#Week 3: Related Rates | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

taegularities · 1 month ago

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colour me in: photograph | jjk (m)

Summary: With both your and Jungkook's careers peaking, the future feels promising and bright. Yet, amidst the glowing hope, one single phone call dims the light in the rooms of your shared home.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: work-related stuff, new gallery/art/fair stuff, stress and feeling overwhelmed, death of a pet, tears, sadness/grief, doubts, tender moments, talk of jk's future and his art, support, surprises, (talk of) a break up oop, mention of children (i guess that's a warning lol), explicit sexual content: let-out-some-steam-sex, car sex!! a cmi first!!, dom!jk, big dick!jk, he's actually insane, lots of fingering, bit of overstimulation, (multiple) intense orgasms, kissing, manhandling, smacks on pussy/ass, sum hard sex, they're half clothed, playing with his bawlls; the ending.. <3 ➳ word count: 19.4k ➳ a/n: happy bts month and 3rd anniversary to cmi! get ready, it's gonna hurt for a whiiile now :') i know it's been quite long, but i hope you guys are still around. so as always, come and talk to me about this 🤍 ➳ listen to: photograph by ed sheeran | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

“Jungkook?”

“Babe?”

“Jungkook,” you repeat solemnly, lifting yourself off the far end of the mattress. “I hate surprises.”

There’s light static in the foot previously tucked under your bottom, tingling when you limp to his distracted, pajama-clad self. He’s immersed in the sketchbook you gifted him for his birthday, embellishing yet another page but never showing you what you’ve been begging for.

Mid-stroke, he chuckles, side-eyeing you; you’re still sulking from the conversation before. “Nice try, munchkin. No lies in this household.” Because you love surprises and that butthead knows. “Now sit your ass back down. Wait a bit more. If you’re a good girl.”

You pout again. Leaning in, you press your fingers into where his dimples usually emerge, moving his face back and forth until he whines, and tell him, “You’re a mean man, you know?”

“Stop,” he protests, grabbing your hand when your fingers dig in and removes it from his slightly crimson cheeks. “Learned it from you, apparently.”

“Ah… how fucking dare.”

Your joke slips past him as he pats your thigh twice and places the sketchbook on your pillow. You move aside for him to jump off the bed; the day has passed languidly for most of its part, but Jungkook doesn’t know laziness when it comes to hunger.

It’s snack time anyway — a possibly unhealthy comfort after the diligent workout sessions he powered through this week. But they say couples who munch together stay together, and you’re all for increasing your odds.

“Okay, sushi or dumplings?” he asks, fetching the phone he left on the work desk earlier. “Or both?”

You’re more indecisive than him. Wrong person to ask. “Either is fine. Both reduce stress.”

“Why? Are you stressed?”

“I mean… it’s why people snack sometimes, no?”

“You didn’t deny it, though. What’s up?”

You emit a deep breath, combining anxiety about life and relief about being able to talk about it. As he orders whatever he’s craving, you tell him, “Work’s just been chaotic, which wouldn’t be news if I wasn’t the one responsible for fixing it all.”

You shake your head a little, click your tongue and then continue, “I mean, it’s not that anything needs to be fixed, but with the season changing, the collection does, too… and… of course we need to advertise every single sock and glove.”

There is no need to repeat the current situation to him; perhaps you just need to spell it out again, to torture yourself or maybe, to raise your own awareness of how important this thing is.

So of course he’s calm and reassuring when he says, “But you were so excited about it?”

“I still am. Just nervous as hell, too, because I’ve never taken the lead before, really.”

“No? You did do a hell of a job at Charmante, though.”

You smile weakly, hiding the little sigh and admit, “Yes, but those were never my projects alone. Back when I started here at Novaura and they were doing the autumn launch, I was still just learning and watching. It looked so difficult then, too.”

“Only because autumn to winter fashion is such a jump. Listen,” his eyes lift, the phone thrown back on the bed and a moment later, himself as well. His hand lands on yours, rubbing energetically. “It just means they trust you!”

“Yeahh,” you drag the word, and then nod, “yeah, no, sure. Like, so many people do that all over the world and they manage, so I should be fine.” Jungkook hums. “As long as the models don’t leave us hanging — one of them still hasn’t answered.”

You pause for dramatic effect, an expression of your gathered frustration and fear of failure. But when you look at him, eyes filled with support but a slight distraction in the far back, you digress, “But you have your own stress to deal with right now.”

His eyes flit to the ground and he presses his lips to a line as if to disagree, and then actually does, “I don’t know if I’d call it stress. Just nervous, like you. First big thing for me, too.”

So was the exhibition months ago, and he mastered it so easily. But there are a dozen reasons he’d rather forget about these long nights, no matter how victorious he came out of them.

Despite the exposure he received, he doesn’t talk about it, except once, shortly after you found each other again. Poured how it still sometimes hurt to think about the dread that so overshadowed his excitement, bringing to light every other insecurity he’s ever lived with, too.

But. A healthy number of amazing results followed all that anguish — like, the guy scouting him, or you coming to the exhibition after all.

Okay. Anyway. Your turn to offer some peaceful words before any of you can enable any approaching nightmares of everything that can go wrong.

“You know,” you start, “I could easily give you my very personal and totally unbiased opinion if you let me see.”

You lower your head to throw an ominous through-the-lashes glance, and you probably look like an idiot enough to make him laugh like this. But then, all earnestly, he explains, “No. If I’m able to land this job, I will show you something far bigger. And—”

He stares up to the ceiling, forming an imaginary rainbow with his hands, all theatrical. “And the stuff you want to actually see is part of what will be one day.”

“Dramatic poetry.”

He shrugs. “I might’ve flicked through your anthologies.” A similar pat as before follows on the back of your hand and he rushes to the table, returning with his turned on laptop. “But know what? I can show you a few of these at least.”

The display lights up bright once he’s typed in his password, directly offering a look at the folder containing the pictures he took on your vacation. Random ones, some of them already edited — he likes doing this.

There’s crystal clear water and the horizon behind it; or random alleys. Very artsy stuff, but carrying an obvious signature note. And the edits add to the specific tone that is so easily distinguished from what other people create.

“Does the guy want photographs, too?” you ask, scooching closer.

“Just for the portfolio. I don’t need to exhibit any just yet… maybe someday.”

As he opens a picture the screen froze on before he shut the laptop, you exclaim, “Oh, this was right after the slippery soccer game! When we were having dinner at this fancy hotel restaurant.”

“Right,” he zooms in, dragging the mouse across faces, “you didn’t like the dessert there.”

“But I liked the main course,” you tell him with a slight lift of your shoulder, watching until your face jumps into your eyes, “look at me here. I fucking hate you for catching this moment of all.”

Your expressions are contorted, left cheek filled with a bite of the tart. You aren’t focused on the camera, not posing or smiling like the rest is; entirely distracted by the attack on your tastebuds.

“Oh, I love myself for it,” Jungkook counters, zooming further into your knitted eyebrows. You hit his shoulder a little, and he fakes a devastated exclaim, “Owh. Bully.”

“I look like the grapes offended me and my ancestors.”

“Probably did.”

“Probably.”

You laugh, basking in the post-vacation glow, although missing the moments the pictures are refreshing in your mind. You take over the keyboard to move between them, dwelling on one or returning to another when you recall a story to it.

Jungkook, with the computer on his lap, leans back, listens to your tales and adds his own. Talking about the conversations held before, during and after all these many seconds were captured.

And at some point, as time passes and the delivery service rings the bell, you finally prepare to move from one activity to the next; Jungkook gets up to open the door.

But just before disappearing, uncaring of who awaits, he turns around again, one look thrown down to where you sit so calmly. Looking like the same girl chomping through her lunch in the empty skatepark, legs dangling underneath the summer sun as he teased her out of her mind next to her.

You have changed — but you haven’t. You look happier, at least.

If he could, he’d stare at the glow a little longer.

But instead, he remembers the food waiting outside and with it the certainly impatient supplier, and he leans into you slowly. Digs two fingers into your cheeks, much softer than you did to him before, and closes the space between your mouths.

The kiss is a mere peck, but feathery and sweet, finished in a moment. But it’s delightful, how giddy you still look when you ask, “What was that for?”

His shoulders rise again to a shrug, thumb brushing along your skin. And then, he backs away and leaves with a last statement that is so simple that it really shouldn’t stir your stomach the way it does— “Nothing at all. Could just do it all day.”

Jungkook looks around the dimly lit hall.

Very natural how the gallery collector chose an artistic museum-café for the first meet-up, surrounded by tiny shops offering bookmarks and puzzles of popular pieces.

Of course, the mere reason for this was the collector’s professional visit before Jungkook arrived, coinciding with this meeting only because the guy’s calendar was — as he claimed — already filled to the brim.

Fine by Jungkook. If circumstances offered a way to get into one of his favourite museums for free, just because the man vis-à-vis allowed him in, he wasn’t going to say no.

And the café is of the extraordinary sort — not at the end of the exhibition, behind some souvenir shop, right next to the exit. It’s situated in the middle of the first floor, surrounded by a couple entrances that lead to different eras of painted magic.

The exhibitions are showcased in rooms as brightly lit as the one Jungkook presented his own work in, but the hall housing the café-restaurant in the middle resembles a castle. Lights warm as candles, ceilings high, walls an art of their own.

And amidst all the wonder, there’s him, nervous and fumbling as the gallery collector, Mr. Paik, takes in each page of the portfolio with eagle eyes. Jungkook would run if he could, come back when the man has formed a verdict.

But instead, Jungkook slurps his flat white and waits, eyes bigger than ever as he stares through his growing bangs. And then, Paik finally nods a bit, forefinger tapping at a random spot on the page before he says, entirely unrelated, “You have some good connections, don’t you?”

“I— uh,” Jungkook sits up, uprighting his torso, naming the one person Paik already knows of, “I have Kim Namjoon.”

“Okay. Really, he is more than enough, too.” He shuts the portfolio, only to open it again to one of the first works. “You do have exceptional talent and are in good hands with Namjoon. A convenient combination if you ask me.”

“I think so, too. I have a lot to thank him for.”

“Mmhm, this is incredible. It takes people years sometimes to work their way into a gallery. And that without open calls or random submissions — I mean, possible, but rare.”

“I really am thankful, sir,” Jungkook says, voice a bit livelier. This is what he’s been wanting to hear all those years; it pumps a vast amount of energy into his soul. “Honestly. I can barely believe I was even part of a group exhibition, either.”

Paik laughs, multiple little crinkles of age collecting at the corners of his eyes. He puts a hand on the table, fingers brushing the saucer under his cup.

Then he asks, “Why’s that? Your awareness of detail is great. You can surely work your way up if you give your best, and people will definitely see how much you love doing this, too.”

“I am certainly intending to work hard. Thank you so much.”

A burden falls off Jungkook’s chest and lightens the space. Of course, this is just the beginning and the true trials are still ahead. But this is still a more than opportune way to start out; to find a footing in this area of work and then climb up to success.

The moment paired with the coffee leaves Jungkook hyped to the bone, but he attempts his best to remain composed. Not that he can hide much of his telling smile, and the man in front of him sees through him quickly.

He asks, “Excited, yes?”

Jungkook sighs in relief; his pupils are probably enlarged as hell. “I can’t even find the words. To tell you the truth, I was so anxious about this for so long. And I really want people to feel the same way you did just now. It has been a goal for the longest time.”

He’s probably rambling — so much to staying calm. But perhaps it’s just right, to show his humane side, to actually manifest into words all that his hands bring to paper. Artists are vulnerable; why not show all of it instead of stashing his heart?

“I will help as best as I can,” Paik says, and Jungkook half nods, half bows, ready to nearly tear up until the collector’s next words freeze him on his chair, “we could start out with an art fair. There’s one at the end of November, so in around a month? Not long before the gallery showing. Do you want to come?”

…What?

Let’s see…

That’s in nearly three weeks. No time left at all. Everything is happening so fast that it appears downright unbelievable, too good to be true — never for a second did Jungkook expect for opportunities to fall into his hands like this.

Insane. Insane. Insane.

“No?” Paik asks again, and Jungkook soon notices that he’s supposed to answer, that he hasn’t said or done anything yet, other than to ponder his luck in his head.

“D-do I want to—” he stammers, aware that his conversation partner is amusingly registering each of Jungkook’s joys.

“I mean, it’s not that easy. You’d have to present your stuff and create new things — if you want. And select pieces you could sell. The competition can be tough, but I wouldn’t be worried—”

Oh fuck.

Half his heart is thrilled about the chance; the other half dreads the moment, finding artworks he can give away. And if nobody purchases it? Or even fails to find their way to his booth? And can he do a lot in three weeks at all?

“You can also just come and look around, without being one of the showcasers, too!” Paik tries to comfort, but—

Isn’t this what Jungkook wants? To show the world pieces of his himself, what he loves, what he’s always done?

Wouldn’t it be thoroughly stupid to say no?

Paik tries again, giving Jungkook some space to think about it. He comments, “I’ll give you some time. But I suggested it because you bring exceptional talent to the table and I know I’m not the only one wanting you to grow quickly.”

“Yes… yes, I can barely wait either,” Jungkook starts, nervously laughing, “but is that even possible? Can I afford to rush it…?”

“Are you really rushing it, though, if you’re doing what you enjoy? Then again,” Paik pauses, thinks about it, “you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t make my hobby a chore. If you feel like it’s too stressful, you can take your time. I’m sure you can make it big either way, no matter when.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Paik.”

“Honest,” he corrects with a soft, likeable smile, “take it easy.”

“Yes. God, I’m just perplexed because—” Jungkook puffs out some breath, blinking. His nervously shaking hands curl into fists, thoughts all over the place. “I’ve always wanted this. My own studio and everything.”

“But it’s too much at once?”

“No… yes. I mean, I want this, but I just can’t believe my luck.”

“You underestimate yourself. You can reach your goals with ease.”

Jungkook offers a vibrant smile, mixed with a bit of concern but with elation, too. When you love something too much, the fear of losing it grows even bigger. But maybe he should focus on what’s in front of him; and right now, it’s a huge ass break just to happen.

“Okay. You know what — I will give it a try. Why not?” Jungkook says, coming way too close to cursing, too close to throwing in words of strong eagerness. “I can already think of so many things. A couple old pieces can be refined by then as well.”

“Remember that you can opt out anytime, I won’t mind. You still have the gallery showcase.” Paik leans forwards, hands folding on the table. “But Mr. Jeon… I wouldn’t worry too much. You are already at a level of ambition that often bears great results. Don’t let any of it falter.”

His words tattoo themselves into Jungkook’s hearts. Somehow, he reckons this is a memory that’ll stay carved in his mind, repeating even if he fails; on loop when he succeeds — many years after today, he’ll remember these joys.

Crazy.

Jungkook’s tense muscles calm as some ease and confidence wash into him, and with a heart full of aspiration and a mind filled with ideas, he says,

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Once the high-reaching waves of delirium have ebbed down and Jungkook calms from soaring, he finds himself in smoggy hesitation. Or maybe, it’s not really that — more so growing portions of panic.

The more he thinks about it, the more his mind whirs. Yes, no doubt, he’s got half a dozen ideas already; he was certainly not lying about that. But — he’s not the only artist in the world. And he definitely won’t be the only or first one to attend the fair, or to be part of a gallery.

So much is at stake, so much to give. He has never considered failure an option; aside from you, art has always been the one thing he’s been sure about, the one skill he’s confided in and understood to the core.

But with all that hope and support comes fear, too, and Paik, while indescribably kind, has awoken pressure in Jungkook he had never put on himself before.

Hours later, as you meet him on your way back home, he doesn’t seem nervous to you just yet. You wait in front of the entrance of the building that holds Namjoon’s studio, car parked not too far. If you’d known he’d be rushing here even on his day off, you’d have told him to take the vehicle today.

Conveniently, you finished just a little earlier than he did, driving all the way to this corner of the town. It’s not particularly close to your work. But despite his retelling of the meet-up with the gallery guy today, you had an odd feeling about Jungkook.

He sounded enthusiastic first; then, different. Not necessarily worried, but his voice had changed and he was in a hurry, pushing the conversation to, “Later.”

“What’s up?” you ask the moment he finds you.

There’s ease in the kiss he presses to your cheek, melting relief in his doe-brown eyes. But you don’t know…

Given the news, you feel like he’s lacking the fitting glow.

“Nothing new since the afternoon,” he answers, light crooked smile as he finds your hand to hold, “what about you?”

You shake your head. “No, I mean. Are you okay?”

“Huh? Struck one of the biggest deals of my life. Is there any other way to feel?”

That’s it… considering the fact that this exact thing happened, you sure cannot hear the excited tremble that such an opportunity usually elicits. He isn’t properly looking at you either. Smiling and swinging your arms, yeah, but staring ahead and sighing, too.

“Tired,” Jungkook responds, a tell-tale answer to Jungkook-esque anxiety and scarily common in human conversations these days, “just really tired. There’s a lot to think about in the upcoming future.”

“Hmm, yes.”

You let the thought marinate, for a moment even browsing your brain for ideas you can deliver additionally to the ones he already has. And he’s distracted, too, walking the rest of the way to the car mostly in peaceful silence.

But when you get in, insisting on driving, especially after his admissions of exhaustion, you prod again, “You know, this is a huge thing. I felt out of my mind when I started at Novaura. It’s okay to feel nervy or something.”

You push the key into the ignition, watching as he nods, a surprisingly steady voice telling you, “I know. Of course, that’s normal.”

Yet, as the seconds pass and the motor roars, you feel him grow uneasy on the passenger’s seat. It’s not until you pull out of the parking lot and near the first traffic light that he finally fesses up.

“I feel really fucking weird.”

You turn to him. The day is darkening and the red traffic light colouring his face extra bright. In it, he looks particularly concerned and frightened, accompanying his words with a deep exhale. He rubs his chin for a second.

And when you dig, “Weird how?”, he says, “I’m just unsure about what I got myself into.”

“Into something you will love to do.”

“Yeah, I mean — I just get why people say it’s dangerous to turn your hobby into work. He said exceptional talent today and my God. It’s very scary, landing amidst many good artists that I might not be able to compare with.”

You hum, checking for pedestrians before taking a right turn. You chew over his words before you ultimately tell him, “You don’t need to compare, though, do you? I thought that was never really the objective.”

“No, but… in the end, competition is crucial.”

“Oh… Jungkook. It’ll all turn out just right.”

It’s all you can do at the moment; wrap your words in honeyed support, extra sweet as you operate the wheel. But he’s distracted; staring out the window, blinking slowly, a hand on his cheek — he looks magnificent even like this, nearly animated.

“Hey,” you start, overcome with bits of guilt that you can’t help better. At home, you’ll prepare a loose schedule for him, boost motivation. You pat the back of his hand resting on his thigh, tell him, “Be yourself. Present what you love. People see passion, so whatever you do, it’ll be enough.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen a fraction; Paik said something similar.

“Present what I love.” He tries out the words, inhales the crips air blowing in from the open slit of the window. Then — displays his signature smirk. “So shall I take you with me?”

It’s only that he meets your eyes again when yours narrow, playfully judgemental and incredibly amused. The humour he finds in every situation…

The palm previously touching his skin lifts and pushes at his shoulder, and you say, “You’re disgusting.”

“It’d be a win-win moment, though. I can just bring you anywhere,” he still jokes, though bits of light remorse resonate in his voice, too. You get why when he says, “After all, I’ll have to be away from you for a little, too.”

Ah… that.

“Well, I mean. Busy times are ahead anyway. I’ll drown myself in work,” you say.

“Yeah. I don’t know. God, this is… stressful.”

You move into your alley, a reflex when the pace slows and you carefully turn into the garage. Jungkook and you abandoned the random parking lots outside that are almost never free and opted for a paid spot in the garage instead.

Big advantage. It’s inside and not a 5-minute-walk away, warmer in the winter, cooler in the summer. And many lots are free because not everybody needs a car or a parking space.

So… it’s often empty…

Right. Mostly empty. Right now, just him and you.

An idea pops into your mind.

Or rather, a tempting reminder. An old joke, indecent, said in excited moments that you forgot about for a while. Life got hectic.

But… hm.

You let the engine die, taking off your seatbelt, but you don’t leave the car just yet. As Jungkook, lost in thoughts, targets for the handle to strut up to your apartment, you hold him back by his elbow. Tug at the jacket.

“Kook.”

He looks back. Big, big eyes. You almost feel bad for thinking what you’re thinking, because there is no way that huge ass pupils like this could ever give into anything but innocent. If you didn’t know this man and the things he does to you, that’s what you’d assume…

“Can I tell you something?” you inquire.

“What?”

He sits back down, fingers falling off the handle. The questioning look turns more curious, but not worried — you don’t look like you have anything evil to confess. Your cheeks heat up.

“I was missing you today,” you confess. How lame — but a start. You shrug a shoulder to yourself. “Like, can’t-work-properly kinda missing.”

“Yeah? Well, welcome in my head,” the tip of his forefinger pokes his temple, “I miss you all the time.”

You keep staring. Wait for the right moment, ponder whether it’d be better to just leave him be tonight. To let him go up, shower, eat a comforting meal and drop into the mattress. But you’re already riled up at your thoughts; already closing your thighs.

It’s just this dumb joke you have, to execute a specific idea on any day that you might need to. When the days are gloomy and the time is right and you feel like experimenting, distracting yourselves.

Suggestions uttered in steamy moments are usually whatever, mostly just a product of brave craze. Yet, it could be a temporary remedy.

Jungkook’s eyes follow your confused thighs. Whatever he sees, it lights up his gaze a bit. Opens his eyelids. His eyes move back to yours and he blinks again, asks you, “Do you want something? Need something?”

He inches closer. Just enough for you to feel his breaths, fingers pinching your chin. But there’s no lewd intention behind this yet. The touch is pure and modest.

You don’t think he’s caught onto you enough to initiate what you’re willing to give, but it’s still something… he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised when you say, “I’d just— love a kiss right now.”

“A kiss?” He laughs. Of course he knew. “Sure that’s not because you knew I needed one?”

“You’re not the only one who has needs an—”

Your words are cut off as they often are; the impish smile stays as his lips meet yours, but he’s still careful, loving, vulnerable after the week he had.

But for now, you don’t say anything — can’t do it anyway as he moves his mouth gently, kissing you sweetly, not for too long but still enough for your tummy to react. So you hold back a bit less when you part, starting, “This might sound sudden—”

You wait. Then, he asks, “But?”

“But… Do you want to… leave it out somewhere? The stress.”

Just a little, he backs away. Perhaps he didn’t expect to hear this already. Maybe he thought you’d promise more, promise a tender night once your door had closed. But you’re feeling like taking a risk today.

“Huh?” he voices.

“It’s what you think, I think—”

“Like now?”

��Like now. Like here. I mean it.”

“…Seriously?”

You nod just once.

He hesitates. Sure he does — is there anyone in this world who wouldn’t give it a thought, so exposed here, a bit hidden but in a garage open to at least some neighbours anyway? Yes, there probably is.

