#inebriated people WILL do the dumbest shit ever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

redhawtriot · 5 years ago

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Baby Boom (Bakugou x Reader)

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

I am posting at not my normal time at ALL, but I really wanted to get this chapter out so I can work on my favorite chapter so far lol (month five is boutta be LIT) if the tags aren’t working i’ll fix them tomorrow they are acting weird rn.

Thx, for the patience. Love y'all

extra chapter warning: sexual harassment, nsfw..ish

HnM 💕

Month 1, Month 2, Month 4

--MONTH 3--

It was a Friday night about two months ago when Katsuki Bakugou had found himself on the second floor of Club 52—or “the booty room”—as it’s so brusquely known.

But he sure as hell didn’t fucking belong here-- Surrounded by drunken idiots when he had to stay alert and keep his mind sharp-- groped on by inebriated/drugged up women who he would simply growl at in return-- drenched in the germy sweat of the fucking extras around him when he could be at home in his clean bed thinking about how to improve himself tomorrow.

Honestly. How in the flying fuck did he let those three walking hairstyles talk him into coming to this shit show?

The driving beat of the music dancing within his chest was his only saving grace, its constant booming throwing him into a state of familiar comfort as he watched the colorful lights burst around him. He had to admit… they were nice…

No!

Fuck that! He still didn’t belong here, dammit! His roommates, Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest, had all three nagged, and nagged, and nagged him to come here the entire week.

At their begging, Bakugou quite frankly wished that he had lost even more of his hearing than he already had from his quirk. Maybe he could find one of his old drumsticks and jam it into his head—or up those idiots’ asses, “Ahh! I’LL GO! JUST LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!” It was the only way to keep him from losing his job as a hero and committing a triple homicide.

So yeah, that’s how he ended up in the booty room—and he wasn’t gonna gratify those damn idiots for even a second by enjoying just an ounce of the hellscape.

“You’re not drinking, huh?”

A sudden inquiry snapped the man out of his thoughts, and he found himself whipping his head around to face the feminine voice that had cut through the loud room. As soon as his eyes encountered yours, Bakugou felt his jaw drop slightly at the sight.

But then he quickly noticed the way that your eyes flickered down to his mouth, and the mocking way that your lips began curving up into a smirk at his display. He wanted to kiss knock that smug look clean off your pretty face. He immediately clenched his jaw back shut and hardened his traitor of an expression so that no more slip-ups could be had.

The two of you sized each other up for a moment before you slickly glanced over your shoulder with a nod, “So I am guessing those belong to you, then?” you motioned toward Mayonnaise, Ketchup and Mustard—all three of Bakugou’s roommate idiots making a theatrical, display in the middle of the dance floor.

Kirishima—who had long taken his shirt off by this point-- noticed Bakugou’s disapproving gaze and attempted a wave back, only to lean into a drunken stumble.

Bakugou clicked his tongue, snapping his regard from the (flat out embarrassing) show “I’m not anyone’s damn babysitter. They’re grown men. They can fucking handle themselves!”

“Good… I’d like to have you to myself for a while,” you turned to the bar-tending counter and beckoned for two drinks.

Bakugou eyed how the man behind the counter ingested you. He was a lion looking for his prey’s weakness and you didn’t even seem to notice—or care. He glared at the man, subconsciously taking a step toward you to speak as the bartender handed you your drink, “For what?” Bakugou asked you flatly. He didn’t even know why the hell he was entertaining this.

You simply shrugged, throwing your eyes up as innocently as you could with the contrarily wicked smirk that befell your face, “To… talk.”

“Yeah right. You’ve got some freak look in your eye. You want something else.”

“Well, hell yeah! Have you seen yourself?” you laughed and Bakugou couldn’t tell whether the stutter in his chest was from your utter bluntness, or from the melody of your happiness, “Anyway, I wont waste your time—or mine. Come find me if you want to…” you trailed off as you handed him the second drink in your hands. You had to bite your lip from smiling too hard, “…Talk. Ba-Bye~.”

As soon as you were the short ear distance away and faded into the dense crowd, the bartender gave a low whistle, “She was fucking fit as hell. God, the things I would do to her!” Bakugou felt his face twitch suddenly as the man continued his rant, “She’d never be able to walk that pretty little walk ever again. Yo, let’s hope she’ll still be here by the time I get off!” he chuckled but Bakugou didn’t see any thing fucking funny about what the bastard said. He might live in what is effectively a hero’s version of a frat house, but still, he never understood “locker room talk.”

Bakugou angrily downed the entire drink in his tight grip in one long pull before slamming it back onto the counter forcefully. His red eyes burned holes through the bartender’s fearful ones—the cup breaking apart under his palm, “She won’t be. Keep your dirty eyes off her, you bastard,” Bakugou didn’t even allow the man an opportunity to rebuttal as he stormed away, his fiery glare set intently on one thing only—or one person only…

That night Bakugou watched intently as the ceiling above him teetered and danced for a moment—sinking into the deep feeling of numbness that his intoxicated mind had succumbed to after about his fourth drink. He wasn’t exactly used to this feeling—this caving in on himself and sense of absolute relaxation as he melted into his bed.

Sinking.

...Sinking.

Wait, was his bed really sinking? His eyebrows furrowed into a state of confusion before he heard a sigh coming from next to him. Things finally clicked into place in his slowed mind.

Oh yeah. That’s right…

He would never get used to having someone else in his bed, probably.

Bakugou turned to where you were imprinting yourself down onto his mattress. You laughed at his stern expression, extending your arm to caress the side of his face, “God, your face is s’ intense like that. It gives me chills,” your thumb danced across the permanent furrow of his eyebrow. There had to be a magnet underneath his skin somewhere right about there that kept the brows in a constant state of attraction.

He snapped his face away from you as the magnet’s strength intensified and twisted his expression even deeper into anger, “Heh?” Goddamn, you were a fucking difficult girl to read for as blunt as you were.

You march up to him in the club like you own the damn place and send him heart eyes and flirtatious body signals, just to stone cold walk away like he never even existed? You proclaim that you want to fuck him, yet made him dance with you for almost an hour before you lead him out?? You let him fuck you in thirty different directions, just to call him out for looking “intense?!!” His friends (if you could fucking call them that) always said that he had an ugly mug, the jealous bastards, but why would a girl he slept with--

“You’re jus’ beautiful is all,” you faintly slurred, instantly hushing any of his thoughts and softening his expression, “People tell me all the time ‘You’re a pretty girl! You should smile more, but why th’ hell should I go around smilin’ for people who don’ deserve it? If they don’ like my resting state, then—”

“Then they can fuck themselves.”

