#gin-tastes-like-christmas-trees

[musubi-sama]

I was in the mood for a pink drink tonight, just some gin, ice, seltzer, and a squeeze of lemon to turn it pink (shout-out to chemistry!)

But I’d forgotten that I finished my bottle of Empress awhile ago. And the only shop I’ve found it in is allllllllllllll the way over in Tokyo Station.

But, I’d picked up a bottle of butterfly pea flower syrup awhile back at Kaldi and had some other gin still hanging around!

Wasn’t sure the best ratios, kinda mixed with my heart, but I’m pretty pleased. The gin itself is very citrus-forward, so the lemon adds to that.

Kinda hard to see, but the glass is Zelda-themed and the colors work well together, too

#Jen drinks aesthetic #empress gin #pink drink #at-home bartender #I like gin that doesn’t taste like Christmas trees

[thefvrious]

@blumhouses sent -> indulge .   find  raleigh  drinking  to  cope .

Raleigh Buchanan wasn't an alcoholic by any stretch of the imagination, but he certainly enjoyed soothing the ache of a particularly nasty burn with a couple of shots of gin. It tasted like Christmas trees, if you asked him, and he was a pleasant drunk. It was better than being stuck in his feelings, anyway.

When Romy sauntered through the door, Raleigh sat up right and shot back the rest of the gin in his glass with a satisfied little his, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. "Hey, princess!" He said, offering her a bright grin. "Care do join your old man for supper?"

#raleigh buchanan ~ thread #raleigh x romy #blumhouses #tw: drinking #pardon this interruption (queue)

[luv-eddiediaz]

Sweet lips that long for golden tanned skin.

Sapphire gin sitting too close to a glass of whiskey.

They swear they aren't in love, but if that's the truth, then they're too good at pretending.

A glance across the room, a not so accidental touch in the middle of the party they only went to for each other.

But this one won't trust himself and that one whispers lies in his own ear; "he'll never love you, because none of the rest ever did".

Maybe one night they'll find courage and cross that hazy, fading line. They can blame it on the alcohol they barely drank, but they'll know.

Lit up like last years Christmas tree. Electricity all over them.

And he'll make this one shout in ecasty to his God. And he'll make that one cry; beg for it to stop.

To never, ever stop.

Because that pretty little bottle of gin has never been held so tight, never been seen for the shining jewel he is.

Now, that handsome shot of whiskey has spilt the last of his secrets all over the floor, and they won't go back in.

Because that golden, tanned skin has been tasted by those sweet, hungry lips.

And they swear they're in love.

That they always have been.

#i have NO idea what this even is #buddie #buddie fic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #writing

[princessmadafu]

St Placid’s Day

Yay! Got another birthday present in the post this morning from an old gay friend in Dublin who understands me much better than the other old friend in Bournemouth who internetted me a cactus to replace the deceased Eric. It's a facsimile of an old perpetual almanac with daily observations from the 15th-18th Centuries.

Apparently today (5th Oct) is St Placid's Day, [monk who was saved from drowning by another monk who ran across the water on the orders of St Benedict] and this week is the ideal time to seek out oak apples and observe their condition instead of relying on your TV's local weather reporter. I quote:

If thou wilt see and know how it will go that year, then take heed of the Oak Apples. When they be within full of Spiders, then followeth a naughty Year; if they have within them Flies, that betokens a good Year, or if they have Maggots in them. If there be nothing in them, then followeth a great Dearth. If there be many, and early ripe, so shall it be an early Winter, and much Snow afore Christmas, and after that much cold; if the inner Part be fair and clear, then shall the Summer be fair and the corn good; but if they be very moist, then shall the Summer also be moist.

So all you have to do is find an oak tree, climb up it and locate a leaf with an oak apple on it, cut it open and see what's inside and then you won't need to listen to some guy talking about isobars and pressure fronts. Amazing how gall wasps know these things -- and persuade spiders and flies and maggots to live in their oakleaf leavings.

Anyone hoping for a naughty year, I should point out that in those days naughty meant scant and worthless, and definitely doesn't involve lingerie, cream puffs and a chocolate fountain.

Yesterday is very interesting too -- St Francis's Day, when swallows disappear. Did you know people used to believe that swallows hibernated at the bottom of ponds and lakes or hid in rocks and caves for the winter like bats. And October 3rd -- St Gerard's Day -- gives some 17th Century recipes for making cider which I'm thinking of Tipp-Exxing out so Mad doesn't get ideas and ruin my apple trees. I made some scrumpy once, in my student days. It was lethal, tasted of stale gin and fermented cardboard, but went down very well at the Halloween party.

This is a glorious little book, I'm going to enjoy myself.

[axel-mathis]

I hate...

Gin. I have never found a gin drink I enjoy. It tastes like you just sucked off a christmas tree and I'm personally not into that.

#meme day

[skelegun]

When I was a lad before Redlettermedia and such, we had individual websites that would review bad movies, and the first one I discovered was called Stomp Tokyo. They used to have to type words because videos weren’t really a thing the internet could do well, you used to have to read those words with your eyeballs. Stomp Tokyo was part of a group they called The B-Masters Cabal which was a gathering of similar websites that would sometimes collaborate together and promote each other, and each of the B-Masters had their own gimmicks and niches that made them all kinda unique. Sadly most of the websites, while still up, haven’t updated in years, and are riddled with broken links. They are relics of a forgotten era of the internet when people had their own webbed sites, and not just a fucking discord server.

My favorite of the B-Masters was called Teleport City. Teleport City had a bit of different atmosphere compared to the other B-Masters. I got the sense, even as a kid, that Teleport City fucked. What sort of made them different from their compatriots was that Teleport City also covered music, like cool music I had never heard of, and they also covered alcohol. They would describe alcohol in intriguing and evocative ways, and while I couldn’t relate to these due to lack of personal experience, the way they were written always stuck with me.

I had always thought alcohol was just gross medicine tasting stuff people drank exclusively to get drunk, but here they were, a website I trusted to tell me which Godzilla movies to watch, was saying that there was a whole tapestry of flavors to explore when I was older.

I am older now, and truthfully I don’t drink that much. I haven’t had anything to drink actually in well over a year until today. However I am very bored, and I went to the liquor store today to try something new, so I thought I’d take a crack at writing a snobby alcohol review.

I went to the local discount liquor store and bought a mediumish sized bottle of Gordon’s London Dry Gin, I had wanted to buy the fancy blue bottle stuff but I’m kinda poor. After that I stopped at Taco Bell. They were out of chalupas so I got a Doritos Locos Supreme Tacos Value Meal with a Mountain Dew Baja Blast.

I don’t believe I had never tried Gin before, if I had I forgotten by now. I was intrigued by the promise of Juniper and Citrus. What the fuck is Juniper? Turns out it is like a pine tree. Why would British people in the 1700s riot over liquid trees? Surely trees must taste good, England is well known for having good taste in food and beverage. I had to know more. The anticipation was building.

I opened the bottle, and was greeted by an intriguing aroma. Christmas Tree, and nail polish remover. I poured some into a metal cup I had because I couldn’t find a fancy glass, added some ice cubes, and I took a swig… Then I realized I can’t beat around the bush anymore. I don’t know how people go on the tv and or the internet and tell lies about base spirits being anything other than toxic waste. Shits nasty on it’s own. Stuff tastes like floor cleaner. The vile taste of rubbing alcohol soon gave way to hints of licorish, orange rind, and car air freshener. The flavors call to mind a chilling holiday scene, Victorian London, Tiny Tim at the hospital, his leg freshly amputated. Watering that shit down with soda water and fresh squeezed lime juice made it more palatable, but still not ideal. I mean it’s like okay at that point I guess. What made it truly edible was mixing it with my half drank cup of Baha Blast, and like heaping helping of angostura bitters and a little orange blossom water.

I will say however, of all the base spirits I’ve tried, gin was not the worst, but at the same time it’s also kinda cheating in a way since gin is like a vodka tea from what I understand. My point being it’s already got shit added to it to begin with so it starts out with an advantage. Anyways, alcohol is gross on its own, don’t drink it, unless you want to I guess, whatever.

I’m gunna go watch a shitty Italian movie and maybe paint some Orks.

