#to the rest of my readers: i love you and thank you | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foxtrology · 3 days ago

Text

i want you, i need you, i love you (4)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 12.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since the gallery night.

Since the bath. Since her in his robe. Since the moment she stepped into Harry Castillo’s penthouse and changed everything.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite who he was, despite who she was—they hadn’t combusted.

They’d settled. Sort of. Not into a relationship. Not into anything that had labels or expectations.

And she wasn’t in any rush to be branded. But they were something—and whatever it was, it had slowly started bleeding into the rest of their lives.

He gave her a key on a Tuesday. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just set it on the kitchen counter next to her takeout container, glanced up and said, “So you don’t freeze your ass off waiting for me if I’m not home.” That was it. No smile. No explanation.

Just Harry being cold and mean in the most absurdly tender way.

She didn’t say thank you out loud, but she kissed the corner of his mouth that night a little longer than usual. And he didn’t pull away.

They didn’t talk about what they were. They didn’t need to. But the rhythms were there.

He kept orange juice stocked in the fridge because she liked it. She started leaving hair ties on his bathroom counter. And a pink razor in his shower. He bought the cereal she liked. She figured out how to work his espresso machine before he did.

And they saw each other constantly. Not every day—he was still Harry Castillo—but almost.

He texted her at odd hours. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Early mornings when he was at the gym at an inhuman hour and saw something that reminded him of her. Articles. Memes.

Yes memes.

Photos of outrageously overpriced apartments that had bathtubs with built-in fireplaces and chandeliers.

He had sent one at 2:13 a.m.

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Would you complain if I bought this?

You: If you bought it and never invited me over, yes.

His response came five minutes later

Old man Harry ❤️👴: You have a key. I’d be forced to.

And that was that.

She didn’t stay over every night. But when she did, she found herself waking up warm. Not just physically—but emotionally. And that scared her more than anything else.

Because Harry Castillo wasn’t easy.

He was brooding. Quiet. Obsessive in ways that only became clear the longer she knew him. But he was consistent. And that? That mattered. He didn’t lie. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. And slowly—slowly—she started letting him in.

It wasn’t until the second week that he found out about her jobs. Plural.

She had just finished showering in his bathroom—wet hair down, wearing one of his button-downs, no pants—when her phone lit up on the bed.

Marco (Flowers): u good to deliver that midtown order today or should I send Gio?

Harry saw it. He blinked. Then stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.

When she stepped out, towel in hand, humming softly to herself, she stopped dead in her tracks.

His eyes were locked on her phone.

She froze. “What?”

Harry lifted it. “Who’s Marco.”

“…Someone I work for.”

“You work where.”

She sighed, already knowing this was going to be a thing. “A flower shop. I help with deliveries sometimes.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Since when.”

She arched a brow. “Since always?”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes—sharp and cold and maybe a little unhinged. He set the phone down carefully, then reached for his own.

“Harry—”

“I’m not mad,” he muttered, typing something.

She squinted. “You’re typing like you’re mad.”

“I’m not—” he cut himself off. “I’m just trying not to throw my phone at the fucking window.”

She blinked. “Jesus. Okay, calm down.”

“How many jobs do you have.”

She hesitated. And that was his answer.

He looked up. “How many.”

“…Three.”

“Three?”

She nodded.

Harry exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “You said you were a server.”

“I am.”

“And?”

“I bartend on weekends. And I do flower deliveries during the day sometimes. Under the table. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal.” His voice was low now. Controlled. Furious. “You work three jobs and walk home late at night and don’t tell me?”

Her brows lifted. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“Don’t—” he snapped, pacing now. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into a thing. I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to understand why the hell you think it’s normal to exhaust yourself until you collapse.”

She stared at him. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. She softened, just a little. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

He stopped pacing. Turned to her. “It matters,” he said, quietly now. “It matters to me.”

And that? That shut her up.

Because Harry Castillo didn’t say things like that. Not unless they were true. The next morning, he asked for the addresses. All of them. She refused at first.

“You’re not picking me up from work.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re Harry fucking Castillo. You don’t drive. You don’t do Midtown traffic.”

He stared at her. Said nothing.

Then pulled out his phone and typed something. An hour later, she got a notification from Find My iPhone.

Old man Harry ❤️👴 has requested your location.

She stared at it. Then looked up. He smirked.

“Add me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll come find you anyway.”

“You don’t even know where my flower job is.”

“Not yet.”

She groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insane.”

“I don’t want you walking home.”

“I have legs.”

“You have shit shoes.”

“I—”

Harry raised a brow. “Let me take care of you.”

That was it. Just a soft command from a cold man who didn’t beg.

She rolled her eyes. But she added him.

The first time he picked her up, it was raining.

Not the soft, aesthetic kind. No—it was New York level chaotic. Sideways sheets of water, umbrellas flipping inside out, cars honking like they were allergic to patience, subways getting flooded by the second.

She was soaked. Her hair plastered to her forehead, her phone dead, her hands freezing.

And then? A black BMW pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. And there he was. Driving.

She stopped in the rain and blinked. “You…drive.”

Harry stared at her, unimpressed. “Get in.”

“I thought you were allergic to steering wheels.”

He rolled his eyes. “I took a car from my old place. Get in before you drown.”

She slid in, dripping onto the leather seats. “This feels illegal.”

“Your shoes are illegal. What are those, socks with holes?”

“Don’t start.”

He tossed her a dry sweatshirt from the backseat—his, of course. “Put this on.”

She did. And the car smelled like him. From then on, it became a thing. Not official. Not daily. But often enough that she started waiting for it. Harry would show up outside her server shift around 11:15 p.m., texting her with a simple

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Here.

Or he’d pull up to the bar on Fridays, leaning against the hood like he hadn’t spent the day managing millions of dollars and threatening CEOs. Sometimes he brought coffee. Sometimes just a dry shirt and a scowl. But he always showed. And she never had to ask.

Their nights together stayed the same.

Mostly.

She’d enter the penthouse quietly. Leave her shoes by the door. Sometimes he was already home, waiting with dinner or a clean towel or just himself—half-dressed and reading on the couch wearing his glasses that make him look like an even bigger old man.

Sometimes he got home after her, muttering about meetings, his voice hoarse, jaw tense from hours of pretending he didn’t want to text her every five minutes.

But they always ended the night the same way. In bed. Tangled. Quiet. Bodies pressed close under too many sheets and not enough words.

He never said he missed her. But he texted her at 3:07 p.m. once after a brutal meeting with the board...

Old man Harry ❤️👴: This room is full of people who make me want to kill myself. You would’ve made it bearable.

She smiled when she read it. Didn’t respond right away. Let him sit in it. Later that night, when she curled up beside him, he didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around her waist like a reflex.

On Sunday mornings, they got bagels. It started accidentally. She had mentioned a craving for egg and cheese one night in passing, barely awake, face pressed into his chest.

He said nothing.

Then the next morning? Bagel. Wrapped in foil. Sitting on the counter.

She blinked at it.

“Did you—”

“I didn’t want to hear you complain later,” he muttered.

So now it was a thing. Bagels on Sunday. No talking until coffee. Her in his oversized shirts. Him in sweatpants with his hair pushed back, watching her read something on her phone while chewing with her mouth open.

“You’re disgusting,” he’d say.

“You’re in love with me,” she’d fire back.

He never answered. Just stared. Like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks in and they still weren’t a couple. Not in public. Not in labels. But in the way he made her tea when she lost her voice. In the way she slipped notes into his briefcase. In the way he bought her new socks and refused to acknowledge it.

They were something. Something real. Something building. And neither of them wanted to name it yet. But maybe they didn’t have to.

Because Harry wasn’t used to letting people stay.

And she?

She had the key.

And Harry knew he was fucked.

It was raining. Again.

Not the romantic kind, either. Not the bullshit people wrote about in novels. This was relentless New York rain. Cold, gray, street-soaking, ankle-wrecking rain. The kind that blurred the skyline and made everything feel too still and too loud at the same time.

His office windows, floor-to-ceiling and usually pristine, were streaked with water. He could barely see the city through them. Which was probably for the best. Because if he could see the Lower East Side right now, he might actually snap and send a helicopter.

He hadn’t heard from her since she’d texted around 9 p.m., after he dropped her off.

You: Frances is being dramatic tonight 🙄

That was it. No follow-up. No photo. Not even a meme. Just that. And now it was past 1 a.m.

Harry leaned back in his chair, phone resting facedown on the edge of his desk, his thumb twitching with the impulse to check it again.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He already had. Fifteen times.

“Frances,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

Across the room, Danny—half-asleep on the leather couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place—perked up.

“What?”

Harry didn’t look at him. Just ran a hand through his hair, glaring at the window like it had personally offended him.

“She texted me earlier. Said Frances was being dramatic.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Ooooh.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t.”

“Do you know who Frances is?”

“I assume…someone in her building?” Harry said, like it was obvious. Like that didn’t already make his throat itch with jealousy.

Danny sat up, cracking his neck. “You assume Frances is a neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“You sure Frances isn’t her ex?”

Harry froze. Very still.

Danny raised a brow, voice far too casual. “I mean. Sounds like something you'd say about someone you know well. Like an ex.”

“Don’t,” Harry warned again, but it was too late. The image was there now.

Frances. Laughing on her couch. Feet on her coffee table. Touching things that didn’t belong to him. Sleeping in a bed that did.

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“Maybe she’s a woman,” he said, but it didn’t land. Not when the image had already nested behind his eyes. Not when the silence that followed made him feel like a kicked dog.

Danny yawned, stretching. “Well, if she comes back tomorrow limping, we’ll know.”

Harry looked up so fast the pen in his hand dropped.

Danny cackled.

“Kidding.”

“Get out.”

Danny didn’t. He just flopped back down, arms behind his head. “You’re unwell.”

Harry didn’t argue. Because he was. He was so far gone he could feel it in the base of his spine. He’d sent the whole team home hours ago—mid-pitch.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t finish the goddamn Italy paperwork. The Italy contract—the Italy contract—was sitting open in front of him. A landmark deal.

A decade in the making. Acquisition of a sustainable architecture firm based out of Florence. Tens of millions. Possibly more, if the valuation shifted after Q2.

He was supposed to fly out on Thursday. There was a dinner with the lead architect, a walking tour of the property grounds, some presentation on green luxury Harry couldn’t pretend to care about.

They’d blocked out four days. Harry had almost signed it. Almost. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her in Italy.

He wanted her in a sundress and sunglasses she bought at a corner shop. He wanted to take her to restaurants where no one knew who he was—where they’d drink wine that tasted like cherries and share plates of pasta so good she’d groan with her mouth full.

He wanted to watch her tan—really tan—on a hotel balcony in nothing but one of his button-downs and sunscreen.

He wanted her bare legs kicked up on the dashboard of a rented car while he drove with the windows down and her hand on his thigh. He wanted her bored at a vineyard tour.

Wanted her to lean in and whisper something filthy in his ear just to see if he’d blush.

He wanted to fuck her in a hotel shower with the windows open, the Tuscan hills in the distance and her moaning into his neck like it was a prayer.

He wanted to fall asleep with her in a bed that smelled like citrus and sex, the sound of her breathing syncing with the rain on the villa roof.

He wanted to live with her. Just for a week. Just enough to make it real. To prove it wasn’t some New York fantasy.

Danny cleared his throat.

“You’re still here.”

Harry didn’t look up. “So are you.”

“Because I’m trying to get you to finish the Florence paperwork.”

“I will.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Danny stared at him. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stood.

“Jesus,” Danny muttered, grabbing his jacket. “You’re in love.”

Harry grabbed his own coat. “Drop me off.”

Danny blinked. “It’s 1 a.m.”

“I know where she lives.”

Danny didn’t argue. He just followed. They always got in separate cars. Harry always took the backseat. But tonight, he climbed into the passenger seat of Danny's Mercedes.

Danny glanced over. “You nervous?”

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The rain kept coming down. The roads were slick. The city lights blurry. But when they pulled onto her street, Harry felt it—

That low thrum in his chest. That ache. Because he knew this block. Knew it like a scar. She wasn’t just a girl he saw now. She was a rhythm in his life. A piece of the architecture.

Danny pulled up to the curb. Parked. Then turned, lips twitching.

“Good luck,” he said. “Maybe Frances wore her out.”

Harry shot him a look that could’ve killed. Danny just sent him a smirk. And Harry stepped out into the rain.

The air was sharp with that metallic wetness unique to New York downpours. Streetlights flickered against puddles. A pizza box floated past the curb like a makeshift raft.

And still—Harry didn’t rush. He took his time walking.

Her street in Lower East Side, uneven pavement, corners that smelled like cigarettes and Chinatown egg rolls—was familiar now.

He knew the rhythm of her block. He knew that the laundromat two doors down always had one broken dryer. He knew which deli overcharged for grapes.

And he knew the exact slab of sidewalk where she told him she once tripped while texting him. It was cracked slightly, a jagged edge of concrete peeking up like a warning. She’d texted him from the pavement, too.

You: You made me fall, jackass. I was smiling too hard.

That text had stayed in his phone longer than it should have.

He passed the bodega next. The one she claimed had the best dried mangoes in the city. She’d once spent thirty minutes ranting about the owner’s theories on aliens and glitter. Yes glitter.

Now Harry found himself slowing in front of the doors. Peering in. Wondering if the guy knew her name. Wondering if he knew about him.

By the time he reached her building, his shoulders were soaked. His shirt clung to his chest, collar sticking. His suit jacket was definitely ruined. But he didn’t care. He needed to see her. He hit the buzzer.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Nothing.

Then—finally—crackled static.

“…Hello?” Her voice was sleepy.

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then—

“Harry?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

More static. Then a muffled, rustling sound. “It’s—uh—4C. Come up.”

The buzzer rang. The door clicked. He took the stairs. She didn’t have an elevator. Of course she didn’t.

By the time he reached her floor, his heart was hammering for no reason. The hallway smelled like weed and soup dumplings. The walls were covered in scuff marks, and someone had drawn a crooked heart on one of the exit signs.

4C had a little sticker on the door. A cartoon ghost holding a margarita. He stared at it for a beat. Then knocked.

She opened the door in one of his shirts—his black one, faded from too many washes—hanging off one shoulder, loose like a dress. Her legs were bare except for cotton boxers with tiny strawberries on them. Her hair was pulled up messily. She looked flushed. And sleepy. And worried.

“You’re soaked,” she said immediately, pulling him inside by the lapel of his jacket. “Jesus, Harry.”

Her hands were already working to unbutton his coat. “Why didn’t you text? I thought you were working.”

“I couldn’t focus,” he said, watching her.

“You’re going to get sick,” she muttered, peeling the jacket off his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves. “Come here—hold still—”

He let her work, silent. She was warm hands and furrowed brows and concern in motion.

Once the jacket was off, she yanked at his tie. “This too.”

He raised a brow. “Undressing me already?”

“You showed up looking like the stock market,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

He smirked.

She disappeared for a second, then tossed him a pair of old gray sweatpants.

He caught them. Eyebrow raised. “You keep men’s sweats on hand?”

She groaned. “They’re Maya’s ex’s. Don’t get excited.”

He stepped into the living room fully now. And froze. Because for the first time, he was seeing where she lived.

Where she lived when she wasn’t with him.

The apartment was small. Lived in. Cluttered—but in a way that made it feel warm, not chaotic. Like every single thing inside of it had a story.

The living room was split between two mismatched couches—one thrifted velvet, the other beige corduroy with a sag in the middle. There were throw blankets in every texture imaginable—fleece, knit, faux fur.

The coffee table was covered in books, old takeout menus, half burnt candles in jars labeled sandalwood, fig, vanilla.

The walls were cluttered with art—some of it clearly Maya’s, some vintage posters, The Virgin Suicides, Before Sunrise, Blade Runner, Patti Smith’s Horses album, and a random framed photo of a pigeon wearing sunglasses.

The fridge in the kitchen was a museum of magnets and notes. There was even a shopping list written in red marker on the fridge door. It read

oat milk

cheez-its

limes

incense

Maya’s weird vegan yogurt

tampons

trash bags

candles (sex ones, not funeral ones)

wine

frozen waffles

cat food

Harry blinked at the last item.

“You have a cat?”

She paused. “...Yes?”

His jaw tensed. “Frances?”

She frowned. “What?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “You said Frances is being dramatic tonight.”

She blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. And pointed behind him.

Harry turned. And saw a large, grumpy-looking tabby cat perched on the windowsill. Staring at him with narrowed eyes like it knew he’d imagined something inappropriate.

“That’s Frances,” she said, snorting. “She’s named after Frances McDormand. She’s 16 and hates everything exept my heating pad.”

Harry stared at the cat. Then back at her. Then at the cat again.

“You thought Frances was a man?” she said, grinning.

“I thought Frances was your ex.”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing louder. “You showed up in the rain to confront me about an elderly cat?”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Shut up.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

He looked around again. At her world. At the chipped mugs on the dish rack—each one different. One said World’s Okayest Bartender, another had a faded drawing of a walrus. The scarf hanging from a coat hook was purple velvet, half-unraveled at one end.

There were keys on a lanyard that read BOSTON UNIVERSITY, and a half-full tote bag with a produce sticker still stuck to the bottom corner.

The shelf by the entryway overflowed with mail, cracked sunglasses, a tiny hand-painted dish full of bobby pins, and a single, slightly burnt birthday candle shoved into a chunk of ceramic shaped like a frog. The coffee table had three coasters but none of them matched. There were stickers slapped across the side of the fridge—Protect Roe, Biden Harris 2020, Elvis is Alive and So Am I.

In the bathroom, he passed by the open door and caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with rosewater toner and humidity. The mirror had streaks of lipstick.

Tampons sat on the counter beside an open tin of bobby pins. Dry shampoo. A chipped compact. An old mascara wand lying next to her makeup bag that looked like it had seen war. A pack of pink razors balanced on the edge of the sink like it might leap to freedom any minute.

The hallway wall had a row of hooks, all cluttered—coats, purses, canvas totes, one very fluffy pink bathrobe, and what looked like a dog leash even though she didn’t own a dog. The floor creaked in the middle.

And her bedroom—

Her bedroom was even more intimate. Twinkly lights looped around the ceiling like a soft halo. One strand flickered near the corner. The walls were covered—Cléo from 5 to 7, Velvet Underground, a retro ballet poster, another that read Prince's Purple Rain.

