there should be a law against wearing tank tops in school. actually, there was - just one that only applied to girls.
which meant that clapton davis could walk around with his arms looking like that.
you were staring from two cafeteria tables away, eyes unable to stay off clapton for longer than a few seconds. your self-control was being tested, this torture a punishment from the universe.
you really should've never let him fuck you.
you don't realize your name is being called until your friend is snapping her fingers in your face, forcing your eyes to snap back to her (though you keep the distant outline of clapton, just to the left of her head, in your peripheral).
"huh?" you ask, willing your eyes not to flicker back - there was still a chance for you to dig yourself out of this without any of your friends ever knowing.
"nevermind," your friend sighs, rolling her eyes before giving you a look that you avoid by picking at the food on your tray. "who were you staring at?" she turns around, searching the cafeteria for a mere hint of the person who had captivated your attention.
"i wasn't staring at anyone," you lie smoothly, shoving a spoonful of whatever's on your tray to mask any strange inflections of your voice. "i just spaced out."
"you've been doing that a lot lately," your friend says, clearly not convinced.
you roll your eyes in response, grateful when your other friend finally escapes the lunch line and rejoins your group, the topic quickly switching over to an upcoming calc quiz.
though talking about calc makes you think of the time clapton made a very impressive 14% on his test, presenting the paper to you with a grin that should've indicated something at least higher than a C.
"seriously, our class average would be, like, 20% higher if it weren't for you," you cross your arms with a small huff, warm breath making a small cloud in the cold air. clapton skates slowly beside you, weaving around without even having to look at the road under or in front of him - no, his eyes won't leave you.
clapton just grins again. he loves seeing you get worked up about the things he does, the concern you have for him presenting itself in indirect ways that make clapton's heart ache for more.
he's beginning to guide his skateboard to the right, in the opposite direction you'll be going, ready to wave goodbye, when you stop.
"what are you doing?" clapton doesn't think your crossed arms are just to protect yourself against the cold.
"going... home?" clapton sounds confused, but his heart is starting to pick up at the increasing possibility of an alternative suggestion.
"to do what? not study, i'm sure. you just don't learn your lesson, clapton."
clapton holds his bottom lip tightly between his teeth, though it's not enough to contain his smile. "maybe i need a better teacher?"
your eyes roll but your lips smile. you turn your back to clapton, starting off in the direction of your house, smiling as you hear the sound of wheels rolling against the road following behind you.
you get about ten minutes of studying done before you're in clapton's lap, one of his hands under your shirt and the other creating a nasty crease at the bottom of his forgotten calc test as clapton holds on tightly to the edge of your desk for balance.
where did that test go? you remember clapton's hand slipping, knocking a few things on your desk over as he steadied you, removing his hold on you to take off the shirt he had been wearing-
you cross your legs, heat in your face as you will those memories away. there's a heat on your back as your body remembers how clapton had touched you that night. you check your friends carefully, watching them engage in an intense conversation about whether or not they could've pulled stu macher, before allowing your eyes to glance around the cafeteria casually, hoping to catch at least one more glimpse of clapton while avoiding getting caught.
your eyes pass over his spot once, twice, before the fact that he is gone settles in. an alarm in your head goes off - clapton from a distance is safe, but on the move, location unknown? clapton is unpredictable.
you're busy scanning the cafeteria for that obnoxious teal shirt, too focused on making sure clapton davis is a safe distance away to notice your friends go quiet, looking over at the boy who'd taken a seat beside you.
"hey," that stupidly smooth voice says and your eyes calmly shift to land on clapton. you're careful not to visibly react - you can hear your friends already. "you and clapton?" you could see the looks they'd give you, purely out of concern. because really, when has clapton davis ever been serious about anything? you weren't sure that'd suddenly change for you.
it's too quiet, clapton's head moving curiously closer, more of his face coming into your line of sight. your eyes betray you, landing on his flexed arm that rests on the cafeteria table and you're up, rolling your eyes and huffing as you usually do at clapton - though this time he feels it more personally, mouth slightly agape as he watches you walk away. usually he does something to deserve this, winding you up on purpose more often than not. but clapton is feeling as clueless as he feels in chemistry, left dumbfounded by your avoidance of him. had he done something?
guilt eats you up immediately, merciless as it twists your stomach into knots. you sit in the bathroom, on a closed toilet seat, loud chattering all around you as you stare at your IMs with clapton.
your fingers type and delete, type and delete. god, whatever. the bell rings and you bite down that sick feeling, deciding you'll apologize to clapton when you inevitably see him in the hall.
of course, you chicken out. you can't even look at clapton, much less talk to him, a voice in the back of your head convincing you you'll slam him against the lockers and make out with him right there, in front of everyone. it was probably telling you the truth, anyway, your desire to get your hands on clapton outweighing any rational thoughts that included public decency. god, what was wrong with you?
