#suliman

“They’re trying to get in!” he cried, kicking at the wall as some black, inky, horrific curse-arm slithered through the crack between the stone and wood.

The dog (who still didn’t have a proper name and was still suspiciously smart) was standing on the kitchen table screaming. Not barking. Just full-throated humanlike screaming.

“WHY IS THE DOG SCREAMING?” you wailed.

“WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?” Calcifer snapped, his flame flaring neon blue as he swelled inside the hearth. “I’M THE ONE FIGHTING OFF SIXTEEN DIFFERENT CURSED SPIRITS AND A FUCKING FAMILIAR MADE OF HUMAN TEETH.”

The castle groaned, long and loud, the walls creaking like they were breathing, and something slammed into the door behind you hard enough to crack it.

You yelped. “Okay. Okay. Emergency protocol. What do we do?”

Yuji held up the potatoes like they were holy. “Feed Calcifer?”

“Yes! Feed me!!” Calcifer shouted. “Something spicy! Or protein-rich! Feed me those marshmallows again—those tasted like human sin!”

You grabbed the entire pantry and chucked it into the fire. “What the hell is happening?!”

“The Witch of the Waste sent her minions,” Calcifer growled, flames roaring higher, sparks licking the rafters. “Kenjaku’s getting desperate. They’re both getting desperate. And this castle is too full of magic and secrets for them to ignore anymore.”

Another crash. Something scraped along the walls. The air howled with otherworldly wind. You swore you saw eyeballs blinking out from the corners of the ceiling.

Spirits. Real ones. Swarming.

You, Yuji, and the Screaming Dog spent the next hour bolting doors, chanting wards, dragging skulls across the floor (Gojo said the weird skeleton was important??), and throwing everything edible into Calcifer, who was now big enough to touch the roof.

At one point, Yuji just laid on the floor and muttered, “I miss the time when the only problem was the talking scarecrow trying to get in.”

But slowly—mercifully—the screaming outside dulled. The shadows withdrew. The cursed spirits, for whatever reason, relented.

For now.

The house sagged in the aftermath, exhausted. Windows cracked, hinges bent. One of the doors was completely unhinged, and the ceiling had a weird tear in it where the Witch’s magic had tried to manifest into a screaming child with too many arms.

Calcifer finally dimmed to his normal self, his flames shrunk and flickering as he groaned, “Give me five minutes or I will literally burn this place down on purpose.”

“Noted,” you panted. “Break time.”

*-*

The cleanup took hours.

Yuji dragged out a mop. You rehinged the door with sheer stubbornness. The Screaming Dog calmed down long enough to guard the broken guitar (still suspicious).

And the strangest part?

You didn’t feel old.

Your back didn’t ache. Your hands weren’t trembling. You caught your reflection briefly in a broken shard of mirror, and though your hair was still grey, your eyes looked… brighter. Sharper.

But you were too busy keeping the floor from collapsing to think too hard about it.

Later, long past midnight, with Calcifer snoring softly in the hearth and Yuji passed out across the couch like a corpse, you curled in a spare blanket and fell into sleep.

*-*

You awoke to commotion.

Whispers. Scraping. The scent of smoke and blood.

You opened your eyes into darkness. Something was wrong.

The castle door had creaked open on its own. The wind was howling again. You pushed yourself up and followed the trail of crimson—bloody footprints. Bare, pale, and unmistakably Gojo’s.

Your heart leapt in panic. “Satoru?” you whispered.

The trail led to his room. The door was open, barely hanging on its hinges, and—

Beyond it was not a room.

It was a valley.

A valley of flowers.

But it wasn’t the same one he showed you.

It looked older. Wilder. As if time had peeled away the years and taken you backward. The sky above was star-strewn, impossibly vast, and—

Shooting stars were falling.

Real ones. Dozens of them. Crashing into the ground, sending up sprays of stardust and glittering light.

And across the lake, standing in a pale blue kimono, shorter hair brushing his nape, barefoot and young, was Gojo.

He was looking up at the sky in wonder, arms outstretched as stars fell around him like feathers.

You stumbled forward, heart hammering, eyes wide. “Is this…?”

It was.

A memory.

Calcifer. He’d said it once before—casually, offhanded, something about being “caught” by Gojo when he had "fallen".

You sprinted. You had to reach him before the memory ended.

But then—

Gojo reached up. A star—a real one—fell into his hands. He held it, gently.

He spoke to it. Whispered something you couldn’t hear. Then—he swallowed it.

His body arched, convulsed, hands flying to his chest—and from his heart, glowing with magic and light, a tiny flame emerged.

Calcifer.

You watched in stunned silence as Calcifer—the younger version—blinked up at him, flickering and new.

The world trembled. You screamed his name—Gojo!

“GOJO!” you screamed across the water, your voice cracking with urgency. “LOOK FOR ME IN THE FUTURE!”

He paused. His young face turned. He saw you.

Across the shimmering lake, he blinked in confusion. “Huh?”

“LOOK FOR ME!” you yelled again, tears suddenly rising. “I’ll be waiting! Don’t trust Geto—he gets possessed by—”

But the dream snapped shut.

*-*

You gasped awake.

Back in your body. Back in the ruined castle.

The smell of blood was real. You stumbled toward Gojo’s room again—only now, it was just a room. No valley. No stars.

But the trail of blood was real. And it led to Gojo—collapsed, pale as death, his blindfold off, streaks of dried blood down his face.

Calcifer hissed from the hearth. “He’s dying.”

“No,” you whispered, heart breaking. “No, he’s not.”

You dropped beside him, hands glowing without your command, your curse flickering away entirely in the pressure of this moment.

You didn’t even know what you were doing. But you held him.

