I am negative over $177 right now in my account because earlier in the week I was hit with a $70 overdraft fee after my bank took my money for a loan payment when it wasn't time to, and I was almost out of it until my auto payment came put for our water bill, which is increasingly more expensive as they build that stupid data center near my house.
So for now I'm asking for donations to my ko-fi, or I have some commission options
• Single character references start at $55
• Goodies start at $10
• "Little Guy" YCH's start at $25
• Chibis start at $30
• Two character Adventure Time style starts at $50
Please take a look and if you're interested, is love to make something for you!
SUMMARY: Soul-lights aren’t as common in this day and age as they were in the past, before quirks, but they’re common enough that people do still find their soulmates.
At thirteen, you meet Bakugou Katsuki, and he lights up for you in orange and gold. You tell him he's your soulmate. He sneers and tells you that you aren't his. He makes your adolescence miserable until you part ways.
You meet again as adults, late at night, in a grocery store, over a pile of bok choy. He apologizes for how he treated you when you were children.
(In which you have a choice—to reject Bakugou's apology, reject him, or to let him show you the man he's become, to learn with him what it means to love and forgive.)
Bakugou smells faintly of smoke and caramel, an intoxicating combination you’re used to smelling when he comes straight to your apartment after an eventful patrol. His body is radiating heat, despite the relative coolness of the night. His scent, his warmth, and the way his hand is running slowly up and down your back have you sagging into him. He takes your body weight like it’s nothing.
Seconds, minutes, hours—you don’t know how much time passes in his arms until the sound of more EMS vehicles arriving brings you back to the present, suddenly remembering yourself and where you are.
You clear your throat and take a step back, putting some space between the two of you. Bakugou frowns. The air feels too cool as it rushes over the places you’d been connected.
“What—how are you here?” you ask him.
Bakugou’s eyes can’t seem to settle; they dart from your eyes, to your ears, to your hands. His brow furrows as he reaches up to touch the side of your neck. A blotch of sticky, drying blood comes off onto his glove.
“Heard about the villain,” Bakugou says, and he clenches his fist, lowering it.
His voice and other sounds still come across as muffled, as if your head’s wrapped in a blanket or as if you’re underwater. You shake your head a little, as if trying to dislodge water that had gotten into your ears after swimming. Of course, the motion does nothing except exacerbate the headache you have.
Wincing, you glance around. Thankfully, it seems like everyone’s too busy doing damage control to have paid any attention to you and Bakugou. You’re relieved; you don’t know what you’d do if another media incident featuring the two of you came as a result of this night. Still—
“We should go,” you say. No need to push your luck any further.
“Not yet,” Bakugou says. “You’re getting those ears looked at.”
“They already checked me over and gave me the go ahead.”
Bakugou scowls ferociously. “Well they did a shitty job. Let’s go.”
Sighing, you trail Bakugou as he makes his way to an EMS medic preoccupied with healing a woman with some nasty looking cuts on her legs. The woman looks as exhausted as you feel and doesn’t even look up when the both of you approach, seeming dazed as she stares down at the bright green glow emitting from the medic’s palms.
“Hey, hedgehog head,” Bakugou says to the medic, to your horror. Sure, the man’s hair is styled—or maybe naturally?—spiky, but there isn’t any need for name-calling.
“Hey, Dynamight!” the medic says cheerfully. “What can I do ya for?”
“Fix this shit,” Bakugou says, gesturing to your ear.
Your eyes widen, and you wave a hand in front of yourself. “Please finish up with your current patient! I was already seen by someone else, so no need—”
“The hell there isn’t,” Bakugou snaps, and you glare at him.
Perhaps taking pity on you, the medic smiles. “No worries. This lovely lady is all patched up, so this seat is up for grabs.”
The green glow fades from his hands, revealing clean, unblemished skin on the woman’s legs.
You open your mouth to protest again, but Bakugou shuts you up with a look that has you reluctantly taking the seat the woman evacuates. You make a silent promise to yourself to get him back for this.
The medic is apologetic that he’s only able to heal the cuts on your face and your ear damage; he explains that he needs to save his juice for really serious injuries, and there are still several people who need medical attention.
Before Bakugou can continue to be a menace, you quickly thank him, jumping up from your seat and speed-walking away.
Bakugou can only follow you with a frown on his face, redirecting you over to his car where it’s parked just beyond the EMS vehicles and taped off areas to prevent people from stepping into the path of glass and other debris.
He’s walking so close to you that every step has you brushing your shoulder against him, your elbow. When you try to give him some space, he scowls at you and closes the distance, bumping against you.
He opens the front passenger door and ushers you in. Rounding the front of the car, he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the car.
As you sit there, you deflate. Truthfully, you’re grateful for Bakugou’s pushiness. The injuries to your ears had cranked up your anxiety levels, and now you have one less thing to worry about.
“Thank you, Bakugou,” you say quietly as he puts the car into reverse and reaches out to brace a hand on the back of your headrest.
Your eyes make contact for a brief moment before he nods, continuing to reverse.
The car is silent as Bakugou makes his way through congested streets, backed up because of the incident. You look out the window, studying the damage the villain had caused—the shattered windows and dark streets, unlit because of the broken street lights. But your eyes can’t help but be drawn back to Bakugou. The line of his left arm connected to the steering wheel, handling the car with ease, as his right arm rests casually on the door’s window ledge. The shadows under his eyes deepened by the dim lighting of the car’s console cast on his face.
