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catboybiologist · 8 months ago

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“As a biologist, the terms biological woman and man don’t make any sense to me” okay then you’re an idiot and a terrible biologist. I swear to god, morons like you only become biologists just so you can hold it over others, when in reality, if biology deniers like you can become biologists, then being one really doesn’t mean much anyway. But this probably just gave an autogynophile like you a boner to read, anyway.

Oh fun! Haven't gotten one of these in a while. Disregarding the fact that you somehow think the qualification for being a biologist entirely hinges on defining womanhood, I do need to ask some clarification. I know I'm feeding the trolls here, but here we go: does your definition of "biological woman" mean:

Sociological woman? Eh, context dependent, I'm not fully out of the closet, but oftentimes, I am and present femme. So let's call that one 50/50.

Psychological woman? Because I am one.

Neurological woman? Because I am one [1].

Physical woman? My soft tissue redistribution is handling that well.

Hormonal woman? My blood tests are within cis female ranges.

Transcriptional woman? As a signalling molecule, the downstream effects of estrogen have broad transcriptional effects, completely changing the profile of gene expression and functional genomics of my cells. [2]

Genetic woman? I mean, see my above point- as far as my genes that are actually active, I have all of the same transcripts being produced, controlling which genes are expressed.

Karyotypic woman? I actually have a few signs pre-HRT that might point to a non-XY chromosome pair, but I haven't had a karyotype. We'll put that down as unknown. And hell, even if its XY, there's plenty of cis women who are karyotypically XY, with suppressed sry or complete androgen insensitivity. Interestingly enough, a completely androgen insesitive woman can go her whole life without knowing- and functionally, is very similar to a trans woman, actually. Fancy that. [3]

Reproductive woman? I can't produce an egg cell, but neither can significant fractions of cis women. Also, this is all gonna change soon, which is fun. [4]

There's also a lot of understudied aspects to the biology of HRT and even pre-HRT that are emerging, largely demonstrating widespread cellular and genetic remodeling of trans individuals undergoing hormone therapy. The field is a bit behind due to constant political pressure to revoke funding, but a lot of the results are extremely exciting in both testosterone and estrogen hormone therapies. I'm sure that, as a self professed biology As someone who presumably has a lot of expertise in biology, I'm assuming that you're aware of all of this cutting edge research, and are keeping up with modern papers, including but not limited to these cool findings:

Trans men on HRT exhibit significant genetic and transcriptional changes that make them biochemically male. [5][6]. It's a good hypothesis that the same happens with estrogen treatment, but those studies don't exist yet- I'm sure you're reserving judgment until more publications exist, of course.

Trans men on HRT develop male cell types and tissues. [7]

Trans women experience muscular and blood cell changes that align with cis women moreso than cis men [8]

And many, many more! This is an exciting, underserved, and groundbreaking field of research, and I'm sure you're keeping up with the latest in scientific journals about it.

I'm sure, of course, that you understand that it becomes impossible to draw a distinct line anywhere in here, and that words like "woman" are shorthand for the myriad of traits that invisibly synthesize in our mind and in society to represent a concept? I'm sure you understand that science is fundamentally descriptive, not prescriptive? I'm sure that you understand that these findings, while really cool and interesting, actually don't mean jack shit about what the word "woman" means or not?

As someone who is the ultimate decider in what a biologist is, I'm sure you know that bioessentiallism is a childish mindset that completely ignores and disregards the constantly changing, dynamic nature of biological systems, something that extends well beyond biological sex and its relation to gender.

I'm sure that also, that you understand that beyond just this, that the role of science in society is to advise how to achieve our moral principles, not create moral principles in themselves. And I'm sure that understanding means you know that trans affirming healthcare and supportive societal treatment leads to reduced mortality and increased happiness for everyone, right?

So great to talk to someone who is surely a scientist on this. You are a biologist, if you're talking like this, I assume? I assume you're not going to spit complete misreadings of scientific language from the background sections of these papers that only reveal you've never read a scientific paper in your life if you're thinking this way? I assume you have experience interpreting data like this?

Also, imagining my genitalia while writing this? Ew. Please stop projecting your fetishes into my inbox.

Works cited:

Kurth F, Gaser C, Sánchez FJ, Luders E. Brain Sex in Transgender Women Is Shifted towards Gender Identity. J Clin Med. 2022 Mar 13;11(6):1582. doi: 10.3390/jcm11061582. PMID: 35329908; PMCID: PMC8955456.

Fuentes N, Silveyra P. Estrogen receptor signaling mechanisms. Adv Protein Chem Struct Biol. 2019;116:135-170. doi: 10.1016/bs.apcsb.2019.01.001. Epub 2019 Feb 4. PMID: 31036290; PMCID: PMC6533072.

Gottlieb B, Trifiro MA. Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. 1999 Mar 24 [Updated 2017 May 11]. In: Adam MP, Feldman J, Mirzaa GM, et al., editors. GeneReviews® [Internet]. Seattle (WA): University of Washington, Seattle; 1993-2024. Available from: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK1429/

Murakami, K., Hamazaki, N., Hamada, N. et al. Generation of functional oocytes from male mice in vitro. Nature 615, 900–906 (2023). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-023-05834-x

Pallotti F, Senofonte G, Konstantinidou F, Di Chiano S, Faja F, Rizzo F, Cargnelutti F, Krausz C, Paoli D, Lenzi A, Stuppia L, Gatta V, Lombardo F. Epigenetic Effects of Gender-Affirming Hormone Treatment: A Pilot Study of the ESR2 Promoter's Methylation in AFAB People. Biomedicines. 2022 Feb 16;10(2):459. doi: 10.3390/biomedicines10020459. PMID: 35203670; PMCID: PMC8962414.

Florian Raths, Mehran Karimzadeh, Nathan Ing, Andrew Martinez, Yoona Yang, Ying Qu, Tian-Yu Lee, Brianna Mulligan, Suzanne Devkota, Wayne T. Tilley, Theresa E. Hickey, Bo Wang, Armando E. Giuliano, Shikha Bose, Hani Goodarzi, Edward C. Ray, Xiaojiang Cui, Simon R.V. Knott, The molecular consequences of androgen activity in the human breast, Cell Genomics, Volume 3, Issue 3, 2023, 100272, ISSN 2666-979X, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.xgen.2023.100272. (https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2666979X23000320)

Xu R, Diamond DA, Borer JG, Estrada C, Yu R, Anderson WJ, Vargas SO. Prostatic metaplasia of the vagina in transmasculine individuals. World J Urol. 2022 Mar;40(3):849-855. doi: 10.1007/s00345-021-03907-y. Epub 2022 Jan 16. PMID: 35034167.

Harper J, O'Donnell E, Sorouri Khorashad B, McDermott H, Witcomb GL. How does hormone transition in transgender women change body composition, muscle strength and haemoglobin? Systematic review with a focus on the implications for sport participation. Br J Sports Med. 2021 Aug;55(15):865-872. doi: 10.1136/bjsports-2020-103106. Epub 2021 Mar 1. PMID: 33648944; PMCID: PMC8311086.