Because you knew this now:

You had found him before.

You would find him again.

And you weren’t going to let him go. Not now. Not ever.

*-*

You woke with your heart in your throat. The floor was cool against your cheek. Your limbs were heavy, breath short, vision foggy like you'd just clawed your way out of a tar-thick dream.

The world was still. Too still. You sat up, expecting blood. War. A broken Gojo. A corpse.

It had been a dream.

Or... a dream within a dream.

“Fuck,” you croaked. “What kind of Inception-ass bullshit—”

Oh, you were going to kill someone. Preferably yourself. Maybe twice.

But no.

There was Gojo. Prancing around the kitchen. Wearing a crimson silk robe, hair damp from a bath, sipping tea like he hadn’t collapsed in a pool of his own blood last night and dragged you into a starfield fever-dream memory where he made a deal with a falling celestial being.

He glanced over and smiled.

“Oh, you’re awake. I fixed the pipes. Also, why did you shove the dog in the bread oven?”

“WHAT.”

“Don’t worry, he got out.”

You stared, unblinking. “You were dying last night.”

He blinked. “I was?”

Calcifer, from the hearth, muttered darkly, “Yeah, and I was on my last spark. You people need to stop giving me trauma.”

“Wait—so was it real or not?!” you cried, spinning in place. “You were dead! You were dying! There was a flower field and stars fell from the sky and I think I watched you eat Calcifer?!”

“That was a dream,” Gojo said.

“Okay, but then I told you to look for me in the future and—”

Gojo’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. A flash of recognition, quiet and raw. “...Did you?”

You squinted. “What the hell is going on with this house?”

“I’m starting to think this place is a little bit cursed,” Yuji mumbled, dragging in a broken chair and a mummified potato.

“I’M STARTING TO THINK I’M CURSED,” you shouted.

"Well to be fair-" Calcifer started.

"Oh shut up." You interrupted.

But then—the mood shifted.

The castle shuddered.

A soundless hum pulsed through the walls. Like a bell tolling underwater.

Gojo’s head snapped up.

“They’re coming,” Calcifer whispered.

The Witch of the Waste was stirring again, yes—but the danger wasn’t from her.

No.

The danger was standing in the middle of the flower fields Gojo had grown, waiting.

“Kenjaku,” Gojo said quietly.

The name hit the air like a crack of thunder.

Yuji flinched. You felt your chest go tight. Even the dog stopped gnawing on the guitar neck and whimpered.

Gojo glanced at you, eyes too calm. “I have to go.”

“You can’t go alone,” you said, immediately.

He smiled at you like a liar. “I’ve faced worse.”

“You nearly died yesterday!”

“That was a Thursday,” he said casually. “I bounce back fast.”

Calcifer sighed, “This is a mistake. This is a huge mistake. I’m putting this on record: if you die, I get to haunt your bones.”

"If I die you die!" Gojo gleefully responded.

*-*

But he goes. And you, of course, follow.

Because you are done letting him walk into storms alone.

The flower fields are eerily quiet. The breeze whispers like it knows a funeral is coming.

At the very center, surrounded by blood-red poppies and bluebells, stands Kenjaku. Or rather—Geto. Wearing Geto’s body like a cruel imitation of life.

And Gojo—Gojo stops just a few feet away. You hang back in the flowers, heart hammering. You shouldn’t be here. But you need to be.

“Hello, Satoru,” Kenjaku says, smiling.

Gojo doesn’t smile back.

The hurt in his eyes is visceral. Palpable. His gaze lingers too long on the familiar features: the soft jaw, the dark eyes, the tilt of a smirk that used to mean everything to him.

“I thought maybe you’d finally show up,” Kenjaku says. “To end what you started.”

“You don’t get to wear his face,” Gojo murmurs. His voice is ragged—raw in a way you’ve never heard.

Kenjaku tilts his head. “He wore it first. You should be thanking me. At least this way, he didn’t rot in some ditch. I gave him purpose.”

Gojo flinches. You see it. The tiniest tremor in his shoulder.

“You weren’t there for him,” Kenjaku says softly, kindly—like a knife. “You left him behind. And now he’s dead. You let that happen. You let me happen.”

You see Gojo’s entire body go still. Stilled. Like someone dropped a sheet of ice down his spine.

“I...” Gojo’s voice breaks. “You’re not him.”

“But you see him in me, don’t you?” Kenjaku purrs. “You still love him. You still blame yourself. And now you’ll get to kill him again.”

That’s when Gojo turns his head—just enough to look at you.

“Go back inside.”

“No,” you say.

“I’m not asking,” he says, softly.

And for the first time, he’s not teasing. There’s no grin, no smugness, no flirtation. Only... sadness.

“I’m not letting you see what happens next.”

The world shakes. And you vanish—Gojo uses Infinity to push you back. The last thing you hear is the click of his teeth as he says, “I’m sorry.”

*-*

Inside is chaos again. Of course it is.

There are spirit-shadows oozing through the cracks, whispering and snapping and groping for Calcifer like starving rats. The castle creaks, trying to hold itself together.

You shout. You scream. You will them away.

And—surprisingly—it works. You don’t know how, but when you shout “LEAVE HIM ALONE!” with your whole chest, the shadows stop. Falter. Then scream and burn out like smoke.

Calcifer wheezes. “Holy shit. You’re terrifying.”

“Thanks?” you pant.

*-*

Much later.

The rain starts first.

Soft. Steady. Then harder.

You can’t sit still. You can’t wait.

So you go back out. You follow the path, heart in your throat. The flowers are soaked. The sky is bleeding grey. And in the middle of the field—

You find him.

Gojo, kneeling in the mud, head down, soaked to the bone, body shaking.

