#george popping his cork

[harrisongslimited]

George Picture of the Day 1-22-24

George and Olivia celebrating several wins for the movie Mona Lisa at the 1987 BAFTA (the British version of the Academy Awards) ceremony. George's Handmade Films produced the film. Bob Hoskins (he's in the second pic) won best actor.

Thanks to owner

#the beatles #beatles #george harrison #george picture of the day #olivia harrison #george and olivia #george popping his cork #handmade films #the movie mona lisa #1987 bafta awards ceremony #bob hoskins

[suugarbabe]

I had a fic idea that maybe George Weasley is slipped some veritaserum and he can’t hold in the secret that he’s in love with the reader?? Something angsty maybe? I’m not really sure but I think it would be great!! 🥰

Ugh, I love the twins. I’m more partial towards Freddie myself but we’ll see how this goes. It’s a little lengthy and probably not as much angst as you were looking for but let me know what you think 🤗

Pairing: George Weasley x reader

Warnings: lil tiny angst but not much

You rolled your eyes, picking up your goblet and taking a swig before answering your friend, “You’re mental, Gin, really. There is absolutely no way that George has a crush on me. That man despises me.” She only smiled in response, “Oh sweet y/n/n…how can you be so smart and yet so clueless.” You huffed, stabbing a potato with your fork as she continued, “You know I am his sister, I can tell when my brother is into someone.”

“Actually you are so right, Ginny,” your sentence laced with sarcasm, “how could I be so stupid, the boy who charmed my potions textbook to squirt water in my face when I opened the cover is just desperately pining after me.” Ginny’s rolled her eyes but you continued, “Unless I hear it straight from the pranksters mouth, I will continue to tell you how delusional you are.” At that Ginny’s grin grew wide as she took a small vile from inside her robes, “Well I guess it’s good I have this then, huh?”

Your eyes grew wide, “Is that what I think it is?” Ginny shrugged her shoulders, popping the small cork from the top and pouring the liquid into a goblet before stuffing the vile back in her robes, “If you think it’s veritaserum, then I take back my earlier statement about you being dumb.” You looked around the great hall, noticing the twins walking in, “How do you know they’re even going to sit by us? Isn’t George going to be suspicious that you poured a drink for him?”

Ginny shook her head, “I know they’re going to sit with us because I told them I was nervous about quidditch tryouts this weekend when I saw them earlier between classes. Fred said he’d come by during dinner to talk me through it. And I help mum set the table at home so they won’t be suspicious as long as you start pouring Fred a glass as well.”

You quickly grabbed a jug and started to fill a goblet for Fred just as Ginny did for George. As predicted, the red-headed duo came flouncing toward your section of the table, George plopping down next to his sister as Fred did the same next to you. They both happily took the goblets from each of you before filling their plates to the edge with food. “Merlin, do you both eat enough?” You let out a light laugh.

George rolled his eyes, seemingly irritated, “We’re growing boys, Y/n. Plus we have quidditch tryouts this weekend, gotta bulk up.” He flexed the arm that wasn’t busy shoveling food down his throat. “Speaking of, why’re you so nervous, Ginny. You know you’re our best chaser,” Fred was telling the truth, Ginny was easily the best chaser on the team. It probably helped that she was the youngest of all brothers, most of which were either previously or currently on the team.

Ginny, thankfully was a fantastic actress, “Dunno, really, maybe I’m just overthinking it. Let’s talk about something else, yeah? Distract me.” You snorted slightly, “Well they’re both definitely good at being distracting.” Fred took it as a compliment, throwing an arm over your shoulder, “Awh, you get distracted by us easily, Y/n?” You rolled your eyes, shoving his arm off of you. You peeked over at George who was grumbling something while taking a large swig from his goblet. The exact goblet Ginny had laced with truth serum.

You looked over at Ginny, who looked right at you, smile growing wider by the second. “What was that you said George? We couldn’t quite hear you,” Ginny asked him. George set down his cup, “I said Y/n is the distracting one.” His face fell with his statement, looking at Fred who was doing his best to stifle a laugh. You crossed your arms, attitude laced in your tone, “Me? You’re the one jinxing textbooks and pulling pranks all the time! How on earth could I possibly distract you?”

George covered his face with his hands, trying to smother his answer. “Nuh, uh, Georgie, answer her. How does Y/n distract you?” Ginny pried his hands away from his face. George closed his eyes, it was obvious he was doing his best to keep his mouth shut but the words just came tumbling out like he had no control.

“Everything she does is distracting to me,” the tips of his ears blushed a slight pink. It was obvious to Fred that George somehow ingested truth serum and started adding fuel to the fire, “Do you have a crush on Y/n? And if so how big is your crush?” Fred was grinning like he already knew the answer, and by the way George was shooting draggers with his eyes directly at his twin, it was obvious he did. “Yes, I have a crush on Y/n, a really big crush on her.”

Your jaw fell open in shock. You started stuttering over your words, trying to take advantage of George in this state before the serum wore off, “Wha-, how-, erm, why do you have a crush on me? I thought you hated me. What do you even like about me? How long George?” Ginny and Fred were both resting their chins in their hands, smiles wide as they looked from you to George, awaiting his answer.

He took a deep breath before the words flying out of his mouth, “How could I not have a crush on you? Look at you, you’re bloody gorgeous, Y/n. And you’re so smart, it’s almost intimidating. Merlin, woman, it takes most of my brain power to not think about you. I’m only mean to you because I’m a fucking child, trying to ignore my feelings because I know there’s no way you feel the same. That first summer that you came to visit and stayed with us at the burrow, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Then I saw you and Ginny prank Harry and Ron. Ginny told me it was all your idea, and I swear to Merlin I was in love.” His head fell back into his hands, by the sight of his ears you knew his freckled cheeks were painted sarclet.

Your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest by the end of his confession. Ginny’s jaw fell open so wide you swore she was going to catch a fly in there. You shook your head, having trouble understanding what he was saying, “But-, George that was like, three years ago, why did you never say anything?” George pushed himself off the bench, walking quickly out of the dining area. Fred spoke up then, “He never figured you’d like him back. Thought you’d just see him as your best friend's annoying older brother. Been telling him for years just to go for it.” You turned back to look at the doors George just left through.

Ginny poked your hand with her fork causing you to yelp and turn to her. “Hello, go after him Y/n, I know you like him too. Georgie pranks everyone but you’re the only one that can drown on and on about him for hours. You wouldn’t care that much unless you were hoping for a different type of attention from him.” You looked from her to Fred who gave you a wink and a slight nudge.

You jumped up from the table, walking quickly to the doors in hopes of finding him. Thankfully George had only gone to the steps right outside the great hall doors. When you stood in front of his sitting form he looked up at you, “What do you want, Y/n?” It was rare you saw him from this angle, you’d often get puppy dog eyes from the twins when you were the shorter one, but the way he was looking at you now nearly broke your heart into pieces.

“Can we talk?” You held out your hand for him to take. His hand nearly swallowed yours, but he still took it. You led him to an empty corridor before sliding down the wall, patting the empty space next to you for him to mimic your actions. He did without question, sliding down next to you, but not looking at you. You turned to face him, placing a hand on his leg nearest to you. His eyes were glued to your hand as you spoke, “Yanno Ginny has been saying you had a crush on me.” His eyes met yours, you took a deep breath and continued, “She says I have a crush on you too. That the amount you prank me wouldn’t bother me so much if I wasn’t secretly wanting a different kind of attention from you.”

“And what do you think?” He finally spoke. His voice was soft, teetering on breaking. “I think she’s probably right,” you started to lean back against the wall, lifting your hand off George’s leg. He was quick to grab it, placing it back where it was. You continued with a smile, “Don’t get me wrong, I definitely get irritated when you prank me. But I would much rather you be sweet to me, amongst…other things.” George’s ears perked up, “What does other things consist of?” You giggled, slapping his chest before standing up. You bent down, whispering in ear, “If you can catch me before reaching the common room maybe I’ll tell you.” You took off down the corridor, George following quickly behind, smiling ear to ear.

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley x y/n #fred weasley #harry potter #golden era

[i-am-church-the-cat]

peak

wc: 1224

—

“And that is P1, mate, good job.”

“P1?” Logan asks over the radio. “P1, you’re sure? You’re fucking sure?”

There’s nothing for a second and he’s worried he’s missed the response over the roaring in his ears. Then Gaëtan’s voice comes over once again.

“Yes, P1, with Russell and Oscar behind you in P2 and P3.”

“Oh my god,” Logan laughs, hands raising to his helmet, the giddy feeling bubbling up in him like champagne. Like P-fucking-1 champagne. “Have some of that.”

If Logan is being honest, the whole end of the race was a blur. It could’ve been a Mercedes in his rearview as easily as it could have been a Haas. But never would he have expected to end up first after starting… wherever it was he started on the grid that morning.

Logan jumps up on the top step of the podium, waving out at the sea of black and papaya. It’s surreal to be standing up there again, his last win wasn’t since the last race of F2.

He just starts looking around for James when the Star-Spangled Banner starts to play. Logan straightens and tucks his hands behind his back, remembering at the last second to snag his hat off his head. Glancing to his left, he sees Oscar looking vaguely bored. He surely couldn’t have gotten used to podiums that quickly, could he?

When Logan is handed his trophy, it feels much lighter than he expected. He barely has time to raise it to shoulder height before someone in Williams’ blue is snagging it away for safekeeping. He laughs, too euphoric to care and leans down to grab his champagne bottle. His fingers meet empty air and he’s still looking around in confusion when George and Oscar pop their corks.

They somehow pull off the impossible task of not hitting Logan once. He’s not sticky at all as he comes down from the podium celebration, a first for him.

Logan is heading towards the media pen when his PR manager drags him off in the opposite direction. She’s saying something to him but he’s distracted by George smiling at the cameras as he accepts a red-topped microphone.

Is that the first smile Logan saw from him?

Logan keeps waiting to be stopped on his way to Williams hospital, but no one stops to give him a second glance. It’s starting to feel more like a P20 than a P1 if he’s being honest, especially when he steps into the garage. The vibes in there are distinctly unhappy. Anyone who looks his way quickly changes direction before they can meet his eyes.

“Logan.” He turns, smile returning to his face as he sees Gaëtan coming towards him.

“Gaëtan, mate, that was—”

“We need to talk about the degradation on turn 4,” his race engineer interrupts, raising his tablet to pull up the data. “It was significantly more than what Alex was experiencing and I think it lost us the fastest lap.”

“Oh, um,” Logan blinks and glances around. No one pays attention, closing everything down and getting ready for the next race. He shakes his head and turns back to his race engineer. “Yeah, of course, let’s discuss. Do you mind if I get changed real quick?”

Gaëtan barely glances at him before waving his hand. Logan takes a second to recognize it as dismissal and flees to his driver room. No one watches him leave.

That fizzy feeling he had before was distinctly absent.

He runs into Alex outside of his driver room. The other driver smiles distractedly at him, paying more attention to whoever was on the other end of the phone. Logan decides to leave him alone, yes, because he’s on the phone, but mostly because he’s not sure he wants to hear whatever Alex has to tell him right now.

Nothing was making sense today, Logan thought as he closed the door to his room behind him. Nobody has even congratulated me.

He looks around his driver room, thoughts in a tangle. Everything is exactly as he put it, as bare and lifeless as it always was. It takes Logan a minute to understand why there’s something wrong with that picture.

There’s no trophy.

Logan, fed up with whatever bullshit is going on, turns around to find his first trophy in F1, the one that he barely even got to hold. Before he can storm out the door in self-righteous anger, though, there’s a knock and then James is peeking his head in.

“Oh Logan, good,” his team principal says, coming fully into the room. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Something hopeful rises in his chest and Logan’s anger is replaced by relief. Finally, someone who will care about his win today. He opens his mouth to respond but James doesn’t wait for him.

“I’ve been talking to the board and some senior members of the staff,” James starts, moving to sit down at the little table wedged into the corner of the room. Logan follows but there’s only one chair, so he remains standing. “And we’ve evaluated your performance from the last two seasons. You’re a very skilled racer.”

“But the lack of improvement from the end of last year is worrying and frankly, disappointing. It’s becoming clearer and clearer that you aren’t ready for the demands of Formula 1. That’s why we’ve decided to let you go at the end of the season. The Williams family will be behind you for whatever you decide to do in the future, but we can no longer offer you a partnership at this level.”

Logan has never felt more disoriented in his life. Every warm and proud feeling has cooled over in his chest. His heart is feebly trying to keep beating through the frost, trying to get blood to his frozen limbs. He’s lightheaded but he has nowhere to go but the floor.

“But,” Logan’s voice strangles somewhere between his chest and his throat. He looks at James helplessly. “But I won the race.”

James gives him a look. An ‘I expected better of you look.’ It makes Logan want to crawl back inside his own body and die.

“Oh, Logan,” James sighs, a small shake of his head to convey his disappointment. “You know it doesn’t count if it’s you.”

—

Logan’s eyes open to the lazy spinning of his ceiling fan just barely illuminated by the creeping dawn. The image of James is still front and center, his terror slowly bleeding from his spine out into his extremities.

Even knowing the dream wasn’t real, the feelings it inspired are fizzing like a soda can. Logan lays there for a few minutes, futilely trying to calm himself down. He eventually gives up and swings himself out of bed, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The water helps clear some of the panic, helps his brain think more clearly. But his heart is still racing from the anxiety.

Logan drinks one full glass then fills it up again to take to his room. On his way back to bed, his eyes get caught on his trophy shelf.

The CIK-FIA championship trophy sits in the middle of the sea of metal. It’s a full head and shoulders taller than his next closest trophy. It makes a strange sort of peak on the shelf, the trophies just declining the further he gets from 2015.

Logan turns around and goes back to bed.

#logan sargeant #f1 rpf #f1 fanfic #my writing #i wrote this instead of sleeping #spoilers: #dream sequence #all continuity errors are bc of that and not bc im exhausted #the spelling errors are bc im exhausting #not beta read #angst #i wish this idea came to me in a dream 😔 #i should be asleep #fairy eyed eagle

[blankvort]

tangentially animal-related hcs 4 the mean girls crew bc i am now responsible for giving a goldfish daddy issues

cady

inexplicably allergic to dogs and always in the first four stages of grief about it. don’t @ me about the medical semantics i just want her to suffer a little

tried to get a job at petco the second she turned eighteen but learned of the above information in the most destructive job interview since janis’s application to be the local coffee shop’s cool gay barista (they were worried that she’d swear at fighter-jet-takeoff volumes if she touched hot coffee) (she did, but only because they started playing a shitty pop cover of one of damian’s fave show tunes) and came out of the building a puddle of mucous and tears

grossly fascinated by the grossest of primitive functions. her insta page is all dope and authentic until you find a selfie taken using the back camera 0.5x with the corpse of an effervescent snail and a bunch of reels telling you how to narrow down what bird species are destroying your garden by the splay of their shit

has a miniature aneurysm whenever movies get stuff wrong about animals. artistic liberties are granted to janis alone. like sure if she’s in the theater she’ll sit through the movie fisting popcorn down her throat but as soon as she gets out of there the entire mall becomes a soapbox for dissecting the bullshit sexual dimorphism of giving female animals eyeliner

thus while i know the headcanon of her loving the lion king is basically canon i think she’s absurdly secretive about it. like she’s burying her merchandise and blu-ray copies under her bed in the dead of night while secreting more sweat than should be possible. she could come out to her parents and elope to antarctica no problem but liking the lion king which implies that lighter manes = stronger lions is a death sentence

probably got banned from a bunch of zoos for interrupting field trips 

janis

had one of those angel/wolf/dragon/whatever hybrid phases as a kid like all good artists. did those like. not quite furry but not quite human animal art commissions on twitter for a while for the funnies but discovered a lucrative market and never turned back

does not know how to hold human or animal babies. like she’s good at taking care of them in terms of general physical and intellectual nourishment but that limp wrist is not supporting any necks properly

mercilessly makes fun of the whole “would you love me if i was a worm” trend. she doesn’t even love most humans what makes you think she has any answer for you regarding that other than that she’d turn you into a super deep art piece museums would purchase for exorbitant amounts

that being said she feels like a vivarium girlie to me. she’s nocturnal like a pillbug and post-canon constantly tries to convince the plastics that her pacman frog is poisonous

feeds her meticulously decorated ant farm gourmet meals every day. anyone else gets microwavable mac and cheese at best

this one probably won’t make sense unless you’re a jenny nicholson fan but she has a fake id for buying wine and turning the corks into those hallmark craft animal sculptures (and selling the open wine bottle to mrs george in back alleys)

damian

his grandma owns the most omnicidal chihuahua in the state of chicago. it’s how he learned to dance with such mental and physical dexterity. how else would he have survived visits to the nursing home

^ attempted to adopt the chihuahua’s children to have his own bruiser woods moment. turns out, even with his classically trained tenor voice, puppies and janis respond to the “drop it” command much the same way. that is to say they do not drop it and the puppies ran away with ninety nine per cent of his anastasia-inspired music box memorabilia

has a love-hate relationship with cats the musical. like memory is one of his top ten karaoke songs but he’s not going to admit it until he’s several fruity seltzers into the night. wishes all the actors in the movie had been replaced with real cats picked off the street before anything else was approved

played milky white in a scammy local production of into the woods and so so so embarrassed about it. he had to be on stilts the whole show

stuck a fish in regina’s backpack sometime in sophomore year but found karen feeding it and talking to it about her worst fears and greatest dreams felt too guilty to continue with the next phase of his plan (sticking a very hot picture of janis in regina’s backpack) (karen probably would’ve tried to talk to the photo too)

regina

musical specific but i think she didn’t Exactly do a matching animal costume with gretch and karen because 1) what can you dress up as when your friends are going as a cat and a mouse. cheese? 2) had cady not moved into the neighborhood, she’d have gone as a sexy lion to ease into the prospect of. you know. with shane oman but going as a sexy lion when your shiny new homoerotic frenemy has a lion pin on half her clothing isn’t quite a non-questionable choice

had a warrior cats phase she keeps under lock and key in the very depths of her closet. her closet is an iceberg of issues that goes shein -> homosexuality -> warrior cats and climate change is doing a number on it

fried a couple of janis’s ants alive with a magnifying glass sometime before middle school. she’s never flirted normally in her life

the bulk of janis’s furry commission clientele. she has so many emails for alternate accounts that she could get every american president ever suspended from twitter if national security let her. that’s including the dead ones

remember the nigh-rabid chihuahuas damian had. yeah she’s been raising those in secret for a few years now. mrs george doesn’t notice because regina hides them in her hair and extensions are, like, totally in or whatever

had a horse girl phase. all her drawings of horses came out like this meme tho. the art freaks nickname was born out of jealousy

gretchen

chose to be a sexy cat for halloween to match with karen because she has no sense of identity. also because she remembers regina’s warrior cats phase

actually a guinea pig person. i’ve never met a guinea pig person but she feels like one. they’re both in dire need of daily interaction and likely polyamorous

but also peri-canon gretchen could not keep a pet alive she’d spend every cent of the wieners fortune on buying the animal’s love

speaking of. her family bought a stable to fuel “her” horse girl phase. she just wanted to make regina happy and couldn’t stay on a saddle if there was an escalator that plopped her right on the horse

cares about the puppy bowl more than she cares about the superbowl

instinctively pets cute animals. if they bite her then she deserved it

karen

chose to be a sexy mouse for halloween because tom and jerry was having a media marathon and she’s into that sort of power dynamic

believes in unicorns more than she believes in horses. this is because she had a horse girl phase for the hottest of seconds before realizing that none of the ponies at the apache trail sale had horns and thought they had their horns cut off for aesthetic reasons

animals love her so much. survived a jellyfish attack because the jellyfish sensed she just wanted to pet something shiny and absolutely respected that. pests of all shapes and sizes evict themselves stat when karen says her mom doesn’t appreciate her hundred thousand dollar lotions being invaded by peril-bringing insects. strays follow her 24/7. gretchen is jealous (of the animals)

thinks tigers are very sick zebras

thinks blobfish are cuter when they’re all flesh putty out of their natural habitats but would also break into a zoo if she thought the animals were being mistreated

was banned from australia at the age of eight because she tried to have a sleepover in a kangaroo’s pouch

aaron

mean girls insta described him as a golden retriever so i’m also hcing him as being allergic to dogs <3 equality

becomes deeply fearful of all fauna after falling into a research rabbit hole for the sake of connecting with cady. what do you mean buffalo are some of the deadliest beasts on the planet and not just a type of chicken wing

kevin g

a preteen vsco girl in her granola advocacy era stuck in a teenage boy’s body. he has saved more turtles than any natucate volunteer by repurposing his rejected business cards to make a selfie stick long enough to stick him in the same selfie as gretchen wieners. the selfie stick has been in progress since daycare. he has also gone to the hospital more than any natucate volunteer do not trust this man with shop class equipment

