“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.

“/Fuck./”

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.

“Lube?”

“Side table drawer.”

He fetches it.

“Color?”

“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.”

“Huh?”

“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.