Don’t know if we are still talking about this but Clayton Keller was back in St. Louis last week and was hanging out with some women that was not Kendall. Safe to say he’s dating around and single.
Summary: There is only one thing Clayton wants to do when he returns home after nearly two weeks on the road - meet his daughter for the first time.
Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2.1k+
Warnings: pre-established relationship, dad!clayton, talk of childbirth
A/N: gif credit to @hat-trick-honey <3 the running joke in this made more sense for the guy this was originally written for, but i've tried my best to make it work. He's girl dad and you can't change my mind. Got a couple more dad relared ones that neee rewriting so might have to do those aswell, enjoy!! <3
His thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, smiling uncontrollably as you lean into his touch, holding your own hand against his. "You look so beautiful," he hums, dipping to kiss the tip of your nose. It scrunches, making him laugh. Somehow ten days away had you missing his laugh more than you thought was believable. "And tired too-Ow-!”
"Never tell her she looks tired," his mom tells him, or rather chastises him, shaking her head as Clayton looks back at her. He frowns, rubbing the spot on the back of his head where she had softly clipped him. "Besides, you should try pushing nearly a nine-pound baby out of your penis," she says, setting hers and your mom's cups down on some coasters. You had offered yourself to make them both a drink, but they were both quick to shoot the offer down, insisting that you weren't going to lift a finger unless it was necessary for the next few weeks they were staying with you. "See just how tired you might look after only three days.”
Clayton grumbles under his breath, leaning against the kitchen counter, his face twisting with discomfort. "Okay, got it," he nods, looking away from them to watch you hide your smile with the back of your hand. It was a little tic you did when you wanted to laugh at something but didn't think it was necessary for the situation you were in. "Just never talk about my penis ever again, okay?" He resembled a teenage boy who had just been embarrassed in front of his friends.
"Oh, shush," Kelley tuts, shaking her head, and takes a sip of her coffee.
"Why can't we talk about your penis, babe?" You ask, removing your hand, letting it drop to your side. "Is it..." You take a deep breath in, trying to calm your face as the joke dances on the tip of your tongue. "Is it a sore subject to talk about?"
Clayton sighs, bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Oh, don't you start," he mumbles, shaking his head as he watches you and his brother share a quick high-five. He didn't know it, but you and Jake had already got all the jokes planned following the painful incident that had happened during the game against Vancouver. "I wasn't even hit in the balls," he whispers quietly, a slight pink tinge forming on the tips of his ears as he looks to the ground.
"Of course you weren't," you pretend to believe him. Giving his cheek a soft caress, you lean in to kiss the top of his head. His hair had gotten longer in the three weeks he had been gone, and those dark locks you loved so much slightly curled at the end. "It's just a good thing we've already got one child," you land another joke, giggling as Jake laughs behind you, "just in case, you know-”
"Okay, shush," Clayton talks over you, holding his hand over your mouth. He grimaces and retracts it a second later, feeling your tongue licking the palm of his hand. "Speaking of which," he mumbles, changing the subject as he wipes his hand down his thigh, "can I meet her now?" His face grows soft as he asks the question, both the excitement and the nerves fighting for a place in his eyes.
"Clay, she's still asleep-”
"I know, I know," he repeats, sneaking his arm around your waist and gently pulling you against his chest. His bottom lip pouts. "But can't you just wake her up? Just this one time?" He drops his forehead to rest against yours, stroking circles into your hips with his thumbs. "Please?”
You cradle his face and shake your head.
"Why not?”
"Because you're never meant to wake a sleeping baby,” Jake answers for you, "even I know that.”
"It's true," Kelley adds.
Clayton drops his head onto your shoulder and wraps both arms around you, being careful not to squeeze you too tightly. "Pretty please?" He mumbles, and you didn't have to see his face to know he was still pouting.
You snake your arms loosely around him, understanding his urgency to finally meet your daughter. He had only seen pictures of her and a quick glimpse at her over facetime, shortly after he had been given the news that she had been born early. All of them had been an upgrade from the final scan photograph he had been carrying around with him. But now he just wanted to meet her.
The real her.
"Okay-" He lifts his head, the pout quickly disappearing for a smile. "-but if you wake her up-”
"I promise I won't wake her up!"
Your parents let you go alone, knowing it was important for you two to have this moment alone, and inside the nursery, Clayton and you stand beside the cot, both of your hands resting on the edge.
For a second, you take your eyes off your daughter to watch him. You watched him blink once, twice, three times in a row, trying to blink away the tears that had brimmed in his eyes the second he laid his eyes upon her. He had turned into a soft, mushy mess in a matter of seconds. You had predicted this would happen the minute you two had heard that you were having a daughter.
She was going to have him wrapped around her finger and he didn't even know it yet.
Removing your hands from the cot's side, you wrap them both around his arm, laying a kiss against his bicep. His skin was warm and holding a part of him felt like you were holding your whole world in the palm of your hands. "She has your nose," you whisper against him, "and your eyes too." You stifle a giggle, not wanting to make too much noise. "Come to think of it, she's pretty much all you.”
"You think so?" Clayton asks, his voice cracking. He couldn't bring himself to look away from her, too afraid she might disappear.
"I know so," you whisper, nuzzling your face into his arm.
Despite your warning not to wake her up, Clayton still reaches into the cot and carefully picks up her relaxed hand. "She's so tiny," he notes, her whole hand resting against three of his fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb over her fingers, studying their delicateness. "My little sparrow," he whispers, chewing the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from crying. He gasps as she slowly closes her fingers around his, making a tiny, chubby fist. "I wish I had been there," he says, stroking his thumb carefully over the back of her fist.
"You're here now," you mumble, reaching above to wipe a tear away, "that's all that matters.”
"What was it like?" He asks, trying to decipher the look on your daughter's face as her eyebrows pinched and squirmed together.
"What was it like giving birth?" You ask, looking for some clarification. He hums, nodding his head. "Eh," you pause, taking a second to find the correct words to say, "it definitely wasn't as easy as they make it out to be in the movies."
He chuckles at your answer, mumbling, "duh," under his breath.
You give his arm a light pinch, giggling when he retaliates with a pinch of his own. "There was some pain - a lot of pain, actually," you continue, "I couldn't tell you why people go through multiple births if it hurts like that every time.”
"But it was worth it?" For the first time since stepping into the nursery, he looks at you. A smile forms on both of your faces as you stare back at each other. "Right? She was worth all that pain?”
Quickly, you nod your head. "One thousand percent worth it."
He leans down and kisses your forehead. "I still wish I had been there," he speaks against you. He slips his arm out of your hold and reaches for the back of your neck. Caressing and stroking you with his thumb, he kisses you again. "Are you sure you can't wake her up?" He asks, keeping his head rested against yours but turning to look back at your daughter.
"No, Clay-" A soft whimper and a cry comes from the cot, her hand releasing Clayton's finger as her arm reaches aimlessly in the air. A second cry, louder than the first, falls off her lips as she opens her eyes, both big and blue like her dad's. "Talk about timing, kid," you giggle, reaching into the cot to touch her cheek. She quietens down as soon as she feels your touch. You look back at Clayton. "Do you want to pick her up?"
