Afrooooo-bby - Lover Girl & Brat

˖⁺ ♥︎ ⋆ 𝐼’𝐿𝐿 𝐵𝐸 𝒴𝒪𝒰𝑅 𝒢𝒪𝒪𝒟 𝒢𝐼𝑅𝐿

꒰ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . . . ꒱ 3.9kay word count , black fem reader coded , established relationship , daddy kink , some ddlg dynamiczzz , pet name usage [ ex. baby , princess ] , breath play ! ! , anal [ thumb in butt helloooo ! ] , spit play < 3

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . been up all night < 3 goin 2 sleep after i post dis . m delirious . ignore typos . felt da smut in ocho rios cld’ve been a gazillion times moar gross so hav dis :3 minors + ageless blogs pls stay away !

it’s fascinating how such a small object can subject you to such feelings of trepidation and unease.

you feel silly, however, you suppose these feelings are warranted as you stare at the small key held between two of your fingers. how are you supposed to be one hundred percent sure that he’s okay with this? armin had given it to you weeks ago . . . months ago, even. “use it whenever,” he told you. “i don’t even have to be home.”

he could just be saying that.

you’ve held off on it for so long — and you’re aware he’s noticed. armin’ll never say anything about it, though. that’s the kind of guy he is . . . patient, caring, understanding, likes to let you go through and process situations like these, especially regarding your relationship, on your own time without hovering. and while you appreciate it, sometimes you feel comparatively . . . inane. because while it’s a first relationship for the both of you, armin seems to have it all down pat.

it’s as though he’s mastered the course of perfect partner 101 while you’re still on the first lesson.

it’s just a key, you tell yourself.

he even went out of his way to find one of those key customizer booths and have it layered with a matte baby pink and an engraving of your initials on it . . see. he’s so sweet, it’s vexing.

it’s just a key.

timidly, you lead the ridges of the blade through the slat of the doorlock. there’s a sharp twist as you rotate it towards the left and come the door opening seconds later, you’re greeted with the welcoming scent of woodsy vanilla.

his loft is quiet . . it always is, never mind the building sitting right within the heart of the city. it’s high, though, maybe that’s why . . perched on the highest floor of an old industrial building that got renovated only five or so years back. the wall of windows are all triple paned.

you love armin’s loft.

while modernized with hanging, matte black light fixtures in the kitchen, a seventy inch flat screen that reverts into the floor of his living area whenever no longer needed, and a navy blue, six seater berlin module sectional, there still remains a sort of, timeless, charming edge to it all. you think it’s the open, dark bricked walls and lone canvases of art propped up about — an unfinished chess game still rested upon the living room table and slabs of intricate wood carvings plopped here and there. it’s all so very, armin. so very warm and soothing and poised.

you kick off your shoes in the foyer and push them beside his new balance 550s. it’s comical how small your uggs look beside them.

there’s nothing heard within his loft. it’s eerie.

“ ‘min?” you find yourself subconsciously tiptoeing across dark wood floors, around the sectional to head for the steel, black staircase against the wall. it opens into a second level where his desk, computer, and california king bed all coincide. “minnie?”

he’s home.

you view the slow rise and fall of his bare back from your position at the top of the steps, noting how his sheets are thrown over the slim line of his hips and how one of his legs hangs from over the side of the bed, bare as well. the woodsy vanilla you smelled upon first entering was his favorite incense. they burn atop of his desk a few feet away from him. oh, he’s completely knocked.

you strip out of your outside clothes before slowly climbing in beside him, hesitatingly pushing in close . . needy for his warmth.

you’ve never known a person could be such a pretty sleeper before meeting armin. though half of his face is smooshed against his pillow, he still appears to be posing for a catalogue — with the fluffs of gold atop of his head stuck this way and that, still beautifully managing to frame the bone structure of his face. he breathes out of his nose, slow and deep. and without his glasses obstructing your view, you can individually count each of his long, pale eyelashes and the faint, very, very faint, traces of freckles peppering the bridge of his nose.

such a pretty boy.

you push yourself closer, wanting his touch.

he wears nothing but a pair of shorts. with a slow finger, you trace the line of his back, across the smooth bumps of sinew to his shoulder and arm.

