Livin’ Like Larry

“I'm literally two meters of muscle, angel. I don't 'fit' in there,” he grumbles, but you've already hooked your fingers around his wrist and started pulling.

Sukuna lets out a long, resigned, and put-upon sigh to show you he’s doing you the biggest favor in the history of the world, but he follows, easily keeping up with your excited steps, even if he complains the entire time. “It’s dumb. We’re both going to look stupid, and I’m too big for that thing anyway.”

Standing in front of the booth, he looks like he's regretting every life choice that led him here, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He has to duck just to get his head past the top of the frame. Once inside, the space feels impossibly cramped, even more so than it seemed from the outside.

His broad shoulders take up nearly the entire width of it, forcing you to tuck yourself firmly against his side just to make room for his legs.

"Move over, Sukuna. You're hogging the whole seat."

“I’m not hogging it. I’m on it,” he grunts, his knees nearly bumping the opposite wall as he awkwardly tries to maneuver his massive self. He looks less like a man getting his photos taken and more like a bear that accidentally got stuck in a dog crate. “There’s not enough room, woman. This thing was built for children.”

You burst out laughing at the sight of him being so clearly defeated by a piece of 90s mall furniture. “You look completely ridiculous. Here, stop fighting it.”

Without waiting for him to argue, you step over his leg into the narrow gap between his knees and sit down on his right thigh. Sukuna lets out another low grumble, and his big hand immediately comes up to steady your waist.

“Well,” he mutters as he adjusts. “I guess that’s one way to solve the floor plan issue.”

You pop the coins in, and the machine’s timer begins to count down for the first photo.

Flash. Sukuna’s still wearing the same deeply unimpressed look he brought into the booth, jaw tight, brows slightly furrowed, the full weight of being dragged into something he would rather not do visible in every part of his face. You, on the other hand, are bright-eyed, caught in a blur of laughter, your face turned toward him instead of the camera, delighted by his misery.

“That’s perfect,” you beam.

“It’s awful,” he mutters, silently begging the machine to wrap it up so he can escape this cramped little prison with whatever scraps of dignity he has left.

You can’t resist teasing him just a little, so you reach up and poke his cheek, giggling softly as you whisper, “Come on, at least pretend you’re having fun, you big grump.”

The machine beeps the second countdown, and his arm hooks securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so you don’t slip. 

Flash. This time, he's got a look of reluctant acceptance, as he's finally resigned himself to the fact that escape is impossible and that the only way out is through. His chin rests near your temple, the scowl is a little less intense, and he looks like he’s trying really hard to remember he’s supposed to be annoyed.

“Okay, no—wait,” you say, trying to physically force a smile onto his face by lightly pushing the corners of his mouth up.

He catches your wrists instantly, pinning your hands away from his face.

“I'm not smiling for this.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not.”

You poke his cheek again, a little harder this time. “You look like someone stole your last protein shake. Come on, just one little smile for me, Kuna.”

He huffs through his nose, low and exasperated, keeping his jaw stubbornly locked.

For the third countdown, you lean in to murmur softly into his ear, “You know I still have a video of you trying to pet that stray cat and getting rejected. Imagine Satoru seeing that.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen, and the corner of his mouth twitches violently at the memory as he fights the laugh that wants to break free.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. You called it ‘baby,’ remember?”

He clenches his jaw, stares straight ahead with fierce determination, struggling visibly as his shoulders tense and his nostrils flare slightly, but he refuses to give you the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Flash. The photo captures his full internal battle.

You giggle against his ear, poking his cheek one last time for good measure. “See? You’re fighting it so hard. It’s adorable.” You turn back to the screen with a wide grin, basking in your small victory.

With only four seconds left on the timer, Sukuna suddenly moves. His hand shoots from your waist to the back of your head, tangling in your hair and pulling your face to his. His thumb grazes your jawline, turning you fully toward him, and then he meets you halfway, drawing you into a deep, slow kiss.

Flash. It goes off right in the middle of it, capturing the moment perfectly, but Sukuna doesn’t stop. He just keeps kissing you, even as the machine starts spitting out the first photo strip. His hand stays tangled in your hair, his other arm locked around your waist like he has no intention of letting you go anytime soon.

The photos slide out of the slot, but neither of you reaches for them.

When Sukuna finally pulls back, you’re both a little breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, looking at you with dark and satisfied eyes.

His voice is low, rough, and full of that familiar blend of exasperation and affection as he murmurs against your lips, “You’re impossible.”

You smile, still a little dazed, fingers curled into the front of his shirt. “And you love it.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, presses one last soft kiss to your mouth, then keeps one arm around your waist as you step out of the cramped booth and back into the bright lights of the mall.

You grab both strips of photos, the paper still slightly warm, and look at the progression from grumpy husband to reluctant participant to barely contained laughter to the sudden, fierce kiss that ends it all. You giggle and make a big show of tucking them into your purse, giving him a mischievous side-eye.

"Well, since you were so miserable and forced to be in there," you tease, starting to walk away, "I guess you won't want these. They’re both mine. Proof of your suffering."

Without saying a word, his long fingers dip right into your bag, snatching one of the strips before you can even react.

"Nice try, brat.”

He carefully folds the paper, making sure the crease falls between the photos, then flips open his leather wallet and slides the strip behind his driver’s license, smoothing it with his thumb.

"I did the time," he says after, catching your hand in his and lacing your fingers together as you head for the exit. "I’m keeping the prize."