#the rickshaw man | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tangyneon · 17 days ago

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strawberry daiquiri

Between the sweltering heat of off-season Goa, a vengeful cursed spirit collecting deaths and madness like some grotesque pastime, your perpetually panicked handler trying to moral-police you with all the grace of a traffic warden, and the very man for whom you’re suffering through this circus—grinning, teasing, and holding your heart like it’s the most precious entertaining thing he’s ever owned—

You don’t know how this trip to the Pearl of the Orient will turn out.

But you do know this: love him, sigh at him, whatever—when Gojo’s by your side, it’s bound to be the kind of unforgettable that lingers for a lifetime.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: angst (very light); fluff (very heavy); humor; smut; silly misunderstandings; gojo and you have been engaged since childhood because of an agreement between his clan and yours; you are in your twenties now (gojo: 23 while you: 21); ooc-ish ijichi(??); vaguely established relationship; vaguely secret relationship; mission-turned-vacation fic; word count—14,114. warnings: you're slightly insecure and fairly territorial; allusions to homewrecking (no such thing happens in the fic); explicit sexual content so MDNI!! (unprotected sex, penetrative sex); one brief mention of future marriage and kids. notes: here's my entry for my loveliest bisque @lily-bisque's summer bash collab!! thank you so much, my love, for organising this event!! i love you so much. 😌❤️

July is not the month to visit Goa.

One glance at your phone confirms what your skin already knows: the temperature is a sweltering 32°C, the humidity is a suffocating 78%, and the wind is barely a whisper—if it’s there at all. You’ve been cloistered away in your clan estate for so long that even the light-by-Goa-standards off-season bustle outside Dabolim Airport feels overwhelming. Too many people, too many cursed signatures, too many voices—it makes your head throb. You want to curl into yourself, find a quiet corner somewhere, even if that “somewhere” is just a stretch of pavement.

Still, despite the ache building behind your eyes, you can’t deny this: Goa is breathtaking.

The sun hangs low over the Arabian Sea, bleeding molten gold into the endless blue of the sky and water. The streets—cobbled, colourful, loud—stretch before you like a living mural. Scooters zoom past close enough to ruffle your clothes. Dogs bark lazily from under sun-scorched auto-rickshaws. The buildings are colonial bones draped in fading Portuguese reds and blues, their paint peeling like old stories left too long under sun and monsoon.

But none of that—none of it—makes your breath catch like the man walking five steps ahead of you, sipping coconut water like he’s on a honeymoon instead of a mission.

Gojo Satoru.

Six-foot-something of casually cocky perfection, wearing a breezy white shirt and linen pants rolled at the ankles. His blindfold is on vacation—replaced by a pair of designer sunglasses you know are completely blacked-out. He runs a hand through his already tousled hair, ruffling the slightly-too-long strands. His posture is too graceful for someone who insists he “doesn’t believe in posture.”

You’ve been around him all your life, and still, he makes your heart stumble behind your ribs.

Even now, as your suitcase rattles across a cracked sidewalk and sweat gathers at your back from the coastal air, your awareness of him is painfully sharp. The space he occupies without trying. The quiet magnetism he exudes while checking the map on his phone. The lazy wave he tosses towards a group of women who are whispering shamelessly about him—giggles high-pitched and grating.

You don’t blame them. Not really.

It’s just that you want to turn, glare, and yell: Don’t ogle another woman’s man, you vultures. He’s mine. He always has been.

But you don’t.

You’ve never needed to. You’re promised to each other anyway—an old arrangement between his clan and yours, drafted long before either of you lost your baby teeth. He’s never protested. You’ve never thought to.

You’ve only ever loved him—maybe even before you knew what that four-letter word really meant.

And yet… sometimes, it still feels like you’re chasing his shadow.

Even now.

Especially now.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Gojo,” you call out, a little breathless as you finally catch up to his long-legged stride outside the car rental shop, dragging your suitcase behind you. If he notices the shift in what you just called him—the switch from your usual, more personal way of addressing him—he doesn’t comment. Just raises a brow in that infuriatingly casual way of his.

You ignore it, looking up at him with what you hope is a glare. It ends up more of a pout. You suppose you can never stay truly mad at a sunburst, can you?

“You said this would be mild weather.”

Pushing his sunglasses up onto his head, he turns to you with a grin— bright, blinding, and frankly sinful. “This is mild,” he says, with mock innocence, “You should see Rajasthan in April. Compared to that, this is coconut-sipping, beach-walking, ghost-hunting weather.”

Ah. Ghost hunting.

Right. That.

You’d nearly forgotten. But now that he’s mentioned it, your thoughts flicker back to the file tucked inside your backpack—the one about the curse.

It’s old. Anchored. Stubborn to the point of terrifying. It has festered for centuries inside a crumbling colonial villa in Fontainhas. The locals don’t go near it. Not even the stray dogs wander past its gates. The last two sorcerers sent to handle it came back... wrong. One doesn’t speak anymore. The other won’t leave his house and refuses to explain why.

Your team had been dispatched because Gojo doesn’t flinch at ancient horror. You’ve never been the type to walk away from fear. And Ijichi—well.

You're still trying to figure that part out. Bureaucratic reasons, probably.

Speaking of—

You turn just in time to see Ijichi enter the rental shop, clutching his folder like it’s a holy relic, dressed in a full suit despite the 78% humidity.

You feel bad for him.

Correction: almost bad. The sympathy evaporates when he glances your way—specifically at you standing maybe a bit too close to Gojo—and his frown deepens into something so dark, you half-expect a cursed spirit to crawl out of it.

“What?” you ask, frowning back instinctively.

“Nothing, Miss,” he says stiffly, adjusting his glasses. He walks past without another glance—but not before muttering under his breath something suspiciously like “improper conduct on missions.”

You’ve been wondering if the guy simply disliked you.

Now, you’re pretty sure he outright despises you.

You glance at Gojo, who’s watching Ijichi’s retreat with barely concealed amusement.

“Ijichi’s been glaring at me since Haneda,” you murmur, “Is it the heat? Am I dressed wrong? Did I say something? What’s his deal?”

Gojo shrugs, like the matter is hardly worth the effort. “He thinks you’re here to ruin my life.”

You blink. “...What?”

“He’s convinced you’re, y’know...” Gojo draws the words out; his grin turns positively feline, “Trying to seduce me.”

You choke on a breath. “I—What?”

“He’s worried about my moral standing.”

You stare at him. Then deadpan, “You barely have one.”

“Not untrue,” he sing-songs, tossing you the keys to the rental.

You toss them back immediately. You’re not in the mood to drive.

He catches them effortlessly, and that’s all he offers before he turns and saunters towards the car, expecting—of course—that you’ll follow.

Which, of course, you do.

As always.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Fontainhas looks like something out of an oil painting, you think.

Colours—bold and faded, warm and cool—bleed into one another like water across an artist’s canvas. There’s a dreamy, timeless quality to the narrow streets, as if the whole place exists a little outside of reality. But your focus doesn’t linger long on its beauty. It’s quickly pulled to the end of the quarter—where your destination waits.

The villa stands alone, past the early stirrings of the neighbourhood: vendors setting up stalls, women sweeping mango leaves into neat piles by the roadside. A high stone wall surrounds the property, its wrought-iron gates half-consumed by rust and creeping vines.

If you had to choose one word to describe it, it would be this: looming.

And even before you cross its threshold, you feel it—that energy, thick and unsettling. It hums beneath your skin like static. Like something watching. The open, salty air of the coast turns sluggish and heavy around you, dense with the scent of rot and something faintly floral beneath it, like wilted roses. Wind chimes tinkle faintly in the distance, though there’s no breeze to stir them.

You stop at the gate.

Gojo stills beside you, the back of his hand brushing lightly against yours.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low.

You glance up at him, grin tugging at your lips. “I’ve been ready since Tokyo, Gojo.”

He watches you for a moment, gaze searching. Then he smiles. Not the usual wide, cocky grin—the one made for crowds and chaos. This smile is smaller. Quieter. But proud. Protective.

You try not to notice the way it makes your stomach flutter.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s worse inside.

You can’t say exactly how—there’s no one thing you can point to. Everything just feels... wrong.

The silence clings, wet and suffocating. Paint curls off the walls in brittle strips. Mold blooms in the corners like spreading bruises. The white sheets draped over the furniture rise and fall with every breath you take—as if the house itself is breathing with you. The walls feel like they’re leaning in if you look too long. And if you listen too closely... you’re almost sure you can hear someone sobbing.

The cursed spirit is here.

And it’s not hiding.

It’s waiting.

Your cursed energy prickles beneath your skin, warning you—thrumming sharp and electric. It settles for just a beat when Gojo lightly touches your back, his palm warm through the fabric of your shirt.

“Upstairs,” he mouths.

You nod.

The three of you move slowly—carefully—through the dark, winding hallway, past the staircase, and up towards the master bedroom. That’s where the energy pulses thickest, foulest. Behind you, Ijichi clings to the banister like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You bite back a snort, refocusing as you reach the top of the stairs. A line from the file flashes through your mind—and something sharp twists in your chest.

“She was a wife,” you say quietly, just loud enough for Gojo to hear, “Before she turned. Lost her husband to war. Her kids to sickness. People say her body left the house, but her soul never did.”

Gojo glances at you, puzzled—but before you can ask why, he pushes open the bedroom door.

And there she is.

Or what’s left of her.

A shadow in a black dress and a gauzy veil, standing perfectly still. Her arms dangle limply at her sides. Her face is hidden—until she turns.

And then—

Her jaw is unhinged, torn wide and wrong, her cheeks split like cracked porcelain. Her eyes are gone. Only two empty sockets remain, from which something black and thick weeps, like tar or blood that’s forgotten how to die.

She screams.

Mirrors shatter. The floor groans and trembles beneath you.

Gojo moves instantly, stepping in front of you—protective, instinctual. But the spirit doesn’t lunge at you. Or him.

She lunges at Ijichi.

And that’s when you and Gojo erupt into action.

He grabs Ijichi by the collar, yanking him backward just as you fire a burst of cursed energy. The hit lands squarely—her head jerks back violently, but she recovers fast. Too fast. She twists midair, limbs elongating like shadows dipped in oil, arms lashing out in impossible angles. One slashes past your cheek—too close. You ready another attack, gathering cursed energy in your palms—when you see it.

Gojo vanishes.

And reappears behind her.

She senses it—begins to turn—but he doesn’t give her the chance.

He lifts one hand. No words. No warning. Just a silent, flawless pulse of violet light blooms in the air—soft and beautiful, like a single drop of ink falling into still water.

Precise. Final. Perfect.

The cursed spirit explodes into a cloud of ash and screams, dissolving into nothingness.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You’re not sure what you expected after the mission—but it definitely wasn’t this.

This silence.

Not empty, but almost sacred.

You’re standing in the courtyard now, breath coming a little too fast in the air that’s still thick—though no longer with rot or decay, but with smoke and dust and the aftermath of something broken finally being released. You were busy brushing debris from your clothes, until Gojo stepped in and took over.

He’s in front of you now, long fingers dusting off your shoulders, slow and gentle. Then they stop—pause—linger.

You glance up.

He’s looking at you. Longer than usual, you realize distantly. Watching, maybe. Or checking. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.

“You okay?” he asks, quiet now. Almost soft.

“Mmhm.” You nod without hesitation, managing a small smile. “Tired, maybe. But yeah. I’m okay.”

He nods too, but slower. His fingers trail lightly down your arm before they finally fall away, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You step a little closer without thinking.

“Thanks for protecting me in there,” you say, voice soft but full. The gratitude comes easily—because how could it not? You’ve always seen how hard he works, how much he carries. For everyone.

Gojo studies you again, silent for a second longer. Then—

“Always,” he murmurs.

But before the moment can settle—

A cough.

Loud.

Deliberate.

You turn, and there’s Ijichi. Again. Glaring. Not at Gojo—at you. As if he’s watching a slow-motion car crash and trying to decide whether to drag you from the wreckage... or just let it play out and burn out of principle.

You sigh.

Then scowl—because Gojo’s caught your eye and is grinning. Like this is all terribly amusing.

You’re beginning to realise this trip might be longer—and significantly more chaotic—than you planned for.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The car ride to the hotel is thick with more than just midday humidity.

It feels heavy—as though something dense has slipped into the back seat with you, breathing softly against the nape of your neck. You think it’s the remnants of the cursed spirit, still clinging to you like soot in the cracks of your skin. You can still hear her final shriek, see the gaping horror of her broken face—and feel Gojo’s hand at the small of your back, grounding you, his fingers brushing down your arm like a tether in a world coming undone.

You wish he were next to you now, sharing your space like he always does, making things feel easier just by being there.

But he isn’t.

Gojo sits in the passenger seat instead, reclined slightly, legs bent in a way that makes your knees ache just looking at them. He seems far too relaxed for someone who just incinerated a centuries-old curse. His hair’s damp at the ends, sticking out in unruly directions. His shirt’s rumpled, a few buttons undone at the collar, exposing the clean line of his throat and a flash of pale skin.

You wonder, absently, if he remembered sunscreen. He may have Infinity, sure—but it can’t shield him from every act of sun-induced idiocy.

You sigh softly, turning towards the window, half-heartedly watching palm trees flicker past like brushstrokes on a moving canvas.

Then you glance at him again anyway.

Every tilt of his head. Every rise and fall of his chest. The slope of his neck—the same one you kissed once, on the night of your 21st birthday. In the backseat of his car, your fingers trembling, your heart racing, your mouths quiet and clumsy in the dark, fogging up the windows with your breath, your want.

You’ve been trying not to think about that night ever since you saw him outside Departures at Haneda.

You’ve failed. Again. And again. And again.

You don’t even realize you’re smiling—until Ijichi clears his throat. Loud. Pointed.

Resisting the urge to thump your head against the window, you tear your gaze away from Gojo’s profile.

“Do you have something to say, Ijichi-san?” you ask sweetly—too sweetly, sharpness nestled just beneath the syrup.

He flinches slightly. Then, stiffly, “No, Miss. Not at all.”

Liar.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens just enough for the leather to creak under his palms.

From the front seat, Gojo hums—low and amused—like he’s doing his damnedest not to laugh.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The boutique hotel you're staying at looks like it was plucked straight from the pages of a slow-burn romance novel set in the tropics.

All ivy-draped balustrades and weathered white wood, the kind that looks like it’s survived both monsoons and wars. Stained glass windows throw patches of soft colour onto sun-warmed tiles. Brass lanterns hang from the walls and sway gently from trees. Fallen mangoes lie scattered, golden and drowsy in the heat. The scent of plumeria drifts through the open-air lobby, where ceiling fans turn lazily above carved wooden furniture.

At the entrance, a shallow pond glimmers quietly in the sun—and you can’t help the fond smile that tugs at your lips when you catch sight of Gojo crouched by the edge, attempting to feed the fish bits of cashew brittle from the welcome basket.

Ijichi is the one who insists on checking in for all three of you. You know it’s partly to manage logistics—and mostly to control the room assignments.

“Three single rooms,” he mutters to the receptionist, adjusting his glasses, “Preferably one across the hall.”

You bite back a swear—not because you care what anyone thinks, but because Gojo is still cooing at the fish and narrating what he thinks their lives must be like. He hasn’t looked that unguarded in a while, and you’re determined to soak in every second of it.

Eventually, though, the three of you have to head upstairs and change out of clothes that still reek faintly of soot and spirit ash.

Your room takes your breath away the moment you step in.

Spacious and high-ceilinged, washed in golden afternoon light, it opens out to a private balcony framed by flowering vines. The furniture is antique—richly polished wood with intricate mother-of-pearl inlay—and the air carries the scent of old sandalwood and something crisp, almost like jasmine.

But what makes the room even better is when you poke your head out the door, curious, and spot Gojo.

He’s standing in the doorway directly opposite yours, yawning mid-step just as he’s about to shut his door. But when he catches your eye, he stops, leans into the doorframe, folds his arms, and gives you a slow, knowing smile.

“Hi,” he drawls.

You try to keep your grin at bay—fail completely—and hum back, “Hi.”

A few doors down, Ijichi sighs audibly.

“If you’d prefer the room on the fifth floor, Gojo-san,” he offers, voice dry, “it has a view of the sea—”

“No need, Ijichi,” Gojo cuts in without missing a beat, eyes still locked with yours, “Pretty sure I’ve already got the best view in the whole hotel.”

Ijichi exhales a far more aggrieved sigh this time—but you hardly hear it.

You’re too busy getting lost in the aquamarine gaze fixed squarely on you.

Then, in a sudden flurry of mortification, you duck back into your room and shut the door. Your hand flies to your mouth, doing absolutely nothing to stifle the burst of flustered giggles that escape anyway.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The hotel’s restaurant is a shaded verandah that overlooks the sea, all soft breeze and rustling palms.

The wind flutters linen napkins and Gojo’s hair alike, and you keep catching yourself—every two seconds—watching how he spoons the coconut curry onto his plate like it’s an art form. You swallow when he lifts the spoon to his lips. Almost drop your fork when he casually licks a smear of curry off his finger.

“You okay there?” he asks, glancing at you sidelong.

You nod a little too quickly, cheeks burning, eyes darting back to your plate as you stab a poor, unsuspecting prawn with far more force than necessary.

Anyway—awkward fluster aside—the food is divine.

There’s warm, fluffy poee bread, fiery xacuti that makes your eyes water in the best way, and grilled pomfret so tender it practically melts off the bone, served with paper-thin lemon slices. The rice smells faintly of cloves and cinnamon. And dessert—serradura, soft and cloudlike—layers of whipped cream under a topping of crumbled biscuit that looks like golden sawdust.

