⤷ SUMMARY: Five times CEO!Maki absolutely did not care about her new girly secretary (and the one time she did)
⤷ TAGS: CEO x Secretary, Pining, Jealous Maki, Girly!Reader, Pick Me Behaviour (don't hate me she gets better!!), Maki is Bad at Feelings, Eventual Smut
꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › shopping with masc! girlfriend maki. sfw
maki zen’in x f! reader. toothrotting wlw fluff. set in canon
it’s one of those rare afternoons with no curses. you’re dragging maki through another high-end department store, gojo-sensei’s black credit card in your back pocket. you’d barely had to ask, he’d just tossed it at you with a wink and a “have fun, try not to bankrupt me.”
maki — bless her — is laden with bags from the last three stores against her toned biceps. she doesn’t complain, just follows you diligently in her street clothes
you stop at a perfume counter, a rainbow of glass bottles glinting under the lights. you spritz a few on cards, wrinkling your nose at a floral that’s too sweet and a woodsy one that smells like air freshener. then you find one you like, something soft and citrusy, and spritz it on your wrist. you hold it out to maki, extending your arm so your pulse point is right under her nose.
“what do you think of this one?”
she leans in, sharp amber eyes scanning your face before they flick down to your wrist. she takes a short, sniff. then she straightens up.
“smells fine,” she says, “but your sol de janeiro is better.”
you pocket gojo-sensei’s card without buying the new perfume. “fine. i’ll stick to mine.”
next is makeup. you’re drawn to a display of new lipglosses, tubes filled with shimmering, syrupy colors. you pick out a rosy nude and swipe it on, then turn to maki. she’s watching you, one eyebrow slightly raised.
you don’t ask for her opinion. you lean in and press a soft, sticky kiss to her lips. she hums and when you pull back, a faint, glossy sheen is on her own mouth. she licks it away.
“tastes like cherries,” she comments.
you try a shimmery peach next. this time you cup her jaw, thumb stroking her skin as you kiss her again, a little slower. when you part, you search her pretty amber eyes.
“and this one?”
she considers it, her gaze dropping to your mouth. “peachy. it’s fine.”
“maki, you’re not helping.”
“i like ‘em all,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips. “especially when you’re the one wearing them. now pick one so we can go.”
you end up buying both.
finally, clothes. you find a section filled with soft, flowy tops. you pull out a navy blue halter top with lace trim and hold it against yourself. “what about this?”
maki’s leaning against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over her chest, looking bored out of her mind. she glances over. “it’s a shirt, babe”
you sigh, putting it back and grabbing a black skirt instead, holding it up to your waist. “and this?”
“it’s a skirt.” she shrugs “shorter than your other ones. congrats on finding a new way to flash me.”
“maki,” you whine, stomping your foot just a little. “be helpful.”
she pushes off the pillar and walks over. she stops right in front of you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from her. her eyes scan you from head to toe. she reaches out, her fingers hooking into the belt loops of your jeans and tugging you just a fraction closer.
“they all look the same to me,” she says, lowering her voice. she makes your stomach flip. “you’d look good in a paper bag, now stop wasting time and pick something.”
her thumb rubs a small circle on your hipbone, and your breath hitches in your throat. being nonchalant and curt is her version of being romantic. you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that she loves you. you grab the top and the skirt, and a soft sweater you’d just spotted, and head for the register.
then maki’s pulling you along again, her expression once again a mask of indifference. she’s still holding all your bags, including the new one. you fall into step beside her, your shoulders brushing.
“you didn’t like anything?” you ask, when you realize she hasn’t picked out anything for herself all morning
“i liked watching you try stuff on,” she says. she doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking forward. “now are you grabbing food or not? i’m not carrying all this shit around for free.”
secret relationship with masc!maki zenin, where you are part of the same friend group ever since you started university, the only two girls in a group with four other boys. some people would say it’s an unlikely friendship, given your polar-opposite styles and tastes, only they don’t know you were both each other’s type to a t.
