#cw alcohol

[the-font-bandit]

Master Post of Veilguard Faction Cocktails!

The Lords of Fortune: A bold, golden cocktail with tropical flavors and the spice of cinnamon. For gold and glory.

The Mourn Watch: A deathly (and deadly boozy) cocktail with the floral whisper of Shroud’s Kiss blossoms and ritual funeral herbs.

The Antivan Crows: A blend of Italian ingredients for a darkly bittersweet, deeply complex cocktail that would be right at home at the Cantori Diamond.

The Grey Wardens: A boozy take on The Joining. Peppery and bittersweet, with a whisper of tartness hiding underneath.

The Veil Jumpers: An ethereal concoction with wisps of smoke reminiscent of wild magic, and the faint floral echo of lavender.

The Shadow Dragons: Complex, with a uniquely elusive, mysterious flavor you can’t quite pin down and a deep red hue.

[kashverse]

gojo likes to tell everyone he’s a man of refined taste—wine, whiskey, the occasional fruity cocktail if he’s feeling fun. but beer? beer is where he draws the line. it tastes like piss, he says, and with the confidence of a man who’s actually done a side-by-side comparison. if you hand him a beer, he’ll take one whiff, gag dramatically, and proclaim that his standards are higher than this pedestrian swill.

nanami, on the other hand, has a history with beer. a dark, haunting history, the kind that leaves a man waking up in a random dorm bathroom with marker scribbles all over his face and no recollection of how he got there. he leaves beer in the past, along with his reckless university days. nowadays, if you so much as mention beer around him, he’ll sigh deeply, adjust his tie, and mutter something about how he's an adult with responsibilities now. no, he will not shotgun a beer with you. no, he will not “just take a sip.” he knows where that road leads, and he refuses to walk it again.

toji doesn’t drink beer either, but for entirely different reasons. it's not that he dislikes the taste—it's that he sees dollar signs instead. turns out, there’s a niche art community that loves decorating beer cans and selling them at exhibitions, and toji, ever the entrepreneur, has made a lucrative side hustle out of collecting them and selling them off. he doesn’t drink the beer inside, though. he finds the smell repulsive, the mere thought of it enough to make his stomach turn. but if some rich art kid wants to buy a can he found on the street for triple the price? that’s just good business.

geto likes to act like he’s above beer. too classy. too refined. too elegant to be seen drinking from a can like some common fool. but the moment someone offers it to him—especially in a fancy glass—he’ll take it. because if he’s drinking it out of an expensive glass, it’s not really beer anymore, it’s an experience. he swirls it like it's wine, sniffs it like he's judging its aroma, and takes slow, measured sips like he's contemplating the meaning of life. it’s all about appearances, after all.

choso is still figuring out alcohol. he’s trying his best, okay? beer is the only thing he can kind of handle because it doesn't hit him like a freight train immediately. but then it does. he always starts out okay, sipping cautiously, nodding along like he understands the appeal. then, somewhere along the line, his eyes glaze over, he starts slurring his words, and suddenly he’s lying on the couch, mumbling about the stars and how they’re actually just really old ghosts watching us.

sukuna takes offense to the very existence of beer. you handed him a can of beer once at your birthday party, and he looked at you like you’d personally spat in his face. then he turned to the unfortunate soul who had dared to offer it to him and, in a voice dripping with malice, said, “i should piss in this and hand it back to you. see if you can tell the difference.” the guy practically evaporated on the spot. nobody has ever offered sukuna beer since.

[betonbennett]

woooagh

yauuy :>

[starry-eyed-moth]

Zaundads if things didn’t go very wrong… maybe celebrating the nation of Zaun

Fun ref photo below the cut that I encourage everyone to use.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Simon is left to herd a drunk Nik back to the hotel room.

cw: alcohol mention, horniness.

