Spoiler, We Die In The End.

Olivia | She/Her | 19 | Marvel | One Direction | Criminal Minds | Sidemen | Teen Wolf | Taylor Swift | ArthurTV | George Clarkey Requests are OPEN Masterlist

[clarkeyzzz]

Main Masterlist

Hello, my name is Olivia (She/Her). This is where you'll be able to find all my work in one place, thank you for checking it out.

I mainly write for George but I’m open to any requests or prompt for anyone!

Requests : OPEN

NOTE: All fics should be fem!oc or fem!reader unless specified otherwise

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Y O U T U B E R S

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George Clarkey Masterlist

Arthur Hill Masterlist

Arthur Frederick Masterlist

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O N E O F F S

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N/A

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Bittersweet Memories: Before the Frosting Sets

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

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series | masterlist | next part

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Part One: Before the Frosting Sets (1200+ words)

I still remember the way George used to eat sprinkles straight from the jar.

We weren't one of those couples who posted anniversary posts or had a shared Spotify playlist - we kept it quiet, happy living in our blissful moments. It was slower. The kind of thing that grows between late night train rides and shared Tesco snacks, where love doesn't announce itself so much as it simply stays.

George was still figuring things out when we met. He filmed little skits on TikTok - low-effort but effortlessly funny. His face was stating to show up of people's for you pages. A couple thousands likes here and there - a "wait, aren't you that guy with the sound in the garage?" in a coffee shop once or twice.

He would brush it off with a laugh, but I could see it - the hope curling at the edges of his smile. Like maybe, just maybe, this thing he loved could actually become something.

And I wanted that for him. So badly.

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We met at a bus stop in Clapham, standing under one of those flickering streetlights. I was holding a cake box for my cousins 21st birthday. He asked if it was from that bakery around the corner. I told him no - I'd made it myself.

He looked impressed, "like, properly made it?"

I nodded my head, "from scratch, as well." I proudly showed off my cake, allowing for George to look through the clear top lid.

That had made him give me an amazed "well you must be a wizard then."

"Only during the school term."

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We didn't rush into anything. It started with the exchange of phone numbers, and casual messages - like stupid memes and late-night facetimes. Then it became weekends together. Then it became toothbrushes kept at each other's place. Then it just...was.

I would bake my cakes for friends and family while he filmed. When his laptop battery dies, he would crash on my sofa. I would glance up from icing cupcakes and find him watching me - not in the intense way but it was soft...thoughtful. Like, he was learning so much about me in that very moment.

"People would love watching this," he said once, phone in hand. "You piping those little waves and rose things, or you explaining nerdy baking stuff - it's great content."

I laughed at the idea, "baking isn't content, it's a way for me to think - a calm space.

He didn't ague. Just nodded and went back to filming himself for a TikTok video.

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His follower count began to rise. Nothing wild - but just enough to start getting messages from small brands wanting free promo in exchange for a product. He made jokes about "when I hit 10k" but I saw it - the way he checked his notifications a little more often, the way his sketches got sharper, more edited, more curated.

I supported it. Of course I did. He was chasing something, and I knew what that felt like.

But somewhere along the way, our rhythms started to clash.

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He started getting invited to small creator meetups - nothing big, just a group of content creators going to a pub night together and doing group collabs. I usually stayed behind. Not because I wasn't invited - nut because I didn't know how to fit in there. I kept to my quiet kitchens and the sound of my kitchen aid humming, not ring lights and clickbait thumbnails.

"You should come next time," he said one night, grabbing his coat. "They'd love you - especially when you talk about cake stuff. And they've been dying to meet you."

I smiled faintly, "maybe."

He didn't push it.

And that was part of the problem - we stopped pushing. We both stopped asking and started assuming.

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One night, I brought up the bakery idea. Not a big place, just a small shop with pale pink tiles and a coffee machine. I'd been daydreaming it for years - but this time was different, I had actually meant it.

George was editing something on his laptop - he didn't even look up.

"I mean... that's a cute idea," he said, his focus still on the screen as he typed away. "But rent is brutal right now, yeah? You'd probably do better selling stuff online. Build a brand first. Like... be a bakery girl on TikTok or something." He said with a shrug.

It wasn't mean. He wasn't trying to crush anything. He just didn't see it the way I did.

And something about the word cute stuck like icing sugar in my throat.

It hurt.

I didn't say much after that. Just nodded and went back to folding cupcake boxes, humming a tune to myself to mask the sadness.

He didn't notice I stopped letting him taste-test new recipes. Or that I didn't ask him to film with me when I tried making a time-lapse of me baking to show my grandma.

We were still... fine. Still cuddling up in bed, still trading jokes, still doing all normal things.

But something was... cooling.

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The night we ended it - us. It wasn't dramatic. There was no raised voices. Just a quiet sense of something soft slipping through our fingers.

He was editing again - something about a collab with his new mates.

I was boxing up a batch of lemon curd cupcakes, too tired to pretend I wasn't hurting - hurting in my own home.

"You called my dream a 'cute idea'," I said finally, barely a whisper.

George blinked, looked up as if he hadn't heard right. "Wait-what?'

"My bakery. You said it was cute. Like a trend. A phase."

"I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "I was just being realistic."

"I know." I swallowed, "but that's the thing. You're chasing yours like it's already real...and you made mine sound like something I'd grow out of - like a child's dream."

There was a long pause. Then -

"I didn't mean to make you feel small."

"I know," I said again. "But you still did."

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We didn't say let's break up. It just happened.

He stayed the night. We held each other like people who weren't ready to let go yet, but already knew we had to.

He left the next morning with a quiet, "see you around," and the ghost of a kiss on my forehead.

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After that, life moved on.

I worked. I baked. I mourned. I stopped checking his page after a while. He kept growing - slowly, steadily. His face popped up on my feed sometimes, smiling over beers or filming chaotic videos with friends I never knew.

He looked happy.

I tried to be.

But sometimes, I'd catch myself icing a cake and wondering if he ever thought of me - of us.

Sometimes I'd see a jar of sprinkles and think about how he used to eat them, by the handful, from the jar.

And that was it.

Not a disaster. Not a betrayal.

Just a quiet goodbye between two people who wanted different things at the same time - and couldn't find the right way to say it out loud.

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hi all!

I hope you enjoyed the first part for my second series, and are excited to see what comes next!!

See you next time,

mwah x

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taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @swiftlyjo

[clarkeyzzz]

Ok so I need help I’m trying to write the next chapter of my Wattpad fanfic and I need songs that are emotional and have an underlying meaning of falling in love without it being to obvious if that makes sense like a song that has that desperation and conflicted feeling with out blatantly saying she’s in love

If anyone could help that be great as I haven’t been able to find what I’m looking for. Looking for a song with like a Taylor swift vibe or like Gracie Abrams

[clarkeyzzz]

welcome back my darling 💖💫💘

🥹🥰🤍🤍

[clarkeyzzz]

the queen is back 🫶🏼

I wouldn’t go that far 😂😂

I do have a could more things just sitting in the drafts tho so maybe 🤔👀

[ana-hyperfixates-on-tgcf]

I recently told an ao3 writer that I keep going back to their 260k word unfinished slowburn checking for updates for the last 2 years. They said I'm like that puppy that waits for his dead owner at the train station every day.

That's the realest thing anyone's told me online, I ain't even mad.

[clarkeyzzz]

hii! please could i request something with george based on the song grow as we go by ben platt? i think it's such a beautiful song for getting through a rough patch in a relationship and i love your writing so wanted to see what you could do with it 🥹

The Road That We Take

george clarkey x fem!reader

summary: if to change is what you need, you can change right next to me. based on go as we grow by ben platt.

warning: anxious thoughts, feelings of guilt, feeling disconnected

note: sorry for not posting anything for a while, I just haven't felt my writing was at a good enough point to post so I just kept re-editing and re-editing till I finally just took a long break and finally just decided to posted it or I would've just stared at it for ages. let me know what you think cause I felt I didn’t do this justice.

1.9k words

Masterlist

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The apartment felt different.

