#Hand Sanitization Monitoring

[abbotjack]

Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have

pairing : dr. jack abbot x resident!reader (afab!reader)

summary : The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury. (Lowkey inspired by Big Love by Fleetwood Mac—because obviously.)

warnings/content : trauma aftermath (mass casualty event), hospital setting, attending x resident dynamic, mutual pining, emotional repression, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, verbal rejection, explicit sexual content (f!receiving, protected sex), semi-public/backseat sex, emotionally loaded dialogue, swearing

word count : 4,212

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : I am just so obsessed with Abbot, like oml I do not need a new hyperfixation at this point of the semester but here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this!

There’s blood on your forearms.

Not a lot—just the dried trace of a life you couldn’t save, stuck to your skin even after the first scrub. You’ve already changed out of your soiled gloves and gown. You sanitized twice. But still, you scrub again, because your hands won’t stop shaking and focusing on the motion keeps you upright.

The shooting at Pitt Fest has left the trauma bay soaked with the sound of screams you can’t forget. The floors were slick. Supplies ran out faster than anyone could track. You can still hear the rhythmic buzz of the trauma pager, the overhead call for more gurneys, the shrill monitor that never quieted until it did.

Your white coat is somewhere in the hallway—discarded and stained, a casualty of triage. There’s a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, just beneath your eye. It’s from when the mother of the boy thrashed in panic, her elbow colliding with your face. You didn’t notice it at first, not until someone pointed it out with a grimace. Said it was turning purple, already swelling. Said you should ice it. You didn’t.

You press harder on your hands.

Jack Abbot hasn’t spoken to you since he snapped orders across the gurney three hours ago, voice razor-sharp, eyes like flint. He’d taken over compressions without blinking. His personal protection gear streaked in blood. His shoulders set like stone. His voice—steady, calm, cold.

You’d hesitated.

Just a second. Maybe less. But he’d seen it.

“You’re too shallow—switch out. Now.”

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stepped in, hands already moving, chest compressing with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

He moves like he did on the field. You’ve heard stories—Jack the soldier, desert heat in his lungs, fingers suturing flesh with a kind of brutal grace. You’ve seen glimpses of it before, but tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t a glimpse. It was a full transformation.

You backed away, stunned into silence. Not because he took over. But because of how he did it. Like you were a liability. Like you didn’t belong.

You told yourself it was adrenaline. It wasn’t.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

You keep your eyes on the mirror—don’t move, don’t breathe—until his reflection comes into focus beside yours.

His eyes go straight to your cheek.

The bruise.

His posture changes. Shoulders tense, mouth tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of something behind his eyes is unmistakable. Not surprise. Not guilt.

Anger. Not at you—but at the fact that you’re hurt.

He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter. His eyes flick to your cheekbone again. The bruise is deeper now, ugly in the fluorescent light.

“You paused,” he says finally, voice low.

You dry your hands slowly. The paper towel crinkles between your fingers.

You turn, sharp. “I froze because I’ve never had to treat a gunshot wound in a fifteen-year-old while their mother screamed in my ear.”

You don’t stop.

“She was grabbing my sleeves, pulling at my hands, sobbing and shouting his name—over and over. She kept trying to touch his face. I could barely see where the blood was coming from. I wasn’t even sure where to start.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “That’s what the job is.”

You laugh, and it sounds like it’s clawing its way out of your chest. “Don’t lecture me on what the job is, Jack. I’ve been here three years. I know what this place does to people.”

His jaw tightens. There’s something in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or guilt. You can’t tell with him. You never can.

He pushes off the counter.

“You think I don’t know what it does to people?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he steps closer, the air between you tight enough to snap.

“You think I wanted you in the bay?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

Jack’s voice dips lower. “I saw your name on the call sheet. I almost pulled you off rotation.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t get to do that.”

He’s close now—too close. He smells like hospital soap and something else beneath it—deep, expensive cologne that cuts through the sterile air. Teakwood. Mahogany. That warm, slightly spiced scent that always lingers a second too long after he leaves a room. Clean. Controlled. Intentionally chosen. Just like him.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart,” he says.

Your heart slams. The words hit harder than they should, because they’re the first ones he’s offered that sound like anything real. Not just protocol. Not just war-worn discipline.

“I already have,” you whisper. “And you didn’t notice. Not when I told you how I felt. Not when you shut me down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

He swallows hard. His posture stiffens.

“You didn’t even look at me after that,” you say, voice shaking. “I told you I had feelings for you, and you acted like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Like caring about you was a mistake I should be embarrassed by.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

You shake your head, eyes burning. “For you, it’s easier to pretend this thing—whatever it is between us—doesn’t exist than admit you’re scared of something real.”

You don’t have to spell it out. You’ve seen the way he distances himself—the way he locks things down before anyone even gets close. You’ve felt it.

The silence now is a living thing. Loud. Brutal. The air is laced with too many unsaid things.

You can feel it—beneath the calm, beneath the scrub shirt and military precision—Jack is burning.

But he still doesn’t reach for you.

So you do what you always do.

You leave before he can stop you.

You don’t get far.

The trauma bay doors hiss shut behind you and the night air hits your face like a slap—cool, sharp, soaked in hospital exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You pace once. Twice. You don’t cry.

You breathe. You think you might scream. Instead, you lean back against the cold exterior wall of the hospital and close your eyes. And there it is—the echo of his voice, thick with something too raw to name.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart.”

But it wasn’t just tonight that gutted you. It started before. When you said too much and he gave you nothing.

It was three days ago. Late enough that the hospital had gone quiet—the kind of quiet where your thoughts get too loud, and nothing feels safe to admit.

You were both at the nurses’ station. Jack sat at one of the desktops, the screen glowing pale blue in front of him, his fingers motionless on the trackpad. You were across from him, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other absently toying with a pen.

You’d been circling it for weeks—maybe longer. This thing between you. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the quiet, in the unspoken, in the almosts. In the way your skin prickled when he entered a room. The way air shifted when he stood behind you—close, but never touching.

It was in the way his gaze found you during rounds, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The way his voice dipped when he said your name, soft and unreadable—like a secret slipping between his teeth. The way your breath caught when he brushed past you in the hallway, the fabric of his scrubs grazing yours, sending a bolt of something electric down your spine.

It was professional. It had to be. But it never felt neutral.

Every look felt like contact. Every silence, a dare.

The tension wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It sat just under the surface—constant, quiet, undeniable. Like gravity. Like something pulling you toward him whether you wanted it or not.

But it wasn’t just you.

Jack watched you, too. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he was trying not to want you and failing anyway. He always looked away too slowly. Cleared his throat when your laugh caught him off guard. Said your name differently than everyone else—lower, rougher, like he was holding it in his mouth too long.

There were moments you caught him looking at you like he was already sorry for it.

Like he knew what it would cost if he gave in.

There were nights you couldn’t sleep without replaying the way his hand brushed yours, or the heat of his body behind you in the elevator, or the flicker of something in his eyes before he shut it down again.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

He wasn’t supposed to let you.

But you did.

And he did.

And both of you kept pretending it wasn’t real—even as it took up more and more space inside your chest.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… happened.

“I care about you,” you’d said, voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just need you to know.”

Jack didn’t look up. Not at first. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw set like someone had flipped a switch inside him. When he did meet your eyes, it wasn’t with warmth. It was with something colder. Sharper. Like he was bracing for impact.

“This can’t happen,” he’d said. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was reciting a rule he’d memorized a long time ago. “You’re a resident. I’m your attending. You know that.”

You’d nodded, tried to smile, tried to make it easy for him. Tried to act like it didn’t sting.

But he kept going.

“And even if you weren’t… it’s not a good idea.”

He hesitated. Just a second. But enough.

"You don’t know me," he added, eyes hard. "You think you do, but you don’t. You see what I let you see. And that version of me—that's not real."

And then, like he needed to twist the knife just to make sure it stuck :

“Whatever you think this is—I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”

You knew, even as he said it—he didn’t mean it. Not like that. But he wanted it to hurt. Needed it to. Like if he made you hate him, it would make walking away easier. That was the part that stayed with you.

You hadn’t cried then. Not in front of him. You nodded again, eyes dry, throat burning, and told him you understood. But you hadn’t said anything else. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask him why.

And he hadn’t offered.

Not an apology. Not an explanation.

He hadn’t said a single word to you since—not until today, when his voice finally cut through the chaos to order you off the boy’s chest. Cold. Clinical. Like nothing had ever passed between you at all. Like you were just another resident.

But you’d felt it. In the way he walked into a room and wouldn’t look at you. In the way his voice would hitch when you brushed past. In the way his fists curled tight at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but refused to let himself.

He was trying to be cold. Trying to keep the line drawn.

And still—still—he’d almost pulled you from trauma rotation tonight.

You open your eyes. The ache in your chest feels ancient. Familiar.

Big love. That’s what it was. The kind that never had a chance to grow, but still bloomed under your skin like it owned you.

And Jack? Jack let it die before it ever had the chance to live.

It’s been a week since Pitt Fest.

The hospital has started to settle into something like normal, but you haven’t. You still flinch when a trauma page comes over the comms. Still hear that mother’s voice, shrill and ragged. Still feel the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing yours when he took over compressions. That wasn’t the moment you broke, but it was the moment you knew you couldn’t pretend anymore.

So tonight, you go out. Against your better judgment.

Whitaker begged you. Santos threatened to show up at your apartment with a bottle of tequila. King and Mohan promised only one drink, just one, come on, you need it. Javadi was supposed to come too, but she bailed last minute—something about studying for boards and not wanting to get caught at another bar underage.

So now it’s the five of you crammed into a booth at this dive bar near the hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, the one with sticky floors and pool tables missing half the balls. The music is too loud, but the company is easy. Whitaker is doing some elaborate retelling of a patient who tried to fake a heart attack to get out of paying his copay. Mohan is crying from laughter. You’re sipping something sweet and strong and trying to let it all melt away.

It’s working.

Until you see him.

Jack.

He’s across the bar, half-shadowed under the neon sign, nursing a beer like he doesn’t want to be seen. But he’s not alone.

Robby’s with him. Of course he is.

They’re leaned in close, not talking much. Just sitting. Watching.

No—he’s watching.

You.

Your drink stills halfway to your mouth. Your stomach twists, not violently, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Jack doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Just holds your gaze like it hurts him. Like it should.

You force yourself to blink, to laugh at something Whitaker says. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking. You pretend you don’t feel your entire body tuning itself to the sound of his silence.

He rejected you. You know that.

But the way he’s looking at you now? It doesn’t feel like rejection.

It feels like longing.

And maybe that’s worse.

You down the rest of your drink in one go. It burns less than it should.

There’s a man at the bar. Mid-forties, maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Expensive watch. He catches your glance and offers a smile that’s a little too polished, a little too practiced—but you return it anyway. Because he’s older. Because he’s sharp-eyed. Because he reminds you, in all the wrong ways, of someone else.

You excuse yourself from the table before anyone can stop you.

You take your drink, your heels, and your broken pride, and you slide onto the stool next to him.

Jack sees. Of course he does.

You make sure he does.

“Can I buy you another?” the man asks, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile. “Yeah. Why not?”

You laugh too easily. Let your shoulder brush his as he leans in. He says something you don’t hear because your pulse is thundering in your ears.

Across the bar, Jack’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around his beer bottle, the label peeling beneath his thumb.

You tilt your head back and laugh again—this time louder, brighter, crueler.

Because if you’re going to hurt, you want him to feel it too.

And he does.

You can see it in the way he breaks eye contact first.

You can see it in the way Robby says something and Jack doesn’t respond.

You can see it in the way he stands up a minute later, like he can’t stand to watch anymore.

But he doesn’t leave.

He moves.

Across the bar. Slow, deliberate. Controlled rage in every step.

Robby calls after him, eyebrows lifted, confused—but Jack doesn’t answer.

He stops a foot away from you, the stranger mid-sentence, and you feel it before you even look up—heat rolling off of him like a storm about to break.

“Can I talk to you?” Jack says. Voice low. Measured. Barely held together.

You arch an eyebrow, take a long sip of your drink. “Busy.”

The man beside you glances between the two of you, sensing something sharp in the air. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Jack’s eyes are locked on yours. Not the stranger’s. Not anyone else’s.

“You need to come with me,” he says, lower now. “Now.”

And it’s not a command. It’s not even a plea. It’s desperation wrapped in control, fraying at the edges.

You consider refusing. You want to.

But you rise anyway.

And follow him out the door.

The air outside is colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just him.

Jack doesn’t speak right away. He walks fast—toward the lot behind the bar, where his car is parked beneath a crooked streetlamp. When he finally stops, it’s with his back to you. One hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair. The kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.

You follow, heart hammering. He turns.

“What the hell was that?”

Your arms fold across your chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

His eyes flash. “The guy. The flirting. You were trying to—”

“Trying to what?” you snap. “Move on? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Jack exhales, sharp and uneven. “You don’t get it.”

“No, Jack. I really don’t. You said this couldn’t happen. You told me to forget it, forget you. And then you stare at me like that? Like you’ve got any right to be angry?”

“I’m not angry,” he bites out. “I’m—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretches. You can hear the distant music from inside, laughter spilling through the front entrance. But here? It’s just you and him, and everything you haven’t said.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” he says finally, voice frayed. “Push you away. I just… I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”

Your voice lowers. “Why would you want it to stop?”

He steps forward once. Close, but not touching. His hands stay at his sides like he’s afraid of what will happen if he reaches for you.

“Because it scares the shit out of me,” Jack says. “Because you matter more than you should. And because I don’t trust myself not to fuck that up.”

Your heart twists. “So instead you say things to make me hate you?”

“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier for both of us.”

You laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s not.”

His voice breaks. “I know.”

You look at him. Really look at him. There’s pain there—old and festering. The kind that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he’s been dragging behind him since the war, since before.

You take a breath. “So what now?”

Jack steps even closer. You can feel the heat of him again. His eyes drop to your mouth, then snap back up like he’s furious with himself for even looking.

“You came out here,” you say.

“I didn’t want to watch someone else touch you,” he admits.

“Then don’t make me someone you can’t have.”

There’s a beat.

And then he’s kissing you.

Rough. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for years and it’s finally breaking loose. You answer it without hesitation, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him down like you’re daring him to finally stop pretending.

He presses you back against the car, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His mouth is on yours—hungry, ragged—like if he slows down, this will disappear.

“Back seat,” he growls. His voice scrapes through your chest.

He opens the rear door behind you, hand never leaving your hip, guiding you with him. You climb in first, crawling across the backseat with your heart in your throat. By the time you turn, he’s already sliding in after you, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid, final thud.

He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you again, harder this time, like his life depends on it. You climb into his lap, straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed close and flushed with heat. He shoves your coat off your shoulders, pushes your shirt up. You tug his top over his head and toss it somewhere in the car.

“God,” he mutters, eyes raking over you. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does.

He unhooks your bra with one hand—like muscle memory—his mouth already on your chest, teeth and tongue working in tandem. His other hand splays across your lower back, holding you close as your hips grind down into his.

You’re panting. He’s shaking.

You reach between you, working open his belt, and feel him throb beneath the fabric. Jack shudders when your hand slips inside, groaning low into your skin.

“Wallet,” he mutters against your neck, voice breathless. “Inside pocket.”

You grab it. Your fingers move fast, practiced by adrenaline. You find the condom tucked there, tear it open, and hand it to him. His eyes meet yours as he rolls it on—slow, deliberate. Controlled, even now.

You brace yourself on his shoulders and lower down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you.

The stretch burns in the best way. You gasp. He swears.

You don’t move. Not yet.

He kisses your jaw, your collarbone. Holds your hips steady with both hands like he’s savoring the feel of you. And when you start to move—hips rolling slow and deep—he leans his head back and groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he breathes.

You ride him hard, your rhythm building, mouths colliding again and again between moans. His grip bruises your thighs as he thrusts up to meet every movement, his control slipping with every second you stay on top of him.

Then suddenly—he shifts.

His arms wrap under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts you.

You gasp as he turns, guiding you onto your back across the seat. He stays inside you the whole time, never letting go, until your back hits the cool leather and he’s towering over you, braced between your legs.

“You okay?” he asks, breath ragged.

You nod, already whining for more.

Then he starts to move again—deep, relentless, rocking the car with every thrust.

He shifts, bracing one hand beneath your thigh to push your leg higher, opening you up to take him deeper. The angle hits something devastating—you cry out, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

Jack leans down, mouth hot at your neck, breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked and raw. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jack.”

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip for leverage—then slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit and start to circle, firm and focused, his pace never faltering.

It sends you over the edge.

You break apart beneath him—back arching, thighs trembling, his name ripped from your mouth like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.

You’re still shaking when he comes—groaning into your shoulder, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time and lets go.

Afterward, you don’t speak right away.

You’re tangled together. His chest is against yours. His arms still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. Your heartbeat stutters beneath his palm. The windows are fogged, the car soaked in heat and the weight of everything that just happened.

You stroke a hand through the back of his hair, calming him more than you.

Finally, he shifts, settling beside you, your body still half-curled on top of him.

And quietly, you say:

“I followed you out because I thought you were going to leave again.”

He freezes.

You feel his breath catch against your shoulder.

“You left once,” you say. “After I told you how I felt. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just made it clear I’d imagined all of it. And tonight? I thought you were about to do it again.”

His voice is tight when he finally speaks.

“I almost did.”

You nod slowly. “Why didn’t you?”

Jack exhales hard. “Because I saw you with him, and I knew—if I walked away again, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d be choosing to.”

He turns your face toward him.

“And I couldn’t live with that.”

You search his expression. His hand brushes a strand of hair from your face, and then settles on your cheek.

“I tried to kill it,” he says. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it is. And it’s too big to ignore.”

“Big love,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. The kind that burns everything else down.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I waited. Through all of it—every time you pretended you didn’t feel this, too.”

His eyes close. Like the truth hurts more than anything else tonight.

“I don’t know how to want you without wanting all of it,” he admits.

And you don’t need him to explain what all of it means.

The chaos. The risk. The weight.

You nod. “Good. Because I don’t want halfway.”

He leans in—presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, soft now. Careful.

And finally—finally—he says, “Then I won’t run anymore.”

You believe him.

But only because Big Love doesn’t let you run.

It lives. Loud. Messy. Permanent.

And tonight, in the heat of a parked car, Jack finally lets it have him.

[a-casxandra]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃

zayne x non-mc

Sypnosis : At Akso Hospital, love is tested beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and the weight of unspoken words. You and Zayne, a brilliant but distant surgeon, have spent three years together—balancing careers, love, and sacrifice. But when his childhood friend is admitted as a critical patient, lines begin to blur, and hearts begin to break.

In a world where timing is cruel and silence speaks louder than truth, one choice will change everything.

You and Zayne had been together for almost three years. Three years of shared dreams, late-night shifts, fleeting kisses between surgeries, and quiet mornings when neither of you had the energy to speak. Everything was good—or at least, that’s what you believed.

Both of you were surgeons at Akso Hospital, living under the same fluorescent lights and constant beeping monitors. The job was demanding. But love... you always believed love found time, no matter how busy.

Zayne Li—the top surgeon in the hospital. Ebony hair, hazel green eyes, and a presence so composed it unnerved others. Starcatcher Awardee. Unshakable. Cold, some would say. But not to you. You knew him differently. Knew the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly after losing a patient, or how he watched the sunrise like it was the only soft thing left in this world.

But lately, that softness was no longer yours.

It shifted.

To her.

To MC.

She was young. Sweet. Talkative. Friendly. His childhood friend. And now—a patient. When she arrived with a heart condition, Zayne took it upon himself to be her personal doctor. No one questioned it. Of course he would.

And you didn’t either. Not at first.

“You should eat more vegetables,” Zayne said, setting down a tray of food beside MC’s bed.

“Says the doctor who hates carrots.” She laughed, pointing at him with her fork. “And don't think I forgot you hoarded all the sugar packets in the lounge.”

You stood in the hallway watching them—his smile. The way he leaned a little closer. The way her fingers touched his wrist casually, familiarly.

Yvonne, manning the front desk, turned to you with furrowed brows. “Don’t you think they’re… too close?” she asked quietly.

You forced a smile. “That’s nonsense. They’re just friends…”

But the words felt like ash on your tongue.

One night, you walked into MC’s room with a folder in hand.

“Zayne, can I—”

You stopped.

Your world stopped.

His lips were on hers.

He pulled away instantly when he saw you. “This—this isn’t what it looks like.”

You stared blankly. Cold rushed to your limbs. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” you whispered, then turned away.

Zayne followed you into the quiet hallway. Midnight. Only a few nurses on night shift, none paying attention.

“[reader], wait, please—let me explain.”

“What is there to explain!?” you snapped.

“MC and I are just friends—” “It sure doesn’t look like that.” Your voice broke. “Do our three years together mean nothing to you?”

“No! Of course they do. I just—Please… don’t make me choose between you.”

That silenced everything.

You looked at him, tears trembling in your lashes. “Why? Because you’d choose her?”

And he said nothing.

MC’s condition worsened. The waiting list for a heart donor was long. Too long.

You saw her cry. You saw Zayne hold her, tell her he’d find a way.

And so, you made the decision for him.

“I have everything, don’t I?” you told Yvonne quietly, days later as you stood in the prep room. “I achieved my dream. I became a surgeon. I saved lives…”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe saving hers will be the last thing I do right.”

Yvonne choked back tears. So did Dr. Greyson. The nurses. All of them. Because they knew. They all knew what you were about to give up.

Six hours.

The operation was successful.

MC’s vitals were stable.

Applause echoed softly in the room—relieved sighs from nurses, notes scribbled into charts, another life saved. Zayne, still in his surgical scrubs, removed his gloves, sanitized, and walked out.

The first thing he asked was:

“Where’s [reader]?”

No one answered.

His eyes narrowed. He asked again. More firmly.

Greyson finally stepped forward.

“…zayne.. maybe you shouls follow me.."

Zayne was led into another room. The air felt wrong. Heavy. And then—he saw the surgical table. A body, still, beneath a white sheet.

And when the blanket was pulled away—

It was you.

It had always been you.

The donor.

The girlfriend he could never bring himself to choose.

Now gone.

Forever.

Zayne’s knees gave out beneath him. For once, the cold and stoic surgeon—broke.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗱

𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴.

Author's note : zayne's pov was already written in my draft actually hehehe. also, i'm still in the process of writing sylus's story. penny for your thoughts, regarding this story?

