"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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