[spiritandprep-blog]

The Botanical Journey of How Gin is Made

#101 #botanicals #christmas-trees #compound-gins #spirits-liqueurs #distillation #distillery #favorite-bottles #final-product #gin #gin-tastes #gin-tastes-like-christmas #gin-tastes-like-christmas-trees #gins #how-its-made #juniper #juniper-berries #juniper-berry #main-flavor-distilleries #predominant-juniper-flavor #spirit #spirits #styles #tastes-like-christmas #tastes-like-christmas-trees #vapor-infused-spirit #vapor-infusion #working-hard-to-bust

[sundial911]

Tumblr is home where you can say all the batshit things and no one hears you

#🍋 #tiktok man said he liked a gin because it tastes like a christmas tree #i cant casually flirt w him and tell him certain parts of my cycle makes me taste like pine #mine

[sweeethinny]

The first Potter

I wrote this after watching the Kardashian series (yes) and seeing Mason's birth, which made me want to finally write what I think about a few weeks ago

fortunately I never got pregnant, but my sister did, so this whole chapter was inspired by the pain and everything I saw her go through, and how I think she and my mother are warriors, for having gone through it a few times and still saying that is the best pain they ever felt!

Harry and Ginny had decided to have their child in a Muggle hospital, for several reasons, but the main one; privacy. They knew it would be a big deal when the firstborn of the wizarding world savior was born, everyone would be crazy, wanting to take the first pictures and be the first to make sure what he would be like, so even if Molly had argued with them about that decision they would have the baby in a Muggle hospital in a well-located London neighborhood, with the surnames Evans.

It was December 26th, after a Christmas full of pain and irritation on the part of Ginny who felt too ugly and swollen to enjoy anything, she had cried in the bedroom when her dress didn't close and when she couldn't tie her own hair without feeling tired and breathless. Harry had a lot of patience, helping her get dressed, braiding her hair, helping with her shoes and enduring all the crying spells - which were not few.

The next day, they spent the day watching movies and series, resting and anxiously waiting for her purse to burst at any moment and finally see that baby they had been waiting for. The doctor, Dr Iver, had predicted that it would be that week yet, and that they might not need to operate on her if everything went well. But then the 26th passed and nothing happened.

On the 27th, Ginny cried when Harry needed to go to work and she was alone, she didn't even know why she was like that, she just wanted her husband back to help her pick up the dishes and take a shower, feeling her son move like never in belly, kicking down her ribs and stomping the bladder, when it didn't seem to push a knife in the middle of the spine and make her grunt with the pain that cut the air from her lungs.

She was so scared.

The pregnancy had been smooth, in general, but it was terrifying to think that everything would depend on her from now on, that the baby wouldn't come out if it weren't for her strength, and Ginny cried whenever she thought she wouldn't be able to do that, that it would cause some damage to the child, who would give up and fail halfway.

Bill and George took turns to be with her, sometimes Ron would jump out of the fireplace and join the company, Angelina and Fleur also showed up, but it didn't matter, none of them were Harry, none of them said the right words, and she knew she was being unfair, but she was carrying a bloody baby's inside herself! She had a right to be!

When her husband did not return that day, Ginny felt that she could start crying with anyone who touched her.

''You know it can take a while, and I'm sure he's doing everything he can to get back as soon as possible'' Hermione soothed her, wetting a towel and placing it on her forehead when Ginny started to sweat, even though it was snowing outside as never

"I'm going to kill Robards for taking my husband away from me" The redhead grunted "This is hurting more than usual" She sighed, the pain cutting her back and making the air disappear from her lungs, her hips looking like they were about to breaking in two. Ginny grabbed the arm of the couch, sinking her nails as she moaned in pain, the bitter taste of blood filling her mouth.

''Are you alright? Do I need to call anyone?'' She denied, trying to take a deep breath, still feeling her hips seem to shake and almost break, the baby moving non-stop inside her

"He looks like that when night comes," she said, crying wanting to flood her eyes. "Love, calm down please, you're going to kill mommy." Ginny rubbed her belly, just like Harry did when it happened, trying miserably to make the pain less.

But nothing happened, the pain got a few degrees worse, and she barely knew if she would have the strength to move from there, with so much pain that she felt itchy at the base of her spine

''Ginny, I think you're feeling contractions'' Hermione then jumped off the couch, running over to the fireplace and picking up the watch they kept there, looking intently at her ''Tell me when this stops'' The redhead nodded, badly listening to her sister-in-law while trying to take a deep breath.

It didn't take three pauses between pains for Molly to be in the room, next to Arthur, running after Ginny's maternity bag and everything she would need more.

''No, no, no, no'' She denied the help to get up, leaning back on the sofa and sighing when her hip stopped burning and finally could fill her lungs with air ''I won't leave here without Harry. He will never forgive himself'' The crying prickled her eyes again, vehemently denying, completely terrified at the idea of ​​doing that without him ''It's over, it's just a false alarm'' Ginny looked out, trying to look for something else to focus, the dark blue night sky showed no stars at all, and the snow seemed to have given a respite, but she thought of her husband, and hoped he was close and coming home

''Gin, baby, we need to do this'' Dad sat next to her, squeezing her hand and kissing her forehad ''We'll be with you'' She denied it, tears coming out of her control

''No, I won't do it without Harry. I will not be able to. I need him'' Harry had been at all times, the first kick, the exams, the first time they heard the heart beat ... he wouldn't miss the fucking birth! ''This baby will hold on a little longer'' But as if to contradict her, a cold liquid ran between her thighs, dripping on the floor and wetting the entire sofa, without smell or color, barely seeming to come out of her body. ''No'' She denied it again, hugging her belly as if her son could fall from there at any moment ''I can't''

''Of course you can'' Molly crouched in front of her daughter as if she were 6 years old and wanted to climb the top of the tallest tree in the garden ''I will hold your hand and ... And Ron can go behind Harry for you'' The woman looked at Hermione, who nodded from the corner of the room, looking very frightened with the bag in her hands

''Are you going to do this?'' Ginny blinked tearfully at her best friend / sister-in-law, biting her trembling lip. ''Do you promise to bring him here?'' Hermione nodded again

''I promise'' And dropping the backpack on the floor, she apparated and disappeared.

Ginny was forced to go to the Hospital, but saying with certainty that there was, that she would not have her child until Harry was there to help her. The pains increased, and with each movement of the car - she would not be able to apparate or go by the Flu, which left them to call a taxi (for Arthur's amusement) - the woman almost screamed, shaking her mother's hand and biting her lips with all the strength.

The arrival at the Hospital was sharp at midnight, Dr Ives was quick to show up and take her to the room, reformulating the whole procedure again, just so that she would be aware of each step they would take thereafter;

''Let's check your dilation, and then, go ahead with our normal delivery plan, all right?'' She nodded, being lifted to settle on the stretcher, already wearing those ridiculous hospital robe and barely able to speak, feeling the nurse puncture her vein to introduce the serum and start doing some things that she didn't quite understand.

"The baby is fine, we need to wait some more time until he is well positioned and you are ready to have him" The woman said, rubbing something cold on Ginny's round belly, making her cry even more when her heart your son's echoed in the bedroom. She needed Harry there, needed him to see that, to hold her hand and say that everything would be okay. Her husband would die if he knew that he had lost his son's birth.

''Where is he, mom?'' Luckily the pains subsided, whatever had been given to her, made her go limp '' Where's Harry? ''

''He's in the way, honey'' Molly stroked her daughter's face, brushing the hair that was stuck to her forehead and kissing there ''You're a warrior, I could never be more proud'' Ginny felt her mother's tears wet her skin, which made her smile and calm down a little.

''Thanks for being here'' But I still want Harry, she swallowed.

The hours didn't seem to pass, the doctors put her in a warm bathtub, then made her sit on a huge pink ball, and they seemed to come back every ten minutes to check how dilated she was. But all Ginny felt was exhaustion.

When the room was full of Weasleys (except Ron and Mione), she couldn't even remember exactly how she got there, ignoring the conversations and photos her mother took, napping for a few minutes - which seemed like decades in her head - and then looking by Harry. The son had calmed down, as if he knew he needed to wait for Daddy to arrive, but now and then he still tapped on her hip and made her grunt with pain, biting her mouth and doing everything she could to breathe.

