edenarchives

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 .ᐟ — 𝐃𝐀𝐁𝐈

And from the Throne came fire, and the fire was given form. Six wings. Countless eyes. A mouth that did not know silence. He was made to adore, to sing unceasing praise— But in the third aeon, the Seraph looked too long at creation. He saw beauty. He saw flesh. And he wanted.

༒༶•┈┈⛧┈┈•༶༒

You hum to yourself as your fingers skim over the glassy surface, sending soft ripples through the water. It’s warm—blessed, they said. The spring lies hidden deep within Eden, meant only for the untouched. Only for the holy.

You believe you’re alone.

But something watches.

It coils around the low-hanging branches above, silent and still, scales like darkened gold, eyes glowing faintly with something older than lust—something divine and dangerous. It wears the form of a serpent, but its body pulses with power. Its hunger is ancient. Eternal.

It’s not supposed to be here. But neither are you.

You tilt your head back, throat bared to the sky as you sink deeper into the sacred pool, skin gleaming with light. The serpent watches your every move, tongue flicking out in interest. It does not blink. It does not breathe. It waits.

You have no idea what it is.

You have no idea that it’s choosing you.

That something ancient has wrapped its gaze around your body and deemed it worthy—not of protection, not of praise, but of consumption. Of desecration. Of worship twisted into something flesh-bound and obscene. You hum to yourself like a lamb in spring, soft and content, unaware of the shadow that slithers from the canopy above, scales like darkened gold catching flashes of dying sunlight. It descends without sound, without effort, a serpent born of smoke and divine rebellion, older than the trees that bend away from its path. Older than Eden itself.

It doesn’t rush. There is no need. Time does not move for it the way it moves for you. It coils across the stone ledge, tongue flicking as it tastes the sweetness in the air—your skin, your scent, your holiness, untouched and undeserving. Your presence fouls the spring, or perhaps perfects it. The serpent doesn’t know the difference anymore. It only knows that you’re here, and that you were never meant to be.

And still, you bathe. Still, you offer your body to the open air like it’s your birthright to be bare beneath the heavens. Like angels aren’t watching with mouths full of hunger and eyes full of flame. You lean back against the bank with your arms stretched along the stone behind you, chest rising and falling with slow, careless breath. Water clings to your skin in rivulets, sliding down your throat, your breasts, your stomach—sacred trails that make the serpent’s tongue flick faster, sharper. It slinks closer, moving through the shallows like a sin sliding into prayer, wrapping around your ankle so lightly you think it’s the water itself.

You flinch, just slightly, eyes darting around the grove—but you see nothing. You are far too used to the quiet. Eden has always been silent. Gentle. Dead.

But not tonight.

The serpent circles you once. Then again. Close enough now to see the tiny goosebumps rise on your thighs, the slow parting of your lips as your breath catches without reason. You shiver, and the creature watches like a god taking in the final piece of its creation. There is no rush. No strike. Only reverence. Only patience.

It will not taste you now.

No, not while the sun still graces your skin.

So when you rise from the water, dripping and glistening with the last light of day, he watches from the edge. Motionless. Eternal. You do not see him. You never turn. You walk away naked and unknowing, your back to the trees, your body a hymn in motion. A psalm meant only for sinners.

And when the sky breaks open and the stars pour in, the serpent coils one last time—and begins to split.

It does not happen all at once. No, the transformation is slow, painful, divine in the way burning temples are divine—full of ruin and glory. The serpent’s form tears itself open, bones cracking, flesh stretching, scales falling away like ash. Smoke spills from between jagged ribs, and inside that smoke is a man.

Or something like one.

He stands barefoot on the stone, steam rising from his skin, black wings stretched wide behind him like they might blot out the moon. His body is a litany of sin: scarred, stitched, beautiful in a way that should not be allowed. Eyes like dying stars, mouth twisted into something cruel. His voice, when he speaks, curls through the grove like smoke from a dying altar.

He stands barefoot on the stone, steam rising from his skin, black wings stretched wide behind him like they might blot out the moon. His body is a litany of sin: scarred, stitched, beautiful in a way that should not be allowed. Eyes like dying stars, mouth twisted into something cruel. His voice, when he speaks, curls through the grove like smoke from a dying altar.

He does not speak your name.

He doesn’t know it.

Only God does. It was whispered into you at the beginning, tucked beneath your tongue like a secret. A name too holy for even the angels to hear. But Dabi—what he is now—doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it. Not yet. Names are for things that live. You are still untouched, still breathing peace.

And he will take that from you.

He steps down from the stone, wings curling in as he moves. They are heavy things—blackened, rotted feathers strung together by ash and fury—but they fold with grace, as if they remember flight. The earth withers beneath his feet as he walks, steam hissing up where his skin touches moss. Even Eden recoils from him. The trees hold their breath. The spring stills.

And he follows your scent.

It leads him to where you’ve laid yourself bare beneath a flowering arch, bathed in moonlight, curls of hair still damp against your skin. You lie in the center of the grove like an offering, one leg curled beneath the other, lips parted in sleep, unaware that something once divine now stands at the edge of your sanctum with ruin burning behind his teeth.

He has never seen anything like you.

Not in Heaven. Not in the depths he was thrown to. Not even in his own dreams, which are little more than fires that speak his shame back to him. You are… calm. Still. Pure in a way that mocks everything he became. You are what he was denied.

And that makes you his.

He approaches slowly. Not like a beast. Not like a man. Like something that remembers what it was to be holy, and still craves the taste of it. His hand hovers just above your chest, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of your body rising toward him like incense. His mouth parts. His throat tightens. There’s a sound—broken, almost reverent—pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, and it shakes him.

He did not come here to feel.

He came to consume.

He leans in, and you stir.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

Your lips twitch in sleep, your brow softens, and you sigh—a breath that brushes across his mouth like a prayer offered to the wrong god.

His jaw tightens.

This was supposed to be simple. A desecration. A taking. A reminder that even Eden’s last secret could be broken. But now, staring at you like this, Dabi feels something crawling up his spine—hot and blasphemous. Not guilt. Never that. But longing.

Longing to be near you.

To be inside whatever part of you still carries the breath of God.

His hand lowers, trembling.

The moment his fingertips brush your collarbone, you exhale his touch like your body already knows him. Like Heaven made you for this. For him.

And in the quiet, he whispers—not a name, but a promise:

“You were never going to stay pure.”

Then he presses his mouth to your skin, and Eden begins to rot.

Not with fire. Not with wrath. But with silence. A kind of stillness that spreads from where his lips meet your flesh—just beneath your collarbone—bleeding outward in invisible cracks through the trees, the stones, the roots. Creation feels it. The shift. The violation. The moment God’s perfect thing is touched by what was never meant to return.

Your skin is warm. Still holy. Still soft. It doesn’t resist him.

And that—more than anything—makes something in Dabi snap.

He drags his mouth lower, slow and blasphemous, the way priests touch relics they once believed in. His lips part just enough to let his breath scorch your skin, a burning sigh that leaves behind the faintest red, like the edge of a flame that doesn’t go out. You stir beneath him. A small, broken sound tumbles from your throat—sweet and unknowing. Your brows knit together like some distant part of you is beginning to understand that something has entered Eden that should not have.

But it’s too late.

He’s already on you.

Dabi lowers himself over your sleeping form, one hand sliding beneath your back, the other braced beside your head. His wings drape like a cathedral around you both—blocking out the moon, swallowing the stars. He could take you now. In your sleep. In your stillness. And maybe he should. Maybe that’s what this was always meant to be: the first sin repeated, without consent, without question, just desire.

But he doesn’t.

Because he wants you awake.

He wants you to see what Heaven denied him.

Wants to hear you speak, to cry out, to know that it’s him—Dabi, the First Burned, the thing they cast down for wanting too much, for wanting like this. You, warm and trembling beneath him, are the final proof that God was wrong to lock him out.

So he waits.

He leans down until his mouth is by your ear, his breath thick with heat and soot, and he whispers into your dream.

“Open your eyes, little lamb.”

And as your eyes flutter open, dazed, soft, confused, he smiles.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

But like a creature that’s been starving for centuries… and has finally been let back into the Garden

Your gaze meets his, hazy and half-lost to sleep, and the moment stretches—divine and terrible. For a heartbeat, you don’t scream. You don’t move. You simply look. Into eyes that burn like dying stars, into a face stitched together by fire and fury and something that might’ve once been faith.

And he sees it—the moment recognition blooms. Not of him, no. You’ve never seen him before. But of something wrong. Something worse than wrong. Your body stiffens beneath him, breath catching like a hymn caught in a throat too holy to speak it.

Your lips part.

Not in prayer.

In panic.

But Dabi is already there. His hand covers your mouth before sound can escape, his palm hot and rough, fingers splayed across your cheek like a blessing turned curse.

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice low and honeyed and absolutely false. “You’ll wake the angels.”

You thrash once—instinctive, pure—but his weight presses you down with effortless grace. He isn’t trying to hurt you. Not yet. This isn’t about pain.

It’s about the taking.

His wings arch around you both like a veil, like the sanctuary of a corrupted temple, hiding you from Heaven’s eyes. His mouth is at your ear again, words pouring into you like scripture rewritten in ash.

“Do you know what you are?” he whispers, voice barely more than smoke. “You’re the last thing He made before He stopped. The final breath. The perfect proof. And they locked you up in this garden like a jewel at the bottom of the sea.”

He shifts, slowly, letting the heat of his body drag against yours.

“But I found you.”

His hand moves from your mouth down to your throat, gently, reverently, and he watches as your lips tremble beneath him. You don’t beg. Not yet. But your eyes shine like you might.

And he adores it.

He lowers his head and kisses the side of your neck, slow and savoring, like communion taken with teeth.

“Let me show you what you were actually made for.”

And just beyond the grove, Eden shudders. The trees bend. The spring runs still. And the angels, high above, do not look away

They should. They always have. They turned their eyes when he burned. When he fell. When he howled for them as his wings blistered and blackened in Heaven’s light. When he begged, not for forgiveness, but for a taste—for just one taste—of the creation they guarded like treasure.

But now?

Now they watch.

They watch as he hovers over you, the last untouched thing in Eden, mouth ghosting the line of your throat with reverent sin. His breath rolls down your skin like the promise of something unclean, something inevitable.

And you—trembling now, breath shallow, tears blooming in the corners of your eyes—you don’t know what to do.

There’s no scripture for this. No salvation written for a moment like this. No psalm that tells you how to pray with a creature born from fire and fury dragging his lips over your chest like it’s sacred ground.

Dabi’s hand slides down your waist, fingertips drawing invisible scripture across your skin. Not holy. Not hallowed. But his. Each word a claim. A desecration. A mark that tells Heaven what it already knows:

She is not Yours anymore.

He murmurs something in a language you don’t understand. Older than angels. Older than Eden. A tongue spoken only in the dark, back when God still sculpted things from stars and rage.

And then he parts your legs with a hand so gentle it feels like worship.

“Do you feel that?” he breathes against your cheek, dragging his mouth up the curve of your jaw. “Even now—He’s still watching. They all are. And none of them are stopping me.”

He kisses you.

And not the way monsters do. Not violent. Not cruel.

But like a fallen thing that’s been waiting lifetimes to touch something warm again.

And Eden? Eden weeps. The sky darkens. The spring bubbles. The grass wilts around your body like it’s mourning what it’s about to witness.

But the angels do not look away.

Because this? This is the story they always feared would be written.

And now it begins.

The end of Eden, written not in thunder or wrath, but in breathless gasps and trembling hands. In the soft sound your lips make when his tongue brushes the corner of your mouth. In the way your thighs part for him—not in understanding, but in instinct. In the hush that falls over the garden as your body yields to something it was never meant to survive.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. Less reverent. More claiming. His fingers grip your hip, thumb stroking your skin like he’s trying to memorize it, burn it into what’s left of his soul. And maybe he is—because you’re the only thing in this entire cursed place that feels real.

Your hand rises, weak and unsure, pressing against his chest. Not to push. Not yet. Just to feel. To confirm that this heat, this weight, this presence isn’t a dream. Your touch scorches him, but he doesn’t flinch. He leans into it, exhales shakily like a starving man finally tasting mercy.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, lips brushing your jaw. “You don’t even know what you are.”

But you’re starting to.

Your pulse drums in your throat. The trees creak under the weight of silence. And still, no divine hand moves to stop him. No trumpet sounds. No sword splits the sky. You are no longer protected. You are no longer untouched.

You are being rewritten.

Not as a symbol. Not as a myth.

As his.

Dabi trails kisses down the column of your neck, his voice a rasped confession against your skin. “I used to burn for Heaven,” he whispers. “Now I burn for you.”

And somewhere far above, on high thrones and in golden halls, the angels feel it.

They feel it like a crack down the spine of creation—thin at first, then widening, splintering through every divine law that once kept flesh sacred and sin sealed beneath the soil. They feel it in the way light falters, in the way holy flame gutters in its sconces, in the way their wings twitch against their will. They were made to watch. Never to want. Never to feel.

But now they do.

Because you—God’s last untouched creation—are beneath him.

And he, the First Seraph Who Burned, the one Heaven denied, the one Hell could not contain, the one the scriptures do not name—you let him touch you. You let his mouth trace the same places angels once bowed to in awe. You let his voice, rough and ruinous, speak things into you that no prophet ever dared to hear.

The angels press their hands to their ears, but it’s too late.

They hear every breath.

Every gasp.

Every whimper that leaves your mouth like it should’ve been a prayer but isn’t.

And they feel the unraveling begin.

Not just of Eden.

But of themselves.

Because if you—perfect, sacred, sealed from the beginning—can be brought to this, then what hope is left for the rest of creation? What use is purity, if it trembles this sweetly when it’s touched by something that should’ve been ash?

And Dabi knows it.

He knows they’re watching. He knows they feel it.

So he drags his mouth back up your body, slow and deliberate, meeting your gaze with eyes that once beheld the face of God and chose you instead.

“Let them watch,” he whispers against your lips.

“Let them break.”

The words leave his mouth like a curse, like a prophecy fulfilled in the ruin of your breath. He says it against your lips, against the soft, gasping sound you make when his hand slips lower, pressing into the warmth of you like he already knows the shape of your sin. And maybe he does. Maybe he was made for it. Maybe you both were.

Because your body doesn’t flinch from him.

It welcomes.

It opens.

It trembles, not in fear, but in recognition—like somewhere deep within you, the part that remembers Heaven also remembers him. Remembers the fire. The fall. The way divine hands once reached for something they weren’t supposed to want.

You are warm beneath him. Soft. Sacred in the way dying things are sacred. And Dabi, the First Burned, drinks in every inch of it like it’s scripture he was denied. His thumb brushes over your hip as his hand moves slowly between your thighs, parting them with the reverence of a priest at the altar.

But this isn’t worship.

This is desecration.

And still—your breath hitches, your chest rises, and a sound escapes you that no angel has ever heard. A sound not meant for Heaven. A sound that should damn you.

It does.

Because the moment he touches you—truly touches you—Eden bleeds.

It’s not loud. There is no thunder. No crack of divine judgment. Only the soft, wet sound of your body parting for him, and the slow, mournful rustle of leaves overhead—like the trees themselves are turning away. The ground beneath you hums, low and mournful, as if it too knows that something irreversible has just been carved into the bones of the world.

His fingers slide through your heat, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters in his chest like even he didn’t expect you to feel this perfect. This holy. Your slick coats his fingers like oil poured over a sacred offering, thick and warm and sinful. He groans—low, guttural, reverent—pressing his forehead to your temple as your hips twitch beneath his hand.

You gasp, too loud in the silence. Too real.

And far above, in the golden stillness of Heaven, something shatters.

A feather falls from a wing that will never be whole again. A hand clutches a sword that can no longer be lifted. An angel cries without sound, eyes fixed on you—on what you’ve become. You, once their brightest hope, now spread out beneath a creature they no longer have the strength to banish.

Dabi smiles like he can feel it—feel their pain, their betrayal, their powerlessness. He pumps his fingers into you slow and deep, watching your face twist with something between confusion and need. You don’t understand why it feels so right. Why your body—built for worship, born of light—craves him like this. Opens for him like it’s always belonged to fire.

It shouldn’t. Nothing about this should be right. You were made to sing, to serve, to remain untouched in the heart of Eden, a living relic of purity. But your body doesn’t tremble with fear—it trembles with ache. With surrender. Your hips tilt forward on instinct, chasing the rhythm of his hand. Chasing the burn.

His lips curl at the corners, breath fanning across your cheek as he watches you unravel—bit by bit, moan by moan—beneath the very trees that once whispered praise into the wind. That once bloomed at your bare feet. Now they droop with sorrow, their petals dimming, their roots shrinking back into the dirt. Eden wilts around you. But Dabi thrives.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers back and circling your entrance with cruel patience, his voice molten, thick with pride and possession. “So fuckin’ sweet and still glowing. Is this what He was hiding from me? This—” he pushes back in, deeper this time, knuckle-deep and slow, *“—this soft little heaven?”

You cry out, and it breaks in your throat. A sound too full of want, too soaked in shame. His wings twitch at the sound, the ash of his ruin scattering into the air like burned scripture. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to fight the pleasure clawing up your spine like ivy, like temptation itself.

But he doesn’t let you hide.

His free hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging across your lips until your eyes flutter open and lock onto his. Those eyes—burning, ancient, bottomless. They see everything. They know what you are. What you’re meant for. And what you’re becoming.

His free hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging across your lips until your eyes flutter open and lock onto his. Those eyes—burning, ancient, bottomless. They see everything. They know what you are. What you’re meant for. And what you’re becoming.

There’s no kindness in his gaze. No softness. Only hunger, sharp and reverent, the kind of want that predates love. He looks at you the way a prophet looks at a vision—staggered, certain, ruined by knowing. His thumb presses into your lower lip until you part them, trembling, unsure. He slips it inside.

