#detention x reader

[biblio-smia]

part one | part two | part three

rumors spread quickly at grizzly lake.

they travel through quiet exchanges, through notes passed in the middle of class and through instant messages. it doesn't take long to spread a rumor; depending on how interesting the people involved are, it takes a few days at most.

so, of course, the rumor that you and clapton davis are dating naturally makes its way through the halls of grizzly lake within 48 hours.

this particular rumor is solidified by clapton's new pattern of walking you to class, a habit that has made him routinely late to math - which just has to be on the opposite side of the school from your last class of the day. not even wheels in an empty hallway save clapton each time he knocks on the door of ms. jenson's class with a grin on his face and a tardy slip in his hand.

this development between you and clapton turns heads each day it happens, eyebrows raised and questions on the tip of tongues as you two make your way down the hall together. there's no pulling either of you from your bubble on these days, occasionally listening to music but usually too deep in conversation to pay anyone else any mind.

but as the initial surprise mellows, theories about the nature you and clapton's relationship are made - and so began the rumors.

it was the only reasonable explanation, clearly. why else would you, with your ever-cycling group of friends, choose to have clapton davis above anyone else as your escort?

many considered clapton davis the luckiest guy in the world, notebooks clutched longingly to their chests, mouths agape with hopeless desires to replace him.

many wondered how clapton davis had managed to charm you of all people, if there was a formula able to be replicated.

and many were non-believers, refusing to accept that clapton davis of all people had somehow managed to bag you.

some of these non-believers included your closest friends.

"are you and clapton davis dating?" a voice rings, taking you by surprise as you throw your locker shut.

"jesus, you scared the shit out of me!" you cry, hand over your chest as you readjust your hold on your english textbook and your bag. there's a few minutes before first period and only a few hours before clapton steals you away again.

"answer the question," your friend demands, trying to look serious with arms crossed.

"no, we aren't." you turn to start heading towards class. your voice sounds strange, even to you. but it's not like you're lying - you and clapton really aren't together.

"well, you sound disappointed." your friend bumps your shoulder, taking the same route to keep interrogating you. "so, walking you to class every day doesn't mean anything?" there's a playful acknowledgement in there and your face warms with the sudden realization that, despite thinking you're in your own little world, you and clapton really haven't been.

you stop outside your classroom, take a moment to roll your eyes. "no. we're just friends."

"just friends," your friend repeats, smiling growing. "alright."

the bell rings, signaling a few minutes to get to class. not that you need it - but your friend does and temporarily retreats, saving you from any more teasing.

"it doesn't mean anything!" you call hopelessly.

"yeah, alright!"

however, rumors at grizzly lake don't last forever (unless it's really, really bad). soon enough, each rumor gets replaced by a new one, a never-ending cycle of news circulating quickly with the help of students more interested in the lives of others than their own, boring ones.

though, upon your insistence that you and clapton are just friends, you should be thankful if your friends speed your feature out of the news cycle quicker, right?

the first time clapton loses you after the bell signals the end of physics is on a wednesday. he waits for you to finish packing your stuff up, homework shoved in his backpack while you store it neatly inside a folder. he considers taking the notebooks right out of your hands, thinks about taking your bag and slinging it on his free shoulder - but then you're looking at him with a smile, ready to go.

he's listening to you talk about your job at the local mall when your friends flock the two of you. you're confused, but it seems to be important as they enclose you and drag you off, leaving clapton alone in the hallway, feeling a little lost. he has to remind himself of the route he used to take before his pit stop revolving around you. he still holds an easy smile, proud even, upon walking into math on time for the first time in a while, watching ms. jenson's mouth fall open as clapton takes his seat. though there's a pang in his chest that clapton thinks might be longing, ricocheting through his chest as he imagines the stories you would've continued telling him as you walked together and lingered outside the entrance of your class, holding on to every moment before the warning bell rung and you'd have to push clapton to get to class (usually with a laugh that made clapton's heart sing). though clearly, he wasn't missing much.

the next day, clapton is determined to get those moments with you back, going so far as to walk backwards to keep your attention solely on him, your hands sweetly raised and ready to pull clapton back on balance if he ever loses it. and briefly, he considers losing it on purpose.

but then he feels his back bump against someone harshly and watches as, again, your friends flock and drag you away from him, leaving him with no reason to head left (as he'd grown accustomed to doing) rather than right.

it's beginning to bother clapton.

clapton, usually laid back about everything, is beginning to get jealous.

of course, it's not like you're dating. the rumor had made clapton laugh when he mentioned it to you and watched as you looked away in embarrassment, mumbling something about how lame the people making up those types of rumors had to be. like everything, clapton had treated it like a joke - now, he was wondering if he should've taken a different approach. should he have pretended to not hear about it? should he have used it to ask you out? hey, why don't we make those rumors true...?

clapton shakes his head. he's a little jealous, yes, but it's not like he has any reason to be. even if you were dating, you were still allowed to have friends. obviously, your friends wanted to talk to you (i mean, who wouldn't?). they were probably a little annoyed with clapton for taking up so much of your time without even being a proper part of your social circle. yes, that's it. your friends are just like clapton, fighting for your attention (though clapton's sure his motives are much different than theirs).

but this situation, distracting an easily-distracted clapton davis from the math course he really needs to pass, is still missing a piece that clapton still can't put his finger on. there's something still bothering him, still forcing him to replay the last two days over and over again, making him relive the embarrassment and hurt of you leaving him to walk by himself, even if unintentional.

wait - that's it.

did you intend for this? had you asked your friends to save you from clapton's insistence on escorting you to class? were they acting as your new bodyguards... from him?

no. clapton tries to replay the moments, tries to recall the expressions on your face as your friends come up in between you. interest, he remembers, in whatever it is they're saying - enough that you don't even spare him a glance as they carry you off.

and now... well, clapton's not so sure.

clapton pants as he takes a seat on the bleachers next to sander, catching his breath after enough participation to pass gym. his eyes scope the gym and land on you, standing off to the side. dressed out but not doing anything, talking to your friends instead.

actually, talking to billy nolan instead.

clapton suddenly feels a pounding in his head, grabbing his water bottle a little too harshly, unscrewing the lid a little too angrily. he gulps down half the bottle before realizing, screwing the lid back on and crushing the top a little as he shoves it inside his backpack.

okay, now he can admit he's really jealous.

sander's eyes follow clapton's to where you're standing, talking animatedly with billy nolan. it really isn't surprising - you're in good standing with lots of the guys on the football team.

though this one irks clapton in particular - mostly because of the rumor-that-turned-out-to-be-true that billy nolan and ione foster had recently broken up.

sander's pale fingers are snapping in clapton's face, forcing his attention from you smiling and nodding at something billy said (seriously, there was no way anything from billy's mouth count cause for that reaction), back to sander.

"dude, hello?" sander sighs as clapton looks at him blankly, only for a few seconds, before returning to stare daggers at billy.

"well," sander begins again and clapton is already ready to roll his eyes. "can i just say i told you so?"

"no, you can't," clapton warns.