''Are we ready, Mrs. Evans?'' Dr Iven smiled at all the redheads and households, turning the pregnant woman on the stretcher

''Not without Harry. This baby will stay here until my husband arrives. ''

''I don't know if your son agrees'' The man smiled a little sadly ''He already wants to come into the world'' Ginny denied again, sniffling and trying to ignore the twinge of pain that ran through her spine. Without Harry, no baby would be born

''No'' Molly started to argue with Fleur and Bill, but it was no use, they didn't know how excited Harry was about every little thing, how he cried when they bought the first clothes and set up the baby's room, so excited that Ginny thought she was capable of infusing with love. He was so excited, making plans for the trips they would have together, that now they needed to make a Quidditch court for that little being to learn to fly. There was even a time when he thought Ginny was sleeping while talking to the baby, whispering against her swollen belly; ''I will love you with all my life, as I have never loved anyone but your mother, and I promise to try to be the best father''

If anyone was supposed to be in that room, it was Harry Potter.

"Ginny, you need ..."

''..Not without Harry!'' And finally, when she started to think that she really would have to do it alone, feeling her hip hurt even more, the door was swung open, and a man all disheveled, looking a little sweaty , and with the hospital clothes all pies went in

''I'm here, I'm here'' Ginny thought she breathed for the first time in hours, releasing the tears that were trapped in seeing him there, almost sobbing when he hugged her ''I'm sorry, please'' Harry also seemed to cry , with his head buried in her neck "Ron was slow to find me, and I was too well protected to be spotted easily" She hugged him as she could, nodding

''I don't care anymore, not when you're already here'' She said, sniffling tearfully ''It hurts so much Harry'' She revealed, trying to speak as low as possible ''I'm so scared ''

''No need, I'm with you'' They broke up, and Ginny never felt so confident, shaking her husband's hand as she felt him wipe the tears that stained her cheeks. ''Let's do this together. I'm here.'' She nodded, looking back at Dr Iven, who seemed to be analyzing some paperwork, as if he wanted to give them the moment.

''I'm ready'' 

''Well, now I want everyone to leave ...'' And he started, saying again about all the steps they would take, updating her on the baby's health - perfect - and her health - also, perfect - before adjust Ginny's legs and ask for strength.

It was an absurd pain, it tore all her skin and it seemed absurd that she was going to be able to do that. Harry squeezed her hand, encouraged her, kissed her forehead and stood beside her, looking much more tearful than in his entire life, especially when the doctor said the head was gone.

Ginny can hold her son and take him away, pulling him up and listening to the crying echoing through the room, loud and resounding, showing that he was alive. She could barely see, crying as much as the little one, putting it on her chest and barely caring about all the dirt, kissing the little forehead and looking at Harry beside her, kneeling and trying unsuccessfully to wipe away all the tears.

''What's his name?''

''James.'' Ginny smiled at her husband, exhausted, never wanting to let go of the small package that was in her hands ''James Sirius Potter'' She knew that Harry would have to stun the doctor so that the man would not question his last name but at that moment nothing else mattered

''I think I'm going to die of love'' He smiled and rubbed James's head, the little tufts of gray hair making him smile, his cry still echoing as if he complained about coming out of his hot bubble and comfortable for this cruel and cold world.

Harry cut the umbilical cord that still held Ginny and James together in one body, before he crouched down next to her and kissed her with as much love as the day they were married.

''I love you, and I will always be here'' They were family now.

#hinny #harry X ginny #harry!dad #ginny!mom #hinny fluff #ginny potter #Harry Potter #next gen harry potter #James Sirius Potter #harry one shot #harry potter being dad

[sebastianshaw]

Primitive is definitely the word Maximus would use. What does the vehicle use, gasoline? He maintains a neutral expression as he enters the limo, though, intent on getting a delicious meal. Humans know how to sacrifice their health for flavor and Maximus isn't too concerned with his health. That is when his company offers him something he's far more interested in, alcohol. Is Shaw trying to impress him? Is he trying to woo him? "I'll have some gin, but that will not earn you the right to touch my knee. Keep your hands to yourself, Sebastian."

“Oh, don’t worry about your virtue, Maximus,” Shaw placated, amused,

“I know you’re no cheap date floozy.”

Though now that the Inhuman brought it up, some terrible part of Shaw really wanted to pat the prince’s patella just to provoke. But, that was a terribly unwise thing, and he pushed the inclination away like an inferior dram. Instead, he reached into the little limo bar and extracted a bottle of Watenshi ---something few people could afford to have at home, let alone in a car--and poured for both Maximus and, so that his guest didn’t have any fear about anything that might be in it, himself as well. As he handed Maximus his glass, he said,

“Don’t worry about drinking it neat, I assure you it’s not going to taste like a Christmas tree. Now, not to put the subject on penetration, but tell me more about your ideas concerning this submarine blade, it sounds QUITE spectacular.” @inhumanmadman

#inhumanmadman

[velvetthunder1999]

All the time on Earth

Part 37 - When Happier Times Come

Summary: Who knew a breakthrough in your relationship would finally come? And what will happen after you and George found each other again?

Warning: None, Fluff

Word count: 2K

George Weasley x Reader

Masterlist

You just finished reading an article in the Daily Prophet when the door opened in the hall and George stepped inside, his heavy boots thumping on the wooden floor. You turned to him with a smile, watching as he threw his coat to the hanger and brushed the snowflakes out of his hair.

“It’s freezing outside,” he said and waved his wand so that a cup of hot tea appeared on the table.

“You should’ve taken the scarf your mum made,” you said, smirking. He rolled his eyes.

“Always with the lectures, Y/N,” he said, but you saw him hiding a smile. You threw the Prophet onto the table.

“So — how was it?” you asked eagerly. George took a sip.

“Well… it was quite all right,” he said with a shrug. “They seemed to like the idea to do some business with us. Maybe Tom’s hand is in it as well. He offered a bottle of gin. On the house.”

“He likes you, Tom,” you said. “And his help can always come in handy. Lot of folks come through the Leaky Cauldron from all around the country. If he can just talk to them about how amazing the shop is, that’s already a step forward to us.”

“You thought about this a lot, haven’t you?” George asked. You nodded.

“Why, of course. I want the best for this place. For you. For us.”

He didn’t answer but looked at you in a strange, almost surprised way. He seemed like he was thinking about something he had long forgotten, or as if he was searching for words that did not even exist.

“What is it?” you asked, because his gaze made you feel uncertain. He moved his head from side to side, speaking very slowly.

“Nothing. Everything’s all right.”

He stood up, taking his empty cup into the kitchen, his face still fixed in that expression. You didn’t know what to make out of it, and it started worrying you. When he reappered in the living room, you were determined to say something. He sat down next to you onto the couch.

“George, is —”

You couldn’t finish for he cupped your cheeks and pressed his lips onto yours, gently, but firmly at the same time, and you were staring in surprise, not sure what to make of the situation, for he had not kissed you for over a year now.

His lips parted slowly, allowing his tongue to have a taste of yours. You were on fire, you felt as though you were going to melt into his touch, and you closed your eyes and kissed him back, grabbing onto his shirt and pulling him closer until there wasn’t an inch between you left.

After at least a minute you couldn’t bare it anymore and broke apart, desperate for air. Your heart was beating twice as fast, and you were panting, while looking into those beautiful brown eyes.

“Hi,” he whispered. He seemed just as shocked as you were.

“Hi,” you said, your voice breaking. You felt tears in your eyes and you started blinking. One year. More than that. He had been somewhere else for more than a year. But now as you looked at him, you felt something else, something changing. You felt as if happier times would come.

“Come here,” he pulled you close, kissing your cheek. You were shivering. You couldn’t help it. You buried your face into his neck. You pressed soft kisses all over his skin. He took a sharp breath, then lowered his head to meet your lips again.

His hand found its way to your lower back and you felt like you were dreaming. You leaned closer to him, breathing in his smell which you loved and missed so much. He then slowly stood up, not letting go of your lips but pulling you with him. You stood on your toes, wrapping your arms around his neck. He pulled away, only for a second, to look into your eyes.

“Do you —”

“Yes, shut up,” you said, pressing your lips on his again, backing away towards the bedroom.

——

Christmas was just around the corner, and you felt as a completely new person. To be exact, you felt like yourself again. Yes, occasional sadness still hit you, it hit George as well. But somehow you felt as though the two of you were fighting against it together, and not separately.

Last Christmas you had not visited the Burrow, it was just way too much for the two of you. But this year Mrs Weasley invited you again, and even though her eyes were often watery and she blew her nose constantly, all of you felt like a family again. On Christmas Eve, when you were sitting on the couch in George’s lap, staring at the tree and listening to the radio, the world seemed a less horrible place, even if it lasted only for a few hours.

