livvymd

[livvymd]

guys stop with the fluff im horny i need smut

[livvymd]

closeness.ˢᵐᵘᵗ

The rain taps gently against the window, a soft, steady rhythm that melts into the low hum of music coming from his phone on the nightstand. You barely hear it. All you feel is him.

Arthur is above you, braced on one forearm, the other hand still tracing over your cheek. He’s shirtless, skin flushed, hair messy from where your fingers had tugged on it minutes earlier. There’s a slight glow on his chest from the hallway light, the rise and fall of his breathing visible, deep and slow.

And he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile and precious.

Not just glancing. Watching. Taking in every detail with a kind of awe that makes your skin tingle. His gaze moves from the way your collarbones rise with each breath to the softness of your thighs beneath the duvet. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single piece of you.

“You sure?” His voice is low and rough, raw at the edges. His thumb brushes your cheek again, almost nervously.

You nod, lips parted, heart hammering so loud it almost drowns out the rain. “Yeah. I want you.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for hours. Then he leans in and kisses you, slow and deep, nothing rushed or hungry. His lips mold to yours with aching patience, like he’s telling you something in a language only your body understands. You taste the tension in him, the restraint, the emotion too big for words.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes flutter closed, and he swallows hard.

“God, baby,” he whispers, almost like he can’t believe you’re real.

His hand drifts down your side, soft over your ribs, then lower. He catches the edge of the duvet and gently peels it away, revealing your skin to the cool air of the room. His palm follows the path he reveals, warm and slow, dragging over your waist and the dip of your stomach like he’s painting you with touch.

He looks down at you with something close to reverence. Like he’s memorising this. Like he’s waited a long time to see you like this and now that you’re here, he doesn’t want to blink.

Your thighs shift slightly apart, instinctive and quiet, welcoming the heat of his body between them.

Arthur’s breath hitches. He looks back up at you with wide, dark eyes that shimmer in the soft light.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, barely audible, and lowers himself between your legs, his hands still gentle, still steady, like this is everything he’s ever wanted and he’s not going to rush a second of it.

Arthur pulls his hoodie off in one motion, the fabric catching for a second on his chin before he tosses it aside. His skin glows dimly in the low light ⸺ chest flushed, muscles flexing as he shifts over you. His hands never stop moving, skimming over your waist, brushing the swell of your hips like he’s grounding himself. His touch is slow, reverent, fingertips trailing like they’re memorising you.

Your own hands explore in return, sliding under the hem of his boxers to trace the v-line dipping beneath. You feel the twitch of his muscles when you get lower, the slight stutter of his breath as your fingers ghost over the thick, hot length of him ⸺ hard and aching already, pulsing against your palm.

He groans under his breath, forehead dipping to your shoulder as his hips buck faintly into your touch. “Christ..”

You smile, teasing, breathless. “Been like that for me all night?”

Arthur looks up, eyes dark and half-lidded. “Since the second you looked at me like you wanted to climb me.” His voice is low and unsteady, the edge of need slicing through it.

You tug his boxers down, and his cock springs free ⸺ flushed deep, already leaking at the tip, heavy and stiff against his stomach. He twitches when the air hits him, then again when your hand wraps gently around the base, thumb sweeping over the slick head. He bites down on a moan, body tensing, breath coming rough.

“Fuck, baby, please⸺” he grits out, hips jerking toward you.

You part your legs, slow and inviting, guiding him between them with your free hand. He settles over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your cheek like he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he lets go. His cock drags against your soaked folds, slick with need, the head catching slightly on your entrance before he stops.

His eyes lock with yours, chest rising and falling fast. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you whisper, barely breathing. “I want you.”

He pushes in slowly.

The stretch is dizzying ⸺ your walls giving way to the thick pressure of him, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside. You can feel every part of him, the way he pulses against your walls, the slight curve of him pressing deeper with each slow roll of his hips.

Arthur chokes on a breath, head dropping to your neck. “Jesus Chr⸺.. You’re so fucking tight.”

He’s shaking a little, muscles trembling with restraint as he stays still, buried to the hilt. You feel how hard he is inside you ⸺ thick, throbbing, filling every inch of you until your breath stutters in your chest. His cock twitches once, deep inside, and your whole body clenches around him in response.

He whimpers ⸺ a broken, breathless sound you feel more than hear. “You’re perfect. Fuck. Can’t move. Not yet, or I’ll⸺”

You kiss him, soft and deep, pulling him closer with your legs around his waist.

He breathes into your mouth like it’s saving him.

When he finally starts to move, slow, controlled thrusts, it’s like you both fall apart at once. Each stroke grinds deeper, your bodies locked together, sweat slicking your skin. And he stays like that, tight to your chest, whispering how good you feel, how much he’s missed this, how he’s never wanted anything like this before.

And all the while, his cock stays thick and hard inside you, dragging against your most sensitive spot again and again, until every part of you burns with pleasure.

He starts moving ⸺ slow and deep, each roll of his hips maddening in its precision. It’s not teasing. It’s not rushed. It’s the kind of rhythm that feels intimate. like he’s savouring every inch of you, like he wants to feel every second seared into his skin.

His cock drags through you perfectly, thick and hot and pulsing with need, stroking against your walls just right on every thrust. You can feel the flex of his thighs between yours, the heat of him pressed flush to your body, sweat beginning to gather where your skin meets. Every grind forward presses the weight of him deeper, slow enough that you feel every ridge, every curve, the sensitive head of him brushing the spot inside you that makes your breath catch in your throat.

But what wrecks you most is his eyes.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you ⸺ like the way your mouth falls open and your lashes flutter might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Look at me,” he whispers, voice thick, rough. “Wanna see you.”

And you do. Because how could you not? When his gaze says it all. how much he feels, how much he wants, how deeply he’s falling with every breath.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like they’ve been clawing their way to the surface all night. Like he couldn’t hold them in even if he tried.

His hand drifts down again, slow and warm and sure ⸺ fingers dragging over the slope of your waist, settling on your hip. He holds you there, steadying you as he shifts his angle, grinding in deeper, and the moment he hits that spot, your back arches and a sharp gasp escapes.

He groans like the sound undoes him.

“That good?” he breathes, voice barely more than a rasp. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

You nod frantically, nails pressing into his shoulders as your body clenches around him. “Arthur ⸺ don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop⸺”

And he doesn’t.

He keeps his pace steady, deep and reverent, fucking you like he means it. Like he’s trying to tell you something with every thrust. Something you already feel burning low and bright in your chest.

“I won’t,” he whispers, voice low and frayed. “You feel so fucking good.”

His hips don’t falter. He stays steady, rolling into you with a rhythm that feels like it was made for your body, the thick drag of him stroking every sensitive spot inside you with maddening precision. You can feel how deep he is, the stretch of him constant and full and pulsing. Every grind brushes your clit just enough to make your breath catch, your hands clutching at the tense curve of his shoulders for grounding.

It builds fast ⸺ not a snap, but a slow, molten surge of heat in your belly. Your thighs tense. Your chest stutters against his. And he knows.

He feels it in the flutter of your walls around him, in the sharp little breath you take, in the way your hand clenches his.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice hot against your mouth. “Come for me, sweetheart. Want you to feel good, yeah? Let go for me.”

You do ⸺ your body breaking open beneath him, thighs trembling, breath stuttering as the wave hits and you cry out his name, barely muffled by his mouth. Your cunt pulses around him, rhythmic and wet and perfect, clenching tight as you fall apart in his arms.

Arthur groans, wrecked and low, but doesn’t stop. He keeps moving through it, slower now, tender. Every roll of his hips is patient, reverent. He kisses your shoulder, then your jaw, then the edge of your parted lips, all while his cock stays deep and warm inside you, gently gliding through your aftershocks.

“You okay?” he whispers again, eyes searching your face like he can’t bear to miss a single flicker of what you’re feeling.

You nod, blinking slowly, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

His eyes soften. something raw in them, something so full it makes your throat tighten. “So fucking good for me.”

And he keeps going.

Not rough. Not fast. Just steady ⸺ this slow, deep rhythm that feels like being worshipped. Like he’s trying to burn the memory of your body into his own. He pulls your hips up slightly, shifts the angle, and the drag of him is perfect. He hits deeper, grinds slower, makes you whimper just from the stretch alone.

Arthur’s close. You feel it in the twitch of his cock inside you, the tight grip of his hands, the flex of his abdomen against yours. His jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

His voice cracks. low, shaky, needy.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He thrusts deep. slow, trembling, like he’s barely holding himself back. and then he stills, buried to the hilt, his whole body shuddering above you.

A choked sound tears from his throat, lips pressed to your neck as he comes hard inside you.

You feel it ⸺ the first warm burst, sudden and thick, coating your walls. His fingers squeeze yours, his grip almost desperate as the second pulse follows, deeper, slower, drawn from the base of him with a breathless moan. His hips twitch through it, unable to stay still, chasing the last wave. Then the third hits ⸺ slower still, a final spasm, and he gasps raggedly into your skin, like the release is wringing him dry.

And then he just completely melts.

Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. He stays deep inside you, completely still, his chest pressed to yours and his breath shaky against your shoulder.

You feel the aftershocks through him. the tiny twitches of his muscles, the soft hum in his chest, the slow glide of his fingers up your thigh as if to ground himself in the feel of your skin.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Gentle. Lingering. Like it means something more than words.

Then a long breath escapes him ⸺ low, relieved, full of something so soft it makes your heart ache.

His forehead finds yours, warm and slightly damp. His voice is quiet. Raw.

“Baby, you’re everything.”

Your fingers thread through the back of his hair, still holding him close.

And you smile, content and full and heavy-limbed with the heat of him still inside you.

“Stay,” you whisper.

His eyes close, and he nods once against your cheek.

“Always.”

[livvymd]

keep quiet for me.

CHRIS'S DOOR clicks softly shut behind you, the sound quiet but final, like a held breath finally released.

You don’t hesitate. Your hands find the front of his hoodie as you push him back, step by step, your mouths crashing together in a kiss that’s all heat and urgency. His lips are soft but greedy, moving against yours with an almost frantic rhythm, tongue brushing yours, tasting like mint and something sweeter beneath it. His fingers slide up your spine beneath your shirt, warm and a little rough from calluses, dragging goosebumps in their wake as they pull you closer, closer still, like he doesn’t want a single inch between you.

He grunts softly when his knees bump the bed and sits with a thump, breath knocked from his lungs as he lands. The mattress dips under his weight, springs groaning quietly beneath him. His legs part naturally, not even thinking, just instinct ⸺ welcoming ⸺ and you move with purpose, stepping forward until your knees slot against the outsides of his thighs and you’re straddling him.

The warmth of him hits you immediately. His joggers are soft against your skin, but the heat of his cock pressed against them makes your breath catch. You sink onto him slowly, letting your body settle onto his lap, and the thick, straining bulge of him slots perfectly against your center. Your panties are already damp, silk clinging to your folds, and when your clothed cunt grinds down against the rigid length of him, you both gasp ⸺ low, involuntary, hungry.

“Wait,” he breathes, pulling back just enough that you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips. His chest rises and falls against yours. “They’re all in tonight. Arthur’s literally in the next room.”

You nod slowly, lips brushing his as you speak. “Then you better be quiet.”

Your hips tilt forward again, slower this time, more deliberate, and the drag of your heat along his cock sends a visible shiver down his spine. You feel him twitch beneath you. His grip finds your waist, fingers flexing once, hard, like he’s grounding himself ⸺ like he might come apart from just this alone.

“Fuck,” he whispers. His voice cracks around it.

You do it again, hips rolling with a teasing smoothness that makes your core throb. The friction is molten, the wet heat of your cunt pressed tight through two thin layers of fabric. Every movement makes your thighs clench, your breath hitch. You can feel him swell under you, thick and desperate, the outline of him unmistakable now, twitching each time your hips rock forward.

Chris groans, long and wrecked, tilting his head back slightly. His lashes flutter, jaw clenched tight, teeth sinking into his bottom lip like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. You watch the flush creep up his throat, the sweat beginning to collect at his hairline. His hands stay right where they are, trembling against your sides, like he doesn’t trust himself to do more.

You lean in, kissing along his cheek, your voice a breath against his skin. “Want me to stop?”

His head jerks in a panicked shake. “No. No, don’t. Fuck, don’t stop.” His voice is all gravel and need. His hips twitch up beneath you without meaning to. “Just ⸺ come here. Please.”

His hands slide up to your back, dragging you forward until your chest presses to his, your mouths meeting again in a kiss that’s suddenly messier, wetter, full of tiny gasps and choked moans. His tongue slides against yours like he needs it, like he’s starved for you. And all the while, his cock throbs through his joggers, grinding up against the soaked fabric between your legs with every slow, maddening roll of your hips.

You’re soaked. He’s leaking. Your breaths are tangled and hot. And this is just the beginning.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Deeper. The kind of kiss that melts time, that makes the room fade around you until there’s only the slick glide of your mouths and the soft puff of your breaths. You can taste how badly he wants it ⸺ how his lips part just a little sooner, how his jaw tenses under your fingers, how a low, involuntary sound catches in his throat when your tongue brushes his.

He trembles beneath you, subtle but constant. His thighs are taut where you straddle them, hands gripping your waist like he’s scared you might vanish if he doesn’t hold tight. His fingers flex again, tighter now, pulling you flush against him. You can feel his cock through the fabric, thick and straining, every twitch sending sparks through you as it presses snug between your bodies.