you admire how lithe he is. armin isn’t necessarily buff. you think most of the food he eats goes straight to his feet and cock. he’s agile . . limber. there are the muted lines of abs that carve into his torso and his back flexes with hard cords, it’s more of his arms that reveal his true strength. his biceps and shoulders are quite noticeable, especially when he wears a compression shirt every once in a while. when you softly wrap your fingers around his tricep and grip, you breathe out a little sigh.

it’s your touch that suddenly has his eyes creaking open.

you see the first peeks of pretty, cobalt blue and quickly, you’re snatching your hand away to tuck it under your chin and apologize with a rising flush burning your cheeks, “oh, i’m . . i’m sorry,” you whisper. “i didn’t wanna wake you.”

he blinks softly a few times, clearly gathering his bearings before giving a little, sleepy smirk, “you used your key,” he mumbles.

he’s such a tease.

“shush.” you watch him open an arm and akin to metal and a magnet, you’re gravitating and fusing your body against his. he’s warm — solid as much as he is soft. you melt with a small mewl and close your eyes, nuzzling into him. it feels so nice.

“mmm,” planting a small kiss upon your forehead, armin then wraps his arm around your waist and grumbles out, “missed my baby. how was your day?”

you don’t want to think about it.

the main reason you even used your key for the first time was because you needed him. you refused to wait until later on tonight to bathe within his touch and affection. you’re impatient. a little thing who’s always restless and avid. through a sigh, you admit it, “not good.”

armin makes a small sound of regard, “. . wanna talk about it now or later?”

“later, please?” you’re burying your face within the pocket of his neck, the one that smells like soap and just pure, unrefined him. “wan’ nap . . with you.”

“mkay,” one more kiss then a small, cheeky grip of your butt. “close your eyes and sleep, baby.”

you sigh out a little, “okay,” doing just as he says. there’s darkness for a couple seconds. it stands before you, looming and quiet, until it draws nearer and completely swathes your entire being.

you don’t know when you wake up.

you’re just aware of how.

it’s to a sudden thrush of pleasure suddenly shooting up your spine from your cunt. it causes you to, quite literally, gasp yourself awake, and out of reflex, snap your legs closed — only, you can’t . . because there’s a head between them. how long armin’s been down there? you aren’t sure of that neither. it’s had to be a while though, because on a particular thrust of two of his fingers inside of you, there’s a loud, disgusting squelch. it’s a mess. the sheets underneath your ass are soaked with a mixture of your slick and his saliva and his cheeks are smeared with it, too.

“m-minnie,” you whimper his name and go to lift your legs, holding them by the back of your knees far out of the way, just how he likes. “oh my gosh.”

his glasses are still off. you view the darkness of raw voracity and need that wades within the blues of his eyes as his tongue strokes your clit with wide, rough sweeps. “you had no panties on,” he soon utters, lifting his head to watch his own fingers push and pull out of the soppy wetness that is your pussy. they work with a certain finesse, the screw technique, one where he drives them in and tugs them free, all while continuing to revolve and pivot his wrist. the approach always gets you creaming within a matter of seconds. “. . what did you wear today?”

you hesitate to answer. it was a simple mistake, honest. sometimes you genuinely do forget to put them on, you never sleep with them anyhow.

when you refuse to talk, his eyes are lifting up again.

it’s rare to see armin so . . . dark. there’s only been a single, previous occurrence that’s ignited your boyfriend’s few, pissed off nerves — a few months ago, after attending a music festival together with all your friends. you suppose he had enough with all the stares and sly remarks you’d received all that day because the minute you both stepped foot over your hotel room’s threshold, he practically snatched your fun, little outfit off and fucked you then and there, on the floor. it’s fairly chilling. because you never really know when the switch happens. he’s exceptional at hiding his true feelings behind a handsome smile, albeit, you suppose you take that back. his eyes are always what gives it away. they grow cloudy and cold, always an immediate disclosure.

he’s mumbling, “okay,” while pulling his fingers free. the puffed hole of your cunt winks at him, clearly grumpy with the sudden change. you’re spoiled. you and your pussy. armin had noticed the change only recently. as sweet and good as you are, you don’t do well with . . directions. you like to have it your way and your way always, disregarding armin only ever giving you rules when he knows they’re for your own greater good.

