#chrismd

he absolutely cannot fall asleep without touching you.

iIt doesn’t matter how hot it is, or how tangled the duvet is. he has to be touching you. face buried in your neck, his entire arm flopped over your chest, one leg thrown over yours like he’s anchoring you to the bed. even in his sleep, he subconsciously adjusts to pull you closer. and when you try to wriggle free in the morning, he just groans and mumbles, “stay.” dragging you back like a human teddy bear.

love language:

harry’s love language is experience-based gift giving. he might be busy with work or filming, but when he wants to show love, it’s always intentional. random flower delivery on a hard day. your favourite chocolate waiting on the kitchen counter. but mostly? surprise weekends away. “pack a bag. don’t ask. just trust me.” he just wants to watch you smile in the sunlight somewhere quiet. time with you is his favourite reward.

PDA:

he’s fine with affection, but always thoughtful. hand-holding? always. arm around your shoulders? definitely. kissing in public? only if it feels safe. he’s protective like that. he knows what people online can be like, and he doesn’t want you dragged into that. vut in private? he never stops touching you. always pulling you close, kissing your temple, murmuring little things like; “come ‘ere. missed you.”

he’s physically attached to you 90% of the time. fully believes your boobs or lap are his designated resting spots.

like if you're both on the sofa? he’s immediately lying down with his head in your lap, fingers curled around your leg, cheek smushed into your thigh. or he’ll shuffle over during movie night, look at you with that slightly pouty expression, and just wordlessly collapse onto your chest like it’s a weighted pillow. and the moment you start playing with his hair? gis whole body goes slack. “you’re gonna make me fall asleep mid-movie, I’m warning you.” (he does. every time.)

he tries to get you in every video like it’s a game.

he’ll be mid-challenge and suddenly swing the camera around just to show you in the corner. “that’s my girlfriend , she’s judging me. she thinks I’m shit at this.” and even if you're off-camera, you’ll always hear a little: “can you pass me that? say hi to the vlog.” he just loves that people know he has you. not to show off, but like, “look what I’ve got. look who loves me.”

he’s got zero filter when it comes to talking about you on camera.

he’ll get asked something dumb like “are you seeing anyone?” in a sidemen video and immediately beam: “yeah. she’s unreal. my actual dream girl. sorry, lads.” doesn’t even blink. doesn’t tone it down. he means every word.

he thinks you’re the funniest person alive and will repeat your jokes to the boys like they’re his own.

you’ll say something casually hilarious in private, and then two days later, you’ll hear him using it in a group video. “where’d you hear that?” “..dunno.” (it was you. he just wants to sound cool.)

nsfw warning!!!

kinks.

harry’s definitely into both praise and degradation, but only when he’s giving it. one minute he’s calling you his “good girl,” stroking your cheek while he fucks you slow, the next he’s got your thighs shaking as he mutters things like “so needy, aren’t you? can’t go five minutes without my cock.” but if you ever tried to degrade him? nope. not happening. he gets sulky real quick. “shut up. you love me.” lso: total exhibitionist. wants you in his lap at parties, whispering filth in your ear while you try to focus. will pull you into a half-lit stairwell at a club just to get his hands on you. the idea of nearly getting caught makes him harder.“keep your voice down, babe. unless you want everyone knowing how good I fuck you.”

harry loves a good mirror. loves watching the way your body reacts to him. arching, shaking, writhing. loves whispering filthy things while you both watch. “look at you. look how good I make you feel.” pulls your chin so you have to see yourself falling apart. and when he’s still dressed? oh, he lives for you palming him through his joggers. hrins like a lunatic when you say he’s big. “yeah? you want it that bad, baby? ho on then. take it.”

aftercare.

despite his chaotic, insatiable energy in bed, harry is soft as hell after. he might rail you into next week, but the second it’s over? he’s carrying you to the bathroom, running a warm bath, pressing kisses to your shoulder like he’s grounding himself too. wraps you in one of his massive hoodies and flops on the sofa with you curled on his chest. might go, “want tea? or like, chocolate? I’ve got those fancy biscuits you like.” puts a movie on even though he knows you’ll both fall asleep five minutes in. he just wants to keep you close while you come back down. he adores taking care of you. it makes him feel needed in the way he craves.

secret kinks:

i feel like he would be so into mutual mastuebation.

watching you touch yourself? my god. he’ll sit back, fisting his cock while staring at you with blown pupils and a filthy little grin. loves hearing you whimper his name. loves seeing how wet you get for just him. aand when you’re apart? he’s got Polaroids of you hidden in his suitcase. one in a bikini, one in lace, one with nothing but your smile. “you’ve got no idea how often i look at these. fuckin’ obsessed.”

