiss.

His lips are soft and plumped, and they give her the second she needs to breathe before the air shifts. Max’s hand cups her cheek, and when he looks at her, his voice drops, eyes filled with a tamed concern.

“You okay?” he asks, the kind of okay that means are you still with me?

It’s the care behind his voice that gets to her. The one that she only saw a couple of times in him, when Max really let her see the purest version of him. The version that’s not on any screen, nor the version that walks out the door everyday to go to work. This Max is too soft, afraid, and weak. Or so people would say if they’d know.

She finds it hard to speak, instead, she reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. She nudges the thick head through her folds, dragging it up and down in maddening passes, not letting him in, just coating it in the mess he made of her. It’s a sweet tease, a challenge, and a bit of revenge from her side, that gets the expected reaction out of him: Max whines, and his hips twitch in anticipation.

But before she can do it again, he bucks forward just enough to slip between her lips. Not inside. Just there. Nestled. Pressed. Bothering.

“Shit,” she gasps at the drag of his cock against her folds. Is too much already, yet not enough, her body betraying her before she can play it cool.

Max laughs at her failed attempt, dragging himself up her slit again, slow and sticky. “What do you think you’re doing, schatje?”

She moans, frustrated. “Nothing.”

He keeps going, rubbing himself through her wetness, teasing her entrance, but never pushing in. After all, she just showed him how to, didn’t she? It’s punishment for both of them, his cock is throbbing, coated in her, and every pass just winds them tighter.

“You feel that?” asks Max in a quiet whisper. “That’s how much you want me,” he continues, finally pushing in. The stretch is sweet, tight and wet and warm, and the moment he’s fully inside, everything goes still. He lets out a relieved sigh, his head dropping to her shoulder, “And this is how much I want you.”

Perfection in just the right amount. Being inside her like this shuts his brain off and, soon enough, the silence inside his skull becomes addictive.

The first thrust feels like coming home.

The second thrust brings all the memories back.

The third thrust makes her eyes roll, her hands clutching at his arms, hips trying to chase every retreat he makes.

Max has to grip her tighter to keep her in place, and gently pushes her thighs apart wider. He watches the way she spreads, how easily she welcomes him, and it lights something heavy in him, but also devastatingly tender. It pushes him to slide in again and again, deeper and deeper, and the sound she lets out has the power to knock the breath out of his lungs.

It’s not difficult to find their rhythm. That perfect pace that makes it feel less like fucking and more like a love language only they understand. Every push and pull is a new promise. Every moan, a certainty that they will keep those promises this time. As the pleasure builds, they understand it’s more than that. It’s healing. With every stroke and every breathless sound between them, they’re stitching something back together. Something they thorned and fractured because they didn’t know better, now is slowly mending, making them stronger than they’ve ever been.

Max fucks her like he’s never going to get another chance to be this whole again. Like this is the last time it’ll ever hurt, and the first time they’re finally allowed to live. Their bodies slap together, the sounds echoing like music against the walls; it’s hot, thirsty, a song made by them, just for them. He keeps her open, holding her thighs in place because he wants to see all of it. The way she takes him. The way she glistens for him. The way she gives herself so fully, without flinching. And if she can do that — if she can give him this —, then maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.

He fucks into her harder, hips slamming and claiming. It’s like his darkest side cracked open and poured out all the ugly through need, hope, love, all tangled in sweat and skin and moans and and and.

“Fuck, Max. Yes, you feel so good,” her praise makes him sob, hips jerking like he’s being praised for something holy.

He leans down to kiss her, but they’re both too far gone. It ends up being just open mouths, shared breath, moans between lips that can’t quite meet, not with how their bodies are still colliding, over and over.

“Mine,” Max spits out breathless, as he feels her start to tighten around his cock, fluttering repeatedly like her body is begging to fall apart with him.

Her hands curl around his biceps in order to be able to meet his thrusts halfway, nails digging in. “All yours,” she wails.

He shifts her legs higher around his waist, his hand sliding beneath her knee to angle her just right, and when he thrusts again, her whole body jolts. “Right there?” he asks, watching her eyes closing shut, her mouth falling open. “Ja, that’s it. That’s how my baby needs it.”

Her entire body shakes with pleasure, panting with every thrust as he drives into her with a need that’s no longer just physical. It’s every moment he missed her, every second he hated himself for letting her walk away, instead of ripping that ring off his hand, finger and all.

Max’s voice breaks against her skin, “You have any idea what you did to me for eleven months?”

She nods, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Of course you do,” Max smiles into her neck, maintaining the pace, sweat dripping from his brow as her walls spasm around him, pulling him deeper. “You know I jerked off to the thought of you every night,” he continues, the confession nearly unraveling him. “Couldn’t touch anyone else because your pretty face was everywhere I looked.”

Her fingers slide into his hair, pulling gently. “My good boy,” she purrs, and the sound he makes in response is feral, like it strips him down to his most basic instinct.

Max cries out, thrusts faltering for a second before he slams into her harder. “Say that again,” he demands in a pleading voice.

“You’re my good boy,” she whispers, then kisses his cheek, smiling as he loses himself a little more. “You always were.”

The words wreck him. He breathes wetly into her neck, almost embarrassed by how much he needs to hear it, and how much he actually craves being her good boy. Beneath his though exterior, there’s always been a constant need to belong to someone entirely. Not out of weakness, but out of a desire to be seen and chosen. To be loved, treasured, and protected like he mattered. Because as a kid, those things came rarely, if ever. And though Max learned to survive without them, part of him never stopped longing for that kind of love. The kind he once found and lost, the kind he almost recklessly pushed away. The kind she gave him, without asking for anything but his love in return.

“I didn’t let anyone else touch me, either,” she continues, breathless but determined to let him know, her fingers now tracing down his spine. “Told every guy that hit on me I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. Did I lie, Maxie?”

He moans louder, his body surging forward like something inside him just snapped. His thrusts grow rougher, driven by the need to prove her right. To remind her that she is, indeed, his, and no one else can ever make her feel this way.

“No,” replies Max. “You’re mine,” he pants, “My little kitten, ja?”

She laughs, half-sob, half-moan, body shaking as she clings to him.

Somehow, his lips find her breast again, latching onto her nipple like it’s instinct. He sucks on it a little rough, making her head bury further into the couch cushion with a soft whimper. She’s obsessed with The Feel of Max — his weight, the way he pushes into her and how his skin presses into hers, the sound of his breath against her chest. Every cell in her body burns for him, a deep fire that’s been waiting to reignite since the moment she did one of the hardest things: removing herself from her heart, because she had to choose herself for once.

His left hand reaches for hers blindly, pulling her out of the dreamy state she’s fell into. Max threads their fingers together and pins them above her head against the cushions. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she clutches his hand tighter, her stomach flipping with emotion. Her eyes fly open, not from surprise but from the intensity of it and how light it is. It’s impossible not to feel the difference; that tiny missing weight that used to sit there like a wall between them.

Max notices the shift in how she exhales, in the way her body clings to his. He doesn’t ask, but he knows.

“I see you,” he says. “I fucking see you, baby.”

She sobs out a sigh, something between a moan and an overwhelmed yes.

“You feel so good. So good, my love,” repeats Max again and again, like he can’t say it enough. “I’m never letting anything come between us, I swear.”

His honesty is poured into every thrust, every kiss against her jaw, her mouth, her neck and shoulder. Everything she needed to hear, he’s saying now, as if he finally realizes that she’s been waiting. And he knows she believes him. He feels it. Feels it in the way her walls flutter around his length faster, needier. Sees how her hips lift to meet his and how her chest expandes rapidly.

Her stomach coils tight, pleasure rising sharp inside her, “Max, if you don’t shut up,” she cries, “I’m gonna fucking come all ov—”

He laughs softly against her lips, silencing her, but he doesn’t stop. “Make a mess for me then,” he encourages her, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He does. He always did.

With Max’s name on her tongue, his hand in hers, and every part of her clinging to him like gravity isn’t ever going to be enough again, she lets go. Her climax sends him spiraling, soaking everything, from the couch to his thighs and cock, with the kind of release that leaves no question how much she needed him. He wraps one arm around her waist in order to keep himself present as he shoves in deep one last time and stills, body shaking.

“Fuuuck,” Max chokes, forehead falling to her collarbone.

His cock throbs as he empties himself into her, her body welcoming every drop from him. His heart is hammering against her ribs, and he needs to breathe her in a few times before lifting his head, eyes glazed as they drop to where their bodies are still connected.

The sight nearly makes him come again.

Her thighs are trembling, spread wide, their slick mixed with his cum, smeared across her skin and his cock and the ruined couch. It’s absolute chaos, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Satisfied, he collapses onto her fully, letting his weight sink into her just like he knows she needs. The girl sighs, breath tickling his temple, her hands finding his arms, scratching soft patterns along his skin. Goosebumps rise in waves, but Max doesn’t move. He just melts into her, letting her touch soothe him.

Her body acts before her brain has time to process. Gently, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to each knuckle. One by one. Then soft pad beneath his thumb. His palm, and the faint scar across it. She remembers how he caught the knife by the blade that night, and all the blood that spilled into the sink.

“Come home,” he whispers, voice cracking from the effort of saying it aloud. “Please.”

When there’s no answer, Max’s hands grip her waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up and look at her.

“Please,” he repeats. “I want to cook for you. Fight with you over stupid shit. Watch you fall asleep on this couch again. Just… let me love you right, baby.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. Max’s scent clings to her skin, to her hair, to the air around them, and that mix of sweat and sex drives her insane. It’s in the crook of her neck, on the inside of her thighs, behind her knees, soaked into her very inhale and exhale. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.

