₊˚ʚᗢ₊˚✧.colour.✧˚₊ᗢɞ˚₊ black or purple
₊˚ʚᗢ₊˚✧.animal.✧˚₊ᗢɞ kitties!!!
₊˚ʚᗢ₊˚✧.book.✧˚₊ᗢɞ˚₊ Monstrous Regiment- Terry Pratchett
₊˚ʚᗢ₊˚✧.animes.✧˚₊ᗢɞ˚₊ FMAB, One Piece, JJK, Gachiakuta, etc.
₊˚ʚᗢ₊˚✧.activity (hobby) .✧˚₊ᗢɞ˚₊ drawing, gaming, or listening to music
₊˚ʚᗢ₊˚✧.games.✧˚₊ᗢɞ˚ FNAF, minecraft, stardew valley, anything zelda, super mario odyssey, etc.
˚₊‧꒰აꫂ aesthetic ᭪݁໒꒱ ‧₊˚ grunge/emo
≽^• ˕ •^≼ ♡ ૮꒰˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡ ≽^• ˕ •^≼
⋆｡˚⋆౨ likes ৎ⋆˚｡⋆ anime, women, fan media, art, biking, music, video games, friends, plus many special intrests!
⋆｡˚⋆౨ dislikes ৎ⋆˚｡⋆ pickles, zionists, MAGA, trump, homophobia, pickles, loud noises, weird textures, and like alot more shit
⋆｡˚⋆౨ birthday ৎ⋆˚｡⋆ june 13!
⋆｡˚⋆౨ timezone ৎ⋆˚｡⋆ central daylight time
⋆｡˚⋆౨ dm status ৎ⋆˚｡ open!
⋆｡˚⋆౨ diagnosis ৎ⋆˚｡ autism, hEDS, MCAD, POTS, and like 5 million more fucked up genetic shit that i do NOT want to get into </3
⋆ -- ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ .
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶⊹︶
rules: answer these questions & tag 9 people you'd like to know better
reading: nothing rn i'm doopit :( but the last book i read was I Who Have Never Known Men and i still think about it a lot!
last series: rewatching arcane >:)
last movie: The Truman Show (there are a lot of really "movieish" movies i haven't seen so i'm trying to catch up)
last song: probably You Lose by Magdalena Bay?? i bought a Mercurial World cd at the cutie music store today and we were listening to it in da car
working on: a diy music benefit show thingy for a local family impacted by ICE, my muscles, i was also working on a lil collage zine that i am hoping to scan and post here Soon
sweet or salty: i am a savory boy through and through
coffee or tea: i need coffee to function but i drink tea just for the love of the game
tagging: i have a lot of new mutuals!! here goes 🌀
rules: answer these questions & tag 9 people you'd like to know better
reading: geek feminist revolution, the wild edge of sorrow, and the new lesbian pulp!
last series: I’m rewatching euphoria and I am so bad at watching new things I mostly watch smosh Reddit stories 😭
last movie: twinless! I watched with my lavender boyfriend <3
last song: I listen to the radio a lot but on qobuz it was Bring Wet Cunt (my butch bait playlist)
working on: a self portrait I’m redoing from college! , some bag charms I just like giving to people, trying to sell my art also for people effected by ICE 😭
sweet or salty: I have a huge sweet tooth but I’m also crazy for anything pickled like in a. What im known for way
coffee or tea: i loveeeee tea i have so many teas (my fave is raspberry vanilla mint) but i also have a strange love for banana bread mochas
Okayyy so this is my first ever taglist game which is neat so thank you @efflaurescence for tagging me 🫶🏼
Rules: answer these questions & tag 9 people you’d like to know better.
Reading: Honestly, I’ve been reading a lot of fanfics not so much books lately 😵💫. But some of my favorite books are You Are One Of Them by Elliott Holt, and That’s Not What Happened by Kody Keplinger.
Last series: I was watching Vox Machina last, though I have a bad habit of starting a shit ton of shows and never finishing them….
Last song: Kiss it better by Rihanna 😛
Working on: getting my ass moving to finishing college admissions and working on organizing my closet, I just built a shoebox for it yesterday.
Sweet or salty: okay, I’m a foodie so it really depends on my mood. But for salty I’d say salt and vinegar chips. For sweet, I’ll have to go with those storebought mini brownies.
Coffee or tea: coffee all the way, I’m obsessed with making my own latte and I grind my own beans.
reading / the woman in me : britney spears, way too much fanfiction for the amount of work i got
last series / smallville, rewatching tokyo revengers cause why is it so gas?? like can we bring it back??
last movie / kill bill (part 1), desendants (omg i forgot how good it is)
last song / outta this world, trouble : britney spears (guess my fav artists: impossible)
working on / finding something to write abt...
sweet or salty / lowkey depends on my mood but i prefer salty but also sweet, i dont actually know
coffee or tea / TEAA (i hate coffee unless it's super sweet) HAS to be iced tea tho i dont like any kinda hot drink, i dont care if it's negatives outside i will be drinking something iced
anyone rb!! no pressure tags : @poetmiu @boba-rama @saekelptea @yayamrata @fairyofprose @amortoru (i didnt know who to tag😓)
reading: HOMEGOING by yaa gyasi ++ fan fiction 🌝 & not apart of the question but i ordered the bluest eye by toni morrison bc i have to read it again!!
last series: i was rewatching atla! & good girls 10/10 would recommend!
last movie: 50 first dates! (i love drew barrymore)
last song: kind of by faye webster!
working on: come back to me chap 2, sukuna & higurama fic for small town lover!
sweet or salty: i would say spicy if i could! i like sweet stuff but i get tired of it fast
coffee or tea: TEA!! i love tea!! all types every kind i’m like a old woman in that sense
no pressure tags: @mimiiis @liliklei @lolalied @sukuje @g0matchi @axol-lottle @rambld ++ more
reading :: well..... re-reading Bleach (the manga, TOTALLY RECOMMEND!!)
last series :: Re-watching Breaking Bad, and Takopi's Original Sin (WHOLESOME HAHAHA TOTALLY RECOMMEND HAHAH 😃)
last movie :: The Minecraft movie, Titanic (Started awhile ago), just re-watched The Lion King
last song :: "ARE WE STILL FRIENDS" - Tyler, The Creator
last meal? :: TACOSSSSS
working on :: 𝑨𝑳𝑾𝑨𝒀𝑺 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝒀𝑶𝑼 chapter 3, and 𝑴𝑬𝑫𝑰𝑪𝑨𝑳 𝑹𝑬𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑻 chapter 2
sweet or salty? :: DEFINITELY SALTYYYY, I also like sweet stuff but it makes me dizzy :'3
coffee or tea? :: Ooooh, difficult to choose.... Coffee when I'm feeling tired and need an extra boost... And tea when I just wanna relax :3 Overall, coffee maybeee??
