#but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t in the future

[foreveia]

c(alc)ulus ⤨ tsukishima kei

⨭ genre; hard 2 explain but there's a happy ending so u shld read (jk its a college!au, frat boy!au)

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x f!reader

⨭ word count; 9.7k

⨭ descriptions; you're the last person kei wants anything to do with, but not even he can deny it: he, and the entire frat, needs you.

⨭ warnings; frat boy levels of alcoholism, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i love math but love blondes more. i also love rly long fanfics with plot and pretty language and feelings, so hope y'all enjoy this super long mess of a frat!universe haikyuu with college-core drinking habits, calculus talk, and a whole lot of simping for kei <3

one.

Kageyama is failing calculus.

This statement wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal—after all, he had barely passed most of his classes his whole life, getting into college solely with his athletic skills and having zero intentions to stay in academia in the future. He’s in university primarily just to have something to fall back on, and he has made it exceptionally obvious that he does the bare minimum to get his degree by sleeping through his lectures and procrastinating his homework to the night it’s due. He doesn’t, and has never, cared much about school, and has somehow made it through life anyway, so really, in most circumstances, Kageyama failing a class wouldn’t be a big deal at all. 

However, in this circumstance, Kageyama is also a brother of Kappa Alpha Rho, and therefore his grades reflect not just him but the brotherhood, meaning him failing a class has fully become Tsukishima’s problem, making this, in fact, a very, very big deal. He thinks he’s screwed.

And it’s completely your fault.

Tsukishima glares at the email notification sitting at the top of the screen, clenching his jaw so hard that he feels his back molars ache. 

ASU Policy Update: New Funding Requirements for Student Organizations

He’s already read it twice, but he clicks on it again anyway, as if the words would magically change now that it’s his third try. His fingers drum against the desk, anxious and annoyed all at once.

Effective immediately, all university-funded student organizations must maintain a collective GPA of C+ (2.3) or higher to remain eligible for financial support from ASU. Organizations failing to meet this requirement will be placed on academic probation for a select amount of time, after which, if under the minimum, will be denied funding for the academic year. 

He exhales sharply through his nose and shuts his laptop a little harder than necessary. His knee bounces under the desk as he stares at the wall, running the numbers through his head. A D- average to a C+? That’s not a small jump. That’s a fucking leap.

And it’s because of you. But then again, of course it is.

Tsukishima doesn’t even know you personally, but he knows of you. Everyone at Furudate University knows of you. It’s honestly impossible not to.

Your name gets thrown around like a fucking urban legend: the math department’s golden girl, every professors’ favorite. The kind of student whose name gets printed in bold on the Dean’s List every semester, top of the class in every single way, looking down at everyone else from your haughty position up there.

You’re the poster child for academic excellence, and this is exactly the kind of sanctimonious, holier-than-thou rule someone like you would pass.

He can practically see you in his head, sitting in some committee meeting, smug as you argue for “higher academic standards,” completely unaware of the absolute nightmare you’ve just created. 

He rubs his temple. He doesn’t have time for this. If Kappa Alpha Rho loses funding, they lose access to the house stipend, the event budget, the formal venue deposit—

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, already clicking through the chapter’s internal roster. He zeroes in on the worst grades. Not surprisingly (albeit disappointing nonetheless), Kageyama’s name jumps out immediately.

He has a 37 in Multivariable Calculus.

Tsukishima closes his eyes and counts to five. It doesn’t help. His laptop screen just glares back at him, the double-digits in bright red. He’s dragging the entire GPA down, significantly so. 

So if Kageyama fails, they’re all fucked. 

Tsukishima opens the frat group chat.

(11:42 AM) tsukishima: who here actually passed multi calc

It takes all of five whole seconds before the chat explodes.

hinata: LOL NOT ME yamaguchi: barely but yea? noya: i didn’t even know multi was real lmao

Tsukishima pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re useless. They’re all fucking useless.

(11:43 AM) yamaguchi: wait is this about the gpa thing? are we actually losing funding? tsukishima: we will if kageyama fails calc hinata: bro just make him pass it then tsukishima: do you think i control his brain (11:44 AM) tanaka: wait hold on. are you saying if we fail we’re actually broke?? yamaguchi: tsukki wouldn’t joke about this lol hinata: WHAT DO U MEAN BROKE. LIKE. BROKE BROKE?? noya: LIKE WE GOTTA PAY FOR KEGS OUTTA POCKET BROKE???

Tsukishima watches the messages roll in, each response growing increasingly more unhinged. He feels his blood pressure rising, ticking up with every single one.

(11:45 AM) tanaka: WE CAN’T LOSE FUNDING FORMAL IS IN 3 MONTHS hinata: NOOOO NOT FORMAL noya: NOOOOOOOOOO NOT FORMAL tanaka: WHO THE FUCK IS GONNA PAY FOR FORMAL

Tsukishima sighs, dragging a hand down his face. This is exactly what he didn’t want. The second these idiots realized the frat’s funding was actually on the line, everything was going to implode. Where’s the rest of the exec board right now? He misses them.

(11:46 AM) yamaguchi: okay but seriously what’s the plan tsukishima: kageyama needs to pass calc obviously tanaka: okay but like. how

Good fucking question.

Tsukishima leans back in his chair, thinking. Kageyama isn’t stupid—not in the traditional sense, anyway. He just doesn’t give a shit. If he had a decent tutor, someone to force the information into his thick skull, he might actually stand a chance.

(11:47 AM) tsukishima: does anyone know a decent tutor (11:48 AM) yamaguchi: y/n

Tsukishima physically recoils.

(11:48 AM) tsukishima: like… vpaa y/n??? yamaguchi: yeah?? she’s the best tutor in the math department hinata: wait isn’t she the one that profs never shut up about lol tanaka: bro we’d be paying for a 5-star tutor with beer money noya: u think she’d go for it tho?? hinata: tsukishima just bat your pretty little eyelashes and get her to help us 🤩 tsukishima: i will block you

There is no way in hell he is asking you for help. Absolutely not. Because if there’s anyone on this entire campus that would not hesitate to let Kappa Alpha Rho crash and burn, it’s you.

But then, Daichi—super convenient timing for the president to come in right now—sends the real kicker.

(11:49 AM) daichi: Text Y/N. Now.

Tsukishima grinds his teeth. His fingers hover over the keyboard. For a very, very long moment, he just stares blankly at the screen, until finally, he types.

(11:50 AM) tsukishima: someone send me her number.

And Tsukishima thinks, for not the last time, that he’s absolutely screwed.

two.

For someone who’s actively ruining his life, you’re surprisingly… okay.

At least, you were over text. You responded within minutes, and—without sarcasm, without question, without any needed negotiation—agreed to a tutoring session the next day. 

Tsukishima thinks he should be wary of this. Surely you have some ulterior motive, something that’s meant to prove to him (and yourself) just how much smarter you are than everyone else. 

Ah, yes. That’s probably it. You’re going to use the dumb frathlete to make yourself feel good.

After some contemplation, Tsukishima decides that he should be there. As idiotic and annoying as Kageyama can be, he’s still his brother, and Tsukishima isn’t about to let some pretentious academic just mock and insult him; Kageyama is shitty with words, so the least Tsukishima can do is be there to snap back for him. 

Tsukishima is almost certain that you’re doing this solely to stroke your ego. After all, why else would someone like you agree?

That being said, twenty four hours later, sitting across from you at a library table, he’s forced to admit—begrudgingly—that you’re actually not… terrible.

Tsukishima watches you carefully, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the moment you slip up—some trace of superiority, some indication that you think this is beneath you. But to his surprise, you don’t smirk, you don’t sigh in frustration, you don’t roll your eyes every time Kageyama gets something wrong.

You’re just… patient. Shockingly, infuriatingly patient.

“Okay,” you say, tapping the corner of Kageyama’s notebook with your pen. “Walk me through your thought process. How did you get to this step?”

Kageyama stares at his paper, scowling. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you got this part right,” you say, circling something in the equation. “So let’s build from here.”

Kageyama frowns deeper, pressing his pencil so hard that the lead tears a little hole—Tsukishima expects you to finally snap, to lecture him for not paying attention, but instead, you just tilt your head and try again.

“I think you’re having trouble with double integrals, so let’s break those down first, okay?” you say, not at all unkindly, before flipping open your notes and locating the respective chapter in the textbook. Tsukishima notices, with mild surprise, that you don’t even have to check the table of contents—you go straight to the right page.

And then, even stranger: your own notes are written beside the original text. Your annotations are precise but casual, breaking down the wordy explanations into clear, digestible pieces; your diagrams take up the margins, and where there’s extra blank space, you’ve doodled functions, arrows, sometimes little stick figures interacting with equations.

Tsukishima shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.

But something about it—about how thoroughly you understand this shit—sticks with him.

And as you start explaining, Tsukishima quickly comes to understand why they call you the best in the department. 

Your voice is even, steady, and you don’t just read from the textbook—you reframe the concepts completely, breaking them down into comparisons, real-world applications, diagrams that actually make sense. It’s the kind of familiarity that takes years of experience and countless hours of practice, and you obviously have gotten to an incredible degree of expertise. And most importantly, when Kageyama hits a block or stumbles over the formulas, you don’t get irritated.

You just adjust.

Again. And again. And again.

Until finally, something clicks.

Tsukishima watches, arms crossed, as you do something no professor, no TA, and certainly no frat brother has managed before: you make Kageyama think. You make him care. Kageyama straightens slightly in his seat, gripping his pencil a little tighter; he scribbles something down, then nods to himself, like he actually understands. 

Tsukishima leans back, exhaling through his nose. 

He hates to admit it, but Yamaguchi was right: you really do know your shit. 

three.

An hour passes like this. Slowly, but gradually, Kageyama works through his problem set, stopping every so often to ask questions. You answer every single one without hesitation, without even having to double check, with the complete confidence of someone who simply knows that they’re right. 

Then, completely unprompted, you ask, “So, do you play volleyball?”

Kageyama pauses mid-writing. The question catches him off-guard—catches both of them off-guard, actually.

Tsukishima gives you a sharp look, but you just smile, amused.

“You retained information best when I used sports analogies to explain,” you continue, tapping the end of your pen against the table. “And when I used a volleyball as an example for triple integral applications, you corrected me on the radius in like, two seconds.”

Kageyama blinks. Then, looking somewhat sheepish, he mumbles, “Wow, that’s crazy. I’m on the university team.”

“That’s cool,” you say simply, clicking your pen. You doodle absentmindedly on an extra sheet of paper, this time drawing a little volleyball in the corner. “Our executive VP is on the team too. Sakusa.”

Kageyama hums an affirmation. “Yeah, we’re both starters.”

“As a sophomore? That’s really impressive,” you say. Tsukishima thinks that you’re pretty impressive too, considering you’re a sophomore just like them, but you don’t seem to be even thinking about that. “Why are you taking calculus, then? What’s your major?”

“Physics and kinesiology.”

“I didn’t peg you as a STEM guy,” you muse, still sketching in the margins. You’ve now switched to drawing a little banana.

Tsukishima, despite himself, huffs a quiet laugh.

Kageyama flushes slightly. “I, um, want to go pro after college,” he admits, ears bright crimson as he speaks. “So kinesiology felt right for an athlete. And for physics, well, I’m a setter, so I want to, um… I want to be able to calculate the velocity of the balls I send with more accuracy.”

It’s a ridiculous reason. Maybe even a stupid one. Definitely the stupidest reason Tsukishima’s ever heard for taking an incredibly intense and complex major like physics.

But you don’t laugh.

You just nod, smiling to yourself. “Thanks for letting me help you with your process, then.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Tsukishima bluntly remarks, “You’re weird.” 

It comes off slightly ruder than intended, and you pause, your pen coming to a halt on the paper. He adds, quieter than before, “I mean, you notice things like that?”

Your nose and forehead scrunch up in slight confusion, expression so befuddled as if he were simply asking you if the sky was blue. 

“Well, yeah.” You say this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone is different, with different interests and learning styles, and things get easier to understand when you break things down on their terms as opposed to yours. So of course I’ll pick up on things like that. I try to be observant of all the people around me.”

When your eyes meet his, he instinctively is on edge. Your tone is still light, but there’s something pragmatic about your eyes that makes him feel apprehensive, like he’s standing at the edge of a 50-foot fall and you’re watching to see if he’ll take the jump. It’s like you’re taking all of him in, like you’re taking everyone in. Like you see things other people don’t. 

If Tsukishima is being honest with himself, this perceptiveness is something he lacks. He willingly disregards much of the people and the things around him; it's a defense mechanism he has perfected over the years. It’s easier to stay detached. It’s easier to keep to himself; it’s easier to be indifferent. 

To be blunt, your astuteness unnerves him, and it’s a sensation he’s not used to grappling with. There’s a raw honesty in your gaze that feels almost invasive, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed facade. You two had just met, but for a brief moment, he wonders if you can somehow see through him because despite your cheerful and carefree attitude, you are looking to understand people in a way he never has.

He quickly looks away, breaking the intense eye contact. “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” he mutters.

You don’t reply because your attention has already shifted back to Kageyama, with you leaning over his notebook and exclaiming, “See, you got this!” 

Kageyama has solved the several problems you gave him, his work still amateur but complete. You scan his notebook, pointing out the few areas where he could simplify his work, but the overwhelming beam on your face is nothing short of proud, and it incites a completely new determination in Kageyama. Despite his usual stoicism, your encouragement has visibly boosted his confidence and Tsukishima watches as the boy smiles and nods along when you flip the textbook to a new chapter, declaring loudly, “Okay! Let’s move onto vectors!” 

As you continue to explain, Tsukishima watches the two of you with a slight mixture of exasperation and something else he can’t quite put a name to. You are honest and true and it’s wholly unfamiliar, tiring in a way where he is overwhelmed. He’s not quite sure how to describe how he feels right now, sitting here with you together: maybe it’s a touch of admiration for you, maybe it’s just relief that someone else is dealing with Kageyama’s math woes for a change, but either way, at the end of it all, he finds himself settling back into his chair, a small, almost imperceptible amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Minutes turn into hours, and before you know it, the sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the library floors. By the time the library's closing announcement echoes through the halls, you have made it through half the vector fields unit and Kageyama has filled several pages of his notebook with neatly written solutions. 

“Well, let’s finish up. I think we’ve made some good progress today,” you decide, stretching your arms above your head. You begin to gather your things—if you’re not all out soon, the librarians will come and yell at you for sure.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” Kageyama says earnestly, closing his notebook. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“You are. Just keep practicing those problems, okay? You’ll pass this week’s quiz for sure if you keep at it,” you say cheerily. “Just text if you ever need any help. I’m always around.”

Your enthusiasm seems genuine, like you really do want to help Kageyama succeed. Tsukishima’s not sure what to do with this information.

He should be suspicious. Should assume there’s something in it for you—some academic accolade, some resumé boost, some smug satisfaction in proving you’re better than everyone else. But you don’t gloat. You don’t even act like this is a favor Kageyama—or, by extension, the frat—owes you for the rest of time. 

You just offer your help like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to give this much of your time, your energy, your effort.

It’s strange. It makes him uncomfortable.

“You’re always around?” he says, unable to stop himself. His voice comes out dry, skeptical. “Sounds like you have way too much time on your hands.”

You blink, then laugh, genuine and light.

“Not really,” you say, slipping your notes into your bag. “I’m just good at making time for things that matter.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and for some reason, that sentence sticks in his brain.

Good at making time for things that matter.

Before he can think too hard about what that implies, Kageyama—completely unaware of the odd shift in atmosphere—stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll text you,” he says. “Uh. If I get stuck.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied. “See you both next time.”

And with that, you’re gone, stepping out of the library doors, the evening sun catching in your hair before you disappear down the hall.

There’s a brief silence.

“…She’s nice,” Kageyama says, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Tsukishima sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound weird about it.”

Kageyama scowls but says nothing, already distracted by whatever thought process is rattling around in his thick skull.

Tsukishima, however, lingers.

He doesn’t want to admit that today went better than expected. That you weren’t condescending, that you didn’t treat Kageyama like a lost cause, that you were actually kind of impressive to watch. That there’s something about the way you carry yourself—the way you see people, notice things, care about things—that makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn’t like.

He exhales sharply. Nope. Not going there.

Instead, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and starts toward the exit, brushing off whatever this feeling is. After all, this is just the first session.

There’s still plenty of time for you to prove him right.

four.

After the fifth tutoring session, Tsukishima notices two things.

First: since you’ve started helping Kageyama, his calculus average has jumped dramatically from a 37 to a 60. Considering he has to catch up on the whole semester, this much progress in such a short amount of time is insane, and Tsukishima—who has spent years watching Kageyama be a stubborn idiot—is actually kinda baffled by it.

Second: it’s not that you look down on him, or Kageyama, specifically. You just look down on Greek life as a whole.

It takes him a while to realize it. At first, he assumes it’s personal—that you have some vendetta against Kappa Alpha Rho, some deep-seated superiority complex. But then, over the next few weeks, he starts paying closer attention.

You don’t sneer at Kageyama’s jersey. You don’t mock him for struggling, don’t look at him like he’s a dumb jock barely worth your time.

