Goodbye, Tiger

mha masterlist

do not plagiarize or use my work in any way, shape, or form. do not feed them into any AI or third party programs. i will eat you. similarly, let me know if you see anything sus happening on an account that is not this one, or the ones I have on ao3 / quotev / deviantart.

copyright © 2019 - 2023 sipsteainanxiety (shay)

disclaimer: i do not own any of the characters listed in this post; their author reserves the rights to them and their stories. however, i do own the plots of the fics written and anything posted outside of that.

last updated: june 14th. 2023

✧˖° blog events ✧˖°

new year’s prompt event masterlist 

✧˖° long fics ✧˖°

forget me not — pro hero!bkg x f!reader

summary: pro hero reader was kidnapped and lost her memory. delves heavily into recovery and piecing together the life the reader used to have before (pro hero au, angst, fluff)

loving all the parts of you — pro hero!bkg x gn!reader

summary: in which you learn to love all the prickly parts that make up bakugou katsuki (fluff, bit of angst)

and i give my all (to you) — merman!bkg x gn!reader

summary: you think you bit off more than you could chew when you decided to do your dissertation on ocean acidification, leaving you stranded out in the open ocean. alone. for months. well… maybe you weren’t so alone after all… (fluff, merman au, light angst)

holding out (just for you) — dragon!bkg x f!reader

summary: in which you find a horrendously injured dragon in a cave and make it your duty to heal him, not knowing that he’s the infamous dragonshifter, bakugo katsuki, who has been cursed to remain trapped in his dragon form forever—unless the spell is broken (fantasy au, fluff)

Keep reading

Bakugo is nervous around you, once you officially start to date. He'll never say so, of course, but you see the tension he carries in his shoulders the first time you come over for a meal he cooked, and he watches you take your first bite while pretending he isn't. Needing so badly to know that you like it, that he's doing this right, and he only looks away on a low exhale of a sigh when he sees you close your eyes and groan at your first delicious bite.

You know he's going to kiss you for the first time about ten minutes before he does, because you can just feel the change in his body when he realizes that the meandering walk you've taken home from the restaurant will bring you to your front door soon. You actually go right for the handle when you arrive, his nerves putting you a touch on edge too, but he stops you with a low murmured,"hey," and a hand wrapped around your wrist.

And you physically bump into him when he tugs you lightly, so caught off guard because he's been so reserved with touching you so far, but when you tilt your head back to look up at his face, you see the color in the tips of his ears, spreading a bit into his cheeks. From the chill of the big, fat snowflakes falling around you, maybe, but maybe from him touching your jaw with his thumb as his eyes search yours in the soft light of your stoop.

The moment lingers, the pad of his thumb catching on your lower lip, and when you part your lips to speak, drawing in a breath, he murmurs, " 'm just - " and draws your face to yours.

His mouth is soft against yours. From his quirk, maybe, but he presses his mouth to yours the way someone hold something very precious to them. Breathing out through his nose, a little loud, a little nervous, as he shifts closer to you and presses closer still.

And you trade quiet, breathless kisses there in the falling snow. His fingers touching at your hairline, curling around your ear and keeping you pressed against him as you learn the shape of each other here.

You nip at his lower lip, just a instinctive little bite and he groans, and pushes. Moves you until you're pressed up against your door as he ducks lower and tilts your head further to meet him. Opening his mouth over yours on a gutted sound, making you shiver at the first taste of his tongue against yours.

He's nothing like you expected, you think. You'd just assumed he would be in this the way he is in all things - strong and dominating and sharp.

But when he pulls back from you at last, his cheeks flushed and mouth wet as he looks down at you like he's just experienced something religious, you think to yourself that you've maybe never wanted him more.

deep v-neck

for olldolldraws <3

there's this video you've probably seen already where a woman is shaking in front of a microphone and delicately tries to ask - how can i make my husband listen to me, i've tried everything, i don't want to seem ungrateful and the other man laughs - the problem is that you married a man, we're only listening 25% of the time and we only understand 5% of that! and the audience laughs and the woman laughs and you just sat there, phone in your hand, letting the sound of it echo

and the thing is that people make think-pieces about it (isn't this one of them) and satire versions and "flipping the script" which is good and fun but at the end of the day, there's some truth in that man's response about men-not-listening. and you have tried to language that feeling for years, this sense that you can only take up 33% of a conversation before others view it as being "dominating".

it's not that they aren't listening, it's that the action they're taking is purposefully silencing. it's different. you accidentally-don't-listen a lot; just because the world is loud and you're distracted. you don't mean anything by it. and the truth is that the man who spoke is relying on that to be true of you; the way it's true of everyone. but there is a different undertone to his kind of not-listening. what he means is they don't respect you and you shouldn't expect them to. there is a difference between oh shit i forgot to take the trash out and why didn't you remind me to do it, just like there is a difference between i didn't realize you wanted to go out this weekend and why do you expect me to plan things why can't you just tell me where we're going.

