#dad!george russell

[chilling-seavey]

Baby Boy's Birth Story (gr63)

The Way It Goes Masterlist

↳ A/N Thank you to so many of my anons for helping bring this story to life! It's been so long since I've written a birth story and they are always so special to write...especially this one. It's a lengthy one, covering a whole week, and including baby boy's name reveal since you all voted that the kiddos should have names rather than being anonymous so I hope you enjoy!! Comments and asks always welcome <3

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 20.7k

↳ Warnings: Descriptions of labour and delivery, including all the ungraceful medical and health related things that go along with it, your emotions will likely be all over the place.

Thursday

Your doctor had warned you that first pregnancies often went past the due date, so at forty-one weeks, they weren’t particularly concerned. You, on the other hand, were quite concerned. George had just returned home from a race weekend, and with only an eight-day gap before the next one, the timing felt painfully tight. If you didn’t go into labor soon, there was a real risk he wouldn’t make it back in time for the birth of your first child. Not to mention you were exhausted and heavy and just wanted to have your baby in your arms already. The waiting game was excruciating. 

That Thursday, three days since George had returned home to your quaint Monaco apartment, there was still no sign of labour. You had experienced some minor contractions but they were minor and went away when you moved, a torturous indication that they were just Braxton Hicks contractions—your body getting ready for the real thing—but nothing of importance. Frankly, you were sick and tired of them…of this. 

Sitting in the living room in the late afternoon, you were bouncing on your birthing ball while watching some show on TV, George lounged on the couch just behind you, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. For the prior two days, you had basically lived on that large birthing ball, bouncing, swaying, determined to put into motion the rumours that it would help the baby to descend into the pelvis in preparation for birth. You were desperate. 

“So, it’s just about Friday,” you spoke aloud over the dialogue of the show that you were watching but, really, were not paying attention to, “So that means we only have maybe four days to get this kid out.”

“You’re making yourself so stressed, love,” George spoke gently from behind you, clicking down the volume on the television, “That’s probably not helping matters.”

You glanced at him with a frown, “Well there’s no way in hell I’m going into labour without you here. I’ve never done this before. I can’t do this alone.”

George removed his feet from the coffee table to lean forward towards you, resting a hand on your shoulder and giving it a squeeze in a feeble attempt to offer comfort, “You’re not alone and you won’t be alone.”

“I love you but your words feel so worthless,” you exhaled. 

He didn’t take it personally when he knew you were speaking the truth; it was the harsh reality of his career. Sure, you lived in the upper echelon of society, a life of luxury, to want for nothing, but the high demand of a Formula 1 career was always the underlying strain in your blissful utopia. George was gone so often, flying around the world for days or weeks at a time to compete, with a schedule and contract so demanding that it didn’t offer much in the way of paternity leave—just because you were due soon didn’t mean he was allowed to wait it out with you. Only the definity of labour could allow him some time off. Some. It was entirely out of his control. 

All Thursday you had been trying everything to naturally induce labour. You joined George at the gym for a light walk on the treadmill to try and raise your heart rate enough to kickstart it, ate sliced pineapple, ate a spicy lunch, and now, as evening rolled around, you were housing a raspberry leaf tea beside you. Such an odd mix of foods that seemed to do a whole lot of nothing. With a large full-term baby weighing down on your organs, you were desperate to just get it out. 

“We have one last thing we could try,” George whispered as he rubbed your shoulders. 

You sighed tiredly, “I know but, frankly, sex sounds like so much work right now.”

He chuckled and leaned in to kiss just under your ear, “Up to you, darling. We don’t have to go crazy with it.”

His thumbs pressed into the muscle around your shoulder blades and your eyes fluttered shut, the television playing softly in the background as you eased into the comfort of his strong hands working your stress and anxieties away. After a moment, he leaned forward and let his arms wrap around you, sliding his palms over the large swell of your belly that was poorly hidden beneath his sweatshirt you had snagged, the bottom still managing to ride up from how big you were. He tucked his hands under your belly and lifted a little to carry the weight for you for a moment, giving you some respite from the burden of pregnancy. 

You swore under your breath at the sudden relief from your back, your hips, your body. Your head dropped back to rest against his shoulder, eyes still peacefully closed, enjoying the moment where you weren’t bearing twenty-five extra pounds across your middle. George kissed your neck innocently and the warmth of his breath against your neck had you sighing in content. 

The two of you ended up in your bedroom later after preparing for bed, you on your hands and knees and him knelt behind you, giving you slow, gentle thrusts with his hands on your full hips. The soft buzz of your vibrator between your legs helped to build up that tension inside you, chasing the orgasm that would hopefully help to keep your uterus in the mindset of contracting some more. Your doctor had told you that sex was entirely safe at any point in your pregnancy and only when your body was ready for labour could it help trigger it. Otherwise, it might do a whole lot of nothing. 

After, as you laid in bed together, you spooning your pregnancy pillow and George spooning you, you were silently waiting for a feeling of anything. His fingers traced ghostly shapes over the swell of your belly, blindly tracing the stretchmarks and contours that had appeared to help grow your baby. You could hear his breathing starting to even out from behind you, his fingers slowing down as sleep started to take him, as if he were entirely unbothered by the fact that you still didn’t feel a single contraction. 

Friday

Much to the pleasure of your delusion, you woke up in the early hours of the morning to a small uncomfortable cramping feeling along your abdomen. The bedroom was still dark, the sun barely past the horizon behind the closed curtains, and George was still fast asleep on his side of the bed, faint snores muffled by his pillow. You winced slightly at the momentary discomfort that felt a lot like period cramps and you reached over to your bedside table to take a sip from your water bottle and then check the time on your phone. It was barely past 5am. 

At first, you figured they were just yet another minor set of Braxton Hicks contractions and you settled back down on your side to try and get back to sleep. They faded in no time, but as you laid there, unable to fall back asleep, your mind racing, they soon started back up again a little bit later. Your eyes shot open again, laying still as the cramping radiated across your abdomen again. Once it faded, you checked your phone to see about twenty minutes had passed. Odd. 

Not wanting to interrupt George’s sleep, you ungracefully sat up and got out of bed, waddling across the bedroom to the ensuite bathroom thanks to the joys of late-term pregnancy and the fact that you had a full brown baby pressing on your bladder 24/7. You closed the door and turned on the light, squinting at the brightness as you sat down on the toilet to go about your business. It was then that, in your underwear, you noticed a pale reddish discharge. From endless research in desperation of figuring out when you could anticipate this baby coming, you recalled that this could be the dislodging of your mucus plug: a sign that labour was imminent. 

George was still fast asleep when you emerged from the bathroom, looking so peaceful with his hands tucked under his pillow and his hair falling across his forehead. You gently set a hand on his shoulder and gave him a small nudge while whispering his name to rouse him.

With another little nudge, his eyes fluttered open and he stirred, shifting onto his back and reaching a hand up to rub at his eye. As he came to his senses and noticed you perched on the side of the bed, he dropped his hand to rest against your back, his voice thick from sleep, “Everything alright?”

“I think I’m in labour,” you whispered, almost timidly, like you might be entirely incorrect and had just woken him up for nothing. 

George, sure he was still half asleep with the amount of disbelief that your words poured through his veins, blinked up at you under furrowed brows with a muttered, “What?”

“Yeah…I was just using the toilet and there was some bloody show in my underwear…and I’ve been a little crampy…” you explained softly. 

His expression melted into surprise and his hand rubbed the small of your back, “Oh, okay…constantly crampy or…?”

“Ebbs and flows, like every twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” George sat up a little, “we should start timing them then. Are you feeling okay?”

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah…relieved, mostly.”

He shared in your smile and brought a loving hand to your cheek, staring into your eyes, “Me too.”

At that moment, you reached out to grab onto his thigh through the duvet with a small groan as another tense pressure radiated across your abdomen and hips, pulling you into another contraction. They weren’t bad—nothing more than period cramps, really—but they still came on quite suddenly when they did. 

“Okay,” George leaned forward to keep rubbing your back, “another one?”

You couldn’t find words, only offering him a nod and an affirmative hum. 

“Alright,” he spoke softly with a voice laced in warmth and excitement, “Definitely the real deal now.”

It only took less than a minute for the contractions to pass and by then, George was getting out of bed. He helped you into the shower so you could freshen up—knowing that you had a long and exhausting journey ahead of you—and as you took your time under the warm water, George made sure everything was packed in your hospital bag and ready to go when you would need to head out. As you showered, you could feel another contraction rising surely across your abdomen and you let out a tight groan. 

“You okay in there?” George called from the bedroom.

You could barely manage a, “uh huh” in reply.

With your hands pressed flat against the shower wall, you hung your head and tried to breathe through the pain. It was surprising how much it felt like period cramps and, naively, you were hoping that they wouldn’t get much worse as you progressed. At least the warm water from the shower offered some comfort to help get you through it. 

Once you were dried off and dressed in lounge pants and a sports bra, you waddled your way down to the kitchen where George started to make breakfast. Between contractions, you felt perfectly normal, and so you sat with him at the table and ate together like it was just another Friday. George had pulled his notebook from his bag and as you ate, he clicked the end of his multi-coloured pen and flipped to the next empty page. At the top, he wrote ‘Contractions’ and then titled two columns: ‘Start-End Time’ ‘Duration’. You munched on your toast as you watched him fill out some rows already with the information from the prior few contractions. 

It was still so early that there wasn’t too much of a pattern but it was good to keep track to eye your process. Of course, ever organized, George was right on it. 

The morning progressed slowly but surely, your contractions and discomfort still lingering as the hours ticked by. Despite the fact that getting as much rest as you could was imperative before delivery, you were far too antsy to sit yet alone sleep. The two of you ended up putting on your spring jackets and going for a walk around the block, made agonizingly slow from your pregnant waddle and the fact that you kept having to stop to catch your breath through minor contractions, but neither of you were in any rush. 

You shared lunch on the couch back home and George let you pick what show you watched. It really felt like any other day outside of the ever-present aches and tightness across your abdomen that ebbed and flowed every quarter-hour or so. As the afternoon dragged on, you were pacing the living room, back and forth in a languid waddle, one hand on your back and the other rubbing your belly, trying to breathe, while George sat on the couch, notebook open on his thigh, his eyes on his watch. 

When you felt another contraction rise, you stopped beside the couch and set your hands on the arm to bend over it with a groan, instinctively swaying your hips side to side to try and ease the pressure. George noted the time in his meticulously organized table. He then reached out to set his hand over yours on the arm of the couch; a silent reminder that he was right there with you. 

Somehow, George managed to convince you to try and get some rest around eight o’clock, just over twelve hours since you had first started to feel the cramping. You got yourself as comfortable as possible in bed, snuggled up with your pregnancy pillow, and George made sure you had everything you needed before he stepped out of the room to make a few calls to loved ones to update them. 

You drifted in and out of a light sleep, unable to get much rest with the lingering cramping across your abdomen and the fact that your lower back was starting to ache too. It was hard to just lay still. Thankfully, George returned to your bedroom less than an hour later, moving quietly in case you were asleep but as you fluttered your eyes open at the sound of the door, you noticed his concerned expression. 

“What is it?” you asked sleepily. 

He startled slightly at your soft voice, not having anticipated you to be awake still. He shrugged and pulled a tight lipped smile as he set his phone on the bedside table and then sat himself on his side of the bed, “Nothing, everything’s okay. How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay. They’re getting a little stronger now so it’s hard to sleep.” you replied just enough to pacify him before turning the conversation back to him, “You had that pout on your face you get when you’re concerned. What’s up?”

George sighed, reaching out a hand to rub your hip and your lower back, knowing you weren’t going to give it up until he gave you an answer, “I just had a chat with Toto. He’s excited for us and everything…sent you well wishes but…he seems steadfast in wanting me to still fly out to Japan next weekend.”

There was a moment of silence between you as his words settled. You knew that was the reality of his career, that he couldn’t just take time off for the sake of it, and you were thankful that at least he was home on his weekend off when you went into labour so he could be there with you, but even thinking of him leaving felt like a punch in the stomach. Or, perhaps that was just another contraction. Your eyes fluttered closed and you turned your face into your pillow with a small groan.

George kept rubbing your back through it, watching you closely, his voice timid, “He said he could likely get me out of media duties so I could leave a day later but…I don’t want to leave you at all.”

“Mm,” you moaned meekly through the intense ache, reaching out a hand to grasp his free one, waiting a few more seconds to catch your bearings before speaking, “You’re not leaving me yet. Don’t think about that. Just be here with me.”

He leaned down across the bed, perpendicularly to you, holding himself up on his elbow as he leaned into your space so you were just about face to face. Your eyes met in your close proximity and you lifted a hand up to stroke your thumb across his cheek. 

“Hi,” you whispered. 

“Hi,” he echoed. 

“I need you present,” you told him softly, seriously, “I don’t need you to be four…five days in the future. I just need you here, today, now.”

George nodded, knowing you read him all too well, “I know. I’m here. I promise.”

He leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth, sealing his agreement, and then moved his hand to rest against the large swell of your belly that was hidden by the duvet. 

“For you and our little guy.”

You set your hand over his, holding the both of you in that moment for a little longer. The baby squirmed inside you, nudging against his hand pressed warmly over the curve of your belly, and a small smile came to George’s face, as if that movement alone helped to ease his anxieties. He leaned down closer to be eye level with it and he rubbed his hand in comforting circles.

“Gonna come meet us soon, little buddy?” he spoke quietly. “You’ve been taking your sweet time all day. Let’s move this process along, shall we?”

You groaned a little as you felt the baby move again inside you, pressing in all the right spots that felt extra sensitive as human nature helped guide him farther down towards the birth canal. As if you literally couldn’t lay still, you shifted away from George and pushed yourself into a sitting position, desperate to find a way to alleviate some of the consistent ache. His hand followed you as if magnetized, slipping under your shirt to rub soothing circles over your taut skin, his lips pressing a soothing kiss to your shoulder. 

“It’s getting more uncomfortable,” you announced with a huff, shifting in place a little and trying to roll your shoulders and take some of the pressure off your lower back. 

George sat up too and grabbed his notebook from his bedside table and flipped it open to the contractions page to note everything, the two columns now filled with scribbles in the margins of nearly everything you said you felt at any given time. Your eyes fluttered shut as he wrote down something else, trying to breathe deeply as you sat there in bed, one hand behind you holding you up against the mattress and the other rubbing your belly. 

You could feel another contraction ramping up, what was once easy ebbs and flows of discomfort throughout the day now turning into proper waves of pain, and you didn’t hold back the low groan at its arrival. George glanced over at you and your pained expression and he checked his watch.

“Jesus, love,” he exhaled as he shifted closer to rub a hand over the small of your back while his other hand gently wrapped around your bicep, “they’re coming faster now, aren’t they?”

You couldn’t speak through the contraction—too focused on breathing through it instead—and your fingers curled around the sheets that were pooled around your waist. The contraction reached its peak, gripping you in an intensity that stole the air from your lungs, and your fingers twisted tighter into the sheets. Your breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as you tried to keep yourself calm and steady through it, trying to remember all the details from your lamaze classes.

George’s grip on your arm tightened just slightly as he watched you carefully, his body tense beside you. His other hand moved firmly against your lower back in a futile attempt to offer comfort but it almost felt insignificant against the growing pressure.

As the contraction finally eased, you sagged in place, chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths, eyes still closed and cheeks flushed. But even in the momentary lull, there was no real relief, only the daunting knowledge that another contraction would soon come and they were only going to get harder.

George glanced at his watch and then flipped back to his notes, eyes darting between the numbers as he scribbled down the new time before glancing over at you again, “That was five minutes.”

Your stomach clenched—not with another contraction, but with the certainty that settled in your bones. You had been told what the five minute mark meant: the transition from early labour to active labour. The day had been long and drawling, full of slow, rolling aches and a patience you’d miraculously managed to maintain. But this? This was different. This made it all feel real.

You met George’s eyes, breath still uneven, and swallowed hard, the realization heavy but certain, “I think it’s time to go.”

He didn’t hesitate as he closed his notebook and leaned in to press a firm kiss to your temple, “Alright, my love. Let’s go meet our son.”

Sitting in the passenger seat of George’s Mercedes had arguably always been one of your favourite spots to be. But, now, well past nine months pregnant and in the trenches of what was teetering on active labour, the car was the absolute last place you wanted to be. It didn’t help that the streets of Monaco were ridiculously winding so it took twice as long to get anywhere as it would if the roads just went straight. 

Your hand clutched onto the car door with a white knuckled grip as you breathed and groaned through another contraction, eyes screwed shut as you put your trust in your professional driver of a husband to get you to the hospital safely. No position was comfortable as you squirmed and shifted on the leather seat, trying to ease the pressure in your lower back and the fierce tight ache that was stretching across your abdomen. Tilting your head back against the headrest, you groaned to the canvas roof of the convertible, fingernails surely digging into the expensive leather seats beneath you as you tried to ground yourself. Everything felt hot from the pain. 

“Fuck,” you choked out just as the contraction seemed to die down. Immediately, your hand flew to the dashboard controls and you cranked the internal temperature of the car down as far as it could go. 

George didn’t dare complain from behind the wheel. His hand itched to reach over and touch you but once he had put his hand on your thigh when you got on the road, you had shoved it away. But, God, he hated seeing you in pain and not being able to do anything about it. 

You set your hands on the dashboard in front of you and leaned forward the best you could despite your huge belly to try and feel some of the icy air from the AC on your clammy face. You kept breathing. 

George reached over to set a hand on your back, right between your shoulder blades, “We’re almost there, my love. You’re doing amazing.”

“I hate this,” you whined, “I fucking hate this. I want him out already.”

“Not long now,” George tried to offer any semblance of comfort that fell upon deaf ears. 

By the time he parked the car in the hospital parking garage, another five minutes had gone by and you were back to breathing through another contraction. George was standing in the open passenger door, bent down beside you, letting you grip his hand as you groaned through your teeth and the sharp pain, whispering soft reassurances to you in the quiet of the car park at almost eleven o’clock at night. 

Once you had another moment of slight respite, resting back in the passenger seat with a hand over your belly, you took a second to catch your breath. While you did, George grabbed the hospital bag from the backseat and slung it over his shoulder so he had both hands free to help you. You turned toward him, fingers wrapping around his forearms, and he braced himself, planting his feet firmly as he helped lift you from the car. You had barely made it halfway upright when a strange, unmistakable sensation rippled through you—like the sudden pop of a water balloon deep inside.

And then came the rush; warm liquid flooding down your legs, soaking your pants, trickling onto the cement floor of the parking garage, and—of course—all over the upholstery of his car. It was almost comedic just how movie-like it happened, how intense and dramatic it felt in that moment.

Your gasp was immediate, “Shit.”

“Oh wow,” George gaped but didn’t falter his grasp on you, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Can you stand?”

You continued to your feet until you were stable, still holding his arm just in case. The two of you looked back into his car and the way the leather of his passenger seat was glistening with wetness.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed.

George chuckled faintly and just shut the door behind you, “It’s okay. The car can be cleaned. Are you okay?”

You shifted your weight, your hand still tucked in the crook of his arm, “Extra uncomfortable now.”

“I bet; you’re soaked through.” George started to guide you away from the car, “Let’s get you inside.”

Thanks to your soaked pants, lingering aches, and huge belly, you weren’t moving very quickly but George was patient, keeping his arm where you could hold onto it while he carefully guided you step by step to the hospital doors. Once inside, the triage nurse took your name and information down and took you to an examination room to check how you were progressing to see if you were far enough along to stay at the hospital. 

As you laid on the hospital bed and she got her equipment set up to check you out, you had another contraction and George lingered beside you, a firm hand resting comfortingly and protectively on your shoulder. He still had your duffle bag over his shoulder and, now, your clothes over his arm like a pack mule but his focus was far more directed on you than bothering about himself at all. 

“That’s it…you’re doing so well, love. Deep breaths.” he encouraged, thumb rubbing your shoulder over your shirt. 

As it eased out after about a minute, you fluttered your eyes open to look up at him standing beside you. He lifted his hand from your shoulder to stroke your flushed cheek with the back of his finger, a gentle smile on his handsome face. 

The nurse eyed you both with a fond smile as she began to prod at your belly a little to figure out the positioning of the baby, distracting you from the discomfort with some conversation. 

“Is this your first baby?”

“Yeah,” George exhaled with a grin, beaming pride. 

“How exciting,” she complimented. 

“And scary,” you added lightly. 

The nurse assured you with a kind, “The anticipation always makes it feel much scarier than it is. Once your baby is in your arms, you will feel a bit more at peace.”

You glanced over at George again as her words helped ease your racing nerves just a little and he gave you shoulder another squeeze. Just then, she had placed a monitor just beneath the swell of your bump and almost right away, the room was filled with the familiar staticy rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat. 

“What a strong sounding heart on the little one.” the nurse complimented, “Seems to be doing well in there which is what we like to hear. Sitting nice and low too, head down, ready to come out.”

She seemed nice enough and in your desperate, pained state, you confided in her with a pleading, “I really do not want to be sent back home.”

“We’ll just check how dilated you are and then make our decision,” she said kindly, drifting across the small examination room to find a pair of medical gloves. 

She got your feet up on the stirrups to prepare you for the cervical assessment and you held your hand out for George to take so you had something to hold onto. He took your hand without question, watching as the nurse lifted up the bottom of your hospital gown to begin the check. 

“She’s been feeling it all day and her waters broke in the car on the way here,” George said as if he were pleading your case, “Any time now, it’s got to be.”

As if having experienced many impatient and anxious new father’s in her line of work, the nurse just offered him a polite smile but focused on her task at hand. It was uncomfortable as she slipped two fingers into you to check your progress, but certainly not as unbearable as the contractions had started to be. You clenched your jaw and stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on the way George’s thumb stroked over yours in absentminded back and forth motions. 

When the nurse sat back and started to remove her gloves, she told you both, “You’re up to almost seven centimeters and already fully effaced so it looks like you’ll be sent upstairs to the Birthing Unit.”

While George let out a small sigh of relief, you were right there with the surprise, “Seven already?”

“Yes! You’re well into active labour now, my dear.” the nurse said as she disposed of the gloves and made her way to the door, “I will find someone to take you up to your room in just a moment.”

The moment she slipped out of the examination room and closed the door behind her, you and George looked at each other. Both of you knew that, of course, your labour was going to be progressing as it had throughout the day, but the realization that you were already 70% of the way towards actually delivering your baby hit you both like a truck. Unfortunately, you didn’t have long to linger in that moment because yet another contraction was washing over you at full force.

Saturday

It had just passed midnight by the time you were settled in your birthing suite—the nicest one they had, George insisted with a flash of his credit card that made you roll your eyes—and you were thankful to finally be able to be settled in one space. It was a spacious room overlooking the harbour but given the late hour it was, there wasn’t much to see. George busied himself with closing the curtains as you relaxed for a moment on the hospital bed in the centre of the room, your eyes following him as he drifted over to your hospital bag resting on the chair in the corner and unzipped it, rifling through it for a phone charger that he then plugged into the wall beside your bed and set his phone aside. 

“Getting a little real now, isn’t it?” you stated softly from the bed. 

George glanced over at you with a fond smile and he reached out to stroke a hand over your hair, “Definitely is.” 

“You nervous?” you asked him.

“Yeah,” he confessed with a soft laugh, “very.”

You reached up to set your hand on his arm and he shifted to let your fingers intertwine with his, the silent act of solidarity between the two of you. He had many family members give birth in his lifetime but he had never been present for every step of the process, never had to watch the woman he loved most in the world be in such pain with him unable to do anything about it. You could see his mind whirling, that sweet furrowed expression on his face as if he were deep in thought. 