“Yeah,” you looked up at him with a lazy smile. To a sober mind there was no doubt that your expression was an obviously drunken happiness, but to Bakugou’s in that moment—he couldn’t help but think that maybe there was something deeper behind that smile. You giggled, “They can fuck themselves,” you agreed more heartedly-- leaning into Bakugou and rolling him onto his back before snaking your way on top of him. You planted a trail of wet kisses up his neck and finished by making a small bite on his jaw “And maybe you can fuck me,”

Your warm breath on his sensitive neckline made him shiver underneath his skin, but he prayed that you couldn’t feel it. He scoffed to cover the pathetic display, “Again?”

You laughed before planting even more smiling kisses all over him—pressing your body even further into his with each one, “and again. and again. and again…”

“Pervert.” Bakugou tried to grab you by your hips to keep you from grinding into him even further—or at least that was what he intended to do; however, instead he ended up using them to guide your rhythm in rubbing against him.

You laughed again as you sat up on top of him and pressed your hands to his chest—your hips far from slowing down or stopping, “Maybe so, but can y’ really blame me? I have this guy in bed with me who isn’t even tryin’ to make me smile, but I have been fucking cheesin’ it up all night with ‘em.”

Bakugou didn’t even try to fight the growing smile on his face. It really was damn corny and pathetic--whatever this was between the two of you. But it felt so… so fucking right to him.

Still, he was going to tease you-- otherwise he wouldn't be him, “Well, I have this girl in bed with me who won’t stop smiling and it’s really fucking starting to creep me the hell out,” he suddenly flipped you onto the bed and mounted himself on top of you before placing his own assault of kisses on your body. His face only reemerging to take in your stupid, corny, beautiful smile for a long second.

You were absolutely stunning in every respect of the word.

Yet--

Two months later, the same face that now stood in front of him on the platform of the train station was far from smiling—honestly neither was he. He was pissed the hell off. You didn’t even recognize him until just now?? Was he really so fucking immemorable?

You backed away from the man who had just saved you from falling to the tracks. You took him in one final time as the two of you sized each other up, “I don’t even know what to start…”

Bakugou’s face contorted in such anger that it could have been mistaken for disgust, “How about you start by giving me some fucking answers!” he screamed, causing your heart to drop and your stomach to lurch. The two organs effectively were trying to switch places.

Oh fuck. He knew?

“T-to what…?” You trailed off, but you had a feeling what he was going to say next. He was gonna chew you out about the damn parasite growing in your uterus, but you had no idea how he could have known about that! He shouldn't know that!

Deku didn’t tell... He didn’t! ...Did he?? Your heart raced and assaulted your rib-cage with an armada of thrums.

“Why did you sneak out that morning, huh!?” as soon as the words flew out of his mouth, you paused—your mind not quite able to comprehend his grievance, “I was just some sex toy for you? That it??” When he finished yelling and glared at you with expectancy burning within his red irises, you found yourself tilting your head a bit in astonishment and confusion.

Your heart had dropped, but you couldn't tell if it was from relief or repugnance.

That? That was the question he needed answers to?

In the grand scheme of the fuckery on hand, his damaged ego was literally not your problem. You crossed your arms as you stretched your neck toward him, “Because it was supposed to be a club hump and dump! So yeah! We were just sex toys! That was kinda the whole fucking point!” Note the fucking emphasis on ‘supposed to be’! Ugh!

A tinge of underlying hurt quickly flashed across the blond’s stern face. You gave a short, sharp sigh in exasperation as you laid your forehead in one of your palms, “Look, I am not exactly here to cater to your wounded pride. Sorry that you caught feelings for me, but I wasn’t exactly obligated to fix you breakfast that day,” the tired, emotional remarks flew out much faster than you could filter them, but you still felt a twinge of remorse as soon as they hit the air.

The man in front of your face look completely stunned as if you just slapped him across the cheek with your words. It actually seemed pretty unnatural on his expression—like a rare, endangered species-- something not many have seen. Soon enough, however, as the dust of your words fell his expression settled back into a more natural state of fury, “You’re fucking right,” he grunted before turning to exit up the stairs of the subway, “I’m not obligated to listen to this horseshit either.”

Oh fuck. What have you done?

You knew that you had laid it on pretty thick, but the emotions you felt were just so damn overwhelming, “Kacchan… I…!” Why couldn’t you have said something different? Nicer maybe?

Whether you liked it or not, your lives were now tied together and this was not a good first impression—or uh-- second impression technically-- whatever! “I promise you’re gonna want to hear the end of this.” you called to his retreating form.

Bakugou’s face shriveled even further, stretching its extent of maximum disgust. Hearing that name come out of your mouth left his stomach feeling ill, “I promise you, I don’t give a fuck”

You slapped your arms at your side as you finally halted in your attempt to get him to stop walking away. Fuck it. You were about to completely call his bluff because you definitely weren’t about to chase him. You were much too tired and emotional for this shit! You just wanted to get home and sleep these random-ass, foreign emotions away, “I’m pregnant.” you simply exclaimed.

Bakugou froze.

In that moment, it was as if the entire world around him had iced over as he replayed your words in his head over and over again. He couldn't have heard you right, “What?”

The man felt every fiber of his being stiffen. So much so that he couldn’t even bring himself to turn around and face you. In your silence was his answer loud and clear, “How… how the fuck do I know it’s mine?” he murmured, still unable to turn towards you—he didn’t want you to see the raw emotion that his face probably held in that moment.

You barely even heard him, but the weight of his words was heavy enough to slam down on your ears and cause a burning reaction from you “What?!”

Your shriek finally prompted him to whip himself around, and you almost wish that he didn’t. The mangled mess of feelings transcribed on his face left his cheeks flushed a furious shade of red as he shouted at you, “You like one-night stands so much—how do you know it’s mine?” With a horrified expression, you glanced around you for a moment to the other people in the subway, who immediately adverted their gazes.

