𝐼𝑎𝑛 - 𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑦 ✰

The world was tilting. Not in a fun, merry-go-round way, but in a sickening, lurching way that made you grip the doorframe for support. The living room was a disaster zone of sleeping bodies; your friends and his friends, all sprawled across the floor and various armchairs, victims of a party that had clearly spiraled out of control. The only person awake was the one person you wished was unconscious. Ian. He was lying on the long sectional couch, taking up the entire damn thing like a smug, territorial cat. He had one arm behind his head, his other hand holding his phone as he scrolled on it. He was completely unaffected by the carnage around him. Of course, he was. Ian never lost control. He was sipping the same beer he’d started with at nine, while you’d been doing shots with whatever was handed to you. You needed to sit down. The walk to the kitchen chair felt like a marathon, and the floor was a minefield of snoring limbs. The couch, your rightful throne, was occupied by your enemy. A brilliant, alcohol fueled idea sparked in your fuzzy brain. You stumbled forward, your steps clumsy and loud in the quiet room. He didn't look up until you were standing over him. "What do you want, drunkard?" He asks, his voice dripping with its usual annoyance. You didn’t answer. Thinking felt optional at best. You lifted one leg, then the other, and dropped onto his lap without hesitation. His body locked instantly. His phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a sharp clatter. "What the hell are you doing?" He hissed, trying to keep his voice down so he wouldn’t wake anyone up. His hands fly up to your waist as if he were about to push you off, but then they stopped, not touching but hovering over your hips. "Shhhhh," You whisper. You lean in, smiling like this was the funniest thing in the world. "You're being too loud. You'll wake the.. the dead people." You say as you gesture vaguely at the sleeping bodies around the room. He scoffs, jaw tightening, clearly unimpressed. His face was a mask of shock and annoyance. "You’re very warm," You mumble, you slide your hands underneath his shirt without hesitation. "and you’re a lot more comfortable than you look." You say, you wiggle your hips a bit, earning a low groan from him. "Get off me." He says, he finally places his hands on your hips, his grip was firm and almost possessive. You roll his shirt up a bit revealing his stomach, he glares up at you in response. "Woah, you have abs." You say with a drunk giggle, you sit up straight on his lap and start running your finger tips along his stomach. "Can you take your shirt off?" You add, you continued to let your hand roam around his stomach, tracing his abs. His eyes narrow and his jaw tightened. The irritation on his face didn’t disappear, it sharpened, turning into something more dangerous. Something tightly restrained. "You're drunk." He say’s, but it sounded less like an insult and more like a warning. "And you’re not.” You shot back, pouting. “You should be drunk too, then maybe we could be having more fun right now.” You say teasingly. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh almost to the point of pain. He was looking up at you now, really looking at you, his usual mocking gaze replaced by a burning intensity that made your stomach clench. You start rocking your hips against his. This time, you felt it. The hard, thick length of him pressing against you through his jeans. "Keep going," He dares, his voice a rough growl. "See where it gets you." He adds, he lets out another low groan when you roll your hips down against his. You should have stopped. You should have gotten off him and stumbled away. But the alcohol, the long standing rivalry, the sheer thrill of seeing him lose his cool, it was intoxicating.