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moonacrefarm · 3 months ago

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DOUBLE RAPTURE

MIGUEL O'HARA x F!READER x ALT! MIGUEL

「 Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other repeatedly. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – stuck between two men who don’t look, but are, each other – nothing can tamp your flame. 」

summary: after apprehending an anomaly who turns out to be an alternate version of your husband, you indulge in your filthiest fantasy.

explicit (18+) | 6.3k words | part two warnings: pure smut, pwp, THREESOME, cunnilingus, squirting, throat-fucking, blowjobs, unprotected p-in-v, anal, double penetration, tummy/throat bulge, younger miguel is submissive, spitting, cum swallowing, hair pulling, mild degradation, possessiveness, tooth-rotting fluff, every kink under the moon tbh

In truth, it comes naturally.

Your Miguel – older, blunt around once serrated edges, wisps of grey streaking dark tresses – sits to the side. He fosters a tumbler in one grip, half-full with amber liquid. Scotch whiskey, neat; you’d poured the drink to give yourself something to do while waiting. It’ll help, you insisted. An outlet to sip on, or a loud-enough warning when set on the adjacent tea table.

Now, you see that it was more for your sake than his.

He’s entirely collected for someone watching another man’s hands run along his wife’s body. They pushed your shirt off a while ago, hurried to behold your covered form. You’re laying in your bra, breasts heaving while kisses trail down your stomach, nipping the sensitive skin there – and still, all you can focus on is him. Your Miguel, scrutinising the rush the man is in with disapproval glimmering on carmine eyes. If this whole thing hadn’t been his suggestion, you would’ve sworn the look was meant to kill.

Because he likes to take his time with you. It hasn’t always been that way. Ages ago, following your premiere date, you fucked for the first time in a motel he rented, both your apartments’ farther than he would’ve liked to drive. But, again, he’s older now. Seasoned. There’s a heavy ring decorating your finger that winks reassuringly at him, three carats for the three year anniversary he proposed on. It amplifies the truth each hour you wear it – he is yours, you are his, and you’ve all the time in the world to do with each other as you please.

Your third for the night is unfamiliar with the dynamic.

(Though of course, it makes sense for him to be.)

You have to remind yourself of the fluid lines that mark each component of this little fantasy. They waver and wobble, bleeding into one another sometimes like wet ink on parchment. It’s hard to decipher the words they spell out when trapped in thick, indulgent lust – your legs spread to allow the man room as he moves down your body. But it’s even harder to ignore the way your skin burns with the intensity of your husband’s careful contemplation. It singes, redefining those exact perimeters for you:

One, and the most important given your suggestion, is that this will never leave your room. It’s not distrust that keeps it rigid – rather, a shared concern for the integrity of the multiverse. Your Miguel is all too aware of the dire consequences it could face should the rule be broken. You are too. It only narrows down to the partner occupying your bed and his naivete to it all.

Two; to use the safewords established beforehand. You’re infamous for losing yourself to pleasure, the habit bordering on a dangerous degree. It’s why Miguel is watching, to ensure things start correctly. He’s piqued and ready to stop it should the man not understand your limits.

(However unlikely. Currently, you’re the one establishing them.)

The third – the one you have a particularly complicated time grasping – is that ‘the man’ in question is no stranger at all. In fact, it’s instinct to touch him in the same way you’re used to, your mind adequately fooled everytime you look at him. A full head of brown hair – albeit, cropped shorter than your voyeur’s, a fade in at his ears. Young skin, which you strain to notice is devoid of the crows’ feet you adore. Yes, he’s smoother, like time had taken sandpaper to your model and buffed out all his worn edges, but he’s still…

Miguel.

(Though he urged you to call him Mig, entirely oblivious to the subtle cringe that’d crossed your husbands expression. That nickname is one you hardly resort to. He’s revealed a hatred for it.

Another cue, then, that they are not one in the same).

So, it comes naturally because you’ve spent so long in this exact space. Dusk flooding your home in plum hues, the colour of a berry ripe with rot. Overhead lights off, golden lamps projecting sensual shadows on white sheets. Your face warm with alcohol and your panties pushed to the side by a hero named O’Hara, whose palms are large and dry but a burning furnace on gooseflesh.

The younger one, Mig, is not yet a hardened vigilante. He’s new to the game – DNA spliced with spider essence only seven months ago. In that time, he worked out his own method of inter-dimensional travel, tortured genius that he is. Hopped between worlds until, eventually, he blipped on your radar. You’d been sent to process the anomaly whose personhood you were unaware of, only to come face to face with a twenty-something version of your beloved.

There’s no room for bias in the delicate scale of the universe. He’d found himself locked with other transgressors of his pedigree. Miguel – yours – was vehemently opposed to the notion of him joining spider society, uncomfortably affluent in his past recklessness. He knows, better than everyone else; it’s a security risk, letting in a spider-man so inexperienced.

You think that it’s projection. That, and a recognition of the way his mirror couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you.

(A flattering notion for all you refused to believe it. You’re about ten years his senior – surely, he’d have better prospects on his Earth. But you asked, perhaps to hearten any overprotectiveness that could manifest itself as risk.

Something wrong, Mig?

He only looked at you behind the red laser field entrapping him, a small smile on his face. No. Nothing. You’re just different back home.)

That was before. Before he embodied the exact enthusiasm Miguel had been afraid of, spearing your cunt with his tongue, his scalp no doubt aching under your relentless hold. He hums his encouragement despite it, begging you to direct him the way you please. At least he acknowledges his cluelessness – you can almost hear from the other side of the bedroom, acumen pulsing amidst heady air. Most men wouldn’t, their egos great fragile beasts. To have gotten around before might embellish their history with competent, but no one’s ever truly an expert on someone new.

Mig doesn’t pretend otherwise. He’s keen to learn.

That is the difference that encouraged this whole tryst.

“Unfurl your tongue, Mig. You’re focusing too much on– Oh.” Your hips buck, shoving closer to the mouth that does just as you say. He laps your heated core with spittle-drenched dexterity, combing between puffy lips. “That’s it. F-fuck… Just. Just don’t stop.”

The praise does well for him. He looks up at you, reverent – pupils not red, but black with the shadows his long lashes cast. You brush back locks that fall upon his forehead, affording him a better view of the effects he’s wrought. A thin layer of sweat clings to your flesh, gleaming with the fading sun outside. In your peripheral – framed gorgeously by the wall-wide window – it dips below the horizon, nebulous. Blurry on orange clouds.

