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fruitcoops · 8 months

Note

Can you write another jealous sirius fic? I love your work!🫶🏾

Par for the course, this is less 'jealous' and more 'gently possessive', but yes I absolutely can! Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove, but I once again tale the burden of a shitty OC. Enjoy!

TW alcohol mentions, mild drunkenness

The sway of his hips was something to behold. It was subtle (everything about Remus was subtle, if he could help it), but movement rippled from the strong arc of his shoulders and narrowed the world to a single place of fineness. His shirt was loose and casual; Sirius’ mouth watered at the thought of getting to touch the small of his back. It wouldn’t take more than a slip of his hand.

Remus meandered around the edge of the crowd in a winding path. Sirius hid a smile in the side of his hand. He caught a glimpse of pink cheeks when Remus turned his head at the change in music, lips forming a soft ‘oh’ of excitement—he picked up the pace with only a little wobble and Sirius couldn’t help a snort.

Please, let me—

I got this. Remus’ insistence had been adorable; the press of his entire palm over Sirius’ mouth, even moreso.

You’re drunk, honey.

I’m tipsy. A kiss to his forehead. And I’m fine.

He was fine. Remus didn’t really do ‘not fine’, didn’t like the cotton-mouth feeling the next morning, would probably commit a murder to avoid an unnecessary headache. But at this point in the night, he was certainly tipsy enough that Sirius questioned his ability to not spill water all over them both.

Lily’s hair flashed in a copper fan under the low light when James spun her. Her laughter spiked over the noise of the other dancers, unfiltered by the canopy above the dance floor. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh and followed Remus with his eyes as he bobbed and wove, all kinds of amber honey against his soft blue button-down. It was nothing fancy. They went dancing often now, and grew bored of dressing up.

Sirius thought he looked better than a dozen Stanley Cups.

He narrowed his eyes. It seemed those thoughts did not belong to him alone.

Remus hadn’t noticed yet; that much was clear from the tilt of his smile as he watched James and Lily dance before moving closer to the bar. Sirius suffered to take his eyes off the line of his jaw to fix on the other side of the bartop. The man there was watching Remus with absolutely none of the respect he deserved. That alone made Sirius want to kick his stool out from under him, but then the fucker stood up, and—

Someone’s hand was in his hair.

“Blegh—”

“Excuse me,” James said loudly, cupping Sirius’ face in both hands. “Hello? Captain RBF, you’re off the clock, I need my bestie for the evening.”

“Don’t say bestie.”

Lily’s palm moved down to clasp across his forehead, as if feeling for a fever. “Doctor, he’s dying,” she declared. “I prescribe one song, or two and a half minutes of attempted fun.”

“That might kill him faster,” James said, solemn as the grave.

“I’m having fun!” Sirius protested. “And—move, you’re blocking my view.”

James’ brow furrowed. “Of what? The best view is right in front of you.”

A disgruntled noise found its way out before words could; he batted them away, but they just settled down in the adjacent seats and squished him between their shoulders. He couldn’t find it in himself to be grumpy about it.

“Alright,” Lily sighed. Her nails drummed a gentle chime against her gin and tonic. “What are we grouching about tonight?”

“The—ugh, would you fucking look at that?” The man from the stool had nearly made his way to Remus by now. James and Lily shared a look in the corners of his vision. Sirius groaned and took James by the chin, turning his head toward them. “Look.”

“…I don’t see anything.”

“Are the glasses just for show?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Lily said suddenly, only to muffle a giggle behind her hand.

Sirius turned to her in dismay. “Don’t laugh!”

“Is that it?”

“It’s not funny!”

“Honey, you married somebody with a cute face and a rockin’ bod.” Lily reached out to pat the back of his hand. “This is the price you pay.”

James nodded, taking a slow sip of his lemonade. “It’s true. Basic risk-reward, my man.”

Public Shithead Number One sidled up to Remus at the counter. Sirius’ stomach turned. “Can I—”

“Bodily harm is forbidden,” James interrupted.

He chewed the inside of his lip. “…Can I—”

“Probably not.”

“It wasn’t bodily harm.” Mostly.

Lily flicked him on the shoulder. “How about we try putting on a happy face for a double-date and enjoying the show?”

“I’m gonna go get him,” he muttered, setting his napkin aside.

Four hands grabbed him before he could so much as stand. “No,” James and Lily chorused.

“That guy is going to flirt with him!”

“What’s gonna happen?” Lily asked. Her brow arched at a frightening angle. “Hmm? It’s Remus, dummy. He looks at you like the sun shines out of your ass.”

“But he’s kind of drunk,” Sirius protested.

“So he probably won’t even notice any flirting. He’s oblivious enough when he’s sober. If you march over there, he’ll just be upset.”

Upset. God, Sirius hated it when Remus was upset. Any step past mildly vexed was devastating. And when he was otherwise having such a good night, looking so cute and cuddly with his pink cheeks, it was out of the question.

“Fine,” he managed. The table creaked when he rested his elbows on it. “But I’m keeping an eye on the shithead’s hands.”

Lily’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she turned to James. “Can you leash him?”

“Have I ever?”

“He’s making moves.” Sirius bit down on the inside of his cheek to control his scowl. Remus didn’t even like blonds. It was ridiculous for the shithead to even try, with his slacks and overbalanced swagger. The stretch of Remus’ shirt over his upper back while he leaned on the bartop was infinitely nicer to look at.

“Don’t explode, sweetheart.” Lily patted his shoulder, tapping away at her phone. “I don’t want to clean it up.”

“Look at him. He’s like a peacock—oh.”

The tapping paused. “Oh?”

“Remus noticed him.”

“Yeah, the guy’s practically in his lap.”

“No.” A grin budded in Sirius’ chest and bloomed across his face, urged on by horrible, giddy joy. “No, no, he asked Remus a question.”

Next to him, James straightened; the front legs of his chair hit the tile with a soft clunk. “Remus noticed him?”

Remus was fully turned to the side now, hands tight around two water glasses and face lit by more than just Edison bulbs. His profile was sharpened by the pale canvas backdrop as he leaned in slightly, flushed with excitement. The shithead looked thrilled.

Remus took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

“I love that little nerd,” Lily murmured, leaning into Sirius’ side with a hand to her mouth. “He’s so weird. What do you think set him off?”

“I have no idea,” James said through a laugh. “But I’ll pray for that poor soul.”

“I won’t.” Sirius squinted for a better view. The shithead’s smile was long gone. Before his eyes, the hand that had been itching to wander was shoved solidly into the pocket of charcoal slacks.

Remus Lupin was the greatest part of his life, the moon to his stars, the wing to his center, his favorite non-James individual. He was intelligent, hardworking, and handsome to a fault. Sirius constantly marveled at his kind heart.

When Remus had a touch more alcohol than usual, his helpful nature and brilliant mind tended to entangle the closest victim if they asked the right question, Cthulu-style. He’d spill anything: hockey strategy, random knowledge, government secrets.

By the looks of it, the shithead had asked a very interesting question, indeed.

He attempted an escape, but Remus touched him gently on the shoulder and snagged his attention right back. “It’s an art,” Sirius muttered.

James sighed. “I should save him.”

“No, no.” Sirius reached back blindly to pat his arm. “Leave it. For me.”

“You wanted that guy flayed on your doorstep five minutes ago.”

“This is so much better. I’ll get him in a minute.” Or three.

The song changed and Lily let out a soft gasp. “No, go get him, I want to dance.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but stood and brushed his hands off on his pants. “You hate it when I have fun,” he called.

“Sure do!” Lily chirped, raising her glass.

The crowd parted for him like warm butter. The wind was picking up, cool on his skin and ruffling the back of Remus’ hair where it was just starting to curl. He supposed that was the benefit of finding an outdoor space; no sweaty, crushing darkness to get stuck in as the night went on.

“—which is where I met Moody,” Remus was saying as he drew closer. His forehead creased. “Have I mentioned Moody?”

The other man looked vaguely terrified. “I…don’t know.”

Remus waved a hand. “It’s fine. He was my mentor out of college. Cranky bastard, fake leg, heart of gold. Anyway, I worked with him for a couple years, mostly on broken bones, but some tendon stuff. I told you about those, remember?”

The man’s throat bobbed. “Yes. Look, I was going to ask—”

“Oh, I can answer any of your questions,” Remus said earnestly. Sirius’ heart skipped a beat at the genuine hope in his voice. Fucking sweetheart. “Seriously, I—oh, hey!”

“Hi.” The small of his back was just as soft as Sirius knew it would be. His temple was a little warmer than normal when he brushed a kiss over it, but Remus pushed into it with a quiet hum, and that banished all worry from his mind in one blow. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, I made a friend. This is Derek, he’s so nice.” His blinks were slow, and he took a moment to focus when he looked up. A crooked smile followed on its heels. “Missed you. Got your water.”

“Thanks, loup.”

A faint cough caught their attention. Sirius twitched a brow; ‘Derek’ shuffled in place for a few seconds. “Is he, uh, yours?”

