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Troubled Waters

Author's Note:

This is a sequel series to North Star. If you haven't read the first series, I would recommend you go back and check it out! Or do you boo.

It took me a little bit to contemplate over where I wanted to take this story and then I had an epiphany in the shower. The place where all good ideas start.

Shoutout IDontKn0w for inspiring me to continue with this sequel series. It may not go exactly as you imagine, or it just might. Guess you gotta read it to see.

This is a continuation of a story about two emotionally complicated college boys, one raised in the church and one raised in a foster situation. Yearning, Slow Burn, Romantic Tension, and Femboys. All of these are critical to the story.

How will the return of Stephen's long lost identical twin, change the narrative?

Please post praise, critique and suggestions in equal measure.

Trigger/Content Warning:

This story contains themes of religious guilt, emotional repression, family trauma, and queer yearning. It's a slow-burn gay romance with a dumbass himbo and a beautiful femboy. It also explores the internal struggle of growing desire, shame, and forbidden closeness between two best friends.

There are a few homophobic slurs used in specific moments and some veiled references to Domestic Violence.Troubled Waters фото

Thanks for reading! : D

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Chapter 1 of Troubled Waters: The Killing Joke

~Six Months after the end of North Star

Somewhere West of Atlanta, Georgia, Fall, 2023.

Monday, September 4th

--Stephen--

I had been growing my hair out since February for moments exactly like these.

Moments where my boyfriend had me face-down, gasping into the mattress, one hand knotted in my ponytail like a leash, the other spanking my ass like it owed him money.

SMACK

"You like that?"

"Hnnngggg... Pleaseeeee..."

SMACK

"What was that?"

"I--I want... Pleaseee--"

SMACK SMACK

By then I could barely whimper, let alone form a coherent thought. My head was swimming, the air hot and sticky with sweat and lust.

...

Today was a holiday. The kind where normal people dragged their kids and dogs to the lake. The kind of day with sunburns and busted speakers, potato salad melting in the heat, and someone's cousin getting too drunk too early.

You'd wear a thrifted sundress with a scandalous bikini underneath. Your boyfriend would wear those stupid American flag swim trunks and forget sunscreen. A dog would steal a hamburger, someone would almost drown, and nobody would talk about their problems for a few hours.

A slice of Americana baked under the sun.

But that wasn't us.

We aren't "normal."

...

SMACK

"LET ME CUM, PLEASE, MICHAEL! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE--"

My scream bounced off the walls, my voice raw with desperate need. The bed slammed against the drywall so violently that the pictures above the headboard rattled like they were ready to fall.

Michael's hands, slick with sweat, dug into my hips as he pounded me into the mattress. He wasn't making love--he was claiming me. His thrusts were punishing, relentless, and my body was unraveling under his assault.

Two hours.

On and off.

My insides were aching andfull.

If I had ovaries, I'd be fertilized three times over.

I'd cum all over the sheets without even noticing.

And just when I thought he might let up--

"Ah--"

I gasped as he flipped me over like I weighed nothing.

And there he was.

Michael James Worthington, in all his thick, sweat-slick glory.

6'2". 252 lbs. 8 inches of biblical retribution between his legs.

(Yes, I know the stats. I'm his emergency contact now. I read the damn chart.)

He stared down at me, green eyes blazing like a forest fire at midnight. His thick beard shadowed that perfectly square jaw, and his close buzz cut only emphasized the raw masculinity of his face.

He looked like Henry Cavill's evil twin, with a body carved by steel and God's own frustration. His broad chest and thick arms shimmered with sweat, a dense carpet of fur clinging to his pecs and trailing down his abs. He was like some divine beast in heat--and I was the sacrifice.

I'd made it my duty to clean up his downstairs jungle, though. Otherwise, the hair would just keep going down, down, down...

I remember one night at the bar, showing a pic of him to a couple fellow sluts. We spent an hour debating what you even call a man like him.

Bear? Nah. Not soft enough.

Jock? Too hairy

Wolf? Maybe.

Whatever he was, he was mine. All mine.

And I couldn't get enough.

I'd been a clingy little gremlin all weekend--rubbing my scent into his shirts, spritzing on cinnamon perfume, slipping into nothing but lacy panties and his old t-shirts. I was desperate to mark him.

To remind the universe--and any flirt with good hair, toned arms, and an annoying laugh--that this man was spoken for.

Because yeah, I knew what I looked like. And I damn well knew what he looked like. The stares weren't subtle. The too-long eye contact at the gym, the way someone always found a reason to stand a little too close when asking for a spot, or laugh a little too loud at his dumbest jokes.

