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character: bakugou_katsuki
1boy, solo, muscular, bakugou_katsuki, short spiked blonde hair, red eyes, UA gym uniform, white socks, kneeling, cramped locker interior, confined space, ankles taped together, knees taped together, black tape around thighs, black tape around arms, black tape around wrists, black tape around elbows, black tape around shoulders, black tape around torso, black tape around chest, hands behind back, arms behind back, tape gag, multiple layers of black tape over mouth, blushing, angry, strained expression, gritted teeth under tape, furrowed brows, struggling, wriggling, squirming, from side, close-up, dark, low light, single crack of light, chiaroscuro, sweat, tense muscles, veiled eyes, heavy breathing, clenched fists behind back, dramatic shadow, dutch angle, perspire, quivering.
The view is a tight from-side three-quarter angle inside the coffin-narrow locker, camera tilted a few degrees off level so the vertical seams of the metal walls lean in on him: a muscular young man with short spiked blonde hair and red eyes is folded into the cramped interior, knees down on the cold metal floor, thighs slightly apart, torso pressed flush against the back wall, one shoulder wedged into the corner where two panels meet so his weight sags onto that elbow. His full UA gym uniform is on him — the blue track top stretched tight over thick chest and rounded deltoids, the dark trousers bunched at the crotch and knees from the kneel — and pale white socks cover his feet, toes curled and heel lifting against the floor as he shifts. Thin but absolutely tight black tape circles his ankles in several overlapping turns, cinching them together, and again at the knees, pulling the trouser fabric into puckered folds between the bands; more black tape is wound around the meat of each thigh, banding over the cloth, then spirals down the arms: a thick wrap around each shoulder that pinches the tracksuit sleeves flat, a band biting into each elbow, several turns around each wrist, and heavier wrapping over his forearms. His arms are dragged behind his back, wrists crossed and taped at the small of his back, forearms grinding against each other, so the shoulders are pulled back and the chest is thrust out with the top's zipper ridge straining; wide black tape straps loop his torso and chest in two or three crossing bands that groove into the fabric and make the muscle beneath read through the compression. Across his mouth, several strips of tight black tape are layered one over another, slightly out of alignment at the corners, sealing his lips and denting his jaw; the corners of his mouth work against the adhesive. His cheeks are flushed hotly pink under the eyes, brows crushed down into a deep furrow, one eye narrowed and the other wide and glaring off toward the seam of light, breath flaring his nostrils and the tape lifting a fraction with each hard exhale. His hands behind him are clenched, fingers flexing and twisting, wrists dragging against their wrap; his hips twist away from the wall in a short, thwarted wriggle and his shoulders roll, spine arched as he tests the tape, one knee sliding friction-squeak across the metal floor. Gaze pinned sideways toward the thin crack where two panels don't meet. The locker is almost entirely black — tall metal walls close enough to brush both his shoulders, hook stubs and a slot of vent ribs in shadow — and the only light is a single narrow blade of cold white coming through that crack, striking across his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the red eye nearest it, and a bright edge on one taped forearm, while the rest of him falls into deep brown-black darkness and a long shadow is thrown behind his knees across the floor; the light does not bend around the tape and the sealed surfaces stay matte. Palette is black on black with the uniform's muted blue and the white socks as the only pale notes, plus pink heat in his cheeks and the red of his eyes. Sweat beads at his temple and sheens the taut skin above the tape lines. Claustrophobic, furious.
Oct 28, 2026 7:05 PM
