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dunmomee · 7 days ago

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Blurring That Line

synopsis: The official press tour for you and Satoru’s movie is still ongoing—and that fire between you keeps sizzling beneath the surface. The thin line between fiction and reality is starting to blur.

a/n: Thank you for reading! This one was living rent-free in my daydreams and just had to be written. 💭✨ <<Previous one-shot ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >> *******************************************************

The silk of the dress felt like water against your skin, pooling daringly low in the back. Each breath you took was a conscious effort, a reminder of the expanse of bare skin exposed to the cool studio air. Gojo stood beside you, impossibly tall and effortlessly magnetic.

The set was humming with the quiet energy of a well-oiled machine. White screens, sleek black scaffolding, light rigs angled just so.

It was an Entertainment Weekly cover shoot, the official press tour for Crossed Lines had been in full swing for weeks now.

You adjusted the silky backless gown as your stylist fluttered around your shoulders, smoothing the silver fabric into place. The dress dipped daringly down your spine, barely anchored by delicate straps. The photographer had already raved over it—perfect for the chemistry shot with your impossibly handsome co-star.

He was across the set now, looking unbothered as usual, sprawled lazily in a chair while his assistant powdered his skin. His crisp dark shirt had several buttons left undone, strategically so. His hair was tousled just enough to look careless, like he'd just rolled out of some lover’s bed. A perfect foil to your own sleek styling.

“Okay,” the photographer, a whirlwind of enthusiastic energy named Brenda, called. “Let’s do the paired poses.”

You stepped onto the mark. Gojo rose in one smooth motion, eyes flicking over you as he approached. The pale lights picked up the mischief glinting in his gaze.

“Backless, huh?” he murmured, voice pitched low for only you to hear. “You trying to kill me?”

You shot him a look. “Focus, Satoru.”

He just smirked.

“Alright, you two look fantastic!” Brenda clapped her hands together. “Let’s start with something classic. Y/N, could you angle your body slightly towards Gojo? Perfect. Gojo, maybe a hand casually on her waist?”

Your breath hitched. A hand on your waist was one thing, but as Gojo’s fingers spread, settling with a warm, possessive pressure right at the dip of your spine – the very edge of the dress – a shiver traced its way down your back. His touch was light, seemingly innocuous, but against the sensitive skin laid bare by the plunging neckline, it felt electric. You forced a smile for the camera, hoping your trembling wasn’t visible.

“Lovely! Now, Gojo, maybe lean in a little, like you’re about to share a secret.” Brenda’s instructions continued, and with each shift in pose, Gojo’s contact seemed to deepen, to linger. He’d guide your elbow with a thumb that brushed the side of your breast. He’d adjust your stray hair with fingers that grazed your neck, sending a jolt through you. And always, his hand would find its way back to the small of your back, sometimes just resting, other times subtly drawing you closer until your sides brushed.

One pose had you perched on a stool, your legs crossed, while Gojo stood behind you, one hand braced on the stool beside your thigh, the other resting intimately at the curve of your lower back. His breath ghosted against your ear as Brenda fussed with the lighting. “Just a little closer, Gojo. Almost touching.”

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of his cologne filling your senses. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Was he doing this deliberately? His expression for the camera was all practiced charm, a dazzling smile that could melt glaciers. But you could feel the subtle tension in his fingers, the way his gaze flickered to your lips when the camera wasn’t directly on them.

Another setup involved you leaning against a sleek backdrop, Gojo’s arm draped across your shoulders, his hand once again settling low on your back, his fingers splayed just above the dress’s hem. The photographer, oblivious to the silent storm brewing between you, kept snapping away, capturing what would undoubtedly be described as smoldering chemistry.

“Okay, last few!” Brenda announced. “Let’s get one where Gojo is slightly behind Y/N, maybe his arms wrapped loosely around her waist.”

This was it. As Gojo positioned himself, his arms encircled you, his hands meeting just below your ribcage, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your hair, the solid presence of his body molded against yours. His fingers, for a fleeting moment, tightened almost possessively before relaxing back into a casual hold. It was in that brief pressure that you felt a spark, a confirmation of the unspoken tension that had been building throughout the entire shoot.

“Alright, beautiful! Now, let’s try something a little more dynamic,” Brenda, the photographer and now makeshift director, chirped, adjusting the studio lights. “Gojo, could you stand behind Y/N, maybe place a hand on her shoulder, like you’re protectively guiding her? Y/N, you can angle your body a bit more towards the camera, maybe look over your shoulder with a soft smile.”

You shifted as instructed, the silver fabric of the gown whispering against itself. The air conditioning in the studio suddenly felt cooler against the vast expanse of your bare back. You positioned your head, focusing on a point just beyond the lens, trying to project a relaxed confidence. You could feel Gojo move behind you, the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of his expensive cologne reaching you. His hand settled on your left shoulder, a warm, reassuring weight.

“And… action!” Brenda called out.

Then, it happened. Not as part of the pose, not at Brenda’s direction. Gojo’s other hand, the one that had been resting casually at his side, lifted. You felt the lightest brush against the exposed skin of your mid-back, just below where the dress dipped. His fingertips, cool against your warmed skin, began a slow, deliberate descent, tracing the delicate line of your spine.

A jolt, unexpected and potent, shot through you. Your breath hitched, the carefully constructed air of professionalism threatening to crumble. It was such a subtle movement, so seemingly casual, yet the intimacy of it, the unprompted touch on such a vulnerable part of your body, sent a wave of heat rushing through you. Every nerve ending along your spine seemed to awaken.

You forced yourself to maintain the soft smile Brenda had requested, your eyes locked on the designated spot. You could feel the phantom trail of his fingers burning into your skin, each vertebra a point of intense awareness. Was he even looking at the lens? Or was his gaze focused on the exposed curve of your back, on the subtle tremor you were desperately trying to conceal?

“Perfect! That’s gorgeous, you two!” Brenda’s enthusiastic voice broke the tense silence that only you seemed to be experiencing. “And cut!” Gojo’s hand remained on your shoulder, the other now still, but the memory of his touch lingered, a vivid and undeniable connection forged in that brief, unscripted moment. You wondered if anyone else had noticed, if the camera had captured the charged energy that now thrummed beneath your skin. Forcing a slightly brighter smile, you held the pose, the unexpected intimacy of Gojo’s touch a secret only the two of you now shared in the crowded studio.

Finally, with a satisfied sigh, Brenda declared the photoshoot over. You subtly unwound yourself from Gojo’s embrace, a strange mix of relief and disappointment washing over you. Your back felt strangely exposed now that his touch was gone.

The interview portion began after. You both perched on a velvet settee now, the gown draped elegantly, your shoulders bare. He sat beside you, thigh nearly pressed to yours, casually draping one arm behind your seat.

Questions flew—movie roles, favorite scenes, stunts.

Then an off-screen voice asked, almost teasing: “Gojo-san—after working so closely with Y/N-san, and seeing the way the fans are reacting… any thoughts on the idea of on-screen chemistry turning into off-screen feelings?”

