#like my love of knitting in the round; my complete inability to get the hang of embroidery; how slow i knit; etc.

[fingertipsmp3]

There’s something weirdly nice about finding out you’re not the only person who dislikes someone. It’s such a relief to be able to be like “okay thank God I can bitch about this person now”

[fanfic-me-up]

Hiiiiiii can I request Bakugou x fem!reader?? (*≧∀≦*) Maybe he has a crush on you who has a healing quirk and helps recovery girl when it comes to helping the injured, like when class 1-A finishes up training and recovery girl normally sends her to deal with it all the time? She can heal people but it drains her energy so when she finished with it she takes naps on the recovery beds? Idk but thanks!much love❤️❤️❤️

This is a really cute idea! Thank you for requesting 💖 

“Shut up and Heal me”

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warnings: Language (what do you expect, it’s Bakugou lol)

Synopsis: You’re a student at U.A. and Recovery Girl’s apprentice healer. When you push pass your limit to heal Bakugou Katsuki, who knew he cared enough to make sure you heal too.

“Wake up, dumbass.”

Your shoulder is shaken, abruptly waking you from your nap. A muscular silhouette takes shape as you pry your eyes open.

“Bakugou? Is that you?” Your voice laced with sleep. 

��Nah, it’s Batman.” 

You squint your eyes, still half asleep. Is this a dream? Bakugou rolls his eyes at your inability to detect blatant sarcasm.

“‘Course it’s me, dipshit. Get up.”

You check your phone and groan when you find you only got five minutes worth of valuable shut eye.

“You’re here early.” 

“Aizawa-sensei let us out early!” Midoriya pipes up. He’s chipper for someone who looks one step away from passing out. Any trace of sleep vanishes when you assess his injuries, asking him a series of questions to confirm where he needs medical attention and if it’s life-threatening. You usher him to Recovery Girl’s office so he can get treated immediately. Typical Midoriya - always going plus ultra even for training exercises. 

Bakugou’s no better as you take in the numerous scrapes and bruises raking his body. Despite his beaten-up state, the only open wound is on the right side of his stomach - a small pool of blood seeping through his muscle shirt. He’s been pushing himself much harder in training these past couple weeks and you know it’s the life of a hero, but you’re concerned for him as a healer and as a friend. 

“You gonna stare all day or heal me?”

“Sorry, right, uh.. Take off your shirt and get on the bed.” 

The words escape before you realize the implication. Bakugou raises an eyebrow before snorting.

“Tch. Weirdo.”

You flush as he takes off his shirt, laying down on the bed. The wound running down his abdomen is not deep, but it is long. It’ll be difficult to heal, but you’re always up for a challenge. You wash your hands before activating your quirk. A glowing aura surrounds your hands, transparent in color, but before you can focus on changing the color to heal Bakugou - a spaced out Kaminari stands before you with his signature thumbs up. Snot is running down his nose and his eyes have this blank look like no one’s home. 

“hewwoo?” 

“Oi! Dunceface! To your right!” 

“wa-whee-whaa?” 

That’s Kaminari gibberish for “Where?” Being Recovery Girl’s intern and constantly healing Class 1-A along with other students in the hero course has made you quite familiar with the unusual side effects of overusing one’s quirk. You created a book with translations for Kaminari’s most used gibberish phrases so you can treat him more efficiently. Today, you tried placing his juice box and cookies on the table to the right to see if he can find it himself. But he’s having problems finding what direction is right.

“Your other right, dumbass.” Bakugou growls as Kaminari bends down to look for his juice box under a chair. You giggle as you help him locate his snack before ushering him to one of the recovery beds to take a nap. He knocks out in no time, snoring softly. Bakugou grunts, his hand pressing against the wound on his side. 

“Don’t touch, it could get infected.” 

“Tch. I know, but look.” He releases his hold to show you the blood dripping down his abdomen. You curse for not healing him sooner when he was clearly a higher priority than Kaminari. How could you forget the number one rule as a healer? There’s no time to beat yourself up for it so you grab a cleaning cloth to wipe away the blood before activating your quirk once again. You close your eyes, focusing your energy into what you’re about to do which is close up a wound. Red swirls behind your eyelids and you focus the color down your body to your hands. You open your eyes to find them glowing a bright, luminescent red - a stark contrast to the dim lighting in the room. Bakugou hisses at the touch; your hands trailing along his abdomen. You look up to apologize when you notice Bakugou’s flushed cheeks, as red as your glowing hands.

