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Osaka was the direct opposite of Tokyo – quiet, with a calmness that settled over the entire city. The bustle was vastly reduced, down to the train cars one could actually sit down in. It made sense for Kirishima to settle here, Bakugo realized as the skyline zipped by through the window, dotted with far fewer skyscrapers than he was used to.
Thinking of what the redhead might look like now, his heartbeat matched the thudding of the wheels against the rails. It had been a full year since graduation, and months of vows to meet up stretched into quarters of empty promises, typical of two people juggling newfound pro-hero careers. Finally, Kirishima invited him, of all things… To come and attend Tanabata.
Bakugo wasn’t stupid; he knew the connotations of attending a festival like that together. But he was also pragmatic to a fault. Kirishima may have been desperate to see him, yes, but not for the reasons he secretly hoped.
And that was fine. He was mentally prepared for this to amount to nothing but a get-together between two former high school mates. So he steeled his resolve and filed for three days of leave (a first in his burgeoning career) then took a bullet train straight to Osaka.
After checking into his hotel room, he reboarded a train and alighted at Namba Station. It didn’t take long to find the crepe store Kirishima mentioned, nestled between two other restaurants also brandishing displays of plastic food.
Kirishima stood there, blocking half the crepes at the window. His smile seemed different. More relaxed, as he opened his arms (which were covered in expensive leather) and crushed Bakugo to his chest. His pants were dark and form-fitting, somehow covering everything and yet hiding nothing. Hints of stubble were on his chin. The crocs were nowhere to be found, as pointy leather shoes had taken their place. A gold chain dangled from his neck, and shades were tucked into his shirt collar.
“Ugh. Fuck you,” Bakugo murmured, as he drew back, and realized that he now had to raise his chin to look the other man in the eye.
Kirishima laughed. Even his laugh was different. It was deep, natural, and easy and had Bakugo’s stomach doing flip-flops. “C’mon, you know it was only a matter of time after the other two left you in the dust.”
It was a dig at Todoroki and Deku having both shot up in height, ending up distinctly taller than Bakugo by third year. His only consolation back then was that Kirishima had caught up to him, but hadn’t surpassed him then.
That clearly wasn’t the case anymore.
But Bakugo didn’t snarl, didn’t lob insults at Kirishima or denigrate Todoroki and Deku. If Kirishima had changed, then so did Bakugo, who’d mellowed out considerably throughout his late teens. The hot temper was all for show since it (surprisingly) polled well with general audiences. But when he was off the clock? He wore a poker face almost 24/7.
He reserved his anger exclusively for villains.
“Did you have to be so bundled up? No one’s gonna recognize you here,” Kirishima laughed, fingering the lace on Bakugo’s hoodie. Which was ironic, considering his own outfit.
“This is Osaka, not the middle of nowhere,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, and it’s far more insular in terms of hero culture. I mean, no offense, but unless you’re All Might-level famous, and I’m not saying you won’t be, then you have nothing to worry about.”
And to think he’d somehow harbored feelings for this fucking dumb-ass for years. Although how this trip would unfold, he had no idea. No preference either. Any outcome, whether positive or negative, seemed terrifying beyond belief.
He’d refused Kirishima’s offer to stay with him, and alternated between mentally kicking himself and feeling relieved.
“Where to, then?” he said, slapping away Kirishima’s fingers.
“Well,” Kirishima said, baring all his teeth in a gleaming smile. He didn’t used to do it that way. “It’s not a complete Osaka extravaganza without the street food.”
So they went, getting lost in the one place harboring huge crowds. They passed alleyways that Kirishima knew by heart, the ones with giant neon animal-shaped signs dangling overhead. The place was packed with foreigners, shoppers, all too busy to spare the pro-heroes a glance as Kirishima led him through throngs of people.
“C’mon,” he said, and several times he gripped Bakugo by the elbow to steer him the right way, and Bakugo felt angry at himself for not wanting to smack away his hand.