But Jungkook is… an enigma right now. You don’t know what he’ll say. Give in because he digs adventures like this? Lowkey one to enjoy risks, too, to feel the thrill of you under him, trying to compose yourself, to not be too loud; to give you everything in a space that requires caution?

Or maybe… he’ll just shake his head, roll his eyes and leave. Declare you a fool, laugh at you for suggesting it at all. Tease you with it even at a ripe age.

Damn it, you can’t read his expression.

So you wait. Wait for seconds that feel like minutes, watching him cock an eyebrow, look around, lean back, sigh. As if he’s thinking about it hard; harder than work. As hard as his pants stir.

Well.

Then—

“I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“What?”

“You offer that I let out my stress on you,” he repeats, and you nod, “obviously I won’t hurt you, but… I don’t know how hard I’ll snap.”

Oh, fuck… the liquid is pooling between your legs. The everlasting, old effect of his…

You’re quick to let him know, “I don’t mind.” You draw closer, a hand on his knee, inching up until you feel just the beginning of his stiffening member. You withdraw, put a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I honestly don’t.”

“Not even if somebody walks past?”

You toy with the hem of his jacket. “Don’t give a fuck.”

“Angel…”

“Yeah?”

“Sure?”

“Kook—”

“Okay— Okay. Just, you… You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” Shit. That’s it. Your eyes expand; you can’t believe he surrendered. You guess your effect on him is just as apparent. “Because I might…”

“I know. Yes, of course I will.”

“My God,” he whispers, fingers to your wrist, but so featherlight that it doesn’t affect anything. “Nobody who might know me once I’m famous better see me causing… a scandal already.”

You let out a gasp, faux-offended — the two of you have already learned to laugh about the news articles in the past that concerned you. Now, it’s whatever. But the timing of the jest is just right.

Because his grip tightens suddenly around your wrist, and the frisky gasp you let out turns into a real one. Morphs into a tiny shriek when he pulls you into him, dropping another quiet F-bomb and then commanding, “Back seat. Now.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You get out of the car and back into it at a speed that is nearly embarrassing; especially considering how leisurely he strolls back, a hand through his hair, jacket zipped open.

It’s cold outside, but you feel warm somehow. Well, if you get sick because you were stupid… you won’t mind this time. You could squeak in electrified anticipation.

But not a sound escapes when he finally gets in, luring you into the corner and against the seat before a hand grabs your face and brings his mouth back to yours.

Again, for just a second. He doesn’t make too much of a fuss today, doesn’t say too much; it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, like now, he does go straight into it with an incredibly determined mind.

And he probably doesn’t have anything to say anyway. His eyes are too foggy. Or at least, nothing except commands. Such as, “Turn around.”

You take off your shoes and your jacket, try to get into position… It’s not easy. Not in such a confined space, not with both your bodies here; not even when he leans back. He’s a big man, after all…

“You tell me if it gets uncomfortable,” he mutters, still soft when you get your knees onto the seat.

But your feet graze his hands, too close to his body; Jungkook fixes the issue fast. Grabs one of your legs and places it down, foot attempting to steady on the car’s floor. The other leg is squeezed along the back of the seat, next to his own leg.

It’s not too comfortable, but not bad enough to complain either. You can still endure easily; it’s not a chore to do so anyway when he leans down, grabbing your jacket and throwing it into the passenger seat. Or when his warm hands crawl beneath your top, raise it, lips just barely brushing your skin.

He wants to do far more than this, but the space doesn’t allow as much; you know that under different circumstances, he’d let his tongue wander down. But he can’t lean back more than this, so he lets the fingers do their job.

Tugs at your jeans, following the hem, unbuttoning them once he reaches the front.

He circumnavigates along your skin until he’s caressing your ass, allowing another chaste touch just to return to the spot that was covered under the jeans’ button a second ago. The movements are scarce, with an unspoken purpose that you can’t decipher just yet.

Possibly to his own pleasure, to take you in inch by inch, to feel the heat in his already alight fingertips.

And then, without a word or a warning, he yanks your jeans down, bringing the baggy material way to your knees. Your panties are still in place, unfortunately, still a probably irritating obstacle to the delirious hazard behind you.

But you guess he contains his urge to run wild, instead asking with a voice drenched in syrup, “Feeling cold?”

“Surprisingly not…” you tell him, lifting the hand once you notice it’s clinging to the car’s door handle. Nah — would be awkward to fall out half naked now. “Even if I was, I’d take the fever for this.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, cursing under his breath; you can nearly feel and clearly see him shaking his head without even looking at him. He says, “You’re impossible. Then again,” he sighs, “if you just knew. My view is definitely worth the cold.”

“Shut up. Do something.”

It’s supposed to come out as an order, but you end up sounding as though you’re pleading instead. It must entertain him as much as it embarrasses you because he, clearly helped by the abundant sarcasm in his mind, responds, “Yes, yes. Certainly.”

At least he keeps his promise — happily obliges when he presses a finger to your nub. Not too harshly — it doesn’t hurt when he rubs the cotton panties against your skin before he moves to push them aside.

And you’re neither surprised nor ashamed when his digit slips right in, a smooth one fell swoop motion, prying out a satisfied sound.

You need to feel all of this. Need to be more comfortable. So you press your forehead against the door; immediately feel it when he pumps his fingers in and out slowly, follows the slight changes in your position.

He doesn’t stop. Continues until his movements quicken just a tad, but then slow down again. Initial instinct tells you that he’s already toying with you, using your devotion to him to tease you towards insanity.

But that’s not true. He’s still too hazy-brained to really think further than this mere touch, admitting to you, “This… is not easy.”

Oh… yeah. You’ve been kneeling here awkwardly; didn’t really think about how strange it must be for the almighty sex god sitting behind you, too. Besides…

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” you tell him; push his ego, “was already pretty fucking nice.”

He laughs, more so lovingly than mischievously. You told him to not hold back tonight, but you know Jungkook — in the end, even he can’t resist your charms. There’s an unspoken and spoken adoration between the two of you and he can never help but showcase it like this.

He attempts to provoke, “You’ll love anything I do, though, no?”

“You say it like you’re any different.”

“Shut up,” he instantly imitates, landing a couple faint slaps to your ass as he shifts. “And get up.”

And you listen instead of opting for snarky remarks. The faster you indulge, the quicker he’ll deliver. Fuck, you want him to.

The kisses don’t end for the night when you very briefly face him again, half turned to him with an arm backwards around his head. Your lips lock only for a moment before he takes a proper sit in the middle, tugging you up to him.

It’s funny, how he’d never kiss you months ago, no matter how many hints you left and no matter how badly his body urged for it; and now he’s never capable of stopping. Back then, his mind warned him to stay back; that it’d only throw him into this endless pit of madness and falling in love if he gave in.

In truth, he already had. Found out better late than never.

The entire process of moving in here, entangling your limbs and trying your best in barely a square meter, is draining, but you find a solution quickly. Granted, said solution is messy and forces your head against the ceiling for a painful second, but…

Once in his lap and between his legs, everything seems irrelevant.

And you hope he didn’t notice anyway. But of course he did. His laughter reveals it; you tried to brush off how you rubbed your head, to hide it behind your heavy breaths, but Jungkook is attentive. So you join in, surrendering to the playfulness amidst the ardour until it dies in your throat.

Gone and faded when he puts a hand around your neck, pulling you closer; your back is secured to his chest.

And goddamn, the kisses are wet. Sloppy, dirty, landing on more free inches of your skin when he lifts your head, other hand busy roaming over your tits — then further down, down your body, your top, your stomach, once again past the panties that fell back over your drenched pussy.

And the aching clit… begging and swollen. Just waiting for him to come back.

You let out a sigh and sound so lustful, it surprises even you.

And Jungkook, warm, heavy and hard under you, holds you tight, muttering to himself, “Okay.” Waits, breathes, licking his lips before he shortens, “‘Kay.”

You lean forwards when he cups your pussy, and then sit back — or rather, you are forced back as he tugs you in, greedy and fucked out of his mind. You grip his thighs when he sneaks closer to your awaiting hole, brushing over your leg, and then right back in.

God, the calculated movements…

Rounding the clit… gauging the wetness… stuffing you more and further and better.

And you feel it all. Every nerve lighting up, walls tighter around him now before relaxing again. Your lower tummy builds up the knot, and you let your head fall back onto his shoulder; only, it’s just your cheek that lands against his, free to be kissed.

“Spread them more,” he whispers against your jaw, nibbling at the earlobe. “These…”

He repeats when you don’t register. Then you take another moment to understand what you can spread, stupidly mistaking his order to hold apart your nether lips; but you soon realise that you’ve decreased the angle your legs stand in.

“Wha—?” you question, even though you’re aware of what to do. You just… you want to feel his piping hot breath against your aflame skin again.

“I said,” he starts, a harsh grip around your thigh pulling it to the side. Your heart rate increases. “Spread.”

Ah…

You’re already so sensitive even without any orgasm, and the sensation keeps you moving, legs shutting involuntarily. And he keeps parting them, pumping harder — but apparently, he wants to focus on more than on actually holding you in place.

You grin. Your mistake.

But you guess this route distracts him from daily issues just as much.

Especially when you let your legs fall over his own, dangling, keeping them there and spreading to your maximum abilities. He can take you out now. And he does. The squelching sounds, lewd, louder even in this car than in your spacious bedroom, make it clear.

Because now he’s using two fingers at once. Knuckles deep. Massaging the right spot inside with ease. The way he knows what he’s doing nearly renders you jealous — but then you realise he had plenty of time to practice on you, too.

There’s a reason for his extensive knowledge of your body, after all.

Like how you want his fingers inside, a thumb on your bud or his hands around your firm nipples. How you love the nasty fantasy of him spreading your cum over your tits, just as he is now when you release your high, screaming into the car, arching your back for seconds.

You attempt to get in between, to quicken the orgasm, to shift until nothing’s left in you. But Jungkook is eager to take over the work; pins your intruding hand to your thigh when you try to touch yourself again.

One more, “Stop this, will you?” is dropped before he is back to your clit, overstimulating you to whimpers.

Are you a masochist for loving this? Did he make you like this? Maybe — probably. You won’t complain. You will take it… want to take it. His angel, yes?

You turn to look at him. You barely see him properly from this proximity and in this light, but you do recognise a hooded gaze meeting into your own eyes’ daze. He closes the distance to steal another kiss, but then he stops; keeps staring at you instead.

He prefers this sometimes. Mouth agape. Forehead close to yours. A sweet voice asking, “What? I can stop whenever.”

Whether it’s a threat or a reassurance, you don’t know. You’ll take both; either does it for you right now.

“No,” you protest, “I told you to let it out.”

“But…” The sly smile returns. The switch from caring boyfriend to reckless devil is rapid, absolute madness. “But I do enjoy tormenting you.”

You tsk, “Then, do whatever the fuck you want. You know what I want.”

“Right… Do it then,” he begins, his voice almost imperceivable. “Take a seat.”

What an ass…

Not in the back seat, obviously; he has most of it occupied already, manspreading as he is. No, he’s talking about that throne of yours that you keep claiming on the regular. The one that…

You clear your head. If you don’t focus on lifting, you won’t be able to. Willpower.

And while moments of giddy weakness do pass, you manage to separate from him by a few inches, keeping an eye on his erection as he hurries — struggles — to take off his pants. It’s a hassle; you bump your head again, too, swearing, “Fucking hell.”

He doesn’t laugh this time. Too busy to rid himself off his boxers, letting the divine cock spring out, towering, veiny, big and fat. It grows by the second when you sit down again, settling between your ass cheeks, twitching.

Your slip is the last hurdle. Which you do try to remove before that pain in the ass — not literally, though you wished it was — brings his fingers back to where you ache for him, gives you some more, still overstimulating and edging when you say, “Bit more — just a bit—”

You’d rather have something else inside, but Jungkook is resolute today, and you will not be one to have a problem with it. Not with him, not ever.

You clench your jaw as you crawl closer to your high again, raising yourself and pumping him in retaliation before he finally gives up around a minute later and a strained voice quite literally demands, “Sit the fuck down.”

“…Pleasure.”

And that’s it.

He impales you so deeply; you never get used to it, always think it’s ending when it doesn’t. Hear the absolutely, devastatingly sinful moans he lets out, see the heavenly attractive face he makes when you look at him.

Your breaths are stagnant when you move back up and slap down onto his legs. Keep giving until something snaps in you after a mere minute already.

This orgasm he built was an intense one, and you awaited it, already knowing you’d wave the white flag very fast already. You’re surprised it took this long at all; you had anticipated to come undone the moment he entered you.

But it still makes your legs quiver. Strains and then relaxes your muscles, numbs you inside out, your body uncontrolled as you unwind in waves. How does he manage to do this each time? How do men usually not?

If you weren’t proud and possessive, and if privacy wasn’t a construct in relationships and the entirety of the world, you’d suggest for him to give a crash course to men on how to help a girl out. At least one guy does it fucking right.

Oh, anyone being fucked like this is just—

You exclaim in lust as you keep bouncing, his fingers pinching your nipples, teeth digging into your shoulder. He remembers that he’s the one supposed to let himself go tonight, and soon reverses, delivering smacks to your pussy before he parts your legs again.

And then… starts hammering from below.

Reflexively, you look down.

You still can’t recognise much in the dark, but you do see the hardness driving into you and out of you. His thrusts are wild, his balls bouncing — you cover them with a hand around them, massaging them and playing until he loses it.

“What the fuck—”

You love it when he expresses such a thing. Cursing, whispering it. It disturbs his rhythm, but that doesn’t mean the ramming stops. Still deep, still fast, still accompanied by low-pitched, guttural, exhausted sounds.

You soon hold onto his legs again, keeping yourself from falling to the side. Then again, Jungkook is well wrapped around you, and he won’t let you go anywhere just now. Not until he’s done with you, and you’re done with any feeling in your body.

What if you just stayed here tonight, told him to keep doing this over and over again? Would he do it…?

You’re so desperate, aren’t you?

“Oh, God… angel,” he only murmurs, biting harder into your shoulder before he moans against it. “Mmh— I love you. And this pu— oh, fuck—”

He can’t talk anymore. Too fast down there, a jarring pace, chasing his peak now at all cost. You’re permanently thirsty for this very moment; when you’re already all wet around him, spilled and filthy, waiting for him to lose control with only one goal in mind.

Seriously, anyone being fucked like this is lucky. You cracked a jackpot in the middle of a hundred concerns.

Crazy how you ran from them by letting him rail you on his small dorm room table, the front of your torso pushed down onto it or cheeks touching the cold of his door. He’d always find a way to bring you to tears of longing, but you didn’t think you’d ever find deeper affection in this passion someday.

But there is. So much of it when he kisses your neck again and then your jaw, raising your legs, keeping them up. Shooting his cock far up into you and pounding you breathless like a doll; all at the same time as he whispers, “I love you, baby. I love you.”

It is never a confession he misses. Like clockwork, always present. Words that don’t convey just yet what he feels but all he can still revert to.

This is what he meant by not holding back. He wouldn’t just stop fucking his craving into you, but all he’s grown to feel, too. And shit, do you love him, too—

He said he didn't know what he’d do. But he does.

Because despite the craze he’s delivering, he’s still somehow careful around you. Even now; always. Even while spreading your pussy wound. Injecting it into his words when he asks, “You… good?”

“Yes, yes,” you yell out; how could you hold back, lower your volume now? “Yes— Kook—”

“I know, yes, m-me…” A pause in between to catch his breath; he’s so fatigued but keeps going. “Me too.”

You call out again, and his hand flies up, leaving your body to shut your mouth. Unrelated, he admits, “Wish I could stuff a-all your holes.” Then shakes his head. “I dunno what sounds you’d make—”

You don’t know either; you can barely imagine it. Imagine anything. And you’re so permanently intrigued by this statement — he keeps saying it. Keeps teasing you. You’re still waiting for this fortunate day.

“You go– got me good last time,” he says, referring to the empty countryside house and the charm you bewitched him with, “my turn now.”

Indeed it is. He’s still not done.

Not at all as he pulls out suddenly, much to your demise, and throws you onto the seat and says, “Ass up. Bit like before.”

He sniffs, and as you look over your shoulder, you see him pushing back the hair and the shirt up to his chest, abs visible even in the faint lights of the garage. You are more than surprised that nobody walked past your car yet.

Or maybe, you just didn’t notice.

Who cares anyway…

You just want to focus. Not on them, but on how he pushes himself back into you, harsh from the start, leaning in with a finger in your mouth again to swallow some of your sounds. He pulls up your ass, pushes down your torso.

Your body is his leverage as his hands settle on your back, his cock shooting back and forth. Pelvis slapping against your ass, loud and aggressive, balls deep…

When he comes, your wrists are in his grip somehow. He’s kissing your shoulder again, endless loads of seed filling you up. His movements are irregular, too, sounds staggering on top of yours, thrusts slower but still deep until he’s… done.

Breathing heavily, he tries not to collapse over you, not getting enough air. But he doesn’t dare to open the windows or the door, either. With all the sweat, the two of you would be sure to get sick, and neither of you can, in hindsight, have it right now.

So you wait. Let him and yourself take a moment, reluctant to let him fall out of you just yet. This is somehow… nice. How he stirs and shrinks, keeping your body warm.

You turn your face to plant your cheek to the seat, and Jungkook, letting out a tiny, tired laugh, says, “Why did you even do your make up today?” Unserious question, really, because he’d never oppose your love for make up. But— “Guess it won’t be difficult to remove it today if I’ve already smeared most of it.”

“Oh fuck…” you say, trying to lift your body with your elbows, but you fall back due to his weight on half of you, “we’ll need to properly clean up the car this weekend.”

“Can’t even think about it right now.”

“Right. So… shall I stop doing my make up from now on?”

“No. It’s up to you,” he immediately answers — but then, like the ass he is, he says, “as long as you’re okay with having it ruined every day.”

You reach for his knee, slapping it as you say, “Sex maniac.”

“I’m not a sex maniac,” he protests, “it’s not about sex but about you.”

You understand — there were times when it was different, for both of you; no matter whether with each other or with others. Sometimes, sex does stem from pure lust, a consensual passing of time.

But you always sensed that the two of you were far more than that. Maybe not a couple-to-be, but certainly more than a way to pass time. Perhaps the night at the frat party so long ago already felt different, too…

“If you say so,” you tell him, wiggling your butt. He’s already soft, but you still utter, “Wish there was a camera to see what’s going on back there sometimes.”

“Mmmh. It looks pretty fucking good,” he says, pulling out, the panties back at their place as he traps the cum inside for now. “I’ll film it next time.”

“Seriously, man…”

You sit up. You already feel the liquid running out of you when you put your jeans back on; it’s somewhat disgusting, but a symbol of healthy obsession, too. It’s fine.

Besides, you’ll be up in your apartment in a jiffy.

“Truly, how do we clean this up…” you wonder as you look around, not able to see much anyway.

But he argues, “More importantly right now, how do we get to the apartment to clean you up?”

You wave him off with a hand. “Find a way. I can’t move and it’s your fault, so you figure it out.”

A hearty snicker follows, and you can’t help but lift your lips to a smile, too. He kisses your hair, and says, “I am somehow super proud of myself, hearing that.” He leans down, grabs a heavy piece of clothing. “Put this on.”

Your jacket. It’s getting colder by the minute now.

“Up, up, then.”

And you do tumble up. Slowly and cautiously, muscles already aching and everything sore — he’s loving it. “Seeing you like this… I guess it wasn’t a bad idea after all.”

“Not at all,” you agree, “honestly, both routes are fun. My turn next time.”

“Sure. You’re all hot and sexy and make me feel hot and sexy until,” the key turns in the lock, opening the apartment door as he grows quieter, “my mother comes in and sees the clothes lying around the next morning.”

You gasp in indignation, instant embarrassment flooding through you as you think back to the fervent night and the whimsical morning. You whisper, “Did she?!”

But as always, Jeon Jungkook is a jerk.

“No. I’m kidding.” You reach for his arm, whining his name, but sighing in relief, too. “Sorry! But. They probably still knew, you know? Why does a couple ever leave a party early, really?”

You think for a second. Then hum in agreement, letting go of him as you shrug, “To fuck.”

“And now we know it’s valid to do so. Because we fucked fucked.” No shame whatsoever. No filter, either. You laugh. “Alright. We’ve still got time.” He hangs the jacket on the racket. “Hungry?”

“Yes and no. I’m famished, but also more than satisfied.” You walk in with a yawn. “A snack maybe? Full dinner in a bit?”

“I know what snack is code for.” He winks; you roll your eyes. “Okay, okay — wanna watch something in the meantime?”

“Sure.”

As you enter the living room, he looks around, asking, “Where’s the laptop?”

But you’re already taking a turn to the bedroom. Off to grab your clothes, take a quick shower and press a dent into the mattress. You repeat, “Don’t know. I’m not moving anymore. You get it.”

“Brat.”

But he still does.

Still cuddles into you with food, preparing tea and bringing your favourite snacks, tucking you in properly with all the effort left and right. He’s tired and probably still — or again — nervous, and yet he spends the rest of the hours watching some show you started until he starts obsessing again.

Over your heart, over your mind, over you. Barely a mutter when his cheek lands on your chest again, taking in your fragrance as he breathes, “This helped… still does. You always help.”

“…I just want you to know, baby, that… I’ll always believe in the best outcome. You’ll rock this.”

“I’ll rock this.” And as you whisper an exactly, he chuckles quietly. Moving further into you and your soul before he adds,

“Why do I never get used to you?”

You don’t respond — only smile, running your fingers through his silky hair.

But you know the answer.

For this is exactly what happens when the soul keeps falling in love with someone. Over and over again.

“You do know that we’re supposed to meet up with them in like,” you drop your eyes to your wrist, pulling back the sweater to unveil your watch, “forty minutes, right?”

“And you think they’ll complain about some extra time alone?”

You launch a blank stare, not a single blink as you watch him shrug a shoulder. He sports a smirk that you would’ve clenched your jaw to months ago, but today, even if you won’t admit it right this second, it amuses you.

He laughs when you stand there unmoving, like a stick figure silently reprimanding a lethargic boyfriend. You hate to break, but when the contagious chuckle infects you, too, you feel a wave of relief and serotonin ripple through you violently.

Jungkook hasn’t left vacation mode just yet; while the work for the art fair and gallery is still ongoing and he diligent, you catch him slouching ever so often, doodling away at times. You’ll confess, the grey outside is tiring; different from the sunnier countryside you left behind.

There’s a sort of post-bliss blues that even you can hardly shake off.

“You can’t deny that, can you?” he utters amidst his melodious laugh, and you roll your eyes, taking two big steps towards him — much like two days ago.

“I don’t have to deny it to still teach you the importance of punctuality, right? Get up,” you say, smacking his hip — and he uses the chance to lift his arm from under his head, reaching for you, but… failing. “Uh-uh. Enough with your tricks. Get up.”

Last night still wasn’t enough — is it ever? You’re not surprised; neither by his thirst nor by your own inner, involuntary reactions. But no time. It’s rude to let people wait.