"Do-o-on't go was-ting your emo-o-tion, lay a-all your lo-o-ve on me-e-e! Hrk, heh heh." Nik tightened his arm around Simon's shoulders as they clambered out of the taxi and Simon had to readjust quickly to avoid getting pulled back into the backseat. When he went out drinking with Johnny and Garrick, it was usually a case of scruffing them by the back of the coat and hauling them ‘round like boisterous puppies, but Nik was the same height, a few pounds heavier due to his bulk, and a damn sight more fuckin’ handsy than the two sergeants. If they got to the hotel without Nik copping a feel and Simon getting a responding boner, then the operation should be considered a success.

"Cheers, mate," Simon grunted at the cabbie, tapping his card against the outstretched machine. He paused long enough to watch the little tick flash up on the screen before shoving his wallet away. "Nik, fockin'... Put yer arm... easy, easy." Nik staggered and Simon placed a hand on his chest to keep him upright, trying not to focus on how nice his damn tits felt beneath his buttoned shirt.

They had been drinking with Mac following a long conference in Westminster. It turned out that the old man, ten years senior even to Nik, was a bad fuckin' influence because they had knocked back enough liquor between the two of them to sedate an amatuer county rugby team.

Simon and Price had sat there, watching the whole thing go down in stunned silence, clutching their pints with the same look on their faces as tourists watching a pride of lions tear apart a gazelle on the Serengeti; one part awe, one part intrigue, two parts horror. Shot after shot, pint after pint; Mac's accent becoming unintelligible and Nik slipping in and out of multiple languages like he'd completely lose track of where he was. When Nik had stood on the table to sing an off-key rendition of KISS’ ‘Made for Lovin’ You’ while pointing directly at Price, the landlord had turfed ‘em out onto the street.

The old man was taking the old-old man back to his hotel, because trying to manage Mac and Nik together was beyond the capabilities of even the greatest minds in MI6, let alone two drunk SAS officers. Divide and conquer was the order of the night.

"I still don't know what you've done-with-me... hrk, brp. A grown-up woman should never fall-so-eas-i-ly," Nik brayed, finding a hip flask from somewhere inside his bloody jacket as they ambled an uneven path to the front door. Simon promptly confiscated it, shoving it into his backpocket. Nik pouted, but soon got distracted by the star-studded sky above their heads, his expression turning wistful as he put one unsteady foot in front of the other. "'Cause everything is new, and everything is you..."

Simon managed to get them through the hotel foyer after scanning the key card, and manhandled Nik towards the lift. "You skipped a verse."

"Shtoh?" Nik hiccuped again, suddenly leaning in close and watching the side of Simon's masked face through his eyebrows. The cold tip of his nose brushed against Simon’s exposed earlobe and it sent a shiver across his shoulders, Nik’s lips and teeth so close to his hammering pulse.

Simon didn't know why he fockin' said it. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. "It's ‘I feel a kinda fear, when I don't 'ave ya near, un-sat-isfied, I skip my pride, I beg you, dear.’"

"You do not have - hrk - to beg me, lieutenant. I would drop to my knees for you at - hic - a word."

Simon shoved Nik into the lift and slapped the buttons, propping the massive arsehole against the mirror with both hands. Nik took his opportunity and placed both hands on the swell of Simon's chest with a longing little groan, palms brushing over peaked nipples as his fingertips caressed the sides. "Ty takaya goryachaya, chto u menya stoyak na stoyake."

"Nik, ya bloody pervert, ya gavaryu paruskee," Simon huffed. He didn’t push Nik’s hands away. It was too late. His jeans had pulled tight at the crotch, his hands braced on the cold glass as he leaned in so that Nik would be firmer.

