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“Fuck, it’s cold.”
Midoriya rubs his own hands together vigorously as he casts Bakugou a sympathetic glance. They’re huddled close together on a well-used couch, buried deep beneath at least half a dozen blankets. The flickering TV casts dancing shadows across their sullen faces, noses slightly red with chill. Midoriya’s head is pressed comfortably into the crook of Bakugou’s neck and shoulder, curly hair tickling his chin. A clock ticks incrementally in the background as they sit together, limbs interlaced idly under the comfort of the layered duvets.
Bakugou’s body is always a raging furnace — Midoriya hypothesizes that it’s a side effect of his explosive quirk. Even though he’s red hot to the touch, Midoriya is not blind to how Bakugou still shivers. With a sigh, he breathes lengthily into the quiet of the icy evening, breath spiraling into a crystalline cloud as he turns his face to press against Bakugou’s skin. The warmth of soft lips is pleasant against Bakugou’s throat.
“Need another blanket, Kacchan?”
“I need — ” he shivers, teeth chattering. “I need the fuckin’ sun to stop being a little bitch.”
Midoriya seems to consider this, tilting his chin. “I don’t think even I could drag it out for you. Don’t you think a blanket would be the next best thing?”
Bakugou raises a shoulder, drops it. “Sure,” he grumbles, and pretends not to mind when Midoriya shifts away. He watches Midoriya’s freckled face, slightly ruddy with cold, as he rummages around the living room for yet another spare blanket. Bakugou’s gaze drops to briefly admire the tight curve of Midoriya’s ass in his sweats, but jerks his head away furtively when Midoriya casts an amused glance over his shoulder. He swears that this freckled asshole has to possess the sixth sense as a second quirk or some shit.
Disinterestedly, his eyes flick to the rumble of the television. A girl with a wide smile gestures animatedly at a large graph, apparently showing steep correlation between the drop in temperature and freeze in crime. Bakugou snorts, closing his eyes. He didn’t need a meteorologist to tell him that not even villains wanted to brave the biggest bad of them all — hypothermia.
“I’m turning this shit off,” Bakugou announces gruffly, groping about blindly for the remote. Midoriya gives a distracted nod of approval long after Bakugou hits the power button, still searching. The apartment is immediately engulfed in a delicate quiet.
Bakugou takes a deep breath, exhaling noisily. The silence between them is comfortable, sans the chill, but Bakugou is all too aware that Midoriya is incapable of not speaking for very long.
“This snowfall sure is something,” he says conversationally, beaming as he finally procures a cozy duvet from a shelf. Bakugou grimaces as it’s unfolded, giving him an eyeful of its bold print — an illustration of himself amidst explosions. Even as the preeminent pro hero, Midoriya is still the same eager, muttering fanboyish nerd he’s always been. There are dozens of pieces of Ground Zero merch that litter this apartment, and by now Bakugou is long numb to the utter embarrassment of it. “The whole city is snowed in.”
“It’s bullshit,” Bakugou spits, throwing up his hands. “Fucking stuck in this tiny ass apartment with your shitty heater. I can’t blow off any steam from this goddamn travesty of a week, because there aren’t any villains dumb enough to be causing havoc in subzero weather. Fuck this shitty ass snow.”
Midoriya sets the blanket over him, smoothing out the folds with his fingers. His big eyes are soft with an irrevocable fondness. “It’s not that bad,” Midoriya protests, burrowing back under the bundle of blankets. He pointedly snuggles into the heat of Bakugou’s side again. “You’re always warm.”
Bakugou makes a familiarly indignant, strangled sound. Midoriya can’t see his face from this angle, but he’s positive that Bakugous ears are a furious red. “I don’t feel warm,” he seethes. “You goddamn leech.” His arm, antithetical to his words, curls Midoriya closer under the covers.
Midoriya hums drowsily, the heat of Bakugou’s body seeping into his bones, but otherwise does not reply. They lay in quiet for an inconsequential amount of time, scarred fingertips laving soft strokes on Bakugou’s abdomen through the cotton.
A sudden press of chilly lips to the corner of Bakugou’s mouth prompts an immediate avalanche of half-composed threats and swears that all spill out nonsensically. “What the fuck are you doing,” he eventually grits, and Midoriya laughs.
“Warming you up,” he replies easily. His fingers slip past the hem of Bakugou’s shirt, rucking up the cloth as he teasingly skims Bakugou's stomach. Another kiss, pressed to the junction of his jaw. “You’re still cold, right?”
“Pervert,” Bakugou says immediately, mouth curling cruelly. His distasteful expression is a thin veneer for how his gaze pierces Midoriya through — with the ravenous greed of a starving man. “You just wanted an excuse to touch me, nerd.”
Midoriya looks a pinch flustered, but he still flashes a painfully attractive, cocksure smile. “That makes two of us,” he teases, his hand dropping to Bakugou’s fingers cinched around his waist. Bakugou inhales sharply as Midoriya fluidly moves into his lap, sturdy thighs straddling him. Hero work has made him stupid strong, his whole body thick with plush muscle. Bakugou hates that strength, loathes how it so easily churns the scorching desire he’s strived a good deal of his life to bury. “Or am I wrong?”
