#cornwall place to go

[oifaaa]

can we please have more haunted asylum house stories please

The funniest thing about the asylum is that it's not even the spookiest place I've stayed at tho it does get those extra points bc I had to live there for a year also we didn't know it used to be an asylum when we moved in we had to find out via history book about historical buildings in our county and the picture they used was the front of the house with two 1800s kids standing in front which I'm pretty sure just is the start of a horror movie but yeah the asylum was your basic creepy place at one point I heard horses in the stables despite us not having horses when we lived at that house at one point I was in the house alone and the tap started running and the dog we had at the time refused to go upstairs you know classic stuff

[mycological-mariner]

Cornish history person just started watching Poldark. A friend said she had a theory it was all just funded by the Cornish tourism board and tbh, valid. Lead guy is just too conventionally attractive to be attractive. Everyone has nice hair. Only antagonists have period-appropriate hair (at least for the gents). I don’t like this. I don’t really care about the romance either (obviously) BUT the economic and political side of things is pretty good. I did appreciate mention of the Welsh mines thriving as a part of the reason why Cornish mines were shutting down (obviously not the whole reason and an oversimplification but still). On the topic of the Welsh mines, back in the day, it was Welsh coal that was used to fuel mines up the north coast (Botallack, Levant, Geevor, etc) because it was just more cost effective; Wales was coming up with so much coal they had a surplus and ships could easily come from Wales to Cornwall instead of by land from much farther north and at greater expense. Welsh coal is rare nowadays but if you go up to any mines you might be able to find some burnt chunks. Kind of wished they’d mentioned it in the show because the use of Welsh coal was a part of what kept the mines in Cornwall going. A sort of historical irony.

My main takeaway is basically rich people Fucking Suck

[bodhrancomedy]

In King Lear (III:vii) there is a man who is such a minor character that Shakespeare has not given him even a name: he is merely 'First Servant'. All the characters around him – Regan, Cornwall, and Edmund – have fine, long term plans. They think they know how the story is going to end, and they are quite wrong. The servant has no such delusions. He has no notion how the play is going to go. But he understands the present scene. He sees an abomination (the blinding of old Gloucester) taking place. He will not stand it. His sword is out and pointed as his master’s breast in a moment: then Regan stabs him dead from behind. That is his whole part: eight lines all told. But if it were real life and not a play, that is the part it would be best to have acted.

- CS Lewis on King Lear.

[elibeeline]

Thought about cornwall for a little too long and now im crying a little bit with this faux homesickness

[rebeccathenaturalist]

This is such a cool story! Conservation of endangered species cants heavily toward animals and then plants, but you rarely see efforts to try to help endangered fungi, lichenized or otherwise. Part of this is because many fungi are very difficult to propagate, particularly those that have mycorrhizal relationships with plants, and so the best way to save them is to protect critical habitat for those species. Moreover, fungi that produce fruiting bodies like mushrooms are only really easy to observe during their relatively short fruiting season, so unless you're searching the soil or other substrate for DNA traces, your window to actually survey rare fungi is quite short.

But lichens are different. They persist year after year, and so are easier to observe. Growing them is another story, though; most people who give it a try put fragments of a given lichen on a favorable substrate in a controlled environment and hope for the best. However, success is relatively rare in the long term as lichens are quite persnickety about their growing conditions.

So what about just moving the whole substrate? If you have lichens that conveniently grow on tree branches you could cut off piece of branch and then attach them to branches of the same species of tree elsewhere at the same height/sun exposure/humidity level, and hope that the lichens continue to produce spores that then find favorable substrates locally. But it's tougher to chip off chunks of rock and move them to new places, especially if you don't want them getting kicked around.

So it's really fascinating that these conservationists tried out all sorts of different glues to find the most lichen-friendly ones, and then glued them to new substrates in old parts of their range in the hope that they'll use their rhizines to attach themselves to their new homes. It shows how much detail we have to go into in habitat restoration and species conservation to try to replicate the best conditions for a given species to thrive, and how we can't just offer degraded habitats to our wildlife of various sorts and hope that they find it acceptable. Lichens like various Parmelia species or Evernia prunastri may not be as picky in their substrates, but for a rarer species like Gyalolechia fulgens, our task is to give them their Goldilocks substrate--just right. And sometimes helping them along involves a little bookbinding glue.

[onlythegeste]

Gansey Nerdery

Ganseys are actually a really clever piece of knitwear, okay? And I feel they deserve extra love.

Here is a Gansey:

Please excuse the crap photo, it's because it's one I knitted myself. They are traditional fishermen's jumpers that are designed to be warm, hard-wearing, and close-fitting enough not to be at risk of entanglement when using machinery.

While you can get fully-patterned Ganseys, most of them are half-patterned like this one. This is because most holes happen in the lower part of the sleeves and body, and plain stocking stitch is easier to mend.

The knobbly-bobbly edge is because I used a Channel Islands cast-on, which is traditional for Ganseys from Guernsey (which is where they get their name from), but not something you see as much with the variants from Cornwall, North-East England or Scotland (which are all Gansey hotspots). This particular Gansey is otherwise mainly Scarborough pattern, although the banding on the sleeves is more commonly a Cornish thing.

Ganseys are reversible, as there's no difference in the front and back, which spreads wear and helps avoid elbow holes.

They also don't have seams, as such, as traditionally they're knitted in the round as one piece. Like so:

There are 'false seams' up the sides, which are just purl stitches that help you keep your place in the pattern without needing stitch markers etc. when you're in the stocking stitch section. There are also grafts at the shoulders, and you pick stitches up around the armholes for the sleeves, which obviously does make a join, but there's no sewing required as sewn seams are inherent weak points.

Another thing Ganseys have to avoid weak points that might result in holes developing is sleeve gussets. They look like this:

You can also do a double gusset, by carrying on the false seam up the middle of the gusset as well, rather than just around the edges, which I did on the navy one, but alas I don't have any pics as it's currently packed away in a box somewhere and I'm not willing to go digging for it, so you only get to see the single version.

The gusset is knitted halfway as part of the body, then put on a spare needle or stitch-holder while the upper body gets knitted as front and back separately (you can apparently also knit the top part in the round and then cut the armholes, but cutting knitwear scares me), then the second half is knitted as part of the sleeve:

The false seam continues down the sleeve, which then gives a nice reference point for where to put thumbholes, if desired. It's very easy - you just switch to knitting back and forth for about 1.5"-2" before returning to knitting in the round.

The collar also has gussets, which helps it stand up. Those involve picking up progressively more stitches either side of the shoulder graft while knitting back and forth for a few rows, before you can pick up the rest of your collar stitches and do some nice ribbing. You can do this before or after the sleeves, as you prefer.

I don't seem to have a picture of it with both sleeves in situ, but yes, the cream one absolutely was a copy of James Fitzjames' Gansey from The Terror. If you're looking for a sign to make one yourself, do it - it's fun!

As a closing note, I wanted to talk about yarn. Ganseys are traditionally done in pure wool 5-ply, which is sort of between 4-ply and DK in terms of weight (broadly equivalent to most sports-weight yarns if you're either unable to get Gansey/Guernsey yarn or prefer a different fibre content) and very tightly plied. This, paired with the thinness of the knitting pins (aka double-pointed needles, usually between 2mm-2.75mm), gives a very tightly-knitted garment that is pretty windproof, as well as being water resistant and still warm when wet. Hence very suitable for both fishing and polar exploration. You could do them in oiled wool for even more waterproofing if you wanted, but I have no idea where to get pre-oiled yarn or how to oil it yourself, and honestly I can't imagine it would be necessary in most modern circumstances.

Unless you actually intend on exploring polar regions, in which case you could probably use all the weather-proofing you can get!

[unclewaynemunson]

Pt1 | Pt2 | this one is the last part!

After Steve has dropped Nancy off at her house – and Nancy has talked some courage into him – he drives to the uglier part of town, over Cornwallis and then into Forest Hills. He can only hope Eddie is home. If not, he'll try Jeff's house, and then Freak's or Gareth's. He had to promise Nancy he'll keep searching even if it has him ending up at Reefer Rick's boathouse again.

Luckily, no such search actions seem necessary when he gets to the trailer park: as soon as Steve opens his car door, he can hear loud music emerging from inside the Munsons' trailer. Even though it isn't exactly Eddie's usual taste, something tells Steve that Wayne definitely isn't the one who put this one on.

Should have known better than to cheat a friend And waste a chance that I've been given So I'm never gonna dance again The way I danced with you

He knocks on the door, but is not surprised when no one inside seems to hear him, so he pushes it open to let himself in instead.

He finds Eddie sprawled out on the floor in front of the old boombox. His eyes are closed, but even from Steve's place in the doorway he can see how swollen and red the skin underneath them is. His hair is spread out around his head on the floor like a dark halo, and his fingers are restlessly tapping on his own arm to the melody of the saxophone solo.

Steve finds himself frozen in the doorway, captivated by simply watching Eddie lying there in his own bubble while the music slowly fades out. Despite the sadness radiating off him, there's something weirdly beautiful about it, and Steve can't look away, can't move, can't make a sound.

Then, Eddie suddenly sits up; his index finger is already stretched out towards the rewind button when Steve clears his throat to make his presence known. Eddie whips his head towards him with a startled sound.

'Jesus Christ, what the hell?!' he yells out. 'How long have you been standing there? No, you know what, don't answer that, just get the hell out!'

'Eddie, I-'

'I don't wanna hear any of it, man! I thought – no, I'm not talking to you. Fuck you.' Steve knows it's supposed to sound angry, but Eddie's voice starts wobbling dangerously towards the end of his sentence.

'Eddie, please just hear me out,' Steve says, stepping further into the trailer. The end of Careless whisper has left a deafening silence in its wake. He half expects Eddie to cover his ears and start singing loudly, but he's only met with a teary-eyed death stare and crossed arms.