You sit back for just a moment, enough to reach for the hem of your shirt. The fabric peels away from your skin slowly, your breath catching as the cooler air of the room brushes your flushed chest. He doesn’t move ⸺ just watches, lips parted, chest rising and falling beneath you ⸺ until you tug your top over your head and let it drop to the floor.

Chris’s hoodie follows, clumsy in his haste. It gets caught briefly at the back of his neck and you help him pull it free, both of you laughing softly into each other’s mouths before the kiss catches fire again. You push him back down gently and the clothes come off like petals, quiet, instinctive, left wherever they fall in the darkened room.

Now you’re down to skin and heat and the thinnest layers left between you. His boxers ride low on his hips, yours already soaked, clinging to your folds. When you sink down onto his lap again, his breath hitches so sharply you feel it echo in your own chest. Your lace brushes against the bare skin of his stomach, his chest, as you press flush to him. He’s so warm, flushed all over, his skin damp beneath your palms.

And his cock ⸺ fuck ⸺ it’s like iron beneath you, painfully hard, the thick head nudging perfectly between your folds even through the fabric. You can feel the heat of it, the pressure, the way it pulses up against you every time your hips shift. It sends a tight flutter through your core, need curling low and hot.

Chris groans softly, his head falling back against the pillows. One hand runs up your spine, dragging slow, grounding heat, while the other stays at your waist like an anchor.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse with restraint. His hips twitch up beneath you again, helpless. “You’re actually gonna fucking kill me.”

You smile against the curve of his neck, lips brushing the rapid pulse beneath his jaw. Then you lean in, nose grazing his ear, your whisper nothing more than breath.

“Not if you keep quiet.”

He shivers under you. Visibly. Almost violently.

HES INSIDE you slow.

The stretch steals your breath. His cock presses against your entrance, hot and thick, and as you ease down onto him, every inch slides deeper with excruciating care. The drag of him against your walls makes your thighs tremble. It’s not just the stretch ⸺ it’s the way he fills you, how warm he is, how sensitive everything feels under your skin.

Chris lets out a strangled noise, barely more than a whisper. His back hits the headboard with a dull thump as he grips the sheets, knuckles white, like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, voice shaky and raw.

You plant your hands on his shoulders for balance. The muscle there is tense beneath your palms, twitching faintly. Then you roll your hips, just once, slowly, testing the angle. The response is instant. His whole body jolts under you. He gasps, jaw slack, head falling back to knock softly against the wall.

“Shh,” you murmur against his skin, pressing a kiss to the curve of his jaw. “You said you could be quiet.”

He nods fast, blinking up at you with wide, glassy eyes. “I can, i can. Just.. slow.”

So you give him slow.

Measured, steady, your hips grind in a controlled rhythm. Every movement sinks him deeper, nudging the softest, most sensitive part of you. Your breath catches as heat coils low in your belly. Chris clings to your thighs now, his grip flexing with each roll, guiding but not forcing, grounding himself on you.

His mouth finds your collarbone. He doesn’t kiss ⸺ just breathes there, nose buried in your skin, trying to stay quiet. You feel him suck in a sharp inhale through his nose as your hips rock down again, and the little whimper he stifles into your shoulder sends a thrill through you.

Then, from outside the room, a burst of muffled laughter. Familiar. George.

You freeze, heartbeat stuttering.

Chris’s eyes fly open. He meets your gaze, pupils huge and dark, but there’s mischief blooming in his expression too. His hands smooth up your back, featherlight.

“They have no idea,” he whispers, voice thick with heat.

You clench around him deliberately.

His whole body jerks.

A breath escapes him. half-gasp, half-moan, before he catches it, biting his lip so hard the skin blanches. His head thuds back again, sweat gathering at his hairline.

“Bastard,” he mouths, chest heaving.

You smile, saccharine. “I didn’t hear a please.”

His fingers twitch at your hips. Then again, tighter, almost desperate.

“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please keep going. Please.”

So you do.

You ride him slow, every movement heavy and deliberate, fire pooling deep inside you. The friction between your slick folds and his rock-hard length beneath you sends scorching heat spiraling through your veins. His arms clamp around your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Your foreheads press together, breaths shallow and ragged, the quiet hum of his heartbeat thudding beneath your cheek.

Your fingers twist into the back of his neck, skin warm and rough against your palms, while his breath ghosts over your lips ⸺ hot, trembling, sending a faint rush of warmth that makes your skin prickle. “You feel unreal,” he whispers, voice thick and cracked, “Every fucking time.”

You hush him with a kiss, slow and messy, tongues tangling, teeth grazing, breath mingling in a silent plea for quiet. His hands slip between you, thumb brushing over your sensitive bundle, moving in slow, burning circles that coil tighter and tighter inside you.

Your breath catches, chest tightening as the first wave crashes through you. A firestorm of pleasure blooms, muscles clenching tight then trembling loose, every nerve ending screaming in delicious overload. The slick heat of your wetness coats him, sticky and warm, the slickness making every subtle roll of your hips against him a friction of molten silk.

Chris groans, deep and guttural, the vibration of his voice rumbling against your skin as his hips jerk frantically inside you. The first pulse of his release bursts hot and thick, flooding you with a warmth so intense it feels like it’s melting you from the inside out. His hands dig into your hips like anchors, fingers splayed wide, trying to hold himself steady as his whole body shakes violently, limbs trembling and muscles spasming.

There’s barely time to catch your breath before the second surge hits, hotter, more urgent, thrumming through your core like an electric current. His breath catches, ragged and uneven, scent sharp with exertion and want, filling your senses as he bucks against you wildly. His cock pulses inside you, thick and warm, every shot sliding deep and sticky, making you ache with a desperate, beautiful fullness.

You sink your nails into the taut planes of his shoulders, skin taut and hot beneath your fingertips, leaving shallow crescent marks as he shudders uncontrollably. His muscles ripple beneath your hands ⸺ solid and trembling all at once—his body raw and surrendered. The scent of his sweat mingles with the faint musk of his arousal, intoxicating and heady.

You hold him close, your own breath ragged, the taste of him—salty, sweet ⸺ lingering on your tongue as you press closer, moving in tandem with the frantic rhythm of his hips.

Then the third wave crashes ⸺ long, ragged, and relentless. His voice breaks into a desperate, guttural groan, vibrating through you, the sound a shuddering echo in the quiet room. His body convulses beneath you, a trembling storm of need and release as he pours himself deep inside, pulsing with every thrust, thick heat spilling and coating you, warm and wet and impossibly full.

His arms tighten around you, the strength in his grip grounding you both as his entire frame quakes with the final tremors. You claw at the muscles of his shoulders, rough fingertips dragging over hot skin, seeking to hold onto him through the last waves of ecstasy.

The scent of your mingled sweat, his ragged breath, the slick warmth pressed between your bodies ⸺ all of it wraps you in a cocoon of raw, blazing intimacy. The tremors slowly ebb, leaving behind the heavy, electric silence of two bodies utterly undone and impossibly entwined.

You stay like that for a moment, just breathing, tangled up, quiet, glowing with the aftershocks still humming low in your veins. The air between you thick with heat and soft, steady heartbeats. Theres a sudden knock at the door. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.

You both freeze.

“Chris,” Arthur’s voice drifts through, muffled but way too close, “You coming to watch the game or have you literally died in there?”

Chris coughs, voice cracking slightly as he yells back, “Yeah! Just ⸺ uh ⸺ getting changed!”

You press your face into his neck, biting back a laugh as his breath tickles your skin. Arthur mutters something about him being weird and shuffles away.

Chris exhales slowly, his hands still locked on your hips. “That was way too close.”

You grin, brushing your lips against his again. “Maybe next time we put a sock on the door.”

“Maybe next time,” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and lingering desire, “we wait till they’re out.”

You roll your hips once ⸺ just enough to make him flinch and jerk beneath you.

His eyes snap wide, dark and gleaming. “You’re evil.”

You smile, sweet and teasing. “But you love it.”

[livvymd]

full throttle. ˢᵐᵘᵗ

THE MOMENT you lift your phone and snap the photo, you already know how this ends.

George is sprawled across the dark couch like temptation sculpted into flesh ⸺ all casual sprawl and unconscious dominance, every inch of him demanding attention. His long legs are spread in that deliberate, indecent way he never quite admits to, the white trousers clinging in all the right places, creased and pristine over thick, solid thighs. One arm is thrown lazily along the backrest, his hand curled loosely like he owns the room. like he owns you. The other hangs down by his side, fingers grazing the rug, the pose effortless and arrogant, like he’s moments from pulling you in and making you beg.

The light floods in around him, harsh and honeyed. Behind his slouched frame, the sea shimmers through the floor-to-ceiling windows, each wave glinting with silver-blue light that dances across his shoulders and jaw. Heat radiates off the glass, sinking into your skin, making the air feel heavy, like late-afternoon lust, like something about to tip over. Every breath tastes faintly of salt and dust and the unbearable possibility of touch.

And then there’s the helmet.

That ridiculous, idiotic, infuriatingly teal helmet perched on his head like some inside joke. The visor is down. mirrored, sleek, impenetrable, hiding every trace of his face, of his smirk, of his eyes that you know are watching you even now. It should be laughable. It should break the spell.

But it doesn’t. It heightens it.

Because he looks devastating. Like a sculpture you’re not allowed to touch. Like a sin you’re going to commit anyway. The curve of his neck disappearing into the stupid strap, the way the shadow of the visor catches the slope of his cheek. it makes him untouchable. Anonymous. Owned. And somehow that’s worse. Somehow it makes you ache. Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together without thinking.

Because you can’t see his eyes, but you can feel them. Because he hasn’t said a word, but your body’s already responding. Because that helmet, absurd and unnecessary, only makes you want to get on top of him and pull the truth out of his mouth.

He’s all power and restraint and obscene stillness, and you want to ruin it. You want to ruin him.

And he’s watching you.

Even though you can’t see his eyes, not even a flicker. you feel it. That unbearable stillness, stretched tight between you. Like the air itself has stopped moving. Like every line of his body, every inch of his slouched, open sprawl is a trap he’s laid just for you. He hasn’t moved a muscle, hasn’t said a word, but you know. You know. He’s watching you like a slow drag of fingers over bare skin. Like he’s already touched you everywhere and is just waiting for you to catch up.

Your skin prickles under the weight of it. Heat pools low in your stomach.

You pretend to stay casual. shift your weight, tilt your head, let your phone lower just slightly in your hand ⸺ but your breath’s already gone uneven. Your pulse trips in your neck. Your eyes skim his frame again, helpless to stop. That posture, the slack confidence in it. The teasing spread of his legs. The helmet. Fuck, the helmet.

“Why the helmet?” you manage, aiming for lightness, for a tease, but it comes out softer than you mean it to. warm at the edges, tinted with heat. Your gaze drags over him slow, deliberate. “Planning to ride something?”

The sound that comes from the helmet is low and rough, like gravel warmed by sun. It’s a laugh, but twisted through the filtered visor, it comes out darker, deeper, almost mechanical. A sound made for shadows and closed doors. It rolls through the room and coils between your legs.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

It’s not just the words. It’s the way he says it. Languid. Intimate. Like you’re already halfway undone and he’s just pointing it out. Like he knows exactly how slick you are under that dress. Like he’s been counting the seconds since you walked in, waiting for your legs to start shaking.

Your stomach flips. Your fingers tighten on the phone.

He still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t taken off the helmet. And somehow, that makes it worse. Somehow, that makes you want him more.

It hits like a slow slap of heat ⸺ that voice, warped and velvety through the helmet, all smoke and shadows and something filthy just beneath the surface. It vibrates straight through your chest and coils low in your stomach, a throb between your thighs that’s impossible to ignore. Your breath catches, half a gasp, and your lips part on instinct.

He doesn’t need to say more. He knows that. He lets the silence sit, thick and deliberate. A silence full of implication.

The tone alone does it. rich and dragging, dipped in suggestion, just this side of dangerous. Like he could fuck you without lifting a hand. Like he will, when he’s ready. When you’ve earned it.

Your eyes fall again before you can help it. Down the long line of him ⸺ the tension hiding beneath the slouch, the precise, teasing stillness of his posture. The curve of muscle beneath white cotton, the deep stretch of his thighs, the subtle shift of his hips. He’s not obvious about it. Not blatant. But he’s half-hard already. Thick beneath the fabric, heat rising from him in waves. Waiting.

Your throat tightens. The words slip out before you can stop them. a whisper more breath than sound. “You’re unbelievable.”

And it feels like too much. Like confession. Like surrender.

But George doesn’t move.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t tip his head or twitch a finger. He just sits there. sprawled, silent, helmeted ⸺ like a fucking altar. Like he knows you’ll come to him.

And that’s why you do.

You step forward. One careful stride across the rug. Then another. And then, without fanfare, without breath, without permission. you climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like the room was built for this. Like the heat was meant to melt you into him.

Your dress rides up around your hips as you swing a leg over him. The fabric snags, whispers up your thighs. You settle, slowly, knees pressed into the cushions on either side of his body, your core lowering to hover just above where he’s already thick and twitching under the fabric. The soft give of his trousers bunches beneath you, heat pressing through the layers like it’s pulsing.

Your hands find purchase ⸺ one braced on his shoulder, the other sliding up the helmet until your fingers curl over the crown.

You sit there, straddling him. Breath shallow. Skin flushed. And still, he doesn’t move.

