The baby shower was Serena's idea, of course. She'd wanted something small—close friends, good food, the kind of afternoon that felt like a beginning. So the backyard of their Pallet Town home was strung with paper lanterns and fairy lights, a long table sagging under presents wrapped in pastel paper, and the quiet hum of conversation from the people who'd traveled across regions to be here.
Ash stood by the grill, flipping patties with the ease of someone who'd spent years cooking over campfires, when he felt her before he saw her. That particular weight of a gaze, the one that meant trouble.
"Congratulations."
Misty's voice was warm. Her smile was not. She stood at the edge of the patio, arms crossed, the afternoon sun catching the orange of her ponytail. She'd grown into her curves the way she'd grown into everything else—fiercely, without apology. The yellow tank top was different, but the freckles across her nose were the same as the day she'd walked into that hot spring and changed everything.
"Thanks, Misty." He flipped another patty, keeping his eyes on the grill. "Glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't have missed it." She stepped closer, and the clink of glasses from the other side of the yard suddenly felt very far away. "A baby shower. You and Serena. That's... really something."
Something in her tone made him look up. Her green eyes were bright, unblinking, and there was a tension in her jaw that didn't match the easy posture of her shoulders.
"Yeah." He swallowed. "It's—it's a lot."
"I bet." She tilted her head, and her voice dropped, just enough that he had to lean in to hear it. "You know, I was thinking about the hot springs the whole flight here. How long has it been? Eight years?"
Ash's face went red. He grabbed the spatula like it could save him. "Misty—"
"Nine, actually." She wasn't letting him deflect. "Nine years since I walked in on you in that water, doing exactly what you always do when you think no one's watching. Remember that?"
He remembered. The steam, the shock of her voice, the way she'd looked at his cock like it was the most natural thing in the world before she'd joined him. He remembered everything.
"You were the one who made it weird," he said, but it came out weaker than he meant.
"I made it honest." She took another step closer. Her hand found his wrist, and her fingers closed around it—not hard, but firm. The kind of grip that said she wasn't letting go. "You never chased women the way Brock did. You never even looked. And I knew why, Ash. I've always known why."
His eyes flicked across the yard to Serena, laughing with May by the gift table, one hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly. Then back to Misty. "This isn't the time—"
"No," she agreed, and pulled him toward the house. "It's not. Come with me."
The world narrowed to the feel of her hand on his wrist, the grass under his feet, the way the party's noise faded as she tugged him around the corner of the porch and behind the house. The fence was tall here, wooden, and the laughter from the yard was muffled, distant, like a radio playing in another room.
She stopped, turned, and pinned him against the siding with a look that had nine years of weight behind it.
"You're having a baby," she said.
"I know."
"With Serena."
"I know, Misty."
"Do you?" She stepped closer, and he could smell her—sunscreen and something floral, and underneath it the faint musk of a body that had been waiting all afternoon. "Because I've been watching you all day. The way you touch her. The way you look at her. And I'm happy for you. I am. But I also remember what you feel like."
His breath caught.
"I remember the way you moan when I swallow you," she said, low, her mouth close to his ear. "The way you fill me. The way you taste." Her hand slid down his arm, over his chest, coming to rest low on his stomach. "And I know you remember it too."
He did. God, he did. His body was already responding, the heat of her hand through his shirt a brand he couldn't pretend not to feel.
"Misty, we can't—"
"We can." Her fingers found his belt, working the buckle with practiced ease. "We've done this before. We're doing it again. The only difference is that now you're someone's father." She looked up at him, and there was something raw in her eyes, something he'd only ever seen in the dark of hotel rooms and hidden springs. "And I want to remind you what you were before that."
His protest died in his throat as her hand closed around his cock through his jeans. She felt him harden under her palm, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
"There he is," she breathed. "There's the boy who used to meet me in that spring every month. The one who couldn't keep his hands off me."
"Misty—"
"Shut up." She dropped to her knees on the grass, and the sight of her there—orange hair spilling over her shoulders, green eyes looking up at him with that hungry, knowing gaze—sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with memory.
She unzipped his jeans, freed his cock, and wrapped her fingers around it. Her thumb traced the vein on the underside, and he hissed through his teeth.
"Nine years," she said, almost to herself. "Nine years since I first had this in my mouth. And it still feels like yesterday."
She leaned in and took him between her lips.
Ash's head fell back against the siding. The world went soft and warm and wet as Misty worked him with the skill of a woman who'd spent years learning exactly what he liked. Her tongue traced the ridge, curled around the head, and then she took him deeper, her throat opening to take him all the way to the root.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She hummed around him, and the vibration nearly undid him. Her hands gripped his thighs, steadying herself as she bobbed, faster now, the wet sounds of her mouth filling the narrow space behind the house. She pulled off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock, and looked up at him.
"I missed this," she said. "I missed the way you taste. The way you twitch when I do that." She demonstrated, her tongue flattening against the underside, and he groaned.
"We shouldn't—" he started, but she cut him off by taking him deep again, her nose brushing his pelvis, her throat convulsing around him.
He was close. He could feel it building, a familiar heat coiling low in his belly, and Misty knew it too—she always knew. She pulled off and stroked him with her hand, fast and tight, her eyes locked on his.
