Lorrii

Hello, my name is lori but you can call me loreii.

I make very different kind of posts, reblogs, fanfics etc.

I’m not creative at all so i do not post often, especially fanfics.

Some themes i do NOT write: Necrophilia, pedophilia, gore, anything yandere or obsession.

And the list goes on, but i will say it if i cannot write what you suggest.

On my blog, make sure to feel at home. Request fanfics, talk to me if you need it, do whatever makes you feel better and happy.

I want this place to be a safe space, struggling? You can talk to me, i do NOT judge because i have been through shit too and know what it is like.

My favorite colors are Pink and blue

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Pairing: Aizawa Shouta x Reader

Genre: Hurt-Comfort / Fluff / Medical Realism / Family

Setting: Hospital Birth – Natural Twin Labor

---

You'd read every parenting book out there. Memorized the twin birth forums. Downloaded the hospital bag checklist three times. And yet, as you gripped the side of the bed while a contraction tore through your abdomen like a pressure wave, none of it felt real.

Until now.

Your water had broken just past 1 a.m.—a warm gush that soaked the sheets and sent Aizawa bolting upright like he was on a mission. He barely said a word as he grabbed your overnight bag, wrapped you in his scarf like it would shield you from pain, and drove to the hospital in silence—focused, calm, but with that subtle panic in his eyes that only you knew how to read.

Now, strapped to a fetal monitor with two sets of rhythmic beeps echoing from the screen—your babies’ heartbeats—you were deep into labor.

---

The room was cool, softly lit, with the labor and delivery bed angled to support your back. IV lines had been inserted in your forearm, a slow drip of saline and antibiotics running while the nurse checked your vitals on the digital screen above.

Elastic straps circled your belly—external fetal monitors—tracking each contraction and each baby’s response. Twin A’s heartbeat was steady. Twin B, tucked higher, had a faster rhythm.

Aizawa sat beside you, one hand stroking your wrist, his other absently rubbing his temple like he was grading final exams again.

"You’re doing well," he murmured, voice low and gravelly. "Just breathe through it, Y/N."

You grunted, sweat clinging to your temple. “I swear… they’re kicking me from the inside out.”

“Future heroes,” he said, and gently kissed your knuckles.

---

It was after nine hours of labor that your dilation hit 10 cm. You were exhausted, voice hoarse, legs trembling despite the epidural that dulled the pain into pressure. A catheter had been placed after the anesthesia, and now the team was prepping the room for delivery.

"Alright, Mom," said Dr. Kaede, your obstetrician. "Baby A is in a great position—head down, and ready. Time to start pushing."

The overhead surgical lights turned on. Sterile drapes were laid out. The nurses adjusted the bed into delivery position, pulling up stirrups and locking them. Aizawa stayed by your head, holding your hand, whispering words you couldn't always hear—but always felt.

You pushed through the pressure, bearing down as the doctor counted aloud. Your face burned. The sensation was raw—like tearing and stretching all at once.

“I see the head!” the nurse called. “One more push!”

You roared with the last of your strength. And suddenly—

A cry.

Sharp, shrill, urgent. Baby A was born at 10:43 a.m., slick and wriggling, their body caught in gloved hands, cord still pulsing.

“A girl,” someone said. “Strong lungs, too.”

She was placed briefly on your chest—still covered in vernix and blood—before being whisked to the warmer. Aizawa followed her, eyes wide, breath caught. You saw him—how he hovered like he couldn’t believe she was real.

But it wasn’t over.

Twin B had turned. The doctor frowned.

“She’s breech. We’ll try to turn her, but we may need assistance.”

Hands pressed firmly on your belly, guiding the baby into place. More contractions. More pushing. This one was harder—she wasn’t ready.

“I need a vacuum,” the doctor said calmly. A nurse handed her the vacuum extractor—a soft cup attached to a tube, suctioned gently to the baby’s head.