“I love you,” you offered. 

George’s hand tightened in yours for a beat, his expression easing, “I love you too.”

He leaned down to give you a quick kiss before straightening up again. 

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, “Water? A blanket?”

“Yeah, maybe some water,” you breathed.

He left you with one more kiss and then left the room to fetch you a cup of water from the water station down the hall and when he returned, you were contracting again. He rushed over and set the cup down on the table beside the bed so he could tend to you as you laid curled on your side, his hand finding the small of your back again to press the heel of his palm down in a firm pressure. You groaned tightly into the pillow, fingers curling around the bar beside the bed, trying to breathe through it. 

“I can’t leave you alone for ten seconds, can I?” George offered lightheartedly but you were in no position to join into his banter, only replying with another pained groan. He kept his mouth shut until your contraction eased. 

Then, he held out the cup of water to you and held the straw steady so you could take a sip without having to hold it. You sighed in relief as you finished the entire cup in one long drink and then settled back against the hospital bed. 

“More?” he asked, now that the styrofoam cup was empty. 

You shook your head, slightly breathless, “I’m okay for now.”

George set it aside. You squirmed again, hating to lay still and constantly unable to feel comfortable, hands grasping the bars on the side of the hospital bed as you shifted. 

“Do you want to move around some more?” George offered gently, “Maybe a change in position will help.”

So you let him help you up out of the bed and you started to slowly pace the hospital suite just like you had in your living room a few hours earlier. George filled out more of his notebook as you progressed but always was right there beside you for the duration of each contraction. Now that your water had broken, contractions were coming far more intense than before and the five-minute intervals were closing in on four-minutes instead. 

That pressure he would apply to your lower back or how he’d squeeze your hips during contractions was starting to do nothing at all anymore—or so it felt—and you were exhausted and starting to get more and more frustrated and impatient. After about two hours of labouring in the hospital suite, you had found a somewhat comfortable position with the bed raised up so you could lean forward on your forearms against the mattress, swaying your hips through the intense waves of another contraction. 

George rubbed his hands over your hips and started to press inwards to offer counter pressure but you shooed him off with a wave of your hand. He stepped back. 

“What can I do, love?” he asked softly, helplessly, not able to touch you and hold you and comfort you like he wanted. 

Your fingers curled into the sheets, tight breaths trying to stay deep and cleansing, barely recognizing his words as your body worked to pass the pain of the contraction. When it decreased after about a minute, you exhaled strongly out of it but kept your position over the side of the bed.

“Can I get you more water? Do you want me to rub your feet?” George offered from beside you. “I can blow up your birthing ball if you want?”

You lifted your head to look at him, voice thick was exhaustion but tinged with curiosity, “You brought the birthing ball?”

He gestured towards the stuffed duffle bag on the chair in the corner, “I bought a spare and packed it, yeah.”

“Jesus,” you exhaled in disbelief and hung your head, “Yeah…please.”

Thrilled to finally be able to help in some way, George hurried across the room to unzip the large duffle bag and he took out the folded soft rubber ball that was tucked in the inside pocket. He made himself useful by blowing it up by mouth until he was half dizzy and even more exhausted than he already had been but he wouldn’t dare to complain. With a slightly flushed face from manually blowing up the large birthing ball, he brought it over to you and set it on the ground for you to sit on. 

You bounced on it lazily and swayed side to side, trying to use it to help open your hips and get the process rolling. George took the initiative to brush your hair for you as you did and thankfully for him, you didn’t push him away. The hospital suite was filled with some of your favourite music playing from your phone across the room as you laboured and George relaxed you with the gentle pulls of your hairbrush along your scalp and through your hair. He then tried his hand at a braid and, despite how imperfect it was, it was a thankful relief to get your hair out of your face. 

George checked his watch as you fell into another contraction, standing firmly behind you despite the exhaustion that stung his eyes. He was sure you were no better off, both of you almost going on twenty-four hours since you had last slept; but if nothing else, it was the adrenaline that fueled the pair of you to keep you going well past two o’clock in the morning. 

“You’re doing so well, my darling,” he stroked his hands over your hair and across your shoulders, “You doing okay?”

“Shut up, love, please,” you groaned out of your contraction, voice tight from pain and exhaustion, “I can’t answer a million questions.”

“Sorry, sorry…” he muttered, pressing an apologetic kiss to the top of your head. 

The nurse came in a little while later to check on you, letting you stay sitting on the birthing ball while she listened for the baby’s heartbeat and then checked your progression. Despite sitting on the ball, you leaned back against George’s front, using him as a way to rest, and he gladly allowed it. 

“At eight centimeters now,” the nurse told you as she stood back up and took off her gloves, “You’ve been progressing slowly but it’s still moving along so we’re not concerned. Are you still thinking you want to pass on the epidural?”

You nodded meekly, “Yeah, no epidural.”

George leaned down to be closer to your head, whispering softly, “Love, maybe you should consider—”

“No,” you said firmly, “I want to do this myself. I can do this myself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with getting the epidural. Maybe you’d like the relief.”

“George.”

The seriousness in your tone was a dead giveaway that you weren’t going to be hearing anymore of it. He stood back up straight and sent a polite yet thin lipped smile to the nurse who had seen plenty of such interactions in her career in labour and delivery. 

“Would you like to try a warm soak in the tub?” she offered to you, “Often that can help naturally ease some of the discomfort and pain.”

So at nearly three o’clock in the morning, you found yourself in the large tub in the corner of the birthing suite and wondering why the fuck you hadn’t gotten in sooner. The warm water seemed to work wonders through the contractions and although it didn’t get rid of them all together, that agonizing edge was certainly taken down a notch. George knelt beside the tub with your filled water bottle in hand, offering you little sips here and there as you waited out the time together. 

He rested his cheek against his arm on the side of the tub while his other hand danced over the curve of your large belly, his eyes watching as he drew soft soothing patterns over your warm skin. A little footprint nudged against his hand and he smiled softly. 

“Hi, baby boy,” George whispered, setting his down flat over that same spot, “How’s it going in there?”

“He’s still cozy,” you mumbled, resting your hands on either side of his over your abdomen, “Taking his sweet time.”

George hummed in acknowledgement, watching his hand atop your belly, already so filled with this fierce sense of protectiveness and your son wasn’t even here yet. His thumb brushed back and forth over your damp skin at the surface of the water. 

“I’m so tired,” you confessed in a breath.

“I know you are, my love.” George cooed, eyes shifting to look at your face, “You’ve been such a trooper.”

“I want him out,” you whined, voice pitching at the end as another contraction washed over you.

George checked his watch to note the time before focusing all on you, shifting beside the tub to be in a better position to be right where you needed him at any given moment. You grabbed his hand and he let you hold onto him tightly as he joined you in those deep, precise labouring breaths so you didn’t feel quite alone. He watched you carefully, every flutter of an expression on your face, but you hardly noticed, your body and mind far too preoccupied with bringing life into the world. 

“Nice deep breaths, darling. You’re doing amazing.” he praised softly.

Your head dropped back against the side of the large tub, eyes tightly closed, one hand clutching his and the other gripping the edge of the tub until your knuckles turned white, filling the room with your strained groans and laboured breaths. You barely noticed George brushing some of your wispy hair out of your face or the way the back of his finger stroked against your cheek before his hand settled on your shoulder, thumb caressing your damp skin. 

“Keep breathing,” he reminded you, “Deep breaths with me.”

The two of you inhaled strongly together and found the rhythm that had been taught to you in your lamaze classes, just breathing together, being together. Together on this life changing journey. 

By the time the bathwater was getting cooler and you were ready for another shift in position, George helped you out of the tub and dried you off. As he did, you held onto his shoulders for balance and tried to stand still, feeling aches and pressure all through you, itching, frustratingly never-ending sensations that you couldn’t get away from. It was coming up on twenty-four hours since your first hints of labour and you were getting sick of it, desperate for this process of waiting to be done. 

George helped you back into your hospital gown and walked you back to the bed where you, once again, draped yourself forward over the edge of it with a grunt. His heart ached to see you in so much discomfort and pain and he leaned in beside you to kiss your temple as you stood there with another impending contraction. In that moment, the pain of the contractions was blending into a strange feeling of nausea that came on pretty quickly with the increase in pain.

“George…” you called meekly, setting a trembling hand against your forehead.

As if sensing the trepidation in your voice, he was leaning back down beside you, a hand on your back, right between your shoulder blades, “Yeah, love?”

“I really don’t feel well,” you muttered.

“You think you’re going to be sick?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, hang on,” George hurried around the other side of the bed to the table in the corner of the room to grab the hospital provided sick bag and he returned to your side with it. 

You took it from him and clutched it in both hands at the ready as you rested on your forearms on the side of the bed, head hung, eyes screwed shut. Without you even realizing, your body was letting out low, steady groans and moans, trying to use that as a way to express your pain in other ways. George stayed close at your side, brushing your hair out of your face as your poorly constructed braid was starting to come undone. 

“Do you want a sip of water?” he asked softly. 

“Fuck—” you hissed, tensing up as another intense contraction ramped up, a cry tearing from your chest as you fisted the sheets and crumpled the sick bag. 

George’s eyes went wide at your loud exclamation, his hand hovering over your back as if he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not. You were so much louder now, almost crying out as if in complete agony unlike anything he had heard before. George wasn’t scared of much in life but in that moment, he suddenly felt absolutely terrified. 

“Sweetheart—” he started tentatively, gently resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” you snapped.

Your sudden intensity had him yanking his hand away and taking a step back like he had been burned by hot coals. Eyes wide, he watched as you writhed over the side of the bed, head hung, almost looking like a person outside of yourself, another being, something natural and instinctual taking over. 

“Okay, okay, okay…sorry,” he rushed out.

The notebook had long since been foregone for the sake of the hospital machinery that tracked your contractions and George glanced over to the screen that showed the squiggly line peaking sharply up on the chart, higher and higher; a visual of just how intense this one was. His attention was torn away from the screen by the sound of your retching as you threw up into the bag in your hands. You hadn’t eaten in a while so it was mostly just bile but the sight still made his stomach churn a little.

“Blimey,” George exhaled, pressing a fist to his mouth to try and keep himself from doing the same exact thing. That was the last thing you needed. 

“Sorry,” you whimpered out once you were done, tears brimming in your eyes.

He took the bag from you to dispose of, stopping to kiss your head in the process, “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry you’re feeling so rotten.”

“Your fault anyway,” you muttered in some attempt at a joke despite the intensity of the moment.

Appreciating the slight break in tension, George chuckled faintly, “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

You swayed your hips side to side again to try and ease the pressure, head dropped towards the bed that you leaned on, trying to catch your breath in your nauseous and agonizing brief moment of reprieve from the back-to-back contractions. The feeling of a cold, damp cloth touching your face made you startle but you lifted your head a little so George could wipe your mouth for you. He then rested the reliving coolness against your cheeks and, a few seconds later, the back of your neck. 

Your eyes stayed closed, a small pout of pain on your lips, voice meek, “I can’t do this. I want to go home.”

“I know, my love,” George breathed, “You’re almost there. You’ve come this far. Not long now and we’ll have our baby in our arms. And then we can go home, alright?”

“No, please,” you cried, agonizing tears in your eyes as if begging him for mercy, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do you want the epidural?” he asked softly, pressing the cool damp cloth to your flushed cheek. 

Sighing in dramatic relief at his reminder, you replied with a pleading, “Yes, yes, I don’t care anymore. Please!” 

“Okay, let me get the nurse,” George left you with a kiss to your forehead before hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the nurses’ station. 

It felt like you had only blinked and he was returning, your nurse in tow. Time felt strange that night—perhaps it was the exhaustion, the early hour, the pain—everything feeling so hazy and dream-like and fragmented. You barely recalled George speaking to the nurse, updating her on how you were, that you had vomited, that you wanted the epidural. You didn’t have to move for her to check your progress, staying leaned over the side of the bed how you were most comfortable. 

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the nurse finally spoke, “I can’t give you the epidural; you’re at a ten.”

“Fuck me,” you groaned through your teeth.

She explained to the both of you kindly, “Usually the vomiting is a clear sign the mother is in the transition stage and it’s only a matter of minutes before pushing is due to begin. I’m going to go page the doctor.”

In another blink, George was in front of you, leaning on the opposite side of the bed so you were face to face, and he set his hands over yours between you. You let his fingers intertwine with yours, giving you something to hold onto that wasn’t the thin hospital sheets as another contraction swelled and you cried out loudly.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, giving your hands a squeeze to bring your attention back to him, “Look at me. Right here.”

Despite the sheer pain radiating around your abdomen, back, and down between your legs and thighs, you forced your teary eyes to meet his gaze. 

“I’m right here,” he reminded you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You couldn’t reply verbally but he could see your appreciation in your eyes, in the firm grip of your hands in his.

His voice was a soothing blanket of warmth amidst the harshness of the situation, “Just keep looking at me, alright? Just breathe.”

Despite the way you tried to keep breathing, your inhales were jagged and uneven, almost panting, too focused on the way you were crying out with pain. But you kept looking at him, trying to find refuge in the comforting familiarity of his features, the love in his eyes, your safety. 

“I’m so in awe of you,” he exhaled with nothing but raw honesty in his words, “You are incredible. You are a warrior…a goddess.”

You groaned through the contraction, trying to focus on him and his words. The contraction slowly ebbed, leaving you trembling and breathless, your fingers still locked around George’s. But the relief was short-lived and, instead, was taken over by a deep, primal pressure settling low in your belly, heavy and insistent, and you let out a shaky gasp.

“I need to get on the bed,” you managed, barely above a whisper, not even realizing it was you that was saying it. 

George reacted instantly. He squeezed your hands once before letting go and then he came around the other side of the bed to help lower it for you before stabilizing you by the arm to guide you onto it. You barely registered the feeling of the unimpressive hospital mattress beneath you before another contraction bore down, sharp and all-consuming. Your fingers grasped blindly for George, and he was right there, hands steady, voice soothing.

“You’re doing amazing, love. You got this.” he murmured as he helped you settle. 

With one hand holding his, your other clutched onto the bar on the side of the bed as you laid on your side and cried out loudly. George brushed your hair away from your face and started to fan you with his notebook that had been forgotten about on the side table. 

Through clenched teeth, you announced, “I feel like I need to push. Really bad.”

“Can you wait until the doctor gets—”

But your body wasn't interested in waiting until the doctor arrived and, against your own will, it was forcing you to bear down with a loud cry. 

“Fucking hell,” George muttered, panicked eyes flicking towards the door as if hoping the doctor would saunter in right at that moment. Of course, this wasn’t a movie and life was not that ideal, leaving him clueless and frightened as your body gave another push through a crying groan. He pried his hand out of yours and set it on your head as he leaned down, “Just hang on, love, please, just one second.”

And then he was rushing across the room to the door, yanking it open and sticking his head out into the hallway,

“The baby is coming now! We need help!”

It was hard to believe how instinctive it all felt to you, like you didn’t even have to think about it or worry about it, like your body just knew what to do against your inexperienced judgement. You clung onto the bar beside the bed, curled in on yourself in nearly the fetal position, tensing right up into another agonizing push. A strangled cry tore from your throat just as a flurry of nurses and the doctor came rushing in to get set up and in an instant, George was back at your side. 

“Alright, take some deep breaths for me, dear,” your nurse said, her voice calm but efficient as she helped to adjust you on the bed so you weren’t quite curled up, “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Comfortable felt like an impossible concept—nothing had been comfortable for what felt like hours, maybe even days—but you obeyed without protest, shifting against the mattress with what little energy you had left. Every movement sent another ripple of pressure through your lower back, tightening like a vice, but you forced yourself to breathe through it. 

“Find whatever position feels best,” the nurse continued, adjusting the pillows behind you, “As long as it opens you up nicely, you do what works for you.”

You exhaled shakily, struggling to think through the haze of exhaustion and pain, trying to sit up more with a mumbled, “Higher.”

As if automatically knowing what you meant, George moved to the bed controls, adjusting the incline until you were more upright, almost sitting, “Like this, love?”

You nodded, and that was assurance enough for him. At the same time, the nurse worked quickly, securing the birthing bar in place over the bed so you had something solid to hold onto, helping you to balance in a bit more of a squat than just laying flat on your back. As soon as your fingers wrapped around it, the doctor had gotten set up at the foot of the bed with accommodation for your chosen positioning, already checking how far along you were. 

Your breath hitched as the feeling of another wave built fast within you and you gasped, tears welling up again, “I-I can’t! I can’t do this!”

“Yes, you can,” George murmured, his forehead nearly touching yours as he leaned in closer, a hand smoothing over your hair, his voice low and soothing, “You are, sweetheart. Just breathe, love. You’re doing this, you’re doing so well. I’m right here.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting his voice steady you before your body instinctively pushed against the impending contraction before you could think. Red, hot, pain ripped through you, forcing a shrieking cry from your throat as you bore down. 

“Amazing! Just like that,” the doctor encouraged, fingers helping themselves inside you to help guide the baby’s head around the pubic bone, “His head is already in a great position. Keep pushing, right from your gut.”

You heaved in another breath only to hold it into another fierce push as the nurses fluttered around you in a hazy blur in the background. Your entire focus was on your baby at that moment, the world narrowed down to that single hospital bed. George’s hand was on your back as he stood close at your side, his other hand on your knee to help keep your legs open but his thumb stroked over your skin comfortingly as you gave another push. 

“Good girl,” George praised loudly over your cries, eyes flitting between your face and the delivery zone, “Oh, you’re incredible!” 

After another push, the doctor told you, “Okay, take it easy for a second until the next contraction…take a breath. You’re doing so well.”

You folded your arms on the birthing bar and you rested your cheek atop your arms, eyelashes heavy. The straw of your water bottle grazed your lips as George offered it out to you and you took it in your mouth for a small sip before letting him take it away again. Then, he was right back again, this time with another cool damp cloth—that must have been given to him by one of the nurses—that he gently patted over your sweaty forehead. 

“Can I go again?” you asked the room.

“If you feel the need, go right ahead,” the doctor permitted, “Just listen to your body.”

With your arms still folded on the birthing bar, you turned your forehead to rest against them as you bore down again with a tight groan before quickly following it up with another. It was agonizing and exhausting and as you pushed again, a sob broke from your lips, “I just want him out!”

“I know, love, I know,” George murmured from beside you with the cool cloth against the back of your neck, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. His voice, so gentle and reverent, nearly broke with emotion as he whispered right to you, “You’re almost there. You’re so strong, you hear me? So fucking strong.”

“Give us another push, hon,” one of the nurses reminded you kindly, “Give it all your power and we’re going to hold for a count of ten, alright?”

You nodded and steeled yourself and when you bore down with all your might, the nurse counted you through it in the longest count of ten you had ever sat through. When she reached ten, you relaxed for a second and heaved a breath. 

“There you go!” the doctor encouraged, nodding approvingly, “You’re making progress. He’s moving lower.”

But it didn’t feel like progress; it felt endless…impossible. Your arms trembled as you gripped the bar, your legs shaking with the strain of holding yourself up even in the supported squat. You pushed for another count of ten…and then another, and then the doctor had to rest for a moment again as your contraction died out. Your whole body trembled with effort as you collapsed against the pillows of the propped up hospital bed, panting through the briefest moment of respite before the next contraction threatened to take hold. The pain wasn’t just sharp anymore—it was bone-deep, an unbearable pressure that made every fiber of your being scream for relief. Your body felt wrecked, drained, as though you had already given everything you had.

“Why isn’t he out yet?” you sobbed between gasping breaths.

“Hey,” George leaned over you to get your eyes on his, “He’s almost here. You’ve got this.”

Breathing heavily, you reached a trembling hand up to grasp the back of his neck and pulled his forehead down against yours as if wanting to take any and all strength from him.

“It often takes some extra time for first time mothers, sweetheart,” the nurse added soothingly, “Your body is doing all the right things. He just needs a little more work to make his way down.”

George kissed the top of your head, his voice low but filled with admiration. “You’re incredible, darling, you can do this. Just a little longer.”

You weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this, but as the next contraction started to build, you knew one thing—you had to.

Your feet lifted to press against the birthing bar in an attempt for counter pressure as you adjusted yourself on the hospital bed and bore down again. Immediately, your hand reached for George’s and his fingers grasped yours firmly, giving you something to hold onto as the nurse counted you into another lengthy ten seconds. 

The grip you had on his hand was bone crushing but he barely flinched, standing firmly at your side with his free arm around the top of the bed to get as close to you as possible without invading your space. He whispered loving praises to you as you delivered, being your strength and your encouragement. It felt like a dream, this whole situation, some never ending surrealness. 

The minutes ticked by as you followed the guidance of the doctor and the nurses and your body, all working towards the same goal: to deliver your son. When he was crowning, you turned your head against George’s arm as you clutched his hand, crying out as you pushed with everything left in you, and your husband set his free hand on your head to help to ground you, reminding you that he was present and with you. Your strength. 

“Gentle push now,” the doctor instructed, “Not too hard, let’s ease him out.”

With your eyes still scrunched shut, face pressed against George’s arm as you clutched his hand, you pushed down again, a little lighter this time, just enough to help the doctor shift the baby’s shoulders.  

“Open your eyes, love,” George whispered into your hair, “Open your eyes, he’s right here.”

“One more push,” the doctor told you. 

“One more,” George echoed. “Come on, my love.”

You heaved your head up and forced your tired eyes open, staring down your body between your spread legs as the doctor’s hands worked between them. As you bore down again, gently but surely, you watched first-hand as the baby was delivered into the doctor’s hands at 5:16am. 

Instant relief. Instant. 

And then the sharp shrill cry from the newborn filled the room and you barely had a second to process what had happened before the doctor was standing up and placing the goopy, screaming baby on your chest. 

Your arms went around him instinctively as he was handed to you, your voice a quiver of emotions and exhaustion as you greeted your son with a whimpering, “Oh, hi!” 

George pressed a wet kiss to your forehead before he was leaning in closer, setting a hand over yours around the newborn, tears already streaming down his cheeks at only the first glance of your son, as if the relief of it all hit him just as strongly. He crooned over the baby himself, helping you keep hold of him, “Oh my goodness, hi, buddy. There you are.”

You held the wrinkly, pasty baby to your chest, uncaring of the fluids and blood that stained your hospital gown and smeared over your skin; all that mattered was holding him, looking at him. Despite being fresh from birth, you swore he was the most beautiful thing you had seen with a head of light brown hair smattered wetly over his head and his supple skin flushed a light purple from the trauma of the delivery. You could hardly see him through the tears that blurred your vision, sobbing with relief, with elation, with love. 

You finally turned your gaze to George beside you, who was leaning in close, his arm around yours to help hold the baby together, tears of his own streaking his cheeks and shimmering in his eyes. But the wonder in his gaze was apparent, unlike any other expression you had seen on him before. A look of love so unlike anything else in the world.

When he sensed your staring, George’s eyes found yours and in that moment, you both shared wet smiles and he leaned in to give you a salty kiss or two. 

“He’s here,” you exhaled dreamily with a proud yet exhausted smile.

“He’s here,” George echoed with a breath of relief, reaching up with his other hand to brush your hair out of your face, “You were a fucking warrior, my love. Incredible. So, so incredible.”

You sniffled through your teary eyed smile, ignorant to the way the hospital room bustled around you as the doctors and nurses worked. Your husband gave you another kiss.

“I love you. I love you so much.” George then whispered, pressing another kiss to your clammy forehead.

“I love you,” you replied earnestly. 

The doctor called your name gently, and when you looked towards him, he told you, “You’ll feel some more contractions in a second, just need some light pushes from you to deliver the placenta.”