'I'm not seeing any girl, Dustin got it all wrong,' he starts to explain. 'I wanted to tell him who I was really seeing, but I couldn't - not without your permission - so I told him I was seeing someone. Meaning you. I haven't been seeing anyone ever since that first time we kissed. I didn't need to. I've only been thinking about you.' He pauses. It's scary, to let himself be vulnerable like this while Eddie is still looking at him like he despises him. But he takes a deep breath and pushes himself to say it all.

'I don't want to see anyone, boy or girl, ever again, as long as I can have you, Eddie. I promise. I've been falling for months, but I didn't wanna scare you off with any labels you might not want for us – but you're it for me, Eddie, one hundred percent. I never meant to hurt you like this. It's all a big misunderstanding; there's no one else for me.'

Eddie is still sitting on the floor, looking up at Steve with wide, teary eyes. Something in his face has slowly shifted while Steve was talking; the harsh lines around his mouth have turned softer and the betrayal in his eyes has made way for something Steve can only hope to be good.

'You wanted to tell Dustin about us?' is all Eddie says, his voice croaky.

Steve takes another step towards Eddie, then crouches down to the ground until he's sitting right next to him on the worn carpet.

'I mean, I know I don't wanna hide what I'm feeling for you. Especially not when people are thinking I'm going out with some girl when all I want is to be with you.' He reaches out to grab Eddie's hands in his own. 'So yeah, I think I wanna tell Dustin. And everyone else, basically. That is, if we're on the same page about what we are.'

Eddie frees one of his hands from Steve's grip to wipe it over his eyes. His palm is wet when his hand finds Steve's again.

'What about boyfriends?' he says, a hesitant smile creeping onto his face.

Steve squeezes his hands, unable to stop a matching smile of his own appearing. To hear that word falling from Eddie's mouth... He had expected it to feel good, of course, but he had never anticipated it to feel like this: like the whole world suddenly makes sense again.

'Yeah, I can do boyfriends,' he answers, his voice breathy with the multitude of emotions bubbling up inside of him. 'That sounds – sounds good. Great. Perfect.'

Eddie surges forward to catch him in a kiss that's a bit wetter than Steve is used to. Steve happily kisses him back, though, and he can barely suppress a shiver when one of Eddie's hands makes its way upwards over Steve's back and into the hair in his neck. There's a softness to his touch that easily drives Steve crazy with relief.

When they pull back, both of them are smiling dumbly and breathing heavily.

'I'm sorry I had so little trust in you,' Eddie tells him.

'That's okay, I understand,' Steve is quick to answer. 'As long as you leave listening to George Michael to me again from now on.'

Eddie makes a face, causing a big frown to appear between his eyebrows, along with all kinds of wrinkles around his nose.

'God, I can't believe you witnessed that and still wanted to be my boyfriend,' he says, adding an exaggerated shudder for extra dramatics.

Steve clenches his arms tighter around Eddie. 'You won't scare me off that easily,' he murmurs. 'It was kind of adorable.'

'It was pathetic.'

'Yeah, a little bit. But in an adorable way.'

Eddie rolls his eyes. 'You're an idiot, Steve Harrington,' he says. 'But... In an adorable way.'

Taglist: @withacapitalp @ultimatedreamer104 @irregular-child @jcmadgirl @estrellami-1 @myguiltyartpleasure @hallucinatedjosten @jaybren @thew1ldblueyonder @melodymeddler @alycatavatar @zoeweee @lolawonsstuff @fairy-princette @saramelaniemoon @phirex22 @krazyperson @xxsky-shockxx @candlecatsblog @goodolefashionedloverboi @jojobeaner @pinkdaisies1998 @giverobinagfbrigade @therealscarletpumpernickel @darkwithcoferie @duraffinity @lyriclight @almondflavoredbookworm @kingelyx @vampire-eddie-brain-rot @m-owo-n @altermagic @sirsnacksalot @littlebookworm86 @platinum-sunset @chaosgremlinmunson @morganski-19 @cam-cat-writer @slime-hoe @bat-outta-hel @justsearchingformystory @notfromtwitter @ashwinmeird @marklee-blackmore @warlordess @breealtair @pansexualhousecat @louwilsonscreamingpapa @inikokoru (more tags in the replies bc tumblr is being a dick again)

[world-of-wales]

THE 'DUCHY DAY' WITH THE 25TH DUKE OF CORNWALL! [1/2]

On a sunny field on the outskirts of Bath, there is a loud pop of a sparkling-wine cork. “I thought you’d never ask,” says the Prince of Wales, grinning and accepting a glass of fizz from the vineyard stretching out in front of him, on Duchy of Cornwall farmland.

He asks local producers questions about soil type, the weather and the history of the land before taking a sip and proclaiming it “lovely” and “very discreet”, at the start of a day that will go on as pleasantly as it began.

For Prince William, this is not just an outing in the peace and quiet of the countryside. He is here in his role as Duke of Cornwall, head of the estate he inherited the moment his grandmother died in 2022.

Vast, complex, and spanning 128,494 acres of land across 20 counties, the Duchy takes in both rural and urban life, and the priorities under its 25th Duke – William – range from ending homelessness to restoring rivers. He wants to use it as another “branch of his philanthropy”, he tells me: existing for “social impact” rather than as an old-style financial resource to be drawn from.

The Prince tries to visit part of the Duchy once every four to six weeks, working his way through its farms and offices to meet families and staff, shake hands and quiz them on what he can do to help. His visits are usually private, rarely making the Court Circular and kept quiet by loyal locals who are used to royal comings and goings.

In the middle of May, Kensington Palace granted a rare exception, giving permission for The Telegraph to join the Prince on a “Duchy day” for the first time since he took it over.

It has been six years since theuly first spent on the farm with Prince William. Then, he was in the apprentice role, shadowing his father, and modestly telling farmers, “I’ll try my best.” Now, he is fully in the driving seat, lit up with ideas on how to make his mark and, in his words, change the lives of those who live in his Duchy for the better.

He is, unmistakably, a man on a mission: to reform his Duchy so it is fit for 2025 and beyond; a “positive force for good” that will actively “make people’s lives better”. “We’re not the traditional landowner,” he tells me. “We want to be more than that.”

“There is so much good we can do,” he says.

He ends the day with a longer to-do list than when he started, and takes home a bottle of home-grown Duchy apple juice. He will have to drink it, he jokes, before his children can get their hands on it.

WHAT IS THE DUCHY?

For an estate that dates back to 1337, established by Edward III to generate private income for his then seven-year-old heir, the Duchy of Cornwall is geographically huge. Officially it exists to fund the life and work of the Duke of Cornwall and his family, which also goes towards running the Kensington Palace operation and paying staff – and passes to the next generation intact: the Duke’s role is as steward of the land.

As with other landowners, tenants pay rent to the Duchy, and there are commercial leases and market-rate deals with public bodies for properties on estate land. The Prince pays voluntary income tax with annual accounts reported to Parliament and oversight from the Treasury.

As of now, it has a new strap-line: “Positive impact for people, places and planet.” The “people” part is seen as mission-critical, including a heavy focus on solving homelessness, supporting the mental health of farmers, and arranging get-togethers to combat rural loneliness.

More than 150 people work across its eight offices, under the leadership of new secretary Will Bax and, ultimately, Prince William. Its largest landholdings are in Devon. The estate spans land from Herefordshire and Wales to Kent, inner-city London, the Isles of Scilly, sections of rivers in Dartmoor, Cornish beaches up to the high-tide line, and Plymouth Harbour.

Tintagel Castle, Cornwall :

It remains most famous for the Duchy Originals organic food line established by the then Prince Charles in 1990. Though it is now owned by Waitrose (and called Duchy Organic), the estate’s annual report warns it could still be muddled in the public imagination.

Since Prince William stepped into the role of Duke of Cornwall, he has embarked on a careful but wholesale stocktake of what is working and what is not. He wants to “dig deeply” to get a “true feel for what the Duchy is doing”, he tells me now, “trying to just go through with a fine-tooth comb”.

“The Duchy has been a positive force for good, but we can do so much more. I think the key thing is, it’s about not losing the important community and historical links of the Duchy. But it’s also about making sure we’re building on and enhancing, modernising the Duchy. We’re going to modernise it without losing its key spirit of community.”

"it’s going to take a bit of time” – likening updating the 700-year-old Duchy to “turning a tanker” – but he is determined to shift the focus away from the revenue-raising of old to put “social impact” at the centre. He chairs a quarterly meeting of The Prince’s Council, attending numerous other committees. He sends questions to staff and chases answers via WhatsApp on any given day.

THE VISIT :

On that mid-May day, the Prince arrives at Corston Fields Farm full of apologies. He is slightly late, after a train journey to Bath so delayed that the words “rail replacement service” were mentioned.

The farm, run by self-described “farmer and farmer’s husband” Emily and Eddie Addicott-Sauvao, is an exemplar of Duchy life: Emily’s parents have been tenants since 1982 (“the same year I was born”, William notes), and their two daughters now lend a hand with pruning. They have diversified into growing quinoa and a line in high-end events at the vineyard including food, wine and music pairing. Their award-winning Minerva sparkling wine, which the Prince tries, is priced at £120.

“We’ve chosen the right day for it,” he says, as the sun blazes and swallows fly in blue skies over- head. “Beautiful.”

The Prince notices everything.

“What’s this here?” he wonders, spotting wool from a scratching sheep at the bottom of a couple of the vines, and hears how the Romans used to grow similar grapes 2,000 years ago in the fields nearby. Like all farmers, he is preoccupied by the weather: it has been dry and he wants to know how it will affect their harvest.

He quizzes Rosa, 13, and Charlotte, 10, on what they like about living in the countryside (“you’ve got to get muddy haven’t you, that’s critical”), and tells them about his daughter of the same name.

He is particularly interested in the “community days” the couple host at the farm, where locals come, get their hands dirty helping out and meeting their neighbours, before being rewarded with lunch.

Asked what the Duchy can do to help their day-to-day lives as tenants, patriarch Gerald Addicott teases the Prince that he could make it “rent-free”.

“You’re not the first person to say that,” laughs William, adding – apparently semi-seriously – that he questioned whether he could do just that when he took over, and “got a lot of sweaty faces” responsible for balancing the books looking back at him.

