the-internets-girlfriend

[the-internets-girlfriend]

pancakes & promises - clark kent

Clark Kent x Reader

summary: Working at the Daily Planet means deadlines, headlines, and the occasional heated debate about Superman—but for one sweet, well-loved reporter, it also means late-night baking, friendly banter, and a certain quiet colleague who always seems to linger at her desk. One simple question after work could change everything… if she realises what it really means in time.

warnings: a little misunderstanding

word count: 3k+ words

masterlist

I carry the bakery box like it’s a peace offering to the gods of newsroom morale. Warm sugar wafts up in little curls that follow me through the elevator doors, and by the second floor it smells like a holiday morning in a department store ad. The doors open to the familiar hum of the Daily Planet—phones trilling, printers shuffling paper like card dealers, snippets of headlines being negotiated over cubicle walls. I step out into all of it with a grin so bright even the grumpy copy desk looks up.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Lois calls, leaning back in her chair with her boots propped on her rolling drawer. Her hair is in a high ponytail that means business, and her eyes are in that mode that means she already knows the next six things that are going to happen in this room.

“Morning! I brought the cinnamon pinwheels,” I say. The room shifts like a school of fish, attention snapping to the pink string on the bakery box. People have instincts.

Lois swings around in her chair. “You’re going to give this newsroom a cavity.”

“It’s for morale,” I say. “And also because I got bored waiting for my coffee to brew and fell into a baking trance.”

“Trance baking,” she says, deadpan, and then softens. “Only you could report on a geopolitical sanctions draft and also show up with pastries shaped like little galaxies.”

“They’re spirals,” I protest. “And I like writing about the serious stuff. People deserve care when we talk about them.” I set the box on the shared table near the bullpen. Anonymous thanks float like paper planes from nearby desks.

“You and Superman,” Lois mutters, not unkindly. “All heart.”

I pretend my face isn’t going warm. “He’s just practical,” I say carefully, because we can never talk about him like he’s myth in here; he’s a civic variable. “When a flood’s happening, you don’t ask the water to wait until the press conference. You just help.”

Lois tips her chin. “You know I agree. I also know someone who agrees even more.” She glances past me, and I don’t have to turn to know who just walked in. The air gets quieter around Clark Kent like the moment before a favorite song starts.

“Morning,” he says, low and gentle, the word shaped like a smile. He looks windswept in that way that suggests he battled not a single gust on the sidewalk, but a personal storm that didn’t want to wrinkle his shirt. Tie slightly askew. Glasses a fraction fogged. His hair does the thing where it sort of curls near his ear and refuses to obey gravity. Oh no, I think, not for the first time and definitely not the last.

“Morning,” I echo. Lois leans in and whispers, You’re ridiculous, into her coffee.

I slide the box lid open and hand Clark a napkin. “Try one,” I say, offering a pinwheel. “They’re better still warm.”

He shifts his glasses; it’s a small gesture that, in my brain, is a symphony. “If I do, will you take the last good coffee pod? Because I saw Steve use the dark roast as if his stomach lining never did anything to him.”

“You’re making a noble sacrifice,” I say, solemn. “Thank you for your service.” I pick up the pinwheel he chooses and set it on his napkin like it’s a rare artifact. “Taste test live in the bullpen. Go.”

He takes a bite. He always does that thing where he tries to hide how much he enjoys something, as if joy were a private clubhouse. But the slightest, most barely there sound—almost a hum—escapes him, and I decide the cinnamon pinwheels are my greatest work.

Lois watches me watch him, then clears her throat. “Some of us have columns to finish,” she says. “Some of us, however, have decided to pivot to baking erotica.”

I swat her shoulder. “It’s wholesome! Everyone likes pastry.”

“Clark likes pastry,” she sing-songs.

Clark, blushing, glances down and then back up through his lashes. “It’s… very good,” he says, like the words weighed heavy and he’s relieved to set them down.

“Thank you,” I say, and something quiet flutters between us, soft as ribbon.

We break apart into the day’s tasks, the newsroom swallowing us whole. By ten, I’m deep in a draft about a refugee backlog and municipal policy translation errors, the kind of story that requires more empathy than adjectives. I keep a little sticky note on my monitor that says: People first, then systems. It helps me remember the order of operations.

Around noon, the breakroom conversation swells into the bullpen, a loud handful of opinions about Superman’s latest rescue across the river—a derailed commuter train no one ended up dying in. I can feel the current tugging, the way it always does when someone throws a rock into the pond of him.

“He shouldn’t be making that call,” someone says near the coffee machine. “That’s a state emergency management issue. He undermines the chain of command.”

“Chain of command wasn’t in the car,” another voice shoots back. “Superman was.”

I don’t go over. I just keep typing, aware of my pulse. Lois strolls past my desk like a meteorologist who can scent rain. “You thinking about weighing in?” she asks softly.

“Only if it helps,” I say. “Sometimes people just want to hear themselves be right.”

“And are they?” she asks.

I turn my chair. “If a bridge is breaking, you don’t wait for the permit to fix it.”

Lois smiles. “I’ll put that on your merch.” She leans in. “Also, this is me doing my duty as your friend: Clark keeps glancing over like a shy lighthouse.”

“He what?” I ask, scandalized by the sweetness of that image, by its truth.

“Don’t worry,” she says, sipping coffee. “I’ll tell you when you’re being oblivious.”

“I’m not oblivious,” I say. Ten minutes later, the universe tests me.

Clark appears at the edge of my cubicle, a soft knock on the partition the only warning. “Hey,” he says, voice warm. “Do you… after work, would you like to get coffee?”

My brain seizes not because of the words, which are normal, but because of who is saying them to whom. I blurt out the first thought that snaps into place. “Oh! That sounds fun. Should we invite everyone? It could be like a team outing. Like a ‘we survived Tuesday’ kind of thing.”

His face does a minute, private flicker, as if a candle gusted. Then he schools it into that same kindness. “Actually, I meant… just us. But it’s okay if—”

“Right! Oh, I—Wait, let me check my calendar.” I scramble because my inside self is a kite that just got its string cut. “I—uh, I have a draft due at six, and then I promised to call my aunt about her dog medication, and then I—maybe… maybe we could ask the team for another day? When it isn’t a crunch?”

He nods like he’s memorizing my face. “Of course,” he says easily, and then, softly: “No worries.”

“Tomorrow?” I say, words tangling. “Or Thursday? I could do Thursday.”

“Sure,” he says. “Whatever works.” He gives me a little smile that is almost a question, then goes back to his desk.

Lois appears as if conjured by my panic. “Tell me you didn’t just think he meant group coffee.”

“I—he—did he not?” I whisper, mortified. The bone-deep sweet ache of the last five minutes hits me: he asked me. Actually asked me. And I, champion of nuance, made it a group hang like a golden retriever with a calendar.

“Sweetheart,” Lois says, and the word is gentle, not pitying. “He asked you out.”

There are moments you can feel the film reel click into a new frame. I stare at my blinking cursor; it feels like it’s blinking at me. “Oh my God,” I say, in a tiny, strangled voice. “Oh my God. Lois.”

“Breathe,” she instructs, bracing her hands on my desk. “Do not spiral. Actually—spiral later, with cake. For now, finish your draft, send it, then go talk to him. And if you want to fix it—”

“I do,” I say.

“—then fix it,” she finishes. “He’s Clark. He’ll understand.”

I nod too fast. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

The next few hours drag and sprint simultaneously. I sink into the story like a swimmer returning to a lane, letting the rhythm calm my nerves. People first, then systems. I call the translator we talked about last week, double-check the glossary, phone a municipal liaison. The last paragraph clicks into place with a soft, inevitable satisfaction. When I hit send to Perry with the subject line Final draft (for real), a quiet floats down on me. Underneath that quiet: momentum.

By the time I stand, most people have left. The newsroom after hours is a different city—softer lights, a hum instead of a roar, the skyline outside sitting still and patient. Lois has already texted me seventeen variations of “go to him.” I walk to Clark’s desk and find it empty. His jacket is on the back of his chair; his desk lamp is off; his notepad is neatly aligned with his keyboard and pens. The elevator dings. A janitor waves. In my palm, my phone vibrates.

Lois: He went home to file. If you go now, you’ll catch him before he puts on sweatpants.

Me: Going. Also what if he doesn’t want me to come to his apartment?

Lois: You’ve worked late there three times this month. You bring your slippers. He has your favorite tea. Go.

She is right. Clark and I have fallen into this rhythm on late nights—putting our laptops side-by-side on his kitchen island, deadlines rolling like tides, the pale blue of his apartment lamps turning every dish he owns gentler. I know where he keeps his sugar. He knows which mug of mine I like. The thought of walking into that space with a new intention makes my heartbeat trip.

In the elevator, I rehearse. In the lobby, I abandon rehearsal for honesty. Outside, Metropolis glows like the inside of a seashell—soft and living. The chill evening air is full of distant sirens and closer laughter. I walk fast because I am a coward if I slow down.

His building is familiar, the doorman raising a hand in the way he does for people he recognizes. “Evening,” he says. “He’s in.”

“Thanks,” I say, and my voice doesn’t betray me, which feels like a small miracle.

The elevator ride up is longer than elevator rides are in physics textbooks. Outside his door, I pause to wipe my palms on my coat and to knock not like a feral wind, but like a person with dignity. Three soft knocks. A heartbeat. Then the door opens.

Clark stands there barefoot in grey sweats and a navy t-shirt, hair slightly damp like he left the shower before it had a chance to decide about him. His glasses are off. It’s startling in the way a star is startling up close, not because it isn’t a star anymore, but because you realize how quiet they are when they’re not trying to be anything else.

“Hi,” I say, because my brain has fallen out of my head and is doing laps in the hallway.

His surprise is visible but not guarded. It’s the kind of surprise that holds out palms and waits to see what you put there. “Hi,” he answers, soft. He steps aside. “Come in.”

I do, stepping into the warmth and the clean scent of laundry and the spice of—something. The kitchen light is on. The stovetop is off. A stack of mail sits beside a bowl of oranges that are so orange they seem like little suns.

“I—um.” I turn toward him, suddenly shy. “About earlier. When you asked me to get coffee. I said something stupid because my brain did that thing where it pretends we’re in an HR training video.”

His mouth twitches. “You didn’t say anything stupid.”

“I did,” I insist. “Clark, I know what you meant. I do. I realized two seconds after you walked away, which is the worst timing.” My hands are moving now, my words finding their own courage. “And I wanted to say that—if you were asking me out, I want to say yes. I want to say yes so much I got dizzy. I’ve been—” I swallow the rest because it’s too many butterflies to release indoors. “I like you,” I say instead, simple and true. “I have for a while. And I’m sorry I didn’t understand right away. I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings. I just—my default is sharing everything with everyone and calling it inclusive. But I don’t want to share you.”

The last sentence escapes and hangs there, a paper lantern between us.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes soften, and it isn’t like glass fogging; it’s like the ocean moving toward shore. He steps closer, and my heart trips and trips. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “You’re… you. That’s my favorite thing about you. You give everyone the benefit of your open heart.”

“I want to give it to you on purpose,” I say in a rush. I rise on my toes, because I am not brave enough to aim higher, and press a kiss to his cheek. It lands with a tiny sound, an exhale of sugar and nerves. “That’s what I came to say.”

I start to pull back, and then the gravity changes. He catches my waist, gentle but sure, as if he’s been waiting to be allowed to be sure of something. His other hand comes up to cradle the side of my face. He looks at me as if he’s memorizing a paragraph he never wants to get wrong. “I’m going to kiss you,” he says, not a question, just a promise that makes every inch of me agree.

“Okay,” I whisper, and then he does.

If sweetness were a temperature, if relief were a color, if the safest place on earth could be mapped—this would be it. His mouth is warm and patient, and he kisses like the world isn’t on fire outside his windows, like there is time to do this right, like he’s had this thought in his hands for months and now it’s finally allowed to fly. My fingers curl in his shirt because I need something to hold besides my own astonishment. A little hum from my throat meets one from his, and if this were a story I were writing, I would delete the line about the fireworks because the real thing is quieter and better—like closing a book you loved and knowing it loved you back.

When we part, we stay close enough that our breaths get confused. His forehead rests against mine, his smile a secret shared between us. “I was making breakfast for dinner,” he says, voice a soft scrape, as if we didn’t just tip the rail on a rollercoaster. “If you want to come in.”

“I thought I was already in,” I say, dizzy, giddy.

He huffs a laugh. “Come further in,” he amends. “It’s not a fancy invitation, but I make very good pancakes. And—” He swallows, shy suddenly. “—I’ll take you on a real date next time. Somewhere you don’t have to knock first.”

“Clark,” I say, feeling my grin go big enough to light up a city block, “this is already more real than any reservation.”

I leave my coat on the hook by the door. He pads to the kitchen, flicks the burner on, and retrieves a bowl of batter from the fridge like a magician finally pulling out the rabbit he promised. I hop onto a stool at the island because that is where I have sat before, where our friendship lives in the grooves in the wood, and I rest my chin on my hands and just watch him. It’s a luxury, this watching. He measures out batter with a ladle, the circles spreading like moons on his skillet. He turns toward me and catches me staring and blushes, a phenomenon I think might qualify for a science grant.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just—this. You. Pancakes and… the way you look at me. I’m trying to absorb it.”

