A/N: I won't begin to explain my long-time absence from fanfiction. I will only say that I've been otherwise occupied, though my fanfiction-related thoughts have not halted. I can't promise any more Dasey in the future, as my Life with Derek days pretty much stopped the day we got rid of cable. Drake and Josh is a more current fandom of mine, and that's where this fic originated. I'm also cooking up another D&J story (seventeen chapters down so far), but I've decided not to post any fic until I actually have it completed or it can stand as an (insert number)shot. Take this P,WP?, drabble-ish fic, for example. Could be a oneshot. Might add more. We'll see.

Enjoy.

I Told Him

I told him. I told him. I told him not to let me drink. That's all that's running through my brain. It's an endless loop, but I can't seem to decipher its meaning as I push my hand through his hair, the other fighting with his belt buckle. I told him.

His mouth is pressed urgently against mine, and I'm not really thinking clearly, because of the alcohol, and when he does that thing with his hips and our pelvises crash together, my vision goes spotty. I told him.

It's now that I hate those damn tight pants he wears because the fabric stretches over him perfectly, outlining just enough to make me frustrated that the zipper won't come undone. It doesn't help that my hands are fumbling, and his practiced tongue in my mouth is a distraction. I told him not to let me--

He pulls away to undo it himself, and I move my lips to his jaw. He makes a whimpering noise as I catch his earlobe between my teeth, and he tries to work faster. I--

He succeeds, and suddenly, his hands are at the clasp of my jeans, moving quickly, passing beyond, and I abandon his neck to find his mouth again. I can't breathe. I told--

I wonder if maybe, maybe he's done this before, if he's done this many times before, because the way it's going, I'm not gonna last much longer. I might not last another sec--

He doesn't really give me a chance savor the moment, but he strokes until my last shuddering breath, and I bury my head in his shoulder, and he's laughing at what a lightweight I am. I don't care; I would have never had the guts when I was sober. I told him he shouldn't pressure me.

I'm putting soft pressure on him now, going slow, because I wish that he wasn't drunk and that he had made the first move and that he'll enjoy this at least half as much as I am. I told him.

He's pacing himself because the longer the wait, the better the release, but soon enough, he's panting to the pace that I'm setting, and his teeth are digging into my bare collarbone. I told him I'd do things I shouldn't.

The noises he's making are enough to bring me around again, but I don't want to push it; my luck has never been very good. Only, I don't have to ask because he's always two steps ahead of me, calloused fingertips taking their sweet time, warm palm cupping and massaging, and I'm silently begging him to end this torture quickly like he did before, because, for once, I have less patience than he does.

Only, he never listens to me, which isn't always a bad thing because, after all, I did tell him not to let me drink.