Call Me Troi

she/her | 30's | MDNI | multi-fandom A dumpster fire of a nerd, keeping warm by my fire with my books. there is no aesthetic here, mostly fic reblogs. for the full psychosis, scroll the likes.

[societyfolklore]

Not Funny 

Title:  Not Funny 

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Female Reader

Warnings:  Explicit Content, Minors DNI, 18+  

Words: 454 words  

A/N: Entry for Candy Heart Sleepover Challenge @the-slumberparty

Prompt: <3 U Is it a declaration of love or is it just a slip of the tongue?

He said it mid-thrust.

One second Ransom was fucking you hard enough to rattle the headboard, the next he was breaking on a groan, burying himself deep as he spilled and blurted, “Fuck, I love you,” like the words had been torn out of him.

You blinked, a breathless laugh catching in your throat.

Oh.

Well, that was new.

He froze like someone had pulled the plug. Then he was yanking out of you in a rush, rolling away like you’d turned radioactive, leaving you messy, empty, and now very awake.

By the time you propped yourself up on your elbows, still naked and starting to giggle, he was already half-dressed and pacing; shoving his arms into his sweater, cheeks pink, hair a wreck. He wouldn’t look at you as he snatched your underwear off the floor and tossed them at you like evidence he needed out of his crime scene.

“This isn’t funny,” he snapped.

Too late, you were already laughing.

“Really?” You wiggled into your panties, completely unbothered by the fact you were still naked from the waist up. “Because I’m having a great time. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“I don’t,” he shot back immediately, too fast, too sharp. He reached for his belt with more force than necessary, leather snapping through the loops. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Of course you didn’t,” you cooed, nodding solemnly. “You just got caught up. Lost in the moment. It happens.”

He slowed a fraction. “Exactly.”

You smiled, all teeth. “Pussy that good, huh?”

Ransom froze, belt buckle halfway done. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, you did,” you said, tilting your head. “Something about loving me as you- ”

“Okay!” His voice went high enough to crack, hands flying up. “We don’t need an instant replay, Christ.” He scrubbed a hand over his face like he could erase the last ten minutes. “Can you just… leave now?”

You plucked your shirt off the floor but made no move to put it on, just leaned back on your elbows on his bed, perfectly at ease in your own skin. His eyes dragged over you helplessly and he swore under his breath.

“You seem like you’re in a vulnerable place right now,” you said sweetly. “Wanna cuddle?”

His head snapped up. “Get out.”

You grinned, slipping your shirt over your head at last and got up from the bed “Relax, Drysdale. I’m not gonna make a thing out of it.”

He watched you tug on your jeans, jaw tight, shoulders still tense like he expected you to explode on him any second.

He glared. “It was nothing.”

“Mm.” You opened the door, smirking. “Course it was, we all say stupid things all the time...” 

[the-slumberparty]

Slip of the tongue, eh, Ransom? We know better. We all know better.

Wonderful!

[echo-loves-flowerboy]

I love Apollo’s and Poseidon’s relationship with each other so much like Apollo is so blatantly his favourite nephew. In Hyginus he protects Leto and gives her a place to rest and have her children. In the Iliad he literally does Apollo’s job for him even though they’re on opposite sides, constantly trying to convince Apollo to switch sides and going ‘you start champ’ when they’re supposed to fight each other and never faulted him for backing down from the fight. They laboured at Troy and almost got their ears chopped off together, they cleaned up the mess after the Trojan war together, Apollo never went after Odysseus for sacking his beloved city but he was definitely watching uncy Poseidon doing it for him. They’re both patrons of sailors, they both personify natural disasters, they both love dolphins, I’m sure Poseidon was watching Apollo do his weird dolphin-follower-conversion-thing in Delphi and went ‘you’re doing amazing sweetie! <3’

Like I’m just saying Poseidon is that uncle you call when your dad threatened to throw you into Tartarus again and you need somewhere to sleep, he would give Apollo terrible relationship advice and bake him the ancient greek equivalent of brownies whenever he gets heartbroken. They’re just sweet like that your honor.

[pulverized2dust]

From the official peacemaker instagram account!!!

[callmetroi]

Happy Valentines my weirdos!

[geminiwritten]

all yours ; tyler owens

fandom: twisters

pairing: tyler x reader

summary: after being best friends and chasing storms with tyler for years, one night changes everything... now you're staring at a pregnancy test with two pink lines—and just as you're working up the nerve to tell him, tyler announces to the world that he never wants to settle down or have kids

notes: i'm sorry? i want to say i have no words but apparently... i have nearly 15k of them right here!!! i don't know who this is for, i lowkey feel like it will flop because it's long and angsty, but please let me know what you think if you read this!!! i've been working on it on and off for a while, so i am very glad to finally get it posted!

warnings: swearing, angst (but happy ending), pregnancy, a lot of crying, very brief mention of abortion, very brief discussion about the possibility of losing the baby, talk about sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), a bit of horniness, and just a lot of emotions!!! (please let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: i am not pregnant and have never been pregnant. all this information comes from quick google searches, and things i've read in books. so i'm very if it's wrong or dumb. please don't come for me!

word count: 14818

You’ve known Tyler Owens since you were ten. 

You’ve been chasing storms with him for nine years, and hopelessly in love with him for eight. 

You’ve laughed as he lost seven cowboy hats to tornados, and helped him replace six shattered windshields. 

You’ve loved him through five of his lousy girlfriends and four of your own doomed boyfriends. 

You’ve tried—and failed—to tell him how you feel three times. 

You’ve kissed him twice. 

And you’ve slept with him once. 

Once. Exactly three weeks ago. 

You were both drunk—though you were probably pretending to be more gone than you really were—and lonely. Sure, you’d kissed before that night—once, years ago, on a dare. But that night, the second kiss happened as you stepped out of the bar. It was misting lightly, streetlights casting a glow, and Tyler looked so damn good as he—drunkenly—told you that you looked beautiful. How were you supposed to resist that? 

Back at the motel, you tried to go your separate ways. You even made it to your room alone. You were just about to reach for your vibrator, hoping to ease the ache low in your belly, when there was a knock at the door. 

You knew who it was before you even opened it. 

Tyler. 

You let him in—because of course you did—and he was on you in seconds. There was no way you were going to push him off. You’ve been in love with him for the better part of a decade. 

It was hot and desperate. All teeth and tongue, and handprints seared into your skin—ones you know you’ll never forget the feeling of. You were both so fucking wrecked there was no stopping it. 

Not even when the condom obviously broke while he was putting it on. 

Not even when something deep in your chest told you this was a bad idea. 

But now? Three weeks later—you wish you’d had more restraint. 

Sure, it was awkward the next morning—after Tyler snuck out of your room at three a.m., thinking you hadn’t noticed. It stayed awkward for about a week, with neither of you daring to talk about it. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t bring it up. It was obviously just one night for him. Maybe he was just curious. You’ve been friends for so long. A lot of friends have slept together at least once… right? 

But even in that painfully awkward week of trying to relearn how to be friends, you couldn’t quite regret it. 

Because eventually, he cracked a joke. Then you said something sarcastic. And although there was still a hint of something more simmering under the surface, things almost felt normal again. 

Almost. 

It’s only now that you regret it—everything. 

Right now, as you stare at the two pink lines on the stick beside the sink, your vision blurred with tears, and your stomach roiling with nausea. 

The harsh crack of knuckles against the bathroom door startles you, sending your heart leaping into your throat. 

“You alright in there?” Lily calls through the wood. “It’s been like ten minutes—I’m getting worried. Do I need to break down the door?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your voice to come out steady. “Y-Yeah, I’m all good.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Lily speaks again, her voice lower this time. “Are you sure? You don’t sound good.” 

You shake your head and hastily wipe the wetness from your cheeks. Then you snap a photo of the pregnancy test before tossing it into the trash—this is just a gas station bathroom. No one’s tracing that stick back to you unless they run a DNA test, and that’s not likely. 

It’s not like you plan on going missing. Just… away. For a while. 

You splash your face with cool water and stare at your reflection in the mirror until you’re convinced you look close enough to normal. Then you square your shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door. 

It’s only Lily waiting there—thank God—but she’s already watching you with sharp, perceptive eyes. 

“You good?” 

You nod once, forcing a smile. “Never better. Sorry. Lady stuff.” 

Technically not a lie. Still, you cringe at the way it comes out. You’re not someone who shies away from saying things plainly—especially not something as basic as a damn period. 

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t push. 

“Alright. Let’s get going. Tyler said we’re only twenty minutes out from a decent-sized town. Should be able to find good food and a motel where we don’t have to share rooms.” 

You nod again, not trusting yourself to laugh or offer a sarcastic remark. You just walk past her, the fake smile still fixed to your face, and head for the door. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re climbing out of the RV in a motel parking lot. Tyler’s truck is parked beside the reception office, his hat on the dashboard and Boone waiting in the front seat. Dani and Dexter walk ahead of you, muttering about something they saw pop up on the radar earlier, and Lily is rummaging around in the back seat of Tyler’s truck—her butt sticking out the passenger door—looking for the headphones she lost yesterday. 

Your heart aches at the thought of leaving, throbbing dully behind your sternum. You’re not sure if the nausea swirling in your gut is from the idea of walking away from your friends—your family—or because of your newly discovered… condition. Either way, you feel sick. And you need space. Time to think. To breathe. 

Once everyone has a room, you lug your few belongings up to the second floor and collapse onto the bed. You text Lily, telling her you feel sick sick—period pains—and that you’re going to skip dinner. You ask her to tell the others for you, because you can’t stomach lying to their faces. 

You spend the next few hours on your laptop, reading everything you can about pregnancy. You scroll through pages about what happens to your body, how your life is going to change. You read about complications, risks, even abortion. 

It’s strange, really. You’ve always been practical, logical. And this doesn’t seem like the practical choice. But you knew the second you saw those two lines that you were going to keep it. 

Call it maternal instinct. Or just plain insanity. Either way, your mind is made up. 

Now you just need a plan. 

Most people don’t announce their pregnancy until twelve weeks—you know that much—so you’re giving yourself twelve weeks to sort your shit out. 

First, you need to leave. You’ll make up some excuse about a sick family member and tell the crew your mom needs you immediately. Tyler will try to come with you—call it a detour or a bonus road trip—so you’ll have to convince him your mom only wants to see you. No one else. 

Then you’ll leave for... an indefinite stretch. You’re not going straight to your mom’s. You’ll hole up in a hotel halfway home, see a doctor, get the blood tests, the shots, the supplements—all the crap you’re supposed to do. 

Once your head is on straighter and you’ve got a handle on things, you’ll start looking for an apartment. Something short-term, just in case… well, in case you lose the baby. At least then you’ll have somewhere to crash and recover before deciding what comes next. It feels morbid, sure, but you’re not a total daydreamer. Life can be brutal, and you know better than to think you’ll be spared. 

But assuming things go well—assuming you hit that twelve-week mark after moving in—that’s when you’ll start telling people. You’ll tell your mom first, maybe find a therapist and tell them too. And then... Tyler. 

The moment his name crosses your mind, your body reacts. You jump up from the motel bed and stumble into the tiny bathroom, hunching over the toilet and gagging like you’re going to throw up. But nothing comes up—your stomach is empty. You know this isn’t the pregnancy making you sick. It’s the thought of telling him. 

It feels cruel, waiting three whole months before telling the father. But you can’t bring yourself to do it any sooner. You know this isn’t what Tyler wants. Especially not with you. What happened between you was a one-time thing—a fun night, a way to blow off steam. It wasn’t meant to change everything. 

So you’ll wait. Make sure it’s real. Make sure it’s sticking. Plain and simple. Harsh? Maybe. But you need time to figure yourself out before dropping a bomb on him. And by the time you do, it’ll be six months to impact. Give or take. 

You have no idea how he’ll react, but you know it won’t be like one of those social media videos where the dad cries and jumps for joy. No—this will be very different. Which is exactly why you’re not telling him for at least a month or two. You’ll figure out exactly how far along you are once you see a doctor. 

You take a deep breath and snap your laptop shut. Time to get some sleep. You’ve got a full day of driving tomorrow, and you’re going to need the energy. 

- 

“What?” Tyler drops his bacon back onto the plate, staring at you wide-eyed across the diner table. “If you’re going home, then we’re all-” 

“No, Tyler,” you interrupt, sighing as you stare down at the table. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “She said just me. I know you want to help, but I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay. I’ll call as soon as I get there and keep you updated. I just—she sounded really fragile, alright? I don’t want to overwhelm her.” 

It doesn’t feel like that much of a lie. You’re not talking about your mom—you’re talking about yourself. At least, that’s how you justify it to your guilty conscience. 

“You sure?” Lily asks, leaning forward beside Tyler. “We don’t have to go see her. We can just come to town, hang out nearby. We don’t mind staying a week or so.” 

You take a deep breath, eyes locked on your untouched plate of plain toast and fried eggs. “It might not be a week,” you say, bracing yourself. “It could be a couple of months.” 

“Months?” Dani echoes, her coffee cup clattering against the table. 

Tyler looks stunned, frozen in place. His expression is unreadable—shock, maybe disbelief, etched into every line of his face. His lips are slightly parted—lips you haven’t stopped thinking about, hot on your skin—and his brows pinch together. His cheeks are flushed, but not with embarrassment. He looks... unsure. Concerned. 

“What are we going to do without you for a couple months?” Lily asks, her eyes wide. 

You wave a hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’ll be fine. I’ll only be a phone call away. If I can come back earlier, I will. But right now, I really need to be there for... for my mom.” 

God, you’re a terrible liar this morning. 

“When do you need to leave?” Tyler asks, his voice low and flat. 

You swallow hard, still staring at your toast. “Today.” 

A wave of protests, questions, and complaints breaks out—everyone but Tyler. He stays silent, still watching you like he’s trying to piece something together. Like you’re a puzzle he didn’t realise needed solving. 

He looks at you like he sees straight through the lie. His green eyes don’t blink, and it makes your stomach churn. 

For the next half hour, you lie and deflect as best you can. You keep your head down, your answers short. No promises, no explanations. Breakfast turns into a full-blown protest, your friends more upset than you expected by your sudden departure. But no matter how hard they try, nothing could convince you to stay. 

You can’t. 

Back at the motel, you pack your things. You’d already asked Dexter to drive you to the nearest car rental place—he grumbled but agreed. Now comes the part you’re dreading. 

The goodbyes. 

To them, this is temporary—a month or two, maybe. But you know better. This is something else. Something longer. More permanent. 

Moisture stings your eyes as you zip your duffel shut. Your nose burns, and this time, you don’t stop the tears from falling. 

“Hey,” Tyler’s voice startles you, and you realize in your rush to get into the room, you hadn’t fully shut the door. 

You sniff and wipe your cheeks, keeping your back to him. “Hey.” You clear your throat. “What’s up?” 

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re seriously asking me that?” 

You don’t respond. You just keep your head down and continue stuffing the last of your things into your backpack. 

He sighs as the door clicks shut behind him. A few steps bring him closer, and you can almost feel his warmth hovering just a few feet behind you. 

“Look,” he says gently, “I’m not going to press you about what’s really going on. But it’s obvious something’s got you rattled. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. We all are. Whatever it is.” 

You close your eyes, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. 

“I’m worried,” he continues. “This isn’t you. Cutting and running like this? I know you. I know your family. This is something else. And I’m really damn worried.” 

“It’s fine, Ty,” you say, your voice catching in your throat, the words barely a whisper. 

“No, it’s not.” He steps closer, and now his warmth is unmistakable—his presence pressing in, impossible to ignore. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but I need you to promise me you’ll be okay. That you’ll come back.” 

You drop the sweater you’ve been folding and refolding, letting it fall from your hands. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping gently around your bicep, coaxing you to turn toward him. Then he lifts your chin with one curled finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

You can barely make out his face through the tears—hot and heavy, falling faster than you can blink them away. 

His voice cracks. “It’s not the same out there without you. You know that.” 