“Are you okay? You’re a bit flushed.” You deactivate your quirk in your left hand to touch his forehead. It’s cause for concern if he has a fever due to an open wound, but you’re taken aback when Bakugou swats your hand away.

“I’m fine! Shut up and heal me.” He looks away, but you catch the persistent redness now making its way down his neck. You return to healing the wound. It’s almost closed, but you can feel your energy draining quicker than usual since you didn’t have enough time to recover earlier. 

“Hey, you good?” 

“Mhm. Al-most… done…” You bite your lip and clench your eyes shut to concentrate the last of your energy into closing the rest of the wound.

“Don’t push it, dumbass.”  Bakugou grunts and despite the harsh tone, there’s a tinge of concern underneath. 

“Heh.. could say… the same… for..” 

You trail off and your hands glow brighter by the second that you can see red behind your eyelids. You feel the wound seal shut and when you open your eyes you see there’s not a scar in sight. This is the first time you were able to completely heal a wound on your own. You smile at your accomplishment. 

“You can take your hands off.” 

You flush before ripping your hands away. The quick movement gives you a head rush, the room spinning in circles.

“Whoa.” Bakugou grabs you by the shoulders and reverses your position so you’re laying down now. 

“My head hurts…”

“No shit,” Bakugou snorts, “What’d I say about pushing?”

“Go beyond... plus… ultra…”

The last thing you hear is Bakugou laughing, a soft smile curling his lips, before your vision goes black.

------------------------------------------------

You wake up to the smell of roasted coffee and cinnabons. Faint voices go back and forth, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. The light streaming in is gone; the room now darker than before. Jeez how long were you out?

“Took you long enough.”

You whip your head to see Bakugou sitting on a chair and nursing a cup of coffee. The bed next to yours is empty. Kaminari must’ve recovered meaning you’ve slept for more than an hour.

“You stayed.”

“Yeah, and? Wanted to make sure you didn’t die ‘cause of me.” 

City lights shine bright, and the hustle and bustle outside suggests the city isn’t going to sleep anytime soon. Live music roars from nightclubs and people laughing on the street would entice anyone to join the party. It’s pretty hard to believe Bakugou would stay behind on a Friday night when it’s common knowledge that you need to sleep after overusing your quirk. But here he is, that same strip of red running along his cheeks and nose like he just got a cute little sunburn. 

“You like laser tag?” Bakugou asks.

You raise an eyebrow at the random question, shrugging when you answer.

“Never played.”

Bakugou balks, shock written all over his face.

“You never - what kind of person - nevermind. If we hurry, we can make the last round.”

Maybe this time you really were dreaming. You subtly pinch yourself to make sure and nope, this is real life and Bakugou is inviting you to hang out.

“Sounds... fun? But I… um…I’m not really part of your squad…”

You didn’t want to overstep. It seemed like they were a pretty tight-knit group and you’ve never hung out with them outside of school. The fear of ruining their night because you didn’t vibe with them twisted your gut. 

“Gimme your phone,” Bakugou says.

Still in a daze, you give him your phone without question. He takes his phone out and not a second later you hear a “ping” from yours, He presses a couple buttons before handing it back to you. 

“Congrats, you’re part of the squad.”

You see that you’ve been added to a group chat called “keeping up with the crackheads”. You don’t have time to contemplate exactly what you got thrusted into as Bakugou is grabbing both of your jackets hanging on the coat rack, handing yours and pushing you towards the door. 

“I- um.. Thanks… I guess...? Bakugou, what’s going on?”

You’re already halfway down the hallway, everything happening too fast without a clear explanation. Bakugou groans, clearly frustrated that you’re not a mind reader and he has to actually communicate what he’s thinking. He grabs your shoulders, gently shoving your back against the lockers, and planting his hands on either side of you. Being this close to Bakugou makes you feel a familiar flurry of butterflies as you’re caged in and forced to look into those crimson eyes. 

“I. Like. You.” He smirks, getting a kick at your flustered state, before leaning away with his hands in his pockets, “And I know you like me too.”