#cw transphobia #biology #basic biology

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sehnsuchts-trunken · 4 months ago

Text

(Don't You) Steal My Thunder

my tyler owens playlist 🤝 inspiring fic titles

Tyler Owens x fem!reader 7k words

summary: Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's set on getting you on his good side. And the more you get to know him, the less you can resist.

a/n: i had to research sm car stuff for this it's not funny. i now know exactly how to describe a truck bed though, so. that's fun.

again, my inbox is wide open <33 i don't guarantee anything, but you can always come talk to me or request smth

masterlist | twisters masterlist

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met.

He prints his face on t-shirts, writes his autograph on mugs, comes up with ridiculous sayings ("Not My First Tornadeo" and "If you feel it, chase it" are really just the tip of the ice berg) and most importantly, he costs you the best shots of tornadoes every goddamn time.

Tyler Owens is a problem.

And Tyler Owens seems to have actively decided to make himself a problem too.

Which would be fine, if he flipped you the bird or told you to fuck off or threw his paper towels at you. Unluckily, those are rather examples of what you have done to him. Because it's not fine, not at all - no, Tyler Owens has decided that it's not enough to be in your way all the time, he has to seek you out and rub your nose in it.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's arrogant and he's entirely too full of himself. He brags too much and calls you "weather girl" too often. He gets under your skin more than you would ever admit.

And, as if all of that isn't enough - Tyler Owens is the very epitome of handsomeness.

It's like god didn't just have a good day when he created Tyler Owens, no, god must have still been in the post-haze of the best head he'd gotten in his whole immortal life when he'd created Tyler Owens.

Because Tyler Owens has the body of a greek god and the face of a Hollywood actor. He's not a pornstar, he's who pornstars worship. He's the Prince Charming little girls dream of and the Christian Grey grown women lust for.

Tyler Owens looks like everything you've ever wanted.

But he's just such a fucking asshole.

You wish you could say you didn't care. You'd love to be the kind of woman who didn't even acknowledge him. But you're not. You're not. You watch his videos when you can't sleep, you chuckle when you happen to overhear his jokes, you ogle his back when he's turned away from you. Sometimes, you get so lost in staring at him that you realise too late when he turns back around, and then you have to act unbothered when he grins his fucking grin at you. That's mostly when you flip him off, desperately fighting to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

Not like it stops him. You honestly feel like it only spurs him on.

Something has to seriously be wrong with him. It's not his face. But something is seriously wrong with him, you're sure of that.

Something has to be wrong with him. No sane person would ever go tornado wrangling. No hate to the rest of his crew - they're nice, you've managed to hold a few pretty normal conversations with them here and there - but none of them are sane either.

Storm chasing is different. You keep your distance. All you need are a few well-placed photographs - and those you can get from a rather safe number of miles away. The weather channel doesn't care about close-ups (not really, anyway). They want something to show the people on their comfortable couches, up in New Hampshire or Maine, so that all of them can say to each other "What poor folks, wouldn't wanna live there" and nod in pity as they switch the channel to watch another blockbuster.

You're just doing your job.

The only problem is that it's hard to do your job properly when there's always that fucking red truck in the way, driving down empty roads right into the heart of the tornado. And because no one on the news wants people to see that and go "Well, can't be too bad if there's still cars on the streets!", in the last few months - ever since you'd volunteered to move back to Oklahoma 'So that we've got someone right in Tornado Alley and don't have to fly people out there every time' - the weather channel has only shown the first few minutes of tornadoes forming. The rest of your pictures and videos lie abandoned in the trash file on your laptop. Except for a few - a very, very few, very, very good pictures of Tyler Owens and his Tornado Wranglers. But those won't ever see the light of day either.

You'd be damned if you let anyone know that while Tyler Owens is busy disturbing your actual work, you're busy taking pictures of him shooting fireworks into tornadoes. Pictures that would make for some damn good headers (if you hadn't buried them far, far down your gallery).

This time is no different. You get a few amazing shots of the tornado forming – surely an EF2, maybe even an EF3 - before you settle in the driver's seat again, your window rolled down and your camera hung around your neck as you push down on the gas. Then, a few miles further, you get even better shots of the full tornado, of the first few minutes of destruction, right there, in the middle of an empty field.

And as always, of course, just as the tornado takes on full form, you spot that familiar red truck through the lens of your camera. It speeds down the pavement right in front of where you’ve swerved onto the side of the road and you snap a few pictures, just because you’ve got the trigger right underneath your finger. Honestly, something about that dirty red paint against the grey skies just looks too good not to capture. But then the truck comes closer and closer and starts to slow down and you let your camera sink.

Tyler has his window rolled down already when he stops the car. There’s that annoyingly handsome grin on his lips, the one that makes you want to slap him across the face.

“You’re too far away, weather girl”, he calls out above the rumble of distant wind and thunder. “The good pictures are down that way.”

“The good pictures are right here.” You lift your camera at him. “Maybe you just need to update your equipment.”

Tyler’s grin widens, but before he can throw another of those obnoxious retorts your way, Lilly’s voice rings out through the car.

“Hey, T, looks like it’s changing course. You should hurry.”

His eyes are still glued to yours, still glued so firmly to yours that it makes your skin crawl. You can’t look away, couldn’t possibly look away. Tyler Owens might just be a cocky asshole, but you’re only human. And the weight of his gaze on yours is enough to keep you stuck in place, clutching at your camera.

“We’re on our way, Lilly”, he drawls without looking away from you. “See you around, weather girl.”

The rest of the pictures you take land in your trash file with all the other pictures of the last few weeks. You’re laying in bed, your laptop propped up against a pillow, the empty plate from dinner on the mattress next to you as you sort through today’s work. That’s the good thing about the time difference – you’ve got until seven to send the channel the day's results.

By nine, you’ve showered, put on a dress you feel confident in and settled on one of the chairs at the local bar. You’ve been telling yourself you need to get out a little bit more – you’ve been living here three months now and you haven’t really made any friends so far. To be fair, your job has kept you out and about most of the time. You’ve spent more hours at gas stations to fill up your tank than you have in your own home. But now you’ve decided to put an end to that. You're a young woman in a new town, you can meet more people than just the cashier at the local supermarket.

So for the past twenty minutes, you’ve been nursing a mojito at the counter and talking to the bartender. She’s nice, she’s your age, she’s extroverted enough to keep sidling up to you after every time she has to excuse herself to do her job. That, and she tells you she’s grown up here, so she knows most of the people around. She’s just serving another customer – a long-haired, brown-eyed, hat-wearing country guy who’s already shared a smile or two with you – when someone rests their arm on the countertop next to you.

“Didn’t expect to see you here”, he drawls, all low, deep Southern accent and you recognise his voice before you’ve even tilted your head up and looked at him. His grin drips down onto his words and wraps itself around your mind.

Tyler Owens isn’t just annoying – he’s unbelievable. He's unbelievable and he’s here.

“So you’re stalking me now”, you say, as drily as you can possibly manage. You've been doing that a lot around him. Dead-panning everything. Schooling your expression into fake neutrality.

"I'm here all the time, weather girl", he grins. "If anything, you're stalking me."

You snort, but it's rather unfunny when you think of all the videos you've watched, hours after they'd been livestreamed, cuddled up in your bed until midnight just to stare at his face. He's not that far from the truth.