and the thing is that it isn't just him, and it's actually not just because of your gender - your skin, your class status, your weight, their ableism - it happens often. so often it feels like a tightness around your throat and a weight in your stomach. you're not even "really" allowed to be upset about it, because to them it's a joke. and they laugh. and you know exactly the amount of work that goes into every conversation. how you have to work to condense down your thoughts into intelligent, crisp soundbites; worried someone will try to swoop in and cut you off. and there's this sense from everyone else - oh stop being so sensitive, are you really upset just because they weren't listening and you don't know how to say the way that feels when it happens constantly.

there's that video of the science summit where a woman in the audience finally says let her speak please! and the whole crowd bursts into applause and the man leading the summit holds up his hands and bows his head and says oops, sorry! like what he did was awkward and embarrassing, a little social gaffe that happens easily. later in your meetings, you're asked to take notes, and you don't say anything, you just hear let her speak please! ringing in your head and know that you'll never be brave enough for that kind of thing. and besides. think of all the people who agree this was a one-off, he just got excited and all of the people who say one man is not indicative of all of society

at the dinner table you're talking about someone you don't like and how he's not good to his girlfriend and how she always has to remind him to put the effort in and before him, she was glowing with curiosity and passion but now she just seems... tired, unhappy. that he likes the way she burns out; she stays home and takes care of him and their 2 kids. and your father sniffs and says that men take a while to learn those kinds of things. and you just stare at him and think about your childhood and are like - no wonder i turned out like this

and you want to say - there's no fucking secret school or mystic form of communication. i was not sent to Rearing a Child University. i did not graduate from Getting Chores Done College. i ask questions and i listen and i pay attention, because that's basic fucking human decency. it stems from respect, and how i respect others and their agency. i clean the house because someone should clean. not because it comes "naturally".

hell, you had to google "how to boil an egg" the other day, just because you usually make them scrambled. you can never remember which of the 2 bathroom cleaners make chlorine gas, only that two of them definitely do. you've accidentally bleached your clothes. it took you like 3 years of self-teaching before you figured out how to actually cook things correctly - for that whole time, you burnt or undercooked everything. but you did teach yourself; just like you taught yourself how to listen with empathy. just like how you taught yourself to think before you speak. to be kind first, to be better at communicating. it seemed like a good thing, an adult thing.

the joke the man in the video makes is that women say i'm fine! when they are not fine. and you think about the 150 conversations that happened around that; about how she probably has had so many arguments with her husband. how she said i'm upset you don't take me anywhere and he got mad at her because of course i do, you made me go to that stupid restaurant like last week and she probably said that's not what i'm saying and he said now i'm supposed to be psychic or something and she said no of course not and he said how am i supposed to know what to do when you don't even like everything and she said i do like things and he said well how am i supposed to win? and her pastor probably told her to be more grateful because they do things at all, even if she has to plan them and her mom probably told her that's just how men are honey and she probably cried over her journal, trying to figure out why the fuck she "has everything" and is still so bitterly, horribly unhappy

and how, in your life, for so many reasons, you looked down the barrel of another argument; of explaining yourself and being vulnerable and begging for help again. how many times you just said i'm fine because it was better than doing that again; it was better than wringing yourself out when it's literally easier to just pretend. because he wasn't going to listen. your father wasn't going to be better and your boyfriend wasn't going to be better and your boss wasn't going to be more respectful.

and you sit in front of a video of a woman shaking, looking horrible and guilt-wrought that she's even asking this question. and you know; deep in your heart - that's you. in a different life, you are her. you've stood in her spot. and you had to listen while someone else cackled - why would we bother to notice when you talk?

sometimes i forget how reading is just. marvelous. just an absolutely fucking endlessly joyful activity. i’ll go about my life and not read one single book for months and be like why am i morose! why am i so apathetic! what is missing here!!!! and try to look for whatever it is that is lacking and never find it anywhere and i get so tired and sad and angry, and then i’m finally like i’m gonna stop everything for a couple days and read a really good book bc i don’t care about anything else. and suddenly i get motivated to work bc i know i’ll read when i’m on break. i get more creative. i want to watercolor again and bust out the shameful fabric stash with all my unfinished sewing projects. god even my dreams get more vivid!! what the fuck! and i’m like here is the magic i was looking for, why did i ever think i was going to find it anywhere else. it was always here!!!

a/n. short continuation of sober

"wh—what?"

bakugou shakes his head, eyes droopy. "i said, i want to kiss you."

your throat is now dry. "you must be joking."

"am not," he drawls. "i'm fuckin' sober."

at that, you let out an involuntary snort. "sure, big guy."

he frowns, pouting. "you don't believe me?"

your stomach flips at his challenge. you've spent all this time trying to suppress your feelings for him, and now he's making it all the more difficult?

when you don't answer, he simply asks another question.

"why did you resign? was there something i did or said that chased you away?"

"just personal reasons," you offer.

"like what?"

you shake your head, "i'm not obliged to give a detailed account of my reasoning to you. HR's the one in charge of that information."

"really?" he questions, voice small. "if i begged you to tell me, would you?"

"you? begging?" you cackle. if there's anything bakugou katsuki would most definitely not do, it's begging, let alone begging you—a mere sidekick.