“Hell, You’ve been hanging around that bastard, Deku. How do I know it’s not his?” You looked back to Bakugou with a choked ‘Wow!’ that could be interpreted as “Are you fucking kidding me right fucking now??” These strangers were getting one hell of a show, too.

You stormed up to him to keep him from shouting your all of your dirty laundry into the air, “Deku and I aren’t—” You stopped yourself. Would any fucking thing you said to this man make a difference? He didn’t know you from fucking Adam-- or from fucking Adam. You groaned in annoyance, “Look! I know that it’s yours because you're the only idiot I have slept with in months! An idiot who doesn’t know how to use a goddamn condom apparently!” you half whispered to him as your spectators began eyeing you again. You flipped them off as Bakugou continued,

“I’m the idiot?! Well if you could ACTUALLY FUCKING REMEMBER that night then you would know that we did use condoms the first three times! They ran out and you told me to keep going,” He screamed—by this point you’d given up hope of containing your melodrama as he continued loudly, “What idiot says that unless they are on birth control or something?!”

You throw your face in your hands with a shriek of a sigh before looking back up to his furious face “Here’s the deal,” you decided to completely ignore his comment, becoming tired of this theatrical display of emotions spewing from him, “I can’t spontaneously conjure up some proof that this-- this thing is yours but I assure you it fucking is. But hey!! If you don’t want to stick around, I am not the type of person to make you. I can deal with this myself,” his face fell a bit as you swiftly turned yourself around to make your exit, but you didn’t make it far before you felt a heavy hand grab you by the wrist.

“Let’s say it is mine...,” Bakugou offered flatly, “You don’t think I can handle it” his daring tone left your mind whirling. This wast a fucking wrestling match or even one of his villain attacks! He continued, “You’re dumber than you look if you think I’m gonna let my kid grow up without me. Give me your fucking number,” He easily snatched your phone from your front pocket with a slight protest coming from you, but ultimately, you really were tired as hell and just wanted this day to be over with al-fucking-ready. You sighed as he put his number in your phone—your mind briefly wandering why you didn’t put a password on the damn thing.

In a short instant, he shoved your device back to you and promptly turned on a heel. Only acknowledging you once more to tell you to “Stay off of the fucking train tracks,” before he stiffly marched away. Good riddance.

You couldn’t even blame the spectators anymore. This was a mess. This was a downright, melodramatic, teen drama on CW disaster. This was… this was your life now.

Fuck…

“Oooh... no smiles today, huh?”

About a week later you found yourself walking up the stairs to a modern mansion with stupid windows for walls. A true sign of pretentiousness and obvious lack of shame. This house was a display for all to see... kinda like your argument with that Bakugou last week.

You shook this thought out of your mind and put your ‘work cap’ back on. You were on your way to get some test shots in for the week with your new hair cut that the agency had forced on you recently.

Instead of throwing her a “What’s there to smile for?” like you wanted to, you threw her a “This better?” and forced a small smile at the girl, Dina, who had traveled along with you to get her test shots done today as well. Usually for these kinds of things, you would be alone as you traveled to the photographer’s house, but it was always nice to have someone come with you so you weren’t complaining—well-- not about her company at least.

There truly was nothing to smile for recently. You were pregnant with a raging, quirkcist asshole’s child, said asshole won’t answer any of your damn texts or calls that aren’t directly related to the prenatal appointment that you two have later today, Deku hasn’t been able to hang out with you as much because of his work, and as trivial as this may seem, you looked in the mirror today to saw a completely different person.

You were quite used to your agency drastically changing your hair, but that, along side the obvious rounding of your face and the speckles of hormone induced facial topography growing on your skin, led you to a slight identity crisis. The girl in the reflection was a sloppy second to who you used to be and you hated it-- you hated sharing this body.

“Trouble in paradise with Deku, Y/N?” her tone had a hint of worry in it as she rung on the doorbell to the modern house. You could only give her a slight shrug as the bell sung out,

“I’m fine. Really.” you lied.

“Hello, hello!” The photographer’s voice loudly blared out before the door could even fully open to reveal him. He gave you a shocked glance, “What a pretty lady—pretty ladies!” he corrected as he stepped aside and invited you in with the swing of his arm. You rolled your eyes as he turned his back to walk through the house. He looked like the textbook definition of a douchebag.

Fuck not judging a book by it’s cover. If it walks like a duck. Talks like a duck. Then it’s probably a misogynistic asshole who only got into photography to get away with his sick urge to take photos of unfamiliar women.

“Okay ladies, I just want to preface by saying that you can feel comfortable around me, alright? I think of all my models as a family,” Dina stiffened into a board as he came over and rested his hand on her hip. She forced her lips into a fine line that could resemble a smile as he firmly patted her, “This shouldn’t take too long-- only about five to six hours, ‘kay?”

Your face scrunched up, but you just wanted to get this day over with so you could go to that stupid appointment and wouldn’t have to deal with “Cockugou” for another few weeks. Throughout the next few hours, the photographer actually wasn’t too bad. He was for sure creepy, but you noticed that he wasn’t so bold with you as he had been with Dina earlier. Of course there were little off hand comments like, “You are doing sexy.” instead of “you are doing great.” And he would refer to both you and Dina as “baby” is a husky, drawn out tone—like he was moaning, but besides that he was actually being pretty calm.

Until he wasn’t.

“Okay! Now take your tops and bra off,” both you and Dina paused as the camera flashed once more. As the two of you threw each other a wary glance the photographer spoke up again, “Trust me, I have a vision. You’re gonna love it!”

“I- I just don’t feel comfortable with that,” Dinah spoke up feebly. She looked to you for support, so you nodded before she returned her gaze to him, “Do you think… maybe we could do something else?”

The photographer sighed and threw his nose into pinched fingers as if you all had offended him, “Look honey, you’re not that photogenic. I am having to bust my ass off not to capture that cellulite on the back of your thighs, so when I tell you to do something, it’s for a reason.”

You glanced over to Dina with a horrified expression. You noticed that her hands were clenched at her sides and shook ever so slightly after she subconsciously rubbed the back of her thighs-- you also noticed a prominent thigh gap in between the two tiny appendages. You shot your stern glare back over to the photographer.

He sighed again—this time even harder than before, “Take five!” he frustratedly pulled out a box of cigarettes and stormed over to his patio outside—the glass door slamming shut behind him.

