soulmate trope | bakugou
Bakugou’s route of soulmate trope.
His chapter follows the most standard soulmate rules, so that's why he's first. From here on out, it gets more unhinged.
Warnings: lots of talkin’ ‘bout dicks.
Of course you weren’t going to share your soulmate identification with anyone else. It’s right next to your vagina, where your thigh meets your labia. You wouldn’t’ve noticed it yourself if you hadn’t been contorting yourself in the dorm shower stall to shave.
You saw the mark and panicked, going for the mundane instead of the supernatural—what if you had a cancerous mole? But it was way too large for that; you probably would’ve noticed it sooner, if it were a mole, and besides, it was very clearly…shaped.
So, it wasn’t a name or any words but a shape. Some symbol. Hunched over in the steam of the bathroom, you couldn’t fucking tell what it was supposed to be. It occurred to you once you got back to your dorm room that you might be looking at it from the wrong perspective and that the dark shape might be discernible if it were, like, upside-down.
One horrible mirror-camera-flashlight session later, you think you got the right angle. After deleting all of the mistakes and putting the correct one in a hidden file on your phone, you lay in bed, holding your phone above your face and squinting into its light.
This was dumb. This was so dumb.
Because it was either 1) an emanata, a.k.a. those bubbled sound effects in comics such as bam or pow, but the mark was small, spiky (like a punch sound effect?), and solid black. Or it was 2) a very prickly flame.
Both options were, uh. Not ideal.
If it were a comic book emanata, then your first thought would be that guy from 3-B with the onomatopoeia quirk, Manga Fukidashi. He was already matched, though. It also vaguely reminded you of Tetsutetsu’s mask, but that was a stretch.
If it were fire, well. That left Bakugou and Todoroki, both of whom without soulmates accounted for.
If either of them is your soulmate, would he have the same symbol? Would it be in the same place on his body? You couldn’t exactly go up to Bakugou or Todoroki to say, “Hey, any cancerous-looking blotches appear near your cock lately?” God.
And what if you didn’t have all of the details? What if there were more to the soulmate mark than just a tattoo? Can he tell when you’re thinking about him? Can he read your mind?
Well, you grumbled to yourself, plopping back inside your desk for your next class, you couldn’t read anyone’s mind, so if he could, it’s majorly unfair. You slumped in your seat, leaning lazily on your elbow, and scanned the classroom for both of them.
Todoroki already sat at the back of the class, copying something out of a book quietly. He might very well be your soulmate, because whoever hasn’t claimed him yet is an idiot. Todoroki’s a catch—kind, observant, dead clever, extremely talented, not to mention the tiniest bit socially dense—all very nice, non-threatening things in a man, or at least in Todoroki.
The thing, though, is that he wore his uniform correctly, down to the number of buttons buttoned up his shirt. No excess skin was showing, so if he shared a mark, it, too, was somewhere he didn’t display for the general public. Promising, but it still didn’t mean much, especially since his hero costume covered up the same areas.
Cringing, you got out your notebook for class. Yes, it’d be effective to ask him to take off various articles of clothing, but you can’t fucking do that. And in the far-flung situation where you get Todoroki to play strip poker, you’d probably lose.
Startled, you knocked your pencil case off your desk when the classroom door slammed open, the quiet of the classroom shattered by the Bakusquad barging in. Over Bakugou’s bitching about the sparring matches before lunch, Kirishima and Sero were trying to calm him down, Mina and Kaminari talking loudly behind them about what they were doing after class this afternoon.
Bakugou shoved off his friends with a growl and slid into his desk, his legs spread out in front of him with dirt flecking off his shoes. “Just fuckin’ shut up; I had it. It’s no use telling me what damn special move Ida was trying to pull. If he hadn’t caught me like that, I would’ve scorched him.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking soot from it lightly.
Sero held up his hand. “You’ve got to admit that it was a really good move to—”
“Stop talkin’ to me,” said Bakugou, digging through his backpack, “I won’t be able to concentrate if you keep running your trap.”