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Just a Friendly Drink with Friends (Pro!BakuTodoDeku x F!Reader 18+ One Shot)

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Shoto Todoroki x Izuku "Deku" Midoriya x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: When your work buddies and the hottest couple at your hero agency (and secret crushes) invite you out for a friendly drink to celebrate your birthday, you're more than happy to oblige...until the drinks start flowing, the convos get heated, and these three sexy pros reveal their ulterior motive for inviting you out with them.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS DNI); Poly!Pro!TodoBakuDeku (Early 20s-Early 30s); Work Crush; Coworkers/Friends to Lovers; Alcohol Consumption; Drunk Sex; Guy on Guy; Foursome; Dom!TodoBakuDeku x sub!Reader; Oral (Giving & Receiving); Triple Blowjob; Doggystyle & Missionary; Spanking; Anal Play/Analingus; Dual Cunnilingus; Titty Play; Squirting; Listener Cums 4x; Creampies; Cum on Tits

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Came up with this idea after seeing this fan art by GSony24 about this fine ass trio. Follow them on Twitter HERE and IG HERE!

************

Another birthday. Another year on Earth being a single girl. 'What a happy fucking birthday,' you solemnly think.

This is just how you wanted to spend it: sitting alone in your office past your usual clock-out time with your third iced coffee of the day. You're pretty sure that this isn't healthy, but the rich taste of coffee and your favorite cinnamon bun creamer on your tongue is too good to resist.

You sigh, staring blankly at the computer screen in front of you. It is already 6PM and everyone has long since left, except for the security guards and janitors. You have a choice to shut down your work laptop, pack your shit, and take your ass home for the night.

But you chose to be cooped up in your little office sipping your iced coffee to avoid being at home alone.

Truth be told, you were dreading your birthday coming. It seems that every time this day comes around, you become less excited about it. Probably because you're still single.

You see so many girls on TikTok and Twitter celebrating with their partners, getting taken out to clubs and expensive dinners to celebrate their numbered trip around the sun. But not you. You always seem to celebrate at home with your wine, your streaming services, and your dog.

You initially had plans with a friend for dinner, but she caught a cold. She called you earlier snotting and sneezing over the phone, apologizing profusely for cancelling.

Tonight, you don't want another night at home. You don't want to wallow in your own self pity or loneliness. So you distract yourself with work, hoping that this day will go by quicker.

But fate has other plans for you. While you check your schedule for next week, you hear the door to the agency unlock. Probably just a sanitation worker cleaning up for the night. But when you hear the familiar voices of your office crushes, your hands freeze on your keyboard and your heartbeat accelerates.

"I think they're in here!" Deku's sweet voice drifts to your ears, signaling his appearance. You hear his footsteps getting closer to your office which overlooks the interns' cubicles situated in the middle of the room and other heroes' offices across the way.

The agency you work at is primarily owned by All Might and is co-owned by his mentees Izuku "Deku" Midoriya, Katsuki "Dynamight" Bakugou, and Shoto Todoroki. All top ranking heroes. All irresistibly sexy.

And all dating since their high school days at UA High. All three of them work at the agency alongside you, monitoring the city, patrolling, and taking on dangerous missions. You have only done some patrols and interacted with them at work, but it was enough for you to develop a very strong crush on the loving couple.

You couldn't help but fall for Deku's sweet energy, Bakugou's hot-headedness, and Shoto's blunt yet refreshing personality. You have often pictured yourself being a fourth piece to their poly puzzle, lpossibly on your knees and being filled with...

You shake your head, pushing the thoughts aside. You could never go any further than fantasies. The last thing you want is to ruin your work relationship with them and make things awkward. So you keep your feelings quiet and just stay as friendly as you possibly can.

"You think they're in there?" Bakugou parrots, huffing impatiently. "Fuckin' nerd. C'mon, stop fuckin' around and find 'em! We were supposed to be at the bar 20 minutes ago!"

"Well, we did make reservations," Todoroki protests. "I'm sure they will hold our spot since they know who we are and- Oh, hi, Y/N."

The three pros stop in the doorway to your office dressed in casual clothes. You feel your tongue grow heavy at the sight of them: tall, buff, and mouth-watering.

"Y/N, hey!" Deku chirps, waving one of his scarred hands at you. He sheepishly rubs the back of his head, ruffling his tufts of green hair. He wears a white tee and jeans that stretch across his toned body. "U-Uh, sorry to intrude. I'm just looking for my sneakers."

"His dumbass lost 'em," Bakugou grumbles, bumping his shorter boyfriend's hip. He has an undercut for his platinum blonde hair and tattoos that ink his toned arms. Like Deku, his black V-neck and jeans fill him up perfectly.

He gives you a hot glare that is intensified by his vermillion eyes and does nothing but make you feel quite bothered in your work dress. "Da hell are you still doin' here, extra? Don't you usually leave at 3?" Deku and Todoroki curiously stare at you, just as confused.

Your brain desperately tries to play catch-up in fear of you looking like an idiot. "U-Uh, hey!" you stammer, plastering on a smile. "Yeah, but I'm just here getting some work done. I was thinking of doing some patrols too."

"On a Friday night?" Todoroki asks, furrowing his brows at you. His red and white locks of hair compliment the differing colors of his eyes: turquoise and chestnut brown. Those eyes that have filled your dreams many times before. He wears a blue polo shirt with some jeans and Vans which goes well with his laid-back personality.

He then snaps one of his calloused fingers, a smile stretching across his handsome face. "Wait, isn't it your birthday today?" he questions. "I saw it on the work calendar."

Deku and Bakugou stare at you, waiting for you to confirm. You are shocked that Todoroki even noticed considering his busy schedule. "Uh, yeah," you sigh. "Yes, it is."

Deku is practically horrified. "Seriously?! Oh, no, I completely forgot! I would've given you something if I had remembered!"

But you shake your head, giggling awkwardly. "No, no, you're fine! That isn't necessary. I mean, it's just another day, right?"

"Just another day?" Todoroki questions, sounding perturbed by your statement. "Do you mean you don't celebrate your birthdays?"

You guess the joke didn't help at all. "W-Well, what I mean is birthdays don't exactly mean much anymore as you get older, so that's why I'm passing the time with work."

The three pros give each other an unreadable look. You flush in your dress that hugs possessively at your body, feeling exposed. They must think you're such a loser. "Do you not have anyone to share it with?" Todoroki asks.

Deku pulls a nervous smile, tugging at his taller boyfriend's sleeve. "Uh, Todoroki, that's a little personal," he whispers.

But Bakugou is just as bad at reading the room as Todoroki is. "Nah, I wanna know too. That look ya got on your face means there's somethin' up with you." He leans against the doorway, still giving you that mean look. "What, your boyfriend dump you or somethin'?"

Deku glares at him, momentarily looking like he wants to wring some necks. You know Bakugou means no harm in asking, but you still straighten your neck and make your tone very firm. You know how to handle the hot-headed pro.

"Well, since you wanna know, I had plans to go for dinner with my friend, but she caught a cold and cancelled...so now, it's just gonna be me and my dog." You wince at how pathetic you sound and opt to look at your pretty, pink nails instead of the pros. You don't want to see their looks of pity.

"Well, why don't you just come and get some drinks with us then?" Todoroki asks.

"Huh?!" both you, Deku, and Bakugou exclaim in unison.

Todoroki looks completely oblivious to it. "Well, it is your birthday, isn't it? Since your friend can't make it tonight, you can just come hang out with us." His smile is friendly and warm. "Your other friends."

Friends. He thinks you're friends. 'Well, aren't you?' you think to yourself. "Oh, thank you, but I couldn't!" you squeak. "You guys already made your plans and I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Stop all that polite shit," Bakugou growls, rolling his blood-red eyes at you. "It's gonna make ya feel worse if you're here by yourself or at home bein' all depressed." He crosses his arms over his beefy chest and dog tags, the corner of his pierced lip curling into a smirk. "Unless ya think you can't hang. I know my way around a bottle."

“Wasn’t there that one time you threw up after a beer?” Todoroki snickers.

“Fuck you!” Baku growls. “I had a cold that time!”

As the two begin to bicker amongst each other, Deku takes the reins. "You should come with, Y/N," he happily says. "We don't mind the company if it's you. No one should celebrate their birthday alone."

Maybe it's the sweetness in his tone. Maybe it's the generosity in their eyes, even Bakugou's despite his permanent glare. Or maybe it's just the idea of spending your night with your crushes, even if for an hour at a bar.

You sigh, tossing up the white flag for defeat. "Alright," you give in. "But one drink. I don't need to be stumbling home or throwing up in my toilet."

Deku claps once in celebration, grinning joyfully. "Awesome! Let me just find my sneakers and we can head out."

He quickly jogs to the locker room in the back of the office to look while Bakugou dramatically rolls his eyes. "We're gonna be here for a while," he sighs. "Hey, nerd, wait up! You're gonna get lost in there like last time!"

That leaves you with Todoroki. He lingers in the doorway to your office as if it is his, not coming in but still being an intense presence. "Thanks for the invite, Shoto. I really appreciate it."

The red and white-haired pro shakes his head at you. "Don't mention it," he says in that husky, smooth-like-butter voice. "You can thank us by having some real fun with us tonight."

Maybe it's your imagination, but you think you see him wink before he walks off to join his boyfriends in the locker room. You are left there feeling hot and bothered, wondering what in the hell you just got yourself into.

****SCENE CUT [AT THE BAR]****

The bar the trio chose for tonight's festivities is in full swing when you arrive.

It isn't a luxurious, upscale bar that you thought the pros would be visiting. Instead, there is a live band playing, hardwood floors, pool tables, and many young people looking for photos with their favorite superhero trio.

After calming a gaggle of college girls who excitedly ask for photos and autographs, the trio finally take a seat in the polished wooden bench under the soft glow of a lampshade hanging above you. Bakugou and Todoroki sit across from you while Deku, who orders the drinks at the bar, slips into the bench with you.

"Alright, a round for my favorite heroes!" your waiter chirps, coming back over with a tray of tequila shots. He lowers it in the middle of the table before turning to you. He is a lanky young man with long, black hair and his cheeks flushed red. "And uh...H/N, could you sign my napkin, please? For my kid."

He gives you a sheepish grin as he holds a napkin and a pen to his chest. Bakugou snorts while Deku shoots him a glare. "Oh, sure thing!" you giggle. "Anything for the kiddies!" You take the napkin and pen no problem. "Who am I making this out too?"

The waiter awkwardly fiddles with a curl behind his ear. "Uh...for Dave...a-and could you say that you love having him as your biggest fan please?"

You can hear Bakugou snickering as you scribble down the message and your signature before passing it back to Dave The Waiter. "Here ya go," you say, keeping a smile on your face. "Thanks for the drinks."

Dave excitedly thanks you before floating off on Cloud 9, leaving you to your...dates? Can you count these three as dates when you're just friends?

Bakugou shoots you a knowing smirk, his crimson eyes filled with laughter. "That sorry sucker is gonna jack off to that later," he snickers. You roll your eyes at him. "Come on," you groan. "That's normal for a pro."

"We have our own stories of creepy fans," Todoroki chuckles, taking a shot from the tray but not downing it yet. "Like that one time we were in London and a girl climbed through our hotel from the balcony."

"What?!" you gasp. The white and red-haired pro nods, his eyes filled with mirth. "Bakugou caught her and woke the whole building up," he chuckles. "Poor girl was traumatized, but was determined to sleep in bed with us." You shiver at the thought, thanking the Lord that your stories aren't that weird.

Deku does a little giggle that makes your stomach twirl as he tosses one of his scarred, toned arms over the bench behind your head. You suddenly feel hot in your dress as if the bar's temperature just rose. "You'd be surprised how many people love the idea that we're all a thing and have been shipping us for a long time."

"Or shipping themselves with us," Bakugou scoffs. "Fuckin' weirdos." You keep your lip buttoned at that one. You don't need them to know that you're one of those "weirdos".

"Hey, wait a minute!" Deku exclaims, making you jump. "We need a birthday toast, don't we? Something to bring in a new age for you!" His green eyes sparkle with joy and excitement...the same you should have for your special day.

His words and genuine tone make your face grow hot with a bashful blush, especially when he raises a shot glass in your honor. "To a wonderful birthday and being one year older," he says. Todoroki follows suit and, begrudgingly, Bakugou does the same, trying to hide his smile.

You giggle, raising a shot too. "And none the wiser," you add. "Cheers!" You clink your shots and down them at the same time, causing your throat to burn and eyes to sting.

While you hurry to suck on another lime, Todoroki's eyes grow wide while Deku's face flushes red. "Oh, damn," he whistles. "Now that's tequila."

Bakugou cackles at his boyfriend's reaction, cool as a cucumber with his liquor. "Just don't go overboard like ya did last time, nerd. We had to drag you outta here."

"Hey!" Deku whines. "Don't embarrass me, Kaachan! We have a guest." He nods at you, still blushing bright red. It's adorable. "Deku, I don't care," you giggle. "And I'm really not a guest. If anything, I should be embarrassed for intruding on-"

"Would you stop with that?" Bakugou gruffly asks, scowling at you. "You're not intruding or botherin' us, so cut that nice BS and just take another shot." Despite his gruff n’ rough deliverance, you can't help but feel freed from your shyness and shame at his surprisingly kind words.

Todoroki doubles on it, shooting you a sweet-hearted smile. "Seriously, Y/N, we're glad you're here. We've always appreciated your friendship."

Friendship. Right. Nothing more, nothing less. You push that blooming disappointment aside by indulging in more shots with the crew, going to a third. The tequila begins to take effect, making your entire being feel flushed and hot...or maybe that's just the presence of the trio working on you.

That hot, bothersome feeling continues to grow as you suck on a lime slice and suddenly feel eyes on you...red-hot eyes attached to the brooding blonde sitting across from you. "What?" you ask. He smirks, picking up his fourth shot of the night. "Suckin' on limes is a rookie move," he chuckles. "Guess you don't got the tolerance for it."

The booze must be working its magic because you suddenly feel reckless. Confident. "On an empty stomach, no," you admit, "but I ate before this, so I can drink you under the table."

Bakugou notices the challenge in your tone and quirks his pierced brow at you. "Oh?" he asks. "Is that a challenge, little hero?" You try not to let the nickname affect you so deeply, even as Deku and Todoroki watch the showdown with interest.

"Maybe," you purr. You curl your fist underneath your chin, regarding Bakugou through your lashes. "What do I get as my reward if I win?"

If your deliverance is as seductive as you think, the blonde acts like he doesn't notice. Instead, he picks up a shot and passes it to you, smirking. "Guess you'd have to drink to find out."

And so you do, the lime not included. After some time, you start to feel the effects of the tequila engulf you. After having six shots and an order of wings that Todoroki graciously brings the table, you are good and drunk.

The edges of your vision are slightly fuzzy and the music playing has you moving your shoulders in addition to your dress slipping down your chest just a little too far without your knowledge, exposing more of your breasts that you'd like. Everything feels good. Everything feels easy.

And everything is arousing. Bakugou's teasing smirks every time you share a shot are like aphrodisiacs to you. Todoroki's soft voice and placating words seduce you. Deku's drunken laughter and "in your face" attitude makes you want to jump his bones right here in front of everyone.

"Heeeey, Y/N, when did you get here?" the green-haired pro slurs, turning to face you. He is practically falling out of his clothes and his cheeks are permanently red. "Wow, that pink is so pretty!"

His hazy, green eyes trail over your pink work dress tight on your body. "I've been here this whole time, Izuku," you giggle, reaching out to fix his collar. "And thanks." You would think the pro has never seen a girl smile at him or touch him before with the way he hides his face in his arms.

"Jesus, ya nerd, look at you," Bakugou sighs though his own cheeks are flushed pink. "What am I gonna do with you?" He reaches across the table to ruffle Deku's head. "Sorry, Kaachan," Deku giggles, picking his head up. "I-I think I had too much."

He stares almost dolefully at his boyfriend while the corners of Bakugou's lips curl into an adoring, crooked smile. "Oh, we know," he huffs. Todoroki laughs, pushing a cold glass of water towards Deku and coaxing him to sip.

You watch on in envy of their relationship and of the fact that you aren't in it. How you so long for romantic, caring partners like that. "You guys are so cute," you blurt. The trio blankly stares at you and you quickly try to rebuff. "I-I mean your relationship is cute. You guys are cute together....I think I had too much too."

You place a hand on your temple that has begun to pound from the energy it took to save yourself from embarrassment. "S'cool," Todoroki chuckles. "You wouldn't be the first to say that." He takes a sip of the ginger beer he ordered, being the only one to not look plastered.

"You guys have been together since high school, right?" you curiously ask. "How'd you make that work?" Bakugou and Todoroki share a look while Deku is busy trying to sneakily drag Bakugou's Sake over to him.

"I guess we all just fit with each other," Todoroki replies. "We were friends for so long until gradually, we all fell for each other. We all leaned on one another on hard times." He pauses, searching for more words. "Everybody needs somebody," he says before sipping his beer.

Those words stick with you like gum on a shoe, molding itself to your brain. "And we need you too, Y/N!" Deku exclaims, his green eyes sparkling at you. "You're such an amazing hero and we love havin' you here with us!" He pauses, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Oops...did I say something stupid?"

God, he's so fucking cute! What you wouldn't give for him and his boyfriends to be yours! "Thank you, Izuku," you laugh. "I love being here with you guys too. You guys make me feel so...so..." Safe? Loved?

"So what?" Todorki encourages when you pause. You flush shyly, your eyes staring at your manicured nails instead of his monochrome eyes. "Just appreciated, I guess. It means a lot that you invited me here on my birthday just to make me feel better. You're very considerate and sweet."

You gnaw at your bottom lip, still refusing to look any of them in the eye. "I'd be lucky to have boyfriends like you three," you softly say, and the entire vibe in the room shifts as soon as the words are out, suspended in the air like rings of smoke.

Before anyone can even breathe, you hear the familiar beginning chords of a Beyoncè' song playing from the live band on stage. Bakugou and Todoroki notice the sparkle of joy in your eyes at the sound of your favorite song. "This your song?" Bakugou snorts.

"Hey, me too!" Deku exclaims, grinning at you. You stand, wanting the chance to move your body. "We should all go dance then! C'mon, I can't be the only one on the floor!" You place your hands on your hips, staring the pros down, pulling a glare that you hope is menacing enough. "And I'm the birthday girl, so what I say goes."

Bakugou takes another sip of his beer and stands up, causing your stomach to flip from the sheer height of him compared to you. He looms over you, staring you down with that Bakugou-esqe scowl. "Says who?" he demands.

You stare back, the booze and your hip-hugging dress giving you the reckless confidence to go toe to toe with him. "Says me." And with another shot of tequila that you snatch off the table and toss back, you twirl on your heel and head to the dance floor.

As you walk away, you hear Todoroki softly laugh. "You always liked 'em bold, Katsuki," you hear him chuckle. "She's got you blushing like a-"

You don't hear the rest as the sound of the instruments and the drunk dancers surrounding you. Deku is suddenly right beside you, a smile on his face as he watches you move to the upbeat pop song, moving your hips. "Dance with me, Izu!" you shout, taking his hand in yours.

You and the green-haired pro begin to move with one another, him twirling you around and around as you giddily laugh, becoming dizzy from spinning. When you stop, all you see is Deku's pretty, flushed face and eyes like lush forests. "You can really move, Y/N!" he shouts over the music. "You're really good at this!"

Bakugou tsks, suddenly spewing behind you, snatches you away from the green-haired pro. "Such a simp," he cackles. "Besides, ya can't keep up with this one." You gasp as you feel his hand in yours tugging you to his body. He turns you to face him, all of his handsomeness suddenly within eye view.

Your confidence suddenly wains, the false pump from the booze leaving you. You feel a hand at the small of your back, secure yet possessive, his fingertips slightly chill. "But I can," Todoroki challenges, smirking over your shoulder at Bakugou. "I've been told I know how to move my hips."

From behind him, Deku presses into his boyfriend's back, his hips moving with Todoroki's. You have no choice but to do along with it, pressed between Todoroki and Bakugou's big, hard bodies like two steel walls.

Surprisingly, Bakugou looks worried, a crease forming between his brows. "This okay with you?" he gruffly whispers. Wordlessly, you nod, unable to speak. Your body feels stiff and robotic, each movement clunky, especially when Bakugou's hands slide down to your hips, his thick fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your dress.

You find yourself pressing your hands against his broad chest while Todoroki sways with you, your head lulling back against his shoulder. His cologne mingles with the scent of cigarettes in the air, making you dizzy. It feels as if you are in some kind of intoxicating dream. You feel drunk in a way the tequila could never do to you.

Suddenly, you feel the tickle of his stubble against your cheek and the soft hum he makes sends shivers all over you. "You smell really good," he murmurs. "Like flowers."

You swallow the lump in your throat, turning slightly to look at him. "T-Thank you," you stammer. "It's my favorite." His eyes become softer. More intense. They swallow you whole. "It's becoming mine too," he whispers.

The air shifts the way it did at the table, becoming tense with a sexual energy that is too bothersome to ignore. It's strange; one minute, Todoroki's hand is cupping your cheek and then the next, his lips are on yours, soft and careful yet attentive. He kisses just as you thought he would.

When he pulls away, you are dazed, confused, and floating. "No fair," Bakugou growls. "You did that before I could, but I can do it better." He turns your face to meet his and then his lips are on yours too. His kiss is rougher and more intense but it is still slow, the cool metal of his lip ring pressing into your plump bottom lip.

The world vanishes and all that is left is you. Him. Them. Nothing else matters. When he pulls away, you are craving more. "How was that?" he whispers, his eyes hooded. You say nothing, unable to. He chuckles softly at your wordless response to his kiss. "Poor thing can't even speak."

Deku appears beside Todoroki, taking your hand in his. His eyes are soft and glassy. "I-I wanna kiss you too, Y/N," he murmurs. "I always have. C-Can I..."

He is leaning in before you can reply and his soft lips are against yours too. He is gentler and takes his time, but still lets you know of his want for you by placing a hand on your cheek, cupping your chin so he can turn your face to mold with his mouth.

You can't believe this is happening. You have to be dreaming. Your body feels like it's about to give out from all of this stimulation...and it does. Your weak knees buckle before you can help yourself and you nearly trip into Deku. "Whoa, careful!" he shouts, gripping you to him. "You alright?"

Embarrassingly, you look up at the alarmed pro. "Yeah," you giggle. "Just weak in the knees." Deku's green eyes tick to Todoroki and then to Bakugou, each of them telepathically speaking to one another. The song then ends and the audience claps, cheering.

Your heart stutters and your gut clenches. This means the moment is over. The night is over. "We should get outta here," Bakugou says, looking towards the exit. It is over. You wither, feeling cold all over. How could you think this could go anywhere outside of the bar?

But Bakugou pulls you out of your sulking, literally pulling you towards the exit with him and his boyfriends. "You comin' with us, birthday girl?" he huskily asks. You blink at him, gobsmacked. If he would've asked you to come to the moon with them, you would've said yes.

"Yeah, we can go back and talk more," Todoroki offers, placing a hand on the small of your back. "You'll need the rest." If this truly is a dream then let you stay asleep! You would give up reality for some time alone with these three studs any day.

So you nod and you are suddenly swept up out of the bar with the pros where an Uber is already waiting for you. Todoroki sits in the passenger seat while Deku and Bakugou sit in the backseat with you. You think you imagine it, but you're sure that Bakugou tugs at your dress when you crawl into the car, your ass bent over for his viewing pleasure.

