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intermission — k.bakugou

if it's worth fighting for, it's worth saving.

cws: fem reader, established relationship, argument and the aftermath, hurt/comfort

⟢

Katsuki is difficult.

There's no other way around it. It's just who he is — rough around the edges, scalpel sharp from the cocky grins that slice through his face to the potent aggression he can't seem to abandon even with his status as a pro hero.

Considering he moves in tandem with his mother's heirloom of a temper, it's no surprise. You'd seen the woman twice, and witnessed firsthand how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Still, hereditary or not, there are times you wish he'd at least try to soften his words. Mold them into something kinder, gentler. A weapon wielded to keep you out of harm's reach, not to pierce you through the back to leave you in the lurch.

But it seems even that kind of mercy is too lenient for someone like Katsuki. Someone who always needs to have the last word and win the argument, even if it means you slowly harbor yourself away from him every time it happens. Lowering the white flag to half mast because you're just so tired of it all.

You're so tired of it all.

—

Katsuki is still for a moment, startled into stupor as he stares at the scene that just unfolded before him. His mind races, synapses firing across his brain to register what the hell just happened.

Three things come to mind, hazy—

The door. Slammed shut, right into his face. You shoving him out of the room to do so, hands forceful with the intent to push him away.

—before they meld into one, definite conclusion.

Once the pieces fall into place, and the realization dawns upon him, slashing through his previous daze with striking clarity to make way for another recollection, his cheeks flare up with rage.

A break? HAH?

There's no hesitance in the way he knocks on your door. They're light rasps of knuckle at first, but as the silence that follows gnaws at him, they soon advance into incessant pounds that demand your attention, frustration spilling over with every thud that grows more urgent, more desperate.

Again and again, until it swings open and—

"Do you need something?!" is spit out venomously by none other than you.

"Yeah, you," he says, biting back like it’s obvious, with just as much vitriol to counteract your own. He's tugging on your arm before you can let out a response, fingers encased around your wrist — firm enough to keep you in place, but never to hurt you. “The hell is your problem, huh?!”

You try taking it back. He doesn't budge, his grip unyielding.

"The hell are you doing?! Quit acting like a damn brat!"

It’s funny, you think. How Katsuki isn’t the best judge of character, yet acts like he’s platformed on some higher moral ground than you. There’s nothing more infuriating than his hypocrisy — how he spits out words spurred on by his negligence like it's nothing, only to swallow them down with an excuse while redirecting the blame to anyone but himself.

With all the strength you can muster, you yank your hand back.

Perhaps, you are more angry than you initially thought you were. Or maybe, he had just provoked you past that point — he’s always been good at drawing out the worst parts of you, after all. “Unless you’ve gone deaf,” you start, eyes narrowed into sharp, chastising slits. “Or are so lost in the head that you aren’t capable of paying attention to what others have to say, we’re on a break.”

Katsuki, who already lays out the worst parts of him on display for others to make a spectacle of, doesn’t bother hiding his irritation. The skin of his knuckles morph into a ghastly white as he challenges you to repeat that. You wanna say that again?

And so, successful in reclaiming the reigns of your arm, you say it again. You’re tired of holding out the olive branch. This time, you’re going to throw it at him instead.

“We’re on a break,” you reiterate. “A break.” you say once more for good measure, just to make sure that this time, it actually gets past his impenetrable shield of a skull. “So I don’t need to talk to you right now. I don’t even want to. Get out, Katsuki. And leave me alone until I tell you otherwise.”

Uncaring for whatever it is he has left to say to you, you reach for the door, fist curling around the knob’s cool metal as you pull it closer towards you to slam it shut, its hinges creaking.

He anticipates the move, though — stupid pro heroes and their stupid instincts — and shoves his foot through the narrow gap to prevent it from shutting all the way.

The door stutters, wedged just centimeters shy of fully closing — so close, you think. He swings it right back open with ease — but so far away.

Your expression is set as hard as stone as you glower at him; the harsh lines etched onto your face presenting themselves as if they had been carved with a chisel. Scoffing, Katsuki levels you with a glare as sharp as an angle grinder in return.

Two can play it that way hangs heavy in the air, lingering between the charged tension.

He runs his tongue across his teeth, thumb hooking over the waistband of his stupidly ripped to hell jeans as he straightens his shoulders to their full height — some vapid show of dominance.

"We're not going on a damn break."

What is this? Some peremptory order of the court?

“Yes, we are. We need it.”

“I don’t need a damn thing from you!”

His voice cracks like a whip, and you flinch despite yourself, trying to hold your ground. It’s that same harsh edge that’s both familiar and bitterly unwelcome.

And there it is again. That caustic tongue of his, always revealing itself in the worst ways possible.

His words are a torrential downpour, rebuking and admonishing, pelting against your composure like hail. And you hate it, this side of Katsuki. The one that makes you feel small.

“Doing all this dumb crap, and for what? You think this is gonna fix shit?

The one that shifts all the blame on you, draping it over your shoulders, like the weight of your shared mistakes is yours to bear alone.

“Act your own age for once, for fuck’s sake.”

The one that doesn't sheathe his sword in his scabbard. Brandishing the blade instead, leaving you to fend for yourself, all laid out and defenseless.

“It’s fucking exhausting.”

You hate that side of Katsuki. The one that hurts you. Over and over. Again and again. Until you think—Oh.