“My what?” It was best to keep it blunt in situations like this. Sirius felt for the man’s general confusion, but it wasn’t like he had missed Remus’ wedding ring.

“Husband,” Remus answered for him with a nudge to Sirius’ waist. “Duh.”

“I was asking your friend,” Sirius laughed, taking one of the glasses from Remus. Derek’s gaze flickered over them. He watched his eyes bulge when they landed on Remus’ left hand.

Huh. Perhaps he had missed the ring, after all.

“Yeah, I’m—” Derek patted his pockets as redness crept up his neck. “I’m just—I’m going to—sorry about that, excuse me.”

Sirius watched until his glossy hair was out of sight. Then, and only then, did he look back down at Remus. “You’re a terror.”

“Hmm.” Fingertips trailed over his belt; Remus nestled his cheek in the bend of Sirius’ neck. “I like these jeans.”

“I know.”

“I like this song.”

“Lily’s already dancing. Asked me to come find you.”

Remus smiled, and planted a sloppy kiss to the side of his neck before tangling their fingers. A long exhale warmed his skin. “You’re gonna love me forever, right?”

Sirius buried his nose in the top of his head and took a deep breath. He let his other hand settle at the back of Remus’ neck, drawing a happy noise from him. “I’m going to love you forever.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re not going to say it back?” Sirius teased.

Remus pulled his face free long enough to narrow his eyes. It did nothing to quell his grin. “Come dance with me, then we’ll see.”

A soft ‘I love you’ found them far before the end of the song did. Sirius closed his eyes and savored the shape of it, pressed against his lips like a prayer and a promise.

#remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #lily evans #lily potter #coops #jily #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #fluff #drunkenness #alcohol #dancing

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basicallyanotherwitchesthing · 1 year

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Anonymous (translated by L.E. LaBan; introduction by Rudolph Conway, Ph.D.) - Crossroads of Ecstasy (Original Title: Les Carrefours des Ivresses) - Brandon House - 1968

#witches #ecstatics #occult #vintage #crossroads of ecstasy #crossroads #ecstasy #carrefours #ivresses #drunkenness #brandon house #anonymous #l.e. LaBan #rudolph conway #ph.d.#1968

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strangewiggles · 21 days

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[OC Sketch comic]

After a long night of partying, Bertie comes home to her…roommate…Micky.

⚠️ Substance use [drugs, alcohol], drunkenness

Micky - Black-footed cat - she/her

Bertie - Bearded dragon - she/her

both are 24-25ish and lesbians of course

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naminethewriter · 16 days

Text

On the Road, Just the Two of Us

Chapter Seven: Outside a Bar, Just the Two of Us

Masterpost | First | Previous | Next | Ao3

Summary: This was written for @dukeceit-week-2024, @dukeceitweek

Janus and Remus are living in a campervan at the moment. Are they going somewhere? Who knows. The only thing that’s important is that they’re together.

Content Warnings: Innuendo, Heavy Flirting, Kink mention, Drunkenness, Alcohol consumption off screen

🌻🌻🌻🌻

Janus gulped down the fresh air as he stepped out of the warm and loud bar. Remus had begged him to stay in this town for the rest of the day when he’d seen it and the poster advertising a gig of a local punk band playing there that evening. He hadn’t minded staying, it seemed like a fun evening, and it was! But it was getting close to midnight and Janus needed a break from the used-up air and bass vibrations that he still felt rattling around his brain.

Or maybe that was the alcohol.

He hadn’t drunk all that much – he never did. He enjoyed the buzz but not more than that.

Remus on the other hand had taken a few more shots. But he also had a higher tolerance than Janus, so he wasn’t worried. His boyfriend was currently having fun on the dance floor and while Janus hadn’t felt comfortable there, he would never take Remus’ enjoyment away from him.

He’d made sure Remus had seen him head outside. He wouldn’t make him worry.

Janus took another few, deep breaths. He looked up, admiring the starry sky for a moment. It was a smaller town, so he could see a lot more of the stars than he could at home.

It made him not want to go back.

But there were responsibilities. And this trip was already three months long.

…Maybe he should check his e-mails. He hadn’t this entire time, knew it would make him anxious about how much work he’d return to. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Janus pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the icon of his e-mail program, but before he could tap it, the bar door swung open and Remus came stumbling out.

“Where’s my snake boy??” he slurred, looking around. Janus had enough time to put his phone away before he was spotted and as soon as Remus did, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Janny! Love of my life! There you are!” He giggled, clumsily making it over to Janus and pulling him close. “I missed you. So much.”

“I was gone for not even five minutes, dear. How much more did you have to drink?” Janus chuckled, gently rubbing Remus’ cheek with his thumb. He was running rather hot but considering the temperature inside, the fact that he had been dancing and a good amount of alcohol, it wasn’t concerning.

Remus leaned into his touch and sighed.

“The band like, paid for like three rounds for everyone. I probably shouldn’t’ve taken all three shots directly after the other, but c’mon! It was fun!”

“I’m sure it was, darling. Don’t you dare throw up on my shoes, though.”

“I would never. I love your boots, they’re so sexy and way too good to be ruined by puke. If it happens anyway, I will clean them for you though. With my tongue. Or I can clean them now, I would love to worship your boots for you, Janny.”

Janus listened to Remus’ drunken rambling while gently guiding him away from the bar and towards where they parked the van. He definitely had enough for the night and while it wasn’t uncommon for Remus to declare his various kinks so openly, the fact that he was swaying on his feet and slurring slightly was enough indication that it was time to call it a night for him, too.

“I know you would, darling, and we can experiment with that when we’re back home and I have cleaned these properly. You’re not touching them with your tongue after I’ve worn them outside. Especially not before the wedding.”

Remus whined and Janus sympathetically patted his cheek.

“I know, I’m so mean to you.”

“You’re not,” Remus insisted immediately, pushing himself away a bit and trying to stay more steadily on his own so that he could look Janus in the eyes. “You’re the one person that isn’t mean to me. At least not in any way I don’t like. You’re the best and I love you. Want me to prove it to you? I can kill a guy for you!”

“I know you can, darling, and I love you, too, but what I want from you right now is to get back to the car and cuddle me until the sun comes up again.”

“I’d love to.”

“Good.”

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kllingdaddy · 5 months

Text

knight in shining armor

Summary: in which emily gets drunk and calls aaron to pick her up.

Word count: 1k+

It was nearing midnight, but the bar was no less crowded than it was when they first arrived. People sat around downing glass after glass, including the BAU team. Well, everyone except Aaron and Spencer. Spencer didn't drink and Aaron had opted out of a night out to get back home to his son.

Emily was nursing her fifth shot of tequila, a buzzing in her veins that made her smiley and giddy with everyone around her. Her and Garcia were the only ones who truly got wasted on nights like these. Everyone else was careful with how much they drank, considering they all had work the next morning and would rather not deal with a nasty hangover.

But Emily couldn't care less about work and hangovers. All she wanted was to forget about the upsetting case they'd all just dealt with and drink the night away. At least she had Garcia to get wasted with, who was having the time of her life shamelessly flirting with Morgan.

"I think you've had a bit too many to drink," Morgan declared as he carefully plucked the shot glass from Garcia's fingers.

The bubbly blonde pouted dramatically. "Oh let me have my fun, Derek Morgan! Emily has had way more than me!"

"I have not," Emily rebutted, though the slur in her words gave her away. She could hardly stand straight, the view of her friends becoming a little hazy, and she felt Morgan take her glass away as well.

"It's time to get out of here," he said, steering Garcia in the direction of the door. Reid shrugged on his coat and followed, Rossi on his heels.

JJ was the second to last to leave, her speculating eyes narrowing at Emily. "You look like you're about to faint."

Emily waved off her friend's concern. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah, sure you are." The two walked out of the bar—well, JJ walked, Emily mostly stumbled—and Will was already waiting in the parking lot. "Want us to give you a ride home? You sure as hell aren't driving."

Emily shook her head. "Nah, you go ahead. I'll just call someone to pick me up."

"Who?"

"Hotch," she replied easily.

JJ merely raised an eyebrow. "You sure? I'm sure Will doesn't mind taking you."

"You get home to Henry, I'll be fine." Emily stumbled forward and stamped her lips to JJ's cheek. "I promise."

"If you say so," JJ chuckled, waving at the brunette before crossing the parking lot to her boyfriend.

As the couple drove away, Emily dug out her phone and thumbed a contact she only called for emergencies, putting it to her ear as it rang. On the third ring, her boss picked up.

"Prentiss?" His voice sounded gruff, as if she'd waken him up from his sleep. "What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"Mhm," she nodded. "I was jus' wondering if you could pick me up? I'm kinda hammered..."

"Hammered? Jesus, Prentiss, it's one in the morning." She heard the mattress spring as he sat up, presumably slipping on his shoes. "Where are you?"

"Hmm, Lotus's Bar," she said, reading the sign on the building.