He gets turned on so easily. It’s actually kind of hilarious.

like, you wear his hoodie with nothing underneath and bend over to grab something? he’s immediately hard. you kiss his neck for more than three seconds? boner. you call him baby in that soft voice? game over. sometimes you’ll just brush past him in the kitchen and he’ll go: “don’t do that. i’ve got shit to do today. now I’m thinking about you riding me on the counter.”

He gets addicted to whatever makes you moan the loudest.

once he hears that sound, the one that makes your back arch and your nails dig into his arms, he will chase it forever. tries to find the exact angle, exact rhythm, exact words that pull that noise out of you. and once he does? “there. that’s it. fuck, do that again. do it for me.” losing his mind over you, every time.

The thing about dating Arthur is that it’s all very… soft.

It started at the pub, completely random, you went with your work friends to just have a fun night out and he was there with a couple of his mates, accidentally making eye contact with you when he laughed too loud at something. You ended up standing next to each other at the bar waiting for drinks, and you made some stupid joke about how long it was taking, and suddenly you were both talking.

And then you kept talking.

You become friends, sending each other TikToks at ungodly hours, the occasional “are you free?” text that turned into wandering around Tesco at 10pm buying snacks you definitely don’t need. He started coming over to yours, you went to his, and one night you end up baking because you’d mentioned off-handedly that you missed doing it and he said, “I’ve never actually made brownies from scratch before.”

Which is how you end up in his kitchen at 11:30pm arguing over whether licking the spoon is good or not.

Somewhere between that and the way he always seemed to care a lot, it shited and then one day he asked, very casually and very sweetly, “Would you maybe want to go on a date sometime?”

Obviously you say yes.

Now he’s your boyfriend.

Your very sweet, very thoughtful, makes-you-tea-without-asking, texts-you-when-you-get-home-safe boyfriend.

Who — and this is important — is very fine.

You knew he was cute before. That was obvious. Pretty eyes, nice smile, all of that.

But then.

Then you saw this TikTok.

It came up out of nowhere while you were lying in bed one night, half asleep and doomscrolling, and suddenly it was him. Some edit someone’s made from a platform roulette at Brighton — sunlight, wind, the sea behind him—and he’s just standing there, laughing in his boxers like it’s nothing.

Like it’s normal.

Like it’s normal to have abs that look like that.

Your thumb freezes.

You sit up.

You replay it.

Because there’s actually no way your boyfriend, who gets excited about chess and once spent twenty minutes explaining the optimal way to stack the dishwasher, is just secretly built like that???

Sleeper build final boss.

You put your phone down and stared at the wall for a bit that night.

Now it’s always in the back of your mind.

When he hugs you.

When he leans over you to grab something from a cupboard.

When he stretches and his t-shirt rides up just a little bit and you have to pretend you didn’t notice.

Abs.

Actual abs.

Which is why when he asks, “Do you want to come to the gym with me on Thursday night? You're free, right?” you agree immediately. You’ve been saying for ages you want to get stronger anyway. This is normal. This is fine. You are normal about this.

You are not normal about this.

Because ten minutes in, you realise two things: Arthur is WAY stronger than he looks and he is wearing a compression shirt, which is cruel honestly.

You’re stood next to him while he loads plates onto the bar like it’s nothing, and you try very hard to act casual when you see the number.

“Eighty Five?” you say.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s probably the most i can do without getting crushed.”

You stare at him.

He glances at the bar, then back at you, then at the bar again like he’s double checking.

“…It’s a reasonable amount.”

You, meanwhile, are over at thirty-five kilos feeling like you deserve a medal for simply not being crushed into the floor.

He watches you attempt your set with this infuriatingly fond little smile.

“Do you want me to spot you?”

“I’m fine,” you insist, immediately wobbling.

He steps in anyway, hands hovering just beneath the bar without touching, voice low near your ear.

“Keep your wrists straight—yeah, like that. You’ve got it.”

You absolutely do not got it, but the fact that he’s this close is making your brain short circuit so you power through out of sheer stubbornness.

You sit up, breathless. “That was tragic,” you say.

“You did five, thats really good!.”