“It’s your first time here, right?”
“No, but I’ve already tried that. Don’t like it,” he said, eyeing the Takoyaki booth that Kirishima stopped at.
“That’s why I brought you to the spicy one, dude! They have all sorts here, unlike the crappy ones served in school festivals.”
Kirishima got a batch that was served in a little boat-shaped container. He grabbed one with chopsticks and held it up to Bakugo’s face.
“S’hot, you better blow on this before swallowing.”
Bakugo’s struggled to compute the sentence, nearly going cross-eyed as the steaming Takoyaki was thrust in his face. He tried to make a grab for the chopsticks but Kirishima pulled them away.
“Someone’ll see!” Bakugo hissed, like that was the major problem. But the actual problem was that Kirishima was trying to feed him in public and part of Bakugo wanted to let him do it.
“No one’ll know it’s us,” Kirishima said with an eyeroll.
Bakugo did another glance around. He hated when people recorded him, usually sporting those ugly leers on their faces whenever they flashed their phones. Civilians expected a scandal, like it was a crime for him to behave as himself. As a beginner he’d gotten into several spats with hecklers. The PR training after that had been a pain in the ass.
He wondered what sort of damage control his agency would have to do if Red Riot was photographed feeding Ground Zero Takoyaki.
Despite his misgivings, Bakugo begrudgingly opened his mouth and Kirishima stuffed it straight in. It was good. The spice hit his tongue before anything else, and it was hot, but not overly-so. He chewed before giving a reluctant thumbs up.
“See? Even after all this time I still know you so well.”
Kirishima’s eyes twinkled as he said it, which left Bakugo more baffled than anything. He balked at social interactions, but that didn’t mean he was blind to the implications of certain behaviors. Kirishima had been acting strangely all night, his gestures increasingly intimate for someone who probably referred to him as “my buddy from back in high school.”
Bakugo schooled his features into a neutral expression. He didn’t blush.
The sky had turned dark. He wondered, when exactly where they supposed to head to Tanabata. Based on the embarrassing amount of research he’d done, it should be starting right about now. There was gonna be an illumination event, a program and a lot of booths. In preparation, he had a yukata tucked into his backpack. Black with red floral accents.
But Kirishima had no backpack, so maybe they’d head to his apartment so he could change into a yukata of his own?
Instead of either of them bringing up the event, though, they walked along the canal of Dotonbori, and Kirishima leaned against the rail and pulled out a cigarette.
“You smoke?” Bakugo asked, frowning.
“Only when I’m stressed.”
“How the fuck am I stressing you out?”
“I feel like I’m in high school again whenever I’m around you, it’s weird.”
If it were up to him, smoking would be fucking illegal. But somehow Kirishima made it look much less grotesque than it really was. He had no idea how Kirishima’s canines weren’t chomping the cigarette in half. The redhead closed his eyes and exhaled smoke with an air of sensuality. His movements were well-practiced, cigarette dangling from his fingers as his elbows stayed perched on the railing.
Bakugo stepped closer, joining him in the haze of cigarette smoke. The smell wasn’t as off-putting as he’d expected.
“Kaminari was here last week,” Kirishima said, beaming at the memory. “Man, it was epic.”
“Dunce-face?”
“Yeah, he’s based in Kobe so it’s not too far away. We hang out often, every few months. Usually party every night. Chargebolt really knows how to get down.”
Bakugo didn’t respond. He refused to be jealous of Kaminari, of all people
“Fuck, it’s boiling,” Kirishima suddenly said, apparently noticing just then that it was smack dab in the middle of summer. He pulled off his jacket. There was a tattoo on his bicep.
“The hell did you get a V for?” Bakugo asked. The ink was black, enshrouded in dark wavy lines. It would’ve looked downright ugly on anyone else. But it looked perfect on Kirishima.
“V for Vic-to-ry, it’s a word in English that means winning.”
“I know what it means!”