“Suck,” he says, voice low and absolute, and you do.

You wrap your lips around his thumb, your tongue swirling without thought, and his eyes flash. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just watches—his fingers still buried inside you, his body coiled above yours like a serpent poised to strike. But there’s no venom in this. Only heat. Only worship, twisted and profane.

The sky overhead grows darker.

The stars dim.

Your mouth is warm and wet around him, your breath coming in shaky little whimpers as he fucks you open with slow, deliberate strokes, his hand between your thighs obscene in the quiet. You should be ashamed. You want to be ashamed. But all you can feel is him. The pressure building. The wrongness curling tight around your spine and begging to be obeyed.

He pulls his thumb free with a soft pop, dragging your saliva across your cheek like a mark, a blessing, a stain. His fingers inside you curl just right, and you jolt, a sharp cry ripping from your throat—raw, desperate, broken.

Dabi groans, low and feral.

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking his fingers into you harder now, faster, your slick echoing through the grove like prayer turned flesh. “Say goodbye to the Garden, little lamb.”

You choke on your own moan, thighs shaking as your body tightens around him, your holiness cracking open like glass underfoot.

It splits you—mind and flesh and spirit—splinters of purity falling like ash from your skin. Your climax hits with the force of a divine collapse, and you can feel it, feel Eden fracture beneath you as your body pulses around the fingers of a fallen seraph. Your vision blurs. Your lips part in something between a cry and a prayer, and for the first time, neither Heaven nor Earth knows who you’re calling to.

Dabi watches you break like it’s holy.

His hand doesn’t stop. He drags you through it—through every twitch, every spasm, every ragged gasp—until you’re nothing but limbs and light, crumpled beneath him, panting, trembling, ruined. The heat of him sinks into your bones. His chest brushes yours, his breath hot on your cheek as he lowers himself until his lips hover just above your ear.

“That’s what it means to fall,” he whispers, reverent. “And you were made for it.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your body is heavy, limp, your mind floating somewhere between bliss and disbelief. But your heart? It thunders. It pounds like it’s trying to escape your chest, like it knows what you’ve done and is begging to take it back.

But it’s too late.

The Garden knows.

The angels know.

He knows.

Dabi withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring the feel of you one last time before taking more. He holds them up to the moonlight, wet and glistening, and smiles like a sinner at the gates of Heaven.

Then he brings them to his lips.

And sucks.

“Mmm,” he groans softly, voice thick with satisfaction, eyes half-lidded and hungry. “No wonder they kept you hidden.”

And you, naked, shaking, soaked in sweat and sin, realize with something like dread that he’s not done.

He hasn’t even begun

What he’s taken from you so far—your breath, your stillness, the trembling cradle of your first fall—it was nothing more than the opening verse. The first line of scripture written not in ink, but in slick and sweat and shattered innocence.

And now, the real sermon begins.

Dabi rises to his knees above you, his body a silhouette of ruin against the moon, all jagged lines and pulsing heat. His wings stretch wide and shadowed, casting darkness over your bare form like a veil. He looks like a statue carved from wrath, beautiful and violent, unholy in the way only something once divine can be.

Your chest rises in shallow, broken breaths. Your body aches with something you can’t name, your thighs still slick with the evidence of your surrender. You want to run, to crawl into the arms of the God who once made you. But there is no safety left in the Garden. No voice calling you back. Only him.

Only the one who was thrown out because he looked at creation the wrong way, and wanted.

Dabi leans down again, bracing himself above you with one hand beside your head. His other trails down your stomach, slow and possessive, the heat of his palm searing into your skin like a brand. You flinch, but don’t pull away. You can’t. There’s nothing left to return to.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “That silence?”

You do.

It stretches around you like a tomb. No birds. No wind. No whispers of angels left to protect what’s been desecrated.

“That’s what it sounds like,” he says, teeth grazing your jaw, “when Heaven gives up.”

And then you feel him, his cock heavy, hot, dragging across your thigh as he settles between your legs. No more teasing. No more waiting. He’s done watching. Done worshipping from afar. Eden is already broken, and he intends to bury himself in the wreckage.

He lines himself up with a groan, dark and starved, and nudges against your entrance, slow and unbearable.

“I told you,” he growls into your neck as he begins to push in, inch by inch, stretching you with sinful patience, “you were never going to stay holy.”

And as your body takes him, as your back arches and your lips part in a soundless cry, the stars above blink out, one by one, as if Heaven itself cannot bear to watch what comes next.

Each slow thrust of his hips is a rewriting of your purpose, of your body, of the story Heaven tried to seal shut with golden locks and gates of fire. And it was never enough. Not against him. Not against this. Your walls clench around him, slick and trembling, like your body was made to keep him inside, like it’s been waiting all this time for him to come back and finish what was never supposed to begin.

He groans against your skin, biting at your throat as he pushes deeper, deeper still, until your legs shake and your hands scramble helplessly against his back. His skin is hot to the touch, burning with something holy turned monstrous. You dig your nails in anyway.

And he laughs.

A low, wicked sound, full of disbelief and delight and something far too close to reverence.

“You feel that?” he growls, his voice all teeth and fire, hips grinding into you with obscene slowness. “That stretch? That ache? That’s mine, little lamb. Every bit of it. They locked me out, and I still found a way in.”

You sob, but it’s not fear anymore. Not shame. Just overwhelming, unbearable pleasure. A heat that has no name. A breaking that doesn’t hurt. Your moans echo through the grove, soft and holy and damned all at once.

Eden quakes.

The soil splits.

The spring boils.

And still, no angels descend. No sword pierces the sky. No voice calls out to stop him.

Because you’re not being taken anymore.

You’re welcoming him.

Your body bucks up to meet each thrust, your hands in his hair, your breath tangled with his, and he fucks you like a sermon, deep, relentless, sacred in its ruin.

“I’ll carve my name into you,” he pants against your lips, “and when they come looking, all they’ll find is a girl on her knees and a god in her cunt.”

And somewhere, in the dust and dark of Heaven’s hollow halls, a final bell tolls.

And it does not ring for you.

It rings for the world you just left behind.

The world where you were pure. Where your name had weight among angels and your breath was counted like stars. Where your skin had never known the burn of sin or the press of a fallen thing’s mouth against your throat.

That world collapses with every thrust.

It crumbles beneath the heat of his body, the stretch of him inside you, the filth he breathes into your mouth like scripture. There is no returning to it. No river to cleanse you. No voice from on high to pull you back.

You are past salvation now.

And you don’t want it.

You want him—this ruined creature, this blasphemous seraph, this embodiment of the desire Heaven feared. You want the weight of him, the sound of his breath breaking beside your ear, the brutal, perfect way he splits you open like you were made to be offered at his altar.

Dabi grins into your skin, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his pace falters, not from hesitation, but from how good you feel wrapped around him, how divine your body is when it clenches and shakes and takes every inch like it’s desperate to fall further.

You were supposed to be unreachable. Unfuckable. A sealed relic of light, soft and sacred and meant to be kept behind veils and gates and law. But now? Now you’re beneath him, split open and soaked with sin, moaning into his mouth like you were made to be ruined by him and only him.

His grip tightens on your thighs as he thrusts deeper, slower, grinding his cock into the place that makes your eyes roll back, the place that makes your fingers claw helplessly at his back like maybe—maybe—some part of you wants to hold onto something as you’re dragged down into this new version of yourself.

“Fuck,” he growls, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his brow to your lips. “You feel like goddamn prayer.”

And maybe you are.

Maybe this is what prayer really is—not folded hands and bowed heads, but open legs and gasping mouths, your body shaking beneath something that was never meant to be worshipped but is. Because every thrust is a devotion, every cry from your lips another psalm rewritten in moans and filth. You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. It’s not language. It’s surrender.

Your nails drag down his spine and he shudders, rutting harder, faster, losing the last bit of control he’d pretended to hold. And through it all, you can feel it building again, pleasure climbing, coiling, ready to snap like the last tether between who you were and what you are now.

He kisses you, biting your lip, swallowing your gasp.

He kisses you, biting your lip, swallowing your gasp.

It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s greedy and raw, a clash of teeth and heat, of want that’s been waiting since the beginning of time to be let loose. His lips are rough, tasting of smoke and ruin, and he devours every sound you make like it feeds him. Like your whimpers are holy water he was denied for centuries.

Your body writhes beneath him, overwhelmed, overstretched, overstimulated, but never resisting. You cling to him like he’s gravity, like you’ll be ripped apart completely if he lets go, and maybe you will. Maybe that’s what this is. The unmaking. The rewriting. The end of what you were and the start of what he’s creating between your legs, in your mouth, under your skin.

“Say it,” he pants again, his forehead pressed to yours, hips slamming into you with a rhythm that feels older than language. “Say you’re mine.”

You try. Your mouth opens, but all that comes out is a broken moan, too full of pleasure to shape anything more. Your walls flutter around him and he groans, the sound dragged up from somewhere deep—something primal and holy and furious all at once.

His hand grips your jaw, tilts your face up to his.

“Say it.”

And this time, you do.

“I’m yours.”

It breaks something. In you. In him. In Eden itself.

The ground beneath you trembles. The air turns heavy and thick, humid with sin. The stars above finish dying, their light swallowed into the void that opened the moment you gave yourself over.

He slams into you one final time, hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt with a choked, desperate groan as your body clenches around him and you come undone, again, fully, completely, your climax tearing through you like the echo of a dying world.

And Dabi, The First Burned, follows you into it.

With a gasp. A snarl. A growled, “Mine.”

It tears from his throat like a vow, not whispered but carved, into the air, into your skin, into the bones of Eden itself. It shakes through him as he spills inside you, hot and heavy and endless, filling you with something that feels like fire and fate and the collapse of Heaven all at once. His wings quake, stretching wide behind him in a final, trembling display, one last act of defiance against the god who cast him out.

You feel him pulse inside you, feel every twitch, every shudder, every ragged breath pressed against your throat as he stays buried deep, refusing to pull away. Refusing to leave. Because this isn’t a taking.

It’s a keeping.

You are his now. Claimed. Marked. No longer untouched, no longer pure. Not just ruined—rewritten.

Your legs tremble around his hips. Your chest rises in shallow, stunned gasps. The aftershocks ripple through you like after-prayers, echoes of something divine, twisted into something so human it hurts. And he’s still there, weight pressed to yours, hand tangled in your hair, forehead resting against your temple as you both lie in the wreckage of something eternal.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence.

Not peace. Just aftermath.

No angels weep. No voice calls you back. No light reaches through the trees to find you.

And Dabi, still inside you, still holding you like he might tear Heaven apart if you were ever taken from him, finally exhales.

And Dabi, still inside you, still holding you like he might tear Heaven apart if you were ever taken from him, finally exhales.

It’s not relief. It’s not release. It’s something heavier, something ancient, cracked and glowing at the edges, like the final breath of a god who never got to finish what he started. His arms tighten around you, possessive and trembling, and for a moment, the Garden dares to be still.

There is no light. No song. Only the sound of your heart slowing beneath his, and the taste of smoke on your tongue.

Above you, the sky remains black. The stars do not return. The angels do not descend. Heaven, it seems, has finally turned away, for good this time.

And you don’t care.

Because you are not alone.

You are not innocent.

You are his.

Dabi presses one last kiss to your cheek—soft, almost reverent—and lays his forehead against yours. His voice is quiet when he speaks, raw and full of ruin.

“Let them rebuild their Heaven,” he murmurs. “We’ll make something better in the ashes.”

And beneath him, surrounded by wilted flowers and burning air, held in the arms of the first fallen flame, you finally smile.

Because Eden is gone.

But the two of you remain.

[edenarchives]

Just a quick update on where I’ve been.

trigger warnings: talk of pregnancy and miscarriage

hi angels

i’m sorry for disappearing without a word. i didn’t plan to go quiet. i just didn’t know how to say any of this and to be honest, I couldn’t. Because writing would make it real and I didn’t want that. But I have healed now and I am ready to tell you all where I’ve been

on june 7th, after two years of trying to get pregnant with my husband, we found out we were going to have a baby. we were ecstatic. overwhelmed with joy. it felt like the world cracked open in the best way. like life had handed us this tiny piece of magic.

we spent the next few days dreaming about the future. names, nursery colours, pregnancy announcements, little shoes we’d one day trip over. everything felt light and full of hope.

but then came sunday the 15th.

i woke up early with a feeling i’ll never forget, and within hours, we were at the hospital, being told we had lost our baby. just like that.

one second we were planning for a family of three, and the next… we were back to two, holding onto each other through the quiet.

i’m still grieving. still healing. still trying to figure out how to move forward with this hole in my heart.

thank you for being patient. for sticking around. i’ll be back when i can be. i just need some time.

🤍

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐈𝐍 .ᐟ — 𝟏𝐊 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡.

༒༶•┈┈⛧┈┈•༶༒

This is not a record of salvation, but of sacred ruin.

Within this Garden, holiness is only a memory—something cracked, bleeding, and wrapped in flesh.

Across ten stories, you will meet not men, but creatures cloaked in grace and desecration alike: fallen angels and wrathful seraphim, serpent-hearted prophets, demons with honeyed mouths, and gods who have long since turned cruel. They do not come to save you. They come to taste what Heaven denied them. They whisper scripture while pressing their mouths to your throat; they offer protection only to devour you from within.

You are the altar. You are the sin. And in Eden, nothing is ever innocent—not the watcher, not the touched, not even you.

༒༶•┈┈⛧┈┈•༶༒

Verse I: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 | 𝐃𝐚𝐛𝐢

Verse II: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 | 𝐑𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚

Verse III: 𝐀 𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 | 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐢𝐧-𝐖𝐨𝐨

Verse IV: 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 | 𝐄𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫

Verse V: 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 | 𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧

Verse VI: 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐟𝐞𝐫

Verse VII: 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 | 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎

Verse VIII: TO BE ANNOUNCED

Verse IX: TO BE ANNOUNCED

Verse X: TO BE ANNOUNCED

༒༶•┈┈⛧┈┈•༶༒

[edenarchives]

You’re the only person to ask this I love you

♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 .ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’ve faked it with every guy you’ve ever worked with. Every scene, every moan, convincing, but never real. Then Bakugo happens. One scene turns into something else entirely and now you can’t stop thinking about him, and you’re starting to wonder if it was ever just a scene.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ content. smut, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, fingering, rough sex, praise, light degradation, dirty talk, light choking, possessiveness, semi-public sex (on set), creampie, light aftercare, porn industry setting, blurred emotional lines, language.

PART TWO

You weren’t nervous. Not really.

You’d done this a hundred times. With all the big names—Keigo, who liked to make everything a performance; Touya, who had a thing for whispering filth like he was telling you a secret; even that wild three-way with Shindo and Hitoshi that still topped your subscriber requests.

So no, this wasn’t nerves.

This was something else.

Maybe it was the name on the call sheet. Bakugo Katsuki.

He was the guy. The one who didn’t just act like a powerhouse on camera—he was one. Every scene he was in got clipped, shared, memed, thirsted after. The kind of raw intensity people couldn’t stop watching. Or jerking off to.

You included. Not that you’d admit it out loud.

Okay. Maybe once. When you were wine drunk and swiping through his catalog. Maybe twice. Maybe more.

You’d watched him wreck other girls. Watched the way his hands gripped hips like he owned them. The way his mouth dragged moans out like he knew exactly what buttons to push. You always told yourself it was research. Prep for the inevitable scene.

Now here you were, in the makeup chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, trying not to stare at the clock. You didn’t even get this antsy for award shows.

You shifted your hips a little. God, you needed to get a grip.

“Five minutes, Y/N,” someone called from set.

You gave a casual wave, sliding your phone into your bag. Cool. Easy. You’d done this before. You were the girl. The one who always looked good, always knew her angles, always gave the most convincing moans. No one ever knew they were fake.

No one needed to.

You only did this for the money. Never caught feelings, never chased orgasms. You could finish on your own time. You always did.

But when you walked onto set and saw him—arms crossed, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, like the cameras were already rolling—your breath hitched.

And then his eyes locked on you.

Bakugo didn’t smile. He smirked. All sharp teeth and slow drags of his gaze. Like he was already undressing you in his head.

“‘Bout time,” he said, voice low and cocky.

You raised a brow. “Don’t get cocky, Dynamight.”

He stepped forward, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up. He smelled like something spicy—cologne, sweat, and danger. His smirk widened.

“Too late, princess. I’ve seen your work. Bet I could make you actually cum.”

You laughed. It came out a little shaky. “You think you’re the first guy to say that?”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek like he had every right to touch you already. “But I’ll be the first one to prove it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped anyway. Cocky bastard. You weren’t new to bold claims—hell, you’d heard that same line from half the industry. But something about the way he said it, all low and sure like it was a promise, made your pulse skip.

You turned away before he could see the heat rising to your cheeks.

The scene started like any other.

Lights. Camera. Action.

You were on your back, legs spread, eyes half-lidded. Your moans were perfectly timed, your hands moving just how they were supposed to.

Bakugo was above you, teasing at first, fingers trailing up your thigh, smirking like he had all the time in the world. You tried to stay in character. Tried to focus.

But then his fingers actually slipped inside, and holy shit—

You bit your lip.

That felt… different.

His fingers weren’t just thrusting. They curled. Pressed. Rubbed against the spot you usually had to hunt for on your own. And when he looked down at you, his eyes weren’t blank or performative. They were locked in. Watching every twitch of your mouth. Every hitch in your breath.

“You always fake it this early?” he muttered under his breath, so low only you could hear.

Your stomach flipped. Your thighs tensed.

“What?” you managed, voice barely a whisper.

Bakugo chuckled. It rumbled low in his chest.

“You’re tight,” he said, dragging his thumb over your clit just right. “But you ain’t clenching like you mean it. Not yet.”

And then he sucked on your inner thigh.

Not for the camera. Not for show.

For you.

Your back arched on instinct.

“Relax,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin. “I got you.”

