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.”
