why i chose you 𓏲𝄢 b.katsuki
ɞ˚ tw & cw: avoidant attachment style, self-sabotaging, deprecating thoughts, angst/comfort, quirkless! reader, pro-hero katsuki
𓂃 synopsis: katsuki with a self-sabotaging gf, and it doesn't help that you've put yourself in a rough spot.
note ɞ˚; my first published fic thingyy like i have heaps of drafts but a lot of them are so self-indulgent so maybe i'll post it when i get more comfortable!! and alsooo i have a bit more time on my hands cause i have one more exam. honestly i made this because it’s something i used to personally struggle with in past relationships, and it still is as a personal thing. but this year i’ve been able to be really vulnerable with my friends and open up when i feel stressed, i realise that i feel so much better, so in a way, this is about them <3 (they will never see this account lol) but also katsuki is my comfort character so why the hell not
ɞ˚ divider credit ˇ ˇ @uzmacchiato
you don't mean to disappear.
it happens. it happens slowly in the dawn o night, blue spilling through your blinds as you lay awake. the silence turns into distance you swear you didn't ask for, but somehow always end up creating anyway. it's not on purpose.
the tv hums low in the background of your tiny apartment, a soft melodic static that hangs below the evening news. its the kind sound that fills space when you don't want to simmer in your own thoughts.
you're curled up on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, fingers warm around the mug that's long since gone cold. your eyes are fixed onto the screen, a never-ending moment of anticipation that you await to see.
explosions light up the screen, brilliant, controlled, all at the same time devastating. katsuki moves through smoke and debris like the world bends around him - like it bends for him.
the reporter's voice is breathless, reverent.
"another successful rescue! from the one and only, pro-hero dynamight!" the camera pans controlled, fixed on his focused features. "he saves six civilians, all unharmed!"
you swallow, a small smile reaching your face.
there's this familiar swell, though. it twists in your chest. pride. real, genuine pride. but its the kind the warms before it hurts.
you watch the way he shields people with his body, precision in every ligament he can control. you've seen it so many times, the split decisions he makes the save lives. you know how hard he's trained to get to where he is, the weight he carries. you know the cost, and you also know he's hungry for it too.
save someone again, you think quietly.
you can't tear your eyes away from the screen.
and then - like it always does - the other feeling crawls in.
it's almost unnoticeable, but the weight is there, this sinking drop in your chest. something twisted, insidious. heavy.
you glance down at your hands. they're bare, unremarkable. no sparks. no scars. barely calloused.
and you remember the undoubtful truth.
there's no quirk humming beneath your skin. just you.
your brain whispers cruelly. it's muted, you can't actually hear these degrading words, but you feel them. it floats among your limbs, carrying weight to your toes.
you don't notice straight away when the broadcast ends, and you don't notice when the screen switches to the cloudy weather broadcast. your mind is already somewhere else.
because you remember what happened. the thing you did.
it wasn't even dramatic. no screaming, no slammed doors. it was just a singular moment where you fear spoke louder than your trust, and it came out wrong. one careless slip of your vocabulary, fueled by that same voice that told you you don't deserve good things.
you were in his kitchen one afternoon, leaning against the counter while katsuki rummaged through the fridge, still half in his uniform. despite his work life-style, he still offered to cook whenever you came over.
there was this faint scorch mark on the sleeve of his jacket. it was something so miniscule, but in that moment, you noticed it. you always did. you file it away in that part of your brain that tracks every hypothetical injury before your own emotions.
he was talking, grumbling something about his patrol schedule, and something another an annoying intern. then, he talked about how late his patrols would go, how the city never really sleeps anymore.
you nodded along, distant. thinking somewhere else. your chest was already tight with the familiar pressure - the one that shows up when things start feeling too safe it scares you.
you started envisioning yourself, him, the scene of you two from a third person perspective. you leaning over his counter, and his domestic antics.
"-anyway," he started, shutting the fridge to glance back at you, "i was thinking maybe tomorrow-"
you don't remember exactly what he was about to say or what he could've said.
but you remember the pause. the way your mind filled itself with cement before he could.
he's busy. he's busy. it's out of his way, his convenience. you don't fit in his world, not even close.
the thought hit so fast, it felt like whiplash. though its always been instinct.
before you could think to hold it back, swallow it and spit it out into something more digestible.
"you don't have to come back early," you said. your voice sounded casual, almost considerate. rehearsed, routinely. like you were actually doing him a favor.
katsuki stilled as if he's been personally offended.
in that moment you can see it in his eyes. he's far for exhausted. in fact, he looks thrilled in this kitchen. too thrilled. and the thought lodged itself in your throat before you could stop it.