"well, i will anyway. i told you so."

clapton rolls his eyes. unfortunately for him, sander continues.

"i mean, seriously. having to watch you get basically rejected in physics over and over? that was sad. and public, by the way." sander doesn't shut up despite clapton's glare, now directed from billy to him. "but c'mon, dude. the two of you?" sander emphasizes his vision with his hands, capturing a frame of clapton with his fingers and imagining it on top of billy. "just doesn't make sense," sanders shrugs. "i know you're friends with a bunch of people but there's a line between friend and boyfriend. you're too-cool-for-school cool but not football-player cool."

"thanks, man. i really appreciate that," clapton nods, slamming sander's shoulder a little too hard as he stands, heading to the locker room to change back into decent clothes.

though as he freshens up, clapton's really not sure if he's capable of sitting next to you for nearly an hour now. he's sure he'll be hearing rumors of you and billy dating soon if he hasn't received a random text about it already - and unbothered, laid-back clapton is suddenly angry.

not at you. who could blame you in this situation? obviously you'd pick football star, bright-future-ahead-of-him billy nolan over slacker, praying-to-make-it-to-graduation clapton davis. no, this was not your fault. it's not like you'd started the rumor that you and clapton were dating, or ever done anything to insinuate romance between you and he. no - come to think of it, clapton had been the one trying to force something between the two of you - and clearly, you weren't interested.

thought clapton thought back to your smiles and your giggles, how you'd laugh at every single one of his jokes (even the really stupid ones that no one else would laugh at). he thought of every time your arms would touch and you wouldn't move away. as if you'd enjoyed being close to him as much as he did.

so, although clapton decided to skip physics, he just had to know.

he waits in the parking lot, knows you drive yourself home. he hopes his eyes don't fail him as he scans the large clusters of students all anxious to get home - it's friday, after all.

he sees you, finally, relieved you had not somehow teleported out of class and gotten off campus before he could even blink. clapton tries to guess where you're headed, meets you halfway, pulls you back onto the sidewalk so you're not standing in the middle of the road.

there's confusion on your face as you realize it's clapton and he selfishly savors these moments alone with you. but your eyebrows furrow and your mouth begins moving before clapton can begin.

"hey, where were you today? i missed you in class."

miss, as in i miss you? or miss as in, didn't catch you?

clapton wants to ask but he shakes his head. it's easier to get straight to the point - before he loses the nerve and before people might ruin the opportunity he has right now.

"are you going out with billy nolan?" clapton asks quickly, nervously, very uncharacteristically.

the lack of response and the sudden question only makes your puzzled expression worse. you realize clapton's hand is still wrapped around your wrist and you pull it off gently - though you let your hands hang together.

"uh, no," you answer with a laugh, suddenly a little tired of so many people demanding these types of answers from you. it's like you're at a press conference with new rumors to dispute every few days.

"i'm serious," clapton frowns and you want to laugh - nervously, now. you feel like you're in another dimension, where clapton davis is suddenly dead serious about something while you can't keep your composure.

"okay, so am i," you insist truthfully, beginning to get a little irritated. clapton knows how stupid you think the people that come up with these rumors are. he knows how you reacted to the one that you two had been the center of. and it's not like you would lie to him. "in what world am i that clapton davis is acting serious now?"

wrong thing to say.

clapton's frown deepens and you feel the regret instantly in your chest. "clapton?" you ask, his intensity beginning to worry you.

clapton's hand drops from yours and he shrugs. "you know, you can just... tell me if you like billy nolan. you know i'm not the type to spread rumors."

okay, now you're irritated.

"okay, clapton, i'm seriously not-"

"i mean, it makes sense for you to be! he's a football player, you're... you!" clapton exclaims.

"okay," you cross your arms, suddenly a little defensive. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"nothing bad, just..." clapton thinks about his next words before he says them - freaky. "billy nolan is the type of guy you belong with. y'know, popular but in a cool way."

now that makes you scoff.

"clapton, seriously, what the fuck are you talking about right now?"

clapton tries to recall what sander told him, how it'd made him angry in the moment, how it'd started to make sense the more he thought about it. "you know," clapton scoffs. "we just don't fit together."

and that makes your jaw drop.

"wow, okay," you begin as you attempt to gather your thoughts. "so, you'd like me to go out with billy nolan because it'd make sense for me to?"

clapton begins to speak, but you stop him.

"rhetorical question. i mean, seriously, clapton, i thought you of all people would be above the whole 'popularity' thing. this isn't some bad high school movie. i'm not going to go out with some stupid football player just because some people think i should!" your voice is growing in volume now and you're thankful most people have already cleared out.

"i mean," you huff exasperatedly. "if you haven't noticed, i like you, clapton. i don't care that you're not a football player or you're not 'cool popular,' whatever the fuck that means. i like you because you're funny and you're sweet and you're not the person i thought you were." your face is hot as you chew clapton out, fueling your own fire as you keep on going. "but if you really think i'm the type of person to care about the social status of the person i'm dating, then maybe i didn't learn as much as i thought about you." your breathing evens out with a few final huffs, hands in fists by your sides. you've watched about twenty different emotions run their courses through clapton but you can't bring yourself to feel bad, only feeling the pounding of your heart and the blood rushing in your head.

"maybe you're right," you say as you turn your back to clapton, forcing yourself to tear your eyes off him. "maybe we just don't fit together."

clapton is forced to watch your figure retreat into your car and eventually disappear out of the parking lot.

the school building had locked behind him, effectively locking his skateboard in for the weekend, forcing clapton to walk home. he really has perfect timing, because he's only made it half a block before it begins to rain. at least the walk gives him even more time to reflect on what a fucking idiot he just was.

because while you may have been the one that retreated, clapton feels like he's the one who lost.

almost fell asleep halfway thru writing this pls forgive me!

requests are open! | masterlist

[iheartspderman]

i’m gonna time travel for detention era josh hutcherson.

[r04dk1llx2]

Begging For It *ੈ✩‧₊˚

This came to me suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, so enjoy it.

Pairing: Clapton Davis x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: You get to peg Clapton Davis. That’s it. That’s the story.

Tags: GN!reader (use of ‘mommy’ is the only gendered term), Dom!reader, Sub!Clapton, pegging, strap-on penetration, anal, nipple clamps, vibrating cock ring, whiny Clapton (as usual), premature ejaculation (he’s touch starved and horny be nice to him), praise, degradation, overstimulation, thigh-highs, very brief choking, average early 2000s teenager room setup, don’t talk about the fact that Ayesha didn’t produce music in that timeframe…

The harsh moonlight from your open window shines along his skin, illuminating the thin sheen of sweat covering his toned body. You were balls deep in Clapton Davis, the schools resident jackass.

“f-fuuuuck—! don’t stop-!” Your room is entirely filled with his moans, even drowning out the sound of the Ayesha Erotica track that he had playing on your speaker. Clapton was never one to be quiet.. being in bed with him was no different.