“I’ve been absorbing you for months,” he confesses, flipping a pancake with an ease that makes me suspect there have been many late nights with many breakfasts. “I didn’t know how to—” He falters. “I didn’t know if you would want… this.”

“If this is you, then yes,” I say promptly. “If this is you and pancakes, yes. If this is you and pancakes and later we talk about the refugee piece I sent and the comments Perry will inevitably write in caps lock, yes. If this is you and—” I almost say capes and stop, because that is the part of him I never name here, not even in my head in his kitchen. The quiet between us hums with a knowledge I don’t touch. “—and everything,” I finish, and he understands anyway.

He slides a pancake onto a plate and sets it in front of me, then adds another and another until the stack looks like a cartoon. He places a pat of butter on top like a crown and watches it melt. “Syrup?” he asks.

“Always,” I say. He hands me the bottle, and I drizzle carefully, amused by his rapt attention when I make a little spiral on top. “They’re perfect.”

“You haven’t tasted them,” he points out.

“They are perfect because they are pancakes you made for me,” I correct, and he looks away, smiling in that way that makes your ribs ache.

We eat. The first bite is soft and buttery and bright with something—lemon? I close my eyes and make a sound that would embarrass me if it weren’t true. “Oh.”

“Good?” he asks.

“You did not warn me about the lemon,” I accuse.

“Secret ingredient,” he says. “Don’t tell Lois. She’ll write an expose.”

We fall into the old, adored rhythm. I tell him about my calls that afternoon, how the municipal liaison used the phrase “unfortunate hiccup” to describe a three-month delay that kept families apart. He listens like it matters because he knows it does. He tells me about his notes for a feature he’s drafting on local libraries changing their hours to accommodate night shift workers. I picture him talking to a security guard at two in the morning, taking down every detail, offering the kind of attention that makes people feel real. The world outside keeps breathing; inside, we make a small, bright life.

At one point, I lean over the island to dab a bit of butter off his lip with my thumb. It’s automatic, thoughtless. The intimacy of it blows a hole in the room. He goes very still and then kisses the pad of my thumb, a gesture so soft I think I might float away.

“Okay,” I whisper, dazed. “That should be illegal.”

“Lois will write about it,” he says gravely. “New city ordinance: No being too charming in kitchens.”

We laugh into our plates. It feels like a miracle that laughing can be part of this and not something we have to perform.

When the dishes are mostly crumbs and the tea is steeping in two mugs—mine, the one with tiny blue flowers that he keeps here for me; his, a sturdy plain thing—he takes my hand across the island. There is flour on my sleeve from where I leaned against the counter; there is a kiss still warming my mouth. He looks at me straightforwardly, like he always does when the important thing is on deck.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “About a real date.”

“I know,” I say. “And I’ll wear something scandalously practical.”

He laughs again, softer. “May I—” He squeezes my fingers, not letting go. “May I take you to the botanical gardens on Saturday? They’re doing an evening thing with the glasshouses open late. The temperature will be pleasant. There’s a café with the best pie in the city three blocks away.”

“You had me at botanic,” I say. “But stay for the pie.”

His relief is visible; it runs through his shoulders like he put down a heavy bag he didn’t realize he was carrying. “Okay,” he says, and it’s the happiest okay I’ve ever heard.

We end up on the couch without intending to, the tea warm in our hands, the city loud but far. Clark sits with his legs tucked up and his body angled toward me, every line of him both solid and easy. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he makes an instinctive little movement, a tightening of arms and breath, as if everything in him is saying, Mine, I will keep you.

“You know,” I say, into the fabric of his shirt, “Lois is going to be insufferable.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “She’s going to say ‘finally’ like a Greek chorus.”

“She deserves to,” I admit. “She’s been choreographing this from the copy desk for months.”

“She told me to ask you out today,” he confesses, and I sit up, scandalized.

“She did not.”

“She did,” he says solemnly. “In the elevator. She looked at me like a stern aunt and said, ‘Clark, if you do not ask her for coffee, I will, and then you’ll have to fight me for her.’”

I clap a hand over my mouth. “That’s exactly what she would say.”

We grin at each other until the grins turn into something quieter, and we kiss again because why would we choose not to. He kisses my temple like it’s a promise, and somewhere inside, something that has been ached-out and unruly for months settles down and purrs.

We talk about nothing and everything. He asks about the dog medication for my aunt, remembers without prompting the breed. I ask about the library piece and his favorite childhood book even though he’s probably told me, and he tells me again, and it feels new. The tea goes cold; we forget to care.

At some point, my phone buzzes with a text from Lois: Are you there? If you’re not there, I’m coming to kick both of your shins. I take a photo of our hands, fingers intertwined on his knee, and send it without a caption. She replies with seventeen heart emojis and one knife, because she’s a poet.

Clark’s head tips back on the couch. “I’m… happy,” he says, a little surprised by hearing it out loud.

“Me too,” I say. “I’ve been happy and also hungry, like I was waiting for something I didn’t want to admit I wanted.”

“Pancakes,” he says, for mischief.

“Kiss,” I counter.

“Both,” he decides, because he is a man of reason.

Eventually—because the world outside is still a world—I stand to go. He walks me to the door like it’s a long walk, his hand in mine like we’ve always done this and just forgot for a bit. At the threshold, I turn back and put my palm flat against his chest, right over the complicated geography there. “Thank you,” I say.

“For what?” He looks genuinely baffled. It kills me a little that gratitude always surprises him.

“For asking me,” I say. “For making pancakes. For being…” I search for the right word and end up with the simplest. “You.”

He swallows. “Thank you for… choosing me.” His voice goes soft on the last word like it’s rare and he doesn’t want to damage it.

“I’m going to keep choosing you,” I promise. “Saturday. And the Saturday after that. And the Tuesday where we both forget our lunches and have to split a protein bar.”

He smiles, a real one that reaches everything. “I’ll bring two protein bars.”

“I’ll bake something,” I say.

“Of course you will,” he says, fondness pouring out of him like sunlight. He dips his head, kisses me, and for a second I consider never leaving. But the city is still doing its breathing, and there are stories to write and alarms to set.

He opens the door. “Get home safe,” he says, habitual, softened by new meaning.

“I always do,” I say, and then because I’m me and a menace, “Also, tomorrow in the breakroom, I’m going to announce that we’re doing a team coffee—”

He groans, forehead meeting the doorjamb.

“—and then afterwards,” I finish, bouncing on my toes, “you and I are going to sneak out and get our own coffee. A secret coffee following the decoy coffee.”

His eyes crinkle. “I like the way you think.”

“I like the way you respond to the way I think,” I say, satisfied. “Goodnight, Clark.”

“Goodnight.” He leans down to kiss the corner of my mouth, incidental and intimate. “Goodnight,” he repeats, a whisper now.

The hallway is cooler, the air a little less sweet, but I take the warmth with me. The elevator dings; the doorman nods; the city spreads out like a quilt. I don’t float down the street because gravity applies, but it feels negotiable, like maybe it has a crush on me tonight.

Back in my apartment, I kick off my shoes and text Lois: There were pancakes. She sends back a string of exclamation points capable of powering a modest city, followed by: Tell me everything tomorrow. I’ll bring coffee. You bring that face.

I set my alarm and then stare at the ceiling, replaying the little film reel—his hands, the careful way he said I’m going to kiss you, the lemon in the pancakes, the way he smiled when I said I wanted to choose him, like I’d said something he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

Morning will come with headlines and deadlines and at least three people arguing about whether Superman should have to file a flight plan. I will bring pastries and patience. I will write about people and systems in the right order. I will sit across from Clark and kick his foot under the table, and he will look at me like the ground under his feet just got steadier. And sometime after everyone disperses and the breakroom returns to its native habitat of coffee stains and leftover bagels, we will leave together, like we’ve both known how to do it all along.

Saturday will come with glasshouses and pie. And maybe there will come another day, a long time from now, when I will knock on this door without knocking at all, when we will know the skillet by muscle memory, when the city will keep breathing and we will keep kissing and choosing, choosing, choosing.

For now, I close my eyes and lean deeper into the pillow, sweet and unembarrassed. Somewhere, out there, the blue of a suit cuts past clouds. Somewhere, in here, a boy in glasses is making plans. And in the small, bright space between those two somewheres, there’s me, and him, and pancakes, and a promise to come back tomorrow with more sugar and the same heart.

[the-internets-girlfriend]

oh how cliche - johnny storm

Johnny Storm x Reader

A cosmic storm gave Johnny Storm the power to ignite and you the ability to freeze the world around you. Fire and ice aren't supposed to mix... but maybe together, you can make something beautiful.

warnings: mild language, kissing

word count: 800+ words

Masterlist

The first thing people always ask is, "so do you and Johnny ever accidentally cancel each other out?"

Like we're some kind of badly written comic book duo where the second we touch, our powers vanish in a puff of smoke.

The answer? No.

The reality? Much messier.

Because while Johnny can turn into a walking furnace and I can turn a room into an icebox, our powers don't erase each other - they feed off each other. Which is exactly why Johnny thinks it’s hilarious to flick sparks near me and why I’ve been known to “accidentally” frost his coffee mug so it shatters in his hand.

We’ve been like this since the space trip. The one that gave Reed an even bigger brain, Sue the ability to disappear, Ben his rocky exterior… and Johnny the ability to go supernova if he’s bored for too long.

Me? I wasn’t even meant to be up there. I was supposed to be ground crew. But when one of the engineers pulled out last minute, I was tapped in. Right place, wrong time — or maybe the other way around.

When the cosmic storm hit, Johnny was strapped in directly opposite me in the shuttle. Reed swears that’s why we’re so different: two opposite charges, opposite reactions. Johnny went up in flames. I woke up with frost curling over my skin like lace.

It should have been the perfect setup for some epic, opposites-attract romance.

Instead. its been months and months of banter, teasing, and Johnny not making a move.

So I stopped waiting. Which, in practice, looks a lot like avoiding him.

The problem is, Johnny’s noticed.

I’m in the kitchen making tea when he strolls in, hair damp from a shower and wearing that stupid grin he probably practices in the mirror.

“Let me guess,” he says, leaning on the doorframe, “this is the part where you pretend you don’t see me and then pull a disappearing act.”

I don’t look up from my mug. “You really think you’re worth vanishing over?”

“Yes.” He crosses the room, bracing his hands on the counter. “Because you’ve been doing it for weeks. Lab yesterday? Gone before I got there. Breakfast this morning? You bailed before I sat down.”

I shrug, spooning sugar into my mug. “Maybe I just got tired of waiting.”

His brows lift. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to stop treating this like some long-running game and actually make a move.”

He laughs — quick, sharp, deflective. “You think I didn’t because I don’t want to? Try because it’s a terrible idea. Fire and ice? That’s not cute, that’s combustible. You and me together? We’d clash. Literally.”

I finally look at him. “Oh… how cliché.”

“What?”

“That’s the line they give in every bad superhero soap opera. ‘We can’t be together, babe, our powers are too opposite.’” I pick up my mug and walk past him. “Newsflash, Johnny — you’re not avoiding disaster, you’re avoiding me.”

And I’m gone before he can come up with something to say.

It takes him twenty minutes to track me down on the Baxter Building’s roof.

“You’re freezing the railing,” he says, stepping up beside me.

“Good. Maybe it’ll keep you from leaning on it and giving me another tragic monologue.”

He chuckles, but there’s no swagger in it. “Okay. Yeah. I deserved that.”

We stand in silence for a beat, the city stretched out beneath us. Then he says, “You were wrong, you know.”

I glance at him. “About what?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you because I didn’t want you. I was avoiding… hurting you. Melting you. Losing control around you. You’re the only one who could freeze me solid, and I’m the only one who could burn you without trying. It’s complicated.”

“You’re forgetting something obvious,” I say, turning toward him. “I can handle you. Literally.”

For once, Johnny’s grin isn’t cocky. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He steps closer, his hands warm against my face, and kisses me. And instead of steam or chaos, something else happens.

Where his heat meets my cold, the air glows — tiny crystalline sparks hanging in the air like suspended stars.

We break apart to stare at it.

“Whoa,” he breathes. “We just made… sparkly air?”

I laugh softly. “Not exactly. Supercooled vapor crystallized by heat. Reed would go nuts trying to study it.”

“Guess we found something we do better together.”

“Besides argue?”

He smirks. “Besides that.”

Of course, that’s when we hear a voice from the doorway.

“Well, this explains the weird frost-and-heat spike on the building sensors.”

Ben’s leaning there with his arms crossed. Behind him, Sue’s trying not to laugh, and Reed looks like he’s mid-calculation.

Johnny groans. “Do you people ever knock?”

Sue gestures vaguely. “It’s a roof.”

Reed tilts his head, studying the shimmering air between us. “That’s… actually fascinating. A stable thermal equilibrium producing—”

Johnny cuts him off. “Nope. Our thing now.” He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me in closer.

Ben mutters something about “power couple nonsense” as they turn to leave. Johnny leans down to whisper, “Told you we’d figure it out.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Maybe “fire and ice” isn’t so cliché after all.

