He tries to get you to go to bed, he really does. But he’s not gonna stay up all night trying to get you to go. He might promise something like cuddles to get you to go to bed because he really does care about you, and he knows you need your sleep.
sapnap
I mean he tries, not as hard as Dream, but he puts in the effort. He’ll ask you to come to bed a few times. But he’ll usually give up the first few times you say no and stay up with you.
georgenotfound
This man will literally bug you until you go to bed. It’s like a new level of annoying. He’s so good at it too. He’s not going to bed until you go as well either.
quackity
He tells you to come to bed and you better come running like omg. This man will lay on top of you until you go to bed, and like he’ll literally fall asleep on top of you. Once he’s asleep there is no waking him up bro.
karl jacobs
Karl will literally beg you to go to sleep. He’ll go to bed eventually but he won’t sleep he’ll just lay in bed. He stresses really hard over it.
wilbur soot
If you refuse to sleep this man won’t complain, he won’t bother you. He’ll just stay up with you. But like he can’t stay up for *too* long, and he’ll fall asleep at some point.
nihachu
She gets so upset when you won’t sleep. Niki just wants the best for you; will literally lecture you about why you should sleep and what happens if you don’t get enough.
jschlatt
He didn’t really care at first because you can make your own decisions. But when he noticed it was a repeating patterned he became more and more concerned. He wouldn’t stay up all night begging you to sleep he just forces you to sleep. He does let it pass every once in a while, like when you need to finish something important.
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.
includes: georgenotfound, sapnap, quackity, karl jacobs, wilbur soot
[SFW]
georgenotfound - receiving gifts
George likes receiving gifts but he’s not like a sugar baby or anything. It just makes him feel special when you go out of your way to buy him things. It doesn’t have to be expensive or name brand it’s really the thought that counts.
sapnap - acts of service
Whenever you help around the house, or do a favor for him he feels like you really care for him, and he’s willing to do the same to show you that he feels the same way.
quackity - quality time
Quality time 100%, he can talk to you for hours, but he doesn’t really care what he’s doing as long as it’s with you. He really enjoys giving you his undivided attention. Of course, he expects the same in return, though.
karl jacobs - physical touch
Karl👏loves 👏physical 👏touch👏. He’ll randomly hold/touch your hand (regardless of where you are). He gets a sense of security from it; if you ever decline he’ll automatically assume he did something wrong and apologize.
wilbur soot - words of affirmation
Wilbur constantly compliments and give you words of encouragement/support. He’ll let you know how much he cares about you multiple times a day. He’ll never let you feel unwanted.
warnings: none! my first fic with no language are you proud of me ;)
tags: georgenotfound x gn!reader
words: 1355
A/N: pretty much every fic i’ve posted has been written a minimum of an hour before i post it— my b. anyways george is soft and he makes me soft enjoy
requests/inbox status: open
-
The first time you barge in on George’s stream is about four months into your relationship. He is starting to get comfortable being his online persona around you, and suggests rather than get on your train at 1 am, you stay over. “Like a sleepover?” you ask and watch his cheeks start glowing pink.
Yes, exactly like a sleepover.
The sound of the bedroom door opening makes him pick up his water bottle and immediately turn off his camera and microphone, indistinguishable from the unannounced bathroom breaks he usually takes. Turning towards you slightly in his chair, an amused expression grows on his face. You’re barely awake, hovering in his doorway with a crinkled t-shirt and basketball shorts pulled on haphazardly in the dark on your way out of the bedroom. (You don’t sleep in pants. That’s for heathens.)
“Water,” you croak, arms stiff at your side and blinking wildly in the fluorescent lighting of his flat. He tries to hide his smirk and pads over to you, passing you his water bottle with a huff of a laugh. His hand drops to yours, grabbing and rubbing his thumb into your blanket-creased skin. You’re cold.
“I have extra blankets in the cupboard.” He doesn’t let go of your hand. You nod robotically, draining the nearingly lukewarm water through that straw and— he can almost see life return to your face. When you hand the empty bottle back to him, you’re licking your lips and squinting like you’re having a staring contest with the sun.
