handsy george😝 he just always needs to be touching u
always - george clarke.
first post in a while so i made it a long one! i hope you enjoy <3
it starts small. it always does.
you’re at the kitchen counter, half-distracted while scrolling on your phone, trying to remember what you came in here for. george appears behind you like it’s muscle memory, arms snaking around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“what are we doing?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear.
you lean into him instinctively. “trying to remember if i wanted tea or toast.”
“i vote toast,” he says, already moving to grab bread one-handed, his other still snug around your waist like you might float away if he lets go.
he’s always touching you. always. not in a demanding way—not like he needs something from you, but like it grounds him. a hand on your back when you walk into a room. his fingers brushing yours when you’re watching something on the couch. his thigh pressed against yours in the uber even when there’s plenty of space.
you used to think he didn’t notice he was doing it. now you know better.
-
later, you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked up, some random show playing that neither of you are really watching. george has you pulled into him, your legs draped across his lap, and his hand is running slowly—absentmindedly—up and down your shin.
you glance down. “you’re doing that thing again.”
he hums, not looking away from the screen. “what thing?”
“you’re petting me like a cat.”
he smirks. “you purr when i do it.”
you roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. instead, you shift just enough to let your cheek rest on his shoulder.
george drops a kiss to your temple and keeps his hand moving, slow, warm, familiar. “you love it.”
you do. not that you’d admit it out loud.
-
you’re out with friends one night—some crowded pub with too-loud music and sticky tables. george is in full social mode, laughing at some story arthur’s telling, but even then, his hand finds the back of your chair. then your knee. then the crook of your elbow.
he doesn’t even look down when his fingers find yours, lacing them together under the table.
you try not to melt on the spot.
“he’s so handsy with you,” liv teases when george goes to the bar.
you shrug, cheeks warm. “he always is.”
and he really is. it’s not performative. it’s not just in public. in fact, if anything, he’s worse in private—less filtered, more shameless about the way he pulls you onto his lap while you’re trying to get dressed, or slides a hand under your shirt while you’re brushing your teeth, like he can’t go ten minutes without touching you.
he never asks. he doesn’t need to. it’s never possessive, never too much. it’s just george being george.
-
one lazy sunday, you’re both holed up in bed past noon. the curtains are drawn, and the world feels quiet. you’re on your stomach, half-asleep, and george’s fingers are tracing slow shapes along your spine.
he’s barely awake. you can tell by the way his breath is soft and even, but his hand doesn’t stop. it moves on instinct, warm against your skin.
“you’re so tactile,” you mumble into the pillow.
george makes a sleepy noise behind you. “means i like you.”
“you say that like you didn’t literally cling to me in your sleep.”
“you’re warm,” he murmurs. “and soft. and you smell nice. ‘course i’m gonna cling to you.”
you snort. “you’re like a giant koala.”
he hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him. “shut up. i’m adorable.”
you laugh, letting him pull you in, letting his hand settle under your shirt again, splayed across your stomach like it belongs there.
(which, annoyingly, it kind of does.)
-
he does it when you’re getting ready to go out, too.
you’ll be in front of the mirror, fixing your hair or trying to decide between two tops, and he’ll come up behind you—always barefoot, always quiet—and wrap his arms around your waist.
“this one,” he’ll say, gesturing lazily to the shirt you’re not wearing. “shows off your collarbones.”
“why do you care about my collarbones?”
“don’t know,” he shrugs, kissing the space beneath your ear. “they’re hot.”
you roll your eyes, but you change anyway.
sometimes he just wants to sit on the floor while you do your skincare, his head resting on your thigh. he doesn’t talk. he just wants to be there, fingers drawing idle lines along your leg, watching you in the mirror like he’s never seen you before.
and then later, when you’re lying in bed, freshly washed and soft, he’ll be on you again—hands under the hem of your shirt, palm over your heart.
-
one night, after a particularly long day, you climb into bed feeling worn out and quiet.
george doesn’t ask questions. he just pulls you into his chest, one hand sliding up your back and the other cradling your head. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t push—just holds you like that’s the only thing that matters.
you think about how easily he reads you. how he always knows what kind of touch you need—soft and grounding, or playful and teasing, or firm and steady when your mind won’t stop racing.
his hand smooths down your spine again, slow and repetitive, and you let your body relax into his.
“you okay?” he whispers after a while, pressing a kiss to your hair.
you nod against his chest. “just tired.”
“you’re safe,” he says quietly. “i’ve got you.”
and he does. he always does.
-
sometimes it’s teasing, too. the way he sits behind you on the sofa and rests his chin on your shoulder, whispering commentary in your ear while you scroll your phone. the way his hand slips under your hoodie just to rest there—no agenda, just warmth.
other times, it’s… not so innocent.
like when he passes behind you in the kitchen and lets his hand drag across your lower back.
or when you’re doing laundry and he pulls you toward him by your waistband, murmuring something low and smug into your neck.
or when you’re brushing your teeth and he plants himself behind you, wraps both arms around you and says, “need my daily cuddle. don’t care that you’ve got toothpaste in your mouth.”
you roll your eyes and mumble something about personal space, but he just sways you side to side like you’re dancing in the bathroom and hums tunelessly into your hair.
you never pull away. not really.
-
there’s something reassuring about the way george is always touching you. like if he keeps a hand on you, he knows you’re real. here. his.
sometimes it’s his fingers brushing yours as you walk down the street. sometimes it’s his hand on your thigh under the table at dinner, or his foot nudging yours gently when you’re out with friends.
you don’t need the attention. you’re not the clingy type.
but somehow, with him, it’s different. comforting. like an anchor.
you’ve started reaching back now, too. looping your arm through his when you cross the road. curling into his side when he’s editing videos, your fingers fiddling with the hem of his hoodie.
he never complains. he leans into it.
“touch-starved,” he teases once, smiling against your neck.
“takes one to know one,” you shoot back.
he just laughs and pulls you closer.
-
the first time you notice he really can’t go long without touching you, you test a theory.
you sit on the couch beside him and fold your arms. nothing dramatic—just casual. you keep your hands to yourself. you wait.
two minutes pass.
george shifts.
three minutes.
he glances at you.
four minutes.
“you alright?” he asks, already leaning toward you.
“yep.”
“why are you sitting like that?”
“like what?”
“like…” he gestures vaguely. “all self-contained.”
you grin. “no reason.”
he narrows his eyes, then slides over and practically throws himself on top of you. you squeak as he wraps himself around you like a blanket, smug and victorious.
“better,” he mutters.
you laugh into his shoulder. “you’re ridiculous.”
“shhh,” he says. “you love it.”
and you do.
god, you do.
-
it’s bedtime, finally, and george flops into bed dramatically, grabbing your hand before you can even get under the covers properly.
“can’t sleep without you,” he whines.
“you say that every night.”
“and it’s true every night.”
you roll your eyes, but your heart’s full.
you slide into bed and george immediately pulls you into him, one leg hooked around yours, his hand settling on your hip like it’s lived there for years.
“george?”
“mm?”
“why are you so handsy?”
he shifts, propping himself on one elbow to look at you properly. his eyes are sleepy, but warm.
“dunno,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “you’re my favorite person. i just like being near you.”
you bite back a smile. “you are a koala.”
he grins, then leans down to kiss you—soft, slow, full of everything unspoken.
when he pulls back, he murmurs, “you make me feel safe. so i touch you all the time to make sure you’re still here.”
you blink, surprised by the quiet honesty.
“i’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
“i know,” he says, settling back down, arms curling around you again. “but just in case.”
his touch lingers. it always does.
and you fall asleep warm, wrapped in him.
just the way he likes it.
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