A sob breaks from your chest, and you fall forward. He catches you easily, arms strong and sure around your trembling frame. Pressed against him, for a moment it all feels like it might be okay. Like maybe this whole life-altering thing won’t change everything after all. Tyler makes you feel like you can handle anything. Like you’re more than human. Invincible, even. 

Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

But you can’t stay in his arms forever. You’re not even sure he’d be holding you if he knew the truth—if he knew you were the one holding the pin to the grenade that could blow his whole life to pieces. 

“You’re scaring the shit out of me, darlin’,” he whispers into your hair. 

You sniffle against his shirt, steadying your voice. “I’m okay. It’s okay.” 

He slowly lets you go, giving you space to stand on your own again. 

“I promise you’ll see me again,” you say, trying to sound certain. “I promise I’ll be back once everything’s... sorted.” 

His brows draw together like he wants to believe you but can’t quite manage it. Still, he nods, swallowing whatever emotion is caught in his throat. Then he pulls you into one last hug, holding you tighter than before, like he’s afraid to let go. 

You inhale deeply—maybe too deeply—committing his scent to memory, as if you hadn’t already. You memorise the way he holds you, the way your bodies fit together, and the quick, steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. 

You know you’ll see Tyler again. One way or another. 

But it won’t be the same. Nothing is the same anymore. 

- 

“You’re both doing really well,” the doctor says, eyes scanning the computer screen. “Your baby is perfectly healthy, and everything about you is exactly where it should be for fourteen weeks.” 

You nod and give her a tight-lipped smile, gripping the ultrasound picture like a lifeline. 

“And the bump isn’t... too big?” you ask, trying not to sound completely clueless. 

The doctor smiles warmly. “It’s perfect,” she assures you. “You’re showing a little more than some women might at this stage, but everyone’s different.” 

You nod again. “Okay, good.” 

“Any other concerns?” she asks after a moment. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Good.” She pushes up from her chair and heads for the door. “I’ll see you in four weeks.” 

You smile and nod once more. “Thanks, doctor.” 

“No worries. And—” she pauses, brows pulling together slightly. “You know you can bring the father to these appointments, right? Regardless of your relationship, he’s welcome. It might help ease some of the anxiety.” 

You blink quickly at the sudden sting in your eyes—fucking hormones—and offer a watery smile. “Thanks. I’ll... talk to him.” 

She gives you one last kind smile before shutting the door, leaving you alone in the pale-yellow hallway with nothing but spiralling thoughts. 

Okay, so you haven’t told Tyler... yet. But you plan to. As soon as you stop crying at everything and start acting like a functional adult. These hormones have wrecked you—just like the internet said they would. 

One minute, you’re sobbing over nothing. The next, you’re halfway to committing a felony. And then suddenly, you’re numb. Emotionally whiplashed. And the thought of telling Tyler—of seeing him again—drags every human emotion you have straight to the surface. 

You’ve talked to him a few times. The rest of the crew, too. You’ve spun some lies and danced around their questions. You spoke to your mom and made her promise to keep your secret—because you know Tyler’s tried calling her since you left. But you haven’t yet mustered the courage to tell anyone else. 

It’s been exactly eight weeks since you left. You're running on borrowed time. You know they’ll come looking soon, and you can’t let that happen. You need to go to them. To Tyler. You need to tell him the truth—your way—before it all blows up. 

But first... you need a really big bowl of croutons. Just croutons. And if you don’t get them soon, you’re going to kill someone. 

Pregnancy is wild. 

A few hours later, you’re back in your studio apartment, curled up on the lounge you bought last week, your laptop propped on your belly and a second bowl of croutons at your side. Your résumé is open, and you’re tweaking it for a few job applications—hoping to land something at a desk for at least a few months. You could use the extra money. 

On the small TV across the room—still sitting on the floor because you don’t have a table yet—YouTube is playing. More specifically, the live stream of a storm chaser you used to know. Someone who follows storms and interviews other chasers. Her name is Corey—you’ve met her a few times, but she’s never interviewed you. She’s always wanted Tyler, though. Everyone does. The man has... an effect on people. 

Today’s the day, apparently. She finally convinced him to do an interview. And to say you’re jealous of how close she’s standing to him would be a laughable understatement. 

Think pregnancy crying is bad? Try the horniness. 

Ugh. 

You can barely glance at a photo of Tyler without creaming your jeans. Just thinking about him twists your stomach into a knot—equal parts guilt and raw, desperate lust. You’ve thought about him way more than you should while touching yourself, and honestly? You don’t even care. 

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s the father of the baby growing inside you or just because you’ve been in love with him for years. Either way, everything is louder now. Sharper. Half the reason you haven’t seen him again is because you’re not entirely sure you could stop yourself from tearing him apart—devouring him the second he’s in front of you. 

“Fuck,” you sigh out loud, feeling that familiar ache low in your belly. 

You need to calm down. 

You shift your focus back to the Word doc on your laptop, trying to let Corey’s high-pitched voice blur into the background as she asks Tyler about the storm they just chased. It’s hard though—because then he speaks. And the second he does, his voice draws your attention like a magnet, sending shivers racing down your spine. 

You’d think after all these years of friendship, you’d be used to him by now. 

“So, Tyler,” Corey says, her bright blue eyes sparkling above a megawatt smile, “now that we’ve completely and totally hashed out that EF2, I think it’s time to move on to some live questions. Mind answering a few from the fans?” 

Tyler nods, the usual charming smirk tugging at his lips. “Bring it on.” 

“Amazing.” Corey flips her auburn hair over her shoulder and holds up her phone. “First question: which tornado wrangler would be most likely to survive a horror movie?” 

Tyler chuckles—low and rich, the kind of sound that somehow wraps around you even through the TV speakers. “Definitely Boone, but not because he’s outsmarted anyone. Just pure dumb luck.” 

Corey giggles, and the sound literally makes you gag. Because pregnancy nausea? Not just limited to tastes and smells. Nope—it’s upgraded to all five senses. 

“Okay, next up,” she says, eyes dropping to her phone screen. “What’s your go-to road trip snack?” 

Tyler starts rubbing his hands together as he answers, but you don’t register the words. You already know his favourite snacks. You’ve been buying them for him for years. Instead, you find yourself watching his hands—his long fingers, the way he laces them together in front of his body. Those fingers you know can find magic inside you. 

Your pulse thrums in your ears—and between your legs. Hot and heavy, making your breath catch in your throat. 

Corey’s pitchy laugh pulls you back. “Noted. I’ll be sure to bring sour worms to our next interview,” she says with a wink. 

Tyler laughs politely and pretends to adjust his belt—something you know he only does when he’s uncomfortable. 

Sucked in, Corey. He doesn’t like you. 

“Alright, I’ve got a slightly more serious one,” she says, tone shifting as she angles herself toward him. “This one’s come in from quite a few people, so I can’t not ask it.” 

Tyler’s brows furrow and he nods once. 

“Obviously, the Tornado Wranglers have welcomed two new members recently—Kate and Javi,” she says, referring to the two you met via video call a couple weeks ago. “But fans have also noticed the absence of one particular chaser. Your partner in crime…” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Will she be back?” 

Your heart crawls into your throat. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes—so routine by now, you don’t even bother blinking them back. 

Tyler shifts uncomfortably and glances at the ground. Then he mutters something the mic doesn’t quite catch. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw clenched as he struggles to find an answer. 

It makes your chest ache. 

“Well—uh,” he clears his throat, “we don’t usually get into personal stuff. We try to keep things focused on the storms. But, um...” His eyes are everywhere but the camera. “We all have personal lives, and sometimes things come up. Unexpected things. But in short… yes. She’ll be back. We’re not sure when, but she will be.” 

The confidence in his voice rips a sob from your chest. You push your laptop off your stomach and sit up, arms wrapping protectively around the little bump low in your belly. To say you feel guilty about this whole thing is a gross understatement. You feel wretched. Each day you wake up knowing you’ll find another excuse not to call Tyler, and each day you inch closer to hating yourself for it. 

You need to stop being such a coward and just do it. He has every right to know what’s going on—not just because he’s the father, but because he’s your best friend. These last two months have been the longest you’ve ever gone without seeing him since you joined the chasers nearly a decade ago. And the distance—physical and emotional—is chipping away at both of you. 

You swipe the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your eyes and reach for your phone. Opening your chat with Tyler, you scroll through the brief exchange from a couple days ago about an EF3 they’d been chasing. You start typing a message—trying to ask when you can see him without sounding too obvious. 

But then Corey’s voice cuts through the room, snagging your attention again. “So, the fans want to know,” she says, “what’s next? What comes after storm chasing? Do you see yourself going back to school to become a qualified meteorologist—or maybe settling down? Starting a family?” 

Your breath catches in your throat. Your chest tightening until your lungs ache. 

Tyler scoffs. “There’s an after chasing?” he says, the words stabbing into you like pins into a voodoo doll. “Chasing is it for me. I’ve worked too hard to get here, doing what I love. Nothing’s going to stop me—at least not until I’m too old to drive my truck. And even then,” he laughs, “I’ll find someone else to drive me into the eye of the storm.” 

Corey giggles and tips her head, teasing. “So no dreams of settling down? No wife and kids someday?” 

Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat and nausea roll over you in waves. 

“No,” Tyler says. “I just don’t see that for myself. Nothing feels as important to me as this—the storms, the research. Especially now, with Kate—she’s incredible—and Javi on the team, we’re doing real work in the name of science. I never want to stop. A family just doesn’t fit into that. It’s not what I want.” 

The words hit like a gut punch, knocking the breath clean out of you. 

“That’s not to say I won’t have a wife one day,” he adds. “If I find someone who loves this as much as I do, then maybe. But kids? No. I know myself too well—I’d resent anyone who took me away from what I really love. Which is chasing.” 

You bolt from the couch and rush into the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet just in time to hurl up an unsettling amount of croutons. Tears blur your vision, and all you can hear is the pounding of your own pulse in your ears—and Tyler’s voice echoing in your head. 

It’s not what I want. 

- 

Your hands shake as you slide the mouse across the screen, clicking the answer button on the Skype call request. When Lily’s grinning face pops up—just Lily—you let out a sigh of relief. 

“Oh my goodness, hi,” she says, leaning toward the camera. “You look... different. Like, good, but different. How do you look different from last week?” 

You let out a soft laugh and roll your eyes, one arm resting on the kitchen counter where the laptop is propped, the other hung protectively across your stomach below the counter. You’re perched on the single barstool you picked up from a second-hand store last weekend, specifically for your weekly video calls with Lily. The couch wasn’t cutting it anymore, and you can’t exactly lie on your belly on the bed these days. 

“Maybe I’ve been abducted by aliens and what you’re seeing now is just a bad clone,” you tease, deflecting. 

She snorts. “Well, that would make sense, since that’s the only thing I can think of that would keep the girl I know away from chasing. Like, seriously. It’s been three months. Please tell me you’re coming back soon.” 

You sigh, eyes darting to the notepad where you’ve scribbled your pre-planned excuses—not trusting yourself to think clearly on the fly. 

“I’m sorry, Lils. I thought I’d be back by now too, but with everything going on with the family—it’s just been so stressful. And... I went to the doctor the other day. They think I could have a stress-induced stomach ulcer. I’m on meds, and I feel okay, but it needs to be monitored.” 

Until you give birth to it… 

Lily’s brow creases. “What? Seriously?” 

You nod slowly, avoiding her big brown eyes on the screen. “Yeah, but it’s okay. It’s not too serious—it’s manageable. I just need to, uh... stay here and keep things steady for a while.” 

“Can we visit, then?” she asks. “Everyone misses you so much.” 

“And I miss you guys too,” you say quickly. “But don’t come all this way for me. Keep chasing—it’s the season. Besides, it’s kind of boring over here. I’m just resting and helping out with family stuff. If you could actually help, I’d say get over here, but there’s really nothing to do except mope around.” 

She nods slowly, still looking a little unconvinced, but mostly reassured. 

“Besides, I need you to keep sending me updates so I can live vicariously,” you add, trying to lift the mood. “How was yesterday’s chase?” 

Her face lights up, and she launches into a detailed rundown of what they got up to. You try to stay focused, to really listen, but she keeps mentioning Kate’s name beside Tyler’s, and your thoughts start spiralling. 

You’ve met Kate and Javi—the new wranglers—a couple of times now via video call. They seem lovely and super smart. You hadn’t thought much of it. Until last night. 

You’d stupidly decided to watch one of Boone’s Instagram live videos—one where he and Tyler recapped the day over beers in a motel parking lot. You thought it might help ease the ache in your chest from missing them, but instead it twisted something sharp and jealous low in your gut. 

Kate had been there too, sitting beside Tyler, who wore a dopey grin and kept glancing at her like she was magnetic. They were clearly comfortable with each other—she even rested her hand on his knee once or twice as she answered some of Boone’s questions about the science side of things. Tyler didn’t adjust his belt. He didn’t shift awkwardly or look away. 

He looked at her like she belonged there. 

The jealousy that coursed through you had been instant and overwhelming. You’ve dealt with your fair share of Tyler’s girlfriends and hookups, but you’ve never seen him look at someone like that. Never once worried that maybe he’d find someone who didn’t just make him forget you—but replace you entirely. 

It’s your biggest insecurity, one you hate even admitting to yourself... Tyler doesn’t need you as much as you need him. 

“But anyway,” Lily says, her voice dragging you back to reality, “we were thinking of taking a break for a week or so. Maybe head somewhere quiet, less full of chasers. I think Tyler needs it—he’s been super stressed lately.” 

“At least he has Kate,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I—I mean, she sounds really great and helpful. Just what Tyler needs.” 

Lily’s eyes narrow. “Yeah... she’s cool, but...” She tips her head and sighs. “You know he misses you like crazy? I’m pretty sure he’s not sleeping, and he’s always talking about coming to find you. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep him at bay.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to sound casual while swallowing down another wave of emotion. “I’m sure Tyler’s doing just fine. He always said I was a liability, so technically he should be way less stressed without me around.” 

She gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “You better be joking, because I’ve never seen Tyler this wound up before.” 

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest—small and fragile, but impossible to ignore. Maybe... just maybe... this whole fucked-up situation is still salvageable. 

“Speak of the devil,” Lily says before you can respond. 

You watch as she shuffles off the motel bed she’d been lying on and disappears out of frame. Your pulse quickens at the sound of a deep, muffled voice and approaching footsteps. For a split second, you consider ending the call—blaming it on bad reception or something—but it’s already too late. 

The video shakes as Lily picks up her laptop and spins it toward Tyler. “Look who it is!” she announces. 

He looks pale, the lines in his face more defined than you remember, but his eyes still sparkle the same. “Hey,” he says, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “You look... different.” 

You blink quickly to stop the moisture welling in your eyes—internally cursing the hormones, even though you know they’re not the only ones to blame. 

You haven’t actually spoken to Tyler in almost two weeks. You mostly text, dodge his calls with excuses, and only agree to video chats with Lily or Dani. Tyler knows you too well—and you’re starting to look different. He’ll know something is off. 

“She’s sick,” Lily says before you can answer. 

“Sick?” Tyler repeats, his smile fading. “Sick how?” 

You shake your head, swallowing hard against the emotion rising in your throat. “I’m fine, really. Might be a stomach ulcer, but it’s mild and I’m already on meds. I just need a bit of rest.” 

“We can come visit,” Tyler offers quickly, his green eyes full of concern that makes your stomach turn. “We were planning to take some time off soon, and we could-” 

“No,” you cut in, your voice cracking. “Seriously, don’t. I’m okay. And there’s still stuff going on with the family. I just told Lily—if there were anything you could do, I’d say come help. But there’s not.” 

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then hesitates. His eyes flick across the screen, studying your face, your posture, the way you’re nervously chewing your lip. He’s probably already clocked that the background behind you isn’t your mom’s house. 

“Don’t worry, Tyler,” Lily says with a smile, trying to ease the tension. “She’ll be back soon. She can’t stay away much longer—the chase is calling.” She looks at you with a playful grin. “Or we’ll come kidnap you.” 