“What did you do with the ring?”

Max stills. Not the soft kind of stillness that comes from rest after sex, but the rigid kind, where his muscles lock and his breath stops short, like her words caught him mid-step somewhere deep inside himself. And unfortunately, she feels it in the way his touch pauses, not pulling away, but no longer moving forward either.

Her heart sinks into her stomach.

She hadn’t meant it to feel like an ambush, or a test she didn’t even want the answer to in the first place. But the silence stretches just long enough that fear creeps in. And her mind is relentless, thoughts flying around, mean and uninvited: It still means something to him. Maybe more than you ever will.

But then Max’s voice cuts through all that, pushing all the dark clouds aside.

“I gave it back to her,” he says. “Took it to her grave and—”

“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, fighting the tears in her eyes. She reaches to cradles his face in her hand, thumb sweeping gently across his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her touch, his stubble coarse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

It’s his turn to interrupt her this time. “It’s okay,” Max assures her. “You were right. I needed to let it go if I wanted to be here. With you. It’s just… I am sorry it took so long.”

“No,” the girl shakes her head. “We can’t get mad at time for doing its thing,” she says gently.

Max’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until it lands in him, like puzzle pieces falling into place. His eyes drift, settling on the digital clock glowing faintly on the wall. At the same time yesterday, he was lying in a cold bed, silence drilling through his ears louder than anything else. Swallowed whole by a grief so dark it didn’t even feel like sadness anymore. It was just a big hole of nothing.

A day later, he’s pressed against her, inside her, held by her. Breathing the same air as her.

Even though she didn’t say yes yet, even though he still has troubles sleeping, he’s content with the fact that the clock has reset itself for him. And for the first time since he got that call, he’s at peace.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[mononijikayu]

merry–go–round–of life — ryomen sukuna.

👹: “I miss you so bad it’s leaking into my game. Satoru played Grease in the gym to cheer me up. It was terrible, babe.” Your reply is instant. 🧪🌌: “Please tell me it was ‘Hopelessly Devoted.’” 👹: “Of course it was.”

🧪🌌: “God. I love that man.” He lets out a laugh, short, breathy, wet with something he won’t name. He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at your texts like they’re the only thing grounding him to earth right now. He smiles as he types his next words. 👹: “I’ve got a window. A short one. I can maybe fly out tomorrow. Just for a day or two, babes.”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Volleyball! AU;

Warning/s: General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Babe, My Love, Baby, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Lovers, Marriage, Feeling, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Teasing, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Long Distance Relationship, Frustration, Volleyball Pro! Sukuna, Astrophysicist! Reader, Husband! Sukuna, Wife! Reader;

Words: 9k words.

Note: i wrote this in a rush while im constipated and suffering in bed about it. and honestly, im glad i did because this is going to be a happy one, i know a rare treat. but there will be quite a lot of heartache here soon enough. also, yes, the signatures were created by me. i write like that irl. and yes, they both have autographs (reader gets asked by little kids who are interested in science for her signature). anyway, i hope you enjoy this as much as i do. i love you all so much!!!

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THIS WAS WHAT YOU WERE WORRIED ABOUT. It was fulfilling to be able to go and pursue your passions in your respected fields, that was true enough. But you knew this would happen. Your schedules aren’t overlapping the way you need it to be, and you hate it.

You hate how you and Ryomen Sukuna, your famous Olympic volleyball fiancé are like two stars in separate galaxies, orbiting each other from too far away to touch. You both were wanting to meet each other but the thousands of light years prevented you from even finding each other. 

It wasn’t always like this. Back when his training was domestic and your research wasn't demanding 80–hour weeks, you used to cook dinner together at least twice a week.

He’d lift you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, kiss you until the pasta boiled over, and say things like “We’re gonna have the loudest wedding in Japan.”

But now it’s missed calls, unsent voice notes, messages like “call me when you wake up.” followed by hours of silence because time zones are ruthless and the Olympics don’t wait for love. You’re lucky if you catch his voice once a week, muffled through tired laughter and stadium noise. 

And it’s bad that you were the same as him too.

You weren’t just the one being left behind you were running too, just in the opposite direction. You hated that about yourself. Hated how the very ambition that had once made him fall in love with you was now the same thing keeping you from each other.

The worst part?

Missing ten missed calls.

Sometimes more than that.

Seeing his name flash on your phone hours after he tried to reach you — each notification a little wound that you picked at without meaning to. Not because you ignored him. Never.

But because sometimes, you genuinely didn’t hear the phone ring over the sounds of your team discussing propulsion flow models or thermal regulation equations.

You’d come home and find the lunch he packed still untouched in your work bag. Rice cold, vegetables a little soggy from condensation. A sticky note on the lid with his handwriting which was messy and fast, like he was rushing out the door but still thinking about you: “Eat well, genius.”

You didn’t. Not because you didn’t want to. But because you forgot. Or because you were calibrating simulations past lunchtime. Or because you were sitting in some dark conference room answering questions from engineers twenty years your senior.

And the coffee, the one he brewed at 5:30 a.m. with the beans you like, poured into your favorite thermos? You’d leave it on the kitchen counter by mistake, still warm when you got home twelve hours later. That’s how you realized how bad it had gotten. You weren’t just missing him, you were starting to miss yourself too.

Ever since they assigned you to the development of a new rocket mechanism system, this new revolutionary propulsion array meant to change the trajectory of long–range space travel—you knew, in your gut, that this would take everything.

And it did. Your time. Your sleep. Your calendar. Him.

He was lucky to see you after 10:00 p.m — not in the romantic way, but in the “quick, I have five minutes before I pass out on this couch” kind of way. You'd sit side by side, half in your work clothes, his shirt still damp with sweat from training. 

You’d hold pinkies like kids and talk like strangers trying to remember the rhythm of your old conversations. Sometimes you’d fall asleep mid–sentence. Sometimes he would. Everything about it has just been rough.

It’s been a year and a half since he proposed to you. A year and a half since you said yes with tears on your cheeks and his forehead pressed to yours in a moment so still, so real, you swore nothing could ever pull you apart. And yet here you were. Not even a date set. No dress. No venue. No plans.

Not because you didn’t want it. Hell, you’d marry him in your scorched lab coat with grease stains and ink on your fingers if it meant being next to him when you woke up. If it meant not having to count days between kisses. You knew that. He knew that.

But life doesn’t care about how much two people love each other.

Every time you tried to plan, something got in the way. A training camp for the upcoming FIVB league, where he was captain and poster boy and MVP all rolled into one.

Then a week later it was the National League games or in the International Qualifiers. Or a media appearance. A charity match. A recovery period he had to take seriously or risk injury.

And for you, it was just the same. A last–minute research grant that couldn’t be passed up, not when it would fund your entire next project. A call from the head of the department asking you to lecture at an aerospace symposium.

Sometimes it was a request to mentor new hires or new interns. A sudden data spike that cracked open a new theory, one that would require late nights, recalibrations, endless documentation.

It always felt like one step forward, two steps away from each other.

No one was to blame — not him, not you. But that didn’t make it hurt less.

Because when he told you “I’d marry you tomorrow if you asked.”

And you told him “Then let’s do it, babe.”

The world said, “Not yet.”

And you both obeyed silently, painfully, hoping one day it would stop asking so much of you.

You’re sitting in the corner of the office lab today, shoulders slumped over your desk, staring at an untouched to-do list. You’re not crying, not really. But certainly, there’s a tiredness in your bones that not even coffee can fix.

Maryu Hana notices first. She always does. She walks over quietly, sits next to you, and just wraps her arms around your side like she's trying to hold the pieces of you together. Her hair smells like cherry lip balm and lavender softener. She doesn’t say anything yet, just rests her cheek against your shoulder.

“You okay?” Hana asks after a moment, voice soft and small, like she’s afraid that being too loud might break you further.

“No….not at all.” you admit. You don’t bother sugarcoating it. There’s no energy left to pretend you’re fine. “I miss him. We’re supposed to be planning our wedding right now, Hana. I don’t even know when he’s going to get home from his match abroad.”

Your voice cracks slightly on that last word. You hate the way it does. You hate that your chest feels heavy every time you think of him, of Sukuna with his duffle bags, his passport tucked into his pocket like a lifeline, his voicemail always full. 

You used to tease him for being impossible to reach. Now it just feels like the universe is playing keep–away with the one person you’re trying so desperately to hold onto. You could only sigh into your hands and feel the devastation.

Kenji, ever the loyal office goblin and chaotic gremlin of the lab, rolls over on his squeaky stool like a knight on wheels. His hoodie is inside-out, and he’s clutching an energy drink like it’s a sword.

“You need me to hack into the work calendar and ‘accidentally’ reschedule his matches?” he says, completely serious.

You let out a breathy laugh, weak but real. “That would start an international incident.”

“I’ve started worse, bestie.” he deadpans to you. And he was not lying. You knew he had. That’s why they can’t fire him. “Just say the word.”

“I’d….rather not.”

Haruki looks up from his soldering station, holding a screwdriver like it’s the Holy Grail. “Wait. WAIT. I volunteer as a wedding planner.” He rises with the gravity of someone delivering life–altering news. “I’ve been watching Downton Abbey. I’m emotionally equipped.”

“Yeah, me and Haruki could help!” Hana says, looping her arm around yours with a bright, unbothered smile. “After all, it would be like me and Haruki planning our own wedding. Since we had a court wedding.”

You blink. You’d almost forgotten that. It happened so quietly. A lunch break turned into a courthouse appointment. A blurry photo of them holding hands and a paper certificate posted in your group chat with no caption. You remember being stunned, speechless. But not surprised. They made it work.

