Don't save me
Pairings: pro Hero Bakugo x Civilian femReader
Genre: ~Angsty angst cheating and breakup, with no happy ending.
~ Not strictly a song fic but inspired by Marit Larsen’s song “Don’t save me” (the lyrics and song of course belong to their rightful owner)
Summary: A two-year relationship couldn’t compete with Bakugo’s ex return. Being cheated on didn’t come as a real surprise to you. But you didn’t expect the break up to help you break free from your own misbeliefs.
Word count: 5117 words.
A/notes: ~ I wanted to try my hand at a “cheating-break up” one shot… and to be honest, I found the result a bit strange, though I really did enjoy writing it.
(Also, I’m still working on my other fic “The other side of the Bond”, don’t worry dear readers! I’m halfway through chapter 3.)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Bnha nor the story’s characters, just sharing my love for this series and the characters.
However, my writing belongs to me, so DO NOT repost, steal or translate any of my work.
This work is also cross posted on my AO3
Funny how life would sometimes drop some tiny hints of foretelling so casually, almost unnoticed amidst daily mundanities.
Pieces that would click to place only once you’d set down into hunting for a culprit, for a reason, for a meaning to all of the chaos and shit you’d be undergoing.
Your prediction came into the shape of an old, pre-Quirk era music video that randomly popped in your playlist favorites, on your phone, while having your breakfast.
A girl riding a bike, yellow dress and long hair freely floating behind her, cruising through lovely summer landscape of forests and fields, enjoying every bits of her singing and pedaling to a catchy, cheerful music. A refreshing little scenario that had you thinking back on your school days when you commuted by bike – you wondered if your parents had still kept it, perhaps somewhere in their garage.
It took you another visioning to actually hear the lyrics and realize this was a song about a break up.
Well, that was a surprising, totally unexpected take on the topic. You weren’t sure though that happily riding a bike while undergoing some serious heartbreak crisis was part of the usual “Breakup Protocol Checklist” – but maybe could be fitted in-between “yelling some good ol’ insanities to your cheating partner” and just before “gonna take some action like burning their clothes/key their car/bring havoc to the bitch they cheated you with”.
You had chuckled a bit, before moving to the lunch preps for the bento box you were planning to surprise your boyfriend with later today, breezily humming the song all the while.
“Don’t save me, I’ll save you the hassle, our little castle is a house of cards... It’s empty, heartache is pending, this is us ending…”
However, you couldn’t shake off of your mind the addictive chorus, the haunting lyrics that nailed so perfectly a relationship coming to its end. They were still playing in your head while stepping into Bakugo’s office, waiting to surprise him with the bento box in your hands.
You should have seen it coming. But you brushed the sign off. And the other ones before as well.
But there was a sickly naïve, dumb optimistic idiot inside of you.
The kind of inner voice made up of sappy feel-good spiel and overworn, cliché-like pep talk that reeked of books on self-esteem.
Two years ago, you would never have let yourself being so tightly blindfolded.
Two years ago, you would never even have contemplated giving credit to a crush on Katsuki Bakugo, to begin with. The small flicker of interest he had elicited then should have been classified and left to rot in a metaphorical file box, somewhere deep in the no man’s land of your “silly, impossible to realize, just get real, girl” brain dump.
He was so out of your league. Forget it.
You usually had no trouble about giving up.
But this time, your pathetic little inner idiot had perked up and decided to takeover. That useless, embarrassing part of you, which should have quietly, submissively, remained recoiled in a dark corner, turned itself against you and took the reins.
I can love him. I can make him fall for me.
Crushing on him. Falling in love with him. Dating him. Moving in his apartment and living together.
You’d be lying if you weren’t seriously shocked at how you succeeded in piquing Bakugo’s interest and catching his affections. It looked like an unachievable dream coming true, an unexpected wish being bestowed. Even though, of course, there was also a price to pay, the road together promised a difficult, bumpy ride.
There was first and foremost Bakugo’s temper, moods, personal history and secrets to manage and deal with. His trust and privacy were akin to an indefeasible fortress. The only way in was for him to willingly open the front doors to you.
I can change him.
That dense, stupid inner idiot in all its smug, enraging obliviousness and innocence glory, firmly believed in that timeless misbelief.
