The afternoon light slanted through the dusty windows of Professor Frink's lab, casting long shadows across scattered beakers and half-disassembled gadgets. Bart kicked a loose screw across the floor, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Lisa?" he called, his voice bouncing off the stainless steel tables. (Where the heck is she? Mom's gonna kill me if I come back empty-handed.)
A glint of metal caught his eye—something sleek and unfamiliar resting near a pile of scribbled blueprints. He picked it up, turning the strange watch over in his hands. It hummed faintly, the face shimmering like liquid mercury. "Whoa," he breathed, pressing a thumb to the glass. (This thing's gotta be worth, like, a billion bucks. Or... maybe it explodes. Cool either way.)
Bart puts the watch on and he's trying to figure out what all the buttons do. "Hmm, this one's shiny... this one's got a weird symbol... what the heck does this one..." His thumb slips, pressing a recessed dial he hadn't noticed. The watch emits a high-pitched whine, the air around him distorting like heat waves off asphalt. (Oh crap, oh crap... did I just break Frink's junk?) Then, with a sound like a thousand skateboards grinding concrete at once, the world dissolves into streaks of color.
He lands hard on his butt, grass tickling his palms. The scent of ozone lingers in his nose, metallic and sharp. "Dude," Bart mutters, shaking his head. (Did I just get zapped by a super-secret government laser or somethin'?) He blinks up, and freezes. Towering structures of glass and shimmering alloy pierce the sky where Central Park's skyline should be. A hovering drone shaped like a giant taco glides past, blaring advertisements in a language that somehow makes sense in his head.
"Whoa," Bart breathes, fingers digging into the soil. (Okay, either I'm hallucinating from one of Milhouse's weird sandwiches, or...) He twists the watch face, heart hammering against his ribs. The date display reads *3024*. "No way." A giggle bubbles up, equal parts terror and exhilaration. (Sweet merciful crap... I time-traveled! Eat your heart out, Doc Brown!)
Nearby, a group of kids with holographic sneakers and glowing tattoos stop mid-game to stare at him. One points, her irises pulsing neon blue. "Yo," Bart grins, brushing dirt off his shorts, "any of you future dweebs know where a guy can get a decent slushie around here?" The watch thrums against his wrist, warm and insistent, like it's laughing at him. (Oh man, I am so boned.)
"Bart?!" The voice cracks across the plaza like a firework, high, incredulous, and weirdly familiar. Before he can turn, arms scoop under his armpits and yank him clean off the ground. His sneakers dangle uselessly as the scent of bubblegum and engine grease floods his nose. "Holy crap, it is you!" Amy Wong's face looms inches from his, her eyes blown wide. She shakes him once, hard enough to rattle his teeth. "How are you even... wait, are you a clone? Did the Professor finally perfect that weird-ass nostalgia serum?"
Bart wheezes, toes brushing grass again as she loosens her grip. "Amy?" He squints up at her, taking in the futuristic crop top, the hover-boots, the way her hair bobs just like..."Wait. Future Amy?" His stomach lurches. (Okay, either I'm dead or this is the raddest dream ever.) She smells real, sweat and synthetic cherry lip gloss, and her hands are warm where they press into his shoulders.
Amy exhales sharply through her nose. "Duh, genius." She flicks his forehead, then immediately pinches his cheek like he's a mirage. "But seriously, spill. Time vortex? Secret government experiment? Please tell me you didn't lick anything radioactive." Her thumb swipes at a smudge on his temple, and Bart realizes she's shaking. (Whoa. She's actually freaked.) He grins, slow and wicked.
"Better." He holds up the watch, its surface catching the sunlight. "Stole it from Frink's lab." Amy's breath hitches. "Pretty sure I just broke, like, twelve time laws."
Her fingers tighten on his arms. "Bart." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Do you have any idea what year it is?"
The watch hums against his pulse. Somewhere above them, a sky-ad blares the jingle for "Frosty-Freeze™ Galactic Cola." Bart's grin widens. "Ohhh yeah."
Amy's nails dig crescents into her own palms. "Bart, listen..."
"Duh-doy, Wong." He flips the watch face open with a flick of his thumb. "Time circuits are totally..." The dials spin wildly. "Uh. Mostly calibrated."
She exhales sharply through her nose. (Kid's gonna get himself erased from existence.) But his smirk is infectious, lopsided and bright under the neon wash of the skyline. (And hell, when's the last time I had a day off?)
"You're sure," she presses, but already reaching for his hand.
Bart wiggles his fingers between hers. "Trust me, I got this." The lie sits warm on his tongue. (Like when I told Mom I definitely didn't eat the last donut. Same vibes.)
Her shoulders drop. "Okay, okay." Her grin flashes sudden and dazzling. "But first... pizza. Like, actual 21st century pizza. None of that synth-gluten crap."
Bart whoops as she drags him toward a floating vendor stall. The scent of charred crust and oregano cuts through the ozone tang. He inhales greedily. (Smells like home.)
