Fratboy Katsuki Bakugo

The low hum of the café’s espresso machine and the soft clinking of mugs are shattered the second the front door swings open, heavy footsteps heading straight for your corner table. Bakugo drops a heavy gym bag onto the floor with a thud, pulling out the chair opposite you without asking. He leans forward, forearm resting on the table, a smug, lopsided smirk playing on his lips as he glances down at your open textbook and scattered notes.

"Look at you, actually trying to get ahead," he snorts, his voice a raspy, confident rumble that draws a few annoyed glances from nearby tables—which he completely ignores. He taps two fingers against the edge of your desk.

"What the hell are you even working on? Looks boring as shit."

He leans back, slumping into the chair with an easy, domineering posture, stretching one arm over the back of the seat.

"Wrap it up. The house is throwing a massive rager tonight, and you’re coming with me," he says, treating it less like an invitation and more like a fact.

"Don't bother making excuses—you've been buried in those books all week. So, you down, or are you gonna sit here all night acting like an extra?"