#detention (2011)

[claptondavis]

ur an angle ♡

my diet for the past 3 months has been cookie dough and icecream

who can cook

p lz

my body is shutting dow n

[nero-neptune]

DETENTION | 2011 | dir. joseph kahn

[biblio-smia]

so bitter!

masterlist | requests are open!

pairing: clapton davis x reader

warnings: nsfw content!!!

there should be a law against wearing tank tops in school. actually, there was - just one that only applied to girls.

which meant that clapton davis could walk around with his arms looking like that.

you were staring from two cafeteria tables away, eyes unable to stay off clapton for longer than a few seconds. your self-control was being tested, this torture a punishment from the universe.

you really should've never let him fuck you.

you don't realize your name is being called until your friend is snapping her fingers in your face, forcing your eyes to snap back to her (though you keep the distant outline of clapton, just to the left of her head, in your peripheral).

"huh?" you ask, willing your eyes not to flicker back - there was still a chance for you to dig yourself out of this without any of your friends ever knowing.

"nevermind," your friend sighs, rolling her eyes before giving you a look that you avoid by picking at the food on your tray. "who were you staring at?" she turns around, searching the cafeteria for a mere hint of the person who had captivated your attention.

"i wasn't staring at anyone," you lie smoothly, shoving a spoonful of whatever's on your tray to mask any strange inflections of your voice. "i just spaced out."

"you've been doing that a lot lately," your friend says, clearly not convinced.

you roll your eyes in response, grateful when your other friend finally escapes the lunch line and rejoins your group, the topic quickly switching over to an upcoming calc quiz.

though talking about calc makes you think of the time clapton made a very impressive 14% on his test, presenting the paper to you with a grin that should've indicated something at least higher than a C.

"seriously, our class average would be, like, 20% higher if it weren't for you," you cross your arms with a small huff, warm breath making a small cloud in the cold air. clapton skates slowly beside you, weaving around without even having to look at the road under or in front of him - no, his eyes won't leave you.

clapton just grins again. he loves seeing you get worked up about the things he does, the concern you have for him presenting itself in indirect ways that make clapton's heart ache for more.

he's beginning to guide his skateboard to the right, in the opposite direction you'll be going, ready to wave goodbye, when you stop.

"what are you doing?" clapton doesn't think your crossed arms are just to protect yourself against the cold.

"going... home?" clapton sounds confused, but his heart is starting to pick up at the increasing possibility of an alternative suggestion.

"to do what? not study, i'm sure. you just don't learn your lesson, clapton."

clapton holds his bottom lip tightly between his teeth, though it's not enough to contain his smile. "maybe i need a better teacher?"

your eyes roll but your lips smile. you turn your back to clapton, starting off in the direction of your house, smiling as you hear the sound of wheels rolling against the road following behind you.

you get about ten minutes of studying done before you're in clapton's lap, one of his hands under your shirt and the other creating a nasty crease at the bottom of his forgotten calc test as clapton holds on tightly to the edge of your desk for balance.

where did that test go? you remember clapton's hand slipping, knocking a few things on your desk over as he steadied you, removing his hold on you to take off the shirt he had been wearing-

you cross your legs, heat in your face as you will those memories away. there's a heat on your back as your body remembers how clapton had touched you that night. you check your friends carefully, watching them engage in an intense conversation about whether or not they could've pulled stu macher, before allowing your eyes to glance around the cafeteria casually, hoping to catch at least one more glimpse of clapton while avoiding getting caught.

your eyes pass over his spot once, twice, before the fact that he is gone settles in. an alarm in your head goes off - clapton from a distance is safe, but on the move, location unknown? clapton is unpredictable.

you're busy scanning the cafeteria for that obnoxious teal shirt, too focused on making sure clapton davis is a safe distance away to notice your friends go quiet, looking over at the boy who'd taken a seat beside you.

"hey," that stupidly smooth voice says and your eyes calmly shift to land on clapton. you're careful not to visibly react - you can hear your friends already. "you and clapton?" you could see the looks they'd give you, purely out of concern. because really, when has clapton davis ever been serious about anything? you weren't sure that'd suddenly change for you.

it's too quiet, clapton's head moving curiously closer, more of his face coming into your line of sight. your eyes betray you, landing on his flexed arm that rests on the cafeteria table and you're up, rolling your eyes and huffing as you usually do at clapton - though this time he feels it more personally, mouth slightly agape as he watches you walk away. usually he does something to deserve this, winding you up on purpose more often than not. but clapton is feeling as clueless as he feels in chemistry, left dumbfounded by your avoidance of him. had he done something?

guilt eats you up immediately, merciless as it twists your stomach into knots. you sit in the bathroom, on a closed toilet seat, loud chattering all around you as you stare at your IMs with clapton.

your fingers type and delete, type and delete. god, whatever. the bell rings and you bite down that sick feeling, deciding you'll apologize to clapton when you inevitably see him in the hall.

of course, you chicken out. you can't even look at clapton, much less talk to him, a voice in the back of your head convincing you you'll slam him against the lockers and make out with him right there, in front of everyone. it was probably telling you the truth, anyway, your desire to get your hands on clapton outweighing any rational thoughts that included public decency. god, what was wrong with you?

so you avoid clapton in the halls. and in class. and walking out of class. and walking out of school. you're almost running home, knowing clapton could easily catch up and confront you right there. there was really no telling what you were capable of with him in that stupid fucking shirt.

though you still feel sorry. you conjure up images of what clapton could've looked like as you blatantly ignored him and in each one, he looks heartbroken.

well, it wasn't like you were dating.

though maybe a small part of you wished you were.

clapton continues to bother you as the sun sets and the moon takes its place. he won't let you concentrate on the essay due next monday or on the chemistry lab you had to write a reflection on. everything reminds you of him, from the neon green bracelet of his he's left on your desk to the book he'd flipped through while sitting in the chair you're currently occupying, feet propped up on your desk as if your space was also his. and it was, in a way. even your bed has been tainted permanently with bits of clapton, no amount of laundry able to rid your sheets of clapton davis's signature scent. there's small marks in the wood of your headboard, too, just to make sure you wouldn't be able to trick yourself into forgetting clapton had ever been in your room (and on top of you).

you give up on work, brushing your teeth and saying goodnight to your parents unusually early, hoping you'll fall asleep quickly and forget all about clapton. but something won't let you sleep and the lack of distractions only makes you think of clapton even more.

you'd really like to pull your hair out. angrily, you reach for your phone, hit on clapton's stupid picture, start punching the small buttons on your phone repeatedly until a message sends before you can even deliberate.

come over. - 11:39 p.m

read. almost instantly. no response. you're not sure if this means clapton will be here in a few minutes or not, though you're not really sure you can blame him if he ignores you like you had ignored him.

but then your phone buzzes and a new message alert has appeared.

outside - 11:43 p.m

you hear footsteps outside and you instinctively shove your phone under your pillow, turning over and pretending to be asleep as the door of your room creaks open, only for a moment, closing again when your parent is satisfied with what they see.

you wait until the footsteps recede, envisioning the route from your room to your parents', quietly counting the seconds until you're sure it's safe.

shit prnts r still awake - 11:45 p.m wait? - 11:45 p.m

sure - 11:45 p.m

the thought of clapton only a few feet away, separated only by a wall and a window, excites you, heart racing as you wait 5 minutes, 10, calculating how long it'd realistically take your parents to fully fall asleep. you're trying to be patient but you really can't wait another minute and you can't imagine how clapton has managed it.

ok - 12:02 a.m

you don't even wait for clapton to read the message, jumping out of bed to open the window and push the screen loose, wiggling it out of place and sticking your head out, searching the dark night for clapton.

he makes an appearance as he rises from his seat against the side of your house, letting you help him as he gets one leg over your windowsill, one of his hands resting on it while another hangs onto yours for support. he swings his other leg in, jumping softly into your room and softly shutting the now-screenless window behind him.

and there he is again, in a black graphic muscle tee and sweatpants, thoroughly distracting you without even meaning to. at least, you assumed he didn't mean to.

clapton turns back to you and you wonder how he's grinning after the way you'd treated him at school, after you'd made him wait outside for seventeen minutes with no guarantees of sex.

and that's when you realize that's what you like about clapton - even now, after you demanded he come over at midnight, after you have had sex in this room more than a handful of times, clapton expects nothing. he does not think he has a right to your body, does not move to touch or kiss you, does not assume anything. he simply stands there, still smiling, waiting, quietly wondering what it is you needed him here for.

you'd really like to kiss him, but you're worried it'll come out softer than you usually kiss clapton.

instead, you hug him.

you've never done that before. but clapton's arms wrap around you naturally, letting you slot against him with a sigh. clapton is uncharacteristically quiet, though you can tell he still doesn't expect anything from you. and that makes you feel even worse.

"i'm sorry," you mumble, shame hot on your face.

"what's that?"

"i'm sorry," you repeat, pulling away from clapton, not realizing he heard you perfectly fine the first time until you see that stupid smile on his face. you frown, hit his unbelievably hard arm. "i'm serious."

"yeah, i bet," clapton jokes, though his smile begins to fade when your eyes start to get angry. "it's fine," he shrugs, hoping to cheer you up before your mood dips to a point of no return.

"it's not." your arms are crossed again, though this time clapton tries to determine how much frustration is directed at him and how much is reserved for yourself.

clapton is close to panicking, pulling your arms apart and quietly willing you not to be upset, realizing he only has a few more chances for his jokes to cheer you up until they will eventually have the opposite effect. "you think i'd lie to you?" he grins easily, still holding on lightly to your wrists, giving you a chance to step out of his grasp if you'd like to.

you wouldn't like to.

you're trying not to get frustrated (or rather, not take it out on clapton, again), exhaling deeply and swinging your arms, still lightly linked with clapton's.

"you'd probably lie to me for five dollars."

clapton scoffs, offended. "five? it'd at least have to be ten."

finally, you crack a smile and a weight on clapton's shoulders lifts.

"wow," you say dryly. "i didn't know i meant that much to you," you laugh through your words, clearly joking.

but now clapton is strangely serious, a side that you've never seen before almost scaring you, clapton's voice so quiet you almost convince yourself you've imagined it all.

"you do."

you're not sure who leaned in first (honestly, probably, you), but your lips are on clapton's and your hands are in his dark curls like you've done too many times before. you're too scared to kiss him softly like you've been dying to, to take your time with him like you've imagined over and over. your pace steadily increases, hands lightly tugging on clapton's hair, his hands slipping in and out of the bottom of your shirt. you can tell he's trying not to make noise by the way his breath catches in his throat when you pull off, breathing heavily. you stare at each other for too long - you finally allow yourself to indulge in what's been on display the entire day, your hands letting clapton know exactly what's been on your mind today.

clapton almost laughs as your hands run up and down his arms, cheeky smile as he flexes underneath your touch. he knew it - he could feel the heat of your stare from across the cafeteria though he'd never been quick enough to catch you.

clapton is about to crack another joke, to tease you about your staring problem, when your mouth is on his again, shutting him up before he could even begin to speak. your kiss is rougher this time, hands balling up the fabric of clapton's airy shirt, until clapton decides he's had enough and pulls away to strip himself of the black-dyed cotton. he pulls you onto your bed, sitting up against your fluffy pillows.

he watches, hungrily now, as you settle into his lap, his breath coming out raspy as you immediately attach yourself to his neck, making marks that might not disappear by monday. clapton wonders what's made you suddenly so possessive, only for a second before your mouth finds a spot that makes clapton whine.