You walked over to Dinah and hesitantly found your hands drifting toward her. You were never really good at cheering people up. Hell, you had to rely on alcohol to cheer you up for the vast majority of you adult (and a little bit of your pre-adult) life. Still, you took her shaking hands in your own. “Hey. Don’t listen to that asshole. If you’re not comfortable...”

“I have done nude shots before, but this just feels… wrong. Doesn’t it?” she refused to look you in the eyes as hers glazed over in a thick sheet of shame. She was right. Nude shots were nothing new at all. In fact, some of your best shots had been done in the nude—they had the potential to be true art, but this? This was wrong.

She shook her head,“But I just… I don’t want to be unprofessional.”

“We can walk out right now. I’ll call Ainu and tell her what’s up I am sure she’ll understand,” as soon as you began walking to gather up some of your belongings, her voice spoke up once more—this time much colder than before,

“Maybe for you. Y/N, you could get away with murder at our agency-- you know that, right? You’re the one who bought Ainu her ticket to the top-- her golden child,” she sneered. You threw your eyes toward her own—not quite comprehending if this was the same person still talking to you.

It was, but this Dina had tears growing in her eyes, “Not everyone can half-ass everything and not care…” her voice shook. The two of you just stared at each other as wild emotions filled your expressions and overflowed into the room to drown you.

The patio door clicking open snapped you out of your trance and Dina furiously began wiping her eyes clean as the photographer reemerged, “Alright pretty ladies! Who’s ready to get back into things?”

You sighed.

With a quick roll of your eyes you angrily threw your top off—not even giving the girl with you a second glance as she did the same and the two of you settled yourself into position. The atmosphere was certainly much heavier than it had been before, but the photographer obviously couldn’t read the room,

“Y/N might I say, that your tits looks wonderful! Have you gotten a job recently? I mean- they look huge!”

Okay.

That. Was. It. You couldn’t fucking hold it back anymore, “Talk about my tits again and I’ll stab you in the neck with your own goddamn tripod,” you kept posing as if you totally hadn’t just threatened someone’s life, but the photographer fell away from his camera, shock painted on his expression. Slacking on the job. Huh, who’s the unprofessional one now?

“…S-sweetheart I—”

“Don’t you fucking ‘sweetheart’ me!” you screamed, storming up to point a finger in his face. This surge of random emotion overwhelmed you. You had never felt this before—like you were gonna explode if you didn’t unleash it. And unleash it, you did, “The fuck is your problem?! You get some kick outta being a perverted asshole, asshole?!”

Dinah tried to come pull you back by the shoulders, “Y/N, maybe you should just calm dow—”

“No! Fuck this bastard!!” you smack her hands away as the photographer gets up and crossed his arms,

“This is so unprofessional. You women always jump to conclusions. Why cant you ever just take the compliment?”

“WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TAKE MY FOOT UP YOUR--”

And that’s how you ended up getting sent home two hours early. You had attempted to call Deku to rant about the harsh encounter, but he was at work. You supposed that saving lives a a little bit more important than “The Dramatic Tale of a Quirkless Model” or whatever fucking CW show your life had become. Your mind briefly fleeted to calling Bakugou, but he certainly wouldn’t answer anyway. No. Fuck that.

So you decided to text Deku and cry into your pillow instead,

You:

[2:49pm]

I mean he was just such a fucking dick!

I should have actually stuck my foot up his ass but he for sure would have liked it🙄

Seriously. I don’t mind nude photos

But there is a difference between art/photography and porn

Deku:

Right!!

Well I’m glad you stood up for yourself!

You:

No! Don’t tell me tht!😫

Deku:

I am upset tha you stood up for yourself…?

You:

UGHHH

I just wish tht I had just walked out

But the other girl wouldn’t leave and I couldn’t leaver her their

There*

God

Ainu is gonna 💀me for this

Deku:

How can I help you?

I’ll find what I can on the photographer?

You:

Talk Kacchan into not going to our clinical visit.👉👈

You knew that Deku really wanted to go, and honestly you would really prefer if he did. Regardless, Deku stood up for his childhood bully like the saint he was,

Deku:

Y/N! He’s the father. he deserves to go, don’t you think?

Also!

Don’t forget Baby Notes vol 1! I wrote some questions for you to ask!

You stifled a small laugh as you eyed that stupid goddamn notebook he left on your nightstand one of the few days he stopped by your home.

You:

Grr

I can’t handle Cockugou’s moodiness right now

And I-- Oop!

Speak of the devil. He’s here.

Talk later k?💕kith!

You snatched the notebook from your nightstand and marched to your front entrance. The knocking at your door was downright disrespectful—constantly switching between pounding knocks on your door and vigorous successions of the doorbell ringing.

“Fucking. Calm. Down!” you screamed out the door before answering, revealing Bakugou’s stern gaze,

“What the hell took you so long?” he huffed, causing your face to scrunch up into an expression that mirrored his own.

“I had to walk to the damn door, you know! I’m quirkless? No teleportation quirk here!” He only clicked his tongue at your response. You noticed the way his eyes drifted down to the notebook in your hands before they narrowed into even tighter slits.

“Let’s just fucking go, already,” he took your wrist and led you out of the house before shutting your door. You could really just knock him the hell out. Okay, maybe you couldn't, but your weak ass might just be able to get one good hit in! He deserved it, not replying to any of your attempts to reach out to him past talking about the appointment,

“Why didn’t you answer my texts all week?”

“I was busy.” he simply said, not even bothering to look you in the eye. This was the last time he spoke up for a long while. In fact, you didn't even hear his voice again until later when the two of you sat in the small, shoebox of a room in the clinic with the prenatal physician,

“This is your first appointment, right?” the doctor, was extremely old looking and your mind phased into a grim question of ‘how the hell can someone so close to death know jack about birth?’

You tried your best to push these dark thoughts out of your head as you gave him a slight answer, “Yeah…” you laid back on the crinkly paper covered recliner and lift your shirt a bit for the examination. You looked down at the small, hardly noticeable bump in your lower abdomen and internally cringed.

“This is the father?” you knew that it didn't really matter, and that he was probably just trying to make you comfortable and spark up some small talk, but you rally didn't wanna hear it out loud.

