Shawn Mendes Imagines

He Gets Drunk And Says The "L" Word

"Shawn!" you yell out into the crowd, avoiding getting elbowed by someone who was standing in your way, screaming in the opposite direction. It was useless to try to get anyone to hear you in here, but you needed to find Shawn, since he was your ride home.

You were managing to push through the crowd, beads of sweat forming on your hairline as you shoved through everyone. Suddenly you nearly trample one of your friends from school, Lindsay, who was holding three solo cups at once.

"Lindsay!" you exclaim, yelling over the music and the screaming. "Have you seen Shawn?"

She swallows her drink and stares at you, trying to process the question. "Really tall, skinny face, tight jeans - ?"

"Yes! That's him! Have you seen him?" you ask, just as someone behind you accidentally shoves you forward and you basically fall on her.

Lindsay laughs, sounding a bit like she was straddling the fence between sober and drunk.

"Last I saw him, he was downstairs in the basement doing the worm! Who knew he could dance?"

She hardly had time to finish her sentence before you were already shoving through people again, trying to find a door that leads downstairs. You manage to make it to a little hallway, where you open a closed, cracked-painted door; only to find out it lead to a coat closet.

You walk past the kitchen, where you spot another door, but this one was locked, so you assumed it was the bathroom.

"Excuse me, do you know where the basement is?" you frantically ask a guy who walks past you, who had a buzz-cut.

He doesn't say anything, just points to an open door all the way across the living room, through the mosh pit of drunk teenagers. You groan and slip into the crowd once more, fighting your way to the other side and basically falling down the stairs.

"Shawn?" you call, reaching the bottom of the carpeted staircase. The basement smelled different than upstairs, kind of old and dusty, like an attic, but still with a strong hint of alcohol.

You lean around the wall, where you see a long, skinny pool table, including a blunt couple sitting on the edge making out, everyone else dancing around it or having a sword fight with the pool sticks. You spot Shawn near the back, chugging a bottle of beer with a group of four guys surrounding him, cheering him on.

"Shawn!" you race across the room, darting towards him. He spins around, his mouth a bubble still filled with fluid as little bits spill out, causing him to laugh.

He swallows and turns back to everyone, shouting, "This is my girlfriend Y/N! The one I was telling you about!"

All of them stare at you, their full cups overflowing as they carelessly tilt their hands. "Hi!" they greet you.

"Shawn, can we go?" you ignore them.

He gasps. "What? But we just got here."

"We got here two and a half hours ago, Shawn."

"Honeybun, why you not havin no fun? Holy guacamole, that rhymed! Did you hear my rhyme, Y/N? I should be a poet!"

You roll your eyes. "Shawn, now."

He stares at you for a second, looking like he was about to say something. All of a sudden, he charges towards you, his hands pressing into the back of your upper thighs as you lifts you up and pins you against the wall, roughly fitting his mouth to yours in a matter of a split second.

He forces your lips open with his own, pressing them so hard against you, your head makes contact with the wall behind you. He tasted bitter of alcohol, the wetness of his lips leaving a trail upon your surrounding skin. With your lips parted, he slips his tongue in, exploring the inside of your mouth as his hands slip up your skirt.

"Stop that," you manage to say, slapping his hands away when he finally pulled away to breathe. "I don't want to do this here, you're scaring me, Shawn. I'm taking you home right now."

You hop down, getting a good grip on his arm and feeling his fingers against your sleeve as you pull him towards the stairs.

"No! I don't want to leave!" he whines.

"Stop," you shout, managing to get him halfway up the steps before he sinks to his knees and vomits all over the carpet, coughing and crying at the same time.

"How many bottles did you drink?" you gaze at him in awe.

He stands up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Only like twelve, or, wait, what comes after twelve again? There's a number in between twelve and fourteen but I don't remember what it's called. Oh my god, it starts with a t?"

"Thirteen?"

"Yes! That's it! How did I forget a number? You're so smart, Y/N. What would I do without you?"

"Drink thirteen bottles of beer everyday," you scoff as you drag him through the door at the top of the staircase, practically running through the mosh pit and keeping a firm grip on his forearm.

"Ha ha, that's funny. You're so funny, sugarplum! Hahahahaha!"

"Can you please shut up?" you groan as you step out the front door, where it was much quieter, and a lot cooler. You walk down the driveway, 95% of Shawn's weight on your back.

"Okay. I'll shut up!" he screams. "Wait, I think I'm gone hurl again!!"

You screech and step away from him just in time, before he grabs his stomach and hunches over, blowing chunks all over the grass.

When he was done, he lifts his head, a string of puke dangling from his glossy lips as a small smile spread across his face. "Y/N, am I drunk?" he asks.

"Yes you are, sweetie."

"Are you sure?" he wipes his mouth again.

You nod. "Pretty damn sure."

He laughs. "You're so cute, pumpkin! Can I tell you a secret?"

Suddenly, you weren't frustrated in his drunkedness. You were actually pretty entertained by him, since everything he was saying, you knew you could use to torture him with later.

You bite your lip, stepping closer to him. "Let me hear."

He giggles, leaning into your ear and whispering softly, "Y/N," giggle, "I. . . love. . . you!"

You freeze.

"You. . . you what?"

He taps your nose with his fingertip. "I love you!!"

"Do you really mean that?" your eyes go wide.

He pauses, his curious gaze not once leaving yours. His thin pink lips were pursed tightly, a small smile playing there. "Am I drunk?"

"Shawn! Do you really love me?"

He makes a face, hitting you in the head. "Duh!"

You smile, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the car. "I love you too, I just can't believe it only took a few bottles of beer for you to finally say it."

"Precious?" he blurts out.

"Yes?" you open his door for him.

"Can we fck in the car?"

You shake your head. "No, but we can fck when you're sober."

"Whhyyyy are youuuuu no funnnnn."

**

I'm sick. And not the cool kind. Please say something to make me feel better. Ugh.