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dolene · 5 months

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I AM A WHAT? ; fernando alonso x wife!reader

summary: after taylor swift's song was out, people couldn't help but link him to taylor—while he didn't know anything about the current news.

note: sorry if this is so messy, it was a brainrot 🤭 and anyway happy ttpd day for those who celebrate!

the circulating news about his unreal relationship with the international singer taylor swift is no longer in doubt. there are many people who support them, shipping them, and even created a fan account dedicated to the two of them—who are not related or know each other at all.

“heh, yeah i'm aware of it.” he snort when the interviewer asked him about the swirling news. “but either way, i know that it wouldn't be possible.” he continues, simply shrugging with his wide smile still decorating his face when he saw the interviewer's eyebrows knit.

“oh? why is that?” he finally asked which fernando answered shortly, “i've had my wife, you remember?” and the interviewer chuckled, “no but really, if you hadn't marries her yet, would you choose her?” he said, making fernando goes silent for a quick moment.

“ah, probably.” he said eventually, “if i were still as young as her... and as tall. it would be okay.” the both of them laughed at his answer, leaving the interviewer with his tons of asks to continue the interview and leaving the taylor topic alone.

A YEAR LATER...

being chronically online in social media gave him a lot of benefits to offer. from not missing up with the latest news and trends makes him quite popular in his daily social media life as a trendy man on tiktok. but that also doesn't rule out the possibility that sometimes he is still left behind with other news that is not included in his list of interests. whether it's because he's not interested and allows himself to be left out of it, or he doesn't know about it all.

and having a wife who is also a journalist gives him many benefits, and one of them is not missing in any trending news that he doesn't even know it exists;

“ooh, i see that you were trending on twitter today.” you said as you walked to the counter to take a glass of juice from the mini refrigerator.

“twitter?” he asked from the bathroom, his voice echoed, and your uh-huh answers his question. “i haven't checked my twitter in a day or two now,” he said as he continued to brush his teeth, “so i don't know what am i even missed so i could be on the trending topic.”

“d'you want me to check it out for you?”

“mhm, sure.”

you immediately opened your twitter again after hearing his approval, searched for his name in the search column and finally found the topic you were looking for. lots of it. a lot of them were tweets about him and taylor swift with her new album.

you were silent for a moment, as you were getting too preoccupied with seeing what people were talking about about your husband and taylor swift, that you forgot about fernando who had been waiting for your response in the bathroom.

“so what is that all about?” he questioned, after he's finally came out of the bathroom, immediately standing next to you to peek at your phone. “apparently it's your gossip with miss swift.” he let out a loud laugh and stood up from his previous position as he walked towards his suitcase to look for a clean clothes for him to wear.

usually you are quite updated with the latest news, especially about taylor swift because you are a swiftie. but strangely enough, you don't know about this either.

“i haven't heard about the lastest album.” you said, and fernando hummed. “so you didn't know about the news, then?” he asked, and you answered, “no, i don't.” okay he said as a respond.

but after some time of scrolling through your twitter page, you finally find out what they mean about it. and you can't even deny it, you were also late in digesting the information.

MEANWHILE TWITTER...

“ooohhh, so you are taylor's car.” your face was still focused on your phone screen when fernando looked at you with a confused face. “i'm her what?”

“her car. and look, your relationship gossip with taylor is up again.” you giggled but didn't told him about the detailed things that you've been said to him earlier, making him keeping the confused face on his face longer.

“cariño, ¿de qué hablas?” he shakes his head, finally letting his desperation wins over the the lack of clarity in the information you gave him. you smiled, approaching him who was sitting on the bed, his mouth pouted with his lower lips is pushed forward—just like a 10 year old child whose parents weren't allowed to play.

“okay so, on her newest album, taylor wrote in the lyrics ‘i'm an aston martin’ and maybe that's why the public started to brings the taylor rumors again.” you said, and he nodded. “then you are her car, right?” and he finally get rid of the pout that he has on earlier as he slowly laughed. a breathy one, before he finally stops in a current slow motion.