You don’t know what to freak out over first. The fact that Bakugou knows about your crush or that he likes you back. Also, how does he know you like him? You haven’t told anyone about your crush, preferring to keep your cards close to your chest.

“Don’t talk in your sleep if you don’t want me to know how much you wanna run your hands down my ‘chiseled abs’.”

You squeak and cover your face with your hands, too embarrassed at what else you might’ve said in your sleep.

“Chill, dumbass, it’s cute.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes, throwing an arm over your shoulder, leading you to a night full of riveting laser tag, making new friends, and first kisses. 💖

[clockworkrobotic]

hey look I did it again | Tyreen Calypso x  Reader

this is like 3x as long as the troy fic because it’s My Fic For Me adn i love my disgusting wife and there is NOT enough Tyreen content out there

Kinda heavy I guess? I’m into nasty stuff. Still new to writing smut but the other one got a good reception so I hope I’ve had a breakthrough

Warnings for biting, overt vampirism, violence, blood, pet/servitude kink, degradation, sex, kind of du/bcon, I don’t condone this kind of behaviour irl i’m just thirsty

 You could hear Tyreen parading through the corridor to your room from a hundred miles away. She’s not the quietest, but this evening, she’s particularly loud.

 Her footsteps resonate through the creaky floorboards, heavy and uneven - it sounds like she’s limping. That can’t be good. You fumble with your shirt buttons, shaking too much to get them undone.

 The doors swings completely back on its hinges and ricochets against the wall. Tyreen stumbles over the threshold, doubled over, clutching her side. Her hand is coated a vicious red and she’s bleeding from the corner of her mouth. Your heart is in your throat as you watch her steady herself against the wall.

“Get... the fuck... over here,” she snarls after a few heaving breaths.

 You scramble to your feet, still attempting to unbutton your shirt. You know the drill by now, but your trembling fingers won’t cooperate.

 Her hands are on you as soon as you’re within reach, and you catch a glimpse of the torn, bloody mess of her clothes and abdomen where the bullet had entered. She’s shivering violently, struggling to keep a grip on you, and when she drags you to the floor you aren’t sure if it’s intentional or if she’s falling and taking you down with her.

“Don’t waste my fucking time.” She smacks your hands away and pulls open the collar of your shirt. You don’t have time to react before her hands are on your throat, what feels like her full bodyweight crushing your windpipe, and she’s glaring you down with a look as desperate as it is hungry.

 It takes a moment for the feeling to sink in, but it sinks in hard. She’s drained you before, to incapacitate you, for her own pleasure - but this is different. This is need. You feel like she’s reaching into your chest and crushing your lungs, your vision spotting, your head throbbing, starved of oxygen. Your heart thrums uselessly, unable to keep pace with how rapidly the life is bleeding from you. You don’t even have the strength to reach for your throat.

 After what could have been hours, she finally lets go. Your head is pounding and you cough pathetically, the jolt of your chest costing your spent body the last of its energy.

 For a moment you think she’s going to be merciful. She rolls back on her heels, panting intensely, shifting to straddle you in a more comfortable position. You can just make her out through blurry vision; she rubs her forehead with the heel of her palm and takes a few steadying breaths before reaching down to assess her gunshot wound.

 Sensation seeps back into your limbs, albeit slowly. You try to raise your hand to your face, managing only to jerk your arm weakly.

 Tyreen is inspecting her hand and scowling.

“Not… Enough.”

 She lunges for you again, claws out, going for your exposed chest. Her nails rake thick lines into your skin, deep enough to draw blood, vicious enough to make you gasp. The assault lasts a second but she’s panting as she pulls away, and she pauses briefly to compose herself before aiming another attack.

 This time she pulls further, tearing through your shirt buttons, clawing the length of your stomach. She’s trying to tear right into you, deep into your skin, but she can’t find the force to do it. Blood tracks thin paths over your shoulders. If you had the energy to scream you would.

 Her hands land on your shoulders, fingers still tensely digging into you. You brace yourself for another round, but it doesn’t come.

 Instead, her hands seem to go slack and she runs them gently over the wounds she’s made, smearing blood across your chest, following an imaginary line up to your throat dotted with bruises and red fingerprints. She leans in, breath tingling warm against you. You dare not breathe as she noses coyly at your collarbone, feathering kisses along your clavicle.

