Eggy can you cook me up some animal hybrid goyuu with bunny Satoru and tiger Yuuji? If you go for writing a bit of your extremely delicious smut then i wanna state that who tops or bottoms doesn’t matter to me one bit, you are the best vers/switch goyuu writer i’ve ever seen, so every which way it goes will undoubtedly be glorious! 😘😘😘😘😘
*rubs my hands together gleefully* OOOOOOOO BELL YOU KNOW ME SO WELL ALREADY (also thank you so much I will cry later but for now, THEY!!!)
(also also how tf did this get so long)
~
It's been quite a while since Satoru's felt a predator stalk him. He'd be wary, except that it's just Yuji. What a strange little kitten, that boy; he doesn't even seem to be aware of why he's stalking Satoru. It's actually the most adorable thing Satoru's ever experienced. Even when it makes his nose twitch and his ears rise, Satoru can't help finding Yuji's unwavering stare and slow approach cute.
He's only practicing. That has to be the reason. Yuji's just a cub yet, so he's practicing his hunting.
...maybe. He could also just want to eat Satoru.
No, that's just the rabbit-brain talking. Yuji's too sweet and gentle to eat a hare like Satoru, tiger or not.
"Hey, sensei?"
"Yeah?"
"One of those movies I watched yesterday--there was this one part that confused me, do you think you could explain it?"
"Sure, what movie?
Yuji doesn't actually say. He just turns on the TV, navigates to the exact chapter in the DVD menu, and skips forward a very precise amount of minutes.
Satoru freezes in place, watching a very well-directed sex scene where a wolf eats a sheep's ass. The sheep seems to enjoy it, because they're actors, but it's... certainly not what he'd expected Yuji to ask about.
"Ah," Satoru says, heart pounding. "Well. Obviously, it's a sex thing. But it's specifically about making anal sex easier."
"I thought predators couldn't have sex with prey, though," Yuji objects, frowning at the screen like a scholar studying an ancient artifact. "Something about incompatibility."
Satoru's ears immediately rise, quivering with tension. No, he wasn't imagining it; Yuji's heartbeat is definitely faster, and his scent spikes with arousal every time the sheep cries out in pleasure. God, he hates giving sex talks.
"Of course predators and prey can have sex," he snorts. "Interbreeding is rare, but the sex itself is pretty common. It's just that kids aren't as careful with their teeth and claws, so it's discouraged."
"Oh. Does it... actually feel good?"
"It can. Especially for people with prostates, it can feel really good. Takes practice, though."
"Makes sense."
They watch the rest of the scene together in silence. When it finishes, Yuji turns off the tv. He then turns his sweet yellow eyes on Satoru, and asks, "Can I try?"
"I mean, once you're out of this basement, sure," Satoru tells him. "Do you think Megumi will allow that?"
Yuji frowns, baffled. "Why would I ask Fushiguro?"
Satoru's nose twitches. "...Because he's your yearmate? And therefore a suitable age?"
"Oh!" Yuji's face clears, and he shakes his head. "No, I don't wanna fumble through my first time with Fushiguro. He's a virgin, too, so neither of us would learn much and we'd both be really embarrassed. No, can I try with you?"
Satoru's brain fizzles out for a moment. When it's back online, he notices that Yuji's a lot closer on the couch, and Satoru's own traitorous dick is showing distinct interest in the idea.
"Uh," he says. "Sure."
Great going, Satoru. Real fucking smooth.
But Yuji smiles, and even with the fangs it's the sweetest expression Satoru's ever been graced with, and Yuji's hands are so warm and gentle on him. Satoru's instincts are screaming at him to fight, to run, to struggle free--but he likes being touched like this. He likes lifting his hips so Yuji can pull off his pants and underwear. He likes settling with his back against the arm of the couch. He likes seeing Yuji kneeling between his legs, entranced by Satoru's cock.
He likes the first touch of hot, supple lips to his hole, and the slick tease of a tongue.
"Oh god," Satoru chokes out, clutching the couch cushions like a lifeline. "You--you really are shameless, aren't you?"
Yuji just hums contentedly, eyes half-closed as he laps gently at Satoru's hole. His tongue is ever so slightly rough, and the sensation sends hot bolts of lust through Satoru. He makes the mistake of wondering if Yuji's dick has texture and bites his lip to hold in a whimper. He mustn't. He mustn't start hoping for more. This--this is already dangerous. Yuji deserves a boy his age, who loves him, who doesn't have so much power over him.
But Satoru has always been a greedy, jealous man. The thought of Yuji blissful between another's thighs makes him want to kill something. His sweet, pretty kitten, panting harshly and touching his own dick, turned on just by Satoru's bared skin and vulnerability--no, he can't share this. He can't.
So he'll just have to keep Yuji for himself, keep his pretty kitty here in his warren, and let Yuji experiment on him to his heart's content.
"Sensei," Yuji slurs, pausing in his attentions. "Can... can I go deeper?"
It's been a very long time since Satoru's come from something as localized as this. He usually prefers being overwhelmed and touched all over. But Yuji's such a natural at licking, tasting, devouring--predators usually are, but not this young. Satoru actually weeps a little when he finally peaks, hole twitching weakly around Yuji's tongue. But now it's okay. He can rest.
"Whu--Yuji!"
