Chapter Text
Your name is John Egbert and you're beginning to regret letting Dave get quite this smashed at Rose's Christmas party. You walk into your house, Dave stumbling in behind you and locking the door, and you just barely catch him as he trips over his own two feet.
"You're so wonderful, John," he slurs, arms wrapping around your neck as he practically hangs off of you. "You're wonderfuuuul." He laughs, sounding exhausted and drunk, and you guide him to the couch, figuring that getting him out of his coat or gloves or hat or anything he's got on is a losing battle you don't feel like fighting. "D'you hear what I said? I said- I said you're wonderful," he repeats, "You're wonderful and I luh- love you, John." He's still hanging off of you and he pulls you down so you're closer to him, pressing his mouth to yours in a sloppy kiss.
"I love you, too, Dave," you say, giving him a push. He doesn't let go, only pulls you closer to him.
"Lay with me, c'mon. Take your coat off and- and come cuddle with me, I love you."
You definitely regret letting him get this drunk, but you do as he asks. "You have to let me go so I can hang up my coat," you say in a voice that sounds gentle and almost a little bit like you're talking to a small child. "Let me hang your coat up, too."
He does let you go, and he rolls onto his stomach and wiggles his way out of his coat, letting you hang up both the coats while he lays on the couch, face-down. You get his boots off, too, making a face at the fact that he's already tracked dirty snow into your living room, and you'll have to clean it up in the morning. When you return to him, he's got his hat and gloves off and they're on the coffee table, but he's still laying with his face pressed into the couch cushion.
"Dave," you say, giving his shoulder a little shake. He rolls over, staring at you through his shades. You remove them—he's probably just a little bit too intoxicated to remove them himself without poking an eye out—and brush his hair back from his eyes, then put his shades on the table with his hat and gloves. "Dave, I'm going to bed, and you should sleep this off, alright? You're really drunk."
"No," he says, taking your hand in his, pulling you down to look him right in the eyes. "Lay with me, stay here, on the couch. Don't go nowhere." He looks as though he's almost upset at the idea that you might sleep in your own bed without him, so you do as he asks, climbing over him to lay beside him on the couch.
"Alright, alright. Go to sleep, now."
"No," he says again, pressing his mouth against yours and wrapping his arms around your waist, giving your ass a squeeze. "I love you, John, love you so much." A pause for him to kiss you again. "Mine, you're all mine, 'n nothin's gonna change that."
"I love you too, I really do, but you're- you're really drunk right now and I really think you need to get some sleep."
His hands are clumsy as they explore your body and you're pushing them away, only for him to bring them back in a different spot. He's all over you and you're quietly trying to convince him that it's better if you go to sleep in your bed and he sleeps this off on the couch, but he's just resisting you and kissing you and telling you you're all his, over and over again.
"Dave. Stop." He shakes his head, then presses his lips against yours again and rocks you back and forth as best he can with the position you're in, as if you can be pacified by this. "No, I'm serious here, please. Stop it, and let me go to bed." There's an edge in your voice that you didn't mean to use, but he still isn't getting the point, and he shakes his head again, pressing his mouth to your neck and sucking, licking, as his hands grope at your ass. You give him another shove, rougher this time, and he shoves back, just as hard. "Dave, please."
You find yourself breathing heavily without meaning to as his fingers fumble with the button of your jeans, and he seems to mistake this for arousal. "Mmm, love you so much," he whispers as his hand finds the waistband of your boxers, sliding past the elastic material to grip your dick. You aren't hard by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn't seem to mind.
"No, Dave, stop. Please stop." He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, then presses his mouth flush against yours, tongue making its way past your lips and tasting vaguely like alcohol with Dave mixed in. Your hands are on his neck, trying to shove him off of you without choking him, and he pulls away after a moment.
"Don'tcha love me, too?" His voice sounds strained, almost like the fact that you didn't remind him that you loved him too was painful for him. "I love you, you're so perfect, and you're wonderful, and you're so beautiful, and—" He stops and looks at you, meets your eyes with his, seems to notice for the first time that you're tearing up. "No, baby, don't cry," he says, kissing the corners of your eyes and bringing his free hand to pet your hair as the other hand continues to work at your dick. "Don't cry, y'ain't pretty when you cry, I love you, don't, don't cry." You force back your tears, taking a deep breath.
"Alright, okay. Dave, you're really drunk right now. I- I need you to stop, please." You give him a little shove, hoping to prompt him to get his hands off of you. He removes his hand from your boxers, bringing it up to cup your cheek as he leans in again to kiss you.
