Your Paparazzi. · Y/n story by @chimichan

The night air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and nervous excitement. Limousines crawled along the curb like sleek black beetles, disgorging glittering guests into the maw of the LA Convention Center.

Sukuna

adjusts his grip on his camera, long black nails tapping against the lens hood

He'd been here for hours. His spot was prime—dead center, front row. He'd shoved a junior photographer out of the way to claim it. The man had muttered something about calling security. Sukuna had simply stared at him until he'd walked off.

Sukuna

muttering to himself Tch. Hurry up.

Then—

Sukuna

under his breath, almost reverent Finally.

The door opened. Four bodyguards stepped out first—broad-shouldered men in black suits, scanning the crowd with practiced efficiency.