Chapter Text
The air cracked like lightning.
It wasn’t just the shift in cursed energy—no, it was something deeper. A fracture in reality, a long-forgotten rhythm returning to the earth’s pulse, steady and arrogant and impossibly alive. Dust spiraled upward in lazy coils, catching the weak morning light. The remnants of the Prison Realm lay cracked and lifeless, like a snake’s shed skin, useless now that its prey had slipped free.
And there he was.
Gojo Satoru.
Alive. Whole. And looking like the universe was made to orbit around him.
He stepped through the veil of smoke like he was walking a goddamn runway. Those white pants sat low on his hips, baggy enough to flow with every movement but still criminally snug where it counted. The black compression shirt clung to him like a second skin, short sleeves stretched just enough over biceps that flexed with every casual, indifferent step. Black shoes clicked against the concrete.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
His presence roared louder than a battlefield.
Sukuna’s eye twitched. Just one. Barely.
But inside?
Screaming.
FUCK.
FUCK FUCK FUCK HE’S HOT.
He’s alive. He’s alive.
AND THAT SHIRT—WHY IS HE DRESSED LIKE THAT? DID HE WAKE UP THINKING “I WANNA KILL SUKUNA WITH A BONER TODAY”?
He exhaled slowly through his nose. His arms were crossed, body relaxed, perched on a collapsed chunk of rubble like a damn warlord watching the world burn. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
But if you looked close?
Too close?
You’d see the way his thumb tapped against his bicep. Once. Twice. A subtle, twitchy rhythm.
“Well, well,” Gojo said, finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade made of velvet and sex. He stopped in the center of the ruined plaza, like it was his goddamn stage. “I miss anything while I was gone?”
His smirk curled lazy and sharp. Like he knew.
Sukuna’s jaw clenched once. He didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Not with the way Gojo’s shirt clung to the lines of his waist. Not with the way his silver hair had grown out a little, tousled and messy, like he’d just rolled out of a silk-sheeted bed in hell and decided to casually strut back into the apocalypse.
God, I hate him.
I want to kiss him and then rip his throat out and then kiss him again.
“Cat got your tongue?” Gojo tilted his head, that smug, easy arrogance sliding into place like a favorite weapon.
Around them, the world held its breath. Yuta and Maki exchanged a look from the sidelines, uncertain. Even Kashimo had stopped moving, lightning flickering faintly from his skin. No one spoke. No one dared.
Because something primal was unfolding.
Something ancient.
A bond older than curses and battles and grudges.
Gojo took another step forward, and Sukuna felt it like a punch to the gut.
His scent’s the same.
The same fucking scent. God, I remember—
“You’re quiet,” Gojo added, his voice softer now. “That’s new.”
Sukuna scoffed, finally. “You talk too much. That’s not.”
He stood up. Slow. Deliberate. Every motion calculated. His own black robes hung loose, blood-red sash caught in the wind. His markings pulsed faintly with energy. He towered over the others, but not over Gojo. No—Gojo looked up at him with those cursed Six Eyes, unflinching, unbothered, like they were equals.
They weren’t.
Gojo was radiant.
And Sukuna was the bastard god who wanted to destroy him—and fuck him—at the same time.
“You planning to fight me now, Satoru?” Sukuna asked, voice low, dragging like a threat through smoke. “Or just pose dramatically and hope I fall to my knees?”
Gojo grinned. Like he liked that image.
“Might do both.”
God.
Kill me.
“You missed me that much, huh?” Gojo teased, taking another step forward. The others shifted nervously. Tension radiated from every direction like an oncoming storm, but these two? They were still. Immovable. Magnets locked in orbit.
“I didn’t miss shit,” Sukuna lied, eyes narrowing. “And if I did, it wasn’t you.”
“Mm. Sure.”
You motherfucker.
“You look good, though,” Gojo added, tilting his head. He was close now. Too close. His voice dipped like a secret, meant for Sukuna alone. “Almost like you’ve been waiting for me.”
Sukuna’s fingers twitched at his side.
“You look like shit,” he shot back, tone cold. But his eyes? His eyes devoured him.
And Gojo knew it.
He fucking knew it.
Their auras clashed—blue against crimson, cursed energy vibrating like a taut wire between them. If either of them made a move, the world would split. But no one dared interfere. They could only watch as the King of Curses and the Honored One circled each other with a tension so thick it could choke.
And somewhere deep inside that rotting, blood-soaked heart of his, Sukuna whispered:
You’re back.
You fucking idiot.
You came back.
And he didn’t smile. Not with his mouth.
But his soul did.
Even as his cursed energy flared to life around him.
Even as Gojo mirrored it with a grin that made grown men flinch.
They were enemies.
Sworn.
Deadly.
And the most dangerous thing of all?
They were glad.