It’s so good, you almost forget the world. Just you, the sea breeze, and your fiancé beside you.

Almost.

Until Ijichi—who, now that you think about it, has been suspiciously quiet all lunch—clears his throat and sets his spoon down with something almost theatrical in its gravity.

You blink.

He straightens his back, napkin neatly folded, and gives you a look that somehow manages to be both respectful and judgmental at once. Only Ijichi, you think grimly, could make dessert feel like a disciplinary hearing.

You chance a glance at Gojo, but he seems entirely occupied with scraping the last of the serradura from the sides of his bowl.

Your stomach sinks.

Oh no. Here it comes.

“May I speak with you for a moment, Miss?” Ijichi asks, already standing, gesturing towards the side patio like he’s challenging you to a duel.

You hesitate, flicking another look at your fiancé, hoping for backup—but he doesn’t even look up. Still, you can feel his awareness settle on you, sharp and deliberate. “Don’t take too long,” he hums, voice light but edged with something unmistakable, “We’ve got a beach to visit. And a spice market to lose you in.”

You sigh—quietly, privately—and nod, standing from your chair as you follow Ijichi across the patio.

Reluctantly.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You’ve barely stepped out of view when Ijichi turns sharply, arms crossed tight across his chest.

“I hope you understand the gravity of what you’re doing,” he says.

You blink, mentally retrace your steps, then frown. “Um—eating lunch?”

For a brief moment, he looks like he’s in genuine pain, the kind that comes from a headache with no known cure. Then he exhales, adjusts his glasses, and tries again, “No. I mean with Gojo-san. You seem... quite enamoured.”

You stare at him.

The first thought that crosses your mind is: What century does this man think we’re in to use a word like “enamoured”? The second: a colourful curse followed by what on earth is he on about?

“I’m sorry,” you say slowly, “but—are you implying I’m in love with him?”

“No, Miss. I’m not saying that,” he backtracks quickly, “But I am saying you may be at risk of becoming emotionally entangled in something that will inevitably hurt you. Gojo-san is... engaged.”

You nearly laugh.

Yes, to me, is what almost comes out.

But the words don’t quite make it past your tongue, stopped by the quiet echo of your parents’ advice: Don’t go around advertising your engagement to the head of the Gojo clan. You’re not sure you fully understand why—something about discretion, about safety, about not inviting unnecessary scrutiny. But it’s not like they’ve ever asked you to hide the engagement. Just to be... subtle.

And you trust them enough to respect that.

So instead of answering, you blink at Ijichi, expression politely blank. “Oh?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding solemnly, “It’s not public knowledge, of course. But it’s real. And I know he can be... captivating. But you should consider the position you’re putting him in. As well as yourself.”

You pretend to consider that for five seconds. Maybe six, just to be generous.

“Thanks for your concern,” you say eventually, trying for polite but landing somewhere closer to coolly neutral, “I’ll keep your words in mind.”

He bows, just slightly—like he’s satisfied he’s steered a wayward youth from the edge of moral ruin—and walks away.

You stand there a beat longer, unsure whether you want to laugh, scream, or kick a wall.

Maybe all three.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Fifteen minutes later, there's a knock at your door.

You open it to find Gojo leaning casually against the frame. He’s changed out of the loungewear from lunch, now wearing a loose navy shirt and beige linen pants. His sunglasses dangle from the neckline, and there’s that familiar mischievous spark in his eyes—the one that always means trouble.

Crossing your arms, you give him a grimace.

“Ijichi thinks I’m some seductress trying to sabotage your engagement,” you announce flatly.

Gojo’s grin stretches wide, shoulders shaking with a laugh. “Didn’t I tell you? He’s absolutely convinced.”

“Should we tell him the truth?”

“Please don’t,” he says, shaking his head with mock seriousness, even as his grin grows, “This is way more fun.”

Your grimace deepens into a scowl, only now fully realizing: “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying you,” he corrects smoothly.

The ease of the line makes your breath catch—just a little. You glance down at your flip-flops, trying to hide the flush creeping into your cheeks, huffing under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, extending his hand towards you, palm up, “you’re still coming sightseeing with me.”

You hesitate, just for show—for about two heartbeats.

Then, with a sigh that doesn't even try to sound convincing, you slip your hand into his.

“I guess I am.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Goa in the late afternoon unfurls before you like a dream spun from sunlight and sea breeze.

The taxi winds along narrow roads flanked by swaying palm trees, their shadows stretching long across the sun-dappled asphalt. You pass sleepy little houses painted in faded pastels—mango yellow, coral pink, soft azure—balconies tangled with bougainvillea and blooming frangipani. The scent in the air shifts as you go: sometimes earthy, sometimes tinged with something roasted—firewood, maybe spices—but mostly, it smells of salt and sea and something endlessly warm.

Gojo sits beside you in the backseat this time, sprawled in that way only he can manage—lazy and completely at ease. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but every so often, you catch his head tilt towards you, subtle and brief. You tell yourself—perhaps foolishly—that he’s making sure you’re still there. The way you often do with him. His arm rests along the back of the seat, fingers brushing the edge of your shoulder every time the car jolts or dips. You try to ignore the way your body reacts—but each touch, no matter how subtle, sends a quiet spark through you, like a match slowly catching fire.

Then the driver takes a turn off the coastal road, and the Arabian Sea bursts into view.

You gasp—just a little, breath catching in wonder before you can stop it.

Gojo hears it. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

You glance over—just in time to see the sunlight catch his profile, all clean lines and that maddeningly familiar half-smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “very.”

He smirks. “Not talking about the sea anymore, are we?”

You roll your eyes—but then lean in, just slightly, letting your shoulder rest against his.

Your cheeks are warm. And not just from the heat.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You choose Benaulim over all the other beaches Goa has to offer for one simple reason: it’s quieter. A serene crescent of golden sand tucked away from the chaos of the tourist strip. The sea here is calm, a glassy stretch of turquoise reaching towards a sky wide and cloudless—rare for July, the taxi driver had said earlier, considering how heavy the monsoon rains usually fall this time of year.

Now, you and your fiancé are walking barefoot along the edge of the tide, the warm surf lapping gently at your feet and ankles. It’s peaceful—so peaceful, in fact, that for a moment it feels like the rest of the world has hushed just for you two.

Until Gojo kicks a splash of water your way.

You gasp, hitch your dress to your knees, and retaliate immediately. He laughs, rolling up his linen pants with a mockingly serious expression before splashing you again. Whatever elegance you both began with is soon forgotten, replaced by wet hems, wild laughter, and shrieks as you chase each other up and down the shoreline like kids let loose from school.

When you glance over at Gojo mid-laugh—hair windblown, face unguarded, boyish joy lighting up his features—you feel something deep in your chest stir. Something tender. Something warm.

You’re just about to say something when he suddenly pulls out his phone and points it at you.

“Just stand there—don’t move,” he says, adjusting the angle slightly.

“What? Why?” you ask, instantly suspicious.

“I’m immortalising this moment.”

Your stomach drops. Immortalising—

“No, ’Toru—!” You move to hide your face, regretting not wearing your prettier dress, but you stop at the look he gives you over the rim of his phone.

“Smile, sweetness,” he murmurs, voice soft, “Or glare. Either way, it’s your face I want.”

Click.

You let out an outraged sputter and immediately take off after him, chasing him down the beach. He laughs, full and bright, the sound carrying over the waves. And when you finally catch up—sprint colliding with stumble—he lets you tackle him a little too easily, the two of you collapsing onto the warm sand in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

You end up half over him, panting, strands of your hair clinging to your cheeks. He’s grinning up at you still, sunglasses slightly askew, looking for all the world like this is his favourite place on Earth.

“I missed this,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

His grin fades, softens. Even behind the dark lenses, you feel his gaze settle on you, steady and sincere.

“Me too,” he says quietly.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Next, you hop into an auto-rickshaw bound for Mapusa Market, your heart thudding with quiet excitement as you weave through streets that feel alive—truly alive.

Alive with sound: vendors calling out, bikes honking, music pulsing faintly from distant speakers. Alive with colour: saris like liquid fire, fruit stands stacked with gold and crimson and green. Alive with scent: smoke and spice, salt and sweetness, and something earthy that grounds it all.

The market spills into every available space, stalls overflowing with pyramids of tamarind, baskets of dried red chilies, turmeric in golden mounds, cinnamon bark curled like scrolls, cardamom pods bursting with oil, and black pepper so sharp it singes the air.

And through it all, Gojo walks close behind you. Too close, really, his hand ghosting your lower back under the pretence of guiding you through the crowd. The touch is light, familiar, and yet—every time—it sends a flutter straight to your stomach.

At one point, he buys you a jasmine garland from an old flower-seller and threads it into your hair with careful fingers. You turn your head slightly, catching his expression—focused, almost soft.

“I should get you flowers more often,” he murmurs, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

You glance up at him through your lashes, smile curling on your lips. “Why don’t you, then?”

He shrugs, far too casual. “I’m afraid you’ll fall even more hopelessly in love with me.”

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering just long enough.

“Dangerous game, that, isn’t it?” he adds, voice a whisper.

The words land with more weight than you expect. You turn away, suddenly busy with a rack of embroidered shawls, too flustered to speak, too aware of how right he might be.

By the time you’re done winding through the market’s maze, your hands are full—sandalwood soap, a bundle of incense, and a tiny rosewood elephant carved so finely it almost looks alive.

Gojo insists on one last purchase—an anklet. “For protection,” he says, tone playful but eyes unreadable.

You don’t argue. You simply smile, warm and fond, as he kneels in the middle of the bustling street and fastens it around your ankle. His fingers are gentle, steady, reverent.

The silver jingles prettily when you walk.

And you can’t help making it jingle just a little more when you catch him glancing down, his gaze fixed on your ankle—following the sound like it’s a compass.

One that always, always points to you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You detour into Old Goa just as the tendrils of evening begin weaving themselves through the sky.

The sun is already sinking behind the tall spires of the Basilica of Bom Jesus when you arrive, casting long golden shadows across the ancient stone. There’s a quiet hush in the air, a reverent calm that seems to settle on your shoulders the moment you step inside. You and Gojo walk together through the centuries-old corridors, where candlelight flickers gently against aged murals and the carved faces of saints stand watch from quiet altars. Every corner of the church hums with the weight of time, the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but full—of history, of memory, of prayer.

It takes all of a few seconds for the history nerd in you to come fully alive.

In a hushed voice (because you respect holy places, even if Gojo sometimes forgets), you begin pointing out the details of the Baroque architecture—the grand arches, the gilded ornamentation, the dramatic interplay of light and shadow that defines the style.

“This,” you murmur, eyes shining, “is textbook Baroque. See how heavy the decoration is? And how it draws your eye upward? It’s completely different from Neoclassical architecture, which is more restrained and minimal—”

You pause to gesture delicately at a sculpted archway, only for Gojo to lean a little closer and ask, amusement tucked into his voice, “How long were you up reading about this last night?”

“Three-fifteen,” you admit without hesitation, blinking up at him, a little miffed at being interrupted. But undeterred, you press on, “Anyway—as I was saying, if you were looking at Rococo instead, you'd see softer, more playful detailing. Pastels, whimsical flourishes. It’s lighter in tone than Baroque, almost like—”

Gojo suddenly kisses you on the cheek.

You freeze. Gasp.

And immediately shrink into yourself as a few nearby tourists glance your way, clearly having noticed.

You whip around and glare at your fiancé, cheeks ablaze—but the worst part is the innocent look he gives you in return. All wide-eyed sweetness, as if he hasn’t just disrupted centuries of solemnity with a kiss.

Later, as you pause to light a candle and offer a quiet prayer, you make sure to whisper a few extra apologies on his behalf.

Just in case.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The restaurant you end up choosing for dinner isn’t on any map. You stumble upon it by accident—tucked behind a sleepy row of houses in Colva, half-hidden beneath the wide, gnarled branches of an ancient banyan tree.

It catches your attention immediately: the warm flicker of lanterns hanging from the canopy, casting soft golden halos over the tables below, makes the whole place feel like it’s glowing from the inside out. It’s quiet. Unassuming. Almost magical.

Once seated, you slip off your sandals without hesitation, stretching and wiggling your toes with a quiet sigh—your feet aching from a day spent walking. Your dress still carries the scent of sea spray; your hair, heavy with salt and jasmine, clings softly to your neck. Across from you, Gojo lounges comfortably, sunglasses now hooked on the collar of his shirt, his white hair wind-tossed and a little messy.

He looks... at ease.

Which is rare. And precious.

When the waiter arrives with the menu, you order far too much without thinking twice.

Gojo lifts a brow, half amused, half judging.

“What?” you say defensively, “Goan food makes hunger feel romantic.”

He doesn't argue—just lifts the other brow as if to say Really?

“Oh, please,” you add with a scoff, “As if you aren’t the biggest glutton I know.”

He gasps—mock offended. “Excuse you. I am an elite connoisseur of food.”

You roll your eyes, but this time, you don’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

Soon, the table is crowded with steaming dishes: chicken cafreal, vivid green and bright with coriander and spice; prawn balchão, sharp and fiery with vinegar and red chili; and kingfish recheado, stuffed with spice paste and grilled over coconut husk. The aromas are dizzying.

“Open,” Gojo says, holding out a forkful of fish.

You eye him. “You’re not my nursemaid, ‘Toru.”

“No,” he replies, unfazed, “I’m your fiancé.”

You go still for a beat.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

After a moment, you lower your gaze... then glance up again—silent, soft—and open your mouth.

The fish is incredible—charred, tangy, melting against your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, helpless against the pleasure of the flavour.

When you open them again, Gojo is still watching you.

“I love watching you eat,” he says quietly, leaning in on his elbows, “You don’t hold back. You try to enjoy it as much as you can. That’s... rare.”

You smile, shy despite yourself. “Your fiancée is one of a kind,” you murmur, glancing down at your plate.

You try the sorpotel next—a rich, spicy pork stew—paired with tiny sannas, soft rice cakes meant for soaking it up. Gojo tears one in half, dips it into the stew, and holds it out for you again, wordlessly.

You accept it gently, trying to ignore how often your eyes keep darting to his hands.

And you know he notices.

Of course, he notices.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Between you and Gojo, it doesn’t take long for the plates to be wiped clean. Every last bite disappears—testament to a day full of sun, salt, and shared appetite.

Then comes dessert.

The waiter brings out bebinca, its delicate layers stacked like edible silk, served warm on a ceramic plate. Beside it, a small tumbler of feni—Goa’s infamous local spirit—glistens in the lantern light. It's clear, almost innocent-looking, but you’ve heard the stories.

Gojo picks up his glass, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. He eyes it the way he does cursed objects he’s not quite sure he wants to mess with. You watch as he brings it to his nose, sniffs it once, then pulls back with a frown that says, absolutely not.

“You don’t have to,” you say, amused, “I know you hate alcohol.”

“I do,” he admits, still eyeing the drink, “But I’m also curious. And stupid.”

You smile. “A dangerous combination.”

He glances up. “Ever had this?”

You shake your head. “No. I’ve heard it’s... strong, though.”

A slow smirk spreads across his lips. He sets his glass down and leans in slightly, his voice low but teasing, “Try it. I’m here. I’ll catch you.”

There’s something too intimate in the way he says it—like the words carry more than just their surface meaning.

You hesitate. But only for a second.

Taking the glass, you raise it to your lips and sip. The taste hits immediately—sharp, wild, almost reckless. Like fire and fruit had an argument and made this as a truce. It burns down your throat and leaves behind something sweetly fermented and volatile. It doesn’t just warm you—it ignites, lighting a fuse somewhere low in your chest. Your lips tingle. Your pulse stirs.

Gojo watches you closely, smirk twitching at the corners. “You okay?” he asks, voice velvet-soft.

You nod, exhaling slowly. “Buzzed,” you admit, a little breathless, “but fine.”

He hums, unconvinced yet content, and then—without a word—he leans forward.

With a gentleness that feels startling from someone like him, he wipes something—a crumb? a drop?—from the corner of your mouth using his thumb. But he doesn’t pull away. His hand lingers, cupping your cheek. His skin is warm, the pads of his fingers slightly rough, familiar. Comforting. Dangerous.

And his eyes—oh, his eyes—search yours with something deep and quiet and serious beneath the usual mischief.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

Barely.

Just barely.

But you nod. Somehow, you nod.

Your heart is loud in your ears, but your gaze never leaves his.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The club in Anjuna feels carved straight from the earth itself—etched into the black rock face, wrapped in the scent of salt and surf, half-exposed to the indigo sky above. Tide pools glisten between slabs of stone just beyond the railing, and the sea below crashes in slow, rhythmic waves that seem to echo the throb of bass from within. Inside, the dance floor pulses with life. Neon lights slice through the dark—electric blues, molten reds, searing yellows, acid greens—painting the crowd in colours that flicker too fast to name. The music isn’t just loud—it’s primal. Less a melody and more a hunger.

You pause just at the threshold, hand tightening in Gojo’s. Your breath catches slightly.

This isn’t the world you were raised in. And though you came here eager, part of you balks now—staring at the surge of bodies, all moving in ways that feel untethered, unashamed, utterly unrestrained.

You glance at him.

Gojo’s smile is small. Gentle. He leans close so you can hear him over the music, his voice low and steady, “We can leave if you want.”