And you know exactly what Jimin would say — tease — if the two of you arrived at the double lunch date with him and Yoongi late again.

Jungkook’s voice turns half into a yawn, half into a sigh, tired when he responds, “Yes, ma’am.”

This should do.

But since everything good comes in three, and just for good measure, you add another laser-glance, shooting at him in warning to lift his ass and meet you ready once you are, too. A playfully sigh breathed, you amble to the bathroom, make up awaiting on the sink from when you put it there this morning.

This shouldn’t take long; you’re opting for the minimalistic approach today.

As the hues colour your lips and fill your lashes, you hum a random melody you can’t quite identify. It’s quiet in the apartment until it isn’t — and when Jungkook’s voice chimes, your hand halts mid-mascara-stroke, assuming he’s calling for you.

He’s not; you understand this much when he greets the person on the other end in his liveliest tone at first, volume decreasing as the conversation continues. He’s soon hushed enough for you to not really make out proper words anymore. Hums here and there — Jungkook doesn’t seem to say much at all.

Perhaps it’s Yoongi, or Tae, telling a story. Narrating recent occurrences, the delights and pains that emerged and shrivelled on the vacation that you weren’t part of anymore.

You don’t ask just yet, decide not to disturb.

You finish up whatever is left of your routine, setting the make up and ruffling through your hair, adding volume. When the talk he’s indulging in still remains when you deem yourself ready, you let out a breather and step back into the bedroom.

Still in the same clothes and with the untamed hair as his crown, Jungkook’s gaze is lowered, fingers barely curled into the sheets. He’s sat up now; you see his Adam’s apple bob when you walk in. Instinctively and immediately, you blurt, “Now what did I tell you just a moment ago—”

But the jest dries in your throat and then fades, as dead as Jungkook’s eyes when he looks up at you. Or maybe… maybe they’re not dead.

More so — in disbelief. As if he hasn’t really fathomed what he’s just heard, mind sprinting in circles, attempting to understand.

His chest isn’t moving as it should, and just in general, his body emits inner trouble. Distress. When he lifts his pupils and shifts them towards you, it looks as if he’s hoping that your presence could reverse reality, as if you’re pulling him out of the inevitable quicksand.

But you can’t. You get it; see it right away.

Because the watery gaze and the gap between his lips, this expression, are new to you, no matter how many of his aches you’ve mended. And you guess it has something to do with what his conversation partner just said.

Something that certainly wasn’t part of today’s agenda at all.

They informed you that it happened sometime during the first few hours of last night; not entirely out of the blue, but sudden enough to cause a stir in the house. Neighbours saw the lights, posed questions the morning after.

Ria is a light sleeper, often alarmed when it comes to Gureum.

The whining tugged her forcefully out of her dreams, a bit more defeated and pained this time until exhaustion stopped it altogether. When Gureum’s soul threatened to leave, Ria pulled him into his arms just in time, seated in the middle of the printed carpet.

The shock was too intense to not wake the surroundings; she was nearly hysterical as she drove to the small town emergency vet clinic in a hurry, right in the middle of the night. Her eyes were too blurry to see the numbers on her phone, not clearing for so long until the first call finally chimed in your city and lit up Jungkook’s phone.

Recounting the last hours and the visit in the clinic. Asking what to do. Telling him what the vet had suggested. Revealing how saying goodbye and letting him rest was the kindest option according to the doctor.

Hearing as the Jeons thought and spoke about it, losing part of their hearts, and then after an hour, with a weight on their burdened chests — gave in.

You already know that Gureum’s whimpers weren’t new to the family, albeit less dispirited before — everyone was aware he’d been sick for a while.

It was just that — Jungkook expected far more time. Didn’t think his recent goodbye required any form of final words as the two of you left the town. You guess the tears he shed this morning inhabited not only deep grief, but inevitable, cruel regret, too.

He was already talking about a return during the holidays, how he’d crouch and wait as his forever-puppy charged towards him. The same fluffy face squished between Jungkook’s palms.

The plan shattered like a mirror.

You cancelled the double date as soon as he opened his mouth, barely a word properly announced. Swallowed and eaten amidst the rush of overwhelming emotions. You saw the endorphins decrease in his eyes in real time.

It was more than enough to remain within these walls and offer most of the solace you could possibly summon. He’d need some of the quiet now. Basic human reaction; what good would it do to force himself out the sheets if his body refused so fiercely?

You told him. And then he broke down harder; now that he had no reason to veil the red-rimmed eyes that the tears caused, he let them out in waves, in bursts, unafraid.

Unbelievable, how a singular second could change the course of the day and, possibly, the upcoming week. You knew the moment you saw his face. He didn’t need to verbalise his shock — but when he told you what was going on, your heart still splintered.

The circumstances hit you like a brick, but you figure that they smashed into him like a truck.

And you’re uncertain whether you’re doing this right. Cannot figure out how to properly comfort him, to siphon off the torment. Will pulling him in, hugging him into you serve as a bandage enough? Or uttering the right words to clear the overcast mind?

You wish you were as good with your words as you are on paper.

As good as he is when you, or anybody, is hurting. You wish you could undo this morning.

But you can’t, and the underlying, rooted affection will worsen all that’s already broken.

Because loving somebody who’s gone like this is different from losing them to the world and to time and space and distance. This very love isn’t reciprocated anymore because there is no beating heart left to feel — and you can’t alter what the reality confronts you with.

You just keep loving because you remember and as long as you remember.

And because you feel that if you didn’t, you could impossibly ever honour their once cherished existence. As if forgetting could erase them out of history, when it of course never does.

You know it; once Jungkook has allowed to let him feel it all, you know he will, too. Because the only way to truly brighter days has always ever been through the misty pain. For now, you can only hold him, be here.

Mourn with him as his voice breaks through the silence that befell the late night, muttering, “How does any creature lose a fight against nature when it loved it so much before?”

His voice is so fragile and small; so is he. He’s probably only half expecting an answer when you whisper, “Nature gives and then takes…”

He nods against your clavicles, shrinking on the couch. Half on your body, eyes drooping.

“I read somewhere that… that nature needs to keep a balance for the world to stay intact. But,” he sighs through the exhaustion. The tears have dehydrated him; you throw a glance at the half drunk water on the coffee table. “But pets should be an exception.”

You guess that if this wretched world, separated by hate and misery, could come together and agree on one thing, it’d probably be this very request to exempt all that’s innocent.

You wish the universe and souls worked like this.

“I know.” You halt, mind travelling to what you remember of the Maltese, and then say, “Talking about nature… You once mentioned something about snakes, didn’t you? We never got to the end of the story.”

Your eyes drift to his profile. His muscles are still somewhat weak, keeping the corners of his mouth south, but you think you recognise a little smile nevertheless. And then, he nods again, just before recounting a memory in detail, surprisingly fresh and sharp.

He tells you about how Gureum would detect random snakes in the meadow or fields sometimes, follow them. Dogs are generally curious, but Gureum seemed to have, as Jungkook jokingly deducts, close to no awareness of the dangers around him.

You chuckle.

“And then, with time, he got used to me telling him not to touch or chase the snakes,” he continues, “and I remember him running towards me one day, with an incredibly weirdly shaped snake between his teeth and… I almost died.”

“Holy shit—”

“I kinda flipped just looking at him.” This time, he shakes his head. “Except, it wasn’t a dead snake, just a really damn strange looking, thick orange-brown stick. But I was already scolding him and he did not like my tone.”

“You can be scary. When you tell me to unplug the toaster after using it and stuff?”

Jungkook snickers lightly, joining your sound, and explains, “Gureum wasn’t used to it, though, that spoiled little ball of cotton.”

“Yeah, but… I would’ve gotten half a heart attack, too. Must have been terrifying for the first few moments.”

“But,” he intervenes, “I shouldn’t have been mean. I remember the way he looked at me, all disappointed.” He sighs, and you feel the breath against your skin. “And then he avoided me. Pissed and pouty in his basket on our way back. He— he didn’t look at me until I apologised with a snake toy I found in a shop. Boy loved that.”

“Oh, I saw the toy.” You recall the old and ripped plushie half buried underneath the rest of Gureum’s toy, scattered on the ground under the TV. “Looked all vandalised.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another stillness in the room as the soundwaves die, broken only by your breathing and your eventual hum. Jungkook slowly lifts his head from your chest, staring directly into your eyes, as if to read what you’re thinking — just like you are.

His pupils glint a bit less than usual, eyebrows calm yet sad — he blinks when the dryness burns, and then asks, “You’re trying to say something.”

It’s the same old; but people are different. You don’t know whether he wants to hear it. Sometimes, heartache demands distraction. Other times, sympathy and empathy; to just listen for a bit.

You want to give a healthy mixture of both without making him feel like you’re pitying him, because you’re not.

But you know Jungkook; even with you, he sometimes forgets that he’s thoroughly loved and rightfully so.

So you voice your sincere fondness still, “I am so sorry, Jungkook. And… I wish I could do more.”

His father said something similar on a later phone call today.

I wish I could do something about it. I’m sorry, Jungkook.

And—

Come over. We will talk and eat together.

Sorrow really brings people together, it seems.

He’d visit soon, Jungkook said. Needs some time alone, under the blanket, processing the truth for a bit until he can face actual conversations with people who witnessed the same individual for so many years.

“You might not believe me…” he starts, weaker again. His voice is barely a whisper; he’s so fatigued. “But I don’t expect more than this. You’re enough.” A little pause, and then. “I will also finally call a therapist… might be the right time. We were talking about it anyway.”

You were. You have been for a while. The promise to not let issues interfere with daily life anymore, to heal individually as well as together. So you nod right away, the first to support the idea.

“You have my back, Kook.”

“I know, angel.” He gulps. Close to cuddling back in, but you cradle his face, keep looking at him. He looks surprised for the tiniest moments, but his expressions relax quickly; followed by a question, “And you?”

And you?

You don’t know. You want to lean into his suggestion, but you’re still afraid. Fearful of what you might dig out of the depths of your heart through conversing with the therapist alone.

You’ll do it, pinky promise, but…

“I’ll still wait just a little,” you admit, and he nods, accepts it. “Besides… I want to support you first. Just a bit longer. Then I’ll go. Cross my heart.”

“Good… okay. Whatever you think is right, okay? I’m here, too.”

So typical. An anchor, no matter the turmoil in his own chest.

“I love you. I really do,” you tell him, obliterating any chance for him to respond just yet.

Instead, you pull him. Look at him, misty eyed, and press a tiny peck to his dry lips. He sniffs, parting his mouth and asks, “What was this for?”

And perhaps he’s anticipating your answer, head tilting to the side, another small glitter flickering when you tell him, “I felt like it. Could do it all day.”

And it works — even if for a fragment of a second. The smile appears, but it never really creeps up far enough to his eyes.

You guess that’s what happens when somebody’s soul keeps falling in love and then loses what it loved.

Sometimes, a busy mind is an oblivious mind.

Not that Jungkook ever forgets as the hours of the day pass, but at least work will keep him briefly occupied for now. Motivation wanes when the focus resides elsewhere, of course, so it isn’t super ideal that he was hit by the news at such an important time.

Then again, working isn’t too bad either. It distracts him.

And Namjoon, no matter how well he usually matches somebody’s energy, will do him some good, too. Will cheer him up, push some courage and artistic inspiration into him.

The upcoming trip, the one that will leave you alone in the empty apartment for a bit, is fast approaching, though still a while after the gallery event. But Jungkook and Namjoon are already discussing details, settling on spots that might ignite some painter’s fires in them.

Namjoon said this is all about getting Jungkook to a place that can evoke colours he doesn’t even know, arouse a side of his talent that might help him later on; if — no, when — he rises to the top.

And since you’re done with your meetings today, most chores taken care of for the soon-to-come launch, you allow yourself an afternoon off and meet up with your best friend.

The group has already been back for quite some time, and while you’ve gathered some intel on the latest, downhill occurrences, you want to be there properly.

This is what you know: Apparently, soon after the two of you left, the conversations got heated, and eventually, as the distress reached its peak, Taehyung and Eun broke up. Ever since, they have been coping — or however well their hearts permit.

You regret your absence the moment Eun opens the door. You were attempting your best to juggle work and the emotional burdens of every hour, bringing solace to Jungkook and finding a moment to meet Eun for an extended period of time.

Eun has been holing up in here for all these days the way you did back in the summer. You are somewhat the worst friend; especially when her quiet voice welcomes you in, her hug not as tight as usual, the bubbly girl even physically worse.

Dark undereyes. Sad and distant gaze. Half a smile, as if fearing that you’re pouring all your sympathy into her, pitying her. She doesn’t enjoy this type of attention, but she also knows that you’re you and that this level of care can’t be changed.

Pity? No. Sympathy? You’d lose part of yourself if that one was lacking.

“I missed you…” you start as you sit down, waiting for her to join as she places a glass of water in front of you. You shift, unsure where to start. “Eun—”

But she’s quick to interrupt, “Listen, I… I know I’m supposed to talk about this.” She’s barely looking at you. “But I’ve thought about it over and over again and I don’t even know what to say anymore.” Shake of her head. “None of us is at fault. I can’t even be mad at him.”

“No… I wanted to say that, too. And that means you’re just as little at fault.”

You wait — because whenever words fail, stuttering and hesitating, wheels whirring in a fragile mind… that’s when even more tumbles out a moment later. And your instincts prove true.

She begins, “But…” Waits; and then spills, “We still fought the way we did and then, when the vacation was over… he was crying and I was, too, and we just felt so fucking sorry the entire time—”

Her voice is already shaking and breaking. She must have practiced this a hundred times in her head, but no preparation is ever enough to keep the affliction inside. It always pours, like rain, inhabiting a story in each drop.

Everyone who has ever loved might understand.

You give her some time as she attempts to hold it together in the middle of her lively and bright living room — but then you place a hand on her knee, assuring that there’s no need for restraint. So she pulls in a trembling breath, eyes so watery that they keep overflowing.

It reminds you so much of him days before.

The tears leave her in streams, collecting abundantly. And her nose reddens; your heart drops. Eun is the last person to ever deserve heartache of such calibre.

She cries until her face grows hot, cries until the sounds echo painfully. You hold her to your heart, trying to piece hers together for a bit, so aware that the one able to do this isn’t in the room with you right now. Rather trying to mend his own.

It’s already bad as it is, and you nearly wish he could spawn in here, tell her he’ll reconsider, make her happy as he’s supposed to. Of course it’s counterproductive; but how could higher powers even split these two in the first place?

It’s brutal.

And it’s worse, much meaner, thinking of the world as a vile place when her blurred speech inquires, “How d-di… how did you cope… when Jungkook and you broke up?”

You don’t quite know what to say. You don’t know because there’s hardly any advice to give. You were a mess. Which is what you honestly admit, “I barely did. You saw me — but you helped make it easier.” You put a cheek to her head. “So I’m here, too.”

“I know. I know… it’s just—” The next breath is sharp, the kind where it hitches and the sounds become high-pitched, mixing with hints of panic and pure sadness. “It’s kind of worse that he didn’t do any— anything wrong.”

She moves her head to and fro again against your chest, furious, “I can’t even rely on anger or just— do my best to hate him because none of us did anything to actually hurt the other.”

Her voice, usually so composed, gains on volume with each word. Probably a way to keep herself from whispering; to keep her sentences from breaking.

“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” you tell her, “it can serve as hope, too, you know? That not everybody is just shitty, and that there’s somebody who’s as great as him with the things you want, too.”

“But I want him.”

“Oh… babe…”

It’s this childlike yearning, the burning ache that hurts the most. You know what it feels like and you know there’s no easy way to overcome it, regardless of who one’s surrounded by. Naturally, she feels that way; you wish it had come differently.

She speaks on, “I should’ve known! That man isn’t just good with kids because he’s a social butterfly!” There’s some of the anger she spoke of; somehow, it stabilises her voice. “I should’ve known that he wants his own some day, too. Men, they usually do and it’s just me being so—”

“No,” you immediately react. “You are not wrong or anything at all for not wanting them. Even I…”

You pause. Actually, you don’t really know. You realise that you and Jungkook never got around to breaching this subject, despite cracking occasional jokes about it. You do remember how giddy you felt during the slippery soccer game…

“It’s just that,” you opt for instead, “it’s not so easy to think about and even worse to talk about.”

“And of course it’s easier for men. They don’t know what it feels like. The fear of pain and committing for the rest of our lives and never knowing how a husband might change…”

She’s letting it all out; maybe she needs to. Maybe she hasn’t been able to do so until now. You wonder how much she has said to Jimin so far. He might understand the two of you better than anyone else, having known you all your life, but… he’s still a guy, after all.

“What did he say when you told him? Tae?” you wonder, trying to come up with your own ideas. As far as you understand Taehyung, you don’t reckon he ever responded with anything too insensitive. “Did he dismiss your feelings?”

And you’re right. Because—

“No!” Her body moves to upright itself. “The bastard was perfectly nice. I can’t even hate him!” she exclaims again, majorly upset. “He said he accepts it, but it might become hard to stay because he really fucking wants them.”

You can almost hear the speech marks. And then, you also hear the absolute drop in volume as she sighs; tells you, “He asked about adoption…”

“…Shit.” The word comes out as barely anything. You hush it to yourself. “And?”

“I said that I just dunno if I’ll ever be able to live or enjoy such a life… that it’s not just about the physical pain… that just—”

She doesn’t speak on. So you add, “That’s okay. That’s seriously okay.”

It becomes quiet in the room. You take a look around. See the curtains, neatly bound in the middle, red ribbon around white sheer drapes. And you see the decorations, the pretty flowers, the lunch on the stove.

Eun does everything so thoroughly in her life. She’s always been calm and organised and a role model for anyone ready to dare a fresh approach to everything. She’s unique, your friend, a sarcastic but warm ray of light.

She doesn’t deserve to cry. It’s ridiculous.

Doesn’t deserve it how frail she sounds when she says, more to herself than to you, “I want him in my life so bad. He’s the one guy for me.”

The phase of pure hope. Denying that it’s over, that he’ll appear here in the morning, that a miracle will make the issues go away.

But… it did happen for you. So you try, very carefully, “He might find his way back to you. Sometimes love endures.”

“And sometimes it doesn’t.”

“I know, but… Either way… you will be okay,” you say. Eun hopes, yes, but that doesn’t always go hand in hand with optimism. You need to give her space, give her time; find a balance between the things she wants to hear and what’s realistic. “With or without him, you will be okay. In the worst case, I’m here. I told you.”

It’s an attempt at a joke, and you seem to succeed, bringing out the lightest chuckle and a sniffle before she jests, too, “With or without Jungkook?”

You laugh. “You were the first love of my life. We’ll get there somehow.”

The faint twinkle in her eyes lifts your spirits, urges you closer to her. Your palm rubs her right arm, providing warmth to eliminate some of the frost in her heart. Then again, maybe you’re wrong — post-break up haze creates unpleasant heat after all.

The hot cheeks from made up scenarios and the jealousy that follows; the knot in the stomach that the pining calls forth; the tightness in your chest, breathing soon a myth.

No, she needs another type of warmth — one you can offer with the cold only.

So you get up to scour her fridge, humming on your way to the kitchen island as you say, “You never run out of ice cream, do you? You keep it stored the way others store potatoes.” You hear a weak, lovely laugh. Bend down to the freezer. “Coming in handy now.”

“Clichée remedy, huh?”

“Gotta be clichée for a reason,” you tell her before you plop down with the box and two spoons, taking off the lid to scoop directly from it. Vanilla and strawberry. “Here.”

You hand her one spoon, and she inspects her reflection for a while, as if she’s seeing it for the first time in a while. The utensil seems odd to her, like a new invention — but when she snaps back into her body and shovels in just lightly, you recognise the stare.

Because she looks just as you felt. When every mundane and basic daily achievement appeared like an uninvited stranger; or a chore to get done with, a challenge to survive.

She has something to say; you recognise it in the gulp and the clearing of her throat. Steadying her voice, giving herself a moment for the vanilla to cool her down.

Then, in a now gentle but defeated tone, she recollects, “It was… really weird. We broke up in the middle of everything and then spent the rest of the time there just— fighting and making up. Out of the bed and… back into bed.”

You don’t down your own bite yet; the sugar needs to awaken her happy dessert hormones first. Instead, you ask, “Have you heard from him ever since?”

She pokes the still somewhat solid ice cream, slowly melting. “No… Just whatever Jimin tells me.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Which, apparently, isn’t much either, though. And I hate myself for being this way, but not knowing what he’s doing and where he is drives me nuts.”

“I know what you mean,” you say, eyes following the spoon brought to her mouth and then back to the box. You’re just glad she’s eating at all; you understand that appetite is scarce when the tummy is already filled with dread and hurt. So you speak up again, “Hey. Come over for dinner sometime?”

Eun hesitates. Not the obvious type of rejection, but rather a weighing of options, thinking ahead, evaluating her emotions and what she’s able to withstand on days like these.

You already know what the issue might be before she says it; you realise it too late, but you guess you’d feel the same if you were her.

“I will,” she starts, fillers taking over the silence. “Uh… Well, once I’m able to look at Jungkook again without thinking of… him.”

“…I get it.”

“Which makes me feel horrible. I would love to offer him some comfort, too. He texted a few days ago, you know?”

You do.

As you strolled the aisles of the nearby market, he mentioned it for a second, summarising the already compact yet sweet message inhibiting his support. He was going to pick up some peanut-chocolate snack for her, too, but you reminded him of her allergy.

The chocolate-covered popcorn that is sitting on the table in front of you instead is the substitute that he chose a minute later; but you won’t tell Eun that. She already feels a plethora of negative emotions, guilt not being the last of them.

It’s already obvious when she asks slowly, “I meant to ask… How is he?”

Well, since you’re being honest.

You chew at the inside of your cheek, thoughts wandering to the man who’s trying his best to keep himself together. Smiles at your jokes and jests back, teases you a little to fabricate an illusion of wellbeing.

But you’re not stupid; you’ve grown to understand his inner workings, so you admit, “Not too well either. This took him out a lot more than I would’ve guessed.” You breathe out, deflating a bit. “It hurts to see. He’s living and all, almost his usual self, but. Doesn’t feel the same yet.”

“Mmh. So when I come over,” she says, spoon falling to her lap; perhaps the actual hunger is coming back in pieces at least, “we’ll just grieve our losses together, I guess.”

You nod, light pats to her knee, promising that, “It will stop hurting. For sure.”

But you don’t know.

No. Undoubtedly, pain always lessens, even when it doesn’t fade. Memories ensure a fraction of whatever stays back.

But… none of this will stop now.

You are aware of it, considering the moments these two shared, no matter how little time passed ever since they grew the way they did. And, considering each second you analyse Jungkook’s face, realising that he, too — the ball of sunshine — will experience rain for a bit longer.

No pain will subside just yet.

You saw it in the way his face dried up the last few days. How he remembers more and more of him. And how your eyes got stuck on a piece of paper just this morning, laying on top of a sketchbook and underneath a frequently used graphite pencil.

It was a drawing; Gureum sticking out his tongue, staring at whoever stared back at him. Only a couple strokes of lines and curves, but so insanely real, too.

