orlaunderrated

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 11

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Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 4.9k+

Note: OOOOh the morning after!! thank you to everyone who asked to be on the taglist!!! super cool and exciting!! im glad everyone likes it so far!!!

also ive toally given up doing the screenshots of text messages, they are so time consuming and i dont think add much. LMK if you disagree!!

also also, i think some of my links are cooked so if you find one can you pls tell me!!!! i think ive fixed them but eek!!!

xxx

The sun is up, but the room still feels like it’s drowning in a fog of half-sleep and regrets, the kind of haze that only comes from too much alcohol and not enough clarity.

I wake up first, my body tangled in sheets that feel too soft, too comforting, like a promise I can’t trust. The sun slips through the blinds in thin slivers, like it’s trying to sneak in without disturbing us. And for a moment, everything is still. The kind of still that settles over you, heavy, but almost peaceful. Will’s arm is draped across my waist, warm and solid, and I can feel the weight of his breath on the back of my neck. It's too familiar, but too foreign at the same time. His fingers twitch slightly against my skin, like he's still half-dreaming, lost somewhere between last night and the waking world.

The room smells faintly of him—of cologne, of sweat, of a little bit of coffee maybe? It’s a strange kind of softness. The kind that doesn’t make me want to run.

I try to shift, but his hold tightens. A murmur escapes his lips, but I can’t make it out. My chest tightens, and I shift again, careful this time, like I’m not sure where the lines blur between us. He’s still holding me like he needs me to stay close, even though I know neither of us knows what this is anymore.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s not early, not really—but it feels too early to be awake with a hangover this heavy. Still, the weight of the morning settles over me, thick and insistent, dragging me out of sleep and back into whatever reality is waiting.

When I turn to face him, I half-expect him to be awake, to be looking at me with that same questioning, unreadable look he wore last night. But he’s asleep. His hair is a mess, his face peaceful, as if the night still has let go of him. He looks innocent in this moment, like none of the confusion or tension from last night matters. Like none of it ever happened.

I run my fingers along his arm, absent-minded, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He stirs slightly, mumbling something unintelligible. A few moments pass before his eyes flicker open. The light hits them wrong, and he blinks rapidly, squinting against it.

“Mornin',” he says, voice rough and thick with sleep.

“Morning,” I reply, unsure if I should pull away or sink into the softness of this moment.

His hand slides up to my face, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. It’s gentle, too gentle, and for some reason, that makes everything feel heavier.

“God, I feel absolutely shite,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes.

I chuckle quietly, dragging myself upright with a wince. My head is pounding, my body sore in places I didn’t even know could ache. The taste of last night still lingers on the back of my tongue—tequila and regret—and I press the heel of my hand to my forehead like it might stop the world from spinning.

I shift under the covers, suddenly hyperaware that I’m still naked. Instinctively, I pull the duvet up to my chest, as if modesty matters now. It feels a bit ridiculous. This man was in me last night. He’s already seen everything.

“Same,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor’s cold under my feet, and the air hits my bare skin a little too sharply.

Behind me, I hear the sheets rustle as he stretches with a groan, and it’s only then that I remember—he’s still naked too. We don’t acknowledge it. Don’t joke, don’t tease, don’t even glance at each other’s bodies. There’s a beat of quiet tension, not quite shame, not quite comfort. Just the awkwardness of two people trying to act normal after something that wasn’t.

He shifts again. I hear the mattress creak. “You still mad at me?”

I pause, the question hanging between us like steam on glass. For a second, I want to say yes. I want to hold onto the anger like a shield, because it’s easier than admitting I don’t know what any of this means. But I don’t. Instead, I glance back at him, my expression softening without permission.

“No,” I say, quietly. The word slips out before I can second-guess it.

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch again, wrapping itself around us like the too-warm duvet I’m still clutching.

A moment later, he sits up, sheets pooling around his hips, and groans through another stretch. Still no mention of the fact that we’re both very, very naked.

“Coffee?” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "There's a brilliant café like a block away."

“Hell yes,” I reply, finally forcing myself to stand. I keep the duvet wrapped around me for a moment longer before I start looking for clothes, still a little unsteady on my feet.

I open his drawer to find something to wear, and my hand immediately lands on a pair of basketball shorts. They’re way too big on me, but they’ll do. I slip them on, along with an oversized T-shirt I’m pretty sure he hasn’t worn in weeks, and tie my hair up out of my face.

Will, on the other hand, is pulling on the same jeans he wore last night, the ones still creased in places from the chaos of the club. He tugs at his wrinkled T-shirt like he’s trying to make it look presentable, but it’s a lost cause. There’s no fixing that level of disaster.

“Do you have any shoes I can borrow?” I ask, eyeing his worn-out sneakers that I know won’t fit. His room is also clean, but still scattered with some stuff, but nothing that’s remotely my size.

He looks around his room for a whole one second, and then at his own bare feet and then shrugs. “Nope. You’re rocking the Docs today, I guess.”

I look over at my boots. They're sturdy, still a little too aggressive for a hungover breakfast run, but they’ll have to do. I shrug, slipping them on with a sigh.

“You look like shit,” I say, adjusting my (well, his old) sunglasses, already knowing they’re the only thing holding me together right now. The light’s too bright, the world’s too loud, and I’m clinging to whatever scraps of cool I can find. The glasses help. So does insulting him.

He glances at me with a crooked grin, running a hand through his messy hair “Cheers, love,” he mutters, “You look like you crawled out of a bin behind the club.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re the one who dragged me in there in the first place,” I shoot back, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just the shared pain of two people trying to survive a Sunday morning with their dignity intact.

In the kitchen, I find my phone and check it. Its on 2% and I have a handful of texts, mostly from Ruth. One stands out:

Whered you sneak off to? George is looking for you.

And another makes me giggle:

Oh Will is gone too 👀👀

I click my phone off, noting ill need to charge it before I go home today. I can't be bothered to respond right now, my eyes hurt just opening them, let alone looking at a phone screen.

I watch Will toss back two paracetamol, chasing them with a long swig from a battered water bottle. Without saying anything, he shakes two more pills into his palm and holds them out to me, along with the bottle. I open my mouth to protest—something about how sharing a water bottle is kind of gross, but the words die on my tongue. Because when I actually think about it, really think about it, it’s laughable. After last night I’m going to draw the line at a sip of water?

Xxx

The walk to the café is quiet. And Sweet. The city feels different in the morning, everything’s softer, less frantic. People are moving at a slower pace, the streets littered with the remnants of last night’s parties. We cross the road together, walking side by side, both of us too hungover to even pretend we’re anything other than the messes we are right now.

Inside the café, the smell of fresh coffee and baking pastries hits me like a wave. The place is packed, full of people either nursing their own hangovers or have just finished a late-morning Pilates class. We sit down at a small table by the window, both of us still wearing our sunglasses like it’s some unspoken rule.

I order a cappuccino, Will goes for an iced latte, obviously, his hand already gripping the cup like it's the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

We sip our drinks in comfortable silence, the tension from earlier replaced with the quiet hum of the café around us. I’m still not sure where things stand between us, but for the first time this morning, I can breathe a little easier. The hangover feels a bit more manageable in the light of day, the sting of last night fading to something less sharp.

“So,” I say, looking over at him, trying to keep my tone casual but my lips curling into a small smile. “Last night... wasn’t exactly what I expected.”

He raises an eyebrow, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh? How so?”

I laugh, running a hand through my messy hair, still feeling the warmth of the tequila lingering in my veins. “I didn’t think you had such a… soft side. You know, considering we don’t get along.”

He leans back in his chair, eyes glinting mischievously. “Can’t make the first time of many too crazy,” he says, his tone playful but his gaze lingering a little longer than it should.

I roll my eyes, but it’s hard to hide the smile spreading across my face. “Right. Gotta ease me in before the wild side shows up.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he teases, looking at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

I lean forward, intrigued but trying not to show too much interest. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a wink, the confidence in his voice somehow both ridiculous and endearing. “Gotta keep you guessing.”

I shake my head, laughing. “You really think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

He shrugs, a lazy grin still on his face. “I don’t know about all figured out. But I’m getting there.”

There’s a moment of silence between us again, but it’s lighter now, almost comfortable. I feel the teasing energy between us settle into something a little more real, a little more honest, and it’s not as terrifying as it was last night.

“Well, in that case,” I say, leaning back in my chair, my eyes still on him, “I’m curious to see what else you’ve got.”

The food arrives just as a lull settles between us—two greasy plates of whatever we decided could cure a hangover. We dig in without much ceremony, like eating gives us permission not to talk for a few minutes. I focus on the way the yolk spills over toast, how Will’s fork clinks too hard against the plate every time he moves.

Between bites, we let the conversation drift toward safer ground. The night out, the club, snippets from pre-drinks. Will tells me Arthur Hill gave him a look the second he slipped away from the group at pre's, like he knew exactly where he was going and who he was going after.

I raise an eyebrow, and he just shrugs, mouth full, like it’s not even worth denying.

“He said something like, ‘Go on then, you fucking idiot,’” Will mumbles, doing a terrible impression of Arthur’s voice. “Didn’t even bother being subtle.”

I laugh, the sound a little too loud for the quiet buzz of the café. “And you still went straight into my room?”

Will grins, lips shiny with butter. “Obviously.”

With our plates cleared, the conversation quiets, leaving only the soft clink of cutlery and the low murmur of the café around us. The food, the coffee, the paracetamol, they’re all doing their job. I feel a little bit shit now, instead of a lot a bit shit. Progress. I can see it in Will too, his grip on his coffee cup has relaxed, his shoulders not quite so tense. We’re both starting to feel human again. Still, the sunglasses stay firmly on, like if we take them off, the hangover might decide to stage a comeback.

A lull settles between us—not awkward, just weighted. Expectant. Like we’re both circling something we’re not quite ready to say out loud.

I push my fork around my plate, chasing crumbs. Will leans back in his chair, one hand resting on the lid of his coffee cup, the other tapping a quiet rhythm against the table. He hasn’t said anything in a while, not really, and I can see the thoughts stacking up behind his eyes like dominoes, just waiting for the first one to fall.

He’s looking at me again—really looking this time—and I can feel it before I see it. That slight crease between his brows. The way his mouth twitches like he’s holding something back, like he’s working through the last few hours in slow motion.

I think he's going to bring up our fight, my really harsh words, and the fact he doesn't deserve any of them.

He takes a slow breath, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Hey, can I ask something?” His voice is a little quieter now, a shift in the air between us.

I glance up at him, a bit defensive. “What?”.

His gaze doesn’t waver, even though I’m doing my best to hide behind the comfort of my coffee cup. “Last night. The fight, and then the dancing. What changed? You went from attacking my job and character”—he gestures vaguely, referring to the tension and the harsh words—“to dancing on me like... you were trying to drive me crazy on purpose.” He lets out a little chuckle, but there’s a real question there, something he’s trying to get at.

That’s not what I expected. I thought he’d rip into me about all the things I said, the way I tore him down. I deserve that. I deserve worse.

I swallow the lump that suddenly forms in my throat, not because of the question, but because of what I know the answer is. I can’t help it. The thought of George, of seeing him with that girl, it hits me like a wave all over again. And now Will’s asking about it, and I want to lie, but it’s not even about lying. I don’t know how to explain it.

I meet his gaze, forcing myself to stay calm, to act like none of this is affecting me. “It worked, didn’t it?” I try to laugh it off, but his eyebrow lifts in that way he does when he’s not buying it. “I dunno,” I say, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “Guess I was just... caught up in the moment. You know, the music, the drinks… everything kind of blends together.”

He studies me for a beat, his brows furrowing just slightly. I can see the wheels turning in his head, but he doesn’t get angry at me. Maybe he knows I’m hiding something. Maybe he doesn’t care enough to ask.

“You sure?” he presses, his voice lowering, like he’s giving me a chance to back out—but I hear the edge in it, the suspicion. “It wasn’t about George, was it?”

I force out a laugh—a little too quick, too high-pitched—like I’m trying to cover something raw. My chest tightens. “About George?”

I really wasn't expecting that. Not yet.

“Yeah, George.” His eyes lock on mine, steady and sharp, like he’s digging into my soul, trying to read between the lines. “He's told me everything. About back in uni, too.” He pauses, his jaw tightening, before adding with a bit of a knowing edge, “And I saw him hanging out with some girl last night. I just thought maybe you were trying to make him jealous or something.”

The mention of George stings, but it’s not just his name—it’s the fact that he’s been talking about me, spilling my business to anyone who’ll listen. It’s one thing to share mutual history, but this feels... wrong. I feel exposed.

“I didn’t even know that,” I say, too quick, too defensive. A lie. And I know he sees right through it.

But it’s true that it wasn’t about George. Not in the way he thinks. Yeah, sure, seeing him with that girl hits me in the gut, makes old feelings flare up like a damn wildfire, but that isn’t the driving force. Not at all. It’s not about getting him back or making him jealous. Hell, I’ve known for a while now that he doesn’t want me like that.

It’s about control—about grabbing back a little bit of power. About doing something for myself, for once, and not for anyone else.

But after last night—after how he touched me, the way it felt, how easy it was to get lost in it—I can’t help but wonder if there’s a part of me that wants it. Wants him. Not in the way I want George, not at all, but in the way that maybe... maybe it’d be nice to not be in control for once. In a good way. Just for a moment. A brief escape, a chance to feel desired without questioning it.

And as much as I try to push it down, a little voice keeps nagging at me, telling me I used Will. I used him to fill a hole I can’t name, to cover up something else that’s been eating at me. Something I still don’t know how to deal with.

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to feel bad for enjoying what happened between us. But I do. Because I know this thing with Will—whatever it is, whatever it was—can’t just be another impulse I’ll regret later.

There's this part of me, that almost wants to see where this could go. Almost.

My stomach twists again at the thought of George, at the ghosts of old feelings, but I push them down. I try to act cool, to keep my composure. My heart pounds like it wants to break free, but I don’t let it show. My voice stays steady, but it’s a fight to make it sound unaffected.

“I’m not sure why you’re asking, but no. It wasn’t about him.”

I can’t tell him. Not when we’re sitting here, trying to figure out how to move forward without more confusion piling up. The last thing I need is to bring George into it. Not after what I saw last night.

Will doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he lets it slide for now. He takes a long sip of his coffee, leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Okay,” he mutters. “I just... I don’t get it, you know? It felt like one thing, and then it flipped, and suddenly we’re dancing like it’s all fine.”

I keep my face neutral, even though every part of me is screaming to tell him the truth. To explain why it felt like a release to dance with him. Why the anger, the hurt, the heat—it all melted into something else when I saw him there, and all of a sudden, the world felt a little more bearable.

But instead, I change the subject, keeping my tone light. “Are you complaining? ’Cause it looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

He gives me a tight smile, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m dodging the truth. Then his expression softens, and a real smile breaks through. “Yeah,” he says, “I did enjoy myself.”

We sit in silence for a moment, but it’s a softer kind of silence. The kind that comes after the storm. Neither of us presses the issue, and I can tell that—for now—Will’s willing to let it go.

The next stretch of conversation drifts into neutral waters. Safer topics. Familiar ground.

He brings up Becky—offhandedly at first, like he’s trying to clear something that’s been sitting between us without making a big deal of it. Says she’s a YouTuber too. Comedy stuff. She’s got a show where you just get drunk. The kind of content that doesn’t take itself too seriously, but still pulls in decent numbers.

He doesn’t linger on the details, but I can tell he’s doing it for my benefit, laying it out so I don’t have to wonder anymore. So I stop seeing her as a threat, or a ghost I was never supposed to notice.

He even says he reckons we’d get along. That she’s sharp, funny, good at reading people. Brilliant to hang out with on a night out. He mentions that they're not even close anymore, that she's become very good friends with his ex, Mia, and that last night was the first time had seen her in months.

I nod along, trying to keep my expression even, but there’s something strange about hearing him describe her. Not like he’s distancing himself—but like he’s placing her firmly in a different part of his life. A compartment I’m not supposed to worry about.

It should be comforting. It is, kind of. He's taking the time to explain something that clearly had my panties in a twist last night. I don't tell him why it affected me so much. I can't.

He doesn’t need to know how fast my mind spirals when he's not looking. Or how every kind word he says feels like it’s laced with pity, even when I know better. Even when it’s him. Especially when it’s him.

And it’s not just about Becky. Not really. She’s just another face in a crowd I don’t belong to. Another reminder that I still don’t know where I fit in this version of London I’ve landed in. I came here for a programming job, to see my closest uni friend. But George and everyone else has their people, their routines, their content calendars and inside jokes. I have a spare toothbrush in someone else’s bathroom and a half-unpacked suitcase and a preloved bedside table.

I thought moving back to the UK will fix things. I thought the ache I felt in Brisbane would ease the second my feet hit familiar pavement. I thought I'd come back and slot right into the old rhythm, like nothing has changed. But London isn't familiar, and I'll never be back at uni with George and our friends again.

I left for Australia thinking I needed space. Clarity. Nine months later, all I had was a tan, a dead grandma, and half a master's degree I'm too embarrassed to mention. Coming back in January left like surrender—like I was crawling back to something I don’t know how to live without.

And still, nothing was waiting for me here. Just echoes. Just everyone having moved on without me, like I pressed pause and the world didn't. Like the version of me that used to belong here has been replaced—and no one even noticed.

Now it’s June, and London still doesn’t feel like home. Not really. I’ve got a job, a hobby, a handful of close friends—things that should fill the space, should make it feel less empty. But even surrounded by people, I still feel like I’m on the outside looking in, like I’m passing through someone else’s life instead of living my own. The noise never quite reaches me, and the laughter feels distant, like echoes through a glass wall.

George’s flat still feels like a set I’m just squatting in. The bed is technically mine, but everything else—the silence, the chipped mugs, the unopened letters on the counter—makes me feel like a guest in my own life.

And maybe that’s why last night with Will hits harder than I expect. Why I let myself get drunk on softness and skin and attention. Why I let it matter.

Because for a second, it felt like someone saw me. And for the first time in months, I didn't feel like I’m on the outside of my own story.

Maybe that’s why I cling to Will like he’s solid ground in a city that doesn’t feel like mine. Why I kiss him like it can silence the voice in my head—the one that keeps whispering that no one’s really waiting for me, in London, Brisbane, or anywhere. Like I’m just passing through, a visitor in my own life.

“Y/N, you good?” His voice pulls me back, soft but steady, like an anchor I don’t realize I’m searching for.

I blink, shake off the weight of my thoughts, and force a half-smile. “Hm? Yeah, I’m good. Just… thinking about you.” I hesitate, then add with a nervous laugh, “Last night. Uh, naked.”

It’s a lie and not a lie. I’m lying because it's not what I'm only thinking about, and I want to keep things light, but I’m not lying about what flickers through my mind more than once—the thought that maybe it’d be a damn shame if we never get another chance like that again. Not because I trust him, or because I’m sure it means anything, but because in that moment, his touch is the only thing that makes me feel less invisible. Less lost.

Okay I'm lying to myself again. I think I do trust him.

And I don’t hate him anymore. Not really, but I am confused—why has he attached himself to me like this? I can’t shake the feeling that, to him, I’m still some kind of charity project. A puzzle to fix rather than a person to know. And maybe that’s why part of me keeps my distance, keeps my guard up. Maybe it's not about holding out for George at all.

But beneath the frustration, there’s something softer. Something dangerous. And I’m scared to admit how much I want to find out what this could be, even if only for a little while.

“Is that so?” he grins, slow and deliberate, I can see that look in his eyes through his sunglasses — like he’s already replaying what he’s about to do. Everything I was just thinking about dissolves in the air.

I feel it—the way his presence fills the space between us, thick and electric, pulling me in even before we leave this table. The second we get back to his flat, I know I’ll be pressed up against his kitchen counter, his hands tracing that familiar line from my waist to my hips, the heat between us rising fast.

The thought makes my cheeks burn—hot, spreading through me like wildfire. It’s the kind of heat that makes my breath catch, that sharp flutter in my stomach I try to pretend isn’t there. I want to play it cool, but inside, I’m already unravelling.

He’s teasing, sure. But beneath the grin and the playful words, there’s a weight—a promise, or maybe a challenge—that I can’t quite shake. And even if I’m tangled up in doubts about what this means, right now I’m hooked, caught in the pull of something dangerous and delicious.

He leans in, that familiar glint in his eye. “Keep lookin’ at me like that and they’ll be chuckin’ us out for indecency.”

I smirk, already warm in the face. “Oh yeah? And what’re you gonna do about it?”

He grins, wide and wicked. “Get us out before they do, won’t I?” He slides his hand into mine, fingers curling around with surprising firmness.

Before I can think twice, he’s pulling me up, tugging me toward the door. We stumble through the small space, laughing like fools, dodging curious looks and a near-spilled latte.

Outside, the arm air hits my skin, and I catch my breath. I almost can't believe I think it's warm. I know it’s summer, but the air is always cool here. He tightens his grip, voice low and teasing. “Race you back to my place?”

And before I can say another word he drops my hand and bolts.

“Oi! I’m in last night’s boots!” I shout, nearly tripping as I take off after him, laughter bursting out of me.

He glances over his shoulder, running backwards like a show-off. “Sounds like a you problem, love!” But he slows down and lets me catch up. He stretches out his hand and I take it.

We run down the street, breathless and grinning like idiots, our fingers still linked like neither of us wants to let go.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 10

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 3.4k+

Note: This is my very first time writing smut so i tried to make it as palatable as ever but uhhhhh idk how well i did with it. Also im starting a taglist for this series! so if ur interested just comment on this post or message me :)

Also Also if anyone wants a no smut / only suggestive version i can defs post that :)

18+ only, MDNI

content warnings: Penetrative sex, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, dominance if you squint, if I'm missing any let me know <33

xxx

Will and I fumble into his flat. It's all clumsy limbs and too-loud whispers, the door clicking shut behind us with a finality that makes the air shift. I brace myself for the usual bachelor-pad chaos: crusty mugs, takeout containers, the faint smell of socks and disappointment.

But… it’s not that.

It’s surprisingly clean. Like, suspiciously clean. The surfaces gleam. The shoes are lined up by the door like obedient soldiers. There’s a plant. It's alive, thriving even, not just a sad, crispy husk in the corner.

And there’s art on the walls.

Not cheesy motivational prints or movie posters still in their plastic frames. Actual art. A mix of bold colour and clean lines — a few abstract pieces, a photograph of a foggy shoreline, one that looks like it might be from an old video game reimagined as something soft and nostalgic.

I blink.

Will kicks off his shoes and glances over his shoulder at me, clocking my expression. “What?” he says, already defensive.

“I just— I didn’t expect you to live like a real adult.”

He snorts, kicking off his shoes. “I’m full of surprises.”

I trail my fingers across a framed print near the hallway. It’s surprisingly beautiful. Thoughtful. Like someone lives here who actually cares about what it means to live somewhere.

“You picked all this?” I ask, still not sure if I believe it.

He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “Yeah. I like… nice things, I guess.”

For a moment, I don't say anything. I just stand there, trying to reconcile this version of him. His clean, quiet, curated space — with the chaotic, half-cocky, half-tender boy who kissed me like he meant it and then maybe lied straight to my face.

I try to play it cool, but jealousy snakes through me, fast and bitter. God, I wish I had a place like this — somewhere clean and warm, where things have a place and the silence feels calm instead of lonely. Somewhere mine. Somewhere I could just be without tiptoeing around someone else’s life.

And then I remember where I am. Who I’m with.

This man — this annoying, infuriating, stupidly sexy man is standing barefoot in front of me, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded with sleep and club haze. And I’m in his flat. On a night out. With no real plan but this.

Whatever this is.

The room hums with the kind of silence that means something.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of how much I want him to kiss me again. Of how much I’m pretending not to want that.

He watches me, quiet and still, and then finally, I step further in. “Well,” I say, gesturing at the spotless kitchen and gently lit shelves. “Colour me shocked.”

He smiles, small and crooked. “Wait till you see the bedroom.”

I roll my eyes, but I follow him anyway.