You bore down again. The sensation of pressure intensified. And then—

Another cry.

Baby B was born at 10:58 a.m.—squalling, red-faced, her body slightly smaller but no less fierce.

“She’s perfect,” said the nurse.

This one had dark hair already curling at the ends.

---

The room dimmed again. Your legs trembled as the placentas were delivered one by one. Blood soaked the bed, but the nurses moved efficiently—massaging your uterus, checking for tears (you had a second-degree tear, stitched cleanly with absorbable sutures). A heat pack was applied to your abdomen. Clean pads lined the bed beneath you. You were trembling, hollowed out—and whole.

Aizawa returned, arms full.

Two tiny girls, each wrapped in white flannel blankets with pink and blue stripes. One snuggled against his chest, the other blinking sleepily in your arms.

He looked down at you, face soft in a way few had ever seen.

“They’re ours,” he whispered.

You smiled, tears spilling freely. “They’re loud.”

He smirked, gently brushing hair from your forehead. “Like their mother.”

"Cracks in the Armor"

Pairing: KiriBaku x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Slight Angst

Content Warnings: ED (Eating Disorder) themes, emotional vulnerability, recovery focus

---

You weren’t sure when it started again.

Maybe it was the mission that went sideways. Maybe it was seeing yourself in that damn photo, all awkward limbs and hollow cheeks. Or maybe it had just been waiting in the shadows all along, and you were too tired to keep the door shut.

Either way, food had become the enemy again.

You didn’t think anyone noticed. You were good at pretending.

You knew when to smile. You knew how to make your excuses sound casual. You even made sure to take a few bites around people. Not too much. Just enough to fool them.

But not Kirishima.

He was subtle at first. “Hey, I made too much rice! Want to help me out?”

Then gentler: “You okay? You’ve seemed kinda off lately.”

You’d smile. Laugh it off. “I’m just tired.”

Bakugo wasn’t subtle. At all.

One evening, during patrol rotations, he cornered you in the training room.

“You’ve been dropping weight,” he snapped, not cruel—just loud. “You think no one can see that?”

You blinked at him, heart hammering.

Kirishima stepped in, voice soft. “Bakugo—”

“No. Someone’s gotta say it.”

You stood there, caught between their concern and your shame. Your fingers dug into your sleeves.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen again,” you whispered, eyes burning. “I just… it’s hard to explain. When I look in the mirror, all I see is something that needs fixing.”

Bakugo’s jaw tensed. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“That’s not how it feels,” you breathed.

The words cracked something inside Kirishima.

He stepped forward, gently cupping your face in his calloused hands. “You don’t have to carry this alone. Not anymore.”

You felt something snap inside you—something sharp and old and tired. The tears came without permission.

“I feel so weak.”

“You’re not,” Bakugo said, quieter this time. “You’re surviving. That’s strength, even if you don’t see it.”

You sank into Kirishima’s chest as Bakugo wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. The three of you sat in silence on the cold training room mats, surrounded by the dim hum of fluorescent lights and the warmth of a moment you never thought you’d have.

No fixing. No judgment. Just presence.

Later, when you were curled up between them on the common room couch, sipping the soup Kirishima made “just because,” Bakugo muttered, “You’re eating tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after. We’ll sit with you if that’s what it takes.”

You looked up, surprised.

“You’re not a burden,” Kirishima added. “You’re someone we care about. A lot.”

You didn’t say anything.

But the next morning, they were waiting for you at the breakfast table—Bakugo scowling at the toast like it had offended him, Kirishima already halfway through his omelet.

You awkwardly sat down on a chair, scooting closer to the table while katsuki put a plate with an omelette on it infront of you. You played with the omelette with your fork, looking at it with disgust.

"Eat"

You heard Katsuki say, looking up, you locked gaze with him

"You need to eat, and we're looking right at you while you do. To make sure you actually eat this time."

Your hands trembled as you picked up a small bite of the omelette and put it in your mouth, slowly chewing on the bite.