The swirl of emotions that filled you after the intensity of labour and delivery had you far too focused on your new baby to even think of the discomfort of delivering the placenta. You kept your baby in your arms with George holding you both from beside the bed, both of you absolutely swooning over him, barely paying any mind to your tame pushes that helped the doctor finish the job. 

Once you had plenty of skin to skin with the newborn and George had done the honours of cutting the umbilical cord, the nurses took the baby across the room to be weighed and checked on. As if already far too attached to let your son be taken from you, George left you with a kiss and, as per your silent instruction, followed the nurses to the station across the hospital suite to where they had the newborn in the bassinet under a warming lamp. He stood out of the way but still protectively close as they did their jobs, cleaning up the screaming baby and taking his vitals and jotting down information. 

As you laid there in the hospital bed, the doctor finishing cleaning you up from the birth, all you could focus on was George. He stood there in the artificial light of the hospital room, in his Adidas lounge pants and a plain coloured t-shirt that was stained slightly with blood and afterbirth, hair messy and sticking up in all directions from the tension of the last twenty-four hours, and hands held behind his back as if he were admiring a priceless artifact in a museum. His first born. His son. 

“How’s he doing?” you asked from across the room. 

George glanced over to you, face breaking out in a calm smile, before looking back to the flailing baby under the nurses’ hands, “He’s good. Feisty little fella.”

“3.8 kilos, 54 centimetres,” one of the nurses announced, “He’s a pretty big boy…very impressive to deliver all natural.”

George looked at you again with nothing but pride in his eyes. 

Despite the way the baby cried and squirmed, the nurses worked efficiently to get him cleaned up and diapered and made sure his hospital band was nicely secure around his ankle, labelling him, officially, as Baby Boy Russell with both George’s and your names alongside it for identification's sake. Once he was swaddled and donning a sweet little white cloth hat, one of the nurses picked him up from the bassinet and offered him out to George. 

George had held many babies in his lifetime, mostly his nieces and nephews, from newborns to toddlers. He knew how to hold them and he felt comfortable doing just that but this? With the nurse holding out his very own baby to him to hold for the very first time? There was just an ounce of hesitation…so much weighing on this moment.

He took the swaddled newborn in his arms with practiced ease, bringing him close to his chest in the crook of his arm, his other hand protectively supporting his tiny body from beneath. Almost immediately, the baby quieted down, as if sensing the safety of his father’s arms. 

George, wide eyed, let out a shuddering exhale, “Blimey.”

George barely registered the quiet sounds of the hospital room around him as the nurses finished up, his entire world now reduced to the weight of his son in his arms. He swayed slightly on instinct, cradling the newborn close as his thumb brushed lightly over the soft fabric of the swaddle, unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight.

Then he heard your voice—warm, exhausted, full of love, “He knows his daddy.”

His head then lifted, meeting your gaze across the room, and for a moment, all he could do was take you in. You looked spent and exhausted, still propped up against the pillows of the hospital bed, the thin sheets around your waist, but in that moment, he swore you had never looked more beautiful. His heart clenched.

Wordlessly, drawn to you like a force he couldn’t resist, George took slow, careful steps toward the bed, carrying something so fragile and precious. As he reached your bedside, he lowered himself gently onto the mattress beside you, mindful of your tired form, and you shifted just a little to give him some room to join you. Your hand rested against his shoulder as you shared in the view of the swaddled newborn in his arms and Goerge titled his hold just enough to let you take in the tiny face you had waited so long to meet.

“Hi there,” George murmured down to the baby, his voice thick with wonder, “Hi, buddy. Yeah, I’m your daddy.”

“Oh, he’s so perfect,” you breathed, finally getting a proper look at the baby without all the goop from birth on him. You reached out a gentle hand and stroked the back of your finger over his little cheeks. 

“Absolutely perfect,” George agreed. He then turned his head to look at you in your close proximity and you turned your face to meet his gaze. The rawness in his eyes was strong, the emotion behind his words undeniable, as he spoke in a tearful whisper, “Thank you.”

The next moments passed in a soft blur—checks, warm blankets, whispered reassurances. The nurses moved efficiently around you both, their voices gentle, their hands practiced as they made sure everything was as it should be as the chaos of the delivery faded out.

Before long, one of them approached with a kind smile, “Would you like to try feeding him now?”

A hint of trepidation swelled inside you, daunting in the face of the unfamiliar but intertwined with a tinge of instinctual excitement, and you nodded. Shifting carefully on the bed, you let the nurse guide you into a comfortable position and remove your hospital gown as George stood to give you room with the baby still in his arms. When you were ready, you held your arms out and he carefully passed over the swaddled newborn, making sure you had a good hold on him before he stepped back. 

You adjusted slightly, your body still aching from the lingering effects of birth but already attuned to the tiny weight against you and the comfort of George’s presence right at your side. Your husband set a hand on your shoulder as the nurse helped you position the baby and explained what to do and the best methods to help the baby latch. Guiding him towards your breast, you kept his head supported while brushing the nipple across his lips and he opened up his little mouth to instinctively take it in.

A sharp, unfamiliar sensation rippled through you as he started to suckle, a mix of discomfort and awe filling you, and you inhaled sharply, cradling him close to your chest.

“There you go,” the nurse encouraged, reaching in to make sure all was well, “That’s it. He’s got a good latch.”

“That was quick,” you chuckled tiredly. 

“Whatta little champion,” George swooned.

“Definitely a strong little guy,” the nurse agreed. She checked a few more things before taking her leave to give your new little family some privacy, reminding you to page her if you needed anything. 

Then, all at once, the three of you were left alone for the first time. In your arms, the newborn fed soundly, cheeks suckling as he nursed from your breast and long lashes closed peacefully, natural instinct taking over in finding his nourishment. It was hard to believe he was still inside you not even an hour earlier, this whole living, breathing, eating little human. Sure, you were still uncomfortable and exhausted from the whole ordeal, but the love that swelled in your heart was undeniable, filling your veins with adoring adrenaline. 

George shifted closer to the bedside, his free hand brushing over the baby’s swaddled back in slow, reverent strokes, his voice thick with emotion, “I still can’t believe he’s ours. He’s so… tiny.”

You let out a soft, tired laugh, “Yeah, well, he didn’t feel tiny a few minutes ago.”

George wrapped a free arm around your shoulders and he pressed a smiling kiss to your temple, “How are you feeling? Hanging in there?”

You looked up at him with a faint smile, “I’m okay. Happy.”

He just stared at you for a moment, eyes flickering all over your face as if taking in every single atom. His thumb caressed your shoulder. You knew you likely looked an absolute wreck, exhausted and completely worn out, makeup free, hair frazzled, and everything in between, but the way he looked at you made your stomach fill with butterflies. 

“What?” you chuckled nervously, tearing your eyes away from his intense stare to check on your nursing newborn, adjusting your hold on him.

“Nothing,” George exhaled, “You are just so beautiful.”

You felt your throat tighten at his words, the sincerity in his voice making your already-overwhelmed emotions bubble even closer to the surface. Those damn hormone fluctuations were no joke.

A wobbly smile tugged at your lips, “You’re just saying that because I gave you a son.”

George huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he stared into your eyes, “No. I mean, yes, that’s incredible, but you…” His fingers gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear and stroked your cheek, “You are breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do right now. Didn’t even think that was possible.”

Your heart squeezed, warmth filling your chest, breathing a shaky, “I love you so much.”

He leaned in again to kiss your lips gently before then leaning down to press a kiss to your son’s head. The baby let out a tiny, contented sigh, his hands wriggling beneath the swaddle as his suckling slowed as he finished his first feed. He pulled away from your breast and smacked his lips, eyelashes fluttering. 

“Milk drunk, are we?” George smiled, brushing a knuckle lightly over the baby’s cheek.

You sighed tiredly, gently patting the baby’s back, “He needs to be burped.”

George’s fingers carded through your hair and he offered, “I can take him; let you get some rest.”

Easing your head back against the pillows, you blinked tiredly up at him, “You sure?”

“Yeah, we should get acquainted anyway.”

As exhaustion started to take you with the promise of rest from your husband, you carefully passed the baby into George’s waiting arms. He cradled the tiny bundle expertly against his chest with practiced ease, one large hand supporting the newborn’s delicate head as he brought him close. He shushed the mewling newborn softly as he started to gently pat the baby’s back to coax out a soft, sleepy burp from his tiny body. 

The last thing you felt before fading into a well needed sleep was George’s hand smoothing over your hair, a quiet promise of love and protection in his touch.

An hour had passed and before long, the hospital room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of sunrise. George was resting in the chair by the window, his bare chest exposed to the morning warmth through the half opened curtains, streaking light across his body. He rocked slowly in the glider, cradling your son against his chest, skin to skin, the rhythmic motion barely more than a whisper.

The baby, snug in nothing but his diaper, looked impossibly small against George’s broad frame, his tiny body nestled beneath the protective weight of his father’s large hand and the light weight of his blanket, shielding him from the chill of the hospital room. George’s eyes were closed but he wasn’t quite asleep, eyelids fluttering open with every faint movement of the newborn under his hand as if he were unable to sleep without knowing he was perfectly safe, always having to check on him.

When the baby let out a little whine, George patted his back gently with a few breathy shushes. He shifted slightly, adjusting his hold so the baby rested more securely against him, his voice barely above a whisper as he soothed, “I’ve got you, buddy. Daddy’s got you. You’re alright.”

The newborn let out another sleepy whimper, his tiny fists clenching against George’s chest before slowly relaxing again, his little muscles tensing and relaxing in little involuntary movements as he got used to his body. George huffed a quiet chuckle, rubbing a warm hand up and down his son’s back.

“You’re a right little wiggle worm, aren’t you?” he murmured, watching as the baby’s tiny features scrunched up in protest before settling once more, “Just like your mum when she’s trying to get comfy in bed.”

George glanced over toward the bed, his heart squeezing at the sight of you, still deep in sleep, your chest rising and falling in soft, steady breaths, face still screwed up in lingering pain from the delivery and exertion. But even like that, in every way possible, George loved you, from deep in his soul. 

Turning his attention back to his son, he smiled faintly against the baby’s downy head, inhaling the delicious newborn scent of his very own. His hand rubbed gently along the baby’s back, voice low with adoration as he spoke to him with raw honesty, “I don’t know how I got so lucky, mate. You and your mum…my whole world right here in this room. You’re going to love her so much; she’s the best person in the whole world. Strongest person I’ve ever met—carried you all this time, brought you into the world like an absolute champion—braver than I’ll ever be.”

The baby made a tiny sound, a sleepy little coo, curling in closer to the warmth of his father’s body, as if he understood, and George let out a breathy laugh as if upholding a conversation, “Yeah, I know. I think so too.”

George exhaled, resting his cheek lightly against the baby’s head and letting his eyes slip shut for a moment, his hand still resting securely over his son’s tiny back, “I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I swear to you, I’m never taking it for granted. I will always be here for you and your mum, will always protect you and love you no matter what.”

The newborn let out a little mewl, starting to gum at his fist against his father’s chest. George gently brushed his hand over the tiny baby’s downy hair and then guided his hand away from his mouth, offering, instead, his finger. Five little fingers curled around his pinky in a firm grip, strong for not even two hours old, and George pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. 

“There’s my boy,” he breathed, “Daddy’s got you.”

Sunday

It didn’t take long for your hospital room to be filled with flowers and balloons from close family members and friends who came to visit throughout baby boy’s first full day earthside. Even as people came and went and the baby was passed around, George didn’t leave your side all day, fluttering between tending to you and following the newborn from person to person, already a little helicopter parent from the start. He was excited, nervous, proud…it was endearing to watch, exhausted but content, from the hospital bed. 

Even some of George’s fellow Formula 1 drivers who lived in Monaco and were considered your friends came by to meet the baby and give well-wishes. Alex would make sure it was known that he definitely didn’t get teary-eyed when he first held the baby, thank you very much…and Lando would hold onto the fact that his bouquet of flowers was the largest out of their friends’, the few dozen orange tulips sitting in a nearly-bursting vase on the window ledge. 

By the end of the day, once your visitors were gone and the baby was changed and fed and burped and fast asleep in your arms, the silence of the hotel room felt euphoric. George was by the window, adjusting and organizing your plethora of flowers and balloons and cards to make it look less like an entire gift shop had thrown up in the suite. You sat in silence, staring down at the sleeping and swaddled baby in your arms, his little lips set in a pout and long lashes resting over his full cheeks. You had always heard that once you have a baby, just looking at them would be enough to entertain you for hours but you didn’t realize just how true it would be. 

A soft knock at the door had you and George glancing over just as the nurse stepped in, a legal-size brown envelope in one hand and a small cup with your pain medication in the other. She greeted you with a kind, “Busy day, you three had. Visitors coming and going since the morning.”

George smiled as he instinctively moved to your bedside, “Yeah, little guy is already immensely popular, it seems.”

The nurse chuckled, “Hopefully, you can get some rest tonight. I know last night was a long one with it being his first.”

“He’s good so far,” you replied, glancing back down at the snoozing baby in your arms, “Hopefully he keeps it up.”

The nurse passed you your medication and once you popped the few pills in your mouth, George passed you your water bottle to wash them down with. As you took the pain killers, the nurse explained the envelope in her hand as she slipped out the paper from inside it, “Since you're going home tomorrow, it's protocol to complete the birth certificate before discharge—just to make sure baby boy is all accounted for.”

She set the form on the overbed table so you and George could look it over. At the top, the Coat of Arms of Monaco was prominently displayed, followed by the title Principality of Monaco — Birth Certificate. Below, the rest of the form was filled with blank spaces, waiting to be completed.

“Should be straightforward,” she continued, pointing to different sections on the form, “We've already filled in the hospital details, birth location, sex, and date of birth. All that's left is your names as the parents, your birthdates, and baby boy’s full name—first, middle, and last. Then, both of you just need to sign at the bottom.”

The nurse then left you to it, returning the three of you to the quiet serenity of the hospital suite. You shuffled over a little on the single bed so George could sit with you, the two of you squished together with the highly important form in front of you. He clicked his pen. 

“Don’t spell your name wrong,” you teased. 

Your husband shot you a playful glare. You watched as he spelled out your full name on the line labeled ‘mother’ in careful penmanship, followed by your birthdate on the line below. Then, in the same way, he wrote out his own name on the line beside it labeled ‘father’, followed by his own birthdate on the line below. 

“Right,” George sat back, “that’s the easy part done, that.”

“Now we have to make a decision,” you hummed, glancing down at the sleeping newborn in your arms. 

George followed your gaze and then reached out his free hand to gently graze his fingertips over the crown of the baby’s head, feeling the wispy strands of light brown hair, almost as if hoping the answer would come to him through osmosis. Both of you just stared at the sleeping baby for a few moments, processing, thinking, and utterly entranced by him. 

You finally spoke, “I think our first choice still stands.”

“Yeah?” George breathed, “I think you’re right. Feels like it suits him.

The baby stirred in his sleep under his father’s gentle caresses, letting out a tiny sigh and he wriggled in your arms. 

“He agrees,” you chuckled softly, making sure he was still secure.

George flipped open his notebook again and at the bottom of the page that was filled with the timings of your early contractions, he wrote a test trial of your son’s name, just to make sure the spelling was correct. He turned the page to you, read it out, then spelt it out. You nodded.

“That’s it,” you smiled.

“That’s it?” George shared in your contentment as he met your gaze as if to make sure there was no lingering doubt in your mind. 

You nodded and looked back down to the sleeping newborn in your arms, “It’s perfect for him.”

And then, in precise, careful handwriting, George spelt out your son’s name onto the allotted line, formally declaring him an identity,

Lawrence William Russell

Monday

It had never been in George Russell’s nature to drive slowly but, that Monday, driving home from the hospital, he was barely hitting thirty kph on the Monte Carlo streets. He had both hands holding a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, taking every tight, winding turn at what could almost pass as a full stop. Every now and then, he would glance into the rearview mirror to check on the sleeping newborn buckled in his carseat in the back seat of his Mercedes.

“You can probably drive a little faster, you know.” you said lightly, voice tinged with playfulness as you eyed the speedometer on the dashboard, “We’re very much under the speed limit, Mister Formula 1 Driver.”

George looked away from the road for a moment, shooting you a sheepish grin, “I’m just trying to be extra careful with our precious cargo we have on board.”

You reached over to set your hand on his thigh as he drove, smoothing your thumb over the fabric of his slacks as you glanced into the backseat, “He’s just fine.”

At a stop light, George reached down to take your hand in his and he pulled it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. When he settled your joint hands in your lap, leaving him driving with just one, he replied softly, “I know, I just can’t help but worry. It’s my first time with this dad stuff, you know? It’s kind of my job to fuss over him.”

“We’re going to be fussing over him for the rest of our lives, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” George chuckled. 

You looked out the window as George drove towards your apartment, a calm silence filling the car. It was hard to wrap your head around the concept that you were bringing home a baby…your baby…that you made together, that you grew. What were you supposed to do with him when you got home? There were so many unknowns, everything so unfamiliar, but there was a pleasant feeling inside you that despite all that, this was exactly where you needed to be.

In a dreamy exhale, you spoke, “I can’t believe he’s ours.”

George replied in gentle agreement without taking his eyes away from the road, “I’ve never been so excited and terrified in my whole life.”

“We’ll be fine,” you sighed contentedly. 

“He's so quiet back there.” George breathed with another glance into the mirror before looking back to the road ahead, coasting to a stop far earlier than he needed to, “Just sleeping like a little angel.”

From your spot in the passenger seat, you turned to look over your shoulder to check on the baby, peeking into his car seat just to make sure he was still okay. As expected, he was still fast asleep, doughy cheeks smushed up by the straps of his car seat and that endearing little pout still on his lips, his tiny body rocking only a little with the movement of the car, just enough to keep him happily lulled. 

You smiled and eased back into your seat, “He’s been so good, I hope he stays this quiet.”

Once home and parked in the underground garage, the baby started to stir as George unbuckled the baby carrier from the car seat base. All six-plus feet of George was scrunched into the backseat, a knee on the seat, trying to gracefully figure out how to unclip the carrier, but his inexperienced movements were jostling the baby more than what was relaxing. 

“You sure you don’t want me to try?” you asked from the front seat, where he had insisted you stay sitting to wait. 

“You can’t move like this right now, love, you’re healing,” George muttered in reply, basically hanging upside down over the baby seat with his hands fiddling uselessly with the fasteners beneath it. 

The baby let out a displeased little cry.

“Shh, it’s okay, Laurie,” George hushed him softly, definitely getting the fabric of his open light-weight cardigan in the poor baby’s face as he leaned over him. You stayed quiet, knowing your adoringly stubborn husband would want to figure it out himself. 

Finally, there was a click and George moved back and grabbed the handle of the carrier, allowing it to be lifted from the base. He sighed in relief. 

“Clearly choosing the most expensive car seat on the market doesn’t mean it’s the best,” George grumbled as he clamoured out of the car while somehow managing to keep the carrier somewhat steady. 

“Do I say ‘I told you so’ now or later?” you said teasingly. 

He shut the back door with a pointed glare in your direction and a sarcastic, “Very funny.”

Your little family headed slowly towards the elevator bay of your apartment building, George with the baby carrier in one hand, the hospital bag over his shoulder, and his arm steady for you to hold onto as you took step by cautious step. You were healing well after a thankfully not-traumatic labour and delivery experience but it was still quite uncomfortable to do anything strenuous. George somehow kept all of you balanced as you made your way upstairs to your apartment, baby still minorly fussing in his carrier. 

The moment you were inside, George helped you get settled on the couch and he set the baby carrier on the coffee table when he sat down beside you. You both sighed, feeling right at ease in the familiarity of your home with the unfamiliar yet long awaited addition right alongside you. Two-day-old Lawrence fussed on, squirming in the coziness of his carrier, tiny body straining against the buckle and hands bunched up in little fists by his scrunched up face. 

You leaned forward a little to reach a hand out to stroke his little cheek, cooing to him, “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

“Fussy boy,” George tutted softly, leaning forward alongside you to start to unbuckle the baby, “Let’s get you out of this.”

He moved carefully as if scared of hurting the newborn, sliding his large hands under the baby and making sure his head was supported before lifting him up and into his arms. Shushing him quietly, George rested back against the couch beside you and you shifted a little closer to rest your head on his shoulder. Lawrence laid on George’s chest, tiny fingers flailing against the material of his shirt as he settled and you reached a hand out to gently rub over the baby’s back, helping to soothe him. 

“Can’t believe he’s home,” you exhaled.

“I know,” George sighed, pausing just long enough to leave a kiss to the top of your son’s head, “Hard to believe.”

Lawrence let out a shrill cry—as if the kiss from his father offended him greatly—and you and George cooed over him, still finding everything he did immensely endearing and swoon-worthy no matter how noisy. Since you hadn’t fed him since well before you left the hospital, you made yourself comfortable on the couch and George passed the fussy baby into your arms. It was all still a little ungraceful, you needing your husband to lift up your shirt for you and help unclip your nursing bra since you were too nervous to jostle the baby too much. The comfort would come with time. 

While you nursed in the living room, George took the initiative to start to unpack your hospital bag and he made another trip back down to the car to bring up some of the flowers that had been meticulously packed into the trunk. You directed him around on where to put things, finding your flow as new parents and what all your new accoutrements were for and where they were best placed. It all felt so easy as you settled back into your home.

Once Lawrence was sufficiently fed, George had unpacked your bag entirely and tidied up a bit and he took the baby to burp him for you. With a burp cloth over his shoulder and the tiny newborn snuggled against it, it was a sight that made your eyes turn into hearts and, as George sat on the couch beside you, you stroked your hand through your husband’s soft hair and then did the same over your son’s little head. 

“Think we should show him around?” you suggested, “Give him a tour of his new home?”

Giving Lawrence a soothing few pats to his back to keep burping him, George agreed, “Yeah, reckon that’s a good idea. He might like a little walk-around.”

Despite how your painkillers were wearing off, you knew you wouldn’t want to miss your son’s first moments home, so you meandered around the apartment with George as he carried Lawrence tucked up against his chest and his shoulder. He spoke softly to him as he walked around the living room and into the dining room and the kitchen, pointing out different things in the room from appliances to pictures on the walls and the furniture. He kept his voice low and soothing, hoping that the sound of his voice would help to calm him down.

Finally, you followed him into the nursery, which had been painted a soft blue and housed warm wood furniture and cream upholstery. With the newborn secure against his chest, George walked him around his brand new room, showing him all the different things that were there waiting for him.

“And this is Laurie’s room,” George introduced in a tender voice as he continued to walk around the room with a gentle bounce in his step to help soothe the baby, “This is where you’re going to sleep and play and grow up. Mommy and Daddy designed it nice and pretty for you.”

You leaned against the doorframe and just watched them for a moment; your two favourite boys. Your heart could have burst. It wasn’t long until Lawrence had quieted and fallen asleep against George’s chest and under his protective hand, lulled by his walking and his voice and the sound of his heartbeat. George continued to hold him close to his chest, feeling a sense of relief and tenderness as he watched his son fall asleep against him. 

“Nothing like the comfort of his daddy’s voice to calm him down,” you smiled. 

George looked over at you, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his lips in return. With kind concern in his voice, George then said, “Should you lay down, love?”

You knew you didn’t want to overdo it after having only given birth two days earlier but there was one thing you wanted more than anything now that you were home. 

The warm bath water felt like heaven as you settled back against the porcelain with a dreamy sigh. The baby was safely asleep in his bassinet and George had helped you get a bath ready so he could help you wash up for the first time since you had gone into labour. Lukewarm, clean water was filled up to your chest and eased all of your sore muscles and tender spots from delivery and the first bouts of breastfeeding and pumping.