For a bit, you couldn’t remember where you’d seen these very elements before, in just this order and shades, but then, as the day passed, you saw it in your mind, just in front of you.

A little photograph of Gureum, secured in Jungkook’s wallet for as long as you’ve known.

Never talked about it much. Never paid much attention to it at all.

But now, you keep thinking about it. Maybe less because of how cute you found it, or because of the fact that Jungkook is able to love this much.

More because the pain of losing somebody really is striking — because an essence remains in a photograph forever, affection stored in it, deeming something or somebody eternal.

That’s probably why human beings feel nostalgic about them. Why the concept was invented at all.

Because even when the fear of forgetting lingers — once a moment is immortalised, one never truly ever does.

Jungkook’s fingertaps synchronise with the ticking of the clock, like a pendulum, when you let him in on recent events. All with Eun’s permission, of course.

You’re surprised Tae didn’t open up to him about it much yet; perhaps there’s something about the rumour that girls feed and boys eat information. Or maybe he’s caught in his own emotions, dealing with them alone — it’s all fresh, after all.

Jungkook was the same — he dodged his friends back during the summer while you divulged your mind to Eun.

“I should call him,” Jungkook says. “It’s a bit selfish of me not to.”

He shakes his head a little, embarrassed, and you know why. Taehyung phoned him just yesterday, hearing of the current situation, speaking out his condolences. He didn’t mention Eun even once.

But you can’t blame Jungkook. He’s grieving in his own way, and you’re overly certain he won’t neglect Taehyung for his own misery for longer than his heart can bear. It’s okay to seek time alone in moments like these — it’s true for both.

“You can do it tomorrow if you want,” you tell him, bringing a hand to the nape of his neck to rub. “But don’t strain your brain.”

“No, no.” He leans back on the bed — he’s been spending most of his free time here now — and stares at his darkened phone. “I’ll call at noon.”

The phone falls to the side as he tilts his head and kisses his lips, and then, he adds, “It doesn’t sound right. Them breaking up.”

Certainly, it doesn’t. You saw them during the holidays; saw the invisible bond forming. But then, as you left, you saw something break, too.

“I know,” you agree, repeating Eun’s words, “and it’s hard to intervene or give advice because neither of them is wrong.”

“Mmh… and neither should be pushed to believe otherwise if they know they’ll stick to their perspective.”

“Yeah. I mean. I don’t think either of them tried to convince the other. Which probably hurts more — having to accept a choice while still being in love.” You push out a stuck breath. “It’s just unfair. I might sound crazy, but I still keep hoping they’ll find back to each other.”

“Nah, it’s not crazy. That’d be how it’s supposed to be. But I dunno.” He shrugs a shoulder, less hopeful than you. Makes sense. You don’t understand Taehyung as well as he does. “I’ve always known that Tae wants to be a parent someday.”

“And I’ve always known Eun doesn’t want it.”

“Some dilemmas are just cruel.”

He lets the ticking clock burn some more seconds, accompanied by quiet sounds of the passing cars down the street. You know he’s contemplating something when he stops blinking, and you’re about to ask when he beats you to it, “What about you?”

“About me? What, having kids one day?”

“Mmhm.”

“Hmmm,” you replicate.

You’ve thought about this, so it’s not like you don’t have an answer to it.

It’s just that it barely even satisfies you — you’re not quite sure how Jungkook will digest it. You remember when you locked yourself into Eun’s bathroom, terrified of his reaction and of the two lines appearing on the test.

But he was supportive. And you think he’d want this with you at some point; if you were honest, the times that you painted such pictures as you mused on a possible future, you didn’t hate the thought.

“Honestly?” you start, shifting. “I grew up not wanting to be a mother. I saw the void at home and how dark everything felt the moment I was alone. And… I didn’t want to do this to someone, too.”

Typical fear of adopting abusive behaviour and becoming the culprit.

Jungkook’s hand floats to your knee, brushing over it with warmth, “Why did you think you would?”

“Because sometimes, we forward trauma instead of processing it and learning from it.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that.”

“But sometimes,” you sigh, mentally switching from left to right, “I catch myself imagining what I’d be like nevertheless. And then I think I’ll want it one day. I really don’t know.” Your eyebrows twitch to kiss. “It’s scary. Talking to Eun scared me ‘cause I don’t want the same thing to happen to us.”

“It won’t.”

Short and precise. Determined and convinced.

Two words alone often suffice; you’re lucky, sharing a space with somebody who communicates with you on the same wavelength. It’s rare, this kind of understanding and love.

You feel instantly relieved.

Yet, you make sure, “It’s just because I know you want this.”

“I want you more. And,” he pauses, tongues his cheek, collects his thoughts to form the sentence, “really, if we settle on either decision while staying together in the process, I’m fine.”

The creases on your forehead deepen. As you said, lucky. But you never expected this level of purity; maybe Jungkook is written by an actual supreme being and you’re met with its manifestation.

Or really, maybe he jumped out of a 3D printer.

You ask, “You’d give up such a thing for me?”

“Like… I won’t lie, I’ve always wanted this. But… it’s your decision.”

See? This is why you deem yourself to be at just the right place in your life, so ecstatic that your heart knew to trust him, to trust this, and to not withdraw when you were hurting.

Your voice lowers, “Is it?”

“You’d be the one hurting,” he says, so matter-of-factly, not to sound smart or feminist. “I’m not going to leave because you decide to avoid pain.”

You chuckle, joyful and bright amidst the colourless days. “Yet, I might decide to go for it anyway.”

“Then I’ll definitely accept it, as well.”

He’s laughing again. It hasn’t been more than a couple days, but he’s never topped this period of time without genuinely laughing before. It’s a tender sound, and authentic, even though it’s still weaker than you are used to.

Obviously it is.

Jungkook is a deep empath; overanalyses and overthinks and overfeels. This day was bound to happen at some point and his heart was bound to break like this.

Some things in life are inevitable after all.

“I love you,” you tell him, a cheek falling onto his shoulder. You close your eyes for a moment, hear his serene breathing. “I’m not letting someone like you go anyway, so just… don’t leave.”

You’re attempting a joke, easing the moment with something as sugary as can get. But it barely takes him a heartbeat to respond, “I was thinking the same about you.”

“Oh… no—”

“It’s just even scarier now, you know, losing people I love.”

Your immediate reaction is speechlessness. You want to let his truth sink into the room, so you can bubble wrap it; just so he knows he’s safe and sound and that his fright, while still present, will crawl beneath the comfort you provide.

One day, he might not see it anymore. He might not dread such an outcome anymore.

“Sometimes these things are out of our control,” you tell him, “but I think some people are capable of promising to stay and actually do so, too.”

“You too?”

You look at him wordlessly, let your eyes speak. Smile at him, take his hand into yours. You don’t think you need to say much and that he understands; and he doesn’t pose a follow-up-question, so you assume you’re right.

Because he squeezes your hand, tells you he’s okay when you ask how he’s doing. Falls into easier and more casual conversation with you, one that allows less heart and mind and more lightness and relief.

As minutes pass, the atmosphere enlivens just a little, enough for you to hope. But maybe, you think, it tires him out, too. Because when you suggest watching a movie to kill the hours until it’s bedtime, he rejects your suggestion; instead, he declares, “I’ll lay down a bit, I think.”

So he does. With a tiny groan and a heavy body falling into soft feathers. And you still sit at your spot.

Watch him fall into a slumber quickly, much until his breathing evens out, peaceful and quiet. Blurry so far, your eyes clear when you, once again, detect the messy desk and the same drawing of Gureum on top of it.

It somehow stands out in the chaotic stack, like an intense presence blending out everything else.

The face on there, the lines and the inspiration behind them feel like a ghost, smiling at you; one he’s desperately carving into his mind, etching it into his memory — how he sounded, how he barked, how he whimpered.

An utter proof for the adoration one holds, beyond a lifetime, reserved even in the absence of a loved one. And these ghosts remain, whether somebody left your realm or just brought in a distance, alive but breathing from afar.

You know, because you recall how much Jungkook haunted you when he stole pieces of you and disappeared from your life for weeks. When he’d return in dreams and thoughts and fears, but never in person.

You couldn’t hear him and couldn’t see him — but somehow, somewhat, he was still always there.

In hindsight, you knew you loved him back then, too. Of course you did; the moment one questions their own feelings, it’s already over, isn’t it? If you had to wonder whether you were in love with him, hadn’t you already lost?

Affection contains such intensity, anyway; an ache stuck in a heart like claws and a breathlessness that doesn’t ever drain your lungs when you’re not in trouble already.

How insane.

Truly, denial often only remains for a moment and turns into transparency very soon. Today, you know with utmost certainty that you loved him.

But that’s exactly why this hurts so fucking much, looking at him.

Locking into his puffy cheeks, the strand of his hair covering half his eyebrow and sticking to the corner of his eye. He always looks so much younger like this. You wipe the hair back; he doesn’t move. Still slightly turned away from you, mouth a little ajar.

So you keep going.

You look at the wall in front of you, hands busy grazing his dark tresses. One of his arms and its fist lay on the pillow beneath his head, the other under the blanket, probably pressed to his heart.

It’s a human way of pushing against the unease.

When your thumb ghosts along his skin, over the apple of his cheek, he does stir. Not too much, only letting out a small puff of air before he turns under the sheets with his eyes still shut — and he stretches out his right arm to drape it around your hips.

You lift your arms a little to give him the space, and he seems to try to adjust until his sleepy brain decides that you are sitting too upright, your hips too high for his arm. But this doesn’t deter him; he doesn’t pull back but lowers his limb to your lap, just above your thigh.

It’s an interesting play, how a drowsy, unconscious mind still registers so much of its surroundings or its emotions. How he’s still acting and reacting according to the life he lives.

And you keep staring. It reassures you somehow. Fills you with soothing consolation.

And he feels the same, you reckon. Because in the middle of it all, he sighs.

Hm…

In a dry desert that exhausts his heart and body with each of its terribly draining attributes, you so proudly feel like his oasis.

Your eyes water, but you breathe in, keep it inside.

You gulp, tugging at the blanket a little to cover the rest of his and your legs; then, you relocate, sliding down on the mattress bit by bit, carefully.

It takes you a matter of seconds until you hear a faint protest, “Mmh, no…” and you hurry to utter an immediate, “I’m still here. All good.”

He relaxes. For a moment, you see his eyelids crack open a slit, and move further with a light smile until you’re lying next to him, forehead at the height of his mouth. You feel the hot breath when he lets out another one of solace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you add, “just wanted to lay down, too.”

He nods, but barely. Your hand glides over his chest and then slowly rounds his torso, back to his shoulder blades. You want to hold him as close as possible and want to wait with an ear to his cotton shirt until his heartbeat winds down.

It’s warm in this room and under the blanket; the fall outside does nothing for you. But you don’t move.

Jungkook buries his lips in your hair. He’s vulnerable; possibly more than you ever experienced him to be in front of his father, or even without you. Those were different kinds of stitches tearing open.

Right now, he’s scared.

This is the main finding for you at this time — it feels like nothing is happening, but in this silence, his mind is crowded.

Jungkook knows very well that you won’t leave; but he also thought Gureum never would. Just like you, you imagine, he has realised several different ways to lose somebody, and it probably terrifies him.

He’ll swarm around you more often now, you know.

Minutes pass and his eyes shut again, but you know he’s awake. More so when he sniffles; doesn’t cry, but still strays a bit from his peace.

You’re groggy when you open your eyes, too, whispering a, “Jungkook…” as you take in his somewhat asleep, somewhat awake state. He’s aware that you’re here, knows where he is, but his brain is foggy, too.

His words, despite all, however, are still clear as day when he reluctantly, quietly says, “This sucks.”

“I know…”

Another break, another sniffle. Then—

“I love you.”

And that’s it.

You answer, but it drowns in his repeated sniffles, eyes and cheek dry when soon against your scalp. But the actual torment under his chest is more than evident in how he holds you.

You can’t help but revert to more promises, no matter how unoriginal they might be. Is that important as long as you mean them, anyway?

So you mutter, “I will always come home to you.”

Jungkook doesn’t nod. He doesn’t answer. Only presses against the small of your back and then moves his palm to the middle of it, keeps it there at last. He doesn’t need to speak his thoughts anyway, as little as you needed to before.

Your presence is enough. You will never become a ghost.

Talking to his parents and his brother in the past weeks helped immensely.

Somehow, the conversations killed pieces of Jungkook’s denial; and somehow, the revelation of the one he’s been hoping to return to actually being gone, led to a sense of acceptance. Easier to… well, perhaps not move on.

But easier to cope.

To realise that life needs to go on and that this way, dwelling on the past or reliving moments won’t hurt anymore one day.

And working towards his life goals didn’t hurt either. The fair is coming closer, and so is the gallery showing. He’s been working hard; and life is normalising.

You’re back to teasing and fighting and pouting and making up.

It’s nice to see.

When Jungkook comes back home from another day at his parents’, the apartment is empty. The silence is surprising, given the fact that you weren’t supposed to be absent for so long. As far as he was concerned, you were going to greet him when he came back, already here.

And he certainly returned later than he thought he would.

As he slips his shoes off and places them neatly on the side, he calls out your name to double check. Maybe you’re asleep. But you don’t respond; you’re a light sleeper. And on further inspection, he soon detects that the bedroom is vacant.

Jungkook fishes out his phone and dials immediately; you’re already on top of the list, so the five seconds save him some headache. And you picking up nearly instantly only adds to that relief.

“Hey! You home?” your voice chimes, and he relaxes, exhales, falling onto the edge of the bed weightlessly.

A hand dangles between his legs, arm propped up on his thigh, and he asks, “Where are you? I would’ve picked you up if I’d known you’re still out.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I wasn’t too far.”

“Where was that?”

You groan on the other side of the line, as if heaving something of significant weight, your breathing a tiny bit stagnant. He prods, “Are you okay? I can come help if you’re nearby.”

“No, I was just out, doing some shopping.”

“Sure? It’s cold as hell, too.”

“Yes, baby. I’m a big girl, I promise,” you chuckle into the phone and he joins in, nodding without you seeing, “but I’ll talk to you when I’m there. I want to show off my haul a bit.”

“Ah. Thought you hated surprises.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

The grin emerging on his face feels good. Feels freeing. You have an undeniable effect on him and he couldn’t be more enticed by its mystery.

“Alright. I’ll wait then,” he says, and you agree quickly, muttering goodbyes before the call cuts.

Hm. Okay.

Maybe he should take a shower in the meantime, prepare the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. What was it again you wanted to eat today? Risotto? Lasagna? You wanted either in some of the upcoming days. Italian, that’s for sure.

“Both not easy,” he comments to himself, snickering quietly; who would he be if he didn’t yield to your every wish?

The shirt flies into the laundry basket, the water under the showerhead warm and comforting compared to the dropping temperatures outside. It was raining again; while it has stopped, the wind still whipped his face — so you better hurry back to him carefully.

He hears the door open and fall back into its lock as he washes off the last of his shampoo, a hand sliding across his face, down to his neck and his chest. You don’t exclaim his name or announce your arrival the way you usually do.

Suspect, but probably nothing bad.

It’s okay. He’ll do it instead.

And you answer just as casually when he does. More cheerful than ever even, giving back a, “Take your time! I’m here.”

You’re a handful some days when you scare him like this, especially at such times that his mind makes up scenarios constantly.

Your absence can be mind-numbing — and since meetings often exceed the time you promised and the phone ringing is incredibly unprofessional, he does worry a little too frequently.

It’s not your fault, either.

Usually, you do exploit your position as the manager, allowing yourself a moment to message him back or let him know when you’ll be home. But sometimes you’re… gone, like this. And he hates the feeling he once lived through when you disappeared for so long, hiding at Eun’s.

“Seriously,” he starts as you meet him at the threshold to the bathroom, pushing him back inside, “will I ever not worry sick about you?”

“Sorry,” you begin frivolously, moving into him instead, reaching for his lips, “I got caught up with stuff, but…” Another peck, a hand still on his damp chest. “I’m here now.”

Jungkook isn’t too sure whatever came to possess you in these very hours between the morning and now, but he’s not opposed to it. He revels in the touch of your palm grazing his skin, down to the belly button, lightly tugging at the towel as a tease.

“Woman,” he whispers between kisses, the words growing quieter, “you’ll drive me crazy one day.” His hands come up to cradle your face, to look at you. “You scare me and then you come home to do this.”

“Mmmh, I guess so.”

You let him kiss you, let him open your mouth and push the tongue through — but the temptation doesn’t last long. Because he notices your hesitation, not because you’re unsure but rather… something else.

You want to say something. So he lets you.

“What is it?” he wonders.

“Just exasperated. Just want to show you what I shopped.”

Right. You said that already. You stepped into the apartment, dizzying his head so badly that he almost forgot.

“You have a weird way of showing that you’re tired,” Jungkook remarks, the last word dying as you push a hand beneath the towel, squeezing his ass just a little before backing away. “Honestly, babe.”

“Yes, honestly… come.”

Mysterious, this behaviour of yours. You’ve brought home stuff you needed or wanted several times, but you never seemed as enlivened by it as you do now. And you certainly never made much of a secret out of it as you are now.

And it’s not hard to guess why.

If it was a small object or a dress or a book or a plushie stuffed in one of these environment-friendly paper bags, he might not have noticed right away. But…

But what you decided to march back with today is an entirely different level of unexpected riddle. Or at least, a riddle until its eyes meet with Jungkook’s.

They’re…

They’re round and expressive. Curious and a little shy. Carry the same innocence and dark, serene night in them as Jungkook does. And the— the puppy is blinking slowly, eyes flopping a tiny bit; lets his head fall to the side for a second.

He’s so small. Alert yet gentle. A careful, dark brown Doberman watching a half naked Jungkook with peculiar interest.

Then to you, already a little used to you, and then back to some random spot again.

Maybe he’s taking in his new home. Maybe he’s trying to understand his surroundings. Probably not yet falling in love as quickly and furiously as Jungkook already is.

Certainly not having the same liquid collecting in his eyes as in his owner’s.

What did you…

Is this yours? His? Taken in to babysit? What—

You stand on the side, hands folded, waiting with your lower lip trapped with your teeth. You’re giving him a moment with the pup, Jungkook knows, removing yourself from the equation to permit the love to unfold.

But how could he ditch you anyway? How, when right now, he could crush you in his arms?

A month has passed since Gureum left. Life went on, but moments of yearning always returned — you saw it all in his eyes. The realisation that Gureum would never come back, and that nobody could replace him.

And of course you know; this right here — you aren’t trying to replace Gureum, but trying to bring new happiness and a new start into Jungkook’s life.

He mentioned this once or twice over the weeks, casually stating how he urged to love someone the way he loved his childhood companion. You put his wish into motion so quickly.

If this moment is what he thinks it is, then he doesn’t know how to digest it for now. How to swallow the mix of longing and relief, of missing somebody and meeting someone new.

The Doberman is a symbol of healing and affection. Of how you care, and of how Jungkook will once again be able to adore the same as he used to. Still does.

“Babe?” he only calls.

There’s nothing more he can murmur right now anyway. What, a thank you? Crying in the middle of the room? Kissing his appreciation into you? None of it will suffice.

“Yes?” you respond.

“There’s…” His open palm lifts, a finger loosely pointing to the focus of his attention. “There’s a dog on our couch.”

You laugh with a tender heart. “Yes. There is.”

Should he move? He doesn’t dare to. Only wipes away the dark, wet curls off his temples. Looks for a bit; watches the still figure barely fill the dip in the cushions, as if he could vanish the moment Jungkook speaks.

You are a bundle of excitement next to him, and the little thing is unbothered, not even looking when Jungkook is teetering between disbelief and wonder.

And then… just slowly, cautiously, surely, he steps forward. Courageous once you say, “Yes, say hi.” A hand already reaches midair before it retreats; should he sit beside him or drop to his knees? Pick him up and place him on his lap?

“Where did you get him from?” Jungkook asks, voice still delicate. “How long did you plan this?”

He’s wondering about a lot of things. How you picked him out of all the dogs you saw. How you chose the absolute manifestation of sweet honey, ogling up to him now that Jungkook lets his fingers reach the soft fur along the back.

He chuckles, breathless and full. Tells the newest member of the household, “So cute. You’re so freaking cute—”

Then, he picks him up, secures him in his arms, a paw on his tatted skin as he gets used to the moment. Trying to understand who he belongs to.

You finally dare to step closer; the dog already recognises your scent a tiny bit, staring at you, paw reaching for your hand when you stretch it towards him.

With kind excitement, you answer Jungkook’s questions.

“So, I was searching for a bit and then… one or two weeks ago, I spoke to a colleague at work about someone she knew who was looking for people to adopt puppies. Gave me her number and all.”

You’re distracted for a moment, delighted when the pup nudges your hand for more pets.

“And… the lady she suggested was repeatedly gushing about his eyes and all before she gave him to me?” you say, the back of the hand brushing along his back. “And on my way back I kept looking at him and realised how right she was. They reminded me of yours.”

Jungkook laughs, and you shake your head with a beam of your own, telling him, “It’s true! They’re this dark brown and huge and round and… I dunno,” you lift your shoulders, pupils flying up to your boyfriend’s, “I’ve always said you have starry eyes.”

You have; the admission is never new, but always heartbeat-increasing.

To be compared with something as gorgeous and celestial as the night sky…

“…And so,” you continue, “I thought.” You cradle the puppy’s face, but this time he retreats, rather leaning into Jungkook’s arms now with a soft whimper. Already fond. You say—

“Bam.”

It’s a simple syllable. A soft, two-letter sound. But something clicks into place immediately.

Jungkook feels it unwind inside him, as if it makes sense, as if whatever is happening is just the right thing. Just fitting to his timeline and life. This is nice. This is lovely. Worth remembering.

The ache, the doubt, the weight that followed him all these days… it all lightens, just a little.

No, Jungkook will never replace Gureum. But he can try to be a family with another one of the world's true angels; remember who he once knew as Bam’s lost brother.

Bam…

Bam. Short but just right, isn’t it?

“Bam,” he repeats, blinking away the tears, “hi.” His chest rises when he breathes in. Falls when he says, “Is it weird to say that I feel like I love him already?”

Is it?

No… of course it isn’t. No emotion that ever emerges out of a gut feeling is ever weird, is it? All it ever is and remains is real. In which sense Jungkook doesn’t need to question his emotions; can trash the question whether the newfound adoration only feels like love.

And as you watch from the other side, you so bittersweetly realise that you were oh-so-right.

Because some things don’t have to be explained. They don’t have to be questioned at all. A lot of times, things just are.

And a lot of times, when one has to ask whether they are loving… they already are.

a little (late) tribute to real life gureum, mixed with all that happened and has been happening in their lives. i guess this truly is a slice of life thing that keeps on hurting, but keeps on giving, too. idk – at least that's how i felt as i wrote and edited it. i really love them so much, y'all :') also, this was supposed to be the original banner, but i discarded it bc it spoiled too much lmao:

how did you guys like it? it's been so long, i hope it didn't disappoint. i would definitely love to hear what you think – this is truly what keeps me and this lil series going!!.. would make my day!! so leave a like/reblog/talk to me pls <3 love you!!