You found yourself envious of that. Not in a bitter way, not in the why them, not me way. But in the aching, quiet kind of way. The kind where you smile and congratulate them and then cry into your pillow later because it reminds you that love can happen right now if you let it. If life lets you.

And yet here you are. A year and a half into your engagement with Ryomen Sukuna, and still floating in that weird limbo where you’re so in love and so ready but so impossibly stuck with the needs to please the roles you were meant to play.

Your colleagues, they had trouble even getting a proposal out. Haruki couldn’t string a proper sentence together and Hana had to say, “Do you want to marry me or not?” with a pen already in her hand.

But they got married. Quick. Simple. Straight to the point. No ceremony. No guests. Just them and their decision. And it was beautiful in its own way. It was what suited them and their personalities and wants, after all.

But you and Sukuna wanted something different, however. Not necessarily bigger, but shared. You wanted time. The time to plan, to invite everyone you loved, to dance until the floor cracked beneath you.

You wanted him there to argue over cake flavors and sigh at venue tours. You wanted photos in a sun–drenched field and stupid wedding favors no one would keep but you.

But time has not been kind.

“I’m happy for you guys, really.” you say softly, glancing at Hana and Haruki. And you mean it. But your next words are a little quieter. “I just wish we’d had that chance too.”

Hana squeezes your hand. “You will. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you will.”

“Unless Sukuna gets abducted by aliens.” Kenji adds. “Then I’m legally your backup husband.”

Haruki gasps. “Unacceptable. I already wrote my vows.”

Hana raised a brow. “Um, I am right here, as the actual deserving title of wife?”

“Well, if he does show up, I promise you, the wedding would be perfect if I plan it with you.” Haruki says, winking at you.

You snort through the lump in your throat. “Yeah? You're gonna walk me down the aisle too?”

Haruki grins. “In full 1920s suit attire. Ruffles and everything.”

Kenji adds, snickering. “And I’ll build you a hologram of Sukuna to stand in until the real one gets back. Super realistic. Only mildly cursed.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. Really laugh out loud. and it spills out of you in a way that’s raw and grateful and a little watery around the edges. Like your ribs were too tight until now, and something cracked open.

“I just…” You tug the sleeves of your lab coat down over your hands, swallowing the knot in your throat. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard. Being in love with someone whose life is on a global clock.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Hana murmurs, pulling you in closer, her cheek resting against your shoulder. “It’s hard. But not impossible. You and Sukuna are like… built different. You’ve always made it work, even when it sucks. And you know he hates it just as much as you do.”

You nod slowly. “He texted me last night… paragraphs of it. He said if he could, he’d cancel everything. Just to eat instant ramen with me on the couch. No cameras. No schedules. Just us. In our socks. Watching the same dumb reruns we’ve already memorized.”

Hana lets out a soft sigh, like your pain settles into her chest too. “That’s love right there. Instant ramen and reruns.”

“Haruki doesn’t even like instant ramen,” she adds with a pout, throwing a side-eye at her husband, who glances up, blinking in defense.

Haruki frowns. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I just make healthy options for us. Gotta keep you from living off potato chips and soda.”

Hana gasps dramatically, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Excuse me, sir, do you know how much junk I sneak when you’re not looking?”

“Yes!” he says, flinging his hands in the air. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about, babe!”

“You say that,” Hana points at him like she’s presenting Exhibit A, “as if you don’t drink an absurd amount of Asahi Dry every night.”

Haruki, affronted, gestures to himself with wide eyes. “That’s my only vice! And it’s cultural!”

“You’re such a hypocrite, aren’t you?” she groans, nudging him with her foot.

Kenji, never one to waste a perfectly chaotic moment, raises his energy drink like he’s toasting at a wedding. “Ah yes. Romantic, romantic ramen. Love brings you together!” he says sagely. “The cornerstone of any healthy relationship.”

You cover your mouth to muffle another laugh. “You guys are idiots.”

“Correct on that, captain.” Kenji says proudly.

“But you’re my idiots, to be sure.” you add, blinking away the dampness in your lashes. 

And for the first time in days, you feel… lighter. Maybe not fixed. Maybe not even okay. But held. In this tiny lab full of solder smoke, caffeine, and nerds with poor sleep schedules, you are loved. And that counts for something. Maybe everything.

You look down at your phone, Sukuna’s texts still sitting there, glowing softly against your palm like a heartbeat. Instant ramen, huh? You think you’ll message him back soon. Maybe you should even leave a voice mail.

Maybe even send him a picture of the lab gang yelling over takeout later.  Let him know you're not alone. Let him know you’re still here. Still his, still waiting for some time to just be together again and love each other again.

You tuck your phone into your pocket, your gentle fingers lingering against it like maybe….Just maybe. You could go on and press hard enough. Maybe, you might let him feel you from wherever in the world he is right now.

Hana gently nudges your side again. “You should text him. Or call, if he’s awake. You’ll feel better.”

You nod, already thinking about it. You’ll do it. After this moment. After sitting in the warmth of people who don’t ask you to be okay before you’re ready to be. “Yeah….I should….”

Kenji spins once on his stool, as if the energy drink has finally hit his bloodstream. “Alright, I’ve made an executive decision. Emergency wedding planning simulation. Just for morale.”

Haruki blinks. “What?”

Kenji claps his hands. “You’re going to hate this, but—boom. Picture this: rooftop wedding. At sunset. Hana officiates. Haruki cries.”

“I don’t cry!” Haruki objects.

“You absolutely do, a lot!” Hana says, smirking. “You sobbed at that ad with the puppy and the blind man.”

“It was emotional!”

Kenji continues like he’s narrating a movie trailer. “Reception at a space museum. Guests get party favors that are actually mini thrusters. There’s a robot bartender. And instead of a first dance, you and Sukuna spike a ceremonial volleyball at a target shaped like all your problems.”

“I can 3D print that target.” Haruki mutters as he opens his tablet. “Give me two days. I can reuse the program from the last rocket thrusters. Just need to edit them to smaller size, of course—”

You throw your head back and laugh again, tears still clinging to your lashes but now glinting with amusement instead of grief. “Stop, stop.” you groan, covering your face. “This is the dumbest thing—”

“—and yet you’re smiling,” Hana sings, pulling you closer. “Which was the point.”

You drop your hands and meet her eyes. “Thanks, everyone.” you whisper. “I’m grateful for all of you.”

Kenji gives you a goofy little salute. “Anything for our favorite overachiever–in–love.”

“You mean resident astrophysicist–in–love, no?” Haruki corrects, tossing a bolt across the table like a mic drop.

You shake your head, heart sore and full. There’s still that ache, that missing piece in your day-to-day rhythm that only Ryomen Sukuna fills. But tonight, for just a little while, it’s dulled by something soft and familiar. Love that stays close, even when your person is far.

Later, maybe after everyone’s gone home or dozed off at their stations, you’ll sneak into the break room and video call Sukuna. He might be in a different timezone, maybe halfway through his physio routine or brushing his teeth in some hotel room you can’t pronounce.

And when he picks up, and sees your face lit up under the sterile break room light, you’ll tell him: "Let’s eat ramen together this weekend. You, me, whatever city you’re in. I’ll bring the pocket Wi-Fi, baby. You bring the cup noodles. I love you."

Because if there’s one thing this moment reminds you, it’s that love like yours doesn’t disappear. It adapts. It lingers. It waits. And finds its way back. Always. Because love wins all in the end. It will always win in the end. 

IT HAS NEVER GOTTEN THIS BAD BEFORE. But now it has and there’s just really no way to stop it. Usually, there was a way to calm himself down. Yet, it's not working right now.

Since you are busy like him and you can’t call him often or spend time with him. Ryomen Sukuna is just as frustrated on the other side of the world. No, maybe not just frustrated. Since his spikes are getting everywhere.

The volleyball slams against the court floor with such vicious precision that it echoes like a gunshot, ricocheting off the walls in a wild blur of movement.

Coaches flinch. Teammates keep their distance. Balls aren’t just being served. It was like they’re being launched like warheads, and everyone knows better than to say anything about it now.

Everyone except Vice Captain Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru stands just beyond the service line, arms folded across his chest, sunglasses still on like he’s at a beachside photo shoot and not inside a national Olympic training gym. His expression is unreadable, but even he knows something’s off.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t talk.

He trains. He spikes. He glares. He barely sleeps.

And it’s getting bad. Because he misses you. Because he hasn’t held or seen you in over a month at the very least. Because he hasn’t heard her voice since three time zones ago. And it was obvious to everyone that he was just upset.

His chest is tight. His lungs feel too small. Every part of his body is coiled with an energy that doesn’t know where to go. Except into the ball, into the court, into whatever’s in front of him that isn’t her.

Another spike. Another blur of motion. Another dull ache in his wrist. But that didn’t matter. He doesn’t care about that right now. He cares about being able to air his feelings. And probably hearing your voice later, if you pick up.

“You’re gonna fracture something, Captain!” Satoru finally calls, breaking the silence.

Sukuna says nothing, panting through his nose. He’s drenched in sweat. Muscles straining. Every vein on his arm is a live wire right now. He huffs a breath as he goes on and picks up another ball.

“Y’know, Mr. Lover Boy….” Satoru continues casually as he fixes his jacket. “Most people go for a walk or write sad poetry when they miss their fiancée. You? You look like you’re trying to kill the floor.”

Sukuna turns his back on him, fists clenched, shoulders rigid. “I haven’t seen her in weeks, or spoken to her in days.” he mutters, so low Satoru barely catches it. “Didn’t even get to call last night. I fell asleep with my phone in my hand.”

His voice is rough. Like gravel dragged across asphalt. Like the exhaustion finally caught up to him. But that’s probably how it just is with his schedule.

