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“Fuck's sake, Johnny, keep your feet—!”
Johnny just laughs and leans all of his weight on your shoulder again, making you squeak and scramble for balance.
“Le's dance, bonnie, c'mon, we gotta go dancin’,” he slurs in your ear.
A laugh bubbles up your throat before you can help it. You're tired and annoyed and exasperated, but it's just so damn hard to stay angry at Johnny with his big blue puppy eyes and the way he's always smiling like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn't have.
Dancing... Ridiculous. He can't even walk in a straight line.
“No,” and you try to sound firm through your smile. “We're going home, and we're getting you a glass of water. You stink.”
Johnny answers you with a full-on whine, burying his nose in your shoulder and scratching against your skin with his stubble. “Why're you s'mean. Why d’ye hate me.”
"If I hated you I’d dump your ass at a bus stop and leave you to sober up by yourself.” You hoist his arm more securely around your shoulder while you walk, thanking every higher being you can think of for wearing sensible sneakers tonight. Johnny's leaning into you so hard you have to lean back an almost equal amount just to stay upright and keep shuffling forward.
And so when he suddenly stops you almost fall face-first on the hard stone pavement. “What—”
You can see Johnny turn pale even under the dim lantern light, and he presses a hand to his mouth before doubling over—
“No no no please don't throw up—”
...and retching his guts out in the gutter. You allow yourself a deep sigh and watch your breath turn into a puff of cloud while listening to Johnny heave the alcohol out of his system. It's so dark out you can even make out the flicker of some stars when you look up, winking in and out of existence as the opaque curtains of cloud drift by.
When he's done you look down and wince at the stains on his shoes. He's shivering, and pity has you rubbing a hand over his shoulder.
“Ah dinnea feel s’good,” he mumbles.
“I can see that. C'mon, big boy. It's gonna be okay.”
He unsteadily lets you help him to his feet again. He's been feeling off all night, and you watch him with a mixture of worry and sadness.
It's not the first time he's got himself skunk drunk when back home on leave, and part of you resents his decision for joining the military. Clearly that has to be the reason for him living it up like it's his last goddamn night on Earth at every opportunity, right?
You're more familiar with his sloppy cheek kisses and wandering hands while you get him home than you'd like, but such are the burdens of best friend privileges. It's Johnny—harmless, familiar. A little stupid and a lot sweet.
But it's never quite felt like this. He was all smiles tonight until...
Until when?
You don't know what set him off. You were with the usual crew, old friends. Everything seemed fine—Johnny'd been playing darts with some of the other lads and you'd been with the girls, gossiping over dates and breakups and relationship advice.
You'd shyly told them the bloke you'd gone out with last week called you back asking for another date, and were hounded afterwards for details. You'd been having fun until you weren't. Or rather, until you were too distracted by Johnny slamming back drink after drink with tense shoulders and tight eyes.
You sigh again when you reach your apartment. You had plans for tomorrow, but... You glance at Johnny. His head's slumping forward till his chin is almost touching his chest. You don't want to leave him feeling sick by himself.
Johnny's drunkenly mumbling to himself while you fish around your bag for your keys with one hand. One of his arms curls around your waist, making it harder, and then his hand wanders high enough to grope at your breast.
“Chrissake, Johnny,” you smack his arm. “Play nice. I'm trying to—”
“Love ye s’much, bonnie,” he mumbles against your neck, hand not moving an inch even with your nails digging into his skin. If anything it makes him cling to you more tightly, and you're worried he'll fall and break his thick stupid head if you push him off you with more force.
“Yes, yes, love you too. Idiot. Now let go, I want to get out of the cold...”
Somehow you manage to move around his iron grip and click open the door. You put up with his slobbering against your neck because it makes him a lot easier to deal with getting up the stairs and then, fucking finally, you're in your apartment where it's warm and cosy.
You shuffle over to the bedroom because it's closest and there's just absolutely no way Johnny's going to fit on your couch. You've tried. It's not worth putting up with the complaining about back pain the next morning.
Johnny flops onto the mattress and just when you think the finish line is in sight, his hand snatches yours so quick it's a blur.
