reidyourpalms

[reidyourpalms]

i’m going to do a 100 followers week for the week i hit the lil milestone! ima post everyday for the week based purely on requests from everyone and polls so get sending your requests pretty people.

request here ིྀ

[reidyourpalms]

busy woman

simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem!reader

MDNI | 18+

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

simon is infatuated the second he sees you, wanting to know everything about you - your name, your address, how you taste. so he knew he had hit the jackpot when you strutted over to him swaying your hips seductively as if he needed any more convincing that you were going home with him. but nothing could have prepared him for what was about to come out of that pretty plump mouth of yours, especially when you’re dressed up in ribbons and pink frills.

‘i could be your perfect missus in any way’

simon couldn’t help the little smile that tugged on his lips as he rubbed his chin softly, looking at you like you were his prey.

‘didn’t expect such a pretty little thing to say somethin’ like that. fuck’

simon heard a little giggle breeze past your lips and knew he was completely gone, offering to buy you a drink which you swiftly accepted - wrapping your manicured hand around his bulky arm as you walk with him towards the bar.

you got to know each other, simon asking all the important questions like how many kids you wanted so he could plan the house he needed to build, and how many times he needed to fill you up.

he doesn’t know how but eventually he ends up in your apartment, the one that is undeniably yours, all pink and proper. but he only notices that because he’s backed you up against your wall kissing you deeply whilst holding the back of your neck as if something would snatch you away from him.

'such a pretty little thing aren't ya?' simon spoke gruffly as he grinded slightly against your leg.

'please, plea-'

'please what baby, i'm gonna need more than that'

'just please fuck me.' you pleaded bluntly, your doe like eyes looking into his. he let out a guttural moan at the mere idea - 'who can say no to eyes like that swee'heart?'

he turns you around swiftly, spreading your legs with one of his own. he wastes no time pulling down your white flowy dress, leaving you only in your underwear. simon does a sharp intake at the sight of you in your baby pink lacy panties, as if you knew you were destined to find him tonight.

'what a sight, got a little damp spot already do ya?' simon says as he runs one of his thick fingers along your clothes slit causing you to shudder in response. 'wet at the thought of me like a good little whore.' he growls in your ear causing your pussy to clench, your breathing becoming erratic.

he brings both of his hands down to your panties and roughly rips them in half. 'no siii, i really liked them ones,' you say sulking. 'i'll buy you more baby, don't worry your pretty little mind.' simon replies gruffly as he unzips his pants.

'i'm not usually a selfish man but i've gotta get in you swee'heart' he says as he runs himself along your slit. you whimper and immediately he pushes straight in, bottoming out. he never thought he’d feel so good, your walls so tight around his cock, squeezing like you wanted to milk him dry the second he entered you.

‘i ain’t gonna last long in som’thin’ as sweet as you’ simon grunted out, each word matched with a thrust. he pushed in and out of you at an unforgiving pace, with every thrust filling you fully.

‘i’m gonna fill this sweet pussy, fill you with one of them babies’ you clenched around him as his dirty words, the thoughts of a family making you joyous. ‘oh you like that baby? you’re tryna milk me dry’

‘cum in me si, please’ you plead, pushing against him as hard as you can. he grunts and his cock stutters at your words, immediately filling you to the brim as an orgasm that could have been read on the richter scale runs through every nerve in your body.

‘you’re mine forever now baby’

did i cook is the question bc your girl just wrote her first piece of smut. yipee.

request anything you want bbgs

[reidyourpalms]

are requests open? because i saw a fic about reader having emetophobia and was being comforted by another person, i was wondering if you could make one like that for spencer? where he comforts reader when she/he gets sick

i loved this request, it felt very self-serving as i have the worst emetophobia. thanks so much for requesting, i hope you enjoy and you can read it HERE

[reidyourpalms]

you’re safe

summary -> request prompt [ here ]

wc -> 1.1k

WARNINGS -> talks of emetophobia, brief mentions of being sick, minimal use of y/n (only in dialogue)

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

you had been trying to ignore the queasy feeling in your stomach all day.

at first, you convinced yourself it was just nerves - another rough case, another late night, another coffee you probably shouldn’t have drunk on an empty stomach. but by the time evening came and you were at spencer’s apartment, curled into the corner of his couch with a blanket clutched tightly around you, it was undeniable.

you were getting sick.

you hated being sick. more than that - you feared it.

you could feel your chest tightening with panic, the memories of past awful experiences flooding your mind, making everything feel worse. you wrapped the blanket tighter, trying to ground yourself, but the nausea swirled stronger, almost mocking you.

spencer was in the kitchen, heating up some tea. you had barely touched dinner, poking at it with your fork and offering small, forced smiles when spence noticed.

he noticed now, too.

“you okay?” he called gently, voice already full of concern before you even answered.

you opened your mouth, but no words came out - just a small shake of your head.

spencer was by your side instantly, setting the tea aside without a second thought. he crouched down in front of you, studying you the same way he studied case files - except this time, there was no cold analysis in his gaze. just pure, soft worry.

“y/n,” he said quietly, “what’s wrong?”

you clutched the blanket tighter, feeling tears prick at your eyes. the embarrassment burned almost hotter than the nausea. you were an adult, you shouldn’t be reacting like this.

“i…i think I’m gonna be sick,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “and i…i can’t - i hate it, Spence, i can’t do it, i can’t—”

the panic broke through, your breathing hitching into shallow gasps.

spencer didn’t hesitate.

he slid onto the couch beside you, pulling you into his arms carefully, like you might break. his hands found yours and squeezed gently.

“hey, hey,” he murmured. “it’s okay. i’m here. you’re safe.”

you hid your face in his shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut like that could somehow will away the awful feeling inside you.

“i’m scared,” you admitted, voice muffled against his shirt.

“i know,” spencer said. his hand began stroking your back in slow, steady circles, the way he knew helped you sometimes when you were overwhelmed. “you don’t have to be alone, though. i’m right here. i’ll take care of you.”

you clung tighter to him, trying to focus on his voice instead of the rolling in your stomach.

“i feel so stupid,” you whispered.

