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Stone Cold Sober

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Sometimes Bakugou really hates his friends.

Like now, with a brush tickling his earlobe in repeated strokes, making his nose twitch in indignation as he’s sandwiched between an amp and a drum set in Kaminari’s basement. The smell of weed and cheap incense smothers him and he hates how the shag rug assaults his bare toes, but they don’t have much of a choice in their band practice location. As it is, this is a prime spot if only for the fact that Kaminari, Kirishima and Sero rent out from their only neighbor— an ancient old man who’s incredibly hard of hearing and lets them get away with much more than they should. So they deal with the more lackluster qualities of this musty time machine to the ‘70s, because noise complaints have chased them out of three other places, and this is their best bet.

And— why are they even here right now? The band isn’t meeting until tonight, they could’ve done this anywhere, why here and not somewhere that isn’t populated by mold and dust motes, isn’t it enough that he has to suffer down here every band practice—

“Mood lighting,” is Ashido’s only answer from between his legs. His body’s rigidity and the feather-soft dusting of tiny bristles makes for an uncomfortable position.

Bakugou tilts back in the hard folding chair to look at her, scrutinizing. “That is such bullshit.”

“What? It’s a good photo op down here.”

“Yeah, good if you think rotted wood paneling is an aesthetic. The smell is going to my head.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Kaminari rolls his eyes lined with the sharpest wings Bakugou’s ever seen. Pinky did a good job, he must admit. But he won’t, because getting any semblance of validation from Bakugou Katsuki is like pulling teeth. Instead he’ll usually say something like, “Looks like shit” even if he doesn’t mean it. Decoding his caustic words is an art in itself, and the people closest to him know that his biting remarks of dumbass and shithead are only out of love— or whatever piping hot emotion courses through that rude bastard’s veins.

“Fucking sue me for not wanting to die of asphyxiation down here,” Bakugou shoots back, “I get enough of this place as it is without signing up to be a model as well.”

“Who knows, maybe you’ll make a new career out of it,” Kaminari grins, fiddling with the black choker around his neck as he waits for Ashido to get back to work on the canvas he’s allotted himself as today.

“Not fucking likely. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”

At this, Ashido actually scoffs. “Yeah, goodness. More like I bribed you with pizza and that one vinyl you wanted so much.”

“It was the only Beastie Boys album I didn’t have,” Bakugou justifies, “Are you saying I’m not a good person?”

“If the shoe fits,” is Ashido’s answer, followed by Kaminari’s own hesitancy in adding, “I mean…your moral character is definitely questionable, dude.”

The two of them burst into laughter, ringing over the background noise of whatever pop music Ashido put on to fill the silence of her artful, diligent work on their faces. Bakugou frowns. “Fuck you guys.”

“Don’t do that, you’ll crease it,” Ashido watches his expression, referring to the foundation she’d just painted onto him, “It hasn’t set yet.”

“Jesus Christ, how much longer is this going to take.”

“Patience is a virtue, Bakuboy,” Ashido chides, then moves back to observe her work, eyes flickering back and forth. “God, I’d kill for your cheekbones.”

“I know, right,” Kaminari leans in his chair, admiring the sight next to him. “It’s unfair.”

“Okay, hold still,” Ashido says, but she honestly doesn’t give him much of a choice when she grabs him forcefully by the chin and brandishes a brand new tube of red lipstick.

“Ugh, not this shit again.”

“I said, hold still.”

He listens, though not without illustrating his displeasure through a huff, giving an empty glare to the set list from their last show pinned to the wall directly across from him.

He’s worn this same shade before, the red that matches his eyes and makes him look even more devilish than he already is by default. Ashido’s wistful suggestion that she should recruit Todoroki next time, because “a face like that is too pretty not to wear makeup” only emboldens the memory.

“Gorgeous,” she grins as she finishes.

Bakugou already knows. “Fuck yeah I am.”

Ashido gets up from her spot on the floor, groaning as her legs straighten out from the bent position they’ve been in for the past…however long it’s been, too long for Bakugou, and certainly too long to be trapped down here in this gross, old basement when they’re not even obligated to.

“Mood lighting, my ass,” he grumbles as Ashido answers a phone call that punctuates the quiet. He glances over to Kaminari, whose face is supposedly unfinished, but Bakugou can’t tell what still needs to be done— His skin is dewy, flawless, rosy pink dusting his cheeks, indecipherable between a natural reaction or the countless products colored there. Navy eyeliner cuts through the gold of his irises, so striking that Bakugou can’t stop staring. He’s art, sitting there with his cherry red electric guitar in his lap, tuning it in a daze until he does a double take at Bakugou.

“What?”

Bakugou turns away. “Nothing.”

“Ugh,” Ashido stops pacing, pushing her pink curls out of her face as she pockets her phone. “I need to run to school real quick, because someone accidentally gave Ochako a pixie cut when she wanted— You know what, it doesn’t matter. I gotta go. But I’ll be back soon, I promise!”