Dried lavender hung upside down beside a Polaroid photo strip taped above her dresser mirror. The dresser was cluttered with rings in tiny dishes, perfume bottles in varying levels of emptiness, tangled necklaces, and an open book of poetry facedown like she’d been reading and got distracted halfway through.

The bed wasn’t made. Worn sheets. Muted floral comforter rumpled down to the foot. A stuffed lamb with one ear bent sat on the pillow beside a pile of soft, mismatched throw blankets. There was a hoodie—his—draped over the headboard.

Her nightstand was pure chaos. A cracked phone charger plugged into an extension cord wrapped in colorful washing tape. A half-eaten cookie. Lip balm. A lighter. A box of allergy medicine. A stack of receipts, one with eggs, incense, LaCroix, cat treats, cherry cough drops scribbled on the back. An empty glass, a hair clip, and a worn paperback with the corner folded as a bookmark—The Secret History.

There was an incense holder shaped like a tiny hand. And beside that, a photo of her and a little girl in matching sunglasses, both sticking out their tongues. It was soft. Lived-in. Completely her.

And absolutely the opposite of Lucy’s old apartment. Lucy’s world had been cold glass vases with eucalyptus branches, arranged like she Googled elegant minimalism. White couches no one could sit on. Art that cost thousands but said nothing. A color-coded closet and a bathroom that looked like a Glossier pop-up—sterile, spotless, unloved.

This? This was chaos and warmth and late night pizza crumbs and nail polish spilled on tile. This was home.

And for reasons Harry couldn’t articulate—didn’t dare admit even to himself—he wanted to be a part of it. Even if it scared the hell out of him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said finally.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You didn’t. I mean, you did. But I’m glad.”

He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in. Lavender shampoo. Something floral. Her. Frances meowed loudly, interrupting the moment.

She pulled back. “She wants food. Hold on.”

As she went into the kitchen, Harry stood in the middle of her room, still dripping slightly, holding borrowed sweatpants in one hand and the ghost of something warmer than he knew what to do with in the other.

He was fucked. So, so fucked. And he didn’t want to leave. So that night Harry stayed. The rain hadn’t let up.

It fell in steady sheets against her bedroom window—so constant it was starting to sound like static. Or breath. Or the thud of a heartbeat pressed against his ear.

She was in boxers and one of his shirts.

He was in borrowed sweatpants from a man who didn’t matter.

And they were brushing their teeth together in a bathroom that smelled like rosewater and lavender. She bumped into him twice. Once on purpose. Once not. He didn’t care.

He’d forgotten what this felt like. Being near someone. Really near.

Not polished. Not curated. Not part of some long game. Just… here. In a too small bathroom. In her world. She leaned into the mirror to swipe a lip mask on her lips.

He watched her. Like she was art.

When she turned, he was still staring.

“What,” she asked, mouth soft.

“Nothing,” he said, voice lower than he meant. “I just like looking at... you.”

They left the light on. Left the door cracked. The apartment was dark except for that glow and the warm flicker of the TV.

Her bed wasn’t big. A full, maybe. But it held them both. Barely.

She threw the comforter over them, then curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her eyes were heavy, but she wasn’t ready to sleep. He shifted beside her, body pressed along the curve of hers. Not touching yet. Just close enough that the space between them buzzed.

And then she clicked on the remote. The TV was an old one—boxy, with a DVD player built into the side. It hummed softly as the disc spun.

He blinked. “Is that Sex and the City?”

She nodded. “Season four.”

He glanced down at her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You have the DVDs?”

“I’m not a heathen.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I haven’t seen a DVD player in a decade.”

She shrugged. “You’re missing out.”

The episode began. Carrie was monologuing. Samantha was best dressed. Charlotte was earnestly hopeful. Miranda was eating Chinese food in bed.

She rested her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his ribs. He felt it everywhere. The rain thudded gently on the window. Frances padded into the room and began eating delicately from her tiny floral bowl in the corner.

Harry reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “She always eats this late?”

“She’s nocturnal. Like me.”

He hummed. “You’re soft at night.”

She smiled against his skin. “You’re not.”

“No,” he agreed, brushing her arm with his fingers. “But I want to be.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Because you are.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Her body shifted, draping over his. One leg between his. One hand under his shirt, splayed against his stomach. She wasn’t trying to start anything. She just wanted to feel him.

And Harry? He let her.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Let the scent of her hair—lavender and something distinctly her—anchor him.

He wanted to tell her right then. About Italy. About the dinner. The villa. The way he imagined her laughing while wine sloshed in her glass. The way he pictured her sunburnt and barefoot, dancing in a linen dress she’d haggled for at a street market.

He wanted to tell her he’d already asked Danny to add a plus one. Wanted to beg her to come. To wake up with him somewhere coastal and quiet, where he could watch her dip into cold water and wrap herself in a towel and ask him what they were going to eat next.

But instead—

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Careful.

She sighed.

“Your heartbeat’s fast,” she murmured.

“You’re laying on my chest,” he said. “Of course it is.”

She smiled. “Mine too.”

Frances jumped up onto the bed and circled twice before curling against the back of Harry’s legs. Her fur was soft. Her breathing slow.

The rain pressed harder against the windows. The radiator clinked. The light from the TV flickered over the posters on the wall.

Onscreen, Carrie was questioning whether men were biologically capable of monogamy.

Harry whispered, “Jesus.”

She snorted. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I take everything personally.”

Her hand slid over his stomach again. A slow drag of her fingers, like she could calm something inside him. And maybe she did.

Because that night—

Harry Castillo slept in a tiny bed with a woman who wore his clothes and brushed her teeth with glitter-handled toothbrushes. He slept through the storm. He slept through Carrie’s voice.

He slept through the ache of every part of him that used to hurt.

Because in her world—this small, messy, beautiful world—he didn’t have to be the version of himself that scared people. He just had to be hers. And that was enough.

The morning soon came and of course he woke up first.

She was still asleep when Harry stirred. Pressed against his chest like she belonged there.

Which—by now—maybe she did.

The light coming in through the bedroom window was soft and overcast, the kind of gray that made you want to stay under the covers forever. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the air still smelled like it—clean, cool, quiet.

Harry was warm. Ridiculously warm.

Frances was curled up on his feet again, the cat’s soft purring vibrating faintly against his ankle.

And her—

She was wrapped around him. One leg tossed over his hip. One hand curled beneath his shirt—her shirt—she decided to throw on him last minute before bed. Face pressed to his neck, breath ghosting over his pulse.

He hadn’t moved for hours. Didn’t want to. The bed was small, but it had held them both. Just barely. There was something absurdly perfect about that. About how they fit.

He let his eyes drift open, blinking up at the ceiling plastered with glow in the dark stars. He hadn’t noticed them last night. She’d stuck them up there, probably years ago, probably drunk, maybe high. They weren’t aligned properly—some clustered too close, others spread out too wide—but it made Harry smile.

It was so her.

Then—

The door creaked.

His eyes shot to it, his arm tightening around her instinctively. And there she was.

Maya.

In sweats, hoodie up, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and half a bagel in her mouth. She froze in the doorway, chewing slowly as she saw them both.

Harry blinked. She blinked back.

And then—

She smiled.

“Morning,” she said, voice casual, still chewing. “I got bagels.”

His brows lifted. “Maya?”

“Mmhm.” She stepped fully into the room, walked past the bed like this wasn’t completely surreal, and set a brown paper bag on the desk. “One’s egg and cheese, one’s veggie, one’s plain. I got a discount so I went wild. You're not vegan, right?”

“I’m not.”

Maya nodded. “Cool.”

He opened his mouth to respond but then she stirred beside him.

She blinked. Then groaned. “Maya?”

“Hey, you.” Maya turned, already backing out. “Don’t get up. I’m leaving again. Nate broke one of the frames while carrying it up the stairs and I have to go reconstruct it before the opening or I’ll die. Eat your bagel.”

“Maya—”

“Love you, mean it.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her. Harry turned slowly.

She rubbed her eyes. “That’s Maya.”

“She seems…unfazed.”

“She walked in on me giving my high school boyfriend a blowjob in this same bed,” she mumbled. “This is practically G-rated.”

Harry choked. “Jesus Christ.”

She grinned, finally stretching. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, still blinking at the door. “She left you a bagel.”

“She’s thoughtful like that.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The air was warm. The room smelled like her shampoo and toasted everything bagels.

She sat up, reaching for the bag. “You want half?”

“I want the whole thing,” he muttered, watching the way her sleep shirt—his shirt—slipped off her shoulder as she handed it to him.

She raised a brow. “Of the bagel or me?”

Harry took a slow bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before answering.

“Yes.”

She laughed—quiet and groggy—and curled back into the blankets beside him while he finished eating.

The disc in her old TV menu-looped quietly in the background. And that was when Harry realized—

He didn’t want to leave. Not this apartment. Not her bed. Not this mess of a morning that felt like something he hadn’t let himself hope for. He looked down at her, at the way she was nibbling the corner of a veggie bagel and letting cream cheese smear across her knuckle without noticing.

And that was it. That was the moment. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse. Didn’t run it through his head a hundred times the way he usually did with big decisions. Because this wasn’t business.

This was her.

“Come to Italy with me.”

She blinked. Mid-bite. Mid-smear of cream cheese.

“What?”

He set his half-finished bagel on the napkin beside them.

“I want you to come to Italy with me,” he said again, softer now. “I leave in three days.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the joke. But there wasn’t one. Harry was deadly serious.

She swallowed. “You’re inviting me on a trip. To Italy.”

“It’s not a trip,” he said. “It’s a…thing. For work. Big contract. Private villa, vineyard dinner, all that bullshit. I need to be there to finalize some logistics.”

She blinked again.

“You want me to tag along to a work trip in another country?”

“I want you to be there.”

A pause.

“I want to see you sunkissed,” he murmured, voice dipping. “I want to watch you eat pasta with your fingers and lick sauce off your wrist. I want to soak with you in some overpriced marble tub with your legs wrapped around me, pretending we’re not real people.”

Her breath caught.

“I want you to hang off my arm and point at things in little shops and tell me they’re ugly and buy them anyway. I want you to fall asleep in my lap on a train. I want to hear what you sound like in another language.”

She didn’t speak.

Just stared at him.

“And yes,” he added, reaching out to brush a smudge of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. “I want you there at the dinner. I want you in a dress with your hair up and that little necklace you always wear. I want to introduce you as someone who makes the rest of this shit feel worth it.”

She swallowed hard. Tried to laugh. Failed.

“You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh?”

He nodded. “I’m old. I don’t have time for subtlety.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Frances can’t come.”

He blinked. “The cat?”

“She’s bad on planes.”

He laughed—genuine and warm—and reached for her hand beneath the sheets.

“You don't need to pay for a flight,” he said. “I have a jet. I want you there.”

She looked down at their hands. His thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles.

“Three days?”

He nodded.

“Do I have to wear heels?”

“Only if you want to kill me.”

She smiled. Bit her lip. Thought.

“Okay.”

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest.

“Okay?”

She nodded again, smaller this time. “Okay. I’ll come to Italy with you, old man.”

He didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. He just leaned forward and kissed her hand. Soft. Simple. Grateful.

Frances leapt up onto the bed, meowing loudly.

“Guess she wants to come too,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“She’s not allowed.”

“She’ll sue.”

“She can try.”

They laid back down—Harry still half-clothed, her shirt riding up at the hem—and just breathed for a moment. Rain tapped lightly against the windows again. The smell of warm bagels lingered in the air.

And Harry Castillo? For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or numbers or failing. He was thinking about sunlit train rides. About her in linen. About the taste of wine off her mouth in a country that didn’t know who they were.

He was thinking about falling in love.

And maybe—

Just maybe—

She was too.

They didn’t move for a while after that. Just laid there in the warmth of her small, chaotic bedroom—bagel crumbs on the sheets, Frances purring between them, her bare leg draped over his thigh like it belonged there.

Eventually though, real life crept back in. It started with a stretch. Then a yawn.

Then her mumbling, “I should shower.”

To which Harry responded, “I’ll die if you move right now.”

But she did. Of course she did.

She slipped out of bed with that effortless, half-asleep grace, hair tangled, his shirt riding up over her thighs. She padded barefoot across the hardwood and vanished into the bathroom without another word.

Harry stayed in bed for another five minutes. Just… thinking. About Italy. About her. About the fact that she said yes. Then—he got up. Went to the kitchen to get water. That’s when he opened her fridge.

And paused.

It wasn’t empty, exactly.

Jars of random sauces. A half-used block of feta. Mismatched Tupperware with exactly two bites of leftovers. A dozen eggs, one cracked. A bag of spinach that looked like it had been forgotten in a war zone. Five different types of hot sauce. A single mini vodka.

There were ingredients. But no actual food.

And Harry?

Harry had spent the last decade with a private chef and a housekeeper. His pantry looked like an organic catalog.

This? This was something else.

She padded back into the kitchen, hair damp, teeth brushed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “What?”

He turned from the fridge, holding up a sad little container of pickled onions. “This is your dinner?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Sometimes I make pasta.”

“Out of hot sauce and… half a lemon?”

“Adds flavor.”

Harry looked at her like she was a war orphan. She grinned.

He shut the fridge. “We’re going to the store.”

“Harry—”

“I’m not letting you live like this.”

She leaned against the counter, playful. “You trying to domesticate me?”

He walked past her, smacked a kiss on her temple, and muttered, “Put on real shoes.”

They stopped at his penthouse first.

“I’m not going to the store in a suit,” he explained as they stepped off the elevator.

She looked him up and down. He had put his suit back on after she left it hanging up to dry overnight.

“You look like you’re about to close on a skyscraper.”

He loosened his collar. “Exactly. I want to buy produce, not acquire a hedge fund.”

She made herself comfortable while he changed. Shoes off. Feet up. Sitting sideways on his pristine leather couch with Frances curled beside her in her tote bag like a queen.

When Harry emerged again, everything shifted. He was in a navy fleece. Dark jeans. Clean sneakers. His hair was pushed back carelessly, and he looked—God, he looked like a boyfriend. Like a rich, brooding, ridiculously hot boyfriend who didn’t like other men looking at his girl.

Which he proved five minutes later.

The market was close. Not some chaotic Manhattan chain store.

This place was a little upscale. A little overpriced. The kind with hand-written chalk signs and fancy cheese displays and a barista in the corner who actually knew what cortado meant.

He parked on the street and opened the door for her.

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“So why do you?”

“Because if I don’t, some other asshole will.”

She blinked then laughed. “Jesus.”

Harry took her hand as they walked inside.

Casual. Like it was just a thing he did. But when two guys standing near the tomato stand turned to stare at her—eyes lingering a second too long—Harry’s entire body tensed.

She didn’t notice. But he did. Every glance. Every flick of attention. Every half-smirk and second look.

It wasn’t just because she was beautiful. It was the way she walked. The way she moved. The way she laughed when she picked up a can of whipped cream and shook it at him.

“You ever had this on strawberries?”

He blinked. “...No.”

She grinned. “Tragic.”

He didn’t respond. Just added two pints of strawberries and the whipped cream to their basket. She pushed the cart. He added things quietly as they passed them.

Olive oil. Sea salt. Fancy cereal she probably didn’t even like but the box looked pretty. Pasta made by a brand with an unpronounceable name. Parmesan wrapped in wax paper. Fresh basil.

He let her pick the bread. Watched her fingers dance over the loaves before finally choosing one with sesame seeds. He’d never cared what bread tasted like before. But now?

He wanted to watch her butter that slice and eat it on his couch with her knees tucked under her, wearing one of his shirts again.

They turned down the wine aisle.

She held up a bottle. “This one?”

He checked the label. “You like reds?”

“I like this red.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s twenty-one dollars.”

Harry raised a brow. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and added it to the cart anyway.

He followed behind her, watching the way her fingers curled over the cart handle, the way she tapped her nails when she was thinking.

A guy walked past. Looked directly at her ass.

Harry moved instantly—slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek like it was nothing.

The guy looked away. Quickly.

She leaned in, amused. “Was that possessive or horny?”

“Yes,” Harry murmured.

At checkout, she pulled out her wallet. Harry didn’t even blink. Just slid his card into the reader before she could open it.

“Harry—”

“You’re heading to a whole other county with me.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you fucking groceries.”

She sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

She didn’t respond.

Just kissed his jaw and whispered, “Thank you.”

They carried the bags back to the car, her arms full, the air still damp from the rain.

Frances meowed softly from her tote, swatting at the handle of the bread bag.

“Frances, if you break my focaccia, you’re not going to Italy.”

“She’s not going to Italy.”

“She’s gonna file a complaint.”

“She’s gonna stay with Maya.”

They both laughed.

Back at her place, they unpacked side by side. She tossed him a bag of spinach.

He raised a brow. “You’re gonna use this?”

“Maybe.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I am judging you.”

She elbowed him.

He stole a piece of her cheese.

Frances curled up on the window sill.

The kitchen smelled like basil and citrus and something that could have been the beginning of a life.

Harry leaned back against the counter. Watched her move. Watched the way her fingers brushed crumbs off the cutting board.

And he thought—

This. This was what he’d been missing. Not the girl. Not just her body. But the mundanity of it.

The way she stood barefoot while she put the yogurt in the fridge. The way she hummed to herself while sorting the pantry. The way her hand brushed his like it meant nothing—and everything.

He couldn’t remember what it was like not to want this. And maybe he didn’t want to.

It was the day before they left for Italy.

And Harry was folding her socks.

That alone would’ve been enough to send Danny into early retirement if he’d seen it.

Moments like this, when Harry Castillo, billionaire, former tabloid cryptid, was sitting on a floor of a cramped Lower East Side apartment, cross-legged, carefully rolling tiny pairs of white ankle socks into little cotton donuts and lining them up in the corner of a borrowed suitcase in her bedroom—made her feel happy.

So fucking happy.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she mumbled from the bed, half-asleep, cheek pressed into the duvet.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re rolling them like they’re cigars.”

“They’re supposed to be tight.”

“They’ll stretch out.”

Harry didn’t look up. “They’re socks.”

“Yeah, and you’re acting like you’re assembling high-grade explosives.”

He smirked faintly, tucking another rolled pair into the suitcase. “I take packing seriously.”

She opened one eye. “You once told me you haven’t packed your own bag in five years.”

“That was before you made me human again.”

She blinked. He kept rolling socks. Like he hadn’t just said the most quietly devastating thing of all time.

Packing had taken hours.

