Miyabr0 - Mar !

The Heart Cracks Before it Shatters (Pt5.5) ⋆｡°✩ Bakugou Katsuki

Masterlist ୨ৎ pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5

a look into Katsuki's isolation

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

Glitter 𐔌 𐦯 : Okay so i know i said only one chapter left but... i wanted to give a little perspective into Katsuki's thoughts.

Warnings : Angsty, Female!Reader, Reader is a wife, Reader has children, bakugou is very sad, agruments, swearing, sadness, aged up characters, childern, babies.

W/C : 1.2k

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Katsuki is angry at you, and he fucking hates that.

It doesn’t happen often. Rarely, even. And when it does, it’s always fleeting—like when you hurt yourself doing something stupid, or when you tear yourself apart over things that aren’t your fault. Dumb shit. Shit he usually shuts down with a kiss to the temple and a gruff “knock it off.”

But right now? He’s raging.

The night you kicked him out happened fast. One minute, he was standing in the doorway, shoes still on, and the next, he was packing a bag in silence. He’d figured out pretty quick that it was because he hadn’t been… enough. Not affectionate enough. Not there enough. That’s fair. He gets it.

But also?

This whole thing is a unique kind of fucked.

He thought he was giving you space. Time. That’s what it was supposed to be. Because every time he tried to touch you, to close that gap, you froze up. And Katsuki doesn’t do ignoring signals. He thought you needed air. So he gave it to you. He focused on fixing all the other bullshit first, hoping you’d trust him again. Hoping it would feel safe again.

Clearly, that was the wrong fucking move. Now he’s crashing in Kirishima’s spare room like some washed-up loser who doesn’t know how to keep his family together.

And he’s pissed. At himself. At the situation. At you, even if he doesn’t want to be.

Because it feels unfair. Of course he wants to touch you. Hell, he’s been dying to. But he thought being respectful meant holding back, and you didn’t say a damn thing about it until you were telling him to get out. So how was he supposed to know?

He’s not angry at you the way he gets at other people. He’s frustrated. It twists in his gut, hot and sick and tight. He hates seeing you cry. Hates hearing you put yourself down (Why Katsuki Is Angry, Point One). And he really hates when things aren’t communicated (yeah, he gets the irony). You caught him off guard. Blindsided him. And now you’re both hurting. You’re upset. He’s upset. And him being out of the house? It feels too damn close to a real separation.

And that’s the part that makes his blood boil.

Two weeks of this. Two weeks of anger simmering low in his chest, mixing with a hollow sadness he can’t shake. And you still haven’t asked him to come back.

That scares him more than he’ll ever admit.

So his mood’s worse than usual—which is saying something. He’s snapping at civilians on patrol, his friends, and even the kids. That’s the part he hates the most.

It wasn’t even anything big. His head’s just so fucked up that he can’t hold onto his temper. And he misses you so much it’s making him stupid.

Koharu had been crying for nearly an hour, inconsolable in his arms. He tried everything. Nothing worked. And then Riko, standing small in the corner, mumbled, “Mama usually tries…”

And he lost it.

“Is your mother here? No? Then why bother telling me that?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Meaner.

And the regret hit immediately. Riko’s face crumpled, her eyes wide and hurt, and Koharu only cried harder in his arms.

“Shit. Bug, I’m sorry,” he muttered, bouncing Koharu a little harder, desperate now. “I just—fuck.”

“It’s fine,” Riko said quietly, but she wouldn’t look at him. She slipped away to the guest room Kirishima set up for them, shutting the door behind her.

And he wanted to follow her. To say something. But the second he even thought about it, Koharu let out another wail in his arms, her little fists clenching in his shirt. So he spent the rest of the evening pacing the floor, whispering whatever nonsense he could think of to soothe her. By the time she finally wore herself out, heavy and damp against his chest, it was late. Too late.

And then it was time for them to go home.

He hated seeing Riko climb into the car without saying much of anything, her face drawn tight and distant. He hated it even more knowing it was his fault. Another mistake that dug deep. Another fuck-up he wouldn’t be able to take back.

Before he let them go, before he buckled her in, he crouched down next to her. Pulled her close and kissed the side of her head, his voice rough and quiet against her hair. “Sorry about earlier,” he muttered. “I love you.”

