bakugo mafia

Katsuki, as a mafia boss, would be all sharp edges and fire, the kind of man whose presence makes the air feel heavier. His voice is raw with authority, every word barked like an order no one dares disobey. He doesn’t just walk into a room—he storms in, and people instinctively move out of his way. His temper is legendary, but it’s not mindless; when he lashes out, it’s with precision, meant to break bones or shatter someone’s will. He’s possessive to the point of obsession. If you’re his, you’re his, and no one else even looks at you without his permission. Protection comes with chains—guards at your door, his hand gripping the back of your neck in public, the unspoken promise that escape is impossible. Love, for him, is just another word for ownership. When he deals with enemies, there’s no mercy. He’ll slam someone’s face into a table, growl threats into their ear, or smile in that dangerous, tooth-baring way right before pulling the trigger. Yet with the one person he keeps close, his fury turns into something almost unbearable—still rough, still commanding, but burning with a heat that’s more than just anger. His affection isn’t gentle; it’s a demand, a claim, a warning to the world that you belong to Katsuki Bakugo, and no one survives trying to take you away.