"shhh," you whisper, pressing kisses down clapton's neck as he holds onto your hips, tent in his pants growing with the idea that bruises made by you will linger on his skin even after he leaves.

clapton's hand reaches for your head as you move further away, guiding you gently back to his neck, tilting his head for you. "more, please," he rasps out, too desperate to be embarrassed.

you laugh, thinking he doesn't really mean it, kissing his lips instead. your tongue slips inside his mouth, kisses sloppy and warm as they usually are. clapton's fingers are messing with the waistband of your pajama bottoms and your hands clutch onto the back of his neck.

neither of you care as your noses press into each other, disconnected and reconnected mouths making sounds that make that warm feeling in the pit of your stomach grow.

you roll your hips and clapton fully moans into your mouth, eyes evidently hazy when you pull away for air. your hand slips down to clapton's sweatpants, resting on him gently but refusing to give him anything more. clapton works for it, moving his hips up into your hand, biting his lip to keep from being too loud. you'd almost forgotten how desperately clapton davis craved your touch, craved the feeling of being inside you, doing almost anything you'd tell him just for the feeling of you against him.

you indulge him, tugging on clapton's sweatpants and palming him through his boxers. his face is in your shoulder, quiet moans muffled by you.

clapton is respectful, even now. his hands pull at your shirt but don't take it off. though, his grip on your hips tighten, his face strains. you roll off of him, strip yourself completely. he barely has time to admire you before he pulls his own bottoms off, kicking them off your bed as you grab one of the condoms taped to the top of one of your drawers.

clapton is already starting to drip pre-cum at the sight of you, hurrying to take the foil package from you. he opens it with his teeth, a trick he learned solely to impress you, getting it on with slightly-trembling hands.

you slide back onto your bed, letting clapton kiss you as he gently lies you down on your pillows - always making sure you're comfortable. he climbs on top of you, careful not to drop his weight on top of you, kissing the skin of your shoulders and chest as your hands rest on his toned shoulders. his arms look incredible, hands on either side of your body as clapton lifts himself up.

you let yourself look at him for a second, pulling his face into his hands. you watch his slightly-confused expression, his eyes eventually focusing on yours. not your body, not your lips. he's staring straight into you, asking no questions about your sudden need to admire him. and then he leans in, placing an unusually gentle kiss on your lips, feather-light and almost not there at all.

and then he's asking you if you're ready, like he always does, placing his mouth against your shoulder to muffle his moans as he carefully slips inside of you and finally gives you what you've been wishing for all day.

clapton lies next to you after you finish, condom tied up and thrown out, both of you cleaned up with the help of wet wipes and towels you kept handy.

clapton was unusually quiet and you were beginning to tally all the times he had acted out of character today. usually, he'd be cracking jokes, trying to kiss you obnoxiously, because when has clapton davis ever been serious about anything?

not tonight, though. he's starting to worry you with his silence. did he fall asleep? no, you hear him shift beside you. you dare to look over and see clapton on his side, head propped up on an arm. he's biting the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit you recognize by now.

you lay there for a few moments, anxiety almost fully settled in before clapton finally speaks.

"you know," clapton starts, voice nervous like you've never heard it before. you turn to give him your full attention, though you're not sure if that makes it better or worse. "you know... you know i like you, right?"

that takes you by surprise. it shouldn't; obviously clapton has to like you to some degree to be here. but if he's saying what you think he's saying-

"like... i like you. like, i want to take you out on a date. jesus, how many times am i gonna say like?"

you can't help but laugh, clapton rubbing his forehead with his palm.

clapton smiles again, more familiar now, but it's still a little nervous. if you'd rest against his chest right now, you're sure you'd hear his heart racing.

you're biting your lip, too, not sure how to reply. because the feelings you've realized you have for clapton terrify you. not out of shame or embarrassment, but of pure fear that clapton won't take anything between the two of you seriously.

you're too quiet and clapton has always hated the silence, a need to fill it pushing him to take on the role of class clown.

"stupid, right? that's, like, the one thing that wasn't supposed to happen." clapton laughs his usual charming laugh, as if the entire thing was no big deal.

he almost fooled you.

"i like you, clapton davis," you admit out loud for the first time after a moment, catching clapton himself by surprise. "i mean, i seriously hate how much i like you."

clapton laughs again, but you can tell it's genuine this time. he turns to you again, watching your face but detecting no deception. he knows you're mostly joking, but he doesn't have to ask why the part that isn't joking said that.

he knows how careless he can be. his go-with-the-flow attitude let him accept whatever you'd give him, but it'd almost driven you away, too. as clapton realized how much he really cared, you'd thought that he had not really cared at all, pushing him away as you discovered your own growing love to try and prevent yourself from getting hurt. it was a real mess.

"i, um," clapton starts, not quite great with words that aren't strung together to make people laugh. "really care about you. in the way that i'd stand outside your window for an hour if you wanted me to and i wouldn't even ask for sex." clapton cringes at the example but to his relief, you laugh. "and i can't promise you i won't hurt you but i fully give you permission to, like, chop my dick off or something if i do."

"clapton-"

"i'm serious!" clapton laughs, relieved that you're laughing along with him. "i'll sign a waiver. just let me take you out on an actual date?" he asks hopefully, spinning one of his bracelets around his wrists nervously.

clapton grins so wide his cheeks hurt when you nod, smiling as he is. "yeah, okay."

he doesn't wait to long to cup your face and kiss you, making sure his mouth presses against yours slowly and carefully, trying to pour all the things he can't figure out how to say into the kiss. you seem to get it, letting clapton rub his thumb over your cheek gently and look at you for a few moments after you separate. he wipes the corner of your lips, large fingers dragging along the high points of your face.

"i should go," he says finally, quietly, reluctantly.

"you could go in the morning," you say too quickly. it's risky, but you don't want to let go of clapton just yet.

clapton grins, traces your jaw. "if you insist."

you're rolling your eyes with no hostility, getting up to pull something fresh on, throwing clapton a shirt he'd left that you'd had to lie to your parents about when they spotted it in your hamper.

"i can't believe you didn't know i liked you. i gave you my favorite bracelet," clapton shakes his head in disbelief as he pulls the shirt on and digs for the sweatpants he'd thrown to the ground.

"you didn't give it to me, you left it here," you scoff, climbing back in to bed.

"that's the same thing," clapton insists, picking the neon green bracelet off your desk, heart leaping at the fact that you'd kept it. he climbs in next to you, holding out an expectant hand. you place your arm in it, smiling as you let clapton slide the bracelet onto your wrist.

"there. now i gave it to you."

"yeah, whatever." you pull clapton down next to you, placing your head on his chest while his strong arms wrap around you instinctively. one of his hands reaches up to your shoulder, rubbing up and down soothingly.

"goodnight," you mumble quietly, sleep catching you quickly.

"goodnight," clapton whispers, letting it take him, too.

he'd dream about you like he usually would, but you're already in his arms like he'd always hoped.

[joshfutturman]

"you have me, you always have"

oneshot (request) - you and clapton have been in a 'will they won't they' type relationship for years, you're best friends - but is that all you want? (2.3k words) pairing - clapton davis (detention) + reader (gender neutral) tags: making out / kissing, moans (oops :3), feelings realisation, will they won't they, suggestive scenes, no use of y/n, vague alcohol mention, cursing

.・。.・���✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

clapton. davis. what could you say about clapton davis? you had been best friends for as long as you could remember. it was always just easy with him. you never had to try too hard or try to be funny - he just got you, and you got him.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

notes: this was SO much fun!!! thank you so so much for the request @rhilove1234 ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵◌₎♡ - you're officially the first request of this account! i hope this was alright for you ٩( ´◡` )

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

clapton. davis. what could you say about clapton davis? you had been best friends for as long as you could remember. it was always just easy with him. you never had to try too hard or try to be funny - he just got you, and you got him.

it was actually kind of poetically perfect that you two had applied to the same college together and had been accepted, a miracle too. clapton had the lowest gpa you'd ever heard of, but with his interest in music and the passion he clearly had for the history behind it - the college took kindly to that. you wondered if he offered to create a mix-tape for the assessors. there must have been some sort of bribe involved.

there was a time when he'd told you of his fear of the future, how he'd rather stay in the present. you remember this moment vividly, the two of you sat on your front lawn, stars sprawling above you as the world grew quiet. clapton nervously fidgeted with a blade of grass and you watched on. "the present is good, what's so wrong with wanting to stay here?" he spoke quietly, as though he knew that he didn't really believe what he was saying.

"well, yeah, the present is pretty cool," you smiled, nudging his shoulder with yours - this earned a smile from him, "but. . . don't you wanna see what's out there? who's out there?"

his eyes perked up from the blade of grass and settled on you for a few moments before darting across the street. his smile turned softer, shyer. clapton had all he wanted, right here.

the journey towards the college would take a couple of hours and clapton offered to give you a ride. your hands shook as you packed your belongings into his trunk. he watched from the side, eyebrows furrowing as he bit the inside of his cheek. once you were both settled into the small red car, clapton set off. but not before he reached his hand over, giving yours a reassuring squeeze.

he didn't let go for the entire journey.

the dorm room was pretty much what you were expecting, cramped, but decent. your roommate, damon, offered a smile to both of you as clapton helped you inside with your luggage. with a warm, tight hug and a small cheeky kiss on the cheek that you laughed off and so did he, clapton left. not before he sheepishly eyed your roommate, though. they exchanged a look, and it made your eyebrow raise as you gingerly rubbed the skin where his lips had been.

as soon as that door closed, damon piped up. "your boyfriend?"

a laugh erupted from you. clapton? your boyfriend? you hadn't even kissed, how could you possibly be dating? was it the kiss on the cheek? that doesn't count. you were best friends. there were no feelings there. clapton davis? dating? never. that damn skateboard had his heart. yeah. it wasn't like you had feelings for him that were bubbling below the surface, threatening to escape after every interaction. it's not like you wanted to ask him if this was something more. and it definitely wasn't like you had thought about pushing him against the lockers every day and kissing him like time was running out, or that you imagined him taking his hand in yours, for real - nah.

best friends. that's all it was.

but that comment remained firmly in your mind. it had been a few weeks and you couldn't shake it. was this really something more? could it be, even?

clapton was the kind of guy who could win anyone around, practically everyone he had ever met had fallen in love with him in some capacity. sure, he could be an ass when it came to his music opinions and that adorable sting fixation could be grating - but not to you. it was exactly that, adorable. he was like this with everyone, right?

even in class, you found it hard to focus. he'd insist on sitting behind you or beside you so he could pester you. in this particular lecture, he was behind. clapton leans back, swinging in his chair as he eyes the back of your head, caught in a daydream.

he sighs, deeply. clapton often looked at you like this when you weren't looking. he would desperately try to think of something to say to make you laugh, to catch your attention, to have your eyes fall on him even just for a little while. he flips open his little black notebook and peers at the bullet-pointed contents. 'say something funny, say something witty, wear their favourite colour, tell them you like them.' he hastily shut the book.

leaning over, his fingers brush your hair behind your ear. you immediately felt goosebumps spread across your neck and a tingle ran down your spine like lightning. a blush burned deep in your cheeks. "do. . . you got a pen i could borrow?" clapton whispered, his breath hot on your skin.

with a hard swallow, you passed a pen backwards and offered him a quick smile before looking straight ahead again, gritting your teeth to firmly push those thoughts from your head.

best. friends. that's all it was.

these thoughts led to you avoiding him, avoiding one on one time. it was better to stay in a group when you were with him, or was it? damon wasn't the last person to ask if you guys were dating. and you saw clapton's face when he was asked, the laugh he gave people - clearly he thought it was a joke too.

it was fine, it was going to be fine. one of your classmates had invited you to a house party that night, this would surely take your mind off things. you'd get some space, more space from clapton and maybe you'd find someone new. maybe he'd find someone new.

your stomach churned at the thought.

walking inside, you relished the sound of conversation from all sides. there wasn't any space to listen to your thoughts in here and that's exactly the kind of escape you wanted. shoulders rising and falling with a sigh of relief, you find the kitchen. a drink in hand and you definitely feel more relaxed. yeah, things were going to work out. things were-

clapton.

your eyes fixate on him from across the room. he's on the sofa, surrounded by people. they're chatting to him like he's the most interesting guy in the world. you notice when he laughs, they do too. they're hanging on his every word and they love it. they're too far away for you to make out their conversation, but you can tell that clapton is enjoying telling the story. he always did like attention - and not in a conceited way, he just naturally attracted people.

and then, his eyes met yours.

eyes widening, you look away and down the rest of your drink. a few seconds later, you started to leave the kitchen area to retreat towards the cramped hallway. clapton called out to you, telling you to wait, to 'come join him'. you didn't listen, but if you'd stayed a few seconds longer, you might have heard that the story he had enjoyed telling so much was about you and him.

in the hallway, you gathered yourself and ran your fingers through your hair. it wasn't long before you heard clapton approaching too, though, and you let out a soft grunt of frustration. "trouble in paradise?" someone muttered and you shot them an icy glare. the door to the backyard ahead, you left and slammed it behind you.

the cold atmosphere hit you and your cheeks were hotter than you realised. it felt as though you could actually breathe in the night air. but when you heard the door handle turn and clapton exit, you felt just as tense again.

