#cw drinking

[cobaltcreations]

Me and my partner @the-good-ol-art-corner collaborated on this AWESOME poster for one of our favorite Bendy Aus @toontiedterror by @dictatortirah !! I am in LOVE with how it came out and I am so excited to see how this story and world develops!!

I put so many details into this, it is absolutely silly, but I had a swell time doing them. Those headshots on the missing posters belong to the staff from our own Bendy project @howdy-folks-its-showtime and we didn't even intend to make two versions. But I put so much into the background... I just had to make a version without the foreground to show it off <3

[sygneth]

A study of Leyendecker that accidentally turned into them

/late night sketch

[bamsara]

More drunken Narilamb shenanigans for a future chapter of my fic: The Rehabilitation of Death.

I know this chapter is far off but I can't stop drawing doodles of ideas and scenes for it aslkfhlksglhf (Also to everyone who's taken a liking to my AU, hi!!!)

part 1 of drunk shenanigans

[felsicveins]

I personally think JD should divorce Julian's freeloading ass for good. I bet what they had meant nothing and JD really wants nothing to do with him. Our JD deserves better, I think.

[afewproblems]

Eddie downs the last of his beer and tosses the empty red cup into the kitchen sink, right between a couple who were clearly gearing up to claim one of the spare rooms upstairs. 

Eddie snickers and winks as the girl tells him to fuck off while her boyfriend flips him the bird, god he loves highschool parties, and this one is no exception.

It's Halloween and business is booming for Eddie Munson.

He imagines Dian Fossey felt similarly, wandering through the Congo studying the great apes' behavior patterns and social structure from within rather than observing from afar. 

So far Eddie's observations have paid off in spades and he's managed to sell out most of his stash by targeting the basketball team and their girlfriends. No one wants to get high all by themselves after all, it's almost too easy the way these sheep all flock together. 

Eddie leaves the kitchen behind him, but not before snagging a can of something cold from a nearby cooler of half melted ice. With a decent buzz going, what's one more? He's done working for the night after all. 

Eddie climbs the stairs, dodging drunk teens left and right as they make their way past him, shirts ruffled and hair messy. Eddie snorts, ignoring the wistful pull in his chest as a tall boy on the swim team pulls his girlfriend closer to press a chaste kiss to the top of her head before smoothing her curls away from her forehead. 

Unfortunately no one Eddie would be interested in would accept him brushing their hair like that without punching him in the face.

He shakes his head and continues forward, he's an observer, nothing more. 

Eddie passes a closed door on the second floor and pauses as a raised voice splits through the wood.

"It's bullshit, you're bullshit," the voice slurs out and Eddie feels a wide grin pull at the corner of his mouth. 

He takes a step closer, nearly pressing his ear to the flat of the door.

"Like we're in love?" Another voice says softly, a guy, "you don't love me?" 

A small part of Eddie knows he shouldn't be listening to this, he can hear the waiver in this guy's voice like his heart is slowly cracking in his chest. Shit, he almost feels bad for this guy. 

But the people that go to these stupid parties, the Hawkins elite, the gorillas in the mist, deserve their bullshit --to use this girls turn-of-phrase.

The only reason they didn't mess with Eddie was because he was these highschool shit-heads main source of weed. 

Its karma, plain and simple, Eddie reasons as he presses even closer now.

"It's. Bullshit". The girl hisses emphatically and for a second Eddie hears nothing.

It happens so quickly after that. 

The door swings inward, causing Eddie to stumble into a tall firm chest as the bathroom guy collides with him.

"What the fuck?" The guy says as he pushes Eddie away from himself and --no way.

"Harrington?"

Steve blinks once, his wide hazel eyes red rimmed and shiny in the dim light of the hallway, the tip of his nose is pink as he reaches up to pinch it roughly before swiping across his eyes as well.

Even though Eddie's fairly certain that he and Steve are the same height, he seems smaller like this, deflated, standing in the hallway while a party rages down below them both. 