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts smut #bts fluff #jeongguk smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook fic #bts angst #jungkook angst #jungkook

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chilling-seavey · 4 months 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.”

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mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 2 months ago

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Hi, a request where the reader is Dr. Robby's younger sister and the doctor's girlfriend of Frank langdon, I imagine the dynamic between the three of them being fun, and since I can't live without Angt, maybe one day the reader will show up because she had a serious accident. Thanks.

Family

main masterlist | the pitt masterlist

summary: robby’s sister is dating langdon… what could go wrong?

pairing: dr. frank langdon x female robinavitch!reader

rating: R for language and pitt type of blood

word count: 1.4k

warnings: pitt type of blood/heaviness,

pairing note: the reader can be adopted or blood related, up to you <3

author’s note: thank you for the request!

You had started dating Langdon after you briefly met him through your brother. You had stopped by the hospital to drop off baked goods for the doctors and nurses when you first spoke to him.

Robby introduced you two, and he didn’t think much of the interaction, but Langdon was instantly smitten. He kicked himself for being so infatuated with his boss’s sister, but what could he say? You were drop dead gorgeous, and it didn’t hurt that you were a damn good baker too.

You worked about ten minutes from the hospital, so it wasn’t unheard of for you to drop by and say hello to your brother while dropping off food for him and his team. You owned a very well-liked cafe and would often bring over any extra food to The Pitt.

When Langdon first saw you (and he would tell you this later on), he felt the calmest butterflies in his stomach. The kind you get when you see someone you want to be around all the time, and never get anxious while doing so. It was a new feeling for Landon, so who could blame him for falling head over heels in love with you by the fourth week of dating?

You were quick to fall for him, too; it wasn’t a one-sided thing. If your brother hadn’t been so preoccupied with his work that first day, he would’ve been able to tell by the look in your eyes that you were falling for Langdon.

You weren’t sure which drew you in quicker: his jawline, chisled by the gods, or his bright blue eyes, blue as a wild ocean you could get lost in. Whatever it was, his kind heart and loving nature sealed the deal for you by date three.

And by the time you both said your ‘I love you’s, you knew he was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

“Coffee’s here!” you announced, walking into The Pitt with several cups of fresh coffee.

“Thank you,” Dana said, helping you put the coffee on the front desk counter. “I’ll let the team know.”

“Is Langdon around? I’d like to talk with him before I head back to our place,” you said.

“I think he’s helping a patient,” Dana said.

“I always have time for my girl,” Langdon interjected, coming from a patient’s room. He took off and tossed his disposable gloves as he walked up to you. “How are you?” He leaned in and kissed you quickly, not giving you a second to answer.

“Better now,” you said when he pulled away.

“What’s all this?” Robby asked, coming out of the same room Langdon was in and doing the same thing with his gloves.

“I brought coffee for you guys and the nurses.” You smiled at your brother.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do all that,” Robby said. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well, you already know this, but…” You held up your left hand and showed off a gorgeous engagement ring.

“We’re engaged!” Langdon exclaimed.

“No way!” Dana gasped. “Let me see the ring!” You held out your hand, palm down, so she could get a better look as the other nurses and doctors came rushing over to see what all the fuss was about.

“Ooh, I smell coffee,” Dr. McKay said as she came up behind Robby. When she saw the ring, she exclaimed, “Oh my god! Y/n!”

As the hour passed, more and more doctors and nurses congratulated you and Langdon when they got a chance.

Before you left, after you said goodbye to your fiancé, your brother stopped to talk with you.

“You know, I couldn’t be happier for you and Frank,” he said.

“Thank you.” You smiled at him.

“You gonna be safe getting home? It’s raining pretty hard out there.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise,” you told him.

The shift was almost over, only two hours to go before Langdon could rush home to you.

“Car accident, woman in her early thirties, man in his late forties, six minutes out,” Robby was informed.

“Understood,” he said.

The last six minutes of peace that Langdon and Robby would have that day passed quickly before you were wheeled in on a stretcher.

“It’s…”

“…Y/n,” Robby finished Langdon’s sentence.

Langdon’s whole world stopped as Robby’s shoulders dropped.

“Pulse was weak, but we lost it,” the EMT doing chest compressions said.

“I-I,” Robby stuttered, completely frozen with fear.

Dr. Collins and McKay had to step up and take over for him and Langdon. Collins replaced the EMT and started doing compressions.

She called out medical terms that you (had you been conscious) would never understand, but Langdon and Robby did. It meant there wasn’t much hope for you.

“Robby, Robby,” Langdon exclaimed, trying to get his attention. “W-We need to help her, we can’t just sit back and do nothing!”

“Y-Yeah,” Robby choked out.

Robby and Langdon started to help McKay and Collins, but quickly learned there was no use in their being there, they were both too shaken up to be of any help.

They instead both chose to help the other car accident victim (the driver of the other car), once you had a pulse and things were looking up.

Langdon and Robby’s shifts were over, they should’ve been going home. Langdon should’ve been in his car listening to your favorite music as he drove home to you.

“How is she?” Langdon asked Dr. Abbott when he came out of your room.

He simply shook his head, “It’s not looking good.”

“Give it to us straight, how bad is she?” Robby asked.

“Her pulse is very weak; she had a punctured lung, as you know, due to her broken ribs. What worries us the most is the head trauma; she has a pretty severe concussion from when her head hit the window. It could go either way at this point, there’s no way to really know yet. She could wake up and be okay, or–”

“She could not wake up,” Robby finished his sentence. “Oh my god.”

“No,” Langdon shook his head, “no! There must be something we can do, we can’t just…”

There was a beat of silence as they all just looked at each other, each of them hoping for the same thing.

“Oh, Langdon, here,” Abbot said and handed him a small container with your engagement ring. “We had to cut it off her broken finger.”

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was Langdon sleeping on the chair next to your bed. His head rested on his fist, his elbow rested on the arm of the chair. Soft snores escaped from between his lips as you smiled to yourself.

“Hey,” you said quietly. Langdon stirred awake, and his eyes opened wide when he saw you were awake.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled, and he stood up. He leaned down and kissed you quickly. “Thought I lost you for a minute there.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily, babe,” you giggled as he pulled back.

“I’ll go get Robby,” he said before he left the room. He came back with Robby in tow, who hurried to hug you as best he could.

“You had us really worried there, Y/n,” Robby said.

“How are the people in the other car?” you asked.

“He’s fine,” Langdon said, moving the chair closer so he could sit down and hold your hand at the same time. “His brakes gave out in the rain, that’s why he hit you.”

“I’m glad he’s okay,” you said.

“We’re glad you’re okay,” Robby added.

“Besides the two casts, I feel fine,” you shrugged, referring to your left arm and left leg, both in casts. “Where’s the ring?” you asked when you realized you were no longer wearing it.

Langdon took the container out of his pocket, and your eyes welled up at the sight of your damaged ring.

“Hey, what matters is you’re okay,” Langdon said when he noticed you were upset. “That’s all that matters.” He leaned in and kissed you, placing his hand on your cheek for added support. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you replied.

#the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt #dr frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon #by mind empty just fictional people #by astrid #usermindempty #userastrid

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deminetly · 4 months ago

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𓏵 YOUTUBE VIDEO IDEAS

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┆ FASHION RELATED

thrift flipping random items my friend chose me

styling clothes I no longer like

closet cleanout

personalising something (your purse, bike, car, etc)

recreating pinterest outfits

how to find your style/finding my style

clothes Id buy if l was rich

current favourite fashion trends

wearing clothes wrong (scarf as shirt for example

recreating met gala outfits

letting my followers/friends style me

styling my followers

my favourite clothing items

how to spice up a boring outfit

making outfits based on random theme suggestions

upcycling my old clothes

jewellery collection

thrift haul + try on + styling

predicting fashion trends

how to dress more whimsical

weird fashion trends that actually existed

the science hehind why certain colors look good on you (explaining undertones, color theory and how to find your best shades)

only wearing old trends

my favourite trends

letting strangers pick my outfits from a thrift store

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─

┆ ART RELATED

guessing the prices of modern art

playing roblox speed draw until I win

drawing in weird conditions (in the dark/underwater/with your non doninant hand)

recreating famous paintings

trying out different art styles

guessing/making up the meanings behind famous pieces

turning random scribbles into masterpieces

can I spot the Al generated piece

trying to create a masterpiece with the cheapest materials

attempting to find my art style

drawing the same thing in ten minutes vs an hour

redesigning companies logos

redesigning cartoon characters (in my art style)

drawing how I think book characters/places look

painting scnenes from my dreams while telling you about them

making a piece of art only using materials from nature

turning my followers’ pinterest boards into characters/stories/pieces of art

reviewing my followers’ art

trying to draw random characters completely from memory

drawing a self portrait from memory

drawing a self portrait in different styles

rating my fanart

doing random art exercises

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─

┆ …EVERY DAY FOR A WEEK CHALLANGES

trying a new hobby...

getting of my comfort zone (doing something uncomfortable...)

going on side quests alone...

trying out new styles...

dressing like 90s movie characters...

doing something nice...

watching a different movie...

letting followers/friends control my life...

listening to a new genre of music...

turning into my favourite characters...

letting my followers/friends style me…

interviewing strangers about their weirdest dream (or any other topic)…

testing out a new morning/night/writing/etc routine…

only wearing old trends…

reading/writing a short story…

watching a horror film…

helping out a stranger…

doing 3 crafts a day…

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─

┆ JUST VIBES / RANDOM

trinket collection/favourite trinkets

trinket hunting at the thrift store

whats in my bag

whats in my junk drawer

movie/book/music recs

character customizing (dyeng hair, getting nails done, etc)

reading my old journals

redesigning famous album covers/movie posters

going randonauticaing

turning into my favourite character for a day (dressing and acting like your favourite character)

rating media Ive consumed lately (movies, books)

room/car tour

being productive for a week

reading my followers confessions

doing public dares (with your friend/alone with dares that your followers submitted)

my wishlist

things I want in my future home/things I love in houses

my (month) favourites

weird facebook marketplace finds (+buying them?)

decorating my purse

hobby ideas

weird girl hobby ideas

trying new hairstyles and makeup looks

reading reddit confessions/AITA stories

career ideas if you like…

24h without my phone

replacing my screentime with isolation

putting the same writing prompt in story writing generators and ranking them

opening mystery jewellery bags

short film / short film ideas

stop motion film

the history of literally anything (journaling for example)

what Id buy if I was rich / wishlist

how to take good pictures / picture and pose ideas for photoshoots

rating my old pinterest boards and playlists

playing cozy games

making my room more whimsical / how to make your room more whimsical

attempting to follow a reciepe in another language

random dreams Ive had (+why you think you had them, their meaning, did it predict something?)

guessing how magic tricks work + learning them

revisiting childhood (trying your old hobbies, watching old favourite movies, etc)

trying to write a poem with random words that a random word generator gives me

interviewing strangers about their weirdest dream (or any other topic)

creating my own religion

creating my own holiday and celebrating it

reacting to beauty standars from different countries (and trying to look like that)

trying to do my followers homework

analysing a movie/book

asmr

how to add whimsy into your life

what your … says about you

answering strange questions

journaling prompts/questions for deep thinkers

my thoughts on …

creating a soundtrack for my life

reacting to embarrasing stories

reacting to mandala effects

taking uquizzes

asking strangers “whats the most interesting thing about you?”

letting a yes or no wheel decide my fate for a day

going out and collecting things for my junk journal

inventing my own country and language

letting strangers write a story sentence by sentence

testing creativity techniques for a day

designing my dream life

conspiracy theories that I believe in

reacting to random conspiracy theories

romanticising life

choosing 5 things from all of the bucketlists ive ever made and completeing them

taking random personality tests

journal tour

yapping about (specific topic) while coloring/drawing

trying to be more creative

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─

┆ RATING MY FOLLOWERS…

…letterboxd top 4

…style

…music taste

…instagram profiles

…rooms

…pictures as kids

…dreams

…deepest secrets

…crushes

…wishlists

…favourite (movies, songs,etc)

…journals

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becausebuckley · 3 months ago

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michelle's buddie fic recs: week 15!

i'm drafting this list while there is a wasp trapped in my bathroom. i know it's trapped because there's no open window, but when i tried to get in there to open the window, the wasp flew right towards me so that left me with no choice but to slam the door shut and pretend it's not there. this is not related to the fic recs at all but i'm gonna need you all to send wasp-deterring thoughts my way pls

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

all i see is what i should be | oceanofchaos/@islandoforder | 11.3k | T

Episode tag to 8x12 Disconnected, where Buck ends up dating the single father from the first call, and everyone (up to and including Eddie) is super normal and cool about it. i love how this fic integrates all of the 118 and the narration is so good!!

24 hours on the clock | Daisies_and_Briars/@cal-daisies-and-briars | 14.9k | M

During a painfully slow shift at the 118, everyone is in a weird mood, and nobody is acting normally. Surely the day will go fine. this fic is just so, so much fun!! i love how all of these characters are captured and their shenanigans and just everything <3 delightful!

connecting you to a driver... | MacksDramaticShenanigans/@redrosydiaz | 4k | GA

Buck spends one hour and fifteen minutes after he lands in the El Paso International Airport pick-up zone, waiting for his ride. He also racks up one hell of a debt in Uber cancellation fees. this fic is the absolute best way to use eddie's uber driving and i love that so much. such a fun one!!

garden of dreams | simplyylupin | 3k | T

When they'd first started dating, Buck had warned him he is, quote-on-quote, an octopus in bed. That he has a tendency of latching onto whoever's closest and flailing all over them. Legs tangled, arms wound, heads tucked together, noses brushing. What Buck never mentioned, however, is his affinity for talking in his sleep. this was a reread and i lowkey can't believe i haven't recced it before?? it's one of my absolute favs, so soft and sweet and fluffy <3

hold down my heart | inbetweenthestacks/@organizedstardust | 1.3k | GA

The morning after the chess tournament. i love christopher in this one!! and buck's cookware is just <3 so good!!

i'm not going anywhere (at least not anywhere you're not) | fleetinghearts/@shitouttabuck | 3.1k | T

it’s raining and eddie’s home and he might be a little in love with his best friend. okay but do you really need to know more than that it's RAINING and eddie's HOME and he might be a little IN LOVE with his BEST FRIEND?? yeah i didn't think so either. this is lovely and beautiful and just so very good <3

kisses and embraces | tawaifeddiediaz/@aashiqeddiediaz | 2.6k | GA

His phone beeping takes him away from the book he was only pretending to read, bored out of his mind. The familiar text tone brings a smile to his face instantly, one that makes him glad he’s alone so he’s not embarrassed by the giddy feeling that takes over. this was another reread, and what a lovely one it is <3 this is the cutest!!

perils of post diaz dating | songbvrd/@songbvrd | 22.9k | E

Eddie leaves and Buck tries to fuck about it. Instead, he fails miserably and repeatedly, gets a cat and makes some discoveries. this is just brilliant!! i loved the buddie and the buck and bobby and the cat and just <3<3<3

taylor kelly's (un)fortunate mistake. | dylaesthetics | 5k | T

Buck, a notoriously bad dancer, is in need of a dance partner for Taylor’s upcoming wedding. Who else to turn to, than his conveniently skilled best friend? so good!! one of my favourite buddie things is when they attend weddings together <3 also this fic includes some incredibly correct opinions on buck and christina perri and i love that yay

when your heart releases, you won't fall to pieces | Daffi_990_ao3/@daffi-990 | 13.9k | GA

Buck supports the Diaz boys after Eddie's breakdown, realising along the way that home really is where the heart is. this is just beautiful <3 i love a good breakdown fic and this is the best breakdown fic!! so good!!

#i know about fake wasp nests and peppermint and vinegar etc etc as deterrents #however it is too late and i am scared #so i've decided that a reasonable thing to do is to just do nothing and wait for my sister to come home and have her deal with it #she'll undoubtedly hate me but she'll do it and i'll make dinner so then we should be even #anyway #enjoy the fics!!#they are wasp-free zones i promise #buddie #buddie fic #buddie fic rec #911 abc #911 fic #911 fic rec #michelle's recs #fic rec list

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followthebluebell · 1 month ago

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How involved are feral male cats in raising their kittens usually? A semi-feral/fearful stray momma cat had kittens under my neighbor’s house with a feral male cat. I always thought that male cats usually stayed away after momma had her babies but he’s been around a lot.

After a scare with a raccoon, momma cat ran off and came back with the dad cat and they moved the kittens together to a different location.

For reference, the kittens are about 5-6 weeks old. I only just discovered them on memorial day so I’m not sure if he was involved much when they were younger.

These cats are the only outside only cats I’ve seen on my street. I’ve seen a couple cats with collars very rarely and a few neighbors have had indoor only cats escape briefly but we really don’t have any sort of colony. The male cat has been around for at least 6 years, I only started seeing the female cat in the past year.

I’m working on trapping the entire family but I’ve never done this before and only got one kitten so far. After the scare with the raccoon, I’m not sure where the cats moved their kittens to but both parents are coming for food. I only leave food out during the day.

Raccoon came because there were crumbs, I’ve since been leaving the food on a mat and bringing that in before night so there’s no crumbs for the raccoon.

I think I over explained. My ADHD meds haven’t kicked in yet, oops.

Yeah, I grew up hearing that toms will regularly kill kittens to bring queens into heat more quickly or will kill very young female kittens in an attempt to mate with them. I have not seen ANY of this in reality.

It definitely seems to vary from colony to colony. In general, though, they are more involved than people assume. I regularly saw male cats grooming and assisting with litter raising, albeit to a lesser degree than other females. They generally stayed away for a few weeks until the kittens were around 3-4 weeks old, at which point they'd begin to observe the litter and, if the queen allowed it, would attempt to help out. In contrast, other queens were generally allowed to start helping with the kittens by week 2, especially if the mothers were closely related already or were raised together.

Male cats that assist with raising kittens had a higher rate of reproductive success compared to males that didn't even try. Mother cats tended to remember the males that they had a positive pre-existing relationship with and would prefer them compared to outsider males.

In home settings, toms are also like this. In breeder homes where they are allowed to interact with the mother and kittens, they take an active interest around 3-4 weeks and are usually recruited into kitten sitting duty when kittens are 5-6 weeks old.

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dcandmarvelimagines · 11 months ago

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sweeter than you ever knew. (pt. 1)

Series: pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 pt 4 pt 5 Pairing: Wade Wilson x Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6.8k Warnings: AFAB reader (uses she/her pronouns), 1st person POV, non-mutant Reader, some blood, Wade being too flirty for his own good, vaginal fingering, bathroom sex, dirty talking, the relationship with Logan is a "slow" burn in comparison. More smut to come, I swear. Author's note: Damn...it's been a while huh? My last comic related fic was in 2018, funny enough also because of a Deadpool movie. I was already sappy in a post before so I wont subject y'all to it. But this was intended to be a short little oneshot and has absolutely ballooned out of control. I'm thinking this will end up being five chapters. I will upload the second chapter concurrently with my ao3 upload, so if you prefer to read there, feel free! Also as a little aside: I am so unbelievably sorry that the reader's job working in outreach to help Al is barely described and is probably highly inaccurate. I was desperate not to get lost in the weeds of research on the subject. I needed something that would keep the reader out of the apartment most of the time and let the relationship grow differently, so neighbors was out of the question. If you work in community outreach (absolute angel), please just avert your eyes.

I used to think my life was boring. It was the same day in, day out. I never met anyone interesting or experienced new things. That changed when I knocked on an unassuming apartment door in a dingy building.

I worked in government outreach, providing assistance to elderly blind clients. I had been assigned to work with Althea Sanderson. Her file had listed her as combative and she didn’t disappoint. She absolutely hated my guts at first, grumbling about how she just needed her “disco dust” to keep going. She assured me that she had roommates and didn’t need me “thundering” around her small apartment.

For nearly two weeks, I thought her mind had to have been slipping, because no one else would come from that apartment besides me. Imagine my shock when I walked into the place and found a hulking mass of a man, only in his boxers, in the kitchen. His brown hair, streaked with white, was wet after a shower and he was half heartedly rubbing at his shoulder with a towel covered in sparkly unicorns. “Who the hell are you?” He snapped, voice gruff. He glared at me like I had personally insulted him by my mere presence. My eyes darted all over him, the thick ropes of muscles in his arms, the harsh planes of abs, the thin sheen of dark hair on his chest, the trail disappearing into his boxers. The man yanked the fridge door open and snapped me from my drooling.

I had barely stumbled my name out before Al, as she insisted I call her when she realized I wasn’t going anywhere, came around the corner, her hands guiding her along the wall. “Leave her alone Logan. She’s like herpes and I can’t get rid of her.” My lips pursed at the comparison. The man, Logan, huffed with either annoyance or laughter before padding away, beer clutched in his hand. For how big he was, I was shocked at how light on his feet he was. In comparison, I really did thunder around.

“Oh! Do we have a new roomie!?” The voice trembled in excitement. Its owner bounded around the corner, clad only in low slung sweatpants, nearly tripping over the scraggly dog at his feet. I drew back, sucking in a sharp breath. The new man was no less tall than the other, but lean in comparison, with a wide chest and firm arms. But I was far more distracted by his skin. It was a mixture of mottled pink and white, looking more like swirled bacon fat than anything else. He was completely hairless but I saw the skin of his forehead rise. “Al, you didn’t say you had a hot granddaughter!”

“Oh I’m not,” I said. While I was scheduled to be here for four hours, I was already contemplating how to escape the suddenly cramped apartment.

“Does she look like she’s related to me dick for brains?” Al growled at him. The man shrugged, a megawatt smile plastered on his face as he picked up the dog and let it lick at his face.

“She has the same wild sexual energy you do, my sweet black Betty White.” He walked closer, carelessly dropping the dog into Al’s lap just as she lowered herself into a creaky chair. The man theatrically bowed, snagging my hand to press a too wet kiss to my knuckles. His skin was unbelievably soft as it held mine, the grip light enough that I could pull away at any moment. “Wade Winston Wilson.”

He was so close to me that I took a half step back. I gave him my name, just my first, and wriggled my hand free. “Um, I'm assuming your Al’s roommates?”

“Roommates is such a safe for work word, I prefer to be her personal pommel horse.” A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. Wade grinned at the sound and shit, his face softened in such a charming way that I felt my defenses come down just a little.

“I don’t think you understand what a pommel horse is.”

“Isn’t it something you ride? Get all flexable on?”

After that first awkward day, all four of us fell into an easy routine. Al seemed to warm to me more, though her sharp tongue never faltered. Wade was a vibrating ball of energy whenever I came over. He bounced around the kitchen as I made Al her coffee or insisted I sit with them to watch Golden Girls . I came to realize that only his right hand was so soft, the left was scratchy and blistered, which was something I refused to think about any deeper. Logan remained standoffish and reserved but he was there when I needed a break from Wade’s constant talking. I would occasionally find him sitting on the fire escape, smoking the cigar that seemed permanently stuck to his fingers. We often just sat in silence while Wade and Al argued about Ikea furniture.