God they felt so proud after.

---

Pairing: Aizawa Shouta x Reader

Genre: Domestic Fluff / Comfort / Light Humor

Setting: First Night Home with the Twins

---

Your apartment had never been so quiet—or so loud.

The first night home with the twins was a blur of feeding schedules, burp cloths, and diapers that defied logic. You were running on exactly 2.3 hours of sleep, both of which were achieved with one eye open and a baby monitor clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

You were about to collapse onto the couch when you heard the telltale mewling cry from the bassinet in the bedroom.

“Left or right?” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

“Right,” Aizawa replied from the doorway, already padding toward the bedroom in his loose sweatpants and soft, black shirt. His hair was down, disheveled—half tied back with a spare hair tie you wore on your wrist. He looked tired, sure, but composed in that annoyingly Aizawa way, like he’d just graded a hundred papers and was now ready to master fatherhood too.

“She kicked out of the swaddle again,” he said as he leaned over the bassinet.

You watched from the doorframe as he picked her up with practiced hands, her tiny body curling instinctively toward his chest.

“She’s a little escape artist,” you said, smirking.

He gave a quiet hum of agreement and walked over to the nursery. Inside, the overhead nightlight bathed the room in a soft amber glow. Two bassinets sat side by side, one occupied, one empty. Shelves were lined with little footie pajamas, pacifiers, and neatly stacked muslin swaddle blankets.

Aizawa laid her down on the changing table and reached for the blanket.

Now this—this—was where he shined.

With the precision of a ninja and the tenderness of a pro dad, he unfolded the swaddle.

“Step one: wingspan,” he murmured, spreading the blanket into a diamond. “Step two: baby burrito.”

He placed her in the center, lining her shoulders just below the top fold. You watched, amused, as he gently folded the left corner over her body and tucked it under her right side with just the right amount of snugness.

“She’s already falling asleep,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “The trick is firm, but not tight enough to cut off circulation.”

“Spoken like a man who’s done this before.”

He shot you a look. “I’ve restrained villains. I can restrain my own daughter—with love.”

You snorted, nearly waking the other twin in the process. Aizawa ignored you, tucking the right side over her and folding the bottom corner up like a perfect origami fold. He even double-checked the hip room—"Don't want to mess up her joints," he added like he was quoting a textbook.

He lifted her up again, this time in a clean, cozy, perfect little swaddle.

“Swaddle sensei,” you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tempt me to trademark that.”

You walked over and rested your head on his shoulder, watching the now sleeping bundle of daughter breathe peacefully against his chest.

“How are you so calm?”

He glanced at you, eyes soft. “Because you're not.”

You smiled.

---

You both tiptoed back to bed, two bassinets now filled with sleeping girls, your hearts full and your bodies aching. As you crawled under the blanket, you looked at him and whispered:

"One down. Fifteen hundred swaddles to go."

He smirked. "Bring it."

---

Pairing: Dabi (Touya Todoroki) x Reader

Genre: Angst / Hurt-Comfort / Emergency Birth / Domestic Chaos (Villain Edition)

CW: Blood, emergency delivery, birth realism, cursing, panic, medical urgency

---

Your water broke in a moving van.

It started with a pop—warm fluid soaking your leggings—and your fingers clutching the door handle until your knuckles turned white.

“Uh… Dabi?” you whispered, a tremor in your voice.

He looked over, bored as hell in the passenger seat of the stolen, rusted SUV Spinner had hotwired an hour earlier. “What?”

You gave him a tight-lipped, pain-ridden smile. “I think I’m having the baby.”

The van swerved slightly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—TWICE! PULL OVER!”

---

Twenty Minutes Later – Somewhere Off an Abandoned Side Road

The whole League of Villains was somehow there. Toga was crouched beside you in the backseat, trying to comfort you and also soaking up the drama like a vampire with gossip. Spinner paced, clutching a gas station burrito like it might help. Compress was distressingly calm, polishing his mask for no reason at all.