That insecurity simmered under my arousal, thick and familiar. It clung to me like sweat--but right now, it didn't matter.

Right now, I was the center of his world--sprawled out and wrecked, moaning beneath his gaze like the neediest little whore on earth.

And God help me, I wanted more.

--Michael--

He's doing it again.

Drifting.

I've caught him doing it more lately--those quiet moments where he's just gone. Eyes wide open, but the light isn't there. Those ocean-blue eyes of his look flat. Calm waters. No tide. No storm.

Even now--when I've just flipped him over like the good little ragdoll he loves to be, ready to rail him six ways to Sunday--he's staring at me like I'm not even real.

His hands tremble on my forearms, clutching tight like I'm the only thing tethering him here. His legs lock behind my back like they're trying to trap me inside him.

And maybe that's part of it. Maybe he's scared I'll leave if he lets go.

Oh, baby...

My boy is barely 5'7" when he stretches. Midnight-black hair, storm-soaked eyes, always wrapped in a cloud of cinnamon perfume that sticks to my skin long after he's left the room.

Every pound he's gained since we got together went straight to the best places--his hips, his thighs, that ass I can't stop dreaming about.

He says he needs to lose weight. Claims he's "letting himself go."

Bullshit.

If he puts on five more pounds and it all goes to his ass, I'll take him out to dinner every night until he bursts out of his skirts. God help me, I love that ass. Soft, plush, sinful. Bright red now from the spanking I gave him. Still stretched wide from taking me, still leaking me down onto the sheets.

And still--still--he's rock hard.

He always is when I touch him. My sweet boy can't help it. Every time I see him on his back, flushed and dripping, I get this feral need to make sure he knows he's mine.

But right now, I don't know where his mind is.

"Mikey...?" he whispers.

Fuck me. Now I'm doing it too.

--Stephen--

My fingers are locked like claws around Michael's arms, knuckles white from how tightly I'm holding on.

My chest heaves with ragged gasps, lungs desperate for air. My body's trembling, legs shaking as I try to process the riot still echoing through my muscles.

My ass is on fire--in that delicious, post-dicked-down way. I can feel him inside me still, thick and pulsing, like his cock's still hunting for deeper ground. That beautiful third arm of his... still angry. Still hard.

God.

We've been at this on and off for at least two hours. I've already milked him twice, but the man's stamina could make a pornstar blush. My body wants a break. My brain is still melting. But some little voice in me keeps whispering: "He deserves more."

Maybe it's guilt.

Idid tease the hell out of him last night.

We were all curled up for movie night, watching some nostalgic little animated film that took us back to childhood. One of the characters had this cute little schoolgirl vibe, and I couldn't resist.

Hair up in high pigtails. White button-up shirt, innocent and tight over my chest. A flirty black skirt that skimmed just above the knees--wholesome enough for company, but short enough to make a statement.

What they didn't see... were the easy-access panties I had hidden underneath. A smooth, tight fit that kept everything tucked just right--and a big, strategic hole in the back.

Cinnamon lip balm. Wandering fingers. Lingering glances at Michael during thewhole damn movie.

He played it cool--barely reacted while we sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch. Someone else was chatting happily beside us. Popcorn in a shared bowl.

But I saw his grip tighten on the armrest.

Ifelt the way his thigh twitched under the blanket when my hand drifted a little too close to his zipper.

He waited until the movie was over. Until they went to bed.

Then hebroke me.

The skirt? In tatters. The shirt? Reduced to confetti. The panties? Still on--barely--but soaked, stretched, and hanging on for dear life.

I think he sucked the cinnamon balm right off my lips.

My man is a feral, focused, absolutelyferocious lover.

And I fucking love it.

...

I'm drifting again--hazy and full of cum--and only realize I've been staring when I catch him doing the same.

Michael's above me, still inside me, but his eyes are glassy. A dull sheen of thought or worry glazes them over. He's somewhere else--far away.

That's been happening more lately.

Just like me.

We're both spacing out at odd times, even during the moments we're usually most connected. That scares me a little.

I gently drag my fingertips up the hard slopes of his arms--savoring the warmth, the stretch of muscle beneath his skin. My hands trace over the light scruff of his chest, climb up his neck, and settle against the scruff of his beard.

I cradle his face in my palms.

His eyes finally flicker back into focus--softening, grounding, locking on mine like they always do. I feel him lean into my touch, exhaling like he's been holding his breath.

"Mikey," I whisper, stroking his cheekbones with my thumbs.

"Lay down."