The crew chuckled. You glanced at him, expecting a flippant joke.

But Satoru’s eyes didn’t leave you. His expression shifted, open, honest in a way that startled you. Without missing a beat, he said:

“I think… sometimes when you have known someone all your life, and the lines between what’s for the camera and what’s real—well. They get harder to see.”

The room went still for a beat. Your breath caught. You didn’t know how to look away. You just nodded and gave a polite smile.

The shoot wrapped. People bustled around, packing equipment. Satoru said his usual goodbyes, all casual charm. You left with your thoughts spinning, heart thudding in your chest.

Later that night, in the quiet of his bedroom, Gojo lay sprawled across dark sheets, phone in hand.

The early promo video had already dropped.

Of course, it wasn’t from the official Entertainment Weekly account yet—no, it was from your Instagram.

A simple caption: “...lines blurred 📸🎬”

The clip was thirty seconds: you in that backless gown, the scandalous poses, his hand against your skin, the tension that crackled between you both. Fans were already losing it in the comments.

Satoru watched the reel again. And again.

His thumb hovered over your lips when you smiled in that one frame—half teasing, half caught. He smirked to himself, eyes narrowing.

Finally, he typed under your post:

“Should I have blurred my hands too?” 😇

He hit post and tossed the phone beside him. It vibrated immediately—notifications lighting up rapid-fire:

@fanacc1: SATORU HELLOOOOOO??! @movieupdates: the audacity in this comment 🔥🔥🔥 @getoynsiblings: Geto’s gonna kill him omg @crossinglinesupdates: sir please respect us some of us are at work @ethanmikefanaccount: Satoru, she’s literally another man’s woman @fandomfanatiq: OMG GOJO WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?! @jjklover22: My Satoru ship heart is exploding!!!!! @moviebuff: Is he talking about the chemistry or something more?! 👀 @y/nfan: PLEASE TELL US YOU TWO ARE DATING @satorubiggestfan.official: she’s not all that

Satoru let out a soft, wicked laugh and flipped the phone facedown on the nightstand, already buzzing with more replies.

Swinging off the bed, he padded barefoot across the sleek floors of his kitchen, tugging open the refrigerator door with one hand.

The cold air spilled out. He grabbed a bottle of water.

And leaned against the counter—grinning faintly to himself, thinking of you.

#alternate universe #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #actors au #actor #actress #hollywood #celebrity interviews #interview magazine

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dunmomee · 9 days ago

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Coffee and Classicals ☕

chapter summary: After your visit to the aquarium, you and Levi wander into a quieter, nostalgic part of town—one filled with echoes of your past and the early days of figuring out who you were. Along the way, you glimpse a gentler, more inquisitive side of Levi that rarely surfaces. a/n: It feels like I blinked and the world spun without me. Work, life... everything's been so loud and heavy lately, and I’ve just been floating through it. But I missed this. I missed writing. I missed the quiet joy of building something with words—even when I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say. This chapter lived in my drafts for over a week, always feeling like it was missing something. Maybe it still is (maybe that’s just me), but I’ve poured what I could into it. And I hope it meets your expectations. Thank you, as always, for reading💛

<<previous chapter ☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>

****************************************

Chapter Nine: Right Here, Right Now, with You

The hush of the aquarium still clung to you as you stepped back into the town’s soft rhythm, that late afternoon lull where the sky turned the color of old porcelain and the wind carried the scent of sea salt and something warm baking.

You drifted a little ahead, letting your fingers graze ivy-draped railings and the crumbling walls of art supply shops you hadn’t thought about in years. The streets here were quieter. More lived-in. As if time walked slower.

“I haven’t been to this side of town since freshman year,” you murmured, half to yourself.

Levi’s eyes followed your movements. “Why?”

You shrugged. “It reminds me too much of home.”

A corner record store still had faded gig posters in the window. A stationery shop owner recognized you instantly and waved, calling you by name. The bakery down the block offered you a sample without question, a little red bean bun you and Hange used to hoard during finals week. She asked about the rowdy and loud girl that used to follow you around.

Levi watched each interaction with a face like stone, but his gaze lingered longer than it should have.

“They still remember you,” he said quietly.

You smiled a little, awkward. “Yeah. I used to come here when I was trying to discover who I was outside my family. Hange and I met here too. She was excited to get those tasty macaroons. She bumped into me and spilled all her books.” You laughed at the memory.

As you spoke, you turned your face away to cough into your elbow. When you looked back, Levi was still watching you, a faint crease between his brows.

A silence settled between you, but not an uncomfortable one. You fell into step beside him as the conversation returned to safer ground.

“So,” you said, bumping his elbow with yours, “The Handmaid’s Tale. I read your annotations— about memories as rebellion.”

He glanced sideways, unsurprised. “What did you think?”

You exhaled slowly, perhaps closer to a sigh. “Terrifying. Lonely. But also… she has this kind of inner defiance. Like she’s keeping something sacred alive, even when everything’s taken.”

“She is,” he said simply.

You paused to look at him. “Is that why you recommended it?”

Levi shrugged, not dismissively. “No, I just thought you needed something to sit with. Something challenging. Not everything needs to be solved in the first ten pages. Or be about euphoric orgasms and velvet rods . Some stories are meant to unravel you slowly.”

You blinked, then raised your brows.

You came across a tiny street stall, and your eyes lit up. You practically skipped over to the rows of odd snacks and drinks — dried squid, mochi shaped like animals, fruit jellies that wobbled like orbs in their plastic shells. You grabbed one of everything, beaming as you paid.

“You’re going to get sick,” Levi said behind you, deadpan.

“You’re going to die of dehydration,” you countered, voice raspier than usual. “So who’s really making bad choices?”

His eyes, sharp as ever, flickered to meet yours, a hint of genuine surprise etching into his otherwise stoic expression. You’d hit a nerve, it seemed.

He scowled and, without a word, turned to stalk away. You watched him go, your gaze trailing his retreating back, a faint smile playing on your lips. He returned a moment later with a cup of iced tea, which he held like it offended him. “Only thing cold. Still tastes like disappointment.”

You laughed, though it came out thinner this time, followed by another small cough. Still, you kept grinning.

He watched you try the squid strip and nearly gag, only to finish it anyway out of sheer pride.

And then, like it was nothing, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small iced coffee, your exact usual order from the book café.

Your eyes widened. “Is that for me?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

You grabbed it from him and took a long sip.

“You know, you’re going to choke.”

“This isn’t as good as the one you make,” you said, shaking the cup.

“That’s because there’s a secret ingredient.” He had a slight upward curve on his lips.

“What is that?” You said, hitting him slightly. “I know you’ll say something cringy like ‘my heart’.” You kept your eyes on him.

He didn’t reply, his gaze unwavering, and your heart did a strange little skip.

As you walked, he started asking quieter questions — the kind you didn’t expect from him.