"In your dreams, Owens", you say anyway, dragging your eyes back towards your almost empty cocktail glass. You wrap your lips around your straw and drain your drink entirely. What you say and what you do, none of that matters in the end. All of this is just show. Every conversation you've had with Tyler Owens in the last three months has been nothing but a performance. Other than your name, you don't think a single sentence out of your mouth has been honest. Not when it comes to him.

"Let me buy you a beer" is the only answer you get.

His grin widens when you look back up again - so cocky, so unbelievably cocky.

"I don't drink."

You push your glass an inch further down the bar top. Tyler raises his eyebrows. Fuck, someone really needs to kick him in the face. You can't keep having all these little heart attacks whenever he's close enough that you could touch him if you wanted.

Not that you want to.

"You're drinking right now", he says. You rest your palms against the bar top and blink at him.

"I don't drink with you."

He lets out a chuckle, one of those deep ones that settle right in your chest and make it hard to swallow.

"Just this once?", he asks and in all honesty, for just a second there, you actually consider giving in. He's too handsome for his own good. You really need to get it together. He's an ass (what an ass, goddamn). And he's insane. He's an insane ass. Sometimes you have to remind yourself of that - those times like now, when his piercing eyes and his kissable lips and his rugged stubble and his broad, broad shoulders and his drawled voice overshadow everything else.

"Don't you have some livestreaming to do?", you ask, hoping it still comes across just as sarcastic when you're the slightest bit distracted by how gloriously tight the sleeves of his flannel are. "Go chasing tornadoes, not me."

His grin widens inexplicably further. You're sure that if you were in a comic, there'd be a lightbulb flashing above his head right about now.

"Well", he drawls, "if you feel it..."

"Don't you do that shit to me, Owens."

He's raising his eyebrows again, raising his eyebrows as you clasp your hand around your empty glass so hard your knuckles turn white. But you're serious. Just as you'd lost yourself in the view of him, that angelic, sinful view of him, he'd gone and reminded you why you were so adamant to keep your distance. If you feel it, chase it. Ridiculous. Obnoxious. He's an arrogant, know-it-all, suicidal job-wrecker. He's the guy with cameras pointed at him everywhere he goes. He signs mugs and selfies and hats and shirts and bras. He's the reason you haven't gotten a single un-edited shot of a fully formed tornado in the last three months.

"You're not a fan of my catchphrase, weather girl?"

He can't even pretend to look wounded (even though he tries) with how big the grin on his lips still is. You stare right at him, dead-eyed and unflinching.

"I'm not a fan of you."

Lies slip off your tongue so easily by now that you wonder when you'd become morally compromised enough to not even care anymore. It must've happened somewhere along the way, sometime between the first conversation you'd had with him and the one you're having with him right now.

"You wound me", he grins, his palm pressed to his chest.

For the first time tonight, you allow yourself to grin back at him.

"I try."

With that, you slip off your chair and wave the bartender goodbye. You're already two steps away when Tyler calls after you.

"I'd still buy you a beer."

"I'm still not drinking with you", you call back. You don't turn around again. You just make your way back to your car and mark the evening as a half-successful night of socialising on your to-do list.

...

You see him again first thing the next day. Of course. Because there's no tornadoes without the Tornado Wranglers on their tail. By now, you're used to it. You wave at Dani as they come back out of the store at the gas station you're waiting at. They've got both arms full of coffees and for a second, you consider offering your help, but then you hear Tyler shout something out of his car and you suddenly don't feel any desire whatsoever to get up. You've sat yourself down in your truck bed, your camera slung around your neck and the radar on your lap. If all goes right, you're hoping for a tornado to form a little to the east from here. And as much as you dislike Tyler Owens, the fact that he's here soothes your nerves. Where he goes, there's sure to be tornadoes close by.

The few times you hadn't seen him had never ended well for you. You'd missed an EF3 your second week here just because you'd followed the wrong hunch. Meanwhile Tyler, of course, had been in the middle of it.

This might just be the one singular situation that you welcome seeing his red truck around. As long as you can manage to overtake him on the road after.

It's not that you need to be faster. You don't need to reach the tornado first. You don't even take the same way as him most of the time. He wants in there, you just want a sensible picture. Still, you can't help but feel a pang of disappointment every time you hit the brakes and jump out of your car, miles away from the actual cell as Tyler speeds down towards it. You've been telling yourself that it's because he ruins your pictures. It kind of is.

"Hey, weather girl!"

You let out a resigned breath as you tilt your head up and squint against the sun. He's still in his truck, his window rolled down, his elbow propped up against the car door.

"What do you want, Owens?"

Your fingers itch to reach for your camera. It's a visual, him in that fucking car, leaning out of his window with the sun peaking out behind him. But you can't, you can't take a picture of him this openly. Even if you were to argue that it's just the light you'd wanted to capture.

"To give you some advice", he calls out, his lips pulling into a grin. You raise your eyebrows at him. "East isn't gonna work out. Wind's changing. Go south."

He throws you a mock salute and hits the gas before you can say anything else.

Not that you'd been about to.

Instead you just curse to yourself, jump off the truck bed and throw your treacherous technology into the passenger seat with a little too much vigor. Fuck this. You sit at the steering wheel and stare out at the sky for exactly two seconds before you make your decision. Then you start your car and drive south.

You may not be a fan of Tyler Owens, but you've long since admitted to yourself that this man has got a gift. He has an unbeatable instinct when it comes to storms. And sure, you have your fair share of knowledge, but in the end, you're a photographer, not a meteorologist. You won't miss a day's work just because you're too proud to listen to Tyler.

You're a little further behind, but you can spot his truck and guess that he's driving straight on into the cell today, so you take a right and decide to try your luck with the side of the tornado. Not being right in its path doesn't sound too bad anyway.

You actually manage to snap a few well-placed pictures. You don't know what Tyler's doing, but it seems like he's not shooting random shit up the cell today. You'll watch the stream later - you're just the slightest bit curious now what's happening with them. Maybe they're doing some old-school chasing? Or maybe they're doing a challenge. Maybe Tyler is driving blindfolded. At this point, who knows.

It's good for you though. It's a considerable tornado today, an EF2 at least, and you only spot Tyler's red truck again when the cell moves further down the fields, away from him. It doesn't look like it's gonna disappear anytime soon. Maybe today's your lucky day.

Half an hour later, you're sure you've got at least a dozen pictures of the fully formed tornado, long touched down and without the red truck in the way.

You're just packing up your things, already sifting through the photos on your camera, squinting against the sunlight, trying to both tug the zipper of your bag closed and hit the right buttons at the same time when Tyler pulls up next to you.

"You look busy, weather girl", he says, already grinning that damn grin again.

"I am", you say - truthfully, for once. You let go of your bag and lower your camera. You're hesitant, but... "Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime", he grins. "Just do me one favour."

You already know this can't be good. Not with that cheeky look on his face. But he'd just saved you from chasing hot air (quite literally), so he deserves a little treat. And you don't want unsettled scores with Tyler Owens.

"I want to know what favour that's supposed to be before I agree", you say anyway, because with him, you can never be too careful. And in the end, you're only willing to do so much. (Though for him, you'd already do a lot more than you'd admit. A lot more than you hope he's aware of.)