Everyone was there; Ginny and Hermione were talking while sitting on the floor, Harry and Ron were playing chess while Bill watched. Charlie was supposed to arrive the day after tomorrow. Mrs Weasley and Fleur were playing with Teddy, who was now mumbling words and constantly changing his hair color after every sentence. Mr Weasley and Percy were talking, being watched by George.

“Is everything okay?” you asked kindly, stroking his hair. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Yeah,” he tried to smile but you could see some kind of nervousness in his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, love,” he pressed a soft kiss on your hair. “Everything’s okay.”

Soon Andromeda came to take Teddy home, and people started to go to sleep one by one. Your heart ached painfully after entering George’s room — there were still two beds in there, figuring they’d come in handy once there’s way too many guests in the house. Still, it took you an enormous amount of effort to stay calm, take George’s hand and climb into bed next to him. He held you close all night, but you could tell that he was barely sleeping. You woke up several times during the night, too.

Then morning came and you opened your eyes with a tired groan. George was already sitting up, looking anxious. He was checking his watch, then when he saw that you were awake, he smiled weakly.

“Finally,” he said. “Come, I’m sure mum’s ready with breakfast.”

“Just give me five more minutes,” you said, closing your eyes again.

“C’mon, it’s Christmas!” he grabbed your hand and pulled you out of bed. “Aren’t you excited to give me your present?”

“Why do you think you’ll get a present in the first place?” you teased while opening the door.

“Witty,” George rolled his eyes and took your hand again, leading you down the stairs.

Not a single person were in the kitchen, they all gathered in the living room around the tree. It was quite crowded but you didn’t mind. Ron was already wearing his maroon jumper; you saw Hermione smirking and him shaking his head before kissing her on the cheek. Percy was just opening his package which seemed to contain a new scarf and a hat. Mrs Weasley’s sudden voice made George jump.

“Kids, finally! Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas… Let’s see… George, here you go dear. Just the usual.”

“Thanks, mum,” he said, hugging his mother for at least a minute. Mrs Weasley’s eyes were watering again, but she collected herself and smiled when looking at you.

“Y/N, dear… Arthur, where are you — come here! Now, dear, we’d like to —”

“No, mum, it’s me first!” said Ron through his teeth. You raised and eyebrow. George groaned.

“Then just do it, you prat.”

Ron shot an angry look at his brother, then he turned to Hermione uncertainly.

“Er — Hermione?”

“Merlin, Ron,” she said, rolling her eyes while searching in her pocket. “Yes, I have it, don’t worry. Do you want to read it?”

She gave Ron a piece of paper which he held up, looking a bit puzzled, then started to read.

“Dear Y/N! We were thinking about the perfect present for you, something that would make you feel the happiest person on this fine Christmas morning. Unfortunately, our ideas stopped at a certain point, therefore we decided that our present will be nothing more, than our appreciation and friendship that we feel whenever you’re in the room.”

He folded the paper, looking quite proud of himself. Hermione nodged him in the ribs.

“Oh, and Merry Christmas,” finished Ron. Hermione nodded. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh…” you said, not sure what just happened. Anyway, their words felt really nice. You smiled. “Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“Well, this is embarassing,” spoke Bill, while holding a piece of paper. “Looks like we were thinking about the same present as Ron.”

“Oh,” you said, feeling quite dull.

“I’ll still read it,” said Bill, and Fleur was looking at you, smiling. “Dear, Y/N. Please allow us to express, how much we adore you. You’re brave, you’re strong and you would do anything for the people you love. This perfectly showed during those long months you spent with us. It was hard, though you never gave up. And for this, Fleur and myself — we adore you.”

“Thank… Thank you,” you said, choking up. You felt their words to be too nice. They were too nice to you.

“Thanks Bill, for ruining my speech,” Ginny stepped forward, her face in mock annoyance. “I wanted to do the same thing, but seems like my idea was stolen.”

“Just read the letter sis,” said Bill, fighting a snicker. Ginny nodded and pointed at herself and Harry, a letter in her hand.

“Y/N, I want to thank you for being the first person who sat down next to me in my second year, even if I endangered a lot of lives the year before that. You never judged me, and you became one of the best friends I had. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You were always there for me, in happiness and sadness, and I hope I was always there for you when you needed me.”

“Of course you were,” you whispered.

“Good. And I promise to be there for you after this, for the rest of our lives. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” you said.

“Now, dear, Arthur and I have something to say as well,” said Mrs Weasley, paper in hand. “You have always been like a daughter to us, and we could not have been more proud of you. It’s always a pleasure to have you with us, and we thank you for making our son so happy. I know that without you he — he’d be lost and — all I want to say is… all we want to say is that we welcome you in our family.”

She smiled with tears in her eyes and George spoke.

“Y/N?”

You turned around and you saw him already on one knee, holding up a box with a beautiful ring in it. Your mouth dropped.

“Y/N…” he spoke. “You are the love of my life. You are my everything. You are witty, you are smart and you are the kindest person I’ve ever met…Without you I wouldn’t have been able to survive this past year… You were there for me since I’ve known you, and I can never repay you for all the love that you have given me. But if I try, maybe a lifetime will be enough… So will you marry me?”

You dropped onto your knees, crying. You ignored the ring and hugged George instead. It wasn’t even up for debate. Your answer was obvious.

“Yes!” you sobbed. “Of course I’ll marry you!”

You kissed him and the room erupted in cheers. George hugged you tight, his lips against yours and he stood up, pulling you with him while Mr Weasley summoned some glasses and champagne.

“I love you!” you said to him finally, after pulling away a bit, looking into his eyes. His were watery, but he was grinning.

“I love you, too!” he said, kissing you again. He then took your hand and placed the ring on your finger. You gasped.

“Oh, George — I love it!”

You hugged him again, and continued crying. The difference was, that these were not miserable tears. These were happy tears. And for the first time in a very long time, you felt that your happiness could not be demolished by anything.

#harry potter #george weasley fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #imagination #imagine george weasley #george weasley imagination #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #georgeweasley #george weasley #fredweasley #fred weasley #fred and george #fred and george weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagination #gred and forge #weasley twins #hermione #ginny #ron #ron weasley #weasley #weasley family #hogwarts #hogsmeade #hp #hp fanfic

[therosyhobbit]

A Berry Pie For Christmas

I will be honest that while I absolutely love cooking and working in the kitchen I abhore baking. It's so precise by nature so when I do bake I am unashamed about doing it with plenty shortcuts and cheats. And you should be too. Life is too short to cry over uncoperative pastry. That said, it's entirely possible to make a nice pie that is impressive and delicious to wow the family at christmas time while you are also running your kitchen making a three course dinner.

For This Recipe, You Will Need: ~Store bought short crust pastry (sweetened would be better but unsweetened is still fine) between 320 and 500 grams. This will change based on the size of your pie dish and how much decoration you wish to add. ~500g frozen mixed berries, defrosted or course ~100g golden sugar, granulated. Have extra to sprinkle at the end ~ Vanilla extract ~ All Spice (plays up the festive flavour) ~ 1 Orange, to zest to taste (plays up the festive flavour) ~ 1 egg beaten with a splish of milk ~ Double Cream (as much as you want and need)

Too Make, It's As Easy As Pie: ~Preheat the oven to gas 6, 200°C, fan 180°C. Making the pastry will differ between brands, follow the pack instructions. I personally used Just Roll and made it up a little. I lightly greased my pie dish with butter before I rolled out the pastry directly over it [pie dish], pressed it into place and trimmed the excess off. Prick the bottom of the pie with a fork. Let it chill in the fridge for up to 20 minutes while rolling out the remaining pastry and cut the strips these will also need chilling which is perfect for getting to the berries. ~ Draining the excess liquids from the berries plop them into a bowl large enough, better to have too much room than not enough. Add in the 100g golden sugar and mix. The orange zest, vanilla extract and all spice are all to your preferance. Mix again. Spoon the fruits into your pie case. Make your lattice and with any left over pastry why not make cute additional decoration with a cookie cutter. I added three christmas trees in the center of mine. If like me you forget to drain them or don't drain them enough your pie might be a little soggy of bottom buuuuut it's not really the end of the world especially if it will be reheated in the oven. ~ Before placing in the oven to bake, egg wash over your pastry and generously sprinkle with golden sugar. While your pie bakes you can make your cream as an aside to the pie. Using as much double cream as you need pour it into a glass bowl and with an emersion/hand/stick blender, whisk it good until thick and stiff, like a clotted cream almost. When the pie is baked, cooled and been shown off to your loved ones, serve a slice with your cream on the side. If you feel inclined and want to put the rest of the orange to good use a little half slice on top of the pie slice or dollop of cream can up the presentation. As for me, I'll be using the orange slices with my gin and lemonades!

