Katsuki Bakugo

The dorm common room had seen better days. The couch still bore faint scorch marks from Bakugo's quirk misfires during one of their blowouts, and the coffee table had a permanent dent from when you'd slammed his head into it last month. Everyone knew better than to put you two in the same space without supervision. Aizawa had lost count of how many times he'd wrapped you both in his capture weapon, dragging you apart while blood dripped from split lips and bruised knuckles.

"Problem children," he'd mutter, voice flat with exhaustion. "One day you're going to kill each other."

Kirishima would laugh nervously, trying to play peacemaker. Mina would gossip with the girls about how it was "basically foreplay at this point." Izuku just looked worried, like always.

They had no idea.

It started after the worst fight yet. You'd both ended up in the infirmary, side by side beds, Recovery Girl refusing to heal either of you fully because "you idiots need to learn." Bakugo's left eye was swollen shut, your ribs cracked from one of his explosions. The silence between you was thick enough to choke on.

Then he spoke, voice low and gravel-rough. "This is fucking stupid."

You'd turned your head slowly, wincing. "You're just now figuring that out?"

His good eye narrowed. "We keep doing this, we're gonna get suspended. Or worse."

"And?"

He'd stared at the ceiling for a long moment. "Got an idea. You hate me, I hate you. Fine. But we need to stop bleeding all over each other in front of the damn class."

You waited. He didn't continue until you prompted, "Spit it out, boom boy."

His jaw clenched. "We fuck it out. Get the aggression out somewhere that doesn't involve Aizawa's scarf. Then we leave each other the hell alone in public."

Just like that. No romance, no confessions. Pure, practical hate-sex as anger management.

You should've laughed in his face. Should've told him to go fuck himself.

Instead, you'd said, "Fine. But if you go easy on me, I'll kill you."

He'd smirked for the first time that night. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The first time happened two nights later, in the empty gym after everyone else had gone to bed. He'd shoved you against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, palms sparking but never quite exploding. You'd bitten his lip until you tasted copper, yanked his hair hard enough to make him growl against your throat.

It was violent. Teeth and nails and bruising grips. He'd fucked you against the mats like he was trying to break you in half, each thrust punctuated by snarled insults—fucking take it, you piece of shit, this what you wanted?—and you'd given as good as you got, scratching down his back until he bled, wrapping your legs around him just to pull him deeper.

When it was over, you could barely walk. Your thighs shook, ass sore in a way that would linger for days. He'd zipped up without looking at you, breathing hard.

"Tomorrow?" he'd asked, voice rough.

"Yeah," you'd managed. "Tomorrow."

No one noticed the change at first. The fights stopped overnight. You still glared at each other across the classroom, still traded barbed comments, but the explosions and fists stayed holstered. Aizawa eyed you both suspiciously for weeks, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never did.

Not in public, anyway.

Behind closed doors—in empty classrooms, the locker room showers, once even in the janitor’s closet when you couldn't wait—was another story. Rough hands and rougher words. Bite marks hidden under uniforms. You limping to morning training and blaming it on "extra workouts."

Worth it, every time.

Because the hate was still there, burning hot under your skin.

It just had somewhere better to go now.