Pros of Bakugou being your soulmate:
1) You’d get to be close with an astonishingly complicated and closed-off person, who was intriguing in his own way, clever when he needed to be, driven, determined to do a thing correctly, and, moreover, capable of nearly anything he set his mind to.
2) Pretty boy. Prettyyyyyy
1) He’s mean even to his friends. You understood playful teasing, but Bakugou went a bit too far. You don’t need that kind of negativity in your life.
2) He’d always be too honest with you and hurt your feelings.
3) He didn’t want a soulmate. He’d said that a soulmate would hold him back, that he’d prefer not to have one. Which means he’d reject you.
But really, you considered as you zoned out for the lesson, would you be holding him back, like he’d said? True, your quirk wasn’t as powerful as his, but that didn’t mean that it was worthless. In fact, you considered your quirk pretty damn useful, but you could see how someone like Bakugou could think you’re weak.
If Bakugou didn’t want a soulmate, then he didn’t want a soulmate. But that didn’t stop you from wanting one.
So, it’s simple: you find out what kind of soulmate identifier Bakugou has, toss him once you discover he’s not, and then you move on to Todoroki.
“Hey, can I see your cock for non-sexual purposes? It may turn into sexual purposes, but I assure you, the initial look would be purely out of curiosity.” You cracked, smiling wearily at your reflection. More bullshit things you can’t just say to Bakugou. You couldn’t even say it with a straight face.
The more you’ve seen your classmates match up, the more parallels there have been with soulmate identifiers. If Bakugou’s got your mark, it’s totally near his cock.
Not that you don’t want to see it, because while Bakugou was a whiny little bitch, he’s also excessively, annoyingly handsome, now that you thought about it. You weren’t stupid; you’d noticed his perfect skin (guaranteed because of his quirk), sharp eyes, and nice tits, but now that there was the possibility of you having access to him, his appearance was growing on you.
The sound of an explosion shook the glass. “Try that again, and I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
His personality still left a lot to be desired.
In a stroke of luck (but rather just partner rotation), you were assigned that day in hero training to spar with him. You hyped yourself up in the girls’ locker room, not bothering to participate in the gossip but instead planning your own strategy for the fight. It’s been a while since he’s fought you, since you usually have to cycle through the rest of your classmates, but this time, your goal was to—you felt like a damn pervert for even considering it—to tear his costume in some way. See what that modest bitch was hiding. You could pass it off as a different technique in fighting, or something.
When you walked into the training area in your hero costume, Bakugou was already warming up, stretching despite his heavy gauntlets, and his grin that was more of an excited scowl cut across his face.
“C’mon, you damn punk,” he said when you approached him, “Took you long enough. How long’s it take you to get ready to be smeared across the floor?”
“Oh?” you said calmly, like a calm person, like you weren’t about to trip to rip off the clothes of someone who might not even been your soulmate, “Just as long as it takes to cultivate those three brain cells you’ve got rolling about in your head.”
What the fuck, dude; where’d that even come from?
Hissing, Bakugou reached for a grenade on his belt. “You’re gonna be dead before class gets out—”
While Bakugou and you sparred, you zoned out on the muscle memory of your quirk’s special moves, instead thinking about his dick. Since your mark was on the left, his would probably be on the left and probably not directly on his cock itself, which was probably good. The soulmate mark was a bit ugly and amorphous, to be honest, and you were betting—now that you were paying attention to the bulging, sweaty biceps (trying to get you in a chokehold), the tensing and relaxing of the tendons in his calves and thighs, his longer-fingered, calloused hands (letting an explosion go off in your ear)—that his cock would be as infuriatingly pretty as the rest of him. It was practically framed for your perusal, the way it was surrounded by straps on his belt and pants, the straps cutting into the fabric so that the curve of his cock protruded just slightly more than it normally would. Relaxed, but noticeable. And you were noticing.
