Drunk Love ~ George Clarke

Pub Golf Lovin' ~ George Clarke

George Clarke

The call came at 11:47 p.m.

You almost ignored it.

Unknown number, late at night—usually not a great combination. But something in your gut told you to answer, and as soon as you did, the noise hit you first. Loud music, people shouting, laughter echoing in the background.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?” a voice said—familiar, but slightly panicked. “It’s—uh—it’s one of George’s mates.”

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing bad,” he said quickly. “He’s just… a bit too drunk.”

A bit.

Right.

You sighed, already grabbing your keys. “Where are you?”

---

When you arrived, you spotted them immediately.

A small group stood outside, half-laughing, half-struggling—and right in the middle of it was George Clarke.

Or at least… what remained of his dignity.

His hoodie was slightly twisted, hair a mess, and he was leaning heavily on one of his friends, blinking like the world wasn’t quite staying still.

“There she is!” one of them called as you approached.

George’s head lifted slowly.

And the second his eyes landed on you—

His entire face lit up.

“Y/N,” he said, like he’d just found the answer to every problem he’d ever had.

Oh no.

You knew that tone.

---

“Hi,” you said carefully, stepping closer. “You alright?”

He immediately reached for you.

Not subtly.

Not gracefully.

Just fully let go of his friend and stumbled straight into you, arms wrapping around you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

“You came,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

His weight nearly knocked you back.

“I *had* to come,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You’re a mess.”

“No, I’m not,” he protested, tightening his grip on you anyway.

Behind him, his friends were trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“He’s been like this for the last half hour,” one of them said. “Wouldn’t stop going on about you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Oh, really?”

“Only because I love her,” George slurred, lifting his head slightly.

You blinked.

His friends lost it.

“Right,” you said quickly, trying to regain control of the situation. “Okay. We’re going home.”

“No,” George said immediately.

You frowned. “No?”

He shook his head, then winced slightly like even that was too much movement.

“I like it here,” he said.

“You can’t even stand.”

“I can,” he insisted—and promptly proved himself wrong by swaying straight back into you.

You caught him with a sigh.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Very convincing.”

---

Getting him to the car was… an experience.

He refused to let go of you the entire time.

Not even for a second.

“George,” you laughed, trying to adjust your grip as you walked. “You need to actually *walk*.”

“I am walking,” he mumbled, clinging to your side.

“You’re leaning.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

He just hummed in response, clearly deciding the conversation wasn’t worth his energy.

By the time you reached the car, you were half-supporting, half-dragging him.

His friends waved you off, still laughing.

“Good luck!” one of them called.

“You’re never hearing the end of this!” another added.

You shook your head, smiling despite everything.

---

Once you finally got him into the passenger seat, you turned to buckle him in.

Big mistake.

Because the second you leaned in—

His hand caught your wrist.

“Stay,” he murmured.

Your heart softened instantly.

“I’m just putting your seatbelt on,” you said gently.

“No, like… stay,” he repeated, looking at you with that soft, slightly unfocused expression that somehow made everything feel more honest.

“I am staying,” you assured him. “I’m literally driving you home.”

He seemed to think about that.

Then nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

But he didn’t let go straight away.

---

The drive was quiet.

Well—quiet apart from the occasional mumble from him.

At one point, you glanced over to find him already looking at you.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re pretty,” he said.

You nearly missed a turn.

“George—”

“I mean it,” he added, like it was the most important thing in the world.

You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re pretty,” he repeated.

There was no arguing with that logic, apparently.

---

Getting him inside was somehow even harder than getting him into the car.

Because now he was tired.

And even more clingy.

The second you stepped through the door, he was back at your side, arms wrapping around you from behind this time, face pressing into your shoulder.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, laughing softly. “But you need to let me move, or we’re both just going to stand here all night.”

“Fine,” he said reluctantly.

He did not, in fact, let go.

---

Eventually, you managed to get him to sit down.

Barely.

The second he did, he pulled you with him, arms wrapping around your waist as he rested his head against you.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled.

“So are you,” you replied.

“Stay here,” he said again, softer this time.

“I will,” you promised.

He relaxed almost instantly, his grip loosening slightly—but not completely.

Like even half-asleep, he still needed to make sure you were there.

And honestly?

You didn’t mind.

Because even through the chaos, the clinginess, the complete lack of coordination…

It was still him.

Just softer.

Pub Golf Lovin'

George Clarkey x Reader

First Post, kinda nervous 😓 🙉 praying everyone likes it... feel free to give me requests, I am more than happy to write them. Hope you enjoy !!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You never expected your life to intertwine with someone like Harry Lewis. To you, he was just a voice behind a screen at first—loud, sarcastic, and endlessly entertaining. Someone you watched on late nights when sleep wouldn’t come easy. But somehow, through a mix of chance, mutual friends, and a bit of fate, he became someone sitting across from you in real life.

It started small.

A group hangout. Nothing special. You almost didn’t go.

Harry had been quieter than you expected that night. Not the chaotic energy you’d seen in videos, but something more grounded. Observant. He’d made a few jokes, sure, but mostly he’d been watching—taking people in, choosing when to speak instead of filling every silence.

You didn’t talk much at first. Just a few passing comments, a shared laugh over something stupid. But when you did properly speak, it felt… easy.

“Wait,” he said at one point, leaning forward slightly, “you actually think that film was good?”

You shrugged, smiling. “It wasn’t bad.”

“It was terrible,” he replied, but there was no bite to it—just playful disbelief.

“Your taste is just questionable.”

He laughed then, properly this time. “Alright, we’re arguing about this another time.”

And somehow, you did.

---

The second time you met, it wasn’t a group thing. Not exactly.

You’d been invited out again, but most people cancelled last minute. It ended up just being you and him.

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Harry said, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets as you stood outside the café.

“Tragic,” you replied, trying not to smile too much.

But it wasn’t tragic. Not even close.

You talked for hours.

About everything—YouTube, yes, but also things you didn’t expect. Music. Childhood memories. The weird pressure of growing up in completely different worlds. He told you about how strange it was having millions of people feel like they knew him.

“It’s weird,” he admitted, stirring his drink absentmindedly. “Like… they know a version of me. Just not all of it.”

You nodded. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it is.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just real.

“And you?” he asked. “What’s your thing?”

You hesitated, not used to being the one asked. But something about the way he looked at you—genuinely interested—made it easier.

So you told him.

And he listened.

---

After that, it became a pattern.

Late-night messages.

Random memes.

“Are you awake?” texts that turned into conversations lasting until 3 a.m.

You started noticing the little things.

How he’d send you things that reminded him of you.

How he’d check in, even when he was busy.

How he’d call you out when you were overthinking—but gently, like he understood.

And then there were the moments in person.

Like the night you both ended up on a rooftop during another gathering, escaping the noise below. The city stretched out around you, lights flickering like stars that had fallen to earth.

“It’s quieter up here,” you said.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, leaning on the railing. “Better, innit?”

You nodded.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, “You’re different, you know,” he said suddenly.

You glanced at him. “Different how?”

He shrugged, but didn’t look away this time. “You don’t treat me like… all this.” He gestured vaguely, as if referring to everything—his career, his online presence, the noise of it all.

“I mean,” you said softly, “you’re still just you.”

He let out a small laugh. “Mad concept.”

“I know. Revolutionary.”

That made him smile—one of those rare, genuine ones that didn’t feel like it was meant for anyone else but the moment.

---

It wasn’t a dramatic realization.

No sudden confession. No big, cinematic moment.

Just a quiet understanding that somewhere along the way, he’d become important to you.

And maybe—just maybe—you had become important to him too.

It showed in the way he looked for you in a room.

In the way his voice softened when he said your name.

In the way silence between you never felt empty.

---

One evening, as you sat side by side on his sofa, some random video playing in the background neither of you were really watching, he nudged you slightly.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” he asked.

“What?”

“This,” he said, gesturing between you. “Us.”

You tilted your head. “Weird good or weird bad?”

He thought for a moment.

“Weird good,” he decided. “Definitely weird good.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d agree with that.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter this time, “I’m glad I met you.”

You looked at him, really looked at him.

“Me too, Harry.”