secret relationship with masc!maki zenin, where you both share knowing looks during your usual hangouts, the kind of looks that only mean a quick trip to the bathroom. soft lips devouring each other in a hurry, teeth clumsily clashing, and maki's slim hands groping your ass, making sure to feel you up enough to last until you were both alone in her dorm. your bodies were so close you would probably fuse together. "what took you girls so long?" would ask yuuji. "girl stuff," maki would reply, hiding a smile.
secret relationship with masc!maki zenin, where you have to hide your jealousy whenever you see maki and yuuta (who has an obvious crush on her) interact. you aren't a subtle person, so it’s pretty hard for you to hold back the eye-rolls and scoffs every time you hear yuuta compliment maki (like you don't compliment her enough already). then, when he says something about them making a cute couple and tries an ai filter to see how their kids would look, you just yank her by the sleeve and get out before you scream/vomit/cry all over the place.
secret relationship with masc!maki zenin, where she laughs at your jealousy and calls you ridiculous while holding your flushed face between her hands. why would she be interested in a man when you are everything she needs? then she kisses you, a sweet kiss at first, just a small peck on your pouty lips. but then her hands leave your face and cling to your waist, and you tilt your head and let her deepen the kiss, welcoming her tongue into your mouth and tasting the minty gum she was chewing before.
secret relationship with masc!maki zenin, where she has you squirming under her while the hot tip of her tongue flickers against your clit. her glasses are foggy from the hot breath, her shaggy hair is even messier because of your hands tugging it, and the smirk on her face while she licks a loooong strip from the bottom to the top of your puffy lips is so hot!! this was probably the third time you were cumming from her mouth only, the bedsheets under you already wet from her spit and your juices mixing together. between licks and wet smacking kisses, she would say things like "gotta make my girl sure of who i belong to" (and is probably talking to your pussy instead of you).
secret relationship with masc!maki zenin, where she makes sure to leave visible hickeys on your neck (and invisible ones between your thighs...) and lets you do the same to her. next time you hang out with the boys, you don't say nothing and just let them do the maths and figure it out by themselves.
a/n: idk i just thought masc!maki and went along with it 🤞
synopsis. satoru is a bonafide genius. he’s got the perfect transcript and ten-year plan to prove it. he knows how to keep his head down and avoid the chaos his twin thrives in. so when the unofficial frat princess sets her sights on him, he knows there’s a catch. he just doesn’t figure out what it is until he’s already fallen for her
pairing. nerd! satoru gojo x popular! fem! reader. ✶ contents. sfw! college + gojo twins au ⇢ fratjo’s called souta. a whole lot of lying + deception. satoru still runs a strict program ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
sundays are supposed to be the days of rest. you certainly need some after the series of unfortunate events you’ve endured this weekend. the last forty-eight hours have been a special version of hell, curated just for you.
( commencing with toji fushiguro breaking up with you, of course, followed by the nauseating sight of him parading his new sorority girl around the party like she was a prize he’d just won at a fair. then came your reckless, alcohol-and-insecurity-fueled decision, the bet. and the grand finale: the coffee incident. )
it’s safe to say you’re running on fumes, a hollowed-out version of yourself powered by nothing but spite and your daily dose of caffeine as you trudge toward the engineering library to meet none other than satoru.
the air conditioning hits you the moment you step through the heavy glass doors, raising goosebumps along your bare arms.
yesterday was an absolute failure. it proved that satoru gojo isn’t just difficult, he’s genuinely a completely different species. one that prefers physics lessons to clumsy flirting.
according to shoko, academia is the only way to his heart. she’d painted a vivid picture of him during your debrief, her cigarette smoke curling lazily around the dorm room like a ghost. the orange glow of the tip had flickered in time with her words, casting shadows across the poster-covered walls.
“he doesn’t understand the concept of rest,” she’d said, her voice a mix of awe and pity, like she was describing a zoo animal. “he’s so smart he doesn’t actually need to study but for some reason it’s all he chooses to do. if he isn’t in the lab, he’s in a library learning next year’s syllabus.”
“and now,” she’d sighed, leaning against your doorframe, “he’s trying to get some biomedical engineering internship. so he’s even more locked in than usual. like, scarily locked in. like, i don’t think he’s slept in weeks locked in. . .”