In the end, you didn’t get to change Katsuki Bakugo at all.
You were the one to undergo a transformation. To the point you couldn’t tell anymore who was the girl peeking back at you from the other side of his bathroom mirror.
You see, to fit this dream, you had to adjust some bits of you from here and there, right? Trimming a rough edge of mood, sewing your lips to restrain petty arguments and frustrated feelings, padding your personality with cheerful, outgoing and sassy fillings, weaving intricate patterns of behaviors on how to properly read and react to him, securing all with a shiny thread of confidence.
You had to adjust to fit into Bakugo’s tastes and life for him to like you.
Affectionate but not too clingy. Giving space instead of giving in to quarrelling. Independent, as in having your own life, your own friends, your own job, your own car to commute and ran errands, minding your own business and activities though sharing with him his favorites hobbies. Cooking skills. Let him do whatever he pleased in bed with you. Always being there for him but never pushing yourself on him. Praising him. Understanding him, and for God’s sake, no whining and complaining on his schedule/Hero work/failed or forgotten dates/nasty talk. Keep your own miseries and struggles to yourself.
Who are you…?
The girl in the mirror looked burned out.
You didn’t pity her though.
You had lost two years of your life and maimed your identity to become her.
And as you stepped out of Dynamight’s agency, undelivered bento box still in your hands, you shoved your inner idiot’s imaginary face onto the ugly, nasty epiphany you just had ten minutes ago, hiding under your boyfriend’s desk while he was swapping saliva with his ex-pro Hero girlfriend. The one he had never truly cut out of his life, his heart, the only person he would willingly open his fortress’s gates to.
Pro Heroes are the worst people to date with as a Civilian. Especially when they can’t get over their ex.
Civilians should never ever date, fall in love and share a life with pro Heroes.
That wicked, lovesick little idiot inside of you was kicking and wailing, sticky snot all over the face, hiccupping stuttering, disgusting hopes on bringing the cheater back and fixing this relationship. But rather than confronting Bakugo and begging and yelling at him, or even challenging his ex to a battle that you had already lost since day one… you watched silently, with an almost sadistic, self-deprecative satisfaction your inner idiot crack and crumble into pieces.
Deep down, you knew it wasn’t going to work right from the beginning. Behind the beautiful tapestry you had weaved of yourself, there were constant shadows filled with visions of breakup, of relationship hanging by a flimsy thread.
But you’d be lying if you hadn’t also enjoyed being admired and sought, being fooled into becoming Bakugo’s – no, Katsuki’s girl. Your inner idiot had tricked you to these misbeliefs, but you had grown your own feelings from these lies too and had fallen for it.
Maybe there was some kind of mixed, bitter feelings in you, after all. And you didn’t like it.
The weight of the bento box in your hands suddenly became irksome and gross. As you walked over the trash bin located around the agency’s corner, you came across one of the Patrols coming back from their shift. Not your boyfriend’s, his had set off earlier ago, just after the unexpected though unsurprising cheating scene you had secretly witnessed.
Kirishima’s grin and Sero’s friendly call of your name greeted you.
A plastered smile, a quickly made-up lie about you wishing to surprise Bakugo with an impromptu lunch but unfortunately missing him due to his Patrol schedule.
Well at least, the first part of it had been true. Until you dived under his desk, acting on an eerie hunch as soon as you heard your boyfriend’s voice in tow with his ex’s giggles from the corridor leading to his office.
“When are you going to tell her…?”
In-between the slimy sound of hasty, hungry kisses, her voice had panted.
“Soon.”
His reply, a single word rasping with determination and eagerness.
As if you were an item that on second thought revealed not necessary, not worth keeping, so needed to be casually disposed of.
The untouched bento box in your hands, you cheerfully declined Kirishima’s and Sero’s offer to join them and Mina for lunch, coming up with another lie about a friend who happened to work nearby and had asked you to come and meet with.
You made sure to walk two extra stations ahead before taking the subway back to home.
Not Bakugo’s appartment.
Your family’s house.
As you entered using your own key and were welcomed by the quiet of the place, your parents still at work, it felt like coming back after a too long journey from a harsh, exhausting bitter country.
