sam

Not the VIP box where the sponsors sat sipping champagne. Not behind the cameras. Front row, right against the barricade, wearing his hoodie like a flag. You’d sent him a picture this morning, hood up, middle fingers to the camera, caption “come get your prize, champ”. He’d stared at it for a full minute before shoving his phone away and punching the heavy bag so hard the chain snapped.

Now the lights dropped, the announcer’s voice boomed his name, and the animal inside the stadium answered.

Dynamight.

He exploded down the ramp, fists taped orange and black, eyes already locked on you through the haze of strobes. You were standing, hoodie half-zipped, screaming something he couldn’t hear but could read on your lips.

Mine.

The fight was ugly.

Twelve rounds of pure violence. His opponent, some southpaw bastard from Osaka with a reach like a telephone pole. caught him early with a hook that split the skin over Katsuki’s eyebrow. Blood poured into his left eye for the last eight rounds, turning the world red. Every time he blinked it away, he saw you on the edge of your seat, knuckles white around the barricade, screaming yourself hoarse.

He fed off it.

By round ten the guy was gassing, and Katsuki smelled blood in the water. He pressed, cornered him, unloaded combinations that snapped the guy’s head back like a punching bag. The final uppercut lifted the bastard clean off his feet. Canvas. Lights out.

The ref waved it off at 2:57 of the twelfth.

The stadium detonated.

Katsuki didn’t raise his arms. Didn’t play to the crowd. He just turned, vaulted the ropes, and stalked straight to where you were already climbing the barricade like you belonged there. Security started forward; one look from him and they froze.

You crashed into his arms in front of twenty thousand people.

He tasted blood and your lip gloss when he kissed you, Cameras flashed like lightning. He didn’t care.

“Locker room,” he rasped against your mouth. “Five minutes.”

Then he let you go, turned, and disappeared into the tunnel while the crowd was still losing its mind.

The walk back was a blur of noise and hands grabbing at him, congratulations, interviews, medics. He blew past all of it. Kirishima tried to steer him toward the press table.

“Later,” Katsuki snarled, shoving the door to the private locker room so hard it bounced off the wall.

And there you were.

You’d beaten him here. Hoodie unzipped now, hanging open over the black lace set he’d bought you last month. The one you swore you’d only wear “when he earned it.” Your hair was wild from screaming, eyes bright with adrenaline and something darker.

The door slammed shut. Lock clicked.

Katsuki’s chest was still heaving. Blood dripped from his brow, down his cheek, over his split lip. His gloves were half-unlaced, hanging loose around his wrists. He looked like he’d walked out of a war zone.

He looked like sin.

“Took you long enough,” you said, voice husky from all the yelling. You stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “Thought I was gonna have to drag you off that stage myself.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at you like he was memorizing the way the hoodie barely covered the curve of your hips, the way the lace peeked out, the way your thighs pressed together when you walked.

You stopped a foot away. Close enough to smell the blood and sweat on him. Close enough to see the way his pupils were blown wide.

“Hi, champ,” you whispered.

That broke him.

He surged forward, hands gripping your waist hard enough to lift you clean off the floor. Your back hit the lockers with a metallic thud that echoed through the empty room. His mouth crashed into yours, desperate, filthy, all teeth and tongue and the copper taste of victory.

You moaned into him, nails raking down his neck, legs wrapping around his waist like they belonged there. His shorts were soaked with sweat, clinging to every line of muscle, and you could feel exactly how hard he was already.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he growled between kisses, grinding his hips into yours so you could feel it. “Whole fuckin’ fight. Every time that bastard hit me, I just thought about gettin’ my hands on you.”

You tugged at his hair, hard, forcing his head back so you could bite down on his throat. “Should’ve ended it sooner then.”

He laughed and spun you around, pressing your front to the cool metal. One hand yanked the hoodie up to your waist, the other sliding between your legs from behind.

“Wet already,” he rasped, fingers slipping beneath lace to find you soaked. “This for me?”

“Always,” you breathed, pushing back against his hand. “Only ever for you.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t play. Just shoved two fingers inside you without warning, curling them hard. Your knees buckled; he held you up by the grip on your hip, mouth at your ear.

“Gonna fuck you right here,” he said, voice wrecked. “Where anyone could walk in. Where they’ll hear you screaming my name. Let ‘em know who you belong to.”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. “Please—”

He pulled his fingers out, spun you again, and kissed you so hard your lips bruised. Then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to register it before his mouth was on you. Tongue licking a stripe up your center, teeth scraping over sensitive skin, hands spreading your thighs wider so he could bury his face deeper. You cried out, hands flying to his hair, hips rocking shamelessly against his tongue.

He ate you like a starving man. Like he’d been dreaming about your taste for weeks. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and hummed, you shattered, legs shaking, back arching off the lockers, his name a broken prayer.

He didn’t stop.

Kept licking you through it, slower now, savoring, until you were trembling and oversensitive and tugging weakly at his hair.

“Katsuki—too much—”

He stood up in one fluid motion, mouth glistening, eyes feral. “Not even close.”

His shorts hit the floor. You barely got a glimpse of him, hard, flushed, tip already slick, before he was lifting you again, pinning you to the lockers with his hips. One hand guided himself to your entrance.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did.

He pushed in slow this time. Inch by inch, watching your face the whole way. Your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering, as he stretched you open. When he bottomed out, you were both shaking.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “So tight. Always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

You clenched around him deliberately and he groaned, forehead dropping to yours.

Then he moved.

Not gentle. Not sweet. Just raw, punishing thrusts that slammed you into the lockers with every stroke. The sound was obscene. His hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles until you were sobbing his name.

“That's it,” he panted. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch.”

You came again, harder this time, vision whiting out as your body locked around him. He snarled, pace stuttering, and followed you over, spilling deep inside with a guttural “mine” that sounded like it was ripped out of his soul.

For a long moment, the only sound was ragged breathing.

Then he eased out slowly, setting you down on shaky legs. You swayed; he caught you, turning you gently and pressing you face-first into the lockers again. His chest to your back, arms caging you in.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough but tender now. He kissed the bite mark on your shoulder, the one blooming purple already.

You laughed breathlessly. “I’m gonna need a wheelchair.”

He snorted, but his hands were careful as he turned you around, cupping your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, smearing a streak of his blood across your skin like war paint.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s yours, dummy.”

He looked wrecked at that. Like the idea of his blood on your skin did something unholy to him. He kissed you again, then pulled back to rest his forehead against yours.

“C’mon,” he said quietly. “Gotta clean you up before someone comes lookin’.”

He led you to the benches, sat you down, and grabbed his bag. Pulled out a first-aid kit, a clean towel, a bottle of water. Started wiping the blood from your neck, your thighs, gentle as he’d never been in the ring.

You watched him, heart doing something stupid in your chest.

“You let him hit you too much,” you said softly, touching the cut above his eye.

He grunted. “Worth it.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He looked up, crimson eyes softening. “Got to come back here to this. To you. Worth every punch.”

Your throat tightened. You leaned forward, kissed the cut gently. Then the split in his lip. Then the bruise blooming along his jaw.

