≽^𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓲 ྀི≼ @sofiee213 - Tumblr Blog

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≽^𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓲 ྀི≼

23 ⋆ INTJ ⋆ here to have fun ⋆ she/her

୨ৎ writes both sfw & nsfw, fluff, angst, everything in between

୨ৎ currently brain-rotting over bakugo katsuki only (yes i’m loyal like that)

୨ৎ updates + replies happen when my job lets me breath (tragic, ik)

୨ৎ author of trust no hero on wattpad ⋆ and taxi cab (angst) short fanfic.

⋆˙⟡ soft little presence online — think a quiet cat in the dark, eyes glowing, watching you scroll 🐈‍⬛💗 ⋆˙⟡

Hello! Hope is all is well!

I was wanted to ask if there’s gonna be a part 5 to taxi cab :) no pressure just wanted to know !

I still plan to post part 5 someday 😭 I already know what I want to happen, but I’ve been struggling to put it into words lately. but yeah, it’s not discontinued. ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

sofiee213

im sorry but when will be the part 5 released? im dying

hii!! it’ll be this month, not yet sure abt the dates 💕

edit: I’m so sorry guys 😭 I really thought I could update this month, but it’s taking me a little longer than expected. I don’t want to rush it and give you something half-hearted. thank you for being patient with me. I promise it’s coming soon 🥹💕

im sorry but when will be the part 5 released? im dying

hii!! it’ll be this month, not yet sure abt the dates 💕

sofiee213

“You can’t sleep again?”

Katsuki’s voice comes out scratchy, thick with sleep. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes — just reaches for you, arm hooking around your waist and dragging you closer. Like it’s automatic. Like that’s where you’re supposed to be.

You pause before saying anything. He catches it right away.

“Tch.” One eye opens, barely. The red looks darker at night. “Get over here.”

He pulls you in before you can argue, chest against yours, all heat and solid muscle. He runs hot — always has — and there’s something about it that makes the rest of the world feel a little less loud. His hand spreads across your back, thumb dragging lazy circles into your skin.

“Don’t have to talk about it,” he mumbles. “Brain won’t shut the hell up, right?”

You nod. He probably can’t see it, but he knows anyway. He huffs through his nose, pissed off — not at you, never at you — just pissed that you’re awake and miserable.

“Yeah. Same shit happens to me.”

He yanks the pillow into a better spot with one hand, then rests his chin on top of your head. You can feel his heartbeat under your ear. Steady. Grounding.

“Just breathe,” he says. Not a command. Quieter than that. “Match mine.”

You try. He notices when you can’t quite get there, when it comes out shaky and wrong.

“Hey. Take your time.” His voice drops lower, loses the edge. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

His fingers trail your spine, slow and even. No agenda. No expectation. Just touch.

The minutes blur. Could be ten. Could be thirty.

“You know something?” he says, barely audible now. “You don’t have to be anything with me. Don’t have to pretend you’re fine or put yourself back together. Just be here. I’ve got the rest.”

Something in your chest clenches. He feels it.

His arms tighten around you — firm, deliberate.

“If you’re up,” he murmurs, “then I’m up. Simple as that.”

His thumb brushes your shoulder blade again, grounding you in the present.

“But you’re not by yourself,” he finishes. “Not tonight. Not any night.”

His breathing evens out first — but you know he’s still awake. He always waits. That’s just how he is.

And somewhere in the warmth and the rhythm of his heartbeat, your mind finally goes quiet.

Katsuki doesn’t say I love you.

He doesn’t have to.

He stays, and that says everything.

sofiee213

Taxi Cab (Part 4)

— k. bakugo x f!reader angst continuation

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

──── ୨୧ ────

What happens when you stop fighting for the past and allow the present to start over?

There is a specific kind of violence in trying to be a living museum for someone else.

For years, you have been the curator of a history he can no longer access. You have walked him through the gallery of your shared life, pointing at photographs, playing specific songs, and cooking meals that should taste like nostalgia. You search his eyes for a flicker of recognition — a spark that says, “Ah, yes. I know you. I love you.”

But the spark doesn’t come. He looks at you with kindness, perhaps, or confusion, but mostly with the polite distance one gives a stranger.

And eventually, you break.

You stop pointing at the pictures. You stop retelling the stories of how you met in the rain, or that trip to the coast, or the inside jokes that used to make him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. You realize that you cannot surgically implant memories back into a mind that has let them go.

You accept the tragedy: He forgot. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

So, you grieve. You mourn the version of him that knew the map of your soul. You sit in the silence of the room, no longer trying to bridge the gap. You just exist. You let the silence stretch out. You decide that if he is going to be a stranger, you will let him be a stranger.

And you ask yourself the question you have been avoiding since the beginning:

If I stop fighting for him to see me, will I finally be able to see myself?

──── ୨୧ ────

For months, you treated his amnesia like a jammed door — something that just needed enough force, enough love, enough proximity to finally click open. You spent the first weeks after the villain attack in a plastic hospital chair, your hand cramping around his unconscious one, whispering the architecture of your shared life into the antiseptic air. The burnt toast. The agency plans. The way he kissed you in the rain after his provisional license exam, tasting like victory and ozone.

You never left his side.

Not until the doctors gently — pityingly — told you his stress levels were climbing, that he needed a “calm environment” for recovery. They asked you to leave. For his sake.

So you obeyed. You stayed away to help him heal.

And while you were being good, being selfless, being gone — he woke up. He recovered. He met someone else.

He got engaged.

So on the flight to Italy, watching clouds bruise purple beneath the wing, you made a decision that felt like self-amputation: Stop. This mission would be the final test. You would look at Katsuki Bakugo and see him not as the missing half of your soul, but as exactly what he was now.

A coworker. A stranger. Someone’s future husband.

Are some things really meant to be? Or are some things just meant to be finished?

──── ୨୧ ────

The battle in the piazza was a cruel reminder of how biological memory works. Your minds were estranged, but your quirks were still in perfect, devastating symphony.

You moved left; he blasted right. You created a shield; he used it as a springboard. It was a dance you had practiced a thousand times in the training grounds of U.A., a rhythm ingrained in your very marrow. For ten minutes, you were Dynamight and his partner again. The world made sense.

But then the dust settled.

In the old days — in the life that apparently only exists in your head now — he would have been rushing toward you before the smoke even cleared. He would be shoving a water bottle into your hands, his eyes scanning your body for injuries, barking, "You moved too slow on that left flank, idiot. You hurt?"

Today, the silence was deafening.