There was a warmth behind your ribs that didn’t come from the sun. You bit the inside of your cheeks. “Why are you fascinated with books… classicals?”

Levi considered that. “I guess I liked things that echoed. Even when you put them down, they’ll keep talking to you. Keep resonating.”

You nodded. “That sounds so you.”

He glanced over. “What about you?”

You laughed, trying to cut the sudden intensity. “To fill the void inside of me…” You wanted to add something else.

“Smut does that?”

“And we’re back to that. You never let things go?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You read the complete series of This Man .”

“Okay. First of all, it’s a literary masterpiece. Second, Jodi Ellen Malpas is the best writer to exist.”

He actually smirked. “Shakespeare shakes in his grave.”

“But seriously…” You trailed off, eyes dropping to your hands. “Reading books like that didn’t demand too much of me. Math, for all its intricate logic, was incredibly demanding. And truthfully, I didn't know if I wanted to dedicate my life to it long-term.”

Levi stayed quiet, listening.

“I don’t know what I want to do, really. I’d been good at math forever. My family, they’ve always had this grand vision for me – accolades, fellowships, a career at some prestigious research facility, like working at a place as intense as CERN.” You sighed, a heavy sound. “I just… followed the current.”

“So smut really saved you?”

You grinned. “The only part of my life I actually chose.”

He hummed, then added quietly, “Choosing what unravels you is still a choice.”

You stopped walking for a second. It took you a moment to register how much weight that sentence carried.

You gave a small, bitter laugh, followed by another cough you tried to stifle.

“I study. I read. I get good grades. But I don’t have that thing; that passion.”

He watched you, brow slightly furrowed again.

“Math is something I do because I’m really good at it, and I do genuinely appreciate its elegant solutions and the way everything fits perfectly. But I don’t love it with that burning passion I see in others, or that intensity my parents expect.”

You tried to lighten the mood. “Maybe I’ll take reading smut seriously. Go full academic on it. Erotica analysis.”

Levi actually scoffed. “You’d have citations and footnotes.”

“And a dramatic thesis title,” you grinned. “The Rhythm of Desire: A Mathematical Approach to Fictional Orgasms.”

He coughed on his iced tea, nearly choking.

You offered him another squid strip as a peace offering. He declined.

Still, something warm had settled between you; shared laughter, quiet confessions, the easy press of vulnerability neither recoiled from. His arm brushed yours again as you passed a bakery glowing with paper lanterns in the window, and you didn’t pull away.

But before you could ask more, he changed the subject.

“When’s your birthday?”

You blinked. “That was abrupt.”

He shrugged. “We’re trading questions.”

You told him, and he nodded like he’d write it down in some invisible notebook you weren’t supposed to know he had..

“I never asked,” you said softly. “What do you want to do? After school?”

He exhaled, like it was a question he’d been asked a hundred times and still didn’t have the conviction. “I want to write the greatest story that ever existed.”

You smiled. “That’s amazing.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Says the girl who’s going to be valedictorian.”

“Touché.”

You walked in comfortable silence for a while, lost in the quiet ease of his company. You hadn't even realized where you were going until you rounded a familiar corner, suddenly seeing your own apartment building loom into view. A breeze kicked up — cool and sharp. Your throat stung faintly from talking, and you coughed into your elbow, brushing it off like it was nothing.

There was that moment, always that moment, where something could happen, but never quite did.

“Thanks for walking me,” you said, your voice quieter now. You sniffled slightly and hoped he didn’t notice.

Levi gave a small nod. “Get some sleep. And water. And maybe some proper food.”

You laughed, though it came out a little raspier than you expected. Your head felt a bit warm, but you chalked it up to the long day.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you hugged him. Quick, impulsive, warm.

He froze just slightly, and for a beat, you felt the hesitant, feather-light brush of his hand against your back – a secret gesture, barely there.

Then you pulled away before either of you could say anything more, jogging up the steps.

“Night!” you called.

He didn’t answer until you were almost inside.

“Night, Red.”

You closed the door with your heart rattling inside your chest—and a faint tickle in your throat that you told yourself was nothing.

Bertholdt lay curled on the bed, watching you with quiet curiosity.

#alternate universe #attack on titan #levi x reader #levi ackerman #levi x y/n #college au #levi aot #levi attack on titan #aot levi #captain levi #shingeki no kyojin #snk levi #snk

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dunmomee · 17 days ago

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Half of Me

<< Previous | Next >>

One night, one mistake—and a lifetime you didn’t expect.

☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, toxic relationship dynamics, implied infidelity (emotional and physical cheating), slapping, mind romantic tension...?, messy love triangle brewing, suguru enters the chat, sad gojo hours™, reader just really deserves better fr. Art by: @mmsks_ on X

You don’t hear from him the morning after the fight. Not right away, at least. So you keep your head down. You pour drinks, wipe counters, and try not to let the silence get to you. But when an old friend steps through the café doors, it’s enough to tilt the world just slightly off-center again. Somewhere else, truth unravels—loud, ugly, and years too late. And by the time your phone lights up, you’re not even checking it anymore.

Step Eleven: Call It What It Is

The headache hit before he even opened his eyes.

A slow, gnawing pressure right behind his temples, like something clawing its way out from the inside, deciding to stay there indefinitely. His mouth tasted like regret—metallic and dry—and his limbs felt heavy as stone beneath a throw blanket. Suguru’s couch wasn’t exactly known for comfort—slightly lumpy and permanently scented with whatever cologne he wore nowadays—But Satoru had barely noticed.

He’d passed out sometime around 3 AM with a half-empty glass tumbler still on the floor beside him and the soft hum of Suguru’s playlist echoing low through the dark apartment.

Now, the early morning light had slithered its way through the half-drawn curtains. It fell across his face in thin, accusing lines.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling.

Grey. Cracked in the corner. Not his home, though, he didn’t know if he could call his soulless penthouse home.

He sat up slowly, grimacing at the ache in his back. He’d fallen asleep in the same clothes he wore the day before—yesterday’s dress shirt wrinkled and damp from yesterday’s rain. It stuck to his skin uncomfortably, his tie hung half-undone around his neck, and he let out a slow exhale, before rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He hadn’t even thought about going back to his own place. The idea of walking into that hollow shell of a penthouse, with Hana’s perfume still clinging to his pillows, was like a loaded weapon, and it had been enough to just make him stay put.

Today was supposed to be the day.

He’d told Suguru that last night—between the drinks and the guilt and the hundredth loop of that final look on your face before you walked away from him. Today, he was going to tell Hana. No more lies. No more delay. Just honesty, no matter the fallout. He practiced what little of it he could in his head, over and over, while he poured another drink. He didn’t have the right words—not even close—but saying nothing wasn’t the solution. Not anymore.

But when he texted her that morning—once, then twice—there was nothing.

Satoru [6:47 am] Hey. Call me when you get this. I need to talk to you. Today.

Not a single word back.

