The Sorcerer of the Wandering Castle

by aesthetically_dying

Summary:

Magic was nothing new to you, after all, you worked in a repair shop, where you could fix items. For a price of course, you weren't one to work for free. And everyone had heard of the sorcerer, the infamous Satoru Gojo, the hearteater, the sorcerer that ate women's hearts to make himself stronger, the one who lived in the moving castle... Your life was pretty much set since the beginning, you'd fix things for the rest of your life- until a woman- an agonisingly beautiful woman steps through your door.
Fuck you might be cursed- literally.
(Howl's Moving Castle AU, TAGS ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE AS I WORK ON THIS)

Chapter 1: Act 1: The Curse & The Castle

Notes:

A/N: AHHFHFH IM SO EXITED TO POST THIS!!!!!! i know this'll flop hard, and that no one will read it, but idc, i loveloveeee what i've written for this. So. as i said, this is a howl's moving castle AU. In this AU shoko isn't a doctor, she's a florist btw, just bc i think that woman deserves all the flowers in the world, also the fannart i made will be posted with another part, just because i'm not entirely done with it!

Warnings: geto is happy and alive (thats temporary, angst will be here soon), maybe some ooc, howl's moving castle AU, this is just setting things up so idk how interesting this is to read.

The morning air tastes like dust and old magic.

Not that you’ve ever had much to do with magic, of course. You’re perfectly ordinary — or, well, you were, until all of this.

The bells of the city chime in the distance, their low hum echoing between the crooked stone streets as if even time itself is reluctant to start the day. Overhead, clouds curl like soft smoke, pale pink and lavender in the dawn. You lean against the windowsill of your shop — if a crumbling, lopsided excuse for a storefront can even be called that — and sip tea gone lukewarm.

Inside, the shop smells like varnish, candle wax, and age-old parchment. A hundred little trinkets gleam on dusty shelves: a cracked mirror that still whispers to itself when the moon is full, a silver bird frozen mid-flight that’s never flown again, and a music box that refuses to play unless you cry first (a fact you’d rather not explain to customers).

Artifact Restoration, the wooden sign says, though half the letters are faded, and the 'R' dangles by a nail, as if even it is tired of pretending.

You sigh, turning back to the tiny workbench that takes up most of the room. Another broken charm waits for you there — a locket that refuses to open, sealed shut with some kind of spell you’ve never seen before.

Of course. Everything lately has been weird.

"Because fixing cursed jewelry is exactly what I wanted when I picked up this trade," you mutter to yourself, poking at it with a thin tool like it might explode (which, with magic, is never out of the question).

"—You know, if you keep talking to yourself, people are going to think you’ve finally lost it," comes a voice from behind you.

You don’t even flinch.

"Thanks, Shoko," you reply dryly, without turning. "If people just now think I’m losing it, then I’m obviously doing better than I thought."

Shoko snorts — she's the florist next door, and possibly the only reason you haven’t given up on social interaction entirely. She ducks her head in through the open door, arms full of wildflowers that are very much not for you, because flowers are a luxury for people who aren’t constantly covered in magical soot.

"Careful today," she says, voice dropping a little. "Rumor is, he’s back in town."

You pause, tool hovering mid-air.

"...He?" you echo, like you don’t already know exactly who she means.

Shoko gives you a look.

"Gojo. The Sorcerer of the Wandering Castle. People are saying he was seen flying over the eastern market at dawn."

Your stomach twists.

Of course he’s back.

Because what’s a quiet day without the looming threat of him.

According to half the kingdom, he was also a heart-eating, love-feeding demon.

You glance out the window, half-expecting to see some enormous floating castle drifting past like a storm cloud, all metal and magic and dread. But the sky outside is still empty, except for a few lazy birds.

Gojo Satoru.

The man, the myth, the walking cautionary tale.

The White Sorcerer. The Heartstealer.

There are a thousand stories about him, whispered in corners and traded like currency in hushed tones.

Some say he’s impossibly beautiful, with eyes like shards of the sky and a smile that can kill. Others say he’s a demon in human skin, with a heart so dark he carves out the hearts of women to keep himself young — that he eats them, if the poor girl happens to be in love with him when he does it. Because apparently, the power of a woman’s heart is a very literal thing when it comes to magic.

Most of the conversations about him went something like:

"They say he eats them, you know."

"Eats what?"

"Their hearts."

"Oh, don’t be ridiculous."

"No, really! Haven’t you heard? Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, rips the hearts straight from the chests of women—"

"Just women?"

"—and consumes them to steal their power. And it’s worse if she’s in love with him! The more she loves him, the stronger he gets."

"Sounds like a lot of work when he could just ask nicely."

"Ugh, you don’t get it. He’s a monster."

(Though, honestly, if it were up to you, you'd rather drop dead than ever fall for that kind of man. Beautiful or not, heart-stealer or not, you’ve had enough of people like him to last a lifetime.)

Shoko shifts, clearly enjoying the chance to share gossip but also glancing nervously at the door, as if Gojo himself might stroll in at any moment — all smirks and silk, ready to add your heart to his collection.

"They say he’s looking for something. Or someone," Shoko adds, eyes wide with significance.

You roll your eyes, turning back to the stubborn locket on your table.

"Yeah, probably a mirror," you mutter. "To stare at himself in."

Shoko stifles a laugh. "You should be careful though. He likes pretty girls, you know."

You snort.

"Then I’m safe," you say, waving a hand over your soot-stained clothes. "Unless he’s into overworked disaster cases with chronic sarcasm."

Still, despite yourself, you can’t help the way your heart picks up a little at the mention of him- after all, he eats people's heart's doesn't he?

But a part of you — a very small, foolish, and very much ignored part — has always wondered.

What would make a man like that steal hearts? What kind of person could hold so much power and still live in a castle that never stays in one place? And what would it be like to meet him — to look into those sky-bright eyes and see if the stories are true?

(Probably a nightmare. Definitely a nightmare.)

You shake yourself out of it, forcing your attention back to work.

"Lucky for me," you say aloud, just for the empty room to hear, "I’ve got enough broken things to deal with without adding one sorcerer-shaped disaster to the list."

And yet, as the wind picks up outside — tugging at the crooked sign, rattling the windows just slightly — a strange chill runs through you.

Like something is coming. Something... inevitable.

You glance once more at the sky, at the clouds shifting in unnatural ways — and for just a moment, you swear you see a dark shape moving through them, impossibly high, impossibly fast.

But when you blink, it’s gone.

You exhale.

"Get a grip," you mutter, and set back to work.

*-*

Morning again. And as always, too early for anyone with a shred of sanity to be awake. You blink blearily at the pale sunlight dripping through the warped glass panes, dust motes swirling like tiny spirits in the air. The kettle shrieks somewhere behind you — of course you forgot it — and you mutter a curse under your breath as you shuffle across the creaky floorboards to snatch it off the flame.

"Tea first, customers later," you grumble, pouring hot water into a chipped mug like it's a ritual to keep the gods of Chaos (aka, this cursed city) at bay.

The locket you’d been working on yesterday still lies stubbornly sealed on your bench, gleaming with soft menace. You eye it warily. You’ll get to it. Eventually. Right now, all you need is a moment of peace, your tea, and—

Ding-a-ling.

The bell above the door trills, sharp and sudden.

You nearly drop the mug.

"—We’re closed," you call automatically, not even looking up. "Try again when the sun’s higher and I’ve had the chance to pretend I don’t hate my life."

No response.

Instead, the soft click of the door closing. And then silence — a heavy, unnatural kind of silence that immediately makes every hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

You turn slowly.

Standing there — in the middle of your dusty little shop, surrounded by crooked shelves and forgotten spells — is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen.