She only nodded. Didn’t say anything. And it felt like a weight settling on his chest that he couldn’t shake.

One of those parenting mistakes, he thought bitterly, that you don’t get a do-over for.

The girls went home after that. And he went back to Kirishima’s apartment.

Empty. Quiet. Not his.

He still refused to look for a new place, and he wasn’t planning to anytime soon. Not unless you forced his hand. Not unless you tore the ring off his finger and told him there was nothing left to fight for.

Getting a new place would make it final. Permanent. And that was something he wasn’t ready to swallow.

So instead, he walked through the door, dropped his keys on the counter like he lived there, and went straight to the shower. Sat there under the water until his skin felt raw, staring at the wall like it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do next.  

Kirishima wasn’t home yet, which was fine. Better. Katsuki wasn’t in the mood to talk anyway. But it stung.

It stung because he knew exactly where Kirishima was. Out with you.

He’d mentioned it casually earlier, real offhand, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Grabbing dinner with Y/N,” he’d said, before slipping his shoes on and bolting out the door before Katsuki could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean.

And that sucked.

Because maybe you were just dropping off his shit. Maybe you were handing him back the last pieces of his life and telling him not to contact you again. And if that was the case, well—at least Kirishima would soften the blow. Right? Right.

He let his head fall back against the tile with a quiet, humorless laugh. Yeah. That sucked too.

And for now, that was all he could do. Sit with it. Wait. Hope you’d still give him the chance to fix what he broke.

Because if there was still a way back to you, he’d take it.

No matter how much it hurt.

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

oh he's hurting (one chapter left fr this time!!!)

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general taglist 🏷️ : @cristy-101 @cielito--lindo

Hopefully i got everyone! thank you for reading!

honk shoo 😴💤

NSFW version on x

not me simping over characters that would instantly kill me 🧘🏻‍♀️

🍂 you know that my train could take you home.

Thank you, Gege Akutami, for sexualizing men so I can follow in your footsteps.

thinking about kento coming back after the incident...

he feels so insecure on the aftermath that happened to his body.

there were only questions in his mind.

would you take him back if he comes back in this state?

would you find someone else?

would you shoo him away?

or worse...

would you leave him..?

kento rings the doorbell of your shared home.

you slowly walk to the door, too down to even move.

you’ve done nothing but sob, waiting for your husband to finally come back. you wouldn’t be worried if he actually gave you a call back or a single text. but no, no text, no calls or anything.

opening the door, there you found him.

“kento..?”

you can still recognize him?

“hey, sweetheart...”

“kento... you’re back, you’re back!”

you hugged him so tightly, as if you were never gonna let him go again.

kento returns your hug, kissing the crown of your head.

“i thought you were...” you didn’t continue. instead, you just hugged him even more.

“i kept fighting for you, of course. i don’t wanna be the sole reason on why my pretty wife would mourn. i already hate myself for making you cry for god knows how long, i’m sorry, my love.”

kento was starting to tear up, he saw how puffed up your eyes were, how red your nose was, or how you kept on sniffling once every two seconds.

it pains him, knowing that this was his doing, he’s making you cry.

“promise me you’ll never leave me again...”

“i promise, sweetheart.”

⌢⌢⌢⌢୨୧⌢⌢⌢⌢ With your hugs, I found my safe haven ⌢⌢⌢⌢୨୧⌢⌢⌢⌢

look who it is

HOW DO THEY GRIEVE? — featuring sukuna, choso, gojo, geto, nanami, toji content warnings: no reader gender/anatomy implied. implied reader death, heavy angst no comfort. established relationship. reader is a mortal in sukuna's part. mentions of murder in toji's part. they/them pronouns used for reader in gojo's part.

the quiet haunted him most.

it wasn’t a noise, nor a cry, but the absence of it — a void left behind where your voice once existed, tugging at his mind like an insidious echo. sukuna sat still, his broad frame rigid against the edge of his throne, clawed fingers wrapped tightly around the curve of his jaw. he wasn’t one to cling, yet here he was, torn by shadows of something he couldn’t clutch tightly enough.