“it was an accident,” you’re whimpering, little hand falling between your legs while he stands at the foot of the bed and pulls down his shorts. prime example. you start to rub at your clit with tight, firm, little circles. left to your own devices, you’d probably force yourself to cum until you couldn’t cum anymore if he weren’t here . . which presents rule number one, ask for permission before touching. now, armin isn’t too strict with this one, he’ll be honest — bodily autonomy and all. however, he’s had a front row seat, yes, indisputably, to watching you make yourself cum until you screwed your own fucking brains out. you have no sense of a limit . . it’s . . . a challenging thing sometimes, because once you’re there, you never like to stop.

he blames it all on your schooling, honestly. you’ve told him it’s the only way you’re really able to destress — by cumming over and over and over again until you can’t take it anymore and, it makes sense. doesn’t mean he thinks it’s healthy, nonetheless.

so, he wastes no time in pushing your hand away preceding him grabbing you by the hips and forcing you on your hands and knees, chest bowed against the bed, “and you took the train here, right?” he spits on his tip prior to finding the seam of your lips. you lean into his touch like the needy thing you are and he watches how you give a meager, little nod. “hm.” he takes his time, rubbing it up and down, tapping the fleshy crown of his cock right on that clit, making you leak until you whimper and wiggle your hips.

spoiled fucking rotten you are.

“rules, rules, rules,” he sighs, spanning the length of his hand against the arch of your back to force you even lower. your ass perks higher in the air like that — it’s fat, round, perky. he can’t help but swat a thick, nice smack to it . . you’re asking for it. “you’re a little troublemaker, you know that?”

as if to prove a point, your hands reach back and you spread the cheeks of your ass . . nice and wide for him to see it all. as big of a brat as you can be, and as much as you seemingly love to press his buttons, you’ve also managed to learn to counter your own entitled ways. “ ‘m sorry, daddy,” you whimper. prime example number two. you’d do something he doesn’t appreciate and always accept that you were a bit of a terror. you never argue . . always admit. you’re still a good girl. this is why he can never stay upset with you for too long.

“mm,” he bends and kisses between the two, deep dimples that crater your lower back. “m’sweet girl,” another one at your spine. “my baby.”

his touch is tender. it makes you emit a precious whine of gaiety while spreading yourself further.

straightening out, armin strokes his cock. once, twice, then breaches his way in. “can n-never,” he tries not to melt too fast. you feel good — always feel so fucking good . . the best pussy he’ll ever have in his life. “be mad at you f-for too long, god.”

it’s a lot for you, too. you feel yourself stretching further and further, walls working adamantly to swallow it all to the base. “papa,” you mewl and sniff, suddenly overwhelmed. it’s too much sometimes, you think. your cunt is only so deep, occasionally there are times when armin has to work himself in slowly . . half an inch, even, regardless of you being wet enough to outline an entire puddle below you both with your slick. “t-too big.”

clicking his tongue, armin cautiously pulls out. “okay, baby. hold on.”

he’s walking over to his nightstand, heavy dick held within his hand to keep it from annoyingly bobbing as he does. he opens is, rummages around for a moment, then produces a moderate sized bottle of lube. when he’s back behind you, you make sure to keep yourself stretched nice and open to give him the open canvas of dribbling some across both your holes.

“eek!” you squeal come the sensation of it, trickling its way down the cleave of your ass. “minnie ‘s cold!”

“need to discipline you somehow.”

he hears you grumble while he’s fisting his cock. you paint a pretty picture for him . . still holding your ass open, perked in the air. your nails are done, of course. this time, long and almond shaped with pearls and glitter all over . . there’s a cursive ‘ A ‘ that’s written on your ring fingers — matches the one that dangles from your neck on a thin, gold chain. “oh, fuck,” he breathes, suddenly wracked with a wave of just . . clear, unalloyed, plain out want. “s-stay still for me, pretty . . let me look at you.”

the squishes of his fist working his cock are loud. you nibble upon your bottom lip, turning your head downwards to get a good view of him. “hmm,” you give a sweet, little giggle and sway your hips . . slow and enticing. there you go again. a fucking minx. “i wore a skirt today, daddy.”

“mm, i know,” armin sighs, arm pumping. “i s-saw. just wanted you to say it. to admit it to daddy.”

one of your hands is releasing a globe and then you’re reaching down between your legs to divide the flesh of your pussy lips and open them — revealing fine, glimmering, bubble gum pink bordered by the sweet brown of your skin. “ ‘m sorry,” you sniffle through a pout. “forgive me.”

armin strokes his cock a little faster, “aweee,” it’s shaky as he drags it out through a low, smooth chuckle. “you are such a little . . .”

it’s no surprise when he pushes back inside. this time the glide is much, much smoother. you choke on your next inhale, eyes crossing, you think.