His hands stay right where they were: one on the backrest, the other draped low beside his thigh. Like you’re a dream he’s letting play out. Like your weight on him, the way your thighs press open and your dress clings, is just part of the show.

The air feels molten now. thick with heat and possibility, every breath tasting like sunlight and sweat and something about to break. The whole room is suspended in gold, dizzy and overripe, like the sun’s been holding its breath along with you. Time doesn’t move. Nothing does. Except you, perched on top of him like a storm waiting to happen.

George doesn’t touch you at first. He just watches.

Or, he makes you feel watched, that unbearable attention leaking through the mirrored visor. The kind that strips you bare and holds you there, still and open and humming. You can’t see his eyes, but you can feel them everywhere. on your mouth, your thighs, the damp heat between them. Your nipples pebble through the fabric of your dress, aching and obvious, and still he stays perfectly still, a monument of restraint.

Then, finally, his hands lift. Slow. Measured.

Gloved fingers find the backs of your thighs and settle there, leather-rough and deliberate, anchoring you. Not pulling. Not guiding. Just holding. As if he’s offering the illusion of control when you both know who really has it.

“Thought you wanted a picture,” he says.

And through the helmet, his voice is thick. Lower now. Wrapped in static and something dangerous. That strange echo makes it worse, more intimate, more private, like the helmet doesn’t muffle him, it possesses him. Like you’re hearing thoughts he hasn’t spoken aloud.

Your fingers tighten on his shoulders. “I got what I needed,” you breathe.

And then you roll your hips. Once. So slow, but so so so deliberate.

The drag of your bare heat over the thick ridge of him is obscene ⸺ too much, not enough, perfect. Even through layers, it lights you up. You hear it: the grunt that rips from his throat, low and guttural, caught somewhere between restraint and ruin. His hands clench, his fingers digging into your skin, but he doesn’t move beyond that. He can’t.

The helmet turns him into something tethered. Leashed. Controlled. And you are the one doing it.

You lean forward, breath shaky, and press your lips to the glass of the visor.

Just a kiss. Soft. Fleeting. A whisper of contact.

But it lands. A faint, glistening smear of lip balm and heat. A ghost of you, marked on him. It lingers there, a perfect imprint of desire and denial.

He can’t kiss you back. Can’t see your face clearly. Can’t move the way he wants, the way he’s aching to ⸺ and the tension of it thrums through him like a live wire, vibrating just beneath the surface of his skin. His thighs twitch beneath yours. His jaw tenses behind the mask.

You grind down again.

Harder this time. Slower. Letting your slick heat smear across the thick line of him, fabric dampening between you both. He’s huge like this, already swollen and straining, trapped beneath cotton and leather and control, and he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. Half choked. Half sacred.

You rock again, and again, breath hitching with every drag, and all he can do is take it. Take you.

Helpless beneath you. Helpless for you.

And it’s delicious.

The sound he makes isn’t even human ⸺ it tears out of him like something primal, raw, somewhere between a growl and a gasp. Choked. Guttural. Helpless. It scrapes through the helmet, distorted and thick, like static over thunder, and it shoots straight through you ⸺ a jolt of heat, of power, of need. His fingers clamp down around your thighs, gloved and rough, leather biting into the soft backs of your legs hard enough to bruise. But he doesn’t push you off. Doesn’t try to stop you.

He just takes it.

Every drag of your hips. Every slick grind of heat against the rigid line of him beneath his trousers. Every breathless taunt you spill across the glass.

“Bet it’s driving you mad,” you whisper, lips hovering a hair above the visor, breath fogging the mirrored surface. “Not being able to kiss me. Not being able to see properly. Just sitting there while I fuck you like this.”

He jerks beneath you, whole body twitching like you’ve struck a nerve, a muscle reflex. A need. His hips snap up once, unthinking, desperate. His fingers dig deeper, breath catching so sharp it hitches through the helmet.

“You’re such a little ⸺ ” he breaks off, voice mangled in his throat. “Fuck.”

You giggle. breathless, teasing, drunk on the power. On the sight of him, still restrained, still masked, still aching. “What was that, love?”

His voice cracks when he speaks, like it’s being torn from his chest through the heat. “Keep going,” he groans. “Fuck, just ⸺ don’t stop.”

You don’t. But you do shift.

Your fingers trail down his stomach, over the soft cotton of his shirt, until they find the waistband of his trousers. You move slow on purpose, every motion deliberate, savoring the tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace. Your fingers dip under the band, grazing hot skin, and then ⸺ there.

You find him. Heavy. Hard. So hot. Twitching in your palm like he’s barely holding it together.

His reaction is instant ⸺ a ragged gasp that sounds like it’s being torn from the deepest part of him. His thighs tense under yours, hips jerking up involuntarily, desperate to fuck into your hand. But the second he thrusts. the second he tries ⸺ you pull back.

He makes this noise. something wrecked and strangled and furious with need. A sound of frustration and surrender all at once, like he’d say your name if he could remember how to breathe.

You smile. Slow. Sweet. Cruel. You almost feel bad.

"Uh-uh," you murmur, running your fingers lightly over the head of him, not giving him friction, just tease. Just presence. “You don’t get to move unless I say so.”

And god, the way he trembles. The power in it. The tension. Like he’s straining against invisible rope, held in place by the sheer force of your control. The helmet turns him into something bound. an icon of denial, of raw, leashed desire ⸺ and beneath it, you can feel how close he is. Every inch of him throbbing, aching, undone.

You grind your hips down again, slower this time. Meaner. His cock trapped between you, still clothed, already leaking.

And he shudders. Every breath he takes sounds like a plea.

You roll your hips again, slow, filthy, obscene ⸺ dragging your slick heat over the thick line of him with just enough pressure to drive him mad. It’s torture by rhythm, the kind that makes your thighs ache and his body tremble. The pace is deliberate. Intentional. Every grind, every pulse of wet heat, a reminder that you’re in charge; that he can’t see you properly, can’t touch you the way he wants, can’t do a thing except sit there and feel you.

And the helmet? The helmet makes it worse.

It traps him inside ⸺ muffling his breath, turning every sound he makes into something distorted, guttural, desperate. You can hear how wrecked he is in the way the air fogs the glass. How it shortens, catches, breaks. He can’t cool down. Can’t get enough air. He’s burning from the inside out, and all he can do is take it.

You reach up slowly and drag one finger across the visor, right over the faint, glistening kiss mark you left earlier. A stroke so light, so mocking, your nail clicks faintly on the tinted surface.

“You look so good like this,” you murmur, voice syrup-slick with heat. “Like a fucking toy.”

And god, the way he groans ⸺ it tears out of him, deeper now, completely shameless. It’s a surrender, a command, a need so raw it scrapes.

“Get on with it then,” he growls, hips twitching up again, no control left in him. “Come on. Ride me.”

You smile. soft, wicked, indulgent ⸺ like you’re giving in just to be merciful. But you’re not. You’re savoring it.

Your hand slips between your legs. You hook two fingers into the crotch of your panties and tug them aside. not off, never off. Just to the side. Just enough. It’s crude, efficient, hot. Your arousal clings, glistens, strings slightly in the space between as you hover over him, your breath catching.

And then, slowly, you lower yourself.

The tip of him catches at your entrance, swollen and already slick from your teasing. He stretches you open, thick and hot and unrelenting, the first inch making you gasp, your thighs already trembling with the sheer pressure of it. Your hands brace on his chest . still clothed, still heaving ⸺ and you sink down, inch by inch, swallowing him deeper, your body fluttering around him as he fills you.

Your breath stutters. A choked moan slips free.

Until finally, finally, you’re seated fully, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing, your body stretched to its limit around him.

George bucks beneath you. helpless, raw, overwhelmed ⸺ and the sound that comes out of him isn’t even a word.

It’s wreckage.

Somewhere behind the helmet, he’s unraveling. unable to see you, unable to touch you, just feeling you clamp around him, warm and slick and so fucking tight. His whole body surges, trapped between resistance and surrender, and the groan that breaks from him sounds like it’s clawing its way up from his spine.

You stay there for a moment, full of him, your chest rising and falling with broken breaths.

Then you roll your hips, slow and deep, and he shudders.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, voice thick and ragged as you brace your hands firmly on his broad shoulders, steadying yourself while sinking fully down onto him. The stretch is deep, impossibly deep. every inch of him filling you so completely it steals your breath away. Your muscles clench around him, hot and tight, gripping like you’re trying to hold him inside you forever. “Fuck, baby ⸺ so deep ⸺”

His hands fly to your hips, desperate and trembling, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He’s holding you like if he loosens his grip, he might shatter ⸺ like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. The slight hitch in his breath makes your skin crawl.

You start to move.

At first, it’s slow. Torturously slow. Grinding, teasing, every slick drag of your slick wetness rubbing along the thick length of him inside you like a sin. Your hips roll with a languid, sinful rhythm. a teasing promise that builds and builds. Your hands stay flat against his chest, fingers spread wide, palms pressed into the warm cotton of his shirt, feeling the pounding thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. The sunlight streams through the windows, painting your skin in molten gold and sharp shadows that trace every curve, every tremble of muscle, every shiver of heat that you radiate.

Each movement sends a tremor through your thighs, shaking and trembling with effort and pleasure. The air between you thickens and tightens, your breath misting the visor, fogging it with every desperate inhale he takes.

“You can’t even see me properly, can you?” you murmur, voice low, teasing, dripping with heat.

He shakes his head, the word caught and broken in his throat, thick with need. “I can feel you,” he rasps, voice rough and raw.

That’s all it takes to make your pulse spike, your breath catch like a fire storm.

You angle your hips, chasing that perfect friction, grinding harder, deeper, slow but vicious. The slick, wet sound of skin sliding against skin fills the room. soft, sticky, sinful. The couch creaks beneath your weight, the afternoon sun melting into a golden haze around you.

Your nails dig into his chest suddenly, sharp and demanding, as your rhythm stutters and falters, then speeds up. frantic, urgent, insatiable.

“You feel so ⸺ fuck, George ⸺ so full,” you gasp, breath shuddering, the words trembling on your tongue. “I can’t ⸺ ” You ride him harder now, hips snapping down in a maddening rhythm, chasing the edge of everything. “You’re mine like this. Mine.”

He growls low and guttural ⸺ something inside him snaps, raw and urgent. His hips jerk upward, hard and relentless, slamming into the deepest, most sensitive parts of you. Each thrust is sharp, brutal, making you cry out with a heady mix of shock and need. Your back arches instinctively, eyes rolling back as waves of pleasure crash over you, wild and unforgiving.

Your hands slide down, fingers circling your clit fast and tight, desperate for the pressure, the friction, the edge that will push you over. Your breath comes in ragged pants, the room spinning, everything narrowing down to the dizzying pulse between your legs.

“Fuck, yes,” George rasps through the helmet, voice thick and barely coherent, raw with need. “Touch yourself. Come on. Want to feel you fall apart ⸺ ”

And fall apart you do.

Your orgasm hits like a blast of molten fire ⸺ white-hot, trembling, all-consuming. Your muscles clamp down around him, trembling, shaking as your body collapses against his, whining his name through clenched teeth. The world narrows to the heat and the weight of him, the slick, aching pressure flooding through every nerve ending.

George answers with a broken, desperate sound. a growl somewhere deep in his throat as he thrusts up once, twice, then lets go, coming hard inside you. His hips jerk and lock beneath you, every inch taut with release, his breath ragged and shuddering.

Then, silence.

Just the ragged rise and fall of your breaths, the faint fog swirling on the visor’s glass, and the distant, soothing crash of waves beyond the windows.

Your forehead leans against the cool, solid helmet, intimate and strange, a tether between you.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, breathless.

George lets out a breathless laugh, low and warm. “That’s one way to test a visor’s fog resistance.”

You snort, still trembling, draped over him like silk. “You’re not taking that off.”

“No?”

You nuzzle the side of the helmet, grinning against the hard shell. “Nope. You’re wearing that next time too.”

based off this ask

[livvymd]

I was hoping I could request something

like a smut with george clarke based on the photo he posted on Instagram with the helmet, kinda like maybe your taking those photos and you ride him while he's wearing it, whatever you think girl your writing is incredible and I'm completely and utterly obsessed xx

abt to post

[livvymd]

OMG LOKE IJ WAS FIRST COMMERCIAL

closing arguments (2)

part one, part two, part three

description: you and arthur have always been rivals, competing over everything from grades to courtroom wins. but when rivalry starts to feel like something more, losing to him doesn’t feel like losing anymore.

contains: fluff, eventual smut, rivals to lovers trope, lawyer!fem!reader

song rec: never be the same by camilla cabello- "just one hit of you, i knew i'll never, ever, ever be the same."

w.c: 778+

a.n: this chapter is dedicated solely to @livvymd, thank you for your help babes. 💗

the second you stepped into the bar, all glass and shadows and soft jazz, you felt it-his gaze, landing on you like a claim. your black dress clung like it knew the stakes, your heels echoing like a countdown.

from his seat at the bar, arthur turned- slow, delibrate, unstartled. like he’d felt you before he saw you. like some part of him had been waiting. he didn’t move a muscle, didn’t shift in his chair, but his eyes swept over you with a precision that felt almost surgical. clinical, focused, and laced with something darker. hungrier.

his gaze dragged up your legs, paused at your hips, lingered at the neckline of your dress like it was a secret only he had permission to read. and then- he met your eyes.

calm. unreadable. blazing.

like a man who’d spent years pretending you were just another opponent across the aisle… and had finally stopped lying to himself.

you were used to being looked at. stared at. sized up.

this wasn’t that.

arthur frederick looked at you like you were the first case he couldn’t win by keeping his distance.

because this wasn’t about the law anymore.

this was about you.

he wore a black short-sleeve button-up that hugged his frame a little too well, paired with black pants and crisp white sneakers. he stood up as you approached, and that smug little half-smile stretched across his face.