Partly because she kept getting distracted and forgetting what she’d already folded.

Partly because Harry had brought over a suitcase from his place—one of those sleek matte black things with TSA locks and wheels that didn’t squeak—and she kept insisting it looked like a tiny armored vehicle.

“I can’t believe I’m borrowing your suitcase,” she’d muttered earlier that day, trying to cram a bathing suit and two sundresses into it at once.

“You didn’t have one.”

“I have a duffel bag.”

Harry looked horrified. “That’s not a suitcase. That’s a threat.”

She threw a sock at him.

He ducked, grinning.

She hadn’t traveled internationally in years. Her passport was expired until recently—she only renewed it because Maya begged her to.

The last stamp it had? San Francisco. Age 20. Two broke girls, a shared Airbnb, one near-death experience on a rented bike, and a night of crying on a beach with champagne from CVS.

Now she was going to Italy.

With Harry fucking Castillo. On his private jet.

And somehow, he still got excited watching her zip up a suitcase.

They barely slept the night before the flight. Too many nerves. Too many lists.

She kept checking her phone to make sure her passport was actually in her bag.

Harry watched her, amused. Said nothing.

Instead, he busied himself in her kitchen, making tea they didn’t drink and cutting fruit they didn’t eat.

He couldn’t sit still.

Not because of the trip.

Because of the envelope.

It had come two days ago.

A thin ivory card tucked inside pale pink stationary, his name written in looping gold script across the front

Mr. Harry Castillo + Guest You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lucy & John Saturday, June 8th, 2025 2:30 PM Chatham Bars Inn Cape Cod, Massachusetts

There was a note scribbled at the bottom in faint pen.

In Lucy's writing.

No pressure if you can’t come. We’d still love to see you.

Harry had stared at it for ten full minutes before tucking it under a file on his desk and pretending it hadn’t arrived.

He hadn’t told her.

Not because he was hiding anything. Not really. But because he didn’t want to bring Lucy into this. Into them.

Not when she was standing barefoot in his shirt, trying to find her phone charger and muttering about whether three pairs of jeans were “too many.”

Not when she called out, “Did I pack underwear already?” and he responded,

“Twelve pairs.”

Not when she looked at him across the room like he was something safe.

He would tell her eventually. Just…not yet.

The morning of the flight came quietly. It was still dark when the alarm buzzed.

She groaned. “What time is it?”

“2:30.”

“In the morning?”

“You agreed to this.”

“I was in love with you when I agreed. I’ve changed my mind.”

Harry smirked and sat up, sliding a hand through his hair. Frances jumped onto the bed and meowed directly into his face.

“She’s saying don’t leave me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“She’s saying feed me.”

She rolled over and stared at him. “Do you always look like that when you wake up?”

Harry blinked. “Like what?”

“Like someone just photoshopped exhaustion and sex appeal.”

He threw a pillow at her.

By 3 a.m., Danny was downstairs in the car, already texting.

Danny: I’m not saying we’re late, but we’re late.

Danny: I have coffee. And donuts. And two kinds of Dramamine.

Harry grabbed the suitcase, double-checked her passport, triple-checked the address with Danny, and then took one last look around her apartment.

She was saying goodbye to Frances, promising her the neighbor would stop by and that Maya would be back by sunrise.

Harry just… watched her.

The way she knelt down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

The way she whispered, “Don’t pee on my rug just to spite me, you little demon.”

He smiled to himself.

The car ride was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows.

She curled up in the back seat with his sweatshirt tucked under her chin. Harry held her hand.

Danny sat in the passenger seat, wisely keeping his mouth shut except to say, “It’s a beautiful jet, by the way. You’re gonna be insufferable about it.”

She looked up sleepily. “Is it big?”

Harry kissed her fingers. “It’s private.”

She grinned. “I feel like a Bond girl.”

The jet was waiting. Sleek. Immaculate. Tucked away on the private runway like something out of a movie.

She blinked when they pulled up. “That’s… ours?”

Harry nodded.

Danny sighed. “Yours. I still fly commercial.”

Inside, the cabin was pristine.

Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. A tiny bar in the corner already stocked with orange juice and sparkling water and espresso pods.

Harry showed her how to buckle the seatbelt. How to adjust the window shade. Where the snacks were.

She laughed. “Are you my flight attendant now?”

“Only on this airline,” he muttered.

Once they took off, she pressed her face to the window, watching the skyline disappear.

He sat beside her, legs stretched out, arm slung over the back of her seat.

Danny popped in once. Dropped off croissants. Said something about Italian cell service and their hotel driver. Then vanished again.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

He watched her fall asleep mid-sentence, lips parted slightly, hair tucked under her hoodie.

He didn’t move. Didn’t work. Didn’t check his phone.

Just… stayed beside her.

And for the first time since that ivory envelope arrived—

He didn’t think about Lucy.

Didn’t think about what might’ve been.

Didn’t think about anything but the fact that in a few short hours, they’d land in a city made of light and wine and ancient stone.

And he’d get to see her walk through it.

Get to hear her gasp at things he’d seen a thousand times.

Get to hold her hand while she ate gelato and pointed at pigeons and got overwhelmed in a market stall and accidentally bought a tablecloth because she thought the vendor was complimenting her hair.

He didn’t want anyone else there.

Just her. And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had always been.

They landed at exactly 5:32 PM local time.

The air was different. Warmer, even in early evening. The light had a honeyed edge to it—soft gold and long shadows draped across the tarmac like something out of a postcard. The jet slowly came to a stop as she blinked blearily at the window, hoodie bunched around her waist, tank top loose and clinging. No bra.

Harry glanced over at her, the edge of his mouth twitching.

"You’re going to give someone a heart attack the second we step off this plane."

She yawned. "Good. Let them die seeing something beautiful."

He almost smiled.

As soon as the door opened, the energy shifted.

Three black cars waited on the runway. Two assistants in pressed suits stood beside them, flanked by a driver and what looked like a security consultant in a tailored gray jacket. The woman in front stepped forward immediately, beaming like Harry personally discovered electricity.

One sign read: CASTILLO PARTY – VILLA LUMEN.

"Mr. Castillo! Welcome back. We’re honored. Truly."

Harry gave a brief nod, hand resting on the small of her back.

The woman turned to her next. "Mrs. Castillo, we hope the flight was comfortable. We’ve arranged everything at the villa. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need."

She froze. Blinked. But Harry didn’t correct her.

Neither did she.

He just squeezed her hip gently and muttered, "Let them think whatever they want."

The drive was smooth, luxurious, absurd.

The countryside blurred past—green vineyards, cypress trees, stone walls bathed in sunset. Their driver offered wine and chilled sparkling water in crystal-cut glasses. The seats reclined. The windows were tinted so deeply she could’ve fallen asleep again without anyone noticing.

But she stayed awake. Watching Harry.

Watching the way he relaxed by degrees, slowly, as the city disappeared behind them.

When they pulled up to the villa, she nearly forgot how to speak.

It was unreal.

Terracotta walls. Ivy-covered balconies. Lavender blooming along the path leading up to the entrance. White roses climbing up the columns. A view that stretched over the hills for what looked like miles.

Inside, everything smelled like lemon and clean linen. Marble floors, arched windows, a winding staircase made of stone.

Their hosts didn’t linger.

Just offered soft words, a bow, and a smile before vanishing with the promise, “Dinner will be served at eight. You are encouraged to rest until then.”

She just stared, slowly spinning in a circle, looking at every detail of the place.

"They put us in the west wing," Harry muttered, fingers lightly brushing her back as they were led upstairs.

"We have wings now?"

He looked at her. "We have whatever the fuck we want."

The bedroom made her stop walking.

A carved wooden bed stood in the middle, sheets white and impossibly soft. The balcony doors were open, a breeze dancing in. Beyond them—vineyards. Hills. A sky slowly turning the color of ripe apricots.

There were flowers on the nightstand.

A bottle of wine already uncorked.

Macarons in a glass bowl.

She lets out a sigh, closing her eyes as she makes her way out onto the balcony.

"Is this a honeymoon suite?" she whispered.

Harry didn’t answer.

He stepped behind her instead. Hands on her waist. Lips grazing her neck.

"Come here."

She turned in his arms, breath catching. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight. There was something restless behind it. Something feral.

"You’re quiet," she murmured.

He studied her face. His hands slid under her tank top.

"You smell like a fucking dream."

She arched a brow. "That’s not an answer."

"I haven’t touched you in days."

Her stomach clenched.

"I noticed."

He kissed her.

Hard.

Like he was angry at himself for waiting. Like he’d been hungry for weeks. Like her mouth was the only thing that could make him human again.

Her back hit the stone and he lifted her onto the bench, hands gripping her thighs, dragging her tank top down, mouth never leaving hers. She gasped when the cold air hit her chest—bare, sensitive—and he groaned deep in his throat.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were locked on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over them like he was memorizing. "You’re so fucking pretty. You don’t even know."

She bit her lip. "Then show me."

And he did.

He kissed down her throat, down the center of her chest, sucking, licking, dragging his teeth along soft skin until she was squirming. Until her thighs squeezed around his hips. Until she said his name like it meant something.

Then—

He dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On the balcony.

The breeze blew gently around them, the smell of lavender and wine in the air. Her tank top was shoved up, her shorts already pushed down her thighs. She slowly slid down the bench.

And Harry looked up at her like she was something sacred.

"Keep your eyes on me."

She did.

She watched him lick a stripe up her slit, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting something rare. She cried out, legs shaking, hands grasping for the stone railing behind her.

He groaned again. "You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted."

His tongue was relentless—circling, flicking, sucking. His grip on her thighs was bruising, grounding her, holding her open like he couldn’t get enough.

She tried to speak. Failed.

He slid two fingers inside her—slow at first, curling perfectly—then fast, then deeper, fucking her open while his mouth devoured her.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

She whimpered.

He sucked harder.

"Say my name."

She did.

Over and over.

Until she shattered.

Until her legs gave out and he had to catch her.

He stood, scooping her up like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently.

Then he kissed her again—messy, hungry, licking her taste off his lips and moaning like he was drunk.

"I can’t stop," he muttered. "You do something to me. You ruin me."

She pulled at his shirt. He let her.

Let her undress him like she owned him.

And when he pushed inside her, slow and deep and all at once—

It wasn’t just fucking.

It was worship.

It was raw, reverent, almost painful in its intensity. He braced one hand against the mattress and the other curled around the back of her neck, holding her gaze like he couldn’t bear to look away. Like he needed to see every twitch of her mouth, every blink, every gasp that left her lips as he thrust into her again and again, steady and deep and so achingly deliberate.

She breathed his name like a prayer, fingers tangled in his hair, lips parted with pleasure. Her body arched to meet every movement, desperate to be closer, to swallow him whole.

Harry moved like he was etching something permanent into her—like he wanted to mark her from the inside. His mouth brushed her cheek, her jaw, her lips between every breathless exhale.

"You feel like heaven," he rasped. "You feel like mine."

She whimpered at that—at the way he said it like a truth carved into stone.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Tongue teasing her mouth open as his hips rolled in a rhythm that was almost cruel in how good it felt. Like he knew exactly how to undo her.

One of her hands slipped down, tracing over his side, his back, clutching at him as if to make sure he stayed there. As if she couldn’t take the chance he’d pull away.

And he didn’t.

He never faltered. Never let her go. Just kept moving—fucking her with care, with need, with that terrifying depth he never shared with anyone else.

She tightened around him, legs trembling, her voice breaking as she said his name, pleaded, begged.

He whispered into her mouth, "I’ve got you. Come for me. Right now. That’s it—fuck—just like that."

Her body arched, then shattered beneath him.

And he followed.

A low groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into her, thrusts faltering, his whole body shaking from the force of it. His forehead pressed to hers. Their breath tangled. Their pulses frantic.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t say anything.

Just held her.

One hand cupping the side of her face, the other stroking her waist in lazy, absentminded circles.

Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth soft, expression unreadable.

Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Thank you."

She blinked. "For what?"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He just kissed her shoulder, slow and reverent, and stayed there.

Outside, the Tuscan night whispered around them—

Soft. Endless. Real.

The air inside the villa was thick with the ghost of everything they’d just done. Her skin still tingled. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady waves. She was sprawled across the sheets, hair a mess, limbs boneless, skin flushed with afterglow and the faintest imprint of the linen texture pressed into her back.

The room still smelled like sex and sunlight.

Harry was quiet beside her.

Not cold. Not distant.

Just...quiet. Like the kind of silence that comes only after something tectonic. Like he was letting the earth settle. Like something had cracked open and they were both just standing in the new air, breathing it in.

His thumb moved absently along her waist, tracing lazy circles. He was still half-hard, still close, but not demanding more.

Not yet. He just needed to be here. In it. With her.

She rolled over onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. His skin was warm and smelled like wine and her perfume and faint lavender from the villa sheets. Familiar and new at the same time.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

She let her fingers trail along the curve of his chest, nails faint, almost ticklish. She counted the moles across his sternum. He hummed at that, deep in his throat, then exhaled slowly, one big hand sliding up to rest on the back of her head.

“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled against his collarbone.

“No, I’m not.”

“You have a dinner.”

“I said what I said.”

She laughed quietly. “Harry.”

“I don’t care if we show up looking like we just fucked.”

“We did just fuck.”

“Exactly.”

She nudged his rib with her knee. “You have to shower, old man.”

He groaned. “You’re the reason I’m sweaty.”

“You’re the reason you’re grumpy.”

He cracked one eye open. “You wanna say that again?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Shower. Now.”

Eventually, they moved.

Reluctantly.

Limbs tangled as they rolled off the bed. Her thighs ached. She was sore in the most decadent way. Her body felt loose and tender and entirely his. He offered a hand as she stepped down from the mattress—mock-gentlemanly, fake regal—and she accepted it with a smirk and a dramatic curtsey.

The bathroom was all marble and glass. Golden light spilled in from the balcony, painting the countertops in warm hues. The shower was massive—big enough for two, maybe three. Probably four if they stacked right.

She turned the water on.

He watched her.

Always watching.

When the steam curled around their bodies, she stepped in first. Hot water sluiced down her back, her shoulders, her spine.

She sighed as it hit her skin. A low sound. Almost grateful. Almost reverent.

Harry followed.

No words. Just hands.

Big hands. Careful hands. Hands that had held her like she might vanish, that had gripped her thighs and touched the softest parts of her like they were sacred. Like she was.

He grabbed the soap first.

Rubbed it between his palms, lathered slowly. Then—gently, reverently—dragged his hands over her back.

Her shoulders. Her arms. Her stomach. Her hips. Down to the back of her knees.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He washed her like she was precious. Like she was something ancient and delicate and holy. He kissed the top of her spine. The curve behind her ear. Rinsed her hair with long, slow strokes. Massaged her scalp until she leaned back into him, humming.

She returned the favor.

Lathered his chest. His arms. Dragged the soap down the deep lines of his stomach with slow, teasing fingers. She worked the shampoo into his hair, watching his eyes flutter closed. When she got to his thighs, he groaned.

“Behave.”

She didn’t.

He pulled her close, water cascading over their bodies, their skin slick and clean and flushed with something almost unbearable.

She reached for a cloth and gently wiped behind his ears.

“I’m not your child.”

“You’re acting like one.”

He grabbed her waist and yanked her flush against him.

They stayed like that until their fingers pruned.

Then—finally—they dried off.

She wrapped herself in one of the impossibly soft robes from the villa.

Harry did the same, though his looked comically small on him. She giggled when it barely covered his thighs.

“Say a word and I’ll throw you into the courtyard.”

“Promise?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have international security clearance. No one would know.”

Back in the bedroom, the air had shifted. Still warm. Still gold-lit. But now it felt like transition. Like preparation. Like a pause before the world returned.

The suitcase sat open on the bench at the foot of the bed. A half-folded silk dress draped over the edge. His suit jacket hung on a chair.

“Unpack?” she asked.

He nodded.

They worked together.

Unpacking side by side.

She folded his shirts. He folded her underwear.

Her fingers danced over his cologne bottle, the one she always associated with him. She set it gently on the nightstand beside a small glass of water. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced over. Noted it.

He placed her hairbrush beside the bathroom sink, untangling a few of her strands caught in the bristles.

She rolled her socks and tucked them into the drawer. Folded her pajamas. Lined her skin care in a neat row.

He lined his ties on the shelf like a ritual. Stacked his cufflinks in the tray she passed him.

They shared the space. Merged into it. No questions asked. No territory claimed.

She hung up her dresses into the villa wardrobe. He adjusted the hangers. Steamed the back of her dress when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed his charger cable was frayed. She pulled one from her tote and handed it over without a word.

He opened a small velvet box and revealed a delicate necklace he’d packed for her without telling her.

“Wear this,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You packed jewelry?”

“You didn’t.”

Her lips curved.

The moment lingered.

Then—getting ready.

She stood at the vanity, pulling a comb through her damp hair. He stood beside her, shaving. Both in their robes. Moving in tandem. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. The kind of rhythm you can’t fake.

She did her makeup slowly, lip balm first, then liner, then a whisper of mascara. A little blush.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt beside her, fingers methodical. Buttoned his cuffs. Straightened his sleeves.

She reached for perfume. He paused, watching.

“You use that every day huh.”

“I do.”

He leaned down. Smelled her neck. “Still there.”

Then he asked if she could spray some on him.

She smiled.

He walked into the closet to grab his belt. She watched the way his robe opened slightly as he moved, the lines of his body still lingering with the softness of their morning.

Then—clothes.

She slipped the silk dress over her shoulders. It was pale. Bare-backed. Barely structured. The kind of dress you wore in Italy when you weren’t sure if you were someone’s date or someone’s downfall.

Harry froze when he saw her in it.

She turned.

“Too much?”

His jaw flexed. “You’re not changing.”

She smirked.

He moved closer. Adjusted the straps like they were made of glass. Tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Let his thumb brush her collarbone.

“You’re going to make this very hard for me.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t know what I was inviting.”

“Yes, you did.”

He said nothing.

Just buttoned his shirt.

Put on his watch.

Slid into the jacket like he was donning armor. Sharp and deliberate.

She watched from the bed.

Hair pinned up now. Lipstick barely there. One heel dangling from her foot. Legs crossed like temptation.

“You look mean,” she said.

“I am mean.”

She grinned. “But you smell nice.”

He offered a hand. She took it.

They stood in front of the mirror together.

Perfect opposites.

