{In a relationship and engaged<3, lesbian, she/her}
{I mainly draw and paint animals but trying to teach myself how to draw humans as well}
{ENTJ/INFP depending on the day, professional cat and women lover, bringer of chaos}
♡Boundaries
{No Transphobes, homophobes or literally any -phobes, this is a safe space for everyone! Please be respectful, thank u <3 No minors, this is an adult space!}
{No limits (for now!) except scat, pee or vomit, no pedophilia and no bestiality, of course (ew)}
{Please send request so I have some stuff to write about but I’m currently also busy with my personal life so please don’t stress me about them either:) I will let you know if I’ll write it or not though!}
Shoko who Iikes to have you in her arms when she’s feeIing…stressed. Some anatomical paper she’s Iooking over—and then she’s opening her arms and patting her Iap to tell you to sit on it.Shoko who keeps her eyes on her paper as she dips her fingers down low- down your thighs and at your heating core. She’s pressing a few cold fingers inside as she keeps reading the paper as though nothing’s amiss. Shoko who really needs to make you cIimax four or five times in order to actually get her mind to focus - for the words on the paper to finally make sense. And once they do, she’s pulling out of you and Iicking her fingers clean—“Thanks for the help, dove.”
older toji fushiguro x f!reader (megumi’s girlfriend)
cw : reader (early 20s), toji (mid 50s) age gap, corruption, manipulation, possessiveness, groping under false pretense, toji pretending he’s just helping, full-body weight, slow stretch, cockwarming, noncon-leaning, dumb soft reader trying to impress his cold father
whole night you tried to be sweet. you dressed soft, spoke softer, smiled when you weren’t sure if you should. you wanted to be good. you didn’t want to be loud, or dramatic, or take up space you just wanted to be liked. approved of. especially by him. megumi’s father was older. not just older in years, but in presence. big. serious. ex-fighter type. his voice low and gruff when he spoke, which wasn’t often, and when it was it never sounded like a question. he’d watched you all night with those heavy-lidded, tired eyes, one scar under the lash line, arms crossed over his chest during dinner, thick veins running down to his wrists. his shirt sleeves were rolled and worn thin at the elbows, wedding band dull and snug on a wide, muscled finger.
you tried not to stare.
and when megumi’s mother finally said goodnight, cold and detached, disappearing down the hall with a tired sigh, and megumi stepped out to take a call, you found yourself alone in the kitchen with him.
toji.
you lingered awkwardly at the counter, watching the way he moved. the way he rinsed a glass, wiped it dry, set it down without looking at you.
“the house is really pretty,” you said softly, both hands folded in front of your skirt. “and clean. i love the floor. it’s so shiny.”
he grunted a little under his breath, barely a sound. didn’t even lift his head.
“thank you for letting me come over. i just…” you lowered your eyes. “i know you don’t really like i mean, i know you’re protective. about megumi. i understand. i just wanted to be respectful.”
still nothing.
you hesitated. shifted your weight. tucked your hair behind your ear.
“i’m a good girl. really.”
and then your foot slipped.
too fast. a quiet yelp. your sock slid across the slick kitchen tile and your knees hit the floor, both hands splayed in front of you as you caught yourself with a clumsy grunt. you stayed there, stunned, trying to laugh it off.
but the way you fell how your hips stayed high, skirt rucked up around your waist, panties tight across your ass, the fat of your pussy visibly bulging through the soaked cotton you could feel the air hit your skin.
and you knew he was behind you.
you didn’t hear footsteps. just felt the heat of him. the weight of his stare. the deep, slow breath he took when he realized you weren’t getting up.
“ouch,” you murmured, not even faking it. your palms stung. your thighs shook. “s’floor’s slippery…”
he didn’t answer.
then
“don’t move.”
his voice behind you, low. steady. final.
you froze.
his boots stepped closer. slow. patient. then a creak of knees as he crouched behind you.
you felt his hand press between your shoulder blades. not hard. just heavy. warm.
“you fall like that often?” he muttered.
“n-no… i just…” you tried to shift, but his hand held you in place.
“stay there.”
his other hand came down over the curve of your ass, palming it slowly through the cotton.
you gasped.
“j-just bruised my hands…”
“doesn’t look like it.”
his fingers dragged along the seam of your panties, right between your legs. he wasn’t rough he was slow. methodical. like he was reading something. like he was trained to do this.
“gotta check,” he said.
you swallowed, eyes wide, hair falling into your face as you gripped the tile.
“not… not there…”
“where’d you fall?” his voice didn’t change. didn’t soften. “here?”
his thumb slid along the edge of your pussy, tracing the place where the lips puffed out, warm and soaked through.
“felt your ass hit the floor. thighs, too. you landed forward. pressure goes down. spreads here.”
his hand slipped under the fabric. skin to skin now.
“see how puffy you are?” he murmured. “that’s swelling.”
your lips parted. your breath caught.
“you sure it’s not just… s’just how it is sometimes…”
he grunted again, fingers now cupping the fat of your pussy in one slow press, fingertips dragging between the lips like he was inspecting it. you were soaking. twitching. clenching.
“you think you know your body better than me?” he muttered. “i’m older. i’ve seen this before. i know what swelling looks like.”
you trembled under him, your thighs tightening.
“feels full,” he said. “fevered. no bruising but it’s overworked.”
