⡴ gojo cannot undo your bras for the life of him ⡴ suggestive/a little bit of boobs and grinding
every. single. time.
every single time you’re sitting infront of him, lips interlocked, moaning into his mouth … he just can’t seem to unhook your bra himself.
this time, he’s laid out on your mattress while you straddle his hips. he’s dressed in just his underwear that cling to his pale thighs while you sit atop of him and panties and, his worst nightmare … a matching hook-closed bra.
“fuck.” he grumbles breathlessly into your mouth, not even meaning for it to slip out, just an uncontrollable reaction to crossing paths with his mortal enemy. you pull back slightly, still close enough your breath lingers on him.
“what?” you ask, brows furrowing together while his slender fingers tap at the lacy fabric. you squint down at him while his gleaming eyes vacantly look at you. “satoru? you okay?”
he nods quickly while your words snap him out of his thoughts. mostly just ‘fuck’ repeated and ‘why can’t i just blast this stupid thing off?’ you lean down to kiss at his soft lips again, thinking it’s just one of his weird space outs that happen every so often.
he kisses back, leans to his side and tries to distract you with his tongue in your mouth—or atleast buy him some time to figure this the hell out. he can’t believe he figured rct out at 17, yet at 28 he’s still clueless when it comes to something that should be simple.
his fingertips build up the courage to trace over the hooks while your arms scrunch at his stark white hair. your hips grind down onto his heavy bulge like you’re trying to fuck him through the layers of fabric separating him.
he tries to give himself a peptalk while you’re attacking at his lips, that it’s not that difficult and if he gets this over with he can just fuck you already.
his thumb clasps onto one side of the backing, trying to pull it away carelessly from the other end. no dice. he tries to thread the hooks off one by one with a a single finger at once. you start to foster a confused look on your face as you pull back for air. he finally tries to bring the sides together before yanking them apart… he gets the hooks tangled in the lace some-fucking-how.
you yank back from his mouth, spit still trailing between your faces between the string eventually breaks.
“are you, like, not in the mood?” you ask, utterly confused. you’re actually worried at this point that he just doesn’t wanna fuck you from how much he’s hesitating—couldn’t be farther from the truth may he add—even despite the pulsing boner sitting against you, and his eyes open wide at your words.
he immediately shakes his head fervently to signify NO. “no, no, no! i just…” he hesitates, embarrassed before the words can even fall out of his mouth. “…need help getting your bra off.”
“really.” you deadpan, staring down at him with your eyes squinted and eyebrows pulled up against your forehead. he flushes against your gaze. he’s about to plead out a sorry for ruining everything before you giggle.
you slink your arms behind your back and undo the clasps along the band.
he thinks he cums a little in his pants when you yank your bra off your head and toss it across your room, revealing your breasts to him right infront of his face. he might even have drool pooling at his lips.
“you really never learned how to take off a bra?”
“can we just forget about this and let me fuck you?”
sukuna’s clingy (he prefers the term “possessive”) even as he sleeps
i feel like sukuna sleeps holding you like you’re a hostage that’s going to wake up in the middle of the night and run away.
he’s the big spoon of course and he’s molded around your body like a puzzle piece. chest pressed seamlessly to your backside, one arm hooked around your neck in a loving? soft chokehold, the other curled over your waist, palm splayed over the natural plush of your tummy. your thighs up in fetal position between his, legs intertwined, feet touching, literally the whole nine yards. entirely unaware or uncaring of his size, but definitely aware of yours. hunched over you like a dragon protecting its glimmering mountain of gold and treasure.
and it’s that kind of embrace that seems uncomfortable or suffocating from the outside-looking-in, but it’s actually the best sleep you’ve gotten in years and the only way you can sleep now. it’s the kind that has you snoring when you never snore. the kind that has you waking up looking like a skrunkly cat after a good nap.
his steady heartbeat thrumming against your back and counting sheep for you, your chin tucked in his inner elbow as you drool all over it, head effortlessly perched at just the right angle on his meaty bicep instead of that flat and lifeless pillow that gives you a crick in your neck. your body grounded with the comforting weight of his heavy arm strewn over it, the gentle heat of his thumb stroking on your lower abdomen, the pressure you usually carry in your lower back gone because your legs are elevated due to the beefy mass that’s under them. it’s like he’s your custom made body pillow.
and if you need to pee in the middle the night you’ll have to smack his arm to get him to unfurl his tired limbs with a grunt because he sleeps like he’s dead. he’ll follow you there even when you tell him to stay in bed, heavy feet dragging behind you across the cool vinyl, one sock missing and his loose sleep pants hanging off his hips.
