Parting Gift

PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE TELL ME IM NOT THE ONLY ONE

my oc junko 🌱

OH MY GOSH

mafia boss bakugou 🩸

bakugo studies

after witnessing deku and uraraka “hold hands” like they are dapping each other up

studies

The Heart Cracks Before it Shatters ⋆｡°✩ Bakugou Katsuki

Masterlist ୨ৎ

What happens when the person holding everything together finally lets go?

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Glitter 𐔌 𐦯 : pain pain pain... inspired by an amazing fic (from another fandom) that I read on here yonkers ago (i cant remember the name just that it changed me).

Warnings : Angsty/open ending (for now), Female!Reader, Reader is a wife, Reader has children, mention of drinking/smoking, reader is very sad, agruments, swearing, sadness, aged up characters

W/C : ~2.5k

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Being married to Bakugo Katsuki wasn’t as glamorous as people might think.

Not that that’s a bad thing. The last thing you want to be is some trophy wife, forced to be dolled up constantly, the paparazzi always invading your and your husband’s personal life, a relationship formed for the public and not yourselves. 

But you didn’t think it would be this way. 

This marriage, formed years ago now, no longer feels like a partnership. A partnership which was based in balance, communication, understanding. It’s not quite that anymore, but you also can’t remember when things began to change. 

Was it when he reached the top 10? The weight of expectations pressing down on him, on both of you, and the crushing pressure of everything to lose? Or, was it before, when your baby girls arrived, and it became clear that parenting was definitely more work than the movies made it out to be. Maybe it doesn’t matter where it started, or why, or how. Somewhere along the way, the two of you stopped meeting in the middle.

Being Bakugo Katsuki’s wife doesn’t feel like much of an honor anymore. Most days, it feels more like a burden. A reminder of the role in your life that seemingly never gets easier, only harder. 

Despite everyone (friends, family, the everpresent media) you still work. It’s not anything people would refer to as noble, or essential. And even though it’s hard and sometimes makes you want to quit, you like having something of your own. Something that doesn’t come labeled as ‘Mrs. Bakugo.’

Working full time, raising young kids, and keeping the house running would be hard enough even if your marriage wasn’t falling apart. Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, you think being a single parent might actually be easier. 

No extra breakfast to make in the morning—only for it to go unacknowledged and the empty dish left for you to wash later. No disappointed little faces when Dad works late for countless nights in a row. At least then, you’d only have yourself to rely on. And maybe, that wouldn’t feel quite as lonely as this.

You really didn’t think it would get this way, you think, curled up on your side of the bed as Katsuki stumbles in after another late night. You can smell the alcohol, and the cigarettes already. 

He was out with Kirishima and the guys tonight, and the only reason you even know that is because Kirishima texted you earlier. Paired with a smiling photo of the group, promising to get him home safe. Like he knew Katsuki wouldn’t bother to tell you himself.

He quickly changes, tossing his clothes on the floor carelessly. Then, he collapses into bed, knocked out the second his head hits the pillow.

You lie there in the dark, the silence pressing in, and whisper to yourself once again, “When did it get like this?”

~ 

If he notices a change in you, he doesn’t voice it. 

Your mind pulls you back, and the next week passes like a blur. You keep up with the kids, you keep up with the chores. You try to carry on as normal, but it’s harder each day to hold it all together. Like your heart and mind is breaking all at once, piece by piece. 

And then, one evening, Riko—your 9-year-old, the one with the sharp eyes and the soft heart—asks if you’re feeling okay. You freeze. Her voice is so innocent, so concerned, but it cuts through you like glass. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. 

Her eyes dart over your face, reading between the lines like he used to. She doesn’t know how to make you feel better with words—just like he never did—but there’s something so pure and heartbreaking in the way she tries. Little drawings tucked into your pockets, warm hugs that last a little longer than usual. 

You feel guilt crawl up your throat, a heavy, suffocating thing. This isn’t fair on them. The weight on your chest feels even heavier, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re failing your children in some way. 

“You getting sick?”

You glance up to see your husband standing in the doorway, his figure framed by the soft light spilling from the kitchen. It’s late, when he asks, when you are busying yourself with preparing his and the girls lunches for the next day. 

