Hii! I hope you’re doing well!
Could you do reader fixing Baku’s bruises after he got in another fight with the union members, could it also be romantic?
Taking care of you
Pairings: Park Humin (Baku) x Fem!Reader
Summary: After a fight, you patch up Humin and a quiet kiss reveals what words never could.
Warnings: violence, injuries
A/N: Hii! Yess I’m doing good. I hope you like it 🫰🏻
The air was thick with heat and leftover adrenaline as Park Humin stood alone at the edge of the alleyway, his shirt collar torn, fists scraped raw, and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t look at the three guys groaning on the ground behind him, Union members, the usual type that thought they could outnumber him and win.
They didn’t.
But they did a hell of a job trying.
Humin exhaled slowly, like his breath was trying to keep him upright. His jaw clenched as he rolled his shoulders back and stepped into the weak glow of a flickering streetlight, head bowed slightly. His knuckles were red and cracked, a cut just beneath his eye swelling into a bruise already turning a violent shade of purple.
And then he saw you.
You had been searching for him ever since you heard whispers in the school hallway, something about Humin getting into it again. Another fight. More Union dogs barking up the wrong tree.
“Park Humin,” you breathed, and the name came out sharper than you intended.
He flinched a little at your voice, not because he was scared, he never was but because of the disappointment laced in it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, trying to walk past you.
“Too bad,” you snapped, stepping in front of him. “I came anyway.”
His gaze dropped, his lashes low over his dark, unreadable eyes. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” You grabbed his wrist and yanked it gently. “Come on. You’re bleeding.”
He hesitated. “It’s not—”
“Now, Baku.” The nickname rolled off your tongue like a scolding mixed with concern.
He sighed through his nose but followed you. Maybe it was the weariness settling in, or maybe he knew there was no point arguing when you looked at him like that.. like he wasn’t just a fighter, or a problem, or a bruised set of fists, but something worth being worried about.
He sat on the edge of your bed, hands resting on his thighs, bloodied knuckles twitching now and then. You knelt in front of him with the first aid kit cracked open between you.
You dipped a cotton pad in antiseptic and reached for his face.
“Hold still,” you murmured.
He didn’t move, but his eyes locked on yours. There was something in them that you couldn’t quite name, tiredness, maybe. Regret.
You dabbed carefully at the cut below his eye. He hissed, jaw tightening.
“Still think you’re fine?” you asked, voice quieter now.
He didn’t answer.
You worked in silence for a while. His skin was warm under your fingertips, even bruised and battered. You tried not to notice the way he watched you, or how the dim light made his features look softer, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
“You didn’t have to fight them,” you said finally.
His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “They started it.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to finish it every time.”
“I’m not letting them get away with shit.” His voice was low, raw. “Not after what they’ve done to us. To the others.”
You knew what he meant. The Union had left more than bruises on everyone. You, Sieun, Gotak even Juntae none of you were untouched. But Baku… Baku took it personally. Every threat, every insult, every blow, it fueled something in him that wouldn’t rest.
Your fingers hovered over a bruise along his cheekbone. You hesitated, and then finally whispered, “I just don’t want to see you like this again.”
His gaze dropped to your lips. “I know.”
You finished wrapping his knuckles and leaned back, resting on your knees. “There. You’re patched up.”
He looked down at your hands, still hovering near his. Then, slowly, he laced his fingers through yours.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t say anything, not right away. The silence stretched, thick with something that had been building for a while. Unspoken things. Careful glances. Unnecessary risks taken just to protect each other.
“Hey,” he said quietly, thumb brushing your knuckles. “You know I wouldn’t lose, right?”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” you murmured.
He tilted your chin up with one finger, his touch impossibly gentle for someone so often wrapped in violence. “Then what?”
You looked at him, really looked at him. At the pain behind his smirk, the bruises trying to heal, the boy who fought everyone else so hard he forgot how not to fight himself.
“That one day you won’t come back.”
The tension broke like glass. He pulled you close, not with force, but with the kind of need that had been waiting for permission. His forehead touched yours, his breath warm against your lips.
“I’ll always come back to you,” he said.
And then he kissed you.
It was slow at first, almost cautious like he was afraid he’d break you too. But you didn’t pull away. Your hands found his jaw, rough and warm beneath your palms, and he deepened the kiss, tilting your head just so.
It wasn’t a fairytale moment. His lip was split. Your hands trembled. There was blood on his shirt.
But it was real.
When you finally pulled back, both of you breathing a little harder, he rested his forehead against yours again and let the silence speak for him.
You didn’t need him to say the words yet. They were in the way he kissed you like you were the only safe thing in his world. The way he let you clean his wounds. The way he looked at you like you made the fight worth it.
“Stay,” you whispered.
He smiled faintly, eyes closing. “Always.”
