Chapter 1: The Shower Stall Game of Control
The water was scalding, just how she liked it. Steam curled in thick clouds, fogging the stark white tiles of the U.A. communal showers. Naomi tilted her head back, letting the jet pummel her neck and shoulders, working out the deep ache from today’s brutal combat drills. The heat mirrored her own quirk, a comforting embrace. Her platinum hair, a heavy, wet rope down to the swell of her ass, stuck to her skin.
She heard the distant bang of a locker, the echo of voices far down the hall. The boys’ shower block was adjacent, separated only by a wall and a shared ventilation system that sometimes carried laughter, sometimes arguments. It was usually empty this late. She’d counted on that.
Soap slid over her breasts, her hands moving in brisk, practical circles. She was aware of her body—how could she not be, with the stares that followed her in the halls—but here, under the water, it was just hers. A tool. A weapon. A thing that ached and needed cleaning.
The curtain to her stall ripped back with a violent rattle.
A body slammed into her, all hard muscle and frantic heat. A large, calloused hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her instinctive shout. Her back hit the cold tile wall, the shock of it stealing her breath.
Katsuki.
Naked. Soaking wet. His spiky ash-blond hair was darkened by water, plastered to his forehead. His red eyes were wide, not with fear, but with fierce, urgent warning. He shook his head once, a sharp, minute motion. His other hand came up, a finger pressed to his own lips.
Shut up.
Her own eyes blazed back at him, a silent scream of what the fuck are you doing? She could feel every ridge of his abdomen against her stomach, the powerful line of his thighs against hers. Water from his skin seeped into hers. He was… enormous everywhere. The thought was intrusive, clinical, and utterly undeniable.
Then she heard them.
The pack of voices spilled into the shower room, loud and boisterous, bouncing off the tiles. First years, by the sound of it, drunk on post-training adrenaline.
“…fucking exhausted, man. I thought my arms were gonna fall off.”
“Worth it to see Hino in that sparring match, though. Holy shit.”
Naomi went rigid. Katsuki’s hand tightened over her mouth. His eyes narrowed, but his gaze didn’t leave hers. A weird, almost amused glint flickered in the crimson depths. See? it seemed to say. Oblivious my ass.
“Which one? The ice queen with the big tits or the one who nearly incinerated Sector 3?”
“The fire one, you idiot. Naomi. Fuck, did you see her when she powered up? That suit just… stretches.”
A crude laugh. “Forgets to wear a bra, I swear to god. It’s a public service.”
Naomi felt a hot flush that had nothing to do with the shower. Humiliation, then fury, burned through her veins. She tried to shove Katsuki off, but he didn’t budge. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His breath was hot.
“Move and they’ll see you,” he whispered, the vibration a low rumble against her. “You wanna give them a real show?”
She stilled. The logic was infuriating, but sound. Trapped.
“I’d let her heal me any day,” another voice chimed in, followed by the sound of a showerhead squeaking on. “Bet her quirk feels amazing. All warm and tingly.”
“You’re a sick fuck. I just wanna know what that mouth is like when it’s not yelling at someone. Bet she’s a biter.”
“Nah, man. Girls like that, all that fire? It’s a front. Probably just lies there. Pretty to look at, though. That ass in those leggings…”
The descriptions grew more graphic, more degrading. Each word was a slap. Naomi trembled, her fists clenched at her sides. Katsuki’s body was a cage of solid heat against her, holding her up, holding her in. His hand over her mouth was a brand.
Then he did something inexplicable.
He raised his voice, just slightly, altering its timbre to blend with the echo. “Shut the hell up and wash,” he growled toward the curtain, the sound mingling with the water. “You sound like a bunch of virgins.”
A beat of silence from the other stalls. Then laughter.
“Who’s that? Bakugo?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Katsuki barked back, his eyes locked on Naomi’s. His thumb moved, almost imperceptibly, stroking the corner of her sealed lips. A parody of a caress. “But the shithead’s not wrong about the ass. It’s a fucking masterpiece.”
The boys whooped. The conversation resumed, now emboldened, including him in their crude fellowship.
Naomi’s blue eyes widened in pure, unadulterated betrayal. She jerked against him. He shifted, pinning her more firmly. The movement dragged his hardening length against her thigh.
Oh.
Oh, god.
