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She’s perfect. She’s cute, she’s funny, she’s sweet. She’s into weird things, which you like, because you’re into weird things too, even if they’re a different kind of weird. She has this charming way about her, even when she’s in her usual drunken stupor, and you can’t help but have a big crush on her.
She’s nineteen and you’re only fifteen, and you know the age difference is somewhat of a big deal. She’s the sister of one of your best pals Rose, and you know she would not agree at all to this relationship. At least not now, while you’re still young, and a freshman in high school, and she’s a freshman in college. At least not now, when even entertaining the thought of a relationship with her was illegal, and you wouldn’t be the one paying for it. At least not now, when Roxy is already in a relationship of her own, with a girl named Calliope, and you aren’t even sure if she’s into men.
Okay, that was a lie. You were 110% positive she was into guys. If her excessive flirtiness, constant touching, and occasional winks weren’t enough to convince you, her past experience trying to seduce a gay man who goes by the name of Dirk Strider was enough evidence. But not many people know of this, except you. And your best bro Dave. And his actual bro Dirk. And maybe a few other people.
So, you can’t help but to continue to have a tiny inkling of hope that the two of you would end up together. Even if you’re awkward and inexperienced, you think the two of you would really hit it off. You’d go on constant dates to the movies, ride on rollercoasters in the theme parks, go on all these small, local adventures and even some romantic dates and everything would be cool, awesome, amazing.
So on one night, when Roxy invites you over her house for some completely legal fun (mostly just hanging out in her living room, listening to her read her latest chapter in her Wizard Porn fanfiction) you couldn’t help but feel extremely giddy. You couldn’t help but burst into happiness, jumping around your room in excitement before remembering that you are 15 not 5. You are a young man standing inside your bedroom, totally not doing anything childish or weird. You weren’t planning on landing any moves on her - you knew the rules - but you were excited to even be spending time with her.
You didn’t expect lots of alcohol to be involved, although, in hindsight, what else would there be? Despite the four year age difference, both of you were underage and should not be drinking, but that never stopped Roxy before. You, however, were, as you said before, inexperienced. You didn’t know what to do with the martini glass of bright pink acidic liquid. You didn’t want to drink. But Roxy kept egging you on - “come onnn Johnnnnn” - and so, reluctantly, you took a sip.
A sip turned into a gulp. A gulp turned into half a glass. A half glass turned into four glasses, and before you knew it you were lightheaded and airy and dizzy and fuzzy. You couldn’t tell up from down, and it took you tremendous amounts of focus to listen to the older blonde next to you rant about her incredibly stressful university classes. Your nervousness was gone, replaced with an eery sense of calmness. She kept talking on and on, and you joined in on the conversation occasionally with your own slurred comments, but other than that you just watched.
God she was perfect. Her skin was lightly tanned, her hair soft and light and flipped up at the ends. You watched her hands move as she kept talking - nails painted a bright, neon pink, fingers decorated with various rings. Your eyes trailed down from her hands to her long, slender arms, to her shoulders and the exposed, slightly jutting collarbones at her chest and then to her small but perky boobs and -
You felt your boxers and jeans begin to tighten as your arousal was beginning to make itself apparent in your pants. You hurriedly pull your hoodie down to cover it, but it was too late. She noticed. She was staring at you with what you think was confusion and maybe even a slight amount of disgust. But then something changed. Her eyes went from wide open to small slits, her mouth went from slightly agape to closed in a small, tilted smirk.
“Joooooooooooohn,” she purred, leaning into you and god you don’t know what’s happening you don’t know how this is happening or why this is happening but she places her hand on your thigh and begins trailing up up up up and you’re feeling really hot and your face is burning up and you can’t think straight or see straight but all that’s chorusing through your mind is fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Her hand stops on your upper thigh, just beside the very noticeable bulge at the front of your pants. She leans in, kisses your neck, licks your ear, whispers “is this what I think it is John?” before tapping a single fingernail against your dick. You shudder, chills going down your spine, and she takes this as a signal to continue, lightly trailing her fingers up and down your length.
You didn’t tell her to keep going. But you didn’t tell her to stop.