Taggss!! (No pressure 🫶)
@vampire-luvr, @manixie, @pillsatorualt +anyone who wants to join!!
reading - nothing atm but last book was “say you’ll remember me” by Abby jimenez
last series - literally just finished aot today wowoowowoww
last movie - aot movie? lol been off my film grind last movie in theaters was wicked 2 :’) planning on watching the new zendaya movie soon tho
last song - supernatural by newjeans… saw an edit and it got stuck in my head even tho I don’t rlly know the song that well
last meal - at work they had an event w like fruits and bread and soup it was kinda buss
working on - “margins of error” nerdjo fic friends to lovers :’)))
sweet or salty - I love both but I have a huge sweet tooth esp for ice cream!!
coffee or tea - pinned post I love chai smsmsmsmsms i grew up drinking it cuz im Kenyan also its just so good idk i like coffee but it makes my tummy hurt (shin reference)
no pressure tags!! @fushihearts , @kissthesword, @mariisagb, @heavenquilll, @valberryboos, @peachygelic, @illumoria, @blinkbunni, @spookyeomgoose, @prettydivinegirl, @mayegasm, @megumigooner , @megumisrighttoe, @soberinla , @eilishsgf , @sapph22 , @peachchae , @yuiisinherworld , @rambld , @kmrbii , @cupidstrace , @uzugeto + anyone who wants to join also sorry if you were already tagged
last series - currently on ‘the disastrous life of saiki k’
last movie - uhhh I think I’m halfway through kny infinity castle
last song - pink toes by childish gambino and jhené aiko
last meal - idk if this counts but ice cream if not then roti and potatoes 😭😭
working on - probably my requests and 2k event prologue
salty or sweet - I’m a fatty who likes both but my sweet tooth is never ending
coffee or tea - it really depends because I like dipping biscuits into tea but I don’t drink it really and I only like chai not British tea but with coffee I only like frappes (the sweeter the better) so it’s a 50/50 split
i LOVE it when authors write choso as a pathetic loser. (cough cough pillsatoru, fricks, tonycries, kill3ill, etc etc.) like yeah hes objectively attractive and yeah hes buff as shit and yeah he could (and totally does!!!) pull yuki.. but in my eyes?
patheeeeetic!!!! hes just a little guy your honor!!! a pathetic mannnnnn!
ouuugh i need himm.....
like when i say im pansexual its for women, femboys and FICTIONAL men. choso IS that fictional man btw.
medical professional!shoko x intern!reader ☆ MDNI 18+
wc : 10.3k ♡ art credits : @/Jei_games
summary ♡ Working under Shoko Ieiri means learning fast, staying quiet, and never getting too close. You manage the first two just fine. The last one however...not so much. Somewhere between the autopsies and the sleepless nights, something shifts. Something more softer, heavier, and a little dangerous. And once you cross that line, there’s no going back to just being her favourite intern.
tags ♡ canon jjk universe, medical au, female reader, intern reader, workplace relationship, workplace tension, tension in general, mutual pining, blurred boundaries, cigarette kissing, emotional & physical intimacy, soft intimacy, slight angst, power imbalance (?), forbidden relationship, i fear this is a bit unethical, but i love them anyways ^.^
disclaimers ♡ explicit smut, two smut scenes, fingering, oral (giving & recieving), praise, marking, edging, multiple orgasms, aftercare, needy reader, (light) possessiveness, office sex, couch sex, soft dom shoko, alcohol consumption, smoking, contains medical procedure (autopsies, cutting into curses, very light, clinical gore that i dont think it even counts as gore)
You learn very quickly that becoming Shoko Ieiri's intern isn't really a gentle transition.
Your first week at Jujutsu Tech’s medical wing is spent learning how to keep your hands steady while you watch curses being cut open on steel tables, handing Ieiri her tools with her assessing eyes watching over you, waiting to catch any slip ups. How to breathe through the smell of blood and antiseptic. How to not flinch when Ieiri lights a cigarette right after pronouncing something dead. She doesn't coddle you. Doesn't offer any sweet words after stitching the wounds of a younger sorcerer returning from a mission. Doesn't warn you about what to expect. She hands you gloves and expects you to match her pace. Expects you to hand the correct scalpel with a flick of a hand, or to adjust the light with the nod of her head.
And you do.
You learn fast because the understaffed medical wing doesn't give you the option not to.
By the eighth day, Ieiri finally speaks to you without multitasking in the process.
“Alright,” she says, voice flat, nicotine clinging to her breath as she nudges a steel tray towards you with her free hand. “Today you're not just watching and assisting.”
The room is colder than the office you were given, lights humming overhead. On the table lies in a mid-grade curse, already and inert—contained properly and neutralised on the sterile field. Even like this, it radiates a pressure that makes your skin prickle. Not fear. Just… wrongness.
You take a deep breath and step closer.
Ieiri doesn’t look at you when she continues. “Autopsy. Standard procedure. We’re figuring out structure, residual cursed energy pathways, and why it didn’t dissipate the way it should’ve.”
She finally flicks her eyes to you then, all dark, sharp, and unreadable. “Hands steady. If you hesitate, you’ll slip. If you slip, you’ll ruin the sample.”
No pressure at all. Not at all.
You nod, gloving up without being told. She notices. You can tell because the corner of her mouth twitches, just barely.
“Scalpel,” she says.
You pick up the correct one from the tray and pass it to her handle first, though she doesn't move to grab it. Another twitch, almost like an approval.
She gestures you closer to the table. “You're making the first incision.”
“Oh, right.”
The curse doesn’t look human. Not really, though they don't typically do. Its shape is distorted, like something halfway remembered from a bad dream. You focus on the surface, where Ieiri taps twice with a gloved finger.
“Here,” she says. “Most curses form a core, think of it like a knot. That’s what we’re after. You cut too shallow, you miss it. Too deep, you destabilise what’s left of the energy.” She pauses, then adds, quieter, “You don’t need to rush.”
It’s the closest thing to reassurance you’ve gotten since you've met her.
You make the incision. Clean. Controlled.
She leans in, assessing the cut. “Good. Keep going.”
As you work, she talks. Not exactly a lecture, not exactly encouragement either. Just facts, delivered in that even, almost bored tone.
“Cursed energy doesn’t circulate like blood,” she explains. “It pools. Stagnates. That’s why these things rot from the inside out. Sorcerers aren’t much different, if I'm being honest.”
You glance at her before you can stop yourself.
She catches it. Raises an eyebrow. “Focus.”
You do, your face heating up from embarrassment.
When you reach resistance, something denser beneath the surface, you pause instinctively.
“That’s it,” Ieiri says. “The core. Use the forceps. Gently.”
You follow her instructions, every movement deliberate. The pressure in the room shifts as the core is exposed, a faint hum vibrating against the latex wrapped around your fingertips.
Your hands don't tremble.
She watches closely now, leaning close to watch. For a moment, the room feels suspended. Just the two of you, the table, the quiet weight of the work.
“Not bad,” she says at last. It’s casual, almost dismissive, but it lands heavier than any praise. “Most people mess that up the first time.”
You secure the sample, seal it properly, step back.
Only then do you realise how tight your shoulders are.
She reaches for a cigarette from the pocket of her lab coat, then stops. Looks at you again.
“You’re adapting,” she says. “That’s rare.”
Then, already turning away, back to her charts and notes: “Don’t let it go to your head. Tomorrow’s worse.”
And somehow, despite the exhaustion, the cold, the lingering scent of antiseptic on your skin you just can't seem to hide with lotions and perfumes, you think you might actually be looking forward to it.
No one warns you that half of working in the medical wing in Jujutsu Tech is paper.
Not the dramatic kind of work. No blood, no cursed residue clinging to your gloves, no adrenaline. Just forms. Logs written in language so dry it feels deliberately hostile. Mission aftermath summaries. Exposure timelines. Medical justification written for people who have never set a foot near a curse but insists on having everything documented anyways for their own personal use.
Most people rush it, but you don't.
It starts because you notice a pattern. Nothing obvious. Just a recurring discrepancy between mission timestamps and onset of symptoms. Minor delays in reporting. Sloppy handwriting. Different terminology used to describe the same thing, depending on who filled it out.
It bothers you.
So, after hours, when the medical wing quiets down and Ieiri is off somewhere between a smoke break and insomnia, you start fixing things.
Not rewriting. More refining.
