#i put them in those old frilly vintage aprons because i CAN

[george-harrison-daily]

george bakes a cake with paul since it's his birthday :)

everyone pretend i posted this yesterday

[kechiwrites]

katsuki, izuku, and shouto as types of doting dads

🌿 gender neutral!reader

🌿 sfw drabbles, lots of domestic fluff under the cut, 

🌿  warning: bakugo swearing, of course

🌿 w.c: 1.2k (approx. 400 each) 

🌿 a/n: thank u to my angel @mindninjax​ for naming katsu’s tiktok. sorry about the formatting, tumblr hates me.

katsuki

Bakugo’s kids are not spoiled, fuck you for even insinuating it.

Bakugo’s kids get what they need.

And what they need is a four tier bento box, every school day.

Insulated, of course, because “they aren’t fucking animals.”

And what starts as Bakugo just being a very attentive father, grows into you recording him coming home from his early morning run and grumbling while he puts on the frilly, lemon yellow apron your kids got him for Christmas two years ago, which grows into him carefully arranging a camera setup over your kitchen countertops, “because you’re the shittiest director alive, dumbass.” Which leads to the tiktok account dine-amight, where Bakugo uploads his intermediate-level character bentos, full to bursting with perfectly seasoned rice balls shaped like All Might and Hello Kitty, star and moon shaped fruits and veggies and occasionally, when your kids beg for them, Bakugo’s famous rainbow mini pancakes.

And of course a pro-hero with a reputation like Bakugo doing anything domestic is worth coverage and acclaim, blowing the account’s followers into the hundreds of thousands in a week.

In fact, people are shocked that Bakugo can even find the time. But he’d do anything for your kids, do anything to see them bring home empty bentos, bragging about all the kids drooling over their lunches that day. Anything to watch their missing tooth smiles when he asks how they were.

And if that means a couple of extra grocery trips at the end of the week and really early morning runs and gentle kisses on your forehead while you mutter and shift in your sleep before he starts the rice cooker, then so be it.

“Katsuki, they are not going to eat caviar. They do not need caviar.” Honestly, you were less surprised he was dropping it in the cart and more surprised your local supermarket even carried it in the first place. 

“They’ll eat whatever the fuck I give them.” He bites, pushing the cart just shy of too fast through the aisle, head swivelling back and forth for god knows what else. An elderly woman casts your husband a dirty look as he just barely swings the metal buggy to avoid her, to which Katsuki helpfully spits “Keep it movin’, hag!” 

“They’re 10!” 

“Doesn’t mean they need to choke down dry ass chicken nuggets and grape juice all day.”

izuku

Birthday party dad, the absolute worst party dad. Thousands of dollars on his kids’ birthday parties. Princess parties, pirate parties, any theme your kids can gurgle about liking and Deku has pulled out his tablet and is putting a pinterest board together before you can remind him that the twins’ birthday was two months ago. 

“We can get an early start on next year. What’ll you think it’ll cost to turn the pool into an ice rink?”

          “My sanity.”

        “Don’t be dramatic.”

Gets almost ridiculously bitter when the family across the street throws an All Might themed party when he knows, he fucking knows, they overheard him talking about throwing one for the boys months ago, But he is not changing his plan. Naw naw naw, your kids are gonna get their All Might party, they’re getting the All Might Party. Every single attendee is getting a vintage, tin All Might lunchbox stuffed to bursting with All Might merch; toys, branded candy only released in Sweden, keychains, those little retro bubble charms, anything he can cram in there. The yellow, red and blue bouncy castle he rented rivals the size of your house. And then, because there is not a soul on the planet pettier than your husband, he forces every pro hero he’s ever known to get in costume and take photos with the kids. He makes the one with the twins your yearly christmas card, then hand delivers it to the family across the street.

In October.

You bake apology pies for weeks.

“You know this is ridiculous right? Deku, she’s 2” you stress the number, pinching the bridge of your nose. “She isn't going to remember any of this.”

