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He will get as excited as you (but never fuckin show it) when you tell him you bought clothes and can’t wait to show him. Lights up with glee at how you dance around in your new outfits, at how you’re glowing with confidence at the way this outfit compliments your body, posing for him and giving a little shake of your hips, giggling as he lunges for you.

Built like a fuckin God, he will find no trouble picking you up, carrying your giggling self into the sofa to lay down under you, the man will lock his legs around you when he feels you move to get up.

“Because I fuckin’ said so, thats why.” Is his reply whenever you ask why he loves having you atop him, but its because he’s entranced by the way you feel against him, that just wants to be smothered by you.

Katsuki that makes it his number one job to know what you’re most insecure about and teaches you to love it. Constantly and consistently telling you and reminding you. “I’ll love it enough for the both of us until you learn to love it too.”

That needs to control himself whenever he catches you working out, whether it be you stretching with those goddamn leggings that are leaving nothing to his perverted imagination, or you running with your tits basically spilling out of the 2 sport bras you have on.

Don’t get me started on shorts, his hand will be glued to your ass that the shorts failed to contain, slapping it and grinning at the way it bounces, in a taunt for him to do it again, and he does, he always does. Doesn’t matter if you yell at him, what is he fuckin supposed to do? Your ass is always there and he can’t fuckin help it okay!?

Katsuki that will never get enough of your taste, slurping at your slick as your thunder thighs squeeze his head, only able to see tuffs of blond hair over your tummy. That loves to lift his head up and look up at you, your juices smeared against his chin as he grins, biting and kissing at your thighs before diving back into your cunt.

That will always, always prefer to fuck you from the back, grabbing at your love handles as he plows you from behind, moaning and groaning at the loud slapping of your round ass against his body. Not able to contain himself, he’d repeatedly slap your cheeks, relishing in the way you cry out for him when he does, never letting up until you’re sobbing and he could feel how warm they have gotten from his relentless smacking.

That will find as much pleasure fucking you missionary, just to see the way your fat jiggles with his hard thrusts, grabbing at you as he fucks you even harder, grabbing handfuls of your thighs or hips to steady you while he rolls his hips against yours, his lips tugging at your nipple as you beg him for more, and he always does, because you’re his good girl that takes all of his fat cock.

Katsuki that will sleep like a baby the second he lays his head against your tits, soft mounds cushioning his head as you play with his hair, his hands either in your shorts kneading at your ass or under your shirt caressing your hips, waist, basically anything his hands can reach.

Katsuki fuckin Bakugou that will love you fuckin unconditionally, because he is and will always be the best, and the best will never settle for anything less than that for a girlfriend.

The Miami heat was a living thing, a thick, breathing blanket that settled over the neighborhood by mid-afternoon and refused to lift until well after the sun had dipped below the horizon. It clung to skin, made clothing feel like a second, heavier skin, and turned the air in Chiron's small backyard into something syrupy and slow. From his wrought-iron chair on the concrete patio, he watched the leaves of the mango tree at the far corner of his property droop, heavy and listless. Everything was heavy today. The air, the silence, the weight of his own gaze as it drifted, as it always did, to the fence line separating his world from hers.

Chiron's yard was his sanctuary. The patches of St. Augustine grass were edged with surgical precision. The bougainvillea climbing the back wall was a riot of violent pink, but every dead stem had been pruned away, every stray shoot trained to follow the wrought-iron trellis he'd installed himself. His collection of succulents and cacti, arranged in mismatched terra-cotta pots along the fence, thrived under his careful attention. It was a kingdom of order, a testament to the fact that even in the chaos of the streets, a man could carve out a piece of peace and make it his own. It was the one place where the whispers of his trade, the constant low hum of danger that was his livelihood, couldn't reach him.

Except when she was there.

Shai's yard, on the other hand, told a different story. It was a mirror of neglect, a space where potential went to die. The grass was patchy and yellowing in spots, choked by weeds that grew with a wild, untamed vigor. A rose bush, planted by some previous occupant, struggled near her back patio, its leaves spotted with black mold, its few remaining blooms small and anemic. A rusted wheelbarrow lay on its side near the fence, half-filled with dead leaves and twigs, a project abandoned months, maybe years ago. It was a yard that reflected the kind of life lived on the edge, always one crisis away from tending to the things that mattered. And Chiron knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that Shai didn't have the energy to fight the weeds in her yard because she was too busy fighting the ones in her house.

He heard Travis before he saw him, the man's voice a familiar, grating boom that cut through the humid stillness. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't see you looking?"

Chiron didn't move. He shifted his gaze from the struggling rose bush to the sliding glass door of Shai's house. It was a scene he'd witnessed, in one form or another, more times than he could count. Travis, all energy and simmering resentment, his face pushed up close to Shai's, his words a low, venomous torrent. Shai, her back to the window, her shoulders squared, but her head bowed, a statue absorbing the onslaught. She never yelled back. Never raised her voice. She took it, let it wash over her, until Travis either ran out of steam or stormed off, leaving a silence in his wake that was somehow heavier than the noise.

This time, it was about a phone call. Chiron couldn't make out all the words, but the gist was clear. Travis had seen her laughing at something on her phone. "Who the fuck is that? Who you texting and smiling for, Shai? It ain't me. It ain't ever fucking me."

Her response, when it came, was so quiet Chiron had to strain to hear it. "It was my cousin, Trav. In Atlanta. Showing me pictures of her new baby."

"Bullshit!" The word was a gunshot. "Always a fucking excuse. Always some story. You're always hiding something. I see the way you are. Always looking away. Always got your damn head in the clouds."

Chiron's jaw tightened. He watched as Travis moved closer, his finger jabbing the air inches from Shai's face. She flinched, a barely perceptible movement, but Chiron saw it. He always saw it. It was the same flinch he'd seen the time Travis had grabbed her arm a little too hard in the driveway, the same one he'd seen when Travis had slammed his fist on the kitchen counter during a disagreement about groceries. Small moments of violence, of intimidation, that Travis probably didn't even remember. But Chiron did. He cataloged them.

"I'm not hiding anything," Shai said, her voice flat, empty of all emotion. It was her defense mechanism, a way of retreating so far inside herself that Travis's words couldn't touch her.

"Then look at me!" Travis demanded, his voice cracking with desperation. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

She didn't. She kept her head down, her focus on some invisible spot on the linoleum floor. And that's when Travis's eyes, wild and searching, darted past her, through the glass, and landed directly on Chiron.

The air between the two yards crackled. It was a standoff. Travis's face, a mask of fury and territorial rage, and Chiron's, impassive, unreadable. Chiron didn't look away. He never did. He held Travis's gaze, a silent acknowledgment that yes, he was watching. Yes, he had heard. And no, there was nothing Travis could do about it. He saw the muscle in Travis's jaw jump, saw his hands clench into fists at his sides. He was a man who built his identity on being feared, on being the biggest dog in the yard. But Chiron wasn't a dog. He was something else entirely. He was the quiet, patient observer who knew all the weaknesses, all the soft spots, all the hidden fears. He was the man who made his living off the insecurities of men just like Travis.

"Motherfucker," Travis mouthed, the words silent but unmistakable. He took a step toward the sliding door, and for a second, Chiron thought he might actually come outside. He thought he might try to start something.

But then Shai moved. She turned, placing herself between Travis and the door, a human shield. "Trav, stop," she said, her voice still low, but now with an edge of weariness. "Just stop. Come on. Let's just... let's just go inside."

She put a hand on his chest, a placating gesture, and Travis looked down at it as if it were a foreign object. The fight seemed to drain out of him then, replaced by a sullen, petulant anger. He shot one last venomous glare at Chiron before allowing Shai to guide him away from the window and deeper into the house. The blinds snapped shut with a sharp rattle, severing the connection.

Chiron let out a slow breath. He picked up the glass of water from the small table beside his chair, the condensation cooling his fingertips. He didn't move for a long time, just sat there, processing. He was a drug dealer. He sold poison to people who were looking for an escape, a way to numb the pain of their lives. He'd seen the worst of humanity, the desperation, the decay. He'd done things he wasn't proud of, made choices that had put him on the wrong side of not just the law, but of his own conscience. He operated in the gray spaces, the moral twilight where survival trumped righteousness. He knew what he was.

But watching Travis with Shai... that felt different. That felt like a different kind of poison. The kind that seeped in slowly, under the skin, until it hollowed you out from the inside. Travis didn't hit her, not that Chiron had ever seen. But he didn't have to. He had a thousand other ways to make her small, to chip away at her spirit until there was nothing left but the shell. He was a cancer, and Chiron was the only one who seemed to be able to see the tumor growing.

The first time they'd really spoken, it had been over this very fence. It was months ago. She'd been trying to prune the struggling rose bush, her movements clumsy and frustrated. She'd snipped a healthy stem by mistake and let out a soft cry of annoyance. Chiron had been watering his cacti and had just watched her for a moment, taking in the set of her shoulders, the way her dark, tightly coiled curls were pulled back into a messy bun, a few stray tendrils escaping to frame a face that was beautiful even in its frustration. She was all rich, brown skin and full lips, eyes that held a deep, lingering sadness.

"You're cutting too low," he'd said, his voice quiet, almost startling her.

She'd jumped, turning to him with wide, doe-like eyes. "Oh! I... I didn't see you there."