#mean girls #cady heron #janis sarkisian #janis ‘imi’ike #damian hubbard #regina george #gretchen wieners #karen smith #karen shetty #aaron samuels #kevin gnapoor #kevin ganatri #these r so long for no reason #who wants goldfish pics btw

[silver-scripts]

Don't be lonely, I'm right here by your side

pairing: Lockwood & Lucy

summary: When the crew drinks to celebrate surviving a mission gone wrong, the alcohol reveals things that the sunlight never would. Or the one where Lockwood drunkenly kisses Lucy

word count: 4.8k

crossposted: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50742568/chapters/128183305

The crew had intended to go out for a pint to celebrate their success for the night — or rather, to celebrate the fact that they hadn’t died. There weren’t supposed to have been three wraiths in the basement of that house, and while Lucy had been traumatized enough by their whispers of what had happened to them, George seemed too keen for her liking to get back to his research about the place.

Any one of them could have been blamed for Lockwood & Co. going in so unprepared, but honestly, Lucy was too focused on having survived to get into that right now. So when Kipps huffed and declared that he needed a drink, the rest of them happily agreed.

The issue was, dawn was quickly approaching, and as much as London loved its beer, 4:30 in the morning wasn’t exactly the prime time to hit up a pub. And even if one was, by some chance, open, the ever-worsening snow would have shut it by now anyways.

“Come on,” Lockwood said, ushering them all forward. “There’s an old wine cellar off the basement. My parents had a collection.”

Shivering, Lucy found herself wishing she had a warm cup of tea right about now, but figured that the hot bite of alcohol would just as easily do the trick.

—

Lockwood wasn’t lying when he said his parents had a collection.

He’d pushed aside a shelf of supplies downstairs, revealing a small door. How none of them had ever noticed it was beyond her, but here it was — a wine cellar stacked wall to wall with must have been a hundred bottles of wine.

“Christ, Lockwood,” George muttered. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

Lockwood just grinned. “Take your pick.”

Lucy would have felt like a kid in a candy store had she known anything about wine, but she didn’t. She just grabbed a bottle at random (noticing, laughably, as Kipps grabbed three) and headed back up to the library with the rest of them.

Holly had already started a fire and snorted when the lot of them wandered in.

“Save enough wine for the rest of London, did ya?”

Kipps snorted. “After the night we’ve had, I need it.” He set his collection of bottles on the coffee table and picked up one, popping off the cork with ease and taking a heavy swig of it. It was, Lucy had to admit, rather impressive.

“Christ, at least use a cup!” Holly protested.

“What for? We each have our own bottle.”

“God help us,” Holly muttered, walking away from the fire and sitting down in one of the arm chairs.

Lucy ignored them. ��Christ, it’s freezing,” she muttered, plopping down onto the couch nearest the fire.

Unlike Kipps, George reached instead for a cork screw and clumsily stuffed it down on top of his bottle. He made awkward progress on the thing, but eventually managed to pop it open.

“Cheers,” he said to no one in particular, grinning, and promptly took a hefty sip from the depths of the bottle. “Want some help with yours?” he asked, motioning towards the unopened bottle that sat propped between Lucy’s knees. Without waiting for her to respond, he set down his drink and removed his cork from the cast-aside cork-screw and moved to take the bottle from her.

“I don’t think so,” Lockwood cut in, intercepting him with all but a flourish of his coat. Lucy repressed the urge to snort. “You’re not exactly skilled with this, my friend.” Lockwood turned to Lucy. “May I?” he asked.

Lucy nodded and extended the bottle to him. His fingers brushed against hers as he grabbed it, sending a spark of electricity up her veins. She swallowed. Hard.

Lockwood opening a bottle of wine for her shouldn’t have been attractive, and yet somehow, it was. His movements were marked with such ease, a steady contrast to the way George had struggled with the thing. She meant no offense to George, of course. Lockwood was just… Lockwood.

The cork was set free with a resounding pop of pressure, and Lockwood turned the bottle in his hands so the label was facing him. He scanned it, glanced back at Lucy for a moment, and then took a sip. He held the drink in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, and Lucy did her best to ignore the shift of his Adam’s apple.

“A solid Riesling,” he said. “A hint of peach and honeycomb. Rather light-bodied. Enjoy.” He handed it to Lucy with a wink.

“Oh, shove off,” George said, plopping down on the couch next to Lucy. She was thankful, because his movement drew Lockwood’s attention to him instead so no one had to see the jolt that went through Lucy from that wink. “Stop showing off.”

Lockwood just grinned.

Lucy took the wine back with a roll of her eyes and took a sip of it, trying to ignore that Lockwood’s mouth had been on it before hers. They’d shared tea plenty of times in the field. Truly, this was nothing different.

No different at all.

She decided Lockwood was full of shit though. She couldn’t detect a hint of apple or honey or whatever it was he’d said. She had half a mind to think he’d made it up.

A few more sips and she felt the heat of the alcohol begin to settle in her chest. Her hands were still like ice, but at least the rest of her was beginning to stop shivering.

“So what happened tonight?” Holly asked.

“Do not ask,” Kipps answered immediately. “Next question.”

Holly pursed her lips but shrugged. “Alright,” she continued. “What do you want us to do then, play truth or dare?” She said it like a joke, but Kipps looked like he was actually considering it. He was probably just trying to think up a way to get Lockwood to do something stupid.

But George’s eyes grew wide. “I am not playing truth or dare. No thanks.” He punctuated the sentence by taking another sip of his wine.

“I second that opinion,” Lockwood added, staring at his bottle instead of them. His opinion on the matter, Lucy had to admit, was utterly unsurprising. She knew he’d choose “dare” every time if he had to — anything to avoid sharing more than he felt comfortable with.

“I’d suggest strip poker, but somehow I think that’d get shot down,” Kipps said, a sly smirk on his face. Holly threw a pillow at him.

“You shut it.”

Instead of laughing, Lucy just shivered.

“Cold?” George asked softly.

She didn’t even need to reply. Ever the gentleman, George pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over the both of them. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of them to share personal space; she was particularly prone to falling asleep on him when they all watched movies together, and anyways, he never seemed to mind. They both knew they were just friends, which meant that while she might have been single, she didn’t need to be perpetually touch-starved. So she was more than happy to cozy up next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

George took another sip of his drink, as did Kipps. As did Lucy. She felt the edges of her vision start to grow fuzzy as the alcohol washed over her.

And so the night went.

An hour later and most of her bottle down, Lucy was acutely aware of how badly she needed to pee… and also how little water she’d had to drink. She pulled away from George and stood — or rather, stumbled — as she got off the couch to make for the loo. It took her a second to right her balance, but then the world settled around her and she was fine.

“You alright?” George asked, reaching for Lucy’s arm to steady her.

She repressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, Georgie. I don’t need an escort to the loo, thank you very much.”

George snorted. “Let me know if you still feel that way when you fall down the stairs.”

Lucy swatted his hand away and stepped out of his grasp, heading for the hallway. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving her hand dismissively behind her as she walked — or rather veered haphazardly — out of the room. The alcohol hit her harder now that she was standing, but she didn’t mind. It was nice, for once, to feel somewhat free. She spent most of her days worrying about their next meal or their next job or their next bill — it was nice to just exist.

Lucy stumbled into the bathroom and sighed with relief when she finally hit the toilet. Afterwards, in true drunken fashion, she found herself meeting her own gaze in the mirror, searching her face. The wine had given her cheeks a pleasant flush, her eyes a glinting shine. She looked, well, happy. She gave herself a small smile before washing her hands.

Lucy cracked open the door and slipped into the hall. She was about to head back downstairs, but the sound of heated voices gave her pause. Were they arguing?

She took a few hesitant steps forward. Alcohol or not, she could be light on her feet when she needed to, and she’d memorized the halls of 35 Portland Row well enough at this point to know which floorboards creaked.

“Will you stop looking at me like that?” George hissed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lockwood countered.

“Well,” Holly drew, “you do look like you want to murder him.”

George just scoffed, seemingly ignoring her. “Christ, you’re so full of yourself! It’s not my fault you won’t say anything to her! God forbid she has a friend.”

Lucy froze, and the warmth from the alcohol leeched out of her as her blood turned cold.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly I don’t care,” Kipps said. “But you lot might want to shut it if you don’t want her to hear you.”

The library fell uncomfortably silent, and Lucy could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She knew she had to walk back into the room sooner or later, but the thought of entering a room where everyone had just been talking about her had her head spinning from more than just the alcohol. They were talking about her, weren’t they?

And what did they even mean? Lockwood had been short with her when she had returned to Portland Row months ago, but she thought she’d done at least a half-decent job of repairing things. Was Lockwood still so angry at her that he couldn’t stand that George wasn’t? That she and George had actually grown closer since then?

Lucy looked at the floor and intentionally took half a step forward, placing her foot directly on one of the loose floorboards. The sound echoed down to the library, and she followed it, making sure her steps were heavier than normal on the old wooden stairs.

“Hey,” she said, walking back into the room. She flopped down onto the couch, pulling the blanket back over herself. “This room is freezing.” She leaned back against George, savoring his warmth once again. “George, have I ever told you that you’re like a personal space heater? It’s glorious.”

“I’ll be sure to add that to my resume,” he laughed.

Lucy looked up at Lockwood, who was coldly staring at George. He look a sip of his wine and directed his attention to the fireplace instead.

Kipps cleared his throat. “Right, well, seems the snow has started to let up. I should probably be heading home,” He stood, grabbing his coat. “Gonna catch a taxi.”

With a breath, Holly looked between the four of them before settling on Kipps. “You know what, I should probably get home too. Fancy sharing a taxi?” Her smile was tight as she stood, and Lucy suddenly felt like there was more to the conversation that she had missed. What, she goes to the bathroom for two minutes and everyone who doesn’t have a reason to be here suddenly leaves?

George kindly showed them out, at which point Lucy did her best to ignore the fact that she could feel Lockwood’s heavy gaze on her. She instead took another few sips of her drink and pretended to be overly-invested in reading its label.

Notes of peach and honeycomb, it read.

Tosser.

———

Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this drunk. It must have been back at school, when she and Norrie had passed a flask back and forth for long enough that Lucy finally figured out what people meant about “learning their limits.” She’d spent all of the next morning throwing up and feigning food poisoning.

She had spent awhile talking to George about his new nephew. He showed her a few pictures his mother had mailed him and recounted a few funny mishaps that had occurred when he went to see him last weekend. She joined in with a similar story that had happened when her sisters were younger, and somehow another hour and more of her wine were gone.

Now, though, with the fire dying down, the library was washed with a soft, muted light, and she felt strangely at peace. George yawned heavily. The two of them were sitting on the floor with their backs to the couch, idly reading a new comic book he’d picked up from the shops.

With a sigh, he tossed it aside and stood.

“Well, I should be off to bed,” he said, suppressing another yawn. He looked like he could barely keep his eyes open. “I’m hoping to sleep off whatever god-awful hangover I get from this and make it to the Archives later.”

Lucy snorted. “There is zero chance you’re getting to the Archives later.”

“Well, now you’ve given me a challenge,” he grinned. “Anyhow, good night you two.” He shot Lockwood a look Lucy couldn’t quite make out, and then he left the room.

They’d gotten back around dawn, and while Lucy had no idea what time it was, she could see that the sun was high in the sky on the other side of the curtains. Sunlight was fighting to seep through them, but they’d long ago closed them to try to pretend they weren’t drinking the morning away. Though she found herself growing tired, she didn’t have the desire to go to sleep yet. She knew she should, especially since they had a case later that she had planned on spending the day preparing for, but she couldn’t find it in her to move.

“And then there were two,” Lockwood said.

Lucy raised an eyebrow at him. Really, she expected him to go to bed too, but he just stared at her.

“You alright?” he asked. There was amusement in his tone, but something in his eyes betrayed true concern.

“I’m lovely, actually,” Lucy sighed, determined not to let him ruin her mood. “I can’t remember the last time I felt so good.”

Lockwood snorted, walking over to pick up the wine bottle she’d been nursing all morning. It was as good as empty now. “I think that’s enough for you.”

Lucy had half a mind to fight him, but visions of her and Norrie laying on the floor in their bathroom resurfaced, and she figured he was probably right. The last thing Holly needed was to have to clean up Lucy’s vomit.

Before she had a chance to tell him off, Lockwood surprised her by taking George’s spot on the floor. He let out a sigh as he leaned against the edge of the couch.

She should leave now, really. What was left of her rational decision making told her as much. She told herself that Lockwood didn’t want to be around her anyways, but he had sat down next to her, hadn’t he? And it was so rare that she was ever alone with Lockwood anymore. Between Holly, George, and Kipps, there were always other people in the house. It wasn’t hard to feel like he did it on purpose, calling George into the kitchen the moment she walked in for breakfast, or deciding to go train in the basement the moment she entered the library to find him already in it. He’s just busy, she told herself. We all are.

But the conversation she’d overheard earlier wasn’t helping her train of thought, even if Lockwood wasn’t making any effort to leave now.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

 “Not much,” she said quickly, embarrassed to admit she’d been thinking about him. So she gave him a half truth. “Just thinking that the last time I drank this much was probably with Norrie.”

“You miss her.”

“Of course I do. You miss your sister.”

Lockwood’s gaze grew sad at that, but he nodded. It was so rare to see any true emotion from him that the look almost scared her. She was so used to him always being, well, perfect. All clean lines and crisp edges. He never settled for less than his best.

The Lockwood in front of her felt different somehow. More… real. He’d shed the suit jacket at some point, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his sleeves were rolled up haphazardly. And as the hours passed, lines of stubble were beginning to show on his chin.

“What?” he asked, curious.

The question confused her. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

Lucy hoped the flush from the alcohol was enough to hide the color that heated her cheeks now. “Sorry,” she stuttered. “You just… look different.”

“What,” he chuckled, bumping his shoulder playfully against hers, “like a drunken sod?”

“I didn’t say bad. Just… different.”

Lockwood gave her a small smile, but he sighed, the ease dropping from his shoulders as he turned to look across the room. Lucy followed his gaze to the portrait of his sister, and she found herself absently toying with the necklace he’d given her.

“Do you ever…” he started, trailing off. He swallowed and looked down at his hands.

“Ever what?” Lucy pushed.

“Never mind.” He moved to stand, and a burst of panic rushed through Lucy. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt like she couldn’t let him leave. Not yet. She grabbed his arm, causing him to freeze.

“Please,” she whispered, meeting the blurry darkness in his gaze. “You can trust me.”

Lockwood searched her face for something, his eyes flickering back and forth between hers. And then he sat back down. It took Lucy a moment to realize she was still holding his arm, and while the logical part of her brain told her she should let go, the drunken half of it savored the heat of his skin beneath her fingers, knew that he never let her touch him, but he was letting her now.

Lockwood blew out a breath and ran a disgruntled hand through his hair.

“Is it hard?” he asked finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. He seemed determined to look anywhere but at her. “After Norrie?”

“Everything was hard,” Lucy said softly. She was somehow afraid, now, to speak any louder than he was. She didn’t know what he was asking, exactly, but did it really matter? The truth of it was the same. “Everything is hard.”

“Do you…” He stopped himself again and sighed. Lockwood was always so concise with his words, so sure of every sentence. Lucy couldn’t imagine what had him at such a loss. “Is it hard to… let yourself… care… for other people?”

There was a part of Lucy, perhaps, that almost wanted to laugh at the irony. It had been, she thought, until I met you.

But she didn’t say that.

“At first, I guess,” she started slowly. Her hand lifted back up to the chain around her neck, and she ran her fingers across the small stone. “Back then, there weren’t a whole lot of other people around to even care about. But I don’t think Norrie would’ve wanted me to just… let my life stop. She would have wanted me to make space for other people.”

Yet there was a part of her that still ached from the emptiness, a part that she knew no one else could ever fill. Norrie had taken a piece of her heart with her, and Lucy wasn’t ever going to get it back.

There was another ache, too. Another empty part of her heart… One that was always extremely apparent when she looked at Lockwood. One that had her pulse practically vibrating from him being so close.

But Lockwood just looked tired. His eyes were rimmed slightly red, and Lucy wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or something else, something that had her feeling like her heart was cracking in two. “Everyone I love leaves in the end,” he breathed. “People can’t leave if I never let them in in the first place.”

Lucy was sure Lockwood could hear the snap of her heart fracturing in her chest. Was he really so blind to see that so many people cared about him? Or did he know, and just pretend he didn’t so he could claim he had no one to lose? Was this why he was so insistent on ignoring her?

“That’s no way to live,” Lucy whispered fiercely, pulling at the edge of his shirt so he would look at her. She needed him to listen, needed him to stop being so thick and recognize that he had a family here that loved him. “And besides. You have George. You have Holly, and Kipps. You have me.”

Lockwood met her gaze, and the intensity of it sent a jolt through her. “And you left,” he whispered.

That one hurt more than it should have. “I came back,” she said stupidly, hardly daring to breathe.