“wow,” he said, voice softer now. “i didn’t think you’d dress to kill…but here i am. officially murdered.”

you laughed, sliding onto the barstool next to him. “you never turn it off, do you?”

“only if you ask real nice,” he murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners. then, after a pause, “you look incredible, by the way.”

you hadn’t expected that- not the softness in his voice, not the sincerity behind the teasing. heat crept up your neck, blooming across your cheeks as you glanced down, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your black dress hugged your frame. with nothing to fidget with, your hands settled uselessly in your lap, fingers twisting together as if they might ground you. you could feel his gaze lingering, warm and steady, and it took everything in you not to look back.

just then, the bartender appeared, saving you from having to say anything at all. “dirty martini, please. extra olives.”

arthur leaned his elbow on the counter, his gaze never leaving you. “of course you drink something with bite. fitting.”

“and let me guess,” you said, eyes narrowing. “old fashioned?”

“whiskey sour, actually.” he raised his glass. “sharp, a little unexpected, but still classic.”

you clinked glasses, and the first sip settled into a comfortable buzz of conversation and glances that lingered a little too long. what had begun as a professional rivalry was unraveling itself under soft jazz and dim lights. you talked about law school, the professors you hated, the cases that still haunted you, and the small rebellions you each allowed yourselves.

and through it all, he kept complimenting you- not in the overbearing, trying-too-hard way- but in a way that made you feel...seen.

the flirtation was steady, comfortable, laced with tension that had been simmering for years. when you moved to a private table by the window, the energy shifted- softer now, slower. he kept stealing glances at you between sips. and you let him.

when the bill came, he didn’t let you reach for your wallet.

“consider it a professional courtesy,” he said.

you rolled your eyes. “you’re still losing next hearing.”

“we’ll see,” he said, smiling.

outside, the air was cool and quiet. the streets were mostly empty, save for the hum of distant traffic. he offered to walk you home, and you didn’t even think twice before saying yes.

the walk was slow, easy. you were just tipsy enough for the world to feel soft around the edges. he kept pace beside you, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed.

“you were different tonight,” you said suddenly.

“different how?”

“less...unbearable.”

he chuckled. “i’ll take that as progress.”

you leaned into him without thinking, your shoulder brushing his. and he didn’t hesitate- his arm slid around your shoulders, warm and steady.

you let out a quiet sigh, the kind that came from feeling safe, not from exhaustion.

“don’t read into this,” you murmured.

“i’m a lawyer,” he said, his voice close to your temple. “i read into everything.”

you smiled, resting your head briefly against his shoulder as the city blurred past.

at your door, you paused. he looked at you with something gentler than you were used to. no arrogance. no teasing. just...arthur.

you leaned in. and he met you halfway.

the kiss was slow, sweet, unhurried. his hand settled lightly at your waist. he tasted like citrus and something deeper- something that made your stomach flip.

when you pulled back, neither of you spoke for a moment.

“i’ll call you,” he said finally, voice low.

you nodded. “you better.”

he waited until you were inside before he turned to leave.

and as you leaned back against the door, your pulse still skimming beneath your skin, your lips tingling from the kiss-

you let yourself smile.

because for once, it hadn’t felt like a power play.

it had just felt good. natural. easy.

like maybe, with him, it didn’t always have to be a war.

[livvymd]

ʂɨȶ քʀɛȶȶʏ.ˢᵐᵘᵗ

⋆ ۫ ┊ ┊ . ★.˚ ┊ . ˚☆HE DIDN'T even hear you come in.

Arthur was deep in it ⸺ the kind of hyperfocus he only ever reached when he forgot time existed. His back was curved over his laptop, glow of the screen painting his face in cool blue tones, one hand buried in his hair while the other dragged clips along a timeline with obsessive precision. The faint clack of his keyboard, the occasional curse under his breath, something about “should’ve trimmed that bit shorter” and “transition’s too sharp”, filled the otherwise quiet flat.

His headphones were half-off, one ear uncovered so he could still hear the world around him, though clearly not well enough. He didn’t notice your soft footsteps on the carpet. Didn’t notice the way you lingered just beyond the doorframe, watching.

god, he looked so fucking good like this.

vurls pushed back and messy, sleeves of his hoodie shoved up to his elbows. His socked feet were tucked under him in the chair, hunched posture betraying how long he’d been glued to that desk. He was beautiful in the casual, accidental way he always was ⸺ soft and serious, utterly unaware of how completely undone he made you just by existing.

You shifted slightly, feeling the silk of your robe brush against your skin. Nervous butterflies swarmed your stomach, fluttering with anticipation. You were barely dressed underneath, more thread than fabric, and for a moment you hovered there, breath catching as you debated whether to go through with it.

Thhen: “Hey,” you said softly.

Arthur startled. He spun his chair halfway around, blinking like he’d just surfaced from deep water, his hand flying to pull off the other headphone. “Hey, babe ⸺ ”

His voice stopped mid-sentence.

Because the robe slipped from your shoulders.

It fell in a whisper-soft puddle to the floor. Silence stretched in the space it left behind.

Arthur’s mouth parted. His eyes flicked down your body and then back up, completely stunned. You could see the moment his brain genuinely short-circuited.

You stood there in the soft gold spill of hallway light, wearing almost nothing. Just a pale, sheer slip ⸺ lace and silk so fine it might as well have been spun from fog. It hugged your waist and dipped at the hips, barely covering anything. The neckline swooped low across your chest, the hem barely grazing the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs long and bare in the quiet warmth of the room.

“I got this for you,” you said, voice low but steady.

He didn’t speak. His eyes scanned every inch of you like he was afraid he might miss something. like he wasn’t sure you were real. You watched his throat move as he swallowed hard, and then again. His chest rose and fell faster now ⸺ almost visibly trembling. You could see his arousal building: the way his legs shifted beneath the desk, thighs tensing. The growing outline in his joggers. His fingers twitched at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them.

“I ⸺ ” Arthur exhaled a laugh, hoarse. “You’re joking.”

You let your fingers drift down your thighs, slow and teasing, and took a step forward. “Does it look like I’m joking?”

He shook his head helplessly, jaw slack, pupils blown so wide his eyes looked nearly black.

You closed the distance. slow, dreamlike. and climbed into his lap with deliberate grace. The silk of your slip clung to your thighs as you settled over him, the fabric catching just slightly on the cotton of his hoodie, static and heat blooming where your bodies touched. Your knees sank into either side of his hips, caging him in.

As you lowered yourself onto his lap, your barely-covered cunt brushed right over the hard length straining against his joggers, just a glancing pressure, but enough to make you both suck in a breath. The thin lace of your slip did nothing to hide the heat of you, how soft and wet you already were. You could feel the outline of him through the fabric. thick, pulsing ⸺ and when your hips shifted slightly to settle, the friction dragged a soft whimper from his throat.

Arthur’s whole body jolted. His hands flew to hover at your waist, trembling, unsure ⸺ like even touching you might make you vanish. His eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted as he exhaled a shaky, desperate breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice raw. “You’re.. you’re right there.”

You smiled faintly, letting your hips rock just a little ⸺ a teasing roll that made your clothed cunt drag along the length of him again, delicious and slow.

“Mm,” you murmured. “I noticed.”

He groaned, low and wrecked, his head falling back slightly as if the sensation alone was too much. His fingers twitched at your hips, not quite gripping, not quite letting go. You could feel how hot he was under you, how much he needed you, and how hard he was trying not to move, not to thrust up and chase the friction.

His breath hitched. “You look.. I can’t ⸺ fuck. You look unreal.”

You smiled and leaned in to press your lips to the sharp edge of his jaw. “Can I stay here for a bit?”

“Please do,” he whispered, and finally let his hands settle on your thighs, featherlight, reverent. Like you were sacred.

His hands settled on your thighs at last. tentative, reverent, fingertips tracing the curve of your skin like he still couldn’t believe you were real. But then you shifted forward again, slow and deliberate, dragging your clothed cunt along the thick ridge of him straining beneath his joggers.

Arthur gasped, sharp and guttural, his whole body jolting beneath you. His hips bucked up instinctively, chasing the friction before he could stop himself, a broken curse falling from his lips as the contact sent a visible shudder through him.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Good,” you murmured, brushing a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Want to take this off me?”

His eyes darkened instantly.

He nodded slowly, as if he was still processing the question. Then his hands slid up your sides, the pads of his fingers grazing the lace, the silk, the bare sliver of skin where your ribs curved into your waist.

When he reached your chest, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

Arthur exhaled like he’d been holding it in for hours, and then, gently, so gently, slipped the straps from your shoulders. His fingers trembled as he peeled them down, knuckles brushing your skin, until the silk pooled at your waist with a sigh.

The moment your breasts came into view, he stilled.

His breath caught audibly. His mouth genuinely parted. Eyes dragged over you like he was afraid to blink and miss a second of it. He didn’t speak ⸺ couldn’t ⸺ just stared, completely undone, like he was looking at something sacred. His cheeks were flushed, lips pink and parted, the tension in his jaw giving away how hard he was trying to keep it together.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered finally, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. “You’re.. you’re fucking breathtaking.”

And still, he didn’t touch ⸺ like he couldn’t believe he was allowed.

You leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath warm and slow. “You’re allowed to touch me, Arthur.”

The sound he made in response was guttural. full-bodied, low, like it had been dragged from the very base of his spine. His hands moved instantly, almost blindly, cupping your bare breasts with a kind of desperate care. His thumbs swept over your nipples, slow and reverent, watching the way your mouth parted and your breath caught in your throat, the way your whole body arched into his touch.

You could feel how hard he was beneath you, thick and straining through the layers of fabric, so hot it felt like it was burning right through to your skin. Without meaning to, your hips rolled forward. a slow, needy grind that made your soaked panties drag across his cock, slick catching on the ridge of him through his joggers.

Arthur whimpered. Full-on, breathless and wrecked, his head dropping to your shoulder like the sensation short-circuited his brain.

“Can I ⸺ ” he gasped, voice raw, “Can I be inside you? Just like this? Please, I.. I need to be inside you.”

Your heart fluttered at how sincere it was. how desperate.

You smiled, letting your lips graze his jaw. “You want me to ride you?” you asked, voice low and thick with heat.

His breath stuttered. He nodded, fast, almost dizzy. “Yeah. God, yes. Please. I need you.”

You kissed him once. slow, deep, and lingering. your lips parting his, tasting the ragged edge of his breath. His hands clung to your waist like he didn’t want you to move, but when you finally pulled back, his eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and desperate.

“Hold on,” you whispered, and shifted back just enough to reach between your bodies.

Arthur let out a shaky sound as you gripped the waistband of his joggers and briefs, your fingers brushing against the thick line of him through the fabric. He was hot and straining beneath your touch, twitching slightly as you dragged the layers down his thighs. His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking at the tip, already so hard it curved up toward his stomach. The sight of him, thick, veined, so so so perfect ⸺ made your entire body pulse with heat.

He was panting now, jaw slack, watching you like he was watching a wet dream unfold in real time. His eyes dropped to your center, where the soaked lace clung between your legs, and he let out a quiet, reverent, “Fuck,,.”

You climbed back over him, moving slowly, deliberately ⸺ until you were straddling his hips again, your knees braced on either side, your bare heat poised just above the thick, aching length of him.

He looked like he was holding his breath.

You reached down between your bodies, guiding him with a firm, practiced grip, lining him up right at your entrance. He was hot and slick in your hand, twitching in your grasp as you rubbed the head against your folds, spreading your wetness over him in slow, teasing circles.

Then, with the slowest, most torturous care, you began to sink down onto him.

The stretch made you gasp, made your body tighten around him inch by inch. Your walls fluttered as he filled you slowly, the pressure sharp and exquisite, heat licking up your spine as your thighs trembled with the effort of staying slow. Arthur’s head tipped back, mouth falling open as a raw, shuddering groan spilled from his chest.

“fucking.. fffuck,” he gasped, hands flying to your waist ⸺ not to stop you, but to anchor himself. His fingers flexed, gripped, tried and failed to stay gentle as you took more of him, inch by inch, until he was seated fully inside you.

His breath was a series of broken sounds. hitched, overwhelmed, helpless.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking tight.. I can feel everything. holy shit.. holy shit.”

You rested your hands on his chest, heart pounding, and rocked your hips once ⸺ slow and deliberate ⸺ just to feel him move inside you.

His entire body jerked.

“God,” he groaned. “You feel ⸺ fuck, you feel so good ⸺ ”

You rolled your hips again, slow and indulgent, letting him feel every inch of your heat sliding around him. Arthur’s reaction was instant. a choked moan that tore from his chest, his arms tightening around your waist like he physically couldn’t handle the pleasure without anchoring himself to you.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, voice already falling apart. “you feel so good, I can’t ⸺ I can’t even think.”

