Tumpik
believeemeplease · a year ago
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hi hi hi same anon as befor e !! oh my goodness i loved a little unsteady it was so gorgeous !!! hope you have a fab day xxxxxxx
I’m so glad you enjoyed it! I still love a little unsteady (which breaks the general trend of me becoming embarrassed by the things I’ve written somewhere down the line)
Thank you for reading, I’m glad you’re enjoying them!
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believeemeplease · a year ago
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Oh I’ve missed your writing! Welcome back!! I hope there’s more to come! (Not trying to pressure you! Just excited at the prospect!) 💙
This is just so lovely, thank you! <3
Some writing feels more daunting than other writing at the moment (if that isn’t too evasive) but we’ll see what comes! I do so enjoy it when I’m in the swing of things and come May I should have some more free time to focus on my writing projects!
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believeemeplease · a year ago
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hi hi hi oh my days i just read your prompt thing (i think someone reposted it) anyway i loved it so much oh my days brb gon go read your other stuff now it was beaut !!!
I’m so glad you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for sending this - I really didn’t have much faith in that little ficlet but it’s getting such a wonderful response which is such a boost!
I’ll point you in the direction of my ao3 where most of my works reside just in case there was anything there that took your fancy! <3
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believeemeplease · a year ago
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Wait you’re taking prompts?! (Loving the ones you’ve done!) could I request Owen calling George a pet name in front of some of the team? And George possibly being embarrassed? But then he doesn’t really mind because he (not so) secretly likes people knowing that he’s Owen’s?
For @nymeriahale who inspires me not only with their amazing writing, but with every supportive message they send me. I can’t thank you enough <3
i don’t care (when i’m with my baby, yeah)
“What’s with the face?” George asks as Owen slumps down into the chair next to him sighing heavily as he stretches backwards, head tipping.
“Bored,” Owen grunts, turning his head to face George sulkily, “and tired. Want to go home now.”
“You’ve spent the last eight weeks away from home,” George reminds him, if somewhat overdramatically, despite his sympathetic smile. “You can last a few more hours.”
These events are perfunctory – compulsory simply as a means of sealing off the end of a campaign, successful or otherwise, and almost always as dull as they might suggest. Tonight, is no exception.
“Don’t want to,” Owen murmurs petulantly, eyes peering up at George from beneath his lashes with provocative crooning. It half reminds George of the pout Kobe gets when Joe tugs him away from his toys for a nap – and it’s this image that has George laughing, hand barely reaching his mouth in time to perform any kind of intended stifle.
Owen really does pout then, nigh on scowling as he huffs indignantly, loud enough to draw the attention of the newbies on the other side of the table, the ones shying away from the larger groups housing the conversations of more experienced compadres or the frank sparseness of the dancefloor across the room.
George bites his lip, trying fortuitously to stop the now unpreventable giggles as Owen descends into the depths of his tantrum. His arms flail haphazardly as he yanks at the tie around his neck, hard enough to fracture seams, tugging his top two shirt buttons open once the offending item is loose enough.
“Hate these fucking things,” Owen practically growls, slouching his chin onto his hand while the other reaches out to steal George’s drink. Whether it’s the suit or the party Owen is referring to – George can only assume it’s both.
George can see his frustration, notices the wobble in his fingers as he tries to sip steadily. Sympathy sets in then, amusement making way for an empathetic evocation. He knows how burdensome these long fraught campaigns are for Owen, understands the strain of the weight his shoulders carry – the only one who understands in fact. He is the one who sees it every day, is the one who prides himself on being there to ease the load. Now, in a social setting that George can only imagine is equally as harrowing, he can’t let that shoulder faulter.
“Come on,” George decides in an instant, standing abruptly. He snatches the drink back out of Owen’s hand, gulps down the remaining mouthful and in the same brush of the hand that lands the glass down on the table, he takes Owen’s up in his own. “Shall we dance?”
The glimmer of a smile that besets Owen’s downbeat expression is enough of an answer.
George tugs on his hand, leads him through the winding maze of tables that paves the way towards the dancefloor, undeterred by the eyes that seem to follow them. Eyes follow them wherever they go – that’s not about to stop them now.
The beat seems slower than the one that carried their footsteps by the time they reach the outskirts of the small crowd still swaying their way through the tedious night, but it’s upbeat enough to hold a bounce in the tenuous swaying George starts. It takes the barest moment for Owen to follow.