“I love you,” you whispered against his skin.

He froze.

You’d said it before. Plenty of times. But never after a fight. Never when he was still raw and bleeding and riding the high of violence.

He swallowed hard, hands stilling on your thighs.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Love you too.”

Then, quieter: “Don’t ever fuckin’ leave.”

“Never,” you promised.

He pulled you into his lap, hoodie tugged down to cover you both like a blanket. You curled into his chest, listening to his heartbeat finally slow. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.

Somewhere outside, the stadium was emptying. Voices echoed down the hall, Kirishima calling his name, reporters arguing with security. But in here, it was just you and him and the smell of sex and antiseptic and the quiet aftermath of war.

He pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Let ‘em wait,” he muttered.

You smiled against his neck.

-

Kirishima’s voice carried clearest, half-laughing, half-panicked. “Bakugou, man, they’re gonna send a whole SWAT team if you don’t come out for the drug test! I swear on my life they’ve got a guy with a cup and a badge ready to kick the door down!”

Katsuki didn’t move. His chin was still resting on top of your head, arms locked around your waist like he was anchoring himself to the planet. Your thighs ached in the best way, draped over his, hoodie barely covering the essentials. The bench under you both was cold tile, but his body was a furnace.

“Let ‘em try,” he muttered into your hair.

You laughed softly and felt the rumble in his chest. “You’re gonna get suspended.”

“Fuck ‘em. I just knocked a dude unconscious in front of thirty thousand people. They can wait ten more minutes.”

His fingers were tracing the bruises he’d left on your hips, feather-light now, like he was mapping them to memory. Every time his thumb brushed the edge of one, his jaw tightened, guilt and pride warring in his eyes.

You tilted your head back to look at him. 

His left eye was almost swollen shut, the cut above it still oozing a thin line of crimson. There was a perfect split in the center of his bottom lip, and a bruise the color of storm clouds spreading across his cheekbone. His knuckles were shredded, tape half-unraveled and stained rust-red. He looked like he’d been run over by a truck.

He’d never been more beautiful.

“You’re staring,” he grumbled, but didn’t look away.

“Can’t help it,” you said. “You look like a war trophy.”

He barked a short laugh that turned into a wince when it pulled at his lip. “Tch. You look like you got fucked stupid against a locker.”

“Accurate.”

His ears went pink. You decided that was your new favorite color on him.

Another knock, louder this time. “Katsuki, seriously. Commission guy is having a full meltdown. Something about ‘chain of custody’ and ‘immediate post-fight sample’—”

Katsuki flipped the door without turning around. “Tell him to piss up a rope!”

You snorted. “You’re gonna get fined.”

“Don’t care.” He shifted, reaching for the water bottle on the bench, cracked it open with his teeth, and held it to your lips first. “Drink.”

Bossy asshole. You drank.

He watched your throat move like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, then took a long pull himself. Water ran down his chin, mixed with the blood, dripped onto his chest. You leaned forward without thinking and licked it off.

His breath hitched.

“Stop that,” he growled, but his hands were already sliding under the hoodie again, finding bare skin. “We don’t got time for round two.”

You hummed, nipping at his collarbone. “Pretty sure you’ve got the recovery time of a feral alley cat.”

He choked on a laugh. “Keep running that mouth and I’ll bend you over the sink just to shut you up.”

“Promises, promises.”

Another knock, this one accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a key scraping in the lock.

Katsuki’s head snapped up, eyes flashing murder. “I swear to fuck if that’s—”

The door cracked open an inch and Kirishima’s spiky red hair appeared. He took one look at the scene, Katsuki shirtless and bloody, you in his lap with hoodie barely zipped, both of you glaring daggers, and immediately slammed it shut again.

“Nope! Nope, nope, nope, my eyes, I’m blind, I saw nothing! You have five minutes, bro! Five! I’m stalling, I’m dying out here, but five!”

The lock clicked again from the outside.

Silence.

Then you both started laughing, quiet, breathless, foreheads pressed together. It was the first time all night you’d heard him really laugh, the sound low and rough and perfect.

“Idiot,” Katsuki muttered fondly.

You traced the shell of his ear with your fingertip. “He loves you.”

“He’s gonna love my fist in his face if he doesn’t stop cockblocking me.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, gentle around the split. “Come on, champ. Let’s get you cleaned up before they break the door down.”

He grumbled but let you slide off his lap. You padded barefoot to the sinks, found a clean towel, wet it under warm water. When you turned back, he was watching you with that look again, soft and sharp all at once, like you were the only thing keeping the world from tilting off its axis.

You knelt between his spread thighs, towel in hand, and started cleaning the blood from his face. Slow, careful strokes. He sat perfectly still, only moving to tilt his head when you needed better access. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric.

“You missed a spot,” he said quietly after a minute.

“Where?”

He took your wrist, guided the towel to the corner of his mouth, then lower, down his neck, over his collarbone. Following the path your tongue had taken earlier. His eyes never left yours.

Heat curled low in your belly again.

“Katsuki…”

“I know,” he said, voice gravel. “Five minutes.”

You huffed but kept cleaning. Moved to his hands next, unwrapping the ruined tape, revealing knuckles that looked like raw meat. You hissed under your breath.

“This is disgusting.”

“Part of the job.”

“You’re getting them looked at. Properly...”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t fight when you pulled out the antiseptic spray and gauze from his kit. You worked in silence, wrapping each knuckle with the kind of focus you usually reserved for exams. When you got to his right hand, he suddenly turned it over and threaded his fingers through yours.

You glanced up.

His expression was unreadable.

“Thank you,” he said, so low you almost missed it.

“For what?”

“For being here. For… everything.”

Your heart did something painful and sweet. You squeezed his hand. “I’m always here, Katsuki. You know that.”

He swallowed, nodded once, then looked away like the moment had burned him.

You finished wrapping his hands, taped them off, then stood and offered him your own. He took it without hesitation, letting you pull him up. Six-foot-something of pure muscle and he let you haul him around like he weighed nothing.

He zipped the hoodie up for you, all the way to your throat, then pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. “C’mon. Before shitty hair has an aneurysm.”

You grabbed his duffel, slung it over your shoulder, and he opened the door.

The hallway was a circus.

Kirishima was literally standing in front of three officials, arms spread like he was holding back a tide. Camera flashes were going off somewhere further down. A woman in a commission polo was red-faced and yelling about “protocol.”

The second Katsuki stepped out, every head swiveled.

He looked like a hurricane in human form, hoodie half-zipped, bruises livid, your bite marks peeking above the collar, eyes daring anyone to say a goddamn word.

Kirishima took one look at him and sighed in pure relief. “There he is. Living legend, everybody. Can we get the cup now, please? Before he murders someone?”

Katsuki flipped him off with both hands, then wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The commission lady opened her mouth, took in the way he was glaring, the way your thighs were still trembling slightly under the hoodie, the fresh hickeys on both of you, and apparently decided some battles weren’t worth fighting.