But when Tanaka and Noya come to pick Kageyama up after a session, still wearing their frat hoodies from some brotherhood event, Tsukishima catches the way your eyes flick to their letters. The way your lips press together, just slightly.

When Kageyama makes an offhanded comment about formal, you barely react—just a small exhale through your nose, something unimpressed.

And then there’s today.

You’re explaining another concept—Tsukishima isn’t really listening; Kageyama is nodding along, so he figures he doesn’t need to pay attention—when Hinata, of all people, shows up at the library. He bursts through the doors like a chaotic, overexcited golden retriever, completely disregarding the quiet study environment as he waves both arms above his head.

“Kageyama!”

Kageyama physically tenses. Tsukishima watches, vaguely amused, as he slowly turns to the orange-haired idiot now bounding toward them.

Hinata slaps a recruitment t-shirt onto the table. “You left it at the house, dumbass! Daichi said to bring it to you.”

Kageyama looks vaguely murderous. “Shut up.”

Tsukishima smirks. And then, he glances at you.

And there it is again: that brief flicker of something. That same exhale through your nose.

You don’t say anything, don’t react much at all—but Tsukishima sees it.

You hate frats.

And now, he wants to know why.

Luckily for him, it actually doesn’t take much to find out. 

It comes up casually, in the way most revealing things do—offhanded, unguarded, something you don’t realize you’re giving away. 

Kageyama is the one who brings it up. Not intentionally, obviously—he's never been intentionally insightful a day in his life—but between scribbling down an answer on his problem set, he suddenly asks, “Why’d you make that rule, anyway?”

You glance up, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The GPA thing,” he clarifies. “You’re the VPAA, right? So it was your idea.”

Tsukishima watches as you blink, your grip tightening just slightly around your pen.

Then, after a moment, you exhale, setting it down. “It wasn’t just me,” you say. “It was a committee decision.”

“But you agree with it,” Tsukishima says, leveling you with a look.

Your lips press together. There it is again—that tiny flicker of something. Then, you sigh. 

“It’s just frustrating seeing people waste their potential,” you say finally, voice careful, deliberate. “I mean, don’t you want to succeed?”

Ah. So that’s what it is: you think that all fraternity boys are idiots who only care about partying and drinking games. You think they don’t care about their futures. That they’re lazy, entitled, wasting the opportunities they have.

Tsukishima exhales slowly through his nose, tipping his chair back just slightly. He should be annoyed. He should be pissed off.

But instead, he just smirks.

“You think we’re all just dumb party boys, don’t you?”

Your eyes flick to his. You don’t answer, which, really, is answer enough.

So obviously, he challenges you.

“Come to the house,” he says. “See for yourself.”

Your expression shifts into something guarded, something skeptical and unimpressed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you clearly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tsukishima says simply.

Kageyama, ever helpful, chimes in: “Hinata’s even worse at math than me.”

Tsukishima watches you pause, purse your lips, obviously considering. It’s a long pause, you staring down at the desk for a full minute, until finally, you sigh. “Fine.”

Oh, you’re in for a disaster.

five.

Walking into the Kappa Alpha Rho house for the first time, you’re not sure what you were expecting.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t… this.

The first thing you’re hit with when you enter the house is, simply put, noise. 

The music is loud—too loud for a weeknight, you think absently, because there’s no way none of these guys have morning classes tomorrow. Someone in the kitchen is yelling indistinctly over the sound of clinking glass, and from somewhere deeper inside the house, there’s a resounding crash, followed by an enthusiastic, “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry about it!”

Tsukishima watches as you visibly tense, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. You’re standing near the entrance like you’re considering leaving, like maybe you’d rather walk straight back out the door than step even a foot further into this chaos. You wouldn’t be the first: he’s seen people walking into the house for the first time and immediately regretting every life choice that led them here. The frat is loud, messy, chaotic in a way that isn’t easy to handle if you’re not used to it. And you—pristine, calculated, Type-A to your very core—are definitely not used to it.

He watches you closely, waiting for you to scoff any second now, to turn around and walk out.

But then, you hear it. 

“Integrate or drink, loser!”

As an applied and theoretical math double major, the sentence instantly piques your curiosity, and you can’t, in your conscience, just walk out after hearing that. So you square your shoulders, and saunter in.

And when you see it, you stop in your tracks.

The scene before you is, frankly, absurd. Kageyama is standing at the end of a beer pong table, furrowing his brows like he’s solving a differential equation rather than playing a drinking game, and Hinata, vibrating with excitement, looks one misplaced shot away from combusting. Around them, the rest of the guys are watching with varying degrees of amusement: Tanaka and Nishinoya are grinning like they already know something Kageyama doesn’t, Yamaguchi is stifling laughter behind his hand, and Tsukishima—leaning against the wall, arms crossed—is watching you.

You glance at the table. The setup is questionable, at best. The cups are unevenly spaced, some tilted at an angle that defies both gravity and common sense. The whiteboard behind them has the remnants of what was probably meant to be a scoring system, though it's mostly illegible thanks to a combination of bad handwriting and smeared marker. And then, of course, there’s the absolute nonsense of what just came out of someone’s mouth.

You shift your gaze to the ping-pong ball in Hinata’s hand, then to Kageyama, who still looks personally insulted by whatever just happened. You blink once, then twice.

“What,” you say flatly, “am I looking at?”

“The future,” Nishinoya says dramatically, throwing an arm around Tanaka. “The greatest intellectual drinking game of our generation.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sugawara mutters. You didn’t even notice him and the other two, presumably, seniors, sitting lazily on a couch against the wall and supposedly monitoring. 

“It’s simple,” Hinata says, barely containing his enthusiasm. “You make a shot, the other guy has to solve a math problem right, or they drink.”

Silence. You stare at him.

Kageyama’s expression darkens. “It’s stupid.”

“You’re just mad because I got the last one right,” Hinata shoots back.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! The integral of sine is cosine, dumbass!”

“The answer was negative cosine—”

“Same thing!”

“It is literally not.”

“You know what,” you interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Forget I asked.”

At this, Tsukishima makes a quiet noise—something between a laugh and a scoff—but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy assessing the catastrophe in front of you.

Because, to be honest, this is ridiculous. A complete mess of a game, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. But…

You bite the inside of your cheek.

The concept isn’t terrible.

It’s just wrong. And you, for better or worse, cannot let a flawed system stand.

Tsukishima watches as something in your expression shifts. You set your bag down with purpose, stepping closer to the table, eyes narrowing as you take in the setup. Then, voice completely serious, you say, “You’re playing it wrong.”

The entire room pauses.

Tanaka, who has a ping-pong ball balanced on the tip of his finger, squints. “Huh?”

“You’re playing it wrong,” you repeat, arms crossing as you survey the table like it’s a crime scene.

Hinata frowns. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” you say, “you are.”

Tsukishima raises a brow, intrigued. You’re not mad at them for playing. You’re not disgusted by their antics. You’re just… offended by the execution.

“The whole premise doesn’t work,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the cups. “You can’t just shout out an integral and expect them to solve it in two seconds. You need rules. A system.”

Tanaka exchanges a glance with Nishinoya. “Bro,” he says, in awe. “We don’t have a system?”

“We do have a system,” Kageyama huffs.

You promptly ignore him, already reaching for a marker. “Okay. If we’re going to do this right, it should work like this.”

And just like that, you take over.

In what seems like an instant, the frat house—which is usually ruled by sheer chaos and barely functioning groupthink—is now operating under your direction. You’ve got the whiteboard in a chokehold, a marker uncapped and poised between your fingers as you outline a system so airtight, so horrifyingly efficient, that even Tsukishima has to admit it’s impressive.

Suddenly, the game makes sense. Instead of random, impossible integrals, each shot now corresponds to a category—concepts from the last five chapters, ranked by difficulty.

And as if just to add to the disbelief, everyone is listening.

Kageyama, glaring at the rules with an unreal intensity, is following along, his brows furrowed like he’s mentally poking holes in your system but failing to find any. Tanaka and Noya are nodding like you’ve just changed their lives. Ennoshita, who had previously been lurking near the drinks table, is watching you rewrite the game’s structure with increasing fascination.

Even Sugawara nods sagely. “She makes a good point,” he says solemnly. “The game did lack structure.”

“Thank you,” you reply, as if this is a serious academic debate and not an impromptu beer pong overhaul.

Tsukishima can’t even be mad about it. Not when you’ve very quickly become the most interesting thing in the house.

And especially not when he watches you, against all fucking odds, join in. As if you were some god tier frat boy in a past life, you sink a cup with infuriating ease on your very first throw, the ball arcing perfectly without any slightest bounce back. You don’t even blink. 

As if on cue, the whole house erupts.

Tanaka and Noya nearly combust on the spot, clutching each other in sheer exhilaration, while Kageyama’s jaw drops so fast you think it might actually unhinge. Even the seniors look mildly impressed. 

And Hinata… well, Hinata looks very afraid. 

“You—” he starts, pointing at you like he’s about to accuse you of something heinous.

But you don’t let him. You simply cross your arms, unimpressed, and say, voice smooth as ever, “Basic derivative. Give me an answer, or drink.”

There’s a split second of silence.

Then, absolute carnage.

Hinata scrambles for the marker like his life depends on it. “Uh—uh—five x to the—no, wait—”

You tilt your head. “Is that your final answer?”

“Shit, no—”

“You took too long,” you say, entirely unsympathetic. “Drink.”

Hinata lets out a strangled noise of distress as Tanaka and Noya dissolve into laughter. Even Daichi, who up until now has been observing like a wise elder, shakes his head in amusement as Hinata accepts his fate, downing his drink in defeat.

Tsukishima watches the entire thing unfold, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.

Huh.

He’d expected you to bail before even stepping past the threshold. Expected you to scoff, maybe say something scathing about how frat boys had the collective IQ of a teaspoon, and leave without looking back.

And yet, here you are, rewriting the rules of a drinking game with the kind of ruthless efficiency that would put actual math professors to shame. Even worse: you’re winning.

By the time you sink your third consecutive shot, the rest of the guys have gone from mildly entertained to genuinely invested. Even Kageyama, who Tsukishima assumed would be sick of math by now, is begrudgingly playing along, answering derivatives and integrals like his pride is at stake.

Tanaka and Noya have fully accepted you as one of their own, chanting your name every time you land a shot. Hinata, despite his earlier humiliation, is practically buzzing, clearly determined to redeem himself. Even Yamaguchi, who usually prefers watching Tsukishima verbally eviscerate people from the sidelines, has been sucked into the chaos, trying (and failing) to solve an integral before Kageyama can.

It’s a disaster. A ridiculous, mathematically-inclined disaster.

And you—poised, serious, utterly deadpan as you call out equations like you’re running a boot camp—are the reason for it.

Tsukishima doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Yamaguchi elbows him.

“You’re enjoying this,” Yamaguchi says, low enough that only Tsukishima can hear.

Tsukishima scoffs. “Please.”

But Yamaguchi just gives him a knowing look, then pointedly nods toward you.

Toward the way you command attention without even trying. The way you challenge their game without hesitation. The way your focus sharpens when you're confronted with something that, even in the realm of absurdity, still needs to be corrected.

Tsukishima exhales slowly, shaking his head.

Of course you’d walk into a frat house for the first time and immediately take over. 

Of course you’d turn a drunken joke into an actual intellectual challenge. 

Of course you’d be—

“Tsukishima.”

He blinks.

You’re looking at him now, one brow arched, an extra ping-pong ball in your hand. The room quiets just a fraction, the weight of attention shifting ever so slightly. “You haven’t played yet,” you say simply. Your gaze is intense, and it makes his stomach twist, his chest strangely warm. 

Tsukishima stares at you for a long moment.

Then, very slowly, he pushes off the wall. Rolls up his sleeves.

“Alright, genius girl.” He steps up to the table, arms loose, completely at ease. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room erupts once again.

And for the first time that night, you grin.

six.

After two months of knowing you, Tsukishima notices something else.

Your bag always contains not just the calculus textbook but several others as well. Every time he sees you on campus, you’re sprinting from place to place, dashing between study halls and libraries and the ASU building. Whenever Kageyama does need help, you’re true to your word and always there, but Tsukishima observes the way you rub at your temples when you think no one is looking, the way you blink a little too long, like you’re stealing micro-moments of rest in the middle of a conversation. The way your hands tremble slightly when you reach for your coffee, as if you’ve been running on caffeine and sheer willpower alone.

So one day, after Kageyama has already run off to his volleyball practice and it’s just the two of you in the frat house’s study room, Tsukishima finally asks the question he’s been wondering for weeks.

“Why do you do this?”

You still, your hands stopping midway as you pack up your belongings. You pause, looking up at him. “What do you mean? Tutoring?”

“Well yeah, tutoring, but also everything else—ASU, TA-ing… all of that. Why?”

You hum as you think over his question, a thoughtful look gracing your features. For a minute, it’s just silent in the room.

“I mean, do I need some grand reason to do it?” You decide after a moment of consideration, shrugging. “There’s a few reasons, I guess. But the biggest one is just that I genuinely like helping people. Like, being there for them and getting to see things click for them. That’s super rewarding in itself.”

“And the other reasons?” He watches you intently.

Clutching your laptop to your chest, you sigh, biting your bottom lip tentatively. It’s the first time he’s really seen you look vulnerable, now that he thinks about it. You’re always so calculated.

“Well– I guess it’s actually only one other reason. It’s also just… the only thing I’m really good for– sorry, at. But whatever, that’s kind of just–” you’re stumbling through your words before you cut yourself off mid-sentence, shaking your head. “At the end of the day, the only reason that matters is that I like seeing other people succeed.”

He nods slowly, sensing your discomfort and deciding not to push any further. “Yeah, okay.”

A small, wistful smile grows on your lips. “In the end, I’ll still be here. The time will pass anyway. I might as well spend it helping people find the happiness I find in math, you know?” 

“So you’re tutoring him again tomorrow?” 

You nod. “Mhm, from noon until two. I would go longer, but I think he has practice, so I’ll probably just do some work. I have a few policy briefs to go over.”

“Were you not busy enough today?” He drawls, gesturing to the sagging bag on your back. 

You laugh with pink cheeks, almost as if embarrassed at the question; you slightly scratch the back of your head. “Um, well, I don’t know. I had a really early class and then I had TA stuff, and then two tutoring sessions, and then a committee meeting and then this. So a pretty packed schedule, I guess,” you admit. Tsukishima gives you a look, and you quickly wave your hands. “I’m good though! I like all of it, so it’s not like it’s bad. It’s a lot, but not the worst, so it’s okay.”

Tsukishima watches you closely, taking in your words and the lilt in your voice. He can see the fatigue etched on your face, the prominent dark circles ringing under your eyes, but there's also a light in your eyes that speaks volumes about your genuine passion for what you do. It’s the same look that sparks up when you watch Kageyama succeed at a problem, the one that makes your eyes look like they’re dancing with fire and sets that weird fuzzy feeling in his stomach going again. It's both admirable and concerning, and he can't help but feel a strange mix of respect and worry.

“You really care about this, don’t you?” he says softly, almost more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, I do,” you reply. Your voice is purely sincere, completely direct. “Even if I’m super busy and stressed out and tired, it’s all worth it because I get to be a part of someone’s life becoming even just a little bit better.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing everything you’ve said.

He used to hate you. He deemed you pretentious for the GPA rule, assuming you were just another overachiever with a superiority complex, or someone who enjoyed making things harder for people like him and Kageyama. Even beyond you personally, he’d always mocked people like you for flaunting their overtly virtuous and self-righteous personas, always seeming to crave attention and recognition for their altruism. 

But now, for the first time, their actions don’t seem self-serving: it’s a sacrifice, a genuine and earnest effort to make a difference that has nothing to do with personal gain. You don’t push people to do better because you think you’re above them. You do it because you believe they can be better. Because you care. Because, despite everything, you genuinely want to see people succeed. You dedicate all of yourself to others, to strangers unaware of your existence, simply because it’s the right thing to do. Simply because you can. 

You’re standing there, shoulders weighed down by the sheer number of responsibilities you carry, yet still speaking with unwavering certainty. You don’t expect anything back—in fact, you barely even take credit for the work that you do. You are just kind for the sake of being kind; even when you’re exhausted, even when you have nothing left to give, you keep going. You work yourself to the bone for the sake of everyone else, and no one seems to notice—not your professors, not the students you tutor, not the countless committees that rely on you.

Except now, Tsukishima does.

And because he doesn’t know what else to do with this realization, he sighs and just says, “You should eat before you go.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The house is making dinner.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re here anyway. Might as well eat something before you collapse.”

You huff a quiet laugh, but there’s something warm in your expression, something soft. “I’m not going to collapse.”

Tsukishima raises a brow. “Yeah, well. You look like you might.”

You roll your eyes, but to his surprise, you actually consider it. Then, after a pause, you sigh. “Okay, fine.”

And when you follow him toward the kitchen, Tsukishima tells himself it’s nothing. That he doesn’t care. That he’s just making sure you don’t keel over in the middle of a lecture hall somewhere.

But later, when you’re laughing at something Yamaguchi says, plate balanced in your hands, that strange, unfamiliar warmth creeps up his spine again.

And he thinks, not for the first time, that he might be screwed.

seven.

