*Doorbell rings* it's a SPECIAL DELIVERY for #kiribakuweek2020
Baku's ordered a new fridge and Kiri's the delivery guy
💪No quirks
💦Sweaty boys
🧰Shop talk
👊Rough boys

Strap in, comrades, the proletariat is sexy



A diesel engine and blaring techno are all the alert Bakugou needs to know that his delivery has arrived.

He lives on a small side-street of a quiet district, and commercial traffic doesn't come this way without a reason.
He glances out his 3rd floor window and sees the truck park below, a big boxed-up thing strapped down tight to a pallet on the flatbed.

The engine cuts, and so does the music.
Out of the cab hops the worst dye job he's ever seen - and lemme tell you he's seen some dye jobs - wearing a red flannel shirt that clashes heinously with his cherry-red hair.

Grimacing, Bakugou waits for the other delivery guy to appear, but is surprised to see Red is alone.
“The fuck?” he mutters to himself.

/This is a walk-up building. Is that motherfucker planning on carrying my fridge up 3 flights of stairs solo?/

Then Red walks around to the back and puts his hand on the rail as he lowers the lift-gate.
It takes a sec for perspective to kick in, but Bakugou does a double-take when he registers the relative size of the fridge he's ordered and the man standing next to it.

He's a mechanical engineer, so he knows his appliances. He also knows /exactly/ what size that appliance is.
Some quick eyeballing, a little math, adjust for the height of his apartment, and a step to the left just to be sure his line of sight is right.


That is a /big/ man.
He's gotta be 2m tall... Hard to tell with his hair all spiked up.

But the size of that /paw/ - that dinner-plate of a hand that's wrestling its way into a worn leather work-glove ...

Something primeval stirs at the base of Bakugou's spine, like some ancient leviathan encased in ice, dormant, waiting, sensing a thaw.

Big Red hops up on the flatbed like some sort of savanna cat. He starts to undo the wide yellow nylon straps holding the box & pallet in place.
Baku's mouth goes dry watching gloved fingers work with swift dexterity. He's surprisingly deft and sure, given the sheer size of those hands and the cumbersome gloves.

There's a system to it, he sees. A loop here, a knot there, doubling back here, twisting around there...
Big Red seems merely to touch the knots and those straps fall loose, pliant in his hands


The leviathan opens a frosty eye.

Bakugou can practically hear the /zzzzhhhpp/ of nylon against leather. He cracks his window open, braving the chilly air, and hears just that.
/Zzzzhhhpp/ the strap goes as Big Red pulls the lengths of flat nylon through his hands to wind from his hand to his elbow, making a neat coil.

There's a /fwap!/ as the end of the strap shoots out from under the pallet as Big Red pulls, the sound bouncing in the narrow street.
/Zzzzhhhpp/ again, as he starts undoing the straps on the hand-truck lashed to the rail.

Bakugou can practically /feel/ the friction of the nylon in his palms, the smooth grain and the rough edge.
It sends a shudder up his spine, and he shakes himself as Big Red nudges the hand-truck under the pallet and cranks the jack to lift it up on the fork.

Then Big Red is pulling the pallet down towards the tail lift and steering it smoothly onto the platform.
He bends over to grab the lift controls and Bakugou sees the waistband of low-slung jeans. Big Red is wearing orange checkered boxers that clash almost as horribly with his shirt as his hair does.
It makes Bakugou wince, and then reality slips him a note: /hey, um, this guy is gonna try and carry a refrigerator up your stairs by himself./

/Ah. Yes. That./
Bakugou slips on his own scuffed workboots - thick rubber soles, worn leather, grease stains, frayed laces - and shrugs on his leather jacket over his hoodie. He jams his keys in his pocket and grabs his phone, then disengages the slam lock on his door.
Bakugou vaults down the stairs, jumping the half-flights over the rails like some idiot teenager with rockets in his hands.

He lands neatly in the foyer and kicks a doorstop under the inner hallway door before propping open the outer door with a latch on the wall.
“Are you fuckin' nuts?” He barks out of the doorway, by way of greeting.

Big Red is wrangling the pallet lift off the lowered ramp and he turns at the rough voice.

“You talkin' to me, bro?”

“Yeah, /bro/. That's my fridge you got there.”
“Oh! Apartment 3A? Sweet!” Big Red smiles like a goddamn beam of sunshine and Bakugou squints at the brightness of it. The ice within him seems to melt just a little.

“Hold on, lemme just...”
Big Red steers the pallet lift around and pushes it to the front door, steadying it with one gloved hand.

“Hold up, Shitty Hair. Where do you think you're going with that?”

“Shitty h... what? I'm...delivering your fridge, dude.”
“Not on your own you're not. It's three flights up and I know for a fact that fridge is gonna be a beast to carry.”

“That's why they invented elevators, dudebro.”

“This is a fuckin' walkup, dipshit.”
Big Red's face scrunches up in confusion and Bakugou stifles the urge to smooth out the wrinkle with his hands.

Bringing his hand to his mouth, Big Red grabs the tip of a glove finger between sharp teeth to pull it off. It hangs there, and Bakugou watches it.
Big Red fishes around in his back pocket for the order form printout. He squints at it and reads again.

“Says here: elevator, one-man delivery, dude.”

“Well it says wrong. You gonna believe me, the guy who fuckin' /lives here/ or the dumbass in dispatch who fucked up?”
He runs his broad ungloved hand through his shitty red spikes, a look of concern deepening the furrow on his brow.

Bakugou scowls, creasing his own face.

“Shit. Shit. Now what. I'm so fucked.”

“Not yet.”

“Nothing. Fuckit. I'll help you get it upstairs. Let's get it to the door.”

