diarysoob

you hear the window click open, but you’re too far gone to care.

your shirt’s pushed up. two fingers between your legs. back arched just enough to chase the pleasure you need. the room smells like your skin and your lotion and that sweet scented candle you lit just a couple minutes before.

you thought the creak was the house settling.

you didn’t hear the footsteps.

you don’t realize he’s even there until:

“fuck.”

your whole body freezes.

there’s a man standing in your doorway. hoodie pulled low, mouth half-parted, tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves like shadows.

his eyes are on you. wide. amused. hungry.

you yank the blanket halfway up your thighs, heart hammering. “who the fuck—”

he doesn’t answer.

he steps closer.

“didn’t mean to interrupt, pretty." he says, voice low. “but you didn’t lock the window.”

you should scream. run. grab your phone.

but your fingers are still wet. your core is still pounding. and for some reason, you don’t.

“you gonna stop?” he asks.

you swallow hard. shake your head once, maybe too slow.

“good girl.”

you suck in a breath.

he sits at the edge of your bed like he owns it, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

“finish,” he says. “don’t be shy now.”

his tone is calm, almost bored. but his pants are tightening. you see it. he’s hard.

for you.

your hand slides back down.

and he watches.

close. silent. one arm draped over his knee, the other pressing the bedspread down, like he’s keeping you there.

your breathing gets heavier. his smirk grows. your hips stutter, and when you cum, it’s sharp and humiliating, under his stare.

you try to catch your breath, but he shifts closer, his hand sliding between your knees like it’s always been his.

⸻

“yuuji still think you’re at church?”

his voice is lazy and low, like he already knows the answer. like he’s said this exactly ten sundays in a row.

you’re not even fully in the backseat yet and sukuna’s already pulling your panties down, bunching your skirt around your waist.

“yeah,” you breathe, climbing into his lap. “he said he’d pick me up in an hour.”

“cute.” he grins, mouth against your neck. “so fuckin’ wholesome.”

his fingers dig into your hips as he drags you down onto him, slow and steady. you bite your lip hard, trying not to moan too loud.

“look at you,” he mutters, watching your face twist. “sittin’ in my lap like you don’t have a boyfriend waiting to kiss you after this.”

you glare at him, breathless. “you done talking?”

he laughs, all teeth. “not even close.”

his hands slide up your shirt, push your bra up, thumbs brushing over your nipples just to make you squirm.

“yuuji thinks you’re singing hymns or some shit right now,” he murmurs. “but you’re out here letting his worst enemy wreck your pretty little pussy every sunday.”

you don’t answer. you just move. faster. messier. letting the van rock with every bounce of your hips.

he watches you the whole time, cocky, smug, like he’s the only one who knows the real you.

“no wonder you always come back beggin’,” he groans, holding you tighter. “bet even god wouldn’t forgive this.”

his tongue piercing hits your neck and you shiver, mouth falling open as he fucks up into you harder.

you’re the one doing all the work. like always. but that’s how he likes it. how you like it.

you finish first, hands shaking where they clutch his shoulders, head buried in his neck. sukuna follows with a hiss, biting down on your collarbone to muffle the sound.

he doesn’t move for a moment, just breathes against your skin.

then, real casual, he smacks your ass. “fix your makeup. lover boy’ll be waiting.”

⸻

twenty minutes later, you slide into yuuji's passenger seat with your hair brushed out and a soft smile on your lips.

he grins at you.

“how was church?”

you smile back. “kinda intense.”

he laughs. “you’re glowing.”

you are. but not for the reason he thinks.

the door slammed shut behind you, loud enough to shake the frame. you dropped your bag with a heavy thud and kicked off your shoes, biting back a groan as your muscles protested.

the first thing you saw? toji, sprawled across the couch, shirtless, one hand behind his head, the other lazily flipping through channels like he had nothing better to do.

“you’re home late,” he said, not even glancing your way.

you blinked. slowly. took in the pile of dishes in the sink, the crumbs on the counter, the laundry still sitting where you left it yesterday. “are you kidding me?”

he looked over at you now, smirking. “what? i was gonna get to it.”

you stared. “you’ve been home all day, toji.”

he shrugged like it was nothing. “you know i get distracted. plus, you always do it better anyway.”

that did it.

ten minutes later, you were on top of him, still in your work clothes, straddling his lap while he leaned back against the couch like he was doing you a favor.

his hands rested lazily on your thighs, smug expression plastered all over that stupidly handsome face. “didn’t know my girl was this pent up,” he teased, voice all low and gravelly.

