Did @FoolishFortuna order a round of Dirty Mud Boys for the table? If I get some Dirty Mud Boys for the table, will you have some??

A happy ending one-shot #kiribaku NSFW mud wrestling thread

Tuna, you're pumping out threads and fics and updates left and right, with people always "asking" for more and more, so when /you/ asked for someone to write wet and messy mud smut, I was prepared to deliver. You deserve a break

Allow me to transport you to the majestic land of bible-thumping America

General CW: Dark humor...mud wrestling...uh blasphemy motif?...hmm Chris/tian symbolism juxtaposed by gay sexual tension??

NSFW CW: wet and messy sex; sex in mud; dom/sub undertones; a hint of voyeurism/exhibitionism (really, truly, a /hint/ just a dash, for the flavor); brief choking/cutting off airflow; edging and overstimulation

As a disclaimer, Tuna knew I was planning on writing this, but she doesn't know /what/ I wrote, so if anyone for any reason takes issue with the thread or some of the themes depicted -- your issue is with me. That said, I hope you read the tags and be respectful and responsible.

A huge thank you to @KB_Shark for letting me keysmash horny ideas at you, keysmashing just as many back, and beta'ing my terrible first draft with such thoughtfulness

An Order of Dirty Mud Boys for the Table

Every fifth billboard Bakugou passed had some sort of peeling or misspelled threat pasted across it.

/You Can’t Hold Hands With God When Your Masterbating!/

The rest were blank, displaying either grimy canvas now baked sienna in the low desert heat or a marquee grid devoid of lettering.

He’d been driving for three hours along the same straight highway. He might have been going thirty-over, but it was hard to remember when the speed limit sign was replaced by a tall cactus that looked exactly the same as the one before it.

/PRAY/

The weekend’s sudden flood ruined the backpacking trip he planned three months ago. Of course, it was during the one three-day-weekend he had off work that the desert decided to rain down Hell.

He was forced to turn back only twelve miles in, the mud hot, sticky, and clinging to his boots.

/Jesus, Forgive Me.../

It would be another four hours until he got back to his apartment, and he was at a quarter of a tank. The last truck stop said the next gas station was sixty miles away, and he’d had plenty of gas to get him to the next stop.

Or so he thought.

As he pulled into the Mickey’s Gas and Stuff lot, its barren stations and boarded windows sent his heart plummeting into his gut. He parked anyway, inspecting the signs plastered to the pump kiosk screens.

He squinted at one, running his fingers underneath the frayed bottom of phone number pull-tabs. He mumbled, “Join the Christ Church for Desert Believers and have all your sins washed away by the holy powers of blah blah.” He moved on to the next one.

“Missing donkey. Comes when called; goes by Jack.” The last one caught his eye. It was the only paper not wrinkled, weather-worn, or sun-bleached. “Eleventh annual Mud Wrestling contest. Winner takes home a thousand bucks. If the rains don’t come, the hoses will.”

He snorted. Well, the rains sure fucking came. And right on time, it looked like — the contest was later today.

/Sorry sacks. Nothing better to do than roll around in fuckin’ wet dirt./

He couldn’t blame them, though. Living out here would drive anyone insane.

Sighing, he flopped back into his dust-coated hatchback and eased out of the lot, careful to speed up slowly and maintain a steady pace. If he ran out of gas out here, he was fucked.

Bakugou was fucked. He stared at his little gas gage, willing it to pop back to life with his mind. Even with the extra twenty miles of gas sloshing around at the bottom of the tank, +

he couldn’t make it to the next town, his car popping and chugging and wheezing as it crawled to the side of the highway.

He banged his forehead against the steering wheel and let out a guttural scream of rage.

This was supposed to be a relaxing weekend of hiking and camping in Dead Horse State Park: You Can't Beat It!

Yet, somehow, Bakugou found himself sitting in the stifling heat of his car in the middle of the desert, lungs dry and gear soggy, with no gas to get home and no money to get a tow.

Not that home was all that thrilling a place to get back to.

Its main attraction was its lush golf courses, infiltrated by armies of octogenarians puttering around in their carts and maintained by swindling businessmen and dwindling aquifers.

He sighed. No use just sitting here, wasting daylight. He flung his keys into his top backpack pocket, locked the doors, and trudged along the highway toward whatever sorry piece-of-shit town or rest stop cropped up through the cracks of the packed desert dirt next.