You stood alone near the fountain, wiping soot from your cheek. Ten feet away, Bakugo had his back to you. He wasn't checking on you. He had his phone pressed to his ear, his shoulders relaxed, his voice dropping into that soft, private register you used to think was exclusive to you.

"Yeah, I'm good," he murmured into the receiver. "It's done. I'll call you properly tonight."

He was calling her.

Shoto stepped toward you, his eyes filled with that quiet concern. He reached out, likely to offer water, or just a steadying hand. Shoto had been your gravity when the world started floating away.

But you stepped back.

"I'm okay, Shoto," you said, your voice firmer than it had been in weeks.

He paused, hand hovering. "You’re bleeding."

"I can patch it," you said. You didn't want to be the broken thing anymore. You didn't want to use Shoto as a crutch, because eventually, crutches get taken away, and you needed to know you could stand on your own legs. You couldn't risk leaning on him and breaking him too.

You walked past them both — past the man who forgot you, and the man who remembered too much for you — and headed toward the villa.

"You did good," you whispered to yourself, clutching your side. "You did good."

──── ୨୧ ────

By evening, the heroes had gathered around a massive fire pit in the villa’s courtyard. The air hung thick with woodsmoke, roasted meat, and pine.

They called it a briefing, but it was really a decompression session.

You came out of your room clutching your notebook.

Bakugo was already there. He was sitting on a log bench, staring into the fire, the orange light dancing on his face. He looked contemplative. Peaceful.

You made a choice.

You didn't sit opposite him, hoping to catch his eye. You didn't sit near him, hoping to catch his scent. You sat beside Matteo, a boisterous Italian hero with a wind quirk, putting Shoto and Bakugo in your peripheral vision.

They ate and swapped war stories. You ate one skewer out of politeness, but your hands were already reaching for the notebook. You opened to a fresh page, graphite pencil solid and real in your palm.

You began to draw.

Lines. Angles. Reception desks. A training room with reinforced floors.

"What is that?" Matteo asked, leaning over with the lack of boundaries common to his culture. He squinted at the sketch. "Architecture?"

You blinked, pulling back from the trance. "Uh… my agency. I’m building my own. Soon."

Matteo’s eyes widened. He clapped a heavy hand on your shoulder, turning to the group. “Ehi! Look at this! The piccola is becoming a Boss! She builds her own agency!"

Conversations died. Heads turned.

“Congrats!” someone called.

“That’s a huge step,” another hero nodded, genuine respect in their voice.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks — not shame. Pride.

A Japanese hero from your unit leaned forward, skewer still in hand. “That’s brave. Real estate’s brutal right now. Where’s it located?”

Your breath caught for a fraction of a second.

The location. The one you and Katsuki had chosen a year ago, standing on that corner eating convenience store pork buns while he pointed at the dilapidated building and said, “That’s it. That’s where we take over the world.”

You swallowed the memory. It didn't belong to him anymore. It was just a building. Just yours.

"It's in the Musutafu district," you said, voice steady. "Near the old rail line. It has good bones. High ceilings."

You didn't look at Bakugo. You kept your eyes on the paper.

"Tell us about the design," Matteo pressed. "It looks modern."

"I want it to be open," you started, and then, something unlocked.

You began to speak, and for the first time in months, you weren't talking about your grief.

You were talking about your passion. You pointed to the sketch, explaining the flow of the lobby, the specific materials you wanted for the gym mats to prevent joint injury, the intake system for civilians during emergencies.

"I don't want it to feel like a fortress," you said, hands moving as you spoke, building something in the air between words. “Hero agencies are usually so cold — all glass and metal and distance. I want this to feel like a sanctuary. When people walk in, I don’t want them intimidated by rank or power. I want them to feel safe.”

Shoto watched you from across the flames. He saw it — the way your spine straightened, the way the fog that had clouded your eyes since the hospital burned away, replaced by sharp, clear light. The ease was back. The authority. The you he’d been mourning.

The circle went quiet, just listening to your voice weave a future out of graphite and air.

You were smiling. Small, but real.

"It sounds incredible," Shoto said softly.

"It will be," you answered. And you believed it.

──── ୨୧ ────

The briefing wound down, the fire turning to embers. You closed your notebook — it was full now, the margins crammed with new ideas from the senior heroes and design tips from Matteo. It felt heavy with promise.

You stood up, dusting off your pants. "I'm turning in. Goodnight, everyone."

You turned to the villa doors.

To get there, you had to walk past him.

Bakugo sat right there, close enough to touch. In the past, his gravity would have bent your trajectory. You would have slowed, hoping he’d reach out and catch your wrist. You would have looked at him, silently begging him to remember the girl who designed that agency for him.

But tonight, your mind was full of floor plans and paint swatches. Your heart was full of a quiet, terrifying kind of hope — not for him, but for yourself.

You walked past Katsuki Bakugo.

You didn't look down. Didn’t pause.

You just walked.

Your room wrapped around you in cool silence. You leaned your head against the door, notebook pressed to your chest. The quiet didn’t feel lonely. It felt like a blank canvas.

Then it hit you — a jolt of clarity so sudden it stole your breath:

You hadn’t checked to see if he was watching you leave.

For months, every step away from him had been performed for an audience of one, hoping he’d look up and remember. Tonight, you’d simply… left. Because you had somewhere to go.

You were starting over.

And for the first time since your world ended, you knew — bone-deep, blood-certain — that it was actually possible.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bakugo’s POV

His body was a traitor.

They cleared the stronghold in under twenty minutes — efficient, brutal, flawless. The kind of operation that would make headlines by morning. And the second the last villain hit the pavement, muscle memory hijacked him.

He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. His hand was already moving, snatching the spare water bottle from his belt. His head whipped left — always left, always her blind spot — ready to bark orders, check for blood, shove hydration at someone who never remembered to drink after using her quirk.

Except no one was there.

She stood ten feet away, wiping soot from her cheek. Not even looking at him.

He froze mid-motion, clutching a plastic bottle like some kind of idiot, his heart jackhammering in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the fight. Why did I do that? Why did his quirk settle when she was in range, like his body recognized a missing piece he didn’t know he’d lost?

His fiancée wasn't a hero. She didn't know the smell of ozone and burnt flesh. She didn't know the specific silence that comes after a detonation. So why, for a split second, did he feel like he was exactly where he belonged?

He shoved the water back into his belt, frustration rising like bile.

She’s just an obsessed ex, his fiancée had told him, fingers cool and certain against his temple. She can’t let go, Katsuki. She’s deluded. Just ignore her.

So why was she the one ignoring him?

──── ୨୧ ────

The migraine struck during the briefing.