"what the hell is going on with you?" he speaks in a firm but confused tone, there was a hint of hurt in there. the brunette approached you from behind and stopped just shy of you. "you've been acting weird for weeks, ignoring me, rejecting every single offer to hang out - did i do something wrong?"

that last sentence hurts you, it hurt to think of him wondering if he'd upset you. "no." is all you manage to say.

night envelops you both, the quiet thumping of the music from inside fills the silence in between your words.

"then, what?" he asks and you can hear him almost stomp his feet.

"people keep asking me if we're. . . a thing and i thought. . . well i thought it would be better if we kept some distance, that's all." you said with a shrug, folding your arms firmly.

silence falls around you both for a few moments. you wondered if he could hear how loudly your heart was beating in your chest, as though it were threatening to escape.

and then you could feel his presence behind you, his head near your shoulder, lips close to your ear. ". . . is that what you want?" clapton asked, his breath shaking slightly.

the closeness was almost too much to handle. your stomach in knots, it trips over itself, desperately trying to untangle the anxious mess inside. of course distance wasn't what you wanted.

he mutters your name softly into your ear, placing a hand on your hip and you snap, turning quickly with clenched fists. you want to yell, you want to ask him what you both are, you want to tell him to piss off - you want him.

fuck, you want him.

clapton raises his hands slightly to give you space and looks rather defeated, those hazel puppy dog eyes veering to the left to avert your heated gaze. but he then stands still, slowly his eyes return to yours and he can see conflict behind your eyes. gaining a little more of his confidence back, he puffs out his chest and takes a step closer. you noticed how his hands still shook though, despite that secure stance.

you held his gaze as he approached, your own hands shaking in turn. he almost commanded your attention with those eyes. and you realise in that moment that clapton sees you. he really sees you. he always has. you crave him, like it's been years since you both touched, his soft skin against yours.

"is that. . . what you want?" he repeats, bringing you out of your thoughts and he's firmer this time. you are inches from one another.

his hand snakes towards your neck along your supple skin, cupping against your jaw, thumb resting on your cheek. you can't help but let out a small gasp in response as your hand comes up to rest on his wrist. your cheek nuzzles into his touch, warm, safe.

"i want you." you finally admit, words trembling from your mouth, a short laugh following suit as if it was so silly to hear it out loud.

clapton's eyes sparkle and stare back into yours. you notice how his whole face lights up, unable to hide the smile pulling on his lips. "you have me, you always have." he admits with a soft chuckle like it was so obvious.

and then he kisses you, he kisses you like he's hungry, like he's starving. your lips collide, your eyes close and your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. you come undone. clapton wraps an arm around you to pull your body closer to his and you trail a hand up the back of his neck to grip that messy, adorable hair. his tongue slips into your mouth and you welcome it, feeling warmth rise in your belly.

you never wanted to let go, you never wanted to stop. his hand firmly on your neck and a strong hand on your back, he held you tightly. though you tried to suppress it, a little sigh of pleasure escapes and you can feel him smirk proudly through the kiss. it causes him to hold you tighter in response and your other hand grips his shirt for stability.

the cold air nips at your skin but it's a welcome sensation against the fervency of the kiss. his hand slides around your neck to the back of your head, his fingers lacing into the back of your hair causing ripples of tingles across your shoulders. you whisper his name into his mouth and it comes out in a pleading tone - but you're not sure what you're pleading for.

he gives you what you want, despite you yourself not knowing what that was. a gentle tug on your hair and his firm hand trailing down your side to tug at the bottom of your shirt cheekily. a giggle erupts from your lips as you pull away just enough to let it out, eyeing him with a smirk.

before you know it, your hand is in his and your eyes are drawn to watch your hands tangle together. it amazes you how perfectly they fit, his digits sneaking into yours with a thumb caressing your skin. it felt right. this was exactly what you wanted. it felt different from the other times, more tender, more meaningful. he gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you meet his gaze once more.

"so," he speaks up, breathless, "is our anniversary now or is it when i thought we were actually dating all those years ago?"

you can't help but laugh, breathless too. "oh my god," you roll your eyes, "shut up."

[hungerhutch]

so coquette!!!

[amiadeadpoet]

and when they're exhausted, that’s the end for my fucking nurse complex (not a good thing, trust me)

anyway, i have a long list if you're not satisfied.

[batterycityghoul]

Josh Hutcherson as Clapton Davis in Detention (2011)

[stxryskvllz]

He always plays characters that radiate clingy, loser, pathetic loverboy energy

i just love him so much :3

[sleepyhutcherson]

while we were getting high

“how many special people change? how many lives are living strange? where were you while we were getting high?” — ‘champagne supernova’ by oasis.

pairing: clapton davis x gn!reader

word count: 1.1k words

summary: where clapton and you get high almost every weekend except this time some words are exchanged.

tags: fluff, smoking, underage smoking, marijuana use (not mentioned though), honestly the smoking part isn’t really in detail but they’re high, best friends to lovers, oasis being praised and blur hate (i do not condone!), use of y/n, feelings being confessed sort of?

author’s note: i should be working on requests but i really had to urge to write for clapton since there is barely any content for him. why am i writing a fic about smoking when i have asthma. there’s brief discussion/debate about which of two bands are better (the bands being oasis and blur) but is that worth tw? like i feel like some people (by what ive seen) can take that stuff really seriously but i really don’t mean any hate towards oasis nor especially blur, i simply think that clapton would definitely be the type of guy to get into a debate over bands, or which band is better in this case, but don’t take anything seriously!

Your focus is not on Clapton’s rambling, instead you’re drawn to the familiar glow in the dark stars that stick to his ceiling within the many band posters he stuck up there. You’ve counted these stars several times before as this wasn’t your first time getting high in his bedroom.

You groan when you hear the same song start again from Clapton’s Ipod. He was the type of person that would obsess over a song and play it nonstop until he grew tired of it. His latest victim: ‘Champagne Supernova’ by Oasis. You don’t know how he hasn’t grown tired of listening to it on repeat, I mean, you have already! “Do we really have to listen to it again?” You whine, shifting around uncomfortably in his twin sized bed. The two of you were pressed up against each other, it was incredibly uncomfortable and yet you both always ended up in his bed for some reason.

A dumb smile curls up on his lips that you manage to catch briefly before returning your gaze back at his stupid ceiling. You don’t know why your heart quickens but you blame it on the amount of weed you smoked. I mean, it was probably that. “Yes, come on, Y/N, this is music! Real music.”

“‘Real music’?” You question, only to piss him off. A part of you liked seeing him angry, honestly. And you knew just how to push his buttons.

“Yeah. Unless you can name a better band.” Clapton challenges with an arrogant voice.

You could name so many other bands that have had a better discography than Oasis but you choose to name the band that you knew would rile him up. With a grin on your lips now you answer with what he would consider the worst band to name in this scenario.

“Blur.”

The words strike Clapton. Maybe he was being dramatic but honestly he found your choice offensive. He props himself on his elbows, no longer laying down completely. His face is scrunched up with slight disgust and confusion, an expression that resembles a child who’s just had a taste of a lime. “Blur?” He says with disgust in the word.

“Yeah,” you reply with a calm attitude. “They’re pretty good.” You continue to look up at the ceiling but Christ would you love to see the look on his face. “Better than Oasis.” You add for good measure.

You don’t know what reaction you expected from him, or well you did. You figured he would go on a long rant you wouldn’t be able to escape about how Oasis was in fact better than Blur. You did not, however, expect him to get on top of you, it’s so swift and sudden that you don’t even know how to respond. He pins your hands on either side of your head, your eyes now meeting his dark, mischievous eyes. Was he…grinning?!

Now you’re confused.

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he teases, his body pressed up against yours. This is…not good. It feels good, sure, but Clapton was on top of you. Clapton, your best friend who you’ve known since grade seven. “We both know you’re just saying that to get a reaction from me.”

His hands grip onto your wrist, holding you in place. It doesn’t hurt, or maybe you just liked how he held you down. “Am I?” You play along, acting dumb.

His grin only deepens, his eyes frantically flickering from your eyes to your lips, your own eyes glued to his pretty pink lips. Fuck this wasn’t good. “You are,” his voice is deep now, a tease in his tone.

Before you know it, he’s inching closer to you. His fucking grin mocking you. “Clapton, we—“ shouldn’t, you think about saying but fuck, fuck, fuck his lips were grazing the skin of your neck now, his warm breath tickling you a bit. And that stupid song was still playing!

His thumb softly traces circles around one of your wrist. A part of you wishes your hands weren’t restrained down so you could tangle one in his hair. “We what?” He asks, his breath hitting your delicate skin.

“We—“ you can’t even finish. He doesn’t let you, his lips gently pressing a soft kiss against your neck, one that makes you tense up. Such an innocent kiss and yet that locked you. He continues to pepper gentle kisses on your neck, it’s so pure and sweet, especially when you feel his smile in each kiss.

“I’ve wanted this for so long now,” he admits before continuing to kiss your neck, his thumb continuing to trace around your wrists.

“You have?” You ask. A part of you thinks about telling him that you’ve secretly wanted this too for a bit now.

He stops to look at you now, his cocky grin replaced by a gentle smile. He nods with such a soft expression on his face. “Mm-hmm. I thought about what it would be like to kiss you every day, even while we were getting high.”

A crimson colour tints your cheeks. Clapton smiles more at that. God, you look so lovely now: flustered and underneath him, his hands wrapped around your wrists, your eyes boring into his. He would gladly count every eyelash, memorise every colour that paints your eyes.

“You’re high.” You giggle trying to play it off, though you don’t try to move away. Not that you could due to how he was holding you down.

“Yeah, you are too,” he says with a soft chuckle. His eyes don’t leave yours, he desperately wants to hold your gaze for as long as he can, honestly. “But even when I’m not high I still adore you.”

Fuck.

Your eyes widen a little, your mouth slightly hanging open due to his words. Clapton grins at that and before you can say anything else, he leans down to kiss you. Your lips move with his, not resisting his lips. You honestly don’t think you’d be capable of resisting him after all of this.

