Next few weeks are a blur

The next few weeks pass in a fever dream of flashbulbs, notifications, and Tyrone’s cock.

Your Instagram explodes first. That initial TikTok Nicole helped you post—the hair flip in the sundress—gets reposted by a gossip page tagging @tyrone_football. Within hours, the comments flood in: “Who is this blonde??” “Tyrone’s new girl is FIRE” “WAG alert ”. You hit 50k followers overnight. Then 100k. Then 300k. By week two you’re pushing half a million, verified blue check and all.

Brands slide into your DMs like clockwork: activewear labels wanting “couple workout content,” jewelry companies offering free pieces “for the future Mrs.,” even a high-end lingerie brand that sends a box of barely-there sets with a note saying “We think you’d look incredible modeling these for your man ”. Nicole coaches you through every sponsored post—angles, captions, how to look expensive without trying too hard. “Smile like you’re already rich,” she texts. “Because you will be.”

The world knows you’re together now. TMZ runs the first headline: “NFL Draft Prospect Tyrone Jackson Spotted with Mystery Blonde Bombshell—Is This His Pregame Ritual?” Grainy paparazzi shots from the night he claimed you in front of the reporters circulate everywhere. You’re on his arm at a pre-draft party in LA—tiny silver dress, his hand possessive on your lower back, both of you smiling for the cameras. The caption under every repost: “Future power couple?”

Tyrone loves it. He fucks you harder every time a new article drops. “Look at you, baby mama,” he’ll growl while pounding you from behind on the kitchen counter, phone propped up showing the latest post of you two. “Whole world knows this pussy is mine.” He comes inside you every single time—deep, deliberate, like he’s sealing the deal over and over. You stop even pretending to ask him to pull out. Your body’s learned to crave the flood of it, the way your womb clenches like it’s trying to keep every drop.

You’re late. Not just a day or two—weeks. At first you tell yourself it’s stress, the whirlwind, the constant sex. But the nausea starts in the mornings, subtle at first, then undeniable. Your tits ache constantly, fuller than before. Tyrone notices immediately. “They’re gettin’ bigger,” he says one night, palming them roughly while you ride him reverse cowgirl. “Told you I’d knock you up quick.”

You buy the test on a solo Target run—two pink lines stare back at you in the bathroom of his house. Then you buy another pack. Same result. You sit on the edge of the tub for twenty minutes, staring at the sticks, heart hammering.

When you finally show him, he’s just back from a workout, sweat still glistening on his skin. You hand him the tests without a word. He looks down, then up at you, slow grin spreading across his face.

“Twins?” he says when the doctor confirms it later that week via ultrasound—two tiny heartbeats flickering on the screen. Girls. Identical. Due in early spring, right around the draft if everything goes his way.

He doesn’t say much in the exam room. Just squeezes your hand so hard it hurts, eyes locked on the monitor like he’s memorizing it.

Back home that night he’s different. Not rougher—gentler, almost reverent. He lays you out on the bed like you’re something precious, strips you slow. Kisses down your stomach, lingers over the spot that’s still flat but won’t be for long. “My girls,” he murmurs against your skin. “Gonna take such good care of all three of you.”

Then he slides into you face-to-face, slow and deep, holding your gaze the whole time. No dirty talk, no “slut” or “whore.” Just his breath against your lips, whispering, “You’re perfect. Fuck, you’re perfect.” He comes with a shudder, burying himself as far as he can, like he’s trying to imprint himself inside you all over again.

Afterward he pulls you close, big arm draped over your waist, hand resting protectively over your belly.

“Draft’s in a month,” he says quietly into your hair. “I’m goin’ top five. Maybe top three. When that happens… we do this right. House. Rings. All of it. You, me, our daughters. No more bullshit.”

You don’t answer right away. You just let your hand cover his, feeling the warmth of his palm against skin that’s starting to feel different already.

The notifications keep coming—more followers, more brand deals, more headlines calling you “the breakout WAG of the draft class.” But right now, curled against him with his cum still leaking slow between your thighs and two tiny lives growing inside you, the noise feels far away.

For the first time since you woke up in that mirror as someone else, you don’t feel lost.

You feel… claimed. Kept. And maybe—just maybe—something close to wanted.