Having spent the past few years speaking to farmers, he has concerns about how best to convince the public of the quality and benefits of locally grown, sustainably produced food.

“There is a huge problem here and I haven’t got an answer,” he says of how to recognise the work of British farmers amid cheap supermarket food and the “generalised” approach of the “mass retailers”. “We keep asking more and more of our farmers but you don’t necessarily get any benefits back on top of everything you have to do.”

Figuring out whether the Duchy can help to promote its small producers is on his to-do list. Staff, are used to receiving a follow-up call or message after each of these visits.

When Emily raises her own concerns about the lack of rural skills being taught in schools, the Prince nods. “We keep talking about the importance of being outside in nature but we don’t always give the jobs,” he says. “These jobs where you have that time in nature and think, ‘I enjoy it, I’m loving this.’ The opportunities need to be there in schools.”

By now, Matthew Morris, the rural director of the Duchy of Cornwall, who is tasked with keeping the Prince vaguely to schedule today, is trying to catch William’s attention with an eye on the ticking clock.

He has worked for the Duchy for six years, with both the now King Charles and Prince William. He notes cheerfully that staff no longer feel the need to put on a tie when the Duke of Cornwall is in town.

THE BOSS

It is a cliché to say that the Prince is in his element, but he is. After a period he has described as “probably the hardest year of my life”, he is as relaxed as I have seen him in a long time.

Without the usual press pack travelling with him, he is freer to speak and laughs easily, standing with hands in his pockets and visibly thrilled when he gets the chance to tease one of his team. He is delighted to hear that the office dog barks at Bax (“perhaps it’s the beard”).

His passion for all he can do at the Duchy is infectious. “He’s easy to follow because he’s got great conviction and personality, and he really wears his heart on his sleeve in terms of social interest and his desire to have a positive impact in the world,” says Bax.

The Prince is “pretty demanding”, he concedes – quickly clarifying “that’s great” – with a “pretty ambitious” outlook. Part of the job is amplifying others: “seeing the spark and getting the bellows out”.

Ben Murphy, estate director, describes the relationship between Duke and Duchy as its leader “laying down the challenge and it’s for us to figure out how to address it”. Prince William has a “healthy impatience, as his father did”, which “puts the wind in our sails; he really cares”, Murphy adds.

Henry Meacock, the chief executive of homelessness charity St Petrocs, is partnering with the estate on its first housing project with wraparound care to break the cycle of homelessness, with the initial phase due to be complete by the end of this year, and a policy of “blind tenure” meaning that private renters in Cornwall will live alongside social and supported housing. Prince William “is personally driving the timetable”, he says. “He would like to deliver more and quicker.”

In other words, he is putting his money where his mouth is. “He’s personally invested in the project and personally investing as well.”

The work, which is largely invisible to the public, is done alongside the day job of public engagements undertaken as Prince of Wales, passion projects such as The Earthshot Prize and Homewards, and responsibilities including investitures and overseas travel representing his father and the Government.

THE VISION

Since taking over, Prince William has incorporated much of the work he has been doing elsewhere in his royal life.

Nansledan, a new community being built as an extension to Newquay, will be the site of the aforementioned 24 homes dedicated to supporting people experiencing homelessness. The build will use low-carbon materials developed by one of his Earthshot Prize finalists.

On family holidays to the Isles of Scilly, where he, the Princess of Wales, Prince George, Princess Charlotte and Prince Louis stay on Tresco, William got into the habit of quizzing residents about what would improve their lives. As a result, a new health and social care facility includes a modern maternity suite, there will be designated key-worker housing to encourage teachers and doctors to stay, and a strategy to make tourism more sustainable.

Elsewhere, there are hopes of reviving Cornish high streets and transforming Kennington communities.

On the rural side, the Duchy will create 50 hectares (or 70 football pitches’ worth) of new woodland per year, restore damaged peatland as part of a major “Dartmoor vision” project, and take tenants on the “journey” to net zero by 2032.

It has already returned water voles to the rivers in Cornwall.

“I see the Duchy as an extension of the work we do with the Royal Foundation,” says William.

While the Foundation, the main charitable vehicle of the Prince and Princess of Wales, has worked traditionally in urban areas, on topics including homelessness, mental health and child development, the Duchy can extend it to the countryside.

“I see it as a branch of my philanthropy. There’s so much good we can do in the rural world. I see it [the Duchy] as another arm to the work that I want to do, which is being a positive force for good. I think the Duchy have got way more levels and gears they can go through to be able to be a bigger force in the community.” He said.

The Prince and his staff tend to use the same language when asked about his personal ambitions: impact, vision, scale. “He’s a man on a mission,” confirms Will Bax. “He’s asking us to change and evolve in a way to deliver positive impact at scale and at pace.”

'While the Duchy has rural communities and environmental stewardship in its DNA, the new era will see some subtle differences including a focus on people, creating a really strong safety net for the vulnerable in society, and doubling down on the environmental agenda”.

To stewardship – “that idea of leaving something better than you found it” – they hope to add leader-ship: “Not being a benign presence but being a presence that is willing to lead on issues that we care about.” The Duchy will also shout more about its achievements.

“The Duchy has perhaps been a slightly discreet organisation that hasn’t really put its head above the parapet very much, that hasn’t spoken very publicly about what’s important to us and what we’re here to achieve, And we’re seeking to remove any ambiguity and ensure people understand that our objective is to deliver positive impact for people, for places and the planet.” he says

While Prince William cannot enter the political arena, with Bax confirming there is a “fine line between politics and policy”, the Duchy is nevertheless “seeking to find our voice where we think we can represent sensible, balanced views on issues that affect our communities”.

“The Duchy in the past I think has been cautious in that space,” Bax continues. “We’ll continue to be cautious but we won’t continue to be voiceless.”

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/royal-family/2025/05/30/prince-william-exclusive-duchy-cornwall-bring-real-change/

[midniqhtt]

garreth weasley

masterlist • hogwarts legacy • 11/19/24

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 when she says my name I @wedonthaveawhile

Garreth finds himself entangled with the heroine of Hogwarts. As their encounters become habit, they devolve into a game of power dynamics and possession.

𑣲 don’t ever leave I @metal-mouse

It has been one year since you have graduated from Hogwarts. You've returned to Hogsmeade for some shopping, and you run into a familiar face. You spend the afternoon catching up with Garreth Weasley, when a rain storm rolls in preventing you from returning home.

𑣲 dreamful sleep I @cuffmeinblack

Garreth's habit of sleepwalking is driving his friends and roommates insane, until you start to find him in the midst of his dreaming.

𑣲 out of bounds I @/cuffmeinblack

You agree to help Garreth sneak into his aunt's chambers to retrieve some confiscated notes. In an effort to spend more time with him, you ask him to come with you.

𑣲 marry you I @thenerdykneazle

Garreth proclaims to anyone and everyone, including you, that he is going to marry you one day – despite the fact that you haven’t even agreed to court him (not that he's asked).

𑣲 curses and confessions I @5sospenguinqueen

The four times people told you Garreth was in love with you, and the one time Garreth did.

𑣲 when you know, you know I @writing-intheundercroft

You and Garreth Weasley aren't on speaking terms, not since you were caught stealing billywig stings for him and subsequently banned from Honeydukes. But the dawn of your sixth year brings a potion brewing contest, and you might finally have a chance to put him in his place.

𑣲 tis the damn season I @/writing-intheundercroft

You're back from five years of traveling the world and living in America, and Garreth Weasley invites you on a foraging trip down to his family cottage in Cornwall. You accept, having regretted not sharing your feelings when you last said goodbye. Or, the origin story of the Weasley knitted sweaters.

𑣲 blood sport I @festivalsofmargot

Garreth had begged you not to put your name in The Goblet of Fire. The TriWizard Tournament was known for being so dangerous, it was practically a death sentence to every school Champion chosen. You promised him you wouldn’t, but when you found out your best friend Natty had entered her name, you decided to go against his wishes and enter behind his back. Being as capable as you were and the only person in ages able to wield ancient magic, of course your name was chosen. Along with an overwhelming sense of dread that you could die, Garreth felt betrayal, and has kept his distance from you ever since.

𑣲 illicit affairs I @/festivalsofmargot

Garreth thinks back on his life with you, and it was far from perfect. But he’d relive every second if he had the chance.

𑣲 home to me part 2 I @chickenlizard13

Takes place after the Scriptorium.

𑣲 a misplaced apparition I @matchavellichor

While helping Garreth forage for potion ingredients, a misplaced apparition leaves you both magic-less and stranded somewhere in the Forbidden Forest.

𑣲 no place like home I @eggymf-archived

she couldn’t bear to make him suffer with every horrific danger that constantly chases her, hence she decides to run away one rainy summer night.

𑣲 silk I @crushribbons

The years have been exceedingly kind to Garreth Weasley.

[ur-local-anti-hero]

Mine

Remus Lupin x reader

Summary: Remus swears he's never been more in love.

Genre: Domestic fluff

Cw: None

Word count: 552

This is the first part of my Speak Now (Marauders' version) collection

"Flash forwards and we're takin' on the word together, and there's a drawer of my thing at your place"

"You are the best thing, That's ever been mine"

If there was something that had stuck with Remus after his years at Hogwarts, it was waking up as soon as the sun raised. Opposite to his girlfriend who tried to make the most of her time in bed, meaning that she usually slept in through the morning during the weekend. 

Therefore it was a common occurrence for Remus to be the one waking up to make breakfast when you were at his place. However, it wasn’t common for him to feel your arms wrapped around his middle while he was making tea. 

“Good morning, darling” he said, a smile creeping into his face when he heard you mumbling a good morning back, your head pressed against his back. “Did you sleep well?” he asked while turning around to wrap his arms around you. 

“Would’ve been better if you hadn’t left the bed so early, I missed you.” you replied, earning a soft giggle from Remus. 

He raised one of his hands to rest on your head, patting it lovingly. That made you hum against his chest, he made you feel safe and loved with a simple gesture like that, if he kept going you were sure you would fall asleep right there. 