"Let me buy you a beer", he says, and for once, he sounds serious.

The memory of yesterday night flashes before your eyes, of those same words at the bar. With him so close, way too close - with that grin and that stubble and that voice and those shoulders. You cross your arms and stare at him.

"If you're livestreaming this, I'm gonna sue your ass so hard."

He just lets out a chuckle and raises his hands in surrender.

"Cameras are off, I swear."

You stare at him for another silent ten or so seconds. At him in that fucking truck that looks just a little too good in your pictures. At him and his fucking face. That fucking face that you certainly wouldn't mind sitting on, if just to shut him up.

God, he's asking you to drink something with him. He's asking to buy you something to drink with him. You're stupid.

You're so, so stupid.

"Alright, cowboy", you say, uncrossing your arms and reaching for the handle of your car door. "I'll humour you."

...

You're in the bar again by nine that night, the same way you had been the day before. You're wearing a different dress and there's a different bartender, but you've ordered the same mojito and chosen the same place to sit.

Only this time, you're actively watching the door. And when Tyler strolls in, you've got to shift around in your seat and cross your legs. You don't even pretend you're not staring. You just ogle him openly. Not for the first time ever - you'd checked him out very obviously when he'd strutted towards you to introduce himself three months ago - but definitely for the first time in a while. And god yeah, he's a hunk of a man, alright. If you had your camera here right now...

But you don't. So instead, you drop your eyes to his feet (brown leather boots), drag them up his legs (blue jeans), over his chest (red checkered flannel), over his face (god, what you wouldn't give-) and finally rest them on the cowboy hat on top of his head.

When he's close enough to hear you, already grinning, of course, probably at how you're actually sitting there in the same spot as yesterday and hadn't just lied to his face about coming here, you raise your eyebrows at him.

"A cowboy hat?", you ask, your voice as unbothered as you can possibly manage (even though you're very, very, very much bothered right now). His grin only widens.

"Ladies love country boys", he drawls with a shrug.

"Now that's straight out of a song", you say. "You're getting lazy, Owens."

"A song?", he asks. "No, that's an Owens Original."

You pull your eyebrows even further up.

"Ladies love country boys? Trace Adkins?"

"Nope. Not familiar."

But his grin tells you that he's lying. He's a liar. He knows very well where he got that line from. And he knows just how easily he got under your skin with his simple trick. As if his face isn't enough already.

You just shake your head and turn away from him.

"Put your money where your mouth is, Owens. Buy me a beer."

...

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also a great conversationalist.

The hours fly by as you're talking. One beer turns into two, then into an uncountable number of soft drinks. You both agree that you need to drive home, neither of you is willing to risk a run-in with the police. You need your drivers license for your jobs.

Tyler talks to you about the pictures you've taken today, then about the pictures from last week. He laughs when you blame him for ruining half of them and almost spits out his coke when you slap his arm for laughing at you. He tells you about his crew, about the people they've helped with the money from their dumb t-shirt sales. You think you hate him less by the minute. You're not sure if you're okay with that. But he gets you talking about your childhood and your parents, about school and college and about how you've wound back up here in Oklahoma. That effectively distracts you.

That, and how his cocky grin morphs into a genuine smile the more you open up.

Not that you didn't love the cocky grin. You did, just a bit. As obnoxious as it was. But the way he smiles at you all sweet has you melting right in your spot.

It's not the first time you realise that beneath all that rough exterior, there beats a heart of gold. You've known what those t-shirt sales are for, that he offers food and water after a tornado hits a town, that he carries the injured out of the ruins of their houses and helps find lost dogs. The more you've been around him in the past weeks, the more you've seen of his soft side. Of the way he cares and supports. But in the end, it always is easier to go back to the status quo - to fall back onto mindless snark and fleeting first impressions.

You'd clung so desperately to the image of him as this arrogant, smug, holier-than-thou influencer god for the sole purpose of keeping your own sanity. Because you'd known that without despising him, you would fall head over heels for Tyler Owens, and you just couldn't have that.

But now, with his arm brushing against yours and his hat discarded on the bar top and his smile, that beautiful, beautiful smile on his lips...

"Five bucks", he drawls, already reaching for his wallet.

"What?"

"Five bucks says there won't be a tornado tomorrow."

You raise your eyebrows at him, your glass hovering in mid-air between the two of you. You'd meant to take a sip, but now you're setting it right back down on the bar top.

"You're shitting me."

Tyler just shakes his head. He's grinning again, but it's much softer this time around.

"The winds are looking great. The forecast says it's gonna be the best conditions for tornadoes we've seen in the last six weeks. I've heard Dexter talk about how we're probably gonna see an EF4 tomorrow", you tell him, even though you're sure he's well aware of all of it. This is Tyler Owens, for god's sake. He knows about the winds and the forecasts. He knows that his crew is making preparations already.

His grin only grows. And it's smug now. It's cocky now. It's everything you thought you'd left behind during this conversation. He looks like the Tornado Wrangler again, like the guy who fucks up your pictures and makes your job harder than it already is.

It takes you a second too long to realise why.

"Dexter said that on our live", he grins, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. You physically recoil from him. "Do you watch our streams, weather girl?"

"No", you breathe, rigid and frozen, shocked to your very core. No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. You'd... You hadn't made that mistake. He hadn't got you to make that mistake.

"Dexter talked about tomorrow on our live", Tyler says again, straightening his back and grinning down at you like he's just uncovered the lost grave of Cleopatra. "Only on the live. You watched our stream."

"No", you mutter, your eyes wide and your mouth dry, so dry. You need to drink. You need to drink so badly. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You watched our stream, honey."

The petname runs down your spine and clogs your senses. Honey. Oh, he's an ass, he's an asshole! But you're on the spot, you're on the spot and he's calling you honey, honey, honey. You can't do anything but watch as he leans closer to you, grinning down at you like it's his one true purpose on this earth, like he wants to eat you alive.

"I'd say you watch our streams pretty regularly, weather girl."

You swallow hard and clasp your hand around your glass.

"Yeah?", you breathe, hoping against all hope that your voice sounds somewhat innocent. You're sure it doesn't. You know it doesn't. You probably sound as guilty as you are, but... Hope dies last. Hope always dies last. "Why would you say that?"

"Just a hunch." He shows off those pearly fucking whites for you. "Call it an instinct. I'm usually right."

He is.

He's right now. He's right usually.

Him and his fucking instinct. His goddamn gut feeling about tornadoes, always right all the fucking time. He's like an Oklahoma Jesus. The first coming of Tornado Christ.

Fuck him.

"I'll take your bet." You drain your glass at once. "Give me your five bucks, Owens."

You don't think it'll work. You don't think he'll let you distract him. You don't think it'll be this easy to stop his vile teasing. He's not the type of guy to let something go. He's not the type of guy to let anything go ever. But he looks at you and he grins at you and he trails his eyes over your face and then he opens up his wallet and pulls out five dollars without another word.

He puts the bill flat on the bar top.

But when you go to reach for it, he pushes his fingers down.

"The price just went up", he says.

You raise your eyebrows and let your hand sink again. Tyler is absolutely unpredictable. You should've known.

"The price just went up?", you repeat. He nods. "What more do you want to bet?"