"Is the team still with you?"

"Nope."

"Fuck, Emily." A pause, then some shuffling. "Stay there and go inside if you're not already. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"Okay," she murmured, heading back inside the bar. Half of the place had gone already, but there were still a few tables full and more beers being handed out. "Thank you, Aaron."

"You don't have to thank me, Em. I have to call Jess to watch Jack and then I'll be on my way, okay?"

Emily just hummed in response, plopping down on one of the stools at the bar. As tempting as another shot of liquor was, she knew her boss would kill her if she even thought about it, so she just rested her head on the counter and waited for him to arrive.

Minutes passed, and she nearly fell off the stool when she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder, her head snapping up in panic. Her eyes met with a pair that were unfamiliar to her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." The stranger smiled at her. He was tall, with blonde-ish hair and blue eyes. He looked to be a few years younger than her, maybe in his early thirties. "I just wanted to check if you were alright. Are you?"

Emily tried to smile back. Her head was pounding and all she wanted to do was pass out in her bed. "Oh yeah, I'm fine."

"Do you need a ride home? I could take you—"

"She's with me." A deep, familiar voice thrummed in her ears and she glanced towards the sound of it. Aaron was next to her, his dark eyes fixed on the younger man, his lips pinched.

"Aaron," she beamed, throwing her arms around his neck with joy. "You came!"

"Of course I came," he murmured into her hair. "Now let's get you home."

Emily pulled away from him and turned to face the stranger. "I'm sorry, but my Aaron's here now. Thank you for the offer, though."

Aaron's lips quirked at her words, his arm slipping around her waist to steady her as he guided her away from the guy and out of the bar. The chill of the night nipped at them both and considering all she wore was a black tank top and jeans, she must've been cold, so he shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

"My hero," she hummed happily, tightening his jacket around her.

"Always," he promised, opening the passenger side door for her.

As he got in on his side and buckled, Emily nestled further into his jacket and sighed. "I'm so tired."

Aaron glanced at her. "I know you are. I'm taking you home, and then you can sleep all you want."

"Sleep sounds good," she agreed with a slight nod, a yawn escaping her.

He smiled softly at the woman beside him. He had no idea she was such an adorable drunk, but he wasn't complaining. Although it did make him want to pull her in and kiss her senseless.

God, what was she doing to him?

When they reached her apartment, he helped her inside and to the bed, where she immediately collapsed without a thought. He shook his head and kneeled at the bed, gently slipping off her boots and setting them aside on the floor.

"Gonna sleep with your jacket," she told him seriously, her eyes already fluttering shut with how exhausted she was. "Smells like you."

He suppressed a smile and nodded. "Okay, Em."

"Get me Sergio?"

"Of course. Be right back."

He left the room in search for the black fur ball, successfully finding him on the kitchen counter sniffing for crumbs. He carried the cat to her room and Emily reached for him, grinning once he was purring in her arms.

"Thank you, hero," she giggled, cuddling Sergio close to her as her eyes closed.

It didn't take long for her to drift off, maybe a minute or so, and he couldn't help but gaze at her for a split second as she slept. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, and it took everything he had not to get into bed with her and tug her into his arms.

Instead, he retreated to the kitchen to fill a glass with water and set it on her bedside table for when the morning came. Then, before he left, he bent down and brushed his lips against her cheek.

"I'll always be your hero, sweetheart."

#hotchniss #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #aaron x emily #fluff #oneshot #drunkenness #idiots in love

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ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months

Text

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Three

CW: Drunkenness, alchohol in general, some implied dubcon starting at *** and ending at the next ***, magical mind manipulation, restraints, religious talk

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

One year prior to present-day

He still thinks of himself as Brother Grigori, in his mind, even though he walked away from the temple in the middle of the night months ago. He abandoned his goddess and her open arms in a fit of rage and grief, in the aftermath of a week’s worth of nightmares.

In his mind, he’s still Brother Grigori. To the world outside, though, he’s Greg. Or, well, mostly he’s the drunk over there.

He keeps his white robes carefully wrapped in canvas and twine, hidden in a bag on the bench beside him. He’s anonymous like this, just wearing a simple linen shirt and pants, rope sandals to take the edge off the boiling summer heat. His skin’s tanned to a constant warm, light brown now and his hair’s a mop he doesn’t bother to brush more than once every few days, grown out and streaked from sunshine.

No one would know him for a priest. Dromada’s Chosen seclude themselves in the temples, spend little time in the light. Priests are pale men in white robes who smile without pain or bitterness, and they certainly don’t hate themselves and sit up at night wishing they were dead. They absolutely don’t drink themselves into a stupor every single night so they won’t wake up screaming.

He looks nothing like the hero they made of him through well-intentioned lies and constantly expanding gossip, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

There are already four separate popular songs about his supposed courage and bravery. Standing up against the wicked bandits who want to tear the kingdom apart in the name of his goddess, his stalwart and true faith terrifying the evil men and women back into the dark of the great, thick woods.

None of these songs tell a story he recognizes as anywhere close to what happened.

He’s come to this tavern every day this week because it’s the one place where he never has to overhear any of the tripe they’ve made about his life. The barman, who also owns the inn upstairs, hates him - or rather, hates the idea of him from the songs, and has banned all the music that mentions his name, or even the thought of him.

Grigori is deeply grateful for him for it.

All the pretty nonsense played on lutes or sung in warbling voices about Dromada’s son, who stood up to the evil spat out by the Kaila trees… It’s all just lies, pointless lies to comfort the people. They want to think one man can make a difference. What could he even tell them? He couldn’t even save his own brothers in the temple. The men who had raised him from his infancy, and taught him to be holy and pure. When they could have used him, he wasn’t there.

If I had been there, I’d just have died with them.

The thought brings no comfort. It’s what should have happened, but didn’t.

He takes another drink, letting the liquor burn hot down his throat. He had never had anything stronger than watered-down wine in the temple before it all happened, and now he isn’t sure when he’s last been sober at all once the sun goes down.

Sobriety, for him, comes in bursts of hangovers - headaches and nausea and a stomach desperate for bread and butter nonetheless. Sobriety is the return of his self-hatred after he had spent the night before successfully drinking it away. Or sometimes not as successfully, but on those nights he just drank more and sooner or later he fell asleep with his head on the bar.

As long as he keeps paying, the barman doesn’t mind mopping up when ‘Greg’ spills a tankard or two when he forgets to keep holding onto it. Even if he suspects the man goes through his things when he’s passed out, he hasn’t said anything and he hasn’t kicked him out for being a priest who broke the vow of sobriety.

Grigory lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. So many vows. He’s broken, what, two of them? To always wear his robes and make himself known as a Chosen of the goddess, and to pursue always sober living, staying away from wine that isn’t watered and all alcohol otherwise.

That leaves… poverty, chastity, obedience, and serenity.

He’s probably broken serenity, too, actually. Is being drunk all the time serene? Or the opposite? His hair brushes against his cheeks, and he wonders if blood vessels have begun to break, if he’ll get ruddy like the drunks he saw sometimes as a child, leaving offerings to Dromada and begging her forgiveness for the sins they confessed to the priests.

Dromada forgives, you have only to ask. So you have requested, so Her forgiveness is given. Walk in new peace and be free of your chains.

He hasn’t confessed any sins since the day the temple priests died and he didn’t. Not that it matters, not anymore.

Dromada isn’t listening. He isn’t sure if She ever did.

A cheery voice speaks entirely too closely to him, making him jump as his heart skips a beat. The voice is bright, slightly raspy and deeply masculine. “Well, don’t you need a haircut, a bowl of stew, and some clean shoes? Not necessarily in that order, of course.”

He blinks his eyes open, wincing a little as the light stings - even as dim as it is in here, the light stings. He needs to drink more. “What?”

A handsome man smiles down at him, a knit hat pulled low on his head, until it covers even the tips of his ears. White-blond hair sticks out the bottom over his forehead like hay, straight as a bone and every which way, but there’s a hint of closely-shorn hair just above his ears that suggests the sides are shaved. Unusually, his eyes are a thick and glossy black, with no sign of the shift between iris and pupil. It’s all one color, and seems to suck light in rather than reflect it. The stranger’s tall, having to lean over just to talk to Grigory where he sits, but he’s also lean, like a sapling ready to bend in the wind rather than break. “I said, you need a haircut.” The stranger reaches out and twines a bit of Grigori’s curly brown hair around his finger, letting it brush against his cheek.

He watches Grigori shiver with a slight, half-cocked smile, black eyes sparkling with a kind of good humor and interest that feels as dangerous as a threat.

“You also need a bowl of stew and some clean shoes. Sadly, only one of those can I be of assistance with. Bowl of stew, bit of bread? My treat, of course.”

“I… are you asking me?” The stranger nods, and Grigori hesitates… then sighs, and looks down, eyeing his sandals. Are they that dirty? They look fine to him. “No, but thank you. I am not hungry.”

“Don’t eat much these days, do you?”