He blinks.

"Let me take over."

--Michael--

I slowly pull my cock out of his well-used ass with a lewd pop, the kind of sound that would echo through a confessional booth and get a priest excommunicated. His angry little starfish twitches in protest, sucking at the air like it's mourning the loss of its favorite visitor.

Stephen's spent body slips off me, and I collapse beside him in a daze. My vision pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. The glowing red digits of the bedside clock read 1:37 AM.

Moonlight filters through the blinds in slats. The ceiling fan clicks overhead, its rhythm in sync with the blood rushing in my ears.

We should be asleep. Tomorrow--well, today--is Labor Day. Cookouts. House cleaning. Seeing the Family. Normal life.

But right now?

Right now I'm watching the most beautiful sin God ever allowed crawl back onto me.

Stephen climbs onto the bed and straddles my legs, his battered, bitten, breathtaking body glowing with sweat and satisfaction. His skin smells like cinnamon and ozone. His hair is a damp mess, tumbling around his face as he slinks up my torso, his hips brushing every sensitive inch of me.

His mouth finds my neck, nuzzling kisses into the bruises he left yesterday.

My arms instinctively wrap around him. Possessive. Protective. Hopelessly in love.

Then--

"Heyyy, Daddyyy..."

That high-pitched, teasing little voice slithers into my ear and detonates every cell in my brain.

I choke on air.

The bastard's figured out my weakness--weaponized it. Him, in that syrupy, girlish voice, panting like a needy little fucktoy? It short-circuits my brain like a fucking Taser to the soul.

I amso going to hell.

"Y-Yes, baby..." I stammer like some young virgin.

Stephen giggles--low and malicious. His fingers trail up into my hair, scratching just enough to make my scalp tingle.

"Can I have a little present tonight?" he purrs, nipping my ear.

My mouth barely cooperates. "Anything. Anything you want--God, yes--"

He shifts. His cum-dripping hole sinks down my cock, hot and tight like a glove tailored in heaven. Then he pulls off with a squelch, smearing me along his slick inner thighs.

"I wanna ride a horse, Daddy."

The giggle that follows is pure sin.

"Hnnnggg..." I manage, "I... I don't have a horse..."

Stephen strokes his fingers through my beard, cooing as he kisses along my jaw.

"Oh well... I'll just have to find areplacement."

He straightens his back, tosses his damp black hair over his shoulder, and begins to grind those thick, glorious cheeks along my cock--just enough pressure to make my brain go static.

"Is this okay, Daddy? Can I ride you instead?"

His voice is so sweet, I want to weep.

"Hmmmm..."

"What's that? Didn't catch you, Daddy..."

When he dips down and nips my nipple, I let out a moan so slutty it would make my mother revoke my baptism.

"Please ride me, Stephen. Please. For the love of--"

He doesn't let me finish.

Hesinks onto me.

My vision whites out. My cock is sheathed in molten, perfect heat. His tightness clutches at me, every inch of him milking me for more.

"Anything for you, baby," he whispers, voice dripping with victory.

He rises--hips rolling in slow, obscene waves--before dropping back down and setting a pace meant to destroy me.

My hands dig into the plush swell of his hips as his cheeks slap against my thighs in hypnotic rhythm. Every bounce wrings the air from my lungs.

His eyes--those brilliant, wicked blues--lock onto mine with a hunger that dares me to survive this.

"Ohhh baby... right there... just for me..."

His voice is all velvet and fire. A siren song wrapped in bubblegum and barbed wire.

He speeds up, riding me like he's got something to prove. Like he's been training for a rodeo event in hell.

I hear it first--movement downstairs. Footsteps. A soft shuffle from the kitchen.

My heart lurches. I freeze.

But Stephen just leans forward and hisses into my ear, never breaking rhythm.

"Oh baby... I don't care if she hears.

Get

Me

Pregnant

While

She

Listens..."

My balls tighten so fast it's like a divine judgment.

My mind flashes with impossible images--Stephen barefoot in our kitchen, belly swollen, two little toddlers with blue eyes and devilish smiles under the Georgia oaks.

And then--

Strawberry.

The sudden ghost of that scent hits me like a slap. Familiar. Feminine.

Notcinnamon.

Nothim.

It vanishes just as quickly as it came. Gone like the wind shifting in a dream.

Stephen's still bouncing above me, lost in ecstasy, giggling like a brat who knows exactly what he's done.

I grip his hips harder, thrust up into him once--deep and punishing.

We're not done yet. Not even close.

--Stephen--

There's a strange light in Michael's eyes.