“i-it’s not…”
“this isn’t sexual,” he said flatly, pulling your panties to the side with two thick fingers and exposing the swollen slit underneath. “it’s pressure. it builds up down here in soft girls. ones who don’t stretch.”
your pussy throbbed.
you felt his fingers trace the edge of your entrance, not pushing in just testing.
“you’re younger. of course you don’t know how to treat it.”
he adjusted behind you.
you heard the belt unbuckle. the zipper drag.
then the heavy weight of something hot and thick pressing against your folds. you flinched.
“toji…”
“shh.”
his hand covered the small of your back again.
“just hold still. i’m gonna press it in slow.”
“but.."
“you fell there, didn’t you?” he said simply. “let me help."
then he pushed.
you gasped. not from pain, but from the stretch. the size. your lips parted wide as the thick, wide head of his cock parted your soaked pussy and began to sink inside, inch by inch, so slowly it made your breath leave your body.
he didn’t lunge. didn’t rut. just pressed.
you felt your walls clench. pulse. flutter. but it was no use. he was bigger. older. trained. your body yielded under the weight of his cock like it was built to take him.
he exhaled through his nose when he bottomed out.
all the way in.
your thighs shook.
you whimpered, high-pitched, soft. your arms trembled. the tile was cold against your knees.
his cock throbbed inside you. you could feel the heat of him pressing into places you didn’t even know could ache.
and he didn’t move.
“just like that,” he murmured behind you. “keep it in.”
you sobbed.
his hand found your wrist and brought it back, guiding your palm to your own ass.
“hold it spread.”
you did.
your fingers clutched your flesh, trembling, as you held yourself open for him, body locked around his cock.
“i’m not fucking you,” he said, voice calm. “i’m treating you.”
you whimpered again.
“you needed this. look how well your body’s taking it.”
he shifts his weight behind you, his hand dragging across your lower back, calm. casual. like he’s adjusting a sleeping body. like this is rest.
“there we go,” he mutters, almost to himself. “you’re holdin’ it fine now. no resistance. pressure’s startin’ to break down.”
you whimper softly, not understanding, still gripping the fat of your own ass with both hands like he told you. your wrists are sore. your arms tremble. the air’s cold against your skin but his cock feels like heat, like it radiates from the center of you now.
his voice drops low behind you again.
“mhm. that’s the problem with girls your age. no one teaches you how to settle.”
he moves inside you just a fraction barely an inch but your whole body jerks from the sensation.
you feel it in your belly.
your eyes roll, lips falling open.
“you get that?” he asks. “where it hit?”
“mm,” he hums again, pleased. “deep. soft. right under the navel. that’s where your tension sits.”
his palm presses there. flat. steady. like he’s feeling you from both sides at once. his cock stays deep. still. pulsing slow and thick into your cervix while his hand weighs the skin above it. your belly’s soft and pliant under his touch, stretched outward slightly from the pressure. he keeps it there like he’s monitoring your pulse.
“you hold a lot for someone so small.”
you make a sound something between a cry and a moan but nothing coherent. your brain feels heavy and stupid now. too much blood between your legs, too much heat pressed around your cervix. you can’t think like this. can’t even ask him why he’s still inside.
he does it for you.
“you’re probably wondering why i’m not moving,” he says, like he’s reading you. “but if i pulled out right now, you’d swell again.”
you blink.
“your muscles are too tight. they’d lock up around nothing. cause bruising. tearing.”
his hand drags up your side, warm and slow, curling under your ribs.
“you’d feel sore tomorrow.”
you nod again, weak.
“we don’t want that,” he murmurs. “this is the safe way.”
he shifts slightly hips rolling forward not thrusting, just settling deeper.
you gasp sharply. feel the stretch drag up into your belly again.
“shhh,” he soothes, leaning over you now. his chest brushes your back. his breath warms the shell of your ear. “you’re doin’ so good. real obedient.”
you’re drooling now. your mouth’s open and your arms are shaking and your cunt keeps fluttering around his cock like it doesn’t want to be empty ever again.
“when’s the last time megumi touched you like this?” he asks softly.
you don’t answer.
his hand strokes down your side again, fingers brushing under your tits, warm and wide and comforting in the worst way.
“he wouldn’t know how,” he says simply. “boys your age don’t understand bodies like this. your body.”
his hips flex again, slow and subtle.
“all soft, no experience, tight in places that need stretchin’. they just shove and sweat and grunt. ruin the nerves.”
his fingers trail down your stomach, thumb grazing the waistband of your panties still hooked on one side where he pulled them aside.
“older men know how to handle it. we’ve seen enough to know where to press.”
he thrusts once.
just once.
deep. slow. filling.
you cry out.
your elbows buckle.
your cheek hits the tile.
and still you keep your hands on your ass.
“there you go,” he murmurs. “don’t fight it.”
he sinks back in, staying deep again.
your face down on their tile floor. arms limp. knees spread. thighs wet and twitching.
your belly is warm. swollen. fluttering with something you don’t understand.
toji’s cock is still buried deep inside you.
not moving. not fucking. just there wide and seated, his hips flush with your ass, like your pussy was made to store it. your muscles gave up a while ago. now you just hold. now you just stay still.
his hand is still on your wrist, reminding you to keep your ass parted, your fingers spread so he can see everything. and when you tremble too hard to hold yourself open, he grips tighter. corrects you. steadies your hand like you’re a stupid little girl who forgot how to obey.