George knelt beside the tub in only his pants, helping you to wash your hair and rinse it with the handheld shower head. He carefully cascaded the water over your scalp, being cautious not to get any soap or water in your eyes, tending to you like you were made of glass. Both of you still wore your hospital bracelets, connecting you to each other and your son by name and room number, a reminder of all that the weekend had changed. It was a relaxing moment to share just the two of you, no words spoken as you basked in the comfortable silence and the connection that the moment of intimacy brought you.

Of course, as you were starting to learn by that point, moments of silence and calm were fleeting, because just as George finished rinsing your hair, the baby started to cry. You fluttered your eyes open at the interruption, meeting George’s wide-eyed gaze as if he were now torn on what to do. 

“You can get him,” you assured him softly, “I’m okay just sitting here for a bit. The water feels nice.”

He left you with a kiss to your temple and then got up from the floor to tend to your newborn. 

Lawrence was, of course, right where he was left in his bassinet in the primary bedroom and as George emerged from the ensuite, wiping his damn hands on his pants, he hurried over to him. The baby was crying steadily, little limbs flailing and face scrunched up in distress. 

“Oh my goodness,” George cooed to him as he bent down to carefully pick him up and snuggle him against his bare chest, “What’s all the racket about, mate?”

It didn’t take long for him to smell the issue and without hesitation, George grabbed the changing pad, wipes, and a clean diaper from your pre-made changing station—in which all nighttime feeding and changing accessories were neatly packed into a cart on wheels at your bedside—and laid it out on the foot of the mattress. He then bent over to lay the baby down on top of the pad. 

“I know, I know, it’s so uncomfy, isn’t it?” George spoke softly to him as he started to unbutton his onesie despite the way the newborn squirmed. Thankfully, he had plenty of practice with diapers thanks to his numerous nieces and nephews that he was likely able to even do it with his eyes closed. Even still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the crying baby in front of him. His baby. 

“We’ll get you all cleaned up in no time, won’t we?” George continued, starting to unfasten the diaper to take it off him. Despite the way Lawrence cried, George talked to him as he worked, softly narrating what he was doing in a gentle voice like he was reading an instruction manual, allowing the familiarity of his voice to help sooth his son through the uncomfortable process of getting his diaper changed. 

Finally, with the new diaper on and his onesie buttoned up again, George lifted the baby up from the bed and into his arms, “There ya go, a clean nappy for you. Much better, eh?”

Lawrence wriggled against him, fussing on. 

George laid him lengthways in his arms and gave him a little rock, patting his bum to try and soothe him as he walked the soiled diaper to the waste bin and then returned to the ensuite where you were still relaxing in the tub. You glanced up when he stepped in, smiling tiredly at the sight of the two of them despite the way the baby cried. 

“Someone’s not a happy camper,” you stated softly. 

“He is not,” George agreed, glancing down at the baby in his arms as he bounced him gently and patted his bum, “He’s been fed, changed, napped…”

“Is he cold?”

“Doesn’t feel cold,” George shrugged.

“Maybe he wants a snuggle,” you smiled. 

“I’m snuggling!” George protested meekly, lifting up his one arm a bit to angle the baby towards you as if to remind you. 

You giggled and started to rise up from the tub, “I know, but I want a turn.”

“Careful,” George instinctively reached out a hand towards you to help you balance as you stepped out of the bath.

To the sounds of Lawrence fussing and crying, you got dried off and into another flattering pair of post-birth underwear that was lined with an aloe soaked pad to help ease the pains from delivery, topping it with a comfortable oversized shirt, and then climbed into bed. The feeling of being in your own bed after the few nights in the hospital was glorious and you couldn’t keep the smile off your face, especially as George passed the baby over to you. 

“There he is,” you cooed, drawing the newborn close and you pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Hi, my little love.”

Almost right away, he was relaxing into your arms and quieting right down, soothed by your familiar scent and touch and heartbeat that he had been so used to over the last nine months. You were all he had ever known up to that point. What an honour it was to be someone’s safe space, someone’s home. 

The day progressed into night and an on-going routine of feed, burp, change, rock, sleep. As night fell and you and George tried to sleep, your attempts at rest were constantly interrupted by Lawrence’s cries. You knew it was going to be difficult with a new baby but between the exhaustion from birth and lack of sleep that both of you had for the twenty-four hours of labour, you didn’t realize how hard it was going to be…and it was only the first night. 

It was easy to assign tasks and think of goals for nighttime feedings before the baby came but, now, with an unsettled newborn in your arms as you paced your bedroom at some time past 11:00, everything seemed to have gone out the window. It was hard to take turns tending to the baby when his cries were making it impossible for anyone to sleep anyway, both of you having tried to get him back to sleep after his last diaper change but to no avail. 

George was slumped back against the headboard, legs half off the side of the bed, staring into space with his fingers pressing into his temples as the baby’s screams echoed through the apartment. You could hear the faint pulse of his frustration in the way he sat—slumped, defeated. The baby’s cries sliced through the air like a constant reminder of how little control you had over the situation.

“We’re going to get a noise complaint,” George muttered, his voice flat, like he wasn’t sure if he was talking to you or to himself.

You eyed him as you paced, rocking the baby in your arms, exhaustion-stemmed frustration bubbling up inside you before you snapped under your breath, “Well then maybe you should help me instead of just laying there.” 

His eyes flicked over to you and he frowned, voice tinged with exhaustion and defensiveness, “What do you want me to do then?”

“I don’t know! Something!” you shot back, voice rising over the cries. “I’m losing my mind here.”

“I can’t read your mind!”

You huffed and shook your head with a roll of your eyes, turning away from him to pace the length of your modest bedroom once again, your arms feeling like lead from the constant rocking of the baby’s weight. 

“We’ve literally tried everything. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I don’t know,” you grumbled tearfully, words muffled behind the cries of the baby in your arms. 

George sighed and stood up from the bed and didn’t say a word as he walked across the room and crouched down beside the changing cart to find something. When he stood and moved back over to you, he offered the pacifier to the baby, letting him feel it against his lips before he took it in his mouth. Right away, silence fell. 

You sighed, staring down at the newborn in your arms as he suckled on the pacifier and it bumped lightly against his button nose, as you muttered, “I don’t want him to be reliant on those.”

“Yeah, well, what other choice do we have, love?” George mumbled, “He’s quiet now. We need our rest too.”

He had a point—you could tell you were both well past the point of exhaustion after not having had a proper night's sleep since before you had gone into labour almost four days prior—and so you didn’t argue. Instead, the baby was swaddled and placed back in the bassinet beside your bed with his pacifier and you and George settled into the silence of your bedroom and the comfort of your bed. 

Tuesday

It felt like you had only just shut your eyes and Lawrence was crying again, his loud pitchy wails filling the bedroom. You exhaled weakly. 

“I got him,” George grumbled tiredly, already tossing the duvet off so he could get out of bed. 

“I gotta feed him,” you added, starting to move too. 

“No, no,” George waved a tired hand in your general direction to get you to stay put, “You pumped at the hospital so there’s some milk in the freezer. I’ll just warm him a bottle.”

You hesitated, not having given your son a bottle yet as he had been perfectly content and reliant on breastfeeding…not to mention the bottle warmer was still in its box on the kitchen counter, untouched. But George was already lifting the crying baby from the bassinet with a soothing hush and so you put your trust in him; the promise of more sleep being far too enticing. You were still healing, after all. 

George, ever so full of confidence, cradled the newborn in one arm as he left your bedroom and closed the door halfway behind him as he ventured to the kitchen to prepare the bottle. You watched him go, the sound of Lawrence’s crying fading slightly as he got farther away but even being just on the opposite end of the apartment had your heart aching, like you were already facing separation anxiety. Nevertheless, you forced yourself to close your eyes and to instill your trust in your perfectly capable husband. 

Muted cries from across the apartment kept you hovering on the edge of sleep, maternal instincts prickling with every second that passed without Lawrence being fed. You knew it was probably just exhaustion and hormones making it feel like George was taking forever to prepare the bottle—but, in reality, it was taking longer than expected.

Then, suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the apartment, the sharp sound of plastic shattering against the floor, followed immediately by Lawrence’s escalating wails and George’s frustrated exclamation, “Fucking—!”

You shot up in bed, already halfway to the bedroom door, before your red-faced husband was meeting you there, the baby perfectly fine but nearly inconsolable in his arms.

“What the fuck happened?!” you asked, immense concern and worry more than apparent in your voice.

“Bottle warmer is a piece of shit,” George grumbled, passing the baby to you, “Thought it was going to be easy—there’s one fucking button on the damn thing, for God sake. Couldn’t even get the top to close properly…ended up pushing at it too much it flew across the fucking room and shattered…breastmilk all over the floor.”

“Did you read the instruction manual?” you asked as you instinctively lifted your shirt to bring the baby to your chest and help him to latch, quieting him down right away. 

“No, I didn’t think I needed to. The thing has one button.” George grumbled, setting his hands on his hips like he had just ran a mile. He was still shirtless but the front of his pyjama bottoms had a small wet splatter across the shins, likely from where the breastmilk had hit the floor and exploded, and his hair was sticking up in all directions with the dark circles under his eyes looking all the more prevalent. 

You sighed, adjusting Lawrence in your arms as he suckled contentedly, already having forgotten about the incident in the kitchen now that he was being fed. With a defeated tone of your own, you said casually to your husband, “Well, guess you’ll be cleaning that up.”

George let out a dry, humorless laugh, “Oh, of course. Because nothing tops off an already perfect night like mopping up wasted breastmilk from all over the kitchen at—” he glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned, “—one-thirty in the goddamn morning.”

Your lips twitched, “Maybe next time you’ll read the manual.”

George shot you a look, deadpan, “Or maybe next time, you can do the bottle.”

You pointed to the baby peacefully nursing in your arms, “Love, I am the bottle.”

George didn’t reply, merely let out a tight exhale through his nose and dropped his head back to look towards the ceiling in dramatic defeat before he turned and headed back down the hallway to the kitchen. You took Lawrence back to bed with you, keeping him comfortably nestled against your breast as you rested back against the pillows and headboard and draped the duvet over your legs. As he nursed, you listened to the distant sounds of cabinets opening and closing and George’s muttering to himself as he moped up the mess and put away the broken pieces of the bottle warmer. Despite the chaos, despite the lack of sleep and the short tempers that it caused, there was something almost comical about it all—your once perfectly composed husband, defeated by a measly plastic bottle warmer.

A few minutes later, George returned, rubbing his hands over his face before collapsing onto the bed beside you with a sigh. He turned his head, eyes flicking to Lawrence, who had fallen into a milk-drunk slumber against your chest, your hand patting his back to burp him as he snoozed, unbothered. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” George murmured, voice quieter now, less sharp around the edges, as if his annoyance with the bottle warmer had since dissipated thanks to only a glance at the adorableness of your son.

You glanced at him in the dim lighting of your shared bedroom, “Do what?”

“Keep your shit together,” He ran a hand through his frazzled hair, then raised his tired eyes from the baby against your chest to meet your gaze, “I just want to help you and I feel like I’m doing everything wrong. Like I’m losing my mind already.”

You let out a small laugh and offered a faint shake of your head, “Trust me, I am losing my mind. I’m in so much pain and I’m exhausted…but it’s different for me, I guess. I had nine months to get used to the idea of him needing me every second of the day…I’ve felt him grow, I’ve felt my body provide for him…he’s familiar with me. You’re kind of getting thrown into it all at once…trying to deal with the reality of fatherhood and trying to get this brand new human to trust you from scratch.”

George was quiet for a moment, letting your words settle. Then, finally, he exhaled, expression defeated, “Yeah, well…I still feel like an idiot.”

You reached over and squeezed his hand, “You’re not an idiot. You’ve already been such a tremendous help to me and to Laurie. You’re just a sleep-deprived new dad who needs some grace too.”

He leaned in to rest his cheek against your shoulder in silent appreciation of your words, “I love you.”

You turned your head to kiss his forehead, “I love you too. We love you.”

George smiled faintly and reached out with his hand that wasn’t holding yours to gently stroke Lawrence’s tiny head. The baby cooed under his touch and snuggled against you some more. It was a content momentary silence and you both basked in the unfamiliar quiet that settled over the apartment, snuggled up together. Until the newborn let out a little grunt.

“He’s pooping,” you and George said at the same time before breaking into soft laughter. 

You rubbed your hand over Lawrence’s back as he did his business and then George got up to change him. From your spot against the headboard, you watched as he set up the changing pad at the foot of the bed and laid your squirmy son down. It had come to your knowledge over the last few days that Lawrence did not like getting his diaper changed, always sending him into a little bit of a fit throughout the process, no matter how gentle you were. It was understandable, and likely not comfortable in the slightest, but at nearly two o’clock in the morning, his shrieking wails were not necessarily appreciated. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” George spoke to him soothingly as he wiped him up, “I know, buddy, I know. It’s chilly, isn’t it?”

He barely reached for another wipe before the fussy baby was peeing; the stream shooting right up to George’s chest and the front of his pyjama bottoms and a bit of splash on the sheets before George managed to hurriedly pull the clean diaper up and over to shield him. 

“Jesus Christ,” George muttered in disbelief, eyes wide as saucers as he stared down at the unaware baby still crying away on the changing pad. He then looked at you and the look on his face was absolutely priceless and you had to turn your head away so he couldn’t see the amused grin threatening to spread across your face. Despite himself, George couldn’t help but let out a small, exhausted chuckle and he looked back down at the baby, “That’s not very nice, mate.”

“I feel delusional,” you stated through your laughter, covering your mouth with your hand, “Oh, God, I’m too exhausted for this to be real life.”

George laughed along with you, running his hand over his face with a heavy sigh, “This is ridiculous.”

Lawrence cried on. 

You managed to take over changing the baby while George went to the ensuite to clean himself up and change his pants that had also been hit by the spray. The soiled clothes were tossed in the ever-growing laundry hamper as he returned to your bedroom, finding you trying to calm the fussy baby in your arms. Even the pacifier you offered him was doing little to nothing to help, Lawrence just spitting it out over and over.

So it was back to square one, the two of you taking turns trying to calm the baby; pacing the length of the apartment, bouncing him, rocking him, patting his bum, rubbing his back, sitting still to try and let your breathing soothe him. Nothing was working. Another hour passed and Lawrence still wasn’t settling, only quieting down long enough for another feed before he was back at it again. 

“You know,” George thought aloud as he patted the baby’s back with the little one tucked up against his shoulder, “he didn’t seem to mind the car.”

With exhausted tears in your eyes, you tried to process the point of him saying that, “Yeah?”

“Why don’t I take him for a drive?”

“It’s almost three am, love,” you sighed. 

“It’s okay, if it’ll give you time to rest and help him to calm down…I’m willing to try anything.” George suggested, “And you know I never mind a drive.”

“If you’re sure…and if you feel awake enough to drive,” you said softly.

George nodded, already moving to grab a warmer onesie for Lawrence, “Yeah, and I’ll pick up a coffee when I’m out.”

You just watched him for a moment, feeling so many overwhelming feelings over the prior few days but, in that moment, nothing but love burned through your heart. Your voice was a little shaky as you said, “I love you so much. You’re so amazing.”

George glanced up at you from where he was changing the baby into a warmer sleeper at the foot of the bed and he offered a smile, “Just want to be the best for you, my love. You gave me a son, the least I can do is help you rest and heal after that.”

And so he kissed you goodbye and lowered Lawrence down so you could kiss him goodbye too and then he headed out, leaving you in the eerily silent apartment all alone. For the first few moments, your maternal anxieties welled up in your chest, but the comfort of your bed and the exhaustion in your body and mind had you falling asleep in no time. 

George buckled Lawrence’s carrier into the car seat base in the back of his Mercedes once again, talking to him softly as he got him settled and secure. Despite it being some ungodly hour of the morning, George felt right at home behind the wheel, guiding the car through the nearly barren streets of Monte Carlo. He picked up a coffee for himself and then ventured through the Principality and out into the outskirts of France for a nice long country drive. Lawrence cried for a while longer but soon quieted down, lulled by the sounds and motions of the car and the warmth and comfort of the heater and his father’s presence. 

George returned home at sunrise with a sleeping baby, to a sleeping wife.

Wednesday

George’s parents had flown in Wednesday morning to be your extra pair of hands for that weekend. That dreaded weekend. George was due to leave for Japan and he wouldn’t be home until Monday. You had avoided thinking about it at all costs, knowing it was likely going to be the hardest goodbye of your relationship. Sure, he wasn’t going to be gone long, but after having had a baby not even a week prior, the concept of him straying even just an arms length away felt like the end of the world. 

All day Wednesday, you avoided it. You visited with his parents in the living room and they gushed over their newest grandson and you and George shared a million stories about him already and all you had been up to over only the four days he had been alive. You helped his mum make dinner that evening—or, it was more you sat and fed the baby in the kitchen while she puttered around, insisting just as strongly as her son did that you don't overdo it—while George packed his bag in your room. You didn’t think about it, focusing on the nice conversation with his mother instead. 

Throughout dinner, George held the baby, snuggling him in one arm while he wielded his fork with the other, as if he needed to soak up all the baby cuddles before he had to leave. No one spoke about his impending departure. 

After a day full of being out of bed and about, you returned to bed after dinner to rest, Lawrence in your arms. Leaving his parents to generously take care of the laundry and the kitchen, George came to the bedroom with you to make sure you were comfortable, knowing that it was just about time to say goodbye. He snuggled beside you on the bed as you fed the baby, head on your shoulder, fingers tenderly touching Lawrence’s tiny feet and hands and squirmy legs as if trying to memorize him. 

When the baby was done nursing, George took him to burp him, holding him against his shoulder as he gently patted his back. The two of you sat in silence together, soaking in the moment, until a few minutes passed and George let out a small sob. 

“Don’t,” you croaked out, voice catching, knowing that if he started to cry that you’d be a lost cause too. 

“Sorry,” he rasped, lifting his hand from Lawrence’s back to press thumb and forefinger against his eyes to try and calm down, “Sorry…”

You leaned in closer to him and wrapped your arm around him, holding your boys close as you scrunched your eyes closed and tried to hold it all together. 

George set a hand on your arm, confessing softly, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” you exhaled simply. 

What else was there to say? You couldn’t make him stay. He knew he couldn’t stay.

So you stayed there together for as long as you could, until his father knocked and poked his head in and gave a five minute warning until he would have to take George to the airport. You could see the pity on the man’s face; having a wife and kids of his own, it was clear he could understand the pain of having to be torn apart so soon after birth. Unfortunately, not even he could do anything. 

George helped you change into one of his hoodies and another pair of post-birth underwear, making sure you were comfortable and settled in bed, Lawrence asleep in your arms. Already in his jacket and ready to leave, George sat on the side of the bed beside you with a protective hand on your thigh, eyes flickering between the sleeping baby and your solemn face. He reached up to stroke your cheek and then leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth. You turned your face to kiss his lips, the connection timid, sad. 

When your kiss broke, he rested his forehead against yours with a warm hand on the back of your neck as if desperate to keep you close. He sighed. 

“I love you so much,” he whispered. 

“I love you,” you echoed.

“I’m so sorry,” his voice broke, “I’m so, so sorry that it has to be like this.”

You shook your head faintly, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“I know,” you whimpered. 

George’s thumb brushed across your cheek, swiping away a stray tear, “Only four days…four and a half days. Not long at all, right?”

You nodded faintly in agreement, even if your heart felt like it was the end of the world. 

“Just gonna do my job, do what I have to do, and come home to you.”

“Be safe please,” you whispered. 

He nodded, looking into your eyes as he swiped another tear away from your cheek, “You know I always am. Now I have even more of a reason to be.

You both looked down at the swaddled baby asleep in your arms. George leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Lawrence’s forehead as if trying to pour every ounce of love in his heart into his little body. Then, he stood up. 

“Call me when you land,” you asked softly. 

“Of course, I will,” George nodded, leaving a kiss to your forehead too. 

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

He then leaned down to kiss your lips once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch sometimes these last few days, I—”

George cut you off with a shake of his head, “You’re not a bitch. We’re exhausted and stressed and you’re healing and,” his voice broke and he bowed his head with a whispered, “Fuck, I don’t want to leave you.”

“You have to go,” you breathed with a gentle touch to his face. 

He leaned down to kiss you again in silent acknowledgement and then his eyes flickered down to Lawrence, still sound asleep in your arms, oblivious to his father’s departure. George exhaled a shaky breath, brushing one last fingertip over his son’s tiny hand before straightening up.

“Okay,” he said, more firmly this time, as if steeling himself. “Okay.”

He took one last look at you, gave you one more kiss, and then headed out of the room to meet his dad in the foyer. The sight of him slipping out of the bedroom door had you aching, as if a part of your heart had just left, and a small sob choked its way past your lips as you slouched farther down on the bed and pulled your sleeping son closer to your chest. You kissed his cheeks and surrounded the two of you in the scent of George’s hoodie.

In a strong whisper, you told your son, “We’re gonna be just fine.”

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[heyitspapayaontop]

It's Tradition

George had always considered himself a proper Englishman.

He loved a rainy day, said “sorry” to doors, and took tea as seriously as he did pole positions. It wasn’t just a drink—it was a way of life.

So when his daughter—age two and a half—started developing opinions (loud, dramatic, and undeniably adorable ones), George made it his mission to raise her right.

That included proper manners, tidy socks, and—most sacred of all—tea time.

“Alright, little bear,” George said with a grin, kneeling at the tiny pastel tea table in their sunlit living room, “Daddy’s made you your very own cuppa. Milk in first, just how you like it.”

She blinked up at him from her chair, curls slightly messy from her nap, hugging a worn-out bunny with one hand and adjusting a curl in her face with the other.

He handed her the sippy cup.

She took one sip.

Paused.

And made the face—the full-body shiver of betrayal.

George blinked. “You alright, poppet?”

Y/N looked him dead in the eye. “No like.”

He tilted his head, confused. “No like the cup? Or the tea?”

She shoved the sippy cup across the table like it had personally insulted her bunny.

“Noooo tea, Dada! Tea is yuck!”

George sat back like someone had just unplugged his soul. “Wait—what do you mean? You love tea. You’re a Russell. We have tea in our blood!”

From the hallway, Carmen’s voice floated in, barely holding back a laugh. “Georgie, she’s two. Last week she hated bananas, remember?”

George turned toward her, horrified. “This is different. Bananas aren’t a lifestyle choice.”

Carmen appeared, phone already recording, and leaned in the doorway with a smirk. “This one’s going straight to your mum.”

Y/N, oblivious to her father’s spiraling, grabbed a juice box from the table and held it up triumphantly. “I like orange.”

George let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a gasp. “Orange juice,” he repeated, dead inside. “First she snubbed Yorkshire pudding. Now this.”

“She didn’t snub it,” Carmen said gently. “She was just confused when you poured gravy on it.”

George huffed something about traitors in his own home and flopped onto the sofa dramatically.

Y/N marched over, holding the bunny in one arm and the juice in the other. “BunBun say tea is bleh.”

George placed a hand over his heart. “Even BunBun?”

Carmen walked over and kissed his head, still laughing. “You’ll survive, babe. She might come back to it.”

But later that evening, as George brewed his last cup of the day and sat down quietly in the kitchen, Y/N toddled in wearing her rocket ship pajamas and climbed into his lap.

She peeked at his mug, then looked up at him with soft eyes.

“Tea?”

“You want a sip?”

She nodded.

He passed it to her carefully. She took one tiny sip… and gave him a look.

Then: “Still yucky.”

