Your new neighbor was kind of an ass.

And by ‘kind of’, you meant totally an ass.

He was the leader of some alt rock garage band that was really popular in town, and he was also a shitty neighbor.

Always practicing with his band in his garage, amps blasting music loud enough to make your garage walls vibrate— never bothering to remotely keep the noise down.

You usually ignore it. But today was different.

Today, you finally found out what Sukuna and his band had been practicing for this entire time.

A party. A loud one. With their loud music and equally loud guests.

You debated ignoring it. Then you debated calling the cops. Then you decided that was definitely a little much, but you still had to do something.

So you grabbed a jacket, slipped on your shoes, and made your way to Sukuna’s house next door.

There were people coming in and out of the side gate, which was left open for the guests’ convenience. You decided to invite yourself in, not really caring about all the strange looks you were getting because of your pastel pink cat pajamas. The backyard was as crowded and headache-inducing as you thought it’d be. String lights hung overhead, warm and buzzing, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Someone brushed past you with a drink, laughter spilling into the night.

The band was set up near the back, and you recognized the members purely because of how often you stalked Sukuna’s social media profile. It was just morbid curiosity, or at least that’s what you told yourself everytime you went through his Instagram.

Gojo, the lanky white haired one stood at the mic— lead singer. Geto, the more punk-looking one with his jet black hair pulled back— the guitarist. And Choso, the pale, emo looking guy with his hair styled in a half up half down do— the bassist.

Then of course, there was Sukuna. All the way in the back, his tan skin sprinkled with beads of sweat and his muted salmon pink hair sticking to his forehead. He was the drummer.

You just stand off to the side as they play their song, waiting for the owner of the house himself to spot you. Which he does. Eventually. He seems like he wants to ignore you at first, but then his drumming falls slightly behind everyone else and the music comes to an awkward stop.

Everyone looked at him, then realized he was looking at you. So then they were all staring at him staring at you. He froze, and so did you. Before panic could fully set in, Sukuna was there. His hand closed around your wrist as he pulled you forward, away from the crowd’s attention.

“Keep playing,” he snapped to his bandmates over his shoulder as he walked away. “Fuckin’ idiots.”

He guided you to the front porch, away from the party and the noise. He finally lets go of you, and now you’re both standing face to face.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it. The flame flares briefly, illuminating his face. He takes a drag, exhaling slowly.

“Wow,” you muttered. “Really?”

“What’s up?”

You roll your eyes at his nonchalant response. “What’s up? You’re throwing a party.”

“I am.”

“It’s loud as hell.”

“My parties always are,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“It’s late, and I’d really like some peace and quiet.”

“Are you the neighborhood watch or something? I can’t just kick everyone out and shut the whole party down.” Another drag. “We still got half our set left.”