It started as a dull throb at the base of his skull, then sharpened into a white-hot spike drilling behind his eyes. Always the same. Anytime he pushed too hard at the “Before” — before the hospital, before the ring, before the clean narrative his fiancee fed him — his brain revolted.

Usually the fiancée fixed it. A touch to his forehead, her quirk humming soft and gold, and the pain would melt into pleasant fog. You’re overthinking, she’d murmur. Just trust my memory. Yours is broken.

But she wasn’t here. And the pain was splitting his skull open.

He was staring at the fire, trying to breathe through it, when he heard a voice.

“I want it to be open. Hero agencies are usually so cold… I want people to feel safe there.”

The pain stopped. Not faded — stopped.

He looked up. Across the fire, she was sketching in a worn notebook, face gilded by firelight. The obsessed ex. The stranger who felt like a ghost he couldn’t stop haunting.

Her voice washed over him, and the noise in his skull cleared for the first time all day.

Then the memory hit.

──── ୨୧ ────

Three years ago. He was sitting on a curb, vibrating with rage because the press had torn him apart for "excessive force." He felt like a monster. And then, a voice cut through the noise. Someone sat next to him. Someone handed him a pork bun and started talking about something mundane — the weather, a stray cat — just to ground him. Just to bring him back.

In his head, the face he saw in that memory was his fiancée’s. It was her blonde hair, her soft smile.

But the voice?

He stared at the woman across the fire.

The voice in the memory — the cadence, the soothing drop in pitch, the specific way she hummed at the end of a sentence — it was her. It was the woman with the notebook.

The audio didn't match the video.

His breath caught. The migraine roared back, vicious and defensive, like his brain was fighting to reject the realization. Stop thinking. Look away. It was your fiancée.

Except his fiancée hated pork buns. And she thought his anger was “scary,” not something to be gentled.

The woman across the fire laughed at something the Italian hero said — genuine and unguarded. His chest caved in. Physical. A grief for something he was somehow holding and losing simultaneously.

──── ୨୧ ────

The briefing ended. She stood.

He couldn’t move. Paralyzed on the bench, waging war inside his own skull.

She walked toward the villa. She had to pass him.

Look at me, he thought, desperate and angry. Look at me and tell me why you feel like a missing limb.

She didn’t. She walked right past him.

She didn't slow down. She didn't glance at his hands. She just walked, eyes forward, carrying her own future in that notebook.

But as she passed, the air shifted.

Clean linen. Custom detergent he hadn’t consciously remembered in years.

The scent bypassed logic, bypassed the migraine’s warnings. It slammed into the animal part of his brain that simply knew:

Mine.

The word was so loud he nearly said it aloud.

She disappeared into the villa. The door clicked shut with a finality that felt like amputation.

His phone buzzed.

Fiancée: How’s the mission? Is your head hurting? Do you need me to call and help you sleep?

His thumb hovered over the screen.

One word — yes — and she’d call. She’d use her voice, her quirk. Smooth the jagged edges. Make the face in the memory match again. Make the pain dissolve into sweet, safe fog, and he could go back to being Dynamight, the man who had everything figured out.

He looked at the door where the woman with the notebook had vanished.

The migraine pounded, screaming warnings, begging him to stop digging.

He slid the phone back into his pocket.

Let it hurt.

He needed to know why the pain felt more real than the cure.

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: hey guys, sorry for the super late update 😭 I literally had like 5 different versions of part 4 fighting for their lives in my docs… hope you still enjoyed it though. thank you for being patient 💕

sofiee213

@therealyuujisgf @rickywhen-i-catchyouricky @nixjk @starsinthepavement @leximoron @wolffmaiden @dreamydaredevil @iam-thevillain-of-thisstory @koushazelnut @cinasplash @eminemmz @hinawx @katsukiswiife @scarymygodurdivine @ribbqns @deejse @demon-writer2 @aunohana @rocket-raccoon-silvie @the-asterism-artist @nijoll @redgie-69 @awiewie @ninjashouyo @explosivelover @l0ren12 @mattchal0tve @imms1soo @im-a-lost-frog-help @c-aspiel @atashiboba @katsuboooom @hornehlittleweeblet2 @mintcheery @lobotomizedjamaican @hehheehhehehehe @kaoiyeva @gold24fish @himiko-toga-x-ochaco-uraraka @infatuatedrose @zephsaidwhat @dumbfuxker @spookysisters @exactlythoughtfuldaze @sherlockholmes08 @kaysnoto @ressya @whiteghostlyclouds @thearcaneenthusiast @restrictionsapply @mitsukichiis @regalwitchsecret

#I'm sorry for late update #bakugo katsuki #bakugo angst #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x y/n #bnha x reader #katsuki x you #mha angst

Taxi Cab (Part 4)

— k. bakugo x f!reader angst continuation

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

──── ୨୧ ────

What happens when you stop fighting for the past and allow the present to start over?

There is a specific kind of violence in trying to be a living museum for someone else.

But the spark doesn’t come. He looks at you with kindness, perhaps, or confusion, but mostly with the polite distance one gives a stranger.

And eventually, you break.

You accept the tragedy: He forgot. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

And you ask yourself the question you have been avoiding since the beginning:

If I stop fighting for him to see me, will I finally be able to see myself?

──── ୨୧ ────

You never left his side.

Not until the doctors gently — pityingly — told you his stress levels were climbing, that he needed a “calm environment” for recovery. They asked you to leave. For his sake.

So you obeyed. You stayed away to help him heal.

And while you were being good, being selfless, being gone — he woke up. He recovered. He met someone else.

He got engaged.

A coworker. A stranger. Someone’s future husband.

Are some things really meant to be? Or are some things just meant to be finished?

──── ୨୧ ────

The battle in the piazza was a cruel reminder of how biological memory works. Your minds were estranged, but your quirks were still in perfect, devastating symphony.

But then the dust settled.

Today, the silence was deafening.

"Yeah, I'm good," he murmured into the receiver. "It's done. I'll call you properly tonight."

He was calling her.

Shoto stepped toward you, his eyes filled with that quiet concern. He reached out, likely to offer water, or just a steadying hand. Shoto had been your gravity when the world started floating away.

But you stepped back.

"I'm okay, Shoto," you said, your voice firmer than it had been in weeks.

He paused, hand hovering. "You’re bleeding."

You walked past them both — past the man who forgot you, and the man who remembered too much for you — and headed toward the villa.

"You did good," you whispered to yourself, clutching your side. "You did good."

──── ୨୧ ────

By evening, the heroes had gathered around a massive fire pit in the villa’s courtyard. The air hung thick with woodsmoke, roasted meat, and pine.