Nik wriggled his eyebrows as he squeezed, ignoring the intensity of Simon's deadpan stare in favour of enjoying the feel of his body through his cotton shirt. Simon's skin exploded with goosebumps as those big hands swept over his collarbones and shoulders, before swooping down to the dips of his waist. He was thicker where Price was athletic, but damn if Nik's hands didn't made him feel... handled. When those strong fingers slid through the loops of his jeans and pulled him forward so their hips slotted together, Simon had to swallow the needy little sound building in his throat. God, fuck, Nik was hard too. It would feel so good to rut against him like a humpin’ dog—

The lift pinged and the doors slid open behind him. With great effort, he dragged Nik into the hallway towards his room. Unfortunately, Nik had decided to become even more unhelpful, one hand swooping beneath Simon's shirt to the blond scruff of his happy trail with a horny rumble that shot straight to Simon's groin, and he had to readjust so his damn chubby could find a bit of extra space down his right trouser leg.

"The things I would do to you," Nik growled into Simon's neck as Simon fumbled the key card out of his jacket.

"'Mount you just sunk I'd be surprised if you could keep it up, old man," Simon replied, shoving the door handle down with his elbow and falling across the threshold into Nik's room. In three strides, he was dumping over two hundred pounds worth of lecherous Russian onto the mattress, only for said Russian to latch on and drag him down too.

"You are so prickly, lieutenant," Nik murmured, big arms clutching Simon's face to his chest. "But such a - hrk - handsome boy."

"Nik let me ge' m' face out ya tits so I c'n get ya boots off,” Simon said, muffled by said tits and not really wanting to leave them, because Nik smelled bloody edible.

Nik let out a dramatic sigh and flopped his arms out either side, and Simon slipped away to remove his boots and jacket. His hands hesitated as they rose to Nik's belt, noting that alcohol had clearly done little to dampen his spirits. Simon swallowed thickly and pulled back. “Need a slash,” he murmured as he fled into the en suite for a bit of a breather. When he released his cock from the confines of his jeans, it bobbed up eagerly towards his stomach. So much for a fuckin’ piss. Simon braced his hands against the sink and closed his eyes, willing himself to think of anything but Nik’s big hands sliding down its length as he sat across that warm stomach, feeling all that core strength and fur between his thighs, maybe that clever bloody mouth swallowing him down after he fucked Nik’s tits, and.. “Fuck sake.”

Think of Mac. Wrinkly ballsacks, false teeth, old man smell… anything.

Simon looked up quickly when he heard the sound of the minibar opening and the first notes of music from the television. “Nikolai,” he grunted in exasperation, tucking his now semi-erect dick back into his boxers as he headed back into the main room to corral the captain’s bloody boyfriend into a glass of water and a kip.

“The night is young,” Nik said as Simon approached him, thrusting a bottle of beer into his hands. “And, perhaps, I can convince you into a few more poor choices before it is over.”

Simon stared at the bottle and then Nik’s broad grin. He drew in a deep sigh and unhooked the mask from his ear. “Fine. But when Price gets ‘ere, you’re dealin’ with the bollockin’.”

“Deal.”

—

Mac had fallen asleep on the cab journey back to his hotel and Price had half carried him to his bed, staying long enough to top up a glass of water and make sure the old man didn’t suffocate face down in his sleep, before heading back to his own for what he thought would be some shut eye, maybe some sloppy head from a horny Russian if he was lucky. As he stepped out of the lift, he heard the low thump-thump of music from down the hall, and it only grew louder the closer he got to his room.

The sight that met him when he tapped the key card and opened the door would live with him as a fond memory until the end of his days. Nik and Simon were half undressed, jeans and socks on the floor, Nik’s shirt unbuttoned, as they bounced enthusiastically on the bed, sheets and pillows dishevelled. The music playing from the television was some corny pop track from 2014 — "Oh, don't you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me." I said, "You're holding back." She said, "Shut up and dance with me!” — and they were both crowing along to the lyrics, the remains of the mini bar toasted at the ceiling.

“Bloody muppets,” Price said through a fond chuckle as he closed the door. If they ended up in a pile of semi-naked bodies, occasionally waking to press lazy kisses to whatever patch of skin was closest, and Simon’s room next door remained empty for the night… well, brass didn’t need to know, did they?

