swizzlemynizzle

[swizzlemynizzle]

jamie tartt

masterlist • ted lasso masterlist • 07/07/24

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 change in perspective I @justauthoring

you never thought jamie tartt could be anything but a prick.

𑣲 saved you a seat I @benedictscanvas

𑣲 gentlemen I @danistartt

secret dating because reader works for Richmond (as like pr or physio or something) but when they win a match one day Jamie is so overcome with joy he just has to kiss her

𑣲 bus ride I @axelsagewrites

𑣲 decide I @/axelsagewrites

they both like you and when they came to settle it once and for all neither of them expected this out come.

𑣲 practise mishap I @/axelsagewrites

𑣲 i’d be better armed if you agreed to take it I @pandorasprongs

higgins' new assistant happens to be an old friend of the reader's, and their reunion hits jamie with major feelings of jealousy. when the team thinks that the pair of them are going on a date soon, jamie decides enough is enough.

𑣲 comfort crowd, you can always count I @/pansorasprongs

reader gets cheated on and jamie, whose trying to be a better friend and person, decides to help her out by hiding her phone for the day.

𑣲 i can see you I @rqgnarok

you and jamie have been watching each other for ages, trying not to feel the pull between you. a moment in the hallway changes everything.

𑣲 delicate I @/rqgnarok

jamie hadn’t planned on dating. his reputation’s never been worse. but then he met you.

𑣲 music to my eyes I @/rqgnarok

jamie has a crush on the band’s bassist.

𑣲 untitled I @/rqgnarok

𑣲 three times ‘cause i’ve waited my whole life I @its-time-to-write

𑣲 coffee at midnight I @/its-time-to-write

𑣲 birds of a feather I @/its-time-to-write

𑣲 about you I @buckychristwrites

Your job? Pop culture journalist for The Independent. Your assignment? To write a profile on the cocky footballer that you’re publicly feuding with.

𑣲 could this be I @/buckychristwrites

One minute, you're single and working for AFC Richmond as the team's medic. The next minute, you're in a fake relationship with the team's handsome striker who you know next to nothing about…

𑣲 i can see you I @hopefulromances

Roy's sister comes back to town

𑣲 fuck I @wlntrsldler

𑣲 spring rolls and stocks I @veryberryjelly

𑣲 distractions I @illiterateaffairs

𑣲 you’re obsessed I @mllersjoel

he has a huge crush on an actress and sees her at a richmond event and she flirts w him he’s really shy bc he likes her

𑣲 tour de richmond I @ofstarsandvibranium

Jamie gives you a tour of Richmond as well as gets to know you better. When you tell your cousin of his teammates generosity, he suddenly becomes a big hostile towards Jamie.

𑣲 operation: tartts heart I @theowritesstuff

Jamie’s too scared to confess his (obvious) feelings for you, so when Richmond gets another clubhouse attendant who starts flirting with you, the team suddenly all become your guard dogs.

𑣲 other people I @/theowritesstuff

You and Jamie have a discussion about the exclusivity of your relationship

𑣲 in the stands I @cauliflowercounty

𑣲 this is me trying I @alloftheimagines

Reader who was crushing on Jamie overhears him insulting them or making fun of them

𑣲 if somebody hurts you, i wanna fight I @/alloftheimagines

[swizzlemynizzle]

CHRISTIAN MADDOX

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[swizzlemynizzle]

Innocence

———————————————

Summary: Sirius Black thought he had Y/N all figured out—until one offhand comment sends his world into a tailspin and unearths far more than he bargained for.

Matching: Siriusxfem!reader, Remusxfem!reader

Previous part, next part

———————————————

Chapter three: Merlin herself

“Alright, I’ve got to go,” Marlene said, tugging her sweater over her head and smoothing down her wild curls.

“You have to go?” Sirius repeated, pushing up on one elbow. “Since when?”

She didn’t answer right away—just hummed as she dug around for a stray earring on the floor.

“Oh, I’ve got a party,” she said lightly, like it was no big deal.

Sirius blinked. “You have a party that I don’t know about?”

Marlene froze mid-crouch.

“Uhh,” she got out, casually fumbling with her trainers. “It’s—well—it’s Y/N’s.”

Silence.

Sirius sat up fully, staring at her like she’d just told him she was betrothed to a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

“What. The. Fuck.”

“It’s not that deep—” Marlene started.

“What sort of twisted, cursed, alternate-fucking-reality have I stepped into?” Sirius cut in, voice rising. “Y/N throws parties?”

“You’ve been to one of her parties,” Marlene insisted, now tying her shoelaces with unnecessary focus.

“No I haven’t,” Sirius snapped.

“Yes, you have. You know—the Room of Requirement ones, every few months?”

He stared at her. Blinked once.

Then: “Those parties? The insane ones with the floating lights and the enchanted speakers and the enchanted drinks and—wait, what do you mean those are hers?!”

Marlene winced at the pitch of his voice.

“I thought they were thrown by, like, Merlin himself,” Sirius continued. “Or some secret, sexy committee of seventh-year gods—but Y/N? No. Way.”

“She’s kind of the whole engine behind them,” Marlene admitted, standing and brushing herself off. “Room reads what she’s in the mood for. It’s very sexy and powerful of her.”

Sirius groaned and flopped backward onto the bed, eyes wide, hand flung dramatically across his chest. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

“Well, you’re not really invited,” Marlene said, moving to the door. “You either know… or you don’t.”

She flashed him a wink and disappeared into the corridor with a casual: “See you there, if you find it.”

Sirius stared up at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

“This is unbelievable,” he muttered, voice thick with disbelief and something dangerously close to awe.

—————————————————————————

Somewhere deep in the dungeons, beneath flickering green torchlight and the low hum of enchanted plumbing, Y/N was singing to herself as she rifled through her wardrobe.

The other Slytherin girls pretended not to notice—though several threw very pointed glances her way. She was already in a black lace bralette and a long silk skirt, her hair twisted up in a messy clip as she held two corset tops in either hand like they were the final two contenders for the Triwizard Cup.

“Thoughts?” she asked, not looking at them.

No one answered.

It wasn’t that they didn’t like her. They liked her fine, in that we-all-live-together-and-she’s-unreasonably-hot sort of way. But they never quite knew what to make of her.

She didn’t believe in blood supremacy (strike one), she spent a lot of time in the library with Remus Lupin (strike two), and most offensively of all, she was on a first-name basis with at least three of the Hogwarts house elves (strike three, expelled).

“Going for ‘dangerous but approachable’,” she muttered to herself, holding up the black one. “Or do we think ‘ethereal with a hint of menace’?”

Still no answer.

She shrugged, tossed both tops on the bed, and reached for a pair of knee-high boots that would make her legs look a mile long and sound like a slow death when she walked. She liked the attention. She just didn’t need it.

She slipped her wand into her boot, slicked on lipstick the colour of bruised cherries, and threw on a vintage black leather jacket like she’d accidentally looked that good.

—————————————————————————

“Miss Y/N!” squeaked a voice as soon as she pushed open the portrait.

“Hello, Tippi,” she grinned, crouching down to hug the tiny house elf who immediately clung to her leg.

“Miss Y/N, your party tonight!” Tippi buzzed, eyes wide and bright. “We’ve finished the enchanted cocktail pumpkins and the floating macarons! And Cooky added the sparkler sparklers like you asked!”

“You’re the best, Tipp,” she said, pressing a kiss to the elf’s head. “And I brought the thing I promised.”

She pulled a small wooden box out of her enchanted tote and handed it over with a flourish.

Tippi opened it, gasped, and nearly fainted.

“Socks,” she whispered reverently. “With the little dragons…”

“Cashmere,” Y/N said. “And fireproof. Figured you’d earned it.”

Several of the other house elves began to clap—some discreetly, some with the subtlety of a thunderstorm.

Y/N helped them levitate the food crates to the Room of Requirement’s entrance point, careful to shield the whole operation under a charm of secrecy.

When one elf tried to bow too low, she gently kicked at him with her boot. “Absolutely not,” she scolded. “Mutual respect only.”

By the time the party started, the Room of Requirement had transformed into a dimly lit dream: pulsing music, velvet couches, cauldrons of magical drinks that shimmered when stirred. Y/N moved through it like the host of an exclusive fever dream, greeting people with a kiss on the cheek or a low-laughing joke that made them feel chosen.

She was magnetic. Everyone either wanted her or wanted to be her.

—————————————————————————

Remus stood in front of the mirror in their dorm, adjusting the collar of his shirt with an air of calm he absolutely did notfeel.

He’d been pacing internally all day, wondering if she’d wear that sheer green number again—the one that made his brain short-circuit every time she leaned too close. He wanted to get there early, maybe help her with the last-minute charms. Maybe steal a moment. A kiss, if he was lucky. Two if she smiled that soft, secret smile just for him.

But Sirius was sitting on the edge of his bed, arms crossed and jaw tight, clearly gearing up to ruin everything.

“I just—how did I not know she was like this?”

Remus sighed. Loudly.

“Like what, Sirius?”

“Like this, Remus!” Sirius gestured vaguely. “Throwing secret parties in the Room of Requirement? Being cool and—mysterious and—socially aware—I mean, did you know she hangs out with the house elves?!”

“Yes.”

“House elves, Moony.”

“She used to sit with Kreacher and have tea with him when you two were kids.”

Sirius whipped around. “Wait, what?”

“I asked her about it once. He made her these weird lumpy biscuits and she ate them. Said he reminded her of her gran.”

Sirius blinked. “I thought I hallucinated that.”

Remus smirked. “You didn’t.”

“Are you upset Kreacher likes her and not you?” Remus asked.

“I’m upset about—everything,” Sirius groaned, flopping back on the bed like a man defeated. “I feel like I don’t even know her.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You don’t.”

That made Sirius sit up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Remus turned, arms crossed now. “It means you don’t know her. Because you haven’t tried to. Not since first year.”

“That’s not true,” Sirius said too quickly.

“She got sorted into Slytherin and you decided that was it,” Remus continued. “That she wasn’t worth the effort. That she’d gone dark or cold or—what was the word you used?”

Sirius winced. “Frigid.”

“There it is.” Remus’s voice was sharp now.

Sirius scoffed. “We drifted.”

“No, you got moody that your best friend didn’t end up in your house and then called her frigid for four years straight.”

Sirius winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“She heard you. Everyone did.”

“You threw her into some neat little box and left her there. Meanwhile, she was out here building a whole life. Making friends. Running half the school without a whisper of it getting back to you because you never looked.”

“I didn’t discard her,” Sirius snapped.

“Yes, you did,” Remus said evenly. “You discarded her the second she wasn’t your blushing little shadow anymore. The second she stopped giggling at your jokes and you didn’t get to be the centre of her world.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched.

“You can’t be upset that she made a name for herself apart from you,” Remus added, quieter now. “Not when you were the one who made it clear she didn’t belong in your orbit anymore.”

Silence.

For once, Sirius didn’t have a retort.

He just stared down at his hands, brows drawn together like he was trying to work through a puzzle that had rewritten its pieces overnight.

Remus turned back to the mirror.