You couldn't bring yourself to answer, but Bakugou loudly spoke up, filling the absence of your voice, “Why the hell else would I be here, old man?” he scoffed and twisted his face away from everyone.

You raised an eyebrow at his rudeness, but from the vast stories that Deku had told you about him, you shouldn't have been surprised. But still, it was like seeing a mythical creature in real life-- a grumpy troll under a bridge, if you will.

The doctor gave a loud laugh at Bakugou’s remark, causing both you and him to snap your surprised gazed to the elderly man, “You’d be surprised at the shit I have seen, son. Someone brought their neighbor for the entire 39 weeks once-- the husband came in only once or twice, I think.”

You couldn't help but to laugh at this. Your doctor’s voice had a much more youthful demeanor than he had originally led on, “Oh, they were definitely fucking behind the husbands back,” you smirked.

“So Mama Bakugou,”

And just like that your smile was completely wiped off of your face, “This is your first child right?” the doctor asked. You felt Bakugou throw you a fleeting expectant look. You assumed that it was probably because he hadn't even thought to ask you this question. The two of you really didn't know each other. Matter of a fact, this doctor, with your list of medical history in his hand, probably knew a lot more than the father of this ‘it’ inside of you.

“L/N actually,” you corrected, “and yes, it is.” with that, Bakugou’s glare drifted back off into unconcerned and uncaring territory as he found a sudden interest in the glass container of gloves on the counter.

“Well you look about 10 weeks along. They’ll be about the size of a strawberry right now-- almost done with your first trimester.” he trailed off as he began coating your stomach with some sticky jelly substance.

“What??” you could have sworn that you had only met Bakugou about two months ago right? So does that mean...

“The date of conception would have actually been a little closer to about 7 or 8 weeks ago. We just count by the first day of your last period. No need to get worried about the neighbor, I don’t think, Papa Bakugou,” he winked to the blond, who only gave a scoff in return. You let out a slight sigh of relief.

The recipe for the rest of this appointment as the doctor searched your organs for your uterus in the ultrasound included him making small talk and Bakugou ignoring it with you giving slight answers here and there,

However, finally, something really caught both of your’s attention, “I think that you guys should take time today to find your primary care physician,”

“Why not you, idiot?” Bakugou spoke up and it shocked you. You were surprised he cared about this out of everything.

“I am thinking that I should send you to someone with a specialty in a multiple pregnancy birth.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you and Bakugou shared a brief, terrified glance at one another, “What...?” Bakugou spat.

“You see these two circles? It looks like you’ve got two buns in the oven! Congrats on the twins!,”

T...wins...?

The world bean fading into a blur for you as he continued, “Now You are a little past getting the neural tube check, but we can get you started in on some genetic testing and counseling’s. Every thing is looking alright, but we just want to…”

The world around you moved in a blurry, choppy chain of images as your mind tried its best to comprehend the knowledge it had been given. So... not only were you carrying one parasite... but two?

You couldn't bring yourself to listen the rest of the appointment, and you had a feeling that Bakugou wasn't picking up on much else after the shocking news either.

If you thought that commute to the hospital was quiet, the walk back to your apartment was even more so.

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waldos-writing · 8 years ago

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The Dig Initiative: Chapter 3

The Recruit

“You’re a tough sonovabitch, aren’t you?”

So it goes like this. Say you’re newly hired in a big company, got a lot of promises right out of college and lucky enough there are health benefits and actual cost-of-living wage, holy shit, it’s a dream. You get to learn on the job, work with interesting people, partnered up with a smart woman who has goals and ambition in spades.

Then say you have to go out on an unofficial assignment, off the books, don’t tell anybody kind of things. Do you have loyalty to the company that is putting a roof over your head and purpose in your life? Or do you follow your partner because whatever she’s doing is the right thing? Do you go by your head or your gut, your wallet or your soul?

“You think I wouldn’t see? It was right there, right there!”

So then say you find yourself getting kicked in the ribs in an alley behind a soup kitchen. A punch to the face feels like it had knocked in your eye, another to the nose broke it, then the jaw, the throat, and the kidneys until you’re down on the ground, holding your blood and organs inside. That’s how it goes.

“Think you can come in here? Huh? Think you can come in here like nothing?”

And then they stopped. Just like that.

The agent couldn’t see what had saved him from more violence from a large drunk guy with bad teeth and red eyes. There were stars exploding from his broken nose. Christ, it was like lightening. He preferred the fever to a goddamn broken nose, but that’s the way the world took him that day, it seemed. Broken nose. Olsen owed him, that’s what it meant. He stared at the bright pain behind his eyes until he heard a new voice.

“Alright, son, alright, that’s enough.”

“He took some of my share!”

That was the guy who clocked him in the face and accused him of stealing a slice of bread. A slice of bread. Seriously. Olsen was right, the world needed a big big change if a missing slice of bread meant getting the shit kicked out of you. Maybe. The young agent had grown up pretty comfortable in his middle class suburban home. Maybe he didn’t know shit about the world until right then. He tasted blood and wiped at the slimy ink flowing from his nostrils.

“He robbed me, Father. He robbed me, goddamnit.”

“Then you turn a blind eye, right?”

“But it was my share!”

They were clearly struggling. He still couldn’t see straight, but he could hear grunting and cursing between the two of them. He did his damndest to get up and face them, but the world tilted violently and he slapped the ground with his shoulder. Got a good view of their feet before he righted himself. It appeared that the priest had come out of nowhere. He was all black robes and dark hair and a strong arm. The priest had the upper hand and held the drunk guy’s arms above his heads. Heads? Great, double vision. Perfect.

“I didn’t steal anything,” the kid moaned behind his hands.

“You know that and maybe I know that, but this guy here seems to think you did.”

“Aaagaaamf.” No, that wasn’t right. It was all a mess up there. The kid cleared his throat and tried again. “Didn’t. Didn’t do it.”

“Alright. If you say so. Now you.” The priest was talking to the big guy again, who had gone limp. Sack of sad potatoes pouting at the ground for being caught. “I know I’ve seen you around here plenty of times and not once have you caused any trouble. What’s got you so riled up?”

“He stole from me. He stole form me! I saw him. I saw it in his greedy little hands, Father, he—”

“Alright!” The priest raised a hand, trying to hush the inebriated fellow. “Alright, alright. We’re done, aren’t we? We’re all using our inside voices.”