"I know." He'd gestured with his watering can toward the bush. "Roses, you gotta cut above the leaf node. See? Right there." He pointed. "Otherwise, you just get dead wood."

She'd looked from the bush to him, a slow smile spreading across her face, transforming it. "You know about roses?"

"Know about things that need the right kind of attention to grow," he'd replied, the words carrying a weight that hung between them.

She'd laughed then, a real, genuine laugh that made something in Chiron's chest loosen. "Well, Mr. Rose Expert, this thing is probably a lost cause. It's been dying since I moved in."

"Nothing's a lost cause," he'd said, his gaze holding hers. "Just needs the right kind of hands on it."

The air had shifted then. The simple conversation about gardening had become something else, a coded language spoken between two people who recognized a kindred spirit in the other. She'd leaned a little closer to the fence, her body language open, curious.

"I'm Shai," she'd said.

"Chiron."

They hadn't needed to say more. In the weeks and months that followed, their interactions followed a similar pattern. A nod across the fence in the morning. A brief exchange about the weather or a new plant Chiron had added to his collection. He'd once spent an entire afternoon showing her how to properly repot an orchid, his hands guiding hers as they worked with the delicate roots, the touch sending messages through both of them that they'd pointedly ignored. He'd bring over extra mangoes from his tree, leaving them in a bowl on her patio table without a word. She, in turn, would sometimes leave a cold bottle of water for him on top of the fence post on the hottest days.

It was a friendship built on silence, on unspoken understanding. They never spoke about Travis. They never spoke about the things Chiron did for a living, the quiet comings and goings at all hours, the cash he seemed to always have on hand. They didn't have to. They saw each other, truly saw each other, in a way no one else in their lives did. He saw the vibrant, intelligent woman trapped in a cage of her own making. She saw the dangerous, watchful man who tended his garden with the same gentle precision he used to navigate the treacherous world he inhabited.

And Travis saw it too. Travis saw the way Chiron's eyes lingered on Shai. He saw the way her body would subtly angle toward the fence whenever Chiron was outside. He saw the silent communication that flowed between them, a current of intimacy that threatened to sweep him away. His response was always the same: more noise, more anger, more posturing. He was a man trying to shout down a truth he couldn't bear to acknowledge.

Chiron stood up, his joints stiff from sitting too long. He walked to the fence, his hand resting on the warm, sun-bleached wood. He could hear the muffled sounds of the argument starting up again inside, Travis's voice rising and falling in a predictable, painful rhythm. He looked at the rusted wheelbarrow in her yard, the dead leaves spilling out of it. He thought about the rose bush, struggling to bloom in soil that hadn't been tended. He thought about the light in her eyes when she laughed, and the way it dimmed whenever Travis was near.

He was a man who dealt in consequences, in the cold, hard arithmetic of the streets. And the equation here was simple. Travis was a poison. Shai was the antidote. And Chiron... Chiron was the man who was getting tired of just watching the sickness take hold. He was a man of few words, but as he stood there, listening to the muffled sounds of her pain, a single, heavy thought solidified in his mind, a promise he made to himself and to her.

It was time to tend the garden.

The air inside Shai's house was thick, not with the Miami heat, but with the suffocating weight of unspoken things. It was a pressure that built over time, a slow accumulation of small resentments and larger disappointments that had nowhere to go. It settled in the corners of the living room, clung to the curtains, and made the silence between arguments heavier than the shouting itself. Tonight, the catalyst was small, almost laughably so. A receipt. A crumpled piece of paper from a gas station, lying on the kitchen counter like a piece of evidence.

"What's this?" Travis's voice was deceptively calm, a low rumble that was more dangerous than a shout. He held the receipt between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were contaminated. He'd come home an hour late, smelling of beer and cheap perfume that wasn't Shai's, and immediately started prowling through the house, searching for something to be wrong about. He always found it.

Shai was at the sink, rinsing the day's dishes, the warm water a small comfort against her skin. She didn't turn around. "It's a receipt, Trav."

"I know what the fuck it is," he snapped, his voice rising. "What I wanna know is why it says you filled up your car on Tuesday afternoon. When I called you from work, you said you were at home. All day."

Shai shut off the water. The sudden silence in the kitchen made her ears ring. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering the frayed edges of her patience. "I was home most of the day. I went out for a little while. To get some air."

"To get some air?" He was behind her now. She could feel his presence, a disturbance in the air that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. "You needed to drive all the way to Hialeah to get some air? That's the story you're going with?"

She turned slowly, drying her hands on a dish towel. His face was flushed, his eyes wide with that familiar, manic energy he got when he was building to a peak. It was a look she knew well, a roadmap to the next hour of her life.

"It's not a story, Travis. It's what happened." Her voice was level, practiced. She had learned over the years that raising her voice only added fuel to his fire. The best defense was a quiet, unbreachable wall.

"Bullshit!" The word exploded from him, making her flinch. "You're lying. I can hear it in your voice. Who were you with? Was it him? Was it that quiet motherfucker next door?"

And there it was. The real subject of the argument, as it always was. Chiron. The phantom third party in their relationship, the silent observer, Travis had conjured into a full-blown rival.

Shai's expression didn't change, but inside, something tightened. "You know I don't really talk to him like that. We just say hi sometimes."

"Say hi?" Travis took a step closer, his finger jabbing the air between them. "I see the way he looks at you. Like you're a piece of meat he's about to carve up. And I see the way you look back. Don't think I don't see it. You think I'm stupid?"

"I never said you were stupid."

"You don't have to!" He was pacing now, a caged animal wearing a track in the linoleum. "You show me every damn day! Coming home late, smelling like... like outside. Like somebody else's world. You're not here with me, Shai. You're never really here. You're over there, in that next-door kingdom of his, probably imagining what it'd be like to be with a real man. A man who's got his shit together."

The accusation was so far off the mark, so wildly incorrect, that it was almost laughable. Chiron was a drug dealer, a man who operated in shadows. Travis, with his steady if mediocre job at the auto body shop, was the one with his shit together, at least on paper. But Travis didn't see it that way. He only saw the quiet confidence, the self-possession, the way Chiron moved through the world like he owned it, even when he was just sitting on his own patio. He saw everything he wasn't, and it ate him alive.

"I'm not imagining anything," Shai said, her voice dropping even lower, becoming a near whisper. "I'm right here. Standing in this kitchen with you."

"Are you?" He stopped pacing and closed the distance between them in two long strides. He was in her face now, so close she could see the angry red capillaries in his eyes, smell the acrid scent of the beer on his breath. "Because it don't feel like it. It feels like I'm talking to a goddamn ghost. A pretty, warm body that lets me fuck it but won't let me in. Won't tell me shit."

He grabbed her arm then, his fingers wrapping around her bicep, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make a point. It was a possession, a branding. "Where were you, Shai? I'm not gonna ask you again."

The world narrowed to the point of contact, his fingers digging into her skin. The familiar, cold dread washed over her, the feeling of being trapped, of the walls of the house, of the relationship, closing in. She looked into his eyes, searching for the man she once loved, the one who made her laugh, who held her hand through her mother's funeral. But he wasn't there anymore. All she could see was the anger, the insecurity, the desperate need to control something, anything, in a world where he felt powerless.

"I went to the store," she said, her voice barely audible. "By myself. I just wanted to be alone for a little while."

"Alone?" He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You're never alone. Not really. Not with him next door, watching your every move. Probably jacking off in his garden while you bend over to pull a fucking weed."

The words were vile, intended to hurt, to degrade. And they did. But they also broke something in her. The careful, practiced composure she maintained, the wall she hid behind, it all crumbled. Not into tears, not into pleading, but into a sudden, cold clarity. She looked at his hand on her arm, then back at his face. And she was done.

"Let go of me," she said. It wasn't a request. It was a statement.

He blinked, surprised by the steel in her voice. "What?"

"Let. Go. Of. Me." She enunciated each word, a slow, deliberate command.

For a second, she thought he might refuse. His grip tightened, a reflexive act of defiance. But then he saw it in her eyes. The shift. The point of no return. With a muttered curse, he released her, shoving her arm away like it was something hot.

"Fine," he spat, stepping back. "Go. Run outside to your boyfriend. See if I give a fuck."

But she was already moving. She didn't respond to his taunt. She didn't look back. She turned and walked away from him, away from the kitchen, away from the suffocating weight of his presence. She slid open the heavy glass door and stepped out into the humid night air.

The change was immediate. The air outside was thick and heavy, yes, but it was free. It smelled of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth and the faint, salty tang of the ocean carried on the breeze. It was the smell of life. She took a deep, shuddering breath, pulling it into her lungs, trying to wash away the residue of the argument.

She stood in the middle of her neglected lawn, the dead grass crunching under her bare feet. She rubbed her arm where Travis had grabbed her, the skin still tingling. She looked up at the sky, a wash of indigo pricked by the faint, distant stars. She felt exposed, raw, but also strangely liberated. She was out. She was away.

And then she felt it. A gaze. A weight. She didn't have to look to know where it was coming from. She turned her head slowly, her heart starting to beat a little faster. There he was, sitting in the same chair as before, a dark, still silhouette against the softer glow of his patio light. He hadn't moved. He was just watching. Waiting.