A cheer rings out, startling Steve into action.

He steps widely around Eddie, enough that his shoulder connects with the wall in his haste to take the stairs down, two at a time, as though Hell is hot on his heels. 

And Eddie should leave it, go back to the party, see if there are any snacks left before calling it a night, but something pushes him to follow the path Steve took.

It's like he's possessed, the haunted look in those hazel eyes forcing him forward until he's outside on the lawn.

A few other teens are outside, including a couple making out on the porch, Eddie steps over them and jogs to the end of the driveway.

He spots Steve down the street sitting on a large rock at the end of another neighbor's lawn with his face in his hands.

He looks up as Eddie gets closer and curses softly.

"Seriously? It wasn't enough that you were listening, you're following me now?" His voice cracks on the last word as he wipes his eyes again, he can't quite hide the way the moonlight catches the tear tracks running down his cheek and neck though.  

"Oh come on Harrington," Eddie says, walking up to Steve. He sits on one of the other rocks and takes a crumpled pack of smokes out of his vest pocket, "it's no fun if you're sad".

"What is?" Steve mumbles after a beat, wiping his eyes again as he stares at the ground. 

"Making fun of you," Eddie shrugs as he takes a cigarette and puts it between his lips, he smiles at the startled bark of laughter from Steve.

"You're a prick," he huffs softly, the barest of smiles slowly blooming across his face.

Eddie can count the constellation of freckles and moles across his face, giving the blanket of stars above them a run for their money. His hand twitches at the thought of touching the ones on Steve's throat.

Eddie coughs once, mentally tallying the number of drinks he must have had for those kinds of  thoughts and shifts on the rock to adjust his pants. 

He holds out the pack to Steve who looks at the nearly empty sleeve before his eyes shift to the house behind Eddie. 

"Nance hated cigarettes," Steve murmurs as the corner of his mouth twitches into a terrible frown. It's gone in an instant as Steve blinks once and reaches out for the pack.

"I got something stronger if you want?" Eddie offers, he shrugs when Steve looks up at him with suspicious eyes. 

"Come on Harrington, I'm not gonna keep kicking you when you're down, you need a pick-me-up and then I can get back into it," Eddie stands up and without thinking, holds out a hand towards Steve, "what do you say?"

Steve stares up at him, his eyes flick once to the outstretched hand before he snorts dryly and slowly takes his hand. 

It's warm in Eddie's own. The fingers squeeze gently as Steve uses it to hoist himself up until he's once again eye level with Eddie. 

From this close Eddie can see the way his eyelashes have clumped together with leftover tears and the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes

Oh…this, this was a bad idea. Eddie swallows roughly as Steve finally nods.

"Lead the way Munson," Steve says with the barest of smirks as he wipes his face one last time, "and if you tell anyone about this, I'll slash your tires".

Eddie cackles at that, "there he is!"

He claps Steve on the back as he leads them towards where he parked his van down the road, "our chariot awaits!"

Eddie ignores the small voice that whispers in his ear, the one that sounds remarkably like his uncle, as it asks him just what the hell he thinks he's doing with Harrington of all people? 

It'll be fine, he tells himself.

Besides, what's the worst that could happen?

Part Two

[loujestrous325]

experimented with a more feral dealer tonight; i'd be glad if you enjoyed these. content warning for lightly suggestive content, blood and drinking.

expect more of him calling you "little mouse", that pet name fucked me up so badly yesterday... i fumbled for my own idea 💀💀💀

[the-kr8tor]

We’ve seen Hobie drunk but may I request drunk reader?

Yes you may!!! Thank you for requesting! 🫶

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, CW drinking, CW vomit. FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Hobie enters the rowdy pub, weaving through the crowd and avoiding the eyes of his mates from across the pub or else he might get dragged into their drinking. It's not usually a bad thing to have a spontaneous drink with the mandem, but tonight he only has one mission: get you home.