Kaminari sits up, taken aback. “What, seriously? How long?”

“I don’t know, an hour, maybe?”

“Are you kidding me? What are we supposed to do for an hour with all this shit on?” Bakugou gestures to his face. “Just sit here and wait for you? Huh?”

“It’s not shit, it’s Anastasia Beverly Hills, and I dunno…jack each other off for all I care.” She waves a disregarding hand at them as she swings her purse over her shoulder, and Bakugou actually chokes on thin air at the suggestion. “Just don’t ruin your faces. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

Their half-hearted protests fall on deaf ears as she dashes up the creaky stairs and slams the door behind her. Bakugou sighs, aiming to run a frustrated hand over his face until he remembers her last words of warning. He scowls instead, arm falling limply as he eyes her forgotten makeup kit with malice.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

Bakugou raises a brow in annoyance. “What.”

He just grins that stupid Kaminari grin, lightning ripe like it carries an inside joke Bakugou isn’t a part of. “Jacking each other off.”

It’s impossible to know if he’s serious or not. Bakugou doesn’t entertain the idea either way. “Pervert.”

The song playing in the background is one Kaminari knows, apparently, because he starts singing different notes of the beat under his breath, chuckling as he brings his focus back to the guitar in his lap. Bakugou stands, grimacing at one particular puke stain on the rug that they could never quite get out. The lingering feel of eyes on him follows the movements of his stretch, arms pulled up and overhead as he cracks his neck. It’s an awareness that that weighs heavy on his back as he plops down on the broken-in couch at the foot of the stairs. Kaminari’s always like that, too brazenly curious in a way that contrasts Bakugou’s own aggressive eagerness— it’s all wide eyes and childlike wonder, the first crack of a thunderstorm. Half the time, Bakugou wants to take advantage of it, see how far he’ll bend before he breaks. Mostly, though, it is precisely that certain sense of genuine innocence that grabs Bakugou by the heartstrings and leaves him grudgingly tender in Kaminari’s palms. If anyone’s golden, it’s him. There is something unmistakably endearing about that.

Bakugou doesn’t know how to react to this, of course. Everything becomes lost in translation, conflated with threats that invoke a challenge. As he sits, relaxing into the worn-in cushions, he toys with the Polaroid camera Ashido had left there, turning it over in calloused hands. Why the hell she decided to use this piece of junk in lieu of, he doesn’t know, an actual modern day camera or even just her phone, is beside him. Although maybe he does understand now what sort of vibe she’s going for between the look of them and this shitty basement littered with instruments and old posters falling off the walls. She’s always had an eye for that sort of thing. And sitting here with a zoned out gaze boring through him, there comes the realization that Kaminari’s always had an eye for Bakugou.

He squints, peering through the viewfinder of the camera. A tiny Kaminari blinks at him, cocking his head as he plucks idly at guitar strings, trying to figure out the chord progression of the song. Bakugou has his finger on the shutter button, ready to snap a photo at will, when Kaminari stops him, wondering one of his many naive musings out loud.

“Y’know, you’ve never kissed me while sober.”

Here they go again. His mind drifts too much for his own good.

Bakugou hums softly, the sound of which is covered up by a sugar-sweet chorus crooning out of the speakers and warming the space between them. He sets the camera down in its original spot and matches Kaminari’s stare, trying to decipher the meaning behind it. Has this realization just occurred to him, or has it been plaguing him for some time? “Who’s counting?”

“I’m just saying,” Kaminari clarifies, “seems like Jack or gin is always the motivator behind you in my lap.”

“That’s a two way street, goldie. I seem to recall you being the one in my lap last time.”

“I don’t even remember last time,” Kaminari shakes his head as if trying to make the blacked out memory materialize. It won’t; the shithead drank way too many oolong highballs way too fast that night. Bakugou wasn’t much better, but somehow he did manage to piggyback Kaminari all the way up a flight of stairs to his bedroom. What ensued then was incredibly messy. His sheets never forgave him. “Which brings me back to my initial point—”

Bakugou cuts him off wordlessly, and Kaminari almost knows what’ll happen then. The abruptness of his stride over to Kaminari’s seat next to the keyboard shuts him up completely, but the shine of intrigue only heightens in his face, that of a young god. Bakugou leans forward, inspecting him, initiating this game of bend and break.

“You want me to stare all deeply into your eyes and shit, sober as a nun, so you can feel better about yourself, is that it? Want me to make your heart skip a beat or some flowery shit?” Bakugou reads him, or at least he thinks he does. “What, you think I’m faking?”

It takes a moment for Kaminari to answer. It doesn’t matter what comes out of his mouth, his expression says everything he can’t bring himself to.

“No,” he decides softly, “Just wanna see the real you.”

