yours, last night - george clarke
George Clarke x Reader
summary: george is your knight in shinning armour and you have a special way of repaying him
warnings: smut, unprotected sex, pinv, another guy being an ass, reader described as having female physical features, climax happens inside, alcohol mention
minors do not interact - 18+ (mdni)
word count: 2.9k+ words
main masterlist
The pub is noisy in the charming way of a Friday night, sticky floors, empty glasses and a playlist for all ages. Your sat at the usual table filled with laughter as stories are told and future plans for videos are made.
You sit there, not involved in a current conversation, but instead just observing your friends; Chris narrates something too loudly, Arthur Hill is crying with laughter as Isaacs sneaks chips from his bowl, and George is across from you, tipping his chair back on two legs like a dare he intends to win.
He catches you looking and his mouth tilts, as he leans forward towards the table. You glance away, pretending to focus on the sticky menus on the table and noticing your empty glass like that was intended plan all along.
"I'm getting another," you announce, pushing back your chair, hovering to wait and see if anyone needs another.
"Bring me a miracle babes," Becky says, before turning back to taking pictures of the boys.
"Please bring napkins," Live wheezes referencing to the spilt drink.
The crowd closes around you as you make your way to bar, sliding into a gap at the counter, and resting your forearms on the wood. You're just about to catch the bartenders eyes when you catch another's and voice is heard.
"Hi gorgeous," the husky voice says behind. "Let me buy you a drink."
You shift a step away from the man, with a polite script already queued. "No need, I'm fine. Thanks."
The man follows your step still hovering behind, "come on, what's your name?"
“Same,” he says. His laugh isn’t friendly. “We have so much in common already.”
When he rests his hand on the bar, his knuckles touch your wrist. An accident, you decide. You shift your arm. He adjusts again. You pull further back, and his hand lands on your forearm, casual and not at all casual, thumb dragging in a way that makes your skin cold.
“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, firmer.
“You don’t look fine,” he says, and the smugness in it makes your stomach turn.
The bartender finally drifts over. The man’s grip tightens.
“Vodka soda,” you tell the bartender, because ordering feels like a small, reclaimable thing. “Please.”
“Make it two,” the man says. “She’s with me.”
“No,” you say, louder. “I’m not.”
His fingers bruise your arm. He leans in, breath sour with something that isn’t tonight’s beer. “Stop playing hard to—”
“Mate.”
The single word slices through the noise are cleanly as a cymbal crash. The voice is familiar to you, and your shoulders relax. George steps in beside you, easy and unhurried.
His gaze drops to the man's hand on your arm, and his jaw tightens at the view; causing him to step slightly in front of you. "She said she's not with you." George says, voice even. "And she said she's fine."
The man laughs and spits back in vain, "we were just talking."
George ignores the man and demands, "you're holding her. Let go."
The man glances between you and him, calculating something and not coming up with the right answer. His thumb presses in once more, a petty little power move, and that’s it—George steps closer, one hand loose at his side, the other finding the edge of the bar next to your wrist. He doesn’t push, doesn’t shove; he just fills the space so completely the man has nowhere to stand that isn’t an argument he won’t win.
“Let. Go.”
It’s said calmly enough to sound like a suggestion and shaped enough to be a line no one should cross. The man’s hand lifts off your skin. He scoffs, mutters something colourful, and backs into the crowd, swallowed by a chorus of bodies and a song you can’t place.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your arm feels hot where his fingers were, like memory can burn.
George looks at you properly now, not for show. “You okay?”
You nod before you can find words. His eyes skim your face, down to your forearm; he doesn’t touch it, just glances long enough that you register both the restraint and the urge. The bartender returns with your drink, sets it down like none of this happened.
“You want to stay?” George asks, the question quiet and private, like a room with the door gently closed.
You swallow. The neon menu buzzes. Chris’s laugh ricochets from the table behind you. “I want to go home,” you say, surprising yourself with the certainty.
“Alright,” George says, already stepping back, giving the decision space. “I’ll tell them. I’ll walk you.”
You open your mouth to say you will be okay to catch an uber, but he's sending a text to Chris about walking you home, and briefly explaining what happened. He hovers a hand over your back and directs you to the front door of the bar. At the door, he mentions to the security of the incident and pints in the direction of the man from the bar.
Outside, the air is cold; although provides a clean shock to your body. A small shiver crosses over your body, and George notices; he shrugs off his jacket and offers it to you. You hesitate for a second, about to protest, but the weight of the jacket settles over your shoulders before you can speak. It's warm, carrying the faint mix of his cologne and the lingering smoke of the pub.