Their eyes met across the expanse of their two worlds, hers of chaos and neglect, his of order and control. In that look, a thousand unspoken things passed between them. He had heard. Of course, he had heard. He saw the fresh pain in her eyes, the way she held herself, just a little bit differently than she had an hour ago. He saw the flinch she'd tried to hide, the subtle shift from enduring to breaking.

And she saw him. Not just the neighbor. Not just the quiet, dangerous man who tended his garden. She saw the only person in her life who didn't require her to explain, who didn't need her to perform. He just saw. And in his steady, unwavering gaze, she found an anchor, a point of stillness in the storm of her life.

From inside, she heard Travis's footsteps, the sound of him pacing, the crash of something being thrown against a wall. The sounds of his tantrum, his impotent rage. But they seemed distant now, muffled, like they were happening to someone else. Her focus was here. Outside. In the quiet space between two fences, under the vast Miami sky. Her focus was on the man who watched her with an intensity that was both terrifying and exhilarating, an intensity that promised he was done just watching.

The sound of Travis's rage was a distant, impotent storm, a background noise to the electric current that arced across the six feet of chain-link fence separating Shai's world from Chiron's. Inside, a man was throwing a tantrum, breaking things, and making noise. Out here, in the thick, breathing darkness, a different kind of storm was gathering, one that moved with the silent, deliberate precision of a predator.

Shai stood there, a solitary figure in a sea of neglect, rubbing her arm. The gesture was unconscious, a small, repetitive motion meant to soothe a hurt that went deeper than the skin. Her fingers traced the place where Travis's hand had been, a phantom pressure that lingered even after his touch was gone. She could still feel the heat of his anger, the way his fingers had dug into her flesh, a proprietary claim that spoke volumes about how he saw her: not as a partner, but as a possession. Her eyes were fixed on Chiron's patio, but she wasn't really seeing the man, not yet. She was seeing an escape, a port in the hurricane of her life.

Chiron watched her. He watched the way her shoulders slumped, the slight tremor in her hands, the way she held herself as if expecting another blow, verbal or otherwise. He'd heard it all. Every accusation, every vile word, every pathetic attempt by Travis to assert a dominance he didn't possess. The thin walls of their homes did little to muffle the sound of a man's insecurity. He'd heard the crash, the muffled curse, the sound of Travis's frustration finding a physical outlet against an inanimate object. It was the soundtrack to Shai's life, a symphony of misery that Chiron had been listening to for months.

He had been sitting in the same chair for over an hour, a silent sentinel in his kingdom of order. He'd been nursing a glass of whiskey, the ice melting slowly, watering down the liquor until it was barely more than a memory of its former strength. He hadn't moved when the argument started. He didn't move when it escalated. He just sat, and he listened. His face was an unreadable mask, but his eyes, dark and deep, held a world of emotion. Anger, yes. A cold, simmering fury at the way Travis spoke to her. But something else, too. Something that had been building for months, a slow burn of want and need and a fierce, protective instinct that defied his own carefully constructed code of non-involvement.

Their eyes met, and the world shifted. It was a connection that had been forged over months of stolen glances and brief, charged conversations. In his gaze, she saw not pity, but understanding. She saw a reflection of her own pain, mirrored in the depths of his dark eyes. She saw an acknowledgment of her strength, of the resilience it took to endure, to survive. And in her gaze, he saw everything he'd been waiting for. He saw the flicker of defiance, the spark of rebellion against the cage she'd built for herself. He saw the unspoken question, the silent plea.

And then, he moved.

There was no hesitation. No moment of indecision. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him, a line had been crossed, and there was no going back. He set his glass down on the small table beside his chair, the sound a soft click in the quiet night. He rose from his seat, his movements a display of controlled power. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and solid, but he moved with an athlete's grace.

He walked to the fence, his gaze never leaving hers. He didn't vault it with a show of athleticism. He simply placed a hand on the top rail and swung his leg over, then the other, landing softly on the other side. The motion was so smooth, so effortless, it was almost surreal. He was crossing a boundary, a line he had never dared to cross before. He was invading her space, her world, and he was doing it with the quiet certainty of a man who knew he belonged there.

He stood there for a moment, on her side of the fence, a dark, imposing figure in her neglected yard. His presence, so solid and real, against the backdrop of her wilting roses and overgrown weeds. He was a man of substance in a place of decay.

Shai's breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and anticipation. Every instinct, every lesson learned from years of Travis's unpredictable moods, screamed at her to run. To retreat. To put distance between herself and this man, this dangerous, unpredictable man who had just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. But she didn't move. She couldn't. Her feet were rooted to the spot, her body held captive by the intensity of his gaze.

He took a step toward her. Then another. His steps were slow, giving her ample time to tell him to stop. To turn away. To send him back to his side of the fence. But the words wouldn't come. Her throat was tight, her voice lost somewhere between the fear and the desperate, overwhelming need for him to keep coming.

He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body, so close she could smell the faint scent of his whiskey, the masculine scent of his skin. He didn't touch her, not at first. He just stood there, his eyes searching hers, looking for something, a sign, a signal. He was giving her one last chance to pull away, to end this before it began.

She didn't pull away. She leaned in, just slightly, a barely perceptible movement, but it was all the encouragement he needed.

His hand came up to her face, a slow, gentle movement that was opposite to the forceful, possessive way Travis touched her. His fingers were rough, calloused from work, but his touch was impossibly light. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below her eye, wiping away a tear she hadn't even realized was there.

The touch was a revelation. It was a question and an answer, a promise and a plea. It was the touch of a man who saw her, not as an object, but as a person. A woman. A fragile, beautiful, broken thing that he wanted to mend, not break.

"You don't have to be afraid," he said, his voice a low rumble, a vibration that she felt more than heard. It was the first time he had spoken to her tonight, and the words were heavy, weighted with a significance that went far beyond their simple meaning.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, searching his face. She saw the hardness there, the dangerous edge that she knew was a part of who he was. But she saw something else, too. A softness, a vulnerability, a warmth that was just for her.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered, and the words were true. In that moment, with his hand on her cheek and his eyes holding hers, she wasn't afraid of Travis, of the future, of the consequences. She was only afraid of this moment ending.

His thumb continued its slow, rhythmic stroking, a hypnotic, comforting motion that soothed the raw, frayed edges of her nerves. He leaned in closer, his face just inches from hers, his gaze dropping to her lips. The air between them crackled with a tension so thick it was almost tangible. She could feel his breath on her skin, warm and whiskey-scented.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "Tell me to go back to my yard, and I will. I'll walk away, and I'll never bother you again."

She knew he meant it. She knew that this was her choice, her decision. She could send him away, retreat to the safety of her miserable life, and he would respect her choice. He would go back to his side of the fence, and they would go back to being just neighbors, their unspoken connection buried under a mountain of what-ifs.

But she didn't want to be safe. She didn't want to go back to the way things were. She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted the danger, the excitement, the raw, undeniable passion she knew he offered.

She didn't say anything. She just closed the distance between them, pressing her lips against his in a kiss that was both a surrender. A surrender to the feelings she had been fighting for months, and a declaration that she was done fighting, done hiding, done living a life that wasn't her own.

The kiss was hesitant at first, a gentle exploration, but it quickly deepened, fueled by months of unspoken desire, of pent-up frustration, of a desperate, aching need. It was a kiss that tasted of whiskey and tears and the promise of something new, something better. It was a kiss that said everything they had never been able to say.

And as his arms came around her, pulling her close, his body hard and demanding against hers, she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her soul, that her life would never be the same.

The kiss was a collision. A soft, brutal collision of months of unspoken words and years of un-lived moments. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was a desperate, hungry claiming, a sealing of a pact that had been written in the air between them for as long as they could remember. For a split second, Shai's body reacted with the muscle memory of her life with Travis, a reflexive stiffening, a subconscious bracing for impact, for the wrong kind of touch.

But Chiron wasn't Travis.

His mouth moved against hers with a fierce, demanding pressure, but his hands, his hands were different. One remained on her cheek, his thumb still stroking her skin in that slow, hypnotic rhythm, a constant, grounding presence. The other slid around her waist, not grabbing, not clutching, but pulling her into him, molding her body to his with an undeniable certainty. It was a possessiveness that felt like safety, a claim that felt like a promise. And just like that, the resistance, the last vestige of her old life, melted away like ice under a tropical sun.

Her body softened against his, a sigh escaping her lips. She was no longer just receiving; she was participating. Her hands, which had been hanging limply at her sides, rose to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer. She tilted her head, deepening the kiss, her tongue meeting his, a shy, tentative exploration that quickly grew bolder, more demanding. She tasted the whiskey on his breath, she knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that she could get drunk on this man, on this feeling, and never want to be sober again.

The world around them faded away, the sounds of the night, the distant hum of the city, the even more distant sound of Travis's rage, all of it dissolved into a meaningless hum. There was only this. Only the feel of his body against hers, the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin. His hands roamed her back, tracing her spine, his touch a brand, a fire that burned through the thin cotton of her shirt, searing her skin, marking her as his. She arched against him, an invitation, a desperate plea for more, and he answered, his mouth leaving hers to trail a path of fire down her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered a frantic, desperate rhythm.

"Chiron," she breathed, his name a prayer, a curse, a benediction all at once. It was the first word she had spoken since he'd crossed the fence, and it hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning.