And in his arms—what’s left of Geto. Or Kenjaku. Or both.

You freeze.

Not because you’re afraid, but because you don’t know if your heart can take the sight.

Gojo is crying.

Openly. No barriers. No laughter. No smugness. Just… grief.

The sobs come deep. Ripping through him like shrapnel. His hands are stained red. He’s holding the body like it might come back if he just holds tighter.

You kneel next to him, slow.

He doesn’t stop crying. He doesn’t even acknowledge you.

So you just sit. Let him break.

“...He was my brother,” he whispers, voice cracking, almost childlike.

You nod. “I know.”

“I was supposed to protect him. I—I didn’t—I never told him he mattered to me. Not once. I thought I had time.”

“You loved him,” you say gently. “He knew. That’s why it hurt so much.”

Gojo curls forward. His forehead presses into the body’s shoulder. He shakes. “I should’ve told him. I should’ve said it. He died thinking I left him.”

Gojo clutched him like a brother, like a lover, like someone who’d just lost everything again.

You place a hand on his back. Steady. Solid.

He cries harder.

He didn’t look up. His shoulders shook. His fingers dug into the fabric of Geto’s old robe like he could somehow hold his soul together.

And you stay. Even as the rain pours. Even as the sky weeps with him. Even as the world feels like it’s ending.

You don’t say anything else.

Because sometimes, the only thing you can offer is the fact that you stayed.

You stayed.

You said nothing. Just held him. Let him cry. Let the sky cry with him.

Fat drops fell onto the corpse. Onto Gojo’s back. Onto your hair. It soaked the field. It turned ash to mud.

Gojo didn’t flinch. He just kept whispering apologies.

And you sat there, holding his grief like a storm, until the sky ran out of tears.

A/N: hope this was good!

Masterlist.

Even Yuji noticed.

“Should we put a tracker on him?” Yuji asked one morning, chewing toast, his apron dusted with pollen. “I know a guy. I mean, I think it’s a guy. Could be a mushroom spirit.”

You sighed. “I don’t think Satoru can be tracked. And if he can, it’d just end with an explosion.”

Yuji shrugged. “We can rebuild. Probably.”

He was sweet, in the way only a 19-year-old apprentice who’d accidentally adopted a cursed dog, befriended a sentient doorframe, and taken over running a part-time flower shop could be.

You’d grown used to having him around. In fact...

You’d started to care for him. Deeply.

He was thoughtful and patient and made you tea without asking. He started calling you “Auntie” when no one was listening. You fixed his buttons and hemmed his sleeves and told him to wash his hands before meals.

Even when the castle shook from one of Gojo’s magic tantrums, Yuji stayed grounded—like a sweet sunflower boy who hadn’t yet given up hope.

The scarecrow was another story.

It had grown more persistent.

Some days, it just stood outside the flower shop door, its wooden face tilted in silent devotion. Other days, it tried to wedge itself inside, its stick arms poking through windows, tapping softly like it just wanted to look at the violets.

Yuji had taken to whacking it with a broom. “Go away, Stick Man! You’re not on the guest list!”

Gojo, for all his overpowered magical omniscience, refused to do anything about it.

“I think it’s endearing,” he’d said one morning, sipping espresso from a cup that changed colors with his mood (today: exhausted gray). “Maybe it’s in love with you.”

“I swear to God—”

“Better than a suitor with a body. They get clingy.”

*-*

As for the dog...

It kept trying to steal the guitar.

It didn’t bark. Didn’t growl. Didn’t even pant. Just... stared. With its ancient, human-soul eyes. And always, always went for the guitar in the corner—an old thing with six strings and a single cracked fret.

You’d found the dog halfway across the room once, dragging the guitar in its mouth, tail wagging like it knew something you didn’t.

Gojo ended up locking the guitar away.

“Until we figure out who or what he is,” Gojo had muttered. “No creepy dog serenades in this house.”

*-*

That night, sleep refused to come.

Your bones ached. The curse had its claws deep tonight, twisting in your spine, weighing your joints like molten stone.

You got up, careful not to wake the dog (who had decided your slippers were now his bed), and padded into the main room.

Calcifer flickered low in the hearth. “You again,” he muttered. “Can’t sleep because of the crippling existential burden of being cursed? Or the war?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

You sat by the fire, pulled out Yuji’s shirt—torn at the hem from chasing a flying cart across town—and began to mend it. The needle felt steady in your hand. Familiar. You stitched without thinking, letting the rhythm quiet your thoughts.

You almost didn’t hear the door creak open.

Almost didn’t see Gojo stumble in, dragging his cloak behind him like it weighed a thousand stars. His blindfold was askew, hair damp with sweat.

You froze. “Satoru?”

He didn’t answer.

Just passed you—like a ghost in his own house—and vanished into his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air go still.

You stared after him. Then looked at Calcifer.

“...What happened?” you whispered.

The fire demon sighed, a long, ember-crackling breath. “He used Hollow Purple. Again.”

You frowned. “What’s Hollow Purple?”

Calcifer tilted his flame body toward you. “You really wanna know?”

You nodded.

“It’s not a spell,” Calcifer said slowly. “It’s a last resort. A fusion of destructive forces. Red and blue, collapsing space, time, and everything in between. It doesn’t just erase things. It unmakes them.”

You went still.

Calcifer continued, voice lower. “He used it to stop a fleet today. Ten battleships. One attack. It drained him. Took everything.”

You gripped the fabric in your lap. “Why would he do that?”

Calcifer’s flame flickered blue for a moment. “Because one side threatened a village. The other fired on children. He said... he couldn’t pick a side. So he ended the battlefield instead.”

You stared at the door to Gojo’s room.