Not empty, not tense—just different. The kind of shift in the air you notice when something is slipping between your fingers, and you don’t know how to stop it.

No music playing from George’s speaker, no hum of his voice filling the space between conversations, no rustling of him moving from room to room. Just the rhythmic tap of your fingers against your mug, your tea long gone cold.

George sat across from you at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around his own mug, the steam curling into the space between you. He wasn’t drinking it, just staring into the rippling liquid like it held some kind of answer.

It had been weeks of this—of quiet pauses, of words almost spoken but left unsaid, of something unspoken stretching between you like an ocean neither of you knew how to cross.

But tonight, he finally said it.

The words still hung in the air between you.

"I think I need some space."

You should have seen it coming.

Maybe you did.

Maybe you just didn’t want to believe it.

A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have seen it coming. You and George had always felt effortless—the kind of love that didn’t need to be questioned. You knew the cadence of each other’s laughter, the exact way his breath would hitch before he said something soft, the way his fingers always sought yours, even in sleep.

But lately, things had changed.

Small misunderstandings turned into long silences. Late nights spent together felt like walking on eggshells instead of comfort. And now, he was saying he needed to step back.

You gripped the ceramic of your mug a little tighter, feeling the warmth of the tea just barely seeping into your fingers. It was something to hold onto when you felt like everything else was slipping away.

"Space?" you echoed, voice quieter than you intended.

George sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked exhausted—not just physically, but in that deep, weary way that made your chest ache.

"I don’t know," he admitted, shaking his head. "I feel... lost. Like I don’t know who I am right now."

You swallowed hard. You’d known him for years—knew the way he tilted his head when he was holding something back, the way his fingers tapped on the table when his thoughts were racing faster than he could voice them.

"I don’t know what’s wrong,"

George let out a quiet, bitter laugh, staring into his untouched tea. "Last week, I was filming with the boys, and Chris cracked some joke about me being predictable." He shook his head. "It was dumb, but it stuck with me. I used to know exactly who I was—what I wanted. And now, I just… don’t." 

"So, what?" you asked quietly, the ache in your chest threatening to spread. "You need to go figure yourself out... alone?"

George exhaled, frustrated—not with you, but with himself. "I don’t know," he said again. "Maybe."

You looked at him for a long moment, at the boy you knew so well and the uncertainty in his eyes that you didn’t recognize.

It would be easier to let the hurt take over, to let defensiveness build a wall between you.

But instead, you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, until you found your voice.

"George," you said softly, reaching across the table to brush your fingers against his. He didn't pull away, but you felt the slight tremor in his hand. "I understand needing space. I do. But... do you really think you have to be alone to figure things out?"

His eyes met yours, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. You could see the conflict there, the pain, the uncertainty. It made your heart ache.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just feel like I'm drowning, like I can't breathe. And I don't want to drag you down with me."

Your hand grabbed his, lacing your fingers together and giving a gentle squeeze. He didn't pull away, and you took that as a small victory.

"But what if I want to be there?" you asked, your voice gaining strength. "What if I want to be the one to help you stay afloat?"

George's brow furrowed, his eyes searching yours. "How can you help me when I don't even know what I need?"

You smiled softly, remembering all the times you'd weathered storms together. "We've always figured things out together, haven't we? Why should this be any different?"

George's eyes softened as he considered your words. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as he looked at you, a glimmer of the boy you fell in love with shining through. A flicker of hope.

"I just..." he began, his voice wavering, running his other hand through his hair. "I feel like I'm changing, and I don't know who I'm becoming. What if you don't like who I turn into?"

You squeezed his hand gently. "George, I fell in love with you, not some fixed version of you. People change. We grow. That's part of life."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise," you teased, feeling the heaviness in the room lighten just a fraction. "You just haven't been paying attention."

He chuckled softly, and the sound warmed you from the inside out. It had been too long since you'd heard that laugh.

"I'm serious, though," you continued, your thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "We don't have to have everything figured out right now. We can learn together, grow together."

George was quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on your intertwined hands. When he looked up, there was a vulnerability in his gaze that made your heart ache.

"I'm scared," he admitted quietly. "What if I mess everything up?"

"I'm scared too," you admitted softly. "But I think... I think that's okay. We don't have to have it all figured out right now."

You stood up, never letting go of his hand, and moved around the table to his side. Settling into his lap, you looked up into his eyes, squeezing his hand again—anchoring him, grounding him.

 "George, we've been through so much together. Remember when we first moved in and the pipes burst? Or when we both got food poisoning from that sketchy food truck? We got through those things together. This is just another challenge."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Those were simpler problems though."

"Maybe," you conceded. "But the principle is the same. We're a team, George. Whatever you're going through, whatever you need to figure out - I want to be by your side."

Looking up into his eyes, you continued, "I know things feel uncertain right now. But I believe in us. In you. We can grow through this together."

George's eyes glistened with unshed tears. He reached up, cupping your cheek in his palm. "I don't deserve you," he whispered.

You leaned into his touch. "You don't have to deserve me. You just have to want me here. Do you?"

He nodded, a tear finally escaping down his cheek. "I do. God, I do."

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against George's. The warmth of his skin against yours felt like coming home after a long journey. For a moment, you both just breathed together, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm.

"I don't want to leave," George whispered, his breath ghosting across your cheek. "I just... I feel like I'm changing, and I don't know how to navigate it."

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. "Then we'll figure it out together. Change doesn't have to mean walking away, George. It can mean growing, together."

His eyes searched yours, a glimmer of hope shining through the uncertainty. "How?"

George's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer. "How do we do this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do we grow without growing apart?"

You stood up, holding out your hand to him. "Come with me."

Curious, George took your hand, allowing you to lead him to the living room. You went to the bookshelf, pulling out a photo album you hadn't looked at in ages. Sitting on the couch, you patted the spot next to you.

As George settled beside you, you opened the album. The first page held a picture of the two of you from your early days - naive, carefree, and undeniably in love.

"Look at us," you said softly, tracing the edge of the photo. "We've already changed so much since then. But we did it together."

You flipped through the pages, memories flooding back with each image. There you were at your first apartment, surrounded by moving boxes and takeout containers. You flipped through more pages of the photo album, memories flooding back. There was a picture from your first camping trip together, both of you laughing despite being covered in mud after a rainstorm. Another showed you two at a New Year's party, your arms around each other as fireworks exploded in the background.

"Remember this?" you asked, indicating a photo of you both covered in paint. "When we decided to redecorate the bedroom ourselves?"

George chuckled softly. "How could I forget? We argued for hours about the color."

"But we compromised," you reminded him. "And it turned out better than either of us imagined."

You continued through the album, reliving milestones and quiet moments alike. With each page, you felt George relaxing beside you, his body leaning into yours.

"We've been through so much together," you said softly. "All these changes, all this growth. We did it side by side."

George's hand found yours, intertwining your fingers. "I guess we have, haven't we?"

You nodded, closing the album and turning to face him. "Change is scary, George. But it doesn't have to mean the end of us. Change doesn't have to mean losing yourself or us. It can mean discovering new parts of yourself, new aspects of our relationship. We can face it together, just like we always have."

His eyes met yours, vulnerability, fear, and hope mingling in their depths. "I want that," he whispered. "I want to grow with you."

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. "We take it one day at a time," you said. "We talk, we listen, we try to understand each other. And we remember that change doesn't have to mean leaving."

A small smile tugged at George's lips. "You make it sound so simple."

"Oh, it won't be," you laughed softly. "But I think it'll be worth it."

As you sat there, wrapped in each other's arms, the photo album resting on your lap. You felt something shift in the air around you. The apartment still felt different, but not in the same way as before. Now, there was a spark of hope, a sense of possibility.

You knew there would be challenges ahead. There would be days when the distance between you felt insurmountable, when the changes in George and yourself seemed too much to bear. But there would also be moments of profound connection, rediscovery, and love.

The future was uncertain, the road ahead uneven, but you were committed to walking it together.