He didn't answer. He just kept kissing her, his hands growing bolder, one sliding down to cup the curve of her ass, pulling her flush against him, letting her feel the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire. She could feel his dick, a thick, heavy ridge pressing against her belly, and instead of the familiar flicker of fear, a thrill shot through her. This was real. This was happening. And she wanted it. She wanted him. All of him.

But then, a sound. A sharp, distinct crash from inside the house. The sound of something breaking, followed by a muffled curse. Travis.

The sound was like a splash of cold water, a harsh, brutal reminder of the reality they were stepping outside of. The world came rushing back in. The fear, the danger, the consequences. Shai tensed, her body going rigid in his arms, her eyes flying open, wide with panic.

But Chiron didn't pull away. He just held her, his arms a secure, unyielding circle around her, his body a shield between her and the house. He lifted his head, his eyes finding hers, and in his gaze, she saw no fear, no hesitation. She saw only a fierce, unwavering resolve, a promise that he would protect her, that he would keep her safe, no matter what.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice a low, reassuring rumble against her ear. "He's not coming out."

"How do you know?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a fear she couldn't quite suppress.

"Because he's a coward," Chiron said, his voice hard, cold. "Cowards throw things. They make noise. They don't come out here. Not into the dark. Not where they might have to face something real."

His words, so certain, so confident, calmed her. He was right. Travis was all about the performance, the show of rage. He wouldn't risk a real confrontation, not with Chiron, not on territory that wasn't his own.

Still, the risk was there. A constant, thrumming undercurrent of danger that added a sharp, exhilarating edge to their encounter. They were playing with fire, and they both knew it. Every touch, every kiss, was an act of defiance, a rebellion against the life she had been living.

"We can't," she said, but her body betrayed her words, her hands still clutching at his shirt, her hips pressing against his. "Not here."

He didn't argue. He didn't try to convince her. He just looked at her, his eyes dark and intense, and then he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. He understood. He understood the need for secrecy, for shadows, for a space where they could be themselves, if only for a little while.

He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers, and he started to lead her across the lawn. His steps were sure, confident, as if he knew this yard, this space, as well as he knew his own. He led her toward the back of the property, toward the large, unruly bougainvillea bush that grew against the back wall, a tangle of thorny branches and vibrant, magenta flowers. It was a wild, untamed thing, a beautiful mess of color and danger, a perfect metaphor for what they were about to do.

He pushed aside the thick, leafy branches, creating a small, hidden space, a secret garden just for them. The air inside was thick with the sweet, heavy scent of the flowers, the ground a soft carpet of fallen petals. It was a private, secluded world, a pocket of darkness where they were hidden from the house, from the street, from everything but each other.

He turned to her, his body blocking the entrance, his silhouette a dark, imposing figure against the faint moonlight that filtered through the leaves. He didn't say a word. He just looked at her, his eyes burning with a hunger, a need that mirrored her own. And in that look, she saw a future, a possibility, a life beyond the walls of her house, beyond the shadow of Travis's anger.

She reached for him, her hands finding his face, pulling him down for another kiss. This time, there was no hesitation, no fear. There was only the raw truth of their desire. This was their moment. Their rebellion. Their beginning. And they were going to savor every second of it.

The air inside their hidden alcove was thick and sweet, a heady cocktail of night-blooming jasmine and unspoken desire. The space was small, intimate, the thorny branches of the bougainvillea creating a natural barrier against the world. In here, they were in a different dimension, a place where the rules didn't apply, where the only law was the one that pulsed between them, a current of electricity so strong it made the air hum.

Chiron's hands moved with an unhurried grace. There was no fumbling, no frantic rush to get to the main event. His fingers found the hem of her shirt, but he didn't pull it over her head. Instead, they traced the waistband of her shorts, his knuckles brushing against the soft skin of her stomach, making her muscles quiver. His gaze was intense, focused, as if he were memorizing every detail, every curve. He was worshipping her with his eyes before he ever touched her with his hands.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and panties, pulling them down together in one slow, smooth motion. She stepped out of them, her bare feet sinking into the soft carpet of fallen petals. The night air was cool against her heated skin, a delicious contrast that made her shiver. She stood before him, naked from the waist down, her shirt the only barrier between them, feeling more exposed, more vulnerable, and more alive than she had ever felt in her life.

He didn't undress her further. He didn't need to. His focus was on the core of her, on the part of her that Travis had never bothered to truly see, to appreciate.

He turned her around, his hands on her hips, guiding her toward the rickety lawn chair that sat forgotten in the corner of the hidden space. It was an old, faded thing, a relic of a life she had barely lived, but in his hands, it became an altar. He bent her over it, her hands gripping the cracked plastic armrests, her body angled in a way that was both submissive and empowering. She was offering herself to him, not out of obligation, but out of a desperate, aching need.

She heard the soft rustle of fabric, the metallic clink of a belt buckle, and then the sound of his jeans hitting the ground. He was behind her, a solid, imposing presence, his body heat radiating against her bare skin. She could feel the length of him, thick and hard, pressing against the cleft of her ass, a promise of what was to come.

He didn't enter her right away. He took a moment, a pause that stretched into an eternity, letting the anticipation build, letting the tension coil in her stomach until she was trembling with it. His hands roamed her back, her hips, her thighs, his touch a brand, a fire that burned through her, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He was taking his time, savoring this moment, this act of possession, this slow claiming.

Then his fingers dipped between her thighs, sliding through the slick, swollen folds of her pussy. He wasn't just touching her; he was exploring her wetness, learning her shape. His thumb found her clit, already hard and peeking from its hood, and he circled it slowly, teasingly, just enough to make her hips jerk, to make a desperate sound escape her lips.

He slid two fingers inside her, a thick, delicious intrusion that made her gasp. He curled them, finding that spongy spot deep inside that made her whole body clench. He started to fuck her with his fingers, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was a preview of what was to come. In and out, his fingers glistening with her juices, the wet, sloppy sounds filling the small, hidden space.

"Please," she begged, her voice a ragged whisper. "Chiron, please."

He added a third finger, stretching her, filling her, his thumb still working her clit in slow circles. He was playing her like an instrument, his fingers a masterful extension of his will, coaxing sounds from her that she didn't know she could make. She could feel her orgasm building, a wave of pleasure gathering deep inside her, threatening to pull her under.

"Not yet, baby," he commanded, his voice a low, dominant growl.

He pulled his fingers out, leaving her empty, aching, desperate for more. He brought them to his lips, and he licked them clean, slowly.

"You taste good," he said, his voice a low, husky whisper. "Taste like you're ready for me."

Then, she felt it. The thick, mushroom head of his dick was nudging against her entrance. Even in the dim, moon-dappled shadows of their hidden alcove, she could make out its imposing shape. It was a heavy, dark thing, the color of rich, polished mahogany, a stark, beautiful contrast against the lighter brown of her thighs. A thick, angry vein pulsed along the underside, mapping a path from the base to the flared, weeping head. His dick wasn't just long; it was thick, a formidable girth that promised a challenge, a stretch that bordered on pain. The head was a broad, blunt instrument of pleasure, already slick with a bead of his own pre-cum that caught the faint light, a single, perfect pearl of want.

He was big, bigger than she had imagined, and a flicker of fear, an instinctual fear of being split open, shot through her. But it was quickly replaced by a wave of liquid heat, a desperate, overwhelming need to be filled, to be completed, to be taken by this man, this dangerous, beautiful man who had crossed a fence for her. The sheer weight of him against her was a promise, a tangible declaration of his desire. He dragged the head through her soaked folds, not entering, just teasing, coating himself in her slickness. The sensation was electric, a nasty, wet slide that made her knees weak and her pussy clench in anticipation. He was marking his territory, anointing himself in her essence before he ever claimed her.

He entered her slowly, inch by measured inch, the world narrowing to the space between them and the quiet rhythm of their breathing. There was nothing rushed about it. Every movement felt deliberate, almost reverent, as if he were learning her in real time and refusing to skip a single moment of it. The tension in their hidden garden seemed to stretch alongside the moment itself, drawing it out until each second felt suspended.

The first full movement forward felt like a turning point. She drew in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening where they rested, and he immediately stilled, his gaze lifting to meet hers. His eyes searched her face with unwavering focus, reading every flicker of emotion that crossed it. Concern, desire, concentration, anticipation. He seemed to catalog them all before moving again.

Moonlight spilled across their bodies, tracing the line of his shoulders and catching in the intensity of his expression. He stayed close, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that neither of them could look away. The silence between them was not empty. It was full of unspoken questions and quiet reassurances.

When he moved again, it was with the same patience, the same care. His hand settled against her side, steady and grounding, a silent reminder that he was paying attention to every reaction, every breath, every shift. The moment felt less like surrender and more like trust unfolding in real time. He watched her closely, waiting for the smallest sign that she was ready before giving her more, his focus fixed entirely on her as the distance between hesitation and certainty slowly disappeared.

The sound was obscene in the quiet night. A soft, wet squelch as the broad head of his dick finally breached past her entrance, forcing her tight, slick walls to part. It was the sound of conquest, of a space being claimed, and it made Shai's breath hitch in her throat. He was big, so fucking big, and the stretch was a delicious, burning ache, a pain that bled directly into pleasure. He gave her a moment, just a heartbeat, to adjust to the thick, intrusive presence of him, before he pushed forward again, sinking another inch of his heavy length into her welcoming heat.