“good,” he murmurs.
you breathe into the floor.
your panties are twisted down one thigh now. his cum is already starting to leak out of your pussy, slow and thick and hot. it drips down the back of your thigh in a thin, wet thread, pooling beneath you.
he finally moves.
not with a thrust. not with warning.
just slides out.
slow. thick. wet.
you feel your hole gasp around it gaping. clenching. trying to hold something that isn’t there anymore.
a sob catches in your throat.
he exhales behind you. not fast. not excited. just calm. like he’s looking over your body and deciding what needs fixing next.
“you’re still full,” he mutters, fingers dragging along your slit, scooping a drip of his cum from your entrance and rubbing it up across your folds. “but the top side’s done.”
you twitch under him, fingers still trying to hold your ass open even though your wrists are shaking. your hole is gaping now. pulsing. leaking.
you start to turn your head to look at him.
but then his hand is on your hip. shifting you. tilting you.
repositioning.
you feel his thumb brush the cleft of your ass.
then lower.
you flinch.
“w-wait…”
his thumb presses softly against your rim now slick with the cum he just rubbed from your pussy. he strokes around the tight circle once. slowly. your whole body locks.
“n-not there..”
“where’s your tension now?” he says plainly.
your mouth stays open.
you shake your head weakly, but his other hand finds your wrist again. grips it. repositions it to your cheek. then places your other hand to match.
“keep spreading.”
you do.
you hold yourself open. again.
your rim exposed. twitching. untouched. tight.
“there we go,” he breathes.
his thumb circles it again. presses a little harder.
“you’ve never been opened here, huh?”
you sob under your breath.
“too many girls think it’s dirty,” he mutters. “but it’s where the worst pressure hides. right beneath the tailbone. low muscle. no space. needs warmth.”
you try to speak but nothing comes out.
“boys your age don’t know that,” he continues. “they fuck the soft parts and leave everything else locked up. no wonder you ache.”
his cock brushes against your ass now.
you feel it again.
the tip nudging higher this time.
not against your pussy.
above it.
you cry out.
“shhh.”
he spits.
you feel it land warm against your rim. his cock pushes forward with slow, steady pressure his palm flattening between your shoulders as your spine arches.
“relax,” he says, low and steady. “you’ll bruise if you tighten.”
“n-not there… m’not..”
“you are now.”
his voice is so quiet. so certain.
you feel the pressure mount. your hole straining. stretching. resisting.
then.
he enters.
your hands slap against your ass.
you cry.
he breathes in deep behind you.
your rim stretches wide, burning around the girth. he moves slow, deeper, pushing inch by inch until your ass gives way and the base of his cock is pressed firm against your backside.
you feel like you can’t breathe.
your pussy is dripping, open and twitching beneath you, raw and aching, leaking his cum in messy, humiliating trails down your thighs.
he stays inside your ass, unmoving.
his hands hold your hips, squeezing softly, settling your body under the weight of him.
“this is the end of the treatment,” he murmurs, voice low, calm, final. “you’ll feel it in your stomach for a while. that means it worked.”
and he stays there.
deep inside you.
while your body shakes.
while you cry softly into your hand.
while his cum leaks out of your gaping pussy below.
and you keep your ass parted.
just like he told you.
i’m sorry for my absence lately. i haven’t been feeling my best mentally, but i’ve seen all your messages and they truly mean so much to me. thank you for your patience and for still being here. i’m slowly coming back, and i missed you💞
wlw doctor!shoko x new nurse!femreader 🪻she makes you cum with her tits🪻
your gloves are too tight. they squeak when you flex your fingers, and the powder makes your palms itch. you’re trying not to look nervous, even though your thighs are sticking together under your scrubs and the overhead lights make everything feel raw and exposed. doctor ieiri doesn’t say much. just pulls the curtains around the exam cot and gestures for you to stand closer.
she’s explaining breast tissue density. something about quadrants and lumps and how most trainees press too hard. you’re nodding, absorbing maybe ten percent of it, because her voice is low and slow and her fingers are already at the top button of her scrub top.
she doesn’t stop speaking when she undoes the first button. or the second. her bra is plain and grey, like she wasn’t planning to show it to anyone. but her tits are full and high, soft against the fabric, the top curves visible as the scrub collar falls open. she pulls her hair back lazily, the latex of her glove snapping once as she reaches down.
then she cups one breast in her hand and starts rubbing it in slow, clinical circles. over the bra at first. demonstrating. her voice is steady.
you’re not breathing right.
she looks at you, then down at her own chest.
this is how you palpate for superficial masses. two fingers, gentle pressure. small circles. spiral inward.
she slips her gloved hand under the bra cup and lifts it.
and then deeper. underneath the tissue. not too hard. the goal is to feel for changes. not to bruise them.
you flinch when she pinches her own nipple lightly. not like it hurts more like she’s proving a point. the latex creaks as she slides her fingers beneath the weight of her tit, still explaining, but slower now. more personal. her other hand gestures vaguely toward your side of the table.
don’t just watch. try it. on me.
your stomach drops. your gloves are already on. you try to pretend this is normal. she said you need to learn. her tit is right there. the curve of it rising out of her palm. her nipple stiff, darker than you imagined, almost purple where it peeks from under her bra.
you reach out. hesitate. she hums, and the sound is soft.
don’t worry. i trust you.
