seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Romania
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Canada
seen from Yemen
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from France
seen from France
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from France
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Belarus
seen from Türkiye
….well, she’s got the spirit!
Vintage 1970s Advert White Horse Scotch Whisky
Did you get drunk this New Year's Eve?
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Rough day
⧽ fuck the partyㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
── frat!kuna can and will leave the party for you
f!reader, fluff, established relationship, frat!kuna, drinking, frat party
wc : 564
red cups are thrown everywhere, pingpong balls stray across the room, jagged glass is shunted to the margins, people vomit in all corners, wisps emit from people’s lips, and loud blasting music that your bone, muscle, vein, and organ absorb.
it’s getting smothering.
your boyfriend is nowhere to be found. he’s disappeared since earlier, and you’ve been left alone before everything started getting wild.
you’re not blaming him, though—he’s the president, which means frat priorities.
standing at the side, you hold your own red cup. the rim glistened with saliva and alcohol. you’re enjoying it a little, honestly. though you can’t say you’re relishing it too much—you’re not really in the mood.
hysterics surround you—well, maybe that isn’t quite appropriate to call them, but it’s deemed normal at a frat party.
overwhelmed by your senses, you needed a break; hence, going to a serene place. you walk lumberly—casually impinging on others that are in a drunken state.
unaware of where your feet have dragged you—your hazy vision preventing anything else from coming into focus, leaving only the stairs.
a gravelly voice ensues, “goddamnit, i’ve been searching everywhere for you.” you don't look back.
slurring, you speak—voice all raspy. “kuna… you’re hereeee!” your tone, replete with ecstaticness. you’re seated on the stairs, in the middle of the stairs, particularly. your eyes reflecting off what’s before you—twinkling, lustrous stars.
“tch, what happened to you?” he may sound vexed, albeit his ‘concerned’ look belies him.
you respond sluggishly, trying to stand up. “mm… had a cooooouuuuple of drinks.” he trails behind you.
and as you are about to tumble down the stairs—sukuna manages to grab you by your clothes, and you swear you heard the sound of your clothes ripping. your heart genuinely almost fell out of your ass.
he heaves you toward him, your back pressing against his chest. “fuck, baby. how much did you drink?” sukuna questions, his lips brush against your ears, the deep voice sends a shock throughout your whole body.
“six…? or maaaaaybe seven. six seven!” the empty hall saturates your laughter.
his voice gravely, “you’re going home with me.” he seizes you by your clothing neckline and forges down the stairs. “but the party!” you whine.
“fuck the party, i said you’re going home with me. ‘m not prioritizing the party before you. ya hear me?”
aaaand you’re blacked out.
the moment you rouse, you feel it hurtling to your head—hell, the hangover starts now. your mouth dry, your vision still hazy, and the feeling of the need to vomit in your chest. fuuuuck.
sukuna infiltrates the room, carrying a tray, a smug look drawn on his face. “how’s the hangover, baby?” oh, here we go.
he speaks, “you were pretty damn wasted yesterday. who summoned you?” his annoyingly handsome face has a smirk plastered on it.
as he ensconced the tray on the nightstand beside you, the random strike of nausea hit you again. “i’m never drinking again, kuna.” your lips feel the heat of your palm; standing up, you run toward the bathroom.
he peeks in the bathroom, and once he sees you vomiting, he instantly comes in to hold your hair for you. the sensation of your chest tightening as your throat burns from the acid and alcohol you consumed the night before isn’t pleasant. at. all.
“i made you tea and breakfast. come on, baby.”
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The Austin American, Texas, June 20, 1934
