annie

Freedom Friday. That’s what your friends liked to call the last day of the week before the weekend. Grizzly Lake is something either people hate or love, with the majority seeming to enjoy their time here because of one particular individual.

Everybody loves Clapton Davis. Clapton is friends with everyone! He’s the school heartthrob, and most conversations you manage to hear around the school halls tend to link to that red-shoed imbecile. Though it sounds condescending, you weren’t opposed to Clapton Davis at all.

The guy is gorgeous, a little on the short side, but why would you care? For a popular kid, he’s kind, friendly, and sociable. You can easily talk to him about your problems if your tongue doesn’t give up on you and tie itself into a slipknot. He gives you butterflies.

Who wouldn’t love Clapton? Well, he can be a little annoying at times, but aren’t we all?

Although Grizzly Lake is the school to go, the timetables are the exact same as any other state school in the country. Endless hours of maths and history classes, plus the piles upon piles of homework given to everyone per week. The only subject that doesn’t feel like your brain is melting from sheer boredom is art. Whether you’re good at it or not, the class is the best to chat in… as long as you don’t have a sour-faced teacher.

Science classes currently consist of biology, specifically on the topic of the reproductive system. It’s a shame that not everyone is mature enough to sit in that class without laughing. What’s so funny about how we function? This class is going to be loooong.

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The graffiti on your blue science stool stares back at you as soon as you wander through those battered-up classroom doors. You wonder if anything in this school hasn’t been vandalised by a bunch of teenage boys that lack a sense of humour.

Your peers begin to file into their seats, taking their resources out of their bags alongside you. As usual, only half of your class seems to be present. Latecomers are super common as time has gone on. They can’t give detentions to 15 pupils across the school periods; there won’t be enough room for them in that ragged old detention room at the end of the day.

“Seems only half of us are present today,” your teacher sighs, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. How do teachers do this job for years? Must be exhausting.

As your lecturer begins to discuss the plan for today’s lesson, your eyes trail over to the seat beside you. Everybody is jealous of you because of who you sit next to in biology.

Drawings of crowns and silly little “S” symbols decorate the white marble table of the biology classroom, assisted by streaks of random pens in multiple different colours. A few cats, too.

Clapton Davis is a chronic doodler. Everybody knows it. His arms are almost never bare, always covered in the smallest little pictures of stars and shit. That boy is so… gosh. How you’d love to draw on him in places you shouldn’t be thinking of within class.

He caught you staring once. It’s not your fault; he was wearing that blue tank top that exposes all of his muscles in his arms. They look edible. So so edible. Each contour and curve of each delicate muscle never fails to have you gawking.

Mr. Gill even had him come up to the front of the class when you were learning about the muscular system, saying he had “the perfect arms to show us each muscle”.

Staring problems suck, and you just so happen to have one.

“Hey man… um… we’re supposed to do a paired activity…?” Clapton turns to you, gently waving his strong hand in front of your eyes.

You’ve never snapped out of a daze quicker.

“Huh? Oh! Right… sorry…” you manage to force out before your tongue ties.

Clapton chuckles. “You like them?” he offers you his arm, detailed with doodles. How do you say yes without seeming like an obsessive perv? Your lack of response tells him everything he needs to know. “Relax, man, it’s all good. You can look whenever you want.”

Clapton offers you his arm with a wink. That was the moment you really started falling for him, but also the moment your friendship started blooming. You aren’t necessarily close outside of class, but you’re his biology buddy! I mean, he plays footsie with you under the desk!—

You’re distracted from your daze by the sound of wheels and the door slamming shut.

“You’re late, Davis,” the teacher grumbles, sincerely unimpressed by Clapton’s tardiness. “And how many times do I have to tell you to stop skateboarding in here? There are precious things in here for us to analyse.”

“Sorry, Mr. Gill! Got caught up in some trouble.” Clapton states, more nonchalant than ever. Everybody will have his back. Your professor sighs and orders him to just sit down. Davis slips into his own blue seat beside you. He makes no effort to take anything out of his bag or pockets. No textbook, no pen, nothing. Your focus remains on the chalkboard in front of you before you feel a gentle poke on your forearm.