"Fuck," she gasped, the word torn from her lips, "You're so... fuck."

He didn't respond with words. He just kept moving, a slow, relentless advance that was as much about her own pleasure as it was about his. Each inch was a new discovery, a new territory to be claimed. He was watching her face, his eyes dark and intense, gauging her reaction, making sure she was with him. He saw the way her eyes rolled back, the way her mouth fell open, the way her body trembled under his touch. He was learning her, reading her like a book, and he was only on the first page.

Then, with another, deep thrust, he was buried deep, his balls slapping against her clit with a soft, meaty thwack. He was all the way in, a thick, hard, undeniable presence that filled her completely, stretching her to her limits, touching a place deep inside her that had never been touched before.

He stayed there for a moment, still and deep, letting her feel the full weight of him, letting her body adjust to the sheer size of him. She could feel him pulsing inside her, a slow, steady rhythm that was in perfect sync with the frantic pounding of her heart. She was so full, so stretched, and the feeling was overwhelming, a wave of sensation that threatened to pull her under.

"You feel that?" he asked, his voice a low, husky whisper against her ear. "Feel how deep I am?"

She could only nod, her throat too tight to form words. She could feel it. She could feel him in every fiber of her being, a deep, aching presence.

He started to move again, a slow retreat that left her feeling empty, aching for his return. He pulled out until just the head was inside, a teasing, torturous withdrawal that made her whimper with need. Then, he pushed back in, a slow, deep stroke that filled her, stretched her, claimed her all over again.

He set a rhythm, a slow, hypnotic beat that was in perfect sync with the frantic pounding of her heart. Each stroke was a measured act, a slow, deep plunge that sent shockwaves coursing through her body. He was fucking her, yes, but he was also making love to her, his body a vessel for all the words he couldn't say, all the emotions he couldn't show. It was a slow dance, a sensual, intimate exploration that was as much about connection as it was about climax.

"Chiron," she breathed his name.

The contrast was a brutal, beautiful dichotomy. Travis's anger was explosive, a messy, chaotic force that left her feeling drained, diminished. Chiron's passion was controlled, a focused, intense energy that built her up, that made her feel powerful, desired, seen. With Travis, sex was a transaction, a way to end an argument, a temporary truce in a never-ending war. With Chiron, it was a communion, a merging of two souls, a rebellion against the life she had been living.

He picked up the pace, responding to the subtle shifts in her body as though he could read every thought running beneath her skin. The rhythm between them grew more urgent, each movement building naturally from the last. She arched forward over the chair, her hands tightening against the worn wood as she adjusted to him, meeting his energy with her own. The night air brushed against her skin, cool against the heat that had settled between them, while the garden around them seemed to disappear into darkness.

His hands settled firmly at her hips, steadying her whenever the chair shifted beneath them. The grip was grounding rather than forceful, a way of keeping them connected as their movements found a shared rhythm. Leaves rustled somewhere beyond the fence, and a distant porch light flickered on and off, but neither of them paid attention. The world had narrowed to the sound of their breathing, the scrape of fabric, and the electric awareness of each other’s presence.

Every reaction from her drew his focus. The way her shoulders tensed and relaxed. The way she tilted her head back to catch her breath. The way she instinctively moved with him rather than against him. He watched closely, attentive to every change, every signal, every unspoken response. There was intensity in the moment, but also concentration, as though he was determined to stay present with her rather than lose himself entirely to impulse.

Around them, the garden remained cloaked in shadow. The chair sat half-hidden beneath overgrown branches, tucked away from the glow spilling out from the house. The contrast between the quiet domestic scene beyond the windows and the charged atmosphere outside only heightened the sense that they had stepped briefly outside of ordinary time. The night seemed to hold its breath with them, stretching each second longer than it should have lasted.

Her pussy was a revelation, a tight, wet, velvet fist that gripped him, begging him, pulling him deeper, urging him on. She was so wet, so ready for him, her juices coating his dick, making each stroke a smooth, easy glide, a delicious friction that sent them both spiraling toward the edge.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the word dragging out of him rough and ragged, his voice dropping into something deeper, something that seemed to vibrate through the warm night air. His grip tightened reflexively, fingers flexing against her skin as he fought for control. Sweat gleamed along his shoulders and the line of his jaw, catching what little moonlight filtered through the tangled branches overhead.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he said again, the words sounding almost disbelieving, pulled from somewhere low in his chest.

Shai’s answer never came in the form of words. The only sound she could manage was a breathless moan, broken and unsteady, torn from her throat before she could stop it. Her forehead dipped toward the back of the chair, fingers tightening around the worn armrests until her knuckles ached. Every nerve in her body felt alive, tuned to the same overwhelming frequency.

The world beyond their hidden corner of the garden blurred into insignificance. The distant hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves, even the faint glow spilling from the house behind them all seemed impossibly far away. All she could focus on was sensation. Heat. Pressure. Movement.

Her body responded instinctively, hips shifting with his rhythm, drawn into the relentless cadence they had created together. Every breath felt too shallow. Every heartbeat landed harder than the last. She was suspended in a haze of feeling, her thoughts scattered and unreachable, replaced by raw awareness.

Chiron watched her closely, drinking in every reaction. The tremor that ran through her shoulders. The way her head tipped back. The soft sounds she tried and failed to hold in. The sight of her unraveling beneath the weight of everything she had been carrying for so long struck something deep inside him.

The humid Miami night pressed close around them, thick with the scent of earth, flowers, and summer heat. Sweat gathered at the base of her neck and along her spine, cooling whenever the breeze managed to find its way through the branches. The contrast only sharpened every sensation, making the moment feel almost unreal, like the rest of the world had fallen away and left only the two of them hidden in the darkness.

“Look at me,” he murmured, the command low and steady.

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes.

The intensity in his expression stole what little breath she had left.

For a moment, neither of them seemed capable of looking away. The connection held, taut and undeniable, stretching between them like a live wire. Around them, the garden remained silent, cloaked in shadow, guarding their secret while the night carried on beyond the walls of their hidden refuge.

He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, a hard, sensitive nub that was swollen with need. He rubbed it in slow circles, his touch a perfect counterpoint to the steady, rhythmic thrusting of his hips. It was too much. It was not enough. She was on the verge of something, a precipice of pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

“Chiron,” she gasped, the syllables breaking apart on a trembling breath. Her entire body felt stretched taut, wound so tightly she thought she might come undone from the strain alone. Her legs shook beneath her, muscles quivering from the effort of holding herself together. Every nerve ending felt exposed, raw, and electric, each sensation amplified until it bordered on unbearable.

“I… I can’t…”

Her voice cracked, lost somewhere between a plea and a confession.

“Yeah, you can,” he growled, the sound low and rough, vibrating through the space between them. His forehead brushed against the back of her shoulder as he stayed close, refusing to let her drift away from him. “That’s it. Stay with me.”

The words wrapped around her, steadying her even as everything inside her threatened to break apart.

The night seemed to narrow around them. The humid air pressed close, thick and heavy, smelling of crushed flowers and damp earth. The scent filled her lungs with every ragged breath, a heady perfume that was uniquely theirs. Somewhere beyond the tangled branches of the bougainvillea, the city continued on, indifferent and distant, a low, constant hum of traffic and life. But here, in their hidden corner of the world, time had slowed to the frantic, desperate rhythm of their hearts, a syncopated beat that was the only sound that mattered.

She could feel it building.

The pressure.

The heat.

The impossible, overwhelming tension coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, a hot, heavy weight that promised to shatter her into a million pieces.

Every movement, every touch, every whispered word pushed her closer. His hand slid up her back, his fingers tracing the line of her spine, a path of fire that made her arch against him. His other hand remained on her hip, a firm, grounding presence that held her steady as the storm inside her raged.

Her fingers slipped against the chair as she tried to hold on to something solid. The rough, sun-bleached plastic dug into her palms, grounding her just enough to keep from floating away completely. Her body trembled beneath the force of what was coming, every muscle tightening, every breath catching higher in her chest, a frantic, desperate rhythm that was a prelude to the symphony of pleasure that was about to consume her.

“Chiron…”

His name left her lips, a desperate, breathless plea for release.

The sound seemed to undo whatever restraint remained. It was a catalyst, a trigger, a final, fatal blow to the wall of control he had so carefully constructed.

The final thread snapped.

The release hit her all at once.

A sharp, ragged inhale.

A broken, silent cry.

Then nothing but sensation.

The wave crashed through her with breathtaking force. Her body seized around the intensity of it, her pussy clenching around his dick in a series of powerful, relentless pulses. There was only light and heat and the overwhelming awareness of him, a blinding, all-consuming force that swept her away.

Chiron felt the change instantly.

The way she shuddered was a full-body convulsion that was both beautiful and terrifying.

The way her body gave in completely, a total, unconditional surrender that was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

The way every wall she’d carried for so long, every defense, every reservation, finally collapsed, leaving her raw, vulnerable, and completely his.

A groan tore from him, rough and unguarded, a sound that was ripped from his soul. Seeing her lose herself like that, feeling her come apart around him, hit him harder than he expected. Months of restraint, months of watching, wanting, waiting, all converged into a single, devastating moment that was more powerful, more intense, than anything he had ever experienced.