She thrust a plastic cup at Kirishima instead. “Five minutes. Private bathroom. Guarded.”

Katsuki smirked, leaned down to your ear. “Told you they’d wait.”

You elbowed him. He didn’t even flinch.

The next hour was a whirlwind.

Drug test supervised, because apparently he couldn’t be trusted not to swap urine. Quick stitches above his eyebrow from the on-site doc, he bitched the whole time but held your hand so tight the nurse raised an eyebrow. Photos, he kept you tucked under his arm the entire time, growling at any photographer who tried to angle you out of frame. A reporter tried to ask if the “mystery girl in the front row” was a distraction.

Katsuki stared at him until the guy went pale, then said, very calmly, “She’s the reason I win. Ask another stupid question and I’ll knock your teeth into next week.”

Back in the private locker room again (finally, blessedly alone), he changed into new clothes: black sweats, orange tank, his favorite skull hoodie. You sat on the bench and watched him move, slow and stiff now that the adrenaline was draining. Every wince made you ache.

When he was done, he crouched in front of you, hands on your knees.

“Home?” he asked simply.

You nodded.

The drive was quiet. His right hand stayed on your thigh the whole time, thumb rubbing slow arcs. Tokyo blurred past in streaks of neon and exhaustion. By the time you pulled into the private garage under his building, it was past three a.m.

He killed the engine, didn’t move.

You looked over. His head was tipped back against the seat, eyes closed, breathing slow. Streetlight cut across the sharp lines of his face, painting the bruises in shades of violet and gold.

He looked… tired.

Not just physically. Bone-deep.

You reached over, brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Hey.”

He cracked one eye open.

“Let’s go inside,” you whispered. “I’ll run you a bath.”

He exhaled through his nose, nodded.

The elevator ride was silent. He kept you pressed to his side, arm heavy around your shoulders. When the doors opened directly into the penthouse, he didn’t bother with lights, just toed off his shoes and headed straight for the bedroom.

You detoured to the bathroom, started the tub. His place had one of those ridiculous sunken things, big enough for three people. You dumped half a bottle of his eucalyptus bath salt in, watched the steam rise.

When you came back, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

You knelt in front of him again, started unlacing his hand wraps for the second time tonight. He watched you do it.

“Talk to me,” you said quietly.

He was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn’t.

“…Almost lost,” he finally muttered.

You paused.

“Round eight,” he continued, voice rough. “Couldn’t see shit. Left eye was gone. He caught me with that uppercut and I felt my knees go. Thought, ‘This is it. I’m going down.’”

Your stomach dropped.

“But then I heard you,” he said. “Screaming my name over everything else. Like a goddamn siren. And I thought, ‘Not fucking happening.’ Got my guard up, slipped the next one, and then I saw the opening.”

He looked at you then, eyes fierce even through the swelling.

“I won because of you.”

You swallowed hard. “Katsuki…”

“Don’t,” he cut in, soft but firm. “Don’t say it wasn’t. Don’t say you didn’t do anything. You were the only thing that mattered in that moment. You always are.”

Tears pricked sudden and hot. You blinked them back, focused on peeling the last of the tape off his wrists.

“Bath’s ready,” you managed.

He stood, pulled you up with him, and kissed you slow and deep and reverent. When he pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.

“Love you,” he said again, like he was testing how the words felt now that the chaos had quieted. “So fucking much it’s stupid.”

You smiled, watery. “I know. Love you too.”

He let you undress him. Tank top first, peeled carefully over the stitches. Then the sweats. You traced every new bruise, every cut, kissing the ones you could reach. He stood there and took it, hands gentle in your hair.

When he was naked, you stripped too, hoodie and lace hitting the floor. He looked at you like you were something holy.

The bath was almost too hot, perfect. You climbed in first, leaned back against the edge, and he settled between your legs, back to your chest, head resting on your shoulder. The water turned pink around his knuckles.

You washed him slowly. Hair first, working shampoo into the blond spikes, careful around the stitches. Then his shoulders, his arms, tracing scars old and new with soapy fingers. He was quiet, eyes closed, breathing deep and even.

When you reached his hands, you lifted them out of the water, kissed each wrapped knuckle.

“You’re not fighting for three months,” you said firmly.

He huffed. “Doctor hasn’t even—”

“I’m telling you. You’re taking three months. I’m chaining you to the bed if I have to.”

A low chuckle rumbled through his back. “Kinky.”

You bit his shoulder. “I’m serious, Katsuki.”

He was quiet again. Then: “…Yeah. Okay.”

You blinked. “Wait. Really?”

He turned his head, nuzzled into your neck. “Don’t wanna end up punch-drunk before thirty. And I want…” He stopped, jaw working. “Want time with you. Just us. No camps. No press. No twelve-week death marches.”

Your arms tightened around him.

“I want that too,” you whispered.

He nodded once, decisive. “Then it’s done.”

You stayed in the water until it cooled, until his breathing evened out and the tension finally bled from his shoulders. When you climbed out, you dried him off with the fluffiest towel you owned, then yourself. He watched you the whole time, lazy and soft-eyed.

In bed, he pulled you on top of him, chest to chest, legs tangled. The city glittered thirty floors below, but in here it was just warm skin and steady heartbeats.

You were almost asleep when he spoke again, voice barely audible.

“Marry me.”

You froze.

He didn’t move, didn’t take it back. Just waited.

You lifted your head, searched his face. He looked wrecked and hopeful and terrified all at once.

“Katsuki…”

“Not now,” he said quickly. “Not, like, tomorrow or whatever. Just… someday. When you’re ready. I want it to be you. Only you. Always been you.”

Tears slipped free this time. You didn’t bother hiding them.

“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes. Whenever you want. Yes.”

His arms crushed you to him so hard it stole your breath. He buried his face in your neck, shoulders shaking with something that wasn’t quite crying but was close.

You held him through it, fingers in his hair, whispering love into his skin until he calmed.

Eventually, his grip loosened. His voice, when it came, was rough with sleep and emotion.

“Gonna buy you a ring tomorrow,” he mumbled. “Something that’ll blind people in the cheap seats.”

You laughed wetly. “You better.”

“Gonna put it on you in the ring someday. After I win a title defense. Whole world watching.”

Your heart flipped. “Sap.”

“Shut up. Sleep.”

You did.

Outside, Tokyo kept moving. Inside, Katsuki Bakugou, undefeated heavyweight, terror of the division, the most dangerous man in combat sports, fell asleep with your hand over his heart and your name on his lips like a prayer.

Tomorrow there would be headlines and press conferences and a commission fine he’d pay without blinking.

Tonight, he was just yours.

-

The morning came in slow, syrupy pieces.

Sunlight filtered through the blackout curtains you’d forgotten to close all the way, cutting a thin gold line across the bed. Katsuki’s breathing was deep and even beneath you, his chest rising and falling like a tide. One of his arms was still locked around your waist, the other flung above his head, fingers curled loosely. His face, even swollen and bruised, looked younger in sleep. The permanent scowl had melted away, replaced by something almost peaceful.