“I’m gonna go back to bed.” Your voice is thick with sleep, nasally like it always is in the morning. You lift to scratch a hand at your stomach and lean your head forward, bowing to George at an awkward angle. In a second he knows what you’re doing and grants you one (1) forehead kiss before you’re trundling off to the bedroom on legs that function like stilts.
“Sorry guys,” he sighs heavily when he’s back in his chair. “Took a minute long nap and I feel so refreshed.”
The second instance of interruption comes on a day when he’s too entranced in some bizarre Minecraft challenge (with his camera off, for focus reasons) to notice you.
You walk up the stairs, hand on the railing, and expect to find your boyfriend zonked out on the couch with six pillows behind his head and an eye mask. Instead, he’s at his desk, eye bags a lovely shade of violet, with rimrod posture, clicking furiously at his mouse. He’s silent when you pass him to drop your things off in the kitchen. Silent the whole time you go to the bathroom, and silent the whole time you’re making breakfast.
The distance between his flat and your own isn’t monumental, but it is enough to make you exhausted on the train ride over. (It doesn't take much, truthfully.) That’s why you book the tickets hilariously early in the morning and have a perfectly-timed nap. Still, you wake up from it ravenous. And George has a horrible habit of ordering take-away for every meal, so you grab a couple ingredients for breakfast at the mart you pass every couple of days you’re here.
Today it’s omelets and bruschetta toast. George jokes you’re related to Gordon Ramsey distantly for the amount of posh foods you cook; you say you just have taste. Half a dozen eggs, a few veggies, a bulb of garlic, and a loaf of bread is barely £15 at the mart down the road. The rest of the ingredients lie barely touched in his cabinets. You work quickly and have two plates filled with warm and delicious smelling food in the period it takes him to die one more time in Minecraft.
Wobbling two plates and a glass of orange juice on one arm, you approach the backside of his desk on careful and slow feet. When you set his plate and drink down next to him he catches you by the wrist and brings your forearm to his mouth, pressing a kiss there and looking up at you with those brown eyes.
“Thank you,” he mumbles against the sweetness of your skin and presses two more kisses to your wrist. He pulls away and takes a large sip from the orange juice before spam-clicking the shift button at a familiar green character. You leave his station with a smile, feeling warm.
“Y/N!” he calls, leaning back in his chair with a hand on his stomach. “C’mere. Please.”
“Bossy,” you mutter, but get up from your place on the couch and trot over to him with a huff.
“Tell Sapnap what you put in the omelet,” is all he says before passing you his headset and snaking an arm around your waist. You stumble towards him but manage to get the headphones on before Sapnap starts spewing about a breakfast burrito he ate last week that had jalapeños and onions in it. One thing you never thought you’d get to discuss with the man was your culinary prowess, but it seems today is the day of surprises— George helps you bake a batch of salted caramel brownies after finishing up work, too.
He doesn’t even catch anything on fire.
The third time you catch George working is right at the end of a Gang Beasts stream with Karl, Tina, and Corpse. He’s just finishing his last wave goodbye and ending the stream when you shudder through his front door with a small bag in your hand.
“Good news,” you announce through a grin. “My GNF candle came in.”
“Your what?” He laughs, closing the browser with a click and sleeping his monitor. You dig the item out and place it ceremoniously on the glass of his desk. His jaw drops.
“Isn’t that cool?” You ask excitedly, nearly bouncing on your feet.
“Oh my God.” He picks up the squat candle, lifting it to his nose to catch a sniff. Hm. Pine. “I wish I smelled like that.”
You just shrug and take it from him, darting into the kitchen to produce a lighter and light the wick quickly. You take a deep inhale when the flame sparks and stills.
“Yeah, that smells nothing like you. You smell more…” You trail off, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn in thought.
“Manly?” He quirks an eyebrow at you. You ponder that and just take another smell.