Yuji looks up, puzzled, from feeding his cock into Satoru's spent body. "What?" he asks. "You said I could." Anxiety flashes across his face, then, and Yuji continues, "Did--did you not like it? Do you not want more?"
Satoru blinks hazily at him. There is a very obvious answer, blaring neon red in the back of his mind, but Yuji's cock is textured, and Satoru can already feel his body rebounding, eager for more. So he ignores the obvious and gives his honest answer instead: "Itadori Yuji you moron, I want you to fuck my brains out every day until I die."
Yuji grins, all sharp teeth and youthful delight, and dutifully begins to fuck Satoru's brains out.
the hottest situation is still Yuji pinning Satoru down and fucking him so rough and fast it hurts while Satoru is squirming and whining and crying a little, and then Yuji bites the back of Satoru's neck hard enough to draw blood and that's what Satoru needed to cum. his spine in the jaws of the one person who knows he's soft and biddable under all that pain. trapped and immobilized and pleasured so good he can barely breathe. prey who never ran when it had the chance.
author's note: mald sent me this shoko edit and my first thought was Woaaahh I need to suck her strap silly and naturally this fic was born. hope you all enjoyyyy any and all engagement is very much appreciated 🫶🏽happy reading and happy pride y’all (it’s august 24th.)
It’s only when Shoko takes the handle of the wand between her teeth, the act for your benefit more than anything else, that you realize what she’s got in her fist.
(You like how she fashions her lips at its end, holding it aloft like she can’t shake expecting nicotine to slip in when she sips the filter. Mostly, though, you like the way it reminds you of how they curl up at the edges when Shoko laughs, bright and free of her everyday perturbances; how they purse in the prettiest of pink roses when they seal around your clit. She knows how to use your weakness to her advantage, forever playing you a fiddle. You’re a fool to her siren.)
“Wait, is that my lip gloss?” You ask, clarity lashing at you and roping you out of your mental fog.
Shoko hums, shoulders rising in a shrug that she doesn’t finish. She lifts the tube up and up like a bartender, pouring from a high angle to better control the flow of transparent red gloss that spills forth in a lazy river. You’d think Shoko was being a show-off had you not known that she’s simply instinctively mimicking what she’s seen time and time again on nights that you pull your high heels on and go out for drinks with her and your mutual friends.
Thick, shimmering wads of it pearl at the tip of the strap-on that weighs heavily between her legs. It drips stringy and viscous like pre. Your eyes snag onto the budding mess, and your core, stretched to its limits on Shoko’s fingers only a few minutes prior, pulses readily, squeezing out a wet rush. Time stretches with the string until it thins at its middle and snaps completely. Only then do you feel like you can blink, broken from your spell.
She screws the cap back onto the tube and tosses it aside, finally slanting her murky eyes at you. Your pulse hitches. “We ran out of lube,” she offers placidly.
A frown pulls your bottom lip up in the beginnings of a pout. “And my lip gloss is any better?”
“I’ll buy you a new one. So, for my heart’s sake, please lose the cute puppy look,” Shoko sighs, double checking the brand name and flavor— some sort of strawberry shortcake gloss, the same she used to abuse back when you were students at Jujutsu High so that you’d kiss it off of her. Her grin melts into something more fond, knowing. “Your spit is the real lube here, though. I just thought this would make things sweeter for you.”
Your only other consolation is that she didn’t use too much, you suppose, but that’s not why your ears start running hot. “Right,” you mutter.
From her spot cushioned against the pillows bunched up against the headboard, Shoko beckons you. You rise from your spot at the end of the bed and shake off the numbness in your legs from keeping them folded beneath you before obediently crawling to her.
Light green walls that you painted yourself to cover up the dreary storm-gray paint that was there before, silk sheets sprayed with lavender, a cozy comforter that’s more cloud than cotton, low lighting, the fan twirling away above you both— your shared apartment, solely Shoko’s before you moved in, is a perfectly cultivated space designed to cocoon you both from the harshness of the world of sorcerery. A place where you don’t steep in the horrors of your past, but look forward to further building your lives with each other.
It’s also, frankly, where you and Shoko fuck each other so silly that you start entertaining delusions that she’s gotten you pregnant via sheer willpower and her strap while she stumbles bow-legged to get a washcloth and two glasses of water. Vice-versa, too. You can’t even count how many times she’s come up from air after playing receiver, mumbling about how she’s lucky you can’t give her children while you laugh until your belly aches.
You’ve been all over each other since the second you stirred like a cat relinquishing its spot in a sunbeam, bleary-eyed from your mission that ran you into the early morning. Shoko woke up at your side just as tired following her night shift with dark smudges underlining her eyes, shamelessly whining for coffee since you were the only person there to see her at her most genuine, and melted into you when you strung around your girl like a particularly stubborn octopus and promised you’d make her some.
Calling out for you both (“— it’s not a good idea for Sho to be working right now, either. She’ll fall asleep mid-suture, Yaga. Literally. And as happy as Yuuji would be to look like a clapped version of Dabi, I know my girlfriend would rather not fuck up one of her favorite kids.”) had practically been a necessity that even Shoko couldn’t deny that she needed.
For the last few hours, freer than birds, you’ve been vegging out in bed and watching TV at a low enough volume, giving you both plenty of room for your idle chatter. What you do hardly matters; as long as you’re with her, her fingers tangled with your own, you’re happy. That’s all you need— just your Shoko.