You didn’t move for a long time. Just watched him. Memorized the way his lashes brushed his cheeks. The way the stitches above his eyebrow pulled slightly when he frowned in his dream. The faint white scar on his jaw from a sparring accident two years ago that he still swore “didn’t hurt.”

Your fiancé.

The word felt ridiculous and perfect at the same time.

Eventually, your bladder won the war against sentimentality. You tried to slide off him without waking him, but the second you moved, his arm tightened like a steel band.

“Where the fuck you goin’,” he mumbled, voice gravel-thick with sleep.

“Bathroom, caveman. Let go.”

He grunted, loosened his grip just enough for you to slip free, then rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in your pillow like he was trying to inhale the scent of you. You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

In the bathroom, you caught your reflection and winced. Your neck looked like a crime scene, hickeys layered over hickeys, some already turning deep purple. There was a faint handprint on your hip where he’d held you against the lockers. Your lips were swollen, hair a bird’s nest. You looked like you’d been mauled.

You looked like his.

You grinned so hard your cheeks hurt.

When you came back, he was sitting up against the headboard, sheet pooled low on his hips, rubbing sleep from his good eye. The other was still puffy and half-shut. He looked like a very grumpy, very hot raccoon.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He grunted again then held out an arm. You crawled back into bed and let him pull you against his side. His hand immediately went to your thigh, tracing the bruises there with a reverence that made your chest tight.

“Still yes?” he asked, voice low.

You knew what he meant.

“Still yes,” you whispered. “Forever, yes.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since last night. Then he reached over to the nightstand, grabbed his phone, and started typing with one thumb.

You raised an eyebrow. “Texting your drug dealer at 9 a.m.?”

“Shut up. I’m texting the jeweler.”

You blinked. “You have a jeweler on speed dial?”

“Course I do. Been lookin’ at rings for months, idiot.” He didn’t look at you, just kept typing, ears pink again. “Just didn’t know when to… y’know.”

Your heart did a slow, gooey somersault.

He finished whatever message he was sending, tossed the phone aside, and rolled you both so you were under him, his weight braced on his forearms. He stared down at you for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“I’m gonna fuck this up sometimes,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“I’m loud and I’m mean and I don’t know how to do gentle half the time. I’ll train too hard and come home broken and piss you off. I’ll probably yell when I shouldn’t. But I need you to know—” His voice cracked, just barely. “I’m never leaving. Not ever. You’re stuck with me.”

You reached up, cupped his bruised face in both hands.

“Good,” you said fiercely. “Because I’m not gentle either. I’ll yell back. I’ll throw your stupid protein shaker at your head when you leave it in the sink again. I’ll drag you to bed when you try to spar with a concussion. But I’m not leaving either. You’re mine, Katsuki. Broken knuckles and bad attitude and all.”

His eyes went glassy for a second (just a second) before he dropped his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “How’d I get this lucky.”

You kissed him. When you pulled back, you smirked.

“You punched a lot of people really hard, I guess karma decided to throw you a bone.”

He barked a laugh, then winced when it pulled at his stitches. “Shit. Worth it.”

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached over, read the message, and a slow, smug grin spread across his face.

“What?” you asked suspiciously.

“Jeweler says he can see us at noon. Got something custom ready. Been holdin’ it since last month.”

Your mouth fell open.

“You absolute bastard. You’ve had a ring for a month?”

“Told you. Been planning.” He rolled off you, stood, and stretched. “Get up. Shower. We’re gettin’ you a ring that’ll make the damn sun jealous.”

You sat up, clutching the sheet to your chest. “Katsuki. It’s barely nine. You look like you lost a fight with a brick wall. We can go tomorrow—”

“No.” He turned, eyes blazing. “I asked you last night. You said yes. I’m not waitin’ another fuckin’ second to make it real.”

Your breath caught.

He stalked to the bathroom, voice echoing off marble. “Move your ass, woman!”

You scrambled out of bed so fast you almost tripped.

The shower was… not quick.

He pressed you against the tile the second the water was hot, hands everywhere, mouth hungry. You ended up on your knees at one point, water pounding down on both of you, his fingers tangled in your hair as he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew. Then he returned the favor, lifting you like you weighed nothing, mouth between your thighs until your legs gave out and you had to cling to his shoulders to stay upright.

By the time you actually got clean, the water was cold and you were both breathless and laughing again.

He wrapped you in a towel, dried your hair with another like you were something precious, then disappeared into the closet. Came back in black jeans, a black tee that stretched obscenely across his chest, and a leather jacket you’d never seen before.

You raised an eyebrow. “Going to a funeral?”

“Tryin’ to look respectable,” he muttered, shoving his wallet in his pocket. “Fuck off.”

You dressed quickly, a pair of jeans and a soft off-shoulder sweater. He watched you pull them on with the kind of intensity usually reserved for opponents in the ring.

“Stop looking at me like that or we’re never leaving,” you warned.

He smirked. “Later.”

The jeweler was in Ginza, in a discreet little shop tucked between designer boutiques. The kind of place that didn’t have prices on anything and looked like it catered exclusively to yakuza wives and pro athletes.

The man behind the counter took one look at Katsuki and bowed deeply.

“Bakugou-san. Right on time.”

Katsuki grunted, arm sliding around your waist possessively. “This is her.”

The jeweler’s eyes flicked to you, softened. “Ah. The future Mrs. Bakugou. A pleasure.”

You felt Katsuki’s chest puff slightly behind you. Idiot.

They disappeared into a back room for a moment. When they came back, the jeweler was carrying a black velvet tray with a single ring.

Your lungs stopped working.

It was… obscene. Not in a gaudy way, but in anyway that screamed money and taste and him. A perfect oval diamond, easily four carats, set low in a band of gold with tiny orange sapphire accents along the sides like little explosions frozen in metal. Masculine and feminine at once. Understated and impossible to ignore.

It was you. It was him. It was both of you.

Katsuki took it from the tray without ceremony, turned to you, and dropped to one knee right there in the middle of the shop like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Last night was shit timing,” he said, voice rough. “You deserved better than me bleeding all over you and proposing in a bathtub. So I’m doin’ it again. Properly.”

He took your left hand.

“I’m not good at this. You know that. But you’re the only thing in my life that ever made sense. The only thing I don’t wanna fight. I want you in my corner forever. Want your name next to mine on everything. Want you screaming it when I win and holding me when I lose. Want kids with your eyes and my left hook someday. Want all of it. With you.”

He slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly.

“Marry me,” he said again, softer. “Be mine.”

You were crying before he finished. Big, ugly tears that you didn’t even try to stop.

“Yes,” you choked out. “Yes, yes, yes—”

He surged up and kissed you hard, hands cupping your face, ring catching the light like a supernova. The jeweler discreetly vanished into the back.

You didn’t buy anything else. Didn’t need to. The ring was already paid for, had been for weeks, apparently. Katsuki just signed something, muttered a thanks, and pulled you out of the shop by the hand wearing his claim.

Outside, paparazzi were already waiting. Someone must have tipped them off.

Cameras flashed like machine guns.