so you avoid clapton in the halls. and in class. and walking out of class. and walking out of school. you're almost running home, knowing clapton could easily catch up and confront you right there. there was really no telling what you were capable of with him in that stupid fucking shirt.
though you still feel sorry. you conjure up images of what clapton could've looked like as you blatantly ignored him and in each one, he looks heartbroken.
well, it wasn't like you were dating.
though maybe a small part of you wished you were.
clapton continues to bother you as the sun sets and the moon takes its place. he won't let you concentrate on the essay due next monday or on the chemistry lab you had to write a reflection on. everything reminds you of him, from the neon green bracelet of his he's left on your desk to the book he'd flipped through while sitting in the chair you're currently occupying, feet propped up on your desk as if your space was also his. and it was, in a way. even your bed has been tainted permanently with bits of clapton, no amount of laundry able to rid your sheets of clapton davis's signature scent. there's small marks in the wood of your headboard, too, just to make sure you wouldn't be able to trick yourself into forgetting clapton had ever been in your room (and on top of you).
you give up on work, brushing your teeth and saying goodnight to your parents unusually early, hoping you'll fall asleep quickly and forget all about clapton. but something won't let you sleep and the lack of distractions only makes you think of clapton even more.
you'd really like to pull your hair out. angrily, you reach for your phone, hit on clapton's stupid picture, start punching the small buttons on your phone repeatedly until a message sends before you can even deliberate.
come over. - 11:39 p.m
read. almost instantly. no response. you're not sure if this means clapton will be here in a few minutes or not, though you're not really sure you can blame him if he ignores you like you had ignored him.
but then your phone buzzes and a new message alert has appeared.
outside - 11:43 p.m
you hear footsteps outside and you instinctively shove your phone under your pillow, turning over and pretending to be asleep as the door of your room creaks open, only for a moment, closing again when your parent is satisfied with what they see.
you wait until the footsteps recede, envisioning the route from your room to your parents', quietly counting the seconds until you're sure it's safe.
shit prnts r still awake - 11:45 p.m
wait? - 11:45 p.m
sure - 11:45 p.m
the thought of clapton only a few feet away, separated only by a wall and a window, excites you, heart racing as you wait 5 minutes, 10, calculating how long it'd realistically take your parents to fully fall asleep. you're trying to be patient but you really can't wait another minute and you can't imagine how clapton has managed it.
ok - 12:02 a.m
you don't even wait for clapton to read the message, jumping out of bed to open the window and push the screen loose, wiggling it out of place and sticking your head out, searching the dark night for clapton.
he makes an appearance as he rises from his seat against the side of your house, letting you help him as he gets one leg over your windowsill, one of his hands resting on it while another hangs onto yours for support. he swings his other leg in, jumping softly into your room and softly shutting the now-screenless window behind him.
and there he is again, in a black graphic muscle tee and sweatpants, thoroughly distracting you without even meaning to. at least, you assumed he didn't mean to.
clapton turns back to you and you wonder how he's grinning after the way you'd treated him at school, after you'd made him wait outside for seventeen minutes with no guarantees of sex.
and that's when you realize that's what you like about clapton - even now, after you demanded he come over at midnight, after you have had sex in this room more than a handful of times, clapton expects nothing. he does not think he has a right to your body, does not move to touch or kiss you, does not assume anything. he simply stands there, still smiling, waiting, quietly wondering what it is you needed him here for.
you'd really like to kiss him, but you're worried it'll come out softer than you usually kiss clapton.
instead, you hug him.
you've never done that before. but clapton's arms wrap around you naturally, letting you slot against him with a sigh. clapton is uncharacteristically quiet, though you can tell he still doesn't expect anything from you. and that makes you feel even worse.
"i'm sorry," you mumble, shame hot on your face.
"what's that?"
"i'm sorry," you repeat, pulling away from clapton, not realizing he heard you perfectly fine the first time until you see that stupid smile on his face. you frown, hit his unbelievably hard arm. "i'm serious."
"yeah, i bet," clapton jokes, though his smile begins to fade when your eyes start to get angry. "it's fine," he shrugs, hoping to cheer you up before your mood dips to a point of no return.
"it's not." your arms are crossed again, though this time clapton tries to determine how much frustration is directed at him and how much is reserved for yourself.
clapton is close to panicking, pulling your arms apart and quietly willing you not to be upset, realizing he only has a few more chances for his jokes to cheer you up until they will eventually have the opposite effect. "you think i'd lie to you?" he grins easily, still holding on lightly to your wrists, giving you a chance to step out of his grasp if you'd like to.
you wouldn't like to.
you're trying not to get frustrated (or rather, not take it out on clapton, again), exhaling deeply and swinging your arms, still lightly linked with clapton's.