"i would do it you know," he says like he's thought about it before and is now 100% sure of it. "i just need to know why you quit."

you're not about to tell him it's because you have a big, fat, embarrassing crush on him, so you lie through your teeth. "i'm planning to start my own agency with some pro hero friends."

almost instantly, bakugou deflates in his seat.

"oh."

"not that i hate my current job or anything," you quickly add before scrambling to conjure more lies. "it's just that—"

"do you hate me?" he asks out of the blue, you almost choke in surprise.

"no!" you exclaim, and you do so fervently because you don't. in fact, you have to leave because how you feel about bakugou is veering dangerously close to like.

he lets out a sigh of relief upon hearing your response. "good. i was...worried."

before you could even stop yourself, you ask: "why?"

at that, he shrugs, somewhat refusing to meet your gaze. "i think i like you, whatever the fuck that means."

your heart leaps to your throat. you scramble for an acceptable response.

"i liked having you as my boss, too, bakugou."

a pause.

"hah?"

your eyebrows furrow. "what?"

"i don't mean it that way, idiot." he shakes his head before heaving a sigh in exasperation. "i like like you. don't you get it?"

oh, god.

this can't be happening.

"...i don't think i do."

at that, he sighs again, visibly frustrated at your lack of understanding. "dumbass."

"hey!"

he shakes his head. "i've been dropping hints left and right. i can't believe you missed all of them."

if what he's saying is true, and with the knowledge you have of bakugou, those hints sure as hell weren't obvious. all he did was tease you, call you a plethora of nicknames including your actual one, refuse to have any other sidekick aside from you, and search for you in his drunken haze.

oh.

"fuck."

he snorts. "i agree."

you stand there in shock for what feels like an hour before regaining your capacity for speech.

"how am i supposed to know this isn't just some alcohol-fueled ruse?"

"confront me tomorrow," he says easily. "i'll have a hard time denying it."

literally just whipped this up in 30 minutes. i hope it wasn't too bad lmao

as always, reblogs and comments are much appreciated <3

if i never see another tiktok throwing around the phrase “feminine rage” it’ll be all too soon. “feminine rage” this, “feminine rage” that, “feminine rage” shouldn’t be a label we slap on poorly explained or hand-waved plot choices to shove in some violence—“feminine rage” should be about the crack, about violently letting loose after suppressing suppressing suppressing. it should be railing at how fucking unfair it is that sometimes we are heaped into tiny tight little boxes and expected to stay there it should be about how horrific it is that we never completely belong to ourselves, how we are constantly performing, how we can dedicate our entire lives to other people and still be treated like the butt of a joke (“your mother’s just hysterical” or “I pranked my wife by pretending i threw out something special to her” or “I grew up and stopped chasing after looks and chose someone loyal”). it’s not girlpower it’s not about girlbossing it’s about being pushed to the very edge and how that is a horrific tragedy that could’ve been avoided if things just weren’t so terrible.

Hiiiiii!!! What about 🌞??!

I'm so curious because i'm a night person (tho its not healthy lol) ;-;

hiya, lovely! thank you so much for sending an emoji <3 and giiirl, as long as you're getting enough sleep, i don't think being a night owl is necessarily a bad thing. you do what works for you!

🌞 Do you have a preferred time of day to write?

i generally write whenever i feel like it or when inspiration strikes me, which can be any time, really! when i was writing the wonderful mess that we made, there were times when i wrote exclusively during the mornings, but there were also instances where i wrote at night until up to 1 AM and woke up at 5 AM to continue LOL

most of the time, though, i write in the morning because my mind is clearer and i have more energy at that point! afternoons not really, since i like to nap hehe. but i like to write in the evenings, too, for the vibes <3

play with me: ˗ˏˋ fanfic writer emoji ask game ´ˎ˗

TITLE: lights will guide you home

PAIRING: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

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.)

TAGS: soulmate au, trope inversion/subversion, slow burn, getting together, falling in love, fluff, aged up characters, pro-hero characters, eventual smut, mild bullying

STATUS: Ongoing; 9 of 14

NAVIGATION: Series Masterlist

Musutafu’s streets are just waking up around you, stores barely opening and the roads devoid of many cars. It’s early, so it isn’t crowded just yet. You spot a couple teenagers on their way to school across the road. You cross paths with a few harried-looking adults clearly in the middle of their commutes to work. But people are far and few between, and the sky is still the palest blue, barely tinged by the sun’s yellow rays, so you enjoy the peace alongside your morning drink. 

You’re glad that for today, at least, you’re not joining the ranks of those in routine. You have a different agenda today: you’re on your way to Bakugou and Kirishima’s agency. 

As you come to a stop just outside the building, out of the way of foot traffic, you pull out your phone and dial Bakugou’s number, humming a little under your breath as you wait. He picks up after a single ring.

“What?” he snaps, sharp and quick, and you’re taken aback at his tone. 

“Oh, um. It’s me,” you say hesitantly. Maybe you’ve caught him at a bad time? 

Tension colors his voice as he says, “What’s wrong?”