Bakugou bares his teeth, untamed. “This is the real me, baby.”

It’s especially quiet when the current song ends and transitions into the next one on Ashido’s playlist, kickstarting a bassline to die for. Bakugou is much too close, painted lips expelling a hot breath against Kaminari’s skin. His eyelashes, coated beautifully with mascara to match the liner, flutter ever so slightly as he visibly wars with his want and the directions he aims to follow. He’s always been easy to gauge. Bakugou loves it, knowing that he has this effect on him, and he has to wonder whether he is truly sober when he could get high off of Kaminari’s weak-kneed reactions alone.

But he turns at the last second, just missing the mark. “Ah…we shouldn’t mess it up. Our…faces, I mean.” Out of a tick of nervousness or an attempt to right the sudden awkwardness, he straightens himself out and white-knuckles his grip on the guitar, reaching over to its stand to set it back down. “At least not until the pictures.”

Bakugou growls something incomprehensible under his breath, annoyed with Ashido’s instructions, annoyed that she’d even roped the two of them into aiding her in this project at all, annoyed that he can’t make this worth his while. Stomping over to the couch, he retrieves the Polaroid camera once more, as if to prove his point.

“She wants pictures? Here’s her fucking picture.” In one fluid motion he then turns it on himself, holding up a very polite middle finger just to get the message across. Kaminari stifles a laugh and the flash momentarily blinds Bakugou. He snatches the photo as it’s printed out, holding it gingerly between his fingers like a lit cigarette and waving it in Kaminari’s face so that it creates a tiny draft of wind that blows his vibrant bangs back.

“Thought you wanted a sober chance to kiss me.”

Kaminari doesn’t have a coherent answer for this, and maybe he didn’t expect Bakugou to take him so seriously when he’d said it in passing in the first place. Really, he should know better by now— nothing gets past the keen eye of Bakugou Katsuki.

“Well, I was just…” It’s funny; Kaminari is one of the most well-spoken bastards he knows, endlessly, admirably influenced by 20th century poetry and the philosophical greats, but now, staring up at Bakugou, raking over his made-up face, he falters completely. “I dunno.”

Tch,” is Bakugou’s only response, reaching up with his free hand to play with the shiny metal bridge piercing between Kaminari’s eyes. He wiggles it, and Kaminari’s nose scrunches up at the sudden oddity. It’s cute. Bakugou could tell him that, but instead, he says, “Fuckin’ weird.”

His drum set calls to him after this anticlimax, boredom already sinking in. Kaminari turns in his chair, inquisitive gaze never leaving the movement of deft hands spinning drumsticks, and yeah, maybe Bakugou does show off just a little bit because he not-so-secretly loves being watched, especially when he’s in his element behind his kit.

It’s an act of violence just as much as it is one of awestruck wonder. He’s a menace with his foot on the pedal, unforgiving in his blows against the toms, knowing just when to let the snare sing. It rivets Kaminari, the way he syncs himself up with the rhythm so intrinsically, like his heart is already thumping in time and he just has to take his place there to settle the score of a battle only he understands. It sounds like warfare and looks like a miracle, something so mind-numbingly passionate that anyone who watches him can’t help but fall in love.

Kaminari’s legs straddle the back of his chair as he rests his head in his hand, watchful interest nothing short of yearning. He seems to remember Ashido’s instructions then, because he jolts up and makes sure nothing has rubbed off. False alarm, his face is still intact— and when he meets Bakugou’s drumming form again, the white-hot explosion of a man is already looking his way. Red lips fall slack in concentration, smoky eyes sharp and true. Kaminari sighs.

“You’re really pretty, Kacchan.”

The pause in his craft is only apparent through a quick fumble at the cymbals, and that just seems to piss him off more. “Shut up.”

It’s not “Be quiet”, but more like “I don’t know how to take compliments and your stupid genuinity just made me mess up, dipshit.”

“No, I mean it,” Kaminari says, “You look really nice like this.”

This time, Bakugou doesn’t quaver, speaking over the volume of the thrumming. He grins wickedly. “Take a picture, then.”

Kaminari mulls it over and decides to indulge him. He always does; he always will. Frowning at the camera, he finds the shutter button and captures Bakugou mid-crash, the tinny shrill of the cymbal echoing in his ears. The photo slides out and Bakugou sets his drumsticks down, chest heaving with the exertion of playing for even just a few minutes. It’s his preferred workout, the most coveted adrenaline rush.

“Real enough for you?”

Kaminari waves the photo in his hand, willing the ink to bleed through. “We’ll find out in about thirty seconds.”

Bakugou examines the now fully-colored photo of himself giving the finger, huffing in amusement. An idea comes to mind, and suddenly his shirt is on the floor, disregarded in an instant. Kaminari’s attempt to speed up the darkroom process halts as he watches Bakugou seat himself on the couch once more, this time lounging in a somewhat provocative position, propped up on one elbow.