[clarkeyzzz]

take all the time you need 🩷🩷🩷

🥹🥹🤍🤍

[clarkeyzzz]

hi lovely! just wanted to say i hope you're okay, i noticed you haven't posted a lot recently so just wanted to send some positivity in case you needed it

Awww thank you! I’m okay I’ve just been super busy and just not liking my writing lately. I have so many drafts saved of requests they just don’t feel good enough rn to post so I am working on stuff, I promise. Once I edit them and give them a little bit more work I should get back on track. Just hit a bit of a writing wall. Thank you though for the kind words! I will try to have some stuff out soon!🤍

[clarkeyzzz]

Hellooooooo I was wondering if you can write a George fan fic about the song wildest dreams by Taylor swift I also really love your writing keep up the great work

Holding Onto Smoke

george clarkey x fem!reader

summary: say you'll see me again even if it's just in your wildest dreams. based on the song wildest dreams by taylor swift

warnings: no major content warnings

1.6k words

Masterlist

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The first time you met George Clarkey, the city lights were too bright, and the air hummed with late-night possibilities.

It was a rooftop party, the kind that smelled like cheap champagne and cigarettes, where laughter echoed between high-rises, and strangers became stories you’d tell years from now. You weren’t supposed to be there. Neither was he.

He found you leaning against the railing, watching the city sprawl below like you were trying to memorize it.

“You look like you’ve got a secret,” he said, his voice a low tease.

You turned to find him watching you, the skyline casting a glow across his face, messy curls brushing against his forehead. His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. 

“Maybe I do.”

He grinned. “Want to tell me?”

You should have walked away then. Should have never let him take your hand, never let him lead you into the kind of love that leaves bruises on your heart. But you didn’t.

For weeks, it was stolen moments and promises that never felt real. He’d show up at your apartment late at night, breathless, like he had been running just to see you. You’d press your fingers against his pulse, feeling the way it raced beneath your touch, and wonder if he knew you were already falling.

George became your wildest dream come true, a whirlwind romance that swept you off your feet. Late-night drives through the city, his hand resting on your thigh as streetlights blurred past. Stolen kisses in hidden corners of bookshops, the scent of old pages mingling with his cologne. Lazy Sunday mornings tangled in sheets, sunlight painting patterns across his freckled shoulders as you traced constellations on his skin.

You fell hard and fast, drunk on the dizzy rush of new love. George's eyes lit up when he looked at you, like you were the most fascinating person he'd ever met. His laugh was infectious, head thrown back with abandon. You found yourself doing things you never imagined - singing karaoke in dive bars, skinny dipping under a full moon, dancing in the rain on empty streets, whispering secrets into the crook of his neck. 

"What are you thinking?" he'd ask, catching you staring.

"That I want to remember this forever," you'd reply. He'd pull you close, kissing you slow and deep, like he was trying to etch the memory into your skin. You'd run your fingers through his hair, marvelling at how someone so vibrant could be real.

But even as you fell deeper, a nagging voice whispered that this couldn't last. George was like a shooting star - brilliant, beautiful, and destined to burn out.

You saw it in the way his eyes sometimes drifted to the horizon, searching for something just out of reach. In the restless tapping of his fingers against your skin, a morse code of unspoken goodbyes. In the way he smiled when you talked about the future soft, bittersweet, like he already knew how the story would end.

“This doesn’t feel real,” you admitted one night, curled up in the dim glow of your bedroom, his hoodie swallowing your frame.

George’s fingers skimmed over your wrist, thoughtful, lingering. "Maybe that’s the point, maybe it's real enough for now."

You didn’t answer. You just pressed your forehead against his chest, eyes squeezed shut, hoping that if you held on tight enough, the world would forget to take him away.

But you both knew better.

He wasn’t yours to keep.

You tried not to think about it—about the way time was slipping through your fingers. But every touch felt like a goodbye, every kiss tasted like a memory.

And still, you stayed.

Because some people are worth breaking for.

The week before he left, you stood together on that same rooftop where you first met. The city stretched out before you, a glittering tapestry of lights and promises. You wore that red dress he loved, the one that made you feel invincible. His arm was around your waist, warm and steady, anchoring you to the moment.

"I wish we could freeze time," you whispered, your voice catching. "Just stay here forever."

George's fingers tightened on your hip. "We'll always have this," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. "No matter what happens, no one can take these memories from us."

You turned to face him, memorizing every detail - the curve of his jaw,  his clear blue eyes, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. Your heart ached with the weight of everything unsaid.

"Promise me something," you said, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. "Promise you'll remember me like this. Standing here, in this dress, watching the sunset with you. Remember how much I love you, even when I'm just a distant memory."

George's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. He cupped your face in his hands, his touch infinitely gentle. "I could never forget you," he whispered fiercely. "You're etched into my soul. Even if we never see each other again, you'll always be with me. In my thoughts, in my dreams."

You kissed him then, pouring every ounce of love and longing into that embrace. The city faded away, leaving only the two of you suspended in time. When you finally broke apart, both breathless, you rested your forehead against his.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant hum of traffic below. "I'll always love you."

George's arms tightened around you as if to shield you from the truth. ”I—” His throat bobbed. He stopped, swallowing hard, the words trapped behind his teeth. 

And that—

That was worse than if he had said nothing at all.

George's silence hung heavy between you, filled with everything left unsaid. You could feel his heartbeat, rapid and uneven, echoing your own. The city stretched out before you, a glittering constellation of lights and possibilities, now tinged with the bittersweet ache of farewell.

You pulled back slightly, searching his face. His eyes were dark pools of emotion, reflecting the fading sunlight and the weight of your shared memories. Still, you clung to every moment. You memorized the curve of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the way he said your name like a prayer. You traced the curve of his cheek with trembling fingers, committing every detail to memory.

The last time you saw him, the city smelled like rain.

The neon signs flickered in the puddles at your feet, the world a blur of color and noise. His suitcase sat by his side, damp with drizzle, the taxi idling at the curb.

You wanted to tell him not to go. Wanted to scream, to beg, to tell him that you had memorized everything—his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world.

But you didn’t. Because you knew better.

Instead, you reached for him one last time, your fingertips brushing against the stubble on his jaw, rough against your skin, before tangling in his curls. You needed to remember how he felt. Every last detail before he became nothing more than a memory you could never quite hold onto. He kissed you like he was trying to burn the memory into his bones, like maybe if he kissed you hard enough, you’d still be there when he turned around.

The silence stretched between you, his breathe hitched, and for the first time you saw it, his lips parting his throat bobbing, the smallest tramble in his fingers as he reached for you. His arms wrapping around you. You tightened your grip, but it felt like holding onto smoke, weightless. No matter how hard you tried, he had already slipped through your fingers vanishing before you ever had the chance to keep it. The city lights cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look like someone you once knew. The lights blurred as tears filled your eyes.

"I should go," George murmured, his voice rough with emotion. But he made no move to leave, his fingers tracing patterns on your back as if trying to memorize the feeling.

You nodded against his chest, unable to form words past the lump in your throat. The night air felt suddenly cold, and you shivered, pressing closer to his warmth.

"Just... a few more minutes," you whispered.

George tightened his embrace, resting his chin on top of your head. You breathed in his familiar scent - sandalwood and coffee and something uniquely him - committing it to memory.

The city hummed around you, oblivious to your private heartbreak. A siren wailed in the distance, and a gust of wind ruffled your hair. You thought about all the moments that had led to this one - the late-night conversations, the shared dreams, the quiet intimacy of simply existing in the same space.

“I’ll see you around?” His voice was hoarse, like he didn’t believe it either.

You swallowed down the ache, the words cutting your throat like glass. “In your wildest dreams.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

Just like he was always meant to be.

The city swallowed you whole, and you let it.

And in the quiet of your room that night, as you pressed your face into the pillow that still smelled like him, you whispered a prayer to the universe.

You hoped he remembered you.

You prayed that, even years from now, when he closed his eyes, he’d still see you—standing beneath the city lights, red dress glowing, lips parted, whispering I love you. 

Always. 

Only In his wildest dreams.