[mysterysnail]

my interpretation of how it went

LOOK AT HOW UPSET HE LOOKS ONCE THE MACHINE STARTS SHOWONG SIGNS OF MALFUNCTION

[boolger]

Kitten love

Idk, just a Gaz x gn!reader short fic — not checked for mistakes or anything. Sfw.

He went out with the others on his team a couple of hours ago. The moment it passed two hours, you knew you wouldn’t get a sober Kyle home. Not that you minded… a drunk Kyle was always an experience.

You had made small preparations. Food in the fridge that you could easily reheat, in case he wanted food, made sure you had painkillers for tomorrow where he would undoubtedly need some - clean clothes you would need to get him into.

You had almost fallen asleep on the couch when you heard familiar laughter out in the hallway and a moment later the doorbell rang. Then a familiar voice called out your name.

You darted to the door, opening to the sight of a grinning Kyle, half ways hanging onto Johnny, who was one big grin as well. Price and Simon gave you a nod each, standing behind them.

“Special delivery for a Bonnie thing,” Johnny happily declared and Kyle instantly straightened up, hands reaching out for your cheeks and before you could do anything, beer tasting lips were on your own.

You laughed, tugging him to the sight, giving the others a wave, “thanks for getting him home safely!”

“Always, luv’! “ Price called out.

“Ey, they’re married!” Kyle said, protectively holding onto you, making the others laugh.

“We’re not married yet, you idiot,” you giggled, trying to get him to let go and he finally did, wandering into the apartment.

“Just know that we did try to stop him,” Simon said, as the last one, before he closed the door, leaving you befuddled - but you locked the different locks anyways before turning around, going towards the living room, where you indeed found him —

On one knee.

“Marry me?” He asked, voice slurred, raising his hand a little higher - only it wasn’t a ring he was offering you.

“… is that a kitten?” You asked, watching the dirty little thing squirm in his grip.

“Is that a no?”

God, he was drunk. His bottom lip quivered. Like a puppy that had just been kicked.

“Kyle, sweetheart,” you replied, stepping closer, watching the kitten in his hand let out a pitiful meow, “you proposed to me three months ago - I already said yes.”

The smile that appeared on his face must almost have hurt.

“Well that’s good, innit?” He said, looking down at the squirming fluff ball, “I found this for you.”

“Kyle, I love you, but why do you have a cat?”

“He was abandoned in a box! All alone ‘nd cold and I just knew ye wouldn’t have left it behind.”

You let out a sigh and picked up the kitten from his hands and he giggled, swaying a little on his knees. The kitten let out another loud “meeeeow,” and you couldn’t hold back a smile.

“I guess we have a cat now, then,” you finally said - then Gaz began giggling louder, a sound that was very much out of character for him.

“Three,” he said and before you could manage to ask what, he pulled out two more kittens from his hoodie pocket. Two more screaming little things.

“Kyle, for fucks sake!”

“They need a home, baby!” He said staggering to his feet and you grabbed the two kittens, so that he wouldn’t fall with them, “we can give them that home!”

“For tonight - Kyle, we can’t just get three kittens,” you argued, ignoring his pout, “they’ll sleep here for tonight and we will go to the shelter tomorrow.”

You didn’t know what to even do with the cats - but then he pulled even more stuff from his hoodie, milk formula for kittens and a kitten-safe shampoo. Kyle looked absolutely in love, watching you feed the three tiny creatures, before you bathed them. The others had definitely not tried to stop him, you decided, in fact, you suspected the three other men had encouraged this kitten-saving adventure your man had been on.

“They’re going to the shelter tomorrow,” you reminded him, pretending that you sounded just as stern as you had earlier. Even if you couldn’t help but love the three kittens small purrs as they slept in a box next to the bed.