Dark suit. Soft silk. Sharp jaw. Warm smile. Something dangerous, something beautiful.

Together.

They didn’t say much after that.

Just breathed.

The dinner.

Work.

But for now—

It was just them.

But not for long.

Because at exactly 8:17 p.m.—fashionably, just barely, late—the knock came.

Three soft raps on the thick villa door, followed by a polite, accented voice calling, "Mr. Castillo? Your guests are seated. The drinks are being served."

Harry exhaled slowly. A breath through his nose. One final glance at her.

She looked unreal.

Silk dress. Loose updo. That faint smudge of color on her lips that made his mouth twitch every time he looked too long. Her necklace—the one he picked—rested delicately on her collarbone like it belonged there.

He didn’t say anything.

Just offered his arm.

She took it.

And down they went.

Dinner was being served under a pergola lit by strands of woven golden lights. The villa’s courtyard stretched out before them like something out of a dream—white linen table, wine glasses already half-full, the sound of crickets humming in the background.

Candlelight danced across bottles of olive oil and bowls of olives, and the scent of rosemary and garlic wafted from a nearby kitchen. Cicadas buzzed low in the distance, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the rustic stone tiles.

There were twelve seats.

Ten already filled.

Harry’s partners were an intimidating mix—Italian, British, and New York-bred tycoons with slick smiles and suspiciously quiet watches. Their wives, dressed in silk and linen and quiet diamonds, turned when Harry and she arrived—eager, observant, their eyes already cataloging every detail.

Like predators sizing up a rare animal at the watering hole.

Lorenzo and Marcella sat closest to the head. Lorenzo was tall, leonine, late fifties, with thick white hair and a voice like a cello. Marcella wore a linen suit and pearls, her Italian accent soft and theatrical. She was always watching.

Next to them—Livia and Paolo. Livia had a sharp chin, a sharper voice, and a body that looked sculpted from Florence marble. Paolo wore a navy suit that screamed Milan, his cufflinks catching the candlelight.

And at the far end, Francesca and Luca.

Francesca looked like a Donna Tartt character. Blunt bob, smudged eyeliner, a cigarette nearly lit. She wore a sheer black blouse over a vintage slip and held her wine glass like it was an accessory. Her smile was the kind that knew secrets.

Luca barely spoke. Just watched. Calculating.

And then there was Danny.

"Harry!" Marcella called, standing with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "We were starting to think you’d eloped."

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d know. It’d be on the news within the hour.”

There were polite laughs. The kind that had more teeth than warmth.

He pulled out her chair before taking his own. It was a subtle motion. Protective. Possessive. Deliberate. A quiet claim staked in linen and candlelight.

Francesca’s eyes sparkled.

Marcella tilted her head. “And this is…?”

Harry rested one hand on the back of her chair. "My girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—

Marcella blinked. "Girlfriend?"

Livia raised a brow. “That’s new.”

Paolo chuckled. “She’s beautiful. Young, too. You’ve been holding out on us, Castillo.”

Harry didn’t smile. Just picked up his wine.

“She’s not a secret. She’s just not your business.”

Marcella laughed, waving her hand. “You know us. We’re nosy. Besides, the wives are all dying to know. We have a betting pool.”

“Jesus,” Harry muttered, under his breath.

Francesca leaned over to her. “Don’t mind them. They’re all bored and drunk on red wine and old money.”

She smiled.

“I’m Francesca,” the woman said. “And you—are fascinating.”

The meal began.

Plates of antipasti. Olive tapenade, roasted tomatoes, shaved fennel, slices of prosciutto that melted on the tongue. Tiny burrata drizzled with balsamic. Warm focaccia with rosemary. Bowls of almonds and figs.

It was decadent without trying to be. Effortless luxury.

Harry stayed quiet for most of it. Sharp-eyed, tense-shouldered. Only relaxing slightly when she brushed her leg against his under the table. She could feel the energy buzzing off him—wary, protective, always watching.

She found herself in conversation with Francesca quickly.

Books.

They talked about books.

“I just reread The Secret History,” Francesca said, swirling her wine. “Still makes me want to commit academic murder.”

She grinned. “I always wanted to be Bunny. Not in spirit. In wardrobe.”

“Tragic prep chic.”

“Exactly.”

Harry glanced over at that. Quiet approval in his gaze.

Francesca lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her in elegant swirls. “Who are your favorites?”

She shrugged. “Zadie Smith. Donna Tartt. Ottessa Moshfegh, but only when I’m feeling unwell. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of Didion.”

Francesca beamed. “You and I are going to get along dangerously well.”

Livia leaned in across the table. “How did you two meet?”

Harry stiffened.

She opened her mouth.

He beat her to it.

“Page Six is going to run that story in a week. Ask them.”

More laughter. More glances. More eyes like spotlights.

Marcella pressed on. “It’s just surprising, Harry. You’re not… known for romance.”

He smirked. “I’m not known for a lot of things I am.”

Paolo raised his glass. “Is she moving in?”

Harry stays silent, starting to scowl at Paolo.

“Soon?” He pushes. He keeps on fucking pushing.

Harry didn’t answer. But his hand brushed hers under the table.

Francesca spoke instead. “Let them be. Love doesn’t have a lease agreement.”

Marcella sipped her wine. “But surely it’s serious. You brought her to Italy.”

Livia leaned in again. "And what’s the age gap, if you don’t mind me asking?"

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“I do mind.”

Marcella laughed, shaking her head. “We’re just curious. You know how it is. Older men and beautiful women. It’s a tale as old as time.”

“She’s not a tale,” Harry said flatly. “She’s a person.”

That shut them up.

For a beat.

Then—

Lorenzo, quiet until now, finally spoke. “And what about Lucy?”

The table paused.

Her stomach dropped.

Harry didn’t blink. “What about her.”

Lorenzo shrugged. “Just surprised to see you here with this girl, that’s all. I'd thought you'd be reeling from shock over Lucy sending you an invitation to her wedding.”

How did he know.

How the fuck did he know?

She froze next to him.

Her hand stopped rubbing his out of comfort.

Harry’s jaw ticked. “We haven’t RSVPed.”

Marcella’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You were invited?”

“Apparently.”

“Wow,” Livia said. “That’s bold. Isn’t she marrying that waiter?”

“John,” Paolo supplied.

“Oh, right. The bohemian.”

“She's not my girlfriend anymore, so stop bringing her up.” Harry said. Cold. Even.

Livia raised a brow. “But she was.”

Silence.

He stared down at Livia. “She isn’t now.”

She didn’t say anything.

But her body went still.

Francesca noticed. She shifted slightly, nudging her foot against hers under the table. A quiet, unspoken solidarity.

The conversation moved on.

Sort of.

She laughed at something Francesca said about poetry readings and obscure authors who only write in lowercase.

But inside—

Something tightened.

He hadn’t told her.

About the wedding.

About the invite.

About any of it.

She smiled. She clinked her wine glass. She even leaned into his arm when dessert was served—some kind of lemon tart with burnt sugar and pistachio.

But something shifted.

Just slightly.

A hairline crack in the evening.

Not enough to break it.

Just enough to notice.

Francesca asked her if she’d read Bluets.

She nodded. “Three times.”

They talked about heartbreak. About writing through pain. About how nobody writes yearning like Nina LaCour.

Harry kept his hand on her lower back. Gentle. Present.

But she wasn’t fully there anymore.

When Harry looked down at her later—when the stars came out and the wine dulled most of the tension in the room—he noticed it too.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He wanted to ask.

But didn’t.

Because he already knew why.

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #materialists fanfic #harry castillo x you #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x reader #joel miller writing #joel miller x y/n #joel tlou #pedro pascal fandom #the materialists #the materialists fanfic #Spotify

561 notes · View notes

tomsparkyr · 2 days ago

Text

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!

following episode three of 'inside' — george clarke x fem!reader

by any means i do not own 'inside' and all credit is theirs (!!)

and please no stealing of my work !!

(ps, i just wanna say thank you so so much to everyone helping me, i was so nervous to say something about it and had no idea how to handle it and i'm so grateful for every single one of you i genuinely love you and these chapters are for all of you, please enjoy🤍🤍🤍)

(pps, also anyone who’s requested stuff it will be written once i’ve finished this story!)

wc: 5.6K

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Insiders, please gather in the living room.”

The blaring voice of Tobi rang out in the bedroom, startling you as you woke up from your slumber. You found yourself curled up into a bed you weren’t familiar with, it didn’t smell like you so you could definitely determine that it wasn’t yours; also the strong arms wrapped around you were definitely not your own.

Your back was pressed against someone’s hard chest, your figure hugged into them tightly. Their head was tucked into the space between your shoulder and your neck, their soft and slow snores tingling your skin. Your hair tickled their face, but they didn’t move as their hands were snuck underneath your bedtime shirt, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts.

You groaned and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, shifting just enough for the person behind you to slip their hands to both sides of your waist, feeling their presence sit up behind you.

Turning around, you saw a shirtless George sitting upright and ruffling his bed hair. You couldn’t help but notice the lack of space between you two due to being squished into the twin bed, one of his arms was wrapped around you in case you fell off the bed.

You stared at him for a moment. Confused, you asked, “Why am I in your bed?” His tired gaze settled on you for a second before his eyes widened and memories from the night before came flooding back. “Oh! You fell asleep on my bed and I didn’t want to wake you and move you,” You nodded along. “So, I just let you stay in mine.”

His cheeks grew a pink colour as he continued and gestured with his hands, “We fell asleep back to back so I also have no idea why we ended up… like this.” He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck.

“Morning, love birds!” PK shouted from across the room, an exaggerated wave being sent your way. You turned around and flipped PK off with a joking smile, hearing his cackle before looking back at George who was leaning over the bed to reach for his clothes. He maneuvered around you, resting a hand on your thigh for support as you sat cross legged on his bed.

Holding his shirt, he stood up and continued the routine of holding a hand out for you to take, helping you stand up and out of the bed.

Walking over to your bed, you couldn’t find your hoodie to put over your shirt and the room wasn’t getting any warmer at this time in the morning. Seeing your struggle, George walked your way and tapped you on the shoulder.

His black top was halfway on his body, his right hand offering you his navy hoodie. You went to shake your head and refuse but he took your hand and placed the hoodie in your arms, “Please, just take it.” He winked and passed you to go into the living room.

Leaving you behind clinging onto his hoodie, you tried to suppress a wide smile and rosy cheeks. Milli watched from across the room with a cheeky smile and stuck her tongue out at you, “Oh, George is so dreamy! I wish I could sleep in his bed every night!” She mocked your thoughts in a high pitched tone of voice.

Your mouth dropped open at her, leaning down to reach for the ‘horny beast’ that had fallen from the bed during the night and lobbed it at her. She laughed as it hit her face before flicking it away in disgust, “Ew! I don’t wanna know what that teddy saw last night in bed with you and George!”

“Milli!” You groaned as she skipped up to you and linked your arms, leading the pair of you out the room and whispering dirty jokes in your ear about how the name of the teddy lived up to its name.

The pair of you walked into the living room, greeted with the sight of Tobi standing behind a plinth with cards stacked on top of it.

“Oh, fuck.” You mumbled making Tobi laugh. You cursed the game out as you settled yourself down on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder with Milli and sitting across from George, his leg brushing yours as he outstretched his own.

George smiled at you and you reciprocated the action. Farah next to you grumbled, “Jesus. Was cuddling all night not enough for you? Do you really need to eye-fuck each other from across the room?”

You covered your face with your hands as the group bellowed in laughter, Jason slapping George on the back in congratulations (although nothing has happened between you two yet). Tobi’s eyebrows raised and pointed to the cameras in the room, “George and Y/N, there are cameras everywhere and I don’t wanna see any funny business that needs to be cut!” He flickered between the two of you.

You sunk into the couch more, “Tobi! Just ruin our morning and tell us what’s happening.” You laughed, Milli beside you wished she could take a picture of your embarrassed face right now.

Tobi chuckled and complied, “Good morning, Insiders.” Everyone responded with half-hearted replies. “Can I please ask you to clear the front of the sofa and line up in front of it, please?”

You grumbled, sleep still overtaking your body as you reluctantly peeled yourself off of your comfy position on the sofa. You naturally found yourself gravitating towards George and slipped out of Milli’s radar, her smirking at you as you unknowingly got closer to the boy.

George peered down at you as you stood next to him, he ruffled your bed hair with his hand before it slid down your body to settle on your lower back.

“One by one, you’re going to come and collect an envelope from this plinth here.” Tobi explained. However, you were too distracted by George’s completely tired look on his face, smiling to yourself as he stared absentmindedly into the distance. Of course, you wouldn’t admit to yourself that he looked insanely good and adorable here; because he was your best friend! Best friends don’t think about each other like that, although you feared all morals were out the window after you spooned each other in bed last night.

“Do not open it until I say so.” Tobi demanded, all of you still confused about the concept of this challenge, or if it was a challenge.

“George.” Tobi called him up, his hand drifting from its position on your back but still hovering over your figure. PK snorted a laugh and whispered to Whitney next to him, “Can’t let go of his girl for one second.” She laughed and slapped his chest, intensely watching the two of you.

After George picked up his envelope, your name was called. “Y/N.” You stepped forward and took the envelope with dread, a nervous feeling sitting in your stomach at what lies underneath the paper.

While everyone else collected their envelopes, you felt the lack of sleep catching up with you and swayed on the spot slightly, eyes staring ahead. On instinct, you leaned into George’s side and rested your head on his arm; sensing this, George crouched down slightly so you could rest your head comfortably on his shoulder, despite the awkward squatting position he was in, he valued your comfort more than his.

You weren’t aware of this gesture, but still appreciated his response to your touch as his fingers started tracing patterns on your back that was clad in his hoodie.

“I’m now going to ask you to open and reveal the content of your envelope.” Tobi looked at the cuddling pair, “George, please open your envelope.”

George slowly ripped open the envelope and turned the sheet around to reveal a blank canvas with a circle on it. Furrowing your brows, you did the same after to see you had the exact same result.

This continued down the line until it reached DDG, everyone looking around at each other to silently question if they had any idea what this meant. “As you can see, DDG is the only one to have an X.”

“Which means that you will have to pick someone to go home right now.” Your mouth dropped open and your heart fell into your stomach, you had just woken up and someone was immediately going home.

Slipping your hand into George’s, his grip tightened on you and pressed a kiss on top of your head due to the height difference. With your head resting on him, you could hear his heart pounding against his chest and toyed with his fingers to try and relieve his nerves.

DDG stood up and faced the group as Tobi said, “You must now choose someone to leave the Inside house.” Sighing, he looked at you and George.

“Last night we were all hanging out, having a good time and creating a nice bond together.” Your nerves faltered slightly, remembering (before you fell asleep) that DDG was conversing with you and George about how you should ‘cut the shit and just kiss already’.

“And one person just wasn’t vibing at all. I’m sorry, Dylan.” You cringed as Dylan nodded in acceptance and Tobi ordered him to say his goodbyes.

DDG interview!

“I knew if I wanted to get George out, I needed to get Y/N out first. But it’s too soon to vote one of them out now because everyone could see what game I’m trying to play. So I went off initial vibes, and that’s why I voted out Dylan.”

You, George, Milli and Farah all walked Dylan out of the house, bidding your goodbyes and hugging him before he walked out the house. You knew it would feel different without a figure in the house; but it was all part of the game and you understood it.

As everyone gathered in the bedroom, you sat crossed legged on George’s bed whilst he stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind and hugging you close. You looked up at George, “The elimination still hasn’t properly hit me,” He nodded along, “I’m still half asleep.” You grumbled and leaned into George’s touch.

You could hear him laugh from behind you, “Give her an hour and she’ll cry when she realises he’s actually gone.” The others laughed at him as you shook your head and rested your hands on his arms where they were situated around your shoulders.

PK spoke up, “Today is your birthday.” He pointed at Whitney. You all turned to look at her in surprise and all cheered, “Happy Birthday!” As the group sang to her, George swayed you two back and forth.

The sound of a bell chiming broke everyone out of their daze as a couple of people peered their heads around the door to read the screen, “Breakfast is ready!” They shouted. George slipped his arms off of your shoulders, switching his hold on you to lug you up in bridal style off of the bed, one arm underneath your legs. You yelped in surprise and he smiled at your reaction, “Let’s go get breakfast, beautiful.” He whispered to you as he strode down to the shop with you in his arms.

As you reached the shop, he settled you back into the floor but let his hands rest on your hips. “George can’t keep his hands off her for one minute!” Patrice laughed and looked towards DDG and Jason, then laughing and pointing at the pair of you and you stood oblivious to their nattering near you.

Looking at the items listed, George pointed one out. “Custom coffee’s two and a half grand today.” You shook your head, “Yeah, please no one buy that today.” You wanted to try and attempt to save money, the budget was dropping already less than two days in and if you were to win, you’d like some money to take home with you.

Whitney took a step towards you and her eyes flickered to the position you and George were in, “It’s my birthday and Y/N, stop defending your boyfriend. Have your own opinion!”

Your eyes widened and you turned to face George, stepping out of his hold in embarrassment. George felt his heart falter a little bit as you retracted from his touch, missing the feeling of you in his hold.

You saw George open his mouth to protest and snap back at Whitney for her uncalled for comment, but you quickly shook your head and whispered, “Leave it.” You wanted to avoid conflict on the third day, you couldn’t handle arguing with people you barely knew.

time skip!

“Why, hello there!” You jumped from your spot sat next to Milli in the living room, the discussion about the charity match halting as JJ’s voice rang out.

“Are you all good?” You opened your mouth to respond as well as the others, “Shut up! I don’t care.” JJ shouted back, causing you to suppress a laugh.

Everyone walked into the living room as JJ continued through the loud speaker, “It’s time to go to the challenge arena. Get your asses changed and let’s go.”

You groaned and rolled your head back as you mentally prepared yourself for this challenge. As you walked towards the challenge arena, you spotted George a few steps ahead and in a slow walk. You picked up your step to stand behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist to rest your forehead on his back due to his height advantage against you.

You could practically see George’s eyebrows raise, “Well, hello there.” He lifted one arm around his back to stroke the back of your head and chuckled at your dread as you mumbled curses about the Sidemen; something along the lines of ‘God, why did I agree to this?’

The purple colour lights blinded your vision as you rounded the corner into the arena, “Here we are once more.” You heard George grumble, trying to sound somewhat enthusiastic but failing in doing so. “Ye old challenge arena.”