On the receiving end of an aerial explosion, you let out a grunt as you hit the floor, and Bakugou landed right next to you, squatting while holding down your chest with one hand splayed across your collarbone. His warm hand felt nice on your skin.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” he spat, pulling back his mask to get his sweaty hair out of his eyes, “Why aren’t you fighting back? You think I can’t take it? Me?”
You blinked. “I was fighting back—”
“Not like you normally do. Where’s your stealth slide? Where’s your two-step jump? You’re not pullin’ your best moves,” said Bakugou, grinding his teeth, “and it’s really pissin’ me off. You think I’m stupid?”
Panting, you grinned. “I know you’re stupid.”
Huffing, he clamped his free hand around your neck and squeezed the sides. “Try again, you fuck.”
You rolled your eyes. “What makes you think I’m not—fuck, loosen up a little—not trying my best?”
He released his grip on your neck, but he kept his hand there. “You haven’t landed a single blow on me this whole time.” He wrinkled his nose. “You usually get one or two in before I kick your ass.”
“Thought you’d know.”
You shook your head. “I wasn’t paying atten—”
“I knew it.” Bakugou let go of you and sat back on his heels, disgusted. “You’re a big waste of time if you’re not gonna fight me at your best. Neither of us is getting any better if you don’t value every opportunity to train.”
Your gaze flickered to his crotch for a moment, but it returned very deliberately to his face. “Who says I’m not?”
You seized him by the grenade and attempted to flip him; it was mostly successful, and you ripped the back of his shirt in the process. For the split second he was face down, your hungry eyes took in the patch of skin exposed on his lower back—muscled and pretty but unfortunately bare.
Bakugou, his chest heaving, snapped his head back to glare at you, his jackal-teethed grin growing even wider. “I dare you to try that again.”
Though it pained you, you took to studying in the common rooms. You couldn’t concentrate with everyone’s clamouring or trying to talk to you. You ultimately brought down material you already knew, so it didn’t matter if you were interrupted.
“No, no, Jirou, it’s fine,” you said, pen in your mouth as you unzipped your backpack, “I have extra.”
Ducking from a miniature bag of popcorn tossed over the couch towards Kouda, you riffled around for some notebook paper. Jirou was grabbing it from you as the tall, dorm door swept open, letting in hot, humid air into the cool commons.
With Kirishima jogging up behind him, Bakugou stormed into the dorm, post-workout, sweating, pressing his icy water bottle to his cheek and rolling it down under his chin and to his neck as he passed you: black tank top, black sweats.
Nothing new, even though it was great to see his biceps every time. But since he’s been consistent with what he’s been wearing, you haven’t been seeing any new skin, since you’ve started camping out. It’s not just going to happen; you’re going to have to make your own opportunities.
Jirou tugged the paper from your hands and shot you a curious look, and you laughed it off.
God, you cringed to yourself. You have to be careful, lest you get a reputation for being a creep. How to go about this delicately?
You stood with your laundry basket on your hip, meagrely filled with stuff that looked dirty at a glance, staring into the whirling window of a school dryer. The zippers knocked against the metal insides, the only flash in the heap of black clothing. Must be his dark load. He seems like he’d care about that.
It’s the only dryer going at the moment, since it’s early Saturday, but there were two washers going, the hum louder for reverberating off the basement walls.
You’re going to do it. You’re going to steal Bakugou’s laundry.
You glanced at the bleach in your own basket. Maybe it would be better to simply ruin his clothes, since it’d be hard to sneak away with a whole load of clothes up multiple sets of stairs. But that’d be mean, and you would eventually return his clothes, just after a while.
Crouching on the reflective tile, you sighed, resting your elbows on your knees. This was dumb. This was too dumb. You couldn’t do it. You wanted to kill everyone who’s taken your clothes, so Bakugou would want to murder you anyway. Todoroki, though—he probably wouldn’t notice if you took anything. You wished you were onto him already, instead of agonising over this idiotic—
You jolted at someone’s clomping down the stairs—in flip flops, by the sound of it. The grumbling under his breath stopped once Bakugou rounded the corner and saw you, pushing on your knees to stand, and he arched a brow.