“pathetic,” he muttered to himself, the words bitter against his tongue. his voice cut through the silence, but it wasn’t yours. it would never be yours again.

there were moments, fleeting and infuriating, when he could almost remember you. a flash of a laugh — was it sharp? or soft? — your expression — smiling? or frowning? — your warmth, tangible yet distant, slipping through his memory like grains of sand. sukuna slammed his fist into the wooden armrest of his throne, splinters flying.

"damn you," he growled lowly, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed at himself or at you.

he knew this would happen. of course, it would. you were mortal. fleeting. time was never kind to mortals, and neither was he. what place did someone like you have in his world? he had convinced himself you’d be nothing more than a passing indulgence. but then you had dared to linger in ways no one else had, and sukuna, fool that he was, had allowed it.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. "what was it you used to call me?" his voice cracked — just slightly, a whisper against the still air. not king. not lord. no, you’d stripped him of those titles in private.

ryo.

the way you used to say his name — it hadn’t been reverent. not like others. you said it like it was yours, like he was yours.

but the sound was fading now, no matter how tightly he clung to it. sukuna’s fingers twitched against his temples, nails digging into his scalp. his crimson eyes burned, not with fury, but with a hollow ache.

“you dare slip away from me now?” his voice cracked in the empty room.

he stood abruptly, the motion nearly knocking the throne back. pacing, prowling, his footsteps thudded against the cold stone. his hands clenched and unclenched as though grasping for an answer.

“what was it —” he hissed, his tone a dangerous edge of desperation, “ — that made me let you in?” he paused mid-step, shoulders sagging under the weight of what he knew.

everything. everything about you.

he clenched his jaw, exhaling a breath that rattled with suppressed rage and sorrow. sukuna’s hand reached to his chest, curling around the fabric of his robe where his heart still stubbornly beat.

“if i ever hear your voice again…” he muttered, the words half-prayer, half-promise, “you won’t escape me a second time.”

choso sat in the quiet of his apartment, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. his fingers ghosted over the countertop, tracing invisible patterns that led nowhere. on the table sat a piece of toast, untouched and cold, its edges curling from neglect.

he stared at it, a lump forming in his throat. the memory hit him like a wave, vivid and all-consuming.

"it's just toast, cho!" you had laughed, your voice bright and teasing. he could still see the crinkle of your eyes, the way you covered your mouth to stifle your giggles when he flinched at the toaster's pop.

his chest tightened. "just toast," he echoed to the empty room, his voice hollow.

but it wasn’t just toast. nothing was ever just anything with you. every moment, every mundane thing, had been infused with the light of your presence, leaving pieces of you scattered throughout his life like breadcrumbs.

the laundry machine buzzed faintly in the background, and he shut his eyes. another memory clawed its way forward, unbidden.

“choso! what are you doing?!” you’d yelled, pulling his arm away just as he reached into the spinning drum. “you’ll lose a hand doing that!”

“but it wasn’t —” he had started, confused, only to be cut off by your exasperated sigh.

“don’t. just… don’t.”

and yet, after scolding him, you’d taught him how to sort clothes, how to fold shirts, how to care for the things that mattered.

“you’ve got to take care of things, cho. take care of people, too,” you’d said, softer that time, as you’d brushed lint off his shoulder. “it’s what makes us human.”

human.

his hands balled into fists on the countertop. you had taught him what it meant to be human — how to live, how to feel, how to care. you taught him to look beyond himself, to see others as more than just moving parts in the chaos of life.

“be kind,” you’d told him once, standing at a crosswalk as you watched him glare at a group of kids. “help the ones who need it. give up your seat. hold the door. even when it’s hard, choose kindness.”

he had rolled his eyes back then, muttering something about how the world didn’t deserve it. but you had smiled, patient and unyielding.

“do it anyway.”

the toast sat there, forgotten, as choso stared into the distance. how could he forget you? when you were everywhere? in the hiss of the washing machine, the smell of burnt toast, the sharp pang of guilt when he didn’t offer his seat to someone in need.

you were a part of him now, woven into his bones, etched into his heart.

“how could i forget you?” he whispered, voice trembling as he sat down, head in his hands.

he couldn’t. even if he wanted to. you had made him human. and now, with you gone, he didn’t know how to be anything else.

gojo satoru was a man of stories. he carried your memory in his words, carefully polished and tenderly spun, until they became legends that danced on the tongues of everyone he met.