“I probably looked chopped.”

“Shut up.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he laughs, reaching out to steady the bar before you can accidentally knock it over.

And it’s then, when he leans forward, you see it properly.

The way the compression shirt stretches over his stomach when he moves.

The outline of his abs.

You look away. You look back. You try not to look back again. You fail. You are, in fact, staring. For a solid three seconds. Four.

“…You alright there?” he asks mildly.

Your head snaps up.

“Yea,” you say, far too quickly. “Just zoning out, I think my legs are broken so-”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

And he doesn’t mention it.

You take off your uncomfortable sports bra and put your top back on the the changing rooms to meet Arthur outside.

His eyes fall onto you chest, your nipples poking out of the top slightly. He looks away quickly to hide how flustered his is.

Later when he's driving you to yours you cant help but just notice him again, his hand changing the gear, on the wheel, the way the muscles in his arm flex, his man boobs, bloody hell.

You’re halfway through recounting the guy who was doing—whatever that was with the resistance bands—when you snort.

“No, because why was he swinging it like that? That cannot be part of any known exercise.”

Arthur laughs, one hand loose on the steering wheel. “I think he was traning his wank hand.”

You burst out laughing.

He glances over at you, smile soft and fond in a way that makes your stomach do that annoying flip it’s started doing around him lately.

When he pulls up outside yours, neither of you make any move to get out immediately.

You unbuckle.

“…Do you want to come up for a bit?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “We’ve got time before dinner anyway.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “Sure.”

Shoes are kicked off by the door, you both collapsing onto the sofa in a boneless way, still giggling over gym weirdos and your tragic attempt at that last set.

“I’m serious,” you say. “If I wake up tomorrow and can’t move, it’s your fault.”

“I literally helped you.”

“You watched me suffer.”

“I spotted you!”

“You watched me suffer supportively.”

He grins.

And then, because conversations with Arthur never go in a straight line, you somehow end up talking about the ocean. Which becomes deep sea creatures. Which becomes whales.

“So sperm whales can hold their breath for like, over an hour,” he’s saying now, with his t-rex hands that he gets when he’s talking about something he actually finds interesting. He’s standing in front of you where you’re still sat on the sofa, gesturing slightly as he explains. “And they dive to, like, ridiculous depths— actually they have been known to do this to avoid orca pods...”

You light up immediately.

“I know! They're actually able to do this because of the melon organ in their heads, I mean most whales do but they have a big one to allow them to dive deep—”

You push yourself up to your feet as you say it so you’re not talking up at him anymore, stepping into his space without really thinking about it because you’re excited now, because you love this.

But that means you’re close.

Like really close.

And now you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he hasn’t changed out of his gym clothes yet.

Of the compression shirt.

Of the way his chest is rising and falling from where he’s still a little out of breath.

Of how solid he feels when your hand comes up to lightly hook into the front of his shirt just to emphasise your point—

“And they have, like, regional accents in their clicks, which is insane because—”

Your fingers brush his stomach.

By accident.

You freeze for half a second, that’s rock hard.

Not like tense, like you caught him mid-movement.

Just.

Hard.

You swallow.

He keeps talking.

“—and apparently different pods can actually recognise each other based on those patterns, which is—”

Your hand moves again.

This time very deliberately.

Just the lightest little graze of your fingertips against his abs through the fabric like you’re absentmindedly fidgeting while you think.

You feel them tighten instantly.

His voice stutters.

Just for a second.

“—which is really interesting because—”

He clears his throat, looking down at you now with this slightly dazed, caught-off-guard expression that would be funny if your brain wasn’t actively short-circuiting from the fact that you can feel every ridge under your hand.

You nod like you’re still listening.

You are not listening.

You are thinking about Brighton beach.

You are thinking about ninety kilos.

You are thinking about the fact that your boyfriend is built like this and has just been walking around in hoodies this whole time like it’s a secret.

Your fingers press a little more this time.

He inhales.

Sharp.

You look up just in time to see his jaw tighten.

“…I’m always—” he starts, then stops, clearly having lost whatever sentence he was on.

His hands settle on your hips and it’s like an anchor. You’re so aware of him—his chest, hard under that tight gym shirt, the warmth radiating through the fabric. You try to focus on something else, anything else, but the whale facts you were mid-sentence about are completely gone from your brain, replaced by the sensation of being pressed to him.

“You’re so funny,” he mutters, voice low and amused but his thumbs drag lightly over your hip bones and it makes your knees go a little weak.