Kirishima flexed it, grinning, and it didn’t escape Bakugo that the word shared a meaning with his first name. He had to be reading too much into this.
It suited Kirishima, oddly enough, the tattoos and the cigarettes and the expensive cologne and body-hugging clothes. Kirishima had never stood up straighter, and his teeth and eyes shone with confidence. As a student he talked with his lips folded around his fangs. Now, he showed them off, baring them, yet blind to the effect they had on Bakugo.
Bakugo stared at the inky water and wondered what those teeth would feel like. On his lips, on his skin. Would he bleed? His heart turned traitor and beat faster.
Fuck, he was a miserable shit, wasn’t he? Daydreaming about making out with the guy next to him, despite not having seen him in a year.
Kirishima had sidled closer during his internal argument. Their arms were now touching. They gazed at each other, and Bakugo was distinctly aware that here they were in the quietest corner of Osaka, it seemed, in a spot completely devoid of people.
“What time does Tanabata start,” Bakugo asked, once staring into Kirishima’s eyes became too difficult.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Kirishima’s expression changed into one of surprise. “Wanna go straight there? It’s like three stations away on the red line. A bit of a walk.”
“Sure, if there’s some place there to change into my…” He mumbled the rest. “I brought a yukata.”
“Really? Always prepared, eh, Bakugo? Let’s pass by my place first so you can change.”
He nodded silently, not trusting what he might say if he opened his mouth.
They dropped by Kirishima’s apartment, which was essentially a recreation of his dorm room. As it turns out, some things would never change. Bakugo nearly tripped over a dumbbell on his way to the bathroom.
Otherwise, the awkwardness was kept to a minimum. Changing had been mercifully quick, until Kirishima insisted on helping him tie the obi. He stared resolutely at Kirishima’s hands for what seemed like hours, counting all the new scars.
“Aren’t you gonna change into yours?” He asked as Kirishima just stood there after, lighting up another cigarette.
“Nah, I haven’t worn a yukata in forever. Mine’s several sizes too small and all the way in my mom’s house,” he said. Bakugo was starting to feel very stupid in his yukata while the man next to him was decked out like a pimp.
“What the fuck,” he said, jerking. The material swished around his body. It felt too soft, with too few layers. “I’ll change back then, this is stupid.”
“No, you look good, dude! I can’t pull that off but you can. Come on.”
Bakugo found himself being led toward the door. It was difficult to argue with Kirishima’s hand resting on his lower back.
They headed to the venue.
It struck Bakugo that he had never been a fan of festivals as a kid. Yet he’d been so adamant to go to this one, just because Kirishima had invited him. There were couples everywhere, playing games and casting each other adoring glances.
He wondered what they were supposed to do. They weren’t a couple. They couldn’t shove each other as they took turns catching a fish with a paper net.
It seemed Kirishima soon recognized the same limitations, because he looked bored, as if seeing the ornate streamers overhead was a daily occurrence.
“Did you come here last year as well?” Bakugo asked, mentally preparing himself for Kirishima to say that he always invited one just-a-friend to festivals.
“Yeah, not much of a difference to be honest,” Kirishima laughed.
“Woah, Red Riot!”
At last, someone had recognized them – well, Kirishima, anyway, for they came out of nowhere and asked for a picture. Kirishima just grinned, soaking up the attention as the phone was thrust into Bakugo’s hands.
And it seemed, Kirishima had a new trademark flexing gesture, hardening his arm as he did so. The fan imitated the pose as Bakugo took the picture.
When they were left alone, Kirishima shrugged in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of way.
And then there was a ring.
Kirishima checked his phone. Bakugo listened to him laugh uproariously, saying vague terms like “Oh,” “No shit!”, “Seriously?”, and “What the fuuuuuck,” before he chortled again and put the phone down.
“Hey, uh, sorry for the sudden change in plans, but is it okay if we go to my friend’s party instead? He throws the coolest shit. You’ll love it.”