They called it a briefing, but it was really a decompression session.

You came out of your room clutching your notebook.

Bakugo was already there. He was sitting on a log bench, staring into the fire, the orange light dancing on his face. He looked contemplative. Peaceful.

You made a choice.

They ate and swapped war stories. You ate one skewer out of politeness, but your hands were already reaching for the notebook. You opened to a fresh page, graphite pencil solid and real in your palm.

You began to draw.

Lines. Angles. Reception desks. A training room with reinforced floors.

"What is that?" Matteo asked, leaning over with the lack of boundaries common to his culture. He squinted at the sketch. "Architecture?"

You blinked, pulling back from the trance. "Uh… my agency. I’m building my own. Soon."

Matteo’s eyes widened. He clapped a heavy hand on your shoulder, turning to the group. “Ehi! Look at this! The piccola is becoming a Boss! She builds her own agency!"

Conversations died. Heads turned.

“Congrats!” someone called.

“That’s a huge step,” another hero nodded, genuine respect in their voice.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks — not shame. Pride.

A Japanese hero from your unit leaned forward, skewer still in hand. “That’s brave. Real estate’s brutal right now. Where’s it located?”

Your breath caught for a fraction of a second.

You swallowed the memory. It didn't belong to him anymore. It was just a building. Just yours.

"It's in the Musutafu district," you said, voice steady. "Near the old rail line. It has good bones. High ceilings."

You didn't look at Bakugo. You kept your eyes on the paper.

"Tell us about the design," Matteo pressed. "It looks modern."

"I want it to be open," you started, and then, something unlocked.

You began to speak, and for the first time in months, you weren't talking about your grief.

The circle went quiet, just listening to your voice weave a future out of graphite and air.

You were smiling. Small, but real.

"It sounds incredible," Shoto said softly.

"It will be," you answered. And you believed it.

──── ୨୧ ────

You stood up, dusting off your pants. "I'm turning in. Goodnight, everyone."

You turned to the villa doors.

To get there, you had to walk past him.

But tonight, your mind was full of floor plans and paint swatches. Your heart was full of a quiet, terrifying kind of hope — not for him, but for yourself.

You walked past Katsuki Bakugo.

You didn't look down. Didn’t pause.

You just walked.

Your room wrapped around you in cool silence. You leaned your head against the door, notebook pressed to your chest. The quiet didn’t feel lonely. It felt like a blank canvas.

Then it hit you — a jolt of clarity so sudden it stole your breath:

You hadn’t checked to see if he was watching you leave.

For months, every step away from him had been performed for an audience of one, hoping he’d look up and remember. Tonight, you’d simply… left. Because you had somewhere to go.

You were starting over.

And for the first time since your world ended, you knew — bone-deep, blood-certain — that it was actually possible.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bakugo’s POV

His body was a traitor.

Except no one was there.

She stood ten feet away, wiping soot from her cheek. Not even looking at him.

He shoved the water back into his belt, frustration rising like bile.

She’s just an obsessed ex, his fiancée had told him, fingers cool and certain against his temple. She can’t let go, Katsuki. She’s deluded. Just ignore her.

So why was she the one ignoring him?

──── ୨୧ ────

The migraine struck during the briefing.

But she wasn’t here. And the pain was splitting his skull open.

He was staring at the fire, trying to breathe through it, when he heard a voice.

“I want it to be open. Hero agencies are usually so cold… I want people to feel safe there.”

The pain stopped. Not faded — stopped.

He looked up. Across the fire, she was sketching in a worn notebook, face gilded by firelight. The obsessed ex. The stranger who felt like a ghost he couldn’t stop haunting.

Her voice washed over him, and the noise in his skull cleared for the first time all day.

Then the memory hit.

──── ୨୧ ────

In his head, the face he saw in that memory was his fiancée’s. It was her blonde hair, her soft smile.

But the voice?

He stared at the woman across the fire.

The voice in the memory — the cadence, the soothing drop in pitch, the specific way she hummed at the end of a sentence — it was her. It was the woman with the notebook.

The audio didn't match the video.

His breath caught. The migraine roared back, vicious and defensive, like his brain was fighting to reject the realization. Stop thinking. Look away. It was your fiancée.

Except his fiancée hated pork buns. And she thought his anger was “scary,” not something to be gentled.

The woman across the fire laughed at something the Italian hero said — genuine and unguarded. His chest caved in. Physical. A grief for something he was somehow holding and losing simultaneously.

──── ୨୧ ────

The briefing ended. She stood.

He couldn’t move. Paralyzed on the bench, waging war inside his own skull.

She walked toward the villa. She had to pass him.

Look at me, he thought, desperate and angry. Look at me and tell me why you feel like a missing limb.

She didn’t. She walked right past him.

She didn't slow down. She didn't glance at his hands. She just walked, eyes forward, carrying her own future in that notebook.

But as she passed, the air shifted.

Clean linen. Custom detergent he hadn’t consciously remembered in years.

The scent bypassed logic, bypassed the migraine’s warnings. It slammed into the animal part of his brain that simply knew:

Mine.

The word was so loud he nearly said it aloud.

She disappeared into the villa. The door clicked shut with a finality that felt like amputation.

His phone buzzed.

Fiancée: How’s the mission? Is your head hurting? Do you need me to call and help you sleep?

His thumb hovered over the screen.

He looked at the door where the woman with the notebook had vanished.

The migraine pounded, screaming warnings, begging him to stop digging.

He slid the phone back into his pocket.

Let it hurt.

He needed to know why the pain felt more real than the cure.

──── ୨୧ ────

#bakugou x reader #bakugo angst #mha bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x you #fanfic #light angst #my hero academia #mha angst #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo #bakugo #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo mha #bnha bakugo katsuki

If you meet Bakugo as the real you — quiet, quirkless, unknown — would he even look twice?

~ 1.5k words · Bakugo x Introvert Reader · Shifting

──── ୨୧ ────

We ask ourselves the same question at 3:00 AM, staring at the ceiling while the rest of the world sleeps: What if?

What if you weren’t just scrolling through fan art? What if you were there? But not as a Pro Hero with a too powerful quirk you imagined, and not as the secret child of All Might. Just… you. The real you. The quiet one. The introvert who sits in the back of the class, the one who is technically a background character in her own life.

Would your fictional crush want you? Would he even care to look?

You found out the hard way.

You shifted. It wasn’t a glittery, magical girl transformation. One moment you were in your bedroom, and the next, the air smelled like smoke.

Musutafu.