“Am I?” you manage to squeak, even though you’re definitely not thinking about ridiculousness, more about how his arms feel when he’s holding you like this.

He leans down just a little, enough for your foreheads to almost touch, and grins. “Yeah.”

You blink up at him, and somehow the conversation loops back to the gym—like he’s justifying, but really it’s a perfect excuse to lean closer.

He kisses your lips softly as you walk backwards onto the sofa, "Um, Arthur?" You ask mis kiss.

"Yea?"

"I um, I didn't know you were like, really fit."

He softly giggles against your mouth as you both end up sitting on the sofa wrapped in each others arms.

His reaction is immediate.

The second your nails trace over his chest and dip to the firm line of his stomach, the muscles under your fingertips jump. Properly tense. Like he wasn’t expecting it and his body’s betrayed him before his brain can catch up.

His breath stutters into your mouth.

It’s subtle, but it’s there and it makes something hot and fizzy bloom low in your stomach.

Arthur’s hand tightens where it’s resting on your waist, fingers flexing like he’s debating whether to move you closer or push you back, and you feel his exhale ghost across your cheek when your touch lingers there for just a second longer than it needs to.

“Careful,” he murmurs, but it comes out rougher than before.

Your nails drag lightly back up again, slow enough that you feel every shift of muscle under that stupidly tight shirt, and this time when you kiss him it’s less soft and more—curious. Testing.

His lips part.

You take advantage immediately.

The kiss deepens, tongues brushing in a way that makes his inhale catch again, and suddenly it’s not neat anymore. Not the sweet, polite kisses you’ve been sharing for weeks.

It’s messy.

Your mouths don’t quite line up at first because you’re both smiling—nervous, breathless, and then you do and it turns into something warmer, slower, his hand sliding up your back like he’s trying to ground himself.

Your fingers press into his stomach again.

He makes a noise this time.

Quiet—barely there—but definitely a noise.

And when you do it again, just a small, curious squeeze, his head tips back slightly like he’s trying to keep the kiss steady and failing.

“God,” he breathes, not even a full word—just air and sound against your lips.

You kiss him again before he can say anything else.

And again.

And again—until his hand’s come up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s forgotten what he was doing a second ago.

Your nails dip lower.

He pulls back this time—but only just enough to look at you.

Eyes dark.

A little unfocused.

Like he’s trying very hard to remember how talking works.

"You’re doing that on purpose now,” he says quietly.

You blink up at him, far too innocent.

Your hand flexes again.

He closes his eyes for a second.

Longer this time.

And when he leans back in to kiss you, his eyes dazed and addicted, it’s not soft anymore.

His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair just enough to tilt your head the way he wants. His mouth claims yours slower, deeper, like he’s finally decided to stop pretending he’s unaffected.

Your back hits the sofa cushions properly as he guides you down with him.

You’re half underneath him now, one of his knees braced between yours, his weight supported on one arm so he doesn’t crush you—but you can feel him. Solid. Warm. Strong.

Your fingers curl into the hem of his compression shirt.

He notices.

Immediately.

His lips break from yours just long enough for him to look down at you, breathing heavier now, cheeks slightly flushed.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.

You don’t deny it this time.

Instead, you tug.

Just lightly at first.

The fabric stretches under your grip. His abs flex instinctively when your knuckles brush them again and he actually sucks in a sharp breath this time.

“…Right,” he mutters under his breath, like he’s reached some internal decision.

And then he sits back just enough to grab the hem himself.

Your stomach flips.

He pulls the shirt up slowly over his stomach, over his chest, and for a second you get distracted by the way the muscles move as he lifts his arms.

Sleeper build was a crime.

This is a felony.

He tosses the shirt somewhere behind him without looking.

And now he’s just there.

Bare skin. Warm. Close enough that you can see the faint rise and fall of his breathing, the slight flush creeping down his neck.

You don’t even pretend to be cool about it.

Your hands land on him immediately.

Flat against his chest at first, like you’re confirming he’s real.

He exhales hard through his nose when your palms slide down, slower this time. Exploratory. Curious. Your nails lightly tracing the lines you’d only felt through fabric before.

His stomach tightens under your touch again.

He laughs softly but it’s breathless.

“You are absolutely obsessed,” he says.

“You hid this,” you accuse, dragging your fingers down again.

“I didn’t hide—”

You lean up and press your mouth just under his collarbone.

