being pro-hero dynamight’s assistant has its perks.
well first-off, you’re treated like a human being! transferring from monoma and shindo’s agency was your best decision yet, here, you get your own office, a 2-hour lunch break, and 25 vacation days every year.
having dynamight as your boss is also great. he doesn’t make outrageous requests like “go refill the diffuser in my private bathroom” but, normal work stuff you signed up for.
and when you’re the assistant of a top-five hero, while there are a lot of things to do (shouto’s charity event, the met gala, his vogue interview, milan fashion week invitation, the tonight show attendance, oscar’s award ceremony yada yada yada) your job becomes fun.
but your work hours are still short and flexible, being in-office at 9:00 and out again at 5:00 means you get much more time to spend with your friends. while your own office is next to dynamight’s, it’s still open enough for his sidekicks to come chat.
so tell me why, at 8:30 pm, when your work hours have long been over, when the office is empty save for the janitor, you’re still there in your office, waiting for your boss to be back from his late patrol?
“tsk, told you not to wait for me,” his boots stomp down the hallway to where you’re seated. his mask pulled up onto his forehead, eyeliner slightly smudged from the humid night air. when he goes into his office, to change, to brush-up and grab his car keys, you begin to tidy up as well. close the lights, prepare tomorrow’s paperwork. “let’s go,” he says, back in his sweatpants and hoodie.
bakugou is ashamed of his scars. ugly little patches of skin that coat the right side of his face, they stretch down his chest and his right arm so that he’s forced to look at them each and every day.
compliments used to work. praise mumbled by his partners in passing, fans and the paparazzi that eye his body like meat—it all made him feel good, albeit temporarily. it makes him feel wanted, desired, even if it meant being a superficial and shallow image of a hero, even it if muddied who he really is, but beggars can’t be choosers.
it begins with a face mask, a long-sleeve shirt, before his secrecy spirals into self-doubt.
his PR team is good—they spin his privacy into a tool that garners even more attention, now everyone wants a piece of dynamight. so he stops going to the beach, he stops posting thirst traps and he no longer invites women into his bed. he spends his patrols covered in clothes that don’t reveal a single scar, he uses makeup, he is never seen without a mask on.
“i’m not sure man,” you say, brows furrowed in concentration. “not that your support engineer knows anything about it. but, yeah, they seem to forget that you died once. like, you literally died when you were seventeen. your face exploded and so did your heart and your arm.”
bakugou is latching onto every word like fish to bait.
“maybe to them, your scars are decorative. they keep up with your tough guy personality, for aesthetics,” you say, looking up only to see that his crimson eyes are already staring back, pupils mixed with something that perhaps borderlines gratitude. “but, y’know, they tell a story to me.”
being the only hero to ever score a merch collaboration with the dynamight, those products resell at an upwards of ¥285,000 on different websites, if not for more in overseas stores. hoodies, mugs, plushies—you name it, and it’ll have people mass-hoarding them.
the downside, though, is that the press loooves asking you how you managed to accomplish such a feat: “how does it feel to be the only woman to work with dynamight?” “why do you think dynamight chose to work with you? is there something beneath the waters that the fans aren’t aware of?”
it’s stupid, tiring, and dynamight shut that shit down within two seconds of the reporter opening his mouth. in bakugou’s words, “it’s fucking dumb to attribute your credibility as a hero and partner to either being a woman or to seducing me.”
and what he says is very much true— you’re a regular occupier of the top 10 hero ranks, with one of the highest (if not the highest) success rates in your solo missions. you’re consistently rated “most versatile hero” by the public month and month again. but…
“well, katsu, you can’t blame them, we are married.”
cw. bakugou x reader. established relationships. talks of body image, physical appearances, and insecurities. self-indulgent.
"do you wanna talk about it?" bakugou's thumb moves rhythmically across your cheek. it grounds you. his other arm is bent, laid on the surface of your couch. his bicep is nicely shaped—smooth, soft, and bulging from his shirt.
the ball is in your court now, and you wrestle with the idea for a bit. experience has told you that nothing he says will be able to resolve your qualms, because these things are irrational. the comfort that you offer others won't work, because you won’t listen, and you won't believe in it.
katsuki is looking at you earnestly, countenance devoid of smirks, frowns, and even the glint in his eyes. in these quieter moments, you're reminded that, despite what the world thinks, your boyfriend is incredibly patient, perhaps more than what you deserve, and more than what you can give back.
he’s different, you tell yourself, so he’s worth a try.
you sigh. “okay,” his thumb has stopped moving, “but promise that you won’t baby me or give me superficial reassurance, ‘cause that’ll just make me feel worse.”
“i promise.”
you open your mouth, but you are silent. the words that have rolled on your tongue for innumerable nights are lodged despicably at your throat. a choked noise emerges, and your cheeks heat under his watchful gaze.
“take your time,” he says, “we’re in no rush.”
“yeah, okay.” you clear your throat. “it’s just that with social media and—you know—society, i’ve been having a particularly hard time with my self-esteem. it’s like i’m in this grey area between fat, thin, and muscular. i’m too thin to be fat, too fat to be thin, and not muscular enough to pass off as athletic. when i try to appeal to everyone, i end up appealing to no one.”
your words are slightly slurred—a result of trying to get the words out too fast. like if you spoke fast enough, he won’t be able to catch onto the meaning and be disappointed in you, too.