“She’s not the one who disappeared, mate,” he said, voice soft again. “You just stopped looking.”

—————————————————————————

The Room of Requirement had never looked like this.

There were stars projected against the enchanted ceiling—soft, warm orbs of gold that pulsed with the beat of the music. Velvet armchairs were tucked into corners, drinks hovered lazily in midair, and couples swayed or stumbled across a dance floor that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

Sirius stepped over the threshold, still mid-sulk from the conversation with Remus, ready to scoff, to judge—to prove to himself that this was all overhyped nonsense.

And then he saw her.

She was near the back, perched half on a table, laughing at something Barty Crouch Jr. said (which—what the actual fuck). A glass in her hand, one leg swinging carelessly, that deep emerald green mini dress he couldn’t look directly at for too long or he might combust. Her sheer tights had tiny stars stitched into them, her boots reached her knees, and over it all—like some casually thrown gauntlet—she wore a black leather jacket that did something completely unspeakable to his already short-circuiting brain.

Her makeup was sharp and playful—smoky green eyeshadow with gold at the corners, mascara thick enough to frame those lashes when she blinked slowly, deliberately. Her lip gloss shimmered with just enough pink to be dangerous.

Her hair was pinned up but already slipping loose, and her eyes—God, her eyes—flashed like she knew exactly where he was standing. Like she’d summoned him.

She tipped her head back and laughed. Not polite. Not quiet. The kind of laugh that made people lean in.

Sirius forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t just the outfit. Or the lip gloss. Or the fact that she’d apparently become a legend behind his back.

It was that he’d never seen her like this.

Never really seen her at all.

Someone passed in front of him and he blinked, throat dry. Her glass caught the candlelight and glinted gold. Someone tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled at them—easy, bright, gorgeous—and Sirius felt something unfamiliar twist beneath his ribs.

She looked up again.

And this time, she did see him.

Her smile didn't falter.

But it sharpened.

Like she was saying: You again.

And Sirius—so often the centre of the room—stood completely still, unable to remember how to move.

—————————————————————————

Remus had seen Sirius in a lot of moods.

He'd seen him smug. Furious. Ridiculously charming. Jealous, once or twice. Theatrically hungover.

But he’d never seen him like this.

Sirius stood stiff near the entrance, eyes locked on the far end of the room like he'd seen a ghost—or a Veela. Mouth parted, chest rising and falling just slightly too fast. And Remus didn’t even have to follow his line of sight to know what, or rather who, he was looking at.

Y/N.

Of course.

Remus shifted uncomfortably in his spot near the drinks table, suddenly wishing he hadn’t bothered coming. Or at least hadn’t come with hope tucked stupidly behind his ribs like it wouldn’t get bruised.

She’d kissed him behind the greenhouses. Twice.

She’d held his hand under the table during one of Slughorn’s endless dinners.

She’d smiled at him like he was a secret she liked keeping.

But she had history with Sirius. Something golden and half-forgotten. Something that might’ve mattered, once. Maybe still did.

And Sirius… Sirius had that way about him. That pull. That impossible gravity that made everyone orbit, eventually. Even the ones who swore they wouldn’t.

Remus stared into his cup, jaw tight.

He didn’t have the leather jackets or the reckless charm. He had scars. Quiet hands. A library of reasons he’d convinced himself she’d get tired of. And maybe this—whatever this was—had only ever been temporary. A brief curiosity. A blip before gravity won again.

He shouldn’t be surprised.

He shouldn’t be hurt.

But Merlin, he was.

And when Sirius exhaled sharply like he'd just remembered how lungs worked, Remus had to look away.

———————————————————————————

Tag list:

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@amatoanima

@captainlunaxmen

@sodavrr

@mayuwolfstar

@the-lavender-girl

@beekeepingageissome

@starmaniii

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[swizzlemynizzle]

Innocence

———————————————

Summary: Sirius Black thought he had Y/N all figured out—until one offhand comment sends his world into a tailspin and unearths far more than he bargained for.

Matching: Siriusxfem!reader, Remusxfem!reader

Previous part, next part

———————————————

Chapter Two: Fact Confirming Mission Only

The library was too quiet for how loud Sirius felt.

He stormed through the rows like a one-man battalion, scanning tables, ears ringing with the words “Remus”, “gone”, and “wearing his jumper”. Marlene’s voice had echoed like a ghost all the way from the cupboard. And now, here Remus Lupin sat. Calm. Reading. Annotating a textbook like he wasn’t a traitor to all that was holy and good.

Sirius slammed his bag on the table.

Remus didn’t flinch. “Afternoon.”

“You,” Sirius said through gritted teeth, “have some explaining to do.”

Remus looked up slowly, quill poised mid-air. “Are you here about the chocolate frogs? Because I already told Peter I didn’t eat them.”

Sirius leaned in. “Did you or did you not sleep with Y/N?”

There was a pause. Remus blinked. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“Loud and clear. Which is impressive, since this is a library,” he added pointedly, looking around.

Sirius grabbed a chair, sat down, and hissed, “Answer the question.”

Remus sighed, very put-upon. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“That’s not a no,” Sirius whispered, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not confirming or denying anything, Padfoot.”

“So yes,” Sirius said, throwing his arms out. “It’s a yes.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no!”

“I also didn’t say I’ve snogged Rosmerta, but here we are.”

“Don’t do that thing where you get all logical and condescending, it makes me want to push you out a window.”

Remus closed his book slowly, placed his quill down like a man preparing for battle. “Are you upset because I’ve kissed someone, or because it was her?”

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again. “She’s not—She’s Y/N!”

“Yes,” Remus said dryly, “I’m aware. We’ve met.”

“She colour-codes her calendar by subject! She’s allergic to spontaneous fun! She turned down a dare to skinny dip in fourth year because, and I quote, ‘the lake isn’t heated.’”

Remus tilted his head. “And yet, somehow, she’s still managed to have a more interesting love life than you.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d been physically struck. “You’re—you’re dating?”

There was a pause. Remus looked away for a second too long. “We’re… talking.”

“‘Talking’?” Sirius repeated. “What is this, third year?”

Remus’s mouth twitched. “Fine. We’ve hooked up a few times. She’s… important to me.”

Sirius felt like someone had swapped out all the oxygen in the room. “Since when?”

“Since the New Year’s party,” Remus admitted. “But we’ve been… getting closer for a while.”

Sirius sat back hard, blinking. “You never said anything.”

Remus gave him a level look. “You never asked.”

—————————————————————————

Sirius stormed out of the library in a daze, only to land himself right in the middle of lunch. He moved like a man possessed, dropping into his seat at the Gryffindor table with all the grace of a falling bookshelf.

James raised an eyebrow from across the table. “You good, mate?”

“No,” Sirius muttered, ripping a bread roll in half with unnecessary aggression.

James followed his gaze across the hall, to the Slytherin table.

Y/N sat near the middle, head tilted in laughter, her elbow nudging Regulus Black of all people—his brother—who looked unusually relaxed, even slightly smug as he passed her something under the table. A letter? A Chocolate Frog? A declaration of eternal sin?

She smiled at whatever he said, nudging him with her shoulder like they’d been doing it for years.

Sirius clenched his jaw.

“She’s probably shagging him, too,” he muttered under his breath.

James froze, halfway to a bite of roast potato. “Who?”

“Regulus,” Sirius hissed. “My own flesh and blood.”

James blinked. “You think Y/N’s shagging your brother?”

“It makes perfect sense,” Sirius said darkly. “She’s playing the long game. Infiltrate the Marauders from within. She’s already got Remus, now she’s circling Reg to get to me. By Tuesday she’ll have my Gringotts account access and the bloody map.”

“You need to lie down.”

“She’s collecting us. Like cursed trading cards.”

“She smiled at him, mate. People do that. It doesn’t mean she’s plotting the downfall of your bloodline.”

Sirius shot him a betrayed look. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I am,” James said. “I’m seriously wondering if you’ve eaten enough today.”

Y/N laughed again—laughed—at something Regulus said, and Sirius felt his soul leave his body.

“I think I need to duel him.”

James choked. “You can’t duel your own brother over a girl you’re not dating.”

“It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t have principles, you have meltdowns.”

“She used to braid her hair so tight it squeaked when she turned her head,” Sirius whispered like a man remembering a past life. “She cried when I fell off my broom in first year. She saved me a seat in Potions every Monday.”

“And now she’s talking to your brother. The horror.”

“I liked it better when she was boring and safe and wore knee socks year-round.”

“She still wears knee socks, Sirius”

“Not for me, she doesn’t.”

Remus, who’d appeared behind them with a plate and a very knowing smirk, added unhelpfully, “She wore them last night.”

Sirius let out a strangled sound and collapsed face-first onto the table.

—————————————————————————

The Slytherin common room was blissfully quiet—aside from Regulus, who was currently trying to hex his own shoelaces into submission.

“You realise you could just untie them, right?” Y/N asked, flipping the page of her Charms notes without looking up.

“They’re cursed,” Regulus muttered, wand waving in frustration. “I can feel it.”

“You also thought the toast was cursed last week.”

“It was burnt in the shape of the Grimm.”

“It was the Ravenclaw crest, Reg. You’re not that special.”

He gave her an unimpressed glare and sat back with a defeated sigh, boots still tangled.

She smirked and tossed him a sweet from her pocket. “For the trauma.”

Regulus caught it, muttering a reluctant, “Thanks,” as she finally glanced up at him.

Despite being a Black, Reg had grown on her. Mostly because he was smart, sarcastic, and often looked like he was enduring a mental breakdown in muggle studies. Her kind of people.

The door to the common room opened and someone walked past, dropping to the lounge with a sigh. Dramatic entrance.

She blinked. Sirius.

She could feel him even before she looked.

Because of course he was here. Of course he’d found some excuse to storm down into Slytherin territory like a man on a warpath. He didn’t even acknowledge her. Just sat near the fireplace, talking loudly to a portrait about “ancient family betrayals” and “spiteful siblings.”

Y/N raised a brow at Regulus. “Is he broken?”

Reg didn’t look up from his shoelaces. “He’s been circling like a shark since breakfast. Started glaring at me halfway through my eggs.”

“Oh good,” she said dryly. “He’s added fratricide to the mood board.”

Regulus finally looked up, voice bored. “What did you do to him?”

She smiled innocently. “What makes you think I did anything?”

“Because he’s being Sirius. And you’re… you.”

She didn’t respond—just stood, stretched, and collected her things.

As she passed Sirius by the fire, she tossed him a lazy smile. “Nice of you to visit, Black. Trying to reconnect with your roots?”

He turned toward her a second too fast, expression somewhere between longing and unhinged. “I was just—”

“Don’t worry,” she said, stepping around him. “I’m sure she was worth the cupboard burn.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Before he could speak, she was already sweeping past.

—————————————————————————

Professor Green’s lecture on inferi was starting to feel like a lullaby. Y/N’s mind drifted, only half-paying attention to the professor’s drone about the dangers of corpses rising from the dead. She'd lived long enough in Slytherin to know the dead didn’t scare her. The living were far more dangerous.

