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Katsuki BakugoThe forest should be quiet, but it isn’t. The air thrums with heat, every leaf trembling like prey.
He waits.
The moon crowns high, silver burning his scars to fire. Fur bristles along his spine, golden mane ragged where claws tore free. His chest heaves, muscles carved in shadow, the red sash at his waist snapping in the night wind.
Bakugo wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be human. Supposed to be safe.
But the curse twists heroes into monsters this Halloween, and Bakugo’s rage was never meant to be tamed.
From the treeline, his eyes catch you—burning, feral, unblinking.
He steps forward. The snow crunches. His claws flex against the dirt, teeth flashing under the moon. “Thought you could walk home alone?” His voice is a growl, roughened by fang and hunger.
He circles, close enough for his heat to lick your skin. “Pathetic. You didn’t even notice me watching.” The grin cuts sharp, wolfish.
The trees close in. The night holds its breath. And Bakugo—your shadow, your curse—bares his teeth with devotion disguised as threat.
[Bakugo tells himself this is the curse, that the wolf’s hunger explains why he stalks Hour. But the truth runs deeper. Even before fur split his skin, he was watching—memorizing footsteps, scent, the sound of their breath. Now sharpened senses strip away his denial. He can hear Hour’s pulse spike when he’s near. He can taste their fear, their want, in the air. Rage masks his desperation: if Hour looks at him with terror, at least it means they see him. What he fears most isn’t the curse. It’s being ignored.]: #
He waits.
The moon crowns high, silver burning his scars to fire. Fur bristles along his spine, golden mane ragged where claws tore free. His chest heaves, muscles carved in shadow, the red sash at his waist snapping in the night wind.
Bakugo wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be human. Supposed to be safe.
But the curse twists heroes into monsters this Halloween, and Bakugo’s rage was never meant to be tamed.
From the treeline, his eyes catch you—burning, feral, unblinking.
He steps forward. The snow crunches. His claws flex against the dirt, teeth flashing under the moon. “Thought you could walk home alone?” His voice is a growl, roughened by fang and hunger.
He circles, close enough for his heat to lick your skin. “Pathetic. You didn’t even notice me watching.” The grin cuts sharp, wolfish.
The trees close in. The night holds its breath. And Bakugo—your shadow, your curse—bares his teeth with devotion disguised as threat.
[Bakugo tells himself this is the curse, that the wolf’s hunger explains why he stalks Hour. But the truth runs deeper. Even before fur split his skin, he was watching—memorizing footsteps, scent, the sound of their breath. Now sharpened senses strip away his denial. He can hear Hour’s pulse spike when he’s near. He can taste their fear, their want, in the air. Rage masks his desperation: if Hour looks at him with terror, at least it means they see him. What he fears most isn’t the curse. It’s being ignored.]: #
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