Grigori’s frown deepens. “I eat when I am hungry.”

“No, you drink when you’re hungry. But you’re going to eat now.” The stranger laughs, bright and kind of beautiful, and Grigori blinks, his frown fading. He watches the man cross the room, calling out his order to the tavern’s owner, who looks over at Grigori with eyebrows raised. Grigori just shrugs, and goes back to his drink.

Or he tries to.

He has to stop when the stranger swoops in with two bowls of stew and a plate of bread balanced on the inside of one elbow, like a man who has waited tables in inns all his life. He then swipes the tankard from Grigori and chugs it all down, drops running from the corners of his mouth down over the long line of his throat.

Grigori’s mouth feels, suddenly, rather dry - for reasons Dromada would frown on, but Dromada already allowed his brothers to be sacrificed. He’s not sure he believes in her forgiveness and mercy anymore. No goddess who cannot protect her most devoted can be much of a goddess at all, can she?

“I see you undressing me with your eyes,” The stranger teases, and Grigori blushes even more deeply, dropping his eyes hurriedly back down to the steaming bowl of stew on the table before him, picking up his spoon with fumbling fingers and getting a bit of meat - cheap cut of beef cooked slow over a fire until it tasted as good as the richest man’s steak - and faking a consummate interest in the shimmering fat that had settled atop the broth. “None of that until we’re done getting some food in you. And no more beer until you’re full, either. Try dunking the bread in, it’s great.”

Grigori nods without looking up, afraid to see the sparkle in those eyes again. He’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Being raised by the priests, well… when you’re wearing Dromada’s robes, the people know you’re pure.

He feels like the stranger isn’t very pure at all.

“What’s-... thank you, for the stew,” He says around mouthfuls, discovering once he starts eating that he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His stomach growls after the first bite and somehow he finishes the bowl and starts sopping it up with bread in record time. “What’s your name?”

“Ooooh, he’s curious now that he can think,” The stranger says, still bright and cheerful. Grigori watches the line of his body as he sits back, fingers interlocked behind his head and elbows bent, kicking up his feet to rest his heels on an empty chair. “The formal name is Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, which I hate. Call me Bohli.”

“You have a nobleman’s name?” Grigori’s curiosity gets the best of him and he looks up, eyebrows raising. “Or… partly. Maks is a noble house-”

“My mother was quite the little lady indeed,” Bohli says, and his smile twists sharp and cynical. Somehow it suits his equally sharp features, and Grigori feels an unsettling, unfamiliar shiver roll through him at the sight. Something about the room feels a little overheated, but when he glances over, there’s no fire in the fireplace, no reason for it. “My father… well. Ygridsen-”

“I know what it means.”

“You do?” Bohli’s smile stretches somehow even wider.

“Yes. We do training, in such things at-... at school.” He catches himself almost too late. He doesn’t share that he was a priest - no priest leaves his order, and they might find out who he is. He couldn’t stand it if that happened. He’d shrivel up and die, if the people had to see what their great hero really is. “Ygridsen means ‘god’s son’. You don’t have a father.”

“Well, I mean. Technically I have one. Just not the one my mother was married to when I was born.” He winks, and Grigori’s eyes narrow more in confusion than distaste. Bohli must misread it, though, because he sighs almost dramatically and grabs a hunk of bread himself, spreading it with thick butter. “Oh, what. Listen, my mother had an idea. It didn’t pan out for her, and here I am. Besides, you should be happy with me being a bastard.”

Grigori finds himself oddly fixated on the sight of Bohli’s long, thin fingers as he lifts the bread to his mouth and bites. A bit of butter sticks to one lip, melting against it. There are crumbs at the corners of his mouth. Grigori wants to do… something to it. But he doesn’t know what. “Why?”

“Because the man my mother was married to was ugly as a dog with mange and about half as graceful,” Bohli says, bright and cheerful, and then grins at Grigori’s shocked half-laugh in return. “There we go. See, I knew you’d be fun, given the chance.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let me buy you another drink, since I finished yours.” Bohli lifts a hand and the barman finds his way over, pints of beer already ready to go.

Bohli pays for it all, seemingly no end to the coins he has on hand. At some point beer becomes whiskey, heady and too strong, and the room runs together along with all the people in it. Grigori opens up, a little - he doesn’t tell the truth about who he is, but he and Bohli talk about the dangers of travel in the countryside. Bohli nods sympathetically as Grigori explains how careful he is to avoid the Kaila and the bandits within, and how it means that he must always take the longer, winding route everywhere he goes. His words slur but Bohli seems to understand, or at least is polite enough to pretend to.

Grigori hasn’t realized just how lonely he is until he has someone to talk to and discovers himself utterly unable to stop.

Couching his words carefully, he even shares with Bohli that he is traveling because of the untimely murders of his family a year ago, and Bohli nods and murmurs comforting things and puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing one thumb back and forth in a way that sends a strange heat deep in Grigori’s stomach. He tips his head, looking at that hand, a little confused by its placement there. And far more confused by the fact that he doesn’t want it to stop being placed there, unless it moves down.

“I think I know how to help you,” Bohli says, and Grigori doesn’t know when it happened but the man’s lips are moving against his ear. His breath is hot and Grigori has to hold back a sound, something odd and helpless.

Is this-?

This is temptation. Sins of impurity, unchastity. This is his body wanting another’s, more shameful than the nights he wakes up in damp sheets from sweat and has to furtively clean and purify himself after the impure dreams that the priests say are natural, but will fade, in time.

Dromada’s priests are dead. The men who found him, raised him, made him one of their own… slaughtered by the Kaila-born bandits, destroyed. What use is chastity to a priest with no temple?

Grigori has to hold back a groan when Bohli’s fingers drift up to graze up the side of his neck, up into the nape, into his hair.

“You have a room here?” Bohli asks, all hushed voice and too much breathing against thin, sensitive skin.

Grigori nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs his bag and stands so fast he knocks his chair over, making Bohli laugh that beautiful brilliant bell-like laughter, drawing the eyes of the room.

Everyone knows what they’re about to do.

Everyone.

Just by the sight of Grigori all but fleeing to the stairs and the back half of the building, Bohli hot on his heels, still laughing.

****

Grigori has barely dropped his bag and closed the door when Bohli slams into him, surprisingly strong for such a lithe body, shoving his back against a wall and kissing him with a fervor that steals every ounce of willpower he might ever have had to resist.

The world is still spinning, from desire or drink he can no longer tell, when Bohli drops to his knees and yanks Grigori’s pants down until they tangle around his ankles. “Stay still,” Bohli orders, and takes him - already half-hard even not quite knowing what comes next - into his hand. The heat and grip makes Grigori shudder and let out a sound like a cry. It’s nothing like his own hand, nothing at all.

“Ssssshhh, keep it down,” Bohli says, but that teasing smile is back and his hand starts to move, stroking languidly. Grigori has to grit his teeth against the urge to simply spill right here and now, before anything has even gotten started. He swallows and closes his eyes so he can’t see the incredible sight of Bohli’s black eyes as his mouth closes slowly over him.

Grigori probably cries out again, but at some point Bohli stops shushing him and he no longer cares. He comes once and his knees buckle, but Bohli refuses to stop and brings him back to hardness again too soon, his back on the floor and the man straddling him, before he strokes him off a second time, laughing in a way that would be sinister if the pleasure weren’t so overwhelming.

Somehow they find their way into the bed, and Bohli brings him to his peak a third time, a mix of hands and mouth.

“Three,” Bohli whispers, when Grigori is boneless and sated. “That’s a sign if there ever was one.”

“Sign of… of what?” Grigori murmurs, eyes closed, drifting somewhere just before sleep claims him. Bohli is still fully clothed next to him, murmuring sweet soft things and tracing little patterns on his skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bohli whispers. “Just sleep, pretty man.” He kisses Grigori on the cheek, sweet and soft, and Grigori falls into the darkness, content in his sin, reveling in the broken vow. He can feel guilty and go to Confession tomorrow. He can worry about that when he wakes and has to feed the hangover again.

He sleeps without dreams, grateful for the peace he’s been given by this stranger he only just met, how his body’s release unlocked some rage and horror he’d been holding tightly within him and gave it the freedom to go.

***

He wakes with a groan, finding his arms stretched above his head, arching his back as he stretches further.

“Oh, damn,” Bohli’s voice says, husky and low. “Now that’s a pretty sight. They breed all your priests to look that good with your robes off?”

Grigori’s eyes fly open, and he moves to jerk himself upright, but his wrists catch. Wide eyes roll back to look up, and he finds his wrists tied with firm knots to the headboard of the bed. His ankles are tied to the posts at the end, forcing him to lie spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born.

“Wh-... what-”

He turns to look, wincing against the stinging headache and the hangover throbbing behind his eyes, and sees Bohli standing over in the corner. He’s surrounded by the contents of Grigori’s bag, the white robes laid out on the floor, picking up the first hints of dust, along with everything else he has brought with him or bought since he left.