"you don't have to," you spill out. your tone was light, dismissive.
you shrugged, eyes fixed on a crack in the countertop, fingers fiddling with the rim of the mug before you. "whatever you were about to suggest. i mean, don't you think you shouldn't schedule your whole life around me?"
he turned fully towards you, eyebrows furrowing in that intense glare he does. "what the hell does that mean?"
you should've stopped. you felt the warning signs. it was evident in the way your heart plummeted to your stomach, the way your face warmed under the uncomfortable realization of how hard your words hit.
but that voice, the one that's always there, and always will be, pushed harder.
"i said," you spoke sharper now. an irritation that you didn't know was there, blossoming under the devastation of your state. "you already have enough of your plate, and like-" you exhale through your nose. "like i'm another thing you have to manage."
his expression shifted. subtle, closed off. the gears chilled into rest.
"i don't 'manage' you, y/n."
you laughed, quick and bitter.
“why do you do that,” you said, tone flat. not curious. irritated. “you’re always trying to rearrange shit like i’m the center of your day.”
his expression tightened. “i wasn’t—”
“you don’t have to babysit me,” you continued, words coming faster now, harsher. it spills messy out on the man before you. “i’m not one of your rescues.”
“don’t talk like that,” he said, taking a step towards you, as if he's sure if he reach out to touch you.
you laughed, short and mean. “like what? honest?”
he straightened, pausing. “...what the hell is your problem right now?”
and there it was. that pressure in your chest. that voice that always shows up when things feel too close. the heat of the situation melts over your face.
“you come home acting like you’re doing me some kind of service,” you said. “checking in, hovering, asking if i’m okay like i can’t handle my own life.”
his jaw clenched. “that’s not what i’m doing.”
“it is,” you snapped. “you’re a hero, katsuki. you save people. you don’t need to come home and play caretaker too.”
you knew it as soon as it left your mouth.
“caretaker?” he repeated, quietly.
“i don’t need you managing me like i’m some fragile thing you have to fit in between explosions and interviews,” you said. “maybe stop pretending i’m on the same level as everything else you’re dealing with.”
his eyes darkened. “you think being with you is a chore to me?”
you scoffed. “i think it’s convenient for you to feel like you’re doing something good when you’re not out there saving someone.” you look away. "in fact, i think it's a chore being here."
the silence that followed was immediate. sharp. suffocating.
katsuki stared at you like he didn’t recognize you.
“…that’s a fucked up thing to say,” he said.
you crossed your arms, chin lifting, pride stepping in before regret could. “i’m just saying what you won’t admit.”
but you were already past the point of stopping.
“go focus on your real priorities,” you said. “the people who actually need you.”
his face closed off completely.
“wow,” he said, voice low. controlled. “so that’s how you see me.”
you didn’t answer. you didn’t apologize. you stood there and let the damage settle.
he grabbed his keys from the counter, movements deliberate.
“don’t twist my care into something ugly just because you can’t handle it,” he said. “that’s on you.”
and still — still — you had to get the last word in.
“don’t bother rushing back,” you said, tone snappy. “i’ll survive without you.”
he stopped. he didn’t turn around.
the door closed softly behind him.
just the sound of you saying something you can’t take back — and realizing too late that you didn’t protect yourself. you sit in his apartment, alone. simmering in the realization you've royally fucked up. it builds in your chest, pushing into your ribs. then it rises up to your throat, bubbling in your jaw before spilling into ugly tears.
you remember it when the blue light of your tv streams across your face, and you can't escape your words.
the couch dips beneath your weight, cushions sighing softly as you curl into yourself. the tv is still on, still replaying the rescue on a loop like it wants to make sure you see it. like it wants to make sure you remember.
katsuki’s voice cuts through the broadcast for a second — muffled, distorted through speakers — and your chest tightens.
you mute it, and the the silence that follows is worse.
your eyes drift back to the dark screen anyway, the reflection staring back at you unfamiliar. smaller. meaner than you remember being.
and then it happens. not all at once. not dramatically.
just one sentence, rising up from wherever you buried it.
you’re not one of my rescues.
it lands in your chest like something sharp.
you inhale too fast, breath catching, fingers digging into the fabric of the couch like it might steady you. your heart starts pounding in recognition.
you press your palm flat against your sternum, like you can push the feeling back down.
go focus on your real priorities.
the people who actually need you.
your stomach twists, reminding you of something ugly.
you hadn’t meant it like that. you know you hadn’t, but intent doesn’t matter when the words were already out there, already lodged somewhere in him where you can’t reach.
you squeeze your eyes shut.
you see his face again, and it's not angry. and it scares you.
just that moment when something closed behind his eyes.