You were the real you. No hero costume. No lore. Just a girl in her favorite pajamas, standing on a sidewalk, feeling terrifyingly small.

──── ୨୧ ────

You heard the screams before you saw him.

Bakugo Katsuki was on patrol.

As a fan, you think you’d run to him. You think you’d wave a banner. But when you saw him, you froze. He was perched on a railing, looking down at the street like a king surveying a kingdom he was barely tolerating.

He looked untouchable.

You wanted to shout. You wanted to cup your hands around your mouth and scream, “I know you! I know why you chose that hero name! I know how hard you work!”

But then you looked down at yourself. And then you looked back at him.

He was talking to someone. A girl. A fellow Pro Hero with a pretty costume and confident posture. She laughed at something he said — or maybe she was laughing at him — and he scoffed, turning his head. They looked like they belonged in the same frame. They were vibrant, saturated colors in a comic book world.

You were just a sketch in the margins.

For the first time, you felt a pang of jealousy toward a fictional character. Not because she was with him, but because she made sense there. She was what you thought you needed to be to matter.

You looked behind you. The air was shimmering — a rift. The real world was waiting. Your deadline, your unwashed dishes, your quiet, invisible life.

He’s just a phase, you told yourself, the lie tasting bitter. He’s someone you’ll forget years from now. This is stupid.

You decided to return. You had to accept that the scenarios in your head were just that — scenarios.

Your mind was loud. Too loud.

You crossed the street without noticing the red light.

Beep. Beep.

The sound was deafening. You looked to your right. A delivery truck was launching at you, the grille looking like the mouth of a beast.

Panic flared, hot and white. You squeezed your eyes shut. Maybe, you thought with a strange calm, you’ll just wake up back in your bed if you die here.

──── ୨୧ ────

You didn’t die.

An arm, hard as iron and radiating heat, hooked around your waist just a millisecond before impact.

Your face buried into a black top. The smell of nitroglycerin hit you first. Then, the sensation of weightlessness.

BOOM.

An explosion rattled your teeth, but you weren’t scared. You knew that sound. It was the sound of safety.

You landed on a rooftop, away from the traffic. He dropped you, not gently, but safely enough that that you stumbled onto your feet.

You looked up.

Red eyes. Spiky ash blond hair. The scowl that launched a thousand fanfictions.

Bakugo Katsuki.

“Next time,” he said sharply, “watch where the hell you’re going.”

You stood there, mouth slightly open. You were eye-to-eye with him. He wasn’t a drawing. He was breathing, sweating, existing.

“Thanks…” you whispered.

He didn’t leave immediately. He looked at you. Really looked at you. His gaze was sharp, analytical, stripping away the invisibility you usually wore like a shield.

You didn’t know what to do. Your hands shook.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue and turned his heel, the grenade gauntlets clinking.

“Bakugo…”

The name left your lips before you could stop it. You tried to pull your shoulders back. You tried to be the confident version of yourself.

He stopped. “What.”

“I…” Your voice wavered, then strengthened. “I’m a big fan. I know that sounds stupid, but… you’re amazing. Your character development is amazing. You always win to save. I’ve watched you since I was young, and—”

You were babbling. You were doing exactly what you promised you wouldn’t do.

He turned back around. And then, he did something dangerous.

He smirked.

“Finally, you dumbass,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “Thought you’d keep your mouth shut forever. I saw you staring from the street corner for ten minutes.”

“You… you saw me?”

“I’m a hero. I see everything. Especially weirdos who look like they’re about to cry in the middle of the city.”

He pointed a finger behind you. The shimmering rift to your world was there, just three steps away.

Your heart sank. “I have to go back.”

“Obviously.”

“I want to stay here, though,” you admitted, the words spilling out. “Real life sucks. I’m nobody there. Everything is boring and gray and… it just sucks.”

Bakugo’s smirk vanished. He stepped closer, invading your personal space, his presence overwhelming.

“Idiot. Are you really my fan?”

You nodded, mute.

“Then stop whining,” he growled, low and rough. “If you’re a fan of the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, you don’t run away from the grind. You think this world is all sunshine? It’s a pain in the ass too.”

He gestured to the rift.

“You don’t stay here to hide. You go back there, and you live your boring life with the same guts you have when you watch me. You don’t get to be weak just because you don’t have a Quirk. Strength isn’t about explosions, extra. It’s about not letting the world crush you.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t comforting you. He was challenging you.

You smiled. A real, genuine smile.

You took two steps toward the rift. Then you paused.

He huffed, looking away, looking strangely… proud?

“Go on then,” he muttered. “Don’t make me save you from a truck again.”

He was cute. He was loud, aggressive, and abrasive, but God, he was cute.

You turned back to him.

“Hey, Bakugo?”

“Hah? What no—”

You stepped forward, closed the gap, and stood on your tiptoes.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t a movie kiss. It was quick, pressed against his lips for barely a second.

You pulled back. He was frozen. Eyes wide, for once in his life, completely caught off guard. His cheeks were turning a furious shade of pink.

“Don’t waste my chance, right?” you said, backing away toward the rift. “And also… you’re my hero. Even in real life.”

You stepped into the shimmer before he could explode you.

──── ୨୧ ────

You woke up in your room. The air was still. The traffic outside was just normal cars, not villains.

But your heart wasn’t heavy anymore.

You touched your lips. You could still feel the phantom heat of him.

Maybe he is just a fictional character to the rest of the world. Maybe you are just a background character in this one. But for one moment, the background character surprised the protagonist.

We’re allowed to escape reality. We’re allowed to love characters who don’t exist. Because sometimes, they’re the only ones who can tell us exactly what we need to hear to survive this shitty, beautiful world.

a/n: hii lemme drop a self-promotion real quick of my fanfic: trust no hero bakugo x fem!reader on wattpad. pls read if u're interested 🙏💕

“You can’t sleep again?”

You pause before saying anything. He catches it right away.

“Tch.” One eye opens, barely. The red looks darker at night. “Get over here.”

“Don’t have to talk about it,” he mumbles. “Brain won’t shut the hell up, right?”

You nod. He probably can’t see it, but he knows anyway. He huffs through his nose, pissed off — not at you, never at you — just pissed that you’re awake and miserable.

“Yeah. Same shit happens to me.”

He yanks the pillow into a better spot with one hand, then rests his chin on top of your head. You can feel his heartbeat under your ear. Steady. Grounding.

“Just breathe,” he says. Not a command. Quieter than that. “Match mine.”

You try. He notices when you can’t quite get there, when it comes out shaky and wrong.