“Are you wearing my clothes?” Remus asked when he finally took in your appearance. 

You nodded, face still pressed against his chest. “What else would I wear, we are at your place.” you stated as if it were a matter of fact. 

Remus couldn’t help but chuckle at that. You’ve been together for years now, and even though you insisted on having your own place to “learn to be independent before living with another person”, as you always said when your friends asked why you two didn’t live together. You spent most of your days at his place, a little cottage in the outskirts of Cornwall. 

“I’m pretty sure half of the wardrobe is full of your things” he said, a fond smile adorning his face when you finally looked up at him. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about, plus, you clothes are comfier” 

He just laughed at your response and looked into your eyes. Seeing you with his clothes,

and the sight of your sleepy face being hit by the morning sun coming through the window made his smile widen more, if it was possible. He felt like he was falling in love all over again. 

“What are you staring at?” you asked him, poking your finger in his side to get his attention as he appeared to be lost on his thoughts. 

“Can’t I stare at my beautiful girlfriend?” he said, voice filled with affection. 

“Hmm I think there’s a price you have to pay for that.” 

“Oh yeah? Which one would it be?” he inquired,his frame leaning slightly towards you. 

You pretended to contemplate for a second before answering “I think a kiss would do the job.” 

“I’ll give you as many kisses as you want.” he said before kissing your lips repeatedly. 

You giggled at his affection “I love you, Rem.” you said genuinely when he stopped. 

“I love you too, honey.” he sighed, thinking about how lucky he was to have you in his life and pledging to himself to protect this, the best thing that had ever been his, forever. 

Note: this is the first Drabble for the collection, is pretty short and fluffly, they'll get longer... If you want to be added to the taglist of the event, send me a message or ask! Series' taglist: @feral-posts @izuoyarmin @aremuslupinsimp

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VIII

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VIII: The Noble Heart of an Outlaw

The gang needs to relocate - leaving Owanjila proves to be a turning point, back east, back to the Dakota, back toward Limpany.

CW: masturbation, voyeurism, violence against women, injuries, death

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“No, no, it’s a step here, yes, Güera, there you go-”

Javier is the world’s most patient instructor, with you having stepped on his boot an uncountable number of times. But dismayed he is not, keeping one arm on your waist and holding your other hand. You blow upward at your hair that has fallen over your eyes, but laugh as Javier smiles and tries to lead you into the steps once again.

“And uno-dos, uno-dos- alright now, you’re getting it now!” He laughs as you make it through an entire set of steps without stepping on his boot once. Next to the campfire, he hums the tune of a song long lost to his homeland, “And - aqui-!” He dips you down, and you squeal in delight and surprise.

“Arthur.”

Arthur Morgan is drawn out of his darkening thoughts as Dutch smacks his shoulder. He had been staring into the fire, its orange tongue reaching up and out from its heart. He had been trying to ignore Javier and you dancing next to the campfire as the evening dusk settled in on the horizon. 

Grinding his teeth for a moment, he sniffs and then spits on the ground before following Dutch back toward his large tent. 

“You said you found somethin’ other than Strauss’s debtor out there?” Dutch looks over his shoulder, cracking his knuckles before spinning the large ring on his pinky. Arthur grunts and gruffly shoves his hand into his satchel, and the tell-tale sound of 

Dutch unfolds the paper, looking at it for a moment before snorting. He leafs through the second, third, and fourth - until he looks at each one of the crinkled posters. Dutch van der Linde, leader of a gang with thousands of dollars of bounties over three different states, looks up at his enforcer with a glint of satisfaction in his eye before folding the papers in half and tossing them on the card table amongst his accouterments.

Arthur purses his lips, “Much as I wanna ignore ‘em, Ruth found ‘em in Strawberry. That’s awful close. We’re still awful close to Blackwater and all that heat.”

“Old girl - take a look at this, makin’ Arthur here look like a real outlaw.” Dutch points at the papers as Hosea clears his throat as the older man slowly walks up to the tent.

“A new wanted poster?” Hosea asks, reaching the table and taking a look a the papers, raising his eyebrows as he unfolds them each one by one, “Well damn. Where did these come from, Blackwater?

“Ruth found ‘em when we were in Strawberry.” Arthur nicks his jaw to the east, in the direction of the small mountain town.

Hosea frowns, refolding the papers and placing them face down on the table, “We need to move east, Dutch. Other side of Valentine.”

“East? Into all that - civilization?” Arthur hisses, agitated at the thought of encroaching woodlands and people.

“Well, we ain’t gonna get around Blackwater to go West. Hell, West Elizabeth is too hot. And you seen what Ambarino looks like - we ain't gonna get through them mountains and northwest. It's the only way.” Dutch states firmly - pointedly.

“I don’t like it either, but I think that’s our only option now. New Hanover is pretty big. Enough room for us to lie low.” Hosea adds in agreement with Dutch, his hand smoothing down his neck as he considers the lack of options.

Arthur sighs, clenching his fingers around his gunbelt. “Fine. Fine. When are we goin’?”

“I’m gonna send Charles and young Sean ahead to find a new spot tomorrow morning. I’ve heard talk of a few good areas. By the time we get the camp packed up and heading out, I’m sure they’ll have somewhere procured.” 

Hosea nods in agreement, and Arthur continues to look at his boots, a silent sign that he too is in lockstep with Dutch’s plan.

Dutch claps his hand on Hosea’s shoulder as he steps past his oldest comrade toward the campfire.

Lording over his kingdom, Dutch van der Linde gives his orders.

“In the morning, we move. Ain’t no need to do it now - everyone get some rest. Susan - at dawn you get this camp together.” Dutch booms over the gathering, closer to the main campfire.

Susan nods, looking over toward the men loitering, “Alright, you lazy bums, you heard the man. No getting drunk off your sorry asses tonight.”

You look up to Javier, who snorts lowly, “You heard the boss. Thank you, Güera. Told you I would get that dance out of you.”

You smile back at him and nod, giving him a faux curtsey as he laughs. You bid him goodnight and head in the other direction, making your way over to the women’s lean-to, where Mary Beth sits on her knees packing before she lies down for the night.

“I’m gonna go wash before tomorrow. I’m sure I won’t have any time in the morning.”

“Gonna be okay alone?” Mary Beth asks, looking up from packing her books into her small chest at the head of her bedroll.

“Sure, I’ll just be on the other side of those boulders. Moon is bright - ain’t nothing out there, I’ll be quick.” You smile down at her as you pull a clean chemise from your leather bag. “Be right back.”

Just far enough from camp to ensure your solitude, you lay your folded chemise on the flat surface of a rock along the lakeside. Leaning over, you unlace your boots, one after another, and place them neatly on the ground. You unbutton your vest, shrugging it down your arms, and that too gets folded on the large rock.

You unlace your skirt, shimmying it down your hips until it flutters to the mossy ground below. Finally, you unbutton your creamy blouse, laying it with your other clothes until you are clad only in your chemise and bloomers. Taking a deep breath, you begin to enter the water.

You grit your teeth against the shock of cold water against your feet, up your calves as you wade into the lake. Your chemise quickly gets waterlogged the further you move, bracing yourself as you move deeper into the dark water. Finally, you reach where the water is just above waist deep. Taking a deep breath, you dip down and fully submerge yourself underneath Owanjila’s surface, quiet as a grave in the night.

-

“Alright, well, we’ve got our marching orders. I’m going to turn in. Staying up later is for you younger men.” Hosea waves off at the two of them as he paces away from Dutch’s tent toward his own sleeping roll. Dutch and Arthur both mutter goodnight.

“We’ll be fine, Arthur. Have faith - I ain’t steered us wrong in the long arc.”  

“Always got faith in you, Dutch.” Arthur looks up his feet to meet his foster father’s gaze, he knows when Dutch is looking for the validation of Arthur’s loyalty, as if it would ever falter. Outside of Hosea, Arthur’s been beside Dutch the longest. There is a reason that he’s the enforcer of the gang - and it wasn’t just the fact that he could ensure compliance through physical means.

Dutch claps his hand heavily on Arthur’s shoulder. “Always gonna ride with you by my side, son.”

Arthur nods, closing his eyes as his chin drops.

“Night, Arthur,” Dutch says as he pulls the canvas closed. The last thing Arthur sees in the tent is the flash of Molly O’Shea’s red hair. Sighing, he rolls his head as he rambles over toward his own wagon but doesn’t stop at it, moving further into the wooded area along the lake’s shoreline. He scratches at his jaw as he stares at the ground, ducking between trees to get far enough from camp to relieve himself.

Arthur stops at a tree about ten feet back from the water and goes to lift the buckle of his gunbelt until he hears movement, probably just a deer. His hand hovers over his holster - more through muscle memory than anything else. He looks toward the lake, past the tree he stands behind.

It wasn't a deer.

It was you. You, half-submerged in the lake, a chemise plastered over your body, the wet cotton snug as a second skin.

Arthur shouldn't be looking, he shouldn't be leering. But he is somehow locked in place, his legs refusing to move as his fingers tighten on the bark of the tree he is hidden by. 

You turn back toward the shoreline and draw your hair into your hands, wringing water from it. Arthur’s breath hitches. Christ, in the light of the moon, he can see the water sluicing down your body. Your chemise hides nothing as you wade toward the shore.

He can see your pebbled nipples press against the wet cotton. The soft curve of your breasts. How your waist dips inward before flaring at your hips. How easily that creamy white fabric soaked through; he can see the shadowed triangle of dark hair at the jointure of your thighs.

You step further from the water, and Arthur holds his breath as you emerge. The chemise, threadbare and soaking. As you come to stand at the very edge of the lake, the gentle, clear waters still dripping down your body, you shiver slightly before padding over to your pile of clothes. 

Reaching downward, you grab the wet hem of your chemise and start to pull it upward - baring your knees - your thighs - your…

This - this was too much. He swallows and turns away, some sense of morality finally overpowering his need as he quickly paces up the hill, further into the trees. Arthur finally gets to what he came out this way for, lifting his gunbelt with one hand and unfastening his pants, drawing himself out and emptying his bladder against the tree.