You thrust slowly, holding his hips as he groans into the fuzzy pink pillow beneath him. He looked entirely fucked out, his hair messy and stuck to his forehead, his necklaces tangled and his shirt pulled up to expose his chest, not to mention the black thigh highs you convinced him to wear for you. You gently pull at his hair, forcing him to look back at you.

He’s already drooling, long eyelashes fluttering as he looks back at you with a dumb grin, the chain connecting the nipple clamps you had put on him earlier jingling each time you push into him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, pretty boy?” You purr, his hole clenching around you as soon as he hears that nickname. He nods frantically, lips parted slightly as he lets out a sharp whimper.

You pick up the pace, causing him to loose balance as you slam into him. He’s panting, a total mess beneath you as you bring your hand to hold his head down against the bed, your other hand reaching down to pump his painfully hard cock.

He yelps, hips bucking into your fist as soon as you make contact with his length. His thighs tense, his muscles showing under those sheer black thigh highs.

“Ghh—! m-mommy—!” He sobs, babbling incoherently, completely dumbed down by your dick. He whines loudly, eyes rolling back as you slam into his prostate.

It only takes a few more thrusts against his sweet spot for him to moan, his dick twitching hard in your hand before immediately shooting a load out against his stomach, coating your zebra print sheets in the process. He was never one to last long, got himself too excited and worked up.

He cries out, panting hard as you continue to move, only slowing down enough for him to catch his breath. He’s insatiable.

“Already cumming so soon, baby?”

“M’sorry—“ He pants, still rocking his hips back against you. “Please- keep going— need it-“

You nod, slipping your cock out as you turn him onto his back. He looks.. embarrassed, completely flushed, but turned on.

“Good boy… think you can cum again for me? Make your mommy proud?”

He nods pathetically, his hips rolling against the air, desperate for contact again. You grin down at him, reaching down to grab the chain connecting his clamps, tugging at it, watching his expression contort in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“Fucking whore. Of course you’d be more than happy to cum again.” You spit, snapping the elastic of his thigh highs against his skin. He lets out a choked sob, tears pricking in his eyes from the overstimulation. “Stay there.”

You briefly get up, rummaging around the bedside drawer before pulling out a bright pink ring. You hold it up, waving it teasingly infront of his face as you climb back ontop of him, kneeling between his thighs.

“You know what this is, don’t you, baby?” You hum, watching his pupils dilate.

“u-uhm… a cock ring..?” Clapton stammers, nervously biting his lip. His cock twitches from the thought of you using it on him alone.

“Mhm.. that’s right. This one vibrates, it’s gonna keep you nice and hard while I fuck you.” You murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his thigh, slowly slipping the cock ring onto his hardening dick. He whimpers, cock twitching at the sensation, a small bead of precum already forming at his slit.

“God, you’re such a slut…” You scoff, grabbing the bottle of lube that had been set aside on the end of the bed, pumping a generous amount on your hand before stroking yourself. Once you’re fully coated and lubed up, you guide his hips up and press back against his ass, feeling it immediately take you in.

He groans once you slide back in, knowing you hadn’t turned on the vibrating function to his cock ring just yet. His gaze meets yours, full of lust and a twinge of anticipation in those big puppy eyes.

“Mommy…?”

“F-fuck- what? you want that turned on already? are you that desperate to cum again?” You grunt, slowly pumping in and out of him, sweat already forming on your brow. He nods, looking a little embarrassed.

You sigh, a small smirk escaping your lips before you press the side button of the ring, feeling it vibrate to life. Clapton whines, hips bucking again as you hold his thighs, thrusting harder. He already looked close.

With how loud he is, you can barely register the music that’s still filling your bedroom, as if you could even think of anything aside from Clapton at this point. He looks so pretty… lips soft and puffy from earlier, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, a deep blush covering his freckled cheeks.

“Fuck me harder- p-please-! feels s’good—“

He’s begging again, how cute. You oblige, ramming deeper and deeper into his ass, the bright pink of the dildo connected to your strap-on sliding in and out of his pretty little hole, how he managed to take this much up the ass? No clue, but you weren’t one to judge.

After a few moments of listening to him babble incoherently, you turn up the vibrations on his cock ring, causing him to sob out in pleasure. His cock looked pathetic, all red and overstimulated, but still rock hard and leaking everywhere. As if he didn’t already leak all over this bed, you’ve got to wash those sheets later..

You reach down to grab his throat, applying just enough pressure to make him see stars as you fuck him, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. You feel his legs wrap around your torso, the sensation of his thigh highs rubbing against your sides as he pulls you in closer.

“Cmon, Clapton… cum for me, be a good boy and cum” You pant, leaning in to kiss him, darting your tongue out to wet his painfully chapped lips. He almost instantly complies, parting his lips so you could deepen the kiss, letting your tongues dance as you thrust harder and harder into him.

He whimpers and moans into your mouth, stifling himself as he wraps his arms around your shoulders. You hear his voice go up an octave, and his legs begin to tremble, his nails digging into your back as you feel a sudden sensation shoot up against your stomach.

You pull back, a string of saliva connecting your lips as you hear him panting heavily under you, his eyes shut a his mouth still slightly open.

“Good boy… Such a good boy..” You whisper, peppering soft kisses along his jaw, slowly moving down to his shoulders. You let the ring continue to vibrate, but pull yourself out slowly, eliciting a high pitched whine from the pretty boy underneath you.

“mmhh- fuck— t-thank you, mommy—“ He breathes out, slowly opening his eyes, a mess of sweat and tears covering his soft skin. You wipe his cheeks, smiling softly down at him.

“mm-hmm.. of course, baby, I love yo—“

Knock. Knock.

“Y/N?? Did Clapton come over? You know we don’t want your friends over this late at night!”

Suddenly, a knock on your bedroom door, accompanied by the voice of.. who you could only assume was your parents, of course it was your parents, you haven’t moved out yet. You stare down at Clapton, his eyes were wide, and frankly, so were yours. You can barely make out the words over the mix of music and the vibrating of Claptons cock ring..

“oh fuck-“

[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."

[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.

[thepowerofswayze]

Surprise Visit

also on ao3

pairing: clapton davis (2011) / reader [gender not specified]

word count: 555 (angel number now you have to read)

warnings & info: straddling, kissing, truly just fluff

summary: your boyfriend pops in one night to see you

note: v short and sweet :p one day, i will write an adequate length, smutty ass clapton fic. but today isn't that day.

☆

Clapton wished that he’d grabbed a hoodie on his way out.

He was standing outside of your house on a 50 degree night with only a tank top and a pair of basketball shorts to protect him from the cold. The chill wasn’t so bad on his arms, but his ears were starting to hurt and his eyes stung everytime the wind blew.

He reached up and knocked on the window in front of him, waiting for you to come see who was there. A shivering minute passed before he realized he hadn’t even checked to make sure you were home. Just as he reached for his phone, the window slid up.

“You’re kidding me.”

Your boyfriend had a habit of appearing at your window. It was partially your fault, as you had told him numerous times he could show up whenever, but he usually shot you a text first. Not that you minded much. You’d just been wasting time sprawled out on your desk chair, texting a friend about one thing or another, a cd playing in the background. You’d been moments away from asking him to come over yourself.