 And bites.

 She has to fight to tear your flesh, but her teeth sink into you much more easily than you expect. You panic, searching desperately for the energy to push her off, but it doesn’t come. You can feel her every movement against you, the way her teeth drag bluntly through you, catching as she sinks too deep and can’t match the pace of her own hunger.

 She pulls away momentarily, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, and leans in again, higher this time, closer to your jugular. Your mouth hangs open, screaming silently as you feel her sated groan vibrating against your throat. Your chest convulses, aching for words that won’t come.

 Your silence is broken when she hits a vein, finally, what she’s looking for. A choked cry twists from your lips as she pulls at the wounds she’s made, the nauseating sensation of blood dragging through your veins the wrong way. You feel dizzy, empty, resigned, barely objecting when she pulls you upright and buries her mouth into your neck.

 Tyreen’s arms weave around your back, holding you in a perverse mockery of comfort. She continues to drink deeply, hungrily from you, and your heart feels like it’s going to give out. And close to your chest you feel her heart, hammering intently, punctuated by her heaving gasps in the brief moments of respite when she pulls away from your throat to breathe. You’re aware of blood, yours and hers; running down your chest from the wounds on your throat, sticking and chafing against you from her own injuries, connecting you both with depraved intimacy.

 It could have been minutes, or hours. It could have been days. Tyreen lets go of you, letting you hit the floor unceremoniously. The smack of your head against the hardwood shocks through you, knocking what remains of your breath from your lungs.

 You’re aware of her eyes on you. You can barely see at this point, but the chill that ripples through you when she holds you in cold regard transcends your vision. She makes a funny, agreeable noise, and her weight lifts from your waist.

 You want to move. You want to roll onto your side and go to sleep. You want to get up and move back to your bed and hide under the covers until you feel human again. You’re dimly aware of your throat pulsing gently, the blood soaking into the wood beneath you, another stain seeping into the floor, another reminder of her conquest over you in her absence.

 Every sound Tyreen makes is amplified: her footsteps echo against the floor, the rustle of fabric, her slightly laboured breathing. It’s making your head hurt. The world is blurry and senseless, everything melding together into formless sound and colour.

 Through the fog, her fingers dance along your jaw. She’s kneeling above your head, pulling you up to lie on her lap. The motion is dizzying, unpleasant. You can’t find your voice to object.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” She murmurs as your eyes drift shut, “I’m not done with you yet.”

 Her hand drifts down and brushes against your ragged flesh. You hiss. She chuckles softly, and keeps going, and through your blurry vision you can make out the glow of her tattoos, the blood on her hands, the lines she’s painting down your chest running parallel to the scratches.

 She pauses as she reaches your breast. Her fingertips brush tenderly over your nipple, tracing small circles as she hums her approval. You’re taken aback by how clearly the sensation cuts through the haze.

“Sensitive?” She laughs. Pinches. You gasp in protest, lacking the energy to push back. Her free hand cups under your chin and tilts your head up to look at her. Her face is so vivid you wonder if she’s using her powers to bring you to lucidity; she’s smiling with resigned savagery, features highlighted by the soft glow of her markings. She’s naked. Of course she’s naked.

 She leans over you, hand splaying, feeling down your stomach. She brushes across still-bleeding lesions, dragging dark red marks over you, coating her hands further. The motion is possessive, determined; you don’t think you could move if you wanted to.

 She doesn’t stop when she reaches your waistband. Her hand slips under the fabric as she looms over you, and you find yourself fixated on the blue weaving around her torso, the mess of scars where her skin is knitting back together. You jolt as her fingers, warm and wet from your blood, find your clit, drawing the same small circles, pressing lightly. You’re not sure you have the energy to do this, but it feels good. Pleasure ripples through you and internally you curse at your inability to respond. You want to grind against her fingers, push back against the feathery touch, demand more.

 Of course, she knows this. She continues to tease, fingers never drifting any further between your legs. Somehow, you manage to whine.

 Tyreen laughs gently, adjusting her position, resting two fingertips against you and ceasing the motion.

“Do you think you’ve earnt this, pet?”

 You want to scream. Her fingers curl beneath you, just barely, and she lets out a breathy sound that could be a giggle.

“You’re soaked.”

