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seumyo · 6 days ago

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rainy mornings with husband!bakugou

Bakugou didn’t like the rain. That was a fact.

But the thing about rain is that it’s inevitable, something that only nature has control over (and additionally the particular people who have rain-based Quirks).

The rain was steady, soft against the windows like a lullaby. It wasn’t a storm, he notes, just a lazy morning drizzle that blurred the glass and painted the world in cool grays and muted greens.

He stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing loose black sweats and one of your hoodies—oversized on you but fitting snug on him (he remembered the sheer happiness you had when he told you your parcel finally arrived). The sleeves were a little too short, exposing his forearms as he stirred a pan of scrambled eggs with slow, unhurried movements.

He wasn’t in a rush, and for once, there wasn’t any tension in his shoulders. Thank god his schedule was getting lighter these days, especially as Japan is now entering a much colder rainy season this year.

Behind him, you were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a throw blanket tossed lazily over your lap. You hadn’t bothered changing out of your pajama shirt yet—one of his old Dynamight shirts (which he was sure was sold at a golden price nowadays since it was one of the first ones released), faded from too many washes. You had your tablet propped on your knee, aimlessly scrolling through something, one hand cradling a mug of still-steaming tea.

He glanced over his shoulder, watching your thumb flick across the screen, your brows furrowed just the tiniest bit in that way that always made him want to kiss it away.

Damn marriage making him soft.

Having him thinking of kissing your worries away and whatnot.

“You ready to eat?” His voice was low, rough with sleep still lingering around the edges, though he’d been up for a bit now. It was the kind of morning that made him feel stress-free again—quiet, warm, you.

You didn’t even look up. “Mm… not yet. Gimme ten more minutes.”

Bakugou snorted, scooping the eggs onto a plate with a quiet clink of the spatula. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I did not,” you murmured, still distracted. “I said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“...Nossir.” No, Sir.

“Uh huh.”

He turned off the burner and walked over to you, crossing the room with his usual quiet authority. You didn’t flinch when he sat down next to you and didn’t look up as he leaned in to press his lips to your temple. You just shifted slightly, making room for him as if it were the most natural thing in the world—which, honestly, it was.

Because if you hadn’t seen all of him by now—

Ahem, then casual intimacy would be a bit awkward when you’re 4 years into your marriage.

“You’re not even really lookin’ at anything,” he muttered, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I’m looking at furniture,” you replied, lifting the tablet slightly for him to see. “For the entryway. I found this bench with drawers under it. It’s soo cute.”

He peered at it, expression blank. “It’s a bench.”

You gave a dramatic sigh. Here we go.

“It’s a functional bench. With storage. It’s called multi-purpose, Katsuki.”

“Yeah? Looks like a trip hazard to me,” he said, lips twitching at the corners.

You gave him a lazy elbow in the side, just enough pressure to make him grunt but not enough to move him. “You’d survive.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I busted my ass ‘cause of somethin’ you brought into the house,” he said, smirking now, eyes flicking down to the tiny mountain of throw pillows on the floor that had been there since you reorganized the couch again last week. “You and your ‘aesthetic.’”

You finally looked away from your screen, giving him an unimpressed look. That expression—one he knew all too well—is so fucking cute it makes his chest hurt.

“You like the aesthetic when it’s candles and not vanilla-scented ones and have things that are either black or white instead of having color. What’re we trying to have here? A monochrome house?”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he said, and kissed your cheek again, slower this time. “Just sayin’… you got a way of makin’ this place feel lived in. That’s all.”

That made you pause. You turned your head just slightly, enough to meet his eyes, your features softened, and your smile became a little cheeky. “That’s sweet of you. I knew I had that effect on you.”

He shrugged, embarrassed now, and tried to cover it up by reaching for your tea. “This still warm?”

“Get your own,” you said without bite, holding it out of reach.

He let out a soft huff and leaned into your space more, nose brushing against your jaw. Because if anything, the husband version of Bakugou Katsuki—your husband Bakugou Katsuki—doesn’t have a concept of personal space during mornings.

“You really gonna deny your husband a sip? Really? When I prepared this for you?”

“You’re gonna drink half of it.”

“I will if you keep holdin’ it hostage,” he threatened, and you laughed—an actual, sleepy laugh—and finally let him take the mug. He took a sip, then handed it back with a little grunt of satisfaction. “Uh huh. Made it right today.”

“I make it better.”

“You put too much honey in it sometimes.”

“I like it sweet.”

“I like you sweet,” he said under his breath, then added, “Not your damn tea. That’s a health hazard at some point, dummy.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned over and bumped your forehead against his. He stayed there for a beat, closing his eyes as he let the closeness sink in. Outside, the rain kept falling, and the whole apartment smelled like eggs, toast, and the faint vanilla candle you lit sometime before he got out of bed.

“You gonna eat with me or what?” he murmured against your skin.

“In a bit,” you said again. “You’re warm. And it’s raining. I don’t wanna move yet.”

He made a low sound in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and settled in beside you, one arm looping behind your shoulders, the other resting on the blanket over your legs.

“This your excuse to make me feed you like last time?”

You smiled, sleep still tugging at the corners of your lips. “Maybe. That’s what husbands are for, right? Serving their spouses?”

“You’re a pain.”

“And you love me—unless you don’t. Then I’ll have you know I will be taking the washing machine with me; that one’s the most expensive piece of furniture we have.”

Bakugou snorted. “Really?” he says. “But fuckin’ right I do,” he added, voice low and reverent now. “I love you ‘til the sun fucking explodes, and even after.”

...

“That was poetic, hun. You should’ve written that for our vows.”