This would have been funnier, since they were outside, in an alley, the sun saying hello through a hole in the cloud bank overhead. This was funny. The kid didn’t laugh, though, because he was in pain and he was pissed. Olsen sent him on the dumbest mission he’d heard of and he was starting to think she was insane. She was, of course. They had all been crazy right before….

The dumpster was really setting the scene. It was a big boxy reminder that the world was a crap shoot and they were all just a step away from smacking head first into it. That part was a little more literal. The sweet decay nearby stung, almost made him gag. The agent was about to press his back into the sticky metal to get to his feet, but he had enough of his bearings to just avoid that entirely.

“If you go back inside, ask the nice woman with the yellow hat for an extra serving. Tell her I said so and tell her I know she knows everyone says that all the time, but I really say so, extra sugar on top. All that. You hear me?”

“Yellow hat?” The big guy was settling down. He was calm enough that the priest had let go of his forearm and he stumbled away, but he was good. He didn’t have a fucking broken nose. “Yellow…that rag-head in there?”

“Well.”

The priest was tall, not as tall as the other guy. He was lean, dark hair, curly around the ears, graying at the sides. Silver temples, salt and pepper kind of thing, that’s what they would say. He looked so calm, his thin face smooth, emotionless. Thin eyebrows cured to the shape of his forehead, but they didn’t crease or anything. Didn’t look mad, that was it. And he almost smiled, it seemed, when he turned around, like he was going to go back inside and forget the both of them. He closed his eyes, letting it go, letting it go, letting it…. But then he pivoted on his heel and he decked the big guy hard in the mouth. It wasn’t a very loud sound, nothing like you think in the movies. It was a solid hit, hard enough to chip a tooth. The big guy went reeling. The priest grabbed his hand and shook it, trying hard not to give away how bad it hurt right up until, “Christ!” He kissed his bright red knuckles. “Ahhhhh sonvabitch. Son of a bitch, Alice, you owe me. Alright alright alllllllRIGHT, Chuuuuhhhhuhhhrist! Ugh. Broke it. Broke it! Mm! Get up.”

“You—”

“Get. Up.”

The big guy stood, wobbling on his feet. It was hard to tell, but he was on the verge of tears. Not every day a guy got punched in the face by a priest.

“Now, I know, I know, listen.” They were close now. The priest had a gentle hand—the one sans the potentially broken knuckle from delivering the punch—on the man’s back. Poor drunk caved in on himself, wiping snot from his nose. “It can’t be like this, can it? You see the world out there? Look at me. It’s okay. That world out there is cold. It’s hard. It’s a hungry place. Don’t bring that in here. Huh? You leave that hate out in the snow. You let it freeze out there. And when you go inside and ask the woman in a yellow hat for a second helping, you tell her everything I said, you apologize, and you say thank you. Now say ‘thank you.’”

“Th-th-thank you.” He was practically blubbering. It was pathetic.

“You’re welcome, son,” said the priest and patted him again.

The big fellow waddled back inside with more snuffles and apologies on his way. With all the steam and rage boiled out of him, he was just a blob, soft, with the round ruddy face of a child left in the cold.

“Now, you.”

The priest came back, pointed at the bloody agent near the trash. He was resting on his knees, looking down at an old concert tee stained a bright red down the middle. Civilian clothes, that’s what Olsen said to wear. Was she going to pay to get the shirt cleaned, because, whatever, Victory Songbirds was a whatever band that played bluegrass covers, but the agent liked them, damnit. He made-out with Samantha Kistensky at that concert. Just wearing it made him feel better, more confident maybe, like the prettiest girl in school had her eye on him and he was fucking pumped form it. Like he’d get the quarterback’s number for shits and giggles. Like he could do whatever for Olsen, and that was the point, right? Do whatever it took to make things right.

The pants were from Target, so, who cares.

“You really didn’t steal that bread of his?”

“You really a priest?” the agent shot back. He groaned again, but wasn’t as dizzy as before.

“So, we got a mouth on us? Good.” The priest folded his arms. “Means you still got your head. Who are you, anyways?”

“I’m a nonnie mouse, so fuck you.”

“That mouth again.”

“I heard you too. You took the Lord’s name in vain, Father. How’s that sit with you? You got…whoa.” He had stood up too fast and the world went dark. His legs swayed beneath him, suddenly unable to chart the swirling pavement that was trying hard to become quick sand. He crashed down with his head way too close to that dumpster.

“Alright, tough guy, come on.” The priest put an arm around him, picked him up, hell, supported him. It was such a damn kindness. “Now you. I’ve never seen you around here.”

“So you keep track of every poor bastard that comes through your doors?”

“I try.”

“Right.”

“I’m Father Barkley.” He led them towards the door into the soup kitchen. “You want to give me your name as, you know, a common courtesy? Or do you want me to just call you a little shit-kicker while you’re here?”

“Again,” said the agent and pulled away. “Are you supposed to talk like that?”

Father Barkley shrugged. There wasn’t an ounce of malice there. Nothing dangerous bristling underneath. Not a threat. Not a threat if you didn’t make fun of the girls in the kitchen, at least. Why did Olsen ever think he was anything dangerous?

“This is important,” Olsen had said. “They will come together and destroy everything we’ve built here. All of the unconverted people, all of them, will eventually try to rise up. And I know exactly where it’s coming from.”

They’d met off campus in Langley Park, close to curfew. They weren’t dressed up for patrol. Olsen had her hair down, tight red curls that looked like they’d eat your hand if you stuck your fingers in them. The agent wasn’t sure why he wanted to do that anyways. She had on her black slacks, her button up, which was a little sheer, just enough so that you could see the faded imprint of a beige bra underneath. He swore he wasn’t looking, it was just there, it was obvious, he knew. Of course he knew. Of course Olsen knew, she could read whatever he thought and he was augmenting her the whole time, so he didn’t think about it. He thought about the sloppy gyro he’d purchased off the street vendor who was closing up for the day. He was thinking about his shoes and the grass and red hair.

“You know, nobody likes it when you use that paranoid ‘They’ kinda talk, right?”

“I know. I don’t care if it’s true,” she said.