You standardise terminology. Cross-reference names. Add small margin notes only a medic would notice. You reorganise files so related cases sit together instead of being scattered by date. You flag repeat injuries. Recurring curse signatures. Sorcerers who always come back worse than they admit.
You don’t tell anyone.
A week later, Ieiri notices.
It’s late afternoon. She’s leaning back in her chair, cigarette unlit between her fingers, flipping through a file with the familiar look of mild irritation she wears like a second coat.
She pauses.
Flips back a page.
Then another.
The sound stops.
You’re at the side table, quietly labeling samples, when she speaks.
“Did you redo the archive system?”
Your stomach drops. Not because you think you’re in trouble—well, maybe you thought that a little, but because you hadn’t expected her to notice so soon.
“Uh yeah,” you start carefully. “I can put it back if you'd like-”
“No, no,” she cuts you off, studying the files.
She flips to the back of the folder, scanning the annotations. Your handwriting. Your shorthand.
There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear the hum of the lights. The distant sounds of the school beyond the ward.
“Huh,” she says finally, cocking her head to the side as if she's impressed, though, you don't think she'd ever tell you if she was.
She closes the file and sets it aside like it matters now—like it’s part of her workflow, not an inconvenience.
That’s it.
No lecture. No warning about boundaries. No acknowledgment beyond those three words.
But the next time you come in early, you find a new stack of files already set on your desk.
A month or so has passed since you started interning, and it seems that tonight is the night she leaves you on your own.
It's not dramatic. No emergencies, no rushed instructions, no tension crackling in the air.
She just shrugs into her coat, cigarette tucked unlit between her lips, and says, “I’ll be gone for a few hours.”
“Oh! Um,” you look up at her from your desk. “Do you want me to-”
“Lock up if it’s quiet,” she continues. “Call me if it’s not.”
She’s halfway to the door when she adds, “No heroics. Call me if you need help, okay?”
You nod quickly.
Then she’s gone.
The weight of it doesn’t hit immediately.
You go about your tasks. Checking vitals on the one overnight patient, restocking supplies, updating logs. The medical wing feels different without her presence. Not empty. Just a bit still.
You sit at her desk to update the night report and realise, suddenly, that you’re sitting at her desk.
Sitting at her desk.
An hour passes. Then two.
A minor incident, one of the wards flickers. You stabilise it calmly, document the fluctuation, double-check containment. Everything holds ground.
You make coffee. Let it go cold and forgotten. Finish the paperwork anyway.
When she returns, it’s close to dawn. She looks tired in the way she always does, though more smoother in a way.
She pauses just inside the door, eyes scanning the room.
Orderly. Quiet. Logged.
She doesn’t comment at first. Just sets her coat on her coat hanger, washes her hands at her sink and shrugs on her lab coat and ready herself to work on samples.
You’re bracing for something you can’t name when she finally speaks.
“Gojo made me go home last night to sleep.”
“Oh?” You comment, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ears. “Did you rest well?”
“Mhmm…” She says distractedly, looking around before finally resting her gaze on you.
“Do you want me to help with the samples?” You ask helpfully, stifling a yawn.
“No, it's fine.” She walks towards you. “I think you should go home though.”
“I don't mind staying for longer.”
“You look like you're about to pass out, on my desk by the way.”
You shoot up, tumbling a bit as you leave her fancy swivel chair. “Sorry! I'm sorry! It was just easier to work from here than carry the files back and forth.”
She doesn't give you an answer, just settles into her chair and boots up her computer.
“Go home,” she says softly, “you did good work.”
The praise was so miniscule. Maybe it barely classed as a praise but, nevertheless, it gave you that pep in your step as you navigate the station and find your way back to your apartments, feeling all sparkly and proud.
It happens by accident.
There was a quiet lul in the medical ward for once. The moon was rising, the evening air was cool and still, the campus seemed to be asleep. You had stepped out for a bit of air, away from the smell of alcohol cleaner and medicine and fluorescent lights that gave you migraines.
Shoko's already there. Away from her natural environment of her office and leaning against the brick wall of the building. A cigarette lit and hanging precariously between her lips, smoke curling lazily into the dark, the only light emanating from the ember.
“Hey,” she greets, pulling and offering a cigarette from the folds of her clothes and you accept it politely.
She pulls out a lighter for you, and with a few attempts of flicking it on, no flame sparks out.
“Ah,” she says, taking the lighter back. “I think I've run out of lighter fluid.”
She glances at the cigarette still resting between your lips, then exhales through her nose like the situation mildly amuses her. The ember at the end of her own cigarette glows as she takes a drag, eyes half-lidded.
“…Hold still.”
It’s said the same way she says don’t move on the operating table. Flat. Unassuming. Like she’s already decided what happens next.
You don’t even realise you’ve frozen until she steps closer.
Close enough that the night air disappears between you. Close enough that the smell of smoke, antiseptic, and something distinctly Shoko Ieiri settles into your lungs. She doesn’t look at your face, her attention fixed instead on the cigarette between your lips, the angle of it, the distance.
She reaches up, her fingertips coming to rest against your jaw as she gently tilts you to face her properly.
“Relax,” she murmurs, “you're tense.”
You almost laugh. Almost.
You loosen your grip a fraction too late. Your pulse is loud in your ears, an embarrassing, traitorous thing. You’re suddenly acutely aware of how close she is. Of the warmth radiating off her, of the quiet confidence with which she occupies space.
She takes a slow drag from her own cigarette. The ember flares.
Then she leans in.
The distance collapses to nothing.
For a heartbeat, your brain stalls on the absurd intimacy of it. Her breath brushing your cheek, the faint sound of her inhale, the way her lips part just enough to guide the cigarette forward. She smells like smoke and antiseptic and night air, a combination you’ll regret noticing so deeply later.
The tips touch.
Paper meets paper. Ember kisses ember.
Heat blooms, sharp and sudden, and your cigarette catches with a soft hiss. You inhale on reflex—too fast, too deep—and the smoke burns pleasantly down your throat. Shoko exhales at the same time, a controlled stream that ghosts across your lips before dissipating into the dark.
She lingers a second longer than strictly necessary.
Not flirting. Not teasing.
Just… there.
Then she pulls back, straightening like she’s just completed a mundane task. She turns away to flick ash toward the ground, casual as ever.
“There,” she says. “That work?”
You nod, because your voice is currently useless.
She takes another drag, turning away like she didn’t just step into your space and set your nerves on fire.
You stare at her, the stupid cigarette hanging uselessly from your mouth because you're not even sucking anything in.
“…You do that often?” you ask, voice coming out rougher than you meant.
She snorts softly. “What, improvise?”
She flicks ash toward the ground, finally glancing at you from the corner of her eye. Her gaze lingers, just a beat longer than necessary.
“You’re blushing,” she observes.
You choke. “I- no, I’m not.”
“Hm.” She hums like she doesn’t believe you, but doesn’t push. “Must be the smoke.”
“It’s cold out here,” you say meekly.
She exhales smoke slowly, watching it dissipate into the night. “Is it?”
You take another drag, slower this time, mostly to give you something to do. The smoke curls upward, silver against the dark sky.
“Do you… do you actually do that often?” you ask again, aiming for casualness and landing somewhere near vulnerable.
Shoko hums thoughtfully. “Only when I don’t feel like going back inside to find another lighter.”
You huff a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. “Of course.”
She leans back against the wall again, shoulder brushing yours this time. The contact is brief, accidental, or at least plausibly so, but it sends another unwelcome rush of heat through you.
“You didn’t have to take it, you know,” she says after a moment. “The cigarette.”
You glance at her. She’s watching the sky now, not you.
“I know,” you reply. “You offered.”
