Diva

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𖦏⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔: 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑, 𝙳𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚌𝚑, کوردی, 𝙴𝚜𝚙𝚊ñ𝚘𝚕 𝐇𝐄┃𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 (𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙷𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚎𝚗)

[hayxani]

𝙄𝙩’𝙨 𝘿𝙤𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧, 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙉𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚

𝗛𝗮𝘆𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗻 𝘅 𝗥𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁!𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 | 𝗠𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗨 | 𝗝𝗼𝗵𝗻𝘀 𝗛𝗼𝗽𝗸𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝗛𝗼𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹 | 𝗠𝗟𝗠

Summary: You’re a first-year neurosurgery resident at Johns Hopkins, desperate to prove yourself. But Dr. Hayden Christensen—the world-famous, infuriatingly brilliant neurosurgeon—keeps calling you a nurse. Between surgical precision, unbearable tension, and accidental brushes of hands, mentorship quickly turns into something far more dangerous.

Warnings/Contains: age gap (y/n is about 26 years old and Hayden is 37 years old), smut, sexual tension, slow burn, mentoring kink, humiliation, dirty talk, marking, sexual exploration, explicit sexual content.

Word Count: 5063

Pairing: Dr. Hayden Christensen x First-year resident!Reader (MLM)

A/N: Hey!! Here’s a brand-new fanfic for you all 🩺💖 I’d love a like or a comment, and feedback is always super welcome! Hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it. This story is slightly inspired by Grey’s Anatomy.

Your palms are damp inside the disposable gloves you keep fiddling with, though you’re not even scrubbed in. The first day of residency feels like standing at the edge of a cliff — except you’re surrounded by the best of the best. Hopkins. The ivory tower. Everyone here wears their Ivy League pride like a second white coat.

And then there’s him.

Dr. Hayden Christensen. Chief of Neurosurgery. Brilliant. Legendary. Arrogant. He strides down the hall like he owns every square inch of it — and maybe he does. He’s the surgeon people fly across the country to see. The one residents whisper about like he’s some untouchable god. And not to mention his undeniable handsomeness that brings the nurses and even the patients to a flustered state.

You’ve read his papers. Cited him in your dissertation. And now he’s standing in front of you. You can’t deny that he is one of the main reasons for my choice for this hospital. You want to learn from the best and he is the best one in his field.

“Residents,” his voice cuts like a scalpel, smooth but commanding. “Welcome to neurosurgery. You’re not here to impress me. You’re here not to disappoint me. You’ll fail. You’ll get in the way. Some of you won’t last. But if you make it… you’ll never be the same again.” 

The group shifts nervously. Someone swallows hard.

But not you. You straighten your back, hiding your nerves under a practiced calm.

Finally, after days of patching up some wounds with the needle, you see an operation room from the inside. 

You’re standing in the corner of OR 3, heart pounding, desperate for something to do other than watch. The patient’s skull is open, the room buzzing with tense precision. You hold your breath, waiting for a chance—any chance—to step forward.

You observe how his hands are so calm and move so smoothly like a pianist gliding effortlessly over the keys. 

You know this procedure by heart — after all, you’ve spent years memorizing textbooks and watching countless surgical videos. But standing here now, watching it unfold right in front of you, feels nothing like theory. It’s real, it’s alive — and the rush of it makes your pulse race with a fierce love for medicine.

Lost in awe, you hear a voice bringing you back to the reality.

“Dr. uh—nurse, can we get some more saline in here?” Christensen says without even looking up from the microscope.

For a second, you don’t move. Did he just-? No, it can’t be… right? You turn your head around, maybe he meant someone else, maybe one of the nurses - but his eyes flick right past you as if you were nothing.

The scrub nurse smirks, thrusting a bag of saline into your hands before you can protest. Heat floods your face as you hang the bag on the IV pole, pretending your heart isn’t hammering with embarrassment.

“Good,” Christensen mutters, already focused back on the aneurysm clip, as if you were nothing more than background noise. God, you ask yourself, should you have told him that you are a doctor? But now it’s too late - you can’t just call him out and say, “Dr., I am a doctor, not a nurse,”, while he clips an aneurysm - and maybe he will notice it later.

The rest of the day goes on like that. Every time you try to edge closer to the field, someone waves you off. The residents get to retract, suction, assist. You fetch supplies. You check charts. You’re invisible. 

“It's so unfair that you all get to do what we're here for, but I have to play nurse for Mr. Arrogant and Unbelievably Handsome,” you complain to your co-residents, who also started with you, in the cafeteria. 

After they chuckled, Stacy, one of you friends and colleagues, tries to cheer you up: “Look, at least you've been assigned to the best Surgeon in the entire hospital. And aren’t you one of the best graduates from your university? Take it positively.”

In fact, you were the best graduate from my whole year in Standford. “Yeah right, bringing him coffee is so much better than actually being a surgeon,” you answer with a sarcastic tone.

He is one of the best surgeons in the whole country, you tell yourself when you go to bed, he will probably notice that you are a doctor, and it’s still your first week here, so you try to make a good impression - and annoying a busy and brilliant surgeon is definitely not the best way.

By the end of the week, you‘ve been mistaken multiple times. 

All three times, by Dr. Hayden Christensen.

Your co-residents are glowing from their first assists, their first scrubs, their first adrenaline rush in the OR. Meanwhile you long for these acitivites.

It’s not like you didn’t try.

You always make sure to stand in the front row during rounds, especially with Hayden’s patients. You’re right there, at the patient’s bedside, white coat unbuttoned and slightly wrinkled, pen and notebook in hand, waiting—hoping—that Dr. Christensen might call on you. Just once. But he never does. His eyes slide right past you and land instead on Stacy, Cole, or literally anyone else.