It was thick, and hot, and insistent. A shocking, solid reality against her skin. Her breath hitched, a muffled sound against his palm. This wasn’t just hiding anymore. This was something else.
Katsuki’s expression changed. The amused glint vanished, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He could feel her shock, her fury, the way her whole body was reacting to the proximity. His hips gave a tiny, deliberate roll.
The friction was electric. A bolt of pure, undiluted sensation shot straight to her core, which clenched, empty and suddenly aching. Her nipples, pebbled tight from the cool air and the shock, brushed against his chest. A soft, traitorous sound escaped her, trapped by his hand.
“They’re not leaving,” he breathed into her ear, his voice a rough scrape. “Gonna be here all night talking about how they wanna bend you over a training dummy.”
His words were filthy, an extension of the talk outside, but they were for her. A direct, vicious provocation. His hand left her mouth, sliding down to grip her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass. He pulled her tighter against his erection, letting her feel every inch.
She gasped, her head falling back against the tile. “Bastard,” she whispered, the word having no force.
“You like it,” he murmured, his mouth trailing down her neck. “I can feel you. You’re dripping, Naomi.”
She was. A hot, slick rush between her legs that had nothing to do with the shower spray. Shame warred with a blinding, consuming need. He was right. They were right there, three stalls down, laughing, talking about her, and she was pressed against their loudest, crudest commentator, getting wet for him.
His other hand came up, cupping her breast, his thumb swiping over the tight peak. He pinched, not gently. A sharp, bright pain that melted instantly into a deep throb.
“Think they’d come if they knew?” he whispered, sucking a mark onto her collarbone. “If they knew the ice queen was getting fucked in the next stall while they jerked off to the thought of her?”
“Katsuki,” she pleaded, but she was arching into his touch, her hands coming up to claw at his shoulders.
“Say it. Say you want it.”
She couldn’t. Her pride was a shattered thing at her feet. She just rocked her hips, meeting that slow, grinding roll of his.
It was enough.
He turned her around, his body a shield between her and the curtain. His arm banded across her chest, hand groping her breast again, pulling her flush against him. The head of his cock nudged at her entrance from behind.
“They hear you, and we’re both fucked,” he warned, but it was a thrill in his voice, not a fear.
He didn’t ask again. He just pushed.
The stretch was brutal, unimaginable. She was virgin-tight, and he was huge. A ragged cry tore from her throat, which he muffled by biting down on her shoulder. He fed himself into her inch by agonizing, incredible inch, the burn a white-hot brand that slowly gave way to a devastating, full feeling. She was split open on him, stuffed to the brim.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead dropping against her wet hair. “Fucking… like a vise.”
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. The danger, the crude commentary still floating over the shower spray, it was all a drug. He pulled back and slammed home.
Naomi saw stars. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the shower pipe. Each drive was a jolt that shook her to her teeth. The slap of wet skin, their harsh, panting breaths—she was sure it was echoing, sure they would hear. The risk was a live wire in her gut, coiling tighter and tighter.
“You hear that?” one of the guys outside yelled. “Sounds like someone’s drowning a rat!”
Katsuki fucked her harder, deeper, a punishing rhythm that stole the air from her lungs. “Yeah,” he called back, his voice strained but convincingly annoyed. “Pipe’s fucked. Now hurry the hell up.”
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rough and demanding. The dual assault was too much. The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her, silent and violent, her inner muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses that milked a guttural groan from his throat.
He followed her over, his own release hot and sudden inside her, his hips stuttering against her ass as he emptied himself with a final, deep thrust. For a long moment, the only sounds were the water, the distant voices, and their ragged breathing.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. She felt the sudden, empty ache, the trickle of their mixed fluids down her thigh. She couldn’t move.
The voices outside began to fade, footsteps retreating, towels snapping. A final, distant laugh. The door swung shut with a heavy clang.
Silence, but for the drip of water.
Katsuki stepped back. He didn’t look at her. He turned his shower on, the water hitting his back as he braced his hands against the wall, head hanging.
Naomi finally moved, her limbs feeling like lead. She rinsed off mechanically, the water now feeling cold and meaningless. She pulled her curtain closed, a flimsy barrier.
Neither of them spoke a word. The steam began to dissipate, revealing the harsh, clean lines of the empty room. What had just happened hung in the air, thicker than the fog, a complication with no name, and no clear way forward.