#drunk husbands

[clairedelune-13]

What’s in the water in jibcon that makes Jensen and Misha constantly touch each other? 🥰

Oh, its the apple juice.

[clairedelune-13]

😇 W A S T E D 😈

[silverhallow]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Bridgerton Appreciation Week Day 6 - How Much Have you Had to Drink

A chapter per Bridgerton Male getting drunker than they intended to and making an arse of themselves in front of their wives/Future wife...

Its just hilarious to be fair.

chapter 1-3 are uploaded…

Anthony, Benedict and Colin

the others will follow in due course 🧡🧡🧡

[arrowflier]

Drunken Shenanigans Pt2

Daily speedwrite influenced by how fun the last one was and all the husbandly vibes on my dash today.  I have not yet processed all of the feelings that scene gave me, so we’re sticking with cute and light so I don’t go off the deep end any more than I already have.

Part 1 

Ian was settling into the front seat of the Uber, leaning over to tell their driver the address, when Mickey started complaining.

“’Ey,” he called from the back seat.  “’Ey, crotch…fire…,” Ian watched in the rear-view as his eyes crossed briefly before focusing on his own in the mirror.  “Ian,” Mickey settled on, looking proud of himself.

“Yes, Mickey?” Ian sighed.  The driver did something on his phone, then tilted it toward Ian, and he broke Mickey’s gaze to look down.

“That the place?” the man asked, and Ian grabbed his wrist for a second to steady the screen before nodding.  When he glanced back to Mickey again, he was scowling.

“Who’s that?” Mickey demanded, before turning his attention to the driver.  “Hey, who are you?”

“He’s just the driver, Mick,” Ian interrupted before Mickey could threaten their ride.  “He’s taking us home.”

“Oh.”  Mickey appeared to think about that for a second before nodding decisively.  “Good.  Better keep his hands to ‘imself, though, you tell him that?”

“I’ll tell him that, Mick,” Ian replied.

“’Cause you’re married,” Mickey went on.

“Yes, I’m married, Mick,” Ian agreed.

“To me,” he felt the need to clarify.

Ian sighed again, making an effort not to look at the driver.  He would either find humor, discomfort, or disgust on the stranger’s face, and he wasn’t sure which he preferred at this point.

“To you,” he repeated instead.  “Yes, Mickey, we all know that I’m married to you, are we good now?”

Mickey nodded, face content.  “Yeah.  Good.”  He paused.  “Where we goin’?”

Ian rolled his eyes to the roof of the car as it finally, slowly, pulled away from the curb in front of the Alibi.  It was going to be a long ride.

—— And a long ride it was when they hit traffic halfway to the West Side.  Mickey was zoning in and out, giving them a few blissful moments of quiet each time, during which Ian and their driver listened studiously to the radio and tried not to look at each other.  

Mickey hiccupped from the back seat, breaking the newest record for their longest stretch of silence.

“Ian,” he said sluggishly.  Ian looked back to see that his face had paled considerably, and undid his seatbelt to lean around the back of his seat and press a cool hand to his forehead.

“Please refasten your seatbelt,” the driver requested immediately.  Ian nearly glared at him, but Mickey’s face expressed his own thoughts well enough, so he didn’t bother.  If the man noticed, he didn’t comment, only adding, “it’s a liability issue, and I don’t want to kick you out here.”

Ian looked out the window at the packed street, still so far from home, and relented.

But as soon as he had pulled himself back and clicked the belt back on, Mickey called for him again.

“Ian,” he whined.  He would deny ever making such a sound if he were sober, but sober Mickey didn’t always know himself that well.  “Feel sick.”

“Drinking some homemade concoction of Frank’s will do that to you,” Ian told him unsympathetically, though the concern in his own eyes betrayed him as he looked back again.

“Is he going to puke in my car?” the driver asked.  “He can’t puke in my car, this is my livelihood, man.”