He shakes his head. "Maybe you should do it; I wouldn't want to hurt her." Biting your bottom lip, you hide your smile and swallow back your giggle. "Don't laugh," he mumbles, panning his eyes down to the floor, hiding his blushing cheeks.
"You know, you're not going to hurt her, right?”
"But she's small and fragile-”
"All babies are small and fragile, Clayton," you giggle over him. Placing her carefully in Clayton's arms, you fix the position of his hand, keeping it resting over his as you glance up at him. "It's important to keep her head supported," you mumble, but you were sure he already knew that, "I don't know how many times this wicked witch of a midwife had said it to me. She had a voice that sounded like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. You should be glad that you didn't have to endure that.”
A soft laugh finds its way past his lips but he falls silent when he hears her stirring. "She's even smaller than I thought," he mumbles, chewing on his bottom lip, but it's no use, his cheeks were already damp with tears. "How is she this small?”
You stroke your thumb affectionately across his cheek, wiping away his tears. "Believe me, she didn't feel so small in the moment.”
"Charming," he laughs, shaking his head.
Keeping her cradled in one arm, he brushes his finger softly down the bridge of her nose. His touch is soft and sweet and, for a moment, she closes her eyes, before opening them wide again. She looks up at him puzzled and confused, her eyebrows pinched together. Like everyone else she was about to meet, he was a stranger to her.
"Hi, Marlowe," he softens his voice as he speaks to her, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips, "you're probably wondering who on earth this strange man is, but I'm your dad." He had waited so long to finally say those three words to her.
You step to his side, leaning your head against his shoulder, with your hand lingering on the small of his back. "She's all you," you whisper, scared your voice might crack if you spoke any louder.
"But she'll be smart like you," he says, giving the top of your head a quick kiss.
"And stubborn like the both of us," you say together, both of you laughing.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you straight away," he apologises after the laughter dies down. He cradles his hand back behind her head and bends down to kiss her, smiling as gurgles, "but I'm here now and I'll always be here." His lips linger on the thick wisps of dark hair, whispering, "always," to her.
You bring your hand across to stroke her soft cheek, your eyes pulling away to look up at the nursery door. A quiet giggle slips past your lips when you spot his mom lingering behind the door, quickly running away as you catch her. "I think your mom might burst in here and snatch Marlowe if we make her wait any longer," you joke, glancing up at Clayton.
"Maybe that'll be a good thing," he whispers back to you, a glint of something playful in his eyes, "I'd finally get you all to myself.”
"Ha!" You snort, shaking your head. "Think again, buddy; my vagina is out of business for the foreseeable future.”
He watches you walk away from him, Marlowe still cradled in his arms, looking up at him with studious eyes. "And how long is that exactly?”
"Depends," you shrug your shoulders, trying to decide if you should pack on another joke, "how long will your penis stay bruised for?" He looks at you with an expression that lacked emotion and you can't help but bring yourself to smile. "I just wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again," you slip your hands into your pockets, swinging back and forth on the balls of your feet, "we both know you develop the hormones of a teenage boy every time you come home.”
He shakes his head. "That's not true.”
"Baby, lets not lie to yourself.”
He rolls his eyes. "This is going to be a long few weeks if you and Jake are going to keep making these jokes," he mumbles, quickly catching up to you.
soft clay where he just cannot stop pressing soft kisses all over readers face. like all over her face: everywhere. infront of his family, maybe? like they’re visiting them in the offseason and clays just so openly affectionate infront of his mom, grandma, his entire family basically. and he’s not a single bit ashamed and he’s so so in love with you
This request was SO cute
Kisses – Clayton Keller
You knew the second you stepped through the front door of his mom´s house that Clayton was in one of those moods.
It started before you could even finish saying hello.
His hand stayed at your back, warm and steady, guiding you inside like he always did without thinking. The door had barely closed before he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. Then another. Then one right under your eye, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Clay,” you said quietly, half-laughing, half-warning.
He just smiled at you, wide and unashamed, and kissed the corner of your mouth. “What?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His mom noticed immediately. She smiled in that knowing way she always did, shaking her head slightly as she stepped aside to let you both in further. “You two barely made it inside,” she laughed.
----
Clayton didn’t stop.
He kissed your other cheek, your forehead, the tip of your nose. His hands rested at your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles like he was grounding himself there. Like he needed to touch you just to exist properly.
You felt your face warm, but it wasn’t embarrassment. Not really. This was just him.
The house smelled like something warm and familiar; something baked earlier in the day. His grandma sat in her usual chair in the living room, looking up from where she had been folding a blanket. She smiled the second she saw him.
“There´s my boy,” she smiled.
Clayton grinned and leaned down to hug her, careful and gentle. When he pulled away, he didn’t move far. He reached for your hand instead and tugged you closer, like it was automatic.
His grandma chuckled. “He´s always been like that,” she said. “Could never keep his affection to himself.”
Clayton didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. He kissed your cheek again, then smiled at his grandma. “I know,” he chuckled. “I like it.”
You squeezed his hand. His fingers tightening around yours instantly.
----
Throughout the afternoon, it didn’t stop.
You sat on the couch together while his mom moved around the kitchen and the rest of the family drifted in and out of the room.
Every few minutes, Clayton leaned in to kiss you somewhere new. Your temple, your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose. Sometimes right in the middle of your cheek, sometimes right near your mouth, close enough that it made you pause and look at him.
Each time, he looked back at you like he couldn’t believe you were there. Like even after all this time, you still felt unreal to him.
At one point, you were talking to his mom about off-season plans, explaining how nice it felt to have him home for more than a few days at a time.
Clayton wasn’t even part of the conversation, but his arms stayed draped around your shoulders. As you spoke, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then again. Then again.
“Clay,” his mom chuckled gently. “Let her finish a sentence.”
He kissed your cheek one more time before pulling back just enough to grin. “Sorry,” he mumbled, not sounding sorry at all.
Later, when you stood in the kitchen helping his grandma with something small and simple, Clayton hovered nearby.
He pretended to look for a snack in the pantry, but every time you turned, he was right there. He kissed your cheek as he passed. Then circled back and kissed your forehead.
“You okay?” you asked him quietly, noticing how close he stayed.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Just happy.”
He didn’t add anything else, but those three words explained everything.
You knew how much this place meant to him. How being home, surrounded by family, softened something in him that the season always hardened.
You knew how love made him even more open, even more physically affectionate.
He never hid it, never tried to tone it down for anyone else´s comfort.
----
After dinner, he sat right next to you, knee pressed against yours under the table.
Every time someone else spoke, he leaned over and kissed your cheek like he couldn’t sit still.
His grandma watched with fond amusement. His mom reached over at one point and squeezed his shoulder as she passed behind him.
“You´re very loved,” she said, looking at both of you.
Clayton looked at you when she said it. Not his mom. You.
After dinner, you stood in the hallway looking at old photos on the wall. Clayton came up behind you, arms sliding around your waist.
He rested his chin on your shoulder for a second before pressing a kiss to your cheek. Then another. And another.
You turned slightly, smiling. “You´re really not stopping today, are you?”
He kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Over and over, gentle and slow, like time didn’t matter and neither did who was watching.
And the thing was, no one minded. His family moved around you like this was just how things were. Because with Clayton, it was.
He loved you openly. Fully. Without holding back.
He always had.
----
The next morning, you woke before Clayton did.
The room was quiet, early light slipping through the curtains.
You stayed still for a moment, listening to his breathing behind you. His arm was wrapped around your waist, hand resting flat against your stomach like it belonged there. Even asleep, he stayed close.
You shifted slightly, just enough to turn you head. He stirred immediately.
Before his eyes even opened, his lips pressed against your cheek, soft and automatic.
You smiled to yourself.
“Morning,” you whispered.
He hummed, eyes still closed and kissed you again. Same spot. Then another kiss just below it, slower this time. His arm tightening around you like he was making sure you weren’t going anywhere.
“You´re awake,” he mumbled, finally opening his eyes.
“Barely.”
He smiled, that sleepy, gentle smile he only had when he felt completely at ease. Then, he kissed your cheek again. Then your forehead. Your nose. You laughed softly and nudged him.
“We should get up,” you suggested. “Your family is already awake.”
“So?” he asked, and kissed your cheek again.
You turned to face him fully, your faces close. He looked at you like he always did in moments like this, like nothing else existed.
He leaned down to kiss you properly this time, slow and soft and with all the feelings you could possibly put into a kiss.
----
He didn’t rush you out of bed.
When you finally did get up, he followed your around the room, brushing his fingers against your arm, your back, your hand. Each time he got close enough, he kissed your cheek like it was second nature.
When you walked downstairs together, his hand stayed at your lower back. His mom was already in the kitchen, coffee in hand. She glanced over and smiled when she saw you.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” you smiled back.
Clayton leaned down and kissed your cheek.
His mom raised an eyebrow playfully. “Already?”
He shrugged. “Always.”
His grandma came in a few minutes later, smiling warmly when she saw you both. Clayton stepped away from you just long enough to hug her, then immediately returned to your side.
He kissed your cheek again, then rested his forehead briefly against your temple like he needed the contact.
At breakfast, it got worse.
You sat at the table with everyone, passing plates and talking about plans for the day. Clayton sat next to you, thigh pressed against yours. Every time the conversation paused or shifted away from him, he leaned over and kissed your cheek.
Once, twice, three times in under a minute.
“Clay,” you murmured, laughing under your breath.
“What?” he asked, lips brushing your cheek again.
His brother looked over and shook his head. “You´re obsessed, bro.”
He didn’t even look away from you. “Yeah.” That was it. No denial. No embarrassment.
Later, his mom suggested a walk around the neighborhood. You all went together, the afternoon warm but comfortable. Clayton stayed glued to your side, fingers laced through yours. Every time you stopped to talk or look at something, he leaned in and kissed your cheek.
At one point, his grandma was walking a little ahead with his mom. His siblings were talking behind you. Clayton slowed his steps just enough to pull you closer.
“You okay?” you asked, noticing how quiet he’d gotten.
He nodded. “Just…good.”
He kissed your cheek again. Then your temple. Then rested his forehead against yours for a second before pulling back and kissing your cheek once more.
“You don’t ever get tired of this?” you teased gently.
He smiled, soft and certain. “No.”
When you got back to the house, everyone settled into their own things. You sat on the couch flipping through photos with his grandma. Clayton stood behind you, hands resting on the back of the couch. Every few minutes, he leaned down and kissed your cheek.
His grandma glanced up at him. “You know,” she said, amused, “you don’t have to kiss her every time you pass by.”
He kissed your cheek again. “I want to.”
That was the end of the discussion.
That evening, you helped his mom cook dinner. Clayton hovered nearby again, leaning against the counter, watching you. Every time you turned around, he was right there.
Kiss.
Cheek.
Another kiss.
“You’re going to burn something,” his mom joked.
He laughed and kissed your cheek again. “Worth it.”
When dinner was ready, he pulled your chair out for you. Before sitting down himself, he leaned in and kissed your cheek.
During the meal, it was the same pattern. Conversation flowed, laughter filled the room, and Clayton stayed right with you. His hand rested on your knee under the table. His lips found your cheek whenever he could.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t for show. It was just him.
Later that night, when things quieted down and everyone drifted into the living room, you sat curled up next to him on the couch. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close. He kissed your cheek, slow and lingering this time.
You leaned into him, comfortable and calm.
“I love you,” he said quietly, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
You looked at him, your face inches from his. He kissed your cheek again before you could even answer.
“I love you too,” you said.
He smiled and kissed your cheek once more, holding you like he never planned to let go.
Summary: A pre-wedding dinner just isn't the right place to start jerking your soon to be husband off...or is it?
Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2.2k+
Warnings: nsfw, minors dni, pre-established relationship, dirty talk, semi public sex, unprotected sex, anal play and talk of anal sex (sorry if that's not your thing)
A/N: gif credit to @hat-trick-honey <3 he looks so sexy in that gif, i'm so happy lottie gif'd this moment! Another rewrite, enjoy!! <3
"Stop it," Clayton whispered over the edge of his glass the second he felt your hand touching his leg. He takes a long sip, licking the wine from his bottom lip, something you watch as you turn to look at him. His blue eyes catch yours and he has to stop the chuckle that bubbles up his throat. "You know what I'm talking about," he reacts to the innocent look in your eyes.
"But I don't know what you're talking about," you reply, your hand still caressing his thigh, "I'm not doing anything."
His body tenses, his grip growing rigid around his wine glass, his knuckles white and piercing his skin, as you slip your hand onto the inside of his thigh, pricking him with your nails as you squeeze your hand around him.
"I'm doing nothing at all," you add, the corner of your mouth twitching, curling into a half-smile, "I'm just sitting here, with my soon to be husband and the rest of our families, enjoying a pre-wedding dinner." You tilt your head to the side, "now tell me, what could I possibly be doing wrong?”
He sets the glass down, his hand disappearing below the table cloth and underneath the table. "You know exactly what you're doing," he whispers, flicking his eyes down and back up the table.
Your families seemed to be oblivious to his change in demeanour, talking amongst themselves, discussing the plans they had for after the wedding. Some were planning to stay in your hometown for a few more days, others unfortunately had to fly back home and resume their day to day lives. But not you.
You two had ten days planned, splitting your days between various European cities and spending your nights with your bodies entangled together, experiencing multiple moments of euphoria.
"I think you should behave yourself," he suggests, taking your hand away. He interlocks your fingers, caging them together to stop you from taking it any further.
"I am behaving myself," you bite back, brushing your lips lightly against his cheek, the unshaven stubble tickling your chin. You didn't like knowing he was going to shave for the wedding. He gives your hand a light squeeze and strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. "But, I was born with two hands, baby," you whisper into his ear, slipping your empty hand over his crotch, his cock pulsating under your touch and bulging in his pants, "and I bet my life you'd love for me to do something about this."
His thighs tense and he tries not to be noticeable as he shifts in his seat. Of course, he'd liked to have your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him until the crown was weeping with cum, but there was a time and place for that, and that certainly wasn't with your parents sitting on the opposite end of the table.