“Woah, woah, dude. No can do. Insurance won't cover you if this literally goes sideways, and it won't cover me for damages, either.”

“Keep your panties on, Hair For Brains. I'm covered. Workman's comp.”
Bakugou pulls his motorcycle gloves out of the pocket of his jacket and stepping forward.

“I dunno, man. You look like you'd blast me to hell if this thing gets scuffed at all. Damage would come outta my hide.”
/Not the only thing I'll tear outta your hide./

“I'll blast you to hell if you don't shut up and just get that thing in here.”

“That's what she said,” Red snorted. Then, “Or he. Y'know.”

“Nice. Real nice. What are you, twelve?”
“Look, I'll call it in. I'll drive back around and wait for dispatch to send me another guy.”

“I don't have that kinda time, Shitty Hair. Do you?”

Big Red glances around. “Uhh, if you're /totally/ sure, dude. like you said - this one's a beast, and I don't want you to...”
Bakugou steps up closer to the pallet and Big Red takes a good look at the scowling blond.

He's not that much shorter than the redhead, and he fills out his leather jacket something wicked, with thick arms and broad shoulders.
Glancing down, Big Red sees neat-but-well-worn black jeans covering thick calves and thighs.

Motorcycle gloves on, Bakugou places a hand on the boxed-up fridge and gives Big Red a look that says, /Well? You gonna underestimate me?/
Big Red meets his glare with a peering look, as if trying to confirm something. Bakugou almost misses the redhead quickly lick his lips.

Whatever he's looking for, he sees, relenting. “Shit. OK. Let's do it.”
Bakugou steadies the box and Big Red pushes the jack lift. They maneuver the fridge and pallet to the foot of the stairs through the propped open doors.

Tipping the fork, Bakugou braces the fridge on its corner. Big Red pulls the lift back before the box settles on the floor.
“Be right back, Blasty, don't move,” Big Red says with a grin.

/Blasty? The fuck?/

There's little time to feel aggrieved at the nickname because Big Red grabs the solid pallet in his gloved hand and just picks it up like a portfolio.

The ice leviathan cracks its knuckles.
Big Red brings the pallet and jack lift back to the flatbed to padlock them down.

Before Bakugou can gather his thoughts, Big Red is back, with an armload of the neatly coiled nylon tension straps.
He slings them over his head and across his chest, then pumps a fist into the open palm of his other gloved hand.


“Waitin' on your ass, Shitty Hair,” Bakugou says, kicking the doorstops away and letting the doors of the building close.
/That's not the only thing I'm doin' with your ass today, Red./

“You want me on top or on the bottom?”

Bakugou whips his head around, nearly throwing out his neck with whiplash, eyes wide and cheeks flaming.

/Did I say that out loud?!/
Big Red's brain catches up with his mouth and a blush, bright as his hair, floods his face. He looks everywhere but at Bakugou.

“Uhhh...the...fridge...you want me to hold the...”
Bakugou can't help but smirk a little at Big Red's floundering, but the blush on his own face takes some of the bite out of his retort.

“Bottom. Of the fridge. For now. Let's just get up the first flight and see how we do, dumbass.”
“OK. OK cool. Good.” Big Red looks at him again, and when Bakugou doesn't bat an eye, he grins.

Bakugou has to squint once more against the sunshine of that smile, hot enough to melt the glacial cage around that flexing inner beast.
They tip the box towards the stairs, and Bakugou takes the first three steps up, letting the box lean against his back. He feels the weight of the fridge bear down on him, and hears a “hup” behind him as Big Red dips low to lift the fridge up.

“Start slow, Blasty. Let's go.”
They make it up to the halfway landing of the first flight of stairs, but Baku's hands can't quite find purchase on the smooth cardboard of the protective box.

“Hold up, hold up. Set this thing back down.”

“Giving up already, Blasty?”

“Fuck you, Shitty Hair. You got a blade?”
“Uhhhh,” Big Red grabs his boxcutter from its holder on his belt and holds it up tentatively around the box.

“Lemme see that. I wanna cut hand-holds for me to grab on. 's too slippery otherwise.”
“Nah, that's not gonna work, Blasty. This box is just to keep the packaging together. The cardboard'll just rip if it takes the weight. Gimme a sec.”

Big Red puts the knife away then comes around to Baku's side, pulling the coiled nylon straps from over his shoulder.
He drops one length then proceeds to tilt the box, sliding the strap underneath the appliance. He tosses it up and over, then loops the strap in an X and runs it back under bottom, parallel to the first wrap-around.

Then he slides the buckle onto the loose end and pulls - hard.
Bakugou can hear the cardboard groan against the tightened straps. Inside the box, the poly packing creaks.

Inside Baku's chest, that icy thing melts some more. It's his turn to lick his lips, hidden safely behind the cinched box.
The second coiled length of nylon gets threaded through the verticals and, with a twist here and a knot there, he's fashioned a pair of shoulder straps, turning the fridge into an enormous backpack.


“I am if you are,” Bakugou says, only half in jest.
Another deep blush creeps up from Big Red's collar, but he grins through it. Bakugou smirks again, this time raising a coy eyebrow.

He lets his eyes rove over the quick, efficient rigging, and doesn't flinch as he notes Big Red scan his face for...approval? Awe? Something...
“How about you take the bottom first, and I'll be on top. We can switch again later," Big Red says with a wink.

/This motherfucker winking at me?! Fuck.../

It's Bakugou's turn to blush - again.
He's certain there's a glint of that /something/ in Big Red's eyes. His words hold a promise of heat, and he doesn't break eye-contact as they switch places on the small landing.
Big Red steps into Baku's spot on the next step of the stairs, and hooks his massive arms through the straps, knees bent, back straight. He's got a lifting belt on under his flannel - Bakugou can see it where the lower half of his shirt isn't buttoned fully.
“What's your color, big guy?” Bakugou asks, testing, teasing.