“I'm not listening, I didn't hear that, I am busy putting little princesses on cupcakes, a task you said you would help me with.” He’s grinning when he turns to you, and when you hold out your hand, he places a piping bag full of baby pink frosting in your open palm. 

Together you hunch over the kitchen island to ice and decorate twenty-four strawberry vanilla cupcakes, nudging and snickering at each other’s lopsided princess figures until the two of you are smearing icing on skin and tossing edible glitter into hair.

shouto

You know those “girl dads”? That’s Shouto. He takes her everywhere, takes pictures of everything that little girl does. School plays, holidays, playdates, you name it and there’s a dedicated, timestamped album that Shouto is begging to show every visitor, mailman and coworker. 

He prints them out, and maintains an instagram account filled with his favourite daddy-daughter moments, updated. daily.

Nevermind that he hasn’t used his own personal account in 9 years.

His favourite thing is buying and wearing matching outfits, carrying her in one arm. “Yes, I know she can walk, she’s very talented, she can do anything. She just likes to be as tall as daddy is.”

Whenever he picks her up from school, your husband slides her sweet little coat on and gently secures her into her car seat, right where he can see her when he looks in the rearview mirror. Then, Shouto drives your daughter wherever she wants to go. 

Wherever.

If it’s the zoo, they’re going, and they’re coming back with a gigantic, stuffed red panda to add to her own (not so little) plushie zoo at home. If it’s Starbucks, she comes toddling through the front door holding a VENTI, frozen hot chocolate frappuccino (no coffee, of course) and a brownie. Shouto asks them to make it special, he would never let her handle anything too hot.

“Shouto, stop. You’re gonna rot her teeth, she can’t even finish that.” Which is totally true, the cup’s as big as your daughter’s head. Not that she seems to mind, the way she hefts it up for you to see from the entryway while Shouto undoes her glittery blue shoelaces.

“I’ll finish the rest.” He shrugs, picking her up and plopping her down on the living room couch next to you, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head before shuffling off to hang up their identical winter coats.

He doesn’t even like chocolate.

“Why would she need a iPad?” You grab Shouto by his shoulders and make him look at you. 

“For…school.” His voice is quiet and subdued and you almost feel bad...before you remember your husband is clutching an $800 tablet he intends to give your 6 year old kid to his chest in the middle of an electronics store.

“Baby...she’s in elementary school…They aren’t even using calculators yet.” You try to pry the package out of his grip, steadfastly ignoring the gentle downturn of Shouto’s mouth at the development. 

“She’s very advanced for her age.” The frown is a full on pout by now and you shut it down as quick as you can. 

“No. Uh uh. Put that bottom lip back in. Then put the tablet back.”

It’s wrapped in shiny purple paper by December 19th.

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[bxebxee]

Limited Exposure

Note: here you go.

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Genre: seasonal romance Warnings: smut Word Count: 1765 Rating: ILY for I Love You (MA/NC-17)

*

You wear the blue one again when Yoongi asks because you’re a Nice Girlfriend. You have an award somewhere. 

*

Yoongi is somewhere between track eight and throwing away his computer when you punch in the code to his apartment in the middle of the afternoon. 

"Did you know you have impeccable timing,” he mutters into your breasts after you engulf him in a warm, loving hug. 

“Timing is my middle name,” you coo. 

Yoongi looks up, chin buttressed by your cleavage. “No it’s not. It’s-”

“I have a present,” you cut him off. 

“Valentine’s Day was yesterday, and we are a non-practicing couple,” he reminds you. 

“Hush.”

You unveil to your boyfriend a collection of impractically beautiful lingerie from the “old days” of pinup vintage – a late Valentine’s Day gift to yourself. And these are specifically gifts for you and not Yoongi because he was partial to simple cuts and cottony fabrics. He also liked things he could rip on occasion, but those occurrences were infrequent and usually frowned upon by you for its unsustainability.