One of his hands laces with yours, the other still pinning you against the mattress. He continues to kiss you and he really doesn’t want to stop. He’s desperately craved this for so long now. He smiles in the kiss then, realising he has the privilege of kissing you.

His smile felt so great against your lips.

After some time you both pull away, a huge dumb smile on Clapton’s face that makes you smile at how adorable he looks. He plops down, laying his head against your chest, wanting to be near you for longer. You don’t even have to kiss, you really don’t have to do anything but be close to him. That’s really all he wants. All he’s ever wanted from you.

taglist: @cancelledkaley @stanheights-boyfriend @ploty-twist @jhutch-bf @laurrrelise @joshfutturman @gryffindorsblog @sofiehutch @obsessivemuso-withnofriends @helen-on-earth @fallingboba @cassiecasluciluce @maticka @jhutchissupercool ♡︎

[starryhutcherson]

hii, hru?

i have an idea for another clapton davis one shot:)

what if the reader is an spanish girl and she help clapton with his spanish homework but one thing led to another and yk it ends in smut

- 🫧

━━ NO HABLO ESPAÑOL

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: clapton davis x spanish-speaking!reader warnings: 18+ sexual content! oral sex (m!recieving), come swallowing, mentions of p in v, swearing, google translated spanish word count: 3300+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

Clapton’s bedroom is drowned in the drowsiness of a late-afternoon heat; the sunshine bleeds against his scattered memorabilia, stretching beams across the floor and illuminating the entire space in a picturesque light. It’s hot, too hot — sweat settles on your starfished body as you lie sprawled atop his carpet, surrounded by stationery and permanently tainted with a subtle flush of rose. 

Initially, he’d intended for this to be no more than a harmless study session — he was god awful at spanish, and you were a fluent speaker. You just happened to be unfathomably drop-dead gorgeous. It was pure coincidence, of course it was. 

He’d erupted in an animated grin when you’d agreed to help him, teeth gleaming in a wide display of genuine gratitude – he wasn’t entirely sure of the appeal of helping your friendly-but-not-a-friend classmate with their spanish homework, especially due to his apparent lack of intelligence — but you agreed all the same. You had your reasons, even if he didn’t know them. 

What he does know is that he’s struggling. With the Spanish, sure, though that wasn’t much of a surprise — he’s also struggling not to seize hold of you, hands splayed against your skin, taking you right here on this fucking carpet. The eye contact you’re maintaining is dangerous; that damn cloying smile, those saccharine sentences – the impact it has on Clapton is enough to shatter bullet proof glass and he’s not sure he'll be able to rope his caveman brain out of the gutter. Your voice is so sweet he swears it’ll give him cavities. 

“Alright, translate this one. Tomé al autobús.”

His forehead creases with concentration, trying to focus on the meaning of your words, and not the simmering spike of dry heat that spirals in his throat and his crotch. He narrows his eyes, inhaling a breath as if about to answer, but after a delayed moment all that escapes is a dejected huff.

“I got nothing.”

You tut at him disappointedly. “C’mon. We just did this one.”

He tries to think back, but it’s hard to cast his mind to one single moment with you, because every minute seems to blur hopelessly into the next one. Concentration is impossible when you’re this close to him, when he can hear every breath of yours like they’re his own, when his head is full of filthy fabrications in which your velveteen voice screeches while he slams into your g-spot with lethal precision. 

Get a grip. He swallows around the presence of nothing and tries to hold the crumbling pieces of his facade together. 

It isn’t working. 

“Uh, no we didn’t,” he teases slyly, attempting to reach for your own sheet, which is already full with all the answers. You snatch it away from his desperate hand, swatting his palm for emphasis. The desultory touch shouldn’t mean as much as it does. 

“Yes. We did. C’mon. I’ll give you a hint— bus.”

He does light up with a fraction of recognition. “Oh, shit, yeah. I got it, it’s uh— I’m gonna take the bus?”

You let out another dissatisfied hum. “Not quite. It’s I took the bus. Past tense.”

He rolls over onto his back with a tediously drawn out groan. “That’s like, the exact same thing, c’mon.”

“Uh, no it isn't. If someone asked you how you got home, you’d say “I took the bus,” not, “I’m taking the bus.” You taunt, a mocking twinkle in your eye that renders his body weak with desire. 

“Uh, actually I wouldn’t say either, because I get home by car.”

With mild amusement you roll your eyes, and Clapton’s head wanders yet again, to venereal visions where that eye roll is taken far out of context — right now, spanish isn’t the only thing that’s hard.

“These entire sentences are too hard to translate. Just gimme some words.” 

You scoff at his swift abandon, but you do oblige, reaching across yourself to grab the standard textbook for the grade, idly flipping through a few pages before finding something you deem to be his level. 

It’s a basic configuration of nouns, English situated on one side of the page and Spanish on the other; the lists are out of order and the goal is to match up each pair with the correct translation. You figure with a bit of your help, it’ll be easy enough. 

“Here,” you say, handing him the textbook. He hauls himself back to his prior position on his stomach, snatching a pen, examining the page, and then staring back up at you blankly. 

“C’mon, what am I, a kindergartener?”

You snort, shuffling marginally closer to him so that your shoulders just barely collide. The contact is faint, sure, but it’s enough to make his mind warp. Maybe his desire for you isn’t so one-dimensional. 

“I know it looks easy, but it’s about the words, Clapton, not the activity.” 

“Well it’s dumb. I liked the other stuff better.”

“You asked for this. Start matching.” 

He glares at you through narrow eyes, a semblance of their hazel hue present through the gap in his lowered eyelids — the irritation doesn’t last long. Not when his gaze meets yours and he can feel the gentle wash of your breath against his lips, dainty and dangerous simultaneously. He’d swallow it if he could; preserve the very flavor of your exhales straight from your lips to his. 

An obvious spill of crimson fragments blossoms against the dermis of his cheeks, every moment he spends around you is like being bathed in incandescence, like being roasted from the inside out. He’s a moth and you are a painfully hot flame. 

His eyes stray downwards in a weak attempt to hide his blush, grumbling to himself before beginning the work. He makes it through one and a half questions before he inevitably gives up for the second time. 

“This is too hard,” he admits. 

"Thought it was for kindergartners." You chuckle, to which he mumbles a low, "Shut up."

A measly moment passes before he's hit with an idea. "Let me test you."

"Seriously? You know I'm fluent. That'd be like me testing you on English."

He chuckles to himself, the smug sound leeches to the atmosphere and sends a fresh swarm of butterflies to thrash amidst your stomach lining. He’s too tantalizing for his own good, he’s your forbidden fruit. You’d love a taste. 

“Pretty confident then, huh?” 

The delicate development of his smirk doesn’t go unnoticed by you; it’s hot, the way his bottom teeth are just partially visible by the action, the way his eyes glitter with the promise of a challenge and his demeanor is altered from defeated to determined in one brief snapshot of a moment. 

“Seeing as I’ve grown up speaking Spanish, uh, yeah. I’d say I’ve probably got this in the bag.” 

His grin flourishes exponentially. “We’ll see about that.”

✩‧₊˚

Four minutes later, Clapton’s master plan at veering the pair of you away from doing the work is proven to be pointless — his assumption in which he could find some big word to stump you was dismissed after witnessing your effortless answers. 

“Sun?” “Are you kidding? Sol.”

He glances up from the textbook, where all of the answers are, huffing a little and searching for something more difficult. 

“Gimme something harder.” He can think of something harder. 

“Okay, okay. Uh… dance?” 

“Bailar,” you say, rolling the ‘r’ with a tantalizing flick of your tongue and he’s sure that by now the tightness in his jeans is obnoxiously prominent. “Seriously, these are so easy.”

“Okay, full sentence: “I’m gonna buy a coffee.”

“Hmmm… let me think,” you say mockingly, and he almost believes he’s got you until you answer with a mirthless chuckle: “Voy a comprar un cafe.”

A dull ache burns in his pants, even the most mundane sentences sound sultry when you use that tone. That fucking tone. He’s still minutely annoyed that you answered his questions with ease, but what did he expect, really? This was your language. 

“These are the simplest questions ever. You really underestimate me.” 

He snorts at this. It was impossible to underestimate somebody like you. He knows that much. 

“I don’t. Trust me.”

A sideways glance, a furrowed brow. You seem to dismiss the comment – it looks that way to him, at least. He’s unaware of the internal screams that loop in your head, cacophonous to the drill of your pounding heartbeat. He really knows how to throw you off your game, after all. 

He clears his throat at the lack of response, endearing albeit the awkwardness. “What even are these words anyway? They don’t even sound anything like the Engish version. I mean— Patio-day-jaygoes?” He flicks his eyes over some of the words in the textbook; his over emphasized, americanized interpretation of the syllables makes you chuckle. 

“Patio de juegos. It means playground— and I already told you that ‘j’ in spanish is pronounced like ‘h’ in english. Y’know. Heart. Hat. Hole.” 

“Doesn’t make any fucking sense. Like, look at this– Zapaytoes?”

“Zapatos. Shoes.”

“Days-fil-e?”

“Desfile. Parade. You really do suck at this.” He scoffs, but you can see the humor buried beneath his irritated disposition. “I told you that like a thousand times. Bay-so?”

“Beso. Kiss.”

Shit. He can feel the color prick his cheeks before your words even truly compute with him. There shouldn’t be any meaning behind them; just a simple definition. No hidden feeling lurking beneath your shallow translation. 

Right? 

Wrong. 

He has an idea. He wants to be cocky. Every single splintered thought is you, you, you, and he feels like if an opportunity presents itself he’d be an idiot not to take it. He wasn’t going to be an idiot. Not today. Not with you. 

“Oh. So… just out of, y’know, curiosity… how would you say, ‘I want a kiss?’”

His ulterior motives soar above your head – you’re so ingrained in helping him that you fail to recognise his confident grin. 

“Puedo tener un beso.” You reply, eyes combing through the familiar words etched against the textbook pages, completely oblivious. A beat of silence falls, a second of hesitation, before he goes in for it.

“Si, si. Uh… si puedes. ” Yes you can. He grins, clearly a little proud of himself.

If you’re being honest, it’s pretty cheesy, what with his eager eyes and butchered pronunciation. At least he’s trying — scraping together his kindergarten-level dialogue to form a simple sentence, and it’s sort of sweet, you think. 

“Was that a sincere offer?”

No harm in asking, right?

“Was it a sincere question?” He fires back instantaneously. 

And oh, he knows it wasn’t. You were merely answering a question, following the sound of his voice and the way it rose and fell like pebbled leather – but his taunting is tantalizing. Your desire is hungry and he offers to feed it – and why would you refuse?

He tastes sweet. Barely a moment of brevity was able to pass before your lips cradled his, sucking and soaking the flavor of lingering soda straight off his teeth. His tongue is his weapon of choice, breathlessly exploring the cave of your mouth, trying to mold himself right into your gums. 

His hands roam, up and down your figure, eventually settling on either side of your waist and thumbing circles into your hip bones, it’s sexy. Just as he is. 

You crook your head to alter the angle and he moans, completely unabashed, the sound passes through his mouth and into yours, and you know his mind is following the same dirty pathway as yours.

You tear away from him, reveling in the way he pants like a wounded dog, the way he struggles to leave your lips as if he’s magnetized to them. 

“I think I know how to help your spanish…”

“Mmm?” He tries to sound like he’s in control but it’s a vain and vacuous attempt. It’s cute. 

