#George Downie

[0hwonderboy]

“CRIKEY, Tim Downie!” -George Taylor (2024)

[clove-pinks]

Thinking about the Battle of Plattsburgh/Battle of Lake Champlain today: September 11, 1814.

A detail from Macdonough’s victory on Lake Champlain and defeat of the British Army at Plattsburg by Genl. Macomb, Sept. 11 1814, engraved by Benjamin Tanner in 1816 (Wikimedia Commons).

Captain Marryat called Lake Champlain "the scene of an American triumph" when he visited years later. It could have been an American disaster, but Sir George Prevost chose to abandon the attack by land against the inferior forces of the Americans after the naval battle.

To defend Plattsburgh, General Alexander Macomb had only 1,500 regulars, and most were convalescents and raw recruits. But on September 11, the American flotilla of Thomas Macdonough crushed the British naval attack by four warships led by Captain George Downie. Discouraged by Downie’s defeat and death, Prevost canceled his land attack, although his troops were poised to crush Macomb. Retreating in disorder, Prevost abandoned valuable military stores and lost three hundred deserters.

— Alan Taylor, The Civil War of 1812

US Navy Admiral Thomas Macdonough, at left, and Sir George Prevost, Commander in Chief of British North America during the War of 1812.

Writing in his 1830s travelogue Diary in America, the former Royal Navy officer Frederick Marryat discussed the Battle of Plattsburgh with an American veteran and concluded:

Much allowance must of course be made for ignorance of the country, and of the strength and disposition of the enemy’s force; but certainly there was no excuse for the indecision shewn by the British general, with such a force as he had under his command.

Now that the real facts are known, one hardly knows whether to laugh or feel indignant.

[yslandfrog]

pikneil

I HAD TO, i saw tim downie's and george taylor's pikmins and went "I gotta make one"

and here's pikmin jones

[pwlanier]

Lady Cust's Great Auk egg

An Egg of the Extinct Great Auk (Pinguinus impennis), Iceland, 1844

Eggs of the Great Auk are regarded as being among the most sought-after of all natural history objects, due to their exceptional rarity. The Victorians thought of them so highly that every surviving egg was listed and its whereabouts carefully recorded. At this time more than 60 had survived and each of these had been collected in the years before 1844, when the bird itself became extinct.Today, almost all of those that still exist are in museums from which they will never be released with only four remaining in private hands.

The Great Auk was a flightless, aquatic bird measuring approximately 2½ feet tall and weighing on average 11 pounds. With a black body and white underbelly, its appearance fell somewhere between a puffin and a penguin. When hunting, the Great Auk employed a hooked beak and powerful swimming stroke to stalk fish and crustaceans. Native to the cold waters of the North Atlantic, their nesting areas ranged from the coasts of Newfoundland, Maine, Massachusetts, and even South Carolina and Florida, to Iceland, the Faroe Islands, the eastern coast of Greenland, and the islands off the coast of Scotland, namely the Orkneys and St Kilda; during the winter months they were known to go as far west as Norway and Denmark, and skeletal remains have been found as far south as Gibraltar.

Great Auk pairs mated for life, laying but one egg per breeding season on small islands and rocky coastlines. The longitudinal, pear-shaped eggs were perfectly adapted to roll in tight circles, greatly reducing the chance of being lost off a cliff edge. Parents would take turns incubating the egg, all while benefitting from the protection of dense social colonies and few natural predators.

Historical records indicate that the Great Auk showed no innate fear of humans, and this—coupled with their slow and awkward movements on land—greatly increased their vulnerability to extinction as Europeans began to massively exploit the species for food, for their downy feathers, and horrifyingly, for kindling in fires, as their very oily feathers were highly flammable.

On June 3, 1844, the last known breeding pair of Great Auks were killed off the coast of Iceland, on Eldey Island, after being captured by fisherman, making this incredibly rare specimen a poignant reminder of humanity's responsibility to conservation and environmental stewardship.

Because of their tragic history, Great Auk eggs are exceedingly rare, and even more so in private hands. Thanks to the efforts of early passionate ornithologists, in particular Symington Grieve, Edward Bidwell, Paule Marie Louise & John Whitaker Tomkinson, Ch. F. Dubois, and Leon Olpho-Galliard, surviving specimens of skins and eggs, including the present example, are well-documented in the literature.

The first record of Lady Cust’s Egg is that it was bought in Paris during the first half of the nineteenth century by the celebrated naturalist William Yarrell who presented it to Lady Cust. No-one knows quite why he did this, but she kept it for many years. At her death it passed into the collection of another well-known ornithologist, George Dawson Rowley, and it has passed through the collections of several other illustrious naturalists (including Captain Vivian Hewitt) in the years since his time.

The egg is listed and its story told in Symington Grieve’s celebrated monograph The Great Auk (1888), P. and J., Tomkinson’s Eggs of the Great Auk (1966) and Errol Fuller’s comprehensive book The Great Auk (1999).

Top right photo: LADY CUST’S EGG ILLUSTRATED IN TOMKINSON'S CELEBRATED TREATISE EGGS OF THE GREAT AUK (PUBLISHED IN 1966, BUT THE PHOTOS TAKEN CIRCA 1900).

Sotheby’s

[george-weasleys-girl]

North Star Series

Chapter 42 - The Honeymoon

(SFW)

Start Here:

Warnings: hints of spiciness

~•~

Y/N's jaw dropped. "You got us a room at the Ritz?!"

"Only the best for my wife," George kissed her cheek. "But it's only for tonight. I can't leave Fred alone with the store this close to Christmas."

"Do you have any idea how much rooms here cost?" She stood frozen in place gaping at the hotel.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he chuckled. "Now, my love, what do you say we head inside before someone mistakes us for snowpeople and tries to shove carrots up our noses?"