The drive home is silent yet tense. It swims in the backseat with you and your two crushes, your body sandwiched between them. You do your best to keep calm, keeping your thighs clamped shut despite Bakugou's hand gripping your thigh and Deku's fingers toying with your fingers.

By the time you get to their shared condo, you feel like you're about to explode. Though the interior of their place is beautiful, you are in no mood for a tour when you walk through the door with the trio in tow. Bakugou is the last one in and shuts the door behind him with a satisfying thud. "Well, this is us," Deku announces.

You are now cornered by the three pros like a little bunny being surrounded by starved wolves. Despite this gnawing thought, you nod in acknowledgement at Deku's words, pretending to admire the hardwood floorboards and hanging art.

The sexual tension lingers, thick enough to be cut with a chainsaw. No one speaks. No one makes the first move. The trio stare you down as you stand by the couch, your work tote still in your hand. "So...you still wanna talk?" Todoroki carefully asks.

Talking isn't even on the table for what you're thinking about. So you lower your bag on the couch and kick off your heels, staring dead at the trio as you do. Then you give them a resounding "no" that answers all of their unasked questions.

Immediately, Katsuki closes the gap between you in two strides and sweeps you off of your feet...literally. You squeak, wrapping your arms around his neck as he holds you bridal style. "W-Wait, Katsuki," you protest. "You don't have to-"

"Shut up," he demands though not maliciously. "You're already stumblin' around. I don't need you crashin' into some furniture." He ventures up the steps with his boyfriends, letting you indulge in his muscles and how strong he is carrying you so effortlessly.

When he gets to the bedroom, you notice how large the bed is in addition to the rumbled silk sheets. "A-Ah, I'm so sorry!" Deku embarrassingly exclaims. "We didn't have time to clean today, s-so-"

"She don't give a fuck about that," Bakugou snaps. "Let's just get her on the bed before I bust out of these fuckin' pants."

He lowers you down on the edge of the bed while he, Todoroki, and Deku climb up after shedding their shoes, sitting in the middle. They wait for you, lustful eyes trained only on you.

Finally, you feel like a piece of the puzzle. Todoroki reaches for you, gently pulling you close to him. "Let me help you," he purrs into your ear and moves your hair to expose the zipper to your dress. Zzzzzip. He slowly drags it down, revealing the hooks and straps to your lace bra.

"This still what you want?" he murmurs in your ear. "You can say no at any time, okay?" He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, making you shiver. You have never been more sure of anything in your life. "Yes," you exhale. "I want this."

The rest of the zipper goes down and you shrug your dress off, letting it slip down your legs to your painted toes. You are then left in only your bra and lace panties. Helping Todoroki, you unhook the bra from the back yourself and let the cups fall, revealing your hanging fruit to them.

"Oh, fuck," Deku groans while Bakugou hisses out "Shit!" at the sight of your body. Todoroki is dumbfounded, his eyes grazing over your juicy tits and the way your thighs curve up to meet your ass in your panties. "Oh, baby," he groans, moving towards you. "You're absolutely perfect."

He coaxes you to lay down on your back, the silk sheets cool against your skin. He hovers over you and latches his lips around one of your hard nipples to your right breast, sucking on the peak. "Oh," you sigh, running your hands through his soft hair. "Shit, Shoto."

Bakugou appears next to his boyfriend, bending down to stimulate your left breast with his hand. You moan at the contact, pleasurable tingles shooting throughout your body. "Stop hoggin'," he growls. "I'm still here too, Icy-Hot." Todoroki barely spares him a glance, too busy swirling his fat tongue around your left nipple.

The blonde smirks down at you, gently tweaking your other nipple. "You got a thing for piercings, baby girl?" he raspily asks. He sticks his tongue out, giving you a peek of the silver ball pierced in the muscle. You nod, unable to speak. "Good, 'cause I've got a thing for these pretty things here."

Soon, both pros are sucking and playing with your sensitive nipples with their long, fat tongues, their fingers stroking down your sides and pausing to fondle your breasts, wantonly moaning as they do. You lay there, mouth agape and eyes squeezed tight from the stimulation, your brain swimming. "Oh, fuck!" you longingly moan. "God, yes!"

You grip Bakugou and Todoroki's hair, pushing them farther into your chest. Each stroke of their wet tongues and soft lips send you on a trip. Deku watches from his spot on the bed, a tent growing in his pants. "You sound so good, babe," he softly groans. "I wanna hear more."

He slinks to the edge of the bed where your feet hang and gently bends your knees, sliding between them. "Can I eat you out please?" he asks. "I can tell you're wet. I can see it." His forest-green eyes are lust blown as they stare at your panties, noticing the wet spot forming in them.

You wordlessly nod, allowing him to peel your panties off of your ankles...but not before taking a sniff of them. You see his cock throb in his pants, excited by your sent. He pries your thighs open a bit more and exposes your sobbing, wet, soft little pussy to himself and his boyfriends.

Todoroki moans at the sight of you. Bakugou gazes at your pussy, biting his lip in anticipation at your glistening slit. “Mmm, damn, birthday girl,” he hums. “All this for me?”

“For us, Kaachan,” Deku corrects him, glaring up at him. “But right now, it’s for me. You deal with her up there while I take care of her down here.” The blonde cocks his head at his boyfriend's bite. “Oh, so you got mouth, huh? Remember that later, nerd.”

“Are you two gonna bicker or help me take care of this cutie here?" Todoroki asks, still molding your breast in his hand. "If not, I’ll be happy to take the job.” His lips stretch into a teasing smile at the prospect of having you all to himself.

Moments later, Todoroki and Bakugou are still teasing your nipples while Deku is in between your thighs going absolutely crazy. He is just as good at eating pussy as he is fighting villains, his calloused hands gripping underneath your ass as his tongue laps at your juices.

He is extremely vocal too, moaning against your clit the more he drinks and slurps you up, causing lewd, sloshing sounds of his wet tongue caressing your folds to float through the air. “Oh, fuck!” you gasp. “Shit, Deku, yes!”

Your body writhes on the bed, your pussy growing wetter the more the pros stimulate your erogenous zones, causing you to gush and cream onto Deku's waiting tongue. “Doll,” he drunkenly moans. “You taste so fucking good…you’re gushing for me!” He pulls his face up from your thighs, his eyes lust drunk and intense. “Give your hero more," he pants.

He goes back to making out with your cunt while your nipples are tweaked, sucked, and bitten...a little too hard for your liking. “Ah!” you gasp. “N-Not so rough, Katsuki.” The blonde gives you an apologetic kiss on the side of your kitty. “Aww, sorry, baby. Guess I just got a little jealous.”

His red eyes cut down to his boyfriend messily and sloppily eating you out like it's his damn job. “Mmm, I think I want a taste too,” Todoroki sighs, pulling away from your chest to take a seat beside his boyfriend. “Scoot over, Midoriya.”

Despite his irritation, Deku grumbles and moves aside, allowing Todoroki to eat your pussy now. He is just as much of an eater as his boyfriend is! His fat tongue swirls around your clit before dipping between your folds to caress your slit. “Oh, my God!” you shout, gripping the sheets for dear life.

Bakugou's face appears in your line of vision, hovering over you with a smirk on his lips. “Ya keep yellin’ like that and we’ll have trouble, baby. Someone’s gonna have to quiet you down.” His bulge is dangerously close to your lips; you can practically taste it.

He notices your staring eyes and smirks, toying with the zipper of his fly. “Ya want it, birthday girl?” he asks. You nod, whimpering in pleasure as Todoroki and Deku's tongues caress your clit.

Zzzzzip. Bakugou's fly comes down and he reaches into his pants to take out his cock. His beautiful, throbbing, tanned, veiny cock. “Then open your mouth.” You do so, your pussy throbbing as his bulbous, pink tip slides into your mouth.

Bakugou moans as your hot, wet tongue and soft lips wrap around him, encasing him in heat. "Good girl," he groans. "Fuck...such a good girl fa' me." He gazes down at you as his cock slides in and out of your mouth, your plush, glossy lips stretching around him.

"That's so fucking hot!" Deku moans into your pussy. He and Todoroki continue to share your pussy, but their eyes are focused on you sucking dick. "Hey!" Bakugou barks. "Focus on that fuckin' pussy and less on me...unless one of you two wanna help her out."

Todoroki smirks at him, giving him a flirty wink. “Don't tempt us with a good time~"

Your pussy jumps at the thought of seeing that for yourself, but that image evaporates when you feel Todoroki's breath tickle your ass. "You're so cute down here too, lovely. You wouldn't mind if I...?"

His tongue slides between your asscheeks and he gently begins suckling at your asshole while Deku laps at your cunt. Your toes curl from the stimulation, your moans loud and slutty around Bakugou's cock. "He's good with his tongue, ain't he?" he chuckles, gently petting your hair. "You ain't seen nothin' yet once I get to that pussy."

You can just imagine Bakugou's tongue piercing tickling your hot clit as he laps at your pussy too. Three fat tongues bathing your gushing pussy. You feel that familiar tug in your core and begin to moan louder, your lashes fluttering from the immense sparks of pleasure you're feeling.

"Your legs are shaking, lovely," Todoroki coos from your asshole. "Are you gonna cum for us?" You wordlessly nod, drool sliding from your bottom lip down Bakugou's balls. "Do it, doll," Deku begs. "Fucking cum for us. I want it all over my face!"

Your pussy throbs hearing the kind-hearted, sweet hero cuss, the urge to cum rising. "Do it," Bakugou demands, still slowly fucking your mouth. "Cum for us with my dick in your mouth, mama. Give it to us."

You have no choice but to do so. At the tongue lashing you're getting in both holes, you release into Deku's mouth with a loud, muffled moan and a series of whimpers while Todoroki sucks on your throbbing little asshole. Your orgasm is intense, making you see stars and your back arch off of the bed.

Todoroki lewdly moans as he pulls away from your asshole, greedily watching Deku slurp up all of your cum. "C'mere, little Deku," he coos. The two begin to sloppily kiss, sharing your taste and your cum on their lips and tongue. You watch it all from between the V of your thighs, stimulated by the sight.

"Shit, that's hot!" Bakugou growls. "How are you this fuckin' hot, huh?" But his eyes are watching you, his cock pulsing from the sight of your naked body writhing in pleasure for you.

“Oh, I thought you meant us," Todoroki chuckles as he pulls away from a dazed and lustful Deku. "But agreed. You've gotten me so hard for you, baby." He moans as Deku rubs him through his pants, his palm caressing his bulge.

"Me too," Deku groans, referring to the tent you can see in his pants too. "Wouldn't be right to leave us out of this, would it?" He gives you a look that is dark, wicked, and lustful; gone is the sweet, shy Deku you have known for so long.

He and Todoroki climb onto the bed with Bakugou who begrudgingly pulls his cock out of your wet, drooling mouth. "Just don't hog her," he grumbles. "I was here first, so don't go fuckin' her throat for too long."

He hooks a finger under your chin, lifting it to meet his gaze and the eyes of his boyfriends. "Think you can take three big cocks now, babe?" he hums.

Something takes over you: something slutty and reckless. A slut slips into your skin, ready to be fucked and used all night. "Y-Yeah," you softly giggle. "I want you all...naked." The pros softly laugh at your request, already reaching for their shirts. "That can be arranged, little baby," Bakugou replies.

You sit up on your elbows and watch in excitement as the three strip for you. Shirts come off. Pants are tossed aside. Boxers are discarded. That leaves them naked for you, muscles exposed and each cock hard, big, and throbbing. "See somethin' ya like, babes?" Bakugou asks, smirking at your lustful expression.

"Don't be so shy now. You weren't while you were rubbin' that ass on my dick at the bar." Were you really? You can't remember. The tequila and lust have stolen your memory.

Deku sits on his knees for you, taking your hand and pressing it against his toned stomach. "Go ahead, doll: touch us. Run those pretty hands all over us just like that."

You don't need any further encouragement. You begin to indulge in the pros' bodies, silently objectifying them as your hands work over their arms. Their abs. Their broad chests. Their firm asses. Your hands then fall to their cocks, alternating between each one, stroking up and down.

"Fuck," Bakugou groans, biting his lip at the sight of your pretty, soft hand wrapped around his dick. "You got a way with your hands, baby." You sluttily giggle, your manicured nails moving lower to fondle his balls. "I can show you more," you purr.

"Mind showin' us too, lovely?" Todoroki huskily asks. "You wouldn't wanna leave us out, would you?" He taps his cock against your lips which you pry open, offering your tongue to him for his tip to slap against.

The three pros pounce on you like hungered dogs, scrambling at the chance to fuck your mouth. It takes a minute to get used to; having three big dicks in your mouth back to back isn't for the faint of heart. But when it becomes easier to handle, you become freer. Sluttier.

Your hands become slick with pre-cum and drool slides from your mouth down your chin as you suck and suck and suck the pros' cocks, alternating between taking each one in your mouth while you stroke the other two.

The luscious moans coming from your crushes' mouths encourage and arouse you all the more. While all of them are vocal, which you highly appreciate as you work your jaw like there's no tomorrow, they all are different with the way they react to your dick-sucking abilities.

Bakugou is a damn menace. He grips your hair to pull you onto his cock, drawing his hips forward to fuck your face and destroy your makeup. “Yeah? You like it?” he teasingly asks. You wordlessly nod, your reply muffled by his dick.

With a groan, he slides out of your mouth, causing you to gasp in air and spit to stretch from your mouth to his balls. “Open up for me.” You pry open your mouth for him, saying "Aaaah" as you do.

Spit!

Bakugou leans down to spit his own saliva into your mouth, waving his cock around for you. “Put it back on my cock,” he demands. You do as told, leaning down to spit his saliva onto his dick before you taking it back in your throat. “Little slut lettin’ me spit in your mouth. Bet you wanted this for a while.”

You can't even express to him how much. However, you attempt to do so by sucking him dry, hollowing your cheeks and making his toes curl.

Deku is LOUD. Louder than Bakugou if you can believe it. He holds your head between his hands as he rigorously and eagerly fucks your throat, plunging himself deeper and deeper between the velvety, soaked walls of your throat. "Ha, ha, fuck, doll!" he whines. "That feels so good! Your mouth is fucking...oh, fuck!"

"Damn, nerd, chill out," Bakugou chuckles, watching his boyfriend fuck your mouth dumb. "You'll fuck her mouth off the hinges." Deku's face is flushed red, his muscles bulging and clenching from the immense pleasure. "C-C-Can't help it!" he groans. "It's too...Shoto, don't!"

Todoroki chuckles, his fingers toying with Deku's balls soaked in your spit. "Why not?" he teases. "You love gettin' your balls fondled, don't you, baby?"

Deku only whines in reply, pathetically so. Bakugou grips the back of his neck and grips his boyfriend toward him. "Shut up all that whinin'," he softly growls before he slams his lips against Deku, the two of them sharing moans as Deku continues to fuck your mouth.

Todoroki is a little more reserved, but still has no problem expressing his pleasure to you. He is slower with his strokes, taking his sweet time to watch your lips stretch around him. But he is still nasty as ever, whispering dirty nothings to you: "That's a good girl," he hums. "Stroke that shit. Take that fuckin' cock."

You feel his hand toy with your ass, his fingers sliding down to touch your pussy. "A little higher, lovely. I want to touch you." You arch your back a little more, hiking your ass up to allow him to stroke your pussy still wet from your orgasm and becoming wetter at the sight of Bakugou and Deku kissing.

They notice immediately. "Oh, look at this!" Bakugou tuts as Todoroki's fingers become sticky with you. "Naughty girl is touchin' herself! So you like seein' your pros kiss, huh?"

He takes his sexy self off of the bed and slips onto his knees behind you, your ass mooning up. "Let's see how you can handle me," he murmurs before his tongue is caressing your pussy now. The cool metal of his tongue piercing sends you into a frenzy.

"Mmmm-phhh!" you moan around Todoroki's cock, your body vibrating and trembling.

The usually stoic pro is absolutely feral, cheeks flushed and hips bumping into your mouth, wanting to feel more of your walls stroking him as the sloshing sounds of Bakugou's tongue fucking your pussy drifts to his eardrums. "You're so wet for us, lovely. Such a good girl, giving us so much."

SPANK!

Your ass jiggles from a hand smacking hard against it, making you tense from the sting. "Don't ignore me," Bakugou growls. "Fuck my tongue. Show me how you like this."

Lust overtakes you, causing you to begin tossing your ass back into Bakugou's face, much to his enjoyment. He fucks his fist as you fuck yourself on his pierced tongue, your wetness filling his tastebuds. "You like this tongue, darling?" Todoroki asks, grinning at your slutty actions.

"Mmm-hmm!" you eagerly reply, drool still pooling from your mouth. Bakugou groans from behind you, slipping his tongue out of your pussy and replacing it with his finger stroking your slit. "Yeah, you do," he gruffly replies. "A nice big birthday gift for you, right?"

"It doesn't stop here," Deku adds, fucking your hand sobbing wet with his creamy pre. "We still need to...u-unless you don't want to! We'd be happy with just your mouth too!" He blushes a hot red, swallowing roughly.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what he means. "Do you want that, baby?" Todoroki questions. "Do you want to be fucked now?" He slips his cock out of your mouth to let you speak.

You blink at him, dazed and confused from the fog of pleasure and sex. "B-By all three of you?" you nervously stammer.

It now occurs to you that you've never done this before. Stepping through their door earlier, you were only thinking about being with the pros, never mind the inexperience. But now, as the prospect of being fucked by three big cocks comes into fruition, you start to sweat.

Bakugou suddenly appears in the bed again and grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Words." His tone is firm; not with the BS. You are pulled to answer him correctly and truthfully. "Yes, please," you beg. "Fuck me, Daddies. I can take all of you."

You know you can. You can't give up your fantasy just because of nerves. You know that these three studs would NEVER hurt you without your permission or consent. You trust them.

The three pros' eyes flash at you calling them "Daddies" and look between each other, silently questioning the other. "So who goes first?" Todoroki aloud wonders.

Bakugou cracks his knuckles. “Only one way to find out...and no cheating! Don't make me blow a whole in this bitch!"

"Not again, Kaacha, c'mon!" Deku protests, cracking his neck.

Your stomach plummets. Are they about to fight for your pussy?!

The three men ball their hands into fists and stretch them out before repeatedly raising them up and down. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!" they shout in unison. On "shoot", they release their fingers. You resist the urge to laugh.

Bakugou has paper. Deku has paper. Todoroki has scissors. He smiles cockily as he snips at his boyfriends' fingers before he turns to you with an adoring gaze. "Looks like I'm first, lovely. I'll take you on your back, if you don't mind."

He yanks on your ankles, pulling you towards him and spread your thighs so he can sit between them. "I wanna see your face," he murmurs. You stare up at him, hypnotized by his brown and blue eyes, unable to look away as his tip rubs against your clit.

"That's my girl," he coos before he slides home inside of you, his cock clenched between the tight, wet walls of your pussy. You gasp, gripping his shoulders as your walls stretch around him inch by inch. Todoroki shudders at the feel of you, his face etched in pleasure. "Sh-Shit," he hisses.

He then begins to fuck you, rolling his hips against yours, drawing soft moans out of your mouth. Those moans grow louder when you feel Deku's hands cupping your bouncing titties, his green eyes filled with adoration and lust. “You look so pretty like this, doll,” he murmurs. “Such a pretty girl we got.”

"Yes, we do," Todoroki pants and presses himself closer against you to roll his hips. His cock slides in and out of you slow and deep, drawing whimpers and desperate moans out of you at the agonizingly slow pace.

You begin to wriggle around at the intense fucking, but Bakugou pins your ankles down, forcing you not to move. “Uh-uh, don’t run,” he growls. “You wanted it? You take it.”

Todoroki leans down to brush his lips against the shell of your ear. “Don’t let him scare you,” he whispers. “You take me so well, darling. So hot the way you’re filled up with me.” His fingers press into your thighs, turning ice cold and dragging across your skin.

He kicks his quirk in, letting his icy fingertips cool you down as his cock heats you up, stroking that spot inside of you that makes you see God. You shout for Him, moaning in pleasure. “God, Shoto!” you moan, tossing your head back against the sheets.

It's too much! It's all too overwhelming. Todoroki's face screws as if he is in pain, his hips stuttering slightly. “Shit, baby,” he groans. “I can’t keep going slow like this. I want to…do you want me to-“

“Yes!” you gasp, grabbing his shoulders. “Please, Sho, go faster! Fuck me!”

His monochrome eyes flash with a fierce fire that makes your pussy clench. “Fuck you?” he parrots. “Then you’d better fuck me back. C’mon, lovely, fuck that cock for me."

You do as told, pushing your pussy down into his cock as he pushes forward, fucking the velvety, creamy walls of your cunt. Your mouths draw open, your moans and feverish pants filling the air. Deku watches on, pressing his cock against your titties. “So pretty,” he whines. “Look at me, dolly. Look at what you do to me.”

Bakugou grins at his boyfriend, still pinning your ankles down as he ruts his cock against the sheets for relief. “Guess you’re goin’ next, nerd.”

And "next" is coming up quick because your second orgasm rises to the surface, making your walls clench around Todoroki and stroke him for all he is worth. “Oh, fuck!” you gasp. “Sho, I’m gonna cum!”

You dig your nails into his skin, the pleasure intense and all-consuming. “Me too, babe,” he groans, holding your face in his hands. “Please cum with me. Cum on that cock, baby, do it.”

His deep, soothing, saccharine voice washes over you as your orgasm hits, making you moan out his name and your pussy gush all around his cock. With a few more thrusts, Todoroki groans loudly as he empties himself inside of you, spurt after spurt of cum filling you up.

You gasp, feeling your body tremble as your orgasm continues, taking you on a long ride on a wave of euphoria. Even as Todoroki pulls out, it continues, making you shake and shiver like a leaf in autumn. As you’re in the throes of your intense O, Deku quickly gets on top of you and slides his dick home inside of you, replacing Todoroki.

“Ah!” you moan, damn near screaming. You don't expect the sheer pleasure or the stretch as Deku sinks himself inside of you. He sheepishly looks at you despite being in such a dirty, un-innocent position. “Sorry, cutie. You just looked too good!"

His fingers dig into the meaty flesh of your thighs, hiking your legs up over his shoulders. His emerald eyes glare into yours, lustful and molten. “I’m gonna go a little crazy, okay?" he softly says. "Just gonna fuck this pretty pussy hard and fast. I promise I won’t be too rough and you can always stop me.”

If he says more dirty, nasty words in his soft, adorable voice, you'll let him do anything to you. So you nod and he immediately begins fucking you like a damn animal. Hard and fast just as he promised. He digs his fingers into your ass as he draws his dick in and out, in and out, pistoning his hips like a jackhammer.