Katsuki didn’t even slow down. Just lifted your hand (the one with the ring) high above your head as you walked, middle finger of his other hand extended to the crowd, grin sharp and vicious and proud.

The photos broke the internet in seventeen minutes.

By the time you got back to the penthouse, your phone was dead from notifications and Katsuki’s manager was having a stroke in the group chat.

He tossed both your phones onto the couch, pulled you into his lap on the kitchen counter, and kissed you until you forgot what day it was.

“Three months,” he murmured against your lips. “No camp. No sparring. Just you and me.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, ring glinting as you carded fingers through his hair.

“Three months,” you agreed. “But you’re letting the doctor look at your eye tomorrow.”

He groaned dramatically. “Yes, dear.”

You bit his lip. “And you’re cooking dinner tonight.”

“Tch. Only if you want charcoal.”

“I’ll help.”

He smiled.

“Deal.”

Later, when the city was dark again and you were tangled in bed, ring catching the moonlight, he traced the band with one finger.

“Gonna marry you in a ring,” he mumbled sleepily. “After my next defense. Whole world watching.”

You kissed his chest, right over his heart.

“I’ll be in the front row,” you whispered. “Wearing your hoodie.”

He laughed softly, pulled you closer.

“Damn right you will.”

And somewhere between the quiet and the warmth and the weight of forever settling over both of you like a blanket, you fell asleep.

-

The year after the proposal blurred into a single, beautiful war.

Katsuki cleared his entire schedule with the same ruthless efficiency he used to cut weight: one phone call, one growled “no,” and the world bent. His manager screamed, sponsors threatened, the commission sent passive-aggressive emails about “image maintenance.” He muted every group chat, tossed his phone onto the couch, and looked at you across the kitchen island. “We’re getting married before I ever wrap my hands again. That’s final.” Then he kissed you hard enough that the discussion was over.

You wanted cherry blossoms in April; he wanted the sharp, clean bite of October air and leaves the color of fresh blood. The argument started in bed, migrated to the gym, and reached its ridiculous peak in the produce aisle of a Tokyo supermarket when he held up a persimmon like evidence in court. You finally met in the middle: the last weekend of October, when the maples around Kyoto’s Byōdō-in temple burn crimson and gold. He made one phone call to a man whose name you never learned, wired an amount that probably could have bought a small island, and the thousand-year-old Phoenix Hall was yours for one evening. You decided you didn’t want to know the final number; some mysteries were kinder that way.

The guest list started as a war too. Katsuki wanted sixty people, max, his parents, Kirishima as best man, Deku because excluding him would cause an international incident, the old Class 3-A idiots who still texted him memes at 3 a.m., and his gym crew. You handed him your side of the family and college friends and watched his eyes narrow at the final tally of one hundred and eighty. He stared at the spreadsheet for five full seconds, then shrugged. “Fine. I’ll pay for all of them. Just keep the weird uncles away from me.” He never once complained about the cost again.

He refused to let you see his suit until the day. All you knew was that it was black “obviously”, silk, custom, and that Mitsuki had cackled for three straight days while the tailor measured him. You went dress shopping expecting a fight over color; instead he sat in the corner of the bridal boutique like a very expensive bodyguard, arms folded, daring anyone to waste your time. When you walked out in champagne silk that poured over your body like liquid fire, off-shoulder sleeves, side slit high enough to make the consultant blush, he forgot how to breathe. He stood up, crossed the room in two strides, leaned in so only you could hear, and rasped, “Buy it. Buy the veil. Buy ten of them. I need to leave before I lock the door and ruin that dress right here.” You walked out twenty minutes later with the dress, a cathedral veil edged in tiny crystals, and the memory of Katsuki’s hand shaking while he signed the receipt without looking at the total.

The rings were his quiet masterpiece. His wedding band was matte black tungsten with a single line of orange sapphire dust inlaid like an explosion frozen mid-bloom. Yours was delicate black gold studded with tiny diamonds shaped like eight-point stars. When you held hands, the bands locked together with a hidden mechanism. He slid the wedding band onto your finger during a private moment in the jeweler’s back room and refused to take it off again until the ceremony. “Practice,” he muttered, ears red.

The details accumulated like punches in a combination you never saw coming. Table names were his knockout victories, Table One: “Osaka 2024 – the night I heard you scream my name and decided dying wasn’t an option”. The cake was dark chocolate spiked with chili and orange zest. The guest book was a heavy bag; every attendee signed it in Sharpie. Kirishima spent weeks writing a best-man speech that Katsuki threatened to interrupt with a suplex if it crossed ten minutes. Your first dance song was kept top-secret; you only discovered it was Hozier when you caught him practicing slow footwork in the living room at midnight, barefoot, eyes closed, mouthing the lyrics like a prayer.

The night before the wedding, the rehearsal dinner was held at a tiny yakitori counter in Kyoto where the chef closed the entire street for you. Katsuki drank two cups of thirty-year-old sake and turned soft and clingy, dragging you into the narrow alley behind the restaurant. He pressed you against cool brick, buried his face in your neck, and whispered, “I’m not scared of tomorrow. I’m scared I’m gonna start crying the second I see you and never stop.” You kissed the shell of his ear and told him you’d probably beat him to it.

The morning of the wedding, tradition separated you. Mitsuki enforced it with terrifying enthusiasm. A note slid under your door in his handwriting: Don’t you dare be late walking down that aisle, brat. I’ve waited long enough. —Your future husband. You cried so hard your makeup artist threatened to walk out.

Sunset painted the Phoenix Hall blood-orange when the music began. Kirishima walked Katsuki out first. He was midnight silk and sharp lines, hands wrapped in fresh white tape because he’d sparred until dawn to burn off nerves. When you appeared at the end of the aisle, veil fluttering like a battle flag, his knees actually buckled. Kirishima caught his elbow and hissed something that sounded a lot like “breathe, idiot.” Katsuki never took his eyes off you.

You walked alone. No one gave you away; you had chosen him years ago.

The second you reached him, he grabbed both your hands so tightly the rings bit into your skin. His voice shook when he said his vows: “I was undefeated until I met you. Then I lost on purpose, every single day, because winning anything without you stopped mattering. You’re my corner, my heartbeat, my everything. I’m yours. Beat me up forever.” You barely got through yours between sobs. He kissed you before the officiant finished the words, and the garden exploded into cheers and camera flashes.

At the reception he refused to let you leave his lap for more than five minutes at a time. Halfway through the night he stole the microphone, drunk on adrenaline and you, and bellowed, “This is my wife. Look at her. I won the lottery and I’m never giving her back.” Kirishima’s speech did, in fact, last forty-five minutes and ended with him facedown on the table sobbing into a napkin while Katsuki rubbed his back in mortified affection.

When the last guest finally stumbled out, the temple garden was quiet except for cicadas and the low hum of Kyoto night. He pulled you beneath strings of paper lanterns for the final dance. No music, just the two of you swaying while he hummed Hozier against your temple.

“Still yes?” he whispered.

You pressed your forehead to his. “Forever yes, champ.”

He smiled and kissed you slow and sweet under a thousand paper lanterns and a sky full of stars.

