clarkeybabey

[clarkeybabey]

Superman cast share their hopes for their characters' future

[clarkeybabey]

BROKE DOWN, BENT OVER | w. lenney

summary: you and will are driving home late at night after a road trip when the car suddenly breaks down. no cell signal, no one around—just the two of you and a playful way to kill time. warnings: mature (mdni), public (ish) sex, sex on a car (yes, on) slight degrading if you squint wc: 4k a/n: another long one but lord forgive me i cant not include every single detail im working on it. anyway hope you enjoy tags: @orlaunderrated @willnees <3

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you’d had the best week—really, one of those golden, heart-full kind of weeks that makes everything feel light. you visited your boyfriend, will’s, hometown for a few days, met his family who welcomed you like you’d always been part of the furniture, slept in will’s childhood bedroom, youtube memories from his early career still clinging to the walls, everything soaked in nostalgia.

it had all been amazing—except for the drive.

will, in all his confident, slightly-too-proud glory, had insisted that it would be fun to drive there and back. ‘road trips are romantic’ he’d said, grinning, already mapping out the playlist. and, to be fair, the drive there was fine. better than fine. you left early, sunlight dripping through the windows, singing along to old songs, eating service station snacks, stopping once for a coffee break. you arrived mid-afternoon, the day still stretching ahead of you like a welcome mat.

the drive home, though. that was a different story.

you left late—too late, really. will had wanted to squeeze every last minute out of the visit, and you’d agreed, thinking it would be fine. six hours back, home by midnight. you’d sleep in your own bed, wake up feeling fine.

wrong.

everything that could go wrong, did. first, traffic. thick, unmoving traffic that clung to the motorway like syrup. red brake lights in a sea of stillness. an accident ahead, apparently, but no updates. after an hour and a half of waiting, will made the executive decision: take the back roads. ‘quieter’ he’d said. ‘we’ll save time.’

you weren’t sure when exactly the sky had gone from dusky blue to full black, but now it was pitch dark, and the road you were on had no lights—just trees pressing in on both sides, tall and quiet and vaguely menacing. the radio had long given up trying to find signal, and your phones had followed suit: no service.

then, like a cruel joke, the car stuttered. once. twice. then nothing.

a soft, mechanical sigh, and silence.

you both sat there, blinking, waiting for it to come back to life. it didn’t.

so now here you are: seven hours into what was supposed to be a six-hour drive, still two hours from home, parked half on the grass shoulder of some barely paved country road that probably hasn’t seen another car in hours. there’s no service, no light except for the stars and the dim interior car light. it’s quiet—not the peaceful kind, but the eerie, empty kind that makes you feel like you’ve slipped off the edge of the map.

and it’s hot. hotter than you expected for a british summer night.

you glance over at will. he’s frowning at the steering wheel like he can will the car to work again with sheer frustration. you want to be mad—you are mad, a little—but mostly you’re just tired. the kind of tired that makes everything feel a bit unreal, like maybe you’ll wake up in your bed after all and laugh about the dream where you broke down in the middle of nowhere.

but you don’t. you’re still here.

you both stepped out of the car, gasping for fresh air, hoping that the signal would be better outside — it wasn’t.

he muttered something under his breath—sharp, clipped—barely more than a growl as he jabbed at his phone screen. the glow lit up his face in the dark, highlighting the tight set of his jaw, the way his brows were drawn together in pure frustration.

‘come on, come on,’ he hissed, lifting the phone slightly in the air like an inch of altitude might magically summon a signal. his thumb hovered over the screen, thumbed the redial button again. nothing.

‘fuck’s sake,’ he muttered, voice low but heated, pacing a tight little circle in the gravel just beside the car. ‘absolute bullshit. middle of nowhere, twenty-first century, and there’s still no bloody signal.’

he turned the screen toward you like he needed you to see it—blank, empty bars, not even a flicker of a connection. you didn’t say anything. you just watched from where you were perched on the bonnet, arms folded across your chest, the air flowing through the thin fabric of your dress

he redialed again. held the phone up. squinted. nothing.

‘fucking useless,’ he snapped, slamming the phone down on the roof of the car with more force than necessary. it clattered against the metal, the sound ringing too loud in the still air. he didn’t look at you right away, just dragged a hand down his face and exhaled hard through his nose.

you stayed quiet, the weight of the situation settling heavier with every minute that ticked by. he hated not being able to fix things, hated feeling helpless. you could see it in the way he stood—tense, coiled energy barely held in check, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

‘we’re not even that far from the next town,’ he muttered to himself. ‘ten, maybe fifteen minutes… if we could just—’ he stopped himself, teeth pressing into his bottom lip.

you knew he was trying. trying to keep his cool, trying to figure something out. but every option led to a dead end, and it was eating at him.

finally, he looked at you, eyes still stormy with frustration, but softer around the edges now. like he hated that you were caught in this too.

‘i’m sorry,’ he said again, quieter this time. ‘i’ve ruined it, i’m so sorry’

you offered a small nod, the tiniest of smiles pulling at your lips.

‘i know.’

and still, the road stayed silent. no cars. no lights. just the two of you and the stubborn dark, pressing in from all sides.

he moved away from the bonnet, positioning himself between your legs like he belonged there—because he did. his hands found your hips without hesitation, tugging you gently forward until you were right at the edge of the car, your knees parting instinctively to make room for him. his fingers gripped your waist, not tight, but firm—possessive in that quiet, wordless way that made your breath hitch. he tilted your chin up with a single knuckle, and your eyes met his in the low light.

‘hi,’ you murmured, barely above a whisper. your voice felt fragile in the night air.

he let out that quiet laugh of his—the one that puffed out through his nose more than his mouth, a soft huff laced with something fond. something dangerous.

‘hi, gorgeous,’ he said, and he didn’t say it like it was just a greeting. he said it like it was a claim.

then he kissed you—slow, deep, and grounding. there was no rush, no hesitancy, just the heat of his mouth and the way his hands pressed a little harder into your hips like he was reminding you who you belonged to. it wasn’t just affection—it was apology, promise, and possession all folded into one kiss that curled your toes and made your hands clutch at the front of his hoodie.

when he finally pulled back, his lips were pink and slightly swollen, eyes dark and unreadable.

‘you trying to pass time?’ you asked, voice lighter, teasing.

he smirked, and the grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, pulling you forward so your thighs pressed snugly against him.

‘i mean,’ he said, leaning in until his lips just brushed yours again, ‘why not?’

his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, thumbs hooking into the hem of your dress as it inched slowly upward. your breath caught as cool air hit your thighs, his touch featherlight but deliberate. it was enough to make your skin prickle, nerves lighting up under his fingertips.

‘will,’ you whispered, breath shaky, ‘we can’t… not here. what if someone drives past?’

he chuckled again—low, amused, confident—and nuzzled against your neck, lips trailing kisses that burned despite the cold. his voice vibrated against your skin, slow and smug.

‘we’ve been on this road for an hour, baby,’ he murmured, pausing to nip gently at the spot just below your jaw. ‘no cars. no people. just us. if someone drives past now, i’ll be genuinely impressed.’

his hand slipped further up your thigh, coaxing your legs a little wider, and his other hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face back so you were forced to look at him. his eyes were dark, pupils wide, and there was a glint there that made your stomach twist.

‘c’mon, sweet,’ he said, voice low and coaxing but with an edge that brokered no argument. ‘let’s have a bit of fun. don’t let this week end on a miserable note.’

his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow, deliberate.

‘i know you want to,’ he added, tone darker now, like a challenge, like he already knew the answer. ‘you gonna let me make it up to you?’

you swallowed hard, your body already leaning into his, heart pounding like it was trying to escape your chest. your brain was screaming logic, but your body? your body was already his.

your hands moved up slowly, fingertips brushing against the back of his neck before sinking into the curls at the base of his skull—soft, familiar. you tugged gently, guiding his face back to yours, your noses brushing for the briefest moment before your lips caught his.

you kissed him deeply, with the kind of urgency that only builds from silence, frustration, and too much time spent waiting. it was an answer—the answer—wordless and certain, your fingers curling tighter into his hair as you pressed your mouth against his.

he exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time, and kissed you back with a roughness that made your stomach drop. his hand moved instantly, confidently—back to your waist, gripping hard enough to make you gasp.

‘good girl,’ he murmured against your mouth, voice low, laced with heat and satisfaction. his tone shifted—no longer coaxing or playful, but in control now, like a switch had flipped. like now that he had permission, he wasn’t going to take his time.

you were both more than a little touch starved after spending the week at his childhood home—crammed together every night in his too-small single bed, limbs tangled, holding each other close but never daring to cross the line with his family just down the hall. the tension built quietly, simmering under shared glances and late-night whispers. you don’t know exactly when he decided he wanted to fuck you on the hood of his car, but when the engine gave out in the middle of nowhere, no signal, no lights but the stars—well, it felt like the perfect moment. honestly, you both needed the release.

he adjusted his stance, stepping in tighter between your legs, then pushed you back slowly onto the bonnet, one firm hand guiding you down by your waist, the warm metal humming under your back.

his eyes dragged down your body, dark and deliberate. he hiked your skirt up, bunching it around your hips without hesitation, revealing your thin black thong, the lace barely covering anything. he let out a low sound in the back of his throat—half groan, half approval.

‘fuck, look at you,’ he muttered, almost to himself, dragging two fingers along the waistband before tugging it to the side, exposing you completely.

the air hit you cold, but his fingers followed immediately—warm and practiced, tracing over your slit before circling your clit with slow, measured pressure that made your legs twitch.

you whimpered softly, hips shifting instinctively toward his touch, and that made him smile—crooked and dark and just a little cruel. ‘needy already?’ he said, tone mocking but affectionate. ‘we’ve barely started.’

his fingers moved with more intent now, teasing circles around your clit before sliding lower, dipping between your folds, spreading your wetness deliberately. he watched your face as he pushed two fingers inside—slow, but deep—curling them slightly to press against just the right spot.

you moaned, head falling back against the cool windshield behind you, the sound spilling into the still night like a secret.

he leaned over you, free hand braced on the bonnet beside your head, his breath hot against your throat as he began thrusting his fingers steadily, every movement deliberate.

‘keep your eyes on me,’ he said, voice low but firm, thumb brushing over your clit again as his fingers worked inside you. ‘i wanna see you fall apart.’

you did as you were told. because it was will. and because when he looked at you like that—like you were the only thing that mattered—you couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

his eyes never left yours—dark, commanding, fixed on your face like he was memorising every little shift, every flutter of your lashes, every shaky breath you took. his fingers moved with purpose now, curling deep with each thrust, his thumb pressing in tight, perfect circles against your clit, dragging you closer to the edge with no intention of slowing down.

‘that’s it,’ he murmured, voice low and rough, his breath fanning hot across your cheek. ‘so fucking pretty like this. taking it so well for me.’

your hips bucked involuntarily, legs trembling on either side of him. he didn’t let up. if anything, he doubled down—thrusting his fingers harder, pressing his thumb with just a little more pressure, knowing exactly what your body needed without you saying a word.

‘you’re so close, aren’t you?’ he said, his tone dark with satisfaction. ‘feel you tightening around my fingers already. you gonna come for me, sweetheart?’

your only answer was a broken gasp, your head falling back against the bonnet with a thud, mouth parted, eyes fluttering shut despite his earlier order.

he leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear, voice like gravel and silk all at once.

‘eyes on me. now.’

your gaze snapped to his, wide, dazed, desperate—and that earned you a low groan of approval.

‘good girl.’

his pace didn’t falter. slick sounds filled the quiet night, his hand working between your thighs, dragging every twitch, every moan, every helpless whimper from you like it was owed.

‘let go,’ he whispered. he pressed deep, curling his fingers again, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes ‘right on my fucking fingers.’

your body seized, back arching against the bonnet, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto.

‘that’s it—come for me. now.’

and you did.

your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, your mouth falling open around a soundless cry as your body shuddered beneath him. his fingers never stopped, coaxing you through it, dragging out every last pulse of pleasure until you were twitching, breathless, legs shaking around his wrist.

he finally slowed, easing his fingers out gently, his touch soft now, careful. your eyes were glassy, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as you tried to come back to yourself.

he smirked down at you, dragging his fingers through your slick once more, then raising them to his mouth, sucking one clean with a low hum of satisfaction.

‘fuck, you taste good,’ he murmured, then leaned down to kiss you—slow, deep, possessive—like he hadn’t just ruined you against the hood of a broken-down car in the middle of nowhere.

his hands snaked behind your back, strong and unrelenting, gripping your waist as he pulled you upright from the bonnet. your legs were still a little shaky, your breath ragged, but he held you steady. his mouth was right at your ear when he spoke again, voice low and commanding.