You shake your head, almost too quickly. “No. It’s just—” You hesitate, then look back at the crowd, then at him. Closer now, you lace your fingers tightly into his. “It’s just... you’ll stay with me the whole time, right?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then. A flicker of emotion too complicated to name—equal parts affection, delight, and something fiercely protective. He chuckles, soft and unbearably fond, and draws you towards him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, he leads you in.

The press of the crowd is immediate, but Gojo is solid beside you—his hand at the small of your back, his presence cutting through the chaos like a blade. You’re nervous, but you move anyway. You let the beat in, let it guide you. Bit by bit, his coaxing works—each glance, each gentle nudge, each time he mirrors your rhythm with his own until your hesitation falls away.

And then—you’re dancing.

At first, there’s space between you. A polite sort of distance. But that doesn’t last. Not when the music deepens, and the crowd tightens. Not when his hands slide a little lower. Not when your body, almost of its own accord, begins to answer his.

Soon, there’s no space at all.

Your hips meet. Your chests align. You feel every movement—every shift of muscle, every exhale against your cheek. His breath is getting shallower; yours too. One of his hands finds the curve of your back, trailing lower until it rests at your waist, fingertips splayed and possessive.

The DJ changes tracks. The beat shifts—faster now, darker, headier, almost obscene—and you spin, your back pressing flush to Gojo’s chest.

Your head tips back onto his shoulder, a silent question. Gojo answers without hesitation—lips grazing your jaw, trailing downward, warm and lingering. Then—his teeth catch the edge of your pulse, just enough to sting, and your gasp tears unbidden from your throat. Your fingers curl tightly around the arm wrapped around you, no longer stroking but clutching.

His voice, when it comes, is a murmur you feel more than hear, “You’ve always done this to me.”

“Done what?” you breathe, barely able to summon your voice.

“Made me forget how to breathe.”

Six words. Simple. Soft. But they hit you harder than anything else tonight.

Your heart stutters.

You turn in his arms, unable to stop yourself. You want to see him. You need to. And when your eyes meet his—dark behind his tinted glasses, face lit in flashes of red and blue—something inside you breaks open.

You reach beneath the hem of his shirt, your hands splayed over warm, taut skin. You glide your fingertips up, then down, letting your nails trace lightly along the line of his spine.

Gojo shudders, and it only spurs you on.

Rising onto your toes, you brush your lips along his jaw, up to his ear, then back down—pausing just shy of his mouth. Not yet kissing. Not quite. You want to kiss him—God, do you want to—but you want the tension more. You want to let it thrum, let it ache. A kiss would be a climax. This... this is delicious suspension.

You tilt your head, drag your mouth lower—down the column of his throat—and press just enough for your lipstick to leave a faint stain. You want the red to bloom against his pale skin, to mark him as yours.

And then—

He pulls back.

Abruptly. Sharply.

His pupils are blown wide. His breath rough. And there’s no trace of a smile left on his face. Not in his lips. Not in his eyes.

Just want.

Just you.

“We need to leave,” Gojo says, voice strained and ragged, “Now.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s nearly one in the morning when you flag down an auto-rickshaw outside the club.

Gojo lets you climb in first. The seat is already too narrow for two people, but the moment he slides in beside you, it feels impossibly smaller—crowded in the best way. His thigh brushes against yours, his shoulder pressing lightly into your side with every bump in the road. But you don’t move. You don’t shift your leg away when his knee nudges yours. You don’t lean back when his breath stirs the loose strands of your hair. You don’t mind the heat, the humidity, the faint perfume lingering in the air. If anything, it all seems to heighten something else—something unspoken, something heavy with anticipation and the slow burn of want.

The auto winds its way through the sleeping streets of Goa. The night is rich and full: moss-covered colonial houses slip past like faded memories, shuttered shops glow quietly beneath flickering streetlamps, and a small chapel blinks into view, whitewashed and moonlit.

A bell tolls once as you pass.

You wonder if it's a warning. Or a blessing.

You close your eyes, leaning your head against the side bar, letting the breeze lift your hair in gentle threads. The air smells of salt, earth, and the faintest trace of him. You don’t know how long you drift like that—half-lulled by the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road—until something makes you open your eyes.

Gojo’s hand.

It has moved. Just slightly. It rests between you both, fingers inching closer in a slow, almost shy movement. Grazing yours.

You glance down. Then up.

And your heart gives a quiet, thunderous lurch.

Moonlight washes over his face, and in that soft, silvery glow, his eyes—the exact shade of blue you love, the exact shade that once made you believe in colour—meet yours with a look that’s quiet and holy and aching. A gaze full of reverence and restrained hunger, tangled together so tightly they seem indivisible.

His pinky curls around yours.

He squeezes.

The gesture is so small. So delicate. And yet so devastatingly him.

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it—breathless, giddy, a sound spun more from emotion than humour. Gojo’s lips twitch into a smile, as if he’s proud of himself for pulling that from you. You glance briefly at the driver, then shift a little closer, and your fiancé doesn’t hesitate.

His hand slips to your thigh, the press of his fingertips not accidental. They linger—firm, deliberate—on the fabric of your dress.

This time, you don’t laugh. You can’t. Your smile softens, deepens into something else—tender, electric, reverent in its own way. You place your hand over his, fingers slipping between his knuckles like they belong there—and maybe they do. His thumb strokes your skin once, slowly, before going still beneath your palm.

You look at him again.

And he looks at you as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.

You turn away before the intensity consumes you.

But your hand never leaves his. His never leaves your thigh. The silence in the rickshaw grows louder than the hum of the engine. But neither of you breaks it.

By the time the hotel appears through the trees, you’re not sure if you’ve travelled five minutes or fifty.

Gojo pays the driver with a quiet efficiency, glancing away from you only briefly. When he turns back, the rickshaw has already pulled away into the night, leaving the two of you alone in the stone courtyard, bathed in the low golden glow of the entrance lights.

He holds out his hand to you—palm open, fingers waiting.

There’s a smile on his face now. Small. Not teasing. Not playful. Just real. Quiet and steady and sure in a way Gojo rarely allows himself to be.

You don’t hesitate. You place your hand in his.

And he leads you inside.

Up the stairs.

Not to your room.

To his.

And as the door swings shut behind you, slow and silent on its hinges, you realize something with complete and utter clarity—

There is nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

Not now. Not ever.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Silence settles the moment the door clicks shut behind you, the lock turning with a soft, decisive snick.

It’s quiet—almost too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but waiting. The kind of quiet that seems to listen. Only the ceiling fan hums above, a low, lazy rhythm. Beyond the closed balcony doors, you can just make out the faint murmur of the sea, its waves kissing the shore in a lullaby cadence. The night air seeps into the room—thick with coastal heat and the sweetness of distant plumeria, wrapping around you both like tendrils of something unnamed.

You stand at the centre of the room, heart fluttering beneath your ribs, wrist pulsing in time. Your skin is still flushed—still buzzing from the music, from the warm haze of the Goan night, from the way your fiancé has been looking at you all evening like you’re the moon in his sky, the one force that controls every tide inside him.

Gojo says nothing at first.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t grin.

He just watches you.

He stands with his back to the door, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but eyes sharp—carving the moment into memory. His shirt is slightly wrinkled from the day, damp in places from sweat and sea mist, clinging lightly to the contours of his chest. His hair is tousled and soft at the edges—and just beneath the hollow of his throat, you spot a faint red lipstick print. Yours. From earlier.

He hasn’t wiped it away.

That does something to your heart. Something warm. Something a little foolish.

A smile starts to form at your lips—but it falters as you feel the space between you. The silence isn’t empty. It’s charged.

Like the hush before a storm breaks.

Your body knows it. Your heart does too. So does the heat curling low in your belly.

You take a step forward—and the tiny chime of your anklet rings out into the quiet. The one he bought for you earlier today, from a silver vendor in Mapusa. Your gaze drops briefly, watching it catch the lamplight as you take another step. The soft jingle echoes again, and the charm sways, sparkling.

When you lift your eyes again, you find Gojo’s are fixed on your ankle.

“Still wearing it?” he says finally, his voice low and warm, like silk pulled tight over something sharper underneath.

“Mmhm,” you hum, letting the anklet chime once more with a small movement of your foot, “It makes me feel... pretty.”

That pulls his eyes back to yours.

“You’ve always been pretty, dummy,” he says with a quiet huff, then adds after a beat—voice dropping an octave, sharpening into something rawer, more reverent—“But tonight? You’re dangerous.”

The word catches on something inside you.

I’m not, you want to tell him. I never have been. It’s him—Gojo’s the danger. Saying things like that so easily, so sincerely. Making you feel things you can barely name.

You look down, shy and smiling.

But the moment doesn’t last.

Perfect moments never linger long without interruption.

Sure enough, a thought surfaces—uninvited, unwelcome. An old fear, born of the cold corners your heart hasn’t quite cleared out yet. You try to push it away. You’re better than this, you remind yourself. This isn’t some fragile arrangement anymore. It’s real. It’s yours. Built by choice. His, and yours.

But still—you ask.

“There’s no one else in your life, right, ’Toru?”

Gojo’s expression shifts. His brows draw together, just for a second. Then they smooth out, and he exhales a soft laugh—more amused than offended, though you can see something thoughtful flickering in his eyes.

“No,” he says gently, stepping closer, hands lifting to find your hips—his fingers curling into the belt loops of your dress, “There’s no one else. You’re the only one in my life, sweetness. Only you. Always been you.”

Your throat tightens. But something inside your chest loosens at last—uncoils, melts. Relief. Joy. Love. You’re not sure what it is exactly. Only that it threatens to make you glow from the inside out. You step into him without thinking, arms sliding around his waist, tucking yourself close. And when he leans down—lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm and intimate—you feel a shiver spark along your spine.

“And you?” he murmurs.

You pull back just enough to look up at him.

“Just you, ’Toru,” you whisper, “Only you. Always been you.”

He exhales through a crooked smile—pleased, smug in that unmistakably Gojo way that makes your stomach flutter.

“Knew it,” he says, practically purring, “You’re so down bad for me, aren’t you? Can’t even look at anyone else, huh?”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, rolling your eyes—but your voice is too soft, too full of affection for it to land properly. Especially not when you pull him closer and nestle into his chest with a happy little hum.

He chuckles, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. Then he draws you back just enough to tilt your chin up between two fingers. His voice, when he speaks again, is velvet-soft, dipped in fondness and just a hint of mischief.

“But you’re the one blushing because of this insufferable man,” he murmurs, “So tell me—who’s really worse between us, hmm?”

You part your lips—ready to deliver some half-hearted retort—

But he catches them with his first.

And in an instant, the rest of the world disappears.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You have no idea how much time has passed.

No idea how many times he’s kissed you.

All you know is that Gojo has been kissing you—and you’ve been kissing him. Over and over again. Sometimes with your back pressed to the wall, sometimes with his back braced against the bathroom door, and sometimes right in the middle of the hallway, tangled in each other. Your arms are looped tightly around his neck. His hands grip your waist like he's afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

And in the rare seconds you part for breath—just barely—you catch yourself wondering: where does he end, and where do you begin?

But the question never lasts long. Not when he leans back in, and you both fall again with the kind of hunger that only grows with every kiss.

But tonight, there’s something different. Something softer.

Gojo is kissing you slower than you’ve ever known him to.

He’s never been one for patience—restless with want, driven by instinct. You’ve felt that urgency before, seen it light up in his eyes and lace through every touch. But now… it’s gone. There’s none of that frantic energy. No rush, no tugging at clothes, no chasing the high of being close. Replaced by something deeper. Steadier. As if he’s not just kissing you, but learning you again. Or reminding himself that you’re real.

And you can’t fault him.

Not when you’re doing the same—rising onto your toes to chase the heat of his mouth, letting your hands drift to the nape of his neck. Your fingers find his undercut, and when you scratch lightly, he makes a sound so low and sinful it nearly buckles your knees. You swallow it whole.

When he finally pulls away again, it’s only just. His breath ghosts over your lips as you begin to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one—slowly, carefully, even though your hands are shaking with want. Your knuckles graze warm skin as each button comes undone, as more of him is revealed. You feel his breath hitch, and then—

“Are you nervous?” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper.

You hesitate. Then nod, slow and small. “...A little.”

He smiles at that—soft and breathless, almost as if he wasn’t expecting to hear it.

“Good,” he says, brushing the tip of his nose against your cheek, then presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “’Cause I am too.”

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, quiet and honest, resting his forehead against yours. “It’s you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Of course, I am.”

And just like that, your heart twists in the most delicate, most ridiculous way. A real smile blooms on your lips, your eyes pricking with the beginnings of tears. You blink them away as he shrugs out of his shirt, and—

Time halts.

Maybe just for a second. Maybe longer. You can’t tell.

You’ve touched him before. You’ve kissed every inch of him before. You know this body. But this feels different. As your hands roam across his chest and down his abdomen, marvelling at the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles shift and twitch beneath your trembling fingers, it feels like rediscovery—like the very first time, all over again. Like you’re being handed a moment too rare for words.

His shirt drops to the floor.

Yours follows soon after, your dress slipping over your head in a whisper-soft rustle—leaving you standing in lace and flushed skin, heart pounding in your chest.

Gojo swears softly under his breath. And then he’s pulling you to him with no hesitation, pressing every inch of your body flush to his. You feel all of him—solid, warm, real.

“Shit,” he mutters, fingers tracing your waist slowly. His gaze travels over your figure, up and down, before locking back onto your face. “This set is new, isn’t it?”

“Bought it last month,” you manage to say, breathless, light-headed. His hands are on your skin again, sliding higher. “Didn’t know when I’d get the chance to wear it, though.”

His eyes darken at that—burn, really—and a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth—mischief mingled with awe.

“Well,” he says, his voice thick and low, “Best thing I’ve seen all trip.”

And before you can laugh—or blush too hard—he scoops you up in one smooth, effortless motion—arms strong beneath your thighs, his grip secure as he carries you towards the bed like you weigh nothing at all.

You let out a surprised squeak.

Your fiancé just smirks.

“Told you you’re dangerous, dummy.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The sheets are cool beneath your back, but Gojo is warm—so achingly, impossibly warm—as he lowers himself over you, both of you stripped of anything that could keep his bare skin from yours.

He kisses you again, slow and deep and heady, lips moving against yours with a kind of reverence that feels sacred. Then he drifts—across your jaw, down your throat, trailing languid, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath hitch. He hasn’t even touched you anywhere truly intimate yet, but still, you're trembling. Every drag of his lips feels like a spark catching kindling. A storm beginning to rise.

A soft hum vibrates in his chest as he presses a kiss just above your collarbone, and when he pulls back to look at you, your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and your pupils blown wide—mirroring the hunger you see in his eyes. That vibrant blue, now dark and clouded, focused entirely on you.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek, “Already ruined—and I haven’t even really touched you yet.”

“You are touching me, ’Toru,” you breathe, voice catching around a soft smile, “That’s what ruins me.”

He chuckles, and the sound is tender—disbelieving and entirely fond. “You always say the sweetest things when you’re like this.”

Your laugh bubbles up—light, affectionate—but falters the moment his mouth finds the curve of your breast. He kisses it slowly, wetly, with a teasing scrape of teeth before his lips close around your nipple. He sucks hard, drawing a broken gasp from you, while his hand finds the other breast, kneading it with rough, possessive care.

Your thoughts scatter. You can’t hold onto a single one—not when every touch is too much and still not enough. A litany of soft moans and breathy pleas spill from your mouth, unbidden.

And then his hand begins to travel lower, skimming over your stomach in an agonizingly slow descent. His lips leave your breast with a wet pop, and he looks up at you—eyes seeking yours. Always asking. Never taking. Even now.

You don’t know what to do with that kind of gentleness. Even if you gave him the world twice over, you think it still wouldn’t be enough for a man like him.

“Can I?” he asks softly, his voice no more than a breath.

You nod quickly, eagerly, without shame. You’ve never been good at hiding how much you want him. Never because it’s him.

“Please,” you whisper, voice trembling with want—and that’s all he needs.

His fingers slip between your thighs. And he groans when he feels how wet you are for him—low, rough, entirely undone. His gaze drops briefly, taking you in, before returning to your face with a dazed sort of smile. “God, sweetness,” he murmurs, “So ready—just for me, huh?”

You nod again—but your answer turns into a gasp as he plunges two fingers inside you, thick and long, curling deep. His thumb brushes over your clit, sending a jolt through your spine as your hips buck into his palm.

He works you open slowly, steadily—carefully—as though he's crafting something delicate. Your thighs begin to tremble, breath coming in shaky little pants, body straining towards his hand and his voice and his warmth.

“’Toru—” you whimper, when his fingers find a spot that makes your whole body seize.

“I’m here, sweetness,” he soothes, the hand not between your thighs brushing your hair back as he leans in to press a kiss to your temple, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod frantically. “So good—please don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he murmurs, curling his fingers again, just right.

The heat builds sharp and sudden. Sparks shoot up your spine, behind your eyes, and a broken moan tears from your lips.

“You’re close, huh?” he hums.

“Yes—” you cry out, voice splintering as he curls his fingers again, and again. Your back arches and your fingers claw at the sheets. “Yes—almost—almost—”

But then—something breaks through the haze. A thought. A need.

And you stop him.

Your hand closes around his wrist, tugging gently, though the effort drags a choked sob from your throat.

He stills immediately, eyes snapping to yours. “Too much?” he asks, already moving to cradle you closer, concern written in every line of his face.

You shake your head, lips curling into a wobbly, fragile smile. Your eyes shine, too full of something tender, too soft to hold back anymore.