Like... truly.. truly beautiful.

Beautiful in the way that makes your stomach twist and your brain short-circuit for a solid second.

She’s tall, poised, with a gown that shimmers like midnight oil over water. Her skin is too perfect, almost like porcelain, and her eyes — You really don’t want to look too long at her eyes.

Because when you do, it feels like something sharp and cold is peeling you open from the inside out.

"Good morning," she says, and her voice is honey poured over glass shards — sweet and sharp and dangerous.

You grip your mug a little tighter.

"We’re... closed," you repeat, though it comes out weaker this time, because something about her presence makes the air thick, like you’re breathing through silk. "Come back later."

She smiles. It does not reach her eyes.

"Oh, but I think you’ll want to help me," she says softly, glancing around your shop like she's measuring it for destruction. Her eyes flit back to you, and though her lips are curved in a smile, you feel like a bug pinned under glass. "You're very good at what you do, aren’t you? Little fixer of broken things."

Something cold slithers down your spine.

"...I restore artifacts," you say slowly, setting the mug down carefully so she won’t see how your hand trembles. "I’m not— I don’t do magic for people. Just repairs."

"But you see magic," she says, tilting her head, watching you like a cat watches a trapped mouse. "You feel it, don’t you?"

Her gaze rakes over you, not in the way men sometimes leer, but in the way a knife might study where to slice best.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," you say quickly. Too quickly.

The woman hums, glancing toward the locket on your workbench. "That piece there... very old, very cursed. You were trying to unpick the threads."

You stiffen.

"No one else could," she muses, and her smile sharpens, though she still sounds as sweet as spun sugar. "But you can. Clever little thing."

Something wrong pulses beneath her beauty. You blink hard, narrowing your eyes — and for a moment, through that thin veil of magic, you see it.

Twisting shadows woven into her skin. Magic as old as the bones of the earth, crawling under her surface like something alive.

You swallow.

"What are you," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

Her smile finally cracks, and it’s the first real thing about her — sharp and angry and hungry.

"Someone who doesn’t appreciate being turned away," she says lightly, but her words slice like a knife.

You take a step back, your shoulder bumping into a shelf of fragile glass bottles.

"I—I really think you should leave now," you say, holding her gaze even though your heart is racing so fast you feel a little dizzy.

The woman watches you for a long, loaded moment. Something flickers in her expression — something cold.

"As you wish," she says at last, turning gracefully toward the door. But she pauses just before stepping out. "Still, it’s strange... I thought I recognized you. But not from your face."

Your breath catches.

Her eyes — pale as frost and burning like coals — glance back over her shoulder.

"Perhaps I’ll remember," she says, and then she’s gone, the bell above the door giving a soft, delicate ding, like the last note of a song.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

"What the hell was that?" you whisper to the empty room, rubbing your arms like it might banish the lingering chill.

*-*

The next morning came too fast, a rooster singing from your neighbours courtyard- one day you were going to strangle the damn thing.

You wake feeling... off.

At first, you think maybe it’s just too little sleep — or too much tea, or nerves from yesterday’s encounter. But when you stumble to the mirror — because yes, of course you check yourself out first thing (habit, not vanity, thank you very much) — your breath catches.

Staring back at you is... not you.

Or rather, a version of you that’s wrong.

Older. Tired. Your skin pale and drawn, hair faded and brittle like old straw. You reach out to touch the glass — your fingers are wrinkled and thin.

You stumble back, heart pounding.

"What— what— WHAT—" you gasp, looking down at your hands, turning them over like some terrible joke will reveal itself.

But no.

Still old. Still broken.

You grab a coat, hands fumbling at the buttons, and shove open the door to the street outside.

"Help! Shoko—! I need—"

But as you step out, people walk past you like you don’t exist.

"Excuse me! Can you—"

A man brushes right by you, like you’re smoke, like you’re nothing.

Panic crawls up your throat.

"Can anyone hear me?!"

No response.

It’s like you’ve been erased.

The witch’s words ring in your mind now, clear as a bell. "I thought I recognized you. But not from your face."

"Dammit," you whisper, voice cracking.

Something is very, very wrong.

And somewhere, far in the distance, above the town — you think you can see it. A dark shape moving lazily across the sky.

A castle.

And maybe, just maybe, someone there can help- because, Gojo likes pretty, young, beautiful women right?? You'd been turned into an old.. hag?? So, he wouldn't eat your heart!

*-*

The wind nearly tore you off the hill.

You stand there, hands on your hips, glaring up at the impossible monstrosity trundling its way across the rocky landscape. Giant, mechanical legs groaning under the weight of metal towers, spires poking at the sky like they’re trying to stab the clouds.

A floating castle.

His castle.

It lumbers forward, wheels and gears spinning, smoke puffing from crooked chimneys, it's an architectural mess. And somewhere in there, you know, is Gojo Satoru, sorcerer, heart-stealer, menace to society, and — as of today — possibly your last hope.

Because when you’ve been turned into an old crone overnight, and no one can see or hear you, well... desperate times.

"How the hell am I supposed to get up there?" you mutter, squinting.

You’ve been following it since dawn — through meadows, over streams, nearly tripping on every damn root and stone in existence. You are too old for this. Well. You look too old. Inside, you still feel like you, just... trapped in a body that makes stairs feel like a final boss fight.

The castle creaks as it moves, and as it lumbers closer, something shifts in the air — like a breath held too long.

"Okay," you whisper, pulling your too-large coat tighter around your (also too-old) frame. "You got this. Just... sneak into a moving death trap full of magic and certain doom. Easy."

You shuffle closer, eyeing the huge door set into the side like a sneering mouth. The legs keep moving, and you try to time it—

NOW.

You lunge.

Not your best idea.

Because the ground shifts under you as the castle’s foot lands with an earthshaking boom, and you’re thrown straight onto your stomach like a sack of potatoes.

"Ow," you croak.

Still, you manage to scramble up, gripping a metal handle near the door — gods only know what it’s for, but you’re using it like your life depends on it (because it kind of does). With a grunt and a lot of muttered swearing, you haul yourself up.

The door groans as you push it, creaking open into a narrow, dark corridor filled with warm light, flickering shadows, and...

"...Why does it smell like burnt toast in here?" you mumble.

And then—

"HEY! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"

The fire shouts at you.

Literal fire.

A small, sharp flame flickers inside an iron grate on the hearth, eyes glaring at you like you’ve just insulted his entire existence- and it has fucking mouth.

You blink at him. "Are you— Did the castle just talk?"

"I’M THE CASTLE," the fire snaps, flaring brighter. "And I didn’t let you in!"

You blink again, deadpan. "Well. You didn’t stop me either, so what does that say about you?"

The fire sputters. "LISTEN, LADY—"

"Actually," a bright, cheerful voice cuts in, "she has a point, Cal. How did she get in?"

You whip around and nearly trip over yourself.

Standing there is a boy — probably younger your age internally — red hoodie too big on him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Uh," you say eloquently. "Delivery?"

He snorts.

"Nice try. No one gets in unless Gojo lets them. Or Calcifer lets them."

"I didn’t let her!" shrieks the flame.

"Sure, sure," the boy grins. "You just decided you like her, huh?"

"I DO NOT!"

You can’t help but snort, words slipping past your aged lips before you can stop them: "God, you’re like an angry candle."

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME—"

Before you can offer more snappy commentary on his size and temperament, an other door slams open again, and in stroll two men.

One of them, tall, dark-haired, handsome as sin, glances lazily around the room like he owns it — which he might, for all you know.

The other —

Oh. Oh no.

Gojo Satoru.