He's closer now, closer all of a sudden. He's too close, close enough to make your breath hitch. He's looking down at you with that cocky, cheeky grin, with his weirdly green eyes, with his three day stubble and his generally much too symmetrical face. You can't do anything but look back up at him.

"A kiss", he says. Simple as that.

A kiss.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He is. Truly. He's annoying and way too full of himself and much too presumptuous. Tyler Owens is the only man who would ever do something like this. The only man who'd bet a kiss on whether or not there will be tornadoes tomorrow.

Especially with that forecast.

The one that says a tornado is basically inevitable.

"Alright", you say. He may be Tyler Owens, the guy with an infallible instinct - but he is also Tyler Owens, the guy who's been doing his hardest to get under your skin. This time might not be any different. For all you know, he's bluffing to rile you up. "I'm in."

...

At eleven the next day, you're standing next to Dexter in resigned silence.

"I really thought today was gonna pan out", you mutter.

"It should have", Dexter frowns, tapping against the screen in his hands. "It should have worked out. The conditions should have been perfect. Everything's been building the last few days."

"But it collapsed this morning."

You turn your head and watch as Tyler comes to a stand next to you, arms crossed, eyes locked on the clear sky up above. He tilts his head to you and grins. Fuck, he's wearing his goddamn hat again. It's like he doesn't even try to be normal.

"Hey, weather girl", he greets. "Ready to cash out your bet?"

You shake your head at him. No, you're not giving up this easily. You never give up this easily.

"The day's not over yet, Owens. You haven't won 'til midnight."

...

You spend most of the next hours sitting in your truck bed, reading a book you'd thrown into your backseat weeks ago and had so far neglected. Lilly hands you lunch around two, Dani offers you a coffee around five and Boone pipes up here and there to joke about the wasted day. Around six, Dexter comes by to let you know they're calling it.

You still have another hour to go. By seven, it'll be too late to send your pictures anyway. But you want the hour. You need the hour.

You still haven't decided what to do about Tyler. About Tyler and his fucking bet.

He's been loitering the whole day, walking by, joking around with his crew, livestreaming a spontaneous q&a just because.

And the more minutes tick by, the harder it is to keep ignoring that you've most definitely lost the bet. Even though you do your best. You read, you check your phone. You stare at your radar. You stare at the weather forecast. You talk to Dexter and Dani and Lilly and Boone. You take a few pictures of the sky. Then you take a few pictures of Tyler, standing some feet away from his truck and looking out at the clouds.

It's only when two of three Tornado Wranglers cars are disappearing down the road, when Tyler Owens suddenly stands in front of your truck bed, that you put down your book and face reality.

"No tornadoes in sight", he says, instead of 'Hello' or 'How are you' like any other person would.

"There's still six hours left", you reason. Even if only one of those is relevant for your job today.

"You really want to wait out six hours to prove I'm right?"

"You're not right", you argue. It's fruitless, it's stupid, it's unreasonable. But... "Not yet, anyway."

Tyler raises his eyebrows at you, lets out an amused chuckle and leans against the side of your truck bed.

"Alright, so we wait."

You eye him from the side. He's fucking leaning against your truck, staring out at the sky, talking about six hours. Goddamn. He can't be serious, can he? His crew is already gone. They've disappeared into the descending sun and he's talking about waiting another six hours. Leaned against your car.

"Fuck's sake, Owens", you sigh, scooching over to the right. "At least sit down then."

You don't talk much at first. You just open your book back up again and try your hardest to ignore that he's even here at all, barely two feet away from you on the other side of your truck bed. If you stretched your leg, you'd hit him right in the hip.

It makes reading close to impossible.

Even though he's not doing anything at all. He's just sitting there, one arm propped up on the side board, that goddamn cowboy hat on his head and his feet hanging off the opened tailgate. It's almost worse that he's not doing anything.

That he's just sitting there and watching the sky change.

You give up on reading entirely when you realise that you've finished exactly five pages in half an hour. Instead, you put your book back in the car, pull out your bluetooth speaker and two water bottles and offer Tyler one of them.

You don't even ask him what music he wants to listen to. You just put on your country playlist and roll with it. By the twitch of his lips, you know he certainly doesn't mind.

Another half hour later, it's starting to get chilly and you're beginning to grow bored of the music. Tyler sitting next to you makes you fidgety, somehow, and you can't really enjoy the songs you usually love so much. So you switch to a podcast. You don't ask Tyler if he minds. He's free to go anytime.

Around eight, the sun starts to set, and the chill turns into an unpleasant cool. You hadn't really expected to be sitting out here so long. You're not prepared for the temperature to drop. You're wearing shorts, for god's sake, shorts and a top. It's summer in Oklahoma - you don't know how Tyler even manages to survive in his long jeans. You certainly wouldn't.

But now you're a little jealous, to be honest. He doesn't look cold in the slightest while you're fighting off shivers. You can feel your hands trembling already.

You really should've brought a jacket. But who brings jackets in 30 degree summer weather?

So instead, you just resign yourself to your fate and rub your hands along your arms. Anything to get some warmth into your body.

For the first time since you've sat back down, Tyler turns his head and looks at you.

"You're cold", he says, eyes raking over your arms and the goosebumps you'd gotten.

"Great observational skills, Sherlock Holmes", you deadpan, even though he doesn't really deserve that. He had so far left you pretty much alone. "A+ on that assignment."

Well, it's hard to break bad habits.

Tyler just chuckles, shakes his head and pushes off of the truck bed. You watch, eyes narrowed, as he walks back to his own car, opens up the trunk and- pulls out a blanket?

Your hands have sunken down to your lap all by themselves by the time he's standing in front of you again, holding out the blanket.

"For you, Watson", he grins as you slowly, carefully take the blanket from him. You mutter something along the lines of a soft 'Thank you' before you wrap the blanket around your arms.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also the very definition of "Tough on the outside, soft on the inside". Sometimes, you think the word 'angelic' works for more than just his divine looks.

Your eyes are glued to him as he sits back down next to you and looks out at the darkening sky with that signature grin on his lips, like he knows that you're watching him and enjoys it more than he should. That doesn't deter you though. For the very first time. You don't even stop staring when he turns his head back to you. You don't even stop staring then.

You just look at him until his grin crumbles. Until he's smiling that smile from yesterday night, the one that has your heart squeezing together and then exploding in your chest. You think you could stare at that smile for the rest of eternity and never feel sated.

"What?", he asks, his voice so soft it makes you swallow. Your lips part, but there's no words on your tongue, none in your throat. They're stuck in your chest somewhere, wrapped around your heart so tightly that you can't let them go even now. So you just press your lips together, wrap your blanket tighter around yourself and say:

"So I'm Watson, yeah?"

Your podcast is long forgotten by the time the sky turns dark. So dark that you make Tyler climb into your car and turn on the lights. You're comfortable in your blanket, you don't feel the need to move.

It's around ten when the blanket isn't enough anymore.

You tuck your hands underneath your top, but that only helps for so long. A few minutes later, you're trembling again, trembling even though you're pulling the blanket as tightly around you as you possibly can. Tyler raises his eyebrows when a particularly heavy shiver runs down your spine, one of those that come and go within three seconds.