And you hated—hated—how badly you wanted to believe him.

He didn’t start slow.

He licked into you like he was starving, like he’d been starving, and this was his first meal in weeks. His tongue was hot, wet, relentless—flicking against your clit in firm, practiced strokes that had your legs trembling before you could even bite back the first moan.

You weren’t acting.

Not anymore.

Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you, white-knuckled, and your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but all that came out was a broken little gasp.

“Oh fuck—”

He hummed against you. Smug bastard.

“Don’t hold back now, princess,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up your slit slow, then latching back onto your clit like he owned it. “Let’s show ‘em what it looks like when it’s real.”

You whimpered. Whimpered. You didn’t do that.

Not even when Keigo pulled out the toys. Not even when Touya did that breathy thing in your ear.

This was different.

You tried—tried—to keep it together, but his mouth moved like he already knew every inch of you. Tongue swirling, lips sucking, fingers still working inside you like he wasn’t giving you a fucking choice. He knew exactly where to press, where to flick, when to slow down and when to pick it back up again.

And it wasn’t even for the camera.

It was for you.

Your stomach coiled, tight. Too tight.

Your breathing hitched. Your thighs started to shake. You were going to—

“No,” you gasped, voice panicked, eyes fluttering. “Don’t—fuck—I’m—”

“Yeah you are,” Bakugo growled, pulling back just long enough to look at you. His mouth was wet with you, lips swollen, eyes wild. “C’mon. Don’t fake it. Just fuckin’ let go.”

And then he sucked—hard—right over your clit.

Your body snapped.

The orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, ripping the air from your lungs. You didn’t fake it. You couldn’t. Your moans were raw, broken, punched out of you like the wind got knocked from your chest. You shook, hands flying to his hair, thighs locking around his head as your back arched off the bed.

And he didn’t stop.

Kept going. Licking, pressing, dragging your orgasm out like he wanted to ruin you.

You came again, again, before you’d even come down from the first.

Your voice cracked. “Bakugo, I—I can’t—”

“Yeah you can,” he muttered, not letting up for a second. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your vision blurred. Your whole body was buzzing, on fire, shaking like you’d lost control of every single nerve ending. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You didn’t lose it like this.

But god, he was still licking you through it, fingers still curling right there, his voice low and wrecked as he talked you through it like he wanted to brand the sound of your orgasm into your memory forever.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, voice gravel and heat, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You nodded, desperate, lost.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say it’s real.”

Your lips trembled.

“It’s real,” you gasped, breathless, broken. “It’s real, fuck I’m gonna—”

And just like that, you came undone again. Loud. Messy. Helpless.

Bakugo didn’t stop until your hips were twitching, your thighs were soaked, and your moans turned into soft little sobs of overstimulation.

The lights above you still burned hot. The cameras were still rolling. But everything else felt far away—muted, blurry, unreal. Your legs were jelly. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a marathon. And Bakugo was still between them, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden and planned to do it again.

Your brain was still fogged when he stood, stretching to his full height.

Then his hands were back on you, big and warm and so sure, gripping your waist like he owned it. He flipped you over effortlessly, face down, ass up, skin still hot and damp with sweat. Your thighs trembled when they spread open again, already overstimulated and soaked.

Bakugo slid his hands up your back. Slow. Possessive.

“You feel that?” he murmured, leaning over you, his cock grinding against your ass with lazy pressure. “That twitch in your legs? That little shake?”

You nodded weakly, eyes fluttering.

“That’s mine now.”

Your breath caught as he pulled his hips back. You barely had time to process before the thick head of his cock was pressing against your entrance—hot, heavy, and already wet from you.

“You ready?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

Then he pushed in.

Slow. All the way to the hilt. Letting you feel every inch. Stretching you open, filling you to the fucking brim. You choked on a moan, fingers gripping the sheets like your life depended on it.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting your pussy throb around him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, hips flexing. “So fuckin’ tight. Can feel you squeezing me already.”

You were. He hadn’t even started moving yet and you were clenching around him like you didn’t want him to leave.

Then—he moved.

A slow drag out. A sharp thrust back in. Deep. Deeper. Your mouth dropped open. No sound came out.

“That the spot?” he murmured, hips rolling again, hitting the same angle, slow and deliberate.

You nodded, gasping.

“You better fuckin’ tell me when you’re close,” he growled, pace still maddeningly slow. “I wanna feel it. I wanna hear it.”

He reached around and pressed two fingers against your clit, rubbing soft, teasing circles that made your arms give out. You dropped to your elbows, back arching like he’d wired you for pleasure.

Then he started really fucking you.

Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Every. Single. Stroke. Reaching places that made your eyes roll back. His hips snapped forward with just enough force to jolt you up the bed, his fingers never leaving your clit.

You moaned into the mattress, voice high and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s the fuckin’ sound I wanted.”

You were spiraling. Every thrust, every rub, every low growl in your ear sent you closer to the edge.

“Bakugo, I—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he grunted, hips picking up speed, still hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

You shattered.

You clenched around him so tight he groaned, biting down on a curse as your body trembled under him. Your moan punched out of your throat, high and wrecked and real.

But he didn’t stop.

“Oh fuck—fuck, wait—” you gasped, hips twitching as he kept thrusting, dragging you straight into another orgasm with no break.

He leaned over you, voice low in your ear. “Not fakin’ now, huh?”

You shook your head wildly, whining into the sheets.

“Bet you never came like this on set before,” he said, voice rough. “Bet no one’s ever made you cum like this off it either.”

He wrapped a hand in your hair and pulled gently, just enough to lift your head.

“Say it.”

You could barely speak. “No one. No one but you.”

“Damn right.”

His thrusts sped up, rougher now, deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, joined by your wrecked little gasps, your whines, the slick mess between your thighs.

“You hear that?” he said, low and smug. “That fuckin’ sound your pussy’s makin’? That’s all me.”

You whimpered, and he slapped your ass—not hard, just enough to make you clench again.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

And then he slammed into you. Hard. Once. Twice. Over and over. You screamed—literally—as another orgasm crashed through you, your body locking up, eyes rolling back.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gasped, and then pulled out just in time to stroke himself twice, thick ropes of cum painting your back, his voice ragged as he came with a low, wrecked growl.

You collapsed.

No faking. No poses. Just you, ruined on the sheets, shaking and soaked and completely fucking gone.

Bakugo dropped to his knees behind you, panting. He grabbed a towel off the edge of the bed, wiped you down gently—so gently it made your chest ache.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet now. Careful.

You nodded, still dizzy. Still pulsing. Still floating.

“I came so many times I lost count,” you whispered, dazed.

He chuckled, cocky and low. “Good.”

You rolled onto your side, trying to catch your breath.

“That was supposed to be a scene,” you mumbled. “That felt like a fucking movie.”

Bakugo leaned in, kissed your bare shoulder, then smirked against your skin.

“Baby,” he murmured, “that was just the warm-up.”

You snorted softly, still breathless. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

Your legs were still trembling, body wrecked and used and buzzing. But something else was humming under your skin now. That ache in your core—not from need, but from power.

You rolled over, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers down his chest. His eyes tracked every movement.

“Get on your back,” you whispered.

Bakugo raised a brow but didn’t argue. He leaned back against the pillows, smirking like he thought he still had the upper hand.

His hair was damp with sweat. His lips were swollen. His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven breaths. You’d never seen him like this.

Your grin widened.

You leaned down and kissed him—soft, slow, way too good to be acting. Then you sat back, hips lifting off him, and slid down his body.

“Where you goin’?” he rasped, half-laughing, half-breathless.

You looked up at him from between his thighs, eyes dark, lips parted. “Didn’t say I was done with you yet.”

His breath caught.

You licked up the underside of his cock—slow, teasing, wet. He twitched in your hand, muscles tensing as you took your time, letting your mouth work him like you had something to prove. And maybe you did. Maybe you just wanted to see him fall apart the way he’d done to you.

You looked up, mouth wrapped around the tip, and saw it—the crack in his composure. The soft clench of his jaw. The desperate twitch in his thigh. The helpless sound he made when you sucked just right.

“You’re so sensitive, you’re not gonna last,” you said around him, lips brushing the head.

His fingers gripped the sheets. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You kept going, messy and perfect, tongue flicking and mouth sinking deeper, until he was panting, until he was cursing under his breath, until his hips jerked off the bed.

And then you pulled off, slow, dragging your tongue over the tip one last time.

He made a noise—wrecked.

You climbed back up his body, straddling his hips again. His hands found your thighs like muscle memory, gripping tight.

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw.

“Beg.”

He froze. “What?”

You rolled your hips once, just enough to feel the slide of his cock against your slick entrance.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Tell me you want it.”

Bakugo swallowed hard. His voice was low, rough. “I want it.”

You licked the shell of his ear, teasing. “Not good enough.”

His hands trembled where they held you. Then he growled, breath hot.

“Please.”

You stilled.

“What was that?”

He gritted his teeth. Looked up at you like he hated how much he meant it.

“Please,” he repeated. “I want you. Need you. Fuck, I’ll say whatever you want—just ride me.”

You smiled. Real. Slow. Lazy and smug.

Then you sank down on him—deep, wet, tight—and his whole body arched beneath you, a broken moan punching out of his throat like you’d ripped it from his chest.

His hands flew to your hips.

You rode him slow. Sweet. All control. And when he finally came again—loud, raw, completely undone—you kissed him through it. Held him through it.

And when he whispered your name afterward, soft and stunned, like he didn’t know what just hit him

You smiled. Because for once, it wasn’t just acting.

Neither of you moved right away. His arms were still around you, chest rising and falling under your cheek, skin damp with sweat, muscles twitching beneath your fingers. Your heart was still beating too fast, and so was his.

Eventually, though, you had to get up. Had to move. The spell didn’t break, exactly—it just faded enough to remember where you were, who you were, what this was supposed to be.

You pulled on your robe in silence, legs still shaking slightly, and glanced at him across the bed. He sat up slow, pushing his hair back, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like maybe he had more to say, but didn’t know how. Or didn’t think he should.

You hesitated.

So did he.

“Um…I’ll see you around,” you said, trying to make it sound casual, even though your voice came out a little too soft.

“Yeah,” he said, standing and reaching for his clothes. “Guess you will.”

Your stomach twisted, weirdly tight, but you smiled anyway. You nodded once, turned, and walked off set without looking back.

You didn’t see the way he watched you go.

Didn’t see the way his fingers flexed like he wanted to reach for you.

Didn’t hear the low, quiet fuck that slipped from under his breath when the door finally shut behind you.

You got home and didn’t even shower right away.

You peeled off your clothes slow, every muscle sore in the best possible way, and collapsed into bed wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and your post-fuck glow. Your thighs ached. Your voice was half-gone. Your lips were still swollen.

You looked wrecked.

You felt worse.

And yet somehow, the only thing you could think about was him. The way he’d looked at you. The way he sounded saying your name. The way his hands had held you after like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You tried to distract yourself. Pulled up the scene, freshly posted not even an hour ago.

It already had thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments. More than anything you’d dropped in months.

You scrolled.

StepOnMeY/N: Holy shit, that was unreal.

BbyBakuGo: not y/n faking with everyone but bakugo

ToyasToy: Was that real? Tell me that was real.

It was.

You scrolled further.

KeigoOfficial: I feel personally offended. Gonna have to step my game up. Rematch y/n?

TouyaTodo: faked it? With me? damn. i must be losing my edge. hit me up when you wanna make it real doll.

You smirked.

Your DM notifications were blowing up. People you’d worked with. People you hadn’t. Everyone suddenly curious. Hungry. Competitive.

Your stomach flipped. It was fun. It was flattering. But none of it hit quite the same.

Then you saw it.

BakugoK: Already need more from my favorite girl.

You stared at it.

Read it once.

Twice.

A third time, just to make sure it was real.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers went numb. You sat up in bed, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. Because what the fuck did that mean?

You clicked on his profile. Double checked that it was him.

It was.

No emoji. No game. Just a single comment that said everything and nothing all at once.

Already need more.

Favorite girl.

You slammed your laptop shut and screamed into your pillow. You kicked your feet like a schoolgirl. You laughed—hysterical, breathless, completely losing your mind.

Then you opened your laptop, stared at the comment again, and whispered out loud to no one

“Oh my god.”

Because yeah—you’d done this a hundred times. But this one was different.

[edenarchives]

you write so fricking good. like you'll find me scheduling and taking time out to sit and FINALLY read Spoiled (even tho I've read the chapters- sometimes i reread them). ITS SO GOOD WTH??? AND LIKE AAA I LOOVE. IT. I've no words. literally got me giggling and kicking my feet w incoherent babbles of how much I adore the series and you for coming with such a masterpiece.

STOP IT RN YOURE SO SWEET IM GONNA CRY OH MY GOD??? Plz I love it when people love my work it actually makes me so emotional because like you really like this story I made ? 🥹👉👈

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘 .ᐟ — 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: It was supposed to be harmless. Just a quiet little night in your room, moaning into your pillow, pretending your fingers were his. And then he walked in.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ only, oral (f receiving), fingering, one-sided obsession (reader), reader caught masturbating, overstimulation, pussy worship, rough language, intense Bakugo, no actual sex, no aftercare, unprotected (oral)

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2k

You’d been around Bakugo Katsuki long enough to know better.

Long enough to learn his routines, his moods, the exact sharp edge in his voice that meant “leave me the fuck alone” versus the rare gravel that meant “I don’t really want you to.” You knew how he took his coffee. Knew he hated pickles. Knew he always washed his hands before touching his gear but somehow never managed to wear his gloves properly.

You’d been partnered with him for months now.

Close. Always close. Too close.

So of course, when you got assigned an undercover recon mission that required you to live in a one-bedroom apartment with him for a week, you smiled and nodded like it was no big deal.

Like you hadn’t been secretly, violently obsessed with him since the first time he said your name.

You tried to tell yourself you’d handle it.

That you were a professional. That it was just seven nights.

But that was before you saw him walk out of the shower, towel low on his hips, water dripping down his abs in lazy, smug little trails. Before you noticed the way his hair laid flatter when it was damp, all golden at the tips and sticking to his forehead. Before you saw him yawn and stretch, muscles rippling under his skin like he didn’t even know you were there.

That was when it got bad.

That was when you had to run—literally run—into the bathroom, slam the door, and fuck yourself hard and fast with your fingers, biting your fist to stay quiet while your hips jerked against the tile and you whispered his name like it was a fucking prayer.

It only got worse after that.

The apartment was small. Your room was smaller. The walls were thin. Every time he grunted from a workout, every time he swore under his breath in the kitchen, every time he brushed past you with heat radiating off his skin—you felt it in your throat.

And you never touched yourself when he was awake.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you didn’t trust yourself not to moan his name like a goddamn idiot.

Tonight, though?

Tonight’s too much.

The tension is chewing at your bones. You said goodnight like always—smile too tight, voice too high—and retreated to your room like a coward.

But you can’t sleep.

The ache between your legs is sharp and constant, and every time you close your eyes, it’s him you see.

So you wait.

You listen.

No footsteps. No water running. No grumbling from the other side of the wall.

Safe.

You move fast—like muscle memory.

Tug your shirt off. Slip out of your shorts. Toss them to the floor as you climb onto the bed and sink into the pillows, legs spreading, knees folding up toward your chest. Your fingers find your heat instantly—already soaked, already needy—and you let out a quiet, desperate moan as you rub slow circles over your clit.

“Bakugo…” you whisper, breathless.

You don’t even realize you said it out loud.

Your mind is full of him—rough hands, sharp teeth, golden eyes dark with want. You imagine him grabbing your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the bed. You imagine him spitting on your pussy, telling you how messy you are. You imagine his fingers inside you—thick, fast, perfect.

You dip two of your own in—just barely—and whimper at the stretch.

Your hips roll. You pant softly. Your fingers work your clit again, slick and messy, pussy glistening in the warm lamplight. You’re already close. Already pulsing.

So caught up in your own filthy thoughts that you don’t hear the knock.

Don’t hear the soft “Y/n?” just outside the door.

Don’t hear the creak of the knob turning.

Until it’s too late.

The door opens.

And Bakugo fucking freezes.

You don’t have time to cover yourself.

Can’t even speak.

Because you’re on your back, legs spread wide, pussy facing the fucking door, fingers halfway inside, slick running down your thighs. And he sees everything.

His eyes lock on your cunt first.

Wide. Wild. Disbelieving.

And for one horrible second, time stops.

You’re still. He’s still.

Then—

He moves.

Fast.

Too fast.

You don’t register it—don’t understand how someone that big moves that quietly, but suddenly he’s there, at the foot of your bed, kneeling, grabbing your thighs and yanking you down until your ass is at the edge of the mattress and your knees are over his shoulders.

You barely manage a gasp.

“Bakugo—!”

But you don’t get to finish the sentence.

Because his mouth is on you.

Hot.

Wet.

Filthy.

He groans like he’s been starving for it. Like the taste of your pussy is something he’s been imagining for weeks, months, years.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he growls against your cunt. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

Your head falls back, a high, broken moan spilling from your lips as his tongue drags through your folds, slow and deep. He licks like he’s savoring it—like he’s trying to commit your taste to memory. His grip on your thighs is bruising, holding you wide open, holding you still.

You’re shaking.

You’re gone.

“Bakugo, fuck—!”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he snaps. “Not unless you want me to come in my pants like a fuckin’ rookie.”

And then he dives back in.

Tongue working your clit with maddening pressure. Mouth hot and open and desperate. He’s groaning against your pussy, rutting into the mattress, feasting on you like you’re the last goddamn thing he’ll ever taste.

And when he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them just right?

You scream.

Your back arches off the bed, hands flying to the sheets, the wall, anything, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t. He’s dragging you under. His fingers are thick and deep and curling exactly right, pressing against the spot that makes your toes curl and your thighs twitch—and his mouth—

Fuck.