Since the first day you had dinner with them a few weeks ago, you’ve come to spend more and more time at the KAR house. 

And well, you admittedly didn’t see it coming, but you like the Kappa Alpha Rho boys.

They’re loud. They’re class clowns. They spend many, many weeknights drinking and blasting 2000’s pop at maximum volume, so much so that you can hear the telltale tunes of old Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears from halfway down Frat Row. They are, in many ways, exactly what you expected.

They’re also… really sweet. 

They’re all extremely determined to help each other to succeed. They care about each other so deeply; they’ve opened their arms to you, too, without question or complaint. They’ve looked after you in a way that you’ve never been cared for before. They gifted you a frat hoodie—your initials stitched beside the KAR letters. You have a designated mug in their kitchen cabinet. They don’t even ask if you’re staying to slide a plate in front of you at dinner. Tsukishima watches you closely whenever you pick at your food, and you pretend not to notice when he scoops an extra helping onto your plate.

They’re driven too, in their own way: as if inspired by Kageyama’s improvement, they’ve all begun to care about school, even if their study methods always seem to include some variant of rage cage or beer pong. You’ve seen how passionate they’ve grown about it, celebrating each small academic win as if it were a final exam. The whole fraternity has been clawing their way out of academic ruin, grinding through assignments, struggling through tests, pulling their GPAs up one painstaking decimal point at a time, going from one of the organizations with the lowest GPAs to being so close to the C+ minimum.

They’re so close. So close.

But technically, the frat still falls under that 2.3 minimum.

You realise this, sitting at your desk in the ASU building, because the deadline for organizations on academic probation to get their GPA up is inching closer and closer. The deadline that you set. From the policy that you put into place.

You stare at your desktop screen, at the open PDF of the passed policy, unblinking. The text is sharp and unforgiving. Academic probation lasts one semester. Organizations must raise their cumulative GPA to at least 2.3 by the end of that period or risk losing university funding. No exceptions.

You remember writing that clause, steady in your resolve at the time. It was supposed to be fair. Cut-and-dry. The goal was to push organizations to take academics seriously—to ensure that no fraternity or club skated by on empty promises and minimal effort. But now, the words feel different. They feel wrong.

You click open the academic records, searching for Kageyama’s name. His grades appear on the screen in neat rows: a scatter of past failures, single digits that make your chest ache, then a stark and steady climb. He’s sitting at a B-average now, a remarkable turnaround considering where he started. 

But as you do the math quickly (a habit at this point), calculating projected GPAs based on their current grades and the remaining assignments for the semester, you realise the bitter, indisputable results: no matter how hard they push, it won’t be enough. KAR’s overall GPA still won’t meet the minimum.

The weight of that realization settles deep in your stomach.

Your policy is flawed. 

For the first time since writing it, you see its error clear as day: it measures results, but not effort. It punishes past failure while ignoring present growth. It demands perfection in a system that, by design, allows only for progress in small, slow steps.

Something about that feels deeply, fundamentally unfair.

You think about the very principles that allowed you to sit here in the student union building, to have earned the title of Vice President of Academic Affairs. Because you’re not a natural genius, either: you’ve put in countless hours of hard work and effort into your studies, pulled countless sleepless nights and worked through countless practice problems just to get things right. Your policy was meant to encourage others to do the same. 

To reward hard work, and drive. 

And you’ve witnessed it for yourself, out of a group of rowdy, rambunctious frat boys.

You inhale sharply and sit up, rolling your chair forward. The cursor blinks in the empty document in front of you, a quiet invitation.

Slowly, carefully, you begin to type.

eight.

The night before the deadline, the Kappa Alpha Rho house is unusually quiet.

It’s strange. Even with music thumping from the speakers, even with bodies packed into the living room and voices rising in conversation, the usual energy—the chaotic, unrelenting, borderline obnoxious joy—is gone.

The party isn’t really a party. It’s a wake.

They all know what’s coming. Without funding, they’ll barely be able to keep things running. They’ll have to gut their budget, cut out every major event, every tournament, every social they used to host. They’ll lose their momentum, their presence on campus. They aren’t naive; they know what happens to a fraternity that can’t sustain itself.

So they drink. They celebrate what they were while they still can.

Tsukishima stands near the kitchen, beer in hand, watching the scene with a quiet irritation that hasn’t left him in days. It’s not just the situation—it’s you.

Because you’re not here.

And you haven’t been, not for days. No texts, no calls, no sudden appearances at dinner. No slipping into the house with your laptop and a resigned sigh, no sarcastic quips over Tsukishima’s shoulder while he studies. He knew you’d take this hard—he’s watched the way you’ve thrown yourself into their academic comeback, has seen the way your eyes light up when someone passes a test or raises their grade.

But he never thought you’d disappear.

The realisation sits heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. It bothers him more than he wants to admit.

“Have you heard from her?” Yamaguchi asks, appearing at his side with a drink in hand.

Tsukishima exhales sharply through his nose. “No.”

Yamaguchi frowns, but doesn’t say anything else.

The thought festers in Tsukishima’s mind as the night stretches on. He should be angry at you. A part of him is angry at you. But mostly, it just doesn’t make sense: no possible explanation he comes up with does. You’re not someone who runs from responsibility; if anything, you take too much of it on yourself. But if you’re not here, if you can’t even look at them, then maybe you really do feel guilty. Maybe you really do think you failed them.

The idea makes something twist in his gut, makes the irritation curdle into something else.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that feeling.

So he stands there, arms crossed, listening to the frat he’s come to love mourn itself in real time.

And then the front door opens.

The music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound—the soft creak, the shuffle of movement as someone steps inside. Tsukishima looks up, and the irritation he’s been holding onto vanishes in an instant.

Because it’s you.

You look exhausted. Shadows hang under your eyes, and your hair is slightly disheveled, like you’ve spent too many hours hunched over a desk. But still, you’re here.

And in your hand is a folder.

You walk straight toward him, weaving through the crowd, your expression unreadable. His breath catches in his throat before he realizes he’s holding it.

You stop in front of him, holding out the folder.

“Here,” you say simply.

Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just stares at you, at the folder stamped with the massive, obnoxious university logo, at the way your hand doesn’t waver. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he pulls it open.

His eyes scan the page.

ADDENDUM TO THE ACADEMIC PROBATION POLICY

His heart stutters.

It takes a moment for the words to register. The fraternity’s cumulative GPA is still below the requirement. But this—this thing you’ve spent the last few days working on, the thing you’ve evidently been breaking yourself over—it changes everything.

Organizations that show substantial improvement will still qualify for funding. As long as they continue to raise their GPA, they won’t be penalized.

He blinks. Once. Twice. The words blur slightly as he rereads them, brain struggling to keep up.

And then he looks up at you.

“You did this,” he says, voice lower than he intended.

You smile, small and tired but real. “You deserve it.”

Tsukishima feels like the air has been knocked from his lungs. 

For a moment, he can’t speak. He can’t move. He just stares at you, at the quiet certainty in your expression, at the exhaustion lining your face, at the way you’re standing here, in his house, telling him that they deserve this. He’s digesting the fact that you cared enough about them, that you respected their effort so much that you admitted your system’s faults to the entire university, published and notarized with physical proof.

Then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—he grabs your wrist.

The folder nearly slips from his grasp as he pulls you toward the center of the room, toward the rest of the fraternity. Someone notices first—Hinata, probably, judging by the sudden yell of surprise. Heads turn. Conversations still.

“What’s going on?” Kageyama asks, brow furrowed.

Tsukishima doesn’t answer. He just holds up the folder.

And then he watches it happen. The shift. The confusion, the realization, the moment the words sink in.

Kageyama’s eyes go wide. Yamaguchi’s jaw drops. Someone swears. Someone else shouts. And then, chaos simply erupts.

Because the next thing Tsukishima knows, they’re celebrating.

It’s different from before. This isn’t a goodbye party anymore. It’s loud, and wild, and joyful. There’s yelling and laughter and Hinata practically tackles you in excitement before you’re pulled into a flurry of hugs and cheers. Someone turns the music up. Someone else pops open a bottle of champagne that they were definitely not supposed to be saving for this occasion.

Tsukishima doesn’t join in.

Instead, he watches you.

Watches the way you’re laughing, exhausted but triumphant, surrounded by the people who care about you more than you realize. Watches the way they pull you into the celebration like you’ve always been one of them.

Watches the way you belong.

And for once, he doesn’t fight the way his chest tightens at the sight.

nine.

The party winds down eventually—not the joy, just the noise.

Most of the fraternity has either passed out in their rooms or sprawled out in various corners of the house, too tired (or too drunk) to make it any further. The music is still playing, but softer now, reduced to a faint hum that drifts through the open windows. Even the air feels different—lighter, easier, like the very house itself is breathing again.

Tsukishima finds you on the back porch, sitting on the steps, nursing a half-finished White Claw. He hesitates for only a second before stepping outside, letting the screen door creak shut behind him.

You glance up at him but don’t say anything as he sits down beside you. There’s no need to. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It lingers, settled, like something well-worn and familiar, like you’ve known him forever.

It’s Tsukishima who breaks it first.

“Why?”

You tilt your head. “Why what?”

He huffs, staring down at his beer. “Why’d you do it?”

You blink at him, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Because I was wrong.”

Tsukishima looks at you then, sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. You don’t waver under the weight of it, and he remembers the way you look when you simply know something, that quiet certainty, that unshakable conviction. It sends a warmth through his chest, the same warmth he’s been trying to ignore for weeks now, the same warmth he always seems to feel when he’s with you.

“They deserved to have their efforts rewarded,” you continue, voice steady. “I wrote that policy thinking I was setting a fair standard, but all it did was punish people for starting at a disadvantage. They—” you gesture vaguely toward the house, where distant laughter still filters through the walls—“worked their asses off. I watched them do it. I wasn’t about to let that mean nothing.”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond right away, but he doesn’t need to. The way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers drum once against the step before curling into his palm—he gets it. He knew before you even said it.

“You didn’t have to kill yourself over it, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t.”

He levels you with a look.

You sigh, glancing away. “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t easy.”

That’s an understatement, and you both know it. You don’t admit just how much effort it took, how much red tape you had to cut through, how many meetings you had to schedule, reschedule, and push through just to get the addendum approved in time. You don’t tell him about the sleepless nights, about the pages of drafted revisions, about the quiet, gnawing fear that it wouldn’t be enough. You don’t tell him how you single handedly powered through academic records for every single organisation on campus, just to make sure this change gets written into law. 

You don’t have to.

Tsukishima already knows.

He clicks his tongue but doesn’t push the subject further. Instead, he shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. “Tanaka and Noya are already losing their minds over events now that the funding’s secure.”

You snort. “I can only imagine.”

“They’re talking about a full house party lineup, a tournament series, and some kind of insane spring break trip.” He exhales sharply, something that vaguely sounds like a laugh. “It’s exhausting just listening to them.”

You smile softly. “Sounds about right.”

He hums in agreement. Then, almost offhandedly, he adds, “They mentioned formal, too.”

You nod, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “Makes sense.”

A beat of silence.

Then.

“…Can I take you to formal?”

You freeze.

It’s not like you haven’t been asked out before, but it’s different coming from Tsukishima. Maybe it’s the way he says it—not cocky, not casual, not even teasing. Just direct. A little uncertain. A little careful.

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. Just for a moment.

It’s a moment too long.

Tsukishima sighs, looking away. “Forget it.”

And that’s when you see it—so brief, so subtle, but there. The way his shoulders tense, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his fingers twitch like he’s bracing for something. Like he expected you to say no. Like he’s already trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care.

Before you even think about it, you reach for his hand. Your fingers lace through his, warm and solid, and you squeeze lightly, grounding him.

“Yes,” you say. “I want you to take me.”

Tsukishima goes still. He stares first at your joined hands, like he can’t quite process the fact that you’re holding his. Then, slowly, his gaze flickers back up to yours.

His voice is quieter when he asks, “…Not out of pity?”

“Have I ever done anything out of pity?”

He considers that for half a second before huffing out something that’s almost a laugh. “…No.”

“Exactly.”

You don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, you shift slightly, moving just a little closer, lifting your interlocked fingers as you lean into his side. It’s easy, natural, like something inevitable.

For a moment, Tsukishima doesn’t react.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your hand back.

The porch is quiet, the sounds of the house fading into the background. Somewhere inside, Tanaka and Noya are still arguing about something, Kageyama is grumbling, someone bursts into laughter—but out here, it’s just you and Tsukishima, sitting in the soft glow of the porch light, hands entwined.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t need to.

And in that moment, Tsukishima is certain that he’s screwed. But right now, with you curled up next to him, knowing you deeply the way you seemed to know him the first time you met him, remembering everything that has brought you two here, to this moment, he is equally certain about this: he will be there. He’ll keep noticing things about you that you think no one bothers to see, and he’ll be the support that you always offer to others but never ask for. He’ll let you—make you, if he has to—rest; he’ll take care of you the way you do for everyone else. 

And above all, he’ll be the person to prove to you that you are incredible. Not just for being good at tutoring, not just for being good at math, not just for being good at school, but that he’s in awe of you and who you are. 

He’ll love you how you should be loved. 

He swears it.

⨭ closing notes; very very attached to this one bc i started it in 2019. yes, 2019. she's gone through an insane amt of rewriting and cuts, but i am super proud of this final draft and i rly rly love it. this is also 1/3 of my asu trilogy so look out for that!!! as always #comment #like #reblog i literally see them all and it keeps me going :') thank u all sm if u made it to the end!

[bookwormjust]

Shadows of Reassurance: Learning to Love Yourself Through Azriel's Eyes

You stand in front of Azriel, shifting awkwardly as you explain how you’ve been feeling.

“I just feel... big,” you admit quietly, looking anywhere but at him. “I have all these curves, and I’m so much smaller than Feyre, Nesta, or even Elain, but somehow I feel... heavy. Like I don’t look right.”

Azriel’s amber eyes soften, his shadows brushing against your skin like a comforting embrace. He steps closer and holds out his hands.

“Come here,” he says gently, his voice calm but firm, leaving no room for argument. You hesitantly place your hands in his, and he immediately engulfs them with his much larger ones. He lifts them slightly, turning them over so your palms face upward, his thumbs brushing along your knuckles.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. “Your hands are so small compared to mine. So delicate, yet you’ve carried so much. These hands hold my heart, Y/N. And you think you’re ‘big’?” Your breath catches as he pulls you closer. “Now, stand here,” he says, nudging your feet next to his.

He stares down at the size difference, shaking his head in disbelief. “Look at this. Your feet are tiny. Do you see how I have to be careful not to step on you when we’re walking together?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an unmistakable tenderness behind it.

He places his hands on your waist, his thumbs brushing over the soft curve of your hips. “Here,” he says, leaning down so his face is level with yours. “This is life, Y/N. This softness, these curves—they aren’t something to hide. They mean you’re healthy, strong. They mean you’re human, even if you’re High Fae now. Without this, how would you survive?” You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his hands now lightly resting on your thighs. “And don’t get me started on these,” he says with a small smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Your thighs fit perfectly against mine. Do you know how much I love holding you? How it feels to have you curl into my lap, your warmth pressing against me? It’s perfect.”

When you glance down at his lean, muscular frame, you can’t help but blurt, “But you don’t have any fat. Not like me.” Azriel laughs softly, the sound low and soothing. “That’s because I’m male, love. My body doesn’t prepare itself the way yours does. You’re nurturing, even without realizing it. Every curve, every bit of softness—it’s your body’s way of caring for the life it could one day carry. It’s already loving and preparing for a future that doesn’t even exist yet.” Your heart stutters, and tears well in your eyes as his words sink in.

“You really think that?” Azriel cups your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears before they can fall. “I know that,” he says firmly. “Your body isn’t just beautiful, Y/N. It’s perfect. It’s built to love, to nurture, to carry. One day, if we decide to have a family, it’ll be the first home our children ever know. And until then, it’s the home of my heart.” He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as his wings wrap around you protectively.

“You’re not big, Y/N,” he whispers against your hair. “You’re mine. And I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” In his embrace, you feel safe, cherished, and seen in a way you’ve never felt before. And for the first time in a long time, you begin to see yourself the way Azriel sees you—strong, beautiful, and utterly loved.

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Hiya Blusy! Could you write something where the reader is Donna’s maid and over the years, they’ve developed a close working relationship. Eventually Donna starts doing things like holding reader’s hand, calling her pet names etc, but never anything explicitly romantic like kisses. Reader has been in love with Donna for a while now, and she just thinks Donna’s being affectionate because they’re close, so she accepts and returns the gestures. And then at the lords meetings, visits to castle Dimitrescu, and on the phone, Donna sometimes tells the other lords how wonderful her girlfriend is. Reader is confused and jealous that Donna apparently has a girlfriend that she doesn’t know about… not realizing that Donna is actually talking about her! Eventually she figures it out, like “what do you mean we’re already dating?”

I really enjoy reading all your stories, Blusy! You are doing amazing work at keeping Donna fans fed. Keep it up, but don’t forget to take breaks!

Yesss!!! Sorry about the delay, and thank you for your request!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes too!!! :)))))))

What do you mean by "girlfriends"?