Before he left for patrol, you've specifically given him explicit instructions to get you home before the sun starts to peek up from the horizon because you know if you don't manage to go home by then, oh your friends would most definitely get you blacked out drunk. You needed a scapegoat, and that's Hobie. You had it all planned, he would burst into your group, saying there's an emergency at home and you got to get out and help him quickly.

Well that was supposed to happen but seeing you down five shots in a row, feet wobbling from just standing, he knows he's in for a ride.

Hobie guesses that your friends managed to figure out your plan beforehand and got you to drink so much that your loud laughter triumphs over the already noisy pub.

He sidles up to you, a hand over the small of your back to help stabilize you on your feet. The group cheers when they spot him next to you, numerous shots and pints get shoved in his face to which he refuses immediately.

Meanwhile, you stare at him with wide eyes, mouth agape, hand tapping on his chest to get his attention.

“Yes, love? What's got you like that?”

“You.” Sighing, you say it breathlessly. “How are you so handsome?” The low light of the pub illuminates his face, casting shadow in all the right places.

He chuckles, hand squeezing your hip. You sharply turn to your friends, gesturing wildly at him. “It's Hobie Fucking Brown!” You yell at the top of your lungs. Said man blinks at you in surprise.

Your friends cheer drunkenly except for the designated driver who just shakes her head, the glass of orange juice swishing as another one of your friends suddenly loops their arms around her neck.

“Look at him!” You screech again, getting the entire pub's attention. Grabbing his face, you squish it in your hands. “So fucking handsome!”

Hobie chuckles as everyone's eyes look at the chaotic scene. A friend of his notices this, he whistles, hooting and hollering a ‘fuck yeah, he is!’ You seem to agree by yelling back a cheer towards their table.

He's never seen you this drunk, you're usually quiet when you get remotely tipsy, this is a new side of you that he's never seen. He loves it, if only you're not in public then he'll tease you back a hundred times more.

Holding your wrists, he takes your hands away from his face to your dismay. With a pout, you watch him gather your things, saying a quick goodbye to everybody before he gets roped into drinking too.

Knowing that you'll squirm and protest, he drapes your jacket over your face like he's done with a bat that accidentally entered the houseboat a few years ago. Sure enough, you try to wiggle out of the fabric, but you're too drunk to find the end of the jacket.

With his arms around you, he leads you outside of the pub, your muffled curses falling on deaf ears.

Hobie takes the jacket off you, your pout and glare greeting him. The fresh air flutters your lashes, waking you up a bit from your drunken stupor.

“You'd thank me once you're sober.” He's the one that takes your face this time, pressing a chaste kiss on your warm forehead.

“You took me outside like a wild animal” you pout as Hobie puts the motorcycle helmet on your head. Clipping it on securely.

“It was needed or I wouldn't have gotten you out in time before they started dousing me in beer. ‘m sorry,” He takes your pout in between his fingers, moving your head from side to side. “I'll make it up to you tomorrow, yeah? I'll take care of your hangover self.”

Your liquor addled brain makes you open your mouth wide, almost taking a bite of his fingers. Thanks to his quick reflexes, he dodges it.

“Awwe let me bite, Hobart”

“Later”

“Really?” you say, smiling.

“No”

You look at him with puppy dog eyes, Hobie doesn't falter, shaking his head with his hands on his hips. Inside, he's fighting the urge to scoop you up and let you bite wherever you want.

“Get on the bloody bike.” you do as you're told with minimal groaning.

The wind whips at your face, eyes closed, savouring the cool breeze.

Hobie's driving slower than usual, his hand flying back to you everytime you lean too far back in your seat.

While idling in a red light, his arm tucked behind him to grab your hands and enclose them around his waist.

Surprisingly, you don't grumble. Instead, you lean closer to him, face nuzzling on his back leaving a goosebump inducing kiss on his nape.

Hobie could only tap your hands that's holding his waist tightly. Glad that the helmet obscures the giddy smile on his lips.

—

He kind of regrets living in a houseboat now that he has to guide you down home. With you still wobbly on your feet, you hold on to him for dear life as he tests his balance.