You leaned in, lips brushing against his, and moved again, a deliberate grind, pressing down until you were flush against him. His entire body shuddered beneath you, fingers digging into your thighs like he needed to hold on or else completely unravel.

“You’re doing so well,” you whispered, biting gently at his jaw. “So deep inside me, baby. You feel that?”

Arthur gasped like he’d been slapped. “Yeah,” he breathed, almost helpless. “God, yeah. I feel all of you ⸺ I feel everything. You’re so warm, you’re ⸺ fuck, you’re perfect.”

You kissed him again, deep and hungry, hips starting to pick up a steady rhythm. Every bounce, every grind dragged more frantic little sounds from his throat, moans that got higher, softer, more desperate the longer you rode him. He was panting into your mouth, hands trembling, eyes half-lidded and dazed like he couldn’t believe this was real.

He clung to you, trying to match your rhythm, trying to last ⸺ but you could tell he was already teetering on the edge.

His hands moved to your hips again, not to take control, never that ⸺ but to hold you there, as if letting go would break him. You moved faster, your pace just a little sharper, and he let out a shattered, almost whimpering, “Oh my god.”

You leaned in, lips right at his ear. “Is that okay?”

His breath hitched so violently it made his whole body twitch. He nodded rapidly, voice raw and pleading.

“Yeah ⸺yeah, please, don’t stop, please don’t stop, I’m so close, I can’t ⸺ please, just like that, please keep going ⸺ ”

His words tumbled out fast, half-mumbled, all broken. He was completely gone for you, eyes glassy, jaw slack, cock twitching helplessly inside you every time you moved.

You didn’t stop.

Your thighs trembled from the effort, muscles tightening and releasing with each steady bounce, every movement sending delicious, shuddering ripples through both of you. The delicate lace of your slip clung damply around your waist, the silky fabric soaked with your heat and sweat, sticking to your skin like a second skin. Strands of your hair fell forward, brushing softly against the shell of his ear, the sharp line of his jaw, and the curve of his neck, making him shiver beneath your touch.

Arthur’s face was flushed ⸺ deep rose spreading across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, lips parted and trembling, catching shallow, ragged breaths that came fast and uneven, like he was trying to hold himself together but couldn’t quite manage it. His eyes were half-lidded, glassy with a mixture of lust and disbelief, dark pools that shone with a frantic kind of need.

His hands were wild. shaking, uncertain ⸺ splayed wide on your hips as though he wasn’t sure how to hold you without breaking you, or himself. Every muscle beneath his hoodie looked taut and coiled, desperate to ground himself against the storm of sensation you were driving through him. His fingers dug into your skin lightly, leaving faint impressions that vanished as quickly as they appeared, like he was trying to memorize the way you felt ⸺ the softness, the heat, the way your body moved beneath his.

“Please,” he gasped, voice trembling into a near-whimper, brittle and fragile, a broken plea that wrapped around you like a desperate thread. “Please, I ⸺ I can’t ⸺ You feel too good, too tight ⸺ I’m gonna ⸺ I’m going to lose it ⸺ ”

Your lips found the curve of his jaw, your breath warm and heavy as you whispered softly, slow and teasing, “Can’t what, Arthur? Say it for me.”

A broken, wet whimper slipped from his throat ⸺ a sound so raw and vulnerable it made your chest ache. His head dropped forward, nuzzling into your neck, like burying himself in you might somehow slow the rapid beating of his heart.

“I’m not gonna last,” he stammered, voice cracking under the weight of how close he was, “Please, please don’t stop ⸺ I need you, I need to come with you inside me ⸺ ”

His hands gripped your hips like they were the only anchor keeping him tethered to reality, fingers trembling with the effort of holding on. His hips jerked involuntarily, chasing the friction, craving every inch of your warmth and tightness. You could feel the desperate twitch of his cock beneath you, rock hard and pulsing, straining against the fabric of his joggers ⸺ and it sent a flood of want coursing through your own veins.

“You want to come for me?” you murmured, voice low and thick with promise, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Want to fill me up, baby?”

His response was a guttural groan ⸺ long, desperate, and utterly broken. It was the sound of a man undone, unraveling at the edges in the best possible way.

“Yes. Fuck yes,” he begged, voice ragged and soaked with need. “Please, please let me, please let me come. I need to feel you around me, I can’t hold on ⸺ ”

You pressed your palm flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, uneven beating of his heart beneath your hand, wild and ragged, mirroring your own racing pulse.

“Then let go,” you whispered, voice soft but insistent. “Let me feel you.”

That was all it took.

Arthur’s body arched sharply beneath you, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as he came with a raw, shuddering intensity ⸺ hips bucking uncontrollably, fingers digging into your skin as his breath hitched and broke in ragged gasps. The warmth of him flooding inside you was exquisite and overwhelming, a molten wave that left him trembling and breathless.

“Oh, fuck,” he panted, face buried against your shoulder, voice cracked and raw. “I can feel every inch of you ⸺ so tight, so warm ⸺ God, I ⸺ ”

You held him close, cradling his head against your chest as his body shook with the force of his release, fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck, soothing him as he slowly came down from the edge. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, mingling with the faint scent of his sweat and aftershave, intoxicating and utterly his.

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and luminous, lips swollen and trembling with exertion, curls damp and clinging to his damp forehead.

He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing along your cheek as he whispered, voice low and thick with emotion, “Fuck, I love you so much. So much.”

You smiled, heart swelling as you leaned in, nose brushing his softly. “I love you too, Arthur.”

And he kissed you again. slow, deep, reverent ⸺ a kiss full of everything his words couldn’t say, still trembling with the aftershocks of desire and love that you and only you could bring out in him.

[livvymd]

love bites.ˢᵐᵘᵗ

THE EVENING had unraveled into a kind of gentle laziness. the kind that settled into your bones and made the whole world feel slow, warm, and entirely his. The room was half-lit, cast in the low gold of a nearby lamp, shadows stretching long across the floor. Your bare legs were tangled with George’s on the couch, skin to skin, warm and careless. The scent of dinner still lingered in the air ⸺ garlic, something roasted ⸺ a reminder of how recent the meal had been, how you hadn’t even bothered to clean up yet. Your head rested in his lap, one ear pressed to the soft cotton of his sweatpants, your fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes along the grain of muscle in his thigh.

He smelled clean, like fresh laundry and something unmistakably him. Warmth, skin, the faint trace of his aftershave that clung stubbornly to his throat and jaw. You knew he hadn’t meant to stay the night. He never really planned to. And yet, somehow, he always did.

The TV was still on, playing some half-watched YouTube video neither of you were paying attention to. Background noise. His hand was resting in your hair, fingers carding through the strands in slow, absentminded strokes ⸺ soothing, until every so often he’d flex his fingers against your scalp in a way that made your entire body soften into the cushions.

Uou were trying ⸺ really trying ⸺ to focus on the screen. But George wouldn’t stop shifting. Just subtle movements. A slight twist of his torso. A stretch of his arm behind the couch. Every time he moved, his shirt pulled across his biceps, clinging to that lightly tanned skin stretched over sinew and definition. Not showy muscle, just earned strength: from the gym, from hauling shit around, from being the kind of man who used his body like it was meant for something. His sleeves had pushed up slightly, leaving his forearms bare, and when he leaned forward to laugh at something on the screen, you saw the perfect curve of his triceps as they flexed.

And then he adjusted his leg beneath you.

Just a little shift, nothing intentional, but enough that his thigh tightened under your cheek, solid and warm.

You blinked. Swallowed.

You weren’t usually the type to act on every impulse. Not when it came to things like this. But George? George made something in you short-circuit. Made you feel a little rabid under the surface, like you’d been pretending to be calm for too long.

“George,” you said, voice quiet but clear, your gaze drifting up toward his.

He glanced down, thumb brushing across your temple, his attention soft and immediate. “Hmm?”

There was a pause. Then, without really meaning to, you asked: “Can I bite you?”

His brows lifted, just slightly. “What?”

You sat up a little, your cheeks heating but your voice unwavering now. “I just.. I keep looking at your arms. And your legs. And I can’t stop thinking about sinking my teeth into you.”

George stared at you.

No smirk. No teasing comeback. Just raw disbelief and something else. Something thick and rising behind his eyes that made your pulse jump.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

His hand had frozen in your hair. You could feel his fingers twitch.

“I’m serious,” you added, emboldened now, crawling slowly into his lap. “Not like ⸺ aggressive or anything. Just.. you’re so hot it’s making me feel completely unhinged.”

A stunned laugh left him, shaky and low. He looked dazed. Wrecked by nothing but your words.

“You want to bite me.”

“I need to,” you admitted, almost breathless. “Like it’s physical. Like I’m gonna lose it if I don’t.”

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

You straddled him fully, knees bracketing his hips, palms sliding up his arms, pushing the sleeves higher to reveal more skin. His biceps were warm beneath your touch ⸺ solid and just slightly flexed as he tensed beneath your hands.

“I knew you were looking,” he rasped.

“I’m always looking,” you whispered, leaning in close.

Your mouth brushed the edge of his upper arm, a whisper of warmth against skin. He sucked in a sharp breath.

His hands found your waist, gripping like he needed something to anchor him.

Then your lips parted.

Your teeth grazed against the muscle. A gentle press, just enough to feel him go still beneath you ⸺ not in discomfort, but in stunned anticipation. You bit down slowly, deliberately, followed by a kiss that melted over the mark. Then your tongue ⸺ warm, slow ⸺ licked the spot clean.

His hand came up to the back of your neck, holding you there with a low groan.

“Jesus fucking Christ, babe ⸺ ”

You pulled back slightly, flushed and pulsing with the heat of it. “You like that?”

He was breathing hard, his eyes dark, lips parted. “Clearly. You’re gonna kill me if you keep doing that.”

You grinned and shifted lower.

“I haven’t even gotten to your thighs yet.”

The groan he let out then was broken, head tilted back. “You’re fucking evil.”

Sliding off his lap, you knelt between his legs. Your hands found his thighs, palms gliding over the ridges of muscle, and he let out a sharp exhale. His legs parted under your touch, slow and instinctive.

You nudged them wider, fingers splayed over the warm fabric of his sweatpants. The thin material clung to him, tight where it had no choice but to stretch over the length of him, thicker now and impossible to ignore. His arousal was obvious, straining against the cotton, outlined and twitching with every breath.

You stared. Unashamed, slow, hungry. And above you, George was unraveling.

“Fuck,” he said again, voice hoarse. “You’re looking at me like that and expecting me not to lose it?”

Your eyes dragged back up to meet his.

“You already are.”

You tugged at his waistband, slow, reverent. He lifted his hips without being asked. The fabric peeled away. Over his hips, down his thighs ⸺ baring skin inch by inch. Your fingers followed, pressing into the thick curve of his thigh.

He was warm. Not just with arousal, but with that golden, sun-drenched heat that clung to skin after long days. There was a fine dusting of hair catching the light, and beneath it, nothing but muscle. Dense, solid, flexing slightly beneath your touch.

You leaned in, lips brushing the top of his knee in a slow kiss.

Then another, higher. Your breath fanned over the skin of his inner thigh, and when you kissed there, he twitched. A full-body reaction.

By the time you reached the top of his thigh, just beneath the waistband, you could feel him practically vibrating with restraint.

You opened your mouth and bit him.

Not to hurt ⸺ just to leave something there. Something he’d feel later.

You held the bite. Kissed over it. Dragged your tongue across the skin like you were painting it.

George’s thigh jolted under your mouth. His breath caught.

“Fuck ⸺ ”

You looked up.

His head was tipped back, neck exposed, lips parted. His hands were fisted into the couch cushions. The sound he made when you kissed the mark again made you throb between your legs.

“Didn’t know you had a thing for this,” you teased, voice low.

“I didn’t either,” he ground out. “Not until you said it like that.”

You bit him again. Higher this time. Right near the crease of his thigh.

This one was firm. Deliberate. A claim.

He made a sound ⸺ broken and ragged ⸺ and then moved like he couldn’t stop himself. His hands caught your wrists, pulling you up. You were in his lap before you had time to register the shift, your thighs pressed to his, your bodies flush.

His forehead leaned into yours.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he breathed. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You laughed, breathless. “You taste so good.”

That pushed him over the edge.

He groaned. A deep, guttural thing ⸺ and lifted you with both arms. You wrapped around him instinctively, arms over his shoulders, legs around his waist.

He kissed you hard as he stood, stumbling toward the bedroom with your mouths locked, hands gripping like he’d never let you go. The world blurred, just heat and motion and the realization that you had completely undone him.

The bedroom met you like a secret ⸺ cool air, soft sheets. He set you down gently, like you were precious, eyes roaming you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then he stripped. Pulled off his shirt with a fluid motion. The muscles in his stomach caught the light, sharp and beautiful.

And then you saw them.

The bite marks.

Dotted across his biceps, his shoulder, the thick stretch of thigh you’d worshipped.

Your breath hitched.

“I like seeing them,” you said softly.

His gaze sharpened.

“Like I’ve claimed you.”

His jaw twitched ⸺ something deep shifting behind his eyes.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, hands gliding up your thighs, pushing them apart like a promise.

“You have.”

[livvymd]

If you have time and want to write it... Reader asks George if she can playfully bite his thighs and biceps as she thinks he's so hot.

Love your work, xx 👋

im gonna scream this is so hot

ill try write this tomorrow

[livvymd]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚caught in the act.ˢᵐᵘᵗ

You didn’t mean to stay in bed so long. You really didn’t.