His mouth doesn’t let up. His tongue is flicking fast over your clit, lips locked around it like he owns it, like it was made for him. Every suck sends electricity down your spine. Every moan he lets out against your soaked cunt vibrates through your whole body.

And he’s not stopping.

Not to talk.

Not to breathe.

Not even to look at you.

Like he doesn’t need anything except the taste of your pussy.

You try to speak—try to say his name, to tell him you’re going to come—but it breaks in your throat, comes out a wrecked little gasp as your hips buck helplessly into his face.

He growls.

Low.

Hungry.

His arm flings across your stomach, pinning you to the bed like he knows you’re about to squirm away.

“Don’t you fucking run from me,” he mutters, voice hoarse, face soaked, lips brushing your clit before he sucks hard again. “You wanted this, right? You’re gonna take it.”

Your vision blurs.

He speeds up. Fingers thrusting faster, wetter, his palm slapping against your cunt with every stroke. His tongue is relentless now, licking circles, tight and fast and perfect.

And it builds.

Fast.

Too fast.

You grab at his hair, twisting your fingers in the strands, your thighs threatening to close—but he holds them open, shoulders locked, growling against your pussy like a fucking animal.

“I—Bakugo—Katsuki—”

That does it.

You cry out, loud and desperate, hips jerking as your orgasm hits hard, exploding through your core like a live wire. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, clenching, soaking his hand, and he groans like he’s getting off on it—like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

He doesn’t stop.

Even as you’re sobbing his name.

Even as your thighs shake.

Even as you push at his shoulders, overwhelmed and soaked and wrecked.

“Please—fuck—too much—”

He lifts his head slightly. His mouth is shiny with your slick. His eyes are wild.

“You’re not done.”

You don’t even get a chance to beg.

Because his tongue is back on your clit before the words can leave your mouth—faster this time. Messier. His fingers curl again and you shriek, hips twitching, tears sliding down your cheeks as your body lights up all over again.

“You taste like fuckin’ candy,” he groans. “You think I’m gonna stop with one?”

You sob—head tipping back, mouth open, throat raw.

“Gonna eat this pussy until you pass out.”

[edenarchives]

Finally the weekend and I have a week off of work just because 🫩 so please tell me what characters do you want to see me write for?

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟒.ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: What started as a search for closure turns into something far messier, far deeper, and far harder to walk away from. You let them both have you—and now, you don’t know if you can let either of them go.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: threesome (f/m/m), oral (f + m receiving), vaginal sex, praise, overstimulation, creampie, light dom/sub elements, possessiveness, emotional confusion, unresolved tension, soft aftercare

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 9k

You wake up slow.

Not because you’re rested— you’re far from it. Your body feels like it’s been through something brutal, something holy. Your skin still hums in places he touched. Your thighs are sore, raw where he stretched you open, where he made you beg, where he held you like he owned you.

But it’s the quiet that wakes you.

That eerie, unfamiliar stillness that doesn’t belong to you. The soft rustle of sheets that aren’t yours. The scent of someone else’s detergent—clean, expensive, masculine—clinging to the cotton pulled tight over your chest.

You blink once, twice.

The ceiling is high, plain. The curtains are cracked open just enough to let a line of light cut through the room, soft gold across the bed. Your hand is curled loosely beside your face. Your other is resting on his pillow.

He’s not with you.

You sit up slow. Feel everything.

Your muscles ache. Your lips are swollen. Your chest is blotched with deepening bruises—his mouth, his hands, his claim. Between your legs, the soreness is heavy and thick, soaked into your skin like a reminder. You don’t need to touch to know he’s still there. Inside you. Tracing his name in the way your body still pulses when you shift.

You should be humiliated.

But you’re not.

You feel… still. Raw. But grounded.

You stand. Quiet. Bare feet on cool floorboards. His shirt hangs off your frame—too big, sleeves rolled, the hem brushing your upper thighs like a secret. You don’t bother fixing your hair. You don’t bother checking the mirror.

You follow the smell of coffee instead.

The hallway is dim and quiet, but there’s something warm at the end of it. Light spilling through the archway. The low hum of music—old, lazy, something with soft piano and scratchy vinyl vocals. And beneath it: the low sizzle of something frying.

You pause just outside the kitchen.

Toji is standing at the stove.

Shirtless.

Hair damp from the shower, pushed back messily, like he didn’t even look in the mirror before towel-drying and walking out. He’s wearing black sweats slung too low on his hips, a white dish towel tossed over his shoulder. One hand is resting on the counter, a chipped ceramic mug curled in his palm. The other is working a spatula, flipping something in the pan with slow, casual movements.

And you just stand there.

Watching him like you don’t know what planet you’re on.

Because this isn’t the man who fucked you into his mattress like he wanted to ruin your life. This isn’t the man who said he’d make you cry. This isn’t the man who bent you over his desk and filled you up like it was his right.

This is just… a man. Making breakfast. In the quiet of a house that’s too clean to be chaotic and too private to be empty.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does—and just lets you look.

When he finally speaks, it’s without turning around.

“Coffee’s fresh.”

You blink.

His voice is rough, but not cold. A little raspier than usual. Lower, maybe. Like he hasn’t used it yet this morning except to say your name in his sleep.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You step into the room, cautiously. Like it’s a trap.

“You’re cooking?” you say softly.

Toji glances at you over his shoulder. His eyes drag down your legs, over the hem of his shirt, then flick back up. No smirk. No smugness. Just… something unreadable.

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” he says simply. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

That’s it.

No innuendo. No teasing.

Just that.

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Because you don’t know what to do with this version of him. You don’t know how to square it with the man from last night—the one who made you sob into his pillow, who ruined you from the inside out and whispered things you’re still too scared to believe.

“You don’t have to…” you start, then trail off.

He turns the stove off. Moves the pan aside. Picks up the plate he’d already set on the counter. Toast. Eggs. Sliced strawberries. No meat.

He noticed.

He holds the plate out without a word.

And you take it.

Fingers brush. Just slightly. Enough to make your stomach twist.

You sit at the counter.

And for a moment, neither of you speaks.

Just the soft sounds of cutlery on ceramic. The low hum of jazz. The tension in your shoulders curling tighter with every second he doesn’t say something cruel.

Then finally, he leans on the counter across from you—forearms flat, coffee in hand, gaze steady.

“I meant what I said.”

You pause mid-bite.

He watches your expression. Calm. Serious.

“Last night,” he adds. “All of it.”

You swallow. Try to keep your voice even.

“That you want something real?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You look down at your plate.

Because if you look at him too long, you’ll start to believe him.

And you’re not sure what would be worse—believing him, or realizing he means it.

Because either way, something inside you is going to break.

You pick at the strawberries. You can feel Toji watching you, but he doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch. Lets it settle.

And maybe that’s what gets you. The fact that he’s not trying to fix it. He’s just letting it be real.

You sigh.

Set the fork down.

Look up at him.

Your voice is soft. Quiet. “I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

Toji raises a brow, slow. “Like what?”

“Like someone who…” you pause, struggling to find the word. “Cares.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. Just nods. “I didn’t either.”

That hits harder than you want it to.

And suddenly your throat feels tight.

Because you didn’t come here for feelings. You didn’t come here to get seen. You came here to burn things down, to ruin someone else’s life so yours would hurt a little less.

But now Toji’s sitting across from you, shirtless and real, making you breakfast and saying things that crack you open in places you didn’t think anyone could reach.

You don’t know what this is.

You don’t know what it’s supposed to be.

Your phone buzzes.

You both glance down.

The name flashes across the screen like a curse.

Nanami.

You freeze.

Toji doesn’t say anything—but his expression darkens. Just slightly. His fingers tighten on the coffee mug, knuckles going white.

You swallow hard.

Your thumb hovers.

You don’t want to answer it.

But you also… do.

You slide off the stool, heart racing, and walk toward the living room without saying a word. The phone buzzes again. You pick it up.

Answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. And then—

“Where are you?”

His voice.

Too calm. Too steady. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

You don’t answer.

“Please,” he says. “Just… just talk to me.”

You close your eyes.

Because it’s him. And no matter what Toji said, no matter how much this whole thing hurts—you still remember how it felt to be looked at like you were everything. Even if it was a lie.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

Nanami breathes out hard. You can almost picture him—rubbing at his temples, pacing, jaw clenched.

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I don’t know,” you say. And it’s the truth. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Another pause. Then, softer, like he’s breaking:

“I want to fix this.”

You feel it hit your chest like a fist.

You glance over your shoulder.

Toji is still in the kitchen. Still at the counter. Still watching.

But he’s not angry. He’s not smug.

He just looks… sad.

You turn away again. Back to the phone.

“You can’t fix it,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You already broke it.”

Nanami doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight.

He just says your name again. Quiet. Raw. Like it hurts him to say it out loud.

“I know,” he says. “But I love you.”

Your heart cracks.

Because part of you wants to believe it.

But part of you doesn’t know who you are anymore when he says it.

You look down at yourself—Toji’s shirt on your body, bruises on your chest, the ache between your legs from someone else’s hands.

You breathe in, slow. Careful.

“I think we all need to talk.”

There’s a pause.

A beat of silence on the line that feels like the edge of a cliff.

Nanami’s voice comes back, low and confused. “All?”

You close your eyes. “You. Me. And Toji.”

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Then—

“…What the fuck do you mean, Toji?”

You wince. “I mean what I said.”

The silence now is different. Thick. Frantic. You can hear the shift in his breathing. Like the thought is clicking into place but he’s refusing to believe it.

“You’re with him?” Nanami says, voice sharp now. “Right now?”

You hesitate.

That’s enough.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. You can hear the way he’s pacing, probably running a hand through his hair, unraveling second by second. “Of all people—Toji? He threatened you. He—he blackmailed us.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He cuts in again, louder this time. “You told me you hated him.”

“I did.”

Another pause.

“Did?”

You bite your lip.

Behind you, you hear Toji sigh. Not dramatic. Not surprised. Just… tired. Like he knew this would happen. Like this was always coming.

You turn to him, phone still pressed to your ear.

“I need you both,” you say quietly. “To sit down. To listen. I can’t keep doing this if everyone’s playing different games.”

Toji stares at you for a long second. Jaw clenched. One hand on the counter like he’s holding himself back from throwing something. But when he speaks, it’s calm. Rough, but calm.

“Where.”

You exhale.

You glance back at Toji. He’s still watching you, face unreadable, but he gives a small nod. Like he’s with you now. For real.

“My place,” you say. “Tonight.”

He looks away, muttering something under his breath, but eventually nods.

You press the phone back to your ear. “Nanami?”

He’s still breathing hard. Still trying to process.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice low. Wrecked. “You want me to sit across from the man who blackmailed you into bed?”

Your chest tightens.

You glance at Toji again. And something about the look on his face makes your stomach twist. Not guilt. Not smugness. Just… something unreadable.

You answer softly. “It wasn’t like that.”

Nanami’s breath catches. “What the hell was it, then?”

You close your eyes.

You close your eyes.

“I went to him.”

The line goes silent.

You swallow hard, every word scraping your throat on the way out.

“After I found out what you did… after Toji told me about the others. About how you—how you picked someone every semester, made it feel like fate, made me feel like I started it…”

“Stop.” Nanami’s voice is sharp. Panicked. “Don’t. That’s not what happened.”

You keep going.

“After he said you knew who I was before the first message. That you saw my photo. My name. That it wasn’t random—that it was planned.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“It felt like that,” you snap.

Your hand is shaking now. Toji hasn’t moved. He’s just standing across the room, jaw locked, arms folded like he’s forcing himself to stay out of it. Letting you say it your way.

Your voice cracks. “I thought you loved me. I thought it was real.”

“It was real,” Nanami says—desperate now, heart in his throat. “I didn’t plan it. I never—not with you.”

You press your hand to your chest like it might stop the ache. “Then why didn’t you say that before? Why did you disappear when I needed you most?”

“Because I was scared,” he breathes. “Because I knew I crossed a line and I didn’t know how to fix it. I was trying to protect you.”

“You left me to drown.”

The silence after that is brutal.

Then—

“Why Toji?”

It’s not accusatory. It’s not even angry.

It’s broken.

You blink fast, chest heaving.

“Because I wanted to stop hurting,” you whisper. “Because he didn’t lie to me. Because when he took what he wanted, he didn’t pretend it was anything else.”

You can practically hear Nanami’s heart breaking on the other end of the line.

It sits there between you—thick, choking, loud in the quiet.

“I just…” you swallow. “I need to see you. Both of you. Tonight.”

There’s a pause.

A sharp inhale.

Then, finally—barely audible:

“Okay.”

Your hand tightens around the phone.

Nanami exhales like the weight of it is crushing him. “Text me the address.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “I will.”

“Tonight,” he repeats, softer this time. “Okay.”

The line goes dead.

You stare at the phone for a second too long. Like maybe if you hold it tight enough, you can take the words back. Or stop the ache. Or rewind to something easier.

But it’s done.

You place it gently on the counter. Let your fingers fall away. Your hands are still trembling.

Toji doesn’t speak right away.

He just watches you. That unreadable expression again—part restrained, part curious, part something softer than either of you are ready to deal with.

You glance up, finally meeting his eyes.

“He’s coming.”

Toji nods once. “I heard.”

You let out a breath, shaky and uneven. “This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

He shrugs. “Could be.”

You give him a look.

Toji’s mouth twitches. “Could also be the smartest.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then he crosses the room—slow, quiet—and stops right in front of you. His hand comes up gently, fingers brushing your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”

You blink up at him, throat tight. “I’m not.”

“I know.”

His hand slides behind your neck. Not to pull you in. Just to be there. Solid. Steady.

“You’re letting him in your space,” he says quietly. “Letting me in it too. That’s not nothing.”

Your eyes flicker. “It feels like too much.”

Toji’s thumb drags slowly over your skin.

“Then I’ll take some of it,” he murmurs. “Just ‘til you can breathe.”

And you don’t say anything.

You just close the space between you. Press your forehead to his chest, eyes shut tight. His arms come around you without hesitation—firm, grounding. Not demanding. Just there.

You don’t cry.

But you hold on like you might.

Because tonight’s coming fast.

And the storm you lit is almost here.

LATER THAT NIGHT

The house is too quiet.

Too still.

You’ve checked the clock five times in the last ten minutes, even though you told yourself you wouldn’t.

Toji’s sitting on your couch like he owns it—legs spread, arms stretched out over the back, black tee tight over his chest, hair damp from a quick shower. He looks relaxed.

But you know better.

His jaw’s been locked for twenty minutes. He hasn’t touched his drink.

You’re curled up in the corner of the other end, one leg tucked under you, wearing soft clothes that don’t make you feel strong or sexy—just real. You’d changed three times before this. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt like enough armor.

“Stop fidgeting,” Toji says quietly, not even looking at you.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You glance down. Your fingers are picking at the hem of your sleeve.

You sigh. “This was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

You look at him, brows tight. “What if he shows up just to scream at me? What if this just makes it worse?”

Toji turns his head slowly to meet your eyes.

“It’s already worse.”

You go quiet.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.

“This isn’t about fixing it,” he says. “It’s about not pretending anymore.”

You stare at the floor. “That sounds a lot like giving up.”

Toji shrugs. “Sometimes giving up on bullshit is the only way to move forward.”

You hate that he’s right.

Your heart pounds.

Your mouth is dry.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until—

A knock.

It’s quiet.

But it cuts through the silence like a blade.

You freeze.

Toji straightens slowly. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just rising to his full height like he’s prepping for a fight he doesn’t want to start—but won’t walk away from either.

You look at the door.

Your feet won’t move.

Another knock.

Softer this time.

Like Nanami’s trying not to break something that’s already cracked.

Toji glances at you once. “You want me to open it?”

You shake your head.

“No,” you whisper. “I’ve got it.”

You stand on shaky legs. Cross the room. Rest your hand on the doorknob.

You take one breath.

Then another.

Then open it.

And Nanami’s standing there.

Wearing his best self-control like it still fits. Tie loosened, eyes tired, lips pressed in a tight line that only falters when he sees you.

He opens his mouth to speak—then looks past you.

Sees him.

Toji.

In your house.

Behind you.

Casual. Comfortable. Like this is just another night.

And Nanami’s entire face changes.

He doesn’t say a word but his jaw locks and his hands curl into fists.

And you feel it—

The tension.

The history.

The weight of every secret coming home to roost.

You step aside slowly.

“Come in.”

Nanami steps inside without a word.

You close the door behind him, slow and quiet.

And the second it clicks shut, the air shifts.

Toji hasn’t moved from the couch. He just lifts his chin slightly, eyes on Nanami, calm but unreadable. He looks like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.

Nanami looks at him like he’s a disease.

“Didn’t think you’d be this comfortable,” he mutters.

Toji doesn’t even blink. “It’s not my first time on this couch.” He smirks.

A lie. But it does what it’s meant to.

“Shut up,” Nanami snaps, stepping forward.

“Toji,” you warn.

But Nanami doesn’t stop.

He turns to you, jaw tight. “I thought we were here to talk. Not for you to show off whatever this is—some power play? Revenge?”

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“Toji, kitchen,” you say firmly, not looking at him.

He hesitates. For a second. Like he’s debating whether or not to ignore you. But then his eyes meet yours—and something in them softens. He stands without another word and walks off, slow and deliberate, disappearing into the kitchen with the calm of someone who knows exactly how this ends.

You turn to Nanami.

Your voice is sharp. Cold. “I invited you here to talk. Like adults. Not so you could walk in and throw a tantrum.”

His mouth opens, offended—but you keep going.

“I’m not a student in your office anymore. You don’t get to come into my home and question my decisions like you’re owed something.”

Nanami flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t—” he starts.

“Yes, you did,” you cut in. “The second you saw him. You came in here ready to pick a fight.”

He stares at you. Quiet. Angry. But it’s not just anger—it’s betrayal.

“I just didn’t expect this,” he says quietly. “You, with him. After everything.”