More and more often you wear your white coat, because that’s the mark of being a doctor. And yet—like the universe has it out for you—someone always shoves a stack of charts into your arms the second before Hayden appears. So there you stand, arms full, looking more like a nurse than the physician you are.

Stacy once told you it probably doesn’t mean anything. We’re all interns, she said, and Dr. Christensen just doesn’t waste his time with first-years. Everyone knows we’re at the very bottom of the food chain. And maybe she’s right. But you can’t shake the feeling that this only fuels your drive—the fire to prove yourself burns hotter every time he ignores you.

One night, just before midnight, you’re standing at the reception desk in the Neurology and Neurosurgery wing, brain scans in hand, scrubs wrinkled and body aching. You keep glancing at your watch, willing the clock to move faster. Almost done. Almost off. But who could blame you? It’s been a brutal thirty-six–hour shift. The dark circles under your eyes prove your exhaustion, and every part of you craves nothing more than your bed.

You skim over the scans when a voice cuts through your haze. Dr. Christensen. Of course. Looking infuriatingly awake, not a trace of exhaustion on his perfect face. He walks up, scrolling on his phone.

“Ah, there they are. The scans from my patient. I asked for them to be brought to my office, nurse,” he says, not even glancing up from his iPhone.

That word again. Nurse. It hits harder this time, sharp and humiliating. Your exhaustion, the pounding behind your eyes, the ache in your legs—everything boils over at once

“You know what?” Your voice comes out louder than intended, echoing down the near-empty hallway. He finally looks up, brows raised.

“I have two doctorates, an MD and a PhD in biochemistry. I was top of my class at Stanford. Do you know how many nights I didn’t sleep, how many hours I spent studying, how many scholars ships I had to get, how much I sacrificed to get here? And now I’m standing in the middle of the neurosurgery floor fletching coffee and carrying scans like I don’t know what instead of analyzing these scans with you.” Your chest heaves, anger trembling in your hands as you clutch the scans.

Christensen blinks, stunned by your outburst. You’ve never seen him speechless before.

“I didn’t come to the Johns Hopkins Hospital to be your damn errand boy,” you continue, your voice dropping but sharper, cutting like a scalpel. “I came here to be a surgeon. And- and I know as a first-year resident who is at the beginning of his career, I have to do inferior tasks… but not the whole damn time. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’re not as much of a neuro god as everyone says you are. Or I choose the wrong hospital, since my opportunity to be a good surgeon is suffering under people like you.”

Silence. The kind that makes your stomach twist instantly with regret. Your ears are burning, your heart slamming against your ribs. Shit. You just committed career suicide. He’s going to destroy you.

But Hayden only studies you, eyes unreadable, the ghost of something dangerous curling at the edge of his lips.

“You should go home and get some sleep. The brain doesn’t always function properly when you’re tired, doctor,” he finally breaks the silence, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

You look down and nod. You place the scans on the desk—attached to them is a post-it with your assumption for the diagnosis of the patient.

You spend the rest of the night trying to get some sleep, but you can’t. Unfortunately, your mind is cursed with the phenomenon of brooding—also known as overthinking. You can’t stop replaying what happened and what might happen. Maybe you should just stay home tomorrow. But how would that look? No, you have to go to work… even though you’d rather immigrate to another country here and now.

After getting at least a little bit of sleep, you show up at the hospital. Your only goal is simple: stay out of his way. That can’t be too hard, can it?

But when you glance at the operating schedule, your eyes widen and your body freezes.

Written clearly on the whiteboard:

Order: 12 pm Patient: Thompson, L. Procedure: Glioblastoma-Resection Operating Room: 3 Surgeon: Christensen, H.; Y/L/N, (your initial)

You read it several times, convinced your sleep-deprived brain is playing tricks on you.

Finally, you tap the surgical nurse responsible for the schedule. “Excuse me… is this correct? I didn’t know I was assisting Dr. Christensen today. There must be a mistake, right?”

The nurse shakes her head firmly. “No mistake. He specifically asked for you as the assistant surgeon for today’s procedure. He was very clear about it.”

Later you find yourself skimming through the patient’s chart, forcing yourself to focus on the cold, black letters. Blood pressure, history of hypertension, aneurysm size, previous strokes. You’re reading, yes, but nothing seems to stick—your stomach twists like it’s trying to tie itself in knots. Your fingers tap against the folder, too fast, too nervous. This isn’t just any surgery. It’s with him.

By the time the clock ticks closer to twelve, your pulse feels louder than the ticking second hand. You slip into your scrubs, tug the cap over your hair, and head to the scrub sink.

The stainless steel gleams under the sterile light. You step on the foot pedal, water rushing, soap lathering between your fingers. The ritual almost calms you—until another figure steps up beside you.

Dr. Christensen.

He doesn’t look at you at first, just methodically scrubs, movements precise, confident, practiced—like even washing his hands could be a masterclass. His presence alone fills the room.

For a moment, the only sounds are rushing water and bristles against skin. Then, without glancing your way, he breaks the silence.

“So,” his voice is low, smooth, almost too casual, “let’s see if you’re more than just a nurse, hm?”

The word stings sharper than the bristles against your skin. You nearly fumble, scrubbing harder, until your knuckles flush red.

One brow arches, still without meeting your gaze. “Rude?” His tone is light, conversational, but edged like a scalpel. “Most wouldn’t dare speak to me in that tone.”

Your throat works as you swallow, heat crawling up your neck. “Yes,” you sigh, letting out a heavy breath. 

His head tilts, just slightly, until his gaze finally locks on you. Blue. Piercing. Impossible to read. For a heartbeat, the world shrinks to nothing but that look—and you can’t tell if the wild rhythm in your chest comes from the looming surgery… or from him.