In the chaos of everything, it hadn’t even occurred to you that it’s been almost a week since you’d seen Bakugou and it’s been radio silence between the two of you. That the last time you’d seen him left a bitter taste in your mouth, his voice ringing in your ears, filled with anger.
It’d all been washed away upon seeing him, being in his arms.
But now that you’ve had time to catch your breath, it all comes flooding back, and. You don’t know. Is it trivial, the fight you’d had? It feels like it in this moment. But you don’t want to just brush it aside, as if it’d never happened. Because what if it happens again?
Swallowing, you break the silence. “The agency’s pretty far from here… Was the villain so dangerous that they called heroes further out?”
“No. Local patrol had it handled, and it was settled when Ei, Raccoon Eyes, and Dunce Face got there to support.”
Raccoon Eyes? Dunce Face? You know Ei’s Kirishima. Context clues point toward Raccoon Eyes being Pinky… though you’re not sure the nickname’s entirely accurate, given Pinky’s golden irises. Maybe something like Wolf Eyes would’ve been more accurate… Dunce Face has to be Chargebolt, though you have no idea why. You wonder if Bakugou’s just being mean for no reason.
You realize your train of thought is a little rambly, scattered. You're not exactly firing on all cylinders. An overwhelming wave of tiredness washes over you, settling into your skin, leaving you struggling to keep your eyes open.
The car stops at a light. Bakugou drums his fingers against the wheel, glances over at you.
“How’re your hands?” he asks gruffly.
“Stings a little, but they’re okay.”
A yawn comes trailing after the ends of your words, and you just barely cover your mouth in time. At the corner of your eye, you see the corner of Bakugou’s mouth twitch upwards.
Now that you’ve gotten clear of the area damaged by the villain incident, the streets go by faster. They’re familiar to you, but they don’t lead home.
“Bakugou, this isn’t the way to my apartment,” you say, straightening up.
“My place is closer,” Bakugou says.
You blink, open your mouth, then bite your lip, falling into an uncertain silence.
The silence stretches.
Bakugou’s hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles whitening.
“...I’ll take you to yours,” he says, low, switching lanes. He doesn’t look at you. Something in you clenches.
“No,” you blurt out, surprising him, surprising yourself. He glances over at you.
“No,” you repeat, a little more quietly. You gaze at the profile of his face, the shadows that pass over them as you drive past lights, the slope of his nose, the firm set of his lips.
“Let’s go to yours. Let’s—let’s just go home.”
Bakugou’s shoulders lower just an inch, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel releasing. He drops one hand to rest on the center console, keeping the other on the wheel. He gives a short nod, still not looking at you.
For a moment, you just watch him.
Then, tentatively, you reach over and touch the back of his hand, fingertips gliding over his skin.
A quick glance at you, then back at the road.
He flips his hand over and takes yours in his, gentle, mindful of your bandaged cuts.
He doesn’t let go.
The minute you step into his apartment, it’s like the strings holding your body up are cut. It becomes difficult to keep yourself upright, the fatigue weighing you down.
“Hungry?” Bakugou asks, and you just shake your head wearily.
“Can I have a toothbrush and some clothes? I just wanna shower and sleep,” you say, yawning again. It’s so wide that you’re barely able to cover your mouth with your hands. Bakugou snorts.
“Forget the shower.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “How’re you supposed to wash yourself with those hands, dumbass.”
Shaking your head, you say, “I’ll just suck it up with the cuts and rebandage them after. I can’t sleep with blood in my hair and dirt on my skin.”
Bakugou scowls, narrowing his eyes at you. Stiffening, you brace yourself for an argument.
His eyes take in your expression, and he drops his arms quickly, his face flattening into something more neutral. You watch him cautiously, unwilling to trust that he’d back down so quickly.
Brows furrowed, he’s quiet for several long moments, thinking.
“I’ll wash your hair,” he says finally. “And I’ll close my eyes or some shit while I wash your body.”
For a moment, you can only blink. Then you burst into laughter, half in surprise, half in disbelief about the suggestion. He makes a face.
“Bakugou,” you say once you calm down enough to suppress your giggles, still grinning, “How would that even work? You gonna work it out by feel?”
You’re amused, but you feel your face warm a little at your own gall to tease him like this, warm at your imagination, when it begins to sketch out what exactly his solution would entail—his hands on your body, on your bare skin. Those calluses on his fingertips dragging, catching.
But it’s nothing in comparison to how Bakugou’s cheeks pink, the tips of his ears reddening.
Your eyes widen, and his gaze meets yours for an electric, singing moment before he looks away, hand coming up to cover his mouth.
Your heart’s racing, your mouth dry. Your smile fades, and you bite your lip.
Shaking your head, you swallow and say, “Do you have gloves?”
Luckily, Bakugou has nitrile gloves and medical tape in his first aid kit. After you put the gloves on, he tapes the openings against the skin of your wrists so that water isn’t able to run down into them. For good measure, he makes you put another pair of gloves on to protect the tape.
If you were less cranky, you’d acknowledge that it’s a good idea, because it does keep your bandages dry when you brush your teeth and then step into the shower to scrub your body down. Your dexterity is greatly affected though, as you keep dropping things, causing Bakugou to nearly burst into the bathroom the first time the body wash bottle you drop makes a loud thud. Only your frantic shout that you’re fine saves you.
But soon, you’re forced to admit defeat just before getting to shampooing your hair. In the beginning, you’re able to just barely handle the stinging sensation from the constant hand movements as you wash your body. Gritting your teeth through it is possible only up to a point, though, as soon you feel a dampness on your hands that you identify not as water leaking into the gloves but blood from your reopened wounds.