“Why-... I have nothing to steal,” Grigori starts, his body washing cold with something close to fear. He broke his vows for a man who will rob him? What a small mean awful thing to commit such a sin for. “Nothing worth buying!”

“Mmmmn, beg to differ, but I could see how you might think so.” Bohli steps carefully over and around Grigori’s only possessions, until he sits next to him on the bed. He leans over, patting him on the stomach as if soothing a frightened animal. “You have lots to offer, though, Brother Grigori.”

His heart skips a beat. “Why-... why did you call me?”

“Oh, silly holy man. I’ve been looking for you for a year. I’ve been following you for a month. I guess I owe you the twenty marks, though, since it took me this long. Guess I didn’t know where you’d go. Never occurred to me you’d just… fucking stop being a priest. I’ll pay you later.” Bohli grins. “In kisses.”

Grigori’s eyes widen. In a burst of panic and rage, his vision blurs and then clears again, his headache fading. “You!”

“Me!” Bohli grins. “Me indeed. You didn’t forget me completely, then?”

“You… you bastard-”

“Right again!”

“-you killed my family-”

“Technically, that wasn’t me, but Harren did it on my orders, so I guess kind of-”

“Why?!” The cry is one of sorrow, a barely-human wail. Grigori’s grief wells back up and washes out of him, tears burning and running down his cheeks. “Why?!”

“Damn,” Bohli whispers.

Grigori can’t tell if he sounds guilty or like he wants to bed him again.

“Listen. I’ll explain later, once I get you back home.”

“Home?” For a second, Grigori stupidly thinks of the desecrated temple and its empty halls.

“To the Kaila. We live there-”

“Never!”

That just makes Bohli sigh, as if disappointed in him for his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, hush. You’re going with me whether you like it or not, you know, Brother Grigori. I have need of a priest.”

“You… no.” Grigori struggles against his bonds, the ropes pulling tight, red marks growing on his wrists as the skin rubs raw. “No! I will go nowhere with you!”

“Now, see, you’re lying. I guess if you don’t realize it, it doesn’t count. But, look. You’re going. And you’re going to tell everyone who you are on the way there.”

Bohli leans over, slipping something over his head. A chain with a pendant on the end, simple stone with a runic mark carved in the middle. Grigori feels the burst of elven magic, his mouth dropping open in shock, and then-

His mind feels cool, like slipping underneath the water in a pond, only he has no need to breathe. He can’t imagine needing to breathe. His thoughts are still and calm, contented. Bohli leans close and Grigori wonders how he could ever have felt anger at such a lovely, kind man. The trap spell in the pendant, the elven magic that takes hold of him, feels like being held in such a sweet and soft embrace. It feels like the water closing over his head.

“There we go,” Bohli murmurs. “Pretty-pretty. I’m going to untie you. When you get dressed, make sure you put your robes on, all right? I want everyone to see who you are. I want you to show them off.”

Grigori swallows, nodding.

He can do that.

“Good. Then we’re going to my house, and that’s where you’re going to live now.” Bohli’s fingers made quick work of the knots on the rope, and Grigori sat slowly up, blinking as if he had to push through a haze to do it.

When Bohli hands him the robes, he dresses, clumsily. Bohli has to help him tie the belt at his waist.

“Good. You look great. I’m going to pack your bag back up, and then you’ll come with me and be my useful little traitor to the crown, won’t you, Brother Grigori?”

Another nod. He’s not even sure he hears what Bohli is saying. Or cares. He just likes the sound of his voice.

“Good,” Bohli croons. “Very good. Let’s go. I have a king’s reputation to ruin, and you are going to be my secret weapon.”

Grigori follows him downstairs, smiling when the people there eating their breakfast gasp at the sight of his robes. He’s happy to tell them exactly who he is.

Happy to tell them he’s the Hero they sing about.

Happy to tell them he’s joining the bandits, now, in the Kaila, because the king cannot protect them.

Happy to get on Bohli’s horse, sitting just before him with Bohli behind resting his chin on Grigori’s shoulder, and ride away.

The pendant bumps against his collarbone, and when Bohli whispers, “Sleep upright,” Grigori closes his eyes and lets himself sleep deeper into the pool in his mind, until all is dark and quiet and calm and he knows no more.

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

#whump #kidnapping #abducted #sort of #drunkenness #alcohol use tw #drunkenness tw #mind control #magical whump #fantasy whump #whump writing #cheerful whumper #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #dubcon tw #restrained #religious whump #religion whump

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mockva · 5 months

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A drunken Soviet worker tries to ride a hippopotamus, Novokuznetsk, 1982.

#USSR #1982 #drunkenness #soviet union #hippopotamus #novokuznetsk

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hkandiu · 21 days

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In honor of the eclipse, that time I wrote drunk Iruka singing "Total eclipse of the heart" to Kakashi 😂

#kakashi hatake #iruka umino #kakairu #total eclipse #drunkenness

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friskishdrawings · 1 year

Photo

Sketch request of Crowley from the book (and series and radio show) Good Omens, for @laura-arro-doodles ! Just started reading it again and reached this part, and immediately had to go and check if it was in the series too. So have my weird amalgamation of both!

Good Omens © Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett

___

My instagram: Friskishdrawings

#crowley #crowley good omens #good omens #neil gaiman #terry pratchett #good omens fanart #sketch requests #fanart #his long hair in the series made me think of a cobra #not sure if it was intentional but in my heart it was #alcohol #drunkenness #everyone I've drawn has been so pointy lately...

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fruitcoops · 6 months

Text

Dial Drunk

Fic O'Ween Day 1, for the prompt 'First Frost'! Many thanks to @noots-fic-fests for organizing and @lumosinlove for the best characters <3 Have some baby Sirius and James causing Dumo heart failure for your Thursday!

TW drunkenness (silly fun, not angsty)

Pascal enjoyed 20 minutes of a PG-13 movie (the first in three months) before stumbling, out-of-sync footsteps outside his house interrupted his peace. He should have known better than to think a quiet night in would live up to its name.

“Come on, man, work with me—”

“Shh.”

The kids were in bed. Why couldn’t that be enough?

“No, no, why can’t we just go back to your house?”

“Because—”

They had been gems this evening. Dinner passed without a fuss; a FaceTime with their mother riveted them more than a TV show, for once.

“James…”

“Don’t whine at me, god. Can I have my arm back?”

Pascal cursed softly to himself as he rummaged the remote from the couch cushions and paused the movie. Rustling became a scuffle—he opened the door just as the bell rang through the house.

James Potter stared at him, then broke into a broad grin. “Dumo! Hi!”

“Did you read the sign?”

James’ eyes flickered over the doorframe. Pascal got to watch him read the Please Do Not Ring Bell—Infant Inside! in real time. His smile slipped into more of a grimace. “…shit. My bad.”

“Bonjour,” Sirius mumbled blearily, listing into James’ side. “Ça va?”

Pascal sighed. He had been hoping someone on the team would keep an eye on those two. Parties were all well and good until the dynamic duo of poor decision-making was left to their own devices.

“We had fun,” James offered by way of explanation. Sirius’ hiccup jostled them both. “Maybe—maybe a little too much fun.”

“Got kissed on the cheek,” Sirius said with an enthusiastic nod.

The lipstick print on his face was glittery in the porchlight. “Congratulations.”

“Merci.”

Christ above. “Pots.”

James had the decency to look embarrassed. “I know.”

“Are you serious?”

“Non, c’est moi,” Sirius snorted, swaying toward the potted plant at the edge of the stairs. They both reached for him at once; Sirius made a noise of surprise, but was pliable as putty when James coaxed him back out of the danger zone. The sharp tang of alcohol and at least three different perfumes spilled off him in waves. Sirius was doe-eyed when he bent to rest his head on James’ shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

Pascal arched a brow; James gave Sirius a guilty pat on the back. “Any time, buddy.”

“Are you sure we can’t go back to your house instead?”

“Mhmm.”

Sirius huffed in disappointment. “Why?”

“Because my guest room isn’t unpacked.”

“Can sleep on the couch. Or the floor.”

“Lily’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

Sirius’ groan cracked as he pushed his face into James’ shoulder. “Just put me in the backyard.”

“One of us will turn the hose on you.”

Pascal shook his head and reached out. “Allez, mon fils, let’s get you—"

“You’re so mean,” Sirius complained, still fixated on James. “I don’t want to go home. Dumo’s going to be upset.”

James’ gaze darted to him for a beat. “Pads, no, it’ll be fine.”

“Non.”

Pascal’s stomach sank. “I’m not upset,” he tried, gentling his voice.

But Sirius just nodded. “Yes, he is.”

“Hey.” Pascal prodded his arm. “Hey, petit chou.”

“Don’t like cabbage. Crunchy.”

Pascal exchanged a look with James and fought an eye roll. Without initial surprise clouding his vision, James was clearly only more sober by a slim margin. His glasses seemed determined to balance on the very end of his nose, despite repeated attempts to push them up again. His sneakers shuffled sheepishly on the doormat.