“What? Oh—nothing’s wrong!” It is pretty rare for you to call him so early in the day. Usually, your phone calls are in the evenings. Maybe the deviation from the norm is throwing him off and that’s why it feels like he’s on edge. “I was just wondering, are you at your agency right now?”

“Why?”

But he just sounds so terse, and his words are clipped, like he’s half a mind somewhere else. Your excitement fizzles out, like a sparkler running out of fuel, and you’re left feeling like an annoyance, a bother. 

“Sorry… you sound busy. I’ll just message you later,” you say. 

“The fuck? Just—”

You hear Bakugou exhale deeply, though it’s faint, as if he’s pulled the phone away from his face. 

Voice even, he says, “It’s fine. What is it?” 

You look down at the sidewalk, scuffing the pavement with your shoe. Maybe it was a bad idea, coming here. 

“No, it’s nothing.” You glance at the drinks carrier in your hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Just spit it out,” Bakugou says, and you can practically hear his gritted teeth. “And don’t you hang up.”

Suddenly, you hear your name being called. You raise your head, looking around. Grateful for the distraction, you turn. 

It’s Kirishima, in civilian clothes, and he’s coming out of the agency, jogging up to you with a grin on his face. “Hey, I thought that was you! What’re you doing here?”

He notices the phone at your ear, and his eyes widen. 

“Oh!” He lowers his voice, looking apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone.”

“Gotta go,” you say quickly into the receiver. Bakugou’s voice peaks across your phone’s speaker, as if he’d shouted something, but you hit the end call button before you can hear what he has to say. 

As you put your phone in your pocket, you bite your bottom lip. You really hope Bakugou didn’t hear Kirishima. You want to slink away before he figures out you’re here. 

“All good. I was just wrapping it up,” you tell Kirishima. 

He hesitates for a moment, considering you, before nodding and flashing you a grin. “It’s good to see you! How’ve you been?” 

You smile back instinctively, feeling yourself relax. There’s just something about Kirishima that makes you feel at ease. 

“Good!” you tell him. “Work’s been okay, can’t complain, and the kittens have tons of adoption queries! I’ve been excited for them to find their forever homes.”

“That’s great! I’ve seen the pictures you took of them and Bakugou. They look so soft.” He holds his hands up, cupped, as if to call to mind a soft kitten nestled there. 

You laugh. “They are! But how’ve you been? It’s been a while, and I can never get Bakugou to tell me how you are beyond ‘He’s the same,’ which is very unhelpful.”

Kirishima grins. “He’s always been like that. Uncooperative! I think he does it on purpose. But he’s not wrong—I’ve been good! Same old, same old.”

His eyes slide down to the drinks carrier in your hand. One of the cups, clearly yours, is empty. The other is full, still warm.

“Is that for him? Are you here to visit?” Kirishima asks, eyes bright.

“Oh, um!” You falter. You could lie and say it’s for a coworker or something. But you’re not exactly in work attire. Maybe you could say the barista’d made a mistake on your first order so now you had two after they’d remade it? Whatever—you’d make something up, even if you feel bad about lying to Kirishima. You really should get going, anyhow. You’ve lingered too long already. 

“Hey!” 

You stiffen as you hear your name called for the second time in the span of ten minutes. Except this time, the voice is a familiar rasp that’s furious. Heated. A glance behind you confirms who it is: Bakugou, coming out the agency doors, a thunderous expression on his face. 

His eyes lock with yours.

You panic.

You turn to Kirishima, shoving the carrier into his arms, saying, “That’s for you, actually, congratulations! Gotta go, bye!”

“Wait—” Kirishima starts, but you’re gone, you book it, heading in literally any other direction as long as it puts distance between you and Bakugou.

“What the fuck!” you hear Bakugou snarl behind you, and you speed up, gulping. 

You have the presence of mind to be conscientious of attracting unwanted attention, so even though it slows you down, you swerve into an empty alleyway that you know leads out into a quieter street. You chance a quick glance behind you, praying you got away. 

To your relief, Bakugou’s nowhere in sight. You slow your pace a little, sighing. 

You turn back to face forward, but you slam into something—someone. 

“Big fuckin’ mistake, brat,” you hear Bakugou’s voice rasp in your ear just as you feel an arm wrap around your waist and you’re suddenly shooting up, up into the air, the crackle of combustion muffling the strangled scream you let out. 

You clutch onto Bakugou, holding on for dear life as he angles towards the roof of the building to your left. 

Once your feet are on the ground, he releases his grip on you, only to get in your face, crimson eyes blazing.

“Why the fuck were you running?”

“I don’t know!” you exclaim. Your hands are up in front of you, held up defensively. He’s so close they’re almost pressed against his chest. “I panicked, I don’t know. You ran after me!”

“Only because you ran first!” he snarls. 

“What was I supposed to do? Stop?” 

“Yes, fuck! You’re so—” He makes a choked sound of anger and runs a hand down his face, covering his mouth. 

Fuck, he’s right. You don’t know what you were thinking. You just—you really didn’t want to see him so soon after that conversation on the phone. But it was a really dumb move to run away, and just recalling Kirishima’s face as you took off makes you want to pull out a shovel, dig, and lie down in the hole you’d made.