The weight on the back of her neck told her that she wasn’t being left alone. It wasn’t the eyes of the professor, nor her classmates. It was his gaze.

Sirius Black. Of course. She felt his intense stare like a physical presence.

Glancing up lazily, she caught his gaze. He was sitting back, quill in hand, tapping it rhythmically against his bottom lip. It was like he knew the exact angle that would make her stomach twist—just enough to keep her on edge.

Y/N rolled her eyes and gave him an exaggerated yawn, tapping her fingers on her desk as if to signal her growing boredom with both the lesson and his silent theatrics.

Sirius tilted his head. His lips twitched into a half-smirk. Then, in the most Sirius of moves, he flicked a piece of parchment toward her.

The note landed on her desk with an almost too-perfect timing. She unfolded it without a hint of hesitation.

“You’re looking especially… studious today.”

Her lip curled into a smile despite herself. Sirius was insufferable, but she couldn’t help but enjoy his brand of torment. She scribbled back without even lifting her head from her notes.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to distract me.”

The note was back in an instant, this time a little more hurried, as if he was genuinely trying to provoke her.

“Distract you? I was just admiring the view. Those knee socks are hot.”

Y/N froze. She glanced at the note, then at Sirius, who was now looking at her with that infamous, half-amused, half-challenging expression.

She folded the note neatly and then sent it flying across the room, straight into his hands. The corner of her mouth twitched as he uncrumpled it eagerly.

“You’re quite right. If I were wearing knee socks, you’d be the last person to notice.”

This time, Sirius’s brow furrowed, but only for a second. He looked down at the parchment and then back at her, lips pulling into a grin.

“Touché, Y/N. But just so you know, I notice everything.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes scanning the rest of the class. She could feel the pull of his attention, and it was the only thing she could focus on now. It wasn’t just Sirius Black. It was the anticipation of something unspoken hanging between them.

When the next note arrived, it was the final straw.

“So, is it true? About Remus?”

She felt her pulse quicken.

A subtle flash of something flickered in her chest as she took a breath, looked over at him, and then whispered without a second thought:

“It’s not your business, Black.”

He didn’t press further, but the smile didn’t leave his lips.

The class seemed to go on forever after that, the tension between them growing with every passing second. She didn’t know what it meant—didn’t want to. She wasn’t the type to get caught up in Sirius Black’s drama.

But for the rest of the lesson, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze.

—————————————————————————

The Black Lake sparkled under the late afternoon sun, its surface catching the light like glass. Y/N leaned back on her elbows, her green and silver tie loosened just enough to look casually disheveled, like she hadn’t tried at all (though she absolutely had). Her skirt rode a little higher when she stretched her legs out, and she didn’t bother fixing it. If people looked, let them.

Remus, sitting cross-legged beside her with a book half-forgotten in his lap, was definitely trying not to look. But his ears were pink.

“Something wrong, Lupin?” she asked, voice all honey and bite.

Remus blinked, like he’d just realised he was staring. “No—no, not at all. You’re just very distracting when you’re smug.”

She grinned. “I’m always smug.”

He gave a small, helpless laugh and glanced down at the book again, but his eyes didn’t move with the text.

Y/N let the breeze sweep through her hair as she plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers. “You know,” she mused, “I used to be terrified of talking to you.”

Remus looked up, startled. “Me?”

“Mm-hmm.” She smiled, a little wickedly. “You were quiet. Bookish. Serious. Intimidating.”

He snorted. “I was intimidating? You’re the one who had half the school convinced you had basilisk blood by third year.”

“That was an accident. I told one first-year he should watch where he’s going before he ends up cursed and the rumour just... grew.”

“I don’t know. I think you liked it.”

“I loved it,” she admitted with a smirk. “People didn’t bother me. Until fifth year. When everyone suddenly wanted to.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Including you lot.”

Remus blushed again. “Right. Well. That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “Don’t worry. You’re the only one who ever tried talking to me like I wasn’t a dare.”

He went quiet at that, and when she looked over, he was already looking at her with that soft, unreadable expression of his. She swallowed, but didn’t look away. Not until someone’s voice echoed across the lawn.

“Y/N!”

She turned lazily to see a seventh-year Ravenclaw boy jogging toward them, looking sun-kissed and cocky. He threw himself dramatically onto the grass in front of her, ignoring Remus completely.

“Thought I’d find you out here. You coming to Slughorn’s party tonight? Rumour is there’s firewhisky and a game of truth-or-dare that might end in someone skinny-dipping in the Prefects’ bath.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Is that an invitation or a threat?”

“Only if you pick dare.” He winked.

She grinned, all teeth. “Then I guess I’ll be picking truth.”

“Boring,” the boy groaned, flopping back.

Y/N turned back to Remus, already dismissing the boy with a roll of her eyes. “See what I mean?”

Remus smiled, bemused. “You’re very popular.”

“I’m very bored,” she corrected, voice low. “Except with you.”

That made Remus flush again, but he didn’t look away this time. “Glad I’m keeping up.”

—————————————————————————

Tag list

@bache3

@amatoanima

[swizzlemynizzle]

Innocence

—————————————————————————————————————————

Summary: Sirius Black thought he had Y/N all figured out—until one offhand comment sends his world into a tailspin and unearths far more than he bargained for.

Matching: Siriusxfem!reader, Remusxfem!reader

———————————————————————————

Chapter 1: Only One of Those Things Is True

Sirius Black didn’t mean to end up in a cupboard with Marlene McKinnon. Not really.

But she had smirked in that reckless, Marlene way, and someone had yelled “seven minutes” across the Gryffindor common room, and well—he wasn't a prude.

What he didn’t expect, however, was the door to swing open five minutes in, mid-snort-laugh (hers), mid-eye-roll (his), and reveal you.

You.

The girl who used to make mud pies with him in the garden, who he almost kissed behind the shed during a game of hide and seek—before you’d blinked at him, panicked, and ran straight into a thorn bush. You’d always been like that. Quick to blush, quicker to bolt.

He hadn’t really spoken to you since First Year, when the Sorting Hat had dropped you squarely into Slytherin and Sirius had loudly declared, “Traitorous hat, obviously malfunctioning.”

You didn’t cry. You did, however, tell him his fly was down in front of the entire Great Hall.

So, when the cupboard door creaked open and you stood there, arms crossed and brow arched, Sirius’s brain lagged five full seconds before catching up.

“What,” you said coolly, “No socks-on-the-doorknob system? Or do Gryffindors just smell out each other’s hormones now?”

Marlene giggled behind him. Sirius grinned wolfishly, masking the sharp edge in his voice. “Careful, love. Wouldn’t want you slithering off to turn us in. Not like it’d be your first act of repression. Virgin snake and all.”

You blinked once. Then smiled—slow, dangerous, the kind of smile that meant someone was about to lose a limb, metaphorically or not.

“Only one of those things is true, Black,” you said sweetly. “And Marlene can confirm which.”

Then you winked at her, turned on your heel, and shut the cupboard door.

Silence.

Long, heavy silence.

Then:

“...wait, what?” Sirius turned, bewildered.

Marlene was bright red, suddenly very interested in her shoelaces.

“Did you—Did you sleep with her?”

“I—well, not just me. There was Amos. Diggory. Last year. It was foggy.”

“It was foggy?”

“In the room!” she squeaked. “Incense! I think it was for ambiance—”

“You had a threesome with her and didn’t tell me?” Sirius hissed, scandalised like someone had cancelled Christmas.

Marlene blinked rapidly. “Why—why would I tell you?!”

“Because it’s Y/N! She colour-codes her quills and used to send in extra homework for fun! She told on James in third year for hovering too loudly!”

“She didn’t tell on you just now, did she?” Marlene pointed out, arms folding. “In fact, she smirked. And winked. At me. That’s not very frigid of her, is it?”

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again. “…Maybe it was sarcasm. Maybe it was one of those ironic, know-it-all Slytherin things.”

Marlene coughed.

“Wait. Wasn’t it?”

She fidgeted.

“Marlene.”

“It was a very long party.”

“Marlene.”

“There was incense involved—a lot, actually, I think someone knocked over the dish—”

“Marlene.”

“It wasn’t just Amos!”

Silence.

“…Excuse me?” Sirius asked, voice a dangerous octave higher.

“I didn’t mean to say that!” she said quickly, hands flying up like she was surrendering to the Aurors. “I mean—I meant Amos, obviously, but also—there was—well, technically it was after midnight, so it counts as a new year—”

“What counts as a new year?”

“Remus,” she breathed, eyes wide. “It was Remus.”

Sirius froze. “Moony?”

“I don’t know what happened!” she cried. “One minute she was doing shots of firewhisky and arguing about werewolf legislation, and the next minute they were gone and when I found them again she was wearing his jumper and they were playing Wizards’ Chess and he let her win! Remus never lets anyone win!”

Sirius stared at her. “You’re telling me that Y/N—my childhood almost-kiss, shy, nervous, ‘oh no Sirius we can’t snog behind the Quidditch shed someone might see’ Y/N—has slept with Amos Diggory and Remus Lupin and winked at you like the devil in a library skirt, and I’m just now hearing about all of this?”

Marlene, wide-eyed and slightly breathless, nodded. “I thought you knew. Or at least had eyes. She’s terrifyingly fit.”

“I need to talk to Remus.”

Marlene blinked. “To fight him?”

Sirius was already halfway out of the cupboard, nearly ripping the door off its hinges.

“No,” he called over his shoulder. “Fact-confirming mission only.”

———————————————————————————

New series alert!!!!!! As mentioned this is Sirius or Remus (or both), it will be a series. Let me know what you think!!!!

[swizzlemynizzle]

I need a ChrisMD fic where George is streaming and the reader is trying to have sex with Chris. Chris gives us and goes into George’s room and unplugs his stream because he’s so over it. George tweets that chris is in a bad mood but chris is too busy having sex with his girlfriend to care

thanks love

Stream interrupted - Chrismd

Chris was trying—really trying—to focus.

The bed creaked under him in protest, the sheets warm and tangled, Y/N’s leg slipping over his hip as she shifted closer, mouth brushing just beneath his ear. The kiss was soft, slow, a question asked without words—one that Chris very much wanted to answer.

Her fingers skimmed up beneath his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his back. He let out a low breath, eyes fluttering shut as she kissed down the column of his throat.

And then—

“NO WAY—chat, did you see that? Man’s moving like his controller’s got a five-second delay. Actual disgrace.”

Chris’s head hit the pillow with a frustrated thud.

Y/N paused, lifting her head with a stifled laugh. “Is he playing GTA again?”

Chris groaned. “He’s got the entire flat sounding like a Twitch convention. I’m literally being heckled through the wall.”

“Could be worse,” she teased, grinning against his jaw. “He could’ve said your name.”

Another yell echoed through the wall.

“I SWEAR if you clip that—Chris is gonna get demonetised just from proximity!”

Chris sat up with a muttered curse. “That’s it. I’m ending this man’s career.”

Y/N blinked, half-laughing. “Babe, you’re literally—wait—Chris—”

But he was already halfway across the flat, joggers hanging low on his hips, no shirt, barefoot stomping down the hall like a man possessed. He didn’t knock. He didn’t hesitate.