Your voice softens, but not much. “I didn’t expect a lot of things from you either. We’re even.”

He looks down. Breath shaking.

You step back, nod toward the living room.

“Sit down. You don’t have to like him. But you will act like a grown man.”

Nanami hesitates.

But then, finally—he nods once. Tight. Controlled.

You head to the kitchen. Toji’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“You good?” you ask.

“Peachy.”

“You gonna behave?”

Toji tilts his head, watching you carefully. “I’ll behave if he does.”

You sigh.

“Then come sit.”

He doesn’t say anything—just follows.

Back into the storm.

Back into the fire you’re finally ready to walk through.

Together.

The room is heavy when you return.

Nanami’s still on the couch, stiff-backed, hands folded tightly in his lap. Toji sits beside him—opposite end, far but not far enough. The silence between them buzzes like static.

You take the armchair across from both of them. You fold your legs. Set your hands in your lap to hide the tremble.

They both look at you. Waiting. Expecting.

You take a deep breath.

And start.

“When I started seeing you,” you say, looking at Nanami, “it was supposed to be fun.”

He blinks, stunned.

“I mean it. It was casual. I didn’t go into it looking for love or something serious. You were my professor. It was dangerous. It was hot. It was supposed to be… simple.”

Nanami’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak.

You continue.

“But it didn’t stay simple.” You shake your head. “You were smart and calm and steady, and you looked at me like I was more than some dumb girl who didn’t know what she was doing. And it felt… safe. Until it didn’t.”

Toji doesn’t say a word. Just watches.

You shift your gaze.

“When you ended it, Nanami, it felt like my whole chest collapsed. And then Toji told me about the others.”

His brow furrows.

“That this is your thing.” Your voice wavers, just a little. “That every semester, it’s someone. Some girl like me. And you make it feel like fate. Like I started it. Like I chased you.”

You pause. Look down at your hands. “That broke me. Not just because I believed him, but because a part of me already knew. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

Nanami looks wrecked.

“I didn’t even realize how deep I was in until you hurt me,” you say quietly. “And I hated it. I hated how badly I wanted to be wrong.”

You look up again. Meet Toji’s eyes now.

“And that’s when I went to him.”

Toji’s jaw ticks. But he doesn’t move.

You continue.

“I went to Toji to hurt you. I wanted revenge. I wanted to flip the power. I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the one getting played.”

You take a deep breath.

“And I thought it would be easy. Just good sex. Cold and angry and hot enough to get you out of my head.” You glance at Nanami, then back at Toji. “But he wasn’t what I expected.”

The silence thickens.

“I thought he’d use me and leave. I thought I’d use him and not care. But he didn’t treat me like some broken little thing. He saw me. And I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere in all of that, I stopped pretending it didn’t matter.”

You swallow hard. The words are harder now. Stickier.

“And now I’m here. In front of both of you. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“I don’t know what I feel. Or what I want. I just know I don’t want to lie anymore.”

Silence.

It stretches.

Toji’s jaw is tight, unreadable. Nanami’s staring at the floor, hands clenched together like they might stop him from falling apart.

And you?

You sit in the middle of it all.

The silence hangs.

Toji doesn’t look away. His stare is hard, jaw tight, but beneath the stillness—he’s tense. Wound up. Like he’s holding back something he doesn’t want to feel.

Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he’s already unraveling.

His eyes stay on the floor. His hands still folded. But his shoulders shake with the breath he pulls in—deep and ragged.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says quietly. “Not you.”

You don’t respond.

“I didn’t know how to handle what I felt. I kept telling myself it was a mistake. That I had to walk away. That it would be worse if it got deeper.”

He looks up, finally.

“I left because I thought it would protect you.”

You hold his gaze, eyes sharp.

“It didn’t.”

That breaks something.

Nanami shifts forward, voice strained. “And you—” he cuts toward Toji, eyes flashing now. “You couldn’t wait to twist the knife.”

Toji’s brow lifts. “I didn’t force her into anything.”

“You manipulated her.”

“She’s not a child,” Toji says flatly. “She came to me.”

“She came to you because you poisoned her against me—”

“She came to me,” Toji says again, louder now, leaning forward, “because you broke her. I just picked up the fucking pieces.”

And that’s when Nanami stands.

Fast.

Breathing hard. Rage simmering right under his skin.

You shoot up from your chair before Toji can even shift.

“Enough.” Your voice cracks through the room like lightning.

They both freeze.

You take a step between them—shaking, breathing hard, eyes wild.

“I swear to god—if either of you so much as raise your voice again, you can both get the fuck out. And we don’t speak again. Ever.”

Their chests rise and fall in sync, inches apart, like they’re two seconds from swinging.

But they don’t.

Because you’re standing between them like a threat.

“I’m not yours to fight over,” you hiss. “I never was.”

Toji clenches his jaw. Nanami runs a hand down his face.

You look between them. Hurt. Angry. Shaking from the effort of not crying.

You want to scream.

You want to run.

You want to be held and kissed and ruined and understood—and you don’t know which one of them can give you that, and it’s breaking you apart from the inside out.

“I can’t choose,” you whisper, voice splintering. “I can’t—”

Toji shifts first.

Not toward you.

Toward Nanami.

He doesn’t move fast. Doesn’t posture. Just lifts his chin a little, gaze steady, voice low and dry.

“Maybe you don’t have to.”

Nanami blinks.

“What?”

Toji’s eyes slide back to you—slow, deliberate. A flicker of something sharp and dangerous behind them.

“Maybe we can learn to share.”

Your breath catches.

You stare at him.

And suddenly the tension isn’t pain anymore—it’s heat. Heavy. Warm. Drenched in possibility.

Your mouth parts. Your body hums.

You know exactly what he means.

The room goes still.

Your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your fingertips. You glance at Nanami—his lips are slightly parted, brows drawn like he’s still catching up. Like he heard the words but doesn’t quite believe them.

And Toji?

Toji’s eyes are locked on you. Waiting. Not pushing. Just offering.

And suddenly, the ache in your chest shifts.

Because you’re done being torn in half.

You’re done choosing between fire and safety.

You want both.

You deserve both.

So you take a step back—slow, deliberate—and let your eyes flick between them.

They follow your every movement.

Your breath shakes.

And then, your fingers find the hem of your shirt.

And you pull it over your head in one smooth motion, letting it drop to the floor without a word.

Nanami’s eyes widen. His mouth opens slightly.

“Wait—what are you—?”

But his voice falters the second he sees your bra. Lacy. Sheer. Black. Like you planned this. Like some part of you wanted this exact outcome.

You reach for your waistband next.

Toji just watches you—calm, quiet. Like this is proof you heard him. Like this is permission.

Nanami doesn’t breathe.

You slide your pants down slowly. Step out of them. Stand there—bare skin glowing in the low light, chest rising fast, cheeks flushed and eyes sharp.

And then you speak—low and final.

“You both want me, right?”

They don’t answer.

You take a step closer.

“Then take me.”

Toji exhales through his nose, like he’s been waiting for that exact sentence.

Nanami blinks hard—like something in his brain is catching up late—but when his gaze trails over your body, slow and hungry, you know he’s not going anywhere.

You see it hit him.

Oh.

Oh.

And just like that, the war turns into something else entirely.

Toji moves first.

Of course he does.

Slow and steady—like a man who doesn’t rush when he knows he’s already won.

He stands from the couch, towering, eyes dark as sin. His gaze drags down your nearly bare body like he’s unwrapping you with his mind. Like he’s already imagining how he’s going to touch you—where he’ll leave marks, and how loud he’ll make you scream.

He doesn’t look at Nanami.

He doesn’t have to.

He steps right into your space, chest brushing yours, hand rising to curl around your jaw with that same rough gentleness he always gives you—like he’s allowed to touch, but you decide how deep he goes.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, voice low against your mouth.

You nod once, already breathless. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

You meet his eyes. “I want you. I want… both of you.”

His mouth twitches like he’s satisfied—and then he kisses you.

Hot. Deep. Possessive.

His hand fists in your hair. His other slides down your waist, anchoring you to him, groaning low into your mouth like he already forgot Nanami’s even in the room.

And Nanami?

He hasn’t moved.

But he’s watching.

Eyes locked on the way your lips part for Toji, the way your back arches, the way your thighs press together like you’re already aching for more.

You break the kiss.

Not because you want to—but because you can.

Toji exhales against your lips, chest heaving. His hand lingers on your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s trying not to drag you back in.

But you step back.

Slow. Steady. Deliberate.

You turn your gaze to Nanami—who’s still frozen on the couch, tense and silent, jaw tight, chest rising like he’s just now remembering how to breathe.

You walk toward him.

Not shy. Not hesitant.

He sits up straighter without realizing it, like your presence alone demands it.

You stop in front of him, wearing nothing but your underwear and a look he’s never seen on you before—full control.

“Are you going to keep watching?” you murmur, voice low. “Or are you going to touch me?”

His breath stutters.

And his hands—his perfect, always-composed hands—curl into fists on his knees.

You reach down.

Grab one of them.

Unfold his fingers and guide it to your thigh.

“Touch me, Kento.”

That’s what breaks him.

He looks up at you, gaze wrecked, and when his palm presses flat to your skin—slow, reverent—his mouth parts like he’s about to say something. But nothing comes out.

You climb into his lap like you belong there, straddling him, hands on his shoulders, his tie brushing your bare chest. You hear Toji shift behind you—but he doesn’t interrupt. He watches. Letting you lead.

Nanami’s hands slide up your thighs, tentative, careful—like he’s afraid to break you, even now.

But you lean in, press your mouth to his ear.

“I want you to stop pretending you’re better than this,” you whisper. “You’ve already had me. Now you’re going to share.”

His breath catches. His fingers dig in.

And from behind you, you hear Toji chuckle—low and dangerous.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart.”

You look over your shoulder, lips curling.

You look over your shoulder, lips curling. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Toji’s eyes drag over you, slow and hungry. But he’s not just looking at you. He’s looking at Nanami beneath you—at the tension in his shoulders, the war behind his eyes, the heat he’s barely holding back.

“You good with this, suit?” Toji asks, voice rough, already moving.

Nanami’s jaw works. His hands are still on your thighs—gripping tighter now—but he doesn’t answer right away.

You glance down at him. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising faster. He’s looking at you like he wants you, like he shouldn’t, like he might burn alive if he doesn’t have you soon.

But his mouth says, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

You smile—soft, but breathless.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just feel.”

And then Toji’s behind you.

Close.

You don’t hear him walk up—you feel it. The warmth of him. The way your body tenses, reacting to his presence like instinct. His hands find your hips first. Big, steady. Then they slide up your sides, slow and firm, dragging goosebumps along your skin.

He leans in.

His chest brushes your back. His mouth brushes your neck.

“You looked so fuckin’ pretty taking control,” he murmurs, voice a slow drag of heat. “But I think we both know you wanna be handled a little now.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers reach the clasp of your bra. Pause there.

You nod once—barely.

It unhooks with a soft snap.

Your bra slips forward.

Nanami’s breath stutters.

His eyes drop instantly—latching onto your bare chest like he’s starved for it. But his hands stay put. He doesn’t touch. Not until you move his hands again—guiding them up, settling his palms beneath your breasts.

He groans—low, like it hurts to feel this good.

Behind you, Toji chuckles darkly.

“There he is.”

And then he’s dragging his hands down again—palming your ass through your underwear, pressing a kiss to your shoulder like he’s not even slightly phased by the fact you’re on another man’s lap.

“You’re gonna let us take care of you, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just relax.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t—not when Nanami’s thumbs brush over your nipples, not when Toji’s hand slips between your legs, teasing the soaked cotton with maddening patience.

Your head drops back against Toji’s shoulder, a soft gasp leaving your lips as he presses his fingers harder—slow, steady circles right over your clit through the thin fabric. You grind down without meaning to, hips twitching in need.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

Nanami’s eyes are glued to you—his hands cupping your breasts like he’s holding something sacred, thumbs dragging across your peaks again and again until your back arches toward him.

He swallows hard.

“I— I don’t…”

“You don’t have to talk,” you whisper, chest rising with every shaky breath. “Just keep touching me.”

Toji laughs softly behind you, lips brushing your ear.

“She wants it, suit. You feel how wet she is?”

He slips his fingers under the waistband of your panties—just enough to slide them aside—and fuck, the way he groans against your neck when he touches bare skin is obscene.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You’re soaked.”

Nanami’s fingers flex on your body. His jaw is tight, his breathing shallow—but he doesn’t let go.

He’s watching everything.

Watching the way Toji’s fingers stroke you now—slow, deliberate, circling your clit with maddening skill. Watching the way your lips part, head tilted back, body trembling between them like you don’t know where to land.

“You like being watched, baby?” Toji murmurs. “Like showing him what he missed?”

You whimper.

And that’s all it takes.

Nanami leans forward suddenly, mouth hot and open against your chest. He latches onto one nipple, sucking slow, tongue flicking, one hand still holding your breast while the other slides down to your waist—gripping tight, grounding himself as much as grounding you.

Your body jolts. A sharp gasp escapes.

Toji groans into your neck. “That’s it.”

And then his fingers sink in—two thick digits pushing deep, curling perfectly against your walls while his thumb keeps working that bundle of nerves. It’s too much. Not enough. You’re shaking already, hips grinding, moans falling without shame.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please don’t stop—”

“We won’t,” Toji promises, voice dark. “Not until you come all over both of us.”

And judging by the way Nanami’s teeth graze your skin, the way his breath shakes against your chest, he’s finally there with you—no more hesitation.

His mouth trails lower, kissing across your ribs, slow and open-mouthed, worshipful. His hands slide down, gripping your hips now, holding you still as you squirm in his lap—your panties pushed aside, Toji’s fingers fucking into you from behind, deep and steady and so good it makes your thighs shake.

Toji presses a kiss behind your ear. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, breathless. “Please—”

He curls his fingers just right and you whine, high and helpless, grinding down as your body tenses.

“Let go,” he murmurs. “Give it to us.”

And when Nanami mouths at your stomach, his breath hot and desperate, whispering, “You feel so perfect…”—you fall apart.

Your orgasm hits hard. Sudden. Your whole body arches, trembling, a loud moan ripping from your throat as you squeeze around Toji’s fingers, slick dripping down your thighs, your hands clawing for something to hold onto—Nanami’s shoulders, Toji’s forearm, anything.

They don’t stop.

Toji works you through it, slow strokes dragging it out until your legs are twitching.

Nanami pulls back just enough to look up at you—face flushed, eyes blown wide, lips parted.

You’re gasping, chest heaving, your body shaking in their hands—and the look on his face is pure awe.

Toji’s voice rumbles low. “Bet you could come again with just our mouths.”

Nanami swallows hard.

Toji grins. “Bedroom?”

You nod. Can’t even speak.

Nanami lifts you gently from his lap—like you’re something breakable—but Toji just scoops you up from behind, cocky and solid and ready. He carries you easily, one hand under your thighs, the other gripping your ass, whispering filth in your ear the whole way down the hall.

“Gonna ruin you, baby. Gonna have you moaning my name while he watches. Gonna make you come on my cock while he’s on his knees, begging to taste you after.”

You whimper.

Nanami follows behind, hands twitching like he doesn’t know if he wants to pull Toji off of you or push him harder into you.

Toji kicks open the bedroom door like he’s done it a hundred times—like this is his house now, his bed, and you’re his to spread out across it.

He tosses you onto the mattress, but it’s not rough—it’s confident. Like he already knows you’ll beg for more. You land with a soft gasp, legs falling open, panties soaked, bra gone, hair a mess. And you’ve never felt more wanted.

Nanami stands in the doorway, frozen.

His eyes are on your body. On the flushed skin, the way your thighs tremble, the soft shine between your legs where Toji’s fingers worked you open.

He swallows hard. His knuckles are white at his sides.

Toji strips in seconds. Shirt off. Pants shoved down. He’s already hard—thick, heavy, flushed, dripping.

And he sees Nanami just standing there.

“Take your fuckin’ tie off,” Toji says, not even looking at him. His eyes are on you. “She’s not gonna wait forever.”

Nanami flinches.

But then he starts moving.

First the tie. Then the buttons, slow and clumsy. He’s trying to stay composed, trying to breathe, but you can see it—how undone he is. How badly he wants.

You lift your hips, slide your panties down slowly, eyes locked on him the whole time.

His shirt falls to the floor.

And when he finally steps forward, trousers undone, you reach for him.

“Come here.”

He kneels at the edge of the bed—like he doesn’t trust himself to stand. His hands slide up your legs, reverent, lips parting as he leans in and kisses your inner thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. “So fucking—”

Toji’s hand fists in your hair. He kisses you hard, cutting Nanami off—owning your mouth while Nanami worships lower.

You moan into Toji’s mouth as Nanami’s tongue finally drags up your slit—slow, warm, careful, like he’s tasting a memory and making it new again.

Toji pulls back, eyes dark. “Yeah. That’s it. Show her how sorry you are.”

Nanami groans against you.

You’re soaked. Shaking. Overstimulated already—and they haven’t even fucked you yet.

Toji strokes his cock slowly, standing beside the bed, watching the way your body jolts when Nanami sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Fuck, you look good like this,” he growls. “Bet she’s close already, huh?”

Nanami hums against you—then presses two fingers inside, slow and deep, curling just right.

You cry out.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please—I can’t—”

Toji climbs onto the bed behind you. His hand slips under your back, lifting you, angling you just enough to press your face into his neck.

“You can,” he whispers. “You will.”

And then Nanami pulls another orgasm from you—hot, blinding, your whole body shaking as you cry out into Toji’s chest.

You’re still trembling when Nanami pulls back—his mouth slick, lips swollen, eyes dark with awe and lust and something just a little like guilt.

Toji groans behind you, hand stroking down your spine, fingers squeezing your waist like he’s holding back.

“You good, baby?”

You nod, dizzy.

“Think you can take more?”

You nod again, breath catching.