Bakugou’s arms are crossed tightly over his chest, biceps bulging, and he’s scowling ferociously. He isn’t even in his hero suit, just in joggers and a shirt, but that does nothing to diminish the enormity of his presence. You have a little more respect for the villains in this district, for having the courage to still attempt crime when Bakugou’s around. 

You inhale deeply, then reach out and touch his arm. “M’sorry. I was dumb. I shouldn’t have run.”

Bakugou grunts, looking down at your hand and away. You retract your hand quickly, hoping he wasn’t bothered by the gesture. He looks back at you and shakes his head. 

“You can say sorry by telling me what the hell you’re doing here and why you called me.”

You feel your cheeks warm and close your eyes briefly. You really don’t want to tell him why you came here. But there’s no getting out of this; you literally have nowhere to go. 

“I… I got you coffee,” you admit. “You mentioned that one place on the corner last time we talked, so. I wanted to surprise you!” 

He’s just been looking so tired, recently. You recall the slope of his shoulders the last time you saw him, in his apartment—weary. Like a heavy weight rested upon them. 

You rub your arm and continue, “But you sounded so annoyed on the phone, I figured you were busy. Didn’t want to keep bothering you.”

He regards you with an unreadable expression. You try to maintain eye contact, but it’s hard. You wish you could tell what he’s thinking. 

“Dumbass,” he says, finally, dropping his arms to his side. “Sounds like someone made stupid assumptions and then ran away, like a loser.”

You frown, eyes sliding away, but don’t protest. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.” 

He rolls his eyes and reaches out a hand, flicks your forehead. You put a hand to the spot, making a face at him, and he gives you a mean little grin that makes you want to pinch him. 

In the early morning sun, his lights are soft, blending with the warm hues that gild the world around you. Gold mixes with orange, and the ebb and flow of color lulls you with its familiarity. 

You’re conscious of your body relaxing. You didn’t realize how tense you were. 

After a beat, Bakugou asks, “Don’t you have work?”

“Nope,” you say, and smile a little. “I requested the day off! I needed it.”

Now that you have the chance to look at him, he doesn’t look any more rested than the other day. Worse, maybe. You can see that the shadows under his eyes have deepened, that there’s a furrow in his brow that wasn’t there the last time you saw him. Your hand is reaching up, fingertips lightly brushing against the skin under his eyes before you know what you’re doing. 

“You look like you need a day off too,” you tell him. “Take care of yourself, okay? Let me know if I can do anything for you.” 

He stares at you for a long moment. You gaze back at him. 

You want him to know that you mean it. You want to be there for him. Bakugou doesn’t talk about work often, and when he does, he paints things in broad strokes, no details. But you get the sense that he’s busy with something, and it’s weighing on him. 

Even if there’s nothing you can do about his workload, you want him to know that he can lean on you, if he wants. Whatever that’s worth. 

Bakugou reaches out an arm to you. He telegraphs his movements and gives you plenty of time to step away. 

You don’t, curious to see what he’ll do. 

He wraps a hand around your head and pulls you against him. Surprised, you stumble a bit, a hand coming up to grasp at his shirt for balance. His hand slides down your head to the back of your neck, coming to a rest there. 

He’s gentle with you, despite the initial jostling. You catch a whisper of whatever that scent is, his body wash, his cologne, and inhale. He’s so warm against you. 

“You’re so fucking dumb,” he growls, and you can feel the reverberation of his words against your face, your chest—everywhere you’re touching. “Don’t pull this running shit again, y’hear me? And no more squirreliness.”

“Yes, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight,” you say, voice muffled against his chest. 

Bakugou huffs a startled laugh, raspy, and you grin against him. Part of you wonders what would happen if you looked up, tilted your face towards him. 

But you don’t. He lets you go. The moment passes. 

“C’mere, I’m taking us down.” He walks to the edge of the roof, and you go to him. “And if Shitty Hair drank my coffee, you’re getting me another one.”

You laugh. “That’s fair.”

He guides your hands to grip him so you’re secure when he brings you both down off the roof, and just as his arm comes around to brace you against him, a thought occurs to you.

“Is it okay if I come by again? Bring you coffee sometimes?”

Bakugou pauses, looking down into your face. He’s so close, pressed against you. It’s necessary for the descent down, but you suddenly wish you’d brought this up later. It’s too hard to think, this close to him. 

“The hell? Don’t needa ask my permission for that shit. Why wouldn’t it be okay.”

You make a face at him. “Won’t people start to notice? If I start coming by to see you? Like your employees, or more people randomly taking pictures.”

His expression grows stormy. 

“I’ve been involved in the hiring processes of all my agency’s employees. No dumbasses are gonna work for me,” he says. 

While you’re reeling from this revelation that Bakugou’s a control freak who manages the impossible, because who has that kind of time on top of being a pro-hero, Bakugou continues. 

“They got better things to do than gossip. And know better, too.” His expression darkens further. 