Would he? Bakugo wondered if Kirishima had forgotten his tendencies to slither out of every party they’d had back in high school.
“They’re all pro-heroes,” the redhead said, adding what he assumed to be another selling point.
Bakugo could not summon any enthusiasm for the idea, but he didn’t want to sound like a loser, a stick in the mud choosing the boring festival over a goddamn party. So he simply shrugged and let Kirishima call them an Uber.
Was he really the type who would go to a house party in a yukata? Apparently the answer was yes as long as it was for Kirishima. The cloth now felt constricting instead of breezy, wrapped tightly around his body.
They headed to the suburbs. The car stopped at a western-style house, one with ominous bass-heavy music that could be heard blaring from outside.
The first thing Bakugo saw when he walked in were people shooting up in the corner.
“Shouldn’t you have them arrested?” He muttered.
“They’re not hurting anyone. Besides, they’re my friends.”
“So if you saw me murdering a puppy, you’d let me go ‘cause I’m your friend?”
“Depends,” Kirishima said, smirking as he looked Bakugo up and down. “What would you offer me in exchange?”
Bakugo chose not to dignify that with an answer. His ears felt hot as he looked away.
Some people were giving him curious looks as he passed in his yukata, his sandals clacking against the hardwood. “You should’ve let me change,” he grumbled, as they crossed from the hallway into the living room.
“What, now you care about what people think of you?” Kirishima snorted. “And people are dressed up in weirder shit anyway.”
Kirishima wasn’t wrong. While no one was in their hero costumes, some get-ups were just bizarre. A few were decked out head to toe in neon, some in clothes with so many rips in them it looked like they’d been mauled. And some might’ve arrived fully dressed earlier, but Bakugo avoided looking too closely at them, as they were a few articles of clothing short while intertwined with another person.
Bakugo pointedly said nothing about the number of couples they passed, who weren’t at all shameful at being seen exchanging gestures of intimacy. Kirishima, however, did the opposite.
“Looking good, Gamma,” he said, to a guy who had a girl moaning between his legs. The guy nodded his head at them, his eyes glazed over.
In the spacious living room, there were dozens of people wandering around the carpeted floor. A large couch in the center faced a big screen TV, and the coffee table in between was littered with empty glasses and ashtrays, mixed in with more illicit materials.
Bakugo looked around. He didn’t recognize any of these so-called ‘pro-heroes’. None of them could probably scrape the top one hundred. In the past, he would’ve ragged on them for this, but right now he just had the overwhelming desire to go home. This was the crowd Kirishima ran with?
Disappointment ebbed at him as he followed the redhead, feeling like a dog, too guarded to wander off on his own.
Kirishima was now apparently the type of guy who elicited yells when he entered the room. Everyone exploded the instant he walked through the doorway, people greeting him and raising their glasses as he strode in.
Bakugo was then introduced to pro-heroes and sidekicks whose names he’d never heard of. Everyone else seemed to know him, though. Kirishima did the rounds and took him along, hand resettled on that spot on his lower back.
“Red, you never told us you were tight with Ground Zero,” one guy said, who had tiny bat wings for ears. Apparently, his name was Skyward.
“Remember Kamino? Well, guess who got him out of there?” Kirishima said, flopping down on an armchair. Bakugo reluctantly followed his cue and sat down beside Skyward on the couch, and settled his hands on his lap.
“Fuck, are you serious?”
“Yeah. I saw it all go down. I was right there in the middle of all the action.”
Bakugo wasn’t sure what to think about their big moment – the defining moment of their friendship, and maybe something more – being reduced to a fun little story told at parties. But there were whistles around them, indicating that Kirishima had gotten the reaction he wanted.
They mostly paid attention to Kirishima, who kept pouring Bakugo drinks from an opened bottle on the coffee table. Bakugo reluctantly sipped at his while Kirishima seemed to drain a glassful every few minutes, all while sharing more high school stories with his friends. His eyes soon sparkled brighter than ever, and a rosy hue bloomed on his cheeks.