You let out a shaky laugh. “I know you will.” 

“How’s your mom?” Tyler asks suddenly, leaning closer to the camera. 

Yeah. He’s definitely trying to figure out where you are. He’s been in every room of your mom’s place—he knows this background doesn’t match. 

“She’s alright,” you say, shifting closer to the laptop to fill more of the frame. “Still a little fragile, so it’s good I’m here. But she’s doing well.” 

He opens his mouth again, eyes narrowing slightly—keen and searching. 

“Anyway,” you cut in quickly, “I should go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

Lily nods, oblivious to Tyler’s suspicion. “Love you,” she says. 

“Love you too, Lils,” you reply, before your gaze flicks toward Tyler’s frowning face. “You too, Ty. Stay safe out there.” 

Then you move the mouse and hit the red button, sighing out a breath of relief as the call drops. 

- 

The next four weeks are brutal—worse than the twelve before them combined. You’re creeping up on the six-month mark, which means the third trimester isn’t far off. Your belly has officially popped—there’s no hiding it now unless you borrow your mom’s retro maternity parka—and you’re out of breath more often than not. All you want to do is sleep, eat, and cry over the fact that your closest grocery store just stopped stocking your favourite juice flavour. 

But that’s not the hardest part. 

The hardest part is Tyler—he’s relentless, and you’re pretty sure he’s rallying the rest of the crew too. The messages haven’t let up, and now he’s started calling at random times during the day. He asks about your mom, your family, your ‘stomach ulcer’. And everyone else is pestering you to come back to chasing, even just for a week, because they miss you like hell. 

You feel like a total piece of shit. 

You’re running out of excuses, and you’ve deflected for as long as you can. You’ve tried over and over to come up with a version of the truth that doesn’t make you sound like the villain. But no matter how you spin it, you’re still the asshole who kept a massive secret from the people who are practically your family. They’re going to find out soon—you’re already on borrowed time—and you know you have to tell them before Tyler shows up pounding on your mom’s front door. 

The only thing you’re still absolutely certain about is this: you’re not telling Tyler he’s the father. 

On the surface, it makes you look like a terrible person, but every time you imagine telling him... you hear his words again. And you know you just can’t. 

It’s not what he wants. It would ruin everything. He’d resent you. 

You can’t do that to him. You don’t expect anything from him, and you’re more than ready to do this on your own. In fact, at this point, you’d prefer it. You made the decision to keep the baby—this is on you. All Tyler did was break a condom and fuck you more thoroughly than anyone else ever has. He didn’t sign up for consequences. And for him... there doesn’t have to be any. 

So you’ll tell them it was a one-night stand—technically true. That the father travels for work, and you gave him an out—also true. 

Now you just have to hope the baby doesn’t come out looking like a carbon copy of Tyler Owens. 

Not that you’re even sure the crew will be around to see much of the baby. You’re doing this solo for a reason—you don’t want to weigh anyone down. No matter how they react when you tell them, you’re not letting them give up chasing. That’s their life, and this choice? This was yours. 

So, yeah, you’re going to tell them. But after that... you have no clue. You might never see them again, now that you’re settling down. Or maybe they’ll pop in once or twice a year. You don’t know. 

The only thing you’re sure of right now is that you’re having this baby—and surprisingly, that’s more than enough. 

“She’s perfect,” the doctor says, handing you the sonogram. “What made you want to find out the sex?” 

You stare down at the little black and white image. Twenty-two weeks exactly. You’re more than halfway there. 

“I don’t know,” you reply. “Thought maybe I should get to know my new roommate a little better.” 

The doctor laughs softly but doesn’t press further. She types something into the computer, then jots a note on a scrap piece of paper—her recommendation for the heartburn you mentioned earlier. After a few more routine questions, she offers a kind smile and a dismissive nod. You thank her and step out. 

Her office is just around the block from your apartment, so you chose to walk today. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and—for the first time in a while—you’re feeling a little less weighed down. 

You’ve also decided that today’s the day you’ll message Tyler to ask where they are and see if you can meet up soon. You’ve practiced your story in the mirror more times than you can count, and you’ve run it past both your mom and your therapist—the latter was less thrilled about the lying, but you’re ignoring that part. All that’s left now is to show up and break the news gently. Although, your belly will probably do that for you the moment they see you. 

Strangely, you feel at peace today—despite the whirlwind of the past few weeks. You woke up clear-headed, even a little hopeful. Like if you can grow an entire human, you can handle anything. 

You try not to overanalyse the sudden shift—your moods have been a rollercoaster lately—and you’re especially trying not to compare it to the weather before a storm. But that’s exactly what it feels like. 

Everything is calm. Still. The sun is out, and there’s no wind. But you know better than to trust this kind of stillness. 

It’s the calm before the storm. 

You shake your head and take a deep breath, refocusing on your route from the doctor’s office to the grocery store. It’s still early—barely nine a.m.—and you’ve got a craving for the sugary cereal you ran out of days ago. 

The sun is warm enough that you have to shrug off your sweater the moment you step inside the store. It’s blissfully quiet—no crowded aisles, no screaming kids, and no one crashing their cart like it’s a demolition derby. 

You sling your sweater over one shoulder and head toward the breakfast aisle, one hand resting on your belly as the baby wriggles—still too small for proper kicks, but very much there. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you scan the shelves, eyes flitting across the bright, colourful cereal boxes. 

You really should start thinking of names. You haven’t even made a list. 

You grab the box you came for and continue toward the end of the aisle, already thinking about swinging past the bakery section. But just as you round the corner, a voice stops you in your tracks. 

“Holy shit.” 

You know that voice. You know it too well. 

You almost don’t want to look—but your head turns before you can stop it. And sure enough, there’s Tyler, looking downright sinful in a tight white T-shirt and faded Wrangler jeans. He’s wearing a cap, backwards, and it’s making your hormones riot. You could devour him right here in the middle of the store. But not only would that be wildly inappropriate... you’re pretty sure he’s gone into shock. 

He looks pale—too pale. Frozen. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. He looks like a fish out of water. And judging by the expression on his face, he probably feels like one too. 

“Oh my God,” you say, instinctively shifting the cereal box in front of your belly. “Tyler.” 

You want to launch yourself at him, to throw your arms around his neck. You want to hug him, kiss him, get lost in him the way you’ve been craving for months. But the way he’s staring... you’re not even sure he recognises you. 

“W-What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice shaky and weirdly high-pitched. “Are the others here too?” 

Panic overtakes you now, shoving the longing and hormones down into your gut and replacing them with a fresh wave of anxiety. 

“I—uh,” he clears his throat, blinking hard. “We were just... just passing through.” 

You can feel your heartbeat thumping in your throat. 

Tyler shifts on his feet and clears his throat again. “We got in late last night. I was going to—uh, call you. See where you were, but...” His eyes drop to the cereal box in your hands, like he can see right through it. 

“Wow,” you say, because it’s the only word your brain can summon. “That’s... great. I’d love to see them. Are they-” 

“They’re back at the motel,” he cuts in. 

Slowly, his expression twists—shock giving way to confusion, then something sharper. Anger, maybe. 

There’s a long pause, thick and heavy, before you clear your throat. “Well, maybe we could all catch up? I’m not doing anything this after-” 

“No,” he says, cutting you off again. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I mean, yes. They want to see you. But I think I’d like to catch up now.” His tone is harder now, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to grab a coffee—” he hesitates, “or... tea?” 

You rock back on your heels like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Tea still has caffeine in it,” you mumble. 

He doesn’t even flinch—just pins you with a look. There’s no room to argue. 

“But I could definitely go for a smoothie!” you say too brightly. “There’s a café around the corner, and my apartment’s just the next block over. If you don’t mind... can we go back there? I’ve got ultrasound jelly in my underwear and I really need to pee.” 

His brows draw together. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—hurt. “You have an apartment?” 

You didn’t expect that to hit hardest, but you see why. As far as Tyler was concerned, you were coming back. You’d only ever been on a break. But hearing you have an apartment here... it tells him something else entirely. 

That you’re not coming back. 

You nod, tears starting to sting at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah... I do.” 

The walk out of the store and around the corner is one of the most painful things you’ve ever endured. You’re already planning to compare it to childbirth when the time comes—but honestly, you’re pretty sure this will still win. 

Tyler’s movements are stiff and deliberate. He keeps a cautious distance, like you’re contagious, and it takes everything in you not to cry right there on the sidewalk. 

Neither of you speaks. You just lead the way, and he follows. At the café, you order a smoothie—nothing else. You feel so nauseous, you're worried you might throw up your baby. Tyler orders a coffee, then steps back to type something on his phone. For a moment, panic grips you—is he telling the others? But no. Tyler’s not like that. He’s probably just letting them know that he got caught up. 

Once your drinks are ready, you head down the street toward your apartment. You don’t bother making conversation, you don’t even point out the ridiculous-looking dog in the window across the street. You just let yourself into the lobby and ride up to the fourth floor. 

Down the hall, you unlock your door and step inside, holding it open for him. 

The look on his face as he enters your space is what finally breaks you. The tears spill over before you can stop them. He looks wrong here—too big for the tiny apartment you’ve made your own. And he looks like you’ve just ripped his heart out and stomped on it. 

You make a beeline for the kitchen, dropping your untouched smoothie on the counter and diving for the tissue box. A sniffle escapes as you swipe at your eyes and nose, followed by a soft, rattling sob. 

“Hey,” Tyler says gently, suddenly at your side, a hand landing on your back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.” 

Of course he’s not. He’s too good. Too decent to treat you the way you probably should be treated—without kindness. 

You clear your throat and look up at him, close enough now that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. “You should be,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks. “It’d be easier if you were mad at me.” 

He lets out a humourless chuckle. “I mean, I’m not exactly happy. But why would I be mad?” 

You feel small. Pathetic. Like if the floor cracked open right now, you’d gladly let it swallow you whole. But it doesn’t. 

You force down another sob, blinking hard as you reach for your smoothie and carry it into the living room. You flop down into your favourite corner of the couch and nod for him to follow. 

Then you clear your throat, summoning every ounce of confidence you have left. 

“Okay,” you say. “Here’s the story.” 

You don’t say the truth or what really happened. Because that’s not what you’re about to give him. 

You’ve got a story. And that’s what you’re sticking to. 

“A few weeks after I got back, I went out with some old friends,” you begin, technically not lying. “It was supposed to be a way to blow off some steam after everything with my family... and I missed you guys so much, I thought it would take my mind off things. But I got a little too drunk, and I ended up going home with some guy my friend knew.” There's the lie. “It was stupid and reckless, but... that’s what happened.” 

He winces at your words, his expression unreadable. It looks like hurt, but why would he be hurt by that? Maybe it’s just disappointment. 

You clear your throat and continue, slipping into the rhythm of the story you’ve practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror. “About three weeks later, I found out. I contacted the guy, but he travels for work, so... I gave him an out. I made the decision to keep it, told him I didn’t expect anything from him. So... here we are.” 

The silence hangs thick and heavy between you, suffocating you as you try to breathe through the storm of emotions clawing at your chest. 

“I was going to tell you,” you add, your voice steadier than you feel. “I just couldn’t find the right time. It all felt so messy and rushed, and time kept slipping by. You guys were so busy, and with Kate and Javi... I didn’t want to ruin the high you were on.” 

He doesn’t react at first. Just stares at you—his eyes flicking between your face and your belly. 

Then it hits him. A thousand emotions all at once. Confusion. Hurt. A flicker of anger. Sadness. And finally, he lands back on hurt. 

“You’re going to do it alone?” he asks, tension threading through his words. 

You nod once, steady. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I don’t doubt that. You’ll be amazing. But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” 

Your heart squeezes. Would he still be saying that if he knew who the guy really was? 

“I won’t be alone,” you say, resting a hand on your stomach. 

His eyes fall to your hand and linger there. You think his bottom lip might wobble, just for a second. But then he looks back up, brow creased. 

“You know we’re all here for you,” he says, voice strained. “We’re not going to let you do this on your own. I know you’re strong, but-” 

“It’s not your problem, Ty,” you cut in quickly, desperate to stop him before the tears start again. “It’s not anyone’s burden but mine—not that it’s a burden. But I was scared to tell you for a reason. I didn’t want you to freak out. I made this choice knowing it would change my life, and mine alone. I know I have support if I need it, but wait for me to ask. Not that I could ask any of you to stop your lives—stop doing what you love. I’d never do that. I’d never ask for more than you’re willing to give. So please believe me when I say... I’m happy about the choice I made. I’m excited to do this by myself. You need to live your life, Ty. Chase those storms. Chase your dreams. I’m good. I’ll be fine.” 

His expression is unreadable—somewhere between pain and disbelief. He just stares at you, silent, like he doesn’t recognize what he’s looking at. Not scared. Just... bewildered. 

The silence stretches, the only sound your uneven, too-loud breathing. 

Then, finally, he whispers, “But it’s not the same without you.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to keep it light. “Don’t be silly, Tyler. You’ve got Kate and Javi now. You probably didn’t even notice I was gone.” You pause. “And Kate seems great. I’m happy for you.” 

No, you’re not. But you’re getting better at lying. 

His gaze snaps from your belly back to your face, eyebrows drawn tight. “Happy for me?” 

You nod, forcing a smile. “Anyway, I really need a shower. That ultrasound goo gets everywhere. Want to catch up later? With the crew?” 

You need him gone. Now. Before you fall apart. 

“I—uh...” He glances around the room, like he’s trying to find an excuse to stay. “Yeah. They’ll want to see you.” 

You nod and head to the kitchen for your bag. “Could you do me a favour?” The guilt is immediate and sharp. How dare you ask anything of him right now? 

He nods. 

“Could you... tell them? Warn them?” You can’t meet his eyes, so you focus on the tear in the knee of his jeans as he approaches. 

“You want me to tell them?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s just... been a lot. And the way you reacted—I don’t think I can take five more of those. If you could just warn them before we meet up... it would help.” 

Straight to hell. That’s where you’re headed. You’ve spent months trying not to burden him—and now this? 

He swallows hard and nods, eyes drifting to something on the counter. “Yeah... okay. I can do that.” 

You exhale, not realizing you were holding your breath. “Thanks, Ty.” 

He picks up the sonogram. “Is this the one from today?” 

“Oh.” As if she knows her dad is seeing her for the first time, your little girl wriggles. “Y-Yeah. That’s today.” 

His mouth twitches into a watery smile. “Can I take a photo? Then I can show the crew.” 

You nod, speechless, watching the way he looks at the picture. If he doesn’t leave soon, you’re going to cry and throw up all over him. 

He snaps the photo and tucks his phone away, gently placing the sonogram back on the counter. 

“You said you weren’t busy this afternoon?” he asks. 

You nod, throat tight. 

“Good. I’m sure they’ll want to see you soon. Maybe dinner? I’ll text you after I talk to them. I bet you know all the good places around here.” 

He’s speaking too fast, his eyes everywhere but your face. He wants out just as badly as you want him out. 

You walk him to the door, trying to smile. It’s pitiful. It feels like everything around you has stopped moving. His eyes are wide, glassy, full of something unfamiliar. But then again, do you even know him anymore? Four months is a long time. 

Before you can say goodbye, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. Holds you like he means it. Like it’s the only thing keeping him together. 

Tears stream down your face, your shoulders shaking. The baby kicks—harder than ever—and you want to blame the pressure of Tyler’s hug. But then you wonder... does she know it’s him? 

The thoughts keep coming, hot and heavy, as your tears soak into the shoulder of his white shirt. 

After what feels like both forever and not long enough, he pulls away. His eyes rimmed with red. 

“I’ll text you,” he says hoarsely, then turns and walks down the hall. 

You shut the door—and collapse to the floor. You stay there for almost an hour. Crying. Thinking. And for the first time, wishing you’d just told him the truth from the start. Back at the gas station. Would it really have been that bad? 

You’re not so sure anymore. Because this? This doesn’t feel like the right thing. 