“It’s so important, why are you sending me? Why not some of the senior staff? I mean, you’ve been talking to folks too, so….”

“I don’t know them, I can’t trust them.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

What they were doing was they were going against direct orders. They were coloring outside the lines. The agent thought this was stupid on their part, but, hey, Olsen had a plan. She’d never let him down before.

The gyro was a poor choice. He crammed it into his mouth and the tzatziki sauce was all over his face, dribbling down his chin. He didn’t have enough napkins. Whatever, Olsen had seen him worse. She knew every little part inside his brain, what did it matter if he had food on his face?

“So, let me get this straight. You know where that fugitive Rorshire is. You know his alias, you know his work, and you know that I know that he’s a high priority transfer at this point. So tell me what you want here.”

Olsen didn’t say anything helpful that night. She didn’t say a lot of helpful things a lot of the time. Sure, she was strong, she knew what she was doing, but she still had a few screws loose. The board was afraid the augmenter was also short of a clean recovery and had paired the two after they were done with their trials. Maybe that’s why he liked her so much. Two misfits on the Island of Misfit Toys.

“Report back to me,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

“I’ll get you another napkin.”

“Thanks.”

There was a tiny problem with the whole venture. What the hell was he going to report? Uh, yeah, so, he’s as threatening as lead paint, but he punched some guy over a damsel in distress. Send four empties to collect, he’s threat level 1.

There was more. There had to be more. Olsen knew something about this guy, so it seemed the agent had to follow her advice. He pinched his nose and trailed after “Father Barkley,” wobbly at first, but quickly gaining his footing. When he didn’t fumble so much, Father Barkley stopped supporting him and held the door out. They smiled at each other, betraying nothing going on inside. Wasn’t too hard, was it? A little heavy stalking? Probably the easiest assignment he’d been given.

“So, hey, Shit-kicker.” Father Barkley put a hand on the youth’s back again, gentle, reassuring. It was like a father talking to his son. It hurt, it was so soft and gentle and caring; it was gross. “How long has it been you’ve had a hot meal?”

Oh Christ, don’t have pity on me, he thought.

“Better yet,” the agent said instead, “you got something I can take for my nose? He jabbed it hard into my skull and I feel ready to fall, sir.” Ugh, sir. Sir? It made his tongue recoil. Sir. Shoot me.

“Well, I’ve got some aspirin around here somewhere. I think Mohan has a key to the box. We’ll ask him. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Good.��

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.”

“Alright.”

They could go on and on like this. A dick measuring content with a priest.

Mohan, it turned out, didn’t have the key. The agent was forced to follow Mohan around the kitchen on a mini-mission. Someone had handed him a rag, which he pressed to his face, and by the time they found Archie, the towhead with a pressed linen shirt and the sniffles, the agent’s nose had stopped bleeding. Archie led them to where they kept the lockbox with the drugs. It was next to a dirty microwave stamped with a post-it note that read DO NOT. He didn’t get a good look in the box, but saw a few bottles, some bandages, and the wrapper to one of those blue rubber things they put on your thumb when you cut it open.

“Here,” said Mohan and gave him two white pills. Archie was locking the box back up behind him.

“And I can have some water too, right?”

Mohan shrugged. He was a short guy, glasses, black hair, chubby, and a line of acne around the bottom of his chin. He didn’t look malicious, militant. None of these guys were radicals. The dude near the soup cauldron was singing fucking show tunes, who the hell was supposed to be the Big Bad here? Olsen was going to be so bored with his report.

The agent clapped the pills to his mouth and swallowed them dry. Nobody was impressed. He followed Mohan back to the main area and was handed a tray, a bowl of stew with potatoes and meat and vegetables, and chopped cabbage.

“Oh, uh,” he said to the food and to a woman who just so happened to have a bright yellow knitted cap. She smiled; it was warm and kind. Melted his cold bitter heart. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Take a seat wherever you like.”

“Uh,” he said again. “Uh-huh.”

There was a table with a seat near the back of the cafeteria. Everyone was bunched in groups of five or six, taking up big round tables. Half of them were in ratty clothes, the usual attire. The other half looked like they’d just finished a shift at Wal-Mart or as some secretary for an accounting firm or something. He couldn’t believe how many were his age. There were a lot of guys, tired, bearded, miserable to their bones. Women huddled together, watched their kids. The drunk who had punched him was sitting with a group who had that construction crew look. A lot of them needed coats against the cold, the snow still up to his shins. Nobody would be seeing grass until maybe the end of May, if they were lucky.

The agent took a seat at the back table. There were a few people around, each of them with bowed heads. He spilled some of his soup onto the tray, which started to soak into the purple and green cabbage. He half expected someone to snap and try to steal his food. Was there irony that he didn’t have bread? It was best to just eat quietly, same as everyone else.

“How we doin’?” he asked his hunched neighbors. They stirred, cocked their heads, mumbled something low and soothing and lost on him. “That Father Barkley, huh? He just goes on and on all the time or what?”

“Or what, h’yeah.” A short, ashy kid to his left, his gloves frayed so badly that the thread occasionally dragged through the broth of his stew, snorted. There was a fresh wound on the side of his head, shiny and red against his short curls. “Got a story. You want mine?”

“Well, sure.”

“Ah, fuck you. What’re you doing?”

“Same as you,” the agent shot back. “Why? You got a problem all of a sudden?’

“What happened to your face?”

“I could ask the same,” the agent said and jabbed his spoon towards the kid like he was holding a shiv.

“He’s an asshole,” said the woman to his left, someone who looked like she’d be home in a library with her thick round tortious shell glasses and fair hair twisted up in a bun, the back shaved to show a discreet tattoo like everyone was getting in the 30s. The woman spoke out of the corner of her mouth, like she was delivering secrets at a rendezvous.

“You’re an asshole,” the gray kid said.

“Micah,” said the guy with long blond hair and a beard. He had several medical bracelets up his arms, tokens from Sanctuary visits. “You know Ben got him.”

“Ben got him” the woman said, nodding.

“Who’s Ben?”

“Ben got him near the dumpster,” the woman said through the corner of her mouth. “’Nother bread scare. If you want your cabbage, say so, but can I have it?”

“Father Barkley’s got it all covered,” said the blonde guy and they all nodded together, mumbling in a disjointed prayer. The gray kid, Micah, tapped the table with his fingers, dot dot dee dot dot dee dot dot. The blonde nodded along with it. “Father Barkley keeps it level, right?”