You grab him for dear life, feeling like a rider on a bucking bull. "O-O-Oh, m-my Gooood!" you wail, gasping and sobbing as Deku's cock jackhammers into your pussy, his thick fingers rubbing your clit.

"Look at him go," Bakugou chuckles, impressed with how rough his man is fucking you. "How’s she feel, little Deku?” Todoroki teases, his semi-hard cock throbbing between his thighs.

Deku is in his own little world, his mind foggy with pleasure and his freckled face flushed red. F-Fucking amazing!” he moans, still taking you deep into Pound Town. “I-I…fuck me….I really wanted this for so long, Y/N! You have no idea!”

He grips you to his body, your sweat, smaller form stuck against his, leaving you helpless to his rutting and merciful fucking. Who knew the sweetheart of the group was the roughest one of the three?

You pant in his ear, your hands in his hair and your eyes fluttering as your pussy melts around his throbbing cock. In a flash, you feel the familiar clench of another orgasm again. So fast it makes your head spin. “Oh, fuck, w-wait, Izu!” you gasp. “Oh, God, I-I’m about to…to cum again! Ha, ha, I can’t—“

“You wanna cum?” he asks, his lips sucking your earlobe. “Do it on that dick then. I want you to.” He goes faster. Harder. Grabs your hips and slams you into his cock over and over again, your clit rubbing repeatedly against his pelvis. “Cum for me, pretty doll. Cum with me!”

"Oh, shit, she's squirting!" Bakugou cackles while Todoroki watches in shock. You don't even realize you're cumming until you feel your pussy spasm, the pleasure washing over you once more as spurts of your squirt explode around Deku's cock.

Quickly, Deku lays you down and pulls out of you, furiously stroking his slick cock above your chest. He then tosses his head back, letting loud, salacious moans escape his lips. “Oh, fuck!” he bellows, spurting rope after rope of cum all over your titties.

You watch on, exhausted from your intense squirting session. You didn't even know you could squirt! Deku triggered something inside of you obviously.

Todoroki and Bakugou appear on either side of you, staring down at the pearly beads of Deku's cum coating your tits. “Don’t mind if we do," Todoroki chuckles. They then begin slurping and licking up the cum from your tits, emitting weak moans from you.

And then it's Bakugou's turn. He gazes down at you, head cocked to the side as he regards you. “I know you ain’t tired, birthday girl.” You don't reply. You can't. Your body is totally drained and your pussy feels like it could use a vacation, sloppy and drenched from your cum and the load you took from Todoroki.

But Bakugou, the bastard, doesn't care. In a flash, he lifts you up and forces you onto all fours, your ass sticking in the air for him as your face hits the soft mattress. “I know it’s not my day," he hums, "but I want a fill of some cake too.”

“Look at this ass!” Deku groans, looking pained at the sight of your bottom in his boyfriend's face. “It’s not fair that you get her like this, Kaachan.”

The blonde glares at his boyfriend, his hand stroking your asscheek. “If you want a taste so bad then shut up, lie down, and let her sit on that face.”

Deku, ever the closet pervert, quickly does just that and slips underneath your body with some help from Bakugou to move your tired limbs. Deku's head slides underneath you, now facing your pussy.

Bakugou gives him a devilish smile as he watches, loving how eager his boyfriend is to please you and him. “I want you to suck on that pussy AND those balls while I fuck her, understand?” he orders. Deku has already begun kissing and toying with your pussy with his tongue. “Mmm-hmm!” he eagerly replies.

“And you.” Bakugou wraps a hand around your throat, not squeezing but letting you know that he can if he wants. “I want you to fuck me back. Bounce on that dick fa’ me, okay, birthday girl?”

Plap-plap-plap! His tip slaps against your ass, making your cunt throb feeling the weight of his dick there. Despite your exhaustion and need for a shower, the need for his dick runs even deeper. “Yes, sir,” you softly reply.

And then, finally, Bakugou slides in and all words-and thoughts-cease to exist the moment he begins to fuck you. As he bumps his hips against your ass, your pussy clenches around his cock while Deku sucks and slurps from down below, taking everything you give him.

“Oh, my God,” Bakugou moans, gripping the soft meat of your ass, digging his fingers in. “So good. That pussy’s so good, baby.” Your walls squelch around his dick, taking him deeper inside of you with every passing minute. “Shit, shit, shit!” you wail. “Fuck, ‘Suki, you’re so good!”

Bakugou grins down at you, loving how you look bouncing on his cock like a slutty little bunny. “Yeah? Better than these two extras, right?”

Deku whines in protest against your pussy, still slurping away, while Todoroki raises up on his hips in front of you, facing Bakugou “Awww, now don’t be so mean, Bakugou. You like my kisses too much~”

He wraps a hand around Bakugou's neck and forces him into a rough, deep kiss that makes Bakugou fuck you deeper and harder until the bed is moving beneath you. You are a moaning, gasping, wailing mess, your sounds bouncing off of the bedroom walls, signaling to the neighbors how good you're being fucked.

You know that the fourth time you feel that familiar, warm tug in your core that this orgasm will be your last. Your pussy spasms around Bakugou's shaft, stroking him the more he fucks you. It can't be helped since Deku's tongue is so good, lapping at your clit like a thirsty man. “K-Katsuki! I’m gonna cum again!” you warn.

“You ain’t the only one,” the platinum blonde grunts, gripping your ass for dear life. “This ass and this nerd under me is makin’ it real hard to hold back.” Deku licks faster, urging you both to cum for him.

Todoroki gives his boyfriend a wicked smile, pressing a kiss to his neck as he lays a hand on your ass, squeezing it. “Don’t keep our baby waiting now. Cum for her, ‘Suki. Show her just who Daddy Dynamight is.”

That lights a fire in Bakugou because suddenly, he is relentless, his hips snapping hard and fast against your ass, pushing you into the bed.

SPANK!

You shout at the bite of pain as he spanks your ass, making it recoil against his palm. “Beg for it,” he growls. “Beg for my cum. Just ‘cause it’s your birthday don’t mean you get to be a spoiled brat.”

SPANK!

He does it again, making your eyes sting with tears that stick to your messy lashes sticky with ruined mascara. “Please, ‘Suki, give me your cum! Please! I need it all!” You begin to babble in pleasure, begging for the pro balls deep inside of you to fill you up to the brim with his spunk.

SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!

Bakugou continues to smack your gorgeous ass, the pain mixing with the pleasure and creating a cocktail that pushes you off of that cliff. “I’m cumming!” you sob. The blonde urgently nods, needing you to cum for him. "That’s right, give it to me. Give it all to me.”

You release yourself with a loud sob that makes your throat scratchy as your pussy spasms and creams once more. “Take it, baby!” Bakugou demands. “Take my fuckin’ cum!”

Then, he too explodes inside of you, forcing Deku to swallow everything while Todoroki hums in encouragement, stroking your ass and noticing how yummy your wet, glistening asshole looks. Your eyelids flutter and your body tenses, the intensity of your orgasm and the rush of Bakugou's cum inside of you making you dizzy and disoriented.

Exhausted, you tiredly roll off of Deku after Bakugou pulls out of you, leaving your pussy gushing with two loads and wetter than the ocean. Deku stares up at the ceiling, his mouth glistening with your wetness. “Oh, wow,” he pants. “That was…” He pauses, searching for the right word.

“Very messy,” Todoroki chuckles, pressing a kiss to Deku's sweaty brow. “You’re practically ruined, Midoriya.”

Bakugou chuckles, his tanned, tatted body slick with sweat. “So is she.” He nods at you lying on the bed, poking gently at your side. “Still on Earth with us, baby?” he cackles.

You can only stare up at the ceiling for a while, letting yourself gather your bearings. You feel as if you just took a rocket ship to space and you're now coming back down to Earth again. "Best. Birthday. Ever," you pant out.

The three pros give each other a secretive look, their eyes talking to each other. "And it doesn't stop here," Bakugou chuckles.

You hear the seduction in his tone and weakly stare up at him, eyes wide. He can't be serious!

The blonde regards you with his head tilted, a smirk playing on his lips. “What? You thought you were done?" He tsks, shaking his head. "Oh, no, baby. It ain't even midnight yet."

Todoroki nods, lying beside you and gently toying with your side, his fingers brushing your skin. "He's right; we've still got hours to go before your birthday ends."

Bakugou lays down on your other side, facing your chest that he begins to feebly toy with.

Deku hovers over you, his eyes a dark green and his expression reading nothing but promises of more hours of hot sex until morning. "So why don't we celebrate by making our pretty girlfriend cum over and over again?" he whispers. "How does that sound?"

Girlfriend. Not friend. You're their girlfriend now.

You couldn't have asked for more.

THE END.

[matcha3mochi]

PROTOCOL | II Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: here is a continuation to chapter 1 ehhe! it's pretty lengthy bc i wanted it to be a bit slowburn!! pls enjoy reading this!! 🥰🥰

wc: 6,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

The break room is cold in that quiet, clinical way the Institute has perfected — impersonal, sanitized, almost echoless. The overhead lights haven’t fully brightened yet, casting the room in a blue-toned wash, soft and sterile like twilight filtered through glass. The polished black tables reflect that icy glow, while the vending wall on the far side hums softly to itself, a standby menu scrolling across its touch-sensitive display.

You sit tucked in the back corner, alone.

The chair is angular and unforgiving beneath you. One foot rests flat on the ground, the other curls under your thigh, a habit you haven’t shaken since nursing school. A half-full cup of synth-coffee sits to your right. The steam has faded, but the scent—slightly metallic with that faint bitter burn of artificial mocha—lingers like breath on a mirror.

You stare at the glowing screen of your datapad, but the words blur, bleeding into each other as your focus drifts.

You’re thinking about yesterday.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You were going to let the moment pass, the way you usually do. Swallow it. Move on.

But then your voice left your body in that corridor — a soft, cracked “thank you” that felt like handing him a scalpel with both hands.

And Zayne had taken it.

Without flinching. Without dodging.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence. That includes false accusations.”

The words had echoed through your skull all night, louder than the post-op monitors, louder than the tired thoughts telling you not to think too hard about it.

Because something about it was personal.

And you don't know what to do with that.

The door hisses open.

You don’t look up at first — just sip your coffee out of reflex. Cold now. Awful. Your fingers tighten around the cup.

But then you hear the steps.

Measured. Precise.

Not the soft shuffle of a tired nurse or the clumsy stride of a resident.

Hard soles. Deliberate gait.

Dress shoes.

You glance up.

And your pulse stutters.

Zayne.

Of course.

He walks in like the room was built around him. His coat is immaculate, fastened high against the sharp lines of his navy vest. His dark hair, slicked back, catches the low light in a clean shine. No loose strands. No wrinkles. No rush. His silver-framed glasses rest perfectly across the bridge of his nose, catching a pale glint from the dispenser wall as he approaches it.

He doesn’t glance at you.

Not yet.

His right hand lifts — long, pale fingers tapping the interface with exact precision. The vending screen changes. Options shift. You watch the flick of his eyes as he reads, scrolls, selects.

Then, he pauses.

Just for a second.

His gaze shifts — almost imperceptibly — toward your table.

Toward your cup.

Then back to the panel.

He taps again.

Same coffee.

The same selection you picked.

You freeze, fingers still curled around your own cup.

The machine hums. A faint hiss of steam. The scent sharpens — familiar, acidic, chemical cocoa — and your heart kicks harder for reasons you don’t dare name.

He retrieves the cup, wraps his fingers around it with clinical ease.

Turns.

And walks straight toward you.

Not toward the counter. Not toward the sink or the exit.

You.

Your breath catches. You glance down, adjusting your datapad like that’ll make the moment more casual.

But it doesn’t.

He reaches the table.

Then, without a word, he pulls out the chair across from you and sits.

Effortlessly. Quietly. Like this is normal.

It isn’t.

Zayne doesn’t sit in shared spaces. He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t drink coffee with people like you — like anyone.

But here he is.

The silence is total.

The vending machine slips into standby again. Your datapad dims.

You don’t know where to look.

He rests his coffee on the table. One hand wrapped loosely around the cup, thumb tapping once — slow, absent. His other hand rests on his thigh, fingers lightly curled. He doesn’t cross his legs. Doesn’t lean back. His spine is straight, posture alert even when still.

You watch him from beneath your lashes, suddenly hypersensitive to everything: the low drone of the vent system overhead, the sharp lines of his profile, the way his glasses fog slightly from the cup’s remaining heat.

You’re the first to speak.

You have to.

“Didn’t expect to see you in here this early,” you say softly, voice caught between conversational and cautious.

Zayne doesn’t look at you. He lifts the cup to his lips, sips once, then sets it down again with near-silent precision.

“I’m early every day,” he says.

His voice is smooth. Low. But there’s none of the edge you’re used to. Just… quiet.

You shift slightly in your chair, your foot brushing the floor again.

“You don’t usually sit.”

“There’s no rule against it,” he replies.

You let out a soft huff of breath — not quite a laugh, but close. Typical Zayne.

Then, your eyes fall to the cups. Identical. Still steaming.

And you ask, because you have to:

“Was the coffee a coincidence?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No.”

He turns his head toward you, and his eyes catch the light — that pale, strange, hazel-green that shifts with every blink. They lock onto yours. Direct. Unwavering.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He isn’t smiling. He never does.

But something in his expression has… loosened.

Not relaxed. Just not braced.

You stare at him for one second too long.

Then you lower your eyes.

You pick up your cup again, take a slow sip — still bitter, still bad — and set it down just to give your hands something to do.

The silence grows again, but this time it doesn’t feel like space between strangers.

It feels like waiting.

It feels like noticing.

You glance at the time.

05:56.

You rise first, datapad tucked under your arm.

He stands too.

No word, no signal. Just synced movement.

You both move toward the hallway — the bright, humming artery that leads to Surgical Wing 3 — and fall into step beside each other.

No touch.

No talk.

But your arms swing close enough to brush. Your footsteps mirror.

And in that moment, as the blue-tinted hall stretches before you, you feel it again.

It’s shifting.

And neither of you is stopping it.

The hallway that leads to Surgical Wing 3 is long and silent, its glass walls streaked with faint reflections from overhead lighting that shifts in a subtle gradient from soft blue to white as the morning cycle begins.

The floor panels illuminate faintly with each footstep, lighting up a path that fades behind you as you move, side by side with Zayne, through the sterile stillness of pre-shift hours.

There is no one else in the corridor yet — no distant voices, no patient transport carts squeaking on linoleum, no ambient chatter from medtechs — just the steady rhythm of footsteps, yours and his, falling in perfect unison, echoing softly off metal and glass.

You can hear your own breathing in the hush, feel the quiet hum of recycled airflow through the ceiling vents, and sense the slight change in temperature as you both approach the threshold to OR Prep Bay 3.

When the doors part with a gentle hydraulic sigh, the chill of the prep room brushes against your skin, sharper and more precise than the hallway air, laced with the clean scent of sterilizer, latex, and something faintly chemical — the smell of readiness.

The light inside the prep bay is cooler, harsher — not unkind, but surgical, designed for alertness rather than comfort. Bright white strips embedded in the ceiling cast faint shadows across the sterile metal trays and brushed steel walls, giving everything a slightly clinical glow that feels both otherworldly and exact.

You move toward the sink in silence, your scrubs already folded neatly into the disposal chute, the ID tag at your chest deactivated now that you're entering sterile space.

Your hands begin their familiar rhythm under the hot water — fingers interlaced, nails scrubbed, wrists turned beneath the flow — the sound of water hitting steel the only thing filling the air between you and him.

Zayne is just to your right, slightly behind, though you see him in the mirrored reflection ahead of you. His movements are measured and precise, like everything he does, from the way he folds his sleeves to the way he ties the back of his mask. His posture is impossibly straight, but not rigid — more like control honed down to a molecular level.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

The silence is no longer unfamiliar.

You finish scrubbing before he does, and as you turn to the glove tray, you reach instinctively for your own — but pause when he steps forward, his presence suddenly closer, quieter, different.

Zayne holds out his hand toward you, fingers slightly spread, palm up, offering his glove to you — not in command, not out of impatience, but with something that feels almost... deliberate.

You blink, caught off guard.

He wants you to glove him.

That’s new.

You hesitate only a second, then take the glove from the tray and begin sliding it over his hand. Your fingers skim the inside of his wrist, feel the slight warmth of his skin through the barrier, and though he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch or shift, you feel the subtle stillness in him — not tense, not frozen, just waiting.

You glance up, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you are wearing masks at all.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice low and composed, but lacking its usual sharpness, the edge of precision softened into something almost thoughtful.

You nod, unable to stop yourself from holding his gaze a second longer than necessary, then pull away to glove your own hands with slow, focused movements, your breath caught somewhere between control and something far less professional.

The doors to Surgical Theatre 04 open with a gentle hiss, spilling cold, filtered air into the prep bay. You step through first, and he follows without a word.

Inside, the theatre is fully lit, sterile and silent except for the ambient hum of equipment already online. The overhead operating light casts a white halo directly onto the center of the surgical table, where the patient lies under sedation, chest prepped and draped, vitals steady in pulsing green and white on the monitor to the right.

Your boots click softly as you cross to your station, hands poised at the ready, your position closer to him than usual — not by much, but enough for your right shoulder to nearly brush his left whenever either of you leans in.

He doesn’t reposition you.

You take your place and begin the final checks without needing instruction.

The circulating nurse calls status, logs the procedure start time, and begins the countdown. You barely hear her.

Zayne pulls his mask up, adjusts his gloves, and then meets your eyes with a slight tilt of his head.

“You’re assisting directly today,” he says quietly, his voice audible only to you beneath the drone of equipment.

You feel a rush of something low and warm settle in your chest — anticipation, nerves, pride. Maybe all three.

“Yes, Doctor,” you respond, steady.

He turns back toward the table.

You hand him the scalpel.

Your gloved fingers brush his.

He takes it with quiet grace, then leans in.

The first incision is clean, his hand unwavering.

The surgery unfolds in calm precision.

The tension in the room is different than usual — not the tight, brittle focus that often accompanies complex cardiovascular procedures, but something more fluid, more attuned. Every time he requests a tool, your hand is already in motion. Every time the vitals adjust, you’ve already seen it before he does.

And each time your hands pass close or your arms graze lightly, there’s no tension, no recoil.

Only awareness.

At one point, he leans in to examine the bypass entry point more closely, and you adjust your angle to accommodate without thinking. His shoulder touches yours — a light, barely-there pressure — and for the first time, he doesn’t move away.

“Compensated narrowing,” he murmurs, more to you than anyone else. “Do you see it?”

You lean in, eyes scanning the site. “Yes. Stable rhythm holding.”

“Good,” he says, and when he glances sideways, you catch it — the faintest crease at the corner of his eye, visible even above the edge of his mask.

The procedure ends without complication.

The graft is sealed. The incision is closed.

And in that final moment, as the instruments are cleared and the monitors begin their post-op logoff, you both step back, simultaneously, in a perfect mirror of each other’s movement.

You strip off your gloves. He does the same.

You remove your mask, careful and slow.

He turns toward you.

And then, without warning — without force — his hand brushes gently across your upper arm. A passing touch. A small thing.

But it lingers like a fingerprint burned into the air.

“You handled that flawlessly,” he says.

Four words.

Measured. Clear. Soft.

Your throat tightens around the answer you want to give. Your heart is loud in your ears, and your body — trained for stillness — wants to lean closer, just a little.

But he’s already turning.

Already leaving.

His steps retreat into the prep bay, the door closing softly behind him.

And you stay there, in the quiet, bathed in the afterglow of white surgical light, heart pounding in the echo of something you can no longer ignore.

The line between you didn’t blur.

It moved.

And now, you’re standing on the edge of it — and wanting more.

The walk from Surgical Wing 3 to the central cafeteria is longer than it needs to be.

Every footstep feels too loud on the white-polished flooring, each step echoing slightly down the otherwise quiet corridor. The afternoon shift has already begun, which means the halls are sparse — just the occasional nurse passing by with a datapad in hand, or a lab tech deep in a call, none of them paying you any mind.

Which is good.

Because your thoughts are racing.

You’ve stripped out of your surgical scrubs, pulled on your soft-blue undershirt and coat again, but somehow your skin still feels hypersensitive — like it remembers the brush of gloved fingers along your arm more vividly than it should. Like your body hasn’t yet caught up to the fact that the moment has ended. Or maybe it hasn’t.

You handled that flawlessly.

The words had sounded so simple in the OR. Straightforward. Unembellished. But the weight behind them, the way he said it — quietly, deliberately — made it feel less like feedback and more like recognition. The way someone speaks when they’ve been watching you more closely than you realized.

You press your thumb into the corner of your datapad as you walk, using it like a grounding anchor, but it does little to settle the way your stomach keeps knotting and untying itself.

Zayne had touched you.

It was nothing — a simple brush of the arm. Not clinical. Not commanding.

But deliberate.

And that’s what unsettles you most.

Because Zayne doesn’t do anything by accident.

You sit at the corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the quietest part of the cafeteria, away from the soft clatter of trays and the low murmur of conversation that still lingers near the center aisles.

The natural light, filtered through the building’s UV-diffusing glass, casts a cool, sterile wash over the steel-framed furniture and polished concrete floor. Beyond the windows, Akso’s rooftop medical drone pads glint in the gray afternoon haze, veiled behind high-altitude clouds that never quite break.

Your tray sits in front of you with carefully chosen simplicity: one protein-focused meal pack, a ceramic bowl of rehydrated soup—thin and vaguely orange, still steaming slightly—and a hydration vial placed just above the utensils, unopened. The contents of your meal are bland. Standard issue. But your body doesn’t want flavor right now. It wants quiet. It wants something to do with your hands while your mind continues spiraling around everything that happened this morning.

You take a slow spoonful of soup and bring it to your lips, the warmth a temporary distraction. The flavor is muted, barely there, more heat than taste, but you sip it anyway, staring down into the gently swirling broth like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

Your fingers tense slightly around the bowl’s rim. Your shoulders are still drawn tight, your jaw set even though the tension should’ve passed hours ago. But it hasn’t—not since the moment Zayne said “You handled that flawlessly,” and certainly not since the soft, impossible brush of his fingers on your arm as he walked past, unhurried, unaffected, like he hadn’t just upended something inside you with a single, silent gesture.

You hadn't meant to sit alone, but it was the only thing you could think to do—put distance between yourself and the memory of that moment. Breathe. Sort through the rush of emotion threading through your chest like wire: gratitude, confusion, tension, and that quiet pull that had been building between the two of you in ways you’d tried very hard not to name.

You take another bite, slower this time, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth as your gaze unfocuses. The room hums gently around you—conversations a few tables away, the distant hiss of the food dispenser, the occasional soft squeak of shoes on polished tile—but none of it really reaches you.

You’re somewhere else entirely.

You don’t hear him at first.

Not until the sound of a chair scraping against the floor in front of you breaks through your thoughts—not harshly, not jarring, just enough to pull you back to the present with a low, precise sound that seems impossibly louder than it should be.