The handle glowed faintly. Protective wards. He was shielding himself from even the castle.

“But if he keeps using that... won’t it—”

“Yes,” Calcifer said. “Eventually, it’ll kill him.”

The fire crackled.

Your chest ached—not just with your curse, but with the unbearable weight of knowing that the man you loved, for all his strength and arrogance and brilliance, was slowly burning himself out.

Unmaking himself, piece by piece.

*-*

You stayed up all night.

Mending.

Watching the hearth.

Listening to the distant rumbles of war.

And wondering, not for the first time, how you were supposed to save someone who kept trying to sacrifice himself before you even got the chance.

*-*

The war howled louder every day.

You could hear it even in your sleep— —not the war itself, but its echoes.

The castle moaned more at night now. The gears ached. The wood of the beams creaked like old bones. Even Calcifer, who used to fill the evenings with snide remarks and little tricks, had grown quiet.

It wasn’t just the battles. It was something worse.

They were being watched.

War smelled like iron.

Even when it was far away, beyond mountains and borders, it left its scent behind—metal and ash. The scent clung to Gojo’s cloak now, even after he took it off.

It had been days since he’d slept properly. His hands trembled when he cast now, his Infinity wasn’t holding like it used to, and he hadn’t cracked a joke at Yuji’s expense in nearly three days.

Something was coming.

He felt it in his bones. In the air.

“Kenjaku’s dogs,” he’d said grimly. “And the Witch’s too, probably. I can’t tell if they’re working together or just… circling.”

He’d tried to expand the castle’s protections. Added new layers to his Infinity—his domain stretched and warped across the outer walls, calcifying into an almost living shield—but something was eating through it, like rust.

Kenjaku’s forces had been getting closer. Strange sentinels had begun to appear on the periphery of their domains—hulking shapes of burnt glass and bone, too still to be alive, but too present to be anything else. Gojo caught glimpses of them sometimes in the haze beyond the castle windows, or reflected in Calcifer’s flame. Watching. Waiting.

And worse—he knew the Witch of the Waste was drawing near.

He could feel her magic now, stretching like an oil-slick horizon, seeping into the edges of his domains. Her curses were deeper than most sorcerers could comprehend. Twisted like thorny vines, laced with the screaming of forgotten ghosts.

And they were wrapped around you.

Your curse was unraveling.

Not lifting. Not breaking. Unraveling.

There were moments—seconds, even—when your hands looked like your own again. When your steps didn’t ache. When your voice felt younger.

It happened most often when you forgot about the curse.

When you lost yourself tending to Yuji’s garden boxes, or when you were fixing seams on jackets and Gojo’s ridiculous long coats.

It happened when you laughed. When you were loved.

It happened—though you didn’t know it—when Gojo passed your sleeping form one dawn and finally saw what he hadn’t been able to before.

*-*

He’d seen it the night before.

You were asleep, soft snores curled against the pillow, old lady limbs tucked under too many blankets. Calcifer was a tiny flicker on the hearth, barely awake himself, murmuring about missing salt.

Gojo had paused only for a second—passing by your door to grab one of his spellbooks, intending to brew another layer of defenses into the castle’s moving foundation. But he stopped.

Because for the first time, the curse was visible to him. As he looked—tired, hurting, all the walls of his usual charm worn thin—his Six Eyes finally showed him the soul inside.

Not old.

Not broken.

Not ruined.

But luminous.

Like silk pulled too tight, the old-lady magic quivered over your skin in threads of smoke and stardust. It flickered. For the briefest moment, he saw you underneath. Not the hunched back, not the grey curls—he saw your soul.

And it hit him like a warbell.

You were her.

The woman he had been searching for. The one he built the castle for. The one he kept flowers blooming for. The one who haunted his dreams, even before you ever stepped through his door.

His heart cracked a little in his chest.

Of course it was you. The one who scolded him when he forgot to eat, the one who fought him when he was being unbearable, the one who stayed. You’d been there through everything—witches, war, collapsing universes, and Yuji’s terrifying cooking experiments—and you had stayed.

He should have said something.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. So he left the truth between the floorboards and kept walking.

Because if he told you now, you’d pull away. You’d think it was obligation or pity or some dramatic half-truth he conjured to save you from the weight of your curse.

And Gojo knew better than anyone: truth told at the wrong time was a curse in itself.

So he just stood there, hand gripping the doorframe, watching your chest rise and fall.

The next morning, he took you to the valley.

*-*

The next morning, the castle smelled like sugar and pollen and sunlight.

Gojo stood at the doorframe to the side of the kitchen, smiling in that too-big way that meant he was hiding something.

“Come on,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “I have something to show you.”

You frowned at him over your tea. “If this is another sentient wardrobe—”

“Nope,” he grinned. “Better. Promise.”

You sighed, grabbed your scarf, and followed.

Yuji and the dog both watched you go with the identical expressions of “oh no, not again.”

It had taken him weeks to build it.

Magic poured into stone and soil, filtered through infinity and reshaped across the ashes of a wasteland. He’d carved it between two mountain ranges, where the wind was gentle and the sky bent low to kiss the hills.

He took your hand and led you through the flower shop’s back door—which now opened into a field.

Not just any field.

A sea of color.

Rows upon rows of flowers, in every hue imaginable—dahlias, tulips, night-blooming jasmine, golden bellflowers, towering stalks of foxglove that hummed when the wind passed through them. The air smelled of citrus and rain.

You gasped softly, your wrinkled fingers twitching in his grasp.

“Oh,” you whispered. “This isn’t real.”

“It’s very real,” Gojo murmured beside you, voice lower than you’d heard in days. “It’s built where the desert used to be. Where the Witch of the Waste poisoned the land long ago.”