“What, you’re so bored you don’t have anything better to do than to watch clothes spin?” He slams a basket full of lights (you caught a flash of an All Might logo from his silver age) onto the top of an unused washer. “I’ve got some series you should watch, then.”
Big sigh. Bakugou covered himself up more than usual—his white t-shirt cuffed nicely at his upper arms, but no new skin for you to peruse. Sweats again, too. Comfortable bitch. Dress like a slut, you coward.
“I’m not watching laundry,” you said, moving towards an unused washer yourself, “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Maybe you’re going about this the wrong way. Maybe if you slip something into his laundry—say, a tiny little pair of slutty shorts—then he might wear those.
“Yeah? Can’t be anything worse than your little fuck-up in class, can it? Little Miss Place-bo,” he said, nudging you with his elbow between the shoulder blades.
You swore under your breath. “Listen! Anyone can make that mistake!” You threw up your hands and turned to him. “Anyone can pronounce—pronounce, uh.”
Your mouth hung open as Bakugou grabbed his shirt by the back of the neck and yanked it over his head, the light cotton fabric catching on his hair. In the precious moments before he could make eye contact with you, you greedily drank in his lower abdomen—defined way beyond toned—this man is fucking ripped, hard lines outlining his muscles—especially those glorious lines forming a v and trailing into his sweats (c’mon, c’mon, make a move to pants him right now; you can pass if off as an accident; do it—)
“Forget how to pronounce it again?” Bakugou made a noise between a scoff and a chuckle as he tossed his shirt into the washer, along with a detergent pod. His abs flinched at the cold of the metal when he leant into the washer, and you had a hard time dragging your eyes away. “Plah-see-bo,” Bakugou said in English, his voice teasing.
You swallowed drily and made yourself look at his face. “Yeah? Bite me, Bakugou. We can’t all be perfect all the time—”
“Strange invitation,” said Bakugou, but he snatched your hand off your own detergent bottle, and he held it in front of his mouth for a moment, pausing for your reaction.
Your mild surprise morphed into terror when the expected, albeit out of character, kiss to the back of your hand did not happen, and instead he bared his teeth, his tongue running over the sharp points before clamping them together. He took the pad of your ring finger into his mouth, and though he made motions to chomp down quite violently, the bite itself was delicate. Gentle.
It took his tongue swiping over your finger for you to remember to jerk your hand away, and he rolled his eyes, letting out another scoff-laugh, and he crossed his arms over his bare chest (Your own eyes fell to them, bulging a little. Seeing Bakugou’s tits won’t solve the soulmate problem, but by God, did it make you feel alive).
“Hey, don’t freak out. You’re the one who said to bite you.”
Feeling your face heat, you turned to your own laundry. “Does figurative language mean nothing to you?”
Bakugou shrugged and stretched his arms over his head (a quick check of the armpits—no soulmate mark). When you were this close, you could see the light tan freckles around his scars.
Okay, if the embarrassing thing also happened to you, then you clearly couldn’t be the culprit. Therefore, when you and Bakugou both took a late-night shower, both of your clothes would go missing.
For your part, you simply left the pyjamas you’d be changing into in your dorm room and simply brought a towel that would cover you well.
Sneaking into the boys’ bathroom and stealing Bakugou’s clothes while he’s in the shower was another story.
Step one: set up your stuff in the girls’ bathroom, but don’t get wet yourself. Dripping water on the bathroom tile would give away that someone had been there.
Two: when Bakugou has just put soap in his hand (and therefore starting a new task, not paying attention to outside the shower), take his clothes from the little stool outside the stall curtain.
Three: skibble back to your shower to get wet, as if you’ve been in the shower all along.
Four: Do all of the above in an instant, since Bakugou takes aggressive but short showers.
Five: wait for the shouting.
Step one accomplished, you’ve wrapped yourself in your biggest towel, cosy and firmly situated not to fall, and as stealthily as you could in your shower shoes, you sneaked down the hallway and into the boys’ bathroom.