#A Rosy Kitchen #home baking #homemade pie #home kitchen #cottage kitchen #cottagecore

[sofyasemyonovna]

Okay so off the topic of hormones or whatever that turned into lol what does gin taste like? I’ve had like every other kind of liquor BUT that. I had juniper bushes growing in my front yard as a kid so I’m familiar with the smell, does it taste like it smells? If that makes sense?

yes it does it tastes like it smells!! it’s a piney taste like christmas trees

[estoniandrinks]

Oselian G&T : A Tipple that Tingles!

It is a magical combination and more and more tipplers are realizing this in the era of gin bloom. G&T has history behind it, a traditionally favorite of bygone era G&T is back in business. The combo cocktail is creating a wave in EU and people young and old are imbibing robust combination available in mind boggling range on the shelves of bars, pubs and restaurants.  

G&T stands for gin and tonic and besides being a unique combo it is also one of the healthiest drink. The sizzling tonic soda and craft gin carefully distilled and infused with fresh botanical in right proportion. The carbonated mixer goes down well with cocktails as well. It is the right mixer for gin alternatives like Flaneur and Flaneuse very much popular in Estonia and rest of Europe. 

Lahhentagge based in Estonia is a craft distillery that distills the finest sizzling tonic soda that goes down best with Osel Dry Gin.  Lahhentagge gin is distilled from quality rye and infused with choicest botanical and extract from local juniper berries right from the backyard Saaremaa. The local ingredients created by master blender who has always lived in these confines all make a craft gin that creates the finest flavor and taste right with the jest of the Oselian Spirit.  

Oselian juniper is best known for its robust flavor besides the gin is infused with other fresh ingredients from the backyard like cow slip, elfin thyme, Nordic ginger and lilac. Infused in right proportion the spirit is insuperable. 

Tonic delivers when it conforms to quality. Estonic Soda is no run of the mill stuff that you combine for namesake.  The tonic water is made using three main flavors juniper, spruce and cardamom. Smooth and refreshing with right amount of fizz it combines with craft Osel Gin to delivers a tongue tingling experience.

Estonic Tonic is a responsible product as it recycles second hand Christmas trees. With right proportion of carbonation and quality sweetener the product excels whence ground cinchona bark is used in right proportion as Tarmo Virki cofounder of Lahhentagge informs.        

Whence combined with Osel gin the taste tingles your buds and the experience is mind boggling. 

#G&TEstonia

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 4

The band in the Senator’s ballroom was playing a slow dirge-like version of “In the Good Old Summertime” and Buster had half a mind to kick the lead singer in the seat of the pants so he’d shut up. The head of the Chamber of Commerce was there, the mayor too, and he was pretty sure he’d met a few of the eponymous senators. He’d glad-handed for as long as he could stand it (about an hour) before slinking off into a protective circle of familiar faces. He used his stature to his advantage, concealing himself behind the screen that Joe, Fred, Sandy Roth, and other members of the company made. There was plenty to talk about; namely, the picture. And also, the picture. But now he was bored of talking about the picture and this positive funeral march that they were playing wasn’t helping matters. Although Sacramento was rumored to be open, the hotel was pretending tonight that it was dry and he regretted leaving his flask in his room, but they were feting Buster after all and it would have been rude not to be fully present for every single excruciating second.

Still.

“Think they’ll notice if their esteemed guest goes AWOL?” he said to Fred. 

Fred laughed. “Count on it.”

Buster pulled his packet of cigarettes out of his slacks pocket, pinched one out, struck a match, and lit it. He didn’t like crowds of people he didn’t know or being expected to care about Sacramento’s economic situation, whether Coolidge was to be president again, and what was to be done about the decline of morals in young people. He especially didn’t like airs and this crowd had plenty. The truth was, he’d been made to do very few things in his charmed life, fewer still as he’d become a bona fide star, and his tolerance for formalities was at an all-time low. They were much more Nate’s speed. With her at his side at these functions, he never had to do more than answer the usual stupid questions (“Do you ever smile?”; “Do your pratfalls hurt?”) before Nate filled the uncomfortable silence with gay chatter and put the questioner at their ease.

Unlike with The General , however, Natalie had expressed no desire to be on location during the filming of Steamboat . He liked to think it was because she couldn’t bear to be away from her magnificent Villa for very long, but he had a sneaking suspicion her absence had simply to do with the fact that she didn’t care to be around him any longer.

“At least one more hour,” Joe said. “Then you can go back to your room and cut loose if that’s what you want.”

Behind Sandy, Buster spotted a man and his wife encroaching. 

“Excuse me,” said the man, tapping Sandy on the shoulder. “My wife’s an awful big fan of Mr. Keaton and I was just wondering if we could introduce ourselves for a minute.”

Taking a deep drag from the cigarette and blowing the smoke out in such a way that it temporarily obscured his face, Buster looked at the woman and said, “I never smile and the pratfalls don’t hurt.” 

She looked shocked. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

  “Hi.”

Nelly startled just as badly as she had when Buster had crept up on her a few days prior. She knew the voice wasn’t his, though, even before she looked over her shoulder and found herself locking eyes with Tommy, the blonde-haired workman. 

“Hi yourself,” she said, turning around and smoothing down the skirt of her dress. She’d been going through a jumble of skeleton keys in one of the smaller rooms in the prop house. 

Tommy was extraordinarily tall, almost sequoia-sized. He leaned against shelves. “How’d you like to go to a blind tiger tonight?” he said, without preamble. “A few of the fellows and I are going. We invited Mr. Bert. Oh, and Buster too.”

Buster, she thought, accustomed as he was to rubbing elbows with the upper crust, was not going to attend this rustic soirée, but she didn’t want to puncture Tommy’s evident pride at the scheme. She had never been to a blind pig, a blind tiger, a blind anything. She and some girlfriends would pass around hooch some Saturday nights back in Evanston, but she’d never actually drunk alcohol in an establishment. So naturally she said, “What time?”

Tommy grinned. “Oh, we were thinking maybe seven o’clock or something.”

She knew that Sacramento wasn’t as dry as other cities, but she paused to consider whether this was such a good idea nonetheless. A brief flash of the place being raided by police and her getting carted off to jail and losing her gig on the film occurred. The sybaritic part of her threw the doubts aside. Her decision was only strengthened by Bert, who came through the prop house doors.

“This jackass bothering you?” he teased, craning his head to look up at Tommy. 

“I invited her to the party tonight,” Tommy said. 

“What makes you think she’d go with the likes of you? She has taste, y’know,” said Bert. 

“What makes you think I have taste?” Nelly said, making both men laugh. When the laughter died away, she said, “Sure. Where?”

Tommy told her it was on 2nd Avenue next to a Chinese laundry. By day, it masqueraded as a five- and ten-cent store. “One of the bricks is painted a sort of yellow,” he said. “Just the one, though. There’s a side door off the alley. Knock four times.”

It all sounded so alluring and mysterious that Nelly couldn’t wait. 

A quarter past the appointed hour, Joe dropped her off in front of the store. She expected it to have a dingy air, but it looked perfectly clean and presentable, not at all the sort of place that would draw attention. Joe waited for her as she crept into the alley, feeling her heart race with the illicitness of it all and the promise of seeing Tommy again. She gave three rhythmic knocks. A man in a tweed cap whom she vaguely recognized opened the door and she waved to Joe to let him know it was okay to drive off before she stepped into the tiger’s den. 

There were slightly more than a dozen men crowded into the place, which was an apartment at the back of the store consisting of one main room, a water closet, and a couple doors that appeared to belong to bedrooms or closets. Everything from the stove to the sofa was in the main room. An old gramophone in the corner played ragtime jazz. She knew at once that Buster would not be coming. The set-up and the company were far too humble and she wondered if she’d made an error in judgement showing up. She was the only girl in sight and overdressed in nylon stockings and her best black dress with the belt. She felt ill at ease until she saw Bert and Tommy. Bert was in conversation with one of the men who was frequently in and out of the prop house. Tommy was standing near a bar, behind which stood various libations. 