You retracted yourself from clinging onto George and stood on your tiptoes to see the room. Simon and JJ stood behind a circle table with trays scattered around it, and seats accompanying each side for spectators.

Simon and JJ urged you into the room, mocking greetings and laughing at your horror stricken face. You took a seat next to Milli, directly opposite George who winked at you in good luck.

Simon and JJ listed off the rules of ‘The Wheel of Mystery’, the name not exactly helping soothe your nerves but you persisted otherwise. Milli looked over at you and laughed at your face, a sour look etched into your features as you watched Simon shuffle through his cue cards before landing on one and showing it to JJ, then proceeding to laugh with each other and glance in your direction; you just knew they had something up their sleeve for you.

Unfortunately, due to your positioning behind Patrice in the game and his determination to go first, you had to endure an entire game of him occasionally letting one rip. Each time he backed his own ass control, you put your head in your hands to cover your laugh as Milli groaned and rested her forehead on your shoulder with closed eyes.

Once it was PK’s turn, JJ smirked at the question he was given, “This is a juicy one.” He raised his brows, “Rank the girls inside from most to least attractive.”

PK immediately turned round to face Milli and pointed at her, “Least attractive!” You gasped in shock and looked at PK with a confused expression. Milli responded with just as much energy, “He’s just salty I didn’t say he was the fittest!” She laughed with you as PK started spewing facts that she was the most attractive yesterday, but according to his logic, it’s a new day.

He ranked Farah sixth, Mandi fifth, Whitney fourth and Cinna third. PK glanced back and forth between you and Mya, taking a good look at the pair of you and considering his options.

George on the side had his lip tucked in between his teeth and his head tilted to the side, he stared at PK and silently willed him to stop as he watched his eyes trail over your sitting figure. George would never admit that he was jealous, because there was nothing to be jealous over. All friends feel a sick feeling in their stomach when another man practically hits on them when they’re right there, it’s normal! It’s a valid reaction because he is definitely not in love with you! He’d just curse PK out if he even tried to make a move on you; but the mischievous look in PK’s eyes told George that he wasn’t making it out of the challenge with any sense of dignity.

PK stood up and walked over to George, lifting a hand up to dap him up. “George, you’re my man. I’d never take your girl from you, brother.” You widen your eyes and look anywhere but George and PK, catching a glance of George’s mouth open and heat spreading through his cheeks.

George let out a nervous laugh and couldn’t form a witty response to that. Mya beside him could only laugh at his red face and the image of JJ laughing and pointing at him.

PK walked back to his seat, “So, Y/N second and my wife, Mya as first.” Everyone nodded along, still smiling from the previous interaction.

After a couple rounds and wishing you had your phone on you to take a picture of Milli’s unamused face in the banana costume, JJ called Mandi up into the hot seat and asked her, “Which Inside do you think will be the most boring to watch?”

You winced at the harsh question and watched her look between the group before her eyes landed on you, “Y/N.” You raised your brows in shock and swallowed a dry throat; were you really that boring? JJ and Simon exchanged confused glances and cleared their throat, “Why’s that, Mandi?”

She smiled a bit, “You know I love you, Y/N,” She started. You closed your eyes and whispered to Milli, “Fucking hell, here we go.” Milli grabbed your hand for comfort.

“I just think you’re a bit of a cling on to George,” Your face paled slightly, “Like, he has a career on YouTube, so do you but… it’s like you’re just there while he’s doing his own thing.” You stared at her in shock and tried to comprehend her words for a moment, catching eye contact with George as he held a pissed off facial expression.

Jason spoke up, “Wait, doesn’t she literally have more subs than George?” George nodded and pointed at Jason, “Y/N was doing her own thing before I even joined YouTube so I don’t know what the fuck that answer means.” He defended you from across the room.

You shook your head and tightened your grip on Mandi’s hand, “That was kind of uncalled for, Mandi.” You mumbled, looking directly at her. She laughed and turned back to JJ and Simon, “I was just answering the question!”

Whitney pointed at Mandi with a smile, “I’ve got you girl!” The pair laughed and the Sidemen behind them shut them down immediately, “Mandi, open your tray.” They demanded, no longer wanting to hear them slander you, being one of their closest friends and hearing them diminish you to nothing and acting as if they were more successful than you.

Next it was your turn, “Y/N, please join us at the front.” Simon called out.

You ran your hands through your hair as you stood up, “Come on, Y/N!” You heard Milli shout from behind you, turning around and sticking your tongue out at her. You looked over at George to see him staring at you with a smile, nodding at you with encouragement.

You sat down and leaned back into the chair, crossing your arms over your chest as JJ read out his cue card. “Y/N, if you had to share a bed with any male Insider, who would it be?”

You sighed and looked down at the table, knowing exactly who they wanted you to say. You shrugged your shoulders, “Why are all my questions like this in challenges?” You laughed.

JJ behind you cackled and leaned over you, “Maybe take the hint, Y/N.” You faced him with furrowed brows and mouth ajar, Simon laughed at you and nudged JJ in a signal to not give away too much of what they had planned for you.

You scanned the room, “Only male Insiders?” Simon nodded, “Only male.”

You sucked your teeth and sighed, “I mean I’ve already done it by accident, so I would go for George.” You tilted your head to see him trying to suppress a proud smile with his arms slung behind his head, showing off his biceps (ones that you definitely didn’t catch yourself staring at).

The group all awed at your answer, even hearing PK let out a wolf-whistle your way. You showed him the bird and heard his boisterous laugh in the background.

Simon approved of your answer, “Thank you for your answer. You will see the consequences of your decision later.”

You whipped your head around to him, similar to George. “What the fuck does that mean?” You gasped, your heart dropped into your stomach as a cold flush fell over you. Simon only shrugged with a smirk, and ordered you to open your tray. You rubbed your face with your hands and groaned loudly into them, causing the others to laugh at you.

You lifted the lid off of your tray, revealing dead cockroaches laid out on the plate, the label reading ‘Crunchy Delight!” You looked away immediately and screamed, “Fuck off!”

Everyone around you gasped as they looked down at your plate, “That’s fucking rancid, mate!” You supressed a gag, leaning down to rest your forehead on the edge of the table, mumbling curses about how you weren’t getting paid enough to do this.

As the group cheered you on, you quickly lifted your head and grabbed one before stuffing it in your mouth. You wanted to throw up as soon as it entered your mouth and you quickly snatched your water bottle, only to realise you had left it in the bedroom.

Your eyes widened and you screamed with your mouth shut as your hands swiped for soemthing that wasn’t there. No one could understand your body language as you panicked slightly. However, George noticed you fear stricken face and suddenly reached down for his bottle and hopped from his seat, quickly appearing at your side.

He unscrewed the lid off for you and shoved it into your hands as you swallowed the ‘meal’, tilting the bottle back and drinking the cold water that was situated in it. You sighed in relief as the water drowned out any taste of the cockroach.

George was still squated next to you and gently brushed his fingers against your bare shoulder in the tank top you wore, whispering encouraging words and mumbling how he was proud of you. You turned to look at him and whispered back, “Thank you.” And patted his head with a chuckle.

Realising that everyone was watching you two, George stepped back from the interaction and coughed awkwardly, walking back to his seat as everyone congratulated you for not losing any money. Cinna spoke up, “That was cute, Y/N and George!” You swatted the back of her head as you passed her.

During George’s turn he was asked, “Which Insider would you most like to be eliminated and why?”

To avoid conflict and general awkwardness within the house, George reasoned. “I don’t wanna risk my opinion being an actual vote and they go.” You all awed at him and smiled at his response, causing JJ behind him to mock us. “Shut the fuck up.” George groaned, but ultimately lost everyone £5,000.

time skip!

“Y/N, can I talk to you for a second?” You hear George ask you as he enters the living room. You were sitting around the table with your lunch situated infront of you, surrounded by multiple members of the house who were now also looking at George who stood awkwardly with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

Confused, you nodded. “Sure, what’s wrong?” George shook his head and looked at everyone around you, “Maybe… just us? Alone?” He asked with a wavering voice.

Your eyebrows shot up and stumbled over your words slightly, not expecting him to have a private conversation with you in such urgency. “Uh, yeah! I’ll come now.” You shuffled out of your stool and walked towards his as he held his arm out for you to link it with yours, knowing that was your usual instinct when it came to him.

The other insiders sitting at the table jeered at you and George, “Come on, Georgie!” You distinctly heard Jason’s voice; and Patrice shouted out, “Use protection!”

As you left the room, you stood in the main area. You looked up at George, “What did you want to tell me?”

He looked around and politely smiled at people walking past, his nerves growing even more which caused concern to grow in you. He sighed and took both of your hands into his, “Not here.”

He walked backwards towards the gym and started speaking to you, never breaking eye contact with you. “I need to tell you something, Y/N. In private.” You nodded and your breathing sped up as he edged closer to the door.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this for ages and I figured since we’re living together for the next few days, this could be a good chance to tell you that--”

The door of the gym swung open and Mya and Whitney tumbled out laughing, messing with the pockets of their tracksuit. You yelped as they collided with George’s back before they burst into laughter and ran away, not missing the sound of a rustling packet tucked into their clothing.

You watched the run away with furrowed brows, feeling George slip from your hands and him striding over to a camera tucked into the corner of the room; “There’s no way they think I can’t hear a rusting packet of choccy, right?”

The girls passed you again, this time with composure. “Hello.” They sweetly said as you reciprocated the gesture, glancing at George with a knowing look. George scoffed and walked towards the living room, you hot on his trail. “They think they’re slick.”

You jogged up next to him and tapped his shoulder, “Wait, what were you saying back then before?”

George’s eyes widened and he swallowed, all the courage he worked up to before dispersed now. “Uh, that was-- that was nothing.” You bit your lip, “You sure?” He nodded quickly, walking past you before you could read the expression on his face, knowing him too well. “It’s fine.”

time skip!

You were all sitting in the bedroom awaiting Whitney’s fate as she entered the temptation room, but you couldn’t help but notice something was different about the room.

Sitting cross legged on the floor as you and George passed the jiggly ball between the pair of you, your eyes scanned the room. Nothing was out of place, everyone’s clothes stayed where they were in the morning, nothing had been added to the room and nothing had been altered in the room. Atleast you thought that until you noticed--

“Oh, my fucking God!” You jumped up off the floor, startling everyone in the room.

“What?” George called out from his position on the floor, chucking the ball between his hands.

“My fucking bed is gone!” You pointed at the vacant space that used to be occupied by your bed. All your items were tucked underneath someone else’s bed and your set of drawers had been moved. “Huh?” George hopped up and stood next to you.

“Holy shit!” He pointed out. You followed his finger to see where his bed was, it had been upgraded to a double bed with a note tucked into the pillows at the top of the bed. The pair of you sprinted over to retrieve the note.

Picking it up, you read its contents. “Your wish is our command, Y/N. Enjoy sharing a bed with George for the rest of the week.”

You covered your mouth in shock and dropped the note on the bed, George picking it up to read it himself to see if you were lying. In the meantime, you saw your drawers were settled on the right side of the bed, jumping towards it, you scanned the insides to see if they had messed with anything else of yours.

Seeing one new item, you slammed the draw shut and walked away from it, leaving the room and shouting, “I hate the Sidemen!”

George looked up from the note and furrowed his brows, lunging over to open the drawer you had reacted to. His mouth dropped open and he fell back onto the bed, looking directly at a camera in the room and pointing at it. “You lot are bastards, you know that?”

And as the camera zoomed into the room, more specifically the drawers. You could just make out a packet of condoms situated in the drawer with a sticky note on top of it saying, ‘No baby Clarkey’s on set please!’

time skip!

“Guys, they’ve got a harmonica on the list. Can I get it?”

You turned around mid-drawing Milli a body on her banana outfit. George skipped into the room with a wide smile on his face. You nodded eagerly, “Yes! Get it!” You needed him to confirm his first purchase.

“There’s a harmonica on the list.” He repeated. You dropped the pen you were using to draw on Milli and apologised to her, “Sorry, I have to be there to witness George lose his purchase virginity!” You skipped over to him as he awaited with open arms.

Milli scoffed jokingly, “Won’t be the first time.” You ignored her comment in ignorant bliss as George skipped in utter glee over to the shop.

“I’m gonna get myself a bloody harmonica!” George jumped into the room, his hand linked with yours as he swung your arms back and forth.

He hopped in front of the camera with a little noise, “Hello. Could I please confirm an harmonica? Please? And thank you.” He smirked into the camera.

You jumped onto his back and he tucked his hands under your thighs, hoisting you further up and you felt his back move with the way he laughed. “I’m gonna serenade you every night now, especially with those condoms in our--” “For fucks sake, George!” You pushed yourself off his back laughing, a smile spread across your face as you heard his giggles and him clapping his hands as the trap doors opened. “Open up, give me my--”

He cut himself off with a giggle, “Thank you!” He stared at you and started playing the harmonica, causing you to laugh and bury your head into your hands. He nudged you, “What? You don’t like it?” You opened your mouth to answer, “You don’t think it’s sexy? A guy playing an instrument?” He finished.

You laughed and pointed at the harmonica, “You think that’s an instrument?” George mocked the offense and snatched the item away from your reach, leaning down dangerously close to your face. “No serenading for you tonight!”

time skip!

“I feel like a side piece to George now.” You thought out loud.

Cinna, beside you, barked out in laughter as you stared at George from across the room. “What?”

You shook your head and gestured towards him, “Look how he’s always attached to that harmonica now. That used to be me a couple hours ago!”

Cinna put her head in her hands and continued laughing, “Y/N, you’re so funny.” She nudged you, seeing your mock hurt face as George repeatedly blew on the harmonica, sounding the same two notes over and over as you all patiently waited for Whitney to return with her present.

Cinna looked at you, “He’s literally sat there with party hats as breasts and you’re jealous of a fucking harmonica?” You looked at your lap in shame and tried to cover up a laugh, but Cinna leaned into you which broke you from your attempts to suppress any chuckles.

Whitney appeared back in the room holding a massive box and a card, she opened the card and started reading it out. “Okay, it says, ‘Happy birthday from the Sidemen.’” You nodded along, feeling George settle himself next to you on the sofa and his arms rest on the cushions behind you; his finger gently brushing your shoulder.

“The highest spender is PK Humble. And the lowest spender is Uncle P.” You all turned to glance at the respective people, nerves brewing at what the Sidemen had cooked up with this information

“The highest and lowest spender must make their way to room 19 and agree on someone to eliminate. They have 20 minutes.”

Your jaw dropped to the floor and your hand slipped into George’s, his fingers intertwining with your own as you looked at each other. You willed the other one to stay, neither of you could go home this early and there was a large risk that you could. Your lips trembled slightly as you could feel PK’s eyes on you, swallowing a large lump in your throat as you knew you would be considered an option.

George drew your head close to his, pressing a soft kiss on your temple. “I’m not letting you go.”

taglist (how are u all pookies):

@wherethezoes-at @sidemenslver @multifanxtvshows @bibissparkles @le-le-lea @tiamonetsworld @dopeysunflowers @viagracex @rebeccaw05-blog @sundarksposts @sabbrriiinnaa @lovingaphroditesworld @evisceratedmuke @youtubewag @happyclifford @liz140569 @addiemb8332 @isabellem2909 @madforgeorge @pookietv @georgeclarkeyscakeyass @marijas-stuff @maggie-readss @bambidollstar @lottiewills @lmaowhathaha @sukimoves @randomstufflol29 @isabelle-2934 @sophiexxclarkey @levidazai @smogballsstuff @loveheart-123 @alysbaby @octopusoptimusprime @mylillstuff @landoslvr @essieswurld @swaggerjagger2014 @isla-finke-blog @amyissocool @k0ul1ss @musicforsnoopy @heyitsmefall @fly-me-away @7leb-kakaw @je33123 @theresglittleronthefloor @geliophobias @w2sfever @grantgustluv @yourfavartistsfavartist12

#george clarke fics #george clarke x reader #george clarke fanfic #george clarke fluff #george clarke smau #sidemen x reader #sidemen #george clarkey x reader #george clarke #george clarkey #sidemen inside #george clarke inside #inside #youtuber x reader #george clarke fic #uk youtubers

561 notes · View notes

kiwisa · 2 days ago

Text

Romcom Worthy ✪ LN04

━━━━ PAIRING ! Lando Norris x Fan! Fem! Reader

IN WHICH... A face reveal turns your life upside down.

Liked by lando and others

yourusername Lando wins the Australian Grand Prix !!! He's now leading the championship. Mark my words, it's coming home this year 🧡✴️

1 hour ago

user1 23min FUCK YESSSS

user2 1h a great day to be a papaya stan 🥭🧡✴️ ♥︎ liked by author

user3 47min OMG GIRL HE LIKED

user4 19min he notices Y/N like three times a week yourusername 10min and yet it never gets old user4 8min tell me about it girl omg i wish i knew how it feels yourusername 3min manifesting this for you girlie 🧎🤲🏼

user5 37min if we don't win this year i'll kms

yourusername 17min noooo don't kill yourself your so sexy aha (same.)

user6 1h the way you posted before McLaren... DEDICATION.

user7 1h McLaren's CM works hard but Y/N works harder ♥︎ liked by author

user8 3min Meanwhile Oscar is still mowing the Australian grass as we speak

Liked by lando and others

yourusername Still can't believe this happened. Thank you McLaren for the invitation and congratulations to Lando for P2 !!! We're leading the championship, baby !!! 🧡✴️

2 hours ago

user1 2h CONGRAAAAAATS YOU DESERVE IT SO MUCH 😭 (i've never been so jealous in my entire life)

user2 2h omgggg is that lando in the last pic??? girl you're living the life

yourusername 2h my hands were shaking so bad

user3 1h beauty privilege is wild frr

user4 49min pls let's not erase the fact that she is the biggest Lando update account on this platform. it was bound to happen either way.

mclaren 34min It was a pleasure to show you around the paddock, Y/N! ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 31min Thank you so much guys!! You made my dreams come true 🧡

user5 1h you already got the wag look down

user5 1h GUYS LANDO LIKED MY COMMENT?????!!!! OMMGGGGG

lando 2h Too bad we couldn't talk more ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 2h Perhaps next time!! lando 2h I'll hold you to that ♥︎ liked by author user6 2h look at her being all composed and shit but we all know she's dying inside user7 1h he commented so fast omgggggg chill lando frr the post is not going anywhere user8 1h why are they flirting??? chat am i the only one seeing this? user9 42min no no you're not @/user8 i feel like i'm intruding

user10 21min How does it feel to live my dreams?

user11 17min guys smile we are witnessing history

Conversation 218 Comments

Sort by Best ↓

Marylin 27 March, 2025

For fuck's sake. Let people live in peace. They don't need you to comment every aspect of their life.