“If they don’t, they’ll be looking for another job faster than they can press that damn button to take a goddamn picture.”

You shiver at the look on his face. You believe him. 

So coffee becomes a regular thing. Bakugou gets around your concern of paparazzi or random people taking your picture at the agency’s entrance by giving you a pass that lets you enter through the secured and patrolled back entrance. You’re careful to make sure no one follows you, still a little paranoid. 

“Is this allowed?” you ask as he presses the key card into your hand.

Bakugou rolls his eyes.

“I own the damn place,” he tells you.

It’s indicative of how much you like your soulmate that at least twice a week you wake up an extra thirty minutes in the morning to get his coffee and drop it off at the agency before heading into work yourself. You aren’t always able to give it to him personally, sometimes just having to leave it with the front desk receptionist whose name you finally find out is Takahashi. 

“Call me Aiko,” she says with a bright smile. She’s a sweet girl.

But most of the time, Bakugou makes an appearance around the time you arrive. He usually spends a couple minutes with you, asks about the kittens in a roundabout way, demands to know what you’re eating for lunch that day if he hadn’t pre-prepared bentos for you that week. 

The first time you bring a smoothie for Kirishima from the same place, attempting to hand it to Bakugou to pass along, he makes a face.

“The hell is this?”

“It’s a smoothie for Kirishima,” you say. You gesture for him to take it, but he curls his lip at it.

“He doesn’t want this shit. Just take it with you.”

“What?” you say, furrowing your brow. “How would you know?”

“He’s got one of those fancy-fuck blenders at home. Don’t waste your money on ‘im,” Bakugou says, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh,” you say, crestfallen, frowning down at the cup in your hand. You rub your thumb up and down its side, spreading around the condensation that’s built up on it. 

“I just wanted to do something nice for him, because he’s always so nice to me,” you say quietly. Sighing, you move to put the smoothie back into the drinks carrier the cafe had given you. Maybe Kirishima would like coffee? You’ll try to bring him coffee next time. 

You don’t notice the flash of emotions that cross Bakugou’s face. He makes a disgusted sound and snatches the cup from you. 

“Fine! I’ll give him your stupid smoothie. Now go or you’ll be late for work.”

He stomps off before you get a chance to say goodbye, and you’re left standing there, bewildered.

One day, a Saturday, you linger at the receptionist counter, and ask Aiko if Bakugou’s busy, or if he’s available for a quick chat.

“If you don’t know, no worries,” you say as she tilts her head. 

She glances at the protein shake in your hand that’s very much not for you. You’re not sure how Bakugou can drink these things; he’d let you sip from it once and you made the ugliest face at the taste. He’d laughed at you. 

“I’m not familiar with Dynamight’s schedule, but his manager is! Let me call him and double check for you,” she says, picking up the phone and pressing a button on it before you can protest.

“Hi!” she says into the phone. “I have Dynamight’s P1 here in the lobby, and we were wondering if he’s available for a quick meeting?” 

P1? You eye her. What does that stand for? You make a mental note to ask later.

There’s a quiet moment as she listens to the reply, and then a longer pause as she’s seemingly put on hold.

You wince, thinking about the inconvenience you’re being. You really should’ve just waited until after Bakugou’s done with work today to talk to him. You could drink the shake yourself, even though personally you think it tastes like dirt. 

“Okay! Thanks so much!” Aiko says into the phone, and then she hangs up. She raises her gaze to yours.

“Dynamight’s actually mid-workout right now! His manager says that you should come up to the third floor, and Dynamight will be in the second gym. The room numbers are next to the doors.”

“Oh! Okay, thank you for your help.” You pause. “Do you mind swiping the elevator for me again? Sorry to make you walk over.”

She blinks at you. “I was told you have a key card?”

“Yes? But I just use it to get inside from the back entrance.”

“May I have a look?”

You hand it over. She taps a couple keys on the keyboard and taps it against a scanner. Glancing at the screen, she smiles and hands the card back to you.

“That card’s high clearance!” she tells you. “You have access to most things in the building, like the elevator, the break rooms, the gym… And if you have any trouble getting into other areas, I’m sure Dynamight can adjust your access!”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” you say hurriedly. “Thank you, Aiko. I can take it from here.”

She waves as you scurry over to the elevator, scan the card, and push the button for the third floor. 

You stare at the key card in your hand like it’ll bite you. What on earth was Bakugou thinking when he gave this to you? What if you lose it? 

This thought prompts you to store the key card in your wallet, instead of chucking it carelessly into your pocket like you have been for the past two weeks. You’d almost washed it with your laundry a couple days ago.

After some poking around, you find the second gym Aiko had mentioned. You dither at the entrance for a moment, unsure whether to knock or not—but that’s weird, right? Who knocks on the door to a gym? You shake your head and walk through the doors.

Bakugou’s back’s to you. He’s at a piece of equipment, hanging onto a bar intended for pull ups. He’s in the middle of pulling himself up, biceps and lat muscles taut against the sweat-soaked shirt he’s wearing. He lowers himself slowly, and repeats the motion, every movement intentional and clean. 