Clapton was already halfway in the room by the time you’d spoken, tumbling onto the floor, landing on his ass. He sat there, looking up at you with a dopey grin as you closed the window and shook your head at him. “It’s only nine,” he started, holding out a hand as you rolled your eyes. “You weren’t even in bed yet.”

You took his hand, hoisting him up. “Jesus, Clapton, you’re freezing. Did you walk all the way?”

A shrug. “It’s just a couple blocks.”

“In a tank top? You’re insane. Certifiable, even.” You were rubbing your thumb along the back of his hand, like that’d warm him up. It was sweet enough to make his stomach flip- though almost everything you did made him feel that way.

Clapton huffed a laugh, dropping onto your bed and tilting his head, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “You’re right, I’m so cold.” He threw in an exaggerated shiver, even as he felt the heat of your room bringing him back to a normal temperature. “Why don’t you come warm me up?”

You groaned, bringing a hand to cover your face, but he could see the grin pulling at your lips. He pulled you closer by your belt loops so you stood between his legs and spent a second taking you in- the way your lips curled up as you looked down at him, the sparkle of your eyes as your hands fell away, opting instead to clasp behind his neck. 

“Well,” you began, biting your bottom lip, surveying him. Your eyes glanced towards your bedroom door- locked. Your parents were asleep by now anyway. “I can’t very well let you freeze, can I?” A muffled ‘Mm-mm’ was all the response you got, as Clapton was too busy pressing kisses to your stomach through your shirt. When you hummed and climbed onto his lap, straddling him, he knew he’d won. He looked up at you with those big brown eyes, and you scoffed as you cupped his face in both hands. “You’re unbelievable.”

He answered with a blinding smile. “You love me,” he said, and you shut him up with your lips on his.

[jellypopswag]

Hello! I was wondering if you could do an imagine where Clapton goes over to the readers house and have a smoke sesh, maybe make out and goes outside, riding his skateboard together🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

𝙎𝙢𝙤𝙠𝙚 𝙎𝙚𝙨𝙝

♡ ♡ ♡ jelly's notes ; ~13k words, clapton x gn!reader, m rated, lapslock, shotgunning, mentions and depictions of smoking weed, more romance than i intended

he can't get enough of you.

he's excited to see you, even just by the way he knocks on your front door—eager, fast, and loud.

you've come to believe that, when it comes to you, he thinks like a dog. every minute spent apart feels like an hour, and every hour spent apart feels like ten.

"coming!" you exclaim as you emerge from the kitchen, carrying some snacks. you make your way to the front door— at a leisurely pace, of course. the longer he waits, the more affectionate he'll be when he finally sees you.

you place down an ashtray and some snacks on your coffee table— chips, freshly popped popcorn, soda— the kind of junk food that you feel less guilty about eating when you're doing it with someone else.

closing the distance between you and the front door, tugging it open, your senses are ambushed in an all-too-familiar way.

clapton pulls you into a tight embrace, enveloping you in his arms. this close, you can smell his cologne— a deep, masculine scent, with an addicting tinge of sweetness you can only smell up close.

after a moment of basking in his embrace, clapton pulls away just enough to look you in the eyes. "I missed you," he says, as if his eagerness to get his hands on you didn't make that obvious already.

you smile at him, his hands easing downward to grasp onto your waist— holding you there.

clingy is an understatement.

you reply with a quick kiss; just enough to leave him wanting more. "what movie do you want to watch?" you ask innocuously, pulling away from him to sit on your couch.

his hands slip from your waist as you turn to walk off, causing you to grab his hand and pull it into your own— so as to not lose physical contact with him completely.

maybe the clinginess goes both ways.

he interlocks his fingers with your own, sitting down on the couch right beside you— leaving as little space between you both as possible.

"anything," he says, like he often does, which is code for 'i won't be paying attention to whatever we watch anyways.'

you eye him for a moment, an amused grin tugging at your lips. he really does love you, if the adoration in his unwavering gaze is anything to go by. it's no wonder that, when you're in the room, he can't focus on anything else.

"alright then," you slip your hand out of his own, a conscious choice on your part to make sure he continues to ache for more. You grab the remote off of the coffee table to scroll through netflix.

as if your sudden lack of physical contact knocked him out of his lovesick daze, he suddenly remembers something.

beside you, you hear shuffling as clapton adjusts to pull something out of his pocket: a small plastic bag, with a few pre-rolled blunts inside.

very classy.

turning to glance at him, you chuckle at the sight; already amused by how this night will inevitably go.

he leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before tossing the bag on the coffee table, shoving his hand into his other pocket to tug out a lighter.

"if I didn't know any better, I'd think that you're trying to get me to do drugs," you comment, with all of the amusement your teasing tone can convey. you grab the bag off of the coffee table, tugging it open.

"good thing you know better, then," he says, tone just as playful, and snatches the bag from you with a cheeky grin. "this is all for me."

you huff, quickly followed by a laugh, reaching to grab the bag from him. he lifts the bag up above his head, keeping it out of your reach. his grin has turned into a full, cocky smirk.

in your attempts to grab the bag from him, you end up in a rather compromising position; leaning over him, with one hand firmly on the back of the couch as your other arm stretches out as far as it can— trying to grab the bag and failing. to avoid losing your balance and collapsing atop him, your outstretched hand lowers to prop yourself up-- accidentally trapping him beneath you.

the laughter between you both slowly quiets, as the implication of what tonight entails begins to set in.

and, as cocky as clapton is, moments like these make his blind confidence melt.

he's in awe of you atop of him for a moment too long, leaving you just enough time to grab the plastic bag from clapton— getting off of him in the process.

laughing triumphantly to yourself, you pull a blunt out of the bag as clapton readjusts himself to sit upright. he grabs the lighter, shifting so that he can turn to you— an expectant glint in his gaze.

by now, you've long since realized something about clapton: he loves doing things for you.

if he had any say in it, you'd never have to lift a single finger again. oftentimes he doesn't even realize the ways in which he spoils you; down to his insistence that he always light blunts for you.