“Did you do something to Ben?” Micah asked.

“Who? The guy who broke my nose?”

“Did you?”

“No! Dude broke my nose, I didn’t do anything.”

They nodded. All of them. People nearby were doing it too. The agent had a weird feeling in his gut that this was a cult and he was about to be sacrificed and served up as next Wednesday’s long pork special.

“Still an asshole,” said the woman into her shoulder.

“Still an asshole,” the gray kid said louder, tapping the table again. Dot dot dee dot dot dee dot dot.

“Bread scare,” said the blonde guy.

“Bread scare,” said the woman and jerked her head from her left shoulder to her right.

“He’ll do that,” said Micah. “Big Ben.”

“He will,” they answered and then, “Big Ben.”

It clicked, light bulb ding and everything. They were being manipulated. One of the three at the table had a low influential field, a physical manipulator with a budding active talent. Somebody had to be augmenting, but he couldn’t see the field, the delicate lace stretched from one partner to the other. That was something he always saw between Olsen and himself, like a leash. But these were low level, probably wouldn’t register much on the Westwood scale. They were nodding. All of them. The agent wasn’t affected because he was stronger than them, he could repel it without even thinking. But he put his spoon in his mouth and tongued the greasy meat, the chalky potato chunks, nodding along with them. There were wild NARA patients out here and don’t you know, they never went through the proper channels. No Westwood Trials. Now this was an assignment.

It was more dangerous than he knew. The agent blinked, slow to churn out the thought. You idiot. She said, didn’t she? This place is crawling. Shit on a brick, they’re coming together in a group. Pairing off. She was right, wasn’t she? Us versus them. You gotta keep your eyes open, man, you’re outnumbered.

“He will,” the agent said at last, nodding in time with the rest of them, letting himself fall into it a little so as not to be caught. “Big Ben.”

Nobody spoke for a while. It was tense and maybe the agent was wound too tight to play it cool. Micah, gray kid with a head wound, relaxed. Everyone else complied, dropping their shoulders or rolling their heads. They went back to eating and chatting and whatever was normal. What was normal anyways?

You are the lock. You are the chain. You are the hand. It was a mantra he picked up back in the Westwood Trials. It was destiny, right? You are the lock. He tried to remember the path and the last dream he had before he was sent to Locke Security. You are the chain. The fever, Christ, the fever. Broken nose hurt, it hurt, it hurt, but he remembered the fever too. He had to keep saying it. You are the hand. You are the lock. You are the chain. You are the hand. You are the lock. You are the chain. You are the hand. You are—

Someone started choking nearby. Everyone was up in arms as somebody gasped, throat clicking and hands slapping their strained throat. The agent got out of his seat as someone from the kitchen rushed to deliver hard blows to the back of the chocking victim. Wasn’t going to do jack if they kept it up, but they were quick to stand behind them and start ramming their fist up into their ribcage. Had to break a rib. That was the way to do it, had to break a goddamn rib. Then someone else threw a tray at the wall and it splattered like a Jackson Pollock. The agent put his bowl on a rotating rack set into one of the walls, which followed a track into the kitchen. There were a lot of people running to the choking victim. Somebody had to take care of the psycho who threw the tray, what were they even thinking? A pretty woman next to the kitchen door stood on her toes to get a better look at the crowd.

“Hey,” said the agent as he slid up next to her, crossing his arms. Too skinny to hide the blood stain, really. He needed to start going to the gym or something. She wasn’t even interested in him. Maybe she wasn’t a big fan of Victory Songbirds. He pressed on anyways. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a job around here?”

“No jobs,” she said absently and then shot him a look. She was angry? Confused? Disgusted. No, scared. It was a hard mix to read. “We volunteer. Hey, what the hell is going on out there, Chrys?” She yelled back into the kitchen. “Chrys?”

“So, whatever, volunteer,” he said, trying not to sound put off. “Excuse the vocabulary. Maybe I wanna volunteer here.”

“Chrys, we got a scene. Where’s Barkley? Father Barkley! We’re gonna have them back here in a second, can you get out here, please?”

“What brought you here? Like, awesome, love the volunteering thing. You care. That’s great. Maybe I care too, right? Maybe I wanna help people.”

“Look, guy, can you hang back a second? Like—”

She gestured out as the guy who had been singing to the soup cauldron came over and saw the crowd rolling into the choking man. They started to head into the pile of bodies, asking people to move back, please, move back, and Oh my god, Becky, call an ambulance! Please, everyone. Give him some space!

“So, I’ll stand over here then,” said the agent as the crowd tipped from frenzy to madness. People were clawing at each other under the stress of one miserable little life getting snuffed out. “So chew your food, people, how is it that hard?”

Just a casual once over showed him a room to the right of the kitchen, opposite the big hall with beds for the homeless. The room wasn’t even locked, holy shit, so he sealed himself inside until the commotion was over. It was a tiny room, barely enough space for a cot and a trunk of clothes. He pressed for a sensor over the bed, but the little black strip was more likely electric tape than an access port for a mounted vido. He sat on the bed. Smelled stale, like the sour scent of sweat and age and dirt. Something shifted in the corner. The agent almost leapt to kick it before he noticed the very old cat. Really old. It was scraggly with a chewed up ear and tired yellow eyes that looked like they had seen some shit. He almost said hello to the creature, not sure if he should offer a hand or not. Those nails might scratch him deep and infect him with god knows what. Wasn’t worth the risk.

There were a few women’s clothes next to the trunk along with a pair of boxers and tube socks. He thought maybe the priest lived there, but there wasn’t a cross on the wall or a bible or anything. And the women’s clothes? Well, dress however you like in the privacy of your own home. The agent stood up from the bed and toed away some clothes, finding absolutely nothing exciting. Whatever was happening outside started to die down. He’d bide his time, snoop around the kitchen some, find a pantry or a cupboard to set a little audio bug, and stay in the shelter overnight until he blipped back a report on a public wifi.

“Don’t go ratting on me,” he said to the cat who was licking itself. It purred.

The agent waved at it and left the room just as quietly and discreetly as he had entered.

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#The Dig Initiative #writing #novel #prose #The Recruit #violence

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