A little frisson of attraction runs through you, and you swallow. Sometimes you forget just how handsome he is. 

Your eyes shift away from admiring him to the mirrors spanning the far wall, and you find that he’s watching you in them. 

Your eyes meet, and your heartbeat picks up. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. Had he noticed you looking at him? God, you hope not. 

He drops, reaching for a towel laying on a nearby bench to wipe his face. 

You breathe in and exhale. After regaining as much of your composure as you can, you walk towards him. It’s easier to push away the flustered feelings once you remember why you’ve come to see Bakugou today. 

When you reach his side, he raises an eyebrow at you. You hold up the shake in your hand.

He ignores it. His eyes immediately narrow, zeroed in on your face. “What’s wrong?”

Startled, you furrow your brows. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, pushing the shake at him. 

Bakugou takes it, but he raises his free hand, reaches up, and pinches your cheek. 

“Ow,” you say, and he lets go. 

“Don’t lie,” he says, and your eyes widen. You’re not sure how he’s able to tell you’re upset when you’ve tried your best to cover it up. 

You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “Can you go back to working out? I didn’t mean to interrupt. I promise I’ll tell you when you’re all done. And don’t rush.”

Bakugou scoffs. “Don’t needa tell me that shit. I don’t rush.”

But he seems to accept your promise. He places the shake down onto the bench, and you sit beside it as he returns to his sets. 

You get lost in his rhythm, eyes watching but mind elsewhere. You miss his entire cooldown and don’t even realize he’s finished until he’s stepping up next to you, tilting your chin up to look at him.

“Alright, enough,” he says. The crimson of his eyes is so bright under these lights. He’s flushed with exertion, sweaty. 

He’s such a comfort to see. You resist the urge to press your face into his hand. 

“What’re you thinking,” Bakugou says as he draws his hand back.

Nothing you want him knowing, at least of your thoughts of him from the past minute. You give him what your promise owes, instead, tell him what’s got you feeling so off kilter. 

“Yuzu was adopted today,” you say softly, looking down at your hands.

After a moment, Bakugou moves the shake aside and drops onto the bench next to you. He’s radiating warmth like a furnace, and he grabs a fresh towel from his bag to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck, his face, his arms. He waits.

“I didn’t think I’d be so sad,” you tell him. You feel a sting in your eyes and will yourself not to cry. Ridiculous. 

Bakugou flexes his hands. Looks at you. 

“Well, what’d you expect? You had the fleabag—”

“Bakugou.”

“—furball for months. You got attached.” He glances at the slope of your shoulders, the downward tilt of your head. The unhappy curve of your lips. “They good people, the extras who got ‘im?”

“Yeah. This guy and his fiance adopted him. They fell in love with him, and as they should! Yuzu’s such a sweet boy. They sent me videos of him, and he was purring up a storm.” 

You get a little teary-eyed once more. You’ll never get to hold Yuzu as he purrs ever again. 

Bakugou sighs and shifts in his seat so his shoulder rests against yours. 

“You did good,” Bakugou tells you when you look at him. “You took care of ‘im until it was time for him to go, and you made it easy for him to find a place to go. You did good.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

You close the sliver of space between you until he’s a line of warmth all along your side, from shoulder to hip to knee. Slowly, watching him for any signs of displeasure, you nudge your hand against his. He watches you. You take the leap and thread your fingers through his. His hand is so big around yours. 

His hand squeezes yours softly. 

Sighing, you lean against him and let your eyes drift closed for a moment.

The next few minutes pass, just like this. Your pounding heart slows. It’s hard not to imagine that his hand in yours, a kindness, means something other than friendship. Hard not to want it to mean more. You really, really like your soulmate. 

You push those thoughts away and try to empty your mind; you don’t want to ruin this.

“Um, Dynamight, sir?” 

At the sound of a stranger’s voice cutting the silence, you startle, eyes shooting open. You sit up. You drop Bakugou’s hand. 

At the gym doors, a teenage girl stands, fiddling with her fingers. She’s doing her best not to look at either of you. 

Bakugou narrows his eyes at her, growling, “What?”

She shrinks back a little, then stiffens, ramrod straight. She says, “I’m here for patrol! Red Riot told me to come get you.”

Bakugou squints, giving her a mean look. “Go get suited up, kid. And tell Red Riot to fuck off.”

The kid squeaks out a reply, but it’s so high-pitched you can’t tell what it could possibly be, and she scurries off, the door closing behind her. 

“Who was that?” you ask after a moment, willing the heat in your cheeks to subside.

Bakugou runs his hands through his hair. He picks up the protein shake and sips from it before replying. 

“A dumbass UA intern Ei picked up.”

You squint at him. “Don’t be mean, Bakugou. Picking on teenagers is super lame.” 

He huffs. You tilt your head.

“Do you not like her?” you ask.

“...She’s got guts,” he says. “Potential or whatever. Saw her at the Sports Festival. It’s UA’s yearly event—”

“Oh, I know what that is,” you say. “Who doesn’t? I remember seeing the one from your second year. Looked fun.”

He scowls. “S’not fun. It’s a competition.”