“Hm.” She takes another drag, eyes narrowing slightly as she exhales. “That’s not always a good reason.”
There’s no judgment in her tone. Just observation. The same one she uses when she points out a mistake mid-procedure, not to scold, just to correct.
“I don’t mind,” you say, then hesitate. “I just- didn’t realise I’d be…”
That gets her attention. She looks at you again, really looks, gaze lingering on your face. There’s a pause. Brief, but heavy in that flustering way.
“Careful,” she says lightly. “You’ll start reading into things.”
Your ears feel warm. “Am I?”
She studies you for another beat, then reaches out and plucks the cigarette from your lips with two fingers. The loss of it is strangely noticeable.
“You’re flustered,” she says, like she’s diagnosing a symptom.
“I’m not,” you protest way too fast.
“Sure.” She takes a drag from your cigarette this time, unfazed. “Then stop staring.”
You look away immediately, mortified and slightly humiliated for being so blatantly obvious.
A soft sound escapes her, something between a huff and a laugh. She hands the cigarette back, fingers brushing yours again, slower this time. Intentional enough that you notice.
“Look,” she says, quieter now. “I wasn’t trying to make it weird.”
“I know,” you say. And you do. That’s the problem.
She nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
The moment stretches, the night settling back around you. The campus remains asleep. The medical ward behind you stays quiet.
After a while, she pushes off the wall again, taking the last drag before flicking it onto the floor and stubbing it out.
“Break’s over,” she says. “You coming?”
You glance at the cigarette, then at her. “Yeah.”
As you follow her back inside, she adds, almost absently, “Next time, I’ll remember to refill the lighter.”
Your heart does something unhelpful at the word next.
She doesn’t look back, but you have the distinct impression she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.
“Did you bring in the new shipment of codeine?”
Ieiri walks into your little office without knocking, pushing hair back from her face as she stops to lean against the side of your desk.
Her voice cuts through your thoughts.
You nod, shutting down your computer. “Yeah. Organised and logged. I emailed you the updated inventory too.”
You turn in your chair to face her fully. “We need more antimicrobial dressings, though. The second years burned through most of them.”
She doesn’t move right away or give any sign that she heard what you said. Just stays there, leaning against your desk, eyes drifting over the room the same way they always do. Taking inventory, cataloguing. The space hasn’t changed much since she last commented on it a week or so ago. Still neat. Still functional. Still painfully you, despite being painfully soulless and clinical.
It's just an office, you would reaffirm to yourself after every time Ieiri points out the lack of personalisation even though you've been here for three months now.
“You’ve been staying late,” she says eventually.
It’s not an accusation. Just a statement.
You shrug, a little self-conscious. “There’s always something to do.”
“Mhm.” Her gaze slides back to you and lingers. “That wasn’t an answer.”
You hesitate, then sigh. “I don’t mind it.”
She watches you for a beat longer than necessary, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not suspicious, but assessing. The same look she gives a wound that’s healing slower than it should.
“You know,” she says, straightening at last, “burnout sneaks up on people like you.”
“People like me?”
“Competent ones,” she replies dryly. “The ones who don’t complain.”
You open your mouth to respond, but she’s already reaching for your coat, pulling it from the back of the door like it’s second nature.
“Come on,” she says, holding it out to you. “We’re done for the night.”
You blink. “Done?”
“I’m taking you out for a drink.”
You stare at her. “You?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“No… just… since when do you do that? Initiate social excursions?”
She shrugs, slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Since my favourite intern’s been staring at an Edexcel spreadsheets for an entire shift.”
“I'm your only intern.”
“And you’re still my favourite.” A pause. “Put the coat on.”
The way she says it, calm, expectant, like she’s already decided, has you complying before your brain catches up.
The bar she takes you to is tucked away and dim, all low lighting and conversations. It feels intentional. Out of the way. The sort of place you wouldn’t end up in unless someone meant to be there.
She orders without asking, sliding you a drink that’s sweet enough to be misleading.
You’re not drunk. Just pleasantly warm. Just loose around the edges.
Ieiri, on the other hand, seems almost untouched by the alcohol. She chats with the bartender, laughs quietly, shoulders relaxed in a way you don’t often see. You find yourself watching her hands, steady as ever, precise even now.
“Hello? Earth to you?” She waves a hand in front of you, her face coming close to yours. You look at her eyes, focusing on the lavender crescents stamped beneath them because holding eye contact is quite hard when she has eyes like that. The purplish tones beneath them really suit her in a way. You had tried to imagine her without them a few days after meeting her and she didn't quite look right. It makes her look a bit sexy. Is that a kink? A fetish? What even is the difference between a kink and a fetish?
“Hey! Stop spacing out on me.” A flick of her finger lands on your forehead.
“Ow!’ You bring your hand to massage the sore spot of pain. “Why'd you do that?”
"I asked you a question and you weren't answering." Her tone dips a bit, slumping her shoulders. "Do you not like it here?"
"No, I do!" You say quickly and she only gives you a look that makes a hot flush rush up to your face.
The way she's looking at you now only makes you feel more hot and bothered. Her gaze traces each point of your face, flicking from your eyes to your lips to the tip of your nose. She's studying you like how she does when she's performing an autopsy. Wait, that's a bit morbid.
“Do you want to come back to my place? I've got ice cream that I haven't opened yet.”
Realistically, you should say no. That you're a bit tired, say goodbye and then find your way back to your apartment from wherever you are. Because you know it's dangerous waters being in a private space. Her space. Especially since you've started ending your days in the quiet stillness in your room, fingers dipped in the sensitive spot between your legs, whispering her name as you remember that evening with her cigarette kissing you.
But she looks too good right now. And against your better judgement and feeling slightly tipsy from the alcohol, you really do want to go back to her place.
“Okay Ieiri,” you take her offer, “I hope you got mint chocolate chips.”
She drops a hand low on your back, quickly paying for all of the drinks before leading you towards the exit. “Ew, no. I have vanilla.”
“Vanilla's boring.”
“Not my vanilla. Mines taste great.”
Ieiri's place is quiet and dim, lit by only warm lamps. It smells faintly of antiseptic—something neither of you can seem to scrub away, but also smokey and hints of lavender.
“I normally take Gojo out with me whenever he finds free time in his schedule, but he never drinks with me." Ieiri says, exiting the kitchen. She brings a tub of ice cream to where you're sitting on her couch, plopping herself down next to you and handing over the spoon.
"Oh? Why?"
"He says he doesn't like the taste of alcohol but I think he's just a lightweight and can't keep up with me."
You laugh, scooping some ice cream. "I don't think anyone could keep up with you! You drank so much and you're barely even tipsy."
"I barely drank." Ieiri rolls her eyes.
"You were double fisting shots and I lost count on how many beers you drank.”
Ieiri hums, not denying it. She tucks a leg beneath herself, turning to face me as she steals the spoon right out from my hand to help herself.
"I have a very high tolerance." She says finally, like that explains drinking copious amounts of booze, enough to cause alcohol poisoning.
"To alcohol or for life in general."
"Both."
Her lamps cast everything and herself in a warm glow. All warm and soft. Her hair is a mess around her shoulder, curling into her colour bones and she's teasing like it's second nature.
"Vanilla's not bad, right?" She scoops some ice cream into your shared spoon before pressing it against your lips.
You take the bite, heart violently beating against your rib cage.
This was in her mouth. Oh my God, we basically just indirectly kissed.
"It's okay," You say finally, "still boring."
"Mhmm," the corner of her lips curls upwards, "sure."
She sets the ice cream aside and turns fully towards you.
“You’ve got some,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth.
You wipe at it instinctively.