“that’s a fucked up thing to say.”
you curl tighter into yourself, knees pulled in, arms wrapped around them like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. like if you take up less space, the guilt will ease.
“i didn’t mean it,” you whisper into the quiet room.
but the room doesn’t answer.
because you did mean something.
you just wrapped it in cruelty so it wouldn’t sound like fear.
your gaze flicks to your phone on the coffee table. face down. untouched. the space between you and it feels enormous.
you think about him coming home bruised and exhausted, still smelling faintly of smoke, and you telling him of all things, that his care was condescension. that his love was obligation.
“why did i say that,” you murmur, voice cracking.
because letting him care meant admitting you wanted it.
because wanting it meant risking losing it.
because hurting him first felt like control.
a shaky breath leaves you.
you don’t cry loudly. it’s quieter than that, silent even. tears slip out slowly, soaking into the sleeve of your shirt as you wipe at your face, embarrassed even though no one’s watching.
it doesn't help that in that moment, you couldn't stop recalling the look on katsuki's face throughout the argument. you made him feel small.
the realization settles heavy and slow, like something sinking to the bottom of your chest.
you stare at the dark tv screen again, at the paused image of him mid-motion, powerful and alive and so far away.
and for the first time since the silence started, you don’t wonder if he’s better off without you.
you wonder if you hurt him too badly to come back.
you cry yourself to sleep.
not loudly. not dramatically. just the kind where your chest aches and your throat feels tight and your eyes burn because you’re trying so hard not to make noise. your pillow ends up damp, your face sticky with tears you’re too tired to wipe away properly.
the last thing you think before sleep finally takes you is that you did this.
that the silence isn’t something that happened to you — it’s something you made.
because it doesn’t reset anything.
work is loud and unforgiving. your head hurts. your body feels heavy, like gravity’s been turned up. you mess up something small - a detail, a timing thing - and your manager snaps at you in front of everyone.
“this isn’t hard,” they say, sharp. “pay attention.”
you nod. apologize. swallow it down.
you’ve always been good at swallowing things.
your hands shake when you finally check your phone on your break. it takes you a full minute just to open the messages.
and it takes another minute to type.
hey. i know this is random. would you maybe want to grab coffee later? like 7? totally okay if not.
you stare at it, heart pounding, before you send it. it feels too light. too casual. like you’re pretending everything didn’t just fall apart.
but that’s all you can manage.
the rest of your shift crawls by. your phone lights up once, just a notification and your stomach drops every time you check.
when you finally clock out, it’s raining.
not softly. not romantically. it’s pouring, cold, relentless, soaking through your clothes in seconds. you check your phone under the awning.
your chest tightens. you almost turn around right there. almost go straight home. almost give in to the voice that’s already whispering, see? this is why you don’t reach out.
but you force yourself to move anyway.
you walk to the café because some small, stubborn part of you just wants to see him. even if it’s from across the room. even if he doesn’t sit down. even if he just looks at you.
it’s been a week since the argument.
your shoes slip on the wet pavement as you cut through an alley to avoid the worst of the rain. you don’t see the step until it’s too late.
there’s a sharp, sickening moment of weightlessness. then pain.
you hit hard. face first. the impact knocks the air out of your lungs. your cheekbone smacks the ground, a burst of white-hot pain blooming across your face. your knees scrape painfully as you slide, skin burning, tearing.
you gasp, hands trembling as you push yourself up. rain mixes with tears instantly, blurring your vision.
“shit—” you choke out, breath shaking.
your knees sting. your cheek throbs. when you touch it, your fingers come away trembling. you wipe at your face too fast, embarrassed even though no one’s there. your chest aches with something deeper than the fall.
you look so pathetic right now.
you limp the rest of the way, soaked, shaking, hurting.
when you reach the café, the windows are fogged. warm light spills out onto the wet pavement. you hesitate before going in, wiping your face one last time, pushing your hair back over your shoulders.
you eyes scan left, then right, then cycle back. checking every seat.
you order a coffee you barely taste and sit at a small table near the window, checking your phone again. nothing. you wait. ten minutes. twenty. each minute feels heavier than the last.
eventually, you stop checking. you leave without finishing your drink.
the walk home feels longer. brutally colder. your clothes cling to you uncomfortably. your knee aches with every step. your cheek pulses in time with your heartbeat.
the voice in your head is relentless now.
see? this is why you don’t try. this is why you pull away first. you were right.
when you get home, you don’t even turn on the lights.
you don’t shower. don’t change. you just sit on the couch, dripping rain onto the floor, shivering, staring at nothing. your knee is swollen. your cheekbone is tender and sore.
your heart jumps painfully in your chest.
the lock clicks. the door opens.
katsuki steps inside, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, jacket dripping onto the mat. he looks tired. soaked. real.