“Green,” Big Red says knowingly, the laugh in his voice evident enough to make Bakugou reel. “You?”


“Green and good to go. On your count, Shitty Hair.”

“On Three. One, two, three!”
Big Red hoists an entire refrigerator up and onto his back, with a sure rise of his knees and incredible thighs. Bakugou is quick to lift his end, crouching low and bending his legs planted wide for stability.
The weight evens out between them, and they half-carry half-push the fridge up the next flight of stairs, barely pausing at the next floor.

“Still good?”

“Uhh...yeah, yellow...we've gotta make this turn onto the next stairs. Gimme a boost?”
“Still good?”

“Uhh...yeah, yellow...we've gotta make this turn onto the next stairs. Gimme a boost?”

Bakugou squats lower and takes more weight as he feels Big Red shift the straps slightly.

Then: “OK, green again. Let's go.”

🚧💦💪💦 Take a breather with me here - we're building up some sweat!

Back to the landing: https://twitter.com/FeyPenDragon/status/1253402925453410304?s=20

OK let's get up these stairs!

They repeat this at every landing, checking in, adjusting, breathing hard. That icy thing in his chest? Yeah, it's melting like fucking crazy now, and pouring out as sweat under his hoodie and jacket. He's grateful for his gloves keeping his palms from slipping on the cardboard.
The final half flight of stairs almost becomes a crime scene, because the amount of sweat and strain is practically murder.

So's Big Red's voice.

“We got this, Blasty. Come on. Just a little more, baby, come on, good, good...almost there...I'm almost there...”
Bakugou almost drops the fridge as he hears Big Red encouraging, panting, grunting, huffing, and then: /baby/.

/Oh fuck. Oh fuck./

By some miracle, the fridge makes it over the rise of the last step, and they both groan, deep and long when they finally set the fridge down.
Big Red shrugs off the straps and drops to a squat, breathing hard.

Bakugou squeezes around the fridge that's in the middle of the landing now, and heads down the hall to his apartment, panting, shedding his too-hot jacket and hoodie as he pulls air into his lungs.
He's back moments later with a steel dolly in hand, and he props open the door of his apartment with a slat of wood shoved in the gap between the hinges.

Big Red lifts his eyes from the heavy boots, up the black-clad legs and the too-tight T-shirt.
Those eyes linger only a little too long on the shine of sweat at his clavicle.

Finally, he locks eyes with Bakugou, gazing up through long dark lashes. Something hungry pools in that look, then Bakugou blinks and it's gone, Big Red's eyes all guileless and grateful.
Bakugou forgets to breathe for a moment, until:

“Oh, man. You ROCK!” he says with the full force of his supernova smile directed at the wheeled dolly in Bakugou's hand.

More melting happens. The water rises.
Standing up - gingerly, not wanting to strain himself further - Big Red tilts the fridge back on one edge and lets Bakugou slide the dolly under.

Stabilized, they wheel it easily down the poured concrete of the hallway.
They tilt it back down and - easy does it... easy does it... over the kick of the doorframe - lean it low to fit through the door. Then it's on wheels again to the kitchen, where they finally rest the box and its contents down on the clean terracotta tile.
Bakugou and Big Red stand there, breaths still a little labored, steadying themselves.

“Oh man. Phew. That was...”


“Made it, though.”

“You...you did most of the work.”
“No way, dude! You were a /beast/ back there. It's harder being the bottom, taking all the strain on your upper body rather than the legs. Man. I think that counts as leg day for me, though. Fuck, man. I gotta sit down.”

They both do, on the floor, with a groan.

“Fuck /me/.”
“Ha. OK.”

They both laugh at that, but they each catch the other stealing a glance. Their eyes meet in the corners, and they both blush, again.

/Stop blushing! What is this, high school?/
To break the sudden heaviness in the air, Bakugou stands and goes to the old fridge to grab the pitcher of filtered water.

He'd emptied the fridge out as best he could, but, frugal man that he was, he never let anything spoil. There wasn't much in there to throw out.
Pouring two glasses, he hands one to Big Red, who pulls off his gloves and accepts the glass gratefully.

“Thanks, Blasty.”

“Sure thing, Shitty Hair.”

“Damnit, my name is Kirishima. Kirishima Eijirou.”

“Hmph. Bakugou. Katsuki. Your hair's still shitty, Kirishima.”
They nod in acknowledgment, as bros do.

Two pairs of red eyes meet again, and Bakugou feels something crackle along his skin like sparks, and the ice in his chest is now a full on gushing stream of thirst.

Kirishima tilts his head back and drinks his water like it's...water.
trickle dribbles down his chin from the corner of his mouth and Bakugou clutches his own glass to stop himself from trying to lick it.

Then Kirishima stands again, places his glass on the counter and takes. off. his. shirt.
He ties the flannel around his waist like it's 1994 and Bakugou has to take a step back and steady himself on the counter.


Under the flannel, Kirishima looks even /bigger/, if that's possible.
He has on a white muscle tank, clean except for a black grease stain along the side and the sweat-drenched pits.

He still has his lifter's belt around his substantial waist, holding in the broad expanse of his lower back and stomach.
There's a perfect layer of soft fat over the swell of muscles Bakugou has just witnessed the strength of.

His skin is tanned and there's thick hair on his arms, peeking over the collar of his shirt from his broad chest, too.
At this proximity, Bakugou can see the dark scruff of yesterday's shave along his jaw.

“So, you wanna do this?”

“Uhhhh....” Bakugou manages to say around a mouth full of saliva. He shuts his mouth with a click, forcing his face into a scowl and his mind out of the gutter.
Kirishima turns back to the fridge and a tidal wave of fresh thirst washes Bakugou's brain right back into the filthy gutter of his imagination.