“No, ’Toru,” you whisper, breathless. Your hand cups his cheek, and he leans into your touch like gravity itself is pulling him there. His own hand comes up to cover yours. The expression on his face—so sweet, so worried, so yours—makes your chest ache.

“I just…” your voice trembles, “I don’t want to come like this. I want you inside me. I want to fall apart with you.”

He inhales sharply.

And something in his gaze changes—melts. Like every layer, every facade, every trace of swagger is stripped away. Only he remains. Just Satoru.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmurs.

You laugh through the tears stinging your lashes, brushing your thumb over the apple of his cheek. “Promise?”

He kisses you then—really kisses you. Hard. Deep. Reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your heart on your tongue.

Then he pulls back—only to align himself at your entrance. The tip of his cock, flushed and leaking, brushes against you, teasing just enough to make you whine. But before you can protest, he grips your waist and pulls you closer—

And pushes in.

Slow. Deep. Every inch of him filling you until he’s seated to the hilt, until there’s no space left between you. The stretch pulls a cry from your throat, pleasure and pressure mingling into something incandescent. You’re wrapped so tightly around him it feels unreal—like maybe you were made only for this. For him.

He stills once he’s fully inside, chest rising and falling fast as he rests his forehead to yours. “Fuck,” he breathes, lashes brushing yours, “You feel like heaven. Real heaven.”

You giggle, brushing your nose against his and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Tears threaten again, but this time it’s from nothing but the overwhelming fact that it’s him. That it’s always been him.

And then he moves.

His rhythm is steady at first—deep, rolling thrusts that press you into the mattress and make your nerves light up in sequence. Your arms wind around his shoulders, then slide down his back, your nails tracing his skin until he stutters a little, thrust faltering before picking up again. His lips never stray far from yours—pressing kisses to your mouth, your cheek, your jaw—messy, hungry, full of want.

“Just like that,” he pants, voice thick and raw when he hits your most sensitive spot and you lift your hips to meet him, “You’re taking me so well—tight, perfect—made for me, yeah?”

You moan in response, too far gone for words.

Then he shifts—lifts one of your legs and hooks it around his waist, angling deeper—and stars explode behind your eyes.

“Oh, ’Toru—” you cry out, arching, hands falling limp to the sheets before he captures one in his own. His grip is tight. Grounding.

“Please—so close—I’m so close—”

“I know,” he whispers, hoarse and reverent, “I’ve got you. Just let go, sweetness.”

His free hand finds your clit again, circling in rhythm with his thrusts, and the heat rises fast—unbearable, dizzying. You can’t form words anymore, only moans, only desperate sounds.

And then, right as you feel yourself fall apart beneath him, the words spill out before you can stop them:

“I love you,” you gasp, voice broken and high, tears slipping free, “I love you, ’Toru—I love you so much—”

He doesn’t respond. Not in words.

But he shatters.

Something snaps in him the moment those words leave your lips. His pace falters—then turns rougher, needier, like your love has undone something inside him. He lets out a ragged moan, one hand holding yours tightly while the other wraps around your back, pulling you into him as if he can’t bear any space between you.

And then—you break.

You come with a sharp cry, your body tightening around him, clenching hard. Your vision whites out, and the world falls away.

It takes only seconds before Gojo follows you. With your name falling from his lips like prayer, he buries himself deep inside you as he comes, hips stuttering, arms locking around you like he’ll never let you go. He doesn’t pull away—doesn’t loosen his grip. He just stays like that, shuddering against you, breathing hard into your neck.

“…’Toru?” you whisper, minutes—or maybe only heartbeats—later.

He lifts his head. And smiles.

A boyish, breathtaking smile. Sweet, unguarded—the one only you ever get to see.

Your own smile comes unbidden, breathless and aching, your lashes still damp with unshed tears.

“’Toru,” you say again, soft and full of adoration.

Gojo only grins wider and threads his fingers through your hair, then kisses you again—pressing his joy, his feelings, his everything into the shape of your lips.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The sun in Goa doesn’t rise—it erupts.

Golden light spills through the cream-coloured curtains in brilliant, blazing streaks, carving the morning into the hotel room like both a promise and a warning. Your eyes, heavy with sleep—and the aftermath of a night spent catching up on the weeks life had selfishly kept you apart from your fiancé—blink slowly at the soft chaos around you. Tangled sheets. Scattered clothes. Skin kissed red in places, still tingling.

And Gojo, impossibly warm and draped around you like he was made to fit.

A satisfied hum leaves your lips as you shift beneath the sheets. His palm moves lazily down the curve of your spine, a featherlight touch that makes you shiver even now. You’re curled up together, one of your legs hitched over his hip, the other caught snugly between his. Somewhere in the mess of linens, you spot the silver of your anklet, gleaming where it fell, far from your ankle.

His voice is still rasped with sleep when he murmurs, “You’re glowing.”

You yawn, stretching faintly as you turn towards him. “I’m what?”

“Glowing,” he repeats, smiling, slow and smug, and pulling you gently closer by the waist, “Like you got thoroughly, earth-shatteringly laid by the strongest sorcerer in the world.”

You laugh, loud and delighted, even as you smack a lazy hand against his chest.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Not wrong, though,” he adds with a smirk into your neck, lips brushing the skin there with every syllable.

You groan, burying your face in the pillow as he burrows deeper into you, his arms winding tighter around your waist. But you don’t push him away. If anything, you tilt your head to give him more space to cuddle into. He’s more cat than man like this—stretching, nuzzling, purring contentedly against your skin. You sigh and run your fingers gently down his back, trying to soothe the faint, raised lines your nails must’ve left behind.

For a while, there’s only the quiet murmur of the ocean somewhere in the distance, the whisper of cotton sheets, and the sleepy cadence of your breathing syncing with his.

Eventually, though, the tug of your stomach wins out, and you mumble, “We should go down for breakfast.”

Gojo groans like you’ve just suggested war. He clutches you even closer, anchoring you to him like he could will you into staying. “Why go anywhere?” he complains, voice muffled against your shoulder, “We could stay right here. Order room service. We stay naked. We keep glowing. Easy.”

“But the complimentary breakfast,” you whine, half-laughing as you struggle to pry his arms off you, “I want dosa and sambhar, and masala omelettes, and like... four cups of chai. Maybe five.”

At that, he dramatically flops onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes like a man betrayed. “Can’t believe I’m losing to tea,” he laments, “Me. Gojo Satoru. Your fiancé. The man you said you loved last night. Remember that? That very intense and emotionally significant declaration?”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing, though the blush creeps up your cheeks anyway. Leaning in, you press a kiss to the sharp line of his jaw.

“Only temporarily, ‘Toru,” you murmur sweetly, “I promise I’ll make you my number one again very soon.”

He cracks one eye open, then grins, his hand finding your waist and giving it a playful squeeze.

“You better—or I’m feeding your dosa to the crows.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Surprisingly—miraculously—it takes you and Gojo only thirty minutes to get ready. That’s despite the wandering hands, teasing words, and more than a few stolen kisses that threatened to derail the entire process.

Fresh from a shower and blissfully sore, you throw on one of his white shirts—one that drowns your frame just enough to make you feel both soft and smug—and slip into a pair of comfortable shorts. Your fiancé, ever the menace, emerges in nothing but a loose tank top and grey sweatpants, clearly having lost all regard for decency or, more likely, never possessed any to begin with. He doesn’t even bother combing his hair, just struts out behind you like a man who owns the world—and doesn’t mind flashing most of his pecs and side-boob while at it.

You think about telling him to change. You really do.

But then the scent of hot dosas and spicy sambhar, buttery omelettes, and sweet chai floats up from the sunlit terrace, and your priorities shift instantly. Your stomach lets out an audible growl. Breakfast wins.

You’re just about to tell Gojo something—probably a declaration of love for the dosa—when you freeze.

Ijichi.

There he is, seated alone, under the shade of an umbrella. Hunched over his plate like it’s the last remaining fragment of sanity he owns—and he’s guarding it with his life. You can almost see the weight of his responsibilities slumping his shoulders further, and for one wild second, you feel bad for him.

Then you remember what he said yesterday.

The unsolicited warning. The lecture. About how you should reconsider “pursuing” Gojo because he’s already engaged. How “it wouldn’t be right” and “feelings can’t always be acted on.” Still, considering Ijichi is the one ferrying your fiancé to missions and dealing with the endless administrative nightmares Gojo leaves in his wake, you decide it’s probably best to avoid conflict. Or, ideally, avoid Ijichi altogether.

So, you very slowly begin to circle to the other side of Gojo, hoping to use his taller frame like a human shield from the man’s line of sight. Maybe you can sneak by. Maybe you can—

Unfortunately, Gojo—who has never once had a subtle bone in his body—obliterates your plan before it can even begin.

“Morning, Ijichi~!” he sing-songs across the terrace, his voice ringing out like a shotgun blast in a monastery, “Sleep well?”

Ijichi chokes on his coffee. Literally chokes.

His head jerks up, eyes snapping to Gojo’s near-nude form, then flick to you, then back to Gojo. Then back to you. Back to Gojo. And again, to you.

And then—you watch it happen.

You see the exact moment Ijichi’s brain assembles the puzzle pieces:

Your oversized shirt. Gojo’s blissed-out grin. Your flushed face. Gojo’s tousled hair. Your very specific walk. Gojo’s even more specific glow.

Ijichi pales. Utterly, catastrophically pales. He looks as if someone just informed him the veil between worlds has torn open and you two are what emerged from the breach.

You offer a stiff, sheepish smile and hurry along after Gojo. Your fiancé, of course, breezes by without a care in the world, humming a chipper tune as he piles his plate high like he didn’t just detonate a moral crisis ten feet behind him.

As you pass Ijichi’s table, you risk one final glance—just in time to see him sit still frozen, staring into the middle distance like he’s questioning all of his life choices. You’re not sure if he’s about to faint, scream, or file a formal report.

You think, generously, that you should maybe feel bad for him.

But then again...

You try to bite back a laugh—though not very well. It slips out anyway. A giggle. No, a chuckle. No, let’s be honest: it’s a full-blown cackle.

Poor Ijichi.

May he find peace.

Just not today.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

By the time you and Gojo have finished piling your plates high, your chorus of cackles is mostly under control. Mostly.

Your plate is a dream you’ve been chasing since forever—crispy dosa with steaming sambhar, two kinds of chutney, and a small bowl of juicy, golden mango slices. Gojo’s plate, on the other hand, is an absolute crime scene: soft idlis, coconut chutney, and—because self-restraint is a myth to him—an outrageous number of croissants slathered with butter and drowning in jam. Looking at his mountain of carbs and sugar, you can’t help but wonder: when you’re married and living together, what will breakfast look like? More of your spice-and-savoury heaven or his sugar-saturated paradise? You decide, absently, it’ll have to be something in between.

Balancing the plate carefully, you turn, your mind torn between not tripping and indulging in daydreams—of domestic mornings, Gojo hugging you from behind while you cook, doing his damnedest to distract you, just like in those cheesy romance novels—

—when your fiancé suddenly vanishes.

One moment, he’s beside you. The next, he shoves his plate into your hands and mutters something about “apple juice or watermelon juice,” before striding off into the crowd like the devil’s errand boy.

That’s when you notice it: every single table is occupied. Which means the only option is the table currently hosting one (1) morally distressed, self-righteous manager.

And in that moment, you understand—your fiancé isn’t just strong, he’s a tactical genius. Because, of course, he knows Ijichi won’t say a word with him present. But if he’s not? Cue the meltdown. And Gojo? Oh, Gojo is going to enjoy every second of it from the sidelines with his stupid croissants and chilled juice.

Suppressing a sigh, you paste on the brightest smile you can manage, and make your way to the table, balancing two plates and a growing sense of doom. You slide into the chair opposite Ijichi, careful and casual. He immediately shifts his plate closer. Then his glass of water. Like you’re carrying something contagious. You blink. Irritation pricks, sharp along your jaw, but you keep your voice sweet—years of being the eldest scion of a jujutsu clan weren’t for nothing.

“Morning, Ijichi-san!” you chirp.

“Don’t,” he says immediately.

“Don’t what?” you reply, just as quick, just as sweetly.

He scowls, then glances around, making sure Gojo isn’t in earshot, before leaning forward. His voice drops to a whisper, urgent and fraying at the edges like a man clinging to the last thread of sanity, “You spent the night with Gojo-san, didn’t you?”

You tear a piece of dosa, dip it delicately in sambhar, and pop it into your mouth. Chew. Swallow. Smile. Then hum softly, almost dreamily, “It was a nice night.”

The squeak that escapes him almost makes you lose it again—but you smother the laugh in time. Barely.

“BUT I WARNED YOU YESTERDAY!” he blurts out, way too loud, before instantly clapping a hand over his mouth and scanning the terrace for Gojo again, panic practically vibrating off his frame.

You flick a glance towards the live kitchen where Gojo is—of course—chatting animatedly with a chef, giving instructions like he owns the place. Your heart squeezes at the sight—because your fiancé doesn’t even like eggs, yet here he is, fussing over an omelette just because you do. Warmth floods your chest, and you tear your eyes away before you drown in it completely—back to the present and the man across from you, who looks at you like you’re the devil incarnate.

“Yes, you did warn me,” you admit, voice cool but polite.

“I told you to keep your distance to protect Gojo-san’s position!” he hisses, growing more frantic by the second.

“Mmhm.” You nod, spearing a slice of mango with your fork, wondering just how much longer Gojo plans to leave you here, if you should just abandon Ijichi and join your fiancé. Your patience is hanging by a single, fraying thread.

“I said you were putting his engagement at risk! That this… this dalliance could destroy everything—”

Your teeth catch your tongue, sharp and painful.

And that’s the last straw.

Enough.

To hell with your parents’ insistence on keeping this engagement discreet—you’re done.

You snap.

“Tell me, Ijichi-san—are you the one engaged to Gojo?”

He freezes mid-breath. “W-What!?” His eyes bulge. “Wh—No! Of course not! Why would you even—”

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” you hum. You pop the mango into your mouth, then smile—soft, sweet, and just sharp enough to cut glass. “Because I am the one engaged to him.”

Ijichi blinks. “…Huh?”

You repeat, enunciating every word: “I’m. His. Fiancée.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You can almost see the world tilt under his feet.

Then—“YOU’RE THE ONE HE’S ENGAGED TO?!”

Several heads swivel in your direction. Two waiters glance over, brows furrowed. You shush him gently, tearing another piece of dosa, smiling as though he didn’t just nuke the peace of this terrace.

But Ijichi is unravelling fast. “I—I’ve been trying to moral police Gojo’s fiancée this whole time!?”

“Mmhm,” you hum.

“I accused you of seducing him!”

“Yes, you did.”

“I told you to stay away—!”

“Repeatedly.” You nod solemnly, lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

He collapses against the back of his chair like the life has been spiritually yanked out of him. “I’m going to be cursed,” he whispers, eyes hollow.

“I was going to curse you,” you say honestly, and he flinches so hard his glasses nearly slide off. But then you add, magnanimous, “But I decided not to. Don’t worry. You’ll live.”

“But I scolded the strongest sorcerer’s future wife—”

Right on cue, Gojo finally strolls back, balancing a plate of omelette and two glasses of apple juice, wearing the smuggest grin known to man. Which means he definitely heard everything. “I see you two are bonding,” he chirps, setting the plate and juice down in front of you.

Ijichi stares at him like he’s Death incarnate. His voice cracks, “You... knew.”

“Of course, I knew,” Gojo deadpans. You snort into your juice. Gojo hears it and flashes you a grin—so blinding it could be classified as a weapon—before sliding into the chair beside you, arm slinging across the back of yours in one smooth, possessive move.

“Now, Ijichi,” he drawls, biting into a croissant, “how does it feel to have been the third wheel this entire mission?”

“I—I—” Ijichi sputters, then bolts to his feet, chair screeching across the floor, “I think I need to go back to my room.”

“Oh no, what happened?” Gojo gasps theatrically, leaning forward in fake concern. You giggle into your fork as he continues, voice syrupy with fake sincerity, “Feeling faint? Want me to get you a cold compress?”

“I need a holy relic,” Ijichi mutters darkly—and all but runs.

As his figure disappears down the stairs, Gojo drags his chair even closer to yours, until your shoulders and thighs are flush. You melt into him without hesitation; you loop your arms around him in a sideways hug, cheek pressed to his shoulder, and nuzzle in. He laughs—a startled, delighted sound—and hugs you back tightly, before casually stealing a piece of mango off your plate. You think about scolding him, but decide against it. He can have the mango. He can have everything.

You burrow into him again, and this time his voice dips soft, impossibly tender, “What’s this about, dummy? Wanna tell me something?”

Not really. But you answer anyway, thinking for a beat, then shrugging, “I was just wondering if we should’ve told Ijichi-san sooner. Might’ve saved us half the drama.”

“Nah.” Gojo smirks. “Way more fun this way.”

You hum in reluctant agreement. It was aggravating… but it was a little fun, too. The ending, at least.

A comfortable beat passes. You stay pressed to him, lost in the quiet thrill of knowing this ridiculous man will be yours soon. Two years, maybe less, and you’ll be his wife. The thought makes your chest swell and your cheeks heat all at once, when he nudges you back to reality—holding out a forkful of omelette to your lips.

Wordlessly, you take it, smiling around the food. He grins back, and the world feels stupidly, unfairly perfect.

You rest your head against him again, eyes fluttering shut, as you soak in the taste of eggs, the salty coastal breeze, and the quiet certainty blooming in your heart: this man is yours, you’re his, and both of you love each other in all the ways that matter.