“More sweet. Much sweeter.”
“That’s cute,” he admits, getting up and disappearing into his bedroom.
“Are you gonna take a nap?” You set the candle down onto the countertop, making your way into his room like you own it. He’s at his closet, tugging off his sweatshirt.
“Yeah,” he answers, muffled by fabric, and finally gets the collar of the hoodie past his neck. “Care to join?” The hoodie goes into his laundry basket and he tugs the covers of his bed back, flashing you a look. You nod, flinging your shoes off and into the emptiness of his closet before crawling into the center of his bed and flopping down halfway onto him. He makes an unsatisfied noise and shuffles onto his stomach. Giggling, you roll into a sitting position and get yourself under the covers.
“Warm in here,” you mutter and get situated. His accompanying pillow is soft on your cheek when you twist onto your stomach and shove an arm underneath it. He just hums in agreement and stares at you. “Hold on.” You plant an elbow on the space between you two and manage to press a firm kiss on his cheek. Okay, perhaps two. If it’s three then George is colorblind.
“Thanks. I guess.”
“Anytime, darling,” is all you say before your eyes are closing and you’re breathing a sigh that deflates your chest.
A hand grapples up your arm, scrambling for your own. You just smile to yourself and offer your palm to him. He takes it wordlessly and squeezes twice before letting your tangle of fingers drop to the sheets.
-
A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D let me know what you think in the comments!
Feel free to ignore this if it’s not specific enough or if you don’t know what to write for it but bestie I have been on a George kick for the last two or three weeks now and I think I’ve read every GNF fanfic there is to read 😭 I need awkward yet wholesome Gog content pls <3
first date
warnings: a singular kiss and some pretty awk flirting
words: 1634
tags: georgenotfound x gn!reader
A/N: anon... you read my mind. thank you sm for the request and musings.. i have also been on a bit of a gnf kick fucking Obviously bc ive posted two gnf fics this week—anyways. hope you enjoy and it's everything you've ever dreamed of ;]
requests/inbox status: open
-
“That one looks like my Aunt Theresa.” Your voice rings out through the stale air of the gallery. You’re pointing at an almost grotesque depiction of a woman with half of a mangled pool noodle balanced on her head. George purses his lips, keeping in what he knows will be an explosive laugh. Better to not disturb the gallery monitors with similarly sized pool noodles shoved up their asses, evidenced by their eagle-like judgmental gaze.
“No, that’s Sloth from the Goonies,” he adds, and plops down onto the cushions of a bench parallel to the exhibit. You just shake your head, huffing out a laugh, and fall down next to him.
“I think after this we should go get tamales. I don’t want to go home yet.” You shift the small paper bag from the gift shop in your hands, tugging at the tag’s string. A glance up at him yields a fleeting yet cute view of his blushing face.
“Uh—yeah. That sounds great.” One hand reaches up to nervously tug at his curly locks as the other drops down onto the bench. You imperceptibly shift and stare down at it.
He really does have pretty hands. Long, pale fingers give way to slender and clean fingernails. They shift, lightning fast, and you glance up to his face like you hadn’t just been ogling his hands.
You’ve been caught.
Turning away, you focus your wide eyes and pink cheeks on a particularly colorful exhibit. He’s silent. You can tell he’d like to say something. You waste three more minutes staring around at the art pieces before he says something.
“Uh, tamales?” His voice is gentle, almost reassuring. Nearly apologetic.
“Yeah!” You exclaim, shooting up from your seat like a jack rabbit. He blinks but follows. “It’s just down the street—three minute walk, tops.”
“Cool.”
The whole walk to the tamale shop is blissfully full of chatter and niceties. You compliment his shoes, he returns the gesture with a nudge to your shoulder and a witty comment when he sees two birds fighting for a breadstick. You laugh your perfect laugh and his chest puffs big like a gorilla, proud that he’d coaxed not one but two of those laughs out of you. (The other was from when he made a “that’s what she said” joke in the gift shop; that was a sympathy laugh, maybe, but he didn’t dismiss it.)