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem, maid! Reader

Warnings: Fluff, Donna being Donna

Word count: 8,663

Summary: Why was she doing that? What was on her mind?

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVING MESSAGES, I'M VERY HAPPY TO BE BACK!!!

“That's it... you here...” you murmured as you arranged a pile of books on a shelf. “Perfect.”

Sighing, you looked at the result of your effort, finding a comforting pleasure in a well-done job.

You didn't really understand why those damn books always appeared in disarray, but you did have slight suspicions about who the culprit was.

“Angie...” you hissed, narrowing your eyes, too accustomed to the doll's pranks. “You'll never change.”

After three years working in that house, chores became mere pastimes. You were always a happy, hard-working girl, confident in what you did, well, almost always.

If you thought about how you had ended up like that, you were still surprised by yourself. You wanted a future, some way to get a job that didn't involve serving an impossibly tall woman and her daughters.

In that village, the options were few, and none were particularly pleasant. At the foot of the castle there was always a line of beautiful girls determined to serve Lord Alcina Dimitrescu as maids.

The decision was between join that queue of aspiring handmaidens, or find a different place to earn a living. You weren’t that brave, and, despite everything, you walked through the snowy forest, crossed a sinister path and a dangerously unstable bridge to make a very risky move.

With the lady of the castle surrounded by maids, your options were considerably reduced. You would have to look for another place, perhaps another Lord to serve.

Lord Heisenberg, perhaps? No, he wasn’t the kind of man that needed to be served or to look for someone who was… alive. Mother Miranda? Gods, you didn’t even consider it. You didn’t want to end up like one of the poor creatures who hunted at night.

What about Moreau? Oh, no, definitely not.

There was still one option left for you, one you hadn't considered in the first place, one you didn't want to consider. There was one Lord left, the youngest, the most unknown, the woman in mourning who lived beyond the forest, in the old mansion by the waterfall, the doll maker, Donna Beneviento.

The little knowledge you had about her was an advantage, but also a drawback. Knowing what you could face reassured you, but in this case, it wasn’t possible. To tell the truth, no one knew much about young Beneviento, at least, nothing good.

But things were really bad in your old cabin, and you were sure that you wouldn’t endure the cold of winter another year.

Forgetting about the rumors about the mysterious Lady Beneviento, you decided to try your luck. If you had known what awaited you, you would have done it sooner, much sooner.

The shrill voice of the lady's living doll kicked you out of the place as soon as she saw you, saying that you weren’t needed, that you should leave immediately. With failure already in your eyes and a treacherous trembling in your legs, you decided to give up, and pray to the Black Gods that you could return alive.

There were no visions, no nightmares and no evil power that made you hallucinate as you had heard from the people of the village. You could only hear the sound of footsteps in the snow, your own.

One step, two, three, and finally an impertinent cry from Angie, calling you not to go too far away.

You didn't know why the lady had changed her mind, and you didn't want to know, but she did and hired you as her maid.

You couldn't deny that that ghostly air and the black veil that covered her face intimidated you, especially the first days, but you soon got used to it.

Donna Beneviento was just as the rumors said. She was a sick woman, who didn't even speak to you, locked in her old workshop for hours, with the only company of her inert dolls. You could even say that she had an irrational aversion to people, to you… but… then, why were you still alive? Why didn't your reality distort and force you to throw yourself off the cliff?

The mystery stopped being dark and sinister and became a complex but entertaining riddle.

Perhaps without the presence of that rebellious puppet you would have gone crazy. It's not that you were a girl who loved conversations, but your mistress's eternal silence was heavy, uncomfortable, terrifying.

The days, the weeks, the months passed without any change. You did your chores, bowed slightly to your mistress and rested, a routine only broken by the games of the Angie doll, in which you, usually, were the protagonist.

But everything changed that day, the day you realized how hurt Beneviento's mind was. It was an unexpected crisis, in the middle of a dinner that seemed calm. The woman in black began to scream, to move, to try to hurt herself. Luckily, you were there to prevent it.

Her madness was so great that it even made that black veil disappear, thus unveiling her face to you involuntarily. You were too busy to notice her. You didn't want her to hurt herself, you couldn't stand to see her suffer like that. She didn't deserve it, she had never shown you that she deserved such punishment from the Gods.

She got worse before she got better, going from rage to tears quickly and finally finding comfort in your arms, in your chest and in your soft, reassuring words. When Donna calmed down completely, she came back to reality, aware of what she had done, of what you were seeing: her face, one that no one should ever see.

You thought that the crisis would return, that her madness would attack her again, and perhaps you would be the target of her anger, but it wasn't like that.

The lady slowly stood up grabbing the veil she had thrown away, looking down at the ground, blinking erratically with her one eye. In the middle of that unpleasant situation, she did it; she finally talked to you by herself:

“Thank you”

Her hoarse, but melodic and seductive voice reached your ears while your eyes were still processing her beauty. You couldn't say you didn't know what she looked like, since the portrait on the stairs was a good reference, but seeing it in person, seeing the beautiful woman you worked for with your own eyes... Something definitely changed that day.

Not only her voice became frequent, but the veil disappeared. Surely she realized that you didn't act as if you had seen a monster, that you weren't disgusted by the scar that deformed her face. Yes, she may have realized that your eyes saw a woman and not a deformed being that torments children in their nightmares.

Time only improved that great change, making the shy and hermit ventriloquist find in you something resembling a friend. The truth was that you two shared tastes, interests. Contrary to what you initially believed, you had many things in common.

Donna was a strange woman, of course, but sweet in some way, intelligent, elegant... in short: she was the opposite of what was said in the village.

You, who thought you would find a job with which to survive, found more than that, you found a friend, a good friend.

The sound of the door distracted you from your memories, causing you to turn on your heels and shake the dust that covered your apron as you walked, also taking the opportunity to arrange your hair correctly.

“Donna, you're back,” you said kindly, welcoming the woman in black and her doll at the entrance.

“Of course we're back! Don't you see us, silly maid?” Angie said, moving in her owner's arms as Donna lowered her to the floor. “Did you have fun, silly?”

“Yes, I actually had a really great time tidying the shelves,” you said with a mocking smile, putting your hands on your hips. “How funny, someone was kind enough to mess up all the books to keep me busy.”

“You're welcome, silly, that way you wouldn't get bored,” the doll replied, laughing evilly and passing by you with disinterest.

“Yes, thank you very much,” you said through clenched teeth, shaking your head and looking back at the lady in black, who was bringing one of her hands to her veil, slowly removing it. “How was the meeting?”

“Mm, not good,” the brunette whispered, looking away from you with an air of nervousness and sadness as she folded her veil carefully, leaving it on a nearby table.

“Oh, um, did something happen?” you asked pleasantly.

She shook her head, sighing and walking slowly towards the dining room, letting herself fall into one of the chairs. Slowly, you approached her, putting a hand on her shoulder, ready for a comforting talk that poor Donna was unwillingly asking for.

“Donna, what's wrong?” you asked quietly. “Gods, you're freezing.”

“Mm, nevermind, (Y/N),” she answered, sighing again.

“Donna,” you said, sitting in a chair front of her. “Tell me what worries you… Well, as long as it doesn't have anything to do with Mother Miranda's evil plans or something similar,” you joked, getting her lips to form a shy smile.

“No, it's just that… I was looking forward to going home,” Donna explained, with a sweet, sincere voice. “These meetings are torture for me, I, I just want to be with my dolls and…”

“Oh, Donna, I know,” you interrupted calmly.  “Don't worry. You're at home now, mm?”

“Yes…” she sighed, smiling again. “I'm at home… Sorry, (Y/N), I'm… I'm not having a good day…”

“I know,” you said in a soft, understanding tone. “I’m not surprised. With this cold it's hard to be cheerful.”

“Mm,” the lady murmured, looking out the window wistfully.

“Do you know what you need?” you said in a louder voice, clapping your hands, which comically scared your mistress, who shook the head with her eye wide open. “I'm going to prepare a relaxing bath for you, it will help you warm up, what do you think?”

“It's… it's… yes, I think it's a good idea, grazie, (Y/N),” she answered, with an innocent smile.

“Great, I'll let you know when it's ready,” you said enthusiastically, glancing sideways at Angie, who was climbing up the bookshelf, threatening to mess it up again. “Hey, I'm watching you!”

“Don't look at me, silly!” the doll answered squeakily. “I'm checking your work.”

“Ugh,” you growled annoyed. “No, no, no! Hey, I just tidied it up!” you shouted as you saw how the puppet slowly took out one of the books. “Angie!”

“Angie, basta! Lasciala estare!” Donna said, coming to your defense, as usual.

“You’re an annoying killjoy,” Angie protested, getting down from the bookshelf, shaking her head haughtily and leaving the dining room.

“Angie...” the lady hissed, putting two fingers on her temples. “This is the last time I...”

“It's okay, Donna. You already know her,” you said, downplaying it. “I'm used to it. Just relax, the bath will be ready soon.”

With those words and a soft caress on her back, you went down the elevator, ready to make the lady in black feel better. Of course, you knew that meetings with her siblings weren’t to her liking. She never asked to be a Lord, she was forced to be one; she was forced to stay away from a solitude she didn’t choose, but that she enjoyed somehow.

As you filled the bathtub, you remembered all the moments you spent with her, the laughs you sometimes shared, the moments of silent reading, the dinners in the sole company of your eyes…

Fine, you had to admit it once and for all. Saying that Donna was your friend was an understatement, it was almost rude to your feelings. Over time, you began to see the lady in black not only as an interesting and attractive woman, but as something more… Something you still didn’t admit.

The looks, the kind and gentle words, the unthinkable kindness coming from someone like her, her beauty, which she denied so much…

You had been in that house for three years, one of them completely in love with Donna.

You knew that love was something completely unknown for her, fictitious, but still you allowed yourself to fantasize at night about what your life would be like with her, what it would be like to love her. Of course, these were completely fanciful feelings, ones you didn't think you could make real, ones you felt you had to hide from her.

After all, you were still her maid even if you melted for her, even if she looked at you like that, even if your heart raced with every smile.

“Donna? Can I come in?” you asked after letting the lady relax in the tub. You hoped that at least that sadness you saw in her eye had disappeared.

“Yes, of course,” she said, opening the door while putting on an elegant black silk robe, which made your eyes travel unintentionally to one of her legs, that was uncovered with the movement.

Not now, (Y/N)

“How was the bath? Did it feel good?” you asked kindly, blinking to force yourself to stop looking at the pale skin the black fabric was revealing.

“Yes, thank you, (Y/N),” Donna whispered, sitting on a stool next to the sink.

You approached with a smile, knowing the meaning of that innocent gesture.

“Let's see…” you murmured, taking a brush and starting to run it through her black hair, a soft and mysteriously delicate hair. “Mm, maybe you want to try a new hairstyle, don't you?”

“No,” the lady said dryly, letting your hands enjoy the caresses on her hair while you noticed each white hair that broke the harmony of the darkness, like a field of stars in the night sky.

“Fine,” you whispered kindly, starting to comb her hair carefully. “Well, so…” you said after a few seconds of silence, making her eye look at you through the mirror. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“What do you mean?” Donna asked, frowning.

“The meeting, you said it didn't go well,” you commented in a calm voice while you passed the brush with a slow, calm movement.

“The meeting went well,” she said, making you stop and arch your eyebrows with a tender smile, enjoying her clumsy way of communicating. “As good as it could go, I guess…”

“Mm,” you murmured, nodding, handling the brush gracefully while shaping her usual bun.

“Alcina wanted to talk to me,” the lady commented, ruffling her hair in a childish way to give the hairstyle her personal touch, a messy and adorable touch you loved.

“What did she say to you?” you asked, observing the result in the mirror.

Donna seemed somewhat nervous, slowly turning to look directly at you while biting her lower lip, as if she was embarrassed by something.

“You don't have to tell me, forget that I asked you,” you said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. “I don't want to get into your business.”

“It's just that... she... she's worried about me,” the lady finally explained, without looking you in the eyes, nervously playing with her hands.

“Worried about you?” you asked in a low tone, without making her more nervous, as you learned to do a long time ago.

She nodded slowly, sighing and raising her gaze to you briefly.

“She says that... that I'm alone and... and that I should have someone by my side...” she commented with difficulty, making clear to you that she was embarrassed by this type of conversation, although at first, you didn't understand why. “She thinks that being alone isn't good and that I would be much happier if I wasn't and...”

“Oh,” you sighed, leaving the brush on the sink and listening to her attentively. “Well, actually, you're not alone, Donna.”

“Angie is irrelevant,” the lady grumbled, crossing her arms, breathing more and more agitated, which put you on alert. “Am I really alone? You...? You think she's right?”

“Shh, hey, Donna,” you whispered, resting your hands on her shoulders, waiting for her gaze to meet yours. “The truth is that she's somewhat right, but, she's wrong about one thing,” you said with a serious tone, staring at her. “You're not alone, Donna.”

“I’m not?” she asked, shaking her head, with a suspicious look.

“Of course not,” you affirmed with a smile, rubbing her shoulders reassuringly. “I'm here, with you.”

The lady in black opened her eye wide, as if she had run out of words. You didn't think you had said something so shocking, but seeing a spark of joy on her face motivated you to smile sincerely, maybe too sincerely.

“Y-You mean that I... that you... that you're with me?” she asked, narrowing her eye, as if she didn't trust your words.

“Of course I'm with you, don't you see?” you joked, making her smile again. “Donna, it's been a long time since you aren’t just my boss or my lady. To me, you are something more, something much more... special,” you said, stumbling over your words when you noticed that you were about to say something stupid.

“You are also much more than a maid to me, (Y/N), you are also... special,” she said, with a bright smile on her face. “N-Now I'm not alone because I'm with you, right? I-I won't be alone anymore...”

“Yes,” you said amused, surprised by her changing behavior, but accustomed to it. “I won't abandon you, Donna.”

“I... I won't either...” she said, radiating a strange happiness, one that clashed directly with her melancholic mood, one that seemed to suddenly disappear.

Suddenly, you felt warmth in your hand. The softness of her skin brushed against yours as she gently grabbed it with hers, still looking at you, still smiling.

Your heart was beating very fast, and your mind was starting to draw kisses, a declaration of love from her lips, a fantasy that seemed closer and closer.

With a happy sigh, Donna pulled your hand to her lips, kissing it in a way that made you stagger. It was a quick kiss, too quick, too… empty. Of course, it wasn't what you expected, but you were sure you would dream of that feeling. For the first time in a year, you thought that longed-for moment was closer than ever.

“Grazie,” the lady said, closing her eye and slowly releasing your hand, leaving an unbearable cold on your skin and a clear disappointment in your gaze. “Thank you for being with me, (Y/N).”

“You're welcome,” you whispered sighing too, glad to have made her happy, sad because a kiss of love hadn’t been the end of that conversation. It was just a simple: thank you

“Anyway...” you sighed, wanting to scream, to say that you loved her, but without being able to do it. “I should make dinner,” you said before turning around, ready to leave the bathroom and regret what had happened, or rather, what hadn’t happened.

“Un attimo, (Y/N),” Donna stopped you, getting up hastily from the stool, with that nervous expression again. “Let me help you.”

“Mm?” you murmured about to walk out the door, excited by the idea, but knowing that above all, her well-being was your job. “Oh, no, it's not necessary... you must rest, you've had a bad day and...”

“No!” she squealed, making an exaggerated movement with her hands, making you blink in confusion. “I-I mean that I don't feel sad anymore and… I would really like to cook with you.”

“Oh, well… in that case… okay,” you said with a knowing smile, letting your feelings repress themselves again, leaving the regrets and anger at your cowardice for another time. “Um… Donna,” you whispered amused when the lady also approached the door. “Maybe you should get dressed first, huh?”

“Cosa? Oh, certo, certo…” she said, looking at herself and blushing. “You'll wait for me, right?”

“Of course.”

It wasn't the first time you cooked together, but you couldn't help but have a strange feeling, as if something had changed. After all, you didn't care too much. Spending time with Donna had long been your favorite hobby, and it was even better when she smiled, free of her demons.

You couldn't help but think that her mood swing had been largely due to your encouraging words, but in a dark corner of your mind, there was still that terrible possibility, the possibility that her behavior was just part of her damaged mind, that her unexpected joy would disappear and lead to a terrible crisis.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the first time that this had happened either, and those bitter experiences made you not enjoy that time together enough.

Dinner was silent, as always, but something different was still in the air, a different smile on the lady in black, one that didn’t lead to an episode of madness.

Ignoring the cries of your heart begging you to confess your love, you enjoyed dinner calmly and cautiously, talking about how your day was, about Angie's pranks... about nothing out of the ordinary.

That routine conversation brought you closer to the thought that the change of mood had been a coincidence, and you were about to be devoured by disappointment. But something happened, something that would change everything from that moment on.

After dinner, the best moment of the day arrived, a moment of silent reading with Donna. She read her book, apparently distracted, and you pretended to read yours, glancing sideways at the woman you loved in silence, that woman who was so close to you, but who at the same time was unreachable.

Suddenly, you noticed something moving beside you. Donna wasn't holding the book with both hands, and her free one was sliding slowly across the sofa, searching, reaching for yours. Your breath froze and you glanced at the lady out of the corner of your eye, but she seemed completely oblivious to her own actions.