"you'd probably lie to me for five dollars."
clapton scoffs, offended. "five? it'd at least have to be ten."
finally, you crack a smile and a weight on clapton's shoulders lifts.
"wow," you say dryly. "i didn't know i meant that much to you," you laugh through your words, clearly joking.
but now clapton is strangely serious, a side that you've never seen before almost scaring you, clapton's voice so quiet you almost convince yourself you've imagined it all.
"you do."
you're not sure who leaned in first (honestly, probably, you), but your lips are on clapton's and your hands are in his dark curls like you've done too many times before. you're too scared to kiss him softly like you've been dying to, to take your time with him like you've imagined over and over. your pace steadily increases, hands lightly tugging on clapton's hair, his hands slipping in and out of the bottom of your shirt. you can tell he's trying not to make noise by the way his breath catches in his throat when you pull off, breathing heavily. you stare at each other for too long - you finally allow yourself to indulge in what's been on display the entire day, your hands letting clapton know exactly what's been on your mind today.
clapton almost laughs as your hands run up and down his arms, cheeky smile as he flexes underneath your touch. he knew it - he could feel the heat of your stare from across the cafeteria though he'd never been quick enough to catch you.
clapton is about to crack another joke, to tease you about your staring problem, when your mouth is on his again, shutting him up before he could even begin to speak. your kiss is rougher this time, hands balling up the fabric of clapton's airy shirt, until clapton decides he's had enough and pulls away to strip himself of the black-dyed cotton. he pulls you onto your bed, sitting up against your fluffy pillows.
he watches, hungrily now, as you settle into his lap, his breath coming out raspy as you immediately attach yourself to his neck, making marks that might not disappear by monday. clapton wonders what's made you suddenly so possessive, only for a second before your mouth finds a spot that makes clapton whine.
"shhh," you whisper, pressing kisses down clapton's neck as he holds onto your hips, tent in his pants growing with the idea that bruises made by you will linger on his skin even after he leaves.
clapton's hand reaches for your head as you move further away, guiding you gently back to his neck, tilting his head for you. "more, please," he rasps out, too desperate to be embarrassed.
you laugh, thinking he doesn't really mean it, kissing his lips instead. your tongue slips inside his mouth, kisses sloppy and warm as they usually are. clapton's fingers are messing with the waistband of your pajama bottoms and your hands clutch onto the back of his neck.
neither of you care as your noses press into each other, disconnected and reconnected mouths making sounds that make that warm feeling in the pit of your stomach grow.
you roll your hips and clapton fully moans into your mouth, eyes evidently hazy when you pull away for air. your hand slips down to clapton's sweatpants, resting on him gently but refusing to give him anything more. clapton works for it, moving his hips up into your hand, biting his lip to keep from being too loud. you'd almost forgotten how desperately clapton davis craved your touch, craved the feeling of being inside you, doing almost anything you'd tell him just for the feeling of you against him.
you indulge him, tugging on clapton's sweatpants and palming him through his boxers. his face is in your shoulder, quiet moans muffled by you.
clapton is respectful, even now. his hands pull at your shirt but don't take it off. though, his grip on your hips tighten, his face strains. you roll off of him, strip yourself completely. he barely has time to admire you before he pulls his own bottoms off, kicking them off your bed as you grab one of the condoms taped to the top of one of your drawers.
clapton is already starting to drip pre-cum at the sight of you, hurrying to take the foil package from you. he opens it with his teeth, a trick he learned solely to impress you, getting it on with slightly-trembling hands.
you slide back onto your bed, letting clapton kiss you as he gently lies you down on your pillows - always making sure you're comfortable. he climbs on top of you, careful not to drop his weight on top of you, kissing the skin of your shoulders and chest as your hands rest on his toned shoulders. his arms look incredible, hands on either side of your body as clapton lifts himself up.
you let yourself look at him for a second, pulling his face into his hands. you watch his slightly-confused expression, his eyes eventually focusing on yours. not your body, not your lips. he's staring straight into you, asking no questions about your sudden need to admire him. and then he leans in, placing an unusually gentle kiss on your lips, feather-light and almost not there at all.
and then he's asking you if you're ready, like he always does, placing his mouth against your shoulder to muffle his moans as he carefully slips inside of you and finally gives you what you've been wishing for all day.
clapton lies next to you after you finish, condom tied up and thrown out, both of you cleaned up with the help of wet wipes and towels you kept handy.
clapton was unusually quiet and you were beginning to tally all the times he had acted out of character today. usually, he'd be cracking jokes, trying to kiss you obnoxiously, because when has clapton davis ever been serious about anything?
not tonight, though. he's starting to worry you with his silence. did he fall asleep? no, you hear him shift beside you. you dare to look over and see clapton on his side, head propped up on an arm. he's biting the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit you recognize by now.
you lay there for a few moments, anxiety almost fully settled in before clapton finally speaks.