‘up now baby, turn around.’

there was no hesitation.

you turned slowly and placed your palms flat against the still-warm surface of the car, bending at the waist. the metal beneath your fingertips vibrated faintly from the cooling engine, grounding you as you settled into position. your back arched instinctively, dress bunched up over your hips, lace thong still pulled aside, your skin completely exposed to the cold night air.

behind you, will let out a dark, appreciative hum.

‘fuck, look at you,’ he muttered, more to himself than to you.

you heard the familiar sound—his belt unfastening, the soft metal clink of it slipping through the loops. the shuffle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough.

you tried to glance over your shoulder, needing to see him, but his hand found the back of your head before you could get a proper look. his fingers slid into your hair, wrapping around the strands near the base of your neck. he didn’t yank, didn’t pull, just guided your head back down, forcing your gaze forward.

‘don’t move,’ he said quietly. ‘eyes forward. you don’t get to watch. you get to feel.’

his grip was firm—controlled, unshakable—the kind of grip that sent a hot pulse straight through your core.

and then you felt him.

the slow press of his tip at your entrance, teasing just barely, dragging across your folds like he had all the time in the world. your body arched further in anticipation, needing him to stop playing, to take.

‘you feel so dirty right now, don’t you?’ he murmured, his tone dark and laced with smug satisfaction. he leaned over you, chest brushing against your back. ‘bent over the bonnet of my car… ass in the air… getting fucked in the middle of nowhere like it’s exactly where you belong.’

you opened your mouth to speak, to protest, to agree—but you didn’t get the chance.

he thrust in hard, burying himself deep in a single, ruthless motion that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

you cried out, the sound caught between a moan and a gasp, echoing into the open air, swallowed by the wind. your hands braced against the bonnet as he pulled back and drove into you again—fast, relentless.

his grip tightened in your hair, keeping you still, keeping you his, and his other hand slid over your hip, holding you in place like you might try to escape—though you never would. not from this. not from him.

‘so fucking tight,’ he growled, each word a punch of air against your ear. ‘like your body knows who it belongs to.’

he set a brutal rhythm, every thrust driving you forward slightly on the metal surface, his hips snapping against you with precision, with intent. and all you could do was take it—every thrust, every word, every ounce of control he held over your body in that moment.

any fear, any flicker of anxiety about being so exposed—bent over a car in the open air, skin bare to the night, moaning into the wind—was long gone, driven out of you with every punishing thrust of his hips.

it didn’t matter anymore. not the road. not the silence. not the risk.

whatever concern you’d had about someone driving past, about being caught like this—blatantly, shamelessly his—was gone. burned away by the way he moved inside you, how he owned every inch of your body without apology.

his grip on your hip tightened, his other hand still buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place as he thrust into you with relentless, bruising rhythm. the wet slap of skin against skin echoed in the night, shameless and loud, and still—no one came. no cars. no headlights. just the two of you, lost in it.

you could feel it building again—heat curling low in your belly, your legs shaking, your moans coming quicker now, raw and breathless. he knew. of course he knew.

he leaned in over your back, his chest flush against you, his mouth finding your ear again.

‘you gonna come for me again, sweet girl?’ he murmured, voice strained now, rougher, breath catching just slightly on the edges. ‘gonna let me feel you lose it all over my cock?’

you whimpered something between yes and please, your head nodding slightly under his grip.

‘that’s it,’ he growled, pace never faltering, driving you closer and closer to the edge. ‘don’t hold back. i want every bit of it. make a mess on me—just like that.’

his fingers slipped down between your thighs again, finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing tight, filthy circles as he kept thrusting into you, faster now, his own breathing sharp and uneven.

the pressure inside you snapped—your orgasm crashing through you in waves, your body going rigid beneath him before it trembled uncontrollably. you cried out into the night, your voice broken and raw, every nerve alight, clenching around him so hard it dragged a deep, guttural moan from his chest.

‘fuck—’ he bit out, hips stuttering for the first time. ‘fuck, baby—just like that. god, you feel so—’

he didn’t finish the sentence. didn’t need to.

he spilled into you moments later, his grip bruising on your ass, forehead resting against the back of your neck as he rode out every last pulse of it, both of you breathless, spent, your bodies tangled in sweat and heat and satisfaction.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

just the sound of your breathing, the creak of cooling metal beneath you, the stillness of the world beyond.

and then will finally let out a low, shaky breath, kissed the side of your shoulder, and murmured against your skin:

‘well… if no one comes to fix this car, at least we found a decent way to kill the time.’ he chuckled, breath hitting your neck.

the air was still heavy, warm with the lingering haze of what had just happened. will rested against your back for another moment, one hand smoothing gently over your hip now, his earlier dominance softened into something quieter, more tender. he pressed a kiss to your shoulder—slow and grounding—before pulling back.

‘you alright?’ he murmured, breath ghosting over your skin.

you nodded, still half-draped over the bonnet, your legs shaky but your body loose, boneless. satisfied.

‘mhm,’ you managed, eyes fluttering shut for a second. ‘i don’t think i’ll ever look at your car the same way again.’

he laughed—low, breathy, real. the kind that warmed your chest.

‘good,’ he said. ‘was hoping to leave an impression.’

he stepped back, tucking himself in, buckling his belt with quick movements, and then reached for you, helping you up with a gentle pull. your legs wobbled slightly when you stood, and he caught you easily, his hands finding your waist like second nature.

‘steady,’ he smirked. ‘might’ve overdone it a little.’

you gave him a tired, teasing glare as you tugged your skirt back down, smoothing it out with half-hearted swipes. your hair was a mess, your lips kiss-swollen, your thighs sticky—but none of it mattered. not right now.

will turned to grab his hoodie from the front seat, offering it to you wordlessly. you took it, pulling it over your head, drowning in the scent of him.

just as he was leaning against the car again, pulling out his phone out of sheer habit, he froze.

‘no fucking way,’ he muttered, staring down at the screen.

you blinked at him. ‘what?’

he turned the phone toward you.

one bar. not much. but it was something.

you both stared at it like it might disappear again, holding your breath.

he quickly hit redial. the phone rang. once, twice—then clicked.

‘yes! hi—yeah, we’ve broken down, no signal until just now. yeah—yeah, we’re fine. just… need someone to come out. soon as possible.’

you smiled to yourself as he gave the details of your whereabouts, voice calm and clipped now, all business. his free hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they always did—easily, naturally.

when he hung up, he looked over at you, brow raised.

‘help’s on the way. about thirty minutes, they said.’

you leaned into his side, your head resting against his shoulder.

‘guess we’ve still got time to kill.’

he smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple.

‘not sure the car can handle round two.’

masterlist

[clarkeybabey]

audio erotica

george clarke x fem reader <3

summary: you find yourself in a bit of a predicament one night out at a pub when you finally match the voice of your favorite audio erotica creator to his face.

a/n: not really specified in the fic but george isn't a youtuber in this one. and the audio erotica app mentioned is quinn!

wc: 1.5 k

content: pretty sfw, just a few lines of dirty talk without any actual sex scene lol

a single voice shouldn’t be able to stop you in your tracks, especially when you’re surrounded by your girlfriends in a busy pub, but somehow, it does. your friends and yourself had been at the pub for a few drinks and you’d heard many different voices and many fragments of conversations, but none have made you pause like this one. at first you just thought it was a nice voice drifting over from somewhere close in the pub. but you couldn’t shake how familiar it sounded.

you, almost unconsciously at first, start listening for the voice, slowly tuning out the recognizable voices of your friends. you’re usually an observer anyways, so your friends pay no mind to you as you keep to yourself instead of participating in whatever conversation you’d already lost track of. your ears perk up every time you hear it, eyes scanning around you for the source, until you finally land on a table only a stone's throw away from yours.

there’s a handful of guys sitting at it, all dark hair, young, and unfortunately for you, attractive. you know it’s impolite to stare, but you have to figure out who the familiar voice belongs to, just to quell your raging curiosity. but you’re pulled from your search by one of your friends, poking your shoulder to get your attention, “want in on another round?”

your glass had sat empty for a while but you had made no move to get up for a refill because of your little preoccupation. finally, you managed a nod and a thank you before your friends left you back to your own devices. you felt a pang of guilt for completely losing track of what this night was for, catching up with your friends. but your eyes quickly fell back to that bloody table as one of the men exclaimed, “george!”

george. george. george clarkey.

but it couldn’t be him, could it? it couldn’t possibly be the george that you listened to on a weekly basis on your silly little audio erotica app. no, it was definitely just some guy named george, right? but, a few more minutes of monitoring their table and eavesdropping makes your stomach twist but the voice is just too spot on. you can even pick out his giggle from across the room and it’s the same one that gives you butterflies when you listen to one of his ramble audios.

“come on, poppet, i know you can do it.” you had found george a few months ago on the app, he was new and typically you didn’t venture away from your usual voice actors, but something about his profile piqued your interest. his profile picture was what looked like a selfie, but just of the lower half of his face. but his smile was bright and kind and his beard was thick and dark. your typical type.

and his voice. god, his voice. the lilt of his accent always sent a tingle down your spine. the way he could be unbelievably sweet one moment and then incredibly dirty the next was what always kept you coming back to him. you held an immense soft spot for any of his friends to lovers audios. they just seemed to fit him and, arguably what you’ve built up to be, his personality. he was attentive and caring and when his voice washed over you- you just felt so fucking good. even just for a few quiet moments by yourself, george made you feel so good.

“don’t you wanna cum for me? don’t you wanna make me proud?”

and maybe it was a little bit pathetic so that’s why you keep that part of yourself locked away until you’re at home by yourself. so - this whole situation - is your worst nightmare. george, sitting only a few metres from you, talking with his big hands and making all of his mates around him laugh, was the worst way this night could have gone.

shame washes over you as you force your eyes away from the group, feeling like some kind of unwelcome voyeur. you turn your attention back to your friends, joining the conversation with perfect timing it would seem as your closest friend tells the rest of the girls her latest work drama. she had called you earlier in the week to tell you all about it so you’re able to sit back and throw in comments when appropriate (“that place would be nothing without you”) and eventually you're enthralled in the conversation again.

but your eyes can’t help but wander when you hear a chair scrape against the floor. george gets up from his table, walking past your’s in the direction of the washroom. he looked even better up close, hair soft and curls tousled, the mullet isn’t what you were expecting but you thought it really suited him. his lips looked soft, you could imagine yourself scritching your nails through the dark hair covering his jaw and his eyes were so blue. once he was finally out of your line of sight, thought, you took a big sip of your cocktail and steeled yourself to focus.

this was supposed to be a fun catch up night with your girls. even though you didn’t mean to find the guy who is now the only thing able to make you cum, it was still useless to give it any more energy. after all, you were just some girl in a pub.

and yet, you allowed yourself one last look his way when he made it back to his table. you gazed wistfully as he settled back into his seat and as he was bringing his pint glass up to his pink lips, his eyes cut directly to yours. oh shit, he caught you staring. you immediately dart your eyes away, instead looking down at your glass, bringing your sugary drink up to your lips to give yourself tsomething o do as you try to quell your growing panic.

you turn back to your friends, jumping into a conversation you barely have the gist of, as a distraction. but turning away from him means you miss the way his lips curl over the edge of his glass, grinning at you. you miss the way his eyes rake over you and when you and your friends get up to leave you miss the way his eyes follow you all the way out the door.

the following days are frustrating to say the least and you end up falling into a cycle of remembering being caught by george, feeling so embarrassed, and then trying to push the whole thing from your mind completely. but, nothing helps. you can’t stop thinking about him. his hands, his lips, his eyes, his voice were all you could think about, it was becoming a problem.

and you were also experiencing another problem, you hadn’t been able to get off since that night. you had banned yourself from listening to any of george’s audios in the following days, but nobody else did it for you anymore, leaving you completely unsatisfied.

but, you always end up aimlessly scrolling through the app anyways, just like tonight. multiple new audios were uploaded to the site earlier that morning, but nothing sounded even remotely interesting to you but then you saw it, his damned smile in his profile picture. you couldn’t help but feel like he was mocking you. but then your stomach drops when you see the title of his audio, “Meet Cute at the Pub”. oh no. then you read the tags he included, [M4F] [Strangers to Lovers] [Banter] [Slow Burn] [First Time] [Gentle] [Praise] [Curve Appreciation]. but what really gets you is the summary, “I caught you looking from across the pub, mind if I join you?”

you’re pressing play before you can even think about what you’re doing. your ears are initially filled with mindless chatter and the clinking of glassware, background noise, before you hear george’s familiar voice, “This seat taken?” followed by the sound of him settling into what you assumed was a bar stool. “I know us locking eyes for 1.5 seconds isn’t exactly an invitation for me to come over and bother you, but I guess I’m pressing my luck tonight.”

he chuckled, he was always able to make himself laugh, something that you would have found prickish in other guys, but always found it charming when it came to him. you scroll through the comments finding the usual gushing praise he always gets. you scroll all the way down to the bottom to find that the first comment is from…george.