White hair, tall, stupidly gorgeous, sunglasses perched on his nose like a crown, and an aura that practically hums with magic. You feel it prickle against your skin like a thousand tiny threads.

And his eyes — when he glances at you — even hidden behind shades, you feel them, like he’s seeing everything.

"Uh," you say again. You’re really winning in the eloquence department today.

Gojo squints at you. "How’d you get in here?"

"THAT'S WHAT I SAID!" yells Calcifer- can a fire even yell??

Dark-haired man raises a brow.

"Really, Cal? You're the all-powerful fire demon and you let a stranger stroll in? Is the fire getting to your head? You sure you're not burning what's left of your brain?"

"OH, THAT'S IT, SUGURU!" Calcifer explodes in tiny sparks.

Gojo snickers, but his attention is on you now. You hate the way his head tilts like he's studying a puzzle he can’t quite solve — like you’re interesting, and you don’t want to be interesting to him.

He walks closer, slow, predatory, and you instinctively take a step back.

All you're telling yourself, like a mantra, is that you're old, he won't find you attractive, he won't tear your heart out and eat it.

You’re about to say something biting — something clever, something scathing — but then he stops, leaning down so close your noses almost touch, pushing his shades down just enough to meet your eyes.

And blue.

Not just blue — blinding, crystal, like sun through ice, like the sky swallowed every ocean in the world.

You swallow hard.

He stares, long and slow.

"You’re cursed," he says quietly, and his voice is low enough that no one else hears it.

You blink. "...Yes."

That’s it.

That’s the whole conversation.

And then he straightens, grins like you didn’t just have a weirdly intimate moment, and saunters away, heading up a staircase.

"Bathroom," he calls over his shoulder, like you are the one who should care.

Suguru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Great. Now he’s gonna take forever."

"I’M STILL MAD!" Calcifer yells.

Suguru rolls his eyes, grabbing his coat.

"I’ve got things to do. Yuji, keep an eye on... whoever that is." He nods at you like he can’t quite be bothered to care.

Yuji grins, plopping into a plush arm chair, opening a large book that seems centuries old.

"So," he says, leaning forward on his elbows. "Why are you here?"

You blink at him.

"To... clean," you say at last. "That’s what Gojo hired me to do."

Yuji lights up. "Finally! Someone to help! This place is a mess."

Calcifer snorts. "Good luck cleaning me up."

You sigh, looking around at the cluttered room, magic humming in the air, castle creaking with every step it takes across the mountains.

"...What the hell have I gotten myself into?" you mutter.

And outside, the wind howls, carrying the castle further away from everything you’ve ever known.

Notes:

✧ ✧ ✧

A/N: AHHH IM SO HAPPY!! anyways, as i said, i know this'll flop, but ti's okay, i just love this idea way too much!!

Chapter 2: Act 2: Magic, Chaos & Gojo’s Secrets

Summary:

Magic, exposition, gojo being gojo, and getos possesed

Notes:

A/N: again, ik no one cares abt this silly series, but i love it.

Cleaning the castle is hell.

You should’ve known from the moment you stepped inside that this place was a death trap of questionable architecture and even more questionable interior design.

The floorboards creak wrong. The walls breathe sometimes. The windows change views when you’re not looking. And at least three times, you’ve nearly walked straight into a floating pocket of magic that looks suspiciously like an uncontained spell.

And the worst part?

Gojo.

Because Gojo Satoru — legendary, terrifying, powerful, heart-stealing sorcerer — is a menace.

Not just because he’s rumored to eat the hearts of women to gain power (which, for the record, you still don’t entirely believe, but you’re keeping your guard up). Not because he flirts like it’s a bodily function, either.

No, the worst part is that he is the laziest, most infuriating person you have ever met.

"Gojo," you grind out through clenched teeth, staring at the absolute catastrophe in the kitchen. "What the hell happened here?"

Gojo, reclining in midair like he’s made of audacity and zero responsibility, lifts his head off the armrest of his floating spell-circle-couch and peers down at you.

"Mm?" he hums lazily, pushing his shades up his nose. "Oh, yeah. I tried to cook."

Tried to cook.

You take in the absolute apocalypse around you. Burnt pots still glowing with embers. Some unidentified creature scuttling under the counter (you’re not investigating that). What looks like an attempt at pancakes stuck to the ceiling.

"You—tried—to—cook," you repeat, deadpan.

Gojo shrugs, his floating couch spinning upside down as he lounges. "Tried being the keyword. It's really Calcifer’s fault—"

"IT IS NOT!" Calcifer howls from the fireplace.

"—he didn’t warn me that fire is hot."

You inhale sharply. Exhale. Do not kill your new employer.

"Gojo," you say slowly. "I cleaned this kitchen yesterday."

"Yeah, and now you get to do it again," he says brightly.

Oh, you see red.

Yuji, sitting at the table, barely holding in laughter, finally pipes up. "Hey, Gojo, aren’t you supposed to be, I dunno, all-powerful or something? Why don’t you just use magic to clean up?"

Gojo gasps like Yuji just suggested something illegal. "Magic? For chores? That’s a gross misuse of my limitless talent, Yuji. I am above such menial tasks."

You want to smack him.

Calcifer snickers. "Above such tasks? You’re just lazy."

Gojo flips upside down on his floating couch. "Lazy? Me? Nooo. I’m simply economical with my energy. I gotta save it for more important things."

"Like what?" you snap.

Gojo grins, dangling midair, hair a ridiculous mess of white strands that seem to glow in the firelight.

"Flirting," he says.

You throw a broom at him.

It goes right through him—because, of course, he phased through reality like the overpowered bastard he is.

He winks before vanishing entirely.

"I hate this man," you declare.

Calcifer cackles, Yuji finally wheezes with laughter, and you?

You’re going to burn this entire castle down.

*-*

Living in the Castle (Or: How You Haven’t Killed Gojo Yet, Miraculously), a few days pass, and you learn a few important things:

1. The castle doors do not obey normal laws of space.
   • There’s a dial near the entrance, and depending on how you turn it, the castle exits to different locations.
   • One leads to a beautiful seaside town. Another to a snowy mountain peak. One very unsettling one opens to pure void (Gojo refuses to explain).
   • You are not allowed to touch it. (You do anyway. Chaos ensues.)
2. Gojo flirts like it’s a full-time profession.
   • "Ahh, good morning, my dear crone," he coos, draping himself over a chair as you sweep.
   • "How are your delicate, aging bones?"
   • "Would you like me to carry you up the stairs? I wouldn’t mind if you held onto me, y’know."
   • You threaten murder at least five times a day.
3. Magic is everywhere, and you do not understand it.
   • You’re good with artifacts, sure. You feel magic. But this? This chaotic, living, pulsing thing that Gojo wields like it’s a second language? You don’t stand a chance.
   • Still, you try to figure out your curse. You read books, touch strange artifacts, poke at Calcifer (which ends with minor burns).
   • Nothing works. You’re stuck in this old lady’s body.

And worst of all?

1. Gojo is actually… kind.
   • He’s ridiculous. He’s lazy. He’s obnoxious. But when he thinks you aren’t looking, you catch him adjusting things for you—moving chairs so you can reach, ensuring tea is always ready, subtly casting spells that soothe your aching joints (because, yes, you now have aching joints).
   • He hums when he cooks (badly). He laughs when Yuji messes up spells instead of scolding him.
   • And sometimes, just sometimes, you catch him watching you with a different kind of look—quiet, unreadable, something sad lurking in his too-bright eyes.

And you don’t know why, but…

You don’t hate being here.

*-*

While you curse your fate, while you scrub floors and fight off magical dust bunnies and dodge Gojo’s relentless flirting—

Gojo is unraveling your curse.