You turned to him. “You did this?”

He nodded once, gaze fixed on the horizon. “I wanted to create something that could fight back. Something that would heal the world. Something that grew, instead of burned.I made it for you,” he said, his voice too soft for him. “Well, not just for you. This used to be desert. Witch’s curse zone. It was killing everything in a hundred-mile radius. But the original oasis magic was still there—I just had to nudge it. Make something that could resist her rot.”

Your throat felt tight. “And you thought flowers could do that?”

“I know they can,” he said. “But the person who started these oases—who made the first field like this—disappeared. Years ago.”

You squinted. “The prince?”

Gojo nodded. “Maybe. He was gifted. Beyond gifted. Had an affinity for healing, for creation. The two kingdoms lost their minds trying to harness him. Then he vanished.”

You crouched to touch a bluebell, your cursed fingers trembling. The curse was flickering. You could feel it. Parts of your body felt younger in the breeze—your back a little straighter, your knees less sore.

“I can’t believe this,” you murmured. “It’s beautiful.”

Gojo smiled softly. “I made it just for you.”

Your heart stuttered, your curse seemed to soften. You looked up at him. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “I mean, for the people. For... anyone who needed it.”

You frowned at him suspiciously. “You’re a terrible liar when you’re tired.”

“I’m a terrible liar always.”

A beat passed. 

“I used your stitching as a template,” he said, embarrassed now. “You’ve got a good eye for weaving. Magic follows intent, right? I think... maybe you willed this into existence more than I did.”

You turned to him—he wasn’t wearing his blindfold today. He looked tired, and older, and honest.

You smiled. “Thank you.”

“I know it’s not a cure,” he murmured. “But I hoped it’d help. Your curse, it flickers more when you’re in spaces like this. Like it’s confused. Like it knows it can’t survive here.”

You opened your mouth to respond—and that’s when the wind changed.

The sky darkened—not like a storm, but like something enormous was blotting out the sun.

A shadow passed over the field. You both turned.

There, on the far horizon, a shape emerged.

Something ancient and long, slithering through the clouds—scaled, massive, winged. A dragon, or something like it. Its wings tore through the sky with a scream like glass on stone.

Calcifer flickered into life on Gojo’s shoulder, his tiny ember-eyes wide. “That’s not one of ours.”

“Kenjaku’s?” you whispered.

Gojo’s face was already hardening, his eyes blazing under his blindfold. “Probably one of his pets. Or the Witch’s. Or both. They’re getting bold. A soul-devourer. Probably meant to scout... or destroy.”

The creature let out another sound, something that rattled the earth below your feet.

You gripped Gojo’s sleeve. “Will you be okay to fight that?”

He looked at you. And for a moment, something strange passed behind his expression—fear, maybe, or sorrow. Something too quiet to name.

“I have to be.”

You looked into his face. Pale and lined with exhaustion, with shadows under his lashes and dried blood along the hem of his collar. You hated this war. Hated what it had done to him.

“Be careful,” you whispered.

He blinked, startled by your tone. “...You’re worried about me?”

“Of course I am, you idiot.”

His smile was faint, sad. “You always were.”

He pulled away, stepping forward into the field, the flowers bowing as he passed.

Above, the dragon let out another shriek.

And Gojo’s voice was a whisper lost to the wind: “Don’t let Yuji feed the scarecrow while I’m gone.”

Then he vanished into the air—just gone—leaving you staring at the sky, the scent of jasmine clinging to your hands, and your heart hammering with fear you couldn’t name.

Because the man who had built you a field to fight a desert...

Was walking straight into the storm.

And this time, you didn’t know if he’d come back.

A/N: hope this was good! two more chapters to go! yay!

Masterlist.

You rolled your eyes and hauled yourself to your feet, joints creaking more than the castle did.

“Delicate, my wrinkled—”

“Language~,” Gojo called again.

You muttered darkly and turned your attention back to the living room. Or was it the dining room? Gojo kept changing the layout, claiming it was “feng shui” or some other magical nonsense. Either way, it was clean now. Too clean. You had, in the past week, scrubbed the floorboards until they shone, dusted cobwebs out of impossible corners, and even managed to convince Calcifer to let you clean the soot from the hearth—though not without many threats and bribes involving cheese pastries.

And still, the castle seemed alive. Breathing. Growing. Changing when you weren’t looking.

You glanced over at the object currently tormenting you. The skull. A literal skull.

It sat perched atop a pile of books like it belonged there, hollow sockets fixed on you every time you passed it. You’d tried throwing it out once.

Calcifer had screeched. Gojo had caught wind.

Apparently, it was “very important to the structural integrity of the castle’s soul-link grid,” which made absolutely no sense to you but made enough to shut you up. For now.

You wrinkled your aged nose at it as you passed.

“You're lucky he likes you,” you muttered, and the skull seemed to grin wider.

Just as you were preparing to collapse into one of the armchairs and wallow in magical household-induced fatigue, the door creaked open.

In walked Yuji.

And at his side—no, nudging eagerly ahead of him—was a dog.

A tall, scruffy, grey and white dog with a stubby tail and the sharpest, most judgmental eyes you had ever seen. It stared at you as if it was assessing your soul.

You blinked. “Yuji.”

Yuji blinked back, sheepish. “Hey... So I, uh... might’ve picked up a companion.”

The dog snorted. Literally snorted.

“Yuji,” you rasped, pointing a bony finger, “that’s not a dog.”

“I mean,” he scratched the back of his head, “technically—well. No, probably not. But he's not biting me, so I figured...?”

The dog walked past you with all the dignity of a retired scholar and promptly curled up next to Calcifer’s hearth like he owned the place.