A kiss to his jaw brings him back from his thoughts.
"Tell me you want this," you purr in his ear, unpopping the button, before finding the zipper and tugging it down. There's just enough room for you to manoeuvre your hand inside, a soft gasp hitting his ear as you grab him through his briefs. He coughs to hide a groan, loving and hating the grin pressed against his skin as you kiss his neck. "Tell me you want me to jerk you off under this table.”
His cheeks are dusted a light shade of pink. "Behave yourself.”
"Or what?"
He removes your hand and leans in closer, his breath, a mix of fresh mint and sweet wine, warm as it hits your ear. "Or I'm dragging you into the nearest restroom," he warns, his voice low and raspy, "and everyone here will know how much of a needy, little slut you are, because we both know you won't be able to keep quiet as I fuck that dirty cunt."
Pleasure tingles down your spine, his filthy words leaving a dull ache between your legs. "Then do it," you push back, praying you were pushing all the right buttons to gain the reaction you wanted. Excitement builds as he detaches your caged hand but deflates as he reaches for his glass, lifting it to his mouth, acting like he hadn't just proposed the best deal to you.
Your chair drags loudly against the grey, cobbled slabs, the sound disrupting a few nearby conversations; they resumed once they saw you rising to your feet. Clayton catches your wrist before you can step away, bringing your hand to his mouth, landing a soft kiss on your engagement ring. "Where are you going?" He quizzes, tilting his head back up at you.
"To the restroom," you reply, dipping to kiss his cheek. It looked like nothing more than a sweet, tender moment being shared between the happily married couple to be to those sitting around you, but it was the perfect disguise for you to whisper, "so you can pound this dirty cunt and treat me like the needy little slut I am," into his ear.
Ten minutes hadn't even passed before Clayton had you bent over the restroom sink, your dress pulled up around your waist. You were trapped, with nowhere to move. If you moved forward, the edge of the sink would dig deeper into your ribs, and you could only feel Clayton pressing hard into you if you tried to move back.
His hand runs up the back of your leg and over the globe of your ass, his thumb toying with your panties at the top. "It's a shame I can't enjoy this properly," he grunts, the silence filled with the sound of his pants being unzipped. He pushes your dampened panties to the side and notches his cock in line, pushing inside you with a single stroke. "Do you know how fucking tight you feel? Doesn't even want to let me go," he gasps, withdrawing his cock, feeling you clench around him.
You lift your head to look at yourself in the mirror, sinking your teeth into your lower lip at the sight of him standing firmly behind you. He flashes his eyes upwards to the mirror for just a second, giving you a wink that floods your body with more arousal, before looking back down to watch himself. Your focus shifts to the change in your expression, drinking in your loud, desperate moan as he slams his hips, thrusting from the tip all the way down to the base.
"Just had to start something, didn't you?" He does it again on a grunt. Your head drops and you reach for anything to hold onto, hands landing on the edge of the sink, moaning louder as he does it again. "Couldn't just wait another hour?" He fills the restroom with your moans, possessing no care for the others in the restaurant who might hear them. "Needed me that desperately, huh?”
You whimper, lacking any function of speech.
Sinking your hand between your thighs, you pay your clit the attention it was desperate for. "That's my girl," he groans appreciatively, increasing his pace and biting his bottom lip to catch his own moan as you clench around him. His hand moulds to the globe of your ass, squeezing the cheek. "Fucking perfect," he grins as you gasp, "would've painted it all nice and pretty too, if had just been a good girl for me."
"I am a good girl," you protest, grinding your hips to meet every one of his thrusts, chasing your high.
He stops moving, nestling his cock deep inside, and fists a handful of your hair, pulling you up to look at your joint reflection. "That's not what I see." He gets lower to meet his mouth against your ear. "I see a brat," he bites, breathing in the sweet mixture of honey and vanilla, the scent of your arousal consuming him to a state of insanity, "don't you? Look closer-" He pushes you further against the sink, trying to get you closer to the mirror. "-she's right there, just doing anything to get a reaction out of me.”
"And I did, didn't I?" You grin, wide and wickedly. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you? Just had to follow me in here and teach your naughty girl a lesson.”
"The only lesson you need to learn is how to stop my cum from dripping down your thighs after we both walk out of here.”
He keeps your head held firmly in place, pulling harder if you try to look away, ignoring if you plead with him to loosen his grip. He ruts into you. Deeper. Harder. Filling the restroom with the sound of your desperate moans for him not to stop over the echo of skin slapping against skin, all whilst making you watch yourself come apart on his cock.
"Been thinking about our wedding night." He slams into you, over and over again, his body flooding with arousal as he thinks about the shameless debauchery he intends to act out. "Thinking about all the way I'm gonna take you," he grunts, grabbing the base of his cock as he withdraws himself from the grip of your cunt. He slides the tip between your lips, teasingly pushing against your entrance. "In your pretty mouth. In this perfect pussy," he releases his cock and slides back into you, "perhaps, if I'm lucky, this tight, little ass.”
Your eyes widen. "Clayton?”
"What do you say, baby?" He lìcks the pad of his thumb, pressing it against the tight hole, massaging as he continues the rhythm of his hips. He watches with fascination, his cock pulsating at the sight of his thumb burying into your ass, pushing into you at the sound of your gasp. "Gonna let your husband fill every hole? Claim them as rightfully mine?"
He loosens the tight ring of muscles, relaxing you into the new sensation, relishing the soft whimper that comes with it. You were shaking, knees trembling you could barely stand up, and perspiration had set on your brows as you got lost in this new dimension, feeling pleasure twined with a bit of discomfort, but one you endured because of the euphoric haze that consumed every part of you. You push back and circle your clit faster. This was how you were going to come for him; with his cock stuffing your cunt and his thumb pressed into your ass.
"Gripping my cock so tightly," he groans, letting his mouth hang open, "and making such a mess on your thighs - dripping everywhere, princess.”
"Clay...nice...fuck..." You were incapable of stringing a sentence together, jealous that Clayton could probably recite everything he knew about chess as he fucked you mercilessly. You could hear the smirk in his huffed laugh, only looking up to confirm it in the mirror's reflection. "There," you squeak, hair ripping from his hand as you force your head down, eyes squeezing shut and screaming, "'m coming!”
He fucks you through your orgasm, the high of the euphoric bliss blurring your vision with a burst of white spots. "Take what you need, baby," he coos softly, smoothing his hand down your back, "done such a good job for me, doing something you've never done before." He retrieves his thumb out of your ass, liking how you whimpered at the loss. "I'm proud of you," he grips your hips, holding you down on his pulsing cock as he thrusts up, spilling deep inside, "always- always so good for me.”
You shiver, his breath blowing against your neck as he leans over, his body and warmth pressing into you. A satisfied sigh finds a place on your lips as he kisses your shoulder and neck.
"We are doing that again," you finally say, coming out of your euphoric fog.
"Which part?" Clayton laughs, holding your hips as he slides himself free from your cunt's grip. His cock stirs at the sight of his cum leaking from your entrance. "The part where we let an entire restaurant know that I'm fucking you?" He tucks himself back into his briefs and fixes his pants. "Or the part where you let me finger your ass?”