You lift your eyes.

And Zayne is standing there.

Tray in hand.

Expression unreadable.

Your body freezes before your mind catches up.

He’s still dressed from earlier—no coat this time, just his crisp, fitted charcoal vest and long-sleeve undershirt, sleeves neatly rolled at the forearms, every line of fabric as pristine as it was this morning. His posture is impeccable, as always, but there’s something in his stillness—some subtle suspension of breath—that tells you he’s waiting.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

His voice is lower than usual, quiet in a way that feels intentional—like he’s stepping into your space and trying not to break it.

You stare at him, your heart leaping into your throat. For a moment, you can’t answer.

Then you blink, once, and shake your head slowly. “No. Go ahead.”

Zayne nods, then sets his tray down with measured care—just a hydration vial and a sealed nutrition bar, untouched—and eases himself into the seat across from you. Not stiffly. Not with arrogance. Just... present. Purposeful.

You watch him settle, every movement controlled. He doesn’t immediately unwrap his food. He doesn’t speak again. He simply sits, hands resting lightly on either side of the tray, fingers interlaced, as though content to let the silence speak first.

You glance back down at your soup.

Suddenly, your appetite falters.

You stir the surface of the broth with your spoon, aware of how loud the sound seems now—the faint scrape of metal against ceramic, the slight clink as the edge of your spoon taps the side of the bowl. You bring another mouthful to your lips and sip, slower this time, more conscious of the moment than the food.

Across the table, you can feel him watching you.

Not intrusively.

Not assessing.

Just… watching.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set the spoon down. You fold them together, fingertips pressing lightly against the back of your wrist to steady yourself.

You’re not used to this version of him.

You’re not used to being seen like this by him—unarmored, unguarded, off-shift, soup steaming quietly between you and the man who, until recently, barely acknowledged you unless it was to correct something with clinical detachment.

But now—he’s here.

Just present.

And something inside you stirs with that realization, warm and unsteady.

Zayne shifts slightly in his seat, one elbow resting loosely against the table’s edge as he lifts his hydration vial and unscrews the cap with the same methodical ease he brings to surgery — no wasted movement, no sound beyond the soft click of the seal breaking.

He doesn’t drink from it yet.

Instead, his gaze flicks toward your tray again, eyes narrowing just slightly.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until his voice breaks through the quiet space between you, measured and low, not sharp, but direct.

“You’ve barely touched your food.”

You blink, startled not by the observation itself — he’s always been hyper-aware of his environment — but by the fact that he said it aloud.

You glance down at your tray, then at your hands, one resting on the edge of your bowl, the other idling near your hydration pack, fingers curled against the table. You hadn’t noticed how still you’d gone, how your spoon has been resting in the soup for minutes now, the surface gone still and glossy.

You lift your eyes to meet his.

He isn’t staring.

He’s watching.

There’s a difference.

You shrug once, trying to make the gesture feel casual. “Wasn’t that hungry.”

His brow furrows — just slightly, just enough to crease the skin between his eyebrows — but he doesn’t push.

He’s silent for another breath.

Then, quietly, he sets the hydration vial down again. The soft plastic clinks lightly against the tray.

His hands rest loosely on either side of it, fingers long and still, as though weighing whether to speak again. You expect him to drop the subject — deflect, return to silence, maybe shift back into professional mode and let the moment dissolve between you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward slightly.

Barely a tilt.

But enough.

“You haven’t had a full break since pre-op,” he says. “Not during the procedure. Not after.”

It’s not a reprimand. There’s no judgment in his voice. If anything, it sounds like something closer to concern — but filtered through the only lens Zayne allows himself to speak from: observation, fact, precision.

You lower your gaze to your bowl again, then lift your spoon with a quiet sigh and take another small bite — more for his sake than yours.

The soup is lukewarm now.

Still bland.

Still forgettable.

But you swallow it, and when you glance up, you catch the faintest shift in his expression — something soft at the edges, as if the act of you eating, however reluctantly, has eased a knot in his chest that he hadn’t realized was there.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him with quiet curiosity. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?”

The words aren’t accusatory. There’s no heat in them — just a quiet teasing edge, barely audible beneath your fatigue.

Zayne’s gaze flicks up to meet yours again, and for the first time in this conversation, his eyes don’t feel unreadable. They feel intentional.

“I observe everything in my environment,” he says.

“But not everyone,” you reply.

There’s a pause — full, stretching — and then he does something you’ve never seen him do so openly:

He exhales. Slowly.

Not out of frustration.

Not out of impatience.

But release.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer still.

“I notice when people push themselves past the point of usefulness,” he says. “When they forget they’re human first.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Not right away.

Because there’s something about the way he says forget they’re human that sticks to your ribs. Something that feels less like a statement and more like a quiet confession — like he’s not just talking about you.

You study him carefully now — the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the way his collar sits perfectly pressed against the curve of his throat, the line of tension that still coils in his shoulders even now, even here, in a moment that’s supposed to be restful.

He never rests.

Neither do you.

And maybe that’s what this is.

Maybe that’s why he’s here.

“I’m eating,” you say at last, voice low, half a breath above a whisper. “See?”

You take another spoonful, slower this time.

He watches you eat it.

Not with skepticism.

Not with scrutiny.

Just... watching.

And when you glance up again, you see something unspoken settle into his expression — not approval.

But ease.

Relief.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t shift his tone.

But something in him relaxes.

And for the next few minutes, neither of you speak.

You eat in quiet intervals.

He drinks his hydration vial.

And the space between you — this fragile, tentative thing — begins to stretch open, just enough to hold something neither of you are ready to name.

The hallway stretches ahead of you in cold symmetry — long, white-paneled walls interrupted by glass doorways and mounted vitals screens, each one flickering with pale green and orange readouts. Nurses cross in measured steps, carts hum as they pass, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic, recycled air, and the trace of fresh gauze.

You move through the space with your arms full — seven patient files in total, three datapads, and two hard-copy charts that required a physical signature, all stacked against your chest with surgical gloves tucked between pages, and a capped marker balanced precariously on your thumb. The edge of one clipboard digs lightly into your forearm. The datapads are beginning to slip. One tilt, one wrong step, and the whole stack is going down.

You should’ve made two trips.

But you didn’t.

And now, as your shoulder bumps lightly into the corner of a console and the top datapad slides half an inch, you bite down a soft curse and try to adjust your grip without losing everything.

Your steps slow as you approach the central junction — a bright, open space between wings where staff tend to cross paths. The lighting overhead shifts here, warmer in tone but harsher in intensity. The ceiling is higher. The footsteps louder.

You round the corner.

And stop.

Because he’s there.

Zayne.

Standing with one hand tucked loosely into the pocket of his white coat, the other wrapped around a closed folder, spine straight, posture as exacting as ever. He’s speaking to another physician — someone you don’t recognize — and his tone is low, focused, his head tilted slightly as he listens.

He hasn’t seen you.

Not yet.

You debate turning back. Just for a moment.

Then the datapad on top slides again, and you snap your arm upward to stop it. Your pen clatters to the floor.

The sound echoes more than you expect.

Zayne’s head turns.

And his eyes land on you.

You freeze, one foot forward, the files braced awkwardly against your ribs.

There’s a pause — not long, just the length of a single breath — and then, without breaking rhythm, he finishes whatever sentence he was in the middle of, closes the file in his hand, and steps away from the conversation.

He walks toward you with that same precise cadence — calm, unhurried, but direct — the way he walks toward an operating table. Like he knows exactly what he’s going to do when he gets there.

You straighten instinctively, arms tightening around the stack, not sure what to expect. You’ve worked with him long enough to know he notices everything, but you’re not prepared for what happens next.

He stops in front of you.

His eyes flick down to the overloaded files.

Then, without a word, he reaches out.

One hand slides under the stack, fingers brushing yours only briefly — a whisper of contact, warm through your glove — as he lifts half the files from your grip and settles them against his own chest, perfectly aligned.

You blink.

Your fingers curl tighter around what’s left, heart skipping a beat not from the weight you’ve lost, but from the weight of the moment.

He doesn’t meet your eyes right away.

Instead, he adjusts the edge of a slipping datapad with his thumb, his face unreadable as always. Then his gaze lifts — sharp, pale, and steady.

“You were going to drop them,” he says, as if this explains everything.

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re aware, suddenly, of the eyes on you — two nurses lingering near the supply cabinet, one technician pretending to review a vitals chart a few feet away, all of them caught in that rare phenomenon:

Zayne Li, helping someone.

Not ordering or correcting. Just helping.

You force yourself to speak, even though your throat is dry.

“I had it,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

He raises one eyebrow, faintly — not in mockery, not even in doubt. Just a flicker of expression. The most subtle I don’t think so you’ve ever seen written across someone’s face.

“You had too much,” he replies simply.

And with that, he turns.

Begins walking toward the central station.

Your feet move to follow before your brain catches up.

You trail beside him, heart pounding, fingers still tingling faintly where they’d brushed his. Your thoughts are racing — trying to make sense of what just happened — while behind you, the whispers begin.

You pretend not to hear.

At the main terminal, he sets the files down gently, aligns them with the edge of the station. He doesn’t linger and doesn’t speak again.

But as he straightens, his hand brushes the edge of the chart — yours — and with a subtle motion, he pushes it slightly closer to you.

Your eyes flick to his.

And he’s already looking at you.

Something that says: I saw you struggling. I stepped in. And I don’t want you to say thank you.

You don’t.

But your chest feels full.

You nod once, silent.

And he turns, disappearing back down the corridor without another word.

But this time, you don’t need one.

Because he spoke clearly enough without saying anything at all.

You’re walking down Corridor 7B in the recovery wing, the overhead lights casting long diagonal shadows across the clean floor tiles — a cool gray intercut by slow-moving vitals monitors rolling past. Outside the sealed patient doors, quiet beeping pulses in steady time, each one another heartbeat of someone just barely held together.

But your mind is somewhere else.

It’s still with him.

Zayne.

Three days have passed since he took the files from your arms without ceremony, walked beside you like it was nothing, and handed off half your load without saying anything more than “You had too much.”

And maybe he meant the charts.

Maybe he didn’t.

You’d thought about it more than you wanted to. You hadn’t mentioned it to anyone — not when a junior nurse asked what he said, not when you caught him glancing at your chart during rounds, and definitely not when you caught yourselfwaiting for it to happen again. For something to break the glass of how things used to be.

But it didn’t.

Not exactly.

Instead, it just kept happening in smaller, quieter ways.

The way his eyes would flick toward you first in the briefing room, even if he was addressing the group. The way his posture relaxed just slightly when you entered the same space. The way he stood a fraction of a step closer than before — not close enough for anyone else to name it. But enough for you to feel it.

It was a shift.

And like all things with Zayne, it was precise, quiet, and intentional.

Now, as you step into the surgical wing, your gloves snap into place with a soft, satisfying stretch. The prep nurse hands you your mask, and you pull it up as you push through the double doors of Surgical Theatre 05, the room already prepped and sterile under the white flood of focused overhead light.

The theatre is cold, as it always is — a sterile kind of cold that sinks into your arms, your collarbone, your breath. The table in the center gleams beneath the surgical lamp, already set for the vascular repair ahead. Vitals monitors to your left scroll patient data across translucent screens, glowing faintly blue and green. The faint scent of antiseptic and powdered latex clings to the air, sharp and familiar.

He’s already there.

Standing at the head of the table, reviewing the patient’s history on a suspended holodisplay, the text casting pale light across the sharp lines of his jaw. His mask is still tucked beneath his chin, gloves already on, eyes scanning the data with the same ruthless focus that’s made him infamous across three wings.

You step up to your station, opposite him.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

But you know he knows you’re there.

You feel it in the subtle pause in his hand.

The quiet shift in his stance.

The change in the air.

You adjust the tray beside you, fingers curling briefly around the surgical scissors, your breath steady, your pulse not.

You’re supposed to focus.

But all you can think about is that moment in the hallway. His hand brushing yours. The silence that followed. The way he didn’t explain it — because he didn’t have to.

And then the door slides shut behind you.

The nurse calls time.

And the procedure begins.

Zayne stood calm and composed as always, his surgical gown crisp, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his gloves fitted perfectly—but you felt his attention on you, steady and unrelenting, even when he wasn’t looking directly.

The procedure was clean and efficient, every movement practiced, but there were moments—subtle, unmistakable—where his arm brushed yours and didn’t pull away, where your hands passed a tool and lingered a fraction too long, where his voice dropped slightly when he said your name, low and deliberate, like it wasn’t just a cue but a tether.

And when the final suture was placed and he peeled off his gloves with that same fluid control, he looked at you—not a glance, not a scan, but a look that held for half a second longer than it should have, enough to make your heart stutter in your chest and your breath catch behind your mask.

He left the room without another word, and you let yourself exhale only once the door slid shut behind him.

The silence didn’t last.

Kira, one of the surgical nurses, leaned in under the hum of the post-op sterilizers, her voice pitched low, but not low enough to feel casual. “Okay, I have to ask,” she said, not looking at you as she wiped down the tray.

You didn’t stop moving, but your pulse ticked upward.

“Ask what?” you said, too flat.

She glanced sideways. “Does Zayne like you or something?”

The words dropped like a scalpel onto your chest—sharp, clean, surgical. Your hands slowed on instinct, your fingers tightening slightly around the metal edge of the tray.

“What? No,” you said, too fast, too soft.

She gave a low laugh, not mocking, just incredulous. “He doesn’t even make eye contact with most people, but with you? He’s practically magnetic.”

You tried to scoff, to redirect your focus, but the heat was already creeping up your neck beneath your collar, because you’d been thinking the same thing every night since that first quiet brush of his hand on yours.

You turned back to the counter, stripping off your gloves and rinsing your hands under cool, sterile water, watching the way your reflection shifted in the steel panel above the sink—how your own eyes betrayed you, wide and uncertain, remembering every look, every almost-touch, every moment he stood beside you without saying anything but somehow saying everything.

Kira joined you, her tone softening. “He looks at you like you’re not just another nurse on rotation. And I’ve worked with him long enough to know that’s not how he treats anyone.”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Because everything she said echoed what you’d been avoiding, pressed tight against the inside of your chest.

You whispered, “I don’t know what it is,” but the words felt like a lie the second they left your mouth.

Because whatever was happening between you and Zayne—it was quiet, yes, and subtle, always—but it was real, and it was changing everything, whether you were ready to name it or not.

taglist: @destinysrequiem @sylusgirlie7 @lalaluch @januke

[maddiesentmehere118]

Wide Open: Chapter 1

Jack Abbot x plus size! reader

Word Count: 2.7 k

Warnings: medical talk, birth, infertility talk, body image, light smut

Author's notes: I just started the Pitt today, and I'm obsessed with Jack and Robby already.

Masterlist | Taglist

The moment you are scrubbed out of surgery, you slump outside of the operating room. You had tried to take the most conservative approaches to stop the hemorrhaging, but her uterus was ruptured dand wasn’t responding to tamponade or ligation. She wouldn’t stop hemorrhaging. So you had to do an emergency hysterectomy. Her first and last biological child was born yesterday.

As soon as you stepped into the ER, the first thing you could hear were a woman’s screams of pain. It made your heart drop into your stomach. You had heard women scream from giving birth, but this was different. This was worse. 

You pushed past nurses and other practitioners.

“Tell the bank I need 4 units!” Jack’s voice pierces the air.

“OB here, what’s wrong?” You announced as the doors opened to trauma room three with a mechanical whoosh, pumping hand sanitizer on your hands and reaching for your size gloves. Your OB intern, Mirza, hot on your tail. 

You recognized Jack and one of his residents as they worked on stabilizing the patient. 

“Patient’s name is Ellie Hart, 32, gave vaginal birth yesterday. Came in for excessive bleeding. She’s now hemorrhaging.” 

Jack barely glances up as his man gives you the rundown. But when he hears your voice and his eyes catch yours, you watch him let out an exhale. You hastily grab a medical gown, not bothering to tie it as you rush forward. 

“I’ve already started active PPH protocol. 20 units of Pit, .2 mg Methergine IM, and TXA 1 gram IV.. Started boluses and prepping for blood.”

“Thanks doctor.” You pause as you walk in front of the patient. You grab the hem of the medical gown, rolling it up to rest on her hips. 

Sweat beads on her skin, and the scene on the table and the sterile green gown is horrific. Dark, fresh blood seeps from her vagina. 

“Fuck.” You murmur to yourself, reaching for another pair of gloves to snap on. You introduce yourself to the woman before you start to talk to her and ask questions.

“Ellie, who delivered you?”

“Dr. Schultz.” She pants out before a gut wrenching yelp accompanies the beeps of the monitor.

“Okay. I’m going to have my doctor page her to meet us in the OR. I’m going to start by taking a look at you first though, okay?  I can’t give you anything for the pain just yet, so I need you to stay with me.”

“Yeah.” She grits her teeth, throwing her head back into the pillow. 

You nod at Jack as he kicks the stool towards you. You pull the stirrups from the table, manually placing her legs up. wards you. You pull the exam light down the table to do a brief assessment to identify the source of bleeding.

“I need suction, I can’t see anything.”

Jack jumps in as his resident and Mirza works on the IV and prepping her for surgery. He provides a suction catheter, and you point to the place that needs cleared. 

“Laps, Dominquez, STAT.” The silver haired trauma doctor barks, leaving Mirza for a brief moment as you’re handed materials.

“No exterior lacerations or tears. No large clots.” You look at the speculum that Mirza has waiting for you. You shake your head no at her. “Don’t have time, she’s bleeding fast. I’m going to have to do a bimanual exam.”

You stand up to look at the patient. She’s paleing fast.

“Where’s that blood?!” Jack yells as he reads your panicked expression. “It’s been five minutes!”’

“Mirza, run! I don’t care if you have to steal it, we need it now!” You scream as the heart monitor starts to pick up, the beeping climbing.

“She’s tachy at 140, pressure 80 over 40!” Dominquez turns around, tugging the crash cart and an intubation kit towards her side.

“Ellie, this is going to hurt. I’m going to push on your abdomen to feel your uterus.”

You stand up, leaning in between her legs. Jack continues suction as your fingers push on her lower stomach, feeling her uterus. You sing a mantra in your head as she screams, talking her through it the best you can. All of the color in her skin is gone as she grasps at the table with one hand, other yanking at her hair.

Spongy and soft. She likely needs a fundal massage.

“Jack, start a fundal while I look internally, please.” You slide back down onto the rolling stool. “Can I get more light please?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

He reaches above you, tilting the light at a better angle. Mirza appears with blood, darting over to hook up the bag to the other line. 

“Ellie, I’m going to put fingers in you to feel your cervix and walls.”

“Please, make it stop!”’

You slide your hand into her vagina, palm up. Your fingers curl up, brushing against her service. Your fingers brush against Jack’s as you replace his hands. A spark of energy jolts down your spine at the contact. 

“Uterus is boggy. Start more Pit, Dominqueze. I need suction, Abbot!”

“How much, doctor?”

“Add 20 additional units to that bag, open wide. I need this uterus contracting ASAP.”

“Mirza, call Schultz and get us an OR. I want anesthesia ready for a possible hysterectomy.”

As the pitocin enters her blood stream, a large clot expels and blood gushes out, coating your gown. You try to hide your gasp from her, but then everything goes down south. Fast. She becomes tachycardic, her BP drops as her body starts to fail from the extreme blood loss. She’s lost probably over a liter in five minutes. 

Jack straddles the patient, doing compressions as Mirza bags her. Your hands are occupied, under Jack as you bimanually massage the uterus for contractions. All of you running down to the OR. 

You don’t miss the look of adrenaline, passion in Jack’s eyes as he leaves.

“Thought you might need this.” 

His voice rips you out of your thoughts as you lift your head up from in between your legs. You let out a sigh, giving a small yet sad smile as he stands above you.

“Thanks.” You whisper as you take the cup of coffee. The warm liquid warms your fingers up from the cool environment of the operating room. “I’m glad Schultz has to deliver the news.”

Tears start to bubble up. You think about your own life. You’re 36, a young person with no kids. Not being able to have kids is devastating. You want kids. You have spent the last 11 years in school and focusing on medical training. After this case, it’s time to start thinking about the future. . 

It’s something that isn’t talked about in the medical field. The feelings of hitting a wall after a high-stakes case. The hard crash as epinephrine and norepinephrine dropped, leaving stress levels high.

 It was a normal physiological reaction to the rush of hormones that invaded your body, sending you into fight-or-flight mode as you fought for your patient’s life. Most days you feel tired and just need to rest, to have a breather and a moment alone to feel. To embrace the emotional rawness before collecting yourself for the next case.

Other days you feel physically sick. Shaking, nauseous. Pale, hot. Chills. On edge. Anxious. Tearful.

Today, it’s all of it. A case that seems to hit too close to home. 

“Hey, how about we go on a walk?” 

You nod. But you don’t move. You stare off into space, lost in your thoughts.

“Come on, let’s get you to an actual chair.”

You bite your lip with a nod. You put your hand in his as he helps you onto your feet. You reach up, swiping your palms under your eyes. Your body shakes, and Jack’s hand lingers against yours, helping steady you as you sway towards him. His fingers dig into your hip, not saying anything. Just letting you feel.

As you stroll down the hall towards the on-call room, a surg tech walks your way. Jack grabs your lower back, pulling you to stand in front of him. A warm blush sets in your cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Jack questions as soon as the door closes with a click of the lock. His back rests against the door. You start to pace the length of the room.

“Having to take her uterus out at 32-” The lump in your throat thickens. “I’m 36, Jack. I’m considered an advanced maternal age if I have kids. And I want kids so bad, I do. But I’m married to my job, and my love life is shit. I haven’t gotten laid in months because no one wants to be with someone always on call or my size.”

You freeze in your tracks. Your breath hitches, heart beats hammering in your chest. 

“God, I don’t even know you and I’m telling you all of this embarrassing stuff.”

Shaking your head, you head over to the mini kitchenette. Leaning your weight on your hands, you hang your head low, rolling your shoulders and neck.

Your mind drifts to the man behind you. You didn’t work with him directly daily but you knew of him because of attendee meetings and your regular weekly calls down to the ED for various OB traumas. 

And despite having the biggest crush on the man, here you were, making a complete embarrassment of yourself. 

Besides you weren’t likely his type. You were plump and full of curves. Your thighs touched, arms jiggled, and stomach was plush. He was toned and could have any other woman. 

And as far as you knew, both of you were currently married to your careers, and you thought about how bad workplace romances could be. Yet you didn’t work in the same department at all. It would be perfect. You would understand the high stakes adrenaline of working in emergency situations and would have different things to talk about. 

“Hey. Turn around please.” His voice is closer, and you feel his presence near you. You jump, hot tears of embarrassment and shame rolling down your cheek. His arms are crossed against his chest, stepping to lean against the countertop with you.  “It’s not embarrassing. It’s real and human. You’re 36 years old, you have time. And you’re a respected OBGYN, you know how to take care of a pregnancy.