“you’re not stupid,” spencer said instantly, pulling back just enough to tilt your chin up so you’d look at him. his brown eyes were soft, earnest. “emetophobia is real. it’s scary. it’s not something you can just…shut off. and being sick is awful even without it. you’re being incredibly brave.”

you swallowed hard, trying to believe him.

spencer tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, giving you a small, warm smile.

“listen,” he said gently. “if you need to throw up, it’s okay. we can go to the bathroom. i’ll stay with you the whole time, if you want. you’re not gross. you’re not a burden. you’re mine, and i want to take care of you. mo matter what.”

tears finally spilled down your cheeks - not from fear, this time, but from relief. you nodded, feeling a bit calmer with his steady presence anchoring you.

spencer stood up, still holding your hand, and helped you to your feet. he led you slowly to the bathroom, moving at your pace.

the bathroom light was dim - he’d thought to keep it soft, knowing how harsh lights could make nausea worse. he sat on the floor beside you, back against the wall, not crowding you but close enough that you could feel he was there.

when the nausea surged again, your body tensing with the inevitable, spencer was right there, murmuring soothing words.

“you’re doing great,” he whispered, voice low and comforting. “just breathe. it’ll pass soon. i’m right here.”

you managed to get sick - miserably, trembling - but the whole time, spencer never left. he rubbed your back in gentle circles, kept talking to you in that soft, steady voice, never once making you feel judged or alone.

when it was over, you slumped back, exhausted and embarrassed and shaky.

spencer didn’t hesitate. he handed you a cool, damp washcloth, helped you clean up gently, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“you did amazing,” he said quietly.

you let out a broken laugh, “i don’t feel amazing.”

“you are,” he insisted, cupping your cheek. “you were scared, and you still went through it. That’s strength, love. not weakness.”

he helped you rinse your mouth, brought you water, and wrapped you back up in a soft hoodie of his before guiding you to the couch again. you curled into him, feeling safer than you had in hours.

spencer tucked you under his arm, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.

“whenever you’re ready, we can talk about it,” he said. “or not. we can just sit here. whatever you need.”

you squeezed his hand tightly. “just…stay,” you whispered.

“always,” he promised.

and you believed him. for the first time in hours - maybe the first time ever when you were sick - you didn’t feel trapped or hopeless.

you felt safe. you had Spencer. and that was enough.

and the first request is written, keep them coming pretty please as my requests are still open :)

[reidyourpalms]

i don’t endorse him or anything but like. what else are you supposed to do if you’re named hannibal

[reidyourpalms]

i’m about to become the most annoying person EVER (i got myself tumblr premium)

[reidyourpalms]

rude boy - wroetoshaw

summary: drunk harry is horrifically rude to everyone except for you - 900 words

everyone always talks about harry being a nasty drunk so i thought this was appropriate lol

hope y'all don't hate it!

~

Harry Lewis was a nice guy. He might be a bit awkward sometimes, and he tended to throw sarcastic comments around, but in his heart he was a good person. There did happen to be a slight exception to your boyfriend's kind heart, and it always seemed to be brought out under the influence of alcohol. Drunk Harry could be very mean, and you had seen it in action. 

Several years ago, the two of you had joined your friends on a ski trip. You were a few days late because Harry had some Sidemen business to attend to, but you made it nevertheless. Harry, deciding he had reason to celebrate, got incredibly wasted that night. You could only watch on in horror as he looked Chris’s poor girlfriend in the eyes and told her that no one would notice if she died. Obviously you jumped in, apologized profusely, and asked Will to help you remove Harry from the scene of the crime and get him up to bed. 

Every time Harry found himself under the influence of alcohol, it was always the same exact order of events. He would get drunk, he would say something shockingly rude, and then you would apologize for him until he could sober up and do it himself.  

Harry was less of a partier these days, and it had been a while since you had to apologize for him, but everyone still laughed about the memories of your horrible drunk boyfriend. 

Today, the two of you were at a Sidemen event. It was a little bit more lowkey, and definitely more exclusive than a big party, but the drinks were flowing and the music was bumping. Everyone else was stood around mingling, while you found yourself on the couch in the corner of the room. You were tucked into Harry’s side with a drink in your hand, feeling a little buzzed. Harry had one arm slung lazily over your shoulder, and the way that his eyes were slightly lidded told you that he was also feeling the liquor. Faith made her way over and joined you on the couch, excitedly suggesting that you join her and Sabina for lunch next week. Ethan trailed slowly behind her, wrapped up in a conversation with Freezy. By the time they made it over to the three of you, it took Ethan exactly three seconds to notice that Harry was tipsy. 

His eyes widened and he laughed, grabbing Faith’s arm, “Oh my God, babe, if Harry is as drunk as I think he is, I need you to get away from him right now.”

It was hard to understand Ethan through his booming laugh and the alcohol clouding your mind, but Harry’s response told you exactly what Ethan was talking about.

“I’m not drunk, you fat bastard,” he argued back, letting his hand drop from your shoulder to your waist as he pulled you closer to him. 

Faith looked as confused as ever, head swiveling between Ethan and Harry as they laughed with each other, “What are you on about?”

You jumped in to explain to your friend as the boys continued to trade insults, “In the past, Harry has had a tendency to be horribly rude while drinking. I can’t believe you haven't heard any stories.”

Faith’s response was cut short by your boyfriend shouting at her husband, “No one loves you, mate!”

Your eyes snapped up towards his and you slapped your hand over his mouth before he said anything else, “Harry!”

You turn your gaze to Ethan, who is red in the face from laughing so hard, “You know he doesn’t mean that.”

Faith is also laughing at this point, “Well that seemed a bit uncalled for,” she breathed out.

You turned back to Harry, who was laughing sheepishly, and sighed, “See what I mean?”

Ethan piped up, “Hold on a minute, (Y/N) you’ve been around drunk Harry so much, how has he not said anything to make you break up with him?”

“Harry is never mean to me while drinking. He might actually be nicer to me than normal,” you replied, causing Ethan to scrunch up his face. 