Just the thought of what you’ll find under the gloves has you queasy enough to stop.
You step out from under the shower head. You wish you could rub yourself dry, but you’re afraid to make things worse, so you settle for gingerly wrapping a big, fluffy towel loosely around yourself.
“Bakugou?” you call out, hoping he’s nearby to hear you.
You start to make your way to the door, dripping water across the floor.
“What’s wrong?” His voice comes immediately, muffled through wood.
“I need help,” you say, and make sad, shuffling noises against the door with the back of your hand. You wish you could turn the knob to open the door, but just the thought of applying pressure to your palms makes you wince. “Open the door, please?”
The door opens with a swiftness that has you startling backwards, nearly slipping and causing you to loosen your grip on the towel—a near disaster. You clutch at the towel, holding the cloth to your body with your arms. You feel yourself beginning to flush as you look up into Bakugou’s face.
His ears are completely red, charmingly so. The crimson creeps up his cheeks as his eyes dart around, unsure where to rest before settling on a distant point behind your shoulder.
Clearing your throat with effort, you step closer. “Can you… fix my towel, please? Like tuck the edge in so it’s secure?”
His eyes flicker. Wordlessly, he does as you ask, clumsily. The brush of his fingers against your body has you shivering, goosebumps rising across your skin.
“You cold?” Bakugou looks at you consideringly, then shuts the door behind him.
You laugh a little, helplessly. You’re glad he thinks your goosebumps are because you’re cold.
The moment seems to help him regain his composure. He looks you in the eye, careful not to let his gaze drop, and asks, “What do you need help with?”
“Were you serious about being willing to wash my hair?” you ask. You raise your hands a little. “Because I may or may not be bleeding under here and I don’t want to make it worse…”
Bakugou’s expression darkens. Before he can say anything, you jump in.
“You can save the ‘I told you so,’ for later! Please, Bakugou, I just want to finish up so I can go to bed.”
You must look exceedingly pathetic, because instead of grouching at you further, he goes to grab a stool you can sit on. He places it against the edge of the tub and motions for you to get situated so you can lean back with your head hovering over the tub.
For the first few minutes of him dampening your hair, you’re a little tense, preoccupied with keeping the towel tightly against your body and self-conscious about how much skin you’re showing. With how big the towel is, you’re about as covered up as you’d be if you were wearing a flirty sundress. But in this context, knowing you're naked underneath this rectangle of cloth, with Bakugou leaning over you… It’s a lot.
His expression is concentrated, laser-focused as he rubs along your hairline, protecting your face from the splash of water with a hand. He’s gentle, almost excessively so, working his fingers through the strands of hair and to your scalp, massaging the shampoo in. It’s involuntary, how your eyelids soon slide shut and you lean into his hands, a soft sigh exhaling.
“S’okay?” Bakugou says, and sleepily, you murmur an affirmative. You could fall asleep right here, putty in his hands.
You drift a little, you think. Maybe more than a little, because the next thing you know, you’re in what must be Bakugou’s bedroom, only a dim lamp illuminating the room as he sets you down on the bed and adjusts your towel so it’s a little more secure against your body.
“Clothes’re right here,” he says, voice a quiet susurration. “Get dressed and then I’ll dry your hair.”
He leaves the room. You do as he says, putting on clothes that smell like his detergent and peeling off your layers of gloves. When he returns with the first aid kit and a blow dryer in hand, not even the whir of the machine and hot air do anything to deter you from your path to sleep.
When Bakugou begins applying fresh bandages to your palms, you can barely keep your eyes open, swaying a little as you sit.
It’s only until Bakugou turns off the light and moves to get up that you stir.
“Where’re you going?” you mumble, yawning widely.
“Sleepin’ out in the living room,” he tells you, voice low. “Go to sleep.”
You make a sleepy noise of protest, eyes fluttering open with effort. “No… I’ll go, you sleep in here. S’your bed.”
Bakugou breathes out sharply through his nose. “Hell no.”
“Bakugou—” you start, starting to stand up.
He pushes you down, then places his hand over your eyes, covering them.
“Sleep,” he tells you.
You wrap your fingers around his wrist, ignoring the pain, so you can pull him away.
“Stay?” you ask. Even if you were wide awake, you’re sure you wouldn’t be up to Bakugou’s fighting weight when it comes to getting your way; you should’ve known he wouldn’t take the bed when you’re a guest in his home. But maybe you can convince him to compromise…
“Please?” you say, eyes rising to meet his. Your hand slides down from his wrist, coming to rest loosely in his grasp, your fingers entangling.
Bakugou looks down at your entwined fingers. He nods jerkily.
His hand slips from yours, and he makes his way back to the bathroom. The door stays cracked open, and as you wait, you hear the shower turn on. Steam trickles through the light streaming from the gap in the door.
You do try to wait up for him. But sleep’s siren song calls you, and you pull back the covers, getting in.
The bed dips next to you, and you stir. The movement’s enough to rouse you into tentative wakefulness as you begin to slide closer to the center of the bed. You make a drowsy, querying noise.
“S’just me.” Bakugou’s voice is a rumbly rasp, so quiet as it is.
There’s a feather light touch to your cheek and your body softens, relaxing, and then you’re asleep again.
Nose scrunched, you make a sleepy sound that’s a cross between a whine and a groan as you register that you’re way too warm, from head to toe, and that’s what’s drawn you out of dreamland.
You don’t want to wake up. Eyes still closed, you tense your muscles in a stretch—from the arches of your feet to your calves to your core to your back—then relax, trying to fall back asleep.