[clarkeyzzz]

out of curiosity is it only george + the arthurs you'll write about? i had a request in mind for chrismd but wanted to see if you're open to writing about him or not <3

I primarily write for those 3 but I’m always open for requests for anyone!

[clarkeyzzz]

ik i already commented on it but your recent fic was sooo good. as someone who has diagnosed ptsd, the way you wrote y/n reaction is pretty good!

keep up the wonderful work! 😗

Thank you! I didn’t want to come off as insensitive. I’ve had my fair share of panic attacks and I have experienced being in an abusive environment. However I’ve personally have never been in an abusive relationship. So I wanted to make sure everything was as accurate and as realistic as I could possibly write. Especially as ptsd is a very big spectrum and everyone experiences it differently.

It means a lot to know I didn’t completely bomb this story as I was really nervous to post it.

[chamthepeng]

In my humble opinion

[clarkeyzzz]

just wanted to drop in and say i adore your writing so much 🩷

That’s so sweet! 🥹 I’m always so nervous when publishing a new one shot so happy to know you like it. Also critiques, are welcome I’d love to know how to improve! Comments like these honestly make my day! 🤍🤍

[clarkeyzzz]

could you do one where the reader and george have an argument and she goes non verbal bcs of past trauma?

Bruises, Silence, and Bandages

george clarke x fem!reader

summary: a tense argument with george pulls you into the shadows of your past, but his patience and love remind you that healing doesn’t have to be done alone

warnings: Domestic Abuse, PTSD, Verbal Abuse, Physical Abuse, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Self-Worth Issues 

note: Hey everyone, I just want to say that I truly apologize if this chapter made anyone uncomfortable. I wrote this with the knowlegde of an outsider, someone who has seen the effects of abusive relationships and the struggles of healing after them. I’ve done my best to approach these themes with sensitivity and respect, but I understand that everyone’s experiences are different. If anything in this story resonates with you, please know that you are not alone, and I hope you have the support and love you deserve. Thank you for reading, and please take care of yourselves. My mesages are always open 🤍

6.8k words

Masterlist

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The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across your shared apartment. You stood in the kitchen, hands trembling as you gripped the edge of the countertop. George paced back and forth in the living room, his usually cheerful face contorted with frustration.

"I just don't understand why you won't talk to me about this!" he exclaimed, running a hand through his tousled hair. "We're supposed to be partners. How can we fix things if you won't even tell me what's wrong?"

You wanted to respond, to explain the tangled knot of emotions constricting your chest, but the words wouldn't come. It was as if an invisible hand had reached down your throat and stolen your voice. Your heart raced, and you felt the familiar panic rising.

George's voice grew louder, his accent thickening with emotion. "Is it something I did? Something I said in a video? For God's sake, just say something!"

The room began to spin, memories of past arguments crashing over you like waves. Your chest tightened as George's voice echoed through the apartment, his words blurring into distorted sounds. The room tilted, and you gripped the counter harder, your knuckles turning white. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm you.

Suddenly, you were back in that cramped, dimly lit apartment from years ago. The air was thick with the acrid smell of stale cigarettes and cheap beer. His voice—not George's, but his—rang in your ears, each word laced with venom. "You stupid bitch! Answer me when I'm talking to you!"

The sting of his palm against your cheek, the crash of a bottle shattering against the wall—it all felt so real, so present. You could almost feel the phantom ache of bruises long faded. You could feel yourself shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller until you were nothing but a speck of dust, desperate to be overlooked.

Back in the present, George's frustrated sighs pierced through the fog of your memories. "I don't understand," he muttered, his accent thicker than ever. "We were fine yesterday. What changed?"

You wanted to tell him, to explain that it wasn't his fault, that the raised voices and tense atmosphere had triggered something deep within you. But your throat constricted, and your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. The words were there, trapped behind a wall of fear and shame.

George's frustrated voice faded into the background as you sank deeper into the flashback. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps. The kitchen tiles beneath your feet seemed to tilt and sway.

"Are you even listening to me?" George demanded, his voice closer now. You flinched instinctively as he entered the kitchen, your body tensing for a blow that wouldn't come.

George's footsteps halted abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing. Slowly, you opened your eyes, blinking away the haze of memory. George stood frozen, his expression shifting from anger to concern as he took in your hunched posture and pale face.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice gentler now. "What's happening? Are you alright?"

You tried to nod, to reassure him, but your body wouldn't cooperate. Instead, you slid down to the floor, your back pressed against the cool cabinet doors. George hesitated for a moment before carefully lowering himself to sit beside you, leaving a respectful distance between you.

The familiar scent of his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and citrus—helped ground you in the present. You focused on it, using it as an anchor to pull yourself away from the memories threatening to drag you under.

"I'm sorry," George whispered, his accent softening the words. "I didn't mean to shout. I just... I worry about you, you know? When you go quiet like this, I feel so helpless."

You wanted to reach out, to squeeze his hand and tell him it wasn't his fault. But your body remained frozen, trapped between past and present. In your mind, you could still hear the other voice—his voice—berating you, mocking your silence, twisting it into another reason to lash out.

"You're pathetic," the voice in your head sneered, an echo of your ex-boyfriend's cruel words. "Can't even speak up for yourself. No wonder he hates you."

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts. But they persisted, a poisonous whisper in the back of your mind.

George shifted beside you, the fabric of his hoodie rustling softly. "I'm here," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever's going on, whatever you're feeling, I'm here."

His words, so gentle and understanding, were a stark contrast to the memories swirling in your mind. You remembered the constant walking on eggshells, the way your ex would fly into a rage at the slightest provocation. The way he'd grab your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, whenever you tried to leave during an argument.

You could almost feel the pain of those bruises now, your skin prickling with the memory of his touch. Your breath hitched, and you curled in on yourself, making your body as small as possible.

In your mind's eye, you saw yourself cowering in the corner of that dingy apartment, arms raised to protect your face from the blows you knew were coming. The smell of cheap vodka and sweat filled your nostrils, making your stomach churn. You could almost feel the cold, hard floor beneath you as you curled into yourself, trying to become as small as possible.

The memories shifted, and suddenly you were reliving the night you finally escaped. The adrenaline coursing through your veins as you hastily shoved clothes into a bag, the heart-stopping fear when you heard his key in the lock, the burning in your lungs as you ran down the street, not daring to look back.

In the present, George's warm hand gently touched your shoulder, causing you to flinch violently. "Love, you're scaring me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

You couldn't respond. Your mind was trapped in a loop of painful memories, each one more vivid than the last. The sound of shattering glass echoed in your ears, mingling with the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. You remembered the feeling of rough hands gripping your arms, shaking you violently as angry words were spat in your face.

George noticed your constant flinching every time he he spoke. His brow furrowing with concern. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm blanket. "I would never hurt you. You're safe here, I promise."

A part of you wanted to believe him, to trust in the sincerity of his words. But another part, the part still trapped in the past doubted every word.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's okay. You're safe here."

His words, so gentle and reassuring, stood in stark contrast to the memories swirling in your mind. You remembered the constant walking on eggshells, the way your stomach would churn with anxiety every time you heard keys in the lock. The other man—your ex—had been unpredictable, his moods shifting like quicksand beneath your feet.

There were good days, of course. Days when his smile was genuine, his touch tender. But those moments were fleeting, always overshadowed by the looming threat of his temper. You recalled the first time he'd struck you—a slap that left your ears ringing and your cheek stinging. He'd apologized profusely, showering you with gifts and promises to never do it again. You'd believed him, desperate to cling to the man you thought you loved.

But the violence escalated. Slaps turned to punches, shoves became throws. Your body became a canvas of bruises and cuts, each one carefully hidden beneath long sleeves and thick makeup. The physical pain was excruciating, but it paled in comparison to the emotional torment. His words cut deeper than any blow, chipping away at your self-worth until you felt hollow inside.