Pinned under observation and a feverish assault, you feel much the same. Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other with novel speed. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – bouncing between two men who don’t look like, but are, each other – the feeding of the flame goes untamed.

You find that’s the cause for it. There’s nothing to cling onto for purchase, the one anchor in this equation seated on his leather armchair, ankle on knee, content in watching you soar to uncharted skies on the chin of another. Your head flops uselessly to the side, scanning him once more.

There’s a tricky look to him, suspended on two lines of equal measure. You can tell he wants to join, to take control of the exploit and direct it how he sees fit. Perhaps it’s regret. Yet the pronounced mass in his trousers speaks to the contrary. Miguel palms it, testing his endurance by keeping his touch above cloth, rounding back once his heel presses its end. The sight catalyses your delirium; the knowledge that he, your dedicated husband, is tender with rushed blood and idle about it. Waiting for an opportune moment.

When you reach out an arm in his direction, you hope he takes it as one. Mig sucks your weeping cunt in a symphony of lewd noises, as though he’s trying to push the grace he’s been granting. Slurp. Tracing the perimeter of your slit, revelling in the way it clicks at his ministrations. Squelch. Nose driving into your clit, so hard you suspect he’s trying to bury himself there.

It only calls to your lips, how dry they feel. You’re parched of the one thing he chose to forgo, marking it as off-limits based on some arbitrary ideal. You don’t assume you understand it, instead wiggling your fingers – come here – at your husband. He skips over the grabby hands, devouring your bitten pout and droopy lashes, weighing them in his head.

“Mi vida.” You plea, voice pitched high and winded. The glass’s bottom glints with the last swill of his drink. He knocks it back before rising – sweeping towards you, tantalisingly slow.

Mig shoves your knees higher, practically folding you in half. Your hamstrings stretch with the motions, sending molten spasms to your core – that which he continues to eat out. He’s now doubtlessly coated with your juices, but he doesn’t relent, tracing messy patterns on the sweet spot he managed to pinpoint without your help. You’re reduced to a sore bruise, egged on with every poke and prod. Pleasure swells with blood, clogging burst capillaries. Delicate. Inflamed; deliciously so. You give him a validating pat on the head while a free hand wraps around your Miguel, ironing his waist as he ducks down to your lips.

All three of you are on the bed now. You can’t begin to process the depravity of it all, the way things suddenly become hot and bursting and real. No – you’re much too enthralled by the rough kiss you’re pulled into. It’s dominating and tastes like smoked oak. Honey and faint vanilla where his tongue traces your fauces. The flavours batters you into something vapid, stupid, until the older man has to cup the back of your neck to keep you from sinking.

Intoxicated – you thought you’d be familiar with it by now, how wholly he consumes you, but there’s a power imbued in his approach that has you struggling to keep up. It’s all you can do to keep moving your mouth against his, gathering the material of his shirt to pinion yourself.

He’s got a stubble that colours his jaw in grey, the stalks of it grazing your nose and flaying you raw. It leaves you feeling sunburnt, dazed yet still pushing forward, like the balm for relief can be found at the back of his throat. That’s something else, you note, flicking your observation over to the face between your thighs. Mig keeps himself clean shaven, a youthful shine to his complexion, no peppered hair to obstruct it. Without it, you can clearly see the way his high cheekbones curve inward, hollowing out as they lead down to a pronounced chin. Charming, especially as it shoves between the globes of your ass to make room for his continued efforts.

You’re close, so close. A dam about to burst with centuries worth of water and–

“Need help, corazón?” Miguel whispers, nudging your nose so you can look back at him. Your response comes in the form of a stuffy whimper, nodding minutely. What exactly he means by help, you’re not sure, but his double seems to understand, breaking the smallest bit away to whine a protest.

“That’s offens–”

“Get back to licking her cunt before I change my mind about you being here.” Your husband orders, glowering when the reprimand seems to create the opposite of its intended effect. Mig grins wickedly, a cocky aura about him as he obeys. Just as he’s about to make contact again, his gaze catches yours. The subsequent wink he gives is a warning – loud and bleary and smug – preparing you for when he dives back in with a vengeance, plunging into your hole with that cursed muscle that runs like velvet.

The air pinches from your lungs, squealing on its way out. Your toes curl and your muscles tense and then Miguel directs your face back down with thick fingers, steering you by your cheeks. Your lips pucker, mouth unhinging at the silent command the action echoes. Tongue flattening, you prepare yourself for the little dance you’ve trekked a hundred times before – thankful, in some part, that he’s doing it to ground you.

When he spits – hawking, a dense glob concentrated with scotch – onto an expectant palette, you suppress the devilish narrowing of your eyes. It’s almost habit to reflect his countenance, looking down with fondness and pride at the control you exhibit. Because you don’t swallow, not immediately. You wait for him to kiss you again, to gather the slaver and push it behind your molars with reinforced passion. And he does. Of course he does – that and so much more as he places claim to the hole that is solely his for tonight. You hardly notice when his clutch leaves you, skimming down to unclasp your bra.

Not when your breasts jerk free, nipples pocking at the shift in temperature.

Not as he squeezes each, tugging at their peaks until they’re fully erect.

Or even while he tickles the line of your abdomen, following the same path his counterpart did, smoothing over aggressive bite marks.

It’s only when you break away for great, gluttonous breaths of air – your vision blurring with hypoxia – and Miguel reaches two digits to your fattened clit, do you finally run up to speed. It’s a little too late, though, because he presses down and escalates your delight to unprecedented heights. Enough to see stars – enough to scream the loudest you have in a long while, so that all your appeals are fully unintelligible but available for the world to hear.

“FUCK! Oh my– Fuck, s-shit, shit…” You cry, tears finally breaking the tension at your waterline and running in an unending sequence. “B-both of y-yo– Ah! So good. I’m–”

Mig moans, sending vibrations right to the tightening ball of pressure in your gut. He’s snowballed his efforts, drinking you in with a sincerity. Specifically targeted is the spongy wall of tissue on the upside of your mound, suffering his battery and singing for it. String-plucked and pedal-pressed symphonies, composing a viscosity within you that sloshes behind your orgasm. Yes, he adds to it, but the fingertips rubbing you with bullish ferocity are going to break what’s holding it all back. You feel– know it.