"Come for me," she said. "Come in my mouth like you used to."
He did. It crashed over him without warning, his hips bucking as he came down her throat, and she swallowed every drop, her hand working him through it until he was spent and trembling.
She rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and there was something triumphant in her expression. "Good," she said. "Now the rest."
She turned around, braced her hands against the fence, and looked back at him over her shoulder. Her denim shorts came off with one pull, and under them she was bare—she'd always been bare, he remembered, the way she'd been in the hot spring, smooth and open and waiting.
"Misty, the party—"
"Is on the other side of that fence." She reached back and spread herself open, showing him how wet she already was, how ready. "And they can't see us. They can't hear us. It's just you and me, Ash. Like it always was."
His cock was already hardening again. He stepped forward, hands finding her hips, and she moaned as he pressed against her, the head of his cock sliding through her slick folds.
"Do you remember the first time?" she asked, her voice breathy. "In the water. You broke my hymen. I bled. And you held me after."
"I remember." He guided himself to her entrance, felt her heat, the way her body opened for him like it remembered too.
"Do it again," she whispered. "Fill me. Fuck me like you used to."
He pushed inside her.
She gasped, her fingers curling against the wooden fence. He was thick and hard, and she was tight around him, her cunt clenching in waves that pulled him deeper. He gripped her hips and began to move, slow at first, savoring the feel of her—the familiar heat, the way she arched her back to take him deeper.
"Yes," she breathed. "God, yes. That's it. That's my Ash."
He drove into her harder, and she cried out, catching herself, clamping a hand over her own mouth to muffle the sound. The slap of skin against skin filled the space, and the party's laughter carried over the fence like a cruel joke.
"You feel so good," he growled, leaning over her, his chest against her back. "You always feel so good."
"I know." She looked back at him, her eyes glassy, her lips parted. "I've been thinking about this for weeks. About the way you used to fuck me. The way you'd hold me after."
He reached around and found her clit, rubbing in tight circles, and she moaned into her hand, her body shuddering.
"I'm close," she whimpered. "Ash, I'm so close—"
"Come for me," he said, his voice rough. "Let me feel you come around my cock."
She did. Her cunt clenched around him, pulsing in waves, and he felt her orgasm ripple through her body, her legs trembling, her hand pressed hard against her mouth to swallow the scream. He kept thrusting through it, driving into her as she came, until he felt his own release building again.
"I'm going to cum," he warned. "Misty, I'm going to—"
"Do it," she gasped. "Fill me. I want to feel it."
He buried himself deep and came inside her, his cock pulsing as he emptied into her cunt, hot and thick, and she clenched around him, milking every drop. For a long moment they stayed like that, joined, his body pressed against hers, both of them panting.
Then she turned her head, and her lips brushed his ear.
"I'm not done," she said. "And neither are the other three."
He went still.
"May," she whispered. "Dawn. Iris. They're all here. They've all been watching you all day." Her hand reached back, fingers tangling in his hair. "And they all want a turn."
Ash's heart hammered. He looked toward the corner of the house, and through the gap in the fence, he could see them—May, standing at the edge of the yard, her hazel eyes fixed on the spot where he and Misty had disappeared. Dawn, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her face. Iris, barefoot on the grass, watching with the patience of a woman who'd been waiting years.
They knew.
Misty pulled him deeper inside her, holding him there, and her voice was a promise and a threat all at once.
"You're going to give each of us what you just gave me," she said. "And then you're going to go back to your wife, and you're going to pretend this never happened." She kissed his jaw. "Do you understand?"
He couldn't speak. He could only nod, his cock still buried inside her, the muffled sound of clinking glasses and laughter drifting over the fence like a world he no longer belonged to.
Misty smiled, and her hand clamped over her own mouth again as she let out a soft, satisfied laugh.
Misty pulled off him with a wet sound, his cock still slick with her, and turned to face the house. She smoothed her shorts back up over her hips with unhurried hands, and when she looked at him again there was something almost tender in her eyes—the same look she'd given him in that hot spring nine years ago, before she'd changed everything.
"May first," she said. "She's been waiting the longest."
Ash's cock was still half-hard, glistening, and he tucked himself back into his jeans with clumsy fingers. "Misty, I don't—"
"You don't what? Think they don't know?" She laughed, soft and low. "Ash, we've all been comparing notes for years. You think May didn't tell me about the closet at Oldale? You think Dawn didn't tell her about the bathhouse? We're not rivals, sweetheart. We're a rotation."
She walked toward the corner of the house, and after a beat he followed, his heart slamming against his ribs. The party noise swelled as they rounded the corner, and there was May—exactly where Misty had said she'd be, standing at the edge of the yard with her arms crossed, her hazel eyes tracking him like she'd been waiting all afternoon for this exact moment.
"Took you long enough," May said. Her voice was light, almost teasing, but there was a hunger underneath it he recognized. "I've been watching you two disappear behind that house for twenty minutes."
"Your turn," Misty said simply, and walked past her toward the gift table.
May's hand found his wrist—small, warm, the same hand that had trembled the first time she'd touched him in that closet in Hoenn. She led him not back behind the house but toward the side gate, and he followed because following was the only thing his body knew how to do right now.