“Better?” George asks, grinning as he dips his shoulder and head, swaying to the side with the movement.
Owen laughs, positively beaming as he mirrors George’s move himself. “So much better.”
They don’t fit in one bit with the shy, half jokey dancing they interrupted - those eyes now only on them - but George doesn’t care one bit. Not when he can see the carefree glint in Owen’s eye, not when all the company in the room is cheering for them as they make complete fools of themselves.
They’re wound up close together as the song finally draws to a close, hips swaying gently in time with the slowing rit of the rhythm. George tightens the wind of his arm around Owen’s neck, can’t help the enamored smile that overtakes him as a final cheer goes up around the room.
“Nice moves, skips!” George hears someone shout as the music lulls to nothing.
“Couldn’t care less, mate!” Owen sings loud enough for everyone to hear, the arm still clutching George’s waist tightening slowly, reassuringly. In a moment he laughs, lowering his head tentatively to the side of George’s head, dropping a kiss their in a fleeting moment of affection. “Just enjoying myself with my baby.”
George flushes, cheeks beating bright in spite of the public display of foolery he’d made of himself just moments ago. A coo sounds around them, but George feels himself falling instinctually deeper into Owen’s embrace.
With Owen there, it doesn’t matter where they are, doesn’t matter who sees or what they think. Simply, he doesn’t care with his baby holding him near.
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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that short you posted 🥺🥺 i’m actually in love with how good your writing is, it’s such an inspiration!!
Thank you! 🥺 I’ve been struggling so much with my writing for - well the past year really, so these kind words mean the absolute world. Thank you so much, kind anon ❤️
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Do you think you could do a short from Owens POV please? Maybe him watching Georgie train, or playing cards in the lounge? Like a character study but through Owens eyes?
in the darkest night (i’ll search through the crowd)
In the heat, most movements are sluggish. The panting of drained and tired teammates sounds well above the clapping collisions of their sweaty bodies, the thud of their boots on sun-hardened ground. From the shade – the still searing shade – Owen watches, dripping with an unearned perspiration, itching to be proving his position.
Still, in his absence, another shines. Owen’s eye catches, on the lithe slide of his body as it dummies, twists to pass after the most perfectly timed delay. His shout is booming, nothing of the timidity he once wore – just the concise sound of leadership. As much as Owen pains to be out there himself, as much as he feels robbed of rights by the precautions of injury, the familiarity of the voice leaves him humbled. If he trusts anyone to lead his team as he would, even within the safe structure of training – it’s George.
The sound of the Lancastrian voice dies away as the ball finds his hands once more. Owen surveys the field, checks every option – he should kick for territory. No soon has he thought it that the ball leaves George’s fingers, dropped elegantly to bounce at the toe of his boot, and it sails marvellously cross field.
Owen feels his jaw clench, legs setting in tandem with George’s as though he could chase the kick himself. Instead he can only watch the set in George’s thigh, the taut outline of muscle glistening in a sheen under the sun, as he descents the line of his own kick. The pound of his feet on the ground, the propulsion of his weight behind him carries him the distance. Speed is something that George is hardly recognised for. Moments like these never fail to leave Owen questioning why.
He doesn’t quite meet the ball himself, beaten with only a couple of metres remaining by Elliot, bibbed as the opposing fall back. Owen’s muscles relax slightly, as though to slow the pace he isn’t running himself, opportunity lost as the ball falls into enemy hand. But George still goes, line and direction set, eyes falling as though locking to a new target. It’s Owen’s heart clenching in his chest this time, his eyes squeezing into the squint of a wince as George fails to falter for a second, body dipping low, arms extending in front of himself.
A low whistle of praise rings out amidst the other onlookers as George swings Elliot to the ground, ball going with him with no other options left. Owen feels him chest unclench as George rolls simply away, hopping neatly to his feet as he scampers back into position, an almighty tackle no skin off his teeth.
The whistle sounds a second later, but Owen hadn’t seen the ensuing offence within the ruck, his eyes too busy tracking George’s figure across the field. He watches as George’s neck tips back in frustration, watches as his mouth forms berating commands to the team he so easily leads.
The sun gleams off the sheen of sweat cooling against his skin, frames the scowl adorned on his face. Owen can’t feel the heat beating against himself, has no attention for the drips at the back of his neck, for now it has a far better focus.