He cuts off mid-sentence.

The reaction is instant.

His whole body goes still for a split second.

Then his hand grips your waist.

Your lips trail lower, slow and deliberate. Soft kisses at first. Testing. Feeling him tense under each one.

When your mouth reaches the top of his chest, just above his sternum, you let your teeth graze lightly before sucking gently at the skin.

He makes a noise.

“Okay,” he breathes, head tipping back slightly. “Okay—”

You don’t stop.

You move to the side of his chest next, pressing your lips there, sucking a little firmer this time. Your hands are everywhere now—palming his stomach, tracing the curve of his waist, feeling how he reacts to every tiny shift.

He reacts to everything.

His abs tense under your hand when you drag your nails lightly across them.

His breathing goes uneven when you press another mark just below his pec.

When you move up toward his shoulder and bite softly before soothing it with your tongue, his head drops forward again and he looks down at you like he cannot believe this is happening.

“You’re leaving evidence,” he says faintly.

“You can cover it with a hoodie,” you mumble against his skin before kissing him there again.

He laughs but it breaks halfway through when you suck another mark into his collarbone.

His hands slide from your waist to your thighs, gripping, pulling you closer underneath him until there’s no space left between you.

You can feel how warm he is now.

How tense.

How affected.

When you finally drag your mouth back up to his, it’s messy again. Open-mouthed. Desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to catch up, like he’s been holding back this entire time and you just snapped the last thread.

His tongue slides against yours, slower at first, then deeper when your nails rake lightly down his sides.

He groans into your mouth.

Actually groans.

One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, the other gripping your waist so tight you know there’ll be faint fingerprints later.

When he pulls back this time, his lips are slightly swollen, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling faster than before. There are already faint red marks blooming across his skin where your mouth’s been.

Still a little breathless from kissing him. Still buzzing from the way he reacted to every mark you left on his chest.

Your hands slide from his stomach to his hips and hook into the waistband of his shorts, "Arthur is this okay?"

Arthur just presses his lips against yours and guides your hand into his boxers.

As you wrap your hands around his length you can't help but notice his breath stutturing against you. Your thumbglides across his tip, spreading precum around his cock.

Arthur lets out a moan, and then grabs your wrist, "Are you okay? we can stop" You say, concern flooding your face.

"No I just, I want to make you feel good too, what do yo want?"

"Arthur it's fine, just let me baby,"

Arthur crumbles when you call him that.

He relaxes his head on you neck mouthing at your collar bone as you spit on you hand and go back to stroking his dick.

The sounds that come out of him are unreal.

You never expected him to be loud but you'll probably have very angry neighbours by the end of this night.

"Fuck," Moans and whimpers escape his lips as you pump his length harder and faster.

"Yea that feel good Arthy?" You ask watching his dazed expression.

His hips rut into your hands like a puppy, "Yes, please"

You feel his cock throb in your hand as his breath gets heavy against your neck, now covered in dark bruises from his teeth.

"I—I'm close—"

"Yea you wanna cum in my hand baby?"

He lets out a moan as he finally lets go, the sticky white substance coating his shorts and you hand.

He pulls away to look at you lips but his gaze immediately drops below, your t-shirt is pushed off one shoulder, dark marks blooming down your neck, across your collarbone to the top of you boob. The outline of you nipples poking through the top

His eyes go hazy like he's addicted to the sight.

You go a little shy, a sheer contrast to when you were calling him nicknames and jerking him off. "Eyes up here Arthur", You let out a flustered giggle, not knowing how to react.

"Sorry, It's just, I want to make you feel good." Arthur says, his eyes suddenly a mix of lust and earnesty.

You blush and slip your fingers to the hem of your t-shirt, "Okay just—let me take this off."

You lift your top off as normal as you can feeling Arthur's eyes trailing up your tummy.

When you take it off completely he looks fucking star-struck,. He is locked on your boobs. Locked

He looks back up at you as you fold your arms awkwardly in an attempt to seem as nonchalant as possible. "You are so pretty is hurts I—"

"Good because you are built like a Greek God." you retort.

He laughs and leans forward, his hand reaching for you face, "Come here". His lips meet yours as his hand glides against your boob, fingers tweaking the hard nipple.

"Arthur?" You say pulling back slightly.

"What's wrong, we can stop if you want—"

"I just, this sounds weird but can you like, suck my boobs?"

His eyes darken a little like hes hypnotised, "Of course."