The night it all came to a head. He caught you in the middle of packing your bags. He had obviously been drinking heavily, his words slurring as he hurled insults at you. The bottle of whiskey in his hand glinted menacingly in the dim light of the apartment. You'd tried to leave, to escape the suffocating atmosphere, but he blocked your path.

"Where do you think you're going?" he'd snarled, his breath hot on your face. "You're nothing without me. No one else would ever want you."

The memory of his fingers digging into your arms made your skin crawl. You could almost feel the sting of glass shards as the whiskey bottle shattered against the wall, inches from your head. The fear had been paralyzing, rooting you to the spot as he towered over you, fist raised.

In that moment, something inside you had snapped. With strength born of desperation, you'd shoved him aside as hard as you physically could and ran. You remembered the burn in your lungs as you sprinted down the street, the icy rain soaking through your thin t-shirt. You'd left most of you things behind—clothes, possessions, your entire life—but you were finally free.

The months that followed were a blur of cheap motels and sleepless nights. Every shadow made you flinch, every loud noise sent your heart racing. You'd changed your number, your email, even your appearance, desperate to erase every trace of your past life.

Slowly, painfully, you'd begun to rebuild. A new job, a tiny studio apartment, a handful of cautious friendships. But the scars remained, both physical and emotional. You jumped at sudden noises, flinched away from physical contact, and struggled to trust anyone who showed interest in you.

Then George had entered your life like a whirlwind of laughter and warmth. His YouTube videos had been a source of comfort during your darkest days, his goofy smile and infectious laugh a balm for your wounded soul. Meeting him in person had been surreal, like a dream come to life.

At first, you'd been guarded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But George had been patient, his kindness unwavering. He never pushed, never demanded more than you were ready to give. Slowly, you'd let your walls down, allowing yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved happiness.

Now, sitting on the cold kitchen floor with George beside you, you felt those walls threatening to rebuild themselves. The argument had triggered something deep within you, unleashing a flood of memories you'd tried so hard to suppress.

"Love," George's voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, soft and hesitant. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Can you look at me?"

You wanted to, to reassure him that this wasn't his fault. But your eyes remained trapped, held hostage by the ghosts of your past.

"Love," George's voice broke through the fog of your thoughts. "I can see you're struggling. Can I hold your hand?"

You wanted to say yes, to reach out and anchor yourself in his warmth, but your body remained frozen. Instead, you managed a small nod, the movement barely perceptible.

George slowly extended his hand, palm up, leaving it within your reach but not touching you. "Whenever you're ready," he murmured. "No rush."

His patience was a stark contrast to your ex's demanding nature. You remembered how he would grab you, forcing physical contact even when you shrank away. George's respect for your boundaries was both comforting and overwhelming.

You stared at George's outstretched hand, your vision blurring with unshed tears. The gentle invitation in his gesture was almost too much to bear. You wanted desperately to reach out, to feel the warmth of his skin against yours, but fear held you back.

Slowly, trembling, you extended your own hand. Your fingers hovered just above his palm, not quite touching. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in your bones.

George remained perfectly still, his breathing slow and measured. "Take your time," he whispered, his accent wrapping around the words like a soft blanket. "I'm not going anywhere."

The kindness in his voice made your chest ache. You remembered a time when gentle words were rare, when every interaction was laced with tension and fear. Your ex had wielded words like weapons, each syllable designed to cut and wound.

You recalled the way he would twist your silence against you, using it as justification for his anger. "Why won't you answer me?" he would snarl, his face contorted with rage. "Are you stupid? Can't you even speak?"

The memory made your throat constrict, choking off any words that might have formed. You curled your fingers into a fist, pulling your hand back towards your chest.

George's expression softened with understanding. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to if you're not ready."

With trembling fingers, you reached out, barely brushing George's palm. His hand remained perfectly still, allowing you to dictate the level of contact. Slowly, you pressed your palm against his, feeling the warmth of his skin seep into yours.

George's thumb gently stroked the back of your hand, the gesture soothing and grounding. "That's it," he whispered encouragingly. "You're doing great, love."

The gentle praise washed over you, chasing away some of the darkness clouding your mind. You focused on the sensation of George's hand in yours, using it as an anchor to pull yourself back to the present.

"I'm going to tell you five things I can see," George said softly, his voice steady and calm. "Is that okay?"

You managed another small nod, grateful for his attempt to ground you.

"Alright," he began. "I can see the sunlight filtering through the curtains, making patterns on the floor. I can see the little cactus on the windowsill that you bought last week. I can see the framed photo of us at the beach on the fridge. I can see the stack of cookbooks on the counter that we never use. And I can see you, love, right here with me."

As George spoke, you felt your breathing begin to slow, matching the rhythm of his words. The vivid flashbacks began to fade, replaced by the reality of your shared kitchen.

His last words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt a flicker of warmth in your chest, a tiny spark pushing back against the darkness that had consumed you.

"Can you tell me four things you can feel?" George asked gently.

You took a shaky breath, focusing on the physical sensations around you. Your voice was barely audible as you whispered, "Your hand. The cold floor. My... my heartbeat. The cabinet against my back."

George's smile was soft and encouraging. "That's brilliant, love. You're doing so well. How about three things you can hear?"

You closed your eyes, concentrating. "The clock ticking. A car outside. Your breathing."

"Perfect," George murmured. "Two things you can smell?"

"Your cologne," you said, the familiar scent bringing a sense of comfort. "And... coffee from earlier."

George's thumb continued its soothing motion across your hand. "Last one. Can you tell me one thing you can taste?"

You ran your tongue over your dry lips. "Salt," you whispered, realizing there were tears on your cheeks.

"There you go love," George said softly. "You're here, in our kitchen. You're safe."

The grounding exercise had helped pull you further from the grip of your memories. The kitchen came into sharper focus - the pale yellow walls you and George had painted together, laughing as you got more paint on each other than the walls. The mismatched chairs at the dinning table and the various pictures around the room.

George's smile was warm and encouraging. "That's brilliant, love. You're doing so well."

The praise washed over you like a soothing balm, easing some of the tension from your shoulders. You focused on your breathing, trying to match the slow, steady rhythm George had established.

"I'm sorry," you managed to whisper, your voice hoarse and unsteady. "I didn't mean to... to shut down like that."

George shook his head gently. "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who should be sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice like that."

You wanted to explain, to tell him about the memories that had overwhelmed you, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you tightened your grip on his hand trying to get rid of the pins and needles from your fingertips.

George's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand, his touch feather-light and comforting. "You don't have to explain anything right now," he murmured. "But whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here to listen."

His words, so full of patience and understanding, made your chest ache. You almost couldn’t believe that there was a time when silence was met with anger, when every moment of hesitation was twisted into an excuse for violence. Your ex had never been able to handle your non-verbal episodes, viewing them as a personal affront rather than a symptom of your trauma.

You could still hear his voice, harsh and mocking, echoing in your mind. "What's wrong with you? Can't even string a sentence together? Pathetic."

The memory made you flinch, your body tensing involuntarily. George noticed immediately, his brow furrowing with concern. "It's okay," he soothed. "You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you."

You wanted to believe him, to trust in the sincerity of his words. But years of conditioning had left their mark, making it difficult to separate past from present. In your mind's eye, you could see your ex looming over you, his face contorted with rage. You remembered the sickening crack of his fist connecting with your jaw, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.

The phantom pain made you wince, your free hand instinctively moving to touch your face. George watched the movement,his eyes widening with a mix of realization and horror. "Oh, love," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Did someone... did someone hurt you?"

You couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, shame and fear warring within you. What if George saw you differently once he knew? What if he decided you were too broken, too damaged to love? Your silence was answer enough.

George's grip on your hand tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground you in the present. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, his accent thickening with emotion. "I had no idea. I never meant to... God, I'm such an idiot."

His self-recrimination made you want to protest, to assure him that it wasn't his fault. But the words were stuck, your throat constricting around everything you want to tell him.

As if sensing your inner turmoil, George spoke again, his voice soft and reassuring. "You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with. But I want you to know that whatever happened, it wasn't your fault. And it doesn't change how I feel about you."