You did often pay visits to your family, though mostly on a solo basis - another important rule that had shaped the girl in the mirror: never impose your relatives nor mandatory time with them upon Bakugo. You could say you had barely spent time with his parents, as thought he had followed the same principle with yourself too.
Or simply he didn’t want to.
From the little info you had gathered, his ex was a regular to his house since their UA days together up until their breakup. Bakugo’s family house was her territory, their territory. So were his parents.
Not that Mitsuki and Masaru mistreated you. They were kind and affable to you on your sporadic visits. As kind and affable as with a guest, not a serious, possible lifetime partner of their son.
And that had been exactly Bakugo’s thoughts on you, right from the beginning. You were never meant for a serious relationship. That calculated “space” you were maintaining in hopes of not becoming “overbearing – boring – then dumped”, did nothing to influence him. For Bakugo too, had already built his own calculated space. And it was called “distance”.
He had never planned to open his fortress to you. Why would he? The one and only key to it had always been and would always be his ex.
You left the bento box on the kitchen counter, dropped your bag on one of the dining chairs.
You could have seen it all through so easily if it hadn’t been for your pathetic, disgusting inner idiot’s blindfolding words and misbeliefs.
The never ending shifts, piling up missions – he’s working hard to have his merits acknowledged, to worm his way to the number one Hero title.
The dates getting shorter and more scarce – understandable, since he had applied to stay in stand-by for Emergencies, and emergencies would always happen anytime, right?
The growing space between you and him, walking side by side, in your conversations, in-between your eyes, inside a hug, in a half-hearted intimacy – nothing unusual, whenever tired or worried, he always gets inside his head, that’s his way to deal with it, he’ll open up whenever he’ll feel ready for it.
The distance that was already there, lurking and brewing with the longing for his ex, since the very beginning.
You. Should. Have. Known. It.
Truly, really, you should never ever have pursued Katsuki Bakugo’s affections.
You should have ripped your heart – for that was the true shape of your stupid, pathetic inner idiot - out of your chest and thrown it into an incinerator instead.
And you regretted it.
And you knew you should have been mad, so fucking enraged, right, because he had been cheating on you, and most likely since his ex’s return to Japan, a few months ago, and the two of them had been planning upon a much awaited and relieving breakup.
Then why the fuck didn’t they manifest it right away?
Hadn’t you shown how mature and adult the girl in the mirror would have taken it all ? Hadn’t you crafted her that way?
And why the Hell weren’t you matching any of the “Breakup Protocol” emotional havoc check list?
You didn’t feel desperately out of oxygen, there was no seething rage, no stabbing ache of betrayal, no dramatic self-pitying, no urge for a revenge to-do list. You didn’t feel like making him pay for it, you didn’t want to pull his ex’s hair. You weren’t in the mood for getting drunk over it, nor gathering a full support committee of friends – yours, not his - to cuss the night away at “this bastard”. Your eyes were dry and your mind quite cleared up, to be honest.
A sudden, short chuckle shook you like an aftershock tremor.
Seems like you were ready for some bike riding.
As expected, your parents had kept it tucked away in a corner of their garage, in-between piled up plastic containers and some gardening shelves. The rubber ends of the handlebar felt a bit sticky under your palms, the once vivid paint had dulled and scratched, a thick layer of dust blanketed the worn-out saddle, curtains of spider webs all over the wheels’ spokes. A realistic image of what Sleeping Beauty would truly look like after her century slumber.
But the tires were still good to go, and once removed dust and webs, and wheeled the bike out of the garage, you were able to take off.
The first meters were shaky, your tentative pedaling threatening to crash you into your neighbors’ garden walls, a couple of street lamps and some angry Pomeranian-like pooch. It hadn’t been that much of time since you last used your bike, hadn’t been that long since high school and college, for God’s sake.
But gradually, the embarrassing display of your rusty-self seemed to revert back to your school days’ smooth and easy ride. Soon, there was a wind lifting and playing with your hair, a steady pace to your pedaling.
Too bad you didn’t have any yellow dress.
You summoned the memory of your casual and cozy college attire and pretended wearing it, instead of the outfit you had carefully selected to fit your boyfriend’s tastes.
A bit better.
You turned to the next street corner and let your impulse wheel you effortlessly for the next few meters.