She shakes her head. “No. Let me.”
She moves slowly, deliberately, giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
Her thumb brushes your lower lip, gentle and exact. Her touch lingers, grounding and intimate in a way that makes your breath hitch.
“There,” she says softly. “Better.”
Her hand stays in your hair.
“You're staring again.”
“You're close.”
“Am I?” She whispers, tilting her head and oh God.
You shouldn't have come here.
She shifts closer. So close that her knee brushes your thigh through your tights, so close you can feel her breath against your lip. The same glint is in her eyes, something mischievous but soft that makes your chest ache and your mouth parting. And suddenly if you taste the phantom smoke filling your senses from that evening you smoked with her.
"Tell me if you want to stop."
She kisses you. Unhurried, confident, controlled. Like she knows precisely what she’s doing. Like she knows you’ll follow.
She pulls back just enough to watch you breathe.
“Your pulse is racing,” she murmurs, fingers closing around your wrist.
“Ieiri-”
“Shoko,” she corrects quietly. “Use my name. We're far too deep to keep treating each other like coworkers.”
“Shoko…”
She hums, pleased.
“Is this alright?” she asks. “Do you want more?”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Shoko's apartment settles into silence around you, the distant hum of the city below muffled by the closed windows. Her fingers trace patterns against your hip, and you're hyper-aware of every point of contact between your bodies—her thighs pressed against yours, the warms of her fingertips through the thin material of your skirt.
The apartment settles into quiet around you, the distant hum of the city muffled by closed windows. Shoko's fingers are still tracing idle patterns on your hip, and you're hyper-aware of every point of contact between your bodies—her thigh pressed against yours, the warmth of her palm through the thin fabric of your skirt.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmurs, and before you can formulate a response, she's shifting, moving with that characteristically kinda careless motion she typically has. Her hand slides up from your hip to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as she guides you closer.
The kiss starts again soft, almost lazy, but there's an undercurrent of intent that makes your breath catch. When she pulls back, it's only far enough to trail her lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You feel the scrape of teeth, then the sharp pressure of her bite, and a sound escapes you, something embarrassingly needy that you can't quite suppress.
“Shoko-”
“Mm” It's not quite an acknowledgment but not questioning either. She's focused, methodical in the way she works her way down your neck, alternating between kisses and gentle bites, sucking marks into your skin with clinical precision. Each one sends heat pooling low in your stomach, making your fingers clutch at her shirt.
You're already breathing too hard, already too affected, and she's barely started.
Her fingers find the top button of your white shirt, and she pauses there, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. There's something in her expression. Amusement, maybe, or satisfaction at the state she's already reduced you to. "Is this okay?”
You nod, not trusting your voice, and her expression looks mildly irritated.
“I need words, darling.” She says. “Tell me you understand. Let me hear that pretty voice of yours.”
“Yes, it's okay! It's so okay.”
She hums that low sound of approval that shouldn't affect you as much as it does. She takes her time with each button, fingers working with the same steady precision she brings to everything. It's torturous, the way she reveals skin inch by inch, never rushing, never fumbling. By the third button, you're squirming, and by the fifth, you're biting your lip to keep from begging her to just hurry up.
"Patience," she says, and there's definitely amusement in her voice now. “You're so needy.”
When she finally pushes the shirt off your shoulders, letting it hang at your elbow and fold around your bare waist, her hands map the newly exposed skin with an attention that feels almost clinical. She traces the line of your collarbone, thumbs brushing over the hollow of your throat where your pulse is hammering.
"Your pulse's racing," she observes, and then she's leaning in again, mouth hot against your collarbone. She bites down, hard enough to make you gasp, then soothes the sting with her tongue. Another mark. And another. She's decorating your chest like she's got all the time in the world, like she's not reducing you to a trembling mess with every touch. Who knew Shoko had such a thing for marking.
Her fingers find your pulse point, pressing there with professional interest even as her mouth continues its work. "Elevated," she murmurs against your skin. "Rapid. Interesting."
"Shoko, please-"
"Please what?" She pulls back to look at you, and the clinical detachment in her expression is at odds with the heat and arousal in her eyes. "Use your mouth.”
But you can't, not really, because her hands are sliding down your sides, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt, and all logical thought is rapidly abandoning you.
She shifts you with ease, maneuvering you until you're lying back against the couch cushions, skirt riding up your thighs. Her hands smooth over the fabric of your tights, and she takes a moment to just look at you. Sprawled out on her couch, shirt discarded, chest already blooming pinky’ red with marks, breathing hard.
"You're so pretty," she says, so quiet you almost miss it. Then her fingers are finding the waistband of your tights, peeling them down with agonizing slowness. The skirt follows, and then you're left in just your underwear, feeling exposed and desperate under her assessing gaze.
She settles between your legs, hands running up the softness of your thighs, and the first press of her mouth against your inner thigh makes you jolt. She holds you steady, one hand splayed across your hip, as she works her way up, leaving a trail of marks that will definitely be visible tomorrow. The thought should probably concern you more than it does.
When she bites down particularly hard, you can't suppress the whimper that escapes, and you feel her smile against your skin.
"Sensitive here," she notes, like she's cataloging information for later use. Her fingers hook into your underwear, and she pauses, glancing up at you. "Still good?"
"Yes, God, yes-”
She pulls the fabric aside, and the first touch of her fingers makes your hips buck involuntarily. She's still taking her time, still maddeningly controlled as she explores, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you squirm, watching you clench on nothing. And when she finally slides a finger inside, the relief is short-lived because she's not giving you what you need. Just slow, shallow movements that leave you aching for more.
"Shoko, please, I need-"
"I know what you need." Her voice is steady, unaffected, even as she adds another finger. "You'll get it when I decide you're ready.”
It's torture, the way she works you up slowly, never quite giving you enough. Her fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars, but then she's pulling back, keeping you right on the edge. When her mouth finally joins her fingers, tongue tracing patterns that make your thighs shake, you're already so close you could cry.
But she doesn't let you tip over. Every time you get close, she pulls back, changes the rhythm, leaves you moaning and desperate. Her free hand is still mapping your body, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach, like she's memorising every detail.
"Look at you," she murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. "So responsive. Your body's fascinating. The way your muscles tense, the way your breathing changes." Her fingers curl again, and you arch into the touch. "The way you clench around my fingers when you're close.”
The clinical observation shouldn't be hot, but it is, and you're so far gone that you can barely process her words. You're just all sensation now, just need, just a mess and the desperate ache for release that she keeps denying you.
Your hands find her soft hair, tangling in the strands as you try to guide her face back down on you. "Shoko, please, I can't-"
"You can." Her mouth returns to your inner thigh, biting down hard enough to make you cry out. "You will.”
She edges you twice more, bringing you right to the brink before pulling back, toying your clit, and by the time she finally, finally lets you come, you're a shaking, incoherent mess. The orgasm hits you like a wave, intense enough that you lose track of everything except the feeling of her fingers inside you, her mouth on you, the overwhelming pleasure that seems to go on forever.
"Good," she says, so quiet you barely hear it over the rushing in your ears, and that single word of approval makes you clench around her fingers again. "There you go.”
She works you through it, doesn't stop until you're oversensitive, tapping and pushing weakly at her shoulder. When she finally pulls back, sitting up to look at you, your cum glossing over her smeared lipstick. And there's satisfaction in her expression, and something softer, too, something that makes your chest tight.
You can't look at her. Can't meet her eyes while she's covered in you. You turn your face into the couch cushion, suddenly overwhelmed by what just happened, by how thoroughly she took you apart. And you're supposed to be her intern.