The gate opened onto a narrow strip of grass between the house and the neighbor's fence, shaded by an overgrown hedge. It was private, hidden, and May turned to face him with a smile that was equal parts sweet and dangerous.
"You're going to be a dad," she said, and her hand came up to cup his cheek. "I still can't believe it. Little Ash Ketchum, all grown up."
"May—"
"Don't." She pressed her finger to his lips. "Don't apologize. Don't explain. I knew what I was getting into the day I took my wet clothes off in front of you in that Pokémon Center. I've never regretted it." Her hand slid down his chest, found his belt, worked the buckle. "And I'm not going to start now."
She dropped to her knees on the grass, and the sight of her there—chestnut hair in its side ponytail, hazel eyes looking up at him, the red bandanna bright against her throat—sent a fresh surge of blood to his cock. She unzipped him and took him out, and her fingers were soft where Misty's had been sure, exploring him like she was rediscovering something she'd missed.
"I thought about you," she said, stroking him slowly. "When I was on the road. When I was competing. When I was alone at night." She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the tip, and he shuddered. "I thought about the way you felt inside me."
She took him into her mouth, and it was different from Misty—slower, more deliberate, her tongue tracing every inch of him like she was memorizing it. Her hand cupped his balls, gently rolling them, and he braced himself against the fence, his head falling back.
"God, May—"
She hummed around him, and the vibration traveled up his spine. She worked him with her mouth until he was fully hard again, then pulled off and looked up at him, her lips slick and swollen.
"I want you to come inside me," she said. "I want to feel it."
He helped her up, his hands finding her hips, and she turned and braced herself against the fence. Her white crop top rode up, and he saw the smooth skin of her lower back, the curve of her ass as she pushed her shorts down. She wasn't bare like Misty—she had a neat triangle of chestnut hair, and she was already wet, glistening in the afternoon light.
"Do you have a condom?" she asked, and there was something almost hopeful in her voice.
He shook his head. "Serena and I—"
"Good." She reached back and spread herself open. "Then come inside me bare. Like you did with her."
He stepped up behind her, his cock pressing against her slick folds, and she moaned as he pushed in—slow, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around him. She was tighter than Misty, hotter, and she gasped as he seated himself fully inside her.
"Yes," she breathed. "God, yes. I forgot how good you feel."
He began to move, his hands gripping her hips, and she pushed back against him, meeting each thrust. The slap of skin filled the narrow space, and she bit her lip to stifle her moans, her eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me," he said, and she did, turning her head to meet his gaze. "I want to see your face when you come."
She whimpered, and he drove into her harder, his rhythm quickening. Her cunt clenched around him, fluttering, and he reached around to find her clit, rubbing in tight circles.
"Ash—" His name broke from her lips like a prayer. "Ash, I'm close—"
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock."
She did, her body shuddering, her cunt milking him in waves, and the feeling of her coming around him tipped him over the edge. He buried himself deep and came inside her, his cock pulsing, filling her with hot, thick cum, and she whimpered as she felt it, her hand reaching back to grip his thigh.
For a moment they stayed like that, joined, breathing hard. Then she pulled off him with a soft, wet sound, and his cum ran down her thigh. She turned and kissed him, deep and slow, and he tasted himself on her tongue.
"Go find Dawn," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "She's been waiting for you."
He stepped back, tucking himself in, and May pulled her shorts up and walked back toward the party without looking back. He stood there for a long moment, his heart pounding, then followed her.
The yard was bright with afternoon sun, the paper lanterns swaying in a light breeze. Serena was still by the gift table, laughing with someone he didn't recognize, one hand resting on her belly. He looked away before she could catch his eye.
Dawn was waiting for him by the side of the house, her arms crossed, a knowing smile on her face. Her navy blue hair was pulled back in its usual style, and her sapphire eyes sparkled with something that was equal parts mischief and hunger.
"Took you long enough," she said, echoing May. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Dawn—"
"Don't." She stepped closer, her hand finding his chest. "I've been counting down the days since the bathhouse. Every week, one day. And now you're here, and you're about to be a father, and I—" She shook her head. "I just want one more time. Just one."
He looked at her—at the girl who'd found his condoms in his wallet, who'd demanded the truth, who'd offered herself without hesitation. She was so small, so delicate, and yet she'd never once been fragile with him.
"Okay," he said.
She led him to the back door of the house, through the mudroom, into a small bathroom that smelled of soap and lavender. She locked the door behind them and turned to face him, her eyes bright.
"I want to do it the way we did it the first time," she said. "In the water."
He looked at the bathtub, then back at her. "Dawn, there's no—"
"I don't need a pool." She reached behind her and turned on the tap, and water began to fill the tub. "I just need you."
She stripped off her white and pink top, her blue skirt, her pink boots, until she stood before him in nothing but her slim, petite frame, her A-cup breasts bare, her skin pale and smooth. She stepped into the tub and sat down, the water rising around her, and looked up at him.
"Come here," she said.
He undressed and joined her, the water warm against his skin, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him—soft at first, then deeper, her tongue sliding against his. Her hand found his cock, stroking him under the water, and he groaned into her mouth.
