bakugo x reader - you have a fussy baby
(warnings: ooc, you have a baby and are called mama. no mention of pregnancy. written in bed)
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There’s a part of Bakugo that always gets a little bit nervous when you call. A growing fear, one that’s not always the most reasonable, as he’s long since learned to stop guessing what it is he’ll have to answer to.
Usually, his worry is assuaged immediately by the chirp of your sweet voice, more often than not calling to ask about groceries, or the timing of his arrival home, or even just to say, “hey, sweetie. How are you?”
But as of late, with the stress of multiple new realities on his hands, the playing catchup of his returning back to work, it’s been—
“Katsuki,” your voice trembles on the receiver, the fuss of your hands practically audible too, “thank god. I’m so sorry, but—“
You whimper, there’s a wail, and his gut clenches, veins turning cold as ice with adrenaline like any and every other time he prepares, quicker than you know, to catch a villain.
“Fuck, babe?” his voice is raspy with the crack of worry, his eyes flitting about as if the crime is in front of him, the offender just across the line of the dark, moon-lit horizon. “Are you okay? Are you safe—“
You interrupt.
“I just can’t get him to sleep. I-I’ve tried everything,” there’s a hiccup from somewhere close by, the baby on your shoulder most likely, “but he’s not going down. I don’t know what to do anymore. He’s clean, he’s changed, he ate almost everything I had—“
“Hey,” he says sternly, dad-like, in a way you’ve almost never heard from him, and you halt. Bakugo looks around the empty streets he’s walking, the evening sky of a warm spring having now receded into chill. “I’ll be there quick, okay?”
And just as soon, he calls Kirishima to let him know he’s deviating from the patrol route.
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Your son relaxes in his arms almost as soon as you set him down. Still in uniform, a sheen of sweat and dirt coating his body, he must smell like something comforting to the little babe as he stops crying just as fast, smacking his little lips into the sweaty shirt he now lays on.
You part from them, letting Bakugo take charge, the anxious tears stopped but still streaked down your cheeks, illuminated where you finally allow yourself to sit on the handsome blue armchair by the crib.
“Fussy shit,” Bakugo complains quietly, tearing one little snort of a giggle out of you as you gaze upon the two of them and wipe your nose, and at the same time, he gazes down at the baby with your eyes. “Wanted to make your mama cry, huh?”
“I’m sorry,” you say, sinking down into soft plush, “I’m so sorry I panicked, made you come all this way for nothing.”
“Stop apologizing, baby. ‘S not nothing,” he replies. “You needed help, and that’s what I’m here for. I’m”—he almost says fuckin’ Dynamight, pausing to look at you when he changes his mind—“dad. I’m dad.”
You smile weakly, and he approaches, dipping down on one knee to let you give your finally sleeping baby one last goodnight kiss, your fingers gently curling his blonde bangs away from his forehead.
“Just needed your daddy, I guess. Right, little boy?”
Bakugo can’t help but smirk, pulling back carefully to gently put the baby in his crib. He whines as he goes down, stretching his little limbs out now that the swaddle has been discarded… and though he notices the way your fingers tighten into themselves in worry as you watch, he settles back into sleep almost immediately, barely a pause in between to confirm it.
In the new silence, you finally whisper. “You gotta go back? To work?”
“I’ll get Denki over here in an hour,” Bakugo nods, also whispering; the sound that comes out unfamiliarly quiet, but not all that unpleasant as he steps and turns back to you, one hand reaching out to smooth down the hairs on your neck. “He’ll let you rest. You got it til then, or should I wait with you?”
You wave him off, still seeming tired but already calm enough to turn on the night light and pick up the book you started way back when, maybe even before becoming a mom. “I’ll be okay.”
“Don’t be afraid to ask for help again though, mama,” he leans down to give you your goodnight kiss before he finally has to go, reminding you of all the trust he has for you, too. “We’re all here to help.”
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hi I saw your recent post I hope your moving went smoothly!
I have a loose prompt, if you wanted/had time/had WiFi to write: an interrogation room meet-cute between villain and non-field agent hero
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them the hero realized they were in the wrong room. A very wrong room.
They blinked. The villain blinked, taking them in.
“You look lost.”
“That’s rude,” they responded before they had the chance to think about it. “I work here.”
“Do you now,” the villain said, and the hero grew abruptly aware of their jacket stamped with the Agency logo, their gloves marking their designation as a touch based hero. It was a miracle they didn’t turn red with the embarrassment of it.
They tried the doorknob behind their back. It rattled, but didn’t open, and internally they started screaming. Just a little bit.
“They don’t open from the inside,” the villain said helpfully. “Security risk, or something like that.”
“I know that,” the hero snapped, and the villain raised an eyebrow. “Sorry.”
The apology blurted out before they could stop it.
“Did you just ‘apologize’ to me?” The villain looked at them incredulously.