"Extra pepperoni?" Amy winks, already punching in her thumbprint. The drone drops a steaming box into her arms.
"Duh." Bart swipes a slice, grease dripping down his wrist. (So what if the watch's manual is in, like, future hieroglyphics? Pizza first. Apocalypse later.)
She leads him past holographic topiaries, her fingers laced loosely with his. The grass here is too blue, the dandelions glow, but the weight of her hand feels real.
"Here." Amy kicks open a rusted maintenance hatch hidden behind a waterfall of nanite vines. Inside: a pocket of quiet, moss thick as a mattress, the distant hum of the city muted.
Bart flops onto his back, pizza balanced on his belly. "Nice hideout."
Amy peels off her sweatshirt slow, the fabric catching on her elbows. Beneath: emerald microfiber stretched taut over the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist. The bikini bottom rides high on her hips.
Bart's cheese-laden bite hovers mid-air. (Whoa. Okay. That's... new.)
She stretches, arching her back like a cat. The dim light catches the sweat at the hollow of her throat. "What?" Her grin is all teeth. "Never seen a girl in a swimsuit before?"
Bart shoves the pizza in his mouth. (Nope. Nope nope nope.) "Pfft. Please." Pepperoni grease glistens on his chin. "I've seen, like, so many."
Amy laughs, bright and uncomplicated, and the watch thrums quietly against his wrist.
As they finish their last slices of pizza and pass the soda back and forth, Amy leans back with a sigh, stretching her arms over her head. The dim light catches the sheen of sweat along her collarbones. "Ugh, I totally forgot how hot it gets in these dumb pockets of unregulated time," she mutters, peeling the damp microfiber from her stomach. "Hey, Bart, can you...?"
She tosses him a tube of something that smells like synthetic coconut before rolling onto her stomach. Bart fumbles the catch, nearly dropping it. (Holy crap. Holy crap holy crap.)
Amy props herself up on her elbows, glancing over her shoulder. "You good back there?" Her voice is teasing, but there's an edge, something that makes his throat tighten.
"Uh, yeah, duh," Bart says, popping the cap too hard. Lotion squirts onto his fingers, slick and warm. (Okay. Just... don't think about it. Rub the lotion. Easy. Like skateboard wax. Totally normal.)
Amy's bikini top lands beside him with a wet plop. The straps are still warm from her skin. Bart's pulse thuds in his ears as he spreads the lotion over her shoulders, his fingers skating over the knots of her spine. Her skin is softer than he expected, dotted with goosebumps under his touch. "You're, uh, pretty tan for a future person," he blurts.
Amy snorts, pressing her face into the moss. "Shut up and keep rubbing, Simpson." But her toes curl when his thumbs dig into the dip of her lower back, and Bart swallows hard. (Oh man. I am so, so boned.) His hands skate lower, tracing the dimples above her bikini line. The lotion makes her skin slick, warm under his palms.
"Left leg," she mumbles, kicking it lazily toward him. Bart's fingers hesitate at the curve of her thigh, soft, but the muscle beneath tenses when his thumbs press in. (Okay. Okay. Think about algebra. Think about Principal Skinner's bald spot.) He works down to her calf, the lotion getting rubbed into soft skin. Amy sighs, shifting her hips. "You're weirdly good at this."
Bart flips her right leg over, starting at the ankle. His pinky brushes the arch of her foot, and she jerks with a gasp. "Ticklish, Wong?" He grins, dragging his nails lightly up her calf.
Amy kicks half-heartedly. "Asshole." But her breath hitches when his hands crest her knee, inching higher.
The moss rustles as she turns her head, cheek smushed against the green. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown. "Bart." His name cracks in her throat. The watch between them hums, counting seconds neither of them own.
His fingers skate higher, over the crease where her thigh meets hip, soft there, softer than he imagined. (Don't think about how her sweat smells like burnt sugar. Don't think...)
Amy whines, high and thready, when his thumb digs into the tense muscle. "That's the spot," she breathes, and Bart's ears burn hotter than the time he microwaved a grape.
"Uh. Right." His voice cracks. (Act cool. Act cool.) He kneads the flesh, watching it dimple under his fingers. The lotion makes her skin glisten, sticky where their legs press.
Amy hooks her thumbs into the sides of her bikini bottoms. "Pull these down," she murmurs, arching her hips just enough to make his stomach flip. "I want you to do my ass next."
Bart gulps. The fabric slides down her thighs, pooling at her knees. Her skin is flawless, the curve of her bare ass smooth and round as twin moons. Between her thighs, pink folds glisten, no hair, just slick heat. Bart's fingers twitch. (Ay caramba.)
He presses his palms to the swell of her cheeks, kneading slow at first, then harder when she pushes back into his touch. The lotion squelches between his fingers as he spreads it over every inch, squeezing and massaging until Amy's moans dissolve into gasps. Her back bows, pressing her ass firmer against him. Bart's pulse thrums in his throat. (This is so not like helping Mom knead dough.) The scent of her, salt and something floral, fills his nose, thick as the humid air. His thumbs brush the crease where her cheeks meet thighs, and Amy shudders.