"I missed you," she breathed. "I missed the way you feel."
She positioned herself over him, and he guided himself to her entrance. She was wet—from the water, from wanting him—and she sank down onto him with a gasp, her body taking him inch by inch until he was fully inside her.
"Yes," she whispered. "That's it. That's my Ash."
She began to move, rocking her hips, and the water sloshed around them. Her small body was tight around him, hot, and he gripped her hips to steady her as she rode him.
"I want to be the only one you think about," she said, her voice breathy. "I know I can't be. But for tonight—" She gasped as he thrust up into her. "For tonight, I want to be."
He drove into her harder, and she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. The water splashed over the edge of the tub, and she didn't care, and neither did he.
"I'm close," she whimpered. "Ash, I'm so close—"
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock."
She did, her body clenching around him, her head thrown back, and he followed her over the edge, coming inside her with a groan. She collapsed against his chest, trembling, and he held her, the water lapping around them.
For a long moment neither of them spoke. Then she pulled back, kissed him softly, and smiled.
"Go find Iris," she said. "She's been waiting a year for this."
He helped her out of the tub, water streaming off her pale skin, and she dried herself with a towel that hung on the back of the door. He found his own clothes and dressed in silence, the weight of what they'd done settling between them like steam in the small room.
"Iris is out back," Dawn said, pulling her blue skirt up over her hips. "By the old oak tree. She's been watching the house all afternoon." She paused, her sapphire eyes meeting his. "She's nervous, Ash. She's never been good at waiting."
He reached for her hand, squeezing it once. "Dawn, I—"
"Don't." She smiled, soft and genuine. "You don't have to say anything. I know what I am to you. I've always known." She rose on her toes and kissed him, quick and warm. "Go. She's been patient long enough."
He slipped out the back door, the afternoon sun warm on his face. The yard had grown quieter, the party settling into the lazy rhythm of mid-afternoon. Serena was still at the gift table, her laugh carrying across the grass, and he forced himself not to look at her as he crossed toward the old oak at the edge of the property.
Iris was leaning against the trunk, arms crossed, her amber eyes fixed on him as he approached. She'd changed out of her tribal pattern top into a simple white tank, and her long purple hair hung loose around her shoulders. She looked different than she had on that road in Unova—older, more certain, but the hunger in her eyes was the same.
"Took you long enough," she said, and her voice was rough, almost accusing. "I've been standing here watching you go through all of them. Misty. May. Dawn. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Iris—"
"Don't." She pushed off the tree and closed the distance between them. "I've been waiting a year for this. A whole year of watching you with Serena, of pretending I didn't think about that road every single night." Her hand came up to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. "I'm not pretending anymore."
She pulled him around the far side of the oak, out of sight of the house, and pressed him against the rough bark. Her mouth found his—hard, demanding, nothing like the soft kisses he'd shared with May and Dawn. This was a claiming, a year of want poured into a single kiss.
"I've thought about this," she breathed against his lips. "Every night. The way you felt inside me. The way you tasted when I swallowed you down." Her hand dropped to his belt, working the buckle with practiced fingers. "The way you moaned my name."
She dropped to her knees, and the sight of her there—dark skin, amber eyes looking up at him, that fierce hunger she'd always carried—sent a surge of blood to his cock. She pulled him free of his jeans and took him into her mouth without hesitation, her lips sliding down his length until she'd taken him to the root.
"Fuck, Iris—"
She hummed around him, and the vibration nearly undid him. She worked him with her throat, her head bobbing, her hands gripping his hips to steady herself. She was good—better than she'd been on that road, more practiced, more knowing—and he braced himself against the tree, his head falling back.
She pulled off with a wet sound, her lips slick and swollen. "I want you inside me," she said, her voice hoarse. "Bare. I want to feel you come inside me."
"Iris, Serena—"
"I know." She stood, her hands finding his shoulders. "I know she's having your baby. I know you love her. I've always known." Her amber eyes held his, fierce and unblinking. "But I've been waiting a year for this. One year of wanting you. Give me this, Ash. Just this once."
He looked at her—at the dragon tamer who'd never backed down from anything, who'd spent a year carrying the memory of that road like a secret, who was standing here now, offering herself without reservation.
"Okay," he said.
She turned and braced herself against the oak, her white shorts pushed down to her thighs. She wasn't wet like May had been, but she was slick enough, her body already responding to the memory of what they'd done before. He stepped up behind her, his cock pressing against her entrance, and she gasped as he pushed in.
She was tight—tighter than he remembered, her body clenching around him like it was trying to hold him inside. He gripped her hips and began to move, slow at first, letting her adjust to the stretch. She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, her hands flat against the bark.
"Yes," she breathed. "God, yes. I forgot—I forgot how good this feels."
He drove into her harder, and she cried out, her nails scraping the bark. The sound of their bodies filled the space under the oak, and he reached around to find her clit, rubbing in tight circles as he fucked her.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Ash, I'm so close—"
"Come for me," he said, his voice rough. "Come on my cock."
She did, her body shuddering, her cunt milking him in waves, and he followed her over the edge, coming inside her with a groan. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing, filling her with hot, thick cum, and she whimpered as she felt it, her body clenching around him.