Harry gripped your hip tighter and pulled you into his lap, “Unfortunately for the rest of you, (Y/N) is perfect. I couldn't say something mean about her if I tried.” You turned your eyes toward his, and he met your gaze with a soft smile before pressing a kiss to your forehead. In classic Harry fashion, it took him about 30 seconds to ruin the moment. “Actually I thought of something. She takes all the fucking covers when we sleep. Ruins my evening sometimes.”

This sends Ethan into another fit of raucous laughter. You rolled your eyes at Harry, “You’re so annoying.”

~

Later that evening, the two of you were back at home getting ready for bed. Your boyfriend was already in your shared bed, leaned back against the headboard and waiting for you to join him. You finished up the last step of your nighttime routine before sliding into bed next to him. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his chest.

“Not giving you any opportunity to steal the covers tonight, you’re staying right here,” he mumbled into your ear.

“Go to sleep, you absolute dork,” you muttered back, before drifting off in the comfort of his arms.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ - the next morning

yourusername posted a story!

[reidyourpalms]

simon’s lover calls him bub.

“love you, bub.”

“s’okay, bub. don’t worry about it.”

“how was your day, bub?”

and he grumbles. says pet names are corny but at least it’s not baby or babe.

but the second you call him simon, he’s on alert. back straightening, ears going hot, hands clamming, and going into a panic.

his brows furrowed as he approached you, looking almost nervous.

“can you get me a water, please?”

and he does it, goes through the motions but he’s so in his head. why the fuck did you call him by his name?

downright pouting and petulant when he plunks down next to you. his confusion so palpable you feel it. even turn to him and ask what’s wrong but all he does is shrug. “s’nothin’.”

your eyes narrow but you nod nonetheless. turning back to what you were doing. but before you know it, he’s huffing.

“s’alright for you to keep callin’ me bub. or whatever shite you want.”

and you have to stifle your laugh because of course, of course!

“thanks for the water, bub.”

[reidyourpalms]

on air - part 2

summary -> [ part 1 can be read as standalone ] back on the podcast by popular demand, revelations occur | george clarke x fem!reader

wc -> 1.3k

WARNINGS -> minimal use of y/n (only in dialogue), kind of a private relationship

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

“so are we ever gonna talk about it?” max asked, halfway through setting up his mic. george froze mid-sip of his red bull. “talk about what?”

max gave him a look. “the fact that you and y/n turned our podcast into a will-they-won’t-they romcom and then dipped.” george tried to look casual. he failed, “we were just vibing.”

“vibing? you were blushing like a year 9 on facetime.”

george groaned and leaned back in his chair, covering his face. “it wasn’t that bad.”

“it was worse,” max said cheerfully. “the comments are full-on shipping you. half of tiktok thinks you proposed off-camera.”

he wasn’t exaggerating. the episode had gone viral - clips of george staring at you, you calling him “clarke” with that sly grin, the suspicious glances, the flustered dodges. fans had theories, edits, entire video essays on your “undeniable chemistry.”

and george? he’d watched every single one. with a stupid smile.

you hadn’t posted anything. neither had he. not because you wanted to hide - it just… hadn’t felt like the right moment yet.

until now.

two weeks later, you were back on the podcast. max invited you “for the vibes,” but you knew better. the glint in his eye when he texted you said everything. he was plotting.

you arrived early, coffee in hand, and plopped into the same chair across from george. he was already there, spinning slowly in his seat like a child.

“morning, clarke,” you said, grinning.

“morning,” he replied, eyes softening instantly. he looked annoyingly good - oversized hoodie, messy hair, sleepy smile. yours.

you sipped your drink. “ready to be publicly bullied again?” george chuckled, “honestly? not at all.”

max burst in ten minutes later with a camera in one hand and chaos in the other.

“right!” he announced. “we’re going in raw today—no prep. just vibes and exposure.”

you raised an eyebrow. “exposure of what, exactly?”

max just winked. george looked like he wanted to disappear.

“welcome back to the useless hotline,” max said into the mic. “the show where we take your useless problems and turn them into even worse advice.”

“and trauma,” george added, deadpan.

“today, we’ve got our favorite unofficial co-host, y/n!”

you gave a little wave to the camera. “back by popular demand - or maybe just to make george sweat again.” george muttered, “you’re evil,” under his breath.

the first twenty minutes were relatively calm. a few absurd listener questions (“is it illegal to marry my Roomba?”), some questionable advice, and lots of laughter. you kept catching george looking at you, and you didn’t bother pretending not to notice.

then Max struck.

he pulled out a card dramatically. “here’s a fan submission. ‘serious question: are george and y/n dating, or are we all just collectively hallucinating?’”

you choked on your drink. george froze.

max grinned like the little gremlin he was. “well? care to comment, mr. clarke?”

george opened his mouth, closed it, looked at you. “you wanna answer that?” you tilted your head. “depends. you still want to keep it quiet?”

he hesitated. just a beat.

then he shook his head. “not really.”

and just like that, he reached across the table and took your hand.

max screamed.

“I KNEW IT!” he yelled, standing up so fast his chair almost flipped. “you’ve been soft-launching the relationship on my podcast! for WEEKS!”

you laughed, leaning into George’s touch. “honestly? we were trying not to. he just has a terrible poker face.”

george laughed, cheeks turning pink. “okay, but so do you.”

max was still losing it. “this is the greatest day of my life. i’m putting ‘made george clarke go public’ in my bio.”

george leaned into the mic. “to be fair, we weren’t hiding it. we just... weren’t ready to let the internet have it.”

you nodded. “it was kinda fun being our little secret.”

max pointed dramatically. “you literally wore his shirt on this podcast last time.”

“exactly,” you said with a wink. “easter egg.”

the internet lost it.

clips from the podcast hit tiktok within the hour - george grabbing your hand, your quiet confirmation, max losing his mind. twitter was a riot. The youtube comments section turned into a digital wedding guestbook.

@/uselesshotlinepod: the last of us, ive been replaced (bus at least the ship is real…)

@/userone: THE SHIP IS REAL?? YOU BETTER NOT BE JOKING

@/chrismd: i fucking knew it, good job mate.