She begins to suck lightly at your neck, taking your skin between her teeth and lightly biting down. You lean your head back against the coach and close your eyes tightly, gnawing at your bottom lip. What is going on? Despite being intoxicated, you know what is happening, and all you can think is that, holy shit Roxy is fucking kissing you, except she isn’t kissing you, she’s kissing your neck, and she’s rubbing your dick and things are going too fast too soon and you like her and she’s really fucking hot and a really great girl but you don’t really want this you’re young and scared and now she’s lifting your shirt up and rubbing your skin and the tiny hairs at your lower abdomen and you don’t know when her lips leave your neck but now they’re trailing down your torso and to your pants and her hands unbutton your tight jeans and slowly pull your clothes down enough to free your throbbing dick and -
“Roxy-”
“Shhhhh John shhhhhhhhhh. I’m gonna make you feel reaallly good okay?” She interrupts, winking up at you, before diving in.
Her mouth is warm and slimy and she swallows you whole, hollowing her cheeks as she goes up and down and up and down and - you close your eyes and look away because no matter how good it feels you don’t want this.
Your hands reach for her hair, grabbing her shiny, soft locks and gently tugging at them, trying to get her to go away. She stops sucking you and moves off your dick with an audible ‘pop’ and you think she gets the message but instead she says “ugh fuck yes John, tug my hair. Tug it hard.” and she goes back to sucking and you do as she says and she moans but doesn’t stop so you let go of her hair and she whines but keeps sucking anyway and you think you might cum and you don’t know why because you don’t feel good you don’t feel like cumming you feel like crying.
So you push her off - a good firm push at her shoulders - a little harder than you meant to, and she falls onto the floor.
“Ow John! What the fuck?” She hisses, rubbing a spot on her elbow which she bumped against the coffee table.
“I’m s-so sorry Roxy, I don’t, I uh..I don’t want to-”
“What? Did you not like that? Was I not good enough?” She looks angry and upset and sad and you didn’t want to make her sad and you feel really guilty for throwing her off like that.
“No! That, wasn’t it, that, was...um I just...uh” You struggle with your words, too drunk to be coherent, too discombobulated to be able to form your thoughts into comprehensible sentences.
“Then what? Is this because I have a girlfriend? It’s okay John, she doesn’t have to know.” She smiles, somehow okay now and back on her knees. She doesn’t make a move for your dick though, which is still obnoxiously hard and throbbing.
“No, well yes… I mean, I just don’t think I’m-”
“It’s okay John. I like you. Like really really like you,” she says, leaning into you and looking straight into your big blue eyes with her small pink ones. Her eye color isn’t naturally pink - you don’t know what color it is, she’s always wearing those contacts - but you forget that for a second in your drunken state and actually wonder if she's some kind of ethereal being. Like an angel. Or maybe an elf, or a mermaid or a siren or a witch or a succubus..
“You do?” You ask, your heart stuttering for a second. Despite what just happened and you not being comfortable with it, you still have this big stupid crush on her, and you can’t help but ask.
“Yes. You are sssooo cutee. And smart and kind and nerdy.” She giggles, and she leans up to you and kisses you for the first time. You eagerly, sloppily return the kiss back. This, you can do. This is something you’re comfortable with.
This wasn’t enough for her.
She goes back to roaming her hands around your body and at first you don’t think it’s anything too bad but then you remember your dick is still out and hard and she closes her hand around it and begins pumping slowly, and it feels good but you don’t want this so you try to push her off again but she pulls away from your mouth and shushes you before you can even speak, telling you that it’s okay, everything will be okay, don’t worry about Calliope, don’t worry about anyone else, it's just you and her here and you’re the only ones who’ll have to know - just you and her.
So you stop protesting. You don’t say another word. Not when she leaves you more hickies, not when she moves your hand to her boobs and tells you to play with them, not when she leans her tit into your mouth and tells you to suck on her pierced nipple, not when she begins to grind on you and you can feel the thin fabric of her thong soak up between your precum and her wetness.
Not when she moves her thong aside, grabs your dick and lowers herself onto you. No warning, no permission, and no protection.