“Oh great,” Calcifer muttered. “Another moody cryptid.”

The dog blinked. Slowly.

You stared between the fire demon and the canine.

“Gojo is going to love this,” you muttered.

Later that afternoon, after you’d managed to wrestle the dog off of a pillow Gojo claimed was imbued with dream-thread magic (whatever that meant), you found yourself wandering into the castle's doorway room. The massive, many-colored dial above the knob spun gently in a breeze that didn’t exist, ticking like a heartbeat.

You flipped it to the soft green quadrant—the one Gojo had recently marked “f.l.w.r sh.p 🌸” in his loopy, self-satisfied handwriting.

“Don’t forget the bread!” Yuji called from somewhere behind you.

“Don’t let the dog eat the skull!” you shouted back, then twisted the knob and stepped through.

The air on the other side was warmer. It smelled like springtime and blooming roses, faintly sweet and floral. The sun poured down like honey on the cobbled street of the tiny town Gojo had secretly installed his new flower shop in. The building itself looked like it had always been there—wisteria dripping down its eaves, with soft white paint and a sign that simply read:

“GOJO’S FLORALS (we do curses too 💐💀)”

You shook your head every time you saw it.

The town itself was quiet, nestled in some countryside valley with sprawling flower fields just past the low stone walls. You wandered through the square, wicker basket in hand, nodding politely to villagers who gave you either wide berths or curious glances. You were a hunched old lady in a magic flower shop, after all.

You’d just bartered for some fresh peaches and a small sack of flour when something caught your eye.

A discarded scarecrow.

It lay tipped over beside the edge of a thistle bush, half-buried in a ditch. Its wooden pole had snapped, and one of its arms dangled loosely. Its face—crudely painted on a gourd—was tilted at an odd angle.

No one else paid it any mind, but something about the sight tugged at your chest.

You hobbled over and crouched beside it, brushing off the straw around its neck.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you muttered, reaching out to straighten its battered hat. “Bet you’d like to see flowers someday, huh?”

The scarecrow didn’t move, of course.

You patted its head. “Well, if you ever grow legs, come find me. I work at the little flower shop over there—” you gestured vaguely toward the Gojo-cursed monstrosity, “—the one with the obnoxious name. You can’t miss it.”

You chuckled to yourself as you stood, brushing off your skirt. “Wouldn’t that be something...”

You turned to walk away, not seeing the slight shimmer that sparked in the scarecrow’s eyes.

Back at the castle, Gojo was floating upside down when you returned—hair dripping some glowing blue goo, which Calcifer was not pleased about.

“I told you to stop using slime-based illusion spells indoors,” the fire demon grumbled.

“But it’s so moisturizing,” Gojo replied, spinning lazily in midair. Then he saw you, and his entire face lit up.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite enchanted old lady.”

“Don’t sweet-talk me. There’s a dog on your pillow, a talking skull giving me dirty looks, and I think I might’ve accidentally brought a scarecrow to life.”

Gojo blinked, then floated down until his nose was barely inches from yours.

“You what?”

“I just... patted it on the head and told it to visit the flower shop. You know, like a normal person.”

Gojo tilted his head, then beamed.

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Stop flirting.”

“Never.”

You handed him a peach. “Here. Eat this before you liquefy again.”

That night, as the castle trudged through a field of stars and the hearth glowed low with sleepy firelight, a shadow passed just outside the flower shop door. A shape with a crooked hat and bouncing wooden pole, moving of its own accord.

And somewhere in the castle, the skull smiled.

*-*

It started with the smoke.

Thick, oil-black smoke churning along the horizon, carried by winds that shouldn’t reach this part of the valley. The sky, once painted with pastels and the gentle gold of spring, had turned gray at the edges—clouds heavy with something unnatural. Magic. Hate.

War.

The war was no longer something Gojo ignored with flippant sighs and dramatic monologues from the bathroom mirror. It had started crawling into the very air, heavy with sulfur and unspoken dread.

And the castle felt it, too.

The hearth burned lower, colors colder. The great metallic legs groaned more often in the night. The door dials grew temperamental. Even Calcifer, usually a snapping, sarcastic flame, had grown quiet—his flames curling in odd, uneasy patterns.

Yuji was out again. The dog still refused to give his name and now had the audacity to read books with his paws (you'd caught him flipping pages with his nose and scoffing when the stories bored him).

And Gojo?

He’d taken to vanishing for hours at a time, often returning with soot-streaked robes and the smell of magic scorched into his skin. His hair always seemed to glow faintly, even when he muttered about needing sleep.

Tonight, the castle shuddered beneath your feet. You braced yourself against the kitchen counter as an inkwell fell from the desk and shattered.

"Again?" you muttered.

"That one wasn’t me," Calcifer croaked, voice low. “That’s the kingdoms.”

The war had come closer.

You stood by the window of the flower shop—the soft bell above the door tinkling behind you as you clutched the basket you’d meant to refill with lavender—and watched as streaks of red light cracked across the sky far in the distance. Explosions. A kingdom’s scream.

“...They’re getting closer, aren’t they?”

The voice behind you was soft. Gojo, barefoot and glittering with magical residue, leaned against the doorway with one arm crossed over his chest, the other tousling the white crown of his hair. He looked tired. Not physically—he never did—but his eyes… they flickered with something quiet and sad.

You didn’t need to say anything. He knew the answer. You just nodded.

“Both sides sent envoys again,” he said after a moment. “Wanting me to ‘tip the scales.’” His fingers made little quote marks as he sighed. “Honestly, I should start charging appearance fees.”

“They want you to win the war for them.”

He turned, flashing you a smile too sharp to be anything but defense. “Because of course I would make a great war puppet, right? I mean, look at me. So stylish. So powerful. Practically weaponized already.”