He knew the second he saw you. Knew the magic wrapped around you was dangerous, a tangled web of something far darker than normal spells.

And while you sigh and resign yourself to old age, he—

He is obsessed with undoing it.

Because there is something familiar about your magic.

Something familiar about you.

And Gojo Satoru?

He does not let go of things that intrigue him.

Not when they look at him with fire in their eyes.
Not when they make his castle feel like home for the first time in years.
Not when they have magic in their blood and don’t even realize it yet.

He grins to himself, watching as you scold Calcifer, your voice sharp but your hands gentle as you adjust the logs in the hearth.

Oh, he thinks, blue eyes burning bright—

This is going to be fun.

*-*

The castle breathes.

You don’t know how to explain it otherwise. It shifts when no one is looking, expands and contracts like the lungs of a sleeping giant, its very bones humming with latent energy. It’s unsettling, yet… strangely comforting. Like a living beast that’s simply learned to exist with its own strangeness.

You should be more concerned that you’ve grown used to it.

That’s what worries you the most. Not the doors that lead to different lands or the whispering spells hanging in the air like cobwebs. Not even Gojo—who is still the most insufferable sorcerer you’ve ever met.

No, what concerns you is why the castle is starting to feel like home.

It starts with a book.

You’d been snooping—casually—through Gojo’s ridiculous mess of an upstairs study, hoping to find something—anything—that might hint at your curse. You don’t expect much. Mostly, the place is stacked high with enchanted tomes that hiss if you get too close and vials of suspicious glowing liquid shoved into corners like forgotten experiments.

And yet, tucked away on a precarious shelf, barely holding itself together, is a book that calls to you.

You don’t recognize the language at first, but the title…

“Bindings of the Damned: Contracts with Curses and Demons”

A shiver runs down your spine.

Because if Gojo’s castle is held together by anything, it’s that. The unnatural power woven into its very foundations, the way it bends to his will, the way even Calcifer—who should be far stronger than he lets on—still remains bound.

Your fingers brush against the spine, and the book opens itself for you.

Pages flip, faster than you can read, words rearranging, finding the passage you need before you even realize what you’re looking for:

"To bind oneself to a curse or demon is a contract of power. The sorcerer grants something precious—heart, limb, memory, soul—in exchange for control, until the day the contract is broken."

Your stomach turns. A sorcerer’s contract.

Something precious, given up in exchange.

Slowly, your gaze flickers to the flickering red flames of Calcifer in the hearth below.

He must know. He’s the other half of this. He’s the demon. He’s the one Gojo made a contract with, the one holding onto something until their bargain is fulfilled.

And yet, when you press him—when you demand to know what Gojo gave up—

He refuses to tell you- which is annoying.

*-*

The next few days are... weird.

It’s subtle at first. Calcifer keeps pushing you toward Gojo.

At first, you think you’re imagining it. That it’s nothing when the fire demon practically shoves you into the same room as the sorcerer under the guise of "warming up, old lady?"

But it keeps happening.

You enter the kitchen? Gojo’s already there, shouting at calcifer to add. You settle by the hearth? Gojo flops beside you, uninvited. You mention wanting tea? Gojo, miraculously, hands you one.

It’s… suspicious.

And it doesn’t help that Gojo himself is acting stranger by the day.

There are moments—fleeting, but noticeable—where his usual arrogance wavers. Where his usual effortless, powerful presence flickers, like a candle guttering in the wind.

He’s using more magic than usual. You see it in the way the castle warps quicker under his commands, the way his teleportation is more frequent, harsher.

And yet, the more he uses, the less he seems himself.

His laughter lasts just a beat shorter. His voice drops a fraction too low, like he's tired but refuses to let it show. His eyes, usually so brilliant and electric, sometimes dim—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you.

The realization hits like a punch to the ribs. Every time he uses magic, he loses something.

And suddenly, the whispers of the townsfolk—the rumors of Gojo devouring hearts to sustain his power—don’t seem so far-fetched.

Except… what if he isn’t stealing them?

What if he’s losing his own?

*-*

The castle moved restlessly, its walls shifting like a great beast unable to settle. You could feel it in the floorboards beneath your feet, the way they groaned with unseen weight. It wasn’t just the magic—something was wrong.

Gojo had been leaving more often.

And every time he came back, he looked worse.

*-*

You were in the kitchen, rolling up your sleeves to knead dough for dinner, when Yuuji burst in, his face alight with mischief. He was covered in soot—again—which meant something had exploded—again.

"Guess what I did today!" he grinned.

"You didn't set anything else on fire, did you?"

"Okay, guess what I did today besides that."

You sighed, brushing flour from your hands. “Yuuji—”

“Gojo fought off twenty sorcerers from the Empire today!" he announced. "I mean, he made it look easy, but still! That's gotta be tiring, right?"

Your hands stilled.

Twenty?

Your stomach tightened.

"Gojo fought twenty people?" you repeated.

"Yeah! They were trying to ambush some refugees leaving the border towns. The war’s getting worse, y’know?” Yuuji leaned forward, eyes bright with admiration. "But Gojo just—bam! One flick of his hand, and they went flying! It was crazy! He was laughing the whole time too—"

Your fingers curled into fists.

Of course, he had been laughing. Of course he had.

You knew that laugh now. It wasn’t just arrogance—it was armor.

The more Gojo laughed, the more you worried.

*-*

That night, you waited.

Gojo had left at sunset, his coat billowing as he vanished into one of his portals. The castle had been eerily quiet without him, despite Yuuji’s endless chattering and Calcifer’s grumbling.

Now, the sky was ink-black, the stars hanging low and heavy. You sat curled up by the fire, staring into the flames.

Then, the door clicked open.

You turned just as Gojo stepped inside.

For a second, you thought he looked normal—his usual confident stride, his usual untamed hair, his usual smirk.

But then he took another step, and you saw the way his legs nearly buckled.

Your breath caught.

"Gojo—"

"Shh, don’t ruin the moment," he interrupted, raising a finger to his lips. "I’ve returned from war—again—and you should be falling into my arms by now.”

You didn’t laugh.

Gojo blinked, the smirk on his lips faltering.

“...What’s wrong?”

"You’re hurt."

"Pfft. No, I'm not—"

"You are," you snapped, moving closer. He smelled like smoke and steel, magic still crackling faintly off his skin. His coat was torn, his knuckles raw. There was a thin line of blood against his jaw.

He never let himself get hurt.

"Gojo." Your voice was softer now. “What happened?”

His shoulders tensed.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then, with a tired sigh, he plopped down onto the nearest chair. "A couple more Empire dogs tried to pick a fight,” he said lightly, waving a hand. “Nothing I couldn't handle."

"You look like you almost didn’t handle it."

He grinned. “Are you saying I look bad? Wow. Just stab me next time."

“Gojo—”

“I am fine,” he said again, but this time, you caught it—the exhaustion beneath his voice.

He was lying.

And the worst part? He knew you could tell.

You swallowed down the frustration rising in your throat. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Gojo tilted his head, an easy smile still on his lips. "Doing what?"

"Killing yourself for people who don’t even know what you're sacrificing."

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Gojo froze.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet crackling of Calcifer’s fire. Even Yuuji—who had been eavesdropping from the hallway—was silent.

Then, Gojo laughed.

"Wow," he said, dragging a hand through his hair. "You really are different from the others, huh?"

Your brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

He shook his head, still grinning, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "It means you should stop worrying. I'm the strongest, remember?"

You stared at him, heart aching.

He was so good at pretending. So good at making it seem like nothing could touch him.

But you saw the truth.

He wasn’t invincible. He was burning out.

And if he kept going like this—

He was going to die.

*-*

You felt her before you saw her.