It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. That…wasn’t like her. Not in the slightest. Hana always responded, even if she was pissed. Even if it was just a passive-aggressive “K”. But this—this total silence—it itched under his skin. Maybe she was just busy. Or upset with him missing her calls last night. Or both. But it didn’t feel right…it felt like the moment before lightning struck down.

The rest of the morning passed in a fog. He stole a quick shower in Suguru’s cramped bathroom before his best friend even woke up, towel-dried his hair, and left wearing the same half-wrinkled clothes from yesterday. His tie stayed stuffed in his coat pocket.

And he downed two aspirin with cold tap water before he left for the office.

He drove in silence.

Even the Porsche—his prized, polished black 911 Turbo S—felt muted, like the engine was purring through wet cotton. Rain drizzled in a half-hearted rhythm on the windshield. Grey clouds hung low, pressing against the skyline like they were trying to smother it.

When he pulled into the parking garage at the firm, he noticed it.

The shift.

It’s not like anything was out of place, the glass walls and marbled floors gleamed like they usually did. But something was just off. It was the way people looked at him. Or the way they didn’t. The security guard who was always stationed by the front desk gave him a curt nod. He didn’t smile. Didn’t crack a joke about Satoru’s late arrival. Then there was the receptionist, who quickly flinched away when he passed through the turnstile gates, barely greeting him.

None of it was direct, exactly. But something was just in the air—as if everyone knew something that he didn’t.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse, watching the flicker of floor numbers rise behind his shoulder as he caught his reflection in the brushed steel of the doors—hollow-eyed, jaw tight, hair still damp at the ends—and suddenly felt like a stranger in his own life. A shell of himself.

He didn’t look guilty, did he? He maybe looked like someone who hadn’t slept, someone who needed another painkiller, not an intervention.

When the doors opened, he stepped onto the executive floor and immediately felt the temperature drop.

People paused mid-conversation. Phones were still held to ears, but no one was talking. Footsteps slowed. And worse than the obvious stares—were the people who didn’t look at him at all. Someone literally turned sharply to avoid him as he passed the coffee cart.

His throat dried as he walked the length of the hallway, ignoring the pinch behind his eyes and the faint heat crawling along the nape of his neck.

When he stepped into his office and dropped his bag onto the desk, he didn’t even have time to sit before a frantic knock interrupted the silence. His assistant—Yuna—peeked her head in with her tablet pressed tightly to her chest, her knuckles white from the tension. She looked pale, and her voice barely registered.

He furrowed his brow. “Morning…”

“Good morning, Mr. Gojo,” she said quickly. “Your father would like to see you. Now. In his office.”

“…Alright,” he replied slowly, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Did I miss a meeting or something?”

Yuna opened her mouth. Closed it. Then whispered, “I don’t know. But he looked…pretty upset.” She gave him a sympathetic look before turning and walking back to her desk.

Upset didn’t even begin to cover it, though.

The walk to his father’s office was like moving through water. Everything was eerily quiet. Every step sounded too loud. When he reached the double oak doors, he hesitated just a second before pushing them open.

Both of them were already inside.

His mother sat in one of the custom leather chairs on the far end of the room. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, clutching tissue, makeup worn, face streaked with red, like she’d been crying for hours but refused to let the tears fall now.

And to her left, his father stood behind his desk, posture rigid, eyes storm-dark and unblinking. When he turned to look at Satoru, the anger in his eyes could have shattered concrete.

He stepped fully inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

No one said a word for a moment. But he glanced between his parents, unsure which direction the fire would come from first. “…You wanted to see me?” he asked, trying not to let the tension seep into his voice.

His father’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Do you have anything you’d like to tell us?” he asked, cool and measured.

Satoru’s spine straightened. “I—” he faltered, desperately trying to read their expressions again, trying to buy even a second of time to think. “Did I…miss something?”

His mother’s lip trembled. She looked down, then away.

His father’s voice sharpened. “Don’t play stupid. I’m giving you one chance. Do you want to tell us, or do I have to say it aloud?”

Satoru’s pulse started to rise, slow and stuttering. His thoughts scrambled.

There was no way. He hadn’t said anything yet. Not to them. Not to Hana.

Unless—

“Dad, I—I don't know what you’re talking about…” he said carefully, feeling the inside of his mouth go completely dry.

His father didn’t respond. Just stepped out from behind the desk and crossed the room in three swift strides.

The slap came fast, landing before he could even see it coming.

It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t theatrical, just loud and vicious—open-handed across Satoru’s cheek, hard enough to jerk his head to the side. His mother flinched in her seat.

The pain flared hot and immediate. Not just from the impact, but from the humiliation as well.

He could taste metal in his mouth.

The last time his father laid a hand on him was nearly a decade ago—sophomore year of college, the night the cops brought him home after an underage drinking charge and a fight outside a bar. He hadn’t felt this kind of shame since then.

This fury from his dad had clearly been building for a long, long time though.

“You arrogant, ungrateful little bastard,” his father seethed. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out? That you could keep this hidden forever?”

Satoru blinked hard, slowly raising a hand to his stinging cheek. His eyes burned with tears and indignation, with a growing, rising heat that clawed at the base of his throat. His jaw worked as he straightened. His father’s hand still hung in the air for a second before falling back to his side.

“Hide what—?”

“You got her pregnant,” his father spat. “That lowlife barista from your university days. The one we told you to stay away from.”

His mother finally spoke, turning to look at him, her gaze filled to the brim with disappointment. “Hana’s parents called us. They found out from her. She went to your apartment last night.”

Satoru’s stomach dropped. The room spun slightly. He blinked, stunned. “What?”

“She knows, Satoru,” his mother whispered, voice cracking. “She knows everything. And so do they.”

Hana. She knew.

It hit him in layers—the memory of her calling last night, the texts he never responded to, the ultrasound photo that she must have seen under his pillow—

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Fuck.

His mother’s voice cracked. “Do you know how humiliating it is to hear something like that from someone else? To be blindsided like that?”

“You’ve embarrassed this entire family!” his father snapped. “Your mother and I have spent years building your reputation. Years of investing in your future. And this is how you decide to repay us? By knocking up some girl and dragging the Gojo name through the goddamn mud? You have no idea what kind of damage this causes! Not just to your reputation, but to ours. To the legacy of this firm!”

“I didn’t—” he finally managed, but it sounded weak even to him. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. I was going to tell Hana. I just didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t know how? Is that your excuse? You’re lucky they didn’t call the press,” the older Gojo snarled. “Your name—our name—has already been whispered around this entire building. Do you understand what you’ve done?”

“This isn’t just some mistake we can sweep under the rug, Satoru,” his mother said, eyes shining. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“Stop calling it that.”

His voice turned flat. Sharp.

They both looked at him.

Satoru swallowed, his hand curled into a fist by his side. “She’s not a mistake. Neither of them are. She’s my best friend. She’s the mother of my child.”

“She’s not your fiancée,” his father shot back.

“So what?” his voice grew louder now, enough to shake as he continued. “Just because we aren’t together doesn’t mean you get to talk about her like that.”