It starts messy. It's all rushed and unthinking, all hands and heat and urgency. Like we’ve been holding our breath since the club and now it’s finally safe to exhale. His mouth finds mine too fast, too greedy, like he’s afraid I might vanish if he doesn’t anchor me in place.

We stumble backward toward the bed, laughing into each other’s mouths, clumsy with want. His hands grip my waist, tug at my jacket, desperate to close the distance. I press into him harder than I mean to. He groans against my neck, and my knees weaken.

It’s chaotic — the kind of kissing that feels like it’s barely holding together, like if we stop for even a second it’ll all crack open and we’ll have to face whatever this really is. So we don’t stop.

I don’t want to. Not yet.

Then we fall onto the bed, tangled and breathless, the chaos softening around the edges. His forehead rests against mine, his hands moving slower now — gentle, tentative, as if he’s trying to memorize every line and curve. There’s something almost reverent in the way he touches me, and it throws me off completely.

I want to pretend it’s still that night-out glow, that post-fight shimmer. That this is just a hook-up, a dumb, gorgeous mistake I’ll laugh about later. I want to feel powerful, irresistible, dangerous. But underneath the bravado, there’s something softer and more terrifying clawing up my spine. Something like longing.

And maybe he feels it too, because at some point it changes.

His grip loosens. His kiss slows. He pulls back just enough to look at me, really look at me, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw like it’s something worth memorising.

Fuck I still hate him. But there’s a reverence to the way he’s touching me. His hands slide down my arms slowly, breathing me in, like it might be the last time he ever gets the opportunity. This morning I would’ve been shocked he got the first opportunity, but now I question whether it would be a mistake to never let him have another.

He looks at me like I’m something he’s been trying not to want. Like this is surrender, not victory. His fingers settle at my waist, thumbs pressing gently into the dip of my hips like he’s grounding himself there. I should shove him off, say something cutting, something cruel. That’s what I do with him. That’s what we do. But right now, all I can manage is to breathe.

I’m warm, restless, and furious all at once. Furious that he’s here, and angrier still that part of me wants him to stay.

“Don’t be soft with me,” I manage to say, my voice more a plea than a command.

He pulls back just enough, his breath warm against my ear. “Why not?” he whispers, voice low and tinged with something real—curiosity, maybe even hope. In his words I can feel the crease between his brows, the way he’s searching for an answer. It’s like a shiver that runs straight down my spine, unsettling and electric all at once.

Fuck I still hate him I open my mouth, but no words come. Because I don’t trust him. Because I didn’t come here for this. Because if he’s soft, I might not know how to leave.

Because somewhere deep down, I’ve already decided to hate him again. It’s easier that way — to Armor up, to keep the distance, to tell myself I’m better off alone.

Because tonight, I’m not here for him. I’m here because I saw George — my closest friend— kissing someone who looks just like me. A perfect, cruel mirror reflecting everything I want but don’t have.

I'm here to forget.

It’s like a punch in the gut, twisting the knife in a way I can’t ignore. And now, lying here with Will, feeling the weight of him on me, I’m caught between what I want and what I’m afraid of.

I don’t want to be soft. Not when everything else feels so broken. Not when the truth I’m running from is staring me down in the form of that kiss I saw, that betrayal I didn’t expect.

So, I tug him back to me, burying my face in his neck. It’s easier to kiss him than to explain why tenderness scares me more than the fights ever did.

Then his fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt like he’s not just undressing me, but trying to understand me. I should push him away. I want to. But my body stays still, betraying me one breath at a time.

“This isn’t supposed to feel like this,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, just kisses me again — slower this time, deeper, like we have all the time in the world. My stomach twists. This wasn’t supposed to be tender. It was supposed to be impulsive. Sharp. Regrettable.

“This changes nothing,” I mutter between kisses, tugging his shirt over his head with more force than necessary.

He huffs a laugh. His mouth finds the hollow of my throat. I close my eyes. I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t belong here—not in this city, not in this bed, not with him. London still feels like a coat I borrowed from someone taller. Every room echoes. Every street is unfamiliar.

Fuck I still hate him, but there’s a softness here that tears me open, and I hate how desperately I don’t want to hate it.

“You don’t even like me,” I whisper, voice shaking with everything I’m trying to fight.

He breathes out, eyes dark and raw. “No. You don’t like me.”

The words hang heavy between us, thick with all the things we won’t say. In this chaotic, tangled mess of need and resentment, nothing is simple anymore — and somehow, it’s not hate either. Not anymore.

Then, as if sensing my hesitation, everything shifts again. The kiss grows rougher, faster. His grip tightens at my waist, and I respond, pulling him closer, needing the chaos back.

Suddenly, it’s messy again. Urgent. Like we’ve been holding this in for too long and now it’s spilling everywhere, impossible to contain.

Most of our clothes lie scattered across his bedroom floor—forgotten and tangled like the night itself. His body presses against mine, radiating warmth that seeps into my skin, chasing away the cold I’ve carried for too long. Every breath he takes is steady and close, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

He feels so close. So real. So impossibly warm.

His mouth wanders. He kisses down my neck, until he reaches my breast. He cups my breast and takes my nipple in his mouth. I want to stare at the celling and pretend it doesn’t feel good, but god it feels good. I close my eyes and hum softly. His hands are still sinking into my sides, squeezing as if I might float away.

xxx

He moves lower, kissing me all over. Each kiss sends a shooting of heat all over my body. I want to be embarrassed, I want to push him off, but no I don’t. not really. It's messy, sloppy. His teeth drag across my stomach in a way that makes my back arch. He finds his place between my thighs, hands rough, gripping.

He stops, looking up at me for approval. His eyes are dark. Holy fuck he's hot. I knew that but this… this is different. I nod at him and he uses one finger and my underwear falls to the floor. He sinks into me, his tongue moves. At first it's one long, deliberate stroke, and everything within me escaped. A breath tore out of my lungs.

I grip the sheets, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut.

Now he’s sped up — circling, then flicking with maddening precision. There’s a desperation in the way he moves, the kind that’s almost reverent, like worship dragged through the teeth of obsession. His rhythm is erratic, but not careless — no, it’s intentional in the way only someone completely consumed can be. Too hungry to be methodical, too skilled to be clumsy.

Every movement feels like it’s building to something inevitable, like he knows exactly how to unmake me, and he’s doing it on purpose. My thighs start to tremble, my breath catching in my throat as he works me apart piece by piece. And he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even slow.

It’s relentless — that quiet kind of ruin that feels like being seen too clearly. His mouth, his hands, his focus — all of it so single-minded it borders on holy. Like he’s not just touching my body, but dragging something deeper, more dangerous, to the surface.

My spine arches. The room narrows to the heat of his mouth, the burn of my skin, the pull in mystomach like a wire about to snap. And still, he keeps going — like he needs this. Needs me. Not just the sounds, not just the shaking, but the way I'm falling apart for him. Because of him.

And it’s unbearable. And it’s exquisite.

And you’re not sure which is worse — how much I need it, or how much he already knows.

"Fuck, Will." My hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in his curls. I needed  something to hold onto, anything. I twisted hair around my fingers tugged, hard and he groaned, into me.

Holy shit. I'm close. He can tell, my breathing is uneven, my grip tighter, my thighs are squeezing so hard I am almost worried for him. Almost.

“Still hate me?” he lifts his head, eyes glittering, that maddening smirk pulling at his lips.

Fuck him. There It is, the cockiness, the arrogance the insufferable confidence I've told myself over and over I can't stand. The exact reason I swore I hated him in the first place.

“Yes,” I breathe, shoving him down again with shaking hands and no hesitation.

He lets out a breath of a laugh but it is cut off as his mouth finds me again. He slips a finger in between my folds, pumping in and out, like he's trying to undo me completely.

I let out a shaky half-strangled sound, my body arching towards him on instinct.

"Will I'm gonna —"

"Please," he cuts in, voice low, hoarse, desperate.

Like he's begging for it.

Like he needs to watch me fall apart.

And I do.

My orgasm washes over me like a tidal wave—hot, breathless, all-consuming. It crashes through me in a blinding rush, and still, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up. Just keeps going like he’s determined to draw every last ounce of it out of me.

It’s too much.

My skin feels too tight, nerves frayed and sparking, every inch of me hypersensitive. I gasp, shuddering, and push him off with trembling hands, half-laughing, half-panting.

“Jesus—stop,” I manage, voice hoarse and wrecked. “I can’t—”

My chest heaves. I’m flushed, shaken, undone.

He pulls back immediately, breath ragged, lips swollen, eyes dark with something that looks a lot like pride — or maybe possession. But he doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at me, like he’s still memorising the aftermath, committing every flicker of wreckage to memory.

I reach up and pull him into another kiss — desperate, deep, greedy. I taste myself on his lips, and it only makes me want more.

My hands wander to his boxers, palming him through the fabric. His cock trapped between us. I try to shift, to push him onto his back, but he doesn't let me. God he's strong.

Instead, his hands tighten at my waist, anchoring me in place. His mouth hovers near mine, breath hot and uneven.

“I can't wait,” he murmurs, voice thick with something I don’t have the words for.

I pull his boxers off, we giggle as they get tangled at his feet. His cock springs free from its confines, and its serious again. His mouth is on me — hot, insistent, like he’s starving for it. There’s no hesitation this time, no softness left. Just heat and hunger and the kind of focus that makes my head spin. He moves like he’s trying to unravel me all over again, like watching me fall apart once wasn’t enough.

His hands are firm on my hips, holding me steady, grounding me — but everything else feels unsteady, like I’m balancing on the edge of something dangerous and deep and impossibly good.

He aligns himself, and starts to push into me. He is ragged and breathless, and looks at me expectantly. He looks to me, waiting, and I nod at him, gripping his forearms. He sinks down,  the first inch makes me gasp,  and gives me a second to adjust. My body swallows him, and my whole body feels like it's on fire. Once I sigh at him, with a smile laced with enjoyment, he starts to move.

Its relentless. Gone is the sweetness of earlier, and im glad I told him off for it. His hips move in a maddening rhythm, powerful, chasing his own high. He is making the most delightful noises. Raw and guttural. Its almost not human, primal. I move my hips to change the angle, now he's reaching the most sensitive parts. I cry out, arching my back instinctively.

“Fuck, y/n," he says, "you feel so good, all for me"  his pace starts to get sloppy. I think he's going to finish when he kisses my forehead quickly, and pulls out of me suddenly. My body missing the feeling already.

He flips me onto my stomach—steady, not rough, but with a firm purpose. Before I can fully register, he props my hips up on a pillow I didn’t even see him grab. My upper body is balanced on my forearms, but then he presses my head down, making me collapse forward. Again not forcefully, but hot. God damn its hot. My hands claw at the sheets, gripping tight as the pressure pulls me deeper into the moment.

He pounds into me, the sounds of my body on his fill the room. But he doesn’t last much longer, his movements are sloppy, and softer. He finishes on my back, and he collapses on top of me, his mess sticking to his stomach.

He’s soft again, pressing gentle kisses to my face and neck, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me in the quiet, the morning after the storm. We’re both breathing heavily, the air thick with heat and something unspoken, every breath a silent confession in the dim light.

He mumbles something about getting me to cum again, but I shake the idea off. I'm content. Truly.

xxx

We lie like that for a minute, catching our breath. His hands trace softly up and down my spine, sending shivers down my body. I stare at his nightstand, the dim glow of a lone lamp casting shadows over the scattered books and half-empty water glass. The quiet between us feels heavy — filled with everything we haven’t said.

Will goes to his ensuite and returns with a towel, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the heavy silence. He wipes his mess and the sweat from my skin gently, like he’s handling something fragile. Then he leans down, kisses my forehead—quick, almost tentative—and pulls me close until I’m flush against his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat hums beneath my ear, grounding me in the quiet warmth of this moment.

We lie like that, tangled and still, the silence between us dense with everything we’re both too scared to say.

Finally, I break it, my voice low, cautious.

“So... what now?”

His breath catches. He doesn’t meet my eyes, instead tracing slow, lazy circles on my back with his fingers.

“Whatever now is... I guess we figure it out.”

I scoff, bitter but trying to hide it.

“Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, the sound raw.

“Trust me, I don’t. But I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

I want to ask if “not going anywhere” means more than this—more than tonight—but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I settle for a safer question.

“You sure you’re okay with this? With me?”

He stiffens just a little before finally meeting my eyes. There’s something behind them—something cautious, almost vulnerable.

“I’m okay. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” The word tastes sharp on my tongue.

He shrugs, a wry half-smile flickering.

“There’s always a ‘mostly’ with us, isn’t there?”

His words hang between us, heavy and unspoken.

I know exactly what he means. George’s shadow lingers like a stain neither of us can scrub out—a secret that colors everything. It’s the invisible line we dance around, the unfinished chapter in my heart that I can’t—and maybe won’t—close. And maybe Will feels it too, a quiet ache that neither of us knows how to soothe.

I turn my head, resting it against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath my ear.

“Don’t expect me to be ready for anything else anytime soon.”

He doesn’t press, just murmurs softly, almost like a confession:

“Neither am I.”

The words are soft, but the “not with you” lingers like a breath held too long—unspoken, but sharper than any truth we could voice.

I’m sure he hears it too—in the way my breath catches, in the tension coiled beneath his skin. Neither of us ready to say what that really means.

And somehow, that silent understanding makes the space between us less suffocating. We don’t have to admit the messy truth just yet. We can stay here, tangled in the quiet, holding onto this fragile moment as if it’s enough.

And in that fragile space between heartbeats, sleep finally claims us both.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 9

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.5k+

Note: LMAO i wrote this at 'work' (i have a weekend job where i work as a 'supervisor' and i sit in an office and play the sims and get paid for it). THNAK YOU EVERYONE for the kindest of words. my heart is so full with everyone talking about this series.

also this chapter is a bit of a love letter to my friends at my own version of The Van. i pray they never see this but i love those guys. also also you all need to play Beerio Kart it goes so hard.

xxx

By the time I get to Ruth’s, her flat is already buzzing. It's the Tuesday crew from The Van, and a few extra people I don’t recognise.

There’s someone from the soup run — I think his name’s Leon — curled up in the armchair, nursing a can of lager and shouting advice at the screen. One of the newer volunteers, Naomi, is painting her nails on the coffee table like it’s not covered in half-eaten biscuits and empty crisp packets. And someone I don’t recognise — probably someone’s partner or flatmate — is crouched in front of the TV cabinet, trying to get the Switch working, sleeves rolled up like it's been a tough day at work.

Ruth lights up when she sees me. “Ugh, finally. We’re all sick of Quiplash. Come teach everyone Beerio Kart”

She claps her hands like a teacher calling a class to order. “Okay! Y/N is going to explain the rules for those of us who don’t know how to play… which is all of us.”

She practically shoves me onto the couch like I’m about to deliver a TED Talk.

I lean in, pointing to my fellow volunteers like a revolutionary leader. “Rule one: you can’t drink and drive. Mario world has standards. Both hands off the controller while you’re drinking.”

“Justice for Toad!” someone yells. Laughter ripples through the room.

“Two: you have to finish your beer before the race ends. Or you lose. Morally.” Everyone is now calculating their strategies.

“You can drink during countdowns, when you fall off the track, when you get shelled—”

“—when your ex texts you mid-race and ruins your whole life,” Naomi adds from the floor. More laughter. I laugh but I do not get the joke, or if there even is a joke.

So I drop into the last open spot — a beanbag wedged between Tom (a guy from Thursday nights who always brings his own gloves) and someone covered in tattoos who’s currently balancing a beer can on their head.

“Three… two… one—GO!” someone shouts, and half the room starts chugging like we’re at some sacred, chaotic communion.

To my left, Amina (who's homemade banana bread is to die for) downs her entire beer before her kart even moves. By the time she slams her can down, she’s already in 12th place, but she’s grinning. “Now I can actually drive, losers!”

Across the room, one of the quieter volunteers — Sam, I think — is casually cruising in second place until he brakes right before the finish line and sips the rest of his can like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Bold move, Sam,” someone mutters, as he finishes with one dramatic gulp and crosses the line with milliseconds to spare.

I, on the other hand, am doing what most of us are doing: swerving off Rainbow Road, nursing bruises from red shells, and sneaking sips during every crash. I’ve barely made it through half the can and I’m losing spectacularly, but Ruth keeps shouting, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” every time I get back on track.

There’s shouting, laughing, cans cracking open. Someone yells, “Wait, I spilled beer in my controller!” and no one stops playing. No one even really cares who’s winning. The flat smells like beer, dry shampoo, and warm energy.

My character flies off the edge of the course for the third time in one lap.

“Perfect time for a drink,” I mutter, tipping my can back.

From across the room, Ruth hollers, “THAT’S the spirit!”

It’s stupid and chaotic and none of it makes sense. But for once, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Not even a little bit.

I'm still getting to know these people, but they’re kind. Loud in the right ways. Familiar in a way that doesn’t ask too much of me. Ruth shoots me a grin from the corner, one that says: See? Told you this would be fun.

And for a minute, it is.

Even if I've been inked and and I’ve been hit by three shells in a row.

Even if the memory of Will’s kiss — and George’s look — hovers at the edge of my mind like stormclouds threatening to crack open.

Right now, I’m here.

And I’m winning.

Sort of.

Xxx

The Uber was called, and the room still buzzed with energy. People darted around, perfecting eyeliner flicks and dabbing on last-minute lipstick. The chaos from Beerio Kart had settled into a warm, tipsy glow — everyone flushed and laughing, convinced the game had been a smashing success.

Ruth caught my eye and tilted her head, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“So, why were you late?” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

I hesitated, cheeks heating up. “Kissing Will,” I blurted, half proud, half embarrassed.

Her eyes practically popped. “WHAT, no way! Spill the tea — I did not see that coming. I mean I did, but I was thinking in like, 3 to 6 months.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but damn, the memory of his lips was still burning a hole in my brain.

We lean in like we’re conspirators plotting something way more interesting than makeup tips.

I explain to her that George had a bunch of his friends over for pre-drinks, “So, he texts me, right?” I grin, leaning in like I’m spilling some top-secret intel. “He can see my shadows moving—and straight-up demands to be let into my room. Like, no ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up,’ just full-on ‘open this door now’ energy.”

Ruth bursts out laughing. “Oh girl, that’s borderline stalker-chic. I’m here for it.”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, well, it worked. Then he hits me with, ‘I’m tired of pretending I don’t like you,’ which is like, okay, chill.”

Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Ooooh, so he’s got a soft side? Didn’t know that was in his skill set.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Right? And then he goes, ‘I would’ve kissed you back’—which is crazy work, so obviously he’s been talking to George.” Ruth looks unamused at that.

“But then we kiss, because, what else do you say to that? It was literally crazy. Fully like Nick-And-Jess-From-New-Girl-First-Kiss-Vibes. It was soooo unexpected but damn, electric.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Electric, huh? And then what? Spill.”

I laugh, cheeks warming. “Okay, so then I tell him to leave, and he pushes me against the wall and kisses me again. More like ‘can’t-help-myself’ vibes. I swear my brain took a coffee break and my lips just did their own thing.”

Ruth claps her hands softly. “Girl, that’s textbook ‘can’t resist’ behaviour. Love it.”

I’m laughing. Genuinely. Not performative or polite — real.

Then Maya—Ruth’s close friend—sits cross-legged on the floor, phone out as a mirror. She's moving her lip gloss wand with the precision of a heart surgeon. She glances up at me, wine glass wobbling in her hand. “Wait, is this Will? Like, your friend WillNE on YouTube?”

I don’t even have to wonder how she knows; Ruth’s been bragging about living with ‘influencers’ all week. I freeze just enough for Maya to catch it.

She grins, totally misreading my silence. “Sorry, I only ask ‘cause I thought he had a girlfriend.”

My stomach twists. A tiny, traitorous lurch.

“What?” I say, too casual, too fast.

Maya’s already scrolling on her phone but keeps talking. “Yeah, he’s all over this girl’s Insta. Brunette, Welsh, really pretty. Posted a pic with him at some gig last week—total boyfriend vibes. Hands-on-thigh kind of thing.”

Ruth shoots me a pointed look, but I don’t meet it. My face stays calm, but inside my heart is pounding like a drum.  

“Oh?” I say, voice thin, stretched too tight, like a balloon about to pop.

I stare into my drink, the buzz fading fast, the edges of the room blurring and going cold.

Cue the slow-motion crash in my chest. Sharp, hollow, humiliating. Will never mentioned her. Not once. And here I am, catching feelings like an idiot, clinging to every glance, every inside joke, every stupid little moment like it meant something. Like he meant something.

I thought he was a friend. That’s the worst part. He’s been inviting me everywhere, pulling me into his life like there was space for me. Making me feel like I belonged. I thought he saw me. Really saw me.

And now? Now I just feel used. Like a placeholder. Like some sad, temporary girl who was dumb enough to believe that any of it was real. That feeling creeps in, the feeling where he looks at me like some kind of charity case. Something broken he could fix to feel better about himself. A project. Nothing permanent, just a distraction dressed up as concern.

I feel like an idiot.

Stupid for letting myself want more — for a second kiss, a text that means something, anything that isn’t just some blurry grey area he gets to walk away from untouched.

I take a long sip of my drink, trying to wash the embarrassment down with cheap rosé and bravado. But it lingers, tight in my throat, prickling behind my eyes. God, I feel so naive. Like a punchline he forgot to tell me I was part of.

Maya’s already moved on, chatting about something else, blissfully unaware of the landmine she just stepped on. But my mind is miles away now — back in my bedroom, back against the door, his mouth on my neck, whispering things that now feel like lies. Or worse.

Just meaningless.

I decide I'm back to hating him again, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not at all.

But I already know that I will.

Xxx

The club is a boiling pot of chaos — packed, sweaty, East London at its wildest. Bodies press against each other in a blur of sequins, smoke, and flashing lights. The bass doesn’t just shake the floor — it owns it — thudding through my chest with a relentless rhythm that matches the anger simmering just beneath my skin. Every beat feels like a dare, every strobe flash a spotlight on the pieces of me I’m trying to burn away.

I’m already buzzed, teetering on the edge of drunk, riding that sharp, reckless wave heartbreak always leaves behind — the kind that makes everything shimmer and sting at the same time. There’s glitter stuck to my collarbones, a smear of lipstick I don’t remember applying, and a voice in my head saying: Don’t think. Just move.

So I do.

I dance with my head thrown back, laughing too loud, drinking too fast. My arms are in the air, hair sticking to the back of my neck, spinning in circles like I can outrun the memory of his mouth on my skin. Around me, strangers cheer and twirl and grind and kiss like they’ve never been hurt. Like none of it matters. And maybe, for a moment, it doesn’t.

Someone hands me a drink — I don’t ask what it is. I just down it like it’s a potion to forget. Like it might bleach out the part of me still holding onto his name like it’s something sacred.

I’m hot, dizzy, untouchable. Or at least, I’m pretending to be. There’s something feral in me tonight — a girl made of spite and vodka and eyeliner, just daring the universe to give her another reason to self-destruct.

And under the lights, with my heart cracked wide open and every nerve on fire, I almost feel free.

Almost.

Then I see them.

George, Chris, and a few other familiar faces slice through the crowd like sharks hunting territory. I spot the two Arthurs  and Bach, who I’m pretty sure I met once, maybe? One of the group I recognise as he threw a party the first week I got to London. A couple are Sidemen members — I know that because Will’s hyped about them all the time and even showed me a video where he was in. There are others too, faces I don’t fully recognize but feel like I’ve seen somewhere—maybe on my FYP, scrolling past late at night.

How did this even happen? How do a bunch of broke volunteers and a pack of overpaid YouTubers end up in the same club in East London? It feels like a cosmic joke, like the universe just couldn’t resist putting me in the middle of some weird influencer fever dream. I’m in op-shop boots and borrowed eyeliner, and they’re in designer jackets and thousand-pound smiles, casually famous in ways I still don’t fully understand.

Basically, I feel surrounded. Like I’m the odd one in a sea of familiar strangers.

Then, my eyes lock on the girl Maya showed me earlier. Small, built, gorgeous—she moves through the crowd like she owns it, every inch the part. And yeah, she’s with Will.