A cold shiver ran down your spine, an old, familiar dread curling around your ribs like a vice. The air in the castle shifted, the magic thrumming with warning.

You were standing by the balcony, watching the distant lights of the town below, when a voice slithered into your ear.

"My, my," came the silky whisper. "How interesting."

You spun around.

She was there.

The Witch.

She stood in the doorway, elegant and terrible in the moonlight. Her red lips curled into a smile as she stepped forward, her gaze sharp and knowing- but you could tell she couldn't step inside. Gojo's- or Clacifer, or whichever's magic, was keeping her out.

"It seems our dear Satoru has taken quite the liking to you," she mused. "How unfortunate for him."

Your breath hitched.

Gojo wasn’t here. You were alone.

The Witch’s eyes gleamed. "Tell me, dear. Have you figured it out yet? Why your curse is so… special?"

Your pulse pounded.

You opened your mouth—but before you could speak, a gust of wind exploded through the room.

The Witch vanished just as Gojo appeared in a blur of motion, standing between you and the space where she had been.

His chest was heaving.

His magic burned the air around him.

"Did she touch you?" he demanded.

You shook your head, still stunned. "No, she—"

Gojo’s hands were suddenly on your shoulders, his grip tight, too tight. His glasses were gone, and his eyes—his famous, dazzling blue eyes—were filled with something you had never seen before.

Fear.

He was afraid.

For you.

"You can’t be alone again," he said, voice low, almost desperate. "She’s after you."

"She’s after you," you corrected.

Gojo exhaled sharply, his hands clenching before he let go. "Yeah. That too."

You swallowed, something uneasy twisting in your gut.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, was finally worried.

Which meant something worse was coming.

And you weren’t sure if either of you would survive it.

*-*

That night you very unfortunately dreamt.

The dream settled over you like mist—soft at the edges, thick with forgotten things.

You knew, even before you opened your eyes, that this wasn’t real.

Your bones didn’t ache. Your hands weren’t lined with age. You felt... light, in a way you hadn’t in weeks.

And when you looked down at your hands, your real hands, the ones you remembered—slender fingers, unblemished skin—you knew.

You were dreaming.

But dreams, especially in a place as steeped in magic as Gojo’s castle, were rarely just dreams.

The world around you was strange, shifting. A marble floor stretched beneath your feet, polished to an impossible shine. Tall, arched windows lined the walls, their stained glass catching the flickering glow of candlelight. It was a throne room—but not one you recognized.

Voices drifted through the air.

Low. Murmuring. Sinister.

You turned, heart pounding, and saw them.

The Witch stood in the shadows, her tall, regal figure swathed in deep crimson robes. Her dark hair gleamed under the chandelier light, and in her pale hands, she held a silver goblet filled with something dark. Something alive.

Opposite her sat a man.

A king.

Or—perhaps something worse.

You felt your breath hitch because he looked familiar.

It was Geto, the same man you'd seen last time, but there was something old behind his golden eyes. His dark hair fell in loose waves, and his smile was easy—too easy, like someone who had already won whatever game was being played.

Or someone who looked exactly like him.

You stepped closer, but your feet made no sound. The dream had no interest in you interfering. It only wanted you to watch.

“Your Majesty,” the Witch purred, swirling the goblet in her hands, the dark liquid sloshing ominously. “The war is escalating. The kingdoms are desperate. And yet, your greatest enemy continues to evade us.”

The man—the king, the demon, whatever he was—hummed, resting his chin on his hand. “You mean Satoru Gojo.”

A slow, knowing smile stretched across the Witch’s face. “Who else?”

Your chest tightened.

They were hunting him.

The king exhaled, as if amused. "Ah, Gojo. A shame, really. If he were smart, he’d have joined us long ago."

"He was never going to join you," the Witch said, taking a sip from her goblet. "He's too sentimental for that."

"Sentimental?" The king chuckled. "Gojo?"

The Witch’s red lips curled. "Why do you think he built that ridiculous moving castle?"

Your stomach twisted.

What?

The king tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his sharp eyes. "Tell me."

The Witch leaned forward, shadows licking at her robes. "He’s looking for someone."

Your breath caught.

The dream blurred—images flashing like half-formed thoughts—Gojo walking through a battlefield, his coat stained with ash—Gojo standing before a hundred locked doors, each leading to nowhere—Gojo laughing, but alone.

Your fingers trembled.

The Witch’s voice cut through the haze.

“He’s spent years searching for them, across war-torn lands, through kingdoms that barely know his name. He built his castle to move freely, to slip past borders without being noticed. He became a double agent to infiltrate every kingdom, just in case one of them held the person he sought.”

The king raised a dark brow. “Impressive.”

The Witch smirked. “Foolish. But then, that’s Gojo, isn’t it?”

The king studied her for a long moment, tapping a single ringed finger against the arm of his throne. Then—

“Who is he looking for?”

The Witch’s smile widened.

She leaned back, swirling the goblet, and said—

"You'll see soon enough."

The dream was falling apart.

The marble beneath your feet cracked. The candlelight flickered wildly, casting monstrous shadows against the walls. The room shook, as if trying to throw you out.

The king’s gaze suddenly lifted—right at you.

Your lungs seized. He couldn’t see you. Could he?

But his golden eyes locked onto yours, sharp and amused.

“How interesting,” he murmured.

And then, with the eerie, easy grace of a king who already knew how this story would end, he raised a hand—

And reached for you.

*-*

You woke up gasping.

You bolted upright, chest heaving, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. The castle walls shuddered, responding to your panic. The air was thick with magic.

Calcifer flared up in the hearth, his flames leaping high. "Oi! What's got you all riled up?"

You pressed a hand against your racing heart, trying to catch your breath. "It was a dream—"

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

It felt too real, too heavy, like the weight of truth settling over your bones.

Gojo.

Gojo had always been looking for someone.

And somehow, despite the curse twisting your body, despite the war pulling him in every direction—

He had recognized you.

Your breath trembled.

He wasn’t just a wandering sorcerer avoiding war and taxes. He wasn’t just a careless wizard with too much power.

He was running.

Searching.

And now, the people hunting him were hunting you too.

You swallowed hard, looking down at your hands—the same hands you’d seen in the dream, smooth and unblemished. The curse had stripped them away, but for a moment, just a moment, you had seen yourself as you once were.

The Witch’s words echoed in your mind.

"You'll see soon enough."

Something was coming.

And you weren’t ready.

Notes:

thank you for the kind comments! ily

:)

Chapter 3: Act 3: Exposed and turning points.

Summary:

Exposition! And ewewew gojo has a slimmy meltdown

Notes:

A/N: ehhehehehe i got the kindest comment on ao3, so i sped up the writing process for this part JUST for the commenter (ily pookie),

Warnings: shitty exposition, violence, angst, heartbreak, reader is an idiot (my apologies), attempt at humor

The morning light filtered in like sifted flour, soft and gold, pooling across the worn floorboards of the castle’s main chamber. Dust floated in the shafts of sun like lost memories, and the warmth from Calcifer’s hearth reached out like a lazy cat, curling at your ankles as you swept.

The room had settled into its usual cluttered chaos: maps, scrolls, and half-finished teacups scattered across tabletops. A long velvet coat—Gojo’s, of course—had been flung dramatically over the back of a chair. Boots left near the door. A feathered hat hung on a wall sconce, slightly scorched. The scent of lavender oil and scorched parchment lingered, weaving through the tang of smoke.

It would have been peaceful, if not for the constant, low grumbling from the fire.

Calcifer, nestled in the hearth, flickered an irritated orange as you moved past him with a rag and a bucket.

“Stop sweeping near my logs,” he muttered. “You’re stirring the ashes.”