George sighed, scooped her up, and kissed her forehead.

“Orange juice it is, then.”

And as Carmen watched from the doorway, smiling at the sight of her two sleepy loves in the kitchen, she whispered, “She’s still Daddy’s girl—even if she’s not into tea.”

George, cradling his juice-loving rebel, smiled.

“…Always.”

A/N: huge apologies abt the divider, my program is having warfare with me so sorry about the blurry ones

[jamminvroomvroom]

Sylvie finding out you are having a boy and not a girl

surpise

GR63 x journo!reader

drabble from the the george fic universe

thank you for the request! obsessed with all of the ideas you guys have sent since i posted the last drabble 🥹

warnings: none! fluff, kids, mentions of pregnancy, pregnant!reader, dad!george, minors pls dni with my work!

“sylvie? we have a surprise for you.”

you opened your arms and your daughter came running towards you, wrapping her little arms around you. she pressed a delicate kiss to your growing bump, just as she always did, the little girls way of showing love.

“what is it, mummy?” she looked up at you with her big blue eyes, inquisitive as ever.

“well, my love,” george started, picking sylvie up. she wrapped her arms around her father, clinging to him. “do you want to know if you’re having a brother or a sister?”

“but… but i thought you asked the stork to bring me a sister.” she tilted her head in confusion, adorably perplexed. you smiled at her innocence.

“i think the stork wanted you to have a little brother, baby.” you cooed. her face screwed up even further.

“but i don’t want a brother.” sylvie looked, well, to put it plainly, pissed.

“unfortunately, you don’t get to choose, sylv.” george told her, sticking his tongue out to make her laugh. when she didn’t laugh, you knew you had a problem on your hands.

“sylvie, it doesn’t matter, darling. you’re still gonna have a new best friend that loves you so much.” you soothed. it was hard getting a child to understand the complexities of anything, let alone this.

“so, it has to be a brother?” the little girl sighed. you and george nodded your heads. “okay, fine.” she huffed, rolling her eyes.

you smiled, seeing the teenager grow in her already, and she was only five. you dreaded her growing out of this sweet, marvellous, little icon, but cherished every second you got to watch her grow.

-

that night, after you’d tucked in your young sleeping beauty, you curled up on the sofa with your husband. george’s hand rested on your belly, stroking soft circles into your taut skin.

“she took it better than i thought she would.” george reasoned. he was right, you’d both been expecting tears.

“she’s gonna be a great big sister.” you whispered, welling up at the idea of her being older, growing up too fast right before your very eyes.

“oh, sweetheart. i know it’s hard. but you know what?” george looked down at you as he spoke, gazing at you with every fibre of love you felt for each other.

“what?” you choked.

“she has the best mum who taught her how to love. even though she might not want a brother, she’ll still love him unconditionally. a bit like when you didn’t want to love me and now look at us.” his words were soft, teasing at the end and you couldn’t help but giggle.

george pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and you snuggled deeper into his side, your little boy kicking away.

“jesus, george, with the way this little guy moves his feet, he’s gonna be an f1 driver.” you huffed, rubbing over the spot where butterflies fluttered in your stomach.

“and what’s sylvie gonna be, hm?”

“sylvie? oh, she’s gonna rule the world.”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

George with shy daughter of 2 years old that loves going to the races but don’t like attention

Raining 🌧

The rain drizzled over the paddock, casting a dull gray over the usual vibrant chaos of an F1 weekend. It wasn’t a torrential downpour, but just enough to dampen spirits and make everything feel a little colder, a little more overwhelming.

George adjusted the hood of his team jacket, glancing down at the small girl in his arms. Yn, his two-year-old daughter, was curled into his chest, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt underneath. She loved coming to the track with him, loved watching the cars and spending time in the Mercedes garage. But the attention? That, she wasn’t fond of.

George knew it the moment they stepped out of the hospitality area. The way her body stiffened slightly, how her small hands gripped him just a little tighter. The usual friendliness from the other drivers, the fans calling his name, the cameras flashing—it was all too much for her. She buried her face against his chest, barely peeking out when a familiar voice called to them.

“Yn!” Lando’s bright voice rang out as he jogged over, a grin on his face. He had known her since she was born, had been there at the hospital to visit when she was just a few days old. But even now, she remained hesitant around him.

“Hey, little one,” Lando greeted softly, crouching down to her level. “You’re back at the track, huh?”

Yn didn’t respond, just tightened her hold on George’s shirt and turned her head away.

“She’s a bit shy today,” George explained, rubbing her back gently.

Lando frowned slightly but nodded. “No worries. Maybe later, yeah?”

No answer. Yn simply nestled further into her dad’s embrace.

George sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He wasn’t going to push her. If she wasn’t in the mood for interaction, then that was that. He wasn’t going to make her uncomfortable just because others expected her to be more social.

As they made their way through the paddock, other drivers and staff greeted them, some attempting to talk to Yn, but she remained quiet, her little body curling tighter into George’s arms. By the time they reached the Mercedes garage, he was certain—today wasn’t a day where she wanted to deal with all the attention.

Toto was already standing near the monitors, arms crossed, observing the screens when George approached.

“Morning, boss,” George greeted, adjusting Yn’s position in his arms.

Toto looked up, taking in the sight of the little girl tucked against George’s chest, her eyes barely peeking out. “And good morning to you, Yn,” he said, his voice gentler than usual.

Yn didn’t respond, only shifting slightly.

George sighed. “She’s not feeling the attention today. Normally, she likes being around, but I can tell she’s not comfortable with how many people are trying to talk to her.”

Toto nodded in understanding. He had known Yn since she was a baby, had held her when she was just a few months old. She wasn’t a loud, attention-seeking child. She liked her small circle of people, and outside of that, she was reserved.

“I can watch her during FP1,” Toto offered, his tone casual, but George could see the sincerity in his expression. “She can sit with me. No one will bother her.”

George blinked, then let out a relieved breath. “You’d really do that?”

Toto scoffed. “Of course. She’ll be warm, and she’ll have a better seat than anywhere else in the garage.”

George looked down at his daughter. “What do you think, sweetheart? Want to stay with Uncle Toto for a bit while Daddy works?”

Yn finally lifted her head just enough to look at Toto. There was a long pause, then a tiny nod.

George smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead before carefully handing her over. She settled into Toto’s arms without a fuss, and the team principal adjusted his hold with ease.

“She’s got her blanket in her bag,” George said. “And a snack if she wants it.”

Toto nodded. “We’ll be fine. Focus on FP1.”

George gave one last glance to his little girl before heading off to change into his race suit.

Yn sat comfortably on Toto’s lap, her tiny hands gripping the soft fabric of her blanket as she watched the monitors in front of them. The garage was busy, engineers moving about, mechanics preparing the car, but no one dared to disturb Toto, not with the way he sat there, his arm securely around the small child.

When a Mercedes engineer approached to discuss strategy, he barely got a word out before Toto shot him a look. A look that immediately sent the message: Not now.

The engineer swallowed. “Right. We’ll, uh, talk later.”

Yn didn’t seem to notice the exchange, too focused on the screen. She might not have understood all the numbers and strategies, but she recognized her dad’s car, knew how to watch the lap times change.

A few minutes later, someone else approached. It was Mick, holding a cup of coffee, his usual smile in place.

“Hey, boss. Hey, Yn,” Mick greeted.

Toto didn’t respond. He just looked at Mick.

The smile wavered slightly. “Right. You’re busy. Got it.” Mick took a slow step back before walking away.

Yn turned her head slightly, peeking up at Toto.

“You’re safe here, Schatzi,” Toto murmured, brushing a hand over her curls.

Yn blinked up at him before leaning back against his chest. She wasn’t tired, not really, but she felt warm, comfortable. She liked the steady heartbeat against her back, the feeling of security.

FP1 continued, and every time someone so much as thought about coming near, they stopped themselves at the sight of Toto’s unreadable expression.

At one point, Alex peeked into the garage, spotted Yn, and waved.

Yn lifted her tiny hand and waved back.

Alex grinned but didn’t approach, understanding the situation immediately. Instead, he gave Toto a thumbs-up before disappearing again.

By the time the session ended, George was back, still in his race suit, slightly damp from the lingering rain. He immediately made his way over.

“How’s my girl?” he asked, crouching down.

Yn turned her head, blinking sleepily at him. “Warm,” she mumbled.

George chuckled, reaching to take her from Toto. “That’s good. Thank you so much, boss. I really appreciate it.”

Toto simply nodded, watching as Yn settled back against her dad, wrapping her little arms around his neck.

“No need to thank me,” Toto said. “She’s always welcome here.”

George smiled, pressing another kiss to Yn’s forehead. “Still, means a lot.”

Yn yawned, rubbing her eyes. The rain continued to fall outside, but she didn’t mind. As long as she was with her dad, and the few people she trusted, she was happy.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hi loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[amirasainz]

Little alonso when she is very small (around the age of 1 or younger), and she is brought with fernando to Media Day because there was no one else to watch her. She is being very quiet and content in her papa's arms.

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

- xoxo babygirl 🤍

Sleepy Baby

The paddock buzzed with its usual energy—engines revving in the background, fans cheering from beyond the gates, and reporters lining up in the media pen to grab their post-session interviews. Fernando walked toward the pen with his one-year-old daughter, Yn, snugly nestled in his arms. Her chubby hands clutched his team jacket, and her head rested against his shoulder. The bright sunlight filtered through her soft brown curls as she blinked at the bustling scene with wide, curious eyes.

There was no one else to watch her today, and Fernando preferred having her close anyway. Yn was his calm in the chaos, her soft coos grounding him in a way nothing else could.

As he stepped into the pen, all eyes turned to the two of them. Fernando was an icon on his own, but seeing him with a baby—a tiny baby—drew immediate attention.

“Fernando! Who’s this little one?” a journalist asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and adoration.

“This is Yn,” Fernando replied, his accent curling around the words as a smile spread across his face. He adjusted Yn slightly in his arms, her small fingers now playing with the zipper of his jacket. “She’s my daughter.”

“She’s adorable,” another chimed in, leaning forward with her microphone.

Yn, sensing the attention, gave the faintest of giggles. Fernando chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

“Thank you,” he said. “She is my lucky charm today.”

Behind him, Charles and Lando had arrived to do their own interviews. Their eyes immediately darted to Yn, and they exchanged a glance before stepping closer.

“Mate,” Lando began, his voice teasing but soft, “you’ve been hiding her from us all this time?”

Fernando smirked. “She’s not for paddock chaos. But today, there was no choice.”

Charles crouched slightly to get a better look at Yn, his face lighting up when she turned her gaze toward him. “Salut, ma petite,” he said gently. “You’re so calm. How does she do it?”

“She’s always calm,” Fernando replied, stroking her back absentmindedly. Yn let out a tiny yawn, her hands now resting lazily against his chest. “She is like this… most of the time.”

“She’s a baby!” Charles exclaimed. “Most babies I know are… how do you say… chaotic.”

“Mine is perfect,” Fernando said simply, though his proud smile said everything.

Lando leaned in closer, his hands on his knees. “Hey, Yn,” he said softly, “do you like racing?” He made a playful engine sound with his mouth, earning another quiet giggle from her.

“She likes to watch,” Fernando answered for her. “But only highlights. It’s too loud otherwise.”

George strolled over next, curious about the cluster of attention. His eyes softened immediately when he spotted Yn. “Oh, no. Fernando, you’ve officially brought the most charming person in the paddock.”

“Thank you,” Fernando said, brushing Yn’s hair back from her forehead. “She takes after her father.”

“Careful,” Lando quipped. “She might already be more popular than you.”

Fernando chuckled. “Good. She deserves it.”

The journalists were captivated, their usual hard-hitting questions replaced with soft inquiries about Yn. Fernando answered them all patiently, his hand never ceasing its soothing motion on her back. When asked about his race prep, he replied, “This is my preparation,” tilting his head toward Yn. “She keeps me focused.”

As the interviews continued, Yn’s eyelids grew heavier. Fernando’s movements slowed, his voice taking on a softer tone as he answered questions about tire strategies and team updates. Every so often, he’d pause to kiss Yn’s cheek or whisper something to her in Spanish.

From the corner, Max joined the group, arms crossed but his eyes fixed on Yn. “She’s so small,” he said, almost in awe. “How does she stay so quiet?”

Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Why do you assume she would not?”

“Because babies are loud?” Max replied, his tone genuinely curious.

“Not mine,” Fernando said, shifting Yn slightly as she burrowed deeper into his chest. “She understands when it is important to be quiet.”

The group laughed softly, careful not to disturb the little girl who now seemed to be half-asleep.

“Fernando,” a journalist began tentatively, “has becoming a father changed how you approach racing?”

He considered the question, his hand resting on Yn’s head. “It has changed… everything,” he admitted. “Racing is still important, but now, when I finish a session or a race, my first thought is her. I want her to see me… not just as a driver but as her Papà.”

The media collectively melted at his words, scribbling down every heartfelt sentiment. Nearby, the other drivers exchanged knowing smiles. Even the toughest rivalries softened in Yn’s presence.

Eventually, Yn’s soft breaths signaled she was fast asleep. Fernando’s voice dropped to an almost-whisper as he finished his last interview, his arms never faltering despite the length of the session.

As he walked out of the pen, the other drivers trailed behind, still marveling at the tiny girl in his arms.

“Fernando,” Charles called, “next time, bring her to the drivers’ parade.”

Fernando glanced back, a rare sparkle in his eyes. “We’ll see,” he said, a protective edge to his tone.

“Just saying,” Lando added, “she’d definitely steal the show.”

Fernando laughed softly, pressing one last kiss to Yn’s head. “She already has.”

[flyingfish-in-a-boat]

proud dads watching their kids stand on the podium at the Belgian Grand Prix 2024

[russilton]

TFW you watch a teenager crash your car

[navysvettel]

*on the phone*

stranger: i have your daughter

lewis: what? all of my kids are boys

stranger: then who the fuck is this princess-

lewis, screaming to seb : OH SHIT THEY HAVE GEORGE

[81pastrys]

Uncle GG

Summary— Mila wants George but Oscar has to work, so uncle LaLa comes to the rescue

Warnings— sick toddler ; strict-ish Oscar

A/N— buffer from the one shots 🙂‍↕️

Dad Oscar List

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws

Request— Can you do a Oscars four year old daughter who's really sick and just wants her uncle George to hold her. TYSM. I love all your posts

Mila was a paddock favorite, which meant she also had her favorites. George happened to become her favorite quickly. One sucker, and a few giggles and she was set on seeing George as much as possible.

Today at the track, she hadn’t been feeling the best and Oscar was her first victim, clinging to him like he was going to abandon her. When Oscar had been looking at stats and boring shit, she asked for George. “He’s doing the same thing angel.” Oscar explained to her.

She whined at him and he put her down, the little girl running off. Straight towards the exit. He sighed and jogged after her, grabbing her hand and leading her back to the main garage area. She pulled his arm and then just sat down, in the middle of the McLaren garage.

“Mila. Get off the ground.” Oscar was by no means strict or mean to Mila, but she couldn’t just sit and pout. “Uncle GG is working.” He tried picking her up again and she thrashed his hands away.

“I want uncle GG!” She shouted. Lando walked over at the commotion and saw her sitting on the floor. Where a car is supposed to go. “Uncle LaLa tell daddy to get uncle gg!!” She demanded.

Lando was taken aback by the attitude he was just given and crouched to her level. “Miss Mila, are you in there?” He poked her shoulder, cheeks, belly. She giggled and Lando stopped. “This isn’t the Mila I know.” Lando said.

“She doesn’t feel good, I don’t know, I have to go train.” Oscar said while he threw his hands in the air and walked off, he knew she was safe with Lando.

“Come on, let’s go find uncle GG.” Lando offered. She stood up and took Lando’s hand, well his finger. His hand was much bigger than Oscar’s dainty ones.

Lando made sure she was next to him the entire walk down to Mercedes, where they were stopped by a manager. “I can’t let you in Lando, you know this.” They said. Lando smiled and explained the situation.

After a few minutes and texts, George walked out and saw Mila. “Hey! There you are Miss Piastri!” George said, picking her up. She melted into his hold and he awed at her.

“Oscar said she didn’t feel good and was begging for you.” Lando explained. George gently rocked the little girl in his hold. He thanked Lando and went back to Mercedes, the four year old less of a threat than a McLaren driver.

“Uncle GG, where’s Kimi?” She asked, noticing that the Italian was missing. George laughed and explained Kimi had school work to do in some closed off room. He did some work while she contentedly laid on his shoulder.

Hours pass with no word from Oscar, Lando, or McLaren in general and Mila had fallen asleep on George’s shoulder. He called Oscar and he picked up. “Hey mate, Mila fell asleep about 20 minutes ago.” George explained. “Do you want her back?” He laughed.

“Yeah, I’ll set up my drivers room and come get her in like 10?” Oscar said on the other end. “Sorry I’ve been so busy with the telemetry I forgot Lando had returned without her.” Lando knows who not to leave Mila with. He catches more of Mila’s cues than Oscar does.

When George hands Mila off she stirs and opens her eyes to George disappearing. She started crying in Oscar’s shoulder. “Uncle GG!” She whined. Oscar hushed her and swayed to get her to sleep again.

Oscar could hear the sickness in her voice and feel the heat radiating off of her. “You’re burning up angel, how do you feel?” He was worried and concerned. She whined at him and he took that as a sign of ‘not good.’

He laid her down on his driver room couch and lightly draped a blanket over her, hoping the worst of the sickness will pass.

Word Count: 663

Uncle GG 🥰

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @pandabiiissh @kallanfiona @chertik-007vvv @itznotsophia

[cadillacjohnf1]

mother, father, and tiny Italian adopted son

[chilling-seavey]

First Title, Second Blessing (gr63)

The Way It Goes Masterlist

↳ A/N Oooh boy, this one was a long time coming. Thank you to this anon who was the one who finally triggered me to go all out and write this...in detail. You wanted breeding kink? Well you came to the right place. I hope you all enjoy 😶‍🌫️

↳ Pairings: Husband!Dad!George Russell x Wife!Mom!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 13.4k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, trying for a baby!!, breeding kink!!, hints of patriarchy kink ('my pretty little wife' vibes), George is such a bossy pleasure dom, dirty talk, begging, nipple play, grinding, brief oral sex (f receiving), restraining with hands/trapping her under his weight, spanking, some biting/spitting, choking, finger sucking, use of a vibrator, crying from pleasure, he gets so deep that it hurts and she likes it, pushing down on her belly, multiple orgasms, it gets messyyy and it gets louddd, sloppy seconds, mentions of queefs and body hair and similiar realistic concepts, unprotected sex and creampie(s) (duh).

Late November

George Russell won his first Championship at the same circuit at which, years earlier, he won his first race. He stood on the top step of the podium, a win to solidify the greatest win of all, and held his trophy aloft as tears poured down his flushed cheeks. He could hardly see the crowd cheering his name through the tears and the spray of champagne, the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears and echoing through his head. This was a lifetime accomplishment. His biggest dream, reality. 

You had wiped his tears later that afternoon in his driver’s room, kissing them away as you clung onto him. He was still damp from the podium, champagne and drying sweat plastering his hair over his head after his 1st Place Pirelli cap was knocked to the floor in the rush of your embrace. You were just as in disbelief as he was, just as buzzing, praising him over and over in your momentary privacy between post-race responsibilities. When he lifted you up off the ground just a bit, you squealed gleefully into his neck.

There was no better feeling than watching the one you love achieve their greatest dream. 

The night after the race was a blur; moving between bars and clubs in the ritziest areas of São Paulo with half the grid and most of the Mercedes team in tow. Flashing lights, loud music, sweaty bodies…George didn’t leave your side for the majority of the night, always keeping you within arms reach. You didn’t return to your hotel room until daybreak, donning last-night's clothes and the lingering scent of other people’s sweat and spilled alcohol. 

On the chartered private jet that morning, sharing the cabin with a few of the other drivers who doubled as George’s friends, everyone was uncharacteristically quiet. Lando was curled up against the window, his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes and hoodie nearly swallowing him, groaning outwardly about his mega hangover. Charles, across from him, who at least had the smarts to be drinking water, couldn’t have rolled his eyes farther back if he tried. Oscar and Alex were already fast asleep beside them.

Across the aisle, you and George were curled up together like honeymooners. On the seats across from you, his commemorative bottle of champagne sat in its protective wooden box. Despite the raging hangovers that your friends were facing from the partying the night before, you and George were delightfully calm—albeit exhausted. 

You had been surprised that no one realized both you and he had been avoiding alcohol all night, apart from one celebratory glass of champagne and one group shot of tequila near the beginning. Surprisingly, the night was still just as wonderful sober…perhaps it was the adrenaline still coursing through the both of you that allowed you to feel just as drunk as the rest of your group. It all felt a little scandalous to have been avoiding alcohol in bars all night but you had a plan and you were set on sticking to it. Besides, not being hungover for a twelve-hour flight was a bonus.

You and George slept most of the flight, cuddled up and leaning on each other in as comfortable a position as you could manage on an airplane. With a stopover in Nice to drop off your Monaco-residing friends, the private jet then took the two of you home to London. 

It was mid-morning when you landed in England and after retrieving George’s car from the valet, you headed towards your town. It was a stunning autumn day, surprisingly sunny with sprawling blue skies over multi-coloured trees and harvested fields. The countryside of England always revealed its true beauty under all the dreariness that often took up the landscape. 

It felt good to be home. Normal. Normal amidst the fact that everything was different now; George was the newest World Champion and, soon, his name would be on the trophy and displayed alongside other greats in the hall of fame. Compared to the excitement that burned within you, Cambridgeshire felt so calm. 

You stopped for lunch in town at some family restaurant that you and George always liked. While you ate and shared ramblings and recaps of the race and the season (that both of you were already immensely familiar with) together, a few fans came past your table to politely ask for photos or autographs. George, beaming, happily complied. You played your role of photographer where you could. 

George’s family, of course, wanted to celebrate his big win with him, but they also understood that after a grueling race weekend and a long-haul flight, an immediate visit might not be feasible. You were grateful for their patience—and even more so for the fact that his parents were still looking after your son, just as they had all week while you both were in Brazil. Besides, the little boy would never complain about one more night with his grandparents.

With your toddler away, your house was strangely quiet when you finally stepped over the threshold after nearly twenty-four hours of travel. George let out a relieved sigh as he set his suitcase down against the wall of the foyer as if he had just returned from half a year abroad. 

“Wow,” said George, simply, “Home.”

You turned to face him, taking in the way he stood there, hands on his hips, looking around the familiar space as if seeing it anew. The weight of everything—the season, the victory, the sheer exhaustion of travel—hung between you for a moment. So much had changed in the span of a year or even just a few months. 

You curled your arms around his middle and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth with a sweet, “Welcome home, World Champion.”

His eyes met yours fondly, his shoulders relaxing slightly at the familiar sight of you, and he slid his arms around you as you melted against his chest in a tender embrace. His movements were unhurried, calm, relaxed, finally able to take it slow after a season of fast paced adrenaline, finding refuge in your presence. 

“Thank you, my love.”

He gave you a quick kiss to your lips. The silence of the large farmhouse after the ear-piercing excitement and noise of the last week was a stark comparison; equal parts strange and relaxing.

After a moment to adjust to your arrival home, you led the way upstairs with the large wooden box containing the bottle of champagne in your arms, George trailing after you with your modest suitcases. The silence of the large farmhouse after the ear-piercing excitement and noise of the last week was a stark comparison; equal parts strange and relaxing. 

Once in your shared bedroom, you rested the box on the dresser and George sat the suitcases down on the floor. Just like he always did as soon as he returned home, he knelt down and unzipped his suitcase right away and started to pull out the dirty laundry to put away. 