“Hey. Take your time.” His voice drops lower, loses the edge. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

His fingers trail your spine, slow and even. No agenda. No expectation. Just touch.

The minutes blur. Could be ten. Could be thirty.

Something in your chest clenches. He feels it.

His arms tighten around you — firm, deliberate.

“If you’re up,” he murmurs, “then I’m up. Simple as that.”

His thumb brushes your shoulder blade again, grounding you in the present.

“But you’re not by yourself,” he finishes. “Not tonight. Not any night.”

His breathing evens out first — but you know he’s still awake. He always waits. That’s just how he is.

And somewhere in the warmth and the rhythm of his heartbeat, your mind finally goes quiet.

Katsuki doesn’t say I love you.

He doesn’t have to.

He stays, and that says everything.

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x you #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha bakugou #bakugou x y/n #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki #my hero academia #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo mha #katsuki bakugo #bakugo #bakugo katuski

Boyfriend Bakugo catches you writing fanfiction about him.

“My little author,” he teases, voice thick with affection. “Am I a good muse?”

The rapid-fire clack-clack-clack of your keyboard is the only sound in the room.

You’re in the zone.

Glasses perched on your nose, eyebrows drawn together in fierce concentration, fingers flying across the keys as you wrestle the scene into submission. The world has narrowed to glowing text and the frantic need to get it right.

Katsuki leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

He’s been home for ten minutes. You haven’t looked up once.

Normally, that would piss him off. Katsuki Bakugo does not like being ignored. But right now? Watching you like this — seeing that familiar crease between your brows, the same one he gets when he’s mid-strategy — he can’t bring himself to be mad.

If anything, he’s intrigued.

He moves behind your chair, quiet as a shadow. He expects a mission report. Maybe an email to your agency. Something official.

Instead, he sees a Google Doc.

He sees a wall of text.

And then—

He sees his own name.

Katsuki pinned her against the training mat, his breathing ragged. “You think you can outrun me?” he growled, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m inevitable.”

Katsuki’s eyebrows shoot up.

He leans down, chin hovering just over your shoulder, hot breath brushing your ear.

“Inevitable?” he rumbles, equal parts amused and offended. “What the hell is that? Do I look like a comic book villain to you?”

Your entire body locks up.

Your soul exits the premises.

You slam the laptop shut — hard enough that it might’ve cracked the screen — and spin around in the chair, staring up at him in pure panic. Your lungs forget how to function.

“I- it’s not-”

“Writing fanfiction?” he supplies easily, a lazy, shark-like grin spreading across his face. He looks way too pleased. “About me?”

“It’s a creative exercise!” you squeak, face burning hot enough to fry an egg. “Character study!”

“Character study,” he repeats flatly.

He steps forward, hands planting on the armrests of your chair, caging you in. He leans close, red eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker underneath.

“So you spend your free time imagining me pinning you down,” he murmurs. “You know I’m right here, yeah?”

“It’s not fantasizing!” you protest weakly. “It’s… plot progression!”

“Uh-huh.”

He chuckles, low and rough, the sound vibrating straight through you. One hand lifts, fingers surprisingly gentle as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The arrogance softens into something warmer, fonder.

“You really can’t get enough of me,” he says quietly. “Even when I’m not around, you’re typing me into little scenarios.”

He taps your nose with a knuckle.

“My little author,” he teases, voice thick with affection. “Am I a good muse?”

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “Please forget you saw that.”

“Not happening.”

He catches your wrists, pulling your hands away so he can see your flushed face. His grin sharpens.

“But I’ve got notes,” he adds. “Your dialogue needs work. I’d never say ‘I’m inevitable.’ That’s corny as hell.”

“Oh yeah?” you shoot back, clinging to the last scraps of dignity. “What would you say?”

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes.

In one smooth motion, he hauls you out of the chair and spins you around until your back hits his chest. His arms wrap snug around your waist, heat and strength everywhere.

He lowers his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“I wouldn’t say anything,” he murmurs, voice dropping low and intimate. “I’d just show you.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

“Save the file, nerd,” he whispers against your skin. “We’re doing some… field research.”

His grip tightens just a little.

“Gotta make sure the next chapter’s accurate.”

#bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha bakugou #bakugo x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #fanfic #my hero academia #writers on tumblr #fanfic writer #mha author

Boyfriend Bakugo catches you reading fluff fanfiction about him.

The apartment is quiet this late in the evening.

Katsuki’s leaning in the bedroom doorway, towel wrapped around his waist, little drops still falling from the ends of his spiky hair. He should be tired. Patrol was hell, and his muscles are screaming for rest. But he isn’t moving toward the bed. Not yet.

He’s watching you.

You’re curled up against the headboard, bathed in the soft glow of your phone screen. You look... completely lost. Not in a bad way. In the way that makes his chest do that stupid, tight squeeze thing he’ll never admit to out loud.

Your knees are pulled up, toes wiggling slightly under the duvet, and there’s this goofy, suppressed smile plastered on your face. You bite your lip, stifle a giggle, and tap the screen to scroll.

He frowns, but there’s no heat in it. Just curiosity. Usually, you’d be asleep, or nagging him to dry his hair properly. But right now? The rest of the world is blurred out. You’re in your own little bubble.

He pushes off the doorframe, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. He moves like a predator; instinct, not malice — sneaking up. You don’t even notice him until the mattress dips under his weight as he crawls up behind you.

He peers over your shoulder, red eyes narrowing to read the text on your screen.

...Bakugo grunted, pulling her closer by the waist. His palm was warm against the small of her back as he whispered against her ear, "You're mine, idiot. Don't ever forget it..."

Katsuki freezes.

He blinks. Reads it again. He sees his name. He sees the "Y/N" placeholder that people use in those internet stories. He sees the tags at the top of the page: #bakugokatsukixreader #fluff #boyfriendkatsuki

The realization hits him like a blast to the face. You aren't texting a friend. You aren't scrolling social media. You are reading a story... about him. Being in love with you.

A slow smirk spreads across his face.

"Oi." His voice is a low rumble, right next to your ear. "The hell is this?"

You yelp, jumping so hard you almost drop your phone. You scramble to lock the screen, shoving it under your pillow, face flushing a brilliant, guilty blush. "K-Katsuki! You scared me!"

He doesn’t back off. He looms over you, boxing you in against the headboard, that smirk widening into a full-blown, arrogant grin. He looks smug. Insufferably smug.

"Scared you? Or caught you?" He chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest. He reaches out, not for the phone, but for your face, his rough thumb brushing over your burning cheek. "Were you reading... fanfiction? About me?"