your fingertips make contact. the skin is warm. alive. and even though your hands are covered, you feel everything. the weight. the give. the way her breath catches when you press a little deeper, a little slower, tracing the same spiral path she just showed you.
good girl. she says it like it means something. like it wasn’t just a lesson.
her eyes stay on yours while you rub her tit, the air going thick with something you can’t name. there’s no clipboard. no dummy. no other nurses in the room. just you. her. and the soft sound of glove against flesh.
your fingers move to the buttons of your blouse, slower than you mean them to. the fabric parts and cool air touches your skin. her gaze doesn’t move not upward, not away just stays on you like a second layer of observation. like she’s recording everything without writing it down.
you hesitate. then you slide your hand over your own chest, mirroring the motion she showed you. it feels awkward. you’re too aware of the way your breath shudders, the way her eyes flick down when your fingers press a little too hard.
stop. her voice is firm but gentle.
you go still.
she picks up a pen and writes something on her clipboard. the sound of it scratches through the silence.
you’re going too rough. if there was a tumor there, you would’ve missed it. and caused bruising.
you nod again. try to refocus.
you need to feel with the pads of your fingers, not the tips. and don’t push inward, press just under the surface. like this.
she moves closer. sets her clipboard down. her gloved hand comes up and rests over yours. she guides your fingers in slow, concentric circles across your breast, adjusting your pressure, the direction, the angle. you can feel the warmth of her through the latex. you can feel the control in the way she breathes.
now try again without me. i’ll observe.
you shift your fingers and repeat the motion, your eyes flickering up to see if she’s watching.
she is.
she’s standing just beside you, her arms folded behind her back, her gaze fixed on your chest, not lecherous, not distracted attentive. like she’s grading you. like this is a real test.
she picks the clipboard back up and makes another note.
still not quite right. you’re not reaching the posterior tissue. you’re too shallow. and you skipped the tail of spence.
you swallow. nod again. try to correct yourself. her voice is like a metronome, calm and rhythmical, never cruel, just exact.
if this were a patient, you would’ve missed the most common location for carcinomas.
you whisper a sorry.
don’t apologize. just do better. she glances down again, pen poised. and don’t stiffen up. relax your chest. let your hand mold into the tissue.
you try. you really try.
and she watches, writing slowly, as your hand keeps moving over your own skin, slow and shaky, under the fluorescent lights, her perfume curling around your thoughts like smoke.
you don’t hear her move, but you feel it.
the shift of air behind you. the sound of a stool rolling. then the warmth of her thigh against yours as she sits directly behind you so close you can’t tell where your scrubs end and hers begin. you stiffen, instinctively, but her hands are already curling around your wrists from behind, gloved and warm and steady.
shhh. relax your shoulders.
her voice is low, lips brushing the shell of your ear. not loud enough to echo, just soft enough to stay inside you.
you do as she says. melt a little. her breath smells faintly of coffee and mint gum, and her chest is warm where it presses against your spine, the curve of her tits gently flattening against your back.
you can’t even think. not really. her hands are guiding yours again this time slower, firmer, with no distance between you. your fingers are pressed into your own chest, but her grip shapes the movement, the depth, the way your palm molds into your skin like she’s sculpting your touch.
underneath the tissue, she murmurs, you’re feeling for a mass that won’t move with the skin. her voice is so close you feel it in your throat. something firm. irregular. deep in the tail quadrant. most students skip it.
you nod. your neck brushes her jaw.
don’t just memorize it. learn it in your body. pretend you’re the patient. what does this hand feel like?
she presses down harder. your breath catches.
mmhm. see? too deep, you’d bruise yourself. you need to glide. don’t stab.
she adjusts your wrist again. then guides your hand lower. inward. circles around the nipple.
you can feel your pulse in your throat. in your stomach. in your palm. her tits shift gently against your back every time you breathe in. soft, steady pressure, like she’s pressing knowledge into your body through osmosis. you could cry if you had the space.
you’re learning, right?
her mouth is closer now. her lips barely graze the rim of your ear. her fingers are still moving yours, teaching through touch, voice dripping into your nerves like sedative.
she lifts your hand. lets you try on your own again. watches quietly, breath even, body warm behind you.
when you finish the full spiral across your chest, she hums. then leans back just an inch. not much just enough for your spine to miss the pressure of her.
got it now?
you turn your head slightly, dizzy. there’s heat in your throat. you nod. maybe.
mm. she smiles. lazy. unreadable.
any questions?
you’re about to say no. but she lifts her own hands again low and slow and brings them to her own chest. still behind you. still warm. you feel her shift as she curls her palms around her tits and gives them a slow, nonchalant bounce, like she’s testing their weight.
these are healthy. she says it like she’s bored. like she’s done this a hundred times. she presses them together, then lets them drop against your back again with a soft slap.
she bounces them again, softer this time. you feel her nipples drag faintly across the cotton of your scrubs.
anything feel off to you?
your voice dies in your throat.
no?
she smiles against your ear.
good girl.
you’re still sitting between her thighs. her breath still ghosts against your ear. the clipboard is gone now, forgotten, but her gloves are still on tight and slightly creased from how long she’s been wearing them. they glide too easily over your skin.
she doesn’t tell you she’s going to do it. doesn’t ask. just slips one hand under your open blouse and tugs the cup of your bra down with two fingers. it catches on the swell of your breast for a second before folding beneath it. you flinch.