[the-internets-girlfriend]

breaking news - johnny storm

Johnny Storm x Reader

summary: Years after a secret relationship with Johnny Storm ended in silence, a dangerous live report brings you face-to-face again. Sparks fly, old wounds open, and neither of you can ignore what’s been left unsaid.

warnings: unresolved romantic tension, mild language, field danger/accident

word count: 7.9k+ words

Masterlist

The first lie I tell myself is that I don’t mind goodbyes. The second lie is that Johnny Storm makes them easy.

He stands in my apartment doorway in a flight suit that’s unzipped at the throat, a dawn‑colored sliver of skin showing like a secret. He smells faintly like hotel soap and jet fuel and the expensive dryer sheets he pretends he doesn’t use. My fingers are still cold from the orange I peeled into neat moons for him, because he said he doesn’t like flying on a full stomach, which is ridiculous because he loves flying on anything.

“Reed says there’s only a two percent chance the shielding fails,” I say, pretending to be casual, which means I’m failing spectacularly.

“Reed says a lot of things,” Johnny says, and leans one shoulder into my doorframe like the building holds him up, “including that I should cut down on caffeine. But you own a kettle and I own a sweet tooth, so.”

“That’s not the ratio, Johnny. Two percent isn’t a latte order.”

He flashes a grin that has probably started bar fights and charity drives with equal success. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”

“No,” I say, and then, because I’ve never once been able to out‑lie him when we’re this close, “yes.”

He steps inside. The zipper on his suit whispers. His palms frame my jaw warm and sure, heat leaching into my skin like his temperature listens only to how close we are. The kiss starts patient—like he’s cataloging—but it doesn’t stay there. It tips. It heats. I back into the wall and he follows, thigh slotting between mine, mouth opening against mine, the kind of slow that feels like falling.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, breathless against my mouth, and I don’t.

Instead, I take fistfuls of flight suit and drag him closer. His laugh is startled and delighted all at once. When his fingers slide beneath the hem of my tee, my stomach tightens; his thumb draws a nonsense circle that means, I remember you, I remember this. I hook my ankle behind his calf and the zipper tags my wrist—cool metal, warm skin, dizzy contrast.

“You’re going to be late,” I murmur, which is what you say when you mean, I want more and there isn’t time to have it.

He noses along my cheek, kisses the corner of my mouth like a period at the end of a sentence he’s reluctant to finish. “Reed can un‑late me with math.”

“Johnny.”

“I know.” He rests his forehead to mine. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide and his smile is softer than I deserve. “I’ll see you soon.”

There it is: the first wink he ever gives me that is not a joke. It hits like a vow, a tiny shock at the hinge of my heart. He looks at me as if he wants to memorize the way I’m standing, the way I’m trying not to cry. Then he straightens, zips, collects his duffel, and is suddenly somehow in motion like he always has been: a beautiful disaster with a schedule.

“Bring me back a moon rock,” I say, because he hates boring requests.

“I’ll bring you the moon,” he says, because he hates losing.

And then the door clicks, and the apartment exhales without him, and my kettle starts screaming from the kitchen like it knew I wouldn’t drink the tea anyway.

We don’t put a name on what we are before he leaves, which is very us. We keep it off the team’s radar because it feels private, and because private is where things live when you’re waiting to see if they’ll make it out of orbit.

By the time the footage loops enough times to burn itself into the back of my retinas, I’ve stopped sleeping in my bed. The couch is safer. I can pretend the television is white noise and not a wound. But the day the mission turns into myth—cosmic storm, altered biology, the kind of “after” that makes a million “before”s irrelevant—I fold. I put my phone face‑down. I close my laptop. I promise myself I will not look.

I look.

Sue has the microphone. Reporters are stacked like dominos, shoving questions into airtime. Someone asks if Johnny’s taken. He’s in the background, sunlight with a pulse, and she laughs easily, without checking her brother’s eyes, without looking for the girl who made him tea at 4 a.m. because he said space smelled like oranges in his dreams.

“And he’s single, ladies!”

The screen goes black so fast my reflection in it flinches. I stand in my living room, listening to the refrigerator hum like a lonely thing, and swallow around a taste that feels like metal. I do not call. I do not text. I go to work. I do not tell anyone why my eyeliner is better now. I make a list of everything that needs doing and then I do it, one small checkmark at a time, as if busy is a boat I can row myself away in.

We’ve always been private. The second lie is that privacy isn’t the same as absence.

Years are sneaky. They collect while you’re rinsing coffee grounds out of a French press and learning the names of cameramen who’ve seen more midnight than daylight. Field reporting is the art of looking into a lens that will not love you back and convincing it you’re fine. I learn to talk in wind and rain and under the red pulse of an ambulance. I learn how to narrate between the worst and the after, how to hold a mic steady when the ground tries to tilt me off it.

Sometimes, the Human Torch shows up. He burns into frame like a promise or a punchline. I keep my voice level. I roll my eyes once per segment—never on camera, always just to the side—because petty can be private, too.

He’s a rumor near my shoulder at a charity gala. He’s a bright streak overhead on a winter morning when the air bites and the city tries to remember what it was before it needed saving.

I don’t see him up close. I keep it that way.

Today’s assignment is Midtown—Ryland Building—experimental energy wing. The word “experimental” should be retired from press releases; it always means, Brace for the thing you can’t expect.

We park in the media bay and hustle. My producer talks into my ear like God on a deadline. The street smells like ozone, the kind of electric that makes your hair want to stand up and salute. Fire trucks, patrol cars, the whole neon parade. The building’s glass is too clean; it reflects the chaos like it wants to pretend it isn’t part of it.

“Thirty seconds,” my cameraman says, already kneeling for a frame that makes me look taller and braver.

I smooth my blazer, touch my IFB, glance at the lobby where somebody in a suit is arguing with someone in turnout gear. There’s a dull, stomach‑level thud from deep inside the building, the sound of something not catastrophically wrong yet but making the commute.

“Ten.”

I breathe and face the lens, the old ritual of professional calm. “This is Y/N Y/L/N reporting live from Midtown—” The voice drops into me like muscle memory—like saying grace before a meal you can’t afford to spill. “—where officials are responding to what Ryland Labs is calling an ‘unstable energy fluctuation.’ Sources tell us a containment unit may have—”

The street shivers.

Not an earthquake. A ripple. The air pressure shifts, slaps the breath out of my throat. The camera jiggles; my cameraman swears. Somewhere to my left, a plate glass window pops outward as cleanly as a champagne cork.

“—failed,” I finish, but it isn’t my voice, it’s autopilot, because the lobby is coughing people now—security shoving civilians through revolving doors that aren’t revolving fast enough. Alarms taste like tin.

Reed Richards is a streak of intent at the edge of my vision. Ben is a moving wall. Somewhere—above? behind?—the air catches and burns, and the crowd breathes a there‑he‑is exhale on a delay.

I keep talking because that’s the job. “The Fantastic Four have arrived on scene—”

A second shockwave punches the street. Fire doesn’t roar; it arrives. Heat licks my shins, hot enough to steal the thought out of my head. The camera tilts and I tilt with it. My ankle skids on something that wasn’t glass until it was. I don’t make the sound that is not a word but wants to be. I reach for the tripod and catch air.

Arms find me. Not a catch, a collection—like I am a thing that was always meant to be moving, and he was built to change the kind of moving it is. Heat wraps me, but it doesn’t hurt. The world jumps—up, out—sirens smear into a chorus. My stomach is a lift with a broken bell.

We land in a pocket of relative quiet behind the police line. Asphalt under my shoes again, the thud of it enjoyable in a way it shouldn’t be.

“Hey.” His voice is closer than any sound should be. “You good?”

My name is a word in his mouth I haven’t heard since dawn on a day the calendar pretends still exists. He says it like the syllables could put me back together. “Y/N?”

I look up. He’s the same and not. There are lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t earned by laughter alone. Flames gutter off him like he’s telling them to sit. His hair is a little shorter; his mouth is exactly as I remember: dangerous and familiar.

He’s staring like he’s seen a ghost. Maybe he has. Maybe I am. I’ve certainly practiced it enough.

“I—” I start, and me and the sentence both fail. I don’t know which place to stand in: the one where my hand has learned a hundred ways to hold a microphone or the one where I learned one way to hold him.

Reed calls his name and the name is a leash. He looks back over his shoulder. When he looks at me again, there’s a decision in it, and also the same boy who said he’d bring me the moon.

He winks.

And then he is flame and motion, launched so fast the air forgets to follow, and the crowd oohs because the physics of him are a very watchable miracle.

My cameraman staggers over, panting, eyes wide. “You just got rescued by the Human Torch on live TV,” he says, equal parts awe and ratings math.

“I missed my tag,” I say, and the anger is an old friend. Not at the saving; I will always be ungrateful and alive. At the silence after. At every conversation that didn’t happen because none of us braved the nouns.

We file the stand‑up that should have been live. We send back tape that will be cut between Reed’s clean explanations and Ben’s patient, boulder‑shaped kindness. We decline comment on anything that is not the story, which is everything.

By the time the street remembers how to be a street, my producer lets me go. “Get home,” she says, which is generous of her, because the word suggests a destination and not just a door.

The city has that post‑crisis hush, like theater air after the curtain drops. I pack my bag. I pull my blazer tight, a useless armor against memory. I walk.

I feel him before I hear him. Heat is not subtle, especially when it knows where you keep your shoulders. A hush of it, a perimeter.

“Go away,” I say, without turning.

“Not a chance,” Johnny says, because stubborn is his most religious practice. “Let me walk you.”

“No.”

“It’s dark.”

He doesn’t say, You hate walking alone after late shifts, but the sentence hangs between us like we both said it and neither did.

I keep walking. He falls in a half step back like he’s learned not to crowd me, which is almost funny given that he is basically a one‑man sun.

We cross Lexington and a cluster of twenty‑somethings at the corner recognizes him. It happens like weather: a squeal, a phone raised, an Instagram story begging to be born. “Johnny Storm! We love you!” one of them calls, voice helium‑light with the thrill of proximity.

“Stay warm out here,” he says automatically, a smile clicking on that is so practiced my teeth ache. “You ladies good?”

I don’t stop, but my mouth goes a hard line I feel in my calves. He hears it in the rhythm of my steps or sees it in whatever part of me he still reads without permission, because he jogs two strides to be level again, then says nothing at all, which is how I can tell he’s trying.

The block outside my place has a lamppost that flickers no matter how many emails the neighborhood association sends. I unlock the front door, step inside the stoop’s shallow pool of light, and turn so fast he almost runs into it.

“You never told her,” I say. Not a question. A scab I peeled back with my fingernail on purpose.

He blinks, thrown by the direction. “Told who what?”

“Your sister.” The word tastes like static. “About me. About us.”

He opens his mouth and I can see the exact moment he realizes we never said it out loud to each other either. Us. His jaw tightens, not defensive—underdone, like the thought is raw. “It wasn’t—” He stops. Tries again. “We were… you said you liked it private.”

“I liked it ours,” I say, quiet enough that the street doesn’t get to have it. “That isn’t the same as secret.”

His throat works. He looks down at his hands like he might find a script scrawled there. “Sue wasn’t—She was—It was a joke.” He flinches at his own word. “A bad one.”

“It wasn’t the joke,” I say. “It was the silence after. From you.”

That lands. His wince is quick and unhidden. “I thought—after everything—we’d get a minute to breathe before trying to define… anything. And then it got loud. It always gets loud.”

“You didn’t look for me.” I am surprised how even it comes out. Not an accusation. An inventory.

His answer is small and honest, and I hate that about him. “I didn’t know where to knock.”

I should laugh. It’s such a Johnny answer. It is also, infuriatingly, true in too many ways; there are doors you can only find by being the person you were when they were built.

“You do now,” I say, and step back.

His gaze holds mine for a long moment. "Then tell me... is there another chance?"

The question is a slow match to the chest. My mouth opens, but the truth tangles in my throat. "I don't know," I admit, and the air between us feels heavier for it.

He nods once, almost like he expected that answer, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small card. "This is my new number. If you ever decide you don know... call me." He sets it gently in my hand.

I close my fingers around it without meaning to. He steps back from the doorway, heat retreating with him, and I close the door before the answer can change on my face.

Later that night, the apartment is too quiet. His card sits on my counter, edges curling slightly in the humidity. I stare at it until I can’t, and then I pick it up, thumbing the numbers until they’re committed to memory. My phone feels heavier than it should when I type the message;

If we try again, it’s as friends first.

It takes less than a minute for the reply to come;

Friends it is.

And damn it, I’m smiling.

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Secrets in Doncaster: Part 5 - George Clarke

George Clarke x Y/N (2.3k words)

A soccer Saturday in Doncaster is spent laughing and drinking with friends... and the occasionally minion. However, can a secret go viral?

warnings: alcohol consumption, creating bets, swearing, a grumpy minion, suggestive content.

series | masterlist | previous part | next part

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We follow the pin George sent, weaving our way past kebab vans, pockets of smokes and the occasional fans shouting at us from across the street. I wave back, giddy grin still stuck on my face from the book chat.

Becky's arm loops through mine as she shivers slightly. "Okay, real talk - when are you launching a book club? That interaction back there was so perfect for you; now imagine that with all your fans?"

Jess laughs, "she's not wrong. You went from tipsy to TED talk in under thirty seconds."

"Shut up," I giggle, cheeks flushed. "I just... I like helping people find stories they'll fall in love with."