Dirty old man…

The stream of urine peters off, but Arthur could curse himself as his cock is completely hard in his grip. He stares down at his pelvis after swallowing, his fingers now wrapped around his girth, pulsing with hot blood in his hand. He bites his lower lip as his thumb draws back his foreskin, the head of his cock slipping out, the last few drips from his bladder shining in the moonlight.

It's been so long since he’s done this - giving into these base urges. Arthur gives his shaft a slick pump and hisses near immediately at the reaction in his gut. A shiver went down his spine, the tightening of his testicles as they drew closer to his groin.

He braces his forearm against the tree trunk and leans his forehead upon it, the rim of his hat pushed back, completely subservient to his arousal. 

He pumps again and closes his eyes to the feeling. Behind his eyelids, you’re there, in that damn translucent chemise, the cool waters of Owanjila sluicing down your body. Your nipples are hard, pebbled, and visible against the fabric. The swell of your breasts, curves that his hands could engulf should he strip that fabric down. Your blonde hair; darkened, wet, and plastered against your back.

Arthur finds a rhythm, hard and fast and desperate; the night air is interrupted by the slick sound of skin on skin, the loud breathing through his nose, the jingle of his spurs as he spreads his legs further.

“C’mon now-” He grits as he pumps himself shamelessly.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter in conjunction with beating his cock. You’re there, standing, soaking wet, the fabric hiding nothing. Not the curve of your waist, the subtle flare of your hips. Not your soft belly, trailing downward to the triangular thatch of dark hair over your cunt, he could see that through the damn cotton. You might as well have been naked - 

Arthur grunts, his hips thrusting forward, biting down on his lower lip as spurts of his spend landing on the tree trunk, adorning the bark in stripes of white.

He lets out a long breath before tucking his softening cock away. Redoing his pants, guilt and shame bubble low in his gut. He tries to shake the image of your body in the lake from his mind. 

But much to his chagrin, it lingers.

-

Morning comes entirely too quickly. Susan’s shrill voice seems to echo off the hillside as she furiously packs up the camp - ordering items to be boxed, wagons to be loaded, loafing old men to get off their asses.

By midmorning, the ragtag group of outlaws has finished packing and sets on their way heading east - away from West Elizabeth and Blackwater. Skirting north of Strawberry, the gang heads toward New Hanover, and hopefully, more breathing room.

You sit patiently next to Hosea, who drives one of the full wagons, the two draft horses snorting as they pull the heavy load. The afternoon sun glints off the river at Cumberland Falls, where the wagons slow to cross the running water. You know where you are, realizing that the clear waters that the horses are muddying through is the Dakota.

That means the fork in the road you can see ahead leads east toward Valentine, and south toward…

“H-Hosea, can I ask a favor?” 

He places his hand on your knee reassuringly, “Of course, sweet girl.” 

You look at the road heading south, the rest of the wagon train taking the fork that leads east. You swallow, looking back to Hosea.

“I need to see it, It's south of here. Please, can you take me…- then, then we can meet back with the rest of the gang.”

“See what?” Hosea’s eyebrow raises, questioning, unsure of what you are referring to.

“My old home. It’s here, along the Dakota. Hosea, please-” You plead, your voice hoarse with the threat of oncoming tears.

Hosea swallows, looking over his shoulder, back to you, and over his shoulder again. He waves back to a rider, then pulls on the reins of the draft horses hard, bringing them and the large wagon to a halt on the road.

Arthur meanders next to the wagon, his mare heeling next to Hosea. “What’s this?”

“Arthur - take Missus Shaw down the road. She needs to get some closure. Meet back up with the rest of us.” Hosea motions to the southward road, away from the slow-moving wagon train.

Arthur frowns, runs his hand over his stubbled jaw, and nods begrudgingly without putting up further argument. He shifts restlessly on his mount, and the mare stomps her feet impatiently.

You take Hosea’s hand, holding it tightly as he assists you to climb over him and down the wagon, your boots squelching in the mud of the road as you land. You look up once more to the elder outlaw.

“You stay strong, dear girl.” Hosea leans over and cups your face, petting your cheek lightly as you swallow and nod up to him. The older man straightened up and cracked the reins of the draft horses, and with the creaking and groaning of wood, the wagon started lumbering down the road again.

You turn toward your companion, saddled high on his Kentucky Saddler, and blow a breath out your nose as you reach up toward him expectantly.

Arthur grumbles under his breath but leans over and extends his arm down for you to take. With a speed that nearly unseats you, he pulls you up effortlessly and helps you sit on his horse's rump.

Hosea looks back over his shoulder as you get settled.

Your hand firmly presses against Arthur’s back. He gives Hosea a two-fingered salute and digs his spurs into the mare’s side, yanking her reins to the right as she whinnies and jumps into a canter down the dirt road, heading south. 

-

Limpany, or what is left of it, stands set back from the road. Blackened, charred building frames amongst blackened, charred ground. Dead trees stand stark against the cloudless blue sky. Even the birds stay away - the only life is rats that scurry among the debris as Arthur’s mare plods along the road in the cold, clear Dakota.

A pain claws at your throat. Behind your eyes burns with unshed. Your grip on Arthur’s jacket tightens, but he doesn’t notice as he takes in the sight in front of him.

“What th’ hell happened here?”

You don’t answer, stunned into silence as the mare comes to a stop in the meadow just north of the carnage. You cry out, sliding down from the horse’s rump, surprising Arthur as you stumble slightly before gathering your skirts and running further into the wreckage of the town. Past the sign you painted with Amos’s help. Past the skeleton of the saloon that Ulysses kept running. The Sheriff’s Office where Hilliard would sit behind the desk, sometimes with his boots crossed upon it when things were quiet. Past the paddock where Aethon would trot around.

The fragile beams of your cottage with your husband are all that is left of that life. Everything burned to cinders, a black scar against the riverside. Your bed, your clothes, your kitchen table. All gone.

“Missus Shaw!” Arthur calls out, swinging his leg over the horse and landing on the ground, quickly hurrying after you.

You stand in the middle of the small town, your life, your new beginning, everything - gone.

A wail escapes your mouth as you collapse to the ground, tears overflowing down your cheeks as your fingers dig into the dirt - dirt mixed with blackened ash.

“Ruth…Ruth, c’mon-” Arthur whispers, his hands gently pulling on your shoulders to help you sit up. He gets down on one knee and gathers you closer to him, and you shudder as you take in a loud breath and cry into his shoulder.

It is several moments of this, of his hand rubbing comforting circles on your back, him speaking in hushed whispers to calm you down. You are finally able to regain your composure as you pull back and wipe your eyes with your sleeve, mumbling an apology. 

Arthur shakes his head, brushing it off, and stands up, extending his hand to help you up as well. “Is there anything y’think left from here?” 

You swallow, swiping at your bleary eyes, and nod, your lip quivering. “I-I know the sheriff k-kept a box under his desk. If it’s s-still there, there may be some g-gold in it.” You take his hand, and he tucks you into his side, his arm wrapped around your waist as the two of you slowly make your way toward the burnt husk of the sheriff’s office. Your eyes mist over again when you think of Hilliard. 

“Here, let me see if anythin’ is there. Don’t want you falling through the floor.” Arthur leaves you by the foot of the stair, and you wipe at your eyes again, looking back over the charred remains of Limpany. You take one more shuddering breath as you hear the groan of metal on metal behind you before Arthur’s heavy steps come closer.

“Here, you should have it.” The cowboy holds out a gold bar in one hand with his hunting knife in the other, where he must have pried the lockbox open with his blade.

You shake your head, pushing it back toward him, “I don’t want it.” He doesn’t push, tucking the bar into his satchel.

“Alright, well we got that. I reckon we should catch up with the rest of them, if you’re ready.” Arthur grips the hilt of his hunting knife, looking down at the blade for a moment.

You look around at what is left of the town. A cool breeze rolls through the river valley as you feel a tear slip down your cheek once more. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and then opening them again, to see Arthur with one hand outstretched toward you, a pillar of strength, a safe place, a -

A shape moves behind Arthur, and you barely get out a scream before another man crashes into him, the two of them stumbling toward you and knocking you to the ground as they roll head over heel on top of each other.

“Ain’t you know this here’s O’Driscoll territory, Arthur Morgan?” The man yells as he scrambles on top of the gunslinger. Arthur chokes as he struggles against his attacker, but with the element of surprise, the man is able to straddle Arthur’s chest, both hands around his neck, squeezing hard.

You look around, the horse is clear on the other side of the remnants of town, where Arthur’s rifles and guns are stowed. His revolver, on his belt, was underneath him as he tried to shove the man off of him. He gasps, hands on his attacker’s forearms. 

From your vantage point on the ground, you spy his hunting knife on the ground between you; he must have dropped it as he was tackled to the ground. You heave yourself up, grab the knife, and throw yourself at the man, sinking the blade into his body, praying you didn’t hit Arthur in the struggle.

You feel it, nauseating, the inches of metal in your hand cutting through skin, through sinew, through muscle and tendon and meat. Liquid gushes over your fingers, shaking as it guides the hilt deeper.

The robber screams, swinging backward with his elbow, cracking against your face. You fly back, collapsing to the ground as your vision whites out for an instant. Face down, you groan in pain as you turn your face to the side to clutch at your nose, coughing loudly against wet leaves and the damp ground.

Arthur takes the opportunity to knee his attacker in the stomach, throwing him from his position several feet away. He hacks, sitting up, coughing deeply as he attempts to catch his breath, hand rubbing at his neck. He rolls to his knees and stumbles to his feet, heaving, glancing at the man, who writhed against the ground, his groaning turning to wet gasps. 

The knife was buried in his neck.

Arthur grimaces as he wipes his hands on his black pants, the man’s blood staining his palms and a large swath of his blue denim shirt.

You groan again, whipping your other hand to cover your face as soon as you realize you’re covered in blood, gushing from your nose. You curl into a fetal position on the ground against the piercing pain in your head.