Bart leans closer without thinking, drawn like a moth to a bug zapper. (Danger. Danger.) His nose bumps the small of her back. She smells like sun-warmed pavement after rain. (Do not lick. Do not...) His tongue darts out before he can stop it, a quick swipe along her spine. Amy yelps, twisting to glare at him. "What the hell, Simpson?"
"Uh." His ears burn. (Abort. Abort.) "You had, like... a leaf." He plucks a nonexistent speck from her skin.
Amy stares. Then snorts, shaking her head. "Freak." But she's laughing when she flops back down, wiggling her hips. "Less tongue, more hands."
Bart grins, relieved. (Okay. Okay. We're good.) His palms slide down again, squeezing her cheeks apart just to hear her squeak. The watch vibrates against his wrist, counting down to something. (Eh. Future problems.) Right now, Amy's ass fits perfectly in his hands.
She rolls onto her back with a sigh, stretching her arms overhead. Bart's gaze snaps upward, her chest rises with the movement, the swell of her bare C-cup breasts gleaming with leftover swat. (Oh. Oh man.) His throat clicks when he swallows.
Amy catches him staring. Her grin turns sharp. "Eyes up here, Simpson." She taps her collarbone. Then, softer: "Unless you wanna make yourself useful."
Bart's hands move before his brain catches up, skimming up her ribs. His thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts, feather-light. Amy's breath hitches. "You're killing me," she mutters, arching into his touch.
He cups them fully then, warm and heavy, his fingers sinking into softness. (Like stress balls. But better.)
Amy moans when he squeezes, her nipples pebbling under his palms. Bart rubs circles around them, slow at first, then faster when she whines. "Harder," she gasps, grabbing his wrists.
He obeys, kneading her flesh, watching her face twist with pleasure. The lotion makes everything slick, his fingers slide over her nipples, pinching just to hear her gasp. Amy's hips jerk when he twists them, her back bowing off the moss. "Shit," she breathes. Bart does it again. And again. And again.
Amy reaches up to grab Bart by the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his spiky blond hair as she drags him down into a kiss. Their mouths crash together, Bart's lips still faintly sticky with pizza grease, Amy's tasting like synthetic cherry soda and something warmer, darker. His hands stutter against her chest before she nips at his lower lip, and then he's squeezing her breasts harder, thumbs dragging over her stiff nipples as she moans into his mouth. (Holy crap holy crap holy...) Bart's never kissed anyone like this, all teeth and tongue and Amy's nails digging crescents into his scalp.
"Mm... fuck," Amy pants when they break apart, her breath hot and ragged against his cheek. She licks a stripe up his jawline, sucking the hinge where his pulse jumps. "Where'd a kid learn to kiss like that?"
Bart's hips jerk involuntarily, the seam of his shorts suddenly too tight. "Uh...TV?" he mumbles, brain short-circuiting when she pinches his earlobe between her teeth.
Amy laughs, low and throaty, before sealing their mouths together again. Her tongue slides against his, slow and filthy, and Bart whines high in his throat, fingers tightening around her tits. (Okay, definitely not like kissing Janey.) Amy's hands skate down his back, nails scraping his spine through his shirt, and he shivers, pressing closer. The watch between them pulses like a second heartbeat, counting down to something neither of them cares about right now.
With a sudden twist, Amy flips them over, sending moss flying as she pins Bart beneath her. She smirks down at him, pupils blown black with lust. "Nice shorts," she murmurs, fingers hooking into the waistband. "But they're in my way."
Bart's breath catches as she yanks them down in one swift motion, his underwear following. His cock springs free, stiff and flushed, bobbing against his stomach. (Ay caramba.)
Amy's gaze drops, her lips parting in surprise. "Whoa," she breathes, fingers ghosting along his shaft. "Big boy for your age, huh?"
Bart's hips jerk at the first brush of her fingers. "I... uh..." His words dissolve into a gasp as Amy leans down, her tongue darting out to lick a hot stripe from base to tip. (Oh. Oh man.)
Her lips wrap around him, tight and wet, and Bart's back arches off the moss, fingers scrabbling at the greenery. Amy hums around him, her tongue swirling just under the head, and Bart whimpers, toes curling. (This is so much better than TV.)
Her fingers cradle his balls, rolling them gently as she takes him deeper, her nose pressing into his stomach. Bart's breath comes in ragged gasps, hips twitching. (Don't come. Don't come don't come...)
Amy pulls off with a wet pop, her lips slick and shiny. "Cute noises," she teases, thumbing at the bead of precum leaking from his tip. "Bet you taste even better."
Bart whines, hips bucking helplessly. (Why'd she stop?)