He shifts behind you—gripping your hips, pulling you up onto your hands and knees. Your body’s weak, already overstimulated, but you spread your legs for him, back arched, needing it.

“God, look at you,” Toji mutters. “So fucking wrecked already.”

You whimper as he slides the head of his cock through your folds—slow and teasing, wet with your slick and Nanami’s spit—before lining up at your entrance.

And then he pushes in.

Deep.

Thick.

Filling you in one long, brutal thrust that makes your whole body jerk forward.

You moan—loud, shameless—as he bottoms out, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure you’ll bruise.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re so fucking tight—can feel you fluttering around me.”

You bury your face into the mattress, moaning again as he pulls out halfway—then slams back in, setting a punishing rhythm that has your arms shaking.

And then—

Toji glances up at Nanami, still kneeling beside the bed.

“She can take more, can’t you, sweetheart?” he growls.

You lift your head, eyes glassy, lips parted.

Nanami’s cock is hard—straining, flushed, already leaking.

You crawl forward just enough, still taking Toji deep from behind, and reach for him.

Nanami stares at you like he’s not sure he should let you. Like it’s wrong.

But you look up at him—wrecked, raw, begging—and he breaks.

He shifts closer. Lets you wrap your hand around him. Lets you guide him to your mouth.

And when your lips part and you take him in—hot and heavy against your tongue—he groans so deep it sounds like it rips from his soul.

“Fuck—”

You suck him slow, shaky, messy from how hard Toji’s still slamming into you, your moans vibrating around Nanami’s cock as he cups your cheek with one hand, trying not to thrust too deep.

You’re full. Fucked. Used.

And you’ve never felt more powerful.

Toji slaps your ass, sharp and hard, then grinds deep, making you moan around Nanami again.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Perfect little cockdrunk mess.”

Nanami’s hips twitch. His hand fists in your hair.

Toji keeps fucking into you from behind, steady and deep and fast, and every time you moan, Nanami groans like it’s too much.

You’re choking on him. Clenching around Toji. Losing yourself in the stretch, the burn, the absolute filth of it all.

You’re choking on him. Clenching around Toji. Losing yourself in the stretch, the burn, the absolute filth of it all.

Your throat tightens around Nanami as he groans above you, his hips jerking shallowly, hand tangled in your hair like he’s barely holding on. He keeps murmuring things—soft, desperate—“fuck, you feel so good,” “you’re taking it so well,” “look at you…”

Behind you, Toji’s fucking into you hard. Deep. His grip on your waist is bruising now, sweat dripping off his jaw as he hisses through his teeth, the wet slap of skin on skin building into something filthy and fast.

“Shit, baby—squeezing me so tight,” he groans. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Your body rocks between them. One hand fisting in the sheets. The other braced on Nanami’s thigh as your moans buzz around his cock.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

You’re already so far gone—your mind floating, mouth stretched open, slick dripping down your thighs, toes curling as another orgasm coils low in your belly.

Toji feels it first.

He slows just slightly—hips grinding deep, working that spot inside you like he knows you’re close again.

Nanami’s breath catches. He pulls out gently, cock glistening, and cups your jaw.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low, reverent.

You lift your head—eyes glassy, lips swollen, spit running down your chin.

“You okay?” he murmurs, thumb stroking over your cheek.

You nod.

But it’s Toji who answers.

“She’s more than okay.”

He pulls you back by the hips, driving into you once—hard—and you scream, body clenching, orgasm tearing through you like fire. You collapse forward, into Nanami’s chest, panting, trembling, body jerking with every aftershock.

“Good girl,” Toji growls, not stopping. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted. Come for us.”

Nanami’s arms wrap around you, holding you steady, his cock hot and heavy against your stomach as he presses his mouth to your temple.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “So, so good.”

Toji fucks you through it, every stroke slower now, dragging it out until your legs are shaking and your breath is ragged.

Then he pulls out, gently this time—and flips you onto your back.

He climbs over you, bracing one hand beside your head. Nanami kneels at your side, still watching you like he can’t believe you’re real.

You nod, chest rising.

“I want to feel everything.”

And they give it to you.

Toji pushes into you again—deep, raw, unrelenting, while Nanami lifts your chin, slipping his cock past your lips, groaning as your tongue curls around him.

The stretch is overwhelming. Toji’s cock drives into you hard, slow, like he’s making sure you feel every inch. He holds you by the hips, dragging you down to meet every thrust, his chest heaving above you.

Your moans are muffled now—spilling around Nanami’s cock as he rocks into your mouth with careful control, his hand gently guiding your jaw, his eyes locked on yours like he’s watching you fall apart for him.

“You’re unreal,” he breathes, voice strained, as your lips seal tight and your throat flexes around him.

Toji’s breath is hot against your ear.

“You should see yourself, baby. So fucked out. So good for us.”

You’re drooling now—spit slipping past your lips, down your chin, dripping onto your chest. You choke softly as Nanami hits the back of your throat, and you feel your pussy clench around Toji at the same time, the sound obscene as your body takes both of them without hesitation.

“Shit,” Toji growls. “You’re gonna make me come inside you.”

Nanami grunts, jaw tight, thrusts getting rougher now—shallow and fast. “She’s about to make me come in her mouth.”

And you just take it.

Eyes half-lidded. Hands fisting in the sheets. Your body used like it was made for this—ruined, wrecked, and fucking radiant.

Toji thrusts deep—one, two, three more times—and then you feel him shudder, cock twitching as he buries himself in you and groans, loud and low, spilling deep inside. The heat floods your core, thick and warm, dripping down your thighs the second he pulls out, breathless and shaking.

Nanami doesn’t last long after that.

You suck him harder, head bobbing, your tongue circling the tip like he’s the only thing that matters. His hips jerk, eyes squeezing shut as he gasps your name—and then he’s coming, spilling hot and thick across your tongue, one hand gripping the back of your head as he curses under his breath.

You swallow every drop.

Nanami’s cock slips from your lips, slick and sensitive, and you breathe out a soft, shaky moan—eyes fluttering closed as your body finally collapses onto the bed.

Every nerve in your body is buzzing.

Your lips are swollen, your thighs sticky, your chest rising and falling like you’ve just run a marathon. You’re trembling from the inside out, stretched open, full—and somehow still aching for more.

But for now… it’s quiet.

Toji’s the first to move.

He sinks down beside you, breath still ragged, one arm sliding under your shoulders as he pulls you into his chest like it’s instinct. His fingers trail down your spine—slow, soothing, grounding.

“Jesus, baby,” he murmurs. “You took us both like that…”

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, nuzzling into his skin. His scent is sweat and sex and something so warm it settles deep in your bones.

On your other side, Nanami is still kneeling, breathing heavy. He watches you both for a long moment, his expression unreadable. But then he leans in slowly and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Soft.

Almost apologetic.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against Toji’s chest.

“Water,” you manage to mumble, voice hoarse and thick.

Nanami’s already standing.

“I’ve got it.”

He disappears down the hall. Toji stays with you, fingers brushing your hair back, tracing lazy shapes against your shoulder.

Neither of you speaks.

Not yet.

Nanami returns with a glass and a towel, warm, damp. He kneels again, gently guiding the glass to your lips. You sip, messy and slow, letting the water soothe your raw throat.

Then he cleans you up. Quiet, careful, like touching you too fast would undo everything. He wipes between your legs, catches the drip of cum down your thigh, presses a kiss to your knee when he’s done.

You reach out with one hand, fingers brushing his wrist.

And he takes it.

The bed shifts as he lies down on your other side.

And for a while—there’s just breathing.

Three bodies tangled together.

Sticky, sore, quiet.

You’re in the middle of them, warm, wrecked, still pulsing between your legs. One arm draped over Toji’s stomach. One hand tucked into Nanami’s chest. Their fingers both resting against your skin, like neither of them’s quite ready to let go.

And you don’t want them to.

Not when everything’s still soft and quiet and full of heat. When the only sound is the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing, one on each side of you, both silent, both touching, both pretending this doesn’t feel heavier than it should.

But even as your body relaxes, melted and sore between them, your thoughts start to stir again.

Because you don’t know what this is.

You don’t know what you are now.

Toji’s hand is resting low on your stomach, heavy and familiar, fingers twitching like he’s still dreaming of your body under him. Nanami’s thumb is brushing the back of your hand in tiny circles, barely noticeable, but steady. Reassuring.

It should be enough.

But all you can think about is how you’re supposed to wake up from this.

How are you supposed to go back to anything after this?

How are you supposed to look at one of them and say “yes” while the other watches?

And the worst part, the part you don’t even want to admit to yourself is that you’re not sure you want to choose.

Because being in the middle of them felt like everything you never knew you needed. Because you loved the way they touched you so differently. How they looked at you like they were seeing something only they could hold. Because for a moment, you didn’t feel torn.

You felt whole.

But this can’t last. You know that. It was always going to be temporary—born from chaos, from hurt, from something neither of them would’ve said out loud if you hadn’t broken first.

And now that it’s over, now that your bodies are quiet and your skin is cooling… you know what’s coming.

Someone’s going to want more.

Someone’s going to ask.

And you don’t know if you can give it.

You press your face into the pillow, eyes burning a little.

Maybe this has to be the last time.

Maybe this was the only way to close it—for all of you.

But then Toji shifts beside you, arm tightening around your waist, pulling you in closer.

Nanami exhales soft and deep against your back, pressing the lightest kiss to your shoulder.

And you think: How the fuck am I supposed to let either of them go?

TAGS:

@rjreins @jeankirschteinsimp @nanamiscsleeve @rissaaaaaa @mikrh-lizzie @tnaiis @rjreins @1tsleesee @grignardsreagent @hoelynecujoh

[edenarchives]

Will there be another part to the sugar daddy fic of nanami?

i came across ur post and i wanted to have a quick read but now im so invested 🥹🥹🥹🥹

Yes I’ve just been slow I’m so sorry lovely

[edenarchives]

Is spoiled gonna have a part 4 queen 🥹🥹

Yes my love

[edenarchives]

Not gonna rush you for another part but I wanted to know…any chance of spoiled becoming reverse harem?👀

👀🤫🤐

[edenarchives]

Sorry for the silence my loves. Work and study have been kicking my asscheeks.

I have a few things ready to post, the next part of spoiled being one of them. Just need to edit and sort out the tag list 🥹❤️

[edenarchives]

Ur links keep taking me to the web Tumblr ☹️

NO WHY

[edenarchives]

i js wanna say i love ur bkg series sosoos much i was craving to read a well done longfic and you deliveredddd <333 i dont plan to read part 3 bc pregnancy is lowk my biggest fear and it horrifies me but your writing is so astounding and i cant wait to see what else u do :)

Thank you so so much!! And I get not everyone will want to read the third part because of the pregnancy 100% understand. I just felt that was where the story was going and maybe that’s because I am trying for a baby rn with my husband so that’s probably why I’m like BABY BABY BABY

[edenarchives]

I just finished part 3 of Faked IT and I'm CRYING OML thank you for this fucking feast of a fic 😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

AJDHSJJAJD THANK YOUU??? I’m so glad you enjoyed and I’m CRYING AHHH

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓! 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑.ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Life after the industry is sweet—until Bakugo gets an offer to go back. When he hesitates, you walk out… carrying a secret that changes everything.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: angst with a happy ending, implied past sex work, unplanned pregnancy, emotional hurt/comfort, soft makeup sex, begging, praise, consent-focused, creampie, reader throws up (morning sickness), crying, reader leaves briefly, Bakugo is a dumb boy who learns, extremely soft post-fight intimacy

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟗.𝟑𝐤

PART TWO

You weren’t sure what life would feel like after walking away from everything—the lights, the cameras, the noise. But somehow, it just… slowed down. In the best way.

You and Bakugo had been out of the industry for a few months now. No more early call times. No more scripts. No more wiping off fake sweat between takes or answering awkward fan questions about chemistry that wasn’t real.

This was real.

Waking up in the same bed every morning. Grocery shopping at weird hours because you forgot milk again. Fighting over what kind of laundry detergent to use and then fucking against the dryer before the load was even done. Real.

The money still sat in your account, untouched for the most part. He had more than enough saved, and you did too. And neither of you really talked about it, but you both knew it wasn’t about the money anymore. It was about being able to touch each other without someone yelling cut. About hearing him whisper mine into your skin and knowing it meant something.

The house was small, still half-furnished, still smelled like paint in the corners. But it was yours. It was home.

And every morning started the same.

With him.

Somewhere between the weight of his arm around your waist and the sound of birds outside the window, you always woke up like this—wrapped up in him, skin tangled with sheets that still smelled like the two of you. The house would be quiet. The air just a little cool. And for a few perfect minutes, neither of you had anywhere to be. No makeup to do. No lines to memorize. Just warmth, skin, and the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back.

Sometimes he’d murmur something against your neck—half-asleep nonsense, soft and mumbled and way too sweet for someone who once used the words “tight little cunt” on camera like it was poetry.

Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. Just held you.

And other times, like right now…

It would start with the feeling of his cock pressed right up against your ass, hard and heavy and twitching through his briefs, like he’d been dreaming about you again His arm is still around your waist, palm splayed wide and warm over your stomach, and his nose is buried in your neck, breath slow and steady. You don’t even open your eyes. Just smirk to yourself and shift your hips back, rubbing against him, slow and lazy, until he groans softly in his sleep.

You feel his hand twitch where it rests against your stomach, sliding a little lower, like his body’s already clocked in even if his mind hasn’t caught up yet. His fingers dip below your navel, brushing the waistband of your panties. You wiggle your hips again, a little bolder this time, grinding back against the thick shape of him until he groans again—louder this time, awake now, mouth brushing your skin as he shifts behind you.

“You tryna start something?” he mumbles, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

You smile. “You’re the one poking me.”

He groans, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and slides his hand down over your panties, cupping you fully. His voice is lower now, all gravel and hunger. “You’re already wet.”

“Maybe I had a good dream.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “You always dream about me?”

“Only when you don’t hog the blanket.”

His hand slips under the waistband without warning, two fingers dragging through the slick heat between your thighs. He groans again, deeper now, fingers spreading you open like he owns it. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You shiver, breath catching as he teases your clit with lazy circles. “Then do something about it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want it like this? All slow and sleepy?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as he strokes you a little deeper. “Want you, Katsuki. Just like this.”

You feel his smile against your neck. Then his fingers are gone, and he’s tugging your panties down with one hand, pushing them down your thighs until you kick them off with a soft little whine. He presses himself up against you again, grinding slow against your ass, his cock rock-hard under the thin cotton of his briefs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Feel how bad I need you?”

You reach behind you, sliding your hand between your bodies, finding the waistband of his briefs and pushing them down just enough to free him. His cock presses hot and heavy against your bare skin now, and he groans at the contact, rolling his hips until he’s sliding between your thighs, not inside, just rubbing against your slick folds like he’s savoring it.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just breathes. You feel the weight of him behind you, wrapped around you, and the thick head of his cock dragging through your wetness slow and easy, again and again, until you’re writhing, your body aching to be filled.

“Please,” you whisper. “Katsuki, I need it.”

He pushes in without a word.

One long, deep stroke, slow enough that you feel every inch stretch you open, fill you up, sink into you like he’s molding himself to the shape of you from the inside out. Your mouth falls open. He groans into your shoulder, his hand gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

“God,” he rasps. “You always take me so fuckin’ good.”

You moan, soft and real, grinding your hips back to meet his next thrust. He moves slow at first, dragging out each roll of his hips like he wants to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him. His hand slides up to your chest, palm cupping your breast as he fucks you from behind, lazy and deep, breath hot against your neck.

The room is still dim, light barely leaking through the curtains, and the only sounds are his breath, your moans, the soft slap of skin on skin as he sinks into you over and over again.

“Can’t believe I get to wake up to this,” he mutters, lips against your ear. “To you.”

You whimper. “Katsuki—”

His hand drifts down between your legs again, fingers rubbing slow circles against your clit while he fucks into you, his rhythm never faltering. It’s too much and not enough, overwhelming and perfect all at once.

“You gonna cum for me?” he breathes. “This tight little pussy already clenching on me like she’s close.”

“Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop—”

He grinds in deep, holds it there, fingers working you just right until you break with a soft cry, your body locking up as the orgasm crashes through you, pulsing around him in slow, aching waves. You hear him groan as you tighten around his cock, and he starts to move again, chasing his own high now, thrusts getting rougher, needier.

“Shit—baby—feels so fuckin’ good—”

You reach behind you, hand tangling in his hair, tugging him closer as he fucks into you harder, faster, until he’s gasping your name and spilling inside you, cock twitching deep as he groans into your neck.

The two of you stay there for a minute—sweaty, breathless, still tangled together, his cock still buried inside you, your skin sticky with heat and sweat and morning light.

Then he shifts, kissing your shoulder again, voice soft. “We’re disgusting.”

You smile. “Speak for yourself.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You’re the one who begged for it.”

You hum, smug. “And I got it.”

He groans and flops onto his back, dragging you with him, letting you settle on top of him, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s never planning to let go.

You press a kiss to his collarbone, his chest still rising and falling beneath you, warm and steady and safe.

This was everything.

Just you and him and the quiet, and nowhere to be.

Bakugo was still half-asleep beneath you, one hand drifting aimlessly up and down your back, the other tucked under your thigh where it had landed during round one and never left. His cock had softened inside you, but he hadn’t pulled out. You didn’t mind. You liked it like this—slow and messy and full of him. His cum already leaking out of you, cooling against your thighs, but neither of you moved. The sheets were ruined. You didn���t care.

He mumbled something against your hair, too quiet to catch, and you smiled into his chest.

“What?” you asked softly.

“I said,” he repeated, voice rough, “if we keep doing this every morning, we’re gonna go through bedsheets faster than groceries.”

You laughed into his skin. “Then stop cumming in me like a man with a breeding kink.”

He didn’t laugh. Just went still for a second.