“Hey man, you got a pen I could borrow?” Clapton questions you hopefully..

“Why do you always come in unequipped? You can easily fix that issue by skating to the store down the road,” you chuckle softly, keeping your voice hushed. You hand him a blue biro.

“Thanks, it’s too much hassle. The skate park is always calling my name. Can hear it calling me right now, you know.” Clapton jokes, twirling the pen between his fingers. So skilled. You shuffle in your seat in an attempt to remove any… unacceptable thoughts from your head.

Class proceeds with snickers and chuckles at the mention of male and female gentialia. How babies are made and the cell process that follows. Clapton was certain that zygotes were called zybros and spent 2 minutes trying to explain why he thought that for so many years. The answer led to the fact that he had never paid attention in class before.

About 20 minutes of class passes before you feel a heel kick your own foot. Your gaze immediately travels from your work to Clapton, who is smirking like crazy. He shrugs, pretending he has nothing to do with it. Leaning over, you tap your pen on his slip of paper, silently telling him to get on with his own work.

It doesn’t stop him from playing footsie with you whilst you both work, however. He scuffs and kicks at your left foot, occasionally intertwining your legs together for a moment or two, which sets your body on fire.

The pair of you play this game for the next 10 minutes before your lecturer starts speaking again.

“I’m going to set you a research project over the next three weeks. With the person next to you—“ Clapton’s eyes meet yours. “— you will be coming up with a PowerPoint that describes how the reproductive system works. I expect to see work from both parties.”

The bell rings.

Clapton lets his head fall back against the back of his seat. You know how much the boy hates projects.

“Ughhh this is gonna ruin my schedule!” he whines.

“Your skating schedule?” you laugh at him, poking fun at his disarray. Clapton lets out a soft groan.

“You laugh but you’d be pissed too if you were me!” his hands come up to the back of his head. Fuck, arms.

Clapton opens his eyes to peek at you. “Ah, sorry, forgot you like my guns.” His response catches you off guard.

“I- I wasn’t-“ you argue back, desperate to hide your face that feels like it’s growing hotter and hotter.

“Hey, chill. It’s fine.”

After composing yourself, you speak in a calm voice.

“Would you want to come to my place after school? To start on the project?”

Clapton’s lip turns up into a sweet smile. He nods, giving your pen back as the school bell rings. “Yeah, sure. Should I meet you outside the gates?”

“That’s fine by me. I just have to drop off some late homework to Mrs. Smith before I leave.”

You can’t tell if you’re going crazy or if this really happened, but you could’ve sworn

you saw Clapton’s hazel eyes drop to your lips for a split second before looking back into your own. He nods, seeming awkward too.

“I’ll— I’ll see you then… then.” You’ve never seen him stutter before.

“Yeah— yeah, I’ll see you… later… yeah…”

With a soft “ahem”, Clapton skates off to whatever class he is going to be late to next. You were too dazed by the boy beside you that you didn’t even realise you hadn’t packed up yet, and all of your classmates have already gone.

“Staying for the next class?” Mr. Gill laughs softly.

“Oh! No, sorry, Mr. Gill!”

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4 p.m. rolls around slower than ever. All you want to do is see Clapton again, compelled by a stronger feeling than you’ve ever felt for him before. Why would he look at you like that? Did he mean to look at your lips? You’ve only ever seen him kiss girls in the halls or at parties, not with any boys. The assumption was that he was straight.

As your final class ends, you sling your bag over your shoulder and head to Mrs. Smith’s class to hand in your late assignment. The halls empty quickly once the school day has ended, as everybody is so desperate to go home and either eat, sleep, or party. It’s a Friday, after all.

Despite Grizzly Lake being full of energy and colour, the halls always feel kind of eerie when they’re empty, especially with that big bear. It always made you uncomfortable when you were alone with it. Your shoes squeak against the tiled floors of the hall, the keychains on your bag jingling, cutting the silence apart.