“Fuck it.” Hobie grabs the back of your legs, carrying you effortlessly.

You almost puke from the sudden movement. “I'm gonna be sick.”

“I’ll point you right on the water then”

“Noooo, I'll hold it in!” You mumble a ‘poor fishies’

Finally getting you to bed, all clean and in clean clothes that he has to wrangle you to get it on. You cuddle nicely in bed, arms reaching up to hold him.

“Hobieeee! Cuddle?”

“What in the bloody hell did they let you drink?”

You giggle, flexing your hands to beckon him closer.

With a roll of his eyes, he flops down on you, earning a happy screech from you. Long arms enveloping you, you bask in his warmth while he rubs affectionately at your back. You fall asleep not long after, with your hand balling his shirt, using his chest as your personal pillow.

Oh the hangover would be horrible for you but Hobie's more than ready to help you with so much care and love.

[pix3lplays]

Ok I just thought how would Dr Ratio react when his partner is drunk? Maybe record them as revenge when he was drunk-

But of course, as a perfect scholar he would take care of them, give them water, let them cling onto him and put them to sleep :D

I am having thoughts about this, haha…

Cw! Drunk reader and mean Veritas

A part of me thinks that at first he sees it as a “you dug yourself into that hole, you can get yourself out” situation.

So at first he just leaves you alone, just silently observing you make a complete fool of yourself. He finds it a little bit amusing. And honestly? Yeah he might record you just a little bit.

But when you start getting emotional…teary eyed and confused as you gaze up at him with those big eyes…Veritas’s cold, dead heart warms up a bit.

He certainly can’t just leave you like this, now can he?

So yeah…he’ll take care of you. Take you home, make sure you’re comfy…he doesn’t want to necessarily coddle you and yet here he is giving in to every single one of your demands…

Something about you being helpless and drunk and pathetic just activates his inner sweetheart, apparently.

Of course he’s still a bit mean about it, calling you stupid for drinking yourself into a drunken state…being a bit harsh when he drags you to your feet when it’s time for you to go to bed. He still has work to do, so you’re going to go lie down and not bother him while he works in his office.

Of course, in a few minutes you’re walking through his office door. You miss him. You’re so lonely without him. He needs to come to bed with you so you don’t feel so lonely.

He wants to be annoyed, he really does but you’re just…hard to be frustrated at when you’re like this.

So he grabs his notebook and follows after you. Fine. He’ll sit up in bed, your head on his lap while he scribbles furiously in his little book.

Eventually you’ll fall asleep. Eventually he’ll pass out from exhaustion too. And thankfully this time in his own bed instead of in his office.

You both win!

[kieiswrite]

i've been writing a few short ficlets relating to the possession au - scar, cub and a bunch of other hermits hunting ghost and getting possessed. horror themes but lighthearted! this one is about Scar and Cub getting into ghost hunting business. the next parts centering on Cleo here and Ren here —

Introducing: Scar & Cub Apparition Removal Agency

“‘SCARA’?” Cub’s tone is completely neutral, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He’s not convinced.

“Yeah! Pretty clever, right?” Scar grins at him. “We could make a logo with a scary monster eating the ghosts.”

“I see your name is in there,” Cub says, “while mine is not.”

“It’s in there! You’re the C, Cub! It’s only a coincidence that it spells out my name.” Scar stretches his arms. The chair creaks. “A happy accident, though—a lucky one, even, some would say, since I will be the head of the operation!”

“I see.” Cub lets the bottle swing slowly back and forth, holding the neck between his thumb and middle finger. Then he takes a sip. He doesn’t particularly like beer, but it’s a rare occasion Scar buys him a drink—even if it’s in the shabbiest bar of the block—so he does his best to enjoy it. “Mmh. And what did you say my role in all of this was going to be?”

