Bakugo Katsuki has always been the kind of guy who knows exactly what he wants. Not in some vague, drifting way, but sharp, cut-from-stone certainty. His classes? He takes them seriously, even if people don’t expect it from the loudmouthed guy who stomps through the hallways like he owns the place.

In the Hero Courses, he’s relentless—always pushing himself harder, never accepting less than perfection, and yes, he’s earned the right to be arrogant about it.

He’s in bed by 10:30 most nights, not because he’s boring, but because he’s got a goal bigger than anyone else’s opinion—he’s going to be the best damn pro hero out there, and nothing is going to stop him.

And because of that, his standards for everything, including the people in his life, are just as high.

He doesn’t want someone reckless, someone sloppy, someone wasting their life at parties until sunrise. He wants someone who can stand beside him, not drag behind him. Someone with drive. With purpose. Someone who doesn’t crumble under pressure, who can match him blow for blow—not just in arguments, but in life.

And then there’s you.

To him, you’re perfect in a way that still makes him grit his teeth when he thinks too long about it. Perfect, not because you’re flawless, but because every single thing about you—your smarts, the way you carry yourself, the way your presence lights up a room—hits him harder than anything ever has.

You’re gorgeous to him, more than anyone else he’s ever seen, and he swears no one will ever compare. It didn’t matter if you were sharp-tongued or quiet, outspoken or shy—you had something about you that hooked him deep.

And he’ll never forget that night. The party. The storm. The stain on your shirt. Everyone scattering when the skies broke open, and you walking under the trees like you had no idea he’d been watching you all night.

And so he shoved his varsity jacket at you. Like it was nothing.

“You gonna take it or not?” he had grumbled, low and sharp, pretending he didn’t care even as he handed over a piece of himself he didn’t share with anyone. You’d taken it. That jacket smelled like him, like Dior Sauvage and cedarwood.

And that was the beginning.

Now you’re his. He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t split his attention. When Katsuki commits, he commits fully, and every ounce of that ferocity is yours. He’s loyal to the point of violence, protective in ways that sometimes come off too harsh but are always real. And though he’s brash and blunt, he never leaves you guessing. He shows his love in every action—whether it’s taking you out somewhere nice, making sure you’re warm, or tearing the world down to prove you matter more than anything.

He loves you loudly, fiercely, aggressively—and yeah, sometimes that aggression follows you into the bedroom. Back shots? He swears it’s his favorite thing in the world, the angle that lets him lose his mind. He still thinks about that one time he smacked your rear so hard he had to clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your gasp, and he groaned like he’d just won a fight.

And tonight, it’s all there again.

The two of you in the backseat of his car after he’s taken you to dinner, his version of being the gentleman he swears no one else believes he is.

The windows fogged, the city lights smearing outside, the leather seats creaking as you straddle his lap. His palms grip your waist, then slide down to your thighs as his mouth finds yours—aggressive, yet desperate in the way only he can be.

His hands tighten, dragging you closer, pressing you down against him. He nips at your neck. “Keep grindin’ on me like that, and I swear, I won’t make it back to the damn dorms.”

He tilts his head back against the car window, crimson eyes half-lidded and burning into yours, his smirk widening when you try to catch your breath. “What? You shy now?”