"Hey." Her hand finds your chin, gentle but insistent, turning your face back toward her. "I made you come with my face between your legs, but now you're shy?”
The amusement in her voice makes you flush harder, and you try to look away again, but she doesn't let you. Her thumb brushes over your lower lip, the lipgloss that was once there now kissed away, and she's looking at you with that same assessing expression, like she's cataloging your reactions.
"You-" Your voice comes out rough, and you have to clear your throat. "You left marks everywhere."
"I did." No apology, just acknowledgement.
"Shoko, my thighs-" You gesture vaguely downward, where you can already feel the tender spots blooming. "How am I supposed to explain-”
You don't have any skirts long enough to cover the mark furthest down, and you're not even sure if you have dark enough tights to hide the bruising colours.
"Don't." She leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead that's surprisingly tender given what just happened. "Or do. I'm not particularly concerned with what other people think.”
She shifts, maneuvering you both until you're sitting up, and then she's pulling you against her side, one arm around your shoulders. The sudden gentleness is almost jarring after the intensity of before, but you find yourself melting into it, tucking your face against her neck.
"Water?" she asks, and you nod against her shoulder.
She extracts herself carefully, and you immediately miss her warmth. But she's back quickly, pressing a glass into your hands and watching as you drink. Her fingers find the marks on your neck, tracing them with something like satisfaction.
"You're going to be sore tomorrow," she observes.
"Whose fault is that?"
"Mine." She sounds entirely too pleased about it. "Come here."
She pulls you back against her, arranging you both more comfortably on the couch. Her hands are gentle now, rubbing soothing circles on your back, fingers carding through your hair. It's such a contrast to before that it makes something in your chest ache.
"You okay?" she asks after a while, and there's genuine concern in her voice now.
"Yeah." You press closer, seeking her warmth. "More than okay."
"Good." She presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Sleep if you want. I've got you.”
And you do, lulled by the steady rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her body against yours, the gentle stroke of her fingers through your hair.
It doesn't last long, however. The blissful sleep doesn't last.
You wake again maybe an hour later, and this time the contentment has curdled into something else. Something uncomfortable that sits heavy in your chest.
Shoko is still asleep, her breathing deep and even, one arm draped across your waist. The weight of it feels different now. Heavier. You're suddenly, acutely aware of where you are. Whose couch you're on. Whose marks are blooming across your skin.
Your boss. Your mentor. The person who signs off on your work, who evaluates your performance, who pops in your little office and drops files and paperwork to do.
What the fuck did you just do?
You shift slightly, and Shoko stirs, eyes opening to find you already looking at her.
"Can't sleep?" she asks, voice rough.
"I- Um," You swallow, trying to deflect. "Do you want me to...?”
You gesture vaguely downward, toward her, and immediately feel your face heat. God, you can't even say it properly.
And of course you deflect with more sex. Like that isn't the reason you're feeling so unsettled.
Shoko's expression shifts, something unreadable passing across her features. She props herself up on one elbow, studying you with that same clinical attention that now feels uncomfortably intimate.
"No," she says simply.
"But you- I mean, you didn't-" You're fumbling, awkward, feeling the power imbalance like a physical weight. "I'm, like, completely naked and you're still dressed. It's not fair if I'm the only one who-"
"Stop." Not harsh, but firm enough to cut through your rambling. Her hand finds your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "I didn't do that expecting anything back."
"I know, but-"
"You don't owe me anything." Her eyes are serious now, searching yours. "You get that, right?”
You nod, but it doesn't quite settle the unease churning in your stomach.
She seems to sense it, because she sighs softly, pulling off the navy shirt she's wearing to appease you, and pulls you back against her. "Sleep. We'll figure it out tomorrow.”
But you can't. You're not sure if the more skin she's given you is the reason you're still anxious and dizzy. Even as she holds you, even as her breathing evens out again, you lie there staring at the dark ceiling. Thinking about tomorrow. About walking into the medical wing and having to look her in the eye. About whether anyone will notice the marks pressed all over you, will know the blushy look on your face, will see the way everything's shifted between you.
About how you're supposed to be her intern, and instead you're here, marked up and tangled in her arms on her couch.
The sky is just beginning to lighten when you finally move.
Shoko's arm is heavy across your waist, her face peaceful in sleep in a way you've never seen during waking hours. You extract yourself carefully, inch by inch, holding your breath every time she shifts.
Your clothes are scattered across her living room like evidence. Your shirt draped over the arm of the couch. Your skirt on the floor. Your tights rumpled near the coffee table with the melted ice cream. You dress quietly, fingers clumsy with the buttons, hyper-aware of every small sound.
When you're done, you allow yourself one last look.
She's still asleep, one arm stretched out across the space where you'd been, dark hair falling across her face. She looks softer like this. Younger. Less like the composed, untouchable doctor and more like just... Shoko.
You consider for a moment. To lean over and press a kiss on her lips. To give her at least one touch you've initiated.
Your chest aches.
You slip out before you can change your mind, closing the door with a soft click that sounds too loud in the pre-dawn quiet.
Two days later, Shoko Ieiri hasn't slept properly since.
That, more than anything, irritated her.
She's used to insomnia. It's familiar, manageable even after struggling with it for years. Something that sits quietly at the edge of the night without demanding too much attention as she putters about in her apartment when she's home from work. But that morning, before you slipped out of her place like a ghost, leaving nothing but the faint impression of warmth against her skin and the taste of you in her mouth, she slept well. Like the kind of sleep that drags you under and keeps you there. Heavy. Undisturbed. The sort that leaves creases on your cheeks and leaves you blinking disoriented at the ceiling when you wake.
But then she realised her favourite intern wasn't sleeping against her shoulder.
No note.
No message.
Nothing to show you've ever been there except the smell of your perfume on her skin and the melted ice cream on the coffee table.
Now she's sitting in her office, pen paused over a report she's already read twice, and she still hasn't managed to absorb a single word of it.
She exhales through her nose and taps the pen once against the paper. The sound is sharp in the stillness.
Ridiculous, she thinks. Absolutely ridiculous.
This isn’t new territory for her. She’s navigated worse complications than this. Entanglements, blurred lines, bad decisions made at the wrong time. She knows how to compartmentalise. How to close doors neatly and move on.
And yet.
Her eyes flick, unreluctantly, to the doorway.
You’ve been… normal.
That’s the problem.
You came in the next morning like nothing had happened. Polite. Efficient. Hair neat. Voice steady. Maybe a little tired in your eyes. But, you also wore darker tights, probably to hide the bites on your legs. It would've made her smirk and tease if you weren't so insistent on pretending nothing has ever happened.
Logged inventory, assisted with procedures, corrected a misfiled report without being asked. No hesitation. No awkwardness.
No sign, at all, that you’d left Shoko’s place before dawn with marks blooming beneath your clothes.
Though, she does catch you drifting off to space when working alone.
She takes a cigarette from her coat pocket and rolls it between her fingers without lighting it.
She doesn’t like loose ends.
She likes clarity. Boundaries. Decisions made consciously and followed through. What she does not like is waking up after the best sleep she’s had in months to an empty apartment and no explanation.
It would be easier if you hid from her. If you stumbled over your words. If your hands shook when you passed her tools, or your eyes lingered too long. Something she could address. Correct.
Instead, you’ve been impeccable. You always were a fast and capable learner, despite only being in this lime work for a few months.
Professional to a fault.
As if the night never happened.
That’s what needles at her.
Shoko leans back in her chair and closes her eyes briefly. The memory surfaces anyway, uninvited. How you looked sprawled and spread out beneath her, clothes undone and lipstick and marks trailed across smooth skin. The soft gasps and moans with each touch of her lips. The way your finger twisted and tugged at her hair as you desperately wished for release. And then the weight of your head against her shoulder, the way you’d gone slack with trust once you were finally held. The quiet little sounds you made when you first fell asleep.