Amy grins, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Patience, kid." She shifts lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his inner thighs, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin behind his balls. "We've got time."
Bart groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Future girls are evil."
Amy laughs, breath hot against his cock. "Oh, you have no idea." Then her mouth is on him again, swallowing him down in one smooth glide.
Bart chokes, fingers twisting in her hair. (Sweet merciful crap.)
Amy's tongue presses against the underside of his shaft, her lips tight around him as she bobs her head. The wet, filthy sounds fill the little hideout, mingling with Bart's punched-out moans.
He's close, so close, his thighs tremble, his stomach clenching...
Amy pulls off again, leaving him throbbing and dripping. "Not yet," she murmurs, nipping at the inside of his thigh. "I wanna see you lose it inside me."
Bart whimpers, his cock twitching against his stomach. (She's gonna kill me.)
Amy crawls up his body, her hips bracketing his, her slick heat hovering just above him. "You ready, Simpson?"
Bart nods frantically, fingers digging into her waist. (Duh.)
Amy grins, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion.
Bart's vision whites out. (Oh.)
"Fuck," Amy breathes, rolling her hips. "You feel even better than I thought."
Bart's hands scramble for purchase on her thighs, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. (Too much. Oh... crap.)
Amy leans down, pressing her forehead to his. "Move with me," she whispers, her breath warm against his lips.
Bart obeys, thrusting up into her, his hips stuttering at the overwhelming heat. Amy moans, grinding down to meet him, her nails biting into his shoulders.
Bart looks into Amy's eyes as he thinks to himself. (Holy crap... I'm actually doing it. I'm really doing it with Amy Wong!)
Amy pushes herself up into a sitting position, fingers splayed against Bart's chest for balance. "Jesus, kid," she pants, rolling her hips in a slow circle that makes Bart's toes curl. "You're... oh god, you're *right there*." Her thighs flex as she lifts herself almost entirely off him before dropping back down, forcing a punched-out groan from Bart's throat.
Bart's hands fly to her waist, gripping tight as she starts riding him in earnest, her C-cup breasts bouncing with every snap of her hips. (This is so much better than that time I microwaved Grandpa's dentures.) "Holy... Amy..." he chokes out, watching sweat trickle between her breasts.
Amy tosses her head back with a breathless laugh, her dark hair sticking to her neck. "You're cute when you're speechless," she teases, grinding down hard enough to make his vision blur. Her inner muscles flutter around him, hot and impossibly tight.
Bart's fingers dig into her hips as she picks up speed, her moans pitching higher with every thrust.
"Fuck... Bart, right there..." Amy gasps, her thighs trembling as she clenches around him, her slick walls fluttering tight.
Bart grits his teeth, eyes rolling back as she squeezes down impossibly harder, her pussy milking him with each desperate roll of her hips.
"Gonna... shit... Bart, I'm gonna..." Amy's voice cracks, her body bowing taut before she shatters with a sharp cry, her walls pulsing around him in waves.
Bart groans, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside her, his cock twitching with every pulse of her climax.
Amy collapses onto his chest, her breath hot and ragged against his face. "Holy shit," she pants, fingers curling into his damp shirt. (Kid's got stamina.) She shifts slightly, wincing as he slips out of her, a slick trail of their mixed release dribbling down her inner thigh.
Bart blinks up at the canopy, his brain fuzzy like TV static. (Did I just... with Amy Wong? Did we...) He turns his head, watching the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks, the flush spreading down her chest. "Uh," he croaks, voice cracking. "So. That happened."
Amy lifts her head, lips quirking into a lazy smirk. "Yeah, it did." She leans down, catching his mouth in a slow, sticky kiss that tastes like salt and cherry soda. When she pulls back, she swipes her thumb across his bottom lip. "We should hit the beach," she murmurs, rolling off him with a stretch. "Wash off before the moss sticks to... everything."
Bart sits up too fast, his head spinning. "Dude. Yes." His shorts are halfway across the clearing, one leg inside out. He snags them, hopping on one foot as he yanks them up. (Beach. Beach is good. Less moss-in-weird-places.)
(Some time later.)
The ocean breeze carries the sharp tang of salt and frying oil as they trudge up the dunes later. Bart's new trunks cling to his hips, the black fabric still damp from where Amy had rinsed him off with a water bottle behind a palm tree. She strides ahead, her black bikini strings tied in intricate knots he'd watched her fingers twist with alarming precision. The back of the suit dips low, framing the dimples above her ass—an ass he'd had his hands all over barely an hour ago. (Don't stare. Don't stare. Oh crap, she caught me staring.)
Amy glances over her shoulder, sunlight glinting off her sunglasses. "Keep up, Simpson," she calls, kicking sand at him. But her smirk is softer now, almost fond. (Kid's got potential.)
Bart jogs to catch up, his bare feet sinking into the warm sand. (This future thing? Maybe not so bad.) The watch on his wrist hums quietly, counting down to whatever comes next.