- Tyler - 

Tyler doesn’t remember how he got back to his truck in the grocery store parking lot. All he knows is that he’s in it now—but he doesn’t have the courage to drive. He doesn’t trust himself. His hands won’t stop shaking, his eyes are burning with tears, and his throat aches. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is you: your soft smile, your wide, tearful eyes, and that intrinsic glow—granted by your pregnancy, despite how clearly distressed you’d been. 

He can’t believe you’re pregnant. 

He tried so hard to be understanding, to not blow through you with every emotion that crashed down the moment he saw you. But it was so hard. He wanted to be angry that you didn’t tell him—but he knew he had no right. He didn’t have the right to be upset at all. You were clearly stressed about him finding out—about the crew finding out. 

But why? 

That’s what he can’t figure out. 

Sure, it might not have been planned. It’s going to turn your life upside down. But why wouldn’t you want your friends to know? He knows you’ve rationalised it—told yourself you didn’t want to burden them. But he also knows that you know better than that. Your friends wouldn’t feel burdened. They’d just want to be there for you. 

He just wants to be there for you. 

And as complicated as this whole thing is, it’s confusion that lingers the loudest. He’s confused about how he should feel, and confused about what he does feel. He thought he knew you—but right now, he’s not so sure. You’re still familiar... but different. 

The sharp chime of Tyler’s phone cuts through the silence of the truck cabin. He glances at where he tossed it on the passenger seat, just able to make out the text from Boone: ‘You good?’ 

No. 

He exhales slowly and turns the key, the truck rumbling to life around him. Then he grabs the phone and fires off a quick reply: ‘Be back in 10. Get everyone together for breakfast.’ 

Then he pulls out of the grocery store parking lot and starts rehearsing how he’s going to break the news to the crew. 

An hour later, in a quiet café on the other side of town with two small tables pulled together, Dani leans toward Tyler and blurts, “She’s what?!” 

Dexter chokes on his coffee, spluttering into his napkin, while Lily’s jaw drops mid-chew, revealing a messy mouthful of pancake. 

“She’s pregnant?” Boone asks, his voice calmer than Dani’s, though his eyes are still wide as saucers. 

Kate and Javi exchange a quick, uncertain glance, both clearly unsure how to react to the news that’s left half the crew reeling over their breakfast. 

“I can’t believe she didn’t say anything,” Dani says, her voice tight with offense. 

Lily finally swallows. “So that’s why she’s been avoiding us?” 

Dexter tips his head, eyes narrowing on Tyler. “How far along is she?” 

Tyler shrugs, his stomach twisting with nausea—though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like this is his big news. “She said she met the guy a few weeks after getting home. So... she’s probably around four months.” 

“Four months,” Dani echoes. “And she didn’t tell any of us?” 

Kate’s quiet laugh draws every eye to her. She quickly slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbles, wide-eyed. “I just—” She glances at Tyler, then looks around the table. “I mean, can you blame her? Look at how you’re all reacting.” 

Tyler frowns. “What do you mean?” 

Kate sighs and leans back in her chair. “No offense, but you’re all acting like this is about you. If this wasn’t planned—and it doesn’t sound like it was—then she’s probably just scared. Of course she was nervous to tell you guys. She probably knew how you’d react.” 

The group goes quiet then, effectively chastised. And Kate isn’t wrong—Tyler knows that. As someone less emotionally entangled in your situation than the rest of the crew, she can probably see it more clearly. Understand why you did what you did. 

But that doesn’t make Tyler feel any less conflicted. He still feels off. His palms are damp and his stomach won't stop twisting itself into nauseating knots. His heart is beating too fast, sitting high in his throat. And he can’t stop seeing your face—those tearful eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips the moment you saw him again. 

For a fleeting moment, he’d been taken back to that night. The night where everything else blurred except for you. Your flushed face, kiss-bruised mouth, lips parted for him, breathless beneath him. The way you’d whispered his name like a secret, the sounds he drew from you with his hands and mouth, the feel of your skin against his. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about that night… a lot. At first, he tried not to. He couldn’t believe the lines he’d crossed, waking up with you in his arms at three a.m., your bare body pressed to his. He wasn’t even that drunk—just drunk on you. And God, he wanted nothing more than to pull you closer and fall back asleep. But panic had crept in. He had to get out. Had to breathe. 

The next day was awkward—mostly because he couldn’t stop seeing you the way he’d seen you the night before. He wanted to talk, to say something. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk burning down years of friendship for one selfish desire. So after about a week, he cracked a joke. You shot back with something sarcastic, and things felt… almost normal again. 

Until you left. 

And when you did, you took a piece of him with you. A big piece. One he doesn’t know how to get back—or if he even wants it back. 

“Hey.” Kate nudges her knee against Tyler’s. “You good?” 

The rest of the group has slipped into quiet conversation, murmuring among themselves about you and the baby. 

Tyler nods once, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he fishes his phone from his back pocket. He opens it, pulls up the sonogram picture, and slides it across the table. 

“She had an ultrasound today,” he says, the words tasting like lead on his tongue. 

Lily’s eyes light up as she snatches the phone, gazing at the black-and-white photo. Dani leans over one shoulder, Dexter over the other, and it’s not hard to catch the soft smiles spreading across their faces. 

“I’m not saying you’re not allowed to be upset,” Kate says, her voice lowered just for him. “I just think... maybe consider how she’s feeling before you take too much of that out on her.” 

Tyler sighs and scrubs both hands over his face. “I tried to be calm. But it was so fucking hard. She kept crying.” 

Kate exhales a half-laugh. “Yeah, she’s pregnant. Whatever you think you’re feeling, multiply it by a thousand. That’s probably where she’s at.” 

The memory of your tear-streaked face hits him square in the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d felt so useless, even as he held you close. All he wants is to make things better. To go back, find you sooner, and give you everything you’ve needed but never asked for. 

“I just want to help,” Tyler mutters, his voice rough. “She said she’s happy to do it on her own, but... I want to be there.” 

“Then be there,” Kate says, brows furrowed like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “You don’t have to overstep or force your way back in. Just be her friend. Isn’t that what you’ve always been? Just because she thinks things have to change doesn’t mean they do. Show her that.” 

Tyler’s eyes flick to Dani, who now has his phone and is zooming in on the sonogram with an awed expression. 

“But things have changed,” he says, turning back to Kate. 

On her other side, Javi has his phone in front of his nose, but Tyler can tell from his posture that he’s still listening. 

“For her, yeah,” Kate replies. “Her whole world’s flipped. But for you? Not really. So be something that hasn’t changed. Something stable. Something she can still count on.” 

Tyler’s brows draw together, eyes starting to burn again from the now-familiar sting of tears. He knows Kate’s smart—but wise too? Suddenly, he feels like a kid who threw a tantrum he didn’t fully understand. 

“I mean,” Javi chimes in, the straw of his milkshake still at the corner of his mouth, “it’s not like you’re the father.” 

The words hit Tyler harder than they should. They sink into his skin and burn as they draw blood, the pain spreading through his chest. His skin prickles, heat rushes to his face, and his head goes a little light—like the floor’s been yanked out from under him. 

He’s not just angry that you didn’t tell him. Not just upset that you left, that you ran away from the crew with a half-assed excuse. He’s confused, yes—but underneath it all, he’s heartbroken. 

Because it’s not just about you being pregnant. It’s not about the distance, or how much everything suddenly feels so different. It’s the fact that you’re pregnant with someone else’s baby. 

Not his. 

And for the first time, the weight of it truly hits him— 

He wants it to be his. 

“Ouch!” Javi hisses as Kate smacks him on the back of the head. “What was that for?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Not reading the room.” 

“Shit,” Javi mutters, leaning forward past Kate to see Tyler—a very shocked-looking Tyler. “Sorry, man.” 

Tyler tries to shake his head, but it’s slow, almost robotic. “It’s fine,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

Kate rests a hand on his knee and leans toward him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He opens his mouth, but hesitates. He was going to say yes—but that would be a lie. He’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since you left. 

Kate’s brows draw together, her head tilting slightly. “You’re not, like... just realizing you’re totally in love with her, are you?” 

Tyler’s green gaze snaps to her face, a jolt of electricity running down his spine at hearing those words said out loud. 

“Oh, Tyler...” she sighs, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Wake up.” 

He’s always known he loves you—of course he does. But in love with you? Maybe it should’ve been obvious. He hasn’t felt fully human without you by his side. There’s been a gaping hole in his chest since the day you left—because you took his heart with you. 

It always has been yours. He just never really thought about it that hard. He’s just always known, deep down, from the very beginning, that he belongs to you. 

And he’s always thought of you as his. Never questioned it, even through your crappy boyfriends and his meaningless hookups. Some part of him was sure you’d always come back. That at the end of the day—after the storm—you’d be his again. 

But now? Now some other guy has a claim on you. And he knows it’s selfish. He knows it’s primal. But God, he fucking hates it. 

After breakfast, the crew heads back to the motel. They try to work—and try even harder to pull Tyler out of whatever existential wormhole he’s fallen into—but it’s not easy. He spends most of the day staring into space, half-listening (at best) to anyone who speaks. Eventually, they give up and leave him to it. 

Lily ends up messaging you about dinner, since Tyler’s too dazed to even type a text. You agree to meet at a restaurant downtown, halfway between your place and the crew’s motel. 

“Okay, pal,” Kate sighs as she drops into the lawn chair beside Tyler’s. “You’re starting to worry us.” 

Lily drops into the chair on his other side, braced like she might have to chase him if he bolts. 

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” Kate asks gently. 

Tyler nods—slow, uncertain. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Because you’ve been a damn zombie all day,” Lily snaps. “You think acting like this is going to make her feel loved and supported?” 

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, her tone sharp. “The answer is no. So get your shit together.” 

Tyler turns to Kate, frowning. “Why is she being mean to me?” 

Kate rolls her eyes for what feels like the thousandth time today. “Because you’re being a child. So what, you’re in love with your best friend who’s now pregnant with some random guy’s baby? Suck it up. Start acting normal—or you’ll just make her feel worse.” 

Tyler lets out a long, dramatic sigh and tips his head back. “I can’t.” 

“Yes, you can,” Lily says. “Come on—practice talking about baby stuff with us.” 

Kate perks up. “Good idea. Ask us about being pregnant.” 

Tyler slowly lowers his head and gives Kate a flat stare. “This is dumb. I’m not going to make things awkward. I’ll be fine.” 

“Then why have you walked away from every conversation about babies today?” Lily fires back. 

“Just try,” Kate pleads. “Let’s just talk about her, okay? And no deflecting.” 

Tyler groans but doesn’t argue, silently accepting the assignment. 

Kate folds her hands in her lap and leans in like an interviewer. “So, you said she’s got an apartment here—did you see the nursery?” 

“No,” Tyler replies, nausea twisting in his gut. Just thinking about that visit makes him uneasy. “Wasn’t exactly a show-and-tell kind of vibe.” 

Kate sighs. “I get that. But just work with us.” 

“I’ve got one,” Lily chimes in. “Did she say she’s having any weird cravings?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “No.” Then, at her expectant look, he adds, “But she was buying some sugary cereal when I ran into her. I think she told the cashier it was the baby’s favourite breakfast.” 

Lily nods, satisfied. 

Kate clears her throat. “Did she say how far along she is?” 

“Not exactly,” Tyler says. “But from what she did say, I’m guessing around eighteen weeks.” He did the math—counting from the day you left the crew, assuming you met ‘the guy’ maybe three or four weeks later. 

“Nuh-uh,” Lily says, brows pinched as she shakes her head. “She’s twenty-two weeks.” 

Tyler’s heart skips. “What? How do you know?” 

“It’s on the sonogram, stupid.” 

His pulse kicks up, head spinning, hands suddenly numb as he fumbles for his phone. He yanks it from his back pocket and pulls up the image, squinting at the screen. 

Lily sighs and takes it from him, zooming in on the small print in the corner. “See? Twenty-two weeks.” 

Kate says something, but Tyler doesn’t hear her. All he hears is the blood pounding in his ears. Loud. Fast. Deafening. 

Twenty-two weeks. That’s five and a half months. You’ve only been gone four months and three weeks. 

That leaves three weeks. 

Three weeks you were still with the crew. Still with him. 

Somewhere in those three weeks… you got pregnant. 

The world tilts. He blinks, once—twice—but everything stays blurry. The thought barrels through him like a freight train. It doesn’t make sense—shouldn’t make sense—but it does. The timeline. The things you said. The look on your face when you saw him. His stomach drops as the pieces slam into place, sharp and undeniable. 

Holy shit. 

“Tyler,” Kate says, her hand closing over his shoulder. 

Lily frowns again. “You’re supposed to be acting normal, dude. You can’t keep freezing like that.” 

“I have to go,” he mutters, shooting to his feet. 

Kate blinks. “Where?” 

“I’ll meet you guys at the restaurant.” He’s gone before they can respond, feet already pounding the pavement. 

He throws himself into the truck and jams the key in the ignition, peeling out of the motel lot fast enough to make the tires squeal. 

His grip tightens on the steering wheel as the truck barrels down the street, heart pounding like a war drum. The shock is still there, curling cold and sharp in his chest, but the panic has started to harden. Settle. Sharpen. He’s not going to lose it. Not now. If this really adds up—if the impossible is true—then he needs answers. Not anger. He sucks in a breath through his nose, jaw locked tight. 

He’s not going there to yell. He’s going there to hear it. To look you in the eye and make you say it— 

The truth. 

- You - 

You stand in front of your closet with your hands on your hips, trying to figure out what still fits and also looks decent enough for a nice restaurant. You picked a nice place on purpose—you haven’t been out in months. Literally. Most of your friends have been too busy chasing tornadoes while you’ve been stuck in this town, growing a baby. And while you’re not angry about the choices you’ve made, you’re more than a little excited to be getting out for the first time in what feels like forever. 

You’re feeling a lot better than you did a few hours ago. After a solid hour of crying on the floor, you dragged yourself into the shower and stayed there until your fingers pruned. Then you wrapped yourself in two towels, curled up on your bed, and passed out. When you woke up, your phone was full of messages—hearts, check-ins, a few sweet “can’t wait to see you” texts—and you decided that maybe you’d been overreacting. 

Sure, seeing Tyler had been the emotional peak of the last five and a half months, but that’s over now. And yeah, things might still be awkward. A little tense. But the secret’s out, and your story had him convinced—hook, line, and sinker. He was just emotional because he missed you. Because you’re best friends, and this is the longest you’ve ever gone without each other. 

You’d thought about telling him the truth earlier, while curled up on the floor. But once the initial wreckage settled, you remembered why you hadn’t. Just to be sure, you went back and rewatched Corey’s YouTube interview. It still stung—maybe even more than the first time—but it did what it was supposed to: reminded you to stay strong. Because when it comes to Tyler Owens, strength is not your strong suit. 

A knock echoes through the apartment and jolts you into motion. You yank a pair of thick black leggings from the drawer and wrestle into them while shuffling toward your bedroom door, grabbing an oversized knit sweater on the way. 

“Coming!” you call, your voice muffled as you pull the sweater over your head. 

Random visitors aren’t exactly uncommon. Your neighbour Marge likes to accuse you of stealing her newspapers, and you’ve definitely forgotten about more than a few online orders until the delivery driver comes knocking 

You reach the door and tug the sweater down over your bump before pulling it open. 

“Tyler,” you breathe, startled, taking an automatic step back. “You’re—uh—you’re like an hour early.” 

Lily had mentioned he’d be picking you up—something about saving you the cab fare. You hadn’t objected, for obvious reasons, but you’d hoped for at least enough time to do your hair and makeup. 

Still, he looks infuriatingly good. He’s swapped his white tee for a red plaid flannel, the top few buttons undone down to his sternum. His hair’s a tousled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and he’s holding his cowboy hat in one hand. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “Figured we could catch up some more.” 

Did he drive here? Or run? 

“Um, okay. Sure,” you say, stepping back further. 