I had always found their schedule strange. They would disappear for days, sometimes weeks, at a time with no rhyme or reason. I had originally thought they might be businessmen but Logan’s quick temper and Wade’s obnoxious energy clashed with the idea. Wade often talked about going to exotic places and had brought me back a diamond that he swears up and down is not only real, but is also the tip of a woman’s finger.

The day I found out their real profession had started horribly. The train line to Al’s apartment had broken, so I had to take a cab there. I was flustered, hungry, and in desperate need of caffeine when I trudged up the five flights of stairs to Al’s apartment, because, of course , her elevator had broken. It was customary for me to knock twice, allowing Al to respond before I used my key to come in. Today, my knocks were much shorter. “Good morning Al,” I called, slipping into the door before turning to close and lock it. I spun and nearly screamed.

“Oh hey,” Wade said, leaning against the wall of the kitchen, a mug clutched in his hand. I was far more distracted by three massive claw marks across his chest, blood oozing down his stomach, staining his plaid underwear.

“Oh my god! Wade!” My keys and purse clattered to the floor as I rushed to him, bracing my hands against his chest. “What happened?! Holy shit, oh fuck.” I was babbling now, distracted by how sticky and hot the blood was. But his chest rumbled under my shaking hands. I glanced up and saw a smile on his face as he failed to contain his laughter. “What are you fucking laughing at?! You’re dying here and you're laughing?!”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear. Miss good samaritan knows such nasty words.” I tried never to swear around patients but this was a worst fucking case scenario.

“Oh fuck off! You’re dying and you're laughing ‘cause I said a bad word?!” That only seemed to make him laugh harder.

“Calm down sweetheart,” came a rough voice behind me. Logan had started to call me that more often, but it always felt like he was insulting me with the word. It usually had a stinge of annoyance laced around it, now was no different. “He’s fine.” I peaked over my shoulder, hands still pressed against Wade’s firm chest, about to argue with the other man about how un fine Wade was. I nearly screamed again. A knife was embedded into Logan’s shoulder. There was blood everywhere . On his bare chest, his face, his hands and arms.

“Logan!” I wanted to reach for him but couldn’t without leaving Wade to bleed out.

“Now peanut,” Wade cooed and slid out from under my touch. “I told you, baby knife is just for the bedroom.” With that, Wade yanked the knife from Logan’s shoulder. The spurt of blood made my head woozy and I gripped the counter to hold myself steady. Logan barely reacted to the five inch blade being ripped from his skin, just a small grunt.

“What’s going on?” My voice was thick with confusion. They had clearly been mauled and attacked in their own home, yet they walked around like nothing traumatizing had just happened.

“Target practice,” Wade said, using a kitchen towel to clean baby knife. Logan turned and dropped on the worn couch, the springs screeching in protest.

“What?” I grabbed at his wrist before he could walk away. “Wade, please, I hope you understand how jarring that was. Now, please explain and cut all the punny bullshit out.” Wade pressed a dramatic hand to his chest like I had insulted him.

“We’re mutants.” My eyebrows knitted together as I stalked toward the living room. Logan sat there, whiskey already in hand. He seemingly hid a bottle everywhere. Wade followed behind before collapsing on top of Logan. The older man snapped his jaws like an animal and a little snarl escaped his throat. Wade grinned, tugged at his hair, before going to the other end of the couch.

“Mutants? Like the X-Men?” The scowl Logan shot me turned my blood to ice. Some of that shock must have shown on my face because Logan glanced away, taking a hefty swig of whiskey, and Wade tugged at my bloody pinky.

“Ignore him, the X-men are a touchy subject for him, and never touchy in the fun way.” He scratched at his chest, some of the blood smudging. The skin was…

“You’re healed?” I knelt before the couch, hands feeling his chest. “Holy shit I thought you were going to bleed out.” It was impossible. The wounds were deep , I could have sworn I saw bone before.

“God I’ve thought about you kneeling there for so long.” Logan’s fist cracked into Wade’s arm. My hands flinched away and I quickly stood. “Hurtful peanut. You know my arms always take too long to heal.”

“Stop being a fucking creep,” Logan hissed. I turned to him and saw that the wound in his shoulder was also gone. Without thinking, I bent to touch the smooth skin, as if I couldn’t believe it without feeling it as well. Logan went still under my touch. I knew Wade didn’t mind the physical contact, he practically threw himself at me whenever I was around, but Logan was always just out of reach. I was too frazzled to think correctly anymore.

“So you can heal,” I mumbled.

“Very fast,” Wade said. He grabbed the remote and clicked on the tv.

“You can stop touching me now sweetheart.” Once again, I snatched my hands back with a mumbled sorry , a faint flush burning my cheeks.

“Comes in real handy with our line of work.” Wade was bouncing his leg, the couch squeaking under him. Logan’s hand shot out to still him, knuckles showing white for a moment. Wade winced and I heard another snap.

“Which is…?”

Logan answered for me, “mercenaries.”

“Oh,” I plopped down on the rickety coffee table. The information settled like a lead weight in my stomach. My first instinct was fear. They killed people for money. Would they then turn on me now? Curiosity tugged at me as well. I couldn’t explain it but there was something so magnetic about them. The edge of danger had always been there, especially with Logan. I would have never guessed it was this. Ever since I first met them, I knew I would be fascinated. I guess I had my answer as to why they were as fit as models. “How come I’ve never seen anything? Do you guys not have…guns or whatever?”

“He didn’t want to scare you.” Logan jabbed his thumb Wade’s way. I cocked my head at Wade, a tiny smile pulling at my lips. He actually looked a little bashful.

“I’ve found that women don’t always respond very positively to my intestines hanging out.” My stomach flipped and I sat a little straighter.

“Has that happened?”

“No, but a fortune teller told me it will happen when I least expect it.” He stood with an excited jump, moving to stand in front of a small closet. There was only a faint limp in his movement. As he walked, I became incredibly aware that both men were nearly naked, only clad in thin boxers. With every step, Wade’s well defined back flexed and his legs tensed. I only allowed myself a moment to take him in before I drew my gaze away. He turned and flung the door open with flourish. “Behold! My batcave!” I glanced inside, and found a tall gun case, massive stacks of ammo, and two katanas balanced against a red suit. There was a yellow one tucked next to it as well. “Mine is the red one, a very flattering color I assure you.”

“The yellow one is yours?” Logan just gives me a curt nod. His face is stone again, clearly done with this conversation. “Do you use any of that?” I ask, motioning to the “batcave”, whatever the hell that means.

Snikt.

“Woah,” I whispered. The three blades protruding from between his knuckles were shiny and looked wicked sharp. I leaned forward and pressed the pad of my thumb against the middle blade. It immediately split the skin and a drop of blood oozed down my skin. Logan watched my warily, like I was liable to jump on the claws at any moment. “Do they hurt?” There were small beads of blood around where they had pierced through his skin. With a flex of his veiny forearm, the claws disappeared. The blades slid smoothly between the bones on the back of his hand.

“Yeah, everytime.” I watch his skin knit itself together again with rapt attention. Once it finished, I ran my injured thumb over the regrown skin, our blood smearing a thick stripe across his knuckles. Logan’s hand was relaxed as I held it. Wade flopped back onto the couch, his head in Logan’s lap, baby knife clutched in his hands. Logan seemed resigned, face relaxing just a bit, and allowed Wade to rest. He withdrew his hand from mine before resting his arm across Wade’s neck. The motion was surprisingly domestic and it made my heart warm. Behind me, the Golden Girls theme played.

“Isn’t Al in danger with you two here? Don’t you have enemies that could find her?” The briefest sad expression flashed across Wade’s face. I stood suddenly, “oh my god where is she? Did someone already grab her and that’s why you were fucked up?”

“She’s fine, probably wandering the streets or whatever women of her age do,” Wade made a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Wade!” I stepped on his foot in my mad dash to my fallen purse. I needed my phone to do…something. Call someone? The phone call would sound ridiculous. Hi, I help a blind woman and her two mutant roommates are mercenaries and got her kidnapped. Yeah, totally believable. I had just snatched my bag up when the door opened and Al herself appeared.

“Fucking Jesus,” she snapped as she ran into me. My body sagged in relief at seeing her. I gripped her shoulders, just to make sure she was actually there.

“Oh my god Al, don’t fucking scare my like that.” Her hands flew up and shook out from my touch.

“Well you were late!” I wasn’t. “Are those two done fucking yet?” I twisted to look at the men on the couch. Logan was half way out the window to smoke. I could have sworn I saw him lick at his bloody knuckles. Wade was studying me, the hint of a challenge in his eyes, daring me to say something about their relationship. I smiled, hoping it let him know I didn’t care. But that easy look might have been ruined when pieces fell together. The knife. The three slashes to Wade’s chest. Their near nakedness.

Huh.

“Uh yeah Al, I think I ruined the mood for them.” She scoffed and shoved a grocery bag into my hands. I dutifully turned to the kitchen and began to store away the random assortment of items. She guided herself over to the coffee maker and began to load the grounds into a filter.

“I think you are one of the biggest things that puts them in the mood honey.” I heard a growl float in from the window.

Wade and Logan stopped avoiding me after finding out their true occupation. It never got any easier seeing their bloody bodies strew around the apartment. I slipped on enough stray bullets that I learned to watch my feet. Wade was always cleaning his guns with a concentration I didn’t think he was capable of. One night he forced me to sit down, offering his lap first and whimpered pitifully when I took the chair, and made me hold the gun, showing me how to cock it and flick the safety on and off. The name Chekhov was stamped across the side in shiny gold letters. “Do I really need to know this?” He leaned closer, cheek pressed to mine. His warm hands slid over my own, guiding me to a button that would pop the magazine out and helped me click it back into place. He had grown much bolder in his touching and I couldn’t bring myself to stop him anymore.

“Never know when you’ll need to flip the badass switch.” His bubbly finger tapped the glittering name for emphasis. I shifted in my seat to face him, my lips ghosting over his cheek. He followed my lead and our noses brushed.

“I didn’t think I would need that with you around.” A beat passed as we looked at each other. There was something soft in his eyes that made my heart clench. “You’re going to protect me, right?” It wouldn’t take much to lean closer, to finally kiss him. I knew he was thinking the same thing and my eyelids fluttered closed in anticipation.

The alarm for my Al’s meds broke the moment.

I knew I was sliding into a sticky situation. I found myself staying later and later, well past my shift with Al had ended. It was absolutely forbidden for me to become involved with clients. The excuse that they weren’t technically my clients wouldn’t work on my boss. I needed to make a decision. Either stop working with Al or end any attachment to Wade, and Logan by extension.

***

I’m not sure how Wade and I ended up on that date. He and Logan had been away on a job for a week. It was finally peaceful in the apartment but I couldn’t lie to myself, I had missed them. So I didn’t fight Wade too much when he asked “nicely”, aka demanded , he tag along while I ran errands for Al. She was the last person I had to visit for the day so I allowed him to drag me to a bar after I dropped her meds off. Logan had a dark look in his eyes when he saw Wade clutch my hand. “The old man is just jealous. He wishes someone would take him out, but he doesn’t do well in crowds, very bitey.” I smirked and let Wade choose our destination. His hand was steady around mine, giving it occasional squeezes as we rushed across busy streets. The bar he picked was properly seedy, full to the brim with haggard men with face tattoos. Normally, I would have run screaming from a place like this. But Wade was clearly well liked. He moved through the room, smiling and waving at everyone. He tried introducing me to some people but it was hard to keep their names straight. We found an empty booth tucked behind the row of pool tables. I eased onto the sticky laminate bench as Wade headed to the bar to get our drinks. I listen to the men next to my seat argue over who was supposed to break for their next game of pool while I waited.

Wade returned with my drink, a neon green one for him, and two small shot glasses. I eyed them suspiciously as he passed me one of the whipped cream topped shots. “I thought it was only right to start our date with a blowjob.” I coughed on my laugh, examining the glass. He tapped his against mine before downing it and I followed his lead. It was pure sugar, nearly masking the burn of the alcohol.

“Whoever made this has clearly never given a blow job. Way too sweet.” Wade grinned in that mischievous way he always seemed to when he was going to be especially gross. I had no idea why I was being so forward. But I felt light, happy. All my worries from work had melted away as Wade held my hand on our way here.

“Oh yeah? I’ve been told my cum is rather delicious. It’s all the pineapple I eat.” I rolled my eyes and matched his grin, propping my elbows on the table, head cradled between my hands.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a single fruit. Or a vegetable honestly.” Wade copied my pose, fluttering his nonexistent eyelashes.

“How about you taste mine and I taste yours?” I pretended to contemplate, eyes scrunching, head tilting from side to side. My hand inched across the table before I plucked the cherry from Wade’s drink. He saw me, I could tell by the minute flick of his gaze, but he let me take it regardless. I yanked it from the stem with my teeth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Hm, I’m not sure. Don’t you think Al would talk if you were moaning my name so much?” He grabbed my wrist and dragged my hand closer. My breath caught as his lips enveloped my index finger and thumb. His tongue lazed over them before he drew back, the cherry stem between his teeth.

“Sweetie pie, I moan it enough as is.” I blushed and my stomach grew warm. The stem disappeared, his jaw moving. “I haven’t been able to convince the old bastard to dress like you yet. But he lets me pretend.” I took a big gulp of my drink and glanced away. The patrons were starting to get more boisterous. Their shouts echoed off the peeling wallpapered walls as they called for more rounds or catcalled some of the working girls. I watched as a pretty blonde walked off with two men. Would Wade and Logan take turns? Or would they pin me between them, spreading me open on both of their- “Jealous?” My head whorled back to him but only found a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Shut up,” I growled and took another deep drink. Wade’s tongue lolled out, in the center was a perfectly knotted stem. I shifted in my seat. This was not how I had intended the night to go. I wanted just a drink, conversation, and then home for a long awaited rest. But here I was, squirming at the mere sight of Wade’s tongue. “Impressive,” I mumbled. I reached across the table and plucked the stem from him. It looked like he was going for another kiss but my hand drew back too fast.

“I know it’s impressive. Just spelling out my name gets it all twisted like that.” I rolled my eyes with a smirk.

“You didn't strike me as a guy who would spell his name out. I thought you might be a little more creative.” He leaned closer, eyes just a bit too wide.

“Oh? What were you imagining I would do? I have a lot of skills and I’ll use them all on you.” Damn it . I finished off my drink and the booze buzzed down my body as it settled inside me. A small voice in my head reminded me that I needed to pick. That if I went down this road with Wade, I needed to stop visiting Al. But fuck, I craved the feeling of his hands on me. I dreamt of him and Logan anytime I saw them. My brain became more and more depraved as the weeks went on. I could barely look at them sometimes without blushing.

“Wade,” I sighed, twirling my straw in the slowly melting ice. “If we do anything, I have to stop working with Al. It’s a conflict of-“ he held a scarred hand up and my voice died away.

“No work talk. It’s Friday, let me show you a good time.” I sighed again but nodded.

The night passed blissfully. Wade was a strangely great date, much better than any guy I’ve been with recently. He asked me a million questions, ranging from my childhood, food allergies, to my favorite Mexican food. He gave me half joke responses about his own childhood, but gave me enthusiastic answers to everything else . He bought me another drink after he finished his but I was careful to sip mine slowly. The last thing I needed was a hangover. He also brought some greasy fries and I dove into them gratefully. We played one round of pool, which he won by only a few points. Then he promptly annihilated me in darts. “So unfair,” I groaned. “You do this for a living, I would have never won.”

“I thought you being sexy would distract me enough. Strip, then you’ll win.” I had that pleasant buzz running through me so his words just made me giggle.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that.” I held up my hand to cut off his next words. “Not now you horny bastard.” He pouted, lip stuck a full inch off his face. I playfully plucked at it. “Pout all you want. You gotta put more effort in to get me naked.”

That was perhaps the wrong choice of words because he bent down, his lips colliding with mine. I gasped but grabbed at his sweatshirt, clinging to him. He kissed like he wanted to eat me, all tongue and spit. He tasted as sweet as candy from the bright cocktails he had. It made my head swirl, skin heat. His hands moved to my hips and traced the sliver of exposed skin before they dove into my back pockets, and jerked me closer. I moaned into him as I felt the hard ridge in his pants pressed against my hip. The few whoops from our onlookers made me pause. “Probably not the best place.” Wade’s voice was a little husky, lips still close enough to mine that they moved with his words.

“No,” I mumbled. But neither of us disentangled from each other. “I should probably go home.” Wade sighed and straightened. He nodded, tucking a loose lock of hair behind my ear.

“Fuck you look gorgeous.” His voice was barely audible under the conversations and the music. I opened my mouth to say something but he cut me off. “I gotta hit the head then I’ll take you home.” He removed my hands from his sweatshirt, but still held one as he guided me to where the bathrooms were, situated at the end of a long hallway. “Wait here, don’t get too many men drooling over you.” Once he disappeared into the men’s room, I let out a breath. He was overwhelming, equal parts sweet, filthy, and ridiculous. The last thing I wanted to do was be responsible. To go home and ignore all the things he made me feel. I had already gone too far, what were a couple more steps? I bit at my thumb nail and watched the bathrooms intently. I didn’t see any women come or go into theirs. I scanned the bar and only found a handful of them. I knew I would have it mostly to myself.

Cautiously, as if I was somehow breaking a law, I walked down and into the women’s bathroom. It was empty, mostly clean, and smelled fine. Which I’m sure is more than I could say about the men’s. I propped myself against the wall in the hallway, waiting for Wade to emerge again. Two men passed before I saw him. “Aw, I don’t need an escort out of this creepy hallway.” I roughly grabbed his shirt, and backed into the still empty bathroom. “Oh wow, the promised land.”

I slammed him against the door, far too rough from nerves, but his face lit up nevertheless, a little excited laugh escaping him. “How about you show me those skills you talked about, yeah? Consider this a trial period before I let you fuck my brains out.” He didn’t need to be told twice. He hauled my body tight against his, lips crashing against mine again. This time, I gave into his kisses completely, his teeth tugging at my lips. There was a pinch of pain each time but it only made me claw at his neck harder. Judging by the groan he let out, I think I broke through skin. His tongue prodded its way into my mouth and I moaned loudly against him. His hands slid all over my body before they hooked behind my knees and he carried me to the counter. He lifted me like I weighed nothing. My head was beginning to grow fuzzy from our kiss but I refused to part, greedily sucking air from him instead.

Wade was the first to rear back, gulping down lungfuls of air. I wanted to drag him back and kiss him till I was lightheaded again. “Goddamn woman,” he mumbled. I just hummed, moving my desperate kisses to his jaw. My hands crawled up his shirt and littered his torso with scratches. He leaned closer, my head hitting the mirror behind me, as he gripped my hips and dragged me flush against him. My legs curled around his waist, craving the feeling of his hard cock against me.

“Wade,” I whined while I ground my hips against his. I found a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear that made him rasp my name. He cupped the back of my neck, leading me back to his greedy mouth. His thumb brushed along my jaw before his fingers delicately laid across my throat. I arched my neck to give his hand better access to the column of muscle. But his hands slipped from me entirely so he could shove my shirt over my breasts. He buried his face between them, peppering the skin with long, sucking kisses. “ Wade,” I moaned, hips bucking desperately against him, “I need you to fuck me.” His hand went to my jeans, pulling the button free and easing the zipper down. I yelped when his teeth captured a bit of flesh and bit down, hard . But the sting of pain only made me crave him more. Finally his hand plunged under my jeans and into my underwear.

“So wet all ready,” he hummed, biting at more of my skin. He drifted over my clit in loose, but firm circles. With his free hand, he worked the cup of my bra down and captured my nipple in his mouth. I thursted against his hand in an attempt to get him to do more, to bend me over this sink and fuck me like I knew he wanted to. Instead, he traced the tip of his finger over my entrance and had the nerve to chuckle when I tried to force it inside.

“ Jesus, Wade , stop teasing me.” My voice was airy, tinged with desire. His teeth glanced across my nipple and I nearly wailed. “Wade!” My nails went to his head and dug into his scalp, heels digging into his ass in annoyance.

“I love the way you say my name, pretty girl.” His finger drove into me, pumping in and out quickly. He sucked one last bruise onto the top of my breast before he was kissing and licking back up my neck.

“ More , Wade,” I panted, “you aren’t going to break me.” He laughed, the sound sending goosebumps across my feverish skin. Another finger worked its way into me and my eyes rolled back at the stretch, a sigh catching in my throat. His thumb moved into more controlled figure eights. My legs trembled around him as he crooked his fingers inside, hunting for that spongy spot inside me. “Wade, oh fuck.”

“God you moan so nice for daddy Wade.” Something between a laugh and a sob of pleasure bubbled up from my chest. Heat oozed through my body, settled deep in my stomach.

“I’m not gonna call you that. Ah, keeping doing that, so good.”

“Are you going to call Logan daddy when he makes you wiggle like this?” He found his mark and stroked the spot deep inside me with complete focus. My hips bore down on his hand, chasing for the orgasm I sensed. “ Aww seems like you like the idea. You’re sucking me in so much.” He bit more bruises on my neck, tongue lapping at the skin after to soothe the ache. “I can’t wait to see you stretched on his big dick.”

I whimper, the tension inside me near breaking point. “Yours first.” The coil finally snapped. My eyes squeezed shut as a stream of his name and half gasps fell from my chapped lips. His free hand pinned my hip to the counter to stop its wild jerks. He scattered soft kisses across my face and cheeks as he worked me through my orgasm. It seemed to last an eternity and the waves of bliss made my body tingly.

Eventually, my body relaxed and slumped against the mirror, chest heaving. Wade’s fingers remained in me, lazily plunging inside. Now that the haze had passed, I could hear just how wet I was. The lewd noises echo off the cramped bathroom’s tiles. “Wade,” I mumbled, tugging weakly at his wrist. “You should get to fucking me now.”

“ Ew , how about you guys don’t. Do you know how dirty it is in here?” I jumped at the voice, scrambling to cover myself. Wade shifted himself to block me from view as I did. His fingers withdrew with a pop that made my face heat even more. The woman idly scrolled on her phone to give us privacy. My bra was fixed, shirt back over my chest, in record time.

Wade was fine to let us wait it seemed. His sticky fingers lingered on my stomach, running over the curves and stretch marks, before he buttoned up my pants. “Okay sugar bean, let’s get you home.” He helped me off the counter, my weak legs wobbling just a bit. He kept his firm arm around me for support anyways. I had half a mind to think it was just to keep touching me. I didn’t mind and leaned into his side, head against his chest.

The night was cool, the slight bite of oncoming autumn in the crisp air, and I breathed it in. My head felt clearer with each one. I went to pull away first, to tell him that I would see him on Monday, but he kept walking. “Where are we going?”

“Gonna take you home.” I blinked.

“How do you know this is the way to my place?” He made a noncommittal noise and shrugged.