“but that still doesn't answer your lack of clarity earlier!” he insists, but his face is still smiling from his laugh earlier, his eyes looking at you. “i already explained it to you!” you chuckled and his eyes lit up as you looked back at him.

there was a silence filling up the room for a moment after you said that, until he finally broke it; “you know, even if someday i could be with taylor, i wouldn't be with her.”

“really? and why is that?”

“because i could only be your aston martin.”

“oh my—” and before you could even rolled your eyes or completing your sentence, he had already pulled you in for a kiss first. luckily he's your husband.

taglist: @seasonswinter @haikyuen @callsignwidow

translation: cariño, ¿de qué hablas? = baby, what are you talking about?

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wannabehockeygf · 1 month

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Florida!!! - Clayton Keller

“My friends all smell like weed or little babies,

And this city reeks of driving myself crazy,

Little did you know, your home’s really only a town you’re just a guest in?

So you work your life away,

Just to pay for a timeshare down in Destin.”

Summary: On a family vacation with your boyfriend, you find him stoned with his brother, and when he gets you alone, things escalate…

Word Count: 5k

Pairing: Clayton Keller x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ NSFW! Use of drugs (marijuana), oral sex (f receiving), Clayton being an absolute munch.

Notes:

- been indulging recently (it’s perfectly legal where i live, don’t @ me…) so real life projection!

- munch Clayton is finally here for my girlies who enjoy him as much as I do!

- also I’m still not over ttpd. no skip album.

- not proof read <3

***

*EDIT 08/15/2024 @ 8:31pm PST : His brother’s name is Jake. Not Luke. Sorry if you read prior 😭 (hughes brother brainrot)

A vacation with your boyfriend’s family? Oh, this was uncharted territory. I mean, you’d survived Thanksgiving dinner at his parents’ house in St. Louis—barely. But that was just one night. One turkey. One slightly-too-long hug from his mom. You’d only been together five months, after all.

But now, here you are, basking in the relentless sunshine of Destin, Florida, sharing a timeshare with them. A timeshare. This is like Thanksgiving on steroids, with no escape hatch. The place is stupidly nice, though. Like, if Pottery Barn threw up on a beach house, this would be it. Sure, Clayton probably financed half of it, but you still feel like you’re tiptoeing through a very fragile house of cards. One wrong move and you’ll topple the whole “good impression” thing you’ve got going on. So yeah, “best behavior” mode is fully engaged, like a 24/7 surveillance camera on yourself.

But then, the moment of truth. After a blissful solo beach jaunt—because let’s be honest, sometimes you just need a break from all that “family bonding”—you wander into the garage, nose twitching at some weird smell. Is that...skunk? No, no. Please don’t be a skunk. You cautiously push open the door, and what do you find? Clayton and his brother, Jake, in full bro-mode sitting in flimsy lawn chairs, laughing like they’re at some frat party, sharing hits from a brightly colored bong.

Well, that’s definitely a new one.

Really, Clayton? You’re on a family vacation, not reliving your glory days as "Chad, the King of Sigma Nu." Is this his idea of “relaxing with the fam?” Plus, isn’t smoking bad for your lungs? Especially for a hockey player. You stand there for a second, frozen like you’ve just walked in on a murder mystery party and are trying to figure out if you’re the victim or the detective. Your mind is a hurricane of thoughts: Should I laugh? Should I be offended? Is this one of those “testing the girlfriend” moments? Because honestly, who packs a bong for a trip to a family-friendly beach destination?

You catch Clayton’s eye, and for a split second, you see the gears in his head screech to a halt. Jake, on the other hand, is blissfully unaware of your presence, too busy blowing a perfect smoke ring that floats lazily toward the ceiling. Clayton gives you this wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look, which would be adorable if it weren’t so stupid. Oh, sweetheart, you are so busted.

“Heyyy,” Clayton says, dragging out the word like he’s trying to slow time. “You, uh, back already?”

You blink. “Yeah, funny thing, I actually live here too. With your family. On vacation. Remember?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his lawn chair—seriously, who uses lawn chairs indoors?—and suddenly, you’re struck by how much this scene looks like a low-budget college film. The only thing missing is a dorm fridge stocked with PBR and a poster of Bob Marley on the wall. Instead, it’s all beige walls and perfectly coordinated coastal decor that just screams, “Don’t touch anything.”