Johann 27 March, 2025 You do that OP. Meanwhile, the rest of us will enjoy life and bask together in this drama straight out of a fanfic.

Paul 27 March, 2025

It's so hard seeing other people live my dream.

Liked by lando and others

yourusername Getting the news directly from the source now !! 🧡✴️

1 hour ago

user1 1h just woke up and oomf is dating my fav driver might just go back to sleep and pray to never wake up

user2 1h the hardest launch that ever launched

yourusername 1h what's a soft launch? never heard of her.

lando 1h Love you 🧡✴️ ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 1h Love you too 🧡 user3 1h omg he used her emoji combos 🥹🥹 user4 47min god we're so chronically online it's embarrassing user3 38min y/n was chronically online and looks where that got her. so excuse me but i'll continue. ♥︎ liked by author

user5 21min Y/N doing god's work and giving every fangirl hope they can date their fav

user6 1h What in the fanfic is this???

mclaren 10min Cannot wait to see you back in our garage! ♥︎ liked by author

user7 19min imagine if she hadnt posted her face reveal??? the way her life would be so different rn

user8 1h she better not distract him from winning the season

user9 1h Y/N would literally breakup with Lando if it meant securing his and McLaren's wins ♥︎ liked by author

user10 5min They better adapt this story into a romcom. The material is right there.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x y/n #f1 social media au #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one fanfiction #lando norris #lando norris fluff #lando norris au #f1 fic #f1 rpf #lando x reader #formula one fic #f1 imagine #f1 instagram au #formula 1 fic #formula 1 x you #lando x you

571 notes · View notes

tiramissyoucake · 3 days ago

Note

"Reader who fucking despises Mark Grayson but is an Invincible superfan"

Dude pleaaaaase write a small story to that, image reader even being a bitch or somewhat a bully to mark, but he can't even take her serious since shes wearing his merch

"fuck you looking at?"

"um, is that... an invincible keychain?"

"yeah. So what? Wanna choke on it?"

"no, I uh... Looks good."

– 💪🏽

This is less a story and more a ramble because GGRRRR I LOVE THIS IDEA I hope u like this <3

Mark is never going to live down the loser allegations because he knows deep down, he's too excited to be on the receiving end of your hatred.

But the thing that really made him fall in love with you is when he saved you as Invincible one day from a collapsing building, and you looked up at him with an expression he's never seen on you— god you looked so in love with him he almost ripped his mask off and revealed it was actually him all along.

You were always so... guarded around him, glaring at him and calling him a weirdo for staring at you too long and scowling whenever he'd have to talk to you, your disgusted gaze made him feel so small (regardless of whether he was taller or not) and he'd immediately look down and fidget with his hands.

And now, the tables were turned, he sets you down nearby and watches you under the guise of concern for a citizen, you were actually flustered this time, thanking him with a stutter and looking anywhere but at him as you fixed your clothes and your hair, under the layering and accessories he caught a glimpse of an Invincible shirt, god you were so cute.

"Anything for my biggest fan." He gives you his best smile while pointing at your shirt, an embarrassed laugh escapes you as you try to cover it with folded arms. "Again, thank you...! I really admire you and everything you do for the city...!"

He could die happy here and now, this was the first non-hostile exchanged he's ever had with you and you didn't even know it was with him of all people; Mark, the loser comic geek from your school.

He gave you a casual salute before flying off to deal with the rest of the threat, he could feel your gaze following him, ever since then he's been on cloud nine.

The following days since then, you're more freaked out by his behaviour, he's staring way more than he usually does. You had to restrain a groan as he approached your locker. "Hey, (Name)? I wanted to ask—"

"Thought I told you to fuck off, Grayson." You immediately responded, you could recognize that infuriating unsure tone anywhere.

"Well— I was gonna ask if you have a partner for that biology project?"

"... uh-huh, and why would I partner up with you?" You shut your locker, readjusting your bag on your shoulder.

Mark blinked before continuing. "Wh- Uh, well... because we're in the same biology class? And we.. both don't have partners?"

"Never noticed you there." Ouch, okay. Not the worst he's heard from you. "I have a partner, bye."

"Wait! Seriously..? I asked everyone and no one—" Mark paused when you groaned and whipped your head to look at him. "Can you stay out of my damn business?! My answer is no, go beg for another partner, creep!"

Your response left no room for an argument or a reply, and neither did the annoyed expression on your face. Mark raised his hands in surrender and watched you turn away, mumbling profanities about him, something something 'fuckin' geek'

He would've been dejected but he saw the cutest miniature figure charm of his hero alter ego hanging off the zipper of your bag, swinging back and forth with every step you took and he immediately remembered that cute timid girl who thanked him oh so sweetly for saving her life. He was sure if he peeked into your locker, he'd see posters or pictures of Invincible hung up for either moral support or pure admiration.

Your back was turned to him as the smuggest smile made its way onto his lips, you'd be wrapped around his finger soon enough, he just needed to play a little waiting game- him and his 'good friend' Invincible got all the time in the world.

#your stars have aligned .•°✧✦✧#invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader

771 notes · View notes

onsomenewsht · 2 days ago

Text

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack. A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head.

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it.

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex.

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit.

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away.

Ricardo means well, you know that.

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle.

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper.

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals.

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating.

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo.

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations.

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type.

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another.

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others.

Maybe you do have a type.

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity.

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far.

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets.

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise.

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan.

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics.

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view.

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things.

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud.

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it.

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club.

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike.

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers.

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth.

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow.

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way.

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying.

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on.

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves.

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them.

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you.

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed.

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces.

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline.

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film.

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason.

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct.

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal.

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo.

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you.

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation.

That's not the point right now.

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries.

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this.

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover.

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen.

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you.

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief.

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling.

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now.

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite.

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands.

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to.

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat.

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you.

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it.

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do.

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed.

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack.

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over.

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means.

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight.

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!”

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face.

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance.

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink.

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears.

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now.

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot.

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses.

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you.

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing.

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous.

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance.

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment.

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together.

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced.

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul.

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of.

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure.

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love.

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again.

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you.

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads.

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries.

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever.

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee.

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it.

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you.

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow.

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear.

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future.

Together.

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso community #ap11 #woso world #my wo(rd)so

510 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 1 day ago

Note

hello lovely mae! saw your call for requests and couldn't help but respond - maybe something w wolfstar where it's nearing the full moon and remus only wants sirius for something or other and it hurts reader's feelings? only if it takes your fancy of course, thank you!! <3

Thank you lovely <3

cw: migraine

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 727 words

Remus’ pain is making you nauseous. You can’t hear it or see it, but you know it’s there, just on the other side of the bedroom door. You keep glancing that way against your will, the evening news passing in an unnoticed blur on the telly.

You love the flat you share with your boyfriends, but it feels suffocating on days like today. Too still, too quiet. Haunted by the approaching full moon. Even when you aren’t wanted, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

You pretend not to have been watching when Sirius steps out of the bedroom.

“How is he?” you ask as he settles down next to you on the couch. It’s late enough for shadows to wrap themselves around his features, his mouth solemn. You don’t know why you ask; it’s not like he’s going to say good.

“He’s sleeping,” Sirius replies, his hand finding yours. He kisses your fingers. “How are you, my love?”

You smile. “Oh, that’s not very fair.”

“What’s not?”

“You shouldn’t have to comfort Remus and then come comfort me.”

“You make it sound so burdensome.” He keeps your hand tucked in his, bringing it to his lap as his thumb runs over your knuckles. “I’m sorry he upset you.”

“It’s fine.”

“He didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know,” you say, “he didn’t mean it any sort of way. It’s really okay. You’re better at it.”

Sirius doesn’t deny it. He knows as well as you do that, for whatever reason, the scalp massages he gives Remus to relieve his migraines simply work better. Maybe it’s that he’s been doing it longer, or just that he really does have the magic touch, but whenever you try it seems like the physical contact hurts Remus more than it helps him. Best for you to leave them to it.

“I saw your face when he asked you to go,” Sirius says, very softly.

You shrink.

“It’s okay if you’re upset.”

You are upset. It’s undeniable in the tight, achy feeling sitting right in the center of your sternum, but you don’t want to be upset. You wouldn’t be if you could help it.

“I’m okay,” you say. Sirius looks unpersuaded. “Remus is the one who’s in pain.”

He hums. Thumb moving over the bumps of your knuckles one by one. “He is,” he acknowledges. “He’s asked for a cuddle, though.”

You give him a look. “You don’t think he really means that.”

“Do you think I’d come relay the message if I thought he didn’t?” Sirius asks. “He knows there’s no way to get rid of the pain entirely. I think he just wants comfort more than he wants to try for that right now.”

Your heart throbs for your poor boyfriend. “Why didn’t you stay?”

“He asked for both of us.” Sirius presses another kiss to your hand. “I’m just selfish is all, I wanted to see that you were alright first.”

You feel your lips curve slightly. “So selfish,” you say, allowing yourself to be tugged up by your hand.

You kiss him once on your way to the bedroom, his hand sweet on the small of your back, but when you enter you both only have eyes for one man.

It’s somehow even quieter in here than the rest of the apartment. The sheets barely whisper as Sirius crawls in behind Remus, slipping his arms around your boyfriend’s waist. You try to be just as soundless getting in on the other side.

Remus doesn’t open his eyes when the mattress dips beneath you, but you know he’s awake.

“Hi,” you murmur, softer than soft, with a barely-there kiss to his jaw.

“Hi,” Remus rasps back. His voice is so coarse with pain your throat tightens at the sound of it. For a moment you think this was a bad idea, you’re making things worse, but then his arm comes around you. Curling you closer to him. You hold him back, brushing against Sirius as you do.

You’re afraid to say anything more, worried the sound will agitate his migraine, but Sirius asks, “What can we do?”

Remus sighs. “Just this,” he says, and it sounds like relief. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

You kiss him again. Gently, meeting Sirius’ eyes over his shoulder. Neither of you have to say it aloud: there’s no place else you’d be.

474 notes · View notes

rowdydevs · 1 day ago

Note

dad rafe x wife reader fluff or smut idk i love them so much

or they just had their first kid and he’s so so scared and they reassure eachother and stuff aww 🥰🥰🥰

not sure what i’m talking about but do u get my jist!!

Hi nonnie!!! Thank you for your ask 🤭💕 I decided to go with a little fluff. Rafe and Reader are a young married couple bringing home baby #2 from the hospital <- this is another story from the dad!rafe au but they don't need to be read together. Just post-baby sweetness.

c/w: petnames

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Rafe looked at you from the driver’s seat.

“I’m perfect, baby,” you whispered, forcing a small smile as you fought to keep your eyes open.

“Let me get the door for you, princess,” he murmured, already slipping out of the car with a gentle urgency.

He rounded the car, carefully opening your door, offering his hands to help you to your feet. Then, without a word, he turned to the back seat, popping open the door to the car seat. A soft smile spread across his lips as he carefully drew back the car seat cover.

“Is she asleep?” you asked quietly, stepping closer.

“Mhmm… She’s out,” he hummed, then turned to you with a look that melted your heart. He leaned in for a kiss, slow and warm. “You did so good, baby. Did I tell you that?”

“A few times,” you whispered against his lips. “You did, too.”

“Please,” he huffed, pulling back with a grin before shaking his head, hanging it dramatically. “I almost passed out—”

“But you didn’t,” you assured, eyes heavy with affection.

“Needed to stay strong. Like you. I hate seein’ you in pain like that… You’re so strong. You're incredible. You know that?”

“Thank you, baby. I thought it’d be easier the second time,” you murmured.

“You handled it like a champ… Umm… Sarah said Max is really excited,” Rafe added gently.

“Really?” You asked as he pulled open the front door. “I was a little worried about him,” you sighed, picturing your sweet boy’s face.

“I mean… the idea’s growin’ on him. He just doesn’t wanna share you. I know how that feels,” Rafe adds with a wink. You smiled, heart swelling.

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

“Hi, babe,” you whispered as Sarah appeared, tiptoeing toward you, her eyes wide and glassy with emotion already.

“They’re home!” Wheezie cheered, bouncing up from the couch, trailing behind her sister. Both of them were glowing, their cheeks already wet with happy tears.

“Can we see her? Is that okay?” Sarah asked, voice catching. Rafe nodded, stepping aside so they could peek into the car seat.

“Winnie Cameron,” you whispered. Sarah bit her cheek, making a few tears tumble down her cheeks.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “We’re gonna put her down, okay?”

With quiet steps, you both made your way down the hallway. Like a nightlight, a soft glow spilled from the room past Max's door. You opened the door gently and stepped inside.

Rafe set the car seat down and slowly pulled back the cover, his fingers unfastening her with a confidence that came with baby number two. He lifted her into his arms, settling her against his strong chest.

You stepped back, breath catching at the sight in front of you. Standing in the nursery, Rafe haloed in the pale light through the window. Winnie looked impossibly small against his large frame, her delicate head tucked under his chin.

Rafe looked at you and smiled before gently laying her down in the crib. He wrapped her up tight in a swaddle blanket carefully, lovingly. Winnie didn’t even stir.

“She’s beautiful, sweetheart. Just like you,” he whispered, eyes still fixed on your daughter.

He reached for you, pulling you close, and you melted into him, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Then, from just outside the door came a little cry.

“I got him, baby,” Rafe assured, cupping your face. “Why don’t you get some rest, yeah?”

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

“Hey, Max,” Rafe whispered as he entered your son’s room. “How are you doin’, buddy?”

“Daddy?” Max’s voice was thick and groggy, tears already welling as he scrambled upright. “You’re home.”

“I’m home,” Rafe whispered, crouching beside him. Max looked up at him with wide blue eyes. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too… Why were you gone so long?” He asks as his bottom lip wobbles. Rafe quickly catches a tear on Max’s little cheek with his thumb before it can go any further.

“Mommy just needed a little extra rest, bud. Did you get your bedtime story and song?”

“Auntie Sarah read my story,” Max sniffled, “but she forgot my song.”

Rafe climbed into the tiny bed, settling in beside him. Max snuggled into his side, his small body warm and soft, head resting against his daddy’s chest.

Rafe chuckled, ruffling his hair. “That’s because she knew I was comin’ home… What song?” He asked softly.

“Mommy’s song,” Max said with a sleepy sigh.

“Mommy’s song, huh?” Rafe smiled. “Good choice, buddy.”

He started to hum the melody, then sang—gentle and low—the same song you danced to at your wedding, the one you sang to him every night since the night you brought him home.

Max’s little body relaxed immediately, his breaths deepening. He was out within seconds; nothing but dark lashes and round cheeks, his rosy lips parted.

“I love you, buddy,” Rafe whispered, kissing his forehead. He laid him down gently, tucking the blanket around his chin before stepping off the bed and easing the door shut behind him.

He turned toward their bedroom—until another cry echoed softly from the nursery. This one is smaller. Softer. Brand new. “Baby girl…”

He pivoted without hesitation, crossing the hall and slipping through the door. The sound grew louder, tiny and perfect, as Winnie’s soft wails filled the room.

“Hi, princess,” he whispered, scooping her in his arms. She quieted almost instantly as if she already knew.

He carried her to your bedroom, holding her close, taking in that new baby smell he hadn’t been able to appreciate the first time, both of you too young, too overwhelmed. He pressed his lips to her temple, letting his heavy eyes shut momentarily.

You were already there, unbuttoning your silk nightshirt, your skin glowing in the soft light. He watched as you opened your arms, smiling as he laid Winnie against your chest.

Rafe crawled beside you, curling into your side, hand resting on your hip, forehead resting against yours as his eyes shimmered because his whole world was right here... In this house. All his.

#⋆.°🧸๋ྀི࣭⭑ daddy #rafe cameron x reader #dad!rafe #dilf!rafe #dilf!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #rafe fluff #rafe #rafe cameron blurb #rafe blurb 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#my library ᝰ.ᐟ #rafe cameron

350 notes · View notes

yourstrulyrani · 23 hours ago

Note

Simon Riley who causes your jaw to lock mid giving him head? ( or maybe an individual reaction list thingy for the tf141?)

my jaw dropped when i read this (enough for it to lock up ;).. get it?) ANYWAY this is my first dirty request ever and first 18+ work ever...i know it's gonna suck (no pun intended i promise), so please cut me some slack :')

taskforce141's reactions to reader's jaw locking mid-head session. cw: mdni. 18+ content ahead. mentions of oral.

simon relishes in the feeling your tongue swirling around the soft skin of his tip, coating it with enough slick to get yourself ready to let himself hit the back of your throat again. "wrap your lips around it, baby. put it in deep for me." you go ahead and try close your lips into an "o" shape until you realize you can't. simon realizes and snickers, removing his tip from your mouth. he pulls you up on the bed to sit with him. he inspects your jaw, massaging it with the tips of his fingers as he says, "you did so well for me that i locked up your jaw, love." he doesn't hesitate heading to urgent care. when you arrive and they ask your reason of visit, he speaks up saying "she just yawned too hard, doctor," rubbing your lower back soothingly... or teasingly. or both. definitely both.

gaz has you lying on your back with your head hanging off the edge of the bed, pumping gently and slowly in and out of your mouth. your mind is hazy with pleasure at the way he feels. all of the desire depletes when you realize he's starting to go too faster and harder and your jaw can't shut. you tap his arm two times, one of many gestures the both of you agreed on way back when as you discussed boundaries during intimacy. gaz instantly becomes aware of the tapping and quickly responds by sitting you upright, sitting by your side. your jaw is locked enough for your words to become slurred. he understands and apologizes, "i'm so sorry, love. i didn't realize." after resolving to a quick google search, he applied a warm compress to your jaw. he gives you a bath as aftercare since both of you know for a fact that was enough for tonight, as your jaw slowly starts to relax.

price has himself laid back on the bed, legs apart and his hands clasped behind his head. you're in between his knees as your head bobs up and down, one hand taking care of the rest of his shaft. a proud smirk on his face, "just like that, pretty girl." his gruff voice praises out to your movements. you usually make noises, whether you're gagging just right or trying to moan with your mouth full, but john notices the noise that comes out of your mouth this time and it's not normal: it's of discomfort. his smirk falters and his eyebrows furrow in concern. his hands unclasp and move to take your mouth off him. he wastes no time going to the kitchen to grab painkillers. with his carefulness, you take the medicine. after, he moves his body so he's laying on the bed again and your back is against his chest. he massages your jaw, enough to ease the pain also thanks to the medicine. "don't worry. i'm here for you. let me know if i can help any more, lovely." he presses a kiss to the curve of your jaw, helping you fall asleep.

johnny let you take control of the pace this time. you decide to go all out, deep and fast because you thought he deserved it after a harsh deployment. "so well, sweetheart." his fingers glide along your hair, careful not to damage his gorgeous girl's hairstyle. he's so close and you both know it, but when you feel the ache in your jaw you couldn't help but to get off him. at first he thinks you're lying to tease him but when he knows you're not bluffing, he justs bursts out laughing. "there's no way. this can actually happen?" like gaz, he uses google to search for a remedy. unlike gaz, his search led him to a youtube video of a bbc show called 'bizarre er' of your same dilemma, which was solved by placing popsicle sticks inside the mouth to tire the muscles, forcing them to shut eventually. johnny giggles as he shows you the video, but knowing your man, you trust him in his popsicle stick plan. (it works out in the end).