“... I’m regrettin’ that I forgot.”

You sat in silence for a while; the only sounds were the rain, the occasional tap of your fingernail on the screen, and the soft buzz of the world going on without them. Bakugou didn’t mind the quiet—not with you, at least.

You made it feel full instead of awkward.

Safe.

Eventually, you sighed and leaned into his side, closing the tablet and letting it slip onto the couch cushion beside you. “Okay,” you murmured. “Maybe I’m ready now. Because I don’t like cold eggs.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes half-closed. “But only if you bring it over here. Then we could continue watching that romance drama we forgot to finish because you went to Spain.”

Bakugou huffed, standing up with a stretch. “You’re spoiled.”

“You spoil me.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder as he walked back to the kitchen. “And don’t you forget it.”

He brought over the plates a minute later—eggs, toast, and a little variety of fruits because you liked it when he tried to be ‘balanced.’ He handed you the fork and watched as you thanked him and lazily started to eat, your movements slow, like your brain still hadn’t fully woken up.

He sat back down beside you, one knee brushing against yours under the blanket, and started eating his food, satisfied by the small sounds you made with each bite. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t flashy. But it was theirs—yours.

A rainy morning, warm food, the person he loved within arm’s reach—Bakugou couldn’t have asked for anything better.

So yeah, Bakugou might not like the rain, but he likes spending it with you.

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rosemaryhoney27 · 2 months ago

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“Danny vs. Gotham: Rogues, Riddles, and Regret”

aka: Gotham's Villains Realize They've Made a Terrible, Terrible Mistake

Vlad wanted to leave. He wanted to scoop Danny up, fly far away, and pretend the Gotham trip never happened. But Bruce had insisted Danny stay another week for “family bonding.” And Vlad—against his better judgment and his rapidly thinning sanity—had agreed.

What he hadn’t agreed to was sending Danny out on a “light patrol run” with Red Robin and Spoiler.

“He’s a child!” Vlad hissed. Bruce shrugged. “He suplexed a gang leader and sword-fought Damian with a smile.” Tim sipped his fourth espresso and muttered, “Kid’s got better reaction time than half of us. Might as well let him stretch his legs.” Vlad: internal screaming intensifies

Later That Night – Gotham Financial District, 10:22 PM

It should’ve been a routine patrol.

SHOULD’VE.

But this was Gotham. So naturally, they ran into Riddler. And not just Riddler. Riddler with a microphone, a speaker setup, and a slideshow.

“Riddle me this, Batbrats!” he declared, laser pointer in hand. “What flies forever, rests never, has no lungs but can still scream?!”

Danny blinked. “That’s wind.”

Riddler paused. “…I—I wasn’t done.”

“You said it in the wrong order. Classic misdirection. Also, you did this one in Amity Park two years ago. You posted it online.”

“…What?”

“Yeah, it was part of your ‘multi-state riddle tour.’ You rhymed ‘obfuscate’ with ‘paperweight.’ My friend Tucker roasted you for a week.”

Spoiler wheezed. “OH MY GOD.”

Tim was filming. “This is gold.”

Danny smiled like a polite little demon. “If you want new material, I can send you Tucker’s podcast link. He does villain reviews.”

Riddler stared, brain lagging. “I—I have—graphics—”

“You spelled ‘cerebral’ wrong on slide 4.”

“…I hate it here.”

Five Minutes Later

Riddler’s henchmen surrendered unprompted. Riddler ran face-first into a recycling bin while trying to flee. Danny phased him through the lid and said, “Please stay in there until Gotham has better riddles. Thank you.”

Tim couldn’t breathe. Spoiler was crying laughing. Danny handed Riddler a sticker that said “I Tried My Best (And Failed)” before floating away.

But It Got Worse

Because then, Scarecrow showed up.

And naturally, he released his newest fear gas on the group.

“Let’s see what horrors hide in your soul, little ghost,” Crane sneered.

Danny blinked as the gas swirled around him.

Then sneezed.

Then sniffed it.

Crane: “What—what are you doing—?!”

Danny: sniff sniff “Ooh. Cinnamon and despair. Very vintage.”

Crane: “THAT’S NOT HOW FEAR GAS WORKS—”

Danny exhaled, glowing green, and the gas dissipated.

“I’ve been inside the Ghost King’s mind, dude. This is like spa day fog machine levels. You want real terror? I have a VHS of Tucker’s high school poetry.”

Crane dropped his canister and backed away. Spoiler whispered, “He’s ungasable.” Tim, still filming: “That’s not even the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week.”

Danny offered Scarecrow a cough drop and a tissue.

“Bless your heart,” he said.

Crane ran.

Later – Back at the Cave

Danny was handing out debrief cookies. Again.

Bruce was watching the security cam footage with the face of a man who was trying to process “he sniffed the fear gas.”

Dick leaned over. “This kid’s either going to save Gotham or traumatize it into behaving.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “He gave Riddler a sticker. That’s psychological warfare.”

Damian looked up from sharpening his sword. “He told me he once bit a cursed toaster.”

Vlad, in the background, was staring at the Batcomputer like it had personally betrayed him. “I—he—he ate fear gas. He corrected Riddler’s grammar. He is not normal.”

Bruce looked at Danny, who was humming while reorganizing the med supplies.

“…He’s a Wayne.”

Vlad: “NOOOOOOOOOO—”

#dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #vlad plasmius #vlad is tired #damian wayne #jason todd is a little shit #the riddler #scarecrow #danny fenton is a little shit

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saatorus · 2 months ago

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— freak like me ୨ৎ

based off of this post

wc — 2.8k

warnings — oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, genuinely just 2.8k words of filth bc i need satoru :3

Sometimes, you truly want to grab your husband by the shoulders and genuinely ask him what the hell is wrong with him.