Nevertheless, you still model your gift for him because that’s just good girlfriend manners. There is also an 87% chance he’d fuck you afterwards and a 100% chance he’d indulge you in some heavy-duty kissing.

Yoongi, ever the Good Boyfriend, takes beautiful pictures of you in erotic poses with his professional-grade camera. He has you lying on his bed, heels on like a savage, with your legs parted and unparted and shifted to the side.

“Put your pearls in your mouth, and look at the camera like you’re staring at my cock.”

That alone gets five good shots out of you.

“Will you hate me if I ask you to pose in the kitchen?” he asks.

And no, you tell him, you won’t hate him, but he has to promise that these pictures will stay between the two of you. You know it will because Yoongi gets intensely jealous sometimes, but you want him to verbalize it, speak it into existence – obligate himself into keeping this Private, with a capital P, upon pain of dismemberment.

There’s an apron involved there. Yoongi ties a bow behind you while you fix your hair using the reflection from the window. The bounty of natural light makes the kitchen an ideal place for the types of pictures he wants to take.

“Ready?” you ask, flashing him a smile in your peach-colored bodysuit and red lips.

Yoongi wastes twenty-four minutes kissing you voraciously, smudging you senseless, and then fixing you up for his precious collection. He decides that a no-lipstick look might be more practical. And you like playing model for him, spying his appreciation growing in his sweatpants with glee as the minutes pass.

“Got enough pictures of me?” you laugh, holding up a knife with your manicured hands.

He shakes his head. “Never.” And after a second he sets down his camera, entirely unconcerned about going through the pictures until later because that is the furthest thing from his mind at the present time. “Do me a favor,” he begins, “Can you wear the blue one again? For me?”

You nod enthusiastically, putting the knife back in the drawer and heading into Yoongi’s bedroom-slash-dressing-room with your boyfriend in tow. Your hand is smaller, but you lead him anyway. He watches you undress and dress again from the comforts of his chair, fiddling with his nails because he’s seen you naked countless times and yet each time becomes something that unnerves him with want.

Yoongi hears you hum one of his songs, something that makes him swallow in fondness because you can carry a pretty decent tune. You hum and slip into the silk bodysuit. The embroidered lace at your bust looks good against the backdrop of your skin.

“Come here,” he tells you, patting his lap. “Heels off.”

You throw the shoes over your shoulders theatrically and settle yourself over his lap in slow, unhurried movements.

The juxtaposition is chaotically attractive – you with your pearls and barely-there, frilly lace, and Yoongi with his mismatched socks and all-black everything else. His hands squeeze your ass and thighs, almost to the point of pain, but he’s a grabby, selfish thing, so you’ll allow it. (It makes you feel wanted.) “Mine,” is what each squeeze feels like.

“I want to fuck you,” Yoongi hums, and you can feel his cock through his pants poking at you. “Gonna let me?”

“That was the plan,” you reply. Your heart is hammering for some reason, almost like the first time you had sex with him. There is warmth that builds from the pit of your stomach that rises up your neck.

“Oh, you Silly Thing,” says the Annoying Voice in your head, “that’s the adrenaline kicking in. Embrace it.”

Yoongi is all talk, but he’s not moving. He’s not even kissing you. He only continues to grope you and leer at your lingerie and exposed skin through lust-filled eyes. The want is there; the action is not. You try grinding over his crotch in an effort to tempt him into doing something – anything.

“Quit moving, I’m thinking,” he groans, closing his eyes and suppressing the temptation of having you give him a lapdance instead.

You pout, taking the opportunity to kiss him while his eyes are closed. Yoongi exhales through his nose as he sucks on your tongue gratefully.

“What is there to think about?” you pant when you pull away much too soon. “Put your cock inside me, and we’ll be good.”