Maybe it isn’t this side of his that’s the issue. Maybe this is just who he is.

“Who the hell takes a damn break in a relationship anyway? You might as well just break up with me, damn it!”

And you’re tired, really. Your throat is raw and your head is spinning. You’re tired of fighting. When everything ricochets and comes to snipe at you instead, how could you not be?

Your hands drop to your sides, falling limp. “Do you want that, Katsuki?” you ask. And it’s quiet, the sound of your voice, soft like surrender, a fragile murmur. “Is that what you want? Because I’ll give it to you.”

Silence ensues. Stretches into what feels like an eternity. You are suddenly made very aware of how you’re presenting yourself right now. Heart made of glass, worn humiliatingly bare on your sleeve.

Is this what it means to be in love? To feel so weak, so pathetic, all the time?

“Forget it.” Your eyes shine with everything left unsaid. There is nothing left of you anymore. “Just — just close the door on your way out. I can’t — I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”

You don’t bother waiting for a response before you turn away, don’t bother sharing one final glance with him, either. You’ve never been good at goodbyes, so you’ll leave it up to him how he wants his last image of you to be. Not that you had much of a choice, anyway.

Slowly, you retreat back into your apartment — one, two, three steps further away from your threshold — until the frame of your back diminishes in size, shrinking with each step. Your movements are heavy with resignation. Each stride you take feels like it’s sinking into the floor, dragging you down with its weight.

How could you be so naive? To think a man of his caliber could ever love you — how could you believe that?

How could you believe in that?

You don’t even realize you’re trembling, not until you lay your palms flat against the kitchen counter and feel the tremors pulsate through your entire being. The countertop is cool and steady beneath your hands — but you are everything but. You try to ground yourself. Close your eyes and take deep breaths as you will yourself not to choke on the sobs that claw at your throat, begging for release.

You’re not going to cry; you won’t allow it.

And yet, when two strong arms wrap around your waist to mold you against an unmistakable warmth, you tip over the edge, bursting into an endless cascade. Katsuki’s chin rests against the curve of your shoulder as you snivel, his thumbs gliding across your hip bones in soothing motions, working away all the pain he’s shouldered you with.

Apologies are whispered into the crook of your neck, where kisses are then pressed against; a lick over a bite, a bandage over an open wound. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, remorseful. He feels like it too. You feel the pitter patter of his heart against the small of your back, how they picked up their pace, seeing you leave like that. “I pushed you too far. I’m sorry.”

“Katsuki—” you sob, instinctively leaning into his chest. How is it that you find solace in the root of your agony? You will never understand how these things work. “I’m tired,” you confess. “Maybe… maybe we aren’t happy. Maybe we should—”

“No, no. Don’t do that.”

It’s raspy, the way it tumbles out his mouth. A few octaves lower, saturated in his penitence. He unfurls an arm around you, reaching a hand to slip his fingers into the cracks of your own. And you don’t miss how it’s a perfect fit, how it feels like the spaces between them were shaped just to hold each other like this.

“Don’t do that,” he pleads. “Give up on us. You can give up on me, but don’t give up on us.”

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

As you both bask in the silence, Katsuki presses kisses onto your knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Let me apologize,” he begs.

And you do — you allow him to melt the chill that had long settled into your bones, let him usher out the freezing cold that took residency inside the hearth of your heart. Let him repeat his mantra of a prayer. I love you, I’m sorry. An earnest imploration that no one takes you from him, that you don’t leave him.

“I love you, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Please...”

Please what?

Please don’t leave me? Please believe me when I tell you I love you? Please don’t give up on us?

Katsuki’s not too sure. He tripped over the shards of his negligence and only took notice of the tragedy once he saw you bleeding. Far too careless, far too late. It’s a devastating wreck that left you in ruins, but broken parts can still be made beautiful, and Katsuki doesn’t mind spending the rest of his life on his knees if it means begging for your forgiveness.

“I’m sorry.”

You’re no longer crying, your tears long simmered down into soft sniffles. That doesn't mean you’re no longer hurt, or angry, though.

“You’re an asshole,” you say, wiping at your lash line with the heel of your palm.

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Somehow, you let him twist you around to face him — subconsciously, you might have wanted that too, but you’d count all the hair on your scalp before you’d ever admit that.

Katsuki cages you against the counter in his arms. There’s no room to leave, but you wouldn't have done it anyway.

“I love you, okay? I…fucked up, I know, but I’m the fuckin’ best at everything I do, so I’ll make it up to you. Swear.”

There are times you’ve wondered if Katsuki was the right one for you. He’s overwhelming in all senses of the term. The embodiment of chaos, always rushing into things headfirst without taking heed. He swears like a sailor and throws equal parts bark and bite, warranted or not.

He is his mother’s son, after all.

“Oi,” he grunts. “I love you, please tell me you know that.”

But he’s his father’s child too, and underneath all the layers that make Katsuki who he is, there is softness at his core — the one he’d inherited from his father. Why else would his eyes be glossy? Why else would the tip of his nose be ruddy? Why else would you feel so safe in the cage of his arms?

“Hey…” Katsuki mumbles, verging on tears. “Said I love you.”

You don’t miss the unsure lilt in his voice that seeks for the reassurance he’d never explicitly ask for.

“Fuck you,” you seethe, already crying again. “I love you too.”