In a purely cute, loving, wifey way, of course.

You had been lounging at home, listless but not tired, charged up but not in a productive way. The kind of restless where you start wiping already-clean counters just to burn energy. Or reorganizing your skincare drawer for the fourth time that week.

Your body felt hot under the skin, like something in you was coiled up and ready to snap. There was only one explanation for this kind of jittery, razor-sharp awareness running under your skin like a live wire. So, like any other normal person, you opened your period tracking app.

Yup. Ovulating.

Fantastic. That explained the horniness bordering on religious fervor. Everything in your body was screaming breed like it was written in your DNA. So, just like any other wife with the patience of a saint and the self-control of a demigod, you texted your husband Satoru at work.

You 12:47PM

hey u

quick q

Husband (derogatory) 12:48PM

answer is yes unless it’s illegal

You 12:48PM

r u busy or r u like pretend busy like usual

Husband (derogatory) 12:48PM

ur sounding like ur abt to ask me to pick up toilet paper and i hate that tone

what’s up

You 12:49PM

im ovulating

Husband (derogatory) 12:49PM

oh👀

ok. and?

You 12:49PM

so when u get home

ur not gonna get to say hi

or breathe

or take off ur shoes

i’m going to destroy you

like i actually might kill you with my pussy

Husband (derogatory) 12:50PM

😳

bold of u to assume i’d try to survive

You 12:50PM

bold of u to send me nothing spicy of u but be mean to me when u know i’m genuinely suffering and shit like omg

Husband (derogatory) 12:51PM

what do u want me to do??? send u a live feed of my cock at work???

do u want me to be on a list???

You 12:51PM

no but like

a lil thirst trap wouldn’t kill u

show me smth for the spank bank

Husband (derogatory) 12:52PM

u want a pic of my abs rn??

i got time

lemme hit my office for a sec

You 12:52PM

if u send me a pic right now i swear i’ll spontaneously combust

Husband (derogatory) 12:55PM

[1 image attached]

🥰

tell me i’m pretty

You 12:55PM

i hope u know this photo just signed ur death warrant

ur gonna be BURIED in me. like to the point where ur dick is like never getting out of me

Husband (derogatory) 12:56PM

ok but like

worth it??

do i look hot

scale of 1 to rawdog me in the kitchen while the rice is still cooking

You 12:56PM

absolutely rawdog in the kitchen with zero regard for the rice

ur not even making it to the bedroom. my clit hard at dis

Husband (derogatory) 12:57PM

god

i’m bricked up in front of principal yaga rn

i hope ur happy

You 12:57PM

good

suffer

consider it foreplay

You stared at the photo again. The audacity of this man to stand there with perfect abs, just barely flexed, pants sitting sinfully low on his hips like he knew the way your brain would short-circuit. The lighting in his office was stupidly flattering—somehow made his skin look so nice and delectable. Not to mention the veins going down to his cock?

You chewed on your lip, pacing the living room like a predator. There was simply no way you were surviving the next few hours. You even considered sending him a photo back—bait for bait, a little tit-for-tat—but decided against it. Let him suffer.

Let the anticipation kill him softly.

When he gets home? You’re not talking. You’re not greeting. You’re not doing anything except dragging him inside and absolutely sucking the soul out of the man you had ended up marrying.

–

It was exactly 6:02PM when you heard the door unlock.

Two minutes late. Not that you were keeping track or anything… except you definitely were, curled up on the couch in a barely-there pair of shorts and one of his old shirts with no bra underneath. Strategic slutty domesticity. A war tactic.

You didn’t even look up right away. Let the tension simmer. Let him walk in and realize what he’s just stepped into.

The door creaked open, followed by the soft jingle of his keys and the unmistakable shuffle of his slides hitting the entryway.

Then:

“I’m home—”

You were already standing in front of him before he could finish the sentence.

The look on his face was criminally satisfied. Like he knew he was walking into the lion’s den and brought himself as the offering. His blindfold was pooled around his neck– it was a habit for him to take it off at home. His white hair was a little tousled from the wind, and he had the audacity to be smiling.

“Hi, babe—”

You didn’t even let him finish his sentence. You fisted your hands in the front of his shirt and yanked him down into a kiss so hot it made your knees buckle. He groaned into your mouth, hands flying to your hips out of instinct.

“Jesus—” he panted against your lips, breath already shaky. “You weren’t joking.”

“I told you I was gonna ruin you,” you muttered, kissing down his jaw, “You think I just say things for fun?”

His laugh was breathless, cocky, but already crumbling. “You do, though.”

You reached between your bodies and palmed him through his pants. “Not today.”

Satoru hissed, bracing one hand against the wall. “Okay, wow. Hi. Hello. I see the demons are home.”

“You started it,” you said sweetly, unzipping his pants like you were opening a present. “Sending me that photo like I’m not clinically insane for you.”

“I was tryna be nice— shit—”

His sentence broke off into a groan as you sank to your knees right there in the hallway. He wasn’t even fully undressed, shirt still on, pants down just enough for you to get what you wanted. And what you wanted?

To suck his soul out like a Capri Sun.

You eagerly took him in your mouth, lips wrapping around him– absolutely no time for teasing– taking him as far as you could the moment he slipped into your mouth. You moaned at the taste of him, at the feeling of his prominent veins on your tongue, and the way that he just sat so hot and heavy in your mouth.

“Baby,” he rasped, one hand threading through your hair, the other gripping the wall so hard you swore it cracked a little. “Not— not even the bedroom?”

