Drinking Contest
Pairing: Arthur Shelby x reader
Requested by: Anon
prompts: ‘my head hurts’ and ‘I trust you’
Summary: you really can’t hold your liquor...
Warnings: consumption of alcohol, drunken shenanigans and swearing
Gif creds to owner.
It was never a good idea to go drinking with the Shelby’s. On the one hand, it was fun, especially when the whole gang was there; Isaiah being an utter disappointment to his very Christian father the way he knocked back the alcohol; John sliding more drinks to Finn (who was still an utter lightweight); Tommy smoking and setting up card games with a rare smile; esme perched on John’s lap, massaging her pregnant belly; Polly watching everyone with an amused smirk; Arthur with his arm thrown over your shoulder as he refilled your glasses.
On the other hand, however, you always regretted it in the morning. Whether you were drinking wine or whiskey (and it was often both with the Shelby’s- and lots too) you all knocked it back like water (besides esme, who was on lemonade for the time being). Without a shadow of a doubt, you’d wake with a splitting headache and a dry mouth.
But for now you were having fun, curled into Arthur’s side occasionally reaching for a kiss. He didn’t mind, of course, happy to have his wife by his side, and even happier to spoil her with affection. Sighing contentedly, you swigged the last of your drink before leaning forward- albeit clumsily- to reach for the bottle.
“Fuckin’ hell, YN. That’s from Solomons’ distillery. Watch yourself, it’s strong,” Tommy said from across the table.
You gestured with your glass, very nearly sloshing yourself. “You listen here, Tommy. I may not be a Shelby by blood, but I can drink just as well as anyone else. And I don’t need ice to water down my alcohol,” you said, and Arthur roared with laughter, tugging you back to his side.
As the night wore on, you all became rowdier, spurred on by your increasing drunkenness. “Come on, YN, let’s see if you can really drink like a Shelby,” John said, helping esme off his lap so he could set up a drinking contest.
“Oh, you’re on,” you grinned, handing over your glass. Soon Finn had tapped out, saying he was going for a piss (but you all heard him retching outside). Tommy and Polly refused to take part, instead watching in amusement and providing the occasional quip. Halfway through, Jeremiah had come to pluck his son from the den of iniquity before he could get too merry. Arthur withdrew from the contest once he was comfortably inebriated, which was for the best as he didn’t want the drink to turn his thoughts the wrong way. So it was just you and John, each attempting to drink the other under the table.
You began pouring yourself another drink, splashing booze all over the table in your clumsy drunkenness. “She’s rotten,” John cheered. “Sure you can manage tha’ YN?”
“Yeah,” you slurred back, raising the glass and swigging, wincing as your throat burned. “Can you manage, Shelby?”
John apparently couldn’t manage, because as Esme poured out his drink and handed it to him, he could only take half before he was gagging, and three quarters before you were declared the winner.
You giggled, more to yourself than anyone else, and leant back into Arthur. Despite him being rather drunk, your state made him look sober. Eventually, he tapped your hip gently. “C’mon, let’s get you home,” he murmured and you smiled, dazed.
“You coming with me?” You asked as Arthur helped you into your coat. “Don’t wanna walk by myself in the dark,”
“YN, love, you’re my wife. Of course I’m walkin’ with you,” he said, kissing your forehead.
“Good,” you slipped your hand into his. “I trust you, see,”
“I bloody hope so,” he teased, squeezing your hand as you bade the rest of the family goodbye, beginning the walk home.
***
Groaning as light streamed into the room, you attempted to burrow further under the covers. As you had predicted before all sensibility was thrown out the window the previous night, your head was pounding, you felt sick, and your feet ached from wearing your high heels.
“Wakey wakey,” Arthur mumbled, stroking your hair as you hid your face in his chest, grumbling in protest.
“No,” you pouted, squeezing your eyes shut. “My head hurts,”
“I’m not surprised, love,” Arthur said, kissing the top of your head (your hair was still styled from last night, just a lot messier) and pulling the covers up a little more. “You tried to drink Johnboy under the table,”
“Oh,” you murmured as vague memories flooded back. “And did I?”
“Yes, love. Practically had to carry you home though, you were utterly shitfaced,”
You were silent for a moment and he thought you had gone back to sleep. “Worth it though,” you slurred, already dozing off.
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