"you know," clapton starts, voice nervous like you've never heard it before. you turn to give him your full attention, though you're not sure if that makes it better or worse. "you know... you know i like you, right?"
that takes you by surprise. it shouldn't; obviously clapton has to like you to some degree to be here. but if he's saying what you think he's saying-
"like... i like you. like, i want to take you out on a date. jesus, how many times am i gonna say like?"
you can't help but laugh, clapton rubbing his forehead with his palm.
clapton smiles again, more familiar now, but it's still a little nervous. if you'd rest against his chest right now, you're sure you'd hear his heart racing.
you're biting your lip, too, not sure how to reply. because the feelings you've realized you have for clapton terrify you. not out of shame or embarrassment, but of pure fear that clapton won't take anything between the two of you seriously.
you're too quiet and clapton has always hated the silence, a need to fill it pushing him to take on the role of class clown.
"stupid, right? that's, like, the one thing that wasn't supposed to happen." clapton laughs his usual charming laugh, as if the entire thing was no big deal.
he almost fooled you.
"i like you, clapton davis," you admit out loud for the first time after a moment, catching clapton himself by surprise. "i mean, i seriously hate how much i like you."
clapton laughs again, but you can tell it's genuine this time. he turns to you again, watching your face but detecting no deception. he knows you're mostly joking, but he doesn't have to ask why the part that isn't joking said that.
he knows how careless he can be. his go-with-the-flow attitude let him accept whatever you'd give him, but it'd almost driven you away, too. as clapton realized how much he really cared, you'd thought that he had not really cared at all, pushing him away as you discovered your own growing love to try and prevent yourself from getting hurt. it was a real mess.
"i, um," clapton starts, not quite great with words that aren't strung together to make people laugh. "really care about you. in the way that i'd stand outside your window for an hour if you wanted me to and i wouldn't even ask for sex." clapton cringes at the example but to his relief, you laugh. "and i can't promise you i won't hurt you but i fully give you permission to, like, chop my dick off or something if i do."
"clapton-"
"i'm serious!" clapton laughs, relieved that you're laughing along with him. "i'll sign a waiver. just let me take you out on an actual date?" he asks hopefully, spinning one of his bracelets around his wrists nervously.
clapton grins so wide his cheeks hurt when you nod, smiling as he is. "yeah, okay."
he doesn't wait to long to cup your face and kiss you, making sure his mouth presses against yours slowly and carefully, trying to pour all the things he can't figure out how to say into the kiss. you seem to get it, letting clapton rub his thumb over your cheek gently and look at you for a few moments after you separate. he wipes the corner of your lips, large fingers dragging along the high points of your face.
"i should go," he says finally, quietly, reluctantly.
"you could go in the morning," you say too quickly. it's risky, but you don't want to let go of clapton just yet.
clapton grins, traces your jaw. "if you insist."
you're rolling your eyes with no hostility, getting up to pull something fresh on, throwing clapton a shirt he'd left that you'd had to lie to your parents about when they spotted it in your hamper.
"i can't believe you didn't know i liked you. i gave you my favorite bracelet," clapton shakes his head in disbelief as he pulls the shirt on and digs for the sweatpants he'd thrown to the ground.
"you didn't give it to me, you left it here," you scoff, climbing back in to bed.
"that's the same thing," clapton insists, picking the neon green bracelet off your desk, heart leaping at the fact that you'd kept it. he climbs in next to you, holding out an expectant hand. you place your arm in it, smiling as you let clapton slide the bracelet onto your wrist.
"there. now i gave it to you."
"yeah, whatever." you pull clapton down next to you, placing your head on his chest while his strong arms wrap around you instinctively. one of his hands reaches up to your shoulder, rubbing up and down soothingly.
"goodnight," you mumble quietly, sleep catching you quickly.
"goodnight," clapton whispers, letting it take him, too.
he'd dream about you like he usually would, but you're already in his arms like he'd always hoped.
starting to notice this pattern of how my favorite medias fit into this label box of "heavily exaggerated Teens in a sci-fi storyline written by a man (or team) with the humor of a 14 year old boy"
story is typically written in nostalgic fashion, allowing older viewers to relive their adult experiences through stupid teenagerism -- or, on the other side of this specturm, younger viewers consume this media and therefore resonate with it on a dreamy level of what they want their life to be like because the dynamics and action are way cooler yet totally inaccurate for highschoolers.
mega bonus points if it has a lot of modern references (which most, if not all, absolutely do) (thanks to their 14 year old esque creators)