You hummed around him in response.

“Fuck—okay, okay—take everything. Take the whole paycheck.”

You didn’t let up—not even when his knees buckled, not when your nose repeatedly kept hitting the smattering of white hair above his base, not when his pink, throbbing tip kept hitting the back of your throat so good that your pussy felt like it was a puddle at this point, not when he was gasping out half-finished apologies to whatever god he believed in, not when he muttered something about filing for short-term disability because of "whatever the fuck this is."

He came so hard you were genuinely concerned for a second that his soul had actually left his body. Filled your throat with him, even. Like a capri sun. Man folded like an origami crane. Sagged against the wall with his shirt all rumpled, hair sticking to his forehead, and the most dazed, fucked-out look you’d ever seen on his stupidly pretty face.

You licked your lips and stood up slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like a villain in a K-drama.

Satoru looked up at you like you were the Messiah and the apocalypse all in one.

“You’re insane,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“You love it.”

“I do,” he breathed. “God, I really do. I’m in love with the devil.”

You cupped his cheeks and kissed him sweetly, gently, like you hadn’t just given him a religious experience with your mouth.

Then you whispered in his ear:

“Round two’s in the kitchen.”

He made a sound that was not human.

By the time he made it to the kitchen—pants back up but barely, shirt half-untucked like he just walked off a battlefield—he looked like he had one brain cell left, and it was begging for mercy.

You, however?

Unbothered. Glowing. A menace in tiny shorts and smug satisfaction.

You leaned against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a glass of water like you hadn’t just rearranged his internal organs. “I said round two in the kitchen,” you reminded him, sipping slowly. “You moving a little slow there, old man.”

He squinted at you, chest still rising and falling. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Technically, I warned you.”

“You warned me via text,” he muttered, walking over with the exaggerated drag of a man heading into war. “There’s a difference between texting me you’re gonna ruin me and actually attempting a physical exorcism on my soul through my dick.”

You grinned. “Still had enough energy to come find me, though.”

“That’s because my penis is a traitor and doesn’t believe in self-preservation.”

“Your penis is smart. Your penis is loyal. Your penis knows who feeds it.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. You set the glass down with a click, reached for his collar, and pulled him in. “Bend me over the counter,” you whispered against his lips.

He choked.

Eyes wide. Pupils blown. Brain visibly buffering.

And then: obedience.

“I—yes. Okay. I mean—of course. Obviously.” He practically tossed your glass to the side and spun you around, hands already slipping under your shirt, finding your bare skin like he was made for it. His thumbs hooked underneath the waistband of your shorts, halting when he felt the smooth skin of your hip bones and not the waistband of your panties.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “No panties?”

“I was planning ahead,” you said, bending slightly and bracing your hands against the counter.

“God, I love you so much it actually hurts.” He kissed down the back of your neck, worshipful. “You’re unreal.” He slipped down your shorts, and then his already halfway down pants, aligning his tip with your soaking entrance.

Then he slid into you with a groan so filthy it echoed off the cabinets. You gasped, arching, clenching around him instinctively, and heard him let out a shaky laugh.

“This is a setup,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “I feel like you’re doing this to steal my powers. Like I’m not gonna be able to use infinity after this.”

You couldn’t even form a reply—your mouth was open, moaning, hands scrabbling for purchase. He wasn’t going slow. Not anymore. Whatever restraint he had left burned off the moment he was inside you. It was fast, deep, messy. The kind of fucking that blurred your vision and made your toes curl.

Satoru’s fingers dug into your hips as he pounded into you, saying all kinds of nonsense against your skin:

“Been thinking about you all goddamn day—” “—knew I was in trouble when you said ovulating—” “—you were serious about the soul thing, huh? gonna baptize me in pussy—”

You half-laughed, half-cried out as he hit a spot that made your legs shake.

He reached around to rub tight, dirty circles on your clit, whispering, “C’mon, baby, let go for me, lemme feel it, wanna feel you lose your mind—fuck, please—”

And you did—with a broken moan and a full-body tremble that had your knees buckling, your body locking up so tight around him that he swore out loud, dropped his forehead to your shoulder, and followed you over the edge with a deep, shaky groan that sounded like it came from the depths.

The kitchen went quiet except for your breathing. The rice cooker beeped once, like it had seen things.

You both just stood there, still connected, sweaty, wrecked, in the soft afterglow of holy sin.

“…do we have any electrolytes?” he asked weakly.

You giggled. “Top shelf. Pedialyte in the purple bottle.”

“You’re a menace,” he said, pulling out slowly with a wince. “I’m not even mad. I’m just scared.”

You turned to face him, cupping his face and giving him the sweetest kiss imaginable. “You’ll live.”

He blinked. “Will I? Are you sure? Like… can I put you on my life insurance as both the cause and beneficiary of death?” Satoru was still recovering—barely holding himself up against the counter, forehead pressed to the cool surface, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon while holding his breath.

You, on the other hand, were just sitting on the counter next to him sipping water like a perfectly reasonable, not at all deranged wife. Ignore the fact that his cum was steadily drying on your thighs after dripping out once he pulled out.

“So,” you said casually, like you weren’t actively naked in your own kitchen. “You think the rice is done?”

“Baby,” he said, voice hoarse, muffled, like he didn’t trust himself to lift his head. “Please. I don’t even remember my own name.”

You leaned over and patted his ass. “That’s okay. You don’t need a name. You just need to sit up on that counter for me.”

He groaned. “I need food. I need air. I need—what did I even do to deserve this?”

“You sent me a thirst trap.”

“You literally asked me for it,” he whined, straightening up slowly, eyes glassy.