That wide and wicked smile was back on your lips. "Both.”
He hums, liking the sound of both. His finger traces over the curve of your ass. "Maybe get something pretty to put in there?" He suggests, licking his lips.
"And here's me thinking your cock would be the pretty thing to put in there," you giggle, now turning to look over your shoulder.
A blush sets on his cheeks, reaching his ears. "Okay, something just as pretty as my cock.”
Your eyebrows prick up. "Well, aren't you going to get me some tissues?" You were becoming more aware of the cum dripping from you, the reality of it being one that wasn't extremely sexy.
Clayton drops his eyes, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, gathering the milky liquid and pushing it up to your pussy. "I meant what I said," he thrusts two fingers into you, his thumb purposely teasing your clit, fucking the cum back in, "you're going to learn how to walk out of here without my cum dripping down your thighs.”
You grasp the sink, "Clayton." You were sensitive and wanting more, but you shudder as he withdraws his fingers, watching in agony as he sucks them clean.
"Come on," he gives you a soft tap on the ass, "we still have dessert to order.”
The reception felt like a blur of lights, music, and laughter.
Your heels were already kicked off somewhere under a table, your perfectly curled hair slightly messy from hours of hugging people, dancing, spinning.
And Clayton?
Had not left your side.
Not once.
You were in the middle of the dance floor, music loud, your arms loosely around his shoulders as he held you close, swaying with you like no one else was even there.
“You’re my wife,” he murmured, like he still couldn’t believe it.
You smiled. “I am.”
He shook his head slightly, smiling to himself. “That’s crazy.”
You laughed softly, until his hands slid just a little lower on your waist, sliding down and giving your ass a soft squeeze.
“Clay.”
“What?” he grinned, completely unbothered.
“You’re being obvious.”
“You’re my wife now, I don’t care.”
Of course he didn’t.
He leaned in, brushing his lips along your neck, slow, warm, just enough to make your breath catch.
“Clayton,” you whispered, half laughing, half flustered. “People are watching.”
“Shhhh Mrs. Keller” he murmured.
“You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low by your ear, “but you married me anyway.”
You tried to stay composed.
You really did.
But then under his breath, “ You gonna fuck your husband tonight Mrs. Keller?”quiet, teasing, and you immediately buried your face in his shoulder, laughing.
“Oh my god,” you mumbled. “You did not just say that.”
“I did,” he said, clearly proud of himself.
“You’re the worst.”
“Your worst.”
Before you could respond—
“OKAY—ENOUGH—”
Logan’s voice cut through the music as he walked past, shaking his head. “We get it. You’re married.”
“Relax,” Clayton called after him.
“Keep it PG, man!” Gunner yelled.
Clayton just laughed, pulling you closer again. “They’re jealous.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hands tightened slightly around him anyway.
Because yeah
You kind of loved it.
Later in the night, you slipped away to change.
Your second dress of the night: shorter, lighter, easier to move in. Easier to take off later.
Still stunning.
Still very much you.
When you walked back into the reception, the reaction was immediate.
“OH—”
“WAIT—”
“OKAY—”
The guys were the loudest, obviously.
And Clayton?
He froze.
Like… actually froze.
Standing near the bar, drink in hand, eyes locked on you like you’d just knocked the air out of him.
You smiled, walking toward him.
“Well?” you teased.
He set his drink down slowly.
Then
Without breaking eye contact
Dropped to his knees.
Dramatically.
Hands up like he was witnessing something life-changing.
“That’s my wife,” he said.
The room LOST it.
“OH MY GOD—”
“NO WAY—”
“GET UP—”
Logan doubled over laughing. “He’s DOWN BAD.”
“Let him cook!” someone yelled.
You covered your face, laughing. “Clayton, get up!”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, still on his knees. “I just need a second.”
“You’re so embarrassing.”
“You look unreal,” he said, completely serious now. His hands slowly running up your legs.
That softened you instantly.
“…Thank you,” you said quietly.
He finally stood, stepping closer, hands immediately finding your waist again.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Nothing new there.”
“Not tonight especially.”
The guys were still hyping you up behind him
“That’s a fit—”
“Kells doesn’t stand a chance—”
“He’s already gone—”
You laughed, shaking your head as Clayton pulled you back into him, pressing a passionate kiss to your lips.
“Ready to go?” he asked quietly.
You nodded.
“Yeah.”
The car ride felt… quieter.
Just the two of you now.
Finally.
You had barely settled into your seat before Clayton’s hand was back on your thigh.
Warm.
Familiar.
He started inching his hand closer to the lacy white panties you had on underneath
“Clayton…”
“What?” he said, already leaning closer.
“You’ve been like this all night.”
“And? You’re my wife, I’m allowed to be a little handsy.”
“Maybe calm down a little?”
He smiled against your cheek, brushing another soft kiss there.
“Can’t,” he murmured. “I married you today.”
You shook your head, smiling.
“You’re ridiculous.”
His hand tightened slightly, pulling you just a little closer.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you love me.”
You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder.
Summary: Clayton not so gracefully asks you to stay over for the first time.
Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2.6k
Warnings: pre-established relationship, sommelier!reader, all fluff, neighbours x neighbours trope
A/N: gif credit to @hat-trick-honey <3 this is another rewrite for a fic I wrote for Christian Pulisic, I'm at a point where I don't want the fics i wrote for him on here anymore - might do a purge of a few people on here too - a few will be rewritten because I might not support the guy anymore, but I still love the things that I wrote. Anyway, I'm rambling now, enjoy!! <3
“No,” Clayton mumbles, finishing his current glass, “that can't be true.”
“And I'm telling you it is,” you reply, a smile ghosting your lips. “Remember which one of us is the expert here?”
Clayton shakes his head, laughing light heartedly, reaching for the bottle of wine in front of you. The bottle was stained black, the type that came with a cork, had gold lettering printed on the label, and was far from his usual pick for a late night drink. The company's logo interested him the most, stood out to him as he attempted to find the right bottle, earlier that afternoon. A wax stamp, not real though, with a crest printed in the centre.
He topped off both of the glasses, emptying it of its last drop, before passing you your glass.
“Cat piss?” He watches you take a sip, subtly flicking his attention to your mouth, as you lowered your glass and licked your lips. “I don't believe you. That's gotta be breaking a law or something.”
“Okay, I might've exaggerated a little bit.” A giggle bubbles in the back of your throat as you watch him playfully roll his eyes. “But! It did smell like cat piss.” You take another sip, scrunching your nose as you remember the smell. A beautiful bottle full of the foulest smelling wine you had ever had the displeasure of tasting.
“And people liked it?”
You nod, cradling your glass between your hands. “It won awards.”
“Do I even dare to ask how much a bottle of ‘Le Cat Piss’ costs?” Clayton asks, in a terrible French accent. He drapes his arm across the back of his couch, angling himself to face you. He keeps his glass steady in his other hand, occasionally lifting it and taking a sip.
“Not unless you want me dialling 911 because you've gone into cardiac arrest.” His eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, a droplet of wine dribbling down his chin as he nearly chokes on his wine. You pretend you don't see it, hiding your smile behind your glass. “It's not the most expensive wine I've sold though,” you admit, taking a quick sip. “I once sold a Burgundy Pinot Noir for eighteen thousand.”