“Made eyes with a gorgeous woman across the pub a few days ago and haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since. Tried to get over it by recording this but nah, still thinking about her.”

the comment makes you shove your face into one of your pillows and scream. you were so fucked.

[clarkeybabey]

audio erotica (2)

george clarke x reader <3

summary: you find yourself in a bit of a predicament one night out at a pub when you finally match the voice of your favorite audio erotica creator to his face.

a/n: audio erotica app mentioned is quinn and george is not a youtuber in this one!

wc: 1k

read part 1 here!

you had mulled it over for days, his comment running through your head over and over again, “but nah, still thinking about her.” george clarkey, voice actor for an audio porn site, was thinking about you. not only had you caught his eye at the pub that night, but you’d somehow gotten into his head long enough that he needed to record a whole audio about you.

the whole thing made you feel giddy, like you were a teenager again with your first real crush. but then things would all come crashing down when you remembered the reality of the whole situation. you were just a fan who happened to figure out who he was. nothing more. there was no moving forward with the situation, george would just have to stay in your fantasies.

life somehow always found a way though, because then the weekend rolled around and your friends, who had picked up on your downtrodden mood, organized another night out. when the pub from the other night was named as the designated spot for that night you had to tamp down any bubbling excitement you felt at the slightest possibility of seeing him again and instead thought about how smooth the cocktails had been and how many you were going to have tonight.

you and your friends weren’t able to the exact table you had occupied the weekend prior, but it was relatively close. your eyes trailed over to the table george and his mates had sat and felt a pang of disappointment at seeing another group of gals in their 20’s. it was for the best, you thought bitterly to yourself as you brought your cocktail glass to your lips.

when you got back to your flat, well beyond tipsy, your thoughts about the matter changed. you drunkenly stumble into your bedroom, kicking your shoes off clumsily and getting your hair out of your face with a claw clip. you find your laptop where you had left it on your bed before going out for the night. you had planned to play some music while half assedly taking off your makeup and applying your skincare, but a tab that you had left open caught your eye instead.

while you hadn’t listened to george’s audio all the way through, barely making it through the first full minute, you had kept the tab open. with your inhibitions lowered you scroll through the comments again, landing all the way back down to his. your fingers were pressing the keys, typing out a message you’d been thinking about sending for days. you weren’t that battered, but just battered enough that you could blame all of this on your inebriated state when you wake up in the morning.

“Hi George, you definitely don’t have to believe me, but I think I might be the woman from the pub!", you had workshopped the message in your head many, many times, unsure at first when to include. you didn’t want to to give too much information about yourself and you definitely did not want to reveal too much about george’s true identity. when you had first found george you may have done a social media search on him, just curious if there was anything about him public, but all you found was a carefully curated instagram page where he would post any time a new audio would drop on the website. nothing about the man himself.

the only thing you really knew about him was that he was 24 years old and based in london. you had even pondered for a while that his name may not have been george since he seemed to want to keep his identity private, but that night at the pub proved it really was his name.

after long consideration you finally decide on including the date and around what time you were at the pub. also, adding that you had been sat at a high top table with a group of your girlfriends while he had sat at a low top table with a group of his mates. you finally hit the post button and watch your comment appear on the page, quickly exiting out of the tab. even though you may not feel the same way in the morning, you couldn't help but feel giddy with what you’ve done.

you wake up the next morning groggy with a bit of an upset stomach, but nevertheless you’re in one piece. you treat yourself to some hungover takeaway and spread yourself out on the couch for a few hours, dreading the thought of having to go into work the next morning. you push yourself to stay preoccupied for the rest of the day though, washing up dirty dishes, folding laundry, and cleaning up anything you could until you found yourself back in bed for the night.

your fingers itched for your laptop and you relented, opening it up and quickly going to the audio erotica site again. you feel a mix of anxiety and exhilaration as you navigate to george’s page, going over the possible scenarios in your head. the most obvious outcome of your comment was it being left unanswered. george got dozens of comments on his audios and never responded to them, he most likely didn’t even read them. your comment was most likely sitting untouched and surrounded by the ramblings and praise of other horny women.

but when you click around to george’s newest audio and scroll through the comments your heart leaps in your throat. a reply from george. “Hmm… what were you wearing that night and what was I wearing?” you could scream in excitement, he replied. he actually replied.

you start typing your response with an almost maniacal grin on your face at the unbelievable turn of events. it was crazy and there was a big possibility that this wouldn’t go anywhere, but you weren’t thinking straight in the moment, too busy typing up your response. “…and you were wearing a brown hoodie over a white t shirt and a pair of jean shorts. you pull off jorts surprisingly well.”

you knew george liked banter based off of his audios, so you were hoping your back handed compliment would get a laugh out of him. you hit post, hoping that your descriptions would be enough to get another response from the men. before you could start ruminating over all of the choices you had made to get to this ridiculous moment in your life, you shut your laptop and turned in for the night.

[clarkeybabey]

LORDDDDDDD . god is good and real

[clarkeybabey]

Hello! Can I request a George fic where he sees a photo of you on private clarking and instantly falls🩷

Simp On Stream

George Clarke x reader - fluff

A/N: this one is short and sweet (that was not a sabrina carpenter reference btw but since its george maybe it is?) seriously tho i really hope this lived up to your expectations anon cuz i struggled with this 😭😭

My Masterlist

C/W: nothing lol

George was mid-stream, half-laughing at a comment about his head that someone had just wrote in the chat, his headset slightly askew and his hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows. It was a chill Thursday — just him, some Lego, and the familiar comfort of his community lighting up the chat with chaos.

“Wait, wait,” he muttered, squinting at something popping off on his second monitor. “What’s going on with Private Clarking today?”

The chat erupted with laughing emojis, encouraging him to dive deeper. Someone had tagged him in a post.

“Alright, lemme check. Y’know this is dangerous,” he teased, clicking into the thread. “Every time I look in here I either end up incredibly flattered or mildly traumatised.”

He scrolled past a meme of him falling off his chair in a previous stream, a thirsty tweet about his forearms, and then — he froze.

It was a photo. Of you.

Posted by someone with the caption:

“imagine being George Clarke and not knowing this girl exists… couldn’t be me. she belongs on a stream with him ASAP 💅🩷 #ClarkingRoyalty”

You were just smiling at the camera — candid, effortless, not trying too hard. The lighting was soft, maybe golden hour. You wore a stupid shirt with the caption: 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 ❤️. A cheeky dimple peeking on one side of your smile. Even doing George's weird pose with your hands, tongue out to the side. George clicked the photo to zoom in instinctively.

And then forgot how to speak.

He cleared his throat, blinking. “Who—who is that?”

His chat caught on instantly.

User1: GEORGE??? User2: he’s in love oh my god User3: bro’s glitching User4: don’t drool on stream now king User1: look at his FACE he’s blushing😭😭

“No I’m not,” he laughed nervously, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m just—uh—she’s just really pretty, right?”

He lingered for a moment too long.

“Does she stream? Someone tell me. I—this is not me simping on main,” he added quickly, as if saying it would undo what was very clearly happening on his face. His ears were red. “This is purely just me trying to, expand my platform, like this is basically part of my job so.”

The chat was losing it now, sending her @ and a million variations of “shoot your shot!!!” One brave viewer donated:

User5: George. Mate. Invite her on your next stream or we riot.

He covered his face, laughing in disbelief. “Right, that’s enough bullying for one night.”

But a minute later, the tweet was still open on his second screen. And the smile you wore in that photo hadn’t left his mind.

By the end of the stream, he had messaged the user who posted it. Just to ask, you know. For research.

A/N: again this is a short one so im sorry 😭 requests are open and lmk if you wanna be in the taglist

Taglist: @whisperturnedecho @forchencookie @artvscvntymullet @pretendyoucantseeme @tyna-19 @canyouseethesainz @roc-haze @wherethezoes-at @cheekytv @beauty-nd-the-geek @livvymd @dopeysunflowers @formulaal @pookietv @happyclifford @madforgeorge

[clarkeybabey]

[clarkeybabey]

AVENGERS: INFINITY WAR

[clarkeybabey]

am i right or am i right

[clarkeybabey]

[clarkeybabey]

Willne in a suit and George in a police uniform… wowie🤭💓

[clarkeybabey]

Willne in a suit and George in a police uniform… wowie🤭💓

[clarkeybabey]

not just roommates

description: your roommate, george clarke, has a rather unusual job—he’s a porn star. he films from his bedroom, and one day, he asks if you’d like to be in a video with him.

pairing: pornstar!george clarke x fem!reader

contains: smut, soft dom!george, sub!reader, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, p in v.

song rec: p*rnstar by nessa barrett- "show me who you are- pornstar."

w.c: 4.3k

a.n: his porn name is mullet daddy 100%.

you enter the apartment, the door creaking open, and immediately, the scent of something rich and savory wafts through the air. it's george, your fairly new roommate, cooking dinner again. you can't help but appreciate his culinary skills; it's one of the few things you two have in common. as you step in, you catch a glimpse of him through the kitchen doorway, his tall figure silhouetted against the stove's glow. he's dressed in a simple white t-shirt and boxers, his hair slightly disheveled from the heat of the kitchen. the aroma of garlic and olive oil fills the space, a comforting contrast to the sterile silence that usually greets you at the end of the day.

his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you both just stand there, awkwardly sizing each other up. it's not like you haven't seen him in his underwear before; you share a bathroom, after all. but there's something about the way he's looking at you tonight, something different. his gaze lingers a second longer than usual, and you can't quite shake off the feeling that he's expecting something from you.

"hey, george," you say, trying to break the tension with a casual smile. "smells amazing in here."

he turns away from the stove, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist, and returns your smile with one that's a bit too wide. "thanks," he replies, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "i figured i'd whip up something special."

you lean against the doorframe, curiosity piqued. "any specific reason for the gourmet feast?" you ask, trying to keep the conversation light. but as the words leave your mouth, you can feel a knot forming in your stomach. there's a palpable energy in the room that's thick and unsettling.

george stirs the pot, the clanging of the spoon against the metal echoing through the small kitchen. "just felt like it," he says, his tone nonchalant. but his evasive answer doesn't sit well with you. something about his demeanor, the way he's avoiding eye contact, makes you feel like he's hiding something.

finally, he plates two dishes and carries them over to the small dining table in the living room. the tv flickers in the background, the muted images of a reality show flashing in the dim light. he sets down the plates with a deliberate clink, one in front of you and one in front of the chair opposite. you take a seat, your appetite suddenly waning as the tension between you grows.

you both dig into the meal, the air thick with unspoken questions and the scent of the food. every bite feels heavier than the last, the silence stretching out like a tightrope you're both balancing on. after a moment's silence, he shifts his weight, turning to face you fully. "listen," he starts, "i've got a proposition for you." his voice is low, almost a whisper, and you can feel your heart rate tick up a notch.

swallowing hard, you set your fork down. "okay," you manage, your voice a tad shakier than you'd like. "what is it?"

george takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours for a reaction. "you know my job, right?" he asks, his tone a mix of anticipation and hesitance.

you nod, unable to find your voice. of course you know. how could you not? the faint sound of moans and thumps against the wall had been your unfortunate lullaby on more than one occasion. the occasional glimpse of a girl packing up her gear in the hallway had been your morning coffee.

george's job as a pornstar was something you'd tried to ignore, to pretend didn't exist. it was just too weird to think about. but now, as he sat there, his eyes boring into yours, you couldn't ignore it anymore. you swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "yeah," you murmur, "i know."

his expression doesn't change, but his eyes flicker with something that could be excitement or nerves. "i was wondering," he says, pausing to take a sip of his water, "if you'd ever consider joining me for a shoot."

the words hit you like a ton of bricks, and you sputter, half-choking on your mouthful of food. "wh-what?" you manage, your cheeks burning with shock.

george's expression remains calm, as if he's discussing the weather rather than asking you to participate in an x-rated film. "i thought it might be fun," he says, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "you know, mix things up a bit."

you stare at him, your eyes flicking over his features. there's no denying that george is a good-looking guy. his clean-cut mullet falls in a perfect frame around his face, and his beard is kept neat and trimmed, giving him a rugged yet polished look. those piercing blue eyes of his seem to see right through you, and you can't help but feel a little intimidated by his confidence. his football-playing physique fills out his white t-shirt and boxers in all the right places, showcasing muscles honed from years of playing the sport.

you blink, trying to process what he's just asked. your mind reels with the implications of his question. "you… you want me to… to be in one of your videos?" you repeat, your voice a high-pitched squeak that you hardly recognize as your own.

george nods, his smile growing slightly. "yeah," he says, "i think we'd have good chemistry." he reaches across the table, placing a hand on your arm. his touch is warm and surprisingly gentle, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. "i mean, we're already living together, and it's not like we're strangers."

