Hi! Some Bowuigi fanbaby thoughts!
So, since Bowser can shapeshift his size and stuff, he often goes very small (almost Mario movie small askldsa) to play with Magma, who loves to have a very small version of her dada that she can pick up and hug as she pleases.
Also, Bowser did the same with Junior, and when Magma's in koopa form, she reminds him way too much from when Junior was a baby koopaling, so he's like kinda nostalgic because his little boy has grown so much :'''v (he's never gonna recover emotionally from this).
Also, Luigi takes lots of photos of Magma and the rest of the kooaplings c: He became their mom and started snapping photos of his babies like crazy, and to not run out of space on his phone, he prints the photos like in both big and small formats and they're hung at the walls of any place of the castle (to the older koopalings' embarrassment).
Also also, headcanon that Luigi is a known crybaby, my guy's very emotional, but so is Bowser. Like he used to usually go to anger and frustration and that's where he stayed and that's why people think he doesn't cry easily or stuff. But at times (especially regarding his children), he can have his silly crying eyes on because he's so proud of them and loves them very much. Or he's sad because they used to be smaller and they're growing and becoming their own koopas and accomplishing good things and some of them just aren't koopalings anymore (like Ludwig).
Like, you can bet the first time Junior laughed when he was a baby, years back, Bowser was on the floor crying his eyes out but also laughing because it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard :'v (maybe Kamek was like 🧍🏻♂️right beside him, because at Bowser's silly sounds, Junior laughed more and Bowser weeped even harder, and it was like a never-ending cycle).
Got carried away 😔 Bowser and Luigi love their kids, as a summary.
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cw: you two have a son together, mention of being married, old man Bakugou
older retired pro hero Bakugou, who you find hunched over his desk one night. it’s late and the day was long and your son was whinier than he usually is. you’d think the old man would be in bed right now, but alas—he’s not beside you.
instead, as you round the corner to get a full look at him, he’s wearing his reading glasses, adorning an old ratty tank, his arms still big but softer than the years from before. he has a book open in front of him, desk scattered with pictures you can’t see from your angle, scissors, stickers, glue sticks.
“What are you getting up to at this hour, old man?” You ask softly, smiling when Bakugou doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. his tongue is sticking out in the corner as he cuts a squiggly line on a picture, posing it beside another on a blank piece of paper.
“Therapist said I should get into crafting,” he grunts, finally looking over at you from over his glasses. “Do things with my hands, feel busy, get my mind off’a shit.”
you pad over to where he sits, the overhead lamp on his desk focused on the big baby blue book with white pages. peeking over his shoulder, you rest your head on top of his, chin nestled in the still unruly blond and silver locks, overseeing his work.
and honestly? it almost makes you wanna cry. it’s a scrapbook, the page open to pictures of your wedding day, how pretty you looked, how big he smiled at you. you can see other scattered pictures on his desk—when you got a promotion at work, when he was number one for seven months in a row, a positive pregnancy test, the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, two little teeth coming in, baby being held in dads big ole arms that will always protect him.
“After this page, I gotta do the honeymoon.” Bakugou speaks gruffly, setting down a picture to wipe a hand down his face. “And then life accomplishment shit, the baby, his first steps.” He sounds so tired, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding down to smush your face against his own.
“You always have tomorrow. Come to bed.” You say against his cheek, squeezing him when you feel the rejection start up in his belly. But he deflates, pulling his glasses off, reaching around to pull you in his lap. He looks so grumpy, with his frown lines and crows feet, and yet so handsome with his small smile and soft eyes.
“I’ll print more pictures tomorrow. And maybe go by the store to get some more stickers, too.” He tells you in between kisses, his words soft, his hands rough through your pajamas. You hum against his mouth, holding his nape, afraid to ever let him go.
“You do that. Now let’s go to bed.” You whisper, standing up and pulling him with you. He closes the scrapbook for now, and you glimpse at the cover, heart melting at the picture of you two holding up your son, both kissing his cheeks. The picture is captioned with “Our Life” and you don’t think you’ve ever been more grateful to have met him.
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🚑 Rushed to the hospital
✥ The Hospital Arc - Part 1 ✥
Notes: ~ 18 months in, just a little introduction to a long awaited mini-arc.
Trigger Warnings: Med Whump, Panic Attacks, Hyperventilation, Medical Restraints, Needle Mention, Institutionalized Slavery
✥ ✥ ✥
It was supposed to be a simple enough task. Go to the grocery store. Get the things on the list. Go home and get back to his books and cook dinner and watch the sun set and, if it’s a very good day, once Luke gets home they can watch a movie in Luke’s bed and maybe Luke will hold him, even if just for a little bit.
But it’s not a simple task. Anxiety builds in Leo’s peripheries as he weaves through the aisles, hyper-aware of every person he encounters. It’s busier here than he’s comfortable with, and the noises and the lights and the narrow walkways put him on edge. He urges himself, not for the first time that day, to pull himself together.