He nods as he walks in, kicking off his boots by the door before heading toward the lounge. But he doesn’t sit—he just stands there, stiff and distant, eyes scanning the room like he’s searching for something specific. 

“I was just getting ready,” you say, slipping into the kitchen. “Mind if I do the quick version before we... catch up?” 

He shakes his head and sets his hat on the coffee table, still glancing around like he’s casing the place. 

“Want a drink?” you ask, watching him carefully. 

“I’m good,” he says. 

“Okay,” you mutter, and retreat toward your room. So much for taking your time and enjoying getting ready. 

Maybe he’s just trying to be nice after this morning. Or maybe the others sent him here to smooth things over before they all see you for the first time in over four months—baby bump and all. 

“How far along did you say you were?” Tyler calls, poking his head into your room. 

You jump, dropping the sock you were trying to pull on. “Oh... um, about four-ish months.” 

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t press, just leans in the doorway, quietly taking in the space. 

This can’t be good. 

“When are you due?” he asks. 

“Five-ish months,” you shoot back with a smirk. 

His lip twitches, almost smiling—and it still gets you. That little flicker of him is enough to stir your heart. 

Then he asks, “What did you say the dad’s name was again?” 

You freeze mid-step toward the ensuite. “I didn’t.” 

“Oh...” His nod is slow, satisfied, like he was waiting for that. 

“It’s Todd,” you blurt, turning quickly and disappearing into the bathroom. 

Behind you, he scoffs. “Todd.” 

Yeah, this isn’t good. Tyler’s onto something. What, you don’t know. But you can feel it—he’s circling like a shark, toying with you before he bites. 

“So, when exactly did you find out you were pregnant?” he asks, stepping into view in the mirror behind you. 

The hairs on your neck rise. “About three weeks after I slept with him.” 

His eyes lock on yours in the mirror, steady and sharp as you try to run a comb through your damp hair. 

“What did he say when you told him?” 

You shrug, trying to appear unaffected. “Not much. He was shocked. Asked if I was keeping it, and I said yes. Told him it was fine if he wanted out. He took it.” 

Tyler shifts, raising one arm to lean against the doorframe. He’s filling the small bathroom doorway with his body—and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad his shoulders are, how strong his arms are, remembering the way he’d thrown you around that night... 

The memory slams into you, heat creeping between your thighs. You shift, pressing your legs together. 

He notices. That tiny smirk returning as he leans in a little more, boxing you in. 

“Bit strange, don’t you think?” he says, voice low. “Knowing you’re having a kid and not wanting anything to do with it. Sounds like a dirtbag move.” 

Anger slices through your chest. “Yeah, well. Some people just don’t see themselves settling down.” 

The words are out before you realise—they're his words, from the interview. 

His eyes narrow. “Who said anything about settling down? Kids don’t ruin lives.” 

You scoff, avoiding his gaze. “No, they just stop you from pursuing your dreams.” 

Another quote. Damn that interview. Damn you for watching it again. But the way he’s interrogating you is pissing you off. What right does he have? He’s the one who told the world he’d resent anyone who gave him a kid. 

And here he is, acting like he cares. 

A heavy breath hangs in the air as you trade your hairbrush for a makeup brush, leaning closer to the mirror. Tyler’s eyes stay locked on you—intense, unwavering, a little too focused. 

Then his voice slices clean through the silence. 

“Why didn’t you use birth control?” 

White-hot fury flares up your spine, lighting your cheeks on fire as you spin to face him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t recoil. He just stands there with that same infuriating glint in his eye—smug, steady, unreadable. His posture is so relaxed it makes your skin crawl, like he didn’t just drop a live grenade into the middle of your lie. 

“You know I’m not on birth control,” you snap, your voice low and trembling with rage. “And the condom. Fucking. Broke.” 

The second it’s out of your mouth, you want to drag it back in. You could’ve said anything else—something careless, something wild, something stupid. But instead, you gave him truth wrapped in a lie—and now the whole thing is starting to crack. 

“That so?” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Crazy how that happened... twice in a row.” 

Your jaw clenches. “Clearly I need to buy a new box of condoms.” 

He lets out a dry, humourless laugh and leans in closer, eyes glittering. “That was my condom that broke.” 

Your breath comes faster now, chest tight, nerves sparking under your skin like live wires. You can’t even remember the lie you rehearsed. Your heart’s thundering, the baby is moving restlessly in your belly—like she feels your panic. Like she knows. 

“Maybe you and Todd use the same damn brand,” you mutter, spinning back toward the vanity and gripping the edge like it might hold you steady. 

“You just said you need to buy a new box,” he presses, relentless. “Does Todd leave his condoms here?” 

You grit your teeth, drop your chin, and breathe in through your nose. “Jesus, Tyler. I’m sorry I don’t remember every single detail.” 

You hear him shift. Feel the heat of him behind you. Too close. 

“You wanna know what I think?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. 

You turn, slowly, heart in your throat. He’s so close now your belly nearly brushes his belt and you have to press against the vanity for space. 

You meet his eyes. “What do you think, Tyler?” 

He tilts his head, just slightly. “I think you remember the night you got pregnant like it just happened. I think it’s carved into your brain. And I think you’re tripping over your story right now because you can’t forget what it felt like. Because it was so damn good, you don’t want to forget it.” 

Panic coils in your chest like a gathering storm—rising fast, twisting tight, pushing a tangled mess of guilt and frustration up your throat. Your breath catches on it, your lungs stuck somewhere between inhale and breakdown. And then it spills over. Tears blur your vision before you can even try to blink them back, heavy and hot as they streak down your cheeks—weighted with remorse and something close to desperation. 

Tyler is frozen in place, wide-eyed and still, his lips parted like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come. You can see the regret flicker there—he hadn’t meant to be cruel, not like that. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever version of the truth he’s starting to piece together... he’s probably right. 

And still, you can’t say it. Not yet. 

Instead, you swipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater and slip past him, your shoulder brushing his arm as you squeeze out of the bathroom. You cross the room on shaky legs and drop onto the bed, curling in on yourself as a raw sob breaks free and rattles from your chest. You bury your face in your hands, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. 

Tyler doesn’t move at first. The silence stretches and settles around you, thick and stifling. But then comes the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he steps closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough, like he’s choking on his own emotion. “That was too harsh.” 

You don’t look up. Not yet. You can’t. 

“I didn’t mean to come at you like that,” he continues, voice gentler now. “I got caught up—and I guess I’ve been walking around with all this shit in my chest. Then I saw you again, and it just... it all hit me. I’ve been pretending I’m fine, like it didn’t gut me when you left. But it did. You took more of me with you than I ever realised.” 

Your fingers shift, just enough to peek through them—and there he is, kneeling beside the bed, one hand resting near your thigh but not quite touching. His eyes search yours, glassy with emotion he’s clearly trying to hold back. 

“I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I did before all of this—before you left, before... the baby. I’ve always loved you. That night wasn’t a mistake. And honestly? I wasn’t even that drunk. I just—needed you. I still do. I need you more than anything.” 

You swallow hard. 

“But not more than you need the chase,” you mutter, tears spilling again. “Right? Because that’s it for you. That’s the dream, and you’ve worked too damn hard to give it up.” 

He blinks. Confused. Then his brows furrow as recognition dawns. You can see it hit him—he remembers. 

You let out a shaky breath and slide your hand over his. “I don’t want you to resent me, Ty. I don’t want you to give up what you love. You’ve got an out.” 

His eyes widen, locking onto yours like he’s just now realising what you’re trying to say. 

“You can still walk away,” you whisper. 

He stares at you, frozen—like your words knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. His brows knit tighter, his hand shifting beneath yours. 

Then, after a beat, he whispers, “Are you serious?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just look at him, eyes brimming, heart thundering in your chest like it’s trying to burst out and reach for him itself. 

His throat works around a swallow. Then he says it—low and broken and burning. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” His voice cracks. “I fucking love you. More than anything. More than storms and chasing and everything I’ve ever been stupid enough to think mattered more. That interview... it was bullshit. I wasn’t thinking—I wasn’t thinking about you. Because with you, I want all of it.” 

Then he moves. 

There’s no breath between the words and the moment he surges forward—like he’s been holding himself back for years and finally snapped. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and searing, all teeth and desperation and need. One hand tangles in your hair, the other pulls you toward him with a grip that says he’s never letting go again. 

It steals your breath. Steals your thoughts. Your hands fist in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely, matching the fire with one that’s been simmering in your chest since the day you left. 

There’s nothing soft about it. It’s raw and reckless and messy, and it tastes like every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every broken piece finally slamming back into place. 

It feels like the truth. 

Between frantic kisses, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.” 

You feel his mouth curve into a smile before he murmurs, “Fuck, I’ve missed you.” 

The kisses slow, soften—his tongue sweeping against yours with aching intention, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you, every breath. The hand tangled in your hair slides down to cradle your neck, while the other one drifts to your waist, settling gently against the curve of your swollen belly. 

Then the baby kicks—hard. Harder than she ever has. You both jolt. 

“Shit,” you whisper, hands flying to your stomach. “Sorry.” 

Tyler stares, completely still. He looks unfairly beautiful like this—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, wide, glassy eyes locked on your belly. He looks like he’s just witnessed something holy. Something impossible. 

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours. 

You shrug, brushing your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater. “She doesn’t usually kick that hard. I guess she’s getting stronger.” 

His eyes shimmer. “She?” 

You nod, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “Yeah. We’re having a baby girl.” 

His bottom lip trembles, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We?” 

A shaky laugh bubbles up as fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “Yes, Tyler. She’s yours.” 

His tears fall freely now, trailing down his flushed cheeks, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He just looks at you like you’ve hung the moon—just for him. 

“I’m yours too,” you whisper, voice trembling. “We’re all yours.” 

Then he’s kissing you again—wet and messy and full of everything you’ve both been carrying for months. You’re crying, he’s crying, but neither of you care. You just hold on—breathing hard, laughing softly—lips meeting again and again as you both sink into the familiar shape of each other… into home. 

END.

[callmetroi]

This was so sweet I felt my teeth rotting as I read it. Just like... *mwah*... kisses to the writer. I dabble in Glen fandom but this takes the trophy! Tyler is def my fav character of his, so maybe I am biased; however, I don't think that has anything to do with just HOW GOOD this one is. It was emotional torture with the angst for poor reader but DAMN! HAPPY ENDING!

[goodomensonprime]

And finally...3. See you soon 😇😈

[mcu-binge]

Bonding exercise || Adrian Chase x reader ||

Pairing : Adrian Chase x fm!reader. W/C : 3705

Summary : What starts as stitching Adrian up turns into riding him on the common room couch, hands in his hair and his mouth everywhere. You finally give in to the tension and of course, that’s when the team walks in. Cameras rolling. Condoms offered. Dignity gone. 10/10 would do it again. Blame the trauma bonding and the animal facts.

Warnings : SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v, dirty talking, accidental exhibitionism, dorky neurotic Adrian, shy (?) reader.

A/N : This was so much fun to write! Don’t get me wrong I love writing about Clark but with Adrian I feel like there’s broader tropes to use because he’s unhinged and chaotic 🥰 my first Adrian fic. Let me know what you think 💚

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s still for once, slouched on the couch, your sweatshirt tossed over his bare chest, curls damp and messy from the rain and sweat. The adrenaline finally wore off about twenty minutes ago, and he passed out mid-sentence, halfway through a rant about wanting to buy you a diamond stethoscope “so you can think of me every time you listen to someone’s heart.”

You’re curled on the floor in front of him, med bag open, hands still gloved. You’re not moving. Just watching his chest rise and fall like you’re afraid if you blink, he’ll vanish.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You never thought offering to stitch up a masked lunatic in the back lot of Fennel Fields after a shift in the hospital would lead here, to this life. This team. These people who break and bruise and keep getting back up.

And Adrian? Adrian was never part of the plan.

He was just some trigger-happy maniac in a costume. Too loud. Too reckless. Too… much.

But then he started asking you if raccoons could get diabetes. Started saving you the last granola bar. Started looking at you like you mattered, like he couldn’t believe you were real either.

And somewhere between stitching up his side and dodging his dick jokes, something switched inside of you. You didn’t mean to. But God, you’re in it now. Because Adrian is your favorite. Unfiltered. Unafraid. Reckless, ridiculous, and so endearingly his own type of chaos. And the way you feel about him? It’s not a crush anymore. It’s a problem.

You’re in love with a man who hums the DuckTales theme while bleeding out, who gets excited about vending machines, who asks if you want to “practice CPR just in case.”

Adebayo watches you both from across the room.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just sips her tea. Lets the music fill the silence.

And then, softly “So. When are you gonna stop pretending?”

You glance up, startled. “What?”

“You heard me.”

You look down. “It’s not…I mean, there’s nothing to pretend.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You bite your lip.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Look. I’m not trying to push you. I get it. He’s a lot. He’s loud. He says the most unhinged shit I’ve ever heard come out of a man who’s technically not institutionalized.”

You smile weakly. “But he looks at you like you’re his gravity, girl. Like you’re the one thing holding him to the goddamn planet.”

Your breath catches. “And you look at him like you’re scared of what would happen if he ever stopped looking back.”

You say nothing. You can’t. Your throat’s too tight. “This world we live in? It doesn’t make sense. It’s violent. It’s random. You could lose everything tomorrow and never see it coming.”

She sets her tea down. “So if you’ve got something good in front of you, even if it’s messy, even if it’s scary, you take it. You don’t wait until it’s gone. You don’t wait until you’re sitting here with bloody gloves and a bunch of regrets.”

You let out a shaky breath. Her words hit harder than you want to admit.

She stands, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “You deserve good things, sunshine. Stop convincing yourself you don’t.”

She walks out of the room.

You sit there for a long moment, the rain tapping softly on the windows, music humming low and emotional in the background. You look over at Adrian.

Still asleep. Still frowning in his sleep like he’s dreaming of a fight. But when you shift to sit beside him, he stirs, just slightly and without opening his eyes, he mumbles “Can you stay?”

You freeze.

“I wanna be near you.”

Then he shifts again and lays his head in your lap, face turned into your stomach, sighing like he’s finally safe.

You’re trembling again. But this time, it’s not fear. It’s too many feelings crammed into one fragile moment.

You hesitate, then slowly, ever so gently, thread your fingers through his soft curls.

He hums in his sleep. Presses closer. And for the first time all night, he looks peaceful.

The next song starts playing a love song with aching guitar and lyrics about wanting more time.

You stare down at him, cheeks burning, hand in his hair.

And just when you think he’s fully asleep “You’re doing it again,” he murmurs, voice gravelly.

You jump slightly. “Doing what?”

He doesn’t open his eyes. But his smile is soft. Sleepy. A little sad.

“Pretending you don’t feel what you feel.”

You swallow. “You’re not supposed to be awake.”

“Can’t sleep. You smell too good.” He hums pressing his face closer to your lower abdomen. “And I’m too excited to go to sleep now.”

“Adrian.”

“I mean it,” he whispers. “Every time I get hurt, I think, cool, maybe now she’ll finally kiss me.”

You laugh, wet and quiet. “That’s terrible logic.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

You sigh, looking down at him, his lashes brushing his cheeks, his lips parted, his voice barely holding steady.

And then he says, quieter “I’m scared too. I act like I’m not, but I am.”

You say nothing. Just trace your fingers through his hair again.

“But I know this if I died tomorrow and didn’t tell you how I feel, I’d come back just to haunt you. Probably in the shower.”

You giggle, wiping at your eyes. “I like you,” he murmurs, barely audible now. “So much it’s stupid.”

Your heart’s hammering.

“I like you too,” you whisper.

He opens his eyes, soft and hazy and all Adrian.

“Yeah?” You nod.

“Good,” he says. “Now kiss me before someone walks in and ruins it.” You let out a breathless laugh before bending down to plant a gentle kiss on his soft lips. You feel the kiss everywhere like something awakening inside of you. You pull back slightly and see the biggest grin on his face.