“How ‘bout now?” Bakugou gives him a heavy-lidded look, knowing exactly what he’s doing. His head reclines back, slow and methodical as the sharp angle of his jaw juts out to seal the deal— as if Kaminari needs any more convincing. “Take a picture.”

Kaminari gulps. “Mina’s gonna kill us for using up all her film.”

“So let her.”

When Kaminari doesn’t move, too preoccupied with ogling instead of preserving this moment in time, Bakugou kicks it up a notch by turning onto his back and unbuttoning his jeans. He revels in the look on Kaminari’s face as he lifts his hips up, edging the denim down to reveal boxer briefs with flames on them. In any other situation, Kaminari might laugh at the absurdity of it. But right now Bakugou can tell he’s having an internal crisis, worries wearing down his willpower, begging the questions: What if Mina comes back? Or Kirishima or Sero? What if—? “You gonna take it or not?”

With a reluctant click of the shutter, he does. When he brings the camera down from eye level, Bakugou leers at him in a way that can only be described as hungry.

“Your turn,” he declares with a certain nonchalance that belies his near-nakedness, feigning innocence toward the fact that he just made a show of removing most of his clothes. Shame is not a word that exists in Bakugou’s vocabulary.

“Huh…me?”

“No, the ghost of Kurt Cobain,” Bakugou gives a sarcastic nod to the Nirvana poster just over Kaminari’s shoulder. If he recalls correctly, it’s covering a hole in the wall from Kirishima’s first and only attempt at bass when he accidentally stuck the neck of the instrument through the fragile plywood. “Who else would I be talking to, dumbass. Take your shirt off.”

Kaminari’s attentive fixation on Bakugou’s pierced nipples does not go unnoticed. It’s funny, the effect he has on him every time it comes to this. Bakugou can practically see the erratic heartbeat trying to escape his chest as he swallows, hesitation ultimately giving way to voracity when he slides his t-shirt up and overhead. Victory glints in the flash of a cocky smile, and he knows he has him.

“You’re a fuckin’ natural,” he cajoles, oddly subdued and jagged along the edge of each word, “C’mere.”

Kaminari’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t resist. His steps are careful and curious as he pads across the rug to stand where Bakugou sits, now widening the gap between his legs to allow room for Kaminari.

“What are you trying to do here?” The question is laden with suspicion and an impending sense of mischief.

Hands find hips, and Bakugou bends forward, murmuring, “Anything you want me to.”

It isn’t overtly vulgar at first; Bakugou at least has a bit more tact than that. He works up to it, knowing just how to make Kaminari’s heart rate jump, rising with the trajectory of poignant lips up his torso, leaving dark red prints in their wake. By the time he gets to his chest, he feels the rapid beating under his mouth, like a trapped, wild animal trying to break free from his ribcage. There’s a certain kinship to it as he nips there, the soft scrape of teeth unexpected enough to jar lithe limbs if only for a fraction of a second. It kickstarts an entirely volatile impulse, a selfish avarice as those same hands pull Kaminari’s yielding hips down and into him.

Only then does Kaminari hesitate, a newfound scrutiny rearing its worrisome head as he reminds him, “You’ll mess it up…”

But Bakugou doesn’t stop inching him forward until there’s friction in his lap and a kiss-bitten body against him. “Good,” he rasps at the other’s lips, “I hope I do.”

It hasn’t ever really crossed his mind— the specificity of what they share, nor the dichotomy of sober and intoxicated. He supposes that’s a privilege in itself, trying to fit into the recesses of Kaminari’s mind as he kisses him for what might as well be the first time given the circumstance. Bakugou doesn’t think it should matter when he is nothing but aggressively authentic regardless of the influence he’s under. And yeah, okay, so drinking and smoking until the point of inebriation is a coping mechanism for his inability to healthily receive and reciprocate affection, or whatever psychological bullshit Deku pins him with when it’s just the two of them, unconditional and limitless. But now it’s a personal affront, this underhanded assumption that the validity of Bakugou’s crushing tenderness, a miracle in itself, is somehow less valuable when catalyzed by alcohol or various other substances. Now he’s got something to prove here in this shitty basement, and he won’t stop until Kaminari knows he’s worth the entire goddamn world.

Maybe he is right, in a way. Bakugou can’t recall the last time he’s been so one-track-minded, clutching Kaminari by the waist and securing him with a tentative kiss so initially gentle he’s surprised it had even come of his own volition. The shock rolls into waves of hunger as he laves promises into Kaminari’s mouth, assurances in the form of hot persuasion as their lips move in tandem. Of course I like you when I’m sober, he says without saying anything at all.