“Nelly!” he cried, striding toward her. His eyes crinkled and he looked ecstatic to see her. “C’mon, come pick your poison.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the bar. Bottles lining the shelves behind it contained liquors of light ambers, deep browns, and clear silvers. There were even bottles of beer, not near beer, but real beer. She’d never seen so much booze in her life. She selected a bottle of beer. Tommy didn’t take his arm away immediately. It was heavy and he smelled good, woollen and mannish. She tilted the bottle back to her lips, feeling as though she was in good hands. It didn’t take long before she was warm and happy. 

Tommy conversed with the other men about the week’s events on the set—one man had nearly lost a finger sawing a board, another had given himself a good electric shock from a wire—and talked a good deal about a poker game he had recently won $100 in. She and Bert spoke for a while, mostly about work and what they expected shooting to look like next week. When her beer bottle was empty, Tommy slid a generous glass of bourbon into her hand. It stung going down in a way she didn’t quite care for, but as she got warmer still, she became used to it. About an hour or so into the party, Tommy’s hand crept around her waist and she didn’t mind a single bit. He talked to her about his childhood in Indiana and how he’d trap raccoons for fur to bring in money for the family. With his height and looks, she figured he was trying to break into pictures too, but it transpired that he thought he’d make his real fortune as a high-stakes poker player. The ambition seemed a little silly, but she wasn’t one to trod on other people’s dreams.

“Let’s dance,” he said, bending down to yell it in her ear over the conversation. The man who was in charge of the gramophone put on a song of medium speed in which a guitar plunked quietly in the background and a clarinet and trumpet took turns in the foreground. They danced in a small circle around the room and she had to crane her neck when he talked. 

They were three songs in when a workman in his fifties approached. He was missing several bottom front teeth. “Here.” He pushed a small glass of something clear in her hands.

“What is it?” she said, laughing.

“Gin.”

“I’ve never had gin before,” she said.

“Never had gin before?” Tommy said, holding her at arm’s length in mock incredulity.

She giggled and shook her head, trying to keep the glass steady as he pulled her back under her shoulder. She sipped and there was that sting again, this time tasting like Christmas trees. 

“No, you don’t sip it,” said the workman. “You swallow it down all at once.”

He and Tommy watched as she gamely tilted the drink to her lips and disappeared the gin down in one gulp. She gasped, wrinkling her nose as they laughed uproariously. “That was awful!”

“Try this one,” said another workman, younger and heavier. He extended a rocks glass containing a chestnut brown liquor. “Whiskey.”

She sipped and contorted her face. This was the worst one yet. “I’ll take my time,” she promised, setting it on a nearby table.

It didn’t take long before she was warmer and looser and gayer than she’d ever felt. Tommy passed her into the arms of the toothless workman. To her surprise, he was an incredible dancer and they did a foxtrot around the room to the next song, winning the applause of the other men. Bert took the next dance and they attempted a tango, but the music wasn’t the right tempo and they couldn’t stay in step. She was having the time of her life. She reached for the whiskey and barely noticed the sting as it went down. 

Tommy took her back and someone put “Steamboat Bill” on the Victrola, which caused everyone to erupt into laughter.

Oh, Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi.

Steamboat Bill, a mighty man was he.

Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi.

Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee!

She grinned, hot and breathless. Tommy’s big hand on her waist was beginning to feel more and more exhilarating. She began to entertain thoughts of asking him to slip out into the alley with her, but whenever a song ended, another workman was waiting with a drink or a request for a dance. At some point, the fat workman stole her away from Tommy and tried the Turkey Trot with her, but her feet were no longer cooperating. She was thirsty, but the only thing available to quench her thirst was beer.

She became dimly aware that her head and limbs had turned clumsy and heavy and she had completely lost track of time. It didn’t worry her. She was young and could dance and drink all night if she wanted.

(Image source.)

#Buster Keaton #Silent Film #Golden Age Hollywood #Silent Movie Stars #RPF #Actor RPF #Real Person Fiction #Roaring Twenties #1920s #1920s Film

[angelaiswriting]

Children (1 of 4) | Michael Gray x reader

[original picture: pinterest]

✏️ Pairing: Michael Gray x fem!reader

✏️ Summary: After a nice Shelby family dinner, Michael and his wife leave their son at Polly’s to enjoy a night with each other. It turns out, though, that’s it’s not just each other that they crave. (Requested by Anonymous)

✏️ A/N: gaaaah *insert unintelligible sounds here* I told Paulina I would wait tomorrow to post this, but let’s be honest: this is me we’re talking about, I literally have close to zero patience (sorry b). Anyway, this fic was a ride, I somehow was embarrassed to talk about a dick and a vagina, but I pushed through it HAHAHA wtf is happening to me? This is honestly my sweetest smut ever and I just hope Michael is not OOC here! (You let your girl know, though.)

✏️ Beta-read by: @sweetvengeancee

✏️ Warnings: 18+ only, so if you’re a minor, don’t fucking interact. With that said: vaginal sex, oral sex f/r, fingering, talks of wanting children, just... immense fluff mixed with the sex.

✏️ Word-count: 4,572

PART ONE: CHILDREN  |  >> part two: anna and john >>  | >> part three: a bigger table >>  |  >> part four: warhorse >>

In the silence of the big house, even their hurried steps echo off the walls, lose themselves in the depth of the mansion. Even when Michael’s coat falls to the ground after his hand missed the coathanger, the sound is louder than usual – more like a long, soft sigh than a thud, the pressed wool delicate and still warm from having been worn all day.

His wife’s long, red topcoat follows suit, joins its partner on the waxed hardwood floor of the hall and then it’s the turn of Michael’s hat – the cheap razor blades clink against the parquet.

After that, it’s all short breaths and whimpered words, hungry kisses left on kiss-starved lips. They’re both hungry: they haven’t had a chance of being alone for a while now, both too busy with the business or helping John grow up, teaching him how to talk and walk and run. And live – live like the world is made of shining gold and riverbeds are filled with flowing honey.

“I fucking missed this,” he whispers against her lips as he meets her gaze and finds hers already twinkling with amusement and something else. Something more. Something that runs deep and that scorches like living fire. “Missed you.”

She has no chance to chuckle, for he kisses her again. And it’s pure hunger. It’s pure lust and need and love, the same insistent feeling that brought them to having a baby running around the house on his chubby three-year-old legs and a hat too big on his head. The same baby that’s now sleeping peacefully at Polly’s place after a chaotic dinner with the whole Shelby family as they’re being given the chance to love as foolishly and as recklessly as they always did before getting married.

He makes her walk backwards as he blindly leads her towards the staircase and her hands are desperate and messy in his hair, on his face, on his neck and then down his chest and back up his back when she pulls him closer.

“Missed having you this fucking hungry,” he groans when he picks her up in his arms and she squeals.

She kisses his neck as he walks up the stairs – burning lips against even hotter skin – and then scorching tongue against his kiss-bruised neck. She licks and kisses and suckles, and he does his best not to moan – the maids might be used to overhearing their love-making sessions, but he’s not. He’ll probably never be.

His hand slaps her butt when he reaches the landing. She laughs, he laughs, and it’s a matter of seconds before he puts her back down onto her feet. And a couple of seconds later, they’re both sprinting down the corridor like children, giggling and chuckling, promises of a wild night falling from their lips like solemn pledges.

It’s all downhill from there: she’s in his arms again as soon as the door closes behind her back and a heartbeat later, she’s pressed up against the wooden surface, legs wrapped around his waist as she hastily fumbles with the knot of his tie just as he struggles with her garter belt.

His lips are bruising against her neck. They suck and kiss on her pulse point as he breathes her in. Her scent is home – roses and cigarettes and clean pressed bedsheets and the sugary honey of John’s sweets. It’s a smell he craves during the day when he’s in the office or dealing with more risky business with Thomas or any other of the guys. And it’s also a smell he relishes when he comes back home and he finds her sitting at the table as John draws, a smell he loses himself into when he spoons her at night and buries his face in her hair – breathes her in.

“We won’t go to sleep until sunrise,” and it’s a promise.

God, she looks into his eyes and she knows that’s a promise. There’s a frenzy in them, a frenzy she knows will push her to be louder than she usually allows herself to be. Promises of every kind flash across her husband’s features, tug at his lips until he’s grinning up at her as his hips experimentally thrust against her.

And she moans – low and deep and barely above a whimper, but it’s there and as they look into each other’s eyes, they know they’re just as hungry, just as ready to get drunk on each other.

