Chapter 2: Shower Aftermath
The locker room after a full-agency training drill was a temple of exhaustion. The air hung thick with the smell of chlorine from the panic-room sprinklers, burnt sugar from Bakugo’s quirk, and the deep, salty musk of spent adrenaline. Shinso leaned against a bank of lockers, unwinding the binding cloth from his forearms with slow, methodical tugs. His body ached pleasantly, but his mind was a prowling thing, detached, observing.Most of the others had already showered and left. The cavernous space echoed with the distant sound of water from one remaining stall.And voices. Muffled by the rush and the tile, but distinct.“…the hell was that, Shitty Hair? Your hardening faltered on the left flank. I had to cover your amateur ass.”
“Hey, man, we all got singed a little! That new villain-bot’s flash-bang setting was no joke.Blinded me for a sec.”
“A ‘sec’ gets you killed. Or worse, gets me killed.”
A rough laugh, then the sound of a slap on wet skin. “You’re such a drama queen. C’mon, you’re the one who pushed for the aggressive takedown. Worked, didn’t it?”
Shinso froze, a length of grey cloth suspended in his hands.He knew that dynamic. Kirishima’s unshakeable, grinning durability meeting Bakugo’s serrated perfectionism. He stared at the veils of steam drifting from the partially open shower door.
His feet carried him forward, silent on the damp floor. He stopped just outside the line of steam, hidden by a tall, wheeled bin of used towels.The acoustics here were better. He could hear the drip of water from their bodies, the slick sound of a bar of soap being worked into lather.
“Just wash your damn back so we can go.I’m starving,” Bakugo grumbled.
“Yeah, yeah, hold still, you baby.”
There was a shift in the water’s pattern, a splatter against the floor that wasn’t from the showerhead. A sharp intake of breath, barely audible over the spray.“The fuck are you doing?”
“Your back’s all tensed up, man. Like a rock. Just… relax.”
“I don’t need a fucking massage, Hair-for-Brains.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re wound so tight you’re gonna snap.”
Silence, save for the water.Shinso closed his eyes, his own breathing shallow. The image built itself behind his eyelids, detail by damning detail.
Kirishima, bigger, broader, his red hair darkened to burgundy by the water, his hardened skin glistening under the fluorescent light bleeding through the steam. Bakugo, facing the tile, his head bowed slightly, water sluicing down the carved channels of his back, over the taut globes of his ass. Kirishima’s hands, no longer just washing, were moving with a different purpose. They slid over slick shoulders, down the ridge of Bakugo’s spine, possessive and sure.
In Shinso’s mind, Kirishima wouldn’t ask.He’d act. The fantasy unspooled with a brutal clarity.
One hardened hand would come up, not rough but inexorable, to tangle in that wet, spiky ash-blonde hair. It wouldn’t be a yank, just firm pressure, tilting Bakugo’s head back, exposing the line of his throat.A warning.A claim.
“Kirishima,” Bakugo would snarl, but it would be strained, a protest without conviction.
“Just shut up for once, Bakugo.” Kirishima’s other hand, slick with soap, would slide down, past the small of his back, over the curve of his ass. A thumb, rough and insistent, would press against his hole.
Bakugo would jerk, a full-body flinch, his hands slapping against the cold tile for purchase. “Don’t—”
But the thumb would circle, relentless, a maddening pressure against that virgin tightness. In the fantasy, Shinso could almost smell the clean, impersonal scent of agency soap mixing with the intimate, salty sweat of Bakugo’s skin.
“You’re so tight,” Kirishima’s voice would be a low rumble in his ear, almost lost in the shower’s drone.“Christ. You’ve never done this, have you?”
Bakugo wouldn’t answer.His pride would choke the words. His silence would be confession enough.
Kirishima would spit, a crude, practical gesture, adding his own slick to the soap.A finger, blunt and insistent, would press inside, just past the knuckle.
Bakugo’s gasp would be sharp, painful, swallowed by the steam. His body would bow, a tense arc of resistance. Kirishima would hold him steady by the hair, working that finger in slowly, agonizingly, feeling the impossible, clenching heat inside him. “Fuck,” Kirishima would breathe, awed and hungry. “You’re gonna take me so good.”
The preparation would be minimal.Just enough. Kirishima was never one for excessive finesse. He’d line himself up, his thick, hard cock pressing against that resistant pucker. Bakugo would be trembling now, fine tremors running through his thighs and shoulders, his forehead pressed to the tile, eyes squeezed shut.Not in pleasure.In sheer, overwhelming sensation.
“Relax, man,” Kirishima would murmur, but it would sound like a command. And then he’d push.The fantasy rendered it in visceral detail: the brutal, burning stretch. The way Bakugo’s body would fight it instinctively, clamping down, only making it worse. The choked, guttural sound forced from his lungs—not a scream, something more animal and broken. Kirishima would sink deeper, his own grunt of effort mingling with Bakugo’s pained gasp. He wouldn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, until his hips were flush against Bakugo’s ass, until he owned every inch of that sacred, untouched space.
For a moment, there would be stillness.Just the sound of rushing water and ragged breathing. Bakugo, impaled, shocked into silence. Kirishima, buried inside that impossible heat, fighting his own urge to move.Then, he would move.
His thrusts would start slow, testing, each one punching a sharp, damp sound from Bakugo’s lips. But soon, the pace would build, driven by Kirishima’s raw, grinning intensity. It would be a pounding, piston-like rhythm, the slap of wet skin echoing off the tiles, a brutal counterpoint to the shower’s spray. Bakugo would be driven forward with each slam, his hands scrabbling against the slick wall, finding no purchase.
“That’s it,” Kirishima would grunt, his voice thick.“Take it.You wanted to be the best?Here. Take all of it.”
Bakugo’s pride would be shattered with each deep drive. His responses would devolve from curses to ragged moans, to broken, hiccupping sounds he couldn’t control. His body, trained for combat, would be forced into a different kind of submission, rocked and used, the pleasure a betrayed and inevitable rising tide within the pain. He would come, untouched, with a shattered cry, his body seizing violently around Kirishima’s cock, his release washed away by the water almost instantly. Kirishima would follow, roaring, pounding into him through the aftershocks, claiming him utterly, leaving him filled and trembling.The water would shut off.
The sudden silence in the real locker room was a physical slap.Shinso opened his eyes, blinking in the dim light. He was painfully hard, the fabric of his gear strained.His heart hammered against his ribs.
From the shower stall, the sounds were mundane again.The slap of a towel. The rustle of clothing.
“—gonna eat that whole mountain of yakiniku yourself or what?”
“Damn right I am. Earned it.”
Their voices faded as they moved out, down the far corridor toward the exits.Shinso let out a long, slow breath.The air felt cold on his skin. He looked down at his own trembling hands, then toward the empty, still-dripping shower stall. The fantasy had been so vivid it left a residue, a psychic scent in the steamy air.
He wasn’t amused anymore. The arousal was still there, a hot, insistent knot, but it was fused now with a sharper, more focused intent. The rumor was no longer a abstract puzzle. It was a tangible possibility, echoing in the empty space where Bakugo had just stood, raw and exposed under the fluorescent lights.
Shinso finally moved, gathering his things with robotic precision.The professional curiosity had morphed into something darker, more possessive.He wanted to know. Not just speculate.To see, firsthand, if the fortress had a gate, and what lay behind it.
As he shouldered his bag and walked out into the cool evening air, the image of Bakugo, pinned and trembling, wouldn’t fade.It wasn’t about Kirishima. It was about the vulnerability. And Shinso knew, with a calm, dark certainty, that he was going to find a way to see it for himself. The study had just become a hunt.