Lockwood looked at her. Well and truly looked at her. Lucy felt both small and extraordinarily full beneath the weight of his gaze. He was quiet for so, so long, and Lucy held on for his next words. He could crush her so easily, rip her heart out with the truth. She had left him, and no matter her reasoning for it, she deserved the weight of his pain.

She had prepared herself for anger, but he surprised her when his words came out soft, instead.

“Why did you?” he finally breathed.

“Come back?”

Lockwood’s head moved in a small nod, still not breaking her gaze.

Lucy’s breath faltered. She didn’t know what kind of answer would satisfy him, what kind of answer would help ease the pain that seemed to consume him. She hated seeing him like this, hated not knowing how to help. And she hated that despite it all, she was acutely aware of how close he was. She could feel the heat radiating off of his skin, for Christ’s sake. And it wasn’t lost on her that wine was an aphrodisiac, wasn’t lost on her that she could feel herself buzzing with nervous energy and something more, something she refused to acknowledge. Especially not now, when it was so wholly inappropriate for her to be thinking these things. He looked like he ought to be crying, for God’s sake!

But her drunken mind didn’t know how to hide the truth. Why did she come back? There was only one answer, really.

“For you,” she whispered.

Lockwood took in a rough breath, and before Lucy could process it, he leaned forward and kissed her.

It was so alarming, she almost gasped. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him, she’d just never thought — she didn’t think — it was just —

Her thoughts faded out and it was just Lockwood. Just Anthony Bloody Lockwood. Kissing her. And she was kissing him back.

He lifted his fingers gently to her chin like he was afraid to touch her, like she was something delicate that could fall apart if he pressed too hard. His fingers drifted up her cheek, sending shivers down Lucy’s back, before tangling themselves in her hair.

Lucy tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. All coherent thought seemed to be leaving her. It was just him. She’d spent so much time pointedly not thinking about kissing Lockwood, so much time ignoring the small scar on his lip, ignoring the mole right next to the dimple that came out when he smiled, ignoring how badly the sum of it all made her want to kiss him fiercely and never stop. She’d tried so hard to never let herself imagine what this might be like, tried so hard to keep it professional between them, to never let herself hope that it could ever be anything more than that.

But Lockwood had kissed her, and it took everything in her to not let that one action uncage the hunger that she’d buried deep inside her.

She pulled away slightly, praying that getting more oxygen to her brain would help keep her sane. “But you — you’re mad at me,” she said, struggling to make any of it make sense. “You were fighting with George over it, I-”

Lockwood’s cheeks colored. “You heard that?” he asked sheepishly.

“You’re not exactly quiet, Lockwood.”

But then Lockwood was quiet, like he was too embarrassed to admit the truth. He looked down. “I was jealous.”

“Of George?”

“Well, yes,” he whispered, leaning forwards until he was a breath away from her again. “He gets to touch you and I don’t.”

Gods, this man.

Lucy grabbed his tie and pulled him into her, crashing his mouth against hers. She couldn’t convince herself that she would ever get the chance to kiss him again. She knew him, and she wouldn’t put it pass him to write it all off as a mistake.

But he kissed her roughly now, all the gentleness of before seemingly evaporated. His hands tangled again in her hair, and his teeth tugged gently at her bottom lip, pulling a quiet moan out of the back of Lucy’s throat before she could stop it. She felt Lockwood smirk into the kiss.

Slowly, he placed a hand on her lower back and lowered her to the floor until he had her pinned between his arms. His mouth was hungry against hers, and Lucy took the opportunity to slide her hands across the exposed skin on his back where his shirt had come untucked. Fire flared beneath her palms where her skin touched his, and she savored the feel of the planes of his back, the indentation of his spine. Fuck, he’s so beautiful.

His mouth trailed off hers, and he began leaving kisses along the side of her jaw before making his way down her neck. She froze as his mouth brushed against the tender spot beneath her ear, and Lockwood didn’t miss her reaction. He sucked gently on the skin there, rolling his tongue in circles and eliciting a series of quiet gasps from her. Heat pooled in waves beneath her skin.

“Anthony,” she whispered, barely forcing his name out between her sharp intakes of air. Lockwood’s eyes blazed. He brought his lips back up to hers and kissed her in a way that made her toes curl.

“The sound of my name on your lips…” he moaned against her mouth. There was a dangerous fire in his eyes that lit Lucy to her core.

And a door opened down the hall.

Panic flared through Lucy so quickly she felt nauseous. Lockwood scrambled off of her, righting himself and sitting back on the floor. Lucy barely had time to push herself up on her elbows before George walked by the library, heading towards the kitchen. He paused in the archway, raising his eyebrows at them.

“You’re still up?” he asked them, glancing down at his watch.

“You’re up too,” Lockwood countered.

“Yeah, to get water. Go to sleep! We have a case tonight, people.” He shook his head as he walked towards the kitchen. “I swear I’m the only one who cares about this agency.”

Lucy swallowed, struggling to catch her breath and calm her body.

“He’s, uh. He’s probably right,” Lockwood said, standing and brushing off his pants. “We should-”

“Yeah.” Lucy said quickly.

Lockwood wouldn’t look at her, which was maybe for the best because she was afraid what she might do if he did. Jump him, maybe, or leave a hickey on his neck to match the one he’d left on hers.

“Right, well…” Lockwood paused. Aimlessly, he re-rolled one of his sleeves. “I… Well…” he coughed. “Good night.”

Lockwood left the room. A moment later, Lucy heard his bedroom door shut.

Lips swollen and uncomfortably turned on, she was still laying on the floor. She wanted to follow him to his room, or desperately wanted him to follow her to the loft. But she knew the moment was broken.

She just didn’t know what that meant for tomorrow.

#lockwood and co #lucy carlyle #lockyle #anthony lockwood #fanfic #fan fiction #lockwood and lucy #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link

[comatosebunny09]

Plume

Summary: Writer’s block. You’re no stranger to it. Often strikes when you’re stressed and restless. Tonight happens to be one of those instances where you’ve hit a creative wall. Stuck scrutinizing your monitor for hours, racking your brain for the right words to string together. Luckily, Kyojuro is there to assist. To provide a little motivation to keep you focused. Some inspiration, if you will. And then some...

Word Count: ~3K

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Graphic Description of Sex, Alcohol Use, Tobacco Use, Language, Cunnilingus, Intercourse Between Consenting Adults, Bodily Fluids, Pet Names, OOC!Kyo, Female!Reader, MDNI!

Inspiration:  Dern Kala - Khruangbin High Like This - Kevin George Morocco - Alina Baraz ILoveUIHateU - Playboi Carti

Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoy!

Tagging: @portgasdariel

 You’ve hit a creative wall.

Though, it’s nothing new. You’re accustomed to such hang-ups. Often have writer’s block when you’re stressed, overworked, and anxious. Tonight is one of those nights where your fingers refuse to translate the madness inhabiting your mind.

You glare down at your iridescent keyboard. Spent a pretty penny on it. It’s clicky, like a typewriter. Figured it would help your productivity, but sadly, it won’t do its job tonight. A quick glance at your smartwatch tells you that it is 11:06 PM. You feel inefficient, having only churned out 500 words for the latest chapter of your story since you first sat down.

Three hours ago.  

You push away from your desk with a sigh rushing past your lips. Slide into your fuzzy slippers, the faux fur a stark contrast to your medallion rug. Your boyfriend on your left eyes you from his peripheral. Engulfed in a round of Black Ops, fiddling with his controller. But Kyojuro tugs his headset away from an ear to ask if you are “all right, darling?” Still keeps his vision plastered on the 65-inch screen mounted overhead.

You give him a half-hearted smile. Drop your shoulders. Peel yourself from the comfort of your gaming chair. “I’m good.” You give his arm a reassuring squeeze. Hate it when he worries about you. He has his own set of issues to deal with, so you don’t want to add to his load.

You yawn and stretch. Joints pop and click. A bottle of Los Osos Merlot calls your name from the freezer. Maybe it’ll help assuage your nerves and melt away whatever’s corking your creative flow.

Your kitchen is dimly lit. Polluted by the yellow, fluorescent stove light whilst you pour yourself some wine. The bulbed glass is crisp in your palm, much like the air circulating through your home. Before you can haul yourself back to your computer, the faint gleam of your hookah beckons you from the corner of your eye.

A little shisha in your system might aid in getting your artistic juices flowing again.

The most time-consuming part is heating up the coals. Coconut. Last a lot longer than standard charcoal, so they’re worth the wait. You drop two in the burner, turning the knob up to get them started. In the meantime, you gather the necessary parts for your hookah. Kyojuro watches with inquisitive brows while you set it up in the midst of your office-slash-game room, closest to the futon—an excellent addition for power naps, lounging, and other miscellaneous activities.

“Taking a break?” the blond asks, having swiveled around in his chair to observe you.

“Mmhmm,” comes your simple response. “Ran outta ideas, so I’m just gonna chill.”

Kyojuro hums, replacing his attention on the T.V. after stating, “take all the time you need then, darling.”

You disappear into the inky hallway. Soon after, return with coal clutched in a small set of silver tongs. The charcoal glimmers an intimidating orange, mirroring the LED lights coloring your office. You place them atop the bowl. Flop down onto the couch after sliding out of your house shoes. Wine glass in one hand, phone in the other, you queue up a playlist on Spotify made for occasions like this.  

Your boyfriend’s sporadic chuckles and praise provide comforting background noise while you sip and unwind. Swipe through your Newsfeed, nothing piquing your interest. You watch over Kyojuro’s shoulder as he gets a multitude of kills. Straight headshots. His back must hurt, carrying his team like that. Time passes like the slow drag of a tide. There’s a subtle purr in your limbs, the merlot working dutifully to put you at ease.

Finally, your pipe finds your fingers. You take a couple puffs to get the shisha going. Opt for slower drags once it’s heated up. The sharp taste of mint and delicate watermelon flavor duel for custody of your tastebuds. As you exhale, a plume of smoke flows from your nostrils, permeating the air with its saccharine scent. You feel a bit more relaxed now. Lean back into the cushions, a sloppy grin plastered on your face.

The fruity aroma attracts your boyfriend. He places his headset down on the desk. Maneuvers himself to sit beside you, thighs touching, shoulder to shoulder. He pats your quad with a virile hand. Scorches through the thick fabric of your sweats while he works out the kinks in your muscles with lithesome fingers.

You lock eyes for a moment. Ingest Kyojuro’s incandescent embers that crinkle with amusement. Wordless. You offer him a hose. Watch with heavy lids whilst he partakes. He rarely smokes, but he’ll sometimes indulge for you.

You’re both enraptured by the music spilling from your speakers. By the strip lights adorning the underside of your desk, shifting colors in tandem with the music. Both of you succumb to the effects of tobacco. Everything becomes a muddled mess to your senses. You’ve lost track of time; somehow dozed off amid sipping and puffing until your bladder makes its presence known.

“Gotta pee,” you say, shooting up, your boyfriend’s tired optics trained on you. You stood a little too quickly. Nicotine’s thrown you off kilter and has you laughing like a lunatic, floundering toward the bathroom.

When you return, well…

There is no mistaking the fervorous light in his eye.

The door clicks shut behind. You lean against it, heart thudding dully in your chest. Kyojuro stares at you with the voracity of a wolf, pupils dilating. Sitting back on the futon, arm draped across the headrest, legs splayed wide in relaxation. A smirk takes possession of his lips. Irises a striking shade of amber, piercing through the pulsating lights. Your boyfriend’s gaze flits southward, ceasing at the rim of your sweatpants. You swallow. All weak-kneed and squeezing your thighs together to ward off the inferno toiling between them.

“Take them off,” Kyojuro instructs. Voice crackles like a gentle hearth fire, though you taste its sinister undercurrents. You’ve slipped your pants down to your ankles without a second thought. Step out of the offending article before he rasps another request when you make a move to sit down.

“Panties too, darling.”

A shiver wracks your body at his timbre. You’ve fucked numerous times, but it always feels like the first with him.

Your satin underwear is soft as it glides down your calves, pooling at your feet. Kyojuro summons you with a thick, curled finger. Pats the space beside him for you to take a seat. And you acquiesce, body moving of its own volition. Take up your pipe again with a shaky hand, feeling his eyes drink you in with the thirst of a man deprived of nourishment for eons.

Kyojuro moves without warning. Amidst a smooth drag of your hookah. Sends you into a coughing fit because of his swiftness. He kneels before you once you’ve quietened down. Encourages your luscious thighs apart, planting your feet flat on the futon. His eyes gloss with lust whilst he cups your bottom, scooting you to the edge. The shine of his irises echoes that of your pussy, wetness coasting down the cleft of your ass.

“What are you doing?” you murmur behind a cloud of smoke. Release a flurry of giggles when hot puffs of air sear your inner thigh. Kyojuro shackles your ankles with firm hands. Kisses the space just shy of your labia, causing your breath to hitch. He captures your eyesight with drunken lids. Presses a modulated kiss to your pretty, plump pussy lips. Invokes a whimper from you, accompanied by a jolt of your hips.

“I thought I might provide you with a little…inspiration.”

And inspire he does.

Kyojuro wastes no time getting to work betwixt your thighs, working your pussy lips apart with a devious tongue. Starts with slow, rhythmic strokes that have your nails scraping against the cushions. Your pelvis surges off the couch in pursuit of his mouth. He follows up with a long swipe that covers the span of your cunt, from your fluttering entrance to the hood of your clitoris. Like you’re an ice cream cone, and he can’t get enough. “Mmm, umai,” he sings into your slobbering sex.

Pleasure flickers in the pit of your belly. You toss your head back, allowing your eyes to fall shut. Kyojuro’s name fleets from your lips in broken syllables, to which he answers with a heady chuckle.

You thread your fingers in his silken locks. Pull him closer, throwing your feet up onto his shoulders. He hits your clit with a succession of quick vertical and diagonal strokes, filling the room with obscene slurps. Laps you into delirium until your blood’s thumping in your throat. Until light spots dance behind your lids. You’re incredibly sensitive, the attention to your clitoris making you keen like a wounded animal. He alternates between fervent and deliberate strokes. Groans into your pussy as if you’re the most delectable thing to ever grace his tongue. Your thighs quake with each swipe. Pelvis lurches with each curl of his tongue. You’re not sure how much longer you will last.

You’re suddenly pushing against his shoulders, incredibly overstimulated.

“K-Kyo, baby, mmm…w-wait, stop!”

He doesn’t, chasing after your cunt like a beast in heat. Holds your legs further apart, only taking a break to ask, “did you cum, baby?” Kyojuro proceeds to dip his tongue into your entrance for a taste. Hums into your delicate pussy, the vibrations of his voice sending you into a frenzy.

“N-no,” you intone, trying to wriggle free, twisting your head. Though your boyfriend’s mouth does terribly distracting things between your legs, you.

Need.

More.

Need to be filled to the brim with something only he can give.

As if sensing your thoughts, Kyojuro tears himself away from your bewitching cunt. Blisters your inner thighs with kisses, gaze interlocking with yours. Chuckles, dark and syrupy whilst stroking your calves, “tell me what you want then, baby.”

You bite your lip. Swallow your resolve. He’s really going to make you say it, isn’t he?

“Please fuck me, Kyo,” you murmur, making his dick jump behind his sweatpants.

If not for the wine and shisha coursing through your system, you would surely blush at the cocksure grin he tosses you.

“Atta’ girl.”

The transition from the futon to the floor is seamless.

You’re wading through molasses. So far gone, you hadn’t registered when your boyfriend picked you up. When your legs wound about his hips, or when he’d lain you into the soft, low pile rug. Just notice the sexy smirk donning his face and the insatiable luster of his eyes.

His sweatpants already discarded. Dick at full mast. This man means business. Saliva puddles in your gullet at the thought of him fucking you into disorientation. You watch through a vignette as his dick slaps against his tanned abs. Want to sip up the bead of precum oozing from his slit.

Fuck.

Kyojuro chortles, tearing his hoodie off his shoulders. Bows down, mouth panning in to lure your own into a succulent kiss. You’re helpless as he coaxes your tongue into a battle of wills. Exchanges the spicy tang of your pussy juice for your pitiful whines. He presses his body weight into you, shaft gliding against your labia whilst he settles himself between your thighs. How badly you want him buried in your pussy, driving you to euphoria.

Thankfully, he doesn’t make you wait long.

Dexterous fingers snake around your wrists. Drag your arms overhead to ensnare them in a powerful grip. And, oh fuck, when Kyojuro taps his heavy cock against your pulsating clit, fireworks soar across your vision. Once, twice. Sticky sounds pervade the atmosphere, making you bite your lip with anticipation gushing through your veins.  

Kyojuro growls as he enters you. The bulbous head of his cock awakens those vulnerable nerve endings at the roof of your pussy. He first hits you with shallow thrusts. Relentless snaps of his hips. Barely penetrates you, lingering, loitering. Pushes you into hysteria because he knows you’re most sensitive just a few inches in. Fuck, you need more, or you might just explode.

You’ve had enough of this torture. You ensnare Kyojuro’s hips with your legs in a vice grip that binds him to you. His saturated abs imprint themselves on your doughy stomach. You dig your heels into the small of his back, forcing his dick deeper. You moan in tandem; the union of your bodies and his cock stretching you so deliciously sends electrical currents surging to all your erogenous zones. Kyojuro’s face contorts with bliss. Brows furrowed, breaths labored. His grip on your wrists slackens. You whimper into his open mouth when he draws his pelvis back until just the tip sits in your weeping cunt. He then pistons his hips back into you, operating like a well-oiled machine.

You pitch your hips toward him to meet him, his pelvic bone kissing your clit. Your pelvis stutters from the contact. Eyes roll into the back of your head, a sticky thread of saliva spilling down your cheek. Pussy flutters, greedily sucking him in. He fucks you into the carpet. Would probably burn your silhouette into the rug with how frantic his thrusts are. Kyojuro curls five thick digits around your throat. Applies just enough pressure with his free hand to accelerate your heartbeat and pilfer your breaths.

“You love this dick, don’t you?” Kyojuro croons. Tries to play it cool even though he’s slowly unraveling overtop you. You fucking adore it when he talks dirty to you. Whispers vulgarities into your ear; a complete contrast to the man he was minutes ago. To the persona he wears daily, reserving the gluttonous brute he truly is for you only. But you can’t answer, his hand squeezing your neck as he hastens his pace. A tingling sensation brewing in your gut. Too much for you to bear.

The sound of your fucking clings to the air. Skin slapping and squelching. Your breaths come out choppy, mirroring his harsh thrusts. Mixed in with the potent aroma of your fluids melding together.    

“Fuck me fuck me fuck me,” you cry. Feel your juices glide down your supple thighs.

“With pleasure, darling,” he answers. Based on his shift in tone, you know that you are in for more than what you bargained for.