You raised a brow. “So what now? Gonna charm both armies into submission?”

He chuckled. But his shoulders sagged, just a little.

“I’m going to make you pretend to be my mom and go talk to Suliman.”

You blinked. “You’re going to what—”

“It’s foolproof! You go in, act cranky and old—very method, very believable, you’re already cursed—” he dodged the wooden spoon you threw at him “—and tell her what a horrible disappointment I am. That’ll throw them off my scent for a while.”

He pouted. Then wailed.

“I’m going to be drafted into the war! Both kingdoms want me. They’re sending envoys. One even tried to bribe me with an army of golden alpacas—alpacas! Do you know how hard it is to say no to that?!”

You arched a brow. “And your solution is...?”

“You! You go! To the royal palace of Hiraeth! Pretend to be my terrifying, overbearing mother who has absolutely forbidden me from participating in political wars of any kind, especially ones where I might accidentally explode the moon.”

You gaped at him. “I’m not lying about you being a disaster, Satoru. But I am not pretending to be your mother!”

He wailed. Hands over his heart, fake sobs echoing like thunder.

“Traitor to the maternal cause! All I’ve done for you—built you a flower shop, gave you free room and board, let you be harassed by a haunted skull—and this is how you repay me?”

You stared.

He pouted.

You sighed.

“You owe me. Forever.”

His grin was radiant. “You’ll be amazing. I believe in you, Mom.”

“Don’t call me Mom.”

*-*

The flower shop door clicked open as you stepped through in your finest “mom who is gonna shit-talk her son” shawl, a basket over your arm and a scowl fixed on your face.

The morning was overcast, heavy with fog. Crows lined the rooftops, feathers slick and watching.

You took one cautious step into the cobbled square—then froze.

There it was again.

That scarecrow.

Bouncing on its cursed wooden pole like a buoy in a storm, its gourd-head twisted upright the moment it saw you. The painted smile stretched too wide. One gloved arm lifted in a frantic, eager wave.

“Oh hell no—” you hissed, hiking your skirts and power-waddling away.

Behind you, the creak of wood echoed as it hopped after you with loyalty you absolutely did not want.

“Nope,” you said, turning around so fast your joints popped. “Nope, nope, not today.”

You power-walked (well, as much as an old-lady-cursed body could manage) out of the square, the scarecrow still bouncing happily behind you.

“Shoo! Go on—back to the fields, Scare-bob, or whatever your name is—”

It didn’t stop. Just kept bounding along behind you like an eager puppy.

“Gods damn it—!”

By the time you reached the Hiraeth Palace, your legs were trembling and your lungs burned. The guards let you through only after a long inspection and several muttered oaths about "the sorcerer’s witch-mother" (you didn’t correct them).

You looked back once.

The scarecrow was nowhere in sight.

The palace was all marble floors and gold-veined ceilings, columns that reached too high. It felt more like a tomb than a home.

You were led through glimmering halls until you were brought before a woman in silks of ghostly white, her hair a coil of silver, her eyes hidden behind lenses too round.

“Lady Suliman will see you now,” said the servant.

You stepped into the chamber with all the grace your elderly hips allowed.

Suliman smiled like a cat too full of secrets.

“So. You are the mother of Satoru Gojo.”

You dipped your head. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“He refuses to fight for us.”

“He refuses to fight for anyone,” you sniffed. “The boy is unmanageable. He can’t hold down a job, he talks to himself, and he thinks ‘strategy’ means dyeing his hair blue and blowing things up with flair.”

Suliman tsked softly. “A shame. He is powerful.”

“He’s a mess.” You folded your arms. “The only thing he’s loyal to is... himself.”

Suliman hummed. “Is that truly so?”

You tensed. “He’s sentimental in strange ways.”

“Ah,” Suliman said softly. “So you must know, then. Why he built that castle.”

You hesitated. “...He’s eccentric.”

Suliman’s smile curled. “He’s searching.”

The air went still.

“For someone.”

Your throat tightened. You forced a dry chuckle. “My son. Always so emotional. I knew that.”

Her gaze sliced through you. “Your son, whom you’re in love with.”

Silence fell like a blade.

You felt every hair on your body rise. The air grew colder.

“I beg your pardon,” you said carefully.

Suliman's smile didn't waver.

“You wear the curse well. But it slips when you're scared.”

You stepped back. The floor beneath you seemed to ripple.

“I think we’ve had enough pleasantries,” you said.

“You are not his mother.”

“I am not his anything,” you snapped. “Let me go.”

The magic cracked like thunder through the chamber.

Suliman flinched.

And then—stepped back.

You blinked, heart hammering.

You hadn’t meant to say it like that. But something in your voice had moved like a wave beneath the words, pushing against her with unseen force.

She blinked once. Then narrowed her eyes.

But you were already turning, old legs be damned, heart thudding like war drums in your chest as you fled.

Back at the castle...

You stumbled into the flower shop, breath ragged.

Gojo was already pacing, hair up, eyes wide.

“I felt it,” he said. “What happened?”

You looked at him, face pale, hands trembling. “Suliman. She’s working for Kenjaku.”

Gojo’s blood drained from his face.

You dropped into the chair, heaving. “She knew I wasn’t your mother. She said... she said you built this place because you were looking for someone.”

Gojo didn’t respond.

You glanced up. “Were you?”

He looked away.

“Gojo.”

He met your eyes, and for a moment, the boyish grin was gone.

“I was looking for a place they’d be safe,” he said quietly. “Someone I couldn’t stop thinking about.”

And then—just for a heartbeat—you saw it.

The war behind his eyes. The heartbreak. The magic roiling beneath his skin like a dammed-up storm.

