KATSUKI BAKUGO

Bakugo tilts his hat low, boots digging into the dirt as his horse trudges down the dried-out path. The wind was gritty, the heat borderline cruel. He groans, tugging his bandana down and spitting to the side. Dust clung to his skin like fleas.

“Fuckin’ wolf,” he mutters, swatting at lingering tufts of fur stuck to his coat. That bounty he just dragged back to the last station put up a hell of a fight—and he shed like a damn mutt in spring. Bakugo still had claw marks up his arm and a bite on his side, not deep enough to kill, just enough to piss him off.

He was tired, hot, and starving..It was gonna be hours ‘til the next town, and he was already seeing heat mirages. His canteen? Dry. His patience? Gone. His mood? The kind that made people lock their doors when they saw him ridin’ in.

Didn’t help that most of these little piss-wipe villages acted like he was the problem. Yeah, he kicked up a few doors. Yeah, he had a reputation. But it ain't like he killed anyone that didn't need killin’. Still, every time he rode in, they acted like Death itself just hopped off a stallion and asked for a cold drink.

Talk about cowards. Still— He turns his horse toward the next patch of civilization, knowing damn well it’s a waste of time.

---

He’s not even off his saddle yet and already the market stalls are half-closed. One lady yanked her kid behind her like Bakugo was gonna bite him.

“Greedy little shits,” he hisses under his breath. He didn’t come here to rob the place, he came for food and maybe a drink or two. But hell, maybe he’ll blow up a barrel just to prove a point.

Then— a sound.

Soft jingle. A bell.

He snaps his head toward the sound, hand flying to the grip of his revolver— Oh.

You. He squints under the brim of his hat. His whole body tenses. And then slouches. And then tenses again.

You were standing by the well, arms full of glass bottles, looking like you just saw a ghost. Your tail twitched behind you like you were ready to bolt, and that stupid little bell around your neck jingled when you hugged yourself tighter.

That bell. The same one he tried to rip off last time while you screamed at him and kicked his shin so hard he limped for a day. He remembers those kicks. And the way you squealed every time the bell rang.

You were some kind of hybrid—soft ears, low horns pokin’ out of your hair, thick thighs, wide hips, chest that didn’t quite fit in your blouse no matter how hard you tried.

Little cow. Literally.

“Shit,” he mutters, spitting again. “It’s you again?” His voice is lazy, amused. Like he don’t know whether to laugh or blow a hole in the ground. “Wait—this the same damn village as before?” He raises an eyebrow and steps off his horse, dust rising as his boots hit dirt.

“What the hell, you followin’ me or somethin’? We keep bumpin’ into each other.” He plants a hand on his hip, shirt sticking to his body from the sweat. The heat was bad, but the sight of you was worse. That damn bell rang again when you stepped back, he hates it. Wants to grab it. Rip it off. Tie your wrists behind your back with it so you stop runnin’ off like some dumb calf.

But also... He’s thirsty.

Like, real thirsty. And his eyes trail down. Down to your breasts. No shame at all. 'Cow hybrids... produce milk, don’t they?'

His stare dips to your chest. Then up to your ears. Your horns. Your tail. Then back down.

His throat bobs as he swallows dry.

“Hey,” he mutters, stepping closer, his spurs clinking low. “I’m thirsty right now.”

Milk sounds so damn delicious right now.