And Dabi—Dabi was absolutely losing his shit.

You were sprawled across the back seat, legs propped awkwardly on the center console, sweat pouring down your face. Your hoodie and shirt were bunched up around your chest. The contractions were coming fast and sharp—every two minutes, then every minute and a half.

You weren’t gonna make it to a hospital. You weren’t even gonna make it to an abandoned warehouse.

This was happening. Now.

Dabi’s hands were shaking. “Why the hell didn’t you say something sooner?!”

“Because I didn’t wanna stress you!” you snapped, voice raw. “And maybe because we were busy running from a damn raid!”

Blood ran down your thighs as another contraction hit. Your scream echoed into the woods.

“Sht, sht—Toga, boil some water!” Dabi barked.

“With what, blue flames and vibes?!”

“I’ll keep the engine running,” Spinner offered lamely.

---

Compress handed over the cleanest towel he had (which was still… questionable), and Dabi positioned himself at your feet, eyes wide and terrified. You’d never seen him like this. Not even after battle. Not even when he killed.

“Okay, baby,” he whispered, breath catching. “You gotta push now.”

You screamed as the pressure built—unbearable, splitting, like your spine and pelvis were tearing apart. “I can’t!”

“Yes, you can,” Dabi said, suddenly firm. Voice like fire, steady now. “You’ve survived worse. Push.”

You bore down—sobbing, shaking—and felt your body stretching, tearing.

Blood. Crowning. The baby’s head emerged, slick and matted. Dabi's hands trembled as he cradled it, then waited for the next contraction.

“Come on, you little bastard,” he muttered to your unborn child.

Another push—and the baby slid free into his arms.

A tiny scream pierced the night.

Everyone froze.

You collapsed back, gasping, chest heaving. Tears poured down your cheeks. Toga was crying, clutching your hand like she'd delivered the baby herself. Compress actually looked moved.

Dabi stared at the little, blood-covered baby in his arms

"...It’s a boy," he muttered. “Tiny. Loud. Perfectly dramatic.”

He cut the cord with his blue flame cauterizing the blade of a switchblade, then wrapped him in a black hoodie.

Then he climbed into the back seat with you and laid your son on your chest.

You were still bleeding, but the worst had passed.

"You did it," he whispered, wiping your forehead sweat with a shaking hand. “You’re a goddamn beast.”

You laughed weakly. "Told you I'd go out with a bang."

“You’re not going anywhere.”

---

The League had found an abandoned gas station and turned it into an impromptu nursery. Your son was sleeping in a plastic bin lined with stolen blankets. Dabi sat beside you, staring at the fire in a barrel while holding your hand.

“I didn’t think I could love anything,” he said, quietly.

“But you do now?”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing from your face to the tiny bundle nearby. “Now I do.”

---

Pairing: Kirishima x Reader x Bakugou (Poly)

Genre: Angst / Comfort / Medical Drama / Hurt-Comfort

---

You'd always been the tough one. You had to be, growing up in a world of heroes, quirks, and impossible expectations. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared you for the moment your doctor looked you in the eye and said the words:

"You need spinal surgery. Soon."

The pain had crept in over the past few months—numbness, weakness, that deep, stabbing ache in your lower back that never quite went away. Kirishima noticed first, watching the way you hesitated before lifting anything heavy. Bakugou noticed when you collapsed in the gym.

Now, the three of you sat in the cold pre-op room, with Kirishima gripping your hand tightly and Bakugou pacing like a tiger behind the curtain. His explosions were quiet—barely a twitch at his palms—but you knew him well enough to read the tension.

"It's gonna go great, babe," Kirishima said, trying to smile, but his voice cracked.

You swallowed hard. "Yeah. Just getting my spine sliced open. No biggie."

A nurse entered the room, soft smile on her lips, and held a clipboard. “Alright, Y/N. We’re ready. Time to prep you for the OR.”