She stayed pressed against the oak, her body still trembling, her hands flat on the bark. He remained inside her, his cock softening but still buried, and he could feel his cum leaking out around him, running down her dark thighs. She turned her head, and her amber eyes were soft in a way he'd never seen them.
"Don't say anything," she said, her voice rough. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't say it was a mistake." She pushed back against him once, a small, final movement, and he slipped out of her with a wet sound. She pulled her shorts up and turned to face him, and there was a fierceness in her eyes that hadn't been there on that road in Unova. "I got what I wanted. That's all I came here for."
She pressed a kiss to his cheek—quick, almost sisterly—and walked back toward the party without looking back. He watched her go, her long purple hair swinging, her bare feet silent on the grass, and he realized he'd never seen her walk away from anything before.
He tucked himself in and stood there for a long moment, the bark rough against his back, the afternoon sun warm on his face. The sounds of the party drifted around the corner of the house—laughter, a clinking glass, the thrum of conversation—and he forced himself to move, to walk back toward the light.
Serena was no longer at the gift table. He spotted her by the punch bowl, one hand resting on her belly, talking with Brock, who'd arrived while he was gone. Brock was saying something that made her laugh, her head tilted back, and the sound of it—bright and unguarded—hit him somewhere in his chest.
He crossed the grass toward her, and she saw him coming. Her smile softened, shifted into something private, and she excused herself from Brock and met him halfway.
"There you are," she said, and her hand found his, lacing their fingers together. Her palm was warm, and he could feel the faint pulse of her life against his. "I was starting to think you'd abandoned your own party."
"Just needed some air." The lie sat easy on his tongue now, worn smooth from years of practice. "You look beautiful."
She blushed, the color rising in her cheeks, and she squeezed his hand. "You're sweet. But you don't have to flatter me. I know I look like a blimp."
"You look like you're carrying our baby," he said, and the words felt strange and new in his mouth, even though he'd said them a hundred times since the test came back positive. "That's the most beautiful thing you've ever been."
Her eyes glistened, and she stepped closer, pressing her forehead to his. "I love you," she whispered. "I know today is crazy, with everyone here, but I love you. And I want you to know that I don't care what anyone thinks. This is our life. Our family."
He held her, his arms around her, her belly pressing against him, and for a moment the weight of the afternoon—Misty behind the house, May by the fence, Dawn in the tub, Iris against the oak—lifted, and there was only her, only this.
"I love you too," he said into her hair.
A throat cleared behind them, and they pulled apart. Misty stood a few feet away, a cup of punch in her hand, her green eyes unreadable.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said, and her voice was light, almost teasing. "But I think it's time for the toast. The one you've been dreading."
Serena laughed and wiped her eyes. "Oh god, is it? I completely forgot." She squeezed Ash's hand once more. "Come on. Let's go be the center of attention for five minutes."
She led him toward the small stage that had been set up at the far end of the yard, where a microphone stood waiting. The party had gathered, a loose semicircle of faces he knew and loved—Brock with his arms crossed, Misty with her punch, May with her side ponytail, Dawn with her bright smile, Iris leaning against a folding chair with her arms crossed, her amber eyes unreadable.
Serena took the microphone, and the crowd quieted.
"I'm not going to make a long speech," she said, and her voice was steady, certain. "I just want to say thank you. To all of you. For coming. For being here. For being the family I never had growing up." Her eyes found Ash's. "And to Ash—" Her voice cracked, just a little. "Thank you for staying. For waiting. For being the reason I believe in forever."
She raised her cup. "To us. To our baby. To the adventure we're about to start."
"To Ash and Serena!" Brock called out, and the crowd echoed it, cups raised, laughter and cheers filling the afternoon air.
Ash stepped up beside her and took the microphone, and the crowd quieted again. He looked out at them—the women he'd loved, the women who'd loved him, the woman who was carrying his child—and for a moment he didn't know what to say.
"I don't deserve any of you," he said finally, and his voice was rough. "I know that. I've known it for years. But I'm grateful. Every single day. For every one of you." He looked at Serena. "Especially you."
She smiled, tears bright in her eyes, and she took his hand. The crowd cheered again, and the toast was over, and the party resumed around them like a tide.
Misty caught his eye from across the yard and raised her cup to him. There was no jealousy in her gaze, no hurt—just a quiet understanding, a shared secret that had held for nine years. She lowered her cup and turned back to her conversation, and he watched her go, the orange ponytail swinging, and he felt something settle in his chest.
Serena's hand found his again. "Come on," she said. "Let's cut the cake before the kids get to it."
He let her lead him toward the cake table, and the afternoon stretched on around them, warm and golden, the paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. And for a while—for a long, sweet while—he let himself believe that this was all there was, that this was enough, that the legacy he was building could be held in a single pair of hands.
But the afternoon was not over yet. And there was one more thing he had to do before he could go home.
Misty found him by the punch bowl as the sun began to sink toward the horizon, the lanterns beginning to glow in the fading light. She didn't say anything—just tilted her head toward the house, and he followed her inside, through the kitchen, down a short hall, into a bedroom that smelled of cedar and old wood.
She locked the door behind them and turned to face him, and there it was—the look she'd given him in that hot spring nine years ago, the one that had changed everything.