Using your hair to hold your head in place, Miguel utters a string of debauched nothings onto your lower lip, face pressed close to yours. They’re quiet enough that even you have trouble catching them, your ears ringing with rising alarm. But you sense the way his breath blows, what shapes it creates, how it twines – and that fills in every gap for you. The intimacy manages to speak to the truth, despite all the degrading dirty talk.

“You like that, you filthy fucking thing?” Groaning, your husband increases his speed, goading you faster. There are crushing hands on your hips, and another wound into your scalp, pulling it taut. “So insatiable that you need two men to help make you cum, huh? Do you think you can?”

“Yes, yes, yes please. Please,” The very implication that he might stop before you do inspires unruly desperation. Your hips, arms, head – they all thrash in unison. “I wanna– I want to cum, Miguel, for the love of everything! Please!”

He slaps your clit in warning. The blow sends you reeling into a hush, so much so that you stop moving immediately, secretly wishing he’d do it again. To divert your energy, you stare right into his pupils, which shine with burgeoning playfulness. “You will, dirty girl. You’ll wish you didn’t though.”

“W–”

“Oye, wide eyes.” He turns to Mig, who's been curiously watching the display, jaw still moving against you. He unhooks under the attention, blinking rapidly. “Mouth wide open. You’ll want to catch every drop.”

He returns to strokes you in circles – furious, fervent. It’s a screw to the cork, twisting forcefully to combat the tension it’s working to release. You squeal, screech, do just about anything except contract your body like you’re compelled to do. You leave yourself loose, watching as Mig registers what’s about to happen, following orders and transforming into a receptacle for it. His fangs peak from behind swollen lips.

All you’re able to think about, plastered to this pane of double rapture, is how they don’t seem to retract. Permanent, unlike your Miguel – a fixture in his gums.

And then the dam shatters. Implodes, actually – collapsing into itself until it’s a small particle floating out with the deluge. You can hear it, the rush of fluid squirting from you. Consistently, pouring into the puddle the younger man happily gathers. He beams with satisfaction and looks so much like your husband, who does the same, brushing tears off your wrecked face.

With a core still convulsing, caught in the reverberant throes of pleasure, you’re mentally spent. Drained for every dime you’re worth and still wholly aware of the promise he made, flipping it over in your head. Again, and again, until it loses impact and dissolves from the impending future. For all you try, though, he holds power over you – even in memory.

You’ll wish you didn’t.

Mig sits up, crouched on his haunches. Chest bare of everything – including the curls that span your husbands’ – and in just his boxers, you can’t help but focus on either one of two things. His maw, pulled in a downward smile and soaked with clear slick, a concoction of saliva and your fluid dripping from where his canines poke out. But you find that it fills you with unwieldy humiliation to behold, so you fall onto the next.

Which just so happens to be his erection, trapped and throbbing from behind navy cotton confines. The head of it peaks above his waistband, purple and dribbling with pre-spend. It’s created a wet spot that grows larger by the second, and your humility is replaced by guilt for the poor thing.

Miguel, cooing in faux sympathy, swoops to caress the shell of your ear with his sinful proposal.

“What do you say, cariño? Want us to fuck you silly?”

Your hole squeezes around nothing, empty, speaking with a will of its own. He hears it, because of course he does – he’s in tune with everything about you – and manoeuvres you onto your stomach. By mere muscle memory alone, you get on wobbly knees, presenting your rear to the ecstatic man behind you.

And, your husband… Well–

He squeezes between your face and the headboard, tree-trunk thighs stretching out on either side of you. There’s a huge wedge in his pants, not at full size yet but stiff regardless, suffocated by time and space. Your mouth waters, appetite returning far too rapidly for how distant it seemed mere seconds ago.

“Beautiful, hermosa.” Mig groans, spreading your ass to get a proper view of the way your pussy drips for him. A quick glance back provides you with a lovely picture. Him, positively captivated with your holes – both of them, it appears, based on the way his thumb grazes over your tighter clench. “Can’t wait to feel you on me.”

His cock is out, too, briefs shoved under the sack at the end of his length. You take it all in like it’s the first time – despite the many traits he shares with Miguel. Fat, darker than the rest of him that gleams bronze even at night. Though rooted on a crop of tangled hair, whereas his alternate self prefers it trimmed short. When he strokes himself, anticipative, you note the mushroomed head. Circumcised.

An impish idea suddenly crosses your mind. Succumbing to it, you arch your back, knocking your behind on him. The action traps the appendage between you and his pelvis, and to add insult to injury, you wiggle around until it slots between your cheeks. Mig’s face screws up, close-knit, his hands scrambling for purchase on your rolling hips.

Something slaps your cheek. Grinning, you turn back to Miguel, his dick now extricated from its prison. The heft of it sways, tapping your nose and fluttering eyelids, so damn heavy that you cringe when it approaches. Two veins pop up from the smooth skin stretched along him, branching down to his frenulum, the spot you choose to start.

Your tongue runs along it, lathering the plump seams on your journey to the top. His nerve endings are mainly reduced to his head – unlike Mig, who’s still moaning as you grind across his length – so you stay there, particularly concentrated on the edge and the valley it creates. Your temples warm with the gentle cradle of two large hands, piloting you on your trip around his cock.

He smells like home – an ambrosial mix of leather and sweat, the backseat of his car where he fucked you on valentines. It’d been raining, windows made misty by passing fog, city colours painted on the grey wash. You’d teased him all day with a lack of panties and suffered for it, practically choked on pleasure, nothing on but a new pendant necklace.

Right now, you’re stuck in a parallel state. You can’t breath under the leaden attention of both him and his mirror, doing your best to keep sucking and grinding regardless of your dwindling strength. It’s difficult, difficult to divide yourself and satisfy them both, but fuck do you want to. More than anything, you’d kill to see them come undone in your holes – simultaneously, in some unlikely reverie. Pumped full of cum and praise by double the man you love most. Your tummy lurches with nauseous desire, teeth separating as you take Miguel into your mouth.

Peering up at him, if only to experience the way he loses control. But creases fold between his brow, reading your expression just as well. Without rush or need for brawn, he pulls the responsibility from under you, assigning it to himself by propelling into your trap, all in one go. He grates along the texture of your palette, cleaving your tonsils, and finally settling deep in your throat, triggering a series of ugly gags. To quiet down, you grip your thumb in a fist, focusing not on your lack of air but on contracting your throat around his tip.

“Are you going to fuck her or continue to rut like a dog in heat?” Your husband bites at Mig, ever self-critical. The latter man sucks in a challenging huff, patting your waist as he withdraws to centre his cock between your folds. He wags it until it catches on the divet of your cunt, hot and surging with natural slick.