The low-slung jeans promise a perfect grabable ass, and the defined muscles of his shoulders and back are hardly hidden by his tank.
Kirishim a is seemingly unaware of the mess he's making of Bakugou's mind.

He unbuckles the nylon straps and lets them fall to the floor as he grabs his boxcutter again and proceeds to carefully slit the sealed edges of the box.
“I didn't pay for installation. Just delivery,” Bakugou says before he can stop himself.

“Yep, and delivery isn't complete until it's out of the packaging and you can inspect it for damage.”


“Yep,” Kirishima says with another wink and a grin.
It's just a wink. It's devastating.

/Fuck if this motherfucker ain't flirting with me.../

They stand in the kitchen, stripping the packaging with a precise ferocity that in no way shape or form substitutes for the way they'd like to strip each other. Nope. Not at all.
Finally, gleaming in the kitchen, there stands Bakugou's brand new refrigerator.

“Mmm... She's /perfect/” Bakugou practically purrs, stepping close to the chrome-covered appliance.
It's taller than he is, but he leans his sweaty face against the cool metal and wraps his arms around as far as they go.

“I'll leave you and your new girl alone then, Blasty.”

Kirishima starts to put his flannel back on and Bakugou is struck by a sudden panic.
/I'm not done with you!/

He doesn't want this strapping, strap-laden man to leave quite yet. Neither does the thirsty, antediluvian creature coiling around his brain-stem.


Bakugou doesn't know what makes him say it out loud, or at such a volume, but he does say it, and Kirishima does wait.

“I...need help...getting...umm...” he casts about for something - anything. “My fridge!”

“Pretty sure we just did that, dude.”
“No! My old fridge. Gotta get that out of here, right? And, well, it's not as much of a monster as my new baby, but it isn't exactly a carry-in-your-purse kinda thing...”

“I wouldn't peg you for a purse-carrying kinda guy, Blasty.”
“Fair. Purses are notoriously poor in function and comfort. More of a pockets or backpack kinda man.”

“I dunno - I rock a cross-body now and then.”



“So...you willing to stick around and help me with the old fridge? I'll pay you - cash,” he adds hastily.

“What's your hourly rate? I'll double it,” desperately trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“Woah, slow down, tiger. Take a man out to dinner first, would ya?”

/Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound. A hard pounding./
“I can do that. How 'bout it. I'll even cook. Throw in a meal. Cover your expenses...make it worth your while..." He lets his voice trail off.

Bakugou watches the parade of thought and emotion march across Kirishima's open features.
Disbelief, excitement, confusion, panic, calculation.

He glances at his watch, looks back at Bakugou, and runs the tip of his very pink tongue across chapped lips. He tongues at the sharp sharp tip of a sharky tooth.
“Fine. You're my last delivery of the day anyway. I could haul the fridge downstairs for you - with you - but I can't take it off the premises.”

“Not a problem. We'll leave it in the back alley and the landlord can deal with it.”




Why is it still so hot in here? Gotta take another breather. Gotta take off this jacket. Maybe take off my pants...

Jump to the top of the thread: https://twitter.com/FeyPenDragon/status/1253402925453410304?s=20

Now to work up a REAL sweat...

Bakugou grabs the new fridge's power cord and tugs it as Kirishima eases the it forward, arms bulging as he tries not to scrape it along the floor or scuff the new chrome on a corner.
When it's close enough, Bakugou plugs it in and squeezes out of the gap and helps Kirishima ease it into place.
They bump fists and wipe at their sweaty brows.

“There. Fits like a fuckin' glove.”

“Wow, this is actually /really nice/!”
“Fuckin' of course it is, dipshit. You think I'd pick some shitty random fridge?”

“Well, I don't know you from a hole in the wall, so who am I to say?”

“I'm an engineer. I know a thing or two about appliances.”
“You storing engines in here?”

“The fuck?”
“I dunno, man. You're the engineer. I use my fridge to keep beer, pretty much.”

“Wow. That's heinous. I'm calling the police. Get out of my house you fuckin' criminal.”

“Harsh, dude. Harsh but true. Guess I'll have to make a break for it before the cops come.”
He makes no move to leave, their banter settling over them like sea spray - fine and salty, just a little wet, tossed in waves, clinging to their skin.

They're standing very close - a fridge-width apart, if you will - and if one of them bent a leg, their knees would touch.
They're barefoot in the kitchen, their heavy boots removed and put by the front door. Kirishima's red flannel is tossed over the back of a chair, like he's always been there.

Bakugou coughs.
"We ...uhh...gotta let this thing warm up...I mean, cool down.... Let the internal temperature go down. Then I'll move the stuff from the old fridge. Long as we don't open the old box, that interior should be cool enough. But can't empty it until this one 's ready."
“And we can't take the old fridge away until it's empty...”


“Just gotta wait right here.”

“Can't be helped.”

Bakugou's heart is hammering in his chest. Kirishima's body moves on its own.
Suddenly, he's backing Bakugou against the counter, caging him in with beefy arms, gripping the countertop with thick-fingered hands either side of his hips.

Bakugou's breath ghosts over Kirishima's jaw as the taller man leans forward into his space.
The /smell/ of him...


Sweat, grit, day-old aftershave, laundry detergent, the stink of exertion - Bakugou breathes it in and closes the final distance between them with a ravenous lunge.
There's no questioning. No hesitance. It's just a battle for dominance carrying on from an afternoon of displaying strength.

Kirishima's massive frame presses flush against Bakugou's, then he hoists him up on the counter while the blond's wicked fingers tangle in red hair.
They're breathing like they're hauling a fridge up a flight of stairs - trying to stay steady, trying not to rush, trying not to pass out.