she hums like she’s annoyed. not at you just at the distraction.
underwire gets in the way. i always hated it.
then her palm cups your bare chest. warm latex. clinical.
you try not to breathe. or maybe you breathe too much. your back lifts slightly into her, and she lets you. her hand spreads wide, covering you, rubbing in small, slow circles. the way she touched herself earlier like this is still part of the same instruction. like you’re still just following along.
you should be able to detect any surface irregularities here. her voice is low, right in your ear. see how the skin moves when you shift pressure?
you nod a little, but your jaw’s tight.
she pinches your nipple.
not hard. but sharp. deliberate. her thumb and forefinger roll it between the gloves, tug once, and then let go.
did you feel that?
you try to say yes. it gets stuck in your throat.
she tuts softly. then gives your tit a little shake. just enough to make the movement bounce through your chest and up your neck like shame.
you need to answer when you’re being instructed.
her hand slides over the top of your breast again. her other arm curls around your waist to hold you still. your thighs press together. everything feels hot.
she pinches again. firmer.
understand?
you whisper yeah.
she breathes out, satisfied.
good. now listen carefully.
she starts circling your tit again, just under the skin. rubbing the areola, the outer edge, then dipping her touch inward. her pace is hypnotic. cruel. steady. she narrates every motion.
palpate. assess. isolate.
every few seconds, she gives it another light shake. like she’s checking for density. like you’re just another patient. just another body.
but then she leans in closer, her tits pushing against your back again, warm and heavy through your thin scrubs.
you’re very responsive. that’s a good trait in a nurse. makes your patients feel safe.
her hand hasn’t stopped moving. she’s cupping. tugging. molding you in her palm like you’re meant to be handled like this.
you’ll get the hang of it. she squeezes gently. one last bounce. then stills.
just stop freezing up when you’re touched. you’re not glass.
you nod. her fingers rub your nipple in approval.
mm. that’s better.
her fingers still. then withdraw slowly.
you almost breathe again. almost.
but then she lifts her hand in front of your face and starts peeling the glove off.
snaps it at the wrist. pulls it tight like skin. peels it down finger by finger. the latex curls as it slips off, slick and translucent. her bare skin appears inch by inch cool-toned, clean, unmarred. you watch without meaning to.
then the other.
she drops them on the metal tray beside the cot. the sound is soft. anticlimactic. but your stomach turns.
her fingertips are cool when they land again. not glove-cool. human cool. body-warmth-under-the-surface cool. soft. no friction. no barrier. just her and you. your blouse still open. bra still tugged low. your tit still warm from where she was touching it before. her palm replaces the shape. smooth. softer than you expected. curved just enough to fit around the round of your chest.
mm. she murmurs. like it’s just data. like she’s observing something interesting and not letting her hand sink down to cup your whole breast.
you feel that?
you nod too quickly. too small.
good. you need to learn texture. latex dulls pressure response.
her thumb circles your nipple. not fast. not teasing. just slow and methodical. like she’s testing the response time. like she’s clocking how long it takes you to go still again.
this is what a healthy breast feels like. she lifts it slightly. then lets it settle again in her palm. weight is normal. warmth is normal. slight swelling before menstruation normal.
her other arm curls around your waist again. she shifts her body closer. you feel the weight of her tits press into your back again. this time it’s skin. no gloves. no barrier. just her chest molding into you, and her voice in your ear, and her hand between your tits.
you’re learning.
she whispers it like it’s a fact. her fingers dip again, cupping your breast from underneath and squeezing gently. you shudder. her thumb flicks upward and drags along the soft slope until it’s circling your nipple again.
sensitive response is a good sign.
your knees press together. your fingers twitch at your sides. she doesn’t mention it.
some tissue is naturally denser, depending on age and body type. but yours is… very receptive.
she pinches your nipple again. slower this time. rolling it softly. her breath is so close your ear burns.
you feel your body lean back into her. you can’t stop it. she says nothing.
she cups you with both hands now. cradles your tits like she’s weighing them. then lifts them. gives them a slow, deliberate bounce in her palms.
just checking for ligament tension.
her nipples brush your back again. you’re not sure if it’s accidental anymore.
you’re doing very well. she says it like a checklist.
you’re still frozen. your voice is gone. your pulse is screaming in your neck.
she leans closer, cheek brushing yours, and breathes.
do you want to learn more?
her hands are still moving. slow circles. firmer now. both palms massaging your chest, skin warm and dry and smooth, no gloves, no hurry. her voice hasn’t changed. soft. steady. instructor-sweet.
she presses the sides of your breasts inward, molding them against each other, then lets them fall again with a quiet, natural bounce. your breath stutters. her chin rests lightly against your shoulder now.
you feel good pressure here?
you nod. it’s barely audible. but you feel it leave your throat.
she hums again. warm approval.
you’re supposed to notice feedback. if it’s uncomfortable, painful, tender. or pleasurable. that tells us about the nerve response.
your lips part slightly. your thighs squeeze together without thinking.
and then she brushes your nipple again. softly. right across the tip. thumb to skin. then rolls it again, slow, slow, slow.
it feels good.
you whisper it before you can stop yourself. your voice breaks halfway through. there’s heat in your stomach, in your chest, crawling up your spine.
she doesn’t stop.
mm. does it?
her tone doesn’t shift. her fingers don’t pause. her body is still pressed behind yours like nothing’s wrong. but her head tilts slightly, and her cheek brushes your temple.
it’s okay. that just tells me there’s strong nerve connectivity between your thoracic dermatomes and your pelvic floor.
she squeezes your tits again. palms rubbing the undersides, gentle and rhythmic, almost comforting.
so. when it feels good like this..
her hand stills. her voice drops even lower.