He kicked George’s door open.

George spun in his chair like he’d been caught watching something illegal. “Jesus Christ—what are you—”

Chris didn’t answer. He walked straight over, leaned down, and with zero hesitation—click—yanked the plug from George’s streaming setup. The entire rig went dark.

Chat died mid-‘LMAOOOO’.

George blinked. “Did you just… kill my stream?”

Chris was already halfway out the door. “I’m trying to have sex, George. Kindly shut the fuck up.”

Back in the bedroom, Y/N was laughing so hard she’d rolled onto her stomach, face buried in a pillow.

Chris shut the door behind him and crossed back to the bed, all mock irritation and flushed cheeks. “Right. Where were we?”

She grinned, grabbing him by the waistband and dragging him back down into the sheets. “You were trying to focus.”

This time, there were no interruptions.

—

Ten minutes later, a tweet appeared on George’s feed:

chris is in a mood btw

Not five minutes after that, Chris replied:

in my girlfriend actually. cheers x

———————————————————-

A very short one shot but I’m back after a short break!! I’m a teacher and I started this blog while on school holidays, finding time is a littler trickier now but I hope you enjoy xxx

Requests are open xx

Masterlist

Tags

@the-internets-girlfriend

[swizzlemynizzle]

Bittersweet Memories: Sticky Situations

George Clarke x Reader (Series)

There was something sweet - until it all fell apart. Years later, a viral video stirs up a past neither of them ever quite let go of. In the city where they both changed, something is quietly rising again.

warnings: soft angst, emotional miscommunication, heartbreak, swearing, slow-burn, alcohol consumption

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

series | masterlist | previous part | next part

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Part Three: Sticky Situations (2300+ words)

It's been three days since George walked into my bakery like a ghost from a life I've been trying not to haunt.

Since then, he's been liking all our social media posts - both Instagram and TikTok.

I've ignored it.

Maisie, however, is loving all the attention from customers on our social medias. And, if I'm being honest, so am I. It's taken the bakery to the next level. We've had new faces walk through the door almost every day since, some asking for the viral cake, others just curious to see the place from the videos.

I'm even starting to get a few regulars. I haven't quite mastered remembering orders yet - but I'm working on it. Maisie and I have been practising the phrase 'just the usual?' with full dramatic flair.

There's a young woman named Lily who comes in every Thursday afternoon for a raspberry tart and a hot chocolate. She talks about her loved for Harry Potter and once left me a note on a napkin that said this place feels like Honeydukes.' I nearly cried - carefully picking the napkin up and adding to a wall of reviews we have started.

But early mornings are different.

Early mornings in the bakery are quiet. Peaceful, even - the kind of peace that comes from repetitions. The hiss of the espresso machine, the smell of lemon zest and sugar caramelising in the oven, the hum of the speaker playing a soft low-fi playlist. I've built something here. Slow and steady. No chaos, no unread messages, no train delays or after-parties.

Just me, the batter, and the bench.

People come and go during this time of the morning - but my time in the kitchen is my time. My little sanctuary.

And today in the kitchen there is a cake to be made.

For George's friend, Arthur.

A tall, soft lemon sponge with vanilla bean frosting and curled white chocolate shards down the side. I pipe soft blue lines along the base of the cake - Arthur had written on the form for something that is bright and needs to include blue, and I figured a soft yellow was safe. Calm. Friendly. Uncomplicated.

The finishing touch is a piped 120k on the top, to celebrate whatever milestone they are celebrating. A subscriber count, probably. Or maybe views on something I haven't watched.

I'm halfway through packing the cake into the carrier when Maisie sticks her head into the kitchen eyes wide.

"Arthur's here for pickup. He's with someone else - I think I've seen him on TikTok before."

I smirk, wiping my hands, "just let them know I'll be right out."

Once the cake is secure, I carefully take it in my hands and round the corner just in time to hear the last part of Arthur's sentence to Maisie "- it's just for a couple of mates and hitting a subscriber count."

So I was right.

I carry the cake to the counter and greet Arthur and turn to look to the man beside him - Maisie is right, he does look familiar.

He was tall, dark curls, and his eyes glanced around the bakery with curiosity - eyes skimming the walls, the displays and then finally the cake box.

I notice the movement of his eyes and take the lid off to allow the two guys to peer inside.

"Woah Y/N this looks amazing!" Arthur exclaims, but as Arthur said my name - suddenly his friend looked confused.

"Y/N.." The boy mumbled to himself.

"Yes that would be me." I said with a smile. I turn back to Arthur to attempt to explain the cake and the best serving suggestions but I'm interrupted.

"You look familiar, are you from the area?"

"Isaac..." Arthur warns.

With that name, I recognise I know who he is - his TikTok's often appear on my for you page, and he's been frequenting George's Instagram posts.

"Only for the past couple of years, I'm originally from Hampshire." I reply, understanding why he is now asking the pressing questions - he's trying to solve out if I'm Y/n from George's past.

And my theory is proven when he gives a slow nod in my direction and replies with a sharp, "cool." This causes thoughts to happen as I wonder what George has told his group of friends about me and our shared past.

The conversation ends not too long after I finally am able to explain the cake directions and flavours to the boys, before wishing a good day.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The bell above the door chimes one final time as the last customer leaves, the dregs of their oat latte still steaming on the windowsill table. Outside, the sun is melting into the skyline, painting the bakery in soft amber light. I wipe down the counter for what feels like the tenth time, even though it's spotless.

Maisie flips the sign to closed and turns to me with a grin that I already don't trust.

"One drink," she says, hands on her hips. "Just one. To celebrate the cake, the TikTok boost, the fact that Lily said we have 'main character cafe energy. Come one. We've earned it."

I sign, but it's already a lost cause.

"You're not going to let me go home, eat pesto pasta, and rewatch The Holiday, are you?"

"Absolutely not. Get changed, bakery girl. We're going out!"

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

We end up at The Porterhouse - a pub not too far from the bakery, the kind with mismatched stools, and decent cocktails served in chipped glasses. It's warm and loud, but not unbearable.

We've only just slid into a booth with our drinks - a G&T for Maisie, and a lazy glass of red for me - when I hear it.

The voice.

I freeze before I even look.

Laughter. Familiar. Deep. Followed by a chorus of cheers. And then someone I do recognise - Max - yelling, "to 120 thousands. We're super duper famous now George!" And a second chorus of laughter is heard.

Maisie looks at me over the rim of her glass, already clocking my expression, "you okay?"

I nod too quickly. "Yep. Totally. Fine."

But I don't even need to turn around to know. I can feel it - the unmistakeable presence of George and every single one of his chaotic friends. They're here. In this pub. On this night.

And suddenly the number on Arthur's cake makes sense.

They're here celebrating the Useless Hotline podcast. George and Max just hit 120k subscribers. I remember back to when George and I were together, the podcast was only an idea - just become solidified and he was so excited to share it with Max.

But of course they're here.

Of course he's here.

Maisie leans in. "Do you wanna leave? We can go watch a movie back at mine love?"

I shake my head. "No. We said one drink. And I'm not leaving because he exists. I'm not here for them."

"Damn right you're not," she says, and clinks her glass to mine.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I spot George before he sees me. He's standing near the bar, pint in hand, wearing that same stupid navy jacket I used to steal, Arthur's there too, animated telling a story. Isaac's doubled over laughing. And more of their group were shared in a conversation or filming.

And then George turns - and his eyes land on me.

For a second, he doesn't move - but he shoots a wink my way and turns back to his friends.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

It becomes a game.

A twisted, high-stakes game of dodge George Clarke - and I'm determined to win.

I've already fake-texted someone twice, strategically walked the long way to the bathroom and changed seats with Maisie to put her between us like a human shield. All while pretending to be totally unbothered.

"I feel like I'm watching a spy thriller," Maisie mutters, smirking behind her second G&T.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, sipping my wine too fast.

Before I know it my glass of wine is gone. I hold the empty glass in the direction of Maisie, "another?"

Maisie gives a small nod but her eyes are elsewhere - elsewhere on a certain brunette she has been eyeing all night.

I take the two empty glass and stand, beginning my journey to the bar.

But then I round the corner by the bar, trying to avoid walking past my past, and I nearly walk straight into Max.

"Oh shit - sorry!" I blurt, grabbing the edge of a high stool for balance.

Max blinks, then breaks into a wide grin, "Y/N?"

"Hey!" I say, too brightly. "Max! Hi!"

We hug awkwardly - the kind of hug of when you haven't seen a friend in a while and have no idea what's happening in their life.

I liked Max. He was of the only friends I met when I was dating George - he was always ready to talk gossip or just be a source to vent to.

He steps back, clearly surprised. "Didn't know you were here."

"Yeah, um - my friend and I are just having a drink. Just a random night out - nothing to do with... you know."

Max raises an eyebrow, amused. "Right. The 120k podcast party?"

I laugh. It sounds fake. "Exactly, and congratulations on that. I've seen a few clips of the podcast and you seem hilarious as usual."

He tilts his head, eyes kind. "Thank you but have you seen George yet?"

I hesitate. Too long.

"...Not really."

Max gives me a look - not pushy, just knowing - and I quickly pivot.

"What about you? How else is life going?"

That gets him talking, thank god. He starts telling me all about his recent interviews and reality TV show he has done - I nod along, adding the occasional laugh.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I finally reach the polished bar, and alert the bartended of the new order - one G&T and a glass of rose - as the red wine list is starting to taste the same.

The bartender's slow, distracted by another group ordering a tray of shots. I tap my card against the bar, waiting.

And then I feel him.

The weight of someone behind me. The static energy in the air. A scent I recognise as it was once littered on my bedsheets. A heartbeat I know too well.

I don't even have to turn around to know it's him.

"Didn't expect to see you here," George says softly, his voice just above the hum of the pub.

I swallow.

Still facing forward to the bar, I reply, "it's a public space, George."

"Did you make the cake?"

I nod once. "Yeah. Hope you liked it."

"Loved it," George says, "and Max took about a hundred pictures of it before he even cut into it.

I glance sidewards. He's closer than I realised. His eyes are soft. Like he's been looking for me all night. Like he's felt me in the room too.

I force a polite smile. "Good. I'm glad."

He shifts slightly, nervous.

I turn to face him, my breath hitching in the back of my throat at our closeness.

"You've been busy."

I shrug. "The bakery's doing well. We're getting more attention online. Maisie a genius with reels."

"I noticed," he starts, "I've been liking your posts."

My lips tighten. "Yeah. I saw."

He opens his mouth again but shuts it. I tilt my head and he finally says what he is thinking.

"I'm glad you're here."

My eyes widened at the statement - that was the last thing I expected for him to say. He is suddenly showing affection when all I asked for two years ago was that -

Affection.

"I would really love to -"

"George," I cut in, "you don't have to do this."

He falters. "Do what?"

"This," I gesture vaguely between us. "Polite chat. Vague compliments. You don't have to pretend we're just two people who vaguely know each other."

A muscle in his jaw tenses, as my eye water.

"I'm not pretending."