"What?" Y/N shook herself and stared at her husband.

"We're starting to collect snow," he grinned and pointed to his coat, which was indeed beginning to accumulate a surprising amount of snow. "And the wind's picking up. The temperature gonna start dropping soon. I'd prefer to be someplace warm when it does."

George offered her his arm, and she took it. "Oh, right. Warm is good," she smiled sheepishly. "Sorry lovey, I just didn't expect this..."

"I know," he said. "I wanted you to be surprised."

"Well, you certainly achieved your goal," she assured him. "How did you manage to pull this off so quickly?"

George winked. "Magic."

~•~

"I feel like royalty," Y/N marveled, turning in a slow circle, before spreading her arms wide and falling back onto the massive bed, with George following suit seconds later.

Sinking into the downy mattress was like being engulfed in a cloud. All the wild, whirlwind exhilaration of the morning settled down into the gentle warmth of simply being together. They lay there for a while, wrapped in one another's arms, just talking and soaking in the realization that they were now officially Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

George held up Y/N's hand, admiring the wedding band that graced her ring finger. "Mrs. George Weasley. Mrs. Y/N Weasley," he grinned. "They just roll right off the tongue. I don't think I'll ever get tired of saying them or introducing you as my wife."

Y/N giggled. "I'll never get tired of hearing you say it." Everyone they passed in the hotel knew who they were as George had proudly introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, newly married, to every soul that passed by them.

George sighed happily and kissed her hand. "You know, when we first met, I was close to giving up on love," he admitted. "I wanted so much to find someone just for me. Someone who didn't compare me to Fred or expect me to be his clone or whatever. But every girl I dated didn't really want me. They all wanted Fred. Every damn one of them. And, the thought of being someone's consolation prize was beginning to outweigh my fear of ending up alone."

He went quiet for a moment before a brilliant smile spread across his face. "Then, you just waltzed right into my life, completely out of the blue, and changed it forever."

"We changed each other's lives. I fully expected to end up being the crazy cat lady," she said. "Now here I am, married to the most amazing man on the planet."

George's ears turned a bright shade of crimson, and he kissed Y/N soft and slow, safe in the knowledge that his world was just as it should be.

~•~

"Order away, my love," Y/N smiled in response to George's suggestion to calling up room service.

"Your wish is my command, my lady," he said gallantly and sat up. "But first, I want to spoil you a bit more and run you a hot bath so you can relax while we wait for our food."

"Ooh, that sounds divine," Y/N smiled, sitting up to give George another kiss.

~•~

Y/N emerged from the bath to find food of all sorts gracing the table. "I ordered all the appetizers. I thought finger food would be best." George grinned like a kid in a candy store.

"Georgie, baby... " Y/N stared at the smorgasbord. "I'm not even sure where to start."

"How 'bout right here, then?" With a cheeky grin, her husband flopped down in the nearest chair and patted his lap.

~•~

"I love this," George smiled, kissing the top of Y/N's head.

"What? Muggle game shows?" She teased. They were snuggled up in bed, watching tv.

"No, silly," George chuckled. "Us. Forever. And all that comes with it. Cuddling while watching mindless tv, experimenting in the kitchen, and then ordering in pizza when it's a glorious failure. Getting into arguments and then making up. Smiling for no reason. Having the most adorable ginger babies and watching them grow up."

"You seem quite certain they'll all be ginger," Y/N interjected.

"Of course they will. All Weasleys are ginger," he said proudly. "But, that's beside the point..." George paused for a moment. "Now, where was I? Oh, right," His hand slid down the length of her body. "And lots of kisses. Good morning kisses," he gave her a peck on the lips. "Mid-day kisses," he moved down her jaw line and down her throat. "Afternoon kisses," George continued to work his way downward, paying extra attention to all her pleasure points. "And, of course, evening kisses," he smiled up at Y/N before disappearing under the covers.

Y/N giggled and grabbed the remote, turning off the tv.

~•~

@milivanili99 @slytherclaw1978 @quackitysdrugdealer @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @fancy-pantaloons @samberriejams @totalwitch2 @aslanvez @mrsgweasley @morally-grey-obsessed @asuperconfusedgirl @hmisa11 @superduckmilkshake @junerprsh @wolfkill16 @kaysau2510 @planetkt @thankyouforanonymity @thatonepersonwhocantwrite @smallsweetvanillabean @themaraudersslut @hanne-montana @greenapplegrass @yoursarahg @marvelgirlstories @ceehance @whotfskai

[checkyourcomms6]

Absence

Aziracrow, but post-season 2 angst.

Word Count: 1,277

Summary: Crowley's first time back in the bookshop goes about as well as can be expected...

Ao3: TrustMeImTheAuthor

Crowley feels the worn softness of a well-kept book cover skim over her fingertips. She’s come to a rigid stop next to a small, round table. With as much fondness as he can possibly spare, he rakes his shaded gaze over the tiny statue atop it. The stallion there is the same as ever, reared back on its hind legs to face Crowley with unwavering stillness. Just by habit, he reaches up to grasp at the frame of his glasses. It is a stunted, hollow mimicry of old choreography. There are customers here now… And there’s certainly no one around to look upon her yellow-sapped gaze the way she aches for. Their hand withers and retreats to their side once more.

As their feet swivel them back to face the rest of the bookstore, Crowley knows with absolute certainty that this is a mistake. Muriel has been doing a wonderful job with the shop. Crowley has no understanding of whether this news pleases her or is jagged grains of salt dragging over open flesh. It looks healthy. The store. Reds and honeys still sift together to cast a spell of warmth and comfort over the senses. It still smells of paper and wax and…

Crowley can’t help the grit of his teeth behind closed lips.