"let me do it for you," he'd said, the two of you crammed in the corner of a shitty house party.

you were just trying to score some weed, to make a shitty evening a little more bearable, but he thought you were beautiful— far too beautiful to do something so frivolous yourself.

you press the blunt to your lips— smiling around it, leaning into clapton just slightly— thumb and index finger holding the blunt in place.

with practiced ease, his gaze focuses in on your mouth— a quiet fizzle searing into the air as the other end of the blunt is carefully singed.

a comfortable, intimate silence falls over you both as you inhale— the familiar, earthy taste seeping into your mouth.

a quiet clanking sound signals that clapton has tossed the lighter down, although you barely register the noise— a haze washing over you as you sigh, light puffs of smoke flowing from your mouth.

your throat burns with it, but you've done this enough times to be largely unphased. you inhale again, pulling the blunt from your lips to pass off to clapton.

clapton takes the blunt from you, and in one swift motion— his lips are pressed softly against your own, blunt carefully outstretched to be certain that he doesn't accidentally burn you.

it's easy to melt into clapton; from the addicting sensation of his kiss, to the gentle way in which his unoccupied hand snakes its way upwards to cup your jaw in his soothing touch.

it was no secret that clapton was a fan of shotgunning. it hadn't been a secret for quite a while, actually. once you two had established frequent smoke sessions with each other, it hadn't taken long before his lowered inhibitions had enabled him to start making some rather bold moves.

you lean into his kiss, tilting your head as your lips part just slightly. with a gentle huff, the pool of smoke seeps into clapton's own mouth-- filling the air between you both with a dizzying haze.

before you can fall too deeply into the passionate kiss, clapton is pulling away-- with a dazed, cheeky grin you can't help but to admire.

maintaining eye contact, clapton presses the blunt to his own mouth-- inhaling deeply. plucking the blunt from his lips, he shifts his body to set the blunt down in the ashtray on the coffee table.

everything happens in slow motion after that.

seizing the opportunity, you use his distracted state to your advantage-- waiting until the moment he lets go of the blunt to gently shove him down onto the couch.

he stammers for just a moment as you crawl atop him, clapton looking up at you with big, dazed eyes.

you make a conscious effort not to touch him-- body hovering above his. you lean down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his own. quickly taking the hint, he returns the kiss in tandem-- a puff of smoke flooding into your mouth once again and filling your senses with nothing but dizzying want and the desperate need to cling onto clapton and never let go.

foolish, to think you could last more than a moment without getting your hands on him.

clapton reaches up to you, one hand cupping your jaw as the other trails downward to your hips, pulling you closer to him.

you hum, the sound reverberating into his mouth as you place a hand flat on his sternum-- fingertips carefully stroking his chest.

the weed-induced haze easing into your bones causes the kiss, while initially passionate and firey, to melt into something more languid. slipping your tongue past his lips, the taste of him seeps into your senses-- causing your pounding heart to beat even faster. your breathing grows heavy, body desperate with want.

but you're not too far gone yet.

smiling into the kiss, savoring it for just a moment longer, you pull away completely-- lifting yourself off of him and sitting back down on the couch, grabbing the blunt out of the ashtray.

you take another deep inhale of the blunt; with no intention of sharing this time.

clapton, still breathless, sits upright-- hair slightly tussled from his previous position.

he huffs, gaze fixated on you. he could pounce on you right now-- reverse the roles and have you pinned beneath him, kiss you until you're dizzy with it, and you'd be completely fine with that.

but you both enjoy this game. the push-pull nature of it, the way that any pleasure you get, you've worked for. it makes the reward taste so much sweeter.

coming to a mental conclusion, clapton stands up, outstretching a hand to you. "let's go for a ride, yeah?" he asks, his familiar, bright tone tinged with a sense of admiration exclusive to you.

you raise an eyebrow. "you rode here on a skateboard," you retort, noting that there's no extra car parked in your driveway.

"that's what i meant," he replies, as you concede and reach out to grab his hand. he chuckles, tone sickeningly sweet, and interlocks your fingers as he lets you lead the way outside.

leaving the house, you barely get the front door locked before he's pulling you to follow him-- skateboard lying carelessly upside down in the center of your front lawn. from its position, you can tell he spared no extra time earlier when it came to coming to a stop and rushing to your front door.

his obvious eagerness to be with you; to see you, talk to you, touch you, is dizzying.

by the time you make it to the empty road in front of your house, skateboard tucked securely under clapton's free arm, the buzz of weed has gone from jarring and dizzying to soft and mellow; a warm buzz flooding your skin.

clapton pulls his hand away from yours to set the skateboard down, planting his feet on the board with practiced ease.

he places both hands securely on your waist, helping you step onto the board in front of him-- your back practically flush with his chest.

once stable, he moves to fully wrap his arms around you for just a moment-- leaning his face in close to yours. "ready?" he asks, kissing your temple when you reply with a nod.

moving back to a more stable, standing position-- hands retreating back to grip your waist-- he plants one foot on the ground, propelling you both forward at a relaxed, gentle speed.

The pace he's set is comfortable, allowing you to ease into his touch, not paralyzed by fear of flying off of his skateboard.

seeing that the road ahead is straight, and it'll be a short while before you're concerned with turning, you tilt your head back-- leaning it on his shoulder.

he laughs, and you feel the way his chest rumbles with it-- pressing a kiss to the juncture between your neck and shoulder; one of his favorite places to kiss you.

"clapton," you say around the blunt, eyes fixated on the stars above you.

he hums in acknowledgment, as if not wanting to speak and break the serene moment that has fallen over you both.

glimmering stars in the sky, with the chirp of crickets and the gentle bustling of tree leaves serving as background music to this moment.

and clapton, hands gripping onto your waist-- tight enough to be firm, but meticulously careful enough not to bruise-- with his face practically nestled into the crook of your neck.

you pull the blunt from your lips with a deep inhale. "i love this," you sigh. and maybe it's a sudden burst of confidence willed up by nothing but your own subconscious, or it's a drug-induced boldness, but either way, you only contend with yourself for a moment before saying it. "i love you." you continue, hoping clapton doesn't notice the deep, pounding throb of your racing heart.

you feel clapton stiffen just slightly, a subconscious reaction born purely out of shock-- and a weed-induced difficulty to actually process what you just said.

clapton's grip on your waist tightens just slightly, adjusting his head so that he's practically whispering in your ear. his tone, while packed full of barely contained joy, is also shaking slightly. he's nervous, and it's the most endearing thing in the world. "...really?"

you laugh. "so much for a romantic response," you tease, grinning from ear to ear.

clapton carefully brings his skateboard to a stop, leading you off of the board so that you can turn to face him.

he pulls you in close by the hips, gaze locked on your own.

you find yourself dizzy again, nerves beginning to prickle at your skin with every second of silence that falls over you both.

clapton takes the blunt from your hand and tosses it aside carelessly, kissing you in a manner so full of love you could drown in it.

he murmurs it against your mouth, then. a quiet "i love you too" sighed onto your lips, his own breath wavering almost unnoticeably at the end. not from uncertainty, but from a certainty so strong his body can't properly contain it.

you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in close as you kiss him deeper.

you're addicted to each other, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

♡ ♡ ♡ thank you for reading! i had so much fun writing this. fun fact: i was high while writing at least a quarter of this fic (¯▿¯) ran into some formatting issues, so hopefully this post doesn't look too weird on y'all's end,, i apologize if any weed jargon was incorrect or sounded awkward, i'm pretty much exclusively an edible user so i'm not very familiar with the smoking side of things (*￣▽￣) check out my other works here!~ © jellypopswag

[leossmoonn]

hmm what about clapton x reader where they sneak clapton over?? sumt?? 😋😋

warnings / includes - reader is fem. clapton is in love w you. oral f receiving, masturbation, brief handjob, piv. fwb relationship. not edited

18+ under the cut

clapton stumbles through your window sill, falling onto the floor and hitting your desk.

