warnings: the word shit teehee
tags: georgenotfound x gn!reader
A/N: very fun to write in the dark and with gentle music :]
“What is this supposed to do again?” George asks, curling his upper lip into his mouth as you smooth your finger across his mustache. His face is smeared in a suspiciously neon purple face mask that smells like honeysuckle and very slightly baby wipes. In the name of ageless beauty, and all that.
“It’s supposed to hydrate your skin,” you mumble in response, chewing on a dry patch of your lip in concentration. It won’t apply very evenly across his facial hair and you squint, blowing air out of your mouth. “When was the last time you shaved?”
“Couple days ago,” he answers. You run your finger under the running faucet and lean back onto the kitchen counter. “Done?” His eyebrows lift his hairline back and you watch it shift.
“Yup,” you chirp, and smooth a hand across the top of his head. He ducks from your touch, smile hidden, and pads to the bathroom. Light floods the room and he’s silently examining his face when you follow.
It’s late on a Wednesday after shared pizza and milkshakes for dinner. He invited you to sleep over (quite sheepishly, may I add—red cheeks) and watch a film. It’s pretty early in your relationship to have sleepovers, especially since he hasn’t even been to your house that’s two towns over. You’ve only been to his flat a couple times, mainly after a night of drinks to wait for your night train. He entertains you with tours of different drawers and these tiny frozen cheesecakes he has in the freezer; he was willing to sacrifice the strawberry chocolate one for you. You kissed him for it.
“How long do we wait?” He asks, suddenly hushed like it’s a secret, and prods one finger at his sticky cheek.
“15 minutes, the package says. Perfect time to get part of an episode in.” You wiggle your eyebrows. You two just started rewatching The Walking Dead and are slowly making your way through the first season. He makes a face, cooing, and exhales a laugh as he flicks the light switch off on your way out.
“Here we go,” he sighs, and clicks resume as you plop down onto the sofa and scoot closer to him. Dragging the ottoman closer to him with a foot, he crosses his legs on the suede and settles back into the cushions.
You swoop in, snaking an arm around his back and swinging a leg over his. His heart beats loud in your ears when you lean closer and rest the side of your head on his shoulder, ears warming at the proximity. You risk a glance up to his lavender face and laugh, seeing his cheeks glowing through the mud.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, but you feel his arm drop onto the ridge of the sofa behind you and his hand resting on your skin through your sweater.
His fingertips slide under and press ever so slightly into the skin of your upper back when something on the TV makes him nervous. The mask stays on longer than normal as you two are too enamored with your show, but after ten minutes past the fifteen mark George jumps up, knocking your leg off, and says something about “getting this shit off” before making his way to the bathroom. He has it mostly washed off when you get in there, except a small patch by his temple that you wipe off with a wet wash rag before turning to do the same thing for yourself. He looks at you in the mirror, studying you, and leans onto the counter with one hand so he can push his now-clean face into your shoulder to watch.
Nearly half of the episode is over when you two return to the couch, popcorn in hand, and curl into each other for the rest of the night. The sky grows darker and darker until it’s a stripe of blue on the horizon, black filling the sky with a random star or two. George sits with you woven into him, head resting against yours, and nods off to sleep. Who knew he snores? (You. You knew. He fell asleep one time on the tube after an all-nighter and woke himself up choking on a snore.) He smells like honey, so it’s no wonder you drift off with your mouth hung open, fingers in a jumbled mess on your lap.
You’re rudely awoken by an alarm. Jolting awake, you gasp and press a hand to your chest. George’s head falls sharply onto your chest and he smarts awake, eyes wide. You grasp jerkily for your phone somewhere in the cushions and produce it, pressing a button to silence the ringing. 4:45. You just blink for a second and let your eyes adjust to the darkness. Netflix’s “are you still watching?” screen stares back at you two and you can barely see your face in the dim reflection.
“Why the hell would you have an alarm set for 4:45?” He asks, voice hoarse, and rubs the heel of his palm at his eye socket.
“I have no idea,” you croak.
You two sit in silence for the time it takes for him to throw the blanket off his lap, tug his shirt down, and slowly make his way towards the bedroom. His ankles pop as he walks and he briefly reminds you of a wooden statue you used for an art class in college; he walks like his joints are articulated with metal. Hovering in the doorway, he looks back at you with half-closed lids.
“I’m coming.” Tossing your phone back into the mess of the sofa, you pull yourself to your feet and groan immediately. The sleeping position you two were in just ruined the state of your spine. You’ll have to send him your chiropractor bill.
He’s sat on the edge of his bed when you enter the dark room, groggily tugging his socks off and throwing them onto the floor. You round the bed, fumbling for the covers, and manage to tug them back far enough to slide yourself in and pull them up past your shoulders. They smell like soap and vanilla. George yanks the sheets back and falls violently onto the bed, not moving. You let out a quiet snort, not wanting to break the calm night, and shift onto your side. He’s laying like a corpse flat on its back.
“You look dead,” you say with a hushed voice. He just nods slowly.
The bed creaks as he shuffles closer to the middle, pushing himself up into his elbows and bringing his legs under the blankets. The air warms when he gets closer, and it makes you close your eyes. It’s when you feel his breath on your cheek that you open your eyes again, and his pale face is only centimeters away. You just look at him. His eyelashes flutter and his mouth breaks with a yawn, closing again as he smacks his lips.
“C’mere,” you whisper, and he opens his eyes to gaze into yours. Wordlessly, he flips onto his side and leans back into you. Your hand closes around his upper torso, and he melts into you. His hair smells like eucalyptus, you notice.
“Good night.” You feel like the sun on his face, warm and comfortable. Your soft exhales fan over the back of his neck and he has half a mind to shiver.
“Mhm.” He drifts off, safe.
A/N: whatcha think? lemme know <3