George locks eyes with me — that same deer-in-headlights look I’ve seen on him before, like he wasn’t expecting me to be here, like I’m some ghost that just stepped through the smoke machine haze. But there’s something else tangled in his expression now. Something darker. Jealousy? Regret? I can’t tell.

His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something — or maybe it’s just shock. He doesn’t move. Just stares across the crowd like I’ve knocked the air out of him. And maybe I have. I’m not sure what I was expecting from him — a wave? A smirk? Indifference? Anything would’ve hurt, but this uncertainty burns.

The lights flash blue, then red, then white, catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looks good. Stupidly good. Which only pisses me off more.

So I turn away first.

I throw my head back and laugh at something someone beside me didn’t even say, just to make sure he sees it. I let my hands slide down the arms of the person dancing with me. It's Quiet Sam. He's a bit confused, but he's also very drunk (he played Beerio Kart with shots). He smells like sweat and cheap cologne and safety. It’s petty. It’s deliberate. It’s survival.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see George shift. Like he wants to move toward me, or maybe away? Like he’s caught in the middle of two impulses and doesn’t trust either one. He raises his drink to his lips and downs half of it in one go. His hand is tight around the glass like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

There’s a beat, just one, where the crowd parts a little and there’s nothing between us. No bodies. No bass. Just silence and neon. And in that breathless, glittering pause, I see it again. Not just jealousy. Not just regret.

Longing.

And it knocks the wind out of me, because for a second, I want to reach for him too.

But then Amina grabs my hand, spinning me in a lazy circle. I let it happen. I let the moment pass. I don’t look back.

And then, Will spots me.

It happens mid-laugh — his, not mine. He’s leaning against the bar, drink in one hand, surrounded by people who probably don't even know his last name. His head’s thrown back, mouth open in that easy, effortless way that used to make my stomach flutter, fuck it still does. Then his eyes flick toward the dance floor—just casually, just a sweep—and he sees me.

He freezes.

Like a record scratch in the middle of a perfect song. Like I’ve just stepped out of a dream he thought he was still safely inside.

And to be fair, last time we spoke — what, five hours ago? — we were making out like idiots in my bedroom when all of his friends were in the next room. Breathless. Hands tangled in clothes. Him saying things like “I’m tired of pretending”, me believing them for long enough to let my guard down. He texted me after and I didn’t text back.

He has no idea I’m mad.

He has no idea.

So when he sees me now — glitter-smeared, mascara smudged, drink in hand like a weapon — he’s smiling. That same smile he wore when his mouth was on my neck. Open, stupid, happy. Like we’re still in that soft moment. Like nothing’s changed.

I make sure it shatters.

I don’t smile. I don’t wave. I don’t acknowledge him.

Instead, I tilt my head back and laugh at something that Sam says in my ear— laugh like I’m free, like nothing in the world is heavy or complicated or still haunting me. Then, without even thinking, I lean in and kiss that same guy on the cheek. Just loud enough that Will sees it. That everyone sees it. A blatant, glittering middle finger. A declaration: I’ve moved on. You were never that important.

It’s petty. It’s calculated. It’s completely unhinged.

But God, it feels good.

And when I finally glance back — just for a second, just to twist the knife — Will’s no longer smiling.

He looks confused. Hurt. Like he can’t quite compute what the hell just happened. He shifts his weight, scanning my face for any version of the girl who kissed him against a doorframe just hours ago. And he can’t find her. Because I buried her the second Maya said “girlfriend.”

He’s blinking too fast. Adjusting. You can see it all playing out behind his eyes: Did I do something? Did she regret it? Is this a joke?

And maybe I should feel bad — but I don’t. Because I did mean it. Every second of it.

And he didn’t think I deserved the truth.

Eventually, Will corners me at the bar, where neon flashes bounce off the bottles. He leans in, shouting over the bass. “You’re ignoring me!” He doesn’t let go of my gaze.

I raise my voice back, trying to sound casual but fierce: “Figured you’ve got options. Don’t let me get in the way.”

He blinks, clearly thrown. “What are you talking about?” He says loudly, confused, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t even know existed.

Before he can say more, the girl sidles up to him, shouting something I can’t quite catch over the pounding bass. She pats his back like she owns the moment, then turns and walks away, leaving him standing there like a question mark.

Will’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, darting to the floor, to the crowd—anywhere but me. I can almost hear the shame vibrating through the thrum of the music, mixing with the sweat and heat and everything else suffocating the room.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to explain, maybe to beg.

So I spin away from him, grab another drink, down half of it in one go. The sting in my chest has nothing to do with the tequila. I throw myself into the rhythm—into the chaos—trying to drown the ache in bodies and basslines. The club is heaving, sweat and light and noise pressing in on all sides.

And then it changes.

A slower song pulses through the speakers, the bass heavy and honey-thick, like it’s moving through molasses. The lights shift, casting everything in a red-blue haze. It’s still loud, but the energy has dipped into something darker, more charged.

I feel him before I see him. The heat of him at my back. His breath close to my ear, just above the music: “Let me just talk to you.”

I don’t move. Not right away. My body goes still, rigid.

And then—I turn.

And we lock eyes.

And for a second, just one suspended moment in the chaos, it’s like the entire club goes silent. Like the bass cuts out, the crowd dissolves, the song holds its breath. Just me, him, and the gravity pulling between us. His face is flushed, eyes wide, desperate and soft all at once.

I nod. Barely. But he sees it.

And he reaches for my hand.

The noise crashes back around us as we move—shoulders bumping, drinks sloshing, bodies pressing past—but it all feels distant now. He’s pulling me toward the exit, and the club peels away behind us, like a fever breaking.

Like the night’s about to change.

We slip out of the chaos of the dancefloor together and into the smokers’ area. Neither of us smokes—thank God—because I hate the smell of cigarettes. I had a boyfriend in high school who smoked, and I remember how the smell clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, even his lips. I swore back then that I’d never kiss anyone who smoked again. It was one of those teenage promises I thought I’d never break.

To be fair, most people out here are vaping instead, that sweet, artificial fog hanging in the air instead of smoke. It’s better, I guess—less harsh, less lingering—but the smell still makes me wrinkle my nose. It’s a reminder of all the times I tried to convince myself that love could change things. That people could change.

The cold night air hits my skin, sharp and real against the muffled thrum of the club behind us. Suddenly, everything feels quieter, slower—the kind of space where you can finally breathe, and maybe even say what’s been tangled up inside your chest all day.

I glance over at him, searching his face in the dim light, and wonder if he has any idea how much has shifted in these last five hours since we were tangled up, kissing, careless. Five hours since he sent that text, expecting a reply I never gave. Five hours since I decided to hold all my words inside, bottled up like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.

Here, away from the crowd, away from the noise and flashing lights, the weight of it all presses down. And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment where we either break or begin to mend.

“What's going on? Why didn’t you answer my text?” Will asks, his voice low but urgent.

I meet his eyes, steady. “I heard about your girlfriend. I’m not interested in being the sidepiece, especially for someone like you.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Okay, ouch. Also… what girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I nod toward the club. “That girl in there. She’s touching you like she owns you. Maya showed me her Instagram.”

He scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. “Becky? She’s a YouTuber like me. She touches everyone when she’s drunk.”

I fold my arms, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

He looks hurt, defensive. “You’re going to believe Maya—someone you’ve never even spoken about—over me?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice flat.

He shakes his head, frustrated. “God, if you actually watched any YouTube, you’d know this.”

“Sorry, I have a real job,” I snap back. He looks at me in a way I can’t describe — hurt, maybe, or just tired of this. Of me. I don’t mean it, obviously, but I go for the kill anyway, aiming for something I know will land. “I never asked to be your little project, Will. I don’t need your charity.”

He breathes in deeply, and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m going back. We can have this conversation when were both sober”

He’s true to his word. Without another glance, he turns and melts back into the smoky swirl of strawberry-ice haze, leaving me standing there with the sharp sting of unanswered questions—and a bitter taste that isn’t from a vape.

I return inside, the club swallowing me back up like nothing happened. Like I hadn’t just stood outside in a fog of strawberry vape and bad decisions, tearing into someone who maybe didn’t even deserve it.

The music has shifted — something bouncier now, unserious and sticky with synths. I find the guy with too many tattoos by the speakers, his shirt half-unbuttoned and grinning like the night owes him something. He pulls me into a lazy twirl without asking, and I let him. It feels good to move. To not think.

Leon joins us halfway through the song, clutching two drinks and somehow still managing to shimmy in time with the beat. “I lost the others,” he yells over the music. “Maya tried to get into VIP by pretending to be Dua Lipa’s cousin.”

"She’s got the eyebrows for it,” I shout, grinning.

We fall into step, hips swinging, limbs loose. At some point, Tattoo Guy tries to do a body roll and almost knocks over Leon’s drink. We’re all giggling too hard to care. Leon makes a show of pretending to sue him for emotional damages.

“My cocktail is trauma now,” he shouts, faking solemnity, holding up the sloshed glass.

“I want that on a t-shirt,” I say, and Tattoo Guy immediately offers to design it — “I’ve got a guy who prints stuff.”

The lights spin above us, dizzy-bright. The kind that make everything feel a little more alive. For a while, I let myself forget. The boys who can’t decide. The messages left on read. The city that wants to swallow me whole.

But then I catch sight of George across the club — dim corner, low lighting, the kind of shadows that swallow things. He’s kissing a girl.

At first, I think my brain’s playing tricks on me.

She looks just like me.

Same hair — dark and messy like we both ran our fingers through it too many times tonight. Same build — same height, same posture, same kind of slightly hunched shoulders that come from never being sure if you’re taking up too much space. She’s even wearing a lace top and trousers combo that looks so similar to mine it’s almost funny. Almost.

My stomach flips. Sharp. Sour. Like I’ve swallowed something that’s about to come back up.

They’re by the bar — George and this almost-me — and he’s leaning in close, hand brushing her hip like he’s done it before. She’s laughing at something he’s said, tilting her head the way I do when I’m pretending not to care. And then, just like that, he kisses her.

It’s not even a maybe. It’s a full, real kiss. Slow, certain. Like he’s trying to say something with it. Like he means it.

And all I can think is: Is that what I looked like, when it was me?

Is that the version of me he wanted? Or maybe — and this might be worse — maybe any girl who looks vaguely like me would’ve done.

Suddenly the music is too loud, the lights too bright. The sticky heat of the club clings to my skin like shame. Like rejection. Like I’ve been replaced by a mirror image who doesn’t know yet that this ends in heartbreak.

She’s laughing into his mouth like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t once sit on his bedroom floor and paint his toenails. Like he didn’t say he was glad I moved back to him and then reject me entirely.

It hits me in the throat. A weird, mirrored ache. Like watching yourself be replaced in real time — upgraded or downgraded, who knows. Just... swapped out.

I turn away so fast the room spins.

And that’s when I see Will again.

He's leaning against the bar, shoulders slouched, hair a little too perfectly messy. I make my way toward him before I’ve even decided what I’m doing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s self-destruction. Maybe it’s both.

When he sees me, something in his jaw tenses. But I don’t give him time to speak.

I slide close to him, too close. My fingers ghost along his wrist as the music blares, low and dirty. He stiffens at first, but then his hands find my hips like muscle memory.

“I still hate you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his like it’s a dare. I don’t even know why I hate him now. Maybe I just want to. I’m angry and humiliated and wired with adrenaline, and he’s standing there looking at me like I matter. He’s probably telling the truth about Becky — I know that, deep down. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. I also lost count of the amount of assorted alcohol in my system hours ago. Somewhere between the cheap rosé and someone handing me a tequila shot “for vibes,” I stopped keeping track.

“I know,” he says, low and hoarse.

We dance. Or something like it.

It’s all teeth and tension, hips brushing, hands lingering where they shouldn’t. It’s not romantic. It’s not even flirty. It’s messy and desperate and soaked in the complicated residue of our back-and-forths and bad timing and too many feelings left unspoken.

When I left Ruth’s flat, I hadn’t planned on pressing my body against Will like that. I’d planned on ignoring him, on rolling my eyes and laughing with someone else, on pretending he didn’t exist. But here I am—hips swaying to a beat I can barely register, sweat slicking the small of my back, and his hands firm on my waist like he needs something to hold onto before the whole damn room spins away.

It’s messy and deliberate, our bodies in sync and out of sync all at once. I can feel the tension in his grip, the way his thumbs press a little harder when I move against him, like he thinks I might vanish if he lets go. His mouth is near my ear, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he knows words are useless here—too loud, too late.

I toss a look over my shoulder just to see how wrecked he looks. He does. His jaw’s tight, brows drawn together like this whole thing is hurting him in ways he doesn’t know how to name. Good. I want him wrecked. I want him to feel something other than smug certainty.

“I still hate you,” I murmur, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to keep it intimate, like a confession sealed in bass and sweat and noise.

His grip falters just for a second, then tightens again. Like he knows this is the only version of an apology he’s going to get right now. Me—still dancing, still close, but furious and unforgiving in every breath. This is punishment. This is power.

And maybe, a little bit, it’s still wanting him.

I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. To him. To myself. To George, who’s somewhere out there kissing the ghost of me.

Will says nothing else, just moves with me. And I let him.

There’s no forgiveness in it, not really. Just rhythm and proximity and the quiet relief of being touched by someone who still feels like home, even if that home is full of cracks. We don’t speak—our bodies do all the talking. Frustration, guilt, want. It thrums between us like a second beat under the music.

I don’t know when the plan changes, but we end up sharing an Uber home. Silent, shoulder to shoulder, the air between us is thick and buzzing like static.

I don’t reach for his hand.

And he doesn’t ask me to explain.

We sit there like two halves of a broken thought, still tethered by something neither of us wants to name. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of his mouth on mine just hours ago, back when the night still felt full of promise.

Six months ago, the Uber with George to his flat was a bubble of warmth and quiet friendship — the heater cranked just right, the soft lo-fi humming through the speakers, raindrops blurring the city outside into a watercolor dream. Inside, I felt safe, like slipping back into an old jumper. The awkwardness dissolved into easy banter and the kind of comfort that only years of knowing someone can build.

Tonight’s Uber to Will’s flat couldn’t be more different. It’s too warm again, but the heat feels like a weight pressing down instead of a gentle hug. The windows are fogged, but the city beyond feels colder, more distant — the raindrops tracing lazy patterns like a slow, mocking countdown. The scent inside is less familiar: a mix of cheap air freshener and something synthetic, sterile.

There’s no easy music, no quiet laughter — just the hum of the engine and the tight knot twisting in my chest. I lean against the window, but instead of city lights bleeding into soft memories, I’m staring at shadows, wondering how I ended up here.

When the car pulls up outside his flat, neither of us moves at first. The engine hums softly, the night stretching between us.

We both get out of the Uber, the cool air hitting me like a shock after the warmth inside. I stand there for a moment, hesitant, the quiet buzzing in my ears louder than the city around us.

Then I turn toward Will’s apartment foyer, the glass doors glowing faintly in the dark.

I breathe in the echo of the night and try to figure out if stepping inside with him is power… or just another kind of surrender.

[orlaunderrated]

not a request but the edges of us is SOOOOO GOODDDFD i’m literally sat everytime u update

OMFG thank you!!!!!!! I am having so much fun writing it rn and everyone is so nice about it 🥹🥹🥹

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 8

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.5k+

Note: Bruh i had SO much fun writing this. Things are heating upppppp!!!!!!

xxx

It's been a month.

A whole month since I threw away my friendship with George Clarke. There’s something suffocating about living with someone who used to feel like home.

Every morning, I hear George before I see him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, cupboard doors opening and closing, the occasional laugh when Arthur says something stupid over cereal. I stay quiet in the spare room, ear pressed to my pillow, waiting until the coast is clear.

I’ve perfected the art of avoiding him. Like roommates who barely know one another.

I sneak around the house like a ghost, I'm quiet in the mornings, quieter at night. I wait until I hear the door to George’s room click shut before I leave mine. I time my showers so they don’t overlap. I make dinner in silence, clean up immediately, and retreat to the spare room with my plate like some kind of hermit.

I used to hate people who lived like this, afraid of confrontation, avoiding pain instead of facing it. Now I understand. Avoidance is survival.

So I’ve made myself busy.

I’ve been exploring London like a tourist who’s overstayed their welcome. Borough Market, Hampstead Heath, late-night gallery openings where the wine’s cheap and no one notices if you’re alone. Sometimes I just walk until my legs ache and I forget that “home” is a flat I don’t want to go back to.

Ruth’s friends have adopted me, unofficially. But really, it’s Ruth who’s been carrying me.

When things with George crumbled, Ruth didn’t ask questions. She just started inviting me places. Out for drinks after work. To her friend's flat-warming in Hackney. An impromptu gallery opening where everyone wore sunglasses indoors and drank warm prosecco like it was some kind of lifestyle.

At first, I thought she was just being polite. But when I showed up again the next night, and the one after that, she didn’t flinch. She just smiled and handed me another drink.

Her friends are more arty than me and somehow always late, but they welcomed me like I’d always been there. When they found out I am a programmer, they looked at me like I’d just said I decode alien transmissions for a living. One of them gasped and said, “That’s so futuristic.”

 I let them drag me dancing, laughing, out of my own head. Once, we ended up at a pub quiz where I single-handedly lost us the entire music round. They didn’t care. One of them cheered like I’d won. I almost cried from the relief of it.

But underneath all of it—every dance floor, every gin and tonic, every hungover brunch—I’m terrified I’m stretching this friendship too thin. That Ruth sees through me. That she knows I’m clinging too hard, like she’s the last piece of driftwood in a sea I never learned how to swim in.

I overthink every message I send her. Every time I say yes too quickly. Every time I show up too eager, like I’ve got nowhere else to be—which is true.

But Friday lunches are still on. She hasn’t cancelled. Not once. So maybe we’re okay. Maybe she doesn’t mind being leaned on.

I asked Matt if he needed volunteers on nights that aren’t Tuesdays. He said yes before I even finished asking. I think he could tell I needed somewhere to be—somewhere that wasn’t here. I've been at The Van like 3 times a week. I think I need the human connection, the conversation, more than the patrons do.

Anything to avoid the house. Anything to avoid George.

Chris pretends he doesn’t notice. Arthur definitely notices, but he’s too scared of the emotional minefield to say anything. I can’t blame him.

It’s the little things that hurt the most.

The way George no longer offers to make tea for both of us. The way I can hear him laughing with the others, but never with me.

Last week, he left his hoodie draped over the back of the sofa—his grey one, the one I used to steal whenever I was cold. I stared at it for what felt like hours before Arthur picked it up and tossed it into George’s room with a “mate, your stuff’s everywhere.”

But sometimes, when I catch glimpses of him, just quick ones, like shadows across the floor—I think I see something else. A flicker. Regret, maybe. Or confusion. Like he’s still stuck in it, too.

But he doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

If this had happened in January, I would’ve been on the first plane to Brisbane.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. just gone. Back to where everything was simple, familiar, sunny. Where people say what they mean and you don’t have to pretend London doesn’t make your chest feel tight.

But now… now I’m still here. Not because it’s easier (it’s not) but because something’s shifted. I don’t want to run anymore.

The summer sun is starting to show itself again, soft and hesitant in that late-evening London way. It spills across the rooftops like it’s not entirely sure it belongs here — thin, golden light that barely warms your skin. People call it a heatwave if it hits 23 degrees.

It doesn’t compare to Brisbane.

Honestly, I don’t even understand how it’s the same sun. The one back home felt louder. It was heavy, blinding, unapologetic. It soaked into your bones and stayed there. This one... brushes against you and then disappears behind a cloud like it’s shy.'

But I’m still here.

I’m pouring everything into finding my own place, into carving out something that’s mine. I’ve been to a dozen flat inspections, half of them disasters, with mouldy walls, windowless kitchens, one place that inexplicably had carpet in the bathroom, but I’m holding out hope. There’s one in Bethnal Green. A two-bed with creaky floorboards and light that pours through the windows in the morning.

The moment I stepped inside, I just knew. It felt like somewhere I could breathe. Somewhere I could start over. I’m waiting to hear back. Refreshing my email like it owes me something. Because if I get that flat, I think I’ll finally be able to put all of this—George, the silence, the constant ache—behind me. Or at least, I’ll have a door I can close without feeling like a guest in my own life.

Xxx

The bright spot has, unfortunately, been Will

I think George said something. Or maybe Will just has a sixth sense for when my life is the pits. Either way, I’ve been invited to after-shoot drinks with his crew two more times since that first time, and each time I go through the same ritual: swear I’m too tired, too grumpy, too busy wallowing — then show up anyway.

And each time, within five minutes, I’m laughing. Genuinely. The kind of laughter that sneaks up on you, bursts out before you can second-guess it. Something always loosens in me around them, like I’ve exhaled without realising I was holding my breath. I end up leaning in, sharing something ridiculous that happened at work, or dragging Mikey for his truly awful taste in film scores.

James and Orla are on tour now —I listened to some of James music, and I actually really enjoyed some of it. I miss their presence more than I expected, but Ieuan and Mikey have been stepping in to fill the space like it’s second nature.

Ieuan has this dry wit that catches you off guard — all quiet observations and raised eyebrows, but somehow always perfectly timed. And Mikey… Mikey’s chaos is beginning to feel comforting. He talks in half-thoughts and spirals, but underneath it all is a kind of earnestness that’s impossible not to like. They both make space for me. Not in a dramatic, performative way — just small, constant things. A joke tossed my way. A “you good?” muttered under the noise. A seat saved without comment.

They’re forging a soft spot in my soul, one chaotic pint at a time.

And I hate that it matters this much.

Because it’s not supposed to. They’re Will’s friends. They’re temporary. A borrowed patch of warmth in a season where I’ve mostly been cold.

But somehow, lately… they feel a little like mine too.

Then there’s Will.

Will looks at me now like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Like if he tilts his head the right way, he’ll figure out what broke and how to fix it.

We still go back and forth, still pretend we hate each other. The snark is still there — easy, familiar — but something underneath it has shifted. The witty banter has softened slightly; no more jokes about each other’s appearances or anything that could genuinely cut. I don’t believe him anymore when he acts like I’m just annoying. I think he sees through the act. Worse — I think he cares.

However, I do honestly think he just feels sorry for me. Like I’m some kind of sad little project he’s taken on. And I don’t know why he’s chosen me of all people. Maybe he got bored? Maybe he loves a fixer-upper? But for right now, I’ll take what I can get.

He remembers my drink order. He makes space for me in his group like I’ve always been there. He walks me to my Uber and texts me to make sure I get home safe. He notices things — little things I didn’t even think I was showing.

It’s hard not to be suspicious of that kind of attention. Hard not to brace for the moment he realises I’m not worth the effort.

But until that happens, I keep showing up. I sit in those sticky old pub booths and let myself feel a little wanted. Just enough to get by.

Xxx

It’s been one of those days where everything seems to unravel. Coffee spilled all over an important report, a crucial deadline missed by minutes, and as a cherry on top, the intern dropped a careless comment that might as well have been a spotlight on my weight gain.

By the time I get to the flat, my nerves are frayed, and my head’s buzzing with every little mistake playing on repeat. Even the smallest things feel huge—the way the intern’s comment lingers like a bad smell, making me second-guess everything about myself. I’m exhausted, but there’s no switch to flip off the anxiety or the self-doubt.

I drop my bag by the door and try to steady my breathing before I even see George. Because right now, the last thing I need is another reminder that everything feels out of place.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,” he says, not even looking up from his phone.

It's the first thing he's said to me in a week. It’s not exactly a comforting greeting, and I bite back a retort that tastes bitter on my tongue. Instead, I just snap, “Thanks for the support, George.”

He shrugs, trying to sound casual but failing just a little. “Well, if this was a movie, you’d definitely be the dramatic lead. Try not to steal the spotlight too much, yeah?”

Heat rises in my chest, burning away any calm I’d been clinging to. I know what he’s doing — he’s always done this. The typical guy thing: not gonna talk about it, just pretending everything’s normal like nothing’s wrong.

It drives me crazy.

