//------------------------------//
// Drunken Mess 
// Story: Wake Me Up When These Cheesy Stories End. 
// by OctaScratch 
//------------------------------//


You’re drunk. You know this in a vague way, the same way you are aware that it is nearing 3 a.m. and in a completely different way from the manner in which you are aware of Starshine’s arm brushing yours every other minute and the way her breath blows hot against your neck when she reaches across you for the bottle of whiskey you’d managed to sneak from Rarity’s house earlier that evening.

Star had looked at you incredulously when you had shown her the bottle hidden at the bottom of your bag earlier. She had snorted and told you Rarity would have your head for it later, which you had already figured was inevitable when the thought had first occurred to you, and which you then responded to despondently with a shrug and an offer to join you later.

She had refused profusely and promptly followed you into your bedroom. It had only taken a half of an hour before she was taking small sips, lips wrapped around the rim of the bottle in a display flagrant enough that you were forced to shift around uncomfortably. She had grinned and the night’s events became hazy, dim and shaded, after that.

You’re aware that Star has been slowly closing the gap between you on your bed as the night cascades into early morning, hooves becoming more restless and your discomfited movements had gradually turned into apathetic half-assed maneuvers to keep Star from noticing the overtly obvious bulge below.

It takes a while, longer than usual, you think, though you don’t know exactly what you mean by that, and you shake the thought away because thoughts are unwelcome in this addled state of mind. Star laughs quietly at herself, and you think briefly that she’s even more hammered than you are.

“hey, uhm, yeah.” she says, slurs really, and giggles again. “I do believe I should stop drinking now, I feel quite—” She cuts herself off shortly, looks confused, and then reaches for the bottle again.

She sips for a moment in silence, and you notice the way her hooves wrap around the neck of the glass, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. The way her mouth glistens in the soft light and you run a hoof down her jaw, unthinking.

She blinks at you, expression half surprised, half curious. “Uhm?” she asks, and you don’t pause before you put your mouth against the same spot your hand had been.
Star jerks, rank liquor splashing onto both of you. Her hoof is on your shoulder, gripping it as if to pull you closer (push you away, you think, before swiftly and carelessly shoving the doubt away).

“Uhm, well, what—” You’ve moved away, only slightly, and your mind isn’t processing her words anymore, caught on the movement of her lips and the strain in her neck as she swallows.

“You’re quite drunk and I, I think we should— you shou— I don’t think—”

“Shut up, Star,” you say and cup her face in both of your hooves. She shudders when you press your lips to the hollow of her throat. Her mouth opens and she starts babbling, as she is wont to do when faced with a situation she is unused to.
“It is quite late, I’m afraid. I should likely be preparing for bed soon, for you know, work tomorrow and such—”

“Shut up, Star,” you mutter and grab the back of her neck, tilting her head forcibly for a better angle. Her mouth is open and sloppy at first, wet heat and a surprised moan from her lips. She quickly tightens up, pushes weakly at your shoulders, and you only back up enough to growl lowly at her, anger and desperation and fear clear in your shaking hands and bright eyes.

She worries her lip between her teeth and you groan, turned on beyond belief and her eyelids droop suddenly. She doesn’t move toward you so much as fall roughly against your waiting form. Hooves wrapped tight in your mane, moans dropping into panted breaths and you feel like you’re going to break apart at any moment because it is so good, she is so good and she’s not yours and you’ll be damned for the rest of both of your lives if you’re going to stop over that kind of trivial bullshit.

You know in the morning she’ll sneak away, bite her lip at your still-sleeping form and call you up later, pretend nothing happened as she reports her undoubtedly horrid hangover in simple terms. It’s an inevitability that claws at your splintered thoughts but you don’t stop moving against her; you’ve fallen for this drunken ruse a hundred times before and you’ll fall for it a million times again. It’s the natural order, anyway, you suppose.