Bakugou's grip is tight. Kirishima's teeth are sharp. Hands are everywhere, tugging at hair, digging into hard muscle.
Blindly, Bakugou fusses with the lifter's belt until Kirishima knocks his hands away and undoes it himself, never breaking their furious kissing.

The belt clatters to the floor and Bakugou's hands immediately drag up Kirishima's shirt.
Bakugou squeezes at every inch of that waist, that back, that belly, those pecs...

He pushes the tank top up and Kirishima lifts his arms to shed the shirt. The stink of sweat rolls off him, off the dark hair of his pits, from the soaked cotton.
Bakugou bares his teeth and strips his own top off. The air is thick and warm in the kitchen but it feels cool on his feverish sweaty skin.

Kirishima grabs a handful of blond hair at the nape of Bakugou's neck and uses it to wrench his head back, exposing his neck.
Bakugo pulls against the grip but takes the moment to look Kirishima in the eyes and run his tongue between his grinning teeth.

A challenge. A dare. A promise.
Kirishima growls, deep, beastly, primal, and Bakugou wraps his legs around the other man's hips tighter.

Lion and Serpent are coiled and crouched in their hind-brains, ready to strike, to take, to devour whole.
Kirishma yanks Bakugou forward again and buries his nose in the crook of his neck, taking a deep pull of the blond's own musk and sweat - it's sweet and salt and spice and absolutely intoxicating.
He licks a wet, wide stripe up the hollow of that pale throat, then trails back down again. Bakugou hisses as sharp teeth nip at his clavicle.

Meanwhile, Bakugou's hands find the waistband of Kirishima's jeans.

This belt buckle is easier.
He undoes the button, unzips the fly, snakes his hand under the elastic of his boxers.

He teases - running blunt nails down the skin of his thighs, grabbing at his ass.

/Holy fuck, his ass is a fucking miracle./
It's solid muscle under that plush bit of padding. He feels it tighten under his grip, and he drops his legs to get a better grip with his hands.

Kirishima's legs are flush against the counter now, pressing Bakugou backwards, pawing at the buckle of Bakugou's black jeans.
“Off,” Kirishima snarls, batting the unbuckled belt open and wrenching the buttons.

Bakugou pulls Kirishima's head up with a fistful of red hair and dives back into a furious kiss, all tongues and teeth hot breaths.
He pushes forward, hopping down off the counter as he shimmies out of his pants while trying to keep his mouth affixed to Kirishima's.

He steadies himself with a hand on a bulging bicep, Kirishima rests a huge paw on that snatched waist as the other hand tugs at black briefs.
They break contact as Bakugou steps out of his clothes, naked, gleaming in the afternoon sun that streams in the kitchen window.

Kirishima forgets how to breathe for a moment, reeling back at the sight before him.
The sunlight turns his skin gold, his hair a bright blaze, his face in silhouette shadowed but for the gleam of his eyes.

His body is sinuous and bold, wide shoulders and strong arms, tapering waist, straight hips that sit atop the columns of his thighs, the curve of his calves.
At the center of it all, Bakugou's cock stands erect and flushed. It's thick and full, curving left and bobbing with its own weight.

“You're gorgeous,” Kirishima huffs out, taking a step forward.

Then another.

Then another.

Bakugou smirks, letting Kirishima stalk closer.
“I want...” Kirishima's eyes search that proud, upturned face.

“What do you want, Red?” Bakugou's voice is steady but quiet.

“I want...”

There's a split second where Bakugou sees the other man's pupils blow wide with desire, then suddenly, Kirishima drops to his knees.
He grabs Bakugou's hips with his rough hands and rubs his face in the soft skin where hip and thigh meet, reveling in the sharp V that dips down to that golden cock. The scruff on his chin scratches at Bakugou's thighs, rasping as he drags his face away.
Then the air leaves Bakugou's lungs in harsh breath as Kirishima wraps one hand around the base of his cock and grips hard at the meat of the other thigh.

He gives a few strokes with one hand, squeezing and twisting his wrist, pulling a hiss from the blond.
There's no other warning before he takes the head into his mouth and rolls his tongue, working his way forward down the length of him faster than anyone has a right to do.

“Shit. Shit. Holy fuck.”

Kirishima sucks on that cock like a drowning man wants air: hard, fast, sloppy.
Bakugou grabs a handful of red hair and holds tight, letting his hips thrust shallowly as Kirishima works that tongue, grunting with pleasure as he tries to devour every inch.

One hand comes up between his legs to tug and roll at his balls, heavy now.
Rolling them between his thick fingers he growls with satisfaction as he feels the hands in his hair tighten again.

Then he braces himself with two hands on Bakugou's hips and pulls himself forward, jaw wide, eyes squeezed shut, swallowing him down.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh shit oh fuck...”

Bakugou's thrusts grow harder, two hands fisted in red hair now, and Kirishima groans around a throat full of cock, making the blond's eyes roll back in his head.
He's fucking Kirishima's face in earnest now, relentless, deep. He's lost in the sensations: the drag of his cock as he feels that throat constrict, the shudder of a gag held back, the sharp panting breaths huffing hot on his pelvis as he shoves his cock all the way down and in.
“Take it fuck yes fuck take it all fucking gods yes fuck gonna fuck gonna fucking cum fucking take it YES FUCK”

The stream of filthy nonsense babbles out faster as Kirishima grips harder with his hands, eyes streaming with the effort.
Kirishima squeezes at the rock-hard tensed muscle of Bakugou's ass - spit and salt awash, slick slurping until he feels those hips stutter.