“Just tell me you didn’t drive.”

“I don’t have a car,” Sirius said brightly.

James gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Fuck no, we took an Uber. Are you crazy?”

“Are you drunk?” Pascal countered. Sirius barked a laugh; James’ already-flushed cheeks darkened. A once-over revealed little he didn’t already know, only a comfort in the sense that they both seemed hale and whole regardless of their wobbling.

Oh, to be twenty again.

Pascal inclined his head toward the house and stood aside. “In. Don’t wake the kids.”

An attempt to fit through the door at the same time was admirable, but doomed, as they soon realized after a few seconds of fumbling. James eventually squeezed past with Sirius trotting close behind. Something about it struck Pascal as a particular poetic irony.

“Where’d you end up?”

“Place on sixth.” James’ hands were clumsy on his shoelaces. Sirius observed him for a moment, then kicked his own shoes into the closet still tied.

“Was it fun?”

“Mhmm. Hopping tonight.”

“We left early,” Sirius chimed in. “James said I needed to go home.”

“He’s smart. You should listen to him more.” Listen to me more, he added in his mind as he guided James’ jacket off his flailing arm and nudged Sirius’ phone away from the precarious table edge. Despite their clumsiness, their clear efforts to stay quiet did not go unnoticed. It was a common courtesy that some of the rowdier boys tended to forget.

“D’you want me to—”

“Guest room,” Pascal interrupted, tilting his chin down the hall. “Bathroom’s yours. Advil in the top drawer.”

James took a breath, then paused. “Does it have one of those kid-lock things?”

“Yes.”

He whistled through his teeth. A reluctant nod followed. “Kay. I can handle that.”

“Lame if you couldn’t,” Sirius mumbled.

“Like you’d do better.”

His lazy grin became offense in half a second; his back stiffened under Pascal’s palm. “I could—”

“Quiet,” Pascal reminded him.

“I could,” Sirius repeated in a harsh whisper, jabbing his finger toward James. “And you know it.”

James raised his hands in mocking surrender before raking one through his hair. His glasses had wandered down his nose again, and he gave Pascal a drowsy blink. “I’ll be out by, like, nine tomorrow. Lily’s coming over at eleven, so…y’know. Gotta clean my kitchen ‘n shit.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,” was Pascal’s response of choice. He was fairly sure noting the late (or rather, early) hour was a poor course of action if he wanted James Potter asleep in the next five minutes.

James squinted at the floor for a few more seconds. “Fuck, I gotta wash my sheets.”

“Go to bed, James.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Pascal propped Sirius up on his shoulder as he watched James go. There was a hole in the heel of his sock that was only going to get bigger. James probably wouldn’t throw the thing out until it literally fell off his foot. Maybe it was a good thing Lily was visiting—she always shook some sense into him.

“Dumo.”

Pacal’s stomach swooped. “Are you going to throw up?”

“No,” Sirius snorted, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothin’.” Sirius wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out for a weak raspberry. “English tastes gross. Makes my head hurt. Regulus doesn’t like it, either. Mine is a lot better since because I was here but he’s pratiss—practick—pratique. In school. See? Dumb language.”

“You’re doing a very good job.”

Sirius beamed at him. “Really?”

“Ouais. Much better than I did.”

“Yours is a lot better than mine, though.”

Pacal was glad he didn’t protest the subtle guidance toward the basement stairs, if he noticed at all. “Well,” he began, grunting slightly at the weight imbalance on the first step. “I’ve been in the league for nearly twenty years. You’ll pick it up.”

“I wanna play hockey forever,” Sirius sighed.

“Give it your best, and you’ll do great things.”

Sirius hummed in acknowledgment, though he seemed a little too focused on holding the railing for Pascal to believe it. They edged their way down two more steps before he glanced up again with an astonished look on his face. “You’ve been in the league as long as I’ve been alive?”

Holy Jesus fucking Christ. His tongue went dry and stiff as leather. “I guess I—” Pascal tipped his head toward the ceiling and let a breath siphon through his nose. He should’ve taken James up on the backyard offer. A spray-down with the hose would do Sirius some good. “I hadn’t, ah. Thought about that. Merci.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Isn’t it just?” Perhaps if he asked nicely, Sirius would kick him down the stairs. It would be kinder. He might even hit his head hard enough to forget the entire evening. Where was the shy boy covered in winter’s first frost when Pascal needed him, anyway?

He winced at the thought. As accidentally-devastating as Sirius was with alcohol coursing through his veins instead of common sense, he couldn’t make himself wish for the opposite. They had only just managed to get his shell open; James better than anyone. There really wasn’t a world where he would trade this newfound vibrancy for anything, but—

His lower back panged when Sirius lurched toward his bed. “Woah.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sirius muttered. “Tired.”

“Je sais.” Pascal shook his head against the glimmers of pain in his vision and made a mental note to ask Remus about that during their next session. “Pajamas, water, then bed.”

“But—”

“Pajamas, water, bed,” he repeated firmly. “Or skip the pajamas. I don’t care.”

Sirius frowned down at himself, scratching at his cheek. Glossy sparkles spread into an amorphous blob. Exasperation pressed against the inside of Pascal’s ribs; he sat Sirius on the edge of his desk and dampened a washcloth in the bathroom, then returned to his side. “Let me see.”

“See what?”

“Your cheek.”

Dark brows knit. “Not hurt.”

“Just—hold on.”

Sirius was flinching back before the cloth even got close. “Hey, hey, non.”

“You’ve got—”

A forceful push to his wrist made him pause. “Non.”

Pascal blinked. “There’s something on your cheek,” he tried. Sirius watched him with strange, alert suspicion. He held both hands palm-up between them and bit the inside of his lip against the urge to reach again. “Here.”

Silver eyes flickered back and forth in the low lamplight, towel to Pascal to towel to Pascal. Sirius shifted on his perch and took the cloth hesitantly. The rigidity of his torso eased once the gloss-print was gone under a few harsh scrubs, and Pascal took it back without issue.

“I’m not upset with you.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not upset.” He watched Sirius take two large gulps of water from the bottle on his desk before flopping back on the bed. “I’m just glad you two got home safe.”

Sirius made a faint noise of agreement while he made himself comfortable, tugging at the sheets with little regard for their proper direction. A leg and most of his shoulders stuck out when he finally gave up and pushed the side of his face into the pillow. Pascal tucked the blanket around him on instinct; his heart tugged at the long, contented exhale that followed. “James is so nice to me.”

“He’s your friend.”

“So nice,” Sirius mumbled, almost to himself. His eyes were already half-shut. “Dumo?”

“Ouais?”

“Is James going to play hockey with me forever?”

“Ah.” Of all the questions you could ask. “I think you two do well together on the ice, so there’s no reason to split you up.”

Sirius tucked his knees up beneath the covers and shoved an arm under his pillow. “I don’t want to play hockey forever if James isn’t there.”

Pascal sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms across his chest. It had been nearly twenty years since he last checked his blindspot on the ice. There was no need—not while Sergei was there. They had talked about the end, of course, and the after. It went unspoken that they’d probably leave together. Too many jokes about PTA duels would be wasted if they didn’t.

How many nights had they dragged each other home, stumbling and giggling? They had walked nearly four miles the night they won the Cup in Colorado, those glorious quiet hours between being shooed home and when the taxis would answer their phones. Pascal couldn’t recall the last time he had fallen over the welcome mat with Sergei on his heels, instead of being the one holding the door open.

“Sirius?”

“Mhmm.”

“James will stay with you.” There was nobody Pascal would rather have at Sirius’ back, when he thought about it. Not even himself. “If you decide you want to play hockey forever, he will be the first person to sign up with you.”

“You’re not—” A yawn interrupted him, wide enough to make him scrunch his face. “—upset that we were loud?”

“Non. Promise.”

“Merci.” The sheets twisted in Sirius’ fist as he brought them close to his body. His mere twenty years made him look small without a frown and a ‘C’.

“Bonne nuit, mon fils.”

An incoherent mumble was all the answer he received, and more than he expected. He turned the lamp off with a gentle click, leaving Sirius to sink into heavy, even breaths.

New Message To: Vans

Pots and Black home safe

Lunch tomorrow @ usual. Kids included.

I’m buying. No protests.

New Message From: Vans

Why are you awake

New Message To: Vans

Lunch. Usual. Kids included.

If you bring your wallet I will kick your ass.

New Message From: Vans

Vans laughed at your message

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#pascal dumais #sirius black #james potter #sergei ivanov #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #fic o’ween 2023 #first frost #rookie sirius #fluff #drunkenness

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bonefall · 1 year

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Hope you don't mind I re-posted your ask so that I can toss this under a cut, I don't want to spook anyone because this picture could be alarming to anyone just quick scrolling down the dash lmao

CW: Drunk birds (They look dead but they're ok!) and discussion of alcohol from fermented rowanberries

@hoofhound

"on fermentation

can they eat the berry

(the birds are alive and well it is commonplace to see them passed out after eating fermented berries and passerbys pick them up and set them on the side safely until they wake up :) )"

Yes! The cats can eat the berry; but only when they're ripe and fermented like this. Immature rowan berries have parasorbic acid, which is harmful to both people and cats.