A soft laugh, just a quiet exhale of air through the nose, makes your eyes shoot open.
Directly in front of you is a broad chest in dark blue, rising up and down in a steady rhythm. Now that you’re wide awake, it registers that underneath your head is not, in fact, a pillow, but warm skin, firm muscle—an arm. Your hand clenches fabric, and there’s a grunt right above you, close. Immediately, you let go when you realize your hand is gripping Bakugou’s shirt, crumpling it over his abdomen.
Bakugou’s voice is deep, more gravelly than usual, sending little involuntary shivers through your body that you desperately hope he doesn’t notice, when he says, “Finally awake?”
You can feel his voice in your body with just how close you are to him, tucked into his side as you are. There’s a line of heat that travels all the way down the front of your body where it meets the contours of his, uninterrupted even by air. He smells so good; his natural scent combines with the fresh notes of whatever shampoo or body wash he uses, and this combines with the fragrance of clean, laundered sheets wrapped around both of you.
You half wonder if you’re still dreaming.
But consciousness comes back to you in waves.
It’s hard not to be self-conscious about a myriad of things—of morning breath, of how swollen your eyes must be, of the bandages on your hands, of how comfortable you’ve made yourself, nestled into him.
Flashes of the night before hit you, and you’re embarrassed by your helplessness. Your audacity. Of your honesty. You should really move away, make some space between you, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.
You feel Bakugou’s bicep flex under your head as he shifts a little, and you resign yourself to getting up.
But to your surprise, Bakugou’s only moved so that he’s laying on his side, facing you. Looking at you.
The room is dim because the curtains are still drawn, but slants of light still seep out around them, brightening the room just enough for you to see the crimson of his eyes, the blond of his lashes framing them. The scar on his face, the messy ruffle of his hair, a crease mark on his face from the pillow, maybe.
The orange and gold of his lights pulse around him with a deep warmth, the gold sparking in places like you’ve never seen before. Entranced, you slide your hand up his free arm, from bicep to forearm and back, watching as the colors swirl in your wake. Beneath your touch, the hues seem to almost intensify, but you’re sure it’s your eyes playing tricks.
Bakugou inhales sharply, and the sound snaps you to the present, eyes jumping to meet his.
He’s gazing at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat, then beat faster, insistently. Your breath shallows out. When he reaches up to touch your face, the movement dislodges your hand, but you barely notice.
Bakugou cups your jaw for a long moment, just looking at you. His thumb strokes your cheek, just once.
Then he pinches your nose.
“Breakfast,” he says.
Breakfast is a quiet affair.
Bakugou puts together a hearty breakfast. When you try to help, he scowls at you, bumping you out of the way with a pointed look at your hands. So you content yourself with messing around with your phone at the dining table, all the while sneaking glances at him. The fluidity of his movements around the kitchen, his quiet skillfulness with a knife. The neutral lines his expression falls into as things come together.
Eating together is peaceful, uninterrupted by conversation. You can tell Bakugou’s thinking about something, and you’re preoccupied yourself, trying to muster up the courage to address the elephant in the room.
It’s not until the table is cleared and you’re idling, just watching Bakugou load the dishwasher because he refused your help again, that you ask, “Don’t you have to go into work?”
Bakugou shakes his head, closing the dishwasher door and washing his hands in the sink. “Called out. Ei’s handling shit today.”
“Oh.”
You fidget a little, shifting your weight back and forth, then make up your mind. You don’t want to talk about it today. Going home is probably the best thing you can do.
Just as you open your mouth to say your goodbyes, Bakugou’s eyes slide to meet yours.
He asks, “Y’wanna get coffee? At our usual.”
His lights flicker erratically, orange flaring in spikes before settling into a moody dimness around him.
You should say no. But—you don’t want to; you want to say yes. Last night was so chaotic that you couldn’t properly process your feelings. This morning, with how you’d woken up to him, how you’d fallen into a rhythm during breakfast… It all reminded you of how uncomplicated things could be.
“Okay,” you say. Then you furrow your brow. “But we shouldn’t be out in public together, right? Ikeda would have a conniption.”
Bakugou scowls, then shrugs a shoulder. “The story’s that you work for me. Wouldn’t be weird.”
“I guess… but in these clothes?”
You look down at yourself, dressed in one of Bakugou’s black shirts with a skull on it, a little tight on you, and sweatpants that are too loose; you had to roll up the bottoms and tighten the drawstring as far as it could go. No matter how Bakugou or Ikeda could spin it, no way would anyone buy that you work for him wearing what you’re wearing.
Bakugou’s jaw tightens, then releases. “I’ll drop you off at yours, then.”
Something in his expression, subtly downcast before it’s tucked away into a neutral stillness, makes your heart twinge, an involuntary response.
“If you don’t mind,” you say carefully, “I could get changed at my place quickly and then we could go to the cafe.”
He stares at you for a moment. He looks away. “You’re not wrong that people could be annoying and take pictures or whatever. S’better if I just take you home.”
“If—If you don’t mind, I don’t mind,” you say firmly.
A couple months ago, when the pet store incident happened, you did mind. You minded a lot. But now… so much has changed. You don’t care anymore what people think. They don’t know you, and they don’t know Bakugou. There’s a feeling in your gut that if you turn Bakugou down now, you’ll regret it.
Bakugou reaches up, pauses at your cheek, then moves on to tuck some hair behind your ear.
“Okay,” he tells you.
Mikan greets you at the door with yowls. He’s upset because it’s way past his breakfast time, which you’re guilty about.