Jake finally notices you and breaks into a grin, lifting the bong like it’s a trophy. “Hey, you wanna join?”

Oh, great, you think, now I’m one of the bros.

But before you can respond, Clayton is already scrambling to fix this train wreck. “No, no, she doesn’t want to join! Right, babe?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Where did you guys even get that? I mean, isn’t smoking pot like… illegal in this state?”

Clayton, bless his clueless heart, is staring at you with wide, bloodshot eyes like a puppy that just realized it’s chewed up your favorite shoes. Meanwhile, Jake— who you’re now starting to think might actually be a golden retriever in human form—waves the bong around like he’s offering you a slice of pizza at a sleepover.

“Illegal? Pssh, not if you don’t get caught,” Jake says with a wink that’s meant to be charming but lands somewhere between “bad decision” and “future mugshot.”

Clayton clears his throat and finally sets the bong down on the cement floor, like he’s slowly disarming a bomb. “It’s just, you know, for relaxation. Family vacations can be...stressful.”

You tilt your head, considering this. Stressful? You’ve been trying to make sure his mom doesn’t hate you and his dad doesn’t think you’re a gold-digger. And he’s the one who’s stressed? You bite back a laugh, because now’s really not the time to remind him that you’ve been fake-smiling so much your cheeks are about to cramp.

“Oh, totally,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because nothing says ‘stress relief’ like hiding in the garage with your brother, getting high while the rest of your family is out there expecting you to be getting ready for dinner.”

Clayton scratches the back of his neck, his go-to move when he’s trying to avoid a conversation. It’s endearing, really. In a way that also makes you want to strangle him. “I wasn’t— I mean, we were just—” He stumbles over his words, and you can practically see the gears in his head struggling to find a logical explanation that isn’t “We’re idiots.”

You take a deep breath, rolling your eyes so hard you’re worried they might get stuck. But, honestly, are you even surprised? In the last five months, you’ve learned that Clayton’s the kind of guy who accidentally dips his fries in your ketchup while trying to impress you with some half-baked philosophical theory about life. Which, admittedly, is part of his charm—when he’s not pulling stunts like this.

“Alright,” you say, crossing your arms, “let’s get one thing straight. I’m not going to narc you out to your mom since you’re actual grown adults, but you’re coming inside with me right now, and I’m going to help you sober up before we have to go to dinner.”

Jake’s still grinning like an idiot, probably already mentally planning the next bong hit, but you’ve got your sights set on Clayton. He’s trying to look contrite, but the bloodshot eyes are sort of ruining the effect.

“Come on,” you say, reaching out to take his hand, which, by the way, is clammy. Lovely. “I don’t think anyone’s noticed you’ve gone missing yet, but let’s not push our luck.”

Clayton gives you a sheepish smile, the kind that’s got you melting just a little bit. He stands up, wobbling slightly, and you have to resist the urge to laugh. Instead, you squeeze his hand, pulling him toward the door that leads back into the house.

You’re halfway there when Jake chimes in, “You sure you don’t want a hit? It’s good stuff. I mean, if you want to see, like, colors you didn’t know existed...”

You raise an eyebrow. “Colors? Really? I thought you were more of a ‘munchies and conspiracy theories’ kind of guy.”

Jake blinks at you, clearly having to work too hard to process that sentence, and you’re actually kind of proud of yourself. Two points for you, zero for the stoner brothers.

Clayton’s trailing behind you, still holding your hand like it’s a lifeline, and you can feel him trying to gauge your mood. It’s not anger, really—more of a low simmering exasperation. You drag him through the door and into the immaculate kitchen, up the stairs, until you reach the bedroom you’d been sharing.

Clayton finally releases your hand, flopping down onto the bed like a ragdoll. “Babe, you’re the best, you know that?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes like a kid who’s been up past his bedtime. “I mean, seriously, the absolute best.”