By now, Kyojuro’s relinquished his hold on your wrists. Takes to cupping your ass to improve the angle, grazing the sensitive, fleshy spot within that makes your pussy churn out more cream. You can do nothing but take it whilst he plunges into you with erratic motions. You cross your arms behind his neck, holding on for dear life as he buries his chin into the junction of your shoulder, chasing both of your releases. And then, the son of a bitch reaches between your bodies to pinch your swelling clit, giving your body precisely what it’s been aching for.

Even has the nerve to mutter, “cum for me, baby,” sending you careening over the edge.

A kaleidoscope of colors soaks your vision. Body rigid, his name caught in your throat. Euphoria crashes into you like a tumultuous wave. He fucks you through them. Admires the rich band of your lubricant glazing his straining cock. He’s dragged into his orgasm after feeling your pussy pulsate around him. Collapses down into your open arms, breathing irregularly into your shoulder. You take to tracing the chiseled muscles in his back, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking, admiring how perfectly his body molds to yours. When you’ve both settled down, he unsheathes, a sharp hiss tearing past his lips at the loss of your opulent heat. He turns onto his back beside you, a decadent chuckle vibrating his chest.  

“Inspired enough?” Kyojuro queries, mirth lingering in his tired voice.

You roll your eyes and cluck your tongue. Like he doesn’t already know the answer. A humble smile adorns your lips, nonetheless. And you nod, glancing at your snoozed laptop atop the desk. Your gaze flits back to the Adonis beside you. Mischievousness burbling forth in your veins.

Kyojuro gasps when you roll on top of him. When you grind your overworked, yet still drenched, cunt onto his steadily hardening shaft.

“A little,” you whisper, leaning down for a kiss. “Might need some more motivation, though. To get me through this particular scene.”

Masterlist

#rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro rengoku #my works #kyojuro smut #rengoku smut #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kny reader insert #kny fanfic #self indulgent #rengoku demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic

[mariacallous]

Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s longest-reigning post-World War II leader, wanted nothing more than for people to love him. Whether he was on the global stage or the stage of the cruise ship where he first worked as a singer, the former Italian prime minister, who died Monday at 86, was always working the crowd in a desperate search for approval.

Though Berlusconi officially left politics in a black limousine in November 2011—delivering his resignation to Italian President Giorgio Napolitano in Rome’s Quirinale Palace—he remained highly influential as a political powerbroker until his death.

It was a confidence vote over tax fraud allegations that forced his departure from office. After resigning, the former statesman sat slumped in the back of his dark limo as his driver slalomed through unfriendly crowds that lined the route to his tony villa, the Piazza Venezia. Spectators popped champagne corks in his direction, threw coins, and spat at his car yelling profanities and calling him a mafioso and a thief. A small ensemble played the “Hallelujah” chorus from George Frideric Handel’s “Messiah.” It was a spectacle only Italians could pull off with such flair.

Another government collapse meant little in Italy, but there was something spectacular about Berlusconi’s fall from grace. The “Teflon Don,” as he had been known before finally being ousted, was tarnished by a sex scandal in 2010 involving then-17-year-old dancer Karima El Mahroug, whose stage name was “Ruby Rubacuori” (Ruby Heartbreaker). Berlusconi had sprung her from a Milan police station after she called one of his assistants, who was aware that Ruby knew a lot more than most young women in Berlusconi’s lewd circle. The Ruby scandal started with Berlusconi’s office calling the Milan police station to say the young woman in question was Egyptian leader Hosni Mubarak’s granddaughter, which she was not. What she was, though, was a regular fixture in the “Bunga Bunga” parties the prime minister, also known as “Il Cavaliere” (The Knight), held in the basement of his Villa Arcore near Milan.

Women who participated in the soirees during nights of lap dancing for Berlusconi cronies—including strippers costumed as nuns, popes, and former U.S. President Barack Obama—told the courts during many investigations into Berlusconi that they were handed envelopes with cash and little gold necklaces with butterflies on them as payment at the end of each party.

By this time, Berlusconi had already been accused of what in most countries would be full-blown sex scandals but which are in Italy, for reasons not entirely clear, often empowering. Ruby was somehow different, however, not least because she was under the age of 18. The age of consent in Italy is 16, but the age of legal prostitution is 18, and she was—in the eyes of the law—prostituting herself to Berlusconi and his cronies. His defense was that she misled him about her age.

Berlusconi apparently learned the name “Bunga Bunga” from the late Libyan leader Muammar al-Qaddafi, who often pitched his Bedouin tents in some of Rome’s most lavish gardens on state visits and who was himself accused of abducting underage girls and holding them captive as sex slaves. The two leaders had an unusually close relationship, which led to Berlusconi signing a treaty in 2008 that funneled $5 billion to the North African nation to compensate for Italy’s colonization. In return, Qaddafi stopped the flow of African migrants crossing the Mediterranean Sea from Libya, while warning he could again “turn on the spigot and turn Europe black.” Berlusconi’s face even graced Libyan passports in the years before Qaddafi was killed during Libya’s civil war.

Berlusconi’s legacy ebbed and flowed as those he chose to embrace rose or fell into disgrace. He was considered U.S. President George W. Bush’s “second-best European friend” and stood up for U.S. President Bill Clinton when he was found to have had a sexual relationship with White House intern Monica Lewinsky. But it was his relationship with Russian President Vladimir Putin that would prove his most difficult and most damaging.

The two men made headlines when an escort wrote in her 2008 tell-all book that she had sex with Berlusconi in his Rome residence on a four-poster bed he referred to as “Putin’s bed.” The white bed, which she described as “having curtains at the top,” was almost certainly a wink-wink gift from one self-considered stud to another. In exchange, Berlusconi gave Putin a comforter cover featuring a real photo of the two men shaking hands and smiling ear-to-ear.

When Russia invaded Ukraine, it took Berlusconi more than a month to condemn the friend with whom he often shared his holiday homes in Sardinia, spawning an enclave for Russian oligarchs. Shortly after the war began, he told reporters that he thought “Europe must make a peace proposal, trying to get the Ukrainians to accept Putin’s demands.” He finally admitted his old friend Vlad was wrong, saying he was “disappointed and saddened” by his actions.

Not unlike former U.S. President Donald Trump—another “Teflon Don” to whom Berlusconi hated being compared—Berlusconi was the first Italian prime minister to lead the country without ever having served as an elected official. Though the two men shared similar styles, Berlusconi was a highly educated man whose grasp on geopolitics was impressive.

During an interview that former Newsweek foreign editor Christopher Dickey and I did with Berlusconi at his palatial Roman abode, he was flanked by aides and assistants he could have called on to answer any question. Instead, he spoke knowledgeably about Middle Eastern politics, named leaders from far-flung countries, provided insights on U.S. political debates, and gave us a read on nearly every country in Europe—how their leaders were faring and what the biggest geopolitical issues were at the time—all while his aides were left to chew idly on their croissants.

Berlusconi was born to a bank employee and a housewife in 1936. He would spend years taking his mother Rosa with him to meet world leaders, and she was often at his side at state dinners. She died in 2008. His sister Maria Francesca Antonietta died a year after their mother, and his brother and sometimes business partner Paolo is often in the sights of financial police.

One of his first jobs was as a vacuum salesman, and he moonlighted as a cruise ship singer throughout the 1960s. Later in life, between political successes, he wrote songs and published albums of Neapolitan ballads that are still widely played across Italy.

He graduated with honors from law school in 1961 and married his first wife, Carla Elvira Dall’Oglio, in 1965. Though they would divorce, she is perhaps the only woman who never told the tabloids anything about their relationship. She was maintained financially throughout her life, given a monthly alimony payment that has never been made public but which was apparently enough to keep her from succumbing to the barrage of media requests asking her to talk about her ex. The children he had with her, Marina and Pier Silvio, played crucial roles in his extensive media and real estate investments.

In the 1980s, Berlusconi married his second wife, Veronica Lario, with whom he fell in love (by his own account, during his interview with me and Dickey) when she performed topless at a dance in Milan. He went on to have three children with her (Barbara in 1984, Eleonora in 1986, and Luigi in 1988). They divorced amid spectacular scandal in 2009, when she announced in an op-ed for a left-leaning newspaper that she was leaving him because he “consorts with minors.” He was ordered to pay her an annual alimony of $48 million to maintain the lifestyle he had created for her. By then, Berlusconi was a billionaire many times over.

Berlusconi started his real estate business with a housing development for young professionals in Milan’s smartest suburb, aiming to create a posh enclave for a lifestyle-driven clientele. The money for his initial investment remained of questionable origin until his death, with many prosecutors unsuccessfully trying to prove it was driven by the mafia.

He went on to build a media empire off his real estate profits and was the first to introduce American-style sitcoms to Italian audiences through his first television networks, including Telemilano, which he launched in 1974, and Canale 5, which he started in 1980. He created what is now Italy’s largest commercial broadcaster, Mediaset, importing American programs including “General Hospital” and “Dallas,” with which he was obsessed. But he also introduced rampant sexism with programs featuring scantily-clad women pandering to older men—the women rarely spoke beyond introducing commercial breaks or replying that they didn’t know the answer to a question to open up a segment—a style of TV that persists today and which is blamed in part for the country’s strong patriarchal grip on society.

He continued to invest substantial profits in real estate, publishing, commercial stores, and the AC Milan soccer club, which he runs under the umbrella group Fininvest. That group includes more than 150 businesses and has been the target of perhaps as many investigations, trials, and fines for creative bookkeeping.

Seizing on Italy’s obsession with sports, Berlusconi launched his own political party in 1994 called “Forza Italia” (Forward Italy), the cry Italian fans yell at the World Cup and national competitions. He went on to serve three times as prime minister: from May 1994 to January 1995, from June 2001 to May 2006, and from May 2008 to November 2011.

His tenure was peppered by tax fraud accusations, sex scandals, whispers of mafia involvement, and gaffes. He was convicted of bribery, tax evasion, and having sex with an underage call girl—convictions that mostly were overturned during Italy’s generous appellate process. At least twice, his eventual acquittals were the result of his own government changing the laws. In 2014, he served community service for a tax fraud conviction the previous year.

Berlusconi frequently said he had done more for women than anyone else in Italy, including appointing a former topless Perilli calendar model as his minister of equal opportunity. But as much of the rest of the world moved to equalize salaries and combat blatant sexism, Italy remains demonstrably far behind most developed countries. Italy consistently scores low in the World Economic Forum’s annual gender report, with fewer women managers and decision makers than other European countries and extremely low paternity leave benefits, suggesting women are the main caretakers for children.

Berlusconi suffered several health issues, including heart problems that kept him in and out of the hospital—this often happened when he had a trial date for one of his many cases on appeal—and he suffered serious COVID-19 symptoms early in the pandemic. He also suffered multiple lacerations and a fractured nose when someone threw a souvenir statue of the Milan Duomo at him in 2009 as he signed autographs at a campaign rally. In April 2023, he was diagnosed with leukemia.

Yet he remained a powerful figure until the end, even winning a seat in the Italian Senate in 2022. But he will likely be remembered most for his gaffes and scandals, including when he famously called German Chancellor Angela Merkel “unfuckable” on a hot mic and publicly called Obama’s Black skin a “tan.”

Some of his adoring followers called for a state funeral long before he died. His foes blamed him for Italy’s ruinous economic state and hard-to-deny struggle with following rules. For many, it might be tempting to think of him as a pathetic joke, but he was far too wealthy and powerful for that.

[playitagin]

1954 – Machine Gun Kelly

George Kelly Barnes (July 17, 1900[1][2] – July 18, 1954),[3] better known by his pseudonym "Machine Gun Kelly", was an American gangster from Memphis, Tennessee, active during the Prohibition era. His nickname came from his favorite weapon, a Thompson submachine gun. He is best known for the kidnapping of oil tycoon and businessman Charles F. Urschel in July 1933, from which he and his gang collected a $200,000 ransom.[4] Urschel had collected and left considerable evidence that assisted the subsequent FBI investigation, which eventually led to Kelly's arrest in Memphis on September 26, 1933.[3] His crimes also included bootlegging and armed robbery.

Machine Gun Kelly spent his remaining 21 years in prison. During his time at Alcatraz, he got the nickname "Pop Gun Kelly." According to fellow inmate Dale Stamphill, the nickname originated because, "He told big fish stories. The cons called him ‘Pop Gun Kelly’ after cork guns that were popular with kids...the guys didn’t take him seriously...." This may have stemmed from the fact that, in addition to his exaggerated tall tales, Kelly was a model prisoner and did not act like the brutal gangster his wife, the media, and FBI had made him out to be.[18][19][20][21] He spent 17 years on Alcatraz as inmate number 117, working in the prison industries, continuing to boast and exaggerate his past escapades to other inmates, and was quietly transferred back to Leavenworth in 1951. He died of a heart attack at Leavenworth on July 18, 1954, the day after his 54th birthday, and was buried at Cottondale Texas Cemetery in Kathryn Kelly's stepfather's family plot[22][23] with a small headstone marked "George B. Kelley 1954".

#Jul.18.1954 #date of death #Machine Gun Kelly #American gangster #history today

[fetchmearum420]

How 1776 characters would react to you asking them how they are:

John Adams: ah well. I have come to the conclusion that one useless man is called a disgrace, that two are called a law firm, and that three or more become a congress. And by God, I have had this Congress! For ten years King George and his Parliament have gulled, cullied, and diddled these Colonies with their illegal taxes--Stamp Acts, Townshend Acts, Sugar Acts, Tea Acts--and when we dared stand up like men they stopped our trade, seized our ships, block- aded our ports, burned our towns, and spilled our blood- and still this Congress won't grant any of my proposals on Independence even so much as the courtesy of open debate! Good God, what in hell are they waiting for? Oh, how about you?

Benjamin Franklin: I am fine, just sitting here being preserved for posterity. And yourself?

Thomas Jefferson: I’m alright, just missing my wife. And you?

John Dickinson: I want to fucking kill John Adams that’s how I am.

John Hancock: I’m fed up with this damn congress. FUCK NEW YORK! How about you?

Charles Thompson: I can’t read through the resolution without an interruption :(

Edward Rutledge: I WAS annoyed, but now I’m happy cuz I got my way.

James Wilson: I’m sad because I don’t think Johns in love with me :(

Dr. Lyman Hall: I’m doing well, thank you. And you?

Stephen Hopkins: can you get me a rum before I tell you?

Roger Sherman: I’m angry cuz there isn’t anymore coffee :(

John Witherspoon: I am doing extremely well my dear friend. And what about you?

Richard Henry Lee: I AM DOING GLAD-LEE AND I AM HAPPI-LEE ACCEPTING THE POSITION OF GOVERNOR IN VIRGINIA! And you darling?

Thomas McKean: What do you mean man? Can’t you see I am bloody depressed by Washington’s stupid dispatches?

Caesar Rodney: *is dead*

George Read: NO NO NO!!!

Samuel Chase: Don’t ask me this while I’m eating!

Josiah Bartlett: I banned all horse racing and gambling so I’m happy. And you?

Lewis Morris: I abstain, courteously because I don’t know how to answer that. But I guess I’m sad.

Andrew McNair: Sweet Jesus I’m annoyed with everyone.

Robert Livingston: MY WIFE JUST HAD A SON SO I AM GOING HOME TO CELEBRATE AND POP A CORK WITH ALL THE LIVINGSTONS TOGETHER BACK IN OLD NEW YORK!

Courier: Momma can’t find me here :(

Abigail Adams: Oh thank you for asking, I’m doing just fine. How about you?

Martha Jefferson: I’m afraid I’m not feeling too well, but thanks for asking.

Joseph Hewes: I want to go fishing.

Leather apron: *can’t speak*

BONUS:

George Washington: I have been in expectation of receiving a reply, on the subject of my last 15 dispatches. Is anybody there? Does anybody care? Does anybody care?

#1776 musical #I tried to make these as accurate as possible #you know I had to do the opening lines for John Adams #too iconic ngl #american revolution

[xtruss]

Obituary: The Scandalous Life and Career of Silvio Berlusconi

The Former Italian Leader Loved Topless Women and Vladimir Putin but Hated Being Compared to Donald Trump.

— June 12, 2023 | By Barbie Latza Nadeau | Foreign Policy

Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi arrives for a news conference at the Chigi Palace in Rome on May 26, 2010. Alberto Pizzou/AFP Via Getty Images

Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s longest-reigning post-World War II leader, wanted nothing more than for people to love him. Whether he was on the global stage or the stage of the cruise ship where he first worked as a singer, the former Italian prime minister, who died Monday at 86, was always working the crowd in a desperate search for approval.

Though Berlusconi officially left politics in a black limousine in November 2011—delivering his resignation to Italian President Giorgio Napolitano in Rome’s Quirinale Palace—he remained highly influential as a political powerbroker until his death.

It was a confidence vote over tax fraud allegations that forced his departure from office. After resigning, the former statesman sat slumped in the back of his dark limo as his driver slalomed through unfriendly crowds that lined the route to his tony villa, the Piazza Venezia. Spectators popped champagne corks in his direction, threw coins, and spat at his car yelling profanities and calling him a mafioso and a thief. A small ensemble played the “Hallelujah” chorus from George Frideric Handel’s “Messiah.” It was a spectacle only Italians could pull off with such flair.

Berlusconi mingles with supporters during a rally for his Forza Italia party in Rome on Feb. 6, 1994. Franco Origlia/Getty Images

Another government collapse meant little in Italy, but there was something spectacular about Berlusconi’s fall from grace. The “Teflon Don,” as he had been known before finally being ousted, was tarnished by a sex scandal in 2010 involving then-17-year-old dancer Karima El Mahroug, whose stage name was “Ruby Rubacuori” (Ruby Heartbreaker). Berlusconi had sprung her from a Milan police station after she called one of his assistants, who was aware that Ruby knew a lot more than most young women in Berlusconi’s lewd circle. The Ruby scandal started with Berlusconi’s office calling the Milan police station to say the young woman in question was Egyptian leader Hosni Mubarak’s granddaughter, which she was not. What she was, though, was a regular fixture in the “Bunga Bunga” parties the prime minister, also known as “Il Cavaliere” (The Knight), held in the basement of his Villa Arcore near Milan.

Women who participated in the soirees during nights of lap dancing for Berlusconi cronies—including strippers costumed as nuns, popes, and former U.S. President Barack Obama—told the courts during many investigations into Berlusconi that they were handed envelopes with cash and little gold necklaces with butterflies on them as payment at the end of each party.

By this time, Berlusconi had already been accused of what in most countries would be full-blown sex scandals but which are in Italy, for reasons not entirely clear, often empowering. Ruby was somehow different, however, not least because she was under the age of 18. The age of consent in Italy is 16, but the age of legal prostitution is 18, and she was—in the eyes of the law—prostituting herself to Berlusconi and his cronies. His defense was that she misled him about her age.