If there’s any concern in his tone, you don’t catch it. There’s no comfort in his words, no reassurance—just a flat question that seems to hang in the air between you. 

In the back of your mind, everything that has been sitting on your chest threatens to bubble. But as you look at his face, and see nothing but blankness (with a small frown forming at your silence), you put those thoughts away. 

“I’m just tired,” you reply, because it’s easier than saying anything else. And you are, desperately so.

“Well, the brats think you are,” he mutters, and with that, he turns and walks away.

The words sting. They sting with the insinuation that you’re a bad mother, that you’re the one worrying your children, and that this, somehow, is your fault. Whereas the angry part of you, the part that’s been building up with the last of your energy, wants to laugh at his audacity. To call him out, to remind him that his own children see him more on the TV than in real life, that he hasn’t been there like he should be.

You know that if you let it all out, if you say the things you’ve been holding back, it will only make things worse. It’ll trigger the chaos, the shouting, the hurtful words that come when emotions are too raw, and you’re not sure you can survive another round. You don’t have the energy, to match his fire, to say what you need. So you don’t. 

So instead, you swallow the anger, the frustration, the hurt, and keep moving through the motions. You finish the dishes, pack the lunches, and make sure the house is in order.

~

It’s actually Kirishima who gives you the intervention.

Since you and Katsuki met, Kirishima has always been there. Bright, bubbly, and with a kind of steady energy that balances out Katsuki’s explosiveness. He understands Katsuki through and through—knows him in a way no one else does.

And he doesn’t just see you as an extension of Katsuki either, not after all this time. He remembers your family’s birthdays, and he makes sure to send them his well wishes. He knows what films you like and what food you eat, all the little things that make you, you.

He pesters you for a catch-up lunch (on him, he insists) whenever he has the time. He’s there, always, in a way that almost feels like family.

So, it shouldn’t surprise you when he’s the one that finally spots your cracks.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says one afternoon, as you’re sipping coffee together in the living room, when he failed to get you out to a coffee shop. "No time," you had justified, a weak excuse that he’s learned to accept but never really believes.

He moves just a little closer then, his eyes softening as they meet yours. There’s something in them, a weight of concern that makes your chest tighten.

“Is everything okay?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and gentle at the same time. You feel your breath catch in your throat, and you break. 

~ 

It feels like your eyes don’t focus, until hours later when you wake in the dark to the sound of aggressive knocking at your door.

After you spilled everything, Kirishima didn’t hesitate. He booked you a hotel a bit outside of Tokyo, made sure to call your work (claiming you’d come down with the flu—in April), and promised to get the kids sorted before shipping you off in a car.

With nothing but a soft smile on his face he says, “Just relax, okay? Take care of yourself for a bit,”,  his voice gentle but firm. He reminds you to text him when you get there, and before you know it, you’re being driven away.

The knocking only seems to get rougher, so you stumble out of bed, still in your bathrobe, towards the door. Despite a small flicker of shock in your face when faced with Katsuki, your mind doesn't match it. The frantic knocking was a clear enough giveaway, you muse. 

He’s in his post-work clothes, his face tight with frustration and anger, his eyes dark with something you can’t quite place. Before you can even speak, he brushes past you, pushing his way into the room without so much as a second glance. 

“What the fuck is going on?” he demands, his voice sharp and biting as he watches you linger near the door, still too stunned to move.

“I’m on fucking patrol, and Shitty Hair won’t stop calling me, then he’s crying about you, and that he has the kids and you’re gone! And since you decide to not answer a single fucking text, I’m forced to trample up here to get you.”

His words hit you like a slap, each one laced with a mix of anger and frustration, but you can’t bring yourself to react, your body still laced with tiredness and emptiness. 

You return him with a blank stare, as his eyes, wild with simmering anger and confusion, rake over you. His head whips around the room, at your small bag and clothes, like it will give him the answer. Like your another criminal to crack. Like the answer hasn’t been in his face this entire time. 

At your silence, he takes a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, and it seems like he’s trying to hold back the frustration, trying a different tactic.

