Omg this is so hot
Cake Smash | Bakugo Katsuki X Reader | BNHA
warnings: 18+! Recreational drug use, alcohol use, mutual masturbation... spit & cum eating
wc: short! lmao
a/n: happy belated birthday, king. @thewheezingwyvern made me want to jump out of a cake for you, so the world gets this lil messy fic!
You only turn thirty once.
That’s what Kirishima’d said when he brought up his wild idea to you and your group of friends over soju and Mario Kart: “You only turn thirty once, so why not do it with a bang? Pun intended.”
Mina and Denki chuckle, Sero lights a blunt and sighs, “your proposition, Red Riot, sir?” He asks, dark eyes fixed on the towering Pro Hero before he hits it.
“We throw a big party— like, huge— then we all sing happy birthday and a stripper pops outta the giant cake,” he grins, a light dusting of pink across his cheeks and nose. Jirou’s just beat you in a one-on-one through Luigi’s castle, so you’ve squeezed between Mina and Kirishima on the sofa.
“But strippers have germs,” Denki mocks, taking the blunt from Sero, his other hand gesturing animatedly.
“One of us, then,” you interject, wriggling to rest your head on one of Kirishima’s monstrous thighs, your calves on Mina’s. “I volunteer Denki as tribute.” You snigger, watching as the blonde tries to simultaneously inhale and process your words.
“No, it’s... you, Jirou, or Mina,” Denki’s eyes bulge as he fights back the urge to cough up smoke. “He’ll attack one of us, but I don’t see him hitting a girl at his 30th,”
“Gotta agree,” Mina sighs dramatically, “unfortunately.”
“Not it,” Jirou downs a shot of soju, “‘sides, Momo’d kill me.”
“That’s fair,” you mutter, glancing over at Mina, “race for it? Loser’s stuck in the cake?” You ask, waving the joycon nonchalantly.
Her face lights up, and she catches the controller Jirou tosses at her, “you’re on.”
You grin to yourself; you’re terrible at Mario Kart.
So now you’re sitting in the cake, in a skin-tight Dynamight costume— that’s more like a long-sleeved swimsuit because Dumbass Denki ordered the sexy version— waiting for your cue: the roar of the crowd after the Happy Birthday song.
Nerves nip at your stomach and sweat starts to drip down between your shoulder blades; what the hell is Bakugo gonna say? But you can’t dwell on it, because you’re moving, being wheeled out into the function hall, the song starting.
“Fuck,” you whine to yourself, preparing to bounce up, to completely embarrass yourself in front of all his friends— your friends. Him.
Your cheeks heat when you remember the schoolgirl crush you had on him, how you’d bully and tease each other— flirtatious on your end, aggravated on his. You’d be kidding yourself if you thought age had changed the dynamic; at least now you were more subtle about it.
You sing along with the crowd in your head, silently wishing you’d had more than one shot and a couple of champagnes before getting Kirishima to lower you down into the cake, but then the crowd is cheering and it’s your turn.
Taking one for the team, you think bravely, slapping your cheeks with the tips of your fingers to hype yourself up, praying Bakugo doesn’t hate you for this.
You inhale deeply and unlatch the lock, the cake lid popping open in what almost feels like slow motion before you’re jumping up, hands in the air, a very bubbly: “Happy Birthday, Bakugo~” cheering from your lips, hands waving in the air above your head.
Confetti falls around you and people cheer, but something about your suit feels wrong. And something about the sheer size of Bakugo’s eyes looks wrong.
Your face falls as you look down and see the flimsy suit, watch as it’s quickly tearing down the centre, lacy, deep green bra on display for the entirety of the party, arms shooting down to cover yourself, whole body burning in embarrassment.
Then there’s a bang, and smoke fills the room as you’re torn from the cake and thrown over a shoulder, a muffled “dumbass,” scoffed under your saviour’s breath.
You’re both covered in cake, sitting in the bathroom, door locked.
It’s quiet, and you’re severely embarrassed, his suit jacket covering you up where you sit huddled on the floor. He’s lit his pipe, standing by the window, blowing smoke out of it, trying to keep the smell to a minimum.
“I was wondering where the hell you got to,” he starts, breaking the silence.
But shame renders you speechless.
You want to apologise, beg for forgiveness. You only turn thirty once. Kirishima’s never gonna let you live this down.
“Are you gonna show me?” He says, confusing you. He’s looking at you strangely, white sleeves rolled up his forearms, red scowl less of a scowl than usual. Curious, almost.
“Huh?” You blink dumbly, head tilting.
He takes one more inhale, exhales out the window and closes it, “aren’t you my present?”
A thrill rolls up your spine, and your eyes widen as he steps closer to you.