“Dinnea leave...”
“Have to get you a glass of water,” you tell him gently, trying and failing to pry his fingers off your wrist.
“Dinnea want ye t’fuckin’ leave...” his voice breaks in the middle and you stop short for a second—is he crying?
God, how drunk is he...? You'd hoped throwing up would have counted towards sobering up, but apparently not.
“Shush, it's okay, it's okay. We'll get you some water and you'll sleep it off, alright?”
Johnny slurs something you don't catch and you take the opportunity to slip away and get him a glass. You make him drink it all, even manage to get him to rinse his mouth. He does as you say without fuss, wavering between stubborn as a rock and pliantly obedient as always.
“You're a handful and a half,” you say, but without any real heat to it. You brush back strands of brown hair—his mohawk's been growing out. He'll probably ask you to cut it again before he returns to base...
When he starts to slump over again you quickly take the glass from him and set it on the bedside table, and push against his shoulder to get him to lie on his back. “Christ, what are they feeding you,” you mumble to yourself. He's got to be bigger every time you see him—you don't think you could fit two hands around his arm.
When you pull back to get Johnny a blanket he grabs at you again, and this time you're too caught off guard to keep your balance. You fall half on top of him with an ‘oomf!’ and narrowly avoid kneeing him in the groin.
“Give me a fucking break,” you huff when he takes this as the go-ahead for a nice cuddle. Those thick arms immediately wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“Love ye s’much,” he slurs again, mouth tucked just below your ear. Every time he moves his lips it's like he's kissing you, and despite everything you have to suppress a few shudders. “So fuckin’ bonnie. Was lookin’ at ye all night. Wanted t’go dancin’ with my girl, take ye home...”
You flush. It always takes you by surprise, the drunk ‘my girl’s, to the point where you asked him about it one time. Johnny just laughed and shrugged. “You are my girl. Known you the longest since forever, aye?”
You pointed out that's not quite what it means, and the only reply you got was that he wouldn't call you that if it bothered you. It's a promise he forgets every time he goes out, though...
“You're drunk,” you tell him.
“M'not,” he says, breath hot against your neck. It's followed by something wet, and you jolt in his arms.
“What’re you—Johnny, gross, what the hell!”
He licks at you again, and the twitch that follows is involuntary. Your neck is sensitive and, well, so what if it's been a while? The guy you're planning to see next week was going to fix that. Not Johnny. He's not... He's not supposed to be—
“Taste s’fuckin’ good,” Johnny groans against your neck. The bed shifts and creaks, and this time there's a graze of teeth.
“Wait,” you gasp, voice suddenly thin and airy and so distracted by Johnny biting at your skin it takes more than a few minutes for you to realise the bed is creaking because he's humping your thigh.
An embarrassed heat zaps through you right to your core, and the intensity of it makes you break out into a sweat.
“Johnny, Johnny, wait—”
He outright moans when you say his name, hands squeezing your waist before sliding down to cup your ass and angling your hips to slot his own into. “Make it so good for you, kitty, need ye s’bad...”
Jesus Christ. Mortifyingly you can feel yourself getting wet. Just—the proximity, the heat, the electricity running up your spine every time his big hands slide over your thighs. You feel trapped, suffocated, almost, and unfortunately the fact that you can't get away from him even if you try makes the dizzy feeling in your stomach spin harder.
When Johnny sucks at your neck and roughly tugs up your shirt to knead your chest through your bra there's a few seconds of white-out bliss, and you seriously consider giving in and just—
No. He's drunk. Probably barely has any idea what he's doing—never remembers what he said or did the next morning. You can already imagine the apologetic hugs, the huge pleading eyes. He'd feel terrible.
“You're drunk—you're drunk, c'mon, Johnny, we can't, we gotta...” you cut yourself off to muffle the moan that threatens to slip when Johnny ducks his head down and starts giving your chest open-mouthed kisses.
“No,” you protest weakly, unsure if you're telling him or yourself, because despite your good intentions you really don't want him to stop. Would it be so bad? Would it be so bad if you let Johnny make you feel good? He won't remember, will honestly probably pass out before anything actually happens, and... and...