Eventually, you make it to Mrs. Smith’s classroom. You don’t even get to raise your fist to knock on the door before it opens for you.

“Clapton?”

Before you stands the boy of your dreams. He runs his hand through his dark hair, seemingly embarrassed that he opened the door so fast for you.

“Hey! Uh… I thought it would be easier to catch you in here, so…” Davis scratches the back of his neck, unintentionally flexing his godforsaken arms again. You shake your head.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Can I just squeeze past you so I can hand this to Mrs. Smith?”

Clapton seems to snap out of whatever blushy state he’s in and shuffles to the side. “Right! Sorry!”

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After handing in your paper, the two of you wander out of the room and into the silent halls, only occasionally broken by the sound of footsteps far away.

“C’mon, I’ll take you to my place.”

Davis trails behind you, surprisingly walking for once. You make small talk and discuss little things like his skateboard until you get out of the school gates and onto the pavement.

“Speaking of skateboarding—“ Clapton hops on his skateboard, the griptape scuffing against his red Converse. “—would you want to skate with me?” he shuffles backwards , making room for you at the front.

He takes note of your lack of movement.

“We don’t have to. I was just—“

“I’d like to,” you cut him off. “But you should really be wearing a helmet.”

“Helmets are for wussies,” Clapton jokes.

“And hospital rooms are reserved for Clapton Davis.”

He scoffs playfully. “Just get on here.”

Before you can react, Clapton takes your hand in his own and has you step on his board.

“Just keep your weight central, and put one foot in front of the other. There you go. I’ll steer.” He explains softly, his breath tickling your ear as he reaches for it.

“Can you see okay?” you ask.

“Just fine, plus I know this town like the back of my hand. I could skate around with my eyes closed.”

His hands find their way to your waist. You know they’re only there to steady you, but lord does it set you ablaze. The way his thumbs tickle your hips as he holds you, how his torso presses into your back, it’s like heaven.

Eventually, you manage to steer him to your front door. The pair of you jump off of his board, and you wander up to your front door, unlocking it. There’s no car on the driveway, so you clock that your parents aren’t home.

“C’mon, I don’t bite.” You offer him inside. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

He begins to remove his shoes, leaving them by the door in a neat pair. “Umm, just some water, thanks… your house is lovely.” Clapton whispers, like he’s shy.

“Thank you, we all work hard to keep it tidy.”

Glasses of water in hand, you guide Clapton upstairs towards your bedroom. Using your elbow, you open up your door and slip inside.

“So, this is my room.” You perch yourself on your bed, letting Clapton take in everything. He wanders over to your desk, looking like he actually wants to study for once in his goddamn life. You pop a CD into your CD player for some background music.

“It’s lovely, do you want to start working now?” he suggests, taking a seat in your desk chair. He man spreads, letting his elbows rest on either knee as you face each other. He has to know he’s hot, right? You’d do anything to just worship him on your knees. Clearing your throat, you pick up your bag and take out the supplies needed for this topic.

“What do you remember about today’s lesson?” you question, knowing he won’t actually remember shit.

“That a zygote isn’t called a zybro,” he says flatly.

“Good enough. Why don’t we start with male reproduction? I can start making a mind map of male hormones—“

“—And I can do the production of semen?”

You sit back, a smug grin on your face.

“What?” he laughs gently.

“You actually remembered something. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, you proud of me?” he gets closer, his tone taking on a more playful role.

“Very.”

A silence falls upon you both. But it isn’t uncomfortable. The oxygen around you feels way thicker, like it’s hotter and harder to get down into your lungs. He can’t look away from you, and you can’t look away from him. Is this what tension feels like?

“You like male reproduction?” Clapton says almost teasingly.

“Maybe… never thought you would.”

His brown locs fall to the side as he tilts his head in response to your assumption.

“What gave you that impression?”