“Sure,” Kyle slurred, kissing your neck and shoulders, “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

You did not go to the shelter with the kittens the day after - or the one after that. Kyle had already named the three kittens and you had already fallen in love with them.

[robin-writes-and-such]

Haven’t read the Book of Bill but this is what I think the general premise is based off of all the Tumblr posts about it

[asteroidtroglodyte]

5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?

It could get good, even.

[dakaakula]

I want his flask, I'm not joking-

Do you have any headcanons about human or og Mr Puzzles drinking alcohol? What are your thoughts?

(I mean - he already has a bad habit smoking, sooo...)

(Headcannon for both, mainly canon Puzzles)

Oh, I DEFINITELY think that Mr. Puzzles drinks.

“How does he even drink with the TV head?” Good question! …I don’t know either. I think it’d be hilarious if he just poured liquor onto his screen and let it seep through the gaps on the side. And somehow it gives the same effect of drinking.

He does NOT like getting blackout drunk (or at least not in public areas like bars). He’s only gotten blackout drunk a few times, and every time he either just embarrassed himself somehow or made an EXTREMELY stupid decision that he ended up regretting once he sobered up. Most notable was getting a really shitty tattoo that he’s still embarrassed about. He prefers to be at least somewhat aware of his surroundings at all times, so he normally stops drinking once he feels pretty drunk but can still notice his surroundings.

He is surprisingly heavyweight. It takes a LOT of drinking for him to even get tipsy.

This is more of a gag headcannon but I like to think that somewhere, on the PuzzleVision official merch sites, he sells flasks with his logo on them. And as usual, he’s the only person that’s used them.

[bamsara]

Alternate scene for Trod 'Drunken Gods' chapter where Lamb is already drunk before Narinder even arrives to the party. Gotta love 'liquid courage'

[unexplained-occurrences]

[t-hal-mothman]

It's funny how it turns out the guy has a little problem with alcohol, WHO WOULD KNOW

[feelo-fick]

...i promise i take him seriously i just keep finding shitposts that fit soooo well... i have folder with just shitposts that fit ominously well with him that i keep wanting to draw and then i never get to them HAHAHA

[quarterlifekitty]

cw: death, murder, severe grief induced depression, alcoholism

Undead!Husband!Ghost who stalks his way home just as soon as he claws his way from the damp, heavy soil on top of his coffin.

Pain in the ass. Doesn’t have his damned phone and he has no idea where this cemetery is.

Doesn’t have his keys, either, and it’s the middle of the fucking night. Finds a window open just a crack— his absence in your life shows. He would’ve never left you vulnerable like this. Kitchen is a mess of takeout containers. You haven’t been taking things well. Answering machine flashes a bright red number— 38.

He takes off his shoes and his jacket— like he’d only stepped out for the day, rather than having been dead and buried for months. Hates the fucking formalwear they buried him in. Ambles his way upstairs.

Sees some fucking stranger in his house. Sleeping in his bed. Right next to his wife. Bruises on your neck.

It was yet another self-destructive attempt at distracting yourself from what happened. The shitheel you picked up at the bar doesn’t even fully wake up before his skull is cracked against the hardwood of the headboard. You barely stir. Simon leans close and smells the liquor on your breath. He tilts your head gently so your cheek is to the pillow.

He digs through the dresser drawers for nearly half an hour before he finds the obscure little corner where you’ve hidden your wedding ring. You tell yourself it’s to make yourself seem available, but really you just couldn’t stand the sight of it. Whose gaze reflected back from the polished gemstone.

It’s slipped delicately back onto your finger. It’s looser than it used to be.

The body is dragged from the bed and deposited on the floor, blood already soaked down past the sheets and into the mattress. He doesn’t care. He’s still covered in dirt and rot and he doesn’t care about that either. He’s so fucking tired.

Crawls in the bed next to you, an arm loosely thrown over your waist.

When you wake up, he’ll cook you some real food.

[g1ngerbeer]

besties sketchdump yay