“Don’t get sanctimonious with me,” his father barked. “You think having a bastard child with her is noble? Do you know how this looks? How much we’ve already had to clean up?”

“She’s nothing, Satoru. She always has been,” his mother whispered. “We warned you about her back when you started school. And this is exactly why.”

He couldn’t breathe. All the oxygen felt like it had been sucked out of the room.

“She’s a mistake, this—” his father gestured with a disgusted hand, “—is a mistake. But it’s one we can fix. We’ll handle it. Quietly. We’ll settle something with her. We can make a statement saying that the baby isn’t yours. That it was all just a big misunderstanding. You’ll apologize to Hana. Make amends. Make that woman sign an NDA, deny paternity—”

“No.”

The word came before he even thought it.

Firm. Final. Echoing off the walls.

He could hear his mother’s breath catch.

“You don’t get to say no.”

“I’m not doing all of that,” he scoffed. “You don’t get to make this decision for me. Not this time. She’s not some fling, she’s not a phase. I care about her—and I care about this baby. And you don’t get to tell me what to do with them. You can be pissed at me, you can cut me off, but I’m not going to fucking abandon them. I won’t.”

“You are our son,” his mother pleaded. “You’re supposed to protect this family. Your name—”

“My name is mine,” he snapped. “And she’s not some scandal that I need to cover up. She’s not some “mistake” to pay off. I’m going to be there for both of them. I’m going to be a father, whether you guys like it or not.”

“You’re throwing away your entire life for a woman who doesn’t belong in it!”

Satoru’s hands shook with anger. Enough was enough.

“No, she does belong in it! You’ve hated her since school. Because she received government assistance, because she didn’t come from the “right” family. But she’s stronger than any of us. She’s doing this on her own. She’s carrying my kid, and she shows up every fucking day without the world holding her hand. She’s not the one who should be ashamed!”

His parents stared at him like they didn’t recognize him. “You’re making a huge mistake, Satoru.”

He stepped back, eyes still burning with frustration. With anger.

“Maybe…But at least it’s mine to make.”

His father looked like he wanted to lunge at him again. His mother’s face crumpled like a used tissue.

And he turned without another word. Left the room without waiting for a dismissal, fingers trembling at his sides, skin flushed with heat and adrenaline. The doors had slammed shut behind him, and the echo followed him down the hallway.

When he finally got back to his office, he slammed the door behind him and sat down slowly into his chair, heaving through the remnants of the fight.

He picked up his phone and sent one text:

They know.

He stared at the message for a long time after it went through, already imagining your expression when finally you saw it—the twist of surprise, maybe even a sliver of guilt. Maybe you’d think it was too little, too late.

But at least now, the truth was out.

The café was unusually quiet for a Thursday morning.

Not silent—there was still the low hiss of milk steaming behind the bar, the occasional click of a laptop trackpad, the soft shuffle of newspaper pages turning—but it felt quieter. Maybe the world was moving a little slower than usual, just out of sync with itself.

You didn’t mind.

The morning rush had already passed, but it still smelled like burnt espresso and an amalgamation of syrups. You moved on autopilot, wiping down the countertops in slow, circular motions. The rag in your hand was damp. Lukewarm dragging over the grain of the wood. The neon-pink “Open” sign flickered faintly in the window.

Your apron strings felt too tight around your waist. Your back ached—not terribly, just a dull weight between your shoulders—and you’d been nursing the same lukewarm tea since your shift started. Someone had left half a muffin in the pastry case again—cranberry orange, crumbling at the edges—and the overhead lights buzzed just faintly enough to make your head hurt.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, pretending not to think.

No one had commented on the way you hadn’t really smiled all morning. Or the fact that you hadn’t said more than a few words to your coworkers unless prompted. Your posture was stiff. Your apron a little off-center. Your name tag slightly crooked. But they didn’t push, which you appreciated. You just mostly kept your head down. Focused on the slow pace of refilling napkins and cleaning. Anything that didn’t require conversation. Anything that didn’t make your mind wander to last night.

Because thinking about it—about him—honestly made you want to cry.

You hadn’t slept much. You’d gone home, curled up on the couch with Bear tucked against your stomach, and stared at the blurry ultrasound photo until your eyes stung. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way he looked at you—defensive and helpless and completely unreadable. You heard your own voice cracking on the sentence, “I can’t keep doing this if he won’t fight for me.”

You meant it. God, you’d meant it so much it still ached to breathe.

You didn’t know what you expected after walking away like that. You weren’t waiting for him to chase you. But you kept catching yourself glancing at your phone, checking it between customers like a reflex. He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t called.

You didn’t know whether to be angry or disappointed. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe just tired.

And now, here you were. Eight hours of forced cheer and aching feet. Eight hours of pretending you didn’t feel like you were slowly unraveling.

The bell over the café doors jingled, soft and familiar.

You glanced up out of habit—ready to greet whoever stepped in with that same practiced smile—but froze when you saw who it was.

Suguru.

He looked almost out of place in the soft light of the café—his black coat damp with rain at the collar, hair pulled back like always, but with a few loose strands clinging to his jaw from the weather. He gave you a crooked smile, brows lifting slightly in greeting. “Hey, stranger.”

“…Hey.” You blinked. Your grip on the rag faltered slightly. “I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since before Satoru broke the news?” he finished, voice easy, without judgment. His smile softened, but didn’t disappear. “Yeah. It’s been a while. Figured I’d check to see if you were still alive.”

You tucked a damp cloth beneath the counter and gave a sheepish little laugh. “Yeah…I’ve been avoiding everyone, I guess…Laying low.”

“Why?”

Your shoulders lifted and fell in a quiet shrug, letting your eyes drift to the floor. “I don’t know. I guess I just—I’ve been kind of embarrassed.”

Suguru tilted his head. “Embarrassed? For what? Getting pregnant? You know it takes two people to do that, right?”

You cracked the barest smile, but your fingers picked at the hem of your apron. “Yeah. I know. It’s just…it’s Satoru. Who happens to be very taken. Not exactly a brag-worthy situation.”

He chuckled. “True. Satoru is—well, Satoru. But still, it’s not your burden to carry alone. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just focused on the damp rings of condensation on the countertop and nodded faintly.

“I mean it,” he said, a little softer now. “You’re not the one who should be hiding. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He leaned against the counter, voice lowering. “And for what it’s worth, everyone in the group’s going to love that kid. You know that, right?”

Your chest somehow ached and fluttered at the tenderness in his tone.

“…Thanks,” you replied quietly.

After a second, he shifted his weight and leaned an elbow gently against the counter, offering another smile. “He came over last night.”

You looked up, surprised. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Showed up in the rain. Looked like shit. We drank, talked a bit. He told me about what happened with you guys.”

You groaned under your breath. “Sounds about right…”

He watched you quietly for a moment. “I know he’s a dumbass, but he’s…trying. I think. But you’re also right to be upset. You’re not asking for too much, you know.”