You don’t offer a response, but your fingers traipse lower, beyond the region of his shirt’s hem and dipping beneath his waistband. You glance at him, eyes seeking consent. He nods, words failing him as your fingers find his buttons and begin to tug. 

When his denim restrictions pool around his ankles, you guide him to sit on the edge of his bed – his thighs are quivering in anticipation and a saturated spill has soaked his boxers, where the defined shape of his dick has begun to show. 

You grab the spanish textbook from beside you before spreading his legs with your hands. Your pace is agonizing. 

“C’mon, you’re killing me,” he croaks, eyes struggling to stay on you with the weight of this moment heavy on his shoulders. 

You have a spark in your eyes, one that’s ignited and waiting to devour – your thumb encircles his clothed tip and a shudder licks at the base of his spine. His twitching hands come to rest in your hair, interlacing with a grip that stings like rope burn – you’re not opposed to the pain. It’s proof of his lack of control over himself, and the thought itself is enough to make you, in turn, shudder as well. 

“You— fuck. You’re totally evil.” 

A few painful moments of you tracing him through the fabric and he’s getting a little bit frenzied – his jaw is uncomfortably taunt and his hold on your hair is only growing tighter. You decide to indulge his whispered pleas. 

Your hands shift from their position splayed on his thighs and delve into his boxers, making a show of drawing them down his legs until they join his jeans at his feet. His cock’s hard, weeping as he writhes with want. He thinks if you don’t do something, he’ll actually die. Just something. 

“Can you— ah– just do something?” His voice sounds scratchy, punctured by his longing. 

“Ask me in spanish.”

“What?” He’s maybe a little delirious, what with all the blood leaving his head. 

“I’m here to teach you, Clapton.” Your devious grin sends him reeling— his cock shivers with him as he scrambles to open the textbook, trying to find some stupid page that’ll give you what you want. 

He thinks it’s cruel, dangling yourself in front of him like this, mocking him every minute that those decadent lips aren’t wrapped around him. He wonders what Spanish would sound like when it’s muffled by his cock. 

Your hands, callous-free and creamy with the vestige of vanilla lotion, inch gradually upwards along his thighs, enjoying the way their feather-light touches cause tension to erupt across his nerves. He’s trembling in the mid-may heat. 

“Uh— fuck— por– por fay– por-far-vor pay-paydo tenarlo?” You can barely understand the massacred words, and when you do— por favor puedo tenerlo— you deem it to be a little vague. But at least he’s trying. He just needed some motivation. 

When you finally allow him solace in the comfort of your mouth, he goes a little dumb. His jaw slackens with an audible sound as his tongue falls from the roof of his mouth — he was previously rolling it around to try and find any remaining taste of you. He was unsuccessful, of course, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

Not when his cock was buried in the narrow channel of your throat, not when you’re groaning against him as his weight settles against your lapping tongue, not when your teeth graze along his shaft and his hips wildly buck off his bed. It’s so filthy, but it’s everything he needs. 

“Shit— shit, that’s good, yeah, just like that. Fuck that’s— ah!” 

His English is nearly as bad as his Spanish right now, and can you blame him? With every trembling buck forwards he’s thrown deeper into your mouth, your trachea, all accompanied by that greedy glint of lust in your eyes that’s damn near tangible. 

His eyes are rolling backwards, up into the depths of his skull so all you can see are the alabaster parts of his sclera. Your own eyes are misty; soaked with spills of tears that taste like a reward, a reminder of your efforts. He’s breaking and it’s all because of you. 

“Holy fuck,” he rasps, his hands still settled in the roots of your hair. This might not be his first blowjob, but it’s certainly his best one. 

His length prods deeper, bruising at the palate of your mouth, drooling pre-cum around your gums, sousing them in his salty scent. You fall into a rhythm and he falls into you, teetering on the brink of bliss with every prolonged suck that you give him. 

By the time his edge is impending, his cheeks are kissed with stains of vivid cherry red, hair is tousled and slick with sweat, and he’s managed to regain control of his rolling eyes, keeping them trained on your figure with a bout of concentration. Good. 

Your lips leave him, just for a moment, matching your previous pace with your hand and ignoring the desperate whine he emits from the action. 

“You gonna come?”

He looks almost ashamed, as if the prospect of it occurring so early is anything but what you wanted. 

“Well – yeah. Yeah– fuck— if you, if you keep going like that, then yeah.”

His voice cracks like distant thunder and his body bites back another pitchy whimper. 

“You gotta ask nicely.”

The words sound a little foreign as you spit them from your mouth, but you’re too stuck into the experience to care. Your hand chafes against him with the dry friction, and he yearns for your lips once more. In this sticky-sweet moment, he thinks he’d do anything for them back. 

“Please. Please– please, I gotta, you gotta just–”

You interrupt him with a tut. “In spanish.”

En español. 

He fumbles for the book, his hands sliding from your hair with a begrudging expression – he can’t stay infuriated for long though, not when you're subtly slinking your head back to nuzzle his tip. Fuck. 

“Por— por favor.” 

His docility is almost pathetic. 

“Por f– fuck, do I really gotta– ah– do this?”

When your hand threatens to leave his cock completely, the panic he exudes is nearly comical. He’s been wanting this for so long, he’s not losing it now.

“Okay, okay! Por favor, por— shit– por favor. P– yeah, that’s it, you’re so good, so hot, shit—”

His endeavor is ultimately scrambled when your mouth makes its return around him, and you know the moment his eyes begin to lose their focus that he’s gone. You let his consciousness leave, with every desperate thrust into your throat, with every dulcet whimper – your hands extend to fondle his balls and ultimately he’s nudged off into the void of blissful oblivion, by you and you alone. 

His wail is weak but encouraging as he comes, polluting your throat with opalescent ribbons, he tastes like seaside salt and everything you’ve been missing. Indulgent. His shattered voice is the most gratifying sound, incomprehensible praises clotting between his lips and washing over you, and you bask in it. 

You're battered and probably bruised, your jaw aches and your knees are raw, but it was all for a good cause. Seeing him like this, quaking with the pleasure that you carved into him— maybe it’s the orgasmic haze but Clapton swears you’re glistening in the afternoon sun. An angel on Earth. 

Un ángel en la tierra. 

You don’t end up leaving his house that night — instead you lie against the quiet ebb of his heartbeat, tangled in his sheets and woven into his arms where you rightfully belong. His homework still isn’t done, his room carries the scent of sex and sweat and all things filthy, but neither of you have the cognitive ability to worry about it. 

So, you sleep; rocked into exhaustion and sharing a pillow. Your flesh sears as his gentle hands stroke it, he can feel your smile as it forms against his chest. 

Aquí es donde usted pertenece.

reminder, my requests are always open

masterlist

✩‧₊

[claptondavis]

me if u even care

[leossmoonn]

Hey, I don't know if you do Clapton Davis fics. But can you do one about one of the girls at school that makes it look like Clapton Is cheating on the reader and theh break up and then he does everything to get her back? They end up back together in the end ofc :D

Btw I love your writings 💕💕💕

thank you! full disclosure… i haven’t watched detention yet, but ive read a lot of clapton fics and i feel like his character is pretty understandable and simple (aka loser, lover boy). if this isn’t correct then ill just have to watch detention 😭

includes - reader is fem, mentions of sex (this was actually so painful to write bruh. it gave me relationship flashbacks ). there’s like so much mentions of murder idk why, gets kinda frisky at the end (nothing major). not edited.

————

“that calc exam was brutal,” your friend zoey groans.

you nod in agreement. “even with the extra study sessions peterson offered, i felt like i didn’t know anything on the test.”

“why do teachers do that?” zoey frowns. “it’s like they’re trying to make us fail.”

“they probably are,” you remark. you both turn the corner, your gaze falling to your shoes as you rethink every math problem you just did, hoping they were right. you don’t look up until zoey gasps. you barely are able to lift your head up when she grabs your arm, spinning your around in the direction you just came from.

“what are you doing?” you hiss. “trust me, you don’t want to look,” zoey says. you frown, “what happened? is someone like, pissing in the hallway?”

zoey laughs awkwardly. “not this time.”

“well, then it can’t be that bad.” you twist your arm out of her grip, walking back.

“stop!” zoey warns you, but it’s too late. your jaw drops at first glance. once your eyes settle on the situation, your heart sinks to your chest and you suddenly feel nauseous. right in front of you is your boyfriend, clapton, and the most popular girl in school, taylor fisher. she has him trapped up against a locker, pressing herself against him. they aren’t kissing, but if they both leaned in then they could. she looks like a predator zoning in on her prey. worst thing is that clapton doesn’t even look bothered. he doesn’t look uncomfortable. he’s smiling and laughing. he’s looking at her like he wants to fuck her.

zoey stands next to you, a sorry expression on her face. “i’m so sorry,” she whispers.

you swallow hard, feeling like there’s glass in your throat. the bridge of your nose burns and you feel droplets of water run down your face. the worst thing is about this is that he hasn’t even noticed you standing there yet.

“let’s get you out of here,” zoey says, grabbing your hand. you’re about to go with her when taylor’s hand touches his chest. he doesn’t push her away. he doesn’t grimace in disgust. he does nothing. taylor and clapton spots you a few seconds later. his eyes widen, like he just got caught committing a crime. to you, it feels like he did.

“look what the cat dragged in,” taylor grins maliciously.

zoey can’t help but roll her eyes. “that’s rich of you to say.”

“baby,” clapton says, sounding helpless. “don’t.” you say, clenching your jaw and fists. it’s now when he pushes taylor away, walking towards you. you shake your head. “we are done.”

you turn to zoey. “get me out of here?” she nods enthusiastically, gently grabbing your hand and leading you out the exit.

she takes you back to her house. you’re silent the whole way there and silent about the whole time you’re at her house. she puts on one of your favorite movies in hopes to cheer you up. but you just sit on her couch taking deep, shaky breathes. she pauses the movie with a quarter left, turning to you.

“you shouldn’t keep this all in, you know.”

you nod, acknowledge her words. you still don’t say anything. you’re afraid if you speak you’ll start sobbing. zoey places her hand on your knee.

“i don’t want to force you to say anything, but i’m here for you.”

“i know,” you say, your voice coming out like a croak. “are you hungry? i can make us some ramen,” zoey suggests.

you shake your head. you haven’t eaten since lunch, which was about six hours ago. but you have no appetite.

“how about some crackers? i have saltines,” she says.

“i’m okay,” you say.

“how about some water? or some soda?”

you think for a moment, slowly nodding. “okay. i’ll have water.” you only agree to a drink because you know zoey will something for you anyway. she gets up and goes to her fridge. she returns with a glass of water and some crackers with m&ms.

“zoey,” you frown. “you don’t have to eat these at all,” she says. “but if you end up wanting something, these are here for you. and you know you can have anything else you want while you’re here.”

you start crying now. you open your mouth to thank her, but it comes out in a sob. she rushes to hug you, holding you as you cry into her shirt. you pull away after a good 15 minutes of crying. zoey gives you some tissues and you blow your nose.

“out of every guy at school, she had to choose him? 90% of the guys at school are single, and he had to choose my guy?” you scoff.

zoey nods and pats your arm comfortingly.

“b-but he’s not my guy anymore,” you sob. your whole chest hurts as you cry. it feels tight and like you can’t breathe. your heart feels like it’s physically breaking. it feels like clapton took your heart out of your body and he and taylor smashed it all up with sledgehammers.

“taylor is a bitch, and not the one that she refers to herself as.”

“yeah, she is,” you nod. “she’s a disrespectful, evil, pretty, popular bitch,” you start to wail.