But instead of calling him out, I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. “Right. Normal. Got it.”

Before I can say anything else, he drops the bomb.

“By the way, a bunch of my mates are coming over for pre-drinks tonight. Thought I’d warn you.”

I stare at him, heart still pounding. The last thing I want right now is to be stuck pretending everything’s fine in front of a crowd. But the words hang there, heavy and inevitable.

“Cool, thanks,” I mutter, my voice flat. Without another word, I shuffle to my room and collapse onto my bed. The weight of the day drags me down, and I bury my face into my pillow, willing myself to scream — or maybe I do, but honestly, I couldn’t tell you. It’s like all the noise inside me dissolves into silence, leaving only the dull ache of exhaustion and frustration.

I think I must have fallen asleep because when I finally lift my head, my mouth feels like sandpaper and time stretches thick and slow, like wading through jelly. The room is dim and quiet, but my mind is still spinning, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the leftover tension from the day. Every breath feels heavy, like I’m carrying the weight of all the frustration and disappointment all at once. For a moment, I just lie there, letting the silence wrap around me, wishing I could press pause on everything.

My phone pings, it’s a text from Will.

Are you home?

I contemplate answering, but the noise from the living room only makes me shrink back further. The voices — Chris, George, and a bunch of others — spill through the door, loud and alive. It’s suffocating, the sound of a life I feel shut out from. Eight, maybe more, YouTubers packed just outside my door, all laughing and talking like I don’t exist. To be fair, they would have no reason to think I'm home.

I press my back against the wall, willing myself to disappear into the silence of my room. The idea of facing them, of facing George, feels unbearable right now. So I stay put, letting the noise wash over me from a distance I can control.

I can literally see shadows moving under your door lmao

Can I come in?

I hesitate. Part of me wants to shut the door on everything — the noise, the chaos, the awkwardness. But letting a small piece of ‘out there’ in feels like the better option right now.

Besides, I know Will won’t let it go if I ignore him.

I tap out a quick reply: “ugh fine”

The door creaks open moments later, and there he is — with that familiar, impossible-to-ignore presence.

“Ha whey man, looks like—”

“Will, I am really not in the mood.” It comes out sharper than I expected, the edge in my voice surprising even me. I’m so tired. So sick of living like a recluse in my own home.

And on top of everything, the property manager still hasn’t emailed me back about the flat.

I drop my head into my hands, feeling the weight of it all. “I just... can’t deal with this tonight.”

Will’s face softens, like he’s reading between the lines even when I’m trying not to say anything.

“You know,” he says softly, voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant just for me, “you don’t have to pretend you’re fine with all this.” he sits himself on my bed. I want to be annoyed, but there is literally nowhere else for him to sit except on the exercise bike. And again I would be surprised he even knew it was there, it's completely covered in clothes.

I sniff, not quite ready to meet his gaze. “Pretend? When have I ever pretended?”

He smirks, shaking his head like I’m the world’s biggest mystery he’s just about to solve. “Seriously, you’ve been working late every damn night, traipsing around museums like some cultured ghost, and your Instagram’s basically a highlight reel of you getting drunk. And now, when Bach has brought a litre of vodka to your flat, you’re turning into a hermit? Hiding out like the apocalypse hit your place.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m just tired. Tired of London, tired of this flat, tired of living like I’m invisible here.”

Will shifts his body on the bed, moving a little closer, his presence somehow grounding instead of suffocating. “You’re not invisible to me.”

I scoff softly but don’t pull away. There’s something disarming about the way he looks at me — like he actually sees the parts I try to hide.

“Look,” he continues, voice gentle but firm, “I know you’re juggling a lot. Job stress, flat hunting, all the... crap.” He waves a hand vaguely at the chaos beyond my door. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

I meet his eyes finally, surprise flickering there. “Why do you care?”

Will shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s a flicker of something real in his expression. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

He shifts his weight on the bed, settling in more comfortably. His knee nudges against mine almost by accident, but neither of us pulls away. Instead, there’s a quiet pause, like the space between us is shrinking without either of us forcing it.

He leans back on his hands, eyes locked on mine, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something clean — like soap and late-night London rain. My breath catches, and without thinking, I scoot a little closer, the edge of the bed cold beneath my fingers.

Will follows, closing the gap like gravity took over. His shoulder brushes mine. It’s casual, but the air between us thickens — suddenly heavier, more electric. Neither of us says anything. Neither of us moves away.

“Tell me what you need,” he says quietly. “Advice, distraction, a partner in crime for flat hunting. I’m good at pretending to care.”

I shake my head, a small smile breaking through. “You’re terrible at pretending.”

He grins. “Guilty as charged.”

The space between us shrinks, the air thick with something neither of us is ready to name.

Then he leans in slightly, a teasing glint lighting his eyes. “And honestly? If you kissed me, I wouldn’t be pulling away.”

I blink, stunned, my pulse suddenly way too loud in the quiet room. For a second, I wonder if I’ve imagined it — if maybe I’ve hit some sort of emotional exhaustion so severe I’ve started hallucinating confessions.

But then Will’s eyes flick down to my mouth. Just briefly. Barely. But it’s enough.

The space between us collapses in slow motion. One breath. Two.

Then his hand finds my cheek, it's gentle, tentative, and he leans in. His lips meet mine, soft and slow, like he’s giving me the chance to change my mind.

I don’t.

The kiss deepens without warning. What starts as careful becomes hungry, urgent — like we’ve both been holding our breath for far too long and kissing is the only way to come up for air. His other hand slides to my waist, grounding me, pulling me closer. I fist the fabric of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto.

We’re not pretending now. There’s no snark, no smug smiles. Just the thrum of want and the heat of months’ worth of tension finally breaking loose.

When we finally pull apart, breathless, my heart is racing.

“What the fuck just happened?” I whisper, mostly to myself.

Before Will can say anything, my phone buzzes violently on the bedside table — sharp enough to make both of us jump. I lunge for it, mostly because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t clutching Will’s hoodie.

It’s Ruth.

“Y/N where are you?? You’re supposed to be teaching all of us Beerio Kart??”

I blink, the real world crashing back in all at once. I totally forgot about my plans with The Van volunteers.

I glance at Will, wide-eyed. “You have boys to be friends with! Go!”

He laughs, already pushing himself to his feet with a dramatic bow. “Fine, fine. I’m off to save the lads from their unfunny QuipLash answers"

I roll my eyes, already grabbing my hairbrush from the floor. But when I stand too, he doesn’t move toward the door. Not really.

Instead, he watches me. Like really watches me. And then — like it’s not even a decision, just instinct — he steps in close again. In one smooth motion, his hand finds my waist and backs me up until I hit the door with a soft thud.

And then he kisses me again.

Harder, this time.

There’s nothing tentative about it now. No slow testing of boundaries, no question mark at the end of it. It’s hands on hips, lips crashing into mine, my back pressed firmly against the door like he’s trying to pin the moment in place.

My hands slide up his chest before I even think about it, fingers tangling in his hoodie again, pulling him closer. It’s hot. Unfairly hot. Like everything we’ve been avoiding is finally spilling out — messy and real and way too much all at once. The flush of my cheeks is spreading elsewhere.

His mouth drags down to my jaw, my neck, and I swear I feel my knees start to give.

“Will,” I breathe, half warning, half plea.

He stills, then dips lower, his mouth on my neck. It's hot, deliberate, before slowly tracing a path up to my ear.

“Jesus,” I mutter, pushing at his chest. “You need to go.”

He grins, cocky and flushed. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

I open the door for him and practically shove him out. He walks backwards down the hall, still grinning like a man who just won something.

I shut the door, lean against it, and exhale hard.

Then I’m moving. Outfit. Makeup. Distraction. Ruth’s waiting.

By the time I step out of my room, wearing black lace top tucked into high-waisted trousers, lip gloss on, hair curled into something that almost looks intentional, the noise in the flat dips like someone hit mute for half a second.

Three voices react immediately:

“Whoa.”

“Alright then!”

“Okayyyy, Y/N!”

I freeze for a beat, caught off guard. I only properly know Chris and Arthur, so the enthusiastic reaction from at least one stranger makes me stiffen slightly. I'm unsure whether to laugh, hide, or run back into my room and change.

I glance toward the living room and immediately catch George’s eye. He looks like a deer in headlights. Completely frozen, can halfway to his mouth, like he wasn’t expecting me to exist, let alone emerge looking like this.

My heart flutters, and my stomach sinks. Fuck.

Will doesn’t say anything.

He just watches me from the other side of the room, beer in hand, that unreadable look on his face, but signature smirk still plastered across his cheeks.

I turn and leave through the front door. Five seconds later, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Fuck you look good.

I swallow hard and tuck the phone away without replying. Mostly because I’m not sure I can.

[orlaunderrated]

🪑👇

introducing: heavens for lovers ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

series masterlist

will lenney x singer! reader

in which will lays eyes on james’ opener for his tour and instantly becomes infatuated with her

masterlist | main masterlist

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ the opener ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

faceclaim: nessa barrett

setlist found here !

discography

♱ angel wings: debut album

♱ american jesus: sophomore album

♱ glitter and violence: third album

chapters !

coming soon…

[orlaunderrated]

The edges of us has officially surpassed 20K words LOL wtf

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 7

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 3.7k+

Note: LETS GOOOOO

xxx

The night starts with noise.

The roomies had planned a fun night in. Arthur’s brought out the nice whiskey—well, the nicer whiskey, the one that comes with a cork instead of a screw-top—and Chris has somehow hooked up his old karaoke mic to the living room TV. The four of us sit around half-lounging on the mismatched couches, George on the floor with a guitar he’s only half pretending to play. Chris is yelling out half-remembered lyrics to “Teenage Dirtbag,” Arthur keeps skipping songs to find “something with emotional depth,” and I’ve got a half-drunk gin and tonic sweating in my hand.

It’s dumb and fun and unstructured. We shout over each other. We argue about whether Billie Eilish is technically indie. Someone throws a cushion and knocks over a bowl of crisps. At one point Chris attempts to stand on the coffee table to re-enact a scene from Love Actually and George pulls him down by the ankle like he’s done this exact thing before.

I am laughing so hard I have to excuse myself to the bathroom.

By midnight, the energy softens. The Bluetooth speaker dies mid-song. Arthur’s phone buzzes and he vanishes upstairs claiming something about early studio time, and Chris throws a pillow over his own face and declares he’s socially exhausted. Which leaves just me and George, still camped out on the floor, sitting opposite each other with crossed legs and flushed cheeks.

The living room looks like a failed sleepover with the empty glasses, a tangle of cables, someone’s sock. The overhead light is off, just the warm glow from the lamp by the window casting long shadows.

I reach over and swap our glasses so I can try his whiskey. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, just watches as I take a sip and pull a face.

“This tastes like regret and petrol,” I say, handing it back.

“It’s aged regret,” George corrects. “Very exclusive.”

We fall into a quieter rhythm. No more music, just the low hum of London through the window and the occasional groan of the floorboards above us. It should feel awkward, maybe, being alone together like this. But it doesn’t. It just feels… calm.

He fiddles with the guitar strings, aimless. I pick at a corner of the cushion in my lap.

Then he says, “You’ve seemed... better lately.”

I blink at him. “Better?”

“Yeah. Happier, I guess. "Proof that taking my advice is the most helpful thing anyone can do, ever ”

It catches me off guard, but I manage to play it off, “shove off it.”

He laughs but than says, “you're more… relaxed. You've been singing in the shower again.”

I laugh, but it’s soft, self-conscious.

"How've you been otherwise?"

I don’t answer right away. I look around the room—the empty pizza box, the dying flowers in a jar on the windowsill, the scuff marks on the walls that no one’s bothered to paint over. The whole house is a bit of a mess, a strange blend of past and present lives piled on top of each other. It shouldn’t feel comforting. But it almost does.

“I don’t know if this feels like real life yet,” I say quietly. “Sometimes it feels like I blinked and ended up inside someone else’s story. Like I missed the bit where I decided who I’m supposed to be.”

George leans back against the couch, arms folded loosely over his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I get that.”

“Do you?”

He nods. “When I visit my dad now… he barely remembers what I do for work. Sometimes he doesn’t remember what day it is. And I sit there thinking, is this it? Is this adulthood? Pretending you know what you’re doing while everything quietly falls apart?”

There’s a long silence. It’s not heavy, just full. Comfortable in the way that only comes after years of knowing someone and still not knowing everything.

He doesn’t like to talk about his dad.

I didn’t even know he was sick until George’s mum tagged him in a photo on Facebook during third year—one of those blurry, too-candid hospital shots where everyone’s trying to smile but no one really looks at the camera. You could just make out the oxygen tube, the pale-blue gown, the faint grimness behind the eyes. George never brought it up, not even after I messaged him something vague and awkward about hoping everything was okay. He’d just liked the message and changed the subject.

So now, I don’t push. But I feel the edges of it sitting between us—the things not said, the things too raw to say out loud. He talks around it, not through it. The slow unravelling of someone he once thought was invincible. The quiet grief of watching a parent become someone unfamiliar.

He still doesn’t say much now. Just stares down at his hands like there’s something in them he doesn’t want to let go of.

“I miss my old car,” I blurt. “That stupid Corolla that the key fob didn’t work and the Bluetooth transmitter that make songs sound like it was underwater. At least it felt like mine.”

George smiles again, tired and gentle. “I can't believe I never got to see it.”

“Yeah,” I say. I rest my head on his shoulder. I do it out of habit, out of tiredness, “You still need to come to Brisbane.”

He looks at me a long moment, like he wants to say something else. Like he’s right on the edge of it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just shifts slightly closer, our knees brushing.

“You belong here, you know,” he says.

I feel my heart stutter.

“I mean—” he fumbles, “—not here, like, here here. Just… you don’t have to figure it all out right away. You’re doing okay.”

The words land like something warm and heavy in my chest. Not quite an epiphany, not quite a declaration. But something true, and real.

And I let myself believe him.

Xxx

It’s a Tuesday night again, and I’m already elbow-deep in prep before Matt even walks through the door. Ive done this for over a month now, I know where the gloves are, how to portion servings without being told, and I’ve somehow become the unofficial designated pesto-stirrer. A badge of honour, I suppose.

Ruth is already there when I arrive, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea cradled in her hands like it’s something sacred. She grins when she sees me, like she’s been saving a story all day just to tell me. That’s sort of become our thing—collecting little moments from the week and spilling them over chopping boards and takeout coffee cups.

“Alright, Aussie,” she says, nudging my shoulder as I pull on an apron. “You’ll never guess what happened to me on the tube this morning.”

“I bet it’s something deeply cursed,” I reply, raising an eyebrow. “Or at least mildly deranged.”

“You’d be correct on both counts.”

She launches into a story involving a man in a business suit eating tuna straight from the can with his fingers while arguing with someone on speakerphone. I’m halfway through slicing peppers, laughing so hard I almost drop the knife. That’s how it’s been with Ruth lately—easy. Natural. Like we’ve known each other longer than we actually have.

We’ve started hanging out outside of The Van too. Not in any dramatic, “suddenly inseparable” way, but in those quiet, accidental moments that slowly start to mean something. One morning, I ran into Ruth at the coffee shop near the station. I was still half-asleep, standing in line, clutching my phone like it might keep me upright, when I heard someone behind me say, “Flat white, three sugars? Didn’t peg you for the reckless type.”

I turned around and there she was—hoodie, headphones around her neck, hair half-tucked into a beanie she probably found in a bargain bin. She looked like someone who belonged in London in a way I still didn’t. Turns out, she works in a building just one street over from mine. We laughed about how we’d probably crossed paths dozens of times without noticing.

Now, we’ve got this unofficial Friday lunch thing going. It started off casual, a “hey, want to grab something?” after a rough week. But now it’s edging into ritual. We never actually say, “Same time next week?”—we just show up. Sometimes it’s ramen. Sometimes it’s sad overpriced sandwiches we eat on a bench like we’re in a low-budget indie film. But whatever it is, I look forward to it. More than I probably should.

The others have noticed too. Matt teases us sometimes, calling us “the pesto twins” or saying things like, “You two come as a set now?” Ruth just rolls her eyes and tells him to stir his own damn pasta for once. But she’s smiling when she says it.

After service, Ruth and I are elbow-deep in suds, tackling what might be the single most stubborn pot in the history of cooking. Matt’s sticky date pudding—his self-declared “treat for the troops”—has fused itself to the bottom like it was made of industrial-grade glue instead of sugar and flour.

“I swear this pudding has achieved a new state of matter,” I mutter, scrubbing at the blackened edges with a sponge that’s probably considering retirement.

Ruth snorts, flicking a bit of foam at me. “Matt said it was ‘caramelised.’ This is carbonised. There's a difference.”

We’ve fallen into this easy rhythm during clean-up. Some weeks we talk. Some weeks we’re just quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t press down on you. Tonight, there’s laughter, little sarcastic jabs softened by the warmth in our voices.

“Oh, I forgot to ask—how did your date go?” I ask Ruth, rinsing off the last of the soap suds and handing her the pot with a dramatic flourish, like it’s a trophy we’ve both earned.

She grins, drying it with a tea towel that smells vaguely of old coffee and garlic. “Oh, good actually. I’m seeing him again tomorrow night. He’s a bit strange, but... I suppose so am I.”

We both laugh, the kind of easy, knowing laugh you only share with someone who’s seen you drop a full tray of sandwiches.

Then she glances sideways at me, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you still in love with your roommate, or are you finally going to admit you’re obsessed with that northern bloke?”

I nearly choke on my breath. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says, smirking. “Tall, broody, sounds like he’s permanently stuck in a BBC drama. Ring any bells? You’re the one who said, ‘I get why the internet’s in love with him’—and, my personal favourite—‘He’s just so witty, it’s infuriating. I love arguing with him.’”

I groan. “Okay, that’s some bold quotation work.”

“Direct quotes, Y/N. I could write your wedding vows at this point.”

I try to play it cool, but my ears burn traitorously. “I’m not obsessed.”

“You absolutely are,” Ruth says, gleeful now. “Every time he says anything vaguely nice, you light up like a Christmas tree.”

“That is a gross exaggeration.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I huff a laugh and toss a clean fork into the drying rack a little too forcefully. “Alright then, Miss I-did-one-semester-of-a-psychology-degree, what’s your diagnosis?”

She shrugs, folding the tea towel over her shoulder like she’s closing a file. “Hopeless crush. Prognosis: denial. Recommended treatment: awkward fighting-that-is-definitely-flirting followed by one extremely questionable decision at a party.”

“Sounds very clinical,” I deadpan.

“You said it yourself, I only did one semester.”

We both crack up again, the kitchen echoing with laughter that doesn’t feel forced or guarded. Just… open. Warm. Like we’re not just rinsing off stubborn caramelised pudding, but the static of the day too.

Then Ruth nudges me with her elbow, gentler this time. “But no, seriously. What about your roommate?”

I pause, drying my hands on my jeans, suddenly aware of how warm my face feels.

“We had this serious heart-to-heart yesterday,” I say, voice dropping a little. “And... I don’t know. At one point, he moved his knees to brush mine. Casually. Deliberately. It was nothing, but also…it wasn’t. The version of him I knew at uni would never have done that.”

“Ooh,” Ruth says, eyebrows arching. “Sounds serious.”

“I don’t know if it is, though. That’s the thing. We’ve been best friends for years. There’s this entire history. Every in-joke, every hangover, every disastrous date we debriefed over chips at 2 a.m. It’s all there. I know him inside out. But lately... it’s like there’s something new under all of that. And I can’t tell if I’m imagining it or if it’s real.”

Ruth leans back against the counter, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s always been there, just under the surface. Waiting.”

“Don’t get my hopes up".

xxx

I think Ruth is right.

The next week hums with an energy I can’t quite name.

It’s nothing obvious. Nothing anyone else would notice. But something has shifted between George and me since that night—since the last bottle of red wine, the half-whispered stories, and the quiet that didn’t feel empty.

He lingers more now. In doorways, in the kitchen. When I’m making tea in the morning, he somehow always shows up just as the kettle clicks off, like he’s timed it. Like we’re syncing without trying.

He makes me laugh more, too. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more. His jokes feel warmer now, more specific. Inside references to things we barely remembered until one of us said them out loud. Like breadcrumbs from a version of us we haven’t been in years.

One night, he casually calls me “Miss Australia” in that mock-serious voice of his, and when I roll my eyes, he grins like he’s proud to have gotten under my skin.

And then there are the looks.

Quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glances across the living room when we’re all hanging out. The way his gaze lingers just a second too long when I say something sharp, or ridiculous, or both. Like he’s trying to study a version of me he hasn’t fully figured out.

I catch him watching me once while I’m hunched over my laptop—legs tucked under me awkwardly, hair in a messy knot, wearing one of those sad, shapeless hoodies I should’ve thrown out years ago. Not my best angle. And yet, his expression is... softer than I expected. Not intense. Just curious. Familiar. A little like awe. He looks away fast when he sees me noticing.

It’s nothing. And also it’s everything.

The kind of shift that lives in the space between words. That only exists if we never speak it out loud.

Still, it hangs there. Charged. Waiting.

Then it happens. We’re cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner, and George’s tone is easy, almost distracted, but there’s an edge beneath it.

“So, Will’s been messaging you a lot lately?” he says, flicking a dishcloth with a smirk.

I pause, caught off guard. “Yeah, he’s been pretty chatty.”

George shrugs, but his eyes don’t quite meet mine. “Figures. Can’t blame him, I guess.”

Something tightens in my chest—annoyance, maybe? Or something sharper, like… jealousy?

I glance at him sideways, watching the way his jaw clenches just a little.

That’s when it clicks. Maybe I’ve been missing it all along, how much this is bothering him. And just like that, a spark lights up inside me. If he’s jealous, then maybe… maybe he cares more than he’s letting on.

I know I should say something. I know I need to. But the words feel too heavy tonight, like they might break the fragile calm between us. Like if I speak too soon, I might shatter whatever this is, whatever quiet promise is hanging in the space between us.

So instead, I tuck the feeling away, careful and deliberate, like hiding a fragile glass in a locked drawer. Not now. Not yet.

I decide right then: it’s time. Time to stop pretending. To stop waiting for the “right moment” that might never come. I’m going to make a move. Not now—not tonight—but soon.

Tomorrow, or maybe the day after. When I’m braver. When the moment feels right. Because it has to be right. Otherwise, what’s the point?

For now, I turn my focus back to the dishes, letting the warmth of that unspoken something settle like a soft ache in my chest. And wait.

xxx

Two days later, George suggested we watch a movie together, like old times sake. He had bought popcorn from the shops earlier and Chris had given him a bottle of wine.

The movie played on, a gentle hum in the background as the flickering light cast shadows across the room. Somehow, over the course of the film, we had moved closer without saying a word—our knees nearly touching now, breaths syncing in quiet rhythm. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of us in this small, dimly lit space.

George’s hand brushed against mine once, briefly, like a question. I didn’t pull away.

As the credits began to roll, he turned slightly, eyes meeting mine in the soft glow of the screen. “I’m glad you moved back to me,” he said, voice low and full of something I couldn’t quite place—relief, maybe, or something more vulnerable.

The words settled between us like a spark, igniting the air. My heart skipped, and I felt the tension coil tighter inside me. I shifted closer, feeling the warmth of him so near, and for a moment, everything felt possible.

Oh my god now is the time.

We sat there, the quiet between us stretching longer than usual, the kind of silence that buzzes with everything left unsaid. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and searching, like he was trying to unravel something deep inside.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. Slowly, I lifted my gaze to meet his. His eyes were darker than I remembered, shadows pooling in the corners like secrets waiting to spill out. There was something raw and vulnerable in his stare that made my breath hitch.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other, the world narrowing down to the space between us. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but held himself back. My pulse fluttered with a nervous hope, that fragile, reckless hope that maybe this was real.

I moved closer—slowly, carefully—watching every flicker of emotion cross his face. The warmth in his eyes melted the last of my hesitation. My fingers twitched at my sides, needing to reach out but not wanting to scare him away.

Then I leaned in.