"Come here", he says, shuffling in his spot and motioning for you to move over to him. You don't really think about it. It's more of a reflex as you fumble the blanket off of your body, scooch over to him, settle yourself against his side and sneak your feet under his thigh. He tugs the blanket back up to your chin, tucks it in behind your back and wraps his arms around you.

Tyler Owens wraps his arms around you.

And he's so fucking warm you literally almost moan. God, you hadn't actually realised just how cold you'd been.

"Damn, you're freezing", he notes as well, just as you nestle further into him and hum in agreement. He's like a living heater right now. You'd like to just crawl inside of him and suck up all his warmth. "You should've told me sooner."

"I didn't tell you at all", you mutter, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. He smells good. He smells so good. Earthy, musky somehow. You're tempted to turn your head and bury your nose in his shoulder.

Instead, you just satisfy yourself with what you can get. Fuck, he smells so good. He smells just like you'd thought he would, like country and rodeo and thunderstorms. He smells like falling into bed at the end of a successful chase. He smells like more. You want more.

You want more of Tyler Owens.

"Are you sniffing me?", he asks suddenly, but he sounds so amused you can't even bring yourself to feel embarrassed. You just open your eyes and grin at him, tilting your head so you can look up at him.

"What if I am?", you ask, if only to hear that breathless chuckle fall from his lips. Oh, those lips. You're in trouble. "Are you gonna call the cops on me?"

"I could never."

"Yeah, you better not, cowboy", you mutter, eyes dropping to his lips when he grins. He's so close. He's way too close. "There's like thirty things I could call the cops about on your channel."

His grin grows until he's showing off his teeth, glinting against the low light of the leds in your car. He's closer now.

"So you do watch our streams, weather girl."

His voice is so low and he's so close, so close. Your lips part all on their own. You haven't looked back up at his eyes in too long. Far too long. But he's so close, and he's so warm, and he smells so good.

"Alright", you whisper. His mouth is barely an inch from yours. You can feel every breath he takes. "I watch your streams."

And then your lips are on his.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's smug. He makes your job harder than it has to be. He does everything and anything to get under your skin. But Tyler Ownes is the best goddamn kisser this side of the globe.

He trails his hands, his big, big hands, down your sides, pushes the blanket out of the way and grabs at your waist with just enough firmness. He pulls you onto his lap and rests his thumbs over the hem of your top. He breathes into your mouth and takes it slow. He doesn't care that you almost knock his hat out of the way when you try to wrap your arms around his neck. He just holds you tightly to him and lets you tug on his lip.

You honestly don't know how much time has passed when he pulls back, grinning an entirely new grin at you, hazy and euphoric.

"It's not midnight yet", he mutters, the slightest bit out of breath.

"I don't care", you mumble, drawing him right back in for another kiss. You think you might be addicted. You simply can't get enough of him. You can't get enough of Tyler Owens.

But then a thought strikes you, and you pull away with a grin that makes him raise his eyebrows.

You chuckle against his lips.

"If you feel it, chase it, right?"

#twisters #twisters 2024 #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens twisters #x reader

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parfaitblogs · 1 month ago

Text

bad idea right? ❀ s. reid x reader

in which hooking up with your ex is probably not a good idea... right?

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst/smut (18+ mdni) tags: porn with plot. reader's mentioned wearing a dress. fingering. kind of fade to black p in v. i think im incapable of writing no d/s dynamics so soft dom!spencer my beloved. i don't mention protection but he wrapped it just trust me guys. really awful decisions are made. word count: 3.9k a/n: i know i KNOW i said im writing fluffy smut but i simply cannot help myself... anyways this has been in the works for far too long (months...) but i have a lot of ideas for this dynamic/pairing so if we want more pls tell me 💗💘💕💕💗 i will do it!!! maybe im already doing it!!!!!💗💘💗💘💓don't fuck ur exes and thank u again for 1k ily

"Hey."

There was a beat. Then another. By the third beat your heart had started stuttering in your chest and your adrenaline-induced activities had caught up to your brain. You were slowly sinking into yourself under his gaze, that probably wasn't scrutinising, but definitely felt that way. Regret pooling in your stomach because yes, this was an absolutely awful idea, and he had clocked it within the twenty minutes it took for you to get here after his last text.

His last text that did technically say you shouldn't come over, but if you did he wouldn't leave you stranded out in the hall. Such a gentleman, you had thought.

"I said you shouldn't come," he chastised, and your legs wobbled beneath the weight of your regret.

"You also said I could—"

"—As a courtesy," his voice was firmer than you remembered him ever being, and your heart stuttered uncomfortably in your chest at the sound of it.

"Well don't add courtesy messages if you don't want me to take them seriously," you retorted, and your arms crossed over your chest.

He was silent for a few moments, gears turning behind his eyes, deciding if he should send you home or let you in. Then, he was stepping back, and gesturing for you to come inside — and you were.

Admittedly, six months was a long time. Being here at all is risky, and there was that fear of there being a girl sitting curled up on his couch, watching an episode of something Spencer had bribed her to watch. And maybe if you were any more sane, you would not be carefully analysing every inch of his apartment. Searching for — and expecting there to be — someone residing in spaces you had once found comfort in.

But; no one. Then you decided that thought was stupid, because Spencer Reid was not (stupid), and he wouldn't have asked you to come to his apartment if there was a girl there.

"Why are you dressed up?" he asked you, eyeing the dress you had on, even as he brushed past you to head into his kitchen.

"Had a party," you replied, clasping your hands behind your back, watching him walk around his apartment with so much ease. Maybe this was only awkward for you.

"Is that why you messaged me?"

"No. No. I didn't drink," you quickly said, shaking your head, immediately clocking where his own thoughts had wandered off to.

He nodded his head, leaning against his kitchen counter, rubbing his palms together as he studied the marble countertop, seemingly needing to find his words. "Then why did you?"

Your lips parted, silence settling between you two for a few moments longer, unsure if your internal turmoil from the night you had been having should be something for his ears or not.

You decided it was. "Everyone's in relationships. And all their partner's were there with them at the party."

"And you were alone."

"Yeah."

He slowly nodded his head, his gaze settling on you again. "You were lonely."

Your shoulders shrugged, your own eyes dropping to the floor as embarrassment crept up your spine uncomfortably. "I missed you."

"Don't."

"What? Miss you?"

"Yes," he said, voice strained enough for your stomach to flip. "That isn't fair."

"I know."

"You're the one who ended things."

"I know."

He was silent then, his hands dragging down his face, pausing to dig the pads of his index fingers into his eye sockets. He sighed, his arms dropping by his side heavily, eyes returning to you. Again.

"You can't do this," he grew firmer, the sudden tone of voice causing an uncomfortable dull ache to form in your chest.

"Do what?" you asked, quietly.

"Come see me every time you feel lonely."

"I don't come see you every time I feel lonely."

He bore holes into your face, eyes meticulously committing features to memory, before he straightened his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. "Don't make this a habit."

"It won't," you said, quickly, a promise you both knew you couldn't make truthfully.

Hesitantly, he nodded his head towards his couch, and despite the blaring alarm in your brain telling you to just go home and forget about it, your feet carried you over to it. Sinking into the plush of black leather you had sat so many times before, the fabric cold against your legs.

