˚₊‧꒰🌗꒱ ‧₊˚— The rough, bumpy skin of your torso is what made you wear t-shirts like a second skin. Never without. Never willing to reveal what you actually looked like. Different sizes and shapes littered your body, dark, keloid bumps lifting from your already damaged skin. Large indented lines marked your ribs, almost making you look like a gilled fish, if a fish could look so tethered.

The most damaged part was your back. The skin that carpeted between your shoulder blades was completely mutilated. Uneven, oddly textured, burnt. From the top to the midsection it didn't look like any of it was left with the soft skin it used to be.

The insecurity of revealing your vast difference to every other teenager made you feel sick, but Bakugo wasn't someone to let that slide. He only acted irritated by your refusal to exist in the skin you had, and he was the only person who saw it at times. He had pushed you way past your limit, forcing you to take off your shirt when he was around to get over the fear, but you found it hard to be comfortable when you had the body for a villain origin story.

Now you were sitting on the couch in your living room, fragile as can be, reading some random manga with your mutilation on display while Bakugo scrolled through his phone. His gaze made you feel like you were encased in glass, and you had to simmer down and try not to let it bother you.

"Are you going to the beach with the class?" He questioned casually, breaking the silence without lifting his gaze from his device. He wasn't paying much attention to your body, like it was a trivial thing. Like it was an obscene display of human skin.