"I've been waiting all day for this," she said, and her voice was low, rough, the voice she used when it was just the two of them. "Watching you go through all of them. May. Dawn. Iris. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
"Misty—"
"Don't." She stepped closer, her hands finding his belt. "Don't tell me you're tired. Don't tell me you've had enough. I've been waiting a month for this. I'm not leaving this room until you've given me everything."
She dropped to her knees and unzipped him, and her hands were sure, practiced, the hands of a woman who'd been learning his body for nine years. She took him into her mouth without preamble, and he gasped, his hand finding the back of her head.
She worked him with her throat, her head bobbing, her green eyes looking up at him, and he felt himself hardening again, the familiar heat building. She pulled off with a wet sound and stood, her yellow tank top coming over her head, her denim shorts falling to the floor.
She was bare between her legs, as she'd always been, and she was already wet, glistening. She turned and braced herself against the bed, looking back at him over her shoulder.
"I've been thinking about this all day," she said. "About the way you feel inside me. About the way you fill me up." She reached back and spread herself open. "Come on, Ash. Give me what I came here for."
He stepped up behind her, his cock sliding along the slick heat of her bare cunt, and Misty let out a low, shuddering breath. She was completely smooth, the skin of her pussy soft and wet against him, and when he pressed forward, she pushed back to meet him. He sank into her in one long, slow stroke, and she gasped, her fingers curling into the quilt beneath her.
"There," she breathed. "God, there. That's what I've been waiting for."
She was tight—not the tightness of a girl, but the grip of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and had spent a month clenching around nothing, thinking about him. Her cunt hugged his cock like it was trying to pull him deeper, and he gripped her hips, holding still for a moment, letting the sensation wash over him. Nine years, and she still felt like coming home.
"You feel that?" she asked, her voice muffled against the bed. "That's what I think about when I'm alone. Not the sex. Not even the way you look. Just the way you fill me up."
He began to move, slow at first, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before pushing back in. She made a sound—half moan, half whimper—and pushed back against him, meeting his rhythm. The cedar-and-wood smell of the room filled his nose, and the bed creaked softly beneath them, a steady, rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of his hips against her ass.
"Harder," she said. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile. I've never been fragile, not with you."
He drove into her harder, and she cried out, a sharp, open sound that she quickly stifled by pressing her fist to her mouth. The party was still going on outside, the murmur of voices and laughter drifting through the window, and the risk of being heard only made it hotter. He gripped her ponytail, pulling her head back, and she moaned around her fist, her back arching.
"You like that?" he asked, his voice rough. "You like being fucked while everyone's out there toasting our baby?"
"Yes," she gasped. "God, yes. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
He didn't. He fucked her with a rhythm born of nine years of knowing her body—when to slow, when to drive deep, when to angle his hips so the head of his cock dragged against the spot that made her see stars. She was wet, so wet that he could hear it, the slick sound of his cock sliding into her filling the room, and she pushed back against him with a hunger that matched his own.
"Tell me," she breathed. "Tell me I'm still the best you've ever had."
"You are," he said, and it wasn't a lie. May was sweet, Dawn was eager, Iris was fierce—but Misty was the one who'd started it all. She was the one who'd seen him in that hot spring and decided she wanted him, who'd taken his virginity with the same sure hands that now gripped the quilt. She was the standard every other woman had been measured against.
She turned her head to look at him, her green eyes bright with something that was equal parts lust and tenderness. "Then come inside me," she said. "Fill me up. I want to feel you the way I did the first time."
He reached around and found her clit, rubbing in tight circles as he drove into her. She gasped, her body shuddering, and he felt her cunt begin to flutter around him—that telltale sign she was close. He kept the rhythm, kept the pressure, and she came with a cry muffled by her fist, her body clenching around him in waves that dragged him over the edge with her.
He buried himself deep and came inside her, his cock pulsing, filling her with hot, thick cum. She whimpered as she felt it, her body milking him, and for a long moment they stayed like that—joined, breathless, the weight of nine years and a secret that had held between them settling into the room like dust.
Finally, she pulled off him with a wet sound, and his cum ran down her bare thighs. She turned and sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at him, and there was a softness in her eyes he'd only ever seen in the aftermath.
"You're going to be a good father," she said, and her voice was quiet, certain. "I've known it since I was eleven years old. You're going to be the best father I've ever known."
He reached for her, pulling her into a kiss, and she tasted like herself—like the hot spring, like nine years of secrets, like the first woman who'd ever looked at him and seen something worth keeping.
She pulled back, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "Go back to her," she said. "She's been waiting for you. She's the one who matters now."
He dressed in silence, and she did the same, and when they walked out of the bedroom together, the party had shifted into the warm glow of early evening. The lanterns were lit, the cake was half-eaten, and Serena was standing by the punch bowl, one hand resting on her belly, a smile on her face that was meant only for him.
He crossed the grass toward her, and she met him halfway, her hand finding his. "There you are," she said. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."
"Just needed a minute," he said, and the lie was smooth, worn, the same one he'd been telling for years. "You look beautiful."
She smiled, and for a moment, he let himself believe that this—this life, this woman, this child growing inside her—was all there was. That the legacy he was building could be held in a single pair of hands, a single heartbeat, a single promise.