“you’ve got some nerve,” you snapped, breath already uneven as you rocked your hips against him—slow, angry. “i work my ass off and come home to this?”

he groaned, head tipping back like the sound alone turned him on. “keep going, sweetheart. don’t stop now.”

you glared, hand sliding up his chest only to grab a fistful of his hair, forcing his gaze back to yours. “i’m not doing this for you. i’m doing this for me.”

that earned you a sharp inhale, and you could feel the tension in him shift—just a little. he wasn’t so cocky now, but he still refused to take over. just laid there and let you use him like the good-for-nothing, stupidly hot man he was.

“you’re really mad, huh?” he murmured, voice rough. “ride it out, baby. i can take it.”

he's sleeping over at your place, curled up beside you in bed while the door stays cracked open because your parents said to leave it that way. the hallway light glows faintly, casting soft shadows across his flushed face as you shift closer under the blanket.

your hand brushes his stomach—barely a graze—but he tenses anyway, breath hitching. when your fingers slip lower, slow and careful, you feel just how hard he already is. he’s been trying to ignore it, trying to stay good.

he gasps softly, lips parted. “baby…” he whispers, his voice tight and low. “your parents…”

“then stay quiet,” you murmur.

your hand wraps around him gently. his whole body shivers, and he hides his face in your pillow to keep the noise in. you start slow, just enough to make him twitch, to make him whimper against the cotton pressed to his mouth.

you feel him trying to stay still, to be quiet, to hold it in. but his hips move on instinct, little jerks chasing every stroke. he’s already trembling.

“you’re already so loud,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.

he shakes his head, flushed and falling apart, thighs tightening with every pass of your hand. he tries to say something, but it’s barely a breath. “i… i can’t…”

he’s close. you can feel it in the way his fingers grip the sheet, in the way his breathing stutters, in the desperate way he tries to press his face deeper into the pillow.

you keep going, slow and steady, thumb brushing over the tip—and that’s all it takes.

he comes hard, silent but shaking, hips stuttering under the blanket as he spills into your hand. he buries his moan deep in your pillow, face hot and damp, body twitching as he tries to breathe through it.

you slow down, easing him through the aftershocks, and kiss his cheek once his breathing steadies.

“you did so good, baby."

his voice is wrecked and quiet. “thank you…”

you’re already breathless beneath him, every nerve in your body strung tight. your thighs twitch, your fingers clutch at the sheets, and he’s barely even touched you yet. just his voice—that voice—is enough to have you falling apart.

his mouth is right at your ear when he murmurs, low and deliberate:

“don’t come.”

your body locks up, a frustrated whimper escaping your lips. the heat between your legs is unbearable, pulsing with need. but no matter how close you get, your body won’t let go. not until he says so.

his hands are slow and precise, trailing over every sensitive inch of you like he’s savoring the way you tremble. your breath hitches with every stroke, every teasing movement, and still—nothing. the pressure builds, but the release won’t come.

“please,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “toge, please—i can’t—”

he doesn’t reply right away, just watches you with that same calm, controlled expression. his fingers trace your skin, making you ache with need, but he’s not breaking his rule. not yet.

you’re shaking now, soaked, eyes glassy with how badly you need him to let you fall. and when he finally leans in again, his voice a velvet command:

“come.”

it crashes through you, white-hot and overwhelming. your body arches off the bed, a desperate moan tearing from your throat as the wave overtakes you, long and hard and blinding. you cling to him like a lifeline, barely aware of anything except the feeling of him holding you through it, grounding you.

you’re breathless, trembling, and he watches you with a cool, calculating expression. after a moment, he leans in closer, his voice as steady as ever:

the soft click of the controller fills the quiet room, only broken by the muffled voice of his teammates through the headset.

megumi's knuckles are white around the controller, jaw tight, eyes glued to the screen, but not really seeing any of it. he's tense, impossibly so, because you’re under the desk, nestled between his legs with your fingers trailing teasing patterns up his thighs like you have all the time in the world.

“fushiguro, you good?” someone asks through the mic.

he clears his throat, voice a little too tight. “y-yeah. just lagging."

your breath ghosts over him, making him jerk in his seat, biting his cheek to keep from making a sound. his legs tense, hand slipping from the controller, disappearing under the desk, trying to steady himself.

“you're playing like shit,” the voice mocks.

“shut up,” megumi mutters, voice breathless. his chest rises and falls sharply, his control slipping as he fights to stay composed.

you pull down his sweats just enough to free him. he's hard, already leaking precum, and his breath catches when your lips press softly against him.

“fuck…” his hand grips the desk as you wrap your fingers around him, giving a slow stroke. “you can’t be serious right now.”