You raise an eyebrow, perching on the edge of the bed. “Oh, I know. But that’s not going to save you from having to drink a gallon of water and eating something before we go to dinner with your parents.”

He groans, throwing an arm over his face like he’s in a bad rom-com. “Do we have to? I was kind of hoping we could just... stay here. Forever. In this bed. With no responsibilities.”

You smirk, reaching over to poke his side. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m not sure your mom would appreciate us skipping out on dinner after she called multiple travel agents to find the best restaurant.”

He peeks out from under his arm, giving you a lopsided grin. “Come here,” He urges, obviously still trying to get out of his responsibilities. His voice is teasing, but there’s something genuine in his eyes that makes your heart do a weird little flip.

You take a deep breath, trying to muster the willpower to resist the magnetic pull of that stupidly adorable grin. Clayton’s got this way of looking at you, all soft eyes and boyish charm, like he’s just discovered the best thing in the world, and it happens to be you. It’s the kind of look that could melt the Polar ice caps, and honestly, it’s not fair.

But you’re here for a mission, and that mission is to get this man sober enough to face his family without blowing your cover as the perfect girlfriend who isn’t remotely flustered by her boyfriend’s impromptu stoner session in the garage.

"Nice try," you say, raising an eyebrow and trying to keep your resolve firm, "but you’re not weaseling your way out of this one with cuddles."

“Come on,” Clayton says again, patting the bed beside him. “We’ve got, what? An hour before dinner? We could… relax for a bit.” His voice drops at the word “relax,” and you catch the hint of mischief in his tone.

You narrow your eyes at him, feigning suspicion. “Relax? Are you sure that’s all you want to do?”

He grins, and it’s that boyish, slightly cocky smile that usually precedes him getting his way. “I mean, we could do other things. Fun things. Relaxing, fun things…”

You’re already shaking your head, but you can feel the resolve weakening. It doesn’t help that he’s giving you that look—the one that’s equal parts puppy-dog eyes and shameless seduction. How he manages to pull that off when he still smells like weed with a hint of Febreze is beyond you.

“Clay…” you start, trying to maintain a firm tone, but he’s already moving closer, his hand finding its way to your thigh. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver up your spine, and suddenly, you’re a lot less focused on the whole “responsible girlfriend” thing and more on the fact that, despite his current state, he’s still ridiculously attractive.

“Mm-hmm?” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.

Oh no. You know where this is going, and while every logical part of you is screaming “this is a bad idea,” the rest of you is pretty much ready to throw logic out the window.

“Clayton,” you try again, but this time it’s softer, less of a protest and more of a gentle reminder that maybe—just maybe—you should both be thinking this through.

He nuzzles his way up your neck, planting kisses as he goes, and when his lips reach that spot just beneath your ear, the one that makes your breath hitch, you know you’re done for.

“Mm-hmm?” he repeats, but this time it’s muffled against your skin, and the way his voice vibrates sends a delightful thrill through your entire body.

“Dinner,” you say weakly, though even to your own ears, it sounds more like a suggestion than a requirement.

“Later,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jaw.

You let out a breathy laugh, your hands instinctively finding their way to his hair, threading through the soft strands. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hums again, clearly not caring in the slightest. His hands are roaming now, one sliding up your back, the other tracing patterns on your thigh. You feel him gently push you back against the pillows, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it very hard to remember why you were resisting in the first place.

For a brief moment, you consider pushing him away, reminding him of the inevitable dinner with his parents where, let’s be honest, you’re still trying to score all the points. But then his lips find yours, and all thoughts of social propriety melt away.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin in that gentle, affectionate way that always makes your heart skip a beat. He pulls back just a fraction, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, but there’s a warmth there—a genuine sweetness that cuts through the haze of weed and turns your resolve to mush.

“You know I’m crazy about you, right?” he murmurs, his voice low and a little rough. It’s that tone that gets you every time, the one that makes it clear he’s not just messing around, even if he’s not entirely in his right mind at the moment.

