It was baseball season, and you and your friends were living for it—snacks in hand, team shirts on your backs, and tickets tucked safely in your pockets. Today marked your third game of the season. You didn’t really follow the league loyally; you just watched whoever was playing and, naturally, picked a favorite side to cheer for.

For you, that favorite was always the Curses. Odd name for a team, sure, but they had one undeniable draw: Ryomen Sukuna. The star. The powerhouse. The kind of player who made every game worth watching.

Now it was his turn at bat. Sukuna strode up to the plate, exuding so much confidence it practically radiated off him in heatwaves. The rules in this league were… unconventional, agreed upon by both teams before each match. And this time, Sukuna was allowed to wield a bat in each of his four hands. His wicked grin was so sharp and self-assured it could’ve knocked you flat on the spot.

And then—those shorts. Barely surviving. Every seam groaned under the strain, as if crying out in protest with each shift of his body. The drawstring clung desperately to his waist, hopelessly outmatched by the sheer strength of his core. His thighs? Colossal. Trunks of muscle swallowing the fabric whole. The shorts rode so far up they looked less like standard athletic wear and more like a direct insult hurled at the gods of textile engineering. It was half terrifying, half hilarious—because no matter how hard Sukuna tried to radiate menace, he was still out there rocking the most cursedly voluptuous thighs baseball had ever witnessed.

The cameras didn’t even try to be subtle, lingering shamelessly on his figure so the entire stadium could savor the spectacle.

The pitcher wound up. The crowd held its breath. The ball sailed forward—

CRACK. Sukuna’s swing connected, and the sound alone sent shockwaves through the field. The roar of the crowd surged to impossible heights, a tidal wave of cheers following his every step as he bolted down the baseline.