He lays you down on the sofa and then trails his mouth down you neck, Your exposed skin on his. It feels intimate.

He smiles against your collar bone as he hears you breath stuttering, "You are so beautiful." He mouths your right, his hand grasping the left, You feel his muffled voice vibrate against your skin, "Do you like this?"

"Yes—" Your breath stutters as he bites your skin a little, a deep hickey forming, "I like it a lot Arth—"

Arthur lets out a noise of satisfaction as he starts to suck your nipple, You thread your hands through his messy brown locks as he trails his mouth across you chest creating bruises and marks.

Eventually he pulls back and stares you, "Are you okay with this?" His hand hovers over the waistband of your shorts.

"Yes Arthy" You reply breathlessly watching his hands pull down your shorts.

Arthur pauses for a second, not expecting you to be wearing lacey underwear for a gym date. "Oh um, God your so hot—"

You grab his hair in response "Shut up and eat me out idiot"

Arthur laughs at your little quip and kisses up your thigh shutting you up, you feel his lips smile against you as he realises how wet you are.

He carefully pulls the panties to the side and looks up at you with his soft chocolate eyes, he takes a lick, the sensation making you rut against his face slightly.

Arthur notices how desperate you are and doesn't hold back. He attacks your clit with his tongue, caressing the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Fuck Arthur that feels so good—" You moan, tugging at his hair unknowingly. Arthur moans into your core, his tongue now flicking your clit as his finger circles your hole.

He eases a finger into you gently pushing it in and out as he mouths at your folds.

"F—FUCK"

You slap your free hand onto your mouth to shut you up, the neighbours are going to be livid.

Your noises only encourage Arthur, he adds another finger, curving in your throbbing cunt hitting that spot that you love.

The combination of his digits and mouth on your pussy breaks you.

"I'm—I'm so close" You pant as quiet as you can against your mouth. "Please fuck—"

Arthur doesn't stop. He keeps fucking you with his fingers and flicking your sore clit with tongue until you cum.

Your hips ride his face as you grab his hair harder.

Arthur pulls back to properly look at you, Your face now as dazed as his was, he softens immediately like he wasn't just eating your face out like an addict. "Was that good?"

You smile and sit up a bit, "No Arthur it was horrible actually."

Arthur looks a bit confused, "You didn't cum?"

You break character a little laughing at how quickly he folded, "No Arthur I was joking, that was so good, You were really good—"

Arthur bursts into laughter as well, "Oh my god I got so worried that you had to fake it—" He pauses and stares at your slightly limp body, hickeys now formed all over your torso. "Yea um I'm sorry about those."

You let out a slight giggle and stare back at his chest, his abs and pecs covered in just as many hickeys, "Me too acually"

a/n: finally written lol, likes comments and reblogs are appreciated, requests are open and lmk if you wanna be on the taglist!!

“you want me to lift you up for a tiktok video?” he blinked. 

“yeah,” you nodded, enthusiastically. 

“absolutley not,” he laughed, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes.

you sat up straighter, “what? why?”

"i'm not doing a trend called 'slim pickins'. what even is that?"

"don't act like i didn't catch you saving sabrina carpenter edits into a folder." you glared at him, "all you have to do is pick me up. what's even the point of all that muscle if you don't wanna use them?" you pinched his arm.

"first of all, ouch." he glared at you, "secondly, it's cringe."

you huff and flop back against the cushions of the sofa,, dramitically wounded. "you're so boring."

"i'm saving us from tiktok humiliation." he says, "the lads'll never let it go if i start doing coupley tiktoks." he complains, already closing his eyes again like the conversations over.

"please." you scoff, "you're mpre affectionate with chris and arthur than you are with me."

george just snorted, eyes still closed.

you sulk for exactly ten minutes, then you let it go. for now.

the next day

you woke up the next morning alone. george had left early, before the sun even rose, to film the next episode of the useless hotline. this meant you got to enjoy yet another blissfully quiet day.

that is, until you open your tiktok for you page.

there he was, your boyfriend, with his podcast co-host on his shoulder to the sound of the exact sabrina carpenter song you had shown him not even twelve hours prior, grinning like it was the most fun he had in weeks.

it was funny, of course, the running joke that you and andrew were merely side pieces in max and george's borderline romantic dynamic. but, still, you weren't letting this go easily.

later that night, you're sitting cross-legged on the bed, phone in hand. waiting for george to finish streaming. he's been live for hours now. talking, laughing, completely unbothered as he plays games for the people watching. eventually, you get bored of waiting, so you get up with your phone in hand and walk down the hall.

george is mid-sentence, laughing at something on his screen, when the door creaks open behind him. at first, he doesn't notice you, not until his chat explodes.