As the sun sank lower and the lanterns glowed brighter, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Misty standing behind him, her green eyes holding his, a small, knowing smile on her lips.
"One more thing," she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "Before you go. There's something I've been meaning to give you."
She led him back toward the house, and he followed, his heart pounding, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a second skin.
He expected her to lead him back to the bedroom. Instead, Misty pulled him through the kitchen, past the mudroom, and out the side door into the deepening twilight. The lanterns were lit now, warm pools of gold strung across the yard, and the party had settled into the lazy hum of people who'd eaten too much cake and drunk too much punch.
"Where are we going?" he asked, but she didn't answer.
She led him around the far side of the house, past the oak where Iris had pressed him against the bark, past the hedge where May had taken him, past the fence where she herself had braced her hands and let him fill her. At the very back of the property, tucked behind a row of overgrown rhododendrons, stood a small greenhouse. Its glass panes caught the last of the sunset, glowing amber, and inside he could see shapes moving—too many shapes.
Misty pushed the door open.
The greenhouse was warm and humid, thick with the smell of earth and growing things. And there, in the narrow aisle between potting benches, stood May and Dawn and Iris.
May had her arms crossed, her side ponytail swaying as she tilted her head. Dawn sat on the edge of a potting bench, her legs swinging, her sapphire eyes bright with that knowing mischief. Iris leaned against the far wall, barefoot, her amber eyes fixed on him with the patient hunger of a woman who'd been waiting years.
"Took you long enough," May said.
"We've been here for an hour," Dawn added, hopping off the bench. "Misty said she'd bring you. We were starting to think she'd kept you for herself."
"I shared, didn't I?" Misty said, and her hand found the small of Ash's back, pushing him forward into the center of the aisle. "Now it's your turn."
He stood there, his heart hammering, four pairs of eyes on him. The greenhouse smelled of tomato leaves and wet soil, and the heat of the day had gathered under the glass, pressing against his skin. He could feel himself hardening again, his body betraying him even as his mind tried to catch up.
"All of you," he said, and it came out rough. "You planned this."
"We've been planning it for months," Iris said, pushing off the wall. "Ever since Serena sent out the invitations. We all got the same one, Ash. We all RSVP'd the same way."
Dawn stepped closer, her hand finding his belt. "You're having a baby with someone else. We know. We've always known. But that doesn't change what we are to you." She worked the buckle with practiced fingers. "And we wanted to remind you—one last time, before you become someone's father—what you are to us."
She unzipped him and freed his cock. It was already half-hard, and she wrapped her fingers around it, stroking him slowly as the other three closed in around him.
"We're going to take turns," May said, her hazel eyes tracking Dawn's hand. "And when we're done, we're going to give you something to remember us by."
Dawn dropped to her knees on the packed dirt floor, and the sight of her there—navy hair, sapphire eyes looking up at him, that small knowing smile—sent a jolt through him. She took him into her mouth without preamble, her lips sliding down his length, and he gasped, his hand finding the back of her head.
"That's it," Misty murmured from somewhere behind him. "Let her warm you up."
Dawn worked him with her throat, her head bobbing, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside. She was eager, hungry, the same girl who'd found his condoms in his wallet and demanded the truth. She pulled off with a wet sound and stroked him with her hand, her eyes locked on his.
"I want to feel you come inside me," she said, her voice breathy. "One more time. Like the bathhouse."
She stood and turned, bracing herself against the potting bench, and pulled her blue skirt up around her waist. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. May stepped forward and helped her, spreading her open, and Ash saw how wet she already was, glistening in the warm light.
"Come on," Dawn whispered, looking back at him. "I've been counting down the days."
He stepped up behind her and sank into her in one long stroke. She gasped, her fingers curling into the edge of the bench, and her cunt clenched around him, hot and tight. The other three watched, their eyes hungry, and the weight of their gaze made it hotter.
He fucked her there, on the potting bench, the smell of soil and green things filling his nose, and she came with a cry she stifled by biting her own fist. He pulled out and came inside her, filling her with hot, thick cum, and she whimpered as she felt it, her body milking him.
May was next. She pulled him down onto a pile of burlap sacks in the corner, straddled him, and rode him with a slow, deliberate rhythm that had him gripping her hips. Her B-cup breasts bounced with each thrust, and she leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his, tasting Dawn on his tongue.
"I love you," she breathed against his lips. "I've always loved you. I know I'm not the one you're having a baby with. But I love you."
He drove up into her, and she cried out, her body shuddering. She came around him, clenching, and he followed her over the edge, spilling inside her a second time. She stayed on top of him for a long moment, her forehead pressed to his, her breath warm on his face.
Then she rose, and Iris took her place.
Iris didn't ask. She pushed him back against the potting bench, stripped off her white tank, and pressed him down onto the packed dirt. She was fierce, all teeth and nails and amber eyes, and she took him inside her with a hunger that had been building for a year. She rode him hard, her dark skin slick with sweat, her long purple hair falling around her shoulders, and she came with a growl, her cunt clenching around him like a fist.
He came inside her a third time, his body giving up everything it had, and she collapsed on top of him, her breath ragged.