"No," you lie, terrible at it. You try to look away, but he catches your chin, forcing you to look at him. To look at him. The real thing.

"Liar," he purrs. His eyes are dancing with amusement, glowing in the dim light. "I saw it. 'You're mine, idiot'? Seriously? Do I sound that cheesy in your head?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "It's just for fun! Stop looking at me like that!"

He gently pries your hands away, lacing his fingers through yours. The teasing edge in his voice softens, replaced by something heavier. Something fiercely possessive.

"I’m not making fun of you, dumbass," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. He’s wet from the shower, smelling of burnt sugar and clean soap, warm and solid and here. "I’m just trying to figure out why you need to read about a fake version of me..."

He shifts, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then the other.

"...when you have the real thing right here in your bed."

His heart is pounding. It’s ridiculous — just a story, just words on a screen — but it fills something restless in him. Proof, maybe. That you don’t just love him. You want him. Even when he’s gone, you go looking for pieces of him.

It feeds his ego, sure. But more than that, it settles that restless beast inside him that always wonders if he’s enough for you.

"Is the guy in the story better than me?" he whispers, nipping lightly at your jawline, making you shiver.

"He's... quieter," you tease breathlessly.

He huffs, pulling back to glare at you, though his eyes are warm. “Boring. Bet he doesn’t know how you take your coffee. Bet he doesn’t know you get cold feet at two in the morning.”

His arm tightens around you.

“And I know he sure as hell can’t do this.”

He kisses you then — deep and claiming, swallowing your gasp. It’s not the chaste kiss from the story. It’s messy and hot and full of all the rough edges and overwhelming feelings that make him him.

When he finally pulls back, you’re dazed, lips parted, eyes glassy. He drinks in the sight like it’s fuel.

"Stop reading that crap," he mutters, pulling you down so your head rests on his bare chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. “If you want romance, just say so. I’ll give you plenty to work with.”

You settle against him, listening to the steady, powerful beat of his heart. “Okay, Katsuki.”

He rests his chin on the top of your head, closing his eyes, a contented sigh escaping him. He’s never going to let you live this down. But for now, he just holds you, thinking that no writer in the world could ever capture how good this — the real this — actually feels.

#bakugou x reader #katsuki x you #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #mha fluff #bakugo fluff #bnha bakugo katsuki #my hero academia #katsuki bakugo mha

WARNING: 18+ ONLY – NSFW AHEAD

contains very rough, degrading, consensual smut with heavy dirty talk, pain play, choking, spanking, multiple rounds and explicit language.

‎

Bakugo doesn’t trust his busted arm yet. So he test his fingers with your cunt.

—

‎Bakugo’s room echoed with the wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping cunt, his scarred arm straining but holding steady as he tested the limits of his war-damaged body. “Look at you, you pathetic little whore, already soaking my hand like a desperate slut,” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom as he curled his three fingers deep inside you, twisting them viciously to grind against your g-spot. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort, his muscles aching from the old wounds, but he channeled the pain into raw dominance, thumb pressing down hard on your swollen clit like he was trying to crush it. “Bet you’ve been dreamin’ about this, huh? My broken-ass arms still makin’ you my bitch.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling as you tried to buck against his hand, but he pinned you down with his free forearm across your chest, the weight heavy and unyielding. “Katsuki— fuck, it hurts so good,” you gasped, but he cut you off with a harsh laugh, yanking his fingers out just to slap your pussy sharply, the sting making you yelp. “Hurts? That’s nothin’, you worthless cumrag. These arms took down villains, think they can’t handle a needy hole like yours? Beg for it, slut. Tell me how bad you need me to wreck you.”

“Please, Katsuki, finger me harder— ruin me,” you begged, voice breaking, and he obliged with a growl, shoving four fingers in now, stretching you wide enough to burn. His arm protested, tendons screaming, but he ignored it, pumping with brutal speed, the squelching noises humiliating in their loudness. “That’s right, beg like the pathetic fucktoy you are. You’re nothin’ without my cock, are ya? Just a drippin’ mess waitin’ to be used.” He leaned in, biting your nipple hard through your shirt, tugging until you cried out, then soothing it with a mocking lick. “Cum, you filthy bitch. Show me these arms are still good for breakin’ sluts like you.”

Your orgasm hit like a detonation, body convulsing as you squirted around his fingers, soaking the sheets. Bakugo didn’t stop, fucking you through it until you were sobbing, oversensitive and twitching. He pulled out, shaking his hand off with a disgusted sneer.

“Disgustin’. Look at the mess you made, you greedy. But hey, arms held up. Time to really test ‘em. Strip, now, or I’ll rip your clothes off myself.”

You scrambled to obey, peeling off your clothes with shaky hands, but he was impatient, grabbing your shirt and tearing it down the middle with a flex of his aching arms. “Slow-ass bitch,” he muttered, shoving you onto your back and shedding his own clothes in rough yanks. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, already leaking as he stroked it once, eyes raking over you like you were prey. “On your knees first, whore. Suck it. Prove you’re worth fuckin’.”

You dropped to your knees on the floor, mouth watering as you took him in. The head breached your mouth first, salty and hot, forcing your jaw to stretch wide. Inch by inch, he fed it to you, the girth making your cheeks hollow as you struggled to accommodate him. Your tongue flattened against the underside, feeling every ridge and pulse, but he didn’t stop there; he kept pushing, the tip hitting the back of your throat and beyond.

He started grabbing your hair in a fist, he forced your head down, shoving his length down your throat in one brutal thrust. “Gag on it, you cock-hungry slut. That’s all you’re good for, chokin’ on my dick like a cheap toy.” You did, eyes watering as he face-fucked you relentlessly, his hips snapping forward, balls slapping your chin. His arms burned from gripping you, but he used the pain to thrust harder, grunting degradations: “Swallow it deeper, bitch. Make me cum down your worthless throat.”

He pulled out just before release, strings of saliva connecting you as he hauled you up by the hair and threw you onto the bed face-down. “Ass up, you lazy cunt. Present yourself like the breeding bitch you are.” You arched, exposing everything, and he slapped your ass hard enough to leave a handprint, then another, and another, until your skin burned red. “Pathetic, cryin’ already? Wait till I split you open.” Without warning, he slammed into you from behind, bottoming out in one savage stroke, your cry muffled by the pillow.

“Fuck, still so tight? Or are you just that unused, you prude little tease?” he taunted, hands clamping on your hips with bruising force, nails digging in as he pounded away. Each thrust was a punishment, his cock bullying your cervix, the angle letting him grind deep. “Take it, you stupid whore. Every inch is mine. Scream my name, let the whole building know what a degraded slut you are for me.” You did, wailing as he wrapped an arm around your throat from behind, choking you lightly while his other hand reached under to pinch your clit viciously. “Cum again, bitch. Milk my cock like the desperate cumdump you were born to be.”