"oh, y/n?" he'd grin, eyes glimmering like sunlight on fresh snow. "you should’ve seen the way they handled me. not many can keep up with this." he'd tap his temple, his grin softening.

he told them about how you made the best coffee in the mornings, even though you always claimed to hate the way he drowned it in sugar. how you made him laugh so hard that his infinity couldn’t protect him from doubling over. how your voice could cut through the chaos in his mind, grounding him in ways nothing else could.

you became a part of his stories, not just as someone he loved, but as someone who made him better. greater.

people listened with rapt attention, smiling at the way he spoke of you, as if you were still right there beside him. but when the crowds thinned, when the world grew quiet, and satoru was left with nothing but the weight of his own company, the facade cracked.

the apartment felt unbearably still, as if your absence was a tangible thing that pressed against him. he sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. the usual sparkle in his eyes dulled to a glassy sheen.

his shoulders trembled first, a barely-there quiver that grew into a shudder as the first sob escaped his throat.

“damn it,” he choked out, his voice cracking as he pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “damn it, why’d you leave me with this?”

you were the strongest in ways he could never be. while he could manipulate the very fabric of space, you had wielded something far greater: love, compassion, humanity. things that made the unbearable weight of existence lighter, if only for a while.

"who’s gonna remember you when i’m gone?" he whispered into the empty room, voice breaking.

the thought gutted him. satoru lived for you now — not for his students, not for his title, not for his power. it was your memory that anchored him, the fear of losing even the smallest piece of you driving him to hold on tighter than ever.

“i can’t let that happen,” he muttered, fists clenching as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. “i can’t let you disappear. not ever.”

so he stayed. fought. lived. not because he feared death — death had always been a fleeting thought to someone like him — but because without him, there would be no one left to carry your memory.

and if there was one thing gojo satoru would never let the universe take from him, it was you.

suguru cursed the gods, cursed fate, and cursed you.

it was easier that way. easier to let the anger scorch him from the inside out than to face the gnawing emptiness that came with your absence. he sat in the ruins of what had once been a temple, the scent of charred wood and blood still lingering in the air. his knuckles ached from where he’d slammed his fists into the wall, and his throat burned from the string of expletives he’d spat at no one in particular.

“why couldn’t you just listen?” his voice was a harsh rasp, cracking as he spoke to the void. “why did you have to be so damn… stubborn?”

you were supposed to understand. supposed to see the world the way he did, to join him in tearing it apart so it could be rebuilt into something better. but you hadn’t.

you stood your ground, unwavering in your righteousness, and it had infuriated him. because for all his power, all his conviction, he couldn’t convince you.

“it’s your fault,” he muttered bitterly, running a hand through his tangled hair. “you and your… your goddamn ideals.”

but the words rang hollow, even to him.

because you were the only one who’d ever made him question himself. you were the only one who’d ever dared to stand in his way, not with malice, but with love.

“you think you’re better than this,” you had told him once, your voice calm but firm. “but you’re not. and i can’t follow you down this path, suguru.”

he hated you for that — for being right. for loving him enough to try and stop him. and for leaving him when he wouldn’t stop.

his fingers tightened into fists, nails biting into his palms. “damn you,” he whispered, though the words lacked the venom they once had.

he wondered, sometimes, if you thought about him as much as he thought about you. if you still believed in the version of him you’d once loved, or if that image had crumbled under the weight of his choices.

maybe, in another life, things were different. a life where there were no sides to choose, no lines to cross, no ideals to clash over. just the two of you.

he closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone wall. the anger was gone now, leaving behind only exhaustion and a hollow ache in his chest.

“what am i waiting for?” he asked aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

there was no answer, just the crackling of dying embers and the distant howl of the wind. but still, he waited.

for you to come back. for the pain to stop. for something — anything — that would make it all make sense again.

and until then, he would curse. and grieve. and wait.

toji didn’t know how to grieve.

his life had never made room for something as soft as sorrow. emotions, in his world, were a luxury — a liability he couldn’t afford. but now, in the absence of you, there was something gnawing at him, raw and unrelenting, that he couldn’t name.

he sat in the dim light of a dingy bar, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. the burn was familiar, but it didn’t distract him like it used to. his mind kept circling back to you, dragging him down into memories he couldn’t shake.

the way you used to fuss over his injuries, muttering curses at him for being reckless while your hands worked with tender precision. the way your laughter echoed, rich and warm, cutting through the cold veneer of his life. the way you’d touch his cheek, grounding him, reminding him he was more than the blade he carried.

and now? now there was nothing but silence.