The chipped asphalt and faded road paint radiated heat, mirage-like squiggles allowing Bakugou to pretend like he had actually gone insane and all of this was fine and +

he wasn’t having the worst possible day hiking down a straight road in ninety-eight-degree weather and— /was that an actual fucking cow skull?/

Acme cartoon cow skull or not, there was a small green road sign, its reflective white print dulled to a soft brown under a curtain of orange dust.

Why 4 mi.
Skidoo 12 mi.

His destination. . . was a town called Why. It felt appropriate. At least he’d be there in an hour.

He passed another decaying billboard.

/HELL IS REAL/

Four miles had never felt so long. He tried counting the tumbleweeds to pass the time, but it just made him more exhausted, forcing his eyelids closed and sapping the energy from his legs.

Beads of sweat trailed down between his shoulder blades to pool in the creases behind his knees as he trudged into Why. For a run-down backwater town with a name that made him want to run far, far away, Bakugou had never seen a more beautiful oasis.

/Gas. . . Water. . . Water. . . Gas. . . Fucking finally./

Dozens of ladies in loose linen were shuffling out of a church that had been remodeled from a mobile carnival funhouse, its myriad layers of white paint chipping and peeling to reveal glossy fuschia underneath.

Cartoonishly large light bulbs lined its edges and corners, either burnt out or shattered. The shadow of its huge, gangly plywood cross loomed across the highway, separating the town from the outskirts of the desert in a thin, dark line.

He stepped over the shadow, crossing into the town’s threshold.

He could hear the church-goers gossip and complain while shuffling down the sidewalk toward the cushion of the rest of the town, ducking their heads toward each other and whispering as if talking about the weather were a Cardinal sin.

Bakugou spotted two women lagging behind at the back of the crowd. They were pressed tightly together in the heat of some sort of confession, but he was lost and needed water. He approached them, their conversation reaching his ears as he drew closer.

“Satan’s turning up the oven just to watch us cook!”

“I was sweatin’ like a loose-legged woman in th—”

“Where can I find a gas station?” he interrupted.

They squawked and ruffled their feathers, two white birds in a cage of their own making. Adjusting their hats and long skirts to ward off the threat of an out-of-towner, Tweety-dee and Tweety-dum blinked, looked at each other, and spun back to him.

Tweety-dee finally plucked up the courage to confront the cat pawing at the bars of their cage. “Excuse me?”

“I need water and gas,” he said. “Where can I find a gas station?”

“You’re not from around here.”

He rolled his eyes. “No sh—”

The other pigeon’s head swiveled to her flockmate. “Of course not, if he were, he’d know there’s not a station alive for twenty miles.”

Bakugou’s heart sunk to the bottom of his gut. No gas.

/For twenty fucking miles./

He sighed, hanging his head. Why wasn’t an oasis; it was a mirage wrapped in pretty heat haze and camouflaged by Bakugou’s fake sense of optimism.

The weight of his backpack hit him like a sledgehammer, forcing his shoulders down and his feet to dig dull impressions into the cement.

“Where can I get some fucking water, then?” he croaked.

“Hey now, no need to swear young man!” Tweety-dum trilled back.

Tweety-dee’s beak opened in what he guessed was a smile. “But we’ll still take you to the general store.” They linked flowing linen wings and began walking down the sidewalk.

Without any other options, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and followed the bible thumpers into town. The two women stage-whispered stimulating rhetoric about the comings and goings of a sweaty stranger hiking into town who asked about a gas station.

If he had any energy, he would’ve been impressed by their stupidity.

“Why is he hiking the highway?”

“He looks a bit of a mess.”

“He is a handsome boy, though.”

“Definitely comes from money.”

“Oh, you can practically smell it.”

“Might as well be grass stains on those shoes—”

“No amount of the desert’s fine mud could cover up that golf green!”

The ladies glanced at him over their shoulders. He glared and flicked on the pair of one-dollar sunglasses he kept stashed in his backpack.

“I bet he’ll ask for his water in a mason jar — with a metal straw!”

“Oh! Maybe he’ll request a cheese plate, what are those called- what are those called?!”

“Shar-coochie boards!”

They giggled behind their hands.