“Now, I’m glad you asked, Cub! I’m so very glad you asked me that question.” Scar is drinking water. He’s broke again. “I thought of this plan, and then I immediately thought of you! And do you know why, Cubby? Let me explain what we’re going to do, but first, you need to cast your mind back, all the way back to—high school. Do you remember that night we played with the ouija board in the cellar?”

Cub considers. “I think so.” He takes another, deeper sip. “Yeah, I remember.”

Somebody stumbles past their table, leans briefly on the back of Cub’s chair for balance. The place is filling up. The cover of chatter and loud music gives them some privacy, but Scar edges closer nonetheless. “You had me with that,” he whispers, theatrical, holding up a finger. “You had me for years. No, don’t give me that look, it was a good performance, Cub! I never knew you could act like that. I thought—I really thought you were possessed by the Janitor Jack. The thing you did with your eyes was so creepy, and then you changed your voice and made the—I still have nightmares about the growl. I have nightmares, Cub! Just thinking about it now gives me the heebie-jeebies.” He laughs. “It really was something.”

“Yeah.” Cub’s expression doesn’t change at all, but he squeezes the bottle with both hands. “It was something.”

“So here’s what I thought: I’ll get the clients. I’ll speak to them, persuade them… We go to where they say the ghost is, and you get possessed by it. Just like you were possessed by Janitor Jack!” Scar’s grin widens. “And then we just figure out what we want the ghost to say. I can—I can film it, if the client is not with us, and—look here, Cub. Look what I’ve got!”

Scar lifts up the tattered gym bag he’s been dragging along. He opens the zipper and presents the items to Cub one after another: A couple of white candles, a box of chalk, a crucifix (“This one cost me nothing, got it from the lady across the street!” he says, beaming. “She likes me!”) and even a pack of salt with a discount sticker slapped on the top. He has also bought a new flashlight that against the odds looks relatively sturdy. He asks if Cub can lend him batteries.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Cub says, “but these look like the tools for the world’s cheapest and the most low effort exorcism. Think you have what it takes to kick out a ghost, Scar?”

“Of course! How hard could it be?” Scar makes a mock-ghostly sound and waves the crucifix in front of Cub’s face. “Begone, evil spirit! So—what do you say? Is app—apparel—ap-a-ah— help me out here, Cub!”

“Apparition.”

“Thank you! Is Apparition Removal Agency a go? Will you be my partner?” He drops the cross on the table and holds out a hand.

Cub thinks about it.

Him and Scar are old friends. Cub has been here before—being asked to take part in a questionable enterprise—and it has happened enough times that he can say with confidence: A good nine out of ten of Scar’s schemes are bound to fail.

Nine out of ten. As a business idea, this is ridiculous. Potentially dangerous too.

And it doesn’t matter. The grand success may ever be just around the next corner, but anything Scar has pulled him into he has never regretted, because the failures, as trivial or tragic as they may be, never fail to entertain. 

“Sure thing,” he says. He shakes Scar’s hand. “You can count me in.”

—

The room has a musty smell. Time has given the once-white crocheted bedspread a dirty yellow tint. The curtains are drawn but thin enough to let through light. There’s still a glass on the nightstand, and a picture of some young people, likely relatives, maybe children. The atmosphere in the place is, granted, a little gloomy, considering somebody died here a few days prior, but all in all there’s nothing making the room seem particularly haunted.

Surely ghost hunters would be able to sense if there is a phantasmal presence nearby, even if it’s their first job.

Even if the pay is barely enough to cover their lunches and the gas for Cub’s car. They’ll get experience! And the word of the mouth will have the more lucrative work rolling in in no time!  

“Let’s sit on the bed for this!” Scar is balancing his phone on the corner of the table, to capture the encounter with the ghost. “We will call for her, like, ‘Mary, Mary! Show yourself, Mary! Tell us what keeps you on this earthly plane!’ We’ll light the candles, and then—”

He turns around and cuts his sentence short. Cub has slumped on the bed, and his head hangs down. Dark hair over his eyes and he’s making a low, breathy noise—a snore?