Your fingers intertwined automatically, without an order from your brain, knowing what you wanted, and how you wanted it. Your heart was beating thunderously, in a way you thought she would be able to hear, while you felt subtle caresses, the softness of her skin brushing against yours.

You thought about reacting, making a noise, clearing your throat, asking for an explanation for this unusual act, but the pleasure you felt when you noticed her caresses, the warmth of her hand on yours, prevented you from doing so. You decided to play along, forcing your hand to move, to stop being cold and motionless and make your fingers caress hers too.

Donna seemed focused on her book. It seemed like she didn't realize what was happening, or she simply didn't give it any importance, something that caused contradictory feelings inside you.

Time passed slowly and your body began to feel heavy, leaning towards hers, as if something invisible was pulling it. Her hand moved away from yours and the lady moved closer, wrapping her arm around you, making your head rest on her shoulder.

You were completely frozen, with your eyes wide open and your breathing accelerated. She didn't look at you, she didn't move, she just ran her hand through your hair gently, settling you comfortably on her body.

The feeling was warm, strange but welcomed. You had many things to ask, many things to say, but you couldn't do it. The comfort you felt on her shoulder, the softness and delicacy of her caresses on your hair forced you to take advantage of the moment, to enjoy it before it was over.

Neither of you said anything about it, and with a not extraordinary farewell, you both went to sleep. Of course, you didn't sleep much that night.

Your head was going round and round about what had happened, about those caresses, about those strange gestures on her part, gestures that had no explanation and at the same time you didn't know if you wanted them to have one.

You only managed to sleep when you convinced yourself that it would be an isolated event, that the conversation in the bathroom and that moment on the sofa were something unique, and of course, unrepeatable.

It wasn't, not at all.

The caresses on your hands became common. They became another part of the routine. It could happen in any circumstance, without warning, leaving you petrified, but relaxed, comfortable. The attitude of the lady in black didn't change too much despite everything.

It was true that her mood was curiously different, she seemed... happy.

The days passed and those strange acts continued, adding more caresses, more glances, adding more hope in your heart, the hope that somehow, you were close to knowing what it felt like to love Donna, what it felt like to be loved in return.

Your name ceased to exist. She no longer addressed you as usual, but in different ways: tesoro, darling, dolcezza… It seemed like simple kindness, as if over time, without you realizing it, your bond continued to strengthen, as if that closeness you already had was increasing little by little.

Of course, that's how the dark and pessimistic part of your mind saw it, a simple coincidence, a trust earned with effort, but that didn't go beyond friendship. Little by little you began to act, checking what would happen if you were the one who initiated those caresses, those unexpected gestures.

Her reaction wasn’t something remarkable, but neither was it ordinary. She simply let herself go, just as you did. It was pretty obvious that something had changed for her, and after a whole month of seemingly meaningless caresses and nice words, you could see a clearer joy on her face.

She even finally agreed to go visit her sister from time to time, something she always refused to do.

Thoughts were eating you up; feelings were burning you from within. It seemed like everything was fine, that you were the situation you wanted to be, but not exactly the way you would like.

You knew it was dangerous, risky, you knew you couldn't do it, but you started to get an idea in your head that you couldn't stop thinking about.

You knew Donna. You knew how afraid she was of people, of relationships, at least with someone other than you or her sister. Did you really think she was going to confess her love to you?

If she really felt something for you... why didn't she dare to tell you and instead caress you, kiss your hands, your cheek or call you affectionately? It was a contradiction, but Donna was herself a contradiction, you couldn't think it was something strange.

So, without the expectation that those three words would come out of her mouth, the only thing left to do was to act, swallow your pride, your fear, stop being a coward to finally be brave and confess to her.

“I know it's going to sound silly, but I think... I think... no, I'm in love with you and...” you said, looking into her eyes, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “Donna, I'm crazy about you and... I... Ugh, no, no, no, no!” you squealed nervously, hitting the porcelain doll you were talking to.

The doll fell to the floor and with a grunt you put it back on the table in your room, pacing impatiently from one side to the other, thinking intensely.

“Let's try this: Donna, I love you and I love when you caress me and call me dolcezza and... Pathetic,” you sighed, letting yourself fall on the bed, looking resentfully at that poor doll. “Gods, why is it so difficult? Focus (Y/N), you know that if you don't tell her she will never do it and...”

“If you don't tell her what?”

“Yiaaah!” you screamed scared when you saw Angie appear through the door, giving you a scare. “Damn it, Angie! What did I tell you about entering my room without warning?”

“I don't know, I have a very poor memory,” the doll answered while you narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms. “What are you doing to this poor doll?”

“Nothing, it's none of your business,” you answered, unable to prevent the doll from getting on your bed.

“Did you want to tell my Donna something?” asked the doll, with a malevolent tone that made you tense up.

“Um, no, I...”

“Donna, Donna! The silly maid wants to talk to you!” Angie shrieked, making your blood boil as you tried to cover the puppet's mouth.

“What are you doing!? Shut up!” you protested, struggling with her, unfortunately hearing familiar heels from downstairs.

Angie broke free from your grip laughing and cowardly running away, leaving you red in embarrassment, forcing you to look over the wooden railing to see Donna, who was looking at you curiously.

“Did you call me, tesoro?” the lady asked, with that sweet tone that drove you crazy, with those pet names that drove you crazy.

“Um, um, um, I…” you stammered, finally mustering up your courage and deciding to take advantage of the moment. “Yes, I… wanted to talk to you.”

“Va bene,” she answered with a kind smile as she watched you walk down the stairs.

Everything you had rehearsed became a mess in your head. It would be a mess, for sure.

“Um, um… Donna…” you murmured in an almost inaudible voice as she looked at you expectantly. “I wanted to talk to you… about… about something…”

“Mm, go ahead,” she urged you, cooling her smile a little. “(Y/N), you're shaking, what's wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, it's just that... I wanted, I wanted to tell you that... that...” you said awkwardly, in the worst possible way, making her to frown in confusion.

A shrill sound interrupted what was undoubtedly going to be a pathetic confession. The phone rang unpleasantly, but Donna didn't take her eye off you, increasingly worried.

“Oh, I... don't worry, pick it up,” you said, seeing that call as a salvation, an opportunity to think better about your words. “Come on, Donna, maybe it's important.”

The lady nodded slowly, walking towards the dining room while you hid against a wall, growling discreetly.

“Shit, idiot, idiot, idiot…” you lamented in a low voice, pretending to pull your hair. “Damn, one day I'm going to commit dollicide… Gods, this is a disaster…”

“Pronto,” you heard the lady say when she picked up the phone. “Alcina, is something wrong?”

You rubbed your eyes, trying to concentrate, but you couldn't help but feel the strange need to spy, or rather, to accidentally listen to that conversation.

“Oh, you mean this afternoon? Yes, I know, but… I don't know, I, I’d like to spend the afternoon with my girlfriend and…”

You stopped thinking, your vision became blurry and your senses seemed to shut down. You hadn't heard wrong, she had said “my girlfriend”. Everything began to spin around you, you felt dizzy and terribly confused.

It couldn't be, it simply couldn't be true. Did Donna have a girlfriend? No, no, no, no, it couldn't be possible, it couldn't be, right?

You turned pale, making sure you had heard correctly, regretting doing so. You wanted to forget it, you wanted to not acknowledge the fact that seemed impossible, but your mind was already working on tying up the loose ends.

Yes, that could explain a lot of things: Donna's outings, that change in her mood, that increase in confidence... Finally, you understood.

With great regret, you remembered the conversation that day in the bathroom, how you cheered her up, how you agreed with Alcina saying that being alone wasn’t good. You thought she was happy to know that you were by her side, but in reality, that wasn’t the case.

That confidence that you unintentionally gave her surely eliminated the barriers that Beneviento put between her and others. Yes, yes, she surely gained enough self-confidence to dare to meet someone, to find love, to find it in someone, who, of course, was not you.

Everything in your world fell apart with an invisible noise that reverberated throughout your body. You thought about running away, going up to your room and crying until you fell asleep, but you didn't have time to react, you were in shock and Donna ended the call.

“(Y/N),” she said, bringing you out of that trance, feeling how you hadn't even noticed that her hand was on your shoulder. “(Y/N), are you okay?”

“Me? Y-Y-Yes…” you stammered, not really knowing how you could pronounce a single word.

“Okay…” Donna whispered, distrustful, with an air of concern in her eye. “Well, what was it that you wanted to tell me?” she asked, walking with you back to the dining room.

Your body was almost paralyzed, acting by inertia and your eyes were struggling not to cry. You had to be fast, pretend, lie, deny everything you were going to say, deny everything you felt.

“Um, um yes, it's just that… it's just that…” you said, looking around, looking for a way out that didn't exist. “Oh, yes, there are no apples left.”

“Mele,” Donna repeated, frowning and looking at a corner, where a basket overflowing with that sweet fruit was, just to embarrass you.

“Yes, oh, wow! there they were… I… how stupid I am…” you said, red as blood, looking for a window from which to throw yourself into the snow and run away.

“(Y/N), tesoro, are you sure you're okay?” she asked, of course, not believing your pathetic words.

“Yes, great, great, um… yes, I'm very well, how are you?”

“Well… I’m fine,” she whispered, with a smile that pierced your heart. “Oh, I almost forgot, you better not wait for me this afternoon to have tea. I have to go to…”

Another stab in the chest. You knew exactly where I was going, who I was going with.

“Yes, okay, um... no problem, of course,” you said quickly, trying to recover from that open wound.

“Va bene,” the lady murmured, still distrustful. “Relax, I'll be here for dinner.”

“Yes, of course, come whenever you want, it's your house, and... well, and... hurry, hurry up or you'll be late,” you said, pushing the woman from behind.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, when you closed the elevator door.

You spent a good part of the afternoon crying. If at any time you thought she had feelings for you, you were terribly wrong. You cried inconsolably and angrily, jealous, trying not to imagine those caresses, those kisses on the cheek, those nice words directed at another woman, at someone who wasn't you.

You still found it incredible that Donna had met someone, she barely left the house, she didn't know how to communicate with others, only with you, damn it, only with you! What kind of treacherous witch had won her heart?

A maid from the castle? No, that wasn't possible since she apparently refused to go with Alcina that afternoon. A villager? It could be... but who? Damn, who?

No matter how much you thought about it, you couldn't find an answer, and you didn't want to look for one.

It was inevitable. Your coldness when she returned was beyond your control. Your heart burned with rage and your eyes, red with tears, refused to look at her, not after what could have happened, what she could have done to someone who wasn't you.

“It looks delicious,” the lady said, rubbing her hands together before dinner, while you played with your food in silence.

“Mm,” you murmured with disinterest, pouring yourself a glass of wine, the third that night.

“Tesoro,” she said, frowning, burning your soul with that word, with that beautiful way of calling you. Liar. “Isn't that too much wine?”

“No, no, no,” you said with a spiteful tone. “It's not.”

Donna looked at you strangely and then continued eating, raising her head from time to time, only to find indifference in your eyes.

“The pasta is perfect, you're a wonderful cook,” the lady commented, with a kind gesture, but one that betrayed a bit of nervousness.

“I know,” you said arrogantly, finishing the glass in one gulp, leaving the brunette confused. “You taught me how to prepare it, Donna.”

“Yes, certo, ma…” she stammered, shaking her head, with a nervous laugh.

“The wine, pass me the wine,” you said coldly.

She obeyed cautiously, swallowing and deciding that it was better to be quiet.

“Well...” you sighed, noticing how the alcohol was beginning to affect your words, how the wine was increasing your jealousy and anger. “Did you have a good time this afternoon?”

“Mm, well, better than I expected,” she answered sincerely, wiping herself with the napkin. “Next time I'd like you to come with me and...”

“No, thanks,” you denied immediately, without letting her finish the sentence. “I have a lot of work.”

“But, (Y/N), I...” Donna said, looking away. “I'd like you to meet her and...”

“Really, Donna? Do you want me to meet her?”

I was talking about her, about that damn mysterious girl, you were convinced.

“It's important to me,” the lady in black explained, extending her hand towards yours, which you pushed away in a quick gesture, knocking over the wine glass.

“Shit,” you protested with a grunt, getting up to go find something to clean up the mess with.

“No, leave it, I'll do it,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder innocently.

 “I have to do it, it's my duty, I'm your maid, remember? Or have you forgotten?” you said, letting out the hatred, the rage that was building up inside you, a hot, intoxicated rage.

“But, (Y/N) what...?” she sighed, with a sad expression. “Tesoro, I think...”

“You think what? Look, it doesn't matter. I'm too drunk to listen to you, why don't you go with your stupid dolls? Or better yet, why don't you go to bed, I'm sure you're exhausted after that visit, right?”

“But, but, what have I done wrong?” she asked, grabbing your wrists, getting dangerously close to you.

You thought about stopping breathing, avoiding smelling the scent of another woman mixed with the lavender of Donna’s perfume. You were unhinged, drunk, and angry, you weren't thinking straight, and you had to do something before you did or said anything stupid.

“Nothing, Donna, you didn't do anything wrong, okay? I…” you sobbed, pulling away from her touch, moving away little by little, something she stopped by gently grabbing your hands.

“Please, let me go…” you hissed, pulling them away to take their warmth from yours, turning around and running to your room, leaving Donna paralyzed, not knowing the reason for your behavior.

Your heart ached as you did so, but the next few days the distance you put between you grew dangerously. Sometimes you gave in, you let her hands caress you, giving you the false illusion that nothing had changed, that nothing else existed apart from you, that she didn't exist.

Frustration and jealousy took their toll on your body and mind, but you still loved her, you still wanted her, you had to continue being her maid, you couldn't lose her, even if you had. Sometimes you cried for no reason, other times you let your body fall on her lap, falling asleep on her, letting her hands soothe your pain, while knowing you would never be hers increased it.

It was a horrible two weeks, really horrible.

“Angie, I'm not in the mood for your nonsense!” you yelled at the doll as you cleaned the shelves, trying to keep the doll from destroying your work, something that normally didn't seem so horrible to you.

“Ugh, you're unbearable, silly,” the doll snorted.

“You are unbearable, do you hear me? You are unbearable!” you growled angrily.

The doll let out a gasp of false surprise, pointing at herself in indignation.

“I'll tell Donna, you silly maid, and she'll be angry with you...” Angie sang.

“Do whatever you want, but she's in her workshop and you know she hates being disturbed,” you said, trying to calm down.

You actually liked Angie, she didn't deserve for you to pay all  your pain with her.

“Bah, I can wait,” the puppet sighed, letting herself fall on a sofa, pretending to read a magazine.

Did she even know how to read?

You shook your head and continued with your task without desire, without motivation, just looking for the time to sit down to read, and for Donna, your Donna, to give you the affection she had left for you, the only one you would have.

“Damn it,” you protested when you heard the screeching sound of the phone, something that, of course, amused the doll.

“Silly,” she said laughing. “Come on, pick it up, maid.”

You groaned, but took a deep breath before approaching the phone.

“Beneviento estate,” you said pretending that everything was fine. After all, you could be talking to Mother Miranda.

“Oh, wow, it seems I'm not talking to Donna…” a deep, sensual voice spoke from the other end. Your jealousy was activated briefly, until your memory recognized that voice, the voice of the oldest lord, Alcina Dimitrescu. “(Y/N), my dear…”

“Oh, yes, um, Lady Dimitrescu, I'll let Donna know right away and…” you said hurriedly, as politely as possible.

“Why the rush? I was looking forward to meeting you…” she said in a honeyed voice, making you frown and blink in confusion.

“Me?” you asked carelessly.

A terribly sexy laugh came from the phone.

“Yes, dear, you,” said the lady in white. “It's funny, Donna talks about you so much that it's almost as if I really knew you.”

“Donna? About me? I-I don't understand,” you said, noticing a clear difficulty in pronouncing the words.

“Don't be modest, if you've won the heart of my sad and dark sister you have a lot of merit, there's no point in downplaying it,” Alcina answered, leaving you even more confused, more and more.

“Oh, and since I'm here, talking to you, I'd like you to reconsider your position and grant me the pleasure of meeting you in person. It would be an honor for me to meet Donna's very famous girlfriend.”

“G-G-G-Girl…” you stammered, thinking that the phone had broken, that she wasn't saying what she was saying. “G-G-G-girlfriend?”

“Mm,” the vampire murmured, exhaling what sounded like cigarette smoke. “The lycan got your tongue, dear?”

“I-I-I… I… I’ll, I’ll tell Donna to call you later,” you said, hanging up quickly, a cold sweat running down your back.

Donna’s girlfriend? You? Really? Was it a dream? Or a nightmare? You didn’t understand anything, everything seemed overwhelming.

“Um… Angie, come here,”you said almost without a voice, indicating to the doll to come closer.

“What do you want?” she asked unpleasantly while you meditated on everything that had happened.

“Tell me…” you whispered carefully, bending down to be at her height. “Does Donna…? Does Donna have a girlfriend?”

“What? Are you laughing at me, stupid?” the puppet protested, moving away from you with distrust.

“No, I'm not laughing at you,” you said, containing your impatience. “Please, answer.”