She opens her eyes again, jaw tightening.
She hadn’t expected you to leave.
Not like that. Not without a word.
She’s not offended. That would be an exaggeration. But there’s a persistent irritation lodged somewhere beneath her ribs that refuses to dissolve.
She wonders, distantly, if this is what regret feels like for other people.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” she says automatically.
You step inside, paperwork clutched in your hands, expression composed.
“Updated supply requisitions,” you say, setting them neatly on her desk. “I flagged the dressings and added alternatives in case procurement pushes back.”
Of course you did.
She glances at the paperwork, then up at you. Takes you in clinically, the way she always does. You look fine. Unbothered. Alert. No visible signs of exhaustion, though you probably do get a bit more sleep than her.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think nothing had changed.
“Good,” she says after a beat. Neutral. Controlled. “I’ll look them over.”
You nod. “I’ll be in storage if you need me.”
You turn to leave.
Something tightens, sharp and sudden.
“Um,” Shoko slips out before she can stop herself.
You pause, hand resting against the doorframe, turning back. “Yes?”
Your eyes meet.
There’s a flicker there, something cautious, something searching, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appears.
Shoko exhales slowly, recalibrating.
“Nothing,” she says at last. “Carry on.”
You hesitate for a fraction of a second, then nod and leave, the door clicking shut behind you.
Shoko stares at the space you occupied for longer than she should.
Then she lights her cigarette.
The smoke curls upward, familiar and grounding, but it doesn’t quite settle the irritation in her chest.
Two days later, and she still doesn’t know whether you left because you regretted it.
Or because you’d assumed she would.
And that thought, more than anything, is starting to get under her skin.
You stand opposite Shoko, gloved hands steady around a tray of instruments, the fluorescent overhead lights humming softly above you. The body, if it can be called that, is split open along its centreline, dark residue staining the steel beneath it. The smell is familiar now. Medical grade alcohol, pennies, something faintly rotten beneath it all.
Normally, this is the easy part.
You’re good at this. You know where to stand, how to angle the light, when to pass the forceps without being asked. You’ve learned Shoko’s rhythm so well you can anticipate her needs before she speaks.
Today though, your focus keeps slipping.
You catch yourself staring at her hands instead of the incision. Long, slender fingers, precise, unhurried. The way her sleeves are rolled just enough to keep clear of contamination. The faint shadow that always decorates beneath her eyes.
You swallow and force your attention back to the table.
Don’t.
The voice in your head is sharp, corrective.
Don’t be stupid.
Don’t be unprofessional.
Don’t forget where you are.
You focus on the curse again, on the exposed core pulsing faintly with residual energy. You note the irregularity in its structure, the way it hasn’t fully collapsed despite neutralisation. You should mention that.
You don’t.
Instead, your mind drifts. Traitorous, unhelpful.
You think about how thoroughly ruined you felt, the delicious sting every time her teeth sinked down your skin. How each tiny compliment and praise made you flush hot. And then you think about how quiet her apartment was in the early morning. About the way the door clicked shut behind you. About how you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, considering pressing a kiss on her lips, before telling yourself to leave.
You think about how easily you slipped back into routine the next day. How you didn’t look at her too long. How you didn’t ask. How you pretended it was nothing because that was safer. Cleaner.
HR violation, the voice reminds you.
Power imbalance.
Don’t ruin this.
You were far too in your head, you had missed what Shoko said.
“Scalpel,” she repeats.
You blink, too slow.
She looks up at you. Not sharply or annoyed, just attentive.
“You’re drifting,” she says, tone even. “Pay attention.”
Heat crawls up your neck. “Sorry.”
You pass her the scalpel, careful to keep your movements controlled. Your pulse is louder than it has any right to be.
Shoko takes the instrument but doesn’t immediately turn back to the body. Her gaze lingers on you for a beat too long to be accidental.
“Are you tired?” She asks, polite and casual.
“No,” you reply too quickly. “I'm fine.”
She hums, clearly unconvinced, and finally turns back to the table. “Focus on the energy pathways. This one’s unstable.”
You nod, leaning in, forcing yourself to catalogue what you see instead of what you feel inside of you. The core is fractured, uneven, like it was damaged before exorcism. You open your mouth to say as much-
-and hesitate.
Shoko notices.
She always does.
“Spit it out,” she says. “You’ve got something.”
You hesitate, then gesture toward the core. “The residual flow’s inconsistent. It looks like it was disrupted before neutralisation. Maybe by a blunt cursed technique?”
She pauses. Really pauses this time.
Then quietly, “good catch.”
The praise is low, almost absent-minded, but it settles something in your chest despite yourself.
She resumes her work, and suddenly the space between you feels smaller. She’s closer than before, leaning in across the table, and she doesn’t pull back.
And you feel again. That you missed how close she had been from that night at her place.
“Try not to disappear into your head too much,” she says, before your brain could relive her eating you out. “You’re allowed to ask for a break.”
You risk a glance at her. She’s not looking at you, eyes fixed on the incision, expression unreadable, but the words feel deliberate.
“I’m okay,” you say again, quieter this time.
Shoko doesn’t respond immediately.
Then, “alright.”
The autopsy continues. Professional. Efficient. Normal.
But the air between you feels tighter than it did before, charged with things you wish both of you would say.
You tell yourself you’re only here for the paperwork.
That’s the excuse you repeat in your head as you stand outside Shoko Ieiri’s office, clipboard pressed too tightly against your chest. The form tucked beneath it is mundane but necessary. Just a simple accident report from a student who got mildly injured from a mission. Nothing too interesting, and it can definitely wait until later.
But you knock anyway.
“Come in.”
Her voice is steady. Familiar. It still does something unhelpful to your chest.
You step inside. The office smells faintly of smoke, the blinds half-drawn against the late afternoon light. Shoko sits behind her desk, sleeves rolled, hair slightly messier than it had been this morning. She looks tired in that perpetual way of hers, but alert. Eyes sharp as they flick up to you.
“What's wrong?” she asks.
You swallow. “I just need you to sign off on this accident form.”
She nods, reaching out without comment. You hand her the clipboard, careful not to let your fingers brush hers.
The silence stretches.
You stand there, hands clasped behind your back, posture painfully correct. The tension in the room feels almost physical, subtle but insistent. You can feel her attention on you even when she’s looking at the paper.
She signs her name with a flick of her pen and slides the clipboard back towards you.
“There,” she says. “Anything else?”
You hesitate.
The voice in your head is already shouting.
Don’t.
This isn’t the place.
This isn’t appropriate.
Your mouth moves anyway.
“I just wanted to make sure… everything was in order.”
Her eyes lift to yours.
“In order how?” she asks.
You falter. “I mean- procedurally.”
She leans back in her chair, pen tapping once against the desk.
“You’ve been ‘procedural’ for days,” she says. “You don’t usually second-guess yourself like this.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Mistakes happen,” she replies evenly. “This place runs on them.”
You laugh weakly despite yourself. “That’s… not reassuring.”
“It’s realistic.”
She watches you for a moment longer then sighs, soft and controlled, like she’s decided something.
“You’re not here about a form,” Shoko says.
Your stomach drops.
“I mean, yeah, but I did-”
“Sit down,” she adds, not unkindly. Just firm.
You obey before you can overthink it, perching on the edge of the chair opposite her desk. Your hands fold neatly in your lap. You’re painfully aware of how small you feel right now.