And when you open your eyes and lift your gaze to the view—Goa sprawled in all its sunlit glory, sea and sand and palm trees kissing the sky—you make a quiet decision: you’ll come back here someday. No missions. No curses. No managers wringing their hands. Just you and Gojo, wedding rings on your fingers—and maybe, just maybe, a tiny replica of him (or you) nestled in his arms.

The thought sends a giddy little giggle bubbling up your throat, warmth spilling down your cheeks and neck.

Shaking your head, you decide to just live in this moment. Goa isn’t running away. Neither is your fiancé. Neither are you. You’ll plan the future later.

You and your ’Toru have got the rest of your lives—no, the rest of eternity—ahead of you.

find more fics about these two here!!!! © tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || header is from pinterest || masterlist.

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nanamineedstherapy · 21 days ago

Text

🚚 Truck-Kun From Bihar: A Love Square Tragedy🌌

Non-Sorceress F!Reader x JJK Men

Summary: What if a routine date in Bihar turned into a savage love‑square, existential crisis, & quantum karma all rolled into one? Nanami, Choso, Toji, Suguru, Gojo, Sukuna, & Co. descend on you like cosmic wreckage—& only one heart might survive. Crack humour meets gothic pathos as loyalties, lust, & existential dread collide in unexpected ways that’ll leave you grimacing, snorting, or both. or When a mysterious accident brings four jaded sorcerers & one reluctant civilian onto the same chaotic path, sparks ignite, alliances shift, & what started as a mess turns into a full‑blown emotional battlefield. Between crushing loyalty, unexpected affection, & the ghosts of past betrayals, they’ll learn you can’t outrun your own heart—or the sorcerer racing toward it. A/N: You absolutely DO NOT need to know Hindi or be Indian to enjoy this fic—feel free to dive in! Just mentally substitute: Patna = your hometown India = your country Hindi = whatever language you’re most comfortable with (even if it’s just English—the reader’s bilingual, but you don’t have to be). I just really wanted to write a multilingual isekai‑meets‑reality drama with a little absurd humor & too many sorcerers. And yes—FYI: all the men here are Jujutsu sorcerers. Don’t overthink it. I'm not from Patna! Multiple POVs

Your POV

You’d just escaped a truly depressing Tinder date—the kind your cousin warned you about after the last three disasters. This one wore painfully obvious fake Yeezys and kept declaring, “I’m literally a feminist,” while patting your shoulder like you were an elevator button demanding service.

The rickshaw driver dumped you unceremoniously outside Patna Junction. Late. The street vibrated: men shouting for fares, the greasy perfume of samosas wrestling with stale sweat and petrol fumes.

That was when the headlights hit you. Blinding. Barreling straight out of a nightmare.

You managed half a wheeze, “Bro, go from the fucking side!”

Then Truck-kun introduced you to the pavement.

Waking up, it wasn't Yashwant Hospital. Not even a shady veterinary clinic. Definitely not the crematorium you’d morbidly half-expected.

It was… somewhere else.

Cold air bit your skin. Your back screamed in protest. Gravel ground into your palms as you shoved yourself upright.

Looming over you was this creepy-ass wooden gate. Ancient, warped, radiating pure wrongness. Paper charms fluttered from it like dead leaves, whispering secrets in a wind that didn’t smell like chai or dust. This wind reeked of bitter smoke and something metallic, like old pennies.

You rubbed your throbbing temple. “Where the fuck am I…”

Then the men showed up.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Each radiating a unique brand of stupid.

Day 1: Encounter #1—Nanami Kento

You must have zonked out again, because the next thing you registered was polished roasted chestnut brown shoes halting inches from your nose.

You were pavement pizza.

He was… immaculate.

Towering in a sharp suit, holding what looked disturbingly like a butcher's cleaver wrapped in cloth. He stared down at you with the detached disdain of a man finding week-old roadkill on his driveway.

“Are you…” he began, voice low and meticulously bored. “…a curse?”

Of course, you just heard incomprehensible Japanese syllables.

You squinted, brain fuzzy. “Bro, skip the anime monologue. Just call the police, yeah?”

He blinked. Once. A microscopic tightening of his jaw betrayed his utter lack of comprehension.

When you didn't magically levitate, he sighed. It wasn't loud, but the sheer weight of weary resignation in that sound was universal: This is the absolute last thing I needed today.

Then – no warning—he crouched, grabbed your arm, and hauled you upright like a sack of dubious potatoes.

“Arrey—! What? Hello? Concussion protocol!” You yelped, but he was already steering (dragging) you towards the creepy gate. You fumbled for your phone. Dead. Black screen. No signal. Just a fancy brick.

He delivered you to a woman—tall, doctor-ish, enveloped in a haze of cigarette smoke.

Salvation! You nearly wept.

She tilted her head, considering you like an odd lab specimen. “Eng…lish?”

Relief flooded you. “Yes! Hindi also, but—yes! Police! Please! Kidnapped? Lost? Very confused!”

The woman—Shoko, you’d learn later—offered a smile usually reserved for particularly dim stray dogs. “Ah. Okay. …Sit.”

She pressed a cold melon soda into your hand, pointed at a bench, and started checking your pulse with clinical detachment.

You looked back at Nanami, observing his sharp suit, serious demeanor, and the way he’d… well, dragged you to safety.

The fuzzy, possibly concussed gears in your head clunked into place: Oh wow. Responsible. Breadwinner vibes. Serious. Carried me. Gentleman in a crisis. So rare. This… this must be fate.

Meanwhile, inside Nanami’s meticulously ordered mind: Foreign curse victim. Likely non-hostile. Extermination pending unless Gojo decides to adopt her like the others. At least she’s not screaming.

When he wordlessly handed you a second melon soda and disappeared to presumably deal with actual curses, you filed it firmly under ‘thoughtful courtship gesture.’

He didn’t correct you.

Because he had no idea you were constructing an entire rom-com narrative.

And so began your accidental situationship with Nanami Kento—where you were convinced he was your stoic, devoted boyfriend because he paid your hospital bill, occasionally ensured you weren’t actively dying, and provided melon soda.

There was no hospital bill to be paid.

Just the bill for your delusion, which was steadily accumulating interest.

Day 3: Encounter #2—Itadori Choso

Turns out, leaving this weird shrine-town wasn't an option.

Every hopeful trek towards a bus stop or a vaguely familiar-looking street corner inevitably spat you back out near the creepy-ass gate. It was like living in a particularly dull, slightly terrifying M.C. Escher painting.

On Day Three, defeat tasted like Parle-G.

You sat slumped on the shrine steps, methodically demolishing a packet you’d miraculously salvaged from the depths of your tote bag. Survival priorities: water, shelter, glucose biscuits. Don’t judge.

Mid-crunch, the air… shifted.

You glanced up, crumbs dusting your chin, to find a man crouched directly in front of you.

Not walked up. Appeared.

Like a glitch in reality.

Tall, messy dark hair, eyes the unsettling red of dried blood—literally, maybe, since a thin scarlet trickle traced a path from his nose.

He didn’t wipe it. Just stared. Intensely. Unblinkingly.

“Are you…” he began, voice low and rough. A torrent of Japanese followed, words tumbling over each other with a strange urgency. Then, finally, haltingly, “…my sister?”

You swallowed the biscuit paste in your mouth.

Language barrier: Round Two. “Do you know where Patna is?” you asked, enunciating carefully, like talking to a very large, possibly concussed toddler.

His entire face seemed to… freeze. The blood-red eyeshadowed brown eyes widened minutely, fixed on you with an expression that could only be described as profound, soul-crushing hurt.

Like you’d just kicked his puppy into traffic while laughing.

Okay, wrong language.

You tried louder, slower, like maybe volume compensated for comprehension: “PA-TNA. INDIA. BIHAR. You know? Big city? Ganges? Anything?”

He remained statue-still, breathing shallowly through his mouth, that single line of blood now dripping onto the gravel between his boots. The intensity of his stare was becoming physically warm.

“Right. Okay then…” You scooched your butt a precise six inches sideways along the step.

Creepy. Very creepy.

But also… kinda sad?

Like a lost puppy who might bite.

He didn’t move. Didn’t follow your scoot.

Just stayed rooted, crouched low, those unsettling eyes tracking your every micro-movement like you were a rare, possibly extinct butterfly that had just landed on his knee.

You were half-expecting him to whip out a net.

He’s very… attentive, you reasoned, polishing off another biscuit. Intense bhaiyya (bro) vibes. Maybe just protective? Big brother energy. Nice, in a slightly alarming way.

Inside Choso’s head, a very different calculation was running: She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scream. Looks at me… normally?

The sheer, terrifying novelty of it solidified into a single, crystalline thought: Protect. Mine.

Followed immediately by the logical corollary for any protective older brother figure, sorcerer or not: Threat Assessment: Nanami Kento. Proximity: High. Conclusion: Eliminate first.

When the biscuit packet was finally, tragically empty, you sighed and stood up, brushing crumbs from your lap. Time to attempt Escape Route #47 (past the suspiciously clean public toilets).

Choso stood too. Silently. Effortlessly.

And then he followed.

Three paces behind. Matching your speed exactly. Utterly silent.

Not menacing, precisely… but undeniably there.

Like a particularly large, blood-nosed shadow.

---

The week passed in a haze of bewildered adaptation.

You started picking up words, mostly through context and sheer desperation:

‘Hai’ = Yes (usually accompanied by a wary nod).

‘Daijoubu’ = Okay/Alright (usually said to you when you looked particularly lost).

‘Arigato’ = Thanks (useful, since people kept handing you things like melon soda and onigiri).

You also confirmed your suspicion: Hindi was a complete mystery here. English was a fragile lifeline held by exactly two people. Shoko, the perpetually smoking doctor-lady, who understood enough to get the gist of "hungry," "tired," and "where toilet?" before offering more melon soda and a vague wave towards the futon room.

The other was… an experience.

He appeared one afternoon like a burst of static, blindingly white hair and a white blindfold that somehow didn't hinder his unnerving perception.

"Yo!" he chirped, leaning way too far into your personal space. "Gojo Satoru! Super sexy teacher! English—yes, yes!"

He gave a thumbs-up that felt sarcastic. "You are safe! Very safe! Nanamin take good care of you, okay? Very responsible!"

Then came the wink.

A full-on, knowing, trouble-making wink.

You did not trust Gojo Satoru.

He radiated the energy of a crackhead wrapped in a pretty package. Nanami, by comparison, seemed like a bastion of sanity.

Ah, Nanami. Your stoic… whatever-he-was.

He remained infuriatingly consistent: polite, efficient, distant.

He’d appear with food (always practical, often involving rice or bread).

He’d silently guide you back to your tiny, sparse room if you wandered near the gate after dark.

He’d pause outside your door sometimes, a silent, suited silhouette checking you hadn't spontaneously combusted or been eaten by rogue paper charms.

Minimal eye contact. Fewer words.

Your interpretation solidified: Strong. Silent. Deeply repressed. Obviously shy about his burgeoning feelings. Classic slow-burn hero material. The melon sodas were basically love letters.

Choso, however, was rewriting the definition of 'consistent.'

His version involved being present.

Constantly.

You’d slide open your door in the morning to find him already there, cross-legged on the engawa, staring intently at the opposite wall as if deciphering ancient curses in the wood grain.

He wouldn't turn, wouldn't speak.

Just… sat.

Guarding? Brooding?

Waiting for the wall to do something interesting? Unclear.

Once, navigating the slightly uneven steps near the main hall, your foot caught.

You stumbled, arms pinwheeling comically.

From your peripheral vision, a blur of black and red lunged.

You braced for impact, for strong arms catching you… only to find yourself grabbing the railing at the last second.

You looked down.

Choso was crouched on the step below, one hand outstretched and frozen mid-air, the other clenched into a fist at his side.

His eyes were wide, locked onto the spot where you almost fell.

He muttered something low and vehement under his breath—it sounded less like concern and more like a vow of vengeance against the staircase itself.

"Uh… daijoubu?" you offered, dusting yourself off, heart still pounding from the near-fall and the sudden ninja appearance.

He just kept crouching, radiating intense, misplaced focus, like he was personally responsible for gravity's betrayal.

Definitely intense bhaiyya vibes, you decided, shaking your head. Just needs to work on his reflexes.

Day 5: Encounter #3—Fushiguro Toji

By Day Five, you were practically a local.

Or at least, you’d mastered the art of desperate pointing and monosyllabic communication.

Need food? Point at mouth, say “idhar?” (here?) while looking hopefully at vendors.

See something vaguely familiar? Point, squint, “yeh?” (this?).

Progress. Sort of.

It mostly just made people stare at you with polite confusion before handing you another onigiri.

The samosa craving, however, was reaching critical mass.

It was a physical ache, a deep-fried ghost haunting your taste buds.

Driven by desperation, you’d slipped out during a lull, hoping to find anything resembling street food that wasn’t rice or fish paste.

That’s when the rain hit.

Not a gentle drizzle, but a sudden, soaking downpour that sent you scrambling for cover under the thick canopy of a gnarled old tree in a small, otherwise deserted park.

You collided with solid muscle.

“Oof!”

Stumbling back, you looked up—way up—into the face of a man who looked like he’d wandered off the set of a delinquent manga.

Gym shorts, a damp tank top clinging to frankly ridiculous shoulders, and sweat mixing with rain on his skin despite the chill.

He was handsome in the way stuntmenfrom South Indian movies wish to be; his features were sharp, almost predatory, and the grin he flashed was pure, unadulterated trouble.

It wasn’t welcoming.

It was the grin of a cat who’d found a particularly interesting, slightly stupid mouse.

“Oi,” he drawled, voice a low rumble that cut through the drumming rain. His dark eyes scanned you with lazy amusement. “You lost, babygurl?” The nickname rolled off his tongue, casual and faintly mocking.

The sheer audacity, the sheer un-Nanami-like-ness of him momentarily stunned you.

Then, the ingrained response kicked in. “Haan, Bhaiya,” (Yes, bro) you sighed, wiping rainwater from your eyes. “Lost since birth, basically.” Seeing zero recognition on his face, you tried the universal plea, “You… English? No? Okay. Uhh… Patna?”

His smirk widened.

He understood exactly none of it, but the sheer, bewildered exhaustion in your voice, the way you just accepted the collision and the rain and his presence like it was just another Tuesday in Absurdistan… it seemed to amuse him deeply.

He didn’t answer.

Just fell into step beside you as you shuffled further under the tree, trying to escape the worst of the spray.

He followed.

Not like Choso’s silent, intense shadowing.

This was different.

He matched your pace easily, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his track pants, head tilted slightly as he watched you. A low, almost inaudible whistle started up between his teeth—the tune jaunty, completely at odds with the downpour and your predicament. It felt less like protection and more like… entertainment.

You were the entertainment.

Ah, you thought, mentally slotting him into your growing roster of shrine weirdos.

Another one of Nanami’s friends. Must be.

Who else hangs around here?!

Very tall. Very… gym.

Probably protective in a rough way.

Maybe he knows where to get a SIM card.

Or a samosa.

The samosa dream flickered weakly.

Inside Fushiguro Toji’s head, a far simpler, more chaotic calculation was taking place: She didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch away like I’m poison. Didn’t try that pathetic small talk everyone else wastes breath on. Didn’t even ask why I’m standing in the rain like a lunatic. Just… accepted it. Weird. Chill.

A spark of pure, unadulterated mischief ignited.

Huh. I could marry this chick. Just to see the look on Gojo’s face. On Geto’s. On Ryomen’s. On… His grin turned positively feral. Yeah. Worth the paperwork.

When the rain finally eased to a drizzle, you pointed vaguely back towards the shrine, your stomach still grumbling for lost samosas. “Idhar? Shrine? Hai?” (Here, Shrine, yes?)

Toji just shrugged, the whistle still playing.

Upon not getting any comprehensible answer, you kept walking.

He followed you back, hands in pockets, sauntering up the shrine steps behind you. The infuriatingly cheerful tune echoed as he dripped rainwater onto the sacred wood.

Nanami Kento, impeccably suited despite the humidity, materialized in the doorway like a summoned spirit of corporate disapproval.

His gaze snapped past you, locking onto Toji.

And for the first time since he’d dragged your concussed self off the pavement, you saw a crack in the stoic facade.

A microscopic tightening along his jawline.

A fractional narrowing of the eyes behind his glasses.

The air around him seemed to drop five degrees.

You noticed.

Oh, you definitely noticed.

A warm, fuzzy feeling bloomed in your chest, momentarily eclipsing the samosa grief.

Jealousy! Your inner rom-com screamed.

He sees another man walking me home!

In the rain!

A tall, muscular, whistling man!

He’s possessive!

He cares!

This is the most emotion he’s ever shown!

Slow-burn PAYOFF!

Meanwhile, inside Nanami’s meticulously ordered mind, the sequence was brutally pragmatic:

Fushiguro Toji.

Unsanctioned presence.

Proximity to the displaced foreigner.

Potential property damage.

Guaranteed headache.

Likelihood of Gojo showing up to escalate the situation: 98%.

Profound Irritation.

The tightening jaw? Suppressed annoyance at the impending chaos.

The narrowed eyes? Calculating the effort required to remove Toji versus the effort of dealing with the fallout if he stayed.

The chill? Pure, unadulterated "I did not sign up for this" energy.

It had absolutely nothing to do with you and everything to do with Fushiguro Toji being a human-shaped tornado of inconvenience.

It was the look of a man realizing his carefully managed Tuesday now involved herding cats.

Explosive cats.

Toji, of course, just grinned wider at Nanami’s expression, the whistle cutting off as he spoke in street Japanese. “Yo, Nanami. Found your stray. Looks hungry.”