The water hissed onto tile in the farthest stall from the door (great, cool, fabulous), and Bakugou’s voice—fucking humming some song popular a few years ago—floated through the steam.
Tiptoeing in flip-flops doesn’t work too well. There’s a moment where you squeaked and winced, listening for a sign of acknowledgment, but it never came. You couldn’t take your time, because he could shut off the water at any moment, but you couldn’t just flippity flop all the way—oh, stop thinking. Just do it.
Within arm’s reach of the wooden stool in front of Bakugou’s shower, the scent of his shampoo wafted towards you, mixing with the steam—man, that apple shampoo was useless, since nitroglycerine smelt like caramel—oh. Oh, that’s cute of him. Caramel-apple-autumn-basic-bitch.
He’s still humming as you stretched for his pyjamas—your wide eyes pinned to his silhouette through the nasty school curtain—good God, if you just ripped open the curtain, you could see everything—but then 1) you’d be labelled a pervert forever and 2) if he is your soulmate, it’s not a very romantic way to find out. Still. The shadow of his ass had a curve that wouldn’t quit.
Okay, okay, stop gawking. Grab the clothes, yes, and sneak away—quietly, quietly. Don’t shower shoes your way out.
Rushing into the girls’ bathroom, it occurred to you that your plan hadn’t included something to do with his clothes.
Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Um, you can’t just hide them in your stall, because he might come investigate in here, too—oh, uh. Oh, God.
Through the pipes overhead, you heard the water shut off for the boys’ bathroom.
“Oh, fuck, fuck,” you said, kicking open a bathroom stall and peering into the toilet, “Oh, God—no, I can’t—” Grimacing, you dashed out, tripped on your towel, and stumbled to the trash can. “Forgive me, Bakugou,” you said under your breath, and you hid his pyjamas underneath some paper towels.
You flicked on a sink to hold your head under the water, getting your hair and shoulders wet enough to look convincing, hopefully.
Now for the show.
Looking nervous, you peered into the hallway between the bathrooms, and you tentatively took a tiny step into it, your hair dripping onto the carpet.
The door to the boys’ bathroom slammed open, despite the time of night, and Bakugou strode out with his shower basket, looking grim but no worse than usual, with—with a—
You’re going to pass out. You’re going to pass out and drop dead. You’re pretty sure Bakugou could hear the nyoom as you stared at his—for fuck’s sake, he’s wrapped what’s got to be, like, a hair towel around his waist, barely skimming the top of his thighs.
A man’s got legs.
The thin, white towel covers him enough to be modest, but holy shit, his cock basically doesn’t matter when his legs are like that: thick, powerful thighs, sturdy, muscular, and would splay your legs far apart if you straddled one of them, and calves with definition that comes from running regularly for sport. Mother of God, get this man some booty shorts. He would win every fight immediately.
Oh, he’s said something. You shook yourself. “Sorry, what was that?”
Bakugou grunted. “Didn’t expect to see anyone up this late. I must have forgotten my clothes, so.” He scratched the back of his neck and jerked his head to the side.
Your eye twitched as a bead of water ran from his nipple and down the side of his ribcage.
“Left?” Oh, you hadn’t considered that he might blame himself. Do you bring up that someone might have stolen yours, since he doesn’t suspect? What do you do? “Uh, looks like we’re in the same boat,” you said, tugging your towel up, despite it still covering everything.
Wait, maybe you can flash him, and he’ll make the soulmate connection—
“You should be asleep,” said Bakugou, turning towards the stairs, leaving wet footprints behind him, “It’s not healthy to be up this late. You need to take care of yourself.” He glanced over his shoulder at you. “You can take the elevator.”
You blinked. “Oh, uh. Thank you. You get some sleep, too.”
Clearing his throat, Bakugou shrugged it off. “Good night.”
Bakugou won’t go swimming with the rest of the class. He won’t re-design his costume. Your theoretically accidental spills never hit him. You ended up with nothing but some unvarnished lust, unrequited affection, and coffee to clean up from the floor.