Your heart does that weird flip again, and you find yourself smiling despite everything. “I know,” you whisper back, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

He grins, all boyish charm and mischief, and then his lips are on yours again, more insistent this time. The kiss is slow and languid, like he’s savoring every second, and you can’t help but melt into it. His hands are warm, tracing a path down your sides, and when he pulls you closer, pressing his body against yours, you let out a soft, involuntary sigh.

“Mm, I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he mumbles against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “Can’t stop thinking about you.”

You’re lying there, pinned under the warm, slightly too-heavy weight of Clayton’s body, and your mind is racing, trying to catch up with the situation. Clayton’s still high as a kite, and yet here he is, trying to seduce you with that damn lopsided grin of his. You’re supposed to be the responsible one right now, the one who keeps everything on track. The one who doesn’t let her boyfriend’s cannabis-induced haze derail a meticulously planned family dinner. But, as his lips work their way down your neck, you’re beginning to think maybe you’ve lost control of this situation altogether.

“Clayton,” you say, trying to sound firm, but it comes out more like a breathless sigh. His mouth is trailing hot, lazy kisses along your collarbone, and you can feel his fingers tugging at the hem of your shirt. It’s distracting, to say the least, and you’re struggling to hold on to any coherent thought that doesn’t involve how good his touch feels.

“Hm?” He hums against your skin, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil you’re experiencing. His hands slide under your shirt, the calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your bare stomach, sending shivers up your spine. He’s not making this easy, and you know that’s probably the point.

“Dinner,” you manage to say, though it’s a weak attempt at protest. “We’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner.”

“Mm, later,” he mumbles, his lips moving lower, kissing just above the waistband of your shorts. “This is more important.”

You can’t help the small, breathy laugh that escapes you. “Is it now?”

He lifts his head to look at you, and the sight of him—flushed, with slightly mussed hair and glassy eyes that are somehow both earnest and a little mischievous—makes your heart skip a beat. “Definitely,” he says, and there’s something in his voice, a kind of sweet, dopey sincerity, that almost makes you want to give in right then and there.

You chew on your lower lip, trying to stay focused, but it’s hard when his hands are skimming up your sides, pushing your shirt higher. “Clayton, you’re high,” you remind him gently, as if he needs the reminder. “We really should—”

“I know,” he interrupts, and there’s that lopsided grin again, the one that makes your stomach do funny little flips. “But I just... I really fucking want you. And I want to make you feel good.”

You let out a sigh, glancing at the bedroom door as if it’s the gateway to the world of “responsibility” that you’re desperately trying to cling to. But honestly, that door is looking less like an escape route and more like a blockade against the pure, unadulterated temptation that is Clayton, sprawled out on the bed, high as a kite and making it very clear what he wants.

You’re supposed to be the responsible one. The one who keeps her wits about her, who doesn’t let a family vacation turn into a complete disaster because her boyfriend decided to get high with his brother in the garage. And yet…here you are, feeling the weight of Clayton’s gaze on you, his hands warm and insistent as they trace the curve of your hips.

“Clayton,” you try again, but your voice is soft, more an invitation than a protest. You should be telling him to sober up, to get dressed for dinner, to think about the fact that his mom could come knocking on the door at any minute. But instead, you find yourself caught in the way his eyes—glassy as they are—still manage to look at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

He looks up at you with those dazed, love-struck eyes and gives you that adorable lopsided grin. “Again? Baby, you don’t understand. I’ve been dreaming about having you like this all day. I just want to make you feel good. I’m so fucking into you right now. Just let me take care of you. It’s all I want.”

Oh god, his eyes are making your heart race, and every rational thought you had is slipping through your fingers. Here you are, his fingers gently tugging at your shirt, his lips grazing your collarbone in a way that makes you question every life decision you’ve ever made.

He’s literally begging to go down on you. To make you feel good, not giving a shit about himself. You’d laugh if it didn’t sound like the absolute best idea in the world right now.