Someone slammed a tray of shots down on the table and Kirishima downed three consecutively.
“Your turn,” he said, smirking as he pushed a full glass into Bakugo’s hand.
Bakugo tipped his head back and felt the burn of liquid down his throat.
“Fucking gross,” he coughed, and everyone laughed, taking that as an indication to force more beverages into him.
The night crawled on. Bakugo sat silently, his head feeling too heavy for his shoulders after a while. His own cheeks felt itchy and Kirishima’s features had gotten blurred. He could distinguish the redhead’s animated gestures, though, as he traded conversation with other partygoers. Bakugo didn’t miss the fact that Kirishima’s friends kept giving him curious glances.
“So is Ground Zero going home with anyone tonight?” Skyward asked. Bakugo’s brows met in a frown, but his tongue felt oddly flaccid, and he couldn’t muster a retort.
“Hey, cut it out,” Kirishima said for him. “He’s not that kind of guy.”
“Not what kind of guy?” Bakugo asked.
“You know,” Kirishima shrugged.
‘No, I don’t,’ Bakugo wanted to say. But moreover, he had a much stronger urge to piss, so he got to his feet and excused himself.
It took a while to find an unoccupied bathroom – all the ones he’d come across had people (mostly two, sometimes three of them or more) already in them, and he was moving a lot slower than he meant to.
He found a small powder room and did his business. As he washed his hands afterward, he smelled cigarette smoke wafting through the window. Along with it came two voices from outside.
“Ground Zero’s so… Boring in person. Isn’t he supposed to yell a lot? And what’s with the yukata?” Skyward said.
“He’s always been kinda subdued, man,” Kirishima said, slurring half the words. “Be cool.”
“Why’s he here, though? You gonna fuck him, Red?”
Kirishima snorted.
“Well, y’know… I did have a crush on him back in high school—”
Did.
That was all Bakugo needed to hear before he shuffled out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him.
He wasn’t gonna burst into tears, or blow up the house, or do anything about the ache in his chest. He wanted to ignore the inner voice taunting him that the two hour journey had been worthless, that he had wasted his very first leaves from work, and for what? To look stupid and desperate in front of Kirishima and his newfound friends.
Bakugo doubled back to the living room, glaring at anyone who dared make eye contact with him. He needed to get out of here, before he humiliated himself further. There were protests from the bodies he kept bumping into in his efforts to escape, but it’s not like it was his fault. The lighting was absolute shit and his vision and balance were both shot from all those drinks.
“Hey, where ya goin’?”
Bakugo would’ve jumped back but his reflexes were dulled. Instead he stared dumbly as Kirishima’s features finally swam into focus.
Kirishima pressed a glass of amber liquid in his hand. For some reason, Bakugo automatically drank it, despite hating every drop.
“Bakugo-o?” Kirishima said, eyes half-lidded. He looked absolutely hammered, his hair and jacket askew. Based on how much he himself had consumed, Bakugo knew he looked no better.
“M’going home,” he answered, eyes stinging. “Kirishima, this is boring as shit. You shouldn’t have brought me here.”
Bakugo turned and fixed his gaze on the door. It seemed so far away, but he didn’t want to spend another second in this hell-house. So he took a step.
“No, stay, stay,” Kirishima pleaded in a small voice, tugging on the sleeve of his yukata. Bakugo whirled around and nearly fell over in the process.
“Why?” He demanded.
“’Cause I wanna rip that thing off you,” Kirishima said, before crushing their lips together.
‘Ha?’ he nearly said, but it was eaten up in the kiss. There was a buzzing in his ears, which he soon realized were the sounds of onlookers reacting. And cheering, it seemed like.
His chest felt oddly light. Kirishima’s hand was warm on his back, tongue coaxing at his. Bakugo wasn’t an experienced kisser, but he hadn’t needed to be. Kirishima had taken control, and egged on by the people whooping and shouting, he nudged Bakugo back until his legs collided with the arm of the sofa.