-> @/georgeclarke: i’m a lucky man

@/usertwo: THIS IS NOT A DRILL 🚨🚨

-> @/uselesshotlinepod: alert the town‼️

@/yourusername: at least now i can share photos of this pretty boy

@/georgeclarke: was always more than a guest tbh.

later that night, the two of you were curled up on the couch, still scrolling through the reactions.

“you realize people are editing wedding videos now?” you said, holding up a fan edit of your “romantic arc” from podcast guest to girlfriend.

george leaned his head on your shoulder. “i mean… they’ve got good taste.”

you looked at him. “so… was that your version of a soft launch?”

“mah,” he said, nuzzling closer. “that was me saying i’m kind of in love with you, on camera, while max yelled about roombas.”

you smiled, heart full.

“good,” you whispered, “because i’m in love with you too.”

ig i lied bc it’s out today instead of tomorrow. yolo.

p.s. thank you for all the love, keep the requests coming <3

[reidyourpalms]

on air prt 2 is coming out mondayy! along with the simon riley piece i seem to have been writing forever

[reidyourpalms]

you got me nervous | part two

previous part | next part

george clarke x fem reader

summary: you’re chris’ younger sister who has a crush on his best friend. you’ve spent the past two years hiding your feelings from him - until you all end up in a club for your brothers birthday.

warning: mature content (18+ only)

masterlist | main masterlist

You had left the club earlier than everyone else. The feeling on George’s hands still linger on your skim, the taste of his lips on yours which sent your mind into a frenzy. You had to get put of the club or you felt like you were going to explode.

You were now sat tucked into the corner of the sofa in the boys flat, your hoodie pulled over your knees and makeup still a little smudged. The adrenaline of the night had mostly worn off, and been replaced by something quieter. You could still taste George on your lips, and everytime you thought back to that moment, his hands on you, your pulse stirred into a frenzy.

The front door clicked shut followed by Chris and Arthur drunken bicker down the hall before they vanished into their rooms.

Not even a few minutes went by before you heard the creak of the hallway floorboards. You didn’t even have to look up from your lap - you knew it was him. You could feel it before you had to see it.

George’s voice came out low, careful, like it was wrapped in velvet, “You still awake?”

You glanced over your shoulder letting your eyes study George. He was stood there barefoot, his hair messy from the night, and a hoodie lazily thrown over his shirt and his eyes locked on yours in the dim light of the living room lamp, and the air shifted.

You nodded, “Couldn’t sleep.”

George crossed the room without a second thought, collapsing into the sofa next to you. He didn’t say anything at first - just sitting there in silence, his knee bumping yours, his fingers drumming lightly on the cushion like he was trying to work something out in his head.

Then he turned, his gaze dropping to your lips like it was muscle memory, “I haven’t stopped thinking about earlier.”

Your breath catches, the blanket suddenly too warm, “Me neither.”

He leans in slowly, cautiously - like he was scared that you’d push him away. His fingers found your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and then his lips landed yours again - softer this time, less heat, more meaning.

The kiss deepened fast as his hand slid into your hair, the other pulling at the edge of the blanket that was wrapped around your waist. Your fingers are already curled into the front of his hoodie, like you knew this was coming the second he walked in.

He pulled back just barely, forehead resting against yours, “Come to my room.”

You knew it was not a question, it was a plea.

You nod, breathless, “Yeah.”

He stands, offering you a hand, and you take it without thinking. Every step down that hallway is loaded, your pulse pounding in your ears. The second George’s bedroom door clicks shut, something shifted. The air weighed on you both like a tonne of bricks, both of you filling with an overwhelming need.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you again, his mouth crashes into yours, hot and desperate, his hands under your hoodie like he had been dying to be skin to skin since the club.

You clutch at the hem of his hoodie, slipping your hands under it, needing to feel him just a desperately.

He slipped the hoodie off of your body tossing it carelessly to the side not caring where it landed. His goes next along with his shirt, and your fingers are dragging over the hard lines of his stomach before you even realize what you’re doing. He hisses through his teeth, eyes burning.

His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the tank top you were wearing before moving up to your nipples. You gasp against his mouth, and he smiles - just a little - like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You always so responsive?” he whispered, lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, “Or is it just for me?”

You tilted your head for him instinctively, breath shaking, “You’re cocky.”

He grinned, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “You like cocky.”

He stepped forward backing you towards the bed, his hands dragging over your body like he was memorizing it. When the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he just stands there staring at you for a moment making your cheeks burn.

He dipped his head to your neck again, kissing, sucking, dragging his teeth just enough to make your knees shake, “You’re already squirming,” he said softly, one hand sliding down to your hip, holding you still, “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Then do it.”

His breath hitched like he hadn’t been expecting you to push back but you felt his lips curve into smile against your skin, and then his hands are on your thighs, gripping tight.

“Take this off,” he says, tugging at the hem of your tank, “Slow.”

You nodded, peeling it off inch by inch, watching the way his eyes darken as more of your skin is revealed. It slipped from your fingers landing on his floor leaving you standing bare for him breathing hard.

He doesn’t move.

“Take those off too,” he says, nodding to your joggers.

Your eyebrow quirked up, “Just gonna sit there and watch?”

“For now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands moved to your waistband anyway, sliding them down - slow, teasing. You kick them off, standing in nothing but your underwear. He still hadn’t touched you.

“George.”

His name fell from your lips like a plea and he instantly stepped forward finally dragging his hands over your bare waist, pulling you against him. You could feel him hard against your stomach making heat pool low in your belly.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, dipping his head to kiss the swell of your breast.

A gasp falls from your lips as his mouth found your nipple, hot and wet and just a little too much. He sucks, then licks, then bites – it’s gentle but possessive.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging, “Fuck,” you whispered.

“That’s it,” he muttered, trailing kisses to your other breast, giving it the same attention, “Let me hear you.”

He slid his palm between your thighs next, pressing his fingers against the damp heat of your underwear, not going under yet. Just rubbing, slow and firm, watching you come apart in his hands.

“George-”

“You’re soaked,” he teased, “That all for me?”

You nod, biting your lip, and he hums, satisfied with your answer and then without a warning, he drops to his knees.

You barely had time to react before his hands slid your underwear down and he lifted your thigh over his shoulder, burying his face between your legs like he’s starving for it.