“hurry up, m’cold.” he’ll rub his eyes and grumble groggily as if you forced him to come with you.
he’s just standing in the dark bathroom with his arms crossed, eyes drifting back to a close while he sways like he’s on a ship. then he’s glaring at the doorframe with the most adorable, sleepy scowl on his face after he stumbles into it on accident, like someone put it there just to spite him. that is until he deems it worthy enough to lean on, a loud yawn blooming from the drowsy, messy-haired giant who’s patiently waiting to crawl back into bed with you.
"You're not my boyfriend." Try telling Ryomen Sukuna that when another man gets a little too close.
A/N: you aint my boyfriend and i aint your girlfriend 🤨 if u couldnt tell, this was inspired by boyfriend by ari and social house ✌️😗 this is also an old fic i dug out 🚬 anyways exams have been fucking me raw lately and not in a fun way. i should be out here bussing it down at the club, getting lit, making questionable decisions. instead im bussing it down with textbooks and practice exams. tragic. devastating, even. its okay tho, bc i got bts tickets 😛
Art: @/pattyi.i on insta <3
Sukuna never asked for a commitment. Somehow, the arrangement just fell into place anyway. It started with small things: late night texts, showing up without warning, and a heavy black leather jacket tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there.
Your phone buzzed softly against the counter.
you home.
No greeting, no question mark—just the absolute assumption of an open door.
yeah.
Three dots appeared instantly.
open up.
A heavy knock followed seconds later.
"Geez. No 'please' or anything" you mumbled, tossing your phone back onto the counter.
Opening the door revealed Ryomen Sukuna leaning against the frame as if he’d been waiting all night. A familiar presence filled the doorway before he even spoke, the air growing heavy with his warm, spicy cologne. Red eyes flicked down, assessing the view. “Thought you were asleep.”
“Bruh, you literally just texted me.”
He hummed, brushing past without waiting for an invitation. His hand lingered briefly on the small of your back, pressing just enough to claim the space before letting go. You shut the door behind him. “You’re going to start paying rent at this point." Sukuna stretched out on your couch, arms draped lazily across the cushions with a smirk. “You’d miss me.” An eye roll was the only response you gave him, but neither side pushed the argument.
Weeks passed in a blur of late nights and shared silences. A heavy hand would rest on your waist during trips around the kitchen, fingers brushing the curve of your hip and teasingly lingering during the morning coffee brew. On walks together, he closed the distance entirely, slipping a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. No matter how many times that hand was swatted away with a muttered, “People are going to think we’re dating” the pink haired man just shrugged, keeping his hand firmly planted against ur ass. He always stood slightly behind or beside you, a silent declaration: I’m here.
Sometimes he waited after lectures, leaning against the campus gate with a lazy, half smirk, arms crossed as the crowd filtered past. Spotting him always made your stomach twist, knowing he’d been waiting long before the dismissal bell. His gaze would lock on, serving as a quiet warning to anyone walking too close.
Nights were spent sharing the couch and stealing blankets, half tangled around his large frame while the remaining fabric barely covered your lap. Sometimes he drapes himself across you, a hand brushing lightly down your arm or against your thigh—never intrusive, but entirely claiming the space. When he relaxed completely, your fingers wander over his tattoos, tracing the sharp lines along his face and chest. Each mark felt almost magnetic under the skin. He would hum low, letting the attention slide, a thumb occasionally brushing your wrist to claim the movement. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your fingertips, a slight smirk evident in the way he adjusted his posture to keep your hand exactly where he wanted it.
There were nights spent falling asleep in his bed after an argument left unfinished—bodies pressed tight, the quiet between you louder than any words. Other mornings started tangled in his arms, hair brushing his chest, fingers clutching his shirt before fully waking up. His hand would curl around your wrist, his thumb tracing small, slow circles. The habits became second nature to notice: how he leaned a fraction closer when a stranger got too near. The amused smirk whenever a tease was thrown back at him. The trademark "tch" or scoff of annoyance that left his lips. Pressing his forehead to yours in the early mornings, claiming the first minutes of the day. Playing the thief with a tilted head and a lazy, "Oops, that's my spot now" daring an argument.
Almost like a couple. But without labels or promises, the unresolved tension grew nearly unbearable.
Tonight, gojo's house was packed. The bass vibrated faintly through the floorboards, drowning out the roar of the crowded room. People moved in a blur of red cups and loud laughter.
Pausing near the entrance to scan the room, your eyes landed across the living room. Sukuna leaned against the back of a couch, looking entirely too comfortable. A few girls crowded his space, laughing a little too loudly at whatever he’d just muttered. One girl rested a hand on tattooed arm. Another leaned in close, fingers brushing his shoulder. He let them.
Your jaw tightened.