His words pierced through the fog of your anxiety, touching something deep within you. You felt the tears now slipping down your cheeks, then another, until you were crying silently, your body shaking with the force of your sobs.

"Can I..." George hesitated, his voice uncertain. "Would it be okay if I hugged you?"

The question caught you off guard. Your ex had never asked for permission, taking what he wanted without regard for your feelings. George's consideration brought a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

Slowly, you nodded, uncurling yourself from the tight ball you'd formed. George moved carefully, telegraphing his movements as he shifted closer. He wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in warmth and the comforting scent of his cologne.

For a moment, you tensed, your body remembering a time when embraces led to pain. But George's touch remained gentle, his arms loose enough that you could easily break free if you needed to.

"I've got you," he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. "You're safe. I promise."

Gradually, you allowed yourself to relax into his embrace, your tears soaking into the soft fabric of his hoodie. George held you patiently, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back while the other cradled your head against his chest. You could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, its rhythm grounding you in the present.

As your sobs subsided, replaced by quiet sniffles, George began to hum softly. It was a familiar tune, one you recognized from his videos - a silly little jingle he'd made up for a brand deal. The gentle vibrations of his chest as he hummed sent a wave of comfort through you, chasing away the last tendrils of your panic.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."

George's arms tightened around you fractionally. "You have nothing to apologize for," he said firmly. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I never meant to trigger you like that."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at his face. George's eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks damp with tears of his own. The sight made your heart ache. You'd never meant to cause him pain.

"It's not your fault," you managed to say, your voice hoarse from crying. "You didn't know."

Slowly, you allowed yourself to relax against him, burying your face in the soft fabric of his hoodie.

George took a hesitant breathe, his hands rubbing your back. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to tell me about it. Just... can you look at me? Please?"

Slowly, you raised your eyes to meet his. As George's eyes met yours, filled with a mixture of concern and tenderness that made your heart ache. "I love you," he said softly, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm embrace. "I love you, and I would never, ever hurt you. You know that, right?"

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with sincerity. You wanted to believe him, to trust in the love shining in his eyes. But years of abuse had left their mark, making it difficult to separate past from present.

"I..." you started, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know you wouldn't. Not on purpose. But..."

George waited patiently as you struggled to find the words, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand. The gentle touch grounded you, giving you the courage to continue.

"My ex," you said, the words feeling like broken glass in your throat. "He... he wasn't a good person."

George's expression darkened, but he remained silent, allowing you to speak at your own pace.

"At first, it was great. He was charming, funny. Made me feel special," you continued, your gaze fixed on a point over George's shoulder. "But then... things changed."

You told him everything. The first time your ex raised his voice, making you flinch. The way he'd grab your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. The constant criticisms, chipping away at your self-esteem.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue. "It started small. He'd get angry over little things, yell and throw things. I told myself it wasn't that bad, that everyone argues sometimes. But then..."

Your voice trailed off, memories flooding back. George squeezed your hand gently, encouraging you to continue.

"The first time he hit me, I was so shocked I couldn't even cry," you whispered. "He apologized immediately, swore it would never happen again. I wanted to believe him."

George's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, letting you speak.

"It only got worse after that. The violence escalated, and so did the emotional abuse. He'd call me worthless, stupid, tell me no one else would ever want me. And I believed him."

Tears streamed down your face as you recounted the worst moments - the times you'd hidden bruises with makeup, the nights you'd lain awake in fear, the way you'd slowly lost touch with friends and family until he was your whole world.

"I lost myself," you admitted, tears streaming down your face. "I stopped talking to friends, quit my job. Everything I did, every decision I made, was about keeping him happy. But it was never enough."

George's arms tightened around you, a protective gesture that made your heart ache with a mixture of gratitude and residual fear.

"The night I left," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "He was angry about... God, I don't even remember what. Something small. Insignificant. He left. I could take it anymore, I started to pack. When he came home he was so angry.” You took a strained breathe as you continued.

“But that night, I thought he might kill me," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "He'd been drinking, and he was so so angry. Something in me just... snapped. I ran, and I didn't look back."

George's arms loosened around you as he took in the severities of you words, his own tears falling into your hair. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. "You didn't deserve any of that. You're so strong, so brave. I'm in awe of you.

George's voice broke as he whispered, "I love you. I love you so much, and I swear I would never, ever hurt you like that."

His words, so earnest and heartfelt, broke something inside you. The dam you'd built around your emotions crumbled, and suddenly you were sobbing uncontrollably, your entire body shaking with the force of your cries.

George held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back. He murmured soft words of comfort, his accent thickening with emotion.

"It's okay, love. Let it out. I've got you. You're safe now."

You cried for what felt like hours, releasing years of pent-up fear, anger, and pain. George never wavered, his embrace warm and steady, anchoring you in the present.

As your sobs finally subsided into quiet hiccups, George gently pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes. His own were red-rimmed and puffy, his cheeks damp with tears.

"Thank you for telling me," he said softly. "I know how hard that must have been. You're so brave, love. So incredibly brave."

You shook your head, feeling anything but brave. "I should have left sooner. I should have been stronger."

George's expression grew fierce. "No," he said firmly. "You did everything you could to survive an impossible situation.”

George cupped your face gently, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "Listen to me," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You are not weak. You are not stupid. You are a survivor, and I am in awe of your strength."

His words, so different from the cruel taunts you'd grown accustomed to, made fresh tears well up in your eyes. George continued, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I love you," he said, each word weighted with sincerity. "I love your kindness, your humor, your resilience. I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about things you're passionate about. I love how you always remember to water the plants, even when I forget. I love the little dance you do when you're excited about something."

You felt a warmth blooming in your chest, pushing back against the cold fear that had gripped you earlier. George's words washed over you, soothing the jagged edges of your pain.

"I love the way you scrunch up your nose when you're concentrating," he continued, a soft smile playing at his lips. "I love how you always make sure to ask our delivery drivers if they want a bottle of water. I love your strength, your courage, your ability to keep going even when things get tough."

"I promise you," George continued, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm blanket, "that I will spend every day showing you how much you're worth. I'll remind you of your strength when you forget. I'll hold you when the memories get too much. And I'll always, always ask before I touch you."

As if to demonstrate, he held out his hand, palm up. "May I hold your hand?"

The simple gesture, so respectful of your boundaries, brought fresh tears to your eyes. You couldn’t understand stand how you shed so many tries in such a short amount of time. Wordlessly you took his hand. His words, so full of admiration and love, broke something inside you. You sobbed openly, clinging to him as years of pent-up emotions poured out. George held you through it all, his presence steady and comforting.

As your tears subsided, George gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the lingering wetness on your cheeks. "Thank you for trusting me with this," he said softly. "I know it couldn't have been easy to talk about."

You managed a watery smile, feeling lighter than you had in years. "It wasn't. But... I'm glad you know now. I've been carrying this alone for so long. Thank you for listening," you whispered.

George pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Always," he promised. "You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. "I'm here, whenever you need me. Whether that's to talk, or just to sit in silence, or... anything through everything. The good days, the bad days, and everything in between."

You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to believe in the sincerity of his words. The fear and shame that had held you captive for so long began to loosen their grip, replaced by a tentative hope.

"I love you," George said again, his voice thick with emotion. "Every part of you. Your strength, your resilience, your kindness. I love the way you laugh at my terrible jokes, and how you always remember to water the plants even when I forget. I love how passionate you get about your favourite books, and the way your eyes light up when you talk about your work."

His words washed over you, chasing away the lingering shadows of your past. You looked up at him, really looked at him, taking in the sincerity in his warm brown eyes, the gentle curve of his smile, the faint stubble on his jaw that he'd forgotten to shave this morning.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice hoarse but steady. "So much that it scares me sometimes."

George's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you adored. "Good scared or bad scared?" he asked, a hint of his usual playfulness creeping back into his tone.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound watery but genuine. "Good scared," you assured him. "Like... like standing at the edge of something amazing and wonderful, knowing that jumping in might change everything."

"Well," George said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, "I'm right here beside you, ready to jump whenever you are."