Oh boy, he’s good.

“Only ever seen you kiss girls, like Ione-“

“How many guys at Grizzly Lake High actually like boys, huh? Not many.”

His words swirl around in your head like edible glitter in a glass of coke. He’s right, he’s never kissed a guy, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like them. He’s far too good with his words to not make you feel light-headed and the luckiest guy in the world.

In an attempt to remove your own arousal, you turn back to biology.

“So for this project—“

Skater boy doesn’t hesitate before cutting you off.

“Baby. We both know you don’t care about this biology, ‘project’ anymore. I mean… we can still study, but it doesn’t have to be pen and paper, right?”

Stunned.

“I see how you look at me. Like you want to bite me. Lick me.” he says with a lack of hesitation.

“I- I mean you’re attractive, but everyone knows that.”

“But you’re the only one I want to bite me, baby.”

“Is that an offer?” your confidence blooms like flowers in Spring.

Clapton moves closer to you, glancing at your lips whilst licking his own. “Take it or leave it.”

Then he states something with so much lust powered behind it that you cave in.

“Show me how male reproduction works.”

Without missing a beat, you both crash into each other, mashing your lips together in the messiest kiss you’ve ever endured. It’s all teeth and tongue, his huge hands cradling your face as he groans against your lips. He breaks your connection only for a second, analysing the state of you before diving in again, hands beginning to roam over your torso.

He’s a good kisser, and you learn by mimicking what he’s doing to you.

“You copying me?”

Laughter slips from both of you.

“God, you’re so fucking cute.”

And he’s kissing you again. This time, he moves you over to your bedsheets, laying you down softly with your head on your soft pillow. Davis lays beside you, still caressing your jaw as he devours your lips. He captures your bottom, kiss-bruised lip and sucks it between his own, nibbling it before soothing the gentle sting with his tongue. You’ve never seen him kiss girls with this much passion.

The music in the background makes this more fun too, even though it’s not necessarily “sexy music”, it’s something that fills any silence between you, even if it’s just Avril Lavigne.

“Fucking love Avril,” he laughs against your lips. Kissing Clapton is so fun, where has he been all your life??

Clapton’s lips soon calm down, pulling you into deeper, slower, hot kisses that have you both groaning softly. Your hand grabs a fistful of his shirt, leaving a gathering of creases in that area. His lips are the softest, and they feel better than you ever predicted.

Is it perverted to jerk off to your classmate? Either way, you couldn’t help yourself. Imagining those lips on yours had you squirming.

After another minute or so of these hot, spit-filled kisses, Clapton begins to ask questions.

“Is it okay if I take off your shirt?” he requests breathlessly, his hand resting on your stomach as he awaits consent.

“Absolutely, can I take off yours?”

Clapton immediately pulls off his own shirt, almost excited for you to see what he looks like. He grasps one of your hands gently and trails it down his torso, allowing you to feel every ridge and curve of his muscles.

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

Slowly as not to startle you, he pries off your shirt, his warm hands immediately moving to caress your exposed skin. He lets out a pathetic little moan.

“You’re so handsome…” he sighs, feeling his pants grow tighter.

“Et toi.”

“Huh?”

“It’s French for ‘you too’.” You guffaw at his cluelessness.

He giggles. “Speak English, loverboy! I don’t speak Spanish…”

“It’s French!”

“I don’t care right now, just let me kiss you—“ he cuts you off, stroking your torso as he sucks on your bottom lip again. Soon enough, you want to buck your hips against him, your own pants becoming incredibly tight.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, you allow your eyes to trail down South to look at the state you’re both in. Tenting. With perfect synchronicity, you both moan at how you’ve affected each other.

“Fuck, honey…” Clapton moves to palm his own cock through his pants. “Can we take them off?”

“Please-“ you squeak, immediately moving to unbutton your pants whilst he undoes his own. Clapton’s boxers are neon green today, bright with what seems to be a creeper on the front.

“Minecraft?” you laugh softly, lying in your own underwear.