“it doesn’t help that, well, you’re very good-looking. i’m not saying that you should be uglier or that i’m jealous at how handsome you are. i feel very lucky that you love me, maybe even too lucky. i just—it’s like—sometimes i wonder if people on the street will see us together, and wonder to themselves if i’m rich, or if you’re really fucked up and can only score someone like me.”
you wait for him to chime in, to tell you to stop talking about yourself like that, like how every other person has. you wait for him to shut down the thoughts that go through your head every time you look into a mirror, and every time you take a picture with him. you wait for him to refuse and turn away from the ugliness of your subconscious, but bakugou is silent. he just grips your hand tighter, an anchor.
“sometimes i ask myself why you even like me. it’s definitely not for my appearance. then i think, oh maybe it’s my personality. but even then, i find myself to be so annoying and frustrating and tiresome. like right now. i don’t know how you put up with me.”
you avoid his gaze. instead, you busy your free hand with the hem of your shirt, whilst looking at the crease in your legs. you feel your own weight, sinking deeper, endlessly, into the uncomfortable surface of your sofa. you are hyper aware of your body, your skin, and you wish to crawl your way out of it.
it’s sudden. you feel the tears well up, a sting in your sinuses, when bakugou wraps you in his arms. tightly, warmly, like he’s never letting go. a silent, meaningful reassurance that he hears you, that he sees your pain. sniffling, your tears dot his shirt, leaving small patches behind.
“i may not know exactly what you’re feeling, but i do know something similar.”
his warm breath fans your nape, broken apart with kisses placed on the crown of your head, into your hair. “i sometimes think that you’re better off with someone who’s more patient, more explicit with their affection. you deserve someone who isn’t as easily angered, you deserve someone who can love you loudly and easily.”
his hand runs soothingly up and down your back. he chuckles. “i don’t really know what i’m getting at here. but i know that these issues can’t be chased away with rational explanations. we’re gonna have to deal with this for the rest of our lives. but, please, know that i love you. it’s like what you always say to me: you are a mosaic of many, many things, you can’t single out one characteristic. and i love you.”
he looks at you again, his lips slightly upturned. his eyes are soft. they roam and search your face for something that you’re not aware of. but, in spite of everything, you smile.
the first time bakugo hears you is late at night. his body is sore from the long patrols this week, so it really doesn’t make sense that he’s up at three in the morning. but when he’s grabbing a glass of water with the window open, summer air blowing in the tufts of his blond hair, he hears it. a minute melody, so faint that he thought he must have been hallucinating from the lack of sleep. a soft, enchanting tune that he last heard in the live orchestra with jirou.
his breathing slows. his heart beats, steady, thud after thud that he feels echo in his rib cage.
even though he doesn’t play the piano, even if he’s only known the harsh bites of snares and basses, it feels bittersweet to him. your sound reminds him of dandelions from a bygone childhood, promises that he never got to keep.
when you leave for work tomorrow, drowsy from a night of non-slumber, you almost trip over and crush the flowers laid at your doorstep. little things of budding tulips wrapped in wrinkled paper, on the cusp of blooming. petals of various hues of yellow and red that remind you of cloudless sunsets in spring, damp from morning dew.
for bakugou’s birthday you buy him a shirt with “i love y/n” on it as a joke but then he starts wearing it out in public, at the airport, before his patrol, on a walk with you… so in the end you are the one that ends up getting embarrassed. but he just chuckles with his hand drawing small circles on your hip “hmm? what’s wrong with showing the world i love you, baby?”
it takes two months for katsuki to notice. he’s always been perceptive, it’s why you go out of your way to hide the traces you leave behind. even before living together, he could track your movements across hours to know you haven’t eaten dinner yet. it’s the pro-hero in him that never sleeps, he says.
it begins with your trash bin. tissue paper blotted in red languishes at the top of your litter—that’s wrong, it should be drowning at the bottom, covered in scrap. you’ve become lazy, careless. you’re starting to let your footsteps show. katsuki tells himself that you’re also a pro-hero: a civic servant who puts their life on a silver platter for the HPSC, for the people of musutafu, it’s not out of the ordinary that you bleed (so much, at home, invisibly.)
you disappear for hours at a time, lost to the shadows where he can’t reach you. he tells himself, maybe he hasn’t been good enough, maybe he hasn’t loved you hard enough. surely it’s why you’re seeking affection elsewhere, and perhaps it’s because infidelity is something that he can deal with, conquer—something easier than death.
then, it’s the packages that pile up at your door.
when, at last, your closet becomes filled to the brim with hats of varying shades of dark blue, he talks to you about it.
he thought long and hard about how he should approach this: a conversation that achieves little other than confirmation, it’s just a chance for you (for him) to say no, to silence the doubts, quiet his head.
“is there something you want to tell me?”
so he asks you a question that has an expected model answer. he gives you the space to continue lying, or to speak truth into existence. he wishes that you do the former.
“kats,” you say, his name tender on your tongue, a forming bruise. “you know the answer.”
he shakes his head, stubborn in his denial. he tells himself that if he says no, you won’t be in danger. your life will be normal again, he’ll get to spend the rest of his life with you, loving you with all that he has to offer.
Bakugou doesn’t beg. It’s not in his blood— the word “please” lays foreign on his tongue, absent from his vocabulary.
He didn’t beg for UA to accept him when he was 15, he hadn’t begged when death came knocking on his doors in the Great War at 17. Because begging feels like a thousand stabbing knives— the walls he built: of pride, of faux confidence, of insecurity, they all shatter and crumble at your feet when the word “please” escapes his pharynx like tumbleweed.
Nitroglycerin reduces the things around him to ruins, explosions casted from the epicentres of his palm with agglomerated sweat that fuels his destruction. He becomes a ground of ruins.
“Please” don’t leave me. “Please” I’m sorry.
Bakugou never had a habit of begging, but when he’s at your doorstep at midnight, shirt crinkling between his fingers, sweat drapes over his entire being.