Berlusconi apparently learned the name “Bunga Bunga” from the late Libyan leader Muammar al-Qaddafi, who often pitched his Bedouin tents in some of Rome’s most lavish gardens on state visits and who was himself accused of abducting underage girls and holding them captive as sex slaves. The two leaders had an unusually close relationship, which led to Berlusconi signing a treaty in 2008 that funneled $5 billion to the North African nation to compensate for Italy’s colonization. In return, Qaddafi stopped the flow of African migrants crossing the Mediterranean Sea from Libya, while warning he could again “turn on the spigot and turn Europe black.” Berlusconi’s face even graced Libyan passports in the years before Qaddafi was killed during Libya’s civil war.

Then-Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin and Berlusconi confer during a news conference at Villa Gernetto in Lesmo, Italy, on April 26, 2010. Vittorio Zunino Celotto/Getty Images

Berlusconi’s legacy ebbed and flowed as those he chose to embrace rose or fell into disgrace. He was considered U.S. President George W. Bush’s “second-best European friend” and stood up for U.S. President Bill Clinton when he was found to have had a sexual relationship with White House intern Monica Lewinsky. But it was his relationship with Russian President Vladimir Putin that would prove his most difficult and most damaging.

The two men made headlines when an escort wrote in her 2008 tell-all book that she had sex with Berlusconi in his Rome residence on a four-poster bed he referred to as “Putin’s bed.” The white bed, which she described as “having curtains at the top,” was almost certainly a wink-wink gift from one self-considered stud to another. In exchange, Berlusconi gave Putin a comforter cover featuring a real photo of the two men shaking hands and smiling ear-to-ear.

When Russia invaded Ukraine, it took Berlusconi more than a month to condemn the friend with whom he often shared his holiday homes in Sardinia, spawning an enclave for Russian oligarchs. Shortly after the war began, he told reporters that he thought “Europe must make a peace proposal, trying to get the Ukrainians to accept Putin’s demands.” He finally admitted his old friend Vlad was wrong, saying he was “disappointed and saddened” by his actions.

Not unlike former U.S. President Donald Trump—another “Teflon Don” to whom Berlusconi hated being compared—Berlusconi was the first Italian prime minister to lead the country without ever having served as an elected official. Though the two men shared similar styles, Berlusconi was a highly educated man whose grasp on geopolitics was impressive.

During an interview that former Newsweek foreign editor Christopher Dickey and I did with Berlusconi at his palatial Roman abode, he was flanked by aides and assistants he could have called on to answer any question. Instead, he spoke knowledgeably about Middle Eastern politics, named leaders from far-flung countries, provided insights on U.S. political debates, and gave us a read on nearly every country in Europe—how their leaders were faring and what the biggest geopolitical issues were at the time—all while his aides were left to chew idly on their croissants.

A young Berlusconi with his children (from left) Barbara, Luigi, and Eleonora in his villa near Milan circa 1994. Franco Origlia/Getty Images

Berlusconi was born to a bank employee and a housewife in 1936. He would spend years taking his mother Rosa with him to meet world leaders, and she was often at his side at state dinners. She died in 2008. His sister Maria Francesca Antonietta died a year after their mother, and his brother and sometimes business partner Paolo is often in the sights of financial police.

One of his first jobs was as a vacuum salesman, and he moonlighted as a cruise ship singer throughout the 1960s. Later in life, between political successes, he wrote songs and published albums of Neapolitan ballads that are still widely played across Italy.

He graduated with honors from law school in 1961 and married his first wife, Carla Elvira Dall’Oglio, in 1965. Though they would divorce, she is perhaps the only woman who never told the tabloids anything about their relationship. She was maintained financially throughout her life, given a monthly alimony payment that has never been made public but which was apparently enough to keep her from succumbing to the barrage of media requests asking her to talk about her ex. The children he had with her, Marina and Pier Silvio, played crucial roles in his extensive media and real estate investments.

In the 1980s, Berlusconi married his second wife, Veronica Lario, with whom he fell in love (by his own account, during his interview with me and Dickey) when she performed topless at a dance in Milan. He went on to have three children with her (Barbara in 1984, Eleonora in 1986, and Luigi in 1988). They divorced amid spectacular scandal in 2009, when she announced in an op-ed for a left-leaning newspaper that she was leaving him because he “consorts with minors.” He was ordered to pay her an annual alimony of $48 million to maintain the lifestyle he had created for her. By then, Berlusconi was a billionaire many times over.

Berlusconi at the beach in Hammamet, Tunisia, in August 1984. Umberto Cicconi/Getty Images

Berlusconi started his real estate business with a housing development for young professionals in Milan’s smartest suburb, aiming to create a posh enclave for a lifestyle-driven clientele. The money for his initial investment remained of questionable origin until his death, with many prosecutors unsuccessfully trying to prove it was driven by the mafia.

He went on to build a media empire off his real estate profits and was the first to introduce American-style sitcoms to Italian audiences through his first television networks, including Telemilano, which he launched in 1974, and Canale 5, which he started in 1980. He created what is now Italy’s largest commercial broadcaster, Mediaset, importing American programs including “General Hospital” and “Dallas,” with which he was obsessed. But he also introduced rampant sexism with programs featuring scantily-clad women pandering to older men—the women rarely spoke beyond introducing commercial breaks or replying that they didn’t know the answer to a question to open up a segment—a style of TV that persists today and which is blamed in part for the country’s strong patriarchal grip on society.

He continued to invest substantial profits in real estate, publishing, commercial stores, and the AC Milan soccer club, which he runs under the umbrella group Fininvest. That group includes more than 150 businesses and has been the target of perhaps as many investigations, trials, and fines for creative bookkeeping.

Seizing on Italy’s obsession with sports, Berlusconi launched his own political party in 1994 called “Forza Italia” (Forward Italy), the cry Italian fans yell at the World Cup and national competitions. He went on to serve three times as prime minister: from May 1994 to January 1995, from June 2001 to May 2006, and from May 2008 to November 2011.

His tenure was peppered by tax fraud accusations, sex scandals, whispers of mafia involvement, and gaffes. He was convicted of bribery, tax evasion, and having sex with an underage call girl—convictions that mostly were overturned during Italy’s generous appellate process. At least twice, his eventual acquittals were the result of his own government changing the laws. In 2014, he served community service for a tax fraud conviction the previous year.

Berlusconi takes off his face mask to address the media as he leaves San Raffaele Hospital in Milan on Sept. 14, 2020, after being hospitalized for COVID-19. Piero Cruciatti/AFP Via Getty Images

Berlusconi frequently said he had done more for women than anyone else in Italy, including appointing a former topless Perilli calendar model as his minister of equal opportunity. But as much of the rest of the world moved to equalize salaries and combat blatant sexism, Italy remains demonstrably far behind most developed countries. Italy consistently scores low in the World Economic Forum’s annual gender report, with fewer women managers and decision makers than other European countries and extremely low paternity leave benefits, suggesting women are the main caretakers for children.

Berlusconi suffered several health issues, including heart problems that kept him in and out of the hospital—this often happened when he had a trial date for one of his many cases on appeal—and he suffered serious COVID-19 symptoms early in the pandemic. He also suffered multiple lacerations and a fractured nose when someone threw a souvenir statue of the Milan Duomo at him in 2009 as he signed autographs at a campaign rally. In April 2023, he was diagnosed with leukemia.

Yet he remained a powerful figure until the end, even winning a seat in the Italian Senate in 2022. But he will likely be remembered most for his gaffes and scandals, including when he famously called German Chancellor Angela Merkel “unfuckable” on a hot mic and publicly called Obama’s Black skin a “tan.”

Some of his adoring followers called for a state funeral long before he died. His foes blamed him for Italy’s ruinous economic state and hard-to-deny struggle with following rules. For many, it might be tempting to think of him as a pathetic joke, but he was far too wealthy and powerful for that.

Correction, June 12, 2023: A previous version of this article misstated Berlusconi’s comparative time in office.

— Barbie Latza Nadeau is an American Journalist who has lived in Rome, Italy, since 1996. She is the author, most recently, of The Godmother: Murder, Vengeance, and the Bloody Struggle of Mafia Women.

#Obituary #Silvio Berlusconi #Italian Prime Minister #Scandalous Life #Career #Vladimir Putin #Donald J. Trump

[dragonshifter-minecraft]

Chapter 27 - Dragon’s Blood

[Previous] ~ [Next]

[Word Count: 2573]

[Content Warnings: Injury and Blood, Non-Graphic Treatment of Wound, Violence, Fear]

Dream practically kicked down the door, rushing his stricken friend to the couch before turning his thoughts towards what few healing supplies he had. Tearing off and tossing his mask and cloak aside, he ran up the stairs and into George’s room, retrieving a spare bed sheet he had, set aside. Then he ran back downstairs to retrieve his knife, and he hurriedly began slicing the fabric into ribbons. He didn’t have much in the way of traditional bandages, so this would have to do.

“Hold on, hold on,” Dream muttered frantically, dragging the uneven mass of cut-up sheets over to the couch, before pausing a minute to think, trying to remember the standard procedure for removing an arrow from someone. If he pulled it out now, it would only bleed more, so he had to have something ready to stop the bleeding. He didn’t have a needle and thread lying around, and he couldn’t exactly cauterize the wound since Dragonshifters didn’t burn…

The answer came to him in a flash of inspiration, and he immediately bolted back over to the stairs – specifically, behind the stairs. He scanned the potion shelf beside his brewing stand, glancing at the few remaining potions he had and not seeing a single potion of regeneration. He ran over to the shelf mounted above the worktable, reaching up to grab a small bottle containing a light blue liquid that shimmered in the light – the tears of a Ghast.

He took a nether wart from the herb-filled bag at his side, and filled three glass bottles with water from the cauldron beside him. He placed them onto the hotplates of the stand, plugged in the nozzles, and finally inserted the nether wart into the top. The small amount of blaze powder remaining was enough to bring the stand roaring to life, emitting a soft bubbling sound as the bottled water was heated up and infused with an awkward mixture. Then, the man in green popped the cork from the smaller bottle in his hand and let a single drop fall from it. The strange wart-infused liquid quickly turned pink.

Dream spared a glance back at George, and felt his heart sink at the sight of how pale he looked – he couldn’t tell if it was from blood loss, shock, or both. Hurriedly, the slayer retrieved another small bottle from the shelf, and sprinkled a pinch of glowing dust into the top of the brewing stand. With a double-strength potion of regeneration in-hand, he rushed back over to the sofa.

As he got a second look at George’s injury, it became abundantly clear that the shirt was in the way. Dream hated to do it, but the shirt was already torn and bloodstained anyway. Using his knife, he began to cut the fabric apart. He was as quick and precise as he had been with the bed sheets lying in a heap on the floor beside him, and he was extremely careful to avoid nicking George in the process. Finally, he had cut enough to be out of the way while he attempted to patch his friend up.

“George, this is probably gonna taste terrible, but I need you to drink it,” he spoke in a rush, uncorking the bottle and shoving it towards George’s face.

“Wh…?”

“Drink it,” Dream didn’t leave any room to argue, pushing the end of the bottle against the other Dragonshifter’s lips. George reluctantly drank the potion, making a face as soon as the bottle was moved away.

“—Gah, what the hell,” he grunted weakly.

“That’ll get your system healing while I get this arrow outta you,” the man in green explained curtly, gripping the arrow with one hand, while bracing against George’s side with the other.

“Dream, w-wait, don’t—!” his voice to broke into a shrill scream as the arrow was yanked from his side.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Dream was whispering repeatedly as he pressed down on the injury with a wadded-up piece of fabric, attempting to slow the bleeding while the regeneration potion did its work.

“Dream, why?!” the other Dragonshifter wailed, his eyes tearing up from the pain.

“It had to be done sooner or later, George,” the slayer stated with a semi-humorous tone despite the situation. In response, George leaned his head back, moaning in agony.

“You… You said no one went out there,” he uttered softly.

“Someone must’ve seen us,” Dream answered, not very reassuringly. “We’ll figure it out, but not right now.”

George groaned quietly, but said nothing in response.

The man in green continued with his work, the white cloth gradually turning redder and redder. As soon as it had been almost completely saturated with blood, he wadded up another piece and set the red-soaked one aside. The second strip lasted noticeably longer than the first as the bleeding began to slow, but he knew he couldn’t waste all of these strips on stopping it.

“George, can you hold this here for a second?” Dream asked, “I’m gonna go grab another potion.”

With his friend’s hand resting securely on the wad of cloth, the man in green quickly retrieved another potion of regeneration. The fact that he’d doubled their strength meant that they didn’t last as long, but given the damage, George sorely needed it.

Dream pulled the cork from the bottle, offering the pink liquid to the other Dragonshifter as he had before. George drank it, and his face again twisted in disgust as the slayer set the bottle aside.

“It tastes like… some kind of bitter medicine mixed with salt,” he complained. The man in green laughed softly, moving his hands back towards the wad of cloth against George’s side.

“Here, I’ve got this,” he mentioned, allowing his friend to finally retract his hand, although his fingers were now ever-so-slightly reddened with blood. Dream glanced down at his own hands, where they were still pressing the fabric against the wound, and he knew they’d definitely need a hard scrubbing when he was finished.

The bleeding slowed dramatically as soon as the second potion took effect. By the time George was sitting up so Dream could properly wrap the cloth strips around his middle, the floor in front of the couch was littered with a pile of discarded bloody rags, a pair of empty glass bottles, and a single arrow with a bloodied flint tip. Meanwhile, the other Dragonshifter pulled the tattered remains of his blue shirt off, tossing them aside.

“Does that feel like it’s gonna stay on?” Dream asked as he tied off the last scrap of fabric, carefully feeling at it to make sure it was still applying a decent amount of pressure to the wound.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” George muttered, still grimacing slightly at the pain.

“This is why you don’t transform when you’re injured,” the slayer expressed firmly, “you’re lucky that arrow didn’t pierce anything vital.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” the other Dragonshifter retorted, folding his arms indignantly.

“Hey, the important thing is, you didn’t get hit that bad,” Dream offered reassuringly, stepping back. “You can recover from this. Give it a few weeks, you’ll be good as new.”

“A few weeks?”

“Eh, give or take,” the man in green shrugged noncommittally.

“That’s so loooong,” George groaned, dramatically lying back down on the couch. Dream chuckled at him.

“Yeah, and it’s not like we’re gonna go hungry soon, or anything,” he remarked sarcastically, bending down to collect the blood-soaked rags and torn-up tunic from the floor. His face turned sour as he stood up, an audible venom in his voice, “though there is one thing I have to take care of first.”

“What’s that?”

“We were followed,” Dream hissed, turning on his heel and starting toward the door. “Get some rest. I’m gonna deal with our little ‘visitor.”

As he stepped down from the porch, he chucked the bloodied bundle over the edge of the island without a second thought, starting down the path on his way to the waterfall.

“Dream!” the Enderfolk shouted at him from where he stood, still stranded on the smaller island.

The Dragonshifter said nothing, but turned his head to glare at the other slayer. He had discarded his mask and cloak inside, leaving his green-scaled face on full display with nothing to hide it. The time for secrecy and concealment was over – he was in no mood to be civil or hear what the dark-hooded slayer had to say for himself.

The worst part was the fact that Dream knew him.

Going by the curious moniker of ‘BadBoyHalo’, or ‘Bad’ for short, the Enderfolk and his two friends were about as well-known and respected in the dragon-slaying community as Dream had grown to be. Through his rare visits to the Dragon Slayers’ Guild, which brought in dragon slayers from across the continent, the Dragonshifter had met them in person and talked with them some. Hell, in a few isolated incidents, he’d even encountered the trio in his dragon form, and had been forced to fight for his life in order to get away. All put together, he knew Bad as the rational member of the group, and something of a leader. He wasn’t particularly skilled with more close-quarters combat, but he was surely a force to be reckoned with when he held a bow in his hands.

In hindsight, it was no wonder he had shot George down.

Dream looked away, continuing down the path as though he didn’t even see the stranded Enderfolk. Nor did he stop until he had reached the waterfall, where he proceeded to crouch down and plunge his bloodstained hands into the rushing water. He snarled under his breath, musing that this whole situation wouldn’t have happened if not for Bad. For several minutes, he scrubbed at his palms furiously. Blinded by rage, he rubbed at his hands and picked at his fingernails until he was certain that the only traces of red were from raw skin and not blood.

He was shaking the water from his hands as he finally stood up, slowly turning and walking back over to where he’d dropped his staff. He looked at the aged wood thoughtfully as he picked it up, contemplating which spell to use. In his anger, all he wanted to do was make Bad suffer.

“…Dream?” a shaky voice called.

Narrowed, green-slitted eyes lifted to glower at the dark-hooded slayer.

“W-What are you?!”

The Dragonshifter blinked as an idea came to him, a chilling grin spreading across his face.

He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Dream reached into the satchel at his hip, pulling out a few light blue berries with deep emerald leaves – cloud berries. Slowly, deliberately, he crushed them into a little nook in the side of the magic staff, allowing the energies stored within the small fruits to recharge one of his spells.

He gave no warning as he threw the staff forward. Another gale of wind broke forth from his staff, this one even more powerful than the last.

Bad’s stomach dropped at the sudden sensation that he was falling, and he screamed and flailed helplessly through the air as he plummeted down towards the endless void below.

A roar resounded from somewhere above him, and he stared upwards to see a bright green dragon diving swiftly towards him.

He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or not.

Clawed hands closed around his middle, and he felt the horrifying vertigo as the dragon abruptly threw out its wings to catch itself. Then, with a curt hiss, it began ascending back towards the floating islands.

Bad gripped the beast’s scaly digits frantically, holding on tightly and praying he wouldn’t fall again. His heart felt like it would burst through his chest at any moment, his whole body shuddering with fear. He could have died just then. If he’d been allowed to fall, he would have died – though as it was, he wasn’t sure that getting snatched up from the brink was much better…

Trying hard not to look down, the Enderfolk instead focused on the large island that the dragon was flying towards. In its side, he spotted a good-sized cave entrance.

Yeah, that was definitely where the beast was taking him.

As the dragon tucked in its wings to land in the cave, Bad found himself roughly dropped onto the stone floor. He grunted in pain, slowly moving to push himself up, before a green-scaled paw slammed down onto his back, pinning him and crushing the air out of his lungs for a moment. He stiffened as he felt a puff of warm breath wash over him, hearing the dragon growling above him.

“W-Wait, Dream!” he shouted desperately. “We can talk about this!”

In response, the dragon let out a long, deafening roar directly over his head. Evidently, this was not a discussion.

The beast shifted its grip, the claws of its free paw moved to hover close to his face. He let out an involuntary whimper, trying to lean his head away. Bad watched anxiously as the ivory claws drifted towards his shoulder, and then retracted ever-so-slowly while precisely pinching—wait, was that his sword?

The Enderfolk panicked, beginning to thrash against the paw that held him down. It seemed to have little effect on the dragon, who promptly cast the sword to the other side of the cave with a flick of its claws. The metal clanged terribly against the stone. Bad wasn’t dissuaded though – if he could just free himself and get some distance between them, he still had his bow. He just needed to find some way to escape the dragon’s grasp. Still pinned face-down on the ground, he could only turn his head so much, but he didn’t need to look far to see that one of the creature’s digits was very close to his face.