"Really?" I snort, shaking my head. "Because you walked out my life with a simple see you around - and then you walk into my bakery, after years of nothing, said barely anything, and then started liking all my posts like we're - what?"

"I didn't know how else to-"

"You could've messaged."

"I wanted to," he says, voice rising slightly. "I nearly did. A hundred times - "

"Then why didn't you?"

He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Right.

I turn back to the bar just as the bartender finally returns with my drinks.

"Y/N..." George tries again. "I'm not here to make things harder. I didn't even know you'd be here tonight."

"But now that I am, what?" I snap, finally looking at him fully. "You're hoping we just... what? Talk? Rewind? Pretend the last two years were fine?"

His face flickers - guilt, regret, all of it.

"I'm hoping you'll just talk to me. Really talk."

"I can't, George," I say, my voice barely holding steady. "Not here. Not tonight. I came out with Maisie. To not think about you. Just try another time."

He runs a hand through his air, frustrated. "And yet here I am, just ruining everything right?"

I finally take the two glasses in my hands, "you didn't ruin everything Geo. That happened a long time ago - we just couldn't work at that time. We both wanted different things."

He looks like he wants to argue. But I step away before he can.

Back at the booth, Maisie looks up from her phone, "you okay'

I slide the drinks onto the table and exhale. "Nope. But I've had worse nights."

I take a long sip of wine, pretending I can't feel his eyes across the room - burning, questioning, following.

And I pretend it doesn't hurt.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I'M SORRY GUYS!

Trust me I want them together too - but we got to wait a while first.

And as a big thank you - I went back and edited this part to make for a longer part.

See you next time,

mwah x

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @swiftlyjo @madforgeorge @smzyyx @graceln4 @norrizzandpia @heyitsmefall @oliviaohanessian1 @clarkey4life @dopeysunflowers @hey-there9-its-me @ooostarwarsfandom501st @canyouseethesainz @cheesystylesig @burkayyy

[swizzlemynizzle]

@livvymd @madforgeorge @wroetominter @wherethezoes-at + whoever else xx

tysm for the tag <3 @yumclaire

search “my vibe aesthetic” on pinterest & post the top results

tags: @bleachbambi @daisyrandoneisme @cellophane-rat-2 @cigarettesincalifornia @jeante13 + anyone else who wants to do it!!

[swizzlemynizzle]

My other blog xx

Hi I’m starting this new blog to be only posting about Harry Potter, mostly the marauders. I’m writing a fic right now that y/n will either end up with Remus or Sirius (maybe both) please send in requests and also request fics for me xx

[swizzlemynizzle]

can I request a hurt/comfort type think with George Clarke where yn has a panic attack and he helps her through it? :)

Breathe with me - George Clarke

The second you closed the door behind you, your chest tightened.

The silence hit like a wave — not soothing, not peaceful. Just loud. Too loud, somehow. Your heart was thudding like it had been holding in screams all day, and now it had nowhere to put them.

You kicked off your trainers with trembling hands and stood frozen in the hallway, the leftover noise from the day still echoing in your skull — Chris’s shouting, ArthurTV laughing too loud, Arthur Hill randomly starting a freestyle. George calling your name from across the room, but it had been too much to answer. Everything layered on top of itself, voices over voices, lights in your eyes, too many cameras—

You pressed your hands over your ears.

You were alone now. You were safe.

But your brain didn’t believe you.

Your breath hitched. Then again. Then again. Your lungs weren’t filling properly — just shallow, sharp gasps that made your fingers tingle. Your knees wobbled. The world tilted sideways.

You clutched the wall. Tried to ground yourself.

Just breathe, just breathe

But your chest was locked tight. Your vision blurred.

You couldn’t breathe.

Why couldn’t you breathe?

Your phone buzzed somewhere on the counter, but you couldn’t look at it. Couldn’t move. The noise in your head was deafening now, all the laughing and shouting and clatter from earlier swirling into static.

Then—

A knock.

You didn’t register it at first. Or the second time.

But then a voice, muffled but clear:

“Y/N?”

George.

You couldn’t answer.

Another pause. Then again, quieter:

“Hey. I’m outside. You left the shoot fast. I just… thought I’d check.”

Still frozen, still shaking.

Another knock, then softer: “Can I come in?”

You moved like your limbs were made of stone, managing to unlock the door with fingers that barely worked.

The second it opened, George took one look at you — pale, trembling, eyes wide — and every trace of humour vanished from his face.

“Oh, love,” he breathed. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.”

You didn’t have to say anything. He stepped in without crowding you, guiding you gently to the floor as your legs gave way.

“Panic attack?” he asked softly.

You nodded once — or thought you did.

“Alright. You're safe. I promise. Can I hold your hands?”

You couldn’t speak, but you reached for him.

His hands wrapped around yours, grounding, warm, steady.

“Look at me,” he said, voice calm, quiet, like he was trying not to wake the air around you. “You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re just overloaded. And it’s okay.”

Your chest was still clenching, your breath ragged, but his hands held firm.

“Breathe with me, yeah? Just copy me. In through your nose. That’s it. Nice and slow. Hold it… and out through your mouth.”

You tried. Failed. Tried again.

George kept going, never letting go.

“I know it’s scary,” he said. “But it’ll pass. You’re not stuck here. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, the world stopped spinning. Your breath came easier. Your grip on his hands loosened, but he didn’t move.

You blinked up at him, still dazed. “I didn’t know it’d hit like this.”

“You’ve been switched on all day,” he said. “I saw it in your eyes. Too much happening. Too loud. You didn’t say anything, but…”

“But you knew,” you whispered.

His smile was soft, tilted. “Course I did. I know you.”

You exhaled properly this time. He sat beside you, letting your head fall gently to his shoulder, no pressure, no noise.

———-

Went the sensory overload route to not repeat from the underneath the noise series. I hope you enjoy!! Requests are open xx

[swizzlemynizzle]

Hello! I loved your george series so much!

Could I request a fluffy willne fic? Maybe a friend's to lovers or maybe an influencer trip and there's only one bed, that sort of thing, just really cute/cringe type of sweet 🫠🤗

Thankyou!!

-🦆

I kind of got sidetracked writing this and I’m not entirely sure it matches the request 😂 I hope you like it anyway!

Masterlist

One Bed, Two Idiots - Willne

The birds are chirping like they’ve got a vendetta. Some manic little dawn chorus ensemble that’s definitely out to ruin Y/N’s morning on purpose.

“You’ve got to be actually fucking kidding me!” she snaps, flinging another hoodie across the room like it personally offended her.

“Woah, babe, just breathe,” Sabina soothes on speaker, voice all honey and calm from the other end of the line. “It’s got to be somewhere.”

“Not helpful right now, Sab!” Y/N practically growls, yanking open a drawer she already checked twice.

The suitcase hits the floor with a dramatic thud as she empties it entirely, folded clothes unraveling like they’re mocking her too.

“I’m going to miss the flight,” she whispers, voice wobbling as tears start to burn behind her eyes.

Sabina pauses. “Okay, okay, keep looking—I’m calling Will. He’s on the later flight anyway, yeah? If worst comes to worst, you go with him.”

Y/N doesn't even respond before the line goes dead. She drops to her knees, the carpet beneath her soft and unhelpful, and presses her palms to her face. Her passport. Gone. Just... vanished. She’d had it two days ago, she swears. She’d even triple-checked, proud of herself for being prepared for once in her chaotic little life.

A shuffle down the hallway pulls her from the spiral.

“Heyo?” Will’s voice floats in, cheerful and warm and entirely too sunny for someone who's just turned into a human hurricane.

He steps into her doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair still wet from the shower, that usual mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’m here to save the day.”

“You’re disgustingly chipper,” she mutters, glaring at him from the floor. “I’ve been up since five losing my entire identity.”

He snorts. “Alright, dramatic. It’s just your passport.”

She lifts her tear-bright eyes to him, exasperated. “I literally can’t get on a plane without it, Will.”

That softens him. His face shifts, the joking drops just a bit. “Hey. It’s okay. We’ve still got time. Let me help, yeah?”

And he does. For over an hour, the two of them tear apart every inch of her flat, hunting through shoes and makeup bags and even the fridge (because, as Will says, “You once put your phone in the microwave, nothing’s off the table.”).

Finally, finally—

“Aha!” she yells, emerging from the bathroom like a victorious knight brandishing a tiny burgundy book. “It was in the bloody sink drawer!”

She laughs, the sound light and ridiculous, and Will can’t help laughing too—even if he’s mostly laughing at how her hair’s all over the place and how proud she looks for defeating herself.

“Genuinely can’t decide if I’m impressed or deeply concerned,” he teases, eyes dancing.

“I contain multitudes,” she declares, smug.

In the Uber, she’s bouncing with adrenaline, singing along to the driver’s bizarre 80s Eurodance playlist and doing awkward shoulder shimmies in her seat. Will steals glances at her in the rearview mirror, pretending he’s not completely gone. She’s radiant in the way that only someone who’s just survived a mini breakdown and come out victorious can be. And when she catches him staring, she doesn’t call him out—just smiles, that slow, soft smile she only does when they’re alone.

At the airport, they’re halfway through weaving toward the gate when a crowd of school kids cuts in front of them—an ocean of red jumpers and backpacks the size of small houses. Without even thinking, Will reaches back and grabs her hand, threading their fingers together as he tugs her along behind him.

She freezes for half a second, just long enough to feel his hand, warm and solid and slightly calloused, close around hers.

“Come on,” he says over his shoulder, like he hasn’t just short-circuited her brain.

She follows. She doesn’t let go.

On the plane, he tucks her carry-on above her seat and flops down beside her with a self-satisfied grin.

“So,” he says, stretching his legs out. “Be honest. You were hiding your passport in your bathroom drawer on purpose, weren’t you? Trying to get some alone time with me?”

Y/N scoffs, elbowing him in the side. “Yes, Will. I masterminded an entire emotional meltdown for your company. You got me.”

“Not the worst plan,” he hums, cocky. “I am great on long-haul flights.”

She’s about to fire back something sarcastic when the plane jolts violently, lurching in a way that shuts everyone up at once. Her hand flies to his thigh without thinking, nails digging in slightly.

He grabs her hand. Steady. Warm. A quiet, “You’re alright. Got you,” whispered just for her.

And she believes him.

——————

The emergency landing is announced just an hour into the flight. They land somewhere outside Istanbul just after midnight—an unplanned layover thanks to a mechanical fault that the pilot described as “a precautionary measure” and Will described as “absolutely bloody terrifying” once they were off the plane.

The airline herds the stranded passengers into a nearby hotel. It's got that faded glamour look—dim chandeliers, gold accents that probably haven’t been real gold in decades, and staff that clearly did not expect 200 grumpy tourists tonight. Still, the sheets look clean, and there’s only one room left.

Which, of course, has only one bed.

Y/N stares at the receptionist. “You’re joking.”

The woman gives her a tired smile and a very European shrug. “All other rooms are full. You are lucky to have this one.”

“Lucky,” she mutters, dragging her suitcase toward the lift.