Your head falls back with a moan.

He licked one long stripe up your center, groaning into you the vibration making a louder moan slip past your lips. Then his tongue starts working in slow, deliberate circles, building you up so gradually that it bordered on torture.

He slowly slipped two of his fingers into you, watching your reaction through his eyelashes. Your head fell back letting out a whimper as you gripped his hair, trying to grind down, but he gripped your hips tighter, holding you still.

“Stay still,” he muttered, voice vibrating against you.

His lips circled around your clit sucking softly making you cry out, legs shaking, hips twitching but he wouldn’t let up. His fingers pounding into you faster with every sound that left your lips. With every movement he made he was dragging you higher, higher, until your whole body’s trembling.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, eyes flicking up, mouth glistening.

You nodded frantically, and he smirked, locking his lips around you again.

It doesn’t take long. You break with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, riding the wave with your fingers twisted in his hair and his name spilling from your lips.

He kisses the inside of your thigh once - almost sweet - before standing again, licking his fingers like he’s savouring you.

Then without a word he lifted you onto the bed.

You reached down hands fiddling with the draw string of his jogger but he stopped you, holding both your wrists in his hand, “Lie down. I’m not done with you yet.”

You nodded laying back as he stood at the edge of the bed removing his joggers and boxers watching you carefully as your head buried into his pillows the smell of his aftershave overpowering your senses.

He crawled over you, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue making you moan into him. His hands sliding down, parting your thighs again, lining himself up and just before he pushes in, he stops and you let out a whine.

“Beg.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you blinked up at him in surprise, “What?”

“Tell me you need it. That you want me to ruin you.”

Your stomach flipped and before your mind could catch up the words tumble from your lips, “Please, George. Please, touch me.”

He groans, eyes fluttering shut like he’s barely hanging on.

And then he thrusts into you hard, deep, perfect.

A groan ripples low in his throat as he buries himself into you, inch by inch, your walls stretching around him so perfectly you almost forget how to breathe. It’s too much and not enough all at once - your back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as you gasp out his name.

“Fuck, you feel-” he breaks off, breath ragged, hips stilling as he bottoms out, forehead pressing against yours, “So tight.”

Every nerve of your bodies burned as if its about to burst into flames. Your whole body clenched around him needing to be close to him, your thighs wrapped around his waist and arms holding onto his biceps feeling them flex as he starts to move into you.

It started as slow, deep, dragging thrusts that make your toes curl and your mouth fall open. He watches every flicker of your expression, like he needed to know what makes you fall apart.

Your hands slide down his back, desperate for something to hold on to, something to ground yourself with as his hips rock into you again and again. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in – you let out cry trying to muffle it with his arm but it was no use.

“You like that?” he growls, thrusting harder, “Like it when I fuck you like this?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough. He grabs your chin, forces your eyes to meet his.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp, “God, yes. Please, don’t stop-”

He kisses you again in a frantic manor, his teeth catching your lower lip as he groans into your mouth barely holding on.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he pants against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw to your throat, “Been dreaming about this. Thinking about how good you’d feel wrapped around me, moaning my name like you’re doing right now.”

You whimper as he thrusts harder, faster - like something’s snapped inside him.

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, leaning over you, driving himself deeper into you now. You could feel everything - the weight of him, the way he stretches you, the way your body clenches around him like it never wants to let go.

“You’re gonna come again for me?” he says, voice rough and low in your ear.

“I – God – I don’t think I can.”

“Be a good girl for me, yeah?”

His free hand snakes down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless, fast circles, “Come for me,” he growled.

It crashes over you like a wave - hot, overwhelming, like everything inside you snapped loose as you scream his name muffled by his hand, your entire body trembling under him. You’re clenching so hard around him that he nearly loses it right there, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck, y/n, fuck-”

He pulls out for half a second, flips you over like you weigh nothing, and slams back in from behind. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know it’ll leave bruises.

You cry out again, face pressed into the mattress, overwhelmed but aching for more. He thrusts harder now, rougher, losing control.

“You gonna let me fill you up?” he groans, “Gonna let me come inside you, fuck you full?”

“Yes, fuck, yes- please, please-”

Your voice breaking on the last word and that’s enough for him.

He grunted out your name like a prayer and slamming into you one last time, coming hard, hips jerking against you as he spilled inside you, his breath hot and frantic against your shoulder.

For a long moment, everything is still. The only sound is your breathing, his ragged and shuddering, and yours barely holding steady.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into him slinging one arm over your waist as if to stop you from leaving, “holy fuck,” he mutters into your neck, still breathless, “I’m not letting you go after that.”

You smile, dazed letting you fingers brush lazily down his chest, “Didn’t want you to.”

He kissed your shoulder, then your jaw, then your lips - slower now. Softer.

“You’re staying tonight,” he muttered, “Non-negotiable.”

You don’t argue, you just tucked yourself against him, skin still buzzing, your body aching in the best way.

The next morning you woke up to warmth. George still wrapped around you - one arm flung over your waist, bare chest pressed against your back, his breath soft and steady against your neck.

His duvet now half-kicked down, your legs tangled under the covers, skin sticking slightly from sweat and the heat of him. Your body ached everywhere in the best way, muscles sore and heavy with satisfaction, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

And then it hits you.

You’re still in George’s room. In George’s bed. And it is most definitely morning.

The soft yellow light peeking through the curtains telling you the sun is up, which probably means so are Chris and Arthur. Your heart pounded against your ribs, adrenaline kicking in with no warning.

Shit.

You shifted carefully, painfully aware of every creak of the bed. George murmuring something half-asleep, fingers twitching against your hip, but he didn’t stir properly. You twist just enough to look at him.

God, he’s beautiful in the morning. His curls are a mess, lips parted, face slack with sleep. You didn’t want to leave, you hated that this has to be a thing.

But your brother is right down the hall.

You slipped out from the duvet like you were defusing a bomb, every motion slow and precise. The floor cold against your bare feet as you gather your clothes, praying they’re all here - your hoodie flung over his computer chair, your underwear somehow had ended up on the bedside table, and your jogger curled in the corner like they were ashamed of last night.