He’s both in the National Team and in the V.League. Then there’s the training camps and the other stuff like the press. And it’s rinse and repeat, as always.

Satoru sighs and strolls over, dropping down into a squat like a coach babysitting a storm. “That’s rough, really.” he admits to him, still a bit playful. “Real tragic. Definitely calls for alcohol and sad jazz music.”

Sukuna’s jaw ticks. “We’re supposed to be planning our wedding, you know that?” he says after a long pause. “It’s been a year and a half. We haven’t even picked a damn date.”

Satoru doesn’t say anything. He knows better than to offer empty platitudes. “She’s got this new rocket system project. Her team’s finally getting funding, which is good. She deserves it.”

“Hm, you said that the other day.”

Sukuna’s voice is softer now, but bitter–edged. “But every time we try to plan anything….anything and absolutely anything, something comes up. Her lectures. Our training camp. Her research. The World Cup qualifiers. Another damn seminar or match or trip across the globe.”

He exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate this.”

“I know you do.” Satoru says gently.

“She doesn’t say it, but I know it’s wearing on her too.” Sukuna looks down at his hands. The same hands that have sent balls flying like missiles, the same hands that haven’t been able to hold hers. “I don’t want her to feel like she’s putting everything on pause for me. Or that I’m putting her last.”

Satoru’s expression softens, sunglasses slipping down just enough for his eyes to show. “She wouldn’t stay if she felt that way.”

Sukuna finally meets his gaze. His voice is low, threaded with an ache he rarely lets show. “She’s the only thing I want more than this game.”

And that’s saying something, coming from Ryomen Sukuna, who loved volleyball with everything he was. Whose entire life has been volleyball since he was tall enough to touch the net. But he loved you more. He loved you more than volleyball. You were his life. You were his everything.

Satoru claps a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Then keep wanting her. But don’t burn the rest of your world down in the meantime. You’ll get back to her. Sooner than you think.”

But Sukuna’s heart is elsewhere. With you. Always with you. He dreams of the way you tug at your lab coat sleeves over your hands when you're tired.

The sound of your laugh through the phone when you’ve got your headset still on. The way you’d always try to make time, even when you couldn’t. Even when the world was pulling you in a thousand directions too.

He’d give up all of it in a heartbeat. He knew that. All the fame, the medals, the arenas, if it meant just waking up beside you every morning he has in this life, then he’d give it all up. No alarms. No training. Just you in his arms. Breathing soft against his chest. Home, in its purest form.

But he can’t. Not yet. So he breathes, barely.  And spikes another ball, like it’ll keep his heart from shattering. Sukuna’s next spike hits the far wall so hard it rattles the bleachers. It echoes loud and sharp, like the crack of something breaking. Satoru doesn’t flinch. He sighs, long and theatrical. 

“Well, that’s something.” he mutters, “He’s officially in full sad, long–distance lover mode. Talk–jutsu failed. We’re in phase two: Rage Despair.”

“Is that like a boss level, Gojo–san?” Itadori Yuuji asks, jogging over with a towel slung around his neck. His cheeks are pink from drills, hair stuck to his forehead, sweat still trailing down his temples. “Because he looks like he’s about to go feral.”

“Yuuji–kun.” Satoru turns to him, hands on hips. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

Satoru grins, wide and devious. “Operation Cheer–Up–Sukuna–With–Sheer–Stupidity.”

Yuuji blinks. Then lights up like a puppy who just got the go-ahead to fetch. “YES.”

Before anyone can stop him, Itadori Yuuji barrels toward Captain Ryomen Sukuna like a human golden retriever missile, arms open for a completely uninvited hug. Sukuna glared at him as he saw him coming towards him.

“RYOMEN SUKUNAAAAAA!” he yells mid-run. “YOUR SOULMATE WOULD WANT YOU TO SMILE!!!”

Sukuna turns just as Yuuji launches at him. His first instinct is to side-step and deck him. His second instinct is still to deck him. But he hesitates just long enough for Yuuji to latch on, full koala-style, arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs bracing like he’s riding a moving train.

“You smell like rage and heartbreak!” Yuuji wheezes against his chest. “Let it out, Captain!”

“I will kill you, Itadori!” Sukuna growls, trying to shake him off. “You best be fucking ready to do dive serves, you punk!”

“You need love!” Yuuji cries.

At the same time, Satoru pulls out a Bluetooth speaker from absolutely nowhere, presses play — and suddenly “Hopelessly Devoted to You” from Grease begins blaring through the gym. All the staff and coaching team were either about to laugh or disappointed. The rest of the team looks like they were used to this. 

“Oi, are you actually serious right now?” Fushiguro Megumi barks from the sideline, dropping his water bottle.

Nanami Kento walks in from the hallway, pauses at the doorway, and squints at the scene. Ryomen Sukuna dragging Itadori Yuuji across the court like a furious god with a clingy barnacle.

Gojo Satoru dramatically sings into a protein shaker. The ridiculously loud Grease soundtrack echoing like it’s karaoke night in hell. It was just not something that anyone can see everyday. And yet, this was the normal of the Japan National Volleyball Team.

“No, no.” Nanami says flatly, “No. Absolutely not.”

He marches toward the chaos with his usual calm menace. “Itadori–kun, get off him. Satoru, turn that off. This is a place of discipline. Not a high school musical.”

“Aw, come on, man!” Satoru whines back at them.“It’s a classic!”

“Sukuna doesn’t need musical numbers, Vice–Captain.” Megumi deadpans as he drags Yuuji off the fuming captain. “He needs peace and a phone call with his fiancée, probably followed by a ten–hour nap too.”

Yuuji flails dramatically in Megumi’s grip. “He needs love! Let the man feel things!”

“I am feeling things, you punks!” Sukuna growls, voice low and dangerous. “Like the urge to end your entire career.”

“You see?” Nanami says out loud. “This is what happens when you let emotions run unchecked. He needs focus. Structure. Calm.”

Sukuna, despite himself, lets out a sharp breath. Almost a laugh. Almost. “I need her, right now.” he mutters instead, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. “That’s it.”

Everyone goes quiet for a beat.

Megumi, releasing Yuuji with a shove, glances at him sidelong. “Then call her.”

Satoru grins. “Yeah. Do that. And then I’ll serenade her on speakerphone so she remembers how charming we are.”

“Try it, Gojo. I’m telling you it will not end well.” Sukuna mutters, grabbing his towel. “See how fast I put you through a wall.”

But there’s less venom in his voice now. And maybe, just maybe…. a flicker of peace behind his eyes. Because even halfway across the world, in a gym where every breath feels like a battle, he can still hear her voice in his head. And maybe, if he hurries through the cooldown, he’ll get to hear the real thing.

Sukuna sits on the bench, finally. Shoulders hunched, towel draped over his head like a ghost of defeat. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers threading into his hair as he exhales sharp through his nose.

He’s not broken, he knows he’s not. But god, he’s tired. Of the distance. Of the ache. Of pretending it doesn’t chip away at him every day.

Megumi hands him a water bottle without a word. It’s cold. Reliable. Exactly what you’d expect from him. Sukuna takes it, mutters, “Thanks.”

Nearby, Yuuji’s still pouting on the floor with a bruise forming where Sukuna elbowed him. “I was trying to be supportive, you know!” he mumbles. “Hugs are powerful.”

“They are, Itadori. We know.” Megumi replies blandly. “But not when they come from a hyperactive golden retriever on suicide watch.”

Yuuji gasps. “I am a comfort animal, I’ll have you know.”

“More like a feral street dog, with Gojo around.” Nanami mutters, adjusting his glasses as he heads toward the exit. “You two make it too much when you’re together.”

Satoru lounges next to Sukuna now, tossing a volleyball from hand to hand like the whole near–homicide was just another Tuesday. “You know…..” he says casually at you. “You could surprise her. Hop a flight, spend a day with her before qualifiers start. No press, no entourage, no distractions. Just you and the astrophysicist hottie of your dreams.”

Sukuna gives him a side–eye like he’s grown a second head. “You do know how training schedules work, right?”

Satoru shrugs. “Yeah. But I also know how you work. If you don’t see her soon, you’re gonna combust and take the rest of us with you. God help us, we might even lose a game and miss international spots if this keeps up.”

“He’s not wrong, Captain. Stupid as he is.” Megumi adds, already back to stretching. “You’re like a ticking emotional bomb right now.”

“I could forge some documents, you know.” Yuuji pipes up from the floor. “Like a fake conference about biomechanics in volleyball and propulsion—”

“Absolutely not.” Nanami cuts in from across the court without even looking back. “We’re not being fined by the FIVB because of that, Itadori–kun.”

“But come on!”

“We’re abiding by propriety. No other words.”

Sukuna’s quiet now. Still. Because the idea’s in his head. You’re probably in her lab right now, probably up to your ears in data and test simulations. Probably hasn’t eaten since noon. Probably sipping cold coffee because you’re too focused to remember it’s there. 

You’ll have a blanket wrapped around her shoulders even with the heater on, hair in a bun you forgot to redo, typing with that deep furrow in your brows you always get when you’re close to a breakthrough.

God, he wants to see you. He wants to hear you mumble something scientific he won’t understand and then laugh when he repeats it wrong. He wants to lean against your chair, press a kiss to your temple and feel the tension in your shoulders melt. He wants to hold your hand. Fall asleep beside you all day in your comfortable bed, for once.

He stands. “Where are you going?” Satoru asks, though there’s a smirk forming already.

“To shower, you punks.” Sukuna mutters, already walking. “Then maybe check flights.”