Kirishima kissed your forehead. Bakugou stepped forward, finally still, his jaw clenched. He didn't say much, just took your other hand and muttered, "Don’t fuckin’ die in there."

---

Bright lights. Sterile white. The air had that sharp, antiseptic tang. Nurses bustled quietly, checking machines, laying out instruments. The operating table was narrow, padded only slightly, and intimidating under the large round surgical light above.

You were wheeled in, eyes flicking over every detail. The table of tools gleamed—retractors, clamps, bone saws, suction tubes, a drill. A tall IV pole stood beside you, a saline bag already hooked and ready. Beside it, a pulse oximeter beeped faintly with each of your anxious heartbeats.

A nurse gently placed a nasal cannula just under your nostrils. “This is just oxygen to help you breathe better,” she said, adjusting the flow on a nearby machine. Cool air hissed faintly.

Next came the blood pressure cuff wrapped snugly around your arm. It inflated automatically, making your fingers tingle. Then the EKG electrodes—small sticky pads—were applied across your chest, feeding data into the heart monitor beside the table. The beep-beep-beep of your heartbeat felt far too loud in your ears.

A soft voice at your side. “Hi, I’m Dr. Himura, your anesthesiologist. We’re going to start with an IV, and then I’ll have you breathe through a mask. You’ll be asleep before the first incision.”

A sharp pinch in your hand as the IV catheter was inserted. Cold fluid began to flow almost immediately.

Finally, the anesthesia mask was lowered over your face—a clear dome connected by tubing to a humming machine. “Deep breaths now. You might feel a little lightheaded.”

The scent of plastic and gas—sweet, artificial—flooded your senses. The room blurred.

---

With the patient fully under general anesthesia, the team scrubbed in. The area of operation—your lower back—was sterilized with povidone-iodine, then draped in blue sterile sheets.

An incision approximately 4 inches long was made along the lumbar spine with a #10 scalpel blade, carefully slicing through skin and subcutaneous fat. Blood welled immediately; suction tips removed it quickly while hemostats clamped bleeding vessels.

Electrocautery was used to dissect deeper, through muscle layers, revealing the vertebrae. Self-retaining retractors were placed, pulling the muscle away from the bone with a tense metallic click.

The damaged disc between L4 and L5 was removed with pituitary rongeurs, the grating crunch of cartilage audible in the quiet room. A hollow remained.

A high-speed surgical drill was used to clean the bony edges, shaping them to receive the bone graft. Screws were inserted with a pedicle screw system, each one turned precisely with a torque wrench. Titanium rods were placed and locked in with set screws, realigning your spine and relieving pressure on the nerves.

Finally, a bone graft—a mix of harvested marrow and synthetic matrix—was packed into the hollow space to promote fusion over time.

Drainage tubing was inserted. Then came the long, careful closure: layer by layer, muscle sutures, fascial closure, subcutaneous tissue, and skin—closed with nylon sutures and surgical staples.

The total blood loss was 550cc, managed via suction and sponges. Your vitals were stable. Oxygen saturation stayed strong. Total OR time: 4 hours, 22 minutes.

---

You came to slowly. A heavy weight in your spine, an ache so deep it felt molecular. Beeping surrounded you again. Oxygen hissed faintly from a nasal cannula, and the IV line in your arm felt sore but present.

You blinked, vision hazy—and saw them.

Kirishima, his eyes red-rimmed, still in his hero gear. Bakugou, arms crossed, looking like he’d fought an entire army just to sit in that chair.

“You’re awake,” Kirishima whispered, voice breaking. “You made it.”

Bakugou leaned forward, fists clenched. “Told you not to die, dumbass.”

Your throat was dry. You couldn’t speak yet, but the weak squeeze of your fingers was enough.

They both leaned in, hands holding yours.

And through the haze of painkillers, blood loss, and surgical trauma—you smiled.