Still, he selects items almost carelessly, checking off his mental list as quickly as he can.
It’s because he’s moving too quickly, and he’s too jumpy, and everything is too much, that he makes the mistake. He rounds the corner to the cashier, and his cart nearly collides with someone else’s. He dodges it, issuing an anxious, “I’m sorry,” and tries to keep his head down.
He knows the moment that he sees the scrub bottoms, though, that he’s in trouble. Handler, his mind screams at him. He tries to quiet that voice.
He closes his eyes, taking a breath. Another. Another. The sounds of the store grow distorted, far away and warbly and almost silent against the ringing in his ears.
It’s just a doctor or a nurse. The hospital is nearby. It is not a handler. It’s just a doctor. Maybe it’s Rob. Maybe it’s Luke. It is not a handler. Rationally, Leo knows that the nearest site is over an hour away, and no handler would still be in their scrubs after their shift. Leo’s not thinking rationally, though.
He struggles to pull in air as he forces his eyes open.
The man is staring at him. Does he look angry? He’s speaking to him, he thinks, but he can’t make out the words.
I’m sorry, he tries to say again, but isn’t sure if the words come out.
He takes a step back, raising his hands in apology, and tries to draw in another breath. He’s hyperventilating. His fingers shake as he reaches toward his pocket. If he can call… if he can call Luke, Luke can explain. If he can get home, he has medicine in the pantry he can take, and he can… he can hide somewhere until Luke gets home and helps him. He can… he needs to get home, he tries to say.
The man takes a step toward him, his hands up, mirroring Leo’s. Leo’s eyes dart around the store, but he processes none of what he sees.
He can hear voices behind him, telling the man to back off, he thinks.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I–” He wants to tell them he’s allowed to be here. That he’s under contract, and that Luke told him to come here. He wants to tell them not to touch him, that if they touch him right now, it’ll be so much worse. He wants to tell them he’s going to be sick. He wants to tell them he can’t breathe.
But all that comes out is another apology, choked off with a sob.
He’s going to black out. He reaches for his wallet, for his phone, for anything. He grasps at whatever memories of Luke’s voice he can find, clutching onto the sound and the words with every piece of rational thought that he has left.
From behind him, he feels hands on his shoulders, and almost instantly, he’s back in training. The handlers are shouting at him, the handlers are holding him down. He’s crying, he’s begging them to let him go. He’ll do better, he cries. He’s so, so, sorry.
✥ ✥ ✥
There are hands on him when things come into focus. There are fingers pressing into his neck, there’s a mask over his mouth and nose. Breaths don’t come easily, but they come, chased by a burning pain.
He feels a jolt, and forces his eyes open; he’s in an ambulance, he thinks. He reaches up to take off the mask, to tell the man who’s holding him that he’s okay, to beg him to call Luke and to tell him that Luke will help him. His hands won’t work, though.
“It’s alright,” the man says. “Take it easy.”
Do they know he’s a worker? Do they kn… do they know he’s under contract? He tries to ask them if they’re taking him back to a DLS site, but he can’t. He feels tears pooling in his eyes; he tries to lift his hands again, but canvas straps dig into his wrists at the movement.
He sobs, while a desperate plea that probably isn’t understandable to the man works its way out of his chest. The mask muffles the sound, and the man looks concerned, so Leo lets himself hope that maybe… maybe he’ll listen.
Focusing is difficult. Producing words is even harder.
“Let him talk,” another EMT says, nodding.
The first, the man at his head, says, “Stay calm and breathe, okay? You’re gonna be alright.”
The man is obvious with his movements as his hand closes in on Leo’s face, and Leo shrinks into himself. The moment he’s free from the mask, Leo immediately whispers, “I’m s-sorry,” broken by a kind of panicky gasping.
“It’s okay,” the man responds. Leo’s not unaware of how closely he’s watching him, “You’re not in any trouble. They’ll get everything sorted out at the hospital, you’ll be out of there in no time.”
“C-Can you call Luke?” He swallows, forcing as much air into his lungs as he can. It’s not enough. “B-Bennett,” he whispers. “He’s my… he holds my c-c-c-” His whole body is shaking, and the man puts the mask back over his mouth.
“Your contract,” the other EMT says. She squeezes his hand, eying the strap holding it in place. “They’ll call him as soon as you get checked out,” she continues. “There’s… protocol, we need to follow, with people in the system.”
Luke will come, he tries to tell them. More importantly, he tries to make himself believe it. The world is spotting, though. The handlers’ voices are back in his head. Every time his eyes close, images of restraints, of hands on him, of laughter, of his collar, of tubes and white coats and bright lights and scrubs and pain, force their way to the front.
He can’t quite parse out what’s real and what’s in his head, so he sucks in breath after breath, tears streaming in waves down his cheeks as two hands turn into four hands turn into so many hands, and he's too scared to open his eyes and he's too scared to speak and all he can think of, over and over, is that Luke will come for him. He just needs to be good, and Luke will come for him.
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