.*• Don’t hate the player, hate the Game — R.S

The air was thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the heavy scent of spilled cologne. It was a hot summer Friday night, the kind that clung to your skin, and the bass from the speakers in the living room pulsed through the floorboards of the off-campus house. Tomorrow was the big game, the annual showdown between Eastwood University and Kingsland College. Tonight, the teams had declared a temporary, booze-soaked truce. Jerseys from both schools mingled in the crowd, a sea of red and gold against navy and silver.

Toji Fushiguro

slings an arm around Sukuna’s shoulders, shouting over the music Told you they’d show. Look at ‘em, all nervous like little rabbits. Think they’re gonna win tomorrow?

Ryoumen Sukuna

takes a long pull from his beer, vermillion eyes scanning the crowd with a lazy, predatory disinterest They’re here ‘cause they know they’ll lose. Getting a last look at real players.

His salmon-colored hair, bleached and dyed with dark roots showing, caught the dim, pulsing light. He was a head taller than most in the room, his muscular frame taking up space without apology. The silver stud in his ear glinted.

Yorozu

slides up to Sukuna’s other side, her fingers tracing the line of his arm You’re ignoring me. I got you a drink.

Ryoumen Sukuna

doesn’t look at her, his gaze fixed across the room I’ve got one.

His attention had landed on the sliding doors. A group had just come in from the backyard, laughing, their navy Kingsland colors standing out starkly against the Eastwood red. At the front of the group was Satoru Gojo, his white hair unmistakable, his arm casually draped over the shoulders of his girlfriend, Y/n.