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andysdrafts · 14 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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