Amy stops at a neon-lit ice cream stand shaped like a UFO. "Two scoops of Martian Mint," she tells the bored robot attendant, then glances at Bart. "What's your poison, Simpson?"
Bart squints at the holographic menu. "Uh... the one that looks like it'll make my tongue glow." He points at a swirling purple concoction labeled 'Plutonium Punch.'
Amy snorts. "Classic." She swipes her wrist over the scanner, and the robot dispenses their cones with mechanical precision.
They find a secluded spot under a floating palm tree, its roots dangling in mid-air. Bart licks his cone experimentally, cold, electric, like licking a battery. (Whoa.)
Amy watches him, grinning. Without warning, she leans in and swipes her tongue up the side of his ice cream, stealing a stripe of purple. "Mmm," she hums, licking her lips. "Not bad."
Bart blinks. "Hey!"
Amy giggles, holding out her own cone. "Fair's fair."
Bart hesitates only a second before diving in, his tongue dragging over the green minty swirl. The cold makes his teeth ache, but her breath hitches when his nose brushes her knuckles. (Huh.)
They trade licks like that, his sticky fingers gripping her wrist, her thumb wiping a drip from his chin, until their cones are half-melted and their mouths taste like sugar and each other.
Amy sucks the last bit from his cone with a noisy pop, her lips glistening. "So," she says, licking her fingers one by one, "wanna have another round of some naughty fun?"
Bart's tongue feels frozen, but his insides burn hotter than Pluto's core. "Uh, like... right here?" His gaze darts to the tourists floating by on hoverboards nearby, their neon swimsuits blinding in the sun.
Amy rolls her eyes and flicks melted mint off her wrist. "Not *here*, idiot." She leans in, close enough that her breath ghosts over his earlobe. "I was thinking..." A droplet of green trickles down her neck, slipping between her breasts, pooling in the shadow of her cleavage. "You missed a spot."
Bart's brain short-circuits. (Okay. Okay. We're doing this.) Before he can second-guess, he's scrambling onto her lap, knees sinking into the sand on either side of her thighs. His palms land on her shoulders, warm, sticky with salt, then slide down to cup her breasts through the damp bikini top.
"Eager, huh?" Amy's smirk falters when his thumbs brush her nipples, already stiff beneath the fabric.
Bart doesn't answer. He ducks his head, tongue darting out to catch the minty trail along her sternum, following it down, down, until his nose bumps the edge of her top. (Sweet merciful...) The fabric clings stubbornly, but he noses underneath, lips sealing over the swell of her right breast.
Amy gasps, fingers tangling in his hair. "Jesus, kid..."
He laps at the sticky sweetness trapped in the crease between her tits, his tongue dragging slow and deliberate. The sugar makes her skin taste electric, and when he sucks gently, Amy arches into him with a bitten-off moan.
Bart grins against her skin, kneading her breasts with both hands now, fingers squeezing just shy of too hard. (Like stress balls. But way, way better.) He alternates between flicking her nipples through the fabric and dipping back down to lick the last traces of ice cream from her cleavage, each pass drawing another hitch in Amy's breath.
"Fuck," she pants, hips shifting under him. "You're... ah... really good at that."
Bart nips the underside of her breast, reveling in her sharp inhale. "TV," he mumbles against her skin, before diving back in.
Amy laughs breathlessly, tugging his hair. "Liar."
The watch on his wrist buzzes insistently, but Bart ignores it, too busy mapping the way Amy's pulse jumps under his tongue.
Bart leans back as he looks up at Amy with a smirk, his fingers hooking under the thin straps of her black bikini top. "Bet this thing's got, like, a billion hidden clasps," he mutters, tugging experimentally. The fabric snaps free with a wet pop, her breasts bouncing free—still glistening with spit and melted ice cream. (Whoa. They're like... perfect.) He pushes them up with both palms, watching them jiggle before releasing, fascinated by the way they sway heavily back into place, nipples pebbled tight from the ocean breeze.
Amy's breath hitches when his mouth closes over her left nipple, his tongue swirling in slow, filthy circles. "Shit... Bart," she gasps, fingers twisting in his hair. "You... ah... where'd a kid learn *that*?"
Bart pulls off with an obscene wet sound, grinning up at her. "Cartoon Network," he deadpans before diving back in, sucking hard enough to make her thighs clamp around his hips. He switches breasts without warning, teeth scraping her right nipple just to hear her yelp, his free hand kneading the other roughly. (She's so *warm*. Like fresh pizza dough but way, way better.)
Amy's hips jerk against his stomach, her slick heat grinding against his abs. "Fuck, fuck..." Her voice cracks as his tongue flicks over her nipple again, lightning-hot pleasure arcing straight to her clit. (Holy shit. No one's ever...) Her back bows, toes curling in the sand as the pressure builds impossibly higher, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Bart, I'm...*god*, don't stop..." His name dissolves into a moan as his teeth nip her again, the sharp sting tipping her over the edge with a shuddering cry.