His arms tightened around her, his body a cage of muscle and bone that was both a prison and a sanctuary. His face buried against the curve of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. The scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her, it was all too much.

The intensity of his own release followed close behind, pulling him over the edge with her. It was a hot, thick flood that filled her and marked her as his. It was a culmination of months of unspoken desire, a physical manifestation of the connection that had been building between them for so long.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but the aftermath.

Nothing but shaking limbs.

Harsh, ragged breaths.

Hearts hammering wildly against ribs.

The garden seemed to sway around them, the leaves rustling softly overhead as the night settled back into place, the world slowly coming back into focus.

Slowly, awareness returned.

The distant hum of traffic, a constant reminder of the world outside their hidden sanctuary.

The chirp of insects hidden in the darkness, a symphony of the night that had been there all along, but had been drowned out by the sound of their own pleasure.

The faint glow of neighboring houses beyond the fence line, a soft, yellow light that was a world away from the intense, passionate darkness they had created.

The world came back piece by piece, a slow, gradual return to reality.

Neither moved right away.

They remained wrapped around each other, exhausted and breathless, clinging to the fragile sanctuary they had created beneath the bougainvillea, a temporary refuge from the chaos of their lives.

When he finally eased back, it was with visible reluctance, as though breaking the contact cost him something, as though he were leaving a part of himself behind.

He turned her gently toward him, his hands on her hips, his touch soft, tender.

Moonlight filtered through the branches above, catching in her eyes, illuminating the lingering emotion there. He saw the tears that tracked paths down her cheeks, tears of release, of relief, of a pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

For a long moment, he simply looked at her.

No words.

No explanations.

No promises spoken aloud.

Then he drew her into his arms.

Strong.

Steady.

Certain.

The noise of the world remained outside their hidden refuge, a distant, irrelevant hum.

Inside it, surrounded by flowers and shadows and the lingering warmth of each other’s presence, Shai let herself rest against him.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt safe.

The world was a soft, hazy cocoon of moonlight and shadow, of tangled limbs and shared breath. In the aftermath, there was a profound sense of peace, a quiet stillness that settled over them like a blanket. Shai was wrapped in Chiron's arms, her head resting against his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. It was a sound that anchored her, a reassuring drum that counteracted the frantic, chaotic rhythm of her own life. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt a sense of rightness, a feeling that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

But the world, the real world, had a way of intruding, of shattering the fragile illusions of happiness.

It started as a sound, a distant, muffled thud from inside the house. At first, it was easy to ignore, a meaningless noise that was easily absorbed by the sounds of the night. But then it came again, closer this time, a heavy, deliberate tread on the linoleum floor. It was the sound of footsteps, and they were heading toward the back door.

The spell was broken.

The peace was shattered.

The fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the warm haze of their shared contentment.

"Shit," Chiron breathed, his body tensing, his arms tightening around her in a protective, instinctual gesture.

Shai's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of panic. She pulled away from him, her body suddenly cold, the warmth of his embrace a distant memory. "He's coming," she whispered, her voice trembling with a fear that was all too familiar.

Chiron was already moving, his body a fluid, efficient motion that was a stark contrast to the languid, sensual movements of just a few moments ago. He grabbed his jeans from the ground, his movements quick. "Get dressed," he commanded, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Now."

Shai scrambled to obey, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her shorts, her hands shaking so badly she could barely get them fastened. The adrenaline was a cold, rushing tide, washing away the remnants of their pleasure, leaving only the stark, brutal reality of their situation. She was a mess, her body still humming with the aftermath of his touch, her hair a tangled, sweaty mess, her lips swollen and bruised from his kisses. There was no way to hide what they had done, no way to erase the evidence of their transgression.

The footsteps were closer now, right outside the door. They could hear the rattle of the doorknob, the scrape of metal against metal.

"Shai!" Travis's voice was a sharp, angry bark that cut through the night. "Shai, where the fuck are you?"

Chiron was dressed, his jeans pulled up, his shirt hastily tucked in. He looked at her, his eyes dark and intense, a silent communication passing between them. There was no time for goodbyes, for promises, for explanations. There was only the need to escape, to disappear, to return to his side of the fence.

He gave her a final, lingering look, a look that was filled with a thousand unspoken words, a thousand unfulfilled promises. Then, he turned and melted into the shadows, a dark, silent figure that moved with the grace and stealth of a predator.

The back door slid open, flooding the yard with a harsh, artificial light. Travis stood on the threshold, a silhouette against the bright glare, his body a rigid, angry line. He was looking for her, his eyes scanning the darkness, searching for a target for his rage.

Shai stood frozen, her heart pounding, her breath caught in her throat. She was exposed, vulnerable, a sitting duck in the middle of her own backyard.

"Shai!" he yelled again, his voice a harsh, demanding bark. "Get your ass in here!"

She took a step forward, her body moving on autopilot, her mind a blank, panicked void. She was walking toward him, toward the house, toward the life she had been living, but it felt like she was walking to her own execution.

As she moved, she saw him.

Chiron.

He was at the fence, his body a dark, shadowy figure against the backdrop of his own yard. He was watching her, his eyes a pair of intense, burning coals in the darkness. He was waiting, making sure she was safe, making sure she was okay.

Then, he was over the fence, a fluid, effortless motion that was over in the blink of an eye. He landed softly on the other side, his feet making no sound on the soft grass. He didn't look back. He didn't hesitate. He just disappeared into the shadows of his own yard, a ghost, a phantom, a memory of what they had shared.

Travis's eyes scanned the darkness, his gaze lingering on the spot where Chiron had just been. For a second, Shai thought he had seen him, thought he had caught a glimpse of the man who had just crossed a line, a fence, a boundary, for her.

But then, his eyes moved on, his attention diverted by the sound of her footsteps on the concrete patio. He turned to her, his face a mask of anger and suspicion.

"Where the fuck have you been?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I've been calling you."

"I just needed some air," she said, her voice a calm, even monotone that she didn't know she possessed. "It was hot inside. I was just getting some fresh air."

He looked at her, his eyes narrowed, his expression suspicious. He was searching for a lie, a crack in her story, a reason to unleash his anger. But he found nothing. She was a blank slate, a calm, unruffled surface that gave him nothing to hold on to.

"Fresh air?" he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "You call this fresh air? It's hot as balls out here. You're lying to me, Shai. I know you're lying to me."

But she wasn't. Not really. The air had been fresh for a little while. The air had been filled with the scent of flowers and the promise of something new. The air had been filled with him.

She didn't say anything. She just looked at him, her face a mask of indifference, her eyes a cool, calm pool that gave him nothing to hold on to. She was a different person than she had been an hour ago. She was stronger, more confident, more sure of herself. She had crossed a line, a fence, a boundary, and she was not the same.

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers, looking for a sign, a signal, a hint of the truth. But he found nothing. She was a mystery to him, a stranger, a woman he no longer recognized.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he turned and went back inside, leaving her alone in the darkness.

Shai stood there for a long time, the cool night air a welcome balm against her heated skin. She was alone again, but she was not lonely. She was changed, transformed by the events of the night. She carried Chiron's presence with her, a warm, comforting weight in the cold space of her life.

She looked over at the fence, at the dark, silent space where he had disappeared. She knew that this was not the end. It was a new beginning. A beginning of something dangerous, something exciting, something real. They had crossed a line, a fence, a boundary, and there was no going back.

And as she stood there, a small, slow smile spread across her face. She was ready for whatever came next.

also this creator has an extremely detailed masterlist and page about this series so def check that out .☘︎ ݁˖here⋆.˚ ! i just edited it so it would fit my blog a little better

☘︎  part one  

☘︎  part two  

☘︎  part three  

☘︎  part four  

☘︎  part five  

☘︎  part six 

☘︎  part seven  

☘︎  part eight  

☘︎  part nine

☘︎  part ten

☘︎  part eleven

☘︎  part twelve 

          extra

     ⧽ rafe confronts topper

          extra

     ⧽ wheezie teaching rafe reaction pics

☘︎  part thirteen

☘︎  part fourteen

☘︎  part fifteen 

☘︎  part sixteen

☘︎  part seventeen

          extra

     ⧽ rafe getting you a silly gift

☘︎  part eighteen

☘︎  part nineteen 

☘︎  part twenty  

          extra  ❪ ➶ ❫

     ⧽ rafe has a solo sesh

☘︎  part twenty one 

☘︎  part twenty two

          extra

     ⧽ rafe and wards talk about the deal

☘︎  part twenty three 

          extra   ❪ ➶ ❫

     ⧽ the boys' group chat reaction

☘︎  part twenty four

          alt. part twenty four   /  NOT CANON

     ⧽ the original version she wrote but reworked

☘︎  part twenty five

☘︎  part twenty six  

☘︎  part twenty seven

☘︎  part twenty eight   ❪ ➶ ❫

          extra

     ⧽ post sleepover instagram

☘︎  part twenty nine

☘︎  part thirty

☘︎  part thirty one

ps: i binge read this in a couple days and my screentime is actually an ungodly amount eek! safe to say you can really get lost in this one lol

clark gently cups your face with his hand—his big palm cradling your jaw. his thumb brushes against your cheek as he stretches you open inch by inch. your breath catches, walls fluttering around him, already feeling full.

his pace is steady, slow but deep, like he’s got all the time in the world. his body engulfs yours, his thighs naturally forcing your body apart for him. your hands are all over him, fingers dragging across heated skin, nails scraping over the hard planes of his back.