( an internship. of course. because being top of the dean’s list and a member of the cum laude society isn’t enough for satoru gojo. he has to be top of the dean’s list and a member of the cum laude society with a resume so shiny it probably glows in the dark.
you wonder what it’s like to be that driven, that focused, to have a brain that isn’t constantly at war with itself. and here’s satoru gojo, probably close to solving the mysteries of the universe while you can’t even solve the mystery of why your relationships never last.
the thought of him, with his perfect grades and his perfect future and his stupidly perfect face, makes you want to simultaneously punch him and. . . well. you try not to think too hard about the other part. )
“we’re covering quantum and nuclear physics in class right now,” shoko’d continued, her eyes gleaming with sleep deprivation and nicotine. “he’s great at both, he got a hundred on the test last week so act like you’re lost and he won’t be able to resist showing off. his ego won’t let him.”
“act like you’re lost,” you’d echoed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, “shoko, i don’t have to act. i am lost. i just read the same wikipedia page like six or seven times and i still can’t tell you what a quark or lepton is”
she’d just laughed, a cloud of smoke escaping her lips as she handed you a textbook so heavy you thought your arm would snap clean off. “you’ll be fine,” she’d said, “just nod and look pretty. and maybe cry a little. guys love that. it’ll be a piece of cake”
( easy for her to say. she’s not the one who has sit next to a guy who probably only speaks in equations and somehow make herself seem like a credible physics student. )
the library is practically empty. only a few lights are on, casting pools of yellow across old wooden tables. it’s perpetually silent, making you hyperaware of every sound your body makes. you feel so, so out of place.
you see satoru before he sees you, of course. he’s exactly where shoko said he’d be, tucked away in a corner booth. wearing a simple black hoodie and jeans. the most basic outfit imaginable, but he looks like he should be on the front cover of vogue. it’s annoying.
he’s so completely absorbed in his work, for a moment, you just watch him from behind a shelf, your fingers curled around the spine of the textbook you have zero intention of ever opening once you win this bet.
( for a split second, you feel a pang of something that feels suspiciously like jealousy. you’re not jealous of his intelligence, but of his passion. of his ability to lose himself in something so completely. what’s that like ? to have something that consumes you so wholly ? to care about something so much that the rest of the world just . . fades away ?
you can’t relate. you’ve never been able to relate. you’re suddenly very aware of the gap between you and satoru. it’s not just about intelligence. not really. it’s more about depth. he has so much of it. you’re not sure you do )
you take a deep breath, heart fluttering against your ribs. you can do this. you’re a social butterfly. you can talk to anyone. you’ve charmed your way out of parking tickets and talked your way into parties you had no business attending as a freshman. you just have to walk over there and. . . talk. it’s simple. it’s just talking.
“hey . . . ” you hover for a moment, fingers drumming against the strap of your tote bag. you clear your throat. nothing. not even a flinch. you try again, a little louder, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet space. someone will shush you any second now . . .
he finally sighs, a sound of pure irritation, like you’ve personally offended him by approaching him. slowly, like every second he’s not spending on his work is killing him, he pulls his navy blue headphones down to rest around his neck. the faint, tinny sound of what you’re positive is minecraft music cuts off mid-note.
“no, coffee girl,” he says, like he’s swatting away a fly. “i’m not going to give you souta’s number. or help you get with him. i have more important things to do.”
you can feel your blood boiling. coffee girl ? seriously ? after the soul-crushing, ego-destroying performance you’d put on at the cafe, you’d hoped – prayed – that he’d at least have the decency to forget your face. but no. he remembers. and to top it all off, he’s given you a humiliating nickname, one that will probably haunt you for the rest of your college experience.
and the assumption that you’re here for souta, of all people ? it’s insulting. souta was a nice enough guy, you guess, but he’s about as interesting as a slice of bread.
he’d once talked about his collection of soccer jerseys for forty-five minutes at a party. forty-five minutes. you’d rather eat a pile of glass shards than date him. again.
you have to physically stop yourself from reaching over and slapping that smug, unbothered look right off satoru’s stupid, pretty face. pretty ? no. not pretty. petulant. annoying. his face is annoying. that’s the adjective you’re going with. your nose scrunches up in disgust before you can stop it, a reaction that you hope reads as ‘how dare you’ and not, ‘i’m constipated.’