"John, I love you so much," he says, voice sounding small and almost desperate. Both hands cup your cheeks and he kisses you, over and over again.
"Okay, okay, I understand that. I love you, too. Please, just. Let go of me."
Rather than letting you go, his arms wrap around your neck, and he's rutting against you, holding you close. "I love you," he says again, "You're all mine." His hips press against yours and you put your hands on his sides, push him back a little bit, hold him away from you.
"Let me go."
"No, no, you're mine," he says, words slurred and sounding more and more like a child's by the minute. You give him a rough shove, your patience growing short, and you're surprised when he pulls back and smacks you across the face, then grabs you by the front of your shirt with both hands, hard enough to stretch the material. "You're mine," he says, voice low and angry.
You are mostly in shock.
Dave hit you.
You should have stopped him from drinking, because him acting like this when he's this drunk isn't something entirely new. When he slips both hands back into your jeans and starts to work at your still-soft dick, you let out what almost sounds like a defeated little whine as you bring your own hand up to touch the spot on your cheek that stings, that you're sure is red, that you're sure will bruise.
The tears are back in your eyes but you wipe at them with your sleeve, ignoring the ache of your cheek when your arm brushes against it too hard.
"I love you," he says, then he says it again, and again, as he starts to tug on your jeans and boxers. You hold them up around your waist, whispering a stream of, please don't, Dave, stop, please, I love you, stop, stop, stop, no, stop, stop, no, no, no, as he continues to kiss you, entirely oblivious the fact that you want him to stop, that you've wanted him to stop since he started. He gives you a rough shove against the back of the couch, and you let go of your jeans, letting out a choked sob as he discards your lower clothing on the floor. This time, he either misses the fact that you're crying or he ignores it.
It isn't long before his pants are gone, too, but not before he reaches into a pocket and retrieves a small bottle of lube. You choke back a little gasp, and fold your arms over your chest, curling up a little bit, the only words out of your mouth being, 'stop,' and 'no,' at this point.
He wastes no time, coating two fingers in what isn't nearly enough lube, pressing them both into you immediately, making you cry out and utter another stream of Dave, stop, please stop, don't do this between sobs.
"I want you to know," he says, then he pauses. "Want you to know how much I love you, want you to know... How important you are to me, John. I love you."
He presses his third finger into you, bringing his free hand up to pet your hair, whispering more about how much he loves you, about how much you mean to him. It only takes him a moment to remove his fingers and fumble around with the lube, and you don't see what he does next because you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to clear your vision, but you hear it—lube cap snapping open, the sound of him stroking himself, covering himself with lube. You don't know if he's using enough or not, and then he pushes into you. It burns, aches, and he's pushing all the way in before pausing, then he's pulling out and his thrusts are shallow, quick, and erratic. He leans down and presses his lips just below your ear just as he begins to thrust harder, going deeper into you.
"John, I love you, you mean so much to me, you're my everything," he says, every word coming out slow, like he's got a mouthful of cotton and he has to work to speak around it. "You're so beautiful and perfect and I love you." He's pounding into you, and you're still pushing on his chest, wishing with all your heart that he'd get off of you, that he'd just be done with this and roll over and get some fucking sleep and let you cry until you couldn't anymore.
His hands move to your hips, pulling you against him as his thrusts become rougher, more desperate, and then he groans your name when he comes, practically collapsing against you and wrapping his arms around your waist, still inside you. Then, he sits back up, wrapping a hand around your half-hard dick. You let out another choked sob as he starts to jerk you off, being anything but gentle about it, his hips still against yours.
You try your hardest to finish, because maybe if you do, he'll be finished. Go to sleep. Leave you alone. His hand is sloppy and he's still very much drunk and your mind is still screaming that you don't want this, but you try to force that all away, push it to the back of your mind, force yourself into arousal. Think sexy thoughts.
You thrust into his hand, and, eventually, because nothing else is working, settle for faking moans, arching your hips up, and sobbing his name. If someone had ever told you that you'd be faking an orgasm to get Dave to stop touching you, you would have laughed in their face. It seems to have worked, though, and his hand moves to cup your cheek again, and he leans in to kiss you again, telling you how much he loves you, finally pulling out of you and collapsing beside you.
"I love you, John," he says, kissing you over and over again.
It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, and you lay there, wrapped in his arms, trying to do the same.
It takes you hours longer than it took him, and you find yourself waking up more than once through the night.
Your name is John Egbert, and you hate the way it sounds, even in your mind, but you've been raped by your boyfriend. You love him, you love him more than anything, but you're horrified that this has happened, and you don't know what you're going to say to him in the morning.