Not when she bounces up and down and grabs onto your shoulders and digs into your flesh. Hard.
Not when she moans into your mouth as she grinds against your dick and begins rubbing at her vagina, at a lady part you don’t know because you’re still young and uninformed and you’ve never had sex before and you’ve never gotten drunk before and you’ve never done something illegal before or any of what is going on right now.
And you don’t protest when she orgasms, several times, and goes back to bouncing, and you feel yourself getting ready to spill out and you hate yourself for it so fucking much because you don’t want this but obviously you must if you’re still hard and if you’re oh so close to climaxing and you haven’t told her to stop and -
“Ro-roxy.. I”m...ah I’m gonna-”
“Ohh fuck, cum inside of me John!”
And you do.
~
The next day you don’t go to school.
You lay in bed, in your own room, in the same clothes as yesterday. You feel dirty and gross and raw and impure. What was wrong with you? Why don’t you feel good about this? You just had sex with the girl of your dreams - you should feel amazing and manly and hot and awesome.
But you don’t. You feel like shit, to put it simply.
After the deed was done Roxy kissed you sweetly. She told you not to worry about cumming inside of her - she took birth control or something like that. You didn’t even know what that was or what it did, but you took her word for it. She noticed that something was still wrong and kept trying to reassure you that everything was okay but it wasn’t. You told her you wanted to go home. She asked if she was bad at sex. You said no, that you just wanted to go home. So she called you a cab and let you go.
The taxi driver gave you a really dirty look. But he didn’t say anything.
You got home late. It must’ve been around 11pm. Your dad didn’t yell at you - he was very concerned, asked if you were okay, if you had been drinking. You wanted to go into his arms and cry, but instead you just trudged up to your room silently. He let you go, but not without telling you he was very disappointed in you. Your heart stung.
And then you laid in your bed and stared at your desk until you fell asleep. When you woke up you didn’t feel a hangover or anything like you expected to - just the urge to urinate and parchness. And guilt. Lots and lots of guilt.
You didn’t go to school and your dad let you stay home. He let you mope in your room, and said that whenever you were ready to talk about what happened that he’d be here. I guess he knew that you didn’t intend to come home drunk as fuck and reeking of sex. You were better than that, or at least that’s what he told you. You didn’t really believe it though.
Dave comes over after school. He sits down next to your bed, the same expressionless face as always. But you can tell he’s worried.
“John, are you ok? Why didn’t you come to school today?” He asks.
You stayed silent for a while. A really long while. But Dave stayed. He waited.
You guess it would be ok to tell your best bro what happened. Even if Roxy said it could just be between the two of you. Even if you didn’t really feel like saying the words out loud, because then you’d be admitting that what actually happened, happened.
But Dave is still there. Patiently waiting. Staring at your behind that dark aviator shades you gave him.
“I had sex with Roxy.” you say, in a small, barely audible whisper.
Dave quirks a pale eyebrow. “Really? Ho- why?”
You stay quiet for a while. You can almost visibly see the warning signals go off in his head.
“Were you drunk? Are you hungover? Why aren’t you feeling good about this. John?”
“Yeah. I was drunk.” You say, closing your eyes. You don’t want to answer that last part.
Dave catches on. He always does. He knows you really well - you guys have been best friends for what feels like forever, and he’s spent basically every single day with you since the first time you guys met in middle school. He knows you.
“Did you like it?” He asks, voice as low and quiet and frightened as yours.
“No.”
“....Did you want it?”
“No.” Before you knew it you were crying.
Dave stands and moves over to the bed, places a hand on your shaking shoulder. He doesn’t say a word, just lets you cry it out. You’re extremely grateful for him, and extremely embarrassed, but you keep crying nonetheless. Not open, dramatic sobs, but silent tears and small quivers.
You, John Egbert, had sex with Roxy Lalonde. Except you didn’t want it, and now you’re stuck vulnerable and scared and broken and unsure of what to do. Unsure of how to cope.
Unsure of how to live.
And you can’t even call it what it feels like, what it might be, because, after all, you let it go on.
You didn’t say no.