You’ve decided: one more day, and then you’re moving on to Todoroki. This soulmate search shouldn’t take this long.
Todoroki would be easier to love than this overly determined, stubborn-ass perfectionist who holds everyone else to the same high standards. God knows you don’t live up to Bakugou’s standards, so it’s good that this is the last day. He probably wouldn’t want you, anyway.
So, in this last, cloudy day of allowing yourself to like Bakugou, you shirked your own work to sit on the side of the gym with a book as a flimsy excuse to watch Bakugou do one-armed push-ups, his scowl growing deeper with each bead of sweat that dropped to the mat.
The gym slowly cleared out the further into the evening it got, and when Sero waved his goodbye to Bakugou, he’d spat out a response as stormy as the rain that pelted the gym roof. Huffing, he shot a glare towards you, and you snapped your book upright, not seeing the words.
It’s just the two of you in the gym, almost closing time, with Bakugou left in charge to close up with the thunderstorm raging outside.
You wanted to squeeze your heart to a pulp. He knows. He’s got to.
When the power flickered out at a particularly harsh thundercrack, Bakugou didn’t even react. Turning on the flashlight on your phone, you trotted over, stepping over some weights, to shine your light on his backpack as he ferreted everything away.
He grunted as he swung the strap over his shoulder, and without so much as a glance back towards you, he trudged to the gym door. He held it open for you, grimacing at the rainfall, and you slipped underneath his arm.
As the electronic door clicks shut behind the both of you, the rain picked up, striking the pavement like swords into sod. Squinting up at the sky, Bakugou shifted more closely to you underneath the tiny awning outside the door.
“I shouldn’t run through this shit,” said Bakugou, shifting his backpack to his front, “I’ve got my term paper in here.” He eased himself down onto the cramped bench, scooting the edge of it under the awning so that you’d both be able to sit. “You, you’d get so fucking soaked you wouldn’t be able to lift your feet, and then I’d have to cover your ass.”
The two of you couldn’t get back inside, due to the power outage and electronic lock, and your phone was on its last dregs; he didn’t carry his around. You found yourself sitting less than the width of your hand away from someone who might be—oh, who are you kidding? This idiot isn’t your soulmate. So, it didn’t matter if you ruined it.
“Hey,” you said, and when he didn’t respond, you spoke more loudly, over the rain, “Hey, uh, Bakugou. Are you doing well?”
He shot you a look out of the corner of his eye and didn’t even bother to answer, simply crossing his arms across his broad chest. As if catching himself, he uncrossed his arms again and rested one on the bench between you.
“Yeah, okay, that’s fair.” You shifted in your seat away from his hand, because you didn’t want to take up room that Bakugou wanted; it’d make him hate you even more. C’mon, this is the last time you’re going to have Bakugou as a captive audience, and then you can avoid him for the rest of your sorry life.
C’mon. Open your mouth and say it.
(“I need to see your dick?”)
You can do this.
(“Take out your rascally ol’ penis so that I can see your soulmark, you cuddly bastard.”)
Bakugou cleared his throat so gruffly it practically blended in with the thunder. “What are you reading?” He nodded towards your book, leaning over your lap to see the cover.
Oh. You tilted it his way, lightning flashing on the glossy letters. “It’s a social history that came out two months ago; it more or less triangulates the connections between hero marketability, social media, and romantic relationships. Midoriya leant it to me; it’s not exactly a thriller, but it’s informative.”
Bakugou seized the book from your grasp, hunching lazily on his hand between the two of you. “God, this looks miserable,” he said, thumbing through it, holding it away from the rain dripping off the awning, “Cynical and cold to even think about it. Why are you wastin’ your time over hero romantic marketability? Does that matter to you?”
God, he was taking up more and more space on the bench. You kept scooting away from his hand, which he had lifted from the cast iron to flex his fingers before returning to its spot, but now that the arm rest of the bench was pressing into your thigh, you couldn’t go any farther. Bakugou is a big guy, sure, but does he need a whole bench? “Um—no, not really, but, but it might affect—someone’s career in the future, and—I don’t wanna mess that up for him.”