“But what in the Lord’s name is he doing all the way out here?”

“Maybe he’s. . .”

He tuned out their chirping and tittering as he waded through the crowd, wary townsfolk parting for a predator in smooth waters.

They gaped at him with limp mouths like the koi fish subjected to a life in the casino’s moat back home.

Ignoring their stares, Bakugou followed Tweety-dee and Tweety-dum into the general store.

He couldn’t afford a hundred-and-fifty dollar tow, but he could spend three bucks on a Coke. It was the least he deserved for being stranded in this zoo of a town.

Pushing past the guppies, he yanked open the drink fridge, closing his eyes and trying to picture his escape plan.

/Twenty miles. . . Maybe I can hitch a ride and back./

Cool air draped over his skin, and he breathed in the ammonia cooling agent, letting the puff of frost waft over his burning cheeks.

He swiped a soda and a bottle of water and, without waiting to pay, twisted open the lid of the Coke and guzzled half of it. The carbonation stung the back of his throat and forced tears into his eyes. He got the stink-eye from half the store.

Flicking his glasses to the top of his head, he glared back.

There goes his chance of getting a ride to the nearest gas station. Not that any of the townsfolk would let him into their car, anyway — stricken with the fear of God, and all.

He slumped down the center aisle and flopped a ten-dollar bill on the counter — a bill that he earned for himself at a job he got on his own after telling his silver spoon parents to fuck off, thank you very much.

While waiting for the red-faced cashier to count his change and avoiding suspicious eyes, a flyer next to the condoms and cigarettes caught his attention.

/Eleventh annual Mud Wrestling contest: Winner takes home one thousand dollars! If the rains don’t come, the hoses will!/

Hope fluttered in his chest, soaring up his throat and bursting out of his mouth and fingertips in an explosion of red-hot urgency. He slapped his hands down on the counter, startling the cashier. “Where is that?!” Bakugou nodded at the paper behind the guy’s head.

The cashier checked the flyer and turned back to Bakugou, looking at him like he was the idiot. “Here.”

His heart raced. He grit his teeth. “Fucking— when?!”

The cashier looked him up and down with wide, wary eyes. “Today.”

Bakugou pounded a fist on the counter. “When today, moron?”

“‘Bout an hour. Maybe two.” The cashier shrugged. “They usually start whenever church gets out and the ref is ready.”

A manic grin began to take over his cheeks. Was the church having choir practice? He swore he could hear angels singing /Hallelujah./ “Where here?”

“Half a mile down the highway, then take a right.” He slid Bakugou’s change across the counter and snapped his hands back. “The pit’s at Wood Jr.’s orchard.”

Bakugou left his change on the counter, snatched a handful of protein bars, and burst out the door. He was Southwest University’s wrestling champ four years in a row. That thousand bucks had his name on it.

By the end of the day, he’d have his car towed to the nearest gas station and be on his way back to fake grass and faker smiles — a mirage he had learned to cope with.

Walking through town, Bakugou realized it was actually bigger than he expected. The main drag boasted the general store, a hardware store, drugstore, diner, laundromat, and donut shop.

They even had a small movie theater, its /Why’s Screens/ sign nestled above the marquee, crawling high above the first floor like a ship’s figurehead.

Some of the shop windows were full to the brim with antiques, but Bakugou couldn’t tell if those were actual businesses or just secondary locations for hoarders’ nests.

Any stores that weren’t closed for lunch sat empty, their old signs and pictures still outlined in white where time, dust, and sun painted the walls around them in sepia tones.

On the main drag at home, everything was white and air-conditioned — glossy, artificial, and sterile. Shops were either owned by corporations, or they lived a short and under-performing life, only to be bought out once again.

Staring at a storefront littered with trash in the form of memories, he didn’t know which he hated more.

/All this shit and no goddamn gas station?/

He took the first right turn at an intersection with no traffic signs and watched the space between the houses grow. After another forty minutes of walking, he spotted a fenced dirt parking lot packed with trucks, hatchbacks, and dirtbikes of all sizes, years, and models.

/Rolling around in wet fucking dirt really was their main form of entertainment./

He weaved in and out of the sea of cars and followed obvious foot trails until he reached the edge of a crest.