Kaminari sighs, pliant and keen to accept this truce as he traces careful, absent-minded circles on Bakugou’s nape. His undercut’s growing out slowly but surely, cropped against the motion of Kaminari carding through it, and he wonders if he should have Ashido shave it again or let it run its course. All Bakugou knows is that he loves the tingling abrasion left there by Kaminari’s fingers, raising goosebumps. A shiver courses deep into his belly, and suddenly he is incredibly aware that he is only in his underwear. It’s with a heaving exhale that they separate, staying close enough to still steal the breath from one another.

“So?” Bakugou says expectantly, “Was it everything you ever dreamed of, or some corny shit?”

Kaminari tilts his head in consideration. “You taste like lipstick.”

“Well, what the fuck did you expect.” Bakugou scoffs as he pushes him away, along with the unwarranted fondness that’s somehow crept up on him during the exchange. Fucking gross. His mind is elsewhere, and he searches until he finds the camera again, tossing it back and forth between his hands. “Take your pants off.”

“Seriously?” Kaminari starts, “What if—?”

“If she comes back, then she’ll thank us for our creative genius. We’re fucking visionaries.” Bakugou reaches forward to give a sharp tug on the belt loop of Kaminari’s jeans, firmly reiterating, “Pants.”

“You’re such a jerk sometimes,” Kaminari huffs, “all the time.”

“And you’re a sucker.”

“Says the guy who bought into making out with me just now despite, y’know, the delicate predicament of…all of this,” Kaminari circles a finger around his face to signify the undoubted catastrophe of Bakugou’s lipstick in the aftermath— if it’s half as bad as the smudged, red mess around Kaminari’s mouth, Bakugou is almost afraid to look in a mirror. Perhaps even more afraid of Ashido’s reaction once she returns.

“You should see yourself right now.” And as Kaminari undoes his zipper, he adds somewhat sheepishly, “It’s kinda hot.”

The praise stretches a satisfied smile across the smeared evidence of their kiss. Bakugou loves it more than anything when Kaminari finally plays along and matches his pace. They’re like clockwork, energies crackling in conjunction, creating static electricity. Now Kaminari stands in his own briefs, jeans pooled at his feet, expression torn between nerves and craving. Bakugou resolves to make up his mind for him.

It’s lethal, the way he saunters over, mapping out smooth curves and soft skin. Kaminari’s physique differs from his— leaner, silken and not unlike satin— and maybe that’s why Bakugou wants him so much. He can’t help the way his hand follows the imprinted trail of lips, can’t stop the pad of his thumb from brushing over Kaminari’s nipple, and he wishes he’d kissed there before. Maybe he will, just to gauge his reaction. Will it be a gasp or a choked off plea of protest, seriously, dude, what if we get caught like this? He hopes it’s the former.

“Easy mark,” Bakugou mutters, letting Kaminari’s almost glazed look decide his own fate. The comeback rising in his partner’s throat never comes to fruition, cut off by Bakugou’s abrupt retrieval of his electric guitar.

“Stand here,” he ushers him to the center of the room, setting the strap around his shoulders, “and place it right over…” He doesn’t have to finish his sentence before Kaminari lets the guitar hang strategically over his crotch, effectively giving the impression that he’s naked as it blocks his underwear from view. “Yep. One step ahead of me, huh?”

The click of the shutter spews out another photo. “With you, I have to be.”

An extraordinary idea occurs to Bakugou then. It’s always all or nothing with him, and this is no different. “Then one-up me. Take it off.”

Kaminari looks up, dumbfounded. “You— you’re joking.”

“I want the perfect picture,” Bakugou reasons as if he’s asking for a simple favor. He is, isn’t he? They’re alone, at least for the time being. He steps forward, fingers taunting, running along the neck of the guitar as he conjures up an image that makes Kaminari freeze in anticipation. “You, butt-ass naked, lying on this shag rug with your dick in your hand.”

He’s beginning to understand the intrigue of this sober shit. For the first time, they aren’t fumbling blindly in the dark, senses compromised, motor functions bound by liquor. It’s fun like this, so where Kaminari gives an inch, Bakugou takes a mile.

“Hey, you’re the one who thought jacking each other off was a good idea.”

“I wasn’t serious!” Kaminari exclaims.

“Maybe you should be, for once.” Bakugou leans in like he’s got a secret, pushing a lock of golden hair behind Kaminari’s ear. He nips there instead of whispering, relishing the way Kaminari tenses at the contact. “I wanna see you.”

It’s spoken lowly against his earlobe, and when Bakugou pulls back, it takes only a moment’s stare, an absent caress at Kaminari’s rosy cheek to make him yield. He sets the guitar in its stand, and then awkwardly, with something close to shame flushing his made-up face, he pulls his boxer briefs down. Flustered though he may be, there’s nothing anxious or jittery about how unabashedly hard he is, dick standing at full attention from all the teasing. Bakugou eyes him up and down, satisfied, drinking in to his heart’s content.