“I know, baby, sorry,” you say as you reach down to pick him up, giving him a big smooch on his head. You head to the kitchen, and Mikan wriggles out of your arms as you grab his food bowl. As you crack open a can of food, Mikan meows loudly and impatiently twines himself through your legs.
You don’t even realize that Bakugou’s cleaning the litter box until you’ve set Mikan’s bowl down.
“Bakugou—” you start.
“Go get changed,” he says, then glances around.
“Where’re the other furball?” he asks you. “Only the greedy one came out to eat.”
A pang of sadness pulses through you. Shaking your head, you say, “Natsu was adopted while you were gone. It’s only Mikan now.”
A beat of silence, then Bakugou nods. Moves to the sink to wash his hands.
You retreat to your room to change, but not before seeing Bakugou lean down to stroke along Mikan’s back, the orange cat arching into his touch briefly before stuffing his face back into his food.
It’s late enough into the morning that you’ve successfully managed to avoid the morning rush, so you take your time to look at the menu instead of immediately falling into line.
“What’re you getting?” you ask as your eyes scan the boards hanging above and behind the counter.
“Usual,” Bakugou says. He hasn’t looked once at the menu. Instead, he’s scanning the cafe, a sharp look in his eye.
He’s wearing a baseball hat and a black hoodie for some anonymity, you think, but the hoodie doesn’t do a good job of hiding much of anything. At the least, they don’t disguise his broad shoulders. And the expression on his face is anything but civilian.
“Boring,” you tell him, trying to soften him. Looking down at you, he pinches your cheek, rubbing a thumb against the skin before letting go. You jab an elbow into his side, but he dodges it easily.
“Hi! Can I get an iced houjicha latte, please?” you say to the cashier with a smile.
Bakugou steps up behind you, close enough to feel his body heat, and hands her his card as he recites his order right after yours.
As you wait for your drinks, Bakugou suddenly says, “You haven’t thought about keeping ‘im?”
“What?” You blink at him.
“The furball.”
“Mikan?”
“Who else.”
“I’ve thought about it,” you say slowly. And you have. Mikan’s been with you for ages now, and you’ve grown to love his spontaneous bursts of energy as he zooms through your apartment or hunts down the feather attached to your wand toy; his moments of stillness as he curls up in your lap; his affection as he butts his head against your mouth before settling on top of your chest when you lie down, paws tucked underneath him, purring.
You look down. “But I don’t know. He was just matched with someone. I’d hate to take him from them.”
The barista calls your name, and you pick up your orders.
“Fuck it,” Bakugou says as he holds the door open for you to exit ahead of him. “I’ll tell your pet organization or whatever that I wanna keep ‘im. I’m sure they have other furballs that need homes. Those people can choose from them.”
“Thought you didn’t like Mikan,” you say, glancing up at him.
Bakugou’s nose scrunches up in a way that makes you laugh.
“Got used to ‘im, I guess.”
You hum, a thoughtful noise, as you walk. You’re not sure why Bakugou’s suddenly suggesting this or if he’s actually serious.
What you are sure about is that you’re not quite ready to get back in his car and go home. There’s a normalcy to the rhythm you’ve both settled into, reminiscent of how things were before he left for his mission. You’re reluctant to disrupt it.
“Do you wanna walk off breakfast?” you ask. “There’s a park nearby.”
Bakugou grunts an assent, and you keep walking past his parked car.
As you walk, his hand lightly brushes against yours from time to time. You don’t pull away, though you feel the tips of your ears warming and you mentally berate yourself for your inconsistency. You’re upset at him, you’re hurt by him; you’re so happy to be with him, you’re soft in his hands, at his care.
Frustrated with yourself, you look up at the sky.
The sky is a heartbreakingly clear blue, with just a few white wisps to interrupt the expanse. Along the pathway cutting through the park, trees provide welcome shade from the unrelenting sun. The area is relatively empty, what with it being a weekday, except for some aunties and grandmas stretching on the other side of the park.
You think about how quickly the seasons have changed. When you bumped into Bakugou at that grocery store that night, it was early spring, with the cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom. Now it’s fall, and the leaves have just started to turn color, and everything is different.
“Bakugou,” you say hesitantly. “Do you have time to come over and talk?”
“Okay,” Bakugou says as he settles on the couch across from you. “Let’s talk. But no running away this time. I won’t do that shit a third time.”
The urge to defend yourself rears its head, and you look up at him.
His expression is set, grim; he’s leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, hands clasped together.
The words die in your throat. For a moment, you regret inviting him over to have this conversation, your stomach churning.
Bakugou tips his head, looking at you with a glint in his eye, then says, “You needed space. I get it. But feels shitty when you leave mid-conversation. Or give me the silent treatment. Fuck that. How’re we supposed to fix shit if you’re not around to talk shit through.”
You want to tell him that you weren’t running away. That you don’t feel like it’s productive to continue conversations that have escalated into hurtful exchanges. But you take a moment to think about what he’s saying. About how this all started because you were hurt by his silence, his unwillingness to communicate and maintain connection.
Maybe you’re doing the same thing to him in your own way.
“All right,” you say, finally. “You’re right. I won’t do it again. And if I do it again you can call me out on it and I’ll get my shit together.”
Bakugou nods, and the lines of his shoulders ease. You study him, not realizing how much your actions had bothered him.
Looking down at your hands again, at the bandages Bakugou had carefully wrapped around them last night, you inhale deeply.
You begin, “I know you and Kiri own the agency together. And that you’ve been friends since UA. And our friendship hasn’t had the same amount of time, or the kinds of experiences, to develop, I know. But I wanna get there with you, someday. And I think it can only happen if we talk to each other. Tell each other things. Build trust.”