My lips hovered just above his, breath mingling with his in a shared rhythm—quick, shallow, almost desperate. The warmth radiating from him felt like a quiet promise, electric and tentative.

And then, finally, finally, our lips met.

It was soft, tentative—like the gentle brush of a secret we’d both been guarding for far too long. The kiss didn’t demand anything; it whispered instead. Whispered of possibilities, of risks, of fears laid bare in the quietest of touches.

His eyes fluttered closed, eyelashes resting against his cheeks like fragile wings. I felt the slightest tremble in his body, a vulnerability so rare it made my heart clench painfully. The world around us seemed to blur and fall away, leaving just the two of us suspended in that moment—delicate, fragile, and full of a promise neither of us dared voice aloud.

Time slowed, each second stretching endlessly, holding us captive in a quiet breath of hope.

But then, his hands froze at my waist. Not pulling me closer, but pulling away—slowly, deliberately.

His eyes opened, heavy and clouded with something raw and tangled. Pain? Regret? Fear? Something deeper, darker, something I couldn’t reach.

“What are you doing? This is madness,” he whispered, voice breaking, thick with a desperate ache.

Confusion slammed into me like a tidal wave, crashing through everything I thought I knew.

What had I been waiting for all this time? The last week played on repeat in my mind—how he’d linger just a little too long in doorways, the way his gaze flickered whenever Will’s name came up, those subtle moments that screamed jealousy but wore the mask of casual indifference.

Had I been reading too much into it? Or maybe not enough. Maybe this was the moment when all the pieces didn’t fit anymore.

But if he cared—even just a little—why had he pulled away now? Why had the warmth I thought I saw suddenly turned so cold?

My heart twisted, caught between hope and hurt, and the silence between us felt heavier than ever.

 “What do you mean? I thought—” I barely got the words out before he cut me off.

“No.” His voice snapped sharp, brittle, haunted. “I can’t. Not like this. Not with you.”

The world tilted. My chest clenched so tight it felt like shards of glass were tearing through me. “Why?” I whispered, voice cracking. “Why kiss me if you don’t want this? If you don’t want me?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. His jaw clenched so tight it looked like he was trying to hold himself together. Slowly, painfully, he stepped back, breaking the fragile moment between us.

The sting of rejection was worse than I imagined—the heat of that kiss, the flicker of hope—it all twisted into a cruel betrayal. A promise made only to be shattered.

I sank back, breath trembling, eyes burning with tears I refused to let fall. Silence stretched between us—thick, suffocating, filled with everything we’d just lost.

He didn’t say another word. The silence that settled between us was heavier than any conversation could have been—thick with everything left unsaid. In that quiet, I felt it unravel: the fragile thread that had been holding us together, fraying at the edges, slipping through my fingers.

It was like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break, and I knew, deep down, that I’d pulled too hard, too fast. The delicate tension that had been our unspoken promise was gone, scattered like dust in a sudden gust of wind, leaving me standing there with nothing but the echo of what could have been.

Fuck.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 6

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.7k+

Note: Swag mode 😎😎. here's more William content. please don't look at the texts too hard, I have no clue how to write a convincing text exchange. i scoured a bit more willne videos to see their studio space lmao, so unnecessary, also mention of my twin orla in this one!

xxx

The next morning, I’m wrecked from staying up way too late, scrolling through flat listings and obsessively refreshing every page in hopes of some miracle. My eyes are sore, and my head feels like it’s been pounded with a hammer. I’m on my third cup of coffee, questioning whether a fourth would be pure madness or just a necessary survival tactic. The caffeine’s not helping as much as I’d like it to, but at least the warm cup in my hands feels like a small comfort.

I’m squinting at my computer screen, trying to focus, when my phone buzzes on my desk. The vibration cuts through the fog in my brain, making me jump slightly. I glance at the screen, half-expecting another spam message about payday loans or some kind of bad news. But it’s not.

It’s Will.

You free Saturday?

Will and I have still been DMing in the background. It’s weird. I don’t know what I expected to happen after the time we ran into each other at the pub, but I guess I didn’t think we'd still be talking. The messages come less frequently now, but there's still this pull every time his name lights up on my screen.

It’s like we’re both doing the bare minimum to keep the banter going without it feeling too forced. I know I’ve been busy, flat-hunting, work, trying not to drown in my bedsheets, and I assume he has too. He’s been very frequently posting on his second channel. I don’t watch them out of principle, but I would by lying if I say I didn’t check. He seems kind of person who just seems to have endless energy, but even so, I’m pretty sure he’s not sitting around waiting for my next message.

But still, here we are. Two weeks later, and I’m still somehow locked in this weird back-and-forth with him. The tension that was once a sharp sting now feels more like an itch that I can’t quite scratch. It’s not as urgent, but it’s still there, simmering.

The messages are still laced with sarcasm, just like before, but there’s a slightly different tone to them now. Less relentless. Less needling at me all the time. And, strangely, I miss it. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the challenge.

never-ending game we’re both playing. I hope we’re not friends. God, that would be so much worse. Will drives me crazy—in that way where he can make me laugh when I shouldn’t, or get under my skin without even trying. I mean, it’s almost impressive how he can do both at once. But friends? Nah. Definitely not.

Sometimes, he shows up at the flat, a guest of Chris or George. He, barges in like he owns the place, strutting around with that smug look of his, making offhand comments that make me want to scream. It’s always the same. I’ll be hanging out with Chris, George, and whoever else, and it’ll be fine until it’s time for me to sleep.

Will, of course, notices. He’s always got this sixth sense for when I’m about to dip out, as if he can smell when I’m done with the noise and need to retreat. And that’s when he starts in on me.

“You’re so boring,” he’ll say, leaning back with that shit-eating grin, clearly pleased with himself for getting a rise out of me.

I’ll give him one of those looks, the kind that says don’t even but doesn’t quite stop me from firing back. “I have a degree,” I’ll say, deadpan, “I’m allowed to be boring.”

He’ll laugh, and that laugh, damn it, it always hits me like an electric shock. It’s not funny, but it is. And I hate it. I hate that I know I’ll never hear the end of it. He'll always have some smartass remark to throw back, but I’ll try my best to shut him down, even if it’s just with a quick glance or a snide comment of my own. Still, no matter how much I want to hate him, part of me gets that twisted satisfaction from sparring with him, like I’m winning a battle I never actually signed up for.

So for him to ask me if I'm free Saturday is strange to say the least. It’s totally random, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at the fact that he’s still so Will. I let it sit for an hour. I am at work after all.

Am I now buzzing for Saturday? Yes. But do I like him? No. That’s still a solid no. He's still the guy who grins like he’s got some secret joke whenever I’m around, and he’s still way too cocky for my taste.

But, I’ll admit it, there’s something there that makes me want to keep digging.

So, maybe this Saturday thing will give me a bit more insight. Maybe I’ll even see the real Will, or if my assumptions are correct, and he is just annoying at all hours of the day.

xxx

Saturday takes forever to arrive. Every day at work drags like it knows I’m waiting for something, like the universe is deliberately slowing time just to mess with me. By the time I’m in the elevator heading up to the studio, I can barely stand still. Nerves are buzzing under my skin like static.

A sudden, very real thought hits me—this could be a prank. I mean, it’s Will. Why wouldn’t it be? Maybe I should’ve actually watched some of his videos before agreeing to this. At least then I’d have some idea what I’ve signed up for. But no, I just said yes like a moron.

But then I remember, this is content, after all. And for content to be good, I have to be somebody. A character. A moment. My Instagram barely scrapes 500 followers. I’m not anybody.

So why the hell did he invite me here?

I’m not exactly sure what I expected a YouTuber’s studio to look like, but... it wasn’t this.

When Will talks about going to “the office,” I imagined something like mine—sterile, full of cold overhead lighting, open-plan with sad little partitions and passive-aggressive mugs. This is something else entirely.

The space is basically one big room, wide open, chaotic in a strangely intentional way. One wall is lined with IKEA storage cubes—every single one full to bursting. Half the fabric drawers are bulging open, and the labels are just printer paper taped on with what looks like the last sticky bit of an old roll. Minimal effort, maximal clutter.

There’s a random blue couch sitting smack in the middle of the room, like it wandered in and never left. Underneath, of course, is more stuff. There’s also a bar cart—because why not?—loaded with more spirits than a corner shop and about a dozen mismatched, vaguely fancy glasses.

Floor-to-ceiling windows should give the place an airy, open feel, but most of them are cloaked in heavy blackout curtains. A half-built Jenga tower is perched dangerously close to collapse on the floor, surrounded by wires, stray props, and what I hope is fake slime. Miscellaneous art hangs on the walls, and even more is propped up on the floor, leaning at awkward angles like it’s too tired to be displayed properly. There’s gear everywhere, light stands, mics, cables snaking across the floor like trip hazards waiting for a victim.

I get the vibe they tried to make this place cool and chic, and maybe at one point it was. But now? There’s just too much... stuff.

Toward the far end, four desks are arranged in a tight cluster, all facing inward like a gamer coven. The setups are ridiculous—giant monitors, ring lights, camera rigs, and enough SD cards and hard drives to launch a medium-sized moon mission. It makes my work desk look like a forgotten school project.

At one end of the room, there are two distinct sets. One looks like it used to be something—a cosy corner with a worn armchair and faux brick wallpaper—but now it’s been completely taken over by boxes, old office chairs, and random tech graveyard junk. Honestly, it looks a lot like my room.

The other set is clearly the main filming space. Wooden panelling lines the backdrop, LED strip lights between some of the panels, and there’s a desk front and centre with a seriously impressive lighting and camera rig aimed right at it. It looks very sleek professional, completely out of place with the rest of the office.

A woman who looks about my age—reddish-brown hair, dramatic eyeliner, cool in a way I’ll never be—is wrangling what can only be described as a mountain of shit. And by shit, I mean a completely random pile of objects: plush toys, plastic bowls, a Pokémon hat that’s seen better days. She’s also got a frankly terrifying number of energy drink cans, all in different colours. I think she’s arranging them in a specific order, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the logic is.

I stand awkwardly just out of the way, clutching my tote bag like it’s a shield. Will’s across the room, mid-conversation with James-Jacob (the same one from the party). They’re laughing about something, completely at ease, like I’m not even here. Which, to be fair, I sort of am and sort of... am not.

James-Jacob is sitting in one of the chairs in the set, in a denim jacket that somehow looks vintage and expensive at the same time. His hair is styled in that effortless way that definitely took twenty minutes and at least two products. The moustache is… a choice, but it weirdly works for him. It's bold. He’s holding an iced long black like it’s an accessory, casually sipping it as if the studio isn’t a war zone of clutter and chaos around him. He has the arty-but-effortless thing down pat.

I don’t know what to say. Or how to announce my presence without sounding like I’ve wandered in by accident. I still don’t know why I’m here, and the longer I stand in this chaotic studio space, the more I wonder if I’ve misread the entire situation.

I start to look for my phone, to check if I have the time and date right, but then Will finally spots me. Will turns around, as James-Jacob gestures to me.

“Y/N!” I almost think it's not him who says it because, for half a second, he actually sounds... genuinely pleased to see me.

That second doesn’t last long.

“You’ve finally figured out how to dress like a human!” he adds, grinning. He starts to walk over to me. “I was worried I’d have to stage an intervention after the Great Blazer Incident.”

I roll my eyes, already regretting every decision that led me here. “It was one time. I came from work.”

“And yet I still think about it at least once a week,” he says solemnly, like it haunts him.

He seems... different here. There’s an ease to him I’m not used to seeing. The usual smugness is still there, of course it is, but it’s dialled down, softened by something that looks suspiciously like genuine professionalism.

There’s a quiet, unspoken respect between him and the crew, like they all trust each other to get things done without needing to say much. He’s still cracking jokes, still being Will, but there’s something more grounded underneath it. He’s more relaxed. More personable.

And for a second, I kind of get it—the whole YouTube thing. The appeal.

Him.

“So,” I say, arms crossed, trying not to sound defensive, “are you ever going to tell me why I’m actually here? Or did I just win a competition I didn’t enter?”

Will grins, that usual glint in his eye. “Thought it was time you saw what a real job looks like.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Right, because rearranging Pokémon hats is the height of professionalism.”

He leans back against the desk, clearly enjoying himself. “Also thought it might help with the whole crushing loneliness thing you’ve got going on.”

It lands sharper than he probably means it to. My smile falters for a second before I catch it.

“Ouch,” I say, forcing a laugh. “Thanks for the charity invite, then.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to walk it back, maybe to double down, but someone calls his name across the room and he just gives me a look before walking off. The look haunts me for a second. It looked almost… apologetic, Like he knew he crossed a line. This second passes when I notice the man who called for Will's attention.

The man looks maybe a year or two younger than me, he has a pearl necklace peeking out of his oversized t-shirt. He has  a full tattoo sleeve, and his other arm littered with smaller ink. God is everyone who works here just super cool? I feel out of place even more so. This man is also downright handsome.

I walk over to Will, trying to act (never a good start) casual and confident. I blurt out, “Are you planning on introducing me to anyone, or...?”

It comes out sharper than I meant. Demanding, even. Great.

Will raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow. Okay. Demanding guest energy. Got it.”

I open my mouth to backtrack, but then I catch a glimpse of handsome-man who is now holding a very professional-looking camera. Of course. He’s on the crew. I suddenly become painfully aware of how out of place I must look, awkward, underdressed, and clearly not cool enough to be here.

I clear my throat, shifting my tote on my shoulder like that’ll help. “I just thought... y’know, manners.”

Will smirks. “Sure. Manners. Let’s go with that.”

Will, to his credit, does introduce me, though only after a very theatrical sigh, like I’m the one interrupting his party.

“Alright, alright,” he says, waving me forward like a reluctant tour guide. “Come meet the people who actually make the videos good.”

He gestures to Handsome-Man-With-the-Camera first. “This is Ieuan, camera god, walking tripod, professional stabiliser of shaky chaos.”

I nod, trying not to be weird about the fact that he’s even better looking up close. “Hi.”

“Ieuan,” I repeat, effortlessly now. A few years ago at uni, I’d have butchered that pronunciation on site, but after enough time around Welsh names, I’ve stopped fearing vowels.

He smiles politely and gives a small wave before adjusting something on his rig. Cool and quiet. Of course.

Will points toward the woman still knee-deep in boxes. “That’s Orla. Producer, chaos coordinator, and part-time tour manager for James.”

Orla looks up briefly and gives me a smile, dramatic eyeliner still flawless despite what I can only assume has been a long morning. “Nice to meet you,” she says, with the sort of energy that suggests she’s already done three people’s jobs today and has no plans to slow down. With that being said though, her smile is very genuine.

“And this,” Will continues, clapping a hand on James’ shoulder, “is James. The other half of the so-called talent.”

James smiles at me. “I’m the one people actually like.”  His name is James. I was actually very close.

Will snorts. “True. I keep him around for the algorithm. Likes, shares, ad revenue. It’s all James.”'

But something in the way James grins back at him makes it obvious there’s more to it than that. The banter’s real, but so is the friendship. It’s written in the comfortable way they stand near each other, in the ease of being known.

“I think we met at Old Mate’s party,” I say to James.

Will gives me a bit of a look, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You mean Cal’s.”

Right. Cal. Of course he has a real name. I think his internet name is Calsqueezy or something.

James nods, taking a sip of his iced coffee. “Oh yeah. I was only there for a bit, not really my scene.”

He says it casually, but I can tell he means it. There’s no judgment, just that quiet honesty some people wear without even trying. It kind of disarms me.

Will nods. “There’s also Aby,” he says, glancing around. “She’s running an errand, probably saving our asses from some scheduling disaster. She’s another producer." he thinks to himself for a moment, "Oh there's also editor Mikey but he's off today."

As the introductions wind down, Will leans casually against the desk. “This lot,” he says, with a sweeping gesture, “are far too talented to be stuck making dumb review videos with me. Ieuan’s skills are wasted behind my ridiculous face, Orla could run a small nation, and—”

He pauses, looking at James, probably searching for a compliment.

“Don’t,” James warns, pointing at him. “Just don’t.”

Will grins. “See? He knows I have one, and that’s what matters.”

He waits a beat, and then claps his hands once, loud enough to cut through the idle chatter. “Alright, let’s get started!”

He glances over at me, and for a second I think he’s about to say something sarcastic, but he just gives me a quick nod, all business, then turns back to the crew like he’s flipping a switch.

And just like that, he’s in his element.

He gives directions, laughs with the crew, makes some offhand joke that sends James into a fit of giggles, then smirks to himself like he knows he’s good. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But when it’s not aimed at me, it’s... magnetic.

I find a seat off to the side. I'm far enough away not to be in the way, but close enough to witness the chaos. From here, it looks like organised madness. Cables, lights, props being moved. Voices overlapping. Will moves through it like it’s all choreographed.

He prances around the space. yes, prances is the only word for it. he's checking angles, tweaking lighting, fussing over his camera like it’s a pet. Once or twice, he catches me watching. He flashes a grin, quick and unbothered, then gets right back to work.

No smug comment. No teasing. Just... working.

It throws me off.

It throws me off so bad I almost forget to catch a few glances at Ieuan. Almost.

xxx

The first video is about tasting a bunch of discontinued energy drinks, because apparently slowly poisoning yourself for content is just part of the brand. There’s a “good bin” and a “bad bin” where they sort each one after tasting, with Orla handing them the drinks one by one like a caffeinated sommelier. They then also add a splash of each drink to a 'mega drink' which I cant imagine is going to go well.

Turns out the method to her madness earlier was sorting them by caffeine content—from lowest to highest. Which now makes terrifying sense.

I get it now. I get why people watch this.

Will is electric. He’s practically bouncing off the walls before they even hit the halfway mark. The energy between him and James is nonstop. The rapid-fire jokes, silly moment, dramatic reactions over flavours that “taste like potpourri I used to eat as a kid.” The banter is sharp, ridiculous, and weirdly charming.

To finish off the video, Will and James down a cup of the “mega drink” and the room instantly fills with this ridiculous, contagious laughter. They’re joking, teasing, and ribbing each other like old friends who’ve known each other forever. It’s effortless, the kind of easy camaraderie that’s rare to witness. James is making the most ridiculous face I've ever seen.

I have to clamp my hand over my mouth, barely holding back my own laughter. The last thing I want is to blow the shot, but damn, it’s hard not to crack up watching them.

There’s something... phenomenal about it. Watching them like this, it’s clear this isn’t just work for them. It’s their thing. Their space. And somehow, even from the sidelines, it’s almost mesmerising.

And this is with the awkward bits still in. I can only imagine how tight and hilarious it is once it’s edited down with the fun graphics.

Watching it unfold live feels a bit like watching improv on energy drinks. Which, I suppose, it is.

Ieuan calls ‘done!’ and just like that, the chaos dissolves. Cameras go off, lights dim, and everyone moves with the kind of precision that only comes after doing this a thousand times before. Straight toward the snacks.

We gather around on the green couch, which is near a scuffed table now covered in bags of Doritos, hummus, and what might be the saddest salsa I’ve ever seen. Orla triumphantly produces it all from a mini-fridge I hadn’t even noticed earlier, probably because it’s hidden beneath a tower of tangled cables and what I’m pretty sure is a rubber chicken.

Will flops down next to me, surprisingly not saying something mocking or snide. Instead, he nods toward Orla and announces, “She’s only here for the snacks.”

“That was the deal,” I deadpan, grabbing a chip.

He grins. “She’s also here to witness a legend in action.” He throws that line to Orla like it’s an inside joke, then turns back to me. “Drinks after, by the way. You’re coming.”

I blink at him, genuinely thrown.

“Yeah, it’s rough dragging everyone in on a Saturday,” he adds, stretching back like he’s worked a double shift in a mine. “But Orla and James are off on tour soon, so we had to squeeze in an extra day. I’m compensating by putting the company card on the tab.”

“Truly a man of the people,” Orla mutters, passing me the dip.

He ignores her. “Aby and Mikey are coming too. Should be a proper send-off-slash-financial mistake.”

I'm still stuck on the drinks thing. Drinks? With them? With him? Will doesn’t like me. And I don’t like him. That’s been the whole foundation of our weird, petty little dynamic. Mutual disdain with a side of sarcasm.

But now he’s inviting me out like we’re... what? Friends?

My brain short-circuits trying to process it, but my mouth gets there first. “You sure you want me there? I might ruin your whole mysterious internet persona.”

Will smirks without missing a beat. “That’s kind of the point.”

I glance around, half-expecting one of the others to be laughing or filming me as part of some elaborate prank. But no. They’re all just eating chips like this is normal.

So maybe it is. Maybe I’ve been dropped into an alternate universe where Will isn’t actively trying to get on my nerves... and I don’t immediately want to leave.

I pop a Dorito into my mouth to avoid saying anything else. Because if he’s being weirdly nice, I need at least three more snacks to emotionally prepare.

xxx

They film the second video, and James is still clearly buzzing from all the caffeine—he’s practically vibrating with energy. The chemistry between him and Will is just as electric as before, and the banter is nonstop. I catch myself laughing louder than I realize, probably loud enough for the mics to pick up. Nobody says anything about it, but I get the sense that my unexpected outbursts just blend right into the chaos of the shoot. It’s oddly comforting to be part of this wild, caffeinated madness, even if just on the side lines.

Ieuan calls “Done!” and the room bursts into boisterous laughter. Everyone starts shuffling toward the door, energised and buzzing with excitement for the afternoon ahead. The air feels electric, full of that easy camaraderie that comes from shared chaos, and maybe just a little too much caffeine.

The pub’s within walking distance of the studio and clearly a well-loved local, no matter how divey it is. The second we step inside, I’m hit with the smell of stale beer, fried food, and whatever cleaning product they gave up on halfway through the floors.

My sneakers instantly stick to something on the ground. Great.

It’s the kind of place that has mismatched chairs, chalkboard specials that haven’t changed since 2017, and fairy lights that probably haven’t been turned off since they were first hung. But judging by the way everyone relaxes the moment we walk in, this is clearly their spot.

Orla turns to the group to proudly say, “Our booth’s free!”

There’s a sort of triumphant energy to it, like this was the final boss of the night and she’s just won. She leads the way toward a worn-in corner booth that looks like it’s absorbed every conversation, spilled drink, and questionable life choice this crew has ever made.

We’re barely seated when Will steps away from the table, already pulling out his wallet.

“Alright,” he says, pointing as he goes down the mental checklist like a bartender who moonlights as a psychic. “Orla, you’ll want a Guinness. James, lemon-lime and bitters. Ieuan, your usual IPA. Y/N…” he pauses, smirking slightly, “cider, right?”

I blink. “Yeah.”

He turns toward the bar like it’s no big deal. “Mikey and Aby are two minutes away in the Uber, so I’ll order theirs too.”

Everyone nods, completely unfazed. Business as usual. No one acts like it’s anything special—but I’m sitting there stunned.

He didn’t just know their orders, which would be impressive enough but he remembered mine. From the one time we ran into each other at the pub after my work drinks. A throwaway detail from weeks ago. He remembered.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t. But there’s something oddly touching about it. And it throws me off more than any sarcastic comment ever could.

I'm just completely thrown today.

Conversations break out easily once drinks hit the table. The kind of noise that fills every space with overlapping stories and half-heard jokes.

I end up leaning toward James, asking about his upcoming tour.

He lights up immediately. “I’m excited,” he says, then after a pause, “but nervous. We’re playing a lot of the new album live for the first time. Could totally flop.”

He laughs like he’s joking, but I catch the flicker of real worry behind it. Before I can say anything reassuring, Orla cuts in to rib him about learning his own lyrics properly this time, and the moment drifts away with the laughter.

Ieuan starts talking to Orla, but I catch a few words. He’s moving in with his girlfriend. I nod politely when he mentions it, even manage a smile. My brain offers me a quiet, helpful suggestion: This is the part where you’re supposed to feel crushed.

I don’t. Not really. Just a little... floaty.

Mikey and Aby arrive a few minutes later, both looking like they’ve already been laughing about something. Apparently Aby ran into him while grabbing lunch on her “errand,” and they decided to come back together.