There, he came upon what he supposed he /should’ve/ expected to see — but Bakugou realized he had no clue what he'd actually been expecting, what a mud wrestling pit looked like, or how this shit even worked. And he /definitely/ hadn't expected so many people to be here.

Hundreds of bystanders formed a half-circle around a giant ochre puddle, its borders sectioned off by orange cones. Six men and two women were standing on the other side of the puddle wearing knock-off comic book costumes.

The ref was fiddling with an A-frame sign that was obviously taken from the church, judging from the “Jesus Saves” logo on the handle.

Bakugou’s boots sank deeper into the earth as he continued down the hill, the dirt gradually transitioning into mud. He looped around the edge of the crowd and snuck past the cones to talk to the ref, +

who was too busy sliding a bible verse out of the signboard to notice Bakugou’s approach.

“Hey.”

“Mother of—!” The ref’s bleached blond hair stood on end in its sweaty ponytail. “Don’t scare your pastor like that, boy!”

Bakugou snorted. “You’re the pastor and the mud wrestling ref?”

“We multitask around here.” He stood up and dusted his hands off on his black and white uniform shirt. “What can I do ya for?”

He jutted his chin at the puddle. “Lemme join.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll win.”

“Well, usually you gotta sign up a month in advance, but we do have an odd number this year.” The pastor ref scratched his stubbly chin and squinted at Bakugou. He narrowed his eyes and squinted back.

Another beat passed before the ref shouted over his shoulder, “Hey! Wrestlers! Huddle up!”

The pack of wannabe superheroes jogged over, some of them taking care to pick up their capes, while others purposefully dragged bits of their costumes through the muck.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Bakugou Katsuki.”

Once all the wrestlers had gathered in a clumsy circle around them, a contestant sporting a dark mullet and black and white skin-tight stretch suit asked, “What’s up, Mic?”

“This strapping young gentleman would like to be added to the roster! It’s a little unorthodox, but the guys are uneven this year. What do you think?”

A dark-skinned wrestler with pink spray-in hair color and obnoxious feather boa-themed costume raised her hand.

“Do the girls get a vote?”

“Mmm,” Mic pondered. “No.”

“Let him in!” yelled a scrawny blond in a wife beater and leather chaps. “I can take him any day of the week!”

“Alriiiii—”

“Wait.” The blondie squinted at Bakugou, looking him up and down. “Take your shirt off.”

He bristled. “What the fuck?”

Some gym junkie with shoulders the size of Bakugou’s car tires completely covered in silver body glitter piped up, “No, he’s right, we need to assess your gains.”

Bakugou growled under his breath, but dropped his backpack under a tree and stripped his shirt anyway.

Tin-Man-on-Steroids nodded. “I approve.”

Blondie blanched. “Okay, I’m kind of starting to not like my odds, but it’s not like I ever win, so. . . He’s cool by me!”

Mullet Man agreed, but the other three men looked wary.

/Wait, three? Thought they had an odd number. . ./

“Oh, c’mon.” A deep voice sounded from behind him. “Let him wrestle with us.”

He spun to meet one /Hell/ of a face.

Skin the color of burnt sugar glowed in the warm afternoon. Small red eyebrows rested unconcerned over large, heavily-lashed eyes, hooded against the barrage of the desert sun. The sliver of iris trained on Bakugou glowed red neon.

A strong nose bridged the length of his face in an even curve. Spiked, saturated red hair framed ruddy cheekbones that matched the color of his lips, now directed at Bakugou in a small smile.

“That makes four votes for yes,” continued the stranger. “You’re in.” His smile widened, sharp canines poking at a bottom lip just a hair plumper than the top, and he leaned forward, his nose even with Bakugou’s. “Let’s see if you can take me on.”

Straightening, he clapped Bakugou on the shoulder and joined the other side of the circle. His loose white tee shirt and baggy red pants did nothing to hide his build, and Bakugou felt his pulse spike. This was going to be more fun than he anticipated.

Mic broke the tense silence. “Alriiight! The reigning champ says the newbie gets to fight! Obviously, most of you already know the rules, but for the sake of the game and our new contestant, let’s go over them once more.”

He held up a finger. “No kicking, biting, hair pulling, crotch shots, or yo-mama jokes.” His middle finger joined his pointer in the air. “My word is final.”