“breathe for me, baby,” he rasps, sliding his hand up your arm and weaving his fingers through yours and lacing them together.

you try, you really do, but fuck, the burn—it's sharp, making your thighs tremble and hips jerk. he’s big, ridiculously so and your walls clench around him instinctively, trying to pull him deeper. 

“that’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear as he brings your joined hands to rest beside your head on the pillow. “taking me so well.”

“mmph—clark!” you moan, feeling his thick, flushed head probe and stretch you to your limit.  

the pleasure is overwhelming as he bottoms out inside you over and over again—dark curls beneath his navel brushing against your clit. clark’s gaze drops, watching where his cock disappears into you, your slick coating him and dripping onto the sheets below.

“doin’ so good f’me,” he pants, hiking one of your legs around his waist. 

the bed frame creaks in time with his thrusts—his cock stretching you open deliciously. his hand tightens against yours, eyes transfixed at the sight of your face contorting in pleasure. your moans spill free, lewd and needy, mixing with the slick sounds of him fucking into you.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters, his voice rough.

“clark—!” your voice cracks on his name. 

you feel all of him, every ridge and vein as he rocks into your heat. his thrusts pick up—he’s still holding back but not much as before. you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, heels digging into his back and pulling him in deeper. 

every thrust makes your breath hitch, your body rocking with his. clark dips his head, his lips finding their way to your pulse point—sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. his hand squeezes yours and the muscles in his forearm constrict as he keeps himself propped up. 

the feeling of his cock is too much, yet somehow, not enough. you arch your back, desperate for more and clark slips his free hand under your lower back to support the curve. the new angle has you moaning in ecstasy and the need for a release becomes greater and greater.

“you close, baby?” he mumbles, sweat dripping down the column of his neck.

unable to stop the gasps tumbling from your lips, you nod dumbly as he fills you over and over again. the rhythmic sound of skin against skin and heavy breathing fills the bedroom with each thrust from clark bringing a new wave of pleasure, leaving you wanting more. 

clark moves his hand from your back and shifts it to your stomach—feeling where he was inside you, how he filled you completely. his palm presses down gently against the bulge of your stomach causing your toes to curl. 

“see that?” clark manages between pants. “that’s all me…”

you feel him throb and pulse inside you as his thumb slides lower and circles your clit. that added stimulation, in time with his thrusts, sends shockwaves down your spine and the sound that slips past your lips is embarrassingly needy.

“i’ve got you, sweetheart,” clark whispers, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you.

you are unbelievably close and one more thrust is all you need before your orgasm washes over you. a broken moan tumbles from your lips as clark fucks you through your orgasm, chasing his own. 

clark’s hand tightens against yours as his thrusts become sloppy—his own orgasm crashing over him. his hips stutter as he buries himself to the hilt and stays there—pulsing hot, thick ropes of cum deep inside you. 

it feels endless—each spurt of cum painting your insides and filling you beyond capacity. you clench around him, your cunt milking every last drop until his cum starts to leak around the base of him, dripping down his balls.

clark rocks his hips lazily into your puffy, swollen cunt, his cock still thick and throbbing. your hips jerk weakly as his thumb continues to rub your clit raw—prolonging your orgasm. 

slowly, clark brings the back of your hand to his lips and kisses it softly as he begins to pull out—your nails leaving crescent marks against his skin. a soft whimper escapes you as he leaves your swollen cunt.

you’re wrecked, and so is he. your cunt misses his cock already, glistening and stretched from taking him so deep. your release mixes with his, sticky strings connecting your folds to his slick, flushed cock.

“easy, baby,” he murmurs, watching you clench around nothing. “i know… i know.”

clark leans down, replacing the pads of his thumb on your inner thighs with his mouth. you jump at the press of his lips, followed by the sharp nip of his teeth on the sensitive skin. he works his way upward, holding you still against the mattress.

it's agonising. all of it. his slow explorative touches, all the hot, wet kisses everywhere but where you needed it the most. he's somehow managed to park his own aching need, painfully bobbing against his own abdomen — with the intentional dragging out of your pleasure.

you wince when his gaze meets yours. they aren't unkind, but they're glazed with a new teasing glint you hadn't quite seen from clark yet.

"claaark…quit teasing…"

your sweet plea echoes in the room, and you feel a low, approving hum vibrate against your skin. as though he'd been waiting for you to get the taste of what you'd deprived him of. his mouth wraps around your pussy without further teasing. tongue flattened, pressing a firm and relentless pressure. your back arches off the bed, though restricted with a possessive hold pushing them back down onto the duvet.

"f-fuck! cla — hhrk. don't — stop!"

clark's palm slides up your belly, moving upward to cup your warm, sweat-slick breasts. he squeezes the softness as his tongue works your pussy. dipping in and out of your tight walls and up to your clit. his mouth was just so fucking big that it felt like he was everywhere around you.

helplessly, you buck into clark's mouth, rocking and grinding into the gentle curve of his nose. whimpering incoherently at the assault of his wet, insistent tongue curling to the roof of your cunt.

he knows when you're close. and he sucks your bud hard, the sound wet and obscene in the room, "a-ah fuck! gonna cum. g'na cum!"

clark's acknowledgment rumbles riiight against your clit. he feels the telltale sign of your orgasm as you pulse on his tongue. broken cries spill from your throat as you cum hard, thighs quivering with how clark refused to relent, drawing out every last drop of your slick until you're a trembling puddle beneath him, with an arm strewn over your eyes as you finally come down from the high.

the mattress dips at the shift of his weight, the shadow casting over you ominously just as you think it's over.

he looks to you, desperate and broken, unable to curb his own need. you feel him pry your arm away from your face, "gonna put it in okay? hm?"

you barely get to protest as he positions himself at your entrance. offering you enough time for refusal or hesitation. but the needy look of his gaze was enough for your body to act in compliance. you slide your palm past your navel, to the folds of your cunt, parting it wider for him to see the eager pulse.

a low broken groan rumbles in clark's throat at the sight, the quiet invitation being all he needed. he enters you in a deep thrust, accentuated with a jerk of his hips. you both gasp simultaneously, the overwhelming full feeling coming so soon after your earlier orgasm has you tightening deliciously around his cock.

"mmh…baby you need t'relax," he chokes, enforcing his iron will to make good on his unspoken promise to make sure you feel like he fucked you.

he wanted you to feel him even days after, and that determination was enough for him to keep a languid pace, designed to draw out your pleasure.

and god, it had. each stroke of his girthy cock in your walls, the creamy, slick that made it so much easier for him to fuck your pussy in shallow thrusts. the sounds alone were making your belly churn with need, let alone that sweet spot he hit over and over again.

your palms come up to rest at his abdomen, each thrust making you go dumb, incoherent babbles spilling from your lips. his body remains a fortress. the muscles in his arms tensed and reddened, back rigid and strained with every fiber of him taut.

"s'too…much!" you squeak, weakly pawing at him, in attempt to push him.

clark catches your hands, lacing his own fingers with yours with a single palm, pinning them gently above your head with a pressure that offered you escape if you wished. he keeps at the pace, brows knit in focus.

"i-i can't anymore."

he merely tuts softly at your breathless whisper, clearly having lost all the fight from your earlier taunts. he sees the truth in your words, the trembling or your thighs and blissed out look in your eyes. but he shakes his head, voice low and equally pleading.

"yes…you can."

"claaaaark…" you whine softly as he guides your limp arms over his shoulders, cupping one of your palms flush against his fever-hot cheeks.

"i'm getting real…real close baby," his voice cracks for a second, "can you hold on? f'me?" through laboured pants, he continues grinding and circling his cock into your cunt.

you pulse around him with another, drawn out whine. dragging your nails down his damp, strained biceps. when you offer a weak nod, the bed creaks louder. whispered curses were quickly swallowed when he shifts his angle a tad, hitting a spot in you that made your vision blur.

"fuck! t-there", you gasp sharply, fingers digging into his muscles. you nod hastily, unsure at even what — the insistent probe of his cock in that gummy spot deep within you sent shockwaves through your entire body. pushing you into another, white hot peak. the bed frames only continue scream louder under the relentless motion he keeps up.

"here?" he pants, gaze unfocused as he tilts his body to support his weight, with his forearm against the duvet to keep the angle.

"FUCK, yes! there, there — th—ah!"

your pussy gushes around him with no further warning, fluttering hard along his length as you cum again. a ragged grunt resonates against the side of your head, followed by clark's growls. his hips bucks wildly, body shuddering as he coats your insides deep with spurts of his thick spend.

the force of his very last thrust elicits a screeching crack of the bed frames, and you both drop hard.

the two of you briefly look at each other in a bewildered surprise and synchronised breathing, and you finally break the intense haze.

"shit." you croak, voice hoarse in its delivery.

clark lets out a huff, rolling to his side and taking you with him so you're nestled against his chest instead of being crushed beneath him as he slump.

Soft whimpers are heard throughout the small, luxurious apartment that sits in downtown Miami, the heat steaming up against the walls, leaving some sweat residue.