Then, just when you think you can’t bear it any longer, he pushes in.

“Ghmmngf!” You cry, forced forward onto Miguel’s breadth, coughing out the saliva and pre-spend that threaten to smother you. Nose smooshing to his groyne as the other bottoms out, sheathed fully within you. You swear you can feel him in your guts, silently praising whatever taught him how to make most of your narrow space.

Like they’ve practised telepathy their whole life, both men dip to feel themselves through your body. Mig presses a sturdy hand to your stomach, positioned right at your mound where he protrudes outwards, admiring the visible bulge he creates in you. Similarly, his older counterpart cradles your neck, pinching the sides that expand and retract with the pistoning of his hips. He fucks your gullet slow, fast, and back to slow again – amused with the pace he can discern in more ways than one.

If your eyes hadn’t been rolled to the back of your head, you’d be blinded instead by a pool of blissful tears. They bubble up uncontrollably, wetting the cheeks already glazed with almost every other bodily fluid. You’re ravished, cock dumb times two. Your cunt is stretched to its limits, sucking your paramour in with vacuum-like violence, the gravity of it equatable to the sun.

Or, no–

Not the sun.

Something a hundred times larger, nearing the end of its life. With every rock of your body, it runs out of hydrogen, draining the last dregs of fuel before eventually caving in on itself, transforming into an infinitely dense mass. It happens in your core, Mig’s bruising pace only exacerbating the strain, contracting smaller and smaller. Boundlessly so, enough to brush off as you snake a hand down to your clit, tapping the sensitive bud, testing its reactivity.

When you flick it, though, you’re drawn back into the dip of spacetime. It’s inescapable, the one fixed point in all this mess, imminent for all your ragdoll self tries to delay it. The room pounds with sex, the scent of it accompanying every particle, reducing air to balmy filth that acts as a catalyst in your undoing.

Impossible. You know it’s impossible to acquaint yourself with the sensation of being filled on both ends. Despite it, you try. You claw onto what little authority you have, pushing past your clit to graze your nails on a pair of swinging balls. They’re full and drooping, slapping your thighs as their owner humps your cunt.

“Keep doing that. Fuck, fuc– mierda, feels so good. Yersotight. Soft. Soft and… ah, small.” Mig babbles, bowing over your form to kiss the dip between your shoulder blades. Your teeth graze the cock ramming your craw, an unconscious tick that has your husband tugging your hair in admonishment. “Hermosa– s’okay if I? Gonna… gonna cum.”

“Mmnmgh–”

“Not so fast.” Miguel says, tugging you off him at once. It causes the both of you teetering over the edge, to groan, something overtaking all executive functions and compelling you to listen. The lull finds Mig slipping out, unable to hold himself back should he spend another moment filling your pussy.

You’re carried upward, manhandled off elbows and knees, to straddle your husband’s lap, facing a wide chest with pecs as comforting as pillows. When did he take off his shirt? Your vision swims, crossing, oscillating with the unexpected motion – until, well, it doesn’t, stopping as your forehead finds solace on the dip beneath Miguel’s clavicle. It’s a reassuring change, your brain rewiring into safety mode given the fact that, when you cum again – however overstimulating – you’ll be within the arms that have always expertly navigated it before.

And he’s warm, an ever-raging bonfire that licks your breasts and pebbled nipples, heat penetrating your bones to seep into your heart. Your marrow follows soon after, melting into a potion of desire and relief, especially when his far more familiar cock replaces the void left by Mig.

“Wide eyes.” The older one calls.

“Did–” Said man stutters, shuffling closer. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, pretty.”

“Hngh… ‘Course n-not, Miggy. We’ve safeee– words, rmmbr?” You grunt, reaching a hand behind you to hold onto his bigger one, squeezing it for added reassurance. “My ass, tho-eahh. Please.”

“You’re– You’re being for real. Seriously?” He asks, rising hope evident in his tone. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Of course she has.” Miguel interrupts, rolling his hips instead of bouncing your tired body on him. “First drawer on your right.”

You laugh when the mattress wobbles, sheets tangling beneath his hurried scramble. The bottle of lube is almost empty, bought spontaneously during your honeymoon to Cabo. Your then newly-wed wanted to indulge your fantasy of anal on the beach, tucked away on a private cove he’d found just for the occasion. It’s been a vice ever since, just like all things with him. You’re addicted to the man, flat-out, scratching to get your fix whenever possible. However possible.

And, of course – due to a devastating soft spot that makes it hard for him to begrudge you anything – you now have two.

Mig spurts a substantial amount onto his hand, rubbing it on his dick and the ring of muscle it faces. Two digits thrust into you, exploring your elasticity, scissoring to make room for a much larger insertion. The man seated balls deep in your cunt kneads your flesh; obsessed with the chub around your waist, thighs, your cheeks especially, pulling them apart to make this whole ordeal easier.

Not that you necessarily need it, being used to it by now – though you preen under the attentiveness regardless. Your ego is a drowsy cat, tucked under a patch of sunlight, purring as its heavily pet all over. Muscles lax, borderline liquid as you moan with the training your rear clench receives. More lube is added when the previous pour dries up, shoved into the spasming sphincter, accompanying every lewd ministration used to loosen it.

You gasp, loosening and wet. When fingers exchange for a dick that’s packed, solid as steel, Miguel captures you into another teeming kiss. It’s to occupy you through the temporary pain, you know, suckling your tongue into his mouth with a gentleness unbecoming of your current lechery. The pressure soon subsides, ebbing and waning to an easier to manage fullness.

Fuck. You’re plugged on both ends, twin lengths driving into you, stroking each other through the thin wall separating your rectum from your vagina. Initially, they keep the same pace, working in tandem to strike and pull out at similar times – but the task is demanding. It prevents them from fully forfeiting to euphoria. Their nature soon takes over, a novel motley of priorities wrenching you apart.

Miguel goes unrushed, sybaritic, fucking you in waves of doughy passion. He knocks against your g-spot, groaning at the way you flounder. The system unspools a little emotional well, tugging heartstrings until you bite his collar to quell your wails. He’s dedicated, a professional in the trade of you; his cielita – the term of endearment mumbled on your temple, lips pressed there in a perpetual kiss.

And Mig–

Bless him.