She moans and he groans, her hands cradling his face and her lips pressing and pushing against his until he parts them and their tongues glide against each other. It’s… good, like a glass of fresh water after a day spent in the sun. They kiss and savour each other like they haven’t done in what feels like forever. And he tastes of strong whiskey and cigarettes and she - of Christmas trees, the gin she’s drunk still pungent on her tongue, still buzzing in her fingertips.

When he moves away from the door, he does so with a grunt, for her hold on him gets tighter and pressed up as she is against him, she feels delicious.

She makes him delirious.

His brain works a mile a minute, his heart - ten.

Everything’s messy – messy lips, messy backwards steps, messy hands under the gown of her dress, pushing her stockings down her legs until the back of his knees bump into the edge of the mattress and he falls backwards.

“Michael!” She squeals and chuckles as she balances herself with her hands on his chest.

His hands move along her thighs and glide over her ass, fingers pressing into the plump flesh as his grin widens, teeth glinting mischievously in the bedroom lights. “Y/N.” He savours her name on his tongue as he stares up at her.

They stay like that for a while, panting lightly, both of them catching their breath with their eyes set onto each other’s. It feels good – this feels good.

Michael Gray loves staring at his wife more than anything else – but never more than watching his boy grow and learn things and explore the world. He wants at least six more of them, six more Johns playing hide-and-seek in the endless rooms of his mansion – or maybe two more Johns and three girls that teach their brothers how to remain anchored to the ground, how to avoid being swept away by the Peaky Blinders’ lifestyle and business.

He looks at her and he sees it all over again – her pregnancy, her slowly-growing belly, her swelling breasts, that absolutely mind-fucking pregnancy glow that had stuck to her for nine months like a second skin. He sees it and he feels it – feels it in his loins, in his breath growing shorter, in his smile widening and losing its wickedness. He feels it in his heart, that very heart that throbs and flutters in his chest as a pinky blush slowly blooms on his cheeks.

And he finds himself craving it again.

He craves it all again – even the morning sickness, even the empty threats thrown his way through a closed door as his wife gave birth to his son. He craves the smell of her, so sweet and delicate and unexplainably heavenly.

She’s undoing the buttons of his shirt when he comes back to his senses, her hands swift and precise as they reach the last one before sliding underneath the cotton and across the flushed skin of his chest. They’re quick at opening his shirt – and her thumbs are even quicker when they swipe on his sides, just below his ribcage.

After that, she bends down and her lips are feathers against the scars on his chest. It’s become a habit by now – she kisses the bumpy skin of the scars left behind by those fucking bullets and everything falls back into place – everything is right. Again.

Everything feels safe. It’s safe to want it again, it’s safe to wish for it – and it will always be, in her arms, in their bedroom, with her skin against his and his against hers. And so his hands move away from her buttcheeks to cradle her face, to pull her closer to him.

She smiles and it’s one of those whispered smiles that make her exhale loudly from her nose and the air fans his lips as she looks down at him. Her eyes are grinning, too, before he kisses her.

“Let’s have another kid.” It’s a murmured prayer against her red-covered lips, against the smudged reddish hue around the corners of her lips, where his lips have pressed before.

“Another kid?” She presses kisses to his jaw, all the way to that sweet spot below his ear that makes his hips thrust up against her when she suckles on it.

“For a start,” he breathes, hands snaking around her neck to blindly undo the clasp of the necklace he’s given her for their first anniversary. His left arm opens, then, hangs from the foot of the bed to let the diamonds fall to the floor, their dead value protected only by the soft sheepskin someone has gifted them on their wedding day.

“‘For a start’ sounds good,” she mutters against his skin, slowly sliding down his body until she’s sitting between his legs, her fingers undoing the button of his black trousers. “Was this your great plan?” she asks, pushing both slacks and underwear down his legs, stopping for a moment only to take off his shoes. And his socks.

And after that, she’s kissing her way up his legs and there are only goosebumps in her lips’ wake – goosebumps that tug at his skin and at his brain, cutting his breath short the closer she gets to him.

He’s hard – he knows he is, he doesn’t need to look down. He’s straining against nothing and the closer she gets, the more insistent the pulling in his loins gets. The whole day has led up to that – from the groggy first minutes they spent in bed that morning; to that free hour in the afternoon they spent cuddled up in the tub, preparing for the family dinner at his mother’s; to the way she had looked in that sparkling grey dress, her smile shining brighter than the diamonds around her neck.

Michael loves Y/N like nothing else and with such an intensity that it hurts. It shatters his heart in the best way possible and it leaves him craving for more – more of her, more of their lazy mornings, even more of the hectic mornings spent in bed with John gurgling and telling unintelligible stories and simply being the rascal child he is.

“Michael?” she hums against the taut skin of his stomach as a cool fingertip traces the underside of his left ball. “Was this your great plan?” she repeats, for she knows he’s already forgotten the question. “Spend the night fucking another baby in me?”

He loves it when she’s like that, when she lets her dirty mouth run free – when she takes off that lady-like mask she wears when she deals with people outside the family.

“Undress for me,” he says instead, stopping her from taking his dick in her hands.

She smirks up at him and she looks so fucking ravishing that his eyes almost roll back into his skull as the muscles in his thighs tense, his toes curl.

“Undress for me.” The words are whispered this time, and pleading – voice soft and imploring as his thumbs caress her burning cheeks.

She mutters something back to him, something his brain doesn’t pick up, before she leaves a kiss on his hip. The second after, her comforting warmth isn’t there anymore. When he opens his eyes, she’s standing in front of him, between his legs, her feet between his on the floor.

“Why don’t you help me?” Her smile is sweet, loving – so fucking loving that Michael feels a sob build up in the back of his throat as he sits up on the bed and his hands reach their place on her hips.

All he wants is to fucking press his face into her belly and breathe her in.

“Turn around,” he says instead, standing up behind her when she faces the bedroom door in front of her.

His breath is hot against her neck and his hands burn even more even through the dress she’s wearing when they come to rest on her abdomen. He leaves them there for a moment as he peppers kisses on the side of her neck, pushing himself closer against her, suckling on her sensitive skin until her head lolls back to rest against his shoulder.

“Let’s have another baby.” He leaves a kiss on the crown of her head before pulling out the pins that keep her hairdo up. They fall to the floor one by one and the sound each one produces sends shivers up her shins. “Let’s give John a baby brother,” and he kisses the back of her neck, “or a baby sister.” It’s only when he’s let her Parisian earrings join the hairpins on the hardwood floor that he whispers in her ear: “Or both.”

It takes him three excruciating minutes to undo all the ties and buttons on the back of her dress. And to let it fall in a heap at her feet. And to slide the straps of her full slip down her shoulders. And to let the garment glide down her body until all she is wearing are briefs, garter belt, shoes, and socks.

He makes her turn around and as she does, he sinks to his knees. Michael Gray doesn’t kneel in front of anybody, but with his wife? Fuck. He’d spend his life on his knees for her – he’d die on his fucking knees for her. His heart aches at the sight of her like that, lips parted, fingers dancing lightly on the skin of her cleavage and then up her neck as she goes to remove the one hairpin he forgot in her hair.

And his hands – his blood-covered hands, so used to numbers and weapons – are soft and light on the skin of her sides and the brushing of his calluses makes goosebumps wash over her as she looks down at him – looks down into his eyes.

Gentleness turns into hunger when his fingers hook underneath the hem of her briefs and garter belt and his head leans forward to leave a chaste kiss on her lower belly as his mind’s already wandering – wandering to when her womb will be round with yet another kid of his, wandering to when he’ll feel his spawn kick from inside her to tell him, daddy, I’m here! I can’t wait to get out and see you!

He can’t wait to welcome his child, either. He can’t wait for the moment he’ll have another mini Gray in his hands to show to John, to teach his firstborn how to be a big brother. He craves it, and there’s something in that image that tugs at his heart and at his eyes and makes tears well up and obfuscates his sight.

He makes quick work of her shoes but he’s slow at taking them off. It’s something he enjoys – undressing his wife. It’s a night-time ritual he’ll never get tired of, something he enjoys more than anything in this godforsaken world. It makes him feel capable of more, makes him feel like there’s a higher meaning to his existence – to her existence – and to existence in and of itself. There’s a meaning so fucking high that his mind can’t comprehend it and so it leaves him with love-filled turmoil inside.

But then, when she’s finally and utterly naked and he’s back on his feet, he hugs her and he holds her tight – and close – so close he swears he can feel her heart beat against his chest. Every part of him brushes against her and every part of her brushes against him – skin, limbs, hair, breath.