James snorts. “You’re scamming a living, Aby.”

She flips him off without missing a beat. Everyone laughs, so it's clearly an ongoing bit. It’s warm. Familiar.

I introduce myself, a little awkwardly, but both are immediately friendly. Aby’s effortlessly cool with her blonde hair, oversized blazer and total girlboss energy. Mikey, on the other hand, is pure chaos. His bright red hair is sticking up like he lost a fight with a wind tunnel, and he talks with his whole body, hands flailing, voice animated, bouncing between topics like he’s buffering in real time.

I like them instantly.

Will returns with a tray of drinks, and the table erupts like he’s just brought a round of gold.

“Look at this man go,” Orla says, raising her glass.

“Hero of the people,” Mikey adds, dramatically clutching his chest.

On the tray: five pints, one lemon-lime bitters, and a glass of white wine. Without saying a word, Will starts placing each drink in front of its rightful owner, setting them down with casual precision, each one on a coaster. Like it’s muscle memory.

When he reaches me, he places the pint of cider gently in front of me, with the glass turned, label facing out, like some kind of pub sommelier. And then, as he shifts the tray under his arm, his other one moves behind my chair.

He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t say anything. Just that one arm resting casually along the back of my seat.

It shouldn't mean anything. It's probably just for balance. But my breath catches in my throat anyway, sharp and embarrassing. He’s not even touching me.

And then he’s gone, walking off to return the tray like it’s nothing.

I blink, trying to reset my brain. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. Just... proximity. Pub physics. Nothing to write a diary entry about.

Still, I find myself watching the space he left behind like it might explain why my pulse hasn’t slowed down yet.

Two more pints later, the table has reached a comfortable kind of chaos. The volume’s gone up, the laughter’s coming easier, and conversations have splintered off in every direction.

Orla and Aby are deep in a stream of gossip about mutual friends, names I don’t recognise, but their dramatic re-enactments are gripping. Across the table, Will and James are animatedly dissecting some obscure TV series they’ve both just discovered and apparently believe is a cultural cornerstone.

Closer to me, Ieuan’s mid-rant about the stress of moving flats, arms flailing slightly as he describes the war zone of cardboard boxes his life has become. Mikey jumps in occasionally to offer moving “advice,” most of which sounds borderline illegal.

I chime in without thinking. “I’ve got four inspections lined up this week. Four. And I’m already mentally composing my rejection emails.”

Ieuan winces. “You flat-hunting in London?”

I nod grimly. “Yeah. It’s like a full-time job where every interview ends with, ‘We’ll let you know,’ and then they don’t.”

Mikey offers me a crisp from the middle of the table, looking weirdly sympathetic. “That’s brutal. I lasted three days when I tried. Moved back home and started a fish tank.”

I don’t even know how to respond to that, but it makes me laugh.

And just like that, I realise how easy this all feels. Sitting here, wedged between people I barely know and yet somehow don’t feel out of place with. For a moment, I forget about the flat stress. I forget about the weird tension I can’t name.

I’m just... here. And it’s not terrible.

The conversation between Will and James starts to fizzle, both of them finally running out of steam, or maybe just tired of trying to convince each other to watch the same show. I’m mid-laugh at something else Mikey says when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.

I turn, and Will’s leaning in slightly, his face unreadable in the low pub light. “So,” he says, voice pitched just for me, “does this make up for Valentine’s Day?”

It takes me a second. “What?”

“I couldn't take you out” he continues, like it’s obvious. “So. Drinks. Company. Pint on me. Consider it... delayed compensation.”

I blink at him, genuinely thrown. “You remember that?”

He just shrugs, casual. Too casual. “I remember everything you say.”

That quiet little sentence knocks the wind out of me more than I care to admit. He says it like it’s nothing, like it's just true. But it lands with way more weight than it should.

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to hide the fact that my brain is short-circuiting. “Okay, whoa. No. I want cocky Will back. This version’s way too emotionally available.”

He smirks, sitting back like I’ve walked straight into his trap. “Fine. You’re welcome, by the way—for being the most interesting part of your boring little 9 to 5 life.”

I snort. “There he is.”

He grins wider, clearly pleased with himself. “Missed me?”

“Like a toothache,” I smirk, but I find it hard for it to not turn into a fully-fledged smile.

After a surprisingly good steak (courtesy of Will, no less) and more pints than I’m willing to admit to in writing, I fish my phone out of my bag and start tapping for an Uber.

Before I can get past the address screen, Will reaches across the table and gently pushes my hand down. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, already pulling out his own phone. “I’ve got it.”

I blink at him. “You’ve got it?”

He’s typing something in before I can argue. “Yeah. I already know where you live.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, stalker?”

He rolls his eyes. “You live with Chris and George. It’s not that deep.”

Right. That.

I sit back, feeling weirdly... thrown. For a second, I forgot about the shared connections, the overlapping social circles. I forgot he’s not just the guy who gets under my skin, but also the guy who shows up to our flat like he’s part of the furniture.

Still. There’s something strange about the way he does it without asking. Like it’s second nature.

I glance at him, but he’s already looking at his phone, scrolling to confirm the ride like it’s no big deal.

Maybe it’s not, but for some reason, it kind of feels like it is.

He even walks me out to wait for the Uber. It’s not quite dark yet, but the sun’s sliding low, casting a lazy orange glow. Typical London, never a good sunset, but somehow I don’t notice.

“Thanks for coming today, Y/N,” he says quietly. I brace myself for a snarky comment, but it doesn’t come. “I hope you had a good time.” I check my phone. The Uber should be just around the corner.

“Thanks. I genuinely did have a good day,” I say, turning to look at him. His expression is unreadable, like he’s holding something back, or maybe trying not to.

The Uber pulls up just then. I reach for the door handle before he can beat me to it.

Inside the car, Will’s words from earlier echo in my head, the ones about the crushing loneliness thing I have going on. The way he said it so flippantly earlier made my skin crawl. And honestly? Part of me wants to snap back, “How dare he make my loneliness his problem?” Like, since when did my mess become his to carry? I’m supposed to be the one who manages my life, not someone else’s charity case.

I didn’t ask him to notice. I didn’t invite his pity or his concern. I’m used to burying those feelings deep, pretending they don’t exist. So why does it sting so much that he saw through the act? It’s infuriating, really. The idea that someone else is holding a mirror up to my cracks and expecting me to care. Because caring means admitting I’m not fine. And admitting that? That feels like losing.

But then there’s this other part, stubborn and reluctant, that wonders if maybe, just maybe, he genuinely did just see that I have no friends here, and offered some of his to me.

Still. I’m not ready to hand him a damn map to my loneliness. Not yet. Not ever.

I'm just a little bit too drunk to think about it any further, about whether he invited me for a different reason entirely.

Then my phone buzzed.

Oh my god...

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 5

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 4.2k+ (Whoops!)

Note: This is less about the love triangle and more about our girl. I hope you still enjoy it!

xxx

I’ve never been good at asking for help. Even when everything gets too much, when the noise in George’s flat feels suffocating and the weight of the world presses down on me, I just keep it to myself. I smile through it, tell myself it will get better. It always does, right?

But tonight is different.

Sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop open, and the most fucked code I've ever seen. An email from my director that says "can you get this working by the 10am meeting tomorrow?".

I feel the tension building in my chest.

The noise around me, the sound of Arthur and Chris, the clinking of glasses, the sharp, jarring bursts of laughter from the living room. They all feel too loud. Too much.

I close my eyes, take a slow, deep breath, but it’s not enough. The lines of code blur, and the world outside feels distant. It’s like everything is just too big and I’m shrinking inside of it. Before I know it, tears start to spill, dripping down my cheeks and onto my laptop. I silently get up and move to my bedroom.

Its still not really a bedroom, but I do now own a bedframe and a mattress. And don’t forget a bedside table, courtesy of Reev sending me a Facebook marketplace listing. 

George and I built the bedframe last weekend. We bickered about what went where, and I got mad at him for putting the headboard on wrong. He said it gave it 'character' and it fits in with the rest of the room.

My door opens without warning. I don’t even hear him come down the hallway, I just see George standing there, frozen for a second when he notices me. His usual easy smile falters, and instead of offering some flippant joke or trying to make it better, he juat sits beside me, and stays quiet. His presence is grounding, comforting in a way that I don’t expect.

“You okay?” His voice is gentle, the teasing gone, replaced with something softer, something more real. This is the tone ive only heard from george a few times. I’ve heard it maybe three or four times since we’ve known each other, and each time, it’s been when I’m at a breaking point. When my walls are about to crack, and he’s the only one who notices before I do.

The first time was when I got dumped the first time, all the pressure of deadlines suddenly feeling unbearable. He offered me his spare room without a second thought.  Then, there was that night after I had the fight with my sister. George stayed up with me, letting me vent for hours about all the things I couldn’t say to her. The last was when I rung him to tell him my grandma passed, that I was moving back to Brisbane. He didn’t fight me on it, saying he understood.

And now, here, with me on the edge of losing it over a whole different set of things, he’s somehow aware that it’s more than just a rough day at work.

He’s a good friend like that. He knows when to stop being the joker, when to take a step back and let me be human.

I don’t answer him at first. I can’t. The weight of everything is too heavy, and there’s nowhere to put it. The flat, the constant chaos, the stress from work, It’s the kind of loneliness that has rotted my bones, turning the quiet moments into an unbearable ache. It wraps itself around my thoughts until all I can hear is the hollow echo of my own voice.

"I don’t think I can keep doing this," I whisper, the words breaking like glass on my tongue. "I don’t know how to breathe here." The weight of it all crashes down on me, and before I can stop it, my body collapses into his chest. My tears spill, unstoppable, soaking into his shirt as my chest rises and falls in frantic waves. Every breath feels like it’s being stolen from me. I'm so upset I almost don't notice how close we are.

George doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there, holding me close with one arm, the other holding my hand. It’s not urgent, not a “fix it” kind of gesture. It’s just a simple, quiet thing. His thumb rubs over my knuckles slowly, like he’s giving me the space to figure it out for myself.

After what feels like an eternity, my breathing steadies, each inhale a little deeper, a little less desperate. I pull back, wiping my face with the back of my hoodie, suddenly aware of how stupid I must look. I look back at George, my hand still in his.

"This flat’s yours too, Y/N," he says, his voice low, but steady. "You can have your space. Just say the word, and we’ll figure it out. I rally the boys into getting this room fixed up."

I blink, surprised. He’s not just saying it. He’s not offering me a quick fix to make it go away. He means it.

I sit there for a long moment, taking it in, but the words don’t feel like they’re mine to take. I can’t help but feel like a guest in a place that’s never going to feel like home, no matter how much I try to make it. I look down at my hands, a little lost in the comfort of his offer, but the weight still sits heavily in my chest.

"I’ll figure it out," I finally say, my voice barely a whisper.

George doesn’t press it, just gives my hand one more squeeze before standing up. He says he's going to make tea, and reminds me that my favourite noodles are stocked in the cupboard.

I don’t know why, but somehow, that makes me feel a little better. I’ll figure it out. Maybe.

He comes back into my room a bit later. George hands me the tea, of course he makes it just the way I like it: half a sugar, a dash of milk, tea-bag still in.

I take a slow sip, the warmth soothing against the heaviness in my chest. My eyes are still puffy and swollen from the tears I couldn’t hold back earlier. It feels like an hour ago, but really, it’s just been fifteen minutes. Still, it’s enough for everything to feel like it’s shifted in a way I can’t explain.

George doesn’t say much at first, just watching me like he knows I’m not ready to talk yet. But he’s never the type to let silence sit for long, especially with me.

"So, what’s your plan then?" he asks casually, leaning back onto my headboard, sipping his own tea like he’s got all the time in the world.

I sigh, trying to find the words. I’ve been avoiding the question of what now? since the moment I stepped into London. How do you make a place home when every corner of it feels foreign?

"Plan?" I murmur, glancing down at my tea. "Just... try to make it through the next week, I guess."

"Yeah, but that’s not a plan, is it?" He raises an eyebrow, lips curling up slightly. "You can’t live off caffeine and hangovers forever, even if you seem to be trying to make a career out of it."

I laugh bitterly, swiping a hand over my face, trying to hide the frustration building inside me. "I wasn’t thinking about a plan," I admit, looking up. "I’m just... trying to get through the day."

He takes a sip of his tea, eyes narrowing slightly, the way they do when he’s about to make an observation that feels more like a gentle nudge than advice. "Yeah, but you’re a lot better than that. You’ve got more in you than just surviving the next round of awkward small talk."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence," I mutter, but I know he’s right.

He sets his tea down (on my new-but-used bedside table) with a soft thud, his gaze turning serious. "Look, you’ve been in London long enough to know it’s not all about the hustle and grind, right? You’ve got to make space for things that make you... you. You’ve always been the type to do something. Maybe it’s time to find something here."

I give him a pointed look. "Like what?"

George doesn’t even hesitate. "You used to play netball, didn’t you?" He leans forward, suddenly more animated, like he’s already envisioning the whole thing. "You were always dragging me to practice in uni. And you were great at it, even if you complained about your knees every five minutes."

I roll my eyes. "I was not great. I just knew how to not get hit by the ball."

"Same difference," he grins, his easy smile pulling me back into the comfort of our banter. "But seriously, you should try something like that here. It’s not like there aren’t social teams. Or, you know, some volunteer work?"

I blink, the suggestion hanging in the air, and for a moment, I feel something stir in mem something like hope, but also dread. The idea of finding a place to belong, to give back like I used to, makes me feel a little less like a ghost.

He looks at me, a little knowing but not pushing. "You remember, in uni, you made me volunteer with you every damn weekend." He grins like the memory’s a joke, but there’s real warmth in his eyes. "I hated it. But somehow, I always walked away feeling... better."

I can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips. "You hated it because you had to wake up at 8 AM on a Saturday."

He scoffs dramatically. "Yeah, well, when you’re a uni student who lives for the weekend, 8 AM on a Saturday is a criminal offense."

"Look, you weren’t the one getting up to make sandwiches and play board games with kids, okay?" I tease, taking another sip of my tea. "But you’re right, I’ve always done it. Volunteering, I mean. Since high school. Everywhere I’ve lived, I find something, even if it’s just a little part. Makes it feel like home."

He nods, watching me carefully. "See, that’s what I’m talking about. Maybe you need to start doing that here too. Just... carve out some space for yourself, you know?"

I can feel the weight of his words, like they’re sinking deep into the cracks I’ve been trying to ignore. The idea of finding a new volunteer project in London feels like the first step toward finding a new rhythm here, a new way to exist.

"Maybe," I whisper, more to myself than him. "I could do that."

"You should," he says, his voice suddenly soft again. "You’re not supposed to do this alone, Y/N. I mean, sure, you’re capable as hell, but you deserve more than just surviving. You deserve to feel like you belong somewhere."

I blink, swallowing the lump in my throat, my chest tightening. I look at George, really look at him, for the first time in a while. He’s here, steady and unwavering, and it feels like maybe I’m not as lost as I’ve been pretending to be. Maybe I don’t have to claw my way through this.

"Thanks," I say quietly, unsure of what else to say, but it feels like the right thing. "Really."

He smiles, a little crooked, a little too sincere. "Hey, don’t mention it. You’re still my volunteer project from uni, remember?"

I chuckle, shaking my head, but it feels lighter than it has in days.

xxx

A few days later, I’m hunched over my desk at work, I'm still furiously editing that damn code. I did not get it done on time, but nobody in the meeting mentioned it.  The air is thick with the hum of keyboards clacking and the low buzz of phone calls happening in the distance.  My screen flickers with the usual emails. Deadlines, pointless meetings, and some passive-aggressive notes about a report I’m still working on, but my attention drifts. I pull up a homeless outreach van’s website, something I’d bookmarked the night I talked with George.

I’ve passed one of their vans a few times when walking to the coffee shop. It’s one of those little details that stick with you. In a city that feels like it’s always in motion, it’s nice to know there are places where people can just stop for a moment, even if only for a cup of coffee or a kind word.

I click through to the volunteer section, half in a daze, my fingers typing before my mind can catch up. Maybe I’m desperate for something that makes me feel like I’m contributing, or maybe I just need to break the monotony of my day. Either way, it feels like the only decision I’ve made in ages that isn’t tied to deadlines or expectations.

Within the hour, an email pops up in my inbox, all formal and crisp, with the subject line: Volunteer Opportunity Available – Tuesday Nights. My pulse skips a beat. I stare at it for a moment before realising I’ve already clicked ‘Yes, I’ll Volunteer.’

For the first time all week, I don’t feel like I’m drowning,  pretending to understand something. I hit ‘Send’ on a few more emails, and the day continues to drag on, but in the back of my mind, I’m already thinking about Tuesday night. About doing something that feels real, that matters. For a change, it’s something I can look forward to, and that’s enough to make the workday feel a little less suffocating.

xxx

I arrive at the kitchen for The Van around 5:45 p.m., straight after work, my mind still buzzing with the humdrum of emails and meetings, but I try to push that aside. I keep my gym bag slung over my shoulder, not because I’m planning on actually working out, but because I’ve learned the hard way that dressing up for these things is a bad idea. In high school, I learned less about looking the part and more about just showing up. Now, I’ve got a change of clothes in the bag, something comfortable and something I don’t mind getting a little messy.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh herbs as soon as I walk in, a sharp contrast to the sterile, beige office environment I just left. I’m greeted by Matt, a guy with messy hair and a friendly smile that makes him seem about ten years younger than he probably is. He’s the one running things tonight, and he starts showing me around with a casual efficiency, as if he’s done this a thousand times before, which, judging by his comfort in the space, I’m sure he has.

“We make enough for 60 servings,” Matt explains as he leads me to a huge, industrial stove. It’s hot in here, the air thick with the smell of onions sizzling in the pan and the rhythmic clink of utensils. “You get in, you make a batch of food, pack it up, and then head to the spot. Simple as that. Tonight, we’re doing pesto pasta, so—” He hands me a wooden spoon, nodding towards the bubbling pot. “Your turn to stir.”

As we cook, Matt explains the rest of the operation. We’re not just handing out meals, though that’s obviously part of it. But it’s the connection that matters more. The van isn’t just about food or even about offering warm drinks on a cold night. It’s about offering something a little more intangible: conversation. A quiet dignity that not everyone has access to.

I don’t have the guts to tell Matt he’s preaching to the choir, so I just nod and let him talk. He’s so fired up about it, I don’t want to be the one to douse his flame, even if I’ve heard all the buzzwords before. I like the way he speaks though, like this cause isn’t just a hobby to him, it’s something he’s built his whole rhythm around.

I’m introduced to the other four volunteers, each of them as easy-going as the next, but one stands out to me. Ruth. She looks about my age, and her hands are stuffed into the oversized University of Westminster hoodie she’s wearing. Her glasses are massive, so large, in fact, that I can’t even tell if she has eyebrows. She’s the type of person who seems effortlessly cool without trying, her calm demeanour almost magnetic.

There’s no tension in the way she moves, no rush, just a kind of quiet confidence that makes me feel a little more at ease in this whirlwind of new faces. As she smiles and introduces herself, it’s like she’s already seen this all before, like she knows exactly how it feels to be on the outside, looking in.

We start packing up the van, which is an operation in itself. Jerry cans of hot water clink against each other, and the smell of instant coffee and tea bags start to fill the air as we make sure everything’s packed in tight. The pesto pasta, fresh and still steaming from the kitchen, takes up the bulk of the space, swaddled in plastic containers like treasure. It’s a weird but comforting feeling, standing there, surrounded by mismatched containers and enough food to feed an army. It’s not glamorous, but it feels right. There's something about the clink of utensils, the bustle of everyone moving in sync, that makes the chaos feel... organized. Even if it's all just a few volunteers and a handful of hot meals.

While we’re out on the street, Ruth gives me a quick rundown of how things flow. Two people serve the food, two handle the drinks, and two collect the rubbish. When the food runs out, we switch roles, and that’s when the real magic happens, conversations.

We’re on drink duty together, and Ruth is in her element, greeting the regulars like old friends. She probably knows at least 20% of their coffee orders by heart. It's honestly very impressive.

Back home, I used to be the Ruth at the Open Kitchen I volunteered at every week. I was the one who remembered the little things. like how Sarah always liked two tea bags in her tea or how Mark preferred his coffee milk first. He explained every time it was so you don’t burn the coffee. It was routine, and it felt like something I could count on.

And right now, for the first time in months, I don’t feel like I’m stumbling through a city that is allergic to me. I’m not fumbling for answers or trying to force myself into a rhythm I haven’t found yet.

Here, in this small, quiet corner of London, I don’t know all the coffee orders or the little quirks of the regulars, but damn it I'm gonna learn them. I’m just doing what I can, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m out of place.

We head back to the kitchen to clean up, and as we’re wiping down the countertops, Ruth casually mentions that they all grab McDonald’s after, and asks me to come along. I don't feel the need to point out that back home, we call it "Maccas."

She also asks me for my Insta. She says my username is funny. I accept her request and as soon as she opens my profile, she starts liking everything. All the photos, from the most recent ones down to the ancient shots from years ago. It cracks me up, and I find myself laughing as I open up hers, ready to return the favour. But then I find that Ruth’s account has one single post from like 8 years ago, a blurry picture of a concert she went to, the caption reading: “Best night ever." it's her turn to laugh.

I end up spending almost an hour at McDonald's, the conversation flowing effortlessly, filled with laughter and easy banter. It’s funny how comfortable I feel with these people already. This little group of people who somehow, already, feel like the closest thing to home I’ve had in months.

At one point, someone asks me if McDonald's is different in Australia. I can’t help but grin. Everyone always asks that.

"Oh, definitely. They’ve got this thing called a Frozen Coke, right?" I explain, "It’s basically like a slushie, but for some reason, it’s considered a completely essential part of life. And they’re only a dollar."

A couple of people raise their eyebrows. "Wait, this is a big deal?"

I laugh, nodding. "Yep, you can walk in, get a Frozen Coke for a dollar, and leave. It’s like the national pastime. But I guess you wouldn’t see it here, right? Too cold. Actually I think its just changed to $2, I've gotten about a thousand texts about it"

They all laugh, nodding in agreement, and for a second, I feel a wave of homesickness hit me, but it’s the kind of homesickness that feels warm. Familiar. The good kind.

"So, wait," Matt says, looking at me with a mischievous grin, "do you guys really have McDonald’s in the outback, or is that just a thing people say to make Australia sound more ridiculous?"

I roll my eyes. "Not quite. But we’ve got a McDonald’s in every town, even the tiny ones. You can always count on a Big Mac, no matter how far you drive."

The whole table bursts into laughter, and for the first time in ages, I feel that real, deep sense of connection. These people are so different from what I imagined when I first got here, but somehow, it’s exactly what I needed. They don’t feel like strangers anymore.

And as we continue eating, talking about everything and nothing, I feel a little lighter.

xx

When I get home, way later than I expected, I know I can't keep putting this off. It’s time to start looking for a flat seriously. I can’t keep living like this, surrounded by other people’s stuff, constantly feeling like I’m in the way. The exercise bike in the corner of my room is starting to look more like a clothes rack than a piece of fitness equipment.

I need my own space. I need a place that’s just mine. Somewhere I can breathe without the constant hum of conversation or the feeling that I’m stepping on someone else’s toes. Somewhere that’s not filled with the sense that I’m just temporarily passing through.

So, I pull up Rightmove, fingers hovering over the keys, trying to find the right words to search for. I’ve been to a few viewings here and there—flats with walls so thin I can hear people breathing in the next room. Tiny rooms with windows that look out over nothing but a wall of brick. Overpriced rent for places that might as well be shoeboxes.

And then there’s the landlords. The ones who don’t even look you in the eye when they talk, or the ones who talk like they’ve memorized a script on how to convince you that this is the perfect place, when deep down you know it’s anything but.

But I keep pushing forward. I remind myself that I have to find something. Anything. London won’t feel like home until I have a place to put down roots. Until I can fill a room with my own stuff and not just be borrowing space from someone else.