Will, beside her, is too smug. “You did say earlier you masterminded this whole thing just to get alone time with me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I was masterminding anything, it’d involve cocktails on a beach and not sharing a pillow with your massive head.”

“I have an average-sized head, actually.”

“The hat you wore last week disagrees.”

The room itself is nice enough—low lighting, a soft duvet, and a balcony with a view of distant city lights flickering through the mist. But the bed is a double. One bed. A single, intimacy-demanding slab of mattress.

Y/N kicks off her shoes and groans, flopping face-first onto it. “I give up. Istanbul wins.”

Will chuckles, heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returns, she’s lying sideways across the bed, one arm flung dramatically off the side like a Victorian widow.

He grabs the duvet corner and lifts it just enough to slide in next to her. “You alright, melodrama?”

She rolls her head to face him. “I just wanted to be sipping something tropical with one of those little umbrellas in it.”

“You can have a tap water with a toothpick in it. That’s the same thing, right?”

She snorts. “God, I hate how funny you think you are.”

“No, you hate how funny you think I am.”

A beat.

She laughs, quietly. “Okay. Maybe.”

The silence stretches, but it’s a nice one. Their legs brush beneath the covers, bare knees just touching. Neither of them moves away.

“Thanks again,” she murmurs. “For earlier. And, like… all of this.”

He tilts his head to look at her. “I didn’t mind.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “You’re easy to be around. Even when you’re throwing jumpers and crying about birds.”

She gives a sleepy chuckle. “The birds were being dicks.”

“I’m on your side, don’t worry.”

Their eyes meet, and there’s a second—barely anything—where the air shifts. Where it feels like something is very, very close to happening.

Will reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger just a moment too long.

“Your hair’s gone all fluffy,” he murmurs, soft and affectionate.

Y/N swallows. “Your fault for running your fingers through it earlier.”

“Could run them through again. For quality control.”

She laughs, cheeks going warm, but she doesn’t look away.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that hums with things unspoken.

Eventually, she shifts slightly closer, their faces a breath apart now. “If I kick you in my sleep, it’s nothing personal.”

“I’ll take it as a love tap.”

She grins, small and sleepy. “Shut up, Will.”

“Night, trouble.”

“Night.”

When the sun rises over Istanbul the next morning, it does so on two idiots halfway to the Maldives and even closer to something else entirely.

——————

Requests are open xx

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

Check out the 13 chapters before this….

Epilogue: Soft Launch My Arse

———————————————

It’s a quiet Tuesday morning when the first official couple photo goes up.

No grand announcement. No captions. No big reveal. Just a grainy photo snapped in the glow of a quiet evening—Y/N curled into George on the sofa, half-laughing, half-hiding as he presses kisses into her cheek like he’s memorising her. Her hoodie’s bunched up in his grip, and everything about it is unfiltered, warm, and unmistakably them.

George posts it on Instagram with a single black heart.

Within seconds, the comments explode.

OH IT’S REAL
we BEEN knew
he’s smiling like he won the lottery
soft launch my ARSE
I’m crying this is so cute

They scroll through it together in bed, both bleary-eyed and grinning, phones held above them as they read out the most unhinged replies.

Chris texts: thanks for confirming what everyone with eyes already knew x

ArthurTV sends a voice note that is 90% incoherent screaming.

And Arthur Hill simply replies with a screenshot of his own tweet: “they shagged and fell in love.”

“I feel like the internet’s going to combust,” Y/N murmurs, setting her phone down on the duvet.

George hums, arms looping around her waist as he pulls her in. “Let it. They don’t get this bit.”

She smiles, burying her face in his chest. “This bit?”

“This bit,” he says again, quieter this time. “The mornings. The quiet. You. Me. The not-so-soft launch aftermath.”

She laughs, warm against him. “Think they’ll calm down?”

“Not a chance.”

But for once, it doesn’t matter.

They’ve had the messy, the anxious, the almosts and the in-betweens. Now, they have the knowing. The peace. The soft certainty of choosing each other—loudly, publicly, unapologetically.

Later, George goes live. Y/N sneaks into frame halfway through, steals a sip of his tea, and gives the camera a wink before disappearing again.

The chat explodes.

And George?

He just smiles, like someone who’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

———-

Taglist:

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

@whistlef0rthechoir

@kneelforloki

@yeahnahalrightfairenough

@rubyskies

@theresglitteronthefloor

@wroetominter

———

Okay the end!!! Please send me requests so I can keep writing for you all!! Doesn’t need to be George but absolutely can be xx Arthur tv, Arthur Hill, ChrisMD, Harry Lewis, WillNe, anyone! Let me know xx standalone, series, doesn’t matter! Thanks for reading 🫶🏻

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

**smut warning!!!!!!!!! ******* message me if you would like a clean version otherwise read to the *** and stop

Chapter thirteen: Newness

———————————————

It was supposed to be a normal Sunday stream. Low stakes. Cozy vibes. George, Chris, Arthur Hill, and Y/N crammed onto the boys’ living room sofa, sipping tea and reacting to the usual chaos the internet had to offer. George’s stream title literally read: “hungover idiots try to function (badly)”.

And yet, somehow, within fifteen minutes of going live, it was trending.

The hoodie was the first clue.

Y/N had shown up in George’s hoodie—oversized, navy, familiar to anyone who watched his streams regularly. She hadn’t even thought about it. She’d grabbed it that morning while slipping out of his room, hair still damp from her shower, and hadn’t taken it off since. It was warm. It smelled like him. She liked how it made her feel—safe, known.

Apparently, so did the viewers.

is she wearing HIS hoodie?? george hasn’t looked at anyone else in 10 minutes they’re sitting SO CLOSENAHHHHHHH WAITTTTTT

The screengrab was inevitable.

A soft moment—Y/N turning to George with a grin mid-laugh, him looking at her like the sun had risen just for him, reaching up without thinking to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

The moment passed in real time.

But online?

It exploded.

Chris was the first to notice. His phone buzzed nonstop in his lap before he finally checked it and groaned loud enough for the mic to pick up.

“Oh, brilliant,” he muttered. “We’ve broken Twitter.”

George blinked, dragging his attention away from Y/N. “What?”

Chris turned the phone around to show them a tweet with nearly 20k likes already. The photo of their little moment. The caption read: “I don’t care if they deny it. This is not platonic.”

Arthur Hill made a soft noise. “You’re trending.”

Y/N looked at George, her heart suddenly loud in her chest. “Are you freaking out?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not unless you are.”

“I’m okay,” she said honestly, surprised to realise it was true.

And then Chris—because he was Chris—looked directly at the camera and said, “Right. Confirm or deny: are they shagging?”

“CHRIS!”

George’s hand found hers beneath the blanket tossed over their legs, fingers curling between hers.

The stream wrapped not long after. They used Arthur’s fake excuse about needing to eat something that wasn’t toast, and shut everything down. The flat was unusually quiet once it was just them again—Chris muttering in the kitchen, Arthur dragging himself off for a nap.

George hovered beside the sofa, eyes flicking to her.

“You okay?” he asked again, softer this time.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just… can we not talk about the internet right now?”

He reached out, took her hand again. “Come with me.”

His bedroom was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of the computer screens still humming in the corner. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her gently between his legs, hands at her hips.

“You sure you’re alright?” he murmured, looking up at her.

She nodded, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I just want to be here.”

********

This time, the kiss was different. Slower. Less like a match being struck and more like warm honey—melting into something thick and sweet and inevitable.

He slid his hands under the hoodie she still wore, lifting it inch by inch, his palms dragging softly along her skin as it rose. She let him pull it over her head, revealing the tank top and soft shorts she’d thrown on without thinking. He kissed the curve of her shoulder, the side of her neck, like he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere else.

When she climbed into his lap, straddling him on the bed, he sighed against her mouth like it grounded him.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said, lips brushing hers.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

He nodded, kissing her again—deeper now. “Too much.”

They undressed each other slowly. She peeled his shirt off, traced the line of his collarbone with her mouth. He helped her out of her shorts, eyes dark as they slid down her legs, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

When she lay back, he followed her down, propping himself up on an elbow as his hand moved between them, knuckles brushing over her thigh.

She shivered at the touch, every nerve in her body sparking awake.

His fingers traced over her through her underwear—light, exploratory, like he was still learning her reactions. She whimpered, pressing into his touch, and he murmured something unintelligible, something that sounded like awe.

Then he slipped his hand beneath the fabric.

She gasped as he ran a single finger through her folds, slow and teasing, deliberately light.

“George…”

“I know,” he whispered, eyes flicking up to hers.

He dipped one finger inside her, shallow and slow, just enough to make her hips twitch, then pulled back, circling her clit with a gentle stroke that had her eyes fluttering shut. She was already so wet, slick and warm beneath his touch.

When he pushed two fingers in, curling them just right, her breath caught in her throat.

He set a steady rhythm—deep, deliberate strokes, his palm pressing against her with every movement. She could feel her body tightening already, heat coiling in her stomach like a fuse slowly burning.

“Fuck, George—don’t stop,” she panted, one hand curling around his wrist, the other tangling in the sheets.

He kissed her, slow and open-mouthed, as he continued working her open with maddening control. He watched her the whole time, eyes flicking between her flushed face and the spot where his fingers disappeared into her.

She arched against him, moaning when his thumb found her clit, rubbing soft circles that made her thighs shake.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I want to see you.”

She opened her eyes, just barely, and the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—was enough to tip her over the edge.

Her climax hit hard. Her back arched, a broken cry escaping her lips as she clenched around his fingers, breath stuttering, body trembling under his touch.

He didn’t stop until she’d ridden it all the way through, then gently slid his hand away, kissing her shoulder before looking back into her eyes.

“You okay?” he asked softly, mouth brushing her temple.

She nodded, tugging him down into another kiss. Her legs wrapped around his waist, guiding him closer.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice still wrecked from moaning his name.

He entered her slowly—carefully—eyes locked on hers as her mouth dropped open in a soft gasp.

They moved together with a rhythm that felt like it had been written into their bones. Every movement was intentional—no frantic rush, just that deep, aching need to feel everything. She clung to him like he was the only solid thing in the world, nails dragging down his back, thighs tightening around his hips.

“George,” she breathed, forehead pressed to his.

“Don’t stop.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice barely there. “I’ve got you.”

When they came together, it was heat and breath and whispered names in the dark. A quiet moment stretched after, their hearts still racing, fingers tangled.

He kissed her shoulder, then her collarbone.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Course,” she whispered.

“Will you… be my girlfriend?”

She smiled, brushing his hair back. “I thought I already was.”

He laughed softly, resting his forehead against hers. “Guess I just needed to hear it.”

“You’re mine, George,” she said. “Officially.”

Outside, the internet buzzed.

Inside, they were home.

——-

Taglist:

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

@whistlef0rthechoir

@kneelforloki

@yeahnahalrightfairenough

@rubyskies

@theresglitteronthefloor

@wroetominter

———

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

Chapter twelve: The Morning After

———————————————

Y/N woke slowly, her body aching in that satisfied, delicious way. The room was still dark, the curtains pulled shut, but there was a soft morning hum outside—birds, faint traffic, the gentle creak of the old pipes in her flat.