He’s unhinged, ravished by the feeling of your gummy walls flexing around him. Consistently refreshing the lube that makes it possible, petrified at the notion that this could perhaps stop, doing all he can to counter it. His method is rough, fast, pelvis smacking your plush behind – of which Miguel has long since let go of. There’s emotion in the way he behaves too; a wild, unspoken, behemoth thing, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. Not the anal, but you, specifically, panting in his embrace.

(‘You’re just different back home.’)

Your husband might’ve been too quick to judge. If what you suspect is true – which it likely is, an assumption based on an inextricable fondness you’d felt when you first saw the younger man, like you were made to love every version him, in every timeline – then his haste is not innocent clumsiness, but a more dangerous prospect. Desperation. Crestfallen, degenerate desperation. He hadn't the chance to feel any of you before tonight, for one melancholic reason or another.

“M’not… w-won’t last long, beautiful.” He whispers between pecks, peppering them across your nape.

“N-No, me neither.” Whimpering, you twist to scrutinise his tousled appearance. “Want you to cum in me. Fill me so I sp-spend days scooping you out. D-Don’t wanna fo… Need to remember this.”

“Fuck… you can’t talk like that and– and expect me not to embarrass m-myself.”

“Isn’t she something,” Miguel joins, smoothing the stray baby hairs away from your sticky forehead, callused fingers grazing deliciously across sweaty skin. It’s now that you choose to regard their voices, the subtle variations between the two. One deeper than the other – smoked with a prominent accent that jumps at the end of every syllable. “Filthy, dirty little girl. We could stay like this ‘till tomorrow and she’d have no problem. Would bounce on our cocks until she milks us dry.”

“Y’probably need it to keep you in shape– Hmnff!” Is how Mig strangles, cut off as you convulse around his thrusting length. The mass returns, settled in your cunt – a star verging on supernovae level catastrophe, about to implode while they participate in a literal dick measuring contest.

“Watch it, wide eyes.”

“Shuuu… shutup, shtp!” You keen, falling back on the chest of your paramour while Miguel fondles – slaps – your tits, mesmerised by the way they jiggle, your entire body jostled as their fat cocks jam you full.

“Is my girl going to cum?” One says. You can’t tell which, eyes squeezed shut, though you don’t think Mig would dare use that pronoun. My. Not in good conscience, not when he didn’t kiss you for fear that it’d be crossing a boundary.

“I swear I’ll burst if you squirt again.”

“Don’t expect too much from her in this state.” The trigger to it all, that aching bundle of nerves mashed against your husband’s pubes, starts buzzing with electric urgency. You brace yourself for the lightning, the shock. “Silly thing, can’t begin to form words let alone ideas. Look at me, corazón. What do we say?”

You don’t know. You can’t care. No flying fucks exist outside the devastating wreck that’s about to transform you, squalling loud and shrill from every organ that still retains its function. Heart fluttering like a baby bird’s wings. Lungs depressing into shrivelled cavities. Soreness gnaws on your cervix, abused by successive thrusts. Your bones feel like mush, macerated under mortar and pestle and dissolved in blood.

It’s coming, that celestial calamity.

Mig agrees, gasping. “I’m gonna–”

“Oye. What do we say?” Miguel exhorts, catching your glassy-eyed stare with his.

The former man barks your name, completely winded. Your asshole jerks on his cock, which twitches inside of you, ready to blow. Sopping with lube and pre-spend, spit and your own slick, you can’t control the syphoning noises your holes make, blubbering on the cocks that split you apart.

It’s then the words finally find you – manners that your husband insists on.

“Pleeaase.” You cry.

“Fuck!”

Thick spurts of fluid coat your insides, wrung from the man behind you. His cum is blistering, burning the thin layer between him and Miguel – who surprisingly, given the control he’s exhibited thus far, follows suit, pumping you full of his seed. Your womb and rectum, the puffy folds and rim that try to keep it all in – are all frosted with pearlescent spend. Heady and dripping, staining a depraved mess on every crevice between your legs. Gross globs of it caking you, your skin barely visible anymore.

The thought alone – of two men’s essence, beckoned and bled out by you, mixing something disgusting on your most intimate parts – is enough to kick you off the edge. Flailing off that cliff, plummeting into an outburst that lets nothing escape. Not smell, or taste, or light – spinning a black hole of groundbreaking proportions.

You orgasm, again and again – or maybe the whole thing is all just one prolonged, feral, exhausting endeavour. Cumming until your muscles physically give out, going paraplegic with the strain of constant contractions. You crumple, sandwiched between two sturdy chests, stuffed with cotton and sex and pure endorphins, flying with no sign of ever coming down.

A siren's song – sleep, calling to you from the depths of consciousness – almost pulls you under. That is, until your husband manoeuvres you onto your back again, spreading your legs in a near split to expose your sloppy holes to your paramour. His expression is doused with reverence. Supple, soft, the tiniest bit guilty at the sight of you, desecrated by their combined efforts.

“Well?” Miguel prods, fanning your leaking cunt and asshole out wider. “Are you waiting for her to absorb it all? Clean it up.”

And – for the last time that night – Mig does as he’s told, ducking to gather every last bit of proof with his tongue.

Much later, you watch him pull his shirt over his head, snuggled close to your husband. The sky has deepened to its darkest form – midnight, a gibbous moon cushioned amidst glimmering stars.

“Well, it’s been fun.” The man sighs, brushing imaginary lint off his abdomen. He winks at you before turning to leave, testing his luck now that it can’t backfire on him. “If you ever want to trade him in for a newer model, you know where to find me.”

Miguel just grumbles beneath you, displeasure rumbling the hollows of his hairy sternum. You, on the other hand, smile gently, giving the parting gift of your humour.

Only for something better to occur to you. When his grasp closes around your bedroom door knob, you call out – voice a faint, hoarse thing.

“Mig.” You say.

“Yeah?” He replies, blinking back at you.

“I think you should go for it.”

And all your mild musings are confirmed when he nods, sheepish, like a child caught with a fist in the cookie jar. It’s okay – you mouth, because you know. Whoever you are on his Earth, with whatever cosmic odds stacked against you, you’ll fall. If only because it’s Miguel. Mig. Your O’Hara – such truth woven into the fabric of every conceivable reality.

Your husband catches on quickly, patting your sleepy head. It’s the first time he talks to himself with a tone that isn’t condescending, laying a sentiment you recognise as meaning more to his younger counterpart than anything you could say. Perhaps because it’s kind, a bit of proper advice made mushy by an echoed devotion to you. Or, perhaps because he’s witnessed the evidence to it consistently, all night long. Wide eyes.