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If only it was over a big reason that would at least justify this situation, you’ve been on Hollis's back about him constantly canceling dates and important events for his interviews and tours. He’d gotten tired of you constantly “nagging” him based on his words— all the times you fought with him about it had built up to this moment. 

It was your graduation day, you’d just finished years of studying for your dream career, as you walked that stage your eyes scanned the crowd, family, friends, cousins— yet no sign of your boyfriend. Your heart broke.

Tears started swelling up in your eyes faster than you can stop them, safe to say you humiliated yourself on that stage, and the once in a lifetime event was forever ruined.

It may not have been a big reason for others, but for gods sake this was your university graduation, you’ve spent years building up for this moment, hours working night shifts so you could pay for the tuition, just for him to miss it for a surprise show for his fans. 

It had become clear to you that day who was more important to him, and you were never going to be in the first spot in his heart.

Later that day after the ceremony had ended, you were too bummed out to go for a celebratory dinner with anyone, so you decided on just going home to your shared apartment with hollis. The moment you reached and entered your home, silence. 

He wasn’t back yet.

Hours had passed by and only then at 3am in the morning did he come back home, smelling of weed and alcohol. 

You’d been up the whole time— beyond angry and broken hearted to go to bed until you’ve confronted him about it.

“Hey baby” he says, barely acknowledging you as he toed off his shoes at the entrance.

“Where the fuck were you” you said, sitting up— voice cracking a bit from all the crying you’ve done.

“I had a surprise show come up— manager called when I was on my way to your graduation” he says nonchalantly. “Thought it would be better to head to the show rather than sit for hours just to watch you walk across the stage for five seconds” 

“What- what the fuck is wrong with you hollis?!?” you screamed, “this was the one time i asked you to be there for me and you couldn’t even do that?? What kind of fucking boyfriend are you!?”

“Big fuckin’ deal, y/n.” he rolls his eyes. “Can we just skip over the arguing part, we both know you’re not leaving and this will just end up in make-up sex” he states as his hand starts to move up your thigh with a smirk on his face.

Clearly he wasn’t getting the memo of how big of a situation this was for you. 

You admit he was the best you’ve ever had, shit— he might be the best out there in sex. But that wasn’t enough for you if he was the fucking embodiment of the devil himself. You had decided this was enough, you weren’t going to keep staying with someone who couldn’t give two shits about you, you are worth more than that and you knew it.

“You know what im fucking done with you” you exclaim as you get up and strom to your shared bedroom to start packing your things.

Ever since that day he has tried to call and text you countless of times, his ego too high to actually someone left him that easily after all his pathetic antics.

You hadn’t seen him for over two years since then, every and any mention of him was immediately shut down by you. The day that you guys broke up and all the photos of you guys were deleted off your instagram— the media went crazy, multiple people posting and talking about it, mainly blaming you because how could their perfect man ever do anything wrong?

The next time you’d seen him for the first time in two years was today. You’d been invited to a christmas party by a friend of yours off of social media.

At this point in your life, your career had taken off, you were now glowing, hair healthy, skin clear, you were truly blooming ever since you’ve gotten rid of the root of all your problems— hollis.

You enter the party, lights beaming and speakers screaming with music, people were already half drunk in the middle of the big living room dancing their night away, since you basically knew no one— you’d decided to nurse a drink in the kitchen quietly until you see someone that you at the least, half know enough to make conversation.

Heading over to the kitchen, finding the nearest bottle of alcohol and filling up your cup with it as you sit down on the island chairs, sipping your drink. 

And that's when you see him.

Leaning against the fridge like he owns the damn place, that same lazy smirk on his face, but everything else about him has leveled up in a way that makes your stomach twist. Hollis—2hollis now, apparently, with the platinum blonde hair falling in messy waves past his shoulders, smudged black liner around his eyes, and that signature stripe painted across his nose like he's some underground vampire prince. He's taller than you remember, lean and sharp in all black Rick Owens layers, chains glinting under the kitchen lights, nursing a red cup with those long fingers you used to know too well.

He hasn't noticed you yet, scrolling on his phone, surrounded by a couple of girls laughing at whatever he's saying in that low, effortless drawl. 

Two years ago, he was the chaotic mess dragging you down—jealous rages, endless fights, the kind of toxic that left you drained and broken. Now, he's blowing up, tours, Interscope deal, the whole hyperpop-rage poster boy thing. And you? You're the one who walked away, rebuilt yourself into someone untouchable.

But the second his eyes flick up and lock on yours, the air shifts. His smirk falters for a split second, surprise flashing before it hardens into something darker. He excuses himself from the girls without a glance, pushing off the fridge and closing the distance in slow, deliberate steps.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters when he's close enough, voice low and rough, laced with that Chicago edge he never fully lost. 

His gaze rakes over you—your glowing skin, the healthy shine in your hair, the way your dress hugs curves he used to claim. 

"Look at you. Acting like you upgraded without me."

You sip your drink, meeting his stare head-on. 

"I did upgrade. By dumping your ass, Hollis."

He laughs, but it's bitter, no humor in it. Steps closer until you can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, mixed with weed and the faint sweat from whatever pre-party he came from. 

"Still got that mouth on you. Thought you'd be over it by now."

"Over you? Please. You're the one staring like you miss it."

His jaw clenches, those pale eyes narrowing. The hate is electric, crackling between you like it always did—the fights that ended in slammed doors and then slammed bodies. He grabs your wrist suddenly, not hard enough to hurt, but firm, pulling you off the stool. 

"Come here."

He doesn’t give you time to think. The second the door clicks shut, Hollis is on you—hand fisted in the hair at the nape of your neck, yanking your head back so hard your scalp stings.

His mouth crashes into yours with zero pretense of gentleness. It’s all teeth and fury, he bites your lower lip until you taste copper, then sucks the sting away like he’s punishing you for bleeding. You bite back harder, drawing a low growl from his throat that vibrates straight between your legs.

“Still taste like trouble,”

he mutters against your mouth, voice ragged. His free hand shoves under your dress, nails scraping up the back of your thigh until he palms your ass roughly, fingers digging in hard enough to leave crescent marks. 

“Thought you’d be over this. Over me.”

You laugh—sharp, breathless—into the kiss. 

“I am over you.” 

Your hands are already clawing at his shirt, ripping it open. Buttons ping off the dresser and floor. 

“Doesn’t mean I won’t fuck the memory out of my system.”

He snarls at that, spins you fast enough that your palms slap the wall for balance. Your dress is shoved up to your waist in one violent yank; cool air hits your skin a second before his hand cracks across your ass—loud, sharp, burning. You gasp, arching instinctively, and he does it again, harder, watching the flesh jiggle and bloom red under his palm.

“Look at you,” 

he rasps, voice dripping venom and hunger. 

“All polished and pretty now. Still get wet when I treat you like this, huh?”

His fingers slide between your thighs without warning—two at once, thick and rough, pushing inside you to the knuckle. You’re soaked, embarrassingly so, and he feels it immediately. He curls his fingers, dragging them slow and deliberate over that spot that makes your knees buckle. 

