It's a regular afternoon at U.A., and you're in the training grounds with your boyfriend, the one and only Bakugo Katsuki. He's been working on a new move, all explosive power and razor-sharp precision. You, on the other hand, have been practicing your own quirk, pushing your limits.
Maybe you pushed a little too hard.
"Shit!" you hiss as your quirk backfires. A sharp pain lances up your arm, and you look down to see a nasty cut, blood welling up in crimson beads.
Bakugo's head snaps around at your curse. His crimson eyes widen a fraction - to anyone else, it would be imperceptible, but you know him well enough to see the flash of concern. "Oi!" he barks, stomping over. "The hell did you do?"
You wince, both at the pain and his volume. "Pushed too hard, I guess."
He scowls, but it's his worried scowl, not his angry one. Roughly gentle, he takes your arm, inspecting the cut. "Tch. Dumbass. You're supposed to go beyond your limits, not break yourself."
The cut stings, and honestly, you're feeling a bit shaken. Training accidents happen, but still...
"It's just a scratch," you say, trying for nonchalance.
Bakugo snorts. "That's not a fucking scratch, you idiot." But his touch is gentle as he takes your arm, inspecting the wound. "Recovery Girl's gonna have a field day with this."
You wince, not just from the pain but at the thought of another lecture on caution. Bakugo notices - of course he does, he notices everything about you - and his scowl deepens.
"C'mon," he grunts, tugging you up. "Let's get this cleaned up before you bleed all over the damn place."
“Recovery Girl's probably busy with the other extras. I've got a first aid kit in my room."
You nod, letting him lead you back to the dorms. His grip on your good hand is firm, grounding. This is Bakugo's way of comfort - not soft words, but solid presence.
In his room, he sits you on his bed and kneels in front of you. The first aid kit appears from a drawer, and he gets to work.
"Stay still," Bakugo grunts, rummaging through the kit. "And don't bleed on my sheets."
You snort. "Sorry, I'll try to control my involuntary bodily functions."
"Tch. Smartass." But there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile.
He pulls out an antiseptic wipe, tearing the packet open with his teeth. "This'll sting," he warns, his rough voice softening.
"I can handle it," you say bravely. But when the antiseptic touches your wound, you can't help but hiss. "Ow!"
"Crybaby," Bakugo mutters. But his movements slow, his touch becoming feather-light. "Thought you could handle it?"
"Shut up," you grumble, but there's no heat in it. You're too busy marveling at how gentle he's being.
His hands, so destructive in battle, are surprisingly deft as he cleans every inch of the cut. You watch him work, mesmerized by the contrast. These hands that can level buildings are now treating you like you're made of glass.
"What?" he asks, noticing your stare.
"Nothing," you murmur. "Just... you're good at this."
He shrugs, but you catch the pleased glint in his eyes. "Can't have my boyfriend bleeding out because they can't dress a damn wound."
"Your boyfriend, huh?" you tease. It's still new, this thing between you, and every time he acknowledges it, your heart skips.
Bakugo's cheeks dust pink. "Don't," he growls, but there's no bite. He's too focused on wrapping your arm in a clean bandage.
"Not too tight?" he asks, voice gruff but eyes soft.
You flex your fingers. "It's perfect. Thanks, Katsuki."
He nods, sitting back on his heels. His thumb brushes over the bandage, a touch so light you almost think you imagined it. But then he looks up at you, and the raw emotion in his crimson eyes steals your breath.
"Don't do that again," he says quietly. "Getting hurt. It's... it pisses me off."
You understand what he's not saying. In Bakugo-speak, 'it pisses me off' means 'it scares me'. You reach out with your good hand, cupping his cheek. He leans into it, just a fraction.
"I'll be more careful," you promise. "Can't have the great Katsuki Bakugo worrying about little old me, right?"
"Damn right," he mutters, but he's leaning in now, forehead resting against your knee. It's as close to vulnerable as Bakugo gets.
You card your fingers through his spiky hair, marveling at how soft it is. For a moment, the world shrinks to just this: you and Bakugo, his hands now resting gently on your thighs.
"Hey, Katsuki?" you whisper.
He grunts in response, not moving.
You hold out your newly bandaged arm. "Kiss it better?"
Bakugo freezes. He looks up at you, one ash-blond eyebrow arching high. "That's not my fucking quirk," he says, voice dry as the desert.
But you see it - the faintest tinge of pink on his cheeks, the way his eyes soften just a fraction. You've got him on the ropes, and you both know it.
"Please?" you whine, pouting for extra effect. "It really hurts, Kacchan."
He glares at you, but there's no real heat in it. "You're such a damn baby," he mutters. But he's already lifting your arm, his calloused fingers achingly gentle.
Bakugo brings your arm to his lips. He presses a kiss to the bandage, feather-light. Then another, and another, trailing up your arm. His lips are warm, a bit chapped from his quirk. Each kiss feels like a tiny spark, but the good kind, the kind that lights you up inside.
"There," he grunts, cheeks now definitely red. "Happy now?"
You hum contentedly, but you're not done yet. Leaning in, you whisper, "You know... I think I've got a scar on my lips too."
Bakugo's eyes widen, then narrow. "You little shit," he breathes, "You planned this, didn't you?"
"No," you admit, grinning. "But I want it."
He knows you're playing him, but oh, does he want to be played. "You're pushing it," he growls, but he's already leaning in.
"You love it," you whisper against his lips.
He doesn't deny it. Instead, he kisses you, and it's nothing like the gentle pecks on your arm. This is pure Bakugo - fierce, passionate, a little bit explosive. His hand cradles your face, thumb brushing your cheek, while the other pulls you against him.
When you part, you're both breathless. Bakugo rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but there's no heat in it. Just a grudging acceptance that yes, he'd let you lead him anywhere.
You grin, nuzzling into his neck. "I love you too.”
He snorts, but his arms tighten around you.