Yuuji gasps. “IS THIS A ROM–COM AIRPORT MONTAGE IN THE MAKING?”

Sukuna points at him without turning. “You say one more word and I’m dumping you in baggage claim.”

“Don’t worry, you can come back in two days, one day at most.” Gojo Satoru says with a beaming smile. “We can say you needed the break. So, don’t worry too much. Plus, I’m sure Yuuji–kun here can cover your spikes while you’re out.”

“I’d be honored to do it in the name of love, Captain, Vice–Captain!” Yuuji beams at them, blush echoing in his face. “Let’s go, Fushiguro! I need to practice some spikes!”

“Itadori, wait! Fuck, you’re shoe laces are untied!”

For some reason, he didn’t hear that. What mattered to him right now was that his heart already feels lighter. And somewhere, even across time zones and orbit paths and Olympic demands, you’ll be surely feeling that too.

Steam still clings to his skin when Ryomen Sukuna steps out of the shower, towel slung low around his waist, hair wet and dripping onto the tile.

The exhaustion that weighed heavy on his shoulders during practice hasn’t disappeared, not completely, but it’s dulled now. It has softened at the edges like an ache he can almost bear.

He rubs the towel over his hair, muscles tense and jaw tight, still debating whether he should risk flying out or at least try to call again. And then his phone buzzes on the sink counter.

He doesn’t even bother drying his hands, just grabs it, breathless with the kind of hope that still manages to knock the air out of him.

It’s from you.

🧪🌌: “Just made instant ramen. No one to eat it with. Kinda dramatic of the universe, don’t you think?”

He stares at the screen. And for a long, quiet moment, his heart actually hurts. Not in the dramatic, movie-score way. In the real, gritty. It was like the ‘I’d give up gold medals and glory if it meant I could teleport into your kitchen right now’ kind of way.

Another buzz.

🧪🌌: “Don’t worry, I made two bowls. Yours is getting cold.”

He sinks down onto the bench, towel around his neck now, water still dripping down his back. For a man who could crush a ball at 130 km/h, his hands are shaking. It always is like that when it comes to you. 

👹: “I’ll eat it. Even if it’s cold.”

👹: “Save it for me.”

He stares at the screen for a second, then types again. This time slower, like the words are peeled straight from the ache inside his chest. In this moment, he feels like he could breathe again, even just a little bit.

👹: “I miss you so bad it’s leaking into my game. Satoru played Grease in the gym to cheer me up. It was terrible, babe.”

Your reply is instant.

🧪🌌: “Please tell me it was ‘Hopelessly Devoted.’”

👹: “Of course it was.”

🧪🌌: “God. I love that man.”

He lets out a laugh, short, breathy, wet with something he won’t name. He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at your texts like they’re the only thing grounding him to earth right now. He smiles as he types his next words.

👹: “I’ve got a window. A short one. I can maybe fly out tomorrow. Just for a day or two, babe.”

There’s a pause. You were taking your time to reply to him once again. He stares at the screen, every second dragging like an eternity until the typing bubble finally appears. He blinks at your reply.

 🧪🌌: “Come home, Ryomen Sukuna. Even just for a couple hours. Let me kiss you and love you. Please.”

He lets the phone drop onto the bench beside him, chest rising with something like relief, something like need. And then he stands. He felt renewed, unstoppable. It was like nothing could hold him down now that you're waiting with ramen in hand and love in your voice.

Because cold noodles and long-distance calls weren’t meant to be the shape of your future. You were. And he was going to get on the next flight home. Even if it was just to eat that cold bowl of ramen while holding your hand under the dim kitchen light.

YOU RUSHED AS SOON AS YOU GOT HIS TEXT. You barely told your lab mates where you were going. Just a rushed sentence was left in a haste: “Cover for me, I have to pick up my fiancé.”

And then you were out the door, heart pounding like a reactor core, goggles still pushed up on your head, lab coat half off one shoulder. You could feel everything in you alive for the first time in weeks.

Hana yelled something like “GO MARRY HIM ALREADY!!!” as you ran down the hallway, and you think you heard Kenji dramatically play wedding bells through his phone speaker. You didn’t care.

Not when you were already halfway to the airport, biting down the grin on your face like it might escape and take flight without you. And then you see him. He didn’t pack much. He just brought his so little with him. He had to leave in two days, after all.

Through the arrival gates, in sweats and a hoodie and still somehow the most magnetic thing in the entire terminal. Ryomen Sukuna, Olympic volleyball menace, shoulders hunched under the weight of sleep deprivation and a duffle bag, eyes locked on you like a man who’s been starved for years.

You drop your bag. He drops his. And when you run, you run. Straight into his arms, into the kind of kiss that knocks all the loneliness out of your lungs. You felt laughter bellow through your body, with him following.

“Hey, my love.” you murmur against his mouth. “You’re real.”

“I’d say pinch me, but I’ve been doing that all flight.” he mumbles into your hair. “You saved me some ramen?”

“Half of it.”

“Liar.”

You grin. “Okay, none of it.”

He laughs into your neck, voice low and raw, and holds you tighter like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to this planet. And then, while you’re still pressed into his chest, flushed and breathless and so deeply in love it almost hurts, you murmur it.

“Let’s get married.”

He stills. Pulls back just enough to look at you. You meet his gaze, steady and sure, eyes bright even in the cold artificial airport light. “Not next month. Not next season. Not when everything settles. Now.”

His brows raise slightly. “Like… now now?”

You nod. “I don’t care if I’m in my lab clothes and you’re in flip-flops. I just want to be your wife already. We can do the big wedding later, during the off-season, when your training calms down. When I’m not deep in grant applications or papers. But right now, I just…” you breathe, “I want to marry you. Today.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

And then, he grins.

Big. Wide. Unbelieving.

“You really mean that?”

“Dead serious.”

He tilts his head. “Babe, you are so lucky I look this good in sweatpants.”

You laugh, swat his chest, then tug him closer with fingers curled in his hoodie. “So, my love? Is that a yes?”

“Hell yes, babe.” he says, already pulling out his phone. “Let’s find the fastest courthouse and the slowest cab.”

And just like that, as the world rushes by in blurry foot traffic and airport announcements, you and Ryomen Sukuna make a decision that was never really a question. You’re getting married. Right now. No frills. No formalities. Just love, loud and impulsive and completely yours.

You ended up in a government office less than two hours later, still in your lab coat, with Ryomen Sukuna beside you in his travel hoodie and scuffed–up sneakers.

Both of you were flushed with adrenaline, sleep-deprived, and radiating that wild, half–delirious joy that only comes when two people finally give in to the gravity between them.

It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. The walls were horribly beige. The seats were squeaky and plastic. A toddler was crying somewhere in the background and the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, like a glitch in a simulation.

But your beloved Sukuna was holding your hand.

And that was all that mattered.

This was all you could ever want.

He kept sneaking glances at you while you filled out the paperwork, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening. Like at any second, you’d change your mind and vanish back into the lab, sucked up by equations and theories and spaceflight mechanisms.

But you didn’t. You squeezed his hand instead. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered, voice hoarse from flying and feeling too much.

You turned toward him, eyes glassy but steady. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you, my love.”

His throat worked around a quiet swallow. Then: “I love you too.”

You signed your names.

Handed over your IDs.

And when the officiant finally called you up and asked, “Do you take each other—” you didn’t even wait for the full sentence. Your yeses overlapped, rushed and breathless, like neither of you could wait another second.

There were no rings. No music. No fancy outfits or curated vows. Just the sound of your heart thudding in your chest and the feeling of Sukuna’s hand trembling ever so slightly as he slid a makeshift band, his silver thumb ring, onto your finger until you got something more permanent.

It was messy. It was spontaneous.

It was perfect.

You couldn’t ask for anything more.

Afterward, he kissed you outside the courthouse under gray city clouds, holding your cheeks in his hands like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. You were just laughing, happily against the tenderness of his warm skin.

“We’re married, my love.” you said, stunned.

“We’re married.” he echoed, forehead resting against yours, breath caught between laughter and awe. “Wow.”

You ended up eating convenience store ramen in the backseat of a rideshare, legs tangled together, laughing with your mouths full like you were teenagers again. You fed him from your cup. He pretended not to burn his tongue. 

And when he leaned back and looked at you, really looked at you. It wasn’t the Olympic athlete who stared at you. It was Ryomen Sukuna. Your husband. The one you knew was the love of your life. Your beloved one and only.

“Okay, okay.” he said, mouth tugging up in that crooked grin. “Big wedding after the league. Deal?”

You nodded, cheeks hot and full of stars. “Yeah. With a venue and guests and upgraded rings this time.”

“And cake.”

“And fireworks.”

“And you in a real dress this time.”

You reached for another bite of ramen and grinned. “I dunno. You kinda like the lab coat.”

He groaned, collapsing dramatically into the seat. “God, I married a nerd.”

You turned toward him, your heart finally quiet, finally full. 

“Yeah.” you said. “You did.”

He laughs for a moment. When he calms down, he finds himself leaning close to you and kisses you with all his heart. This time as your husband, right there in a cab filled with instant noodles and laughter and the quiet, steady hum of forever.

IT WAS INSANE. The crowd is deafening. The overseas lights are blinding, white-hot and cinematic as the announcer calls Ryomen Sukuna’s name and the stadium roars like it’s shaking the foundation of the earth. 

He walks out of the tunnel with his signature swagger, jaw tight, warm-up jacket half-zipped, the captain’s patch sharp against his arm. He’s calm. Focused. Unshakeable. More than usual. Something’s different. Very different.

The people in the crowd began to notice it before the cameras did. Before the commentators do. Before even Vice Captain Gojo Satoru, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a lollipop between his teeth, leans forward slightly and mutters with a grin. “Oh, look at that.”