"And people love you for it," Becky said softly, nudging me with her shoulder.

I don't say anything. I'm still floating a little - from the sweets, the fans, the buzz of the street. From knowing that George is just around the corner.

And then we spot him.

He’s standing outside the next pub — The Queen Crafthouse — camera in one hand, waving his other dramatically in the air like we’re arriving at the bloody Oscars. Isaac and Arthur are beside him, already laughing, and Chris is filming the chaos like the natural-born director he thinks he is.

“Hello, hello!” George calls, exaggerated posh voice on full blast.

“There they are — the sweets bandits!” Arthur TV adds, giving us a mock bow.

I break into a jog the last few steps, launching straight into George’s arms like it’s instinct. He catches me, arms around my waist, spinning me slightly before setting me back on the ground.

“You smell like sugar,” he teases.

“You smell like Guinness and poor decisions,” I fire back.

George laughs. “So basically, we’re a perfect match.”

I laugh as I pull away just enough to keep myself tucked into his side as we head inside.

The Queen Crafthouse is dim and cozy, more polished that the last few stops. We all slide into a booth, the group curling around the table like we've done this a thousand times.

George nestles into the corner, pulling me onto his lap. I toss my licorice into the middle of the table, and Becky and Isaac fight over the bag.

Chris is going on about something about the train earlier to the group but I'm not focusing as George leans down, chin resting lightly on my shoulder. "So what's with the big smile love?"

I grin, still buzzing. "We got stopped by a fan. Well - two girls. Teenagers. One asked for a photo, and her friend asked me for a book rec!"

His whole face lights up. "No way."

“I know, right? And it wasn’t like a fake 'what should I read’ thing — she really meant it. She said she didn’t know where to start. So I asked her what movies she liked and she said Heartstopper and To All the Boys and 10 Things I Hate About You—”

“Oh my god, she’s you,” George says with a chuckle.

“Exactly. So I told her to start with Better Than the Movies. I went full book goblin on her. Becky and Jess were watching me like I was giving a sermon.”

“You kinda were.” Becky interupts.

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling again. “It just felt really good. Like… not just being recognised, but helping someone find something they might fall in love with.”

George squeezes my thigh gently under the table. “You’re gonna be amazing when you start that book club.”

I tilt my head, surprised. “Wait, who said anything about starting one?”

“You did, just now.”

“I didn’t—”

“You were thinking it.”

I laugh, leaning into him again, letting myself enjoy this — the moment, the warmth, the weird magic of Doncaster.

And then my phone buzzes.

I think nothing of it at first. Just a notification. Probably the group chat or someone tagging me in a post from earlier.

But it's not.

It's instagram.

A post. From a guy. The random guy from the pub earlier in the night.

GEORGE CLARKE AND Y/N KISSING IN A PUB IN DONCASTER???

The photo is directly below the heading.

It's the bar kiss.

The one with my hands on his chest, his fingers digging into my sides. His lips on mine.

My whole stomach flips. Not from the alcohol.

"And we're about to have the best night of our entire life!" Is the statement said by Chris which breaks me out of my trance.

I look pale; the secret is out - the secret we wanted to tell our fans ourselves.

“George,” I whisper, stiffening beside him.

He immediately notices the shift in my voice — in my body. “What?”

I show him the screen.

His whole expression changes. That easy smile melts away as he leans in, squinting at the photo.

Becky leans over too, letting out a low, “Oh… shit.”

The rest of the group hear Becky and stop their conversation, peering over to what we're dicussing.

I turn my phone around to face the group.

“He said he deleted it,” I mutter. “The guy from earlier. The one who took the photo.”

George doesn’t say anything. Not right away. He just exhales, jaw tight.

“It’s already got thousands of likes. It’s spreading fast.”

I look up at him, heart racing. “We didn’t even get to do it ourselves.”

He looks at me for a long moment — then grabs his phone.

“Chris,” he says, loud enough to catch attention, “photo?”

Chris takes the phone with a smirk and begins commentating, "and look here viewers, is this George and Y/N finally deciding to post their relationship?"

Becky and Arthur are on ethier side of us and huddle closer for a group photos. George keeps him arm around me as Chris snaps the photo - all of us squished into the booth, a little drunk, a little red-faced and a whole lot happy.

George takes his phone back and types out a few words showing me to make sure I'm happy of which I nod.

He uploads the image to his Instagram story, and tags me.

A single caption:

💋#Doncaster

When I turn back to him, he’s already watching me.

“If it’s out,” he says softly, “I want people to know it’s real.”

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We continue to enjoy our night as drinks keep arriving and conversations spiral into the usual pub chaos. Suddenly Arthur declares loudly, "Let's give them a shot, a shot! Somebody take their trousers off."

I stand from George's lap with exaggerated dramatics, raising my hands like I'm accepting as Oscar and was about to do it as a joke whilst Arthur cheers me on.

Becky hollers, "THAT'S MY GIRL!"

George doesn't even blink. He just grabs my hips with both hands, smirking. "Nope. Not until later tonight, love," he says, voice low and casual as he pulls me firmly back into his lap.

I shift a little, trying to get comfortable again, wiggling my hips slightly as I settle - and then freeze.

There's something.

Hard.

Pressed against me.

George leans in close, lips brushing my ear, voice strained and quiet, "baby, I need you to please stop moving against me."

A drunk giggle bubbles out of me anyway.

Naturally, I do it again.

George’s hands immediately tighten around my hips, steadying me in place. “You’re evil,” he murmurs.

“And yet, you love me,” I shoot back.

Before George can reply, Chris raises a pint triumphantly above his head. “Guys! We have got a locally sourced IPA for everyone!”

The boys erupt into a cheer as pints get passed around the table. I grab mine and lift it in Isaac’s direction as he clinks his against mine.

We take a sip — or, well, I intend to.

But Isaac doesn’t stop sipping.

And I’m not one to back down from a challenge.

The race is on.

I chug the pint, head tipped back, finishing just a second before Isaac slams his glass down. I beat him by barely a breath.

“Wait, you finished that quick!” someone shouts from across the booth, their voice half in disbelief.

Isaac and I break into matching grins, eyes wide with pride.

“UNEXPECTED LEGEND!” we shout in unison, throwing our hands in the air like we just won the FA Cup.

George laughs and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “Yeah, that’s my girlfriend!” he shouts to the pub proudly, raising his own pint in salute.

The booth erupts into laughter, and the moment is golden — warm and chaotic and sticky with beer.

I slump back into George’s side, breathless and buzzing.

That’s when I check my phone.

Just to see the time.

Instead I was met with the fan reactions of the story.

I quickly repost the story to my own story and check out some of the reactions.

My notifications are flooded.

Screenshots of the story reposted with captions like:

"WAIT WAIT WAIT I KNEW IT!!"

"remember when they were in that Sidemen hide and seek and they were in that tiny cupboard together??? it all makes sense now!!"

"the way the always sat next to each other in every video - the soft launch was real!"

"GEORGE AND Y/N CONFIRMED! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"

"the beer forehead kiss???? the matching sambas???? THE HANDS ON THE HIPS!!!!!"

"do you guys remeber that tiktok where she said her type was 'tall, sarcastic, and emotionally unavailable' and the top comment was 'so George Clarke then?' I AM SCREAMMMMINGGGGG"

I scroll and scroll, half laughing, half speechless.

The fans didn’t just notice — they’ve been tracking us like detectives.

And they’re so happy.

Not a single negative thing in sight. Just love. Just support. Just a million puzzle pieces finally falling into place.

George peeks over my shoulder and lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. We’ve gone viral.”

I turn to him, dazed and grinning. “They’ve known this whole time.”

He shrugs, smirking. “We were pretty obvious.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “We were sneaky.”

“You literally did a shoey for me on the train,” he deadpans.

“…Okay, maybe not that sneaky.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to my temple. “Still the best secret I’ve ever had.”

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We spend the next hour at the pub, cheering and drinking like champions, the energy still buzzing as we decide to head to the next stop.

Just outside the door, we’re briefly stopped by two boys — one proudly claiming he tried to copy Isaac’s hair, and the other grinning at me with a cheeky, “you’re actually so fit.”

Before I can even respond, George’s hand finds mine, tugging me away with a low, amused mutter under his breath.

“She’s mine.”

I glance up at him with a smirk. “Possessive much?”

“Territorial,” he corrects, squeezing my hand with zero shame.

We fall into step with the group, spilling out onto the streets of Doncaster once more. The night is alive — loud music pouring from doorways, people spilling out of clubs, the pavement sticky under our feet.

And then, suddenly, a group of locals starts backflipping on the footpath.

Like, full-on Olympic flips — no warning, no explanation.

Arthur TV claps like they’re street performers, while Chris yells “DO IT AGAIN!” and nearly trips over a curb.

I turn to George, wide-eyed. “Was that real or am I drunker than I thought?”

He just laughs, looping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re drunk and it was real.”

We carry on, weaving through crowds and chaos, soaking in the messy magic of the Doncaster night — George’s arm never leaving mine, and his smirk never fading.

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George is ahead of me as I walk alongside Isaac and Arthur TV, still grinning from the night and the chaotic pub crawl energy clinging to us like spilled cider.

“I swear to God, if the next pub doesn’t have toilets that aren’t terrifying, I’m starting a protest,” Arthur mutters, adjusting his jacket.

“Yeah, a piss protest,” Isaac adds, deadpan.

"Oh my god, it's a minion! What the fuck!" Arthur suddenly shouts, interrupting us mid-conversation, "it's a minion!" He repeats, pointing dramatically like he's discovered Bigfoot.

Isaac and I exchange a glance - the vibe has definitely shifted. I feel his arm push gently in front of me as he mutters, "no, no, no..."

Becky stands to our left, frozen in pure confusion as Arthur, far too drunk to clock the mood, stumbles forward and says with a dopey grin.

"It's a grumpy minion."

The minion takes a step closer.

His friend tries to hold him back.

Arthur, still oblivious, points again. "It's an angry minion!"

I subtly nod to Becky, silently telling her to get Arthur out of there. She moves quickly, slipping an arm around him and guiding him away.

Isaac and I remain, trying to de-escalate.

"Please just ignore him," I plea, hands raised, referring to Arthur.

The minion's eyes lock onto me. His body tenses and then -

"Are you taking the piss?" He snaps, voice sharp.

Arthur is now halfway across the street with Becky, but it’s too late — the Minion steps in and grabs a handful of Isaac’s shirt.

“Oi!” Isaac stumbles slightly as the guy tugs him forward.

The girl with the Minion acts fast, trying to pull him back, while I step in front of Isaac instinctively, putting myself between them.

“Hey! No need for that,” I say, voice firm but calm.

“Let’s just split ways,” I tell the girl, holding eye contact. “You guys go that way, we’ll go the opposite.”

She gives me a small nod. “Yeah. We’re gonna leave it.”

Crisis nearly averted — until Arthur appears again.

He’s crept back like a drunk raccoon, arms outstretched like he's rejoining a musical number.

I grab him immediately, wrapping a hand around his arm like an annoyed mum at a carnival. “Nope. Noooo. This way.”

We start dragging him off as Isaac glances over his shoulder one last time. “Mate, we weren’t taking the piss,” he says honestly.

Then he looks at me, exasperated. “I can’t believe we almost got decked by a Minion.”

“Doncaster,” I reply simply, as we walk away. “Never boring.”

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Hi all!

I'm back after my little break with a new part - how exciting! And we've met the grumpy minion!! Honestly that part never gets old - like I have rewatch it so much to write this and get the quotes and it's never not funny! However we only have ten minutes left of the video meaning only one part left :(

See you guys next time,

mwah x

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taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @joisthriving @madforgeorge @smzyyx @graceln4 @norrizzandpia @heyitsmefall @oliviaohanessian1 @clarkey4life @dopeysunflowers @hey-there9-its-me @ooostarwarsfandom501st @canyouseethesainz @cheesystylesig @burkayyy @mia-maybank @smzyyx @simp-hub @sundarksposts

[the-internets-girlfriend]

You Are in Love - Conrad Fisher

Conrad Fisher x Y/N

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ��. Now playing... You Are in Love (Taylor's Version) - Taylor Swift

It was always him. You just didn’t realise it until a quiet night on the Cousins beach house porch — knees brushing, tea shared, words you never thought he’d say. A soft, slow burn about the moment friendship quietly becomes something more.

warnings: none

word count: 500+ words

Georgia’s Playlist | Masterlist

The thing about Cousins is that the days stretch long, like taffy. Sticky and sweet and golden at the edges.

It’s late — past midnight, maybe. The kind of quiet that only exists when the world is asleep. I’m barefoot on the porch of the beach house, sweatshirt tucked over my knees, watching the waves roll in like they’ve got nowhere else to be.

Conrad’s next to me. He’s quiet too. Not unusual — Conrad’s quiet in the way that still water is quiet. Calm on the surface, but you know there’s a pull underneath.

He tosses me a glance. “You tired?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

He nods. Then hands me his mug of tea without saying anything, like it’s instinct. It’s chamomile. Warm. I hold it with both hands.

We’ve always done this — existed near each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No declarations. No labels. Just… this.

The porch creaks as he shifts, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands. I peek at him from under my lashes. His hair’s a little messy from the salt air. His profile’s all soft lines tonight — not thinking, not brooding. Just existing.