Once dressed, you crept toward the door, opening it with painstaking care.

The hallway was quiet. You held your breath, inching down toward the living room, hoping no one’s there - just a few more seconds and you’re off the hook.

“Morning.”

You jump out of your skin.

Arthur was sat on the sofa, bleary-eyed with a cup of tea in one hand and a blanket draped over his lap. He blinked at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, clutching the wall like it might help you disappear, “You’re up.”

Arthur sips his tea, “Clearly, so are you.”

Your mouth opened before snapping closed again as your brain scrambled for something normal to say.

“I- I couldn��t sleep. The sofa was uncomfy.”

He snorted, very clearly not believing a word, “Right. And I assume George’s bed was more your style?”

Your heart dropped.

Arthur raises an eyebrow, “Look, I’m not gonna tell Chris. But you might wanna sort out your neck before he sees you.”

You fly to the mirror in the livingroom, fingers instantly darting up to your throat. Hickeys. So many fucking hickeys.

You groan, tugging your collar higher, cheeks blazing.

Arthur just scrolled through his phone, barely hiding his grin, “You owe me.”

“Forever,” you muttered.

You took your place on the sofa next to him lifting the blanket over you and you hear George’s bedroom door creak open down the hall. You don’t turn. You can’t turn.

You just hear his low voice, still rough from sleep.

“Morning.”

Arthur hums into his tea, “Yeah, we’ve covered that.”

You can feel George’s eyes on you - burning, amused, and far too smug.

taglist: @jamiekluivert @reidyourpalms @roc-haze @whisperturnedecho @graceln4 @dopeysunflowers @super-gay-for-u @bethorwhateverr @livvymd @lilyyxoii @4ngelrealm @kiyoomology @canyouseethesainz @happyclifford @golden-hoax

[reidyourpalms]

on air

summary -> [ part 2 ] you’re a guest on the useless hotline podcast hosted by your secret boyfriend | george clarke x fem!reader

wc -> 1.2k

WARNINGS -> secret/private relationship, george is smitten

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

george knew inviting you on the podcast was a bad idea.

not because you wouldn’t be great - quite the opposite, actually. you were quick, charming, dangerously funny. the kind of guest that made a podcast episode fly by and rack up views. but because george had a very hard time pretending you weren’t his girlfriend, and the useless hotline was filmed in 4K and recorded with high-grade microphones that picked up everything - including every slip-up, lingering stare, and voice crack.

and right now? he was seconds away from combusting on camera.

you were sitting across from him, legs crossed, mic in front of you, hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, looking like you didn’t have a secret in the world.

meanwhile, george was sweating. literally and figuratively.

“right, welcome back to the useless hotline,” he said into the mic, trying to sound normal, casual, definitely not like a man who had been up until 2 a.m. last night with the very guest now smiling sweetly across from him. “the show where we help you with your problems, whether you want us to or not.”

“usually not,” max muttered next to him.

you laughed—a soft, familiar sound george had heard a thousand times before, but now it echoed in his headphones like a siren call.

max leaned forward, smirking. “and today we’ve got a very special guest... content creator, chaos gremlin, and george’s—what was it? longtime friend?”

george gave him a look. a subtle but deeply meaningful shut up look. you just smiled and said, “that’s what we’re calling it, yeah.”

you were good at this. at pretending. too good.

george could barely keep his eyes off you. the way your fingers tapped the mic stand absentmindedly, how your lips twitched whenever max made a joke, how you’d glance at george when you were holding back something private - something only the two of you knew. well not just you two but also not the rest of the world.

he was so screwed.

“so,” max said, reading the first listener submission. “this person says: ‘my situationship keeps liking my Instagram stories but never replies to my texts. what do I do?’ classic.”

you leaned in, “oof. see, that’s emotional terrorism.”

george barked a laugh - too loud, too sudden. you glanced at him, amused, and he felt his neck heat up. “sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “just - ‘emotional terrorism.’ that’s gold.”

“tell me I’m wrong, clarke,” you teased, tilting your head.

his full name. dangerous territory. it made his stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t while on camera. “nah, you’re spot on,” he said, but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

max turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “you good, george?”

“yep. yep. great.” you smirked. george wanted to crawl under the table.

the episode went on. more questions. more advice. more jokes. and the longer it went, the worse george got. because you were so effortlessly you. because every time you teased him, he had to stop himself from reaching across the table and grabbing your hand like he always did when you were off-camera. because every time you laughed, he remembered what it felt like to kiss you mid-laughter, tangled in sheets and sunlight.

you reached for your drink, eyes flicking to him mid-sip. that look. the look you gave him when you wanted to be alone. private. quiet. yours.

he nearly dropped his mic. max noticed—of course he did.

“george,” he said suddenly, interrupting whatever nonsense advice you were giving. “what’s going on with you today? you’re being weird.”

george flinched. “i’m not being weird.”

“you’re being super weird,” max insisted. “you’re staring at her like she’s about to float away.” you raised your eyebrows in mock surprise. “am i?”

george laughed nervously. “i’m just - she’s just funny. that’s why she’s here.” max narrowed his eyes. “uh-huh. not because you live together or anything.”

you coughed. george blinked, “we don’t live together.”

max smirked. “not technically. but didn’t you stay at her place last night?” george’s mouth opened. closed. you shot Max a look that could kill.

“wow, max,” you said slowly. “way to make it weird.”

george leaned back, palms up. “can we not do this on air?”

“oh my god,” Max gasped. “you two are actually—?”

“nope,” you cut in smoothly. “still besties. he just likes my cooking.”

“yeah,” George added, voice hoarse. “just... spaghetti and stuff.”

you knew he was remembering last night. the way you kissed him in the kitchen, salt still on your fingers, shirt half-unbuttoned from laughing too hard during dinner. the way he picked you up and laid you across the counter, like-

“george,” max said again. “dude. you’re gone.”

“okay, next question!” george blurted, slapping the desk. “this one says: ‘is it a red flag if my boyfriend won’t post me?’”

max raised an eyebrow. “a very fitting question for the current vibe.”

you looked at George. your voice was low, almost teasing. “well, it depends, right? some people just like privacy.”