“You ever been here before?” You ask, polite and courteous as you hold open the door for him. He shakes his head and steps forward in the moderately-long line, head tilted back to listen to you. “I always get the spicy beef. Never fails.”
“Mmm,” he hums in agreement, and scans the menu. Pork with green sauce sounds delicious right about now— then again, chipotle chicken.
“We can share a pineapple raisin one,” you chirp, sidling up next to him. He nods and tries to ignore how his fingers tingle when they’re so close to yours. “I can order first to give you more time if you’d like,” you add just as the line surges forward and there’s only one customer between you and the cash register. He nods again. The customer before you leaves for their table and then you’re ordering your food, hands pressed to the counter and leaning over to speak to the register attendant.
He orders quick, desperate to get the meal after his stomach rumbles crassly, and steps to the side after paying.
“George!” comes from the drink station and he turns with his eyebrows raised. It’s you, filling a cup with cherry Coke. “Can we eat outside?”
“Sure,” he shrugs, lips tilted in a smile, and thanks the person handing him his food before following you through the entrance again with the characteristic jingle of the bell. You park yourself on a bench right next to a fountain and he sits down beside you, careful to not crowd you too much.
You scoot an inch closer anyways.
You two eat wordlessly for a few minutes, hums and grunts of approval filling the silence as you drain your cherry Coke and he his regular Coke.
“That was so good,” he moans, taking a final sip from his straw before setting it down next to him. You made a noise of agreement.
“Here.” You’re holding up a forkful of the pineapple raisin tamale to him, hand underneath to catch any crumbs. He glances at your face nervously twice before taking the bite and starting to chew. It’s incredibly sweet and soft on his tongue and his face practically melts. You giggle, swiping a thumb across his scruffy chin to catch a masa grain and lick it off the pad of your finger. His stomach jumps at the touch.
“I—uh,” he trails off, staring at your moistened lips. “Thanks.”
You gaze right back, eyes flitting to every feature on his face. It’s like you can’t decide on what to look at.
“Sure,” you say simply, and the moment passes as you look down at your feet. A smile tugs at your mouth and he can barely see it climb over your lips. His eyes drift to watching the sway of the “open” flag at the neighboring book store, a couple leaning over a group of books in the window catching his gaze. They smile at each other fondly, hands locked together.
The sunset casts a glow over his bowed head. The slight evening breeze lifts his dark locks up off his forehead, jostling them playfully. The color of his sweater makes him glow warm, buttery orange against black jeans and periwinkle sneakers.
He really is a work of art.
It’s then that he turns, catching your eye with pink glowing cheeks and twinkling eyes.
“What?” He asks, sheepish grin splitting his lips.
“Nothing.” You shrug, eyes squinted, hiding a secret that’s obvious. “Just—admiring.”
Getting to his feet in a sudden bout of confidence, he tosses his trash into the bin nearby and stretches out a hand for you to take. “Can I walk you home?”
You just look for a second, but stand and take it like it’s the easiest decision in the world.
“I’d like nothing more, Georgie,” you shoot back. The pet name feels right on your tongue.
He shakes his head at it but tugs you right along. It’s west to your flat, so you walk in the light of the setting sun for a while.
His hand in yours is cool yet comfortable, skin smooth like silk. You can just barely smell his cologne; it’s something musky and sweet. But you can’t lean in and take a deep sniff— he probably wouldn’t see you again after that.
“I had a really nice time tonight,” you offer, hoping he’ll agree. Couples and friends say their goodbyes at stairways and restaurant doorways ahead of you two. You watch them, head full and hopeful.
“Me too.” He’s still overcome with that initial confidence and gives your hand a soft squeeze. “I of course only came for the tamales, but—.” He jostles your shoulder with a smile. You roll your eyes and shove right back.
“Of course,” you continue, nodding. “Wouldn’t expect that you’d want any of my lively company. Course not. Never.”
