i keep going back to this thought of like adult, pro-hero, brick-wall-of-a-man bakugou still being just so insecure. like he works hard for his body and he's not stupid, he knows that it's strong and is what it needs to be for his line of work, for being a pro, for protecting those that he loves—but he's always had an issue with...people.
yeah, as an older man, that's fallen away some and he's learned to let go of all the little battles he wants to start, how to ignore challenges that aren't there, but he's still bakugou, and people have this perception of him and his personality and attitude and he knows it's not unfounded, but...what good is there to say about him, really? that he's got a fit body? big fucking whoop.
a hot body isn't what's gonna keep you around.
and it's frustrating, because you smile at him and laugh at the shitty things he says and you forgive him, even when he can't apologize, and you understand the space he just needs sometimes. there are days when he wants to sleep alone because he'd done it all of his life, until you came around, and there are days he doesn't want to speak—to you or anybody—because every little thing is grating on his nerves, there are days when he wants to get out of the house and fuck off to hike, somewhere far without cell service, and only come back once he's sweaty and tired and in need of a shower.
and that's—he's not stupid. who wants to put up with that? him, and all that he entails? all you have to just accept, because he doesn't know how to change it.
it's not as if he doesn't want to spend time with you; some days that's all he wants. your attention, your touch, your little affections, your approval. a reminder that you do still love him, even after everything, and yeah, you say it every night and every morning and before you hang up the phone, but—what about all the times in between? even when he wants to be alone, he still thinks about you, too much maybe, for how much space he's willingly created for himself.
the face you make when you eat something too soon from the oven or when you pretend not to cry at some stupid movie. the shirt you wore last thursday and how well the color looked against your skin. how warm you are first thing in the morning, when he rolls over to make sure you're still there. what you smell like right out of the shower—do you smell like him, on the days you wear his shirts out of the house? does it make you think about him, too, all day? do you even like the way he smells or the way he dresses? how he cuts his hair or the shoes he wears on casual days, when he doesn't have to go work and he's not having dinner with his witch of a mother?
you're...attracted to him. right? gotta be, because if you aren't then all you have is his personality and that—there's just no fucking way. you've gotta be, because you kiss him and touch him and bother him in the shower and sometimes he looks at you across the table and you're giving him this look that drives him fucking crazy and—he's just bad at asking for things, for anything. 'specially for you.
sometimes you make him feel like a virgin fucking schoolboy, that doesn't know how to touch or be touched and so he does petty shit, little things that are supposed to drive you crazy, too. not like he really knows for sure, because the minute you look too long when he's shirtless, he wants to launch his own embarrassing ass off a cliff. he'll never admit to it, but yeah, he eats strawberries that way on purpose, messy while watching you, and he stands at the edge of your bed in a low-slung towel until he's nearly dry, just furthering some mindless conversation so that you'll stay awake and looking at him. when he's at the gym, he'll send a snapchat he took way too long posing for, just to respond with a "yeah", or he'll pretend he doesn't know why it's a big deal that he decided to forgo boxer briefs under his sweatpants.
bakugou wants to be wanted, but he doesn't know how to make himself worth wanting, and doesn't know how to ask either—but he's learning; placing his face between your shoulderblades when he wants you to turn to him in bed, resting his forehead on your knee when he's sorry and can't say why, drawing a heart on a sticky note, quick and shitty, before he has time to get embarrassed, nipping at the skin under your earlobe when he wants you, the blush on his cheeks probably searing into the skin of your neck.
insecure but trying, trusting. isn't that what love is anyway?
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blakekathryn
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
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