At that time, your heart hadn’t yet taken over and forced its infatuation with Katsuki Bakugo on you. He was just pro-Hero Dynamight and your interest was a quiet admiration framed with sense. You knew your place, and that crushing on him was a waste of time and efforts. You liked most of your degree’s classes, the coffee shops’ study sessions with your college classmates, the moments during party nights when you seated outside with a few friends and chatted, putting the world with them, a bit tipsy. You were dreaming of a first job that would bring you independence and a little studio you’d shape at your image. Maybe a sweet someone to grow close to without any hurry – but still not Katsuki Bakugo, no.
A grandma with a toddler on one hand and a plastic bag from the nearby konbini on the other greeted you with a smile and a “chan” to your name. Your parent’s most ancient neighbor. You greeted her back and rang the bicycle bell to the child’s delight. Surprisingly, the sound was still as clear and pure as in your high school days. It summoned the memory of your old uniform.
At that time, you enjoyed the early morning commuting and the seasonal feelings those rides would convey, brisk chill of winter against your flushed cheeks, tickling, spicy autumn scents in your nostrils, your very private refreshing wind produced by your efforts at pedaling, in summer, the lush rustling of new-born leaves in the trees in spring. Your mind was filled to the brim, with revision notes and school gossips, thrill for the next release of your weekly favorites manga series, harmless teen drama and wholesome best friends’ dates and chats. You weren’t much of a romantic dreamer and didn’t see the point to change your core identity to fit into a relationship. You didn’t see your heart as a reliable asset to trust in either.
You stood up, pushing harder on the pedals. You zoomed past an elementary school, a ringing bell and shrill, excited cries announcing the awaited recess. You could almost feel the memory of your pigtails grazing your face as vividly as back then.
At that time, you loved riding your bike for bringing you a powerful feeling of independence, it seemed like you could go anywhere, anytime, do anything you wanted, upon your very own decision – at least, you pretended you could if it hadn’t been for your parents’ limitations, of course. You loved the book series and movie adaptation of “Kiki’s delivery service”, coming back home from school embraced by the sunset light with your friends and sneaking for a forbidden snack in the nearby konbini, you loved the warmth of your family home and parents affections, your tiger plushie and the shiny turquoise marble you had won in a harsh battle against an older kid at the park. You knew you had to grow up, but it didn’t look so scary nor complicated, no, you were looking forward to it.
Grow up, marry, have a family of your own.
You grinned your first, genuine smile since a while. It wasn’t cheerful, it had quivers of nostalgia and regrets, a yearning and mourning for all the things, for all the previous “yourselves” you had experienced and would never get back. But for the first time in a very – too – long while, you freely grinned a smile that wasn’t aimed at a perfect timing for pleasing your boyfriend or fitting the girl in the mirror’s roleplay.
And it felt freeing.
You stopped the bike, leaned a foot on the ground.
From the other side of the bridge you were standing by, started another neighborhood. Now that you were still, you could notice the light breeze that had been by your side the whole time. The transparent layers of your memories were as thin and delicate as thoughts threaded into a silky scarf, they enclosed your body as a welcoming back embrace.
Tears. You blinked through them. Not trying to brush them off, nor pushing more of them out either.
Right now, you were full to the point of overflowing. But it wasn’t to empty yourself, to get rid of something. It was just something that was trying to reach out to you, a message that needed to be delivered.
You closed your eyes and saw the broken pieces of your heart, your inner little idiot. For a moment, you considered finish it off, stomping it with your feet, throwing it into a back burner, or simply leaving it as it was, to rot away.
And then, unexpected, a small hesitation.
You were unable to tell if it was out of pity, remorse, or guilt. Maybe a mixed, uneasy “on second thought”…? Like the unwanted stuff that you couldn’t decide what to do with, both fed up to the point of wishing to discard it and a tired “I’ll do it later”. Postponing. Shoving it to a corner, inside a drawer you’d nickname “Wasteland and Co” and leave the mess to be sorted out on the 32nd of Never Month.
You turned your back and the bike to the bridge. A quick aligning of the pedals. A kick. You set off again, this time, in the opposite way. Wheeling past your old elementary school and the park you had won your cherished marble, the konbini that still sold the same magazine that had weekly published your favorite manga series, past one of the coffee shops you had written countless essays and chatted with friends.