A third finger lifted. “If one of you taps out, becomes injured, or gets their mouth and nose pushed into the mud the match is called and you lose automatically.” He looked around. “Sound good?” They all nodded their consent and he lowered his hand, continuing.

“Good. Ladies, as usual, since there’s only two of you, you’ll be going first this year. Bakugou, you’re starting at the bottom of the leaderboard since you’re new. Everyone else is placed based on where they ranked last year.”

Bakugou grunted in acceptance but stopped listening, returning his focus to the wrestler with the shitty drugstore-colored hair.

Hot desert air scorched Bakugou’s blown out eyes as he watched the champ tug on the neck of his shirt and pull it over his head. The other wrestlers shouted in excitement, but it was just fuzz in his ears. He blinked and looked around, reminding himself to breathe.

His eyes snapped back to the now very shirtless, very sculpted, very tattooed reigning champ. His eyes roamed over his opponent, sizing him up, looking for weaknesses among the perfection. This was who he needed to beat.

On top of tan skin lay patches of dark tattoos, too far away and too detailed for Bakugou to make out. Very interesting. Definitely worth noting. Especially the design on his ribs. And the ink that poked out of his waistband, where the lines of his Adonis belt cast shadows.

Oh, and the art that curled under a full, muscular pec. Yes, it was important to pay close attention to these features — /for their upcoming fight./

It was particularly important to note the way the muscles underneath the skin writhed and bulged with every small movement.

Bakugou gauged his opponent’s strength with how his biceps ballooned when he curled his hand near his chest and the way sharp crevasses formed between his abs when he laughed. He laughed a lot.

Perhaps most important were the dimples resting just above the swell of his ass, anchored there by the deep line of his spine. He and Bakugou were about the same height, and this guy had more muscle, but Bakugou had big hands.

He could probably hold down the champ’s waist while digging his thumbs into those dimples.

Yes, all /very/ good things to think about.

As he trailed his gaze up his opponent’s spine, he caught a questioning eye looking back at him over a broad shoulder.

Bakugou locked onto that eye and smiled, running his tongue over his canines. He would win this ridiculous contest, grab the thousand bucks, and get back home, but he wouldn’t complain about wrestling with the champ to do it.

“/ALRIIIIGHT!/” Mic screeched at the crowd, breaking Bakugou’s reverie. “Who’s ready to get /muddaaayyy?!/” The crowd yelled back. “Let’s welcome our girls into the pit — Pinkyyy and Uravityyy!”

The ripped cotton candy-colored chick ended up beating the busty brunette, their cheeks flushed bright pink after the match. Bakugou wasn’t sure if it was because of the exertion, the rush, or the embarrassment.

Either way, he didn’t care enough to think any more about it nor did he have the time. He was up.

“Starting us off with the men’s group we have — drum roll please! — our very ooowwwn /Chargebolt!/”

The mass of spectators cheered while Blondie threw his tank top into the crowd, waving his scrawny arms. “And please welcome our newcomer! Bakugooouuuu /Katsuki!/”

The crowd booed, but he didn’t care; this wasn’t a popularity contest.

He ripped off his boots and socks, leaving him in just his athletic shorts, and moved to stand on the edge of the mud circle. The mud was squishy and warm between his toes; there wasn’t an ounce of grittiness to it.

Blondie strolled fully into the pit, jeans, leather chaps, and all. Bakugou scoffed.

/No wonder this idiot took last place./

“At the sound of the horn, you may begin!”

Mic paused for dramatic effect. Bakugou stomped into the pit, securing his footing and taking a low stance.

The horn blew, and Bakugou charged.

Blondie clearly wasn’t expecting a headstrong approach, and he completely clammed up, hands outstretched in a sad excuse for a guard. Bakugou rushed within grappling range, dropping one knee into the mud.

He wrapped his left arm around the back of Blondie’s thigh and jabbed his right hand into the back of his other knee.

Shoving his shoulder into Chargebolt’s chest, he pushed up, forcing the smaller man off his feet and into the mud. He landed on his back with a /splat./

Bakugou covered him, grabbing his arms and showing the pastor a clear and obvious pin.

The horn sounded again. He lifted off the stunned man and out of the pit, his legs coated in mud so smooth it almost felt like paint.