“I knew it’d be magical,” he says before He kisses you again, slow, careful, as if he’s afraid to shatter the moment. But when he pulls back, he keeps one hand cradling your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he doesn’t quite believe this is real.

Then, gently “C’mere. Lay down with me.”

You don’t hesitate.

You curl into his side, warm and breathless, draping a leg over his hips. And that’s when you feel him. Hard against your clothed heat.

You freeze for just a second, flushed, breath catching and then you look up at him, wide-eyed, something wild and unspoken flaring behind your lashes.

Adrian raises a brow, smirking just slightly. “Sorry you’re just so hot. I swear I was hard before you kissed me. Shit…does it make you uncomfortable?” you shake your head slowly, lips parting as a quiet, needy sound escapes your throat, one you didn’t know you could make.

“No,” you whisper. “God, no. I just… didn’t realize you’d be that…fuck.”

His grin falters. Not in a bad way. Like he’s trying to process the fact that you’re the one unraveling now.

You shift your hips without thinking, pressing yourself into him just enough to feel the heat between you spark and catch. His breath hitches. His eyes darken.

“Careful, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You keep moving like that, and I’m gonna forget how exist or be gentle.”

Your fingers trail down his chest, slow and reverent, but your voice is different now, breathy, unsteady, feral.

“I don’t want gentle.” That surprises you, even as it leaves your mouth. Adrian blinks. You lean in, lips grazing his ear, and whisper “I want you to fuck me.”

He groans, full-body groan, like the words physically hit him.

“Oh shit.”

You bite your lip, eyes hooded, emboldened now by the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the last thing he’ll ever believe in.

“I’ve wanted you since the first time you opened that big, stupid mouth and made me laugh while bleeding.” You confess.

“You mean the time I got stabbed and told you I was allergic to hot people?”

“Exactly that one.”

He grins, breathless, his fingers curling around your thigh. He leans in to kiss you again slipping his tongue inside effortlessly. “Say it again.” He says against your lips.

You tilt your head, innocent smile hiding something deeper. “That I want you?”

“No,” he rasps. “That you want me to fuck you.”

You exhale shakily. “I want you to fuck me, Adrian.”

He loses it.

Suddenly he’s flipping you onto your back, careful but desperate, lips crashing against yours as his body settles between your thighs.

His voice is strained, reverent. “Tell me if it’s too much.” He groans into your mouth.

“It’s not enough.”

“Fuck, okay, okay. Just, don’t say shit like that unless you’re ready, because I am one second away from completely losing my mind over you.”

“Then lose it,” you whisper, hands dragging down his back. “Lose it for me.” He sits back and pulls your shirt off leaving you bare.

“Holy shit.” His eyes are wide behind his glasses as he looks down at you. His hands come up to caress your exposed skin “I knew these would be perfect,” he whispers almost to himself making you smile. The sound of his voice, low, awed, slightly wrecked, makes your stomach flip.

He leans in and presses kisses down your throat, across your chest, lips brushing everywhere except where you want them.

You arch into him, breath catching. “Adrian…” And then his mouth wraps around your nipple, hot, wet, and devoted his tongue flicking expertly while his free hand comes up to tease the other, fingers pinching lightly.

“Oh my God—” you gasp, back arching harder. “That feels so good.”

“Yeah?” he mumbles against your skin, his voice vibrating against you. “You’re so fucking responsive… it’s gonna drive me insane.”

He kisses his way back up your body, every press of his mouth getting slower, sloppier, until he reaches your lips again and kisses you with a hunger you feel down to your toes.

You moan into him and he moans right back, like he needs it just as much.

He moves down to your neck, biting softly, tongue soothing over every mark he leaves behind. It tickles just enough to make you giggle.

Adrian pulls back instantly, eyes wide and panicked.“Shit.. am I doing something wrong?”

You shake your head, laughing breathlessly. “No, no. Your hair tickled me a little.”

His shoulders sag in relief. “Jesus, don’t scare me like that,” he breathes out, then flashes you a crooked smile. “I thought I bit you weird or said something way too specific.”

You laugh harder, and he grins like he’s completely drunk on it. “Okay, cool. Ticklish giggle I can handle.” He kisses you once, sweet and slow. “Anything else? Would’ve killed me.” He reaches down to pull his pants off and slides your shorts off before he dives back in, mouth hot and claiming against your neck, fingers skimming lower, and you’re both so far gone it’s a miracle either of you remembers how breathing works. He’s grinding against you now, desperately rubbing his hard-on against your core, panting like every movement is costing him restraint. His hips roll like he’s begging for relief, completely lost in the feeling.

You slide your hand down and palm him through the thin fabric of his briefs, and his whole body shudders.

“Oh fuck, that’s amazing,” he groans, his voice cracking like it physically hurts to hold back. He kisses you again, hard, almost messy, before dragging your hand lower, guiding your fingers beneath the waistband.

“Please,” he murmurs, actually begging now. “Touch me please. I need you to touch me, I’m losing my fucking mind”

You wrap your hand around him, stroking a few times, slow and deliberate. His head drops to your shoulder with a broken moan. You tug his briefs down, letting his cock spring free, thick, flushed, aching and you don’t miss the way he twitches in your hand when you squeeze.

“Jesus,” he whimpers. “I knew your hands were magic before but holy shit.”

While you’re still stroking him, his hand moves fast, urgent, a little shaky, pulling your soaked panties to the side, fingers sliding through your wetness like he’s checking just to make sure.

“Oh my God,” he rasps, eyes wide, face completely undone. “You’re, fuck, baby, you’re dripping. That’s…holy shit, that’s so fucking good. Is all that for me?”

You nod, breathless. He kisses you again, more like a gasp than a kiss while his fingers run up and down your slit, careful and obsessed.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” he groans. “You’re so wet it’s making me lightheaded.” Then, barely a whisper “Can I eat you out? Please? I need…just let me…please.”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes gleaming. “Show me what that mouth knows other than weird animal facts.”

He laughs, the sound full-bodied, delighted like he’s been waiting for this challenge.

“You got it,” he grins, sitting up on his knees. “But you gotta sit on my face.”

You blink. Hard.

“Wait, what?”

“Sit. On. My. Face,” he repeats, already lying back on the couch like this is a completely normal Tuesday activity.

You hesitate, hovering slightly over his lap.

“I… I’ve never done that before.”

His whole body jolts upright like you just told him the sky is fake.

“WHAT?! With those thighs?” He gestures emphatically like you’ve committed some kind of war crime. “Are you kidding me?”

You nod, cheeks burning. He blinks up at you, stunned. Then he softens, that dorky, adoring smile creeping onto his face.

“Okay, we’re fixing that right now.”

He reaches out, palm warm as he guides you forward.

“C’mere. I got you.”

You let him help you straddle his chest, your breath catching as you slide up, hovering, uncertain.

“This position?” he says, eyes glinting, “Top tier. A personal favorite. You can pull my hair, ride my nose, use me like a human slip-n-slide, whatever feels right for you, princess. Use me”

You let out a nervous laugh, glancing down at him.

He just looks up at you like you’re a work of art, hands wrapping around your thighs as he gently, very purposefully, pulls you down to his mouth.

And then, his tongue drags a slow, wet stripe through your folds and your thighs shudder instantly, your hips bucking slightly as the breath whooshes from your lungs.

“Holy shit,” you gasp.

His hands tighten around you, keeping you steady as he groans into you, deep and satisfied like he’s been craving this forever and is finally being fed.

He groans into you, loud and muffled, like he likes that your legs are shaking. Like he wants more. “You taste so fucking good,” he moans between licks, hands gripping your thighs tighter, keeping you steady. “This is the best day of my entire fucking life.”

You try to lift off him, just slightly, too flustered, but he yanks you right back down.

“Nope. Stay. You’re not going anywhere.”

His tongue flicks against your clit and you cry out, hand flying to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Fuck, Adrian…” you whimper.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Pull my hair. Use me, baby.”

You’re panting now, grinding down without thinking, chasing the pressure. His hands are guiding you slowly, then fast, then back to slow like he’s memorizing you.

“I knew it,” he mutters, voice reverent and ruined. “Knew that sweet little mouth was hiding something filthy. Look at you now. Fucking dripping for me.”

You whimper something unintelligible. He chuckles, delirious.

“Can’t talk?” he teases, pausing just long enough to kiss your thigh. “That’s okay. I’ll do all the talking for both of us.”

And he does.

“You’re gonna come on my face, aren’t you? Gonna soak me like a goddamn waterfall. Shit, I hope I drown.”

You moan loud and high and desperate, stars exploding behind your eyes. You’re so close it’s not even funny.

“That’s it, sunshine,” he whispers, licking deeper, dirtier. “Give it to me. Ruin me. Be selfish. You deserve to feel this good every single fucking day.” Your release comes crashing down, the immediate relief and wave of pleasure washing over you makes you a little lightheaded.

“I’ll quiz you on every animal in the world if you do this every day,” you sigh, breathless, still trembling, looking down at him.

“Shit, that’s a lot of things to memorize,” he says, voice muffled and thoughtful, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get to all of them… but I’ll try. For science. And your thighs.”

You laugh, still flushed, still dizzy and scoot down, straddling his hips.

His lips are glistening with your slick. He watches you with pure amusement, then slowly licks them clean like it’s a goddamn delicacy.

“So… how was it?” he asks, cocky and boyish.

“Un-fucking-believable,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

“Like a 10/10?” he grins against your mouth.

Instead of answering, you grind your soaked core over his cock, still thick and heavy against his stomach. His eyes snap shut like you’ve short-circuited him.

“Yes,” you finally whisper, dragging yourself over him again. His hips buck.

“Shit,” he gasps. “Okay. Okay. Wait—I don’t have any condoms.” He starts spiraling instantly. “Maybe Chris has one…Economos? No, that guy doesn’t fuck—”

He’s talking a mile a minute, eyebrows knitted in genuine panic as he tries to figure out how to stop this from becoming a PSA.

You reach down and grab his cock, slow and teasing, running it through your slick again. He chokes.

“Oh god.” His head falls back. “Do you have one? Please tell me you have one.”

You smile, sweet, innocent, a little too calm for how wrecked he is.

You roll your hips forward again and tease his swollen tip right against your entrance.

“No,” you whisper, watching his brain leave the chat.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, trembling under you. “Okay…okay…I can pull out. I mean, I’ll try—fuck—you feel really tight, and it’s been a while, and you’re kind of like…everything.”

“No,” you interrupt softly, lips brushing his ear. “I want you to come inside me.”

His whole body goes completely still.

“Wait—what?” His head jerks up, eyes wide behind his fogged-up glasses.

“I’m on birth control,” you add, a breath away from him, voice calm and quiet.

He stares at you, scandalized.

“Then why the fuck did you—why did you let me go on and on about condoms and pulling out like a fucking sex ed skit?!” He throws his hands up, exasperated. “I almost called Chris, dude!”

You bite your lip, still smiling.

“I just wanted to hear what you’d say.”

“You’re a sadist,” he groans, arms wrapping around you as he flips you underneath him. “You knew I’d spiral and you let it happen. You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

He reaches down between you, his tip sliding through your wetness, and with one slow, aching push, he sinks into you. Both of you gasp, his eyes flutter shut like he’s been hit by divine intervention.

“Oh my God,” he chokes, hips stuttering forward. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect. You were made to do this. Literally designed in a lab for me.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he starts to thrust, slow, desperate, and just a little sloppy from how close he already is.

“That’s it,” you moan. “Just like that, Adrian—”

“Yeah?” he pants, eyes wide and gleaming. “You like that? You wanted me to fuck you in this government-funded IKEA couch?”

“Don’t care,” you gasp. “Wanna feel all of you—” The door slams open.

“OH MY GOD,” Ads yells.

Adrian freezes mid-thrust. You both look up like deer caught in an emotional headlight.

She’s standing there, horrified, hand over her mouth. Her eyes are huge. You’re still wrapped around Adrian. Adrian is still in you.

“Are you—are you guys serious right now?!” She blurts.

“You told me to go for it!” You yell.

“Yeah but I meant like a kiss or hug or something, damn. This is the common room! There are cameras!”

Adrian turns to you, eyes wide. “Wait, you knew there were cameras?! Why didn’t you say something?! Now there’s footage of me balls deep in my coworker while a friendship monitor watches from the ceiling!”

Before you can even respond, there’s a beep, then Chris’s voice comes in loud and clear over the PA system “Fantastic job, team. You almost made it to completion. Real tenacity out there. Also I definitely have condoms. You could’ve asked.”

“I’m never showing my face again,” you mumble.

“Too late,” Adrian says cheerfully, still inside you. “My ass is already on file.”

“Adrian—”

“Look, all I’m saying is if we’re gonna be exhibitionists, I say we commit. Someone find a ring light.”

“Adrian,” you hiss, mortified.

Ads is still in the doorway, one hand shielding her eyes and the other trying to backtrack out of the room like she didn’t just see her coworkers mid-thrust.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” she mutters, “but I’m actually gonna go walk into traffic. That feels like the only logical next step.”

“Well… that could’ve been worse,” Adrian offers, somehow genuinely trying to comfort you. “At least it wasn’t”

“Hey guys, anyone seen my leftove…OH MY ACTUAL FUCK—”

Economos drops his lunch container. It explodes against the floor.

He stares. Jaw slack. Face pale.

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU—WHY ARE YOU STILL INSIDE HER?!” he screams.

“We are bonding!” Adrian yells back.

“WITH YOUR DICK?!”

“Emotionally and physically!”

“THERE ARE CAMERAS!”

Chris’s voice crackles in again “Economos, relax. Why don’t give him a high five instead? We thought he didn’t like sex this is major! Also, no one’s touching your little fucking leftover pad thai. Fuck.”

Economos is still frozen in the doorway, eyes haunted. Adrian finally grabs a blanket to pull over you.

“I’m gonna need therapy,” John whispers, backing out of the room like it’s cursed. “Like, so much therapy. Government-issued trauma leave.”

“Want me to write a note?” Adrian calls after him. “I have great handwriting!”

The door finally closes. Silence. You flop back on the couch, covering your face with the blanket.

“I know Chris is watching; but I’m still hard,” Adrian whispers in your ear. He cannot be serious.

[callmetroi]

When I say I was in the DMV reading this, and I got looks when I laughed out loud and was giggling through the entire last part of this... I have no shame and would absolutely do it again! This fic made my wait absolutely worth it.

**SPOILERS**

Ads is still in the doorway, one hand shielding her eyes and the other trying to backtrack out of the room like she didn’t just see her coworkers mid-thrust. “I cannot believe I’m saying this,” she mutters, “but I’m actually gonna go walk into traffic. That feels like the only logical next step.” “Well… that could’ve been worse,” Adrian offers, somehow genuinely trying to comfort you. “At least it wasn’t” “Hey guys, anyone seen my leftove…OH MY ACTUAL FUCK—”

I could see the characters acting this out as I read and I wish I could relive that joy as a first time read again for the above snippet and Chris before and everything after.

[awesomebutunpractical]

Sometimes people act like if you stop focusing on the negative for five seconds, you will be mauled by a carnivorous gazelle.

[callmetroi]

Have you seen that freaking gazelle 👀!! AND he's fast as fuck boi 💨!! Imma be negative my whole life to avoid that carnivorous mf!!

[secretjesterr]

forgive my art skills but i had a vision when i found this picture on twitter

[ath3alin]

so fucking humbling to be like “no I like that character a normal amount” and then you can literally feel your heart rate spike at a mention of them like a dog that just heard the word “treat”

[callmetroi]

Then your ass starts to wiggle with excitement as if your owner just grabbed your leash off the hook by the door as the charcter "mention" turns into a conversation before you

[thezombieprostitute]

Deal

Summary: You and Ransom meeting in college, and what follows from there.

A/N: Reader is plus sized, female. No other physical descriptors used.