his rationale does nothing to quell the storm of emotions inside you. your mind is racing, trying to piece together the reality of the situation. you've never done anything like this before. hell, you've never even considered it. but something about his proposal is intriguing, a part of you is curious, a part you've never dared to acknowledge.

george must see the conflict in your eyes, because he starts to backpedal. "i totally understand if it's not your thing," he says quickly, his hand retreating to his own side of the table. "i just thought it might be… interesting, you know? no pressure at all."

you listen to him ramble on about how it's totally fine if you say no, how he's just throwing the idea out there, how you can just forget he ever mentioned it. but as he speaks, the knot in your stomach begins to loosen. you realize that, amidst the shock and confusion, there's a flicker of something else. something that's both terrifying and exhilarating.

you stop him mid-sentence, your voice firm and surprisingly steady. "george," you say, holding his gaze. "sure."

his eyes widen in surprise, and for a second, you think he might have misheard you. "what?"

you nod, taking a deep breath. "i said sure," you repeat, feeling your cheeks burn even hotter. "i'll do it."

george stares at you for a beat, his surprise morphing into a grin that lights up his whole face. "really?" he asks, disbelief lacing his voice.

you nod again, the gravity of your decision weighing heavily on your shoulders. "yes, really," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

george's grin widens, and he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest. "okay," he says, his voice a little too casual for the situation. "i'll set it up."

you chew on your bottom lip, your mind racing. "there's just one condition," you blurt out before you can talk yourself out of it.

george raises an eyebrow, his smile faltering slightly. "what's that?"

you take a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in your stomach. "i don't want my face on camera," you say firmly, meeting his gaze. "i'm okay with… everything else, but i just can't do that."

george nods thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving yours. "understood," he says. "i can make sure of that. we can use angles that only show your body."

you nod, relieved that he's being so understanding. "thank you," you murmur, taking a sip of water to wet your dry throat.

george stands up, his movements fluid and graceful despite his size. "no problem," he says, walking over to the fridge to grab a beer. he pops it open and takes a long swig before turning back to you. "so, when are you free?"

you look up from your plate, your appetite having vanished completely. "i… i don't know," you stutter, trying to process the reality of what you've just agreed to. "when exactly do you usually film?"

"normally, tomorrow's my film day," george says, leaning against the counter, his beer in hand. the casualness of his stance is at odds with the gravity of his words, which hang heavy in the air like a storm cloud.

you nod, trying to keep your cool. "right," you manage, pushing your chair back. "i'll just… uh, clean up here." you quickly gather your dishes, the clinking sound of the silverware against the plates the only noise in the room. as you stand, you feel his gaze on you, watching your every move.

you make your way to the kitchen sink, the warm water running over your trembling hands as you scrub at the remnants of dinner. you're aware of george's eyes on your back, and you can't help but feel a little self-conscious. every little action feels magnified under his scrutiny. but you push through, focusing on the task at hand. you don't want to give him any reason to think you're backing out.

once the dishes are done, you grab your laptop and a glass of water, retreating to the sanctuary of your bedroom. the door clicks shut behind you, the sound a stark finality in the tense silence of the apartment. you sit on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. you take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm your racing thoughts. the idea of being in one of george's videos is still so surreal, but the excitement is undeniable. you can't help but wonder what it would be like to be the star of one of those films, to be desired by so many people.

you lay down, the coolness of the sheets a welcome relief against your flushed skin. you tell yourself that you can always change your mind in the morning, but a part of you already knows that you won't. the allure of the unknown, the thrill of the taboo, is too strong. you close your eyes, and images of george, his body moving with practiced skill and confidence, fill your mind. your heart beats faster, and you feel a warmth spread through your body that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

the next day, you come home from work, the anticipation heavy in the air. the apartment is unusually quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall. your heart thuds in your chest as you step inside, the weight of what you've agreed to pressing down on you like a physical presence. you toss your bag onto the couch and head straight for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the day's grime and the last vestiges of your doubt.

you take extra care with your shower today, shaving every inch of skin that might end up on camera. your hand shakes slightly as you glide the razor over your legs and underarms, the scent of the coconut-infused shaving cream a stark contrast to the nerves that have settled in your stomach. once you're done, you step out of the shower, the cool air making you shiver. you slather on moisturizer, feeling the smoothness of your skin beneath your fingertips. your reflection in the mirror is flushed, your eyes wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

you rummage through your lingerie drawer, searching for the matching set that will make you feel both sexy and comfortable. after what feels like an eternity, you settle on a lacy black bra and panties that accentuate your curves just right. you lay them out on your bed, admiring the way the fabric shimmers in the low light of your room. next, you tackle your hair, which has a mind of its own today. it's a battle, but you manage to tame it into a presentable style.

with trembling hands, you slip into the lingerie, the fabric caressing your skin. you take one last look in the mirror, adjusting the straps and smoothing out any wrinkles. your heart races as you apply a touch of makeup, going for a natural look that highlights your features without screaming "new to this." you bite your bottom lip, wondering if you're making a mistake. but the reflection staring back at you seems to say, "you can do this."

you pull on a loose-fitting dress, something that won't be missed when it hits the floor. the fabric is soft against your skin, a stark contrast to the tightness in your chest. you take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm the butterflies that are doing acrobatics in your stomach.

just as you're about to second guess yourself, your phone buzzes with a message from george. "ready when you are," it reads. you take a deep breath, your hand hovering over your bedroom door handle. this is it. no turning back now.

you square your shoulders, channeling an inner confidence that feels foreign yet surprisingly potent. with a quick exhale, you make your way to his bedroom, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet. your heart thuds in your chest with every step, the anticipation making you feel both lightheaded and strangely alive.

you softly knock on his door, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. for a moment, it feels like the entire world is holding its breath. then, with a click, the door swings open. george stands before you, his eyes widening at the sight of you. he's dressed differently today, in a pair of baggy khakis that hang low on his hips, and a white t-shirt that clings to his muscular torso like a second skin.

"hey," he says, his voice a little gruff, a little nervous. "you sure about this?" his eyes search yours, looking for any sign of doubt, any reason to call this off.

you nod, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you like a warm blanket. "yeah," you murmur, your voice a little shakier than you'd like. "i'm sure."

george steps aside, holding the door open for you. "great," he says, his eyes lingering on you for a moment too long. "the camera's already rolling."

you freeze, your hand hovering in midair. "what?" you squeak, your heart jumping into your throat. "already?"

george nods, his smile widening into a grin. "yeah," he says, his voice low and reassuring. "don't worry, you'll get the hang of it."

you step into the room, your knees feeling like jelly. the sight before you is unexpected: the usual mess of his bedroom has been transformed into a makeshift film set, complete with a bed covered in fresh, crisp white sheets and a couple of strategically placed pillows. the camera sits on a tripod in the corner, the red light on the front a silent sentinel to the impending performance.

george closes the door behind you, his hand briefly brushing against your lower back. "just ignore it," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "pretend it's not even there."

his words do little to soothe your racing heart, but before you can protest, his hand moves up to cup your cheek, turning your face towards his. his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, are full of a gentle reassurance that sends a shiver down your spine. and then, without any further warning, his lips are on yours.

his kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if he's testing the waters. but as you respond, your nerves dissipate like mist in the morning sun. your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. his tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. and when he finally delves inside, the kiss deepens, becoming a heady mix of passion and heat that leaves you dizzy.

his hands roam over your body, mapping every inch of you with a confidence that's both thrilling and intimidating. your dress slips to the floor, a pool of fabric around your feet. he steps closer, pressing you against the cool wall, his body a wall of heat and muscle that you can't help but lean into. your breasts brush against his chest, and you feel the beginnings of an ache that you know will only grow stronger.

george's eyes drop to the matching black lace that peeks out from beneath your dress. his pupils dilate, and he lets out a low groan that sends a shiver down your spine. "damn," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "you really went all out, didn't you?"

you swallow hard, the heat from his gaze making you feel exposed and vulnerable. "i just wanted to be… perfect for you," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

george's expression softens, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "you already are," he murmurs, his voice low and earnest. "but if it makes you feel better, we can take it slow, okay?"

you nod, taking a moment to compose yourself. "okay," you whisper, your eyes locking onto his.

george takes a step back, giving you a little space. "let's start with something simple," he says, his voice a low rumble. "just walk over to the bed, okay?"

you nod, your legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. you force yourself to move, one foot in front of the other, until you reach the edge of the bed. you sit down, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. the fabric of the sheets is cool and smooth against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from george's body.

his eyes never leave yours as he moves closer, his hand reaching out to trace the edge of your bra. you can see the hunger in his gaze, the desire that makes your own pulse quicken. "just relax," he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. "i'll take care of you."

you nod, letting out a shaky breath. george takes a step closer, his thumb brushing against your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his khakis, and with a swift motion, they fall to the floor, revealing his boxers. your eyes flicker down, taking in the sight of his muscular thighs, the bulge in the fabric hinting at what lies beneath. you can't believe you're about to do this.

his hand moves up to the hem of his shirt, and before you can even blink, it's over his head. the fabric whispers against his skin, and he's standing there in just his boxers, the tension in the room palpable. his chest is a work of art, each muscle defined and sculpted. the tattoos that snake down his arms tell stories of battles won and lost, of a life lived with passion and intensity. you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed.

and then, with surprising gentleness, he's unhooking the clasp of your bra, the fabric falling away to reveal your bare breasts. his eyes widen slightly, a look of appreciation flitting across his face before he leans down to kiss the hollow of your throat. his touch is like a brand, searing your skin with his need.

his hands are everywhere, caressing, exploring. his mouth follows, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. you moan, the sound muffled against his shoulder as his teeth graze your sensitive nipples. you arch your back, pressing into him, the fabric of your panties and his boxers the only barrier between you.

george groans, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. his fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear, tracing the line of your hips before dipping lower. you gasp as he brushes against your clit, the sensation sending bolts of pleasure through your body.

his mouth moves to your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "tell me what you like," he whispers, his voice thick with desire. "what makes you feel good?"

you swallow hard, your voice barely above a murmur. "that… that feels good," you admit, your hips rocking against his hand. his touch is firm, but not rough, his movements sure and steady.

george's grin widens, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "good," he says, his voice a low purr. "because i want to make sure you enjoy this."

and then, with surprising gentleness, he's unhooking the clasp of your bra, the fabric falling away to reveal your bare breasts. his eyes widen slightly, a look of appreciation flitting across his face before he leans down to kiss the hollow of your throat. his lips are soft, warm, and when they trail lower, dragging heat along your skin, you gasp softly.

"just like that," he murmurs, his voice like smoke curling in your ear. his hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, teasing circles that make your spine arch. "you’re doing so good for me."

you whimper, nodding, your fingers digging into the sheets behind you. it feels surreal, his mouth trailing down your chest, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses. his stubble grazes your skin just enough to make your toes curl, and when his mouth finally wraps around your nipple, your breath catches in your throat.

george groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. "fuck, you taste good," he mutters, his hand slipping down your stomach, ghosting over the waistband of your panties. "you still good?"

you manage a breathless, "yeah," and that's all he needs.

his fingers dip beneath the lace, brushing over your slick heat with a featherlight touch that makes your hips buck. he smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction, and presses a kiss to your sternum as his fingers begin to circle your clit slowly, methodically.

"god, you're already so wet," he says, his tone part awe, part reverence. "you really want this, don’t you?"

you nod helplessly, your head lolling back as pleasure sparks beneath your skin. he slides one finger inside, then two, curling them just right. the stretch is perfect, and paired with the pressure of his thumb, it’s almost too much.

"george," you gasp, your fingers twisting into the sheets. "please—"

"shh," he soothes, pressing his lips to your temple. "i’ve got you."

and he does. every movement, every touch is calculated, practiced, but never impersonal. you can feel the difference, the subtle way he’s watching your every reaction, adjusting to what makes your breath catch and your thighs tremble.

you don’t even realize how close you are until your legs start to shake, your body arching toward him.

"that’s it," he whispers, voice thick with need. "let go for me."

your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you with blinding intensity. you cry out, clinging to him as your body shudders. he doesn’t stop until you're spent, until the tremors subside and your breathing evens out.

when he finally pulls back, his fingers glisten with your arousal. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied hum. "so fucking good," he mutters.

you don’t even have time to recover before he’s leaning over you, his boxers gone, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach. he presses your legs apart, settling between them, his weight grounding.

"you still with me?" he asks, eyes searching yours one last time for any hesitation.

"yes," you breathe, reaching up to cup his jaw. "please, george."

he lines himself up, and when he pushes in, slow and steady, your breath catches. he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that’s toe-curling and perfect. he groans at the feeling, head dropping to your shoulder.

"fuck," he pants. "you feel… incredible."

you clutch at him, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. the thrusts start slow, deep, his hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself. each drag of his cock inside you has your eyes rolling back, the pressure building all over again.