You took the book back from him and clutched it to your chest, retreating as much as you could to the end of the wet bench without it cutting into your skin or getting into the rain. You were wincing, scrunching up your face and flinching away from him, closing your eyes so that you wouldn’t see whatever foul expression he’d have for you. Bakugou tugged on the book in your hands, but you gripped onto it more tightly, hunching in on yourself.
Ask him now. Ask him now, and you can bolt if he tries to kill you. He won’t follow you into the rain because of his term paper.
You can do it.
Oh, God, you can’t do this—
“Goddamnit,” said Bakugou, fumbling for the book, “Are you gonna let me hold your hand, or—”
“Please let me see your cock!” you shouted a bit too loudly, shielding your face with your face with your hands, and the book dropped from your lap to the wet pavement.
The rain bombarded the awning uninterrupted for a few painful seconds.
Peeking through your fingers, you watched Bakugou, his brow furrowed, pick up your book from the awning’s dripline, and he gently shook water off of it before wiping the cover on his sweats.
“Well,” he said at last, “if that’s the reaction I get when I try to hold your hand, I can only imagine what’ll happen when you let me kiss you.”
“No, no—forget I said anything. Forget everything I’ve ever done. Forget me. I’m,” you said, spluttering as you stood, “I’m leaving.”
“Stop.” Bakugou didn’t even have to grab you by the hand to stop you; all he did was graze the inside of your wrist. “Sit back down. Very good. Good girl. Tell me why you need to see my cock,” he said way too seriously, stretching his muscular arm behind you on the bench.
How is it fair that Bakugou was so calm while you were freaking out? Steeling yourself, you made yourself make eye contact, trying to be as serious as he was. “Bakugou, I think we may be soulmates.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “And that correlates with my dick how?”
Bakugou won’t even have to kill you after this. You’ll do it yourself. “I need to see if you have a soulmark there. Well, not technically your cock but more like the area around it—”
“You think we’re soulmates because of soulmate marks,” said Bakugou flatly.
“You know what! Fine.” Bakugou threw his hands up in surrender, surprisingly placid. “If you need to see my cock to affirm we’re soulmates, I’m down. Got two conditions, though.”
You swallowed with a dry throat. “What are they?”
“One,” he said, holding up his index finger, looking smug as hell, “you’ve gotta do it kneeling.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Oh, uh. Okay.” This must be how Bakugou kills you. Either that, or your heart is going to burst out of your chest, with how hard it’s pounding. “I’ve, uh. Never—” You cut yourself off and moved in front of him.
“I’ll keep your book from getting wet, but I can’t guarantee the same about you, sweetheart,” said Bakugou, spreading his legs for you.
If you weren’t going to commit suicide, you’d murder him. Maybe you can fit both into your schedule. You got on your knees between his legs, shuffling a bit closer towards him than you would’ve liked to keep out of the rain. Sighing, you cautiously lifted your shaky hands to the ties on his sweats.
You paused to look up at the smug bastard. “You didn’t mention the second condition.”
His teeth glinting in a grin, Bakugou reached down to curl some of your hair behind your ear, not that it really needed it. “Afterwards, I get to punch you in the face.”
You shrank away from his thighs, trying not to let him see your jaw tremble in the flashing light. No. You’ve come this far, and if Bakugou will kill you with a punch, then that’s probably better than disembowelling yourself, or something. You’d like to see his dick before you die.
Taking a deep breath, you reached for his sweats again. He, accommodatingly for some reason, lifted his hips for you to tug them down, but you took a moment before doing the same for his plaid boxers. You’re not going to cry out of fear and embarrassment; you’d be the girl who cried at the sight of a cock.
You glanced up at him. Bakugou glared down at you, his head tilted to the right, arms splayed across the back of the bench. He was clearly suppressing a smirk—you didn’t know why; wouldn’t be more humiliating if he laughed at you in the moment?
All right, you’re pulling down his boxers. Do it.