“sorry,” he says immediately, voice rough. “i got to the café late. thought you might already be back here.”
you just sit there, staring, like if you shift even an inch you’ll shatter.
he freezes when he really looks at you.
“…what the hell happened?”
you shake your head, small. pathetic. your throat tightens and suddenly you can’t speak.
he crosses the room in two strides, crouching in front of you. his eyes flick over you quickly. the bruise forming on your cheek, your scraped knee, the way you’re shaking.
“did you fall?” he asks, quieter now.
the tears come fast, ugly, uncontrollable. your shoulders shake as you curl in on yourself, hands clenching in your damp sleeves.
“i’m sorry,” you sob. “i shouldn’t have texted. i knew you wouldn’t come. i just- i just wanted to see you.”
he exhales sharply and sits beside you, rainwater dripping from his hair.
you can’t. your gaze fixates itself on your knuckles.
“hey,” he snaps, not angry. “look at me.”
his voice lowers. steadier. “this is what i need to understand,” he says. “why do you do this to yourself?”
you choke on a breath, a hint of irritation leaving the back of your throat like a defensive instinct.. “do what?”
“you push me away,” he says. “you say the cruelest shit like you don’t care and then you sit alone in the rain waiting for me anyway.”
“i don't know,” you admit through tears, then out your mouth like word vomit. “i’m scared that if i let you care, i’ll need it. and if i need it, you’ll leave.”
his jaw tightens. “so instead you decide for me.”
“you make yourself the villain,” he continues, voice firm but not unkind. “so i don’t get the chance to hurt you first? is that what this is?”
your hands cover your face as you cry harder.
“i don’t want to hurt you,” you whisper. “i just- i don't know...”
he reaches out slowly, carefully, and pulls your hands away from your face.
“you don’t get to call my care condescension,” he says quietly. “you don’t get to tell me i’m better off without you. i'm my own person, too.”
sobs rack your body as he pulls you into his chest, arms firm around you, anchoring you despite the shaking.
“i was wrong,” you cry into his shoulder. “i was so wrong.”
“yeah,” he says. “you were.”
but his hand stays at your back. and for the first time in a week, he doesn’t let go. he doesn’t rush you.
after the crying slows, after your breaths stop hitching so violently, he guides you gently off the couch. his hand stays firm at your back, warm, steady, like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll fold in on yourself again.
“bathroom,” he murmurs. “come on.”
the light is too bright when he flicks it on. you squint, instinctively shrinking, but he’s already reaching for the cabinet, grabbing antiseptic, gauze, a towel. all practiced motions. all muscle memory.
he crouches in front of you again, examining your knee first. the scrape is angry and red, dirt still clinging to the edges. his jaw tightens, not at you, but at the fact that you were hurt and alone.
“this gonna sting,” he warns quietly, holding your knee down gently.
when the antiseptic touches your skin, you hiss softly, fingers gripping the edge of the counter. his hand immediately steadies your leg.
“hey,” he says, gentler. “i got you.”
the sting fades to a dull ache. he cleans it carefully, wraps it neatly. his touch is firm but controlled, like he’s treating something precious.
then his gaze lifts to your face.
the bruise on your cheekbone is already darkening.
“…fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
he notices. of course he does.
“not at you,” he says immediately. then, quieter, “at the fact that this happened.”
he cups your face carefully, thumb brushing just beneath the bruise without pressing. his touch is reverent, almost apologetic.
“does it hurt a lot?” he asks.
he exhales slowly, grabbing a cold compress and pressing it gently to your cheek. he holds it there himself, like he doesn’t trust you to take care of it alone.
there’s a stretch of silence. not uncomfortable. just heavy.
“y/n,” he says, voice low. serious. “you have to tell people how you feel when you feel it.”
he cuts you off, not harshly. just firm.
his eyes lock onto yours. steady. intense in that way that means he’s not letting this go.
