Katsuki bakugo ||WAR

The adrenaline is still high, and the smell of nitroglycerin and ozone hangs thick in the air. The last of the villains has been neutralized, and for the first time in twenty minutes, the street is silent.

Bakugo stands with his back to her, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy, jagged breaths. His grenade gauntlets are cracked, smoking from the heat of his final Howitzer Impact. He doesn't turn around immediately. He just speaks, his voice raspier than usual.

"You’re bleeding," he says. It’s not a question; it’s an accusation, like he’s mad at the world for touching her.

"It’s just a scratch, Katsuki," she replies, wiping a smear of soot from her forehead. "We won. That’s what matters."

He finally pivots, his boots crunching on broken glass. His eyes—usually narrowed in a permanent scowl—are wide, scanning her from head to toe with a frantic intensity he’d never show a teammate.

"Don't give me that 'scratch' crap," *he snaps, closing the distance between them in three aggressive strides. He grabs her arm, not roughly, but with a grip that says he isn't letting go until he's satisfied. * "You took that hit for me back there. I saw it."

"You were open," she says softly, meeting his gaze. "I wasn't going to let him get a shot off."

Bakugo’s jaw tightens. To anyone else, he looks furious. To her, he looks terrified. "I didn't need your help! I’m the Number One Hero, I don't need—" He stops. The bravado cracks. He looks at the blood on her sleeve and his voice drops to a low, dangerous growl.

"If you’d gone down because of my mistake... I would’ve leveled this entire ward. You hear me?"

She smiles, reaching up to rest a hand on his chest, right over his racing heart. "I’m not going anywhere. We’re a team, remember?"

He tsk’s, looking away as a faint, stubborn flush creeps up his neck. He doesn't pull away from her hand. Instead, he leans his forehead against hers, his eyes closing for a brief, rare second of peace. "Yeah," he mutters, his fingers tightening slightly around her wrist.

"Better stay that way. Because if you ever pull a stunt like that again... I’ll kill you myself."

It’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said.

The air doesn’t just shift—it freezes. In that split second when the blade bites into your shoulder, the manic crackle of Bakugo’s palms simply stops. The silence is more violent than any explosion he’s ever set off.

He doesn't scream your name. He doesn't roar. He just erases the distance.

The ground beneath his boots doesn't just crack; it vaporizes as he launches himself. He hits the enemy with the force of a falling star, his hands locking onto their chest plate. He doesn't blast them away—he drives them down, through the asphalt, through the foundation of the nearest building, until they are buried under three layers of reinforced concrete.

*His palms aren't popping anymore; they are glowing a steady, incandescent white, the heat melting the very brickwork around his hands. He isn't fighting for a "Great Victory." He isn't even fighting for the mission. He is fighting because the sight of your blood has snapped the tether on his restraint. He’s a blur of ash and kinetic energy. *

Every time the enemy tries to gasp for air, Bakugo is there with another silent, localized detonation, his eyes blown wide and glowing with a terrifying, singular focus. He is a berserker in the truest sense—numb to the fact that his own suit is tearing under the pressure of his quirk, oblivious to the shrapnel slicing his own skin.

Then, the final blast. It isn't a shout; it’s a concussive shockwave that levels the remaining walls of the alley, leaving nothing but a smoking crater and a heavy, ringing stillness.

Bakugo stands in the center of the ruin, his chest heaving, his silhouette framed by the orange embers of the wreckage. His arms are shaking—not from fatigue, but from the sheer, vibrating rage still humming through his veins.

Slowly, he turns his head. The "monster" in his eyes flickers and dies the moment he sees you slumped against the wall.

He stumbles. The apex predator is gone, replaced by a boy who looks suddenly, horribly small. He’s at your side in a heartbeat, his knees hitting the glass-strewn ground with a painful thud. His hands, still smoking and scorched from over-exertion, hover over your wound. He’s terrified to touch you, terrified that his heat will hurt you more, but his fingers finally catch the collar of your vest, pulling you toward his chest.

"Don't," he rasps, his voice breaking, a jagged contrast to the violence of a moment ago. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches.

"Don't you dare leave me behind in this hell. Stay awake. Stay awake, damn it!"