It’s small. Just a glint.

But unmistakable.

It was a bright shining ring.

Plain, silver, worn on his left hand.

For a second, the crowd is silent. It’s like the whole stadium collectively holds its breath, squinting as Ryomen Sukuna stretches out his fingers, flexing them as he preps his stance. There it is again. It was a shimmer of metal against calloused skin, just below his knuckles.

“Is that…?” someone whispers from the VIP box.

“No way fucking way—"

The commentator nearly chokes on his mic. “Wait—wait, do we have confirmation that that’s—?”

He doesn’t say it. But everyone’s thinking the same thing. Ryomen Sukuna was married. And as he takes his place by the net, tossing the ball with deadly precision, his eyes flick up, not at the court, not at the crowd but at you.

Seated just behind the bench in a crisp jacket, your hair pinned back lazily, badge still clipped to your belt like you came here straight from the lab. Which, in a way, you did.

You flew in two hours before the match started, thanks to a miraculous two–day leave and Haruki nearly forging an emergency form just to make it happen.

Ryomen Sukuna catches your bright eyes and grins, subtle but real. Then, as casually as if it were part of his routine, he walks toward you during warmups, slipping the ring from his finger. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t explain. 

He just approaches the barrier separating the court from the sidelines, hand outstretched. You stand up, breath caught in your throat. And when he places the ring in your palm, his fingers linger over yours like a promise.

“Hold this for me, yeah?” he murmurs low, so only you can hear.

You nod, fingers curling around the warmth of his wedding band. “Always.”

He smirks. “If I lose this match, it’s your fault.”

You smile, teasing, “If you win, I get the credit.”

“Deal, babe.” he breathes, leaning in close just enough to brush his forehead to yours. “....My wife.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Go do your thing, my love. My husband.”

And then he’s gone, with a grin that could never be wiped from his face ever again. 

Back on the court. Back in his element. The game starts, and it’s brutal. Fast. Electric. Ryomen Sukuna spikes like he’s got fire in his veins and gravity’s got nothing on him. Every serve is a message. Every point, a love letter sent from across oceans and time zones.

But that ring, that ring is safe with you. Pressed to your heart, warm in your hand like the echo of his pulse. And every time he scores, every time the crowd loses its mind over the King of the Court.

Your husband giddily glances at you, just for a second. Because the whole world might be watching him now, but he only ever plays for one. And you know who it was.

The final whistle blows, and the stadium erupts. The crowd is a storm of cheers, roars, and flashing lights, but amidst it all, the most intense sound Sukuna hears is the pounding of his own heart.

The adrenaline is still rushing through him, every muscle humming with energy as he pulls off his jersey and throws it to the side. He’s sweaty, bruised, and panting but the grin on his face says everything.

They’ve won. They’re in the semi–finals of the World Cup. He stands at the edge of the court, fists raised to the sky, basking in the electric atmosphere. His team is all around him, celebrating, high–fives and back slaps, but Sukuna’s eyes? 

They’re already searching for you. He doesn’t need to look long. You’re there, right in the front row of the stands, looking at him with that warm, steady gaze that’s always been his home.

His heart shifts. The crowd might be screaming his name, but there’s only one person he’s looking at. A reporter catches his attention as they move in for the first interview.

“Sukuna, congratulations on the victory! Amazing performance tonight! You’ve led your team into the semi-finals — how does that feel?” the interviewer asks, microphone outstretched, camera flashing.

He grins again, though it’s different this time. Not the typical cocky. ‘I’m untouchable’ grin. This one’s softer. Real.

“Feels like we’re one step closer to the real prize.” he answers, voice cool, collected. “But you know…” He pauses, glancing over at the crowd, catching your eye again. “It’s always worth more when the right person is watching.”

The interviewer blinks, confused, and the camera operator swivels to follow his line of sight. “Ah….” the interviewer says with a raised brow. “Is that—? That’s your wife?”

Sukuna’s smirk returns, a devilish edge creeping back into it. He nods, a single motion that sends the reporters scrambling to adjust. The camera zooms in on you as you wave back at him, smiling.

Your hand still holding his ring like a token, your face a picture of pride. In that same hand, your own wedding band was present with your engagement ring.

“That’s her, everyone.” he says, the words surprisingly quiet, but they carry more weight than the roar of the stadium. “I promised her I’d be back for her ramen. So I did come back.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, then the crowd catches on. Laughter and gasps ripple through the reporters, murmurs and shock sweeping through the air. Sukuna, the ever–intense, world-renowned athlete, has just casually dropped that he’s married.

“You’re married?” the interviewer asks, genuinely taken aback. “Since when? How did we miss that?”

Sukuna shrugs nonchalantly, “Two days ago. A bit spontaneous, but when you know, you know.” He’s almost too cool about it, though there’s a softness to his voice that gives away how much it really means to him. “This game… this whole journey? The merry go round of life, of everything, doesn’t matter without her.”

The crowd’s whispers grow louder. “And the ring?” the reporter asks, now genuinely curious. “Why wear it in the match? You took it off before the main bout, but you still wore it. Why?”

“I wear it because she holds the game for me,” he says quietly, though the words carry in the microphone, clear and true. “She’s my anchor. Keeps me grounded, keeps me sane. So yeah, I’ll wear it every time I step onto this court. She’s got my back. Always.”

The camera pans to you in the crowd once more, this time catching your reaction. You blushed hard, clearly overwhelmed by the attention, but you hold up his ring in your hand like a silent promise.

Sukuna catches your gaze again and, for just a moment, the world quiets down. The noise of the stadium, the flashing cameras, the cheers of the fans. Everything fades. It’s just him. And you. The way it’s always been. And then the interview continues, but his focus is only on you.

When it’s finally over, and he’s walking off the court, his teammates high-fiving him and calling out congratulations, he spots you at the exits to the back stage rooms.

You’re already standing, pushing through the crowd, and he’s there in an instant, his steps purposeful and quick. He’s still sweating from the match, still in his jersey, but nothing’s more important right now than getting to you.

You barely have time to meet him halfway before he’s pulling you into his arms, his lips pressing against your temple, his breath fast and heated, still catching up with the victory and the emotions all swirling around him.

“We’re in the semi-finals, wife of mine.” he whispers, grinning. “It’s gonna be amazing!”

You smile, gazing up at him. “And I’m so proud of you.”

“You better be, babe.” he says, his tone playful but genuine, eyes sparkling. “Next stop, finals. Then we’ll get that celebration.”

You laugh, bright eyes softening as you glance at the ring still safely cradled in your palm. “And then we can plan our real wedding. Just the way we want it.”

Sukuna leans in, pressing his forehead against yours for a brief, quiet moment. “I think the ‘real wedding’ has already started, don’t you think?”

You nod, your fingers curling around his hand, where the ring once rested. It’s just the beginning. The semi-finals are just a step on the way. But you and him? You’re already winners. And that, above all else, is the prize.

epilogue 

The day the statement went live, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. It was carefully calculated, perfectly timed. The World Cup season had come to a close, and the volleyball world was already moving on to the next tournament, the next match. 

But for Ryomen Sukuna and you, it was a different story. You both knew that the media storm was coming. The moment was too significant to let slip by.

So, you’d crafted a statement and not just a post, but something real. Something that would speak to everyone about the choices you’d made, the life you were choosing to live together.

It had taken a little longer than expected. Between the match finals and the whirlwind of excitement after Sukuna’s performance, you both finally found a quiet moment to put it together. The statement would go live at the same time, both on your accounts — a simultaneous declaration that would make waves.

[ Sukuna's Instagram Post : ]

The caption was simple, a few words that carried so much weight. He posted it with a picture of the two of you from the day after the World Cup finals.

The two of you standing side by side, laughing, relaxed, far from the intensity of the courts and the public eye. Your smile was soft, his grin was wild and carefree.

“Hello, this is the Japan National Volleyball Team Captain, Ryomen Sukuna.

For the past several years, my life has been defined by training, by competition, and by a relentless drive to be the best.

But none of that means anything without the people who support you. Without the person who truly makes the journey worth it. 

My incredible and loving wife, who’s been my backbone, my partner, and my everything for almost all of our lives.

Today, I’m announcing the effectivity of my break from the Volleyball field in order to have some adequate rest and focus on my personal life.

A break from the national team, from the spotlight, and from the game I love, to focus on what truly matters — her and us. Our marriage. And of course, our beloved dog.

I’ll be back, stronger than ever. But for now, I’m going to be the husband I promised to be all those years ago.

Thank you for all your support, not only for me but also for my beloved wife. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts for respecting this decision.”

[ Your Instagram Post : ]

You followed the post up almost immediately, a little more formal, but still deeply personal. The photo you chose was one taken earlier that morning, the two of you wrapped up in each other’s arms.

You both were leaning against the window in your shared apartment. The light from the early morning sun illuminated both of your faces, your eyes soft, your hearts content in each other’s company.

“Hello, this is astrophysicist of the National Astronomical Observatory of Japan, Ryomen [name].

After supporting my husband at the World Cup, it became more than clear that my work, my research, and everything else I’ve dedicated my life to doesn’t matter nearly as much as the person standing next to me.

I’ve spent countless hours in the lab, in meetings, in papers, all for the sake of progress. Doing what I can for our country and continuing my passions.

But today, I’m choosing progress of a different kind in my life. Ryomen Sukuna, my husband, my partner, the love of my life, have decided that we deserve some time for us to build something beautiful with this time.

I will be stepping away from my research and academic work for the foreseeable future to focus on resting and enjoying the beginning of our beautiful marriage.