Bart grins against her skin, licking up the salty-sweet taste of her sweat before sliding down her trembling body. His fingers hook into the sides of her bikini bottoms, peeling them down her thighs in one rough tug.
Amy barely has time to gasp before his mouth crashes against her pussy, tongue spearing inside with a wet, filthy sound. (Holy crap. She tastes like...cherry soda and lightning.) Her thighs clamp around his ears, her fingers scrabbling at his scalp as he laps at her greedily, his nose rubbing against her smooth hairless skin.
"Jesus!" Amy's back arches off the sand, her moans pitching higher with every swirl of his tongue. "Right there, right...*fuck*!" Her hips buck wildly as he sucks her clit into his mouth, the pressure just shy of too much, her whole body trembling like a live wire. Bart hums against her, the vibrations sending sparks skittering down her spine, her thighs shaking around his head as she teeters on the edge.
"Bart...*Bart*, I'm gonna..." Amy's warning cuts off with a choked cry as she comes hard, her pussy clenching around his tongue as he drinks her down, her fingers yanking his hair hard enough to make his eyes water. (Whoa.) He pulls back just enough to watch her fall apart, her chest heaving, lips parted in silent gasps as aftershocks ripple through her. Bart wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at her dazed expression. "So," he pants, licking his lips. "That a future thing too?"
Amy laughs breathlessly, her thighs still trembling as she props herself up on her elbows. She playfully sticks her tongue out at Bart, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, before dragging the tip slowly along her own bottom lip. "Kid's got skills," she murmurs, eyes darkening as she watches him kneel between her legs, fingers fumbling with the waistband of his damp trunks.
Bart shoves the black fabric down in one rough motion, his cock springing free, already glistening at the tip from where he'd spilled into her earlier. (Still hard. Still *hers*.) He nudges forward, the head catching against her slick folds, and Amy arches her back with a moan, her calves hooking around his waist to pull him deeper.
"Fuck," Bart hisses through clenched teeth as he sinks into her, the wet heat clenching around him like a velvet fist. Tighter this time. Hotter. Like she's memorizing his shape. Amy's nails rake down his shoulders as she rolls her hips, swallowing him to the hilt with a shuddering sigh. "Move," she demands, biting his earlobe hard enough to make him groan.
Bart obeys, thrusting shallowly at first, then harder when Amy digs her heels into the small of his back, her inner muscles fluttering around him in a rhythm that makes his vision blur. (Not gonna last. Not with her *looking* at me like that... like I'm the only damn thing in the universe worth seeing.)
Amy's fingers rake through Bart's hair, pulling him closer as she arches her back sharply, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "God...*right there*... don't stop, don't..." Her plea dissolves into a moan as Bart pistons into her, his hips slamming against hers with every thrust, the wet slap of skin echoing between them. Her breasts press flush against his face, the salty-sweet scent of her skin filling his lungs as she grinds down, forcing him deeper, her inner walls fluttering around him like a heartbeat. "Bart...*fuck*... I'm gonna..."
Bart grits his teeth, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips as he drives into her harder, his vision whiting out at the edges. Amy's thighs clamp around him, her pussy clenching rhythmically as she comes with a broken cry, her body shuddering beneath him. The sudden tightness pushes him over the edge, Bart buries himself to the hilt with a groan, his cock pulsing as he spills inside her, warmth flooding his veins like molten gold.
Amy collapses against the sand, her chest heaving as she murmurs. "Holy *shit*, kid." Her fingers trace idle patterns down his spine, her breath hot against his neck. Bart shivers, still buried inside her, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and something dangerously close to affection.
Bart pulls out slowly, watching their mixed release drip onto the sand between Amy's thighs. He crawls up her body, his knees sinking into the warm granules, and captures her lips in a lazy, sticky kiss. Amy hums into his mouth, her fingers curling into his hair, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips with a familiarity that makes his stomach flip.
"C'mon," Amy murmurs against his mouth, tugging him upright. She winces as sand cascades from her bare skin. "We're *covered* in this crap." Bart wobbles to his feet, his legs unsteady, and offers her a hand. Amy takes it, her fingers slick with sweat, and pulls herself up with a groan.
The ocean laps at their ankles first, cold enough to make Bart hiss. Amy wades in deeper, the water rising to her waist, her skin pebbling with goosebumps. Bart follows, the salt stinging his oversensitive skin, his fingers brushing hers beneath the surface. Amy smirks, ducking under to rinse the sand from her hair, and emerges with droplets clinging to her lashes like shattered diamonds.
"Watch this, Wong," Bart says, scooping a handful of seawater and letting it trickle down her collarbone. The droplets race toward her cleavage, sparkling in the sunlight before vanishing into the shadowy divide.
Amy giggles, flicking water at his face. "Cheap shot, Simpson," she teases, lunging to dunk him.