“You’re not the only one getting older. I’m 42 doc. I’m in the same boat as you- married to the job. I’ve thought about it, two little ones running around in a cozy little backyard. But time gets the best of us sometimes.”

You glance up at him. He wears a small smile, nudging your shoulder. 

“How are you single, Jack?”

“Could ask the same about you, sweetheart.” His voice softens. “You know I’ve watched you? In the endless meetings and in the ER. I see you. And your body? Doesn’t scare me.”

What? Your heart skips a beat, chest tightening with fuzzy joy. He has watched you? 

“Really?”

He chuckles gravely, his voice husky as his eyes darkened with lust. He twists his body to face you, leaning over you. His thumb swipes against your cheek, wiping away a tear. Carefully, cautiously, his palm lays on your jaw. His skin is warm and firm. Your lips upturn, tilting your head as your eyes fill with a watery sparkle. 

“Yeah.” He swallows hard, looking away for a moment to gain composure. His voice lowers, gravely as he continues. “And if you keep looking at me like that, I’m not going to be able to control myself.”

Your breath hitches. Nodding your head, you reach out to grab his arm, dragging your fingertips up his forearm and towards his bicep.

“Jack-”

“Tell me no and I’ll step away.”

“Please.”

His other hand slides to your waist, snaking around your lower back. He pulls you towards him as he steps backs to start guiding you to the single bed in the on-call room. His lips brush against the shell of your ear, hot breath sending a chill down your spine. 

“Should have done this earlier.” He presses a warm kiss against your forehead, nuzzling your nose as he kisses his way down to your lips. 

The moment the back of his knees hit the bed, he spins around, gently moving you to lay down. Your chest heaves with anticipation, feeling truly seen, truly wanted as he keeps his eyes on you. He lazily throws his shirt off before lowering himself down, body covering yours. 

And just like that, the second your lips touch, hands move in a frenzy, lips turning hungry. Your moan, as Jack grabs at your covered hips, his fingers digging into your thigh as he lifts you up to wrap around his waist. He guides your hips, grounding down against you. 

Your heel digs into the meat of his thigh as you roll your hips upwards. Jack groans as you brush against his hard cock, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth. He shifts his grip to the bottom of your scrub top, pushing upwards to reveal your stomach, inching the fabric up to rest above your breasts. 

“Fuck, you’re absolutely gorgeous.”  He breathes out, eyes scanning over your body. Each stretch mark visible, each blemish and imperfection perfect in his eyes.

You lift your arms for Jack to tug your shirt off. It lands beside the bed with a soft clink of your badge reel. You drag your nails against the muscles in his back as they flex with each move of his body.

You don’t realize that you’re crying until he kisses away the tears rolling down your cheeks. He stares at you, brows furrowed with concern.

“What’s wrong pretty girl? Why the tears?”

“I just, this doesn’t feel real. You and me.”

“Hey. Don’t talk like that. It’s real. This… is real.” He rolls his weight off of you, leaning his forehead against the side of your temple as he pauses. His palm rests against your stomach, thumb brushing over your skin. The body part that you hate the most, makes you feel wanted as he caresses it, sending a pang of arousal to your core as you clench around nothing.

 “We don’t have to do this. We can just lay here and talk, cuddle for a little bit. Take you out for some pancakes and coffee. Well, I’m going to take you out regardless.”

You laugh as the corner of his eyes crinkle. Your fingers tangle in his grey curls, dragging your nails against his scalp. He growls slowly, hand slowly inching down to the elastic of your scrub bottoms. Wrapping a curl around your middle finger, you tug, and Jack ruts his hips against the outer part of your thigh. 

Until the sound of a pager ruins the moment. You let out a noise of protest, frustrated at the moment now being ruined. But it’s not you being paged, because your pager is on your other hip.

“Going to kill whoever this is.” He grumbles as he lifts his hips to unclip the pager from his waistband. He scans the message, letting out a sigh as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. You sit up, leaning over to grab your own shirt.  “MVC in 5. Going to need at least three of those minutes to solve this.”

You follow his hand as it motions down to the tent in his pants. You give a sympathetic sound, leaning forward to press a kiss against his lips. He deepens it by pulling your head into him. Your fingers brush against his inner thigh teasingly. 

“Fuck, we have to stop. Or I'm going to ignore Robby and take you on this bed instead.”

“As good as that sounds, I think we should both get back to work.” You push yourself off of the bed, bending over to pick up your shirt. “I’d give you my number, but you know where to find me.”

[revelboo]

Nitro Zeus is too cute! (⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠) Got me kicking my feet and giggling.

Pretty much 🤣

Introductions

Nitro Zeus x Reader

• Dragging a drum off the pallet in the storage room onto a cart, you put a foot against it and push it toward the warden waiting impatiently before reaching to pull another cart your way. You think the guy is assigned to Dreadbot, maybe. Doesn’t really matter. In the hierarchy here, you’re barely above the sanitation crew. Wardens and the scientists researching the monsters housed in the underground facility look down on people like you, but really? You’re not in the line of fire down here and that’s just fine with you. Know what happens when one of those things catches someone off guard. Fuck that.

• Servos flexing, he jerks against the heavy chains holding him upright. For a klik, disoriented. Had he been recharging? Getting his peds under him hurts, his processor sluggish and he growls. Remembers getting tazed. Mandibles flexing as it all comes rushing back, he chuckles. Been wanting to do that for so damn long, too. Little bastard always smirking at him, talking down to him like an animal. Not smirking anymore. Head turning, he realizes he’s alone. It’s just him and the camera mounted high in a corner. Facing it, he lifts an arm to extend his middle finger like he’s seen humans do. Because he’s just biding his time until the big guy busts them all out and then it’s on.

• Hear someone clear their throat behind you and you flick a hand at them, before wrestling another heavy drum off its pallet and onto a cart. Impatient assholes. Do they have any idea what these things weigh? Your back and arms are killing you by the end of the day. And you turn with a snarky comment on the tip of your tongue only to stare. Because that’s the director. You didn’t flip him off just now, right? Just waved your hand? Yeah, you might have flipped him off. Fuck. “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted,” he says, lip curling to make you positive you flipped him off. And he’s walking away leaving you no choice but to jog after him. “You’ve been reassigned as the handler for Nitro Zeus.”

• Mouth opening and closing, because you’re not sure you can refuse. Can you? Really not interested in babysitting a murdery alien. Or any aliens. What was the guy’s name assigned to Nitro? Bad toupe and onion breath. “What about Riley?” He wasn’t old enough to have retired. ‘He’s no longer with us,’ the director says, striding like he’s eager to be rid of you. “Oh, he quit?” And you almost run straight into him when he stops suddenly, a humorless twist to his thin lips. ‘Decapitated.’ Oh, fuck him. Fuck you, too apparently. Need this job.

• Engine rumbling when he hears humans, he begins pacing to make the trolley overhead hiss, the inhibitor harness wired into his systems keeping his weapons and abilities locked down and driving him crazy. Like an itch he just can’t scratch. And two humans round the corner into his cell, the one he saw after they’d cleaned up the mess, but the other is new. Growling as the older human walks you through his fuel schedule and monitors, he realizes you’re brand new. And scared. Shivering when you look up and actually meet his optic. “This one mine? Yeah, you’re mine,” he growls as you stare up at him. Oh, you’re going to be fun to fuck with. Not ignoring him. That old bastard never talked to him, just mocked him. ‘Ignore it. You’re not to speak to it,’ the other human snaps angrily and you tear your eyes away.

• Skin prickling as the massive Decepticon paces, you wonder who your backup is. You’re supposed to have a partner, right? You’re almost positive you’re not supposed to be alone with these things. Trying to pay attention to the director as it rumbles, it’s low snarl predatory. Decapitated. You really want to ask questions, especially as the director dismisses you and just fucking leaves. Where’s your partner? “You gonna bring me my damn dinner?” It snarls, that voice a rough growl as the trolley hisses and his chains jangle.

• And there you go, running away. Clearing his vents with a laugh, he relaxes. Up until he hears wheels squeaking. Head turning on a rumble as you drag a cart in with a drum on it. Fuck, you’re obedient, aren’t you? “Yeah, you’re a good little wife aren’t you?” He growls. ‘Can’t let my husband starve,’ you retort without hesitation, sounding annoyed and he freezes when you do, your face darkening as you whisper “fuck.” Staring at you as you load the drum into the pusher and retreat behind the reinforced wall, he laughs. You just fucking called him your husband, didn’t you? You really are going to be fun to mess with. A delight.

• Grimacing at yourself for immediately retorting even though you know better, you want to kick yourself. Smarting off your default. Know you’re not supposed to talk to it. Or interact in any way and it’s one ugly bastard, your skin crawling as it bends to pick up the drum and drink, making a mess of itself. Squinting through the little bullet proof glass window, your mind blanks. Is it fucking dancing? “You got any damn music?” It calls out as you turn, back to the wall and press a hand over your eyes. It’s insane. Flinching with a startled ‘fuck’ when it crumples the drum and tosses it across the kill line to slide against the wall with a crash. It had thrown it away from you hiding behind the reinforced wall at least instead of nailing the wall to try and scare you. “Music?” It prompts and you pull out your phone. Playing along because you’re at a loss right now as you pull up some rap for the big Decepticon. Keeping on its good side probably not a bad idea. “That’s the shit,” it rumbles, dancing lazily like it doesn’t care that it’s in chains. That it’s never getting out of here. It has to be insane and you hear it chuckling as it quirks a servo at you like it thinks you’re going to actually dance with it. Hell, no. “Damn you’re cold. Meanest damn wife ever,” he growls to make you snort, clapping a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

[rainrot4me]

helli, I don't know if you take requests or not, but I saw your eyeless jack hc's and was wondering what if s/o actually was up to jack cutting into their abdoment? I thought that was a interesting hc but I liked it.

Have a good day/night/evening!

Please, please, please, please, please be cautious reading this. Remember it's fiction.

SMUT WARNING, MDNI

✦ . Characters: Eyeless Jack x Genderneutral Reader

✦ . Warning: THAT DOVE IS DEAD, scalpels, organ pleasure, paraphilia, internal organs, blood, I don't know how else to tag this besides Jack literally fucks your intestines through a cut in your stomach, pain and pleasure, mentions of needles and medical equipment, reader is a proxy/not entirely human

✦ . Words: 2.7k

✦ . Note: I'm not responsible for your personal enjoyment/disgust of this work so do not come complaining to me!!! ALSO, I’m in no way a medical expert, so take everything I write here at face value and not as what would actually happen (I hope none of you actually partake in this LMAO).

────────────────────────────────────────────

“I’m not suggesting. If we’re going to do this, you’re going to listen to me.”

Jack counted, then recounted every inch of medical tubing that ran up your arms, checking once again that he had all of them flowing correctly. The medical table underneath your back wasn’t comfortable, but the giddiness you felt overran the complaint of stale leather and stiff wood.

It was your idea, after all, to follow through with this whole fantasy. The demon never brought it up again after he had let it slip once—the idea of fucking something other than just your holes—but you never let it slip your stingy mind. It came as teasing afterwards, breathless remarks about ‘sticking his dick in’ while Jack sewed up yet another bullet wound or knife attack. As a proxy, the sting of pain became secondary to the sting of disappointment you would get from messing up a mission.

“Love, I’m fine.”

You reassured him yet again, reaching a hand out to grip on his wrist, the tubing that stuck into your veins following with the movement.

“I’ll be the judge.” A stern remark. You were beginning to think this would make him more stressed than anything.

He adjusted the mask over his face, not the porcelain one, not today. Just a medical-grade surgical mask, as if that could sanitize what was about to happen. His gloved hands paused at your hips. Not out of hesitation, but deliberation. Measuring, calculating, and then recalculating again.

The scalpel gleamed beneath the low amber light overhead. He had used it a thousand times before, but right now, it looked like he wasn’t even sure how to hold it.

“You have to tell me,” he said quietly, not looking at you, “if anything changes. If your heart rate spikes. If your breathing changes. If you feel cold, nauseous, faint—”

“I know the list, Jack,” you murmured, voice warm despite the chill in the air. “You’ve made me memorize it every time I get so much as a scratch.”

He glanced at you then, the sockets where eyes should be were black and bottomless, unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his gaze settle over you like a second set of hands.

“This isn’t a scratch.”

You tilted your head, smirking just a little. “Then make it count.”

That shut him up.

Silence bloomed between you for a moment, taut and thrumming. Your pulse was steady, he was monitoring it on a tiny screen just out of your line of sight, but his? Jack’s breath was shallow, stiff, like his lungs refused to sync with the calm professionalism he wore like a second skin. His energy was thrumming against you, even as he leaned closer, even as his hands steadied over the exposed area of your gut.

Then the scalpel kissed your abdomen.

Just a line, not yet breaking skin. He dragged it slowly from sternum to navel, a cold whisper over warm flesh, and you shivered, goosebumps shot up like a warning.

“Last chance,” he said, voice a ragged whisper. “If you say stop, I stop. I don’t care what you promised or what you think you can take. My pleasure is not worth you life, love.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

You could see it: the twitch in his jaw. That flicker of restraint cracking.

“I want you, Jack,” you said, breathless now. “All of you. Even this.”

He exhaled through his nose, something feral and broken. Not quite relief, not quite fear, but things deep and old that stirred in him when you said that like you meant it.

The scalpel cut.

Not deep, just enough, just barely. A hot line of pain seared across your skin, sharp and bright and real. You gasped from the sheer thrill of it. Jack’s gloved hand pressed gently against your side, steadying you.

His breath caught.

“You shouldn’t look so happy,” he said, voice hoarse. “It’s fucked.”

You grinned up at him, eyes glittering with heat. “Then we’re both fucked.”

He leaned in, hovering over you, the warm wetness of your blood slicking his gloves as he spread you open, not cruelly, not recklessly, but with reverence. With trembling hands and barely-contained hunger.

The scalpel’s edge dipped beneath the top layer of skin. A clean incision. Shallow enough to avoid danger, but enough to make your breath catch and your limbs tense against the restraints. Jack felt it, the flutter of your pulse against the inside of your wrist, and watched, silently, as a thin rivulet of blood bloomed from the cut and curved down your side.

“Breathe through it,” he said lowly, almost beneath his breath, not a command, more like a reminder to himself. To both of you.

He set the scalpel down with reverent care, replacing it with gloved fingers that were soaked almost immediately in the warm slickness pooling from the wound. Your blood coated his hands, dripping between his knuckles, sliding down his wrists in long, slow trails. It made his mask cling tighter to his face from the heat radiating off both of you.

Jack’s hands spread you open gently, the pads of his fingers pulling the skin apart to expose the layer of fat beneath. Yellowish and subcutaneous, still undisturbed by damage, glistening under the low light.

Your body arched involuntary. A hiss of pain curled off your lips, and he watched it. Every twitch of your body fed into that overworked brain of his: breathing, color, responsiveness. You were straining, but you were there. You were with him.

“You’re handling this better than I expected,” he said, voice low and shaking with something that wasn’t fear. Not anymore.

Desire, tightly caged, pushed against the back of his throat. He hadn’t felt this much pressure in years, not since the last time he’d truly wanted. His cock pressed against the front of his jeans, hard and straining, but he didn’t move toward release. Not yet, not until he finished what he started.

He reached for the clamps.

One by one, he peeled you open. Just slightly, just enough to let the blood roll down your sides in thick, slow arcs, not pouring, but oozing, dark and rich and slick. He placed the clamps with exact care: one on each side of the cut, holding the skin parted so he could see deeper. The pale fascia layer shone beneath, the muscles flexed. Jack sucked in a sharp breath.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, but his hands didn’t stop. “You’re insane.”

Yet, he leaned in closer.

His fingers brushed the muscle wall, feeling the heat pouring out of you like a furnace. Blood coated the table. It soaked your lower back and ran toward the leather padding beneath your spine. Your poor clothes were beyond salvageable now. You were smiling through the pain, through the heavy ache blooming inside you.

Jack was trembling now. He leaned over you, lips inches from your temple, and whispered, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

His voice cracked at the edge. You offered yourself like a specimen and a sacrifice, and he was fighting the line between worship and defilement.

One hand, just one, dropped to his belt. He paused, checking your vitals again, glancing at the monitors. Still stable, still strong. Your breath came out in uneven, heated bursts, but you weren’t crying. You weren’t begging him to stop. Tears were welled in your eyes, but nothing to be overly concerned about, yet.

You were thriving in it.

He pushed his hips against the table edge and groaned, muffled behind his mask, his other hand tracing the opened wound again, not pressing too deep, not enough to damage, just to feel, to memorize the heat and slickness of your insides under his fingertips. He could see everything, all the bits and pieces that worked together to keep you going, to keep the one he loved moving and talking and his.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, head bowed, voice nearly broken. “Perfect and fucking ruined.”

The blood had soaked through to his thighs. He didn’t care. It dripped off the table in steady splashes, pooling on the floor beneath him. There was a feral gleam in his posture now, tempered only by the strict rigidity he had grown to master. No flinching, no frenzy, just precision, a steady hand with a throbbing ache behind his zipper and an unbearable tightness in his chest.

This was desire in its rawest, ugliest, truest form. And Jack had never loved someone more than he did when you moaned softly and whispered, “More.”

“Fuck.”

Jack adjusted the clamps again, delicately teasing the incision wider. The abdominal wall pulled apart under the gentle pressure, revealing a glistening tapestry of tissue, layers of pink and red, quivering slightly with every breath you took. The room smelled like copper and antiseptic, thick and sharp. Jack leaned over the cut, mesmerized.

He could see the coils of your intestines, slick and glistening with fluid, nestled like an offering inside you. Your liver, dark and velvet-smooth, sat tucked to one side, pulsing faintly. Your stomach curved beneath it, twitching slightly. You were a cathedral of blood and muscle, and Jack bowed before the altar of your anatomy.

“Fuck,” he rasped again, voice hoarse. “You’re so goddamn beautiful like this.”

The mask over his face was stifling. It kept him from you, from your scent, your breath, the warmth of your skin. He tore it off with one hand, flinging it to the side with shaking fingers, and exhaled shakily as cool air hit his skin. A bit of your blood streaked across his cheek. He didn’t wipe it off.

You were watching him, dazed, drunk on the adrenaline and pain, but your eyes stayed locked on his. There was no fear in them, just longing.

Jack climbed up onto the table with slow, deliberate care, straddling your hips so his knees bracketed your thighs. You could feel the weight of him now, the tremble in his legs, the tension in his gut. The bulge in his pants pressed against your stomach, just below the wound.

Even now, he didn’t move too fast.

One gloved hand reached for the drawer beside the table. The other tore at the buttons and zipper containing him, tugging his cock sharply with his latex palm. He fished out a packet, and tore it open. His fingers moved automatically, rolling the condom down with expert care. He held himself over you, head bowed, one hand braced beside your head, the other finishing the motion.

“I need to know,” he murmured, dipping closer, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone, then your temple. “You’re still okay? Nothing’s changed? Heart rate’s steady, no dizziness, no numbness?”

You nodded, breath hitching as he kissed the corner of your mouth. His lips were hot and slick with sweat, blood, and something unbearably tender.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, a quiet confession breathed directly into your ear. “Not to this. Not to me.”

Your hand, trembling, reached up and touched the back of his neck, encouraging, grounding. Jack let out a shaky sigh and leaned into it. His body trembled above yours, barely holding himself together.

“This isn’t about fucking,” he whispered. “It’s worship. I want to be inside you. With your blood on my hands and your body open to me like this. It’s not just pleasure. It’s—” He broke off, his voice almost cracking.

His forehead pressed against yours.

“—it’s communion.”

He rocked his hips gently, pressing himself flush to you, not yet entering but close, so achingly close. One hand ghosted down, stroking the edge of the incision, marveling at the way your body welcomed him even now. His other hand found yours and squeezed.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “And I swear to God, I’ll bring you back from this. I’ll sew you back up perfectly. You’ll feel nothing but safe and loved.”

You gave a weak laugh, trying not to move around your open abdomen too much, but still communicating.

He kissed your mouth then, deep and slow, tasting of blood and desperation, while his trembling hips pressed against you, sliding his cock between the folds of opened skin without entering, just feeling, just savoring.

He could lose himself in this. But he wouldn’t. Because he had you.

Jack hovered, every inch of him taut and trembling like a cord about to snap. His cock, sheathed and slick, pressed flush to the line of your opened flesh, not thrusting, not breaching, but feeling. Just the heat, the proximity, the tension of muscle and blood and living warmth beneath him. Your body pulsed against his, and his breath stuttered in response.

The sensation of your split-open belly against him wasn’t grotesque to him. It was divine, sacred. The friction of skin slicked with blood, the twitch of exposed fascia under his thighs, the trembling strength still thrumming through your body despite the pain. You weren’t fragile, you were transcendent, and Jack was trembling like a devout man at the gates of heaven.

He kissed your mouth again, slower this time, mouth open, breath hissing through his teeth. When he pulled back, his lips were tinged crimson. Your blood was on him, in him now. He licked it without thinking.

“I need to go slow,” he whispered, voice cracked and guttural. “If I do this too fast, I’ll break. I’ll fucking lose it.” He was starving.

You tilted your face into his, mouth brushing his jaw. “Then lose it.”

His hips practically moved on their own.

He pressed forward — not into the organs, not through the surgical field, but just above. Carefully, Jack guided himself between the gap of your skin and insides, slick with your own excitement and the blood running from the incision. The mix of fluids made him groan deep in his chest. His hips rolled forward in a slow, measured motion, sheathing himself inside you with one shuddering breath.

Your walls gripped him, and for a second, Jack’s entire body seized up. He clenched the table’s edge, head bowed so low it nearly touched your collarbone. He contorted himself, trying to not let his size crush you.

“God—” he gasped, “You’re—so warm, so fucking tight—alive.”

He stayed still, buried in you, trembling with the strain of holding back. Around him, your body twitched with the dull burn of the incision, the clamps holding you open, the ache of fullness and restraint. Every breath you took stretched your skin and made the gap that much smaller for him to fit inside. But your hand found his jaw, and when you whispered his name— “Jack” —something tore through him all over again.

He moved.

Slowly, with measured control. His hips rocked into yours, shallow at first, grinding rather than thrusting, careful not to jostle the table or disturb the surgical site. But every stroke pushed him deeper, not just inside your body, but into something untouched by him or anyone else.

Your groans and gasps were like music, every jostle of your body making you react in ways much different than normal sex. This was more severe, more intense than anything the two of you had experienced, this was new territory. Scary or not, you were enjoying it.

His gloved fingers slid down to your lower abdomen, ghosting just beside the open wound. He didn’t touch the organs—he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not during. But he let his palm rest just above, feeling the movement inside you, the tension, the way your body pulsed beneath him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he whispered, voice rough with adoration. “You’re incredible. So strong. So beautiful.” He kissed you again, your lips, your cheek, your throat, leaving smears of blood and sweat in his wake.