He nudged you lightly with his elbow, completely misinterpreting your dazed, rom-com-fueled expression. “See? Told you she’s chill.”

Nanami’s response was a single, clipped syllable lost in Japanese, but the sentiment was universal: Go away.

You beamed, misinterpreting everything.

He’s defending me! This is practically a declaration!

Day 7: Encounter #4—Geto Suguru

This one was subtle.

The chaos began, as most shrine disasters did, with Gojo Satoru.

Megumi, in a rare display of teenage rebellion, had unleashed his Divine Dog… only for Gojo to dodge, laugh, and ruffle his hair. Megumi’s glare could’ve melted glaciers. In retaliation, he summoned Gama—a frog shikigami roughly the size of a motorbike—and sicced it on Gojo.

You, unfortunately, were collateral damage.

You’d been trying to decode a vending machine that seemed to stock nothing but pickled plums and mystery meat buns. The buttons were labeled in kanji you couldn’t read, and the coin slot spat back your 100-yen piece like it had personally offended it. “Yeh kya bakwas hai?” you muttered, giving the machine a solid kick. (What nonsense is this!)

Ribbit.

You froze.

The sound was… close.

Too close.

And wet.

Slowly, you turned.

A giant, computer desk-sized, slime-sheened frog the color of overcooked spinach was perched on the engawa behind you.

Its bulbous eyes locked onto yours.

Gojo was perched on the shrine roof, cackling.

Megumi looked horrified.

“Uh… nice frog?” You tried, edging sideways.

Trying desperately not to make anymore eye contact with it and get a heart attack.

RIIIIB-B-BIT!

It lunged.

You shrieked and bolted, the frog close enough that you could feel the damp whump of its leaps vibrating through the wooden planks.

You zigzagged past startled students, nearly tripping over a stone lantern, the frog’s sticky tongue snapping at your heels. “BHAIYA, HELP! MOTHERFROGGER!” (Bro, help!)

That’s when a tap landed on your shoulder—light, precise, and utterly incongruous with the amphibian apocalypse behind you.

You whirled around, panting, to face a man in a black uniform similar to Gojo’s but with baggy pants like a salwar.

His hair was neatly tied back, revealing a face of serene, almost otherworldly beauty.

He stood perfectly still, hands tucked into pant pockets, observing you with the detached curiosity of a botanist examining a rare, slightly trampled orchid.

The giant frog skidded to a halt behind you, eyeing him warily.

He tilted his head, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips as he spoke in soft Japanese. “Aa… yappari, koko ni iru beki dewa nai no desu ne?” (Ah… as I thought, you truly don’t belong here, do you?)

You sagged in relief, ignoring the frog’s suspicious gloop noise. “Yeah! Exactly! I don’t know what you just said, but yes! Lost? Always. Home? Want. Frog? Trying to eat me. You look… smart? Calm? Help? Please?” You gestured wildly between yourself, the frog, and the general existential nightmare.

Geto Suguru’s smile didn’t waver. He didn’t react to the frog. His gaze swept over you again—the disheveled hair, the panicked eyes, the vending-machine-kicking fury—and his internal monologue was pure, unadulterated Suguru mischief:

Why is she speaking in curses? How peculiar.

Doesn’t matter. She’s… fascinating.

Like a startled sparrow.

And most importantly… His eyes flickered towards the roof where Gojo was now taking selfies with the frog in the background. …She’s not Satoru’s.

Yet.

I can fix this.

Game is game.

He gave a small, elegant nod—utterly ignoring your pleas—and turned, coat whispering against the wind.

The frog, momentarily forgotten, blinked and hopped grumpily back towards Megumi.

After that, Suguru started appearing.

Not obtrusively.

Not like Choso’s brooding sentry duty or Toji’s chaotic whistling.

Suguru was a presence.

You’d be attempting meditation (mostly just napping) in the garden, open your eyes, and he’d be there, leaning against a cherry blossom tree, watching the koi with an unnerving stillness.

You’d turn a corner near the creepy gate, and he’d materialize at the end of the path, hands tucked away, offering a small, enigmatic smile before vanishing.

You’d be fumbling with chopsticks in the nearly empty dining hall, and he’d be seated silently at the far end, reading a thick, leather-bound book titled The Esoteric Principles of Barrier Techniques (which, of course, you couldn’t read because it was in some ancient Japanese dialect).

Once, you waved. “Reading?”

He looked up, closed the book with a soft thump, and smiled that faint, beautiful smile.

He didn’t speak.

Just inclined his head.

…Okay, you reasoned.

Monk vibes. Very peaceful. Spiritual guy.

Not as classically handsome as Nanami’s strong jawline, but… ethereal. Pretty. Calming.

Probably knows deep stuff about the universe.

Suguru’s thoughts, meanwhile, were significantly less Zen:

She acknowledged me.

Voluntarily.

Without Satoru present. Excellent.

Patience is key.

Observe.

Appreciate the aesthetic.

Ensure Satoru remains… distracted.

Game remains game.

---

Meanwhile…your conviction that Nanami Kento was your boyfriend had crystallized into absolute truth. The evidence wasn't just compelling; it was sarkaari (government-issue) solid in your mind:

He Funded Your Existence: Melon sodas? Onigiri? Occasionally a real pastry? He provided! (The fact he just requisitioned them from the school kitchen was irrelevant. A provider is a provider).

He Shared His Domain: You slept in a tiny, spare room adjacent to his office! He allowed it! (It was a glorified storage closet Shoko emptied of mops, but location, location, location! Proximity to power! To safety in a beefy chest!).

He Escorted You: He’d materialize wordlessly if you strayed near the Forbidden Gate after dark, steering you back with the silent efficiency of a VIP detail. Pure protection! (His motivation—avoiding paperwork involving your potential curse-related demise and his refusal to explain your corpse to Gojo—was a minor bureaucratic detail).

The Hem Incident: The clincher. That one time, a loose thread on your coat snagged on a rusty door handle. Nanami, without breaking stride or granting eye contact worthy of a Mughal emperor, had paused. With the precision of a surgeon (or a seasoned field agent), he produced a compact, wicked-sharp blade (standard sorcerer kit, obviously), cleanly severed the offending thread, grunted “Daijoubu,” (ok), and continued his march. You KNEW, this wasn't just help; it was special care. Thread-cutting was practically courtship, according to Shahrukh Khan.IRREFUTABLE PROOF OF UNDYING, SILENT DEVOTION.(He just didn’t want you to ruin his coat that you’d claim as your own due to lack of a job, money or common sense.)

This rock-solid foundation led to concrete actions:

The "Sir": You began addressing him solely as "Sir," imbuing the title with a soft, dreamy reverence usually reserved for Bollywood heroes. "Good morning, Sir," you'd sigh as he walked past. "Melon soda, Sir?" you'd offer (his own soda, back to him). The subtle, almost imperceptible twitch near his left eye when you said it only confirmed his deep, repressed feelings. So shy. So responsible. So… RAW.(He did not like being called ‘Sir’ by anyone, let alone someone his own fucking age.)

The Vigil: You took up residence outside his office door. Not inside—too forward!—but positioned like a loyal, slightly bewildered sentry. You'd hum tuneless snippets of old Bollywood classics ("Chura Liya Hai Tumne Jo Dil Ko" (since you have already stolen my heart) was a favorite) while waiting for him to emerge, beaming as if he'd personally orchestrated the sunrise just for you. (Had he understood what you were humming, he’d found you cringe beyond Gojo somehow.)

The Family Prep: Your mind became a rehearsal stage. You practiced introducing him to your highly skeptical and also imaginary family back home: “Mummy-Papa, meet Nanami Sir. Very responsible man. Government job. Japanese RAW or CIA type, maybe. Like Danish Captain America, but wears suits and… carries a cursed weapon? No matter. He cuts threads! Yes, yes, young Rajiv Gandhi vibes too—young, responsible, government, no visible tragic habits. And look—not actively balding in his twenties! That's also a big deal! He loves me… probably. Did I mention he has a government job!” (The "government job" detail was non-negotiable for middle-class Indian parents from Patna.)

His crisp suits, stoic demeanor, dangerous aura, and access to weapons?

You assumed a classic high-level operative. Rajiv met Bourne, so he got a government job in the armed forces.

Your desi brain had connected the dots Western logic couldn't fathom.

Communication?

Still blissfully one-way:

Nanami nods. Flat “Hai.” (Yes)

The occasional, emotionally void “Daijoubu” (ok) (usually when you tripped).

Zero clarification.

Absolute perfection for your narrative.

---

The return of Choso and Toji, and the implied presence of a perfectly normal Sukuna, coincided with the escalation of Suguru’s serene stalking. The atmosphere crackled with unspoken rage.

Choso’s lurking intensified.

He’d sit cross-legged outside your room, but now his fists were clenched so tightly on his knees his knuckles turned white.

Sometimes, a single drop of blood would well up under his nail and drip onto the wood, unnoticed by him, deeply unsettling to anyone else who saw.

His stare at Nanami was less “I will kill you” and more “I will disassemble you molecule by molecule.”

Toji developed an uncanny ability to materialize whenever you were within ten feet of Nanami.

Leaning against a wall, peeling an apple with a terrifyingly large knife, whistling that same jaunty tune, his dark eyes fixed on Nanami with predatory amusement. “Oi, Nanami. Feedin’ your stray again?” he’d call, taking a loud bite.

Suguru’s smiles towards you remained serene.

His smiles towards Nanami? Glaciers wept.

You once saw him watching Nanami walk down a corridor.

Suguru’s expression was perfectly calm, beautiful even, but the smile… it was the smile of a porcelain doll planning your burial.

It sent actual goosebumps down your arms. “Wow,” you whispered. “Monk dude really doesn’t like people interrupting his peace. Respect.”

Nanami, meanwhile, remained blissfully, aggravatingly oblivious to the romantic hurricane swirling around him. When questioned by a mildly curious Shoko or a cackling Gojo, his reports were clinical:

“She occupies the spare room. Minimal disturbance.”

“She consumes the provided sustenance. Favors sweet beverages.”

“She remains near the designated safe zones. Mostly.”

But then… the accidental flexes began.

Delivered in his usual dry, factual tone, like he was reading a quarterly report:

To Choso (who was vibrating with protective fury): “She attempted to eat gyoza yesterday.Insisted on calling them ‘momo.’Illogical, but she consumed sixteen. With me.”

To Toji (leaning over his shoulder): “She borrowed my spare coat last Tuesday. Tripped on the engawa. Clumsy. It required dry cleaning.” (He said it like she was the inconvenience, not the coat).

To Suguru (who was silently sharpening ceremonial knives nearby): “She expressed… appreciation… for the melon soda selection. Consistently.”

To Nanami, it was just… data.

Observations.

Mild inconveniences noted.

To Choso, Toji, and Suguru, it was NUCLEAR WAR.

Choso’s blood control flickered visibly, a crimson aura shimmering around his clenched fists.

Toji stopped whistling. The sound of his knife scraping against a whetstone became very loud.

Suguru’s serene smile didn’t move a millimeter, but the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

And oblivious Nanami adjusted his tie, muttered about mission reports, and walked away, utterly unaware he’d just poured gasoline on the dumpster fire of your accidental harem.

The breaking point came over cheap sake at a dingy izakaya.

Toji slammed his fist on the sticky table, rattling empty glasses. “This is fucking stupid,” he growled, eyes narrowed. “If she thinks that tie-strangler’s her boyfriend ‘cause he buys melon soda? Fine. But I ain’t losin’ to that. We gotta talk to her. Properly.”

Choso, staring intently at a drop of condensation like it held the secrets of the universe, didn’t look up. “She doesn’t understand Japanese.” His voice was flat, but the blood on his nose tattoos seemed to pulse slightly faster.

Suguru, swirling his drink with elegant fingers, offered a serene, dangerous smile. “…Then we learn her language.”

Choso finally looked up, red eyes wide. “You mean… Indian?”

“Or whatever the hell soup of words that is,” Toji grunted, stabbing a pickled plum. “She keeps yellin’ ‘bro’ and ‘bhaiya’ like it means somethin’. Gotta be part of it.”

Thus began Operation: Rapid-English.

Phase One: Dubious Pedagogy

They met in secret.

Sukuna’s old storage room reeked of dust and desperation.

Their textbooks? None.

Only crackling YouTube videos titled:

“How To Speak English Fast Like Indian Movies! (Hero Dialogues Only!)” Featuring a man dramatically clutching his chest: “Myself loving you since many days, madam!”

“Impress Her With These 5 Hindi Lines! Guaranteed Success!” Line #3: “Tumhare liye, main khoon bhi de doonga!”/“For you, I will even give blood!” – Choso took furious notes.

“Bihar Slang: Romantic Phrases for the Modern Lover!” Mostly involved shouting, “Kahan ho, babua?!”/“Where are you, infant?!” with aggressive hand gestures.

Anime subtitles became sacred texts.

They parsed declarations like “You are my nakama!” and “I will protect your smile!” through Google Translate, yielding gems like “You my friend-group! Guard laugh!”

Napkins transformed into battle plans. Suguru’s elegant script warred with Toji’s scrawl and Choso’s shaky, blood-spotted characters:

“Hello. Myself loving you. Please rejecting that salaryman.” (Suguru, aimed for polite persuasion.)

“You and me: together, correct?”(Choso sought confirmation.)

“Nanami only overtime. Me lifetime.” (Toji, focused on commitment vs. workaholism)

Phase Two: ‘PICKUP ME’ Men

When they finally approached you—all three at once—their combined “rabies English” hit like a cyclone.

They cornered you near the vending machine you still couldn’t operate.

Their combined aura—Choso’s vibrating intensity, Toji’s predatory smirk, and Suguru’s serene determination—was overwhelming.

The Rabid-English hit like a linguistic dumpster fire.

Choso (stepping forward, fists clenched, voice a strained monotone): “YOU. MARRIAGE. ME. PLEASE. OKAY. FAST.” He delivered it like a hostage demand, sweat beading on his temple beside the ever-present blood-trickle.

Toji (flexing subtly, leaning into your space): “HE NO GOOD. ME BETTER. VERY NICE. STRONG BODY.” He punctuated “STRONG BODY” with a thumb jab to his own pectoral muscle like you were out buying tires. “See? Good investment.”

Suguru (smoothing his already immaculate coat, offering a beatific smile): “NANAMI BADMAN. I—LOVE YOU MORE THAN RICE.” He said “RICE” with the solemn reverence usually reserved for cursed techniques.

You stared.

Blinked.

Processed the verbal shrapnel. “…Bhaiya… what?” The sheer, nonsensical audacity short-circuited your brain.

Then, in terrifying, clearly rehearsed unison, they unleashed their crescendo, pointing accusatory fingers towards Nanami’s general direction:

“BREAKUP NANAMI! PICKUP ME!”

Silence.

The vending machine hummed.

A paper charm fluttered pathetically in the breeze.

You looked from Choso’s desperate eyes to Toji’s flexed bicep to Suguru’s expectant smile.

The only coherent thought: Will not betray government-job-man.

Then you just turned and left.

---

The next day, they came prepared. No cornering.

A full-frontal, coordinated assault near the main hall.

Choso stood rigidly to your left, trembling slightly, eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder. Practicing deep breaths.

Toji leaned against a support beam to your right, arms crossed, radiating chaotic confidence. He winked. You grimaced.

Suguru stood directly before you, spine straight, hands tucked neatly into his pant pockets. He cleared his throat with the gravitas of a UN ambassador.

In perfect, devastatingly awkward unison, they boomed, “BREAKUP NANAMI!”

You froze. Utterly paralyzed by the sheer, concentrated absurdity.

Toji, mistaking paralysis for consideration, seized the moment. He jabbed his thumb hard into his chest. “Me. Strong body. Fast. Love you. Very nice. Okay?” He gave another bicep flex for good measure.

Choso, spurred by Toji’s initiative, blurted out, “You… me… marry. Please.” He sounded like he was requesting a firing squad.

Suguru maintained his composure, but a vein subtly pulsed near his temple as he delivered his line with profound solemnity, “Nanami boring. He not loving you. I… loving you more than Satoru and rice combined.” He held your gaze, willing you to understand the depth of his carb-based devotion.

You just… stared.

The world tilted.

Your “relationship” with Nanami was a quiet delusion.

This was a three-alarm dumpster fire of miscommunication and terrifying sincerity.

Without a word, you turned on your heel and marched straight towards the only semblance of sanity you knew: Nanami’s office.

You slid the door open.

He glanced up from a stack of reports, took in your wide-eyed, shell-shocked expression, and sighed. The sound was heavy with the weight of infinite overtime. “…Again?” he asked flatly in Japanese.

You pointed a shaky finger back towards the hall. “They’re broken,” you stated in clear, horrified English. “Your friends. Please fix.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

He muttered something dark and guttural under his breath—probably about hazard pay—then stood, loosening his tie with the weary resignation of a man heading into a warzone. He followed you out.

Nanami arrived just as Toji was attempting, “Sorry ji! Love you ji!” with the cadence of a malfunctioning Roomba. Suguru looked pained. Choso looked like he might combust. (Ji = respect)

You walked straight to Nanami and latched onto his arm like a life raft in a tsunami of crazy. “Sir, let’s go,” you said, your voice tight with strained patience. “These people are clearly mentally unwell. Possibly rabid.”

Nanami, deadpan as granite, looked over his shoulder at the trio—Choso vibrating, Toji scowling, and Suguru’s serene mask cracking into icy fury.