I think about George’s offer, his easy suggestion that I move into the room properly, that he’ll help clear it out for me. I could take him up on it, I guess. It’d make things easier, wouldn’t it? But then, I think of what that would mean. No matter how kind George is, no matter how much he wants to help, I can't start in someone else's space—not if I want to feel like this city is mine.

I want to feel like London is a place I’ve made my own. And that means I have to do it by myself.

So, I scroll through listings, narrowing them down, and I start mentally calculating how much I can afford to spend without feeling like I’ll drown in rent.

I sometimes find myself forgetting that the reason I moved to London was for the job, and I made the move because it was good money. I’m not a broke uni student anymore, desperately trying to find a room with only the bare minimum, maybe a roof, maybe a door, but probably not both. I up the price range slider, and start the search again.

I don’t know how long it will take. Maybe a week, maybe a month. But tonight, at least, I’ve made the decision. I’m going to find it. I’m going to find somewhere that’s just for me, no distractions, no borrowed corners, no second hand living.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 4

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 2.6k+

Note: Guys i never expected so much love on my very first writing project, its literally making my heart sing. I also randomly wrote chapter 16 today?! its a fucken doozey so get ready.

xxx

It’s my first official after-work drinks with my new team, and I’m both excited and a little on edge. I’m usually a social butterfly, but London has been really getting me down.

Going out with George last week was nice, as much as I hate to admit it. But it's hard to keep up with his lifestyle. He invites me to shoots or to casual hangs but I have a 9-5, I can't just go to some warehouse to film.

So when someone put the work drinks in the team calendar, I decided I had to join. I need friends and I've never met a pub dinner i didn't like. I’m used to making friends easily, but things just feel harder right now. I’m determined to push past the isolation and throw myself into the moment.

I walk into the pub, and the atmosphere hits me immediately. The loud conversations, laughter, and the clink of glasses. It's literally straight after work, but I’m surprised by how noisy it already is.

I spot the group almost instantly. They’re easy to spot, boisterous, unmistakable, tech nerds in their natural habitat. People in tech can drink, that’s for sure. I glance down at myself, feeling the usual discomfort in my work clothes, as if I’m sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of casual, after-hours wear.

It’s funny, back home I was always the one who could walk into a room and just click with everyone. Here, though, it’s different. The familiarity I used to have feels miles away.

I join the group, settling in with a smile, but I still feel like I’m trying to find my place. We all look like we could be in a catalogue for office wear, everyone’s sleeves are rolled up, hair’s let down, but it’s clear we’ve all come straight from work.

Someone orders a round of drinks, and another orders three serves of chips. The chatter begins, we go through the usual work grumbles, laughing about the printer that always jams, and moaning about our director’s latest genius move.

Then someone suggests we swear off work talk for the night. "We work all the time," they joke. "Let’s actually have some fun."

The conversation shifts, and I feel a bit of the old spark return. The techy jokes, the playful banter, the random opinions about everything from apps to reality TV. But then, I notice something. The group has its own rhythm, its own inside jokes, its own shorthand. They've been together for years, and I’m just the newbie trying to catch up. I laugh along, not fully in the loop, but doing my best to join in.

I love being social. I always have. But in London, sometimes it feels like that skill isn't enough. It’s like I’m wearing a new identity, trying to slip into a place that still doesn’t quite feel like home yet.

Just as I’m starting to relax into my third pint, nursing it a little too eagerly, I catch the shift in my co-worker’s expression. She points behind me, her eyes widening.

"Who’s that?" she asks, her tone a mix of curiosity and surprise.

I turn, expecting to see some random guy she’s eyeing, but instead, I am greeted with a welcome sight.

It’s George.

His grin is wide and easy, and he’s standing there, looking like he belongs. I feel a sudden mix of confusion and relief.

"Oh my goodness! What are you doing here?" I say.

"I’m with a few mates," George says back, pointing toward the corner booth. "You should swing by if you’re still around later."

I glance in the direction he’s gesturing, catching sight of Chris and a guy I remember from the party, (his name on the tip of my tongue UGH), who are deep in conversation, and another guy I don’t recognise. He's very broad-shouldered, but he's smiling very wide.

Then my eyes land on Will. Of course. He’s lounging at the far end of the booth, cocky smile firmly in place, his gaze already locked onto mine. I feel that damn flip in my stomach again, like I can never quite escape the pull he has on me.

"Yeah, I’ll swing by if you guys are still here," I say, trying to keep things light, but the flutter in my chest is hard to ignore.

Will and I have been DMing relentlessly this past week, and honestly, I don’t know why I keep coming back for more. It’s not like we get along. If anything, it's a nonstop string of sarcastic barbs, eye-roll-worthy comments, and the kind of back-and-forth that should be exhausting. Yet somehow, it’s the most fun I've had in a while. I think maybe that's the problem.

I can't stop myself from responding to his messages. I’ve found myself staying up until 2 a.m. once, WAY past my bedtime, getting caught in the vortex of our relentless banter. The way he can get under my skin, twist my words, or make me laugh when I should be irritated is almost infuriatingly brilliant. And yet, I can’t walk away from it.

My lunch hours have turned into a game of "How many ridiculous comments can Will send before I can't help but engage?" And, unsurprisingly, I never seem to win. Even when I’m on the tube, trying to zone out during my commute, my phone buzzes with his latest teasing message, and I can't help but look. It’s like he's there, even when he isn’t, pulling me into this back-and-forth that has no end in sight.

Sometimes I catch myself checking my phone while I'm still at work, mid-task, as if something urgent might pop up. And maybe it does. A snarky comment here, a mocking joke there, and somehow, I can’t look away. It’s frustrating. It’s ridiculous. But every time his name pops up on my screen, I feel that little pull, like it’s impossible to ignore.

I hate the way I can’t shake the feeling that he’s got some hold on me. I tell myself it’s just the thrill of the chase, the way he thinks he can outwit me with every message. But deep down, I know I’m getting caught in something I don’t want to admit, because I know, somewhere, he’s probably just as smug and arrogant as he seems. I should pull away. But I don’t.

Two pints and a chicken burger later, three of my co-workers trickle out, each of them making a hasty exit in quick succession. The remaining trio gets lost in a heated conversation about some programming topic I’ve heard a thousand times before. It's something about optimizing back-end code or streamlining frameworks, or whatever it is. Clearly the 'no work talk' rule left with the person who made it. To be honest, I’ve long since stopped listening.

Feeling the tension of being an outsider again, I decide it’s time for a change of scene. I quietly slip away from the table, dodging the odd person walking towards the bar until I reach the corner booth where George and his friends are sitting. It’s a welcome escape from the work talk (and maybe a chance to feel like I actually belong somewhere tonight).

I'm still feeling the residual buzz of my last pint as I slip into the booth with a smile. George looks up, his usual easy grin on his face as he gestures to the empty spot next to him.

“Y/N, good to see you! You made it,” George says, pulling his drink a little closer, as if he wants to make room for me to settle in.

I glance over at the other faces in the booth. Chris and Arthur (His name is Arthur! George having two friends called Arthur is getting annoying) are still deep in conversation, as expected. Arthur's laughter cuts through the air, a little tipsy but always charming.

Then there's Will, lounging like he owns the place, his signature cocky grin plastered across his face. But it’s the guy sitting across from him that catches my attention first.

This guy is massive, like, actually massive. He looks like he could lift a car if he wanted to. His shoulders are wide enough to make the booth seem a little smaller. And his teeth. God, his teeth are so white they practically glow in the pub lighting. He gives me a wide, disarming smile.

“Oi, you must be Y/N,” he says, his voice has an unexpected warmth that almost makes me laugh out loud. “I’m Ollie, but most people call me Reev. Nice to finally meet you.”

I extend my hand to shake his, and when he grips it, I feel like I’ve just shaken hands with a rock. He might be built like a Prop in a League game, but there’s something friendly about him that puts me at ease almost immediately.

All the awkwardness I was feeling just a few minutes ago melts away. The noise in my head dims, replaced by the soft hum of new friends and the clink of glasses.

I shift my attention to Will, who’s watching me with that look. The one that always makes me feel like he's about to pounce with some kind of comment. Sure enough, he doesn’t disappoint.

“Look at you,” he says, giving me the kind of once-over that makes me want to shrink into myself. “wearing business casual to the pub, eh?.”

I roll my eyes, trying to suppress the smile that’s fighting its way out. “Says the guy who looks like he’s been living in that hoodie since 2018.”

Will doesn’t miss a beat. “Nah, this is my 'I just came from the gym and I’m too cool to change' look.” He shrugs dramatically. “You know, effortlessly casual.”

“Effortlessly is one word for it,” I shoot back, trying to hide the grin forming on my face. It was very effortlessly casual.

The tension in the group lightens immediately, and I feel myself relaxing into the booth, my body easing into the familiarity of sarcastic banter I’ve come to appreciate. Will leans back, eyes gleaming with that infuriating mix of confidence and mischief.

“Don’t worry, Y/N,” he says, looking me dead in the eye. “I’ve got your back. You’ll get the hang of this whole not wearing office attire thing soon enough.”

I snort, leaning into the back of the booth. “Yeah, keep the fashion advice to yourself, at least I have a real job.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see George ready to step in, but I handle it myself. I meet his gaze, it's hard to read, I'm unsure if he’s jealous or just being protective, Will's 'big brother' comment fresh in my mind. Whatever it is, I push it aside. Work had already been too much today.

Reev, who’s been watching the exchange with a smile, chimes in from the side, giving me a playful wink. “Don’t mind him. Will’s always got something to say. But you’ll get used to it. He’s harmless, really.”

“Harmless?” Will scoffs. “I’m basically a teddy bear. You should try hugging me sometime. Very cuddly.”

I shake my head. "I'll pass. Thanks."

The group bursts into laughter again, and I can’t help but feel that little spark of belonging flicker in my chest. It’s small, but it’s there.

Despite my reservations and the internal battle I’ve been fighting, I realise that tonight isn’t as terrible as I thought it would be. The jokes, the laughs, the easy rhythm of the conversation. For the first time since arriving in London, I start to feel like maybe this place isn’t as foreign as I thought.

But then, as I glance around the table at everyone. Reev is laughing at something George said, Arthur’s wild hand gestures as he talks, Chris’s wry smile. I feel it again. That familiar pull. The one I can never quite escape.

Will catches my gaze from across the table and raises an eyebrow, as if to say what now?

I pretend I don’t notice, but I do. And I’m starting to hate how much I do.

A bit later, Will gets up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. "I gotta go to the bathroom," he announces, voice dripping with that usual smirk.

The rest of the booth shifts around, making room for him to leave, and I do the same, trying to subtly adjust my position. It’s always a little awkward when someone moves, and everyone feels like they need to rearrange just to make it look like it was intentional.

As soon as Will disappears toward the back of the pub, the conversation at the table shifts again, but it's less chaotic. Chris starts talking about a new VR setup they’re testing for a video, while Arthur starts talking about how hyped he is for that shoot.

I try to join in, nodding along, but I can’t help but feel like I’m playing catch-up. These guys have been doing this for years. I have no fresh content ideas nor have I ever even used a VR headset. I’m sitting there, smiling like I understand, but it’s all flying over my head.

It’s then I feel a shift beside me. Will’s back. He slides into the booth with an almost practiced ease, squeezing in beside me, his knee brushing mine. I glance over, a little surprised. He’s always so... unpredictable.

He catches my eye and immediately clocks the way I’m trying (and failing) to break into the conversation with Chris. A slight, knowing smirk curls his lips.

“So, how’s it going with the YouTube talk?” he asks, his tone teasing. “Not exactly your scene, huh?”

I roll my eyes, trying to hide my frustration. “Not really.”

Will leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. His gaze flicks over to Chris, then back to me. “It’s fine,” he says with an almost too-casual shrug. “Some people just don’t get how exciting planning football videos all day can be. No offense, Chris,” he adds, tossing a wink at him. Chris just chuckles and waves it off, clearly used to Will’s teasing, and only half listening to him.

I half-smile at Will, relieved that he’s not giving me a hard time for being... well, not one of them.

After a beat, his smirk shifts into something more playful, and his eyes narrow slightly. “So, Valentine’s Day is in a few days, huh?” he says, tilting his head, the question hanging in the air between us.

I blink. “Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I answer, not sure where this is going.

Will raises an eyebrow. “You got any plans?”

I shake my head, unsure what to say. “Nothing set yet. Maybe just stay in and avoid all the ridiculous heart-shaped crap, honestly.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, sounds about right. If I didn’t have to travel for a shoot, I’d definitely ask you out. You know, like, properly. Instead of over text,” he adds with a grin that feels a little too knowing.

I stare at him for a beat, processing what he’s just said. He’s messing with me. He has to be. “Reallllllly?” I ask, the sarcasm practically dripping from my voice. “You’d ask me out? That’s soooooo sweet of you.”

His grin widens, and there's that unmistakable gleam in his eye. “I’m not a monster, Y/N. Who wouldn’t want to spend Valentine’s Day with me? But, hey, the shoot’s in Brighton. So,” he shrugs dramatically, “guess I’ll just be thinking about it from a distance.”

I can’t help but laugh at how seriously he’s playing it. “Yeah, sure, you will be.” I almost say something about how ridiculous it is that he’s acting like Brighton is lightyears away, back home, people drive that distance like it’s nothing. But I bite my tongue. I can’t keep falling back on the whole "not from here" thing.

Will smirks, clearly enjoying the moment. "I’ll be sure to send you a postcard. You know, to remind you of how sad I am about not taking you out"

I shake my head, still smiling but rolling my eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

Will just laughs. “That’s why you like me,” he shoots back, voice rich with amusement.

And, for the first time tonight, I can’t help but agree.

[orlaunderrated]

I adore your writing style ugh

Oh my goodness thank you so so much!!!!! I've just seen your reblog and my heart is just so full :)

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 3

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 3.3k+

Note: Oh my goodness thank you everyone for the kind words!!!!! I'm literally dying. Also if you're a programmer irl pls tell me if i sound like a boomer trying to write gen z slang. i also only did programming in school

xxx

The next two weeks blur into a rhythm I didn’t expect to find so quickly.

George and I fall back into sync like no time has passed. We have late-night conversations over leftovers, arguing about whether I should care about FIFA (absolutely not), whilst sitting too close on the couch without noticing. There’s an ease to it that’s both comforting and dangerous.

I find myself slipping back into old habits: stealing his hoodie when mine’s still damp from the wash, knowing exactly how he takes his coffee without having to ask. He still hums when he’s concentrating. He still leaves all the cupboard doors open like a gremlin lives here. It’s so familiar I almost forget how unfamiliar everything else is.

Chris and Arthur are new. I’ve never lived with them before, and the dynamic is still a little strange. Chris has a habit of narrating his thoughts out loud in the kitchen, and Arthur plays obscure indie music at volumes that feel vaguely confrontational, but they both seem genuinely nice. There’s a friendliness to them that doesn’t feel forced, just unpolished.

We don’t talk much beyond casual hallway chat, but I get the sense they’re good people. I’m still figuring out the rules of this new house: who uses which mug, whether it’s okay to steal someone’s oat milk, how long is too long to leave laundry in the machine. I tread carefully. It’s not mine yet.

I still haven’t unpacked properly.

My large suitcase lies half-open in the corner like it gave up halfway through. Every morning I rummage through it for something vaguely clean and wrinkle-free, and every night I promise myself I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I haven’t even begun to properly make space for myself yet. The best I’ve managed is rearranging a few things, so now I’m wedged between an unused exercise bike and a stack of old cardboard boxes labelled “wires??” in George’s handwriting.

I’ve discovered my cot sags in the middle. not dramatically, just enough to feel slightly tragic. I can’t decide whether to invest in a real bed now or wait until I have a flat of my own. I’ve saved over a hundred listings online, but I just can’t be bothered yet.

The room is not uncomfortable, just temporary. Everything about the space feels borrowed. Like I’m squatting in someone else’s life, waiting to see if I’ll be allowed to stay.

Instead of sorting out the mess of my personal life, I throw myself into work. Jira tickets and Slack threads are less complicated than the awkward limbo I’m in with George. And honestly, they feel like a better use of my energy than trying to figure out why I don’t quite feel like a real person yet.

The team at work are fine, in that aggressively polite British way where you can’t tell if they actually like you or if they’ve just been trained not to sue each other. I learned quickly who hoards the good coffee, who talks through every stand-up, and who has been very quietly dating the guy from DevOps for six months. The intern calls me “Miss Australia” like I’m some sun-kissed coding goddess. One of them asks how many snakes I’ve seen in my life. I say five. I make it sound casual even though it’s closer to zero.

In the evenings, I rewrite documentation just for the illusion of control. I start colour-coding my IDE themes. I spend an absurd amount of time making sure my folder structure is “aesthetically intuitive.” It’s easier to worry about whether my code is legible than to wonder whether George Clarke ever got over whatever it was that stopped him from liking me all those years ago.

Because sometimes I catch him looking at me like nothing’s changed. Like we’re still nineteen and in that stupid flat with the peeling wallpaper and the leaky bathroom and the futon we used to share when people stayed over. But then he blinks and it’s gone, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it.

Or if I just want to.

Life is just a bit weird right now. Not bad, exactly, just strange. It’s like that moment when you’re driving down the highway and suddenly realise: oh god, this is it. This is your actual life. Not a practice run or the bit before the plot kicks in, just the middle of the story, already happening. Emails and meal prep and laundry and pretending to understand council tax. Meanwhile, other people are out there getting engaged, starting companies, running countries. And I’m wondering if I can justify a full tank in a 2001 Toyota Corolla.

God, I miss that car. It wheezed like it had asthma and smelled like spilled iced coffee, but it was mine. Familiar. Predictable. I knew exactly how it handled on a sharp turn.

Here, nothing feels quite nailed down. Like I’m trying on someone else’s routine and hoping no one notices it doesn’t belong to me. I keep thinking real life is about to start any minute now, once I get settled or unpack or buy actual furniture. But this is it. The job, the cot, the too-quiet mornings and my severe lack of friends that I'm not harbouring a deranged crush from. I’m already waist-deep.

I just haven’t figured out how to feel real inside it yet.

xxx

One evening, I’m lying on my cot, doomscrolling through flat listings in Shoreditch. Spoiler: I can’t afford a single one. Cramped studio after overpriced shoebox blurs past my screen. Somewhere in the living room, the boys are talking. Chris’s voice bouncing off the walls, Arthur chuckling, George quieter as always.

I get up, thinking I should try to be social, or at least civil. They’re practically nocturnal, and I’ve barely exchanged full sentences with them. But just as my hand touches the doorknob, I hear my name.

“Y/N’s actually really pretty, isn’t she?” Chris says, like he’s surprised by his own observation.

There’s a pause. Its brief, but loaded. Then George: “Don’t.”

Just that. One syllable, sharp as glass. No laughter. No explanation.

I freeze. A chill curls up the back of my neck. Chris lets out an awkward laugh, mutters something I can’t quite make out, probably a joke, probably nothing. I slip my headphones back in like I didn’t hear a thing. But I did.

And now, I can’t stop replaying it.

The way Chris said it, So offhand, so casual, like he was commenting on the weather. The way George responded, fast and instinctive. One word. Don’t.

My stomach twists in that old, familiar way. What did I expect? A denial? A laugh? Maybe a 'Yeah, she is'? I’m not sure. But I know I wanted something different.

But I know George. He wasn’t being protective. He was being George. Keeping the peace. Not making things weird. He’s always been good at that—drawing clean lines in places where things get messy.

Still… he didn’t disagree.

I pull my blanket up to my chin, stare at the glow of my phone screen. I know better than to read too much into one word.

But I do anyway.

xxx

The party is a last-minute, thrown-together type of thing. George bursts into my room while I’m mid-doom scrolling.

“Come on,” he says, tossing my jacket onto my lap. “We’re touching grass.”

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s ten degrees and I’m in my trackies.”

“Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

The flat belongs to someone George knows from work.

Ha, “knows from work.” He’s a YouTuber too. I think he has a podcast? Or owns a podcast studio? I’ve honestly given up keeping track of his friends. I have a 9–5. They have brand deals and discuss 'the algorithm'.  Whoever this guy is, he definitely doesn’t have enough cups.

There’s music blasting from a Bluetooth speaker taped to the wall, a weird smell I can’t place (incense? weed? vape juice?), and one of those cursed LED signs that says something like Live Laugh Lager or whatever. I already hate it here.

George disappears to stash his drinks, and I end up perched on a broken stool in the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm cider and wondering if I’m officially boring for not enjoying sticky countertops and people arguing over which club to go to after. I’m contemplating leaving when he walks in.

Will.

I know his name is Will because three people shout it at once “WILL!” like he’s just come back from war or prison or a particularly long bathroom break.

He’s tall, dressed like he didn’t try but still looks like he belongs on the event poster. Black hoodie, denim jacket, messy hair, sharp smile. There’s a confidence to him. No, not confidence. Ease. Like the room bends a little to make space for him.

I clock the accent immediately. Northern. Thick, unapologetic, and halfway through a passionate rant about oat milk being a scam. His voice slices through the noise, equal parts outrage and entertainment.

And then we make eye contact.

Just for a second. But it’s direct, disarming. He smiles. Keeps talking to James? Jacob? Whoever he is looks more arty than the rest. I wonder if he's friends with Arthur.

James-Jacob exits the conversation, and before I’ve even registered that Will is moving, he’s already walking over.

Straight to me.

And for the first time tonight, I forget how sticky the floor is.

“You’re staring,” he says, but there’s a grin behind it. Its teasing, not arrogant.

“You’re loud,” I shoot back, deadpan.

His smile sharpens. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with that.”

He steps closer, offering a quick, almost polite nod. “Hi. I’m Will.”

“Y/N.”

He tilts his head like he’s just solved a puzzle. “Of course you are.”

I blink. “What does that mean?”

He smirks. “Nothing. Just… George mentioned his uni mate was in town. Didn’t think he meant you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking over me with a grin that’s too knowing. “Dunno. Thought you’d be taller.”

I narrow my eyes. “And I thought people who rant about oat milk would be quieter.”

“Ouch,” he says, hand to heart. “We’re starting off strong, aren’t we?”

I don’t usually like cocky. I actively avoid it. But something about the way he grins, the way he doesn’t flinch when I bite back. It’s disarming. Confusing. He’s not my usual type, but there’s a weird… gravity to him. He makes the whole room feel like background noise.

George reappears, handing me a fresh cider. His eyes flick to Will, then back to me. It’s subtle, but there’s something in it, like he’s clocking the moment, not judging it.

Will picks up on it anyway. “Alright, mate.” His tone’s easy, casual, like they’ve done this a hundred times. I realise they probably have.

“I Didn’t know you were coming,” George says, leaning against the counter. "Good to see ya". He smiles.

“Yeah, wasn’t gonna,” Will says. “But I needed to touch some grass.”

“No way, that’s literally why Y/N's here.” George beams. “She’s been in the flat three weeks and already hates all of us.”

“I don’t hate you,” I say, taking a sip. “I just hate the constant yelling and your collective refusal to do dishes.”

Will laughs. “Sounds about right.”

Then he gestures to me. “She’s not your girlfriend, right? I feel like I would've heard.”

George snorts. “Not even slightly.”

“Cool,” Will says, shooting me a grin. “Would’ve been awkward if I kept talking.”

George raises a brow, still smiling. “When has that ever stopped you?”

Will shrugs, grinning wider. “Fair point.”

It feels a bit strange to be talked about like this, but I choose to ignore it.

George peels off a moment later, off to talk to someone across the kitchen, and I’m left wondering if that was nothing… or something. The exchange felt normal. Friendly. But the timing, plus Will’s question and George’s glance. It all lingers in the air between us.

“Oi, you’re double-fisting now,” Will said, grinning.

I choked on my drink. “What??”

“You’ve got two ciders in your hands.”

“Oh my god,” I laughed. “We say ‘double parked’ back home.”

Will shook his head, smirking. “That’s mental. Double-fisting is proper classic though. Means you’re serious about the party.”

George, overhearing from across the kitchen, called out, “Aye, Y/N's catching up already. Might be our most committed guest yet.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue, taking a solid gulp from the half-empty cider.

