some barbarian bakugou thing idk | sfw | gn reader | 1.3k words
It's cold.
The fire crackles at your back, sending warm licks of heat up and over your spine, but it's not enough. You shiver, trying to settle deeper into the hard ground, drawing your cloak up over your nose where it's beginning to grow cold.
Normally, you'd be snuggled deep in your bedroll by now, but you'd stupidly tied it too insecurely to your pack this morning. It had come loose just as your group had forded the river on Kirishima's back, the redhead wearily but gamely shifting into his dragon form to get you safely across the rushing water.
As he plodded across, splashing loudly, your bedroll had tumbled into the icy water, and you'd watched mournfully as it had been immediately dragged under and carried downriver.
It was another day from the nearest town, another day before you could replace it.
When you settled into camp, Midoriya had chivalrously offered his own bedroll—which you had declined, as the loss of yours had been your own fault—and Uraraka had offered a warming spell—but you could see the exhaustion around her eyes and mouth since the battle yesterday, and she still looked pale and peaky. You thought another spell might finish her off for good.
But now you almost wish you'd taken either of them up on it, their discomfort be damned.
Almost.
Suffering the consequences of your own mess was the least you could do for them, really. You owe them everything for saving your life time and time again, starting when they'd first happened upon your village under a bandit raid, you the only survivor.
You've tried your hardest to repay them, stitching up wounds and mending torn clothes, taking over the cooking and fire tending whenever you make camp. Once you'd even talked a merchant down from chopping off Kiri's hand when he'd gotten a little too me dragon, must hoard over a ruby necklace at market.
You won't put everyone out over something as stupid as a lost bedroll, not when you owe them more than you could possibly ever give.
A cool wind whispers through the trees, and you can't suppress another violent shiver. You inch loser to the fire, barely caring if the sparks catch on your clothes and light you up in the night if it means you can be warm now.
You roll onto your side, facing the flames, and shudder again when the cold creeps under your cloak at the movement.
The heat feels good on your face, dry and blistering. But your back is suddenly freezing, and you fight down a groan of frustration.
You'll never get to sleep at this rate.
As soon as this thought occurs, there's the barest whisper of a bootstep behind you. Before you can turn, a hand claps over your mouth, and a hard body slides up against your back, an arm hooking decisively around your middle to pull you back against your assailant. The scent of ash and the sweet, floral oil he uses on his leathers gives away his identity immediately.
"Don't fuckin' scream it's just me," Bakugou growls low in your ear.
You blink dumbly, mouth pursing against his rough palm. "Fwuuh?" you say.
Bakugou Katsuki is notoriously standoffish, the member of your party you'd learned the least about in your weeks with them. A barbarian from the steppes, he's got little time or patience for your people's mannerisms. He seems to like very few things—his dragon Kirishima, his broadsword Hearteater, and the opportunity for a good fight being the exceptions—and you seem to be one of the things he tolerates the least.
He'd been the one who'd run his sword right through the bandit about to kill you, but since then he's acted like it was a mistake. He barely looks at you when you clean his wounds, he never accepts any of your rations when you offer them, and he's recently taken to combat training you, maintaining a harsh commentary on all of your best efforts.
It's a shame he's also so handsome and charismatic, as it makes it difficult for you to discount him entirely.
"Could hear your fucking teeth chattering from the other side of the campsite," Bakugou growls, his hand lifting off your mouth. Something heavy settles over you, and you realize he's arranging his cloak over you both, the fur trim tickling your nose. It's heavy and velvety and soft, and so nice and warm.
You know you need to protest but the heat of him at your back is so deliciously good, you want to relax into him like a warm bath.
"Bakugou—what is this?" you splutter out quietly.
"What, you wanna freeze your ass off?" he demands, his words a harsh breath into your ear. His arm shifts over you, pulling you tighter as if daring you to attempt to escape.
"No," you say, trying to scrape your thoughts in order. "No. But you—is this okay for you?"
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Bakugou growls into the side of your head.
"Well you don't exactly like me," you tell him, too exhausted to be circumspect about it. You know he doesn't like it when you talk around things either. "I didn't think you were cuddling type, exactly."
Bakugou huffs a dismissive laugh into your hair. "You always fucking decide shit on your own," he mutters. "You decide you owe us shit, you decide what's best for Deku and Uraraka to do with their magic and shit, you decide you think you fucking know everything. 'S fucking annoying."
You start, not realizing he'd cottoned on to your thinking process.
"Well I've also decided that you don't much like me," you say. "And I...I do owe you guys. You've saved my life countless times these past couple of weeks."
Bakugou makes a snorting noise behind you. "You fucking village people always think that's how the world works. Owing. A favor for a favor. Trading and bartering and stupid shit. That's not how it works out here, brat. There's no equal exchange. You stay alive if you're strong enough, or if someone likes you enough to keep you alive, and that's it."
His voice is even raspier than usual, you notice. He's tired. You can hear the impatience in the clipped sound of his words, and you know his exhaustion is why you're even getting this much out of him.
You're tired, too, the heat of the fire at your front and Bakugou's hard body at your back both lulling you into a lightheaded sleepiness.
"And you like me enough to keep me alive?" You can't help but ask dubiously.
"I like you well enough even though you're fucking annoying," Bakugou says, his breath stirring the hair at the base of your neck. "But I won't if you keep fuckin' talking."
You can't help but smile at that, a little tired grin touching your mouth.
"It'll be another thing I owe you for," you say, settling back into him at last. You know you will have other thoughts about this in the morning, but for now you can't help yourself. If he's fine with it then there's not much to protest.
"Y' can repay me by shutting the fuck up," he says, before he lets out a heavy exhale, as if he too is being lured into sleep by the warmth of your own body.
You decide to leave your questions about this for the morning. It's too much to contemplate what this means for your relationship to Bakugou. Too much to contemplate that he wants, for some reason, to keep you alive.
His hand presses to your abdomen, securing you even more firmly against him, and you close your eyes again. His breathing evens out, his grip growing slack, and you can feel your own body mirroring him.
Too easily, and without another thought on the debts you're accumulating to him, you slip down into sleep.
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