“What a weird fool... really? You're her girlfriend, you stupid maid!” Angie shrieked, making you fall to the floor in shock.

“What? What do you mean?” you asked, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you stood up and rubbed your back. “Gods, what?”

“Have you been poisoned? Did you hit your head?” Angie asked ironically as you walked away thoughtfully, trying to put your mind in order, something impossible given the situation.

A nervous smile appeared on your face as you walked towards the elevator, denying everything you had heard and everything that had happened.

When did you become her girlfriend? Why didn't you know? Had she ask you in Italian and you didn't understand? What had you missed?

You didn't know, but for once your heart was beating strongly in your chest, with a mixture of relief, love, and bewilderment. You weren't sure what you were to her, but you did know what you were going to do: you had to talk to her.

You quickly went down to the basement, ignoring the darkness and humidity of the place and walking determinedly towards the closed doors of the workshop. Your smile was no longer nervous, but amused, incredulous and hopeful.

“Donna!” you shrieked as you abruptly entered the workshop, making the lady jump out of her chair and ruin the porcelain head she was painting.

“Cazzo!” the lady shouted, juggling with that porcelain piece, which now had a peculiar makeup. “Oddio... la testa... (Y/N)! What are you doing? Don't you know how to knock on the door?”

“Shut up, Donna,” you said in a mocking tone, approaching her chair and grabbing her face with your hands, making her eye widen in astonishment. “Shut up and listen to me, will you?”

She, trapped, nodded slowly, creating a scene that could be comical.

“Alcina just called. She told me she wants to meet me,” you said, taking a breath and closing your eyes. “She says she wants to meet Donna's girlfriend, can you explain it to me? What does she mean by your girlfriend? Me? Does she really think we're dating?”

“Mm? Of course we are. We're dating, what's that question about?” she answered, annoyedly breaking away from your grip.

You, ignoring the answer, breathed in relief, rubbing your eyes.

“Oh, okay, fine, thank goodness that… What!?” you said when you analyzed her words, catching her in your hands again. “Donna, but, but…”

“What's wrong with you?” the lady protested, her voice distorted by your grip.

“Am I your girlfriend? Are we girlfriends? But, Donna, since when?” you asked nervously, letting her go and resting your hands on your hips.

“Yes, you, you're my girlfriend,” she repeated, scared by your attitude. “What is it…?”

“Let's see… Donna, honey, what makes you think that we are dating?” you asked, starting to lose patience.

“Well… well…” the brunette stammered, leaving the ruined head on the table. “I love you.”

Of course, you didn't expect that. You didn't expect such a direct, calm confession. You didn't expect those three words to come out of her mouth so naturally, as if you, somehow, should already know.

“You love me…” you repeated with wide eyes, shaking your head.

“Yes, I love you, (Y/N),” she said, moving her hand to grab yours. “What's wrong? Per favore, don't leave me, don't you love me anymore?”

“Whaaaat…?” you said, mouth agape, not understanding anything, almost as if you had a terrible amnesia. “Oh, no, no… You're serious, right?”

“You don't love me anymore!?” Donna shrieked, moving erratically.

“Donna, listen to me, I… I love you, I love you so much.”

You definitely didn't expect to confess it that way. You didn't expect that, just like her, it would come out so naturally.

“So? What's the problem?” the lady asked, following your advices to calm herself down. “Y-You told me you were with me, you told me that day, (Y/N).”

“That day? Oh, Gods…” you sighed, letting yourself fall into a nearby chair, starting to understand what it was all about.

“You told me that with you I wouldn't be alone, that you would be with me and…” Donna said, on the verge of tears. Surely the poor ventriloquist was as lost and confused as you.

“Wait, you…? Donna, did you think that meant we were together? Together… in a relationship, is that it? Did you think that?”

“Well… I did…” she said in a low voice, taking her hand away from yours, lowering her gaze. “(Y/N), if you want to leave me, at least give me a chance to…”

“Donna, I don't want to leave you,” you said, putting your hands on your shoulders. “I mean, damn it,” you said, noticing your own confusion. “Donna, I didn’t even know we were dating…”

“How could you not know?” she asked, with an accusatory, almost childish look. “I do nothing but give you affection.”

“Affection? You mean…?”

Suddenly, everything started to make sense in your head: the reaction she had that night, the change of mood, the unexplained joy, the caresses, the innocent kisses on the cheek, the affectionate nicknames.

During all that time, there was no one else, just you and her. You were her girlfriend; you were the one who owned her heart. But you didn’t know it. You had no way of knowing it.

You almost wanted to throw yourself on the floor and laugh out loud, in fact, you did, but Donna seemed confused and worried, and that was the most important thing.

“D-Don't laugh, you're making me nervous,” the brunette protested, shrinking in her chair. “Why are you laughing?”

You calmed down a little, approaching her, affectionately caressing her cheek and fixing your gaze on hers.

“Donna… My precious Donna,” you sighed with a tender look. “Do you know how jealous I was thinking that there was another woman in your life?”

“What nonsense, there is no one else in my life, there is only you, I only love you, why did you think that…?”

“It doesn't matter,” you said, not wanting to continue with the subject, relaxing, without stopping caressing her skin while she looked at you expectantly.

“Donna, I didn't expect you to interpret my words like that. Actually I… well, I'm in love with you but… I didn't say those things to ask you to be girlfriends or something like that…Damn, I didn't even think you could feel the same way about me…”

“I do, I love you,” the lady in black said hastily, grabbing your wrist. “Ti amo.”

“Me too,” you said, losing yourself in her gaze, in the sincerity of her words, and yours. “I can't believe you thought we were girlfriends…”

“Aren’t we?” Donna asked, frightened, hardening her expression.

“We are,” you answered briefly, expressing a wish that you didn't know had already been fulfilled. “But just for you to know… being girlfriends means much more than holding hands and you calling me tesoro or dolseza…”

“Dolcezza,” the woman corrected, with a cold, confused tone.

“Whatever,” you said amused, winking at her. “Donna, being girlfriends means much more than that…”

“It means not being alone, right?” she asked, pleading, praying that everything she thought she had lived, wouldn’t become a memory.

“Yes, of course, that too,” you whispered, making the lady smile tenderly again. “But, hey, how do you want me to know if you haven't even kissed me on the lips?”

“Oh, well…” she said quickly, looking away, blushing. “I didn't want to do it until you were ready, I didn't want to go too fast and…”

You didn't let her finish the sentence, as your lips slowly approached hers, resting on them, kissing them for the first time, noticing for the first time the softness of her mouth on yours.

“Mm, that's why I love you, you know?” you whispered, still very close to her lips, while she looked at you surprised. “You're such a sweetheart, Donna. You're a very special woman, and a very beautiful one, by the way…”

She smiled, cupping your face in her hands, pulling you in for a second kiss, that time deeper.

“Forgive me, (Y/N),” she said after a few passionate seconds, ones you'd been waiting for so long. “I'm stupid.”

“No, don't say that,” you said, comforting her.

“I… I have no idea about love, how to love you like I'm supposed to. I'm so clumsy that you didn't even know how I felt about you, or that we were dating.”

“Shh…” you hissed stealing another one of her addictive kisses. “It doesn't matter anymore… I don't care that I was your girlfriend without knowing it. It doesn't matter that you think you don't know how to love… Now, we're together, Donna, I love you, you love me. We'll learn to love together, what do you say?”

“Please…”

[jackiespurnell]

locked inside your heart shaped box - part two (no crash au jackie taylor x natalie scatorccio)

part one

summary: jackie's the hot, popular homecoming queen that everybody adores. she's destined to be the perfect housewife, but all her plans change a bit when tough burnout natalie scatorccio moves to wiskayok. cue the drama, the romance, and the sudden realization that maybe jackie isn't as straight as she thought...

tw: mentions of slut shaming, brief stereotyping, mentions of sex

────୨ৎ────────

okay, look. if jackie had known that the girl she was assigned to show around her school was going to be the same girl who ended up taking her coffee order and therefore caused her to have a somewhat nervous breakdown because jackie has no sense of self when things aren’t going according to plan, she probably would have made a better effort to not have said nervous breakdown. (the again, if she had known in advance that this going to be a concern, she could have adjusted her plan to fit this in it. it’s not her fault she can’t tell the future or whatever).

she’s not exactly sure if natalie recognized her, but she smiled slightly, and the grunge girl exterior didn’t exactly scream ‘oh, let me pretend to be polite and friendly so i don’t cause problems’, so jackie figured natalie didn’t have too low of an opinion of her.

now, jackie knows she wasn’t outright rude or mean or anything. in fact, she knows that her attitude was probably above average customer behavior (approximately 74% percent of food service workers in new jersey have reported emotional abuse or harassment from consumers in the past year) but still, jackie held the highest standards for herself. she had to always be friendly and kind, and awkwardly nodding and staring wasn’t really the most friendly or kind thing to do.

but how could she not nod and stare? it was a suburban town in new fucking jersey in 1996, for crying out loud. sure, there’s a fair share of emo kids and whatever, but they’re usually just burnouts and smokers. not that she knew for sure natalie wasn’t a burnout who smoked - jackie was taught from a young age that stereotyping is bad (although jackie knows damn well that her parents wouldn’t appreciate jackie even talking to natalie, but of course, they would be too polite to say anything) - but she knew what kind of group nat was fit in it from the get to. yet, there was something different about natalie.

she could tell straight away that natalie wasn’t like them. cause kids like them would have made some dumb comment at jackie’s awkwardness. kids like them wouldn't be working at a coffee shop of all places. kids like them wouldn’t be standing in front of jackie, politely waiting for her to give them a tour of their new school, smiling at her.

“hi.” jackie perks up, hoping she could just slip back into her nice girl persona quick enough that natalie wouldn’t notice. “you ready?” she asks the blonde, to which she just receives a little nod. “yeah.”

jackie spends the next hour or so showing natalie around. she shows her the science lab where she accidentally fried her hair in tenth grade, the math class where she cried over an 89 on a test (she had all As that year, okay, she was really devastated), the gymnasium where she got named homecoming queen. 

she tries to ignore the growing pit in her stomach when realizes that she’s missing out on the few first classes of her senior year. she knows it’s probably not a big deal, they’re most likely not even learning anything the first day, and even if they were, at least jackie gets to skip class. but still. she can’t help but feel like she’s missing out. that something important is going to happen while she’s over here showing around the new kid. and natalie’s being so nice. and she’s funny and cool.

jackie doesn’t like that. (or rather, jackie doesn’t like how much she likes it.)

“and here’s our sports field.” jackie says, leading natalie outside to the grassy area outside of their school. “it’s used for all the sports games and practices. including what is objectively the best sport ever invented in the history of invented sports - soccer.”

“there are non invented sports?” natalie teases, to which jackie nods jokingly. “oh, absolutely. some of them just spawned out of nowhere. those are typically the shitty ones. like golf. like, who even likes golf?” 

“and what if i said i did, hmm?” natalie fake gasps, putting her hand to her heart as if offended. which she obviously wasn’t, if not noticeable by the way she’s stifling a laugh, then by the natalie does not like the type of person who would play golf. “then i’d say you’re opinion is terrible and you are wrong.” jackie ignores the weird feeling in her chest when she hears natalie laugh for real this time.

“i actually do play soccer though.” natalie said. “or at least at my old school i did.”

“maybe you should consider tryouts.” jackie says, and she isn’t sure why exactly she says it, she hasn’t even really figured out her opinion on natalie, so why the hell would she want to bring this girl into the one place where she knows she could be herself? it didn’t make any sense. but then natalie says “maybe i will” and jackie suddenly feels even worse.

“i’m actually the team captain this year.” jackie says, which basically means yes, you’re chill and you’re cool and you’re hot but that doesn’t mean you’re all that except for the fact that you actually are all that and it makes me feel weird so this is me trying to one up you. “so, i’m already in, but i’ll be helping out with tryouts.”

“captain, huh? you’re not gonna purposely screw me over at tryouts, are you?” nat says casually, playing into the easy banter.

and jackie knows that natalie is joking. and jackie also knows that if she it didn’t go against all the rules she set for herself, she absolutely would screw natalie over. she knows she’s a better person than most, and that’s not her being cocky, it’s just true. she knows she’s nice. it’s all she’s ever tried to be. and so far, she’s been doing pretty good. she’s a nice person, and nice people don’t exclude people they just met from their school’s soccer team just because they happen to be a tad bit cooler than you. it’s like, the number one rule of niceness or something.

“maybe i will, maybe i won’t.” jackie quips back, and she can’t help but crack a smile.

“why did you transfer here anyways? a small, dull town in jersey? there’s literally nothing.” jackie says, and if she was even a tinier bit better at navigating social cues, she’d be able to tell how natalie tenses at the question (but, unfortunately for both parties, she isn’t).

“um i moved.” natalie says. “it’s for my father’s, uh, job.” she says, avoiding eye contact. jackie just nods, humming slightly to herself. “where did you move from?” jackie says, walking ahead of natalie, picking at her nails. she’s always been told she has a tendency of walking fast, always constantly ahead of shauna or her parents or whoever it is she’s hanging out with.

“the city.” natalie says. “about an hour from here.”

“damn. well, then this is for sure a downgrade.” jackie teases. “but it’s not all bad. i mean, i’ve been here my whole life. it’s chill. if you like the suburban life, that is.” she quickly adds.

“and do you enjoy the suburban life?” natalie questions, and now it’s jackie’s turn to freeze up because how the hell do you answer a question that you’ve spent your whole life thinking about but have never actually been asked except now you are being asked and you really don’t know what to say except just stand there and then the bell rings and thank god for the fucking bell.

“oh, well, we should probably head back.” jackie says before natalie has to chance to interrupt. “hope you enjoyed your personalized tour from yours truly.” she smirks, trying to bring the humor back into the situation.” and she knows that natalie knows she’s uncomfortable, but she also knows that natalie isn’t going to bring it up, so she laughs at jackie’s joke instead. and if getting embarrassed sucked, jackie decided getting pitied sucked even worse. 

by the time lunch rolls around, word of the new girl has spread. while jackie has heard a few of the guys calling her hot - which jackie does not like - the main things she’s hearing are ‘burnout’ and ‘druggie.’ which, jackie, also doesn’t like.

“so,” shauna says. “you friends with the new girl or something?” she asks jackie. the two girls were currently at the school cafeteria, hanging with a few of their friends. shauna was currently scribbling whatever the fuck it is she scribbles in her diary (“it’s a journal jackie” “same difference”), and jackie was picking at her food, slightly zoned out until the other girl snapped her out of her trance. “uh, no.” jackie says. “i was just assigned to show her around. she’s chill but i wouldn’t really say we’re friends.”

and ironically, despite that being true given the fact that are not friends, it still feels like the wrong thing to say. any answer feels like the wrong thing to say.

shauna raises her eyebrows. “you know, that might break the record for the shortest sentence you’ve ever said.” jackie just laughs unironically, like the type of laugh you make when someone says something too offensive to be considered funny but not offensive enough to make a scene about it. “yeah, sorry, i’m just tired.” jackie offered, to which shauna just lets out a little hum as to say ‘okay.’

jackie keeps picking at her food, her leg shaking underneath the table. it was one of her nervous habits she picked up as a kid, something she always did whenever something or someone felt off. and shauna definitely felt off right now.

jackie purses her lips together. “hey, um, shauna, can i talk you about something?” she asks. shauna barely looks up from her journal, and when she finally does, it’s too late cause jackie feels an arm wrap around her side and a low, male voice saying “hey babe” right in her direction.

jeff and his friends typically hung around jackie and shauna, and even though jackie knew her best friend wasn’t too fond of the ‘fuck ass bro dues’ (shauna’s words, not jackie’s), she tolerated them. they weren’t all that bad, jackie had told her.

jeff sadecki was the quarterback of the football team. if this was a high school movie, he’d be the popular boy that all of the girls wanted. the love interest who swoops in at the end of the day to save the protagonist. and while this most definitely isn’t a movie - if it was, jackie wouldn’t be taking a calculus test next period - jackie likes to think of jeff as her movie love interest. the edward to her vivian, the josh to her cher, the harry to her sally. he was, like, basically perfect. well, besides the fact that she had to fake an orgasm because she didn’t want to be late for school and he was taking too long. but that’s beside the point.

besides, it wasn’t even like they were doing the real thing. he was just fingering her, it wasn’t like his dick was up her vagina or anything (even thinking about those two words in the same sentence makes jackie feel weird). maybe he’s just bad with his fingers. maybe that’s normal. jackie wouldn’t know, because it’s not like she’s ever done anything with anyone else. she’s waiting. her and jeff both are. which is what makes it so special, cause yeah, maybe he’s shit at pleasuring her, but she’d probably be just as shit, because they both have no experience. but they’ll learn. together. jackie thinks it’s romantic, the whole being-each-other’s-first thing. shauna doesn’t really get it, but how could she? she’s never fallen in love before. and that’s totally what she had with jeff. love.

(okay, so technically, one could say jackie did not in fact, love jeff, given that just this morning he told her he loved her and she, well, didn’t exactly say it back. but in her defense, she was just scared, okay? of course she loves him. that doesn’t mean anything….right?)

sometimes, love is hard. and messy. and complicated. and other times, love is a boy who smells more like a sweaty dog than an actual civilized human being kissing you in the middle of the school cafeteria right after taking a bite of meat loaf. and it was a big bite.