The few patrons here mill about in a way that sours his tongue. They’re all relaxed smiles of contentment and bright eyes of innocent curiosity. Completely unaware of the black hole of absence bending time and space around them.

Crowley slinks forward, daring her feet to at least help her make it to the center, circular carpet.

“Aziraphale?” a voice questions softly. Before he knows the thought, Crowley has already turned, head darting about to search for the downy white puff of hair. Instead, a young person stands to the side a few feet away, nose pushed into a book titled An Almost Entirely Accurate Breakdown of Angelic Hierarchy. At the sight of its sickly green cover, Crowley’s nose wrinkles in disgust. A pair of piercing brown eyes flick up over the offensive text to peer back through into Crowley’s own. The demon tries to save herself the grief of a human interaction, sniffing as she scrambles to occupy herself with the nearest object. Their fingers find a tiny booklet: Gale’s Guide to Eternal Glee. She snorts. God has a sick sense of humor.

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

Crowley sighs, their red wine curls tumbling over their shoulder as they tilt their neck back to acknowledge the human that just spoke.

“No… but I might as well,” he huffs. “If you’re trying to buy a book you should know the answer is probably no-”

“-I had a question, actually. I’m Paisley, by the way.”

“‘Course you are,” Crowley mutters imperceptibly, as this ‘Paisley’ person continues.

“This book,” they tap the book’s heavenly cover, “do you happen to have experience with the topic?”

All Crowley can manage is the longest- and most exhausted- stare possible. Paisley, chuffing the heel of their boot against the ground, seems to be full of unexpected patience for a twenty-something. For a moment, Crowley considers the usual tactic of walking away or pretending the pesky creature doesn’t exist. It’s a useful skill when she’s in a hurry or otherwise in a hellish mood. She breathes in, expecting her feet to carry her along to seek out Muriel, as originally intended. Or perhaps to flee this place, which is beginning to feel less like a bookshop and more like the gaping maw of a haunted house. Everywhere her sharp eyes flick to, there is another memory to swallow back.

“What do you want to know?” The question leaving Crowley’s lips is a static shock.

“I’ve got a report due for a religion course. Gotta pick an angel,” Paisley explains, fingering lazily at the open page. “Aziraphale seems like a cool name, but there’s like no info in the book. You know anything?”

Paisley George, of course, is just another university student trying desperately to write a research paper they’ve had a month to do in a record 47 hours. Their whole world rests in the fate of its completion. How are they to know they have also just been thrown mercilessly into the middle of the greatest of love stories in its most devastating chapter. The distance between the question young Paisley has asked and Crowley is just about 6,000 years of tireless longing.

Crowley’s mouth is a bit ajar, enough to betray him as his jaw quivers. He shuts it again, looking down as he feels the gravity of millennia upon already burdened shoulders.

“Yeap.” He pops the ‘p’. “Know that bloke.”

“What was he supposed to be like?” Paisley charges on, burning curious and bright like a righteous halo. “This book came recommended by the class, but it says fuck all really.”

In the several seconds it takes Crowley to conjure their answer, so many versions of the truth come to mind. She wants to call Aziraphale an idiotic, selfish creature of habit without a clue in the world. An angel, trained from inception to inflate the ego of Heaven at any cost. God’s most loyal pet.

Crowley wants to leave.

He hates the smell of him, still vacantly present in the background. The way his eyes dart to Aziraphale’s empty chair over and over and over makes him sick. Why is Crowley here? What could this have ever done but cause them a slow and effortless agony? Her name is, as always, playing on loop- a feather-soft siren song. Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Aziraphale. 

“Aziraphale was the angel at the Garden of Eden,” Crowley murmurs gently, rubbing a palm over her face as she does. “Headstrong in his conviction, and loving, in all things. They are an angel of peace, knowledge, and comfort,” the demon expands. Somehow, the words just spill out. Aziraphale can be anything, after all, when told from Crowley’s lips- the only lips that have known the taste of his divinity.

“All the best food, all the best books… and magic. Magic is her thing, too. She’s the greatest admirer of planet Earth in all of Heaven. He’s…. Looking upon him is like… like plummeting helplessly forever through an endless blue sky, and thanking God for it. My angel…”

Crowley has drifted off from Paisley, gaze locking on the figure listening at the bottom of the staircase. In Muriel’s bright brown stare, there is an uncharacteristic knowing. The demon’s eyes are still covered from view, but Muriel seems to reflect it all back anyways.

“Mr. Crowley!” they call, just a bit too loudly for the hushed tone of the shop. “You can come up with me now, if you’d like.”

All Crowley would *like *to do is melt in between the atoms of the floor until there is nothing left of him. They look toward Aziraphale’s chair again.

This time, Aziraphale is there. Shirt unbuttoned just a touch, and body lazed against the backrest. She laughs. Crowley can’t quite hear her right. It’s just a copycat of the original. No one can do it like her anyways. The pale, wilting imitation of her voice curls around his ears. He hears his name on the angel’s breath, but it escapes him the moment he grasps for it. Then Crowley blinks.

The chair is empty.

Paisley is gone, long since given up on Crowley’s bizarre tittering.

The corners of Crowley’s mouth pull ever downward.

“Ms. Crowley?”

Though it is like ripping his eyes away from the birth of a star, Aziraphale’s demon turns himself from his love once more.

[linda-evans]

Linda and George Santo Pietro arriving at the 1984 Emmy Awards. Photo by Scott Downie.

[wankerwatch]

Commons Vote

On: Passenger Railway Services Bill (Public Ownership) Bill: Committee: Amendment 14

Ayes: 111 (95.5% Con, 4.5% DUP) Noes: 362 (97.0% Lab, 2.5% Ind, 0.6% SDLP) Absent: ~177

Day's business papers: 2024-9-3

Likely Referenced Bill: Passenger Railway Services (Public Ownership) Bill

Description: A Bill to make provision for passenger railway services to be provided by public sector companies instead of by means of franchises.