The hands of your past yourselves picking up the debris of your heart before burying it in the deepest, quietest place inside of you.
Let it rest, let it rot. Let it heal or even grow underground roots. It didn’t matter to you. It wasn’t a place you wanted to visit or a rehab you wished to support. However, you felt strangely glad those pieces had a “Wasteland and Co” drawer to be tucked in and forgotten.
You arrived at your parents’ house just as the afternoon was drawing to an end. You left your old bike in his dedicated corner in the garage but not without bidding it a promise to come again and have some more rides together. Maybe not in a yellow dress, but a pretty one that you’d have chosen, not the girl in the mirror.
Sunset was nearing twilight when you entered Bakugo’s apartment.
Funny how you never labelled it as “our place” or “my home”. And as you immediately set to work, pulling and opening the suitcase you had brought with you the day you had moved in there, with him, and browsing through the rooms to retrieve and erase every little traces of you, you realized you had always been more a guest, something temporary ready to pack and leave, than a girlfriend.
Everything that you had fitted into that one and only suitcase. Almost all of it were clothes and toiletries. You didn’t bring nor buy anything else at that time to make his apartment a shared one. There never had been much of you in this place. Everything else had been borrowed from him. There were no hinting of you in the shape of mugs, interior decoration, funny slippers, happy mess of leftover stuff of yours. Not even books, forcing yourself to use a tablet so to not take over the space. You hated reading with that device.
There were a few items Bakugo had gifted you. Outfits, a couple of jewelry. A hoodie and two-three shirts of him : these, you put into the washing machine together with your pillow case. You wanted to erase every little token of your stay. You packed the rest, together with the clothes you had bought to fit the girl in the mirror’s tastes, intending to drop it in the donation container that the building provided before leaving.
You worked hard, silent and fast. And you made sure to rearrange every corner of the once occupied space as if you had never come to live here, never spent the last year and a half there. Reverting the apartment back to Bakugo’s previous single status.
The washing machine beeped the end of the session. You folded the dried clothes and pillow case and stored them to their dedicated spots in the closet.
Suitcase ready by the door, you had one last thing to do before calling it a day, the end of your relationship.
You wrote down on the notepad Bakugo always kept on the kitchen counter the chorus of the song that had both followed and lead you here. The words written down on the simple, mundane paper looked as casual and familiar as a groceries list, a quick note to wish a good day while reminding to pick a forgotten or urgent item.
Their meaning would perhaps only hit on a second reading. Just like the song they quoted.
As a final touch, you laid down the set of spare keys on top of the note. You made sure to strip the cute accessory off the key ring before doing so. There was no way you’d use it again, so you dumped it in the awaiting trash bag that you’d drop in the condo’s dedicated area before leaving. You never were much of a cutesy stuff lover – but that image had seemed to fit Bakugo’s vision of the girl in the mirror.
You almost forgot it but remembered just in time to add the untouched bento box – his – on the side of the note. After a slight hesitation you decided to leave it as it was, with its cold, wasted contents. After all, he had acted like a coward and a bastard, with delaying this predictable breakup. You had your pride too.
You gave a last once over.
The keys, the song, the bento box. Small metaphors spelling out loud the consequences of Bakugo’s actions, albeit you’d keep your reasons to yourself. You simply assumed he wouldn’t care, judging by the urge in both his voice and kisses with his ex.
Now was the time to go.
You didn’t look back at the room. Instead, you took a peek at the mirror hanging near the entrance. The square frame reflected your face, tired, burned out, still puffy eyes, but serene, finally back. Maybe there was a small residue of bitterness in the right corner of your lips, in the shadow your eyelashes casted over your eyes. But at least, there was no more girl in the mirror. Those were your own features.
One last time, you opened the front door and closed it behind you. Deep down in you, a small, frail tremor agitated what remained of your heart. But it was brief, and soon, you were out of the condo, out in the street, out of this life, driving your car back to your parents’ home.
Already planning to get a job transfer, find a studio that you’d shape with your tastes, maybe bring with you your old bike as well.
Tomorrow, you’d change your phone number. Not that you expected to be chased nor begged an explanation. You simply wanted to erase every memory and reminder of this wasted time. Start all over again where you had left things, two years ago. Pretend this time together but already apart had never existed.