His face softened involuntarily, staring at you, heart achingly vulnerable and small, tucked into the corner of his couch. It almost made it easy to forget the past six months and everything leading up to the breakup. Almost.

He stayed standing, as a power move or because he was simply awkward, you didn't know anymore. The man you were currently sharing air with did not seem the same as he had half a year prior. That hurt.

Sitting up straighter, you clasped your hands in your lap, fixating your gaze on the coffee table in front of you. "I'm sorry."

He didn't respond for a moment, seemingly caught off guard by your sudden apology. Then, feet shuffling that indicated he was walking away from the couch, and your heart sank to your stomach.

"For what?" he asked, his voice gruffer than he had intended.

Your breath hitched. "Breaking up with you, I guess."

Too many memories filled your mind from what had happened, and you felt the guilt you had suppressed for months crawl its way back up your spine.

"And you think sorry can make it all okay?" his voice had a hint of bitterness in it, and you couldn't even blame him for it.

"No. Obviously not," you said, shifting on the couch to turn your head to look at him, fixating on him as he attempted to busy himself with rearranging the books on his desk. "Can you come here, please?"

His movements paused, and he lifted his gaze to you. There was a silent battle between your eyes, before you inevitably won, and he nodded, letting go of the hardback book he was moving and instead walking over to you on the couch.

"I feel awful. For the way I left," you told him when he found residence on the other end of the couch, the distance technically small, but to you, seemingly massive.

"You didn't seem upset when you left."

"I was. Please believe me."

He was no longer looking at you, but you were at him, and there was a disapproving expression on his face that told you he simply didn't, despite the quiet, "Okay," that fell from his lips.

Unsure of what else to say, you let the silence encase you, instead flickering your eyes around the apartment, attempting to pick out minuscule changes he had made since you'd moved out. Nothing insane jumped out to you, other than the lack of your presence. There no longer being a collection of your own books on his bookshelf, brightly coloured trinkets not cluttering the kitchen countertop anymore. Which was fine. Even the items you had left here unknowingly, you hadn't expected to still be residing in his apartment.

When your gaze settled back on him, you found him staring at you already. Your lips pulled into a small frown, while his parted, breath catching as if about to say something, then stopping.

"You look pretty," he settled on telling you. And if you were any more stable, maybe your heart wouldn't have flipped in your chest.

"Thank you," you mumbled, feeling your cheeks burn slightly.

Despite the fluster such a simple compliment brought you, you couldn't look away. And it seemed neither could he. Staring at each other for ticking minutes, until you were finally breaking the brick wall of tension and standing up.

"I shouldn't have come," you told him. "You were right."

"I should agree with you," he replied, watching your every movement. Even as you halted your beeline towards his door, confusion creeping up your spine. He had noticed it.

You turned back to him. "But you don't."

"No. I don't," he agreed. "We ended abruptly."

"I left."

"Yeah."

It had been a huge misunderstanding, in the grand scheme of it all. A misunderstanding you had logically worked out after a week of dwelling on it all, but then had far too much pride to reach out to him again. Instead, allowing the remnants of your relationship to rot away in the back of your mind, never to be touched again.

Until you were violently reminded just how much you had thrown away that night in a room full of happy people.

Letting your shoulders soften, you trudged back over to him, standing rather awkwardly in front of him on the couch. Not that it felt awkward. You decided awkwardness was impossible when Spencer Reid stared at you like you were the sun materialised in his living room — the same way he had when you were still with him. And after six months of not seeing him, and an entire awkward conversation later, you finally wondered if anything had actually changed at all.

How you felt about him certainly hadn't. Eyes fixated on him like he was going to disappear if you even twitched, and you had the fleeting thought of kissing him. Which then turned into a recurring thought, until you were actively fighting the thought because this was not your boyfriend and kissing him was quite possibly the worst thing you could ever do.

But God, did you want to.

"I resented you for a long time."

You ignored the guilt eating away at your heart, and the hurt that settled in your stomach. You deserved his resent.

"You don't anymore?" you asked, voice choked up from the thick ball of a sob caught in your throat.

"No," he shook his head. "I don't know what I feel anymore."

You nodded your own head wordlessly. "That's fair."

He exhaled sharply, and his fingers pressed into the inner corners of his eyes. "You shouldn't be here."

"So you've said."

"No, I mean—" he cut himself off, lifting his gaze back to you. "I have things I want to do, that I will regret."

"With me?" You already knew the answer.

"Yes," he confirmed anyways. "And we shouldn't."

"We definitely shouldn't," you agreed.

He stood, dropping his hands by his sides, and you feared for a moment he was going to kick you out, just for the sake of his own sanity. Maybe it would be better for the both of you if he did that.

He didn't.

Instead, you learned quite quickly that he was battling the same internal conflict you were. And maybe he was attempting to ignore it; same as you. Maybe he had lost that war and that was why he was acting on those terrifying impulses.

"I want to kiss you."

You were mostly shocked the words hadn't come from you. But by the time you had registered that fact, you had also registered you were nodding in agreement, followed by your consent, and he then was kissing you.

And it was like no time had passed at all.

His lips on your own were as desperate as you remember — even in the quieter mornings he would kiss you like you'd disintegrate beneath him, never to be seen again. And, with matching his desperation, you found his knees buckling as they hit the edge of the couch, and he was coaxing you down onto it with gentle hands on your hips.

Abiding his physical request, your knees dug into the cushions, on either side of his body, and he was stuttering through breaths, lips detaching from your own. Your protests about it died on your tongue quickly as he kissed down your jaw and over the skin of your neck — delicately, for he had always been keenly aware of how sensitive the vessels and nerves in your neck were.

"You definitely haven't drank tonight?" he mumbled against your skin once his lips had reached the top edge of your dress.

"No," you confirmed with a shake of your head, and he let out what seemed like a sigh of relief — you didn't know if feeding into that idea was good for you mentally or not.

His fingers trailed up the length of your spine, your back arching on impulse as goosebumps arose on your skin. Tender hands found the thin straps of your dress, and his head lifted to look at you again. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," you breathed out, content flooding over you as he did as he had intended, and you were slipping your arms out of the straps of your dress.

"This is such a bad idea," he mumbled, and all you could do was hum in agreement, for he was still pressing kisses along your skin down past your collarbone.

Maybe it was the lingering thought that you shouldn't be doing this that egged you on. The knowledge that your friends would probably consider a violent end for you (and him) once they found out. That this was bad, and you were going to regret it the second it was over.

His hands dropped back to your hips, and you searched for his lips again with your own, kissing him once more. Your dress bunched at your waist with help from Spencer, and hands that grappled at your ass tugged you impossibly closer.

"Are you actually going to hookup with me on your couch?" you murmured against his lips.

"Where would you prefer us to be?" he asked you, tilting his head back so he could see you once more.

"Your bed."

If he disagreed with your suggestion, he hid it behind a nod, tapping your thighs so you could climb off of him. Which, you did, leading him towards his own bedroom, similarly to all the ways you had done it before. He tried not to dwell on that.

"Have you been with anyone since we broke up?"

Your voice was filled with an insecurity you wished to burn as you climbed onto the bed. The sheets so familiar you felt like crying.