Shoko studies you like she would a patient. Not invasive, but thorough. She notices everything. The tension in your shoulders. The way you’re avoiding her eyes. The careful distance you’ve been keeping.
“You’ve been acting like you’re waiting to be reprimanded,” she says. “It’s distracting you.”
“I’m fine,” you say automatically.
She raises an eyebrow. “You spaced out during an autopsy. That’s not fine.”
Silence.
Then, quietly: “I didn’t want to cause problems.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Problems for who?”
You hesitate. “For you. For… the medical wing. For myself.”
She exhales through her nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff, bringing her fingers to massage her forehead. “You think I’d put you in a position to get punished?”
The question catches you off guard.
“I just- there are rules,” you say. “And I’m your intern and there’s a power imbalance and if anyone-”
“If it was a problem,” Shoko interrupts calmly, “I wouldn’t have let it happen.”
Her tone isn’t defensive. It’s factual. Like she’s correcting a misconception.
“You’re not the reckless one here,” she continues. “I know exactly what I can and can’t do in this place. I’ve broken worse rules than that.”
You stare at her.
She leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the desk now, voice lowering.
“This isn’t a hospital with an ethics board and a functioning HR department,” she says, gesturing vaguely around the room. “They send teenagers to die. They bury reports. They look the other way when it’s convenient.”
Your chest tightens.
“No one is filing paperwork over two adults making a choice,” she adds. “As long as no one’s coerced, distracted on missions, or compromised.”
Her eyes hold yours. Steady. Unflinching.
“You weren’t,” she says.
The knot in your chest twists painfully. “I just didn’t want you to think I assumed anything.”
Shoko’s expression softens, just a fraction.
“I didn’t,” she says. “I was more concerned than you thought I had.”
That lands harder than you expect.
You swallow. “I left because I didn’t want to overstep.”
Her jaw tightens. “You disappeared.”
“I thought that was better.”
“For who?”
You don’t have an answer.
She watches you struggle for one, then sighs again, this time quieter.
“Next time,” she says, “don’t decide what’s best for me without asking.”
The words aren’t sharp, but they’re firm, asserting without raising her voice.
Your heart is pounding now, loud enough you’re certain she can hear it.
“I missed you,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or relief. The slight widening of her eyes, the way her lips part just enough to draw in a quiet breath. For someone so practiced at maintaining composure, it's practically a confession.
“You missed me,” she repeats and it's not quite a question. More like she's testing the weight of the words.
"I did." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "I know that's probably-"
"Don't." She holds up one hand, and you fall silent. "Don't apologise for being honest. That's not something I want you to learn to do around me.”
The air between you feels charged, heavy with everything neither of you is saying. Shoko leans back in her chair, and the movement draws your attention to the long line of her throat, the way her collarbones are visible above the open collar of her shirt. She watches you watch her, and there's something almost challenging in her gaze.
"Come here," she says quietly.
You stand before you can second-guess yourself, your legs slightly unsteady as you round her desk. She doesn't move, doesn't adjust her position, just tracks your movement with those dark, assessing eyes. When you're close enough to touch, you hesitate.
"I don't-" you start, but the words dissolve when Shoko reaches out, her fingers curling loosely around your wrist.
"You don't what?" Her thumb finds your pulse point, and you know she can feel how fast your heart is racing.
"I don't know what I'm doing," you admit.
"Yes, you do." Her voice is low, certain. "You know exactly what you want. The question is whether you're brave enough to take it."
It's the permission you didn't know you needed. You lean down, one hand bracing against the arm of her chair, and kiss her.
Shoko makes a soft sound against your mouth. Surprise, maybe, or satisfaction, and then she's kissing you back. Her hand slides from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and the kiss deepens. It's nothing like the careful, controlled way she usually moves through the world. This is heat and hunger, her tongue sliding against yours, her teeth catching your bottom lip.
You're breathless when you pull back, and Shoko's composure has finally cracked. Her pupils are blown wide, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths, and there's colour high on her cheeks.
"I want-" You swallow hard. "Can I-”
"Use your words." Her words remind you of that night and it sends heat slicking down your spine. Her hand is still in your hair, and she's looking at you like she already knows what you're going to say.
"I want to taste you." The boldness of it makes your face burn, but you don't look away. "Please."
Shoko smirks. "Then get on your knees.”
You sink down between her legs, your hands trembling slightly as they come to rest on her thighs. She's wearing dark slacks, perfectly pressed, and you can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric. When you look up at her, she's watching you with that same intense focus she brings to everything, but there's something else there too—want, barely restrained.
"Go ahead," she says, and her voice has gone rough around the edges.
Your fingers find the button of her pants, fumbling slightly in your nervousness. Shoko's hand covers yours, steadying you, guiding you through the motion. The zipper sounds impossibly loud in the quiet of her office. She lifts her hips just enough for you to ease the fabric down, and then you're faced with the reality of what you've asked for.
“Are you sure this is okay?”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Didn't we just have this conversation?”
“I mean in your office.” You rest your cheek against her left thigh. “What if someone walks in?”
“It's fine. People usually knock.” Shoko's hand slides back into your hair, not pulling but resting there. “You want this, right?”
"Yes." No hesitation.
"Then stop thinking so much."
You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling her tense beneath your lips. Another kiss, higher this time, and Shoko's fingers tighten slightly in your hair. When you finally put your mouth on her, she exhales sharply, her free hand gripping the arm of her chair.
"That's good," she murmurs, her voice maintaining that clinical edge even now. "Just like that. Slow."
You follow her guidance, enjoying the taste of her, the way her body responds to each movement of your tongue. She's not quiet. She gives you feedback in soft sighs and whispered instructions, telling you when to add pressure, when to ease off, where to focus your attention.
"There," she breathes when you find a rhythm that makes her hips shift forward. "Right there. Don't stop.”
Her composure is fracturing, piece by piece. The hand in your hair has gone from gentle to possessive, holding you exactly where she wants you. Her thighs are trembling against your shoulders, and when you look up at her through your lashes, her head is tipped back, her throat exposed, her mouth open breathing out gasps and moans
"You're doing so well," she tells you, and the praise sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with your own pleasure. "You're doing so, so well.”
The words make you moan against her, and the vibration draws a sharp cry from Shoko's throat. Her control is slipping, her breathing ragged, and you can feel how close she is in the tension of her body, the way her fingers have gone almost painful in your hair.
"Don't stop," she gasps. "Don't—fuck—"
She comes with your name on her lips, clenching before the tension breaks. You work her through it, gentling your movements as she shudders and gasps above you. When she finally tugs at your hair, you pull back, pressing one last soft kiss to her thigh.
Shoko looks like a mess. Her hair mussed, her shirt rumpled, her chest heaving and a slight perspiration dampening her forehead. But when she meets your eyes, there's something tender in her expression, something that makes your heart clench.
“You did so well,” she murmurs, her hand comes to hold your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.
You lean into her hand, your tongue licking the lingering taste of her off your bottom lip.
She's still catching her breath when she reaches down to help you up. "My knees hurt," you mumble, and she huffs out a laugh.
"Yeah, the floor's not great." She fixes her pants, buttoning it up again as you lean against her desk. "Are you coming over tonight, or are you going to disappear on me again?”
You pout. “Okay, you don't have to mention that. I'd rather you forget I went poofed on you.”
She smiles, kissing you once and tasting herself on your lips. “Okay, though we should talk about all of this.”
You nod, and for the first time in days, your chest doesn't feel so anxious.
i originally wrote this back in late january for my best friends @ceramicstamp birthday and i just got the blessings to post it (albeit she was confused and shamed me for asking permission to post my own works sobs) hope you guys enjoyed the fic tho ^.^