You pushed off the counter—with a slight wobble—and before he could get another sarcastic word out, you moved away from from the counter in the middle of the kitchen, boosting yourself up onto the counter right next to the stove, legs spread, voice sugar-sweet.

“C’mere.”

He blinked. “Oh my god. Are you gonna ride me next to the soy sauce?”

“Would you prefer the spice cabinet?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Spice cabinet.”

—

Somehow, somehow, you ended up on the higher shelf. Not the safe little cozy edge of the island—no. You were straddling him on the counter in the corner by the window, legs draped around his thighs, knee bumping the pepper grinder, and he looked like he was going to have a nervous breakdown about how hot it was.

Satoru kissed you like a man possessed—hands on your thighs, holding you open for him, still too breathless from the last round to be cocky but desperate enough not to care.

“I don’t have anything left,” he whispered into your mouth. “You’ve drained me. I’m just a shell of a man now.”

“Then let me fill you back up,” you said, not even remotely sorry.

“Do you even hear yourself—holy shit—”

You’d sunk down onto him again, slow and deep, pulling a moan out of him so loud it had no business being that pretty. His head dropped to your shoulder as you started riding him, deliberately slow this time, grinding in small, agonizing circles.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he whispered. “You’re gonna have to call Shoko and be like, ‘Hi, I murdered my husband with pussy and now he’s trapped in the rice cooker, can you help me scrape him out?’”

You leaned in close, teeth grazing his ear. “She’d say ‘finally.’”

His hands flew to your hips, grip bruising, and he started moving with you, fucking up into you like he’d found his second wind in the middle of his own funeral.

The countertop creaked under you. The spice jars rattled. A cinnamon container fell off the shelf at one point and he caught it one-handed without breaking rhythm, then threw it over his shoulder like an anime protagonist mid-battle.

“Why is this the best sex of my life—” he gasped, eyes wild.

“Because I’m ovulating and mad,” you panted, nails digging into his back. “Because you purposely sent me your cum-worthy abs.”

“So my ballsack is being drained because of some muscles on my abdomen?—”

“You don’t get it—”

And then you came together in the middle of the kitchen like two idiots in heat, clinging to each other, half-screaming into each other’s skin like the world was ending. Which, in a way, it was. Your knees were shaking. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching.

The counter was definitely never going to recover.

And when it was over, when the both of you were breathless and sweaty and completely unhinged, he looked at you—kiss-bitten, flushed, utterly destroyed—and whispered:

“I don’t think I can eat rice ever again.”

being a virgin and ovulating is not for the weak 🙁🙁🙁

#gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader smut #gojo satoru x reader smut #satoru gojo smut #jjk satoru #jjk smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader smut #jjk #jujustu kaisen

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mercvry-glow · 2 months ago

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Stay with me

parings. michael robinavitch x reader

warnings. age gap (michael early 50s, reader early 30s), traumatic birth, hospital setting, nobody dies, michael is mess and constantly stressed, other pitt characters, reader gets described as pale in a medical sense no mentions of outright skin color or hair type, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. this ones a doosey to make up for not writing for our sad boy! I love this and I'm happy I got to fulfill yet another request from you guys! I love y'all so much, and remember that all feedback is appreciated and to please enjoy!

wc. 3800+

Maybe coming into work at thirty-nine weeks pregnant wasn’t the best idea.

But you were stubborn. Always had been. And despite everyone—especially Robby—telling you to stay home, you couldn’t bring yourself to sit around waiting for labor like a ticking time bomb. You hated the stillness. The wondering. The endless scrolling and anxious pacing.

So here you were, waddling through the automatic doors of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center like you weren’t a day past thirty weeks. Your badge still clipped to your belly, your sneakers swelling tighter by the hour, and your hair pulled into a bun that screamed "I tried... kind of."

“Seriously?” came Frank’s voice before you’d even made it to the nurses' station.

You didn’t even look up. “Good morning to you too.”

“You’re full term,” he said, falling into step beside you, black scrubs hugging his sturdy figure as per usual. “As in, literally any second now.”

You smiled at him over your shoulder, trying not to let the exhaustion show. “I’m fine. And I’m bored. Let me chart for a few hours. I’ll even sit down the whole time. Swear.”

“You know that’s a lie,” he shot back, snorting. “You’ll be helping lift gurneys and running labs by noon. Someone’s gonna find you chasing a trauma bed down the hallway.”

“Hey,” you said with a little huff, rubbing your back with one hand, “just because I’m growing a whole human doesn’t mean I forgot how to function.”

Frank just gave you a knowing look, which meant: we’ve all seen you trying to wedge yourself into the cafeteria chairs.

That’s when Robby appeared around the corner, clipboard in hand and eyes already narrowed. He didn’t even have to say anything—his expression screamed "Really?" Robby frowned, scanning you up and down. His hand hovered near your lower back, not quite touching but always close. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You tilted your head and gave him your most innocent look. “I’m on light duty. Promise.”

“I’d like to point out,” Langdon added, grinning as he peeled away toward the coffee cart, “that I tried.”

You plopped yourself into the nearest rolling chair with a dramatic sigh and swiveled toward Michael. “It’s either this or reorganizing the diaper drawer for the sixth time this week. I think the baby’s fine with me typing a few notes.”

Robby crouched down beside you, one knee on the floor like he did when checking patients, except this time his palm found your knee instead of a pulse point.

“You’re swollen. And your breathing is a little tight.” He raised an eyebrow. “How long were you on your feet this morning?”

“Like… twenty minutes.” You grinned. “That includes brushing my teeth and taking care of the dogs.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning his head against your leg. “You’re going to send me into cardiac arrest before this baby even gets here.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, soft and absentminded, brushing the strands back from his forehead. “You’re cute when you’re worried, old man.”