Underneath the ceiling fan blowing down coolness was you, drunk off your mind after another date that began with you being stood up, coming home and drinking a full bottle of wine before calling up someone you shouldn’t be bothering or you’ll regret it in the morning.

You keep on making incoherent sexual noises only you and the person you’re currently bouncing up and down on can hear.

Except this person was your Terrance.

Your fine ass space agent roommate who’s fat dick is poking against all of your sweet spots you can’t even reach with your own hands, fucking you like he finally getting a taste after a long wait.

Well. It was considering you and him been on and off for a couple years now, breaking up over your unsettled stance on wanting to travel with him as he did his assignments for his job while you worked yours or you moving to a different country for it, which he hated.

“What did I tell you, hm?” he asked in his deep British accent before slapping your ass, hearing your moan loudly.

“I. Should. Stop. Seeking. Out. When. I. Still. Got. You!” you cried out harshly, each word coming out as you thrust your hips down to his.

He growled before placing a sloppy kiss on your lips, hooking his arms under your legs before standing up carefully, lifting you with him.

He begins bouncing you up and down on his dick at a snappily pace, consistently hitting a sweet spot near your cervix, with you moaning his name out seductively.

“That’s right. You better say my name.” he mumbled, groaning at how quick you clench and unclench around him, missing that feeling.

You laughed quietly, but is cut off when you can feel your release approaching once again, burying your face into his neck.

“Hey!” as Terrance slapped your ass, making you look up all wide eye.

“Look at me while I’m fucking you through it.” he ordered, watching you nodded profusely as he slammed hard into you, signaling his release was coming.

“Oh my god…..” you cried out drunkenly, trying to push yourself off.

“It’s too much….you got too much dick!” you uttered, but he laughs, laying your body against the edge corner of the couch.

“You’re a big girl, you can take all of me.” he replied before speeding up his brutal strokes, watching you tremble underneath him.

“You owe me for making me leaving my assignment during work hours, knowing this.” he said, licking up your neck, which almost took you out.

You groaned loudly, feeling his hand slowly wrap around your neck, squeezing it a bit.

He was right since he was still in his polo dress shirt, but everything else? Gone, including your own clothes.

“Say you’re sorry.” he ordered, deepening his dick inside more, slowing down a bit.

“I’m sorry.” you said quietly, your release itching near.

His hand squeezed tighter, making you gasp and throw your head back, whining at how even more good this is feeling.

“Use your big girl voice. And wisely.” he said before grinding his hips into your pussy, hearing its wetness squelching loudly.

“I’m sorry for making you leave your job because of my neediness!” you cried out, almost wanting to rub your clit.

Terrance laughed darkly, kissing all over your face before lifting himself up, still pounding into you and moaning from it.

Both of you are sweaty and fighting against your nuts, not sure who’s gonna break first.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” he said in an exhausted voice, letting your neck go.

“Me too.” you uttered, twisting your nipples.

“Uh uh.” as he pushed in at a slight angle.

“You can’t cum until you say nobody, and I mean nobody, is allowed to fuck you like how I fuck you.” he said, eyeing you down.

“Terrance, please….I need to cum bad.” you whined, trailing your hand to your clit.

However, he’s quick to stop it, bringing it to his lips and sucking on your wrist, hearing you whine even more, beginning to slowly pass out.

“Holy shit…” you breathed out, your breathing slightly harsh.

“Come on.” he said, his mouth twitching as he can feel you clenching around him.

“I know you want to say it with that nasty voice of yours. You was talking filthy all over the call and shit.” he said lustfully, dragging his hot tongue over your hand.

You sucked your teeth loudly, feeling like your body is going to exploded if you don’t give in.

So you do.

“This pussy is yours, Terrance!” you breathed out, your legs tightening.

“Nobody else is allowed inside this but you and that fat ass dick of yours!” you added, tears pouring of your eyes.

He nods hungrily, licking his lips as he threw his head back, moaning sinfully as he speeds up his strokes, both of your moans mixing in.

“Alright. Cum for me” he said, slamming in one more time.

On cue, you cum hard on his dick, your essence spraying out, creating a tsunami under you and between y’all as your weak, erotic cries fill up the room, your body shaking a bit.

He cums really hard into your pussy, his hot seed flowing in like he’s been holding back from release all day, feeling very hot and sticky against his strained groans, squeezing the pillow next to you.

He collapses on top of you, nestling his head between your breasts before slowly falling asleep, breathing softly.

“You’re mine again…” is the last thing he says before falling asleep, his snores following.

You smile softly, rubbing his back in agreement before you fall asleep, exhausted from yet another session of him tearing up your walls.

A/N II: This was a surprise, to be quite honest. But I hope everyone enjoyed it just as much as I did, spending an hour writing this.

And the thing is—it's not just during sex anymore. That's what really gets you. The kink bleeds outward, seeping into the cracks of your everyday life until you're starving for it in the most mundane moments. Izuku notices. Of course he does.

You're doing dishes and he brushes past you, hand ghosting over your hip, lips pressing a distracted kiss to your temple: "Good girl." Your knees nearly buckle. You're folding laundry on the couch and he glances over from his lesson plans, smiling soft and warm: "You're so perfect, you know that?" Your stomach flips. You're walking to the train after a long day and he laces his fingers through yours, squeezing gently: "So proud of you. You worked so hard today." Your chest goes tight and achy and you have to look away because you're not sure you won't cry over something so small and simple.

But it's not small. Not to you. Because praise from Izuku doesn't feel like empty flattery—it feels earned. It's not performative or patronizing. It's careful. Deliberate. Intimate. Like he's cataloging your worth and reading it back to you so you never forget it. And God, does that do something to you. Makes you softer. Pliant. Willing. Makes you want to be good—not just in bed, but always—just to hear him say it.

What you don't fully realize is what it does to him, too.

Because Izuku's praise kink isn't one-sided. It never was. He just didn't know it until you came along and showed him. He's spent his whole life being the one seeking validation—chasing acknowledgment, working himself ragged for a nod, a pat on the back, a simple I see you. Praise was always something he needed and rarely got. So when you give it to him—freely, eagerly, without him having to earn it through blood and broken bones—it breaks something open in his chest.

The first time you whisper "You feel so good, Izuku" against his mouth, his hips stutter. His breath catches. His eyes go wide and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache. He doesn't just want to hear it—he needs to hear it. Needs to know he's making you feel good. Needs to know he's enough. That he's doing it right. That he's yours and you're proud of it.

So it becomes a feedback loop. A symbiotic thing. He praises you because he means it, because he's obsessed with you, because watching you light up under his words makes him feel like the most powerful man alive. And you praise him right back because you need him to know—need him to feel it in his bones the way you feel it when he says "my good girl." You tell him he's incredible. You tell him he's the best you've ever had. You tell him nobody else could ever make you feel this way. And each time, his rhythm falters, his grip tightens, and he fucks into you harder—like your words are fuel he didn't know he was running on.

Once Izuku realizes this—and it takes the former top hero's analyst brain about five seconds flat—he uses it to absolutely ruin you.

He becomes a relentless, sweet-talking menace. He pins your wrists above your head with one scarred hand, his green eyes blown wide and dark as he watches you fall apart beneath him. He doesn't just fuck you—he dismantles you piece by piece, reading every micro-expression on your face like a textbook he's studied a thousand times. He knows exactly when to snap his hips harder, when to slow to a torturous grind, when to lean down and drag his tongue over your nipple just to feel you jolt beneath him.

"Look at you," he groans, his thrusts slowing to a teasing, agonizing rhythm just to hear you whimper. The wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding in and out of you fills the room—slick and heavy and unmistakable. "Taking me so perfectly. My good girl, right? You're my good girl?"

The phrase "good girl" melting from his lips is your absolute undoing. It rips through you like lightning, straight down your spine, pooling low and molten in your belly. Your thighs tremble around his waist, your back arches off the mattress, and you squeeze around him so hard he hisses through his teeth, his composure cracking for just a second before he reclaims it. You're desperate—chasing that sweet, sweet validation, canting your hips up to meet his, needing him deeper, harder, more.

Izuku's free hand slides down your side, gripping the soft flesh of your thigh and hitching it higher over his hip. The angle shifts—deep enough that you feel him in your stomach, pressing against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. His pace turns punishing, deliberate, each thrust grinding against your sweet spot until your mind goes hazy and blank, nothing left but the sound of his voice and the relentless stretch of him inside you.

"Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel. You can do it... that's it, that's my girl."

And you do. You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you so hard your vision whites out, your whole body locking up beneath him as you pulse and clench around his cock in desperate, fluttering waves. You sob his name—broken, ruined, pathetic—and he fucks you right through it, groaning low and deep as he follows you over the edge, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot inside you, his scarred hand finally releasing your wrists to cradle your head instead.

By the time you're done, you're a trembling, overstimulated mess—still twitching around him, tears drying on your cheeks, completely addicted to the sound of his voice. And Izuku? He's just smiling softly, pressing sweet kisses to your sweaty forehead, pulling you flush against his chest while his cock still twitches inside you, already cataloging exactly which praises made you scream the loudest for next time.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

⊹₊⋆ likes, reblogs, replies, and follows are appreciated!

⊹₊⋆ if it could help me write better, please don't be shy to let me know!

⊹₊⋆ requests are open for now!

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