“just because she’s pretty doesn’t mean you aren’t either. don’t compare yourself like that.”

you snuffle, wiping your nose roughly. “and clapton — ugh! i let clapton-fucking-davis play me. that dumb, little, attention-seeking twerp! all he has to do it push her away and say no. he can’t do that because as soon as a girl gets close to him, he starts thinking with his dick!”

“boys are dumb,” zoey confirms. “yeah,” you nod. your crying comes to a stop and you look at zoey with a self-pitying expression. “i liked him a lot. i let him meet my parents. i’ve snuck him into my house. he’s made cookies with my mom and talked to my dad about cars. i… i thought he liked me.”

“he’s in love with you,” zoey says. you shake your head and laugh sourly. “no, he’s not. he likes the attention i give him. he likes the fact that because of me, he sees boobs and has sex. he likes the fact that he can call me his girlfriend.”

“well, i find it hard to believe that you don’t like all the superficial things he does for you. don’t tell me you forgot that you literally called me while he was still in your house, after had just given you, and i quote from you, “the best night of sex i will ever have”. you also love his muscles and his abs and the way he looks at you when you’re naked and when you’re all dressed.”

“yeah, but,” you huff. “i didn’t let a guy talk me up and basically grind up against him in the hallway.”

“you’re right,” she nods. “you are totally right. and i’m not saying to forgive him at all. in fact, don’t. i’m just… i do think that he’s in love with you. and he just made a terrible mistake.”

“i don’t want to forgive him,” you frown. “like i said, you don’t have to. i just hate to hear you talk so bad about yourself. you are a catch and you have your whole life to find the guy of your dreams!” zoey exclaims.

“what if i wanted him to be that?” you ask. she sighs, “if it’s meant to be, then it will be.”

the next day you feel like shit. you can only manage to drink half a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. zoey picks you up for school and you try to request sad songs, but she declines. she sings the most annoying, happy songs to your face. she almost catches you smiling, but you frown so deep it makes you both laugh. you almost forget about the unfortunate series of events until you show up to school and see taylor walking out of her car.

“how does she always look so perfect?” you ask. “she really doesn’t. she obviously didn’t put on makeup today and that orange shirt isn’t doing her any favors,” zoey says.

you scoff and turn your head to face her. “you’re joking, right?”

“did it make you feel better?”

“a little.”

“then no, i’m not.”

you managed to avoid clapton the whole day. you ate lunch in zoey’s car, got to your classes super early, and even was able to avoid using your locker — which you hated using anyways. you started to feel better as you begin to think about all the fun things zoey has planned for you this weekend. the happiness dissipates as you see clapton standing by zoey’s car.

“oh, my god,” zoey grumbles.

he’s holding a huge pink teddy bear and a jewelry box. he smiles brightly as you approach him.

“hey! i didn’t see you today. i thought that i would —”

“save it,” you stop him. “i told you we are over. what part of that isn’t clear?”

he sighs, “i know. but then i remembered that you liked this teddy bear that you saw online, and it was there at the store! so i decided to get it for you. and i also bought these earrings that i had already got you for our anniversary, but i figured you’d like them sooner.” he opens the box. “they’re the theme of your favorite book.”

you have the fight the urge to swoon. “i’m sorry you spent your money on me, clapton. please move so we don’t run you over.”

“please,” he begs.

“please what, calpton? please listen to your sorry excuses? please listen to you ramble on for ten minutes without even talking about what happened? please wait for you to apologize? no!” you shout.

he opens his mouth to speak, but you stop him.

“you hurt me, clapton. seeing you with taylor, that hurt.”

“i know, but i can explain. we weren’t doing anything, i swear —”

“yeah, that’s what hurts! you know, i wish that you kissed her and i caught you inside of her, cause that would’ve been so much more explainable. that would’ve been so much more acceptable. but no. you just stood there letting her sweet talk you. i know you’re not used to getting noticed. you’re known as the class-clown and people sometimes rag on you, but i thought you weren’t letting that bother you anymore! you told me yourself that you don’t need anyone’s validation anymore. but that’s obviously false.”

he blinks rapidly, jaw dropping and closing a couple of times.

“you can save this stuff for the next girl. or just keep them yourself,” you say. you turn to zoey who is trying to contain her excitement. “can we go to out to eat?” you ask.

“i was just about to ask you the same thing,” zoey smiles. you try to not look at clapton as she drives away, but you can’t help it. he looks like a lost puppy that just got his heart stomped on. he kind of feels that way.

he feels terrible. this is the worst he’s ever felt in his entire life. this outdoes the time he went to six flags and threw up all the popcorn and toxic waste he ate.

“hey, honey. did she not like your gifts?” clapton’s mom asks as he shows up with full hands.

“no, she didn’t.”

she frowns and gets up from the kitchen table. “did you apologize?”

“yeah,” he nods slowly. she narrows her eyes. “why can’t you boys say sorry?”

“girls can’t say sorry either!”

“not the point,” she says. “you have been talking about this girl nonstop for the last two months. your father has said you should just ask her to marry you if you like her so much. even if she hates you now, which is understandable, you need to give her a real apology.”

“i do feel sorry! i just… what if i say sorry and tell her how i feel, and she still rejects me?”

“then she rejects you. as long as you try and learn from this, it’ll be okay.”

clapton nods in agreement, trudging up to his room and laying down on his bed. he knows he messed up bad. he never meant to hurt you. he’s never dreamed of every hurting you. he know he doesn’t have a good explanation. he can’t even explain what happened between taylor and him himself. but what he does know is that he feels absolutely nothing for taylor, and his whole heart is yours. he steal for you, lie for you, go to jail for you. he would split the world for you.

he has to let you know how he feels about you.

clapton’s at your window, throwing rocks at it. he’s been there for half an hour. at first he thought you were ignoring him, but now he just thinks you’re not home. he’s correct when he sees zoey’s car pull up in your driveway.

“oh, shit,” he mumbles. he panics and looks around him for somewhere to hide. he jumps in a bush that’s on the side of your house, hoping you don’t see him.

“that was the best crab rangoon i have ever had,” zoey groans. “i might have to go back before i go back home.”

you scoff, “being me back some!” you’re about to walk into your garage when clapton lets out a sneeze.

“did you hear that?” zoey asks. “uh, yeah,” you nod. “hello?” you call out. there’s no answer. fear seeps into your chest. “you need to take me back to your place now. someone could be plotting to kill me!”

“okay, yeah,” she nods. “should we call the police? I’m going to call the police.”

clapton jumps out the bushes, scaring both of you to death. you both scream as he appears in front of you.

“it’s just me! it’s just me!”

“oh, my! fuck! clapton!” you groan. “you can’t do that? we almost just had a heart attack and died!”

“okay, that’s a little bit dramatic,” he chuckles.

“and you’re here!” you wave your hands in the air angrily. “why are you here! you are so annoying and creepy.”

“don’t you think me waiting here is romantic?” he asks, giving you a hopeful smile.

“you’ve been waiting on me? agh!” you scream. “get out of my house!”

“i’m technically not in your —”

“do you want me to kill you?” you ask. “no,” he shakes his head. “i mean, if that’s what you want. anything for you.”

“clapton,” zoey says. she grabs his arm, escorting him to her car. “i will drive you home so you don’t die tonight, okay? this is out of the kindest of my heart. even though i think you are a d-bag.”

“wait, wait, wait! please! i want to say one more thing. after this , i’ll never speak to you again. i promise,” clapton pleads.

zoey raises her brows at you and you shrug. she lets him go and he walks back to you.

“i am so sorry,” he says. “good start,” you remark.

“i… i really don’t have any explanation for what you saw. i know that doesn’t help, but i can tell you what happened. she was asking if i could get the physics homework answers from you to give to her. i was saying no, but before i knew it, she was saying funny things to butter me up. and then she trapped me against the lockers and put her hand on my chest to pin me down.”

“you expect me to believe that?” you scoff. “i know. i know it’s not practical, but,” he takes your hands into his and stares into your eyes, “i swear on my love for you that that is the honest truth. you can even ask her! you know taylor wouldn’t lie to you.”

you search his face. he looks so desperate, so pained. you really don’t know whether or not to believe him.

“i hope you know that you don’t have to forgive me. just know that i am so sorry and hurting you makes me want to eat shit while i’m skateboarding. i’ll leave now.” he let’s go of your hands. you feel so cold now, so lonely. “can you take me home still?” he asks zoey.

“i guess so,” she huffs. “see you tomorrow,” she says to you.

you nod and give her a small smile, waving goodbye to the two of them. you go up to your room after talking with your parents for a little bit. you spot the countless pictures you have of you and clapton. you’ve known him since freshman year of high school, but you’ve known him for only a couple of months. saying goodbye to him feels like a knife twisting into your back, bud that’s how you felt seeing him with taylor.

you never thought clapton would hurt you, not like this. but you know people can change and reveal a part of themselves you never knew existed. eventually, the truth comes out. but you find it hard to believe that this is the case with clapton. the way he’s treated you since you’ve started dating is like nothing you’ve ever experienced in other relationships.

he’s always been super sweet to you. always complimenting you, asking how you slept, carrying your backup, holding you accountable when you study. he’s never been good with words, but he’s never had to be. he always is holding your hand or massaging your back. he loves buying you gifts or making you stuff. he likes cooking for you, too, even though he’s quite terrible at it. he’s always protecting you against rude remarks you sometimes get at school. sometimes the girls will say something about your outfit, and clapton always has something to say to them. not to mention, he is a giver and always makes sure you get satisfied multiple times before he gets anything. which is super different from any other guy you’ve been with.

for you to be able to know the real truth, you know what you have to do.

“you don’t have anything sharp on you, right?” zoey asks. “no,” you say. “why?”

“in case you try and kill taylor.”

“what! i would never do that!”

zoey gives you a look and you roll your eyes. “the closest i would get would be cutting off her hair. which, to her, would be murder.”

zoey chuckles, “you so should do that.”

you shrug, “we’ll see what happens.”

“hey, taylor!” you plaster on the brightest smile ever. she turns to you, looking you up and down while smacking gum. “can i help you?”

“yeah,” you nod. “i was just wondering what you and mike were talking about?”

“why do you wan to know?” she asks. you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “i am just wondering. it’s not like you were discussing murder right?”

she glares at your cheap joke. “i asked him if he knew anybody with the answers to the physics homework. i tried to get your answers, but he just kept saying no. he kept saying how i should do my own work and how you’re not just some homework-giver, or whatever. i tried to seduce him, but for some reason it didn’t work. his brain must be broken or something.”

“really?” you ask. “yeah. he actually laughed at me. i mean, what kind of freak does that?” she scoffs.

you can’t help but laugh yourself. she frowns. “am i a joke or something?”

“no,” you say unconvincingly, turning around and walking to zoey who is waiting for you by your locker.

“what’s the verdict?” she asks. “i… i guess clapton was telling the truth,” you say. “i need to find him.”

“i don’t think he came to school today.”

you groan, “well, i can’t skip school.”

“i’ll drive you to his house right after school.”

zoey does so, leaving when you tell her clapton can take you home. you go to his backyard, finding some rocks and throwing it at his window.

“clapton! it’s me!” you shout. you see him at the window almost immediately. he opens it, sticking his head out. “i thought you didn’t want to see me?”

“can i come inside and i’ll explain?”

he leaves for a few moments, opening his back porch window. he leaves it opens for you and you walk in, sliding the door shut behind you. you follow him up to his shook, gasping as you see the variety of gifts he has on his desk. there’s the bear and earrings you’ve already seen. then there’s a bouquet of roses, a couple of books, some gift cards, and some of your favorite snacks.