You can hear it in the silence, silence, you can feel it on the way home...

Something hums in my chest.

I look down at the mug.

“I heard Belly talking to Jeremiah earlier,” I say, voice light. “She said she thinks we’re in love.”

Conrad turns his head slowly. “Oh yeah?”

“She said we look at each other like a couple in a rom-com.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s quiet. Nervous. “And what do you think?”

I shrug. “I think she watches too many movies.”

He doesn’t say anything.

You can see it with the light out, lights out...

There’s a pause, filled only by the ocean.

“I look at you like that.”

My head snaps toward him.

He’s not smiling. Not teasing. He’s just looking — straight at me, like I’m something he’s never let himself study this closely.

“What?” I say, breath caught somewhere between my ribs.

“I look at you like that,” he says again, softer. “And I have for a while.”

My heart thuds, slow and heavy.

“You’ve never said anything.”

He shrugs, and for once, it’s not dismissive — it’s vulnerable. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

I’m silent. My fingers tighten on the mug.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly. “I just… I wanted you to know. In case you ever wondered.”

And I had. All the time.

I turn toward him fully. The porch light flickers behind us, casting his face in the kind of shadow that makes you want to lean closer just to see better.

I set the mug down. My voice comes out softer than I expect.

“I think I look at you like that too.”

Conrad blinks. “Yeah?”

I nod.

He smiles — and it’s the kind that’s all crinkled eyes and relief and something golden behind it.

Then he shifts closer.

Our knees touch.

He doesn’t kiss me — not yet. He just leans his shoulder into mine and lets it stay there.

And it’s so simple. So right.

And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars...

We sit in silence after that.

And it doesn’t feel like nothing’s happening — it feels like everything is.

Because suddenly, I know.

I’m in love with Conrad Fisher.

And he’s in love with me, too.

And you can hear it in the silence...

So get ready for a lot of Conrad because the new season is out, meaning... NEW WHITE BOY OF THE MONTH!

See you all soon,

mwah x

taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @joisthriving @madforgeorge @smzyyx @graceln4 @norrizzandpia @heyitsmefall @oliviaohanessian1 @clarkey4life @dopeysunflowers @hey-there9-its-me @ooostarwarsfandom501st @canyouseethesainz @cheesystylesig @burkayyy @mia-maybank @smzyyx @simp-hub @sundarksposts

[the-internets-girlfriend]

The Very First Night - George Clarke

George Clarke x Y/N

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. Now playing... The Very First Night (Taylor's Version) - Taylor Swift

You and George dated quietly for over a year - no posts, no photos, no leaks. Then came the split; quiet, gentle but final. Now you're both in the same city again, circling each other like ghosts. You see him at a mutual friend's party. A song plays. He looks at you. And everything crashes down.

warnings: ex-established relationships, situationships,

word count: 900+ words

Georgia’s Playlist | Masterlist

We haven't spoken in eleven months.

Not that I’m counting — except I am, in the quiet parts of my day. On the Tube. In the queue at Tesco. When I’m trying not to scroll too far back in my camera roll.

And now he’s here. Of course he is. George Clarke, in a black jacket and trainers, standing in the kitchen of someone else’s flat, laughing like nothing ever happened.

I could turn around. I should.

Instead, I stand there like a bloody idiot, gripping my drink, heart thudding in a rhythm I thought I’d forgotten.

Then someone connects to the speaker.

And Taylor starts singing.

We were built to fall apart, then fall back together...

Oh, come on.

I feel it before I see it — his gaze. Heavy. Unavoidable. Like a pull in my chest that says: Look at me. Remember us. Do you still feel it?

I lift my eyes.

He’s already looking.

I wish I could fly, I'd pick you up and we'd go back in time...

I remember the way he used to sing this in the car, windows down, fingers drumming the steering wheel like he knew the beat better than his own pulse. He always skipped the sad songs. Except this one. He liked this one.

And now it’s playing between us like a challenge.

He’s crossing the room.

I forget how to breathe.

“Hey,” he says.

Like it’s nothing. Like we didn’t tear each other in half and leave the stitches unfinished.

“Hi.”

My voice doesn’t betray me. It’s calm, cool, unbothered. I hate it. It doesn’t match the way my ribs are tightening under my coat, or the way I’m gripping my plastic cup like it might anchor me.

George looks… good. Hair a little longer than it used to be. Shoulders wrapped in something too expensive for this crowd. He’s trying to keep it casual, but his eyes do that thing — the thing they always did — where they scan my face like they’re memorising it. Like he’s checking if I’m still me.

The chorus hits. I look down.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say, even though I did. Becky mentioned it offhand in her message, buried between, “we’ve got drinks!!” And, “Chris is bringing snacks.”

George half-smiles. “Did you come with someone?”

It’s casual, the way someone might ask about the weather. But his jaw is tight. And I know him too well not to notice the flicker behind his eyes.

“No. You?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just came with Isaac. He’s already disappeared, probably trying to charm the host’s cat.”

We laugh. It’s soft. Familiar. It cracks something open in me.

The flash of your smile, the smell of your perfume...

I still wear the same one. I wonder if he notices. I wonder if he wore that hoodie on purpose — the grey one I used to steal when I stayed over, big enough to sleep in, soft enough to miss.

We fall quiet.

There’s music, and people, and laughter spinning around us — but we’re standing in the eye of it, where everything slows down.

“I heard your interview,” I say finally. “The one with the cooking podcast.”

His brows lift. “Didn’t think you still listened.”

“I didn’t,” I lie. “It just came up.”

He looks down at his shoes. “I said some stupid shit in that.”

“You said you were happy.”

“I wasn’t.”

Silence.

I remember the night at the hotel, I was riding in the car when we both fell...

The memory slams into me so suddenly I feel breathless.

The hotel room in Manchester. Rain on the windows. George in the passenger seat, telling me I was his favourite part of touring with the podcast, even if no one knew I was there.

The way he kissed me like a secret.

The way I let him.

“You don’t get to say that now,” I whisper, voice tight. “You left.”

“You told me to,” he says, low and raw.

“You didn’t fight me.”

He steps closer. Not touching — he never touched me in public — but close enough that I feel the gravity of him, steady and sickening.

“I didn’t fight,” he says, “because I thought it was what you needed. You were slipping away and I—” he exhales. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

My eyes sting.

He’s right. I was slipping. The long distance, the hiding, the pretending — it wore me thin. But I didn’t want him to go. Not really. I just wanted him to say please stay.

And he never did.

You said in a simple way. 4 AM the second day...

“George…”

His name tastes like regret. Like something half-written.

“I still think about it,” he says. “The mornings. The bad movies. That time we ordered chips and they delivered a birthday cake instead.”

I laugh, broken and sudden.

“I still think about you.”

It hangs between us like smoke. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

I miss you like it was the very first night...

“Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like?” he asks. “If we didn’t care about the cameras. If we just… posted a photo. Told people. Held hands on the street.”

“All the time,” I whisper.

His hand twitches, like he might reach for mine. But he doesn’t.

“Can I see you?” he asks.

“George—”

“Not tonight. Just… sometime. No hiding. Just us.”

I want to say yes.

God, I want to.

But the song’s ending. The room is loud again. Someone bumps into my arm, and the moment breaks.

“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s easier than the truth.

He nods. Bites the inside of his cheek. “I’ll wait.”

Then he turns, and walks away.

And I just stand there, heart pounding like it’s the very first night.

I LOVE TAY TAY! And I'm sure that will become very apparent during this series.

If you have any song suggestions for the playlist, please leave a note alongside a character idea if you have one too!

Love you all,

mwah xx

taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @joisthriving @madforgeorge @smzyyx @graceln4 @norrizzandpia @heyitsmefall @oliviaohanessian1 @clarkey4life @dopeysunflowers @hey-there9-its-me @ooostarwarsfandom501st @canyouseethesainz @cheesystylesig @burkayyy @mia-maybank @smzyyx @simp-hub @sundarksposts

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Georgia's Playlist (One Shots) ★

Every song has a story. Every story starts with a song.

Georgia’s Playlist is a series of one-shots, each inspired by a different song. They don’t connect — just snapshots of characters, moments, and feelings that came from hitting play. Think of it like a mixtape of stories I needed to write.

masterlist

♡ - Fluff | ϟ - Angst | ☁︎ - Hurt/Comfort | ▲ - Requested

Track 1: The Very First Night (Taylor's Version) - George Clarke ☁︎

Track 2: You Are in Love (Taylor's Version) - Conrad Fisher ♡

Track 3: All Too Well (10 Minute Version) - George Clarke

Track 4: August - Wade Kinsella

Track 5: Catch Catch Me Now -

Track 6: Daylight - Peter Parker (MCU)

Track 7: Somebody Else -

Track 8: Better Man - Wally Clarke

Love you all,

mwah xx

[the-internets-girlfriend]

I'm Back!

TELL A FRIEND TO TELL A FRIEND.... SHE'S BACCKKK!

Hi all!

I am so so so sorry my small break turned into a large break. I had lost someone from my family during a busy part of my life and boy are people right when they say, "death comes in three." Oh because it does, unfortunately I was ready to come back to writing for you all and supporting all my mutuals (big love to you all, I'll be reading all the work I missed whilst gone), however, I had two more relatives pass away.

I have spent time with family and I'm in a good part of life now to come back to writing. Don't worry though, during the hiatus I have been doing some planning and there are some things coming; Secrets in Doncaster, Conrad Fisher, and a new one shot series titled Georgia's Playlist. And of course send through some requests for any character or individual because I miss you all so much!

See you all soon,

mwah xx

[the-internets-girlfriend]

The First Night - George Clarke

George Clarke x Reader

It started with a drink, a smile, and a quiet kind of pull. She didn't know who he was - only that something about him felt like home.

warnings: alcohol consumption,

masterlist x

Chris smirked before Max even finished the sentence as he sat in the podcast room.

"So," Max said, turning to him across the studio, "you've known George for years, live with him. You've gotta have a story. Like... first time he a brough a girl home or something."

Chris barely contained a laugh, "oh, I've got that story."

George gave Chris a look - pleading for him to stop.

But Chris just leaned in. "This was before anyone knew who he really was. Before the recent collabs. He met this girl in a random bar..."

George, across from them, just smiled - now realising it was in fact going to be a good story, one he wanted out for fans to know. His fingers tapped once against the table.

Max grinned. "Go on."

I hadn't meant to stay out that long. A bad day turned in to a missed train, no charger, freezing wind - the perfect combo.

I ducked quickly into the first open bar I saw after leaving work - an attempt to stay out of the cold weather, and the raining beginning to make it's way to central London.

The bar was warm, the lights creating a hue over the bar, and quiet music humming in the background, as groups nestled around small tables chatting.

I order a drink - nothing too fancy, something just to help time go by.

I was halfway through the drink, cheap cider - and pretending to be busy as I fiddle with the coasters sat on top of the bar - when a voice cut in beside me.

"You look like you're trying to convince yourself to like that."

I turn to see him - soft brown hair, easy smile, dark washed hoodie. A little stubble, and a lot cute.

I decide to engage in conversation, hoping for the time to go by quicker as I wait out the rain, "it's not working," I said, nudging the half full glass. "But I've committed now... Well at least until the rain stops."

He gave a toothy grin, "name?" He asked, as he pulled out the leather stool next to me and sat down.

"Y/N."

"I'm George. So what brings you here tonight?"

I gesture to the rain outside and my work bag sat on the ground at my feet. "I worked late, and missed the train so just waiting until the rain disappears before decide my next course of action, what about yourself George?"

"My mates just left," he starts, my faces becoming confused as to why he didn't leave with them, so he continues, "but I was looking at you for a while, and would've hated myself if I didn't come and say hi before I left."

A grin replaces my puzzled look, a faint pink blush rushing to my cheeks.

We continue talking. Nothing too deep - just banter. He was funny, but not loud about it. Kind, but never too polite. Said he worked in "media", whatever that meant, I didn't pry him for answers.

Eventually an hour had passed and the bartender alerting us the bar will be closing soon. I glance out to the rain still pouring outside, and pull out my phone thinking it would be best to call an Uber.

My phone was flat. George takes notice of the black screen on my phone and offers, "I live five minutes away. You want to come back? Just to charge your phone, honestly. My flat's got a ridiculous window view."

I pause, unsure of what to do - he seemed safe and respectful.

He added, "You can leave the second it gets weird."

I smile. "Only if there is a cup of tea in the equation then lead the way."

His flat was a brief walk from the bar - a walk that was shared with giggles and constant banter. The flat looked like three men lived there. It was warm and messy in the way that felt lived-in, not lazy.

As we entered, George took my coat from me and hung it on the coat rack to dry. I admire more of the flat - spotting two guys sat on the couch, of who were both staring at me.

"This is Y/N," George said carefully. "Chris, Arthur." George continues, pointing at the two boys.

The two boys gave a smirk in the direction of George, and I put two together and figure these were his friends from the bar.

"Evening," Chris said, already eyeing George like something was up.

Arthur gave me a polite nod and a smile.

The two boys turned to look at each other, and let out a whisper.

George ignored both of them. "Come on - I'll show you the view then make a cup of tea for you."