“No need to worries,” he whispers so softly that the blood raises up to cheeks, and a warmth is spreading in your chest. In this moment you forget to continue the scrub, meanwhile he has already finished washing his hands precisely.  “I prefer honesty, to be honest,” he tells you in a casual tone now.

“Hurry up, we’ve got a life to save, don’t we?” He glances back at you, his tone lighter, almost teasing, yanking you back into the moment. Your heart stutters, betraying the thoughts you can’t speak aloud.

You follow him through the sterile corridors, your gloves snapping into place like armor. Dr. Christensen, the unshakable neurogod, stands at the table, calm as a storm at sea. You, the eager assistant, can’t help but steal glances at his hands, at the brain lying before him—so delicate, so impossibly complex.

As the incision begins, you find yourself talking more to the brain than to him. “Look at how the folds curve here… it’s like a map of a universe we’ll never fully explore.” He glances at you sideways, a faint smile tugging at his lips, which is under the mask he wears, and you know he’s noticed. 

“Suck there,” he tells me calmly, and I obey with the suction device in my head.

“So, tell me the procedure for removing a glioblastoma.”

You glance at him, gloves slick, heart racing just a little. “Craniotomy first, then careful resection, making sure to preserve eloquent areas,” you reply, voice steady but eyes glued to his hands.

He nods, satisfied. And for a moment, you can’t help but marvel at how effortlessly he moves, like the brain itself is obeying him.

“You got two doctorates, right?” he asks, curious, his hands never stopping their precise work.

“Uhm… what?” The sudden topic shift pulls you out of focus for a second, and your heart skips—partly from the surprise, partly because he’s looking at you like that.

“You said you have an MD and a PhD, right?”

“Ah… yes. I also did a PhD in biochemistry,” you answer, trying to sound casual, though your voice betrays a faint tremor.

“What grade did you get?”

You hesitate, just for a moment, then let it slip, “Summa cum laude,” keeping your tone light. You are not one to flaunt, but… somehow saying it out loud in front of him makes it feel different.

He raises an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Impressive,” he compliments, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to his gaze, his praise, and that undeniable pull you can’t seem to ignore.

“Thanks, it means really much to hear this from you, doctor,” you tell him with an hint of gratitude. 

He looks in your eyes for a short moment, and you could swear that his expression softened for a moment. 

“One last cut and then the tumor is fully resected.” His voice threads through the low hum of the monitors—steady, clinical, yet carrying that undercurrent that makes your stomach knot. His eyes find yours across the sterile light. Sharp. Blue. Relentless.

“Ever done that?”

Your throat tightens. “N-no.” The word catches in your mask. Your gloves feel slick, though you know it’s only your pulse racing hot under the latex.

“Good,” he murmurs, tilting his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Then you’ll do it.”

The weight of the scalpel in your hand is suddenly unbearable. The brain lies open before you, fragile, terrifyingly alive. Then—heat. His chest brushes your shoulder as he steps closer. You hadn’t noticed how near he was until now.

“Slow,” he says, his breath grazing your ear as his hand comes down over yours. Solid. Warm. Inescapable.

“Just like this. You feel that? Good. Perfect.”

Your vision tunnels; the sterile lights blur at the edges. All that exists is the pressure of his palm steadying yours, the scent of his skin beneath the sharp tang of antiseptic. You can’t tell anymore where your tremor ends, and his control begins.

“That rush,” he whispers, his thumb brushing over your knuckle. “That’s why we’re here. Precision. Power. A life balanced on your hand… our hand.”

You inhale, shaky, shallow, as the blade sinks. His presence at your back is not just guidance but a weight, a tether, an anchor pulling you through. The cut lands true.

His approval is a low hum against your skin. “Yes. Exactly like that. You’re doing such a good job.” The words are praise, command, and promise all at once. And beneath the adrenaline, you feel the unmistakable stir of arousal, hot and unwelcome, yet impossible to ignore, which causes a tightening against your pants. 

For a beat too long, he doesn’t let go. His grip lingers, pressing the scalpel to your palm as if branding the moment into your skin. And when his eyes lift to meet yours again, there’s something there—pride, amusement, and a softness he never shows the room.

During the next weeks quickly. Somehow, your name keeps showing up on Dr. Christensen’s OR schedule. At first, you think it’s random. But it happens again, and again. Always:

“You’re with me.”

Short. Sharp. Leaving no room for discussion.

Ad you don’t complain. Because ever time you’re in thee OR with him, somethings shifts. 

You feel it.

It’s in the way his hand steadies yours, just a second too long. In the small brushes of fingers when he passes you an instrument. In the way his eyes hold yours across the table, longer than necessary. Each time, your chest tightens. Each time, a shiver runs down your spine.

You keep telling yourself it’s nothing. It’s just professional. It’s just training. But then why do you wait for it? Why do you find yourself hoping he’ll call your name during the rounds? Why does your stomach flip when he does? 

Your co-residents keep teasing you: “Christensen must like you huh? He keeps stealing you for all cases.” You laugh it off, but your ears burn. You tell them it’s because he is trying to teach you, that you both just have a good working energy together and that - but when you explain it to them, it always seems like you are trying to persuade yourself too.

And one late night, lying in your bed awake, you finally admit to yourself.

You like it.

You like him.

And you shouldn’t. God, you shouldn’t. He is your boss, and you are just an attending. One of the best neurosurgeons of the country. And you? You are just a first-year…

You wonder if he wants you there because of your skill—or just because you’re… convenient. The thought burns in your chest. You want him to notice your talent, not only your presence. And yet, the idea of asking him makes your throat go dry. 