George's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you adored. He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't. Instead, you met him halfway, your lips meeting in a kiss that was soft and sweet and full of promise.

When you finally pulled apart, George rested his forehead against yours. "I know I can't erase what happened to you," he said softly. "But I promise, I'll spend every day trying to show you what real love looks like. If you'll let me."

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. George understood, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Come on," he said, slowly getting to his feet and offering you his hand. "Let's get off this cold floor.

How about we make some tea?"

You nodded, allowing him to help you up. Your legs felt shaky, and you leaned against him for support as you made your way to the living room. George guided you to the couch, wrapping a soft throw blanket around your shoulders before heading to the kitchen.

You could hear him moving around, the familiar sounds of kettle boiling and mugs clinking providing a soothing backdrop. The apartment was bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight, casting long shadows across the floor. You focused on the little details around you - the framed photos on the wall, capturing moments of laughter and joy with George and your friends; the collection of houseplants on the windowsill, each one carefully tended; the stack of board games in the corner, evidence of cozy nights in.

George returned a few minutes later, carrying two steaming mugs. He handed you one - your favourite oversized mug, the one with little cartoon cats all over it. The scent of chamomile and honey wafted up, warm and comforting.

"Thank you," you murmured, wrapping your hands around the mug and letting its warmth seep into your palms.

George settled beside you on the couch, close enough that you could feel his presence but not so close as to crowd you. The two of you sat there on the couch, wrapped in each other's arms, as the afternoon sun slowly shifted across the room. The argument that had been forgotten.

As the afternoon light shifted, painting the room in soft golden hues, George spoke softly. "I've been thinking," he said, his voice gentle. "Maybe we could look into couples therapy? Not because there's anything wrong with us," he added quickly, "but to help us communicate better, especially about... about your past."

You considered his words, turning the idea over in your mind. The thought of opening up to a stranger was daunting, but the idea of having professional help to navigate your trauma and its impact on your relationship was appealing.

"I think... I think that might be good," you said slowly. "But can we maybe start with individual therapy for me first? I feel like I need to work through some things on my own before I'm ready to tackle them as a couple."

George's face lit up with a mixture of relief and pride. "Of course, love. Whatever you need. I'm so proud of you for considering it."

His words warmed you from the inside out, chasing away the last lingering chill of your earlier panic. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Thank you," you murmured. "For being so patient with me. For not giving up when I shut down."

George pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a moment. "I'll never give up on you," he murmured. "You're worth every bit of patience and understanding I can give."

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping your tea and watching the play of light across the room. As the shadows lengthened, George spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant.

"I've been thinking about my videos," he said. "I know I get pretty animated sometimes, especially when I'm gaming. Do the loud noises or sudden movements ever... trigger anything for you?"

You considered his question, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Sometimes," you admitted. "But it's not just you. Loud noises in general can be difficult. And when you get really competitive with the boys, the shouting can be a bit much."

George nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What if I put up soundproofing foam?" he suggested. "It would cut out the really loud bits. And I could try to be more mindful of my volume when we're filming."

The fact that he was willing to make changes to his content, his livelihood, for your comfort brought tears to your eyes. "You don't have to change your whole style for me," you protested weakly.

"I want to," George said firmly. "Your comfort and well-being are more important than any video. Besides," he added with a grin, "my editors have been begging me to tone it down a bit anyway. They say I'm giving them hearing damage," he chuckled softly.

You managed a small smile, touched by his willingness to adapt. "Maybe we could work on some signals?" you suggested hesitantly. "Like, if things get too intense during filming, I could give you a sign to dial it back a bit?"

George's eyes lit up. "That's good idea. We could have a little system, like traffic lights. Green for 'all good', yellow for 'getting close to the edge', and red for 'need to stop now'."

His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself nodding along. "That could work. And maybe... maybe we could have a code word? For times when I'm feeling overwhelmed but can't quite explain why?"

"Absolutely," George agreed immediately. "What word would you like to use?"

You thought for a moment, then smiled. "How about 'cactus'? Like that little plant you got me when we first moved in together."

George's face softened at the memory. "Perfect," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Cactus it is."

As the evening wore on, you and George continued to talk, making plans and setting boundaries. You discussed ways to handle future arguments, strategies for dealing with your non-verbal episodes, and how to navigate intimacy with your trauma history.

As you sat there, wrapped in George's arms, you felt a sense of peace settling over you. The weight you'd been carrying for so long felt lighter, shared between the two of you. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room and highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air.

You could hear the faint sounds of the city outside - cars passing by, the distant laughter of children playing in the park down the street. Inside, the apartment was quiet save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the gentle rhythm of George's breathing.

Your gaze wandered around the room, taking in the little details that made this space feel like home. The bookshelf in the corner, filled with a mismatched collection of your favourite novels and George's gaming guides. The framed photo on the coffee table from your first vacation together, both of you grinning widely at the camera, your eyes shining with excitement.

Your eyes landed on George's filming setup in the corner - the ring light, the carefully arranged backdrop, the high-end microphone. It was a stark reminder of the public life he led, the thousands of fans who watched his every move online. For a moment, anxiety gripped you. What if they found out about your past? What if they judged you

Your anxiety must have shown on your face, because George squeezed your hand gently. "Hey," he said softly, "what's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"

You hesitated, not wanting to burden him with more of your fears. But his patient, loving gaze encouraged you to open up.

"I was just thinking about your fans," you admitted quietly. "What if... what if they found out about my past? What if they judge me, or think I'm not good enough for you?"

George's expression softened, a mix of understanding and determination crossing his features. "Love," he said, his voice firm but gentle, "my fans don't get a say in our relationship. And anyone who would judge you for surviving what you've been through isn't worth our time."

He shifted, turning to face you more fully on the couch. "But more importantly, you are more than good enough for me. You're brilliant, kind, funny, and so incredibly strong. I'm the lucky one here."

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, chasing away some of the chill of your anxiety. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

"I love you," you whispered, the words feeling inadequate to express the depth of your feelings.

"I love you too," George replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "More than I can ever say."

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky, casting the apartment into a gentle twilight. The soft hum of the city outside became a soothing backdrop to the quiet moment you shared. George shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, his warmth a steady presence against your side.

"Hey," he murmured after a while, his voice thick with exhaustion but filled with tenderness. "No matter what happens, we're in this together. Okay?"

You nodded against his shoulder, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel so terrifying. It felt possible when filled with quiet moments like this, with laughter, with love.

George pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, and you closed your eyes, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing lull you into calm.

The past had left its scars, but as you sat there, wrapped in the quiet strength of his love, you realized something profound: you were healing. Not all at once, not perfectly, but step by step. And with George by your side, maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t have to do it alone.

[i-will-write]

[rougetv]

Drunk and Clingy

ArthurTV x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You have to go pick up your boyfriend, Arthur, after a drunk Halloween video with his friends

WARNINGS: swearing, smoking?, making out?

_________________________

The sound of her phone ringing pulls her attention away from whatever crappy horror film was playing on the TV screen, Chris’s name flashing across the screen. She sighs exasperatedly, knowing that the men on the other end of the phone are most likely hammered, having spent the evening filming a video called ‘one shot a minute for an hour’ for Halloween, which realistically can only mean her boyfriend and his friends are off their heads. She rolls her eyes as she picks up her phone, immediately hearing the sound of George’s laughter as when as screaming from Bach and Arthur.

“Hey, Chris” she greets him kindly through the phone, awaiting the alcohol-riddled response from the blonde hobbit, which of course she got.

“Y/n!” Chris’s slurred speech rings through the phone, and she has to bring the phone slightly away from her ear thanks to the sheer volume of a clearly drunk Chris. “Your boyfriend’s drunkkkk!”

A soft, breathy laugh leaves her lips as she shakes her head at the footballer’s childish tone, acting like he was snitching on his misbehaving friend.

“Need me to come pick him up?” as she speaks shes already getting out of hers and Arthur’s bed and throwing on a pair of joggers and the first hoodie she found – which turned out to be her boyfriend’s – knowing Chris was going to ask him to pick him up anyways. “I’ll be there in 10, Chris. You just try to keep him alive.”