“i would hope not,” you retort, your voice cutting through the library’s silence like a knife. “i’m here for you to help me out with physics. shoko says you’re the best in her class.”
“shoko ?” at that, his head snaps up, and those blue eyes finally meet yours. they’re even more intense than they were at the cafe, a startlingly bright shade that seems to see right through you, like he’s reading your soul’s source code and finding it full of malware
( shoko ieiri, the cynical pre-med student who sits in the back of his lecture hall, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else, like the room is slowly draining the life force from her body. he’s always had grudging respect for her. she’s smart, but she doesn’t feel the need to announce it to the world.
you being friends with shoko is a variable he hadn’t accounted for. he scrutinizes you, who nearly spilled coffee all over his laptop and are now standing in his library, his sanctuary, demanding his help.
you’re really pretty, he’ll give you that. in a sorority-girl kind of way. all bright colors and energy and a smile that probably gets you into places you shouldn’t be. but you’re not his type. not that he really has a type. he doesn’t have time for a type. he has equations to solve and a future to build and an internship to land. )
“she’s my roommate,” you say, trying to sound casual, like your heart isn’t currently attempting to escape through your ribcage.
“so why are you here then ?” he asks, his voice laced with suspicion, eyes narrowing slightly. “wouldn’t it make more sense for her to tutor you ?”
( it’s a good question, he thinks to himself. why are you here, coffee girl ? what do you want from him ? are you trying to get him to do your homework ? is this some sorority initiation ritual ? an elaborate prank ? he wouldn’t put it past shoko. she’s got a sense of humor that’s as sharp as a scalpel. but you. . . you don’t look like you’re joking. you look . . . desperate. genuinely, desperate. there’s a tremor in your hands, barely visible, and you’re not looking him in the eye. interesting. very interesting. )
“well, she said you’d be more helpful,” you sigh, launching into the story you and shoko had rehearsed until you could recite it in your sleep. you let your shoulders slump, trying to project an air of genuine desperation, which honestly isn’t much of a stretch because you do need him to take the bait. “look, i failed the first quiz on quantum physics, and i won’t be able to join my dream sorority if i don’t get my grade back up soon. i really need your help, and i know your family’s like, super rich, but i’ll still pay you.”
you’ve never felt or sounded more desperate and dishonest in your life but his walls are up so high, and you’re standing outside with a plastic spoon, trying to dig your way in.
( if you can’t convince him to tutor you, how the hell are you supposed to coax him into falling in love with you in the next eight days ? you might be completely, utterly fucked. )
a flicker of something – pity ? amusement ? the faintest trace of both ? – crosses his face like a cloud passing over the sun. is that really the best you could come up with ? it’s so. . .shallow. so. . . sorority girl. but you look sincere. your hands are trembling, just a little, and you’re picking at the strap of your bag like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
( the offer of money is just . . . insulting. do you really think his time is so cheap ? that he can be bought like a vending machine snack ? )
he’s about to send you away, to tell you to go bother someone else, to go find some other poor soul to torment with your inability to grasp basic physics. but then he thinks of ijichi. poor, lovesick ijichi, who spends his days pining after shoko ieiri like a lost puppy and his nights playing world of warcraft in the dark, his face illuminated only by the blue glow of his monitor. he needs to get out. he needs a life. he needs to talk to a girl who isn’t an npc. and you. . .coffee girl, with your trembling hands and your desperate eyes. . .you’re his ticket to paradise.
“i don’t need your money,” he frowns, and the casual dismissal of your offer stings more than it should. you gape at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“then what can i give you in return ?”
“peace and quiet,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear, he looks you up and down, a long, assessing sweep of his eyes that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, pinned and squirming. then, the kind of look a chess player gives the board before making a decisive move crosses his face. “you’re close with shoko, right ?” he asks.
you nod, wary, unsure where this is going. does he have a crush on her ? you really hope that isn’t the case. it’ll certainly make the bet a lot more difficult.
“well, my roommate has a thing for her,” he says, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial level, like he’s sharing classified information. you let out a huge sigh of relief. “if i tutor you, introduce them or something. but obviously,” he adds, his eyes narrowing, “don’t tell her he has a thing for her. ijichi’s. . . down bad. and he’s not the best when it comes to girls.”