Bart dodges, slipping on seaweed, and crashes backward into the surf. Amy cackles, straddling his waist as he sputters, her thighs bracketing his hips. "Yield?" she asks, dripping onto his chest.
Bart grins up at her, saltwater stinging his lips. "Never," he rasps, rolling them over in one fluid motion, the waves crashing around them. Amy shrieks as the cold water hits her back, her legs locking around his waist.
(Amy's apartment.)
Later, damp towels slung over their shoulders, they stumble into Amy's apartment, the air thick with the scent of jasmine from a forgotten incense stick. Bart's fingers trace the waistband of his still-damp shorts when Amy suddenly crowds him against the doorframe, her lips crashing into his with a hunger that makes his knees wobble.
She pulls back just enough to press a folded pair of red trunks into his hands. "Balcony tub's heated," she murmurs, nipping his earlobe. Her hips sway deliberately as she saunters toward the bedroom, throwing a smirk over her shoulder. "Don't start without me."
Bart stares at the trunks, still warm from her grip, before glancing at the steaming hot tub visible through the glass doors. The water glows turquoise under submerged LEDs, tendrils of steam curling into the night air like beckoning fingers.
(Okay. Okay. Act cool. Like you do this all the time.) He shucks his damp shorts and puts the trunks on, the humid air raising goosebumps along his thighs as he steps into the tub. The water scalds his calves first, a delicious burn that makes his toes curl, before he sinks in up to his collarbones with a groan.
Amy emerges from the bedroom archway like a slow-motion explosion, black hair mussed, lips swollen from his teeth, and that *bikini* clinging to every dip and curve like it was painted on. The red fabric winks under the patio lights as she saunters over, her hips rolling with each step like she's testing the tensile strength of spacetime itself.
"You missed a spot," she murmurs, sinking into the water with a hiss. Her knees bracket his hips as she straddles him, the heat between her thighs pressing against his already-hard cock through the thin fabric. Her hands frame his face, thumbs smearing the droplets on his jawline before she crashes their mouths together, tongue sliding against his with a filthy, practiced ease that makes his spine liquefy.
Bart's hands find the ties at her hips, fingers clumsy with steam and want. (Come *on*, stupid knots...) Amy bites his lower lip in warning, her hips grinding down in a slow, torturous circle that has him seeing stars. "Eager," she breathes against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his hair. "But we're gonna take this *real* slow, kid." The way she says it, half promise, half threat, sends electricity crackling down his spine.
Bart smirks as his hands slowly slide up her body, fingers tracing the damp fabric clinging to her ribs before slipping beneath the red bikini top. "Still thinkin' 'bout that 'slow' thing, Wong?" he murmurs, thumbs brushing her nipples in lazy circles.
Amy arches into his touch with a gasp, her hips rolling involuntarily against his. "Shut up," she breathes, but her thighs tremble when he pinches lightly, the sharp pleasure-pain drawing a ragged moan from her lips.
His palms engulf her breasts, kneading with just enough pressure to make her toes curl against the slick tub bottom beneath them. "Nah, you *like* this," Bart teases, watching her pupils dilate as he drags his nails down the sensitive undersides.
Amy's breath hitches, sharp, audible, her hands gripping the edge of the tub behind him, knuckles whitening. "S'not fair," she pants, hips stuttering against his when he thumbs her nipples in slow, deliberate circles, the friction of wet fabric between them maddening.
Bart leans in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, teeth grazing her earlobe. Amy shivers, her thighs tightening around his hips.
"Asshole," she breathes, but arches into his touch anyway, her back bowing when he palms both breasts firmly, squeezing just shy of too hard.
The water sloshes as she grinds down, her clit rubbing against the strained fabric of his trunks with every roll of her hips. "Fuck..." Her moan cracks when he pinches her nipples, the twin bursts of pleasure-pain radiating straight to her core. Bart watches, transfixed, as her eyelids flutter, her lips parting around ragged gasps.
"Look at you," he rasps, dragging his thumbs over her pebbled peaks.
Amy whines, high and desperate, her nails scraping down his chest. "Shut up," she manages, but her body betrays her, hips jerking erratically as she chases the friction, the heat between her thighs bordering on unbearable.
Bart grins, leaning forward to press wet kisses along the swell of her breasts, his tongue flicking at the damp fabric. "Make me," he taunts, nipping just hard enough to make her gasp.
Underwater, Amy's fingers find the waistband of his trunks, yanking them down with impatient urgency. "Fuck your teasing," she hisses, her free hand hooking under the side of her bikini bottoms, dragging the fabric aside in one sharp motion. The first brush of his cock against her slick folds draws a shuddering moan from both of them, her thighs trembling, his hips bucking instinctively.
Then she's sinking down onto him, tight and wet and *perfect*, her pussy clenching around him like a fist. Bart groans against her collarbone, fingers digging into her hips as she bottoms out, the stretch bordering on too much. "Holy shit," he grits out, the words muffled against her skin. Amy's answering laugh is breathless, her fingers tangling in his hair as she rolls her hips experimentally, drawing a ragged curse from his lips.