“I don’t think it’s settled in yet, you know?” he said to you over his shoulder as he gathered his laundry and carried it into the walk-in closet to toss it in the hamper, “It feels so surreal; winning it. Almost like, ‘now what?’.”

In reply came your casual hummed “mhm” of acknowledgement. 

When he stepped back into the bedroom, the sight of you in only your bra and thong and kneeling in the centre of your neatly made king size bed as if waiting patiently had him halting in his tracks in surprise. You nibbled at your bottom lip at his stunned expression, trying to hide the bashful smile that was creeping its way across your face. 

His eyes trailed down your body as if unable to take his eyes off you, wanting to take in every inch, before he mumbled out a breathy, “Jesus, love…”

You giggled softly, “What?”

He continued to stare at you, “You can't just show up on the bed in nothing but a bra and panties…”

“Why not?” you asked cheekily, 

“Because…” George faded out with an exasperated sigh despite the obvious smile on his face and he set his hands on his hips. In reality, he had no excuse, no reason. You had a way of short-circuiting his brain in moments like this and especially when it was a complete surprise and the last thing he expected the moment they got home.

Filling in the momentary silence, you cocked your head to the side in a sweet manner, asking in a voice that was almost a purr, “Wanna come put a baby in me?”

Your simple request had his eyelashes fluttering through his deep inhale, as if letting your words wash over him entirely. 

George knew—very well, thank you—that you had agreed to start trying for another baby after the season ended or when he won the Title, whichever came first. Now, back home in your empty house after his Championship winning race, both of you having forgone alcohol the night before regardless of how hard everyone was partying just for the sake of a successful future conception, there was a very obvious intent in the air. 

You watched as he took a step towards the bed, his eyes never leaving your body, his voice a low, teasing, “Are you really that impatient? Couldn’t even let us unpack first?”

“Mhm,” you answered plainly with a sweethearted smile, “Peak ovulation is tomorrow so we gotta get a move on.”

George, now standing at the side of the bed, placed a knee on the edge of the mattress to draw himself closer to you, his eyes roaming over your body once more, “Naughty little minx.”

You licked your lips as he knelt in front of you in the middle of your shared bed, protesting despite your smile, “It’s not naughty.”

“Ripping all your clothes off and demanding me to put a baby in you is pretty naughty to me,” George countered, his hands falling to your bare waist and gave you a squeeze. 

Your nose brushed against his ever so slightly, taunting him with a gentle, “Well, are you still up for it, Champion?”

George’s chuckle was low, tilting his face just enough to exchange the bump of your noses for a graze of your lips, the simple action shooting a spark of heat through you. He left the faintest kiss to your lips, barely there, taunting, before muttering, “Of course, I definitely think I want to celebrate properly.”

Your face naturally turned towards his as he drew closer, your eyes all over his familiar features and your hands sliding up his chest and to his shoulders. He leaned in to kiss you deeply, lips pressed to yours in a kiss backed with passion and need, as if he had been holding himself back for days. With the Championship on the line, it had been hard to focus on anything else but, now, with that out of the way, everything that once felt secondary came rushing back. 

You couldn’t deny the need that had been growing within you since the middle of that weekend. Perhaps it was the fact that the race weekend aligned all too perfectly with your ovulation, or perhaps it was the fact that seeing your husband finally achieve his childhood dream, standing on the top of the world, dedicating his win to your family, stirred something raw and wanting within you. George was your everything, your little family was everything, and you would give him the world if you could. 

His large hands groped the doughy flesh over your hips a little tighter as if trying to pull you closer, his lips smacking wetly with yours as your kisses grew more desperate. Kneeling in front of each other in the middle of your bed, it almost felt as though you were about to partake in a faceoff, arms wrapping around each other until there was virtually no space left between you. With him still fully dressed and you mostly naked, your perfectly quiet house welcomed the sound of your sloppy kisses. 

“Mm,” George hummed lowly as he broke away from your lips and trailed heated kisses down your neck, “I’ve been thinking about getting you naked all day…and all last night.”

“I’m offering myself up to you now,” you purred. 

“Yeah, you are,” he praised, hands sliding down to grab your ass and pull you impossibly closer, just enough so you could feel the tightness over the front of his slacks, “Such a good girl for me.”

You let out a pretty moan at his tug, your arms still wrapped around his shoulders and fingers curling into the material of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed and teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Neither of you had showered after your lengthy flight or had a proper sleep outside of the luxury private jet seats but nothing of the sort mattered at that moment. Instead, husband and wife, all too comfortable with each other after years of devotion and infatuation, you wanted each other just as strongly as ever. It couldn’t wait.

George’s hands groped your ass and one pulled back to give you a small spank, the sharp sound echoing through your quiet bedroom. You gasped tightly and arched into him as his hands slid up your back and blindly found the clasp of your bra as he kissed and nipped at your neck.

“Give me this, now…” he mumbled against your skin, with that rich addicting lust to his voice that always had your panties soaked. 

His fingers worked nimbly at the clasp of your bra as if he needed it gone as soon as possible. Ever the expert at taking off your bra, he had it unclasped in a second and you moved your arms off his shoulders to help him get it off you entirely. He tossed it to the floor without a second look and slung an arm around your waist as he dipped down to take one of your nipples in his mouth.

Your head dropped back with a pleasured gasp and your fingers tangled in the back of his hair to keep his mouth on your chest. George’s strong arm tugged harder around your waist, keeping you flush against him with your hips against his as he bent down to suck on your breasts. With his tongue swirling around one of your nipples, his free hand tended to the other with purposeful tugs and rolls between thumb and forefinger, getting them nice and hard and already causing your insides to stir with arousal. It was almost embarrassingly easy for you to get turned on when you were ovulating and George always made the most of that fact over the years, using it to his advantage just to see how much you could take until you were nearly sobbing for it. 

George pulled away from your breast to tend to the other, dragging his tongue over your nipple first before taking it in his mouth with a greedy suck, framing it with his large hand around the expanse of your skin. He squeezed and showered you in tongue-led kisses and possessive suckles that left blushing red marks across your chest. Your fingers locked in the roots of his hair and the slight tug had him groaning against your breast and pulling away with a wet pop. 

His lips were back on yours in an instant, swallowing you up in a fierce kiss that ripped the air from your lungs.  Even after your years together, he still knew how to kiss you breathless. You couldn’t help but tug at the back of his shirt over his shoulders as he kissed you, pulling at the fabric until a sliver of his back was exposed to the room. George took the hint and broke away from your kiss just long enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the floor, leaving him in just his slacks that were already tenting across the front. Sparks crackled between you as his hands grabbed your hips and he leaned in to kiss you again, nearly bending you backwards a little with how insistent he was with it. Your arms slung around his now bare shoulders and your tongue pushed against his as if wanting to taste just how much he craved you. 

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” George groaned into your mouth between sloppy kisses, his hands roaming all over your bare body as if mapping the familiar expanse of your skin, “and all mine.”

“All yours,” you echoed dreamily.

His lips ghosted across your cheek, his hot breath against your neck and his voice almost slurred with lust, “All fucking mine.”

George’s hands slid down to the backs of your thighs and he heaved you up off your knees so you fell backwards onto the mattress and decorative throw pillows with a surprised squeal. The two of you shared light laughter as he situated himself over top of you and dipped down to kiss you some more, your hands raising to the side of his face to hold his lips on yours. Your giggles faded into the focus of your passionate kisses, heat pouring through your veins with him positioned over top of you like that, so easily able to take you over. 

Instinctively, your legs had parted to allow him to settle between them and he blindly dropped a hand down to pull one of your legs tight around his waist. You moaned softly into his mouth, body arching underneath him to try and get situated into that perfect angle that would have your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. George’s hand took advantage of your momentary arch, sliding his arm under the small of your back to tug you into place so his thighs were trapping yours outwards, holding you in place. 

Your fingers tangled in the roots of his hair as he rolled his body against yours so you could feel the bulge in the front of his pants pressing right up between your legs, his bare chest aligned with yours, lips locked in a fiery kiss. George licked the soft moan from your mouth and when he pulled away for a moment, his teeth sunk into your bottom lip. 

His eyes found yours in your close proximity—only centimeters apart—both of you already a little breathless, staring into each other’s lust-filled gaze. The gorgeous blue of his irises was almost entirely diluted to black from his pupils from just one look at you and a little taste of your lips. When he looked at you like that, in moments such as those, any possible doubt of his love for you was wiped from your mind. No one had ever looked at you like that before him, and no one would after him. There was only him. 

“George…” you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist and linking your ankles together behind his back while your thumb grazed over his kiss-swollen bottom lip. 

He spoke your name in reply, just as soft and tender before pressing a slow kiss to the pad of your thumb. Framed by his forearms on either side of you, you were pleasantly trapped by him and cradled by the decorative pillows of your marital bed. 

George closed the miniscule distance between you, gently pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. One…and then two, and then a third; slow, soft, gentle, still staring into each other’s eyes under heavy eyelids. You squirmed a little, arms snaking behind his biceps to rest against his shoulders and your legs tightening around his waist to lock him against you as the anticipation was driving you mad. He gave you one more tender kiss before dipping down towards your neck, attaching his lips just under your jaw in a manner that felt a hell of a lot more intense than the kisses he had just sweetened you up with.

Your mouth fell open with a silent gasp, clinging onto his shoulders tighter as your head arched back a little to give him room. George trailed down your neck in wet open-mouthed kisses, teasing your most sensitive spots with his tongue and making you shiver with soft breaths across the damp skin. But it was the sudden roll of his hips against yours that pulled an audible gasp from your chest, your fingers pressing into his muscular back at the same time, taunted by what you wanted most. 

George was already so hard and you could feel him through his slacks, tenting the fabric over his straining erection, proof that he had been wanting this all weekend just as urgently as you. It was growing uncomfortable, how wet you were getting, and you pushed your hips up against his to chase some more of that friction. He moaned against your neck at your needy action, grinding a little harder down against you to keep you pinned underneath him.

“You sure you're ready for this?” he asked huskily against your ear, his body rutting strongly against yours.

“Yeah,” you exhaled as you tightened your ankles around him to pull him impossibly closer, hands splaying over his exposed back, miles of muscle under your possessive palms. He ground against you stronger, more insistently, pulling another whining gasp from your throat, “I need it so bad. Need you to knock me up.”

“You need it, huh?” he taunted, his voice dripping with need before he nipped at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin, “You want me to put a baby in you, right here and now?”

“Ugh,” you withered, eyelids fluttering at his words and body squirming underneath him, “Please, George.”

George pried your legs away from his waist so he could sit back on his knees and then he gave your thigh a little tap with a soft, “Hang on, let me push down the covers.”

You frowned reluctantly up at him, already comfortable where you were and already falling into that blissed out mindset. The last thing you wanted to do was move.

He smiled at your pout—not even needing to hear your protest to know what you were thinking—and reminded you with a cock of his head to get you to comply, “Come on. We’re not going to want to have to wash the duvet after.”

Of course he was right, so you shifted to help him pull back the covers to the foot of the bed so you were draped out on the fitted sheet and, then, rightfully back in your cozy spot amongst the decorative pillows. 

George didn’t miss a beat as he eased you back into the comfort of his touch by trailing wet kisses down your body, starting from your neck. He kissed over your collarbones and your breasts and sucked on your nipples a little more just to make you writhe and moan under his touch before moving down your stomach. He pushed your thighs towards your chest and dragged his nose between your legs over the damp fabric of your panties. You could hear him inhale, breathing in the scent of your arousal. All because of him. 

Your hand carded through his hair as he settled between your legs and his long eyelashes rested on his flushed cheeks as he pressed a slow open mouthed kiss over your clothed clit. It barely felt like anything but was still just enough that you flinched in anticipation, whining to the ceiling with need for more. You tugged a little at his hair, urging him to leave another slow kiss to the apex of your thighs, right over the spot where the fabric of your thong was hugged by your lips.

“You’re teasing…” you warned in a breath.

George smiled cheekily against you, raising his eyes to yours with his face still hidden between your legs and his arms wrapped around your thighs as he kissed your pussy again. You were so wet that despite your underwear, when he pulled away, a faint string of your arousal connected his lips to you.

George exhaled shakily and slid his fingers down over the fabric of your panties, almost able to see how you throbbed underneath them. He leaned in for another kiss, leading with his tongue for a teasing taste, still taunting you behind the protection of your underwear. When he pulled away again, he pressed the pad of his thumb down over your clothed clit. His voice was a low rumble, “Can’t believe how soaked you are already…Jesus.”

You laughed softly, raking your fingers through his hair as he turned his head to kiss your inner thigh and you answered him softly, “Don’t you love when I’m—”

“Ovulating? Yeah.” he answered for you, words muffled between his kisses along the supple skin of your inner thigh, trailing back towards your cunt. His firm hands kept you legs out of the way as he nuzzled his face closer and inhaled deeply before he let it out with a hungry moan and a muttered, “Fuck, you smell so good, too.”

“God, that’s so fucking hot, baby…” you exhaled, hips naturally trying to push up against his face.

George lifted himself up from between your legs just enough to press his hands into the mattress on either side of your body and he nipped at the soft flesh of your hip before sucking a little hickey into the skin. The perfectly made bed sheets wrinkled under the two of you as George sat back on his knees between your spread legs and he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your thong, tugging on it slowly, “Let’s get these off you.”

You lifted your hips for him as he started to pull your underwear down over your hips. The damp fabric clung to your pussy as he peeled them away and you shivered as the cool air of the air conditioned bedroom grazed over your bare skin. George’s eyes were trained in on your dripping cunt even as he guided your thong down your bent legs and off your ankles with a habitual lick to his lips, dropping the soiled fabric to the bed beside you without a second glance.

He kept his eyes on you as he started to unbutton his slacks, positioned on his knees between your spread legs, taking in your naked body splayed out before him. The need that had been growing within you had your hand reaching down to touch yourself, trying to ease some of the immense ache that was starting to feel rather unbearable. You were so wet that you both could hear it as you slid your fingers between your legs and gathered up some of that delicious wetness to rub over your clit. 

George shifted to get out of his slacks and he dropped them off the end of the bed, leaving him in only his boxers that did a very poor job at concealing his very obvious erection. Otherwise naked apart from the ring on his left hand, George situated himself between your spread legs and his hand joined yours over your pussy, nudging you aside so he could have full reign of you, smearing your growing wetness around a little more himself. Your hands wrapped around his biceps as you stared adoringly up at him as he touched you. 

With your legs parted wide for him, the utmost trust shared between you, you sank your teeth into your bottom lip as you stared up at his face, watching his lust-filled expression as he watched how his careful fingertips caressed your pussy. George pulled his hand back for a second to take the tips of his three middle fingers into his mouth to moisten them up a little more before dropping them back down to continue where he left off. Little, gentle swirls over your clit…down to your leaky pussy…back up. 

Your toes curled at the sensations, how gentle and precise he was being, knowing just how to touch you. You let out a little pleasant hum, squirming a little beneath him. When your grip tightened around his bicep, he tore his eyes away from your cunt to meet your gaze.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” George said lowly, “Dripping all over my hand already and I’ve barely even touched you.”

He tilted his hand to rub the full length of his fingers along your pussy, hearing the slick wet sound of just how wet you were. You whined and squirmed a little, spreading your legs wider to welcome more of his touch. 

“Fuck, look at you,” George exhaled, pulling his fingers back to see how they were still attached to your messy cunt in thick strings of wetness. He rubbed his fingertips together and then brought them to his mouth to lick off, some of it dripping down his forearm in the process. With a quick suck of the tips of his three fingers, he dropped them back down to rub at your clit in firm, precise circles, purring out a low, “My messy girl.”

You reached your hands down to curl your fingers in the waistband of his underwear in an attempt to remove the last article of clothing between you. But, in an instant, George’s fingers were wrapping around your wrists to stop you and he leaned over you to pin them down beside your head.

“Be a good girl and let me do what I want with you,” he spoke firmly with that unmissable lust in his voice. 

With his hands still pinning your wrists down, George shuffled a little closer so your thighs were held back by his, allowing him to push his hips down against yours once more. You stared up into his eyes as he settled, your mouth falling open with a mute gasp at the feeling of his hard cock pushed right up against your naked cunt, only separated by his boxers. He was so fucking hard and your eyes fluttered at the feeling, choking out a small sound as he rolled his hips against yours. 

It felt so insanely good, heat coursing through your veins, every touching feeling like fire thanks to how needy and sensitive you were due to that time of your cycle. Your natural urge to reproduce skyrocketed during ovulation and the fact that you were finally going to be able to lean into that humanistic desire without holding back made it all the more intense and thrilling. 

“Fuck, darling—” you whimpered out, back arching off the bed a little to meet his grinds. 

“Mm, that’s it…” George exhaled heavily. His hands tightened around your wrists and he rutted against you a little harder until the tent at the front of his boxers was fitting between your swollen lips, rocking against you with every few words, “Show me how much you want me…soak me…that’s it.”

Your eyes screwed shut and your head tilted back with a broken whine, hands bunching into fists where he held them down on either side of your head as the overwhelm so quickly took you over. You pulled your legs back by your own free will, desperate to feel more of him, unable to control the pathetic whines that were tumbling from your lips even as your teeth sunk into your bottom one. 

Heaving your head up to look between you at the limited to no space between your chests, you could already feel yourself getting breathless, spurred on by the friction of him rutting against you. You could hardly lay still as the feeling grew and your legs wrapped around his waist to tug him harder down on top of you. George grunted faintly, shifting his hands off your wrists to, instead, intertwine his fingers with yours to hold your hands, still pinning them to the pillows beside your head.

“Kiss me,” you pleaded desperately, “Please, baby, kiss me.”

George didn’t need to be asked twice and he dipped down to capture your lips with his in a steamy kiss. The two of you shared hungry groans into each other’s mouths, made ungraceful by the way he was rutting against you. Your hands clutched onto his tightly, grounding yourself in his touch, while your legs around his waist encouraged you to try and meet his motions, the desperation that coursed through you making you writhe needily against his body and the bed.

But then he was pulling away again; letting go of your hands and sitting back on his knees. Before you had a chance to complain about the loss of contact, you were distracted by the large wet stain smeared over his clothed erection thanks to the way he had been grinding against you and, almost immediately, he was shoving down his briefs. The sight of his impressively hard cock had your mouth watering like it so often did, staring shamelessly at it and the way it bobbed in the air as he shuffled to get his underwear off completely. 

When you reached down to try and touch him, he nudged your hand aside with a simple, “Roll over. Hands and knees.”

You giggled sweetly and the implication of what was coming had your stomach filling with eager butterflies, helping you float yourself from your back onto your stomach. On your knees and flat hands in the centre of your shared bed, you presented yourself to him with a little wiggle of your hips, luring him in. As if he needed any luring. 

George’s hand came down hard against one of your cheeks in a sharp spank, forcing your body to tense in momentary surprise, pulling in a gasp, before relaxing. Another giggle fell from your lips as you glanced back at him over your shoulder, flinging your hair out of the way in the process. Another spank. 

“There you go,” George praised you warmly, shuffling up closer on his knees until he could drag the head of his cock between your lips, “my pretty girl. My pretty wife.”

“Put it in,” you whined, trying to push back on him to do it yourself. 

George’s breath shuddered at your blunt request, only letting the tip of his dick prod at the sopping entrance of your pussy as his hand came across your ass again in an echoing spank. He rubbed his hand over your flesh that had started to blossom in a pretty shade of light pink from his strikes, warning you in soft reprimand, “Is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“Please,” you tried again, “please, George, I need you so fucking bad, darling—”

He held your hip with one hand while his other kept himself steady to slowly sink inside you and, when he was in halfway, he had a two-handed grip on your hips to slowly pull you deeper onto him. Your eyes fluttered shut with a soft, quivering whine at the stretch, fingers curling into the fitted sheet beneath you.

“There ya go,” George purred, slowly starting to thrust into you in lazy motions, “does that feel good, darling? Getting nice and full and stretched out on my cock? That’s what you wanted?”

“Yeah…” you withered. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re so big,” you spoke dreamily, arching your back a little more to take him deeper, “Feels so fucking good.”

George let out a little pleasant hum of acknowledgement, keeping his large hands on your hips as he found a steady pace. His fingers pressed a little tighter into the flesh of your doughy hips, made fuller after birthing your son and one of George’s most favourite parts of you. So feminine, so maternal, so his. 

“Delicious fucking body,” he moaned under his breath, starting to shove into you a little faster, “Just perfect to bear my children.”

“Yeah…” you whimpered, gasping out at his increase in pace, “wanna have your babies.”

“Oh, I know you do, sweet girl,” George cooed, countering his silky sweet voice with a sharp spank across your ass. 

He took hold of your hips again, almost pulling you into his every thrust by his firm grip as he started to ram into you harder. You squealed as he hit deeper, harder, giving you every single inch until your eyes were rolling shut and your head dropped downwards with overwhelm. 

“Fuck!” you shrieked, just louder than the clap of skin on skin that nearly echoed through the bedroom.

George moaned heartily from behind you, keeping his relentless pace going with his hands grabbing your hips so hard that there was certainly going to be fingerprints left behind. Without faltering, he moved his right hand underneath you and his hand splayed over your stomach, equally holding you together and feeling the way your body bounced in time with his every hard thrust. He panted handsomely behind you, laced in with soft moans that only heightened your senses tenfold. You loved that he could make you feel good, but it was even better knowing that you could make him feel good simultaneously. 

His hand glided a little lower to get his fingertips on your clit and he rubbed messy circles right over that spot while he kept fucking you from behind. You cried out his name at the sudden stimulation, one hand flying forward to slam against the wall above the headboard for support, swearing you were seeing stars. 

“Pull my hair,” you groaned pleadingly as if desperate to feel him absolutely everywhere you could, “Pull my hair and tell me you’ll knock me up.”

With his right hand still messily tending to your clit as he fucked you, George reached up with his other hand to grab a handful of your hair and he yanked it back, forcing your head up. You moaned loudly as the simple action tore electricity through you and you pushed yourself back into his thrusts until the lewd sound of your bodies colliding only filled the room more. 

“You want that?” George taunted from behind you, his hand tightening in your hair, “Want to hear just how much I want to put a fucking baby in you right now?”

“Oh fuck…please!” you groaned. 

“Please, what?” he asked hungrily from behind you, taking his hand from your clit to grab your shoulder as he picked up the pace a little more until the bed was creaking beneath you.

“Ahh!” you shrieked at his change in pace and angle, “Please come in me!”

George had a smirk to his voice—you could hear it despite the pleasure that overtook the both of you, binding you together—with his hands still firmly on your shoulders and almost yanking you back into his rough thrusts as he replied between breaths, “Yeah? You want me…to come in your pussy, baby? Keep this up…all night long?”

“Yeah, fuck, fill me up all night.” you withered, the words just pouring out of your mouth without thought, “Keep coming in me until it just leaks out—”

Just as you were falling into that dizzy cloud of pleasure-drunk euphoria, he stopped completely, fully inside you, letting out a strangled groan and a strained, “Fuck, okay, wait…”

You panted to try and catch your breath, trying to get your senses back with how fucking out of your mind you had been mere milliseconds earlier, “What?”

George exhaled strongly through pursed lips, his breathlessness just as apparent as yours, confessing, “I almost just fucking came…I need a second…”

“So what?” you countered, pushing your ass back on him to lazily and impatiently fuck yourself on his cock, “I want it.”

George took a hand back to give your ass a small smack through slightly slurred words, “Yeah, and I want to give you as much of me as possible, not three fuckin’ strokes.”