( ijichi, he thinks. poor guy. he’s a brilliant coder, one of the best he’s ever seen, but he can’t even order a pizza without having a mini panic attack about whether to say ‘i’d like’ or ‘can i get.’
shoko ieiri would eat him alive. she’d chew him up and spit him out before he even finished his first sentence. but maybe. . .maybe that’s what he needs. a little danger in his perfectly ordered, perfectly boring life. and you. . . you’re clearly good at this kind of thing. social engineering. it’s a skill satoru doesn’t have, doesn’t understand, and doesn’t particularly want to. but he can appreciate its value.
it’s a win-win. he gets ijichi out of his dorm, and he gets a little peace and quiet. and he’ll score brownie points with yaga for tutoring another helpless student. it’s perfect. almost too perfect. )
your eyes light up with glee, a spark of genuine excitement cutting through your anxiety. you can win the bet and possibly play cupid ? what more could you ask for ? this is the universe throwing you a bone, “deal,” you grin, sticking out your hand like you’re sealing a business agreement.
he shakes it, his grip firm and surprisingly warm, his palm dry and steady against your soft, nervous one. your hand is soft, he thinks, a little surprised by the sensation. and small. so much smaller than his. it feels strange in his, like holding a baby bird, delicate and fragile.
he pulls away quickly, a little flustered by the thought, by the unexpected intimacy of the contact. he’s not used to physical contact. not unless it’s a handshake with a professor or a pat on the back from souta. this is. . . different. warmer. more personal. and he doesn’t like it. not one bit. or maybe he likes it too much. which is worse.
“don’t screw this up for him.” he warns
“wouldn’t dream of it,” you grin, already plopping down in the seat next to him, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that makes him wince. he shifts his sleek laptop to the side with a reluctant sigh, and you dump shoko’s heavy textbooks onto the table with a thud that reverberates through the quiet library, earning you a glare so sharp it could cut glass.
( you’re like a whirlwind, he thinks, watching you settle into your seat with the kind of restless energy that makes him tired just looking at you. you’re the complete opposite of him. of everything he knows.
he’s not sure how he feels about it. but he’s intrigued. against his better judgment, against every instinct that tells him to send you packing, he’s intrigued. it’s like watching a storm approach from a distance. he knows it’s going to be disruptive. he knows it’s going to make a mess. but he can’t look away )
“i’ve never seen you in the lecture hall before,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning your face, searching for cracks in your story.
“i always sit in the back,” you lie smoothly, the words dripping off your tongue like honey. “who’s your professor ?”
“yaga.”
“ah, well, i have gakuganji.”
satoru lets out a short, humorless laugh, a sound that’s more exasperation than amusement. “that makes a lot of sense,” he says. “i’ve heard terrible things about his lectures. he was supposed to be my professor, but all of his slots clashed with my engineering lectures. looks like i dodged a bullet.”
( he thinks gakuganji is nothing short of a fossil, a relic from a bygone era of education. he probably still thinks the atom is the smallest particle and that pluto is still a planet. no wonder you’re failing. poor coffee girl. you don’t stand a chance. not with that dinosaur as your professor.
he feels a strange surge of something. . . protectiveness ? no. that’s not it. that’s too soft, too sentimental. it’s more like. . . determination. he can’t let you fail. not when your failure is a reflection on his field. on his profession. on the subject he loves more than anything. he has to help you. he has to. it’s a matter of his pride. nothing more. nothing less. definitely nothing more. )
and then he starts from the very basics of nuclear physics. you thought this part would be like watching paint dry, a slow, painful torture session where you’d have to fight to keep your eyes open and your brain from leaking out of your ears. but satoru is surprisingly good at explaining stuff. he breaks down complex concepts into simple, comprehensible parts, his voice low and steady, like a river smoothing over stones.
he’s so smart it’s almost infuriating, the way the knowledge seems to flow from him effortlessly, like he’s not even trying, like he was born understanding the fundamental forces of the universe. his writing is perfect – of course it is – all even, blocky print like a microsoft font, each letter uniform, like he’d somehow managed to train his hand to be a printer.
he rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, revealing strong, toned forearms, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he writes, his arm brushing against yours as he leans over your notebook to write out the basic formulas. a jolt goes through you, you feel like you’ve touched a live wire, and you suddenly realize he’s actually really hot.
not in the obvious, flashy way of the guys you usually go for, all charm and cologne and carefully cultivated swagger. it’s deeper than that. wayyy deeper. it’s the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way his long fingers wrap around the pen, the way he talks with his hands, tracing patterns in the air. and he smells really good, like clean laundry, like coffee, cinnamon and cedar. it makes you smile despite yourself.
he’s surprised to find that you’re actually listening. you’re not just nodding along, eyes glazed over with boredom. you’re asking questions. good questions, even. questions that show you’re paying attention, that you’re trying to understand, that you’re not just here to waste his time.
you’re smarter than you look. not that you look dumb. you look. . . well, you look like a sorority girl. all carefully applied makeup and perfect hair. but there’s a sharpness in your eyes that he didn’t notice before. curiosity. it’s. . . refreshing. he’s so used to people just accepting what he says, to them being intimidated by his intelligence, nodding along like bobbleheads without actually understanding a word he’s saying. but you’re not.
you’re challenging him. in your own way. you’re pushing back, asking why, demanding explanations that go beyond the surface. and he likes it. he likes it a lot. which is dangerous. which is a problem. he doesn’t have time for problems. he has equations to solve and an internship to land and a future to build. but here he is, enjoying himself, actually enjoying tutoring you, of watching understanding dawn on your face like the sun rising over a dark landscape. it’s. . . nice. oddly nice.
he tutors you for an hour, the time slipping by in a haze of equations and explanations, before making you solve a few problems.
you sit there fidgeting, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your sternum, while he grades your work, his purple pen moving across the page with methodical precision.
you’re actually scared, genuinely, bone-deep scared, because you really don’t know much about physics, and it took you a while to answer the questions, your brain working overtime to apply the concepts he’d just explained. they were mostly theoretical, which was fine, thanks to shoko’s crash course and your own ability to bullshit your way through abstract concepts. but you’re terrified for when he whips out the big equations, the ones with letters and symbols that look more like ancient hieroglyphics than math.
you get a little more than half of them completely correct, with a few half marks here and there for partial understanding. satoru’s got his work cut out for him. but he just sighs, a long, slow exhale that ruffles the hair that’s fallen across his forehead, and makes a few notes in the margin of the paper in his perfect, printer-like handwriting.
“not terrible,” he says, and it feels like the highest praise you’ve ever received, like you’ve just been awarded a nobel prize by the most critical judge in the world.
( seventy percent, he thinks. that’s . . . not bad. considering you’re stuck with the worst professor he’s ever come across and the fact you’ve probably never understood a physics class in your life, or at least that’s the impression you give with your wide eyes and your “what’s a quark” energy.
you’re a quick study. you pick things up fast, faster than he expected. he’s almost impressed. almost. he’s still not sure what to make of you.
you’re like a puzzle. a really beautiful one with a lot of pieces. and he’s always loved a good puzzle. which is exactly why he should stay away. puzzles are distractions. distractions are dangerous. and he can’t afford to be distracted right now. not with the internship on the line. not with his future hanging in the balance.
but here he is, already looking forward to your next session, already wondering what questions you’ll ask, what insights you’ll have, what new and unexpected thing you’ll do to throw him off balance.
it’s insane. he’s satoru gojo. he doesn’t have time for this. for you. for the way you make him feel like the world is bigger and brighter and more chaotic than he could have ever imagined. but he can’t help it. you’re like a virus, infecting his perfectly ordered world with your soft hands and sharp, curious eyes. he’s in trouble. he knows he’s in trouble. and he has no idea what to do about it.
“i have to go wrap up some stuff in the lab” his voice is regretful but firm, “you can meet me here tomorrow,” he says, already packing his bag with the same methodical precision he applies to everything. “same time. don’t be late. i’ve got a lot on my plate.”
“that rhymes,” you quip, unable to help yourself, the words slipping out before your brain can catch them. he withers, his expression going so flat and blank that you almost laugh, a sound you have to bite back by pressing your lips together hard. he’s trying not to laugh too.