“shut up!” you hiss. “are you at all concerned if I’m okay?” he asks.

“of course i am, but you’re the one who texted me,” you say as you helped him up. you shut your window, rushing to your door and checking if your parents are still in their rooms are not.

“we’re clear?” he asks. “yep.” you nod.

you spin around and grab his shirt in one fluid movement. his moan his muffled by your mouth as you french kiss him. you lead him to your bed, laying down on it and scooting yourself up until your back hits your pillows. your hand stays on his neck in an attempt to keep his lips moving with yours.

“you… look… really… pretty tonight,” he manages to say after every kiss. you can’t help but smile into the kiss. you respond by pulling your tank top over your head, revealing your pink lacy bra that you bought specifically for him. his eyes widen as he marvels at you. every hook up, he has to take a second to admire you.

you first felt a little shy, hoping that he wasn’t staring at you because there was something wrong with you. but you quickly learned it was because everything about you was right.

his hands slide up your sides and to your back, unhooking your bra. you let him take it off of you and toss it to the side. he wastes no time in getting handsy with your boobs. he attaches his lips to yours for a short time, starting to kiss down the side of your face and down your neck. he flicks his tongue against a hardened nipple, rolling the other between his fingers. you let out a content sigh, weaving your fingers into his brown locks.

“you’re so beautiful,” he mutters against your skin. your whole body feels ten times warmer after his comment. he licks down the valley of your beasts, kissing all along your stomach, reaching your shorts. your heart begins to race as he hooks his fingers under the waistband, pulling them down oh-so-slowly. he looks up at you with his innocent fuck-me eyes, making you feel all warm and gooey on the inside.

he keeps his eyes locked with yours as he places a kiss on your lower stomach, right above where your panties sit. he looks down at your choice of underwear tonight, smiling widely as he sees hearts all over it with a little bow in the middle.

“how cute,” he remarks. “i know you like when i wear this type of stuff,” you say.

“i like anything you wear,” he says. his sweet-talk has an embarassing effect on you. he’s not even saying anything special, but it’s more than what any other guy has done.

he kisses your cunt through your underwear, feeling the dampness. you let out a deep breath that you were holding when you feel his fingers push your underwear aside. you watch as his pupils fill up his entire eye when he looks down at you. you let out a soft moan as he pushes two fingers in. your walls gush around him, making clapton groan himself. he will never get enough of how wet and ready you always are for him.

he lowers his head to your cunt. you grip the sheets in anticipation as he finds your clit, his tongue flicking it ever-so-gently. your body jolts at the sensation and you plead with him to give you more.

he can’t not comply with you. he loves pleasing you, tasting you, feeling you squirm under him. he can’t get enough.

his tongue laps over your clit, his fingers pumping inside of you. you can’t help but squeeze your legs around his head. you’ve always been worried you’d pop his head like a watermelon, but he’s always assured you not to worry about it. the first time he ate you out, you restrained yourself, but he said, “i’d love to die from suffocation because of you”. you thought it was kidding, but since sleeping with him, you’re sure he was serious.

“clapton,” you whine, bucking your hips up to his mouth, grinding against his tongue. “just like that,” you breathe out. “don’t stop!”

your moan egg him on. he groans against your cunt, beginning to grind himself against your mattress. he can’t help it. he’s been painfully hard since stepping into your room. it got worse when you first kissed him, and it was basically over when you took your shirt off.

you feel the move bed, looking down and catching his hips grinding against the bed.

“fuck,” you mutter. butterflies shoot down your tummy and you can feel a heartbeat in between your legs. you clench around his fingers, feeling a pressure weight down your lower stomach.

“clapton, i’m close,” you cry out. you grip his fingers grip his hair harder, but you’re careful not to hurt him. your legs loosen around his head and fall limp onto the bed. clapton’s still licking your clit, making you squirm underneath him. “mmm, stop, stop, stop,” you pant, having to push him away.

he looks up, chin glistening with your juices. he gives you a crooked smile as you let yourself calm down.

“did you…?” you ask. “not yet,” he blushes.

you sit up onto your knees, fisting his shirt and pulling him close to you. you can smell yourself on him.

“i bet you really want me, huh?” you ask. “want me to make you feel good? wanna come inside of me?”

he nods enthusiastically in response. you brush your lips against his. he moves in to kiss you, but you pull back, giving him a coy grin.

one of your hands stays on his chest while the other one traces down to his pants, palming him. his eyes flutter as you give him a little squeeze. he lets out a shaky breath.

“please,” he whines. “please what?” you ask, looking at him through your lashes.

“let me fuck you,” he whispers. he’s looking at you with those big beautiful brown eyes that you can’t say no to.

you take his shirt off, helping him with his belt and pants. you grab one of the condoms that are under your bed, handing it to him. once he slips it on, you put some lube around his dick, giving him a playful squeeze before laying down.

you both gasp as he first slips inside of you. his eyes squeeze shut and he grips the pillow under your head.

“mmm, clapton,” you hum, loving how his girth stretches your walls. as he thrusts inside of you, he hits that spot perfectly that makes your toes curl. after a few seconds, he starts to pump faster.

“be careful,” you breathe out as you start to hear your bed springs squeak. he nods in compliance, trying his hardest to keep a steady rhythm without outing you two. one of his hand wrapping under your thigh and lifting it up, allowing for a slight angle change so he can fuck you deeper.

one of your arms wrap around his neck, bringing his body closer to yours. his free hand grabs yours, holding it down to the mattress. your heart flutters as he interlocks his fingers with yours.

“you feel so good,” he whimpers into your ear. your heart skips and you arch your back. your nails dig into his back as you feel another orgasm building up. “clapton, don’t stop,” you moan. your eyes flutter to the back of your head as you focus on how good it feels to have him fill you up. how addicting it is to hear him moan and whimper your name over and over again.

he looks down, watching him enter and leave you. “fuck,” he mumbles, not being able to hold off anymore. “‘m gonna come,” he warns you.

“me, too,” you moan, throwing your head back as you reach your high.

“i think i’m in lo— fuck. you’re so prefect,” he groans.

you slap a hand over his mouth and he does the same to you. whines and moans leave your throats as he gradually slows down.

your nails detach from his skin and you sink into the mattress. he gently rests on top of you. you can feel his heartbeat against yours, both of yours racing in unison.

he gets off of you, taking off the condom and throwing it away.

you look up at your ceiling as you recant what he almost said to you a few moments ago.

he starts to get dressed, putting on his boxers. he looks over to you, surprised you’re not up like usual.

“you okay?” he asks. you turn your head to him and smile. “why don’t you stay the night,” you suggest.”

his eyes widen. “what? really?” he wants to pinch himself in case this isn’t real. you sit up and grab his hand, pulling him into you and kissing him. even though kissing you feels like a dream, he knows it’s real.

“yeah,” you say against his lips. “you probably will have to leave before my parents go to work, but i can set an alarm.”