“hey, shauna.” jeff nods towards the brunette, who just awkwardly nods back. 

“okay, so” jackie said, looking between everyone at the table. “you guys all set to come to my party tonight?” the boys all nodded simultaneously, because who doesn’t want to get drunk at a rich girl’s house on a school night? a couple of them making jokes about all the girls they wanted to get with. one of their girls flipped off a couple of the guys, and everyone burst into laughter.

“what? you didn’t tell me you were having a party?” shauna cocks her head to the side, and jackie is positive in that moment that shauna must be having some form of memory loss because of course she would have told shauna. duh.

“um, yes i did? yesterday. when we were on the phone. when i called you.” jackie says, as if it’s obvious.

“jackie you didn’t call me yesterday.” shauna says, and jackie ignores how the rest of the group quiets.

“okay, well, then it was the day before. i don’t know, shipman. but i told you. i always tell you.” shauna hesitates, but then nods, and jackie lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “yeah, i probably just forgot.” shauna says, and jackie thinks to herself how she’s never been more grateful that shauna lets things go easily.

“come over to mine after school to get ready? please?” and jackie thinks that shauna’s probably going to say something stupid about how her parents wouldn’t let her or that she has to study even though she’s like, the smartest fucking person in the entire state of new jersey, but shauna just nods and smiles and jackie leans over the table to give her a hug because her and shauna rarely hug anymore and shauna rarely smiles at her anymore but here she is doing both of those things and that makes jackie smile too.

and in that moment, jackie decides that everything’s going to be okay.  she’ll tell jeff she loves him. she’ll figure things out with shauna. 

and as another kid yells ‘slut’ across the cafeteria in natalie’s direction, jackie decided that she’s going to figure things out with her, too.

“natalie!” jackie yells at the room, to which the blonde turns around from her table. she’s sitting with a few of the other burnt-out, drug-addicted kids, and her makeup is a little smudged which honestly adds to the whole grunge effect. jackie wonders if she did that on purpose. she motions for natalie to come over, which she does, that same smirk from before still plastered on her face - which, jackie’s gotta say, is really impressive cause if some guy publicly degraded her across the room like that she would not be smiling.

“come to my party tonight. my house.” she scribbles her address onto a posted note and hands it to natalie. “everyone’s going to be there.” 

“is there going to be booze?” natalie asks, with a subtle teasing tone, and jackie can’t tell if she’s alluding to the rather obvious fact she’s probably involved in alcohol or whatever, or because jackie looks too perfect and innocent to have ever touched a bottle of liquor.

“guess you’ll have to come and find out.” jackie smiles playfully, and if jeff and shauna and all of her friends are looking at her funny, because why the hell did jackie taylor of all people just publicly invite the new kid to her party, jackie wouldn’t have even noticed. she was too focused on the way natalie smiles at her right back.

────୨ৎ────────

[kikyoupdates]

For Tomorrow's Sake ⭑˚💫⭑ 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛

various!jjk x f!reader

reverse harem, isekai, jujutsu kaisen x fem!reader, slowburn

You never believed reincarnation was possible, least of all in the fictional world of Jujutsu Kaisen. However, from the moment you meet Gojo Satoru, it’s impossible to deny. Whether it’s a miracle or some kind of curse, you find yourself growing up alongside the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. Unfortunately, you know what the future holds in store. You know exactly what kind of tragedies await. Perhaps that’s why you were brought into this world. If it means saving people from a gruesome fate, you’ll gladly suffer in their place. You’ll do whatever it takes. All for the sake of a better tomorrow.

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Lately, Naoya has been following Toji around just about every chance he gets. 

There are multiple reasons for this. One of them, of course, is the fact that he idolizes Toji and recognizes his strength. It’s true that, conventionally speaking, Toji doesn’t fit the mold for what a jujutsu sorcerer is supposed to be like. He doesn’t have even a smidge of cursed energy. On paper, he should be the weakest, and yet, he’s not. The entirety of the Zen’in Clan may refuse to acknowledge just how powerful he is, but Naoya instinctively knows better. There’s no denying the pressure he felt that day, upon his very first meeting with Toji. It’s the kind of pressure that only surrounds those who are truly strong. 

But it’s more than just that. If that was the only reason, he probably wouldn’t be trailing behind Toji like a little duckling, near constantly. He admires Toji, and that will never change, but these days, there's someone else on his mind. 

You.

“Are you leaving to go train [Name]?” 

That’s the question Naoya finds himself asking time and time again. Whenever he spots Toji leaving the clan estate, he runs up to him in a hurry, although he’s not quite sure why. He doesn’t really understand why he cares so much. It’s none of his business, after all. Toji has permission to train you. Even Naobito said he wasn’t going to stand in the way. Yet still, Naoya persists. 

“You always ask me that,” Toji mutters, rolling his eyes. “Go away. Shoo.” 

“Is that a yes or a no?” 

“It’s me telling you to get lost.”

Naoya never really succeeds with any of his approaches, but rather than letting it deter him, he just keeps pressing the issue. 

“How was training today?” 

“Is [Name] getting stronger?” 

“She hasn’t given up or anything, has she?” 

“Isn’t she worried that she might mess up by accident? Then, because of her Binding Vow, that means she’ll—” 

“For fuck’s sake, enough already!” Toji cries out. He grits his teeth and angrily massages his temples, attempting to soothe the permanent migraine he seems to have these days. Spending time with you is one thing, but he has much less patience when it comes to a brat from the Zen’in Clan.

Naoya’s brows droop, and he feels discouraged for a moment, but if he backs down now, he may as well be giving up. He refuses to give up. That’s what losers do, and he’s certainly not a loser. 

“I want to come with you,” Naoya states, crossing his arms defiantly. 

“Where?” 

“To see [Name]. You’re about to leave, aren’t you? I’m coming too.”

“Good one,” Toji snorts, but for some reason, the little brat still refuses to leave. Toji’s brows knit together. “Don’t tell me you’re actually serious?”

Naoya nods, gaze resolute. “Yes. I’ve made up my mind.”

“I doubt anyone will let you do that.” 

“So, I’ll just sneak out. By the time they realize, I’ll already be gone.”

Toji doesn’t particularly care for Naoya, or anyone else in the Zen’in Clan, for that matter. The first person he’s genuinely cared about is you. And he supposes he tolerates Satoru, but that’s about it. As far as he’s concerned, everyone else is irrelevant. 

That being said, if there’s a chance to piss off the Zen’in Clan, he definitely won’t pass it up. 

“Fine,” Toji chuckles. “This should be fun. I’m sure they’ll throw a fit when they can’t find you. It’s a shame I won’t be able to see it happen, though.” 

Naoya’s face lights up. Defying his family has never really crossed his mind. Up until now, he didn’t have much of a reason to. He’s used to being praised, having his ego fueled endlessly. But ever since he met you, he’s starting to tire of it. It’s not really that fun anymore. Rather than being acknowledged by the Zen’in Clan, he wants to be acknowledged by you. 

He’s going to make sure you realize just how strong and cool he is. 

And so, for the first time in his life, Naoya sneaks out of the clan estate. Despite his boastful nature, he’s still just a little kid, and it kind of feels like an adventure, going to visit places he’s never seen before. He also gets to spend time with Toji this way, and even though Toji mostly ignores him, Naoya feels happier than ever. 

“...huh? What’s he doing here?” 

Naoya finally finds himself face to face with you again. Several months have passed since the first time you met. He’s embarrassed to admit that he’s been thinking of you practically every single day. It’s seriously not his fault, though! You’re just so… strange. If you weren’t this strange, he would surely have forgotten about you already. For better or worse, you left a big impression. You’re the reason he’s been thinking about things so differently than before. 

“Um, hi,” Naoya greets. For some reason, he feels rather shy all of a sudden. He even tries to hide behind Toji’s back, but the dark-haired man just scowls before pushing him aside. 

“You’re the kid who insulted [Name],” Satoru remarks coldly. 

“It’s okay,” you dismiss. “I’m used to being insulted. Plus, you insult me all the time, Satoru.” 

“Yeah, but I’m the only one who’s allowed to do that!”

Gojo Satoru is here again. Naoya is starting to realize that you and Satoru are very close friends. He seems to act awfully defensive whenever you’re involved. Naoya gets the feeling that Satoru already doesn’t like him very much. 

“Ignore him. Hi, Naoya,” you say, smiling brightly. “I wasn’t expecting you to join us today. Is it okay for you to be here? Your dad really doesn’t mind?” 

Your smile is reassuring, admittedly. Part of him was worried you’d get mad that he showed up out of nowhere, but clearly, that’s not the case. You don’t really seem like the type to get upset easily, now that he thinks about it. You didn’t even flinch when he insulted you before, and not only that, but you went out of your way to heal him, too.

Jujutsu sorcerers are a lot of things, but based on his experience, they’re usually not this nice. 

He likes it. 

“My dad doesn’t know I’m here,” Naoya says. “I snuck out.” 

“Uh-oh. You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?” 

You stare at him, visibly concerned, and Naoya has to bite down on his lip to hide how happy he is that you’re worried about him. 

“I’ll be okay,” he reassures. “I’m going to be the leader of the clan one day! They’re probably just wondering where I am, but they won’t get upset with me. I’m way too important.”

“Doubt it,” Satoru snorts. 

“I am! Just ask anyone!” 

“I don’t need to ask. It’s obvious just by looking at you.” 

Naoya’s face reddens, and he balls his hands into small, trembling fists. He may be Gojo Satoru, but that doesn’t give him the right to be so mean. He’s clearly arrogant and spoiled. All of the power and prestige has gone straight to his head. 

It’s unbelievably ironic that Zen’in Naoya, of all people, is having these thoughts, but at least he’s starting to recognize right from wrong. Baby steps.

“Satoru, don’t be rude,” you reprimand, and Naoya grins, delighted that you’re taking his side.

“Yeah, don’t be rude,” Naoya eagerly piles on. “You’re hurting my feelings.” 

Satoru narrows his eyes. Much like Naoya, he can also tell that this will be the start of a bitter, long-lived rivalry. Ugh. As if he didn’t already have enough to deal with. Now he has to worry about some annoying little kid (note: only one year younger than him) trying to steal his best friend. You’ll seriously be the death of him at this rate.  

Meanwhile, Toji finds himself wondering when the hell he became everyone’s goddamn babysitter.

“I’ve gotten stronger since you last saw me,” Naoya proudly states. “I’m getting better and better at using my cursed technique. What about you? Have you made progress with your training?” 

“I’m doing my best,” you beam. 

“Um. That doesn’t really answer my question.” 

“She did answer your question,” Toji frowns. “She said she’s doing her best.”

“Yeah, she’s doing her best, dammit,” Satoru glares. “What more do you want from her?” 

Naoya is starting to think that it might have been a mistake to get involved with his particular trio. 

“Since you’re here, it’d be a waste to train,” you say. “We can just hang out instead! I’m not sure when we’ll get to see each other again, after all. What do you like to do for fun, Naoya? Oh! But before that, let’s eat. I packed yummy lunches for everyone.” 

Satoru and Toji immediately scrunch up their noses in visible disgust. Naoya frowns, watching as you unpack the bento boxes you brought along. Even though nobody ever eats your food, you still foolishly hold out hope that one day, they’ll come around to your self-proclaimed culinary genius. 

“Unless you want to cross over to the other side, you’d be better off never eating a single thing she cooks,” Satoru says. 

“Shut up, Satoru! Don’t lie to him!” You angrily slam a bento box down in front of Naoya, then you open it up to reveal what honestly looks like really, really good food. 

“Why?” Naoya frowns. “What’s so bad about it?” 

“Appearances are deceiving. She makes the food look good, but the second you taste it, it’ll feel like your soul is being ripped from your body.” 

Toji nods in agreement. “He’s not exaggerating.”

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” you huff. “I make amazing food. Some people are just afraid to experiment. Some super lame, super boring people. Hint: their names are Satoru and Toji.” 

“Plus everyone else in the world with working taste buds,” Satoru muses. 

“Oh my god, shut up, Satoru!” 

You shoot Satoru another glare before shoving a big helping of the bento box’s contents into your mouth. It definitely doesn’t look like you’re forcing yourself to eat any of it. You happily chow down, and your frustration is quick to dissolve the more food you eat. You seem like you’re actually enjoying yourself. Really, how bad can it be?

“Wow, he’s actually going for it.”

“And we even warned him. What an idiot.” 

Naoya ignores the peanut gallery while he takes a small, tentative first bite. He’s positive they’re exaggerating. Nothing could possibly taste that horrible—

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. 

It’s worse than horrible. It’s downright atrocious. 

The food is so disgusting that he nearly ascends to the skies, but through sheer force of will, he somehow remains tethered to reality. He needs to spit it out. His entire body is practically screaming at him to get rid of the unwelcome intrusion.  

But then he locks eyes with you, as you stare at him, gaze wide, bright, and hopeful.

Defying all odds, Naoya swallows what’s in his mouth, takes a moment to compose himself, then strains a smile.

“I-It’s really not that bad,” he replies weakly. “It’s actually… pretty good.”

“What?!” 

Satoru and Toji are the ones that just cried out. They’re convinced they must have heard wrong, but Naoya doesn’t pay them any mind. He’s much more focused on your expression.

And right now, you look like you’re happy enough to burst into tears.

“Wow, really? Yay! Finally, I’ve found someone who recognizes my talent!” you gush, shaking your fists in a fit of excitement. “I told you guys my cooking was good! You just didn’t know any better. Naoya is smarter than both of you, clearly.” 

You grin ear-to-ear, and without warning, you pull him into your arms and give him a big hug. Naoya immediately freezes, turning red from head to toe. His heart is beating so fast that he can hear it echoing in his eardrums, and even though Satoru cries out in protest, Naoya is too stunned to react. 

If he eats more of your food, does that mean you’ll keep hugging him like this? Because if that’s the case…

It’s worth it. 

Later that day, Naoya returns to his clan estate, and as much as Satoru would like to claim otherwise, he is important. At least, important enough for people to make a fuss over his disappearance. 

“Where in the world did you go, Naoya? You should know better than to leave without telling anyone.” 

His older brothers are all frowning at him, clearly expressing their disapproval. It’s not so much concern, but more so judgment. After all, despite being many years older than him, he’s the one who’s been chosen as the future clan leader. They must think he’s not taking it seriously, and that he ran off to play hooky or something. 

…which he kind of did, to be fair. 

Naoya considers lying, but he quickly discards the thought. If he gets caught in a lie, people will probably just get even more upset. It’s best to be as transparent as possible. Besides, he doesn’t want this to be the last time. He would like to keep seeing you. He would like that very much. 

“I met up with that girl that visited a while ago, [Name],” Naoya states. 

They all look shocked. He’s not quite sure what they were expecting, but it obviously wasn’t that. You may not be a Gojo by blood, but you’re affiliated with the clan nevertheless. The Zen’in Clan and Gojo Clan are forever at odds with one another. He basically just admitted to fraternizing with the enemy. But it’s not his fault the enemy is so freaking cute. 

“Did you hear that, father?” one of his older brothers frowns, turning towards Naobito, who’s drinking as per usual—from his trademark gourd, this time. 

“Which girl?” Naobito asks with obvious disinterest. 

“The one that you invited before. She showed up along with Gojo Satoru. You know, the same girl that Toji’s been training.” 

“Oh, right.” Naobito takes another swig from his gourd. “I’d completely forgotten about her. She’s the one with the Binding Vow. She had to gamble with her own life, and even then, she’s still a weakling.” 

Naoya’s brow twitches. His father is kind of getting on his nerves right now. Why won’t he admit that you’re actually a lot stronger than you appear at first glance? Hardly anyone knows how to use reverse cursed technique. The same goes for Toji. He’s so strong, and yet, everyone refuses to acknowledge him. It just doesn’t make any sense. 

Maybe the Zen’in Clan is run by a bunch of fools, after all. 

“So? Did you have fun on your little trip?” Naobito asks, visibly amused. He clearly couldn’t care any less about you. He’s not taking you seriously. It’s infuriating. 

“Yes,” Naoya replies, a glare settling upon his features. “She’s nice. I like her. I want to see her all the time from now on.” 

“Haha! How amusing.” 

“I’m not kidding, and I don’t care what you say. Whether you give me permission or not, I’m going to keep visiting her.” 

“Hm. I didn’t think you’d develop a rebellious streak so soon, but whatever,” Naobito merely shrugs. “As long as you don’t slack off on your training, how you choose to spend your time has nothing to do with me. Become strong. Nothing else matters.” 

Naoya nods enthusiastically, and his older brothers silently seethe, appalled that he can get away with virtually anything he wants. Despite being the clan leader, Naobito has always been especially laidback. Plus, he’s convinced that Naoya will lose interest soon enough. He’s only a little kid. Kids have short attention spans, and they always find something new to gush about. It’s really only a matter of time. 

Of course, even though Naobito doesn’t realize it, he’s dead wrong. 