"look at you," he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips. "taking me so well. like you were made for this."

your head spins, pleasure cresting higher with every thrust. the camera is forgotten. the world is gone. there’s only george—his body, his voice, the way he fucks you like it’s more than just a scene.

the pace picks up, harder now, and each thrust hits something inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. your nails rake down his back as you moan his name, every sound spilling from your lips drawing a groan from his chest in return.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he growls, his voice low and wrecked. “could do this all night.”

you’re close—so close it hurts—and george knows it. his hand slips between you again, thumb circling your clit with expert pressure, and the heat building inside you snaps. you cry out as you come, your whole body tensing, thighs shaking around him. he follows not long after, stifling a shout as he buries himself deep one last time, his release crashing into him.

he collapses over you, breathing hard, his face pressed into your neck as your bodies tangle together, slick with sweat and satisfaction.

the red light on the camera is still on, but you barely care. not when george presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “you were incredible.”

you smile, exhausted and giddy. “guess we do have good chemistry.”

He chuckles, a low sound that rumbles against your chest. “told you so.”

and for the first time in what feels like forever, the silence between you isn’t strange—it’s content. electric. dangerous. and maybe just the beginning.

[clarkeybabey]

he’s so fine i actually can’t breathe

[clarkeybabey]

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arthur frederick

one shots

you would've never thought that a going out for a few drinks with your best mates would have led to the three of you in your bed together. ft. george clarkey *

series

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george clarkey

one shots

you would've never thought that a going out for a few drinks with your best mates would have led to the three of you in your bed together. ft. arthur frederick *

series

nothing yet!

requests

nothing yet!

©raekensluver 2025- do not translate, copy or claim any of my writing as your own.

[clarkeybabey]

FREAK = MATCHED

"what's wrong, pet?" he said, his voice low and teasing. "not getting enough attention?"

flash sale!! my clothes 100% OFF!!

one more round

description: you would've never thought that going out for a few drinks with your best mates would have led to the three of you in a bed together.

pairing: george clarkey x fem!reader x arthur frederick

contains: smut, intoxication, porn with no plot, mean dom!george, switch!arthur, switch!reader (?), threesome, mmf, double penetration, unprotected sex, p in v, p in v from behind, oral sex (m recieving), female ejaculation (squirting), handjobs, fingering, pet names (poppet, pet, love).

song rec: meddle about by chase atlantic- "baby, show me what you're doing, come and turn around"

w.c: 4.8k

a.n: this is for my girl bri- @clarkeybabey. she just matches my freak perfectly.

also sorry- this feels like a mess but i just needed to finish it and post.

you, arthur, and george stumbled into george's apartment, the door swinging wide to reveal a cozy, dimly lit space. the scent of men's cologne filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of takeout from earlier in the evening. the living room was a mess, with discarded shoes and jackets scattered across the floor, evidence of his roommates' recent departure.

"chris and arthur are out, thank fuck," george murmured, his breath hot against your neck as he closed the door. the sudden quiet of the apartment was a stark contrast to the noisy streets you'd just left behind. you nodded, your heart racing as you took in the sight of him, his eyes dark with desire. the sexual tension between the three of you was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.

without warning, arthur pounced on you, his eyes dark and glossy from the alcohol. his body pressed against yours, his hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt. you felt a thrill of excitement mixed with a hint of panic. his kiss was sloppy, his tongue probing your mouth with an urgency that was both thrilling and overwhelming. your skin prickled with the sensation of his stubble scraping against your cheek, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. you tasted the faint hint of vodka on his breath, and the scent of his cologne, something musky and expensive, filled your nose.

you stumbled backward under his weight, colliding with the wall. george watched, his eyes alight with something unreadable. his cheeks were flushed, and his chest heaved with each shallow breath. you felt his gaze on you, hot and intense, as if he were a predator watching its prey. his hands balled into fists at his sides, and you wondered if he was fighting the urge to join in or to step away. the room felt smaller, the air thicker, as the three of you remained locked in this silent tableau of desire and confusion.

finally, arthur pulled away, his eyes searching yours for approval. you nodded, breathless. the heat of his body left a cold spot where he had been, and you felt a sudden need to bridge that gap again. george took a step forward, his movements deliberate, and placed a hand on arthur's shoulder. "easy, mate," he murmured, his eyes flicking to you with a silent question.

you felt your cheeks flush and took a shaky breath. "it's okay," you managed to say, your voice a whisper in the quiet room. george's hand moved to your face, cupping your cheek gently. his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, sending a shiver down your spine. "do you want this to happen?" he asked, his voice low and serious.

you silently nodded, unable to find the words to express the tumult of emotions swirling inside you. the nod was all the encouragement george needed. he stepped closer, and you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. his hand traveled down to the base of your neck, his grip firm but not painful. “use your words poppet. ‘can never understand ya’ when you mumble like that.” he murmured.

“yes,” you finally managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “i want this. i want both of you.”

a smile, both tender and predatory, curved the corners of george’s mouth. he leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek, and whispered, “good.” with that, he claimed your mouth in a kiss that was everything arthur’s wasn’t—slow, deliberate, and intoxicating. his other hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer until there was no space between the two of you. you felt arthur’s presence behind you, his chest pressing into your back, his hands sliding over your hips.

his touch was different from george’s, more tentative, as if he were afraid you’d push him away. but as george’s kiss grew deeper, your body melted into his, inviting arthur’s touch to become more daring. his hands roamed up your torso, his fingers teasing the waistband of your pants. you moaned into george’s mouth, the sound muffled by his tongue.

the three of you swayed together, a tangled mess of limbs and desire. the room spun slightly, not from the alcohol but from the intensity of the moment. you’d never been in a situation like this before—sandwiched between the two men you’d had known for what felt like forever. it was overwhelming, but you didn’t want it to end.

you tugged at the strings of george’s hoodie, desperate to feel his bare skin against yours. he broke the kiss, looking down at you with a smoldering gaze. without a word, he pulled the garment over his head, revealing a chest that was more defined than you’d ever imagined. your eyes roved over the planes of muscle, the smattering of dark hair that trailed down to his waistband. the sight of him half-bare was almost too much to handle.

meanwhile, arthur had been busy. his sweatshirt was off now, too, and you couldn’t help but compare the two of them. george’s body was broad and powerful, a testament to his previous years playing rugby. arthur’s was leaner, muscles honed from countless hours at the gym. the stark contrast was oddly erotic, and you felt your pulse quicken as you took in the sight of them both.

george reached for the bottom of your sweater, his eyes never leaving yours. with surprising gentleness, he lifted it over your head, revealing the white tank top you’d chosen to wear tonight. there was no bra underneath—you hadn’t expected the evening to go this way. the cool air of the apartment kissed your bare skin, causing your nipples to peak under the thin fabric. arthur’s gaze dropped to your chest, his eyes wide with surprise and hunger.

you felt a rush of vulnerability, but instead of backing away, you leaned into george’s touch, letting his hand glide down to the hem of your tank top. his fingers hovered there for a moment before dipping beneath the fabric, tracing the line of your ribcage. the touch was light, almost reverential, as if he couldn’t believe he had the right to explore your body like this. your breath hitched, and you arched into his hand, silently begging for more.

arthur’s hands slid down to your waist, deftly unbuttoning your jeans. the zipper whispered open, and you could feel the material loosen around your hips. his breath was warm against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. "you're so fucking pretty," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. you shivered, his words sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

his hands grew bolder, cupping your ass as he pushed the jeans down your legs. you stepped out of them, kicking your sneakers off at the same time. your toes curled against the cool wooden floor as you felt the fabric slide away, leaving you in just your tank top and underwear. arthur’s eyes took in the sight of you, a soft groan escaping his lips. he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck, and you felt his erection against your back. the pressure grew as his hands roamed further, tracing the curve of your hips and sliding down to the edge of your panties.

george’s hand stilled, and he stepped back, his eyes drinking in the sight of you. his eyes smoldered with need, and you knew you’d never felt more desired in your life. with a gentle nudge, he led the two of you to his bedroom, the anticipation building with every step. the room was even darker than the living room, only illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. the bed, unmade from earlier in the day, looked like a sea of rumpled sheets and blankets.

“go on the bed with him,” george said, his voice thick with desire. his hand slid from your neck to your wrist, guiding you towards the bed. your legs felt like jelly as you stumbled forward, arthur’s hand still on your waist, keeping you upright. you felt the mattress give under your weight, the cool fabric of the comforter sending a shiver down your spine.

george followed, his eyes never leaving yours. he climbed onto the bed, his body a shadow in the dim light. he moved closer, his hand brushing against arthur’s as they both reached for you. it was like you were in the center of their universe, the object of their desire. your heart raced, the thump of it echoing in your ears.

arthur’s mouth found yours again, eager and demanding. this time, george’s lips were there too, pressing against your cheek, your jaw, your neck. you gasped at the sensation, your eyes fluttering closed. your hands found their way to arthur’s shoulders, gripping him tightly as his tongue slid against yours. and then, george’s mouth was there, too, kissing you with a fierceness that stole your breath away.

you felt the bed shift as they repositioned themselves, george now on one side of you, arthur on the other. your tank top was lifted, cool air kissing your skin as it was pulled over your head. your breasts were exposed, and you felt their gazes on them, hungry and appreciative. arthur’s hand cupped one, his thumb flicking over the peak, while george’s mouth trailed a line of fire down your neck to your collarbone. the combination of their touches was dizzying, your body responding instinctively.

their kisses grew more insistent, and you found yourself eagerly returning them, your hands roaming over their bare chests. arthur’s skin was smooth and warm, the muscles beneath your fingertips firm and responsive. george’s chest was a landscape of stretch marks and dips, each one making you want him more. their mouths met yours in turn, one kiss deep and searching, the other quick and teasing, until the three of you were tangled in a web of desire.

you pulled back for a breath, the room spinning. your eyes fell on arthur and george, still lost in the passionate kiss. it was a sight that sent a jolt of electricity through you—your two best guy friends, kissing like it was the most natural thing in the world. the soft sounds of their lips meeting filled the air, punctuated by their heavy breathing.

you felt a pang of jealousy, a whine escaping your lips. "you two are hogging all the fun," you complained, a playful pout forming. george pulled away from arthur, his eyes flashing with amusement. "what's wrong, pet?" he said, his voice low and teasing. "not getting enough attention?"

before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again, his hand sliding down to cup your bare breast. your nipple tightened under his touch, and you moaned, arching into his hand. arthur took the opportunity to kiss along your jaw, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there. your eyes rolled back in your head as the two of them worked together, each touch and kiss driving you closer to the edge.

you felt george’s hand move downward, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. his fingers found your wetness, and he groaned into your mouth. “fuck, you’re so wet for us,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe. your cheeks burned with embarrassment and desire. you’d never felt so exposed, so wanted.

you whined again, a needy sound that seemed to spur them both on. arthur’s kisses grew more insistent, his teeth scraping against the sensitive flesh of your neck. his hand moved to the other breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. the pleasure was almost too much to bear, and you bucked your hips against george’s hand.

george chuckled against your mouth, his thumb brushing over your clit through the fabric of your underwear. “not so fast, love,” he murmured. “let’s get you out of these, shall we?”

his hand tugged gently at the waistband of your panties, inching them down over your hips. the fabric whispered against your skin as it slid down your thighs, and you felt a rush of cool air against your most intimate parts. arthur’s eyes were glued to the show, his pupils blown wide. his hand stilled on your breast, his breaths coming in ragged pants.

once your underwear was gone, george’s fingers delved deeper, slipping inside your folds. your back arched off the bed as he touched you, the sensation overwhelming. arthur’s kisses grew more frantic, his hands roaming your body. you could feel the tension in the air, the anticipation of what was to come.

you reached for the button of arthur’s pants, eager to feel him the way he was feeling you. your trembling hands made quick work of the button and zipper, pushing the fabric down. his erection sprang free, thick and hot against your stomach. george’s eyes flicked down to watch, his own arousal palpable.

you took arthur’s length in your hand, marveling at the velvety skin. he hissed, his eyes squeezing shut as you tentatively began to stroke him. your hand was small, but it fit around him perfectly. you watched his face, the way his jaw clenched and his eyes rolled back. it was like you were learning him, mapping out his reactions. with a gentle squeeze, you felt him pulse in your hand.

his precum had gathered at the tip, glistening in the faint light. without thinking, you smudged it with your thumb, spreading it over his head. "fuck," arthur groaned, his hips jerking forward. he was so close, you could feel it. "please," he begged, his voice a desperate whisper. "please, i need more."

you gave him a wicked smile, enjoying the power you had over him. "patience," you murmured, leaning in to kiss the side of his neck. your teeth grazed his skin, and you felt him shiver. your hand stilled for a moment, making him whine. "please," he said again, his voice strained.

you looked at george, seeking his approval, his eyes glinted with mischief in the dim light. "are you asking for my permission?" he said, his tone light and playful, but with an underlying seriousness. you bit your bottom lip, feeling a thrill at the thought of being in control of this situation. "yes," you whispered, your eyes flicking between the two of them.

george chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that sent warmth spreading through you. "you don't need to ask, love," he said, his hand stilling for a moment, "you're in charge here." his eyes held yours, a silent dare to push the boundaries of your comfort zone. "but remember, you can always say stop."

you nodded, your heart racing as you took arthur's cock in your hand again. his eyes rolled back, and he moaned as your strokes grew firmer, your rhythm steady. his breath grew ragged, and his hips began to rock into your hand. "yes," he hissed, his voice strained. "just like that."

george's eyes never left yours as he slid his fingers through your wetness. he found your clit, and you gasped as he began to circle it, matching the tempo of your hand on arthur. your eyes squeezed shut, the sensations becoming too much to handle.

arthur's hand found its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer for a deeper kiss. his tongue danced with yours as you both lost yourself in the moment. you could feel him getting closer to climax, his hips bucking against your hand, his breaths coming in short, sharp bursts against your lips.

you still your hand, watching the anticipation on his face as he waited for release. his eyes shot open, searching yours, and you smirked, feeling a thrill of power. "not yet," you murmur against his mouth, and he lets out a frustrated groan, his hand moving to grip your hair.

you break the kiss, turning your attention to george. with a boldness that surprised even yourself, you grab his wrist and pull his hand to your mouth. you suck on his fingers, one by one, your tongue swirling around each digit, tasting your own arousal. his eyes go wide, and he lets out a deep, throaty groan. the sound sends a fresh wave of desire crashing over you.

you look at him, your eyes hooded with lust. "you're still wearing too many clothes," you purr, your voice a sultry whisper that fills the air with a heady tension. arthur's hand stutters in your hair, his eyes flicking to george's half-dressed form.

george grins, a wolfish expression that makes your stomach flip. without breaking eye contact, he reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, the sound echoing in the quiet room. his zipper hisses as it's drawn down, the sound seeming to slice through the silence. you watch, your breath catching in your throat, as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down. his cock springs free, thick and proud, and you can't help the way your eyes widen at the sight of him.

he’s thicker than arthur, the head of his cock a dark, tempting shade of red. a bead of precum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters at the thought of feeling him. his length isn’t quite the same as arthur’s, but there’s something about his girth that makes him seem so much more substantial. you can feel your pussy clench with anticipation, eager for the feel of him inside you.

his kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand slides between your legs again. his fingers slip easily inside you, filling you up and sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. you moan into his mouth, your body arching off the bed. his thumb circles your clit, and the pressure builds, your breath hitching in your throat.

arthur watches, his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it with a frenzied energy. his eyes are dark with lust, his jaw tight with restraint. you can feel his eyes on you, devouring every move, every sound you make. he watches with rapt attention as george’s fingers move in and out of you, his hand slick with your arousal.

george’s kiss grows more urgent, his tongue dancing with yours in a passionate tango. his fingers work their magic, each stroke sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. your moans grow louder, and your hips buck against his hand. you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

but just as you’re about to tumble over, george pulls his hand away, leaving you gasping for more. you whine in protest, but his grip on your hips is firm, turning you over so that you’re on your stomach.

his hands are rough as they grip your hips, urging you up onto all fours. you look over your shoulder, eyes wide with anticipation, and see the hungry look in his eyes. you look ahead of you and your breath catches in your throat as you notice arthur's gaze, sitting at the headboard, his hand still moving in jerky strokes over his own erection. the sight of the two of them, so focused on you, sends a thrill down your spine.

without a word, arthur moves closer, his cock bobbing with the motion. you feel the tip of him brush against your lower lip, and you open your mouth instinctively. he groans, his hand guiding himself into you. the taste of him is faintly salty, the scent of his arousal filling your nostrils. your tongue darts out, eager to explore, and you feel him throb in response.

george’s hands are on your hips, his fingers digging in. with one swift thrust, he enters you from behind, the suddenness of it making you gag around arthur’s cock. your eyes water, but you don’t pull away. instead, you push back into him, eager for more. his grip tightens, his hips moving in a steady rhythm that matches arthur’s thrusts. the sensation is overwhelming—being filled by one as you take another into your mouth.

arthur’s moans grow louder, his hips moving in time with george’s. you can feel the tension in his body as he nears his climax. your own pleasure builds, each thrust of george’s cock sending a fresh wave of desire crashing over you. your mouth moves over arthur, his taste filling your senses.

george’s hand finds its way to your clit, his thumb circling it in a torturously slow rhythm. you can feel yourself tightening around him, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge. arthur’s moans become more desperate, his hand gripping the back of your head.

“you’re doing so well, poppet,” george whispers, his voice thick with lust. “so eager to take both of us, aren’t you?” his words are like a drug, sending a fresh rush of excitement through your veins.

his thrusts grow deeper, more demanding, his fingers playing your body like a finely-tuned instrument. you moan around arthur’s cock, the vibrations sending shivers through him. he groans, his grip tightening in your hair. "fuck, you're going to make me cum," he pants, his voice strained.

george chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your ear. "that's it, love," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. "just like that. let him feel how much you want it." his hand moves to your neck, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin as he teases, "are you going to swallow for him, poppet?"

his words only serve to spur you on, and with newfound determination, you hollow your cheeks and take arthur deeper. you feel him hit the back of your throat, and the sensation is both foreign and exhilarating. your eyes water, but you don't pull back. instead, you push through the urge to gag, eager to take all of him.

arthur's eyes squeeze shut, his head thrown back. "fuck, she's amazing," he gasps out, his voice tight with pleasure. george grunts in agreement, his strokes becoming more urgent. "so tight," he says, his voice strained. "you're so fucking tight, love."

the two of them talk about you as if you're nothing more than a toy to be used, their words a mix of praise and possession. "you love this, don't you?" arthur says, his eyes meeting george's over your body. "love having us both inside you."

george's reply is a gruff growl. "so fucking hot," he says, his thrusts growing more erratic. "look how eager she is for it." his hand squeezes your hip, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

you whine around arthur's cock, the sensation of george inside you and arthur in your mouth too much to handle. your body is a live wire, each touch sending bolts of pleasure through you. your own orgasm builds, the pressure coiling low in your stomach.

arthur’s strokes become erratic, his breath hitching. "i'm going to cum," he warns, his voice tight with need. you nod, your eyes locked on his, and you feel a strange mix of fear and excitement. his eyes never leave yours as he reaches his peak, his hips jerking, his cock pulsing in your mouth.

you feel the hot spurt of his release hit the back of your throat, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the sensation. but you remember george’s words and swallow, taking all of arthur in. his moan echoes through the room, and his grip on your hair relaxes as he slumps back, panting. you pull away, licking your lips, feeling a sense of pride at your own bravery.

george’s eyes are on you, his expression a mix of admiration and pure, unadulterated lust. without warning, he pulls out, and you feel the sudden emptiness. but before you can miss him, his hand is on your chest, urging you up onto your knees. you comply, and he kneels behind you, his thighs pressing against the back of yours, his cock nudging your entrance again.

his murmurs grow more insistent, his breath hot against your ear. "you're so fucking beautiful," he says, his voice a low rumble. "so perfect, taking us both." he enters you again, his strokes fast and hard. your moans fall into tempo with his thrusts, the sound a symphony of pleasure that fills the room.

you look at arthur, his face a picture of bliss as he watches. his hand is still around his cock, stroking it lazily, his eyes never leaving the sight of you with george. "you're so good," george whispers, his voice thick with satisfaction. "so fucking good." the words are like a caress, and you find yourself pushing back into him, eager to feel him deeper.

suddenly, george’s hand wraps around your neck, his grip firm but not painful. it’s a dominance that sends a shiver of excitement down your spine. your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away. instead, you lean into it, the thrill of it all making your body respond in a way you never thought possible. his strokes become more erratic, his hips slapping against your ass as he drives into you.

the pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter, until with a strangled cry, you squirt around his cock. the feeling is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced—wet and warm, your pussy clenching around him in a way that makes his eyes roll back in his head. "fuck," he groans, his grip on your neck tightening for a moment before he relaxes it. "you're so fucking incredible."

his thrusts grow more frenzied, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. his hand moves from your neck to grip your hip, his other hand sliding around to tease your clit. you're lost in the sensation, your body moving instinctively, your hips rocking back to meet each of his thrusts. you can feel your orgasm approaching like a runaway train, unstoppable and all-consuming.

"please, george," you beg, the words barely audible through your moans. "cum inside me." his eyes flick to yours, his pupils blown wide with lust. the request seems to push him over the edge, and he groans, his strokes growing even deeper, more possessive. "you want it?" he pants, his voice rough with need.

you nod, your breaths coming in shallow gasps. "yes," you whine, your voice high and needy. "i want it." the words seem to echo through the room, setting something primal free in both of them.

george's eyes flash with something almost feral, and he slams into you one final time, his cock hitting your g-spot with a precision that makes your vision swim. your orgasm crashes over you, your body shaking with the force of it. his own follows closely, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he releases.

you collapse onto the bed, his weight comforting as he holds you close. arthur moves closer, his hand gentle as he strokes your hair. the three of you are a tangled mess of limbs and damp skin, panting in the aftermath of what just happened. the room smells like sex and sweat, a musky scent that fills your nostrils and makes your head swim.

"bloody hell," arthur says, his voice filled with awe. "that was…" he trails off, unable to find the words. george chuckles, his chest rumbling against your back. "yeah," he agrees, his voice still thick with lust. "that was something else."

you can't help but smile, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction spread through you. the reality of what just happened begins to sink in, but there's no room for regret or doubt in this moment. you're surrounded by the warmth of your best friends, their arms a comforting embrace as you all try to catch your breath.

george pulls out of you with a groan, and you feel the stickiness between your legs. his cum leaks out of you, a testament to the intensity of what you've shared. arthur's hand trails down your spine, his touch tender. "are you okay?" he asks, his voice concerned.

you nod, still trying to catch your breath. "yeah," you murmur, a lazy smile playing on your lips. "i'm more than okay." the truth is, you're floating on a cloud of pleasure, your body still humming with aftershocks of your orgasm. "that was…" you trail off, unable to find the right words. "amazing," arthur supplies, his smile mirroring yours.

the three of you lie there, the silence comfortable, the air charged with a newfound intimacy. you can feel your heart pounding in your chest, a strange mix of emotions swirling through you. but you don't want to ruin the moment with questions about what happens next. instead, you revel in the feeling of their skin against yours, the way arthur’s chest rises and falls with each breath he takes, and the gentle kisses george presses along your spine.

[clarkeybabey]

October Rain

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary: Will forgets his two-year anniversary with the Reader Warnings: Sad then cheesy as FUCK Notes: Based on this ask! I got carried away on this one...Kinda has more angst than fluff I think, but I hope the end was fluffy enough. Reader is described to be wearing makeup and have hair that has their orignal roots peeking through (beiefly)

You spend an hour picking out the dress.

It’s ridiculous, really—the closet yawns like a wound afterward, half your wardrobe strewn across the bed. Too formal, you’d hissed at the emerald gown. Too casual, you’d spat at the sundress, though summer died weeks ago. The silk slip you settle on is the colour of champagne, the one Will once said made you look like “a sunrise with legs”. You spin in front of the mirror, fabric swirling, and pretend the heat in your cheeks is from the hairdryer.

The bathroom sink becomes a warzone. Eyeliner wings sharp enough to draw blood. Blush blended to that “just-fucked” glow he’d teased you about last anniversary. You spritz the vanilla perfume he buys you every Christmas—‘So I can find you in a crowd,’ he’d said. Your phone buzzes on the counter.

A text from Will:

Will (7:43 PM): Emergency reshoot. Might be 20 mins late. Don’t eat my breadsticks, thief

You roll your eyes, smiling. Typical Will. You text back:

You (7:43 PM): If you’re late, I’m ordering TWO desserts. And I’ll tell the waiter you stood me up

You leave a note on the fridge in your loopy script—“Gone to claim my free pity cake. Catch up, slowpoke.” — And double-checked the contents of your clutch. Inside rests a small box with a silver ring, its band etched with tiny stars circling a moonstone—a mirror of the one you wear on your right hand. Under the stone was an engraving of the date of your first kiss hidden in tiny numerals.

Rain whispers against the windows as you step outside, but you don’t mind. You imagine his face when he opens the box, the way he’ll fumble trying to slide it onto his finger mid-sentence, his laugh warm and sheepish as he says, ‘Should’ve known you’d out-romance me.’

The cab driver eyes you in the rearview. “Big date?”

“The biggest,” you say, thumb rubbing the moonstone. Two years. Two years of his chaotic schedules and your terrible puns, of long sleepless nights and his hands steadying yours when you cried during sad movies.