“Never,” he agrees, but the tone of his voice gives him away.
The stoop of your flat approaches quickly. You eye it warily, not wanting to part so quickly, but sigh heavily when you stop right at the familiar jagged sidewalk and scuffed gold paint of the door trim.
“So.” You turn towards him, letting go of his hand.
“So,” he replies back, lips pressed together tightly.
“Will you go on a date with me again?” You ask, all sweet and curious, and he tries not to let his heart thump too loudly out of his chest.
“I— Yeah. Yes. Of course.”
“Glad we’re on the same page,” you say through your smile. “Oh!” You lift the forgotten paper bag up and brandish it. “I actually got this for you. I saw you eyeing it at the gift shop, so.”
He takes the bag from you, eyebrows furrowed, and peers into it. A small green ceramic frog with a pale blue butterfly on the tip of its nose stares right back.
“That’s—wow. Thank you so much.”
“Yup.”
A beat of silence passes and your shoulder turns, in what he thinks is goodbye, so he grabs your forearm.
“Hey—”
“Yeah?” You know exactly what he’s thinking. Your voice is hopeful.
“Can I—Can I kiss you?” His voice breaks slightly at the end, and he swallows the nervousness.
“Yes,” you breathe and your head tilts up subconsciously. He scans your face, hand sliding down from your elbow to grasp your wrist.
God. You’re so cute.
And so he leans forward, cups your cheek with one hand, and presses a firm yet gentle kiss to your lips. You’re sweet, gentle, and you smell like lavender soap and flowers. You breathe him in, lips moving against his, and feel like you’re floating.
When you two break apart, he hovers just slightly apart from your face. His hand has slipped from its place on your cheek to your jaw, thumb pressed to the bone and rubbing slowly.
You observe the details of his face. How his nose slopes just slightly to the left, how he’s got a freckle on his eyelid, how the scruff on his jaw melts into the dark of his hair; has he always been this handsome?
He steps away, swallowing, and drops his hands to his pockets.
“Okay.”
“Alright,” you exhale, trying to not scream or cry or throw up in the same breath. “See you—…when I see you.” He nods quickly, cheekbones blushed red. “Hopefully soon.”
“Yeah. Soon.”
He calls you the next day.
Definitely more than soon.
-
A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D let me know what you think in the comments!
words: writing this in app so i don’t feel like checking lolz. it’s pretty short
A/N: kind of a random headcanon and not my best most realistic and Perfectly Written work but it was fun to write hehe
requests/inbox status: open
-
he doesn’t get grumpy very often, but—
george is one of those people that cannot stand being woken up
it’s either go away or get a pillow lobbed at your head
the only way he’s getting woken up happily is by his alarm or by his own body
he’s not necessarily hostile when he wakes up but he’s definitely talking in a low and raspy voice and with short sentences
“why are you speaking at 8 am.”
“it’s so bright close the fuc— ugh close the blinds oh my god”
every sentence he says sounds like it ends in a period
he also develops that rasp when he’s been awake for too long
get past the 30-hours-awake mark and his eyes are halfway closed and his voice has dropped four octaves
the way he acts when he’s grumpy or annoyed is exactly the way a child reacts to getting their ipad taken away (quackity is that you?)
that lower lips gets pushed out
he’s just a petulant little british man
sometimes when his hair is wet straight out of the shower it sticks to his forehead and itches like nobody’s business and he’ll make a frustrated little huff before scratching and pulling at his hair so hard it aches afterwards
you have to be alert around him when he’s in a bad mood or else you’ll get what you’ve nicknamed the “crabby gogy treatment”
it’s all furrowed brows and slumped shoulders and pursed lips
but this guy is insanely apologetic after he’s been short or dismissive with you
he does that cute thing where he’ll come up behind you and rest his cheek on your shoulder and neck, pouty and talking about some “sorry for being stupid earlier. i didn’t mean to be like that with you :/“
apologies usually include getting whatever you want for dinner and lots of glances your way
-
A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. let me know what you think