“Is some light stalking a turn off?” I knew I was crazy, absolutely insane, because all I did was beam up at him and cling closer. We made our way to my apartment in long winding segments. First the train where he pulled my legs over his and kissed at my wind whipped cheeks. Then a stop at a late night burger chain where Wade promptly drowned his in ketchup. We walked slowly to my apartment, hand in hand. Exhaustion had finally reached me and my feet dragged behind me. The night had only grown colder, breath misting in front of our faces. I was wearing a light jacket as I anticipated being home before the drop in temperature. I drew Wade’s arm closer, pressing it against my chest, clinging to the bit of heat. “You know, if we were both naked you would be warmer.” I rolled my eyes.

“That’s absolutely not how that works. Also, my place is just around the corner.” We only had to walk a few more steps before I saw the familiar entrance to my apartment. Wade followed me to my door, leaning against the rail, waiting for me to fish my keys out of my purse. Once I had them in hand, I also tugged my phone from my pocket. “I don’t have your number.” I oddly felt shy, like this was too much of a leap. It felt more official like this. When I held it out for him, he took it eagerly, fingers tapping quickly. Then he kept typing. I peered down at my phone and saw him adding information for Asshole GILF, surrounded by an assortment of hearts. Quite frankly, I didn’t even know Logan had a phone, I had never seen him with it.

My stomach dropped when I saw Wade open a conversation with Logan and began typing. I was only able to read the words horny and get it up before I snatched my phone back. “Oh my god Wade!” I rapidly deleted the text, refusing to read anymore of his nonsense sexting. “I would prefer Logan to not think I’m trying to jump his bones.”

“Aw come on! Live a little. Logan loves people who come on too strong, especially on his face.”

“I think you are probably the exception, Wade. Logan doesn’t seem to want much to do with me.” His cold palms cupped my cheeks and drew me closer.

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, just you and me, yeah?” I nod, arms encircling his waist. The warmth of his chest spread into mine. “Logan dreams about you. He growls your name. He humps me in his sleep like a teenage boy. Then he wakes up and fucks me for hours.” My face heated at his words. I could feel him getting hard against my hip. “He wants you so bad it makes him crazy.” He pushed against me, just the slightest bit. “ I want you so bad it makes me crazy.” I realized that I never repaid the favor at the bar before being interrupted.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” Wade smirked, kissing the apples of each cheek then my nose.

“No, I’m gonna surprise Logan. He’ll go nuts when he smells you on me.” I blinked in confusion. I didn’t smell that bad, did it? “He has enhanced senses,” he explained. “He’ll be able to smell your cum on my fingers from outside the apartment.”

“Oh god,” I mumbled, stuck between embarrassment and arousal. “Okay, well, don’t keep Al up.”

“She has ear muffs.” I shook my head, chuckling at the absurdity. Wade pecked at my lips but didn’t allow me more. “Goodnight baby girl. Make sure you text me so I know who you are. So many crazy fangirls, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Uh huh,” I teased, finding the key fob for my building. Wade left one lingering kiss on my forehead before giving me a nudge toward my door. The scanner beeped, door releasing with a click. I wedged the door open before it could lock again. “Goodnight, see you Monday.” I blew him a kiss before the door clicked behind me as I went to the elevator. I reached for my phone and searched for Wade in my contact list. Of course I found him listed as Bootycall . Instead of solely hearts, his name was circled by eggplants and hearts.

Me: you have to send me a picture for your profile. I could have missed you

The elevator dinged and the door slid open. I traced my usual route to my apartment, jiggling the lock open with my key. My phone buzzed on the counter as I set it down to toe off my shoes and hang my coat up.

Bootycall: once I’m done with Logan, I’ll send pictures for the both of us.

Bootycall: Do you have other fuckbuddies? How could you? We should be the only ones for you

I woke up late the next day to two pictures. One was blurry, but the brown hair and a pointy white tooth told me it was Logan. It seemed Wade had tried to sneak it and was caught. The picture of Wade nearly made me faint. Pearly white beads of cum were splattered across his face and dripped off his exposed tongue.

Me: I can’t possibly make that your contact picture

Bootycall: you’re right! Make it your background!

775 notes · View notes

almostempty · 9 months ago

Text

Paris, Texas pt. 2

aka: 2 Texans, 1 Lady 🎀 The joel x javi x f!reader threesome PART 2!!

WC: 8k | Other fics | Rating: 18+ | Read on Ao3 | PART ONE

Paris, Texas the video by my love

this one goes out to my fellow mlm fans and voyeurs, i hope it’s everything you wanted and more <3; dedicated to everyone that gets a tag bc i love you 5ever

Summary: Joel, still struggling with his conflicting feelings about the threesome with Javier, gets a surprise visit at work from the man himself that leaves him even more confused. After a week of seeing Javier in his dreams, he gets another surprise visit at work.

Note: it’s pretty heavy on the m/m action so if that’s not ur thing no worries you can still have a forehead kiss from me

Tags/warnings: pwp, smut on smut on smut, internalized homophobia, dubcon joel/javi, infidelity, oral (m and f), consensual f/m sleepy oral, m/m anal, it’s not exactly a cuck chair–but there is a chair and u get to watch from it, top!joel, bottom!javi, but also switchy/vers in the future bc, respectfully, i would to experience the best of all worlds, i do not have a dick (i’m just a member of the fanclub) so if any of the m/m action is wildly inconceivable or something pls let me know i’m happy to receive feedback (spit as lube just pretend ok), some angsty guilt and shame in between the smut bc joel is still in denial, uhh dom!joel, idk if contractors have offices and i spent too long googling about it before remembering the point was the porn so pls forgive if that ruins ur immersion, tell me if i forgot something important

standard almostempty warnings at this point: unprotected sex with no consequences bc it’s fiction; f!reader is able-bodied otherwise no descriptions of skin tone, blushing, hair, idk tell me if there’s something that takes you out (physically); everyone is probably bi; no y/n, no beta just fueled by the power of adhd and delusion, if u see a mistake it was the gremlins i’m sorry

PLEASE TELL ME IF U LIKE IT OR IF U HATE IT OR IF YOU WANT MORE

Joel is buried in paperwork. Permits and invoices are stacked up on his desk in organized chaos. The week has been a disaster. He blames his low-grade headache on the deadlines and number crunching, but he knows something else makes him uneasy. He rubs the pads of his fingers between his brows as if he could massage away the stress or erase the permanent worry line carved into his features.

The noises outside his office blend into static as he recommits himself to getting caught up.

He rolls up the sleeves of his worn plaid shirt, sighing to himself before he resumes. His pen scratches across a form he doesn’t care much about when the door to his offices creaks open.

His head snaps up, looking across the room with a sharp glare. He’s not in the mood for interruptions, and he's already irritated at being stuck behind a desk playing catch-up. He isn’t expecting the man that enters the room. Stifling a surprised noise, he narrows his eyes to a sharp glare. He’s not in the mood for work-related afternoon interruptions, let alone a surprise visitor.

“So, this is the boss’s office?” Javier’s voice is smooth like he didn’t just appear out of nowhere and uninvited.

“Yep,” Joel mutters, grip on his pen tightening in his fingers. Dropping his eyes back to his work, considering ignoring the man. Maybe he can will away the pest by avoiding eye contact and ignoring the intruder sizing up his space.

Javier scans the sparse office. Empty walls, bare bones, and practical.

Joel assumes he’ll have a snarky comment about the size of the room or the view. He keeps flipping through the paperwork in his hand, braced for Javier’s attitude. Joel is tense and prepared to snap back, but his shoulders are tight and stiff as if he’s been sleeping on concrete for a week.

The signature scent of Javier, spicy and smoky, fills the air. The fragrance stirs Joel's memories and causes a visceral reaction. It makes his gut churn and fingers itch with restlessness.

The last–and only–time he’s seen Javier plays out like a well-edited montage. New images flash every time he blinks. Dark eyes. Sweat glistening on Javier’s chest. Lips, tongues, and teeth, he tries to subtly shake the thoughts out of his head.

Javier drops into the chair in front of the desk, eyeing Joel with a casual bravado. He crosses one leg over the other, resting his ankle along his knee in his dark jeans and rusty red button-down. He links his hands behind his head as if he’s prepared to settle in and bask in Joel’s discomfort.

Javier’s eyes roam over Joel’s desk. “You don’t have a secretary for all that paperwork?” he muses. A smile pulls at the corner of Javier’s mouth that Joel could sense without looking at him. He can feel the heat of Javer’s gaze pouring over the desk between them, making the air feel heavy, thick with something unsaid.

Joel can feel his pulse jump in his throat, chest constricted. “Nope.” He hoped his clipped tone would push Javier out of the room, but that hope flickers and dies when he takes in the nonchalant sight. Irritation spikes in Joel at the whole disturbance. He’s not interested in letting Javier take up residence in his office. Or his mind.

“You need somethin’?” Joel’s throat feels dry as he spits out the blunt question. He flips through the next invoice without processing a single word on the page. He’s tired and has a low threshold after a week of poor sleep. Though, he’d never admit, except maybe to you, that he’s easily irritated even with a good night of rest. But you always slice right through his grumpy shell.

“Just in the neighborhood,” Javier drawls, “thought I’d stop by.”

“Right.” Joel rolls his eyes, ”We supposed to be friends now?” Or what? Something more?

Javier shrugs casually, like that’s up to Joel to decide.

Joel tosses his pen and paperwork onto his desk. He takes a breath, forcing his features into something neutral. The night you brought Javier into your home, and your bed has haunted him. Made it so he couldn’t think straight. Tortured him, not with regret, but with the messy, tangled knot of shame and desire.

Now Javier is here. In the flesh. Self-satisfied and content, watching Joel and waiting expectantly. Waiting for what?

“Is staring me down part of your ex-cop deal? You come here uninvited to interrogate me or something?” Joel accuses with annoyance in his eyes.

“I don’t need to interrogate you,” Javier answers, mellow and cloying, “already know what you want.” He shifts, leaning forward, speaking quieter. “Just wanted to see if you’ve figured it out yet.”

Joel works his jaw as he crosses his arms. A brick wall of resistance. The fuck is that supposed to mean?

He clocks when Javier’s eyes lower, tracing the line of his arms, the same way you do when you catch Joel in a mood. You so easily diffuse his anger, disarming him with your wit or completely dismantling him with your body, unlike the instigator in front of him, who seems to only get under Joel’s skin.

Joel lets out a deep sigh. Javier isn’t here to be friends.

“It was what she wanted,” Joel says, his eyes hard, his voice firm. It felt like a weak excuse the second the words left his mouth. Shit.

Javier can taste the blood in the water. His eyes glint at the thrill of the chase. “Is that all?”

The room feels like it’s shrinking. Heat crawls up the back of Joel’s neck, anger entwined with something else he refuses to name. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies, standing up from his chair, trying to tower over Javier in some pathetic attempt at dominance.

A move he immediately regrets.

Javier also stands, circling around the side of the desk to look Joel up and down. Boldly. He admires Contractor Joel. The way he fills out his well-fitted work jeans, the way his deep green plaid hugs his broad shoulders and strains around his biceps as he crosses his arms again.

The workwear suits him. A strikingly masculine figure. Powerful and seductive. Tempting Javier just by existing. “I get it,” Javier murmurs to himself, understanding what you’d mean when you first described Joel. The disgruntled expression, the furrowed brows and sharp eyes–he only makes it worse.

“Always thought the whole construction thing was a cheesy porn gimmick,” Javier admits, “you could pull it off though. You got the toolbelt and the hat?”

“You can leave,” Joel replies dryly.

Ignoring Joel, Javier steps closer, “I’m just saying,” he rests a finger on Joel’s shoulder, drawing a line down towards his chest. Joel’s body is rigid, the contact searing his skin even through the soft material of his shirt. “You look good. This is your color,” he tugs at the dark green fabric below Joel’s throat. He drops his hand, and Joel feels like the earth could swallow him whole.

Javier’s mock compliments make Joel’s stomach flip before he steels himself again. Javier flashes a diabolical smile, catching the flare of Joel’s eyes and the hard swallow of whatever retort he couldn’t muster.

“You’re really trying to convince yourself, aren’t you?” Javier’s voice is dripping with mock sympathy.

Violent, intrusive thoughts race through Joel’s mind—socking Javier in the jaw to wipe that smug look off his face, grabbing him by the collar and running him through the wall, slamming him onto the desk. Face down so he could lean over his body and tell him, hot breath on the back of his neck, that he’s about to learn to watch his mouth.

Joel’s hands flex, knuckles popping, and heat stirs at the base of his spine at the dark desires. Suddenly, very aware of their close proximity. Close enough to feel the heat of Javier’s body, and to see the unwavering confidence in his face.

Amused by Joel’s volatility, Javier scoffs gently. His warm breath fans between them, and a smirk spreads on his face. Out of context, it’s only a gentle tease. A flirty smile and charged moment. But to Joel, strained like the last barricade holding back a beast, it’s too much. He snaps, and the beast gnashes its teeth.

“Get fucked,” Joel’s voice is a rumbly, low growl.

Javier’s smirk blooms into a Cheshire Cat grin. “I’d ask if you were offering, but I don’t think you’ve got it in you.”

Blood pounds in Joel’s ears. Drowning out the voice that wonders why Javier can rile him up so easily. The reminder that he’s got no reason to be jealous. That you’ve done nothing to make him worry.

“You were only doing it for her, huh?” Javier’s voice was quieter but still laced with danger.

Joel’s jaw is clenched tight when he replies, “Yep.” It doesn’t carry the conviction he needed to convey.

“Shame she isn’t here now, then,” Javier keeps pressing. The honesty in his tone throws Joel off.

“Would do anything for her,” Joel adds, softening fractionally at the truth in it.

“Anything?” Javier repeats.

“S’right.”

“For her.”

“For her,” Joel nods in agreement. Letting out a breath, he didn’t realize he had been holding. Javier rocks back on his heels like he’s about to turn and stroll away, satisfied by God knows what part of that interaction.

But he pauses.

Time feels weighted until Javier moves in closer. Another smile breaks across his face at how easily he can shock Joel into a trance with his audacity. Acting in defiance of all of Joel’s words.

His hand snakes up Joel’s chest until his fingers are slipping between the curls at the base of his skull. He leans in close, lips ghosting over the shell of Joel’s ear, “Is this for her too?” He shifts back half a step, and with the hand on the back of Joel’s head, he urges him to look down.

Javier’s hand had moved between them, palming the bulge in Joel’s jeans, his fingers pressing against his erection through the denim. Joel’s lips part, his whole body jerking forward instinctively, and a low groan rumbles in his chest before he can stop it.

Javier’s smirk deepened. “That’s what I thought.”

For a moment, Joel’s mind blanks out, lost in the haze of physical sensation. His body reacts before his brain catches up.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel snaps, grabbing Javier’s wrist and yanking it away. His voice is hoarse, breath ragged.

“Anyone could walk in here.”

Javier didn’t pull away; he didn’t flinch. His head cocks in contemplation at Joel’s specific reasoning.

Leaning in closer, Javier’s voice drips with amusement. “You’re afraid of them?” he nods towards the door. “Worried about what? That your crew is gonna find out their boss likes cock?” he laughs softly, a dark, teasing sound.

Joel’s chest heaves, heart pounding. Anger, lust, and frustration all swirling together inside of him.

“You think they won’t take orders from you if they hear the noises you make for me?”

He knows Javier is running his mouth to provoke him. But it works on him anyway. Joel huffs dismissively, without a thought, “You think I’d make a sound for you?”

“I think you’ll beg me to stop before you do.”

Before he can dwell on the ramifications, Joel acts on impulse. Stepping back, his face hardening as he stares Javier down. That smug bastard. He’s consumed with a defiant urge to remove that smirk from Javier’s face.

“On your knees,” he orders, his voice cold, flat, and restrained.

Javier’s eyebrow raises, lips curling into a lazy smile. “Why, Joel?” he asks, voice playful.

“You know why.” The presumption is underscored by the sound of Joel’s belt clinking before he unzips his jeans. He grips the base of his thick cock, menacing and erotic, as he keeps his hard gaze on Javier.

He accepts the challenge, kneeling slowly, never breaking eye contact.

“Yeah,” Javier murmurs, “you look even better like this. All frustrated and desperate to be touched.” His voice is thick and low, like molasses. Almost reverent, but at the same time gloating, as if Javier’s only proving himself right. It’s infuriating to Joel that the man can so freely express his desire and rile Joel up further with the same words.

Javier’s hand covers Joel’s as he gives Joel’s cock an experimental stroke. Joel hisses through clenched teeth, slamming his eyes shut and tilting his head up to break the eye contact. To sever the intimacy. He’s taut, impatient, and ready to snap.

Until Javier’s lips wrap around his weeping tip, and they both groan in unison at the sensation. The wet heat of his mouth sends a sharp throb of pleasure through Joel. The intensity causes his hand to shoot out to his desk, fingers digging into the edge in an attempt to ground himself.

But it’s no use.

Javier knows exactly what he’s doing, taking him deep, fast, his mouth warm and eager. His hands work in symphony with his mouth, twisting around his length, massaging at his thighs and hips, deliberate and competent. He has nothing to be shy or restrained about.

Sinking into the pleasure, Joel starts to reason with himself. A mouth is a mouth, he can allow himself to have this, to let himself enjoy it.

And he does.

Javier’s tongue teases underneath the sensitive head of Joel’s cock before he slides past his lips, along the flat of his tongue, and deep into his throat. It’s good. Why is it so fucking good? Joel’s head tips back down, blinking his eyes open. His body shudders.

It’s not just a mouth.

Seeing Javier’s head bobbing, his cock disappearing past the man’s lips, it stirs something wild and untamed within him.

It’s a mistake to finally look. To really watch, taking it all in. The handsome features on Javier’s face, the unapologetic pleasure he takes from every reaction he pulls from Joel’s body. The strength and finesse of his hands are so different from you. He’s drawn to follow the movement of Javier’s hand dropping to readjust himself, to ease the pressure on his own aching cock.

The brief friction looses a moan from Javier, vibrating around Joel’s length. It’s undeniably fucking hot. Joel’s control slips, possessed by his urges.

He reaches for Javier’s face to cup his jaw and hold him still. And he gives in. Fucking into Javier’s mouth, hips jerking recklessly. It’s a desperate strain to tamp down the groans clawing at his throat, and it doesn’t help when Javier watches him with his half-lidded eyes. No.

“Shit,” he admonishes himself. Suppressing the captivating draw he feels. He tries to find focus, to keep it together–but there’s a loud knock that staggers him.

A voice, muffled outside of his office door, shouts to him, “There’s a vendor here, says he needs your sign-off.”

Joel’s breath hitches, “Fuck,” he spits, hands grasping the desk and Javier’s jaw, forcing out a coherent response. “Be there in a minute!” he calls out, voice strangled.

Javier doesn’t stop. He doubles down, hollowing his cheeks and greedily coaxing Joel to lose control. And, of course, he does. Joel’s climax hits fast and hard. His last attempts to stifle any noises falter. He gasps, body jerking as he comes, spilling into Javier’s mouth.

Dazed, he can only blink as Javier pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking.

“Seems to me like that was just for you.”

Joel is wrecked, leaning against the desk, his heart racing. He doesn’t have time to process anything before Javier kisses him—brief, chaste, leaving behind the taste of himself on his lips.

“Better get out there before anyone worries, boss,” Javier whispers with a wink before walking out of the office, leaving Joel standing there, stunned, unable to move.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Joel isn’t sure if the knot in his stomach is anger, guilt, or worse, wanting more.

Seems to me like that was just for you.

It echoes, slowly settling over Joel.

He nearly doubles over when the reality finally hits. His thoughts race, consumed by the thought of you. What did he just do?

…………..

Joel is wracked with guilt and misery for days. Suffering in his own self-imposed torment.

He needs to tell you, but he can’t figure out how. There’s no version of, “Hey baby, you know the guy from the threesome? The one that I threatened to kick out of the house? Well, he showed up to my office, and I may have come down his throat before he disappeared without a trace like a dick-sucking fairy.” that he can come up with that sounds redeemable.

Worse, he still can’t get over the guilt and shame of how it even happened. Seduced by another man? He can’t fathom the reality that another man could turn him on, refuting the way he felt when he watched Javier sink to his knees. And rejecting the truth when his cock stirs at just the memory. Joel is at a complete loss for how to explain it away.

It fucks with his sleep. He jolts awake in the middle of the night, aching and hard and furious that Javier has invaded his dreams. He sits up in bed, dragging his hands over his face. And you stir, always attuned to him.

You’re warm and sleepy, but concern washes over you in the moonlight.

“Can’t sleep?” you murmur, reaching out to pull him towards you. “What do you need?” Always so grounded, so considerate. It twists the guilt inside of him. He tries to erase his self-loathing and reassure you, to ease you back to sleep.

You aren’t quite conscious enough to listen, but when you shuffle beneath the sheets to cuddle up to your man, you gasp when you accidentally brush over his hard cock. Not because it’s a shock to find, but because in your barely lucid state, you’re uninhibited. Earnestly expressing the desire his arousal sparks in you.

“Use me,” you whisper, slow and syrupy. Difficult to deny.

“No, baby, it’s okay. Go back to sleep,” Joel argues softly.

You roll over, muffling a low whine into your pillow, before turning back towards Joel. You can make out his profile in the dim glow of the room. You can feel the resistance, but you give it another shot.

“It’s not okay,” you grumble, and his head jerks towards you, “can’t go back to sleep now, you’ve got me all wet already.”

“Okay,” he gives in like he could ever hold out on you anyway. He pulls back the sheet, exposing your sleep-warmed skin to the cooler air. Running his palm down your spine as you melt face down on the bed. He crawls overtop of you, straddling behind the curve of your ass, before lowering himself, caging you under his body.

The skin contact is overwhelmingly intimate as he presses soft kisses to your neck and shoulders. You settle with ease and whine softly into the dark room as he rubs his cock along your slick folds. He continues, grunting in his own pleasure, as he glides along your seam, soaking in the sensation of you. Wet and needy from his touch. Until your legs are twitching and your whines grow louder, impatient, and sharp until he hears you say his name. When you plead for him to fuck you already.

Then. He adjusts and sinks slowly into you, filling you inch by inch, grinding languidly against your plush body.

You’re soft. Warm and wet. You take him so well, and he knows how to find the angles to make you shake and cry out for him. Now he chases it, needing to please you, to give himself to you. He plunges into you deeply, whispering praise against your skin until you’re shuddering and gasping beneath him. He nearly comes with you, but when the thought of Javier pops up, he falters. He pulls out of you and gently flips you over.

“Sleep,” he commands as he settles between your legs, and you let it take you. Drifting off before you can process that he didn’t finish. Content to dream about Joel’s tongue dipping into your fluttering entrance and his hands spreading your legs wider.

Joel stays between your legs, making your dream a reality. Trying to purify himself by worshipping you. Pouring his sins out between your thighs. Seeking forgiveness through your pleasure until he’s too tired to dream.

He’s convinced this method will work. That eventually, he’ll forget about Javier altogether. But Joel underestimates how deeply the other man has sunk his claws into the back of his mind. It’s unsustainable, and his exhaustion becomes more and more apparent throughout the week.