(Your very insatiable Shoko.)
One casual cheek kiss from you turned into Shoko planting three lazy, wet kisses on your neck. The inevitable make out session that followed (initiated by Shoko, who somehow decided that the sight of you lounging around in a camisole stained with last night’s pizza and stringy old shorts of yours was too hot to resist) ended when Shoko rolled you onto your back to eat you out like she had something to prove.
She’s generous, your girl; so giving, in fact, that she was all too happy to crawl up your body afterwards and kiss you silly, your own taste silky on her tongue, and finger you open while whispering that you should suck her strap before she fucks you. Only if you wanted to, of course, she rumbled.
When a bad bitch is clearly steering you towards a certain choice, you’re most definitely gonna choose what makes her happiest.
The movie that Shoko picked earlier is background noise at this point— just flickering scenes that blur together and mumbled dialogue that you don’t bother processing as you shuffle onto your stomach now that you’re between Shoko’s milky white legs. Your entire focus narrows down to the idle strokes through your hair, Shoko’s manicured nails scratching indulgently at your scalp.
A pleased shiver runs down your spine before it liquifies completely and you butt your head into the ball of her palm like a cat, a quiet groan of pure satisfaction coming out damn near a purr.
“There you are,” Shoko murmurs as she brushes a few strands away from your face. Her voice is groggy yet saccharine, dark coffee splashed with creamer and sugar and everything sweet, and it fills your heart to the tippity top of its brim. There’s a slight dragging rasp to it that the untrained ear wouldn’t recognize as the consequence of smoking like a chimney in high school, the scratch lingering years after you helped her quit.
Then, lifting in a sultry, sing-songy lilt, “My pretty girl.”
Heat floods your cheeks and you duck to smother yourself against Shoko’s thigh, right where there’s a scattered cluster of moles, for a brief, desperate moment— partly to hide your expression, but, selfishly, it’s mostly just to feel the relief of her cool skin against your own.
Your girlfriend chuckles above you, helplessly and hopelessly fond. From the corner of your eye you toss her an unserious glare, only to falter dumbly when your gaze snags on the hickeys you left blossoming up her throat like ivy crawling up a wall.
“You don’t have to, you know.” A cautious pause. “If you don’t want to.”
That’s when you fervently shake your head. You swear your eyes bounce in your sockets with the force. “No! No, yes, I mean I want to. I’d love to, Sho. I already told you that.” And you emphasize it with a loud mwah that smacks off of the skin of her leg.
“Just promise me you won’t laugh.” You’re quick to pipe up even though you know she would only do so with you, not at you. In all actuality you really wouldn’t care if she laughed. It’s just the first thing to pop into your head. Still, you give her your best puppy-dog eyes, batting your lashes to take it a step further, and she falls for it again with a fondly exasperated sigh.
“I won’t. Pinky promise.” She even winks, playfulness chiming like a bell in her voice.
For a moment, it’s quiet aside from the muddled, soft ambience of characters speaking onscreen and the rhythmic creaaaak of the rickety ceiling fan. Shoko cocks her head, brown hair spilling in a river down her shoulder. Those low-lidded mocha brown eyes that you so adore flicker over you, observing you the same way she’d peer down into a peeled apart body on her examination table.
(If Shoko wanted to yank on some gloves and dig behind your ribs in search of your heart so that she can take it for herself, you’re dead sure it’d keep beating as long as her hands are there to nurture it.)
“Mm.” Shoko’s throat buzzes with the sound. “You’ll make me blush if you keep staring at me like that. Go ahead whenever you’re ready, angel.”
Ugh. It’s been years, and still she manages to make you squirm in place like a too-awkward teenager unable to work up the courage to approach their crush.
With that, you sit up on your elbows to get a better look at Shoko’s strap, unconsciously wetting your lips as you stare at the thick shaft jutting proudly from her groin.
The medical-grade silicone is a delicate pink that fades into a subtle periwinkle towards the base; much too pretty to be involved in the depravity soon to unfold. But it’s perfect for your pretty girl. Beneath that homemade dynamite chest of hers is a soft, malleable, pinkish heart that flushes bright whenever you whisper sweet nothings to it.
You nose along her moles, taking greedy little inhales like the scent of her grapefruit body wash alone could sustain you. Your feverish skin soaks up Shoko’s warmth that she people assume that she lacks with how often her wrists are submerged in corpses, and the winding coil of anticipation in your gut tightens just a fraction.
When you drag indulgent smooches up her inner thigh to where she’s most ticklish, she twitches imperceptibly beneath you, and you giggle when she swats at you when you pepper a few more there on purpose.
Taking a breath to steady yourself, you rest a hand on her bare stomach, right above where the leather harness cuts diamonds around her hips, and root your free fist at the base of the dildo. Your strawberry shortcake gloss has long dribbled down here, making your palm cling there in the sticky trap set for you. The good thing about Shoko’s choice in toy is that the base creates a seal against the wearer’s groin, and it’s open at both ends so that sucking and squeezing the dildo is meant to suction over Shoko’s clit.
You press your nose to the base while she occupies herself tenderly stroking over your hair and watching you. It smells clean and sterilely neutral, but your lip gloss just barely overpowers it.