 Without warning she withdraws her hand. You moan your discontent. She assumes her previous position, kneeling with your head in her lap, and she brings her wet fingers to your lips. It takes no coaxing on her part for you to accept them. Her fingertips brush over your tongue and press down, forcing the heady taste of your blood and your arousal as deep into your mouth as she can without choking you.

“How’s that, faithful?” Her fingers withdraw from you and trace the outline of your lips. “You taste good?” Your breath catches, and you can feel the smirk on her face. “Should I find out for myself?”

She sets you down gently, though your brain still rings as the back of your head connects with the floor. Following her makes you feel dizzy, so you squeeze your eyes shut and pray for your head to stop spinning.

 Tyreen’s hands follow the curve of your hips and hook into your waistband. She presses a kiss against your stomach and continues, following a path further down as she removes the remains of your clothing. It’s not like she lets you wear much.

 Her hands find your hips and tilt you towards her, coaxing your tired legs over her shoulders. It’s uncomfortable; your neck aches and you jerk against the floor as she pulls you closer, but it all melts away when her tongue presses gloriously against you. Her groan entangles with yours as she laps slowly, agonisingly at you, with just enough pressure for you to lose yourself and forget your fatigue. You buck desperately against her mouth and she pulls away with a smirk.

“Patience.” She turns and presses her lips against the inside of your thigh, nipping sharply, making you gasp. She does it again, harder, and you’re sure she draws blood this time; her tongue presses warm and wet against your skin, doing little to soothe the ache, and she kisses her way back up to your core.

 She gives you what you want. Her tongue meets you hungrily, pushing against you with the vigour and gusto of her bites. You couldn’t meet her rhythm if you tried, and your attempts to push back are met with warning growls and the hint of teeth. She presses into you and pulls out just as quickly, flicking her tongue against your clit, and your insides coil deliciously, desperate for release. She’s pushing you into the floor and your head is pounding and you couldn’t care less.

 When she pulls away suddenly, you want to cry. You’re so close, and it’s painfully obvious. Tyreen sets your hips against the floor and crawls on top of you. You’re far from recovered; your legs drop uselessly against the hardwood, desperate as you are to lean up and wrap them around her waist.

 Tyreen takes your chin in her hand, pressing her thumb against your lower lip, forcing you to look at her. You’re lost instantly: the cold blue of her eyes pierces into you and you recoil, remembering what you are and what she is and why you should never let your guard down around her.

 She glares you down until she’s satisfied with your fear. She leans in so close, her lips barely brushing yours, and breathes one word against your mouth.

“Beg.”

 You take a second to process it. She feels so far away, shielded by her dominance and divinity, although she couldn’t be closer to you if she tried. Her grip on your chin tightens in warning. She won’t repeat herself.

 The words spill from your mouth like blood from a wound. You don’t know if you’re making any sense, just babbling whatever comes to mind, coherency lost amid gasps of please and need and mercy and more.

 She’s satisfied. She lets go of your face and pulls you up under her, fingers pushing violently inside you. Her body is pressed against yours, every soft curve and sharp angle of her pushing sublimely against you, her mouth finding your neck once more and nipping hungrily at your healing wounds. Her hips move in rhythm with her fingers, thrusting aggressively, jerking you against the floor. Everything hurts, your breath is knocked from you with her every movement, and as her fingers curl inside you you wail and cry for her to keep going, harder, faster, you’re so close -

 You howl your orgasm, your body wracked with tension and coming apart in her arms. Your fingers dig into her, dragging along her back, your body wrapping around her and pulling her as close as you can.

 She lets you go and you fall back, panting. Her wet fingers touch your lips once again and you barely think, your tongue darts out to meet them and relish in the taste of yourself.

“Good…” She purrs. She pulls away, the back of her hand ghosting down your throat, over your breasts, caressing your thighs as she sits up. “You’re so good, bleeding for me…”

 Your heart steadies and you try to catch your breath. Tyreen is watching you, tattoos glowing softly, and as she runs her hands reverently up your sides you feel warmth and calm flooding your body.

 Tyreen leans over you again and you have to stop yourself flinching. Her fingers move tenderly over the aching wounds she’s made on your neck, healing but still painful.

“I made a mess of you,” she murmurs, seemingly to herself. “I’ll need something sharper for next time.”