The hostess leads you to the corner table, its surface gleaming under a halo of candlelight. Rain ticks softly against the windows, a muted rhythm beneath the murmur of violins and clinking crystal. You smooth your dress as you sit, the silk whispering against your thighs, and immediately reach to straighten the centrepiece—a single tulip, its petals curled at the edges like parchment. Wilted, you note, but it feels fitting. Romantic, in a vintage way.

You tug the tablecloth taut erasing imaginary wrinkles. The waiter materialises, his voice a velvet hum. “A drink to start while you wait?”

“A glass of Maker’s Mark and a Cabernet, please,” you say, fingertips drumming the menu. The waiter’s gaze flicks to the empty chair, then back to you. He nods, vanishing into the amber-lit haze of the restaurant.

When he returns, the whisky glows like molten gold in its glass, the Cabernet a deep ruby beside it. You take a sip of wine, the tannins bitter-sweet, and blurt, “Could we also start with the breadsticks? And—do you have any recommendations for the main course? We’re… celebrating.”

The waiter’s smile softens. “Anniversary?”

You nod, thumb brushing the moonstone on your ring. “Two years.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and you swear his tone dips. “The duck confit is exceptional. Crisp skin, pomegranate glaze. A favourite for… special occasions.”

“Perfect,” you say, voice bright as the candle flame. “And the breadsticks, please.”

They arrive warm, dusted with rosemary and sea salt. You pluck one, the crust crackling under your touch, and set it on Will’s bread plate. His ritual: stealing bites before the meal, grinning with a mouthful of carbs. The butter dish sits unopened—he’d argue it’s “sacrilege” to ruin good bread.

The waiter lingers. “Shall I wait to bring the duck?”

“Please wait a bit more.” You clear your throat. “He’ll be here any minute.”

He nods and walks off.

The couple beside you leans into a kiss, their shadows merging on the wall. You look away, smiling. That’ll be us in ten minutes, you think, adjusting the tulip one more time.

8:03 PM.

The ice cubes crackle in his untouched drink. You text him:

You (8:03 PM): Breadsticks are going quick. Hurry!

Outside, the rain thickens.

The restaurant’s candlelight pools like liquid gold on the tablecloth, but it can’t warm the chill creeping up your spine. Rain blurs the world beyond the glass into a smudge of greys and blues, and you fixate on it to avoid staring at the empty chair. Will’s whisky glints amber under the flickering flame, ice long melted, the glass sweating like your palms.

8:17 PM.

Your phone screen dims again. You tap it awake, thumb hovering over the latest text—sent seven minutes ago, still unanswered. The waiter glides over, his voice a gentle ripple in the silence. “Can I bring you anything else while you wait?”

You force a smile, brittle as the sugar crust on the crème brûlée at the next table. “Just the duck confit, please. And another Cabernet.” The please cracks, but he nods, retreating with a discretion that feels like mercy.

The duck arrives, its pomegranate glaze glistening. You slice into it with surgical precision, the knife barely whispering against the plate. Last year, Will stole a bite off your fork, grinning as juice dripped down his chin. Now, you chew slowly, each swallow a battle. The couple beside you clinks champagne flutes, their laughter a bright, foreign language. You glance at Will’s whisky, then slide it toward yourself, the glass leaving a damp ring on the linen. The first sip burns; the second tastes like regret.

9:03 PM.

The candle drowns in wax, its flame shrinking to a pitiful flame. A tulip petal drifts onto Will’s unused bread plate. You pluck it gently, its edges browning like a forgotten letter, and tuck it into your clutch beside the velvet box. The moonstone ring on your finger feels heavier now.

The waiter hesitates, his polished shoes shifting slightly against the hardwood floor. His fingers, long and graceful from years of balancing trays, hover near the table’s edge as if unsure whether to reach out or retreat. His gaze lingers on the empty glass of whisky.

“Dessert, perhaps?” He offers again, voice low, careful. “The chocolate torte is—”

You press your lips together, forcing a small, polite smile. “No, thank you,” you murmur, softer than you intended. Your fingers, stiff from clutching the sweating wine glass, fumble for your wallet. “Could I just have the receipt, please?”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling the leather folio from his apron. You pretend not to notice the way his brow furrows—the unspoken Are you sure? in the slight tilt of his head.

You open the bill, scanning the numbers without really seeing them. The candlelight flickers, casting wavering shadows over the ink. Duck confit. Cabernet Sauvignon. Breadsticks (2 orders). A bitter laugh threatens to rise in your throat—two orders, because you’d been so sure Will would devour them the second he arrived.

He watches, silent, as you count out the bills. Your hands don’t shake—not visibly, at least—but the edges of the notes crumple slightly under your grip. When you slide them across the table, he takes them with a practised nod, but then hesitates, thumbing through the stack.

“This is too much,” he says gently, extracting a few bills to return.

You shake your head, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder, where the candlelight catches the rain-streaked window. “Keep it. For the… the trouble.” The last word splinters, but you don’t let it crack further.

His mouth opens—maybe to protest, maybe to offer some other kindness—but you’re already standing, smoothing the ruined silk of your dress like it still matters.

At the door, the hostess—her delicate silver name tag glinting, Sophie—catches your arm with a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible. The warmth of her fingers is startling against your chilled skin.

“The rain’s gotten worse,” she says, her voice threaded with something that isn’t pity, but close. “Let me call you a cab.”

You turn your face just enough to meet her eyes, another practiced smile in place. “I’m alright, thank you.” Your voice is steady and pleasant, the same tone you’d use to decline an extra napkin. “Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for her reply. The door swings open, and the storm greets you like an old enemy—immediate, unrelenting. The silk dress, already ruined, clings to your skin as the rain seeps deeper, turning the fabric into a second, heavier skin. The cold is sharp, but you don’t shudder. You walk. One step, then another.

Behind you, the restaurant glows—golden, warm, a world still spinning without you in it. The violins hum on, the clink of glasses muffled by the downpour. Somewhere inside, the waiter is clearing the table, folding the unused napkin, and wiping away the water ring left by what should have been Will’s drink.

You walk faster.

The rain tastes like salt.

The tube station swallows you whole, its fluorescent lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. Rain cascades down the steps, turning the floor into a mirrored maze. Your heels—strappy, delicate, stupid—stab into the tile with every step, blisters gnawing at your skin. The silk dress clings to your legs, its champagne hue now muddied to dishwater grey. You don’t flinch. Let the pain root you. Let it be real.

A digital board flickers: CIRCLE LINE DELAYED – 22 MINUTES. Commuters sigh, their breath fogging the air. You sink onto a cold metal bench, mascara bleeding down your cheeks in charcoal streaks. The moonstone ring on your finger feels like a lie. You twist it off, the silver band catching the light one last time before you bury it in your clutch beside the velvet box.

An old man lowers himself beside you, his trench coat smelling of mothballs and Earl Grey. His face is a map of wrinkles, eyes milky at the edges but kind. His hands, speckled with age spots, grip a weathered umbrella. “Nasty night,” he rasps, nodding at the storm outside.

You nod back, silent.

He thrusts a weathered umbrella toward you, its handle carved with faded floral patterns. “Take it, lass. You’ll catch your death.”

“I’m alright, thank you,” you say, voice fraying at the edges. Polite. Always polite.

He hesitates, squinting at your trembling hands. “Sure?”

“Yes.” The word cracks. You turn away, staring at the tracks until his shuffling footsteps fade.

The train arrives fifty minutes late, its doors wheezing open. You board, heels slipping on the grimy floor. A toddler points at your drowned-rat elegance, giggling. Rain drips from your hem, forming a puddle at your feet.

At your stop, you limp up the stairs. The storm hasn’t relented—it thrives, needling your skin, soaking through the clutch pressed to your chest. Let the rain scald. Let it strip you raw. Your heels click defiantly, blisters splitting open, blood mingling with rainwater. You don’t slow. The pain is an anchor. The pain is true. 

Let it drown out the memory of Will’s empty chair.

The automatic doors shudder open with a sound like a dying breath, spilling you into the lobby’s arctic chill. Air conditioning razors down your rain-raw skin, and your dress—once liquid silk, now a translucent shroud—clings to every curve, the fabric plastered to your thighs like wet tissue paper. Water sluices from your hem, squelching against polished marble as you walk.

Dave, the night guard, freezes mid-yawn. His eyes dart from your bare shoulders to the puddle spreading at your feet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if swallowing a scream. “Ev-evening, miss,” he stammers, fingers spasming over his keyboard like he’s forgotten how to type.

You smile. Polished. Automatic. The kind you’d give a stranger. “Evening, Dave.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “Enjoy your shift.”

Mascara bleeds down your cheeks in Rorschach trails, each swipe of your hand hours ago having smeared it into abstract art. Your hair, once sleek, hangs in Medusa tendrils, rainwater still glazing the strands. Your right hand drifts to your ring finger, bare now, the moonstone’s absence a phantom itch. 

The elevator dings. You step in, shoulders grazing cold steel. Your reflection splinters across the mirrored walls—a dozen shattered versions of yourself, each more unrecognisable than the last. One version trembles. Another sneers. A third presses a fist to her mouth, stifling something raw.

You fixate on the numbers lighting up: 4… 5… 6… Each floor hums, the sound vibrating in your molars. The doors open to your hallway, its geometric carpet clashing violently with your waterlogged heels. You fumble the key, metal scraping the lock until it gives, your trembling hands betraying you.

When the door finally gives, the flat smells of vanilla and Thai food. Light spills from the kitchen, where Will’s voice rings out, bright and buoyant over the clatter of dishes.

“Welcome home! You’ll never believe the day I—”

You step inside, rainwater pattering onto the entryway tiles.

“—had to reshoot the entire bridge sequence because the damn drone malfunctioned. Nearly brained James when he suggested cutting the tracking shot, but then—”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. You place your clutch on the coffee table, a dark stain spreading beneath it. The sound of his voice - usually so comforting - feels like radio static now, all meaningless noise.

"Anyway, I've got this banger idea for the next main channel vid—"

A cabinet slams. Silverware jingles. He’s pouring wine, you realize—the clink of two glasses meeting.

“Hungry? I grabbed that Thai place you like on the way back. The Penang curry’s still…”

He trails off as he rounds the corner, two glasses of Malbec in hand, hair messy and shirtsleeves rolled up. His grin fades when he sees you—a drowned spectre in ruined silk, mascara bleeding down your cheeks.

“Jesus, why’re you soaked?” He sets the glasses down too hard, crimson sloshing onto the counter. “Didn’t you check the weather? I texted you about the storm before I left this morning—”

Your voice cuts through his, quiet and lethally calm. “What’s today’s date, Will?”

“What?”

“The. Date.”

His eyes dart reflexively to the fridge—to the takeout calendar stuck beneath a Star Wars magnet, October 12th circled in your lavender gel pen. A Post-it note hangs half-peeled beneath it: “Dress fancy. 7:00. Il Girasole. Don’t be late!!! ”

The blood drains from his face. “Fuck. The shoot ran late, and then the producer ambushed me with notes, and I—”

“Two years.” Your whisper fractures. “You forgot two years.”

A beat. Rain lashes the window above the sink.

He reaches for you, wine-stained fingers trembling. “Let me fix this. I’ll call the restaurant—we can go now, I’ll—”

You sidestep his touch, the motion sending water droplets arcing onto the plush rug. The bathroom door slams shut behind you.

The bathroom tiles bite into your soles as you peel the dress from your skin. The silk clings, resisting until it finally slaps wetly against the floor. You ball it up, shove it into the rubbish bin beside the toilet. The champagne fabric wilts over the near empty bin.

The shower handle creaks as you crank it. Water hammers your hand before the heater catches up, icy needles sharpening to a scalding sheet. You step in, skin flushing red. Steam clots your lungs.

For a beat you stand there, staring blankly at the showerhead.

Then your breath hitches—sharp, shallow gulps that shudder through your ribs. You clamp a hand over your mouth, teeth sinking into the meat of your palm to stifle the sob climbing your throat. It works, but only briefly. A high, keening noise escapes through your nose, and you press your face into the crook of your elbow, smothering the sound against wet skin.

Tears come in silent, relentless waves. Your shoulders jerk forward with each suppressed gasp, muscles coiled so tight your back aches. Water streams down your face, mingling with snot and salt, but you keep your eyes screwed shut. When another sob threatens, you bite down harder on your hand, the pressure dull and grounding, but not enough to break skin.

Your free hand braces against the shower wall, fingers splayed white-knuckled on the tile. The urge to scream pulses in your throat, but you choke it back, swallowing until it burns. Your body rebels anyway: chest heaving, knees trembling, a strangled whimper slipping free. You slump against the wall, forehead pressed to cold ceramic, and let the water hammer the nape of your neck.

It’s messy. Uncontrolled. Snot drips onto your collarbone; tears pool in the divot of your pressed lips. You swipe at your face with a trembling fist, smearing rather than wiping, and suck in a ragged breath that catches like a hook in your windpipe. For a moment, you’re silent—then a fractured cry escapes, sharp as glass. You muffle it with both hands this time, breath hot and trapped against your palms, until the worst of the wave passes.