He then turned, allowing you to steer him away, leaving behind a nuclear wasteland of shattered pride and crumpled napkin scripts.

You still believed Nanami was your stoic, devoted, government-agent boyfriend—maybe a little quiet, a little formal, but yours.

He still believed you were a baffling, mildly inconvenient foreign anomaly destined to leave eventually.

The other three? Last seen commandeering a karaoke bar booth, butchering a Bollywood love song (“Tum Hi Ho… Myself Loving You Pls… Okay?”) into the mic, napkin notes clutched in white-knuckled fists, vowing victory next time.

---

A few days later, the Rabies-English debacle had left Choso, Toji, and Suguru nursing bruised egos and crumpled napkins. Karaoke therapy hadn’t helped. Watching you cling to Nanami’s arm like a limpet while he deadpanned "As expected" had been the final straw.

Desperate times called for demonic, overpowered, and underage measures.

The War Council (Held in Sukuna’s Dusty Storage Room):

Choso: "Brother Sukuna must assist. He is ancient. Wise. He knows... things."

Translation: Sukuna might actually understand her.

Toji: "Fine. But I’m bringin’ in my own secret weapon: the kid. Chicks dig a guy with a cute kid. Proven fact."

Megumi, eavesdropping outside, buried his face in his hands.

Suguru: (Stroking his chin, eyeing Gojo who was balancing a sake bottle on his nose) "Satoru... could be useful. His English is marginally better than ours. Marginally. But the risk..."

The risk was Gojo deciding you were his new favorite toy.

Gojo: (Sake bottle wobbling) "Risk? Moi? Suguruuuu, you wound me! I’m the perfect wingman! ‘Super Sexy Teacher,’ remember? She’ll looove me!" He winked, the bottle crashing to the floor.

---

Suguru reluctantly appointed Gojo as his "Liaison Officer," issuing strict orders: "Explain Nanami’s irrelevance. Highlight my virtues. DO NOT, under any circumstances, develop personal feelings."

Gojo saluted, blindfold askew. "Aye aye, Captain Serene-and-Beautiful! Operation ‘Expose Salaryman, Promote Monk’ is a go!"

Choso approached his elder brother with the reverence usually reserved for unstable deities. "Honored Brother... I require your linguistic prowess. To... communicate with the foreigner. For... strategic purposes."

Sukuna, grading papers (failing Yuji on purpose) in his cramped Jujutsu Tech office (decor: skull paperweight, ancient scrolls, zero personal photos), didn't look up. "Strategic purposes? Or because you’re simping harder than a starving curse for a Grade 1 sorcerer?"

Choso’s face flushed crimson. "S-Simping is irrelevant! She understands nothing! You... you know the old tongues!"

Sukuna smirked, a flash of fang. "Hmph. Fine. Consider it... anthropological research. Where is this baffling creature?"

Toji, meanwhile, had cornered his own son. "Listen, kid. This is your chance. Be cute. Look sad. Maybe summon that fluffy rabbit thing you keep throwing at me. Just... make her think I’m sad, single-dad material. Got it?"

Megumi stared at him with dead-fish eyes. "I’d rather fight Angel bare-handed."

Toji grinned. "Great! Meet me by the creepy gate in ten. Wear something less... gloomy."

---

Sukuna’s POV

You were attempting to teach a bewildered Shoko the intricate art of Parle-G dunking in chai (improvised with lukewarm green tea—a travesty) when the door slid open with unnecessary force.

Gojo bounded in first, radiating chaotic energy.

"HELLO, LOST LADY! GOJO SATORU, SUPER SEXY TEACHER, REPORTING FOR DUTY! NANAMI? BAD! VERY BAD! NO BOYFRIEND! SUGURU? GOOD! VERY... MON-KEY-LIKE! PEACEFUL!"

He struck a pose. Suguru, lingering elegantly in the doorway, facepalmed.

Toji and Megumi shoved past Suguru. Toji propelling a scowling Megumi forward like a furry-edged shield. "Look what I found! My kid! Cute, huh? Responsible! Fatherly! Me! Strong body and dad vibes! Two-for-one deal!"

Megumi muttered in Japanese, "Kill me now."

Toji forgot to account for the fact that despite watching Hollywood movies, Megumi infact had never had the need to learn English, so he never practiced what he spoke, so he infact didn’t know any English.

Choso hovered nervously behind Toji, eyes fixed on you, then darting to the doorway.

"She... looks well. Brother Sukuna approaches.”

“Prepare... yourself." He said it like Sukuna was a natural disaster.

Silence descended, thick with secondhand embarrassment.

You blinked, clutching your Parle-G and Shoko. "Bro... what fresh hell is this?"

Then he appeared in the doorway.

Itadori Ryomen Sukuna.

He didn't stoop. He filled the space.

Four eyes, currently disguised as two, but the intensity remained, a presence like compressed lightning wrapped in worn teacher’s attire.

His gaze swept the room—Gojo’s posing, Toji’s smirk, Megumi’s misery, Choso’s trembling, Suguru’s serene mask, your Parle-G held mid-dunk—and landed squarely on you.

A slow, predatory smirk touched his lips, utterly unlike Gojo’s manic grin or Toji’s feral one. It was ancient, amused, and deeply unsettling.

Choso stepped forward, puffing his chest in Japanese, "Foreigner! Behold! My esteemed elder brother, Sukuna-sensei! He possesses wisdom beyond measure! He will... translate! My feelings! Which are... deep! And... marriage-oriented!" He gestured grandly, nearly knocking over Shoko’s tea.

Sukuna’s eyes never left yours. And when he spoke, his voice was a low rumble that vibrated in your chest—not in Japanese, not in English, but in fluent, slightly archaic Hindi, "Ah, my younger brother has sung your praises. Says you're a strange, vexing fairy lost following some dullard named Nanami."

The effect was instantaneous.

Your Parle-G dropped into the tea with a pathetic plop.

Your jaw slackened.

Your eyes widened, disbelief warring with a sudden, overwhelming surge of homesickness.

For weeks, you’d navigated a world of grunts, monosyllables, and rabid English.

Hearing clear, complex Hindi—although some words too old even for you to understand, laced with dry sarcasm no less—from this terrifyingly powerful figure… it was like a dam breaking.

Your voice trembled, then cracked, tears welled uncontrollably. "You... you speak Hindi? Fluently? You understand? I... I..."

You couldn’t finish.

A choked sob escaped, followed by a torrent of words, weeks of confusion, fear, and absurdity pouring out in a rush of Hindi. "This place is an asylum for lunatics! All these people... that Nanami 'Sir'... These three talk about marriage like they're booking train tickets! And this Gojo... I can't trust him at all! He called himself 'Super Sexy Teacher'! Who says that?!"

The room was stunned into silence.

Gojo: His grin froze. "Whoa. What... what just happened? Why is she crying? Did Sukuna insult her? I told you he was a bad choice, Choso!" He puffed up, ready to defend your honor (or his chance).

Toji: Stopped smirking, looking genuinely bewildered. "The hell? She's... bawling. And talking a mile a minute. What'd the bastard say?"

Megumi: Just looked relieved the focus was off him.

Choso: Stared, horrified. "Brother! What did you do?! Did you offend her?! I told you to be charming!"

Suguru: His serene mask slipped completely, replaced by sharp, analytical interest. Sukuna spoke her tongue. Fluently. And made her... react. Strongly. This was unexpected. Dangerous.

Shoko: Took a long drag of her cigarette, watching the unfolding drama with clinical detachment. "Fascinating."

Sukuna ignored them all and took a step closer, his gaze fixed on you.

There was no pity in his eyes, but a spark of genuine, intrigued amusement.

He responded, still in Hindi, his voice surprisingly lacking its usual edge, almost... gentle. "Calm down, little fairy. Breathe. This place is indeed an asylum, you are correct. Nanami? A boring, work-obsessed man who wants nothing to do with your emotional drama. These three fools? Absolutely. Gojo? He’s a peacock preening his feathers. Now tell me... how did you get trapped here, truly? Is there a truck involved?"

He listened. He understood.

He called Gojo a peacock!

A hysterical laugh bubbled up through your tears.

You poured out the whole ridiculous story—the awful Tinder date, Patna Junction, Truck-kun, waking up at the creepy gate, mistaking Nanami’s minimal effort for courtship, and the rabid English proposals.

Sukuna listened intently, interjecting with dry, perfectly timed comments in Hindi that made you laugh despite yourself.

He got the cultural nuances.

He understood the sheer absurdity of your "relationship" with Nanami.

He even scoffed at the idea of Nanami being a government agent. “He’s just a corporate sellout. Paper-pusher. With a sharp blade. That's all."

---

After that, Sukuna found himself... captivated.

Not just by the linguistic puzzle, but by your spirit.

The way you navigated utter chaos with a mix of exasperation, humor, and sheer stubborn will.

The way your eyes lit up when you laughed at his sarcasm.

The raw relief when someone finally understood.

He’d agreed to translate for Choso, but Choso’s earnest, stilted declarations ("Brother, tell her I offer my lifeblood!") suddenly felt juvenile, ridiculous.

So he found himself subtly rephrasing Choso’s clumsy proclamations into wittier, more engaging observations about you, delivered with his own distinctive, ancient charm.

He was falling, hard and fast, and it infuriated and intrigued him in equal measure.

For Choso, he told himself firmly. Only for Choso.

He ignored the possessive curl in his gut.

Meanwhile, you felt like you’d finally surfaced after drowning.

Sukuna was terrifying, powerful, and radiated an aura of ancient danger, but he understood.

He made you laugh. He saw the absurdity.

He spoke your language, not just Hindi, but the language of baffled exasperation.

The connection was instantaneous and profound.

Nanami’s stoic silence suddenly felt cold and distant.

The other suitors?

Loud, confusing background noise.

Your heart, thoroughly confused by weeks of delusion, latched onto the first person who made genuine sense.

You were falling for Sukuna. Fast.

Choso watched the easy flow of Hindi between you and Sukuna, saw the way your tears turned to laughter, saw the spark in his brother’s eyes that he’d never seen directed at anyone but perhaps himself millennia ago.

A cold dread settled in his stomach, warring with a strange, reluctant awe. Brother... understands her. Truly. As I never could.

The jealousy was sharp, but the realization was sharper: Sukuna was the better candidate. For her sake. His fists clenched, not in anger, but in resigned despair.

Gojo saw you laughing, really laughing, at something Sukuna said.

Saw the way you looked at the King of Curses like he’d hung the moon.

His ego, already bruised by your distrust, "Super Sexy Teacher! Who says that?!" echoed painfully in his mind and took a direct hit.

Defeat. Before I even started! By SUKUNA?! His competitive spirit ignited.

"RIGHT!" he bellowed, shattering the moment. "ENOUGH HINDI SECRETS! TIME FOR TRUTH! NANAMI! LISTEN!"

Toji recognized the look on your face when you gazed at Sukuna.

It wasn't fear anymore; it was... interest. Deep interest.

He also recognized the look on Sukuna's face—possessive, intrigued. Well, shit. Game over. Kid tactic useless.

He nudged Megumi. "Backup plan. You gotta learn Hindi. Fast."

Megumi groaned into his Coke.

Suguru watched the connection solidify with icy clarity.

Sukuna hadn't just translated; he'd effortlessly usurped the role.

The game had changed. Radically.

Gojo’s outburst was a welcome distraction.

Perhaps Satoru’s chaos can still be weaponized... against Sukuna.

---

The next day, in the jujutsu tech garden, as you sat with Sukuna while he talked about the Haldighati deer meat he once enjoyed with a long-dead Indian king, Gojo shoved himself between you two.

Sukuna merely raised a brow, looking mildly amused as Gojo whipped off his blindfold, fixing you with his startlingly blue eyes, radiating "I’m cute, hot, funny and rich" energy at maximum wattage.

He pointed to Nanami, who had just walked by carrying a stack of files, drawn by the noise. "SEE HIM? NANAMI KENTO! NOT... BOYFRIEND!" He made an 'X' with his arms.

"NO! SALARYMAN!" He mimed typing furiously at a desk, then slumped dramatically. "VERY SAD INSIDE! OLD MAN SOUL! TWENTY-SEVEN! SEVENTY HERE!" He tapped his temple, then his chest.

"NOT BOYFRIEND!" He pointed emphatically at Nanami, then made a sweeping gesture encompassing Choso, Toji, Suguru, and himself. "WE... BOYFRIEND MATERIAL! SUKUNA? BAD! VERY OLD! 1000-YEAR-OLD GRANDPA!" He pointed at Sukuna, then wobbled like an old man.

Nanami stopped dead, files clutched like a shield, "...Gojo-san. What are you doing?"

You stared at Gojo’s frantic miming.

You had only caught "salaryman," "sad," "old man," "not boyfriend," and "grandpa" (aimed at Sukuna).

You looked at Nanami—stiff, uncomfortable, holding paperwork.

Then you looked at Sukuna—powerful, ancient, effortlessly witty, who understood your jokes.

You burst out laughing again. "This man is completely insane, isn't he?" you said to Sukuna in Hindi.

Sukuna let out a genuine chuckle. "Absolutely. But a colorful one."

Gojo deflated.

Suguru sighed. "You succeeded only in highlighting Nanami's flaws and making Sukuna seem comparatively... interesting, Satoru. And confirming Nanami is not her boyfriend. A partial victory, I suppose." He didn't sound convinced.

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am going to Shoko's office. If anyone needs me, I am not here."

He turned and walked away, radiating profound relief.

---

The revelation that Nanami was not your devoted government-agent boyfriend landed... but not as Gojo intended. It simply cleared the field for the real competition.

You were now firmly, hopelessly smitten with Sukuna. His power, his ancient wit, his dry humor, his deep understanding—it was intoxicating. You sought him out, asking about Jujutsu Tech (his lectures were surprisingly engaging), ancient history, anything to hear him talk, to share a laugh.

You were falling for a millennia-old curse in teacher’s clothing, and you didn’t care.

Sukuna, meanwhile, was battling internally.

He saw your growing affection. He craved it.

But he saw Choso’s quiet, resigned heartbreak. He saw the fierce protectiveness warring with despair in his little brother’s eyes. He’d promised to help Choso. Stealing the woman Choso loved felt... beneath him. Unworthy.

So he held back. He remained charming, witty, engaged, but carefully avoided crossing the line into overt romantic territory. He translated Choso’s increasingly desperate pleas faithfully, adding only minimal sarcastic commentary.

It was agonizing. For Choso. It must be for Choso.

Choso was a wreck. He saw your eyes light up only for Sukuna. He heard his own clumsy feelings sound even worse in Sukuna’s smooth translation. He knew Sukuna was holding back for him, and it made him feel both grateful and wretched. "Brother... perhaps you should... tell her your thoughts?" he ventured once, voice thick.

Sukuna just fixed him with an unreadable look. "My thoughts are irrelevant, little brother. This is your pursuit."

Choso wanted to scream.

Toji had switched tactics.

Megumi was now constantly "coincidentally" needing help with homework near wherever you and Sukuna were talking.

Toji would loom nearby, flexing subtly. "See? Good dad! Smart kid! Strong genes! Ignore the thousand-year-old fossil!"

Megumi looked perpetually mortified.

Sukuna would just raise an eyebrow and ask Megumi a complex curse theory question in Japanese, leaving him floundering.

Suguru deployed serene interference.

He’d appear beside Sukuna during your conversations, offering calm, insightful comments in Japanese.

Sukuna would sigh and translate the gist, "The monk says the weather is unseasonably warm and implies I am blocking his sunlight.”

Suguru would smile beatifically.

He also subtly redirected Gojo’s chaotic energy towards Sukuna, resulting in impromptu "friendly" sparring matches that shattered courtyard tiles whenever Sukuna seemed to be making progress.

Gojo was on a warpath.

He’d commandeered language apps.

His room echoed with phrases like "Aap kaisi hain?" (How are you?) shouted with alarming aggression, and "Kya aap mujhse pyaar karte hain?" (Do you love me?) delivered like a threat.

He’d interrupt your talks with Sukuna, attempting Hindi greetings that made you wince. "HELLO BEAUTIFUL LADY! GOJO! SUPER SEXY! HINDI... LEARNING! LIKE YOU... MAYBE?"

Sukuna would usually respond with a devastatingly accurate correction of his grammar, delivered with a smirk.

Nanami and Shoko had found their sanctuary.

Shoko’s office was a no-drama zone.

Nanami would sit there, smoking borrowed cigarettes (a new habit), a rare, genuine smile touching his lips as Shoko recounted the latest insanity. "So, Fushiguro tried to impress her by having his Divine Dog fetch... a melon soda.”

Nanami groaned, “God no!”

Shoko turned with a smug grin, “Oh yes! It brought back a half-eaten onigiri it found in the gutter. Sukuna translated her response as 'Adorable, but unsanitary.' Gojo then challenged Sukuna to a 'Hindi-off,' whatever that’s supposed to mean. It ended with Gojo attempting to curse Sukuna using a phrase book and Sukuna laughing so hard he cracked the wall."

Nanami would take a long drag, exhale slowly, and murmur, "Overtime has never sounded so appealing."

They toasted their sanity with lukewarm green tea.

The battle for your heart raged—Sukuna fighting his own feelings and the interference, Choso drowning in earnest despair, Toji flexing and deploying Megumi, Suguru weaving serene schemes, and Gojo mangling Hindi with terrifying enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, you were blissfully tangled in conversations with a thousand-year-old curse who made you feel seen, understood, and strangely safe amidst the chaos.

And Truck-kun? Still roaming Bihar. Still undefeated. Probably wondering why its latest victim was causing so much romantic carnage in another dimension.