“I’m always worried,” he muttered. “Because you’re always doing something you shouldn’t.”

You didn’t argue. Mostly because he wasn’t wrong. You were already shifting, trying to pull up the electronic charts on the nurses’ station computer.

Michael gave your belly a light pat and stood, arms folding as he watched you with that quiet, hesitant fondness he reserved only for you. “Fine. Two hours. Feet up. You so much as sneeze weird, and I’m dragging you to OB myself.”

“Deal,” you chirped, already logging in.

“And don’t even think about stealing someone’s trauma case when we get slammed.”

“Define stealing,” you replied innocently, sipping from your water bottle.

He pointed a warning finger, but his smirk gave him away. “Two hours.”

“Love you too, Doctor Buzzkill.”

As he walked off, you caught the way his hand reached for the stethoscope around his neck, the subtle shake of his head as he glanced back at you one last time before disappearing toward the elevators.

And for a little while, everything felt normal. The steady rhythm of the hospital, the buzz of the morning shift changing hands, the rolling carts, the beeping monitors, and the casual banter of a team that had become a second home. You rubbed your belly gently, feeling a soft nudge from the baby in response.

Still here, still safe.

You leaned back in your chair and took a deep breath.

You had no idea how quickly everything was about to change.

The morning passed in a blur of keyboard clicks, routine charting, and the occasional pat on the shoulder from coworkers who either admired your stubbornness or questioned your sanity. Probably both.

Danabrought you a fruit cup and didn’t even bother hiding the fact that she was watching your ankles like a hawk. “You know,” she said while leaning against the edge of the station, “we’ve had patients come in for stubbed toes more dramatic than you being full-term and still here.”

You laughed softly, spooning pineapple into your mouth. “I just wanted one more shift. One more day of normal.”

“You’re due in three days,” she said, eyebrows raised. “You know what would be really normal? Not going into labor next to the trauma bay.”

You gave her a half-hearted glare, and she gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving along.

By the time the clock read 10:47 a.m., you’d gone through two rounds of vitals checks, one baby name debate with the new ER nurse (“Mikey Jr.” was not happening), and an entire cup of crushed ice. You felt... okay. Tired, sure. Tight across the ribs, definitely. But okay.

The baby kicked again—this time a little stronger, enough to make you wince and shift in your chair. You rubbed at the spot, exhaling slowly as the muscles in your lower back pulled tight.

Normal. Probably.

You stood up to stretch, rolling your shoulders as your bladder reminded you it was still being squished by a watermelon-sized human. With one hand pressed to your back, you made your way toward the staff bathroom, waving off Frank’s dramatic offer to “escort the ticking time bomb.”

Inside, you braced your hands against the sink for a moment, catching your breath. That tightness across your middle was sticking around longer than you liked. Not a contraction exactly... but a pressure. Your reflection looked a little pale, a little drawn.

Probably just low blood sugar. Probably just tired.

You splashed cold water on your face, took a breath, and patted your belly like you were trying to reason with it.

“Let’s not do this here, kid,” you whispered. “Give me 'til at least lunch.”

The baby shifted again, slow and sluggish.

You frowned.

Back at the station, you tried to ignore the small twist of something off. Robby walked by on his way to check in with a patient and paused long enough to give your hand a squeeze. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t want him to worry—not yet. Not unless there was a real reason.

But deep in your chest, just under the hum of fluorescent lights and the steady rhythm of the hospital, a quiet unease began to grow.

You went back to your chair, sat down slowly, and propped your feet up on an overturned supply box Dana had dragged over earlier.

“Getting royal treatment now,” you murmured with a soft smile, stretching your fingers across your belly again. The pressure was still there—low and dull, like a cramp that hadn’t quite made up its mind. But you chalked it up to gravity. End-of-pregnancy things.

Michael passed through again, this time glancing at your chart on the screen. “You okay?” he asked casually, but his voice held that little edge, the one he got when he was reading between the lines of your smile.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired. Baby’s being clingy.”

He crouched down beside you again, resting his hands on your knees and gazing up at you like you were something fragile and wildly important. “You sure? You look a little pale.”

You shrugged. “I think my blood sugar’s just dipping. I’ll eat something real at lunch.”

Robby opened his mouth like he wanted to press the issue, but then his pager buzzed, pulling him back to the chaos. “Page me if anything feels off, okay?”

You gave him a thumbs up. “Promise.”

He kissed the inside of your wrist—gentle, a little rushed—and then disappeared down the hall.

You watched him go, your heart tugging in that quiet, familiar way. This wasn’t supposed to be dramatic. You were just going to stay a few hours. Get your fill of normal. Go home.

You reached for your water, took a sip, and then—

The pressure in your lower abdomen suddenly turned sharp.

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t stabbing, not yet—but it was wrong. Deep and spreading and foreign.

You shifted in the chair again, trying to ease the feeling, but this time it moved through your back too. A tight, radiating grip like something clenching from the inside.

Your hand instinctively moved to your belly. Still round. Still there. But... heavy. Heavier than before.

You stood up too fast and had to grip the edge of the desk for balance. A strange wave of heat flushed through your chest and ears.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Okay. Not panicking.”

You turned toward the hall, planning to make your way down to OB—just to be safe—when a sudden gush of warmth rushed down your legs.

Your eyes dropped to the floor.

Blood. Not water…

Not a trickle. Not a few reassuring spots.

A pool.

Everything stopped.

You opened your mouth, tried to call out for someone—Frank, Dana, Robby—but your throat closed up as your knees buckled.