“Dollars?!”
“Pounds.” You're so nonchalant about it, surprising him. “I couldn't tell you what it is in dollars.”
“Jeez,” he blows out hot air and nods to the empty bottle on his coffee table, “and I thought I was paying too much for that bottle.”
You set your glass down, making sure to rest it carefully on the coaster. His coffee table looks expensive, probably a few hundred more than the table you thrifted when you moved to Salt Lake, you didn't want to ruin it with ring stains. You pluck the empty bottle up, turning it over in your hands.
“You should see some of the prices on the wine list at work.” Clayton watches you study the bottle, noticing how gentle your touch is as you stroke your thumb over the label. “Some are a few thousands, if not more, and truthfully, they're not even that nice. Sometimes I want to tell customers they're stupid for paying that much, but you know what they say, the customer is always right.”
You know of this company, even visited the vineyard a few years ago when you were working in Milan, and thought it would be a great idea to introduce more local wines to the wine list. You and your somewhat of a protege, a waitress named Eva, whose personality was more bubbly than a bottle of champagne, and wore bright pink lipstick for every shift, spent an afternoon touring the vineyard with owner's eldest son, Edoardo, quickly getting tipsy on samples of wines and giggling at Edoardo's terrible jokes.
It was a family run company, spanning back generations, and perfect for a family run restaurant, or so you thought. Your boss's son thought otherwise, only wanted high end wines on the list, ones that customers would pay a lot for, and put an end to your idea before it could even be considered.
The last you heard, Eva was in the south of France, working as a sommelier in some luxury hotel.
“The labels are all made by machines now,” you tell him, putting the bottle back, “but, originally, they used to put actual wax stamps on every bottle.”
He chuckles, running his thumb delicately over the curve of your shoulder and up onto your neck. “Of course, you know that.”
“I'm sorry,” you apologise, looking down at your lap, “sometimes I just can't turn it off.” It was no secret to you that not everyone cared about the history of wine, no matter how fascinating you thought it was.
“Please don't ever think you have to.” He dips, kissing your shoulder and then your neck, breathing in the sweet, sugary scent of your perfume, before drawing back to look at you. There's a slight red tinge to your bottom lip from the red wine you had been drinking, and he was itching to reach out and run his thumb along it. He settles for leaning on his hand instead. “I like it.” You give him a shy smile. “You're too smart for the likes of me.”
“Oh, I don't know,” you shrug your shoulders and glance at him, “you're pretty smart too.”
“I'm pretty,” he cracks and you giggle at his poor attempt at a joke, “but I don't know if I'm smart too.”
“Seriously?” You snort. “I don't think I'll ever be able to understand hockey and golf - or any sport, actually - the way you do. Or ever be able to skate like you.” You scrunch your face and groan, remembering the first time Clayton tried to get you in a pair of skates. “I still have horrible nightmares about our second date, you know?”
“It wasn't that bad-”
“We spent two hours in the ER, Clay,” you interrupt him, cheeks flushed. “I have as much grace on the ice as an elephant performing ballet.” Clayton had to agree, laughing quietly under his breath. “I'm choosing to ignore that.”
“I don't care that you're a terrible skater,” he says, putting his glass aside to take your hand. He slips his fingers through yours, his chest swelling when you squeeze around them. “Or if you never understand hockey,” he adds, “just knowing you're in the crowd, cheering me on, makes me happy enough.”
“You're a sap.”
“It's all your fault,” he grins, “never was like this until you came along.” He lifts your joined hands and kisses the back of them, his lips lingering against the warmth of your skin, before lowering them a second later. “Well, actually, it's Lucky's fault,” he corrects, glancing back at the sweet fur ball curled up asleep on his bed.
Lucky getting into your backyard had led to what was possibly the best five months of his life. And you couldn't agree more.
You never thought you would find someone who you could trust again after the messy relationship you had with your ex, but Clayton had yet to give you a reason why he shouldn't be worthy of that trust. He listens when you talk, even when you're rambling, clinging to every word. He makes you laugh. He makes you smile. But, and most important of them all, he makes you feel seen.
“Did you always want to be a sommelier?”
You shake your head. “I didn't even know it was a thing until I was like nineteen. I wanted to manage and own a hotel.”
He looks surprised, both eyebrows shooting up. “Really?”
You pull your joined hands onto your lap, your free hand tracing lines on the back of his hand. “My dad worked as a concierge and, even though it wasn't allowed, he would take me to work with him. That hotel lobby was paradise to a six year old.”
He watches your eyes light up as you recount the memories of dressing up in parts of an old uniform, standing next to your dad as he greets guests. The sleeves were always too long for your arms and the hat kept falling into your eyes, but it never stopped you from trying to copy your dad.
Growing up, all your friends wanted to be a pop star or an athlete, but you wanted nothing more than to be like your dad.
"I would make myself so dizzy in the revolving doors, run up and down the giant staircase, and terrorise the grouchy receptionist," you giggle, your smile softening as you spoke about your dad again, "and when it was time to leave, my dad would pick me up onto his hip and he would always say, 'Bug, one day, I'll have a hotel much grander than this.'”
“Bug?”
Your face flushes and you present him with a smile. "Yes, Bug."
"So?" He lifts his head off his hand and stretches his arm back across the couch. "Did your dad get his hotel?”
"No," you shake your head, your smile deflating, "he got ill, so he took early retirement instead; he and Mum have just finished their second cruise. He now wants to visit as many countries as he can, all whilst dragging my poor mother with him." You release his hand and reach forward for your glass, taking a sip. "So, anyway, I decided I'd go to uni, maybe try and get a degree in hotel management. But by the end of the first year, I realised I no longer shared the same dream as my dad.”
He fakes a gasp. "My girlfriend is a dropout?”
"Your-?" You wipe your mouth, nearly spitting a mouthful of wine back into your glass. He had caught you off guard, calling you his girlfriend, and you're not even sure he realises he had said it. "Uh, yes," you decide not to fuss over it, "your girlfriend is a dropout.”
"So, let me guess," he shuffles closer, bumping his knee against yours, "you backpacked your way through Europe, where you fell madly in love with some guy you met in France - no, Amsterdam - who wore sandals and rode a bicycle?”
"Not even close," you giggle, taking another sip, thinking how that would've been much more fun than having to deal with George. "I moved back home, got a job in a restaurant and hoped I'd wake up one day knowing what I was meant to do."
You tell him about the first sommelier you had met, a tall, lanky fifty-something-year-old man, with thinning, white hair and a constant smell of whiskey on his breath. At best, he was a functioning alcoholic, who snuck quick swigs of whatever was open behind the bar when no one was looking. He slacked heavily on his duties, sometimes showing up to work halfway through the dinner service. And when he did show up, he snapped at the waiters for offering customers the wrong wines.
"One night, we were serving a brand new menu, just trialling out a few new dishes, and George never showed. He wasn't answering his phone and none of us had the time to go by his apartment, so I did the next best thing - I broke into his locker.”
Clayton tilts his head, stifling a laugh. "That was the next best thing?" He challenges you. "To break into someone's locker?”