“Uh,” they managed. “Funny question.”
“Funny—“ the villain cut themself off. “It’s not a question, I literally just heard you apologize.”
“Maybe you should get your hearing checked out,” they offered, and winced, because apparently every sane part of their brain had fled to France and left them with a singular suicidal brain cell.
The villain’s mouth was slightly open, as if they weren’t entirely sure what was happening. The hero shared the same sentiment.
The villain glanced at the camera, then back to the hero.
“You’re not a field agent,” they said, as if it was dawning on them.
“You don’t know that,” the hero said defensively.
“You’re holding a file.”
“Field agents are capable of holding files,” the hero replied. “Kind of rude of you to assume they can’t.”
The whisper of a smile tugged at the corner of the villain’s mouth.
“Sorry,” the villain said, and it was just barely mocking.
The hero rocked on their heels a bit, drumming their fingers on the file in their hands.
“They’re taking a while to get you out,” the villain observed.
“Yeah, Bob’s on duty.”
“Oh, so Bob doesn’t do his job?”
The hero jerked. “I did not say that.”
“It was kind of implied, though,” the villain said earnestly.
The hero had interacted with villains before: ending interviews for files, the odd informant. Never held a conversation though, and certainly not for this long.
This was why they didn’t do field work.
“What, no response?”
The hero smiled, sickeningly sweet. “I’m compiling commentary to add to your file.”
“So you admit to not being a field agent.”
“Continually makes assumptions, poor listening comprehension…”
“Not a very long list,” they pointed out.
The hero felt their smile sharpen. “The rest involves curse words.”
The villain barked a laugh, and the hero jerked slightly in surprise.
The villain regarded them like they were deciding something, as if they could see something within the hero that they themself couldn’t.
It had been a long time, longer than the hero would like to admit, since someone, anyone, had looked at them like that.
Like they mattered at all.
“I like you,” the villain said finally, slowly, like they weren’t entirely sure those were the words that were going to come out.
“You also like crime.”
“And you know how dedicated I am to that,” the villain said pointedly, a glint in their eye.
“How sweet,” the hero managed after a moment. “This is exactly why I became a hero. To be compared to felonies.”
The villain just smirked. They peered down at the handcuffed hands, then looked up at the hero. They weren’t sure when they had moved away from the door, closer to the villain, but somehow it had happened.
There was something warm to this; it sat in the hero’s chest, light and airy.
“I’ll text you when I get out. Say, next week?”
“You’re going to jail,” the hero reminded, mouth dry.
The villain grinned. “Right,” they drawled, amusement splashed across their face. “Jail. Which is where I am going. And where I shall stay. Absolutely.”
Something clicked, and the hero didn’t have to look under the table to know the villain had slipped their cuffs.
Despite their best efforts, their eyes flicked downwards, like they could see the now empty cuffs below the table. The villain grinned further, as if in challenge.
Are you going to tattle?
The hero swallowed.
“I’m really not supposed to be in here.”
“I’ve gathered,” the villain said. “You work the desk all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Personal choice, or…”
“I like it,” the hero said defensively. “It’s just puzzles, and I’m good at those.”
“Puzzles?”
“Putting things together,” they said vaguely. “Routes and evidence and all that.”
The villain’s brow furrowed, as if they were mulling something over. Their gaze returned to the hero, and it was searing.
“You’re the one who found me, aren’t you.”
“Oh,” the hero said, blushing. “That’s-I’m not—“
The villain leaned forward. “Am I in that file?”
The hero tucked it behind their back.
“No.”
“Are you lying?”
“No,” the hero said with emphasis. The villain laughed.
“You’re bad at this,” they said, but it was fond.
“Thanks, I try,” the hero said. They were waiting for the villain to stand up, but they seemed content to just sit there and watch.
“Mhm,” the villain agreed, and for some reason, the hero flushed even further.
The villain’s gaze snapped to the door, and they tilted their head as if listening to something.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” they said. The hero blinked. “To get you out,” the villain prompted.
“Right,” the hero said. They had forgotten they couldn’t leave, but the villain didn’t need to know that. They had a feeling they knew anyways.
“I’ll call you,” the villain reminded.
“You don’t have my number,” the hero protested.
The villain gave them a look. “You’re cute. Do you like pizza? We could do pizza.”
“We could never speak again.”
“Funny, I’ve never heard of that restaurant.”
“You—”
“Oh look, they’re here!” The villain said cheerfully.
The door swung open, and someone the hero vaguely recognized stepped in.
In the next second, the hero was in the hallway.
“Oh, and love,” the villain called, and the hero cursed themself for blushing. “Don’t be jealous of the other felonies. You’ll always be my favorite crime.”
The hero ducked their face behind the file, but they couldn’t stop the pleased smile that crept from the corners of their mouth.
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