You leaned on your broom with a sigh. “You’re made of fire, Calcifer. You’ll live.”

“I’m delicate,” he snapped. “You wouldn’t understand, being all—” he gave a theatrical flick of flame (could it be called that??), “—fleshy.”

You raised a brow.

“Delicate fires don’t threaten to burn down the castle every time I move a candlestick.”

“You moved the leftmost candlestick,” he huffed. “That’s my power anchor. You nearly unravelled the entire Southern Stairwell!”

You stared at him, then blinked. “That’s not a real place.”

“It was!” Calcifer said indignantly. “For three days, and it was lovely.”

You rolled your eyes and crouched, resting your chin on the broom handle. The fire crackled moodily, settling into a steady rhythm, almost like a heartbeat.

“Can I ask you something?” you said after a moment.

“No,” he said flatly.

“I’m asking anyway.”

“I’m still saying no.”

You tilted your head. “Is it true... your fire fuels Gojo’s power?”

That shut him up.

For a long, flickering second, Calcifer froze. A single flame licked upward, uncertain. Then—

“You’re not supposed to know that,” he mumbled, cheeks flaring hot orange.

“So it’s true.” You sat down on a stool in front of the hearth, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “Infinity. That’s what it’s called, right?”

Calcifer gave a little groan and flopped lower in the fireplace, sparks dancing like nervous fireflies.

“He’s not using me,” he said, defensive. “It’s not like that. It’s more like… cooperation. A mutual agreement. I provide a stable source of spatial-temporal magic, he—well—he looks good in everything he wears, and occasionally feeds me roast chestnuts.”

You blinked. “Roast chestnuts?”

“They're delicious, shut up.”

“So how did it happen? The bond.”

Calcifer was quiet for a beat, then sighed. His flames turned a melancholy blue.

“It was years ago. He was just a boy—not yet famous, not yet powerful, just... curious. Dangerous in that way smart boys are, you know? Always poking holes in reality just to see what leaks out.”

You listened as Calcifer continued, his voice softer now, nostalgic.

“I was falling,” he said simply. “A shooting star. One of the last of my kind. I’d burned across the sky for centuries until I started to dim. Stars are not meant to live long. We’re meant to blaze. To vanish.”

You were silent.

“He found me in the forest. Streaked across the sky and collapsed right at his feet like fate had a sense of drama,” Calcifer added with a snort. “And he—he caught me. With both hands. It should have killed him.”

“But it didn’t,” you murmured.

“No,” Calcifer whispered. “Because he offered something I couldn’t refuse.”

A pause.

“What?” you asked gently.

Calcifer flickered. “His heart.”

You stared.

“Not literally!” Calcifer huffed. “Not entirely. Not in the fleshy, explode-y way. But he... he gave me a piece of himself. His humanity. His anchor to the world. He carved it out and bound it to me with starlight and blood and math, and I’ve been burning ever since.”

You could tell he was lying. You could feel it in your bones.

You felt cold. The broom handle slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a quiet thump.

“That’s what fuels Infinity?” you whispered. “That piece of him?”

“Yes,” Calcifer said. “And every time he uses it—really uses it—he gives a little more away.”

You closed your eyes. Your chest ached.

Of course he was losing himself. Of course he was. That smile, the laughing arrogance, the way he acted like nothing mattered—it was a mask.

You’d seen glimpses before. The weight. The cost.

You swallowed. “And the Witch?”

Calcifer’s flames darkened.

“She's not like Gojo,” he said. “Her pact was different. She bound herself to something old. Cruel. The kind of demon that doesn’t ask for pieces. It takes. All at once.”

You shuddered.

“She’s powerful,” he continued, “but it’s borrowed strength. She doesn’t understand it. She’s unraveling, too—but not slowly. She’s trying to find me, because she knows if she kills me, Gojo dies with me. And she’s too much of a coward to face him on her own.”

“She wants your flame,” you said quietly.

Calcifer bobbed. “And I can’t fight her and power the castle and keep Gojo alive. Not all at once.”

You nodded slowly. A thought nagged at the back of your mind. Something he said earlier—

“Wait. Castles?”

Calcifer hissed, then ducked like a child caught stealing sweets.

“Oh, blast it.”

“Multiple castles?!”

“Not castles, really! More like... extensions? Fragments? Look, it’s complicated! Gojo doesn’t live in one place. He has several—anchored in different parts of the realms. Safehouses. Pocket dimensions. He's paranoid and dramatic and he names them stupid things like ‘The Sugoi Sanctum’—don’t laugh, I’m serious—”

You were absolutely laughing.

*-*

You were still trying to wrap your head around Gojo’s mini-castle empire when the door clicked with a subtle SCHLINK.

The brass dial above it spun lazily, the painted triangle shifting to green, and the thick wooden door creaked open—and Yuuji stumbled in, arms overflowing with herbs, vials, scrolls, and what looked suspiciously like a live chicken in a satchel.

“Hi!” he chirped, kicking the door shut behind him. “Guess what! I bartered with a frog witch and only accidentally got cursed once today!”

Calcifer gave a long, soul-weary groan.

You were already on your feet, rubbing your temples. “Yuuji, why do you have a chicken—”

“She gave me a discount!”

The chicken squawked.

(You ushered the chicken out in the garden in the moving castle, hopefully it wouldn't fly away-to be honest you had no idea.. but hey! Fresh eggs! So that's a plus.)

(Yuji named it Salmon- apparently it was a reference to one of his other apprentice friends.)

*-*

While Yuuji unpacked his strange haul—chanting softly over bundles of rosemary and accidentally turning a spoon into a snake—you sat back down near the hearth, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs.

The curse was pressing again today. Your joints ached, your back throbbed, and your skin felt too tight. Everything was heavy. Like a fog settling in your bones.

Yuuji noticed.

“Wait—hey, sit still,” he said, rummaging. “I read this thing about... enchanted tea. I can do it! Hang on.”

You tried to protest, but he was already boiling water in a dented tin kettle, tossing in herbs with the reckless confidence of someone who absolutely had no idea what they were doing.

“I think I read this incantation right—‘Gentle balm of root and leaf, bring the soul and bones relief—’”

The kettle shook.

Calcifer yelled, “No! Not that herb! That’s explosive—”

Too late.

The kettle burst into a puff of green smoke.

Yuuji stood covered in soot.

You coughed. “Thanks, Yuuji. Really.”

He gave you a sheepish smile, then gently set a clean cup in front of you. “...I’ll try again tomorrow.”

*-*

Later, when the room quieted and you sipped the non-exploding tea Calcifer grudgingly brewed himself, Yuuji plopped down beside you, legs stretched out like a starfish.

“I heard something today,” he said, voice low. “From a merchant out near the Northern Pass.”

You looked over.

“They say the war isn’t just about territory anymore. There’s a rumor going around... that a prince went missing. Years ago. Vanished without a trace.”

“A lost prince?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Yuuji nodded. “Apparently he had some rare magical lineage. Could’ve unified the realms. They say if someone finds him, the war will end. That’s why all the kingdoms are going wild. They’re not just fighting for land anymore. They’re searching.”

“Do you think he’s real?”

Yuuji shrugged. “Gojo seems to think so. He’s got a whole section of the castle dedicated to researching it. Scrolls. Maps. Portraits. He’s been tracking leads quietly for years.”

You stared at the fire.

So Gojo wasn’t just hiding from the war. He was... maneuvering around it. Waiting. Watching.

Searching. Always searching.

For what, you didn't fucking know and it was starting to get slightly fukcing exhausting.

Actually this entire curse situation was grating your nerves.

Because somehow, you were tangled right in the middle of it.