"That's what I came here for," she said, her voice hoarse. "That's what I've been waiting for."
She rose, and then there was only Misty—and the door of the greenhouse opened, and Serena stepped inside.
Ash's heart stopped.
She stood in the doorway, the golden light of the lanterns behind her, one hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly. She was wearing the same pink dress she'd worn to the party, and her hair was still in its side braid, and she was smiling.
"Serena," he said, and his voice cracked. "I—"
"Don't." She walked toward him, her hand rising to cup his cheek, and her smile was soft, knowing, the smile she'd given him in that hotel room in Lumiose when she'd told him she wasn't on the pill anymore. "I know, Ash. I've always known."
He stared at her, his mind reeling. "You knew?"
"I've known since Hoenn," she said, and her thumb traced his cheekbone. "Misty told me. Years ago. Before we even started dating." She glanced at the other women, who had gathered around them, and there was no jealousy in her eyes—only understanding. "She told me what you were. What you'd always been. And I decided I didn't care."
"Serena—"
"I love you," she said simply. "I've loved you since I was a little girl at that summer camp, watching you fall off your bike. I've loved you through every region, every battle, every woman. And I'm not going to stop loving you just because you're not perfect." She leaned in and kissed him, soft and deep. "You're mine, Ash. You've always been mine. And tonight, I want to remind you why."
She pulled back, and her hand found his cock, stroking him back to life. The other women watched, and there was something almost reverent in their silence.
"You've given all of them a turn," she said, her voice low. "Now it's mine."
She dropped to her knees on the dirt floor, and the sight of her there—honey-blonde hair, deep blue eyes, her belly round with his child—sent a surge of blood to his cock that he hadn't thought possible. She took him into her mouth, and it was different from all the others. It was Serena. It was home.
She worked him with her throat, her tongue tracing every inch of him, and he braced himself against the potting bench, his head falling back. She deepthroated him with a practiced ease that made his knees weak, taking him all the way to the root, her nose brushing his pelvis, her throat convulsing around him.
"Fuck, Serena—"
She hummed around him, and the vibration nearly undid him. She pulled off and stroked him with her hand, her eyes locked on his, and she rose, turning her back to him. She lifted her pink dress over her hips, and she wasn't wearing anything underneath either.
"I want you inside me," she said, looking back at him. "Bare. Like the hotel. Like every night since."
He stepped up behind her, his cock pressing against her slick folds, and she moaned as he pushed in. She was wet, so wet, her body already open for him, and he sank into her with a groan, feeling her heat close around him.
"Yes," she breathed. "God, yes. That's my Ash."
He fucked her there, in the greenhouse, with the other women watching, his hands on her hips, her belly pressing against his fingers. She came with a cry, her cunt clenching around him, and he followed her over the edge, spilling inside her a fourth time.
She stayed pressed against him for a long moment, her breath ragged, then pulled off and turned to face him. Her hand found his cheek, and she kissed him, soft and slow.
"Now," she said, and there was something almost ceremonial in her voice. "The last thing."
The other women stepped forward. Misty, May, Dawn, Iris. They gathered around him, and Serena took her place among them.
"We've been planning this for months," Misty said, and her hands found the hem of her yellow tank top. "You're going to be a father, Ash. And we wanted to give you something to remember us by."
They stripped off their tops, and then they pressed together around him, their breasts sliding against his cock. Misty's were the fullest, May's soft and warm, Dawn's small and firm, Iris's dark and perfect. And Serena's—Serena's were the ones he knew best, the ones he'd held every night for a year.
They wrapped their tits around his cock, one over the other, a wall of soft flesh that closed around him from every side. Misty's hands guided them, pressing them together, and the sensation was overwhelming—four sets of breasts, five women, all of them working him with a single purpose.
"This is for you," May said, her voice soft. "From all of us."
They moved together, a slow, rhythmic slide that had him gripping the edge of the potting bench. Their tits enveloped him, slick with spit and pre-cum, and he could feel himself building again, the heat coiling low in his belly.
"Come for us," Serena whispered, her hand finding his cheek. "Come on our tits, Ash. Give us everything."
He did. It crashed over him like a wave, bigger than any of the others, his cock pulsing as he came, spilling hot, thick cum across their breasts. They didn't pull away—they pressed closer, taking every drop, their hands working him through it until he was spent, trembling, empty.
He collapsed against the potting bench, his breath ragged, and the five women gathered around him, their breasts glistening with his cum. Serena leaned in and kissed him, soft and deep, and when she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."
He looked at her, at all of them, and he didn't know what to say. He was empty—drained in every way a man could be drained—and yet, somehow, he felt fuller than he'd ever been.
"I don't deserve any of you," he said, his voice rough.
"We know," Misty said, and there was a smile in her voice. "That's why we love you."
She pulled her top back on, and the others followed, and one by one they filed out of the greenhouse, back toward the party, leaving him alone with Serena in the warm, earthy dark.
She took his hand, lacing their fingers together, and pressed her forehead to his. "Come on," she said softly. "Let's go cut the cake. Our guests are waiting."
He nodded, and she led him out of the greenhouse, into the lantern-lit night, and the party swallowed them back up like they'd never been gone.