You blinked, lifting your head. “I’m joking—Jesus, relax.”

He huffed, but you saw the way his eyes flicked down your body, lingering where you were still connected, sticky and flushed and warm. He didn’t say anything.

“You’re not getting all weird about that now, are you?”

“No,” he muttered.

“Because we’re being careful. And I’m not trying to be barefoot and pregnant with your demon spawn.”

That made him laugh—finally. A real one. Deep and low and warm in his chest. “Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Katsuki.”

He kissed you to shut you up, and you let him.

Eventually, you peeled yourselves out of bed and into the shower—half-cleaning, half-groping, ending with him pushing you up against the tile wall and fucking you again while the water ran cold.

By the time you both made it downstairs, it was almost noon.

Bakugo wore grey sweats, no shirt, towel-dried hair messy, and his usual morning scowl soft around the edges from sex and sleep. You were in one of his shirts and nothing else, legs still shaky as you climbed onto the counter while he made coffee.

You were halfway through stealing the last piece of sourdough when his phone buzzed on the kitchen island.

He ignored it at first, focused on trying not to burn the eggs again.

It buzzed again.

You glanced over. “Is that Keigo again?”

“Probably,” he muttered.

He reached for it anyway, flipping it open with one hand, balancing the spatula in the other. You watched his face shift as he scrolled—soft confusion, followed by that little furrow between his brows you knew too well. Not annoyed. Just focused.

“What?” you asked, mouth full.

He didn’t answer.

“Katsuki?”

He tilted the screen toward you.

You squinted at the message, chewing slowly.

An offer.

A comeback scene.

Big budget. New studio. New girl.

One-time shoot.

A rate so high you blinked twice just to make sure you weren’t reading it wrong.

You snorted. “That’s fake.”

“I don’t think it is,” he muttered.

“They must be desperate.”

He didn’t laugh.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait. You’re not actually—”

“I’m just saying,” he said, still scrolling, tone too calm, too casual. “It’s a lot of money.”

You stared at him.

He looked back.

And something in your chest pulled tight.

“No.”

“I didn’t say yes,” he said quickly.

“But you’re considering it.”

“I’m just—thinking.”

You slid off the counter, toes hitting the cold tile, the hem of his shirt swishing around your thighs. “Thinking about sticking your dick in someone else?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

He set the phone down. “It’s a job.”

“Not anymore.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not like I caught feelings for every scene partner I ever had.”

“It’s not about that anymore,” you snapped. “You’re mine.”

He flinched. Just slightly.

“I left the industry for you,” you said. “We both did. I gave up everything. And now you’re telling me what—we’re one big paycheck away from you crawling back into bed with some new girl for content?”

“It’s not about her.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re willing to throw everything away for a fucking cheque.”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” he said sharply. “It’s a one-time thing.”

“And that makes it better?”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t soft.

He was calm. Cold.

Like a pro.

Like the guy he used to be.

Your chest ached.

You turned away. “I can’t believe you.”

“Baby—”

“No,” you said, voice low. “Don’t call me that right now.”

The silence hit heavy.

You walked out of the kitchen, footsteps slow, careful, arms crossed over your chest like you were holding yourself together.

He didn’t follow.

You made it to the bathroom, closed the door, sat on the edge of the tub. Your pulse was in your throat. Your head was spinning. You weren’t crying. Not yet. Not even angry.

Just… tired.

So tired.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, taking a deep breath.

And your stomach lurched.

You froze.

Swallowed.

And ran to the toilet just in time to throw up everything you’d eaten.

Your hands gripped the edge of the bowl. The tile was cold against your knees. The bitter taste in your mouth didn’t even register.

You stayed there, trembling, staring at the floor like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But something inside you already knew.

Not because of the nausea. Not even because of the skipped period you hadn’t really processed until right now.

But because of the way your body had changed this past week—tired all the time, sore in places that didn’t usually ache, the way your chest felt heavier in the mornings, and how certain smells made you gag for no reason.

And the way he looked at you lately—like something was glowing under your skin and he didn’t know how to name it.

You sat there on the cold tile floor, palms flat against your thighs, trying to breathe through the thought without breaking. It felt impossible. Like the second you gave it space, it would swallow you whole. This huge, terrifying thing growing in the corner of your mind like a secret you weren’t ready to say out loud.

Not even to him.

Especially not now.

Not when he was still in the kitchen.

Still standing there with his phone in his hand, thinking about fucking someone else for a paycheck.

You didn’t even blame him.

Not really.

You knew how much money that was. You knew what it meant to walk away from something like that, how many people would kill for even half that offer. You knew what it meant to be practical.

But you also knew how it would feel.

Watching him strip for someone else. Touch someone else. Pretend to want someone else. Even just for a day. Even just for a scene.

You’d spent years acting. Years pretending. But there was no pretending anymore. Not with him. You’d felt it the first time he touched you and again every time after—this wasn’t a job. Not anymore. It was real. Messy. Beautiful. Yours.

And now this.

Your stomach twisted again, but you didn’t move.

You just sat there, staring at the floor, until your breath finally evened out and your head stopped spinning.

Then, slow and quiet, you got up.

Washed your face. Brushed your teeth. Pulled on some soft shorts and tied your hair up like nothing was wrong.

And then you opened the drawer under the sink, where you’d stuffed a half-used box of pregnancy tests last year during a false alarm.

You stared at it.

Stared through it.

Then you grabbed one, unwrapped it, and sat back down on the toilet like your hands weren’t shaking.

The silence felt louder than it should.

Louder than the party music that used to pulse through your earpiece on set. Louder than the breathy moans you used to fake for the camera.

This was real.

This was just you.

And a little stick that would either ruin everything or explain it all.

You peed on it. Set it on the counter. Washed your hands.

Waited.

You didn’t pace. Didn’t look. Just stood there with your fingers braced against the counter, staring into the sink like you could fall into it.

You told yourself not to check too early. That two minutes wasn’t that long.

But thirty seconds in, you looked anyway.

And there it was.

One line.

Then another.

Faint. Pink. Obvious.

Positive.

The sound you made wasn’t even a gasp. It was quieter than that. A breath, stolen out of your lungs. A sob that never formed.

You sat down again, this time on the closed toilet lid, the test still shaking in your hands.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

Bakugo was downstairs, somewhere between scrambled eggs and a maybe-cheating debate, and you were upstairs, holding proof that your life was about to split in half.

You pressed a hand to your belly again.

There was nothing there yet. No bump. No flutters. No heartbeat you could feel.

But it was real.

This thing. This tiny, terrifying, impossible thing.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

You just sat there.

And realized you had no fucking idea what to do next.

And realized you had no fucking idea what to do next.

The test sat quiet on the counter like it wasn’t ruining your whole world. Just two pink lines. Faint, delicate, innocent. Like it hadn’t detonated a bomb in your chest.

You stared at it for another minute, hand still flat against your stomach, like you were trying to feel something. A flutter. A kick. A sign. But there was nothing. Just silence and the thick hum of panic under your skin.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

You just… stood up. And started moving.

The house was quiet when you stepped out of the bathroom. Still smelled like toast and sex and expensive coffee grounds. You moved slow, careful, like one wrong step might make it all collapse.

He was still downstairs. You could hear him in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets like he was trying to stay busy. Like he was still mad. Still unsure. Still thinking about it.

You didn’t go to him.

You went to the bedroom.

Grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and pulled open the dresser drawers. You didn’t pack much. Just enough. A few outfits. Your charger. Your toothbrush. You weren’t running away. You just needed space. Time. Room to think without his voice in your ear or the weight of his silence in your bed.

You zipped the bag shut and stood there for a second, hand tight around the strap.

This wasn’t about punishing him.

It was about protecting yourself.

And something else now too.

You stepped into the hallway. Your feet felt like bricks. Every part of you wanted to crawl back into bed, pretend you hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t felt it. Hadn’t watched the man you loved seriously consider letting someone else touch him again like it was no big deal.

You made it halfway down the stairs before he saw you.

He looked up from where he stood near the counter, phone in one hand, coffee untouched in the other. His eyes dropped to the bag slung over your shoulder. And his whole body stiffened.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Keigo’s.”

He blinked, slow. “What?”

“I texted him,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “He said I could stay a few nights.”

Bakugo set his coffee down, like the act of holding something suddenly felt impossible. “Why?”

You stared at him.

Waited.

Let him connect the dots himself.

And when he didn’t—when his silence stretched too long, too confused, too hurt—you gave him the only answer you had.

“Because I need to stay somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to be cheated on for a cheque.”

His mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

You tightened your grip on the bag. “I love you. But I need you to really think about what you’re doing. About what it means to even consider it. Because if this is something you’re still on the fence about, then I can’t be here while you figure it out.”

His jaw tensed. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust this version of you,” you whispered. “The one that looks at money and forgets what we built.”

The pain on his face flickered fast, like he didn’t want you to see it—but you did. You saw all of it. The confusion. The guilt. The way his hands curled into fists like he wanted to fix it, but didn’t know how.

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else.

You turned.

Walked toward the door.

And before you stepped out, you paused, one hand on the handle, your voice soft.

“I’ll be at Keigo’s if you decide that I’m worth more than a fucking paycheck.”

Then you were gone.

And the door closed behind you.

The door closed behind you.

The air outside was cooler than you expected, your breath catching a little in your chest as you walked down the driveway. You didn’t have a plan past this. Just the bag slung over your shoulder and the phone in your hand, screen dark and heavy like it knew what you were about to do.

You hadn’t actually texted Keigo.

You said it like you had, like it was settled, like your best friend who sometimes slept until noon and always forgot to charge his phone would definitely be available for some kind of emotional bed-and-breakfast situation.

But you hadn’t sent the message.

Because you hadn’t known what to say.

And because when everything cracked open inside you, the only place that felt remotely safe wasn’t a hotel, or a friend with a couch, or your sister two cities over.

It was Keigo.

Of course it was Keigo.

He was the only person who knew what this world had been like for you. What the job had meant. What it had cost. He’d seen you on your best and worst days. Had filmed with you when your hands were shaking and kissed your forehead before scenes when you were too anxious to fake it. He’d seen you fall in love with Bakugo even before you realized you had.

So when your thumb hovered over his name, you didn’t write a long explanation. You didn’t even say anything dramatic.

You just texted:

“Are you home?”

He responded in thirty seconds.

“Always.”

You blinked away the burn behind your eyes and typed back:

“I’m coming over.”

And that was it.

No questions.

No judgment.

And when you got there, he opened the door before you even knocked.

His hair was a mess, blonde tufts sticking in every direction, sweatpants slung low on his hips and an old band tee hanging loose over his chest. He had a toothbrush in one hand and a protein bar in the other, like he’d been mid-bite when he saw your name pop up and forgot how to function after.

His eyes swept over you, down to the duffel bag, and back up.

He blinked.

“You look like shit.”

You let out a quiet laugh that broke halfway through. “Thanks.”

He stepped aside. “Get in here.”

The second the door closed behind you, the weight hit you all at once. Your chest tightened. Your throat burned. But you didn’t cry. You just stood in the entryway while Keigo locked the door behind you, his movements quiet, slow, careful.

He turned around. Didn’t push. Didn’t ask.

Just held out his arms.

And you stepped right into them.

No words. No explanations.

His body was warm. Familiar. The way he held you—arms wrapping tight, chin resting on your head, it didn’t feel romantic. It didn’t even feel fragile.

It felt like safety.

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Long enough for your breath to even out. Long enough to stop shaking.

Eventually, he pulled back, hands still on your arms.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“You wanna shower?”

Another shake.

“You wanna talk?”

You hesitated. Then whispered, “Not yet.”

He nodded. “Cool. I got like five types of ice cream and a couch with your name on it.”

You smiled. Small. Tired.

“Also, I’m watching that trashy dating show you hate.”

You groaned. “Of course you are.”

“I’m doing you a favor. Lowering your standards before you crawl back to your man.”

You stiffened. He caught it.

His eyes softened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not judging. I just know you love that idiot.”

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t push.

He just took your bag, pointed toward the living room, and said, “You’re on blanket duty. I’ll be there in five.”

You sank onto the couch, pulling the throw over your lap, curling into the cushions like they might hold you together.

Your hand drifted to your stomach again. Light. Careful. Protective.

You didn’t know what was going to happen next.

But at least for tonight—you weren’t alone.

Keigo didn’t hover.

He didn’t ask why you showed up at his door with a bag and puffy eyes. Didn’t pry when you curled into the couch under the throw blanket like your body was trying to disappear. He just dropped onto the other end, grabbed the remote, and turned on whatever trash he’d been watching before you showed up. Something dramatic. Loud. Ridiculous.

You let it play.

For a while, neither of you talked. He didn’t need to. You weren’t ready. And he knew that.

You sat there in silence, the glow of the TV washing over the room in soft colors while some girl on screen cried over a man named Bryce who’d definitely slept with her best friend.

Keigo clicked his tongue. “Messy.”

You snorted without meaning to.

His eyes flicked to you.

He grinned. “There she is.”

You rolled your eyes and hugged the blanket tighter.

After another minute, he shifted suddenly, sitting up a little straighter.

“You know what, bitch?” he said, tone way too enthusiastic for someone wearing socks with holes in them. “I got just the thing for you.”

You raised a brow. “Keigo—”

“Nope. Don’t talk. Let me fix you.”

“You’re not fixing anything.”

He was already on his feet, waving a dismissive hand as he wandered toward the kitchen. “Shut up and mourn your toxic man in peace. I’ll be right back.”

You smiled despite yourself. That dumb, warm little twist in your chest that only came from someone who knew you too well. You sank back into the couch, head tipping against the cushion, letting the sounds of the show fill the room while he clattered around in the kitchen.

Drawers opened. Something clinked. The fridge door squeaked.

A few minutes later, he reappeared—two wine glasses in hand, both filled with a generous pour of deep red.

You blinked.

He held one out to you. “To men being trash.”

You stared at the wine glass.

Didn’t take it.

Your throat started to close.

Your chest got tight.

And before you could stop it—your face crumpled.

Keigo blinked. “Wait—what?”

You shook your head, covering your face with one hand, and the tears started spilling fast. Quiet, but heavy. You tried to breathe through it, tried to wave him off, but it was too late.

He sat down quick, the wine still in his hands. “Shit—what’d I do? What happened?”

You couldn’t speak at first.

Just buried your face in your palms and choked on the words.

Keigo’s voice gentled. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to—just breathe, babe. You’re alright. I’m here.”

“I’m not mad about the wine, I swear,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I just—I can’t have it.”

Keigo stared at you.

Then stared at the wine.

Then back at you.

And his whole face shifted.

“…oh shit.”

Without another word, he placed both wines down and then picked up your untouched glass and poured the whole thing into his. Set the empty one aside like it had betrayed you both.

You laughed, messy and wet.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, face open. “Tell me everything.”

So you did.

You told him about the morning. About waking up wrapped in Bakugo like nothing had changed. About how perfect it had been, how happy you’d felt—until that email. Until Bakugo had looked at a number on a screen and hesitated.

You told him about the offer. The girl. The way he didn’t say no. How your heart had split in two while he stood there quiet, calculating.

You told him about the fight. About the way Bakugo looked at you—professional. Like he’d stepped back into a version of himself you thought he’d buried.

You told him you threw up. Took a test. Watched the second pink line appear like it had been waiting for this exact moment to fuck you up.

By the time you finished, your hands were in your lap and Keigo was quiet beside you, one elbow propped on the couch, wine glass forgotten.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

“Goddamn.”

You exhaled. “Yeah.”

He shook his head, blowing out a soft breath. “I’m not gonna lie, I kinda wanna punch him.”

You almost smiled. “I know.”

“But I also know him,” he added. “And I know that if he’d seen that test first? He would’ve lost his goddamn mind.”

You looked down. Your voice went quiet. “But he didn’t.”

Keigo didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend him.

He just shifted closer, nudged your knee with his. “You gonna tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want him to know?”

You hesitated.

And in the silence, Keigo just nodded, like he understood even that.

He leaned back into the couch and took a sip of the wine he definitely didn’t want anymore. “Well,” he said. “Until you do, this couch is yours. So’s the ice cream.”

You snorted. “You said that like it was a prize.”

“Have you seen my freezer?”

You laughed, properly this time, and wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Thanks, Kei.”

“Anytime.”

He bumped your shoulder with his, lazy and gentle.

And the two of you sat like that—half-curled into each other, trash TV still playing in the background, a full glass of wine untouched on the table—and for the first time all day, you felt like maybe, just maybe, everything might not fall apart after all.

The next morning came too early.

You hadn’t really slept, just drifted in and out between half-dreams and the glow of Keigo’s TV. He’d stayed up with you, never pushing, just letting you exist. At some point he fell asleep at the other end of the couch, one leg kicked over the armrest, mouth half-open, blanket tangled around his waist like he’d wrestled a ghost in his sleep.

You sat up slowly, hair a mess, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Your hand dropped to your stomach before you even thought about it. Just a soft touch. A check-in.

Still real.

Still terrifying.

You didn’t know how to feel. You weren’t ready to be a mom. But you were even less ready to walk back into that house and face a man who looked at you like a choice instead of a certainty.

Keigo stirred with a groan. “God, my spine is broken.”

You snorted. “You did that to yourself.”

He opened one eye and smirked. “I do everything to myself. But you—you look a little less haunted. That’s a win.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “It’s the pregnancy glow.”

He gagged dramatically and rolled off the couch.

You spent the rest of the day like that—floating in a weird limbo of cozy clothes, bad food, and Keigo pretending he wasn’t watching you like a hawk when you stood too still or stared too long at nothing. He didn’t ask again. Just sat with you. Waited.

But Bakugo didn’t text.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t show up.

And it hit harder than you wanted it to.

The second day passed slower. Keigo dragged you to the corner store, forced you into a cart like a toddler, and tossed prenatal vitamins into your basket when he thought you weren’t looking. You said nothing. Let him. It was easier than explaining how you hadn’t bought them yet because part of you still wasn’t ready to accept this was really happening.