“Well, if I knew I was going to be getting laid today, I would have worn plain ones.” he says shyly.

“I like them, they’re so… you.”

A warm smile spreads across his face as you state your mind.

“You’re so perfect… thank you for this… can I touch you…?”

An eager, “yes!” quickly escapes you before you can even stop it from leaving your lips. What? You’re desperate.

Skater boy groans with delight as you give him your consent. Not looking away from your eyes, he trails his hand down to your boxers and gently squeezes your rigid cock through the soft material. His touch is electric and you instinctively buck into his hand, your own moving to grip onto the sheets beside you.

“You grip things a lot, huh?” Clapton teases you as he begins to stroke you through the confines of your underwear. A small damp spot stains where your tip lies, weeping and crying with precome. “So fucking hard right now…”

Clapton monitors your reactions and your desperation, seeing what touches you do and don’t like. He wants to do whatever makes you moan the loudest.

After a few minutes of stroking you through your fabrics, he slips his fingers under the waistband of your underwear, silently asking if he can take you out. Once you grant him consent, he kisses you the softest he has all afternoon, so full of love and tenderness. You reciprocate his loving kiss as you feel his hands wrap around your shaft. A sharp moan slips from your mouth into his.

“It’s okay, I gotcha, baby… just relax…” his tone is so soothing. Davis seems similar enough with the equipment. His strokes are of the perfect force, not too fast or slow, hard or soft. It has you vocal.

Hazel eyes watch as he jerks you off, studying how your dick twitches and weeps as he works you over. At one point, he swipes his thumb over your weeping tip, and you’re certain for a moment that you were going to nut from it. He neglects nothing, making sure to occasionally stroke your balls, muttering something about biology that causes you to tell him to shut up.

“Y-know… these are actually called testes—“

“S-shut up…” not maliciously, of course, but you so badly want to come right now.

After a few more teasing remarks, with a keening wail, your cock throbs as you come from Clapton’s expert stroking. Strings of hot, pearly semen spurt from your swollen tip, landing all over Clapton’s hand and your belly.

Your chest heaves as you recover, letting out the last few noises that accompany your orgasm before you turn to look at the boy that did this to you. He’s red, so red, and also has his chest heaving.

“Are you okay?” you ask him softly.

“Y-yeah! I um-“ his eyes drop to his own crotch where his green boxers show a large, deeper green splatter where his tip lies.

“Were you jerking yourself off? I could’ve done that for you as you worked me over-“

“No, no, baby-“ Clapton chuckles. “I came hands-free… seeing you so blissed out and moaning for me, fuck it was enough to make me come in my dumb Minecraft boxers…”

It’s hard not to look proud of yourself when being told information like that.

“Do you want anything else?” you offer. “I could blow you or—

“Oh baby, baby, I’m okay… that orgasm wracked every last bit of energy I had left… did you have fun at least?”

“Absolutely… fuck, we made a mess…” you sigh, exasperated.

“Indeed, how about we clean up and watch a movie, huh? Stuff the project; we’ve done enough studying for now.”

Laughter fills the room alongside the gentle “smooch!” sound of kisses. What a perfect afternoon.

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Following a long shower and giving Clapton a spare pair of your own underwear, the two of you sit before your TV and watch a movie together. Turns out you both like The Hunger Games.

“You know, I think you look like Peeta Mellark,” your voice pipes up during the interview scene of Catching Fire.

“Really?” you nod. “Nah, he looks nothing like me.”

Both pairs of eyes stay glued to the screen.

“If it weren’t…for what? For what? What?” Flickerman urges Peeta to spit out whatever he is trying to say.

“If it weren’t for the baby.”

Yourself and Clapton say at the same

time before looking at each other. Hearty guffawing fills the room as you share another fruitful kiss.

“You’re the best, you know?” Clapton tells you softly. “I want to call you mine.”

“Really?” your eyes sparkle like diamonds, and he notices.

“Mhm, can I?”

“Forever and ever.”