“Yeah. Fucking dripping. Glow-up didn’t fix that.”

You hate how your hips roll back into his hand, chasing more. 

“Shut up and fuck me already,” you hiss, voice shaking.

He laughs—dark, cruel—and withdraws his fingers just to slap your pussy lightly, making you jolt. Then he’s freeing himself: zipper down, cock out, hot and heavy against the curve of your ass. He’s thicker than you remember, flushed dark, the tip already slick. He drags it through your folds once, twice, coating himself, teasing your entrance until you’re pushing back shamelessly.

“Beg.”

“Fuck you.”

He thrusts into the hilt in one brutal stroke—no easing, no mercy. The stretch burns deliciously, stealing your breath. Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust to the sudden fullness, and he doesn’t wait. He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust jolts you forward, tits bouncing against the wall, his hips slapping loud against your ass.

His hand snakes around your throat from behind, fingers collaring you, tilting your head back so he can growl directly into your ear.

“You feel that? Still take me like you were made for it. All that hate and you’re clenching around me like you never want me to leave.”

You moan—can’t help it—nails scraping the wallpaper as he fucks you deeper, harder, angling his hips until he’s hitting that spot over and over with ruthless precision. His other hand slides under you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, vicious circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Say you hate me,” he demands, voice cracking with effort, sweat dripping from his hair onto your shoulder. “Say it while you come on my cock.”

“I hate you,” you gasp, but it comes out broken, needy. Your orgasm is building fast and ugly, coiling tight in your belly. 

“I fucking—hate—oh god—”

He pinches your clit hard at the same moment he slams in deep and grinds, and you shatter. Your whole body seizes, pussy spasming around him in violent pulses, slick gushing down your thighs. You bite your own arm to muffle the scream, vision whiting out as wave after wave crashes through you.

He doesn’t stop. Fucks you through it, relentless, chasing his own release with ragged breaths. 

“That’s it—milk me, baby. Hate me harder.”

A few more brutal thrusts and he buries himself to the root, groaning low and filthy as he comes—hot, thick pulses flooding you deep inside. You feel every spurt, the way he throbs and jerks, his grip on your throat tightening then loosening as he rides it out.

For a long moment there’s just harsh breathing and the wet sound of him still inside you. Slowly, he pulls out; you feel the slow slide of his cum starting to drip down your thigh almost immediately. He steps back, tucking himself away, that lazy smirk already creeping back onto his swollen lips.

You push off the wall, legs shaky, and turn to face him. Your dress falls back into place, but you’re a mess—hair wild, lipstick smeared, thighs sticky. You meet his eyes, chest still heaving.

“This was nothing,” you say, voice hoarse but steady. “Just scratching an itch.”

He licks his lips, eyes raking over you one last time. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

He unlocks the door and slips out without another word.

You stay there a minute longer, feeling his cum slowly leak out of you, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

You still hate him.

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He nursed a Red Bull, fingers tapping nervously on the can, eyes darting everywhere but the stage at first. Then she came on.

You.

A little older—maybe 26, 27—moving like you owned every inch of the room. Long dark hair cascading down your back, body sculpted and confident in nothing but a black lace set and sky-high heels. The way you worked the pole was art: strong, graceful, teasing without ever seeming desperate. Ryan couldn’t look away.

His friends noticed immediately.

“Yo, Conceal’s locked in,” Roman laughed, elbowing Hollis.

Ryan tried to play it cool, sinking lower in the booth, but his cheeks were already burning. You glanced his way mid-spin, caught his stare, and smiled—slow, knowing. Like you knew exactly how nervous he was.

When your set ended, you disappeared behind the curtain. Ryan exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

Half an hour later, a hostess approached their booth.

“Gentlemen, one of our dancers is available for private time. Diamond says the quiet one in the hoodie has been watching her all night.”

Ryan’s eyes went wide. Hollis grinned like an idiot.

“Yeah, we’ll take an hour for our boy here.”

Before Ryan could protest, the hostess was leading him down a dimly lit hallway to a private room—couch, low lighting, mirrored walls, heavy velvet curtains. His heart was pounding.

You walked in a minute later, still in the lace set, robe loosely tied. Up close you were even more stunning: sharp cheekbones, full lips painted deep red, eyes that looked like they’d seen everything and still found it amusing.

“Hi, cutie,” you said, voice smooth and warm. “First time?”

He swallowed hard. “Is it that obvious?”

You laughed softly, sitting beside him—not on his lap yet, just close enough that he could smell your perfume. Vanilla and something darker.

“A little. You’re blushing already, and I haven’t even touched you.”

His face got hotter. “I’m Ryan.”

“Y/N,” you said, tilting your head. “But on stage I’m Diamond. You liked the show?”

He nodded, unable to form words for a second. You shifted closer, fingers lightly tracing the sleeve of his hoodie.

“You’re adorable when you’re nervous. Most guys in here act like they’ve seen it all. You actually look.”

You stood then, slow and deliberate, and started a private dance—just for him. Every move was teasing: hips rolling inches from his face, hands sliding over your own body, eyes locked on his the whole time. When you finally straddled his lap, grinding slow to the music, he gripped the couch like his life depended on it.

You leaned in, lips near his ear. “You can touch if you want, baby. Just not everywhere.”

His hands hesitantly landed on your waist—warm, trembling. You smiled against his neck.

“So sweet,” you whispered. “How old are you, Ryan?”

“Twenty-two.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “God, you’re a baby. I’m twenty-seven. Does that make you nervous too?”

“A little,” he admitted, voice rough.

“Good,” you teased, rolling your hips harder, feeling him harden beneath you. “I like you nervous.”

The hour flew. You kept him on edge the whole time—whispers, light touches, making him blush deeper with every compliment about how cute he was when he got flustered. When the time was up, you kissed his cheek softly.

“Gotta go, cutie. Another client. But you were my favorite tonight.”

He watched you leave, robe swaying, and felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

Back with his friends, he barely heard their teasing. His mind was full of you—your voice, your scent, the way you looked at him like he was something precious and delicious at the same time.

The rest of the night dragged. Club hopping, late-night food, studio session that he couldn’t focus on. By 3 a.m., he was back outside Velvet Room, telling himself he just wanted one more look.

You were on stage again, finishing a set. When you stepped off, he was waiting by the bar—hoodie still up, hands in pockets, looking nervous all over again.

You walked right up to him, surprised but pleased.

“Couldn’t stay away?”

He shook his head. “Can I… get your number? Real one, I mean. Not just—here.”

You studied him for a second, then smiled—genuine this time, not the stage smile.

“Yeah, Ryan. You can.”

The next afternoon, he texted.

Ryan:

hey. it’s ryan from last night.

still thinking about you.

You:

i was hoping you’d text.

free tonight?

Ryan:

yeah. anywhere.

You:

there’s a hotel in west hollywood. rooftop bar’s nice. room 1204 if you feel like coming up after a drink.

He was there an hour early.