“It’ll be the best thing you’ll ever do for yourself.”

part two

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moonacrefarm · 3 months ago

Text

anticipating love

summary: waiting, expecting and safe.

contains: MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI, childhood friends to lovers to strangers, second-chance romance, angst, hurt/comfort, slight miscommunication, fluff, 18+ series, mentions of stalking, mentions of cancer, no mention of y/n, smut, cunnilingus, fingering, makeout sesh

authors note: this my first time officially writing smut vs a maladaptive day dream...i can only go up from here (I tell myself as i edited this chapter idk how many times) the smut was fun to write, i had to keep reminding myself to be a little shameless...enjoy!

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06. my love

Laughter bounced off the walls of the cabin, engulfing you and Bradley in a warm atmosphere. Minutes felt like seconds each time your cheeks flushed.

“I swear I know where I’m going!”

“By the looks of it, Penny will make it back before I do.”

“Hey, I’m doing pretty good for having not driven up and down these roads in a while.”

You paused, giving Bradley a small side-eye. He stiffened up and glanced at you anxiously.

“Did I say the wrong thing?” He inquired softly as if he was expecting a blow.

You’d given him plenty but the energy was light right now, your body feeling weightless. “Yes.”

He sighed, “I’m sorry Bugs I know I keep–”

“You literally learned how to drive on the I-5. You should know these roads like the back of your hand Bradshaw.” You laughed again, leaning on the window to get a better view of him. His shoulders relaxed, moving his neck side to side,“When I was like sixteen!” He said exasperatedly.

“Oh please at this point we’re gonna end up in Ramona if you take one more wrong turn.”

“We’re barely in La Jolla, shush.”

“That's the thing…WHY are we in La Jolla?” You huffed.

Penny nor your parent's house was far from North Island, both your father and your aunt preferred a shorter commute. Which for them, was Point Loma.

“Alright alright, you caught me.” He gave you a small lopsided grin, “You really don’t remember one of our favorite spots?”

Bradley had caught you off guard. In truth, you did forget. It’d been forever since you’d been near the West Field, let alone La Jolla Shores. When Bradley left, anything related to him was pushed into the corners of your mind. You watched as his smile faded, eyebrows creasing in the center.

“Oh my god, you forgot?”

“Can you blame me?” You exclaimed. “After you left anything related to you I just dumped in the back of my head refused, refusing to think of it again.” You put your face in your hands, ears burning from the heat of the embarrassment.

“Bugs you picked this spot out…” He trailed off, his laughter barely concealed.

“Don’t remind me!”

“I remember how proud you were to show me! Made me close my eyes so I wouldn’t know the way there.”

The spot in question was a little bit past the university, instead of turning onto one of the other main roads, you kept going past the golf course. You’d been hunting for small spots by the shores. You and Bradley grew up on the San Diego beaches, but La Jolla Shores was the last place you visited with Carole before she got bad. After that, you had no reason to be hunting for small nooks and crannies tucked between the cliffs.

Now that it had dawned on you where you were going, it surprised you. Bradley left San Diego scorned of everything it reminded him he lost.

You looked at him, really looked at him. His cheeks had shed their baby fat, his eyes were a little heavier, and his jaw stronger. The nose you used to outline is more sculpted. Time had worn his face and polished him into a man and you’d never truly noticed until this moment. When he left you there was still some plushy youth in cheeks and a chubbier smile.

You had no idea what he had been through in the years he was away.

“Look,” He pointed towards your side, “There’s the campus, we’re close by.”

Bradley kept pointing towards random things that served as memory markers, the gate that got you all the down the cliffs, the Scripps research building, some new ones you had no idea what they were.

The windy road was quiet save for the wind that got stronger as you got near the beach. The sand was beating against the windows and he double-checked every window was rolled up tight. Lowering down the music he turned to face you, fingers drumming his thighs.

Before he could get a word in, you unbuckled and climbed over the console into the back seat, stretching out. He raised an eyebrow at you.

“You’re not gonna join me, Bradshaw?”

“Am I allowed to?”

You cocked your head to the side, “Now that you ask…”

“Too late I’m already climbing over.”

You laughed as he lugged his body through the small space. Another reminder of just how much time had passed. He was bigger, all the training had beefed him up a bit, not that you were complaining. Not one bit.

He sat next to you with a huff, legs man spread and his hands hanging over his thighs as he took a deep breath. “You know this car is supposed to be roomy?”

“It was roomy when we were younger.” You smiled up at him, watching his neck turn a little redder.

“Yeah..yeah it was.” He trailed off, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.

“We were awful back then, getting into all sorts of…” He trailed off, “Mischief?”

He laughed in response, “I guess you could call it that.”

You leaned on his shoulder, legs tucked under you as you watched the waves sallow up the sand. Today must've been high tide since the water was near the edge, much closer than normal. Bradley leaned his cheek on your head, not moving closer, not pulling away, just leaning.

You both remained quiet for a couple of minutes. You slightly dozed off until he pushed a piece of hair out of your face. Grazing your cheek and pinching the top of your ear. You gave him a small glare.

“Hey, no sleeping on the job.” He said as he tapped the tip of your nose. You scrunched it at him.

He re-adjusted, leaning on the door and pulling you in so you laid between his legs. Bradley wasn’t as small as he used to be, keeping one leg straight across the back seat, and the other bent off the edge for balance, placing you right so you were laying back to his chest. You leaned your weight on him as he wrapped his arms around you, engulfing you in a bear hug. It wasn’t suffocating and you gripped his arms holding him back.

You let him hold you as long as he needed, hearing his deep breaths as if he was trying to memorize your scent, and his hands pressing into your shoulders to make sure you were still there with him.

“I missed you Bugs, more than words can describe.”

“I missed you too Bradshaw.” He loosened his grip, using his hands to caress your cheek and your jaw, moving up your nose and to your eyebrows. Outlining your face with his finger, as much as you wanted to let him continue, you also wanted to look at him.

You shifted away from the back of the seats and threw your legs over his bent one, feet just reaching the console. You were practically sitting in his lap, save for the fact he was splayed out semi-starfish, using the door to keep him upright. You settled on top of his thighs and looked up.

He didn’t say anything and instead gently kissed your forehead. Holding himself there before moving down to your eyebrows, then each cheek and the tip of your nose.

“No kiss for me Bradshaw?” He huffed a little bit, you’d always been straightforward, to his demise or his benefit.

