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Dave blows smoke in your face when you glare at him for smoking in the house. You hate to admit it, but it almost makes you laugh, especially when he gives you a drunken, toothy grin, with smoke leaking from out of the sides of his mouth. His left hand holds his cigarette, flicking ash into the ashtray he’d made with a grace that shouldn’t be evident in a smoker.
Especially with Dave smoking.
Your urge to laugh goes away after a few seconds, and you tap your knuckles on the top of his head, quite a reach considering that he’d grown. Again.
“Put it out,” you mumble, moving your hand back down to your side.
He makes a face before taking another drag, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray and putting it out, simultaneously letting out smoke. You watch it dissipate under the low lighting, and you wonder if the sparkles you see in the air are from the alcohol, or if Dave really is magic or something like that.
“There, princess,” he replies, southern drawl thick due to the slur his voice had taken on, “happy now?” You can see his eyelashes, blonde and stark against his eyes as he blinks when he looks down at you. His eyes are bloodshot.
“Very. Can you stop doing that in the house?”
“Maybe,” is his answer, and he grins again. It’s nice to see it, even if it’s mostly from him being drunk and less from the situation actually being funny. You want to reach up and touch the cute dimples he gets, like the ones he has now.
You only realize that you’ve been staring when Dave raises an eyebrow at you, his grin turning into this sly little smirk. He still has those dimples, and it’s really hard not to stare. Fucking hell, when did Dave get so attractive?
“Like what you see, Egbert?” he mumbles, locking eyes with you. Now, it’s very rare when you get solid eye contact with Dave, and you’d like to take the time to enjoy something like this, but Dave was giving you a look that was more mocking than anything, even with his eyes doing that stupid smoldering thing.
In the end, you don’t answer him. You turn back to the movie you two were supposed to be watching, only to find that Dave can’t go thirty seconds or more without some kind of attention. You expect this when he’s drunk; often he can’t keep his hands off the nearest person that he was familiar with when alcohol was involved. Now is no different, because he’s taken your hand and is half-heartedly pulling you towards him.
“Dave,” you protest, but it’s no use. Dave silently pulls you over to his side, knocking his forehead onto the top of your head in what was probably supposed to be some kind of cuddly gesture, but it just hurts instead.
He smells like the orange juice and vodka the both of you had been choking down earlier, and it’s oddly nice when it should be gross. You don’t say much about it, and instead just let Dave wind his ropey arms around your waist as you keep your eyes on the screen. The movie isn’t interesting, but you don’t want Dave to feel like you’re too interested in his poking and prodding.
His long fingers splay against your stomach, sending little goosebumps down your arms with a small shiver, and you mumble quietly, “Quit it,” and wiggle away just a little. As expected, this doesn’t phase him, and only encourages him to get even closer to you. You’re pulled into his lap, which doesn’t make sense, you’re entirely too big for this, but Dave seems to be just fine with it. In fact, he seems to like it quite a lot; you can feel him smiling against your shoulder, through your shirt. He even delivers a small kiss to the area, which makes you shiver more than before.
This time, you don’t push him off, and instead let him continue with his ministrations, allowing him to kiss a line up from his shoulders to your neck. Of course, by that time your face is burning up, and you’re oddly silent, but Dave pays no mind.
He just continues kissing up your neck, strong arms squeezing you close, but not enough to hurt.
He always gets like this when he drinks, which is fine, but you’re never sure what to think of it. Was it genuine? Was it just drunk neediness? You felt like you’d never know, because whenever you began to think about it, Dave always managed to shut up your mind somehow.
Speaking of the cuddly fucker, he’d made his way up to your ear, kissing just behind it before whispering, a hint of mischievousness in voice. “Hey, John.”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me for a second.” His words are slurred, and you know what he’s going to do when you turn to look at him, but you didn’t care so much. The alcohol had definitely done wonders for reasoning skills, sarcasm intended. And so, you turn, and he does exactly what you expected him to do.
He kisses you, softly and sweetly and tasting of vodka and cigarettes. It’s not the greatest combination, but damned if you care.
Your thoughts about whether his feelings and actions are genuine or not all but fly out the window. Dave’s sweet kisses and lovely hands pull you to face him, and you can think about stupid feelings later.