Ian was preparing a retort about dangers of the trade and customer satisfaction when Mickey screwed up his face, hunched over, and released an impressively disgusting belch.

Well.

Mickey settled back again, apparently feeling much better, and Ian rolled his eyes as he turned forward.

“He’s fine,” he said shortly, and cracked his window.

At the sudden influx of fresh air, Mickey hummed.  “Tha’s nice,” he mumbled.  “Where we goin’?” he then asked again, like he had been every few minutes since they left.

“Home, Mickey,” Ian answered yet again.

“Mmm, good,” Mickey murmured, voice hitting a lower register.  Ian’s eyes shot up to look at him in the mirror again, and Mickey’s now-hooded eyes met his easily.  “Got things to do at home,” he announced, sloppily licking his bottom lip.  “To you,” he clarified, and Ian didn’t have to look to know he was blushing.

He chose not to answer.  As per usual, it was the wrong choice.

“Gonna get my hands in that hair,” Mickey started innocently enough.  “So fucking red.”  And Ian could deal with that, that wasn’t so bad.  It was even almost romantic, running fingers through hair and all that shit.  But then Mickey kept going:

“Red like your di--”

“Alright, that’s enough Mick,” Ian decided abruptly.  “Why don’t you take a nap, huh?”

“Don’t wanna,” Mick said, “wanna get you red all over...” but he was already keeling to the side, laying full out against the seat, only his own seatbelt preventing him from falling off.  He twisted around a bit, finally finding a comfortable position, but his inelegant movements left his shirt bunched up and revealed a generous swatch of his pale stomach.

Ian caught the driver’s gaze in the rear-view with his own when the man glanced back, and promptly reached into the back seat—seatbelt still on this time—to tug down his husband’s shirt.  

It only took a second, and Ian was already twisting back in his own seat, when he was halted by Mickey’s hand on his wrist.

“Mickey, let go,” he chastised, but when he looked, Mickey’s eyes were already closed, his chest rising evenly.  Ian gave his hand a light tug, but Mickey’s brow furrowed in his sleep, and his grip tightened as he made a small sound in the back of his throat.  When Ian stopped pulling, his face smoothed out into that beautiful, peaceful look he always had in sleep, looking younger and more innocent than he had any right to.  His grip stayed strong.

Ian’s heart gave a hard beat.  Then his pulse, raised since he had first tried to drag his husband out of the bar, slowed and settled.

A pointed cough came from the driver’s seat when Ian made no move to sit properly again, no doubt irritated at his blatant disregard for vehicle safety, but Ian didn’t even bother to look his way.  

Instead, he let his husband hold onto him for the rest of the ride, and watched him sleep.

[arrowflier]

At my parents' and had a couple magaritas, so now I'm thinking of how Ian is probably still a bit of a lightweight and Mickey will just watch him drink and be silly and happy before he cuts him off and takes him home, and tucks him into bed over Ian's protests and wandering hands and gives him meds for his hangover in the morning, "take your pills bitch" style.

Then one day Mickey is the one getting drunk at the Alibi, which has started making and selling Frank's beer again since Carl took over, telling everyone that his husband can't hold his liquor while he gets totally sloshed. And Ian just goads him on, buys him another shot, and drunk Mickey starts waxing poetic about all Ian's best features. Ian doesn't stop him until it starts sounding like his rant to Terry when he came out, with a few too many details about Ian's...technique...and then he makes his brother help him get Mickey into an Uber-- "who ordered the youber, man?"--, where he promptly passes out.

Mickey remembers nothing in the morning, and wonders why everyone at the bar is giving him weird looks the next night, but no one says anything because Ian is right there watching. Only he gets to make fun of his husband.

[drovemetodrink-blog]

Me: On a scale of one to Lindsey Lohan, how drunk are you?

S: Bill Clinton drunk

Me: Huh? How drunk is that?

S: I meant, Randy Travis.

Me: Yea, that's LILO drunk.