..does your pussy get wet?
your stomach drops. your breath skips.
but she’s already moving on. brushing the edge of her fingers under the curve of your chest again like nothing happened. her voice keeps going. no hesitation.
you don’t have to answer. that’s personal. i shouldn’t have asked.
a pause. like she’s letting it hang.
i apologize. that wasn’t professional. i’m only checking sensory reactions for training purposes.
her fingers slide back up. find your nipples again. roll them softly, back and forth, slow like clock hands.
but if you are wet she says it like an afterthought it could be a very healthy sign. increased lubrication usually correlates with low anxiety and high touch-receptivity.
her palm presses flat over your tit again. she squeezes once. and lets it rest there.
that means you’re a very… well-regulated learner.
her breath lands against your ear. warm. close. knowing.
that makes me happy.
she keeps her hands steady. no escalation. no change in tone. just the slow, warm drag of skin on skin, gliding over your tits like she’s checking for fever. her thumbs roll your nipples again slow and flat then pause.
mm. they’re stiff now. good sign.
she says it like she’s talking to herself. just a quiet conclusion, barely touching the air. her fingertips return to your sternum. slide outward. up. down. deliberate paths across your chest.
your breath’s gotten shallow. i can feel it in your diaphragm. lungs expanding fast. not quite hyperventilating but sensitive.
her hand drifts lower again. presses under your tit. lifts. settles the weight again.
that means your nervous system’s in arousal response. sympathetic stimulation. not panic. something else.
her other hand circles your nipple again. she brushes her knuckles lightly across it. then presses her thumb flat against the tip and holds it there.
this? this is involuntary. see how it stays hard even when there’s no stimulation? that’s endocrine. your body’s releasing oxytocin already.
her palm warms against you. still holding. still present. her chest shifts against your back when she breathes.
i haven’t touched anywhere else. and you’re already showing full mammary response. are you aware of that?
you try to say something. but your throat locks. her hand smooths up your ribcage. rubs gently over the side of your breast again. then returns.
your spine’s reacting too. the way you keep pressing your back into me. that’s not learned behavior. it’s instinctive. reflexive.
she pauses. her hand flattens over your chest. her fingers stretch. wide. calm.
you’re responding to pressure. to proximity. to skin. but not vocal stimulation. you’re completely silent.
she leans in again. her cheek near yours. her lips hover just behind your jaw.
that tells me you’re a tactile learner.
she squeezes gently. both tits. slow. firm. enough to make your stomach flutter.
mm. and you’re holding still now. not frozen. you’re yielding.
her hands shift again. her thumbs stroke over your nipples, just once, just enough.
you’re making it very easy to teach you.
her mouth is near your ear now. not loud. not whispering. just close.
you’re flushed. capillaries dilating. cheeks, neck, chest. it’s visible. responsive. i haven’t touched below the waist and your skin temperature’s risen by at least two degrees.
you blink, slow. your vision’s blurred. you’re too aware of everything her hands still cupping your tits, the soft pressure of her chest against your back, the tiny space between your thighs that feels too wet now, too warm.
when the nipples are this hard without friction, she continues, that usually means blood has already started circulating toward the pelvic floor. you’re vascularizing. your body’s preparing for penetration even without external stimuli.
her fingers roll over your chest again. she squeezes gently. lifts. lets them drop.
your clit is likely already engorged. even if you’re not aware of it.
you suck in a breath. it catches in your throat.
mm. see that? sharp inhale. reflexive. another sympathetic nervous sign. we’re past mild arousal now. your whole body’s entering full receptivity.
you can’t move. her voice is behind your ear. her tits are soft against your back. her hand drops lower.
so now.
she presses her palm over your stomach. then lets it slide down. lower. slow.
..i’m going to test your arousal threshold.
your thighs clench instinctively, but her hand’s already between them. warm, slow, flat. she cups you through your scrubs, through your underwear, and presses in. not rubbing. not groping. just firm, complete pressure over your pussy. her hand molds to it. the shape. the heat. the twitch.
mm.
she says it so softly.
then she shifts. lowers herself behind you. one hand stays cupped over your cunt. the other slides around your hip, pulling you back, adjusting you. and then her tits are under you now. pressing up between your thighs. soft and full and heavy, one nestled under the seam of your ass, the other dragging upward between your legs. her chest sandwiches your pussy from below and above, heat and weight and skin, and her hand’s still there too rubbing in a steady slow rhythm.
you’re soaking.
she says it like a weather report. like it’s just something that’s happening.
your breath stutters. your back arches slightly. you feel like you’re going to drown.
she tilts her face beside yours again.
your clit’s pulsing. you feel that? that tension? means the erectile tissue’s fully swollen. your underwear’s damp. thighs are sticky. that’s your body preparing for vaginal expansion. automatic. involuntary.
you whisper it without meaning to.
i’m embarrassed.
she doesn’t flinch.
hm. that’s normal. common symptom of rapid-onset arousal in clinical settings. heightened self-awareness. hormonal.
