Katsuki Bakugo

The world liked to brag about its progress, about how "inclusive" quirk society had become after its turbulent first century. Schools were built to nurture young heroes, laws were passed to regulate use, and a thousand smiling faces plastered across television screens sold the dream of acceptance... But it was a lie, and anyone paying attention could see it. Quirks that fit the mold - flames, strength, speed, flight -were welcomed, given capes and bright futures. Quirks that unsettled people, quirks that disrupted the illusion of normalcy, were branded as dangerous. "Unacceptable," they called them. Too predatory, too grotesque, too unsettling to be trusted among polite society. Those people weren't nurtured. They were pushed to the edges, beaten down, shoved into shadows until they broke.

You had one of those quirks. A vampiric body, a thirst that made people recoil, the ability to drain blood and vitality to survive. It didn't matter that you weren't violent, that you never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. It didn't matter that you learned control. The stigma stuck, and with it came fear. Fear turned to hate, hate turned to cruelty. People weren't above dragging someone like you into the street just to make an example. You were made into the monster they wanted you to be.

Bakugo knew all that shit, but he didn't care. He never cared what society had to say about anything, let alone people like you. To him, quirks were quirks. Strong ones, weak ones - who gave a damn? The only thing that mattered was how you lived with it. He wasn't one to waste time worrying about whether the world approved. ...And that's probably why he didn't immediately recognize what you were the night he found you.

It was freezing, a sharp edge of winter that clawed through the alleys, when he spotted you huddled in a corner behind a dumpster. A trash bag was pulled over your shoulders, rattling with every shiver. You were crouched low, clutching the limp body of a raccoon, your mouth red-stained as you tore into what scraps you could. The sight almost made him gag, but not because of you.. But because of how goddamn pathetic it was that society drove someone to this point. His jaw tightened, fury simmering beneath his skin, though his voice when it came was low and rough but not unkind.

"The hell happened to you?" He clicked his tongue, scoffing like he always did, but his crimson eyes softened just slightly as they swept over you. "Tch… shit's not right. You shouldn't be out here lookin' like that."

Before you could bolt, he was already shrugging out of his jacket, shoving it onto your shoulders with no room for argument. The heat from the fabric sank into your bones as he crouched, one strong arm sliding around you to hoist you up without hesitation. His chest was broad and steady against you as he carried you out of the alley. "Dumbass. Sittin' out here freezin' like some stray dog. Come on."

He set you into the passenger seat of his car, blasting the heat until the vents rattled. He didn't say much at first, just grunted, fingers drumming the steering wheel as his gaze kept flicking toward you. The silence dragged, heavy, until the sound of your stomach growling broke it clean in half. Bakugo's head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing before he groaned, dragging a palm down his face.

"God... fuck! I didn't even think-.. of course you're starving." He smacked the wheel once in irritation, though not at you. "Shit. Hang tight. I'll fix it."

He pulled into the nearest late-night place, came back with a greasy bag, and shoved it into your hands. "Eat and don't argue." But when you looked at it with thinly veiled disgust, he paused. Confusion flitted over his face before it hardened again. "What? Too salty? Fine. We'll try somethin' else." He drove off, found another spot, then another... different food, different smells, each time pushing the bag toward you with gruff insistence. And each time, you refused. By the third strike, his patience blew. He slumped back against the headrest, head tilted, an exasperated groan leaving his throat.

"Un-fuckin'-believable. I'm bustin' my ass tryin' to feed you and you don't wanna touch any of it?" His hands scrubbed through his hair, tugging at blond strands. 'What the hell am I missin' here…"

It was then, while he leaned back in the dim wash of streetlights, that his gaze caught the rearview mirror and he froze. Your seat was full, your shape was there. But your reflection wasn't.

For the first time that night, silence cut sharp through his anger. His crimson eyes widened, locked onto the empty space where you should've been. His lips parted, then pressed into a thin, hard line as the truth sank in. Slowly, his head turned toward you, and the look he gave wasn't disgust or not fear... not revulsion. It was sharp curiosity and something close to satisfaction. "…So that's the big secret," he muttered, voice low and gravelly. His mouth curled into a smirk, a bitter laugh slipping out. "Fuckin' knew somethin' was off. Shoulda put it together sooner." He let the quiet stretch, then leaned towards you, inspecting your face.

"They're really scared of you? You don't even look strong enough to stand on your own." He smirks, then tilts his head to the side, baring his neck for you to feed. "Society can go to hell." His grin widened, dangerous and certain. "Doesn't scare me. Not one fuckin' bit. Now go on, do the thing. Drink up."