You shattered a second time, walls spasming around him, but he laughed mockingly, pulling out to flip you over. “Round one, and you’re already wrecked? Weak. Spread those legs wider, show me that ruined pussy.” He surged back in, folding you in half with your ankles by your ears, his weight crushing you as he rutted like a beast. “Look at your face, tears and drool, you disgusting mess. Bet you love bein’ treated like trash, huh? My personal fuckhole.” He bit your collarbone hard, drawing blood, then licked it clean with a possessive growl.

Time blurred; sweat-soaked skin slapping, your begs turning to incoherent pleas. He came inside you with a roar, filling you to overflowing, but yanked out mid-spurt to paint your stomach too. “Marked inside and out, you filthy pig. But we’re not done, round two, on your back.” He manhandled you again, this time tying your wrists to the headboard with his belt, testing his arms’ strength as he cinched it tight. “Struggle all you want, slut. You’re mine to break.”

He entered you slowly this time, torturously, making you feel every vein, then sped up to a frenzy, one hand around your throat squeezing just enough to make your vision spot. “Choke on my cock from the inside, you worthless bitch. Beg for air while I ruin you.” You gasped pleas, cumming again as he degraded you further: “Pathetic, cumming from bein’ choked? What a depraved little whore.” He slapped your breasts, twisted your nipples, all while thrusting mercilessly, his arms holding despite the fire in them.

For round three, he untied you only to force you to ride him reverse, hands on your ass spreading you wide. “Bounce, you lazy cunt, work for it like the eager slut you are.” But he took control, thrusting up hard, spanking you rhythmically. “Faster, or I’ll make you regret it, you slow bitch.” You came twice more in this position, body exhausted, but he flipped you for a fourth round on your side, spooning behind you with one arm barring your waist, the other rubbing your clit raw.

“Last test,” he panted, voice hoarse. “Gonna fill you till you leak, you overused rag. Cum one more time, prove you’re my perfect degraded toy.” You did, screaming as he followed, pumping you full again. Finally, he collapsed, arms throbbing but victorious, pulling you into a rough embrace. “Arms passed, slut. But next time, I’ll degrade you till you can’t walk.” You shivered, spent and satisfied, knowing you’d crave more of his brutal affection.

#bakugo smut #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki smut #katsuki bakugo smut #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #fanfic #mha bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki x you #bnha smut

literally the only account on Tumblr I have my notifs on for... WHO SAID THAT

waitt that’s actually so cute 😭 okay, sending pink hearts right back (づᴗ _ᴗ)づ💕💕💕

Hello sofieeee, I really really loved Taxi Cab! I hope you're doing well, I'm looking forward to the next chapter!! No pressure on your part though, take your time writing what you love! 💓💗

heyyaa, thank you so much! taxi cab will definitely come. it’s actually already sitting in my drafts, I’m just not fully satisfied with it yet 😭 so I’ll come back and edit it soon… just not right now. my brain is locked in on my main fic, and switching from fun-yo vibes to full angst with the same Bakugo is lowkey impossible for me. thank you for being patient 💗✨

Hi… when’s taxi cab 👉👈 I RLLY LOVE TJE SERIES BTW NO RUSHHH! IM JS SO SO EXCITED

thank u so much!! there’s no specific date for part 4 yet, but it’ll be next week! 💕

edit: hii ♡ taxi cab is taking a lil longer than expected because I’m juggling my main fic rn 🥹 but I promise it’s coming — just want it to hit right. thank you for being patient with me 🫶🏻

How many parts of Taxi cab will have?

Curious is a short story or long story.

Also what do you classify as a short story in your own opinion. Like 8 or 10 parts? Especially compared with your fic Trust No Heroes.

heyyaa!! taxi cab is planned as a short story probably under 10 parts!! it’s meant to stay very focused and emotional rather than long and sprawling. meanwhile, trust no hero will be a long fic with multiple arcs, slow burn, and heavier world-building — that one’s looking at 70+ parts 💗

sofiee213

Taxi Cab

— k. bakugo x reader angst

──── ୨୧ ────

You always knew loving Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t for the weak.

But damn… you didn’t think it’d be like this.

For years, you were his quiet constant — the one who stayed through every rough edge, every emotional landmine he didn’t know how to defuse. Back in U.A., when everyone said he’d die alone because he couldn’t even say “good morning” without sounding like he was threatening someone, you still chose him.

And he chose you too.

Not perfectly.

Not easily.

But he did.

You taught him how to be held without flinching.

How to apologize without yelling.

You built the space where his guard could finally drop, brick by agonizing brick.

You watched him grow from a brash teen into a pro hero who could save a building full of civilians without collateral damage, who could lead without scorching his subordinates. You watched him change.

Hell— you helped him change. You were the crucible for the man he became.

And for years, you kept waiting.

For a ring.

For a question.

For a declaration that said you were more than just his most essential anchor, more than his favorite, steadfast habit.

But he always told you, “Not yet. I ain’t ready for that kind of bullshit. Not yet.”

You told yourself it was fine.

You had time.

You were patient.

You believed the sincerity you saw flicker behind his crimson eyes.

Every “not yet,” every promise that someday he’d be ready to commit to forever— you held onto all of it, a silent vow that anchored your own life.

Until the headline flashes across the agency lobby TV.

Dynamight: Engaged After Six Months of Dating.

Your breath catches.

Not a sob. Not a gasp. Just a sudden, sharp arrest of air in your lungs, enough for you to feel the quiet, painful crack on the way out.

He’s there on the screen beside a woman you don’t even know, her hand lifted toward the camera. A diamond catches the harsh lobby light, the sheer size of the stone a mockery of the patience you’d cultivated. He’s smiling, soft and easy — the kind of smile you once had to coax out of him through whispered vulnerabilities and late-night honesty.

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup until the cardboard gives under the pressure. The heat sears your palm, but you barely register the burn.

Six months.

All those years you spent softening his sharp edges, helping him evolve into someone capable of deep, open, easy commitment…

and he gave the perfected version to her.

You blink once, the heat behind your eyes threatening to spill, and quietly turn away from the screen before anyone in the morning rush notices the way your heart just folded in on itself, a silent, irreparable tear.

──── ୨୧ ────

edit: part two is posted! 🫶🏻

#katsuki x you #mha bakugo x reader #mha x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #bakugo katuski #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou

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