He had clutched Kirishima for support, but rather than steady him, Kirishima leaned against Bakugo instead, sending him falling backward. The redhead pinned him against the cushions, and gripped his hair while he continued to try and eat Bakugo alive.
With Kirishima on top of him, it spurred on the crowd, and the shouts grew louder and louder.
Bakugo made a humming noise of approval, muffled against Kirishima’s teeth and lips. The kiss was perfect, better than he’d ever imagined. He was left breathless as Kirishima withdrew, peering down at him with darkening eyes.
Kirishima wanted him. The thought was lightning-sharp, penetrating through the cloudiness of his mind. Bakugo felt the same. His body thrummed with need, at the weight of the body on top of his.
“They want a show, huh?” Kirishima said, his voice husky. “Let’s give ‘em one.”
And suddenly Kirishima sat back, and his hands slithered under Bakugo’s yukata to pull down his boxers with one tug. “Anyone got lube?” he yelled, turning to the onlookers. Amidst the laughter, someone placed a tube in his open hand.
“W-wait,” Bakugo said, elation rapidly turning into panic. The world spun when he lifted his head, and at the same time Kirishima’s hand slipped under the yukata again and pushed a slippery finger into him.
It hurt.
“Nnnh,” Bakugo hissed, eyes falling shut. His body stiffened in alarm.
“Shh, I got you,” Kirishima whispered into his ear. He stroked at Bakugo’s hair, while his other hand remained between Bakugo’s legs, thrusting a finger in and out.
Bakugo’s eyes snapped open at the delayed realization, that Kirishima was fingering him in front of everyone! But he couldn’t protest as Kirishima kissed him again, while jointly stuffing two digits into him. Bakugo moaned in discomfort. His head was swirling, and the cheers were increasing in fervor.
It was like Kirishima had too many hands. One of them was sliding off the thin fabric of Bakugo’s yukata, pushing it to the side to expose a shoulder and he bit into it.
“Mmm!” Bakugo said in surprise, and everyone echoed his sentiment with imitations and cooing sounds. Everything was proceeding too fast and too slowly at the same time. His body was on fire, and yet his limbs felt far too relaxed, as Kirishima opened him up and kissed him deeply once more.
His torso hovered over Bakugo’s, and he lifted himself further to loosen the obi that he’d tied earlier. Once detached, the yukata fell open. Scrambling, Bakugo’s hands jumped to reclose it.
“Hey-!”
“It’s okay,” Kirishima said, tugging at Bakugo’s hands. “Let ‘em see how fucking hot you are.”
Bakugo’s robe was open. He was chilly and exposed, fear starting to ebb at the edges of his mind.
The reactions from everyone around them had taken on a different edge. There were catcalls, comments about his body and what Kirishima should do to it. There were a few compliments somewhere in there, but not the kind Bakugo had wanted to hear.
Kirishima’s tongue explored his chest. It felt strange, causing him to push his chest up instinctively, arching his back as Kirishima fingered him.
“Kiri,” Bakugo panted, clutching at Kirishima’s shoulders. “Let’s go somewhere else, dammit—” But Kirishima wasn’t listening, lost in the sensations and in the euphoria of being celebrated by the entire room.
He made a show of moaning loudly as his teeth latched onto Bakugo’s nipple and sucked. For a moment, it erased all doubts entirely. It felt heavenly, Bakugo’s eyes rolling up as an explosion of pleasure wracked through his body. But even in the haze of drunkenness, he recalled… He didn’t want people to see.
“Don’t—” he groaned, hand fisting Kirishima’s hair in an attempt to push him off.
If he could just convince Kirishima to do this at his apartment, instead of here, everything would be okay. It’s not like he hated what Kirishima was doing. In fact, it was the opposite. But a change of setting was in order. He didn’t like hearing comments on his neediness, or listening to them describe the faces and sounds he made as his nipples were sucked.