She’s so close it physically hurts. But it’s a good hurt, something that makes him feel alive, something that makes him feel lucky to be alive.

He tilts her head back, then, and he looks down at her with a smile brighter than the sun and the moon and all the stars combined. And all he sees on her face is love for him – love for them both together, for what they’ve been capable of doing and for what they want to do again.

The kiss is sweet, almost chaste as they stare into each other’s eyes, breathe against each other’s skin as her hands move up his back and down his biceps until she’s holding onto his wrists, his hands cradling her face and keeping her in place.

“I love you,” she breathes when he lets her go, when she lets him guide her until she’s lying on her back, the soft mattress underneath her and his strong body above her. “I love you so fucking much it hurts.”

He smiles at that – he grins at that. He’s glad she feels the same – the same feeling, that same weird tugging in every single muscle and bone of her body, that same churning sensation deep down in the pit of her stomach as the head of his cock leaks pre-cum in the joint of her thigh and hip.

“I love you too,” he whispers in the valley of her breasts as his kisses drift south, lower and lower until he’s settled between her parted legs.

And she’s beautiful. She’s so fucking beautiful, spread out for him like this, that he has to close his eyes for a moment, even though there’s no stopping that finger from swiping between her folds.

And she’s wet. She’s so wet he can almost feel her on his tongue – he can almost taste her on his tongue even from there. And it’s even better when he replaces his finger with his tongue because she’s there and it’s just so…

Ugh.

Michael doesn’t know how it feels, he can’t label it with a word. He feels like it’s been so long since the last time he’s had this much time to worship her like he should – to be soft and gentle and slow, to drive her as wild as he used to when they still had to get married, when they still had to have John.

She hisses when he licks that first stripe between her slick folds and the scratching of her nails on his scalp is so gentle it’s almost barely there. A second swipe and his name falls from her lips like a prayer, a never-ending litany that raises in volume the more he licks her, two of his fingers slowly pushing into her throbbing pussy – first one, then the second – and they curl gently and when they brush against that sweet spot of hers, she gasps.

She gasps and he groans against her, the sound coming out just as he wraps his lips around her clit, suckling gently on it once. It’s then that her hips buck up and he slides his arms under her thighs, grabbing her hips into a tight hold to keep her still.

His hands – those same hands that have killed and hit and punched – now hold onto her with the utmost gentleness and care as his shoulders – those same shoulders that at times feel like they hold the weight of the world – press into her inner thighs.

He loves this – loves what he can do to her, loves that he can be a different person with her. Gentle and careful and reckless and wild and so loving all at once. He loves the effect he has on her, the sounds she whimpers and moans when he goes down on her like he’s doing now, his fingers slowly fucking her, his tongue and mouth insistent on her burning core.

It builds up slowly – and yet, faster than he thought it would. She pants and wiggles under him, her back arching off of the mattress, her fingers tugging on his hair, making him moan as he presses himself harder into the bed.

And when he opens his eyes and looks up at her, he swears she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Eyes screwed shut, lips parted, nipples peaked, baby hair sticking to the thin layer of sweat on her forehead – he swears this is a fucking vision, and he finds himself hoping this is what he’ll see the day he dies: his lovely wife spread out for him on their bed, opening up for him the way she always does, clamping down onto his greedy fingers as his mouth tends to her clit.

He wants to stay here forever, wants to lose himself into her, wants to love her like a starved man would – intensely and ardently and all at once, pouring himself into her before it’s too late, before the time for their last farewell comes.

He fucking loves her and he’d like to tell her again, for he’ll always love her. Even on his deathbed. Even on her deathbed. Even during the storm, when everything looks darker than it actually is. He wants to tell her he loves her to America and back – to the Moon and back – and surely even beyond that. He loves her more than he loves his job, more than he loves his life with the Peaky Blinders, even more than he loves horses.

But she’s coming when he’s about to open his mouth and tell her again how fucking much she means to him. She’s coming and she’s moaning and whimpering as the walls of her vagina flutter around his fingers.

Her skin burns against his lips when he kisses his way back up to her face – past her lower belly, past her chest, past her breasts after he kisses each nipple and tears whines from her lips and even past her neck, until he’s finally kissing her lips and she can taste herself in his mouth.

There’s a moan, then, one that builds up in a crescendo and that comes from deep inside her as her tongue swipes against his and it’s a sound – and a feeling – he’s missed. He’s missed it so much that his lungs almost hurt and he finds himself melting in her arms.

Right after that, it’s all a God and Michael and fuck and love against his lips as he takes himself in his hand. His body barely has the strength to balance himself on one forearm as he gently strokes himself once, twice before nudging her clit with the head of his cock.

And just like that, with a long and slow thrust forward, he’s sheathed inside her and his forehead is covered in sweat and he’s fucking panting against the kiss-bruised skin of the crook of her neck. And her hands are in his hair again, fingertips gently massaging his scalp as she pants against the side of his face, his ear, his hair.

“I meant it,” he moans against her skin when her walls hug him tighter and his back tenses. “Another kid.” He’s out of breath – even out of strength as he lies there, his chest pressed heavily against hers as her thighs slide along his until they’re pressing against his hips.

Her lips pepper kisses to every centimetre she can reach without moving her head and he starts doing the same, forcing her to stop. He pecks her neck before the slow kisses turn to suckling, his teeth gently grazing her flushed skin as his hips draw back.

It’s delicious – the friction, the feeling of her all around him, the whine that leaves her lips when he pecks them. It’s heavenly and he feels like a whole new person as her burning warmth scorches all his walls and masks and protections down.

Her “I meant it, too,” is a breath against his lips as her hands press into the flesh of his shoulders, nails lightly scraping his skin. “God, let’s have another one.”

After that, it’s pure desperation. It’s like they can’t have enough of each other as his pace picks up and her ankles cross over his ass, trying to pull him deeper and deeper each time he thrusts into her, the head of his dick nudging that spot inside her that just makes her eyes roll back into her skull as her neck arches and her breasts press harder into him.

“Let’s have ten more,” is the incoherent plea she breathes out as she fails to look at him, her eyelids too heavy to keep her eyes open.

His exhale is almost louder than anything else as he snorts, trying to hold in the chuckle. And he’s kissing her neck and face – cheeks, nose, lips, eyelids; anywhere he can reach, he presses a kiss to her skin.

By God, she drives him insane. There’s no rhythm in his thrusts, no steady strength as he loses his focus and his head falls forward, his forehead pressing against her collarbone. His arms snake and push their way under her waist, hands sliding between her ass and the mattress to pull her a little higher. And it doesn’t make much of a difference, but both of them see stars.

When she comes, her orgasm cuts his breath short and all it takes him to reach his bliss is another couple of strokes of his cock inside her, her vagina clamping down on him.

And he’s gone.

He’s so fucking gone that he forgets his name for a minute or two as he sloppily and automatically thrusts inside her. Back and forth, back and forth – it’s the only action that has meaning as he draws out their highs and gently leads them both off of them.

Neither of them remembers when he’s pulled out, nor that they moved on the bed to cuddle until they’re already in that position, their breathing slowly evening out as she pants against his chest and he draws made-up patterns on her sweaty back.

“Did you mean it?” he manages to ask after a while, when the thrumming of his heart in his chest is not that loud anymore – when he feels himself starting to harden again. “When you said you wanted ten more kids.” It’s a breathless laughter, the one that shakes him and that vibrates in her chest.

She tilts her head against his chest to look up at him and she grins, her eyebrows wiggling before she chuckles, too. “Who knows?”

“You’re insane.”

She’s insane but he loves her nonetheless. And he’d give her twenty more children just to see that radiant grin on her lips that makes even her eyes laugh.

“We should hurry up, then,” he says instead of confessing his thoughts, his right hand moving down her left thigh and then back up again before pushing between her legs. “Make the most of this night of freedom to make sure we’ll have at least one more, huh?”

*cleans sweat from forehead* Was this any good? How was Michael? (Hopefully not that OOC) A penny for your thoughts? :)

Requests are still open if you want to request some Peaky Blinders stories  ❤️

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi

Peaky Blinders: @whimsylavender @thethyri @friendleyneighbourhoodvillain

People that might be interested: @sweetvengeancee @kind-wolf @flowers-in-your-hayr

#michael gray imagine #michael gray x reader #michael gray #michael gray smut #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders smut #angelaiswriting