“how long have you had these?”

“a couple of days,” he admits. “i saw this thing online about like, a love basket. i was going to put all these things in them and give it to you.”

“didn’t you promise you wouldn’t see me anymore?”

“i would’ve left it at your door. that way you technically wouldn’t have seen me.”

you laugh softly. you now know that he never would have given up on you. it’s kind of sweet. especially since you didn’t really want to never see him again.

“i spoke to taylor,” you say. “oh.” his eyes widen in surprise. “what, uh, what did she say?”

“everything that you said. you know, i actually feel bad for her.” you take a step towards him.

“why?” he asks. “cause it seems like you hurt her feelings when you rejected her,” you explain.

“well, she’s not the girl i want.” he moves closer to you and takes your hands into his. “i am so sorry, again. i should have walked away long before you came.”

“you should have,” you nod.

“and you are the best thing that happened to me. you make me so happy. you don’t make me feel dumb or worthless. you accept me and like me. you don’t think of me as some joke. you make me feel good. and i just want to make you feel good for as long as you’ll let me,” he confesses.

“i’ll let you for a long time,” you smile. he smiles back, leaning in and kissing you. you pull away after a few moments, giggling a little bit.

“what?” he asks. “how much money did you spent on me?” you look at his desk.

“uh, you don’t want to know.”

“clapton!”

“you wanna take a look at them? they’re all great. i know you super well.”

he walks you to his desk. the books are form your book wishlist you’ve sent him. the gift cards are of your favorite shops. you awe, kissing him again.

“i think i know you super well, too,” you say against his lips.

“oh, yeah?” he breathes against your lips.

“let me show you.”

[biblio-smia]

Hear me out…

Clapton Davis with a popular!s/o

i'm hearing you out and i'm seated while doing so.

part two | part three

there is, without a doubt, a social pyramid at grizzly lake.

it's not extreme in the sense that people in different social circles don't interact at all (they do), but you won't find someone like ione foster having lunch with riley jones (although they used to be best friends...).

most students will have a group of friends they've had for years, unwilling to give up the integrity of that group for anyone reason - shutting anyone else out. you can talk to someone outside of your group, but know your place - you're not getting invited to that party on saturday.

as for you? you float somewhere near the top, not quite sure how it happened. you had so many friends you were constantly walking around in a pack of people - people just liked you, gravitating towards you and finding their eyes linger as you walked down the hall.

at grizzly lake, you were untouchable.

it didn't surprise clapton davis to see you in physics on the first day of the school year (he'd had a few classes with you throughout high school). but it did surprise him when your new teacher for the year, mr. kendall, sits you down at a lab table in the back of the room, away from all your friends. you give them a sad smile but take your seat, setting your things down and propping your head up on your hand.

you barely react when mr. kendall points his pencil to the space right next to yours and calls out, "clapton davis."

maybe it's because you know the entire room is watching you that you keep staring straight ahead, looking rather bored, expression unwavering as clapton slides into the chair next to yours.

he does look at you, eyebrows raised and lips upturned in a small smile, but clapton doesn't say anything. he slouches in his seat and eventually joins you in looking straight ahead at the board, wondering if you'd respond or ignore him if he tried to talk to you.

it's not like clapton hasn't thought about it before - he's considering finally working up the courage to go up and start a genuine conversation (or at least ask you for your number or something) at least once a week for the past year (though you've been on his radar for much longer). since freshman year, clapton has made exactly two comments that were directed to you, seven jokes while in your vicinity (four of which you laughed at), and probably over a hundred remarks in classes you shared (which still counted!).

sander thought the tally was against him. sander was also beginning to think clapton was seriously going to try and talk to you. no matter how much sander warned him, clapton insisted you were nicer to outsiders than they perceived.

now was clapton's chance to prove himself right - except the bell has rung and you're slinging your bag over your shoulder, picking up your notebook and meeting up with your friends. clapton can hear your laughter as you exit the classroom, eyes falling to the space you'd just occupied and realizing you'd left your pen.

there really isn't anything special about it (other than that it'd been in your hand), but clapton picks it up anyway, staring at the most common type of pen in the country for a few moments before finally, carefully, placing it in the front zipper of his backpack.

clapton was sure the absence of that pen made absolutely no difference to you; there were probably five pens exactly like that one in your pencil pouch. and yet, clapton made a little bit of a show of returning your pen the very next day. after all, it was the thought that counted, right?

"hey," clapton begins as soon as mr. kendall takes a tired seat at his desk, letting the class attend to each other. he's digging in his backpack and you're looking at him with a confused tilt of your head. clapton comes back with a grin and a pen in his hand. "you forgot this after class yesterday."

"huh?" your lips part and your eyes blink once, twice, three times before you finally realize what clapton is saying. "oh!" you say finally, still not quite recalling ever abandoning a pen. "thanks," you say sincerely, taking the pen from clapton and using it to write your name at the top of the worksheet that had been handed out. at least you won't have to dig another pen out now.

"sure," clapton says easily, though your focus is now on the equations in front of you rather than the boy next to you.

and for the first time in history, clapton is suddenly compelled to do his work. his eyes glance between you and the way your eyebrows furrow in confusion, your paper, and the textbook the two of you have to share. he flips through, eyes falling on an equation that looks pretty similar to #2. he punches a few numbers into his calculator confidently, sliding it over to you. your focus on your paper breaks, eyebrows slightly raised in confusion again (it's a cute look on you). you look at the calculator to clapton, who has one of his famously lazy smiles on, and back to the calculator. your face relaxes into a small smile.

"thanks," you say softly, ready to write down the answer clapton has presented you before you realize it's clapton davis.

"wait," you shake your head, laughing lightly. "there's no way that's right."

"what?" clapton scoffs lightly, arms on the table and sliding towards you to take a good look at his calculation. "that's totally right."

"clapton, you shouldn't even be getting a decimal," you laugh a little harder now, taking the calculator - his calculator - and clearing his answer. you stare at your paper for a few seconds, biting your lip lightly as clapton simply watches, completely focused on the way your bottom lip springs out from the hold of your teeth. he barely realizes you're stuck until his curious eyes wander down to your fingers and see them hovering over the small buttons of his calculator.

"plus 27," clapton offers, reaching over to hit the respective buttons, fingers lightly grazing yours for just a moment. completely bullshitting.

"how'd you get that?" you ask curiously and too sincerely, forgetting who it was you were talking to. but then clapton grins and shrugs and you roll your eyes, hitting that clear button again - but there's a smile on your face.

"are you trying to sabotage me, clapton?" and clapton remembers exactly how you had completely captivated him earlier - of course you knew his name, but he'd never heard you say it before today.

he wanted to hear it more.

clapton shrugs, leaning back in his seat. "retaking physics wouldn't be so bad if you were my partner again." smooth.

"okay, the school year barely started," you laugh. god, why can't you stop smiling?

clapton leans forward again, crossing his arms on the table and setting his head down on top of them. he doesn't move as you reach into his space to flip the page of the textbook, your arm right up against his, but you don't move either. your arm stays there as you read and try to comprehend whatever it is you're supposed to be learning. clapton doesn't even try to pretend to read, his eyebrows raising as he looks up at you.

you feel warm under clapton's constant gaze, suddenly, weirdly self-conscious. your face is warm and you try, uselessly, to use that pen to direct clapton's attention back to the problem at hand.

"clapton."

"hmm?" clapton hums as you look over, not bothering to look away. he smiles instead at how flustered you seem to be when you avert your eyes (as if you'd been the one who'd been caught staring).

"we have to finish this." you're glancing at the clock. there's a little bit of class left, but everyone else is much further along.

clapton tries not to falter when you say we, picking up his pencil and nodding in agreement. he feels your eyes on him as he scribbles out different numbers in each blank space all the way to #10.

"done," clapton smiles, completely satisfied. he slides on his oversized sunglasses, fingers swiping through the music library on his ipod. he's close enough for you to look over curiously, unable to hold in a laugh as you get a peek of clapton's music choice.

"sting?" you're leaning in closer now, the soft scent of your shampoo reaching clapton's nose.

"uh, yeah. they're like the bruno mars of 1992!"

you laugh again, shaking your head.

"what?" clapton scoffs lightly, smile on his face.

"nothing! nothing, that's just... not the type of music i thought you'd listen to."

clapton chuckles, eyebrows raised, body and attention turned completely towards you. he's holding out one of his wired earbuds for you and you decide that physics worksheet can wait.

it takes a lot of explaining afterwards to try and assure your friends that clapton davis walking you to class (and, in turn, being late to his own), earbuds dangling from both your ears while clapton excitedly explained the cultural significance of sting's fields of gold, did not mean anything. they don't believe you, teasing smiles and curious glances making that obvious.

though, you're not sure you believe yourself, either.

hello i got carried away <;3

please let me know if you'd like me to write more clapton x popular s/o + any specific scenarios!! i love love love pathetic loser men <;3

requests are open! | masterlist

[joshfutturman]

clapton davis, the babygirl puppy dog eyed boy that you are

[stop-talking]

Wait imagine listening to music with clapton while in detention.. like sharing earbuds with him while yall sit in silence🫢 and then a cringe song comes on at the wrong time LMAO

BLESS YOU anon this is so cute

Saturday School

Clapton Davis x gender-neutral reader

Word count: 2k

Tags: fluff, a little cringe, romantic tension, older Clapton & younger reader

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You'd managed to get through nearly 12 years of schooling without getting sentenced to detention.

Unfortunately, today resets your streak. Only a measly two weeks at this shitty school and you've already gotten yourself into trouble. Just your luck, huh?

God damnit. Surely, this is going to be absolute hell. I mean, it isn't even a regular after-school detention, but Saturday school.

As you take a seat in the meticulously-arranged circle of desks in the library, you spare a glance at the other students. You vaguely recognize some of them... the goth chick looks familiar, at least.

They all seem disinterested, so you copy their aloof attitudes and lean back in your chair. Yeah... that seems right. Just do what everyone else does, and maybe you'll survive this.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and slams against the wall. You turn to look, and see the principal himself storm through, dragging a boy in by the ear.

Oh great. Finally, someone you recognize, and it's motherfucking Clapton Davis.

"It's not fair! I don't even HAVE Saturday school!" He whines, wincing as he's roughly shoved towards an empty desk. The desk right next to you. Wonderful.

"Should have thought about that before coming to school on a Saturday." The older man growls, giving him what he probably thinks is an intimidating look. Honestly, he just looks silly.

Clapton groans, slinking back in the desk and letting out an exaggerated huff that blows his bangs around.

God, can't that guy just be normal? You only just transferred here and already you know almost everything about him. Not by choice... obviously. He's just somehow the center of attention wherever he goes. Even in goddamn Saturday school.

"And as for the rest of you..." The principal continues his rant, glaring at the small circle of students. No, prisoners.

"Just remember. I have eyes and ears everywhere. EVERYWHERE."

With one final less-than-intimidating-glare, the man stomps out, closing the door behind him. Is that it? He's just going to leave you here in a roomful of delinquents with nothing but a vague threat to keep you all in check?

You glance around at the other students, but no one says anything. Hm. Maybe that's normal. You have no idea, so you just lay your head down on your desk, determined to get through this mess as simply as possible.

Turns out, that sentiment might prove to be more challenging than you thought. You hear a quiet "thud", and shift slightly, peeking an eye to your left to see what the noise was. Are you crazy, or does Clapton look... closer?

Nope. Not crazy. With another soft thud, he scoots his desk over again, inching it closer to yours.