“Cub!” Scar is  at once amused and affronted. “You can’t sleep on a mission!”

Cub’s shoulders jerk. Slowly, he raises his head.

His mouth hangs slack. His eyes are cloudy, hazy, white.

Scar draws in a sharp breath. “Wh—Cub! I didn’t know you already started—I mean, is this—is this Mary? Is Mary here?”

Cub’s voice is a mumble. He sways from side to side. “Who are you?”

Okay. Okay! Cub is veering from the script, but that’s alright! Scar is a quick thinker. Good at improvisation. “We are from SCARA,” he says. Cub’s demeanor is unsettling, but Scar can’t get distracted by his acting chops. He sits down on the side of the bed. “I’m Scar, and we’re here to help you pass on, Mary. Just—talk to us. Tell us everything.”

“Everything?” Cub wheezes. His eyes search for Scar’s face, but don’t fully focus. “What is happening? Why am I so cold?”

It goes pretty much like they rehearsed from there. The ghost doesn’t know she’s dead. She takes it relatively well. She wants little things—she asks if she won the lottery (the ticket is in the drawer. Cub must have checked it while Scar wasn’t looking). She didn’t. She wants to send a letter to her granddaughter, and Scar writes down what Cub tells him to. It’s very sweet, some life advice, some family secrets.

Then, as Scar puts the paper down, he sees there’s blood trickling down from Cub’s nose.

“Cub—Mary,” he says, pointing. “You’ve got a nosebleed.”

The ghost does not react. 

“Right there!” He leans closer. “There. Can you—right under your nose.” 

Cub’s mouth is hanging open again. Blood drips down his lips, his chin. His throat moves, his head jerks—and Scar yelps, startling back.

His poor heart! Scar clutches his chest, but nothing more sinister is happening than just Cub tossing his head in jerky motions from one side to the other. It looks bad but it’s just an act! Cub is trying to freak him out, but he’s not falling for it. The air in the room is thick and the weather must have changed outside, because it’s getting darker.

“Okay, I think we’re done here!” He declares, voice only slightly high pitched. He takes out the crucifix and holds it directly in front of Cub’s restless head. “You got what you wanted, Mary! You can let go now. Go—begone! You’re dead and you should move on, so let go of Cub, and—”

Cub slumps again. He topples a bit to the side—and falls to the floor.

A thud, and then everything is quiet for a long moment. And then Cub sits up, rubbing his head, and his eyes are normal, and he says, pointedly, “Ouch.”

Scar dares breathe again. He’s still gripping the crucifix ever so tightly. “What in the world, Cub? You didn’t have to go that far! You’ll end up getting a tension neck and that’s not a fun time, I can tell you that right now. I’m—wait, I’ll cut the recording off—oh. Oh no, Cub, no, this is not good, I was sitting in the wrong spot! It’s just—oh no. You can see nothing but my back most of the time, look at this!”

He shoves the phone to Cub, who—still on the floor—scrubs quickly through the video. He shakes his head. “Can’t believe this, man.” His tone is appropriately emphatic, near wounded. “Can’t believe this. It really is just your back. Geeze." A pause. "I must have knocked myself out, did you encounter the ghost all by yourself, Scar? What happened?”

He passes the phone back to Scar, touches his own lips and then looks at the blood on his fingertip, quizzical.

Scar is not quite sure how to answer that. He had been about to suggest that they do the bit again, because the recording really is that terrible and all Cub’s effort wasted, but— “You know,” he says, “I’m not sure. Did you really get possessed?”

Cub turns to look at him. He’s paler than usual. After a short pause he says, “Nah, man. That sounds unlikely.”

“So you were acting?”

Cub shrugs. "I've never acted in my life, Scar." He finally takes a tissue from his pocket and wipes his face. "Never acted. But I doubt it was possession. I repel ghosts. Fun fact, ghosts don't attack people with glasses. They get spooked by their own reflection."

Scar cocks his head. "I've never heard that."

"It’s facts. Look it up." Cub stands up. “What’s this?”