“yeah,” george said, throat dry. “privacy’s important.”

max squinted. “sure, but like… if you’re dating someone and you’re never in their stories, never on their grid, don’t even get a soft launch - what’s that about?”

you shrugged. “maybe they’re just waiting for the right time.”

“or maybe they’re secretly dating their podcast guest,” max said under his breath. george choked.

you snorted. “i think we’ve veered off-topic.”

george could barely look at you for the rest of the episode. he was red, flustered, and so obviously not okay. the fans were going to eat this up. the clips alone were going to break tiktok. you were cool as ever - effortlessly gliding through the chaos.

but as the outro music played and the red light on the camera clicked off, you finally looked at him properly. the kind of look that said, you’re in so much trouble, but i kind of love you for it.

george leaned toward you, voice low, private, almost pleading.

“i was trying so hard to keep it together.”

you leaned closer, “you did terribly.”

he laughed, soft and warm, “i know.”

you looked over at max, who was pretending to check his phone but was definitely eavesdropping. then you reached over and squeezed george’s hand under the table, a quiet promise between the chaos.

“next time,” you whispered, “maybe we don’t pretend.”

george blinked. “yeah?”

you grinned,“yeah.”

TWITTER

@/uselesshotlinepod - Y’all… there’s NO WAY George and y/n are just “friends.” This episode is wild and you can go watch it now.

i’m on a role rn slayy. feel free to request i get to them within a week of when they are requested

[reidyourpalms]

switching sides

summary -> you wear jj's jersey to the charity match and george isn't happy about it | geroge clarke x reader

wc -> 1.2k

WARNINGS -> tbf i don't think there are any, maybe a bit of jealousy

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

you were supposed to be there to support your best friend. keyword: supposed to.

george clarke had been buzzing about the sidemen charity match for weeks. he trained like it was the world cup, talked your ear off about tactics (which mostly involved chaos), and even tried to bribe you into designing a ridiculous banner for him. you declined, kindly reminding him you weren’t his personal hype squad. well—not officially.

but the morning of the match, you decided to do something cheeky. jj’s jersey. no. 10. bright, bold, and a tiny bit evil considering you knew exactly who it would get under the skin of.

you definitely wore it on purpose.

and when George saw you before kickoff, his reaction was immediate: a stare, a head tilt, and then the slowest blink of betrayal you’d ever seen. “you’re joking,” he said flatly.

“what?” you asked innocently, tugging at the collar of the shirt. “can’t a girl support one of the greatest players on the pitch?”

george’s jaw ticked. “i’m literally better.” you grinned. "so that means you don’t need the extra support.”

he glared. “unreal.”

before you could respond, one of the coaches called him over and he jogged off, still shaking his head and shooting you dirty looks over his shoulder. you tried not to laugh.

but during the match? oh, you pushed it.

every time jj got the ball, you cheered louder than necessary. when he made a pass, you gasped dramatically. and when he scored, you actually stood up and clapped.

george? he noticed. every. single. time.

you caught him throwing you glares mid-game, muttering to teammates, and once—once!—he even kicked the ball a little too hard into the sidelines near where you were standing. coincidence? doubtful.

then came the chaos. midway through the second half, play paused. someone was down at the far end of the pitch, and the medics ran in. the crowd buzzed, people grabbed snacks, and players stretched.

and then george stormed over.

like, actually stormed—jogging straight toward you with fire in his eyes and sweat clinging to his neck. you barely had time to process what was happening before he was standing right in front of you at the barrier, chest heaving.

“take. it. off.”

you blinked, “excuse me?”

he pointed to your jj top like it had personally offended him, “i’m not playing another second with you wearing that.” you grinned, tilting your head. “you jealous, clarke?”

he didn’t answer. just yanked his own shirt off in one ridiculously smooth motion and tossed it over the barrier at you. “put it on,” he said, completely serious.

you stared. “are you actually doing this right now?”

“dead serious. you’re my best friend. you don’t wear his kit. you wear mine.”

the crowd around you went mental—cheering, laughing, someone even yelled, “ooohh he's in love!”

you hesitated for only a second before peeling jj’s shirt off over your head (to the sound of more screams), and pulling George’s on. his kit was still warm, smelled like him, and was a bit too big. it hung perfectly.

george’s expression softened. just slightly. “that’s better,” he muttered.

you raised an eyebrow. “you good now?” he leaned in a little, “just needed to remind you who you came here for.”

then he jogged back onto the pitch like he hadn’t just had a whole main-character moment in front of thousands of people.

you stood there in disbelief, george’s name on your back, his scent in your nose, and your heart hammering against your ribs like maybe - just maybe - he hadn’t been joking at all.

the game ended in a blur of sweaty hugs, pitch invasions, and screaming fans. george found you in the chaos, his hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. you were still in his shirt.

“you alright?” he asked, catching your arm and steering you toward the tunnel, away from the crowd.

“i’m fine. are you?” you teased. “you caused an entire scene just because i wore a jj top.” he made a face. “you know i don’t care about jj.”

you narrowed your eyes, “sure didn’t look that way.” he looked at you for a second—really looked at you. then: “i care about you.”

Oh.

Oh.

you swallowed. “george—”

“i know we’ve always been…” he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly bashful, “you know. just mates. but when i saw you wearing someone else’s name on your back, i just- ”

“you got territorial.”

he gave a sheepish grin. “a bit, yeah.”

you stared at him, heart thumping. this wasn’t new. you’d danced around each other for years. late-night calls. inside jokes. glances that lingered a second too long. maybe you’d just never said it out loud.

you reached for the collar of his shirt and tugged it lightly.

“well,” you said softly, “guess i’m yours now.”

his eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation. when he didn’t find one, he grinned—wide, boyish, and victorious.

“bet.”

INSTAGRAM

liked by georgeclarke, chrismd and others

@/yourusername it’s about damn time 🤍

userone: oh my godd this is so cute

georgeclarke: looked amazing with my name on your back 😉

usertwo: did anyone see them at the match??? it was so funny

chrismd: i see football isn’t the only game he had 👏

first time including anything smau in a story eek.

feel free to request anything!