His eyes found yours instantly, as if he’d known the exact second you walked through the door. The crowd seemed to fade under his direct stare. Across the room, through flashing lights and shifting bodies, he just watched. A slow smirk pulled at his lips, waiting to see your reaction. The girl beside him kept talking, her fingers resting on his arm, tracing the very same tattoos you usually spent hours mapping out. Sukuna didn’t move away. He just looked on—unbothered and thoroughly amused.
Typical.
Turning away before he could read anything else on your face, you made a beeline for the kitchen. A quick adjustment was made to the hem of the mini black off shoulder dress, the fabric hugging your waist and tight at the hips. Gold open toe heels clicked softly against the floorboards, gold hoops swaying with the quick tilt of your head. The reflective surface of the fridge offered a quick glimpse—makeup intact, shoulders tense, face slightly flushed from the scene in the living room. Pulling the door open, the cool light spilled out as you grabbed a drink.
“Careful with that one” a voice warned.
Turning around revealed a guy leaning against the counter, sporting a charming smile. “Trust me. It’s stronger than it looks.”
A small laugh escaped you. “I’ll take my chances.”
The guy laughed, stepping a bit closer to be heard over the booming music. “So… what brings you here alone?”
A shrug followed. “Just needed a drink and a break from… life.”
His smirk widened. “I get that. Same here.”
The conversation began to flow more freely, a genuine laugh sparking at a joke he made. It felt easy. The guy leaned in, lowering his voice. “You know, you’ve got this energy. Makes people really want to talk to you.”
A smile crept up, a sudden flutter stirring in your chest—until a familiar scent hit the air. Warm, spicy, and impossible to ignore. The exact aroma that lingered on your clothes every time he pulled you in.
Sukuna.
A heavy pair of arms slid around your waist from behind. His broad chest pressed flush against your back, almost swallowing you as he pulled you back. One hand settled flat against your stomach while the other grazed your hip, fingers brushing the edge of your short dress to anchor you firmly against him. The fabric shifted under his grip, lifting fractionally as you instinctively braced on your heels. Sukuna wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked dead on the guy across the counter. Slowly, the pink haired man dipped his head, his nose brushing the side of your neck before settling into the crook of your shoulder. Warm breath ghosted over your bare skin, his fingers tightening just enough to claim you. The gentle sway of gold hoops brushed against him with every shallow inhale.
The guy stiffens. “Oh—uh. Sorry, man, I didn’t know—”
“No” you interrupted, trying to shift out of his grasp. “We’re not—”
“Yeah” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, his voice low. “You should go.”
The guy hesitated, muttered a quick, “Right… my bad” and vanished into the crowd.
You turn inside Sukuna’s arms, looking up at him. “Bruh, what's your problem?”
Sukuna looked down as if nothing had happened.
“You’re not my boyfriend” you huffed out.
His eyes slowly searched your face before letting out a slight scoff.
Pushing lightly against his chest, you snapped, “Stop acting like you own me.”
He simply watched, absorbing the defiance. Then, with a sudden tug at your waist, he pulled you closer. The hem of your dress rode up your ass slightly before his hand reached behind to pull the fabric back into place.
“You want a boyfriend?” His thumb dragged slowly along your jawline, tilting your face up to force eye contact. "That what this is about?”
Silence was the only answer, making his eyes narrow. “Tch. Greedy.”
The music and chatter faded into background noise—the space between you grew heavy. Sukuna hummed softly, his hand sliding back down to the small of your back. His fingers settled there as if they had never left, pressing into the curve. Your heels click softly against the floor as he adjusts his hold, keeping the fit perfect. “And yet” he murmured, leaning closer, “you still let me do this.” Your breath catches when he pulls you a fraction closer.
“Doesn’t really sound like you want a boyfriend” Sukuna said lazily. Dipping his head lower, his lips trailed light kisses along your neck—the same familiar routine he’d done a thousand times before. It made your stomach twist. A sharp inhale brought in his spicy cologne, mixing with the soft sweetness of vanilla perfume until your head spun.
“Sounds like you just want me.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a low, teasing vibration. “Go ahead… say you’re leaving me.”
The words never came.
A slow smile spread across his face. Because he already knows you won’t.
the kitchen smells like garlic, butter, and whatever expensive seasoning satoru bought last week because apparently “regular salt is boring.”
you’re standing at the stove stirring dinner while quietly regretting ever teaching your husband how to cook.
not because he’s bad at it, unfortunately, he’s annoyingly good. but because now he treats the kitchen like his personal playground whenever you’re inside it.
“whatcha makin’?” satoru asks for the fourth time in ten minutes.
you don’t even turn around. “food.”
“woaah,” he gasps dramatically behind you. “really?”
you sigh. already, you can feel him hovering nearby.
he never just stands normally either. no. he leans against counters dramatically, stretches himself over your shoulder unnecessarily, or wraps himself around you like an oversized cat who thinks personal space is offensive.
today seems to be one of those days.
before you can react, long arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against his chest.