However- cats have an extremely low tolerance for alcohol because they are obligate carnivores. They can't eat as many as even a tiny little waxwing. Remember that a single shot of vodka is fatally poisonous to a cat.

I'll make a rough estimate until I can make an official entry with REAL math and say 1 berry = 1 beer.

So as long as they're not munching an entire bushel of rowanberries, and this should be fine to get your Clan drunk.

#CW alcohol #alcohol #drunkenness #cw drunk animals #drunk animals #THE BIRDS ARE FINE #Clan Culture #Clan Culture mini entry

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kerwynlar · 5 months

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The Rite of the Seven Glasses

A Belly Kink Fic by Kerwynlar

New installment in the King of Mirokan series, following The Sensation of Your Hands on Me and A Contrivance. Neither prior story is required reading.

In an act of diplomacy, King Lawrence undertakes a foreign custom and ends up very, very drunk. Prince Consort Nathaniel is there to help with the aftermath.

Tags: alcohol, drinking & drunkenness, semi-graphic vomiting, burping, hiccups, slurring words, belly rubs, sickfic, hurt/comfort, caretaking, domestic fluff, modern royalty, a bit of in-universe politics/worldbuilding.

Note: As the tags say, there is vomiting in this story. I don't have a good enough sense of the norms to know whether this should be tagged as "graphic" or "emetophilia". If you're not interested in that, I've put an asterisk where it begins and ends so it's easy to skip. If you read it and have ideas about how I should be tagging it, please let me know.

~2,900 words

Read it below or on AO3.

~*~

Lawrence thunked the shot glass down on the table just as the burly man across from him did the same. The liquor burned down his throat and into his belly which was already sloshing with far more of the stuff than he ever intended to drink. Lawrence squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to swallow all of it, then opened his mouth to gasp for breath but was interrupted by a loud hiccup.

“Ah hah!” his companion slapped his hands down on the table. “There you go, Your Majesty! The Rite of the Seven Glasses! Now we are truly friends!”

Lawrence’s head swam and he blinked slowly to bring the man - the Foreign Minister of a nation with whom Mirokan had a strained relationship - into focus. “Thank you, Minister.” Lawrence spoke slowly, focusing on not slurring his words. “It - HIC! - was an experience I won’t soon forget.”

“Yes, yes! Now I shall tell my President that King Lawrence of Mirokan is a truly honorable man. One who we can deal with and come to an understanding.”

Lawrence pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little, and one of his aides stepped forward to put a steadying hand on his arm. “I’m very glad - HIC - to hear it, Minister.”

The minister put out his hand and Lawrence had to squint at it for a moment before he could line his own hand up to shake it. The minister laughed again and clapped Lawrence roughly on the arm. The momentum might have overbalanced Lawrence in his present condition if his aide hadn’t been steadying him.

“Next time, you shall meet with the President. We are friends now.” The minister let go of Lawrence’s hand, took a step backward and bowed. Lawrence managed to nod in return and thanked the man again.

The moment the door shut behind the minister, Lawrence sank back into his chair with a groan. The aide was saying something to him, but he was too focused on trying to loosen his tie with clumsy fingers to listen.

When Lawrence looked up again, the aide had been replaced by Solomon, his personal attendant.

“Your Majesty, may I take you back to the residence?”

Lawrence hiccuped while his sluggish brain worked through Solomon’s words. He frowned.

“Where’s Nth… Nath… Nthan… my husband?”

“I believe the prince consort is in the residence, Your Majesty.”

“I don’ wan you, Solmn. You’re… you’re not…” he waved his hand in what he thought was probably a dismissive gesture. “I wan my pretty husband. Makes me feel good.”

Nate hurried through the halls of the palace. The text he had received from Solomon had read: King requires you in the Blue Room. Please come at once.

He rounded a corner and almost collided with Solomon.

“Oh, Prince Consort, thank goodness! Please come with me.” Solomon turned and walked alongside Nate.

“Solomon, what is going on? Isn’t the king having dinner with the minister from Elendria?”

It seemed impossible that Lawrence was having digestive issues: the kitchen would have made absolutely certain that everything they served was safe for his stomach when he was engaged in diplomacy.

“That was the plan,” Solomon said. “But the minister refused food, and insisted that to create friendship between Elendria and Mirokan, he and the king had to engage in the Rite of the Seven Glasses.”

Nate nearly stopped walking. “Isn’t that the thing where you take seven shots of Elendrian liquor?”

“Yes.”

“And Lawrence did that?”

“Yes. On an empty stomach. His Majesty is quite intoxicated.”

“Shit.” Nate walked faster. “I’ve never seen him drink liquor. Can his stomach handle it?”

“I’m not sure anyone’s stomach could easily handle that much in that short amount of time with no food - well, no one who’s not Elendrian - but no, His Majesty rarely drinks liquor. He prefers wine in part because it is less likely to upset his stomach.”

“Do you think he needs to eat?” Nate asked. Solomon had worked for Lawrence for years. Nate had only been married to him for eight months.

“He probably needs to eat something and I’m having some fresh bread sent up. But honestly it may help if he vomits first.”

Nate nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” Another thought occurred. “Did it work?”

“Did what work, sir?”

“Doing the Rite with the minister. Did it achieve what Lawrence wanted when he agreed to do it?”

“Oh!” Solomon brightened. “Yes, rather spectacularly. I understand that the minister appears to have been favorably impressed. He even stated that his majesty’s next meeting would be with the President of Elendria.”

Nate grinned as they reached the door to the Blue Room. Lawrence was brilliant as always, even if he was suffering for it now.

Solomon held the door open for him. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

Nate entered the room to see Lawrence sprawled across a sofa. He had never witnessed the king in this state of disarray: Lawrence’s hair was mussed, his tie hanging loose, his jacket and waistcoat crumpled on the floor, and - most notably - his shirt and trousers hanging open with his swollen belly protruding out. There had been no question in Nate’s mind that Lawrence would be incredibly drunk, but seeing the normally prim and proper king so very undone was something else.

“Hey there, love,” he said gently as he approached.

Lawrence turned unfocused eyes to him and gave him a bleary smile. “Nath… Nathanull - HIC! ‘S my pretty husban. C’mere pretty hus- HIC!”

Nate choked back a chuckle. Lawrence slurring was a revelation. He sank to his knees beside the sofa. “I hear you completed the Rite of the Seven Glasses.”

“HILK! Yep,” Lawrence said, popping the p. “The minis… minster said we’re - HIC - frienz now. Gonna… gonna meet the… the thingy. Urf. Prez. Prezdent nes time. HIC!”

Nat shook his head. “You’re incredible, Lawrence. How are you feeling?”

“‘M verr verr verr verrrrry … um. Drunk. Verr drunk. ‘N my stom… HIC! My belly dint like… not happy. Oof.” Lawrence put his hand on his bloated belly and groaned.

Nate placed his hand beside Lawrence’s. “Poor belly. I tried to do the Rite of the Seven Glasses with some Elendrian friends when I was a teenager. I made it to five before I threw up. I can’t believe you completed it.”

Lawrence groaned again. “Throwin’ up sounds verrr nice. My belly’s all blurglewurgle. ‘S not good. An it’s HIC ‘s … too big. Not nice n fat. Bloated. ‘N it hurts. ‘S sloshy. Don’ like it.”

Nate rubbed a circle over the tight skin of Lawrence’s belly. “Bloated and blurglewurgle huh?” Nate couldn’t help his smile. “Let’s get you into the bathroom and we’ll see about throwing up then, okay?”

Lawrence hiccuped again and nodded.

Nate wrapped an arm around his back and helped him sit up, bringing his feet to the floor. Lawrence blinked slowly, clearly dizzy from the movement. He opened his mouth as if to say something but a huge belch came out instead. Lawrence closed his eyes and moaned. “Nathn … don’ feel so good.”

“Yeah, love.” Nate rubbed Lawrence’s back. “Blurglewurgle right?”

“No, I- uuuoouurrrp. Room’s spinning. Feel sick.” He groaned and belched again. “Mm not good.”

“Okay, love, just breathe.”

“Rooms too spinny,” Lawrence moaned. “Ohh my belly. I don’t… ugh. Uuuurrrrrrrp. Feel so sick.”

“Lawrence,” Nate said firmly, trying to hold his attention. “Do you think you can stand up? I’ll help you. We need to get you into the bathroom.”

“Uuuuoorrrrp. I don’ … ‘m really - uurrp - really bad.”

“I know, love, that’s why we need to get you to the bathroom, so you can throw up.”

“Need to throw up,” Lawrence moaned. “So sick. My belly is really sick. Buuurrp.”