“Do you want a kiss Bugs?” You raised an eyebrow. “Question is Bradshaw, do you deserve a kiss?” He laughed his time, head on the window as you felt his body shake.

“Always turning the tables on me.”

“Hey,” you lifted in your arms in defense, “You always walk right into it.”

Nodding, he leaned forward once more, “Can I kiss you?” He asked.

This time you paused, “Please.”

Bradley didn’t hesitate before he slotted his lips against yours. Hands coming down to support your waist as you twisted to give him a better angle.

Your hands moved to cup the back of his neck and pull him closer, hands threading through his hair and tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth and you opened up to give him more access.

The taste of the mocktails he had been drinking gave a slight sweetness on his tongue. One of the hands moved between your shoulder blades to push you into him. You didn’t know how much closer you could get but you tried. You engulfed each other more and more after each moment that passed, feeling as if you could finally breathe.

Your mind was foggy by the time you guys pulled apart, he pulled you into him peppering more pecks all over your face. He couldn’t get enough of you.

Bradley had come to terms that he’d never see you again, and if he had, that you’d hate him. Seeing you now had resurfaced every urge he tamped down over the years, all the yearning that had followed him across the globe.

He could never outrun you. Every time he saw you, he clenched his fist to suppress the feeling, the need of wanting to hold you. He missed how you felt in his arms. Having you here now overwhelmed him, but he didn’t care. Not if it meant having you in his life again.

You took time recuperating, listening to the rise and fall of his chest. Feeling the electricity in your fingertips as you drew meaningless shapes on his forearm, tracing your way up and outlining every detail of his face, just as he had done to you. Feeling how angular he was now boiled up a little grief on the time you guys lost, but he was here, and he was real.

The silence broke when he started to rasp out the lyrics to Time After Time. A belly laugh breaking through your lips with his off-key singing.

“Now Bradley…I saw that little performance you did the other day, why am I getting the short end of the stick?”

This only prompted him to sing worse, pitching his voice high and squeaky during the second chorus. He held your cheeks as he sang to you, singing into them in a half peck until he pulled away to sing the high notes.

His voice became quieter in the last verse, his tone gentle and lulling you as you hummed along. He hadn’t taken his hands off of you, still caressing your cheeks in small circles. The moment felt familiar and the ache in your chest had turned into a warm glow that radiated through your body.

You stared at him for a moment longer, cutting him off with another kiss before he got the last lyric out. This one was much slower, controlled. The raw need had turned into something tender.

He took his time feeling you out, his tongue working yours as his hands traveled up and down your body. Hands teasingly drumming along the back of your ribs.

His touch was light as if his fingers were dancing across your skin. His other hand moved closer to your front, his thumb sliding under the sideband of your bra and caressing the tender skin. A small moan floated out of your throat. Too lost in what his hands were doing.

Bradley wasn’t timid, he was savoring every inch of skin he came across. “Bradley..” You groaned out, your own hands sliding down his chest.

He pulled away, looking at you with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Yes, Bugs?” He asked, kissing down your jaw and to the bottom of your ear. He licked and sucked his way down your collarbone, his hands still kneading your skin.

“Please..” You huffed out, “Please touch me.” Your voice had gone raw and breathy. Bradley's eye dilated. Taking in as much detail as he could in the low light. He complied with your request, the hand that was already under your bra pushing you up slightly to readjust you and sliding your bra up in one swift motion. You arched your back to give him more access.

Each movement you made had heat pooling down his body, his breath scalding as he took your nipple in his mouth. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was teasing you, but you did. You knew Bradley.

He loved pleasing, but just as much as he was a giver he was selfish, he would take his time until he was ready to cherish another part of your body, whether you were whimpering under him or not. Your hands found purchase on his scalp, pulling his head back and he came off you with a lewd ‘pop’. You leaned towards him and kissed him hard, grinding as much as you could into his lap.

The sense of urgency building between you only got worse as he pulled away from the kiss. Shushing your whimpers. Heat had been building at the apex of your thighs and you were lit hot with need.

His tongue worked its way back down to your chest, “Let me finish this first.” He looked up at you, and you glared.“Don’t worry Bugs, I’ll take care of you.”

Time felt infinite, his tongue ran over the puckered pink flesh, pawing your other tit until you were practically begging him to fuck you, but Bradley didn’t cave. He hadn’t had you like this in years and he’ll be damned if he didn’t savor every part of skin he touched.

When he got down to your belly button he shifted both of you, holding your head as he laid you down on your back. You sat up on your elbows in anticipation, but Bradley had other plans. He looked up as he unbuttoned your pants, looking for permission to continue. You nodded. His movements were graceful, as soon as a piece of your legs were exposed he placed well-intentioned pecks, lightly suckling the flesh.

He’d just pressed a gentle kiss on your ankle when a wave of apprehension washed over you. As if sensing your anxiety, he shushed you, “If it’s too much, tell me now. I want you to be comfortable.” His thumbs rubbing your knees, keeping your legs together.

Gnawing on your bottom lip had always been a bad habit of yours, Bradley hated seeing the teeth marks you’d chew the sides of your mouth. His thumb reached out to gently tug it mid-bite. “Bugs..” He pressed a gentle kiss to your knee and a shiver ran down your spine.

Without thinking, your body moved on its own, your legs pulling apart to give Bradley access. You felt vulnerable being exposed to him, allowing him to see just how worked up you were. His silence made it even worse. You couldn't understand what he was thinking, but the nervousness from before was kicking in and your knees wobbled closer together.

Bradley was having none of it. He laid as flat on his stomach as he could, hanging his chin low as he was enveloped in your scent. A mewl came out of your mouth, “I know,” His lips left a trail of gentle pecks. “I’ll get there I promise baby.”

The tension was twirling in your stomach, knotting tighter with each mark he sucked between your thighs. “Bradley..” You whimpered. “Please, Bradley...I need you.” You watched a small smirk curve on his face. “I know baby. I can see how wet you are.”

Had this been anybody else, the shame would have burned your chest red. But this was Bradley, emboldened you thrust your hips up towards his mouth. He pulled his head back. “Bradley!” You cried.

Unphased, he continued his ministrations. Kissing and pulling the gentle flesh of your outer lips into his mouth. Leaving a trail of spit everywhere but where you needed him. Tears threatened to spill over onto your cheeks. He paused, looking up at you, “Just for your Bugs.” Bradley licked a long thick strip up your cunt, moaning as he tasted you. It’d been years since he last had the privilege and a new hunger sparked in him.