Bakugou cums hard with another hiss, wrenching Kirishima's hair, knees locking, ass clenched.
Kirishima gulps and swallows and tries not to choke, forgetting about breathing, his brain fed only on the feeling of hot cum flooding his mouth, his throat, his stomach, his senses. He is drunk on the taste of this man, high on the smell of him, thirsty for more.
Kirishima feels the grip on his hair relent, and a broad-palmed hand drops to this shoulder as Bakugou tries to steady himself, pulling his dripping cock out of Kirishima's mouth with the other hand and rubbing the still-leaking tip across lips stretched and red.
He's still not sated, and his tongue darts out to catch what drops he can, eyes dark with desire as he drags his hands down the backs of those smooth thighs.

Kirishima's chest rumbles with a growl as he stands, pushing Bakugou back against the counter again.
The blond is unsteady, pliant, breathing hard.

The cold edge of the counter is a jolt against Bakugou's blazing skin and his head snaps up to look at the man who just tried to suck the soul out of his body through his dick.
He sees the predatory gleam in those red eyes, the sun glints on the points of flesh-rending teeth.

“Gonna fuck you up now, baby.”



Back to the top https://twitter.com/FeyPenDragon/status/1253402925453410304?s=20

"Gonna fuck you up now, baby."

Bakugou shudders at low, dark promise that he /feels/ more than he hears. Kirishima's hands are everywhere, leaving a blazing trail of tingling heat as they roam over his flushed skin.
His head swims, but he's high on the smell of their sweat mixed together, the hair on Kirishima's chest sticks to Bakugou's sweaty skin as he pulls on Bakugou's bottom lip with those /fucking teeth/.
“Oh yeah?” is as much of a retort as Bakugou can come up with, but he's a little proud of himself with how cocksure he sounds.

“Gonna fuck you up real good.”

“Hmmm. Is that so, Shitty Hair?”

“Yeah, Blasty, that's so. You wanna fight me on this?”
“Heh. Think I can take you.”

“I'd like to see you try.”

“Hell yeah,” Bakugou says with a glinting grin, a hand darting out to grab Kirishima's shoulder, spinning him around, leg coming up to hook around the redhead's waist, another hand wrenching his wrist up behind his back.
“Oooh, feisty. I like that.”

Bakugou pulls at the twisted arm but Kirishima doesn't so much as wince. Instead, he drops his shoulder and spins away, pulling Bakugou forward and hoisting him up over his shoulder.

Bakugou does not shriek.

Absolutely not.

That was someone else.
“So feisty. Wants to struggle, eh? Gotta do something about that.”

Kirishima steps out of the kitchen and tosses Bakugou bodily onto the sofa, landing with an “/ooof!/” on his ass, bouncing slightly on the wide cushions.
Bakugou props himself up on his elbows, legs still a bit wobbly, scowling.

“Who do you think you are, tossing me around in my own home?” he hisses. But the heat behind his words isn't from anger but pure lust.
“Oh I'm just a criminal beer drinker, here to snag a free meal,” Kirishima throws back.

“Freeloader, huh. Didn't get enough to eat just now?”

“Not by a long shot, princess.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later. You first.”

“I'll fight you.”
“Uh huh. Right,” Kirishima says, pinning Bakugou prone on the couch, one hand holding two wrists above his head, the other gripping a smooth-skinned thigh.
Bakugou wriggles and writhes, a serpent held by the jaw, all thrashing, unable to bite.
“Not gonna fuckin' go easy on you, Red,” he swears even as his body bucks up into Kirishima's grasp. The hand on his thigh trails up over his hip, his sides, comes to rest over his throat. The big hand is heavy, steady, unhurried.

Bakugou shivers.
“I'm counting on that. No fun otherwise. And I'm not gonna make it easy for you, either.”

Kirishima stands, his eyes nailing Bakugou in place even as he steps away. For some reason, he can't find it in him to move until Kirishima is out of the line of sight, back in the kitchen.
“Running so soon, Red?” His voice is teasing, but there's a real question under there.

“Not a chance, princess.” he says, returning all too quickly, all too slowly, all too much, not enough.
Bakugou finds himself backing away from Kirishima, pressing himself into the arm of the sofa as the other stalks forward again, hair a wild red mane, tendons tight in his neck and shoulders as he flexes his arms to pull a length of nylon strapping between his hands.

“Oh shit.”
“Oh shit, indeed.”

The couch cushions dip as Kirishima kneels forward and puts his hands either side of Bakugou's hips, the wide yellow nylon, still tight between his hands, presses down across the blond's pelvis, trapping him.


“Sit up. Turn around” Kirishima releases Bakugou long enough for the blond to right himself and kneel with his back to the room, then he's threading the end of the nylon around his waist.

He twists the two sides and drapes them back over Bakugou's shoulders before grabbing both wrists in one mighty paw. Bakugou shudders as he feels the nylon pull tight across his chest and back under his forearms to wrap around his wrists.
He can't see what Kirishima is doing, but the /zzzzhhhpp/ of nylon knots and the rough rasp of the strap's edges cutting into his skin goes straight to his head.

He hears the clack of the metal buckle and feels the strap cinch tight as Kirishima /pulls/.
His body feels cold and hot and his heart races.

Kirishima steps away then is back with the second length of nylon. He pushes Bakugou over and flips him onto his back, arms tight behind him. Then he bats Bakugou's legs apart and bends them at the knees.
With efficient movements, he wraps one, two, three loops of nylon around a bent leg, pulling tighter, tighter.

Kirishima's jaw slackens in turn, marveling at the flexibility of those hips, the swell of muscle as Bakugou's thigh is pressed against calf, heel pressed against ass.
The end of the strap is threaded up through the banded nylon across his chest and Kirishima repeats the process on the other leg. One, two, three loops. Tighten, more, more, more.