“Competitions can be fun, Bakugou,” you say, rolling your eyes. A thought occurs to you, and you perch on the edge of your seat. 

“Well, maybe not for you, especially that year,” you say, the glimmers of a smile teasing your lips. “Since Pro-Hero Shouto demolished you.”

He lunges for you, but you’re ready for it, and you take off towards the far side of the room that’s free of equipment, laughing.

Bakugou catches you embarrassingly quick, lifting you up off your feet from behind, effortless. He really is so strong. 

“What’d I tell you about running?” he growls, and you shiver. 

“Not to do it,” you say, trying to act unaffected despite being a little breathless. He sets you down, a hand sliding down to circle your wrist, as if he thinks you’ll run again. 

You make a face at him. You add, “Don’t tell me what to do.” 

Bakugou gets this glint in his eyes that you’re sure spells trouble. Prickles of anticipation rise in you and you get the urge to hold your breath. 

But before he can say anything, the door opens. This time, it’s Kirishima standing in the doorframe. His eyes immediately catch on the pair of you, and you step away from Bakugou, feeling like you’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar for the second time in the span of ten minutes. 

Kirishima grins and says, “Bakugou, stop flirting and get suited up! We gotta get going.”

Bakugou’s lights flare up around him, a true lightshow, and he spins on his heel and points at Kirishima.

“Quiet, Shitty Hair. Go wait with the kid.”

You’re glad Bakugou’s facing away from you, and that you’re mostly hidden behind him, because you’re sure your expression is embarrassingly honest. Flirting? Have you been flirting? More importantly—has Bakugou been flirting back?

“The kid’s right here!” Kirishima pushes the door open a little wider to reveal their intern, standing behind him, looking as if she’s trying to become one with the floor. Turning back to Bakugou, Kirishima puts his hands on his hips.

“We’re waiting on you, bud, so get a move on!” Kirishima chides. 

Bakugou growls, walks over to the bench to grab his things and the protein shake, and stalks towards the door. 

He halts mid-step. He turns halfway to look at you.

“I’m off at six today,” he says. 

“Okay?” you say. It’s good info to know, you suppose, since his schedule is rather erratic. You’re not sure why Bakugou’s shared it with you, though. 

Instead of clarifying, Bakugou resumes his march towards the door and pushes Kirishima out of the way with a hand on his face. Kirishima sputters, tripping backwards.

You cover your mouth to cover up your laugh as the door closes behind them. Their friendship really is so endearing. You’re glad Bakugou has such a wonderful friend. 

You’re home, clicking mindlessly around your computer, when an old urge arises.

You find yourself opening up a new tab, searching, like you’re thirteen again, trying to figure out why you can see Bakugou’s lights but he can’t see yours. 

But the articles tell you the same thing they’d told you those years ago. Soul-lights are an under-researched phenomenon and poorly understood; it’s been difficult to obtain empirical research that explains the exact nature of soul-lights—why soulmates exist and how they work. It’s worse, now, that with every generation they’re becoming rarer and rarer. 

Because only soulmates can see each others’ lights, descriptions of lights are subjective. Furthermore, descriptions of the nature of the relationships are subjective. No two soulmate relationships are the same. And though there have been instances of unrequited soulmate relationships, of those relationships, understandably, no one’s come forward to participate in interview-style studies for researchers to pick apart and analyze. At least not in any studies that you’ve been able to find. 

You close out your tabs, feeling frustrated. What does it matter? You’re running yourself in circles for no reason. Isn’t it enough that Bakugou’s in your life? That you’re happy he’s in it? Bringing up old dreams is pointless. 

Eerily, as if Bakugou somehow knew you’ve been thinking about him, your phone rings, his contact popping up on your phone. You pick up.

“Hey!”

“Hey,” he says. “D’you eat yet?”

You glance at the time on your phone guiltily. It’s a little past six. You have work tomorrow, so you really should get a move on if you want to make dinner and eat at a decent time.

“Not yet,” you say, and Bakugou grunts.

“Keep an ear out for the door,” he says.

“Oh?” You perk up a little. “Are you coming over?”

Bakugou exhales, and it crackles the line. “Can’t. Staying a little longer at the agency.”

“Oh.” You try not to feel disappointed. “Okay. You eat too, yeah? And don’t stay too long. Or I’ll text Kirishima and tell him to kick you out.”

He snorts. “Like he could. And you don’t have his number.”

“How would you know?” you ask. You hear the doorbell ring and a couple knocks at your front door echo through your apartment. 

“If it’s not you, who’s at my door right now?” you ask suspiciously. 

“Go find out,” Bakugou says and hangs up. 

You pull the phone away from your face and squint at it. The doorbell rings again. 

You hurry to the door. Upon opening it, you find a food delivery person standing there with takeout in his hands. Understanding dawns in your head as he says your name and you confirm.

“Thank you,” you say, taking the food from him. He nods and jogs back down the hallway.

You close the door and gaze down at the food in your hands. You can already tell from the smell that it’s from your favorite takeout place. 

The food is good, as it always is. But it would’ve been better if Bakugou had been here, eating it with you.