Hyper-aware of the hot prickle of her coffee-warm eyes following you, you start lapping up the thick trail, chasing it to where her strap flares into a shaped head. Strawberry shortcake blooms on your tongue. For good measure you lick and suck at the curving underside, the slant of your head allowing saliva to dribble from the corner of your mouth and down the shaft, slicking up every inch that you can reach with your mess.
“You’re so hot, baby,” Shoko breathes, and you’re shivering before you can stop it. You inlay your tongue in the moulded slit, smearing the honey-thick lip polish there into your Cupid’s bow when you drag the muscle up, and you take the chance to peek up at Shoko from beneath weighty toplids.
You gift her the sight of your tongue, your mouth parting to make way for her cock. You gift her the imagined sensation of what giving kittenish licks to it might possibly feel like. You gift her the sight of your mouth watering— a mix of drool and transparent red gloss, and the cherry blossom pink of your lips lingers against the matching color of the cockhead before you guide it in.
It slips past easily and sits on your tongue without going any further. Shoko curses under her breath, but you barely catch it through the drumbeat roaring through your ears in a death march. You ruminate on it all for a beat— more strawberry shortcake than the taste of silicone (the gloss helps to lubricate the slight slide of the tip when you swallow), the tip filling your mouth without pressing back against your uvula just yet.
It’s an interesting sensation, to say the least. You could grow to like it.
“Okay?” Your girlfriend checks in, so you crimp your neck back a fraction to look at her properly. You nod as best you can, accidentally knocking your teeth against the toy and having to readjust yourself, and Shoko’s face crinkles in a smile that’s equal parts satisfied and intrigued.
There’s a slight rosiness to her cheeks that surely isn’t from the light of the TV. It makes you giddy— your carefree, unflappable Shoko growing flustered. What a treat today has been.
(You’ve literally never been wetter.)
Slowly, you hinge your jaw and sink further, eyes never leaving Shoko’s as the cockhead curves with your soft palate and finally taps against the tight confines of your throat, the muscles there twisting in protest before you force yourself to relax and soften the way for the intrusion. Like this, it’s easy to forgo worrying over perfecting the visual you’re granting Shoko, instead focusing on simply taking her without incident.
And take her you do.
It takes a little longer than you’d like to fight the urge to cough away the drag of the length of her chafing along your wet clutch, the urge to gag when that reflex flares like an urgent bruise— but Shoko, ever patient Shoko, makes it easier to try again after you pop back up for a quick breather.
“That’s it, slow and steady. You’re doing so good," Shoko coos in a tone so openly fond that heat ricochets through your body. Her nails come down to stroke the cartilage of your ear before her thumb slips behind it to massage the delicate skin there. That spot is as sensitive as the day she originally discovered it. "Let yourself get used to it. Just breathe and don’t fight it, okay?”
Your responding moan comes out more of a gargle. Determination spurred by her words drives you forward— literally— and you bob over the same few inches before venturing further forward, taking her deeper and deeper as you go until your stretched lips bump against your fist, fingers welded tight around the base. You’re not all the way, but it’s enough for a prideful satisfaction to fog you. You’re doing it.
It’s very slight, but the rise and fall of her stomach slows beneath your palm as if she’s holding her next breath in, afraid to break the moment lest it pops like one big soapy bubble. “Good, honey,” Shoko just barely whispers.
The praise in that smoky voice of hers is addicting enough to put Marlboro out of business. Since you’re a total junkie for it, your head scrabbles at other methods to earn more of it.
Tightening your hand at the base to give her a firmer surface to press her cunt against earns you a reedy groan from Shoko. Your breath’s hot and overwhelmingly humid on your own face, nose pressed against your thumb firmly enough to push the soft cartilage to the side, vision watery, but you stubbornly hold firm, throat aquiver around her cock.
You recede a fraction of the way up before bringing your head back down a few times, testing to make sure it’s comfortable, manageable, before digging your elbows further into the mattress below to remain steady.
Each downwards bob has more pressure and swiftness behind it than on the upstroke, pushing into Shoko, granting her friction that she gladly twitches up into for three dizzying, suffocating seconds where she lodges her strap deep before she melts back into the pillows with a whhssssk of skin meeting silk.
Goosebumps burgeon along the skin of your arms and legs. You want her to do it over and over until she’s satisfied.
Since you swear on everything that your minds are linked and have been since your days spent playfully bullying Satoru and Suguru, Shoko chooses that exact moment to speak. “You cool with me taking this a step further?” She inquires, practically vibrating despite her practiced cool.
The woman of your dreams is a sight to behold. She’s built lithe, with a waist so slight your hands can practically span its entire circumference (you know from experience) and breasts that are downright chewable. Her bra’s hanging on for dear life, both straps lose down her shoulders, and you can just barely see her dusky brown nipples through the thin black lace.
Dim light paints her an avenging angel, her skin seemingly ageless and as white as snow— or a beautiful, looming wraith, chestnut hair freely shrouding her face now that the claw clip she kept in after doing face masks with you is long gone. She’s just as beautiful and deadly as one, always playing the part of Thanatos for her fellow sorcerers inside front-line medical posts.
If she were a yuki-onna, her red-painted lips bright against the sleet-streaked mountains as she asked you if you’d like to spend an eternity with her, you’d leave your former life behind without hesitation.