Closing your eyes as thunder rolled, you braced yourself and dragged down the fabric, careful to keep his bare ass from touching frigid cast iron, but it happened anyway (he hissed slightly at the cold). You froze, your hands still gripping the waistband of his boxers when they reached the mid-thigh, and you ducked your head.
“You gonna open your eyes?” His voice cut you straight to the bone. “You’re gettin’ punched for this; you might as well look.”
You were not above temptations of the flesh.
You were right: his cock lived up to the rest of his unfairly pretty-boy body, even though at this point it wasn’t even fully erect. Stupid and pretty and flushed, curving to the side just slightly with a pulsing vein (artery?) going up the same side that curved. The thick base sat amongst dark blond curls, and when you huffed in frustration, it twitched when your hot breath blew over it.
Scowling at his cock, you said, “Where’s the soulmark?”
“You’re an idiot,” said Bakugou, yanking his boxers and pants back up, and he didn’t even stand up to punch you; you hardly had time to prepare yourself properly. All you saw was his huge fist reeling back for a split second before smashing into your face.
You fell back on your ass, extremely baffled but somehow not in pain. You touched your cheeks, your mouth—nothing was broken or even aching. Bakugou had looked like he was going to slam you into the next century; why did it only feel like a tap on the cheek?
“You look confused,” said Bakugou, grinning and crossing his legs to hide the growing bulge in his sweats, “Don’t tell me you’re as stupid as you look.” He held out his hand to help you up, and he pulled you back onto the bench, this time sitting under his arm around your shoulders. “We’re soulmates, all right, but we don’t have marks. We can’t physically cause each other pain.”
You hesitantly snuggled into his pec, and he hummed when you did, so you supposed that was permission. Bakugou emanated a bunch of body heat; you should have done this when you first came out into the rain. And things were falling into place: the bite to your finger, the sparring when you couldn’t hit him…
“You’ve let me flounder?”
He tightened his grip around your shoulder. “I thought it’d be more fun for you if you figured it out yourself.”
Frowning, you gently hit his chest. “How long have you known?”
“Long enough to enjoy your terrible attempts to get me naked, sweetheart,” said Bakugou with a smile so annoyingly self-satisfied that you couldn’t look at it for long, “All you had to do was ask.”
“Oh, my God.”
With his free hand, he reached over to lace his fingers through yours. “Do you still have my pyjamas?”
You groaned into his shirt, not wanting to look him in the eye. “Yes. I was gonna wash them first, though. But wait,” you said, “I have a soulmark.”
Bakugou scoffed. “No, you don’t.”
“I do; it’s right next to—to my vagina,” you ended in a whisper, almost covered under the thunder.
“Dumbass. It was probably a bruise.” He was stroking your upper arm with two of his fingers. “It’s gotta be gone by now. Have you checked recently?”
“Uh,” you said, biting your lip and glancing away, “No. But I have pictures!”
“Show me,” he said, and he waited for you to dig out your phone, which died as soon as you pulled it up.
“I swear that it looked a bit like an explosion—”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You mean like a normal bruise?”
“I think I would know when I got a bruise there.”
Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Fine, then where’d you get that bruise on the back of your left leg?”
“What?” You twisted your leg, pulling up your capris a bit to see the full bruise. “I don’t—I didn’t know I had one there. Shut up. Okay, it’s possible that I mistook a bruise for a soulmark.”
Bakugou shifted so that he was facing you and took both of your hands in his, playing with your fingers. “Want me to check?”
You jolted in your seat, hands tensing in his. “Ex—excuse me?”
“You don’t know if it’s a soulmark, yeah? I do, but you seem to like proof. I can look for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I—” Too flustered to speak well, you nodded at Bakugou’s encouragement, with the voice in the back of your head saying that you could easily get addicted to the tender way he’s looking at you.
“Good girl. I’ll only do it with a condition, though,” said Bakugou, getting on his knees in front of you, nudging your legs apart, “I get to do it kneeling.”
soulmate trope taglist: @bakugouspsycho