Arthur regains his footing and walks toward you. He notices you are writhing in pain and moves faster. “Shit,” he curses, his voice rougher than usual. “Hey, c’mon, let me see your face.”

He stoops down next to you and takes both of your shoulders in his hand, lifting you into a sitting position. Your eyes water as your hands cover your nose and mouth, blood seeping between your fingertips.  Your whine is muffled behind your palms, which you refuse to move.

“Ruth, I gotta see if your nose is broken,” Arthur says quietly, one of his large hands moving from your shoulder to your wrist, tugging your arm from your face gently. You groan again, shutting your eyes tightly as you allow him to pull your hands away.

“Don’t look broken.” He mutters, his other hand moves to your cheek, lightly moving your head back and forth as he inspects your nose. Bruising and swelling have already started across the bridge of your nose, blood still runs down your face in a trickle. 

You open your eyes blearily, gritting your teeth. Arthur removes his hands from your cheek and wrist and unties the black bandana at his neck. “Here, don’t want you ruinin’ any of your nice handkerchiefs.”

“Thanks,” you groan, taking the bandana and placing it under your nose to stymie the oozing blood. 

Arthur stands up, giving you his hand, which you grab. He pulls you up and steadies you as you sway. You groan again, holding his bandana up to your nose tighter.

A gurgling noise drew both of your attention to the man sprawled out on the ground a few feet away. He had stopped moving, blood pouring out his mouth and from his neck. Arthur lets go of your arm, walking over to the man and kicking at his side with the toe of his boot. When he gets no response, he leans over and grasps the hilt of the knife, pulling it slowly from the man’s neck. It slides out with a wet, squelching noise.

“Looks like I owe you a body, heh.” Arthur drawls, taking the blade of the knife and wiping it on the man’s shirt before sheathing it on his gun belt. He spins around, a wry smile on his face, which falls immediately when he sees you. Your hands are at your side, the wet bandana hanging limply from your fingertips. Your cheeks are pale, and blood drips under your nose. You stare at the man on the ground with wide eyes, your frame swaying slightly.

“You alri-”

You immediately turn away and retch, emptying your stomach onto the ground.

Arthur runs a hand down his face, sighing. You wipe at your mouth, the other hand on your knee as you stoop over. You spit on the ground and wipe your mouth again. Your sleeve is hopelessly bloody from your nose, which, thankfully, has slowed its oozing. 

Unfortunately, you make the mistake of looking back at the corpse on the ground and immediately retch again.

Arthur looks at you, dry-heaving at the sight of blood you’d spilled, eyes red rimmed in grief, the darkening bruising on your face.

This wasn’t any life for you.

It’s been nothing but trouble after trouble for you since the moment you’ve joined the gang, he realizes as you sniffle. Getting thrown from Boadicea and cracking your ribs. Getting so sick from Jack, you were a bed for several days.

Looking like a battered woman because he was unable to protect you from a lone attacker. 

Added to this troublesome attraction he had for you - it had been years since he’d been forced to take care of himself like a damn teenaged boy - years since anyone but Mary had occupied that space in his mind.

No. He wasn’t going to do this again. You deserve better than that, you deserve better than this. 

And he sure as hell doesn’t.

-

You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand for the umpteenth time, frowning as your skin is stained red. You wipe your hand against your vest and groan as you press your forehead against Arthur’s leather jacket.

Your head pounds with each painful step of the mare, slowly plodding toward Valentine. Arthur had muttered something about going to the doctor in town. You moan softly, clutching at his waist as Valentine comes into view, farms and ranch fences dotting the roadside.

Arthur was being short, curt, and silent. He leads the buttermilk Saddler mare to the hitching post outside the train station. He swings himself down, his boots squelching in the fresh mud. Without a word, he ties the horse’s reins to the hitching post and turns back up to you, holding his hands out for you to take.

“C’mon.” He mumbles, and you slowly move your hands to his shoulders, and he pulls you gently from the horse’s rump, as he has so many times before, but something this time is different.

You land gently on the ground, your feet sinking into the mud much as Arthur’s did. 

You look around, perplexed, knowing there was a doctor’s office further into town. “Isn’t the doctor-”

Without meeting your gaze, he grabs your hand, turning it over between you. You make a small noise of confusion. You can see his jaw clench.

Arthur quickly opens his satchel and shoves a clip of bills into your open hand. “There’s enough there to get you settled in Saint Denis.”

Your stomach drops.

“Wait, no… stop, Arthur…” you frantically try to push the money back at him, but he yanks your arm, closing your palm around the clip. He pulls his second revolver from the holster on his belt and shoves it at you as well.

“You don’t belong with us.”

He was leaving you, leaving you here, shipping you off. 

“Arthur, don’t!” Your voice cracks as he lets go a heavy, mournful breath. Without making eye contact with you, he turns around, back towards his mare waiting in front of the station.  

“No!” You yell, hitching up your skirt, and dart after him, catching up just as he swings himself up on the horse’s saddle.

You grab onto the hem of his beaten-up leather coat with your free hand, pleading with him as you look up at him, tears uncontrollably running down your face, frightful with darkening bruises across the bridge of your nose.

“Missus Shaw.” Arthur drawls in a low register, there is a regretful tone in his voice, “You’re not for this life, this gang. You’ll be safer without us.” He does not look at you, his eyes hidden under the rim of his old gambler hat.

“Arthur, please,”  you cry, your voice cracking, “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone, I’m begging you.”

“You aren’t for this.” Again refusing to make eye contact with you, Arthur Morgan gently pushes your hand away from him, pulling on the horse’s reins, and clicking his tongue at the mare, spurring her into a quick canter toward the way out of town.

“Arthur!” You weep as he pushes his horse around the station and over the railroad tracks. He gives no response, not even looking back at you.

You stand there, on the muddy road in front of the Valentine train station, weeping as the closest thing you have to a man in your life leaves you, riding off into the sunset. You’ve watched him ride away from you before, what feels like ages ago, on the hills outside of Blackwater, and Hosea was able to convince him to turn back.

His silhouette grows smaller as he urges his mare into a gallop, rushing away from the livestock town and out into the rolling hills of the Heartlands.

You’re alone again. Left standing outside a train station with a wad of cash and a revolver. Back to where you started, after Frederick’s death, after Limpany, after the loss of your child.

You’re utterly alone in this world.

-

END CHAPTER III: OWANJILA

[flastar13]

I think there is always a problem with Anne Baleyn's locker room in almost any production. It is always the worst dressed among the six queens. Just look at The Six Wives of Henry VIII of 1970

The other wives wear appropriate dresses to the time that is set the series, Catalina de Aragon wears a Spanish fashion dress from the beginning of the 16th century, and Jane Seymour wears a modest green dress as a company lady according to 1636. What do you wear Anne? A series of high fantasy or Elizabethan dresses.

I give a pass to this dress, not only because it is pretty but because Anne is wearing it in a dysphrase dance.

But what about the rest of dresses? Anne became popular in the English court for her great ingenuity and glamorous French style. Henry the height of gifts during and his commitment, and the Baleyn were not poor. Why is your clothes so pesticary? Let's compare with Jane Seymour, who has a similar story. To start the Seymour were much less prosperous than the Baleyn, Jane's father, John Seymour was appointed gentleman on the battlefield by Enrique VII for his services against the rebels of Cornwall in Blackheath on June 17, 1497. Then he was appointed Caballero Banneret in 1513 after the battle of the Spurs. But outside those honors, the family had not risen much. Thomas Baleyn instead had served Enrique VII and had been in the entourage of Margarita Tudor when she went to Scotland. He was appointed Biscount for his own merit in 1525, even before Ana had met Enrique VIII. He was also heir to Ormond County thanks to his mother. Elizabeth Baleyn of single Howard, was the sister of the Duke of Norfolk. With only that information, it shows that the Baleyn were also much richer than the Seymour, apart from having a major noble status, which should be reflected in the clothes they wear.

If we see in the same adaptation, in your home Wolf Hall Jane uses a historically precise country attire, which shows the simplicity and modesty of Jane but also that the Seymour are not so rich to allow them to use the whole day silk but they are still noble to be made of good quality and dyed wool.

His second outfit, when he attends the Court, is more fashionable and is elegant, but it is still simple and modest, reflecting Jane's personal tastes and that his family being low nobility, but the sumptuous laws, he is not going to Cover of jewelry.

Once he became a queen, Jane's dress improves, she is still pale but is very adorned with jewelry, wears an elaborate two waters unlike the French headdress of her predecessor.

The costume designers managed to tell the story of the most boring of Henry VIII's wives, through her clothes. Showing her evolution from the spinster daughter of an unimportant knight, to a lady-in-waiting courted by the king to the queen of England; wonderfully, with beautiful designs that look like they're from the Tudor era. Why can't they do the same with Anne?

The worst thing is that this is repeated constantly, in one of the most recent series based on the reign of Henry VIII, with a wardrobe that is almost exact to the historical period in which the events take place, "Wolf Hall". Okay, the series is from Cromwell's perspective, so they're not going to show us Anne's life before she got mixed up with the secretary's. Anne is already the future wife of the king when she appears. But when she is queen, her clothes only change color; there are no more jewels, no better fabrics, no embroidery and her hood is horrible. Just compare her pink dress that according to her designers is that of "The daughter of a simple gentleman" vs her clothes as queen when she can use better dyes.

They are practically the same, I know that Anne is at that time Henry's girlfriend, but why is her clothing so simple even when she is the queen of England? There are no other jewels on her neckline, she wears no necklaces other than a pearl choker. Why are her dresses not made of silk, brocade and damask, with embroidery? This problem does not exist with Jane Seymour

Her dresses as a lady-in-waiting, reflect her reserved, simple and modest nature. Her clothes and hood are decorated with simple lace and embroidery, not with jewels unlike other noble ladies. The colors are monotonous but with some color inside, almost saying that the lady may look bland on the outside but on the inside she is a force to be reckoned with. She seems to be the spinster daughter of an unimportant family at the moment.