But still, you hesitate. “Clayton,” you start, and even you’re surprised by how steady your voice sounds. “We really, really shouldn’t…”

He doesn’t stop. In fact, he seems to take your half-hearted protest as encouragement because he’s already kissing a path down your stomach, his fingers expertly unbuttoning your shorts like he’s done it a thousand times before. “I don’t care,” he mutters against your skin, and there’s an edge of desperation in his tone that sends a shiver down your spine. “I just need to taste you. Please, baby, let me.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep a level head, but Clayton’s hands are roaming, his fingers curling under the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with a slow, deliberate movement. You feel the cool air against your skin, and suddenly every nerve in your body is on high alert. He’s not stopping—he’s determined, and you know, deep down, that if you don’t stop him now, you’re going to lose this battle entirely.

But then he looks up at you, his eyes soft and pleading, his lips swollen from the kisses he’s trailed across your body, and you know you’re done for. He’s high, sure, but there’s something in his gaze that’s entirely genuine—a need to make you feel good, to lose himself in the act of worshiping your body.

You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat as you nod, just once, and it’s all the permission he needs. He grins, and there’s that boyish charm again, the kind that makes your stomach flip in the most ridiculous way.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s tugging your shorts fully down your legs, tossing them aside with zero care about where they land. His hands find your thighs, spreading them apart with a gentle insistence that makes your heart pound in your chest. He’s on a mission, and that mission is apparently you.

You try to brace yourself for what’s coming, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way Clayton dives in like a man starved. His mouth is hot, wet, and insistent, and the first swipe of his tongue against you has your back arching off the bed. He’s not wasting any time, his mouth moving with a kind of single-minded focus that makes your head spin.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hands flying to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you try to ground yourself. He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you know you’re in trouble. Big, big trouble.

Clayton’s always been good at this—like, freakishly good—but tonight? Tonight, he’s on a whole other level. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the fact that he’s so damn into it, but whatever it is, it’s working, and you’re rapidly losing any semblance of control.

Your mind is a mess of sensations, each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck driving you closer to the edge. You’re not even sure how long he’s been at it—time has lost all meaning, and all you can focus on is the way he’s making you feel. The heat is building, a coil of pleasure tightening in your core, and you know it won’t be long now.

“Clay,” you pant, your voice shaky and breathless. “Oh god, Clayton, I—”

But he’s not stopping. In fact, he’s doubling down, his mouth working you with an intensity that has you trembling, your thighs quivering around his head as he pulls you closer to the brink. You can feel the pleasure building, a tidal wave that’s about to crash over you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it—not that you’d want to.

And then, just when you think you can’t take it anymore, he moans against you, taking such obvious pleasure in it that the sound vibrates through your entire body, and that’s it. The coil snaps, and you’re free-falling into pure, unadulterated bliss. You cry out, your fingers tightening in his hair as your orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure washing through you in a way that leaves you breathless, trembling, and utterly spent.

Clayton doesn’t let up, his mouth working you through your climax with a kind of reverence that makes your heart swell in your chest. He’s not just doing this because he’s high—he’s doing it because he loves it, loves you, and that thought alone is enough to send a fresh wave of warmth flooding through you.

When you finally come down from the high, your body relaxing back into the bed, you realize with a start that Clayton’s still there, still between your legs, nuzzled up to your thigh. He’s breathing hard, his cheeks flushed as if he’s drunk on you along with being stoned, and when he looks up at you, there’s a smug, satisfied grin on his face that makes you want to smack him and kiss him all at once.

You can practically see the gears turning in his head, and despite everything, you can’t help but roll your eyes. The man just gave you the kind of orgasm that makes you question your life choices, and now he’s looking at you like a puppy who’s proud of himself for learning a new trick.

“Clay,” you start, but your voice is weak, more of a croak than the firm reprimand you were aiming for. You should be getting up, throwing on some clothes, and dragging him to dinner with his parents. You should be the responsible one. But you’re not moving. In fact, your legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly, and all you can do is lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to function as a human being.

He hums, lazily kissing your inner thigh, clearly not in any hurry to move. You would take him a lot more serious if his lips weren’t glistening, with, well, you. “Yeah, babe?”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. He’s still down there, between your legs, like it’s the most natural place in the world for him to be. And maybe it is, but right now, all you can think about is the fact that you have dinner with his parents in, what, forty-five minutes? An hour, if you’re lucky? And here you are, half-naked on the bed, with your high-as-a-kite boyfriend nuzzling your thigh like it’s the most comfortable pillow he’s ever found.