Originating house: Commons Current house: Commons Bill Stage: 3rd reading

Individual Votes:

Ayes

Conservative (106 votes)

Alan Mak Alberto Costa Alex Burghart Alicia Kearns Alison Griffiths Andrew Bowie Andrew Murrison Andrew Rosindell Andrew Snowden Aphra Brandreth Ashley Fox Ben Obese-Jecty Ben Spencer Bernard Jenkin Blake Stephenson Bob Blackman Bradley Thomas Caroline Dinenage Caroline Johnson Charlie Dewhirst Chris Philp Claire Coutinho Damian Hinds Danny Kruger David Davis David Mundell David Reed David Simmonds Desmond Swayne Edward Argar Edward Leigh Gagan Mohindra Gareth Bacon Gareth Davies Gavin Williamson Geoffrey Cox George Freeman Greg Smith Gregory Stafford Harriet Cross Harriett Baldwin Helen Whately Iain Duncan Smith Jack Rankin James Cartlidge James Cleverly James Wild Jeremy Hunt Jeremy Wright Jerome Mayhew Jesse Norman Joe Robertson John Cooper John Glen John Hayes John Lamont John Whittingdale Joy Morrissey Julia Lopez Julian Lewis Karen Bradley Katie Lam Kemi Badenoch Kevin Hollinrake Kieran Mullan Kit Malthouse Laura Trott Lewis Cocking Lincoln Jopp Louie French Mark Francois Mark Garnier Mark Pritchard Martin Vickers Matt Vickers Mel Stride Mike Wood Mims Davies Neil Hudson Neil O'Brien Neil Shastri-Hurst Nick Timothy Nigel Huddleston Oliver Dowden Patrick Spencer Peter Bedford Peter Fortune Priti Patel Rebecca Harris Rebecca Paul Rebecca Smith Richard Fuller Richard Holden Robbie Moore Robert Jenrick Saqib Bhatti Sarah Bool Shivani Raja Simon Hoare Steve Barclay Stuart Anderson Stuart Andrew Suella Braverman Tom Tugendhat Victoria Atkins Wendy Morton

Democratic Unionist Party (5 votes)

Carla Lockhart Gavin Robinson Gregory Campbell Jim Shannon Sammy Wilson

Noes

Labour (351 votes)

Abena Oppong-Asare Abtisam Mohamed Adam Jogee Adam Thompson Afzal Khan Al Carns Alan Campbell Alan Gemmell Alan Strickland Alex Baker Alex Ballinger Alex Barros-Curtis Alex Davies-Jones Alex Mayer Alex McIntyre Alex Norris Alex Sobel Alice Macdonald Alison Hume Alison McGovern Alistair Strathern Allison Gardner Amanda Hack Amanda Martin Andrew Cooper Andrew Gwynne Andrew Lewin Andrew Pakes Andrew Ranger Andrew Western Andy MacNae Andy McDonald Andy Slaughter Angela Eagle Anna Dixon Anna Gelderd Anna McMorrin Anna Turley Anneliese Dodds Anneliese Midgley Antonia Bance Ashley Dalton Baggy Shanker Bambos Charalambous Barry Gardiner Bayo Alaba Beccy Cooper Becky Gittins Ben Coleman Ben Goldsborough Bill Esterson Blair McDougall Brian Leishman Callum Anderson Calvin Bailey Carolyn Harris Cat Smith Catherine Atkinson Catherine Fookes Catherine McKinnell Catherine West Charlotte Nichols Chi Onwurah Chris Bloore Chris Curtis Chris Elmore Chris Evans Chris Hinchliff Chris Kane Chris McDonald Chris Murray Chris Vince Chris Ward Chris Webb Christian Wakeford Claire Hazelgrove Claire Hughes Clive Betts Clive Efford Clive Lewis Connor Naismith Connor Rand Damien Egan Dan Aldridge Dan Carden Dan Jarvis Dan Norris Dan Tomlinson Daniel Francis Danny Beales Darren Paffey Dave Robertson David Burton-Sampson David Pinto-Duschinsky David Smith David Taylor Dawn Butler Debbie Abrahams Deirdre Costigan Derek Twigg Diana Johnson Douglas Alexander Douglas McAllister Elaine Stewart Ellie Reeves Elsie Blundell Emily Darlington Emily Thornberry Emma Foody Emma Lewell-Buck Euan Stainbank Fabian Hamilton Fleur Anderson Florence Eshalomi Frank McNally Gareth Snell Gareth Thomas Gen Kitchen Gerald Jones Gill Furniss Gill German Gordon McKee Graeme Downie Graham Stringer Grahame Morris Gregor Poynton Gurinder Singh Josan Harpreet Uppal Heidi Alexander Helen Hayes Helena Dollimore Henry Tufnell Ian Lavery Ian Murray Imogen Walker Irene Campbell Jack Abbott Jacob Collier Jade Botterill Jake Richards James Asser James Frith James Naish Janet Daby Jayne Kirkham Jeevun Sandher Jeff Smith Jen Craft Jenny Riddell-Carpenter Jess Asato Jess Phillips Jessica Morden Jessica Toale Jim Dickson Jim McMahon Jo Platt Jo Stevens Jo White Joani Reid Jodie Gosling Joe Morris Joe Powell Johanna Baxter John Grady John Healey John Slinger John Whitby Jon Pearce Jon Trickett Jonathan Brash Jonathan Davies Jonathan Hinder Josh Dean Josh Fenton-Glynn Josh MacAlister Josh Newbury Julia Buckley Julie Minns Juliet Campbell Justin Madders Karin Smyth Karl Turner Kate Osamor Kate Osborne Katie White Katrina Murray Keir Mather Kerry McCarthy Kevin Bonavia Kim Johnson Kim Leadbeater Kirith Entwistle Kirsteen Sullivan Kirsty McNeill Laura Kyrke-Smith Lauren Edwards Lauren Sullivan Laurence Turner Lee Barron Lee Pitcher Leigh Ingham Lewis Atkinson Liam Byrne Liam Conlon Lilian Greenwood Lillian Jones Linsey Farnsworth Liz Kendall Liz Twist Lizzi Collinge Lloyd Hatton Lola McEvoy Louise Haigh Louise Jones Lucy Powell Lucy Rigby Luke Akehurst Luke Charters Luke Murphy Luke Myer Margaret Mullane Marie Tidball Mark Ferguson Mark Hendrick Mark Sewards Mark Tami Markus Campbell-Savours Marsha De Cordova Martin Rhodes Mary Glindon Mary Kelly Foy Matt Bishop Matt Rodda Matt Turmaine Matt Western Matthew Patrick Matthew Pennycook Maureen Burke Meg Hillier Melanie Onn Melanie Ward Miatta Fahnbulleh Michael Payne Michael Shanks Michael Wheeler Michelle Scrogham Michelle Welsh Mike Amesbury Mike Kane Mike Reader Mike Tapp Mohammad Yasin Nadia Whittome Natalie Fleet Natasha Irons Naushabah Khan Navendu Mishra Neil Coyle Neil Duncan-Jordan Nesil Caliskan Nia Griffith Nicholas Dakin Nick Smith Nick Thomas-Symonds Noah Law Oliver Ryan Olivia Bailey Olivia Blake Pam Cox Pamela Nash Pat McFadden Patricia Ferguson Patrick Hurley Paul Davies Paul Foster Paul Waugh Paula Barker Paulette Hamilton Perran Moon Peter Dowd Peter Kyle Peter Lamb Peter Swallow Phil Brickell Polly Billington Preet Kaur Gill Rachael Maskell Rachel Blake Rachel Hopkins Rachel Taylor Richard Baker Richard Quigley Rosie Duffield