“You trimmed. Cute.”

“You’re the worst,” Kaminari reddens even more, and Bakugou feels almost giddy.

“Almost like you expected something to happen, huh?” He keeps at it, “Like you wanted it to? Well, you got your wish.”

Kaminari purses his lips in defiance, not unlike a pouting child. In lieu of a response, he simply lays down on the old rug, staring up at Bakugou with a keen regard that incites an eager twitch in Bakugou’s briefs— open, wanting, eyeing the contour of his own erection against the fabric. Bakugou swallows, watching Kaminari watch him. He supposes it’s only fair, so in an act of mercy, he lets his underwear fall to the floor as well.

Kaminari’s words are sharp and breathless. “Now who’s the pervert?”

“Still you,” Bakugou answers, but there’s no truth to it as he strokes where he hangs heavy, standing over Kaminari’s sprawled out body. The warm glow of his skin is divine with nothing adorning him but his simple black choker. Mood lighting, Bakugou remembers. Maybe Ashido was right. Kaminari follows suit, tentatively at first and then overcome with slow ardor, eyes fixed and radiant on Bakugou looming over him.

“Beautiful,” Bakugou means to bite with sarcasm, but it comes out as something far more gentle, so unlike him. With the blood rushing between his legs, he nearly forgets the camera still in his grasp. Breathing labored, he peers through the lens, focusing on Kaminari, so gorgeous and willing for him. “Stay right there…just like that…fucking perfect.”

The photo slides out, but Kaminari doesn’t move, almost waiting to see what Bakugou will do. He leers, enjoying the sight of Kaminari below before he flicks the photo somewhere on the couch, settling down there once more. Stark naked, he melts into the cushions, working himself with a lofty gaze that never leaves the man across the floor.

“Well look at me now, babe,” he says with all the pride of a lion, “Sober as they come, and still hard for you. What are you gonna do about it?”

Kaminari sits up, now unmistakably shameless in his abrupt reply. “Touch me.”

Bakugou feels like he’s won. It’s hard to suppress the grin that begs at the corners of his mouth. “I said, what are you going to do about it.”

“I know,” Kaminari gets on all fours and crawls towards him— Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty picture, he should get the camera, he should— “and I don’t care. I want you to touch me.”

“You’re a real brat, you know that?” Bakugou says once Kaminari slides up to meet him here again, settling in his lap like it’s a place he can call home. “I think you’ve been hanging out with pretty boy too much.”

Kaminari shrugs, wrapping his arms around Bakugou’s neck. “You clearly have a type.”

“Brats, shitheads, nerds,” Bakugou lists, “I’m a man of many tastes.”

“With one common denominator: we’re all pretty.”

“And people say…” The response falters as Kaminari’s hands meet Bakugou’s chest, catching on the silver glint of his piercings. Careful thumbs roll and flick until Bakugou’s nipples are rigid, overly sensitive to the drag of skin on skin. Hardness between Bakugou’s legs gives a jump, involuntarily responding where his words cannot. Hissing when the culmination of their arousal meets in the middle, he finishes, “…I’m the cocky one.”

“Nah,” Kaminari says in finality, drawing Bakugou’s mouth open with a precise grind of his hips that seamlessly brushes their cocks together, “You’re something that can’t be summed up that easily.”

Bakugou shuts him up with his mouth, wholly unrestrained this time as they both abandon their trepidation toward Ashido’s work. It’s all tongue and lipstick, crushing, chaotic, caught up in a devout need for a closeness neither can get enough of. Calloused hands knead the curve of Kaminari’s ass, following the motion of his hips and the hub of friction that drives him wild.

With a complete disregard for the Polaroids scattered in their midst— a different sort of mess Bakugou knows he’ll regret once the veil of lust has lifted— he grips Kaminari harder, cups his face with bruising force, knots his fists in golden hair shocked with black as he deepens their kiss and consumes him from the inside out.

Kaminari tilts back, neck craned with the fury of Bakugou’s lips there, red, wet, biting at the soft skin of his throat. “This what you wanted?”

The question pries a groan out of him, long and low as Bakugou palms them both, holding their cocks flush together with a slow drag of his hand. Too dry— he could tell Kaminari to help with that, could lick his own palm, but instead he makes a show of it. Kaminari already looks nearly wrecked with his hair askew, starving eyes waiting to see what he’ll do next, and Bakugou does not disappoint. When Kaminari ruts against him, Bakugou rasps out a moan of his own, mouth falling open, saliva collecting and boiling over the jut of his plump bottom lip, all precise traces of fuck-me-red lipstick long gone. He bends his neck, lets it painstakingly drip onto their joined cocks in his grasp, so messy. Kaminari stalls, nearly malfunctions, gawking at the metal bead poking through the pink flesh of Bakugou’s tongue as he sticks it out obscenely.

Bakugou has too many piercings for his own good.