Deal

No Deal

Big Deal

The Deal

[callmetroi]

Dawww. This was a fun and cute read. Short, slowburn, cutesy with a "happy ending" 😉

[ironman-tonystark]

A Valentine's Poem for Sam: Roses are red, Falcons fly far, But could you please ask them, To stop shitting on my car?

[biteofcherry]

@buckets-and-trees @stargazingfangirl18 re: the other flowers in the Cornflower universe possibilities

I like the idea of Steve's right hand, Bucky, plucking himself a fiery Foxglove - the only girlfriend from uni years that you're still in close contact, and who barges into the bikers' clubhouse to rescue you (with a can of hairspray, malfunctioning lighter, and high heels).

Bluebell remains the kind of friend you don't talk to for years, but you occasionally see her social media posts and she always likes everything you post. She's an artist, who left her degree on her parents' fridge to pursue her true passion. It's that passion that puts her on radar of Steve's associate - Lloyd.

He's an arms dealer, but considers himself a connoisseur. He jokes that beside Steve always offering him most lucrative deals and damn fine whiskey, Steve's city also offers very interesting gallery exhibitions. A sweet Bluebell with her stunning paintings would be a perfect addition to Lloyd's chateau.

It's also because of Steve that you're reunited with the fourth flower friend.

Peony isn't dragged into it all by bad luck. She's already blooming in the groomed wilderness of criminal underground.

As a wife to a mob boss.

She was betrothed to Andy Barber since she was eighteen, but allowed to attend uni for a degree she wouldn't fully use in the reality that awaited her. She never told any of you about it. Raised to be a perfect mob wife, she was the one to suggest getting tattoos as a tiny form of rebellion - marring the pristine princess they wanted her to be.

When Steve is invited to Andy for a business talk over dinner, you come face to face with a long lost friend; her garden and house filled with peonies, her children's laughter, and her husband's eyes watching her with a hunger of a man who loves conquering her over and over again.

[callmetroi]

😆 Just kidding. Love these ideas so much!

Bucky and Lloyd would have their hands full it seems kekeke 🤭

But Peony. Phew. She sounds like a Queen 👸 who knows EXACTLY what she's doing.

[thepersonalquotes]

[callmetroi]

Ahhhh... maladaptively day dreaming my way through the present lol one of the few "gifts" with bpd.

[biteofcherry]

Just read your bikers Ari and Curtis 🤯 Their so hot and dark. I'm scared of them but I want to be theirs. Now I'm thinking how would you write a dark biker Steve?

So this is the ask that I started writing a story for yesterday and lost it completely 🙁I spent half of yesterday crying because of that. I was angry and sad at the loss, then my period hormones added to that, turning it into a full on breakdown.

Honestly, I was ready to abandon it completely. I knew I wouldn't be able to recreate it the way it was written (and I was so happy with the sentences I weaved). But today I decided to not give in to my stupid hormones, nor to the fuckery that tumblr can be on occasion.

I mean, the power of dark biker Steve is stronger than any obstacle! 😎

Truly, I couldn't resist the idea of biker Steve in the same vibe as Gasoline Ari and Curtis. So maybe it's not even my stubbornness to fight against the difficulties, but my horniness for Steve that prevails, lol

~ * ~

Cornflower

dark biker!Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: No one attempts to cheat Steve Rogers and his Dark Avengers. Unfortunately, your husband makes that mistake.

warnings: Dark Steve. Dub-con. Power imbalance. Oral. Fingering. Pussy spanking. Squirting. Unprotected. Anal play. A smidge of degradation. Possessiveness.

word count: 4.5k

Steve Rogers Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Steve Rogers leads the Dark Avengers, a group that stretches its dark wings over the whole span of the city and wide area surrounding it. They may give to the community, but it’s on their terms only, and the avenging they do is for their past hurts, offences, as well for not abiding to the Captain’s rule. 

You’d say no one sane dares to go against him, if even the law is deep in his pocket (or cowering in the corner in fear of what gruesome retaliation he could come up with). But perhaps it doesn’t have anything to do with sanity, and everything to do with stupidity.

There were traits your husband annoyed you with on occasion, but never before would you call him stupid.

Unfortunately, he proves to be exactly that when a strong wing of the biker gang rides into your neighborhood and flanks your house.

They don’t wait for the nightfall. They don’t need to hide in the shadows. They come in broad daylight, on a Sunday noon before the scent of home cooked dinner spreads through the house. 

Of course you didn’t know your husband scratched the gang’s back, to have his back scratched in return. His ambition tended to spike into a red flag, though you didn’t expect it to veil true greed. 

You’re frozen on the spot when Steve enters the house, two of his men right behind him. No guns up, no trashing of the place. Quite a polite self-invitation, really. But nothing about them is polite. They’re contaminating the safe, light space with the darkness that drags with them. 

There’s a crunch of bone and a spurt of blood when they hurt your husband. Your instinct to rush to his aid is more a human reaction than your bravery to shield your husband from consequences of his own actions.

You don’t get far. 

Steve’s arm shots up, his hand clenching around the front of your neck with precision that didn’t need calculating. 

His grip is firm, unyielding. Even as you gulp nervously and your throat bobs against the warmth of his palm. 

His eyes are so blue. You’d call them beautiful if they didn’t belong to a monster. His attention shifted to you fully, but somehow you knew he was still very much aware of every detail that was happening behind him. 

Without taking his eyes off of you, Steve ordered his men to take your husband to his study. To wire all of your savings into Rogers’ account. From the secret, off-shore account your husband’s been keeping from you, as well. 

When Steve’s gaze slowly swipes down your form, studying every inch of your clothed body, it’s not exactly lewd. But there is clear interest in his eyes that prickles goosebumps all over your skin. 

“You’re a counselor.” He states. You’re not surprised he knows such details. 

“We’re going to arrange a session,” Steve’s thumb presses harder to the side of your neck, where your pulse pounds wildly as terror intensifies. “You’ll help me make some decisions.”

Tears well in your eyes when his hold shifts to the back of your neck and, with a squeeze, he nudges you toward the stairs. He makes you walk up to the floor where your bedroom stands wide open. 

You know fighting him off won’t make any difference. If anything, it would make things worse. More painful. In the end any accusation you make would still be swept under a rug. You hate that your husband isn’t fighting for you either, even if he stands no chance. Honestly, you’re not even sure he would attempt to prevent it from happening.

Steve doesn’t shove you. Doesn’t hit. He simply walks into the bedroom with you and gives a single command:

“Strip.”

With trembling fingers, you pull the zipper on the side of your cream dress. Steve takes off his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the velvet chair at your vanity. The black t-shirt he’s wearing stretches tightly across the wide span of his broad chest. The stitching on the sleeves threatens to rip when his biceps bulge. 

He takes it off in one move, revealing a sculpture of light skin covered in a map of dark symbols, remnants, and meanings sealed in ink. You’ve never seen a man so well built, neither one so heavily tattooed. 

It amps the scary factor. It also ignites something low in your belly. A heated curiosity at a forbidden fruit that means only doom.

You take off your bra and underwear, preferring not to test the limits by showing defiance. What would be the point if in the end he’d still have you spread out naked. Best to endure it, hoping for it to end. 

Steve points to the bed and you sit at the edge of the mattress; your legs pressed closed, your hands covering the triangle between your thighs. You try to focus on the details of the fluffy rug beneath your feet, but the jangle of belt buckle tugs on that curious thread and your gaze shifts upwards.

He works his belt and zipper open, then pushes his jeans down. The sight of his cock, already hardening, rushes heat between your thighs.

He’s big. Not comically so. Proportionally. Impressive in girth and length. 

A cock you could fantasise about, if it wasn’t about to bring you humiliation and pain. 

Steve steps close, towering over you. It’s not only because you’re seated, and you’re no dainty Thumbelina either. He’s simply massive. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks, voice completely calm. 

There’s poor consolation in the fact he doesn’t mock you, that he won’t be humiliating you in front of his men. That, in it all, he treats you quite gently. For now, at least. 

You shake your head, despite knowing well it won’t save you from him. 

Steve leans down, placing his hands on your thighs. They’re so big his fingers grip nearly the whole span of your thick thighs. The pressure there is steady, on the edge of hurtful.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks again, and this time you give the right answer.

“Yes.” Your throat constricts as you whisper. 

Steve Rogers is a very clever man. Making you sign your fate with your own voice, consenting to something you truly didn’t want. 

Tears well up in your eyes as his touch moves down. His fingers hook beneath your knees and he pries your legs open. He spreads you wide, forcing your bent legs up until your feet rest on the edge of the mattress. Your pelvis tilts, your balance shifts. You have to brace yourself on your hands, placing them on the sheets behind you.

His blue eyes blaze with hell fire, which scorches your skin from within as Steve slowly drops his gaze down your naked, exposed form. 

“Does your husband eat your pussy?” He asks unabashedly, studying your most intimate place with intent that forms a phantom caress right over your folds. 

“Sometimes,” you reply in a small voice. 

“He’s really dumb.” Steve snorts, summing up all of the foolish decisions your husband made that got you into this position, as well pointing out the opportunities missed.

He doesn’t follow it with explanations of how a husband should worship his wife’s pussy, there’s no poetic remark on not treasuring properly the sweetness of your cunt. What’s unsaid is the power that a man holds, if he makes his woman shatter on his tongue into an unsalvageable mess that will forever belong to him. 

Steve grips your hips and easily tosses your body further onto the mattress. That’s impressive, too. You’re not a small person. Your curves overflow man’s hands, yet Rogers had no problem manhandling you into position on your back in the middle of your marital bed. 

He crawls over you. Even on his knees, between your obscenely spread thighs, he maintains the full power. 

He looks down at you not with the appetite of a bloodlusting warlord wanting to break his enemies, but the confident calm of a triumphant king who already owns these conquered lands.

He brushes his fingertips over your cheek and down the column of your throat. Swipes them lower, tracing circles across the soft swell of your breast, until your nipples stiffen into painful points begging for attention. 

Instead of aiding their suffering, Steve strokes the skin right under your boob where a delicate cornflower shivers on its thin stem with each shaky breath you take.

It’s a souvenir from your twenty-fifth birthday, when your friends came up with this reckless idea to get matching tattoos. Four giggling flowers who pretended they would remain badass forever and not become proper women in their steady, boring lives. 

Steve studies that cornflower as if it was the key to understanding you. 

It lasts merely a few breaths before both of his hands spread over your curves and grip your flesh as he lowers his head to your belly. A shiver rocks your body, not entirely in repulsion. 

He leads open-mouthed, wet kisses over the weight that you often feel insecure about. Each taste of your skin seems to drive him hungrier, less patient. Kisses turn into sucking, nipping even. Until he’s leaving a line of deep hickeys across your abdomen and toward the juncture of your thigh. 

One of his hands pins your thigh down. With the other he hoists your leg over his shoulder, then places it atop your mound, using his fingers to spread you open. 

There’s no preamble. His tongue licks your seam open. Then his full mouth is there on your pussy - lips, nose, beard. As if he’s biting into his favorite, juicy fruit after starving for days. 

There’s nothing gentle, or sweet in the way he feasts on you. He eats your pussy with decisiveness and certain mercilessness, like your body had no other choice but to yield and love his brand of pleasure. And, to your horror, it does. 

His tongue swipes into spots that your fingers never discovered as sensitive, his sucking competes with your trusted toy. He plays your pussy like a maestro, plucking a harmony of moans and screams that reverberate through the house. 

You're helpless against the onslaught. Even the part of your brain that a few minutes ago knew it’s supposed to hate and sob at the assault, is overridden by waves of arousal beyond your control.

Pitiful protest bubbling on your lips are more at yourself for giving into the pleasure. Steve pays them no mind as he licks you into a mess that drips down his chin. 

His fingers part your flesh, exposing the throbbing bundle of nerves. His mouth latches onto it and your brain goes haywire. Your spine arches, all of your limbs locking in a spasm so tight you fear breaking apart. 

You come with a cry so loud it’s unmistakable to anyone downstairs what’s just happened. 

Steve doesn’t ease down. He keeps sucking, tormenting you until hot tears are streaming down your temples and your body writhes in futile attempt to escape. 

When he finally pulls back - beard glistening with your juices, his eyes flaming gasoline glow - it’s only a moment of reprieve. 

He tilts your ass up and drives two thick fingers into your pulsing cunt. He doesn’t pause to wait out the aftershocks, but pushes through them. He curls his fingers, pressing them right against that spot that only one single of your toys was ever able to stimulate. The sound you make at his victorious hunt is a keen of surrender. 

Steve presses his knee to your meaty thigh, holding it in place as he uses his freed hand to land a stinging slap right over your swollen folds. 

It’s instinctive, how fast your hands move to protect the sensitive area even as your hips keep bucking eagerly against his fingers. 

“Hands off, Cornflower.” Steve orders. “This is my pussy now. No one touches what’s mine without permission.” 

You whimper pitifully but force your arms aside. You don’t want to see what he’d do if you disobeyed. Gripping a fistful of the sheets, you tug on the fabric as your body ignites with the burn of pleasure that mixes with pain. 

Steve spanks your pussy again. Again. And again. 

Fucking you with his fingers faster, harder. 

The heat he stokes coils a fierce wave in your core. It’s overwhelming. Unlike anything you experienced before. On the next slap it releases. You come in wet streams, splashing all up Steve’s wrist and onto his abdomen. 

You clench your eyes shut, refusing to watch the mess your treacherous body made from assault that should leave you numb and unwanting, not shaking with the strongest climax of your life. 

Steve drains you until there’s sticky, thick cream webbing between his fingers, and your body drops lax on the mattress. 

Your breath is wheezing, your eyes closed and your eyelashes glued with tears. There’s not a single muscle in your body that could flex now and show any resistance to whatever Steve wanted to do to you next. 

As he straddles your chest, though keeping most of his weight off your ribcage, your legs tense anyway. 

He cups the back of your head and forces it up. Your eyes peek open, but instantly close again when the hot heaviness of his cock, crown pearly with pre-cum, slaps your cheek. 

“Lick your mess.” Steve grips your hair close to the scalp, forcing you to tilt your face closer to his abdomen. 

Heat engulfs you from within as you open your eyes and stare at the sculpted abs and the shine of your own slick covering Steve’s skin. It’s humiliating. Degrading. 

It makes your pussy pulse with another spark of vulgar arousal as you stick your tongue out and start licking him clean. 

He doesn’t wait for you to be thorough, just enough for the fire in his eyes to reach an inferno point, and for the drops leaking from the head of his dick to trickle out copiously. His grip on your hair tightens. He tilts your head back.

There’s no command now. He surges forward, forcing his cock between your lips. 

Fresh tears spring to your eyes. Your hands smack against Steve’s thighs, but his muscles seem to be made of steel because he doesn’t even flinch. 

With your head tipped back, your direct look is into those blue eyes. Into the face of a monster who broke you not with brutality but unparalleled pleasure. The scent of his musk, the salty taste of his cock on your tongue, it should repulse you. It should make you want to clench your teeth and face death.

Instead, a gurgled, hungry moan forms around his girth as you try to swallow more of him down your throat. 

Steve holds your head in place as he thrusts into your mouth. He keeps it slow, but deep. 

“That’s a good cockslut.” He groans, pushing to the back of your throat. 

You choke around him, blinking teary eyes up at him. His words are degrading, yet fall on you like a praise that licks heat between your thighs. 

“Don’t pretend to hate it, Cornflower.” He fucks your face in steady rhythm. “You may not be used to it, but something in you likes what I did to you. What I’m going to keep doing.” 

Steve drives forward with a grunt, lodging himself so deep you gag and lose the flow of air. Your legs start kicking, fingernails scratching against Steve’s thighs as you fight for breath. Your throat relaxes then constricts, saliva pooling around the girth heavy on your tongue. Tears smudge remnants of your makeup. 

He finally pulls back, completely. You cough, catching raspy gulps of air. 

Steve doesn’t wait for you to settle down fully. He stretches above you, fitting himself between your spread thighs. One hand curls around the front of your neck while the other guides his cock between your puffy folds. 