His lips latched to your aching nub, his thumb pressing at the base of your entrance, massaging your in small circles. Pleasure thrashed through your body and you nearly saw white. His free arm came up to pin your hips down, almost holding you to his mouth. Bradley moaned with each suck to your clit, suckling lewdly. The noise alone had you aching for more.

His name came out in breathy pants, and each time curse that followed was motivation for Bradley to keep going. Blood pooled into his cock. The head pressing against his zipper as he ground himself into the backseat for friction. Your mewls and whines left his mind hazy. All he knew was he wanted you. He missed your taste, and he was going to make sure he was satiated tonight.

Your cunt clenched as his thumb teased your entrance. Your body wanton and pliant, he had you molded perfectly to his tongue. He pushed his thumb into your entrance and you gasped. It wasn't enough. You needed more to feel properly filled.

“Fuck—You’re tight.” He replaced his thumb with two digits, opening you up inside and searching for your sweet spot. Your back arched once more, arm coming up to grab onto the window, onto anything to support you through your impending climax.

Bradley smiled at you from between your thighs. “Did I find it?” His fingers pressing up into you and curling. Your legs latched to his shoulders, hips gyrating to meet his pace.

“Bradley—I’m gon-” You arched again, vision whiting out as he suckled your cunt. “Come on baby,” He mumbled, the vibrations sending shockwaves through you. “Give me the first one.” Your body compiled. Your hands scrambled to latch onto anything to guide you through the heat that encompassed your body.

As you came down, you registered Bradley's fingers still in you, gently pressing inside your inner walls. He’d been laying gentle pecks on your cunt as your body recalibrated. His teeth marking any free flesh he saw on your inner thighs.

You moved away from him, hands pushing his head away. But Bradley didn’t budge. You realized too late what he was gunning for when his mouth sealed onto your cunt once more. Continuing his relentless pace as if he never slowed down.

“Bradley,” You called to him. He didn’t respond, “Bradley!” You cried. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t.” Scooting yourself up, but it didn’t work. Bradley held you firm to his mouth.

“You can.” He growled, lapping at your cunt. His eyes had blurred out, dilated, and focused on giving you another orgasm. The overstimulation was clawing its way through your nerves, shooting tingles down into the soles of your feet as you became breathless.

You were close, so close. Bradley could you feel tightening around his fingers, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. “One more baby. Just one more.” He groaned into you, the sound of his voice cresting you over into white-hot pleasure. His hips ground out into the seat one last time, your screams pushing him over the edge to finish.

He slowed his pace to match your breathing as you came down. Being mindful of your twitching the more he played with your pussy. You leaned against the doorframe, legs lazily splayed open, Bradley between them leaving gentle pecks, each one sending your legs into a spasm. Your handprints had been seared into the window, and you looked down at him with a lazy grin.

You tugged on his hair to signal him, wanting him up by your mouth to kiss him. He moved, but not before sucking your clit and leaving a gentle kiss on the apex of your cunt one last time. He sat up, massaging your thighs, knowing they’d be sore tomorrow.

Leaning close, you tugged him to you by the back of his neck, kissing him slowly, tasting you on his tongue. He moaned into your mouth, a cheeky grin on his face, “You sure you can’t give me one more?” He was mostly joking, but you shook your head no, laughing breathlessly at his pout.

You frowned in response, “Bradley, what about you? Let me—” but before you could finish he hushed you, “Don’t worry about me. This was about you and just seeing you get off on my tongue was enough.” He smirked, “Trust me, we both are satisfied.”

He peppered kisses all over your face, “You did so good for me baby.” He kissed you once, “So so good.” He kissed you again, holding it a little longer, before moving back a little to look at you, fucked out and eyelids heavy, “You’re beautiful.” He murmured.

You looked at him, noting his puffy lips that would be chapped tomorrow, his flushed cheeks, and the gentle expression he had as he admired you. “I missed you so much, Bradley.” You couldn’t get enough of him, pecking his cheeks and rubbing circles under his jawline. “Thank you,” You whispered, and you meant it. Bradley was extremely generous, but you forgot just how generous he was.

“I missed you too Bugs.” He held his lips to your forehead, putting your hair behind your ears before shuffling to grab your pants. He was tempted to lick you clean, but your eyelids became heavy with each passing moment and he was sure he’d never hear the end of it if you were any later for your sleepover.

Bradley was tender as he helped you dress, hands working on your muscles every chance he got. You were always sore the day after and he hadn’t forgotten. It’d taken you a while before you’d noticed your panties missing. Another laugh made its way out of you, “Bradshaw?” You called to him as you got your shoes back on. He looked at you, eyebrows creased. “Just where oh where, have my panties gone?”

He looked around dumbfounded. Feigning innocence. “I’m not sure Bugs. They might be stuck under the seat.” You didn’t buy it for a second. “Really?” You questioned.

“Are you sure they aren’t hiding somewhere in your pocket?” You grinned lazily, enjoying yourself as you watched his neck flush red again. “For safekeeping?” He said meekly.

“You’re lucky I like you.” You said, pecking him one more time before making your way to the front seat. The wind had picked up, causing sand to coat the car. It’d be a bitch to drive with the window shield, but it was a small price to pay if it meant no one could see just how wrecked Bradley had you.

He threw a leg over the console, settling into the driver's seat. Bradley stole glances at you. Watching as your frame relaxed into the seat. He reached over and buckled you in, stirring you awake.

“Shhh…I’ll drive you back to Penny’s. You might be an hour late, but you’ll make it for girls' night.” You grinned. “Ah, Amelia is going to kill me if I’m any later than Penny. Judging by the time, I’m cutting it close Mr.Bradshaw.”

He kissed you, flattening your hair before starting the car. The ride back wasn’t long. Empty roads meant a 25-minute drive instead of 45. The hum of the car stirred you awake. Wind fitting itself around the car and lightly tapping the windows. You admired Bradley's side profile. He hadn’t realized you were awake and you took advantage of it, “You know…you stare kind of loudly.” He rasped out.

Your hands came to cover your face. You looked out the window to avoid eye contact and he grabbed your thigh, wanting your attention. “So…you like me?” He questioned.

Dumbfounded, it took a second before you recalled what you said before knocking out.

“Bradley!” You exclaimed. His laughter reverberating and leaving a warm glow in your chest.

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@that-daughter-of-hephaestus

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