Despite your uncertainty, you find yourself standing outside his office the next morning. You feel your palms getting sweaty even before you knock... 

After a moment's hesitation, you finally knock softly.

“Come in,” a voice tells you. A voice that got so familiar in the last weeks that you even start dreaming about it. It’s Hayden’s voice.

When you slowly open the door and enter the room, his eyes look up to you and his expression softens, obliviously didn’t expect you. He sits in his leather chair behind the polished brown desk, the white shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed up.

“I- I wanted to talk about something,” you slightly shutter that reveals you nervosity. 

“Of course, close the door, and take a seat,” he points with his hand on the free seat, directly in front of him.

Once you closed the door and sit down, you let out a sigh.

“So… I wanted to know…” You pause, fingers knotting together in your lap. Heat creeps up your neck and into your face. “Why me? Why do you always pick me to assist you? Is it… because I’m good enough? Or just because I’m… there?”

Your voice cracks on the last word. Regret hits instantly, though a small reckless part of you had wanted to add: Or because I stir something in you, the way you do in me?

Hayden leans back in his chair, eyes locked on yours. Sharp, unreadable—like he’s peeling back every layer you thought you’d hidden. The silence stretches, heavy enough to make your chest ache.

“Why do you ask?” His voice is calm, but there’s a thread beneath it, something you can’t name.

“It’s… it’s just a stupid question,” you mumble, shifting like you might stand. But his hand catches yours before you can move—warm, steady, holding you in place.

“If it were stupid, you wouldn’t have asked,” he says quietly. His grip anchors you, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles. You sink back into the chair, pulse racing.

You force yourself to look at him. “Do you really think I’m good enough?” Your words come out softer than you mean them to, threaded with vulnerability.

His brows knit, as if your question unsettles him. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, steady:

“You are smart enough. More than enough.” His tone leaves no doubt. But he ignores the unspoken other reason you buried in your question.

You swallow, heart pounding. It’s not a full answer. Not yet.

Hayden’s words hang in the air, but they don’t quiet the storm in your chest. You feel his thumb still brushing against your knuckles, grounding you and yet setting every nerve on fire.

Without breaking eye contact, he stands slowly, pushing the leather chair back. Your breath hitches when he steps around the desk, deliberate, calm, like he has all the time in the world.

You stay frozen in your seat, heart hammering. Then he’s there, right in front of you. Too close. The faint scent of his cologne mixes with soap and something sharper—surgical steel, maybe.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. His hand leaves yours, only to tilt your chin up, firm but careful, forcing your gaze to meet his.

The world shrinks. Just his eyes, impossibly blue, locking you in place. His thumb rests at your jaw, warm against your skin.

“You doubt yourself too much,” he says softly, and there’s something in his tone that isn’t just professional—something heavier, dangerous. “But when I choose you, I mean it. Every single time.” He starts to stroke over your lower lip.

You swallow hard, your lips parting, but no words come out. Your thoughts blur, tangled between the sharpness of his touch and the weight of what he just admitted—maybe more than he intended.

You slowly stick your tongue out and brush his thumb, not breaking the eye contact. It’s a risky move, but it works. His eyes darken and he lets out a growl. He invades your mouth with his thumb.

“Suck,” he commands dominant with a hunger in eyes. You feel how your dick gets hard, and you obey.

“Good,” he purrs and tilt his head while you suck eagerly his thumb. He pulls it out and replaces it with his index- and middle finger. You close your eyes and start to suck his fingers, while moaning around them. 

“Mhmmm…,” you moan around his fingers, he growls in response and start to fuck your mouth with his fingers. “Fuck… so can’t wait to feel this warm, wet mouth around my dick,” he murmurs. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth abruptly, leaving your mouth open, and hungry for his fingers.

He leans in closer, until their breaths mingle, until you can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“I want you, y/n,” he confesses, his words a dark caress against your ear. "I want you in a way that's becoming impossible to resist. I want to feel your body under mine, want to hear my name falling from your lips as I make you come undone."

He unbuckles his belt and puts his pants down. His dick, leaking, is springing out. It’s long, thick, veiny. The head is already red, like it’s aching for your touch.

“Are you going to be a good boy and suck my dick nice and properly, so it’s wet enough to glid through tiny hole, when I bet you over the desk?” he asks, giving his cock few strokes.

Your breath catches as you take in the sight of Hayden's impressive cock, thick and hard and leaking against his stomach. You feel your own dick throb in response, aching to be touched, to be filled. Your eyes are wide as he looks up at Hayden, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

"Y-yes..." you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "I'll be a good boy, Hayden. I'll suck your cock just the way you want."

You slide off the chair and sink to your knees in front of Hayden, your face is now level with Hayden’s straining erection. You lean in, inhaling the musky scent of arousal, before dragging your tongue along the underside of Hayden's shaft, tracing the thick vein that runs from base to tip.

"Fuck..." Hayden groans, his hand fisting in your hair, holding you in place. "That's it, baby. Get my cock nice and wet for that tight little ass of yours."

You shiver at the dominant command, before wrapping your lips around the swollen head of Hayden's dick. You suckle gently, swirling your tongue around the leaking slit, lapping up the salty essence of Hayden's arousal. You can feel the weight of Hayden's erection heavy on his tongue.

He takes more of the thick length into your mouth, inch by inch, until you feel the head of Hayden's cock bump against the back of your throat. You swallow around it, your throat muscles fluttering, sucking Hayden's dick with long, deep strokes.

"God, your mouth feels so fucking good," Hayden grunts, his hips rocking slightly, fucking your face with shallow thrusts. "Such a good little cock sucker, aren't you?"