"Do you really want the answer to that question?" he asked, positioning himself over you, fingers placed at your waist.

"No," you decided, a response he knew you'd reply with. "But I guess that is an answer within itself."

"I guess," he agreed, head ducking back down to kiss over your shoulders and collarbones.

"Were they good?"

"I'm not answering that."

"So they were."

He said your name, chidingly, nipping at your skin. "If you want to do this, I need your focus to be here. Not the other people I've had sex with."

"Okay. Sorry."

He only hummed as a response, the hand on your waist dropping past your hips, gently parting your legs and running his fingers up the skin of your inner thigh.

Everything he did felt hauntingly familiar, and easy. As if the past six months had been nothing more than a bad dream, and the man who was above you, pulling your underwear down your legs and hiking your dress up to your waist, had done this twice in the past week already.

You'd resonate in that fantasy for as long as you could.

You squirmed as he brushed a finger through your folds, and he smiled, his mind no doubt reminding him of all the times you had done that before.

"Take your time," you muttered, bitterly, as he repeated the gentle ministration a few more times.

"I will," he bit back, though the amusement in his eyes as he met your gaze again told you he was similarly as impatient. "I'm just figuring out what makes you feel good."

"You've forgotten?"

"No," he shook his head, the word flying off his tongue as he circled your clit with his finger, with a frustrating expertise. "I'm reminding myself."

"I like being kissed."

He laughed, quietly. Your heart warmed in your chest, while his lips brushed delicately against yours once more. "Thank you for the reminder."

"Of course," you said, and he was then swallowing a moan as he kissed you, pushing a finger into you at the same time.

His eyebrows knitted together, something you only make out because his lips have tugged into a frown and you were pulling back to peer at him — only to be coaxed back into a kiss by his searching lips. You decided not to ask why he's confused. Or concerned. Or whatever the expression he was making was for.

"Spencer," you breathed out when he had kept his finger still for too long (in your opinion), and he's quick to mumble an apology and start thrusting his finger.

Whether he was more conscious of the sounds you were making, or simply just wanted to kiss you, you didn't know. But his lips stayed connected to yours as he fingered you in practiced motions, that you were focussing so closely on. Perhaps too closely, for he was nipping your lower lip when you had stopped actively kissing him back.

"Is your distraction an indicator of something good? Or do I need to work harder?" he asked you, lifting his head to watch you squirm as he added another finger.

"No, it's something good. It feels good," you reassured him.

The heel of his palm grazed over your clit, and you whined. So, he did it again. You moaned louder. He curled his fingers inside of you, and you moaned at how overwhelming it all was. He might have slept with more people in between, but you certainly hadn't, and it was becoming all too much, all too quick.

You were acutely aware of the movement of his own hips on the bed beside you, your lips tugging up in amusement at the desperation he was displaying. Comforted by the fact that you were not alone.

A particular brush of his fingers upon that spot inside of you cut off your thoughts, and you gasped, jerking your head away. At that, he did it again. And again.

"Spencer—Spencer," you whimpered, brokenly, grappling for any semblance of control over yourself.

"Mm?"

"I'm gonna come," you told him. An honest mistake, because he was now pulling his fingers out of you, despite your quick protests. "No—what the fuck?"

"Shh," he said through a smile, kissing you to quieten your loud objections. "I want to come with you. Is that okay, honey?"

Oh.

Overwhelmed with a sudden shyness, you nodded your head, cheeks warming, and any opposing words dying on your tongue. "Yes. It is."

In an all too quick motion, he went from fully clothed above you, to fully naked and beside you, you having discarded of your own dress at the same time. Absentmindedly, because you were a little too focused on what it was you were actually doing, brain running rampant about how awful of an idea it was.

But then he was shifting your legs open, hand running up and down the skin of your thighs as he positioned himself at your entrance, and you were forgetting all about it.

In a slow, languorous thrust, he pushed himself inside of you, a low hiss leaving his lips as he stilled, your own eyes fluttering shut, hands balling into fists.

"This, I forgot," he breathed out, and you felt his hair tickle your shoulder as he rested his head against it.

"You have an eidetic memory."

"Not for touch. Not like this," he explained, voice strained. "Sorry, sweet girl. Give me a minute."

The pet name had your heart fluttering, and you felt tears sting your vision as the violent reminder that this will never happen again flashed in your mind. You willed that thought away, trying to focus on the feeling of him inside of you, and how good it was in the moment.

"It's been like twenty," you grumbled, pushing your hips back against his, and a choked laugh left his lips.

"Seconds, maybe," he answered, a hand dropping to your hips. To still them or ground himself, you didn't know. "Exercise patience, please."

"Forgive me, but you did just stop me from coming."

He bit your shoulder. "Exercise manners too, while you're at it."

At that, you inhaled, before saying in an awfully sweet voice, "Can you please fuck me, Spencer?"

"Was that so hard?"

"Fuck off."

"After I make you come, I will," he answered, tone of voice unbearably innocent.

A stark contrast to the drag of his hips out of you, and the sharp thrust back in (just to punctuate his point, of course). At its unexpectedness, you gasped, voice cracking and heart somersaulting.

Every thrust into you was a constant reminder of what you had given up. What you had lost. A string of moans from you so achingly familiar to his ears, and heavy breaths from him making you want to never let this end.

He was everything, and perhaps your hands were an inch too small to hold all of him.

As quickly as it had all began, it was over, and you were left in the centre of his mattress, staring up at a ceiling you had intricately dissected with your eyes many times before.

He had disappeared to his bathroom, assumedly to get clothes for himself, and hopefully something for you and your walk of shame you were no doubt doing in less than thirty minutes time.

There was a growing sick feeling in your stomach you could at least identify to be anxiety, paired with the gross feeling of regret for your actions. You were never meant to see him again, despite what your heart had wanted. You forced yourself to be an adult about this, to cut him off. Your friends had pathetically changed his contact name to don't answer on a night out for their own personalised reminder of what talking to him would ensue. Why didn't you fucking listen?

He returned from the bathroom, a pile of clothes you had forgotten you'd ever even left here in his hands. You wiped the sides of your face with the backs of your hands, fluttering your eyelids to cut off anymore tears, sitting up.

"You should probably go," he said. If there was anything left of your heart to shatter, he just did.

"You're kicking me out so soon?" you asked him, failing at keeping your tone of voice light. When he hesitated in a response, you discovered why you no longer let your heart speak for you. You cracked a small smile, shook your head, and muttered, "Kidding."

He didn't need to know you were subconsciously begging him to let you stay.

You stood, albeit on shaking legs, and took the clothes he was offering you. Pulling them on under such a watchful gaze was almost embarrassing, even as he busied himself with stripping the sheets from his bed to avert his attention. He was still keeping note of your presence in his space.

"I—um, bye, Spencer," you stammered, throat closing up with every passing minute.

He looked back at you. "I'll see you out."

"No," you were quick to deny him. "It's okay, I know where the door is. I'll see you around. Maybe. Probably not." Stop talking.

"Yeah. Maybe," he agreed with no real sincerity. "Goodbye."

"Bye," you said, again, hesitating to leave behind the remnants of an even more destroyed relationship.

Though, you had to.

And as you left, you discovered that yes. Everything between you two had changed.

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