With glowing eyes narrowing, he promptly bit into the dragon’s scaly flesh.

A sharp bellow left the beast’s throat as it swiftly snatched its paw away, and Bad was quick to stagger upright and bolt for the side of the cave opposite from his sword. He reasoned that the dragon would most likely attempt to block him from reaching the weapon it had already taken from him, which might give him enough time to ready his bow.

Instead, and as he had pulled his bow off of his shoulder, the creature’s paw returned to deliver a blow that sent him flying into the cave wall, losing his grip on the bow entirely.

Bad’s head was throbbing from where it had connected with the wall, his ears ringing painfully as he crumpled to the floor in a daze. He felt the dragon’s paw return, rolling him over onto his back and holding him down as its other paw located his quiver full of arrows. Lacking the dexterity to remove the quiver without damaging it, the beast instead removed each arrow one-by-one, placing them in a small pile beside where it had put Bad’s sword and bow.

Finally, the dragon leaned its head closer, its glittering green eyes scanning him purposefully. The dark-hooded slayer could only stare back, having no idea what the creature had in-mind. He felt its claws tighten around his body, squeezing his arms against his sides as it lifted him up high with both front paws.

Fear seized him as he saw the dragon’s massive jaws open up beneath him.

[Author’s Note: Cutting it right there for people who don’t want to read the next little bit. I would like to point out that I wrote all of the arrow removal scene based on my own limited first aid knowledge mixed with Minecraft potion logic, and then did some supplementary research later. Technically, Dream SHOULDN’T have switched out the rags as he was trying to stop the bleeding, as that disrupts the blood clots that have already formed – instead, he should have pressed another rag on top. However, I’m leaving it as is because Dream isn’t exactly a medical expert in this story, and I don’t want to pretend like he is in the interest of medical accuracy. For the sake of argument, I’m also going to say that the potion nullified any chance of infection, because I don’t even want to TOUCH that.]

#dream team #mcyt #my writing #Dragonshifter Story #Part III #dragon!Dream

[steelfir62]

<h1>Ricochet Rabbit & Droop</h1>

I even have pics on my phone of the automotive it got here out of. I did use the fuel rail, and contours off the old motor, as the CV one was fairly rusted. The Tigers’ linebackers coach has described him countless different, but in addition more and more inventive, ways since he first arrived on campus through the summer season before the 2018 season. Rodemaker describes McClain as a funny child off the sphere.

And yes, i removed the SPOUT connector both instances. In addition to his velocity, he also has a wide range of trick bullets that he makes use of to seize criminals; some of them had issues like ropes, a bullet that separated into smaller ones, and one with hammers.

The Tigers’ linebackers coach has described him countless completely different, but in addition more and more inventive, methods since he first arrived on campus in the course of the summer earlier than the 2018 season.

The injectors on the motor are the original to the replacement motor.

So the injectors in use are the originals from your old motor that did not sit for any length of time?

Although the motor is low mileage, it did sit for sixteen yrs.

I'm normally very leery of "mechanic in a can" stuff, but at least that once it did work for me. But that final nickname has gone through an evolution just lately. The sophomore linebacker is now “Ricochet Rabbit” — or, if you wish to go by his Twitter account, “RickAshay Rabbit” — just like the cartoon sheriff from "The Magilla Gorilla Show."

When I put the motor in, I had to bypass the A.I.R. pump because it siezed up on me. All the other emmissions equipment continues to be on the car. I scanned the pc, and am only developing with codes for the THERMACTOR (A.I.R) pump. I don't know if this might be the problem, but the automotive pings like a bastard. EVERYTHING is model new from the tune up parts, the the t-stat, and anti-freeze. I checked the timing this morning with the automotive scorching, as I initially set it with the engine chilly. Either means, it's at the manufacturing facility setting if 10 BTDC.

Not relying on velocity alone to round up the rustlers and bring down the bandits, Ricochet’s trick bullets had the quality of with the ability to circle round or observe his goal, then stop mid-air, pop open and produce an object greatest suited to finish the job. Among other things, the bullets might produce a pin to puncture a hot air balloon, a cork to plug a robber’s gun or a mallet to strike his opponent on the top. Obviously using a unique brand of bullet, most of Droop-a-long’s projectiles struggled to exit his gun before dropping harmlessly to the ground. The authentic motor blew a head gasket 6 months in the past. It already had the 5 liter knock in it, and 192,XXX miles. (Btw, if you sustain the a/f level, and change the oil every 2 weeks, it will last for six mos.) Anyway, I obtained one other motor out of an 89 CV with eighty three,XXX original for $400. The motor runs good, and even gave me 25 mpg on a visit to Lake George doing 70 on the thruway, a/c full blast, and the automobile loaded with family, and baggage.

When I had the replacement motor within the storage, I pulled off the exhaust manifolds, and installed new exhaust studs. I know they may come out without a struggle, as I chased the threads with an o2 faucet, and put somewhat anti-sieze on the threads . I was serious about Seafoam, but such as you, I'm not too trusting of "fast fixes".

With the pace to outrun bullets, Ricochet created a gale of wind that pulled everything in his wake when he took off at high speed. Deputy Droop-a-lengthy, who moved at a considerably slower pace, discovered to seize hold of something stable or be deposited in a heap with different unfastened objects. Ricochet would bounce off stationary objects yelling "Bing-bing-bing!" His deputy and foil Droop-a-Long Coyote was not as quick and was very clumsy. design a bobblehead chronicled the adventures of Ricochet , a sheriff in The Wild West, and his deputy, a coyote named Droop-a-Long . While Ricochet could launch himself off random objects like a ping pong ball, Droop would always fail miserably making an attempt to duplicate the feat, often breaking a window within the process. But ultimately, the staff normally saved the day. In addition to his speed, Ricochet was known for utilizing trick bullets against his opponents (for example, a bullet that would stop in mid-flight and hover whereas hanging the unhealthy guy with an impossibly oversized mallet, or exploding after inside greater compartments of the bullet).

Clog from the converters or mufflers would are likely to make the motor run scorching, which could make it ping. So the injectors in use are the originals from your old motor that did not sit for any size of time? If it didn't ping earlier than, they should be OK. I was mostly considering should you'd used the injectors out of the JY motor, they could have glued themselves up from sitting with stale gas in them. I would check the gasoline strain although, the regulator might be sticky if its the JY motor gas rail and regulator. I'd also give that factor a Seafoam treatment to help filter out any carbon.

Ricochet Rabbit labored as a sheriff in a Western setting referred to as Hoop 'n' Holler. Unfortunately for each of them, the bear also managed to bounce off. Taking place in a Wild West setting, Ricochet Rabbit labored as a sheriff within the city of Hoop 'n' Holler. Ricochet labored as a sheriff in a Western setting called Hoop 'n' Holler, and is named the quickest sheriff within the West because of his speed. In the episode "Rapid Romance", Ricochet clearly signs an autograph for a fan utilizing the word "Ping". Ricochet Rabbit labored as a sheriff in a Western setting referred to as Hoop ‘n’ Holler. Ricochet would bounce off stationary objects yelling “Ping-ping-ping!

Ricochet Rabbit & Droop-a-long was one of three segments on the half-hour The Magilla Gorilla Show earlier than being transferred in its second season to air as a phase on Peter Potamus & His Magic Flying Balloon . Although Ricochet Rabbit aired for a 3rd season on The Peter Potamus Show, only repeats from its first two seasons were proven, as no new episodes were produced. You can grasp a voltmeter on the O2 sensor to see if its responding but the self-diagnostics are a little flakey. Oddly sufficient, when these chuck out oxygen sensor related codes, its almost never whats truly dangerous. The injectors on the motor are the original to the alternative motor. which is why I had my brother do the cleaning.

Dinson began calling nickelback and punt return Christian Tutt “Sweet Feet” this season. Some are easy, like defensive lineman Big Kat Bryant and security Smoke Monday, who are listed that way on the team’s official roster. Some observe gamers from high school, like “Freak” for linebacker Owen Pappoe. Some are obvious — “JD” works for both nook Javaris Davis and security Jeremiah Dinson.

#custom bobblehead

[justallofmyfandoms]

Revenge is best served Small

Reader x Fred Weasley

Reader x George Weasley

NO TWINCEST!!

SMUT! SMUT! SMUT!

(Just to make this less awkward on all of us, yes I am clearly going through some stuff, and yes everyone enjoys what happens to them in this, even if it's reluctantly. Nothing unconsensual. 6,486 words)

[There’s a comment on this post that perfectly summarises it: “i have no idea what just happened to me all i know is that i will never be the same after reading this” so... read at your own risk my dudes, I am so sorry]

You slam a fist into the common room desk, glaring down at your potions homework with enough anger to perform the killing curse on it. Or maybe crucio would be better, just so the homework can suffer all the same pains it's inflicting on you.

A chair at the table scraps against the floor with someone plonking themselves on it. You look up to see Fred Weasley, leaning over the desk to stare down at your paper, "Having trouble with your potions essay?" He asks, evidently just to piss you off because it's pretty obvious you were.

"Bugger off, Weasley. We can't all pay zero attention during class and still get perfect grades" you focus back on your work, but not fast enough to miss Fred's shit eating grin.

"Still mad I got a better grade on our end of semester test?"

"No!" You snap back, perhaps a little too quickly. It made the ginger chuckle. You and the twins had been good friends since first year, but it infuriated you to no end every time they got a good grade, because you just knew it was all talent and no effort.

The twin crossed his arms and leant them on the table, scooting closer to you, "Not that I don't love the look of anger on your face, but why does it annoy you so much? You've been going on about this for six years"

"It doesn't matter, I just wanna get this stupid essay over with!" you complain, throwing your quill on the desk, "Where's your brother, anyway? He said he would help me."

Fred pats your head and sighs, "Ditched by your own boyfriend? There's tragic..." You knew he was just being a prick, Fred always did enjoyed teasing you, but you hadn't seen George all day. It was beginning to worry you. Besides, you two had made it a tradition to do your potions homework together ever since third year.

"He actually sent me here to apologise. He's at tonight's party up in Ravenclaw tower. The ol' sod's drunk a bit too much to help out I'm afraid"

You sit up and frown, the anger being pushed to the back of your mind out of newfound sadness, "Oh... he could have at least told me he was going to the party..."

Fred nods sympathetically, but eventually grins and scoots closer, "In the meantime, how about a deal?" You'll be getting whiplash from all these emotions. First anger, then hurt, and now Fred was making you highly suspicious. He has that expression he gets when dreaming up a crazy plan.

"If you help me with a little scheme I've concocted, I'll help you finish your essay" he continues since the only reaction you initially gave was a squint.

"What kind of scheme?"

He drums the table, bitting back a smile that might warn you off, "I've come up with a new product idea, but in order to make it, I need a very rare ingredient that can only be found in one place"

You sigh, resting your cheek against your raised fist, "Snape's supply closet..."

He points at you like in charades, "Exactly!"

"How do I know you'll actually help me? Making a deal with you is a bit like making a deal with the devil"

"We'll get the essay done tonight!" He declares, spinning the paper to face him, and picking up a nearby quill, "Then tomorrow, you'll help me get the potion"

After a fair amount of consideration, you nod, "Alright, deal!"

"Remind me again what the plan is?" You and Fred were stood in the women's bathroom on the first floor, a bathroom you generally tried to avoid as it was occupied by a particularly annoying ghost called Moaning Myrtle. She didn't seem to be revealing herself though, which you assumed had something to do with Fred teasing her about her nickname and the... other connotations "moaning" has.

Fred took a small vial from his trouser pocket. The contents were green and bubbling, "First, I'll drink this shrinking potion, then you'll take me in your robe pocket all the way to Snape's classroom and put me on the third shelf up next to his supply closet. I'll sneak in through the hole my brother and I drilled there years ago, grab the bottle and get out!"

"You mean you and George have done this before?" you asked, watching as he set the bottle down on the edge of the sink, taking off his robe to hang it over the cubicle wall

He turned back to watch him roll the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, "Yeah, every now and then if we need tough to find ingredients"

"And what exactly do I do?"

"Well, while I'm getting the bottle, you keep an ear out for Snape, then when I get out, you grab me and the bottle, put me in your robes and bring us back here so I can have my regrowth potion" he pulls another vial out of his pocket which is red and shiny.

"Sound good" you say, while he plonks the potion back into his pocket, and pops off the cork on the shrinking one.

"Bottoms up" he says, and downs the contents. The second he does, Fred begins to shrink! His clothes, thankfully, shrink down in size with him, until finally, he was no bigger than your pinky.

"Wow!" You exclaim, squatting down, "This is super dangerous. I could step on you."

"Please don't..." Fred mutters, his pitch the exact same despite his small size, just a bit quieter due to the distance and size of his mouth and all that. Damn, TV and movies have lied to you. A look of mild horror suddenly adorns Fred's face as he pulls something out from his trouser pocket. It's so small, you had trouble realising it was his regrowth potion, "Oh bugger! I forgot about that..."

You were tempted to lie down on your stomach and be as close as you could to eye level, but you doubted that would be very sanitary on the bathroom floor, "What's wrong?"

"I just realised I let the potion shrink with me! Now it won't work! It'll only grow me back to the size of a foot, if we're lucky"

"Speaking from experience?"

"Unfortunately." he shivers, "But it's okay, we'll just have to stop off at my room afterwards to get some more. I always make extra if I can afford to"

"Well that's good. Ready to go?"

"Absolutely" he held up his arms and you scooped him up like you would a wand. You got to your feet and were about to place him in your pocket when you noticed you still had your potions essay folded up inside. Fred had helped you finish it last night, the legend. Took you until 4 am to finish writing it.

You put him in your breast pocket instead, for fear that your robes might fly around too much and he might fall out, or that someone might bump into you and squash him. The breast pocket was at least hidden and safe. Besides, there were still two layers separating him from your actual boobs.

You opened the door and peaked your head through, checking to see if anybody was there. Nobody. Brilliant. Hurrying down the cobbled hallway, you B lined to the stairs leading down to the dungeons, and hurried to the classroom door. You and Fred had a free period right now, so that would explain why it seemed you and he were the only ones not in class. Despite how thankful you were for Fred's help, you wouldn't have skipped lessons to do this, it's risky enough as it is. Fast walking now, you peeped your head into Snape's office, where beyond it lay the door to his private stash.

"He better not come, Fred, or I'll squash you"

"Don't worry, he's in his lesson! Only got one potions teacher"

You thought this over and realised that yeah, there is only one... why the fuck do they only have one teacher for each subject? Do they get breaks? That's unlikely seeing as they have to teach all four houses in all seven years over the span of only five days a week. That's mental that is. Regardless, you would have the time to ponder this later, for now you had a potion to steal. You crept into Snape's office and shut the door, pulling out your wand and enchanting "Colloportus" to lock it behind you.

Fred really knew what he was talking about, because there were indeed shelves next to the closet door. The third one up was even covered with books, and when you grabbed Fred out from your pocket and plonked him on the shelf, he pointed to the dusty copy of 'The Moral Implications of Love Potions' and you took it out to reveal a hole behind it big enough for tiny Fred, “This looks like an interesting read..." you mutter, flipping over to read the blurb. There was a mini scoff, and by mini you mean it was produced by a mini person.

"Right, well, you have fun reading that, I'll search for the potion. Be back in a second" and he was off, disappearing through the hole. You sigh, fidgeting with anxiety at possibly getting caught. Doesn't make sense though, Snape is in class, he has no reason to come in here. When do lessons end anyway? You glance around for a clock but don't find any. Serves you right for not wearing a watch... would a watch even work at Hogwarts?

You flipped open the book and began reading a random page: Dr Eglantine proposed the following moral dilemma: if two people love each other but are too afraid to admit to one another, is it wrong for one of them to drug the other with love potion? Wizarding philosophers are torn on this issue, and when intercourse is involved, the grey area becomes even larger—

There was a loud bang from outside, which made your heart drop. You scurry over to the door, pressing your ear against the cool wood, holding your breathe in hopes of hearing better. The sound of students filled your ears, but not just a few students having a free period, but a whole herd of them. That could only mean one thing: class had ended... Oh fuck!

"Fred!" you cry out in the quietest panic you can muster, scurrying over to the hole, "Snape is coming."

"Almost... there!" Fred called between grunts, emerging with the bottle. You snatched it up, preparing to despose of it into your pocket when Fred raised a valid argument, "Don't put it in there! Snape will check your pockets when he finds you here!" He began downing his second potion, growing only to the size of a regular sized hand, "Damn"

"Oh, right" you scan your body for another hiding place, then the thought came to you. You shove the vial up your shirt and into your bra.

"Great, now me!" Fred exclaims, raising his arms up.

"I can't put you in my bra! You're too big, he'll see you!" You scoop him, holding his torso like a toothbrush.

He stares up at you in stunned confusion, "Really? That was what was wrong with that plan?"

You realised you ought to have said 'no you pervert I'm not letting you touch my boobs' but now wasn't the time to curse yourself for it. Your heart was hammering with fear, inspecting your body for somewhere to stash him. The doorknob rattled, and the sickeningly familiar tone of Snape's voice cursed that it was locked. Your time was up, there was only one thing for it! You pulled away the elastic of your skirt and stuck him down there,

“WOAH—!" He yelped, hair practically standing on end.

"Just hold onto the elastic along the outside and we should be fine!" You put him onto your outer right thigh, knowing full well that a pair of shorts and a pair of underwear and a whole thigh were separate him from... that.

"Alohamora!" the door swung open just as you were putting the book back, and there stood Snape, in all his emo glory. He froze, clearly having not expected to find anyone inside. Once the shock had left his system, he straightened up and glared at you, “What exactly do you think you are doing?" his nasally voice grilled, doing nothing good for your nerves, which were in absolute tatters at the moment.

"I was looking for you, w-when someone locked me in the class" you scramble, the lie just about the worst you could come up with. You had to remind yourself that Fred was on the outside of your thigh. Considering he was in your skirts at all, that was the most innocent position he could be in. All he had to do was hold on to the elastic of your shorts and you should be fine!

"Why?" he trudged further into the classroom.

"Why was I looking for you or why did someone lock me in the class—?"

"Why were you looking for me?" His booming voice told you that you were on thin ice.

"Ah yes, well, I... I was having trouble with the essay assigned for tomorrow, and thought maybe you could help me"

Snape closed the door and came to lean on his large desk, "Do you really expect me to believe that one of my students, who has never once asked a question in six years, is now asking a question?"

You frown, so suddenly insulted that you almost forgot about Fred on your leg, "Professor Snape, I ask questions all the time"

"Oh, how unmemorable you are then" he sneers, making you fume, "Regardless, I'm going to need to search your pockets"

You sighed, "Yes, sir"

He stalked over to you, holding out a hand for your robes. You pushed the sleeves off each shoulder, removing it, and dumped it into his palm. As he began to examine it, you felt Fred's shoes scrapping against your skin. It's as though he's trying desperately to find a foothold, no doubt still exhausted from having to push the bottle. If he falls, not only will you be caught, but Fred could get seriously injured!