There's a buzzing along Bakugou's spine.
The final loose end he loops back through the bonds at Bakugou's wrists, pulling cinched thighs up and outward. Kirishima steps back to admire his handiwork.

Bakugou is trussed like a sacrificial offering to some ancient god.
Hips splayed, legs bent, knees to the sides and feet flexing against the strain, Bakugou breathes shallowly, his body tingling, pulling against his bindings. His arms are locked tight beneath him, his neck bent as his head is pressed against the backrest of the sofa.
His face is flushed and his cock is filling out again, exposed, centered like a lightening rod, like a lodestone.

“Can't get away now, princess. Color.”

“Green,” Bakugou spits, his head full of blood and utter need.
Then Kirishima is pulling his pants down, jeans and boxers are kicked aside and Bakugou gulps at the sight of the naked beast before him.

Thighs like tree trunks. That thick waist and solid hips holding up the mountain range of his chest and shoulders.
Long arms bunched with muscle and hair. Hands that could crush a skull.

“Great holy gods fuck,” Bakugou manages to hiss out, eyes riveted to the monster of a cock that's taking up his entire field of vision.
It's thick and ridged with veins, the uncut head points straight at him, red with want. Eyes travel the length of him and it's a long journey.


“Mmhmm. That's the point.”
“You /are/ gonna fuck me up, Red. Fuck. Where you gonna put that thing?”

“Wherever. I. Want.”

His words are as heavy and hot as the cock that stands between his legs.

He's exposed, on display, an offering to that rearing, roaring creature who looks out through Kirishima's eyes.
Those eyes. They rake over his body like hot irons, branding him with streaks of lust-laced want.
There's also a thrill of fear, of constricting terror that Bakugou lets slither through him, but he does not succumb.

No. He is the constrictor, the serpent: his very being is a coil, a knot, a sinew.

He feels his body relax into his bindings, becoming this new shape.
Kirishima hasn't even touched him yet, and Bakugou feels red eyes on him as though they were fingers, as though they were fists.

They take in the sight of red welts forming where the nylon bites into skin, where flesh bunches between the straps.
He gazes at the pretty pink of that unguarded hole, tight and waiting.


“Side table drawer.”

He fetches it.


“Green green green, come on, green!”

“Patience, princess. Don't wanna tire you out that quick.”
The cap of the lube snaps loud across the crest of their breathing, and Kirishima slicks the fingers of his right hand.

He kneels again, this time between spread legs tied tight with nylon. Up on his knees, his pelvis juts at the height of the sofa.
Bakugou can feel the heat radiating from him. He flexes his feet, rolls his ankles, can feel the tingle of his legs.

The only warning Kirishima gives is to bite his own lip as he presses two thick fingers in past the tight ring of muscle, earning a gasp, then a glare.
“Gonna make you cry, princess.”

“Do your worst, criminal.”

Those fingers push further, held firm, solid, seeking. Kirishima flexes his fingers, letting the joints ripple as he slides them in to the knuckles, coaxing.
Sweat glistens on Bakugou's chest. There's a smear of grime on his stomach from the dirty edge of the rough nylon.

Kirishima swipes at it with the thumb of his left hand, smearing the black mark until it's gone, leaving the skin red with the pressure of his rough touch.
All the while, he's pumping his fingers in and out, in and out, scissoring them, turning them - heralds of what's yet to come.

The third finger joins them, along with more lube, cold and shocking on Bakugou's inner thigh as it drips down past his balls and down his ass.
He turns his head this way and that, his feet flexing, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly. He keeps his breathing steady as he can, but he's lightheaded and breathing shallowly. His body is on fire, screaming for release of all kinds.

It's torture. It's exquisite.
“Can't hear you, princess. What happened to all your spitfire?”

“Fuck you.”

“Princess with a mouth like a whore.”

“Says the mouth so thirsty for my cock he swallowed it whole.”

“Mmmm. There's a thought.”
Suddenly Kirishima's fingers are gone and Bakugou feels himself being spun around, head dropping off the edge of the sofa, feet wedged into the backrest.

“Let's see what this whore mouth of yours can really do, huh?”
There's a flash of worry in Bakugou's eyes but it's replaced by a glare of challenge before Kirishima can pull away. He opens his mouth wide, inviting, baiting.

Kirishima rumbles deep in his chest as he takes himself in his hand and guides the tip into Bakugou's mouth.
Bakugou's tongue flicks and slides, dancing and parrying with a fencer's grace until Kirishima shoves his cock mercilessly forward. It twitches as Bakugou chokes, his face red as it hangs upside down over the sofa's edge, filling with saliva and several inches of dick.
He pulls back and Bakugou sputters, swallowing hard but opening back up defiantly.

Another push and Bakugou's throat bulges with the intrusion. It's dizzying, he can't breathe, his body is on fire and his eyes water, tears dripping down his temples, catching in his hair.
Kirishima holds himself there, breathing hard short breaths as he feels Bakugou's throat spasm around his cock from tip to base. His balls sit heavy and hot on Bakugou's face, suffocating him more.
“Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy. Gods. Oh my gods,” he chants in wonder at the creature whose body forms and reforms around his.

Then he pulls out again, and Bakugou heaves in air, coughing, ragged, and once more is filled.
Kirishima grabs at that exposed throat, squeezing gently. He feels the tightness of his own grip around his cock, through Bakguou's throat. He watches bound legs tremble and feet writhe in agony.

“Fuck, baby, you're so good for me baby take it so good take all of me all oh fuck”
Kirishima pulls out in a rush. Air floods Bakugou's mouth and lungs, blood rushes in his head and he sobs as he heaves, breath rough with the drag of cold air in his abused throat.