Owen can’t tell what the nagging feeling is as he watches George sidestep his way down to the reaches of the penalty touch. Perhaps it’s just a jealousy that he’s not out there training himself, or a jealousy of the neat, beautiful rugby George portrays. Perhaps he can ignore that he knows it’s so much more than that.
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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George and Kobe🥺
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Levi Davis, ex-Bath and England juniors player, currently of Ealing Trailfinders, has come out as bisexual!
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Freddie Burns taking his rendition of Taylor Swift far too literally at tonight’s match....
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Hey! Just checking in! Hope you are doing ok xx
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Hello!
I am alive! I’ve just been away for a little while to reset. Now just need to catch up with the monumental amount of rugby and fic I’ve missed, and try (and likely fail) to get on with some writing.
Thank you for checking in, it means a lot!
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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This is so important! I always feel in turmoil over commenting on the phenomenal amount of issues in rugby. I never know what to say in regards to the transgender players disputes, or the lack of support for the BLM movement, and the indisputable lack of openly LGBTQ+ players, as it is hard to put into words how you feel towards a sport you’ve loved for as long as you can remember and yet simply cannot support fully for these reasons. However, seeing that these views so often go unchallenged, that people such as James Haskel describe someone such as Billy Vunipola as his “favourite guest” and as “engaging, funny, honest and kind” enbales such backward and oppressive views as those he expresses; it makes me feel an obligation to dispute. Rugby is not and has never been an inclusive sport. As a child I went to the 2003 World Cup final and watched my country win the the most commendable of titles in this sport. For many years I felt nothing but pride for that moment. Now I feel ashamed for what atrocities are allowed to exist in those environments. Many athletes are raised in a world that shows them no consequences for their words and actions - now is the time to change this. I will support no player, no coach, no fan, who believes that views such as these are acceptable in rugby or any other sport. I urge everyone else to pledge the same.
-BIG TW FOR HOMOPHOBIA AND RACISM-
billy vunipola’s interview on the house of rugby podcast—->
https://www.instagram.com/tv/CEFV1jphC_I/?igshid=1wm1omc9liijh
(i didn’t want to include a video just in case, it’s on the link)
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Premiership Rugby Round 13 Black Lives Matter Tributes: 
Bath:
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Bristol Bears:
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Exeter Chiefs:
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Gloucester:
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Harlequins:
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Leicester Tigers: 
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London Irish:
No photo found. (Any info would be appreciated!)
Northampton Saints:
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Sale Sharks:
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Saracens:
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Wasps:
No clear photo; visible in the back of Saints, live footage suggested all kneeling.
Worcester Warriors:
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Your latest two shorts are so good! Thank you for sharing them!!
Thank you ❤️ I’m glad you enjoyed them.
The next one will hopefully be with you very soon!
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Thank you! ‘Before I close my eyes’ is perfect 💚
I’m glad you like it 💙
I have a couple more prompts in my ask box which will hopefully be with you in good time!
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Oh I just love when you write Owen comforting George (especially when he calls him baby) I dont know how many times I’ve reread ‘a little unsteady’ - it’s just so soft ☺️ I could just picture Owen crawling into George’s bed when he knows George is upset or hurt & holding him & telling him how amazing he is until he stops crying/falls asleep (kind of like in ‘another sunrise...’) it’s not really much of a prompt but i hope it helps you out of writers block 💚
This is set after this game where George suffered this nasty cut to his eye.
before i close my eyes (tell me everything’s alright)
It is past midnight when George hears the bustle at the front door. The possible sound of car tires dragging up the gravel on his driveway outside had left him faintly wondering, but behind the closed windows keeping out the January sting he hadn’t quite been certain. From beneath his duvet he listens for the affirmation of keys being dropped, shoes being ridded, footsteps on the stairs. The visit is not a planned one, but George had allowed himself to wonder, had winced when the cameras had passed his way at the end of the game, the blood clear for every viewer to see. And George had known exactly who one viewer would be.
The bedroom door clicks. George doesn’t turn to face it. He doesn’t need to. The thud of a bag dropping to the floor is all he has to hear before he feels the dip in the bed, feels the press of a firm body colliding with his own. A kiss is touched to the back of his neck, eliciting the shiver that had been looming under the oppression of winter chilled fingertips against the warmth of his skin.