"Better,” he says softly, his fingers brushing your arm as he lets go. The touch is fleeting, but it leaves a trail of heat behind, stronger than the cold air ever could.
You walk. Your breath paces with his. The city is hushed, distant, as if the two of you have walked into your own quieter world. Every time his hand swings close to yours, you feel the pull, the awareness of him right there.
By the time you reach your building, your heart is thudding louder than your footsteps. You hesitate at the door, looking up at him. “Do you… want to come up? Just for a bit?”
His eyes search yours, cautious but warm. “If you want me to.”
“I do.”
Inside, the quiet is heavier. The faint hum of the fridge, the tick of a clock—it all feels amplified because he’s here, standing in your space. You kick your shoes off, shrug out of his jacket, and suddenly the weight of the night settles between you both.
He’s watching you. Not the way strangers watch in bars, but like he’s memorising, like he’s checking to see if you’re okay, like he wants to close the distance but won’t without a sign. The knot of nerves in your stomach twists, and with a rush of liquid courage still buzzing from earlier drinks, you step forward and press your mouth to his.
It’s quick, tentative, meant as a thank you; but his lips are warm, steady, and when you try to pull back he follows. The kiss deepens, urgent, all the tension of the night crashing to the surface.
our fingers knot into the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He lets you, breaking the kiss just long enough to peel it over his head. The sight of him—warm skin, muscle carved from all the years of sport—makes your breath stutter. You drag your hands across his chest, greedy, tracing the heat of him.
“God,” he mutters against your mouth, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. The hard line of his body leaves no question of what he’s feeling.
You moan softly, emboldened, and tug at his belt. He catches your hands for a second, eyes dark, chest heaving. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice low and desperate.
“I want this,” you whisper, lips grazing his jaw. “I want you.”
The restraint snaps. His mouth finds your throat, kissing, nipping, sucking hard enough to leave proof he was there. You gasp, threading your fingers through his hair as he presses you back against the wall. His hands roam everywhere—cupping your waist, sliding up your sides, tugging at your top until it’s gone and the cool air hits your heated skin.
His lips descend again, over your collarbone, down to the swell of your chest, and you shiver at the trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses he leaves behind. You arch into him, chasing the pressure, needing more.
Clothes scatter, half-discarded across the floor, every new inch of bare skin feeding the fire. His hands are all over you—possessive, reverent, hungry—while yours scrape down his back, pulling him closer, closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat.
He groans into your mouth as you kiss again, tongues tangling, the sound raw and wrecked. Every brush of his body against yours makes your pulse jump, pleasure sparking before you’ve even reached the edge.
He pauses just long enough to look at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His chest heaves, sweat already sheening his skin. “You’re mine,” he says hoarsely. “No one else. Not him. Not anyone. Just me.”
“Yes,” you breathe, tugging him back down. “Yours.”
He scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you toward your room, mouths never breaking apart. The world is a blur of heat and want—his hands sliding under you, your nails digging into his shoulders, your heart hammering as he lays you down on the bed.
Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and before you can even settle into the sheets, George is on you again. His mouth claims yours, hot and relentless, while his hands explore every curve like he’s been starving for this.
Your top is gone in seconds, tossed aside, and his lips leave yours only to trail lower down your throat, over the delicate slope of your collarbone. You gasp when he nips gently at the skin there, soothed a second later by his tongue.
“George…” Your voice is already unsteady.
He hums against your chest, fingers sliding behind your back to unclasp your bra with maddening ease. The straps fall away, and before you can feel self-conscious, his mouth replaces them; wrapping around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make your hips buck. A sharp cry escapes you, half-plea, half-praise.
“God, you taste good,” he groans, switching sides, giving the same worship to your other breast. His tongue flicks, circles, teases until you’re arching into him, desperate for more. He pulls back just far enough to grin, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger. “I’ve thought about this...about you...too many times.”
Your hand finds his hair, tugging him back down to kiss you again, deep and messy. The weight of him pressed over you is dizzying. You slide your hand lower, across the firm planes of his stomach, until you reach the hard length straining against his jeans.
He groans into your mouth when you squeeze him through the denim, his hips jerking involuntarily. “Fuck…” The sound is raw, wrecked, like he’s seconds from losing control.
You tease him, stroking over the bulge, feeling just how ready he is. The power of it makes you bold—you unbutton his jeans, sliding your hand inside to feel him properly. Hot, hard, pulsing beneath your palm. His head drops to your shoulder, breath shuddering.
