Quick Note: This is my collection of LG five drunk fics. This being the first, tipsy. Each of these drabbles are interconnected and are Peter/Declan, pre-Dolly J/post-Piley.
i. i'm just a bit tipsy
"Declan you're drunk—"
"I'm simply tispy."
"You can't walk straight—"
"That doesn't imply that I'm drunk."
"Where are we—?"
"You'll find out in good time."
Three stumbles, one almost-tumble and the slam of a door leave Peter and Declan in an empty bedroom, Declan pulling Peter toward the bed.
"Declan—"
"It's fine."
"But you're drunk—"
"Only tipsy."
"But—"
"No buts."
Declan sinks onto the bed, tugging Peter after him by the fabric of his shirt.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am."
"But—"
"No buts."
"Alright."
Peter gives in easily—partially because Declan has begun to nip at his collarbone and unbutton his shirt. How could anyone deny Declan? It's hard enough when he looks at you with those blue eyes—harder when he's trying (and succeeding in trying) to seduce you. Peter's knees rest on the bed, on either side of Declan's, and he falls forward when Declan pulls him.
"Are you completely sure?"
"Certain."
"One hundred percent?"
"One hundred and fifteen."
"Alright."
It's sloppy and a bit painful, but… good.
"I never thought—" a pant "—you'd be one to be dominated."
"With a life like—"
A sharp wince interrupts, bringing it slower and gentler.
"—like mine, it's impossible to be p-passive. I like it. It's d-different."
"I see."
The next morning, Declan awakes alone and with the sun in his face. A note rests on the pillow next to him.
Woke up early and remembered I had to work.
I couldn't find my shirt, so I borrowed one of yours.
Hope you don't mind.
He smiles and shakes his head, getting up to prepare for damage control. He finds the house cleaner than he expected when he walks down, showered and dressed. He holds Peter's shirt in one hand and shoos just-awakening party guests with the other.
He feels surprisingly fresh, considering the events of the night before. He walks to The Dot—a very un-Coyne thing to do, but to hell with it; everything he's been doing lately would be considered a un-Coyne thing to do.
"It was on the bookshelf."
"Wha—oh, my shirt. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"So… last night—"
"You don't regret it, do you?"
"Of course not it's just—"
"Different?"
"You could put it that way."
Declan follows Peter, who carries the dishes from a table he's just cleared into the kitchen. He sits at the coffee bar, setting Peter's folded shirt on the bar counter. Peter serves him his usual and Declan sports a half smile.
"I may have been more than just a bit tipsy."
And Peter laughs.