“okay,” he nods. “that works.”

you giggle at his willingness. you use the bathroom as quickly and quietly as you can, double checking that your parents are still asleep. thankfully, they are. you change into some pjs, slipping under the covers with clapton.

“are you thirsty? i can sneak downstairs and get you some water. or a snack,” he says.

“i’m okay,” you smile. you turn off your lamp, giving his lips a sweet peck. you lay your head on his chest and he wraps an arm around you, not believing you invited him to stay. he can’t believe he’s cuddling with you. he can’t believe he’s going to fall asleep sleep with you.

“goodnight clapton. i’ll wake you up soon,” you yawn.

“goodnight,” he says, looking down at you and smiling.

————

taglist

@celestbarnes

[peetas-nose]

GUYS. GUYS. GUYS. FOAMING AT THE MOUTH. RAAAAAA

[myussytastelikeapple]

I just got this little thought about this picture..

-Imagine- Clapton sneaked into your bedroom while your parent were at a party, then it ends up with you and him in the bathroom fucking facing the mirror, (standing)

all of a sudden he puts his arm around you neck choking you but not at the same time, you hook your arms on his, his other hand rubbing your clit (he knows his hands/arms turn you on) Making you both cum instantly

Just a little thought☺️

A/n: Should I make a story about this?

[biblio-smia]

“sharing a pillow and waking up with their faces only centimetres apart“ with clapton davis <3 maybe if it could be like a long time crush thing and they had to share a bed at a sleepover or something? idk whatever u feel like!! tyy :)

this is so cute i got kind of carried away,, enjoy! | part of v’s 800 follower celebration!

riley jones's birthday bash is less of an extravaganza and more of an excuse to sit around with your friends and eat too much junk food. it's not some crazy party but you all like it better that way, joking and laughing under a pile of blankets in the living room with a forgotten movie in the background. riley's birthday presents sit in the corner in a mess of gift bags and tissue paper. party hats were scattered around the room, left wherever they were taken off after the tight elastic became too unbearable (you could still spot some marks under a few chins).

it takes the clock to strike 10:38 and for ione to start dozing off on riley's shoulder for her to call for the sleepover portion of the party. you all file in to riley's room to retrieve the overnight bags you'd left in there at the beginning of the night, taking turns for the bathroom.

by the time everyone has changed into their pajamas, ione is insisting that she's awake enough for a few party games like had been originally planned.

the three of you comply, though not without a few teasing comments thrown ione's way.

the four of you sit in a circle with a card game spread out in front of you, though the competitiveness has died down as the game went on and no one is taking it too seriously anymore.

"wait, wait, wait," ione stops in the middle of her turn, her head resting on riley's shoulder as she reads the text riley's just gotten over her shoulder. "why is sander im'ing you right now?"

this captures your and clapton's attention. "dude, you still haven't blocked him?" you ask riley exasperatedly.

"well, i feel bad!"

"i don't," ione says, grabbing riley's phone. she doesn't actually hit any buttons on riley's phone, but she keeps it safe in her lap.

"he still seriously thinks he has a chance with you, riley." you reach over clapton's legs to steal some of the chips he had been eating. "it's getting kind of concerning."

"he's not that bad," clapton chimes in, leaning back on his elbows.

"you don't hear him in english," you groan.

"he's the worst," ione agrees before turning back to riley. "you're stronger than me.

"he is pretty annoying," clapton admits, glancing back at you before looking at the cards in front of him. "hey, whose turn was it?"

cards get thrown into the middle when no one can quite remember and you begin to stack them into one pile while everyone keeps talking.

"are you guys ready to sleep?" riley asks, raising her arms to stretch.

"what? no!" ione protests right before yawning.

you all laugh at her while she rolls her eyes.

the four of you squeeze very unnecessarily into riley's narrow bathroom to brush your teeth, practically shoulder to shoulder with each other. you're focusing on not elbowing anyone when clapton puts his head on your shoulder.

"cap-ton!" you groan around your toothbrush. "ef you geh toofpaste on me...!"

clapton only flashes you a threatening blue-foam grin, so you pause your brushing to flick him on the forehead. thankfully, he's off of you to spit out the toothpaste in his mouth - no longer having the chance to make your stomach queasy.

riley and ione slip into riley's room but riley comes back with an armful of extra pillows, accompanying you and clapton to the living room. you let clapton do the work of picking up the mess you'd all made earlier, splitting the weight of the coffee table with riley as you move it. riley pulls out the bottom of the big couch she has until it has extended into a mattress that she decorates with a gray fitted sheet.

"okay," riley huffs as she emerges victorious from her fight with the mattress. "do you two need any more blankets?"

you glance at the huge pile the four of you have left sprawled all over the couch. "i think we're good."

ione emerges into the living room, twisting the final pieces of a loose braid together, wearing one of riley's hoodies.

it is a little cold now that the sun has set and there aren't as many people in the living room but you're sure you'll be fine after a blanket or two.

"goodnight!" riley and ione both call with a wave, ione wrapping her arms around riley's back as they head back into her room.

you wave back with a smile until they can't see anymore, yawning as you turn back to clapton.

"okay," you say, stifling a second one. "you're sleeping on the floor."

clapton scoffs. "what? there's not even enough space for me to!"

you shrug, even though clapton is right, fluffing one of the pillows riley gave you before dropping onto it tiredly.

"you go on one end, i'll stay on the other." clapton stands at the opposite edge, pillow in hand like a kid. "please?"

"fine." your voice is monotone but your heart beats wildly; you're worried that clapton will be able to hear it if he gets too close.

you can see him from your peripheral; when he disappears, you can feel him sink in next to you.

the opposite ends idea is a joke. you can feel clapton's arm right next to yours. there's probably only a few inches of space between the two of you, and that was being generous.

"move your head," clapton groans, trying to get comfortable.

"get your own pillow!"

"there's no space."

you sigh but comply, sitting up to split the pillow evenly between the two of you.

"thank you," clapton mumbles, twisting around in his spot.

he's even closer now, his shoulder practically bumping yours. his fingers are dangerously close to yours and it's incredibly late in the night; a few seconds longer like this and you might do something stupid like hold his hand. you can see clapton's chest rise and fall softly from your peripheral. he's not asleep yet; you're worried he might try to talk to you.

you force your eyes to stop trying to steal glances at him and will your body to roll over, back to clapton. he seems to have the same idea, turning around with his back to you.

there had been something there, undoubtedly - it had scared both of you and sent you both spiraling to think of anything other than each other.

"goodnight," you manage to hear clapton vaguely mumble. you lean over momentarily, just to shove his shoulder lightly.

"goodnight."

fortunately, you're asleep almost instantly.

unfortunately, sleep does not guarantee any escape from clapton davis.

your eyes flutter open, sunlight too obnoxious and you slowly blink the haziness in your eyes away. the first thing you see is clapton's face, eye level with yours. his eyes are shut and you notice how long his eyelashes are. the next thing you notice are the light spread of freckles adorning his skin.

you don't make any moves to get up, only vaguely aware of your proximity to clapton in your eighty-per-cent-asleep state.

you watch shamelessly as his eyes slowly open unnaturally, in a way that tells you he was already awake. the two of you lie there, unmoving, staring. you watch as clapton's eyes take in your eyes, your nose, stop at your lips for a second too long. you're looking at his hair, a little messy from the night, and you wonder if clapton tosses and turns a lot in his sleep.

you don't have a chance to think about it, or about the implications of clapton pretending to be asleep once he heard the pattern of your breathing change as you woke up, as ione's voice calls out from somewhere behind you.