Rupa Huq Ruth Cadbury Ruth Jones Sadik Al-Hassan Sally Jameson Sam Carling Sam Rushworth Samantha Dixon Samantha Niblett Sarah Champion Sarah Coombes Sarah Edwards Sarah Hall Sarah Jones Sarah Owen Sarah Sackman Satvir Kaur Scott Arthur Sean Woodcock Seema Malhotra Sharon Hodgson Shaun Davies Simon Lightwood Simon Opher Siobhain McDonagh Sojan Joseph Sonia Kumar Stella Creasy Stephanie Peacock Stephen Kinnock Stephen Timms Steve Race Steve Witherden Steve Yemm Sureena Brackenridge Tahir Ali Taiwo Owatemi Tanmanjeet Singh Dhesi Tim Roca Toby Perkins Tom Collins Tom Hayes Tom Rutland Tonia Antoniazzi Tony Vaughan Torcuil Crichton Torsten Bell Tracy Gilbert Tristan Osborne Uma Kumaran Valerie Vaz Vicky Foxcroft Warinder Juss Wes Streeting Will Stone Yasmin Qureshi Yuan Yang Zubir Ahmed

Independent (9 votes)

Apsana Begum Ayoub Khan Imran Hussain Jeremy Corbyn John McDonnell Rebecca Long Bailey Richard Burgon Shockat Adam Zarah Sultana

Social Democratic & Labour Party (2 votes)

Claire Hanna Colum Eastwood

[allylikethecat]

January OTP Prompts

I saw this prompt list this morning and decided that I was going to attempt to write 500 words every day for the month of January, each little drabble based on the corresponding prompt. We'll see if I'm actually able to stick to it, but it seemed like a fun little writing exercise for the new year! Here is the first one.

1. Sparkle

Matty’s eyes sparkled in the low light as he grabbed George’s wrist. “Come on,” he said, gently tugging George to his feet, the throw blanket that had been tossed over his legs falling to the floor. “Follow me.” 

“Do I have to?” George complained playfully, pretending to be put out, pretending like he wouldn’t follow Matty to the ends of the Earth if asked. Matty’s lower lip was swollen and shiny with spit from the way he had been chewing on it, deep in thought as he had sat fully captivated by the book he was reading, some romance-fantasy guilty pleasure he had seen on TikTok. 

“Geeooorge,” Matty whined, drawing out the syllable as if he truly believed that George was capable of denying him. His eyes glittered in the flood lights of the backyard as he stepped into the cold, wrapping his arms around himself, tugging the cardigan he was wearing closer to his body. It was oversized on him, falling off his shoulders and skimming the tops of his thighs, making him look soft and cozy. Making him look like George wanted to drag him back to the bedroom and take him apart. When George wore it, it was a hair too tight on him, clinging to his shoulders, the buttons barely meeting across his chest, in a way that Matty’s eyes grow dark, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip predatorily. 

George wrapped his arms around Matty, pulling him close so that they were standing pressing together, Matty’s back flush against George’s chest, George’s arms wrapped around him, the fibers of the shared cardigan downy against his fingers. He let his hand slip between the buttons, rucking up the wash worn cotton tee shirt Matty wore underneath to press his hand against the smooth heat of his stomach. Matty shivered as George traced his fingers along what he knew to be the lines of his rose tattoo, savoring the new softness he found in the holiday weight.

The sky erupted in sparkling light as fireworks burst across the inky night, red, blue, purple, green and gold streaking across the sky. 