Again, you knew what you had to do but hesitated to do it. As subtly as you could, you extended the elastic of your skirt, took Fred out, then plonked him into your shorts. His entire body went flush against yours, no doubt the skin tight shorts were crushing him. As long as there was no more risk of him falling... Hopefully it wasn't suffocating him though.

"If it's too tight, move" you hissed, keeping your eyes trained on Snape, who unfortunately heard you.

"What did you say?"

"I said—" you took a sharp breath, feeling Fred's back sink further into the fat of your thigh as he pushed away the area of fabric suffocating him, "If it's too tight, move" you repeated loudly for the two men in the room. "The pockets get a bit stuck sometimes so you have to jostle it around a bit" you added to give fake context to an instruction that wasn't even meant for Snape.

The shadowy teacher was evidently confused, but decided to ignore your outburst. Meanwhile, you could feel Fred inching along the front of your thighs, moving closer to your core. This was fine, as you didn't exactly want him to asphyxiate in your shorts, that would be a tragic way to go. You did hope, however, that he wouldn't overshoot his target, and fall into the abyss between the crotch and pant leg. Just as you had thought it, you felt the man slip. You gasped, pressing your legs a little closer together, enough for him to reach out and grab the first piece of fabric he could get his hands on. Unfortunately for the both of you, that piece of fabric were your panties. You wondered whether he knew what he was doing, when he began to scramble onto it, lying down flat onto the crotch like a hammock. Your question was quickly answered by the sensation of his arms sticking into your folds, and the subsequent wriggling of regret.

Sucking in a deep breath, you had to grip the nearby desk with all your might to stop a loud moan escaping your lips. Regardless of how bizarre and awful this situation was, having anything rub against your clit was an arousal waiting to happen. Poor guy must have though those were your shorts he grabbed before... You were just about to dig in and help, when Snape extended your robes back to you. You'd have to walk, with mini Fred mushed into you vagina, all the way to grab it. Praying he might forgive you one day, you stepped forward, effectively compromising Fred's escape, trapping him between your knickers and crack. Talk about getting stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"Very well, I will take a look at your homework" and he rounded the desk, unfurling the essay he had taken from your pocket and sitting down in preparation to help. You swallow, approaching the table as he skimmed through it. He paused for a moment to look up, "Well, sit down" he ordered.

Staring down at the chair, you gulped. Every time you sit down during class, the skin tight shorts you wear, under your Hogwarts skirt, ride up into your ass. Having that happen right now is about as undesirable as they come, "Um, I'd rather not, if that's alright with you"

He blinked and looked back down at your work, "Well anyway, the beginning of your essay seems promising." You smiled, that was the part you wrote by yourself. Just wait until he gets to the part Fred helped you with. There were things he told you on the topic that you swore you had never heard before, you'll look like such an expert! Speaking of, the unfortunate blighter had given up on his attempts to leave, probably worried that his efforts might be thwarted again by your moving thighs. He was now using his hands and knees to keep himself pushed away from you. If you thought about it hard enough, you could convince yourself Fred was just a bumpy pad with a tuft of hair on the end... that moved.

Alright now body, I know you're an animal that listens to its instincts more than its brain, but please don't respond the same way you usually do when something— anything is pressing against you. You thought to yourself. We are not creating any new weird kinks today, thank you very much. Besides, the poor guy is going through enough as it is.

"You think Felix Felicis was created by Felix Williams... and that it contains balm, angel's trumpet, bitter root, and a single strawberry cooked under a full moon" he looked up from your work, pinning you with an expression of cold unamusement.

He must be testing you. Fred's a prankster but he isn't a dick... most of the time. He wouldn't. He couldn't! "Yes...?"

"Your Wolfsbane... does it contain any other nonsense ingredients I should know about?"

You froze, as did the guy in your pants. He must have heard, and Merlin have mercy he was going to pay for what he'd done!

This was just like that incident in fourth year all over again! You were in the showers after a quidditch match and Fred snuck in and stole your clothes and towel. When you realised you would had to run butt fucking naked all the way to your room, you were absolutely furious. Fred was lounging in the common room, along with twenty or so other people, and they all watched as you went gunning for the stairs. George felt awful, having not known his brothers prank, and offered to obliviate anyone who talked about it. It was then you realised Fred could be kind of a dick, and George was the man for you.

Fascinated by just how much Fredrick Weasley had fucked you over yet again, you decided to plop down on the chair opposite Snape. The moment you did, the skin tight shorts became skin tight. Fred's entire body went flush against yours, sending a delicious zap up your spine that attempted to summon a moan you coughed back, “Sorry, I wasn't trying to insult you with my work... I got a friend to help and it seems he was just taking the piss" Fred was moving, his chest bumping and smoothing over your clit. You had to actively try not to squeeze your thighs around him to increase the pressure.

George had bought you a dildo once as a "joke" (he just wanted to watch you wank yourself off, the kinky bugger) and you had run it between your folds, but that pailed in comparison to this. This was far better. Fred is made up of so many intricate parts, each of them squirming against you. His legs, for example, were kneading the source of your arousal. His shoes were in there now, using it as a foothold to try and push his way out. It was heavenly.

"Now I might remember you, as the girl with a poor judge of character" Snape interjected, pulling you out of your sexual haze. If the context were different, you might have gotten mad, but you couldn't bring yourself to at the moment. Not while you were getting oh so sweet revenge on a certain someone, "Well, for starters, dragon bone isn't an ingredient in any of these, so we might as well cross that off the list—" he took his red ink and began marking your paper. His voice became a distant drone in the background as you disassociated once against, focusing on how Fred had began shimmying his way to freedom. If only you could quicken his pace. If only you could rock your hips and fuck yourself against him. You weren't available to move, but he certainly was.

Leaving the one hand there on the desk, to rest your chin against, the other snuck under the table and under the hem of your skirt and shorts. Your fingers hovered above him, a little unsure what to do, until the index finger took initiative and pressed down onto his back through the pants. If he wasn't mushed against you before, he sure as hell was now. His hands slap your folds, but you could feel his head angled up for air. He should be fine.

You experiment by pushing him up. There his chin is triggering the most sensitive nerves of your clit! You roll your hips to savour it, using your thumb to squash his head down and create a more prominent friction. The round nature of his face and bumps making up his features created the most delicious rub. You had to loop your feet behind the desk's legs in order to stop your thighs from crushing him. When he slaps you for air, you reluctantly moved your thumb and pushed his body down. Now his feet were teasing your entrance with the sensation of being filled. You sat down more firmly onto your chair to shove him deeper inside of you. You pushed him up again, then down, up, down, repeating the gesture while his limbs squirmed, awakening new flesh with every swipe. Your middle finger joined the index's perch on his back to pick up the pace. You bit your lip and sucked a deep breath through your nose to push down all the noises that were bubbling to the surface. The only thing that could have moulded you any better than Fred would have been a literal mould. Even then, it wouldn't have been nearly so fun to hump.

You were now rolling him against you in deep tight circles. Your hips were swaying in time, and as much as you wanted to use your whole hand to rub him madly against you, you thought Snape might notice your entire arm thrusting under the table. Unconsciously, your thighs tighten around him, sucking him almost up into you. You lull your head back and arch into him, sighing in bliss. When Snape looked up, you snapped your head back down and froze, biting your fist in order to stop yourself whining in disapproval.

"Does that make sense?"

"Yes sir" what on earth were you agreeing to? You hadn't the foggiest.

"Then don't waste my time with useless garbage like this again. If you haven't produced a coherent, serious essay by tomorrow, I'll be deducting twenty points from your house. Now go!" He pointed to the door.

You had half a mind to snap back, but thought: to hell with him! You had things that needed your immediate attention, and no hooked nose, greasy hair, middle aged virgin was going to ruin that for you! “Very well, thank you sir" you stood up, and to your eternal disappointment, it loosened the strain of your clothes to unstick Fred from your cunt.

Exiting the class, you were devastated to find the hallway packed with students ready for their next potions lesson. The women's bathroom was just around the corner and up the stairs. All you had to do was get to it. You sped walked around the students, opting to push some aside rather than do any fancy footwork and likely squash the man inside of you. From the lack of movement, you guessed he had probably made peace with the situation. Luckily for you though, the movement of your walking kept banging him against you, and you had to stop yourself from dropping to the floor right then and there to grind him furiously against you.

When finally you had made it to the bathroom, casting "Colloportus" on the door for some privacy, you froze at the sight of someone stood inside with their back to you. You recognised those ginger locks straight away.

"George?" you called. He let go of the robe he was examining over the cubicle door and beamed, bounding up to you with all the excitement of a puppy.

"Darling! I've been looking for you everywhere, where have you been?"

What to say, what to say. You doubted rubbing your shrunk brother against my vagina in revenge would be largely acceptable, so you opted to white lie, "Oh, I needed Snape to help me with my potions essay"

George frowned, "Why'd you do that? I could have helped you. Can't imagine ol' hook nose was as fun as me"

"Well maybe if you weren't at that party last night—"

"What party?"

Judging by Fred's immediate scramble to break free, you imagined George was about to tell you something that would spell out very bad news for his twin. To stop his escape, you move a hand behind your back to fist your underwear and hoist it up, making it impossible to give way, "Fred told me you were at the Ravenclaw party last night..."

George's chocolate brown eyes widen in horror, immediately replaced by a scowl as he looked up to curse the air. Little did he know he actually should have been glancing down if he wanted to curse his brother. His squirming against you was making this entire thing leagues better, "What? Oh that prick! I was sick last night with a cold and sent him to apologise to you because I didn't want you catching it while Madam Pomfrey's sweets took effect"

Your cunt was fluttering in anticipation for what long and hard revenge you were about to take. Fred was scrambling so wildly, you couldn't wait to get down to business, "That asshat. He said you were drunk and convinced me to steal some stupid potion with him"

George's anger multiplied, "Bloody hell! I told him not to do that"

"What do you mean?" You were genuinely curious, but your body had literally no care in the world. It was hoisting your pants even higher to keep Fred glued there, wriggling your hips as your breathing became laboured.

George didn't seem to notice, "He was planning on making a thing of love potion with it. Told him it was a stupid idea and he was perfectly popular enough to get anyone he wanted without it. He's got hundreds of girls and guys in the past, I can't think of who he thought he needed to trick..." you consider it for a moment. That was a very good question, it's strange for Fred to care so much about someone... but this could be left for another time.

You hook your foot behind George's leg and brought it forward to wedge it in between yours. Without warning you hopped up and felt Fred immediately sink into your flesh. You doubled over, gripping George's shoulders, and moaning to savour the feel of being entirely and completely touched. George had to brace his hands against the door either side of your head to stop himself from falling over. In surprise rapture, he watched as you were already so unravelled. Finally, the surface you needed. Twins were supposedly two halfs of a whole, and never before had that sentiment rung so true. His leg was the missing component that pushed Fred so absolutely into you, no margin of error. All of him was rubbing against you now as you began humping without mercy.

You thrust yourself forwards and backwards, side to side, around in broad circles. Your folds accommodated him so well, stretching to make sure he always stayed between them. At times you were almost sure you could feel them curling around him, to keep him there as a permanent feature. Tempting indeed, he certainly made walking more fun, and imagine the possibilities in History of Magic. He could get you off under the table without anyone having a clue!

Fred was becoming slick with your arousal, lubricating him into slipping and sliding into usually unattainable flesh you never knew yearned for touch. And because of George's pressure under him, his hold on those neglected areas of your cunt was positively sinful. You throw your head back, your hands on George's shoulders, tugging up and down to massage yourself against Fred.

"What is that bump in your pants?" he finally questioned, having snapped out of his shock.

"Just a sex toy" you reply earnestly, making no alterations to your position.

There was a sudden sting on your clit that made you yelp and stop for a moment. Fred must have bit you... and it was incredible. You wondered whether you could get him to do it again, "It's loves being in there while I fuck myself with it. A tool for my pleasure" You were bouncing up and down like a rubber ball, poking him to react. He still wasn't doing anything to participate, but it was fine. You were doing more than enough for the both of you. All he needed to do was be there as you pounded yourself onto him. Then, your continuous lifting and applying onto him made his shoulder lodge so deep inside of you, you let out a howling moan, crushing George's lips to yours in order to muffle the sheer volume of the scream. He pulls your bottom lip into his mouth, urgently swiping his tongue against yours. You moan and put everything you have into the kiss, allowing him to dive in and taste you. George's lips began to wander, bitting, nibbling and sucking his way to your pulse. His hands came up to hastily undo your tie and shirt, pushing them aside to reveal your bare stomach. As he works your skin into his mouth, creating a glorious love bite on the swell of your neck, his palms fan out across your stomach. You take a sharp breath, as he caressed towards your bra, grinning against you when he notices it's the one he got you for Valentine's Day that unhooks at the front. Lucky coincidence, all your other ones were just dirty.

"I leave you for one night and you become a horny mess" George teases, his hands gliding down your sides to grip your hips. He nudged your legs apart, spreading you wider over your toy. Although he didn't take over the pace, he certainly sped you up. God you could have kissed him for knowing exactly how to whind up your pleasure. A shame then that his mouth was currently occupied with other things. You tangle your hands into his hair as he strokes your nipple with his tongue, pulling it into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks to suck it hard. Your head lulled back to angle yourself further into him, whimpering at how close your climax was.

Seemed Fred was just as desperate to get it over with as you were. He was now doing everything in his power to jack you off. He had somehow managed to grasp your clit between his hands, and paired with your thrusting it created a borderline unnatural amount of pleasure. You were screaming with moans. But somehow more importantly than all that, he had his leg plunged inside of you.

That was it. The idea had been toying in your mind this whole time, but now you knew you needed him inside if you. "Wait a second George" you breathed, perching yourself a little higher in order to stick a hand down your panties, pinching Fred so his arms were trapped by his sides, and sliding him, feet first, through your entrance, until nothing showed of him but his head.

Head back, mouth open in an overjoyed groan, something in you snapped. You didn't even have to thrust him in and out. He was twisting, his arms and legs were flailing in the little space available to them. The walls were hugging his every curve, likely trying to suction him to the back. It was the combination of George flicking your nipple with his tongue and Fred massaging your insides that had you finally unravelling. Hot, slick, arousal came dribbling past what little gaps Fred’s body provided, and you went limp in his brother’s arms with one final howl.

George straightened up to hold you close, stroking your hair until you were ready to stand on your own again, “Nifty toy you got there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so animalistic” he chuckled.

Wiping the sweat of your brow off on your robes, you tried to make yourself look presentable again, smirking up at your boyfriend as you redid the buttons of your shirt, “Yes, well, nothing beats actual sex with you. Wanna go for a round two in your room?”

He beams, “Course! Want me to wait?”

“Nah, I’ll meet you up there” you gesture him away. Normally you would ask him to stay, but you had something to deal with first.

“Alright, see you in five” all excited, he ran for the door, then turned back just as he had performed the unlocking spell to give you a quick peak on the lips, then off he went.

Rummaging around in your shorts, you sigh as you unclog your hole, the contents stringing against Fred as you lift him to eye level. Merlin he looked awful. His fiery hair was stood on end, gelled up with your cum. His white shirt was practically transparent and clung to his abs as though it have been soaked in water. His eyes were a little bloodshot probably from liquid splashing into them, and his lips were rather swollen, like they would be after making out with someone for too long or too roughly. Just generally, your essence was rolling off of him in big globs. You placed your other hand to your mouth and giggled at his appearance, but he seemed the furthest thing from amused. His arms were crossed over his chest, a highly displeased scowl etched across his face.

“Oh don’t look at me like that!” you say, “If you hadn’t planned the robbery so terribly, or lied to me on twooccasions in the 8 hours proceeding it, getting me to write a whole 4 thousand word essay on things that were complete horseshit, humiliating me on front of Snape and—“

“Alright alright—!” He had softened up a little, averting eye contact, but you didn’t care.

“No! I’m not done!” That got his attention again, “Fred, you have been a dick to me for the past six years! Sure, you’re funny and can be sweet sometimes, but most of the time you don’t know where the line is! You prank me all the time, it’s relentless! And today you bloody pushed me over the edge. I had a perfect means of getting revenge and damn it I took it.”

He shrugs, “Whatever, I guess we’re even now”

You open your mouth to continue arguing but snap it shut when you realised what he had said. That really took much less convincing than you though, probably because you were feeling a smidge guilty for going so far in the heat of anger. It’s not like he orgasmed or anything... well if he did you wouldn’t be able to tell, his trousers were drenched, “Yeah, I guess...”

You waddled to the sink, turning both faucets on for lukewarm water, plonking him in the basin to clean off the sticky residue. You then hobbled into the closest stall to grab a wad of tissue and wipe yourself clean with it. Despite how absolutely caked in the stuff Fred was, you were still drenched. You exit the stall a couple of minutes later to find him completely washed down, "Right, let's get you back to your normal size, but let's put you in my pocket this time..."

"What a shame. I had really learned to call your vag my home" the sarcasm drooled from his lips.

You scooped him up, pinning him with a warning eye, "I'll put you back in there if you're not careful."

"Sorry sorry sorry!" he back peddled, extending his arms like a man about to be hit by an unforgivable curse. You gently lay him in your pocket, and snapped your head up to find Moaning Myrtle staring at you in disbelief.

"Umm..." the ghost muttered, for once in her life (or death) at a loss for words.

"Don't tell anyone what you saw here today, Myrtle" you warned, pointing a long threatening finger at her, "Not like they'd believe you anyway"

She nodded vigorously and dove into the nearest sink.

#giantess #giantess smut #fred weasley x reader smut #fred weasley x reader #geroge weasley x reader smut #fred weasley #geroge weasley #geroge weasley x reader #geroge weasley smut #fred and george #fred weasley smut #fred and george weasley smut #harry potter smut #fred weasley lemon #weasley twin smut #weasley twins smut #weasley twins x reader

[boxofbadaddiction]

Just Like You Like It

Song Inspired

George Weasley x Reader

Warnings: Light Smut. A curse word.

George could tell y/n was stressed, he didn't have to be told. He could see it; he were the first to notice. The way she shut down. How much shorter she'd become with everyone. How the smallest of inconveniences could set her off.

Her hair was constantly a mess from the amount of times her fingers tugged, pulled and ran through it. She gave up wearing make-up to avoid the way it smudged as her hands frequently dug, clawed and rubbed at her face in frustration.

He wondered if she even noticed how cold their relationship had become. The spark between them which raged within their chests as an all comsuming flame; diminished to less than an ember. Still alight but too weak to any longer feel it's warmth.

Though they shared the same bed every night he'd never felt further apart. He missed her. Her new routine left him hanging at a distance.