That thought alone is all it takes to coax a muffled hum of agreement out of you. Shoko cocks her head, top lids lowering and lashes fanning over her pupils; chatoyant, like a cat’s eye when exposed to light. “You always spoil me. I must be the luckiest girl in the world, hmm?” She muses while pushing her bra beneath her breasts, nipples instantly stiffening in the cool air.
Beneath you, her hips stir in the shallowest of ruts into your mouth. Your exhale comes out wobbly through your nostrils, already winded by the pleasure pulling a slow, almost doe-like blink out of Shoko, her features slack— the prettiest sight you’ll ever see.
After a few experimental rolls, her fingers flitting between stroking your hair and your blazing cheeks, smothering you in her affection, Shoko bends then widens her knees. Heels now bearing down against the mattress beneath her for better leverage, she tries out her first firmer thrust. The gold hoops in her nipples glint when she arches— fuck, you want to bite.
Your teeth nearly pierce the slippery shaft when you gag, a tiny sound that surprises you both. She’s quick to halt entirely, even with her hips halfway off the bed. “You want me to stop?” She inquires in that specific tone that implies she’d rather prioritize you than herself.
She can probably tell from the smiling curves of your eyes that you’re fine, just gathering your bearings and blinking away the beginnings of tears, but you slink up and back anyways.
Pulling a trick that Satoru told you about (knowing that the experience behind his unsolicited advice comes from his time with Suguru kinda makes you want to waterboard yourself), you hollow your cheeks, tongue undulating along the underside of the strap before you finally pull off with a wet pop, saliva dripping from your slack mouth, and Shoko stares. Hard.
“No, I…” you swallow your spit. It’s tinged with a fruity yet sweet, buttery flavor that actually tastes pleasant rather than artificial— strawberry shortcake gloss, unsurprisingly. Your voice comes out hoarse. “I’m fine, promise. I liked it. A lot. You can use my throat as much as you want, Sho.”
In an instant, the concern drains from her and her body instead coils tight with something headier this time, something hungry. The expression on her flushed face— it’s like looking cannibalism in the eye. It’s gone in the next second when her lashes flutter shut as she tries to get a hold of herself (but you won’t forget that any time soon).
Shoko tangles her ring-clad fingers more firmly in your sweat-damp hair, twisting it into the perfect handhold to use to guide you back down onto her strap. Coy, your tongue drags against the head in a single filthy stroke before you flatten it and swallow the tip and the rest of it, the toy gliding all too easily through the wet channel of your mouth and back where it belongs.
The sound she makes is wounded.
Your lips part obscenely around the length and you make a point to keep eye contact with her the second she peels her dark brown eyes back open, unwavering as they bore into your very soul. Already her hips are rolling in tiny, desperate circles, seeking that perfect angle to grind her clit against the seal of the base pressed to her groin even if it means shoving the toy the deepest it can go past the tight ring of your lips.
Considering she’s keeping her thrusts shallow, she’s definitely trying to work her way up to a fast pace by starting languidly, always so considerate of you. It’d make you want to giggle and hide your face if it wasn’t slightly frustrating.
But it must be so hard to control herself when you’re messily drooling on her strap, lips a raw red and wobbling from keeping your jaw pried apart for so long; when you’re looking up at her with those teary bedroom eyes, lashes wet; when you’re flexing around it in a vice grip to fruitlessly try and milk nonexistent cum from the silicone.
You can see the exact moment that Shoko compromises with herself, teeth grinding a little before she caves. Yes.
You release your hold on her cock, instead opting to rake thin lines down her jumping thigh, making her stomach twitch, and you moan enthusiastically into her quickening pace. Like this, your fist no longer acts as a stopper controlling how far the toy glides down. The thick base of the strap smacks against your chin, and you gurgle out a mewl around it, marveling over how Shoko’s growing more eager to fuck your wet, pliant mouth like it’s a hole and not your face.
"You’re doing so good, mhmm, take it just like that. Suck my cock and get it nice and wet so that I can fuck you on it, angel," Shoko encourages between labored pants, marveling at the erotic sight of you slurping hungrily around her, cheeks hollowed and wet with splatters of spit.
Her fingers lazily pluck and rub at her pebbled nipples, nails clicking in a satisfying rhythm against the piercings there. “You look so good with your lips wrapped around me... I love seeing you like this. Good girl, baby.”
She tilts her ass back into the cushy haven of the bed before kicking her pelvis right back up, bed creaking, to do it all over again, stretching your pretty pink lips to their limits. A desperate hand leaves where it’s practically tearing at the sheets to instead rest over your aching larynx, right where the swell of her strap nuzzled in your throat is; holding rather than squeezing. Your raging pulse hums against her palm.
The wet sounds of you working your convulsing esophagus around the fat intrusion filling you to the brim swells through the room, interspersed with Shoko’s low sighs and moans of pleasure. It makes your hearing crackle with static. It’s a sight, how she moves; the lean muscle of her calves and thighs from her bi-weekly runs ripples in waves that has you thinking of all the ways you can fold her in half later.
(Long after she pegs you within an inch of your life following your blowjob, of course.)