“We gotta be—gotta be smart, Johnny, oh—” his name comes out as a sob when he flicks your nipple with his tongue, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
“Say my name, bonnie, sound s’fuckin’ pretty for me... Gonna make ye sing, make ye feel so good,” Johnny pants against your skin. One of his hands worms its way down, almost rips the buttons off your pants, cups your core right through panties. You shake from just that, back arching, hips stuttering away and then back towards him because this is unfair. Isn't drunk sex supposed to be shite? Why is he making it work? What's wrong with you?
Johnny moans loudly, unlike you completely unashamed and uninhibited and very happy to let you know that you're “So fuckin’ wet for me—tha's for me, aye? All mine? Fuck, tha's good—Sweet little cunt...”
You push at his shoulders with less and less conviction. You try tugging at his mohawk to get his attention, desperate not to have to be the voice of reason here, but all that does is make him shudder and bite at your tits.
And neither gets him to take his hands out of your pants, though he very quickly decides just feeling you soak your panties isn't good enough. With a lot more alacrity than you should reasonably expect of him he pushes aside your underwear, starts flicking your clit, and sticks his tongue down your throat to eagerly drink down your sounds of pleasure.
“Missed ye so much, miss my girl all the time,” he whines into your mouth. You can feel his cock thick and erect through his jeans, still rubbing against your hip, and you shiver, because Johnny's stupid big fingers are working you to completion at a rollercoaster pace. But when you start to tremble, breaths coming short and quick and needy—
He stops.
“No!” you whimper, sounding as pathetic and desperate as you feel. If he falls asleep now you're going to kill him.
But Johnny hasn't fallen asleep. When you crack your eyes open you look right into his, glittering in the half-dark of your room. When he speaks his voice is husky, low and tight with desire coating the edges.
“Tell me y’need me, aye? Wee lil’ cunt need me so bad?”
To punctuate his question he flicks at your clit again, and when your hips jolt in response his free hand presses them down into the mattress. Keeping still.
There's a split second of doubt, the voice of reason rearing its head in the back of your mind. This isn't right—he's drunk. You've just started seeing someone, kind of, not quite dating yet, but it wouldn't be fair—right?
You can't quite catch Johnny's expression in the low light, but the edges of him seem to sharpen when you don't answer right away. In one fluid motion he pushes himself up to hover over you, knee nudging your legs open wider, and presses his forehead against yours before starting excruciatingly slow circles on your clit.
You gasp and pant and can't do anything except lie there and let the weight of both his body and his gaze pin you to the bed, helpless and mortified at your own body's response. Because even though it's slow you are soaking him, him and yourself. Your jeans are ruined; your underwear is a joke. You're pretty sure if Johnny pulled away now his hand would be wet up to the wrist.
And you don't want him to pull away. You almost cry in relief when he speeds up his rhythm, so glad you don't have to make a decision after all and can simply receive whatever the alcohol in Johnny wants to give you...
Until he stops. Right on the edge, mean fucker, and this time tears slip past your lashes. “No, no, please, please, you can't—please, Johnny...”
“Tha's better,” he says roughly, the hand on your hip travelling up to pinch at your nipple until you try to wriggle away from him. “Love ye so much, kitty. Tell me you love me, c'mon.”
“I—” you swallow, mouth feeling dry despite all of Johnny's slobber. This feels like more than it should be. You love your friends. You love Johnny. But—
“Y’want it?” One of his thick fingers prods at your entrance without ever really entering, and the promise of relief so close is what breaks you.
“Yes,” you whimper. “I want it. Please. Please...”
Your reward is one thick finger slowly entering you, and you squeeze your eyes shut and sob at the sensation. It's almost—almost—everything you've ever needed. Johnny's breath has gone ragged above you, eyes glued onto your every expression.
“Y’need me, aye? Say it. Say you need me.”
“I need you,” you manage to stutter out, the last vowel of which transforms into a drawn-out moan when it gets you a slow crook of his finger inside you. It's so fucking slow, Jesus H., but it's something. If he stops now you're going to lose your mind.