_________________________

Her ring-clad fist tapped against the white wooden door of George, Arthur Hill, and Chris’s apartment, already hearing the chaos going on inside, even through the heavy door.

Seconds later the door swings open, a clumsy George, who was wearing a Santa costume for some reason, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know, standing in front of her with a drunken smile plastered across his lips. “Y/n! Heyyyy!”

A small chuckle leaves her lips, finding the drunken men more amusing than anything else.

“Y’alright, Georgie?” she speaks through her soft giggles as George steps aside to let her into the modernly decorated apartment, stumbling slightly as he shuts the door with a soft click.

The first thing she sees is Bach, wearing a ‘junk mail’ costume – made up of a large envelope with a plastic dick on the other side of the clear plastic window – with he was slinging at a screaming Chris, who looked like he was a 15-year-old girl who had just come from netball practice, in a short skirt and his hoodie.

She turns to the only sober man next to her in a Ghostface costume, who she could only assume was Arthur Hill, with an amused, yet slightly scarred, smile on her lips as she speaks. “Do I even wanna know?”

 All she gets in return is a laugh and a shake of his head, clearly unbothered after living with two of these idiots for so long.

“BABY!”

She spins on her heels at the sudden yell, immediately recognizing her boyfriend’s sweet accent, a loving smile immediately forming on her lip oil coated lips as she takes in his disheveled appearance as he comes out of the bathroom at the end of the hall. There was a tall green hat clinging for dear life onto his head that matched the shitty pineapple costume over his normal clothes, his eyes were glazed over and unfocused thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol in his system, as well as the messy face paint that was literally all over him and stuck in his fluffy brunette hair.

“You think he washed his hands?” George’s voice mutters, probably louder than he meant to but she gave him the benefit of the doubt due to his drunken state. Soft sniggers come from behind her at his comment.

As soon as Arthur was within less than a foot of her, he practically launched himself at her, knocking her back a few steps, but Hill was quick to put a gloved hand on her back, so she wasn’t completely tackled by her teddy bear of a boyfriend.

“Whatcha doin here?” His words came out sloppy and slurred, but the dopey lovesick smile on his face made up for it big time, his eyes full of pure love and adoration for the woman in front of him. One of his large, calloused hands slid up to gently cup her jaw, soothingly rubbing his thumb against the bottom of her cheek.

“Came to pick up my incredibly drunk boyfriend, by the looks of it” She speaks through a small affectionate giggle, looking up at the tall brunette in front of her. Her eyes search his for a second, seeing a small flash of fatigue forming in his eyes, smiling sympathetically, she slips her hands down, intertwining his fingers with her own and attempting to pry his toned arms off her. “C’mon sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

A surprised squeak slips past her lips as he tugs her close, rather than letting her go, refusing to detach himself from her, while the guys just drunkenly laugh at the way Arthur’s clinging to her like a baby koala.

“Nuh uh”

He shakes his head as he speaks, his lopsided smile only growing at the confusion in her eyes, a small chuckle rumbling from his chest, at nothing in particular, swaying side-to-side in his drunken state.

Eyes glued to the gorgeous woman in front of him – specifically her lips – he simply nods his head towards her, a stupid goofy grin on his face as he puckers his lips, silently asking for a kiss. And who was she to deny him that?

She shakes her head playfully at his intoxicated antics, raising herself up slightly on her tiptoes, given their height difference, and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, tasting the mix of apple cider and southern comfort on his tongue as he moves his lips against hers lovingly.

His body visibly relaxes as her lips meet his, savoring the taste of her strawberry lip oil and a faint hint of cigarettes, something he had come to associate with calmness and love. Muscles tensing as he tightens his grip around her waist, he pulls her impossibly close, swiping his tongue gently across her bottom lip, silently pleading for entrance in an attempt to deepen the kiss.

Thanks to said liquor, Arthur really couldn’t care less about the jokey gagging and feigned disgust from his drunk, single friends, too lost in the feeling of passionately kissing the woman he loves. But Y/n could.

Her manicured hands quickly land on his shoulders, reluctantly pushing away as she reminded his three drunken friends and their shitty ‘enforcer’ of the night are less than 2 feet away, swallowing hard as she takes a deep gulp of much needed oxygen.

The pineapple-clad brunette practically whines as he feels his girlfriend’s lips leave his, pushing his head towards her again, desperately trying to continue the make out, pouting like a child as she slowly pushes off him, not wanting to put a show of PDA on for a bunch of intoxicated idiots.

Another soft laugh slips from between her lips, which no longer have a neat layer of lip oil on and instead are slightly swollen and messy. She rolls her eyes playfully as she swipes her thumb just under her bottom lip, ridding of the smudged product, huffing out a sigh of mock annoyance.

“Come on, sweetheart. Time to go” She softens her voice as she speaks, her tone full of affection for her lovesick puppy of a boyfriend, who looked like he was about to beg for another kiss.

“Arthur, listen to your girlfriend, man. You’re hammered” Hill, being the only one of a sound mind, speaks up, bringing a hand down to pat Arthur’s shoulder reassuringly, smiling kindly at his namesake.

Letting out a huff on annoyance, he reluctantly detaches himself from his loving girlfriend, unwrapping his arms from her but immediately interlocking his hand with hers, needing to be touching her in any way possible at all times.

“Clingyyyy” Chris’s drunken, sing-song voice rings out, directing his comment at the dependent brunette, a loud laugh ripping from his throat as he speaks. “Like his 26th party all over again!”

Y/n can’t help but laugh along with the other guys as she recalls the night of Arthur’s 26th birthday party. That night he was in an absolute state after a few too many rounds of ‘alcohol roulette’ and ended up calling out for his girlfriend so loud that the party had come to a complete halt, only to find out she had only gone to the bathroom.

A grunt of annoyance comes from deep in Arthur’s throat, placing his hands on her hips, pressing his chest against her back and burying his face into the crook of her neck, clearly embarrassed by the memory, even though he’s more than aware of how clingy he gets when he’s had a few too many.

She laughs once more, shaking her head at Arthur and immediately grabbing his hands off her hips, knowing they’ll end up right back at square one if he attaches himself to her again.

_________________________

After bidding goodbye to each of the guys, with her clingy boyfriend attached to her in some way or another the whole time, she guides Arthur out of the cushy apartment building and into her car, smiling lovingly as he stares at her and mutters slurred compliments the entire way home.

Hand-in-hand, she leads him out of her car and through the stairs and hallways up to their shared flat, supporting the majority of his weight as he stumbled alongside her, mumbling incoherent nonsense in her ear as she unlocks their front door.

Her touch gentle and soft, she guides him through the apartment to their bedroom, ridding of him hoodie for him so he doesn’t overheat during the night and placing a cold glass of water on the nightstand on his side of the bed, before his intoxicated whiny voice breaks the comfortable silence between them.

“Lovey…?”

Her eyes immediately flick over to meet his, from her spot by the tall wardrobe, where she had been changing into one of his shirts, which she uses every night as makeshift pyjamas, finding comfort in wearing his clothes rather than her own. “What is it, baby?”

All she gets in return is another small whine and his sleeper build arms reaching out from beneath the plush duvet, balling up and unbaling his fists as he makes grabby hands as her, earning a soft laugh from her as she clambers into bed with him, slipping under the duvet and making herself comfortable as he clings onto her again.

He tugs her towards him, lying them both on their sides and nuzzling his face into her chest and breathing out a content sigh as he wraps his arms tightly around her, not planning on letting go of her any time soon. Having the woman he loves wrapped in his arms and the soothing feeling of her slender manicured fingers toying with the short hairs at the nape of his neck makes his eyes immediately flutter shut, unable to stop a glimmer of a smile on his lips as he falls asleep.

_________________________

I’m so in love with this man its crazy

also I have no clue if smoking is a warning or not so sorry that I didn’t write that in my ArthurTV and ItalianBach fic xx