“y-yeah,” he smiles at your sudden silence, grabs hold of your wrists, holds them together within one of his hands, and gathers a nice, steady, solid rhythm. “take that fuckin’ dick, baby.”

your ass bounces off of his hips . . plump and fleshy — striped with rugged lines of stretched skin. it’s so pretty. you’re so pretty. “ungh!” your hands hold onto his. you keep your arch, losing yourself in the fervor of his desire and need. it’s perfect, it’s everything you need right now. you don’t want to think or stress or worry. in the far part of your empty brain, you think this is what you were made for — to lay pretty and get fucked. just by him. just by your daddy, no one else. “yes,” you squeak. his balls tap solidly against your bulging clit with each forward thrust. your cunt thanks him with a sudden splatter of cream.

“ooh shit,” armin moans and lets your wrists go to simply grab onto your hips and force you to meet him halfway, pound for pound. “look at that . .”

you find yourself a bit embarrassed. squeaking, you bury your face into an arm while reaching down for your cunt to blindly shield it away.

“no,” your arm is now pinned to the mattress beside your head. it leaves armin looming over you, his front to your back. “s-stay still.” he adores when you make a mess. “cream on your fuckin’ dick.”

you’re whimpering, little fingers wriggling against his grasp, “y-you’re so . . mmph, g-gross.” it’s dire how different of a person he becomes as soon as the warm, gushy walls of your pussy are hugged around his cock. while needy, he’s still demanding. whining and huffy, he’s still expectant for you to be good — to take everything he provides. you feel his lips against the slope of your neck, his hand intertwined within yours as his other arm wraps around your waist in order for his opposite fingers to toy with your clit.

“ ‘ll always, fuck, forgive you,” he moans into that tender area of skin beneath your ear. “n-need you to be . . good for me, though.”

brainlessly, you’re nodding, breaths choppy, voice strained, “i’ll be good. i’ll b-be . . good. yr’good girl — promise, daddy.”

smack! armin rolls your ass cheek between the lines of his fingers and gives it a jiggle, “mmm, god, i love you,” he’s fucking you harder, no longer caring to leave an inch or so out . . he buries it all, deep inside of you, squeezing your hand back when you grip his with a hard sob pushed out of your chest. “g-gonna fuckin’ marry you,” he’s whimpering, dropping to his knees and framing them around yours. the position allows him to hump more than pound and naturally, the tip of his cock finds the sensitive dollop of your g spot. it’s as though it’s an activation button to your tears.

you’re nearly weeping when you warble out a pitchy, “oh f-fuck,” only to receive another thick swat to the ass. armin has never been too fond of you cursing, however, you simply can’t help it.

“yeah,” he’s groaning and honing in on it, it seems. he rocks and presses his hips into your ass, making sure you feel it. your knees begin to slip . . inch by inch. you can no longer hold yourself up. armin simply lets you fall, he lets you plop onto your tummy, presses his hands flat upon the bed on either side of your head and raises himself, easily, into a plank.

“daddy, please.” you’re overwhelmed. you need him to take it easy — give you a breather.

“be a big girl and take it.”

he’s resumed pounding you — god, it’s filthy . . the sounds that is. damp skin clapping and your pussy frothing around his cock. your eyes roll into your skull. you’re close. you feel it. “ungh, unh, hmph . . unh!” there’s a hand underneath your chin, forcing your head back. your eyes are leering open, finding armin above you, eyes focused on your lips. he says only one word, “open.”

it’s immediate. your lips part open and you loll your tongue out on show, awaiting the moment he lets a warm seep of his spit dribble from his lips and onto the slat of it. you swallow with a low, content hum, rolling your tongue back out once more to display it. the sight makes armin’s balls swell. “g-god, you make me feel so fuckin’ good,” he whispers before pushing his lips against yours, beckoning your tongue into his own mouth to give a suckle to.

it’s only right you do the same to his.

you’ve realized a long time ago that the two of you are . . kind of disgusting. nevertheless, it’s the grossness of it all that makes your clit thump a little harder, your orgasm approach quicker. it’s armin kissing you until you’re struggling to breathe, him pulling away only to slip a few fingers in your mouth, lift up, then slowly start to creep his opposite thumb inside the tight, puckered hole of your ass. you’re soon full from all ends, it’s . . mind staggering. you’re gone — eyes indelibly stuck within the back of your head, legs trembling, muscles tensing.