By the time the water runs cold, you’re hollowed out. Your breaths still hitch, but softer now—wet, exhausted sighs. You swipe your nose with the back of your wrist, eyes swollen to slits, and lean heavily on the wall to stand. Every muscle feels wrung-out, tender.

You reach for the soap with trembling hands. The bar slips twice before you manage to grip it, lathering mechanically between your palms. You scrub your arms again—not violently now, but with the dull precision of someone completing a chore. Bubbles slide over goose-bumped skin, your movements slow and leaden, like your bones are filled with wet sand.

Shampoo this time—squeezed directly onto your crown without measuring. You work it in with limp fingers, nails grazing your scalp without intent. Suds slither down your temples, stinging the corners of your bloodshot eyes. You don’t flinch. Just tilt your head back, let the spray rinse it away, your throat working silently as you swallow the last vestiges of tears.

A conditioner bottle clicks open. You apply too much, the excess dripping down your calves in pearlescent streaks. The scent—coconut, his favourite—makes your jaw clench. You rinse until the water runs clear, until your fingers prune and your skin feels scraped raw by nothing but time.

Beyond the door, Will’s breath hitches. He presses a palm to the wood, then balls up his hand, knuckles whitening, but doesn’t knock. “Fuck,” he mouths silently, raking a hand through his hair. 

He counts each shuddering breath you take, his own syncing unevenly with yours. When the shower shuts off with a metallic squeal, he staggers back, suddenly aware he’s been holding his breath.

Silence.

Will hesitates, arm half-raised as if to knock. Then the rasp of a towel against skin sends him retreating down the hall, socked feet silent on hardwood. By the time you crack the door, he’s slumped on the living room sofa, staring blankly at his abandoned wine glass.

You dress in the sweatpants and shirt he left on the hook—his sweatpants, the ones he’d draped there this morning while whistling off-key, already late, already forgetting—and don’t look at the bin where your dress lies balled in the dark. 

You crack open the door and step out, spotting Will with his back to the door, staring at something on the coffee table. You swallow and shuffle to the spare bedroom, closing the door softly and curling under the warm duvet, curling up and stare at the wall.

Rain ticks its fingernails against the windowpane. The hoodie you claimed for yourself from Will at the start of your relationship drowns you in its fabric, the cuffs frayed from his restless worrying and your attempted messy repairs at stitching them back together. The elbows are thin from wear. It smells like him still—

The door creaks. 

A sliver of hallway light fractures the darkness, then vanishes as Will slips inside. He’s haloed in the dim glow of your alarm clock, shadows pooling beneath bloodshot eyes. His socked feet whisper across the floorboards until he kneels beside the bed, a supplicant at an altar.

“You once said…” His voice splinters, raw as the blisters on your heels. He tries again, softer. “‘We should’t go to bed if we’re angry at each other’ Even if it’s 2 AM. And you’re rightfully angry at me.”

You curl tighter, hoodie fabric muffling your reply. “You remembered that?”

A beat. His exhale unravels, frayed and uneven, as if the truth weighs more than his lungs can hold. “I remember everything.” The mattress groans as he leans closer, his knuckle catching a damp strand of hair from your cheek—the touch featherlight, like he’s handling glass. “How you take your coffee. Your weird fear of pigeons.” His thumb skims your jaw, lingering where your pulse thrums. "The way your smile lingered after our first kiss, like you were still tasting it when I walked you to your door." A ragged inhale. "I remember us. Every moment. Just...not the date on the calendar.”

Your breath hitches, betrayal and hope warring in your ribs. But then his palm cups your cheek, calluses catching on tear-salted skin, and you feel it—the tremor in his touch, the way his gaze maps your face like he’s memorising it anew. This is the man who once spent an hour untangling your necklace with a paperclip, who still flushes peony-pink when you mimic the way he murmurs your name between snores—lips parted, brow smooth, utterly, infuriatingly beautiful.

The fist around your lungs unclenches finger by finger—air flooding in, sweet and sharp as the first gasp after drowning.

He removes his hand from your face and unlocks his phone, the screen’s blue glare sharpening the hollows of his face, and hands it to you. A reservation confirmation glows: Il Girasole. Tomorrow, 7:00 PM. Table for two. “They’re holding the same corner booth. The duck’s still on the menu. And—” His throat bobs. “—I’ll eat every fucking breadstick this time. Even if they’re cold.”

A teary laugh escapes you, brittle but real. “Your memory’s awful.”

“But yours isn’t. I may be pants at dates, but I remember the proper things.” He swipes open his notes' app, revealing a list titled THINGS TO NEVER FORGET (OR ELSE) in all caps. And in bullet points: 

Hates cilantro

Hates roses (cliché)

Hums when she cooks (buy a home speaker)

Secretly loves my terrible puns (look up more)

Saves fortune cookie slips (Saves it in a cute box, give her yours too)

Order at the dodgy kebab shop near the station: lamb, extra garlic sauce, no onions (but she’ll steal sone of mine anyway, so get a large)

Loves the centre of sandwiches (make sure to offer it to her before you finish it all)

Keeps the foil from chocolate bars (folds them into tiny stars when she’s stressed, found 17 in her coat pocket last winter)

Her ring size (6.25)

You sit up, moonlight catching the tear tracks on your face. “You made a list?” Your thumb keeps swiping, the entries endless—tiny, obsessive details you hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.

Your breath hitches. “How long…?”

“Since our first date.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “You told me you hated cilantro. I wrote it down so I’d never put it in your food. Then… it sort of grew.”

His phone screen flickers—a photo of you, mid-laugh at a pub, tucked between reminders: Buy more of her weird sour cherry tea and She bites her lip when concentrating (don’t distract her, no matter how cute it is).

"I updated it at the studio during the reshoot." His smile flickers, vulnerable at the edges. "James caught me and said I'm 'whipped.'" He huffs a laugh, thumb brushing your knuckles. "Told him he's just jealous because his girlfriend's never looked at him the way you look at me when I'm half-asleep and making coffee in my pants."

The tension unravels like a frayed knot, leaving only the quiet pulse of rain against glass. You reach for him, and he surges forward—foreheads colliding, noses brushing, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile. His thumbs sweep beneath your eyes, smudging tears into the salt-stained hollows of your cheeks.

“I’ll set alarms,” he rasps, lips skating your temple. His breath hitches, warm and uneven. “A thousand of them. Buy a calendar that takes up the whole fucking kitchen wall. Tattoo the date—”

“Don’t.” You press two fingers to his mouth, trembling.

He kisses them anyway, teeth grazing your knuckles. “—on my ribs,” he finishes, voice rough. “I’ll hire a skywriter. Carve it into every birthday cake we ever eat. Make our future kids recite it before—”

“Will.”

“—school. Every. Morning.” He’s grinning now, wild and desperate, eyes glittering in the dark. “I’ll be the embarrassing dad with anniversary-themed socks. The one who—”

You kiss him quiet. He tastes of mint toothpaste, of apologies swallowed too late. When you pull back, his smile has softened—not a promise, but a plea.

“Just,” you breathed in, “be here,” ending in a whisper.

His forehead drops to yours. “Always.”

You hook two fingers into the waist of his joggers—a gesture from your early days, when you’d drag him into dive bar bathrooms for reckless, laughing kisses. He follows without resistance, knees bumping the mattress as you fall back onto sheets still smelling of rain and your abandoned perfume.

He folds around you like a prayer, all trembling hands and murmured sorrys into your hair. His stubble scrapes your temple as he nuzzles closer, one arm banded tight around your ribs, the other cradling the nape of your neck—possessive, penitent.

“Still stealing my hoodies,” he rasps, thumb brushing the frayed cuff around your wrist.

“Still leaving them where I can find them,” you counter, voice muffled against his collarbone.

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and wounded. You map the familiar landscape of his face-the faint constellation of freckles on his cheekbone, the delicate lines that etch the corners of his eyes and his eyes—god, his eyes—blue flecked with moss-green, his iris fractured by a sliver of grey hold yours like a vow.

The rain softens to a hushed patter as Will shifts, his chest becoming a pillow beneath your cheek. You trace the hem of his shirt where it rides up, fingertips skating over the warm plane of his stomach. He shivers, not from cold, but from the featherlight drag of your nails.

“Still ticklish?” you murmur, pressing a smile into his collarbone.

He huffs a laugh, catching your wandering hand. “Still a menace.” But he laces his fingers through yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. His breath ghosts over them—a silent apology, a promise—before he kisses each ridge of bone.

You lift your head, finding his gaze. Moonlight spills through the blinds, striping his face in silver. His eyes are raw, red-rimmed, but soft as he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Your roots are growing in,” he whispers, thumb brushing the faint line at your temple. “Like autumn creeping into summer.”

Your breath hitches. He notices. He always notices.

“I was going to dye it tomorrow,” you admit, voice still thick from tears.

“Don’t.” His palm cradles your jaw, calluses catching on salt-dried skin. “I want to watch the seasons change.”

You swallow, throat tight. He leans in, so close his lashes brush your cheek, and for a heartbeat, you think he’ll kiss you. Instead, he noses along your hairline, inhaling deeply.

“Vanilla,” he murmurs, lips grazing your earlobe. “And that shampoo you pretend to hate.”

You snort, swatting his shoulder. “It dries my scalp.”

“Liar. You keep buying it.” His smile curves against your neck. “Just like you ‘hate’ my puns, but laughed at the one about the scared pasta.”

“It was shell-shocked.” You groan, even as laughter bubbles up, bright and healing. “That’s not even a pun, it’s a crime—”

His lips meet yours not as an ending, but a beginning—slow, syrup-sweet, a confession pressed into flesh. The first brush is tentative, a question mark curved against your mouth. His thumb finds the frantic pulse at your wrist, a callused pad circling gently, as if polishing a relic. I’m here, it whispers. I’m not leaving.

You sigh into him, and the kiss deepens—no longer an apology, but a promise. His free hand cradles the nape of your neck, fingers threading through damp hair still chilled from the storm. His touch is summer-warm, grounding you as he tilts your head, lips parting yours with a reverence that makes your ribs ache. There’s a hitch in his breath when your teeth graze his bottom lip, a stuttered oh swallowed by your mouth as he pulls you closer. When you whimper, he gentles, tongue sweeping soft as a paintbrush over the seam of your lips. Let me in, it pleads. Let me fix this.

You open, and he moans low in his throat—a sound that vibrates through your sternum. His hands skate down your spine, bunching the stolen hoodie at your waist, kneading the tender hollows above your hips. You arch into him, fingers fisting in his shirt as he nips your jaw, then soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue.

His lips linger against yours, breath mingling in the scant centimetres between you. When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to let his thumb brush the fringe of your lashes. His own eyes are glassy, the joke hovering on his tongue not yet ready to land—not until he’s sure you’re both still here, still real.

You feel it—the tremor in his hands where they cradle your face, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your palm. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles, before managing a shaky grin.

“Still got it,” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges. His attempt at levity cracks mid-syllable, revealing the raw fear beneath—the terror that this might’ve broken you.

You huff a damp laugh into the hollow of his throat. “Got what?”

He nuzzles your temple, stubble catching on tender skin. “The magic touch.” A pause. His nose traces your temple, breath warm and uneven. “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

It’s not the joke that undoes you, but the desperation in it—the way his arms tighten around your ribs like he’s clinging to driftwood. You press closer, lips brushing the frantic thrum at his jugular.

“Terrible puns aren’t a ‘magic touch,’” you mutter, teeth grazing his collarbone in reprimand.

He shivers, fingers skating up your spine. “Admit it.” His palm splays between your shoulder blades, pressing you flush against him until there’s no space for doubt, for anger, for anything but his next whispered plea: “You married a comedic genius.”

“We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

The word hangs, delicate as the cobwebs glinting in the window’s moonlit corners. Your heartbeat thrums against his, syncing as his hands slide beneath the stolen hoodie, palms searing trails up your spine.

“Will—”

“Not asking,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Just… storing the idea. Somewhere between your sandwich centres and chocolate foil stars.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, anchoring yourself as he shifts, rolling until you’re cocooned beneath him. His weight is a comfort, familiar as your own breath.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “The quiet version. The one you only show at 3 AM.”

So you do—lips brushing his throat as you confess the ache of waiting, the terror of feeling forgotten. He listens, fingers combing through your hair, until your whispers dissolve into yawns.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, tugging the duvet over your tangled legs. “I’ll be here when you wake, I promise. Even if morning you is a sight.”

You snort, but curl closer, nose buried in the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat drums a lullaby against your lips—steady, alive, yours.

I hope this was okay! It took longer than expected, so sorry about that! And I hope you don't mind that I made it a female reader. Also, I'm thinking of possibly making a part two where they go on the date that Will booked...thoughts?