A pair of arms caught you before the world tilted entirely sideways, voices shouting your name, feet pounding against tile.

And somewhere in the distance, your heart broke open in fear as someone screamed for a crash cart.

The world dulled around the edges.

Voices came in waves—too loud, then too soft. The fluorescents above you blurred into a single long smear of white as you blinked hard, trying to stay awake. You were lying flat now, someone barking orders just over your head, hands pressing against your belly. Something cold touched your arm. A tourniquet? IV? You didn’t know.

You wanted to speak, but your tongue felt thick and heavy. The baby wasn’t moving. Or maybe you couldn’t feel it. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Where was Michael?

You turned your head slightly, reaching out blindly with a trembling hand. “R-Rob—”

And then everything went black.

On the other side of the Pitt the hallway was loud, as usual. One resident talking too fast, an alarm going off two bays over. Robby had just finished checking vitals on a pre-op trauma patient when the words cut through the noise like a blade.

“Code OB! Nurses’ station—she’s hemorrhaging!”

For half a second, it didn’t register. He stood frozen, pen in hand, until Dana’s voice came from behind—sharper now, more desperate as she ran past him.

“Robby—it’s her! It’s your girl, it’s—”

He dropped the pen. Took off running.

The world narrowed to tunnel vision, his shoes slamming the floor with every stride as he turned the corner.

And there you were.

Lying on the floor in a growing puddle of blood, too still, too quiet. Langdon was crouched beside you, white-knuckled and pale, while someone was trying to keep your airway open and shouting at a med tech for an O2 mask. Two OB nurses had already arrived from upstairs, trying to lift your limp form onto a gurney.

“Move—MOVE!” Robby’s voice cracked as he shoved between bodies, sinking to his knees beside you. His gloves were on before he could think.

“Talk to me,” he begged, brushing a blood-slicked hand over your cheek. “Baby, come on—hey, stay with me.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He saw the blood again. The amount of it. His heart seized.

“She was complaining of tightness earlier,” Dana said quickly. “Didn’t think it was labor. She didn’t say anything about bleeding.”

“Placental abruption,” one of the OB nurses muttered grimly, already calling down to surgery. “We need to move now.”

“No.” Robby gripped your hand as they lifted your body onto the bed. “You hold on. You don’t get to—don’t you dare leave me.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly. It was the smallest thing, but it was enough to crack him wide open.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, pressing his forehead to yours as they wheeled the gurney away. “God, I love you. Just hold on. Please.”

The elevator doors slammed open, and then they were gone—your body rolling down the hall, trailed by shouting voices and the squeak of rubber wheels.

Robby stood frozen in the blood you left behind.

And he prayed—for the first time in years—that he wouldn’t lose the two people who had already become his whole world.

The observation room was too bright.

Too sterile. Too loud and too quiet all at once.

Robby sat hunched forward on the gallery chair, elbows on his knees, hands laced together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His scrubs were stained—your blood, dried now—and he hadn’t moved to change them. It felt wrong. Like washing it off would be admitting something final. Like you were already gone.

The OR doors had closed over an hour ago.

Every minute stretched. He counted the seconds between every nurse that walked in or out of the room. Every ding, every beep, every sound made his chest seize like a vise.

“Dr. Robinavitch?”

He shot to his feet so fast the chair rattledagainst the floor.

It was one of the OB residents—a younger guy, fresh-faced, kind eyes. He looked nervous standing at the doorway.

“The baby,” Robby said before the kid could speak. “Is he—?”

The resident gave a small, quick nod. “He’s stable—strong APGAR, breathing on his own. He’s in the NICU right now, just for monitoring because of the blood loss and delivery trauma, but he’s holding on great.”

Robby felt something like a breath stutter through his chest. A crack in the suffocating weight.

“A boy,” he repeated, voice cracking on the word. He scrubbed a hand down his face, the ache behind his eyes blooming all at once. “And she?”

The resident hesitated.

Robby’s stomach dropped like a stone.

“They’re still working on her,” he said carefully. “There was extensive bleeding. She lost a lot of volume and needed multiple transfusions. The placenta had fully detached. She coded once on the table but they got her back quickly—Dr. Jensen’s still in with her. They're doing everything they can.”

That familiar numbness swept in—cold and full of static. He’d seen this happen. He knew what these situations could look like. How fast they turned.

But this wasn’t just any patient.

This was you.

The woman who’d kept him steady when he didn’t know how to be. Who fought him and loved him and refused to be anyone but exactly who she was. This was the woman who carried his child, who still hadn’t heard that he made it. That their son made it.

“Can I see him?” Robby asked, quietly now, trying not to let his voice shake. “The baby?”

“Yeah,” the resident said, nodding. “I’ll take you myself.”

Robby glanced down at the gallery one last time.

“Hold on,” he murmured under his breath. “Please… just hold on.”

And then he followed, toward the small flicker of hope that looked an awful lot like a tiny newborn baby in a bassinet.

The NICU was soft with dim lighting and quiet beeps—worlds away from the chaos upstairs. Here, everything moved slower. Gentle. Careful.

Michael had scrubbed in without thinking, numb to the motions as the nurse guided him toward the far incubator. She was saying something—about weight, oxygen levels, bloodwork—but it barely registered.

All he could see was him.

His son.

Tiny. Swaddled in a sea of pale blue, a knitted cap covering his head, wires curling like vines across his chest. His skin was flushed pink, his breathing steady and strong, even with the tubes nearby just in case.

Robby stopped short a foot from the incubator.

“Go ahead,” the nurse said softly, nodding. “He’s yours.”