You moan around Hayden's length, sending delicious vibrations through your Boss’s shaft. You want to please him, want to make him feel good, want to be the best thing that Hayden has ever had in his mouth or in his life.

Hayden pulls his throbbing cock out of your mouth with a wet pop, leaving your lips feeling empty and aching for its return. Before you can protest, he grabs you by the hips and spins around. He bends you over the desk.

“Pants off. Now,” he commands, his voice sends you shivers. “I need to see that sweet ass of yours.”

With trembling hands, you reach down to unbutton your pants and show them down. The cool air kisses you skin. You feel exposed, vulnerable, but also incredibly turned on. 

“Fuck, look at that perfect ass…,” the older one groans, running a large hand to your ass, and squeezing the firm globe. 

You gasp around as he feels his fingers dip between your cheeks, teasing over your fluttering hole. You clench instinctively, arching to be claimed.  

“Please….” You whimper, arching your back to push your ass more against his hand. “Hayden, please… I need you inside me. I need you to fuck my, to- to ruin me.”

“Dirty boy,” he growls and gives your ass a smack. “Filthy mouth on such a pretty face. I like that.”

He smacks it again, watching it jiggle. "Don't worry, baby. I'm going to give this greedy little ass exactly what it needs," he promises darkly. "I'm going to fuck you so hard, so deep, you'll forget your own name. The only thing you'll remember is the feel of my cock pounding into you, claiming you”

With his other hand, Hayden grabs the bottle of lube he's produced from God knows where, slicking up his fingers. He circles your rim teasingly, making you clench and beg before slowly sinking one thick finger.

After three fingers, he decides you are loose enough for him now.

“Such a good boy, taking my fingers so well,” he praises with a deep rumble, removing his fingers, “Your hole is so hungry for my cock, isn’t it? So desperate to be filled.”

“Please… fuck… I need it soo bad. Please fuck me.. I’m ready.. please Hayden,” you beg, whimpering.

Hayden's cock throbs at your desperate pleas, leaking a puddle of pre-cum onto the floor. He pushes his dick slowly deep inside you. After he is balls-deep buried inside you, he gives you a moment to adjust yourself. 

“Fuck, you are so tight. You feel so good around me, already milking me,” he cries out.

He starts to move, pulling his hips back until just the tip of his cock remains inside you, before slamming forward and burying himself to the hilt once more. The desk shaking and creaking beneath you both with each powerful thrust. He leans over your back, his chest pressing against you, his breath hot against your ear.

“Take it like the good boy, you are. Take my cock like you were made for it,” his hips slapping against your ass, filling the room with echoes from the obscene slaps. 

You can only moan brokenly in response. The pleasure is overwhelming, the feeling of giving Hayden pleasure, being possessed.

“Yes, yes! Use me, ruin me! Fuck me!” you can feel how he doubles his efforts. You look over your shoulder and see him smirking.

“Say that again, fuck say that again!” he commands and thrusting deeper to hit your prostate which makes you see stars. 

“Fuck me!”, you moan, your eyes roll back as you finally come undone.

At the same time, he sinks deep inside you one last time and shoots one stream after another of his hot, thick semen deep into your hole.

“Fuck, FUCK” TAKE IT!” he moans while he comes undone.

He collapses against your back, both of you them panting and trembling in the aftermath of your intense coupling. He presses a sloppy kiss along your neck, and shoulder.

“Such a good boy,” he murmurs, his voice rough and sated. “Look at you, taking my cock so well. That’s my good boy.”

[hayxani]

Hi, I love your MLM fics, there are very few in the community, and I wanted to ask if you're accepting requests?😭

Hey!! Thank you so much for your message 💜 It really means a lot to me that you enjoy my fics <3

You’re right, there are only a few in this community, and that’s why I focus on writing only MLM fanfictions.

At the moment I’m not actively writing, but if you have an idea for a fanfiction, feel free to send it to me and I’ll try to write one <3

[kimskoonwalker]

today i offer you this, i love this fit soooo bad🫦🫦

[staraayla]

[lexx77]

Twitter saw it first

[anakinstwinklebunny]

LITERALLY. he is sooooooo extremely HUGE. Bigger than in 2022, its insane

[hayxani]

The Way You Look at Me

Scott Barringer x Nerd!Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Camp Horizon | MLM

Summary : You and Scott Barringer never got along – constant teasing, mocking, and a rivalry everyone in Camp Horizon knows about. But when you’re forced to spend time together, you begin to realize that hate and something else can feel dangerously close.

Pairing: Scott Barringer x Nerd!Reader (MLM, so male pov!) Genre:: Enemies to Lovers, angst, slow-burn tension, hurt/comfort Warnings: bullying, verbal aggression, internalized homophobia, angst Word Count: 3461

Author's note: This one is longer than my other fan fiction, but I put so much effort into it. I’ve added these little bow dividers throughout the story so it’s not too overwhelming — you can use them as a marker if you need to stop reading and come back later. I hope you enjoy it, and I’d love any feedback!

When I am about to head back to my cabin, Scott Barringer steps into my path, forcing me to stop. Of course, it’s him – that mischievous smirk on his handsome face, the way his eyes flick down at me like I’m something beneath him.

It isn’t the first time I have caught his attention. I roll my eyes, but the air instantly shifts - what had been just another boring day at Camp Mount Horizon now feels heavy, charged with hostility that clings between us like a stormy cloud.

Since my very first day here, I’ve noticed how Scott seems to single me out. He mocks, he provokes, he goes out of his way to make my life miserable. And for what reason, I have no idea. God knows why he’s chosen me.