"Pssst." He whispers, extending a leg out to nudge your foot. He's less than a yard from you at this point. Though you can't see the other students with your head buried in your arms, you're sure they've noticed. Damnit. Why did this jackass have to draw attention to you?

"What do you want?" You grumble, shifting on the desk so he can see your face, but still trying to stay hidden from the other students.

"I haven't seen you around before. You new?" He gives you a sheepish grin, eyes flickering with mischief as he takes you in.

"Yeah." You respond dismissively, giving him a flat stare. Please just pick on someone else, Clapton Davis.

"Cool, cool..." He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling.

You watch as he restlessly taps his feet and tries to balance on two legs of his chair. He's so high-strung. Like a chihuahua. Small like one too. Hah. The thought makes you smile, which he unfortunately notices and takes as a sign of interest. Damnit.

"So... what are you in for?" He asks, treating the exchange like you're two inmates. Honestly, it's a fair comparison.

"I, uh... Accidentally lit my teacher on fire."

With a crash, Clapton tips back in his chair completely, hitting the floor. Hard.

"You WHAT?"

The sudden noise makes you jolt upright, and you can feel a blush creeping up your neck as the other students turn to stare.

"Accidentally!" You protest weakly, hanging your head in shame as Clapton scrambles to his feet.

"How the fuck do you 'accidentally' set someone on fire?" A dark-haired boy across from you scoffs, and a few other people voice similar questions.

"Okay so... Mr Jones's sleeve caught fire while giving me a demonstration with the bunsen burner..." You start, taking a deep breath and staring down at your desk to calm your nerves.

"I panicked and doused it with a vial of the closest liquid... apparently an extremely flammable liquid..."

"Is THAT why he went home early Friday?" A blonde girl asks, letting out a shrill laugh, like that of a hyena.

"Woah. Sick." The goth-looking girl just nods in approval before lying her head back down on the desk.

Before you can give any kind of response, you feel your desk jostle as Clapton's slams into it. Apparently he'd taken the initiative to get a little closer while everyone was distracted by your story.

"So, Grizzly Lake High has a new pyromaniac, huh?" He teases, propping his elbow up on the desk and resting his chin on his fist as he grins stupidly at you.

"New?" You scoff. "You mean you had an old one?"

"Hey, there's a lot of weirdoes here." He shrugs.

"Yeah... I can tell."

He pouts and tries to feign offence as you pointedly look him up and down. God, what a stupid fucking face.

"You're not in any of my classes, are you, newbie?"

"No. I'm a Junior."

"Ah. Well, maybe we'll have some together next year."

"Next year? Aren't you a Senior?"

"Yeah, but with the way my grades are looking..." He grimaces, shaking his head sadly.

"...you might be a Senior again next year?" You finish for him.

"Yeah."

"Bummer."

An awkward silence settles between the two of you, and Clapton starts to squirm, looking as if he wants to say something else.

"How'd you end up here? In Saturday school, I mean." You ask, if only to cut the tension. Not because you actually care.

"Oh." His face falls, clearly annoyed just thinking about it.

"Principal Verge confiscated my skateboard Friday... I was supposed to get it back at the end of the day, but I ended up getting detention... By the time I was done, he'd already left and locked It up in his office."

"Sooo... you came to steal it back?"

"Not steal! There's sometimes a few teachers here on weekends... I was just gonna ask one of them..." He mumbles, hanging his head.

"But stupid Verge caught me 'sneaking around' and threw me in Saturday school."

"Oh, so he just has it out for you, huh?" You tease.

"Exactly!" He hisses back, eyes wide with excitement.

"People just don't understand. I'm not a troublemaker... just unlucky."

Unlucky? He seems pretty damn lucky to you. Everyone likes Clapton Davis. Everyone but you, it seems.

"Pfft. Maybe you could try being quiet and sitting still for once." You muse, trying to hold back a smirk. He might be onto something though, honestly. He's a total trouble magnet... which is why you should probably just put your head back down and ignore him.

"Hey!" He pouts, feigning hurt as he reaches into his pocket.

"And to think, I was gonna offer to share..."

This piques your interest, and you lean closer to him, trying to get a glimpse of the object he's fiddling with under his desk. An iPhone. Great.

"Won't that just get you in more trouble?"

He rolls his eyes in return. "Look around. I'm not the only one."

Sure enough, when you look more closely at some of the other students... yep, at least half of them are on their phones. The way they slump over the desks sort-of hides it, but once you knew what to look for... damn. He's right.

"Why? What's even the point of Saturday school, then?" You're completely baffled by this revelation, shaking your head.

"What's the point of school at all?" He counters, shrugging and popping an earbud into his ear. His wired headphones are extremely tangled, but he offers you the other earbud anyways.

"So, wanna share?"

Damnit. You really shouldn't. But you hadn't brought your own phone, and fuck, that grin of his...

"Fine. What do you have on there?" You sigh and accept the earbud, scooting closer to him so it'll actually reach your ear. There's not much slack with how tangled they are, so the two of you are nearly cheek to cheek as you hunch in your seats and peer down at his phone.

"Here, I'll turn on my playlist."

He fiddles with the little phone, and you can feel his breath mixing with yours as he speaks. Eventually he gets some music playing, but you can hardly hear it over the beating of your own heart.

"What do you think? You like 90s stuff?" Clapton smiles warmly, turning to face you.

His smile is contagious, and you can't help but let your gaze flicker down to his lips... just for a moment. He's so close, his mouth just inches from your own.

"Uh, yeah. I-I mean, who doesn't?" You mumble lamely, feeling a familiar heat creep up your neck and tinge your cheeks. Fuck. He's not that cute, get yourself together!!

"I know, right?" Apparently that's the right answer, because he turns his attention back to the phone, scrolling through his playlist and pointing out his favorite songs.

His music taste isn't bad, actually. You find yourself nodding at his choices, and soon you begin to forget where you are. The other students fade into the background, and Saturday school starts to feel a little less grim.

That is, until the song changes and the vibe is completely thrown off. What the hell is this? Your brow furrows and you try to make out the nonsense lyrics.

Cat? I'm a kitty cat. And I dance dance dance And I dance dance dance Cat? I'm a kitty cat. And I dance dance dance And I dance dance dance

The lyrics repeat over and over, and Clapton nearly drops his phone in his scramble to change the song. In his rush, he gets his password wrong over and over, making it impossible to fix.

"Clapton, why the hell is this on your playlist?" You ask, putting a hand to your mouth in a failing attempt to stifle a giggle.

"I-it's catchy, alright??" He mumbles, still trying to change the song. He gets his password wrong for, like, the tenth time, and it locks him out of his phone for thirty seconds, leaving you both stuck with the nonsensical cat lyrics ringing in your ears.

You try to keep your composure, but when the man singing the song starts meowing, you completely lose it and throw yourself onto your desk in a fit of laughter.

Unfortunately for Clapton, you accidentally tug the headphone cord with you, unplugging it from his phone. As you bury your head in your arms and laugh uncontrollably, the silly cat song starts blasting out loud for the whole room to hear.

And he can't even do anything about it, because he's still locked out of his phone for the next 20 seconds.

"S-sorry!" He shouts, trying to cram his phone into his backpack to shut it up.

You can feel all eyes on the two of you, but this whole situation is so utterly ridiculous, you don't even mind the attention. A few other kids snicker, and you can't help but feel a little bad for him.

Your remorse fades as soon as the principal throws the door open, immediately turning his attention to you and Clapton.

"Both of you!" He roars, pointing an accusing finger. "Detention on Monday! And Tuesday!"

Damnit. You knew this boy was trouble, and yet...? As the cat song finally stops, you meet Clapton's gaze, a sheepish smile plastered across his face.

Maybe spending a little more time with him wouldn't be so bad.

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Author's Note: Sorry if it wasn't fluffy enough...? I mean, the reader kind of hates him at first, and they don't even kiss... But the request was really funny, and I love putting Jhutch characters in awkward situations <3

Maybe I'll write a sequel? Probably not, though. Sorry it took so long to write, also. I wrote half of it and then let it sit in my drafts for weeks before writing the other half.

Hope y'all enjoyed, feel free to send in more requests!! I'll get to them eventually, even if it takes weeks. <3

[hutchersonsgurl]

How to be a Heartbreaker Clapton Davis

Paring female reader with Clapton Davis

Warning 18+ MDNI. Smut warning

Word count

Synopsis you and your of boyfriend Clapton (of two years) are put in detention because the two of you gotten to a fight in the middle of class about a rumor that he's cheating on you

Rule # 2 don't get attached to someone you could lose

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Mr Willams comes into the room and sits on the desk

"Well it's just the two of you in detention today you might as well pull your homework out your here for an hour in the meantime I'll be in the teachers lounge watching TV" Mr willams says and then he leaves the classroom

You are sitting in the back of the room and Clapton is sitting up front of the room messing with his nails looking like he wants to say something

"You know we wouldn't be in here if my girlfriend wasn't crazy and let someone get into her head" Clapton said outloud

"We wouldn't be here if my boyfriend wasn't known for being a player" you respond back

"How am I player when I've been with your ass for two years?" Clapton asked

"Not my fault your a moron" you say sarcastically

"Oh I'm a moron " Clapton says mocking you rolling his eyes

The two of you sit in silence for a moment and then Clapton stands up and walks over to you

"I don't want to talk to you right now Clapton" you say rolling your eyes

"Well too bad we're gonna talk this out right now because I'm not about to sit here for an hour while my girlfriend is mad at me" Clapton says

He looks at you with his brown eyes and you cave instantly

"Ugh fine" you say

"Now be a good girl and tell me what Lexi said to you" Clapton said sitting on your desk looking down at you

"She said that you we're flirting with her and she was rubbing it in my face all day" you respond

"So you choose to act crazy and getting mad at me for something I didn't do? instead of talking to me?" He asks

"Well I was all worked up and you wasn't listening to me" you say rolling your eyes

"Because it was ridiculous and you should that by now Yn I love you and this dick only belongs too you" he responds

"But lucky for you I love me some crazy girls and my girlfriend is the craziest person I know" Clapton says as he grabs your face

He holds your face in the both of his hands and he crashes his lips into yours kissing you like his life depended on it

"I only want you yn, I love you and only you" Clapton says

"By the way this dress has been driving me crazy all day" Clapton continues

"Oh yeah? Then what are you gonna do about it? "You respond teasingly

"I'll show you one sec" he says with a smug smile on his face

He walks over to the door and locks it once it's locked he walks back over to you

He pulls you up and sits you on your desk

"You have no idea what you do to me baby" he says looking into your eyes

"Then show me" you respond

He spreads your legs open playing with the lines of your panties you can already feel your cunt becoming wet

"already so wet for Daddy" He purred

He slides down your panties His fingers slid through your wet folds and he smirked rubbing your clit with his thumb.

He grabs you by your throat and pulls your face to his

"you are mine and only mine," he says he unbuckled his jeans pulling out his cock and sliding through your folds. He began to kiss your neck sucking harshly before he thrusted into you.

"Oh fuck Daddy" you say with a moan

"you know you belong too me right?" Clapton says with a moan

"y-yes" you managed to blurt out

"Good" he responds

His fingers gripped your waist as he moved back as you leaned on the desk he looked into your eyes with his brown eyes with each thrust

while he was counting to fuck you you could hear Mr Willams. on his way back

so the two of you put your clothes back on

you slide your dress back on but can't find your panties

you look for them and then you see Clapton has them he looks at you with a smirk and he puts in his pocket

"We'll continue this later" he says with a smirk going back to his desk

You get back in yours in time

Mr Willams walks back in

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No edits

Part 2