I follow George to the other side of the living space, a large window sat centered - an amazing view of London. The lights scattered like gold, the hum of the city distant and soft.

"Okay," I whispered, "I get it, this view is amazing."

He leaned close to me, our shoulders nudging each other. "Told you."

When I glanced at him, he was already looking at me - not in a creepy way, just like.. he was really seeing me.

Then, quietly, he said, "tea?"

I followed closely behind George, a mug of hot tea steaming clutched between my palms. George was taking me to his bedroom, where I would be able to charge my phone and wait for the rain to settle.

As the bedroom door closed behind us, I still felt the eyes of the housemates on me.

George sat his tea on his bedside table and took mine, settling it beside his - like it belonged there. He took a long cord and passed it to me, allowing for my phone to begin charging.

"You can stay as long as you like. No pressure."

I knew my phone would need a while to charge and I nodded. I took a seat on his bed, my back against the headboard as I took my tea and began sipping at it.

I felt the bed dip beside more, and then move again, I saw George standing and making his way to his wardrobe.

"Here, you must be freezing." He passed a grey hoodie, towards me and I took with no argument, wanting to feel the warmth of something other than my tea.

We both now sat on the bed together engaged in conversation - both unsure of the space between us but wanting less space.

After a while, George asks, "want to watch something?" Already reaching to grab the remote.

"Sure," I said. "Whatever you like."

He didn't ask. Didn't listen options. Just was on a mission to find something casual to watch.

The screen blinked to life. The opening swirled in - blue, spinning stars and that familiar, eerie theme.

Doctor Who.

My breath caught - that chord hit lie muscle memory.

George sat up sharply. "Wait - oh god, I can turn it off. I just picked something old and that I love, I didn't think -"

"No!" I said, grinning. "Don't. Are you kidding?"

He blinked. "You... like it?"

I grew up on it. My mum and I used to watch every Saturday. Ten was my Doctor. I cried so hard when he said he didn't want to go."

George visibly relaxed, a smile gracing his lips as he looked down at me. "You're joking."

"I literally has a sonic screwdriver. This is, like... my childhood."

The smile continued to bloom on his face, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. "You are the coolest person I've met this month!" He exclaims.

He shifted, settling beside me.

And then - soft, unsure - he reached over and pulled the blanket a little tighter around both of us, his arm brushing mine.

"You don't mind?" He asked.

I shook my head. "No. I'm good." I take the next move with shuffling closer to him and leaning my head against his shoulder.

We didn't talk during the first episode. Not much, anyway. Just a few whispered lines, little gasps, shared glances.

But then a second episode started, and we didn't stop it - my phone charging long forgotten, just happy to stay with George.

Halfway through our second episode, he leaned in closer - his breath was felt on my ears as he said, "what was it about Ten that made him your favourite?"

That was it - the start of something.

We kept talking. About favourite episodes. About things we loved that no one else really got. About childhood fears and comfort movies, and what we'd do if we had a TARDIS.

As we spoke, we both moved closer to each other, George even moving his arm I leant against and draping it around me pulling me closer - but he didn't try anything. Just sat with me as we used each other for warmth.

At some point of the third episode, I must have drifted off. I woke hours later to find the lights have been dimmed in the room, a blanket tucked around me, and closing the door softly behind him with two glasses of water in his hands.

"You stayed up for me?' I whisper, taking the offered glass of water from him.

He sat down in the bed, placing his glass beside the empty tea cups. "Didn't want you waking up alone."

The softness in his voice did something to my chest.

So I stayed the rest of the night.

And then I kept staying.

Chris finished the story to the camera with, "we thought she'd vanished by morning. But she didn't, she sat at the kitchen bench with a cup of tea in her hand."

Max leans forward with a grin on his face - already knowing the answer to his question he was about to ask, "so...who was she?"

There's a pause.

George now realises what the plan between Chris and Max was - it started when George mentioned he was finally happy to go full-on public with his relationship, and now realises he has been set up so he can't back out.

George clears his throat.

"She's my girlfriend," he says finally. "Still. Going on one year together."

Chris whoops, and Max claps his hands in amusement.

"Oh, I never would have guessed." Max says, his voice laced with sarcasm.

George gives him a look. "Max you have literally met Y/N, I've just been set up by Chris telling the story." He says, with a chuckle.

Chris and Max go on to tease George.

George just smiles.

And somewhere, I'm listening to podcast once released - and still wearing that same hoodie I was given over a year ago.

I hope you all enjoyed this little one-shot. The idea came to mind when I was rewatching Doctor Who last week, and obviously is inspired by when Chris reveals the first time George bought a girl home.

See you next time,

mwah x

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Secrets in Doncaster Updates

Hi all! Just a little update for my series, secrets in Doncaster. I was planning for a new part to be published tonight and I know I’ve get you all waiting. However, the released part will be delayed; I’ve had an unexpected passing in my family and have not been in the best head space to edit the newest part. I’m hoping to get something to you all by the end of the week for the series, and for the meantime will just release a one-shot I’ve had ready for a rainy day.

Love you all and see you soon,

mwah x

Tag list x

@wherethezoes-at @tomsparkyr @dopeysunflowers @cuntessaiii @magicalfurykoala @kisses-for-you @rreaperes @lazywonderlandfestival @swiftlyjo @tyna-19 @swizzlemynizzle @madforgeorge @bowielovesyou

[the-internets-girlfriend]

stop I love this, doctor who is so clever!!!

Why was the Rani dressed like you? Perhaps she's fashion conscious. She was in disguise. Practising another one of her talents.

THE RANI COSPLAYING THE DOCTOR'S COMPANIONS SINCE 1987

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Hey girl! I hope you are having a lovely day. I was just wondering if you could write a one-shot for me of George Clarkey x reader. She's part of the group, and the gang know they like each other but are too afraid to admit it. So they try to do little tiny things to get them up. Only to end up planning a date for them, and they confess their feelings (which leads to the told you so, lol).

Hi!! Such an amazing request, I love it! You can find the one-shot for your request here x

[the-internets-girlfriend]

The Gang Tried to Set Us Up - George Clarke

George Clarke x Reader (1.2k+ words)

Everyone in the group knows Y/N and George like each other – except them. From cozy nights to “totally random camping trips”, their friends try everything to get them together.

warnings: idiots in love, shared bed trope,

masterlist x | this one-shot is based off this request here x

Movie Night (ft. The Beanbag Trap)

I should’ve known something was up when Chris took one look at the living room and said, “nope. Bad layout, vibes are off.”

That’s the exact moment I became suspicious.

Still, I didn’t clock it fully until Becky basically shoved me onto the deflated beanbag in the centre of the room. “You can see the TV better from here,” she chirped, which was a bold-faced lie since the TV was literally at an angle.

Then George wandered in, bowl of popcorn in hand, and Chris – helpful Chris – patted the beanbag next to me and said, “plenty of room there, mate.”

The thing is, there wasn’t plenty of room. The beanbag was ancient and slumped like a deflated souffle. The second George sat down; I rolled toward him like a magnet. Our knees bumped. My arms brushed his. Our thighs touched.

He froze, I froze harder.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not moving away.

“It’s okay,” I said. Not moving either.

Becky shot me a look from across the room and popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth with a smirk so smug I wanted to throw a cushion at her.

For the next two hours, we sat like that – far too close, quietly pretending not to notice. I could feel the heat of George’s skin through the hoodie. I caught him glancing at me during quiet parts of the film, and once, when I laughed, I swear he smiled just from hearing it.

We didn’t talk about it afterward.

Of course we didn’t.

Game Night Shenanigans

“Lets do a challenge game!” Issac announced like a man who definitely hadn’t planned it for days. “It’s like a couples game, Except we’re not doing couples… justs random teams.”

“Random,” I repeated, deadpan – already knowing what he was getting at.

He nodded furiously and pulled out a hat – his hat, I noticed.

I didn’t even get to reach in. He just grinned and read the first pairing, “Y/N and... George! What are the odds?”

George looked up from his phone at me, and blinked, “huh, alright then.”

We sat together, facing off against Chris and Arthur Hill, and Arthur Frederick and Isaac. The game was simple: to answer questions about “your partner” and see how well you know them.

First questions; “What’s their favourite song?”

“I Wanna Be Yours, by the Artic Monkeys,” George said, the same moment I answered, “Artic Monkeys – I Wanna Be Yours.” Something said between the lines to each other.

We blinked at each other.

Isaac let out an obnoxious, “OHHHH” sound.

We won every round. Favourite food? He knew mine. I knew his. Pet peeve? Check. Childhood dream job? He even remembered my answer from a conversation we’d had once on a rainy walk back from the pub last year.

By the end, our team name was soulmates, thanks to Arthur Hill shouting it every time we scored a point.

We high-fived, my fingers between his for just a second too long.

One Tent, Two Idiots

“We though there were three tents,” Chris said, feigning concern.

Harry was already passed out in one. Isaac and Arthur were in another, pretending to be asleep. And the last? A two-man tent with two sleeping bags zipped together.

“You okay sharing?’ George asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sure,” I said, heartbeat thudding.

It was freezing. Our sleeping bags were zipped as close as possible. The moonlight made the inside of the tent glow faintly silver. i could hear his breathing beside me – steady, almost nervous.

“You awake?” He whispered.

“Mhm.”

“If hypothetically, someone had feelings for someone else in the group – like, really liked them, should they say something? Or… is it too risky?”

I held my breath.

“I think it’d be brave,” I whispered back.

“Okay.”

But in the morning, he didn’t bring it up again. Neither did I.

Cowards, both of us.

The Great Bake-Off Disaster

“Just a fun bake-off,” Becky grinned, already wearing an apron that said kiss the cook.

Isaac stood behind her holding a bowl and what looked like glitter.

“I’ve randomly paired you all up,” she added. “Totally fair. And what a shock—George and Y/N, you’re a team!”

I glared. The name cards were laminated. Laminated.

George looked equally betrayed. “They’ve planned this, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” I muttered, snatching an apron.

We ended up elbow-to-elbow at the kitchen bench. I managed to get flour in my hair, crack an egg wrong, and knock over the icing sugar. George laughed the whole time, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re useless,” he teased, voice warm.

“You’re worse,” I said, tossing a bit of dough at him.

At one point, we were both leaning over the bench to reach something. His hand brushed mine. We didn’t move.

“I like this,” he said quietly.

“Baking?”

“No. This. With you.”

My heart somersaulted. I was about to reply, finally, when Becky shouted “TIME!” and George jumped like he’d been electrocuted.

We didn’t win the bake-off.

We also didn’t talk about that moment.

Again.

The Fake Group Dinner

Chris sent a message that afternoon: Dinner at Luca’s at 7. Everyone coming!

You wore your good jeans and that top George once said looked “really nice” on you—his tone suspiciously shy when he said it. You walked into the restaurant expecting chaos.

Instead, you saw George.

Alone.

At a two-person table, looking like he was about to sprint for the door.

You froze. “Where’s… everyone?”

He cleared his throat. “Funny story. Chris said everyone was coming. But Becky said Chris told her not to come. Isaac said he had plans. And Arthur’s in Devon.”

You blinked.

He shifted in his seat. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”

You looked around. The waitress was already heading over with menus and a candle.

“Guess we have,” you said, smiling.

You sat down.

Dinner was… perfect. Easy. Light. You laughed more than you had in weeks. George’s eyes kept flicking to your lips when you talked, which you tried not to notice, except you really did notice.

When dessert came, the waitress placed tiramisu between you with a wink. “For the happy couple.”

George looked like he might combust. “We’re—um—”

You picked up your spoon. “Not correcting her?”

“Definitely not.”

Halfway through the dessert, George set his fork down.

“Y/N,” he said. “I like you. A lot. I’ve liked you for ages. I was just scared. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel what I feel when I’m around you.”

Your chest ached.

“George,” you said softly, “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—you like me too?”

“I like you, you idiot.”

He laughed, full and warm and startled, like he hadn’t dared hope.

Then he reached across the table and took your hand.

It felt like every missed moment, every unspoken word, had finally been worth it.

The moment you both walked in to George’s apartment – hands still linked – Arthr gasped like he’d just seen a miracle.

Chris stood up on the couch and yelled, “TOLD. YOU. SO.”

Arthur Hill fist-pumped the air. “I WIN THE BET!”

George buried his face in your neck. “We’re never living this down.”

You laughed, “and I don’t care.”

Because finally – finally, the quiet glances and near-confessions were over.

And all it took was four failed setups, one dinner date, and a very loud I told you so.

Hi all,

I was so excited to write this one-shot with it being my first request and I hope it's what you were wanting.

I've been working hard on Secrets in Doncaster, and the next few parts will be out soon... with one hopefully tomorrow!

See you next time,

mwah x

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Six Matches, One Love - Harry Lewis

Harry Lewis x Reader (1500+ words)

From sideline banter to stadium-wide declarations of love, follow Harry Lewis and Y/N through every iconic Sidemen Charity Match as their friendship slowly evolves into something unforgettable.

warnings: alcohol consumption,

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

masterlist x

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

1.Charity Match 2016 - The Beginning

St. Mary's Stadium was buzzing life. People are shouting, vlogging, chanting. You're sat first row away from the field. Clutched in your hand is a handmade sign that reads, "GO HARRY GO," written in obnoxiously large glitter letters. You made it to mess with him more than anything else. Just friends, after all. Best mates since school... and nothing more.