The crowd was quiet. The pastor even took a moment to shake himself before shouting, “A- Alright! Newcomer pins Chargebolt in three seconds flat!” He cleared his throat, looking at the other wrestlers. “Let’s give it up for Chargebolt!”

The crowd gave a sympathetic round of applause as Mullet Man helped Blondie out of the mud.

As Bakugou took long strides over hot dirt to the water cooler, he felt red-hot eyes on his back. If the champ wanted another show, Bakugou would indulge the request.

Filling his cup, he tipped his face forward and poured the contents over the back of his head, letting the icy liquid roll down his back and shoulders. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but it wasn’t from the cold water.

His chest felt a little flushed, too — it didn’t get muddy at all during his match. He refilled his cup and twisted to the side, tilting his head back and pouring water down the front of his neck, letting it flow down the dips of his chest and stomach.

Crumpling the cup, he spun around to face the pit.

Red neon eyes were watching him over a tattooed shoulder. He smirked back.

The ref blasted the horn, announcing the next set of wrestlers. “Let’s give it up for Cellophane! And can I hear it for Tail Man?!”

Their fight wasn’t anything to write home about. Mullet Man — Cellophane, apparently — was lanky and slippery, but he was outclassed. Tail Man pinned him in a headlock within two or three minutes.

The next on the leaderboard was a hulking man, whose father was probably also his uncle, paired with a germaphobe who must have been the only nerd in the whole town.

His glasses were hidden beneath the same clear goggles that Bakugou had only ever seen old men strap to their wrinkly faces before waddling to the racquetball courts.

Although the nerd was fast, he was too robotic; the giant pinned him in a messy bear hug takedown. Based on Four Eye’s repulsion of the mud, Bakugou would’ve bet he hadn’t planned on progressing past Round One.

“Now for the last of the qualifying round! The rivals go at it again! Give it up for Reeeaaal /Steel!/” Tin Man jogged forward, waving enthusiastically even though he couldn’t raise his hands all the way above his head.

“And the man you’ve all been waiting for! Our reigning champ /eight years in a row/. . . Wet! Rioooooot!”

The crowd hooted, hollered, and screamed as Wet Riot walked into the pit, his smile dripping sucrose. Bakugou scoffed. He might as well have been kissing babies’ foreheads and signing his autograph on fans’ cleavage.

The horn blared, and Riot sprang to action.

They were slightly more entertaining to watch, if only because Riot led their game of pathetic tag. Bakugou had to pay close attention for his upcoming fight with the champ, after all.

And maybe Wet Riot looked prettier than he should, wet, slick, and covered in mud.

Riot dragged Tin Man around the pit in circles, hyping up the crowd and putting on a show. When the two of them were huffing and puffing, their feet lugging through the sludge, Riot finally slammed his opponent down in a double underhook. Mic blew the horn.

“/And that’s it!/ Wet Riot has taken down Real Steel! The qualifying round is /oveeerrrr!/ After the break, we’ll see The Newbie take on Tail Man!” Half the crowd booed; the other half cheered. “While Tentacole faces off against Wet Riot!”

The spectators frothed at the mouth at that news.

Juice boxes and orange slices were passed around, and Bakugou felt less like a wrestling champ and more like a Little Leaguer, but he’d had more than enough time to sit around and wait. He was ready for more.

His fight with Tail Man was at least more of a challenge than Chargebolt gave him. His opponent was more confident in the mud, but Bakugou had more wrestling skill and experience; he took Tail Man down in just a few minutes with a simple leg trip.

The crowd seemed to be warming up to his talent, but no one liked his lack of showmanship, awwing and booing his swift takedowns as if they were in Ancient Rome and this was their bloodsport.

“Please welcome to the pit: Tentacoooole!”

/Tentacole? This guy was definitely someone’s cousin/ and /brother./

“Up against. . . The one— the only— Wet! /Riot!/”

Riot strode into the pit, crouching down in front of his opponent. Just before the horn blew, he locked eyes with Bakugou— and /winked./

Mic blew the horn and the wrestlers set off in a blur of motion. Bakugou’s ears filled with cotton and his blood ran hot through his arms.

/The fucker winked at me./

Distantly, the horn blew again. Somehow, the match ended, and Bakugou had no idea how much time had passed. He was far too distracted watching Riot lumber out of the pit, his chest and shoulders glossy in the fading light of the afternoon.