Despite thinking he’s able to cover up his internal torment, you always seem to know when something is wrong. You don’t push. You’re patient and gentle with him. It adds to his guilt.

You help out in any way you can. Commenting that he seems stressed and tired but never asking for an explanation. You let him stew on his own emotional nightmare in solitude. As he prefers.

For now.

When Joel admits to you on Friday night that he’s behind at work, you simply nod. He doesn’t argue when you offer to bring lunch to him the next day. But he can barely meet your eyes when you smile and trail off about how you know just what will help him get through the day.

You tell him decisively that he deserves to finish up early if he’s going to the office on a Saturday. He can only nod. Determined to spend the morning figuring out how to confess to you. With words.

He’s still in a haze of fatigue the next day. Despite the rest of the office being quiet, his head is loud and buzzing. Likely the reason he’s so taken off guard when the door to his office swings open.

“Working on the weekend?”

Joel’s pulse spikes as the sound of Javier’s voice fills the room, smooth and mischevous.

Anger floods his bloodstream and cuts through the fog of shame that had been clouding his vision. Joel crosses his arms and levels a ruthless glare at the man leaning against the doorframe.

Javier should be the one that looks out of place. Overdressed for the occasion, in the wrong place. But he stands confidently, neatly groomed, and polished. His dark blue collared shirt and fitted jeans highlight his broad shoulders. He looks like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, and his expression says he knows it.

“No,” Joel says gruffly. Unperturbed, Javier sails into the room.

“I don’t have time for this. Get out.” Joel says, his voice low, dangerous. He stands, hips leaning against his desk, prepared to back up his threat. His tolerance is already out the window for Javier.

Javier shrugs, movements so fluid in relation to Joel’s fixed demeanor.

“You didn’t say please.” His smirk is maddening. Joel’s fuse is short. He’s not interested in games. Not interested in having anything to do with his surprise guest at all. But he doesn’t move. Words caught in his throat.

“Besides,” Javier continues breezily, “you aren’t very convincing. I told you last time, I like this look on you, all mad and–”

Joel feels thorns clawing at his throat. Furious that his nerves flutter in response to Javier’s backward flattery. He can’t be thinking straight, that’s all.

In fact, it’s damned near impossible to think when Javier keeps running his mouth, pushing every button he’s got.

“Fuck you,” Joel hisses, vibrating with frustration, cutting off whatever Javier’s next words would have been.

Amused by the interruption, Javier’s smile widens, eyes gleaming. “Mm,” he purrs, stepping closer, “You would like to, wouldn’t you?”

That’s it.

Joel snaps, his hand shoots out, grabbing Javier by the front of his shirt and shoving him roughly against the nearest wall. The loud thud of Javier’s back hitting the drywall echoes in the small office. But the smirk on Javier’s face only deepens.

“Touchy today, aren’t you?” Javier teases, breath coming out in a soft laugh. His body is pinned between the wall and Joel’s, but he doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, he looks pleased with the predicament.

Joel’s breath is coming out hard and fast, fists still gripping the fabric of Javier’s shirt. This is the last person he wants to see right now. He seethes. Pent up and compressed into a dangerous coil.

“You think this is funny?” Joel snarls, his face mere inches from Javier’s.

Javier’s smile softens into something darker, more intimate. “A little,” he admits, leaning in just enough that their noses almost brush. “But, you seem to be taking it pretty seriously.” Javier shifts under Joel’s grip, his hands skirting up Joel’s waist. “You’re so worked up.”

Joel grits his teeth, a ferocious-looking expression that only eggs Javier on.

Dropping to a whisper to demand that Joel listens closely, Javier adds, “Maybe you’re not mad at me at all.”

Before Joel can snap back, Javier shifts, movements effortless and exact.

In an instant, Joel finds himself flipped, his back flat against the wall, slammed with a force that he wasn’t expecting. Javier’s arm presses across Joel’s chest, and his hips press against Joel’s in a way that sends a hot wave of need shooting down Joel’s spine.

“Maybe,” Javier murmurs, lips to Joel’s ear, “you’re just mad at yourself.” Javier rocks his hips into Joel’s, grinding against his body in a slow, deliberate motion. A shudder ripples through Joel’s frame, even as his mind rebels against the thrill. “Denying the truth.” He emphasizes his point, pelvis pressing into Joel’s hardening cock, rolling his hips again. “Denying the pleasure.”

No. Joel holds out. He isn’t going there. Not now, not ever.

But damn, the way Javier has him, the heat of his body against Joel’s. It tugs at the tangled knot of confusion in his chest. The knot that’s close to unraveling.

“Fuck you,” Joel spits again, but it lacks the venom from earlier. His voice is a little shaky, resolve crumbling the longer Javier stays this close.

Javier smiles, his lips brushing against Joel’s jaw. “Say it, Joel.” He’s all-consuming, like a tidal wave crashing over and destroying all of Joel’s hastily constructed defenses. Javier is a relentless force.

“Say it,” Javier demands. “I already know. Knew the first night we met,” he murmurs. “Just need to hear you say it.”

Joel’s heart pounds against his chest, and his mind races. He wants to shove Javier off, wants to do anything other than stand there and feel his body respond to every damn word Javier says. Instead, he can’t seem to do anything. Can’t stop the muscles spasming in his core, or the way his chest heaves under Javier’s arm.

“You can’t, though,” Javier whispers, his voice a dark, teasing rumble. He drops his arm, releasing Joel from his hold. “Such a shame. I wanted to know what you could do with that pretty cock of yours.”

That was the last straw.

Joel grabs Javier by the waist, roughly spinning him around, and shoving him face-first onto the desk.

“You wanna know what I can do with it?” his voice is harsh and wild.

A reckless energy blazes between them. He pushes Javier down, leaning over him, chest pressed into Javier’s back. One hand snakes down Javier’s side, stopping at his hip. The other hand firmly planted on the back of Javier’s neck, pinning him down.

Javier catches his breath. He doesn’t resist. If anything, he leans into it, arching his back, breath coming out in soft pants as Joel’s firm body boxes him in. With their bodies pressed tightly together, Joel’s straining erection isn’t subtle. “That’s more like it,” Javier murmurs, breathless but still smug.

“Shut up,” Joel’s voice is hoarse. He is losing himself in it, the heat, the tension. Javier’s solid, toned body beneath his. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Doesn’t want to feel. He just wants to take control. To push past all the noise in his head.

His body is on fire. Adrenaline, testosterone, and arousal all surge through him. Heightening every sensation, forcing him to be present. Rooted in his physicality.

Gritting his teeth, Joel’s hands grip Javier tighter, a bruising force.

“You’re gonna be good now,” Joel orders, “For me.” His voice is rough dark, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide the anger—or the heat—coursing through him. He can’t deny it right now, not when it burns so intensely.

He shifts his stance behind Javier, grinding his hips forward and feeling how Javier’s body responds. How he invites the contact and braces against the desk. Sweet, thick satisfaction pools at the base of Joel’s spine.

Javier is still mouthing off, taunting Joel. Despite his voice sounding more breathless, it still brims with arrogance. “For you,” Javier repeats Joel’s words. “I thought it was all just for her? Have you changed your mind now?”

Joel doesn’t answer. He’s too far gone. His hands move to the waistband of Javier’s jeans, yanking them down roughly, exposing the curve of his ass. Javier lets out a small gasp but doesn’t protest. In fact, Joel can feel the anticipation humming in Javier’s body, and he’s amused when Javier presses back as if he needs to dare Joel to go further. As if he could stop now.

Curling over Javier’s body, Joel presses his fingers to Javier’s mouth. “Suck.” Javier complies, allowing Joel to slip two fingers past his lips. Javier lets a hum vibrate around Joel’s fingers that causes Joel to roll his hips, grinding his still-clothed erection against Javier.

Losing the war with himself, Joel takes out his resentment on Javier. He hooks his fingers into Javier’s cheek–jerking his head to the side. He glowers at the signs of arousal on Javier’s face. The undignified hunger.

Remnants of disgust curdle in Joel’s gut. “You’re fuckin’ sick,” he accuses in a husky whisper, removing his fingers and straightening, breaking the eye contact that stirred something fierce and hot in his veins.

Accusations aside, Joel continues. He watches, smirking to himself, as Javier tenses at the sudden contact when Joel runs his hand over the curve of his ass. He takes his time. Enjoying his own exploration of Javier’s body. Smooth skin and firm and muscular.

When he slowly pushes a finger inside, Javier’s body tenses at first, but Joel is persistent, working in deeper and stretching him open.

Javier lets out a soft moan, still managing to sound smug even with the sharp gasp that follows. “You act all pissed,” Javier’s whispers, “but you love this.” His voice drips like warm honey with a teasing bite.

Joel grunts, ignoring the taunts, focusing instead on the way Javier’s body relaxes beneath him, allowing him to add another finger. Javier’s breath hitches and he drops his head onto the desk.

“Yeah,” Joel mutters, “you like that.”

His words on encourage Javier to continue, “Know you wanted this,” he breathes, “that you’ve been thinking about it since last time, since the first time.” He continues his murmuring, words spilling over Joel’s desk, “I know because you’ve been in my fuckin’ head since that night.”

“You’ve got an awful smart for someone in your position,” he continues, mindlessly flipping the attitude back at Javier, pointedly ignoring his confession.

A strained chuckle comes from Javier, his body tightening with every twist of Joel’s fingers. “You still think you’re in control here?” he breathes, voice challenging and raw. “You’ve got no idea.”

Joel pulls his fingers out abruptly, letting out a throaty growl as he shoves his jeans down just far enough to free himself. He spits in his hand, slicking himself up with rough, hurried strokes, his mind focused on the sight of Javier bent over his desk, waiting for more, begging for it.

“Let’s see if you can keep running your mouth with my cock inside you,” Joel’s voice is layered with satisfaction. A challenge. He’s firm, gripping Javier’s hips and lining himself up. The room feels still, their ragged breath the only sound filling the air.

He feeds his cock into Javier slowly. The tight heat of Javier’s body draws a guttural noise out of Joel, and he pauses for just a moment, letting the sensation wash over him. Then he pushes in deeper, inch by inch.

Javier lets out a sharp moan, hands balling into fists against the flat top of the desk. “Fuck,” he breathes, and this time there’s no teasing edge, just raw need.

Holding still while they both catch their breath, Joel’s hands dig tightly into Javier’s hips, anchoring the two of them together. He buries himself to the hilt, savoring the overwhelming sensation of heat and friction.

And then he starts to move.

Slowly, at first. Deliberate. He moves with measured control, hips snapping forward, pushing deeper with every stroke. Javier groans beneath him, then manages to mumble something about Joel being desperate, about how much he wanted this, but the words are broken, breathless.

“Yeah?” Joel growls, picking up the pace, his movements growing rougher, harder. “That’s what you think?”

Javier’s body jerks with each powerful thrust, breath coming in short bursts. “I know it,” he rasps, his grip on the desk tightening as Joel relentlessly continues. Slamming into him harder now, control beginning to slip.

“You talk too much,” Joel decides, pounding harshly into Javier, reveling in the sweet clench as his pelvis meets Javier’s ass. He’s entranced by the sensation, the skin-to-skin contact, the heat, sweat, and musk.

Joel feels reckless. Intoxicated with the rush of adrenaline and dopamine. Chasing an escape and taking it out on Javier. He is distantly aware that Javier has stopped with his taunting. The only sound either of them makes are low groans and throaty grunts as he pounds into the man beneath him.

So absorbed with the immorality and the thrill he’s blind to the rest of the world and the rest of the room.

Until the door opens.

Joel freezes, his heart dropping into his stomach.

It’s you.

You shut the door, locking it, before turning back to face both men. Joel’s mind goes blank. His body is still pressed against Javier, his hands still grip his hips, his body flush against his.

For a split second, he thinks he can pull away and cover up the situation somehow, but there is nothing that can explain this away. No excuse. No cover story. His body runs cold, at a loss for words, mouth agape.

Then he sees the look on your face.

You stand still, like a prey animal caught in the line of sight of two apex predators. You can see the fear in Joel’s eyes, and your heart lurches, aching to comfort him. But the rest of the scene has you stopped in your tracks.

Joel sees your eyes widen; your breath is shallow, but there’s no shock. No confusion or hurt. Just a raw, undeniable hunger. You aren’t prey.

You stand, taking in the sight of Joel fucking Javier into his desk, and your lips part in a small, breathless sigh.

Javier turns to take you in, noticing the shift in the room, but he doesn’t pull away either. He is glowing, flashing his teeth with a wicked smile. The locks of hair on his forehead are damp with sweat, and his chest heaves as he remains braced atop the desk across from you.

“Look who’s here to watch. Her own private show.”

Joel swallows hard, still buried deep inside of Javier, his heart races. Adrenaline and arousal tangle together in a haze that leaves him unsure and adrift.

You step further into the room, your gaze never leaving Joel’s as you cross the room. Setting down the lunch you brought, you perch on the edge of the chair that sits in front of the desk.

“Don’t stop,” you encourage.

Joel still looks like he’s forgotten how to blink or breathe.

“The deli had a long line, and I couldn’t get parking,” you trail off a little breathlessly, watching the confusion on your man’s face.

Statuesque and still, Joel is dumbfounded that you’re talking about being late for lunch while he’s balls-deep in the man bent over his desk. Is this real life? He’s been plagued with dreams of Javier for the last two weeks, waking up hard and sweating. But they weren’t like this. None of them were like this.

“Don’t stop,” you repeat, voice dropping, sultry and encouraging. But he’s still locked in a trance.

“Can’t perform for an audience this time?” Javier quips, and Joel can hear the eye roll in his tone.

Joel swallows hard, his mind spinning. He doesn’t know what to make of this. How to handle the fact that you’re here, watching. But with the heat in your eyes and the lack of surprise, you seem so relaxed–no, you’re enjoying this.

That does something to Joel.

Something dangerous.

The invitation in your eyes sets him off.

“She said don’t stop,” Javier continues on, smirking playfully at you, pushing back against Joel.

Slowly, Joel regains feeling in his body. His hold on Javier constricting, his breath steadying, “I won’t.” He starts to move again, indulging in the sensation as he slowly drags his cock almost all of the way out before burying himself deep with a harsh snap of his hips. The motion forces a gravelly moan out of Javier that makes your cheeks hot.

Joel continues, unhurried, fixed on the expression on your face and the depravity of the situation. You have a sparkle in your eye that he’s familiar with. “You knew,” Joel states. You nod in affirmation, a grin spreading on your face.

“I set it up,” you whisper.

Your admission hangs in the air. The sex-filled, debacherously thick air. Joel's remaining hesitance dissipates as it all sinks in. Washing away the fear of being caught or ashamed. He can see the glow on your face, your eyes dark--blown out with lust, wetting your lips as you wait for more. He can ask questions later.

For you.

He tells himself, dismissing the last of the voices in the back of his mind.

You can see the gears turning in Joel’s head before something settles in, and the dark look he gives you makes your body burn up. Joel grunts, and you nearly melt, knees weak at the eroticism. It’s a good thing you’re seated.

Joel slams harder into Javier, giving in to the primal heat driving him forward. Every broken breath from Javier feeds Joel’s growing need. His intensity shoots straight to your core. Your cunt throbs between your legs. You settle back into the chair, savoring the fruits of your labor.

Your eyes trail over both men. It’s better than you could’ve imagined. You only wish you’d been in the room last week. However, getting the details from Javier kept you aching all week, even with Joel’s newly acquired midnight oral fixation.

You feel the hungry look on your face, gaze darkening as you marvel at the lewd scene. You don’t wait for Joel’s approval. Hand dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, slipping over the seam of your pussy, already needy and wet from the debased view of the two gorgeous men.

“Oh, shit,” Javier’s eyes nearly roll back as he watches you, eyes flicking from your hand disappearing beneath your shorts and up to your face.

Your lips part, arousal flooding your body at the dynamic between both men. You watch them in awe, like your very own porn starring your two favorite men. It’s indescribably hot to see you Joel so unraveled, his teeth clenched in a feral snarl as he continues. And to see Javier so blissed out beneath him.

“Show me,” Joel’s plea sends a tingly thrill down your spine. You remove your hand from between your legs to show off the tips of your fingers, glistening from tracing your slick folds. The way both men are glued to your display gives you a different thrill, something powerful and bright that starts in your chest and flows through your body. “Show me everything, baby,” his gruff voice is irrefutable.

You slip the shorts off, spreading your legs wide and parting yourself boldly to give your men their own private show. You trace your fingers from your entrance to your clit, drawing circles and seeking relief from the pulsing need that has you already feeling precariously close to the edge.

Joel’s breath comes in harsh pants now, body slick with sweat. The desk rattles beneath them as he drives into Javier, losing himself in the rhythm, the heat, the friction, and in the sounds Javier makes–those desperate moans, ragged breaths, the way he was trembling beneath Joel, taking it all.

And all the while, Joel’s gaze flicks back to you, watching the way your breath quickens, the way you touch yourself more urgently. Like a live wire had been lit between the three of you, charging the room with an intensity Joel had never felt before.

You’re spread out in front of both of them, a vision he’ll never forget. You freely let out soft whimpers and sweet whines that drive him wild. It all surges through Joel like a fever, threatening to consume him and driving him harder into Javier, who lets out a strangled moan.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you sound frustrated. “You have no idea how fucking hot you are like this–shit.” You watch them with rapt attention, your hand moving quickly between your legs as you touch yourself. Joel can hear the soft, slick sounds of your fingers working and can see the way your body shivers with the same need that builds inside both men.

Your soft moans fill the room, blending with Javier’s broken gasps and Joel’s deep, gruff groans, creating a symphony of debased pleasure.

“Let’s see,” Joel encourages you in a hoarse voice. You can feel all of the need radiating from both men, it’s salacious and empowering. Joel’s gaze stays on you as he pounds into Javier, watching as you arch your back slightly, fingers working faster. Your parted lips and breathless noises make Joel’s pulse pike.

“I’m gonna come,” You can’t stop drawing out deep and bright waves of pleasure as your eyes dance in a flurry between Joel and Javier, taking in every detail. You can vaguely hear Joel’s praise as you work through the sensations. Panting shallowly, you’re fixed back on them as you start to relax.

Joel’s cock throbs inside Javier as he watches you, and for a brief moment, his rhythm falters, overwhelmed by how much it was turning him on to see you like this, to know you were getting off watching him like this.

Having caught on to Joel’s shift in focus, Javier lets out a choppy laugh. His own voice cracks with need. “She likes watching you fuck me,” he says, his words slurred with pleasure. “Look at her,” he begs in earnest.

“Shut up,” Joel grits out.

But Javier only laughs again, his voice still jagged. “Can’t blame her,” he continues, testing Joel’s patience. “Told you already, that sexy angry look you get–”

Joel doesn’t let him finish. He slams forward, thrusting into him deep and hard. Cutting Javier’s words off with a loud, choked moan. “Talk too fuckin’ much,” Joel spits out roughly as he leans over, his chest pressing against Javier’s back.

Joel catches the telltale hitch in Javier’s breath, the sharp, desperate moan that slipped from his lips as his need builds, coiling tight in his gut. He slides a hand over the curve of Javier’s ass, snaking around his hip, tracing over the curls at the base of his cock, and finally wrapping his fingers around his length.

Javier’s entire body jolts, clenching tightly around Joel at the contact. Joel strokes Javier’s cock firmly, matching the rhythm of his own thrusting. He revels in the delicious sensation of Javier tensing beneath him, and his breath catches in his throat.

The display of dominance and ego keeps you enthralled. Skin ablaze as you can barely keep up with the intensity of the two of them. You sink two fingers into your throbbing cunt, aching to feel filled and as wrecked as Javier seems.

Javier’s body clenches tightly around Joel as he watches you come in front of them, for them, but Joel isn’t about to stop. “You,” Joel growls as he pulls Javier’s head back just enough to hear him better. “You’re next.”

“Just–fuck,” Javier groans, hips pushing back to meet every thrust, practically vibrating under Joel, the usual cockiness faltering and replaced with something more intimate. “Don’t stop.”

Grinning through clenched teeth, leaning forward, breath hot against Javier’s ear, Joel’s voice is velvety smooth, “I know.”

“You gonna come for me?” Joel asks, his fist tightening as he jerks Javier’s cock, his other hand holding him steady by the hips.

“Please,” you add, desperate to see them fall apart.

“You–” Javier’s head drops forward, his voice a ragged gasp. He can’t finish the sentence as Joel slams forward, his hand moving faster and harder as he feels Javier’s cock pulsing in his grip.

“Come on,” Joel taunts now, rough and demanding. “Do as you’re told for once, Javier, come for me.”

And with a sharp gasp and cry, Javier’s body tenses, his cock jerking in Joel’s hand as he comes. The sheer intensity of his release is all too much.

Javier slumps forward, panting and spent, Joel’s gaze shoots back to you. The sight of you–the way you are losing yourself in watching them–makes Joel’s entire body light up with a new intensity.

You let out another soft groan, your gaze locked on Joel’s as you touch yourself, your fingers glossy with slick arousal. “Fuck, Joel,” you whisper. “Please.”

His body reacts immediately to the sound of your voice, the sight of you so undone, and he knows he’s close. He can feel the way his cock throbs inside of Javier, the heat of his release building in his gut, tightening with every rough movement. But this. Having you here, watching pushes him to the edge in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Hips stuttering, Joel’s orgasm tears through him. Groaning deep within his chest, his body jerks forward as he comes inside of Javier. His fingers dig so hard into Javier’s hips that he knows he’s going to leave bruises.

Javier shudders beneath him, panting, body spent, but still bracing himself against the desk as Joel rides out the last of his release, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants. He looks at you, and a grin spreads on his face. The wrung-out expression really does it for you.

Your eyes are half-lidded, face hot with arousal, fingers desperately reaching for the sensitive spot inside your cunt that Joel reaches with ease. Both men’s dark eyes rake over your body, spurring you on. Writhing under your own hands and their heady expressions.

“Goddamn,” Javier breathes raggedly, but his tone is laced with admiration as he watches you. It makes you glow. “So pretty like that.” You moan louder, body arching as you ride the edge of your release.

“Such a good girl,” Joel says. “Come for us.”

With a shattered breath, you come–moans filling the room as your core contacts in waves. Until you’re cursing and panting softly. Letting the praise flowing from Joel and Javier wash over you. You giggle softly, acknowledging you feel more cockdrunk than the two of them look despite only watching.

You feel a warmth settling between the three of you.

It makes your limbs feel loose and floaty as you smile lazily, watching both men tuck their softening cocks back into their jeans. You swell with pride. For your own luck, snagging two incredibly gorgeous men. And for successfully executing your plan.

You know there’s more work to do. You catch the awkward pauses and shuffling, but you can only allow your heart to swell as Joel helps you to your feet as if your legs stopped working. A deep-seated contentment unfurls in your chest when his arms wrap around you. And when he releases you, watching as you pull Javier towards you, you remain hopeful.

You’ve got more in mind for your two Texans.

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