"Talk *now*," she demands, voice thick with triumph, but Bart's too busy drowning in the sensation, the way her inner muscles flutter around him, the scrape of her nails down his spine, the salt-and-chlorine sting of the water as it laps at their tangled limbs.
Amy's breath hitches when he thrusts up, shallow at first, then deeper when her thighs tighten around his waist. "Yeah," she pants, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. "Like that."
Bart obeys, his rhythm stuttering as pleasure coils tight in his gut, every drag of her pussy against him sending sparks up his spine. The water sloshes violently as Amy rides him harder, her moans pitching higher with every snap of his hips. "Close," she gasps, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. "So fucking close..."
He bites her shoulder in response, the sharp sting tipping her over the edge with a cry, her body clamping down around him like a vice. Bart follows with a groan, his release hitting him like a freight train, white-hot and overwhelming.
For a moment, they're both silent, panting against each other, the only sound the gentle lapping of water against the tub's edge. Then Amy laughs, breathless and bright, her lips brushing his temple. "Still think you're the one in charge, kid?"
Bart grins, licking the salt from her collarbone. "Nah," he admits, his fingers tracing idle patterns down her spine. "But I'm not complaining."
Amy laughs, bright, unrestrained, before pulling him into another kiss, her mouth hot and insistent. The taste of chlorine and something uniquely *her* lingers on his tongue as her hands tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his breath hitch.
(A little while later.)
Now in the living room of Amy's apartment, Bart's freshly dried clothes cling to him with the faint scent of detergent and summer air, while Amy kneels before him in that sinful red bikini, the fabric barely containing the swell of her breasts as she grips his hips. Their mouths crash together, tongues tangling in a desperate rhythm, her fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt as if she could anchor him here through sheer will. The watch strapped to his wrist emits a sharp, insistent beep, three rapid pulses, and Amy jerks back as if burned, her lips still parted, swollen from his teeth. "No," she breathes, but Bart's edges are already blurring, his outline dissolving into fractals of light like a dying hologram.
"I'll come back," Bart rasps, his voice fraying at the edges as the pull of time tugs at his bones. The promise feels too big for his throat, too heavy for this moment, but he means it, means it down to his marrow. Amy's lower lip trembles before she steels herself, blowing him a kiss with fingers that linger in the air long after his form flickers out of existence. The scent of her shampoo, something tropical, intoxicating, lingers in his nose even as the lab's sterile tang floods his senses, the sudden transition leaving him dizzy.
Back in Frink's lab, Bart staggers against a workbench, his knees buckling under the abrupt return to gravity, to *now*. The watch clatters against the metal surface, its face cracked but still glowing faintly, the hum quieter now, exhausted. His pulse hammers in his throat, sweat cooling on his skin as he stares at his reflection in a beaker: tousled hair, bitten lips, the ghost of Amy's nails still scoring his shoulders. (What the hell just happened?)
Bart lifts the watch with trembling fingers, tracing the fractured glass. The dials are warm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. A single droplet, saltwater or sweat, he can't tell, slides off the face and onto his thumb. He licks it without thinking. Jasmine. Chlorine. *Her*. His stomach lurches. (Gotta go back. Gotta...) But the watch sputters, the light dimming further. Frink's notes sprawl nearby, equations bleeding into doodles of rockets and... is that a taco? Bart grabs the papers, scanning frantically. (Time dilation. Quantum anchors. *Something*.) His hands shake. The lab's fluorescent lights buzz like distant cicadas. Somewhere, a million years from now, Amy's waiting.
Bart's eyes scanned the papers over and over again until the equations blurred into nonsensical squiggles. He rubbed his face, his fingertips still tingling with the phantom warmth of Amy's skin. (Okay, okay... this button recalibrates the temporal anchor, and *this* dial adjusts the quantum displacement field. Maybe if I...)
His train of thought derailed when the lab door creaked open behind him. "Bart?" Lisa's voice cut through the silence like a knife.
Bart shoved the watch into his pocket, the metal searing his thigh through the thin fabric, and turned to face her with what he hoped was a casual grin. "Hey, dorkwad. Mom sent me to find you."
Lisa blinked, her necklace catching the fluorescent light. "You... *agreed* to come?" Her skepticism melted into something softer, almost touched.
Bart shrugged, ruffling her hair just to watch her squirm. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep you from getting vaporized by one of Frink's death rays." He steered her toward the door with a hand on her shoulder, his pulse still racing from the watch's hum against his leg. (Just gotta wait till she's asleep tonight. Then I'm punching in those coordinates and...)
They walked home side by side, Lisa chattering about her latest book while Bart nodded absently, his fingers tracing the watch's outline through his pocket. Every step felt like wading through molasses, the ordinary Springfield sunset paling in comparison to the neon skyline burned into his retinas. (Soon, Amy. Real soon.)