George had been gone since early morning ⸺ quiet footsteps and a warm kiss to your temple before the sun was up, the gentle click of the front door as he left with his camera bag slung over his shoulder. You’d heard it through sleep-hazy ears, barely aware of the time, just enough to hum and roll over, nose buried in the sheets that still smelled like him.

You’d told yourself you’d get up. You even made coffee. Drank two cups, actually, standing by the window in just your knickers and one of George’s old t-shirts, the faded cotton slouching soft against your skin. But then the quiet crept back in, warm and still, and the bed looked too inviting. You’d just sit for a minute. Maybe read. Maybe scroll.

But then your mind wandered.

Your legs tucked under the duvet again, and your hands curled over your stomach, and his voice ⸺ that voice ⸺ started echoing in your memory.

Low and rough, from the night before, breath hot against your neck: “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, do you?”

And that was it. That was all it took. Suddenly your thighs were pressing together, your fingers twitching, your heart picking up speed.

Because you remembered the way he’d said it. The hunger in it. The way his hands had wrapped around your hips, firm and shaking, like he wanted to hold you still and ruin you slow. The way he’d kissed down your spine and whispered, “Fuck, you’re perfect,” like he meant every syllable with his whole chest.

You hadn’t even realized your hand had slipped between your thighs until you were already there ⸺ already slick, already aching. Your breath hitched, back arching just a little as your fingertips circled gently. The cotton of your shirt barely skimmed the tops of your thighs. It smelled like him. Like worn laundry and skin and shampoo.

You were so far gone, so deep in the thought of his mouth, his grip, his voice rasping “Let me hear you” ⸺ that you didn’t hear the door open.

Not until it was too late.

“Babe?”

The word lands like a thunderclap in your chest.

Your whole body jolts ⸺ legs snapping shut, hand flying out from under the covers, heart rocketing to your throat.

No.

No no no.

“I wrapped early, figured I’d ⸺ ”

You scramble up, chest heaving, your breath still quick and shallow. The duvet tangles around your legs. You drag it up to your chest like a shield, skin still tingling, thighs sticky, adrenaline spiking. Your hair’s a mess. Your face is hot ⸺ burning.

And then George appears in the doorway.

He stops.

stares.

You want the earth to swallow you whole.

You’re still half-spread in the middle of the bed, his t-shirt rumpled around your hips, your chest flushed, pupils blown wide from where you’d been seconds away from coming with his name on your tongue.

He blinks.

And then ⸺ smirks. Slow. Spreading. Like realization is sinking in inch by inch and he’s fucking loving every second of it.

“Well,” he says, voice already dropping, “that’s a fucking welcome home if I’ve ever seen one.”

You bury your face in your arm. “George ⸺ ! I didn’t know you’d be back yet ⸺ shit, I didn’t mean ⸺ ”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He steps into the room, dropping his bag without looking, his eyes locked on you. He licks his lips once. “So,.. what were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you say too fast.

He tsks. “That doesn’t sound like the truth.”

You peek up ⸺ slow, mortified.

His eyes are burning. Every trace of amusement now curling into something darker, deeper. Heat. Desire.

“..You,” you whisper.

And that’s it. That’s the moment his restraint snaps.

His jaw clenches. His hands flex. And in one smooth movement, he grabs the hem of his hoodie and pulls it off, flinging it to the floor. He’s already breathing heavier.

“You were touching yourself to me?”

You nod.

He moves closer ⸺ slow and measured, like a predator. “Jesus Christ, babe.”

He kneels onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and suddenly his presence is everywhere ⸺ his scent, his heat, the electric hum in the air between you.

“Say it again.”

Your lips part. “I was thinking about you.”

His fingers ghost over your cheek, dragging your gaze back to him.

“You were about to come thinking about my voice, weren’t you? The way I hold you down. The way I talk to you when you’re like this.”

You nod again, small and aching.

He groans, deep in his throat, and his hand slides under the duvet without warning, between your thighs. His fingertips graze the slick heat there and he stills.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, staring at his fingers as he pulls them away, glistening. “You’re soaked.”

Your whole body clenches at the sound of his voice ⸺wrecked and reverent like you’re holy.

He drops to his stomach between your thighs.

“You were close?” he asks, already pulling the duvet down, exposing your trembling legs.

“..Mhm.”

His palms slide up your thighs, pressing them wider. He kisses the inside of one first, then the other ⸺ soft, slow, deliberate. And then his lips are on your cunt, and you shatter.

He groans like it’s the first drink of water after a desert.

His tongue is hot and soft and devoted, licking a slow stripe up your slit, then flattening against your clit with delicious pressure. You gasp, fingers clawing into the sheets.

“Oh my god ⸺ ”

George chuckles low, lips never leaving your skin. “You that desperate for me you can’t wait ‘til I’m home?”

“Yes,” you pant. “God, yes ⸺ ”

“Good,” he growls. “I want you needy. I want you soaked. I want you spread out thinking about how good I’d wreck you.”

You moan, hips twitching into his mouth.

He devours you. No hesitation. No teasing now. He licks and sucks like he owns you, like he needs to memorize every twitch, every breath. You’re panting ⸺ whimpering ⸺ his name pouring off your tongue in broken fragments.

He holds your hips down when they start to buck, pressing his face deeper, tongue flicking faster, rougher. His stubble grazes your skin in the most delicious way.

You’re already spiraling.

And he knows it.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, tongue dragging in circles. “Come on. I know you’re close. Give it to me.”

It hits like lightning.

Your orgasm rips through you ⸺ your back arches, your legs shake, your moan breaks on a sob. Pleasure slams into you like a wave crashing through your bloodstream.

George doesn’t stop. He keeps licking, slow and soft now, riding out every spasm until your body finally sags against the pillows.

He pulls back, lips wet, eyes burning.

“You good?”

You nod, blinking up at him with dazed, ruined relief.

And then he’s unzipping his trousers.

“Hope you’ve got another one in you,” he says, dragging them down. His cock falls against his thigh, thick and flushed and already leaking. “Because the second I walked in and saw you like that…”

He crawls over you, his mouth brushing yours.

“Fuck. I need to be inside you.”

[livvymd]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖࣪ ִֶָ☾.WEIGHTLESS. ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ

⋆ ۫ ┊ ┊ . ★.˚ ┊ . ˚☆IT STARTED out innocent enough.

the first time george clarke carried you, it was at arthur’s birthday party ⸺ the one where everyone ended up far too drunk for a wednesday and you’d somehow twisted your ankle coming down the stairs in your platform heels.

“alright, that’s it,” george had said, rolling his eyes as you tried to wobble upright again. “uou’re going to break your neck.”

you’d pouted, half-laughing, fully tipsy. “i’m fine! just ⸺ maybe i need to sit.”

“you need to be carried,” he muttered, and before you could protest, you were off the ground. arms scooped under your legs and behind your back, bridal-style, with his hoodie brushing your face and the solid warmth of his chest against your shoulder.

“GEORGE!”

“don’t shout in my ear,” he said mildly.

you were breathless, laughing, flustered. everyone else barely glanced up ⸺ too used to his antics ⸺ but your heart was pounding like a drum in your ears. you expected him to tease you. instead, he just looked down and said, “you alright?”

and you were. warm. held. caught in a moment you didn’t quite know how to name.

it became a thing after that.

not all at once, but often enough.

there was the time you fell asleep during movie night and woke up tucked into bed with a hoodie draped over you, and george claimed the next day he had to “practically carry your corpse upstairs.”

the time you were walking home from the pub with the group and jokingly whined that your feet hurt, and he swept you off the ground with a grin and a, “guess you should’ve worn proper shoes, shouldn’t you?”

and the time you half-dozed on the train back from brighton, head nodding forward ⸺ and when you blinked awake, it was to find yourself curled into his side with your legs over his lap and his arm holding you like something precious.

you never talked about it. Not really.

he never made it a big deal, and you didn’t want to ruin it by overthinking. But each time it happened, your skin buzzed for hours after. yu started looking forward to the moments he’d pick you up like it was second nature, as if your body had a place against his and it had always belonged there.

he called it convenience. you pretended it wasn’t intimacy.

but it was.

there was also that night ⸺ the one you almost forgot in a haze of wine and laughter ⸺ at a bar just a couple streets from your flat.

the two of you had gone out on your own this time. no group. just you, george, and a quiet, dimly lit table in the back, where you nursed cocktails and swapped stories until your cheeks ached from smiling. by the end of the night, your head was heavy and your steps unsteady, and george didn’t even ask ⸺ just bent down and swung you up into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“don’t drop me,” you slurred into his neck.

“never.”

he carried you all the way to your flat, slow and steady, your arms loosely around his neck. you buried your face into the warm curve of his collarbone and just breathed him in.

once inside, he toed the door shut behind him and gently set you down on the edge of your bed. you blinked up at him, dazed, swaying slightly.

“shoes off,” he murmured, kneeling in front of you. he unbuckled the straps carefully, fingers brushing your ankles in a way that made you shiver.

then he disappeared into your bathroom, came back with a clean flannel, your micellar water, and a soft towel.

“george, what ⸺ ”

“shh,” he said again, the same way he had that night at arthur’s. he crouched in front of you and gently took your face in his hands. “close your eyes.”

you obeyed, heart hammering.

he wiped your makeup off in soft strokes ⸺ careful around your lashes, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he wiped away smudged lipstick. then he cleaned your face with warm water, pressing the towel against your cheeks like he’d done it a hundred times before.

by the time he finished, your eyes were fluttering shut.

“arms up,” he whispered, tugging your jumper off with the gentlest touch. he helped you into your sleep shirt, pulled your hair free, smoothed it down your back.

you flopped back onto the bed, utterly boneless, blinking up at him with a loopy smile.

“you’re my favourite person,” you mumbled.

he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “you’re drunk.”

“i love you.”

the words slipped out before you could stop them ⸺ soft and slurred but unmistakable.

george went very still.

your eyes had already closed.

a long pause. then a quiet exhale. his hand lingered against your cheek.

“i love you too,” he whispered into the dark.

you didn’t hear it.

⋆ ۫ ┊ ┊ . ★.˚ ┊ . ˚☆THEN CAME the night that changed everything.

it was arthur again ⸺ a housewarming this time. you’d all been out for drinks first, loud and chaotic in that way the group always was when a few pints were involved. by the time you got back to the flat, the alcohol had sunk in deep ⸺ your head fuzzy, limbs loose, laughter bubbling in your chest as george helped you out of your boots at the door.

“you’re a disaster,” he said fondly, catching you as you swayed.

“you love it.”

he raised an eyebrow. “do i?”

“admit it,” you teased. “you like carrying me around like some sort of victorian gentleman.”

“i carry you because you ask me to,” he retorted. “and because you’re clumsy when drunk.”

you grinned. “still counts.”

you curled up on the couch with a blanket and a glass of water while the others filtered through the kitchen. george stayed nearby, making sure you drank, stealing your crisps, teasing you until your smile hurt.

at some point ⸺ hours later, maybe ⸺ you must have dozed off.

uou woke to low music, dim lighting, and the soft press of strong arms under your legs.

“george?” you mumbled.

“shhh,” he whispered, lifting you like you were nothing. “let’s get you to bed.”

you didn’t argue. just tucked your face into his chest and let yourself be carried.

but this time, the silence between you was different.

thicker.

charged.

you felt his heartbeat against your cheek. his fingers flexed slightly on your thigh, like he was holding back something more.

and as he stepped into the spare room and gently laid you down on the bed, you caught his eyes ⸺ dark, unreadable, lingering too long.

“george?”

he hesitated.

then shook his head, like brushing off a thought, and tugged the blanket up over you. “get some sleep.”

and left.

things shifted after that.

subtle, but present. like you were both dancing around something neither of you wanted to name. the touches lingered longer. the banter got softer. he started carrying you even when you weren’t drunk or injured or tired ⸺ lifting you off countertops just to make you laugh, scooping you up when you reached for something too high and he happened to be behind you.

“you’re ridiculous,” you’d murmur, arms around his neck.

he’d smirk. “you love it.”

and god help you, you did.

but it all came to a head one lazy sunday afternoon.

you were both at his flat. you’d gone over to help him film something for the channel, but it turned into lounging around, half-watching old episodes of some property show while eating takeaway on the sofa.

at one point, you stretched, groaning, “ugh. i don’t wanna move ever again.”

george glanced over, expression unreadable. “don’t, then.”

you smirked. “uou gonna carry me home?”

he set down his drink. “i could.”

you blinked. “seriously?”

“i’d carry you anywhere,” he said, low.

your heart skipped, but you still snorted.

he was looking at you like he meant it, though he couldn't stop the smirk that was plastered on his face. like he wasn’t talking about walking you across a flat or giving you a piggyback down the street. like he was talking about more. everything.

you sat up slowly.

“george…”

he swallowed. “i know we’re just friends. but i’ve been ⸺ carrying you like this, i think i’ve been trying to show you how i feel. is that weird? i just, i didn’t want to say it and mess things up.”

your breath caught. “and what if i feel the same?”

he stared at you.

and then, almost cautiously, stood ⸺ came over to you ⸺ and held out his arms.

“come here.”

you stepped into him. let him lift you again ⸺ arms around your waist, legs curling around his hips, faces inches apart.

“put me down,” you whispered.

he froze. “sorry?”

“put me down,” you said again, smiling.

and when your feet touched the floor, you leaned up, heart pounding.