“satoru,” you warn immediately.
“what?” he hums innocently against your shoulder.
“i’m cooking.”
“and?”
“and you’re attached to me.”
“exactly.”
you close your eyes briefly. this man. “go sit down.”
“don’t wanna.” of course he doesn’t.
he rests his chin on your shoulder now, white hair tickling your cheek while he watches the pan like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re doing.
“…yer stirring too aggressively.”
you stop mid-motion, then slowly turn your head toward him “i’m sorry?”
“mhm,” he nods seriously. “the vegetables are scared.”
you stare at him flatly, he grins immediately. there it is. that stupid grin that says he knows exactly how annoying he’s being.
“you’re unbearable,” you mutter, turning back toward the stove.
“but ya love me.”
and you can’t even argue against it. because you do, way too much honestly.
you try focusing again, ignoring the way his fingers lazily tap against your stomach while he sways both of you side to side slightly.
for exactly twelve seconds. then,
“baby.”
you sigh. “what.”
“kiss.”
“i’m cooking.”
“multitask.”
you snort despite yourself. instantly, he notices.
“there’s the laugh i wanted,” he says proudly.
you roll your eyes. “you’re acting like a child.”
“yeah, but i’m your child.”
“that is absolutely not romantic.”
“worked though.”
before you can respond, he suddenly steals the spoon from your hand.
“satoru-”
he takes a dramatic taste directly from it, humming thoughtfully like he’s judging a five-star restaurant.
“…needs more love.”
you blink. “love?”
“mhm.”
“that’s not an ingredient.”
“sure it is.” he points the spoon toward you accusingly. “yer cooking while annoyed at me. the food can tell.”
you laugh again, quieter this time.
he’s impossible. and somehow fully aware that making you laugh is exactly how he gets away with everything.
he beams the second he hears it, immediately tightening his arms around you.
“there it is.”
“you’re insane.”
“and yet ya married me anyway.”
fair. you shake your head, reaching for the spoon again, but instead of giving it back immediately, he lifts it higher out of reach.
“satoru.”
“say please.”
you narrow your eyes. “i’m going to hit you with this pan.”
“violent. scary. terrifying even.”
“…satoru.”
he grins, then finally hands it back only to immediately steal a kiss from your cheek while you’re distracted.
you let out an annoyed sound, but he just laughs softly against your skin.
“worth it.”
you swear he gets clingier the longer you’re married. not less.
because now he follows you everywhere around the apartment like he physically cannot handle being more than three feet away from you.
and the worst part? you’re used to it now.
used to the random kisses, the constant touching and the dramatic whining whenever you don’t give him attention immediately.
“baby,” he says again suddenly.
you point the spoon toward him threateningly. “if you ask for another kiss while i’m holding hot oil, i’m divorcing you.”
he gasps loudly. “wow. so this is what our marriage has become?”
“you caused this.”
“false,” he says immediately. “i’m adorable.”
you finally turn toward him fully, raising a brow. “…adorable.”
“mhm.”
“…not annoying?”
“both can exist.”
you hate that he’s right.
satoru notices your expression immediately and lights up like he’s won something.
“you think i’m cute.”
“i think you should leave my kitchen.”
instead of listening, he pulls you closer again, large hands settling against your hips this time. then, without warning, he buries his face into your neck dramatically.
“missed you today,” he mumbles.
your expression softens instantly. ah. there it is, underneath all the teasing, he just wanted attention.
you sigh quietly, setting the spoon down before reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. immediately, he melts against you, completely.
“you saw me this morning,” you murmur.
“too long ago.”
“…you’re needy.”
“only for you.” his voice is quieter now, warmer. and suddenly the teasing husband act slips just enough for you to see the softer part underneath it.
the real part.
you smile despite yourself, scratching lightly against his scalp.
“okay,” you whisper. “you can stay.”
he lifts his head immediately, grinning like he just won the lottery.
“sick. what’re we making?”
a/n : first time writing for gojo 👀👀 yall is this mic on 👀👀. tysm for reading and other than that theres nothing more to add !!
megumi loves to see you in his clothes. in fact he even gets kinda offended if you don’t wear them - he lends you them for a reason.
you have about 3 of his hoodies and at least 4 of his t-shirts. the way that the sleeves hang off the end of your arm and how they always hang slightly off your shoulders makes his heart race.
when you send him snaps he always analyses the picture to see if you’re wearing anything of his (you almost always are) and the corners of his mouth raise slightly each time.
just the fact that you’re draped in something that he owns makes him satisfied and content. gumi tells himself it’s not a possessive thing but deep down he likes that it indicates that you’re his.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
A/N ; feel free to give me suggestions on what to write because i’m so stuck rn ):
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