“I mean, it’s what I wished for when I blew out my candles,” he grins, crouching in front of you. “Maybe wishes do work? This ripped all the way down the middle.” He says, fingers dancing dangerously close to the lapel of his jacket, eyes focussed at your chest as if the material’s see-thru.
“Stop tryna make me feel better; I ruined your birthday,” you pout, upset.
“I’m not tryna do anything,” he narrows his eyes, “except maybe...” he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, “maybe tell you how I feel? God, it feels so stupid to say, but seeing you like that...”
“Bakugo?” You reach out to touch him, jacket opening and falling off a shoulder. He takes your hand in his, brings your wrist to his lips and licks at the sticky icing residue, eyes firm on yours.
Your insides tense up, your embarrassment quickly morphing into confusion, into something more rousing when he opens his mouth against the flesh of your forearm, bites you.
“Ba— ouch,” you hiss, but he’s lurching towards you, right hand sliding around your waist, the other snaking behind your neck, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Tell me no,” he demands, dead serious; his breath, mint and tobacco, fanning your face.
“I can’t,” you breathe back, cupping his jaw with both hands, smile on your face. “Happy Birthday, Katsuki,”
He groans and pulls you into his lap, his jacket falling from you completely, his hands finding your skin as his lips claim yours, “what were you doing in that fucking cake?” He almost chuckles, lips travelling your jaw, tongue at your ear.
You shiver against him, “I lost... at Mario Kart.”
“You always lose at Mario Kart,” he chuckles.
“I know,” you sigh, running your hands through his hair, pressing a chaste kiss to his exposed forehead.
His lips find your chest from his vantage point, deft fingers ridding you of your bra; soft, hungry lips suck at your flesh, teeth nipping at the thin skin as you tug at his hair, desperate for his lips on yours.
Kissing turns to heavy petting, your heart racing when he rips the suit the rest of the way to slide his hand into your underwear, rough fingers buttering you up as your own work on his belt, pawing at him until he’s hot and hard in your hands.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he hisses, toying with your slick, slippery fingers finding your clit and rolling it between them, your back arching, breasts pushing against his face as you snap your eyes shut and feel him.
“‘S good,” you moan, tears collecting in your eyes.
He smells so good, so expensive, and even with his thighs as your seat, you’re kinda dumbfounded that he shares they way you feel about him. That he likes you.
It takes you a hot minute to get used to the sensation of his fingers rolling your clit, but when you snap out of the trance he’s put you in, you pump his cock gently, committing the feel of his silky shaft to memory, wondering how it’d feel inside you.
He groans at your ministrations, spurring you to gather your saliva in your mouth, to lean back and spit the glob expertly onto the tip of his cock, giving you more slide, more speed. He shivers, face flushed red, eyes half-lidded as he pants agains your neck, sending another wave of excitement to your panties.
His fingers travel lower at your brazen assault, thick digits exploring you, his free hand fisting your hair, yanking you in closer for a kiss, a messy clash of teeth and tongues, the sensation tearing moans from your throat, because finally; finally you get to feel him like this, touch him like this.
He hits your g-spot and your vision whites, thighs desperately trying to press together as your cunt clenches, convulsing on his fingers; a high-pitched keen bubbles up your throat, only to be swallowed by Bakugo’s mouth, fingers still inside you as you practically melt against him.
“That was quick,” he gasps teasingly, pulling away from your lips, still working you through your orgasm.
“I’m...” you start, practically slurring, “god,”
He pulls his hand from your underwear, admires the slick, and wraps it around the one you have teasing his shaft, head falling back— eyes closed— as he masturbates himself with your hand, wets his cock with you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, kissing you again, admiring your body in that deep green set, wrist working overtime. You shiver under his stare, heart still racing, and you wonder if you’ll ever get used to it, if you’re gonna melt each time he looks at you.
When the haze of orgasm clears—and you realise you’re letting him get himself off on his birthday— you push him back against the tiled floor and slide down his body, opening your mouth to the head of his cock.
“Lemme help—“ you grin up at him, but his face screams panic.
Spunk— thick and white and hot— splatters across your face, catches on your lips, your tongue. He groans, slapping his free hand to his face and smacking the back of his head on the tiles.
“I literally said,” he frowns, propping up on his elbows, ready to chew you out.
But he can’t finish what he’s saying, because you’re on your knees, wiping his cum from your face with a finger and sucking it into your mouth.
He swears, long and low, but can’t look away, eyes transfixed on you, your pretty face and those perfect fingers.
“It’s kinda sweet,” you mumble, perplexed. “Like... caramel,” you cock a brow at him, meeting his stare, but he clenches his jaw, glancing away from you almost guiltily. You lean closer then, ready to question him about his change in demeanour when you feel it hard against your inner thigh.
You grin, bite your lip, “round two, birthday boy?”
He wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you closer, “yeah, two, three, and four at my place; don’t think you’re sleeping tonight, babe.”