'Y/N!!!' 'she looks so done 😭' 'uh oh george is in trouble'

george grinned at the chat before turning in his chair to face you, "hey, baby. what's up?"

"not much." you shrugged, walking over to him and standing behind his chair, leaning down so you were visible on stream, "whatcha doin'?"

"watching random tiktoks." he said, showing you his screen.

you gasped, "oh! i saw a really good one earlier, can i show you?"

"yeah, go for it." he nodded, getting up from the chair so you could use the pc.

you took a seat and began typing into the search bar.

@/theuselesshotlinepod

you clicked onto the profile and went to the most recent video.

"oh no," george sighed and started nervously laughing behind you, hiding behind his gaming chair.

"no, no!" you said sweetly, tapping his arm like you weren't plotting his downfall, "watch it."

you pull up the video in full screen and hit play. sabrina carpenter's voice began echoing through the room.

"a boy who's jacked and kind—"

"it was max and calum's idea, i swear." he laughed.

"was it?" you asked, "chat, i literally asked him to do this exact video yesterday. and he said no!" you laughed.

'LMAOOO' 'the other woman😭' 'i wonder if andrew feels the same' 'she bought RECEIPTS.'

george hides behind the chair again. "i'm being cyberbullied."

"you deserve it." you grinned.

you let the video play one more time, just to drag it out a little while longer. then, satisfied, you grabbed your phone, said goodbye to the chat and left the room.

a while later, you were curled up on the sofa, still scrolling through tiktok when george emerged from his streaming room with a sheepish smile on his face.

"are you actually upset?" he asked, standing in front of you.

"not upset, upset." you shrugged, "but it would be nice if my boyfriend would make tiktoks with me."

he grabbed your hands and pulled you up from your place on the sofa, wrapping his arms around you in a hug. "you're so petty." he chuckled, kissing your forehead.

you hummed, burying you head into his chest. "you love it."

he pulled away, picking your phone up from where you left it on the coffee table. "i do. that's why i'm gonna do it once. and if i throw my back out, you owe me physio."

you looked up at him, "you're not doing this out of guilt, are you?"

"absolutley not," he said, already walking over to the window sill. "i'm doing it because i'm jacked and kind."

his poor joke made you burst into laughter, "you're so annoying."

"come on, let me hoist you."

you clapped your hands, jumping up and down on the spot. "thank you! thank you! thank you!"

the two of you prop your phone up on a stack of cookbooks that have never been touched and an empty coffee mug like this tiktok was some high-level production.

you queue up the audio, bounce on your feet a little as the countdown begins, you turn to george. "ready?"

"not really." he huffed, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper as the music starts playing.

you stood in front of him, his hands found their place securely around your waist.

"a boy who's jacked and kind..."

george lifts you up, effortlessly, onto his shoulder. for a second, everything's going perfectly. you're sitting on his shoulder, balanced like a princess, while he beams at the camera.

"can't find his ass to save my life."

then, because he cannot be serious for one minute, he pretends to wobble.

"george!" you shriek, grabbing a fistful of his hair for stability.

"you're fine!"

you're both laughing so hard, he actually nearly drops you the next time. but he manages to power through to the end of the audio and gently, and safely, lowers you to the floor.

you stuble your way over to your phone, still laughing, george comes up behind you, the pair of you watching the video back before you posted it.

it looks like it was filmed by a couple of sleep-deprived toddlers, which honestly checks out.

within minutes, the comments start rolling in.

'THIS is couple goals.' 'she won 😭' 'petty always wins, ladies.' 'max_balegde: jealousy wasn't a good look on you, babe x'

george scrolls through them from where he’s flopped next to you on the sofa, grinning. “okay, i’ll admit,” he says, nudging your knee, “that was kind of fun.”

you smile, nudging him back. “told you.”

he tilts his head, watching you for a second. “still not doing another one, though.”

“sure,” you say, already opening your tiktok app and queuing up the next audio.

he groans, dragging a pillow over his face. “i’ve created a monster.”

but when you peek over the pillow and raise an eyebrow, he’s already laughing, and you know damn well he’ll do it again.