With every careful thrust, his body pressed more tightly against yours. The heat of your blood, your scent, the friction of his thighs against your hips, and the taste of your mouth sent him spiraling. He began to whisper again, soft mantras, barely audible between ragged breaths:

“I love you— You’re mine— I’ll put you back together— I swear— You’ll be whole— I’ll clean you— stitch you— worship you…”

His words were unraveling. His rhythm faltered, losing its precision as his desperation built. His mouth found your pulse, sucking gently at the skin, his hips moving faster now, grinding into you harder, needier.

And still, still, he never lost track of your vitals. One eye on the screen. One hand still resting near your surgical clamps. He was fucking you with every fiber of his being, but part of him remained the surgeon, the caretaker, the one who would never let you slip too far.

It only took his hips angling down just a bit for the head of his cock to slip from the valley of your wound into the folds of your intestines. The coils of organs housed his cock like they were meant for him, the warmth and deepness sucking him in hypnotically. Jack nearly snarled, your gasp loud as you both watched his cock slip in and out of your guts, each pass leaving the condom a deeper shade of red than the last.

He didn’t last another couple thrusts, the sensation absolutely breathtaking.

When he came, sudden, raw, tearing a broken sound from his throat, he locked his body over you like a man dying and being born in the same breath.

His mask was long gone. His blood-slicked face buried against your neck, he panted harshly, whispering, “I’ve got you— I’ve got you— Stay with me, sweetheart, stay awake— You’re okay— you’re okay…”

You felt the shift instantly from predator to protector. From desire to devotion.

He eased out of you with a groan, both of pleasure and urgency, already reaching for gauze, clamps, surgical thread. His hands moved fast now, gloved and shaking but trained, slipping back into medical command. He would sew you shut with the same reverence with which he split you open.

And all the while, he kept talking to you, even when your eyes grew heavy and your heart-monitor beeped just a little slower.

“You did so good… I’m gonna make it perfect, okay? I’ll clean every inch… You’re safe… I’ve never—never trusted anyone like this.”

And you knew, beneath the sweat, the blood, the trembling afterglow, he meant every word. That’s why, when your eyes finally shut, you didn’t fight it. Even when you heard muffled calls of your name.

── .✦

“A week??”

Jack nodded, stern.

“Love, come on, you can’t do this to me.”

“I can, will, and already have.”

Jack had turned your post-orgasm crash into a fucking hospital wing.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled, watching him move around the room like a storm in latex gloves, reorganizing tools, labeling vials of your blood, adjusting dosage meters with that signature furrow between his brows.

The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, barely masking the copper tang that still lingered under Jack’s nails no matter how many times he scrubbed.

You lay flat on the medical cot, body bound by more tubes and machines than you could keep track of. A bag of saline hung above you, feeding steadily into your arm through a neatly taped IV. Two blood bags dripped slowly into the second line, another pump released a slow stream of antibiotics. The pressure monitor beeped softly with each stable beat of your heart.

“You lost two liters,” he replied sharply, not even looking up. “You’re on bed rest until your red cell count stabilizes. You were open, and you let me— We—” He paused, visibly tensing. “You’re lucky I was aware enough to stitch you before you passed out.”

“I didn’t pass out.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I moaned, Jack.”

He stopped, slowly turned to face you, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable beyond the never-ending scowl.

“You are the most medically irresponsible human being I have ever met.”

You smiled sweetly. “And yet, I’m still your favorite patient. And you’re the one who agreed.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then sighed, finally stepping closer to the bed.

“You’re incorrigible,” he muttered, brushing your hair back gently. His hands, for all their violence and precision, were so soft now, fingertips moving across your temple, trailing along your jaw, checking your temperature like he always had.

“You stitched me up like a fucking Renaissance painter,” you teased. “Could at least let me walk around to show it off.”

“Out of the question. You’re not moving until your body starts producing again. Your hemoglobin is down, your BP is shaky, and if I catch you trying to stand—”

“You’ll what?” you smirked. “Strap me to the bed?”

Jack’s hand paused mid-adjustment on the IV regulator. Slowly, he turned his head toward you. There was that pause, the look he always gave you when he was trying to decide between scolding you or absolutely wrecking your shit.

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.

You grinned wider, triumphant, but your body betrayed you with a groan as you shifted. Pain flared down your abdomen, a dull, bruising ache around the tight seam of fresh stitches.

Jack was on you in an instant, hand on your shoulder, pressing you back down.

“Easy,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’ll tear something. The internal stitches need time to settle. You’re not indestructible, even if you proxies like to act it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you push it,” he snapped. “You’re mine. That means you heal right.”

You blinked, momentarily silenced by the possessiveness in his voice. Jack didn’t say things like that often, but when he did, he meant them.

“…Okay, Doc,” you murmured, reaching up weakly to curl your fingers around his. “You win.”

“I always do,” he said softly, entwining his fingers with yours and kissing your knuckles. “Now shut up and let the IV do its job.”

You smirked as he leaned in to check the dressing on your incision, humming thoughtfully under his breath. For all his fussing, his touch lingered more than necessary, fingertips trailing your ribs, his mouth brushing your stomach just above the bandages.

“You know,” you said lazily, “if this is the treatment I get for letting you cut me open, I might volunteer more often.”

Jack gave you a flat look. “Don’t even joke about that.”

You laughed, drowsy now, drifting in and out beneath the buzz of medication. Jack pulled the blanket up over your hips and leaned onto the cot, careful not to jar the tubing. His arm traced across your chest, palm resting onto your heart to feel the steady beat underneath.

“You’re infuriating,” he murmured, already sounding more relaxed.

“And you’re obsessed.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, grinning. “I am.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[noorpersona]

Pregnancy: Atsumu

You’re two months pregnant and absolutely glowing. There’s a nervous excitement in your every breath, your hand constantly drifting over your still-flat belly as if to check that it’s real. That there’s really a little life growing inside you. A little Miya, curled up and getting bigger by the day.

You’re in the passenger seat of the car, heading toward your very first ultrasound appointment. The windows are down, and the soft spring breeze is curling through your hair as the late morning sun streams through the windshield. Everything feels light. Hopeful. Surreal.

Atsumu is driving one-handed, his other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against your leggings. He hums quietly to the radio, lips twitching into a smile every time he glances over at you.

“Y’know,” he says after a moment, “I been thinkin’ about what kind of nose they’ll have. Hopefully yours. Mine’s too pointy.”

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up without effort. “As long as they don’t have your drama.”

“Hey!” he protests, though he’s still smiling as he squeezes your leg. “They’re allowed a little flair. They are mine, after all.”

You roll your eyes fondly, fingers tangling with his at the next red light. He lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before driving on.

When you pull into the clinic parking lot, your nerves start to set in—low and creeping. It’s your first time seeing the baby. Hearing a heartbeat. It makes everything feel suddenly, painfully real.

The waiting room is quiet, with soft instrumental music playing and the smell of hand sanitizer hanging in the air. You’re seated beside Atsumu, your knees bouncing ever so slightly as your mind races ahead. His hand is still in yours, firm and grounding.

When the nurse finally calls your name, you squeeze his fingers a little tighter.

The exam room is dimly lit, calm, with a monitor beside the table and soft instructions given as you lie back. You wince slightly at the cold gel, heart pounding in your ears as the technician glides the wand over your stomach.

She squints at the screen. Tilts her head.

Then her eyes widen slightly.

“Oh.”

You stiffen. “What? What is it? Is something wrong?”

She’s quick to reassure you. “No, no—everything looks good. It’s just... you’re having twins.”

Silence.

Atsumu leans in closer, eyes squinting at the screen. “Twins?”

“Twins,” the technician repeats, pointing to two distinct little shapes. “You see here? Two sacs. Two heartbeats.”

Your gaze locks onto the screen. Two. Not one. Not the tiny flutter you’d been preparing for, but two.

A sudden wave of panic crashes over you.

“Two?” you echo, your voice a shaky whisper. “Like... two babies? At the same time?”

The technician gently clears her throat. "Well, it’s a little early to know for sure if they’re fraternal or identical, but yes—twins."

You feel your breath hitch, the room growing smaller around you. “That’s two car seats. Two cribs. Two births. Two newborns crying at once—”

Your hand grips Atsumu’s forearm, eyes wide as your mind races. “I don’t—I wasn’t ready for two. I barely wrapped my head around one.”

You’re still staring at the screen when Atsumu shifts closer to the bed, his hand still resting lightly on yours.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe for me, okay?”

You turn toward him with wide, overwhelmed eyes. “Tsumu... that’s two babies. That’s two of everything. What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough for both of them?”

“You are,” he says instantly, without hesitation. “You will be. We will.”

But your hand flails toward his forearm like it needs something to latch onto. “This is your fault. You and Osamu. You cursed me with twin genes!”

He stares at you, stunned. “What?! How is this my fault?”

“Because you’re a twin! That’s how!”

The technician offers a gentle smile, still watching the monitor. “Actually, twins are likely influenced by the mother’s genetics. So if anyone ‘passed it down,’ it’s likely you.”

You blink slowly. “So... it’s me?”

Atsumu exhales—relieved. “See? I didn’t do this! You doubled down on your own.”

Your head snaps toward the technician, eyes wide and blinking rapidly, a storm of disbelief swirling behind them. You don’t say anything—but your look says plenty.

The technician catches the expression immediately and offers a placating smile, lifting her hands lightly. "I’ll give you two a minute," she says gently, already stepping toward the door, and quietly slips out of the room, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.

You drop your head back onto the exam pillow with a muffled groan. “I don’t know how to do one baby. Let alone two. That’s double the crying. Double the diapers. Double the college funds.”

Atsumu leans down until his forehead presses softly to yours. His hand finds yours again, grounding you with the warmth of his palm and the way his thumb strokes soothingly across your skin.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle. “Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t answer right away, eyes still locked on the monitor where two flickering heartbeats pulse in rhythm.

He kisses your forehead, slow and reassuring. “We’ll go one diaper at a time. One bottle at a time. One late-night rocking session at a time. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your lip trembles. “Are we?”

He smiles, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I’m not lettin’ you do this alone. You’re stuck with me, baby. Me, and the two little monsters we made.”

You laugh wetly, a mix of shock and affection tangled in your chest. He leans down and kisses you again—cheek, then jaw, then temple—before turning to look back at the screen.

And in the glow of that monitor, with two tiny heartbeats tapping out the rhythm of your future, Atsumu squeezes your hand and whispers:

“They’ve already got the best mom in the world. The rest’ll be easy.”

You sit up slightly and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug, your chin resting against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I needed to hear that.”

[hadersversion]

yet another drabble about dad!logan because i’m watching the wolverine and love sick over this man!

obviously logan is a girl dad…as we seen many many many times. i can definitely see him wanting a BIG family, once you got him started and he’s seen you pregnant with HIS child? oh, that motherfucker will BECOME a mother fucker. he’s like a rabbit with you, constantly on you.

the one thing i keep picturing is the two of you setting up the nursery together. he obviously did the heavy lifting and painting, which cause a fight between the two of you constantly. “im pregnant, lo. i can do somethings, ya know?” “i know, bub, why don’t ya set up the library while i finish putting the dresser together?” it’s all about compromise…in some way? but the two of you spend hours in there together, trying your hardest not to lose your mind over ikea’s confusing directions and the missing screw that fell somewhere in the room. logan is trying not to lose his cool in front of you, mumbling under his breathe. but you know once you leave the room, he shouts swears and knocks the boxes over. it makes you laugh as you grab waters in the kitchen. but once the nursery is done, you two are so exhausted you fall asleep on the floor using the baby’s new pillows. though it was sort of uncomfortable, you two felt content knowing that the room was done and your baby would be here soon.

but your first kid is a girl, his heart swells when he sees you holding this perfect bundle of joy that’s a perfect combination of the two of you. but you swear a tear leaves his eye when that beautiful baby girl opens her eyes and they look exactly like yours…logan never had a favorite color before until he looked into your eyes. and now he gets to see it even more through your daughter. you knew logan was protective over you, that was a given. especially since you were pregnant but once the second his daughter came into the world, you could’ve swore he took over the role of mama bear. he would hover over ANYONE that touched them, made sure they washed and sanitized their hands multiple times, he would even ask people if they were feeling sick before they even entered the room. you had to convince him people didn’t need to wear a mask and gloves in the hospital room. but once the team met baby wolvie, he felt at ease. a little prideful showing off your guys’ daughter, actually showing off his smile to show just how happy he is.

he’s definitely going 10 mph on the drive home, cursing under his breathe at people beeping and swerving around him, not wanting to yell in front of the baby. “logan, you can speed up a little bit. she’s not going to fly out of her car seat.” “stop being a backseat driver, would ya hun? i got this.” “whatever you say old man.”

the first night was obviously tough with the baby crying and making a fuss over everything. you cried, logan held you, you both were frustrated and upset. it was tough, you knew it wasn’t easy but holy hell this was shit. but you had that support system, the man you loved helping and comforting you. but once that sweet baby girl settled in your arms and finally slept longer for an hour, you both gave each other a tired smile as he kissed your head. “you’re glowing, mama. absolutely gorgeous.” “shut up, i know i look like shit.” “shut the hell up, why would you say that?” “because you look like shit, papa.” you both laugh and pass out on the couch, receiving the best sleep ever in each others arms. until the baby monitor goes off less than two hours later.

🎀🦢💓kaila🎀🦢💓

[blu3vs]

LATER — J. TORRES IMAGINE

SPOILERS FOR CAPTAIN AMERICA: BRAVE NEW WORLD BELOW THE CUT

synopsis: you knew the risk of being with an avenger, and what it came with, you just never expected such a drastic change in two separate aspects of your life could happen so close together

warnings: brief pregnancy mention, mentions of burns, critical injuries, mentions of death

—————————

two weeks.

two weeks was all it took for your life to completely change in more ways than one, and both involved your fiancé.

just the night before he left with sam, disappearing for god knows how long to pursue his dreams as the falcon alongside captain america. you knew what went down that night, you knew what happened.

it was all still a blur, however, with joaquín being off grid and unable to contact you as you sat alone on your bathroom floor, clutching two positive tests; one digital, one rapid. pregnancy now consumed your body, and you weren’t even able to share the news nor the first time experience with the love of your life.

your mom knew as soon as you did, calling her frantically crying which forced her to step out of her office to console you. you then told your best friend, who lived just thirty minutes from you. she came to your house as soon as she had found out, and the two of you sat together while you talked about joaquín and the baby growing inside of you.

but nothing, not even the adrenaline and fear of finding out you were pregnant could prepare you for what you faced next. you don’t think anything on the world could’ve prepared you, quite frankly.

what you immediately noticed was the sterility of it all. the clean floors, bright white walls with pale blue curtains everywhere, the smell of hand sanitizer and antiseptic. the hallways were long, especially the one that led to the observing room, where you now sat, watching joaquín being worked on with his body surgically cut open and tattered from battle.

you knew it was bad, from the moment you saw it on TV. it was funny, seeing your fiancé on TV as you felt a sense of pride, before it was quickly replaced with utter fear and a wave of nausea worse than your morning sickness. from the initial impact, you thought he was dead.

and he was dead, for two whole minutes on the OR while they desperately worked to restart his heart. you wanted to bang on the walls, jump in, save him yourself, because you were so convinced that just your touch would heal him. you wanted it to, so badly, but that just wasn’t possible for an average human like you.

so while he was coding, you could do nothing but curl into yourself, sobbing as you helplessly watched the surgical team resuscitate him. the two minutes felt like two years, but seeing the doctors shoulders slumped and seeing the monitor spring back to life with his heartbeat made you slightly calmer.

you didn’t know when, but at some point sam had entered the room with you. he was quiet at first, watching them operate on joaquín, before he settled in the chair next you and held you while you cried. it had been the first time since finding out about joaquín that you had some sort of comforting contact with another human, and it made you crumble.

in between sobs you told sam you were pregnant, and it was then that sam had held it together before letting a few tears slip. “you’ll be able to raise this baby with him,” he followed up with, determination and hope in his tone. you couldn’t tell if it was true or not, but you needed the consolation even if it wasn’t.

another hour passed by, where bucky barnes had stopped by just to give his support. you didn’t tell him about your pregnancy, but you could still tell he was earnest in the way he had approached you and briefly supported you.

sam stayed until the surgery was over, and when it was, your tears had dried by that point, leaving mascara streaked down your face. you had thought to yourself about the fact that joaquín knew more ways than one to make your mascara run, and the morbidity of it all made you chuckle.

now, sitting in the hospital room that joaquín occupied, another week had passed since his surgery. you didn’t allow yourself to go home for the first few days, making your friend come to give you clothes from your house. it wasn’t until sam brought up the fact that you should rest, considering your pregnancy, and it was then that it clicked. you needed to rest and reset for you and the baby.

after your brief reset at home, you found yourself feeling lighter and more comfortable, a nice meal and a hot shower was exactly what you needed. you picked back up on your prenatal vitamins, and had a newfound pep in your step walking toward joaquín’s room.

the door didn’t even creak as you opened it, just the small click of the door being heard. but what you couldn’t hear at first was the sound of talking, so quiet and low you brushed it off as next door. his room was quite big, so the closer you got, the louder it got.

“joaquín?” you called out, setting your purse down by the door and coming out from behind the wall that blocked you from seeing his bed. walking from behind that wall and seeing him, so alive and talking to sam made your heart lurch and your eyes tear up. “mi amor,” he spoke, voice slightly raspy but a smile plastered on his lips.

“oh my god,” you cried, walking over to his bed and almost collapsing on top of him as you carefully hugged the side of his body that didn’t have burns running down him. with his one good arm he hugged you back, the heavy brace restricting him but not enough to the point where he didn’t squeeze you tightly.

pulling back from the hug, you grabbed his face in your hands, a watery chuckle escaping your lips as you analyzed each and every one of his features. his hair, unruly and grown out. his cheekbones, his nose, the moles dotted across him face, his eyes, his smile. just him.

sam slipped out of the room which went undetected by you, now just leaving the two of you alone. “i’m okay, i’m alive,” he muttered, taking one of your hands away from his face and kissing your palm gently. whether he noticed it or not, you didn’t miss the way he also started to toy with the ring on your finger as he held your hand in his.

“you’re okay,” you nodded, brushing his curls away from his forehead. “you scared the hell out of me though. your mom too,” you then declared. you noticed the way joaquín’s face fell at that fact, the obvious and very true fact that he did have a brush with death. you figured you would talk more about it with him later as you took notice to his fallen face, and rather focused on the fact that he was just here with you now.

“i know, im sorry,” he whispered, casting his gaze down at the sheets. “don’t. just, be here with me now. we don’t have to talk about it right now unless you want to.”

joaquín shook his head at your suggestion, and now it was his turn to caress your face, a half hearted smile gracing his features. “later,” was all he had to say, and you didn’t press it anymore, and you found yourself curled up into his side after he had pulled you down with him onto the small hospital bed. you couldn’t be more happier and relieved.

whether “later” was meant for that specific topic or any other one, you decided to wait on sharing the news with him. because, honestly, you weren’t too sure if he was ready for the news yet, not because he couldn’t handle it, but because you knew and he knew that later would always be an option now that you were with him.

[tortillamastersblog]

Back To You - Epilogue | Sam Carpenter

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Sam is back for good and Ghostface is gone. Now the two of you just have to deal with the aftermath of what happened. . .

Previous Part | Masterlist

_______________________________________________

A fleeting touch on my hand makes my eyes flutter open. It’s bright and even though it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the light, I know from the smell of hand sanitizer and the sound of a heartbeat monitor next to my head that I’m in the hospital.

“Hey. . .” A soft voice to my right makes me want to turn my head, but unlike back at the theater I can’t even do that anymore.

My chest tightens at the thought over never being able to move again, but then Sam’s face appears above me, a soft look on her face despite the dark circles under her eyes.

“Hi,” I say, my voice barely even a whisper.

She’s here. She’s actually here.

Six years ago I was in this exact same situation, but back then I was alone.

I was alone and my parents had just died, but now no one else is dead and she’s here.

“H-How are you feeling?” she asks, touching my cheek and taking a seat on the bed next to me.

I’m not in any pain, but I can’t move and I feel like I could sleep a thousand years.

“I dunno,” I answer honestly despite the tears suddenly welling up in my eyes. “I’m— I don’t. . . I can’t move. My head. . .”

“Your head? What about your head?” She furrows her eyebrows and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead.

“I can’t move my head,” I say, my voice breaking. A tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek, but Sam is quick to wipe it away with the pad of her thumb.

“Well, yeah,” she say. “You’re wearing a neck brace.”

I blink and swallow, only now realizing she’s right. I am wearing a neck brace. I can feel it pressing against the underside of my chin and into my shoulders.

“I—“ don’t know what to say. But luckily I don’t have to say anything because Sam shifts closer, bumping against my hip before bending down and brushing her lips against my forehead in a fleeting kiss.

“You. . . broke your back, but the doctor said the surgery went well and if everything goes as planned, you should make a full recovery,” she says with a watery smile.

“What?”

“You’ll be okay.” She takes my hand and laces our fingers together and I can’t stop a sob from escaping me when I realize I can feel it.

It dawns on me that I already felt her touching my hand when I woke up and that I felt it when she bumped against my hip.

I can feel it all, which means I can probably also move.

I hold my breath and focus on our intertwined hands before closing my fingers around hers. It works, and even though I have to concentrate a lot to do it, it works. I can also wiggle my toes ever so slightly which makes me close my eyes as unimaginable relief washes over me.

“The doctors say you have a long recovery ahead of you, but you’ve done it before and I’ll be by your side every single step of the way. . . Literally,” she says and I can’t help but smile and open my eyes again despite the tears now freely streaming down my face.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Sam shakes her head and rests her forehead against mine. “Don’t thank me you idiot. It’s the least I can do.”

I scoff playfully. “Who are you calling an idiot? I saved your life.”

“You’re right,” she smiles and I manage to brush a tear off her cheek, “I’m sorry, My Love.”

I smile, too, and trace the edge of her jaw with my finger, making her shudder. “Mmm-hmm that’s better.”

When she dips her head and kisses me carefully, I’m not at all surprised, and I kiss her back with my heart fluttering in my chest, but then she pulls back with a weird look on her face.

Her lips are pressed into a thin line and there’s a familiar crinkle between her eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it Liam? Or Gale?”

She shakes her head and exhales shakily, her breath hitting my cheek. “No, no. They’re both fine. They’re both out of surgery. Anika and Kirby are okay, too.”

I raise an eyebrow and wait for her to go on.

“It’s— Your back. . . The doctors said—“

The door flies open, making me look up as Sam whirls around.

“You’re awake!” Tara exclaims, and the sight of her in the doorway makes me smile.

“Hey, Sprout.”

Her face breaks into a smile and she rushes to my side, grabbing my left hand while Sam slides off the bed and takes a seat on the chair next to the bed without letting go of my right hand.