She'd wake up, shower, get changed and leave. No words spoken. No smile on her face. No kiss good morning or kiss goodbye. The nights were no easier. She'd arrive home late, disappear to the study, then later crawl into bed beside him well past midnight. No conversation. No kiss goodnight.

He could barely remember the last time they'd touched let alone had a meal together. George had been patient hoping this were simply a rough patch, that things would fall back into place eventually. This morning however, was his breaking point.

As he woke to an empty bed, the sound of running water coming from the bathroom just like many mornings before, he reddied himself for work. As he pulled on a fresh suit for the day something caught his ears. A sound which, though muffled, were undeniably caused from distress. He stepped closer to the bathroom, leaning towards the door and listening intently. Sobs and strained breaths cursed the air. George felt his heart be ripped from his chest in that moment. He made to open the door but stopped himself, he weren't even sure how to comfort her anymore. Things were evidently far worse than he feared what if, by barging in on her in this time, he made matters worse unintentionally?

He restrained himself, giving her the space she most likely needed right now, though determined to fix things. It was time. No more waiting for things to sort themselves out.

He sat patiently on the edge of their bed for her to come out, preparing to have the difficult conversation.

Later she emerged, fully clothed for work with eyes still puffy. He stood, words forming on the tip of his tongue, but she wouldn't even look at him. Like he weren't there. Simply grabbing her keys and wallet from off the chest of draws, muttering a lame 'I'll be home late' and leaving as swiftly as she'd entered.

He was too slow. Too hesitant. His brows furrowed, staring after her with parted lips. Dread began to fill his heart, thickly being pumped throughout his bloodstream. How could he fix this?

That evening y/n slowly made her way home, like many before it were well past the time she ought to be arriving home. Her body felt too heavy for her legs to carry. Back aching as did her feet, with shoulders unbelievably tense from several large knots taken root in her muscles. Rubbing at them frustratedly as she walked her eyes shut tight in pain whilst brimming with tears. This was one of the worst times of her life, everything that could go wrong did and it seemed unlikely ever to resolve. With no sign of her ridiculous work load easing. The state of her currently crumpling relationship. Now even her body were turning against her.

She was hungry, not having ate properly in days. Tired, her sleep restless and tormenting. Her head ached continuously and she found herself on the brink of tears or an emotional outburst given any moment.

As her key turned in it's lock she pushed the door open preparing for yet another night spent in the study. Closing her eyes she inhaled sharply, the very thought causing a sickness to settle in her stomach. There was something different about tonight though.

As her lungs filled, she felt herself relax considerably. A content sigh slipping from her lips as she exhaled slowly. Opening her eyes, they travelled over the flat to find her favourite candles were scattered and alight, the flicker of their flames the only source of light within the space. As she stepped across the doors thresholds y/ns breath was stolen from her. Finding not only her favourite candles but countless bunches of her favourite flowers lining the tables and windowsill. Additional flower petals littered the floor, leading like a pathway to the fire escape.

As her head peaked from the window her ears were met with the soft melodic sounds of distance music. Climbing from the windowsill she ascended the staircase. Reaching the top and quietly stepping over the roofs lining y/n was blown away once again. More flowers decorated the space beautifully while a few small candles lit a table at the roofs centre. The music was clearer now, quiet but loud enough for her to recognise. Her favourite slow songs.

A bottle of wine and two glasses sat atop the small table in front of her, her fingers delicately traced the bottles label.

A warmth began to spread through her body from a presence behind her. Two strong hands gently moved over her waist, encapsulating her entirely in an embrace. Y/n gave herself to the hold, leaning back into his chest and relishing in the heat that fanned her skin from his hot breath and the soft trace of his nose against her neck until finally his lips came to connect with her nape. Her arms fell atop of his, where his fingers slowly moved against the fabric of her shirt. She sighed contently, the sound only just audible with the low hum of the music which played.

Her brows furrowed at the feeling of his lips and one arm leaving her body. The light pop of the wine bottles cork and the trickle of liquid filling two glasses, generously, which followed was enough to bring the smile back to her lips and finally she opened her eyes again to accept the beverage before her.

Though one hand still remained attached to her hip George moved to stand in front of her with a sly grin as he clinked their glasses together ceremoniously.

"You've been busy today" she smiled, sipping her wine. "You've been busy everyday." His face was stern at the thought, heart no less heavy as he watched her head fall at his words. The hand on her waist came to cup her chin, bringing her attention back to him. His thumb gently stroked her jaw as he spoke, "Did you think I hadn't noticed?". Tears fell from her eyes. His expression bore so sorrowfully into her soul she felt laid bare. "I'm sorry" "It's not your fault, sweetheart." A soft smile replaced the concern filled expression he wore moments ago, "I just wish you'd give yourself a break. Talk to me if something's the matter."

Her cheek pressed against his palm as he wiped away the stray tears, but more fell as she closed her eyes.

"Come here", George grabbed her glass, setting both drinks down on the table, and lead her away a few paces. He pulled her into his chest, one hand on her waist while the other held hers in a firm grasp. She looked at him confusedly, only causing him to smile cheekily back. That's when he began to lead her in a slow dance. Y/n chuckled at this, unable to help the eye roll and wide smile to stretch upon her face at how cheesey this all now seemed.

Gazing back into his eyes fondly they continued to sway in time with the gentle melody which filled the air. Y/ns cheek rested against Georges chest as his chin laid atop her head. Fresh tears lined her eyes now. Different from the ones before. Tears of love. Pure, unfiltered and all consuming.

They held close together like two shadows in the dark, illuminated solely by candle light. The spark in their chests burning like a flame, lighting the night for them in an entirely other way. Rekindling the love in their hearts that hadn't been felt in so long.

"I can't believe you did all this for me" y/n voiced honestly, unable to see how she was deserving of such a guesture.

"This is for me right? I didn't just spoil some intimate night with your mistress did I?" She joked looking up to him. "Funny." George rolled his eyes at this.

"Love, everything I do is for you." "You're really laying on all the charm tonight aren't you? Wine, candles, dancing..." Y/n quipped, loving every second. "Pouring it on strong and smooth. Just like you like it." He leant down, capturing her lips in a deep kiss.

Arms wrapped around his neck as others rested around her sides. The kiss was broken in pieces as y/n tried to speak but George was reluctant to let her, only a word coming through at a time, he understood her nonetheless, "Where's Fred tonight?" She'd asked. This question successfully putting an end to his neediness for their lips on one anothers. Leaning back with a raised brow, an expression which read 'really?'.

"You know, as inseparable as we are love, I was sort of hoping we could do this without him actually." He chuckled. Y/n rolled her eyes. "He's out. Out of the apartment and out of our way." His lips found hers again while she smiled.

George rested his forehead against hers, "We've got all night long, so tell me what you want." Y/n stood, breathing him in while she thought. A decision made as a smile spread over her features. She licked her lips in anticipation, unable to hide the eagerness in her eyes. Feeling playful, she spoke in a teasingly slow and sultry tone, "What I'd love, more than anything is a nice, long, and hot bath." Georges brow raised along with his signature mischeivous grin. She placed a tender kiss to his lips, which he reciprocated and deepened hungrily.

George nudged her towards the fire escape, signalling for her to head inside and placing a quick playful slap to her ass as she left and he grabbed the wine from the table. With a flick of his wand the candles all extinguished and the music faded to an end.

Steam encompassed the white tiled bathroom as hot water filled the bath tub. Y/n stood at its edge, in only her white singlet and underwear - other clothes already discarded, tying her hair into a messy bun before checking the water weren't too hot. She'd taken a couple candles from the living room and scattered loose flower petals across the waters surface.

George entered quietly, leaning against the door frame, balancing the wine glasses in one hand as the bottle hung low in his other.

His eyes traced her neck, light condensation glistening over her skin. His head tilted, examining the rest of her body with a sigh. She turned, feeling his eyes on her to which she playfully raised an eyebrow. He smiled, running his bottom lip through his teeth before placing the wine by the side of the tub. He held himself straight, towering before her while his eyes fixed directly to her features.

Slowly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear then letting his fingers trace down her neck and travelling down slowly between her breasts coming to the end seam of her t-shirt. Both hands gripped the thin material to pull it over her head.

Y/n now reached to undo his tie and unbutton his shirt. Leaving his torso as bare as hers. Fingers toyed with with his belt as the two stared into each others eyes ridding the final items of clothing. Y/n stepped into the water pulling George with her.

A content moan unashamedly voiced as they sank beaneath the water, heat immediately help to soothe her aching body. George sat behind her, running hands delicately across her body. Cupping hand fulls of water to run over her shoulders. The sensation causing her head to fall back into his chest. He took advantage of her position, lightly kissing the crook of her neck as his hands massaged her back then shoulders. Tension melting away with every dedicated and tender movement of his thumbs against her muscles. When the last knot had eased from her shoulders he pulled her into his body completely, laying back so she were beside him cuddling as they had so many times on the sofa.

Though the water surrounding them began to cool, things between them only got hotter. Starting with innocent and loving kisses to her temple and light touches tracing one anothers body, soon both knew they needed more.

Y/n made to straddle him. The kiss starting tenderly, filled with love, but in no time George was sitting upright leaning into her body as they kissed passionately. Hungrily. Y/n grinding slightly against his lap, chest pushed flush against his eliciting a deep growl from her lover.

He wrapped a firm grip around her body, lifting them both from the water and stepping out of the bath. Y/ns hands placed to his cheeks, kissing him feverishly while he made the blind journey to their bed. Y/n chuckled as he dropped them onto the mattress eagerly, soaking the sheets in the process. Their bodies entangled in perfect rhythm. With George paying particular attention to her wants and needs, ones he hadn't met in so long. She was a mess beneath him with every loving and gentle caress of her skin. Every soft whisper in her ear. The way his lips connected with her neck. Exploring her as if it were the last time he'd get to do so. Touching her so delicately as if she were glass figurine. Breathtakingly beautiful, but fragile and likely to break. His pace slow but firm, eyes scrunched tight together while his breaths fell heavy through parted lips. Relishing in the heat that fans his skin as she breathes his name. Pure ecstacy igniting the flame in their hearts further, burning under one anothers touch. Her nails rake his shoulders as they peak together. Arms shaking as he struggles to hold his body from hers. Breathless and heavy above her, his lips capture hers again in a slow and tired kiss.

They lay beside each other in the after glow, comfortable silence encapsulating them. Until George is pulling her from the bed at the talk of dinner, lazily throwing on a singlet and boxers as she pulls on his jumper and a pair of knickers.

He sits her at the dinner table while he reddied the meal he'd prepared earlier not expecting the nights events to unfold as they had but loving it either way.

Y/n sipped a fresh glass of wine contently, unable to wipe the love struck smile from her face. Staring into the deep burgundy which swirled within her glass, deep in thought over the man currently pattering about the kitchen. Reminiscing on the past events, ones from this evening to as far back as when they'd begun dating. Every thought completely occupied by him and him alone.

She was brought to the present by a plate being sat in front of her. Another of her favourites. George placed a gentle kiss to her cheek and whispered into her ear, lips pressing against her soft hair, before taking seat beside her. She bit her lip in attempt to contain the wide grin forming across her features at the words,

"Just like you like it."

#George weasley x reader #hp imagine #george weasley #harry potter #hp #fred weasley #harry potter fanfiction #weasley twins #harry potter imagine #George weasley/reader #george weasley fluff #George weasley smut #George weasley imagine

[mysticeyeliner]

Happy new year

[ID: A paper drawing showing Martha, Georg, Anna and Ilse from spring awakening. Red confetti falls, and Ilse says "happy new year!" As she pops a bottle of champagne. The cork flies at georg, who says "ilse, my glasses!" In between them, Anna watches, and on the side, Martha blows a party blower horn.

Martha wears a modified version of the obc brown dress, made shorter and with boots. Her hair is down, wavy, and has bangs. Georg based on Deaf West Alex wyse, wears his same gray suit, with silver shorts and tie. Anna, based on Ali stroker, has a bright yellow dress and a silver celebration headband. Ilse wears a blue, green and purple high low dress, and has medium long brown wavy hair, with a blue flower crown over a black top hat. End ID.]

#Sa #Spring awakening #Art #Happy new year #My art #Marker #Sketch #Cool down #Dwsa #deaf west spring awakening

[durmstrange]

Switch - Fred Weasley

Hello and Happy Friday!  Hope you enjoy another Fred blurb!

Word count: 1,336

With a solemn look on your face, you kept your head in your hands and watched your sweet love from afar.  It felt so bitter and awful to only be able to see him like this, happy and seemingly in love, when it involved someone other than you.  It hurt, to say the least, but you wanted nothing more than for Fred to be happy.  

You shifted gently, hiking your long dress up around your ankles to reveal your intricate and sparkling heels, and crossed one leg over the other with a loud huff.  You were drawn fro your thoughts as George, your closest friend and twin to your crush, sat next to you with an equally annoyed look as your own.  “Hello,” he greeted and reached for your glass behind you.  He dripped into an inside pocket of his dress robes and fished out a small vial, pouring a bit into your drink and sipping it.  “Seems we are able having the same luck tonight,” George muttered as his eyes followed yours, leading to his brother.  “Probably should have mentioned to Freddie that I fancy Angelina before he asked her.” 

“Did you just spike my drink?”  You asked him without answering his own question.  

George smiled wildly.  “Don’t act like you don’t need a bit of a pick me up, doll,” he teased you and handed the drink back.  That was the nickname both twins always used for you, always making you smile.  

Smelling the rim of the glass, you smiled gently at the somewhat familiar scent of Firewhisky.  You sipped the glass and ignored George’s comment once more.  “Who’s your date tonight, George?”  You asked him, once again, without looking at him.  

“Some  a year below us,” he answered with a sigh.  “Unfortunately, she is currently snogging Dean Thomas in one of the carriages outside in the courtyard.”  He nodded towards the door and you giggled quietly.  “What about you?  Who’s your date?”  

With a slight blush, you fought your smile.  “Don’t laugh,” you warned, but George was already grinning.  “Cormac McLaggen,” you sighed and put your face in your hands to hide your embarrassment.  

George cackled, tilting his head back and all, only making you shake your head at him.  “What a dog!” 

“Listen, I turned down all the good dates waiting for your bloke of a brother to ask me, and when he asked Angelina, I had to take what I could get, or show up alone!”  You swatted at George’s arm.  “Besides, he went off to pout in the common room because I refused to kiss him.  So, I suppose I ended up alone after all.”  With another sigh, you sipped your drink and shook your head.  

“McLaggen!”  George was still laughing, and you joined in as well, fighting the embarrassed look on your face.  “We probably should have went together, given that neither of us could go with who we really wanted to.”   

You looked at George incredulously and shook your head.  “Why couldn’t we think of this before the ball?”  

George chuckled and took your drink from your hand, tipping it back.  After drinking a good half of it, he sighed as he, too, watched Fred and Angelina dancing.  “You know he is in love with you, right?”  George asked while handing the drink back.

“Bollocks,” you muttered in reply and finished the drink in a long swig. 

Your friend smirked.  “Such a term for a lady,” George scolded and bumped your shoulder.   “However, he absolutely does.  Told me himself, you see.  It's a shame that neither of you have proper bollocks to admit it.”  George paused, a thought coming into his head.  You were oddly intimidated by the look that formed on his face.  “We could try to make them jealous, you know.  Dancing and acting like we are having the time of our lives.” 

For a moment, you thought about it.  It was a viable option, prone to failure, but an option nonetheless.  “Let’s see what we can manage,” you agreed and reached into his inside pocket yourself, taking the tall vial and popping the cork before finishing the remaining Firewhisky.  

George laughed once more, standing on his feet.  “You’re going to be nice and cheerful now,” he teased and held his hand out to you.  You took it with a smile.    George led you onto the dance floor, spinning you and all, making you laugh loudly and tilt your head back, carefree.  

As a slow song came on, George brought you back close to him and led the way for you.  “You know what the most shameful part of this all is?”  You asked him as he raised an eyebrow.  “I even got this dress because it's his favorite color.” 

Brushing your hair over your shoulder for you, your best friend smiled sadly.  “Well, you look beautiful regardless, doll.”  

You returned the smile to George and leaned your head on his shoulder, swaying slowly to the music.  “Well, here he comes,” George mumbled in your ear.  “Don’t move.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Fred approach with a slightly reddened face.  “Hello, (Y/N), mind if I snag my brother for a moment?”  Fred asked without so much as a true glance your way.  

George, tilting his head to the side, released his grip on your waist.  “All right,” you muttered and gave a sad glance to George before returning to the table you previously sat at.  Immediately, you put your elbows on your knees and your head in your hands and sighed heavily.  

After a few moments of remaining like that, there was a gentle tap on your shoulder.  “Care to dance?”  

When you looked up, you were surprised to see Fred standing there with a faint blush on his cheeks.  Your face remained blank, and you turned away from him.  “Last I checked, you have a date you should be dancing with,” you replied in a cool voice.  

Fred nodded gently, not that you could see, as you refused to look at him.  “Yeah, I did.  But she wasn’t the right date for me. I quite think you’d fit the part a lot better.”  You finally looked back at Fred with a blank, hurt face.  “Come on, now.  Just one dance,” he practically begged. 

Finally giving in, you placed your hand in his and stood.  “What did George say to get you to do this?”  You asked as he pulled you to the dance floor at the start of another slow song.  Your eyes wandered to George, who gave you a subtle thumbs up as he spun Angelina so effortlessly.  

Fred placed his hands on your waist, holding you gently as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, watching him carefully.  “Nothing that I didn’t already know.  You know, that I’m an idiot and awful for treating you the way I have, for not asking you to the ball, and for waiting so long to tell you how much I adore you.”  His eyes watched you carefully, as your eyebrows drew together and your shoulders sagged forward sadly.  

“Is this some kind of joke?”  

Swiftly, Fred leaned down, enveloping your lips in a sweet kiss.  It took a brief second for you to respond, but once you did, you kissed Fred back with all you had, leaning your body tight against his and knotting your fingers in his long hair.  He finally pulled away, lips slightly swollen and face reddened considerably, and gave you a small smile.  “Not a joke.”

With a blush on your own face, you fought the smile forming on your lips.  “Not a joke,” you confirmed softly. 

Fred licked his lips, just briefly, and began laughing.  “Firewhisky?” 

“George spiked my drink,” you explained and hid your face against his shoulder as you laughed.  

With a devious smirk, Fred patted his chest, where George’s inside pocket was.  “Well, love, if you want to get out of here, there is more where that comes from.” 

You smiled wildly and took Fred’s hand.  “Well, let’s go, then.”

#fred weasley #Fred Weasley imagine #Fred Weasley fanfiction #Fred Weasley fanfction #Fred Weasley one shot #Fred Weasley oneshot #Fred Weasley fluff #harry potter #Harry Potter fanfic #Harry Potter fanfiction #Harry Potter and the goblet of fire #goblet of fire #hogwarts #durmstrange