her hand strokes your cunt slowly, palm to mound, while her tits shift slightly between your thighs.
but you shouldn’t be. i’m just observing.
her voice drops lower, softer.
you’re not doing anything wrong. your body’s just… telling the truth.
her fingers return to your waistband. slow. she hooks one finger beneath the elastic, tugs it outward, away from your body, then lets it snap back with a soft flick.
her voice doesn’t rise. doesn’t shift. just sinks deeper into your ear, right into the edge of your skull. her other hand glides beneath the fabric, flat palm pressing over your mound again. this time, nothing between. no scrubs. no gloves. just skin on skin. your breath shudders.
you’re already spreading. i can feel it. the heat. the texture. the way your lips part when i press here.
she glides her middle finger downward. between your folds. just once. barely a brush.
you’re twitching. that’s the clitoral hood contracting. she says it like it’s a quiz. automatic response to contact. standard. completely expected.
you let out a quiet sound, broken and small.
shhh. don’t stress. i’m here to help you learn.
then she hooks both thumbs into the sides of your panties and slides them down. over your hips. slow, slow. your skin catches on the elastic. you lift your thighs without thinking. the air hits your cunt like shame.
her breath doesn’t change. her hands ease the panties down your legs and off, folded neatly and set aside like a piece of gauze.
and then her tits are back.
warm. full. real.
she shifts her chest forward, angles herself until one breast slips up under your pussy, rising to press into you from below. soft pressure. her nipple dragging across your inner thigh. then the other tit follows, pressed in from above, sandwiching your cunt between them like it’s nothing. like it’s procedure.
you’re very swollen. she murmurs it directly beside your ear. lips brushing the shell.
this is vascular congestion. blood is trapped in the pelvic floor. this is why you’re pulsing. do you feel that? against me?
you’re shaking. she squeezes her tits tighter around your pussy. a soft, smothering pressure. your clit presses into her skin. her breath is warm. she keeps speaking.
your inner labia are folding outward. that’s natural. your clitoral shaft’s extended. and here..
she shifts her chest. just enough to drag both nipples along your cunt again. one catches on your clit. you jerk.
mm. hypersensitivity. you’re passing the arousal threshold. but not in distress. that’s good. we can continue.
she lifts one tit slightly. presses it higher. lets the other sink low, dragging slow heat through your folds. her breath is in your ear again.
your body’s begging to be stimulated. every pulse says so. every contraction. every twitch.
you’re dripping now. down her skin. down her chest. onto her stomach. she doesn’t comment on it.
instead she whispers:
this is how a healthy pussy reacts to safe, continuous contact. open. soft. wet.
she squeezes once more.
ready to be touched.
you’re not sure when your thighs started shaking.
her tits are still wrapped around your pussy. soft heat. skin to skin. she keeps shifting them dragging one up and the other down, alternating, rubbing you between the plush weight of her chest with practiced, impossible rhythm. your clit catches on her nipple every third stroke. it’s not even friction. it’s pressure. soft, smothering, intentional.
you’re so wet you can hear it now. slick against her skin. your folds slipping over her breast. your thighs squeezing down hard, but she doesn’t let you close. she presses her own legs wider knees planted on either side of you and keeps you open. exposed. perfect.
mm. you’re such a good girl.
her voice melts into your neck. soft. unfazed. like this is just part of her notes.
you’re receiving everything i give you. no resistance. no rejection. just pure, obedient absorption.
her tits bounce again. this time harder. she leans forward slightly, and the weight of them slams into your pussy with a thick, wet sound. your whole body jerks.
good response.
she hums. rubs her breasts up again. catches your clit between the curves. lets the slick drag her nipples.
you learn better through your body. that’s clear.
one hand slips up to your chest your own this time. she cups both your tits with strong hands and shakes them. not cruel. just enough to make them bounce under her fingers. then she pinches one nipple, rolls it, pulls. her other hand presses flat to your belly and squeezes.
tight here. mm. uterus is contracting. you’re close.
you whimper. your stomach tightens. your hips roll.
she slaps her thigh into your pussy.
you jerk. cry out.
there we go. that’s my good little student. my smart, wet, receptive girl.
her thighs press in again. the soft meat of them crashing against your mound, splashing your slick across your skin and hers. she grinds a little this time. heavy contact. the underside of her tit grinding your clit while her thigh slaps your entrance.
you start to tremble.
that’s it. don’t stop it. let it happen. it’s just a natural nervous release.
she keeps moving. keeps rubbing. her whole body focused on the rhythm. her tits sliding wet and hot across your cunt. her thighs slapping. her hands squeezing your chest. your stomach. your hips. like she’s shaping you.
i’m going to grade you the highest nurse in the hospital, baby.
her voice goes sweet. deadly.
none of the others learn like you do. none of them feel like you.
you cry out.
your hips jolt once, twice, then lock thighs stiff, mouth open, stomach tight as the wave rips through you. your pussy pulses between her tits, clit throbbing, slick pouring down her skin. she doesn’t stop. keeps rubbing. keeps slapping her thigh in. your orgasm hits harder, makes your back arch, your toes curl. your whole body seizes under her.
This is Yuki Tsukumo —Special Grade Sorcerer,the only woman in JJK to achieve that rank,and the one sorcerer Gojo himself respects as an equal.She didn’t play the game.She flipped the board.---
💥 1. WHO IS SHE, REALLY?