Your nostrils flare upon catching musk. Beneath the cocktail of sweat, your own slick staining your thighs and the comforter, and scented lip gloss that perfumes the air, right there—
She’s wet. Just from watching you, from the friction. She’s wet, she’s wet, and if you could see past her harness, you’d find that she’s wet, slick and wanting for you and—
All coherent thought buries itself in the backyard behind your house. You’re worming an arm beneath your body before you can think. Fingers carve through the mess between your legs, bullying your way through the tacky slick that makes the quick strum of your thumb over your twitching, throbbing bud all the more smoother.
It feels so good but isn’t enough, even as you feebly scrabble at your entrance, radiating with heat and plump with blood, and hump your fingers the second you sink them in— it’s not enough. You need more give; a pillow, or something.
Right as you’re about to cast out for the nearest pillow and wedge it between your hips and the mattress, you flinch, struck. The side of Shoko’s calf has just lightly kicked your wandering arm the same way a general would slap the flank of a war horse.
Chagrined and malfunctioning on the spot, brain spitting out ‘what, why, I wanna keep going,’ like a broken copy machine, you whine pitifully (guiltily, really, because you were caught) at her. It vibrates down the toy caught in your cheek. You were trying to be subtle, damn it— but of course your girl would pick up on the restlessness in your limbs, squirming to try and get yourself off.
"Aht aht, none of that now," Shoko tuts in a lust-addled tone, body still undulating, her skin slippery with sweat beneath your palms when you retrace your path back to her legs for a better grip. Not that the slick stickiness on your fingers makes it any easier. “Stay still. I want you to cum on my cock, not on your fingers, got it?"
Fuck.
That alone has your pussy drooling like a faucet, and you squeeze your legs tight in an unsuccessful attempt to quell the damned ache. She must notice that, too. “I knew you were a slut for something in your mouth, but man, this takes the cake. You’re more into this than I thought you’d be, baby. So hungry for it,” Shoko rasps out.
Each twitch forward thoroughly knocks the wind from your lungs. The thrill of it— the fullness, the depravity, how Shoko’s playing you for her pleasure— it’s addictive. It makes you forget yourself, head drooping as you drip fresh, thick wads of saliva down her cock, painting the pink silicone.
Her head lolls off her shoulder so that she can pant into the open air, her beauty mark falling just beneath her lash line like a mascara-streaked tear. You struggle to blink away the watery salt lining your own eyes, your whole body heavy with something unexplainable, and she breathily coos something about how precious you are.
“Gonna— shit, cutie.” The sound of her soft, stricken voice only drives you further to the edge. “Hnnh, gonna cum soon, ‘kay, pretty girl? Then I can touch you, make you cum again.”
Doubling down, nerves singing, you bob your head in her soft lap, meeting her thrust for thrust. Shoko’s brows screw up, legs faltering and teeth sinking into her plush bottom lip to bite off her curses, pleasure singing through her. One, two, three more thrusts, and she pummels her strap as far down your throat as it can go, pinning it there for you to choke on it. Her hand remains on the back of your head, insistent.
“Swallow,” Shoko huffs huskily as if she’s spilling herself in your heat, and you swallow nothing but your own spit on command.
You gag despite yourself, spasming around the invading toy as you struggle to breathe through your nose. Drool pours from the corners of your raw mouth and drips over the curve of your chin to pour between your tits. Shoko remains there, working her hips in little unconscious spasms as she rides it out.
Saliva and gloss pools, spills over the tip when you come up for air. A string of it sways between you and the head of her strap before snapping, and it splashes more down just beneath your lips. Shoko’s winded, one arm dropped over her eyes. Dazed, you can only wobble your way onto your knees, neck cramping, and watch the dreamy flush crawling down the enticing skin of her neck.
It takes a minute for her to come back to herself, but when she does, she pushes herself up straight. Her milky thighs are covered in a messy sheen of her own spend— fuck, you’d kill to pull the harness up and away to gorge yourself on her slick cunt, but she’s hooking her forearms beneath your arms and hauling you up to straddle her before you can even think to execute the action. Her strap, thoroughly soaked with your mouth, rests against the curve of your ass.
“Did so good for me,” she says in an enticing rasp that sends more molten heat licking down to the needy warmth of your pussy.
You melt down to a puddle in Shoko’s lap while she tenderly thumbs away the tacky mess of spit, gloss, and tears. Swallowing makes your throat prickle all the way down. You frown, rubbing idly at your neck.
Her orphic gaze lingers, all-knowing, and it’s no surprise when she presses her fingers to your throat herself to check the damage with her RCT. When she finds none, her hand falls away to instead take its place on your waist. Her fingers massage into the give of flesh there, making you croak out a pleased grunt.
"Gimme a kiss," Shoko murmurs, nuzzling into your neck before tilting her head up to meet where your lips part for her obediently, stealing the remnants of your exhaustion with a neuron-melting kiss that tastes like devotion.
Your mouth is a sopping mess; spit and lip gloss soaks your lips and strings of it connect you together whenever you briefly part for a breath. Shoko’s not at all shy about pushing her spit into your mouth with the flat of her tongue, where it bubbles up and streams freely into your own saliva. You’re unsurprised when she practically licks it all right back out of you, anyways.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she adds almost absently, drawing back to swipe an arm over her glistening mouth. “You can ride me. Or, if you’re not up for it, we can cuddle and finish our movie—“ her eyes flicker to the TV, squinting against the light, “or better yet, we could start a new one. Your call. It’s the princess’ choice.”