“Sweetheart…"

Huh. You haven’t heard that in a while.It still doesn’t carry the softness it once did; now it feels foreign, distant, like it doesn’t belong. The word lingers in the air between you, almost mocking in its attempt to soften the tension.

“Say something, this… this isn’t like you. Fuckin’ taking off like this…”

He sits on the bed, looking at you like he’s never seen you before, like this is your first fight, and he’s trying to figure out where things went wrong. 

You sigh, feeling the weight of everything Kirishima had said to you earlier. “He… he sometimes needs things spelled out for him. It’s not fair, but…”

You breathe in deeply, pulling your robe tighter around you, but you don’t move towards him. 

“Katsuki…” Your voice is quiet, but it cracks with the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. “I’m tired.”

The only thing that tells you he’s really listening is the sharp intake of breath that follows your words.

“I just… I’m not sure if I can do this anymore. If I’m happy… anymore.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final.

Katsuki doesn’t say anything at first. His presence is looming, heavy, but there’s no movement. No angry retort. You hear him breathe, slow and deliberate, but when the silence drags on, your chest tightens with the fear that maybe he doesn’t know how to fix this, either.

Finally, his voice breaks the quiet, low and rough. 

“Okay—” he mutters, dragging his hands roughly through his hair, “Okay.”

You don’t look up. But, you can hear him now, his footsteps heavy as he stands and begins pacing next to the bed, restless and unsure.

“Not happy—not happy how?” His voice cracks, just a little, as if he’s trying to hold himself together. He pauses, breath catching in his throat, before continuing, his words tumbling out in quick bursts. “What can I do, to, to fuckin’ fix this?”. 

Your mind feels so empty, the recognition of his emotions, of his desperation, doesn’t even register. It’s coming a couple of years too late. You can’t prevent a delirious, small laugh from escaping your lips in response, the bitter sound echoing in the quiet room. The idea that he still doesn’t get it, that you still have to spell it out to him, makes your chest tighten with something raw and aching.

You wipe your face, a dry, exhausted laugh escaping before you can stop it. “You still don’t get it, huh?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, heavy with everything you’ve been holding in for so long. “You can’t just fix it, Katsuki. You can’t just show up and expect everything to be okay. It’s been so long, and I… I’ve been doing this—this whole thing—on my own for so long.”

You slide down the wall, onto the floor. Resigned with the fact that you’ve said enough for tonight, and that you can’t get out any more. The silence in the room is thick, but you meet his eyes, and numbly register that he’s crying now. You can't remember the last time you saw that either, maybe back when your first baby was born, though the tears are much different now. His face is twisted in confusion, guilt, and something that might be regret. Like the severity of the situation has finally reached him.

Then, he falls to the floor, meeting you there. His face is swollen with tears, and you can hear the shaky breath escape him as he reaches out, wanting to touch you. His hands hover above your knees, and before you even think about it, you knock them away.

The reflex comes from somewhere deep inside you—somewhere that’s been broken for too long. His eyes widen, like you’ve slapped him, and he pulls his hands back, his body going rigid as if he wasn’t expecting that reaction.

“Don’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Katsuki’s face crumples even more, his shoulders shaking as he tries to even his breathing. His voice comes out broken, barely audible. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know how to… how to make it right. I just… I didn’t know. I didn’t realize.”

You don’t say anything. The words feel like they’re stuck in your throat, the exhaustion and hurt too heavy to allow you to respond with anything that isn’t laced with bitterness or tears.

“I can sort this out,” he says again, softer this time, his voice breaking. “I can do better. I swear, I’ll try. I’ll—” He looks at you, as though he’s trying to find the right words, the right way to fix everything that’s broken.

For a moment, all you can do is look at him. He’s still the same man you married, but somehow, he’s different. More lost. More fragile. And so are you. And maybe that’s the hardest part.

The silence that follows is heavy, painful, a reminder of everything that’s been unsaid for far too long.

With a final, lingering glance at you, Katsuki stands up. The room feels colder now, the absence of his presence a sharp contrast to the tension that had once filled it.

“I’ll fix it,” he says one last time, his voice quieter now, and with that, he turns and walks out of the room.

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒

EEEEKKKK...

I haven't completely decided what is happening next in this fic... so any suggestions/predications are welcome 🙃

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