“We really need to get up,” you say, though even you can hear the lack of conviction in your voice.

“Mmm, don’t wanna,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. “Wanna stay right here.”

You let out a groan, not entirely sure if it’s from frustration or the lingering pleasure still coursing through your veins. “Clayton, we have to go to dinner.”

He finally lifts his head, looking up at you with those hazy, love-drunk eyes that make your heart do a ridiculous little flip. “But I’m not done,” he says, as if that’s a perfectly valid excuse for skipping a family dinner.

You blink at him, trying to process what he just said. “Not… done?”

He grins, that boyish, slightly cocky smile that usually precedes him getting his way. “I mean, I could do this all night. I really, really like doing this for you. Makes me feel all… I dunno. Good. Happy.” He’s rambling now, his words tumbling out in a way that’s both endearing and a little infuriating. “You taste so fucking good, babe. Seriously. It’s like… fuck. I don’t even have words for it. I just wanna make you feel good. Again. And again. Until you can’t even think straight.”

Oh, you’re definitely not thinking straight. In fact, you’re pretty sure all coherent thought has flown out the window the moment he started talking about how much he likes going down on you. And the worst part? He’s completely sincere. This isn’t just the weed talking—this is Clayton being his ridiculously sweet, overly affectionate self, and it’s making it really, really hard to be the responsible one.

“Clayton,” you say again, trying to muster up some authority, but it comes out more like a plea than anything else. You should be getting up. You should be dragging him to the shower, dousing him with cold water, and forcing him into some semblance of sobriety before facing his parents. But instead, you’re lying there, letting him nuzzle your thigh, his breath warm against your skin, and all you can think about is how good it felt to have him between your legs, how good it would feel to let him do it again.

But you’re supposed to be the responsible one.

“Babe,” he murmurs, his voice low and a little rough, “please let me. Just one more time. I promise I’ll be good after. I just… I can’t stop thinking about it. You. How you taste. How you look when you come. God, it’s like… it’s the only thing I want right now.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from moaning at the sheer desperation in his voice. He’s practically begging, and it’s doing things to you—things that are making it very, very difficult to stay focused on the whole “responsible girlfriend” thing.

You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts. “Clay,” you start, but before you can get another word out, he’s already leaning in, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh in a way that makes your toes curl.

“I’m really good at it, right?” he mumbles against your skin, his voice muffled but still clear enough to make your heart race. “You like it when I do this?”

You want to say something—anything—to stop this before it spirals completely out of control, but all that comes out is a breathy whimper as he trails kisses higher, his tongue darting out to tease you in a way that makes you want to scream.

He grins against your skin, clearly pleased with himself. “Yeah, you like it. I knew it.”

“Clayton, we can’t…” You try again, but it’s a losing battle. Your body is betraying you, every nerve ending screaming for more even as your brain tries to remind you that there’s a dinner reservation looming over your head. But then he’s licking a slow, torturous line up your thigh, and any hope of rational thought flies out the window.

“Just one more time,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “Please, babe. I just… I need it. I need you. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

And that’s it. Your resolve crumbles, and you find yourself nodding, even as your brain tries to scream at you that this is a terrible idea. But right now, with Clayton looking at you like you’re the most important thing in the world, you can’t bring yourself to care. This man is thorough, methodical, and once he sets his mind to something, he’s like a dog with a bone—or, in this case, like a stoned hockey player with a serious oral fixation.

“Okay,” you whisper, and the word is barely out of your mouth before he’s diving back in, his mouth hot and insistent as he picks up right where he left off. You’re gasping, your hands flying to his hair as you arch into him, all thoughts of dinner, responsibilities, and anything outside of this room fading into oblivion.

And as he works you over with a kind of focused intensity that leaves you breathless, you can’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—being the responsible one is overrated. At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself as he sends you spiraling into another earth-shattering climax, your mind going blissfully blank as you lose yourself in the overwhelming pleasure.

So much for being responsible. But honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

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