You felt your throat tighten around a reply, but nothing came. Instead, you just nodded and looked back down, smoothing your hands across the countertop like there was something there to fix.

He glanced around the café—still mostly empty save for the usual regulars, a few laptops glowing dimly, a couple on the far wall sharing earbuds. Then he looked back at you, something a little more careful in his expression.

“When do you get off work?”

You blinked. “Why…?”

“Because,” he said, voice easy. “I was gonna grab some food. There’s this new soba place around the corner from here.” He scratched the back of his neck, “And…I thought maybe you’d want to come too? It’s nothing fancy, but it’s better than cafe leftovers.”

You hesitated, blinking again. “Like…just the two of us?”

“Yeah. Just warm food and hopefully zero Satoru drama. Unless you already have plans,” he added, sounding a little sheepish now. “Totally cool if you don’t want to.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Part of you knew it might look bad. Part of you knew Satoru probably wouldn’t like it. But after everything—after the silence, the fight, the walking away—you were tired of waiting for him to figure things out.

And maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was petty.

But Suguru was here. Being kind. Being steady. And you…didn’t want to be alone tonight.

So you nodded and gave him a quiet, tired smile. “Yeah. Okay. I get off at six.”

His smile stretched a little wider now. “Theeen it’s a date,” he said, tapping his hands against the counter like a dork.

You rolled your eyes, fighting off a genuine smirk, but didn’t correct him.

He left with a wave and a lopsided grin, promising to be back by the time you were done. The bell above the café door jingled again as it shut behind him, leaving you in the still-warm hush of the shop.

You stood there for a moment, hands braced on the counter, staring at the place where he’d just been.

A date.

He’d said it lightly—jokingly, even—but the word still hung in the air like steam above a hot cup of tea.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it could look like. What it could turn into. Suguru wasn’t subtle, not really, even if he pretended to be. And you weren’t naïve enough to pretend that your answer hadn’t meant anything at all. Even if it was just a quiet “yes” said through the ache of everything else.

You sighed and leaned your weight into your palms, head dipping slightly.

You still hadn’t heard from Satoru. Not since last night. Not since the stupid fight.

And wasn’t that the whole point? That you were tired of waiting for him to decide whether or not you were actually worth stepping up for?

Still, a small part of you—tucked deep and unwelcome—whispered that maybe this wasn’t fair. That maybe it would hurt him. That maybe he was doing his best.

But then again…so were you.

And for once, you just wanted to feel like someone saw you—not as a secret, not as a scandal, but as someone worth sitting across a table from. Someone worth showing up for.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t mean anything. Maybe it would mean everything. You didn’t know.

But you’d said yes.

And it counted for something, right?

You eventually went back to wiping down the rest of the counter, letting your heart beat off-rhythm.

You didn’t bother checking your phone again after that. Not for Satoru. Not today. Because for the first time in a while, you were looking forward to something else.

You didn’t see the screen light up behind the bar where you’d left it charging.

Didn’t see the new message that had just come in.

Satoru [7:41 am] They know.

Author's Note: ...👀

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

I also dropped a little Spider-Man!Gojo oneshot if you're interested: here.

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dunmomee · 23 days ago

Text

Cursed Cat

a Witch!Reader x Gojo Satoru One-Shot

a/n: I'm back with another TikTok-inspired one-shot. Hope you enjoy this one!

<<previous

*******************************************************

You were a witch.

Not the green-skinned, wart-covered, cackling kind with a crooked hat and broomstick always in tow.

No, you were the grounded kind. The kind who wore flowing dresses embroidered with flowers, sunshine, and tiny birds. You lived in a cozy little cottage tucked between trees, where the shelves overflowed with worn spell books and half-finished enchantments.

You, like most witches, always had spells lying around, scattered on parchment, bubbling in jars, or tucked between pages with fraying corners.

Lately, you had been into whimsical spells, light-hearted enchantments woven into sweet treats. Cupcakes that made you giggle uncontrollably. Shortbread that summoned vivid dreams. Honey-laced cookies that encouraged the truth to spill from your lips like syrup. It was charming, fun, and harmless.

You were in your playful era. The phase of doing things for the joy of it. The what-if-I-put-a-sleeping-spell-in-a-macaron phase.

The thing was, you had a boyfriend. A silly one. Blue-eyed, snow-haired, tall as a beanstalk.

A knight of your little town, sworn to protect the peace, uphold the law, and somehow still convinced that every sparkly or sweet-smelling thing in your cottage was a snack waiting to be devoured.

So when he had been sent off on a short patrol by the lord of the village, you figured it was the perfect time to try a new spell. One of your whimsical little snack charms, just for fun.

That night, the moonlight spilled through the windows in gentle beams, casting silver streaks across the floorboards as the faint scent of dried herbs and melting sugar lingered in the air. You had decided to spend the evening mixing charm spells into treats to satisfy your inner scientist. You had borrowed a spell book from the library with a charm that could turn living things into other living things.

But you should have known better than to leave enchanted pastries unattended in a house where Gojo Satoru also lived.

Because when you returned from your bath, robe loosely tied and hair damp, you found a sugar-dusted plate with one glaringly empty spot.

You blinked. "Satoru?"

A soft mewl answered you. Followed by the tiniest thud.

Your eyes dropped to the floor. Sitting there, fluff puffed, one glowing blue eye barely visible under a mop of snowy fur, was a very displeased-looking white cat. Long-limbed, twitchy-eared, and unmistakably him.

You blinked again. "Oh no." "Meow."

He was supposed to be away.

"Satoru, you idiot," you hissed, crouching. "Did you eat the dream-bite?"

The cat flicked his tail and stared at you, unblinking.

You groaned. "It was literally glowing. What part of glowing blue cupcake screamed 'midnight snack' to you?!" "Meow," he replied flatly.

You stared at him. He sneezed.

"Oh my gods," you muttered, scooping him up. He yowled dramatically, limbs flailing like he had never been held in his life, even though he very clearly curled into your chest seconds later, tail lashing with both pride and offense.

You placed him gently on the bed. "Alright. Calm down. You’ll turn back in twelve hours. Maybe nine if I can reverse-engineer the sigil matrix, but..." You trailed off as he padded across the duvet, big baby-blue eyes locked on you.

"You want snuggles now?" you asked, rolling onto your side. "A moment ago you were having a hissy fit."

Catoru—because you were absolutely calling him that now—gave a decisive chirp and climbed onto your lap, then your chest, then tucked himself into the crook of your arm like it was made for him. Which, okay, it sort of was.

"Aww. There he is," you murmured, stroking his soft fur with a gentle hand. "Big scary knight reduced to a cuddle puddle."

He purred.

You scratched behind his ear, and he leaned into it. For a moment, it was sweet. Calming. Cute, even.

Then he bit you. Sunk his teeth deep into your palm.

"Ow. Did you just bite me?!"

Catoru sat up, tail flicking with smug triumph. "You little... was that payback?!"

His ears twitched. "Okay. That’s it. No more head pats. You’re cut off."