When Henry visits Wolf Hall, Jane wears a dress that is too simple for a visit from a king, but it gives a good idea of ​​what a lesser noblewoman would wear in her home.

As queen, Jane's clothes become more luxurious; more sumptuous fabrics, lavish jewelry and elaborate English headdresses. Rich but conservative, suitable for Queen Jane's character as peacemaker in the English court.

Is it very difficult to do the same with Anne Boleyn? Even in other productions, such as The Other Boleyn Girl, which try to narrate the rise in status and evolution of Anne Boleyn, they repeat the same mistake: the Queen of England continues to dress like a knight's daughter! It's even worse than in Wolf Hall, where at least Anne uses dyes reserved for royalty in The Other Boleyn, she uses the same color palette throughout the film.

There is no big change in her way of dressing, wait there is. Anne stopped wearing horrible dresses that don't look like they were from the Tudor period in England, like that blue dress with a circle print that looks more Italian and the "Cranach" suit. Seriously, the designers forgot that if the Boleyn girls had foreign influence in their clothing, it was French because they both served as ladies-in-waiting in France, not Italy or Germany. Honestly, the only dress in my grade is Anne's green dress.

This is the look of the woman who became a star at the English court. The fabric is green silk or satin, her French hood looks like a French hood and not a Russian tiara. She wears the iconic gold B necklace. It is elegant, sumptuous and French, the look of a Viscount's daughter. The problem is that by attracting Henry's attention, Anne's clothes do not continue to improve, she does not try to look like the real Queen of England, she continues to dress like a simple noblewoman. Only when she is tried and executed, the designers give her clothes that royalty would wear.

The only adaptation based on the life of Anne Boleyn that manages to narrate the evolution of the character through her clothes is Anne of The Thousand Days. Sure, there are some questionable fabric choices, Russian tiaras, lace-up closures in the back, and the belief that Anne only had the pearl necklace with the gold B. But the designs are so pretty that you don't care.

We are introduced to Anne at court dancing with Henry Percy, she wears a beautiful light green damask dress, a gold choker and a French hood. Her look is simple but elegant and fashionable, fitting for the daughter of a notable noble family.

It's no wonder Henry is drawn to her.

At home at Hever Castle, Anne wears a yellow dress, the design is simpler than the one worn at the court ball; the sleeves are wrist-length and there are no jewels at the neckline. But it's made of satin with embroidery, still an expensive but more casual dress. Befitting someone of Anne's social standing, she is not a princess by birth like Catherine of Aragon, but her family is of higher status than Jane Seymour's, the Boleyn girl's clothes are always going to be better at court and in her home than the pale Seymour girl's clothes.

Back at court, now in the king's favour, Anne wears a more elaborate dress and headdress, accessorising with a gold brooch and a jewelled girdle. All gifts from Henry VIII.

She later wears this to dinner with the king, a dress of beautiful blue velvet with gold embroidery. Her hair is loose and decorated with jewels.

As queen she wears a dress of silver and gold brocade. And at a dance a white dress with silver embroidery and pearls and diamonds sewn into the bodice.

She maintains her queenly appearance even when judged, but the colors are somber.

At her execution, her clothing is devoid of ornamentation, simple and dark, very different from the historical Anne who died looking like a queen. But it is understood that she has been stripped of all her power and influence.

This is how Anne's journey should be told, as she rises, her clothes get better. If I were in charge of Anne's wardrobe, I would have her wear designs similar to those in Wolf Hall and the green dress from The Other Boleyn Girl. At home and as casual wear, her clothes would be similar to the yellow dress from Anne of The Thousand Days. Once she starts being courted by Henry, she would continue to enrich her clothes until she reached her highest point as queen. Basically like Jane Seymour but prettier and French style.

[heavenlymorals]

Biblical References in Both RDR games.

I love biblical references so much. When it comes to literature, it's probably my favorite type of symbolism. Like I genuinely get so happy when I connect things to the Bible which is what I'm going to do right now 😊😊 I also like the way that religion is incorporated into RDR as a whole, including the main characters' reaction to it.

So yup, here are just a few references or connections that I was able to make in no particular order.

Also, some of these are complete reaches and I'm aware of that, but fuck it, it's my blog and I do what I want 💪🏼

- The character and tragedy of Issac. In the Bible, Issac is the child of Abraham who is asked to be sacrificed by God by his father as a test of faith. God eventually intervenes to save Issac because he only wanted to test Abraham's faith. Dutch is shown as a God-like figure to the gang, as their devotion is to him. Arthur, indirectly, sacrifices Issac by not being there and by following what Dutch wanted. Arthur, Issac, and Dutch are parallels to Abraham, Issac, and God.

- Leviticus is the book that comes after the book of Exodus. After the gang's escape or exodus from Blackwater after the Blackwater massacre, they are met by Leviticus Cornwall, who becomes the next obstacle for the gang. After the gang's exodus, they get in trouble with Leviticus.

- The image of the deer and a mountain. Psalm 18:32-34 in the Bible says, "It is God who arms me with strength, and makes my way blameless? He makes my feet like deers' feet, and sets me upon my high places." In Arthur's condemnation of Dutch, Micah, and their evil, he becomes steady in his identity and beliefs, like a deer's feet on a mountain, which is where he dies in the end. W symbolism.

- The mission "Sodom? Back to Gomorrah." In the Bible, Sodom and Gomorrah were two cities that were so morally depraved and evil that God decided to destroy the both of them, saying that if there was even one good person in those cities, he'd spare them, but there weren't. In those missions, you also do two evil acts, going from one and then BACK to the other. You rob the bank and then go BACK to collect the debt from Edith Downes. So you finish one evil deed and to straight to the next. This can also show how morally bankrupt Arthur's apathy made him at this point in the game.

- Micah's guns say "Vengeance is hereby mine." This could be a reference to Roman's 12:19 "vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." Micah's violent nature makes him take his anger out on the world.

- "Your father is seduced by him with the forked tongue. It's no use hoping." The blind prophet to Arthur. Pretty straight forward symbolism, it's a nod to the snake that seduced Eve, just like how Micah manipulates Dutch.

- Dutch walking away from Arthur when he dies and though he realizes his wrong doing and feels shame, his pride forbids him from apologizing or saying he was wrong. This can be a parallel to how Adam and Eve run away from God when they feel shame over believing in the snake, but their pride won't allow them to apologize to God, hence damning them like how Micah damned Dutch.

- There were twelve ACTIVE gang members before the Blackwater massacre. When I mean active, I mean gang members who are canonically consistent (so not uncle, Swanson, Strauss, or the girls) on going on jobs for the gang. Micah, Bill, Javier, John, Hosea, Arthur, Charles, Sean, Lenny, Josiah, Mac and Davey Callender. Christ had 12 disciples and Dutch is portrayed as a savior to the gang, or a Christ like figure. And would you look at that, there is a traitor in both groups of twelve (Micah and Judas).

- Both John and Arthur's graves have scripture from Jesus's sermon on the mountain (Matthew 5:1-12). John's is blessed are the peacemakers and Arthur's is blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

- The go back for the money ending. If you go back for the money and have low honor, you'll see that the camp is engulfed in flames as you try to get the money. The fight with Micah is brutal and you die faced down in the dark. This death is an allegory for going to either hell and purgatory as you choose a final evil act of leaving your brother to possibly die just so you can get money as an act of revenge. If you have high honor, you are still surrounded by flames, but you still have a chance at heaven given that you die facing up seeing the light one final time.

- The help John ending has similar connotations. If you have low honor, you die by gunshot and are shrouded in darkness, which can symbolize the absence of God's light and how Arthur's final act couldn't absolve the lack of guilt he feels for the rest of the actions that he KNOWS are evil (click here for a my interpretation of Arthur's morality). In high honor, though, you get to crawl to the mountain side and see the rising sun, symbolizing heaven, warmth, and a new purity.

- In low honor, the coyote goes down to a dark cave, representing damnation and the rejection of holy light. In high honor, the deer steps into a heavenly field of light. Love that so much to be honest.

- Just the very Catholic vibe of Arthur's redemption. Doing good deeds, feeling guilt, all that.

- John's new life is basically this: "Let him who stole steal no longer, but rather let him labor, working with his hands what is good, that he may have something to give him who has need." -Ephesians 4:28. John gives up his old life to be an honest laborer, a rancher, and a proper man.

- The Strange Man in RDR rides on a donkey, which is pretty interesting because Jesus Christ also made his grand entry on a donkey.

- Just the Strange Man in general to be honest. Some say he's God, others say he's the Devil, and others say he's Cain from the Bible, which is my personal favorite theory but whatever.

- Dutch's horse could be a reference to Revelations 6:8- "And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed him." Dutch's rash actions caused the death of the gang and RDR's incarnate of Hades or Hell was Micah, following him. Dutch is the only one, canonically, to have a pale horse.

- "Am I prepared for eternal damnation? Am I passed any kind of saving? Or is that just fairy tales?" Arthur in his journal. I love this line so much because of its very agnostic nature whilst still showing the Christian mindset of 1899 America. This line also shows that Arthur is canonically agnostic which is a yippee from me because it's like the only thing me and this man have in common lmao 😭

- "Bad news awaits you, sir. Sadly, sooner than you think. But beyond the news, paradise awaits. Paradise.." Blind Man Cassidy to Arthur. Sorry but I just love that. High honor Arthur lived such an awful life but he still has a chance at paradise and heaven? Love that so much.

- God (pun intended), I love biblical symbolism. Couldn't you tell?