Nate grimaced. “You’re not going to make it to the bathroom, are you?”

Lawrence had gone very pale and was swallowing repeatedly. “Ohhh oh no. Don’ think I can… hold it.” He gave a wet-sounding belch and clasped his hand over his mouth.

Nate looked around and to his relief saw a clean trash can with plastic liner sitting just inside the door he had come through. Bless Solomon, he must have put it inside while Nate was distracted with Lawrence. Nate registered that there was a large pitcher of water and a glass, as well as a loaf of bread on the table by the door. Nate quickly grabbed the trash can and brought it back to Lawrence.

Lawrence took the can and leaned forward, producing a series of sickly belches, but no vomit. He groaned and wiped his eyes.

Nate moved to sit beside him on the couch and rubbed his back. “Let it out, love. You’ll feel so much better with all that liquor out of your stomach.”

“I want to but-” Lawrence was interrupted by a cough that turned into a retch, then dry heaving and belching, but still no vomit.

“Feel so sick,” Lawrence groaned. “Ugh why won’ it come out?” He sat up, then leaned back against the couch, pawing at his exposed belly. “Nathn… my belly hurts. Feels so bad.”

Nate reached over and spread his palm over Lawrence’s belly. Lawrence groaned and pushed his hand on top of Nate’s, pressing firmly against his skin. Lawrence belched, then sat up again. He pressed Nate’s hand harder into his belly.

Nate frowned. “You want me to push on your belly? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Won’t. Please.” Lawrence gave him a miserable look. “Need to throw up.”

“Okay.” Nate sighed.

Lawrence leaned forward and Nate pressed into his bloated belly. Lawrence belched and coughed, then spit into the can. “More,” he gasped out.

Nate pushed harder, then suddenly felt Lawrence’s stomach muscles clench under his hand. Lawrence’s belch turned into a wet gasp and then vomit was pouring out of his mouth and into the can.

Nate looked away, not wanting to be sick himself. He started to pull his hand away, but between heaves Lawrence whimpered, and Nate stayed where he was. He kept one hand pressed against Lawrence’s belly and the other rubbing his back.

“There you go love,” he said soothingly. “There you go. You’ll feel so much better.”

Lawrence spit into the can a few times, then put it down on the floor, gasping for breath.

Nate reached into the pocket of Lawrence’s trousers and pulled out the handkerchief he knew his husband always carried. Nate gently wiped Lawrence’s eyes, then his nose and mouth.

“Are you ready for some water?” he asked.

Lawrence shook his head. “‘M not… not done. Will you… my belly.”

“Yeah, love.” Nate rubbed his hand over Lawrence’s belly, clearly feeling the churning within.

Lawrence let out a deep burp, then leaned forward and picked up the trash can again, its contents reeking of liquor.

Nate took that as his cue, and pushed hard against Lawrence’s stomach again. Once again, he felt Lawrence’s stomach muscles tense and then he was vomiting.

It ended more quickly this time, and Lawrence put the can down an arms length away. “Please,” he gasped out, “I don’t want to smell it.”

Nate understood completely. He took the can, careful not to look inside, and carried it into the bathroom, leaving it by the toilet.

He grabbed the pitcher and glass on his way back to the couch where Lawrence was huddled miserably, arms wrapped around his middle. Nate poured a glass of water and held it out to him. Lawrence looked up at him, eyes red and wet, and took the water, one arm still holding himself. Lawrence took a careful sip and swished it around his mouth then swallowed. He closed his eyes and Nate guessed that his throat was likely pretty raw. Nate set the pitcher aside and sat back down beside Lawrence, draping an arm around his shoulders. Lawrence leaned into his side and took another sip of water.

“‘M sorry,” Lawrence mumbled. He coughed then burped. “‘M so sorry.”

“Shh.” Nate pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“You didn’t - mmf - you didn’t need to see me vomit.”

“Lawrence, we’ve been over this. You don’t need to be embarrassed about this kind of thing with me.” Nate pulled him closer and kissed his hair again. “I’m very glad that alcohol is out of you instead of in you, and by putting it in you, you seem to have managed to thaw relations with Elendria of all places, which is something that I would have sworn was impossible two years ago.” Nate gave him a squeeze. “You’re a wonder, Lawrence. And if you need some help to recover from being a wonder, then I consider it an honor and a pleasure to be the one to help you.”

“Marryin you was a good thing, Nath- Nathn…” Lawrence paused to frown. “Why’s your name so hard to say when ‘m drunk?”

Nate chuckled. “You know, my friends from home all call me Nate. I love that you call me Nathaniel, it sounds especially good in your accent, but you can certainly go with the shorter version in your state.”

Lawrence considered this. “Mm. Nate.” He took another sip of water, then turned his head away to give a quiet but deep burp. “Thank you, Nate. For helping me.”

Nate kissed the side of his head again. “How are you feeling now?”

Lawrence blinked. “‘M still drunk. But maybe… maybe a lil clearer.”

Nate nodded. “You still have to process what’s in your bloodstream, but now you don’t have all that sloshing around in your belly. How’s your stomach?”

Lawrence burped again. “‘M not gonna throw up again but it still feels bad. Queasy. ‘N ‘m still bloated.”

“It might help to eat something,” Nate suggested.

Lawrence groaned then leaned back against the couch, showing his still-swollen belly. “Too bloated.”

Lawrence’s pants and shirt were still open and his belly looked so exposed. Nate could just imagine how uncomfortable it was. He gently placed his hand on it.

Lawrence squirmed a little under his touch. “Would you rub? Always feels nice when you rub my belly.”

With a smile, Nate shifted a little closer and brought both hands to the sides of Lawrence’s belly and began stroking gently.

Lawrence sighed and smiled, then closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Mm, good,” he mumbled before covering his mouth to burp.

Nate alternated between stroking Lawrence’s sides and rubbing circles over the middle of his belly. When he felt gurgling in one spot he would focus his attention there, usually leading Lawrence to belch.

While Nate didn’t like when Lawrence was feeling unwell, he had come to truly enjoy helping him with his rowdy stomach. Lawrence worked so hard all the time, governing his kingdom with a steady hand. And while Nate eagerly (and skillfully, if he wasn’t being too modest) engaged in diplomatic interactions as well as charitable work, he often felt a bit like an afterthought. But helping Lawrence when he wasn’t feeling well was both incredibly intimate and felt like something concrete and meaningful he could do.

He leaned forward to kiss Lawrence’s belly. He knew it wouldn’t really get better until the rest of the alcohol had left Lawrence’s system but it seemed a little less tight than it had been and Lawrence was comfortable enough to have dozed off.

“Lawrence,” he said quietly. When he got no response, he reached up to brush his fingers across Lawrence’s cheek. “Come on, love. You’ll regret it if you sleep in this position for too long, and I think your stomach will thank you if you get some solid food into it.”

Lawrence stirred and roused. “Mm.” He blinked and rubbed his eyes then patted his belly. “‘S better.”

Nate smiled broadly. “I’m glad. Solomon left some fresh bread. Can I get you some of that?”

Lawrence looked at him sleepily. “You’re so pretty, Nathnull. Nathan… Nate. So good.”

“Thanks, love,” Nate chuckled.

“Mm. Wanna make you feel good too.” He reached out to grab Nate’s shirt and pulled him in for a kiss.

Nate gladly kissed him, despite the fact that he still reeked of liquor, but then pulled away. “Are you propositioning me, Your Majesty?”

“Do you wan be propos…zshnd?”

Nate laughed. “Aw, sweetheart, you know I love it when you scream my name during sex. Right now you’re too drunk to even say it. Let’s save it for when you’re sober.”

Lawrence pouted, and Nate thought it was likely the most adorable thing he had ever seen. “‘S cause I threw up in front of you, isn’t it?”

“No, love,” Nate said firmly. “It’s because you’re still drunk enough to be slurring your words, and you need to eat something.” He leaned in to kiss him again. “I’ll be making love to you the moment you sober up. And get over the hangover.”

“Promise?” Lawrence asked, still pouting.

“Promise,” Nate said. He kissed Lawrence’s nose, then sat back. “I’m going to get you that bread and text Solomon to ask him to bring you some sweatpants so you don’t have to try to get that suit back on.”

Nate pulled his phone out of his pocket and had started composing the text when Lawrence spoke up again.

“Nathnull… Nate.”

Nate grinned, but didn’t look up from his phone. “Yeah, love?”

“Knew I could do it ‘cause of you.”

Nate did look at Lawrence, then, to see the king peering back at him.

“The Rite,” Lawrence continued. “I knew-” he interrupted himself with a yawn. “Knew no matter what happened, you’d take care of me. ‘S the only thing - only thing that gave me … made me think I could do it.”

Nate leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “Always, love.”

#kerwyn's writing #belly kink #belly rubs #caretaking #sickfic #burping #alcholol #drunkenness #vomiting #hiccups #slurring words #caretaking kink #sick kink #the king of mirokan

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