He surges into you in one, languid thrust. Your swollen walls cling to the intrusion, both resisting the breach and loving the stretch. 

Beneath him, you moan and arch. Your hands anchor onto his back, clinging to the broad spread of muscles that ripple as he moves.

“That’s it.” He withdraws and snaps his hips back. “You’re going to take it all. Not until you can’t take it anymore, but until I decide it’s enough.” 

“Nghh!” You whine as he speeds up. But the way your legs draw up, bracketing Steve’s hips, isn’t in an attempt to fight him off. 

He fucks into you roughly; each stroke a lash of power that forces your submission. The bed rocks with the movement, but there’s nothing comical about it. Not when you’re cresting from penetration alone. 

Or maybe it’s an amalgamate of being split on a fat cock and the sense of being overpowered and owned. 

Because Steve is fucking you like he owns you. 

He doesn’t. He can’t! 

Your nails needle his skin as pleasure mounts in your core. The tingling tale of the oncoming climax skitters down your spine and fizzes in every inch of your skin that had contact with Steve’s sweaty, naked body. 

“Are you going to cum on my cock?” He asks, bracketing your jaw with his big hand and forcing you to look at him. 

You try to nod, scared of opening your mouth to let out all the shameless sounds that want to spill. But Steve’s grip tightens in displeasure.

“Say it, Cornflower.” He orders.

“I-” your voice is low, breathy, as tiny gasps puncture between each word because you’re so close, so close- “I’m going to cum.”

“Whole sentence,” he drives in harder, ripping a full moan out of you as your vision starts turning white.

“I’m going to cum on your cock!” You cry out and topple over right after.

Sunlight bursts beneath your eyelids as your body seizes in peak pleasure. For a moment all sounds disappear. The only thing that remains is the pulsing of your cunt and Steve’s cock that keeps prolonging it. 

“What a good fucktoy.” He grunts in your ear, his own breathing turning rapid. “Doing as she’s told and coming so prettily on my cock. Your sweet pussy is perfect. Tight and wet and warm. Taking all the pain and still clinging to my dick, begging to be filled.” 

There’s that degradation again, which should disgust you, not make you whimper in despair for more. 

Steve stills suddenly, buried deep to the root. You don’t feel a rush of fluid heat filling you. No, his cock is still very hard and throbbing. You peek up at him, gaze a little foggy, with stars still sparking in your peripheral vision.

They flash a sunburst when Steve’s lips capture yours. 

His mouth is as demanding on yours as it was on your pussy. It still tastes of your pussy, too. 

Steve kisses you with unceremonious possession, teasing his tongue between your lips and fucking your warm cavern in shallow thrusts. You don’t try to have any control over your body anymore - your own tongue flicks back against his, your lips returning the same hungry brand. 

He tugs your bottom lip between his teeth before he pulls back completely. His cock slips free, leaving you pulsing and aching. 

Then those rough, big hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your stomach. He yanks your ass up, manhandling you into the position he wants. You don’t manage to scramble up on your hands to properly brace yourself when Steve thrusts back into your cunt from behind.

“Ahh!” Your pitched scream is near vulgar. 

But he feels even bigger now. Deeper somehow. Up to your throat. 

He doesn’t build up the pace, just starts back where he paused. The same force, the same speed. No, quicker. 

The slap of skin meeting sweaty skin composes a presto. Your flesh jiggles with each, ripples that softly play and mesmerize Steve. He watches your ass pressed to his pelvis. Drinks in the sight of his cock disappearing in your tight heat. 

“Ever had your ass fucked, Cornflower?” He asks, gripping one of your buttocks.

Tension snaps into your upper body. Your arms shake as you try to prop yourself up. You turn your head to the side, but it’s not enough to see Steve fully. 

“No, please-” you start.

Steve doesn’t care for the tremble in your tone. He bends forward, cupping your chin with his hand and plunging two of his fingers into your mouth. 

“Suck.” He tells you, eyes watching your cheeks hollow as you obey. 

Your tongue moves against his digits, coating them in your saliva. You do it for your own sake, but there’s a part of you that bounces in eagerness at the dirty act. Sure, you sucked a cock before. Which, theoretically, should appear more filthy than sucking on someone’s fingers. And yet… 

When Steve pops them free, a string of your drool breaks between the tip of his fingers and your lip. 

Your hands clench on the sheets, body swaying with the constant pounding. Blood rushes to your head - hell, blood rushes everywhere, when you sense the wet fingers press between your asscheeks. 

He’s not gentle, though you wouldn’t exactly say it’s brutal, the force with which he pushes his fingers into your tight rosebud. 

“It’s too much!” You choke out, instinctively trying to shuffle forward.

Steve’s free hand clamps on your shoulder, pulling you back onto his cock and the fingers relentlessly thrusting deeper. 

“Too much-” you groan as your whole body shudders. 

Your upper body drops down, face planting into the crumpled sheets. Steve’s digits sink deeper. His cock keeps filling you. There’s tension everywhere. Smidge of pain. So much pleasure, too. 

It’s fucking maddening. 

“Are you going to cum?” Steve seems to read your body, all its wrecked signs, better than your protesting mind does. 

“Yes!” You sob into the sheets. 

“Then fucking come!” His cruel command pairs with the twist of the fingers in your ass and a slap on your buttock.

And you do. On his command. On his cock and his fingers, and all of that’s monstrous, dark, and merciless. 

It’s not a quiet orgasm. The sounds you make, despite being muffled by the stained covers, are raw and vulgar. Your body is shaking, muscles locked so tight it almost hurts. You don’t squirt this time but there is wetness that you feel seeping past the thickness of Steve’s cock. 

“Good fucktoy.” Steve groans, watching you from his position of victory. “Sweet, slutty cumdump. Coming from fingers in her virgin ass and a cock deep in her tight pussy. I’m going to break and own each of your holes. And you’re going to love it.”

You don’t try fighting it. What’s the point when you’re spent and unable to form a coherent thought. When your body ignites with each humiliating word, as if impatient to have him do more filthy things to you. 

Only gasps and tiny whimpers leave your parted lips, sinking into the sheets, as Steve ruts into you chasing his own release. Fingers still deep in your ass, he presses them against the membrane separating that hole from your pussy. You don’t know if he can feel his own cock through it, but something about it sets him off.

He stills with a grunt that verges on a roar. Loud and low. 

You don’t think it’s a power play for the people downstairs to hear. Steve doesn’t need to assert himself over your husband in any way. He did it all for his own pleasure. His sounds express his satisfaction. 

Though with the way your nipples and clit throb in response, his loud climax is for your pleasure, too. 

The surge of wet heat spilling into you lasts longer than you remember it ever happening. Or maybe you’re so oversensitive and hyperaware that each rope of cum filling you appears to double in magnitude. 

Steve eases his fingers out of your tight rim, but doesn’t pull out of your pussy. Hips flush with your buttocks, cock twitching each spurt, he stays balls deep. Your heartbeat starts slowing down when he withdraws a few inches. Not fully yet, no. He watches the shine of your slick on his dick, the smudges of his own cum. 

Then plunges back into you. 

“You make a beautiful fucktoy, Cornflower.” Steve hums, softly brushing his lips up your spine. 

He lies on top of you, dropping your weight fully down from your position on your knees. Still not pulling out of you. 

With his nose he nudges your earlobe, then kisses a spot behind your ear. 

As sick as it may be, there’s some comfort in the way Steve’s warm, heavy body covers yours. You’d call it protective, if he wasn’t the one who broke you. 

When he finally pulls out and gets up, you fight with the need to curl into a ball. What’s horrifying, that it doesn’t come from the need to cry yourself into a fetal position, but simply desire to fall asleep after having your brains fucked out. 

You force yourself to roll onto your back and sit halfway up. You watch Steve put his jeans on. Your gaze strays up, appreciatively gliding over the map of tattoos and beads of sweat. You notice the tiny crescent dents in his skin where your fingernails left a mark. 

You wait to hear the rest of the fate that awaits your husband, and thus you. Will he tell you to plan a funeral? Will he banish the both of you from the city under a threat of burning you down with your house if you refuse? 

Steve reaches for his t-shirt, but instead of putting it on he tosses it at you. 

“Put it on.” He dons on his leather jacket and zips it halfway up. 

You comply, not about to argue about the option of covering your naked, ruined state. Even if everyone was definitely aware of what took place. 

Steve is much bigger than you, however his t-shirt stretches over your chest obscenely. You’re about to rush to your dresser for some sweatpants when Steve redirects your plans.

“Wear jeans. And grab a jacket.”

You pause mid-step and stare at him. It’s a request that isn’t dictated by some lewd fantasy he wants to play out. Before you dare to ask why that particular set, he pulls the rug out from under you.

“A bike can graze your skin and the rush of wind is cold.”

Heart thumps in your chest with lead heaviness. Fear reinstigates itself. Though it doesn’t have all the room for itself, since messier, hotter feelings are clinging to their spots. 

“You’re taking me.” You swallow hard, realizing Steve’s intention.

“Yes.” Again, there’s no extra cruelty or mockery. Just a plain, firm declaration. “By now your husband has transferred all of your savings, as well his secret one, to my accounts. He signed off the house to me, too. Tomorrow he’ll sign the divorce papers. Unless he wants to make you a widow.” 

Steve finds himself in front of you in a single stride, cupping your chin with a gentle reminder of the power he holds.

“You’re mine now, Cornflower.” 

[callmetroi]

I only got one thing to say to this...

[love-stucky]

Repercussions

pairing: nomad steve rogers x f!reader

summary: you couldn't behave, now steve's making sure you face the consequences.

prompt: “I said behave… not that I expected you to listen.”

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut, p in v, vibrator, edging, orgasm denial, light bondage, dom/sub dynamics, pet names (baby)

jazz talks: had to do nomad steve for the last day of january jumble scribbles! stucky was close in taking the spot but it was reaching 1k words 😭 i'll just save it for a rainy day. here's day 31! (pls don't look at the date)

word count: 495

ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ᴘʀᴇᴠ

You squirm against the silk ties binding your wrists and ankles to the bedposts, muscles straining as the vibrator hovers just millimeters from your swollen clit. 

The teasing has been going on for what feels like hours.

“I said behave…” Steve’s deep voice sends shivers down your spine as he kneels over you. “Not that I expected you to listen.” 

For two agonizing weeks, you’d played a dangerous game, sending him increasingly scandalous photos and videos from the privacy of your home. Each image was more explicit than the last. You knew it would have consequences, but you hadn’t anticipated this exquisite torture. 

“Steve, please,” you beg, arching your back as he teases your entrance with the head of his cock. He’s coated in your arousal, sliding against you without ever pushing inside. “Please, I need it so bad.”  

“Need what? This?” He circles the buzzing tip around your aching nub, never quite making contact. “Or this?” He sinks an inch of his length into you, your pussy greedily trying to draw him deeper before he withdraws completely.

A sob of pure frustration escapes you. “Both! Just… please, let me come. I’ll be so good, I swear.”

He sinks into you slowly and your body sings with relief, only for him to pull out again, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. He does it again, this time sinking in deeper before retreating. 

You’re crying in desperation now, hot tears rolling down your temples. “Please, just fuck me. I need you inside me.”

“You need me, huh?” he growls, sliding in to the hilt, stretching you gloriously before withdrawing once more. 

He brings the buzzing, slick head of the vibrator to your lips, the scent of your arousal sharp and intoxicating as he smears it across your mouth. “Didn’t look like you needed me when you were fucking this silly little toy on camera.”

Your cheeks flush at the memory—riding the toy with desperate need, moaning uncontrollably, never imagining he’d be using it against you like this.

After one more excruciatingly slow entry and complete withdrawal, he pulls back. Panic claws at your throat as you watch him wrap his hand around his glistening, hard length.

“No! Steve, no!” you protest, tugging at your restraints. “Don’t! Put it in me. I want to feel you when you come. I need your cock, please, I’m begging you!”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound as he begins to stroke himself with long, sure movements, his eyes locked on your trembling, exposed body. “You should’ve been more patient.” 

His breathing quickens, hand moving faster, fist tightening. With a throaty groan, he stiffens as hot ropes of his cum paint your pussy. 

You whimper at the feeling. “Can I please come now?” you ask, your voice a broken, desperate whisper.

Steve looks down at you, at the mess he’s made on your skin, as a slow smirk spreads across his face. “Oh no, baby… we’re just getting started.”

thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed! pls like/comment/reblog if so and let me know what you think!

[callmetroi]

Ummm, excuse me! What were you thinking writing something like this?! I did not bring a spare pair of panties with me today! 🥵😆🙌

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Okay, first of all, you guys are hopefully gonna be getting a LOT of updates on other fics soon!! everything is written and needs to be proofread and then bing bam boom!! Thank you all so so much for your feedback and patience!!

but also, going through everything I’ve written and getting it ready to post… would anyone like a new Adrian fic?? perhaps a darker, stalkery Adrian fic??

In case I end up going places with it, here’s a preview beneath the cut!

(tw: stalking, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, please let me know if I forgot anything!!)

-

It’s late. The moon is full, the night is quiet, and Adrian Chase couldn’t possibly be happier as he lies beside his girlfriend.

You must have been scrolling through your phone or something when you fell asleep, exhausted from a long day and still fully clothed with one foot hanging off the bed. He wants to wake you up. Maybe trail his hands and lips over your soft skin until your eyes flutter open and he can help you out of those clothes. Maybe into pajamas. Maybe not.

But he doesn’t. Not now. Instead, he just lays there and watches you. Curls a lock of your hair around his finger as delicately as he can. You hum, and he goes very still, body tensing. Coiling. Preparing to-

You roll towards him, and your head comes to rest in the crook of his arm. You don’t wake.

“Aw. Hi.” His smile splits his face, and it takes a whole lot of willpower to keep himself from sliding his arms around you and snuggling you as close to him as possible. Maybe…well, maybe he can just…

Slowly, carefully, his fingers slide up beneath your shirt, trailing over the warm skin of your stomach. Your nose scrunches a little, ticklish, and your body curls a little against his.

Still grinning, he turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply. You smell as pretty as you look. He’s the luckiest guy in the world.

He risks pulling you a little closer to him, and you come willingly with a sleepy sigh that just might be the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. His eyes move across your room, landing on the gun on your nightstand. Not totally safe, especially if it’s loaded, but you’ve been so paranoid lately that he’s not too surprised. Hopefully you won’t change your locks again. It’s a pain in the ass to break the one on your window without actually breaking the window. Besides, you don’t need to be so overly cautious. He’ll take care of you. Just like he always does. He’ll keep killing those guys who are creepy towards you. He’ll keep up with his patrols by your house. He almost wants to wake you up to tell you that, but he’s pretty sure you won’t be soothed by it.

You stir again, always so fussy in your sleep when he’s close to you. He likes to think you can sense him, somehow. That maybe something subconscious is alerting you to his presence, rousing you just enough to snuggle up to him but not quite enough to wake you and make you panic. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that your panic is because of him. Because you’re smart and you’ve seen the missing items in your home and obviously noticed the broken locks enough to keep changing them, but you’re safe. You’ll always be safe because he’ll always keep it that way.

His armor has blood on it. He hopes it doesn’t smudge on your face again. You always get so upset when that happens.

“I love you.” He whispers, nose brushing your cheek. Your nose scrunches again, and he can’t help his grin. Fuck, if he could just kiss you, just once, he’d be the happiest man in the world. But you’d wake up, and probably freak out, and with his mask off and his face exposed that’ll be a whole new mess to deal with. He doesn’t know a whole lot about relationships, but he’s pretty sure this one won’t start too wonderfully if he has to tie you up and keep you locked in your own apartment until you calm down.

“But I gotta go, okay?” You don’t answer, but the feeling of his breath against your cheek and his voice in your ear is beginning to make you rouse. As much as it kills him, he has to go. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Sleep tight.”

[callmetroi]

Oh yes. We definitely like! 🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️

Not gonna lie either, I thought we were all in trouble when you started with the "First of all" 🤣

[voidsmischief]

[callmetroi]