“Happy New Year,” Matty said softly, the sparkling fireworks reflected in his dark eyes when he turned in George’s arms so that they were now standing pressed chest to chest. He stood up on his sock clad tiptoes, and pressed his lips to George’s, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, pulling him down and closer as he licked against the seam of his lips. George parted his lips easily, letting Matty inside, the taste of the champagne he had been sipping earlier on his tongue.  

“Happy New Year love,” said George when he pulled back, breaking heavily. He brushed Matty’s curls out of his eyes and kissed him again, pulling him impossibly closer, as if he tried hard enough they could become one. A wave of gratitude bloomed in his chest, he was thankful that he got to have this, that Matty was by his side, in his arms to ring in the New Year, that he was still able to sparkle and shine despite the adversary he had faced in his life. 

“I love you,” George whispered softly, his lips dragging against Matty’s own.  Matty giggled. “I love you.”

[denver-carrington]

Joan, Stephanie, and George at the party to celebrate the publication of Joan's book, Prime Time, at Spago on September 28, 1988. Photo by Scott Downie.

[0hwonderboy]

erm… sorry, rolan

(art by the fucking guy ever @bonjeacon-peakdeak // @/bonjeacon on twt! giving you a bazillion sloppy smooches on your mouth lips)

[a-monthly-rumbelling]

January Prompts

Welcome to 2024 - let's make it a good Rumbelling year.

Moodboard:

Non-smut: Positive, banish, drain

Smut: She borrowed the book from him many years ago and hasn't yet returned it.

Random: (Book quote): "People who love downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it." - Adam Bede by George Eliot

gif:

A reminder for all:

If the prompts are 3-5 words you don’t have to include all of them. Imaginary bonus points if you do :) but zero stress they just have to include a couple in some fashion so it fits the prompt.

If the prompt is a quote you can include it at any point, it doesn’t have to be the opening line.

If the prompt is the image moodboard (multiple images) you can be inspired by one of them, be inspired by two, be inspired by the lot, get a feeling from the thing and not one of the images specifically - it’s all good. There is no wrong way to approach this.

If the images on the moodboard are of Robert or Emilie’s non-rumbelle characters (eg Rush, Macavoy, Claire, Heiro…), don’t feel you have to use that character. They’re just there for a bit of variety.

Anyelle and anyem are welcome if you do want to use them, though!

if you are inspired by the gif prompt, similarly, your creativity is your only limit. It’ll be a real treat to see you might come up with.

Happy Rumbelling!

[rufficns]

it's been a while since we've seen JASPER FINCH in the shadow world. the WEREWOLF resides in NEW YORK and reminds us of DOWNY FOXES RUNNING THROUGH RACING TRAFFIC, STACKS OF WATER-DAMAGED PAPERBACKS & THE SILENT STEPS OF A BOY BORN RUNNING. rumor has it that they might have an affiliation to NO ONE, but only time will tell where their loyalties really lie. until then, only one thing is certain : the descent into hell will be easy for THE LIONHEART.

full name ⸻ JASPER JOSEPH FINCH . nickname(s) ⸻ JAS, LITTLE BIRD . age ⸻ TWENTY FIVE . gender identity ⸻ CIS MAN . orientation ⸻ GAY . pronouns ⸻ HE/HIM . hometown ⸻ MANCHESTER, ENGLAND . current occupation ⸻ CLERK AT THREE LIVES BOOKSTORE . species ⸻ WEREWOLF . faceclaim ⸻ JACK WOLFE . influences ⸻ ORPHEUS ( hadestown ) , GEORGE SANDS ( being human ) , PONYBOY ( the outsiders ) .

A MAN WHO IS PURE AT HEART AND SAYS HIS PRAYERS BY NIGHT MAY STILL BECOME A WOLF WHEN THE AUTUMN MOON IS BRIGHT. jasper has always been cursed with violence. his father, an alpha from a small pack in manchester, england, sired four children, and the youngest—and only boy—couldn’t have been more of a disappointment. his savagery was underdeveloped, a cavernous part of his being that had never bloomed. an intelligent strain of the pack, the finch boy was kept close by, although he was judged with side glances barbed words. something wrong. something to be ashamed of. and so, he merely survived. jasper watched his siblings grow up, kill early, evolve into their full forms. all three of his sisters survived knew exactly what to do—family secrets were shared between them when the moon was round, and full, and bright, and the other finch’s would return to the family home disheveled and broken, but alive. the blood of an animal thrummed through his veins with every passing lunar cycle. so long as he protected himself, if he stayed out of danger and remained on the periphery of the pack, he could remain safe. perhaps become an author. perhaps become somebody that wasn’t tied to long nights in the forests chasing a rotisserie chicken around a tree. jasper was the one to neatly fold clothes and hide them in the undergrowth for his family to retrieve when they came to their senses in the early hours. his father was quite the expert in making jasper feel as though he was worthless. throughout his wife’s fourth pregnancy, a human who had been brought into this world by mistakenly loving a beast, he had hoped for a son to carry on those strong family genes. in the end, it was his daughters that had been born into brutality. instead, jasper was more comfortable with his nose buried in books of the mundane, of sprawling narratives that features humans doing human things. there was something beautiful about the normal, once he had come to terms with never being able to experience such a thing. his hazel eyes would watch people going about their daily lives—grocery shopping, booking appointments, riding buses—and there would be a churning, sprouting seed of jealousy twirling in his stomach like something rotting. if only he didn’t smell dying animals from three blocks away. if only he could enjoy the moonlight without a sickly sense of guilt. when maren finch killed her schoolteacher, the finch family were forced to pick up their life and move elsewhere, somewhere they weren’t known. the new york monsters looked after and cared for their own; his father decided that it was somewhere they would be safe. the idea of leaving jasper behind to pursue normality was discussed; norma finch was distraught at the idea of leaving behind her darling son, and so the four finch children and their parents upped and moved across the world to the supernatural-steeped city. so far, he has managed to avoid bloodshed. instead he prepares the wolves for the cycles of the moon and uses the scraps of humanity that he still clings to in order to better the pack. there is a part of him that feels as though he is a spare part, something that is long overdue a severing. resumés stuffed through letterboxes secured him a position at the local bookstore where, in lulls of customers, he is able to enjoy books on the beauty of love, the little humdrum details that he would never know. jasper clings to those foreign familiarities, the stories of enjoying the mellowness of flowers instead of a stinging, oppressive stench of pollen that burns his nose in tiny thorns. heightened sensation brings heightened sadness, heightened loss, heightened ache.