*-*

The sky outside had shifted from peach to plum, the edges of twilight bleeding across the mountains like spilled ink. The castle rumbled softly beneath it, joints groaning, wheels creaking as it trundled its slow path across the highlands. Inside, it was warm. There was the scent of roasted onions and sage in the air, and the low murmur of the kettle bubbling beside Calcifer, who glowed with an easy, wine-red warmth for once.

Yuuji hummed as he laid out chipped ceramic bowls. You stirred a pot over the hearth, careful not to let the spoon slip from your aching fingers. The curse had been quieter since the tea. The pain never fully left—but some days, it merely tapped on your bones instead of clawing through them.

Gojo returned just after sunset, brushing snow from his shoulders and hair like he didn’t just vanish into a war-torn sky for two days.

He looked tired.

But lighter, somehow.

“Something smells heavenly,” he called, shrugging off his coat and ruffling Yuuji’s hair as he passed.

“Don’t touch me with your cold fingers,” Yuuji muttered, scowling. “You smell like curse smoke.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you at best.”

“Brat.”

He dropped into the seat beside you, stretching like a cat, long legs tangled under the table. His face—though weary—was bright with mischief again. He winked at you.

“Did you miss me, old lady?”

You scoffed. “Not even a little.”

He gasped dramatically, hand to heart. “Cruel. After all we’ve been through!”

Yuuji shoved a bowl into his hands. “Eat. Before I curse your tongue shut.”

Calcifer snorted. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Dinner was quiet, in the way good dinners sometimes are. The fire flickered, casting soft shadows. Outside, wind danced through the cliffs. Inside, the clink of spoons, the occasional laughter. Gojo didn’t even crack a cringey pun until dessert. For a moment, it was nice. Almost... normal.

Which, of course, meant it couldn’t last:

You spoke quietly, almost unsure why you were saying it aloud now, over the last spoonfuls of berry crumble.

“I had a dream last night,” you murmured. “A strange one.”

Gojo paused mid-bite. “Oh?”

You nodded, gaze distant. “I was... myself again. Not cursed. Not like this. And I was watching something, like through glass. The Witch—my Witch—she was talking to someone.”

Gojo’s smile flickered.

You went on. “He looked... like someone I’ve seen before. Long hair, dark robes. He had this scar—right across the forehead. Stitched, almost- but he kinda looked like the guy I saw when I first got here.”

Something dropped.

Gojo’s spoon.

The silence was immediate. Heavy.

Calcifer’s flames went from red to an eerie, sickly purple.

Yuuji looked between you both, eyes wide.

Gojo’s voice was sharp. “Say that again.”

You blinked.

“The man. The one with the Witch. He looked like the guy you came in with, the first day we met. Tall. Calm. Hair in a bun. I remember thinking he looked familiar somehow.”

Gojo’s face had gone pale. Paler than you thought possible. His hands clenched on the table’s edge, knuckles white.

“Geto,” he breathed. “You saw Geto.”

“That’s his name?” you asked. “I only saw him once.”

Gojo stood so fast the chair screeched across the floor. The dial on the door spun wildly, twitching and clicking through colors—yellow, red, grey—until it slammed into black. The door opened with a thunderous snap, and Gojo disappeared through it without a word, coat whipping behind him like smoke.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Calcifer flickered uncertainly, and the shadows danced higher along the walls.

“What just happened?” you asked, heart in your throat.

Yuuji sat down heavily. “That... was Kenjaku.”

You turned to him slowly.

“That man you saw,” he said, voice low, “that’s not Geto anymore. Kenjaku is the demon Geto made a pact with when they were younger. He gave up his mind to fuel his abilities—let Kenjaku into his head like a parasite. No one thought it was real at the time. Just a theory. But now...?”

You swallowed. “Gojo didn’t know?”

Yuuji shook his head. “They were like brothers. And if Kenjaku’s back... if he’s working with your Witch...”

Calcifer flared dangerously. “Then we’re all screwed.”

*-*

You needed something—anything—to clear your head. So you did what you always did.

You cleaned.

The upstairs bathroom had been a topic of fear since the day you stepped into the castle. The door itself was carved with old, fizzing enchantments. The knob stuck when you turned it.

The inside?

A disaster.

Bottles—so many bottles. Jars labeled in languages you didn’t understand. Spell-sealed perfumes. Hair tonics. Incense. Strange, cursed brushes that tried to bite you. A bath the size of a small pond, layered with bath bombs that had long since melted into a sludge of rose petals and glitter. The mirror whispered sometimes. You didn’t ask questions.

It took you hours.

You organized potions by hue and hex category. Sorted the combs by level of risk. Found five different types of magical hair dye. For example, one bottle read: “Periwinkle Panic - For Dramatic Exits.”

Your back screamed at you, but you pushed through. When it was done, the place gleamed. And smelled like lemongrass and star anise.

You allowed yourself one victorious sigh, then collapsed on a cushion.

*-*

The sun had barely risen when the door creaked open again. Gojo stepped in, silent, grim-faced. He didn’t look at anyone. Just gave Calcifer a tired nod and trudged upstairs without a word.

You were in the kitchen cabinet, elbow-deep in alphabetized tea sachets, when the scream hit.

A loud, soul-piercing, dramatic wail.

Followed by frantic thumps as someone bolted down the stairs like a tornado.

“THE HORROR—”

Gojo appeared, arms flailing, hair dripping—purple. A vibrant, grape-colored mess, his long strands flopping wildly as he shrieked into the room.

Calcifer nearly extinguished himself laughing.

“My hair!” Gojo cried. “She—SHE TOUCHED MY PRECIOUS DYES—”

“I only organized them!” you protested.

“You triggered the Periwinkle Panic bottle!”

Yuuji peeked in. “Oh no. You used the dramatic one.”

“I AM MELTING—” Gojo slumped into the nearest chair, draping himself across it like a mourning widow. “I look like a haunted eggplant.”

The room dimmed.

Clouds gathered outside.

Gojo’s aura was leaking—tiny motes of dark blue static flickering across the walls. Green goo began oozing down the stairs, thick and sticky, pooling on the floor.

“Calcifer,” you said, horrified, “what is that?”

“Emotional overflow,” the fire demon muttered. “His magic reacts to his moods. We’re entering a full-blown meltdown.”

“I have nothing left,” Gojo moaned, forehead against the table. “My best friend is a possessed corpse, my hair is ruined, and the bath salts are all categorized.”

Yuuji patted his shoulder awkwardly. “It’s not that bad—”

“I will never be beautiful again!”

The castle had survived war zones, enchanted quakes, and an airborne ambush from a fleet of flaming crows—but nothing could have prepared it for Gojo Satoru’s Breakdown of The Century™.

The green goo was everywhere.

It oozed down from the top of the staircase in thick, syrupy streams. It bubbled between the floorboards, dripped from the rafters, and pooled across the wooden planks like some sort of swamp demon had taken up permanent residence. It hissed when it hit Calcifer’s hearth.

“I am UNLOVED! CURSED! MISUNDERSTOOD!” Gojo wailed from his sprawled position on the kitchen chair, one leg slung over the arm, his arm dangling dramatically, as if he were Juliet herself upon learning Romeo forgot their date.

“Please make it stop,” Calcifer whimpered, retreating as the goo inched closer. “Please. I’m a fire demon, not an emotional sponge.”

You were already up to your knees in slime, your shoes making very undignified squelching noises as you waded toward the hearth.

“Calcifer, if you don’t want to die in a puddle of self-pity soup, you need to get in the bowl.”

“You dare contain me like leftovers?!” he cried.

“Do you want to be extinguished?!”

“…Fine, but only if it's copper.”