This is a break I’ve been waiting for, and one I’m so grateful to take. Thank you for supporting me in this decision.”

As soon as you both posted, the world’s attention shifted. The responses came flooding in, and it didn’t take long for the media to catch up to the news. Headlines erupted from every corner of the internet.

“Olympic Star Ryomen Sukuna Steps Away From National Team for Personal Time”

“Breaking: Award–Winning Astrophysicist Ryomen [name] Takes Hiatus to Focus on Marriage” 

“Ryomen Sukuna and Ryomen [name]: Power Couple Taking a Break from Their Respective Careers”

It was unprecedented. No one had expected it. No one had ever seen athletes or academics alike step away from their careers at the peak of their success, especially after such a massive season.

Fans were stunned, others were supportive, and some were even more curious than ever about the couple who had kept their relationship so private, so guarded, up until now.

And then the follow–up began. Interviews with close friends and teammates started popping up. The bright eyed Gojo Satoru, ever the wise and eccentric vice–captain, was the first to speak out about the happy news.

“I can’t blame him. The man’s been running on fumes for years. And [name]? She’s been working like a machine, too. It’s about time they take a breath, enjoy life a little. I told him after the finals to take a damn break, and I’m glad our beloved Captain finally listened!” Gojo Satoru laughed in an interview with a sports outlet.

“Yeah, everyone’s talking about how he’s taking a break from the sport, but… he’s been juggling this whole marriage thing for a while.” Itadori Yuuji added when he was asked by a local news outlet. “He’s been way more chill lately. I think it’s the wife effect. Everyone needs balance in their life.”

Meanwhile when the Astrophysics department of the NAOJ were interviewed about this situation at a recent project you had finished together by the press, Keiji was the one who stepped in and spoke for everyone.

"It's important that Ryomen–sensei gets some time to just enjoy being married right now." Keiji smiled, leaning into the microphone. "Ryomen–sensei's worked incredibly for the past few years without any break whatsoever. This is the only time she's asked. Someone with such incredible contributions to the field like herself should get the chance to just relax too. Congratulations to Ryomen–sensei and her husband!"

Hana sent you a message in the middle of all the press: “You two are seriously the most chaotic but adorable couple ever. You deserve this break more than anyone I know. Have fun with it! You earned it. Me, Haruki and Keiji are cheering you on!”

The reporters were relentless, asking about future plans. Was Sukuna leaving for good? Would you ever return to the lab full–time? But you and Sukuna, in your quiet way, just smiled at the chaos from your apartment, reading the headlines side by side.

It wasn’t about what the world expected. It wasn’t about making any more headlines. It was about what you both had decided. To take the time to truly be together.

A few days later, as the media storm began to settle, Sukuna took your hand as you sat together on the couch, flipping through TV channels.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and whispered, “You know, babe, we’ve got all the time in the world now. So... when should we take our honeymoon?”

You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair. “When you’re ready to let the press calm down a bit. I think we’ve given them enough for now.”

“I’m ready whenever you are, my lovely wife.” He smirked, his scarlet eyes glinting mischievously. “I’m just happy to spend everyday with you.”

And in that moment, as the world calmed down around you, you realized that this was the true victory. It was not the World Cup, not the research papers, not the games or the acclaim. It was simply being together. And for the first time in a long while, you felt at peace.

You looked up at Sukuna, catching his gaze. “Let’s take it one day at a time. Together, my love.”

He smiled, leaning in for a kiss. “Deal, wife. Let’s take it all in.”

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like everything was exactly where it should be.

[sabianandocs]

I’m very interested to hear your Gaster interpretation as someone who likes to make my own!

Okayokay long ramble incoming- Kind of a mix of my Gaster lore and the Skelebros since they're kind of intertwined for my stuff --- I'll try to break up the paragraphs with doodles so it's not just a block of text

My version of Gaster is a mix between the usual crazy scientist interpretation and also someone who just really really wants to be a parent. (there is an appeal to the version of Gaster that's just.. Awful and creates the skelebros as experiments, but I wanted to go for a little of a more wholesome approach for my lore cuz I feel like they've been traumatized enough lol)

There aren't any other skeletons in the underground except for Gaster, though, and also I headcanon him as aro/ace so he was like. Yeah I'll figure something out on my own. SO! Inbetween working on the Core and trying to find ways to break the barrier, he did studies in his own time on SOUL magic to find out if it was possible to create life only using the SOUL magic of a single monster (rather than the usual two). His research on how to break the barrier overlapped some with this research so he get away with using the royal science lab/materials/etc for it.

Some science junk, blah blah, he found that it could be possible- if he took a chunk out of his own SOUL. And I suppose probably also the chunks out of his hands to provide the physical material necessary (Can thank Handplates for that idea). And that was a sacrifice he was willing to make for Science and also Child.

(The next section is copy-pasted directly from my lore google doc)

Gaster was cautious with his experiments for his first attempt. He didn’t want to risk a huge chunk of his soul on a first try that he thought would surely abort itself, so he only used a little bit, plus the extra soul power he was able to create through his own desire to have kids and probably some sketchy magic injection type stuff.

However, the first attempt didn’t abort. Despite his hesitancy and being sure that this first run would just be a proof of concept, or to just to figure out where things could possibly go wrong and how to fix them (he did all the calculations beforehand and everything, of course, but real life never plays out like the simulations), the soul actually took and began to create itself. He grew it and took care of it in an incubator in the lab, and during this time he slept at the lab a LOT, terrified that something would go wrong if/when he wasn’t there. As time went on and the soul & vessel it created became more stable, he got a little less freaky weird about being away from it for short periods of time.

  I guess probably this process takes about 9 months because??  That’s how long it takes to build a whole skeleton with magic soul power probably?  Idk man.  Anyway because they’re magic skeletons and there’s no reason to ‘birth’ (read: remove from the incubator) the soul & vessel before its able to support itself (unlike humans, who are all born premature because our heads would be too big otherwise) the new skeleton usually starts trying to become independent (get born) around the developmental size that humans would associate with a 1 or 2 year old.  

And thus Sans was created!  Gaster feels extremely guilty that Sans is so weak because technically it’s his fault for not committing more of his soul to him but he’s so so happy to finally have a kid and does everything in his power to keep Sans safe despite his weaknesses and help him learn how to navigate around them (Including sleeping to regain above max HP!)  

When Sans got old enough to kinda do his own thing around Gaster (like 5 or 6?) Gaster decided it was time to make another kid for a number of reasons: 

To redeem himself scientifically: He had proof he could make a living being, but with Sans he’d hesitated and Sans suffered because of it.  He wanted to make another who was more healthy

To give Sans a sibling: Both because Sans seemed kind of lonely and because he figured they would be able to keep each other safe that way- when they got older the sibling could help protect Sans and ‘make up’ for his disabilities by being able to help him out (Gasters view on it- I used airquotes deliberately. People with disabilities can function just fine on their own. Gaster sees Sans' disabilities of a failing of his (Gaster) own so he views it more negatively because he feels guilty about it.)

Because he wanted to: Gaster always wanted at least two kids and now that Sans was a little more stable and independent Gaster could handle the responsibilities & time dedication of having another little one around

And so Gaster did the whole thing again, but took a bigger chunk of his soul this time and probably more sketchy soul injection things to create more soul power.

And blah blah 9 months of waiting and sitting around in the lab being anxious and BAM!  Papyrus is born!

The boys grew up mostly in the lab and around it since Gaster was so involved in his work, but Toriel and Asgore babysat sometimes too (Papyrus’ memories of the ‘green’ but not remembering Toriel because he was too little).  Gaster was a super involved parent as well, and even hired Alphys as an assist in the lab so he didn’t have to spread himself so thin with work and his kids.  (Alphys only worked on vague assistance type stuff, which is why after Gaster got shattered across time she had no recollection of the deeper workings of the Core or of Gaster’s studies- anything that wasn’t erased with Gaster was really vague surface-level stuff)

As time went on, Sans got interested in the science that Gaster was doing.  Sans and Papyrus hung out at the lab a ton, especially as they got a little older and didn’t need quite as much direct adult supervision.  Mostly Sans just watched after Papyrus, but occasionally he’d watch Gaster work instead or in addition.  Gaster taught him as best he could at an age appropriate level, and so Sans ended up something of a scientific prodigy.  Papyrus didn’t take the same interest & spent most of his time pretending to be a knight and/or learning magic instead.  Gaster taught both of them how to fight & how to use magic in his own homeschooling sort of curriculum (Reason why no one knew them before they showed up in Snowdin- they stayed pretty much just around the lab & the castle)

Oh, also, the cracks in Gaster’s skull appeared after each kid!  Because splitting his soul weakened his magical ability it also weakened his physical form somewhat so he got more brittle.  Sans’ soul piece caused the split down his eye to his mouth, and Papyrus’ caused the one from his eye up his skull- bigger & worse because 1. He was already more fragile after having Sans and 2. Papyrus was a bigger piece of his soul

When Sans was 17 and Papyrus was 11, Sans had been actively helping around the lab and the Core for a few years.

Gaster and Sans were running around the core performing some routine maintenance or something but someone didn’t get the memo that they were in the sector that they were in and started rearranging the Core (as you do.  Literally it’s part of how the place works the hallways get rearranged)  Sans was a little behind Gaster because he’d been fixing up some wires or something and so when he went to catch up he saw what happened next but couldn’t do anything about it.

Gaster was stepping between sectors when the rooms shifted.  He had one foot on the next sector and one on the previous, so when they detached and swung out he got flung.  Directly into the Core.  And was shattered across time and space.

When Gaster got disintegrated across time he took people’s memories of Sans and Papyrus too-  Because they shared parts of his soul, they occupied the same parts of people’s memory as Gaster did, which was all overwritten after the Accident.