One of his hands leaves your thigh and creeps its way up past your chest to play with your pearls. With a smirk that said so many things, Yoongi lifts the necklace to your parted mouth to slide the strand against lips and teeth. And you, being a needy, flirtatious, siren of a woman, open your mouth fully to grab at the pearls through gritted teeth, mimicking the look you gave the camera just a while ago. A giggle escapes your throat – a low, melodic sound that has Yoongi swallowing down a curse or ten.

“Desk,” he decides, “I want you over my desk.”

You let the pearls drop to kiss him softly, just a small brush of lips at the most, and you head over to the part of his desk that was relatively clear of anything breakable. He’s behind you in an instant, and you feel him hug you to his body fully as he mouths at your earlobe and squeezes the flesh of your hips and chest.

“Fuck, I love you…”

You could probably cum from hearing him repeat that over and over again, but if you ever told him that he’d probably want to try - just to see you squirm.

Yoongi reaches over to slide down the straps of your bodysuit and free your breasts from the small, triangular cage. As pretty as the lace looked against your skin, he liked you bare and open to him. With gentleness that belied his desire, he bends you over his desk, positioning you just the way he needs you (on your arms), taking care not to rip the fabric lest you rip into him. And with precision and care, Yoongi pulls at the fabric covering your crotch and lets his fingers dip into your wet center.

Middle and ring fingers. Those two fingers alone do a perfectly good job of fucking you in a nice, even pace while the silk glides on your clit. You rock against his fingers, riding them like you would ride him until you’re wet enough to take his spit-covered cock.

Yoongi pulls down his pants and underwear in one fell swoop, grateful for easy elastic over the jeans he usually favors. He usually has you sucking on him for a while before fucking you, but today he wants you to stay put and Receive.

“Should I-” you start.

“No.”

No, because he’s already spit into his hands to coat his cock as evenly as he could.

“You are so pretty like this,” Yoongi mutters, rubbing the blunt tip against your opening before squeezing inside.

“Oh,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut at his compliment, “thank you.” You wish you could say something cooler or witty or up to your usual banter standards, but sex with Yoongi is so thoroughly good at reducing your brain to caveman-levels of speech.

“You have pretty manners too,” he groans, hands firmly secured on your hips as he thrusts rhythmically. “Your mama raised you right.”

Your lips part as he bottoms out slowly, stretching you in that familiar, foreign feeling. The arms that support your weight on your desk shake just the smallest bit.

“Th-thank y-” Your attempt to speak is cut short by a hard smack on your ass. And Yoongi nearly pulls out completely before pushing back in slowly, grinding hips roughly into yours, his cock rubbing at your walls teasingly.

It gets hard to breathe for just a second, but you widen your stance just a little bit – just enough so that he can get a millimeter deeper. Because that millimeter counted so much, and you just wanted him to hit that perfect-

Yoongi pulls you back on his cock on this thrust, and you let out a keening sigh that peters out into a pant. He repeats, finding that Golden Spot over and over until you’re no longer quiet and the desk shakes from the force of his thrusts.

“Fuck me,” you sob, a thin strand of drool racing down your cheek to pool at a spot on his desk. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…”

And Yoongi is in agreement with your foul-mouthed cries. He’s ten seconds away from ripping at your lingerie and pissing you off, but thankfully you cum before that happens, snapping him back to reality. There’s something aggressively satisfying when he makes you cum before he does, and without really thinking about it, he pulls you up to lean against his chest for an old-fashioned, messy kiss.

He sees how glazed your eyes are, the wet spot of your chin covered in drool and sweat, and the indentations of the desk on your arms.

“Please cum in me, Yoongi?” you ask, and it is a real request because he could cum wherever he wanted and you’d say thank you.

His throat constricts when he loses his cool, cumming at your behest while he stares you down.

“Oh,” you gasp, mouth going dry at his response.

And he holds you like that for a good seventy seconds before drawing you a bath.

*

*

*

“You worked hard, Miss Model,” he tells you while you sit in front of him under warm water.

“So did you, Mister Photographer.”