He blinked slowly. Then turned around and showed you his butt.

You gasped. "Don’t you dare sass me, mister."

But he was already curling into a dramatic fluffy loaf, very deliberately facing away from you like some furry little diva.

You sighed, flopping back onto the pillow. "So much for having fun."

The next morning, you awoke to the sound of groaning.

On your chest, where Catoru had previously been snoozing, was now a very naked, very human Satoru Gojo. His arm was draped across your waist. His face was smushed against your sternum.

You blinked. "You’re back."

"...Did I bite you?" he mumbled.

"Yes."

He looked up, eyes bleary. "Hot."

You smacked his forehead.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #gojo.jjk.txt #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu gojo #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #witchcraft #alternate universe #spells #magic

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dunmomee · 26 days ago

Text

Let Me Chase You the Right Way

synopsis: After an interview, you and Geto head out to meet Satoru and you discover there’s more to him than you ever expected. Then, after a scandalous moment, he tells you he wants to chase you.

a/n: This isn’t in any particular order, but I’ve carried most of the storyline over! I’ve been having so much fun writing Gojo, and Geto makes an appearance too. Thank you all for engaging with my writing!

<<Previous one-shot

The studio was warm under the amber lights but not uncomfortably so. More like golden hour on a sleepy veranda, the kind of hush that made secrets slip easier. You and Geto sat on a deep sapphire couch, twin profiles mirrored in posture and expression. Same black hair, same violet eyes, same dimple that appeared when either of you smirked.

You always joked that you were alternate versions of the same person, split exactly a year apart. Born on the same day. He arrived first, but you had longer, fuller hair, something he still found deeply unfair.

“I don’t think the world knows you two are cousins?” the interviewer asked with a grin, crossing one leg over the other.

“I prefer the word siblings,” Geto replied smoothly. “We’re only children, born on the same day. She’s basically half of me. The dramatic half,” he added, tipping his head toward you.

“And he’s the sulky half,” you said, nudging his knee with yours. “But he makes music that makes people cry, so we let him have it.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Geto, your new album just debuted at number one on the Billboard charts. You also worked on the Crossing Lines soundtrack. What was it like working on something both your cousin and your best friend were so involved in?”

Geto’s smile dipped just slightly, shy, always a little more private under direct light. “Exhausting. Rewarding. Scoring that film was… special. Satoru’s a nightmare to work with. Y/N is an angel. Can never do any wrong. I didn’t work directly with them though. They were on set; I was holed up in the studio. In the shadows.”

You leaned back with a sip of your water. “He’s only being nice because we’re recording. He calls me insufferable when no one’s watching.”

Geto pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “I would never.”

“Would you ever feature Y/N in one of your music videos?”

“I’ve been trying to get her on a track,” Geto said, shooting you a look. “She can sing. Really sing.”

You leaned toward the mic, deadpan. “That’s slander.”

“She’s shy,” he stage-whispered. “But one day. She’s got this soft alto thing, her voice lingers. We harmonized on a demo once, and I’ve been trying to trick her into recording ever since.”

You shrugged. “Let’s see how desperate your next album gets.”

The interviewer blinked, intrigued. “You really sound like you admire her.”

“I do,” Geto said without hesitation. “She’s this other piece of me, just… existing in the middle of all this chaos.”

You blinked, caught off guard, fingers nervously twisting the hem of your cropped shirt.

The conversation flowed from career talk to childhood stories; how you used to steal his CDs, how he once pretended to be your middle school manager just to scare off a persistent boy.

“Besides your eerily similar features,” the interviewer added, “there’s another common thread; Gojo Satoru. You’ve both known him since childhood. What’s he like to you?”

“Like feeding cotton candy to a raccoon,” you said at the same time as Geto.

“Chaotic, but weirdly charming,” Geto clarified with a smirk.

You laughed, throwing your head back as your hair spilled over the top of the couch. “That’s… surprisingly accurate.”

“He’s been my best friend since we were teenagers,” Geto said, settling back. “This movie is really the first time Satoru and Y/N interact outside of me. Watching them finally talk to each other properly, felt like watching my last two braincells meet.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’ve known each other for years, yeah. But like Su-chan said, this was the first time we actually… saw each other. I used to have this fixed image of him in my head. Turns out he’s a little more nuanced than just ‘A-list actor’ or ‘my cousin’s best friend.’”

“There’s definitely chemistry,” the host added, sipping his water. “On-screen and off. The red-carpet kiss?”

“That was Satoru,” you said quickly, your cheeks warming.

“And I have yet to unalive him for that particular stunt,” Geto added with a smirk.

------

The sky was bruising violet by the time you left the studio, tucked into the passenger seat of Geto’s sleek black SUV. The city blurred past in streaks of gold and red, the hum of jazz playing low over the speakers.

“I need to stop by Satoru’s,” Geto said, one hand steady on the wheel.

You blinked, still half-scrolling. “No problem.”

You were half-lost in your phone anyway, browsing outfit options your stylist had just sent over for the next event, each photo more glamorous than the last. The soft saxophone blended with the sound of your swipes as you zoomed in on the hemline of a pearl-white gown.

Geto glanced over at your quiet frame, then back at the road. “You’re so still.”

“I’m reviewing outfits,” you replied, thumb pausing over a silver mesh number. “I need to send feedback by midnight.”

When you finally looked up, the neighborhood outside surprised you. Serene. Trees with darkening leaves. Rows of discreet homes set far back from the street. It was peaceful in a way the city never was.

“I thought he lived in the city.”

“Nah,” Geto replied, turning down a side street. “He moved to the suburbs.”

“The suburbs?” You turned to him, incredulous. “Since when does Gojo Satoru do neighborhoods and white picket fences?”

Geto smiled, a little knowing. “Since he got tired of elevators and glass walls.”

You weren’t prepared for it.

The house sat quietly at the end of a cul-de-sac, wrapped in warm wood and trailing ivy, the porch light flickering like it had been left on for someone. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t clinical. It felt lived in. Human.

Gojo’s house was beautiful, earth-toned and modern, with a wraparound porch and golden light spilling from the windows. A pair of white sneakers sat neatly by the door.

Inside, it smelled like lavender, clean linen, and something faintly citrusy.

You stepped in slowly, your heels clicking against hardwood floors. The walls were lined with framed photos, not just from premieres or shoots, but blurry Polaroids, candid moments frozen mid-laughter. A shelf held a mix of Blu-rays and manga. A dog-eared volume of Bleach leaned beside a crystal whiskey decanter. A pair of black-rimmed reading glasses rested on a stack of scripts.

It was so him, but not the version the world knew. Not the charming, untouchable star. This was the hidden version, the one who let silence be a comfort, not a performance.

“Welcome to the lair,” Gojo said, emerging from the hallway in gray sweatpants and a worn Mets hoodie. His hair was damp, sticking up like he hadn’t bothered with a towel. Barefoot. Relaxed. Disarming.

Dangerous.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day,” you said, still scanning the room.