"He kept his notebook in there," you explain, leaning over to set the glass back down, the last bits of wine swirling around the bottom, "except his handwriting was terrible, even worse than yours, and I had to guess most of the pairings. I did the best I could with what I had. The night was still a mess, and George got me fired for damaging his property, but I liked it." There it was again, Clayton notes, as the same light from earlier twinkled in your eyes. "I liked slipping into the role of a sommelier, trying to bullshit the customers the best that I could. It was fun.”
He slips his arm around your waist and catches a glimpse of his watch, his chest sinking at how late it was. "I'm glad you found your thing," he mumbles, pushing the sadness down. He brushes his lips gently against your hairline, humming as you lean into him.
"So am I," you agree, not wanting to imagine your life without a hundred different bottles of wine all bouncing around your head.
You prided yourself on knowing the difference between a white wine from France and one from Italy. You liked being able to tell people about the grape that was used to make the wine they were drinking, even if they particularly didn't care. You knew red wine went best with a stake, that sparkling wine went best with fried seafood, and that champagne was once much lighter and pinkish in colour.
You were a nerd for all things wine related and you loved it.
You loved that it brought you to Utah and that Utah brought Clayton to you.
Clayton looks back at his watch, the soft ticking acting as a reminder that your time together was coming quickly to an end. Soon Clayton would be leaving for a roadie, taking him away from you for a week or so, and when he got back, you would be leaving for a two-week stay in Inverness to help an old friend plan an event for some prestigious wine society.
"It's getting late…”
"I know," you sigh, tipping your head back to look at him, "but I guess it's a good thing I only live across next door." You stay rooted to your spot and Clayton shows no signs of getting up. "Means I don't have far to travel," you whisper, drumming your fingers against your lap.
"True," he hums, settling his hand on top of yours, bringing your drumming fingers to a halt, "but my bed is closer."
Your mouth opens and closes, a broken hum and an, "oh," being all you could manage.
"Shit-!" You watch as he scrunches his nose, the peeks of his cheeks quickly turning an embarrassing shade of pink. "I'm sorry," he groans over the giggle that slips past your lips, your hand flying up to quickly catch it. "I swear that sounded a lot better in my head," he nervously laughs, turning to look at you, "I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that.”
"It's okay," you nod your head, giving him a small smile, "and technically you are right; your bed is closer than my place.”
He tries not to smile too much, playing it off as calmly as the fluttering in his chest would allow. "Yeah?" His voice cracks, but saves himself with a quick cough. "You sure? What if you find out I'm a terrible sleeper or that I snore too loudly?”
You shrug your shoulders and reach for the last of your wine. "Who's to say I won't be the one snoring loudly?"
He chuckles, picking up his glass and polishing off what remains, using his knuckle to wipe the corner of his mouth clean. "No, you don't look like a snorer," he says, resting his head back against his hand, "you look more like a talker. I'll probably wake up to you talking about wax stamps on wine bottles." You smile at him for remembering your silly little wine fact. "Do you want to open another bottle or...?”
You shake your head, feeling like you have hit your wine limit for the night. Any more and you might just consider turning this night into a night of firsts and not just a first.
"Then do you want to go to bed?" He asks, taking your glass and discarding it with his to the coffee table.
Warnings: nsfw, minors dni, fwb, hooking up, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, finishing on the reader, bodily fluids, praise, reader is called a slut
A/N: gif credit to @hat-trick-honey <3 another rewrite, don't be surprised if most of my rewrites end up being for Clayton. Anyway, enjoy! <33
"Be honest with me," he props himself up on his forearms, his body pressed against yours, his hard cock being gripped by the tight walls of your cunt, as he cages you underneath him, "is this the real reason why you really flew out to Utah? So you could see me?" He doesn't see you rolling your eyes, dipping to bury his head into your neck, kissing over the hickeys he had left there earlier that evening. A faint whimper slips off your lips, unable to resist the feeling of him sucking on the sweet spot behind your ear. "Answer me, princess," he encourages you to find your words, lips touching your ear, his voice, gravelly, making you shiver, "you don't really have a job opportunity lined up, do you? You just missed this, didn't you?”
"That head of yours has gotten far too big for your shoulders to carry," you respond, dragging your nails down the back of his head, stopping at the nape of his neck, "I don't just fly out to another state just for some boy."
He scoffs at you for calling him a boy, mumbling into your neck about how he was a man.
Truth be told, you did have a job opportunity lined up in the city; you were doing a bridal shoot for the daughter of some big businessman. But that didn't mean you couldn't have just a smidgen of fun whilst you were here. And Clayton was just that. Your smidgen of fun.
“You're just the starter before the main course.”
He wraps his hand around your neck, tightening his grip just enough to make the corners of your lips curl upwards into a wicked grin. He takes a deep, staggered breath as he feels you pulsate around him, your pussy clenching him hard. "I'm the starter, the main course and the desert, baby," he grunts, snapping his hips into yours, feeling himself burying deeper into you, "there's no one more delectable than me.”
"Delectable?" You dig your nails into the back of his neck, your grin widening as you listen to the string of curses being spilt under his breath. "That's a big word for you," you tease, moaning as he silences you with a tighter grip.
"Speaking of delectable things," he mumbles, pulling out with a hushed grunt, releasing your neck.
His mouth moves lazily across your chest, leaving a line of his own saliva as he licks between the valley of your breasts. Your back lifting away from the sofa, Clayton pinching your nipple between his finger and thumb, rolling and twisting it until the pain feels pleasurable to you.
"I've missed having my head between these thighs," he nips his teeth at the inside of your thigh, the unshaven bit of scruff grazing and scratching you, "so gorgeous and so soft for me. And this pussy, too. So pretty and dripping wet for me.” He runs his knuckle down your slit, teasing you. “You're making a mess everywhere, baby, on my cock, on my sofa, all over the tops of your thighs.” He smirks. “Has it been that long since someone gave it to you as good as me?”
You don't answer, silenced and ridden of your ability to talk as he collides his tongue against your pussy, licking up and down between your swollen lips, swirling it around your clit, and tasting every bit of you as your wetness pools onto his tongue. His noises were obscene, animalistic even, groaning every time he slipped his tongue inside you while nipping, slurping, and eating every inch of you like he was eating his last meal.
"More," you bite your bottom lip and buck your hips into his mouth, whimpering as he pins your hips, pushing you harder into the sofa to stop you from moving.
"What is it, baby?" He asks, licking his lips as he pulls away. His mouth and chin were glistening under his living room lights, making you moan at the visible evidence of yourself on him. "Tell me what you need," he encourages, placing a soft kiss against your left hip and then the other, "I can't give you what you want, if you don't tell me. Use that pretty mouth.”
"Your fingers," you tell him, lifting his hand to your mouth, sucking his fingers until they are dripping in spit. His cock twitches as he watches your fingers repeatedly disappear into your mouth. "I need to feel them inside me.”