Your desperation along with your evident arousal softens Johnny, and he coos at you while he fingers you. “Don't hav’ta go anywhere, jus’ stay right here with me, give you everythin’ you need...”
It'd almost be sweet if you could think straight, and you should be, you're supposed to be the one keeping a clear head, but it's really hard to think anything at all when Johnny's messily kissing you again.
“Pretty girl,” he groans when you squeeze around his finger. “My pretty girl. Ye love me? D’ye love me, bonnie?”
Your stomach is tightening and with a spike of panic you rush to answer this time:
“Yes, yes, Johnny, love you—”
How unfair that that makes him stop. He looks at you, eyes big and wild, cheeks flushed, like a kid opening a Christmas present he was told his parents didn't have the money for. And then he pulls away entirely to rip your jeans off. By the time it catches up to you, you barely have the wherewithal to raise your hips to help him.
His own clothes follow suit so quickly you fear for the fabric, and then realise it's yourself you should be worried for. You had an inkling of Johnny's size, have woken up to it pressing against your ass too many times to count, but...
That's not going to fit, you think wildly, and Johnny must see some of the panic on your face, because while he lines his thick leaking tip up to your soaking cunt his other hand pets at your cheeks, lingers on your throat. “Doing so good, bonnie, gonna make ye feel so good, fill you up so nice...”
His moan fills the room when he slides in another few inches, bounces off the walls and ricochets inside your head. It doesn't hurt, thank God—you're drenched and desperate and at this point frankly impatient.
Johnny slides in deeper and tugs your legs around his waist, makes you keep them there when he bottoms out and lets out a wild groan from somewhere deep in his chest. You can feel it in your own, pressed against you as he is.
“Perfect girl,” he gasps, slowly pulling his hips back and then slamming them back into yours. “Fuckin’ mine—all f’r me.”
This time you're not sure who leans in for the kiss first. It doesn't matter anymore. Your moans and whimpers steadily grow in volume until you're crying under Johnny, clinging to him while he fucks you following a rhythm too quick and wild to try to meet.
When he presses his thumb to your clit again it barely takes anything to ignite the fire again, wild and hot and ready to boil over. Johnny coos at you again when your mouth drops open in long, silent cry, cunt clenching around him hungrily. “Tha's it, bonnie, feel so good, aye? Pretty kitty feelin’ so good? Fuckin’ made for me, gonna fuck ye so full—”
It doesn't take long for him to do exactly that. You can feel his cum filling you, hot and heavy, long spurts accompanied by Johnny's desperate moans and whimpers.
You whine when he collapses on top of you to give you more lazy, open-mouthed kisses—“You're heavy, Johnny, get off”—and try to catch your breath in the two seconds of reprieve you get before he's pulling you into his chest.
You're spent. Sweaty, flushed, and boneless. The sheets are no doubt disgusting, but it's so late and you're too fucked-out to care. You file it away for tomorrow, just like the hundred other things you're going to have to talk about somehow...
Johnny lets out a deep, contented sigh, tucking you under his chin and pulling your leg over his waist like he's rearranging a doll. You don't have the strength in you to protest. It's only when you feel his cock prodding at you again that you jolt away from him and try to remove your leg, but Johnny frowns, clicking his tongue like he would at a disobedient pet.
“I want to sleep, Johnny, 'm tired...”
Johnny tuts softly, keeping you still with a firm grip while he enters you again. “’S just for keepin’ it all in, bonnie, dinnea fuss. See? ‘S nice all full like this, aye? Wake ye up all nice ‘n proper tomorrow.”
You wriggle in his grasp with a soft whine—Johnny's cock is girthier than any other you've had before and you're sore from being used like a battering ram, even if it felt mind-numbingly good. But Johnny's arms are iron, and the more you try to move around the tighter he holds you to him.
Eventually you give up and give in. Sleep is tugging at you insistently, and when you relax around him it's not so bad. Johnny kisses you when he feels you settle, his hand running soothingly over your bare skin.
It's enough for you to be lulled into sleep. Before you drift off one last thought surfaces:
Isn't Johnny supposed to be good at holding his liqueur...?