“l-lobve . . you,” you babble softly around his fingers. “love you. i laoveyou, lobve g’you.”

oddly, it’s the forehead kiss he deposits right within the center of your brows after you prattle out your sweet sentiments that kindles your orgasm. you cum with a hard inhale. your fingers fist the sheets until your knuckles pale and you feel his fingers pull from your mouth in order to wrap around the column of your throat.

you have a bad habit of biting the sheets to muffle your sounds. armin forces you to keep your head up, forces each of those hiccupy, loud cries out of your mouth to echo within his loft with each thrust he continues to give as your pussy pulses and lathers bubbles of milk around his cock. “dad — dy — please — hng!”

he’s close. he’s so fucking close.

“look at me,” once more, he’s lifting your head. he needs your face, and you obey, holding onto his hand on your throat with one of yours. you’re so fucking beautiful. make up completely ruined, eyes overlaid in tears. he cums as he kisses your lips, burying himself as deep as he can, balls smooshed against the bead of your clit. “ohhh fuck,” he’s panting into your mouth, circling his hips in tight circles to work it in nice and deep. “my b-baby . . ungh, fuck.”

his finger is removed before his cock. he pulls both out slowly, making sure you prepare yourself for the withdraw before doing anything. you’re flipped over onto your back and legs opened soon after. the picture of his cum gradually leaking out of your battered cunt is always so pretty. armin then lays himself beside you, propped up on an elbow, “mm,” he pulls you in close, tucking your face into his neck. and like that, he holds you, hand at the back of your head, arm around your waist. kisses — he powders them everywhere while you sniff and curl against him. “felt good? w . . was i too rough?”

there’s that drastic change again. it’s . . comical honestly. you’re giggling and laying your head upon his bicep, watching him slowly begin to smile. “what?”

“you’re jus’ silly.”

“ ‘m silly?”

languidly, you nod, “mhm.”

you’re so cute. too cute. you watch armin lean over and reach toward the nightstand. he’s unfolding his glasses prior to sliding them on and leaning in to kiss your lips, “gonna run us a bath,” he tells you. there’s a blush hanging high upon his cheeks — rosy and bright. “bath, ‘m gonna order food, and then we’re gonna talk about your day, okay? . . specifically about you wearing skirts on a train with no underwear.”

face burning, you swat at his chest as he smirks and stands, “i said i was sorry.”

“mhm,” he’s walking to the bathroom while he speaks. “you see where it got you.”

i need him . . like so bad ໒꒰ྀི˶ ◞ ˕ ◟ ˶ ꒱ྀི১ .

i a-door you

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ k. bakugo x fem reader. fluff. cursing. food. minor unintentional violence. ⭑ bakugo hits on you. literally.

You’re minding your business, book bag slung across your shoulder, and about to walk through the door to 2A’s classroom when something smacks you in the face.

Not only unprompted, but hard.

“Ow!”

It happens so quickly that you don’t remember squeezing your eyes shut as you stumble backwards, both hands flying to clutch your forehead.

Opening your eyes, you swear you can already feel the spot starting to bruise. The previously closed door to the classroom stood ajar and as the cherry on top of the concussion you just received, someone roughly brushes past you.

Fucking asshole.

You whip around, head still throbbing, about to give whoever it is a peace of your mind and finally speak above an inside voice for the first time since a robot almost fell on you during entrance exams semesters ago, when your teary eyes are met with crimson red ones.

He turns his head to give you a once over and your body freezes as his eyes linger a little longer on the darkening mark where the door got you. Something similar to amusement tugs at his lips.

“Pretty cute.”

You blink, dumbfounded as he casually turns on his heel to walk away.

What. The hell.

Did you literally just get hit on by Bakugo freaking Katsuki.

The identical dropped jaws of your classmates that were visible from inside the open doorway confirmed that what just happened was not in fact a post-traumatic induced hallucination, with Midoriya looking the most gobsmacked, his eyes almost comically bulging out of his skull, and upon glancing at Mina, who quickly gets over her initial shock to grin and shoot you a double thumbs up, she excitedly mouths ‘i told you so,’  and you’re not sure whether to laugh or to cry.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀:¨ ·.· ¨: ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . ꔫ

The next day, you’re sporting a fresh, new bandaid on your forehead. It was quite a fashion statement, if you do say so yourself.