“Why, it’s the letter that the ghost wanted me to write! Pack it up, Cub, pack it up! We can give it to the family as proof. I’ll tell them how we banished the ghost and they’ll have to pay us.”

"Oh baby. Easy money."

“Yeah.” Scar gives one more long, thoughtful look to Cub, but he seems to be pretty much his normal self so everything is probably fine. “Yeah! For a first gig, this went great.” He pockets the phone, picks up the bag and his crutches. “Not perfect, I’m not saying we did perfect, but we learned a lot! And the next time—”

They exit the room. The curtains move, like a hand was pushing them to the side. It has to be the draft.

“—next time, you won’t be able to scare me, mister. I’m wise to your tricks now! But we did good. And! I already have the next customer lined up. I told you, Cub, we’ll make profit. I’ve got a feeling. This is going to go so well.”

[bamsara]

some doodles for some scene ideas for a future chapter in my fic, drunken gods and whatnot. they are so dumb

part 2 of drunken shenanigans

[felsicveins]

More than drinking buddies, less than husbands

[pmpknsoup]

im a firm believer the bees were out getting absolutely trashed with team fnki in that one episode

[chipper-smol]

I'll take bastards who constantly get on each others nerves for 1000 please

also I was listening to this on repeat which inspired the first pic

Macaque: "I dont think i'm qualified for this whole pretending to be a god thing" Wukong: "Seriously? This is by far the easiest thing we could ever do!"

[pigeonwit]

Tipsy Davey is a lovely Davey, easy to blush and fluster – it doesn’t take much more than a smile to send him giggling into his glass, and it drives Jack’s own ego to dangerous heights. He could spend whole nights murmuring compliments in Davey’s ear, tracing his knuckle against Davey’s thigh, listening to him giggle against Jack’s own temple, feebly nudging him away (and letting him come right back) and mumbling "Jackie, stop…" without meaning a word of it.

And then there’s Drunk Davey, when his flush settles high on his cheeks and his bashfulness settles with it. He loses that nervousness he keeps underneath his skin that’s always pulling him back just a little, telling him not to come on too strong. He touches freely, whispers the pads of his fingertips over Jack’s wrists enough to drive him insane, sweeps over the bridge of Jack’s freckled nose and murmurs, “Glory be to God for dappled things…”. The bitter little middle-schooler that still lives in Jack’s mind has always thought that poetry was something just too dorky to be attractive, but that bitter little middle-schooler sure shuts the hell up when Davey whispers pretty things in Jack’s ear on a dark corner of the dance floor. Jack’s not complaining at all.

And then there’s Jack’s favourite – Truly Shitfaced Davey. He’s a rare gift, reserved only for New Years, birthdays and Halloween parties, if his costume is slutty enough. Jack can recount every single Truly Shitfaced Davey encounter he’s ever had, and while they’re nowhere near as suave as Drunk Davey, they are by all means his favourites.

“Face,” Davey mumbles, poking Jack’s cheek and marvelling at the squish of it. Jack has to bite his lip not to laugh.

“Yeah, babe?” He asks sweetly, because he is a wonderful boyfriend, thank you very much.

“Your face… It – you…” Davey’s face pinches as he tries to find his words underneath the drunk haze that’s blanketing his brain. He promptly gives up and groans, waving an arm dismissively as he burrows into Jack’s side. “S’good.”

Jack grins, pressing a kiss to the curls tickling his face. He gives up on trying to stifle his smile – Davey’s too drunk to care, and far too drunk to notice the way he’s staring inquisitvely at Jack’s lips the way he usually stares at a good book.

“Thanks, Davey-mine. Your face is good, too.”

Davey stares at him for a moment, mouth squared and silent for a little too long, until he makes a strangled little squeak and ducks his face into Jack’s neck.

“Shuddup!” He orders as Jack laughs, but he can’t help it. As much as he loves Davey when he’s reciting sonnets from memory, he especially loves him speechless, if only for the novelty of it.