"are you guys finally awake? we've been up forever. we have breakfast ready!"

that gets you moving, the smells from the kitchen finally beginning to waft to your nose. you throw the blankets on top of you off and clapton follows you closely as you head into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

"go' mornin," clapton says from around his toothbrush.

"good morning," you repeat after you've spit some out into the sink.

meanwhile, the two girls you've left behind in the kitchen stare at the photo ione has taken, giggling quietly.

"oh, they'll definitely be dating by next week," riley scoffs.

ione grins, pocketing her phone as she hears you kick clapton out of the bathroom. "wanna bet?"

[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

✩‧₊

[joshfutturman]

ੈ♡˳ jhutch char love confessions gn!reader

summary: jhutch chars realising they're in love with you headcanons for josh futturman (future man), derek danforth (the beekeeper), mike schmidt (fnaf), billy (burn), clapton davis (detention) and peeta mellark (the hunger games). suggestive elements.

ੈ♡˳ josh futturman

♡ it hits him like a truck one day, the realisation that he loves you. he's not even with you in that moment, in his own bedroom, sitting up suddenly from bed. he repeats it over and over, testing how it feels on his tongue. . . oh god, he loves you. ♡ he's never felt like this before. sure he's had crushes and stuff, but nothing as strong as this. it knocks the wind from his lungs. he can't stop smiling. he has to tell you. ♡ your next date consists of him tripping over his words the whole time, not entirely out of character for futturman, but you can tell he's on edge. he skirts around the words the entire time, until you kiss. ♡ when your lips meet, slowly, tenderly - he can't help it. an 'i love you' slips out between breaths against your lips. his cheeks blaze, but they blaze even brighter when you tell him that you love him too.

ੈ♡˳ derek danforth

♡ he realises he loves you one day at a party, watching you mingle with guests. he watches how you expertly wrap them around your little finger, a sudden surge of jealousy flooding his mind. he doesn't want you being with anyone else, you're his. and - fuck, fuck, what? he loves you. ♡ fuck, derek panics. this can't happen. it's not supposed to happen. he doesn't do that romantic sappy shit. he's happy, happy with the way things are, right? how did you manage to get so close? how are you doing this to him? ♡ he realises he doesn't want those other partners, flings, whatever, he just wants you. and he holds it in for as long as he can, bursting at the seams with love for you. ♡ it's not until you're both on the verge of climax one night, when it slips out unexpectedly in a moment of vulnerable passion, his lips ghosting against yours. it's out before he's even realised he's said it. but he means it, fuck he means it with everything in him. and it comes naturally to you too, echoing it as you capture his lips in yours.

ੈ♡˳ mike schmidt

♡ mike schmidt doesn't believe he deserves love. so when he realises how hopelessly in love with you he's fallen, he curses himself. he shouldn't, he can't. it'll only end badly for him, it's a pattern in his life he's cursed to follow. ♡ he starts to avoid you, stops asking you out, stops calling as often. you're hurt. and he hates that he's hurting you, but it's better for both of you. maybe if he can slip away silently, he can pretend he doesn't cherish the ground you walk on, maybe he can pretend you're not the love of his life. ♡ you greet him angrily at his front door, you're not going to let him slip away from you. you're met with resistance, until the words tumble from his lips in an avalanche of pent up feelings. ♡ it makes you pause, noting the sadness in his eyes. you cup his cheeks, gently guiding his face towards yours. you admit your love too, kissing his lips softly, repeating it as the look on his face tells you he doesn't believe your words, can't believe your words. but you'll prove it to him, every day for the rest of your lives if you have to.

ੈ♡˳ billy

♡ billy will tell you that he doesn't do 'love'. it's cliche, it's sickening. it's all to hide the fact though, that he's so clearly falling deeply in love with you. ♡ it's a sinking feeling that makes him feel sick, how much he cares for you. he finds himself thinking about you on drives, aching to have your hand in his. and he feels stupid, because he's never felt like this before. all those sickening love songs suddenly start to make sense, and he finds himself humming them occasionally. ♡ but how can he tell you? how can he tell you he loves you when his stomach forms knots at the very thought? it's too much, his soul will be laid too bare for him to handle any kind of heartbreak after that. instead he keeps his feelings to himself, cold, quiet, hoping they die away. ♡ they don't though, they blossom when you tell him you love him one day. you explain that you know he doesn't 'do love', but that you can't help it, you love him, and that's that. billy can't help it, he grabs your stupid dumb lovable face and kisses you till you both can't breathe, mumbling an 'i love you too' under his breath.

ੈ♡˳ clapton davis

♡ he realises he loves you one day while skating, and does something he hasn't done in a long time. fall. his body connects with the ground and he lays there, staring up at the pale blue sky passing him by. his arm stings a little from the impact, but he doesn't care. a smile spreads across his face, he loves you. ♡ clapton loves you, a lot. it's like a curtain has been pulled in his mind, revealing what was there all along. he's smiling, chuckling to himself as he wonders how he didn't realise it sooner. you're like, the coolest person ever. of course he's in love with you. ♡ he spends two whole weeks listening to 'if it's love' by sting. he sings it in the shower, hums it while out skating, mumbles it under his breath during classes. 'if it's love, it has no season, if it's love, there is no cure, if it's love, it won't see reason, and of this you can be sure. . .' - man, sting just. . . gets him. he totally understands the feelings he feels for you. ♡ and that's how he tells you, in a mixtape titled to you. the first song is that same song, and as you place it in and hit play, clapton rambles on about how he's fell head over heels for you. it's the cutest thing you've ever heart, the cutest thing anyones ever done for you - and you don't think you've ever seen him smile as wide as he does when you tell him you love him too.

ੈ♡˳ peeta mellark

♡ peeta fell in love with you the day he met you. it wasn't hard to fall, not when you clicked the moment you both said hello. they say love at first sight isn't real, but peeta knows you're proof that belief is wrong. ♡ he shows his love without words through his baking, sweet treats left at your doorstep, leftovers from the bakery brought on dates, asking you to try his experimental new recipe. he tells you he loves you through actions, through his kindness and patience. the way he gently tucks your hair behind your ear, holds doors open for you, or just simply listens with those sweet, gentle eyes. ♡ and he knows it's silly, maybe, how in love with you he really is. but he knows all to well that life is too short to hold back. he'd kick himself if he never got the chance to tell you how he really felt about you. ♡ so it's not hard for him to find the words when the time is right. they leave his lips, firm and strong, proudly almost. because he's been telling you he loved you from the day he met, albeit silently. and he'll tell you forever, until he proves just how special you are to him.

[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