Harry spots the sign during his warm-up on the field. Doing a double take of which dissolves in laughter. He jogs to the sidelined.

"You're actually insane," he calls out as he jogs.

You grin as he comes closer to stand on the sideline. "Only for you, Harold."

He catches your over-exaggerated blown kiss and dramatically throws it to the ground like he thought it be the worse thing in the world. The banter's easy with him, drawing a fine line between joking around together and flirting.

You watch the match, yelling out his name every time he gets near the ball. He doesn't score, but he gives it everything. When the final whistle blows, you make your way over with the crowd of fans and friends.

"You were class," you say as he wipes a towel across his forehead.

He shrugs, smiling and resting the towel across his shoulders. "You screaming my name name helped, obviously."

You laugh, in hopes of hiding your blush. That's all it is. Laughter, friendship, teasing.

But later that night, scrolling through blurry videos and clips of the match, you pause on a still of Harry looking in your direction.

And your stomach flips.

A small part of hope settling.

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

2. Charity Match 2017 - A Shift

This year, it's bigger. The Valley. More fans, more camera, more pressure. But Harry is still the same. Loud, energetic, clumsy and confused.

Before kickoff, he jogs over to where you're standing just beyond the pitch - your special access lanyard granted from Harry.

"Nervous?" You ask.

"Only cause you're here," he says casually, then smirks. "Gotta impress my girl with the special lanyard." He reaches for your lanyard and giving it a tug - pulling you closer ever so slightly.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks flush at the sudden closeness. That wasn't normal banter. Was it?

He play like he's on fire. Scores a goal and points at you on the sideline. You swear he winks but just think maybe your mind was playing tricks on you.

Later, backstage with everyone buzzing, you find him in the hallway - freshly showered. He was wearing sidemen merchandise; his hair still damp from the water.

There was no cameras. No crowd.

"You looked good out there," you say. It feels heavy. Almost like you meant a double meaning.

He pauses. "You always look good."

Your eyes meet. Nether of you speaks. For the first time in your friendship, silence is loud.

You laugh nervously - brushing the comment under the mat thinking he meant nothing of it. "Smooth."

"I try."

A voice is heard from behind him, Simon calling him back to film some extra parts. You bid goodbye and walk away, and he watched you go.

And for the first time, you're both wondering: what are we doing?

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

3. Charity Match 2018- The Almost

The energy this year is electric again. Harry's in top form, yelling instructions, cracking jokes. Your sign this year is smaller - a picture included, but he still beams when he sees it.

You're pulled into the afterparty later than planned, a little tipsy from champagne floating in the warmth of another successful day. You find Harry leaning against a balcony, looking out over London, a beer in his hand.

"Hey you," he says when you join him - offering a sip of his beer to you. "Didn't lose you to Tobi's dance floor domination, then?"

You smile, taking a swig on the beer and handing it back - folding your arms next to him.

There's a long pause - he turns to look at you.

Really look at you - taking it all your features.

You turn with a puzzled look.

"I've been thinking about us," he says finally.

Your heart skips. Your heart beating for the conversation you have been waiting for.

But before Harry can continue, Tobi calls him from the inside before he can say more. You glance at the doorway, then back at Harry.

"Later?" You say.

He nods, eye soft. "Promise."

But later never comes.

You both leave the party in different Ubers.

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

4. Charity Match 2022 - The Kiss

After a few years of no matches, the return is massive. The stadium is packed, and millions are watching the livestream. You're standing on the sidelines again, lanyard still around your neck - curiosity of Harry again.

You and Harry have stayed as close as ever. Always texting, calling, somehow orbiting each other without crossing the line - the 'later' conversation never coming up once again.

As the players warm up, you're chatting with Talia and Sarah when Harry jogs by.

"He's practically glowing," Sarah says, grinning.

"That's the Y/N effect," Talia teases, nudging you.

You roll your eyes - use to the constant teasing from the group, but you can't help smiling.

During the match, every time Harry touches the ball, JJ and Ethan standing on the sideline shout exaggerated commentary in your direction: "And he's looking to impress someone in the stands!"

When Harry scores a long rage banger, he doesn't celebrate with his team.

Instead - he runs to the camera, blows a kiss, then mouths your name.

The internet erupts - reposts everyone all over Twitter; as fans start recalling every shared moment between you and Harry.

After the final whistle, the players are swarmed by fans and staff, but Harry makes a beeline for you.

"I don't care if everyone knows," he says, breathless. "I've been pretending I haven't been in love with my best friend for years. I'm done."

Your hearth thuds.

Tobi and Simon spot the two of you from a distance, and immediately start whistling and clapping like idiots.

You grab Harry's shirt and kiss him, right there among the boots, jerseys and sidemen.

You're not pretending anymore.

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

5. Charity Match 2023 - The World Watching

This time, you walk in together - wearing Harry's number in support of your boyfriend.

Harry's holding your hand. Cameras flash, fans cheer.

No more hiding.

"Nervous?" You whisper before he runs off to warm up.

"Not with you here," he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

As the match begins, the boys are relentless - as they have been the past year constantly teasing you and Harry.

Ethan shouts from across the pitch, "Harry, don't mess up! Y/N's watching!"

JJ joins in with exaggerated swooning every time Harry runs.

You're in the stands next to Freya, who is laughing every time the camera cuts to your reaction.

Harry scores again, of course. The celebration is simple this time - a heart drawn in the air and a wink your way.

After the match, he records a behind-the-scenes vlog, dragging you into frame.

"This is Y/N, everyone loves her. The reason I've ever scored a goal in my life."

You laugh, pushing him off-camera. But the internet is is love. With him. With you. With your story.

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

6. Charity Match 2025 - The Proposal

You feel it coming all day.

He's acting weird, not nervous, just - shifty. Like he's got secrets. And for once, not the kind he'll tell you... yet.

The match is intense. He misses a shot early on, then comes back with a clean goal in the second half. The crowd goes wild.

But instead of a celebration, he runs to the sideline. To you.

You blink, confused, as he stops in front you, catching his breath.

Then he drops to one knee.

The stadium freezes. Even the players stop.

"Y/N," he pants, eyes wide and full of love, "you've been there for every match, every goal, every miss for so many years. I don't want to play another one without knowing you're mine forever. Will you marry me?"

Your heart could burst. You throw your arms around him.

"Of course I will, you idiot."

The stadium explodes. You lean down to press a kiss to Harry's lips. The Sidemen rush to his side after, Tobi lifting Harry onto his shoulders while Ethan leans up to give you a hug.

That night, at the celebration party, Harry holds your hand tight.

"Told you I'd score two for you," he says, kissing you knuckles as he admires the ring.

Your scored the one that mattered."

And he did.

⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎

Hi all! I hope you enjoyed my first Harry post.

See you soon,

mwah x

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Bittersweet Memories: The Icing on Top

George Clarke x Reader (Series)

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

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

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

series | masterlist | previous part

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

Part Six: The Icing on Top (2000+ words)

It’s been a week since I’ve seen George last – really saw him. We’ve been messaging each other back and fourth constantly; but haven’t found the spare time to see each other.

On Thursday he sends me a message:

George Clarke: you and Maisie doing anything Friday? Come to the pub. Some of the group will be there.

It’s simple. Friendly. But the moment I read it, my heart stumbles in my chest. I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button, until Maisie appears at my shoulder.

“Is that him?” She asks, reading over my shoulder without shame.

“Maisie.”

“Come on, don’t Maisie me. What did your prince charming say?”

I sigh, handing her the phone.

“Pub night?” She reads, then grins. “We’re going.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He invited us both.”

“I know, but he meant you.”

As I type out a reply to the George, Maisie begins making her way back to the sink of dishes before adding, “can you ask lover boy if we can go back to The Porterhouse – I want to see that brunette bartender again – actually ask for her number this time.”

I roll my eyes and shoot back, “I don’t think he’s going to go to there just because we said so.”

“Babes, he would do anything for you.”

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

Friday night, The Porterhouse hums with music and low laughter, a warm haze of golden light spilling from the windows. The second we step inside, the familiar scent of split beer and friend chips hit me, grounding me in a strange, nostalgic comfort.

George is already there, standing near a tall table surrounded by the crew – the two Arthurs, Chris, Isaac, Liv, and Becky. He sees us and immediately lights up, that wide, open smile crinkling the corners of his eye. It hits me like a punch to the chest.

He strides forward, enveloping me in a hug before I can think.

“Hey,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m really glad you came.”

He pulls back slight, just enough to look at me properly. There’s something in his expression – something quiet and vulnerable that makes my breath catch.

“Me too,” I say.

He turns to Maisie and pulls her into a hug too. “Glad you came, M.”

“Of course,” she beams. “I’ve got my eye on the bartender, so I’m living my best life already.”

We laugh and move toward the table. The group is loud and familiar. Becky insists on buying us drinks, Arthur TV starts up a ridiculous debate about crisps vs. chips, and Max keeps teasing George for grinning like an idiot every time I speak.

Throughout the night, George stays close. He makes sure I’m never without a drink, and every time I turn my head, he’s already looking at me. When the groups moves to sit at a booth table; I shuffle in next to him. Becky decides she wants to sit next to me too, and pushes me flush against George so there’s extra room for her. Like muscle memory, George lifts his arm up to rest behind my shoulders, and like muscle memory for me – I find myself leaning in.

George and I talk about everything and nothing. The bakery. His channel. The time he accidentally fell off a lime bike.

“You still make those tiny little cupcakes for your younger cousins every birthday?” He asks, the question stunning me at first.

“Of course.” I say, smiling.

“I miss those little guys; Christmas was always fun to spoil them.” He says, his mind wandering to when we were together.

“They miss you too, always asking when you may come see them again. I didn’t have the heart in me to break their little hearts.” I reveal.

“Well, maybe they will be able to see me this year?” He suggests, leaning down to whisper the question in my ear.

A grin graces my lips, and I reply with a simple, “yes maybe they will.”

George’s face matches mine with the smile – aware of what this may mean.

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

Near the end of the night when the group has dwindled and the conversation has shifted into softer, sleepier territory, Arthur Hill leans across the table toward me once George left to get another round.

“So,” he says, “what’s the deal with you and George?”

I blink, unsure of what to say. “What?”

“Come on. He talks about you nonstop. Croissants, your laugh, how you always hum a song when icing cakes. The guy’s down bad.”

My cheeks flush hot. I glance to the bar to see George, who’s laughing at something Chris just said. As if sensing me, he looks over. Our eyes lock. His smile fades into something gentler, more deliberate.

Becky smirks. “He’s been in love with you since forever – don’t think he ever stopped over the past two years. We just want to know if it’s mutual.”

Before I could say anything – even though I was unsure of what to say, I’m saved by George and Chris bringing back the round of drinks.

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

As the night grew darker, we all slowly leave one by one. Maisie and I announce it’s best for us to start heading off now – not without Maisie securing the number of course, and George offers to walk us out.

Outside, the night is cool, the streetlights casting long golden shadows. Rain sprinkles lightly on the pavement. Maisie walks ahead, giving us space, but she’s definitely listening.

“Well,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks for tonight.”

George nods. “I’m really glad you came.”

I lean in to kiss his cheek – innocent, platonic – but just as I do, he turns to speak.

Our lips meet.

It’s soft. Sudden. Shockingly gentle.

We pull away instantly, eyes wide. My heart stutters in my chest.

“I-I didn’t mean-“

“Me neither,” he breathes. But he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t back up.

Maisie shouts from the curb, “Uber’s here!”

I say a quick goodbye, and walk away without another word, unsure if my knees will hold.

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

The next morning, it felt as if nothing had happened – no kiss.

Maisie waltzes into the bakery like a hurricane of smug.

“You kissed him!”

“It was an accident.”

“Was it though?”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know.

She leans on the counter. “you love him.”

My silence answers for me.

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

Two days later, the bakery has been flat out. I’m decorating a cake for a customer out back, when I feel my phone notifications go off. I ignore it, desperate to finish this cake order on time for my customer; Mia, a customer who found my bakery though the podcast.

I hear Maisie screech from the front counter, “GEORGE CLARKE JUST CONFESSED HIS LOVE FOR YOU. LIVE. ON. STREAM!”

“What?!”

I rush to my phone, dusting flour on everything. My heart’s already racing before I even unlock it. Maisie’s not wrong – notifications are lighting up like fireworks, all echoing the same thing.

He said something.

The stream is still live. I tap in.

George is on the screen, lounging in his chair, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s reading questions – some from the Twitch chat, others from his Instagram story. The chat scrolls so fast it’s a blur, but one question pops up and makes him pause.

@mothersversiononly: are you seeing anyone?

George hesitates, his fingers stilling on the keyboard. Then he leans back, thoughtful.

“Not really,” he says, voice quieter. “There’s… someone.”

The char immediately erupts – fans throwing out guesses, naming other creators, speculating wildly. Some even guess me. I freeze.

@mothersversiononly: ooh?

George huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks flustered, but there’s a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“She’s amazing,” he says. “Like beyond. The best thing I ever let slip.”

I stop breathing.

He looks straight into the camera. Not just glancing – looking. Like he knows I’m there.

Like he’s taking to me.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost like a confession. “I still love her.”