[vitalphenomena]

────𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒.

𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 . i'm perhaps biased, but spirit is a little beautiful underneath it all. it can stand out, especially if it's the day she's decided to take a shower and prett herself up. big green-blue eyes, nice nose, decent mouth. charming, conventionally attractive facial structure. however, you might not want to give her a second glance, in reality, due to the smudged mascara, the tattered sweatpants, the desperation that seems to ooze from her in murky waves. she's perpetually tweaking, and that might not be pretty to look at — grinding her jaw, tapping her leg, looking around like something's about to be trouble.

𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐋 . vodka. cigarette smoke. she does wear perfume, but it's often masked by those two stronger smells. her usual perfume is woody and herby. when she's going out, she wears something smokier.

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 . again, vodka and cigarette smoke. (but also her pussy's magic and if you went down on her you'd say she tasted like heaven.)

𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 . yankee regina george. what i mean is: whispery, high-pitched, accented. naturally very soft spoken. a whisper that can be sultry, can just be annoyingly difficult to hear. again, she does have a new york accent.

𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 . downy but smooth. usually wearing soft clothes or silky, satin-y dresses that are nice to touch, too.

tagged by : @cosmicangsts tagging : @bluedprints for molly or edwin, @doomedfist, @dogtccth for bella, @miidnighters for anybody new or for hartley, @hungryyheart

[toomuchracket]

omg imagine george cutting the kid’s hair for them because he knows what he’s doing from doing “uncle mattys” ahhhhhh AHHH

i think that from the minute your daughter had hair, george was literally obsessed with faffing around with it - he'd hold her against his chest and just caress the back of her downy little head, and nothing on earth was more endearingly entertaining to him than when her hair got long enough to put in one of those sticky-up ponytails like pebbles from the flintstones lmao. she was quite a content kid, taking after george in that she would happily sit still and taking after you in that she would read books while she did, and whenever she sat on george's knee he would occupy himself by playing with her hair. and then it became a whole thing, him styling it for her - the year she turned four, george's new year's resolution was to learn how to french braid, a feat he mastered in like 3 weeks lol. and that's good for you, because it means you can take turns doing your daughter's hair before school and dance class and football and whatever else she's up to; you and george are both like "honestly, how has our kid got a better social life than we do lol".

the hair cutting happens on tour. you and george and the rest of the grown ups are chilling before the show eating pizza, watching your daughter and dylan (crossover event slay!) run around trying to choreograph their own dance routines to their dads' songs lol (yes, matty is filming the whole thing like kris jenner in the thank u next vid), and you turn to george like "our baby needs a haircut look at her fringe lol she can barely see. i'll look up a salon nearby and take her before tomorrow's show"; george is like "or i could do it. that might be easier. i've cut hair before!", and matty pipes up like "yeah george you've done mine". and you're like "oh you mean the time you cut it so unevenly that you both had to resort to completely shaving the sides? it's not exactly filling me with confidence, babe", which makes adam and ross snort. but george is undeterred lol - he calls your daughter over like "would you let daddy cut your hair, munchkin? i think we need to fix your fringe before you start looking like a highland cow lol", and your daughter's like "ok dad!", which makes you wince but you don't protest. so he sits her down on the coffee table in front of him, newspaper on the floor to catch the clippings, and carefully starts to trim the ends of her wavy hair - you have to be like "god's sake george, not THAT much off!" a couple of times, but for the most part he does a good job. your daughter seems happy with it, anyway; at least you think, from the brief second she spent glancing in the mirror before running back to her bestie lol <3

[george-weasleys-girl]

Chapter 23 ‐ The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

Warnings: none

Summary: Y/N and Sirius' insomnia leads to an unexpected late night chat

Title courtesy of Douglas Adams

*I almost called this one The Cursed Chapter. I just couldn't seem to write it the way I envisioned it in my head. But, after multiple revisions and tumblr failing to save my changes FOUR TIMES, I've decided to call it done. Hope ya'll enjoy it.*

Start Here:

~•~

Y/N had no idea what time it was as she sat in the dimly lit room, smoothing out Buckbeak's feathers. "Sleep and I aren't getting along these days," she confided to the hippogriff, shifting so she could lean against his side, letting herself sink into his downy feathers. He trilled a soft melody and began preening her hair, bringing a brief smile to Y/N's face.

"I wish I could fade in and out of existence at will," she mummered. "Just take brief break from life when things get too much, you know."

Buckbeak moved so he could reach her hair better and continued his preening.

"Or as an alternative, I could just rip out this dead weight in my chest. That way I won't have to feel it anymore."

"Seems a bit of an overkill to me."

Startled by the disembodied voice, Y/N jumped, causing Buckbeak to squak at her with all the righteous indignation he could muster.

"Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you." Sirius stepped into the room and sat down to soothe the disgruntled hippogriff.

"Oh hi, Sirius," Y/N smiled. "Can't sleep either?"