Waiting at a red light, you glanced up at the night sky. Stars were high but didn’t feel distant at all.
Suddenly, you were craving something soft, filling and salted, without any spice disturbance. You gently pocked your index against the steering wheel and smiled. A hotpot with silky smooth tofu and miso flavors. You nodded at your own suggestion. Maybe you could hop by your old konbini on your way back home.
The light turned to green. You set off forward.
***
At first, he didn’t notice the note. Or rather, he saw it but deemed it wasn’t important – probably some kind of reminder, list or good night welcoming words. It was half past two when he finally reasoned himself to go back home and he expected to find you asleep.
With a sigh, Bakugo took off shoes and socks and padded to the bathroom for a quick freshen up. He had already showered at his agency – twice, once right after patrolling, and once after having sex with his ex-girlfriend.
He gave a contemplative look at his reflection on the bathroom mirror, face still dampened by a quick splash of water. A frown. Maybe he’d go sleep on the couch, tonight. He went back to the living room without a glance at the closed bedroom door.
He should have been feeling guilty, right? Cheating on you like he has been doing for the past few months. Only giving you a half-hearted acting of a boyfriend even before betraying you. You had always been a good partner to him, since the very beginning. So understanding, caring, supportive, positive, as if reading his emotions and providing for every needs and whims of him, enduring him without any complain, acting so mature. You were perfect. Almost tailor-fitted like. Even in your flaws.
He should have been guilty, he should be feeling so bad.
And yet, Bakugo did not.
Deep down, he had always been craving for his ex and his imperfect relationship. The bumpy, rocky road together through their UA years and pro-Hero debuts, the yells, the arguments, the passionate making up, the feeling of being reckless mutuals, the deep conversations and heated debates, the raw and rough emotions and love.
Truth was the different taste your relationship with him left lingering in his palate, although surprisingly nice and soothing, hadn’t been satisfying, hadn’t been enough. Quite a bit dull, lacking spice.
You were a fantasy. He wanted some bones and meat and fire too.
With a huff, Bakugo circled the kitchen counter to grab a mug and make himself some decaffeinated coffee.
He’d have to tell you. Tomorrow. Or maybe next weekend. He had to. But fatigue was creeping in his bones and muscles, from Hero work and exhilarating lovemaking. For now, he’d just go to sleep.
The bento box next to the note caught his eyes.
Oh, right. Kirishima did mention you had come by to surprise him with a homemade lunch – luckily you had missed him and a bad-timed chance to find out about his cheating, he still wished to spill out the truth but in a private space. But leaving the box in the middle of the kitchen counter… that wasn’t like you at all. Bakugo quirked an eyebrow. It almost seemed like you were upset at him, like a pouty, unexpected childish act. You had never ever complained nor argued about all the missed dates or planned surprises he had to interrupt or cancel, before.
Setting the empty mug aside, Bakugo turned the little note towards him and read it. Twice. Then one more time.
A sudden snap of his head, towards the corridor, the closed bedroom door. He hurried there, opened the door to an empty room, perfectly smoothed and untouched bed sheets. Inside the closet, his clothes were aligned in neat piles with no leftover spaces. The bathroom told the same story, of a place and spaces that seemed to have never been shared.
His whole apartment reverting back as it was, one year and a half ago. Bakugo could have dreamed this time with you.
Again, he faced the little note on the kitchen counter. Lifting the bento box lid, getting another confirmation. The set of spare keys looked surprisingly small without the messy array of cute props they were usually clipped to.
His smartphone vibrated in the back pocket of his jeans. He reached for it. On the other side of the line, a brief inquiry.
“No, she’s not here.” he replied.
A brief silence. Gathering the little note in his free palm, Bakugo let his tiniest, tamest spark lit up and burn in a single swoop the flimsy paper. There were no ashes left.
“How about you move in next Friday?” he prompted.
He knew he should be feeling guilty, ashamed, a complete bastard. Maybe the best he could offer would be feeling bad for not feeling bad. And give you a call, though later, perhaps in a few days. But he didn’t dwell further upon it, for right now, relief, eagerness and excitement outweighed any other token of remorse.
He hooked the set of spare keys with his index and secured them tightly in his hand. He’d make sure to dump the bento box before going back to work, tomorrow.