He brings his fingers down to touch your pussy, slowly rubbing them against your clit, chuckling as you squirm below him. "You want me to stuff you with my fingers, baby?" You nod your head with an eagerness he deemed as being far too adorable and a whole lot of desperation. "Fine, I'll give you my fingers if you promise to come in my mouth," he negotiates, teasing your entrance, "you can do that for me, can't you? Be a good girl and do as you're told?”
"Yes," you answer, sitting up on your elbows. He grins, letting you watch as his fingers disappear inside you. "Oh, god," you moan at the pleasure you were feeling as he fucked you slowly with two fingers.
"There's no god in this room, princess, just me," he replies, burying his mouth into your cunt, wrapping his lips around and sucking on your clit. His name comes out like a prayer, burying his fingers deeper inside, curling them to reach the spot he knew would leave you gasping and grasping at the edge of the sofa. "That's it, baby," he encourages, groaning as your taste floods his mouth, "just fucking come on my mouth. Come on, now, be a good girl and do as I fucking tell you to!"
"Fuck, Clay, don't stop!" You cry, fisting one hand into his hair, the other grasping at the cushion underneath your hips. With your thighs trembling and your stomach clenching, you throw your head back, crying out his name again and again. "Shit, I'm gonna come," you warn, squirming your hip, trying to buck them up into his mouth, "shit, shit, sh…”
"That's it! That's my good fucking girl!" He praises, watching as your body trembles, grunting and groaning as he feels you pulsate and tighten around his fingers. "Just a good fucking slut, aren't you?" He places soft kisses against your hips, lazily trailing them up your body as he moves in search of your lips. "Taking my fingers, swallowing them up inside your cunt, and squeezing them like a whore."
You whimper, feeling the emptiness as he removes his fingers and dances them across your bottom lip.
“You know the rules," he whispers, watching you intently and pushing his fingers past your lips, "you make a mess, you clean it up."
Wrapping your hand around his thick wrist, you push his fingers deep into the back of your throat, gagging and spluttering around them, your eyes never leaving his. He groans, biting his bottom lip and pushes them deeper until he starts to feel resistance.
Without warning, he rips his fingers back, a trail of spit still connecting you both together. "My turn," he stands to his feet, running his dry hand through his own hair, fixing the mess you had caused, "get on your knees, baby, I want to see if that throat still feels the same as I remember.”
He's already groaning as you wrap your hand around the base of his shaft, watching you with lust drunk eyes as you just take the tip into your mouth.
"Come on, no teasing," he orders, resting his hand on the back of your head, "let me see you take it all."
Gazing up at him, you give in to him, breathing through your nose and relaxing your jaw as you take as much as you can into your mouth. He grunts, feeling himself already hitting the back of your throat.
"What's the matter, princess?" He chuckles, pushing down onto your head. "Is it too big for my good girl to handle?”
You pull off, shaking your head and pumping him in your hand. "Big?" You goad, swirling your tongue around his tip, running it along the slit, feeling him shiver in your grasp. "Is that what they tell you? That it's the biggest cock they've ever taken?”
"I know it's the biggest cock you've ever taken," he fires back, suppressing a moan as you use your free hand to massage his balls the way you know he likes, "you wouldn't keep coming back to me, if it wasn't.”
"I come back to you?" You laugh, speeding up the way you twisted and jerked your hand over his shaft. He grunts, bucking his hips as you squeeze your hand around his tip. "That's funny, because weren't you the one who came to me last time? And the time before that?" He rolls his eyes, trying not to break his demeanour. "It sounds like you're the one who comes back to me.”
"Well, no one will suck my cock the way you do," he replies, digging his fingers harder into the back of your head, and groaning as you lick your tongue along the underside of his shaft. His head rolls back at the feeling of you taking him back into his mouth, grunting as you start to bob your head at constant, steady pace. "Only sluts suck cock the way you do," he pushes you down, feeling his cock twitching in your mouth every time you gagged around him, "god, baby, keep doing that!”
You catch your breath, feeling him twitching in the palm of your hand. "Gonna paint my throat white, baby?"
"And leave those perfect tits untouched?" He shakes his head, his chest heaving as he swallows a deep breath. His stomach clenches, grunting as his hips snapped forwards to meet each of your strokes. "Keep stroking me like that," he encourages through partial groans and a whole lot of grunts, "that's a good girl! That's a good fucking slut! My good fucking slut!"
Ropes of cum cover your chest and your hand as he finds himself coming for you, moaning your name out between broken grunts. You giggle at the grin he gives you, his cheeks darkening as a partial flicker of softness flashes in his eyes.
Your naked, clammy bodies collapse back onto the sofa, the two of you only laughing as you catch a glimpse of each other out of the corner of your eyes.
"Give me a second and I'll grab you a towel," Clayton tells you, reaching to grab his boxes dangling off the arm. He moves towards you, your thong hanging from his finger, moving them out of your reach as you try to grab them. "Though you do look very pretty painted in my cum," he catches your lips with his own, putting your panties in your hands when he pulls away.
"What time is it?" You ask, looking around his living room for your phone.
"Why?" He replies, kissing along your shoulder, groaning as you move out from underneath him.
"Because I have a check in to make.”
He sits back, lifting his hips as he pulls his boxes on. "I don't know why you just don't stay in my spare room," he throws out, finding your phone hidden under his shirt, "or even my own bed.”
"That's exactly why I don't stay here," you take your phone from him, smiling when you see you still had some time left before you were needed at your hotel.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," he chuckles, adding a comment about going to fetch you that warm cloth he had promised, "but we both know you'd like a personal, on the house, stay at Hotel Keller.”
"Unfortunately, I only stay in five star rated hotels," you call after him, giggling like an idiot, "and I've heard Hotel Keller is only rated three. Something about poor service."
He emerges quickly from his kitchen, the warm cloth in his hand. His touch is gentle as he wipes the cloth over your skin, obeying his own rule and cleaning up the mess he had created. "That was definitely not three-star rated sex," he adds to the joke, holding your hip with his free hand. "You get perfect service every single time.”
Ok, just throwing this out there that the Cam girl on Twitter did not send that ask in about herself, and just because she likes a player doesn’t mean people should be mean about it. Cams never claimed to be dating Keller, the Coyotes fan circle is a lot smaller than most, and so you see the same people interacting, which is maybe where the confusion comes from. She’s actually super nice in real life. Don’t call someone “gross” bc they like a player. There’s no harm in having a favorite player. The trademark nickname came from the Yotes hockey community bc they all know that’s her favorite player. Just saying be kinder to people, you don’t know because they could see the asks. (You weren’t mean in your response btw)
The whole thing where people say mean stuff about people and undermine them just because they like a player gives me really bad vibes and it's a bad stereotype.
I think she's just a fan who likes hockey and I especially interested in Clayton plus she's a minor and she's done nothing wrong. I got some mean stuff about her, but I deleted them because of the above reasons and there's no reason to talk about her :))
hey! i'm the girl who's rumored to be dating Keller and i'd appreciate it if y'all could take my name off this account. my private life is unfortunately no one else's business but mine & the people i decide to share it with. thank you💙
I'm not sure if this is actually the girl since anyone can come on here and claim to be anyone, but I agree with you anyway and I'll keep her name of for multiple reasons that I've stated before. I'm sorry if this whole situation has upset anyone because I can see why <3
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