“Let me see,” Owen eventually whispers, nose tucking under and head tilting to bury in the taut muscle of George’s shoulder.
George sighs. Relishing in the feel of Owen’s arms holding tight around his middle, relaxing into the chest behind him, he shakes his head. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he tries meekly.
Persistent, though, Owen’s hands flatten to George’s hips and begin to encourage him to turn. Fatigued from the brutality of a one-point-loss mere hours earlier, George has neither the energy nor the passion to resist.
To him, the cut hadn’t felt too bad upon impact. Later, though, with Ben prodding at the wounded, tender flesh in intrigue, George had become more aware of its prevalence. He’d felt the blood while he had been playing, had mustered all resources not asserted into the game to keep the stream from his eye, but looking at the wound in the mirror upon returning him had shocked him as to quite how gory it appeared. Now, at the sound of Owen’s muted gasp, George finally allows his emotional response to whelm.
“Oh baby,” Owen sighs, head dipping forwards until he can press a kiss just above the gash.
“You didn’t have to come,” George diverts, although his voice cracks under the weight of it all, and he contradicts every word by cuddling himself close against Owen’s body, as uncaring of the dried blood flaking onto the sheets and t-shirts as his boyfriend is.
“Yes I did,” Owen murmurs, lips catching around strands of George’s damp hair as he speaks where he buries himself. “My baby is injured, I have to take of him.”
“’s a long drive,” George nuzzles himself against Owen’s pectoral, brings an arm to drape over his hip. Even midwinter their joint heat is stifling. George doesn’t care, absorbs every second.
“Worth it,” Owen promises. “Looked like a tough game,” he broaches tentatively a moment later, caution evident.
“Even tougher loss,” George swallows, blinking away the frustration that begins to boil. If he’s going to have to drag himself through all this on Monday, he may as well do it now; where it’s safe, where he’s loved and comforted and, as much as he can be, content.
“You played so well, though, Georgie, you know you did,” Owen comforts, already predicting the self-deprecation that’s swirling in George’s mind. “You’re carrying that team, and not just as a captain.”
“Missed that clearing kick, though, didn’t I?” George counters, shaking his head in immediate dispute. He can’t allow himself to get complacent, can’t simply overlook a mistake like that.
“And what else?” Owen asks, the answer abundant in George’s silence. “One mistake, Georgie – and a minor one at that – is hardly something to drag yourself over the coals for. In fact, it equals damn near perfect.”
“Wasn’t perfect,” George argues, but he’s feeling weak, tired. And when he’s trying to abhor himself in front of Owen he is never going to win. “The team could have played better, should have played better, and that means I could’ve too.”
“Not always,” Owen’s arms pinch into a tight squeeze at George’s waist, head retreating until his lips can close against George’s forehead once again. The slight catch of them on the graze makes George wince, his body shivering with tension.
“Sorry, sorry,” Owen apologises quickly, holding George ever tighter if that were even possible.
George simply shakes his head, body too worn to voice any verbal acknowledgement. He’s trembling under the stress of exhaustion, his only solace the soft stroke of Owen’s hand at the base of his spine.
“No matter what you say,” Owen whispers, second hand sliding up from beneath George’s side to sink his fingers into his hair, hold his head close to his chest. “You will always be perfect to me.”
The trembles waver just a touch as George feels his breathing begin to settle. Here the mistakes of the game don’t matter, the mistakes of any game don’t matter. Here is safety, here is home.
“I love you, baby,” Owen mumbles, as true as the first time he’d ever uttered those words.
“I love you too,” George promises, held safe and secure until sleep can finally embrace him.  
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believeemeplease · 2 years ago
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Okay I know I’m late to the party but I just read ‘a dream of you and me’ and the lines about Gabe’s crying and Owen saying he wanted them to have babies... imagine the two of them babysitting Gabe or even Kobe years later and joking about how it’s so exhausting that maybe they don’t want kids after all, but neither of them can stop smiling because they both know they want like 100
Okay this is too cute I couldn’t not write this!
dreaming of the day
Owen trudges his way towards the kitchen, scrubbing the unjustified exhaustion from his eyes as he goes. He’d woken up late enough, cursed to an empty bed and the inevitable lethargy that accompanies unintended lie ins. Thank goodness they have the day to themselves.
“Hey,” he hears George’s whisper before he sees him, clues in instantly to the hush of his tone despite his caffeine deprivation.
In front of him, perched on one of the dinning chairs, he’s greeted with the sight of his boyfriend cradling his brother close to his chest. With one arm keeping him in a secure hold and the other tipping a bottle at the shallowest of angles, Owen can’t help but note Gabriel’s contentment, the natural ease with which George holds the position; can’t help the way his face softens into a smile at the sight, a feeling of warmth spreading through his chest.
“Hi,” Owen greets in return. Cautiously, he steps towards the pair, reluctant to burst the delicate bubble of calm that he can’t help but feel like an intruder within, but equally unable to keep himself away. With a gentle caress of Gabriel’s head, Owen leans down to drop a kiss to George’s forehead. “Coffee?”
“Yes please,” George replies, head tipping to gesture towards his already used mug on the table, arms all too occupied.
“Where’s me mam?” Owen asks absently, half wincing as the coffee machine hisses to life.
“She’s at breakfast with some of the other Sarries partners,” George tells him. “I said we could look after Gabe for the morning, so she could have some time for herself.”
Owen groans, his shoulders rolling with the shudder. His mother gossiping with all the partners’ of his teammates - that’s exactly what he doesn’t need.
“Oh what a caring big brother you are,” George laughs lightly, and Owen can’t shake the smile at the sight of his boyfriend’s beam, even if he has picked up on the wrong point. “Come on, Owen. It’ll be good practice for the future when-“ George pauses and Owen sees the flush spreading up from under a t-shirt blatantly stolen from his own wardrobe.
He presses start on the coffee machine, shoving the mugs underneath before sauntering over. Pulling one of the other chairs until it opposes George properly, he sits, makes sure to fix his teasing expression with as much seriousness as he can muster. Leaning forward, careful not to impose on the space of the baby held between them, Owen presses his lips to George’s. It’s fleeting, only momentary, but he pores all the affection he can into that barest of moments.
“It’s a good look on you,” Owen teases, head gesturing as he pulls away, revelling at the way George’s blush quickly spreads up from his collarbones into his cheeks. He reaches out to caress said cheek, and before he can stop himself; “You know I want all of that with you, don’t you?” Owen tells him, heart catching in his throat, overwhelmed by just how much he means every word, “I want everything, my whole future, with you.”
George’s blush turns soft, his mouth turning up where he poises to speak. The shrill cry from between them interrupts him before he can.
George is up out of his seat, rocking and cooing at the child before Owen knows what’s what. He’s had the forgotten bottle thrust into his hands so that George can manoeuvre Gabriel up to his shoulder, patting his back gently as he bounces in place on his heels. Owen sits back, admires the sight, the instinct with which George moves. It’s all he can think before the headache begins to set in as Gabriel’s shrieks persist.
From then it feels as though it’s never ending. George manages to get the baby calmed within minutes, and yet it’s barely half that time before Gabriel is letting his demands be known once more. Owen settles him in front of some CBeebies while George escapes to get dressed. And he himself makes sure to take double his usual time in the shower once he’s palmed Gabriel back off to his boyfriend. By the time his mum makes it back home, Owen is ready to curl up and nap the rest of the day away.
“I’m exhausted,” George presses his face into Owen’s chest as he turns into him. Owen wriggles down into the mattress beneath him, arm winding up around George’s shoulders, tugging him in close. “Babies are hard work.”
“Yeah,” Owen huffs, dropping his head until his nose finds its place, nuzzling the dewiness there from the thick mane of hair still only half dry. “Me too.”
“Maybe all this practice is telling us not to have any of our own,” George huffs around a short laugh, voice muffled and warm with contentment.
Owen feels a smile spreading across his face. Somehow he’s not so sure that will be the case. Still, “Maybe.”
There’s a long silence between them for the over beat of a moment. Owen feels the returning smile curling into his t-shirt, the slow movement of patterns being drawn onto his abdomen. George lifts his head up towards him, eyes shining.
“Owen?” George says, eyes set fixed and serious despite the warmth in his smile. “I want a hundred.”
“Yeah,” Owen feels himself as he positively beams, unable to help himself as he longs into a future he’s only ever seen with George. In that moment he pictures the family he’s always known they so desperately deserve. “Me too.”
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