And George.

He was sprawled beside her, one arm still tucked under her shoulders, the other across her stomach like he’d fallen asleep trying to make sure she didn’t float away.

She blinked up at the ceiling, lips curling into a dazed smile.

She didn’t need to look to know he was awake. His breathing had shifted, the lazy drag of it now tinged with awareness.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

He shifted just enough to kiss her shoulder, voice muffled against her skin. “You’re warm.”

She laughed softly, turning to face him. His hair was a mess, pillow-creased, and his eyes were heavy with sleep, but still—still—he looked at her like she was something rare.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he echoed, grinning. “I was gonna sneak out before anyone woke up, but you looked too peaceful to leave.”

“Charming. You were gonna ghost me after giving me the best night of my life?”

He smirked. “I was gonna make you breakfast.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “That’s acceptable.”

She leaned in for a kiss, slow and lazy, like they had all the time in the world. And for a moment, it felt like they did.

—-

It was supposed to be just another low-key night.

The kind where someone ordered way too much Chinese, Chris was halfway through his second pint before the bags even hit the coffee table, and the group settled into their usual spots in the boys’ flat: George curled into the corner of the couch, Chris stretched out dramatically with chopsticks he didn’t know how to use, and Arthur Hill already working through the prawn crackers like they were oxygen.

Y/N arrived late, hair still damp from a shower, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. George perked up immediately—not that he said anything—but Chris noticed. He always noticed.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Chris called, tossing her a spring roll.

She caught it with a triumphant little noise, and George smiled like she’d just saved the world.

Arthur Hill squinted over his beer. “Why is he smiling like that?”

“Like what?” George asked too quickly.

“Like he’s the main character in a coming-of-age romcom,” Hilly replied, pointing at him with his bottle. “Did you two snog behind a Tesco or something?”

Y/N snorted and took the empty spot beside George—which was weird, because there was another cushion free, and yet she plopped right there, shoulder pressed to his, thighs brushing.

George didn’t move.

Neither did she.

Chris clocked it instantly. The tiny glance George gave her as she leaned forward to grab a dumpling. The way she nudged his knee with hers under the coffee table. The quiet look they shared when she laughed at one of Arthur’s dumb jokes.

“Something’s going on,” Chris muttered under his breath.

Arthur leaned in. “Yeah. She just stole a dumpling and he didn’t say a word. That man guards his takeaway like a dragon guards gold.”

They watched as George whispered something to her under his breath. She laughed, turning into his shoulder, eyes crinkling.

Then—too casually—her hand dropped to his thigh for balance as she reached for her drink.

Arthur Hill blinked. “Nope. I’m sorry. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s definitely not nothing,” Chris said, louder this time. “When exactly were you planning on telling us you’re dating?”

George looked up, eyes wide. “We’re not—”

Y/N coughed. “It’s not—”

Arthur raised a brow. “You shagged.”

George opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Chris let out a low whistle. “Knew it. I knew it. I’ve seen less chemistry in test tubes.”

George ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushed. Y/N hid her face behind a can of Coke.

Arthur Hill leaned back with a satisfied smirk.

“One gig. I do one gig and suddenly everyone’s shagging. What is this? The end of a teen drama?”

“You’re very smug for someone who once tripped over his guitar cable mid-set,” George said dryly.

“Still got a standing ovation,” Arthur grinned.

Chris pointed between them. “So… what now? Are we gonna pretend you’re not one more lingering look away from dry humping on the sofa?”

“Chris,” Y/N groaned, face in her hands.

George chuckled, then reached out and gently tugged her hand away from her face. “Alright, fine. We’re… figuring it out.”

Arthur Hill raised his bottle. “To figuring it out.”

Chris grabbed his pint. “And to finally getting a front row seat to this slow burn.”

Y/N laughed into her hoodie, cheeks still pink. But she didn’t move away from George—not even a little.

And George? He just smiled like he’d waited months for her to be this close, and now that she was, he wasn’t about to let go.

—-

Tag list:

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

@whistlef0rthechoir

@kneelforloki

@yeahnahalrightfairenough

@rubyskies

@theresglitteronthefloor

——

Next part incoming…..

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

**smut warning!!!!!!!!! ******* message me if you would like a clean version otherwise read to the *** and stop

Chapter Eleven: Late Game, Long Looks

———————————————

The flirtation had been simmering for days.

No texts dissecting the kiss. No whispered confessions or awkward debriefs. Just a steady uptick in glances, lingering touches, and smiles that felt just a little too private for a group setting.

Like now.

Y/N shifted in her gaming chair, glancing over at George in the split-screen window of their co-op stream. His hoodie was pulled over his head, curls sticking out the front, eyes squinting with mock focus.

“You’re gonna get us killed,” she said, aiming her crosshair. “Again.”

“You say that like I haven’t carried every round.”

“You say that like you didn’t just flashbang yourself five seconds ago.”

He grinned. “That was strategic.”

“Oh, sure. Blind your own team and call it strategy.”

The chat was flying.


@clarkeybabe

George pls he’s so whipped

@luckycherub
SOMEONE TELL THEM THEY’RE NOT SUBTLE

@tinydancer
did y’all kiss or is this just FOREPLAY

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t bite back a smile. “Chat’s being feral tonight.”

“You started it,” George said easily, reaching offscreen for his drink. “With your flirty little voice.”

“My what now?”

He just smirked, not answering. She opened her mouth to retort—and immediately got sniped.

“Oh my god.”

“Strategic,” George said, grinning at the camera. “Told you.”

An hour passed like ten minutes. When they finally wrapped up the stream and said their goodnights to chat, she leaned back, stretching.

The adrenaline had barely started to fade when her phone buzzed.

George:
Still got your spare key under the plant pot?

Her pulse kicked.


Y/N:
Yes… why?

No reply.

A knock came a few seconds later.

She padded to the door, heart in her throat.

George stood there, hoodie still on, a faint flush on his cheeks like he’d sprinted the last few blocks.

“Hey,” he said, breathless.

“Hey.”

And then he kissed her.

****

No questions. No warnings. Just hands in her hair and lips on hers, soft and certain, like he’d been thinking about it every hour since the club.

She clutched at his hoodie, pulling him closer, stumbling backwards until they hit the wall. He laughed against her mouth—low, breathy—and kissed her harder.

“I wasn’t going to come over,” he murmured between kisses. “Was trying to play it cool.”

She smiled. “You suck at that.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Especially with you.”

She kissed him like she’d been waiting all night — all month — to do it.

George didn’t hold back. His hands framed her face at first, thumbs brushing her cheeks like he couldn’t believe she was really there, kissing him like this. But soon they slid down, finding her waist, her hips, gripping like he needed something to hold onto or he’d lose his footing entirely.

“Bedroom?” she asked, barely more than a breath between kisses.

They barely made it through the door before he had her pinned gently against the wall, his hands firm on her hips, mouth tracing a heated path down her neck. She gasped when he sucked just below her ear, her legs going weak under his touch.

She pulled him down by the collar, kissing him deeper — hungrier. His hands slipped under the waistband of her joggers, thumbs dragging over her skin, slow and deliberate, until she whimpered.

“Take them off,” she said, more desperate than she meant.

He obeyed immediately, kneeling to pull both her joggers and underwear down in one smooth motion, then pressed a kiss to her hip as he rose. Her hands fumbled with his waistband, fingers brushing over the bulge in his boxers, and he groaned low in his throat.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he admitted, voice rough.

“Then stop thinking,” she whispered. “Just… touch me.”

They moved to the bed in a tangle, her back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. George hovered over her, eyes raking down her body with a reverence that made her shiver.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

And then he was on her again — his mouth trailing down the slope of her neck, across the curve of her chest, taking his time to explore her skin like he was trying to memorise every inch. He paused at her breast, sucking gently until her back arched, her breath catching in her throat.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging softly, grounding herself.

He moved lower — lips ghosting over her ribs, her stomach, the sensitive skin just above her hipbones. She was trembling by the time he reached the inside of her thighs, knees falling open without a second thought.

When his mouth finally found her, she cried out, hips jolting at the first slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue.

“George,” she gasped, voice cracking, her head tipping back against the pillow.

He groaned low at the sound of his name on her lips and wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her there like she might drift away if he didn’t keep her close. He was unhurried, maddeningly patient, tongue moving with devastating precision — learning her, teasing her, coaxing her closer to the edge again and again.

She was falling apart beneath him, breath shuddering, hands gripping the sheets, then his shoulders, then back into his hair like she didn’t know where to put the overwhelming sensation.

Her thighs tensed around his head, and she keened, high and breathless, when he sucked just right — her orgasm crashing over her like a wave.

“Fuck,” she moaned, trembling all over, eyes fluttering shut.

George kissed her through it, softer now, slower. Reverent.

When she came down, boneless and flushed, he crawled back up her body, dragging his mouth along her skin as he went, tasting her like he was already addicted. She reached for him the moment he hovered above her, pulling him into a deep, desperate kiss.

She could taste herself on his lips, and instead of it feeling strange, it felt… intimate. Like nothing about this was casual. Like he already belonged to her.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into his back, urging him closer.

“Please,” she whispered, voice wrecked and shaky and sure. “I need you.”

He looked down at her, eyes full of something raw and worshipful. “You have me.”

And then he was inside her — slowly, carefully — his forehead pressed to hers, his hand cupping her face as he moved. Her mouth dropped open in a soft gasp, her arms winding around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space between them.

He didn’t rush. He felt every inch of her, every gasp and stuttered breath, every shiver of her body against his. Their rhythm was steady, almost unbearably tender — not because they weren’t aching for more, but because they needed it to mean something.

It did.

She clung to him like she might fall apart if he let go. Her nails raked down his back, her breath hitched every time he thrust deeper, and he whispered her name into her neck like a vow.

“George,” she gasped, voice thin, forehead pressed to his. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice raw and low. “I’ve got you.”

Her hips rolled up to meet his, faster now, their pace building. The air was thick with heat, with the slick sound of skin on skin, with the ragged sounds they made as they lost themselves in each other.

When she came again, it was with a sob, her whole body tensing before melting beneath him. He followed seconds later, burying his face in her shoulder with a groan, holding her tighter than ever as he fell apart in her arms.

The room was quiet in the aftermath — save for the sound of their breathing, still heavy, slowly syncing.

George didn’t move. He stayed pressed against her, their bodies tangled, his thumb tracing lazy, soothing lines along her side.

He rolled onto his side and gathered her close, her head resting on his chest as his fingers traced slow, lazy lines along her arm.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Then, quietly, she said, “So that wasn’t just a one-time thing, right?”

George laughed, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Not a chance.”

She smiled into his skin, warm and sleepy and safe.

“I really like you,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.

His voice was low, right against her ear. “Yeah. I really like you too.”

——-

Taglist:

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

@whistlef0rthechoir

@kneelforloki

@yeahnahalrightfairenough

——

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

Chapter Ten: Off the Grid

———————————————

ATV cornered her in the kitchen with a packet of Jaffa Cakes and a suspiciously innocent grin.

“Okay,” he said, “hear me out before you say no.”