He stepped forward, one hand trembling as he reached out and pressed his now clean fingertips into the hole in the side of the incubator. Then he looked down through the clear plastic, and something in him shattered clean through.

“You’re here,” Robby whispered.

Not to anyone else. Not even to the nurse.

Just to him.

“You’re really here.”

His voice cracked. A tear slipped hot down his cheek. He swiped at it quickly, but it didn’t stop the next. Or the one after that.

“I thought we lost you,” he whispered, pressing his other palm fully to the side of the incubator now. “I thought—I thought I was going to lose both of you.”

The baby stirred slightly at the sound of his voice, his little face scrunching as if to acknowledge him.

Robby laughed—just a quiet breath of it. Barely more than a sound.

“You’ve already got a lot of fight in you,” he murmured. “Just like your mom.”

That cracked him open again. He dropped his head forward, resting it gently against the warm plastic as tears spilled freely now, all the fear and helplessness and love pouring out with no one around to see. No one to judge.

“She’s not out of it yet,” he said, so quietly it barely made it past his lips. “I don’t know how she’s doing….”

He swallowed hard.

“But I need her to be. You need her to be. So you just… hang on in there, little man. And I’ll hang on too.”

He stayed there for a long time. Just breathing. Just watching his son sleep, chest rising and falling with a steadiness Robby needed like oxygen.

And then—

“Dr. Robinavitch?”

A voice behind him.

He turned.

A nurse he didn’t recognize stood in the doorway, eyes soft but urgent. “They’re bringing her out of surgery now. She’s stable.”

Without knowing how long you were out the first thing you felt was the weight in your chest. Not pain—though there was plenty of that, dull and heavy through your midsection—but weight. Like your body had been filled with cement and someone was slowly peeling it away.

The second thing was the beeping.

Steady. Familiar.

A monitor. You’d heard that rhythm a thousand times, but this one felt… personal.

Then came the light. Too bright. You winced.

“Hey—hey, easy…”

A voice. Soft. Hoarse.

You knew it.

Your lashes fluttered as you tried again, squinting against the fluorescent ceiling until a shadow leaned into your frame of view. Hair mussed. Beard teased. Scrubs wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot but still such as deep warm brown. .

Robby.

He was sitting beside your bed, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees like he hadn’t moved in hours. Days maybe. His hand was already in yours.

“You’re okay,” he said quickly, blinking down at you with a thousand emotions all crashing in at once—relief, love, panic, exhaustion. “Jesus, baby, you’re—God, you scared the hell out of me.”

You opened your mouth, but your throat was too dry. All that came out was a rasp.

Robby was already up, pouring water and helping you sip from a straw with gentle, practiced hands.

When you finally managed a whisper, it was just one word. “Baby?”

His lips trembled around a smile.

“He’s okay,” Robby said, nodding, voice cracking as he set the cup aside and cupped your face with one hand. “He’s perfect. He’s tiny and loud and beautiful. They moved him to the nursery this morning but stable. Breathing on his own. He’s strong. Like you.”

You exhaled slowly, your body sinking back into the mattress with a kind of weak, aching surrender. The tears slipped out before you could stop them.

“I thought I lost him,” you whispered.

Robby shook his head. “No. You didn’t. You brought him into this world. You fought like hell.”

You looked up at him then, really looked, and saw the toll it had taken on him—the shadows under his eyes, the hollow in his cheeks, the scruff he hadn’t bothered to shave. He looked like a man who’d been holding his breath for days.

“You stayed?” you asked.

He gave a watery laugh. “I never left.”

And then he leaned down and kissed your forehead. Slow. Long. Like a prayer.

“You scared me,” he whispered into your skin. “More than anything in my life. Don’t ever do that again.”

You reached for him, weak and shaking but needing him close. He didn’t hesitate. He was there in your arms a second later, wrapped around you like a shield, like a lifeline. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you let yourself breathe.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed after that.

The pain meds kept you somewhere between floating and dreaming, and the monitors were a constant lullaby, but Robby never left. He was always there, holding your hand, brushing the hair from your face, whispering things you barely remembered.

But when the nurse finally came in, smiling softly and pushing a clear bassinet ahead of her, the world snapped back into focus.

“I thought you two might be ready,” she said gently.

You blinked hard, trying to sit up, but the ache in your abdomen stopped you short. Robby was already there, adjusting the bed, piling pillows behind you like he had done it a hundred times.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re still healing.”

But your eyes were locked on the tiny bundle being lifted into your arms.

And then—he was there.

Your son.

Wrapped in soft hospital blue, all fuzzy hair and wrinkled skin and the tiniest fingers you’d ever seen. He blinked up at you like the light was too much, his brow furrowed in confusion, and then he yawned—wide and slow—and settled against your chest like he already knew exactly where he belonged.

The breath hitched in your throat.

“Oh,” you whispered. “Oh, hi…”

Your voice broke on the word.

Robby was sitting on the edge of the bed now, his arm behind your back, his other hand smoothing over your son’s impossibly small shoulder.

“You made him,” he said softly, awestruck like he still couldn’t believe it. “We made him.”

You nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek as you gently ran your finger down your baby’s nose.

“He’s perfect,” you said. “He’s… ours.”

Robby kissed your temple and stayed there, his lips pressed against your skin as your son sighed in his sleep and curled closer.

You didn’t say anything for a long time.

There was just the three of you, tucked into a too-small hospital bed, held together by quiet breathing and trembling hands and the kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be felt in your bones.

This was certainly worth the pain.

mercury-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch x you #dr. michael robinavitch #dr michael robinavitch x reader #dr michael robinavitch x you #❥ - Michael Robinavitch

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