It was also the last one at the nurse’s so you were pretty happy to nab it, apparently being the brand that everyone chose when they too got their respective boo-boos.

The latte Mina and the girls brought back from your favorite cafe sat on the wooden coffee table in the common area, still steaming. You refused to go out with a huge bruise marring your appearance, even with the bandaid covering the most of it, and you would take the fullest advantage of the injured person princess treatment while it lasted.

All while awkwardly avoiding a certain blond.

Now that you’re thinking about it, he’s honestly always been kind of nice to you, in his own weird way.

Like when you were forced to ask if you could borrow his eraser, because apparently no one else in the class carried one. Imagine saving Japan your first year of highschool and only writing in pen, even for calculus. Is this what the future generation has come to?

After breathlessly rushing the words out in a hushed voice and wondering if he heard you at all, Bakugo doesn’t even turn around from where he’s resting his chin on his hand listening to Present Mic’s enthusiastic lecture on subject-verb agreement, as he reaches an arm behind him to drop it on your desk.

You’re not sure if you remembered to say “your” before “eraser,” so all he probably heard was “can I borrow eraser?” and it still haunts you to this day.

Shaking the thoughts of him from your mind, you flip your history textbook open to page three hundred and ninety four, ‘A Comprehensive Timeline of Quirk Generations.’ You’re attempting to study for your next upcoming quiz in Midnight’s class.

Key word: attempting.

A delicious smell was starting to waft your way from the kitchen across the room, and now you were kind of hungry. You could feel your attention waning and shook your head, the image of your most recent report card filled with straight As sobering you up. Food could come later, right now you had to focus.

Just twenty more minutes of review, then I'll eat.

Bakugo’s placing the breakfast he easily finished whipping up on the counter. As he uses a spatula to gently coax the fluffy soufflé pancakes out of the pan, he notices the familiar petals of your favorite flower decorating the ceramic he’s putting them on.

It was from a tableware set he picked out when everyone first moved into the dorms. Glasses had assigned everyone groceries among various other things to go shopping for in small groups, and he was paired up with Ponytail to go buy plates.

They were browsing the shelves of a local Daiso store filled with colorful, adorably decorated dishes and rice bowls, when he stopped in front of a price tag, eyes dragging up to study the item it belonged to. The details on it were intricate, and breathtakingly so.

It reminded him of how he felt whenever he looked at you.

Ponytail follows his gaze, and her own eyes brighten.

“Oh, it’s decorated with the favorite flower of–!”

“I know.” He cuts her off, glaring at the floral box set of bowls and plates, before carefully putting it in their cart.

Momo’s eyes widen a bit, before a small, knowing smile spreads across her lips and Bakugo curses at her perceptiveness.

He almost wished he was paired up with that icy-hot bastard instead, who was so oblivious that if you dangled a confession letter in front of him he would have thought you wanted him to proofread it for you.

That was a while ago now, and everyone’s been happily eating meals on the plates they bought ever since.

He tops off the pancakes with a handful of fresh berries and a drizzle of honey, and slides it next to a steaming plate of a kimchi omelette with a zigzag of sriracha sauce already on the counter.

From where he stands, he snorts at your bandaid, noticing the obnoxious amount of Hello Kitty’s plastered all around it. Out of all the bandaids from Recovery Girl’s collection that she kept in her office, of course you would pick the cutest fucking one.

It was undoubtedly something you would like, he thinks, begrudging in his fondness. It was so you.

“Get your ass over here.”

You jump in your spot on the couch at the loud volume of his voice, though it sounded a bit softer than usual. With a finger pointing to yourself, you raise your head in confusion. “Me….?”

Was this about yesterday? Oh my god, was he mad?

You’re not sure why he would be, since he’s not the one that got bitch-slapped in the face by a giant door.

“I don't see anyone else I'd be talking to.” Bakugo scoffs.

He's right, to your increasing dread. The entire common area is completely empty, and you have no choice but to comply with his request.

You’re still nervously fiddling with the edge of your hoodie sleeve, the usual comfort of its softness abandoning you as you approach the kitchen to find him standing at a seat near the counter, arms folded. It hasn’t even been a minute in the same proximity as him and his presence is kind of overwhelming you already.

You’re trying so hard not to stare at his biceps. And just him in general.