“You cry so pretty for me baby gonna fuck you up some more cry some more fuck you up so good...”
He spins Bakugou around again, like he weighs nothing, like he's insubstantial, a cloud. Then Kirishima's hauling Bakugou's splayed-open hips forward to the edge of the sofa, head lolling as he struggles for air, for his bearings.
There are fingers again, three this time, stretching him, rough and efficient, like they've done this a thousand times, lashing him to the mast of a ship that's breaking apart, sinking into the sea.
More lube, but the shock of the cold is welcome, a jolt that Bakugou's rolling eyes focus on.

They snap to Kirishima gripping at the nylon on his thighs, hooking fingers under tight straps for purchase as he lines that monstrosity of a cock up with his quickly-stretched hole.
All he sees is red and shadows, the late afternoon sun cut off by the backrest of the sofa, slicing the light that hits the mountain of a man.

Then all thought leaves him as the tip of Kirishima's throbbing cock breaches his body and punches all the air out of his lungs again.
It's all Bakugou can do to breathe, moaning as Kirishima lets out a growl of carnal lust, watching how that tight body takes inch after inch after inch of his cock, sinking in like the sun into the sea: inevitable, ablaze.
When Kirishima pulls back and almost completely out, the drag of his cockhead against Bakugou's prostate makes his body clench and his back arch against the bindings. A cry escapes his lips, and his eyes are leaking again.
He can't feel his legs or his arms. Even if they weren't bound and losing feeling, all the focus of his being is on the sensation of Kirishima filling him past the brim.

He's stuffed, overflowing, squeezed into the shrinking confines of his own body that threatens to burst.
It does burst, through his lungs, in a throaty moan.

Then Kirishima thrusts forward, hard, smooth as a sharpened blade into its scabbard, trailing hot fire in his wake. Bakugou screams and the nylon creaks as he strains with all his might against the bonds.
They loosen slightly, and just a hint of feeling is enough to send pins and needles racing through his veins.

Now there's speed behind the purpose, and Kirishima sets a rhythm, his knees apart as he finds the perfect height to thrust with his thighs and pull with his arms.
Bakugou feels his body hauled forward to meet the ramrod punching up into his guts.

A meaty hand presses on his stomach, and beneath the solid wire-taut bands of muscle there, Kirishima can feel the outward press of his dick.

It's insane.

He's going insane.

He fucks harder.
“Please! Please! Please! Fuck me fuck me up please oh fuck I”m dying fuck fuck fuck...”

Kirishima snarls and growls at the begging, his hips pistoning, hands like claws as they grip tighter on skin and straps.
Then suddenly he's up on the couch, hands gripping hips, knees deep in the cushions, balls-deep in this hellion of a man, fucking him downward, slamming into him so hard they'll both have bruises.
“Fuck me fuck me fuck me fill me up wreck me so good wanna cum wanna cum on you want you to cum in me wanna cum on your cock oh FUCK OH FUUUCK!”

“YES yes YES baby yes do it fucking cum you beg so pretty so good feel good feel so good do it for me cum for me baby now now now!”
Bakugou wails as his untouched cock spurts out hot white, splashing their chests, dribbling down the length of him.

His body seizes, clamping down like magnets meeting, tight and unyielding around Kirishima's cock buried deep in his body.
Kirishima cums hard, finally, his release explosive, painting Bakugou's insides with cum like lava, searing away the boundary between one and the other.

His vision goes dark for a moment but he's revived by the feeling of Bakugou still clenching, spasming around him.
Their hips buck mindlessly, still joined, still reeling, dragging in ragged breaths as they fight for air, uncertain of where the ground is.

Kirishima whimpers a little as the tight muscle clenches again, milking him, demanding. Bakugou is shaking.
Then the buckle in the front of Bakugou's chest is loosened and the entire apparatus goes slack around his chest, his lungs swelling, his head swimming with oxygen and nitrogen and sex.
Another touch here, a tug there, and Bakugou's legs scream in protest as blood floods back into his limbs. His hips ache and his feet are numb. His mind is here only here only here, and with the blood and air pumping through him he feels like he's made of flesh again.
Last are his hands, and he feels Kirishima pull him up onto his lap while reaching around to pull at the release, and his shoulders sag forward when the last of the nylon falls away.

Kirishima lays him down on the sofa and throws his flannel shirt over Bakugou's shivering body.
Unsteady legs carry him to what he assumes is the bedroom - he's right. He grabs the blanket off the bed and turns back down the hall, then the kitchen where he fills their glasses up with water.

He feels like jelly. He moves like sand. He makes it back.
Kirishima drapes the blanket over Bakugou and props couch cushions under his head, holding the glass to trembling lips.

“Drink, baby. Slowly. Drink it. So good, good.”
With extraordinary tenderness, Kirishima tightens the blanket around Bakugou and smooths the sweat-damp hair off of his forehead, placing gentle kisses there, and on his cheeks, on his nose, on his lips.

His hands shake slightly, but only from exertion. He feels so heavy.
They breathe more steadily now, and the sound evens out, comforting them. Kirishima lays his head down on Bakugou's blanket-swaddled form.

Minutes pass and all they can do is breathe.
“Fuck,” Bakugou finally says, hoarse as a drunk on a Monday.

“Yeah. Wow,” Kirishima manages to reply.

“So you're good at your job.”


“You definitely delivered.”


Hoo boy

Everybody take a break. Breathe a little. I've a mind to keep this story going.

Take it to the top: https://twitter.com/FeyPenDragon/status/1253402925453410304?s=20

QRT the thread if you'd like to shout and scream and maybe yell at me. Thanks for sticking around!
So, do we leave it here or follow these burly boys further?

What do we see next? They gonna talk, fight or fuck? Part 2 will be the next time they meet.

And I am 100% gonna let them switch, so no cryin' about bottom Kiri when we get there, binches.
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