“Don’t...don’t tease me like that,” he warns, though the tremor in his voice betrays just how much he loves it.
“You’re so hard for me,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.
He growls low, yanking your jeans down in one swift motion, underwear following. He takes a moment just to look at you, spread out beneath him, bare and trembling. His hand slides between your thighs, fingers skimming teasingly close but not quite touching where you need him most.
“You’re perfect,” he says, voice rough. “And you’re mine.”
You moan as he finally strokes you, slow and deliberate. Your hips lift into his hand, desperate for more, but he holds you down, keeping the pace torturously controlled.
You tug at his jeans until they’re gone, leaving him in just his boxers. The sight makes your breath catch—hard and heavy, straining against thin fabric. You reach for him again, wrapping your hand around him through the cotton, and he shudders, teeth grazing your shoulder as he gasps your name.
“Jesus Christ… you’re going to kill me,” he mutters, thrusting into your hand.
The heat builds between you, clothes scattering until there’s nothing left to hide behind. His body is pressed to yours, skin to skin, every movement fanning the fire higher. His mouth finds yours again, tongues tangling, while his fingers work you open, leaving you breathless, begging, undone.
When he finally pushes his boxers down and grinds against you all bare, hard, perfectly aligned; you both moan at the contact. It’s raw, electric, unbearable.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, sweat beading his brow, chest heaving. His tip nudges against your slick entrance, one last tease. “Say it again,” he whispers. “Say you want this.”
“I want this,” you pant, nails digging into his back. “I want you.”
With the small sentence, George takes ahold of his length, and places it at the entrance.
He leans down to press another kiss to your lips, as he thrusts forwards pushing the tip inside. He groans as he slowly pushes deeper again, the sensation overwhelming the both of you.
You gasp, your body adjusting to accommodate to this size, the feeling of fullness both intense and exhilarating. He pauses, giving you a moment to adjust, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.
"Okay?" He asks, his voice a husky whisper, his body trembling with restraint.
You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "More than okay," you breathe, encouraging him to move. He begins to thrust slowly, each movement deliberate and controlled, building a rhythm that has your breath hitching and your hips rising to meet his.
The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure; his ragged breaths, your soft moans, the wet slide of skin against skin. He leans down, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes never leaving your face as he moves inside you. The intimacy of the moment is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation.
"God, you feel so good," he murmurs, his voice strained. "So tight, so perfect."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him faster. He complies, his thrusts growing more urgent, more desperate. The world narrows down to the two of you, to the heat and the need and the connection that binds you together.
His hand slips between your bodies, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is too much, and you cry out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over you. He groans, his own release following close behind, his body shuddering as he finds his own climax.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting presence, his breath hot against your neck. You hold him close, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, both of you sated and content.
As your breathing returns to normal, he rolls off you, pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The room is quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside your window.
"You okay?" he asks again, his voice soft, his fingers gently stroking your hair.
You nod, a contented sigh escaping your lips. "More than okay," you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. "I'm perfect."
He tightens his arms around you, holding you close. "Me too," he whispers, his voice filled with a warmth that makes your heart swell. "Me too."
The first thing you notice is the weight of him. Not heavy, not uncomfortable...just there. Solid warmth pressed against your back, an arm draped loosely around your waist, his breath steady against your shoulder. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the room still carrying the faint scent of sweat and his cologne.
You blink into the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, piecing together flashes of last night; the hunger, the whispered confessions, the way his name left your mouth like a prayer. Your body aches in the sweetest way, every stretch a reminder.
George stirs behind you, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he pulls you closer. His lips brush the curve of your shoulder, lazy and unthinking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice low and rough with sleep.
You smile, eyes still closed. “Morning.”
For a moment, it’s just silence and warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. Then he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. His hair is a mess, his eyes soft but searching, like he’s not sure if this is real.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing over your hip where the sheet slips.
You roll onto your back to face him, meeting his gaze. “More than okay.”
Relief flickers across his face before it softens into a grin, that crooked smile you’ve seen a hundred times, only now it feels like it’s yours. He leans down, kissing you gently; slow, lingering, a promise rather than a demand.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve let you walk away after last night.”
You reach up, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough under your touch. “I wasn’t planning on walking away.”
His grin widens, boyish and irresistible. “Dangerous thing to tell me. You’ll never get rid of me now.”
The bed is warm, the morning unhurried, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t want to be anywhere else.
hehe... first time writing smut here. I hope you enjoyed and would love any feedback if possible.
mwah x