Will raised his glass. “To double-fisting and proper nights out.”

I raised mine back, feeling the weird pull of fitting into this wild scene, still half confused, half curious.

I end up spending most of the night talking to Chris. He’s hanging out with Arthur, who’s, well… Arthur is smart, that much is obvious, but he's also three beers past the point of functional. He’s swaying slightly, his words getting a little slurred, but he’s still genuinely interested in my work. He asks me questions about programming, about how I got into it, and what languages I like. At one point, he confesses that he dabbled in it back in high school, which surprises me. I didn’t expect someone like him to have any kind of coding knowledge.

But here he is, drunkenly discussing arrays and variable types like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s endearing in a weird way. We keep talking shop, while the others drift in and out of the conversation like a blurry haze. I’m introduced to them all, but honestly, I lose track after the third guy who’s wearing a hoodie with an logo.

The host of the party stops by for a second, patting me on the back like we’re old friends. “You remind me of George,” he says with a wink, and I can't quite tell if he’s joking or serious. I nod, unsure how to take it, but I choose to take it as a compliment. No matter how weird, George is funny and good-looking.

The whole night, Will keeps hovering. Not in a weird way, just… present, popping in and out of the groups Chris and I keep forming. Will is the kind of person who fills up the space without even trying. He keeps throwing out jokes, arguments, ridiculous hot takes about tube lines and the food in London, and at one point, he tries to convince me to watch a Formula One race, despite the fact that I’ve already told him I’m allergic to high-speed sports.

Every time I think he’s about to move on, he swings right back into my orbit with something new, whether it’s an outrageous opinion on pineapple on pizza (pineapple can go on pizza, it goes on burgers back home) or an unsolicited, yet somehow fascinating, debate on why Spotify’s algorithm is “fundamentally flawed.”

And every time, I can’t help but bite back, giving as good as I get. I find myself engaging more than I expected, throwing in my own offbeat commentary, even laughing at things I’d normally find irritating. With him, it’s different. He’s relentless in the most entertaining way.

Meanwhile, George stays on the outskirts of the party, drifting around the edges of the room like he’s trying to blend in without fully participating. It’s familiar in a way that almost comforts me. He’s always nearby, but he's having his own fun, and I guess letting me touch my own grass. I try not to notice the way his eyes keep flicking over to Will every time he laughs, or the way his gaze seems to linger when I laugh with Will.

It’s subtle. Maybe it’s nothing. But I can’t shake the feeling it’s something more.

Eventually, I make my way to the door, my head spinning a little from the mix of cider and strange conversations. I catch George in the hallway, already on his phone, pretending to be ordering an Uber, which is the universal sign that it’s time to go. But just before I walk out, I hear Will's voice behind me.

“Oi,” he calls, his tone light but with that edge that makes my stomach do a little flip. “You’re alright, you know.” He pauses for a beat, considering his next words. “For someone who calls it double parked.”

My brow lifts. “Wow. That’s going straight in my LinkedIn recommendations.”

He laughs. He genuinely laughs like a muppet. Instead of his jaw dropping, his head flings backwards dramatically. I’m not sure why, but hearing him laugh like that feels like an invitation to something.

Something dangerous or something fun I can't tell, but either way, it pulls me in.

Without missing a beat, Will pulls out his phone, flicking through it like he’s already got a plan. There’s a beat where I stand there, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t say anything, he just opens the Instagram search page. His fingers hover over the screen before gliding across. He looks up at me. There’s a challenge in his eyes, something playful but still sharp, like he’s testing me without saying it out loud.

I hesitate for just a second. Then, on instinct, I fill in my details. "Y/F/N.HTML?" he says, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "What's that about, then?"

I shrug, trying to play it off. "Oh, I’m a programmer."

Will's grin widens, and I can see him processing that for a moment, letting it sink in. "fuckin' nerd." It’s not unkind. More like a compliment wrapped in sarcasm.

I roll my eyes. "Tell me something I don’t know."

Will gives me a thumbs-up and, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, taps ‘follow.’ “I’ll see you around, Y/N."

I try to think of something to quip back, but he's already returned to the party.

As I step outside into the cold night air, the sound of George's voice calling out after me reaches my ears. "You good to go?"

I nod, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. Will seems arrogant and cocky, but his sweet moments are laced in. I can’t decide if I like it or if I should be annoyed.

I try not to let the thought linger too long, but somewhere in the back of my mind, Will’s grin lingers, and I can’t quite shake it off.

Somewhere about three blocks from the flat, I get a DM from Will.

I snort, despite myself, glancing over at George. He’s staring out the window, arms folded, looking like he’s thinking too hard about something. I don’t show him the phone, but I can’t resist. “Will says drop the big brother act.”

George glances at me, a little surprised, then smirks. “Right. Got it. I’ll stop looking out for you... and start letting you make terrible life decisions on your own.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds about right.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Maybe I’ve been a bit much.” He grins sheepishly. “But you know, I’ve got to make sure no one’s corrupting you. That’s a full-time job.”

I laugh, but there’s a shift in the air. His eyes flick to me, and for a moment, it feels like there’s more behind his smile. Like maybe he's not sure how to let go of the old ways.

Something’s changing, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. But I can’t look away.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 2

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Note: Thanks for all the love!!

xxx

The pub’s better than expected. No sticky floors, the bathrooms lock, and there’s surf and turf on the menu. It’s loud for a midweek night, but it suits the mood. Chris leans across the table, a pint in hand and a grin already forming.

"So Y/N, was George a crazy womaniser in uni? Or is that a recent thing?" Chris asks me smugly.

Chris strikes me as one of those guys who walks the line between cocky and endearing. He’s got that energy, like he knows he’s good-looking but also knows he’s 5'4, so he doesn’t push his luck too hard. There’s something quick behind his eyes, though. Like he’s always turning something over in his head, even when he’s joking. I get the sense he’s smarter than he lets on. Maybe he’s used to people underestimating him, or maybe he likes it that way.

Arthur’s harder to pin down. He’s definitely more... arty. A little offbeat. I know he makes music, George mentioned it once, and I actually listened to some on the plane,  but he doesn’t lead with that. He’s got a drier humour, says things that make you blink twice before you realise it was a joke. Like he’s testing the room just to see who’s paying attention. I haven’t quite figured him out yet, but I’m intrigued.

"George is a womaniser now? Oh my, how times have changed." I say grinning "Once, when we lived together for a bit, he met this girl on a night out. She's like stunning. Little tiny blonde girl who could definitely be a model." Chris and Arthur are already beaming, ready to hear what their friend was like. "And we all pile into the Uber, me George, this girl, and I think someone else?, I don’t remember, anyway, in the Uber, George starts going on about the Yemen crisis. Like really going on. Not in a passing comment sort of way like full TED Talk mode.” The boys are already cracking up.

“So I try to steer the conversation back to, like, flirting, or literally anything else. I'm like 'oh George, how's football going', 'did you know George does volunteering with me?'. But then, George puts his hand on her knee, but like nothing else. Like, stiff as. Doesn’t move it, doesn’t creep up her thigh, no small circles, just, like, on her knee." They’re howling now.

“So now I’m trying to make eye contact with him to be like 'what are you even doing?’ but she just starts talking to me. So we chat. About pop culture, I think the Kardashians came up? We get out the uber, and George is now holding her hand but she is so focused on talking to me. And she keeps talking, for Like, hours. I keep dropping hints. ‘Oh, George is probably asleep!’ ‘Wow, it’s late!’, but she doesn’t move. At one point I think I actually fell asleep." I pause for dramatic effect.

“It’s 4am. She finally peeks into George’s room, and he’s asleep, fully starfished, snoring, and she just… leaves. Doesn’t say bye. Doesn’t ask for my Insta. Nothing. Like she was never even there.” Chris is wiping tears from his eyes.

Arthur adds through laughter, “That’s literally what happened the other week! Girl comes over, gets the flat tour, goes to George’s room, and then, two minutes later, walks out the front door. Just gone.”

George mutters, “I said ‘that’s a nice road’ when we looked out the window,” like that explains everything.

Now I'm laughing, we’re all gasping for air. Chris has slid halfway off his chair, his face red, wheezing like an asthmatic kettle. Arthur’s head is in his hands, shaking silently before he bursts out laughing again, that kind of delayed laughter that just keeps coming in waves. I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts, eyes watering, barely able to get air in. It’s like being drunk on nothing but shared history and second-hand embarrassment. George just sits there, face in his hands, muttering, “It wasn’t that bad,” which only makes it worse. The whole table’s gone feral.

xxx

Later, after another pint, Arthur turns to me. “So what was your flight like? Isn’t it like 26 hours or something?”

“It actually took me, like, three days,” I say, already regretting how long this is going to take to explain. “I caught the latest flight I could from Brisbane to Sydney, stayed the night there… I was meant to sleep in the airport but got kicked out, so I crashed on an old friend’s sofa. They held my luggage hostage, so I had like, fuck all clothes. Just vibes.”

I keep going. I don’t mean to, but suddenly I’m deep into the whole saga—Sydney, an 8 hour long stop in Singapore, almost crying in the airport bathroom at 3am. The story drags on, messy and too detailed, my brain fogged from jet lag and too much Guinness.

“…and then I arrived in London early this morning!”

I stop. Silence. Oh god. “I’m so sorry. That was… so long. I just trauma-dumped my whole itinerary.”

The boys laugh, kindly. “No, it’s cool,” Chris says, grinning. “That was wild.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow and sips his drink. “Yeah, that was a lot. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make us feel bad for not picking you up from the airport.”

I snort. “Wow, okay.” I'm too jetlagged to care. But then Arthur just nods, looking vaguely impressed.

“Honestly though, I would’ve cried in Singapore.”

The rest of the night flows easily. I get to know Chris and Arthur better, and I see that George is no different with them than he is with me. I hate it when boys act different around their friends. George was a bit like that in uni. He had this one friend who made ever-so-slightly misogynistic remarks about me, and George would smile at them or even laugh. I got really mad at him for that.

Chris bought me one more pint to 'keep me here longer', and I end up chatting about the rain with Arthur. "So actually, Sydney, I've never lived in Sydney but it’s where the stat is from, gets like four times as much rain as London. But London has way more rainy days than Sydney. I reckon Brisbane is the same. In summer it can rain so heavily for three days straight that you almost can’t drive anywhere. Once, when I was like four, it rained so hard I couldn’t see my dad standing a metre away from me."

Arthur seems genuinely interested, no quick jabs. I think he can tell I'm too tired. He says he kind of assumed it never really rained much in Australia. He tells me about his trip there a few months back, where it didn’t even have a cloud the whole week.

I don’t remember much after we got home, just the bone-deep exhaustion sinking into my limbs, and the familiar fuzz of jet lag fogging everything. I crash hard, and sleep like the dead for the next eighteen hours.

xxx

When I finally surface, blinking blearily at my phone, it’s 3pm. I peel myself off the camping cot, every joint stiff, my mouth dry, hair glued to one side of my face.

In the kitchen, George is already there. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and hands me a cup of tea—half a sugar, a small dash of milk, teabag still in. Exactly how I like it. No questions, no fuss.

It hits me, that kind of knowing. That quiet familiarity. The kind you don’t even notice until it’s in your hands again.

It reminds me of the morning after that night out. It was our second year of uni, well, technically my first year again. I’d changed my course after the first hell year, and I was determined to not change again. When the end-of-year exams had finished, George had convinced me to come out for drinks with some of his friends and their girlfriends. It was one of those nights that started with plans and ended in chaos. We were all laughing too loudly, drinking too quickly, glowing with that special kind of post-exam delirium.

Somewhere between pub three and club one, a guy started hovering around me. Not in the cute, flirty way. In the “I’m ignoring your polite attempts to leave” kind of way. Every time I stepped back, he stepped forward, brushing off every excuse I gave like I hadn’t spoken at all.

I caught George’s eye across the room. He was mid-laugh, pint in hand, but his smile dropped the second he clocked my expression. I raised an eyebrow and gave him a tight, uncomfortable smile. He was by my side in seconds, like he’d been waiting for an excuse.

“Hey, babe,” he said smoothly, sliding an arm around my waist and planting a kiss just above my temple, firm and certain. “Everything okay here?”

The guy blinked, half-laughed like it was all a joke, but George didn’t laugh back. His tone was still polite, but his stare wasn’t. “She’s with me.”

George didn’t let go straight away. I didn’t pull away either.

The rest of the night that guy was always hovering, so we spent the rest of the night pretending. Every time someone asked, we played it up—holding hands, whispering jokes, stealing sips of each other’s drinks. My hands slipped under his puffer jacket on instinct. I told myself it was just for the bit. But later, when he gently led me home and tucked me into his bed, I wasn’t so sure.

George crashed on the couch like we always did, taking turns, depending on who was more wrecked. But that night, something in me cracked open. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just that brief moment of closeness I didn’t know how badly I wanted until I had it.'

“George,” I whispered from the bed, voice thick and slurred.

“Mmhmm?”

“I wish it was real.”

Silence.

Then: “Go to sleep, Y/N.”

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of cheap toast and instant tea. My head was pounding. George passed me a mug, the way he always did. Half a sugar, small dash of milk, teabag still in.

“Did I say anything stupid last night?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re not my type, Y/N. I don’t like you like that.”

It stung. Not because I thought he did. But because for a few hours, I’d let myself believe he might. Also he answered soooo quickly, so I laughed. Too quickly.

“God, what the hell did I say to get that answer?”

He just smiled and shrugged.

That night, I went on a date. Some guy from my ethics tute. I didn’t even really like him, but I got ready at Georges flat. I was doing the whole 9-yards. Loud texts, extra spritz of perfume, a full outfit change, and a "do I look okay" to make sure George really noticed.

It wasn’t about the guy. It was about proving I was fine. That I hadn’t meant what I said. That I didn’t care. That we really were just mates. It would've hurt so much more to lose him as a mate.

Ironically, that date turned out to be the boyfriend who dumped me suddenly and caused George and I to live together.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, handing me my tea. George. George who doesn’t like me like that but knows exactly how I take my tea—half a sugar, a splash of milk, bag still in. George who wraps an arm around me when I need it, who tells creeps I’m his girlfriend without hesitation. George who offered me his spare room like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything.I take the mug from him, fingers brushing for a second too long.

“Just… everything,” I say, which is mostly true. Jetlag, the move, the job, the fact that I’m sleeping on a cot between a ring light and a box of wigs. But also him. Always him.He nods, like he gets it. He probably thinks I’m overwhelmed. He’s not wrong.I sip the tea. It’s perfect. Of course it is.

“You slept for eighteen hours,” he says, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I was about to check if you still had a pulse.”I laugh, but I don’t say what I’m actually thinking, about that morning.

Instead, I smile back, and say, “Guess I needed it.”He leans against the counter beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and for a second it’s quiet.

Familiar. Easy. Dangerous.

And I think, maybe just for a moment, if he’d said something different that morning, would everything have changed?

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 1

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds themselves caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Note: Hello!!!! very first chapter of my very first fic!! I hope you enjoy :)

xxx

I fiddle with my safety belt. The seatbelt light hasn’t turned off yet, but I’m itching to free myself from the contraption strapped across my lap.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to London Heathrow. It is Thursday, January 23rd, local time is 9:47am. Enjoy your stay, or welcome home." My feet are bouncing, my AirPods are almost dead, and I’ve caught up on many, many, many hours of TV. Whilst I swap my SIM card, I let the rest of my row scurry out and collect their bags. I haven’t used this SIM card in eight months, and now it's vomiting up every random notification and text I’ve missed. Through it all, I text George.

As I go to leave the plane, a flight attendant nods at my University of Exeter hoodie. "Welcome home!" I smile politely and answer, "Thanks, it’s been a minute." The flight attendant — Eve, shout out to name tags — looks confused, as my accent betrays the hoodie.

I run a hand through my dishevelled hair, a mess from sitting on the plane for 14 hours. I actually haven’t slept in a real bed for three nights. With the developed world, surely getting from Brisbane to London could be cut down to one flight, not three (it definitely can, but it is so much cheaper to do layovers).

The grey skies of the United Kingdom press down on me like a heavy, suffocating blanket. They aren’t just clouds, they’re a constant weight that seems to swallow up the horizon and dull everything beneath them. Even when I lived in Manchester, I made the journey to London a dozen times, but every time, the skies felt like a mirror — a reflection of the same hollow, endless grey. The city could be bright with lights and energy, but that overcast sky, that heavy weight in the air, is the same across the whole island.

The blanket sky is still heavy, but it still carries a quiet kind of comfort. Maybe it’ll never match the sharp brilliance of the Brisbane sun. But here, beneath this endless grey, perhaps it can offer warmth, not weight.

Customs is a bore. I have nothing to declare and only a small suitcase to my name. Okay, I have a very large and very full suitcase, a small carry-on (also full), and a personal item that’s bursting at the seams. I also have my toothbrush and toothpaste in my back pocket. Not a good look. Still, I get waved straight through, and the waiting in lines was for nothing.

The terminal opens up in front of me. Its bright, busy, full of hugs and signs and little kids dragging tiny backpacks. I scan the crowd, already feeling the weight of my backpack.

"Y/N!" A familiar voice cuts through the low hum of reunions and baggage announcements. I turn. There’s George. I’d seen the mullet and the hint of stubble over FaceTime, it suited him well, maybe too well, but seeing him now in motion was something else entirely. His airport outfit, a sweater and slacks, was nothing crazy, but it was not something the footy-shirt Uni George would wear. He looked older. Calmer. And somehow, seeing him in the flesh stirred something unexpected, a quiet but insistent flutter in my chest.

"George!" I say back. We walk toward each other, arms outstretched. "We live in the same city again!" We embrace, and all those years come flooding back. I can still picture the day we met perfectly.

It was maybe day five of uni. I had actually already calculated how many days were left (not including weekends, bank holidays, and non-term time), the answer was 334. England was not what I thought it was going to be. People did not find my accent cool or endearing, but rather thought I was speaking a made-up language. I had gotten lost finding my Uni Halls, lost finding the Tesco, (wtf is a Tesco btw) and lost finding that very lecture hall.

Because I was late due to getting lost, I sat down hurriedly at the closest chair that wasn’t the front row. I just so happened to sit next to George. His hair was much shorter, his face clean-shaven, and he wore some kind of football shirt. The lecturer was already talking about tendons, and I opened my laptop. It was flat.I let out the kind of sigh you only hear from someone who's jet-lagged, laptop dead, and hopelessly new to a country they barely understand.

George offered to send me the notes, and so we spent the whole lecture giggling together, laughing at the lecturer's choice of outfit and the diagrams in the PowerPoint. From then we were almost inseparable. Even when I changed courses after a year (what was I even thinking, doing Sport and Exercise Science?) we remained close friends. He made Exeter feel like home. His laugh and his jokes could replace the Brisbane sun any day. We even lived together for six months, when his flatmate went travelling and my boyfriend dumped me suddenly. We fit well together. I taught him how to not cause nuclear warfare when cleaning a bathroom, and George taught me how to elevate any ready meal past the packet instructions.

When George graduated, he moved to London, and his lockdown TikToks inexplicably propelled him to fame. I always knew he would do great things. I was always a bit surprised he wasn’t into the drama or acting side of things at uni. He was always so funny and charismatic, so much so that his talents seemed wasted on being a PT, or whatever it is you do with a Sport and Exercise Science degree.

I went the other way. When I graduated, Manchester called me. I was offered a graduate programmer position with great benefits. The city was alive in a way that only big places could be, but after a few years, the relentless pace and the grey skies of northern England got to me. Homesickness hit like a ton of bricks.

So, I packed up and went back to Brisbane.

The months spent at home didn’t heal me like I thought they would. The sun was too hot and the accents too sharp. I was with family again, with the comfort of everything I knew, but the itch to do more, to push forward, kept gnawing at me. Not to mention everyone at home had moved on without me. Half my friends were doing what I did, living abroad, and the ones that were left were too busy getting married or starting families. So, when the opportunity in London came through, an offer I just couldn’t ignore, I knew it was time to pack my life up once more.

The Uber is too warm, the heater cranked up for someone who’s just survived 24 hours in transit. The windows are fogged slightly from the inside, giving the city beyond a muted, watercolour quality. Raindrops trail lazy patterns down the glass, and the windscreen wipers squeak in tired intervals. The car smells faintly of pine air freshener and something synthetic, maybe cleaning spray.

George’s voice fills the space easily. “Oh my god, I forgot how Australian you sound. We’re gonna barbeque some shrimp later, we gotta.”

I laugh, too tired to fully roll my eyes. The awkwardness we maybe should’ve had slips away like the condensation on the window. It’s just us again.

“Really? When I was home, everyone poked fun at how English I sounded. Also, we don’t even say shrimp, you idiot. We say prawn, just like you."

The driver doesn’t say much, just hums along to the soft lo-fi playlist playing through the speakers. Outside, London passes in shades of grey and brown. Victorian terraces, wet pavements, red buses blurred by rain. I lean my forehead against the cool glass for a moment, the city lights bleeding into my peripheral vision like old memories.

Inside the car, it feels safe. Familiar. George taps his fingers on his knee, in time with the music, and for a second I forget the jetlag, forget the toothbrush in my back pocket, forget that I’m technically homeless in a country I haven’t lived in for almost a year.

The rest of the ride was quick and strangely comforting, it was like slipping back into an old jumper, soft in all the right places. By the time we pulled up to George’s flat, we were already trading jabs like no time had passed.

George helps me into the spare room. I already know it’s not going to be empty, he’d warned me it had become a dumping ground for him and his roommates, but I hadn’t expected it to be this cramped. I can barely wedge my suitcases between the broken tripods and half-lit ring lights. The air smells faintly of dust and old extension cords. My bedside table, if you can call it that, is a cardboard box labelled costumes.

I perch on the edge of the camping cot, its frame creaking beneath me, and take it all in. This isn't just temporary mess. It’s the kind of chaos that grows roots. I feel out of place again, like I’ve been slotted awkwardly into a life that isn’t mine.

This isn’t how I pictured 25. Certainly not crashing on borrowed sheets in a friend’s overstuffed spare room, careful not to knock over a stack of prop wigs every time I roll over.

I have to remind myself that I chose this. I chose to move abroad for uni, to live in Manchester, to go home, and to come back again. Every decision led me here. But right now, ‘home’ feels like a word I’ve forgotten the shape of. I try to place my hands around it, to remember the last time it felt solid, close, mine. But the memory slips through my fingers, distant and half-lit.

"Once you're settled, me and the boys are gonna take you out for drinks, get to know everyone in the flat." I smile sweetly at George’s invitation-that-was-not-an-invitation. The jetlag is creeping in, slow and heavy, like fog rolling over my brain. It settles behind my eyes, in my limbs, weighing everything down. But I know better than to give in now. I can’t sleep before bedtime.

"Thanks George, that’s very sweet. I'm gonna freshen up a bit and maybe try to make a bit more space in here? Is that okay?" He agrees that I can move whatever I need, and to ask him before I throw anything away, but it’s probably all good.

The door clicks behind him as he leaves me to adjust. My new job is supposed to be the fresh start I need, but standing in my new 'bedroom', everything around me feels foreign. The dark London sky begins to drizzle again. It always drizzles here. Back home it’s either raining or it isn’t. I sigh and start to unpack, digging for my toiletries.

I’m not sure where my home is anymore.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us - Navigation

Will Lenney x Fem Reader; George Clarke x Fem Reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when they catch feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds themselves caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

total word count so far (approx): 26.1k+ ꕥSmut MDNI

Act One Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | ꕥ Chapter Ten ꕥ | Chapter Eleven |

!!!Disclaimer!!! This is a work of fiction. While some characters share names with real public figures, all personalities, behaviours, and events are entirely fictionalized. The characters occasionally act in emotionally immature or unsavoury ways that are designed to serve the story’s themes of growth, regret, and self-discovery. These depictions do not reflect the real individuals they may be inspired by, nor are they meant to comment on their actual personalities or relationships.

[orlaunderrated]

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Orla \\ She/Her \\ Should be studying...

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