As if you’d opened a lid, everything starts to spill out, your words tripping on each other as if they can’t come fast enough.
“I—I care about you. I worry about you, and I thought about you a lot while you were gone. I counted each day, hoping that it’d be the one when you’d be back. And I know it’s not what you intended, I know you’ve explained your reasons why, but it hurt because it felt like I wasn’t worth the minute it would’ve taken for you to shoot me a message that you’re back and that you’re okay. Felt like I didn’t matter to you.”
You fall silent, hands clenched tight enough to hurt. Bakugou makes a rough sound, reaching over to touch the back of your hand, to make you let go. You try to relax, take a deep breath.
“I hear your reasons for why you did what you did,” you say, looking him in the eyes, hoping you’re getting across to him. “I get that I can’t change who you are. I just want you to know how I felt.”
Bakugou takes one look at your face and curses.
“C’mere,” he says roughly as he moves to sit next to you on the couch. He reaches over and wipes at the moisture around your eyes with gentle fingers. “Fuck, don’t cry.”
“I’m not,” you say, making a face, and your voice comes out thin, trembly. You’re not crying. You’re just—when you’re in difficult, emotional situations, sometimes it’s like your body can’t take the stress and you tear up. You’re not crying. It’s just a lot.
“M’sorry,” he tells you, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing you to his chest.
You’re still, breathing him in. Stiff, trying not to give in to him. “I don’t want you to be sorry just because of—because of this. I don’t mean to. I’m not. I just get worked up.”
You don’t want him to apologize out of guilt, or to make your tears go away. You want him to understand.
When you try to pull away, Bakugou firms his grip on you, refusing to let go.
“You’re right,” he says. “It’s fucked, I messed up. I’m not just saying this shit because I want to stop arguing. If you went somewhere for work, or—or on a trip somewhere, I’d be pissed if you didn’t tell me anything. I think about you all the goddamn time. Last night stressed me the fuck out because I wasn’t sure if you were okay and dumbass Ei left you.”
Those last words end in a growl.
You’re wide-eyed in his arms, stunned into silence. You scarcely dare to breathe as you struggle to process his words.
Bakugou relents, allowing you to pull back enough to look into his face. Your eyes search his, not sure what you’re trying to find.
He says, “I do shit this way because it’s what’s worked. And I’ve been doing it a long time. S’hard because most people around me already know how hero work is and don’t expect me to do anything different. I’ll do better.”
You close your eyes, letting out a shuddery breath, letting his words soak in, weighing whether to accept them or not. His hand moves up and down your back in long, steady strokes. As if you were Mikan.
A feeling you’re not willing to name rises in your throat, and you really do feel like crying now.
You soften.
“Missed you,” you whisper against his chest, pressing yourself against him. His arm moves down to circle your waist as you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. “Glad you’re home safe. Meant to tell you that. So happy you’re home.”
His arms tighten around you, squeezing almost a little too hard. You welcome the pressure.
“Don’t like when you cry, so stop,” he mutters.
“M’not crying,” you say, but the wobbliness in your voice isn’t very convincing.
For a moment, you’re tempted to leave things here. You think you could be satisfied with this. And yet…
You raise your head, look at him.
“I have just one last thing I gotta get off my chest,” you say, letting your arms drop.
Shifting a little, you move to put some space between the two of you. You don’t know how you got there, but you’re half in his lap, and it’s a little embarrassing. But he doesn’t let you get far, even with the face you make at him, his arm firmly holding you in place.
“Weeks ago. Before you left, when I was sick, you made this comment like, ‘You don’t get it,’ when I mentioned taking it easy with the hero work. And you said something similar when we argued.”
Swallowing, you say, “And I want to tell you that it makes me feel lonely, hearing you say that. It feels like you don’t want to explain because you think I wouldn’t understand. It sucks.”
With how close the two of you are, you can feel Bakugou’s body tense up in response to your words.
“I don’t say that kind of shit to be exclusionary,” Bakugou says. “It’s just. It’s fucking true. Civilians can’t understand the job. And I can’t take it easy. People depend on me.”
You scan his expression, trying to read him. Trying to pick your words so that they click.
“I know. You’re right. But… that reasoning can be used for any line of work, right? Or life experience. You can’t know what it’s like to be—to be an office worker. Or a doctor. An engineer. An artist. A mother, or a sibling. We’re all living different lives, and the only way we can come together is by sharing our lives with each other. That’s how I see it. What about you?”
Bakguou is silent for a beat. Then he exhales. “The hero stuff… it’s not all glory and saving people and happy endings. Sometimes shit is fucked, and all we do is try to keep it from being worse. I don’t want you to have to deal with that too.”
A bitterness you’ve never seen before turns down the corner of his lips, sharpens his eyes, furrows his brow. There’s sorrow there, too, a bone-deep fatigue. It makes you want to reach out and touch it, erase it, so your hand cups his cheek before you can think. Your thumb strokes his skin. His eyes lock on yours and hold.
“That’s my choice,” you tell him gently. “I don’t need to be sheltered from things, like I’m a kid. If it turns out I can’t handle something, I’ll tell you. If there’s something you’re not comfortable sharing, or you’re not allowed to tell me something, I’ll respect that. But you should communicate that with me instead of not giving me any explanation at all. I think that’s fair.”
Bakugou is quiet for a long moment, and you’re content to let him think. Finally, he says, “Okay. But you have to promise to tell me if shit’s too much for you.”