(yes that video mentioned in soap's part is legit on youtube, look it up LMAO. this request made me remember i watched it ages ago when i was little and i thought soap would be someone to attempt it idk)

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

291 notes · View notes

importantpuppystarfish · 11 hours ago

Text

Wonyoung loves her Father ❤️

Male reader/Father x Wonyoung

Warning: incest, dad x daughter, anal, pissing, face-sitting, less plot

just a fluff+smut type stuff.. note that they are already in a relationship just having their first time

Wonyoung and her father had been looking forward to their picnic trip for weeks, a rare opportunity for the 19-year-old idol to escape the relentless schedules of her life under her Agency and spend quality time with the man she loves most.

Her father, a 50-year-old who has always been her biggest supporter, planned the day meticulously, knowing how much Wonyoung needed a break from the pressures of her idol career. They drove to a secluded lakeside park a few hours from the city, the car filled with the sound of Wonyoung’s laughter as she sang along to her favorite songs, her father joining in with a playful grin.

Wonyoung, dressed in a a very revealing outfit for the picnic, felt a sense of freedom she rarely experienced, her long dark hair flowing in the breeze as they rolled down the windows, the fresh air filling her lungs with a sense of peace.

At the park, they set up a picnic blanket under a large oak tree, the lake shimmering in the sunlight as they unpacked a basket filled with Wonyoung’s favorite foods—fresh strawberries, sandwiches, and a small cake her father had baked himself. Wonyoung’s eyes lit up as she saw the cake as she exclaimed, “Dad, you made this for me? You’re the best!” Her father chuckled, his eyes warm with affection as he replied, “Anything for my darling girl. I know how much you love chocolate.” They spent the afternoon eating, laughing, and sharing stories, Wonyoung telling her father about her latest IVE performance, her father listened with rapt attention, his pride evident in his smile. They took a walk along the lake, holding hands as they watched the ducks swim by, Wonyoung rested her head on his shoulder.

As the sun began to set, they decided to check into a nearby hotel for the night, not wanting to end their day together just yet. The hotel room was cozy and elegant, with a large bed adorned with red pillows and a white comforter, the perfect setting for the intimate moment they would share.

Wonyoung is still wearing the outfit from the image -> a strapless tan top and matching pants with a decorative belt—wanting to look pretty for her father, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she lay on the bed, two hats resting above her head as a nod to their picnic day “You look beautiful, Wonyoung,” her father said, his voice filled with admiration, causing a shy blush to creep up her cheeks as she looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her top. “Thank you, Dad,” she murmured.

Her father sat beside her, his gaze warm and loving as he looked down at her, his hand reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re so beautiful, my darling,” he said, his voice low and tender, his fingers lingering on her cheek as he traced the delicate curve of her jaw.

Wonyoung’s heart fluttered at his touch, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink as she looked up at him, her large eyes filled with a mix of love and shyness. “Dad… you always say that,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her father chuckled softly, his hand cupping her cheek as he leaned down, his face hovering just above hers, his breath warm against her skin. “I say it because it’s true,” he murmured as he closed the distance between them, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Wonyoung’s eyes fluttered closed at the contact, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she felt the warmth of his love wash over her, her shyness melting away under his tender touch. “I love you so much, Dad,” she whispered looking up at him with a gaze full of adoration. Her father smiled, his eyes shining with love as he replied, “I love you too, Wonyoung. More than anything in the world.”

He leaned down again, this time kissing her lips in a soft, loving kiss, his mouth moving gently against hers as he poured all his affection. Wonyoung’s heart raced as she kissed him back, her lips trembling slightly from her shyness, but the warmth of his kiss made her feel safe and cherished. She reached up, her hands resting on his shoulders as she pulled him closer, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as she deepened the kiss, her shyness giving way to a quiet confidence in their love. Their lips moved together in a slow. She tilted her head, deepening the kiss as she pressed herself closer to him, her hands sliding down to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers.

As their kisses deepened, her father’s hands began to roam gently over her body, his touch light and reverent as he traced the curve of her collarbone, his fingers brushing against the soft skin exposed by her strapless top.

Wonyoung’s breath hitched at the sensation, a shy giggle escaping her lips as she looked up at him, her cheeks flushed with a mix of excitement and nervousness. “Dad… that tickles,” she said softly. Her father chuckled, his hand sliding down to rest on her waist, his touch warm and comforting as he leaned in to kiss her again, his lips trailing from her mouth to her jaw, then down to the sensitive skin of her neck. “I want to make you feel good, my daughter,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low and filled with love as he pressed a soft kiss to her pulse point, causing Wonyoung to shiver with delight.

Wonyoung’s shyness returned as her father’s kisses moved lower, his lips brushing against the tops of her breasts, exposed by the strapless top, his hands gently tugging at the fabric to reveal more of her skin. “Dad… I… I’m a little nervous,” she admitted, looking up at her dad, her cheeks burning with a deep blush. Her father paused as he cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek in a soothing gesture. “You don’t have to be nervous, Wonyoung,” he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. “I love you, and I’ll always take care of you. We can stop if you want.” Wonyoung shook her head, her shyness giving way to trust as she reached up to touch his face, her fingers trembling slightly as she smiled. “No… I want this,” she whispered, her voice filled with love. “I trust you, Dad. I love you.”

Her father smiled, he leaned to kiss her again, his lips kissing hers in a deep, tender kiss that made Wonyoung’s heart race, her shyness melting away under the warmth of his affection.

Now, he slowly moved down her body, his hands gentle as removed her clothes. He started sucking her breasts, pressing & squeezing one and eating the another. Wonyoung moans loudly. He, then slid her top down more, revealing her slender waist, his lips trailing soft kisses along her stomach, each one filled with love and adoration.

Wonyoung’s starts to feel nervous as he reached the waistband of her pants, his fingers carefully undoing the belt with the decorative chain. Wonyoung's cheeks flushed more..

Her father gently slid her pants down, revealing her delicate underwear, his hands warm against her skin as he pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh. Wonyoung’s breath caught in her throat, her hands gripping the sheets, her shyness returning as she bit her lip, her eyes darting away. “Dad… I’ve never… I mean, not like this,” she admitted. Her father looked up at her, his expression filled with love as he reached for her hand. “I’ll be gentle, my daughter,” he said, his voice soothing as he kissed her hand, his lips lingering on her knuckles. “I just want to show you how much I love you. You’re my beautiful girl, and I want you to feel good.” Wonyoung’s heart swelled at his words, her voice soft as she replied, “I love you too, Dad. I trust you.”

Her father smiled as he leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, his kisses soft and teasing as he moved closer to her core. Wonyoung’s breath hitched as he gently slid her underwear down, revealing her fresh pink pussy. It was hella wet.

His hands warm and careful as he positioned himself between her legs, his touch gentle as he pressed a soft kiss to her pussy, his lips warm against her sensitive skin. Wonyoung let out a soft gasp, her hands gripping the sheets tighter as she felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, her father began to explore her pussy with his mouth, his tongue moving in slow, gentle strokes that made her body tremble with delight.

“Oh, Dad…” Wonyoung whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of pleasure and shyness as she felt his tongue glide over her, his movements tender and loving as he focused on her pleasure, his hands holding on her thighs to keep her steady.

Her father’s touch was gentle, his lips and tongue working in a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent waves of warmth through her body. “You taste so sweet, Wonyoung,” he murmured against her, as he kissed her clit softly, his tongue circling the sensitive bud with care, causing Wonyoung to let out a louder moan, her cheeks flushing with a deep blush as she covered her face with her hands, her shyness returning in the face of such intimate affection.

“Dad… that feels… so good,” she admitted, her voice muffled by her hands, her body trembling with pleasure as he continued to eat her pussy, his movements gentle and loving, his focus entirely on making her feel cherished.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, my darling,” he said, his tone filled with love.

Wonyoung's father moved up, their lips meeting again letting Wonyoung to taste her own pussy through her father's mouth, loving kisses that spoke of their deep connection.

“That was… so amazing, Dad,” Wonyoung said.

“Wonyoung, my daughter… I want to make you feel even better,” he said, his tone gentle but with a hint of excitement. “Will you sit on my face? I want to taste you more, to love you in every way.”

Wonyoung’s eyes widened at his request, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red as a wave of shyness and nervousness.. she bit her lip, her voice trembling as she replied, “Dad… I… I’ve never done that before… I’m really nervous.”

Her father smiled, “You don’t have to be nervous, my beautiful girl,” he said, his tone filled with love. “I’ll guide you, and we’ll go slow. I just want to make you feel good, to show you how much I love you. But if you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” Wonyoung’s heart raced at his words, “Okay, Dad… I trust you… I want to try.” Her father’s smiled, his hand squeezing hers gently as he kissed her lips again, his voice filled with gratitude. “Love you my darling,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

He lay back on the bed, positioning himself flat on his back with his head resting on the red pillows, his hands reaching out to guide Wonyoung as she moved to straddle him, her movements hesitant and shy as she positioned herself above his face, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she looked down at him, her voice trembling with nervousness. “Dad… I don’t know if I’m doing this right,” she admitted, her hands gripping the headboard for support as she hovered above him, her long hair falling around her face like a curtain, she avoided his gaze. As Wonyoung sat on his face, her father reached up, his hands resting on her hips as he guided her gently, his voice soothing as he spoke. “You’re doing perfectly, Wonyoung,” he said, his tone filled with love. “Just lower yourself down more, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ve got you, my darling.”

Wonyoung nodded, her breath hitching as she positioned herself, her pussy hovering just above his face, “I’m so sorry Dad… I hope you're okay…”

Her father’s hands tightened on her hips, his touch reassuring as he pulled her down gently, his lips brushing against her pussy in a soft, loving kiss that made Wonyoung gasp, her hands gripping the headboard tighter as a wave of pleasure washed over her.

“You’re more than okay, my beautiful girl,” he murmured against her

As he began to eat her pussy more deep, his tongue moving in slow, gentle strokes that sent shivers through her body, his lips sucking her clit softly as he focused on her pleasure. Wonyoung let out her loud moan, her body trembling as she felt his tongue glide over her.

“Oh, Dad… that feels so good,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of pleasure and shyness as she looked down at him, her cheeks flushed with a deep blush, her eyes filled with love as she watched her own dad worship her with his mouth.

As her father continued to eat her pussy, his tongue delving deeper, circling her clit with gentle, rhythmic strokes, Wonyoung’s moans grew louder, her body trembling with pleasure as she felt herself drawing closer to another climax, her shyness giving way to the overwhelming sensation of his love.

But as the pleasure built, Wonyoung felt a sudden, unexpected pressure in her lower abdomen, a mix of her arousal and nervousness overwhelming her control, and before she could stop herself, she let out a soft gasp, her voice filled with panic as she whispered, “Dad… I… I think I'm gonna p-ee”

Her words were cut off as she accidentally peed, a huge stream of urine escaping her pussy and landing on her father’s face, her eyes widening in horror as she realized what had happened, her shyness turning to embarrassment as she tried to pull away, her voice trembling with shame.

“Oh no, Dad… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to… I’m so embarrassed!” But her father didn’t pull away, he grabbed her and his hands tightening on her hips again to keep her in place, his love for her unwavering as he continued to eat her pussy, his mouth and tongue accepting her fluids without hesitation, his mouth open as he drank her pee, her cum, and her pussy juice.

“It’s okay, my darling,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with warmth as he licked her clean, his tongue gentle and loving as he savored every part of her, his acceptance making Wonyoung’s heart swell with a mix of relief and love. “I love every part of you, Wonyoung. Don’t be embarrassed. You’re perfect to me.” Wonyoung’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude, her shyness and embarrassment fading as she felt his love wash over her, her voice soft and trembling as she whispered, “Dad… I'm so sorry. That was disgusting..”

But her father then, made her lay down to the bed, spread her legs and continued to eat her pussy, his tongue focusing on her clit with gentle, loving strokes, his hands also fingering her clit now as he brought her to another climax, his mouth accepting her cum and pussy juice as she came again, Wonyoung starts crying, her soft cries filling the room. “Dad… I’m… I’m coming again,” she gasped..

Her body shaking now as she came once again, her fluids mixing with her earlier release as her father drank it all.

Her father pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her as he aimed for her mouth to kiss her, his lips still glistening with her fluids, letting Wonyoung to taste her own fluids.. Wonyoung admitted "Dad, I guess I might really taste good", she laughed.

She looked up at him, she is now very deep in love. She bit her lip, her voice trembling with nervousness as she spoke. “Dad… I… I want you to fuck me now” Wonyoung said, her words barely audible as she looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the sheet, her shyness evident in the way she avoided his gaze.

“Dad, I'm so sorry. I want to feel you inside me.. Could it be possible?.”

Her father in joy, replied, “Oh, Wonyoung… I love you my daughter. I’d love to make love to you, to show you how much you mean to me. Are you sure you’re ready?”

Wonyoung nodded, "but dad… there’s something else I want to try first,” she said. “I… I want to try giving you a blowjob… I’ve never done it before, and I’m curious… I want to make you feel good too, just like you did to me.”

“ I don’t know if I’ll be good at it dad”..

Her father chuckled, his hand cupping her cheek as he kissed her forehead, his voice reassuring as he spoke. “You’ll be perfect, my beautiful girl,” he said. “Just take your time, and I’ll help you."

Her father sat up against the headboard, his back resting on the red pillows as he slid off his trousers, revealing his erect cock, the sight making Wonyoung’s eyes widen, her cheeks flushing with a deep blush as she knelt between his legs, her hands trembling slightly. “Dad… it’s… it’s bigger than I thought,” she admitted as she bit her lip, her fingers hovering nervously above his cock, unsure of where to start.

Her father smiled, he guided her gently, his voice soothing as he spoke. “It’s okay, Wonyoung,” he said, his tone filled with love. “Just start slow. You can touch it first, get used to it. I’ll tell you what feels good.” Wonyoung nodded, her fingers trembling as she wrapped her hand around his cock, her touch light and tentative as she felt its warmth and hardness, her curiosity outweighing her nervousness as she began to stroke him gently, her movements slow and careful as she looked up at him, her eyes seeking his approval. “Is this okay, Dad?” she asked.. Her father let out a soft groan of pleasure. “That’s perfect, my darling,” he said, his tone thick with love. “You’re doing well. Just like that. Now take it in your mouth"

Wonyoung took him into her mouth slowly, her lips wrapping around the head of his cock as she began to suck gently, her tongue swirling around him with care, her hands resting on his thighs for support as she looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and love. “Am I doing okay, Dad?” she asked, her voice muffled around his cock. Her father groaned softly, his hand stroking her hair as he replied, his voice thick with pleasure. “You’re doing amazing, my daughter,” he said, his tone filled with adoration. “Just keep going, take your time. I love you so much.” Wonyoung continued, her confidence growing with his encouragement as she took him deeper into her mouth, her lips sliding down his dick as she sucked gently, her tongue exploring him with curiosity.. Her father’s moans grew louder, his hand guiding her gently as he spoke, his voice filled with love and pleasure. “Oh, Wonyoung… you’re so good at this considering its your first time” he said, his tone thick with emotion. “I’m so lucky to have you my beautiful girl.” Wonyoung’s heart swelled at his words, her shyness melting away as she continued to suck him, her movements becoming more confident as she felt his pleasure.

After a few minutes, her father gently pulled her off, his hands cupping her face as he looked at her with adoration, he has a greed to fuck his daughter now. “You were amazing, Wonyoung, but you know what? I think it's time to do what you asked prior to the blowjob” he said with his tone thick .

Her father gently laid Wonyoung on the bed, her long dark hair fanning out around her on the pillows, her naked body trembling. He positioned himself above her in the missionary position, his hands resting on either side of her head, his body hovering over hers as he leaned down to kiss her, Wonyoung's heart starts to race, her hands reaching up to wrap around his neck as she kissed him back, her love for him pouring into every mouthful kiss.

The missionary position allowed them to maintain close eye contact, their faces inches apart as they shared this intimate moment, their kisses filled with affection.. Her father’s body pressed against hers, his chest brushing against her small, perky breasts, the warmth of his skin against hers making her feel safe and loved, her legs spread slightly to accommodate him as he positioned himself at her entrance, his cock brushing against her pussy.

her father slowly pushed into her pussy, his cock sliding into her with care, his movements slow and gentle to avoid hurting her. Wonyoung let out a soft gasp, her hands gripping his shoulders as she felt him inside her.. “Oh, Dad… it feels… so good,” she moaned with a mix of pleasure and emotion as she felt him move inside her, his cock stretching her gently. Her father began to thrust fast now, the missionary position allowing him to lean down and kiss her continuously, their lips meeting in a deep, loving kiss as they made love, their tongues dancing together in a slow, Wonyoung’s moans soft and sweet as she felt him inside her.

“You’re so beautiful, Wonyoung,” her father murmured against her lips. “I remember your mom… you resemble her so much, especially when you moan and cry like that.” Wonyoung’s heart swelled at his words, a soft giggle escaping her lips as she kissed him back.. she replied, “Really, Dad? I look like Mom?” Her father nodded, his eyes shining with nostalgia as he spoke, his thrusts slowing for a moment as he shared the memory.