“Holy shit. That’s fucking gross.”

“Yeah, and you love it,” Bakugou replies, a thin rope of spit hanging off his chin in a way that really shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“By some miracle,” Kaminari’s voice wavers as Bakugou strokes them proper, slick with spit and precum. He can only watch in amazement, halting his hips as they aim to keen forward. Sensing this, Bakugou holds him down with his left hand, the right pumping them in unison, shining wet cockheads slipping through the gaps in his fingers with each glide up and down.

He takes him like this, setting a rhythm that makes them throb, angry red and painfully hard. Bakugou widens his position so Kaminari can wrap his legs around him fully, latching on as he whines with every sped-up flourish, overcome with the sensation of being pressed up against Bakugou like this. From base to tip, he twists his hand, finding the concentration of nerves with each upward squeeze. Bakugou spits again, drool leaking down their shafts as he quickens the pace, toying with the vein running up the underside of Kaminari’s cock, thumbing over his own slit. Stomach muscles tense along the lean body coiled in his lap, and he knows Kaminari is close. He can tell by the way his forehead knits together, careless, unfocused gaze dead set on Bakugou’s own determination in getting him off. But Bakugou’s sitting pretty, enjoying the view, savoring the desperate outcries diffusing in the musty air. He matches it with a groan as their balls touch, jolting of their own accord. With both hands he jacks them them off, slickness noisily following Bakugou’s clockwork movements, grazing their tips in agonizing measure that will absolutely ruin Kaminari.

It does— biting his lip raw in an attempt to hold himself back, it’s clear he’s on the brink. With eyebrows screwed up in pained concentration, Kaminari is so fucking brilliant it’s blinding. It electrifies Bakugou’s senses, makes pleasure curl deep within his gut.

Next time he and Kaminari lock eyes, Bakugou pushes him over the edge and whispers, “Come for me, pretty baby.”

He doesn’t even think about his own climax. He just blindly searches, watching Kaminari as he works him through it, feeling like he’s struck gold once he finds the camera. Just as Kaminari gasps, choking on Bakugou’s name, the camera is held out at arm’s length for a selfie of Bakugou licking Kaminari’s face mid-orgasm. Messy bangs in his face, eyes shut tight, mouth hung open, it’s cute. He’s cute. The flash goes off and Kaminari blinks himself cognizant again, realizing Bakugou has captured him coming apart in his lap. Unlike the last one, there’s no nudity in it, but it’s by far the most scandalous photo yet.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Kaminari tries to catch his breath.

“That’s no way to treat the guy who just gave you the best handjob of your fucking life,” Bakugou scowls in jest, equally short-winded, “I mean, at least let me come first. I’m not going to the grave with blue balls.”

Kaminari looks down. “You didn’t—?”

“Too busy documenting you,” he smirks, waving the developing Polaroid in Kaminari’s face. Then, as if the reality of what they’d done had just hit him, he glances around in concern. “I swear to god, if you stained this couch…”

“You literally found it in a dumpster.”

“Yeah, and? It’s in remarkable condition for what it is.”

Unbelievable, Kaminari says with one exasperated look that speaks volumes. The comedown had allowed him only twenty solid seconds of peace, of course.

“I’ll ask you again,” and there’s no mistaking the coarse, dulcet tone of Bakugou’s request as he tilts Kaminari’s chin up with one teasing finger, “What are you gonna do about it?”

Kaminari meets it with a question of his own. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Bakugou thinks for a moment, and the colors bloom into two faces on the small square of film, fleshing out Kaminari’s orgasm face and Bakugou’s filthy tongue on his cheek. Oh yeah, this one’s a keeper. It gives him one more idea he’d like to bring to fruition.

“Clean up the mess you made.”

And Kaminari knows. He reads between the lines and leans in to kiss Bakugou again and again and again— until he tires of it and moves downward, lips wrapping around cold metal piercings, sucking raised nipples until they’re purpled and Bakugou’s head lolls back against the couch, moaning a practiced song. But he wants more, so much more, and Kaminari knows that, too. With some reluctance, he slides out of Bakugou’s lap and onto the floor, kneeling where Bakugou’s legs are spread, eyes level with his cock near to bursting. It won’t take long, both anticipate that, but Bakugou always does prefer to go out with a bang.

No, Kaminari hadn’t gotten anything on the couch; Bakugou can rest assured, because it’s all over his stomach, and more importantly, his dick. Kaminari cleans it off his abs first, tongue lapping up the white stripes coating the planes of muscle that tighten under him, hot and hard. Downward, he sinks until he’s licking his own cum off Bakugou’s cock, and hell if that isn’t the most perfect thing Bakugou’s ever seen in his life.

“Fuck, Denki,” he mewls, “You’re so fucking sexy.”