And something else.

Fear.

“I think,” he said softly, “you did something impossible in there.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever you said—it made her obey.” His voice dropped. “You told her to let you go, and she did.”

You stared at him.

“I don’t understand.”

Gojo’s hand hovered over yours, but didn’t touch.

“We need to do something,” he whispered. “Now. She knows.”

“And the Witch of the Waste—?”

“She’s almost here.”

The castle shuddered again.

Far outside, the scarecrow waited by the flower shop gate, still smiling.

*-*

The castle was quiet that night—quiet in the way an anxious person holds their breath.

The hearth crackled softly, Calcifer’s flame smaller than usual as if he, too, was waiting. Outside, the war whispered beneath the clouds like a secret—low thunder from distant spells and the far-off whistle of airships slicing across the stars.

You couldn’t sleep.

You hadn’t even changed out of your shawl. Instead, you wandered the castle, fingers trailing over the wooden railings and worn walls, passing the soft snores of Yuji and the dog (now asleep on top of Yuji like he owned the boy).

In Gojo’s room, half a dozen suits lay discarded across every available surface—each one dramatic and tailored, all of them slightly singed or torn from magical mishaps.

One hung from the back of a chair, navy velvet with silver thread, embroidered with constellations that shimmered when the light caught them right. A seam on the shoulder had ripped, dangling sadly.

With a sigh, you picked it up and took it to the sewing corner.

You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe because the castle felt more and more like home lately. Maybe because Gojo had been quieter than usual, even behind his jokes and grins. Or maybe it was because, when you touched the suit, something ached in your chest—an ache you’d stopped trying to name.

You threaded the needle.

And you started to sew.

You whispered to the fabric as you worked. Not spells—not real ones, not the kind Gojo used with grand gestures and sigils and sparks. Just words.

“You better not get torn again, or I’ll sew you into a pillowcase.”

The stars on the suit shimmered.

You didn’t notice the warmth in your fingertips. You didn’t notice how the silver thread glowed slightly under your touch. You were too busy muttering to the coat like it had a mind of its own.

“You better keep him safe.”

One last stitch.

You tied it off.

And the suit hummed softly in your lap, like a creature taking its first breath.

*-*

The next day...

You were elbows-deep in a dusty spellbook titled Cursebreaking for the Chronically Unlucky, when the front door slammed open so hard the bell cracked.

Gojo stood there, disheveled, fuming, and wearing the suit.

The suit.

“WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?” he bellowed.

You jumped. Nearly threw the book.

Gojo stormed in, looking ridiculous. Ridiculously stunning, yes—but ridiculous nonetheless. The navy suit hugged his frame like it had been kissed into shape. The embroidered stars shimmered with every step, trailing faint magic in the air like stardust.

His white hair glowed faintly. His eyes—half panicked, half awestruck—locked on you like you’d grown a second head.

“What did you do??”

You blinked. “I—I fixed your coat.”

He pointed to the suit like it had insulted him.

“No, you enchanted it! This thing moved on its own. A spell tried to hit me earlier and the collar flipped up and deflected it! Then it whistled to distract a guard! Whistled, Y/N! Like a person!”

You stared.

“I didn’t— I mean, I sewed it. That’s all.”

Gojo advanced, voice climbing in baffled exasperation. “You talked to it while sewing, didn’t you?”

“I mean... maybe? I told it not to fall apart again—”

“There it is! You willed it. Like the scarecrow.”

You sat up straight. “The scarecrow?”

He threw his hands in the air. “The one you patted on the head and told to come visit the flower shop if it ever grew legs?! The same one that grew legs and is now bouncing around outside like an overexcited pogo stick?? That scarecrow!”

You gaped.

Gojo paced, muttering to himself. “Okay, okay. So you can animate things. Or, like, will them into obedience. Suliman thing? You told her to let you go. And she did. The suit? You told it to behave. And now it fights off spells like a loyal dog. And that scarecrow—”

“I didn’t mean to!” you blurted.

Gojo stopped, then looked at you.

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s the problem.”

You looked down at your hands, now suddenly aware of the warmth in your fingertips. “Is this... dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s powerful.”

He knelt in front of you, taking your hands into his. “You’re powerful. And you’re cursed. That combination can get very messy if you’re not careful.”

You nodded slowly, heart thudding in your ears.

Gojo looked like he wanted to say more—his mouth opened, then closed. Then he stood abruptly.

“I was in town today,” he said suddenly. “Stopped by Shoko’s shop.”

You blinked. “Oh. Is she doing alright?”

“She’s fine. Said to say hi.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you being weird about it? You are being weird.”

Gojo groaned. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

“Did you steal her heart or something?”

He froze.

You gasped. “YOU DID.”

“I DID NOT!” he wailed, arms thrown up dramatically. “That’s just a stupid rumor!”

You raised an eyebrow.

Gojo flopped onto the rug like a dying actor on stage.

“I helped Shoko fix her memory charm years ago, okay? She was seeing too much ghost residue in her patients. So I—sort of—touched her heart. Magically. Not—like—romantically!”

You stared. “Touched her heart.”

“Yes! Briefly! She’s fine! We’re friends!”

“You have no idea how this sounds.”

Gojo groaned again, burying his face into a pillow. “This is why I don’t talk to people.”

You poked his side. “You’re dramatic.”

“-in love with me,” he mumbled into the pillow.

You froze.

“What?”

Gojo peeked one eye open. “Nothing. I'm in love with cake. Shoko bakes good cake.”

You stared at him suspiciously.

Outside, the castle let out a tired groan.

A/N: i legit forgot i was doing this series lmfao, sorry for the wait

Masterlist.