He leans with his shoulder back at the door frame, crossing his arms like he owns this place. The smirk on his face doesn’t fade, if anything, it just deepens when he notices my annoyance, which is emphasised by the way I roll my eyes. 

“Well, well, well… look who we’ve here. The little nerd boy,” he drawls, voice low and taunting. “Looks like someone wants to go back to his little cabin. To do what? Reading some books or writing in your precious little diary, you keep all to yourself?”

I swallow hard back but keep my chin lifted. “Move Scott.”

He chuckles and shakes his head along with his chuckling like it’s the funniest thing ever that I stand up for myself in front of him. His eyes narrows slightly and, in his piercing, blue eyes, forms something deeper - not just cruelty but something deeper.

“You think you are so much better than anyone else here, don’t you?”, he accuses me and takes a step closer. “Walking around here, in a place full of troubled teenagers, thinking you are smarter and don’t belong here.” When he stepped closer, close enough for me to feel the heat, radiating off from his athletic Body, my pulse accelerates in my throat.

His behaviour just should make feel threatened - and it does. But there is also something else in the way his gaze lingers on me, something he quickly covers with another mocking laugh.

“Don’t be too scared,” he tells me with a voice that seems too soft for a bully. “I’m just making sure that you don’t forget your place.”

When I was about to snap back and open my mouth, he brushes away from me, and his shoulder collides hard and deliberated with mine. I flinch to the side, while he remains in his straightening but also intimidating posture. But when I glance back, his smile flatters away for a moment, and his expression, looks …. conflicted. 

Confused, I frown, trying to make sure I’m interpreting his expression correctly - but not even a second later he shakes his head and slips back into his default facial expression. He clenches his jaw on last time, when our eyes meet. I just roll my eyes and wonder why I even looked back. He is just an ignorant and bullying idiot, who thinks he can stomp on me like I am an insect. 

After he goes away, I release a breath I didn’t even realise I was holding in. 

The next day, I vow to myself that I will stand up to Scott. I’ve had enough of playing the whiny boy who just swallows his cruel comments or runs away crying. At the mere thought of him, I can almost feel my blood start to boil.

I make my way to the cafeteria for breakfast. There, I place my theoretical physics book — crammed with my annotations and sticky notes — on one of the tables in the wooden-walled room. I get in line, and out of the corner of my eye I see Scott waiting behind me, his back turned. He’s casually flirting with Shelby. Maybe this is my lucky day, and he’ll leave me alone. My face is a nonchalant façade, signalling that I want to be by myself.

I reach out for the last plate of my favourite dish here — strawberry shortcake. It’s rare we ever get it for breakfast. I can’t hide a smile as I pick it up to place it on my own tray. But then I feel a tug on the plate. I glance to the side — and it’s Scott.

“Paws off, this one’s mine,” he declares, his voice edged with annoyance.

Normally, I would roll my eyes and give in. But not today.

“I had it first,” I reciprocate, an undercurrent of anger in my voice. My fingers curl tighter and more possessively around the plate. I don’t break eye contact to let him know that I mean it.

He looks surprised at first, but it doesn’t last long. His smirk deepens mischievously. “Look what we have here. The little nerd wanting the strawberry cake, how cute,” he mocks in a loud tone, consciously inviting the whole cafeteria of teenagers to eavesdrop on our little chatter. On one hand, some of the students chuckle and laugh with him — including Shelby, who giggles, probably trying to kiss his ass. On the other hand, others look away in embarrassment.

I feel my blood beginning to boil, and I pull the plate toward me. However, Scott tightens his grip when he realizes I am not obeying his commands. I grit my teeth in response. I can’t lose now… no! I must draw a border, show him that I am no longer participating in being the damn victim of his mockeries and bullying.

“I said paws away,” he snarls. I feel all gazes on us. They probably think we are crazy and childish for fighting over a piece of cake. But for me, it’s more. I can finally prove to the other students, to Scott, and maybe even to myself, that I can show strength.

Scott intimidates me, but I don’t give up. No t this time. I put my free hand on his wrist and squeeze with all the force I can. “And I said I had it first,” I hiss back.

I know Scott is much stronger than me, since he is one of the most athletic guys in the camp and I wouldn’t even touch a football from three miles away.

For a moment, surprise flashes across his face because he didn’t see my action coming. But then he goes back to his angry façade. His other free hand grabs my wrist - of the hand that holds Scott’s one- painfully, his knuckles turning white. I put my hand away from the plate to pull him away from my other hand. 

“Fcking idiot. God…” The words slip out through clenched teeth as I try to pull free. His grip only tightens.

Scott leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “You think you’re tough now, huh? Just because you grew a backbone over a damn piece of cake?” His voice drips with mockery, but there’s an edge in it — sharp, brittle.

I glare up at him. His face is right there, closer than it should be. For a split second, I see something in his eyes — not just anger. Something else. He kills it right away, jaw locking, smirk snapping back.

“You’re pathetic,” he spits, louder now, for the cafeteria to hear. “No wonder no one wants to sit with you. Who’d ever want you?”

The words hit harder than his grip, and my chest knots. Around us, a few students laugh nervously, but others shift uncomfortably in their seats. Scott’s still holding me, still leaning in too close, like he needs to prove something — not just to me, but to himself.

I swallow hard, forcing the words out: “At least I don’t need an audience to feel important.” My voice is low, but steady.

For a second, his face shifts. His nostrils flare, the smirk falters. His eyes — furious, almost panicked — hold mine. Like I’ve seen something I shouldn’t.

Then he rips his hand off me like my skin burned him.

“Y/n. Scott. Both in my office. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument. Ugh, not this now… I sigh and follow, Scott trailing behind me.