[reidyourpalms]

drunk in love

george clarke x fem!reader

summary -> george embraces part of the american culture at the superbowl

WC -> 1.1k

WARNINGS - not exactly accurate about the trip to the sb, mentions of alcohol/drinking/being drunk, may not be accurate about america

this was probably the most exciting brand trip you had ever been on, all the way to America to watch the super bowl. life definitely felt like it had peaked - especially because you were with some of your closest friends you had made since entering the youtube scene. there was something about it: the lights, the chaos, the unnecessary amount of fireworks every five minutes, the overpriced nachos, and the unmistakable buzz of americans shouting every time a ball reached the hands of jalen hurts. it was magical.

you still had no idea how you ended up in a vip suite, let alone one sponsored by some brand you had barely worked with - something to do with fizzy vitamin drinks, or maybe hair oil. you weren’t really sure. but you weren’t complaining. not when you were sat next to the one and only george clarke, who had, for reasons unknown, decided that this trip was his moment to become a full-blown cowboy.

yes. a literal cowboy. the hat had appeared sometime between landing at jfk airport and arriving in the legendary vegas. one moment he was a regular guy with a duffle bag and mild plane hair, and the next he was tipping a dusty, too large stetson over his eyes and calling people “partner.” you thought he was joking at first. surely, he was joking.

he was not joking.

you weren’t sure what had happened to him but, something had switched the moment you landed in the states. maybe it was the jet lag. maybe it was the endless mimosas at brunch. or maybe - and this was your running theory - george had simply watched too many old westerns on the plane and had decided that now was his time to shine. cowboy-core was alive and well, and george was its very loud, very british ambassador.

by halftime, george was very drunk, far further gone than he was when he adapted his cowboy role. “did you see that?” he yelled excitedly, leaning dramatically across you and knocking over a plastic cup full of something pink and sticky. “he threw the thing! the sport thing!”

“yes, george,” you said patiently, dabbing at your jeans with a napkin. “that’s kind of the whole point.” he didn’t hear you. or maybe he did and chose to ignore you, which was increasingly likely. instead, he was now standing up in the suite, cowboy hat askew, attempting to start a slow clap that absolutely nobody joined in on. not even the americans.

“he’s going to fall,” max muttered, sipping his drink like this was a nature documentary and george was a very confused squirrel. you couldn’t stop laughing. you should have been embarrassed - he was drawing attention, and not the cool, influencer-kind. but something about it was endearing. he wasn’t trying to be cool. he was just… george. weird, loud, full of terrible ideas, and apparently trying to learn how to line dance in the middle of the super bowl.

but the real kicker? the thing that made it all completely unhinged? he was doing it for you.

at some point - maybe during the second round of tequila shots or maybe during that really weird conversation about whether american cows had accents - george had decided he was in love with you. well, that might be a bit strong. but the boy had a huge crush, and drunk george had no intention of hiding it.

he tipped his hat down dramatically as you laughed at one of his comically bad jokes. “m’lady,” he said, completely serious.

you choked on your drink. “you did not just m’lady me.” he stared at you, deadly solemn. “reckon i did.”

“oh my god.”

max, now filming him with the glee of someone who knew this was going straight to his instagram story, shouted, “do it again, george!”

george, always one to commit to the bit, turned on his heel like he was starring in his own cowboy rom-com. he swayed slightly, steadied himself by grabbing the back of a bar stool, then swaggered back toward you with all the confidence of someone who had never once been rejected.

“you,” he said, eyes a bit unfocused, “are prettier than a sunset over the great plains.”

“george, you’ve never even been to the great plains.”

“still counts, i know they’re great.” he did the hat thing again.

“m’lady.” you buried your face in your hands, trying not to laugh too hard. “you’re absolutely insufferable.”

he looked delighted. “that’s a yes then?”

“to what?!”

“marriage. probably.” you stared at him. he stared back, eyes wide, the hat now somehow even more crooked than before. it was absurd. he was absurd. but damn if it wasn’t kind of charming.

“i’m not marrying someone who thinks beer pong is a real sport,” you said, crossing your arms. “i beat Max at beer pong,” george said indignantly, turning to your friend for backup. max raised a brow, “you fell into the table and then threw up in a plant.”

“details,” george muttered. then, without missing a beat, turned back to you with a smile that was - god help you - genuinely cute, “still counts.”

it was after the halftime show, when the lights dimmed and everyone settled down slightly, that george found himself next to you again. this time quieter, sleepier. he had ditched the line dancing, finally sat down, and was now leaning his head against your shoulder like a very affectionate golden retriever in a hat. “i really like you,” he mumbled, almost inaudible over the noise. you looked over at him, unsure if he meant to say that aloud. he looked up at you, eyes fully sincere, even through the drunken haze.

“i’m not just messing,” he added, a little softer as if he could read your mind. “I mean it.”

the cowboy stuff, the dramatic tipping of the hat, the weird compliments - it was all part of the george clarke charm. but this bit, this honesty? it caught you off guard. “i like you too,” you said quietly.

he blinked slowly, “yeah?” you nodded in response, “even when you’re dressed like you just walked out of a spaghetti western.”

he laughed, leaning back with a grin that reached all the way to his cheeks, “i knew it. the hat’s working.” you rolled your eye, “let’s not push it.”

later that night, when the game had ended, the confetti had rained down, and you were all being herded out of the stadium like drunken cattle, george reached for your hand. not in a big, dramatic, rom-com moment kind of way. just quietly, softly.

“next super bowl,” he said, slurring just slightly, “we go as a couple.” you squeezed his hand lightly, “only if you promise not to say ‘m’lady’ again.”

he tipped the hat down, “no promises, darlin’.”

i’m back after a shit ton of revision. british yt boys have my heart ig!

requests are open <3

[reidyourpalms]

Simon Riley masterlist ིྀ

smut ღ | angst ✩ | fluff ꕥ

all of my simon riley content in one place!

ღ busy woman (where a pretty little woman walks up to simon and says something suggestive)

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[reidyourpalms]

i need someone to edit arthur tv to drunk in love but the bit where it says ‘riding on my surfboard’ PLEASE

[reidyourpalms]

the best feeling is listening to music and getting a whole ass fic idea