Up close like this, you can see warmth swirling in her brown irises like coffee swirling down a sieve. There’s no nonchalance there, none of that jaded woman who itches for a cigarette when the nights grow long and you’re not there. In her eyes, all you see is a love so heartrending that it threatens to crumple your bones beneath the intensity of it.
Practically preening, you heft your hips up to drag your wet folds over her pink tip, the strap nudging insistently against your entrance every time it glides against it. “If you just lie back, I’ll do most of the work,” you promise hoarsely.
Smirking faintly, she does just that.
author’s note: fav comments from my beta
ts always makes me laugh she’s sooo reallll and always gets me… ITS TRULY TWINNEM
⤷ ꒰ ⋆.𐙚 ̊┃ summary: doctor!reader and shoko ieiri face a night of relentless trauma on christmas day, their silent love a fragile refuge against the ghosts of the patients they lose and the friends they've already buried. ⋆˙ ꒱
⤷ ꒰ ⋆.𐙚 ̊┃ content: shoko ieiri x fem!reader. angst. hurt/no comfort. medical trauma. grief. medical angst. haunting. christmas horror. car accidents. sensitive. mentions of death. unspoken relationship. ⋆˙ ꒱
⤷ ꒰ ⋆.𐙚 ̊┃ author's note: i think i should make a post for those who want to join the taglist, heh. whatever. i hope you like the fic. love you all.⋆˙ ꒱
The clock advanced with its unreachable hands, each sound emitting the anxiety of an erratic heartbeat, of a stabbing haemorrhage... of a lost life.
The hospital was chaos. A multi-vehicle collision on a street had brought in the injured, the dead, and patients in a state of complete emergency in less than thirty minutes.
Shoko Ieiri felt like having a smoke. "The holidays are the worst time of year," she would murmur to the sky, as if speaking to her two best friends from her teenage years.
But those two had died as well, hadn't they? They had left life on different paths, with different purposes, but bleeding the same crimson red that now stained the streets.
Christmas Day is haunted.
And she was right. And it was a reality no one told you, or wanted to admit. Because while one gets swept up in the coloured lights, the tree, and the Christmas presents, there are people living through hell who decide the best thing is to stop existing.
And you knew it too, of course. An emergency doctor, human, normal. You had no idea of the terrors that attacked the world beyond human perversion itself. And that small ignorance made you someone special in Shoko's eyes, who (especially at this time of year) tended to watch you with more attention than expected.
"Happy Christmases don't exist," she remembered you telling her once, several years ago. She remembered you, your athletic figure and your tired eyes, and the way you slammed the locker shut with a dull thud of impotence. "They don't exist. It's a lie."
Because she had met you like that, somewhat wild, loyal, and committed to helping the community with whatever it took. And she, being a surgeon, preferred to stay in the pale world inside the operating theatre; while you went out with the paramedics and ambulances, weaving through cars, getting your hands dirty with blood in a way she never would.
And Shoko admired you. She admired you immensely. And even though she never said it, there was something about the way you arrived like a tornado at the hospital, on top of a stretcher, reviving a casualty with internal bleeding, as if you were made for it... that made her admire and understand that there was something special.
The hospital doors were wide open at the same moment everything snapped back to reality, and while the clock's hands did nothing but move incessantly.
And everything was chaos. Patients on their stretchers being transferred elsewhere, visiting relatives scrambling out of the way, nurses and doctors trying to get through to help all the injured still in the ambulances.
But you entered first. Your hair was pulled back in a firm style, your face dirty with blood and smoke, your uniform soiled and dishevelled. But your eyes, as Shoko could observe, shone with a strange splendour...
The splendour of panic.
"I need a doctor, urgently!" you shouted as you laid the terribly injured girl in your arms onto a stretcher. But your voice cracked, for the first time in a long while, into a raw fear that chilled the bones and tormented the soul.
You never liked it when a small child was hurt in any way. It cut deep, like ice floes, and provoked a cold pain like the streets that had caused the accident at that moment.
Impotence.
You knew the girl had several broken bones and a possible internal bleed, you knew it. You tried to help as much as you could, but you knew if it wasn't inside an operating theatre, you wouldn't be able to do enough.
A paramedic took your arm gently, bringing you back to reality. There were more people to save. There were more. Because that accident had caused a chain-reaction crash and smoke was beginning to be seen in the distance, along with the sirens of fire engines.
Christmas Day is haunted.
And Christmases weren't happy, that was a lie. Yes, you used to say that often. All a farce to make people spend money and celebrate something that doesn't exist. Because there is no God, and if there were, how could He allow these things?
You had seen terrible things since you were little. You had been through a hundred hells before reaching the other side pretending you were intact. But you weren't intact. Or were you?
Christmas Day is haunted. You repeated it like a scratched record, as you ran up into the hospital and begged any divinity that might be listening that the girl in your arms wouldn't die.
On the other side, Shoko had joined the group of doctors and specialists who would operate on the patients on this infernal date. But as she well knew, the girl on the stretcher before her was the same girl you had brought running, scared.
And as she took up the scalpel and the machines tried to save what was already in vain, everyone set to work to revive the hope that, at that moment, was dying.