Peter gives us one of his long lectures, about how childish our behaviour is, how disappointed he is in me specifically, since I’m supposed to be one of the best students at Mount Horizon. I sit there with an outraged expression, about to argue, but Peter raises a hand and cuts me off.

“Y/n, please. I don’t need any excuses,” he says, clearly annoyed. I cross my arms, sinking back into the chair. To my side, Scott chuckles — actually chuckles — because he finds it hilarious that I got hushed like that. His stupid smirk makes me want to throw the chair at him. I roll my eyes instead.

“Since you both argue like children but can’t seem to avoid each other’s presence, like two magnets with the same poles—”

“Uh, actually, it’s magnets with different poles that attract, and same poles repel so- “

Peter shoots me a look so serious I snap my mouth shut instantly. Fine. No physics lesson here.

“Anyway,” he continues, “since you can’t manage to stay out of each other’s hair, you’re going to learn to work together instead of tearing each other down. Tomorrow

morning, both of you will go into the woods and collect firewood for the cabins. As a team. No excuses.”

My stomach sinks. Firewood duty. With Scott Barringer. Great.

We both started arguing with Peter that we don’t want this, and he just says with a friendly smile: “See, its working you both have the same opinion, that’s a beginning.”

The next day, I wait at the edge of the forest, arms crossed, backpack strapped tight. My stomach twists with unease, but I force myself to keep a neutral face. The trees look endless, swallowing the path ahead in green shadows. Great. Hours of this — with him.

Of course, Scott shows up late. Typical. He strolls up like he owns the world, hands in his pockets, that smug grin plastered across his face. He doesn’t even bother to apologize.

“You look excited,” he says, sarcasm dripping off every word.

I roll my eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”

We step into the woods, silence stretching between us, broken only by the crunch of twigs under our boots. The air feels heavier with him beside me, like every step is a challenge.

After a while, I spot a decent-sized log and crouch to lift it, my muscles straining. Before I can get a grip, Scott nudges past me and yanks it up with ease, tossing it 

over his shoulder. He smirks, as if showing off.

“Careful, nerd,” he mocks. “Wouldn’t want you to break your delicate arms.”

I grit my teeth. “Yeah, thanks for the concern,” I snap, grabbing a smaller branch. My voice wavers, but I keep going. “You don’t have to prove you’re stronger every damn 

second.”

Scott slows down, glances at me — something flickers across his face, quick, unreadable. He masks it right away with another grin.

“Maybe I just like watching you get worked up,” he says, voice low.

Heat crawls up my neck. I don’t know if it’s anger or something else. I try to shake it away. As much as I want to be stubborn and won’t speak a word with him, I know that maybe this is the chance to speak with him and try to find out what his problem is with me. Or in the best case to finally persuade him that he should let me alone.

During our walk into the woods, I notice how he purposely takes long strides with his legs just so he doesn’t have to walk beside me. Ugh, why does he have to make everything so complicated?

I speed up my steps to catch up with him. “God, wait. I don’t know the way,” I confess.

A smirk draws across his face. “And hows that my problem?”

“It is your problem, because when I get lost, Peter will blame you for my absence,” I explain. “And between ourselves, do you really want me to wander around disoriented in a forest, just because you’re too stubborn to let me walk next to you?” I add, my voice carrying a hint of playfulness.

I know he won’t match it — he never does, since bullying me is his favorite hobby — but it’s worth a try. Maybe, just maybe, I can get closer to the reason why he hates me so much.

Scott slows his stride for a second, his smirk faltering — just for a heartbeat. “You really think I’d let you get lost?” he mutters, voice lower, almost defensive. Then, just as quick, the grin snaps back. “Don’t get used to it, nerd.

I frown in confusion. I had expected everything … but not this. Did I hear right? Scott Barringer, the most annoying, most immature, childish boy I know, just said something that sounded almost like niceness - something I never thought him capable of. I stop walking, and so does he when he notices me standing still.

“How do you mean that?” I ask, curiosity mixed with confusion in my voice.

He lets out a sigh, already regretting what he said, probably. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” he sasses.

“Yes, go on.” I reciprocate, looking up at him with the expectation of an answer. He looks down at me, and for a moment his expression is unreadable.

Unconsciously, I lick my lips because they feel dry. Yet this insignificant gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by him - his eyes flicker down to my lips, and for a second his expression softens. But then, unexpectedly, he clenches his hands into fists, anger flashing across his face. He confuses me even more.

He suddenly turns to the side and stomps deeper into the forest. I hurry to catch him, but he’s faster.

“For god’s sake, wait! What is your damn problem, and why the hell are you walking away so mad? I did nothing!” I yell, hoping he will stop.

He halts abruptly. For a moment, he doesn’t turn, but then he does - and approaches me with long strides, anger radiating off him.

“Fuck, you are such an idiot, you know that?” he growls. “Can you fucking stop with that?” he says, though it sounds more like a command.

“What the hell do you mean?” I yell back. His outburst intimidates me, but I force myself to act brave. “Tell me! What do I do that pisses you off so much?” My voice is sharp, demanding.

“Stop playing dumb,” he snaps, his voice rising. “You- you … you know what I mean. Stop confusing me.” The words sound like they’re choking him, as if it’s physically painful to force them out.

“In what way? You confuse me all the time! I did literally nothing. Since my first day you’ve hated me, and I don’t know why. And now you have the audacity to say I confuse you?”

His jaw clenches once, twice - his rage growing impossibly stronger. “Goddamn it. It’s the way you walk around and -“He stops himself.

“And what? Talk to me.” My voice rises again, impatient. Heavy raindrops begin to fall, though I hadn’t even noticed the sky had turned grey.

“Is it because I get better grades?” I push, my voice sharp.