You met him at the bar first—out of work mode now, in a simple black dress, hair down, natural makeup. He looked relieved to see the real you.

Conversation flowed easy. You asked about his music; he asked about your life outside the club. He admitted he’d never done anything like this before. You admitted you didn’t usually give out your real number.

After one drink, you stood.

“Wanna come upstairs?”

He followed like he was in a dream.

The room was dim, city lights glowing through the windows. The second the door clicked shut, you pushed him gently against it, kissing him slow and deep. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you closer.

You undressed each other unhurried—his hoodie first, then your dress pooling at your feet. When you were both bare, you guided him to the bed, straddling him again, but this time there were no rules.

He touched you everywhere—reverent at first, then desperate. You rode him slow, watching his face: eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, whispering your name like a prayer.

“God, Y/N—you feel—”

You kissed him to quiet him, moving faster, grinding down until he was shaking beneath you.

When he flipped you over, it was careful but urgent—deep thrusts, forehead pressed to yours, telling you over and over how beautiful you were, how much he wanted you, how he hadn’t stopped thinking about you since the first moment he saw you on that stage.

You came together, tangled and breathless, his face buried in your neck.

After, he held you close, fingers tracing patterns on your back.

“I don’t usually… do this,” he murmured.

“I know,” you whispered, kissing his jaw. “That’s why I wanted to.”

You stayed like that until morning—talking, touching, falling asleep wrapped around each other.

When the sun came up, he kissed you soft and slow.

“This doesn’t have to be just one night.”

You smiled against his lips.

“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet, cutie.”

And you weren’t. Not by a long shot.

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He’s shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, curls messy like he’s been running his hands through them all afternoon. A thick black leather collar sits snug around his throat, silver tag glinting with the engraved words GOOD BOY. A matching leash is clipped to it, the end coiled neatly beside him. And—your breath catches—there’s a soft black puppy tail plug peeking out from under the waistband of his sweats, swaying slightly as he shifts his weight.

He looks up when he hears the door, big brown eyes wide and eager, tongue nervously wetting his bottom lip.

“Hi,” he says, voice small, almost shy. Then quieter, “Been waiting like a good pup.”

You drop your bag slowly, heart pounding. You’d talked about this—late-night confessions after too much wine, him admitting he wanted to let go completely, be told what to do, be yours in the most primal way. You’d ordered the gear on a whim two weeks ago. You didn’t think he’d actually use it without you.

“Roman…” you breathe, stepping closer.

He shakes his head slightly, cheeks flushing. “Pups don’t talk unless their owner says,” he whispers, then drops his gaze to the floor, hands resting palm-up on his thighs like he’s been practicing.

Fuck. He’s perfect.

You walk a slow circle around him, letting your fingers trail over his shoulder, down his spine. He shivers when you tug lightly on the tail—gentle, testing—and a soft whine escapes his throat.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “My pretty puppy, all dressed up and waiting. Did you put your tail in all by yourself?”

He nods, ears pink.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” he says, voice trembling. “Wanted to be ready for you. Been hard all afternoon thinking about it.”

You crouch in front of him, lift his chin with two fingers. His pupils are blown, lips parted. You clip the leash onto your wrist, give it a light tug.

“Crawl to the bedroom, pup. Show me how good you can follow.”

He drops to all fours immediately, tail swaying as he crawls ahead of you—slow, deliberate, ass pushed out just enough to make the plug shift. You follow, leash loose in your hand, watching the muscles in his back flex.

In the bedroom you sit on the edge of the bed, spread your legs.

“Heel.”

He crawls between them, sits back on his heels, hands on his thighs again. Waiting.

You pet his curls, scratch behind his ear the way he likes. He leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut, a soft happy sound rumbling in his chest.

“Good boy,” you praise. “Such a good pup for me.”

His hips twitch forward involuntarily, cock straining against his sweats.

You tug the leash to bring his face closer. “Pups don’t hump unless told. You gonna be patient?”

He nods fast. “Yes. Wanna be good. Please.”

You stand, strip slowly—letting him watch every inch of skin revealed. When you’re naked you sit back down, spread wider.

“Earn your reward. Lick.”

He dives in like he’s starving—nose buried in you, tongue lapping broad and eager, messy and desperate. No technique, just pure puppy enthusiasm: licking, sucking, whining into your pussy every time you tug the leash or pet his hair.

You grind against his face, using his tongue, his nose, until you’re close—then pull him off by the collar.

“Not yet. Pups don’t get to finish their owner until they beg pretty.”

He whimpers, face shiny with you, eyes glassy. “Please—wanna make you come—been thinking about your taste all day—”

You let him back in. He doubles his efforts, tongue fucking into you, sucking your clit until you’re gripping his curls hard and coming all over his mouth. He licks you through it like it’s his only job in life.

When you push him away gently he sits back, panting, cock leaking through his sweats.

You tug the leash. “Up. Present.”

He scrambles onto the bed on all fours, forehead down, ass up—tail plug on full display. You pull his sweats down slow, watch the base of the plug nestled between his cheeks. He’s clenching around it, trembling.

You twist it gently; he moans loud, pushing back.

“Such a needy puppy,” you coo. “Tail wagging and everything.”

You ease the plug out slow—he whines at the emptiness—then lube your fingers and slide two into him without warning. He gasps, arches, fucks himself back on your hand.

“More—please—”

You add a third, curl them just right, milk his prostate until he’s babbling nonsense, drooling on the sheets.

Only when he’s shaking, begging “please let me come, please owner—” do you pull out and flip him onto his back.

You straddle his face again, facing his cock. “Suck while I play.”

You take him deep—no teasing, just swallowing him down until he’s hitting the back of your throat. He cries out against your pussy, hips bucking, but you pin him down.

You edge him mercilessly: sucking hard until he’s close, then pulling off, stroking slow, slapping his cock lightly when he whines too loud. Over and over until tears leak from the corners of his eyes and he’s a sobbing mess.

“Please—owner—need to come—been so good—”

You finally sink down on him in one smooth motion, taking him to the hilt. He howls, hands scrabbling at the sheets. You ride him hard—grinding deep, leash wrapped around your fist so you can pull his collar every time you bottom out.

“Come inside me, pup. Fill your owner up.”

He comes instantly—hips jerking, cock pulsing hot and deep as he empties into you with broken whines and “thank you, thank you—”

You keep riding through it, chasing your own second orgasm until you’re clenching around him and he’s oversensitive, whimpering, begging in Spanish.

After, you uncurl slowly, ease off him, and cradle him against your chest. He’s shaking, subspace deep, eyes unfocused.

You unclip the leash, remove the collar gently, kiss the faint red mark it left.

“My perfect boy,” you whisper, stroking his hair. “You were so good for me. So proud of you.”

He nuzzles into your neck, voice small and hoarse. “Love being your pup.”

You clean him up with warm cloths, hydrate him, wrap him in blankets. He clings to you the whole time, tail plug set carefully on the nightstand for next time.

When he finally speaks again, it’s sleepy and soft.

“Next time… can I have ears too?”

You kiss his forehead, smiling.

“Anything for my good boy.”

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