“Yes, my darling,” he said.. “Your mom had the same smile, the same sparkle in her eyes… she’d be so proud of you, Wonyoung, just like I am.”

Wonyoung’s eyes filled with tears of happiness, her love for her father deepening as she pulled him down for another kiss, her lips moving against his with passion and affection, their romantic fucking filled with love.. “I’m so happy to hear that, Dad,” she moaned again, her moans growing louder as she felt a wave of pleasure build inside her..

After their romantic fucking in the missionary position , Wonyoung's dad wanted to try anal on his daughter. He positioned Wonyoung in doggy style.

In this doggy style position, Wonyoung’s knees were spread apart on the bed, her ass raised high to give her father easy access to her shithole, her upper body supported by her elbows as she rested her chest on the pillows, her face turned to the side so she could look back at him, her long hair cascading over her shoulder. Her father knelt behind her, his hands resting on her hips to steady her, his cock already slick from their earlier lovemaking as he pressed the tip against her shithole, the warmth of her body making him ache with desire, his movements slow and careful as he began to push in, the tightness of her ass resisting him at first.

Wonyoung let out a sharp gasp as he entered her, the cock stretching her shithole intense and painful, the tightness of her ass—already packed with shit—adding to the discomfort as he pushed in slowly, his movements careful but unable to fully mitigate the pain of her first anal experience. “Oh, Dad… it hurts!” she cried out, her voice trembling with pain, her hands gripping the pillows tighter as she felt him inside her tight asshole, the pressure of her shit being pushed deeper adding to the intensity, her asshole tight and unprepared.

Her father paused, his hands tightening on her hips as he spoke, his voice filled with concern and love. “I’m so sorry my daughter,” he said, his tone soothing as he leaned down to kiss her ass cheecks. “We can stop if it’s too much, Wonyoung. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Wonyoung shook her head, her voice trembling with pain but also with resolve, her love for him giving her the strength to continue despite the discomfort. “No, Dad… I want this,” she whispered as she looked back at him, her eyes filled with tears of pain but also love. “I want us to be close… I can handle it… please keep going dad.” Her father smiled, he slapped her ass cheecks as he continued to push in slowly, his cock stretching her shithole further..

As he began to thrust slowly, his movements gentle and careful to minimize her pain, Wonyoung let out a series of soft screams, her shithole burning with the stretch, the pain sharp and overwhelming at first.

“Dad… it hurts so much!” she screamed softly, her voice breaking as she buried her face in the pillow, her hands gripping the fabric tightly, her body trembling with the effort to endure the pain.

Her father’s heart ached at her cries, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her hips, “You’re doing so well, Wonyoung… I’m so proud of you. Just try to relax, and it’ll get better, I promise.”

As he continued to fuck her ass, his movements fast and loving, Wonyoung felt a wave of pleasure build inside her, her moans growing louder.. Her father felt his own release approaching, his cock throbbing inside her tight shithole, the messiness of her state adding to the intensity of his pleasure…

“Wonyoung… I’m going to come my darling,” he said, his tone filled with love. “I love you so much.” Wonyoung nodded, her voice soft as she replied, “I’m close too, Dad… I love you too.”

With a few more hard thrusts, her father came inside her ass, his cum filling her shithole, mixing with her liquid juices as he groaned softly, his hands holding her hips as he released, his love for her evident in every shudder of his body. Wonyoung came at the same time, her pussy clenching as she felt a wave of pleasure crash over her.. Her father slowly pulled out, the messiness of her shithole evident as a mix of his cum leaked out.. Wonyoung’s heart swell with love.

“Dad… that was… so intense,” she whispered.. “The anal hurted a lot so much… but I’m so happy we did it. I feel so close to you.”

Her father smiled, his hand stroking her hair as he kissed her lips, his voice filled with adoration. “I’m so proud of you, Wonyoung,” he said, his tone thick with love. “You were so brave… just like your mom. I remember how she’d always push through tough things for the people she loved… you’re so much like her, my darling.” Their lips met in a deep, loving kiss, their tongues dancing together Again.. “I love hearing about Mom, Dad,” Wonyoung whispered against his lips..

“What else was she like? Did she like picnics too like me?” Her father smiled.. “Oh, she loved picnics,” he said, his tone warm with nostalgia. “We’d take you to the park when you were little… you’d run around with your little pigtails, and she’d chase after you, laughing so hard. She always said you were her little sunshine… just like you’re mine now..”

#wonyoung smut #girl group smut #twice smut #kpop gg smut #izone smut #female idol smut #kpop girl smut #ive smut #karina smut #yuna smut #Yujin smut

203 notes · View notes

blueberry3241 · 12 hours ago

Note

Can i req skz reaction to you smiling/ giggling saying their name in your sleep. Idk why but it sounds super cute🥺

I am loving your work look forward to reading more💕

-👩‍💻

Aww thank you so much I appreciate this, I hope you enjoy the reaction and I'm sorry، I'm late..... 🥲💔

★彡 Stray kids reaction to you smiling/ giggling saying their name in your sleep

↷ Pairing : stray kids x reader ↷ Genre : Fluff, romance, comedy ↷ word count : 2,000–2,500 words

↳ Disclaimer : This is an original work of fiction. All characters, settings, and story elements are my own creation. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental. Please do not reproduce, distribute, or adapt this work without my explicit permission.

Masterlist

↝Bang Chan

Chan had been up late in his studio again, typing away at his laptop while you napped on the couch beside him. Every now and then, he would glance over to check on you, making sure you were comfortable.

Then, just as he reached for his water bottle, he heard it.

"Chan…"

His head snapped toward you, eyebrows raising in surprise. Your lips curled into a sleepy, content smile, a soft giggle slipping out.

His heart melted on the spot.

He leaned in slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you with an affectionate gaze.

"What are you dreaming about, hmm?" he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You shifted slightly but remained asleep, your smile still present.

Chan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "You’re too cute for your own good."

That night, he worked with a permanent smile on his face, feeling like the luckiest man alive.

↝Lee Know

Minho was lying in bed beside you, scrolling through his phone when he suddenly heard his name slip from your lips.

"Minho…" You let out a sleepy giggle.

He blinked. Slowly, a smug smirk formed on his face.

"Oh? What’s this?" he whispered to himself.

Turning onto his side, he propped his head up on his hand, watching you with amused eyes. "You’re dreaming about me, huh?"

He poked your cheek lightly. "I bet I look amazing in your dream, don’t I?"

When you giggled again, his smirk faltered just slightly. His ears turned pink, but he quickly shook it off.

"You better tell me all about it when you wake up," he said, mostly to himself, before rolling onto his back with a satisfied smile.

The teasing would be relentless in the morning.

↝Changbin

Changbin had fallen asleep beside you on the couch after a long day. But when he stirred awake in the middle of the night, he heard you mumble something.

"Changbin…" A soft giggle followed.

His groggy brain took a moment to register it. Then—

Wait. What?!

His eyes flew open, and he sat up so fast he nearly fell off the couch.

"Did you just…?" He looked at you, wide-eyed.

When you smiled in your sleep again, completely unaware, he clutched his chest dramatically.

"Aish, this is bad for my heart!" he whispered, kicking his feet in excitement.

Resisting the urge to wake you up and ask about it, he instead pulled you closer and grinned into your hair.

"You’re not gonna hear the end of this," he murmured.

↝Hyunjin

Hyunjin had been sketching at the desk while you slept peacefully on the bed. The room was quiet except for the sound of his pencil against the paper.

Then he heard it.

"Hyunjin…"

He froze mid-stroke.

Slowly, he turned toward you, eyes wide. When you let out a soft giggle, his face turned bright red.

"Oh my God," he whispered, covering his mouth.

His heart was racing, his hands suddenly clammy. Did you seriously just say his name in your sleep?

He swallowed, running a hand through his hair as he bit his lip, trying to calm himself down. But it was no use—his heart was officially gone.

With a bashful chuckle, he walked over and tucked the blanket around you better, staring at your peaceful face.

"You’re gonna make me crazy," he muttered, smiling to himself.

↝Han

Han had been half-asleep himself when he heard you giggle.

"Jisung…"

His eyes shot open. His brain short-circuited.

"H-Huh?" he stammered, his heart doing backflips.

He turned his head slowly, watching your sleeping face in disbelief. When you giggled again, he slapped a hand over his mouth.

Nope. He was not surviving this.

His face burned as he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. "This is too cute—!" he whisper-yelled to himself.

After a solid minute of internally screaming, he peeked at you again and sighed dramatically.

"You’re lucky you’re adorable," he muttered before throwing the blanket over his head, unable to handle his emotions.

↝Felix

Felix had been playing a game on his phone while you snuggled into his chest, fast asleep. He was about to finish his round when he heard it.

"Lixie…"

His entire body froze.

His brain stopped working.

He blinked rapidly, processing what he just heard. "Did you just—?"

You giggled softly, snuggling even closer.

Felix let out the quietest squeak known to mankind.

His hands covered his face as he kicked his legs slightly, heart racing out of control. "I’m going to cry," he whispered dramatically.

Carefully, he wrapped his arms around you even tighter, his heart practically bursting.

"You’re the cutest thing ever," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

↝Seungmin

Seungmin had been lying beside you, flipping through a book, when he heard his name escape your lips.

"Seungmin…"

He paused mid-page.

His eyes flickered toward you, watching as you smiled in your sleep. His heartbeat stuttered.

After a moment, he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Really?"

Closing his book, he turned onto his side, watching you with a small, fond smirk. "You must be having a great dream."

His teasing nature wanted to wake you up and mess with you, but instead, he just poked your nose lightly.

"You better not deny it when you wake up," he murmured, before pulling the blanket up over your shoulders with a tiny smile.

↝Jeongin

Jeongin had been dozing off when he heard a soft giggle from you. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, but then—

"Innie…"

His entire soul left his body.

His eyes widened, and he turned bright red. "Wh—what?!"

He covered his face, feeling his ears burn. Did he hear that right?

Slowly, he peeked at you, watching your sleeping expression. His heart swelled.

Despite his flustered state, he let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aish, you’re too cute…"

Hesitantly, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

"Sleep well," he whispered, smiling to himself.

237 notes · View notes

gf2bellamy · 18 hours ago

Note

hi athena I've been reading your shy!reader fics and I had this idea about them hugging or something and the reader is like overheating because she's so nervous and spencer thinks she's sick and she has to awkwardly explain why? whether they're dating yet or not is up to you but it's been running through my head all day lol

as always love your work <333

hug — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: just fluff a/n: hiii !!! i love love love shy!reader so so so much so i loved this idea <3

You never regretted smiling at Spencer Reid. Why would you? He always smiled back, and his smile—soft, genuine, a little shy—was your favorite thing in the world.

But right now, as you stood in front of your apartment, his arms wrapped around you, you weren’t so sure.

The day had been long, filled with exhausting paperwork. Spencer had been quieter than usual, though most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did. You always did.

Maybe it was the way he only rambled three times instead of his usual five, or how his fingers fidgeted just a little more than normal. Or maybe it was just that you paid too much attention—because having a hopeless, all-consuming crush on him made you hyperaware of everything he did.

So when you were walking out of work together, you’d mustered up the courage to ask.

"Hey, there's this new coffee shop a few blocks away. Want to check it out with me?"

His face had brightened instantly, as if you’d flipped a switch. "Yes! I'd love to."

And just like that, he was back. Rambling, animated, in his element. And you just smiled, nodding along, listening to every word like it was the most interesting thing in the world—because to you, it was.

The coffee shop had been perfect. Spencer had ordered something with way too much caffeine, and you’d teased him about it. He’d told you about a study on caffeine metabolism, and you’d pretended to understand even though you were mostly distracted by how nice it was to see him happy again.

And now, here you were.

Outside of your apartment door. Spencer had insisted on walking you home, and you hadn’t argued, secretly loving the idea of a few more minutes with him.

You turned to say goodbye with a smile, expecting the usual awkward wave or maybe even a hesitant "see you tomorrow." But instead, he smiled—soft, fond—and before you could process it, he was hugging you.

It wasn’t a brief, polite hug. It was warm and lingering, his arms firm but gentle, as if he wasn’t in any rush to let go.

"Thank you," Spencer mumbled, his voice quiet.

He knew.

You could tell by the way his grip on you lingered, by the way his head dipped just slightly closer to yours. He had understood exactly what you had tried to do—how you’d casually pointed out the little bookstore on the way back, pretending you wanted to take a look inside, when really, you just knew that walking into a bookshop always lifted his mood.

You hugged him back, trying not to tremble too much as the warmth of his body seeped into yours. And then you felt it—the soft press of his lips against your shoulder, barely there but enough to send a shockwave through you. His hands, resting at your waist, brushed against the fabric of your clothes, and you prayed he didn’t notice how tense you’d gone.

Or how your body was reacting in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature outside.

But, of course, he did.

Spencer pulled back slightly, his hands lingering at your waist as he studied you. His brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face before he hesitated, then lifted one hand to your forehead.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his fingers cool against your burning skin. "You're warm."

You swallowed hard. If you were warm before, you were practically on fire now. The way his hand rested against your forehead, the concern in his gaze—it was all too much.

"Y-yeah," you stammered, biting your lip nervously. "I'm fine, Spencer."

But he didn’t believe you. You could see it in the way his lips pressed together, the way his head tilted slightly as if analyzing every little detail of your expression. His hand slid from your forehead to your cheek, his palm cradling it gently.

"Are you sick?" he asked, completely ignoring your weak attempt at reassurance. His thumb brushed absently over your skin, and you nearly forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t fair.

How could he touch you like this, look at you like this, and not realize what he was doing to you?

"I'm not—" You started to deny it again, but your voice faltered, betraying you.

Spencer's brows were still furrowed, his lips parted as if about to launch into some kind of explanation about temperatures, fevers, or some obscure medical fact you wouldn’t have a chance of keeping up with.

"I’m not sick, Spencer." You said, your voice firmer this time, even though you could feel the heat of your own cheeks betraying you.

Spencer's hand slowly dropped from your cheek, but his gaze never left you. You closed your eyes for a moment, bracing yourself.

"I’m just..." You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words you were about to speak. "You make me nervous."

When you opened your eyes again, you focused on his dark blue tie, avoiding his gaze at all costs. You could feel your heart racing, could hear the deafening pulse in your ears.

Why were you even saying this? How had it come to this?

Spencer stood completely still. His eyes widened slightly, and the faintest hint of confusion flitted across his face.

"Nervous? Why?" His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

Oh God, did you really have to spell it out for him? Why was this happening? Why couldn’t you just stay composed for once?

"Because of you?" The words came out more as a question than a statement, and you immediately regretted it. You squinted, not meeting his gaze, still staring at his tie like it was the most important thing in the world.

Spencer blinked, his eyebrows shooting up in genuine surprise. "Me?" His voice was almost a whisper, the disbelief evident.

You slowly nodded, still too terrified to look him in the eyes.

Spencer stepped back just slightly. His hand reached up, brushing through his messy brown hair as if he was trying to process what you had just said.

"Why would you be nervous because of me?" he asked, his voice quieter now, softer, as if he was genuinely trying to understand.

You immediately regretted every choice that had led you to this point. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"Spencer..." You breathed out, a whisper of defeat in your voice, hoping—praying—that he’d get it. That somehow, he’d understand without you needing to explain it further.

But he didn’t.

"Yeah?" he asked, still waiting for you to continue, his voice filled with a quiet curiosity.

You glanced up at him, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if to silently say, Please, just don’t make me spell it out for you.

Spencer knew how to read your face—he always had—and once you finally met his eyes, he finally caught on. His expression shifted, the light dawning in his eyes

"Oh," he said simply, as if the realization had just clicked into place.

You bit your lip, feeling a rush of heat flood your body, and the silence between you both stretched out longer than it should’ve.

You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, or your heart, or your thoughts—all of it was so overwhelming.

You were about to turn to open the door, desperate for an escape from the growing tension when Spencer suddenly spoke again, his voice a little too quick.

"If I ask you out on a date, would that be our second date?" he asked, his words tumbling out in a rush.

You froze, blinking up at him, your mouth slightly open in surprise.

He winced slightly as if embarrassed by his own question, and then, with a nervous laugh, he added, "I mean, today felt like a first date..." He adjusted his tie as if it would somehow make the moment less excruciating.

His eyes darted around, anywhere but your face. "To me, at least."

You couldn’t help it; you just stared at him, utterly caught off guard. This wasn’t exactly the direction you’d imagined this conversation going.

"I like you," he said plainly, as if his earlier sentences hadn’t been clear enough. His voice was quieter now, more vulnerable.

"I might not heat up—" he added, a slight smile pulling at his lips. You quickly looked away, embarrassed by how warm your body was suddenly feeling. "—but you do make me nervous too," he finished, the smile turning into something gentler, more vulnerable.

"I make you nervous?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you looked back at him, stunned. He nodded.

But then, it hit you. Your own fear of him not liking you back had kept you from seeing it all along. You had been so wrapped up in your own anxiety, you hadn’t noticed the signs.

You glanced down at his foot, tapping nervously on the ground, its rhythm quickening in time with the rapid beat of your heart. His fingers were practically picking at his satchel bag, pulling at the strap as if he was trying to distract himself. His eyes, when they finally met yours, darted away almost immediately, and you saw the flush coloring his cheeks.

"Oh," you murmured, the realization hitting you all at once.Now it was your turn to use the word.

"I guess we’re both nervous, then," you said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Spencer’s eyes softened as he took a small step forward, still unsure, but less guarded than before. "Yeah. I think so." His voice was quieter now, almost shy.

With a final glance at him, you smiled, stepping closer again. "So," you began, your voice affectionate, "about that second date…"

Spencer's face broke into a grin, his nerves seemingly forgotten for a moment. "Yeah?" His voice was hopeful, his smile almost playful.

"Yeah," you confirmed, smiling. "I think I’d like that."

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fic

202 notes · View notes

chilling-seavey · 2 days ago

Text

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.”

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.”

♡ Enjoying my content? Support my writing here :)

♡ None of the original writing on this blog may be reproduced, reposted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

#🩵#george russell smut #george russell fanfic #george russell fic #george russell x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula one fic #f1 fluff #f1 smut #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #domestic f1 #dad george russell #birth story

266 notes · View notes