That night, you fell asleep curled into the couch again, Keigo’s blanket pulled over your head like you could hide from the world.

Meanwhile—

Bakugo sat on the edge of your shared bed, phone in his hand, staring at your last message like he could will it to say something different.

You’d been gone for two days.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. The house smelled like nothing. Like empty space. Like you’d never been there at all.

He’d cleaned the kitchen three times. Took the trash out even though it was barely full. Sat on the couch with the TV on mute for hours, watching the screen without seeing a thing.

And the offer?

Still sitting in his inbox.

He hadn’t opened it since you left.

Hadn’t touched it.

Hadn’t deleted it either.

He didn’t know what to do.

He fucked up. That part was obvious. The second your eyes filled with tears and your voice cracked when you said “I need to stay somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to be cheated on for a cheque,” something in him snapped in half.

He wasn’t gonna do it. He wasn’t.

But he hadn’t said that.

He froze. Stupid. Thought about the number. The money. The ��what ifs.” He hesitated—and you saw that. You felt that.

And now?

Now you were gone.

He looked around the room and realized how quiet everything felt without you. How still. How wrong.

Your charger was still plugged in beside the bed.

Your hair tie was still looped around the doorknob of the bathroom.

Your robe still hung on the hook.

He stood up suddenly, like the silence was suffocating him, and grabbed his keys without thinking. He needed to move. Needed to breathe. He didn’t even know where he was going until he was already outside.

Across town, Keigo was cleaning up dinner when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it once.

Then again.

Then sighed.

“Hey,” he called toward the living room. “You decent?”

“Why?”

“Someone’s here.”

You looked up from the blanket nest you’d made on his couch.

Your stomach dropped.

Keigo opened the door before you could move.

And there he was.

Katsuki Bakugo.

A mess.

Sweatpants. Hoodie. Hair a wreck. Eyes red like he hadn’t slept since you left. He looked past Keigo immediately, eyes scanning the living room until they landed on you.

His whole body stilled.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

Keigo crossed his arms. “You lost?”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. “She here?”

“You gonna do something stupid if I say yes?”

He didn’t answer.

Keigo looked back at you.

You were frozen.

Not ready.

But you nodded.

Just once.

Keigo stepped aside.

Bakugo stepped in.

And the room felt like it couldn’t hold both of you at once.

You sat there curled up on Keigo’s couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, blanket tucked to your chin like you were trying to hide in plain sight. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him with wide, quiet eyes—like the sight of him hurt and you didn’t have the energy to pretend it didn’t.

He looked the same as he did the night you left. Except worse.

Hoodie rumpled. Hair a mess. Jaw tight like he hadn’t unclenched it since you slammed the door behind you. His hands were in his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you. His voice cracked when he finally said your name.

You blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He shifted his weight, like he didn’t know where to stand. “I opened that offer. I saw it. We both did.”

Your gaze dropped to the blanket.

“But I need you to know that when I saw the offer, I didn’t hesitate because I wanted to touch her or because I wanted to fuck someone else. I haven’t wanted anyone but you in months. You know that.”

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t argue.

He took a step forward, slow and careful.

“You left,” he said, softer now. “And I get why. I fucked up. You needed me to be certain and I hesitated. I looked at a number instead of looking at you. And I’ll regret that for the rest of my fucking life.”

Your throat bobbed.

“But I’m here,” he said. “I’m here now, and I’ll keep being here until you decide if you want me back.”

You shifted slightly, curling tighter into yourself. “It wasn’t just the job, Katsuki.”

His whole body froze. “What?”

“It was how easy it felt for you to think about it. Like everything we walked away from didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me.”

He looked like you’d slapped him.

You swallowed. “You said it was just acting. But it’s not just acting to me anymore. I thought we were past that. I thought we were building something real.”

“We are.”

Your voice dropped. Barely a whisper. “Then why did it feel so fake that day?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

No answer.

You finally looked up at him again. Your eyes were tired. Sad. He saw the pain in them, the kind that ran deep, old and new all tangled together—and still, you hadn’t told him the truth.

He had no idea that what you were really asking was “Can I trust you to be a father?”

“Can I trust you not to choose your past over our future?”

But you couldn’t say it yet. Not while it still hurt like this.

He stepped closer. Sat on the coffee table in front of you so he wasn’t towering over you anymore. His knees brushed the edge of the blanket.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll do whatever it takes. I mean that.”

You stared at him, your heart thudding so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

But your lips parted anyway.

And all you said was, “Okay.”

Not forgiveness. Not a welcome.

Just that.

And he nodded.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t breathe easy.

Just sat there.

Like a man waiting for permission to hope.

You stared at him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg.

Just waited—like if you breathed too hard, it might all disappear.

You should’ve been angry still. Should’ve made him sit in it longer. But something in you shifted when you saw his face tonight. The way he walked in, quiet and wrecked, like he hadn’t slept. The way he spoke, slow and steady, like he’d rehearsed every word a thousand times just to get it right for you.

“I wanna go home,” you said softly.

He blinked.

You stood up, letting the blanket fall from your lap, hoodie sleeves still swallowed around your hands. “If we go home, will you come with me?”

Bakugo stood before the last word left your mouth. “Yeah. Yeah—of course.”

You didn’t touch each other. Didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked toward the kitchen where Keigo was pretending not to eavesdrop behind the fridge door.

He looked up when you stepped in.

“You leaving?” he asked, already knowing.

You nodded. “Thanks for letting me hide out.”

“You can always come back,” he said, grinning like he hadn’t been secretly worried about you this entire time. “Just don’t wait ‘til you’re pregnant with twins next time, yeah?”

You choked.

Bakugo stiffened beside you.

Keigo froze.

A beat of silence passed—too long.

“…wait,” he said slowly, eyes bouncing between you two. “Does he not—”

You stepped on his foot, hard.

He yelped. “Okay! Cool! Goodbye! Don’t be strangers!”

Bakugo squinted. “What the fuck was that?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly. “He’s just being annoying.”

“…right.”

You hugged Keigo tight, whispered a quick thank you, and turned before he could say anything else.

Bakugo didn’t say much on the way out. Just kept close, held the car door open, rested his hand on the back of your seat the whole drive home like he needed the contact even if you didn’t reach for him.

When you got back to the house, the porch light was still on. Like it had been waiting for you.

You stepped inside first. The air smelled the same—soft laundry, old coffee, faint vanilla from the candle you forgot to blow out the last morning you were here.

It hit you all at once.

The familiarity.

The comfort.

The ache.

You dropped your bag at the door and turned around just as Bakugo closed it behind him.

You stared at each other for a moment in the quiet.

He stepped forward. “Do you want space?”

You shook your head. “I just want to go to bed.”

He nodded once.

No questions.

No pressure.

Just followed you into the bedroom, moving like he was afraid to touch anything too hard in case it broke.

You didn’t curl into him that night. Didn’t kiss him. But you let him sleep in the same bed. And he didn’t ask for anything more.

He just laid there beside you, quiet, breathing, waiting.

And you knew tomorrow, you’d have to tell him everything.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you just needed to be home.

The next morning, the light crept in slow.

You felt it on your face before you opened your eyes—warm and golden, filtering through the curtains like nothing bad had ever happened here. For a second, you forgot everything. Forgot the fight. The offer. The bag you’d packed in a hurry and the two nights you spent curled on Keigo’s couch like you’d forgotten how to breathe.

You just felt warm.

And then you felt him.

Bakugo’s arm was draped over your waist, heavy and protective, fingers resting just above the curve of your stomach. His face was buried in your neck, breath slow and even, like he’d finally slept for the first time in days. You didn’t remember shifting into him during the night. Didn’t remember turning toward him or letting him in—but it didn’t surprise you.

Because this was always the part that made sense.

This.

Him.

You shifted slightly under the covers and felt his grip tighten.

His voice was soft, still sticky with sleep. “You leavin’ again?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He hummed and pulled you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

And for a moment, you let yourself have it. That quiet, sleepy closeness. The kind you used to take for granted.

But it didn’t last.

The nausea came fast.

Violent.

You tensed under his arm and swallowed hard. That heavy weight in your stomach twisted, flipped—and suddenly the room was spinning.

You sat up quickly.

Bakugo’s arm dropped. “What’s—”

You didn’t answer.

Just bolted.

The sound of your bare feet hitting the floorboards was loud in the silence, followed by the bathroom door swinging open and the unmistakable retching that echoed right after.

Bakugo was up immediately.

“Shit—baby?” His voice was frantic now. Half-asleep panic. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You were too busy gripping the toilet, your whole body trembling as everything you had in you came back up.

Bakugo was at your side in seconds. Hand on your back, the other pulling your hair gently out of your face. You felt him settle next to you on the tile, warm and solid and there.

“You’re sick?” he asked, voice low and careful.

You didn’t look at him.

Just wiped your mouth with shaking fingers and whispered, “No.”

He paused.

“…Then what is it?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

The words hovered at the edge of your throat, caught somewhere between fear and inevitability.

Then you whispered:

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not long. Not loud.

But deafening.

You finally looked at him.

He was already staring at you.

And the expression on his face was unreadable.

Not scared.

Not angry.

Just—stunned.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

His voice came quiet.

“You’re…?”

You nodded.

He stared at your face. Then your stomach. Then back again.

And then he exhaled—like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“Fuck.”

You braced yourself for panic. For questions. For him to stand up and walk out or shut down completely like he used to when the pressure got too loud.

But he didn’t.

He just reached out—slowly—and rested his palm over your stomach. Barely touching. Just enough to feel something that wasn’t there yet.

“You’re pregnant,” he said again, softer this time. Like it was finally sinking in.

Your breath hitched.

And then, in the smallest voice you’d made in a long time, you said, “I was going to tell you. I just… I didn’t know how.”

He looked up at you then, eyes wide and full of something you couldn’t name.

“You should’ve told me the second you knew.”

“I wanted to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard. “Because you were still deciding if I was worth more than a fucking paycheck.”

That shattered something in him.

And he didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t say a word.

He just looked at you like he’d never hated himself more.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t stand up or pull away or shove his hand off your stomach. You just stayed right there on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, hoodie sliding down your shoulder, throat tight with everything you’d been holding in for days.

Bakugo didn’t move either.

His hand stayed right where it was—resting over the soft curve of your belly. There was nothing to feel yet. No bump. No movement. Just skin. Just potential.

But the way he touched you…

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t unsure.

It was reverent.

His thumb stroked a small line over your hoodie, like he was trying to memorize this moment. Like he was afraid if he blinked, it would disappear.

“I didn’t know,” he said, voice rough. “Fuck. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“If I’d known…”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And he fell quiet.

You didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

Because you knew.

He would’ve slammed the laptop shut. Would’ve deleted the offer. Would’ve gotten on his knees and begged if he had to. You knew that. Deep down, you always did.

But it didn’t change the fact that he hesitated without knowing.

And that still hurt.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you said, voice shaking. “You looked at me like I was asking too much. Like loving me wasn’t enough.”

His hand curled a little tighter.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I never wanted to make you feel like that.”

You blinked back tears. “Well, you did.”

He nodded, jaw tight, and didn’t argue. Didn’t try to make it pretty.

He just sat there on the floor with you, looking like someone who’d been punched in the chest and didn’t want to move in case the pain got worse.

And then, so quietly you barely heard it, he said:

“Are you keeping it?”

You looked down at his hand on your stomach.

And nodded.

His breath left him in one slow exhale, like he’d been bracing for the answer to break him.

“Okay,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re doing this.”

You stared at him.

“I’m not letting you do it alone,” he added. “No matter what happens. I’m in.”

You swallowed hard. “Katsuki…”

His eyes met yours. “I love you.”

There was no shake in his voice this time. No hesitation. Just those three words, clear and grounded and real.

You reached for him without meaning to—fingers curling into the front of his hoodie—and he moved instantly, arms wrapping around you, holding you to his chest like he didn’t care how raw it still was between you.

You buried your face in his shoulder.

And for the first time since you saw those two pink lines…

You let yourself cry.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you.

One hand on your back.

The other still resting on your stomach.

He held you for a long time.

Just sat there on the bathroom floor with you in his arms, the morning light spilling across the tiles, his palm warm and steady over your stomach. You cried into his shoulder—quiet, messy, not loud enough to echo. He didn’t shush you. Didn’t rush you. He just stayed.

Present. Gentle. Real.

Eventually, your tears faded into soft breaths, your fingers still curled into the front of his hoodie. His cheek rested against the top of your head. Neither of you moved.

Then—his voice, low and quiet:

“Come back to bed?”

You nodded.

He helped you up without letting go, one hand guiding you, the other still cradling your hip like he was afraid you might break if he touched you too hard. You let him lead you back to the bedroom, both of you silent, moving slow, your legs a little shaky but your heart finally starting to settle.

The sheets were still warm. Familiar. You climbed in first, slid under the blanket, curled toward the center like muscle memory. He followed, slower, more cautious. Laid beside you on his side, facing you, eyes soft and searching.

His fingers trailed up your waist like he was trying to remember you all over again—every curve, every freckle, every part of you he thought he might’ve lost. You laid there beneath him, skin bare, eyes soft, heart cracked wide open. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He was already listening to every shift in your breath, every quiet sound that slipped from your lips like music he couldn’t go another second without hearing.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were still here. Like he didn’t deserve it.

His fingers lifted, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong, okay? I mean it.”

“I will.”

He leaned in, slowly, giving you a chance to pull back. You didn’t. You met him halfway, lips brushing his in a soft, tentative kiss that melted into something deeper the second his hand found your waist.

He kissed you slowly, like the world had stopped spinning just for this.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I need you.”

His lips brushed yours again, and again, before he moved lower—down your neck, over your collarbone, dragging his mouth across your chest as his hands slid down your sides. His thumb traced the underside of your breast, gentle, reverent, before he cupped you in his palm and kissed the soft skin there, breathing against you like a prayer.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured, tongue flicking over your nipple, then sucking it into his mouth until you gasped and arched into him. He stayed there for a moment, his other hand massaging your hip, grounding you, letting your body respond in its own time.

You moaned softly, your thighs already shifting beneath him, breath shaky as his kisses dragged lower, over your ribs, your stomach—pausing for a second at the soft skin just beneath your navel.

He glanced up, hand stroking your thigh now. “Is this okay?”

You reached for him, your fingers threading through his messy blonde hair, voice soft but certain. “Please.”

He settled between your thighs like he’d been craving it. His hands slid under your knees and pushed them open just a little more, spreading you for him with a careful gentleness that made you melt. He didn’t rush—just stared for a second, lips parted, breath shallow.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe this was still his. “You’re already wet.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Katsuki, please.”

He leaned in slowly and licked a slow, teasing stripe up your center, groaning low in his throat like he was getting high off the taste of you. You gasped, hips twitching, and he wrapped his arms around your thighs to hold you steady, flattening his tongue and dragging it over you again—circling your clit in soft, slow swirls until your back arched and a shaky moan spilled from your lips.

“That feel okay?” he murmured, voice thick.

You nodded fast. “Yes, fuck—yes.”

He smiled against you and dove back in, mouth working you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that had your whole body trembling. He licked and sucked, tongue curling against your clit, then dipping down to tease your entrance before fucking you with it shallowly—slow, lazy strokes that made your thighs quiver around his head.

Your hands stayed tangled in his hair, pulling gently, fingers tightening every time he groaned into you. You could feel it building fast—tight, hot pressure rolling through your core like a wave about to crash.

“Katsuki—I’m—”

“Come for me,” he rasped, his voice thick and low and full of heat. “Wanna feel you cum on my tongue.”

You broke.

Your whole body tensed, thighs shaking, a cry escaping your lips as you came hard—pulsing against his mouth, hips bucking gently as he kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, letting you ride it out while he murmured soft praises against your skin.

“Good girl… that’s it… fuck, you’re perfect.”

You were still panting, vision swimming, when he kissed his way back up your body—slow, wet kisses up your stomach, your chest, your neck—until he was hovering over you again, face flushed, eyes heavy with want.

He brushed your hair back from your face, cupped your cheek.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice so tender it made your chest ache.

You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in.

“I want you inside me.”

He groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop.”

“I know.”

You reached down between your bodies and guided him to your entrance, and the moment he pushed in—slow, thick, deep—you both gasped.

You were still so wet from his mouth that he slid in smooth, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, panting against your mouth like he was holding back everything he had.

“Fuck—” he hissed. “You feel so good. So fuckin’ good.”

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there, cock buried deep, one hand holding your hip, the other cupping your face while he kissed you again—long, slow, passionate.

Then he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts, hips rolling into yours with perfect pressure, every movement dragging his cock along your walls just right. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his back as he fucked you with so much care it almost didn’t feel real.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Always.”

“Yours,” you breathed. “Only yours.”

He kept moving like he was making love to every piece of you. No rush. No greed. Just deep strokes and soft moans and the occasional whispered “I love you” against your skin that made your heart ache as much as your body did.

You felt the second wave building slow and heavy, tightening deep in your belly, and he felt it too—how your walls fluttered around him, how your legs tightened around his waist.

“I got you,” he panted. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

You came again with a broken moan, this one quieter, sweeter, your body curling into his as you clenched around him, crying out softly as the pleasure rolled through you.

He groaned and buried himself deep, hips stuttering once, twice, before he spilled inside you with a soft, desperate sound—forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go.

You stayed tangled like that.

Sticky. Shaky. Whole.

And when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, both of you breathless and warm and a little overwhelmed, he kissed your cheek and whispered—

“We’re gonna be okay.

And just like that, the part of you that had been holding its breath… exhaled.

TAGS: @2elusional @cosmicaoii @kizsuki @kodzubaby

[edenarchives]

spoiled is my oxygen will there be a new part?

I need it to live normally 😞

Spoiled will have at least two more parts my love! I have big plans for it <3