You found a dented metallic mixing bowl under the sink, half-covered in glitter from Gojo’s last ‘bath ritual.’ It would have to do. You scooped Calcifer into it like a dramatic scoop of enchanted soup, and he wailed as if you were committing arson.

“I can’t see!” he screeched. “It’s dark in here! This is how I die!”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, pressing the bowl against your chest, turning to Yuuji, who was frantically fanning Gojo with a cookbook. “Come on. Garden. Now.”

Yuuji tripped over a bucket, slipping in the goo as he scrambled after you.

“He just said he’s lost his reason to live—he said life isn’t worth it if you’re ugly!”

You froze in your tracks, halfway out the front door.

Ugly, huh?

Oh, that stung. Even more than usual. You clenched your jaw, the curse pulling at your joints, at your crooked spine, at your frail arms.

But of course, Gojo Satoru—legendary narcissist, eternal peacock, glitter-hating, drama-courting man-child—would think being “ugly” was a fate worse than death. And here you were. Not that you’d ever been called beautiful even before the Witch’s curse, but now? You looked like a forgotten teapot on legs.

Still. You bit your tongue. This wasn’t about you.

You shoved open the castle’s side hatch and stepped into the sunlit garden.

The air outside was crisp with the perfume of wild mint and honeysuckle. The chicken Salmon squawked indignantly as Yuuji nearly tripped over her.

“Sorry!” he panted, helping you set Calcifer down on an overturned flowerpot.

“Protect him,” you said, wiping goo from your arms.

“I can cast a shield,” Yuuji nodded, tracing a rune in the air. “It’ll keep the wind off.”

Calcifer let out a raspy breath like he’d just survived the sinking of the Titanic. “Tell my embers… I loved them…”

You were already back at the door... and... well:

“MY HAIR IS RUINED—”

“Your hair is fine!”

“IT’S PURPLE!”

You found him still on the chair, flopped like a Regency ghost bride, arms and legs limp, green goo dripping from his elbows, coating the floor in an ever-growing puddle of melodrama. His towel clung to him in soggy waves, almost turned chartreuse.

“I don’t want to live like this,” Gojo moaned. “I’m hideous. A grotesque wretch. Don’t look at me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You spilled a potion, not your intestines. Get up.”

“I’ll never know joy again- AND THIS IS YOUR FAULT!”

“You never knew it to begin with, you narcissistic lizard, maybe read before you put things in your hair.”

He moaned louder, which you were pretty sure was on purpose.

You sighed—then grabbed him by the collar.

“OH! OH!—ew ew ew ew—” you gagged as your hand sank into the goo on his back, but you dragged him. Across the floor. One elbow at a time. Gojo protested loudly the whole way up the stairs, feet thumping like wet mops on every step.

“The indignity! The betrayal!”

“You are the single most exhausting person I’ve ever met.”

He sniffled. “Thank you.”

The towel slipped off. You suddenly were very interested in the ceiling.

*-*

You shoved him into the bathroom with the grace of a soldier shoving a barrel of dynamite into a crater.

Yuuji arrived moments later, arms full of soap, towels, and something labeled “Emergency Sparkle Scrub.”

You didn’t wait around.

Back downstairs, the goo was still clinging to the furniture, but without Gojo’s magical aura feeding it, it had stopped growing. You mopped as best you could—cursing under your breath as the slime hissed at you like an angry cat—before finally returning to the hearth.

Calcifer had gone quiet, flickering weakly in his copper bowl, his flame a trembling blue.

You knelt (painfully, your knees cracked and creaked in protest).

“Okay, you stubborn sootball. You ready?”

Calcifer groaned like a Shakespearean actor on his deathbed. “I need... a eulogy…”

“I’ll give you one if you don’t get back in the chimney.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “But I want incense and offerings next time.”

You gently tipped him into the hearth. He flickered once—then roared back into life with a whoosh of blue and orange, curling around the logs like a sigh of relief.

“Better?” you asked.

Calcifer sighed. “Marginally. At least he’s not crying on me anymore.”

You collapsed into the nearest chair.

“I need a nap.”

“And I need a new body,” Calcifer muttered. “One that doesn’t have to deal with him every time he dyes his hair.”

*-*

Steam poured from under the bathroom door.

Yuuji’s voice echoed faintly through the walls. “Stop moving, I need to scrub the slime off your neck—”

“Don’t touch my glamour line! That’s where the sparkles go!”

“I don’t even know what that means!”

“I’LL FILE A COMPLAINT WITH THE WIZARD UNION—”

You covered your ears.

“Just one quiet evening,” you whispered. “That’s all I ask.”

But the castle, of course, had other plans.

Notes:

A/N: yayyy i'm absolutly loving this haha!! i'm having so much fun

:)

Chapter 4: Act-4- A war in Bloom, the Scarecrow, the Sorceress, and the Son You're In Love With

Summary:

the war starts to get worse, and gojo absolutely needs you to help him out: go to suliman to bad mouth him. Couldn't go wrong. Right?

Notes:

A/N: sorry i forgot abt this series

The castle moaned as it shifted again, gears and magic grinding in tandem as the enormous legs adjusted their place in the rolling highlands. The floor lurched, and the dishes in the newly scrubbed cabinets rattled. You, hunched under the sink with a scrubbing brush twice your age, sighed loudly and dropped the soapy rag into the bucket.

“That’s the third time today, Gojo!” you shouted at no one in particular, voice rasping like the old lady you'd been cursed to be. “If you’re gonna throw tantrums, at least warn me first!”

From somewhere deeper in the castle—a hollow stairwell that led to nowhere, or maybe everywhere—you heard an echoing voice.

“I’m not throwing tantrums!” Gojo yelled back, voice warbling through the walls like it was part of the structure itself. “It’s just recalibrating the stride ratio! Very delicate magical engineering! You wouldn’t understand!”

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, Y/N. 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.

Notes:

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

Chapter 5: Act 5 - The Garden at the End of the World

Summary:

the garden and the dragon.

At first, it was little things.

Gojo started coming home later.

That was nothing new—he had always been unpredictable, flitting between the castle’s dialed doorways with a flair of dramatic cape-swishing and glitter-dusted boots. But now, he didn’t come home smiling.

He didn’t come home bragging about how he’d confused the Minister of War into hiring his own assassin, or how he made a dragon laugh so hard it cried and stopped burning down a village.

Now, he just came home... tired.

*-*

The war had worsened. Two kingdoms clawing at each other like starving wolves, dragging half the countryside down with them. Towns were going dark. Skies were always smoky. The air was brittle with the smell of burnt iron.

Both sides wanted Gojo.

To fight for them. To end the war. To make him their weapon.

He tried to play neutral. He tried to buy time. He tried to find the missing prince—the one who vanished the same day the war began, the one that might be the key to stopping everything.

But Gojo wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t eating.

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. 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.

Notes:

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

:)

Chapter 6: Act 6 - And Still, the Sky Weeps

Summary:

Sad :(

War does not knock.

It slams its fists through your windows, howls through your hearth, rips through walls like paper, and sinks its teeth into everything you love.

It starts slowly, as all terrible things do.

You had just gotten back inside the castle after Gojo left. The air still smelled of wildflowers, of sun-warmed petals and morning dew. You’d even lingered a second too long in the doorway, watching the last of his figure vanish into the skyline like a silk ribbon snapped into the wind.

But then the walls shook.

Like—really shook.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD,” Calcifer screamed.

Which, to be fair, is exactly what you were thinking.

“YUJI!” you shouted, stumbling into the main room, only to find the poor boy—covered in flour (???) and clutching a bag of potatoes like it was his firstborn child.

“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.

 

 

Notes:

hope you liked this!

:)