“so i can kiss you properly, idiot.”

and you did.

his lips met yours with a gentleness that made your knees weak ⸺ a slow, searching press that spoke of all the moments he’d held back, every glance that had lingered too long, every time he’d carried you like it meant more. his hands rose to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head slightly to taste more of you. uou curled your fingers in his shirt, clinging to him as warmth bloomed through your chest.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t desperate.

but it was reverent.

he kissed you like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you breathed against him, the way your body fit into his hands even now. when he finally pulled back, breath short, his forehead rested gently against yours.

"worth the wait," he whispered.

and you smiled, cheeks flushed, heart soaring.

because it was. and you both KNEW IT.⋆ ۫ ┊ ┊ . ★.˚ ┊ . ˚☆

[livvymd]

͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ⟣ ֹ ┄┄w2s headcanons - some nsfw┄┄ ۫ ⟢ ˑ

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏✧ ✦ ✞ ✧ ✦

he absolutely cannot fall asleep without touching you.

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

love language:

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

PDA:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nsfw warning!!!

kinks.

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

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

aftercare.

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

secret kinks:

i feel like he would be so into mutual mastuebation.

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

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

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

He gets addicted to whatever makes you moan the loudest.

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

[livvymd]

WHAT A SWEETHEART I LOVE HER

what writers would u recommend for the UK YT scene?

this is bloody difficult ngl ,, i wanted to split it into specific people for you hungry fic mfers

apologies if i missed anyone out! i love each and everyone's work and lap it up like mad , but i think they're particularly phenomenal at writing for the specific person, but definitely NOT limited to other people if that makes sense?? 😘😘

WILL LENNEY :

@roc-haze

@octaneink

@missust3l3vision

HARRY LEWIS :

@pretendyoucantseeme

@whoetoshaw

@sdmnpact

CHRIS DIXON:

@livvymd

@insomniac4000

@xoxoxyra

ARTHUR FREDERICK:

@smzyyx

@pookietv

@raekensluver

ARTHUR HILL:

(we need more mr hill writers)

@cheekytv

@thedyingliiight

GEORGE CLARKE:

@mia-maybank

@clarkeyszn

@sweetfcwn

@headdinthewall

ALFIE BUTTLE:

(need more of you again 😛)

@clarkeysbedchem

[livvymd]

was wondering if u could do a smut one-shot with george and an inexperienced!reader? maybe where she’s only done it a couple times with one person and not the best at it (just saw an edit with the clip where he said being bad in bed is not an ick and UGH my heart😕💔)

THAT EDIT💔💔so real, also i will write this as soon as i get home from ballet i promise(hopefully)

[livvymd]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚polaroid proof. mdni.˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It was just after 7 PM when you quietly let yourself back into the flat.

You weren’t supposed to be home yet — your flight wasn’t due in until tomorrow morning — but you’d managed to catch an earlier one, practically buzzing with anticipation the entire journey. Two weeks on a girls’ trip was fun in theory, but after about five days of beach drinks and tanned flirtations from men you didn’t care about, the only thing you wanted was him.

Chris.

You’d handed him the envelope at Departures like it was nothing. No explanation, no warning — just a kiss to his cheek and a whispered, “Don’t open it until I’m gone.”

Chris had laughed, cocky and clueless, tucking it into his hoodie pocket while you wheeled your suitcase toward security.

But the second your back was turned, he’d opened it, of course.

And the second he saw the first polaroid — you kneeling on the bed in just his hoodie, nipples peeking from the hem, eyes half-lidded with your fingers in your panties — his blood roared.

His cock had gone from zero to fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat, straining against the fabric of his joggers while families walked past and a security announcement droned overhead.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stack — the one where you had his name written in red lipstick across your inner thigh, fingers spreading yourself open to show it off — he was already sweating. Breathing uneven. Palming himself through his joggers in the airport car park like a fucking deviant.

You’d ruined him.

And you knew it.

Because when he looked up, you were halfway through security already — giving him one last wink over your shoulder before disappearing behind the line.

He’d groaned aloud, dragging a hand over his face as the ache in his jeans pulsed harder.

You almost felt bad for leaving him like that — flushed and throbbing and achingly hard, with nothing but a stack of dirty polaroids and the echo of your smile to carry him through the next two weeks.

Almost.

but inside the polaroids? Ten of them. Glossy, handheld sins.

oen of you in his hoodie with nothing underneath. One of you in your red bikini, bottom tied so low your hipbones curved like an invitation. And one in particular — the last one — had his name written on your inner thigh in red lipstick, your fingers pulling the panties to the side so the letters peeked out between your folds.

You hadn’t sent him any follow-up texts about them. You wanted to let them speak for themselves.

Apparently, they had.

Because as you quietly pushed open the door to the flat, you didn’t hear the TV. No music. No kitchen sounds. Just a low, rhythmic creak. Slow. Tense. Almost.. wet?

Your brows lifted, heart leaping as you slid your shoes off and moved further down the hallway. The door to the bedroom was mostly shut, just a sliver left open — enough for light to spill out across the carpet. Enough to hear the soft, breathy groan of your boyfriend murmuring your name.

And when you looked through that sliver?

You nearly dropped your bag.

Chris was on the bed, back propped against the headboard, bare chest heaving, face flushed and eyes hooded with heat. His legs were spread wide — completely bare — with his boxers shoved down past his knees, exposing every inch of him.

In his right hand, he held your final polaroid.

And in the other?

His cock.

Thick and flushed, precum glistening at the tip, his fist pumping slow and tight from base to head. Every few strokes, he’d pause at the top, twisting his wrist and exhaling shakily before jerking harder — a desperate rhythm, like he’d been edging himself, drawing it out. You watched his thumb smear the moisture over the head as he moaned softly.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, gaze locked on the photo. “God, baby… your mout.. wanna feel that tongue — ”

You clenched your thighs, a pulse of heat rushing straight to your core. The way he looked at your photo — reverent, almost pained — made you ache. He missed you. He needed you. And he was so beautifully messy like this, working himself to the thought of you with such focused hunger it nearly made you whimper.

You stayed quiet. Watching.

Chris tilted his head back against the headboard, lips parted as his strokes grew faster — messier now. His abs flexed, the sharp lines of his stomach glistening faintly in the lamplight. You could see the tension in his thighs, the way his hips bucked slightly up into his hand.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, still staring at your photo. “If you were here right now... I’d spread your legs so wide, baby. I’d have your cunt dripping down my chin.”

He groaned — a real, broken sound — and dragged the photo along his chest as his hand tightened. His knuckles were white. His hips started to move with each pump now, his cock throbbing visibly in his grip.

“I’d fuck you so slow,” he panted, eyes fluttering shut. “Make you cry for it. Wanna feel you squeezing around me, whining like you do when I tease that little spot — ”

You bit your lip, nails digging into the doorframe.

Then — without thinking — a tiny gasp escaped your throat.

Chris’s eyes snapped open. His hand froze. The Polaroid fluttered to the sheets.

And his gaze found you in the doorway.

“Shit!” he blurted, jerking upright, grabbing the sheet like it could hide the obvious. “Babe — ?! What — what the fuck — you’re home?!”

You stepped into the room slowly, pulse racing, smile curling.

“Surprise.”

His cheeks burned crimson. He looked completely undone — flushed and hard and exposed, cock still slick and pulsing between his thighs, and your Polaroid lying next to it like a fallen weapon.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t — fuck, I thought I had another night — ”

“You did,” you murmured, eyes dragging down his body. “I caught an earlier flight. Wanted to surprise you.”

He groaned, hand flying to his face. “Well, congrats. I’m fucking traumatized.”

You laughed softly and moved to the bed, kneeling between his legs, fingers dragging up his thighs.

“Traumatized?” you echoed, tilting your head. “You looked pretty into it.”

Chris looked up at you like he didn’t know whether to be mortified or turned on.

You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “Keep going.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Pick up where you left off,” you whispered. “I want to see how much you missed me.”

His jaw dropped slightly. Then his eyes darkened.

Slowly, Chris leaned back again. His hand curled back around himself — slow, tentative — watching you the entire time. His strokes resumed, a little more measured now, like he was trying to impress you.

“You want me to finish?” he asked, voice rough. “You want to watch me cum for you?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“Fuck.” His head fell back against the headboard. “This is so fucking hot.”

He started working himself faster now, hand slick and sure. His breathing grew heavier, rougher, each groan more desperate than the last.

“Did you think about me while you were gone?” he rasped. “Think about me touching you like this? Think about my mouth on your pussy while you’re lying in some hotel bed, legs open for no one but me — ”

You actually moaned at the thought.

And Chris shuddered.

“Baby — ” his voice broke. “I’m gonna fucking cum — ”

His hips lifted, back arched, and with a strangled gasp he came — thick ropes spilling across his stomach, his hand still stroking as he rode it out, a ruined, wrecked mess of sweat and relief.

You were on him in seconds.

Mouth on his, hands in his hair, your body sliding into his lap with heat burning between your thighs.

And the best part?

He was, somehow, already getting hard again.

[livvymd]

buy one, get one free. - MDNI.

the title makes me laugh everytime

rhe music thrummed through the floorboards of the flat, all bass and bodies packed too tightly together. cheap LED lights lit the living room in pulsing red, and the air was a mess of perfume, heat, and chatter. yuo nursed a drink, half for the aesthetic and half because the party was, frankly, kind of boring — until they walked in.

george spotted you first.

he cut through the crowd like a heat-seeking missile, eyes flicking up and down your frame with the exact kind of cocky confidence he was known for. “didnt know you were coming,” he said, already grinning as he leaned a forearm on the counter beside you.

you arched a brow, letting your gaze drift lazily down his torso. “didn’t know you cared.”

he laughed — low, surprised, pleased. “course i care. you’re the only person here with any taste.”

“i could say the same about you,” you said, sipping your drink.

across the room, arthur was already clocking the exchange.

he made his way over more subtly, nodding at a few people, hands shoved into his pockets — but when his eyes met yours, he gave that soft, slightly shy smile that always carried just a little danger underneath. george had that loud charm, but arthur? he looked like he’d ruin your life quietly.

“didn’t expect to see you here,” arthur said when he finally reached you, his voice a little quieter than george’s but no less confident.

“that’s the second time I’ve heard that,” you said with a teasing glance between them.

george’s brow twitched. “bit of a popular girl, are you?”

arthur shrugged. “can’t blame anyone for noticing.”

you hid your smirk behind your glass, letting them stew in their polite-boy tension. oh, they were both clocking each other now. George leaning a little closer, arthur mirroring.george complimenting your outfit. arthur asking how your week had been. george offering you another drink. arthur saying he brought tequila. uou soaked it in like sunlight.

and god, they looked good. george in dark jeans and a black tee stretched tight across his chest, his chain catching the light when he moved. arthur in a loose grey jumper and rings that made you wonder what those fingers could do if they weren’t wrapped around a solo cup. they kept flanking you — one on either side — matching each other without meaning to. yu let your fingers linger when george handed you a drink. let your laugh hang a little longer at something arthur said. it was a game, and you were winning. by the time someone suggested shots in the kitchen, both boys followed without question.

later — kitchen, 1:08 a.m.

you perched on the edge of the counter now, legs crossed at the knee. george was leaned opposite you, arms crossed, watching arthur with that smug little curl to his lips. aarthur stood closer, his hand brushing your thigh every time he gestured while talking.

they were doing it again — sparring, politely, over you.

"so… how do you two know each other?” george asked suddenly, eyes fixed on arthur but voice too casual.

arthur shrugged. “mutual friends.”

“you didnt tell me you guys were friends, she also didn’t mention you.”

you gave George a look. “maybe i was keeping him to myself.”

george’s smirk twitched. “or maybe you were keeping me to yourself.”

arthur exhaled a quiet laugh, eyes on you now. “that true?”

you didn’t answer. just let your fingers toy with the rim of your glass, slow and noncommittal. george pushed off the wall, took a step toward you. “you’ve been giving me eyes all night.”

arthur turned toward him. “she’s been touching me all night.”

“i saw the way she looked when i walked in.”

“i saw the way she bit her lip when i spoke.”

you uncrossed your legs.

both their heads turned.

“i’ve got an idea,” you said, voice calm — like it wasn’t about to start a fire.

they both stilled.

you looked at George. hhen arthur. met their eyes like a challenge. “what if,” you said slowly,

“i want both of you?”

silence.

the kind that vibrates.

george’s mouth parted — stunned. arthur’s brows lifted, eyes darkening. you could feel the shift in the air, sudden and heavy with tension. both of them were breathing harder, watching you like they’d just been handed the keys to a fantasy they weren’t brave enough to ask for.

“i — fuck,” heorge said, voice cracking like a live wire.

arthur stepped closer. “uou’re serious.”

you smiled. “i think i made myself pretty clear.”

your place — 2:01 a.m.

the door thudded shut behind you, the muffled city sounds fading away, leaving only the heavy, electric pulse between you three. george was like a predator — chest pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, lips capturing yours with the desperate hunger he’d been holding back all night. his tongue plunged into your mouth, rough and demanding, swallowing your breath as his hands gripped your waist, fingers digging into bare skin through the thin fabric.

arthur’s touch was different — a teasing contrast. his hands slid down your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine with slow, wicked patience, then dipping beneath your shirt. his mouth nipped lightly at your jawline before moving down to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point, sending shocks of heat straight to your core.

you gasped into George’s mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as arthur’s fingers slipped beneath your jeans, teasing your hipbones, inching lower. the cool air kissed the skin of your stomach exposed when george’s shirt lifted, and you shivered as arthur’s palm flattened against your lower back, pushing your body forward into george’s.