He’d be caught dead before he’d ever admit that in any other situation, ever use a word like sexy in the first place, but it doesn’t matter, not when he’s so close, light-headed and delirious. He realizes there is no such thing as sober between them, not when being with Kaminari like this guarantees a sense of euphoria he can’t get from anything else.

Everything in him hangs by a thread when Kaminari sloppily swirls his tongue and massages the supple skin of Bakugou’s balls, hits where he knows it’ll hurt. A single finger hooks underneath Kaminari’s choker, dragging him forward encouragingly until he hollows out along Bakugou’s thickness, mouth bobbing masterfully, and fuck— fuck

He says as much when he comes hard, strained under the flicking of Kaminari’s tongue at the head. With barely just enough time to grab the camera and snap one final picture, he unfolds, crying out, white hot.

It’s impossible to know which is first, the spurt of cum on Kaminari’s face or the camera flash. He supposes he’ll get his answer in thirty seconds, but already he knows that this one definitely trumps the last in terms of lewdness.

Kaminari looks up at him with too much innocence for someone covered in cum. Too much naivety for just having just sucked the soul out of Bakugou’s body, for that matter.

“I think we failed at following Mina’s directions,” he jests, tongue poking out to catch some of what’s exploded at the corner of his mouth. Bakugou reclines back, staring up at the ceiling, still seeing stars.

“She told us to jack each other off, and that’s exactly what we did. I don’t see a problem.”

Kaminari stands, laughing, looking for something to wipe his face off with. “Wow. The real you is a horny asshole.”

“Hey, you offered an invitation,” Bakugou justifies, “I took it.”

Ashido will be pissed once she comes back and realizes they’ve besmirched her hard work. With a simultaneous shrug and a shared look of lazy indifference, neither can muster up the slightest inkling of concern for this particular dilemma anymore, far too wrapped up in each other as they clean up and bask in this feeling they’ve forged together.

They deem that it’s been enough time that they’re allowed free reign of the place since she still hasn’t returned. Fuck staying cooped up in this basement, especially now that it smells like sex in addition to the myriad of other unpleasant scents. And now that Bakugou has proven the merit of what it means to be stone cold sober, he decides a well-deserved smoke break is in order.

With a hair elastic in his mouth, Bakugou combs together golden locks with his fingers, tying up a half-assed ponytail for Kaminari as he packs the bowl. He’s eager to show off this new bong Sero bought, and even more eager to try out the stuff they got from some bigshot dealer in Wakayama— Hawks, or something. Stupid name, good weed.

Maybe the basement isn’t so bad after all, Bakugou thinks as his reality clouds over in the haze. And maybe he likes Kaminari regardless of intoxication or lack thereof, especially now, especially here as Kaminari sits between his legs and Bakugou wraps his arms around him from the back, pressing an uncharacteristic kiss to the crown of his head. Only in moments of weakness like these does he let himself be soft, only when he thinks Kaminari will forget. He won’t, but he’ll let Bakugou pretend.

The sound of bubbling and sharp inhaling masks the creak of the front door. Ashido coughs on contact when she finally comes back, waving away the smoke swirling in the placid air. “Really?” she says, “You guys couldn’t go an hour without lighting up? And more importantly, you couldn’t wait for me?”

“You snooze, you lose,” Kaminari shrugs, “How’s Ochako’s hair?”

It’s then that her gaze settles on the two of them and their downright pitiful faces. Her expensive makeup, gone. All her hard work, ruined. Bakugou's fear conflates with his high, but with the way her eyes widen in rage, the barest bones of regret still start to sink in.

What the hell did you two do is the first thing she shrills, and it blends into a blur of for fuck’s sake, I leave for an hour and you wreck your damn faces and what are you, a couple of five-year-olds that can’t sit still, that shit costs a pretty penny, you know—

Bakugou is too stoned for this.

When she stomps down the stairs into the hell they call the basement, lamenting under her breath about her wasted makeup and braindead idiots, Kaminari turns to Bakugou with bloodshot eyes. “Hey, you got all the pictures from down there, right?”

“Fuckin’ course,” Bakugou says, searching through his pockets for the collection of film that they’ve both decided will never see the light of day again. “Should all be here.” Should be. But as Bakugou rifles through them, counting each one, he realizes there’s one missing.

They exchange a horrified look as they simultaneously realize that the last photo Bakugou had taken, decidedly the worst one, featuring a first-person shot of his dick and a load of cum on Kaminari’s face, is nowhere to be found.

Until it is.

It’s quiet when Ashido’s angry grumbling is silenced by a new discovery. Then, with his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach, Bakugou hears her disembodied voice exclaim loudly, “Oh…my…god.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Motherfucker.

Her mood couldn’t be more different as she ascends and meets them face to face once more, makeup kit and one single, incriminating Polaroid in hand. The devious look in her eyes only says one thing: blackmail.

“You guys are so being my models until the end of time.”