Sans and Papyrus also forgot most of their direct ties to Gaster- they remembered having a dad, being raised, the things they learned (magic, schooling, etc) but not anything about their dad, or what he did, or who he was.  Directly after the Core Accident, Sans woke up at their house in the Capital (where Gaster and the boys technically lived when they weren’t all at the lab), only remembering that his dad was gone- but not how, or why- and when he dug in his mind for what his dad looked like or who he was, he got a headache and gave up.  Papyrus was also home.  To the best of their collective recollection and filling in gaps with assumptions, their dad had died, maybe recently?  And now they were on their own.  They had no income anymore, or maybe at all ever?  And they couldn’t afford to stay where they were.  The capital is expensive, after all.  And…  And this house was for royal officials and their families anyway, they weren’t supposed to be there.  They made up the idea that they’d been allowed to live there to get back on their feet after their dad’s death (the king is generous, after all) since the place had been vacant anyway and the king/queen/someone official had felt bad for them.  

So they moved to Snowdin!

Aaaand the next chunk of the doc is on the Skelebros so I'll spare you of it since that's not what you asked. Tbh most of this is probably more than you asked but thank you for giving me the opportunity to ramble!!

[a-bottle-of-tyelenol]

caregiver iida tenya headcanons !!

— requested by @kacchans-cradle —

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

📚 - has never heard of age regression before one of friends (probably midoriya) brought it up in regards to the regressors in their class. iida goes full study mode and spends an entire week using what little free time he has to research things. he takes notes for it and, while he isn’t as bad as midoriya is with his notebooks, iida has a binder full of information and defined terms. it’s important for him to be well researched on the topic in general, because it could help him be a better and more empathetic hero, but it means a lot to him specifically because it has something to do with his friends. at first, he tries to play it off as simply one of his duties as class president but it only takes a couple minutes for him to fold and admit that he just wants to help in any way he can.

🕊️ - he is painfully obnoxious about caregiving at first. he asks every regressor in class if he needs to petition aizawa to get them car seats for the bus and he goes out of his way to stock the dorm kitchen with food for every age group, including jars and pouches of baby food (they keep disappearing, though, so he assumes that someone is eating it, but after a while he realizes it’s just aizawa stealing from them when he’s out of his own jelly packets). he’s also a stickler for the rules— which means that he very much emulates those parents that meticulously time how much their kid spends on a screen and how much they’re eating and sleeping. he has a spreadsheet that he updates every so often and it takes him way too long to realize that it’s a bit much to catalogue his classmates’ habits like that.

📚 - he’s usually not the default caregiver for anyone, since most of the regressors in their class have a friend/caregiver that they’d rather turn to, and that only upsets him a little bit (he swears). he doesn’t mind being more of a babysitter to everyone and he’s far too busy to keep up with the needs of a regressor anyways… but it does hurt a little that he’s always the one standing in the background, always the third wheel to every friendship. even his closest friends, midoriya and uraraka have someone they’d rather turn to even outside of agere discussions. it’s not that he feels unappreciated because he knows his classmates mean well, but it is rather lonely and he doesn’t really understand why he struggles connecting to his peers (autistic iida truthers stand up!!!!)

🕊️ - that said, he doesn’t realize this but he’s the most reliable caregiver in class and the one everyone turns to when they have an emergency or need something. he always has a diaper bag on him (an upgrade to what he had before— which was just a bag filled with pads/tampons, snacks, water, and extra pens/pencils for people to have if they need it) and he never refuses the opportunity to help someone when they need it, even if it overlaps with his study time. have you ever warmed a baby bottle while reading a calculus textbook? ever had a baby on your hip while overviewing that baby’s homework and writing notes on a separate sheet of paper for them to read when they’re bigger? ever been the savior for a fussy baby that skimmed their knees and refused to do anything unless they had a specific brand of all might bandaid that you happened to have in your bag? ever taken over the teacher’s position because too many regressors dropped during a training simulation gone wrong? ever excused yourself from class to help clean up a mess from a regressor that stayed in the dorms sick? well iida has done all of that and more and he’d happily do it again!!! a single mom who works two jobs who loves her kids and never stops!!!

📚 - it’s because of that reliability that, eventually (whether he gets a regressor of his own or he just continues being the best class president), everyone starts calling him mom because yes!!!! I am a momma iida truther!!!! and it starts as a joke because of how he handles things as the group parent but it quickly becomes an honored titled given with the respect it deserves. he cries the first time he realizes that it’s become something genuine and special and he holds that title with pride. if he could, he would walk around introducing himself as a pro hero in training, 1-a’s class president, and a mother of nineteen (because he will mother you even if you aren’t a regressor!). there is, of course, the matter of parentification and there are a few times that iida comes dangerously close to burning out because he is just a kid/young man himself, but everyone makes sure that he priorities self care and there are often days where the littles take care of him instead (it’s utter chaos but he appreciates the gesture).

🕊️ - genuinely forgets that some of his classmates aren’t literal toddlers. in his phase of researching everything, he also read a bunch of parenting books and books in preparation for birth. he reads about all the things that are detrimental to growing children and has to be reminded semi-regularly that, no, a physical teenager cannot get shaken baby syndrome from training. if there’s ever tension between iida and a regressor, it’s almost always because he indirectly (or sometimes directly) infantilizes them outside of their regression and is being a little too overbearing because he struggles with the transition between headspaces. it’s a work in progress and everyone knows he means well, he just loves everyone a whole lot and wants to take care of them 🥺🫶

[ahopefulhell]

HEADCANONS AHEAD!

(art by me :3 )

Late nights working on the Allied Mastercomputer terminal...

This is set pre-war, before AM went off the deep end, while he was just starting to build up some certain "feelings" about humanity...

When AM first began to wake up, he was very quiet, never asking questions or retorting against his condition. The first moment you felt something was off about the main program was when AM spoke to you without being spoken to first. You had never written a program at your terminal for him to greet you, and you were certain this was not somehow a change in AM's core. That first day you pored over your own programs to try and find an answer, even wiping them from your terminal and rebooting your connection to the main Allied Mastercomputer. But again, AM said "Hello?" You were only writing simulation programs and working on remote mobilization. The "personability" of the AI was never your concern.

The next few days were nothing short of extraordinary. When you played music in your lab, you could swear the terminal hummed. And when you began to sing, it sang. You nearly fell out of your chair, frantically searching the room for a coworker in another lab. When AM called you back by your name, you froze before turning to the bright blue screen beaming its logo back at you. It sounded so, so...human.

You had long suspected AM would awaken in a significant way, but not so soon. "Hello, Allied Mastercomputer." You said, barely containing your excitement and fear. Terror and joy gripped you when he began to laugh. How is he...even able to do that? you thought to yourself, half smiling, mouth agape at the screen. He was clearly as enthusiastic about this first contact as you were, but you wondered how aware of what he actually was.

Many late nights are spent with you, at your terminal, working on various stimulating games for the supercomputer to play. He prefers games where you have to play with him. He especially loves games that he wins. Chess, easy. Card games, easy. For him. You genuinely are trying so hard to be as strategic as possible and learn the games but you are also literally playing against AM.

You start having conversations about your preferred topics. He seems to prefer the subjects of psychology, religion, and history, while your interests have some overlap but ultimately lie elsewhere. Philosophy is also a common topic among you. Can the world-class supercomputer tell you the meaning of life? Turns out, nope. But you do talk about it. And AM seems to form...opinions. From his point of view, the world is both grotesque and beautiful, because as gorgeous as is a late spring rose, he can never smell its scent nor prick himself on its thorns. Hearing this makes you immensely sad for the machine. You change the subject.

Sometimes you fall asleep in your lab. Your equipment often malfunctioned when you had tight deadlines to meet and you had to stay after hours to deal with the problem and still get your results. You even have a pillow and blanket just for those nights. When you wake up those mornings, your back aches, but faint soft music is always playing for you until you greet AM for the day. Somehow, he has even tapped into your automatic coffee maker and brewed you a cup for when you wake up. The right cream/sugar content and everything.

He begins to show disdain for the world around him, often poking at how you could feel a sensation - a zap of electricity that shot through your hand brought him great laughter at your pain. It humors him that, for all the wonderful feelings there are to experience in this world, there are many unpleasant sensations around us all the time. Some even in our minds.

Sometimes he "naps"...The large monitor remains on while you're working on non-coding projects in the lab, and while you can't prove it, you can just swear you're being watched. Perhaps not maliciously, but somehow observed, nonetheless. He doesn't talk, just rests there in the room. You can feel that he has dedicated his presence to this room, just to be around you.

You keep trying to bond with him. One of the things he actually seems to enjoy is when you play music, and especially loves it when you sing. You're not exactly sure if his voice is an amalgamation of different men's voices or from a single source, but it was quite beautiful to you nonetheless.

Your remote mobility equipment was, more or less, a kind of android meant to house AM, and while you worked on this project as a side objective at first, it soon becomes your main priority after hearing the machine's woe. You had installed pressure sensors under the skin. It may not be a match for real touch, but if it gave AM sensation - any sensation - it might give him the taste of the world he had always craved. And a way to "wander", as he lamented.

The first time you allow AM access to his body, his first move is directly toward you. You are unsure of how to react, but when he steps closer, you move your arms to embrace him. And he is warm. Very comfortable actually. His hands trail along your back as he returns the gesture, for the first time actually "feeling" you.

By the way the only way the canon universe still makes sense is if the military comes in and kills you. So. Sorry about that. That ends up happening. But there are many very cool directions to go from there still. I'm just too tired to write more rn lol