( you’re so. . . annoying, he thinks. but you’re also. . . kind of funny. in a ridiculous, juvenile, dad-joke kind of way. he shouldn’t encourage you. shouldn’t indulge in your antics. he should just ignore you. but he can’t.
he’s really looking forward to your next session. he’s already smiling in spite of himself. you’re infectious. and the worst part is, he doesn’t even mind. he’s not even trying to fight off the virus anymore. he’s just. . . letting it happen. letting you happen to him. )
he’s gathering his belongings and slinging his bag over his shoulder when he pauses, his hand hovering over the zipper of his bag. “i just realized i don’t even know your name. . .what is it ?”
the question, so fundamental, catches you off guard. of course he doesn’t know your name. why would he ? he recognizes you from the cafe incident and the few frat parties he’s been forced to attend, but he’s never had a reason to learn it.
you avoid his azure gaze as you tell him. he echoes it out loud, testing it on his tongue, rolling the syllables around like he’s tasting a new flavor. he repeats it slowly, carefully, like he’s committing it to memory, and the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.
“it’s a lot nicer than coffee girl” he says, his eyes meeting yours for the first time without a hint of arrogance, without a trace of that smug, dismissive mask he’s been wearing all afternoon. they’re so. . . open. blue and bright. “sorry for calling you that, and for assuming you wanted me to help you get with souta. that’s typically what girls come up to me for. that or they want me to do their homework.”
a wave of regret washes over him like cold water. why did he say that ? now he sounds like a loser. you probably think he’s in the same boat as ijichi now. and to a degree he is. but by choice.
he doesn’t regret apologizing to you though, there was something in your eyes earlier . . . a flicker of hurt, brief and quickly hidden, but he’d noticed it. and he didn’t like it. he didn’t like being the cause of it. he’s used to people being intimidated by him, to them putting him on a pedestal, to them treating him like some kind of specimen instead of a person. to them treating him like a middle man for souta.
but you’re different. you’re not treating him like you want to use him and offer him nothing in return. you’re treating him like he’s just any other guy. a slightly annoying, slightly arrogant guy who happens to be really good at physics. and it’s refreshing. it’s a little terrifying. because this is the first time a girl has come up to him for him. not souta. him. he’s not sure how to handle it.
“no, i don’t want either of those things,” you say, and it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night, the truest words that have come out of your mouth since this whole ridiculous bet began. “i genuinely don’t understand physics.”
“yeah,” he says, and a small, almost-smile plays on his lips, a tiny, reluctant curve that’s more genuine than anything he’s shown you so far. “i can tell.”
( you’re honest. it’s so rare. so. . .refreshing. he’s surrounded by people who are always trying to impress him, to get something from him, to use him for their own gain. but you’re not.
you genuinely need his help. it feels like a revelation. and for the first time in a long time, he feels like he can just be himself. without the weight of expectations and the pressure of performance. and it’s an exhilarating feeling, like standing on the edge of a cliff and not knowing whether you’re about to fly or fall. )
before you can retort, before you can think of something clever or charming or witty to say, he’s walking away, his long strides carrying him into the stacks, his ivory hair catching the light one last time before he disappears around a corner.
( what has he gotten himself into ? his heart pounds in his chest as he walks away, his footsteps echoing in the quiet aisles. you’re going to be a distraction. he should have just said no. he should have sent you away. but he didn’t. and now he’s in trouble. he’s in so much trouble. and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t mind it one bit. he doesn’t mind it at all. )
you’re left alone with your textbook and the lingering scent of his cologne, a ghost of warmth and spice that clings to the air. you really do have your work cut out for you. but at least he’s agreed to tutor you. you can’t help but feel a flicker of hope ignite in your heart, a small, stubborn ember that refuses to go out. maybe this bet isn’t so impossible after all.
masterlist day one ⇆ day two
── .✦ mimi’s notes: satoru cums laude, you heard it here first. i was gonna make him sweeter but cocky nerds are hot ok? if you feel bad for him you’re about to feel a lotttt worse <3
people joke when they say gay ships keep fandoms alive but it really is true. stranger things left the collective public consciousness months ago and byler is still thriving
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