By the strained smile on her face I can tell that she’s upset that we were interrupted, but she doesn’t seem ready to say what she was going to say with Tara in the room, so she stays quiet while Tara asks me how I’m feeling.

“I’m okay,” I reassure her.

“You sure?” she asks with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not in pain?”

I chuckle softly and squeeze her jittery hand. “I’m sure. I’m on some pretty hardcore drugs.”

That makes her smile turn into a grin and out of the corner of my eye I can even see Sam’s lips twitch ever so slightly.

“Yeah, I bet. Man, I was so high last year when they gave me painkillers. . . Are you high? Oh you’re probably so high right now, I’m jealous,” she rambles, making me roll my eyes.

“I’m not high,” I argue playfully, “I’m just tired. I think the kind of drugs you got were different than what I’m getting right now.”

“Ah, that’s a bummer.” She pouts but shrugs and it all happens so fast, Sam shoots her an incredulous look.

“Tara, what the—?”

“I’ve had like five coffees since we got here,” Tara cuts her off and I suppress a laugh when Sam’s eyes widen.

“Five?” she shrieks and Tara just shrugs again, her eyes darting back and forth between me and her sister.

Well, I guess that explains why she’s so hyper active.

“Where did you even get all that coffee?” Sam asks and I can’t help but smile at the way she sounds like a parent scolding their child. “The hospital’s cafeteria is closed.”

My eyes dart to the clock on the wall.

It’s seven in the morning.

Less than twelve hours ago we were at the theater. . .

I shudder at the memory and force it to the back of my mind and focus back on Tara who takes a seat on the edge of my bed, swinging one of her legs back and forth. She’s still dressed in her clothes from yesterday, but she seems to have cleaned herself up somewhat since getting here because her hair is pulled into a ponytail that matches Sam’s and there’s no more smudged mascara under her eyes.

“There’s a vending machine in the hallway,” she explains, her hand squeezing mine absentmindedly. “And Paige and Jackson brought coffees for everyone when they got here.”

Wait, what? Jackson’s here?

I knew that Paige was coming, but I didn’t know he was coming, too. How did he even get here? Did he drive? No, probably not. I’m sure after he found out what happened he managed to convince Paige to pick him up in Boston on her way here.

Sam scowls, unimpressed by Tara’s caffeine intake, but before she can scold her for it, the door cracks open.

Ah, speak of the devil. . .

Paige and Jackson peek into the room and when they see that I’m awake, they step into the room completely.

“You’re awake,” Jackson notes with a small smile, his eyes flickering to Sam’s hand in mine before adding, “And I see that the girlfriend finally knows that she is the girlfriend,” he teases which makes me blush furiously.

“Shut up,” I hiss, ignoring the way Sam is looking back and forth between us with raised eyebrows and pink cheeks.

Jackson just laughs and high fives Tara before dragging an empty chair to the side of my bed and plopping down on it.

“Yeah, shut up, Jack,” Paige says playfully, coming to my defense with a knowing look before turning serious and taking a seat on the end of my bed.

Boy, this room is really getting crowded.

“You know, I’m getting sick of visiting you in the hospital all the time,” she says with a frown.

I cringe and tighten my hold on Sam’s hand. “I know. . .”

“Do you though?” she asks with a pained expression. She places a hand on my leg and squeezes it through the thin blanket. “You keep on almost dying, and it’s stressing me the fuck out. I swear, I’m aging prematurely because of you.“

I want to laugh at that, but I know she’s being serious, so I don’t. “I’m sorry,” I say honestly. I want to sit up and give her a hug, but I’m still too weak to do that and the neck brace would just be getting in the way. “I promise, I’m not doing it on purpose.”

Paige smiles sadly and gives my leg another squeeze. “I know, but it still sucks every time I get a call that you’ve been hurt again, and now Liam, he—“

“How is he?” I cut her off quietly.

Silence settles around us for a moment, and Paige averts her eyes when she finally says, “He’s awake, and in good spirits, but he lost two fingers fighting off Ghostface and he has a pretty big scar on his face. Almost lost an eye, too.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod absentmindedly, taking all the information in.

He lost two fingers and he’s going to be traumatized for the rest of his life. . .

How brutal was that attack? And how did Quinn even know about him? How did she find him?

It must have been she who did it because Bailey and Ethan were accounted for when the attack happened.

“It was Quinn, right? Bailey’s daughter?” I ask and to my surprise, Tara’s the one who says yes.

“The police went through her phone and found messages she sent to Bailey on the night of the first attack,” she explains, her leg still swinging back and forth. “She said she’d overheard you talking to someone named Liam while Sam was on the phone with Bailey and that it would be a good idea for Bailey to find out who he is and target him.“

“B-But, why?”

This time, Paige answers.

“They wanted to hurt someone close to you so you would be too preoccupied to help Sam and Tara,” she explains and the thought that Liam was used as a pawn in their twisted game makes me feel sick.

I chuckle mirthlessly and close my eyes momentarily. “Jokes on them, that didn’t work. I still helped Sam and Tara.”

Everyone hums in agreement, and a tense silence settles around the room until Jackson straightens up in his chair with a smile playing on his lips.

“Liam might have lost two of his fingers, but do you know what he said when we went into his room and saw him for the first time?”

I want to shake my head, but because of the neck brace I can’t, so I say, “No, what did he say?”

Paige and Jackson share an amused look before Jackson answers.

“He said, at least I can still do this.” He raises his hand and flips me off with a grin and I can’t help but smile and scoff playfully.

“Of course he did.”

Everyone laughs, and the mood lightens a little.

Who else but Liam would joke about almost being murdered, right after almost being murdered?

I glance at Sam to find her already looking at me with a fond look in her eyes and smile shyly.

She’s here, and she’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

Bailey is dead, and so are Quinn and Ethan.

They’re revenge plan didn’t work out after all, and I’m sure the media has already covered everything that happened last night, finally clearing Sam’s name once and for all and sending an indirect message to everyone out there who thinks they can fuck with us—no matter what anyone tries, we’ll always come out on top.

I have yet to see Mindy, Anika, Chad, Gale and Liam, but I know they’re fine and that’s all I need to know right now.

“Sammy?” I ask tentatively, touching her hand.

She’s once again sitting on the bed next to me, but this time her head is resting on my shoulder and it seems like she’s fallen asleep because for the last ten minuet she hasn’t moved or said anything.

I can’t imagine the position she’s in is very comfortable because her legs are dangling off the side of the bed, but she hasn’t complained about it yet, so it must not be as uncomfortable as it looks.

Tara, Paige and Jackson left a while ago to go out and find some breakfast, leaving us alone once again.

It’s peaceful and quiet, but I still want to know what she wanted to say right before Tara came in.

“Yeah?” she whispers, confirming that she has not yet fallen asleep.

I intertwine out fingers and run my thumb over the back of her hand. “What were you going to say before Tara came in?”

“Oh. . . Uh.” She sits up slowly and looks at me with sad eyes, her free hand coming up to rest on my chest. “The doctors— They—They said. . .”

I squeeze her hand. “They said. . .?”

She sighs and averts her eyes for a second. “They said after this surgery, your spine is pretty fragile. Yes, they put in screws and rods and stuff, but another bad hit could paralyze you permanently,” she whispers and I instantly know what she’s trying to say without actually saying it.

No more hockey. . .

I bite the inside of my cheek before tugging on her fingers to get her to look at me again.

“It’s okay,” I say quietly.

“What— No, it’s not. Hockey is your whole life and you worked so hard to get to where you are right now and—“

“It doesn’t matter,” I cut her off gently. I let go of her hand and trace a finger over her eyebrow and down the side of her face. She leans into the touch, and her eyes soften, but it looks like she’s about to protest again, so I go on. “I knew I wouldn’t be playing hockey forever. That’s why I got a masters degree. It’s okay, really. I’m alive, and I’m not paralyzed. That’s all that matters.”

Her eyes search mine for any doubts, and when she doesn’t find any, she gives in with a small nod and a sad smile. “Okay. . .”

“Besides,” I say lightheartedly, “I kind of already have a new job, if Liam is to be believed.”

“What?” Amusement and disbelief flashes across her face and I can’t help but laugh and tap her on the nose.

“When I called to warn him about Ghostface he said something about his boss wanting to hire me and how he already gave him my resume,” I explain which makes her laugh as well and rest her head back on my shoulder.

“Unbelievable,” she mumbles when our laughter dies down.

I hum in agreement and start running my thumb over the back of her hand again.

After a while, I’m pretty sure she’s finally fallen asleep so I close my eyes as well, intending on getting some rest as well, but then she speaks up quietly.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

I open my eyes and lift our intertwined hands up so I can press a kiss to her knuckles.

“I love you, too,” I whisper, getting lost in her dark eyes when she looks up at me through her lashes.

“What if— what if he comes for us again?” she whispers. “Ghostface, I mean. . .”

I grit my teeth and level her with a determined look. “We fuck him up,” I say and after a moment Sam nods, determination shining in her own eyes.

“We fuck him up. . .” she repeats quietly before letting her head drop back down on my shoulder.

_______________________________________________

And that’s a wrap, everyone!

If you got this far, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

All your comments meant/mean the world to me and kept/keep me motivated.

Hope you all have a wonderful week!

Love,

Soph ❤️

Tag list: @bella423 @artrizzler19 @btay3115 @canyonyodeler @quadofthec @pussyydestroyer @rqizzu @pithod @morganismspam23 @idontliketoread2137

[disabled-dippy]

things to put in a dysautonomia emergency bag/cart ✿

having one place (near your bed preferably) where you can keep all the essentials for bad symptom days has been absolutely key in getting me through those bad days. these are some ideas for what you can put in yours, if you want to make one as well!

prescription medications

painkillers

antacids

anti-diarrheals or laxatives (maybe both)

salt pills or packets

electrolyte drink packets (the powdered stuff)

disposable water bottles

salty snacks

compression socks

pulse oximeter

blood pressure monitor

mini electric fan

ice pack

heating pad

hand warmers

change of clothes

sweatshirt

gum or mints

alcohol wipes or hand sanitizer

disposable toothbrushes

floss

mini hairbrush

dry shampoo

wet wipes

sunglasses

noise-cancelling headphones

[jiejies-corner-store]

this cruel world

pairing. aventurine x reader tags/tw: fem!reader, pregnancy, complications with pregnancy, references to childbirth, angst w/ open ending, spoilers to aventurine's real name, mostly 2.1 spoiler free i think sfw a/n: i did not proofread this at all, but i'm playing through 2.1 and i have to keep stopping because baby aventurine is hurting my soul. might make a follow up to this pt. 2

The more you had, the more you stood to lose.

Aventurine lived his life holding onto this one fact.

“--vasha…”

So why… why did he ever aspire to gain more than he could handle to lose.

“Sir, you need to leave the room we need to stabilize her,” the nurses ushered him out of the room. The cold white lights of the hospital room made his head spin. The smell of sanitizer burned his airways. Everything was happening all at once and there was nothing he could do. He was about to crash out. He was about to lose it all.

From there it was a blur. It wasn’t until he felt a hand touch his shoulder that he even realized he’d been standing staring down at this… glass box for an hour. His neck strained but he couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

“He looks just like you,” Topaz said, joining her colleague, staring down at the small infant encased safely in the clear incubator. All sorts of things were attached to the steadily breathing Avgin child, monitoring… waiting. Just as he imagined you were at the moment. Hooked up to a hundred machines as the nurses and doctors worked to try to keep your brain alive and your heart pumping.

“I’ve… not even been able to hold him yet,” Aventurine said quietly. It was wrong. It was wrong to acknowledge his son’s existence. It was almost as if the second he did, he would lose you. A sick gamble.

Topaz broke her gaze and instead looked to Aventurine. “She’s going to be okay you know. These are the best doctors that the galaxy has to offer—”

She shut up when Aventurine had nothing to offer her except for a dejected look. After watching over the young Avgin in silence for a few more minutes, Topaz left with a simple pat on the father’s back, and left him to his thoughts.

Outside, rain poured in heavy sheets of water.

Finally, Aventurine sat down next to his newborn child and finally swaddled the child into his arms, closing his eyes as tears began to build up in them, “Welcome to this cruel world… Ilyas.”

When he opened his eyes again, an identical pair stared back in wonder.

[scarletwinterxx]

as long as stars are above you and longer if I can - chwe hansol imagine

hellooo ~ so this was requested and tbh I was also in my vernon brain rot week so here we are😅😅🥺🥺 hope you like it!

if anyone want to be mutuals on X, i'm using the same un there😊

for my other svt fics, check them here

if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

Hansol, as many already know, is a man of very few words. He hates useless facts, always talks straight to the point and will only speak when asked. He's the perfect person to spill your secrets to because he'll never talk to anyone else about it.

As a lover, he has his own way to show his feelings for. He loves you in his own ways, he's a savant when it comes to you. You always say he spends that much time being quiet because he's too busy reading your mind

"Admit it, you're a mind reader" you jokingly accuse him

When it comes to you, he'll laugh at the silly little facts. You're his exception.

"Just with you, darling"

You don't even have to say anything, he already knows what you need. He would always know what to say, when to say it, how to say it. He just always knows.

"Sol?" Even in a room full of people and loud noises all around, he heard you. In a flash you have his undivided attention. His conversation with his bestfriends forgotten but they're already used to it. His eyes speaks for him whenever you're around.

"Mhm? You cold, darling?" he asks, already shrugging his jacket off to put it on you. Once you're all bundled up, he takes your hands and blows warm air on it. All you had to do was say his name and he does the rest.

You're hungry? he'll order food for you, doesn't matter if he's with you or not. Your address is registered on his phone, ready to send food deliveries whenever you need or want it.

You coming home late? He'll pick you up or on the rare times he can't, he'll book the taxi himself so he'll know all the details and monitors the trip until he's sure you safely made it home.

You mention your favorite snacks to him? he stocked up on it at home, always making sure to never run out of your favorites.

You need cuddles? he'll be there no matter what time of the day, ready to dot on you and smother you with his love.

He got you all memorized, down to the little details you might not even know about yourself. Like how you always put sanitizer on your hands after touching anything because you hate it smelling like anything else, so he now carries one with him wherever he goes. Or how you pick on your thumb when you're nervous, so when notices this he holds your hand and draw random patterns on your skin to distract you. He even got you a bracelet you can fidget on when he's not around to hold your hand.

Or the fact that you always put your hand inside his pockets, his jackets or jeans or whatever it is. You don't even notice it, you just always do it. So he lets you be.

He loves you so loud, you don't even need words to know. But still, he tells you.

In those vulnerable moments you see all of him, all the emotions he keeps away from everyone else but bares all of it to you.

"Hey, I love you"

You were caught off guard by his sudden declaration of love but it makes you smile nonetheless.

"Suddenly?" you chuckle, you were just cooking ramen as midnight snack and he's here to spend the night with you after having a Harry Potter marathon.

"Where's my I love you too?" he's standing beside you, bumping his shoulder against yours and his head against your own. Like a cat.

"You're cute you know that?" you chuckle, standing on your tiptoe to bump your nose against his "I love you, too"

Then the of you continue on what you're doing.

That's how it's like loving Hansol, he shows he loves, tells you he loves, makes you feel he loves you every second you're with him. Even in silence, his love screams so loud you'll never forget it.

[myheartsaysyes]

The Remedy

Warning: SMUT!

Note: Soooo……y’all know I love me some Annie and Smoke. I had the idea for this fic while I was listening to one of my favorite Jagged Edge songs “Remedy”. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so I thought I would make a oneshot out of it. Enjoy! 🤭😋😍

The vitals monitor was crooked again.

Annie sighed and adjusted it, then reached for the sanitizing wipes. Her thighs gave a dull throb as she stretched to wipe down the IV stand—nothing sharp, just a lingering ache that pulsed steady every time she moved a little too fast.

She felt it with every step.

Felt him.

Still.

Still.

The hum between her legs. The soreness in her hips. The flush that kept blooming up her chest every time she thought about his voice in her ear, his hands on her skin, the way he—

“Girl.”

Monica, the night shift tech, leaned in from the opposite side of the bed, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. “You been cheesin’ all damn day.”

Annie blinked. “What?”

“I said,” Monica narrowed her eyes, “you lookin’ real rested this morning. Or maybe not rested. What’s the word… satisfied.”

Annie focused on straightening the bedding. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.” Monica grinned, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Somebody put in work on you last night?”

“Monica.”

“That ain’t no eight-hours-of-sleep glow, girl. That’s I-got-my-back-blown-out glow. That’s ‘he stretched me like physical therapy’ glow.”

Annie shook her head, but a smile tugged at her lips anyway. She turned to the tray table, wiped slow, heart thumping behind her stethoscope.

“Uh huh,” Monica said. “You got that walk. The ‘he had me face-down, talking in tongues’ walk.”

“Shhh!”

Monica laughed and looked toward the hallway. “It’s past six. Nobody around but the ghosts.”

Annie sighed. “I wasn’t……. talking in tongues.”

Monica raised a brow, grinning from ear to ear. “So you admit there was a he. C’mon, tell me….who is he?”

Annie opened her mouth, but all that came was heat in her face and the sting of Smoke’s voice echoing in her ear.

“Face down, baby. Don’t run.”

So Annie didn’t answer. Just sprayed down the bedside remote and bit back a smile.

Because the truth was written in her body.

_____________________________________________________

The flashback hit with heat.

Annie had just gotten home from a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. Her body ached in places she didn’t know had nerves, scrubs damp with sweat, hair pulled into a loose puff barely holding on. All she wanted was a hot shower and sleep deep enough to forget the day.

Then her phone lit up.

Smoke: Outside

No hello. No explanation. Just that one word that sent her pulse climbing to her throat and snapped the exhaustion clean out of her.

As soon as Annie opened the door, she saw him. He was leaning on the side of that black DeVille when she opened the door, hat low, bottle of Dom chilled in one hand, that crooked smile tugging at his lips. The kind of look that said I came here to taste you, and I ain’t leavin’ till I do.

He didn’t call out. Didn’t rush. Just pushed off the car and started toward her with that smooth, lazy gait she knew too well. His steps were deliberate, all slow swagger and quiet promise, shoulders relaxed, thighs flexing beneath dark denim like he had nowhere else to be but here—with her. The streetlight caught on the chain around his neck, the faint gleam making her stomach twist. He looked like heat. Like sin wrapped in sweat and confidence.

By the time he reached her door, her breath had gone shallow.

Annie had barely closed the door after letting him in before he had her pressed against it, lips on hers, tongue slow and deep. His hands slid beneath her tank, rough palms grazing her ribs, squeezing the softness of her hips.

“Missed this,” he breathed, dragging his mouth along her neck. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day.”

She whimpered as he picked her up like she weighed nothing. Her thighs wrapped around his waist. He carried her to the bedroom and dropped her gently on the bed.

“Take it off,” he said, tugging at the hem of her shorts.

When she hesitated, he raised a brow. “You shy now? After the way you was screamin’ last time?”

That heat pooled between her legs. She peeled her tank and shorts off slow, heart thudding.

He watched. Jaw tight. Eyes dark.

“Turn around,” he said.

She blinked.

“On your knees, ass up. Want that pussy from the back tonight.”

Her body moved before her mouth could answer. She crawled forward on the mattress, thighs spread, chest down, heat dripping between her legs.

Smoke stepped behind her, slid his palm over her backside and groaned. “Look at you. Already wet.”

She gasped when he dipped down behind her, hands spreading her gently as he lowered his mouth to the slick heat between her thighs. His tongue dragged a slow, deliberate line from the crease where her thigh met her ass, all the way up to her clit. He licked her with slow precision, teasing at first—soft, deliberate strokes that made her legs shake—then sucked her clit into his mouth with a deep, hungry hum that had her arching off the bed, a breathless cry spilling from her lips.

“Smoke—” she cried, voice trembling.

He chuckled against her. “Taste too damn good, baby. Could stay here all night.”

She was already shaking when he finally stood. She heard the belt unbuckle, the zip of his jeans, then felt the thick, hot weight of him pressing against her entrance.

“Don’t run,” he warned again. “I’ma give you all of it.”

And then he pushed in—slow, deep, stretching her inch by inch until she couldn’t breathe.

Her mouth dropped open. The moan came out strangled, raw. “Oh my Go—”

He gripped her hips, pulled her back against him, and thrust again. Hard. Deep. She gasped, her arms giving out beneath her.

He fucked her slow at first, savoring every inch. Then faster. Rougher. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, each slap sending another jolt up her spine. He leaned forward, hand sliding under her to toy with her clit while he stayed buried to the hilt.

“Say my name,” he growled in her ear, breath hot, voice rough.

“Smoke—fuck—Smoke!”

He stopped moving.

Her breath caught…….panicked, desperate.

“That ain’t what you call me,” he said, low and dark. His hips stilled, but he didn’t pull out. Just stayed deep inside her, throbbing. “Say it right.”

Her chest heaved. “Eli—Elijah.”

“Mm.” He started moving again, slower this time, grinding deeper with each thrust. “That’s it, baby. That’s mine.”

“Elijah,” she gasped, eyes fluttering. “Oh my—”

“Louder,” he snapped, pace picking up again, hand tightening on her hip. “I want the neighbors to hear how good I fuck you. Let ‘em know who you belong to.”

She couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Elijah!” she screamed. “Oh fuck—Elijah!”

“Yeah,” he growled, fucking her harder now. “You feel that? That’s all me.”

The orgasm ripped through her before she could answer. Her legs shook, voice breaking. Her walls clamped around him so tight he cursed—but didn’t stop.

Didn’t pull out.

“Fuck—baby—shit—I’m comin’,” he groaned, voice ragged.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Please.”

With one final thrust, deep and rough, he spilled into her. Hot. Thick. His hips stuttered as he emptied everything inside her, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat. She could feel him pulsing, feel the warmth spreading between her thighs, leaking slowly around where they were still joined.

Smoke collapsed onto her back, then rolled to the side, still inside her, arm slung tight around her waist.

For a long beat, they just breathed. Sticky, tangled, quiet.

“You feel it?” he whispered, brushing damp curls off her cheek.

She nodded, dazed. “I feel everything.”

Smoke traced her skin. Kissed her shoulders. Pulled her in like she was more than a good night.

Like she was his.

________________________________________________________

A loud laugh snapped Annie out of the memory.

She blinked back to reality at the hospital, hand still resting on the remote she had sprayed down. Her thighs clenched instinctively, warmth blooming low.

“Yeah, ok,” Monica said beside her, smacking her teeth. “Keep ya secrets.”

Annie tried not to smile.

Tried.

But the smile broke anyway—slow, satisfied, a secret.

“Mind ya business,” she muttered.

Monica laughed loud. “I would, if you wasn’t walkin’ ‘round here with your soul all snatched and turnt out. Whoever he is… he got the damn remedy.”

Annie looked down at her phone and tapped a quick message.

Annie: What you doin’ tonight?

The reply came a second later.

Smoke: You, if you let me.

And Annie felt that glow rise all over again.

The End

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