“this one’s for you,” he muttered under his breath, finishing the glass in one harsh gulp before tossing a wad of bills on the counter.

it was always for you. every job, every gamble, every risk — your ghost lingered in every choice he made. toji didn’t bother questioning it; he couldn’t. the thought of you was the only thing keeping him moving, even if it came with a weight that threatened to crush him.

the alley was dark as he cornered his target, the blade in his hand gleaming faintly under the flickering streetlamp. the man whimpered, begging for mercy, but toji didn’t flinch. his movements were fluid, precise, and ruthless.

“don’t beg,” he growled, his voice low and cold. “this ain’t about you.”

and it wasn’t. not really. the man’s life had no meaning to him — just another pawn in the endless cycle of blood and violence. but the rage that fueled him? that was yours.

the blade struck, and with it came a flash of you — your smile, your voice, the warmth he could no longer reach. the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and toji stood over him, his chest heaving.

“still not enough,” he muttered, wiping the blade clean with a practiced motion.

it was never enough. no amount of blood could fill the void you left behind. but he kept going, each kill a hollow attempt to feel something other than this aching, unfamiliar emptiness.

toji leaned against the cold brick wall, the night air biting against his skin. he stared at his hands — steady, calloused, and stained.

“why’d you leave me with this, huh?” he muttered to the open air, his voice gruff but cracking at the edges. “you were the only thing that ever made sense.”

his hands clenched into fists, the blade trembling slightly in his grip. this is for you, he reminded himself, even if he didn’t know why. even if it didn’t bring you back.

he ached, and it hurt, but he didn’t know what to do with that pain. so he killed. and he killed. and every time, it was for you.

nanami was a man of routines.

quiet, deliberate, purposeful routines.

he didn’t waver in them, not even after you were gone. if anything, they became his lifeline, a fragile thread tethering him to the semblance of normalcy he desperately clung to.

he set out two plates every night, one for him, one for you. it wasn’t a conscious decision at first; his hands simply moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him. but when he sat down to eat, staring at the empty plate across from him, the quiet would settle in — a heavy, suffocating kind of quiet that only existed in the absence of you.

your pillow remained fluffed on the bed, as if you’d be home any moment to claim your spot. sometimes he’d catch himself reaching out to brush a stray hair off it, only to remember it wasn’t yours — it never could be again.

and then there were the chips. that oily, utterly ridiculous brand you adored.

nanami didn’t even like snacks, much less those chips, but he found himself restocking them on every grocery run. he would walk past the aisle, hesitate, and then grab a bag, telling himself it was just habit.

but one day, curiosity — or maybe desperation — got the better of him. he opened the bag, the crinkle of plastic unnervingly loud in the stillness of the house. the scent hit him first, greasy and artificial, and he almost put the bag down.

“what on earth did you see in these?” he muttered under his breath before popping one in his mouth.

it was awful. salty, greasy, overwhelmingly artificial.

and he cried.

the chip barely registered as he sat down heavily, shoulders trembling as tears rolled down his face. it wasn’t the taste — it was everything else. the bag in his hands, the faint smell of your favorite flowers still lingering from the vase on the kitchen counter, the stupid chipped mug you refused to throw away because it was yours.

everything screamed you. your presence was embedded in every corner of the house, in every routine, every object, every space you had once occupied.

and nanami realized, in that moment, how deeply ingrained you were in his life. how even in your absence, you filled it in ways he couldn’t escape.

his fingers tightened around the bag as he let the tears come, quiet and unrelenting.

maybe it was okay to grieve.

maybe it was okay to hold onto the pieces of you that lingered, to let them anchor him in a world that felt so much colder now.

and as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, setting the bag aside, he thought — maybe, just maybe, it was okay to keep buying those ridiculous chips, even if they tasted like crap. because they were yours. and so, in some small, bittersweet way, they were his, too.

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