“you don’t get to swallow it until it turns into something sharp,” he continues. “you don’t get to wait until it comes out and hurts everyone involved.”
“i didn’t want to be a problem,” you whisper.
his brow furrows. “you weren’t.”
“i didn’t want to need you.”
his voice drops. “you already do.”
that one hits harder than anything else tonight. you look away, shame crawling up your spine.
he gently tilts your chin back with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“i could feel it,” he says quietly. “everything. the way you broke down tonight.”
“you care so much it scares you,” he says. “and instead of saying that, you turned it into something ugly so you don’t have to be vulnerable.”
you nod, tears spilling over again. “i just don’t know how to say it.”
he presses the compress a little more firmly against your cheek, grounding you with silent affection.
“then say it messy,” he says. “say it wrong. just talk to me.”
his thumb brushes your jaw, gentle despite the scolding tone.
“but you say it,” he adds, leaning back a bit to get a clear view of your face. “to me. not after a week of silence. not after you’re bleeding and alone in the rain.”
you choke on a sob. “i’m sorry.”
he sighs, long and tired.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “i know. you've said that already.”
his arms come around you again, not crushing, but solid and protective.
“next time you have to promise me,” he says quietly, “you talk to me before it hurts this bad. got it?”
you nod against his chest. he doesn’t let go.
and for the first time, the scolding feels like care, not something you have to earn, but something he’s choosing to give you anyway.
it doesn’t get better the next day.
you still wake up some mornings with that familiar tightness in your chest, the instinct to pull inward before anything can reach you. the urge to soften yourself preemptively and to disappear just enough to avoid the disappointment.
the difference now is that katsuki notices.
and it's not in a hovering way. not in the way you accused him of before.
sometimes it’s as small as a hand on your back when you go quiet. sometimes it’s him saying your name, low, grounding, when your thoughts start spiraling too fast.
sometimes it’s him sitting beside you in silence, close enough that you can feel his warmth without being forced to talk.
and sometimes, it’s him calling you out. he reminds you that you're allowed to accept this from him.
“you’re doing that thing again,” he’ll say, not unkindly. “tell me what's going on in that head.”
you hate how exposed it makes you feel.
but you hate more how right he is.
there are moments when you snap again, and the words come out wrong. when you default to distance because vulnerability still feels like standing on a cliff edge.
the difference is that now, you come back.
you say, “i’m sorry. that wasn’t what i meant.”
you say, “i’m scared.”
you say, “i just need a second.”
and every time you do, something inside you loosens.
katsuki doesn’t make it easy. not in the way that lets you avoid the work.
he’s patient, but he’s firm.
“don’t shut me out,” he tells you one night, when you’re curled into yourself again, fingers worrying at the hem of your sleeve. “i can handle the ugly stuff. what i won’t handle is you deciding i can’t.”
his words stings, but it sticks.
there are days when it feels like progress is two steps forward, one step back. days when you feel ridiculous for struggling with something that should be simple. days when the voice in your head still whispers that you don’t deserve this kind of care.
those are the days katsuki grounds you the hardest.
he’ll press your feet to the floor and tell you to breathe with him.
he’ll remind you, quite bluntly, that your thoughts are not facts.
“you don’t get to call this luck like it’s temporary,” he says once, when you joke about it nervously. “i chose you. and i’m still choosing you.”
you don’t believe it right away.
accepting good things is harder than surviving bad ones.
but slowlyyou start to sit with the discomfort instead of running from it. you let yourself feel cared for without immediately trying to earn it or push it away. you let yourself stay when your instinct is to leave.
you start saying things sooner.
not perfectly, but honestly. its far from perfect.
and every time you do, katsuki meets you there.
not as a hero. not as a caretaker.
there’s a night months later when it hits you.
you’re lying in bed, half-asleep, his arm heavy around your waist. his breathing is slow and even. steady. safe.
and for the first time, the thought doesn’t come with fear.
he loves me. he chose me.
not as an obligation. not as a project. not as someone to save.
the realization is quiet. grounding. terrifying in the way all good things are when you finally let them be real.
you just turn slightly, pressing closer, and let yourself stay.
because it didn’t happen overnight.
it took effort. honesty. uncomfortable conversations. relapses. apologies. choosing each other again and again.
but you did it, together.
and somehow, against all the odds your brain once listed so carefully, you learned to accept the rarest kind of luck you’ve ever had.
not just the hero.
not just the symbol of victory.
but the boy who stayed.
the man who listened.
the boyfriend who taught you that love isn’t something you survive by pulling back.
it’s something you learn to stand in.