"Sleep? What's that?" He chuckled. "I haven't had a proper nights rest since--well, since before everything happened." His grin faltered and he grew very still and very quiet, his eyes downcast. Y/N turned her full focus back to Buckbeak, knowing there's nothing quite as unnerving as having someone you barely know bore holes into you're head while you're having an emotional moment.

Y/N debated on whether she should stay or go. She and Sirius had never really talked other than exchanging a few pleasantries or a bit of mindless banter. However, she knew no one rambles around in the middle of night, seeking the company of a hippogriff, unless something big is preying on their minds. In the end, she decided to stay and offer a sympathetic ear, if he needed one.

"So, what brings you to my little nighttime sanctuary?" Sirius asked after a few minutes, back to his usual jovial self again.

"Buckbeak's an excellent therapist."

"Oh, that he is," agreed Sirius. "No judgements. No advice. None of that 'things will get better' nonsense. Just a listening ear and err--maybe a little preening." Sirius grinned, noting the spot where Y/N's hair was sticking out in million different directions.

Y/N peeked into the mirror and laughed. "I think this could be a new look for me," she said, before sitting back down and giving the hippogriff some neck scritches. "Buckbeak, hairstylist extraordinaire."

Buckbeak turned to look at her and trilled out another tune.

"I think he likes the new title," Sirius chuckled.

Y/N nodded, grinning at her feathered friend, who continued singing his happy, little song.

Sirius waited until Buckbeak finished his impromptu performance before speaking again. "I've heard about your dilemma," he said. "It's not an easy thing you're facing."

"No," she gave him a rueful smile. "It isn't."

"You know," Sirius replied. "Sometimes I get a little sad because I've never been in love. But, then there are other times, I think I may have dodged a bullet."

"It's not all bad," Y/N replied. "Most of the time it's quite wonderful."

"Except for times like this," Sirius pointed out.

"Except for times like this," Y/N repeated, with a long sigh.

"You seem to be handling it well enough," he observed.

Y/N shrugged. "I try to stay positive and not think about the future too much. My music helps alot." She held up her walkman. "I've had Tori Amos on perpetual repeat the last couple of weeks."

"Ah, yes, music," Sirius said. "What's that muggle saying? Music soothes the savage beast?"

"Yep, that's it." Y/N confirmed. "And yes it does."

"I missed music so much when I was locked away. The only escape I had," Sirius confessed, "came from a crack in the wall."

Y/N's brow furrowed. "A crack in the wall?"

Sirius chuckled. "The Ministry got complacent with the Dementors guarding Az--" He stopped mid-sentence as Buckbeak shifted his position, forcing both humans to rearrange themselves, as well, before the conversation could continue.

"I take it the Ministry let some things slide?" Y/N prompted once everyone was settled again.

"Many things, actually. The only thing they bothered to upkeep regularly was the Unplottability Charm and because of that cracks slowly began to form here and there. Not enough to arouse concern, mind you." Sirius explained. "But enough that a small crevice formed in the outer wall of my little, windowless cell, allowing for tiniest rays of the sun and moon to stream through." He looked down, his eyes trailing the shaft of moonlight illuminating the floorboards. "I know it doesn't seem like much, and truthfully it wasn't, but it was my whole world for a very long time. In moments of utter despair, I could close my eyes and lose myself in the faint roar of the ocean, pretending I was one of those endless waves rolling it's way to the shore."

Y/N nodded, trying and failing to imagine the horrors and loneliness he must've endured. "Sometimes it's the smallest things that get us through to the other side."

"Truer words have never been spoken," Sirius agreed. "A kind word, a song, the smell of the salt sea. They don't seem much at the time, but when you look back, you realize they were everything."

"I think--" Y/N started, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the creaky, wooden floor, followed by George's soft voice calling her name.

"Excuse me," Y/N said, rising at the sound of her boyfriend's voice.

Stepping gingerly around the now dozing hippogriff, she made her way to the door and waved George over.

"Oh, there you are," he smiled, wrapping his arm around her waist. "I woke up and you were gone."

"Couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd come sit with Buckbeak for a while. Sirius had the same idea," she gestured toward the figure basking in the moonlight. "We've just been hanging out, chatting."

"Hey, mate." George said. "Thanks for keeping my girl company."

"It was my pleasure. You've got a good one, there." Sirius stood, removing a stray feather from his shirt.

George smiled down at Y/N, only then noticing one side of her hair sticking out like a deranged porcupine. "What in Merlin's name happened to your hair?"

"Huh? Oh!" She reached up, realizing she'd never smoothed it back down. "Buckbeak gave me a new style. What do you think? It's all the rage in Paris."

George chuckled, shaking his head as he ran his fingers through her tangled locks. "I think he needs a little more practice."

Y/N placed a hand over her chest in mock offense. "Sir! How dare you insult The Master Buckbeak's work!"

The hippogriff perked up at the mention of his name, narrowing his eyes at George.

"Oh, now you've done it." Sirius laughed. "I hope you know in big trouble, Mr. Weasley."

George grinned. "Story of my life."

~•~

Y/N's exhaustion crept up on her as George and Sirius struck up a conversation of their own. She was about to mention it when Sirius asked if they'd like to join him in the kitchen for tea. Something in his voice pulled from her rapid descent into dreamland. She looked up at him, seeing the sad hopefulness in his eyes.

Then, she turned to her boyfriend, the two of them sharing an entire conversation in one, swift gaze. "Yeah, alright." George agreed. "But just one cup, I think Y/N's going to turn into a pumpkin soon."

"Of course, of course!" Sirius bounded past them and down the hall.

George and Y/N followed along behind, hand in hand. "Sure you're up for this?" He asked.

"Doesn't matter," Y/N answered. "We have a friend in need."

~•~

He squeezed her hand. "Indeed we do."

Next Chapter:

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