“I wish. But no - it’s not about some stupid grades.” He glances away, then back down at me, our hair already damp with rain. “It’s about - it’s about … the way you look at me… for example.”

His words hang heavy in the air. Silence follows, thick and almost unbearable.

After a long pause, I finally whisper, “And how do I look at you?” My voice is quieter this time. I want to say That makes no fucking sense, but I know arguing with him now would be useless.

“How do you look at me?” he repeats, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk. “Like some lost puppy. Like you’re waiting for me to pat you on the head or something. Pathetic.”

His words sting, but for a split second before the smirk, and I cloud swear I saw something like fear in his eyes.

I swallow hard and keep my chin lifted.

“If I’m pathetic, then why can’t you stop noticing me?”

The words slip out before I can stop them. My voice shakes, just a little, but it’s enough to wipe the smug look off his face for a heartbeat.

His jaw tightens. He looks at me like he wants to rip me apart for daring to say it, but he doesn’t answer. And that silence screams louder than any insult he’s ever thrown at me.

The rain keeps falling harder around us. All I can hear is his breathing that is rough, uneven.

“Because you are… you are different,” Scott said, his voice is nearly a low growl. “You look at me, like you see right through me. Like you know things.”

He steps closer, invading my personal space. His eyes are wild, his breath coming faster.

“And I don’t like it…,” he whispers, his voice rough. “I don’t like feeling seen through. I don’t like feeling… in that way.”

He raises his hands and approaches my cheek, I am lost in his eyes, and so is he in mine. He nearly strokes my cheek but then abruptly lets his hand fall, like he got burnt from my skin. He takes a step back and turns his back to me. 

I hear the rain like a heartbeat that only beats between us.

Scott stands there, with his back facing me, but I notice how his shoulders are trembling slightly.

“Scott…,” my voice breaks the silence, like a faint breath. But he doesn’t turn around. Not immediately. 

“I don’t,” he finally reciprocates and growls the words slightly. “I don’t want to... I can’t …,” he grits his teeth and clenches his hands into fists. He seems like he is struggling between two options... like a dilemma.

Finally, he turns around abruptly. His blue eyes shimmer in the rain and his damp blond hair lingers on his forehead. “I hate it,” and there is no anger in his voice, only confused desperation. “I hate it that I need you to see who I really am… and that I can’t see it on my own.”

He takes a step closer, but stops then, seeming like he is afraid that the world will broken, when he touches me. “I don’t know… I really don’t know if I can understand that.” My expression softens and my heart aches when I see him in this vulnerable state, since he is always this athletic, cool, tough guy.

And in that moment - between my pounding heart in my chest and raindrops - I realise the whole truth - that he doesn’t hate me because I am a stupid nerd … it’s because a part of him, and I don’t know how big this part is, is longing for me. All that, the mocking, teasing, bullying, was only a self-protect mechanism.

I place my hand on his, not to push him, but to show him that it's okay to be seen. My heart is pounding against my chest, and I feel a warmth spreading in my torso. “It’s okay to feel that… to be seen. I am here for you,” I softly say. 

Scott closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in and out. When he opens his eyes, his expression has softened, and he steps closer. He reaches out his trembling hand to hold the back of my neck. My breath hitches, and I blush while my pulse races.

“Got a cat your tongue?” He asks with a small smirk, that brings my knees to feel weak. 

“Says the right one,” I tease back, while his other free hand starts cupping my cheek and he brushes with his thumb tenderly over my cheek.

“How do you mean that?” he asks with an amused smile on his lips. 

“You needed so long to finally see that someone like me isn’t as bad as you thought, huh?” I answer. His hand slides from my cheek to my waist, and he crushes my body to his. I let out a soft gasp, trying to compose myself.

“No,” he shakes his head, he leans closer, his lips mere away from mine. “Not someone like you… exactly you… because you are the only thing I crave.” He whispers softly. 

And finally, he kisses me, and I melt in. it’s a kiss that holds promises, desires and love. He pours all the love, and so do I.

the end <3

[lunarnightt]

***finds an interesting x reader fanfic***

Me; oh this should be good! ***reads the first chapter***

First chapter; your name is Stacy, your blonde, have blue eyes and so skinny that it looks like you haven’t ate in weeks but it’s a cute kind of skinny

My three reactions ;

[staraayla]

my mind is thinking about so many professor hayden scenarios 🫦

[lexx77]

I need those fingers in my — [train passes by]

[anakinstwinklebunny]

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN's hands...

[hayxani]

Sir Hayden Christensen: My Knight, My Heart

Hayden Christensen x Reader | Short Fanfiction | Prince/Princess x Knight AU

One token of favor, one kiss upon a handkerchief — and a love that outshines even the grandest tournament

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He, my knight in shining silver armor, would ask me for a token of favor before riding his noble steed down into the tournament grounds.

After a moment of hesitation, I reach into my satchel and pull out a handkerchief I had embroidered myself — with my name upon it, so he would never forget me.

Before handing it over, I say softly:

“Sir Christensen, I, the Prince/Princess, give upon you my favor in the form of this handkerchief — a token of my affection, and of my hope for your triumph in the tournament.”

His hand closes around it. Our fingers linger against each other’s longer than they should. The touch makes the butterflies in my stomach flutter even more, causing the blood to rush to my cheeks.

Then he lifts the handkerchief to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to the fabric. With a voice soft as velvet, he declares:

“The crowd may cheer and rejoice at the sight of the games… yet the only prize my heart desires is your favor — and your love, my most illustrious one.”

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Author’s Note: Hey! This is my very first fanfiction and also my first Tumblr post. I’d be really happy if you read it, and I’d love any feedback you might have. Thank you so much!