“Promise,” you say, a small smile lifting your cheeks. You give in to the urge to pinch his nose, payback for this morning, and he nips at your fingers as you retreat.
A thought occurs to you, and you pause. There’s one last thing, one true last thing, that you haven’t talked about yet. You’ve been avoiding it all this time because you’re afraid to shatter what’s between you. But so many things are out in the open now, and it feels a little bit like maybe it’ll be okay if you bring this thing up too.
“I lied,” you tell Bakugou. “I have one more last thing to get off my chest. It’s the actual last thing though, I swear.”
“Better be,” he growls at you, and you laugh a little. It helps you be brave.
“I—I know that for you, at least part of what we are might just be trying to make up for what happened when we were kids, but you don’t need to. I already forgave you, okay? I don’t care that I’m not your soulmate because…” You hesitate, avoiding his gaze. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Regardless?”
Bakugou has gone rigid around you as you’ve talked, but he startles at your last words, jerking his head up to stare into your face.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
You flinch.
Bakugou swears, then, “Fuck, no, I meant—the hell do you mean you’re not my soulmate? You are.”
For a moment, you feel like you’re separate from your body, untethered. His words echo in your ears, reminding you of how things sounded right after the villain’s attack last night. Then the words register, and you crash back down to earth.
“What?” you say, and the word comes out cracked. Something tightens in your chest. “No I’m not.”
“The hell you aren’t,” he snarls. His hand on your waist squeezes, tightening, a reflex.
“But you said that I wasn’t!”
His eyes, cutting crimson, bore into you. “When the hell did I say that?”
“When we were kids.” You stare at him. Swallow. “When we first met. You told me that you’re not my soulmate, after I told you that you’re mine.”
“Fuck.” Bakugou simmers in silence for a long moment. “Fuck. I was a shitty kid, okay. And I said what I said because I didn’t want it to be true. Because soulmates or lights or whatever the fuck are bullshit. Some random person tells you they can see lights around you that you can’t even see yourself and that means you’re supposed to suddenly give a shit about them? Didn’t believe in that garbage and still don’t.”
He’s breathing heavily, as if he’s just sparred three rounds against Kiri at the gym. His gaze is piercing. His lights are erratic, orange overpowering the gold and flaring intensely.
“Then why the hell are you saying that I’m your soulmate like it matters? If it’s even true?” you say accusingly.
“It doesn’t!” he says, explosively. He catches himself, takes a deep breath, and continues, more levelly, “It doesn’t matter to me. But I know it does to you. And it is true. I’ve always been able to see your lights. All this time. Distracting as shit.”
He reaches out and grasps your hand gently, careful of your palms, his other rising to rest on your arm, running back and forth across your skin as if interacting with something that you can’t see. A motion you’d done just this morning, lying across from him in bed.
You’re speechless. You’re afraid. To believe, to hope.
Bakugou ducks his head to meet your eyes.
“But I don’t care about you because of some shitty lights. Want you. Didn’t deserve it, but you gave me another chance. Figured out you’re it myself. Didn’t need those dumb lights.”
Eyes intense, he looks at you, checking to see if he’s getting through to you.
He releases your hand. Tousles his hair roughly, clicking his tongue.
“Friends, whatever you want, we’ll do that. Just don’t think I’ve stuck around just because of these damn lights or what happened when we were kids. I told you. I only do shit I wanna do. Thought you were smarter than this, dumbass.” He pokes you square in the forehead, and you scowl at him, rubbing the spot.
Your scowl slowly fades as you furrow your brow, trying to process everything. But your mind’s awhirl, and trying to settle on a single thought is like trying to catch the dust specks that’re only visible in sunlight, twisting, floating.
Groaning, you bury your face in Bakugou’s shoulder.
“I give up,” you say, voice muffled. “It’s too much to think about. My brain’s going to explode.”
“You’re the one who kept bringing shit up. Last thing to get off your chest, my ass,” Bakugou snarks.
Your head jerks up, and you narrow your eyes at him.
“Watch the attitude, asshole.”
“Or what?” Bakugou scoffs.
Ooh, the urge to do something diabolical is so strong. But you restrain yourself, tallying up all the strikes he’s made against you today and tucking them aside for later.
Soulmates.
The word keeps repeating itself, a mantra in your head, as you go through the motions of the rest of the day.
Bakugou insists on driving you home, not letting you take public transportation despite the fact that you don’t live too far from each other. Maybe he senses you need the silence, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t have any words left either, but he doesn’t say much to you between the ending of your conversation to dropping you off at your apartment except to remind you to change your bandages and to call him if you need anything.
You head to your bedroom to change into your own clothes. It’s only in the privacy of your room, smelling traces of Bakugou’s body wash on your skin, his shampoo in your hair, that the past twenty-four hours really hits you.
You sink shakily onto your bed and try to breathe.
Given the revelations you’d confronted this morning, the villain attack feels like it happened ages ago, irrelevant, as ridiculous as it sounds. If the bandages on your hands weren’t proof, the event would’ve faded from your memory.
Soulmates.
You mouth the word silently.
You don’t think Bakugou would lie about this. Knowing him like you do now, it makes sense that he’d so adamantly refuse ties he has no control over. Knowing the kid he was back then, the young man he grew into, gathered from various press coverage over the years, it makes sense he’d want to forge his own path and deny anything that got in his way.
You’re just not sure what shifted between his rejection when you were children and your meeting months ago, in that grocery store. You regret not asking him, but—in the moment, you’d been so overwhelmed. You’re still overwhelmed.