“I won’t stop, don’t worry,” Kirishima said, completely misinterpreting Bakugo’s plea. His hands closed around Bakugo’s wrists, pinning them to the couch as he did a number on Bakugo’s chest, sucking marks onto his skin.
As his nipples were teased to hardness, Bakugo whimpered and squirmed, his body was at odds with his brain. He couldn’t help but grow erect, despite being the unwilling recipient of fifty or so pairs of gazes.
He found himself bucking his hips to try and nudge Kirishima off, which turned out to be a mistake. Instead, it alerted Kirishima to how much his body enjoyed the treatment.
“Shit,” Kirishima said, staring down at Bakugo in wonder. And then he pulled himself off of him, and manhandled Bakugo off the couch.
“Suck my cock, hurry—” he was panting, as Bakugo was forced on his knees between his legs, yukata hanging off his elbows. Kirishima leaned back to free said cock from his trousers. Unlike Bakugo, he seemed completely at ease, unblinking as the hollers of his friends heightened in pitch.
Bakugo stared at the cock in surprise. The tip shone with pre-come. It stood tall, almost threateningly so. Bakugo had only just seen it, hadn’t even touched it. Yet Kirishima was expecting him to put it in his mouth? Here, in front of everyone?
“Babe, please,” Kirishima moaned. He didn’t wait for a response, his hands fisting Bakugo’s hair and dragging him forward. Bakugo’s head was forced down. He thought for a moment to keep his lips pressed together, in which case Kirishima’s cock would simply nudge at them.
But that would embarrass Kirishima, wouldn’t it? Make him look like a fool in front of his friends, if Bakugo suddenly said no?
So Bakugo opened his mouth just in time for Kirishima to attempt another shove. Bakugo choked, and people laughed. He’d never sucked dick before, and his throat was convulsing. He fought off his gag reflex, distinctly aware that phones were being pulled out.
“Oh, yeahhhh,” Kirishima crowed, throwing his head back. His hand controlled Bakugo’s movements, steering his head to continue bobbing up and down. The painful rhythm left his whole mouth aching.
“Get it, Red!” Skyward yelled.
Bakugo’s eyes filled with tears as he struggled not to gag. He could do this, make Kirishima come with his mouth alone. And then they could leave, and he would never have to see any of these voyeurs ever again.
But the same hand that kept his lips attached to Kirishima’s cock was now pulling him off.
“I need to fuck you, right the fuck now, holy shit.”
And the other party-goers… Were agreeing?
“H-Ha? What the fuck—” Bakugo tried to say, but nobody, not even Kirishima, seemed to hear him. They were too busy going wild as Kirishima ripped Bakugo’s yukata in two with his sharpened arms.
Bakugo was completely bare as he was gathered up in Kirishima’s arms and arranged on the redhead’s lap, facing the crowd instead of Kirishima's face. He reacted too late, eyes widening as Kirishima pulled a full nelson on his legs. Hands slid underneath Bakugo’s knees and locked them against his chest, folding him in half. Even if he wanted to (and it scared him, how much he still didn’t want to despite the circumstances), his weakened blasts would not affect Kirishima in the slightest.
He was pinned into a position where he had absolutely no power or freedom of movement. It wasn’t the pose itself that pained him. Bakugo was flexible, and had contorted himself in far worse ways in battle. What was devastating was being displayed this way, his body open for public viewing, and he was helpless to do anything about it.
“No, stop, wait—”
But Kirishima was pressing him down. He shouted. Or at least he must have, because his mouth was open wide in anguish, but whatever noise he made was nothing compared to the roar of approval from all directions.
Whatever Kirishima had done clearly hadn’t been enough. Bakugo’s hole refused to give way under the pressure, until Kirishima leaned forward, chest pressed to Bakugo’s back. Weight and gravity combined finally did the trick. Bakugo let out a moan as his head fell back against Kirishima’s shoulder.