Naoya’s fixation on you doesn’t falter, not even a little bit. He remains diligent with his training, not only so that he can become stronger, but so that he doesn’t lose the right to keep seeing you. He always thought that the greatest joy in his life was being able to demonstrate his strength and brag to everyone else, but lately, he seems to care less and less about what others think of him. He finds himself only caring about the people that matter, like you. 

“[Name], look! Look how fast I am!” 

He activates his cursed technique, and you watch as he seemingly disappears from one spot and reappears in another. It’s not actually that he disappeared. He just moved incredibly fast. It’s a technique he inherited from his father, and even though he’s only seven years old, he’s already highly proficient with it. 

“Wow,” you beam, making sure to clap your hands. “That was so cool! You’re super-duper fast, Naoya. My eyes could barely keep up with you.” 

He proudly puffs out his chest, readily basking in your praise. There’s just something about hearing the words come from your mouth that make them sound all the more meaningful. He’ll never get tired of it. It’s his favorite thing in the whole world. 

“Aren’t you curious how my cursed technique works?” Naoya asks with a smug smile. “It’s pretty complicated, but I’ll let you guess.” 

“Hm, I’m not sure. Is it something to do with frames? Within a one-second interval? Like, it lets you move really fast during that time. Maybe, like… twenty-four frames? Or something close to that.” 

Noaya’s jaw drops open, and you have to bite back the urge to giggle right in his face. It’s fun to tease him. Obviously, you already know what his cursed technique is. When it comes to this world, you know more than anyone could ever imagine.

“Th-That’s right,” Naoya blinks, absolutely dumbfounded. “How did you know? It’s the same technique my dad has, but… I definitely never told you that.” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I guess it just seemed obvious.” 

“Whoa. You really are smart! You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met!” 

Naoya marvels at your sheer awesomeness (you really can’t blame him), and meanwhile, Satoru furrows his brows at the sight, becoming progressively more annoyed. 

“Hey, [Name],” he suddenly says. “Watch this.” 

You turn your head, and before you can even say anything, Satoru disappears from your line of sight. Again, he didn’t actually disappear, but he’s moving so fast that it makes it look that way. Unlike Naoya, however, he proceeds to zip around to even further distances, and repeatedly, without so much as breaking a sweat. 

By the time he’s done, Naoya is green with envy, and there are even small tears in his eyes. 

“There,” Satoru chuckles, sticking his nose up towards the sky, gleefully arrogant. “I’m definitely way faster than you, Naoya. It’s not even a contest. I bet it sucks to lose. It sucks, right? Tell me all about how sucky it is.” 

Naoya deflates, suddenly awash with shame. It’s not fair. He’s Gojo Satoru. Blessed from the moment of birth. Known by jujutsu sorcerers far and wide. How is he supposed to compete with that? Even though he’s strong—he really, really is—Satoru constantly makes him feel small and insignificant. Like an ant. 

Naoya sniffles, doing his very best to keep from crying, but before the tears can fall, you cup his cheek with your hand and smile. 

“Don’t be sad,” you mumble gently. “You did really well. I was super impressed. Satoru likes to brag, but just ignore him. I can tell you’re getting stronger each day. You’ll be an amazing jujutsu sorcerer. It’s obvious.” 

And there it is. With just a few, simple words of encouragement from you, all of a sudden, he’s happy as can be. It’s not just that you can heal injuries. Day after day, you’re healing his heart, too. 

Naoya doesn’t waste a second before hugging you back. He squeezes you tight, happily nestling his head in the crook of your shoulder, and he makes sure to turn towards Satoru as he does, grinning cheekily—because he just knows it drives Satoru absolutely insane. 

“I love you, [Name],” Naoya confesses, face flushed and heart pounding. “I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you. When we grow up… let’s get married. Alright?”

You blink, very much caught off guard. It’s true that thanks to your influence, Naoya has been changing for the better, but it’s still a little hard to believe. To think that a formerly misogynistic bastard could actually be this cute. You’re really out here making miracles happen. 

Well, not in Satoru’s eyes, though. To him, this is the very opposite of a miracle. In fact, it’s practically a nightmare.

“What the hell did you just say?!” 

More chapters are available on Quotev and Ao3!

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[iguessweusewords]

prompt from @misscrazyfangirl321

"Are we in love? I mean, yeah, probably, but that is a problem for future us. Right now, we're just trying to survive the plot."

Odysseus and Penelope pre-EPIC ______________________________________________________________

There was nothing in this world that could have prepared Odysseus for the pain of Athena’s betrayal. He asked her for help to get Penelope to notice him. It was his fault, he supposed, for not being more specific. Afterall, nothing gets a girl’s attention like ruining her best friend’s love life. He was pretty sure Penelope would never even look at him again after this. 

He was currently trying to mend Helen’s broken heart by proving that Menelaus wasn’t the one who stole the Queen’s favourite necklace. It was rumored that anyone who touched the necklace other than the Queen would die a horrible death. Unfortunately, it just so happened that Menelaus got a cold the very day it was stolen. Naturally, the suitors with their brains the size of a rat’s nose decided that the most logical conclusion was that Menelaus was the thief and the necklace, obviously, was cursing him with death via a runny nose.

Of course, all of this wouldn’t have happened in the first place if Odysseus hadn’t tried to impress Penelope with his cleverness by pointing out that the Queen’s necklace was stolen. In his defense, the goddess Athena told him it was a good idea. In Athena’s defense, she was not the goddess of love. 

Now, here he was hiding behind the curtains of the Jewel Room trying to find out who the real thief was. 

He heard a rustling beside him. Odysseus turned, intending on telling them to be quiet, only to freeze when he saw who it was. 

“What are you doing?” Penelope asked.

This was fine. This was totally fine. Penelope was looking at him. Speaking to him. Looking as beautiful as ever. He most definitely did not forget to breathe. He was fine. He was calm. He was cool. He was collected. 

“Penelope, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to make Helen cry. I was just trying to impress you. Please don’t hate me. I’ll fix this. I’ll prove Menelaus didn’t do this.”

See, completely calm. 

“You were trying to impress me? Why?” she asked, ignoring everything else. 

Okay, that’s not how this was supposed to go. The first time he told her how he felt, he was supposed to be cool, impressive, not nearly crying on his knees. But it was too late, he couldn’t go back now. 

“Because I’m in love with you? I have been since the very first time I saw you. I was supposed to say this in more beautiful words, but I can’t look at you and form coherent sentences at the same time.”

“How about this?” she suggested with a smile. “After we’re done with all this, why don’t you meet me by the olive tree and you can give me those beautiful words then.”

It felt like Odysseus’ brain turned to mush. Maybe there just wasn’t enough oxygen behind these curtains. The real thief could have walked in at this very moment and stolen every jewel in the castle and Odysseus would not have noticed. Did Penelope just suggest that she wanted to meet him again?

“Wait, you don’t hate me?”

“Why would I hate you?” she laughed. “You’re the only one here with any brains. I like you.”

She liked him? 

“Are we in love?” Wow, he needed to slow down. She never said anything about love. He probably freaked her out with that. Now she really was never going to speak to him. She probably doesn’t even want him at the olive tree anymore.

“I mean, yeah, probably” she said, breaking him out of his spiral. 

Oh. Oh.

They were in love. 

“But that’s a problem for future us.” she continued. “Right now, we’re just trying to make it through this plot.”

Right. The plot. The plot where the suitors accused his best friend of something he didn’t do. He totally forgot. 

[myinterestsvary-writes]

@fegafegafega :

Yet, their relationship does feel forced because of the lack of proper buildup to make their relationship have more emotional weight as I said in this post. I don’t like that it feels so casual and less serious given the multiple reasons that I’ve listed. It would’ve served the narrative better if there was more of a follow-up to the upsetting tone set at the end of season 2. I wouldn’t have felt so off with the season’s opening and wasted time being angry about it. I said in multiple other posts that the dialogue (not specifically) between them and about their relationship doesn’t feel earned because they’re telling instead of showing, even if I can feel Mark’s genuine affection for her all throughout the series so far. Eve and their relationship was far too sidelined especially last season for many viewers to truly believe what Amber and Eve talked about in the cafe in 303. There was some tension, I felt it, but it wasn’t enough for me to accept that conversation without question. I did not want to be annoyed watching their scenes the first few times but I was because of these very reasons. I just want their relationship to have more depth and given more room to breathe, and most importantly given MORE CHEMISTRY as you can absolutely write already established characters with an established relationship to have it and my suggestions could aid that specific complaint (character chemistry is described sometimes as the tension, energy, and audience engagement two or more characters have with each other; one is always reacting genuinely to the other, playing off one another).

Also, Mark and Eve are actually entwined not only by the narrative but literally by the universe it seems as even in alternative dimensions, there’s romantic undertones between their counterparts and with the Future Eve scene no matter how much they try to make sense of it and be ashamed and dismiss it, it goes to show how significant their connection is to each other. There’s even more to support my perspective from the comics but that’s spoiler territory.

I honestly appreciate more and more the way they got them together, however the main reason they feel so casual together is because of the lack of exploration of what their dynamic truly entails on many fronts including serious conflict resolution with inevitable struggles between two flawed people, they can’t help but be drawn to each other. That’s what I wanted more of. It doesn’t matter if either of them have been through enough, people will do what they do best which is mess up and underperform despite themselves.

“Your criticism for Eve is kinda like ‘she’s too mature let’s make her more insecure and irrational for the sake of drama.’ Have Eve be wary of Mark not only because of the future Eve dilemma but also because she’s been cheated on before why exactly? There’s no indication that Mark would ever cheat, and Eve has never been written as someone who projects her past onto others. Why should Eve feel guilt for having feelings for Mark? Amber and Mark are done. Amber isn’t in love with him anymore.”

For the sake of drama, yes, and also cohesion to what they already established with the character. I don’t mean projecting her past onto others, I mean making Eve confront her own past experiences with the men in her life up until Mark, that way it’ll be easy to see how she can appreciate the role Mark has in her life even more.

Regardless of whether or not Eve should feel guilt about it, there’s friendships and feelings involved. Mark and Amber had lots of love for each other and a break-up they struggled to come to making a decision on but I can believe them accepting it eventually and being okay moving on from each other, even if three months seem a little too short they can recognize it was for the best. There was time to heal but I didn’t see it all too much and wasn’t allowed to feel it or given more time to emotionally adjust to Eve and Mark being together even as someone who’s been hoping Amber and Mark would break up permanently from season 1.

“But the part I really don’t like that you said was saying, ‘Eve is way too healthy of a communicator…’ It’s so rare to see a female character in a superhero show who actually talks about her emotions and sets boundaries, and somehow you’re like you don’t like it cos it’s not messy enough?? And lastly A love triangle? For what?? A love square? Why?? A love pentagon? WHY?! Again loved the rant!”

It is not rare for a female character to do any of that, it’s rare for it to actually be respected by the narrative, which it has been so far. However, with someone with a tragic childhood and persistent stressors as the one Eve does have, letting her be a little more understandably messy (yet still being the chill Eve we know) would add more charm to her role as the main female lead outside Debbie. I enjoyed her arc in the second season, her having her own struggles that affect primarily her relationship with Mark and the plot (her being the co-protagonist in a way to Mark) would strengthen her writing and make her and their relationship less vulnerable to accusations of being boring and disengaging. It would be more nuanced and compelling, alongside her new goal of becoming an architect/engineer this season. Overall, I just want more quality character work for this powerhouse girly specifically.

eve talks, thinks, and acts too much like a psychology major. thanks, britta perry.

beware: rant below

the teenaged romantic relationships are not messy enough to be interesting. there’s a fine line among annoyingly boring - messy - and annoyingly messy. invincible, write your characters like fucking humans. they talk way too much with each other in a healthy way, there’s a lack of emotion that makes it feel bland. sure, we didn’t need cheating but i need more of an actual portrayal of complicated feelings among the cast. not just telling us, the audience, that it’s complicated. maybe it’s nice to the writers in contrast to amber and mark’s relationship to have a relationship without true obstacles to overcome, who just fit perfectly together. however, mark and amber were compelling with chemistry because their interactions related to one of the central themes and was tense because of external conflicts they had to face head on, and not just talk through. plus, they had chemistry because they got along among other reasons, so you get the sense in another life they’d still be together which hits harder and sits with you better.

another thing, mark and eve don’t just work as a couple because they’re superheroes. this was the perfect time to demonstrate the dynamic the two will have, to sell them as a couple worth screentime and ultimately endgame. it’s obvious as fuck the show is written around the two to be together from eve’s special, to their parallels, similar values and goals, and the fact that the audience could catch onto their chemistry that was apparent from the first season (and shockingly lacking later). mark and amber never felt like endgame to me yet them having more chemistry, tension, and intrigue so far is frustrating. (yes, I know their story is complete but imagine if mark and eve weren’t portrayed as teens just casually trying to date each other like they are in the third season. their feelings for each other do not feel profound at all as i feel it should be and like they’re truly destined and that a force they can’t truly comprehend brings them together blah blah blah. like they’re truly birds of a feather who understands one another on a whole other level. it’s so fucking wack.)

explore more of mark’s melancholy that his last relationship ended because he didn’t want his gf to get hurt. show more of mark’s avoidance of eve and him being nervous and reserved around her but also evidently contemplative and wistful. show more of their attraction to each other.

show more of eve’s reasonable understanding of healthy boundaries but also her disappointment in mark avoiding her, feeling insecure about it (because the one who should be insecure about stuff like this should be eve, who has dated a serial cheater as her first love). have eve be wary of mark not only because of the future eve dilemma that wasn’t even that big a deal unfortunately, so wack, such a missed opportunity but also because she’s been cheated on before, and that her dad does not like her so she’s insecure about her taste in men and doesn’t know why mark would like her. have them tiptoe around the other but make the tension palpable, not played almost entirely for comedy and quickly resolved with barely a microcosm of interpersonal conflict. have eve feel guilt when she confronts her feelings for mark, mainly because she’s friends with amber and mark too! show eve is way too healthy of a communicator and it freaks me out. she doesn’t even have to be completely like her comic counterpart, just make her feel young and human like they all were in the first and second season, making mistakes and acting on impulses.

build up the emotion to where when important beats happen, it feels significant and satisfying. like them getting together for the first time, or kissing, dating, making love etc. that way we as an audience connect with them more on an emotional level when something bad happens hint hint and it won’t feel like you’re trying to force it out of me. make us want to root for them and not lazily put them together based on a history the two share that wasn’t even mainly focused on in favour of another love interest. make us understand truly why they want and love each other instead of making it feel as casual as it does.

i would’ve loved a semi-love triangle/square/pentagon with mark, amber, eve, rex, and/or rae. anything to spice things up!

[tickle-bugs]

hii i see that your prompts are closed, which i believe means that like, writing requests are closed. i just wanted to ask if you think you will ever write for star trek again, and if you would ever consider some spirk tickle content? ticklish spock is literally just the cutest thinggg, it would mean a lot! ^^ no pressure of course though!! and if you do want to write that at some point please take as much time as you need <3

Yes, my writing requests are closed! But I absolutely would write for Spirk in the future!! Star Trek will always be very dear to me, so don’t worry.

[quietwingsinthesky]

i do love canon amy & rory but god, does some part of me wish they really had gone with the idea of the doctor picking up a child as a companion (and then later, that child’s best friend with a huge crush on her.) with the rest of the season really not changing at all, except now it’s amelia pond with an angel in her head killing her and lost alone in the woods. it’s little rory who dies and is forgotten and becomes a toy soldier. if this is going to be a fairy tale, then let it be one. children have never been safe in fairy tales.

[itspileofgoodthings]

Had a revelation this week that was so healing. just. gentle and life-altering.

[no1ryomafan]

I love how Jiro & Mitsuko as a relationship is still something I’m not sure what to feel about even though anime wise its 100% better mainly for the fact Mitsuko is a more coherently written character and being with Jiro doesn’t ruin her agency, it’s just the relationship still feels a bit forced which tends to be why a lot of people nowadays hate straight romance especially when talking about how to write a female character, or just wanting romance that ISNT straight.

But I can say even if I don’t know IF I ship it does fill my itch in my brain of a robot and human getting together and leading tragedy cause GRAAAH I need more of that.

[himblebo]

“If a lot of men get killed at one go, does it make the killing of one man less of a crime? I don’t know, Andy, I don’t know. I’m only twenty and they say today the world is ours, but Pa was twenty once and felt the world was his, and long, long ago Mad was twenty too, laughing at applauding audiences, smiling from picture postcards, and when I am as old as she is nothing will have changed…”

Daphne du Maurier, Rule Britannia (1972)

[fenixburned]

my brain is still stuck on the y.r trailer & I gotta say with the issue of Wilhelm taking the throne being such a big deal - if he does I think he & Simon are doomed. but also no matter how it all ends for them, this relationship is going to define Simon forever & that‘ll be a hard pill to swallow for him.

[bugunlikeanangel]

I am a machine and all I’m made to do is generate soooooooo much love you guys

[rystiel]

i’m not a fic writer but. concept:

the doctor/yaz and the doctor/rose crossover 🤯 like yaz meeting this younger version of the doctor with a companion that he’s very obviously in love with, and she wants her doctor to be that open with her, but she starts to understand why the doctor ends up more closed off from loving her companions like that as she learns how hard the loss of rose was on her back then etc etc

[voulezloux]

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