How would this change things between you? If he’s been able to see your lights all this time—what do they look like to him? You’ve never told him the color of his lights; he never seemed interested, anyway. You wonder what you look like to him. You wish you could see yourself through his eyes, understand what’s going on in his brain.
Friends, whatever you want, we’ll do that.
He’d said that. And you’d said that. Friends. But if you’re truthful with yourself, that’s not what you want. You want more, and only now do you feel warranted to hope for more. You know what it feels like to be held in his arms. To wake up next to him, the first thing you see. To be treated so gently by him, like you’re important. Precious.
…But what if wanting more from him would be forcing upon him another tie he never asked for? Surely if he feels the same way you do, he would’ve said something instead of defaulting to friendship.
Just as doubt begins to creep in again, your phone buzzes, a welcome distraction.
Kiri: Hey! I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to check up on you last night. Had to deal with so many problems!!!
You smile and reply.
You: Don’t worry about it! I’m doing good. Got seen by some medics and just have some cuts on my hands, no biggie
Kiri: Wish I could’ve escorted you home! I hope you didn’t get home too late… There was a bunch of traffic and closed off streets
You: We got home in pretty good time, nw. I hope you didn’t have to stay out too late dealing with everything
Kiri: Oh? Did your friend pick you up? Or family?
You pause for a moment, wondering if you should answer. Shrugging, you tap out a response, figuring that Bakugou would tell Kiri eventually. Honestly, you thought Kiri already knew.
You: Bakugou came. We made up!
You keep it short and simple.
Several bubbles come up on Kiri’s end, disappearing and reappearing. You nearly put your phone down with how long he takes, but finally, his reply comes in a flood.
Kiri: That! Is! So! Great!!!!!!!!
Kiri: I’m so happy for you dude
Kiri: And for Katsuki ofc but damn. At least one good thing came outta this mess!!!
Kiri: Hey, would you be down to join our next hangout? It’d be with Mina and the guys, you saw them that night. Hanta and Denki
Kiri: We try to do a monthly thing, like dinner or something, but obviously that didn’t happen…
Kiri: We also usually try to get Katsuki to come! We’re not usually successful :(
Kiri: But if you come, he’ll definitely come. Pls?
You watch the messages roll in, smiling. Kiri’s energy is so infectious, even over text.
Thinking back, you hated how your last interaction went down. You regretted how avoiding Bakugou meant avoiding Kiri, the agency, and the people you’d made friends with there. Reconciling with Bakugou has been a relief in many ways, and you’re grateful that it means you can return to the life you’d built before your argument.
You: Would that be okay? I don’t wanna intrude. Esp if you guys can only meet once a month
Kiri: Dude, you would NOT be intruding. Everyone’s been wanting to meet you for ages
Kiri: Bakugou’s just been stingy hiding you
Kiri: Pls?
You gaze down at your screen, thinking. Kiri’s words imply that you have some sort of impact on Bakugou. Not only that, they reveal that somehow, Bakugou’s friends whom you’ve never met know about you. It makes you wonder what Kiri knows, what they know.
You: Okay!
You're going to find out.
Author's Note: Hi friends! This update definitely wasn't quick, but at least it didn't take a full year between updates like chapter twelve did, I guess... Seeing post-time skip Bakugou finally get animated helped! I got a ton of fan edits coming across my TikTok FYP lmaoooo. (I do wish that Horikoshi had designed Bakugou (and Izuku) to be more mature-looking, like Shouto is. Alas.)
Any how, so many important conversations happen in this chapter, though arguably, the most important one—What are we?—is still to come. Though, I know how many of you have been yelling for some clarity about the soulmate question. I've had this scene written since the beginning, so it's been a long time coming. I'd love to hear what you think of how their convos went down!!!
I have next chapter scheduled as the last one, but who really knows until I start writing it. It may be the last, or I may add a fifteenth chapter. I'll keep ya'll upated!
Finally, I hope you're all doing well and that you enjoy this chapter. 🧡 Thank you so much for all your comments, here and on ao3, for your asks, your likes, your reblogs, all your engagement. As I've said before, your interest is what keeps me determined to finish this fic. We're in the home stretch!
Idk how many times I've said something but Tumblr writers will credit every asset they use except for art they used for their headers likely without permission
Writing is a form of art and the fact that there's entitled losers out there that think writers should be doing it for free to the point of harassing them into deleting their patreons is fucking insane. Like you realize not only is it incredibly disgustingly entitled to just demand writers should do their writing, that they use their time and skill for, for free just because it features fictional characters, but you're contributing to the upholding of white christian nationalism, which actively aims to defund and demonize art forms like writing. You're contributing to the reliance on AI by harassing writers out of even just a little extra income so they can spend some of their time writing. You're contributing to the narrative that art forms are not real jobs, which is an incredibly dangerous thing to push.
And like I said before, you are pushing the white Christian nationalist agenda whether or not you actually want to acknowledge it.
If you truly, firmly believe that writers shouldn't seek TOTALLY VOLUNTARY, as in NOBODY IS FUCKING FORCING YOU, compensation through putting some of their writing behind a paywall, then pick up a fucking pen and write it yourself. Most of you won't though, most of you use chatgpt because you'd rather kill our fucking planet than give a writer $5 to read their work, which most of it posted for fucking free anyway.
Hey! Just a reminder! AO3 does NOT have an app. This garbage was made by theives who steal fan artist’s work and sell it back to you.
“Oh, but it’s free!” There are ads. They are making money off of this. They are stealing from the creators you love and you are hurting those same creators if you use this app or any similar app.
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