"Let's proceed with the operation," she heard them say. And her last thought was of you. Always you. Even under fire.
Adrenaline ran through everyone's veins there like a frayed cable starting to spark again. Everyone was tense, no one dared say a word. And you looked at your hands as if they were covered in invisible blood, in memories that still tormented you.
"There's another multi-vehicle collision three kilometres from your location," you heard announced over the radio, and everyone stood up straight, more tense than before, more anxious about something inevitable. "Ambulance crew Kuroo and Ichikawa, report."
A small, trembling breath escaped your lips in a little cloud of vapour in the small rear cabin of the ambulance. "Could anything worse happen?" you thought, now looking at the floor.
Because it was the early hours of the 25th of December and much of the world was asleep, awaiting the big celebration, while you all ran trying to catch up with a cruel clock.
But what they didn't know was that it was already too late.
It was still too early for the sun to begin rising behind its mantle of clouds to light up the sparkling snow on the road, but it was too late to go home and rest. Part of the city was destroyed, bits of cars and remnants of flames still burning, still alive, behind your eyelids when you closed your eyes.
And you could still hear the screams. The pleas, the emptiness, the pain, and the bitter impotence of someone whose time is running out. And who would never get it back.
You sat on the floor of the hospital's dying corridor, your head hitting the wall with a soft thud that served as an echo amongst the weeping of the machines, your limbs falling like a sack of potatoes and yielding to the weariness and hopelessness.
One of the doctors who had been in the operating theatre with Shoko had given you the news, after several hours trying to save the girl you had carried in your arms... her heart had given out. And, after trying everything possible to bring her back to life, it had been impossible.
"They gave up," you thought as the knot in your throat wouldn't let you breathe. You remembered the weak flutter of the girl's eyelashes and how pretty she was, of her dress that had been pink at another time, but was now grey from ash and fire.
"There was nothing more to do," a voice in your head answered, repeating the same words from your colleague, who, placing a hand on your shoulder, said goodbye with a bitter:
"You did everything you could and that is enough. You saved many lives tonight. God will have each and every one of them in His glory. Especially the girl."
But in your eyes it hadn't been enough, because it was all a lie. Because this profession was like that. Because the whole world thought you saved lives all the time, but the truth was you lost more than you saved. And it was always like that. Always.
Shoko approached silently to where you were, knowing you were too deep in your thoughts to notice her presence. No smile was present on her lips, because she had none to offer. And, with you, she had never liked false, meaningless emotions.
"I see you're still here," she observed, breaking the silence with a calm voice, almost detached from all the chaos lived hours before. "Why don't you go home?"
You lifted your head to look at her, an inhalation sticking in your throat as you didn't quite know what to say. Because, what was the right thing?
'Oh, nothing, I'm tired but couldn't sleep and wanted to come here a while. Truth is, I'm bored and didn't know you'd be here. But now that you are, stay, please.'
Or a: 'I can't bear the silence in the flat, it's like a morgue without ghosts, the only corpse there is the one staring back at me every morning in the mirror.'
But the only thing that escaped your lips was a: "I can't sleep," followed by contemplation of the stupid little Christmas tree on the other side of the room.
Shoko didn't comment further, though she knew it was partly true, more due to the dark circles under your eyes; but she knew something else must be going on, but she didn't press.
After a while in silence, the frozen nostalgia and sadness made themselves present. Because amidst so much white, ceramic walls, and artificial coffee, she was still there, standing by your side keeping you company.
And you liked that. Or you always had. There had always been something implicit between you and her, an unspoken agreement signed in invisible ink that no one dared to put into words. But it wasn't necessary, was it?
Or that's how they both wanted to convince themselves when, every time the alarm sounded for a serious emergency, they were afraid of not seeing the other again for some stupid (and much-feared) reason.
Because the clock kept running. And it wouldn't stop for feelings caged in a vault, nor for moments stolen between satin sheets.
"Sho..." you called her name with a weary but strangely sweet tone, your eyes sought hers and, upon finding them, broke into a sadness she knew very well. "Are you spending Christmas alone?"
And Shoko was a bit disconcerted by that question, her eyebrows furrowing slightly in an expression of genuine confusion... but also interest. A small smile appeared at one corner of her sweet lips, her hair falling long over her shoulders.
"Could be," she replied calmly, observing your weary figure and that glint of vulnerability in your eyes. "Do you want to come home?"
And you knew it wasn't an innocent invitation, and that your relationship wasn't either. Because even though you spent the vast majority of your days and nights with her, lying in bed with your head on her chest listening to the beats of her heart, there was a certainty, like a hidden fear, that something bad could happen.
Because Christmas Day was haunted.
And Christmas was a joke in poor taste, a filler holiday for obtuse people. There was no kind of happiness, peace, or hope.
Because when you lose someone you love on a date like this, you're left with nothing but pain... which personified itself in Bethlehem stars on the tips of coloured trees.
Shoko leaned against the wall behind her, her white coat making her look like a weary guardian angel as she sighed, looking down the corridor.
Christmas Day was haunted, she told herself as the darkness in the distance transformed into two figures she knew all too well.
Because yes, Christmas Day was haunted.
The Yin and the Yang. White and black. Two of the most powerful sorcerers of the entire era, side by side, greeting her with a small smile.
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