“You're wrong,” he fires back, even as his body arches traitorously under warm, rough hands. Midoriya is an unquenchable flame, every touch of skin burning a deep brand into Bakugou’s flesh. His presence is maddening, his existence flickering sparks intrusively under Bakugou's skin, but he's is long since past resisting the invariable pull that binds them. “It’s just your nerdy ass projecting, as usual.”
“Mmm. In that case,” Midoriya says, brushing soft lips across the milky column of his throat. A hint of teeth skims over the curve of his Adam’s apple. Bakugou bites hard at his lip, smothers a soft moan. “Indulge me.”
Fuck.
Bakugou is pliant. He always is when Midoriya gets like this, allowing Midoriya to touch and tease at his leisure. Bakugou shudders as a blazing path of bruising kisses is sucked into his skin. Huffs hotly as blunt nails scratch up and down his sides. Heat pools in Bakugou’s stomach, molten want coursing through his veins. This languid, childish teasing isn’t nearly enough to satiate him. Gossamer kisses pepper across the length of Bakugou’s face, carefully avoiding the swell of his lips. Bakugou tilts his head up, fruitlessly attempts to catch Midoriya’s elusive mouth. It pisses him off.
“What sort of weakass shit is this,” Bakugou snaps, fingers digging into the dip of Midoriya’s waist. He drags his libidinous gaze away from Midoriya’s lips, up to his soulful eyes. “You call this touching?”
Midoriya pins him with a singularly infuriating expression, lips quirked with some inane postulate. Bakugou reflexively steels himself, ready to be pissed at whatever dumb shit Deku’s undoubtedly about to say.
“Kacchan,” he murmurs suppliantly, “if you want to kiss me, you should just ask.”
“Fuck you,” Bakugou bites, but groans bodily as Midoriya presses a hard kiss to his open mouth. It’s a sweltering meld of teeth and tongue, hands curling deep-set wrinkles into obstructing cloth. Everything is so warm. Bakugou feels like he’s melting under Midoriya’s fingers, his brain unhelpfully supplying him with sappy sentiments he won’t dare breathe into existence. They swirl inside him, thick in his throat and heavy in his chest. Maddening.
“Deku,” he demands instead. Those strong thighs shift expectantly on his lap, and he swallows back a deep moan. “Kiss harder, you fucker. I’m falling asleep.”
Mangled hands insistently cradle his face. There’s a pause as Midoriya simply regards him, deep endearment fluttering his pulse. As if he holds all of the worth of the world between his strong, scarred fingers. Slowly, deliberately, he moves towards Bakugou’s expectantly parted lips until he’s barely brushing them with his own. Red eyes flutter open, aglow with a baleful light. “You’re so spoiled,” Midoriya whispers against his lips. “It’s cute.”
Bakugou jerks away from his mouth, snarling. “Do you wanna die, bastard?” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, fabricated to mask the alarming swell of arousal those playful words evoke. He’s not spoiled. He’s the one indulging Deku, not the other way around.
“Can I kiss you again first?”
The blush is a contagion — it erupts vividly at the tips of his ears, diffusing into his cheeks and dusting the tip of his nose. “Gross,” Bakugou grumbles, shifting under Midoriya’s weight. He doesn’t quite look at Midoriya as he says it. “Fuck off with your goddamn cheesy bullshit.”
“Sorry,” he lies. He dips his head to capture Bakugou’s mouth again, wet and heady. Fingers skirt further up his shirt, languidly feeling up the swell of his pecs. Midoriya strokes Bakugou’s peaking nipples between teasing fingers, eking out a sharp moan of pleasure from his stubborn mouth. Bakugou lasers him with an acrimonious glare, warring between furious and flustered, but Midoriya only smiles.
“Are you warm yet?” Midoriya asks in a hush. Palms slide smoothly up his trapezius, threading gently through unruly blond locks. His eyes are sharp, a fresh blade of grass stark amidst the dreary evening. Bakugou wants to kiss him senseless, hold him close like this endlessly. Stupid, saccharine shit drips in his brain, affection gooey in his throbbing heart. Impossible to convey, verbiage worthless in his foul mouth.
“As if,” he sneers. His mouth is contrarian, swallowing soft supplications in favor of waspish demands. Even after years of watching the world’s greatest hero’s countless near-misses with bated breath, Bakugou still plays coy. As if Midoriya is still blind to how he yearns. Midoriya hums melodically, scarred thumbs brushing soft along sharp cheekbones. Unaffected. “Try harder, Deku.”
“For you?” Midoriya says, his voice a worshipful thrum that reverberates through Bakugou’s tightening chest. “Always.”
This time, Bakugou is the one who pulls their mouths together, fingers unyielding as they curl hungrily around the back of Midoriya’s flushed neck. The blankets have long since slipped into a discarded heap on the carpet, forgotten in the wake of heated kisses.
It’s not that cold, after all.