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

He shows up an hour later.

The bakery bell rings. He’s soaked. Hood up. Hands shoved in his pockets.

He moves to the door and flips the sign to read closed.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“You’re trending.”

He winces. “Didn’t mean for that to happen.”

I cross my arms. “But you meant what you said?”

He nods, taking small steps towards me, “every word.”

Silence stretched between us, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the rain tapping gently against the windows.

“I’m not here to push you,” he says. “I just…needed you to know. Needed you to hear it from me.”

I swallow. “You broke my heart.”

“I know,” he says. “And mine’s been cracked ever since without you.”

I step aside, heading towards the back room. “Come in.”

He smiles – tentative, a little shaky, but full of hope. He walks in slowly behind me, eyes scanning the bakery. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.” I usher.

We both stand leant against the kitchen table, space between us – a void. Not just physical, but full of everything unsaid.

“I didn’t plan any of it,” he says. “The stream, the comments. But once it started, I couldn't lie.”

I nod slowly, eyes fixed on the tiled floor.

“You said you still loved me.” My voice is quieter than I expect.

He straightens slightly. “I do. God Y/N. I do.”

I look up, “why now?”

He takes one step closer to me, “because I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t still wreck me. Not when you were the best part of my life.”

I take a breath. One step. He takes one, too – matching me.

“I wasn’t over you.” I say. “I just got better at hiding it.”

Another step. Now there’s barely space.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

“I missed you, too.”

We’re so close now, I can feel the warmth of his hand before he even touches me.

And then he does.

One hand on my cheek, the other slipping around my waist.

Our lips meet – soft at first, like we’re still testing if this is real.

But then everything pours in. The heartbreak. The time. Our love.

It’s a grand, aching kiss. Like the universe paused just for us.

When we finally pull apart, his forehead rests on min.

“This time,” he says, “I’m not letting go.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Our love was sealed with another kiss.

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

The kitchen is filled with warmth – from the oven, from the moment.

I’m icing cookies, and George stands behind me, arums snug around my waist, swaying us gently to the hum of the radio playing the soft tune of Lover.

He keeps sneaking in small kisses to my cheeks.

“You’re going to make me make a mistake.” I scold, trying not to laugh.

“Worth it,” he says, as he presses a kiss to my shoulder.

I flick a bit of icing at him. “You menace”

He takes my hips and spins me around to face him, with a grin on his face. He leans down to press a kiss to my lips. “Still your menace.”

After the kiss, he reaches for the jar of sprinkles without asking, grabs a handful and eats them.

And that’s when I knew – I never stopped loving him

And never will.

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

I'M NOT CRYING! YOU ARE!

I cannot believe this is the last chapter for Bittersweet Memories. It has been so bittersweet (aha get it) writing this series for everyone and I've loved ever moment of it!

Thank you for all the support from everyone, whether you were a day 1 reader or someone who only just found the series; I appreciate every single one of you.

I hope you have enjoyed every part of this story and the environment I worked so hard to create; will forever love Gracie's Bakery. My favourite part about this series has been to create the two characters of Maisie and Y/N, and what characteristics they would have and how they interact with eachother.

This series has done so much for my writing, so please all stay tuned for my upcoming work of which includes; completing my series Secrets in Doncaster, and some one shots of both George Clarke and Harry Lewis already scheduled soon!

And for the last time from Gracie's Bakery I hope you enjoyed the treats and,

mwah x

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taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @joisthriving @madforgeorge @smzyyx @graceln4 @norrizzandpia @heyitsmefall @oliviaohanessian1 @clarkey4life @dopeysunflowers @hey-there9-its-me @ooostarwarsfandom501st @canyouseethesainz @cheesystylesig @burkayyy @mia-maybank @smzyyx @simp-hub @sundarksposts

[the-internets-girlfriend]

so… I’m thinking… maybe I’ll post the last part to Bittersweet memories tonight 🤭

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Bittersweet Memories: Layers of Truth

George Clarke x Reader (Series)

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

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

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series | masterlist | previous part | next part

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

Part Five: Layers of Truth (2000+ words)

It’s Thursday when I run into him again.

The podcast episode went live yesterday. I haven’t listened to it. I can’t, not yet – not ready to look at him and my vulnerability. Maisie has watched it though – twice. She made exaggerated gasping sounds during Max’s love life ambush and texted me a flurry of emojis that I’m still trying to decode.

She even mentioned the chemistry that she saw between George and I – but I ignored her.

The bakery has been chaos since.

Orders are up. Walk-ins are nonstop. Someone posted a clip of George eating the jam pastry with that stupid – handsome… smirk on his face, and suddenly it’s the only thing half the city wants. We’ve been making batch after batch, running out of flour twice, and I’ve barely had time to think – which is honestly a relief.

But today is slower – and I have the rain to thank for it.

The first real storm of the season rolls in like it’s been waiting for this exact moment – thunder heavy, air thick with the kind of rain that feels personal.

It’s nearly closing – but I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon with the rain.

The bakery is half-lit, music down low, a slow hum of Fleetwood Mac playing Silver Springs in the background. I’m behind the counter, icing the last row of cupcakes for tomorrow’s birthday order, when I hear the bell jingle.

And there he is.

George.

Hood Up. Trainers soaked. A victim to the thundering rain although a sheepish grin tugging at his lips,

“Hi,” he says softly, pulling down his hood, “didn’t know if you’d be working.”

“I always work,” I reply, a little too fast.

He steps closer, but not too close – he’s stood two steps away from the counter, I know because I can just smell his cologne. “Do you have any of the… jam ones?

I blink, “the ones from the podcast?’

He nods. “Figured I owed Max an apology pastry. Maybe two.”

I should tell him np. That we’re sold out. That they’re cooling. That we’re closed. But I don’t.

Instead, I point toward the cake stand.

“Still warm.”

He reaches for his wallet, but I wave him off, “it’s on the house.”

A beat passes.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He takes the two pastries gently, like he’s worried it’ll crumble if holds it wrong. He bids his goodbye, and heads towards the door.

A thundering sound is heard outside which stops him in his track.

The he just… stands there. Looks at me.

“Can I sit?” he asks after a moment, gesturing to a table pushed against the window of the bakery.

I hesitate. My heart thundering along with the thunderstorms. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I nod – still deeply caring for his safety and not wanting him out in the storm.

He shuffles to the stool to wait out the thundering storm.

I hum to myself as I clean the counter, preparing to close the bakery. On my way to the door, I grab the last chocolate éclair from the cabinet.

His favourite.

I slowly walk to the door, feeling George’s eyes lift from his phone to me.

I flip the open side to read closed – before taking a deep breath and placing the chocolate éclair in front of him.

I sit across from him. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do I.

Then, softly; “You remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

He takes a bite of the dessert. “What I like.”

“Well, yeah.” My sentence gets trapped in my throat as I look away.

“You didn’t reply to the podcast.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I answer.

“You didn’t have to. I just… I don’t know.” He exhales. “You looked at me. During that question. About your love life.”

“You looked at me first,” I defend before I can stop myself.

He lets out a chuckle at the banter – as his eyes search mine. They’re warmer than I remember, or maybe I’ve just spent too long pretending I forgot.

“Did you mean it?” He asks, “when you said you’re focused on the bakery?”

“I do mean it,” I say. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to count on.”

He nods, slowly. “And me?”

I flinch.

“I meant… back then,” he says quickly. “Was I—did I ever feel like something you could count on?”

There it is. The real question.

I breathe in, and it tastes like cinnamon and jam and rain-soaked ghosts.

“You were,” I whisper. “Until you weren’t.”

His face falls, like he expected the answer but hoped it would hurt less.

“I never wanted to stop being that,” he says. “I messed it up. I know that. But you—God, Y/N, you were home. And I’m sorry.” He finishes, running a hand through his wet hair.

“George-“ I start but am interrupted.

“I know I don’t deserve anything. But if there’s a chance – for you just to be in my life, I would be grateful.”

I smile at George, and his stressed, nervous expression changes as I nod along.

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We sit for a while, just watching the rain coast the windows in silver – we speak of what each other have been up to recently, with George expressing about his holidays he has had the chance to go on and I mentioning the startup of the bakery and meeting Maisie.

No mention of a girl was stated by George – and I brighten at the observation, unaware as to why.

“People are starting to ship us,” George says finally, a wry tilt to his mouth.

My stomach flips. “Yeah Maisie showed me.”

“They think we’re strangers who have only just met and have chemistry.”

I laugh once – soft. “Imagine if they knew the truth – about us.”

He looks at me. “They don’t need to.”

And somehow, that matters more than I expect. That it’s ours. Still.

“Your fans are nice. They’ve been visiting,” I say fiddling with my apron. “Loud. But nice.”

He smiles. “They love you.”

“They don’t even know me.”

“They like who I am around you.”

That shuts me up.

I look to George, heart beating as it’s now my turn to apologise. “Sorry I never came to you events when you first started. Not back then. Not really.”

George blinks. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“I think I do,” I say. “You were doing big things. And I didn’t know how to be part of that without feeling like I didn’t belong. I was scared – back then.”

He takes a breath. “You did belong. I just… never wanted to make you choose.”

A pause.

“I’m glad you came on the podcast,” he admits.

I look at him. “Yeah?”

“I think we both needed it. Even if it was… weird.”

“Very weird – thanks Max.” I agree, grinning.

But it opened something. That much is clear.

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A few days have passed since George and I shared the conversation in the bakery. We don’t label anything, but he starts showing up again – always with a reason.

Maisie pretends not to be obsessed with the whole thing. She fails – always bringing up the second chance with excitement.

We go for coffee one day after I close up. Walk to the canal like old times. Sit on benches until the streetlights flicker on. Some nights, we talk about the gap between then and now. Other nights, we don’t say much at all.

We talk about the video – the one that started it all. How Maisie and I had only posted it as a joke, and at one point I had almost deleted it.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” George says.

“Why? So you could storm into my life unannounced just like the first time?”

He shrugs. “Felt like the universe owed us a second take.”

I roll my eyes, but my heart agrees. Something floated in the air, unsaid, but we both understood.

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One afternoon, he helps me haul boxes into the kitchen — deliveries for the weekend market stall. He leans against the bench, watching me work like he used to, arms folded, mouth twitching with something he won’t say.

“Spit it out,” I say, reaching for the baking trays.

“You’re good at this,” he says.

“At lifting things?”

“No.” He gestures vaguely. “All of this. Building something. Staying. I used to think running was brave, but… staying’s harder.”

That stays with me. Especially coming from him.

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We don’t talk about the past in specifics. Not yet. But it lingers, between every laugh. We both know what we want to say and both understand that. But every look between us was too long to be causal.

Still, we try to take it slow.

“Let’s just… be in each other’s lives again,” I say one night, fingers wrapped around my mug. “No expectations.”

“Friends,” he says.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, “Okay. But real friends. The kind who show up.”

“I’ll try,” I whisper.

“So will I,” he says.

And I believe him.

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The next time he comes in, it’s sunny. People are queued out the door. He waits like everyone else, hood low, sunglasses on, but still spotted by a group of girls who whisper loudly behind him.

When he reaches the counter, he grins. “Sold out?”

I nod. “Maisie’s idea. She renamed the jam ones ‘George’s Regret’.”

He snorts. “Charming.”

I lean in. “You good?”

He shrugs. “Bit overwhelmed. But this helps.”

“Being here?”

He nods. “Feels like breathing again.”

Something in my chest stirs.

That night, as I lock up, he’s still there, leaning against the wall like a character from a film he’d make fun of.

“You walking me home?” I tease.

He grins. “Trying to earn back my bakery privileges.”

“You already get too many free pastries.”

“I don’t want pastries.”

I stop. Look at him.

He clears his throat. “I mean — I do. But also… this.”

He gestures between us. Whatever this is.

I tuck my keys into my coat pocket. “We’re not rushing it, remember?”

“I know,” he says. “But I’m glad we’re not pretending it never happened.”

“Me too.”

He offers his arm. I take it.

And we walk.

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By the end of the week, we’ve started texting late again – with the occasional call here and there. Always casual. Always friendly, but we both still know something lingers.

Some nights, I hear his voice in my ear long after I hang up. His laugh tucked into my pillow like it belongs there.

We don’t talk about what we’re doing still. No label. Just… a quiet rhythm falling bac into place. One I missed without realising.

Maisie find my phone on the bench one morning, reading aloud a message and yells, “Did George Clarke just say he’d fight anyone who insults our croissants?”

I whip my head around, icing bag still in hand. “Maisie –“

She holds the phone out of reach, dancing backwards on socked feet like a gremlin. “I mean, he used actual capital letters! Look – oh my god, he’s in love with your pastries. And you.”

I snatch the phone back, cheeks burning. “He’s just being stupid.”

A pause. Then a grin blooms across her face.

“You love him still!”

I go very still. “I do not.”

Maisie raises a single brow, crosses her arms, and simply waits.

I hate her.

But I smile anyway.

Because yes. Maybe I do.

Still.

Always.

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LOOK AT THEM! Being adults and talking about their feelings! How mature of them.

But only one part left everyone :(

I'm going to be sad to finish up this story... but I do have some things planned for them and another series to finish too, whoops.

See you next time for the last part,

mwah x

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

taglist x

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