He made a beeline for Mic, watching Bakugou over the ref’s shoulder.

Bakugou grinned. /I’m gonna wreck him,/ he thought.

Mic turned to look at him in surprise as Riot made his way to the water cooler. Not wasting any time, Bakugou approached the ref.

“What were you and Shitty Hair talking about?” he asked.

“Uh. . . Would you feel ready enough to start your match early?”

“I’ve fucking /been/ ready.”

“Really taking the bull by the horns, huh, kid?” Mic laughed. “Once Riot’s had a chance to take a breather, we’ll get the championship match up and running!”

As Mic walked off, Bakugou caught Riot’s eye. He was wiping mud from his torso, digging his hands into wet skin and flicking off the muck. Dragging his hands back up, he cupped his pecs, letting them go with a firm jiggle. Bakugou couldn’t help but imagine those hands as his own.

He took a steadying breath and stomped into the pit, lifting a challenging eyebrow. Riot took his time strolling over.

“Let’s hear it for our final competitors! Who will be this year’s champ?!” The crowd clapped and whooped. “At the sound of the horn, fellas!”

They faced each other in the ring, Riot still covered in slick mud and Bakugou dry from the waist up. Two sets of red eyes met and heat flashed through Bakugou’s chest down to his fingers.

The two men crouched. The horn blasted across the pit. They lunged for each other.

Bakugou swiped low, grabbing at Riot’s legs. Riot twisted out of his reach, hammering a blow with both fists down onto his back. Bakugou wheezed and tumbled forward; he righted, spinning to face his opponent.

He grinned and wiped the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. Riot charged.

They met in a clash of wet skin and hard limbs, their hands gliding off and away with each fleeting grasp. They slid across their knees, palms, and elbows, all grace from their previous matches lost to the heat of their fight.

They brushed skin and grazed hips as their grappling devolved into something messier, more heated.

The cheers escalated into a crescendo of redneck madness as Wet Riot slammed him onto his back, watery mud bursting around him. Bakugou’s opponent loomed over him, wet hands gripping his biceps and strong thighs clenching around his waist, sucking him closer, tighter.

His eyes shifted from Bakugou’s chest to the crowd and back.

Riot was hesitating.

Staring at Bakugou’s pecs, plump and pushed together to shove back against Riot’s middle, his mask of confidence was beginning to crack.

Bakugou sneered. “Are you nervous, Riot?”

His opponent’s eyes shot back up to meet his own, glowing in the haze of sunset. His face hardened again; Bakugou laughed.

He brought his hands from Riot’s slippery middle to his wrists, slapping them away while lifting his hips. He heard Riot’s quick gasp and their slick hips ground against each other.

The other man rolled off and away from him, his hands sending the mud splashing around them as he readjusted to kneeling. Bakugou lifted to a crouch. He launched himself at his opponent.

Riot met his grip, their foreheads slamming together as they clutched at each other’s slick forearms and biceps.

“Do you think they know?” he whispered against his opponent’s lips. Through the mud, Riot’s face drained of color. Bakugou thrust forward, pushing Riot onto his ass and forcing his way between his legs.

Riot was /definitely/ not wearing a cup.

Bakugou huffed out a harsh breath as his hips collided against his opponent’s, and he pushed him deeper into the mud. He pinned Riot’s arms above his head with both hands and ground their wet chests together.

But Riot was focused on something else.

His gaze flicked back and forth between Bakugou’s face and the cheering crowd. Bakugou took one hand off his wrists and grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

“And who are you looking at?” he growled. “You should be paying attention to /me./”

Riot bared his fangs and ripped his arms from Bakugou’s grasp. He hooked a heel behind Bakugou’s thigh and twisted his hips. He switched their positions, slamming Bakugou into the mud again.

He slipped one arm under Bakugou’s neck and the other under his waist, flipping him face-first into the mud. One of Riot’s hands pinned his arm behind his back.

He felt the smooth skin of Riot’s chest press over it, another set of hard fingers dig into his neck, and full lips graze across his ear.

“Don’t worry.” Riot’s baritone came out breathless. Long fingers slid into Bakugou’s hair and pulled his head back from the ground; he gasped. “You've got my attention."

The Top: https://twitter.com/Belleaustwrites/status/1330231426290241536?s=20

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679481/chapters/67737173