---

The jasmine bouquet felt absurdly fragile in Sukuna’s grip.

Choso had pressed it into his hands moments ago, the tiny white stars stark against Sukuna’s scarred knuckles. His brother hadn’t met his eyes, staring instead at the worn tatami mats.

"Go," Choso had rasped, the single word scraped raw from his throat. "Before I remember how to be selfish. Before I remember, I saw her first."

The resignation in Choso’s bloodshot eyes, the tremor in his clenched fists—it wasn’t permission.

It was surrender. A sacrifice laid bare. For me.

The weight of it, the sheer, Choso-like selflessness, was a physical pressure in Sukuna’s chest, warring with the frantic, unfamiliar beat of anticipation.

She’s waiting.

He’d been an idiot.

Agreeing to this farce—luring her to the moon-viewing platform overlooking the koi pond under the pretense of Choso finally mastering a coherent Hindi sentence.

A setup.

A chance Choso had meticulously planned and then, in a final, devastating act of brotherly love, gifted to him.

Sukuna cursed under his breath, the ancient syllables harsh in the quiet hallway.

He shouldn’t have accepted.

He should have shoved the bouquet back, demanded that Choso went, fulfilled his original, foolish promise to translate.

But the image of her—the way sunlight caught the exasperated curve of her lip when she argued, the startled laugh that burst free when he matched her sarcasm, the sheer, vibrant aliveness of her amidst the Jujutsu Tech absurdity—it had unraveled centuries of calculated detachment.

He wanted her. Selfishly, fiercely.

And Choso, damn his bleeding heart, had seen it.

So Sukuna ran.

Not the measured stride of the revered teacher, the King of Curses playing pedagogue.

He sprinted.

The polished wooden floors thundered under his boots. He ignored the startled yelp of first-years Yuji, Junpei, and Nobara, rounding a corner, papers flying. The carefully tied jasmine bouquet threatened to disintegrate in his fist.

He could already see her—perched on the edge of the platform, maybe kicking her heels impatiently, maybe tracing patterns in the gravel, perhaps already frowning, wondering where "Choso" was.

He needed to be there.

Now.

To explain.

To see understanding dawn in her eyes, not disappointment.

To offer the damn flowers.

The shortcut through the rarely used eastern meditation garden was a tunnel of whispering bamboo, cool and dim after the sunlit halls.

He burst into its green stillness, the sudden quiet amplifying the frantic drumming of his own heart.

And stopped dead.

Gojo Satoru leaned against a thick bamboo stalk, arms crossed, blindfold firmly in place.

The usual manic grin was absent, replaced by a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "In a hurry, Sukuna-sensei?"

His voice was deceptively light, a melody wrapped around ice. "Off to deliver bad news? Choso stood her up, perhaps? How terribly… predictable."

Sukuna didn’t break stride. "Move, Six Eyes. Or be moved."

The air crackled, heavy with the sudden, invisible pressure of two immense cursed energies coiling, testing.

Gojo didn’t flinch.

He pushed off the bamboo, blocking the path entirely. The serene garden felt suddenly claustrophobic. "Tsk tsk. Always so direct. So… brutish. Is that how you woo her? With threats and bluster?" He tilted his head, the blindfold somehow conveying intense scrutiny. "Tell me, did you enjoy playing translator? Hearing her confide in you? Thinking you were the only one who understood her little world?"

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. The jasmine’s scent was suddenly cloying. "This doesn’t concern you, brat."

"Oh, but it does!" Gojo spread his hands, the gesture expansive, theatrical. "See, I have a vested interest in the happiness of our little lost sparrow. And you?" He took a step closer, the playful tone evaporating, leaving something cold and sharp. "You’re a dead end, Sukuna. Literally. A relic. A fascinating museum piece, sure, but ultimately… static. Dusty."

Sukuna’s lip curled. "And you’re a gnat. Annoying, easily swatted."

Gojo chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Maybe. But a gnat that understands change. Evolution. She’s fire, Sukuna. Vibrant, chaotic, unpredictable. She needs someone who matches that. Someone who can keep up, surprise her, challenge her… not someone who reminisces about the Gupta Empire while grading papers."

He took another step.

The air hummed.

"Someone like me."

Sukuna scoffed, the sound echoing harshly in the bamboo. "You? She finds you ridiculous. Untrustworthy."

"Does she?" Gojo’s smile widened, chillingly serene. "Or does she find the idea of me ridiculous? Because she doesn’t know me. Not really. Just like she didn’t really know Nanami was just a grumpy accountant with a sword until I told her."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Suguru? A beautiful facade. Choso? Earnest, bless him, but about as romantically adept as a brick. Toji? Please. He’s trying to pimp out his own kid."

His voice dropped, low and insidious. "But me? I let them play. I let Suguru think he had a chance. I watched the circus. Because I knew, eventually, the novelty would wear off. The translator would become… familiar. Predictable. Boring."

Sukuna felt a flicker of cold rage, but deeper, colder, was a sliver of doubt Gojo’s words expertly probed.

Boring?

Would the thrill of shared language, of ancient secrets whispered in Hindi, eventually pale?

Would she crave the unpredictable chaos Gojo embodied?

The thought was a physical blow, unexpected and unwelcome.

His focus, laser-sharp on reaching her a moment before, wavered.

Just for a fraction of a second.

His guard, momentarily lowered by the unfamiliar vulnerability of hope and Choso’s sacrifice, dipped.

Gojo saw it.

The infinitesimal shift in Sukuna’s cursed energy, the microsecond distraction caused by the poisonous doubt he’d planted.

The Six Eyes didn’t just see power; they saw intent, focus, the intricate lattice of energy holding a being together

And in that fleeting moment of Sukuna’s inner turmoil—the clash between ancient pride, newfound desire, and the insidious whisper of ‘Will she tire of you?’—Gojo saw the seam.

Not a physical weakness Sukuna didn't possess, but a conceptual one.

A chink born of unprecedented emotional distraction.

He moved. Not with a grand gesture, but with the terrifying, effortless speed that defined him. His hand wasn’t aimed at Sukuna’s body. It passed through Sukuna’s chest, not displacing flesh and bone, but phasing through the physical plane like a ghost.

His fingers closed, not on a heart, but on the core of Sukuna’s cursed energy manifestation—the intricate, self-sustaining pattern that bound his consciousness to this reincarnated form, the very echo of his soul made manifest in cursed energy.

Sukuna’s eyes snapped wide, not with pain, but with shock.

He felt… violated.

Not physical, but existential.

Gojo wasn’t attacking his vessel; he was unraveling the pattern of his existence within it.

"Domain Expansion," Gojo whispered, the words barely audible, yet resonating with absolute, chilling authority. "Unlimited Void."

But it wasn't the vast, information-overload void Sukuna knew.

Gojo didn’t cast it around them.

He focused it, compressed it infinitely, channeling the entire, overwhelming, consciousness-shattering concept of Infinity directly into the pinpoint locus he held within Sukuna’s cursed core.

It wasn't an attack Sukuna’s body could resist with strength or regeneration.

It was an overload injected directly into the source code of his current being.

Information. Infinite. Absolute.

The sensory deprivation, the crushing weight of everything happening everywhere at once, compressed into a single, impossible point within his very essence.

Sukuna didn't scream.

His body locked rigid, eyes staring sightlessly past Gojo. At her, standing just seventy feet away, looking in another direction. Waiting…for him.

His immense cursed energy flared once, a supernova contained within flesh, then snapped.

Not extinguished, but… unraveled.

The complex pattern holding his consciousness together in this vessel dissolved under the infinite pressure, scattered like sand in a hurricane.

The King of Curses, resistant to poisons, blades, and conventional cursed techniques, met his end not through force, but through the exploitation of a vulnerability he never knew he had in this form: a moment of human distraction weaponized by the Six Eyes.

The light vanished from Sukuna’s eyes.

His body remained standing for a heartbeat, a perfect, empty statue in the green gloom.

Then it slumped forward, collapsing onto the mossy path like a puppet with severed strings.

The jasmine tumbled from his limp hand, scattering white petals like shattered stars or maybe hope… that someone like him could live a different life than the one he was born into.

Gojo stood over him, breathing slightly faster than usual, the blindfold hiding any trace of triumph or remorse.

He looked down at the body, then at the scattered jasmine.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, quickly smoothed away.

"Static," he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he bent down.

He didn't touch the body directly.

The air shimmered, warping space itself.

Sukuna’s body folded in on itself, compressed by Infinity, becoming smaller and smaller, denser and denser, until it was a singularity no larger than a pebble.

Gojo plucked this impossible object from the air, the residual cursed energy humming faintly against his skin.

He glanced around the deserted bamboo grove, then tossed the compressed singularity carelessly into the deepest part of the koi pond.

It sank without a ripple, vanishing into the murky darkness.

He smoothed his jacket, adjusted his blindfold back to its usual jaunty angle, and strolled out of the garden, whistling a tuneless melody.

The bamboo whispered secrets the wind wouldn’t carry.

---

Nanami’s POV

She shifted on the smooth wood of the moon-viewing platform, the promised orb just a pale suggestion behind gathering clouds. The koi circled lazily below, oblivious.

Where was he? Choso, she meant. Sukuna had been so insistent, his usual dry humor laced with… something else? Urgency? Nerves? He’d promised Choso would be here, that he’d finally managed more than three words.

She’d rolled her eyes but come anyway.

For Choso, the earnest, blood-nosed bhaiya who deserved a chance. And maybe… a little to see Sukuna’s reaction.

But no one came.

Minutes stretched.

She dialed Choso. Switched Off.

Sukuna’s too.

The cool evening air pricked her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself, the earlier anticipation curdling into unease.

Had Choso chickened out? Had Sukuna…? No. He wouldn’t play that kind of cruel joke. Would he?

Doubt, cold and insidious, began to seep in. Had she misread everything?

The shared laughter, the understanding… was it just duty? Translating for his brother?

The platform felt suddenly too big, too empty. The silence pressed in.

A choked sob escaped before she could stop it. Then another. The tears came hot and fast, fueled by weeks of displacement, confusion, the absurd Rabid-English proposals, the fragile hope that had begun to bloom with Sukuna’s understanding, and now this… abandonment.

She fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking.

Didn’t expect him to understand.

She just needed… someone.

Not chaos, not intensity, not ancient riddles.

Just quiet presence.

She hit dial, pressing the phone to her ear, her breath hitching with sobs she couldn’t control.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

She just cried into the receiver, the raw sound echoing slightly in the quiet garden.

Coat off and sleeves rolled up, Nanami was reconciling a particularly tedious expense report when his phone vibrated.

He ignored it.

It vibrated again. And again. Persistent.

He sighed, setting down his pen, and glanced at the screen.

Unknown number, but associated with the storage closet. Her.

He hesitated.

Then he heard it—not words, but the unmistakable, ragged sound of weeping through the tinny speaker. Deep, gulping sobs of utter distress.

He was moving before conscious thought took over. Papers scattered as he pushed back his chair.

He didn’t run like Sukuna had, but his long strides ate up the distance with grim efficiency.

The sound pulled him like a lodestone, cutting through his usual reserve.

He found her huddled on the platform, knees drawn up, face buried in her arms, shoulders shaking violently.

The scattered jasmine petals near the edge of the path meant nothing to him.

He approached slowly, deliberately making noise on the gravel.

"Daijoubu?" he asked, his voice its usual flat monotone, but perhaps a fraction softer.

He didn’t touch her. Just stood nearby, a solid, silent pillar in his rumpled suit, an island of mundane stability in the sea of her incomprehensible grief.

He didn’t understand the words choked between her sobs, didn’t know why Choso hadn’t come, didn’t see the ghost of Sukuna’s final sprint.

He only saw the raw, human hurt.

He pulled a clean, folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out, a small, practical gesture in the face of the unknown storm.

She looked up, her face streaked and swollen, seeing only his familiar, impassive features.

The dam broke completely.

She lunged forward, not towards the offered handkerchief, but wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, burying her face in his shirt, the sobs intensifying, muffled against the starched cotton.

Nanami stiffened, shocked into utter stillness.

He stood rigid for a long moment, arms awkwardly half-raised, looking down at the crown of her head.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if handling volatile ordinance, he lowered one hand and placed it lightly, stiffly, on her shaking shoulder. A silent, bewildered anchor in the dark.

Above, the moon remained hidden. The koi circled.

The compressed singularity rested in the cold mud at the bottom of the pond.

Gojo’s whistling faded into the night.

Choso stared blankly at a wall, fists clenched, unaware his sacrifice had been rendered meaningless.

Suguru sipped tea, sensing a shift in the air he couldn't name.

Toji tried to convince Megumi that Hindi verbs were overrated.

Shoko lit another cigarette.

The woman wept in the arms of a man who wasn't her translator, wasn't her earnest suitor, wasn't the chaotic force that killed for her, and certainly wasn't her government-agent boyfriend.

She wept for someone who would never come, for words that would never be spoken, for a connection severed before it could truly bloom.

---

The next day, the absence was a living thing.

Sukuna’s first-year class waited. And waited.

The clock ticked past the hour. No booming voice, no dry sarcasm, no four-eyed glare dissecting their cursed energy control. Just silence.

Yuji scratched his head. “Uh… did Sukuna-sensei ever miss a class before?”

Nobara tapped her nails against the desk. “No. He’d rather set himself on fire than admit he couldn’t teach.”

Junpei, quieter, added, “He was running toward the east garden yesterday. Fast. Like he was late for something.”

Megumi frowned.

Gojo, who had not been assigned to cover Sukuna’s class but had conveniently “dropped by,” leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, blindfold tilted just enough to convey amusement. “Ohhh, right! Sukuna mentioned something about that. Said he couldn’t let Choso keep sacrificing for him. Very noble. Very out of character.”

He sighed dramatically. “Guess he finally cracked under the weight of his own emotions. Ran off to… reflect? Or something.”

Choso, who had been standing frozen in the hallway, listening, felt his blood run cold.

Ran off?

Sukuna?!

No.

Sukuna didn’t run off.

Sukuna didn’t sacrifice himself for anyone—not even Choso. Not unless he wanted to.

And yesterday, when Choso had given him that bouquet, Sukuna’s eyes had burned with something hungry, something possessive.

He wouldn’t have left.

Not without her. Not without—

Choso turned on his heel and walked away before his cursed energy could betray the storm inside him.

By midday, the whispers spread.

Yuji, Nobara and Junpei confirmed that they’d seen Sukuna sprinting toward the eastern gardens, face unreadable but determined.

Megumi, reluctantly dragged into the mess by Toji’s loud theorizing, admitted he’d heard Sukuna muttering in Hindi under his breath—something about “waiting” and “damn flowers.”

Shoko, exhaling smoke, only said, “People don’t vanish without a trace unless someone makes them vanish.”

Gojo waved it all off. “Sukuna was always dramatic. Probably off brooding in some cursed realm. Or maybe he finally got tired of grading papers!”

Suguru seemed like he wasn’t paying attention.

But Choso wasn’t listening.

He stood in the eastern garden, staring at the scattered jasmine petals on the moss. Crushed. Like someone had stepped on them in a hurry. Or dropped them mid-stride.

His fingers trembled as he picked one up.

Sukuna wouldn’t have let these fall.

Not if he was reaching for her.

That evening, the remaining suitors gathered—not by choice, but by circumstance.

Nanami, smoking silently beside Shoko, looked exhausted. He hadn’t asked questions. He’d just watched, eyes sharp, as Gojo spun his tales.

Toji, lounging with his usual irreverence, kept glancing at Megumi like he was waiting for his son to do something.

Suguru, serene as ever, sipped his tea, but his gaze lingered on Gojo a beat too long.

And then there was Gojo—grinning, effortless, spinning stories about Sukuna’s sudden “self-reflection journey” like he believed them himself.

Choso’s hands clenched.

Liar.

But proving it was another matter.

---

She didn’t cry again.

Not where anyone could see.

But sometimes, when the halls were empty, she’d pause near the koi pond, staring into the dark water like it might whisper answers.

And sometimes—

—someone would find her there.

Maybe Nanami, handing her a fresh handkerchief without a word.

Maybe Choso, standing silently beside her, his presence a quiet promise: I won’t let this rest.

Maybe Toji, nudging her with his elbow and saying something crude but weirdly comforting, like, “He was an asshole anyway. You’re better off.”

Maybe Suguru, offering a cup of tea, his smile knowing but not unkind.

And maybe, just maybe, one of them would be the one to finally dry her tears.

But not Gojo.

Never Gojo.

Because every time he passed her, his grin a little too wide, his voice a little too bright, she felt something cold crawl up her spine.

In the end, she eventually made her decision and lived a relatively happy life with the one she chose.

It just wasn’t with Gojo.

She died without ever knowing what happened to Sukuna.

Gojo continued to wait for her long after her death, until the void finally claimed him.

And in the depths of the koi pond, something too small to see, too dense to rise, rested in the silence.

Waiting.

Unfound.

Unmourned.

The only victor, the void.

And Truck-kun? Still roaming the dusty streets of Bihar.

Still undefeated.

Probably looking for its next isekai victim.

Preferably one who understands the local dating customs.

---

A/N: …Well, that escalated. Sukuna wasn’t even supposed to be in this fic, let alone die. I just wanted to write crack, but my angsty muses staged a coup. Please don’t hate Gojo here, he basically did what Sukuna does in canon, except his reasons were arguably less selfish. As always, constructive feedback is welcome & appreciated!

All Works Masterlist

💭 What did you think of the ending? Who would you have chosen?

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