“want you both so fucking bad,” you breathed, voice thick and needy.

george growled low in his throat, lips sliding from your mouth to nip at your collarbone. his hands cupped your ass, squeezing hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh before pulling you closer, the heat of him pressing into your hip.

arthur chuckled darkly, sliding your jeans and panties down your legs in one slow, teasing movement, exposing your slick, glistening cunt to both of them.

“look at you,” arthur whispered, voice coated in sin as he parted your thighs with a firm hand. “so wet for us already.”

george wasted no time. his mouth descended to the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh, lips sucking bruises into you while his tongue flicked teasingly around your clit, building slow, torturous circles that made your toes curl and your fingers clench in his hair.

arthur’s hand followed george’s mouth, slick fingers sliding through your folds, spreading your wetness, pressing teasingly against your entrance.

“shit, you’re dripping,” george growled, tongue flicking sharper now, tongue curling to tease the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. his fingers pressed hard into your thigh, spreading you open wider for him.

you moaned, hips lifting involuntarily toward his mouth, craving more — the delicious torment of his tongue, the rough yet tender touch.

arthur slipped a finger inside, slow and deliberate, stretching you with wicked patience. he curled it deep, hitting your most sensitive spot, making your breath hitch.

george’s tongue flattened, sucking hard on your clit as his fingers teased the sensitive flesh around your hole, coaxing your body toward a shuddering edge you hadn’t even realised you were teetering on.

you cried out, hips jerking, body trembling as you came hard, spilling over george’s tongue and arthur’s fingers. your muscles clenched tight around them, sucking them in greedily as your breath came in ragged gasps.

“fuck, you’re incredible,” george murmured against your skin, voice rough with need.

arthur’s mouth found yours then, lips crushing down with needy hunger. his fingers slid out of you only to be replaced immediately by another, two thick digits plunging deep, curling and dragging through your slickness, pushing you to the edge again.

george shifted, positioning himself between your legs, cock hard and slick against your folds. You spread yourself wider, desperate for him, trembling with need.

“ready for me?” he asked, voice low, thick with want.

you nodded, biting your lip as he pushed inside, slow at first, filling you completely — stretching, claiming.

the sensation was overwhelming — hot, deep, every inch of him inside you, rocking your world. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his pace as he began to thrust. so so so slow, deep, relentless.

arthur moved closer, lips trailing hot kisses down your neck to your collarbone. you moaned around arthur’s mouth as george slammed into you harder, hips snapping, each stroke driving you closer to madness. your nails dug into george’s back, clutching him as your body shook with pleasure.

arthur’s hands left your body to grip his own cock, stroking himself slowly as he watched you — his eyes dark and heavy with lust. then he slid down beside you, pressing his cock to your mouth.

you opened eagerly, tongue swirling around him, tasting him, swallowing him deep as george’s hips slammed faster and harder, driving you wild.

the room filled with the sounds of skin slapping, moans, and wet, desperate kisses. you were caught between two worlds — george’s raw, pounding need and arthur’s slow, worshipful attention.

“fuck, you feel so good,” george gasped, voice thick. “gonna come inside you — ”

arthur pulled out of your mouth, spreading your lips and sliding his cock between them, sliding in shallow and deep, letting you taste him fully.

your hands found george’s shoulders, pulling him closer as you licked arthur’s cock like it was your lifeline, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip.

george’s pace quickened, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure through you as you moaned around arthur, sucking and licking him harder.

and then — fuck — your body completely shattered.

uour spine arched like a live wire had struck you, a scream ripping from your throat as pleasure ripped through you in waves. your cunt clenched hard around george, spasming uncontrollably, sucking him in as your orgasm tore you apart. your thighs trembled, slick and spread wide, your entire body quaking as he drove into you one last time with a bruising, desperate thrust —

“fuck, i’m coming — ” george growled, voice breaking as he buried himself to the hilt. you felt him throb deep inside you, thick warmth spilling out in thick pulses, coating your insides. his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his whole body twitching with every surge as he emptied himself into you, panting, gasping your name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once.

your cunt pulsed around him, greedy and overstimulated, still fluttering through aftershocks as he stayed buried in your heat, moaning into your neck.

arthur’s hand tangled in your hair as his cock slid back into your mouth — your lips swollen and wet, cheeks flushed, saliva and his precum coating your chin. he watched you swallow george’s moans, watched your body seize and tremble beneath him — and his restraint finally snapped.

“open up for me,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked, hips jerking forward as he fed himself deeper into your throat.

you obeyed without thought, mouth slack and eager as he fucked into the back of your throat with a rhythm that grew messy, wild. one hand gripped the headboard, the other still in your hair, holding you in place as he chased his high.

you moaned around him, lips sealed tight, throat flexing —

and with a strangled groan, arthur came. his hips stuttered, cock twitching as thick ropes of cum spilled onto your tongue, hot and heavy. he gasped your name as your mouth milked every drop from him, swallowing greedily, moaning softly at the taste of him.

he pulled out slowly, breath ragged, his cock glistening with the mess you’d made together, and you licked your lips, dazed and dripping.

your limbs gave out then, every muscle undone. you slumped back against the pillows, george still inside you, arthur beside you, your skin slick with sweat and come and touch. your chest heaved, flushed and glowing, every nerve blown wide open. you could feel george’s cum leaking out of you, slicking your thighs, pooling onto the sheets beneath, and the sensation only made your thighs twitch again.

the two of them hovered over you, flushed and shirtless, panting, their expressions somewhere between reverence and ruin.

george traced his knuckles down your thigh, admiring the way you glowed beneath him. arthur leaned in and kissed your temple, murmuring something low and wrecked and filthy in your ear about how fucking perfect you looked like this.

and you?

you couldn’t stop the smile that curled slow and wicked across your lips — a smirk of pure, wrecked satisfaction. you’d ruined them both. and they’d ruined you right back.

and the night wasn’t even over yet.

TAGLIST :

@jamiekluivert, @wherethezoes-at, @pretendyoucantseeme, @clarkeyscvntymullet, @chrisolivia4l, @formulaal, @smzyyx, @missust3l3vision, @canyouseethesainz, @sapphiccaa, @sdmnpact

[livvymd]

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅ only you. :*ﾟ:*:✼✿　

fluff to smut. mdni.

you couldn’t believe the day you’d had. t was as though every small moment conspired against you, a symphony of tiny misfortunes played out in sharp, stinging notes; the coffee spilled just as you reached for it, the bus running late in the relentless rain, the forgotten email that unraveled your carefully built plans. dvery little thing fell apart like delicate glass shattering beneath your touch, each shard cutting deeper into your patience, your spirit. rhe weight of it all settled into your bones, heavy and stubborn.

your fingers trembled as they fumbled with the keys, the cold metal slick between your shaking hands. when the lock finally clicked open, a small sigh escaped your lips — a mixture of relief and exhaustion — and you pushed the door inward, stepping into the sanctuary of your flat.

then, the unexpected sound: footsteps. Soft, familiar, gentle. uou froze, breath hitching like a fragile bird caught in a sudden storm.

arthur.

you knew he had a spare key. of course, you did. you had given it to him long ago, trusting him with the quiet intimacy of your space, the parts of you you rarely shared with anyone else. but he usually sent a message, a brief text to say he was coming over, especially when he planned to stay the night. tonight, there was no message. only the sound of his footsteps behind you and the way your chest tightened with a cocktail of surprise and something else — hope? ccmfort? need.

you turned slowly, your eyes catching his immediately. he saw you then. really saw you. not just the tired slump of your shoulders or the disheveled hair, but the way your eyes were puffy and glassy, the subtle tremble at the corner of your lips. he didn’t hesitate. his arms opened before you even realized what you were doing, and you stepped forward, wrapping yourself around him like a lifeline. your hands found the back of his neck, your face pressed against the warm hollow of his throat, nose nudging just beneath his adam’s apple.

the scent of his aftershave with hints of rain-washed earth washed over you, wrapping you in a cocoon of familiarity and safety.

arthur swallowed, the sound low and intimate against your skin. his arms slid around you, strong and steady, pulling you closer until there was nothing but the rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. his hands moved slowly, drawing gentle circles on the curve of your back, as if trying to erase the day’s harsh edges with every touch.

“its okay,” he murmured, voice a soft melody that resonated deep inside you. “uou’re okay. you don’t have to say anything.”

the softness in his tone cracked open the tight shell you’d been holding up all day. you leaned into him, letting the tears slip freely now, hot and unashamed against his chest.

“lay down,” you whispered, voice fragile, nearly breaking. “please.. just lay down with me. don’t go.”

his arms tightened, a silent promise. “i’m not going anywhere, baby. i’m right here.”

you felt his hands on your hips, guiding you gently, lifting you up. your llegs curled instinctively around his waist, clinging as if to anchor yourself to something solid and true. your face stayed buried against the scent of him, the safe harbor of his skin.

slwly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed. the heat of his body lifted just for a breath, and the bed dipped beside you. then, his arms came back around you, enveloping you once more.

he pressed a kiss to your nose, soft and tender, like a whispered prayer. yur eyes fluttered closed, heart pounding unevenly but somehow less alone.

“god, you’re so beautiful like this,” he breathed, fingers weaving through your hair, tracing slow, soothing patterns. you could feel the weight of his gaze even with your eyes shut, filled with awe and a reverence that made your chest ache.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking with the weight of his concern, “you’ve had a shit day. please. tell me if you need anything. anything at all. i’ll be here.” his words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, a shelter from the storm outside and the chaos inside.

your hand drifted down, brushing lightly over the firm planes of his lower abdomen. you heard the hitch in his breath. a soft, shaky sound, but he didn’t pull away.

slowly, you traced the line up to his chest, letting your palm rest over the steady, sure beat of his heart. “i’m so, so lucky,” you whispered, eyes finding his. his gaze darkened with a mix of tenderness and something deeper, more intense.

“if you’re lucky,” he murmured, tilting his head back against the pillow, “then i must be blessed.”

your fingers wandered down again, tracing the ridges of his abs with slow, deliberate strokes. gis breath hitched, a shaky exhale escaping his lips as he closed his eyes, savoring the touch.

“you said i could tell you if i wanted anything,” you said softly, voice trembling, searching his face for an answer.

“i meant it,” he said quietly, voice sure and steady.

“i just want to feel good,” you confessed, voice raw and honest. “to forget this shitty day... even for a little while. iwant you. please.”

your words spilled out, fragile and desperate. he searched your face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation, but found none. instead, his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, voice like a prayer. “are you sure? only if you want it. i’ll do anything you ask. i’m yours, completely. you’re safe with me.”

you swallowed hard, the ache in your throat catching you by surprise. but the truth came, shaky but certain. “i want to feel safe. i want to feel like i’m enough.”

arthur’s eyes shimmered, fierce and tender all at once. he leaned in, breath warm against your cheek. “you are more than enough. uou’re everything to me. eill you let me take care of you?”

“yes. please.”

“good girl,” he whispered, voice thick with affection. “always so obedient for me. just lay back, okay? i’ll take care of the rest.”

he was already on his knees, lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead. his mouth drifted down, tracing a path of warmth and reverence along your skin; across your cheeks, over your collarbones, beneath your ribs. every touch was a silent promise, a worship of you in the quiet.

he shifted, settling at the foot of the bed, hands resting gently at the backs of your knees. “you’re safe here,” he murmured, voice soft like a lullaby. “you don’t have to be strong for me. just be you; however you are right now.”

his eyes searched yours once more , silent permission, and when you nodded, your breath caught in anticipation.

you arched your hips just slightly, and he chuckled softly, a sound full of love and amusement, as he kissed and nipped along your skin, charting a slow, deliberate map of devotion.

his hands slid beneath the waistband of your pants, peeling them away with tender care. his index finger circled your clit, and he exhaled shakily. “god, you’re so wet for me.”

you whined softly, trying to push closer, craving the friction. “Arthur, please. please...”

before you could say more, his tongue flicked out; warm, patient, tasting you like a sacred prayer. every flick and swirl unraveled the tight, tangled knots of your day, coaxing waves of heat and release deep from within.

your fingers tangled in his hair, clutching the soft strands like lifelines. you pulled him closer, needing every inch of his worship.

his breath hitched with a quiet groan, loving the way you held him, trust shining in your grip.

jis tongue traced slow, teasing paths, gentle and precise. his hands gripped your thighs firmly but tenderly, grounding you as your hips lifted instinctively, chasing the rhythm of his mouth.

“you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice thick with awe. “so beautiful, so good for me. i want you to feel how incredible you are, just for you.”

every time you bucked your hips or tugged his head closer, his nose brushed your clit, sparking delicious shivers.

“close..” you whined, clutching the sheets with trembling fingers.

you opened your eyes. and genuinely nearly lost control. he looked fucking breathtaking, every curve and line of him bathed in the soft lamplight. you tugged his hair hard, and he groaned—a raw, needy sound that tangled with your own desire. you knew what he liked.

two fingers slipped inside you, slick and warm, teasing your entrance with slow, devastating ease. the stretch made your back arch, and you felt his murmured praise; soft, steady, endless.

You were home. You were safe. You were loved.

authors note: sorry this is absolutely SHITE.