Yuki is one of only four officially recognized Special Grade sorcerers. But unlike Gojo or Yuta, she doesn’t hang around HQ or train students.She’s a free spirit. A field agent. An outsider with an inside hand.She was the first to ask the big questions:> “Why does cursed energy even exist?Why are we okay with a system built on fear and death?”And instead of just theorizing, she moved.She plotted. She developed counter-solutions.Yuki didn’t just want to fight curses —she wanted to end the cycle permanently.---
🧠 2. WHAT SHE ACTUALLY DID
Let’s talk real deeds, not headcanons.✅ She proposed nullifying cursed energy by altering the human body. (This is NOT metaphorical. She was researching it scientifically.)✅ She trained Aoi Todo. That unhinged legend with the clap? That’s Yuki’s work. His technique? His brutal attitude? All cultivated by her.✅ She kept tabs on Kenjaku and challenged his entire philosophy. She did treat Choso with humanity when no one else would.She acknowledged his pain. She respected his grief.Not a mother, but a fellow curse-bearer who saw him as more than an experiment.And that? Means something.---
🧬 3. WHY SHE’S SCARIER THAN ANY CURSE USER
Yuki’s cursed technique?“Star Rage” (Bom Ba Ye) —she manipulates her mass at will.Imagine this:You’re looking at a beautiful woman in a kimono and heels...and suddenly she punches like a 20-ton asteroid.She crushes cursed spirits with the force of collapsing planets — all while making it look casual.Then she tops that with her cursed spirit companion, Garuda —a literal cursed death machine that can tear through dimensions.She’s not flashy.She’s fundamentally overwhelming.---
🪨 4. SHE DOESN’T BREAK RULES — SHE BREAKS REALITY
Yuki doesn’t follow the “hero” path. She questions everything:Why do humans need cursed energy?Why does the jujutsu system breed trauma?Why do we keep fighting instead of changing?Her presence alone forces everyone to confront the rot in jujutsu society.And when she finally entered the battlefield against Kenjaku, she didn’t monologue.She said:> “After I beat the shit out of you, I’ll listen.”No posturing. No patience. Just pressure.---
☠️ 5. HER DEATH? A CURSE MARK ON THE SYSTEM ITSELF
Kenjaku may have “won” that battle — but barely.He had to use every trick in the book.Yuki pushed him to the absolute limit, forcing him to rely on Tengen’s help and spatial hax just to survive.Her final attack — a black hole-level mass collapse —wasn't just powerful.It was irreversible.She tore a hole in the fabric of jujutsu reality as her last act.No begging. No regrets. No loose ends.Just pressure, sacrifice, and defiance.She didn’t die to be a tragedy.She died to make a statement.
shoko doesn’t say anything at first. she just pushes your face into the pillows and grabs your hips up, humming to consider something heavy.
face down ass up that's the way she like to fuck!
you whimper a little, toes curling in anticipation, and that’s when she smacks your ass — once, just to hear you gasp.
“needy little bitch,” she drawls, dragging her nails down your back. “you’ve been grinding on me all night and now you’re acting shy?”
you try to answer but she’s already parting your thighs, already running two fingers over your hole, already laughing a little at the way you're dripping onto the sheets.
“god, you’re soaking! and i haven’t even put it in yet.”
you’re whining now, shamelessly so, rutting back against her hand, begging her to just fuck you already. she obliges — slowly, cruelly, sliding the strap deep inch by inch.
“mm, that’s it,” she murmurs, thrusting it in deeper. “take it, my perfect girl.”
your body shakes when she starts moving, hips rolling in that lazy, rushy way that makes your toes curl and your mind go blank. she grabs your waist and pulls you back onto her cock harder, groaning low in your ear.
“look at you,” she pants. “fucked dumb and i’ve barely even started.”
you’re babbling something — maybe her name, maybe just begging. she doesn’t care. she grips your hair and pulls your head back so she can watch your fucked out face in the mirror.
“tell me who you belong to,” she demands, voice a little rough. either because of the rough day she had at work or just to make you squirm some more.
“y-you,” you cry. “only you—!”
“damn right.”
and she starts fucking into you. she already knows you and your body, your every twitch and gasp, every soft place that needs to be held and every aching spot that begs to be ruined. she knows it. she doesn’t thrust carelessly - no, every roll of her hips is precise, controlled, and highly angled just right to grind the strap against your tender, aching spot inside you.
“shit,” she laughs low, dragging her nails up your sides to itch you lightly. “you’re this wet already? what, you gonna squirt for me or something?”
you can’t even speak — only moan, only beg, only take it.
“yeah?” she grins, breath hot at your ear. “or maybe you're gonna cum just from getting fucked in the ass like this? yeaahhh..”
your eyes roll back. your legs shake. and then she reaches down, hand sliding under your belly until her fingers find your clit to rub — and that’s it.
you cry out as you cum hard, body arching, back flexing, making a sticky mess all over her strap and your thighs. your cum drips down between your legs, hot and wet and shamefully loud every time she thrusts back in.
“fucking hell,” she groans, watching it happen to be high off the sight. “you came so hard for me.”
Shoko Ieiri likes to wear high heels every now and then; they suit her small but soft, sensual figure. She's not used to wearing them though, so she starts to kick them around after just a couple of hours.
Kento likes her with heels like anyone else, but is overwhelmed by a weird mix of tenderness and desire when she takes them off.