A wild, almostholy hunger -- like I just whispered some impossible prayer into his ear and he's decided to make it real.

His jaw clenches. His grip on my hips tightens. There's a second where he sniffs the air like a predator. I don't even know what he's smelling for, but the look in his eyes makes my breath hitch.

And then hemoves.

In one fluid motion, he sits up and pulls me against his chest. My legs wrap tight around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders as he rises to his feet. My cock's already hard again from the rough shift of position -- and then it disappears completely from my mind as he slams me against the bathroom door.

He fucks me like a man unhinged. No rhythm. No buildup.

Just raw, animalistic thrusts that rattle my bones.

The wood behind my back vibrates with every motion as he jackhammers into me. My moans turn into filthy, unrecognizable whimpers -- loud, theatrical, desperate. Let the neighbors hear. Let the police take notes. Let God take his sweet time judging this.

Michael Worthington is fucking me into drywall and I amnot complaining.

I bury my face against his head as he thrusts upward like he's trying to break through me. His sweat drips down onto my skin. His teeth sink into my neck.

"Break me, Michael," I whisper, and then louder: "I'm all yours. All yours. Make me yours. Claim me."

He growls again -- feral -- and bites down harder, his hands bruising my thighs.

Then something breaks loose in me.

A bitterness. A need.

A deep, ugly piece of myself, rising like bile from the pit of my stomach.

"I bet that horny bitch wishes it was her in here," I sneer, venom behind my moans. "I bet Delilah wishes it was your dick rearrangingher organs right now."

Michael stumbles -- just slightly -- a falter in his rhythm. But Ifeel it. A twitch inside me. A pause in his breathing. And his cock--God help me--his cock throbs.

For one second, I don't know who's fucking who anymore.

It hits me somewhere low and mean, but I'm too far gone to stop.

I need him to finish. I need him to give me that last burst of heat so I can pretend, just for a moment, that he's still mine completely.

"Oh baby," I breathe, teeth clenched, eyes fluttering. "Give it all to me. Make me pregnant. Make Delilah pregnant."

He roars. A broken, wounded noise -- and slams one final time into me as his orgasm tears through him.

We collapse together. Him falling backward onto the carpet, chest heaving. I slide down the door like a used-up doll, cum dripping out of me in thick ropes as I fight to catch my breath.

Silence fills the room.

Not peace.

Just silence.

--

I don't know why I say the things I do during sex.

I don't rememberthinking them.

But once they leave my mouth, they echo in the walls, sink into the sheets, scratch into his skin. And I see it every time. That little flicker of pain in Michael's face.

I've called him names. Used voices. Whispered filth in his ear that even I don't understand. Once, he stopped halfway through and just... couldn't keep going.

Two weeks ago, I said something -- something about Delilah -- and he shut down completely. Didn't even finish. Couldn't look me in the eye afterward.

He said it made him uncomfortable.

Of course it did.

Iagree, in theory. Why would I want him thinking of anyone else while he's filling me up?

But still. It happened again. And Ifelt his reaction this time.

I should be angry, maybe. Jealous. Accusatory.

But how could I blame him? We'reidentical. She's just me -- with tits. She wears tank tops and workout shorts and bounces around the house, all bubbly and bright, quoting scripture like it's poetry.

I can't stop these thoughts. I don't evenknow what they are, or what they mean. But they're there. Twisting me up inside. Making me act out like this.

I'm turning into someone else when we fuck.

And I think he's starting to notice.

--

"Can you cocksuckers stopfucking long enough that I can sleep???"

Delilah's voice echoes from the kitchen below, punctuated by the smack of a broom handle hitting the ceiling.

 

I can't help it -- I laugh. A sharp, breathless bark of laughter as I slump back against the wall.

Michael grimaces, eyes stormy and unreadable. He doesn't respond. Just gets up, walks to the bathroom, and turns on the shower.

I don't follow him.

Not right away.

I wait.

Listen to the water. Watch the moonlight shift on the floor.

Later, I'll climb into my beanbag chair across the room and just watch him sleep -- bundled up in the sheets like nothing's wrong.

Like he's not quietly wondering why the man he loves keeps poisoning their bed with the name of someone else.

I was supposed to be his North Star.

So why do I feel like I'm leading him astray?

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Thanks for reading. : D

I whipped this up over the last 3 hours, after having my shower epiphany.

I've been working on another project, that I am going to post the first couple parts to later today probably. Who knows exactly when they will publish.

I bet you're wondering who wears Strawberry? Good question.

Text your best friend tonight.

-YearningStories <3

7/7/25

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