You chuckled softly, using that brief moment to catch your breath as he pulled out of you entirely. The sudden emptiness had you letting out a slight wince at the change and you moved yourself to be flat onto your stomach instead, draped diagonally across the bed and wrapping your arms around one of the pillows that were still somehow in place. George leaned over you and pulled open the bedside table drawer to find something, his warm skin pressing tacky against yours.

In your slight impatience, you glanced over at his hand buried in the drawer with a small sigh but you didn’t even have a chance to ask what he was looking for before he emerged with your favourite vibrator. You smiled as he passed it into your hand and pressed a kiss to your temple before he was situating himself behind you again. Adjusting yourself underneath him, now flat on your stomach, you pushed your ass up just enough to help him get his cock angled properly and for you to fit your hand under your body.

“Good?” you asked over your shoulder, feeling the way he dragged the head of his dick through the creamy mess of you. 

“Mhm,” George set one hand down on the bed beside you as he leaned over you a little more and started to press inside you, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you couldn’t keep the smile out of your voice.

Your husband sank into you slowly just so you could savour the feeling of him stretching you out again, not to mention the low handsome moan he let out as he sheathed himself inside you as deep as he could go. You took a deep breath, pushing your hips up a little until you could feel the skin of his pelvis against your ass, eyelids fluttering at the fullness. George leaned down to kiss your shoulder blade before easing back and then pushing into you again. 

“Wow, can’t believe a World Champion is fucking me right now,” you giggled teasingly, voice a little tight from pleasure, “I’m such a lucky lady.”

“Shut up,” George laughed breathily. 

“Mmm,” you let your eyes flutter shut to focus on the feeling of his long deep strokes and, beneath your body, your hand pressed and held the power button on your vibrator until the soft buzzing sound filled the room. The touch of it against your sensitive clit had you gasping slightly, one arm still wrapped around the pillow under your head and your fingers pressed into the fabric a little tighter. 

George moved down onto his forearms on either side of your head so his chest was almost entirely pressed against your back, his hips shoving a little harder against yours, jiggling the flesh of your ass with every thrust. You could feel his hot breath against your ear, even through your mess of hair that tumbled around your head, and when he reached a hand up to brush your hair over your shoulder so he could see your face, you couldn’t help the dreamy smile that came to your lips.

“There we go,” George panted, “Such a good girl for me.”

You adjusted the vibrator between your legs until it reached just the right spot, and, when it did, it rendered you speechless for a moment. The tumble of moans that fell from your lips were nearly fucked out of you from the way George was fucking you so deliciously, sharp precise thrusts that only helped to have your eyes fluttering closed and your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. His strong arms framed your head on either side of you, trapping you underneath him with almost all of his body weight on top of you. Regardless, you still tried to keep your hips lifted up enough to present yourself to him. 

“Fuck, yeah, just like that—” you breathed out shakily

“Gonna make you come first,” George spoke lowly against your temple, “I want you…nice and open and relaxed…to take every last drop.”

“Please,” you gasped out.

The combination of the way he fucked you and the added sensations of the vibrator had you seeing stars, nearly drooling into the pillow beneath your head with the pleasured moans that tumbled from your lips. It was all so intense that your body must have started to flatten out to try and get away from it that George had to slide an arm under your hips to pull them back up just enough to keep you at the perfect position for him to take. You squealed into the pillow, struggling to keep holding your vibrator on your clit with how strong it was feeling, the warmth stirring hot in your belly and stretching through your veins. 

“Come on,” he panted, hips snapping relentlessly against yours, “I’m not going to give you what you want until you come for me.”

You couldn’t help the broken cry that fell from your chest, eyes rolling shut, and you tried to smother your sounds into the pillow with your free hand clutching desperately at it. It ramped up fast, the feeling of your orgasm washing over you strong enough to make your limbs tremble and jerk beneath him. George groaned tightly at the feeling of you squeezing around him like a vice, making it harder to keep fucking you through it, but he kept it going.

“Good girl,” he praised strongly, slowing down just a little to give you a second to catch your breath as you gasped and groaned out of it. 

You heaved your head from the pillow with a blissed out expression and heavy eyelids, lips swollen from biting them so hard with how tightly wound that had got you. You pulled your hand out from underneath you and turned off your vibrator, the silicone shimmering slightly from how wet you were and how you had leaked all over it. The toy was discarded aimlessly across the mattress, giving you both hands free to wrap back around the pillow as George adjusted himself on top of you again. 

He set his forearms down on either side of you, sliding one under your collarbones and the other around your head, caging you in his loving arms. As he started to thrust into you a little harder and a little faster again, he let out a pretty grunt against your ear. With your cheek against the mattress, your mouth fell open with a soft gasp of pleasure, still drunk off the orgasm he had just given you and still feeling the aftershocks making your cunt pulse around his every thrust. 

“Fuck,” George groaned thickly, “Jesus Christ, you’re so wet—”

“All for you,” you purred, all too aware, yourself, to the sounds of your sopping cunt taking his every thrust, harmonized by the creak of the bed beneath his efforts. Your hands moved to grasp his biceps, digging your nails into his muscle, grounding yourself in him, even as you tried to lift your ass up a little to meet his motions.

He was taking it a little harder now, shoving into you in firm thrusts with his entire body on top of you, the headboard starting to hit the wall in a steady rhythm. You swore he was as deep as he could go, feeling like you could feel every fucking inch of him plowing into you in quick succession, blurring the line between pleasure and pain until your nails were digging into his biceps. 

“Fuck, you’re so deep, George—” you withered, eyes rolling shut, “Fuck, it hurts so fucking good. Please don’t stop!”

"Yeah, you like that, huh?" he mumbled against your temple, his tone full of smug satisfaction, "You like it when it hurts a little bit, don’t you?" 

A string of words tumbled nonsensically from your lips, “Yeah, yeah, fuck, please—” 

George’s breath fell hot against your cheek, his voice thick with lust and the exertion, his skin slick with sweat pressed right against yours until you couldn’t quite tell where you ended and he began. The filthy words were spoken right against your ear, felt through every nerve ending in your body, “You’re just my sweet obedient little wife, aren’t you? Just meant to be knocked up…just meant to be held down and fucking filled.”

You took one hand from his bicep to grab the edge of the mattress, feeling your body writhing beneath his weight as he fucked you face down into the bed, his strong arms caging you in. The sounds poured from your lips almost completely involuntarily, feeling entirely taken over by him, filled with this desire for him to just take you how he wanted. It had never felt so intensely primal before—even when you were trying for your son—so raw and real, like you felt like you might have actually died if he didn’t get you pregnant. 

“Please,” you choked out again, eyes brimming with tears, fingers clawing at the sheets and his bicep, “Please, I need it…need you to come inside me…please—”

“Oh, my girl, you want my babies that badly?” he purred against your ear, breath hot, “How many y'gonna give me? Two? Three? A whole squad, yeah?”

“Whatever you want…however many you want…please, sir, please—” you sobbed over the sound of the headboard hitting the wall. 

“Fuck, listen to you beg…so fucking pretty,” George groaned through his teeth.

He moved a hand to wrap his slender fingers around your throat, pulling your head out of the pillow so you were gaping towards the wall with the dumbest expression of pleasure on your flushed face. It felt like a nearly out of body experience it was so good, your entire body tingling with need and still immensely sensitive from your orgasm, making his every hard thrust feel like perfection. You barely acknowledged his two fingers pressing their way into your mouth, accepting them without complaint with your lips wrapping around them with a pleasured whine. 

George’s breath was panted hot against your skin, laced in with the odd moan, parted and swollen lips grazing your cheek. He ploughed into you at that same relentless pace but as the seconds passed, it started to get a little sloppier, a little more desperate. 

“Shit, I’m gonna come—” he grunted, voice thick.

You could hardly mutter another pathetic “please” around his fingers, trying to lift your hips up to invite him deeper, even if he had you entirely pinned under his weight and was as deep as he could go. In only a few more seconds, his body shuddered on top of you, head dropping forward onto your shoulder, and he gave you one more sharp thrust as deep as he possibly could. With a handsome gasping moan from your husband, you could feel the thick warmth spurting inside you as he ground into you in small pleasured spasms. 

“Ooh, my God…” you withered, toes curling at the sensation and fingers tightening around the fitted sheet and pillows beneath you. You swore you were literally salivating, a blissed out smile coming to your lips as he gave you what you wanted. 

“Can you feel that?” George panted from on top of you, his pelvis pressed tightly against your ass, giving you every inch to feel the way his cock twitched dully inside you, throbbing against your tight muscles and spilling more right at your cervix, “It’s still coming.”

“Yeah, keep it in there,” you breathed, reaching a hand back to grab his thigh to keep him from pulling out.

“I know, baby,” George’s hand stroked over your frazzled hair, his voice warm and thick, “That’s all for you.”

When he finally finished coming, the two of you stayed where you were for a moment longer, catching your breaths. George leaned down to trail some kisses along your neck, loosening his arms from around you to give you a bit of space. 

“Jesus…” he whispered, his voice ragged and rough as his senses started to come back to him, “That was...that was intense.”

You giggled blissfully and, with him still inside you and now motionless, you ground your ass back on him a little to make sure you got every last drop. 

“Ugh, honey,” George groaned tightly, leaning back from you a little more to press a hand on the small of your back to hold you still, “Don’t do that.”

“Why?” you bit back a coy smile. 

“Because it’s too much,” he exhaled, his body still trembling from the aftershocks and even though you could feel him softening a little inside you, his cock still twitched ever so faintly. “I’m too sensitive right now.”

George slowly pulled out and you cautiously rolled over so you were on your back, sprawled out on your bed, and propped up on your elbows with your legs spread lazily. Beneath you, your fitted sheet now had an impressive wet splotch on it and George grasped your ankles in one hand to guide your legs towards your chest, letting his other press against the soiled fabric.  

“I think you actually soaked it through to the mattress,” George chuckled lightly. 

“That wasn’t entirely my fault,” you protested playfully, blinking dreamily up at him. 

As if interrupting your moment, your body let out a little squeak of air, made almost bubbly from how filled by him you were. Both caught by surprise, you met each other’s gaze and then burst into soft laughter together. George let go of your ankles and, instead, set his hands on the backs of your thighs to keep your legs back, staring down at your sopping pussy and what a mess you were right down to the trimmed hair that was matted with various fluids. Your body forced out another queef. 

“God, you’re a fucking goddess,” George exhaled. He dropped a hand down to gently prod at your pussy with the pad of his thumb and almost right away, a thick glob of white dripped out of you and down between your cheeks and onto the ruined sheets below. 

You hummed at the feeling, splayed out in front of him and still propped up on your elbows, watching him watch you, and after just a second, George leaned in towards you and you shared a few sloppy kisses. You moved one hand to grasp the back of his neck as you took what you wanted from his lips, your heart racing in your chest and your kisses made a little ungraceful from your shared smiles. After only a few seconds, George broke away from your lips and looked back down between your spread legs, moving his hand to grasp the shaft of his cock and then slide the tip along your slick pussy just as more of his cum leaked out of you. He gathered it back up that way and pressed it back inside you as if not wanting to waste a single drop.

With only the tip inside you, he asked in a voice slightly, “Can you take more?”

“Uh huh,” you nodded, staring up at him with blown wide eyes, your hand still at the back of his neck giving him a little tug to try and get his lips back onto yours. 

“Yeah, of course you can,” he chuckled—as if he should have already suspected the answer—just before he pressed his lips to yours and then sunk farther inside you. 

With your hand on the back of his neck, you pulled him down after you as you laid flat on your back on the bed, making sure he wouldn’t stop kissing you even as you shifted. He followed after you expertly, resting on his flat hands on either side of you and bent down just enough to continue your sloppy kisses as his hips pushed themselves flush against yours. Despite having been absolutely railed by him only seconds earlier, your body still stretched around him to accommodate his every inch once more, allowing that warm tingling pressure to spread between your legs and over your hips and deep inside you. Your fingers tangled in the roots of his hair and you groaned into his mouth at the feeling.

“Mmm, stretchin’ me out so good.” you mumbled against his lips.

“You’re so tight and perfect for me, my love,” he murmured, breaking your kiss just far enough to stare down into your eyes, his expression dark with desire, “You were made just for me, weren’t you?”

“Yeah…” you breathed in reply. 

You didn’t put up an argument as he guided your legs up so your calves were resting on his shoulders as he knelt before you and he slowly started to move in languid, delicious motions, back and forth, thrusting into you in a dizzying rhythm. Your eyes fluttered as you stared up at him, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth and your hands absentmindedly grasping onto the fitted sheet beneath you. All you could think about as you stared up at him like that, his handsome face bathed in a light flush that carried down his chest and his caramel skin glistening in a thin sheen of sweat, was watching him on the top step of the podium that weekend, fresh out of the car, the newest World Champion. Your champion. Fuck. 

The reminder had you writhing, trying to push your hips up to encourage him on, fisting the fitted sheet. George hushed you as he set one large hand on your lower abdomen, keeping you down on the bed as he continued to roll his hips into yours nice and deep. He pressed his palm down nice and firmly, adding a bit of a squeeze to where he was nestled inside you and undoubtedly feeling every thrust of his cock. That very same spot where he rested his hand was where you had carried your son and where, you would hope, you would have the privilege to carry another little blessing. Almost out of instinct, you dropped a hand down to rest over his on your abdomen.

“Want to make a baby in you…right here—” he whispered lowly as he stared down into your eyes, hand still pressing firmly in place.

“Please,” you withered, feeling his words ignite your every nerve ending through your body. 

“Ugh, fuck, darling,” George grunted sweetly, “when you clench like that it makes me wanna fuck you deeper.”

“Do it. Do it, please—” you begged pitchily and moved your hand from his to grab his wrist, almost willing to do anything for him to give you more. 

George leaned farther down over top of you so his hands were on either side of your head and your legs were trapped over his shoulders, nearly having you bent in half. He could get incredibly deep that way, giving you every fucking inch, and almost right away he was picking up the pace at the same time. You shrieked at the change, fingers pressing into his biceps.

“There you go,” he purred, wrapping one hand around your throat in a firm squeeze, just how you liked it, “that’s it.”

You were rendered speechless for a moment, gaping up at him as he pounded into you harder and held you down by his hand around your throat. The bed was creaking faintly underneath you again and, as if he liked it loud, George shifted his position just a little so that every purposeful thrust also had the headboard starting to hit the wall. You cried out to the ceiling, head arching back against the mattress, hands splaying over the sheets to fist them in your white-knuckled grip. 

“You’re gonna look so fucking gorgeous pregnant…carrying our baby…” he panted thickly, “My perfect wife making me a whole little brood.”

“Yeah, please, come in me,” you stumbled out, trying to force your eyes to stay open and locked on his. 

“You want more, hm?” he taunted, “Already came so much that it’s leaking out of you and you want to be filled more? It’s gonna be dipping out of you for days.” 

You could feel your eyes rolling shut at his words and his gorgeous threat and how they sounded behind the very obvious squelch of his cock plowing into your sloppy cunt over and over and over. He could move so easily with how soaked you were, streaking his cum over your thighs and ass and his pelvis and the length of his dick, making everything so ridiculously messy. All you could think about was how good it felt as he had you lingering on that precipice between pain and pleasure again, his hand tight around your throat and his thick cock so deep inside you that it was nearly kissing your cervix with every thrust. 

With one hand still fisting the sheets, your other habitually dropped between your bodies to rub furiously at your clit, fingers slipping over it easily with how soaked everything was. You choked over your breath at the startling sensations, sobbing out a broken, “Fuck! I’m gonna come!”

“Yeah, baby?” George taunted, his voice thick with need, “You gonna come on my cock? Gonna make a mess all over me?”

All you could reply with was a pitchy and uncontrollable chant of, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”, in time with the creak of the bed and the dizzying clap of wet skin on skin.

George groaned, his body responding to every sound you made, the chorus of sights and sounds and smells taking him over as it did you. This voice was tight as he kept his hand firmly around your throat, squeezing the sides just under your jaw, encouraging you with a low, “That’s it, baby. Come for me.”

Your legs were nearly vibrating over his shoulders as your impending orgasm built and built inside you, filling your veins with intense warmth and coiling tightly in the pit of your stomach. You knew you were making noise—and a lot of it—but details were so hazy as the intensity overtook you and left you almost feeling like you were in some dream-like experience. The moment you came around him, your muscles clenching up tight around him, his name fell from your lips with a wet sob and you writhed against the bed, struggling under the way he held you down by your throat. 

“Fuck! Good girl!” George praised loudly, still thrusting insistently into you even as you tensed right up around him.

“Oh my God!” you gasped out of it, hands flying to grab onto any part of him you could, “Yes! Shit!”

George moved with ease as he grabbed your arms and immediately pinned your wrists down to the mattress on either side of your head without missing a beat. He rammed into you harder, rougher, faster, taking you as he wanted until your oversensitive body was nearly vibrating and the room was a myriad of lewd sounds and surely filling the whole house. You were so fucking soaked by then that it was almost impressive how loud his skin clapped against yours with every thrust, just adding to the intensity of the moment. 

“Please, George, please!” you shrieked, pleasured tears burning your eyes even as they screwed shut with overwhelm, “Come inside me! Put a baby in me! Fuck, I need it so bad, darling, please. Please…please, I wanna make you a daddy again.”

“Yeah, you will, my sweet girl,” George groaned through his sloppy thrusts, “Gonna be such a good little wife…and carry another perfect little angel for me, aren't you?”

“Yeah, gimme it, please!” you let the words tumble from your lips without thought, “Every drop…inside me…please…please…”

You could already feel him throbbing inside you despite the intensity with which he fucked you, taking you right into the mattress like he owned you, your legs still secure over his shoulders. The two of you were for sure quite the erotic sight; bodies entangled in such an intense position as he held you down and prepared to come inside you for the second consecutive time, your panted breaths mingling and pleasured sounds harmonizing with the slam of the headboard against the wall. 

“Gonna come so fucking deep inside your perfect little cunt…” George said through his teeth, his voice thick with pleasure, “right at your cervix…make sure it takes…make sure you’re properly knocked up…”

You didn’t even have a chance to voice any more begging before his face was screwing up in over-sensitive pleasure and he gave you one particularly deep thrust. At the feeling of the first spurt, your hands tore from his and flew down to grab at his ass and his waist, nails digging into his flesh and holding him inside you as deep as he could go as you stared up into his eyes and watched the orgasm tear through his expression. You withered at the sight and the feel of it, not to mention the way your cunt fluttered around him at the feeling of him throbbing inside you as if to pull everything out of him. 

“Fuck, George…” you breathed dreamily.

“Mmph…” he moaned tightly, grinding his hips against yours a little more before easing down onto forearms on either side of your head and your legs dropped from his shoulders, “Jesus Christ…”

Your hands slid up his sides and took his face in your palms to guide his lips to yours, both of you breathless and spent and barely able to kiss with how you heaved for air. Your husband’s pretty eyes could hardly stay open as he tried to catch his bearings and he settled right down on top of you and tucked his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling a little from the remanence of the aftershocks. He was utterly spent and boneless, and almost looked like he didn’t want to or more rather couldn’t move ever again.

You laughed ever so softly at his sudden exhaustion after all that excitement and you ran your hands up and down his toned back, sharing in his moment to just breathe. His weight on top of you was comforting and familiar and helped to calm you down, your eyes falling shut to bask in the moment as you stayed entangled as one for a little longer. 

“I love you,” you breathed as your finger trailed down the vertebrae of his spine. 

“Mm, I love you,” George echoed, planting a kiss to the apex of your neck and your shoulder. He then took a deep, shaky breath and lifted his head up to meet your gaze, “That was…something.”

You giggled softly and rubbed his broad shoulders, “I think we’re done.”

He chuckled breathily and rested his forehead against yours, “Yeah, we’re definitely done. I don't think I can move ever again.”

“You put in work all weekend…and still managed to perform the grand finale tonight,” you played along.

George lifted his head back to look you in the eye again with a playful, “I can’t tell if I’m offended that you think this outshone my championship or if I’m in agreement.”

The two of you shared breathy laughter and a few tender kisses before he was slowly pulling out of you and laying beside you on the bed. Despite the damp fitted sheet beneath you, neither of you minded in that moment, too focused on each other and coming down from those intense blissful highs you shared. George’s arm wrapped around you as you snuggled into his side, tangled up against the pillows that were half falling off the bed, nothing but the laboured sound of your breathing filling the once noisy room. 

George’s cheek rested against your head as you laid on his chest, feeling the rapid thudding of his heartbeat under your palm and the smoothness of his toned pecs. He turned his face towards yours to leave a kiss to your forehead and then he let out a tired exhale, draping his free arm above his head. You looked up at him from your spot, taking a second to admire the angles of his jaw and the messiness of his hair and the flush that still lingered down his neck and over his collarbones. 

“I’m so proud of you.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, at least not out loud, but it was the truth. George glanced at you in return, a calm smile on his face, and his hand gave your shoulder a squeeze, his lips pressing to your temple. 

“Thank you, my love,” he breathed, “Couldn’t have done it without you though.”

“Don’t say that,” you tutted, “You’ve been working for this far longer than you’ve known me.”

“And yet it didn’t happen until I knew you…until you were my wife…the mother of my child…”

You smiled as you stared back into his eyes, correcting him with a soft, “Children.”

George shared in your smile, his expression melting, “Yes, hopefully.”

You both leaned in for a kiss or two or three until you were interrupted by a squeak of air being pushed from your cunt. George broke away from your lips with a breathy chuckle and he dropped his hand down your body to help himself between your thighs, fingertips gliding over your pussy to collect the creamy globs of cum that had leaked out of you and he pushed it back in with two fingers. 

“I tried to clench,” you laughed lightly. 

“You did great,” George smiled against your temple. 

He left another kiss there before he was rolling away to grab a tissue from the box on the bedside table to come back to your side and start to clean you up. Propped up on his arm beside you, he wiped up the mess between your legs with the tissue and you took that moment to just stare at him some more and how he took care of you. Oh, you were so in love with him. 

“Wanna push any more out?” he asked. 

“It’s okay,” you said, “I’ll just go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

George gave you one more wipe and folded the soiled tissue in a clean one as you cautiously moved to sit up. More little queefs slipped out as you moved positions and started to stand up and with a proud fucking smirk, he reached to take your arm to make sure you were stable on your feet. Once you were steady on your still-slightly-trembling legs, you took the tissue from him to take to the bathroom with you to dispose of. 

You took your time in the ensuite to use the toilet and clean yourself up at the sink with a damp cloth, having to hold yourself steady on the side of the vanity. When you emerged back into the bedroom, George was remaking the bed with fresh sheets, the soiled ones in a heap by the door in desperate need to be washed. He was in a fresh pair of boxers but otherwise naked, hair still sticking up in ridiculous directions and his body looking absolutely gorgeous in the fading light of the late afternoon. There was a clean pair of underwear and a pyjama set folded for you on the dresser.

“You take such good care of me,” you gushed sweetly as you started to pull on the clothes to keep yourself from catching a chill. 

George glanced over at you as he pulled the duvet back on the bed, “Of course, it’s the least I can do for my wonderful wife.”

Once the bed was made, you climbed into your side despite it being barely evening, and you collapsed back against the pillows and headboard with a content sigh.

“Feeling alright?” George asked as he finished fluffing his pillows. 

You lolled your head to the side to look at him with an adoring smile, “Yeah. Just fucking tired out.”

“Me too, not to mention that horribly long flight we had,” he set a knee on the mattress to lean towards you and gave your lips a brief kiss as his hand gave your abdomen a little caress over the duvet around your hips. The implication of his action was not lost on you. He stood up again, “Should we order something special for dinner and then get some sleep, you reckon? We’ll have to be up in good time tomorrow to pick up the little guy.” 

