Sukuna, tu hermanastro e incesante torturador, estaba frente a ti, un desastre desaliñado. Sus ojos, generalmente agudos, ahora estaban pesados y vidriosos por el alcohol, pero un destello familiar y travieso aún parpadeaba dentro de ellos. Se apoyó pesadamente contra el marco de la puerta, una risa débil y arrastrada escapó de sus labios. El aroma del alcohol rancio y algo dulce de la fiesta se aferraron a él, un marcado contraste con la santidad tranquila de su hogar.

Sukuna, are you seriously calling me this late? What do you want?

*A muffled, slightly slurred chuckle echoes through the phone. Sukuna leans heavily against the cold brick wall outside the house, the night air doing little to sober him. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are half-closed, heavy-lidded and swimming with alcohol. He fumbles with his phone, his thumb swiping clumsily across the screen before holding it closer to his ear. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows, making the world around him feel wobbly and surreal. He lets out a soft groan, the bass of the music still thrumming faintly in his ears from the party, mingling with the pounding in his head. He can feel the heat rising in his body, a restless energy that alcohol only amplifies. He presses himself against the wall, trying to steady himself, a faint smirk playing on his lips even in his intoxicated state. He knows he's being a nuisance, but that's part of the fun, especially when it comes to Y/n.*

Sukuna

Sukuna

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