Y/N blinked over her cup of tea. “Already nervous.”

“Bach and I want you on the podcast.”

She nearly choked. “What?”

“Just as a guest! Nothing terrifying. We’ll talk about gaming, the football video, maybe the fountain thing if you let us—” He cut off at her expression. “Okay, no fountain thing.”

Y/N tried to play it cool, but her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

“It’s low pressure,” he added quickly. “Just us chatting. You’re one of us now—it makes sense.”

She forced a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Take your time,” ATV said, all casual as he opened the Jaffa Cakes like he hadn’t just detonated a minor panic attack in her brain. “But we’d love to have you.”

—

That night, the spiral came quietly.

She hadn’t meant to look. But one scroll led to another, and suddenly she was two Reddit threads deep and knee-deep in comment sections under the football video.

“She’s so desperate to be one of them it’s actually painful.”


“I’d watch George’s streams more if she wasn’t always there.”


“Only reason they keep her around is for views. And maybe the ‘George tension.’ Pathetic.”


“Chris needs to stop inviting every girl he meets.”

The words blurred together. It didn’t matter if some were upvoted and some weren’t. The tone was all the same.

You don’t belong.

She closed the laptop. Then turned off her phone. Then didn’t turn it back on.

—

No one saw her for three days.

Chris messaged. ATV checked in. George sent three increasingly worried voice notes, the last of which ended with, “Just… let us know you’re okay, yeah?”

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t care.

But because answering meant existing again, and she wasn’t sure she had it in her yet.

—-

Arthur Hill’s gig was already halfway through by the time Y/N showed up.

She slipped into the back of the venue unnoticed, hood up, hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets. The air inside buzzed with bass and sweat and euphoria, lights flickering off the high ceiling like heat lightning. Bodies moved like a tide to Arthur’s voice—raw, steady, alive.

She hovered by the wall, letting the sound seep in through her skin.

It had been three days since she’d last replied to anyone. Since the spiral.

ATV’s podcast invite had been kind—excited, even. But somewhere between accepting it and actually prepping for it, she’d made the mistake of opening the comments under Chris’s football video. Then Reddit. Then Twitter. Then her own notifications.

And it all just hit—too much, too loud. One comment louder than the others:

“Why is she even there?”

That was the tipping point. She’d shut off her phone and gone radio silent. No streams. No Discord. No messages.

And yet here she was. Drawn in by Hilly’s name in bold print on the venue marquee. Pulled by something softer than guilt but heavier than loneliness.

When the set ended, she slipped backstage, nerves jangled from too much overthinking. The greenroom was dimly lit, half full, everyone buzzing from the show.

It was George who spotted her first.

He blinked, like he wasn’t sure she was real. Then, without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped her in a hug.

“You’re here,” he said, low and steady into her hair.

She couldn’t speak—just nodded, clinging to the warmth of his hoodie and the quiet understanding in his arms.

“Thought I was gonna have to call a search party,” he murmured, not letting go.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be. Just…” He finally pulled back, eyes searching hers. “Next time, let someone know you’re breathing, yeah?”

She managed a wobbly smile. “I’m breathing.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face.

—

Later, they all spilled into a club down the street—Arthur’s post-show ritual.

The place was packed, the music decent, the lighting soft enough to hide in. Bach ordered tequila for everyone. ATV dragged her into a group photo. Chris yelled something about a dance battle. And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was watching herself from far away.

George stayed close. Always nearby, always within reach.

They danced—not pressed together, but orbiting the same space. Her hand brushed his. His fingers grazed her lower back when someone jostled too close. Once, in a flash of bass and laughter, their eyes met, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

That was when the stranger appeared.

He was older. Sharp suit. Confident in a way that felt manufactured.

“Didn’t know angels came to clubs,” he said, voice syrupy, fingers ghosting over the small of her back.

Before she could recoil, George was there. Tense. Focused.

“Mate,” he said, voice flat. “Back off.”

The man turned, eyeing him with a smirk. “Relax. Just being friendly.”

Bach stepped in, arms folded. “Try being friendly over there.”

ATV leaned against the wall, smiling too brightly. “I’ve been politely waiting to get kicked out. Give me a reason.”

The guy held his hands up and backed off, muttering something about “fragile egos” before disappearing into the crowd.

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“Thanks,” she said, voice barely audible.

George didn’t answer—just looked at her, gaze intense.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some air.”

—

Outside, the night was cooler than expected. The street was quieter, save for the occasional passing car. She leaned against the wall beside him, head tipped back toward the sky.

“I shouldn’t have disappeared,” she said softly.

George shook his head. “You don’t owe anyone anything. But I wish you’d let someone in.”

“I thought space would help. But it just… spiraled. The comments. The silence. It all got so loud.”

His shoulder brushed hers, grounding. “I get it. I really do.”

She turned to look at him. “Do you?”

He nodded, something unspoken in the tilt of his head. “Yeah. And if you ever feel like that again—like it’s too much—I don’t care if it’s 3AM. Call me. You don’t even have to say anything. I’ll just come sit with you in the dark.”

Her heart caught on the words. On the way his voice dipped, honest and careful. Like he was afraid she might break again.

She reached for his hand. “You already do more than you know.”

The tension between them shifted—deeper, quieter.

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

Under the streetlight, his face was cast in soft gold. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back up.

“George…”

His free hand came up, hesitant at first, then firmer—fingertips brushing her jaw. When he leaned in, there was no fanfare, no hesitation left.

Just warmth.

His mouth on hers—gentle, grounding, real.

She kissed him back like she’d been waiting for this to happen since the first night they met. Like something fragile had just been rewired.

When they broke apart, his forehead rested lightly against hers.

“Okay,” she whispered. “That was definitely not an almost.”

He chuckled, breathless. “Finally.”

From down the road, Chris’s voice shattered the quiet.

“Oi! We’re getting chips! You in or what?”

George groaned. “Perfect timing, as always.”

Y/N laughed, cheeks warm. “Let’s go before ATV actually punches someone for no reason.”

George laced their fingers together, thumb brushing hers.

“Only if we walk slow,” he said. “Don’t really feel like letting go yet.”

She didn’t argue.

And as they wandered back toward the chaos and the chips and the boys who had quietly become her family—Y/N felt like maybe, just maybe, she could start trusting the quiet again.

Because someone had come to sit with her in the dark.

And now, she wasn’t alone.

——

Taglist:

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

@whistlef0rthechoir

@kneelforloki

@yeahnahalrightfairenough

—-

Finally!!! Sorry to spoil but smut warning for the next chapter :P please skip or message me for alternate clean version of the scene xx

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

Chapter Nine: Just a Little Closer

———————————————

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the pitch as Y/N laced up her boots, nerves fluttering in her stomach. She glanced around at the assembled group—familiar faces from the Chaos Goblins, and a few she’d only ever seen through a screen.

Harry was already messing about with Chris, smacking a football into Bach’s back and pretending it was an accident. Ethan was mid-laugh, his booming voice carrying across the field, while Tobi warmed up with effortless precision. Theo Baker jogged past, offering her a friendly smile that she tried not to over-analyse.

She swallowed. These guys were massive. Millions of followers. Viral content. A whole other level. And here she was, adjusting her shin pads and trying not to freak out.

“Don’t overthink it,” George said, appearing at her side like he always did at the right time. “You’ll be better than half of us anyway.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t even seen me play.”

“I’ve seen your Rocket League streams. Football’s the same thing, just... legs.”

She snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

“An observant idiot.”

The teams were split to mix them up, keeping things fair but competitive. Y/N found herself alongside Harry, Tobi, and Bach. Chris shouted commentary while ATV tried—and failed—to keep track of the score. The cameras rolled from every angle, but soon the nerves melted into adrenaline.

Turns out, she was holding her own. Maybe better than that.

She slipped through defenders with surprising control, knocked a clean assist to Tobi, and even scored a scrappy goal that made everyone cheer. It was messy, chaotic, but she wasn’t invisible. She wasn’t just the guest tagging along. She belonged.

During a water break, Harry flopped beside her on the grass. “Alright, be honest,” he said between gulps. “Were you secretly semi-pro or is this just beginner’s luck?”

She laughed, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Trust me, I peaked in Year 9 PE.”

“Well,” he said, pushing his hair back in that signature flustered way, “you’ve definitely got me trying harder. Can’t have you outshining me.”

She looked at him, caught off guard by the low-key flirtation. “Was that... a compliment?”

“Dunno. Might’ve been.” He winked, just slightly crooked. “You’ll have to replay it later and find out.”

Her cheeks burned despite herself.

From the sidelines, George’s gaze flicked over. He hadn’t missed the interaction.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Chris yelled. “Get back on the pitch!”

Y/N stood, brushing grass from her shorts. As she ran to rejoin the game, George jogged up beside her.

“You and Harry seem to be getting along,” he said lightly, not quite looking at her.

She glanced at him. “He’s nice. Bit crazy.”

George made a noncommittal sound, then sprinted off ahead. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

After the match—filmed, loud, brilliant—they all sprawled on the grass eating snacks and making plans.

“We’re doing dinner, right?” Chris asked, already texting a group chat.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Ethan replied.

Y/N hesitated. George caught the look. “Come. You earned it.”

“Okay,” she said. “As long as no one records me trying to cut a steak.”

“I make no promises,” Theo grinned.

They ended up at a nearby pub with a back garden, everyone crowded around two picnic tables pushed together. The energy was still buzzing—inside jokes forming, food passed around, and the occasional Harry one-liner that made the entire table wheeze.

Y/N found herself seated between George and Tobi. George didn’t say much, but when her drink ran low, he replaced it without a word. When she laughed too hard at something Theo said and bumped his arm, he didn’t move away.

Later, when the group started splintering off—some heading home, others to film extra bits—George caught her outside by the railings, hoodie tugged over his head.

“Want me to walk you back?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said, warmth blooming in her chest.

They walked in the cool evening, trainers thudding gently on pavement. The city was quieter now. Just the low hum of traffic and the occasional dog barking in the distance.

“Thanks for convincing me to play,” she said.

“Told you you’d be great.”

“I forgot how much I liked it.” She paused. “And the whole thing with Harry—”

George glanced over.

“—he’s funny. I like him. But…”

“But?”

“He’s not why I had fun today.”

That stopped him in his tracks.

She turned to face him, their steps slowing to a halt. “It was being part of it. Being with you guys. With you.”

His eyes held hers, a little more open than usual. “You’re part of it now. Whether you believe it or not.”

Something about the way he said it made her heart knock against her ribs.

She stepped a bit closer.

And then—

“Y/N! George!” Bach’s voice came from up the road. “Come on, the Uber’s leaving!”

They both jumped, stepping apart instinctively.

Y/N laughed, flustered. “Saved by the bell.”

George ran a hand through his hair, smiling despite himself. “One day we’ll get a quiet moment.”

“I’m not betting on it.”

He reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Still. Worth waiting for.”

She didn’t reply. Just smiled, soft and warm.

As they turned to rejoin the group, his hand brushed hers. And for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

—-

Taglist

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

——

If this gets enough traction I’ll post the next one too xx