“What—me, domestic? Say it isn’t so.”

“It’s weirdly… nice.”

Geto handed him a box. “The David Bowie vinyls you had me hunt down across three continents.”

“Ah, my emotional support records.” Satoru glanced at you. “Don’t look so shocked. I live like a functioning adult.”

You blinked. “I just didn’t think you did houses. I thought you collected penthouses and lingerie models.”

He smirked. “Got the idea from someone.”

You raised a brow. “Model number nineteen?”

“No,” he said, voice low, gaze catching yours. “Someone once said a real home is where nothing feels like performance. I guess I wanted that.”

You looked away too quickly.

He busied himself with the vinyls, flipping through each one like it held secrets. “Tea? Yogurt? Ice cream?”

You shook your head, stepping into the living room. “It’s shockingly normal in here. No secret marble staircase? No neon-lit bar?”

“I’m full of surprises.” He slid the vinyl onto an empty shelf space, it looked like it had always belonged there.

Geto’s phone rang. He stepped into the hallway to take the call.

You trailed your fingers along the couch cushions. “Honestly, this is impressive, Satoru. I was expecting... I don’t know. The half-naked posters. All the Zanpakutō replicas you used to collect.”

He laughed. “They were tastefully curated. And very on-brand.”

Geto returned with a groan. “Shoko and my mom blew a tire after tennis. I’ve gotta go.”

You blinked. “Are they okay?”

He winked. “They’re fine. Satoru’ll drive you home.” He turned to Gojo. “Not one hair on her head, got it?”

He typed something into his phone. A soft ding echoed from Satoru’s pocket.

“I sent him your address,” Geto added, kissing your forehead. “Don’t argue.”

You sighed. “I could’ve just Ubered, Su-chan.”

“I’ll sleep better this way.”

And then he was gone.

Gojo gave you a mock-serious look. “You still call him Su-chan?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, heat rising to your cheeks.

Gojo smirked, stretched his arms over his head, and made his way toward a narrow credenza near the entryway. He grabbed his keys, a blue-metallic Porsche 911 Turbo S.

Of course.

“Let’s go, princess,” he said with a smirk, twirling them on one finger.

The drive was quiet, cushioned by the purr of the engine and the faint hum of the city bleeding past the windshield. Gojo adjusted the air vents without glancing your way.

“New Arctic Monkeys is garbage,” he muttered.

You snorted. “It’s not garbage. It’s just sad-boy lounge music.”

“Exactly. Garbage.”

You shrugged. “I like sad-boy lounge.”

“Of course you do,” he said, casting a sideways glance. “Remember when you used to write down every single One Direction lyric and try to sing along? You were obsessed with Zayn.”

You gasped. “How do you even remember that?”

“Because I had to hear it. Every Sunday. On the balcony. In this bizarre high-pitched croak.”

You both laughed, and the air in the car loosened. Easier now. Lighter.

“Back when everything was simpler,” you said eventually, eyes following the blur of lights outside.

“This is the part where you say, ‘Satoru, you made it more exciting.’”

You turned toward him, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. “It was chaos with you around. But I loved every moment.”

He smirked. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Keep dreaming, Satoru.”

When he pulled into your street, he slowed to a crawl.

Your place sat on the corner, tucked behind a narrow gate softened with ivy and tall grasses. Warm porch light spilled out, pale yellow curtains glowing faintly behind the windows.

Gojo blinked. “...This is really nice.”

You smiled faintly. “Thanks. I moved in last month. Still doesn’t feel like mine yet.”

He turned off the engine and looked over. “Why?”

You hesitated, then exhaled. “Everything from the last place reminded me of him. Five years is a long time to collect... things. Mugs. Coasters. Pillows. I even had to replace my toothbrush holder.”

His expression shifted, something unreadable flickered in those glacier-blue eyes.

You opened your door. “You wanna come in? I owe you a drink for the ride.”

He paused. A fraction too long. “I don’t want to... cross anything,” he said slowly.

You looked back at him. “It’s tea, Satoru. Not a binding contract.”

Your place was warm in a way most apartments never truly achieved. Books stacked along the side of the couch, a throw blanket draped carelessly over the backrest, flickering candles scented with bergamot and honey. It wasn’t a set. It was a real place. Yours.

He followed you inside slowly, glancing at the walls.

Then he saw it.

Hanging above your small hallway table, nestled between an oil painting and a mirror: a postcard-sized sketch, faded with time, curled at the corners.

Two kids in sunglasses and matching pool floaties. Gojo had drawn it—badly—when you were fourteen. He’d signed it with a doodle of himself grinning and the words, “To Y/N: don’t forget I peaked early.”

He stared, unmoving. You were already in the kitchen.

He didn’t say a word when you came back with two mugs of tea.

“You still take yours with too much honey, right?” you asked, handing him one.

He accepted it silently. Didn’t mention the sketch.

You both sat on the couch. The silence wasn’t awkward. Just thick.

“So,” you finally said, blowing on your tea, “you ready for the storm?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The rest of the press tour. The media circus. The ‘Are-they-dating-are-they-not’ TikTok edits.”

He smiled wryly. “They’ll crucify us if we don’t flirt in public.”

“They’re already crucifying us because you do.”

He leaned back, arm resting on the cushion behind you. “What can I say? We have chemistry.”

You scoffed. “It’s because you’re the good-looking one.”

His gaze sharpened, just for a second. “You never give yourself enough credit.”

The air shifted.

His fingers tapped his mug once, then he stood.

“Well. I should go—”

“Wait,” you said, rising instinctively.

He stopped in front of your wall, turning to you slowly.

“That sketch,” he said softly. “I can’t believe you still have it.”

You shrugged, voice quieter. “You were the first person who made me laugh after my dad passed away. I kept it.”

Silence.

He stepped toward you.

You didn’t move.

“You were my light that summer,” you said.

“I really didn’t do anything, Y/N. Suguru—”

You stepped closer, filling the gap between you two. Mugs forgotten.

He reached out, one hand brushing your jaw, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

You tilted your chin up.

“Satoru...”

His other hand slid under your shirt. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, eyes hooded.

You rose on your toes, hand slipping into the soft undercut at the back of his neck.

His lips ghosted over yours.

He kissed you. Deep. Slow. Like he’d been waiting years and still didn’t want to rush. It was nothing like the one he'd delivered for the cameras or on the red carpet. It was void of playfulness and tease. This was different.

You clung to his hoodie. His hand traced your ribcage before cupping your bra-clad breasts. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then, he pulled away. Just enough.

His forehead rested against yours.

“I want to chase you,” he whispered. “The proper way.”

And then, before you could speak. Before you could even open your eyes—

He stepped back.

Turned.

And left.

The door clicked softly behind him.

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dunmomee · 28 days ago

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dunmomee · 29 days ago

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Let Me Chase You the Right Way

synopsis: After an interview, you and Geto head out to meet Satoru and you discover there’s more to him than you ever expected. Then, after a scandalous moment, he tells you he wants to chase you.

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