“That sounds great, love,” you replied softly, and then, before he could ask what you wanted for dinner, you said, “Whatever my World Champion wants to eat sounds good to me.”

Mid-December

The season ended around three weeks later, allowing Formula 1’s newest World Champion to travel home to you for winter break. As much as you enjoyed seeing George race during the year, watching him doing what he loved, there was something about winter break that made your unconventional relationship feel comfortingly normal. 

You and your son picked him up from the airport, the toddler donning a ‘Welcome Home’ balloon tied loosely around his wrist, and it went flying in all directions as he ran across the linoleum floor of the ‘Arrivals’ gate once George emerged from within. Beaming, George dropped his backpack and crouched down to welcome his son into his arms and as soon as the little boy was in his grasp, he stood up and lifted up high into the air to send the toddler giggling. Then, snuggling him close to his chest, George peppered his chubby cheeks in kisses. 

The toddler pointed to the balloon floating above them, “B’oon, Daddy,”

“Yes, I see the balloon!” George said with a smile, “Is that for me?”

The little boy nodded with a grin, earning him another proud kiss from his father and a pet of his hair. You joined the little reunion and received a kiss of your own from George and you shared a whispered greeting between smiles. 

The drive home was calm through the English countryside and your son chatted away happily from his carseat in the back of George’s Mercedes, little sticky fingers pressing against the window and light-up sneakers kicking against the seat in front of him. But the two of you in the front seat were unbothered by your son’s restlessness; with George’s hand on your thigh as he drove your little family safely home. It felt like peace had been restored once George was home and knowing he was all yours for a few weeks made it even better. Despite this, you fiddled with his hand on your lap, absentmindedly spinning his wedding ring around his finger. 

He glanced over at you, “You okay, love?”

You looked at him in return with a small smile, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

In reality, in the five days that George had been away, you had started feeling a little unlike yourself; mainly incredibly fatigued to the point that you actually had started napping when your son napped and going to bed at his bedtime too. You knew the last time you had experienced such intense fatigue was when you were pregnant with him and that reminder had your mind swirling. It had only been three weeks of actively trying to conceive and you had partially convinced yourself that it wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been with your son; perhaps that was just beginner’s luck. But, here you were, nearly falling asleep in the passenger seat of George’s car at barely noon. 

Once home, it was about time for your son’s nap but he was far too zazzed to even think about sleeping. George ended up carrying him up and down the second floor hallway, rubbing his back, letting him talk himself to sleep in the long-awaited comfort of his father’s arms. It always seemed to do the trick. The toddler was then tucked into bed and George quietly closed his bedroom door behind him. 

George had assumed you would be bringing his suitcase upstairs while he took care of the kid but when he stepped into your shared bedroom, there was no sign of you or the suitcase. It wasn’t until he walked back downstairs that he found you, sitting on the bottom step, draped over the top of his suitcase, and fast asleep. With a fond smile, George descended the rest of the staircase and joined you on the bottom step, gently moving you to lean against him instead. You stirred a little.

“Alright there, sleeping beauty?” he teased against your temple. 

You lifted your head up to flutter your eyes open to meet his gaze, “M’okay.”

“Do you want to go for a nap too?” he tucked some of your hair behind your ear. 

You spoke an unrelated reply in a voice barely over a breath, “I took a pregnancy test on Thursday.”

George’s eyebrows raised and you could feel his arm around you tighten, “And?”

“Couldn’t tell what it was,” you confessed, “It’s upstairs…you can look at it…thought I’d wait a few more days and try again and then maybe you could be with me.”

“Yeah, of course,” George smiled, his voice so light and warm, and although he was trying to be caring, you could hear the hint of impatience in his words, “Are you up to that right now?”

“Based on how fucking exhausted I’ve been feeling and how tender my boobs are, I’m, like, 99% sure I know the answer but…I want to know for sure.” you said definitively. 

So you and George ended up in your ensuite bathroom, you on the toilet with a fresh pregnancy test between your legs and him at the vanity squinting at the one you took four days earlier. If you really looked, you could see a faint second line but you also had started to tell yourself that maybe you were just imagining what you wanted to see. 

“I dunno, I definitely think there are two lines, love,” George stated, turning the pregnancy test into the light a little more.

“Really?” you replied before holding out the newest one to him to take. 

He turned to take it from you and he capped it and set it on the counter while you finished up on the toilet and flushed. You washed your hands beside him at the vanity, watching how he set a three minute timer on his phone and then went back to staring at the old test. 

“Yeah, seems so,” he set it down on the counter alongside the new one as you began your three-minute wait for the results.

“I was just thinking that it feels a little crazy to get pregnant so quickly,” you explained, snaking your arms around his middle and he pulled you into him, “Like, it was fast with our first but…having that happen again? Doesn’t it take most people a few months of trying?”

George shrugged, “Maybe we’re just extra fertile.”

You snorted lightly.

“And we’ve been trying pretty consistently,” he reminded you, keeping your gaze through the mirror, “After Brazil and then almost every second day since…”

“Maybe you just have speedy sperm too,” you played along.

George dropped his head back with a small groaning laugh, his arm around you instinctively pulling you closer. You rested your head against his and stared at your reflection in the mirror, how the two of you looked together, how the warmth of his body felt against yours. He was familiar, he was home. 

Between your exhaustion and George’s tiredness after his flight, neither of you spoke much as you waited there in the bathroom for the timer to go off. You appreciated the comfort of each other’s presence in the face of this slightly nerve-wracking moment. Of course you hoped for a positive but you knew that if it were negative, you had only just started trying anyway. There was always going to be time. 

When George’s phone alarm went off, he shut it off and then gave you a squeeze, “Ready?”

“Think so,” you smiled at him through the mirror.

“You’re trembling,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“I’m nervous,” you giggled softly and reached with a shaky hand to pick up the new test. 

It was still face down and you lingered there for a moment. George glanced at you as if wanting to tell you to hurry up but he didn’t push you, letting you take a breath before, finally, turning it over in your hand. You both leaned in to see the result. 

Compared to the one taken four days earlier, this second line was unmistakable, staring back at you in a fierce shade of dark pink.

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[jamminvroomvroom]

George Russell and trying to have sex after he wins his second championship but Sylvie cries awake from her nap. 🤭

THIS WAS CUTE TO WRITE!!!! thank you for sending this in!

same universe as my george fic, which can be found on my masterlist <3

minors dni! there is some very light smut (18+!!), fluffy as hell though too

-

george hovered over you, lips skimming your neck. this had been a long time coming, after a long weekend at the track, and life getting in the way, so you kept him close, your legs wrapped firmly around his lean waist, holding him against exactly where you needed him.

he grazed his hand over your half naked body, finally, finally, dipping his fingers into the waist band of your underwear, long fingers discovering just how desperately you needed him to touch you. he applied pressure, working your body delectably, fulfilling your needs after weeks of obstacles preventing you from what you craved: him.

“oh my god, george, please, i’m gonna-“ you panted.

but as soon as your high was within reach, a cry tore from down the hallway. sylvie was awake. george stopped immediately, an apologetic look in his eyes.

“oh, shit.” you sighed.

you sat up the bed, shaky from your almost-orgasm, when he gently tapped your thigh, stopping you.

“it’s okay, sweetheart, i’ll go.” he kissed you quickly, and you sent him a grateful smile, flopping back onto your bed.

you loved your little girl more than anything in the world, more than life itself, more than everything under the sun and the moon combined, but god, you just needed your fiancé to have his way with you.

you threw one of george’s t-shirts on, reaching for your phone to reply to some emails, knowing that george would probably be a while, knowing how difficult it could be to get sylvie to go back to sleep. you were in the process of trying to fix her attachment to you both in the night, trying to stand your ground and get her to sleep comfortably in her own bed, but it was a slow process.

george was supposed to soothe her back to sleep, in her own room, but when you heard soft giggles in the hallway, you could have throttled him. in he walked, sylvie on his hip, and a sheepish smile on his face. at the sight of your daughter, you grinned, unable to help yourself, but george was not in your good books.

“mama, mama.” sylvie crooned, wiggling in george’s grip, until he placed her softly at the foot of the bed. she wriggled towards you, crawling up the bed until she was tucked under your arm. all she needed was a few moments against your chest, your heartbeat and your smell sending her spiralling into a deep slumber. you put your phone down, glaring at george now.

“what happened to the plan? you are such a soft touch.” you complained. really, you loved how much of a girl dad he was, and how sylvie had him absolutely mesmerised, but it was also important for her to sleep in her own bed.

“i’m sorry, my love. i couldn’t help it. you know what it’s like when those big blue eyes fill up with tears.” he defended himself and you couldn’t really argue with that.

“well, no sex for us now.” you groaned, getting yourself comfortable with the toddler clinging to your frame.

“we could go to the guest room?” he suggested, absolutely shamelessly.

“go to fucking sleep, george.”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hey lovie i was wondering if you could do an imagine where 2 year old baby Russell spends day with her Uncle Alex and Auntie Lily please 🥺🥺

Strawberry Fields

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the paddock as George pressed a kiss to his daughter’s forehead. Yn giggled, her small arms wrapped around his neck.

“Be good for Uncle Alex and Auntie Lily, okay?” he murmured.

Yn nodded enthusiastically, her curls bouncing. Carmen, standing beside them, smiled warmly. “She’s going to have the best time. Right, sweetheart?”

“Stwawbewwies!” Yn chirped, clapping her little hands together.

Lily chuckled as she reached out to take Yn’s tiny hand. “That’s right! We’re going to pick the biggest, juiciest strawberries ever.”

Alex, standing beside her, ruffled Yn’s hair. “And we’ll make sure to bring some back for you two.”

George sighed, pretending to be dramatic. “Guess we’ll just have to survive without her for a whole day.”

Carmen laughed. “You’ll be fine. Have fun, baby,” she added, kissing Yn’s cheek.

And with that, the trio set off, heading to a beautiful strawberry field just outside of town.

The drive was peaceful, with Lily playing some soft music while Alex entertained Yn with silly faces in the backseat. She giggled, eyes twinkling with excitement.

“Uncle Lex, funny!” she declared, causing Lily to laugh.

“I try,” Alex said with a grin. “It’s my best skill, you know.”

Soon, they arrived at the field, stretching wide and lush under the summer sky. Rows and rows of bright red strawberries glistened in the sun, and the fresh scent of ripe fruit filled the air.

Yn, securely holding her tiny play stroller, looked around with wide eyes. “So many!” she gasped.

Lily crouched down beside her. “You ready to pick some?”

Yn nodded eagerly, gripping Lily’s hand as they walked towards the entrance. Alex grabbed a small basket and slung a bag over his shoulder for the extras.

“Okay, Yn,” Alex said, squatting to her level. “You pick the best ones, and Auntie Lily and I will help.”

Yn pouted slightly. “I do it myself!”

Lily and Alex exchanged amused glances. “Alright, alright,” Lily said. “You’re the boss.”

They started walking between the rows, Yn stopping every so often to examine a strawberry carefully before placing it in her stroller instead of the basket.

“Uh, sweetheart,” Alex began. “The berries go in here.” He tapped the basket.

Yn frowned. “But stroller…”

Lily laughed. “She has a system, Alex. Let her do her thing.”

Shrugging, Alex complied, though he had to bite back a smile as he watched Yn methodically fill her tiny stroller with strawberries. Every once in a while, she would hand one to Lily, who would pretend to inspect it before putting it in the real basket.

After a while, Lily decided to give Yn a little treat. Holding up a particularly plump berry, she asked, “Would you like a taste, sweetheart?”

Yn’s eyes widened, and she eagerly opened her mouth. Lily carefully fed her the strawberry, cupping her small chin to catch any juice that might escape.

“Yummy!” Yn declared, licking her lips. “More?”

Lily grinned. “Maybe a little later, or else we won’t have any left.”

Yn huffed but nodded, happily resuming her mission.

Meanwhile, Alex found himself in charge of pushing the ridiculously tiny play stroller whenever Yn wanted to use both hands to pick berries.

“This is… definitely my biggest challenge yet,” he muttered, maneuvering the little stroller through the uneven ground.

Lily smirked. “You handle it well.”

“Should’ve been a professional stroller-pusher instead of a racer,” he joked.

Yn, overhearing him, turned with a serious expression. “No, Uncle Lex. You dwive fast.”

Both adults burst into laughter. “Well, I’m glad you approve,” Alex said, ruffling her hair again.

As the afternoon wore on, Yn began to slow down, her little hands rubbing at her eyes.

Lily noticed and leaned down. “Tired, sweetheart?”

Yn nodded sleepily. “Sleepy.”

Without hesitation, Alex scooped her up, settling her against his chest. She let out a tiny sigh, curling into him. Her little arms wrapped loosely around his neck.

“Guess it’s naptime,” Alex murmured, adjusting her to make sure she was comfortable.

Lily took the stroller from him, shaking her head fondly. “I hope George and Carmen realize what an angel they have.”

“Oh, they know,” Alex chuckled. “But we’ll send them proof just in case.”

Lily pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Yn snuggled against Alex, her little hand clutching his shirt. Then another of Alex, now carrying both Yn and her beloved stroller, an amused expression on his face.

She sent the pictures to Carmen and George, adding a simple caption: A successful day of strawberry picking. Yn is officially the cutest.

Almost instantly, Carmen responded: I might cry. This is adorable.

Then George: Tell Alex not to get too comfortable. That’s MY little girl.

Lily laughed as she showed the messages to Alex, who smirked. “Tell George he has competition.”

Lily typed back: Too late, George. I think she’s switching teams.

They shared another quiet laugh before making their way back to the car, where Yn slept soundly in Alex’s arms, her tiny stroller tucked safely beside them.

Later that evening, when they returned to the paddock, George and Carmen met them at the entrance.

“Did you have fun, baby?” Carmen asked as Yn rubbed her eyes, waking up.

“Stwawbewwies,” she mumbled sleepily, making them all chuckle.

George took her from Alex’s arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I think that means she had the best day.”

Lily handed Carmen the basket of strawberries. “She was very dedicated to picking only the best ones.”

Carmen smiled. “Thank you both for today.”

Alex and Lily exchanged a glance before Alex said, “Anytime. She’s the best.”

Yn, still sleepy, peeked up at Alex. “Uncle Lex?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She reached out, patting his cheek. “I love you.”

Alex’s heart melted instantly. “I love you too, munchkin.”

George sighed dramatically. “Alright, alright, she can have Alex as your favourite uncle.”

They all laughed, knowing that this was just one of many perfect days to come.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[httpsleclerc]

Heyy

Can I request dad!George X mum!reader where their little one and the reader are not feeling well so George has to look after them/ the house (which he is happy to do for his favourite people) 👉🏻👈🏻

I LOVE THIS !! DAD!GEORGE FOR THE WIN WE ALL CHANT IN UNISON !!

You quietly groaned as you heard the bedroom door creak open, a sign that George had finally returned home after a long and tiring triple header. Normally, you and your daughter, Juliette, would have attended at least one race before the end of the season - Despite her only being 2 years old, Juliette loved watching her dad race.

With your daughter finally sound asleep in your arms, you could only hope that she was sound enough to not hear the noise of her father coming come.

But George had known something was wrong when neither of you were awake to greet him as you normally were. He had guessed that both you and your young daughter had become ill when you burst into tears when he FaceTimed the two of you before he had boarded his flight back to Monaco.

"Hey," He greeted you softly, kneeling beside your bed to come face to face with you, your daughter's sleeping form slightly obscuring your face from George's view. He didn't mind though, Juliette was just as beautiful as you were - He was unsure of how he'd gotten so lucky to have two such beautiful girls in his life.

"Hey, sorry, we were just really tired," George would never say it out loud, but you sounded awful, blocked up and congested. "We saw your race, you did so well, my love," He smiled widely, here you were, sick and still looking after Juliette, yet still making the effort to watch your lover and his passion.

"Thank you." He pushed some of your hair away from your face gently, feeling your forehead with the back of his hand, frowning at how hot you felt.

"I'm sorry the house is such a mess," You looked away from him shamefully, you felt like it was one of the main jobs of a stay at home mom to keep your house clean and tidy, yet here it was, looking like a tornado had stormed through.

"it's okay, love, I can sort it out," George assured you, frowning as Juliette stirred and whimpered, slowly opening her groggy eyes to try and pinpoint the familiarity of the voice in front of her. "Hello princess." George spoke to her gently, placing his hand on her small, chubby cheek.

"Daddy," She spoke groggily, coughing and sputtering as she fully woke up. George frowned, but took the sick toddler out of your arms, aiming to give you at least some sort of break from your sick child. "Huh? mama?" Juliette whined, weakly struggling in George's arms as she reached back for you.

"Shshsh, it's okay love, Daddy's got you, okay? Mama's sick so she needs to get some rest," The father explained to the small girl in his arms, rubbing her back to try and soothe her. "You're gonna have a bath, and then you can get into nice clean pyjamas and I'll get you nice and cosy in bed, okay?" Juliette nodded, enjoying the sound of her father's plan.

It didn't take long for George to get Juliette settled. He sat with her until she fell asleep, making sure that she knew that he was there. He placed a small kiss on her forehead as he left her to sleep, smiling as he remembered that the small girl was his and yours. Juliette was a symbol of the love that you and George had for each other, a little person that was made up of all the best parts of you and the best parts of George - In your eyes, she was perfect. This was when he didn't mind taking over the housework, he knew how much you did for him and Juliette, how much you sacrificed to bring your daughter into the world - He knew that you deserved to rest as much as Juliette did, so he would take over your housework - Dishes, laundry, grocery shopping.

He somehow had it all done before you had woken up, shuffling quietly into the living room to see George in the kitchen, lingering over the stove as he heat up some of yours and Juliette's favourite soup.

"George?" He turned, smiling sadly as he saw how miserable and achy you looked.

"Hi love, why don't you go sit down? Or, or! I can draw you a bath, change the sheets and put your pyjamas in the dryer so that they're warm for you coming out?" George offered you, making your heart swell - This was when you knew that you picked the right man to be the father of your child.

[amirasainz]

Could I please request Hamilton daughter reader. Maybe a cute moment with Roscoe and Leo?

Enjoy reading and send some requests!

-xoxo babygirl ♥️

Dogs, Bikes, and Free Rides

It was a sunny afternoon at the GP, the air warm and inviting as birds chirped faintly in the background. The paddock was bustling with energy—mechanics fine-tuning cars, media crews setting up shots, and team personnel buzzing around like bees.

Five-year-old Yn was less concerned with the hustle and bustle of the race weekend and more intrigued by the perfect weather. Her curly hair bounced with each excited step as she explored the Ferrari motorhome with her dad and Charles. The two were deep into filming some content for the team, laughter and friendly teasing filling the space between takes.

Yn sat cross-legged on a bench, her chin resting in her small hands as she watched her dad talk animatedly to the camera. Charles stood beside him, his trademark grin ever present. Boredom started to creep in, making Yn fidget.

Then, she had an idea.

Spotting her little red bike propped against the fence nearby, Yn's face lit up. But there was a problem—she didn’t want to leave the dogs behind. Roscoe, her dad’s beloved bulldog, was lounging lazily on the grass, while Leo, Charles’ mischievous dachshund, wagged his tail excitedly as if sensing adventure.

“Hmm,” Yn mused to herself, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

Determined, she marched over to the dogs. “Okay, guys,” she announced seriously, “we’re going on a ride.”

Roscoe snorted in response, clearly uninterested in moving. Leo, on the other hand, barked happily, ready for anything.

With great difficulty, Yn managed to coax Roscoe up and into the front basket of her bike. He grumbled but complied, his heavy body nearly tipping the bike over.

“Whoa! Stay still, Roscoe!” she giggled, struggling to balance.

Leo, much lighter, was easier to handle. He leaped into the basket beside Roscoe, his tail wagging furiously. Yn stepped back, admiring her work.

“Perfect,” she declared proudly, dusting off her hands.

Gripping the handlebars tightly, she climbed onto the bike. With a determined push, she started pedaling, the dogs wobbling slightly in the basket before settling in.

The wind whipped through Yn’s curls as she cycled down the service road that ran parallel to the track. The rhythmic hum of engines in the distance only added to the excitement.

Meanwhile, her dad and Charles had just wrapped up their segment. Charles stretched his arms overhead, glancing around. That’s when he spotted Yn in the distance, pedaling furiously with two dogs precariously balanced in the basket.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest. “Uh, is that Yn?”

Lewis followed Charles’ gaze, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“What the—” he started, blinking in disbelief. “Is she... is that Roscoe and Leo in the basket?”

Charles nodded, grinning. “Yep. Looks like they’re getting the VIP treatment.”

As Yn drew closer, Lewis stepped toward the edge of the track, waving his arms.

“Yn! What are you doing?” he called out, his voice a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Yn didn’t even slow down. Her little legs pumped furiously as she yelled back, completely unbothered, “The dogs wanted a free ride!”

Charles burst out laughing, doubling over as Lewis stood there, utterly baffled.

“A free ride?” Lewis repeated incredulously, shaking his head. “Roscoe doesn’t even like moving!”

Yn zipped past them, her focus unwavering. Roscoe looked mildly annoyed but resigned, while Leo barked gleefully, clearly enjoying the adventure.

“She’s fearless,” Charles managed between laughs. “And creative. You gotta give her that.”

Lewis sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, she gets that from me, I guess.”

Charles nudged him playfully. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

They watched as Yn disappeared around the bend, her determined figure growing smaller.

“You think we should go after her?” Charles asked, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

Lewis shrugged, a fond smile settling on his face. “Nah, she’ll be back when she gets tired. She’s got this whole paddock wrapped around her little finger.”

“True,” Charles agreed. “Plus, Roscoe’s too lazy to let this go on for long.”

As predicted, it wasn’t long before Yn reappeared, her pace slower but still steady. She pulled up in front of her dad and Charles, her face flushed with triumph.

“See?” she panted. “Told you they wanted a ride.”

Lewis crossed his arms, trying to look stern but failing miserably. “And what if you tipped over, huh? What then?”

Yn gave him a confident grin. “Didn’t tip, though.”

Charles chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

Lewis shook his head in disbelief. “You’re too much, kid.”

Yn beamed proudly. “Thanks, Daddy.”

Charles crouched down, scratching Roscoe behind the ears. “So, how was the ride, Roscoe?”

The bulldog snorted, clearly unimpressed. Leo, on the other hand, barked enthusiastically.

“Leo liked it,” Yn said matter-of-factly. “Roscoe’s just grumpy.”

“I can relate,” Charles teased, earning a playful swat from Lewis.

“Alright, adventure girl,” Lewis said, lifting her off the bike. “Let’s get you and these dogs some water before you pass out.”

“Okay, but can we do it again later?” Yn asked hopefully.

Lewis sighed, exchanging a glance with Charles.

“We’ll see,” he said diplomatically.

Charles grinned. “That’s a yes.”

Yn cheered, throwing her arms in the air. “Best day ever!”

As they made their way back to the motorhome, Yn chattered animatedly about her next great idea, leaving her dad and Charles shaking their heads fondly.

One thing was certain—life was never boring with Yn around.

[ddaelie]

Max and George: *beefing*

Max: hey you can't say that, stress is not good for the baby

George: ???what baby?

Max: my baby, Kelly is pregnant

George: ...

George: i just-...you- what?!

George: asshole, you can't just pull out "my girlfriend is pregnant" card when you're tired of arguing with me

Max: why not?

George: how am I supposed to argue with you after this? It's not fair.

Max: that's the point

George: ...

George: anyway, i'm happy for you, congrats

Max: thanks