“Sit.” he commands, the sound of the metal stool echoing against his hand as he pats it.

You obediently sit down, cursing your lack of a backbone. But his tone didn’t sound like he was planning to take no for an answer, anyway.

“Eat.”

He jabs a thumb at the plate of warm, sweet smelling cloud-like goodness in front of you. You stare at him, wide-eyed.

“This is for me?”

“Huh. You’re slower than I thought you were.” He rolls his eyes and starts to dig into his own plate of omelette in front of him, taking a seat on the stool across from you. It looked good too, as expected. “You’re welcome or whatever.”

With his aggressive blessing and after throwing a quiet but extremely grateful ‘thank you for the meal’ his way, you start to eat.

Your face lights up in joy as the divine taste of spongy goodness and honey spreads across your tongue, and you silently praise his mom for giving birth to the next Gordon Ramsay.

He flicks your forehead as you’re mid-bite in pancake and you yelp in surprise, raising your head to glare at his handsome face. What now? And did he have to be as infuriating as he was good-looking?

That crimson gaze once again stares you down, barely contained amusement dancing in embers of the hot coals of his eyes, and your skin grows warm as you realize you said that last part out loud.

You’re about to give into the urge to run away and take the plate of half-finished pancakes with you when he gruffly speaks up.

“You can’t retain information unless you have something in your stomach, idiot.”

You nod, mouth full, and make a mental note to study on an empty tummy away from him in the future. It’s like he reads your mind because you wince as he scowls, flicking your head again, although a little more gently this time.

Taking care to do it in a spot away from the bandaid covering the injury that he caused, your brain points out.

The both of you continue to eat in comfortable silence.

After a while, your plates are nearly clean.

You smile a little, realizing that you were eating on your favorite plate in the dorm’s kitchen the whole time, and admire the petals of your beloved flowers delicately painted in the center and outer edges of the stark white dish, with the pancakes no longer covering them.

Bakugo notices this, as you softly begin to trace the rim with your finger, and fights the twitch of his lips that threatened to curl upwards.

He’s also noticed those little glances you think you’ve been discreetly throwing his way between the bites of pancake, which you nearly inhaled to his pride.

You could almost be as quiet as that rock-faced animal whisperer of a classmate you both had, but you’ve always sucked at being subtle.

Good thing he hates subtle things.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks as you start to slide off the tall stool, a hint of smirk in his voice. It was cute, how you think you could run away from him so easily. You stop in your tracks, blinking at him as he rises from his own seat.

Strong, toned arms that you totally haven’t been staring at for the past half hour are slowly placed on both sides of you, caging you against the counter. An embarrassing noise escapes from your lips, and the cold granite bites into your back as you lean away, doing anything to avoid his gaze.

“Look at me.”

He rolls his eyes as you continue to look to the side, suddenly finding the chibi magnets of various high ranking heroes on the fridge to be very interesting.

“I said,” he grabs your chin in his hand, which was so big compared to your face that he could squish your cheeks between his ring finger and thumb, “look at me.

You huff, now forcefully held in place to face him against your will. “I’m looking.”

“Good.”

He leans down and his lips graze your ear, seeming to take great pleasure in only further adding to your embarrassment when he mutters:

“And don’t stand so fucking close to the door next time.”

not bakugo pulling the classic asian parent move and giving u food instead of a proper apology LOLL

Taawon, a Palestinian non-profit, are organizing to distribute suhoor and iftar meals for displaced families in Gaza during Ramadan.

You can donate whatever amount through their donation page but they do have this guide on their page on what your contributions will help them provide.

Ryan Gainer was a 15 year old Autistic Black boy who was shot and killed by police in California.

Ryan seemed to have been having a meltdown, he was holding a gardening tool, police were called to the house but they are refusing to release any body cam footage of the shooting and refusing to state how many times Ryan was shot, they failed to help him before the paramedics arrived.

After shooting him Ryan's family was then forced out of their home while the police rummaged through their house looking for any justifiable cause for shooting Ryan.

This is hardly the first time the San Bernardino police department has attacked or killed people having a mental health crisis.

Rest in Power Ryan.

the Guardian

California officer shoots and kills boy, 15, holding gardening tool

Civil rights advocates call for release of police bodycam video after Ryan Gainer killed on Saturday by deputy responding to 911 call

STOP CALLING THE POLICE ON DISABLED AND MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE!