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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 1 month ago

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the alchemy || Will Lenney

“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me”

part two of THE ALCHEMY. part one here

pairing: will lenney x fem!reader

warnings & tags: friends to lovers. idiots with tension. idiots in denial. slowish burn. will pov. more will, less football. chrismd gossip bestie.

summary: after seeing the public’s reaction to your performance, you see how your fellow teammate takes to social media after the fact. causing the two of you to reach a breaking point.

a/n: hello!!! this is a long one, so grab a drink lads. thank you for your patience, im a first year college student and the last month has been hectic. for any clarity, this is the gap between the two charity matches! there are either one or two more parts after this. It’s vital to the story, so you don’t want to miss :)

wc: SO MANY!!!

Recently, you haven’t been able to sleep. The thrill of the match still shocks you awake, every time there are new photos released or a new video, you are quick to engage. Slowly, videos are released from your other mates, and you eagerly tune in to see what they say.

It’s exciting. The feedback has mainly been positive, yet you still feel the uneasy flip in your stomach every time you see someone has released a video. It's all you can think about. And when you weren't thinking about football, you watched it on telly. You missed playing, the competition, the simple act of being active. It's given you a new surge of motivation, pushing you into creating.

The only downside of it all is that your phone has been buzzing with notifications today, especially. Usually, your phone mutes any notifications from social media, allowing you to not get sucked in all day. Truly, you do your best to ignore it, to ignore the increasing number you see every time you open Twitter, Instagram, or TikTok. But you're only human, and humans are quite curious.

You try not to think anything of it, occupying your time in the studio to film your own video about the charity match. You had B-roll shots, stills, and close-ups of players when you were benched. It was becoming a combination of all the things you adored, your friends, film, and football.

Once you begin to sit down to film a portion of the video, you review the brief script you had written until you feel your right pocket vibrate. Getting up to turn off the camera, you pull out your phone to see who's calling. And to your surprise, it's Chris. You slide open your phone and put it to your ear as you click the camera off.

"Do you need to tell me something?" Chris asks immediately, making your heart drop. You hadn't been hiding anything, spoke to him frequently, and were sure you didn't need to tell him anything.

"What? I don't think so, do I?" You wonder aloud. Chris groans loudly, making your phone speaker crackle in your ears. He doesn’t often text, matter of fact, Chris is a god-awful texter— and an even worse mate to call in a time of need. You could text him and he would go at least a week without responding, usually replying with “Sorry I thought I responded!”

Which makes you wonder, what could be so important that he called you first? Usually, like Simon, it was to help film, otherwise Chris would call to gossip. The boys loved gossiping, or catching up, as they would say.

"I've just seen Will's video," He starts, and you wait for him to continue, but it seems he's doing the same. "Came out a few hours ago.."

You walk in circles in the studio, a hand tapping the side of your thigh out of nerves. You knew Will was uploading his pov of the charity match sometime later in the week, but he didn't tell you exactly when. You'd be lying if you hadn't wondered what would be kept in your shared interactions, what Will said about you, and what Mikey would deliberately choose to keep in. It was a thought that had plagued your mind since Will had taken the GoPro off when you two returned to the hotel.

"Right, and what does that mean?" You huff, choking down the unease in your tone.

"Oh my god, have you seen it? You haven't, have you?" Chris exclaimed, and you could hear the small giggle he tried to stifle. "You two really are clueless, aren't you? It's ridiculous that our other mates are on Hinge actively trying to not be single, and you two do it by choice!" he joked hysterically.

“You’re a dickhead,” you cut in between his laughter, choosing to ignore the blatant comment about yours and Wills' peculiar relationship.

While Chris continues to make himself laugh, the curiosity is now starting to gnaw at you, causing you to stride over to your desk. Without another beat, your monitor is turned on, and you pull out the chair to get comfortable. You attempt to ignore his laughter as you open up YouTube, typing in Will's second channel name.

"Take a gander for me, will you? When you get the chance, of course," Chris says, and you can hear the wide grin on his face. You freeze, like you had just been caught, the mouse hovering over the thumbnail of the video. You look around the room, just to make sure you're alone.

"I suppose," you say slowly, sitting up straighter than before. Chris then goes on to talk about his latest endeavors, awful dates, video ideas, and the next time you two will see each other. Under other circumstances, you'd be happy to chat. But right now, all you wanna do is watch Wills latest video.

"Hey Chris, I gotta get back to filming this video, mate," you fib, leaning back into your chair, "I want it up by next week, and I'm the only one editing it."

"Oh yeah, yeah, I'm just chatting. Let me know when you watch that video, text me," he responds politely.

"If you even get back to me-" and the phone call ends before you can even say goodbye. You furrow your eyebrows at your phone before setting it down on the desk. You mumble the title to yourself,

SIDEMEN CHARITY MATCH (First Person POV) a bit more willne • 271k views • 3 hours ago

It can’t be that bad, is what you’re trying to convince yourself. You've existed on the internet for a long time now, and there isn't anything you can't handle. Clicking on the video, your heart starts hammering in your chest. You let a few minutes roll by, holding your breath, and then you see the moment when you tapped on Will's shoulder.

"I think I'm gonna shit myself," you let out, and Will watches it back with a soft smile and a tender chuckle.

“Awh poor y/n/n, she was really nervous the entire time, I felt so awful once we split up,” he says over the video.

There it is. The common burn on your face, the shiver down your spine, and the drumming of your heart against your chest. You hit the space bar, pausing the video, to cover your face in embarrassment.

Is it silly to be so riled up by a singular sentence? Are you crazy for wanting to analyze every little thing in the video? You seem to take note of everything. You notice the upturn on the corner of his lips, the way he plays with the ring on his pinky that you got for him-- a nervous tick he picked up, the shifting of his eyes down to his lap when he gets bashful. It's driving you crazy.

So, instead, you watch in complete silence for the rest of the video. It keeps you from pausing frames, reading comments, and feeling lightheaded. But you notice how the GoPro often faces where you're standing on the field, how Mikey left in the bits and pieces of you two interacting that could've easily been cut out. The small waves, subtle smiles, the hug you two shared after you had missed the goal. Half the time Will wouldn't say anything, he would just grin, reliving the moment, occasionally making small comments.

"She really is something, isn't she? Many good assists for her first match,"

and

"Look at that darlin' smile,"

Yet you didn't pause, you remained still in your seat, keeping your eyes glued to the screen as if blinking would take it away. Even though you could feel the air leave your lungs when you appeared on screen.

But then you reach the point where Will makes his goal.

You nervously bite your fingers as he celebrates, telling the audience the same thing he told you on the field, how he had never been a striker and always stayed in the back. The GoPro shot is now playing as Wills words fade into the background. The next few moments play, and it's where Will was screaming something intangible to you.

You aggressively turn up the volume all the way, turning on closed captions to be sure. Your mouse hovers over the timestamp, “most replayed,” and that's when you hear it.

"For you! I did it for you!"

It plays once, then you replay it, and then replay it again. You feel crazy. Taking in his every word, every move, was this okay? A moment that felt so raw and personal was now published for thousands to observe.

“For you! For you!” that’s what Will continues to shout at you on the pitch. And Will doesn’t say much about it, because just before was the clip of you saying he owes you a goal. But when you watch the video you feel like you’re back on the field. Chest heaving up and down, you can barely breathe, and there’s Will running at you shouting something you couldn’t make out. His skin sticking to yours as he embraces you, his hands gripping the side of your body with the proudest smile. A smile, that now says, that was for you.

Just like before, you pause the video, hands gliding through your hair. You don't finish the video. Instead, you step away from the computer and fall back onto the couch that you originally were going to film on.

Okay. It was pretty bad. You understand why your mentions have been blowing up all day and why Chris gave you a call. But it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen this before. Earlier on, you’d often get paired with any boy you came into contact with. It never got out of hand, and most of the time, you were able to ignore it, and the others would too.

But this time it was a little different. The next few days roll by and you aren't able to dodge it. The tweets, the teasing from friends, the edits, god the edits. When filming with friends you were always ready for a joke about Will to make an appearance.

And once you upload your video on the charity match, the comments are bombarded with curiosity and flood in quickly.

StarvxsmWillLoverforever Starting to see why will and y/n can't beat the dating allegations.. 349 likes 17 replies

marriottxmorgan Literally!!!

Admittedly, you feel a little crazy for reading the comments to see if others are picking up on what’s happening. You don’t need to rely on the audiences validation on what’s going— but it does make you feel a little more sane.

Despite it all, Will doesn't bring it up to you, nor does he make any insinuation that he knows about it when he comes by your flat one afternoon.

“Are you coming tomorrow night?” Will asks over your shoulder, his breath fanning the tips of your ears. You turn your head away from the show you're watching and lean back to create space. A chill is sent down your spine as the hairs on your arm stand. He leans over the couch, the sun casting shadows to create definition in the muscles on his arms. Your cat, calamari, follows him, weaving between his arms and purring. A fortuitous combination that focused all the things you loved in one home.

“To what? Watch you prats drink and make a fool of yourselves?” you bantered, turning your body fully to face him. "I have somewhere to be the next morning,"

Arthur mentioned how the lads were hitting the pubs over the weekend, but it seemed he failed to mention that you were meant to accompany them. Will shrugs, arms crossing over one another to lean closer to you.

“Chris said you would,” he insisted, and you could see the smile he was trying to hide. You roll your eyes and lean back onto the couch as Will picks up the feline, cradling her in his arms.

“Why does everyone keep saying I’ll do things before talking to me?” you wondered aloud.

“Because you always end up doing them darlin,” Will teases, kissing your pet before settling down in the open space next to you with Calamari in his lap. "I think Arthur owes Chris twenty quid if you go,"

The silence stretches, reminding you that you're playing house again with Will. There’s leftover takeout on the table, his coat lazily hanging off a chair, and the worn out ball you both had been passing around. The breeze that comes from the open window cools the burn on your face and clears the air of any tension. Your eyes sweep the room, before landing back on Will whose attention is on Calamari.

You awe silently, Will has a habit of adoring every pet he comes into contact with. And often, they end up loving him just as much. Without hesitation, you grab your phone, snapping a picture to save for later.

“I guess I don’t have anything else going on,” you say simply, tucking your phone back under your thigh.

“You don’t disappoint,”

Will stays for several more hours after that, watching telly with you, playing with mari, he watches as you write formal emails, and listens to your phone calls with your manager.

Between all this, you posted the photo of Will and Mari. No caption, no music, no tags, just the photo. You hadn’t thought much of it, a simple photo that was cute. Yet, Wills face wasn’t in it, just the wave of of his hair and the ring on his pinky finger— you weren’t trying to hide him. Either way, it didn’t stop your audience from finding out who it was.

So the hours before you were finally going to get some sleep, were left with you refreshing your phone.

“Fucks sake,” you mumble under your breath, before turning off your phone frustratedly for the night and going to bed.

The music is loud, but the chatter is more audible. You hesitate, not wanting to leave the solace of the cool air. Bars made you anxious, so did large crowds of people, and the only anecdote to that right now—was to drink.

You push open the door, immediately being met with loud cheers as older couples watch the game on the multiple TVs that are displayed. You take a second look at the location you were sent, and you seemed to be in the right place.

Slipping around groups, and bumping into couples, you eventually end up slamming into a familiar face.

“Y/N! Thought you weren’t coming for a second there, mate!” Chris steadies you, yelling over Queen playing on the big speakers. Fixing the pieces of hair that got caught in your lipgloss, you give a shy smile.

“I got wrapped up in editing,”

“We’ve got to get you an editor,” Chip chimes in, appearing with the rest of the lot. You roll your eyes in response, eyeing him.

"Yeah, yeah,” you say dismissively, crossing your amrs over one another. “Where’s Sabina?”

"She was knackered and didn't know if you were coming or not! I'll text her, tell her you are thinking of her," he responds politely, pulling out his phone to text his girlfriend. Gaze sweeping the group, you count six men, minus Will, and that’s when reality to hits you—

"This is awful! I'm stuck babysitting you blokes all night, again," you express, the palms of your hands pressing against your eyes.

"Oh we're not all bad," a voice comes from behind you, warmth radiating on your back. And without even turning around, you know it's Will. One of his hands leans against the bar, outstretching infront of you, while the other holds a half empty glass. You crane your neck to look over your shoulder, and Will is looking down at you, head slightly tilted with a small grin.

It's suffocating, his eyes on you, yours on his, and everybody elses on the both of you. It feels more intimate than when Will has fallen asleep in your bed after a quiet evening. This is a public display, both of you slotting together like pieces in a puzzle, your back pressing into his chest accidentally.

"And when you end up singing down the street and getting carried by George later, tell me that," He laughs lightly, breath fanning your face with tequila and mint. He still has the same smile that looked at you, and only you, with adoration.

"Another pint, anyone?” Stephen asks.

“Oi! Shots in celebration!” Cal insists instead.

“We could just do both, really,” you offer, and the rest seem to rally at the suggestion.

"Brilliant idea,"

The lot of you kill more time with conversations about formula 1, filming, football, and more importantly, shots. You could feel the music in your feet, sending shock waves to your racing heart. The pub continued to get more crowded as time went on, allowing you to sneak away to use the bathroom for a moment of silence and peace. The liquor you drank burned your throat and sat heavy in your stomach, while it eased your anxiety and loosened your joints, it was making you impulsive.

There’s surprisingly no line, and your out in no time, fixing your smudged mascara in the foggy mirror. You reach for your purse, only to realize you don't have it, and you also don't have your phone. Quickly, or as quickly as you can handle, you move out of the bathroom and into the crowded hall.

You must've left it at the booth, or maybe outside when you needed fresh air, or maybe by the pool table? You strain your neck, going on your tip toes to sweep the room. Once, twice, and then your eyes fall on Will. He's on his phone, and theres a black bag that hangs on his shoulder.

You feel a sense of relief wash over, but also your heart skip a beat.

“William, I think you have something of mine,” You say loudly, drawing his attention away from his phone, down to you.

“What? This? I have one of these myself,” he says jokingly, sliding the purse off his arm and onto the counter next to you both. He then digs in his pant pocket, fishing out your phone and sliding it next to your purse. Under the awful lights, his hair is shinning and freshly washed, the hair near his ears is short meaning that it was newly cut.

“You look better without those hats,” you observe aloud. Your hand reaches and brushes through his hair, ruffling it, “Have you ever considered a mullet? You’d suit one,”

Will tilts his head, like a puppy, his eyes big and bright— “Noted,” and only now, you notice how the rest of the lads had scattered, and Will was by himself. You look over your shoulder, then reaching on your tiptoes to search for the boys.

“Were you waiting for me?” You observe, even though you meant to only think that. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut.

Will shrugs, trying to hide the small smile that dared to creep on his face.

“Kinda,”

"You can't kinda wait for someone,"

"I was going to wait for you anyway, but then you left your bag near the pool table, gave me a good excuse." Will's gaze swept the room— their friends nearing on the edge of being plastered, singing and talking to strangers. He was searching for something, not someone, but something else.

Grabbing your attention, the bartender slings two pints your way, "For the couple," he winks, making your face burn. You both don’t say anything at first, the atmosphere shifting to try to mold to both of your comforts.

The air had changed, suddenly gotten so dry and tight that it made Will's body stiffen. Ignoring the comment, Will grabs the glass and inspects it before taking a small sip.

“Are you.. seeing what people are saying?” Will asks as you grab the glass left unattended. "About us,"

His voice was low, eyes fixed somewhere just passed your shoulder, like looking at you directly might unravel something you both aren't ready for.

You shift uncomfortably, of course you did. How could you not? Every day since Will posted the video, when Ieuans' photos were released of both of you, last night's post— you’d been getting tagged in edits, clips, everything. The question was big, pointed, and unexpected.

“Yeah, I’ve seen a few things,” you lie, hiding your unease by squeezing the class tighter.

The look on Wills face, you’ve seen it before. When editing software crashes, or when an unplanned event happens during a video, this time it’s a little different. There’s tension in his brows, his jaw isn’t clenched, instead theres doubt, uncertainty, that strains him.

“It’s okay, Will, I swear it doesn’t bother me.” you reassure, “Unless it.. it uh, bothers you, of course—“

“No! No, that isn’t, no, it doesn’t bother me at all,” he sputters earnestly. Will's eyes meet yours—guarded but still steady—before clamping his mouth shut. Holding back on the words dancing on his tongue.

"Okay," You slowly nod, as if you’re still processing it as you’re responding. You should leave it at that, finish your drink and head back towards the group— “Then why did you bring it up?”

What did they put in the liquor tonight?

In all the time you've known Will, he's not a good liar. He’s also not good at hiding what he’s feeling on his face. His tongue presses against the inside of his bottom lip, face twisting to avoid an awkward grin.

“I thought it would make you uncomfortable,” he mutters, his eyes darting down to look at the foam in his glass. You shift, hesitantly moving closer to Will to capture his attention.

“What? No, it’s never made me uncomfortable before. Should it?” You ask, hand grazing his forearm. Which makes Will look at you before he shrugs, quiet and shy, similar to when you first met him.

"I've seen what it's done to other people, it could have a horrible ending,"

“Doesn’t have to,”

“But it could,”

“That stuff doesn't change anything, we're still..." You begin defensively, before the weight of your words slowly starts to settle. "..where we are,”

You chew at the inside of your cheek, the adrenaline bleeding out of your system. You don’t pick up on the shock on Wills face at first, but after a beat of silence you realize the depth of what you just said. Slowly, you swallow the sip from your drink, giving you enough time to possibly save yourself.

But you don’t say anything.

You both stare at each other incredulously.

“Well, where are we, y/n?" Will probes. He can see it now, the look on your face, the shock, the stature of your posture, the mistake it was saying that outloud. You know he’s asking because he already has an answer in his head, but he wants you to reaffirm it. You know Will, and Will knows you, it’s inescapable.

The silence is telling, even amongst the loud chatter in the pub. You’re convinced you two are the only ones not talking. The look on his face says he’s waiting for you to say something else, but you don’t. You swallow and lick the dry cast on your lips, being the first to break eye contact. Breaking the string tying you two together at this moment.

“Y/n, be honest with me—”

“Hello! What are we standing around for? We’re doing karaoke in the back, George has already had one too many as you can tell,” Chris comes over, his hands clasp Wills shoulders from behind. Chris looks at you first, and then glances to Will, noting the two of you saying nothing. Chris quirks an eyebrow, mouthing something along the lines of “Bad time?”

“Stop sitting around and flirting, will ya? At least when George flirts with him, he shares,” Stephen says teasingly, comes up to join you lot. He doesn’t note the tension between the two of you, or he totally does and just doesn't care. Both of which are completely plausible answers.

“Right, I’ll come on over,” You affirm quickly, seeing this as your only out of the hole you dug yourself into. You give one last glance to Will, and his face is twisted. His eyebrows furrow together, and his lips are slightly parted, it’s a look that reads we’re not done.

But you give him a pleading look that says not right now.

…⚽️

Will doesn’t say much for the next two hours. He lingers in the back of the group, occasionally sipping on his drink or checking the time on his phone. And you try your best not to stare, knowing that if you look his way— he’ll already be looking at you. He does eventually join the others for karaoke, obnoxiously singing and joining in on music that is playing while you all walk to the next place.

It’s left a pit in your stomach. Knowing that the next time you and Will are alone, you’ll have to be the rawest form of yourself. The part that you’ve been desperate trying to repress and lock away. You’ve never spoken much about how you really feel, afraid that if you start, you’ll never stop. Your feelings for Will are like an oil spill, a match could be dropped and everything would be caught on fire.

You can feel it, the anxiety, it started at your toes and it’s slowly crept it’s way up your torso. The walls are closing in and time is escaping. All because Will doesn’t speak to you, his fingers tapping the table rhythmically, his leg bouncing up and down causing friction to the table. You needed to talk now, even if it was going to ruin you.

Strategically, you get up from the table with a rather forced smile.

“I think it’s time for me to go home fellas,” you announce just after you all had arrived at a new pub. You had been to three pubs already, downed 4 shots, a tequila soda, a couple pints, and a dirty martini. Your shoes were sticking to the wood floors, phone on the verge of dying, and you were tired of having to hover while using the public restrooms.

“Oh not yet, y/n! The night is still young,” George teasingly pleads, and when he leans over to pull you in for a hug you can smell the liquor on his breath. Your nose wrinkles as you pat his back, giving him a small shove after. Unlike Will, it wasn’t as endearing .

“You are so hammered,” you comment, the interaction making the group laugh.

“You aren’t hammered enough,” Cal counters, leaning over to offer you his drink, to which you decline. His eyes are glossed over, and he has this lopsided grin that reads trouble.

“Take care of him won’t you?” You say, pointing at Stephen who shakes his head in response. Regardless, he grabs Cal, and shakes him.

“You stupid, fuckin idiot,” Stephen mutters to Cal, taking the glass between his hands and smelling it. His nose twitches, yet he still takes a small swig, coughing after the fact.

“Drinkin vodka that tastes and looks like medicine, you’re an odd man,”

“Seriously, I’ve got to get going,” Getting up, you shrug your coat on as you briefly say goodbye to everyone.

“We’ll take care of your husband, don’t worry,” Stephen jokes, forcing Cal to sit down in the process.

“You should really work on taking care of yours,” Chris bites back. You roll your eyes, trying to shrug off the overdone comment.

“No one vomit,”

“Will do miss,”

“Can’t promise anything,”

Telling Arthur to tell Chip you said goodbye, smacking Chris on the head for saying you’d come tonight, and finally, you wave to Will.

He nods at you, lifting his drink as acknowledgment. You pause, giving time for more to happen. You expect Will to join you, you hope he does, because you linger for a moment too long that everyone else notices— but he doesn’t. His body still, leaned back into the chair he sat in. Wills eyes flicker back towards the lads, and he doesn’t take a second glance. He’s letting you walk away.

So you walk away.

And once you’re out of the bar, you convince yourself you’ll hear his footsteps from behind. Ones that are hurried and rushed, maybe he was just taking his time to say his goodbyes. Will never let you leave without him, he always accompanied you, eventually going back to each others flat and falling asleep there. But you glance over your shoulder, once, twice, and before you know it, you’re on the train home. It leaves a hollow feeling in your heart, a cold chill that courses through your bones.

You don't remember the last time you left an event, a hangout, or even a video when Will didn't leave with you. You purposefully left thinking he would follow, but he didn’t, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe you’re reading too much into it, he had a lot to drink and hasn’t been able to get out very much— he was just having a good time!

Looking at your phone, with 5% left, you go to your messages. Waiting for his text seemed desperate, but he always sent you one after a night out, it was normal. Whatever normal means to you both.

With a loud groan, and a frustrated tug on your hair, your phone shuts off and you let it fall onto your lap. No phone, no company, and no alcohol. What a shit way to end the night.

Now you’re left to wonder on the ride home if that was casual, or if you’re an idiot.

Recently, Will hasn't been able to sleep. Ever since he watched you walk out of the pub a few nights ago, he's felt this lingering regret. He hasn’t seen, texted, or called you since that night. And normally, he sends you a text to make sure you got home safe, but he didn’t even do that. Instead he anxiously turned off his phone the rest of the night and has been avoiding the feeling since.

At first, Will thought it best to keep it to himself, until one morning Will gave James a call in the early afternoon.

“Y/n says rubbish all the time, it could mean nothing,” James comments.

“No! You knobhead! She had this, this look and she said it like she regretted it,”

“Or it could mean everything, and you’ve completely screwed up–” James continues to mumble to himself.

“Why don’t you just make me feel worse about the situation, yeah?” Will huffs.

“This is why I didn’t want to give you my honest opinion because I’m not involved in the situation. How am I supposed to know what look she had?” James points out.

“You’ve known her just as long as I have,” Will says quietly, picking up the dishes left on his bedside table and bringing them out into the kitchen.

“What, you want me to write a song about it?”

“James!” Will whines.

“Okay, okay, what else happened?” Will sucks in air through his teeth, trying to recall the rest of the night.

“She left after a couple hours, that’s it,”

“What’s the matter with you?! You let her leave?” James yells over the phone, causing Wills eardrums to pop in response.

“What was I supposed to do? Follow her on the chance that she tells me that it was nothing?” Will argues, setting the dishes into the sink. There’s a silence over the phone before another loud yell,“YES!”

A beat of silence goes by, and then a wave of realization washes over. Will loudly groans, his palm banged against the counter sharply then slaps his forehead.

“..I’m a proper idiot, aren’t I?” Will asks, but mainly to himself. Finding himself leaning against his kitchen counter, pressing his phone to his ear with just his shoulder. He lets out another heavy sigh, using the pads of his fingers to rub circles on his temple and forehead.

“Mate, what do I do?” Will asks defeatedly. James shifts over the phone, drawing his attention back to the phone call. He can hear James footsteps stop, settling down to think about the question.

“Realistically, you talk to y/n. You’ve known her since you were twenty-two, If you don’t talk to her now you’ll be dancing around your feelings until you’re sixty, and by then she’ll have grandkids. You and I both know that this isn’t going away anytime soon,”

“Why are we being nasty?” Will says, a small exhausted smile making its way onto the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not! But I think it's ridiculous that you have any reason to believe that your feelings aren't reciprocated," James explains calmly. His tone was sure, confident, Will doesn’t think he’s ever heard James be so serious before.

"Have you been watching those edits of her and i recently?" Will tries to steer the conversation where it doesn’t put him in a vulnerable spot. Lightening the mood with a small quip, “They’re quite good, I can see how it would get in someone’s head,”

"Maybe. But regardless, I can still see how obvious it is that you two want to be together. Do us all a favor, Will. Make it happen. I don’t know what you're waiting for, really.” James confesses. As much as it was a weight off Wills shoulders, it was a weight off his as well.

So that's what Will does. After the phone call, he writes and deletes, and rewrites the text he's attempting to send you. Before he knows it, the sun is setting and he’s wasted the day away. So, instead, he gives up and heads towards your flat and arrives at seven sharp. No phone call, no text, just him.

With a small knock at your door, and his nerves making his hands twitch, he waits.

Will hears a few meows from inside, and then footsteps, before you slowly open the door.

“Will, hey,” you say softly, your eyes big with surprise. Will cradles a ball between his arms and a black jumper, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Sorry for showing up unannounced, I just..” Will trails off for a moment, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. You observe his nervous nature, and stay still, patient.

“Do you wanna go for a walk, maybe?” he asks carefully, trying to give you space if that’s what you need. You lean against the door frame shrugging,

“It’s cold out,”

“I brought an extra jumper,” he says immediately, and your stature seems to soften. He holds it out for you, an expensive black knitted jumper he always wore in videos. From where you stood, you could smell his cologne, it makes you feel giddy. Even though you were still angry at how he disappeared the last few days.

“Alright, let’s go for a walk then,” you decide finally, knowing that Will wasn’t here for just a walk. He knows you know that, but the look on your face makes him feel a little more hopeful than before.

TAGLIST: @dandelionpixels @ooostarwarsfandom501st @melancholicandmessy @migilini @lyssaluvs @alysbaby @kneelforloki @formulaal @f10pc @i-need-to-be-put-down @blu-cuffie @ellouisa17 @marijas-stuff @pianor481 @flashyourgreeneyesatme @whistlef0rthechoir @edgyficuselastica

a/n: again, ty for all the love and patience. some peoples users i can’t tag but i promise i see u all !!!!

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 1 month ago

Text

Beautiful *chefs kiss*

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟏!

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

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

(I’M SO SORRY IN ADVANCE my little heart needed to have some angst but to make it up to you im extending this series to their lives outside of inside!! it will involve you in george’s stream and videos; insta au, twitter au, etc etc too)

(lowk took my anger about the chelsea v ipswich game out on this so apologies😭)

(also also also !! any requests put in will happen i promise once i finish this series bc im in love with the ideas you’re putting in so it’ll only be a matter of time xx)

wc: 8.3K

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“PK, we’ll start with you. Please make your way down to Room 19.” Vik ordered as you all sat in your previous seats.

You turned to Milli, “This can’t be happening right now…” You whispered, watching her face blank and attention directed to the floor as she chewed on her lip. She feared the worst after being awarded the winner of the talent show, a target placed on her back at the worst time possible.

You reached your hand out to hold hers in comfort as George had his arm slung over your shoulder, leaning into his chest as your knee bounced up and down in nervousness. George pressed a soft kiss against your head, “You’re alright.” He murmured against your temple.

Once you were called over to vote someone to be eliminated, you sighed and stood up from your seat, glancing over at George and Milli one more time, shooting them a sweet smile.

Entering Room 19, you settled yourself down on the comfy sofa and crossed your legs, fiddling with your fingers as you debated your answer. “You guys are such dicks, you know that.” You pointed at the camera for starters.

“I’m going with this person because I feel like their alliance is strong and if you really want to win this game, you have to break them up… as mean as that sounds.” You cringed at your words.

“Also, I’m convinced this person will most likely vote for me so I’ve gotta back my chances of not getting voted out. So with that, I’m voting for Whitney.” You nodded awkwardly at the camera.

The crew inside Room 19 told you it was a good enough answer and requested you return to the living room. In doing so, you trudged back with a sigh and a sick feeling swirling in your stomach.

It was pretty obvious from previous encounters that people in the house were out to get you, so your chances of being voted out in this scenario were quite high, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. You knew you had people who wouldn’t vote for you, but the alliances were stacked against you.

You entered the room and fell back into your previous position, George greeted you with a soft smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but his arms were out for you to settle in.

“All right, guys. I don’t wanna be doing this.” Vik started, his hands clasped in front of him as he rocked on his feet next to Specs. “We had a lot of fun. I genuinely actually really enjoyed hosting that talent show, but the person eliminated from Inside today is…”

Your legs shook in nervousness and Milli’s head leant itself in your shoulder, neither of you feeling safe in this case. George’s hand intertwined with yours and stared at your side profile, you looking forward with your eyes trained on Vik, mentally begging him not to call your name out.

“Y/N.” Vik announced.

A couple people gasped and Milli’s jaw dropped next to you, her face painted with guilt and sorrow. George’s hand squeezed yours and you felt his tense up next to you, his eyes closed shut and lip caught between his teeth. You could hear him muttering beside you, “No, no, no.” His cheeks were flushed and he ran his hands through his hair as the consequence of his actions crept up on him.

“And Milli.” Vik announced.

Everyone’s head snapped towards the two who stood up, jaws dropping as Milli’s face paled. “What?” Her voice shook.

“Only one of you will be eliminated.” You threw your head in your hands as you felt the overwhelming pressure and sickening feeling settle in your stomach. Milli shook her head, “No. I’m not…” She peered over at you. “I’ll go.” She gripped your hand.

“Unfortunately, Milli. You can’t decide that… a game of rock-paper-scissors will decide your fate.” Vik reluctantly said, looking at the pair of you distraught on the sofa.

“Fuck.” You heard George curse next to you, his grip not loosening as you sat up and faced your new best friend in here, realising that in this moment, you could lose one of the people you were closest to in here.

You swallowed and looked at Milli who shook her head with a frown etched across her face. You both shared a look of agreement, that neither of you would be mad at the other if you were to go, and that the first thing you would do as soon as you leave this place is contact each other (and tell the other all the gossip they missed, but that was irrelevant right now).

Both of you held your fists out and counted to three, before you held out a scissor motion with your hand. Your heart dropped as you looked down at Milli’s which was held out in a paper motion.

George leaned for the handle, “Stay out!” He laughed as he shut the door. As everyone made their way back into the living room, you peered into the glass window of the door and gave Milli one final wave goodbye, her reciprocating it and blowing you a kiss as the elevator doors closed on her.

As you walked back to the group, Cinna slung an arm around your shoulder, “You alright?” You looked at her and nodded slowly, “I will be.” She smiled at you.

“We’re so doing streams together once we’re out of here.” She nudged you with a wide grin on her face. You matched her expression, “Fuck yeah we are.” Cinna clapped and skipped back to the living room, pulling you behind her as your laughter could be heard around the house.

time skip!

You and George sat on the sofa with your feast settled on the cushions next to the pair of you, your back against his chest and his fingers rubbing circles into your skin that was snuck underneath the hem of your shirt.

You felt and heard him laugh behind you, his chest vibrating against you. Tilting your head back, you smiled at him, “What are you laughing at?” You poked at him.

George shook his head, “Nothing.” He shrugged. Not accepting that as a good enough answer, you sat up and turned to face him. “Well, obviously it’s something.” You shuffled towards him.

You watched him sigh and he intertwined his hand with yours. “It’s just funny…” He started but his voice trailed off. “What is?” You asked.

“Us.” He licked his lips. He took your furrowed brows as a sign to carry on, “It’s just ridiculous how we’ve been friends for ages and all it took was us being forced to live together for 5 days that I grew the balls to actually kiss you.”

Your cheeks grew red as you laughed at him, “If that’s how you wanna put it.” You shoved him in the shoulder lightly with your free hand. “It’s true though!” He defended his statement.

Your laughter quietened down and you stared at each other for a moment, “I can’t wait til we get out of here.” He whispered and edged closer to you. You leaned into him slightly, “Why’s that?” A smile crept up on your face.

“Because then we can act like a couple without cameras watching everything we do.” George said as his fingers toyed with yours. You raised a brow, “A couple?” He nodded with a soft smile etched on his face, “I’ll make it offical once we get outta here, don’t you worry about that, darling.” He ran a hand through his hand and grinned as your cheeks grew a shade of red.

“And I can do this without anyone interrupting us.” He leaned in and pressed his lips against yours, a hand finding its way to hold the back of your head and bring your face closer to his.

You smiled into the kiss and rested your hands on his chest, the fabric of his shirt bunched in your fist slightly as George deepened the kiss.

His other hand left yours and settled on your hip, squeezing it lightly as the sweet kiss continued.

George leaned into you which made you push him back with a laugh, “Not in the feast!” He looked around and saw the pizza resting on the cushion and nodded in acceptance.

You were lucky that George had pulled away from the kiss as Cinna walked into the room, the remaining Insiders trailing behind her as she waved everyone in, “Attention! Everyone!” She shouted, holding an envelope.

You and George got up and stood around the table with everyone else, “It says, ‘Congratulations Cinna. You’ve successfully completed your mission. You may reveal your mission to the group.’” Cinna read out loud.

“Guys, holy fuck! Today has been shitty.” Cinna flung her head back. You looked to your side to see George munching away on the pizza, barely recognising that Cinna was announcing something. You slapped his bicep with the back of your hand and nodded for him to listen in on Cinna; him responding with a grumbled confusion with his mouth full of food. You shook your head and balanced on your tip-toes to mutter to him, “Just listen and stop making out with the food.”

George coughed a laugh and covered his mouth as it was still stuffed. He swallowed and nudged his foot with yours, “Jealous, babe?”

You furrowed your brows, “Babe?” Your eyes crinkled as you chuckled, “That’s a new one.” You teased the nickname.

George just shrugged his shoulders, “Just trying something out.” Cinna sighed with exaggeration, “Lovebirds! Listen in!”

“Anyways, we have a challenge, and the challenge was on me the entire day.” Cinna started. “The challenge was for me to lie and say that I was a traitor for the Sidemen in order to convince all of you that you had to do something, or that you had to keep that secret. You could not tell the other person. Y/N, I’m surprised you didn’t tell George if I’m honest!” She pointed at you from across the table.

You smile sheepishly, “I nearly did,” You gestured with your fingers, “If you hadn’t said today, George would have known by the time we were in bed.” George raised his brows and slung an arm around your shoulder.

Cinna faked a gasp, “You were gonna rat me out to your boyfriend?” George only clicked his fingers, “Fuck yeah she was.” He stuck his tongue out at the American across the table as you waved your hands for Cinna to continue.

“And all day, I’ve been working on this shit so we can save money, and you guys spent £50K on this fucking feast so…” She trailed off. You looked up at George who slowly put the piece of pizza down, “Your greed sickens me.” You whispered to him.

George ignored you and clapped his hands together for Cinna and cheered, everyone else following suit.

time skip!

You and George were led in bed, his arm draped around you as you were fast asleep on your back. George was sitting upright slightly talking to Cinna, you being completely unaware of the conversation going on.

“I’m fully fucking regretting my decision.” George admitted and ran a hand through his hair. “As soon as I… I mean, I regretted it as soon as I came around the corner.” George made an effort not to move so much, not willing to risk you waking up and listening in.

Cinna nodded, “Yeah, I got scared that they were gonna go over who voted for who. And if it was you and you didn’t get voted out, it means that’s why Milli went home.”

George inhaled sharply, “Yeah…” Cinna continued, “Which is what it could have been. I was like, ‘Holy fuck.’”

“That’s why I kept second guessing everything.” George mumbled, his eyes drifting to you asleep in his arms.

Cinna nodded towards your frame, “Are you gonna tell her that you’re feeling like this?” George shook his head, “No, Cinna. I fucked up today.”

The American tilted her head, “What do you mean?” George stared at you, your relaxed features and hair sprawled out on the pillow, looking beautiful in the shirt that belonged to him.

He sighed and closed his eyes, “No… it’s nothing. Tomorrow is gonna be a whole different day.”

time skip!

“Rise and shine!” JJ’s voice echoed around the bedroom, causing you to groan and bury your head into George’s bare shoulder.

Your hands drifted to his back and lightly scratched the skin, “God, I’m never going to get used to that.” You complained about the shrill voice of your dear friend, feeling the urge to shout at him once you leave this house for waking you up in the most painful ways possible.

George sighed as you scratched his skin, “Don’t think the late night helped us, Y/N.” You felt him smirk against your temple.

You flicked his arm and sat up with the duvet pulled against your chest, “We are not talking about that on television, George.” You mocked him saying your name just as he had done before.

George looked at you as he rolled to lay on his back, “Didn’t object when the shower was cold though--” “George!” You gasped, ushering him to quieten his voice down in the room full of people; not wishing for them to hear the

late night rendezvous you got up to with George.

He laughed at you and reached for his cap that sat on the floor, placing the item backwards on your head. George patted the hat that sat on top of your bed hair, “Getting all shy the morning after?” He teased you.

You rolled your eyes and flicked the cap off your head, placing it on George, “You should wear this more often,” You stared at his rugged handsomeness as his mullet poked out the back of the cap, “It suits you.”

George smirked and ran a hand through the hair that was poking out, “Got a crush on me, Y/N?” He laughed. You only sighed and tried to suppress a smile, muttering that you needed to get ready for the day as you left the bed and strolled to the girls sitting at the table.

time skip!

You were led on the sofa, legs propped up on Cinna’s lap as you were curled into the corner of the sofa. You were in a deep chat with Cinna, discussing the night before and what’s left to come, muttering how you missed Milli. “She’s so gonna make fun of me once she sees what I’ve been doing without her.” You laughed.

Cinna smiled at you, “I can’t wait for the edits to appear on my for you page, especially the ship ones!” She winked at George who was sitting next to you but engaged in a different conversation. You grinned, “There better be ones of me to Taylor Swift songs.”

“Don’t worry, Chris will be on that.” George poked in the conversation, mentioning how his blonde friend back at home was a fan of the artist, hence why you and him went to the Eras Tour together.

Everyone in the room groaned as Tobi rounded the corner, “Hi, Insiders. How are we feeling?” He waved at all of you. You all murmured in response.

“Nervous?” Tobi tilted his head, “Do you guys know how to feel when you see me?” Shaking your head, Tobi smiled at you and continued.

“Insiders, one by one… you’ll be sent down to Room 19, where you will receive further instructions. While you are in this room, there must be zero communication amongst yourselves. If I see anyone break that, £20,000 will instantly be deducted from the prize fund. The first Insider to go down to Room 19 will be Mr. PK Humble.” Tobi said.

The room was suffocated with silence, dread swarming in the pit of your stomach, mentally praying it wouldn’t be the same situation as yesterday; you couldn’t go through all that again.

Once your name was called, you trugged over to Room 19 and sat in the familiar seat, stomach twisting with nerves. You were told the rules, vote for someone you want to eliminate and vote for someone you wish to gain immunity, but they were at risk of elimination.

You groaned, “Oh God, this is tough…” You bit your lip and shook your head, “I would vote George for immunity but I can’t take that risk, I can’t have him up for elimination.” You confessed to the cameras.

Your fingers wound together, “This is gonna sound so horrible.” You tilted your head back to hide the expression your face read, “But I’m going to vote for Whitney again. I’m convinced she doesn’t like me so I’ve gotta protect myself… I don’t know!” You gestured and laughed with nerves.

“And the other person I want to vote for is Mya.” You nodded, “Because I like to think she doesn’t hate me and we’ve bonded since the start, so I would like her to get immunity… and no one else will vote for her so I know she’ll be safe!” You smiled at the camera, pleased with your answer.

As you entered the living room once more, George winked at you as you walked back to your seat. Tobi pointed a finger at you, “Hey! No communicating!” Your eyes widened and looked between him and George, “We didn’t say anything!” You protested.

Tobi squinted his eyes and flickered his gaze between you two, “Fine… consider this a formal warning.” You sighed gratefully and fell back into your seat, legs placed back on Cinna’s lap.

“Insiders, you were each asked to vote for two people. I can now confirm that the most votes were received by… George.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach and your head snapped to face him, seeing him nod slowly in acceptance. You shook your head and your brows furrowed to try and hold back tears, the realisation that it was all over for you and George hitting you so suddenly, “I’m not--”

“And Farah.” Tobi finished.

You swallowed and your heart sank further as you remembered what you had to do yesterday against your best friend. “Meaning you’ve put us in that position again.” Tobi looked down.

George sighed and slowly inched his hand into yours underneath the cushion, fingers intertwining and squeezing your hand, worried he’ll have to let go soon. “Fuck.” He muttered.

“As we learnt yesterday, the person going home will be decided by a game of rock-paper-scissors.” Tobi repeated.

George glanced over at you, seeing you were already looking at him with a solem facial expression. He tilted his head and bit his lip to stop a frown sneaking its way on his face, “Y/N, please don’t.” He mumbled seeing your eyes flood with tears threatening to spill, hand cupping your face, “Don’t worry about me.” You shook your head, not trusting your words.

George leaned in and pressed a kiss to the side of your head as he was asked to stand up at the front, looking over at you one more time, “I’m fine.” He mouthed, but you could read his disappointed face he was trying to hide from everyone else, but you knew him too well.

You breathed out heavily, head resting on Cinna’s shoulder and she slung a comforting arm around your shoulder. Everyone stared as George and Farah nodded at each other, hands held out ready to play.

As soon as Tobi said, “Shoot.” Your eyes were trained on George’s hand, watching it form a fist; quickly switching over to see Farah’s in the form of scissors. You sighed and tilted your head back, listening to everyone else gasp in the room.

“Farah, you have been eliminated.” George immediately pulled her into a hug, obviously feeling at fault for her elimination, similar to how you felt the night before.

You walked over to Farah first, embracing her and flattening out the hair that had tangled on the back of her head, “I’m gonna miss you.” You reassured her, Farah’s smile filled with tears the only response she gave you, too overwhelmed to formulate a proper response, one in which you respected.

Watching Farah leave the room with everyone else, you looked behind you and saw George standing awkwardly to the side with his hands bunched in his jogger pockets.

You swallowed, “Don’t scare me like that.” You told him, breathing out as you felt tears well in your eyes as everything became all too overstimulating at the moment. Within less than 12 hours, you and George were one vote away from your bags void of this room and bed’s empty as if you were never even there.

George wrapped his arms around your waist, swaying the pair of you back and forth. You were still shaken about how you and George had nearly been sent home, and the fact that you had lost some of the people you were closest with in this house.

George’s hand stroked the back of your head, “That was fucking awful.” You mumbled tearfully into his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat to calm yourself down. “It’s alright, it’s alright.” He whispered into your hair, repeatedly pressing kisses on your forehead to sooth you.

You pulled yourself back from his chest, still leaning against him as you tilted your head up to look at him. “Who did you vote for? Both times.” You whispered, hand fiddling with his top as he stroked loose hairs back from your face, wanting to capture your beauty more.

George held your face in his hand, pausing before saying, “Whitney.” You nodded and tried to hold back your tears for the second wave. Your lips trembled as your voice broke, “Me too.”

George pressed his forehead against yours, “If you leave, I’ll leave too.”

Tears started running down your face again, George tugged you into his arms more securely. “I’m so sorry.” He mumbled into your hair.

You chose to ignore his apology, seeing as it wasn’t relevant, it was never his fault you two were both forced into these situations. You only pulled him into the hug tighter, his reassuring words going deaf to your ears; just one more day and you’ll be leaving this house, with or without the money, but definitely with George.

time skip!

“Foam dart blaster! We could all get Nerf guns and have a Nerf gunfight!” George exclaimed, joy written all over his face as he shook your shoulders from behind, reading out the items from the shop.

You gasped as you read the list, matching George’s excitement. “We could team up!” You twisted to face him, raising both your hands to high five him. He grabbed your hands and jumped up and down with you, both of you squealing like kids.

DDG confirmed one dart blaster to double check what they were like and when the item emerged from the shop, everyone gasped and tried to reach for it. “Oh my God!” George’s grin grew wider. DDG pointed at George, “Get five more.”

Cinna counted out the rest of the people as George stood up to the camera, “I’d like to confirm seven dart blasters.” He smiled at the camera.

The door opened to reveal all the dart blasters, everyone reaching for one. “Look at the state of these things!” George gasped and dragged you over, holding your hand. “Damn! Fuck dinner. Let’s go eat this.” He admired the blasters, passing one to you.

You turned to Cinna, “He’s actually gonna pick a dart blaster over me.” Shaking your head and pointing at George as he cradled the weapons. He nodded at you with raised brows, “You’ve been replaced, I’m sharing the bed with these tonight.”

Cinna laughed at your blank facial expression, you looking at the camera to check if you had heard George correctly.

After some time, you sat at the table with Mya, chatting about life and what you’re going to do with the money if you win it. Your conversation was interrupted as George tapped you on the shoulder, “Come with me.” He winked, your eyes glancing down at the gun slung over his shoulder.

You grabbed yours off the table and rounded the corner to see Cinna and PK led on the floor as if they had been shot, “Say hello to my little friend!” George reenacted and started shooting at the pair, you laughed and joined in, aiming for Cinna who didn’t realise there were two of you.

“What the fuck!” Cinna gasped and sat up, picking up her gun and aiming for you, getting a good few shots in. PK rolled around on the floor, you unable to hold your laughter in when George started yelling.

Cinna managed to aim perfectly and hit you straight in the head, “Oh! Headshot!” She yelled out in excitement and cheered. You pretended to fall back and slide down the wall, playing the part as if you died, yet George hadn’t noticed and continued shooting.

You kicked George’s shin, “George! I’m literally dead!” Cinna burst out laughing. “What?” George yelled back but didn’t spare you a glance, still shooting PK.

“George, I shot your girlfriend!” Cinna pointed at your body on the floor. George furrowed his brows and looked down at you. He dropped his gun and dramatically yelled, “No!” He knelt down to reach your level.

He was about to perform a full monologue mourning your death, but you couldn’t hold in your laughter and you leaned forward to rest your head on George’s shoulder.

You nodded towards his gun behind him, “You went fully sexy Nathan Drake then.” You winked at him and he laughed as your niche reference. “Only you would say that.” He shook his head and offered his hands out to help you up off the floor, which you accepted.

time skip!

“Let’s recreate scenes!” PK had suggested, prompting all of you to reenact the moment Mandi was eliminated. “Where were we all?” You asked, looking around the room.

PK pointed at Cinna, “You and me, we’ll pretend to be Y/N and George!” The American hopped off her spot on the beanbag and layed out on the sofa. PK sat next to her and held her hands, shifting shoulder to shoulder with her. “We’re not gonna recreate it all because that wouldn’t be Netflix appropriate.” PK smirked, staring straight at the camera in the corner of the room with a suggestive eyebrow raise.

Your mouth dropped open, “We are not like that!” You said as you watched PK and Cinna pretend to lean in for a kiss before staring straight at each other. Cinna whipped her head around to you, “Yeah! You’re worse!” PK threw his head back laughing.

Jason began the scene until he was interrupted with the TV behind him going off; ‘Please head to the Challenge Arena.’ It read.

Everyone exclaimed while some (Jason and PK) cheered. The group walked down to the Arena, the door opening to reveal a screen and a seat next to it, the screen reading ‘Spill The Tea.’

“I’m cooked.” PK laughed. George wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you close, pressing a soft kiss against the side of your head and dragging you down onto the seat next to him, squished between him and Mya, his hand settling on your thigh as Ethan and Tobi stood proud before you.

“It’s time to spill the tea.” Ethan smiled, barely able to contain his excitement for the drama about to ensue. “Let’s see what you guys really think about each other. Each one of you will be called to the hot seat, and you’ll be questioned on something someone said or done, and it’s your job to get the correct answer.”

After a couple rounds, it was PK’s turn to be in the spotlight. Tobi read off the cue cards, “Which Insider was told, ‘After our kiss last night, I haven’t stopped thinking about you.’”

You closed your eyes in silent horror, hearing the group of people around you all gasp and look between each other. PK’s mouth dropped open, “What have I missed?” He laughed and rocked on his chair.

You and George subtly looked over at each other, trying to hide the grin and pink cheeks that were growing on both of your faces. “Who’s kissing who?” Pk mumbled to himself; George’s hand on your thigh tensed and squeezed it slightly as his attention remained on the man in front of you all.

PK squinted his eyes and pointed at you and George, “Somethings telling me it’s you two…” You held a straight face as Tobi’s stare watched to see if you communicated the answer in any way to PK.

PK smirked as he saw George’s hand comfortably on your thigh, “Yeah, I’m going with the two lovebirds over there.”

Ethan nodded and urged everyone to look at the screen, “Let’s find out.”

The screen turned on to show you and George sat at the vanity in the bedrooms, staring into each other's eyes. The room gasped and bellowed in laughter and screams as the intimate moment between you and George was exposed, causing you to hide your face in his neck, hearing his airy chuckles as he watched on.

“And after our kiss last night,” Your cheek burned under his touch. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Everything about you, Y/N.” He whispered, heart sinking at your silence, “Please say something.” He pleaded.

Instead of saying anything, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his harshly. He grunted in shock and quickly settled into the kiss, hand rounding to the back of your head and tangling in your hair, pushing your face closer to his. George tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. You sighed at the contact and wound your hand through his mullet, finding yourself leaning forward to practically sit on his lap.

George noticed this and placed his hands on the backs of your thighs, hoisting you onto his lap, catching you by surprise. You yelped into the kiss which caused him to part from you for a moment, “You drive me insane, Y/N.” Your hands cupped his cheeks and you could feel his jaw moving from the intensity he was kissing you with, heat flowing through your body.

“Well, PK. You got both answers spot on!” Tobi clapped.

PK tore his eyes away from the screen with his jaw slack, “George, you horny bastard!” He yelled, pointed at the man who blinked in shock. You covered your mouth to suppress your laughter as everyone, including Tobi and Ethan, slammed the table near them in screeches of laughter.

It was then your turn to be in the hot seat, “Y/N, please join us at the front.” Ethan called your name, he avoided eye contact with you, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach as he held the cue card to reveal your question.

“Oh no…” You pulled an awkward smile, standing up from your seat and letting George’s hand that was resting on your thigh fall off. As you walked away, you heard him mutter a soft, “Good luck.” You winked back at him.

You sat down onto the stool, adjusting your hoodie as you felt your nerves perk up. Looking over at Ethan, he cleared his throat and looked at you with a guilty facial expression. “Y/N. An Insider has lied to you.”

Your eyebrows raised as the people sat down opposite you dropped their mouths open, Cinna looking between them all and mumbling a “What?”

You were shocked to say the least, “Oh…” You laughed awkwardly and fiddled with the hem of your hoodie as Ethan continued. “An Insider has previously lied to you about who they voted for. Please may you name who you think this Insider is.” He declared.

You licked your lips, peering over at the group and seeing their stoic facial expressions. You were confused, you assumed everyone had been truthful to you about their voting habits in the past, now second guessing everything anyones said to you beforehand.

Scratching your jawline, you wince and let your eyes trail everyones body language to see if anyone was subtly giving you a hint, despite it not being a part of the game. “Oh, God…” You bit your lip.

Cinna held a calm facial expression, you had already crossed her off your list as she confirmed to you a couple days ago that she wouldn’t and has never lied to you within this house. Mya looked downwards, actively avoiding eye-contact with you as she picked at her nails. George’s leg was bouncing up and down, his elbows leaning on his knees as his hand rubbed against his chin; he stared directly at you with pleading eyes, taking keen notice of how his face looked paler than usual.

When you weren’t looking, George shook his head and made eye-contact with Ethan and Tobi on the side, both of them looking back at him with a subtle frown and a dreadful feeling looming over them.

You took a deep breath, “I’m gonna go with PK,” You pointed at him, “Only because I’m going off the assumption that they’re tricking me and the lying took place in one of the early days.” PK nodded at you with an understanding smile. “And me and PK weren’t close by then, so he might have lied to keep himself safe and in the game.” You reasoned.

Tobi nodded, “So your final answer is PK?” You deliberated for a moment, cringing and finalising, “Yes. I’m locking in PK.”

Tobi breathed out heavily and screwed his eyes shut, then pointed at the screen behind you. “Let’s see if you were right.”

You swiveled yourself around on the stood, “Fuck.” You bit your lip and tried to play off this whole event with a forced smile, your heart pounding out of your chest.

The TV flicked on and showed the image of you and George stood in an embrace after Farah’s elimination.

Your eyes widened and you snapped your head around to face George, confused by this entire thing and allowing yourself to give him the benefit of the doubt at the moment when the video wasn’t finished.

George held your face in his hand, pausing before saying, “Whitney.” You nodded and tried to hold back your tears for the second wave. Your lips trembled as your voice broke, “Me too.”

George pressed his forehead against yours, “If you leave, I’ll leave too.”

Tears started running down your face again, George tugged you into his arms more securely. “I’m so sorry.” He mumbled into your hair.

The TV paused for a moment, allowing you to turn back to George who stared at the floor. Your brows were furrowed alongside everyone else's. You shook your head, “Wait, so who the fuck did you vote for?”

Ethan sighed, “Y/N, please may you turn your attention back to the screen.”

You obliged, swallowing a sick feeling bubbling in your throat as you heard George behind you protesting, “No, no. Let’s not--” “Y/N, watch the video.” Tobi stated.

Your palms were sweating and your head hurt as you watched the TV flick back on. A picture of George sat in Room 19.

George sighed, crossing his legs on the sofa as he held the cards in his hands, looking through the familiar faces before picking one out. He held the back of the card to the camera as he began to explain his voting.

“This is an extremely tough decision to make,” He said, fumbling with the corners of the card. “I like everyone in the house now, we’ve all warmed up to each other and I’ve already made memories to last a lifetime.”

George licked his lips and shook his head, “But I feel like I’ve been playing it safe this entire time and it’s clear that in doing so, people have seen me as a target to vote out.”

“I can’t have people in here thinking I’m playing a game, we’re all here for the same reason and would go to certain lengths to get it.” He rubbed his face with his hands, groaning into them. Then leaning back and resting both of his arms on the back of the sofa.

“I’ve decided to vote for this person because I’m completely convinced that they’ll be safe, so technically my vote doesn’t count for anything.” He started his reasoning.

“But in doing so, I’m also proving a point with my vote. It’ll probably shake up the house for all the wrong reasons but… I guess that’s part of the reason why I’m doing it.” He laughed and threw his head back, running his fingers through his hair before picking up the card again.

“So, with that. I’ve decided to vote for…” He flipped the card around to show the camera.

“Y/N.”

The video ended as everyone around you gasped.

You fell still, heart pounding as you felt it sink deeper in your stomach. You shook your head with your tongue wedged between your teeth, biting down hard as you tried to stop the tears from falling from your water coated eyes. Your hands were shaking as you itched your neck, feeling a flush of embarrassment running through your body.

You refused to turn around, you couldn’t bear to see anyone, especially George, with you crying over the person you were the closest with to betray you.

Fuck, you had literally kissed yesterday. You literally fucking slept with him. And he wants you out; what happened to ‘if you leave, I leave’ bullshit? Was he always lying? Did this entire ‘relationship’ mean anything to him? Or did he just want to win and saw you as an easy route to the final?

“Y/N, I am so sorr--” George started. “Don’t.” Your voice trembled, holding back tears. You wanted to get out of this room right now, the feeling was suffocating you.

You looked over at the void where you previously sat, feeling sick that you had to sit next to him again. Shaking your head, you walked to the opposite end of the bench, nodding for Jason to move down and for you to sit on the end.

In silence, Jason obliged with a guilty face, feeling awful for you right now. You felt George’s eyes burn into the side of you face, lip tucked between his teeth with words and apologies threatening to spill; but since he’s fucked up so bad already, he owed you the right for space right now.

Sitting down, you rubbed your face with your hands, sighing heavily and clearing your throat to cover any emotion that was spilling over. PK’s hands brushed your shoulders and squeezed them in support, you placed your hand on top of his as a silent appreciation.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Ethan said softly, eyes casting over you sat with your head low. You shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t know.” You said, voice coming out a lot quieter than you intended, words trembling as your hands shook in the sleeves of your hoodie.

Tobi nodded at you, “Alright. We’ll move on.” He shared a glance with Ethan, “I’m gonna call PK back to the hot seat.”

“Which Insider has lied about their temptation?” He was asked. You knew it was George, he had told you. The reminder of his immunity felt like they were rubbing salt into the wound, the image of you refusing a moment of clarity for George and his safely in this show, and his willingness to vote you out; when was this fucking challenge going to end?

After locking in the answer of Jason, the clip of George rolled through. You didn’t look up at the screen, eyes glued to the floor as your lips trembled, eyes rolling back to stop tears blurring your vision.

Cinna watched you as the clip played, reaching her hand behind Jason and tapping your side. You looked up at the contact and felt Cinna’s hand nudge yours, you let her hand intertwine with yours, knowing you needed the comfort right now. A frown deepened on your face, the impending sickening feeling of George snaking you out replayed over and over in your head; kicking and torturing you for being so naive.

George raised his hand to defend his case, “I would like to say I did feel absolutely awful as soon as I went round the corner. I told Y/N. I told Cinna. I told Milli.” He glanced over at you, yet you didn’t look anywhere near his direction.

Jason turned to you, “You knew?” You swallowed and looked at him, “Yeah, but if I knew we were snaking each other out, I would have told you all.” You spat to try and deflect your sadness.

George let out a sigh, stomach swarming with guilt; he needed to talk to you immediately. “Y/N…” “No, it’s fine. Gotta do what you gotta do to win.” You shrugged your shoulders and stared ahead, the screen in front of you a mockery to what you wish you hadn’t seen.

Tobi sighed, “Wow. That was some spillage.” Ethan looked over at everyone, “I think the dynamic’s shifted a bit.”

Once you were given the signal to leave, you instantly hopped out your seat and strode towards the exit doors, waiting for no one. George watched you leave, lingering in his seat for a moment and sighing, looking over at where you once sat next to him with his hand on your thigh, smiling and tucking your head into his neck.

Jason tapped George on the shoulder, “You gonna talk to her?” George nodded, “Eventually. Well, when she wants to see me.”

Jason cringed, “You fucked up, brother.” George nodded and rubbed his face with his hands, “I know.” He mumbled. “I know.” He repeated in a whisper.

time skip!

“Hey, can we talk?” You heard George mumble from around the corner. You were sitting where you had kissed, once a happy memory, but now tainted with a feeling that none of it was real.

You didn’t respond, so George took the liberty to sit down next to you with enough comfortable space between you two.

“I’m sorry.” He started.

“No, you’re not.” You whispered, voice thick with sadness.

George tilted his head with furrowed brows, “Y/N, I really am…” He sighed watching you shake your head with a humorous laugh, lip tucked between your teeth and tears brimming on your waterline.

“Why would you do that?” You mumbled. George looked down to the floor, “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”

“What night was it?” You faced him, staring daggers into his solemn face. His head whipped up and his face was etched with confusion. “What?” “Which night did you vote for me?” You spoke with certainty.

George’s face paled, “Y/N, that’s not what I want--” “Tell me.” You left no room for digression.

You watched him swallow and eyes trail over you, as if this confession could lose you. As if he was never going to see you again, at least in this light. His chest rose up and down a lot quicker, his heart pounding against his chest.

“The first one.” He said with regret.

Your face fell as you reflected on that night. The one in which you were almost eliminated. If it wasn’t for your insane luck and Milli’s generosity, you would have not been in this house right now, and believing George missed you; but he was the biggest game player here.

“Oh, my fucking God…” You muttered, eyes trailing away from him. You heard him sigh, “Let me explain.” “Explain what?” You interrupted him, “George, I was basically eliminated! And you didn’t fucking care, you were part of the reason!”

You remembered his face of regret when Vik said you received the lowest voices, thinking at the time, that he was upset at your departure; but no, he realised he was at fault and had to face the consequences of his impulse actions that had led you two to this exact moment.

You covered your face with your hands as it became too overwhelming, “What happened to the ‘You leave, I leave’ bullshit, George?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. All the excuses and apologies that he had planned and were on the tip of his tongue before entering this room had fallen off his lips, reduced to immense guilt as he felt you slipping away from his grasp.

“Did I mean anything to you, George? Or were you just playing the game?” George’s eyes snapped up to see tears streaming down your face.

“No! It was never that!” He started, hands waving around as his brows upturned. “Was I an easy route to the final?” You ignored him.

“No!” George shook his head, desperation seeping in his voice. “Someone to make you feel less lonely being here?” You laughed painfully, thinking back to all your shared moments and considering if any of it was real, let alone last.

George reached for your hand, “Y/N, please…” You flinched away from his touch, “Clearly not because you were happy to get me the fuck out of here!” You thought back to your last question, disregarding any point George tried to make, he understood he messed up, but he needed to feel what you felt.

George sighed and let your statement linger in the air, silence suffocating the room for a moment. “Y/N, you are so much more than this stupid game.” He said. You looked over at him and saw the rims of his eyes were red, cheeks pale and hair messy. Any other time, you would have wrapped him up in your arms and held him close, stroking his hair and kissing his face, whispering sweet nothings; because you knew that man, but you didn’t know the one sat in front of you right now.

You tilted your head and looked at him, “Then why did you pick it over me.” You whispered.

George couldn’t respond. He couldn’t deny you because he knew you were right. His heart plummeted into his stomach as you looked tired from crying, tears staining your cheeks and hands shaking as you brushed hair away from your face, an action he once had the privilege to do, but screwed it all up. He regretted it the moment he said your name in Room 19, the words fell off his tongue as if he was speaking a different language, it didn’t feel right. But he still did it, and he couldn’t take it back.

You couldn’t bear the silence or him anymore and made a move to leave the room. Standing up slowly, you heard George one more time, “I’m so sorry.”

You glanced at him, “I don’t care.” And you left the room, leaving your heart behind you and your rational head questioning if there was any point being in here now; the game had played you, and you didn’t know if you wanted to play it anymore.

bonus! (bc i'm so sorry for doing that to them)

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

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 1 month ago

Text

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s.

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it – men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson.

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?”

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.”

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say.

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume.

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest.

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion.

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this.

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?”

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation.

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.”

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control.

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked.

The friendship.

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.”

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.”

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that.

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?”

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for.

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly.

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.”

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite.

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does.

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?”

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long.

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all.

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst.

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’.

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time.

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand.

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.”

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm.

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.”

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt.

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though.

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots.

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser?

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips.

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously.

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.”

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process.

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish.

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs.

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.”

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?”

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.”

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her.

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you.

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.”

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head.

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited.

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head.

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.”

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently.

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself.

“No.”

But this is more fun.

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time.

And you’re done with this game of back and forth.

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.”

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.”

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”

Perfect.

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on.

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction.

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup.

Good.

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one.

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead.

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you.

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets.

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy.

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?”

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night?

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night.

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.”

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her.

Where the fuck is Eddie?

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab.

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.”

Fuck.

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head.

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?”

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.”

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy.

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat.

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!”

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke.

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her.

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?”

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any.

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?”

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t.

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.”

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave.

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased.

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.”

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.”

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips.

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?”

Over my dead body.

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him.

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip.

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat.

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.”

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you?

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were.

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.”

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again.

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.”

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?”

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis.

You thought the tension had misted away until he’s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.”

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said.

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you.

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad.

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie.

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him.

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished.

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head.

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat.

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you.

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all.

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.”

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.”

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan.

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises.

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?”

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.”

With that, you make your grand escape.

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?”

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously.

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?”

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.”

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.”

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.”

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.”

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.”

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.”

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.”

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world.

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….”

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend.

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking.

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity.

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this.

And fuck, you really want this.

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.”

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?”

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule.

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car.

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.”

“And you remember the hat rule?”

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.”

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of.

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling.

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first.

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you.

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head.

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips.

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out.

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him.

Eddie simply fucking your brains out.

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly.

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you.

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat.

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here.

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it.

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin.

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right.

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target.

His thigh.

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction.

You’re looking straight ahead.

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day.

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher.

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser.

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher.

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up.

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather.

And then he flips the script.

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into.

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear.

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely.

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench.

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Still playing games I see.”

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up.

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now.

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them.

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back.

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles.

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh.

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?”

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment.

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck.

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open.

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him.

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it.

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring.

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for.

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.”

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them.

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway.

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car.

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him.

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.”

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night.

It sends your clit throbbing.

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?”

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs.

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely.

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you.

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment.

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name.

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only.

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you.

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet.

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his.

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?”

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off?

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours.

And - oh.

Oh.

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off.

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived.

He wants this. You want him.

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth.

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey.

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words.

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face.

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths.

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.”

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient.

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards.

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest.

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later.

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along.

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience.

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care.

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.”

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants.

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned.

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?”

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right.

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.”

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.”

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you.

“What?”

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening.

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time?

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?”

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you.

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?”

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.”

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?”

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.”

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head.

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed.

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress.

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?”

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss.

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared.

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.”

“Whatever you say, cowboy.”

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence.

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours.

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about.

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them.

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.”

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor.

“And the boxers.”

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does.

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of precum slip down his shaft.

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants.

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you.

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?”

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare.

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission.

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself.

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind.

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive.

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy.

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.”

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out.

You don’t answer him as you both moan out.

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly.

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his.

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you.

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.”

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips.

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern.

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly.

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull.

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there.

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat.

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head.

Just like a cowboy.

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie.

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.”

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat.

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t.

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck.

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.”

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath.

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?”

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago.

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you.

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory.

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you.

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner.

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.”

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue.

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful.

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips.

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone.

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.”

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied.

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.”

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips.

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.”

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him.

“Get on all fours for me, baby.”

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass.

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening.

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when-

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak.

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.”

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue.

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt.

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously.

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.”

And let him hear you, you do.

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.”

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.”

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more.

More, more, more.

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way.

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises.

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap.

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over.

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears.

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs.

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him.

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him.

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away.

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body.

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.”

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all.

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.”

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear.

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.”

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?”

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air.

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality.

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content.

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?”

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?”

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world.

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table.

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 1 month ago

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every day i search my favorite tags in the same way someone would open their fridge again and again to see if there's any new food that magically appeared

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 2 months ago

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The Aftermath

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The reader takes care of Will after the 2025 Charity Match Warnings: None Notes: Based on this request! Part two of Custom Fit. Sorry this was so short 😞this week's been pretty busy.

The stadium lights dimmed to a honey-gold haze, but the chaos was far from over.

Will stood pinned against a concrete pillar by a swarm of cameras and microphones, other YouTubers interviewing him for content, his post-match grin strained at the edges. Sweat dripped from his hairline, carving clean lines through the grime on his face. Someone had tossed him a towel, but it hung limply over his shoulders, forgotten. His voice had gone hoarse but retained its trademark charm.

“Nah, mate, the header wasn’t planned—just saw the ball and thought, Christ, that’s going on YouTube,” he said, grinning crookedly as the people laughed. His eyes flicked to you leaning against the cold concrete wall outside, just for a heartbeat, before darting back to the cameras. The fifth time he’d done that in ten minutes.

You clutched the Allstars kit tighter, its fabric coarse and damp against your fingertips. The acrid bite of sweat clung to the jersey—sharp and sour, layered with the grassy musk of turf ground into every fibre. It should’ve repelled you, but instead, you pressed the fabric to your chest like a relic, thumb tracing the embroidered patch until the threads snagged your skin.

Talia materialised beside you, holding two foam cups of warm stadium drinks in one hand and a grease-stained paper bag of Sides in the other. “He’s like a golden retriever with separation anxiety,” she said, nodding toward Will, then glared at her drink. “And before you ask—yes, this is piss-warm chamomile. Blame this one,” she added, patting her barely-there bump. “Keeps checking you’re still here,” she continued, rolling her eyes at Will’s fifth glance in your direction. “Someone’s gotta be the caffeine-deprived babysitter.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, flushing as you snatched the decaf from her. The chamomile’s floral tang clashed violently with the lingering musk of Will’s jersey still pressed to your side. “Don’t ‘shut up’ me. You’re basically holding his emotional support jersey.” She plucked at the fabric on your arm, wrinkling her nose. “Though, god, it reeks. Love really is blind.”

Freya snorted, materialising behind Talia with Faith and a dozing Olive in tow. The toddler stirred, her Sidemen scarf slipping askew as she sleepily gummed a fist. “And nose-dead, apparently,” Freya said, plucking a fry from Talia’s bag with a joking grin and gesturing at the jersey with it, neon cheese glooping onto her thumb. “You sure you don’t want to burn that?” She pulled a face like she’d licked a battery, playfully rolling her eyes. “You two are worse than my Nana’s telenovelas—and that’s saying something, considering her main character literally died of a paper cut last season.”

With a dramatic sigh, she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, putting on a pretty good aristocratic accent: “Behold! The tragic Victorian widow clings to her scoundrel’s sweat-rag! A tale as old as tiiiiime—”

Talia jabbed Freya’s ribs with her decaf cup, nearly sloshing chamomile over the rim. “Keep the melodrama PG,” she said, though her twitching lips betrayed her. “Olive’s going to start quoting your nonsense at daycare.”

Freya glanced at the toddler, now drooling peacefully on Faith’s jacket, and dropped her tragic widow pose with a snort. “Relax—see? She’s out cold. Besides,” she added, elbowing you with a wink, “we all know you’d dive into a dumpster fire for his crusty socks. No judgement here.”

Will chose that moment to escape the locker room, his smirk sharpening as he caught the tail end of Freya’s jab. “Jealous, Freya?” he called, limping toward you with exaggerated swagger. “I’m sure Josh would get you one too, if you ask nicely.”

“Took you long enough,” you said, stepping forward to shoulder his duffel bag. Grass stains still streaked his neck, the custom #LENNEY 2 jersey clinging to him beneath his unzipped hoodie like a second skin.

Faith shifted Olive’s sleeping weight, nodding toward the exit. “Go. Before this little one wakes up and demands another pretzel the size of her head.”

“Seconded,” Talia said, crumpling her empty nacho bag with a yawn. “Your ‘tragic Victorian widow’ act is killing the vibe. Take your possibly concussed Romeo home.”

Will saluted lazily. “Yes, Mum.” You shot them a mock glare but couldn’t suppress your grin. “Bye, ladies,” you said, throwing a wave over your shoulder as Will slung an arm around your neck, his weight leaning into you like a human limpet.

“Text us when you’re home, preferably not dead in a ditch!” Freya called.

“Or do!” Talia added. “Drama’s good for the group chat.”

“Wouldn’t want to deprive you,” Will muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He raised two fingers in a tired salute as you guided him toward the garage, the girls’ laughter fading behind you.

The walk to the car was quiet, murmured voices echoing through the large open space of the concrete garage. Will’s shoulder bumped yours every third step—less a nudge than a loss of balance—his duffel strap slipping down his arm until you hooked it with two fingers. He didn’t object.

At the Audi, he sagged against the bumper, head thunking back against the rear windscreen. “Let’s go,” he drawled, patting his pockets with sluggish determination. You intercepted the keys mid-air, their fob still warm from his grip.

“C’mon,” he groaned, reaching halfheartedly. “I’m not that knackered—”

You rolled your eyes. ”You just headed a ball. You’re probably still seeing double,” you said, pointing to the faint bruise already blooming on his temple. “And don’t even try to lie.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it with a click, shoulders sagging. “...Could’ve let me pretend I’m still invincible for five more minutes,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

You popped the passenger door open with a smirk. “Boot or seat? Your choice.”

“Seat,” he grumbled, folding himself into the leather with all the grace of a collapsing deck chair. His knee cracked audibly against the glove box as he buckled up. “Christ—fucking—”

“Language”.

“You’re lucky you’re fit,” he added, tilting his head back against the rest. The garage lights cut across his face, sharpening the shadows under his eyes.

“Keep talking”, you said, adjusting the rearview mirror, “and I’ll make you ride in the boot for real.”

The Audi purred onto the rain-slicked road, tyres hissing against wet asphalt as neon signs bled into liquid gold across the windscreen. Will stabbed at the climate control panel with the heel of his hand, cranking the heat until the vents roared like a dragon.

"Christ, that's vile," he groaned as warmth hit his sweat-damp shirt, muscles seizing. The sharp cedarwood of his cologne turned cloying in the sudden humidity.

"Told you to ice your knee." You didn't look up from the road, thumb tapping the rhythm of some pop atrocity oozing from the radio. "But no. Had to be the martyr in head-to-toe Under Armour."

"Frozen peas give me existential dread." He peeled his back from the leather seat with a wet sound, grimacing. "They’re the vegetable equivalent of passive aggression."

"You’re the one who tried to throw the ball like you’re eighteen again. Newsflash, Granddad – your ligaments have a retirement fund now."

He scoffed, rolling his neck until it cracked. "One tactical stumble—"

"—Tactical?" You snort, teasing him more. "You folded like a Poundland lawn chair."

"Fuck’s sake, it was a stumble. It was—" You interrupted him by swerving around a pothole, grinning when the jolt made him suck air through his teeth. "Admit it. You just wanted the stretcher crew to carry you. Again."

"Jealous the med students didn’t swarm your touchline?" His mouth hooked sideways, all mischief and challenge. "I’ve seen the way you eye them. What’s your type – the one with the trauma shears or the guy who looks like a thumb in a fleece?"

"At least they hydrate properly." You flicked the half-empty water bottle in his lap, droplets arcing onto his joggers. "This isn’t a prop, Will. Actual humans need fluid to survive."

"Darling, if you wanted me undressed, you could’ve just—"

"Don’t." You cut him off, heat crawling up your neck as his laugh rolled through the car, low and knowing. The steering wheel creaked under your grip. "I’ll crash us. I mean it."

"Liar." He settled back, victorious, stretching his legs with a groan. "You’d miss the view too much."

You rolled your eyes, but he caught your chin with two fingers, tilting your face toward him. The traffic light bled red across his smirk. “C’mere,” he said, voice gravel-rough. His kiss was all heat and hubris, teeth nipping your lower lip as the light turned green. Horns blared behind you. He pulled back, eyes glinting. “Told you. Best view in London.”

His bravado lasted exactly three seconds.

The adrenaline finally bled out of him in a rush—shoulders slumping, smirk softening into something frayed at the edges. He tried to mask it, drumming restless fingers on his thigh, but the rhythm stuttered as his eyelids dipped. “Keep dreaming,” you said, quieter now. His retort dissolved into a yawn, jaw cracking audibly.

Rain smeared the world beyond the glass, but the car held its own galaxy—the ping of his phone charging, the syncopated drip of his damp hair hitting his collar, the way his knee brushed the gear shift one last time before going still. Always pushing. Always there. Until he wasn’t.

By the second traffic light, his temple met the window with a soft thunk. The city painted him in fleeting strokes—neon blue highlighting the curve of his slack mouth, sodium gold gilding the stubble along his jaw. A bruise bloomed above his eyebrow like storm clouds, yet he looked younger in the quiet, fingers slack around the water bottle. Even his breathing changed, the sharp edges of his banter smoothed into slow, syrupy exhales.

You turned the radio down.

He didn’t stir.

The kitchen fluorescents buzzed like angry wasps. Will collapsed onto a barstool, chin propped in his palm, as you shoved leftover carbonara into the microwave. He watched the plate spin through the greasy glass, eyes glazed. The microwave beeped sharply, and he flinched. “Eat,” you ordered, sliding the steaming plate toward him. “Properly. Or I’ll start spoon-feeding you.”

He smirked, dragging a noodle through the sauce with deliberate slowness. “Promises, promises.” Sauce smudged his thumb, and he licked it off absently, gaze drifting to the fridge plastered with magnets from your trips abroad. “Should’ve ordered Nando’s,” he mumbled around a half-chewed bite.

You flicked a bread roll at his chest.

“Oi.” He caught it mid-air, his grin lopsided. “Trying to maim me further?”

“Trying to keep you alive.” You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Your body’s running on fumes and ego.”

“Ego’s renewable energy, love.” He tore the roll apart, crumbs cascading onto the plate like shrapnel. A fleck of parsley clung stubbornly to the corner of his lip—a bright green against his pallor. You let it linger, watching his gaze drift past you, fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance. His eyelids dipped like weighted curtains, snapping open every thirty seconds with robotic precision.

You hooked your foot around his ankle beneath the counter, jolting him. “Will.”

He blinked, slow and syrupy, as if surfacing from underwater. “Hm?”

“You’re zoning.”

“Am not.” The denial cracked halfway. He shovelled a forkful of carbonara into his mouth, chewing with the enthusiasm of a man gnawing cardboard. The shadows under his eyes weren’t circles anymore—they were craters.

His damp hair coiled in rebellious curls at his nape, the sterile scent of the stadium’s complimentary soap clashing with the sour tang of his abandoned jersey slung over the chair. Your gaze snagged again on that damn parsley, flagrant as a flare. Without thinking, you reached out, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

He froze mid-bite, fork suspended. A crumb fell. You swiped the green fleck away, your nail catching faintly on his chapped lip. His throat worked—a dry, audible click.

“Bed.” You lobbed the ibuprofen bottle at him. It thunked against his palm, his reflexes still sharp even as the rest of him unravelled.

“Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” He rattled the pills like dice, squinting at the label.

“Someone’s gotta be.”

He lurched into the bedroom, shedding his hoodie mid-stumble. The fabric pooled on the floor like a deflated shadow as he collapsed face-first onto the bed, limbs splayed in haphazard surrender. The duvet swallowed his groan, his voice muffled but insistent: “Massage or death. Your choice.”

You followed, floorboards groaning underfoot. Will lay motionless, face buried in the sheets, one arm dangling over the edge. His back rose and fell in shallow waves—the only proof he hadn’t fully dissolved into the mattress. The bed frame creaked as you climbed up, knees sinking into the downy surface on either side of his hips. Heat radiated through his thin t-shirt, seeping into your joggers as you settled over him.

His breath hitched, fingers curling into the duvet. The bed tilted under your weight, rolling his body subtly toward yours. Your palms hovered above his shoulders, the muscles beneath twitching even before contact—a battlefield of tension, coiled like steel springs primed to snap.

“Drama queen”, you muttered, thumbs carving into the rigid terrain of his upper back.

He hissed, spine arching sharply, shoulder blades jutting like fractured wings. “Christ—”

Your thumbs found the knot first—a hard, defiant bulge beneath his left shoulder blade, shaped like a clenched fist. You circled it slowly, testing. Will’s breath stuttered, his spine tensing like a bowstring. “Breathe,” you muttered, pressing down with the heel of your palm.

He didn’t. Not until the pressure forced a ragged exhale from his lungs. “Fuck—”

“You played at Wembley,” you repeated, quieter now, knuckles grinding into the epicentre of the tension. The muscle quivered under your touch, a live wire sparking. “Acted like you were bulletproof. What’d you expect?”

“Sympathy?” He turned his face sideways, cheek smeared against the duvet, words fraying. “A fuckin’ parade?” His laugh was a hollow rasp, muffled by fabric.

“You’ll get a tombstone.” You leaned your weight into the knot, relentless, until it finally surrendered with a sickening pop. His groan vibrated through your knees, low and visceral, as his body sagged into the mattress.

“Knew you’d fuss,” he slurred, voice thick with exhaustion. One hand fisted the sheet, knuckles blanching.

“Shut up.” You traced the curve of his jaw, calluses catching on stubble, before retreating to safer territory—the slope of his neck, the wings of his shoulders. “You love it.”

His breath hitched. Not from pain.

The room softened around you—the storm outside reduced to a whisper, the lamp’s glare dimming as if chastened. You worked in silence now, kneading the remaining knots with methodical precision. His body unravelled by degrees: the iron grip on the sheets loosening, the hitch in his breath smoothing to something shallow and steady.

His breath hitched—a stuttered inhale you recognised instantly. You felt it everywhere: in the twine of his pulse under your wrist, the minute tilt of his head toward your touch. You pressed harder, thumb skating along the ridge of his shoulder. “Well?”

Will turned his face into the pillow, but you caught the grin in his voice. “Well, what?”

“You love it.” You repeated yourself.

He snorted, the sound dampened by cotton. “Of course I do.” Casual as a shrug, but his ear had gone pink at the tip—the tell he’d never managed to hide. “Your hands are witchcraft. Should charge for this.”

“You’d owe me six figures by now.”

“Mmm. Just add it to my tab.” He shifted, wincing as you hit a fresh knot. “Christ—easy, assassin.”

You lightened the pressure, fingers brushing the hair at his nape. He leaned into it like a cat, sighing. “Should’ve subbed out after the header,” you said, quieter now.

“And miss your custom jersey reveal?” His hand fumbled backward, swatting blindly at your thigh. “Worth the possible concussion.”

You caught his wrist, thumb skimming the pulse point. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot.” He twisted just enough to peer up at you with one sleep-silted eye. The bruise looked worse in the lamplight, but his smirk was pure mischief. “C’mon. Tell me you’re not impressed.”

You flicked his earlobe. “By your talent for concussions?”

“By my commitment.” He caught your hand before you could retreat, pressing a lazy kiss to your palm. His lips were chapped, his stubble rough against your skin. A familiar calculus. “Admit it. You’re dazzled.”

“Dazzled,” you deadpanned, freeing your hand to resume the massage. “That’s one word for it.”

He hummed, cheek squashed against the sheets. “Knew it.”

You felt the exact moment. Will tipped over the edge into sleep. His breathing deepened, the rigid line of his shoulders going slack under your palms. His fingers, which had been idly tracing circles on your knee, stilled mid-motion, hand sliding off the bed to dangle limply toward the floor.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Watched the rise and fall of his back, the way his parted lips smudged the duvet with each exhale. The lamp cast his profile in gold—eyelashes fanned dark against cheeks still flushed from the post-match shower, hair curling damp at his temples. Even bruised and battered, he looked younger like this, the day’s tension dissolved into something soft and unguarded.

Careful not to jostle him, you slipped off the bed. The floorboards creaked a protest, but Will didn’t stir. His arm remained outstretched where you’d been, fingers twitching faintly as if chasing your warmth.

You moved through the flat on autopilot: deadbolting the front door, twisting the handle of the back window twice to secure it, and clicking off lights one by one until only the bedroom lamp remained.

When you returned, Will had curled onto his side, knees drawn up like a comma. The duvet pooled at his waist, exposing the twin dimples at the base of his spine, the constellation of freckles he’d gotten from the last boys trip. The lamp’s glow cutting abruptly after you flick it off, plunging the room into darkness.

You slid in beside him, knees slotting behind his like puzzle pieces worn smooth by repetition. His body curled toward you even before the mattress settled—a reflex etched into his bones, as automatic as breathing. His hand found your hip, calloused palm sliding under your shirt to press warm against bare skin, anchoring you in place. Even half-conscious, he knew the map of you: the dip of your waist, the curve of your shoulder, and the way you’d always tuck your cold toes between his calves.

He nuzzled the back of your neck, stubble scraping skin. “Love you,” slurred into your hair, barely audible.

You smiled against the dark. “Love you too, idiot.” You laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach, his grip slackening as sleep pulled him under.

His breathing deepened, slow and syrupy, chest rising against your back in a rhythm older than Wembley, older than YouTube, older than the both of you. The rain had hushed to a murmur, the room holding its breath around you. You closed your eyes, letting the heat of him seep into your marrow.

Somewhere between his thumb stroking your hipbone and the distant trill of a nightingale, sleep crept in. The last thing you registered was his content sigh, warm and damp against your nape, as his hand slid up to cradle your ribs—craving more of you even in dreams.

I hope you like this 🔫 anon! Like I said in the notes, sorry it's short… But I hope that you like what I made nonetheless 😊. Thanks again for requesting it!

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 2 months ago

Text

October Rain

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary: Will forgets his two-year anniversary with the Reader Warnings: Sad then cheesy as FUCK Notes: Based on this ask! I got carried away on this one...Kinda has more angst than fluff I think, but I hope the end was fluffy enough. Reader is described to be wearing makeup and have hair that has their orignal roots peeking through (beiefly)

You spend an hour picking out the dress.

It’s ridiculous, really—the closet yawns like a wound afterward, half your wardrobe strewn across the bed. Too formal, you’d hissed at the emerald gown. Too casual, you’d spat at the sundress, though summer died weeks ago. The silk slip you settle on is the colour of champagne, the one Will once said made you look like “a sunrise with legs”. You spin in front of the mirror, fabric swirling, and pretend the heat in your cheeks is from the hairdryer.

The bathroom sink becomes a warzone. Eyeliner wings sharp enough to draw blood. Blush blended to that “just-fucked” glow he’d teased you about last anniversary. You spritz the vanilla perfume he buys you every Christmas—‘So I can find you in a crowd,’ he’d said. Your phone buzzes on the counter.

A text from Will:

Will (7:43 PM): Emergency reshoot. Might be 20 mins late. Don’t eat my breadsticks, thief

You roll your eyes, smiling. Typical Will. You text back:

You (7:43 PM): If you’re late, I’m ordering TWO desserts. And I’ll tell the waiter you stood me up

You leave a note on the fridge in your loopy script—“Gone to claim my free pity cake. Catch up, slowpoke.” — And double-checked the contents of your clutch. Inside rests a small box with a silver ring, its band etched with tiny stars circling a moonstone—a mirror of the one you wear on your right hand. Under the stone was an engraving of the date of your first kiss hidden in tiny numerals.

Rain whispers against the windows as you step outside, but you don’t mind. You imagine his face when he opens the box, the way he’ll fumble trying to slide it onto his finger mid-sentence, his laugh warm and sheepish as he says, ‘Should’ve known you’d out-romance me.’

The cab driver eyes you in the rearview. “Big date?”

“The biggest,” you say, thumb rubbing the moonstone. Two years. Two years of his chaotic schedules and your terrible puns, of long sleepless nights and his hands steadying yours when you cried during sad movies.

The hostess leads you to the corner table, its surface gleaming under a halo of candlelight. Rain ticks softly against the windows, a muted rhythm beneath the murmur of violins and clinking crystal. You smooth your dress as you sit, the silk whispering against your thighs, and immediately reach to straighten the centrepiece—a single tulip, its petals curled at the edges like parchment. Wilted, you note, but it feels fitting. Romantic, in a vintage way.

You tug the tablecloth taut erasing imaginary wrinkles. The waiter materialises, his voice a velvet hum. “A drink to start while you wait?”

“A glass of Maker’s Mark and a Cabernet, please,” you say, fingertips drumming the menu. The waiter’s gaze flicks to the empty chair, then back to you. He nods, vanishing into the amber-lit haze of the restaurant.

When he returns, the whisky glows like molten gold in its glass, the Cabernet a deep ruby beside it. You take a sip of wine, the tannins bitter-sweet, and blurt, “Could we also start with the breadsticks? And—do you have any recommendations for the main course? We’re… celebrating.”

The waiter’s smile softens. “Anniversary?”

You nod, thumb brushing the moonstone on your ring. “Two years.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and you swear his tone dips. “The duck confit is exceptional. Crisp skin, pomegranate glaze. A favourite for… special occasions.”

“Perfect,” you say, voice bright as the candle flame. “And the breadsticks, please.”

They arrive warm, dusted with rosemary and sea salt. You pluck one, the crust crackling under your touch, and set it on Will’s bread plate. His ritual: stealing bites before the meal, grinning with a mouthful of carbs. The butter dish sits unopened—he’d argue it’s “sacrilege” to ruin good bread.

The waiter lingers. “Shall I wait to bring the duck?”

“Please wait a bit more.” You clear your throat. “He’ll be here any minute.”

He nods and walks off.

The couple beside you leans into a kiss, their shadows merging on the wall. You look away, smiling. That’ll be us in ten minutes, you think, adjusting the tulip one more time.

8:03 PM.

The ice cubes crackle in his untouched drink. You text him:

You (8:03 PM): Breadsticks are going quick. Hurry!

Outside, the rain thickens.

The restaurant’s candlelight pools like liquid gold on the tablecloth, but it can’t warm the chill creeping up your spine. Rain blurs the world beyond the glass into a smudge of greys and blues, and you fixate on it to avoid staring at the empty chair. Will’s whisky glints amber under the flickering flame, ice long melted, the glass sweating like your palms.

8:17 PM.

Your phone screen dims again. You tap it awake, thumb hovering over the latest text—sent seven minutes ago, still unanswered. The waiter glides over, his voice a gentle ripple in the silence. “Can I bring you anything else while you wait?”

You force a smile, brittle as the sugar crust on the crème brûlée at the next table. “Just the duck confit, please. And another Cabernet.” The please cracks, but he nods, retreating with a discretion that feels like mercy.

The duck arrives, its pomegranate glaze glistening. You slice into it with surgical precision, the knife barely whispering against the plate. Last year, Will stole a bite off your fork, grinning as juice dripped down his chin. Now, you chew slowly, each swallow a battle. The couple beside you clinks champagne flutes, their laughter a bright, foreign language. You glance at Will’s whisky, then slide it toward yourself, the glass leaving a damp ring on the linen. The first sip burns; the second tastes like regret.

9:03 PM.

The candle drowns in wax, its flame shrinking to a pitiful flame. A tulip petal drifts onto Will’s unused bread plate. You pluck it gently, its edges browning like a forgotten letter, and tuck it into your clutch beside the velvet box. The moonstone ring on your finger feels heavier now.

The waiter hesitates, his polished shoes shifting slightly against the hardwood floor. His fingers, long and graceful from years of balancing trays, hover near the table’s edge as if unsure whether to reach out or retreat. His gaze lingers on the empty glass of whisky.

“Dessert, perhaps?” He offers again, voice low, careful. “The chocolate torte is—”

You press your lips together, forcing a small, polite smile. “No, thank you,” you murmur, softer than you intended. Your fingers, stiff from clutching the sweating wine glass, fumble for your wallet. “Could I just have the receipt, please?”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling the leather folio from his apron. You pretend not to notice the way his brow furrows—the unspoken Are you sure? in the slight tilt of his head.

You open the bill, scanning the numbers without really seeing them. The candlelight flickers, casting wavering shadows over the ink. Duck confit. Cabernet Sauvignon. Breadsticks (2 orders). A bitter laugh threatens to rise in your throat—two orders, because you’d been so sure Will would devour them the second he arrived.

He watches, silent, as you count out the bills. Your hands don’t shake—not visibly, at least—but the edges of the notes crumple slightly under your grip. When you slide them across the table, he takes them with a practised nod, but then hesitates, thumbing through the stack.

“This is too much,” he says gently, extracting a few bills to return.

You shake your head, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder, where the candlelight catches the rain-streaked window. “Keep it. For the… the trouble.” The last word splinters, but you don’t let it crack further.

His mouth opens—maybe to protest, maybe to offer some other kindness—but you’re already standing, smoothing the ruined silk of your dress like it still matters.

At the door, the hostess—her delicate silver name tag glinting, Sophie—catches your arm with a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible. The warmth of her fingers is startling against your chilled skin.

“The rain’s gotten worse,” she says, her voice threaded with something that isn’t pity, but close. “Let me call you a cab.”

You turn your face just enough to meet her eyes, another practiced smile in place. “I’m alright, thank you.” Your voice is steady and pleasant, the same tone you’d use to decline an extra napkin. “Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for her reply. The door swings open, and the storm greets you like an old enemy—immediate, unrelenting. The silk dress, already ruined, clings to your skin as the rain seeps deeper, turning the fabric into a second, heavier skin. The cold is sharp, but you don’t shudder. You walk. One step, then another.

Behind you, the restaurant glows—golden, warm, a world still spinning without you in it. The violins hum on, the clink of glasses muffled by the downpour. Somewhere inside, the waiter is clearing the table, folding the unused napkin, and wiping away the water ring left by what should have been Will’s drink.

You walk faster.

The rain tastes like salt.

The tube station swallows you whole, its fluorescent lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. Rain cascades down the steps, turning the floor into a mirrored maze. Your heels—strappy, delicate, stupid—stab into the tile with every step, blisters gnawing at your skin. The silk dress clings to your legs, its champagne hue now muddied to dishwater grey. You don’t flinch. Let the pain root you. Let it be real.

A digital board flickers: CIRCLE LINE DELAYED – 22 MINUTES. Commuters sigh, their breath fogging the air. You sink onto a cold metal bench, mascara bleeding down your cheeks in charcoal streaks. The moonstone ring on your finger feels like a lie. You twist it off, the silver band catching the light one last time before you bury it in your clutch beside the velvet box.

An old man lowers himself beside you, his trench coat smelling of mothballs and Earl Grey. His face is a map of wrinkles, eyes milky at the edges but kind. His hands, speckled with age spots, grip a weathered umbrella. “Nasty night,” he rasps, nodding at the storm outside.

You nod back, silent.

He thrusts a weathered umbrella toward you, its handle carved with faded floral patterns. “Take it, lass. You’ll catch your death.”

“I’m alright, thank you,” you say, voice fraying at the edges. Polite. Always polite.

He hesitates, squinting at your trembling hands. “Sure?”

“Yes.” The word cracks. You turn away, staring at the tracks until his shuffling footsteps fade.

The train arrives fifty minutes late, its doors wheezing open. You board, heels slipping on the grimy floor. A toddler points at your drowned-rat elegance, giggling. Rain drips from your hem, forming a puddle at your feet.

At your stop, you limp up the stairs. The storm hasn’t relented—it thrives, needling your skin, soaking through the clutch pressed to your chest. Let the rain scald. Let it strip you raw. Your heels click defiantly, blisters splitting open, blood mingling with rainwater. You don’t slow. The pain is an anchor. The pain is true.

Let it drown out the memory of Will’s empty chair.

The automatic doors shudder open with a sound like a dying breath, spilling you into the lobby’s arctic chill. Air conditioning razors down your rain-raw skin, and your dress—once liquid silk, now a translucent shroud—clings to every curve, the fabric plastered to your thighs like wet tissue paper. Water sluices from your hem, squelching against polished marble as you walk.

Dave, the night guard, freezes mid-yawn. His eyes dart from your bare shoulders to the puddle spreading at your feet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if swallowing a scream. “Ev-evening, miss,” he stammers, fingers spasming over his keyboard like he’s forgotten how to type.

You smile. Polished. Automatic. The kind you’d give a stranger. “Evening, Dave.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “Enjoy your shift.”

Mascara bleeds down your cheeks in Rorschach trails, each swipe of your hand hours ago having smeared it into abstract art. Your hair, once sleek, hangs in Medusa tendrils, rainwater still glazing the strands. Your right hand drifts to your ring finger, bare now, the moonstone’s absence a phantom itch.

The elevator dings. You step in, shoulders grazing cold steel. Your reflection splinters across the mirrored walls—a dozen shattered versions of yourself, each more unrecognisable than the last. One version trembles. Another sneers. A third presses a fist to her mouth, stifling something raw.

You fixate on the numbers lighting up: 4… 5… 6… Each floor hums, the sound vibrating in your molars. The doors open to your hallway, its geometric carpet clashing violently with your waterlogged heels. You fumble the key, metal scraping the lock until it gives, your trembling hands betraying you.

When the door finally gives, the flat smells of vanilla and Thai food. Light spills from the kitchen, where Will’s voice rings out, bright and buoyant over the clatter of dishes.

“Welcome home! You’ll never believe the day I—”

You step inside, rainwater pattering onto the entryway tiles.

“—had to reshoot the entire bridge sequence because the damn drone malfunctioned. Nearly brained James when he suggested cutting the tracking shot, but then—”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. You place your clutch on the coffee table, a dark stain spreading beneath it. The sound of his voice - usually so comforting - feels like radio static now, all meaningless noise.

"Anyway, I've got this banger idea for the next main channel vid—"

A cabinet slams. Silverware jingles. He’s pouring wine, you realize—the clink of two glasses meeting.

“Hungry? I grabbed that Thai place you like on the way back. The Penang curry’s still…”

He trails off as he rounds the corner, two glasses of Malbec in hand, hair messy and shirtsleeves rolled up. His grin fades when he sees you—a drowned spectre in ruined silk, mascara bleeding down your cheeks.

“Jesus, why’re you soaked?” He sets the glasses down too hard, crimson sloshing onto the counter. “Didn’t you check the weather? I texted you about the storm before I left this morning—”

Your voice cuts through his, quiet and lethally calm. “What’s today’s date, Will?”

“What?”

“The. Date.”

His eyes dart reflexively to the fridge—to the takeout calendar stuck beneath a Star Wars magnet, October 12th circled in your lavender gel pen. A Post-it note hangs half-peeled beneath it: “Dress fancy. 7:00. Il Girasole. Don’t be late!!! ”

The blood drains from his face. “Fuck. The shoot ran late, and then the producer ambushed me with notes, and I—”

“Two years.” Your whisper fractures. “You forgot two years.”

A beat. Rain lashes the window above the sink.

He reaches for you, wine-stained fingers trembling. “Let me fix this. I’ll call the restaurant—we can go now, I’ll—”

You sidestep his touch, the motion sending water droplets arcing onto the plush rug. The bathroom door slams shut behind you.

The bathroom tiles bite into your soles as you peel the dress from your skin. The silk clings, resisting until it finally slaps wetly against the floor. You ball it up, shove it into the rubbish bin beside the toilet. The champagne fabric wilts over the near empty bin.

The shower handle creaks as you crank it. Water hammers your hand before the heater catches up, icy needles sharpening to a scalding sheet. You step in, skin flushing red. Steam clots your lungs.

For a beat you stand there, staring blankly at the showerhead.

Then your breath hitches—sharp, shallow gulps that shudder through your ribs. You clamp a hand over your mouth, teeth sinking into the meat of your palm to stifle the sob climbing your throat. It works, but only briefly. A high, keening noise escapes through your nose, and you press your face into the crook of your elbow, smothering the sound against wet skin.

Tears come in silent, relentless waves. Your shoulders jerk forward with each suppressed gasp, muscles coiled so tight your back aches. Water streams down your face, mingling with snot and salt, but you keep your eyes screwed shut. When another sob threatens, you bite down harder on your hand, the pressure dull and grounding, but not enough to break skin.

Your free hand braces against the shower wall, fingers splayed white-knuckled on the tile. The urge to scream pulses in your throat, but you choke it back, swallowing until it burns. Your body rebels anyway: chest heaving, knees trembling, a strangled whimper slipping free. You slump against the wall, forehead pressed to cold ceramic, and let the water hammer the nape of your neck.

It’s messy. Uncontrolled. Snot drips onto your collarbone; tears pool in the divot of your pressed lips. You swipe at your face with a trembling fist, smearing rather than wiping, and suck in a ragged breath that catches like a hook in your windpipe. For a moment, you’re silent—then a fractured cry escapes, sharp as glass. You muffle it with both hands this time, breath hot and trapped against your palms, until the worst of the wave passes.

By the time the water runs cold, you’re hollowed out. Your breaths still hitch, but softer now—wet, exhausted sighs. You swipe your nose with the back of your wrist, eyes swollen to slits, and lean heavily on the wall to stand. Every muscle feels wrung-out, tender.

You reach for the soap with trembling hands. The bar slips twice before you manage to grip it, lathering mechanically between your palms. You scrub your arms again—not violently now, but with the dull precision of someone completing a chore. Bubbles slide over goose-bumped skin, your movements slow and leaden, like your bones are filled with wet sand.

Shampoo this time—squeezed directly onto your crown without measuring. You work it in with limp fingers, nails grazing your scalp without intent. Suds slither down your temples, stinging the corners of your bloodshot eyes. You don’t flinch. Just tilt your head back, let the spray rinse it away, your throat working silently as you swallow the last vestiges of tears.

A conditioner bottle clicks open. You apply too much, the excess dripping down your calves in pearlescent streaks. The scent—coconut, his favourite—makes your jaw clench. You rinse until the water runs clear, until your fingers prune and your skin feels scraped raw by nothing but time.

Beyond the door, Will’s breath hitches. He presses a palm to the wood, then balls up his hand, knuckles whitening, but doesn’t knock. “Fuck,” he mouths silently, raking a hand through his hair.

He counts each shuddering breath you take, his own syncing unevenly with yours. When the shower shuts off with a metallic squeal, he staggers back, suddenly aware he’s been holding his breath.

Silence.

Will hesitates, arm half-raised as if to knock. Then the rasp of a towel against skin sends him retreating down the hall, socked feet silent on hardwood. By the time you crack the door, he’s slumped on the living room sofa, staring blankly at his abandoned wine glass.

You dress in the sweatpants and shirt he left on the hook—his sweatpants, the ones he’d draped there this morning while whistling off-key, already late, already forgetting—and don’t look at the bin where your dress lies balled in the dark.

You crack open the door and step out, spotting Will with his back to the door, staring at something on the coffee table. You swallow and shuffle to the spare bedroom, closing the door softly and curling under the warm duvet, curling up and stare at the wall.

Rain ticks its fingernails against the windowpane. The hoodie you claimed for yourself from Will at the start of your relationship drowns you in its fabric, the cuffs frayed from his restless worrying and your attempted messy repairs at stitching them back together. The elbows are thin from wear. It smells like him still—

The door creaks.

A sliver of hallway light fractures the darkness, then vanishes as Will slips inside. He’s haloed in the dim glow of your alarm clock, shadows pooling beneath bloodshot eyes. His socked feet whisper across the floorboards until he kneels beside the bed, a supplicant at an altar.

“You once said…” His voice splinters, raw as the blisters on your heels. He tries again, softer. “‘We should’t go to bed if we’re angry at each other’ Even if it’s 2 AM. And you’re rightfully angry at me.”

You curl tighter, hoodie fabric muffling your reply. “You remembered that?”

A beat. His exhale unravels, frayed and uneven, as if the truth weighs more than his lungs can hold. “I remember everything.” The mattress groans as he leans closer, his knuckle catching a damp strand of hair from your cheek—the touch featherlight, like he’s handling glass. “How you take your coffee. Your weird fear of pigeons.” His thumb skims your jaw, lingering where your pulse thrums. "The way your smile lingered after our first kiss, like you were still tasting it when I walked you to your door." A ragged inhale. "I remember us. Every moment. Just...not the date on the calendar.”

Your breath hitches, betrayal and hope warring in your ribs. But then his palm cups your cheek, calluses catching on tear-salted skin, and you feel it—the tremor in his touch, the way his gaze maps your face like he’s memorising it anew. This is the man who once spent an hour untangling your necklace with a paperclip, who still flushes peony-pink when you mimic the way he murmurs your name between snores—lips parted, brow smooth, utterly, infuriatingly beautiful.

The fist around your lungs unclenches finger by finger—air flooding in, sweet and sharp as the first gasp after drowning.

He removes his hand from your face and unlocks his phone, the screen’s blue glare sharpening the hollows of his face, and hands it to you. A reservation confirmation glows: Il Girasole. Tomorrow, 7:00 PM. Table for two. “They’re holding the same corner booth. The duck’s still on the menu. And—” His throat bobs. “—I’ll eat every fucking breadstick this time. Even if they’re cold.”

A teary laugh escapes you, brittle but real. “Your memory’s awful.”

“But yours isn’t. I may be pants at dates, but I remember the proper things.” He swipes open his notes' app, revealing a list titled THINGS TO NEVER FORGET (OR ELSE) in all caps. And in bullet points:

Hates cilantro

Hates roses (cliché)

Hums when she cooks (buy a home speaker)

Secretly loves my terrible puns (look up more)

Saves fortune cookie slips (Saves it in a cute box, give her yours too)

Order at the dodgy kebab shop near the station: lamb, extra garlic sauce, no onions (but she’ll steal sone of mine anyway, so get a large)

Loves the centre of sandwiches (make sure to offer it to her before you finish it all)

Keeps the foil from chocolate bars (folds them into tiny stars when she’s stressed, found 17 in her coat pocket last winter)

Her ring size (6.25)

You sit up, moonlight catching the tear tracks on your face. “You made a list?” Your thumb keeps swiping, the entries endless—tiny, obsessive details you hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.

Your breath hitches. “How long…?”

“Since our first date.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “You told me you hated cilantro. I wrote it down so I’d never put it in your food. Then… it sort of grew.”

His phone screen flickers—a photo of you, mid-laugh at a pub, tucked between reminders: Buy more of her weird sour cherry tea and She bites her lip when concentrating (don’t distract her, no matter how cute it is).

"I updated it at the studio during the reshoot." His smile flickers, vulnerable at the edges. "James caught me and said I'm 'whipped.'" He huffs a laugh, thumb brushing your knuckles. "Told him he's just jealous because his girlfriend's never looked at him the way you look at me when I'm half-asleep and making coffee in my pants."

The tension unravels like a frayed knot, leaving only the quiet pulse of rain against glass. You reach for him, and he surges forward—foreheads colliding, noses brushing, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile. His thumbs sweep beneath your eyes, smudging tears into the salt-stained hollows of your cheeks.

“I’ll set alarms,” he rasps, lips skating your temple. His breath hitches, warm and uneven. “A thousand of them. Buy a calendar that takes up the whole fucking kitchen wall. Tattoo the date—”

“Don’t.” You press two fingers to his mouth, trembling.

He kisses them anyway, teeth grazing your knuckles. “—on my ribs,” he finishes, voice rough. “I’ll hire a skywriter. Carve it into every birthday cake we ever eat. Make our future kids recite it before—”

“Will.”

“—school. Every. Morning.” He’s grinning now, wild and desperate, eyes glittering in the dark. “I’ll be the embarrassing dad with anniversary-themed socks. The one who—”

You kiss him quiet. He tastes of mint toothpaste, of apologies swallowed too late. When you pull back, his smile has softened—not a promise, but a plea.

“Just,” you breathed in, “be here,” ending in a whisper.

His forehead drops to yours. “Always.”

You hook two fingers into the waist of his joggers—a gesture from your early days, when you’d drag him into dive bar bathrooms for reckless, laughing kisses. He follows without resistance, knees bumping the mattress as you fall back onto sheets still smelling of rain and your abandoned perfume.

He folds around you like a prayer, all trembling hands and murmured sorrys into your hair. His stubble scrapes your temple as he nuzzles closer, one arm banded tight around your ribs, the other cradling the nape of your neck—possessive, penitent.

“Still stealing my hoodies,” he rasps, thumb brushing the frayed cuff around your wrist.

“Still leaving them where I can find them,” you counter, voice muffled against his collarbone.

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and wounded. You map the familiar landscape of his face-the faint constellation of freckles on his cheekbone, the delicate lines that etch the corners of his eyes and his eyes—god, his eyes—blue flecked with moss-green, his iris fractured by a sliver of grey hold yours like a vow.

The rain softens to a hushed patter as Will shifts, his chest becoming a pillow beneath your cheek. You trace the hem of his shirt where it rides up, fingertips skating over the warm plane of his stomach. He shivers, not from cold, but from the featherlight drag of your nails.

“Still ticklish?” you murmur, pressing a smile into his collarbone.

He huffs a laugh, catching your wandering hand. “Still a menace.” But he laces his fingers through yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. His breath ghosts over them—a silent apology, a promise—before he kisses each ridge of bone.

You lift your head, finding his gaze. Moonlight spills through the blinds, striping his face in silver. His eyes are raw, red-rimmed, but soft as he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Your roots are growing in,” he whispers, thumb brushing the faint line at your temple. “Like autumn creeping into summer.”

Your breath hitches. He notices. He always notices.

“I was going to dye it tomorrow,” you admit, voice still thick from tears.

“Don’t.” His palm cradles your jaw, calluses catching on salt-dried skin. “I want to watch the seasons change.”

You swallow, throat tight. He leans in, so close his lashes brush your cheek, and for a heartbeat, you think he’ll kiss you. Instead, he noses along your hairline, inhaling deeply.

“Vanilla,” he murmurs, lips grazing your earlobe. “And that shampoo you pretend to hate.”

You snort, swatting his shoulder. “It dries my scalp.”

“Liar. You keep buying it.” His smile curves against your neck. “Just like you ‘hate’ my puns, but laughed at the one about the scared pasta.”

“It was shell-shocked.” You groan, even as laughter bubbles up, bright and healing. “That’s not even a pun, it’s a crime—”

His lips meet yours not as an ending, but a beginning—slow, syrup-sweet, a confession pressed into flesh. The first brush is tentative, a question mark curved against your mouth. His thumb finds the frantic pulse at your wrist, a callused pad circling gently, as if polishing a relic. I’m here, it whispers. I’m not leaving.

You sigh into him, and the kiss deepens—no longer an apology, but a promise. His free hand cradles the nape of your neck, fingers threading through damp hair still chilled from the storm. His touch is summer-warm, grounding you as he tilts your head, lips parting yours with a reverence that makes your ribs ache. There’s a hitch in his breath when your teeth graze his bottom lip, a stuttered oh swallowed by your mouth as he pulls you closer. When you whimper, he gentles, tongue sweeping soft as a paintbrush over the seam of your lips. Let me in, it pleads. Let me fix this.

You open, and he moans low in his throat—a sound that vibrates through your sternum. His hands skate down your spine, bunching the stolen hoodie at your waist, kneading the tender hollows above your hips. You arch into him, fingers fisting in his shirt as he nips your jaw, then soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue.

His lips linger against yours, breath mingling in the scant centimetres between you. When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to let his thumb brush the fringe of your lashes. His own eyes are glassy, the joke hovering on his tongue not yet ready to land—not until he’s sure you’re both still here, still real.

You feel it—the tremor in his hands where they cradle your face, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your palm. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles, before managing a shaky grin.

“Still got it,” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges. His attempt at levity cracks mid-syllable, revealing the raw fear beneath—the terror that this might’ve broken you.

You huff a damp laugh into the hollow of his throat. “Got what?”

He nuzzles your temple, stubble catching on tender skin. “The magic touch.” A pause. His nose traces your temple, breath warm and uneven. “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

It’s not the joke that undoes you, but the desperation in it—the way his arms tighten around your ribs like he’s clinging to driftwood. You press closer, lips brushing the frantic thrum at his jugular.

“Terrible puns aren’t a ‘magic touch,’” you mutter, teeth grazing his collarbone in reprimand.

He shivers, fingers skating up your spine. “Admit it.” His palm splays between your shoulder blades, pressing you flush against him until there’s no space for doubt, for anger, for anything but his next whispered plea: “You married a comedic genius.”

“We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

The word hangs, delicate as the cobwebs glinting in the window’s moonlit corners. Your heartbeat thrums against his, syncing as his hands slide beneath the stolen hoodie, palms searing trails up your spine.

“Will—”

“Not asking,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Just… storing the idea. Somewhere between your sandwich centres and chocolate foil stars.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, anchoring yourself as he shifts, rolling until you’re cocooned beneath him. His weight is a comfort, familiar as your own breath.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “The quiet version. The one you only show at 3 AM.”

So you do—lips brushing his throat as you confess the ache of waiting, the terror of feeling forgotten. He listens, fingers combing through your hair, until your whispers dissolve into yawns.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, tugging the duvet over your tangled legs. “I’ll be here when you wake, I promise. Even if morning you is a sight.”

You snort, but curl closer, nose buried in the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat drums a lullaby against your lips—steady, alive, yours.

I hope this was okay! It took longer than expected, so sorry about that! And I hope you don't mind that I made it a female reader. Also, I'm thinking of possibly making a part two where they go on the date that Will booked...thoughts?

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 2 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅-𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

summary: popstar y/n is invited to perform in the sidemen charity match as the halftime performance, all the while the crowd doesn't know she's dating one of the members (smau)

harry lewis x fem!reader

wroetoshaw x fem!reader

fc: sabrina carpenter!!

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sidemen just posted!

liked by yourusername, wroetoshaw and millions of others

sidemen The biggest day in Sidemen history - thank you❤️

view comments?

user SOBBING

user oh my god y/n and harry in the last pic

user MY SHAYLA

yourusername so proud of you all🤍🤍

liked by sidemen!

user i can't deal with this hard launch

yourusername just posted!

liked by wroetoshaw, sidemen and millions of others

yourusername you know how to ball, i know aristotle🤍

tagged: wroetoshaw

view all comments?

user ????????

faithlouisak yay i can finally show off my sexy friend

⤿ wroetoshaw thanks x

user HARD LAUNCH IM CRYING

chrismd ok but did you score a freekick at wembley?

⤿ wroetoshaw Chris it’s 4am and it went middle of the goal give it a rest

liked by yourusername!

taliamar my babies🥹🥹

behzingagram never listening to 15 minutes the same

⤿ ksi ‘only gonna take 2 to make him finish’ harry 😭😭😭

⤿ miniminter using this as leverage for later videos

⤿ wroetoshaw ffs y/n

⤿ yourusername love you too😍

⤿ wroetoshaw ??? (with love)

user i can die happy now

freyanightingale my happy girl😘😘

liked by yourusername!

user wait so sports car is about harry?

⤿ calfreezy girl shut up

hope u liked!

780 notes · View notes

georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 2 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!

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

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

and please no stealing of my work !!

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

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

wc: 5.6K

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“Insiders, please gather in the living room.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DDG interview!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time skip!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time skip!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time skip!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time skip!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time skip!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taglist (how are u all pookies):

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

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 2 months ago

Text

Need to reblog this again because it’s just 💕🥹🥰💖💕��🥹🥹🥹🥹

Custom Fit

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader supports Will at the 2025 Sidemen Charity Match Warnings: None Notes: Sorry it took so long! This request was so hard, writing football stressed me tf out 😅 Watching the highlights were cool too, but I had no idea what was happening most of the time. I'm a rugby gyal

The roar of the crowd at Wembley Stadium buzzed in your ears like a live wire, a relentless hum that seemed to vibrate through your bones. The sea of red-and-white scarves and kits blurred into a kaleidoscope of motion, a living, breathing entity pulsating with anticipation. You stood slightly apart from the others, your fingers absently tugging at the hem of your custom #LENNEY 2 jersey. Beneath it, the long-sleeved shirt you’d layered clung to your skin, its fabric thin and breathable but still trapping a faint warmth against your arms. The jersey itself was softer than you’d expected, the material sliding easily over the shirt’s sleeves, but the combination did little to settle the restless flutter in your chest.

The VIP box was a sensory overload—popcorn kernels scattered on the floor, their buttery scent mingling with the sharp tang of expensive perfume wafting from the women nearby. The mix was as chaotic as your nerves, a strange cocktail of comfort and unease. Below, the YouTube Allstars were a whirl of pre-match energy, their movements sharp and purposeful. Some stretched, their muscles rippling under their kits, while others laughed, tossing balls in casual arcs that belied the tension building in the stadium. But your eyes tracked only one person.

Will stood near the sideline, his back to the stands as he jogged on the spot, his own red-and-white kit clinging to his frame. Even from here, you could see the way his shoulders shook with a laugh at something Harry said, his easy confidence radiating like sunlight. You’d memorised that posture—the way he rolled his neck before big moments, the habit of tugging his sleeves over his knuckles. But today, every detail felt magnified. Would he spot you before the match? Would he even look up?

“Stop fidgeting,” Talia hissed, swatting your hand away from the jersey’s hem. Her smirk was all mischief, her gold hoops catching the stadium lights as she leaned in. “If you crease it, he’ll think you nicked it off a mannequin.”

“Or that you’ve been stress-cuddling it in secret all week,” Freya added, arching a perfectly groomed brow. She’d swapped her usual designer dresses for Sidemen merch today, though hers was artfully cropped and paired with heeled boots. “Which, let’s be honest, you probably did.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “I did not. I’m not the one who still sleeps in Josh’s sixth-form hoodie.”

Freya gasped, clutching her chest in mock offence, as Faith snorted, adjusting Olive on her hip. The toddler reached chubby fists towards the colourful crowd, babbling excitedly. “Don’t drag me into this,” Faith said, bouncing Olive gently. “But for the record, Ethan still has the first note I ever wrote him tucked in his phone case. Lads are sentimental creatures. Prepare for waterworks.”

You smiled at Faith, your oldest mate. The two of you had been inseparable since her family moved next door when you were kids. You’d spent countless afternoons in her back garden, dreaming about the future and giggling over crushes. When she started dating Ethan, you’d been sceptical at first—what if he didn’t like you? What if things got weird? But Ethan had welcomed you into their world with open arms, and it wasn’t long before you were hanging about with the Sidemen crew.

That’s how you met Will.

You remembered the first time Faith dragged you to one of their group outings. You’d been nervous, feeling like an outsider among the tight-knit group, but Will had noticed you sitting quietly in the corner. He’d plonked down next to you with a grin, handing you a drink and launching into a story about the time he and Simon got lost in Amsterdam. By the end of the night, your cheeks hurt from laughing, and you’d forgotten all about being nervous.

Talia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that somehow carried over the growing buzz of the crowd. “Or other reactions,” she said, her eyebrows waggling like she was sharing the juiciest of secrets. Her grin was sharp, knowing, and it made your stomach flip.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, spreading like wildfire. “It’s just a kit,” you lied, your voice pitching higher than you intended. The words sounded weak even to your own ears, and the way Talia’s smirk widened told you she wasn’t buying it.

“Just a kit?” Freya echoed, incredulous. “You had it custom-stitched in two days when the online shop sold out. Travelled to Manchester to beg the kit manager in person. That’s not ‘just’ anything, love. That’s a declaration of war.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but no words came out. Instead, you shot a nervous glance towards the pitch, where Will was still turned away, his focus on Chris as they mock-tackled each other. The sight of him—carefree, grinning, utterly in his element—made your stomach swoop in a way that was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

Talia followed your gaze, her teasing expression softening just a fraction. “He’s going to love it,” she said, her voice sincere for once. “And when he scores today, he’ll point straight at this box. You’ll see.”

“He’d better,” Faith chimed in, her tone dry as she dug through her bag for Olive’s snack. The toddler was perched on her hip, gnawing on the ear of her stuffed bear, completely oblivious to the conversation. “Or I’m revoking his uncle privileges.”

A sudden cheer erupted from the crowd as the Allstars began dispersing to their positions. Your eyes snapped back to the pitch, where Will was now walking backwards towards the centre circle, his head tilted as he squinted up at the stands. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. Could he see you? You froze, torn between waving like a prat and ducking behind Freya to hide.

But then Ethan called his name, tossing him a water bottle, and Will turned away, laughing as he fumbled the catch. The moment passed, and you exhaled sharply, unaware you’d been holding your breath.

“Heart attack avoided,” Talia teased, fanning you with a match programme she’d nicked from somewhere. Her grin was back, full force, and you rolled your eyes, though your cheeks were still burning.

“Give it time,” Freya said, her tone light but her eyes glinting with mischief. “The match hasn’t even started.”

You groaned, leaning back against the railing as the players took their positions. The tension in the air was palpable, the crowd’s energy building to a fever pitch. But even as the referee blew the whistle and the game began, your mind kept drifting back to the kit, to the way Will had laughed as he caught the water bottle, to the promise of what might come next.

The match hung on a knife-edge. 88th minute. 8-8. The Allstars surged forward, their attacks sharp and desperate, every pass and tackle charged with the kind of urgency that made your chest tighten. Your nails dug into the railing of the VIP box as you watched Will track back, his movements slower now, his legs heavy but still pushing. The Sidemen FC’s defence was in shambles—xQc stranded halfway up the pitch after a botched clearance, the goal gaping wide and vulnerable.

Your breath caught in your throat as George Clark pounced.

The ball rocketed off his foot, a thunderous strike from the edge of the box, screaming towards the open net. The crowd rose as one, a collective gasp tearing through Wembley, the sound raw and primal. Your heart stopped. The world narrowed to that ball, arcing through the air.

Then Will moved.

He lunged, a full-stretch dive from inside the goal line, his body parallel to the grass as he hurled himself headfirst towards the ball. Time slowed—or maybe it was just your mind, struggling to process what you were seeing. The blur of the stadium lights, the deafening roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of his forehead connecting with the shot. The ball ricocheted skyward, spinning harmlessly out of play.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

Then chaos.

“UNBELIEVABLE! WILL LENNEY WITH A GOAL-LINE HEADER—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” the commentator bellowed.

You were on your feet before your brain could even process it. Your arms shot out wide, fingers splayed, as if you could somehow reach down and touch the chaos unfolding on the pitch. A scream tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, joining the tidal wave of noise crashing around you. “YES! YES! YES!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. The world had narrowed to one thing: Will.

Spinning on your heel, you nearly lost your balance, but you didn’t care. Your hands flew out, pointing wildly towards the pitch, your eyes wide and frantic as they locked onto the girls. “DID YOU SEE THAT?! DID YOU SEE HIM?!” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible over the roar of the crowd, but your expression said it all.

Freya was bent double, her laughter ringing out like a bell. She clutched her sides, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gasped for air. “We saw it, love! The whole stadium saw it!” Her words were punctuated by another peal of laughter, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Talia’s hands were on you in an instant, gripping your shoulders with a force that made you stumble. She shook you like a ragdoll, her dark curls bouncing wildly as she screamed in your face, “HE’S MENTAL! ABSOLUTELY MENTAL!” Her eyes were wide, her grin manic, and for a moment, you thought she might actually shake you apart.

Faith stood a little apart, holding Olive in her arms. She just shook her head, her lips curving into a wry smile. “That man’s going to give you a heart attack one day,” she said, her voice dry but her eyes sparkling with amusement.

And then the jumbotron flickered.

There you were, frozen in time—arms outstretched, your #LENNEY 2 kit blazing across your shoulders, your face alight with a joy so pure it was almost blinding. The crowd’s roar shifted, morphing into a collective “AWWWW” as the screen split. On one side, Will lay sprawled on the pitch, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and grass stains. On the other, you stood, your eyes glistening with pride, your smile so wide it hurt.

Will squinted up at the screen, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. For a heartbeat, he just stared, his lips parting in surprise. Then, with a sudden burst of laughter, he slapped the grass, his shoulders shaking as he rolled onto his back. “OH MY DAYS!” he mouthed, his grin widening as he blew you an exaggerated kiss. The Allstars swarmed him, yanking him upright, their laughter mingling with the commentators’ cackles.

“Someone’s got a fan,” one of them teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Fan? That’s his girlfriend,” the other corrected, his tone smug. “Rumour has it she’s the reason he’s playing like a man possessed!”

“Possessed? Nah, mate—that’s love.”

Freya’s whistle cut through the noise, sharp and piercing, right in your ear. “If he dies tonight, at least he’ll die famous,” she said, her tone light but her eyes dancing with mischief.

“He’s already famous,” you shot back, your cheeks flaming as you tried to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Not for football,” Talia snorted, her lips quirking into a smirk.

The pitch was alive with motion, players shifting into position like pieces on a chessboard, their movements sharp and deliberate. Will jogged backward, his boots digging into the turf with each step, his eyes darting up to the jumbotron every few seconds. The massive screen still flashed the split image—him, sprawled on the grass moments ago, and you, frozen in mid-celebration, your joy radiating even through the pixels. His grin, once wide and cocky, softened at the edges, the bravado melting into something quieter, more personal.

He tapped two fingers to his lips, a quick, almost unconscious gesture, before pressing them to his chest—right over the name on his kit. LENNEY. His eyes flicked to the VIP box, locking onto yours for a heartbeat. Yours, he mouthed, the word silent but unmistakable. Then he turned away, his focus snapping back to the game, but the ghost of that private smile lingered.

“Gross,” Talia said, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. She swatted your arm, the sharp smack making you yelp and jerk away. “Save the eye sex for after we win,” she added, her tone dripping with mock disdain, though the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Freya, never one to miss an opportunity, let out an exaggerated gasp and fake-swooned into Faith’s shoulder. Her hand flew to her forehead, her fingers splayed dramatically as she tilted her head back. “He’s peacocking,” she declared, her voice lilting with theatrical flair. “Look at him. Absolute showman. Can’t help himself.”

Faith adjusted Olive on her hip, “He’s concussed,” Faith said flatly, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her. “That’s the only explanation for… whatever that was.” She gestured vaguely towards the pitch, where Will was now crouched slightly, his eyes scanning the field as the Allstars began to huddle.

But before he joined them, Will glanced up at the VIP box one last time. You couldn’t help yourself—you mimed blowing him a kiss, your fingers brushing your lips before flicking them towards him with a playful smirk. His reaction was immediate and absurd. He clutched his heart, staggering back as if you’d physically struck him, his face contorted in mock agony. The exaggerated drama of it made you laugh, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably despite the tension in the air.

Faith rolled her eyes, but the effort to keep her expression neutral was clearly a struggle. Her lips twitched, and she shook her head, muttering under her breath, “You two are disgusting.”

“Disgustingly sweet,” you shot back, your voice sing-song and teasing, though your grin was genuine. The tension of the shoot-out was building, the crowd’s energy shifting to a low, anticipatory hum. The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, snapping the stadium back into focus. Will straightened, his expression shifting from playful to intense in an instant.

The game was on.

The final whistle blew, and the Allstars erupted—a tangle of sweat-drenched hugs and victory chants. Will collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving, before Chris yanked him upright to join the team’s lap of honour. His eyes scanned the stands, lingering on the VIP box as he jogged, waving half-heartedly at the crowd.

“He’s coming up here, isn’t he?” Talia said, watching Will duck out of the team huddle and bolt for the tunnel.

“Twenty quid says he face-plants on the stairs,” Faith replied, shielding Olive’s eyes playfully.

You barely heard them. Your pulse thundered in your ears as the stadium doors swung open—

And there he was.

Will, still in his grass-stained kit, hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the game. He skidded to a halt in front of you, breathless and grinning like he’d scored a last-minute winner. The VIP section fell silent, phones snapping photos as he vaulted the barrier.

“You,” he said, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at your jersey, “are a menace.”

“Me?” You arched a brow, fighting a smile. “You’re the one who blew a kiss to 90,000 people.”

“Had to claim my territory,” he shot back, stepping closer until the scent of turf and citrus sweat wrapped around you. “Everyone’s gonna want a Lenney kit now.”

“Doubt it,” you said, tapping the #2 on your chest. “This one’s custom.”

Will’s gaze softened. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing the embroidered name on your shoulder. “You’re a proper ride-or-die, you know that?”

“Someone’s got to be,” you teased, though your voice wavered.

He huffed a laugh, then hooked a finger under the jersey’s collar, tugging you forward until your foreheads pressed together. The crowd’s cheers faded to static. “Wanna know why I kept looking at the screen?” he murmured.

“To admire your own cheekbones?”

“Nah.” His thumb swept over your jaw. “Every time I saw you in my name, I remembered… this is real. We’re real. Even when I’m out here acting like a prat for the cameras.”

Freya fake-gagged behind you. “Get a room!”

Will flipped her off without breaking eye contact. “Swap kits with me,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t wait for an explanation. Before you could even process what was happening, Will yanked at his own sweat-soaked Allstars kit, peeling it off in one swift motion. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar of cheers, whistles, and laughter as he stood there, bare-chested and unbothered, his grin wide and unapologetic.

For a moment, you froze, your brain short-circuiting. His skin glistened under the stadium lights, the faint sheen of sweat catching the glow as his chest rose and fell with each breath. The muscles in his shoulders and arms—usually hidden under layers of fabric—were on full display, defined and taut from the game. A faint trail of grass stains smudged his collarbone, and your eyes involuntarily dipped lower, catching the faint line of his happy trail, a subtle but undeniable detail that made your throat go dry.

“Your kit,” he repeated, snapping you out of your daze. He waved a hand in front of your face, his grin turning smug. “Earth to," he said your name "Give it. Now.”

“You’re mental,” you managed, your voice coming out higher than intended. Your cheeks burned as you tore your gaze away, but not before catching the way his smirk deepened, clearly pleased with himself.

“Oi, eyes up here,” he teased, tapping your chin with a finger. “Unless you’re enjoying the view?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, swatting his hand away, though the heat in your face betrayed you.

The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium. Will, ever the showman, turned to them briefly, flexing with an exaggerated wink that sent another wave of cheers through the stands.

“You’re such a prat,” you groaned, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

“And you’re stalling,” he shot back, shoving his crumpled match kit into your hands. The fabric was still warm from his body, and you could feel the faint dampness of sweat as you clutched it to your chest.

“You’re never living this down,” you groaned, reluctantly tugging your #LENNEY 2 over your head.

Will took the kit from you with a grin, holding it up like it was some kind of trophy. He shook it out, the fabric snapping in the air, before slipping it on properly. He adjusted the shoulders, smoothed the front, and tapped the #2 on his chest with a smirk.

“Looking good,” you said dryly, though your cheeks burned as you clutched his discarded kit to your chest, the fabric still warm from his body.

“Damn right,” he shot back, his grin widening as he raised an arm, flexing dramatically. The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium.

“You’re such a show-off,” you muttered, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

He spun back to you, his eyes bright and wild, the kind of look that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “And I’m yours.”

The kiss wasn’t dramatic or cinematic—it wasn’t the kind of moment you’d see in a film, with sweeping music and perfectly timed lighting. It was messy, real, and inevitable. His lips met yours with a kind of urgency that spoke of relief, of triumph, of something deeper that had been simmering all day. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, his grip firm but not possessive. The taste of salt lingered on his lips, a mix of sweat and the faint, sugary tang of Haribo from his half-time snack. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was him, and that was enough.

At first, it was almost hesitant, as if he was reminding himself that this was real, that you were here, that the chaos of the game was over and this moment was his to claim. But then his fingers tightened slightly on your waist, and the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache. His breath was warm and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as if he needed the anchor, the connection, to ground him.

The surrounding chaos didn’t disappear, exactly—it just faded into the background, like static on a radio. The roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the distant shouts of his teammates—it all became a blur, muffled and distant. All you could focus on was the warmth of his body against yours, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm, the way your kit clung to his shoulders, still damp with sweat.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the tremble in his fingers, the faintest hint of exhaustion and adrenaline still coursing through him. His lips were soft but insistent, and when you let out a small, involuntary sigh, he smiled against your mouth, the curve of his lips breaking the kiss for just a moment before he leaned back in, slower this time, more deliberate.

The second kiss was different—less urgent, more lingering, as if he was savouring the moment, memorising the feel of you. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and you could feel the way his breath hitched when your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He tasted like victory and exhaustion, like the faint citrus of his energy drink and the salt of his sweat, and you couldn’t get enough.

Someone below shouted, “GET A ROOM, LADS!”—probably Ethan, judging by the tone—but Will didn’t pull away. He just laughed, the sound low and breathless, his lips still brushing yours as he murmured, “Ignore them.”

And you did. For a few more seconds, at least, the world narrowed to the two of you—his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, the way your kit clung to his shoulders like a second skin. It wasn’t perfect or polished, but it was real.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the noise.

“Was there ever any doubt?” you shot back, your voice trembling despite your attempt at levity.

He huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and for a moment, it felt like the two of you were the only people in the stadium.

The moment didn’t last long—it couldn’t, not with the cameras still flashing and the crowd still roaring—but it didn’t need to.

Gang, let me know what you think of this! I don’t usually watch football, so I had to slowly go through the live stream to get a feel for the game. Eventually, I gave up and just watched the highlights and pick out the goal block scene.

I hope it’s okay.

I tried my best, I've went back and forth quite a bit, I’m definitely out of my depth here. Let me know if anything feels off or needs tweaking!

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georgeclarkeyscakeyass · 2 months ago

Text

Checked in - George Clarkey

words : 1.0 k +

warnings : Food-related content (mention of a gross food challenge), Fluff overload (excessive cuteness that may cause butterflies!)

The Sidemen studio was buzzing with energy—cameras rolling, crew members adjusting lighting, and the boys already causing chaos before the video had even properly started. You stood off to the side, tucked just behind the cameras, watching as your boyfriend, George Clarke, settled into his seat amongst the Sidemen.

He looked completely at ease, chatting and laughing with the boys as the crew made last-minute adjustments. Even though this wasn’t his usual kind of content, he fit in effortlessly, his natural charm making it seem like he’d been doing this for years.

You, on the other hand, weren’t in the video. You had come along purely to support him, happy to be behind the scenes, just watching. But what you weren’t expecting was the way George kept checking in on you—over and over again, in the most subtle yet adorable ways.

“All right, today we have a very special guest,” Ethan announced, throwing an arm around George’s shoulders. “Mr. Architecture himself, George Clarke!”

The boys erupted into cheers and mock applause.

George chuckled, shaking his head. “I swear, you lot hype me up too much.”

JJ smirked. “Mate, it’s only ‘cause we know you’re gonna get roasted in this video.”

That was met with laughter, but as the challenge got underway—some ridiculous mix of trivia and forfeits—you noticed something.

Every few minutes, George would steal a glance in your direction.

At first, it was subtle. His eyes would flick over to you when the others were distracted, his brows lifting slightly as if silently asking, You okay?

You bit back a smile, giving him a tiny nod.

Then, the gestures became more obvious. A quick thumbs-up under the table, a casual stretch where he subtly formed a tiny heart with his fingers before dropping them back down.

You couldn’t stop the warmth from spreading through your chest.

JJ, who happened to catch one of these moments, narrowed his eyes playfully. “Oi, what’s this guy doing?”

Vik followed JJ’s gaze and smirked. “I think George is sending secret messages.”

Harry snickered. “Bruv, you’re in a Sidemen video, not passing notes in class.”

George, completely unbothered, just grinned. “Gotta make sure my girl’s alright, haven’t I?”

The teasing was instant.

“WHIPPED!” Harry declared dramatically.

Josh shook his head, laughing. “We’ve lost him.”

Ethan nudged George. “Mate, she’s literally right there. She’s fine.”

George just shrugged, throwing you another glance, his lips curving into the softest smile. “Still gotta check in.”

Your cheeks burned, but you weren’t about to complain.

As the game continued, George found new ways to silently reassure you—his fingers drumming lightly against the table in a rhythm only you would recognize, a small, barely noticeable wink when the others were too busy laughing, a soft smile that made your stomach flip every time your eyes met.

At one point, when the boys erupted into chaos over a particularly questionable answer, George leaned back slightly, resting his arm on the chair beside him. With a casualness that didn’t match the giddy feeling blooming inside you, he raised two fingers in a peace sign—his own silent way of asking if you were okay.

You did it back, mirroring the gesture, and he smiled so softly it made your heart race.

But then, he took it a step further.

While the others were arguing about the score, George turned slightly, facing you more. With exaggerated slowness—so that only you would notice—he lifted his hands to form a tiny heart, then pointed at you before quickly dropping them back down.

Your heart nearly burst.

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing, shaking your head at him, but the way he was looking at you—so full of warmth, so full of love—made it impossible not to smile.

Tobi, who had been watching quietly, chuckled. “That’s actually cute, man.”

JJ groaned. “Oh my days. Someone get a bucket.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Honestly, just propose at this point, George.”

George just smirked, clearly enjoying the teasing. But before turning his attention back to the game, he shot you one last look—the kind that made your stomach flutter, your breath hitch, and your heart race all at once.

As the game progressed, George continued his little check-ins. Whenever the boys were deep in conversation or focused on the challenge, he’d take a second just to look at you, his lips quirking up in a soft, secret smile meant only for you. And every time, you felt that same giddy rush, your stomach twisting in the best possible way.

Then came the forfeits.

George, unfortunately, ended up on the losing team, meaning he had to suffer through a ridiculous punishment—having to eat an absolutely revolting concoction that JJ had gleefully mixed together.

You winced as you watched the boys cackle over the disgusting-looking sludge in front of George. He picked up the spoon with a sigh, but before taking a bite, his eyes found yours.

He pointed at the bowl, then dramatically wiped a fake tear from his cheek.

You laughed, shaking your head. In response, you held up both thumbs, encouraging him, even though you were internally gagging at the thought of him actually eating that monstrosity.

George grinned, rolling his eyes playfully before finally taking a bite. His face immediately scrunched up in horror, and the studio erupted into chaos.

JJ was on the floor laughing. “Oh my God! His face!”

Harry was crying from laughter, while Tobi clapped his hands together in delight. “Nah, that’s bad. That’s actually bad.”

Through it all, George still found a way to check on you. Even as he dramatically coughed and shook his head at the taste, he sent you a wink between grimaces.

You burst into laughter, pressing a hand over your mouth.

As the video finally wrapped up, George wasted no time in making his way over to you, ignoring the teasing from the boys as he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, his voice warm as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

You smiled, leaning into him. “Loved every second.”

He hummed, squeezing your side. “Told you I’d check in.”

Your stomach flipped, and for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you in the room.

JJ’s voice broke the moment. “You two are disgusting.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, but George just grinned, pulling you closer.

If this was what being ‘whipped’ looked like, he had absolutely no problem with it.

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