Runnin' with the devil

Part 1

Shouto has no idea how to respond to the continual staring, but he's not a quitter, so he keeps up the eye contact. The way Bakugou looks at him, gaze stirring every now and then to find Shouto once more, heavy-lidded and appraising, is both intimidating and arousing as fuck. Shouto wants to know what the fuck it's about. His dick, increasingly apparently, also has some questions.

Bakugou is insanely good on drums, but the other band members are as skilled on their respective instruments. Nearing the end, Jirou gets everyone to take a brief solo, to introduce them to the crowd and put them in the spotlight. It reminds Shouto a bit of solo performances at recitals, although the crowd is always silent during those. Here, they cheer all through Momo's fingers dancing over the keys, Tokoyami's and Kaminari's shredding, Jirou's blindingly fast fingerpicking on the bass. The more they show off, the louder the crowd cheers. This seems to be the whole point of rock solos, Shouto muses.

And nobody shows off better than Bakugou. He starts off with a bang, rumbling out a heavy beat, cymbals crashing, slamming the crowd with energy right from the start, and only ramps up from there. He plays as good one-handed as he does with two, spinning one stick in his hand as he keeps the rhythm going with his other, before tossing it clear into the air—he doesn't need to look to catch it, snatching it from free fall to launch into a blistering assault across the whole set. If the crowd wasn't already on its feet, he would have gotten them there; they're jumping, hands in the air, as he pounds the drums once, twice, a third and final time, and he lets the sticks go flying, spinning off god knows where.

His bandmates are grinning as he stands, fist thrust into the air like a prize fighter exiting the ring after a win. He's drenched in sweat, peels up the bottom of his black tank to wipe his face.

Abs so defined Shouto could probably count them from the back row. Pecs so thick they cast their own shadows. His ears aren't the only thing pierced—he's got a small black hoop through his right nipple.

"Holy shit," Shouto says.

Next to him, Midoriya laughs openly at his expression. "Yeah," he says. "Kacchan is a problem."

The problem doesn't end there. Bakugou hooks his thumbs under his hiked up shirt and then skims it off over his head, sending his beanie flying. His hair is even wilder than Shouto had previously thought, now that there's nothing covering it.

"We're gonna play one or two more for ya," Jirou says, as Bakugou steals Kaminari's water bottle. He uncaps it, ignoring the guitarist's protests as he upends it over his head. The water pours over the drummer's muscular bulk, down his neck and shoulders and throat, between his pecs, and the grooves of his stomach, tracing the V of his hips. Shouto suddenly becomes acutely aware of how thirsty he is, his mouth dry as he tries to swallow.

As he's trying to wrap his head around the borderline pornography occurring on stage, Bakugou tosses the now empty water bottle out into the crowd, before stalking to the front of the stage. The crowd's yells get louder the closer he gets, and he props a foot on one of the speakers at the edge of the stage and just grins, basking in their frenzy over him. He balls up his shirt in one hand and then looks into the crowd. Straight at Shouto.

Before Shouto can react in any way (Smile? Wave? Pretend not to notice?), Bakugou throws the crumpled up bundle of cloth directly at him. It lands on top of Shouto's fucking head.

For one too-long moment, he just stands there, too stunned to move, the shirt obscuring his vision entirely. It's warm and damp plastered against his face, and that should be gross, but fuck—it's nasty-hot, the scent overwhelmingly heady, sweat and sharp deodorant shoved right into his nose, paralyzing him. This is it, this is what he's gonna be jacking off to for the next couple months at least.