“Take it,” Kirishima hissed, as the head of his cock split Bakugo open.
He had no choice, so he did, to raucous applause.
With Bakugo fully seated on Kirishima’s cock, the pain dulled into a low throb. He was sweating and gasping, trapped in the other’s arms. Someone pointed out how violently he was shaking, to which Kirishima just laughed.
“Nah, s’nothing to him,” he said, and Bakugo could smell the alcohol on his breath and feel the slide of his dick as he was lifted. His hole barely had time to close before the dick was spreading it open again, burning the whole way.
Kirishima fucked him at a breakneck speed. No one else could’ve bounced Bakugo with ease like that, using rockhard arms, his pelvis smacking Bakugo’s ass as he drove into him.
“Ah, fuck, Kiri—Ohhh,” he sobbed, and was soon reduced to sputtering out vowels.
“So slutty,” Kirishima said, sounding incredulous. “How long have you wanted this?”
He didn’t want it – not this, if 'this' referred to being used as a fleshlight in public, even if it was with Kirishima. But he couldn’t vocalize that, because Kirishima fucking into him kept punching the breath straight out of his lungs, and his gasps came out more and more desperate.
From every angle there was a face smirking back at him. Bakugo just wanted it to be over, and had to resort to squeezing his eyes shut and wishing it would be. It hurt, in every possible way, to be spread open on Kirishima’s lap as everyone commented on his prowess at taking cock and made fun of the noises that he couldn’t control.
Skyward propped his phone on the coffee table, aimed right at the two of them.
“Check this out,” he said, smirking, as the TV switched on, taking on a blue hue. He fiddled with the settings, and then—
The video flashed on the big screen TV, playing in real time.
“No,” Bakugo gasped. “No—”
Whatever the phone recorded was projected on it for everyone in the living room to see. Centered on the screen was his hole, tearing open like a seam as the head of Kirishima’s cock pierced in and out of it. It was grotesque, the closeup of their flesh sifting like one entity.
“So hot,” Kirishima said, revved up by the obscene visual. “Look, you’re swallowing me up. Your hole is so fucking eager to be filled.”
Tears sprang to Bakugo’s eyes as he was forced to watch the rim of his opening stretched wide, every time it strained to accommodate the girth of Kirishima’s cock. It hurt even more, having to both see and feel it happen.
“Moneyshot! Moneyshot!”
The rest got a chant going. Bakugo remained in place, nestled limply in Kirishima’s arms as the redhead heeded their words and came.
He saw it on screen, white fluid gathering on his rim as Kirishima’s dick pulsed. It became sleek with wetness, and then opaque fluid trickled down the shaft and dribbled out of Bakugo’s ass.
“Ohhhhhh!” The crowd yelled. Kirishima’s limp dick pulled out of the shot, only for them to cheer even more as Bakugo’s hole became the prime focus on screen, struggling to close around the leaking come. His insides were bared for everyone to see.
He sobbed, eyes turning bleary. It was over. Kirishima’s grip was loosening. His naked body was being jostled.
Another pair of arms grabbed him. Kirishima had handed him to Skyward, who took the redhead’s place on the couch, and was rearranging Bakugo’s limbs once more.
Bakugo’s heart began to pound as he saw on screen, another dick rise into frame, up to his hole.
“Fuck! Stop—” he cried out, but he was being breached by Skyward’s dick and everyone was celebrating once more.
“Where ya goin’, Red? Don’t wanna watch?”
“Gotta crash. Headache,” Kirishima groaned as he stumbled away.
“Let me go,” Bakugo demanded, but he was ignored as this man – this stranger – drilled into him with short, shallow thrusts which looked jerky on camera. The motions caused Kirishima’s come to smear around his hole, making it look sloppy. Absolutely filthy.
More people were coming closer, hands stretching out to tug at his chest and prod at his face.
Bakugo turned his head, trying to shake them off, and as he gazed at Kirishima’s disappearing back, his eyes burned with anguish and anger.