[acheronist]

to the ghost of henry peglar, congrats on writing your poem down 177 years ago!!!

to the actual academic scholars who have studied the pages before me....

so I took the royal museum greenwich's scan of the poem page (which is available online hereeee) and screwed around with its light levels in photoshop until henry's script was darkened enough to see more clearly. then I digitally traced over the darkened letters as best as I could, while also trying to discern his handwriting, and type up how I was reading it & this process took me about a week to get done between like... living my regular day to day life lmao.......

so when it WAS done, the final isabel acheronist peglar papers ["the open C"] transcript seemed a bit different than how I remembered the readily available russell potter transcript going ? (the poem is on the last two pages of that pdf for those of you who don't spend a billion hours a week looking at it btw)

it felt like I was getting more/different information out of it, compared to the potter transcript, which was kind of stressing me out honestly. so THEN I compared mine with barry cornwall's original poem and found more words that matched up? particularly in the second and third stanzas?

so!!!!! almost two hundred years later here's what I've landed on:

April 21 1847 the C the C the open C it grew so fresh the Ever free the Ever free the Ever free without it without it covered it will Run to Earth above Re gions Round I love the C I love the C when I whare & I wish to be with and and silence whare Never go if a sailor should a Come and Make the meek What matter what matter Come Ride Or Sleep there was shores white and of red morn at the noisy hours knew I was ever near I was Born the [...] in felt Unto the Maid the wale the young dolphin ...... yet thes back of gold the Call of gods When I was on Old England Shore I like the young C more and more oftentimes time flew to a sweltering place like a bird thats seeks it mother Case and ware she was bird oft to me for have I loved a young and Hopen C

so then after going thru All Of That, I wanted to have a version of the original poem with parts that Henry did remember clearly highlighted for comparison purposes:

I know it's a popular theory that Henry was writing a dirty parody of the original poem? which if true, is funny as hell. me when i have to write cheeky victorian porn before i die.

But (serious voice) something about that hadn't ever seemed exactly right to me... IN MY HEART it seems more realistic that around 1847 he (and also by extension, the whole surviving expedition crew) were starting to experience confusion / brain fog symptoms from being ummmm quite physically unwell. the lead poisoning/scurvy combo would have severe effects on the brain's ability to function properly, and I started to wonder if Henry was trying to test his memory somehow? So he picked a widely known and popular Victorian era poem about being a sailor to see how much he could recall??? and he then got a little whimsical with it, and wrote in his own words to fill in the portions he couldn't fully recall, because it's his own diary and likely didn't expect anyone else to ever read it, much less have it turn into ONE of TWO surviving sources about the expedition?????

like... idk... this is probably the work of someone in the exact moment as they were starting to realize how bad things were, and then was trying to cope by using poetry. and That hurts my feelings enough as it is, but going through it was also just a very weird and haunting experience....... like, I can recognize all these tiny details in this dead guy's script and handwriting now. and to read his own account of his life in his own words, what stood out to him and what he recalled, what he wanted people in the future to know about him? insane. it literally felt like i was getting haunted by him for no reason. on top of knowing that Someone (#teamarmitage) loved this guy enough to keep his memory protected and safe, even though They Were So Totally Fucked And Going To Die There, unknowing if they'd ever be found again........

SIGHING + SIGHING + SIGHING + SIGHING + CRYING A BIT HONESTLY

anyways thanks for reading this all. I don't think that this is revolutionary franklin expedition news by any means, and idk if there's a better different transcript somewhere that i've not found that already covers all this? but it's consumed a lot of my life lately lol and i wanted to share. because its the anniversary of henry writing it, and it felt...... important....? 💌....????

[sinsolstice]

𝒢IRL 𝒟AD ⋆˚࿔ CHAPTER 04

SINGLE FATHER! MIGUEL O'HARA X TEACHER FEM READER. fanfic series.

𝓼ynopsis : you and miguel are getting used to the arrangements of letting gabriella stay over for a few hours and having dinner together after school.

𝓪uthor's 𝓷ote : this chapter is a little shorter than my usual word count. i also want to mention that this chapter has mentions of family bereavement and domestic abuse as part of the subplot (and foreshadowing).

𝔀ord 𝓬ount : 1,913

EARLIER CHAPTER . MASTERLIST . NEXT CHAPTER

Since the evening you offered Miguel the opportunity to look after his daughter after school, it has been three weeks since then. 

It’s quite a change to your after-school routine, but you adapt to it within the first week of trialling. It’s a good thing to say that Gabriella feels the same way. She enjoys spending time with you after school and makes it known by how excitedly she waits for you by your desk after half-past three in the afternoon. Gabriella helps with tidying up the classroom, telling you about the conversations she has with her friends during lunch and in between lessons. You’ve always had a good relationship with the young girl, but when you take upon the responsibility of looking after her, your relationship with Gabriella turns out better. 

Gabriella is truly the epitome of a gracious child. When you invite her into your room, she goes to the kitchen to wash her hands. Then sets herself in your living room to sit close by the coffee table, laying out her homework and snacks. She does her work without supervision and occasionally asks you for help if she needs it. Gabriella falls into the routine easily too and when she is done with her homework, the two of you bond over arts and crafts or something on the telly playing in the background. 

At exactly 6pm sharp, the doorbell rings and Miguel stands at the front pouch. He would come in, thank you again for looking after his daughter, embrace Gabriella, and the three of you would make it to the dining table and share a meal. You and Miguel would take turns bringing food for dinners—you would cook on Mondays and Tuesdays, and Miguel would bring something over on Thursdays and Fridays. This new routine brings out a feeling of home and togetherness, so it’s a pleasant change of routine to your usual time living on your own. 

“What is England like, Miss?” Gabriella asks. You have informed your students when you began your teaching career about your childhood in another country. It was rather a little obvious with the slight out-of-place accent and the difference in spelling that your students pointed out. And it doesn’t seem like Miguel is surprised by the revelation as he takes a spoonful of food as Gabriella talks. 

“Well…” You think for a moment as you try to recall your life. “If we are referring to the weather, it’s very unpredictable over there in England. Sometimes it’s a burst of beautiful sunshine outside and other times, the skies are grey. From time to time, you feel little droplets of hail raining down on you out of nowhere. And sometimes, the weather is chilly too.” 

“Hail?” Gabriella repeats. 

“Hailstones,” you smile. “Like tiny crystals of ice.” 

“We haven’t been to England, haven’t we, Gabs?” Miguel says. “Maybe we should consider it one summer.” 

“I want to go to where they plant so many flowers,” Gabriella suggested. 

You flash Gabriella a smile when you realise the location she’s talking about. “That’s the Eden Project down south in Cornwall, at the edge of England.” You explain. “They have nice beaches there, too.” 

“Corn-wall,” Gabriella repeats slowly, with a tone of awe. “I want to go there.” 

“Maybe we should consider,” Miguel says to his daughter.  

You look at him who sits across from you, relaxed after coming back from work. “I haven’t been to Mexico before,” you say. “Or any parts of South America. Where do you guys suggest I go visit?”

Miguel and Gabriella hum as the two of them think together. Their mouths press in a thin line, the bottom of their lip sticking out a small pout. As you study their expressions, you can’t help but find them endearing the same similarities in their mannerisms. Like father, like daughter.

“If you enjoy the beaches, Tulum is a good place to start,” Miguel says. “Although it’s further down the country. Or, there’s the seaside town of Tecolutla or Acapulco Beach. They’re both about a four-hour drive from Mexico City.”  

“Acapulco!” Gabriella beamed in excitement. “I want to go there again this summer.” 

Miguel chuckles and playfully ruffles her hair. A smile blooms on your face, and the three of you eat in peace. Gabriella’s question catches your attention and you look right in front of her. “Do you talk to your mama and papa every day since they are so far away?” Gabriella asks. 

“Well,” you exhale softly. “I still talk to my siblings and my good friends from England.” 

“What about your mama?” 

Even though it has been a while, the dread of telling the story makes your stomach churn uncomfortably, no matter how you simplify or summarise the story. “My mama passed away when I was nineteen. She had been sick for a while and her body couldn’t handle it anymore.” 

Miguel looks up, and his eyes meet yours. Gabriella turns to look at him with a puzzled look and the room falls into silence that’s all too familiar. “We’re sorry to hear that.” 

“It was a while ago,” you reply with a hesitant smile. “But thank you.” 

Gabriella looks at you and although the surprise on her face lingers, there’s also curiosity like every young child has. “What about your papa?” 

“My papa,” you sigh. “I have two papas who are not nice people, so I have not spoken to them or seen them in a very long time.” 

You didn’t dare to look at Miguel when you revealed your backstory because you knew the look on his face from the corner of your eyes. Sympathy, disbelief, unsure and silent. Because how could someone like you—lively and brave—grow up with a fate so horrendous and unthinkable?  

“But,” Gabriella says, her lips downcast in a frown. She turns to look at her father, her tone quiet and glum. “Aren’t papas supposed to be good people?” 

Miguel presses his lips into a thin line. “Fathers are supposed to be good people, mija. To protect their family.” He says solemnly. “But sadly, not all fathers are like that. Not all fathers are protectors.” 

Miguel flickers his eyes at you. He must have pieced together your history and the story of how to move to the States that you mentioned. “My condolences. I’m really sorry to hear that,” he says. “You deserve better things, and I hope you will experience them all.”  

Gabriella turns to look at you with a similar expression to Miguel’s. “I’m sorry you don’t have a mama and papa anymore.” 

“Thank you, and it’s okay.” You give them a kind smile. No one knows this about you since you’ve kept it to yourself ever since you migrated to the States on your own. Your life wasn’t the greatest in the beginning, but you made it through the dark and stormy years to make it this far. “My family and I have our differences that are sometimes different to overcome without having fights.” You explain. “But we still care for one another.” 

The dining room falls quiet. Despite it closes the end of the conversation, it feels a sense of uncertainty on how to dwell on a different topic. Although what you had to endure was a while ago, the tragedy carries within you unfathomably. 

Suddenly, Gabriella pushes back her seat and walks around the table, coming to you. Her small arms crisscross around you. “You’re my family too, miss.” 

You wrap your arms around her and embrace Gabriella with an equal force of appreciation for her kindness. You hold her and squeeze her gently, resting your cheek on top of her head. “Thank you, Gabi. That means a lot to me.” 

“You’re my favourite,” Gabi says, then turns her head to look at Miguel and grins. “After papa, of course.” 

You look at Miguel, and he chuckles, smirking at the two of you. “Glad to know that I’m still your number one favourite, mija.” 

“Then after that is Aunty Jess,” Gabi adds. She holds out three of her fingers and counts them down at every list of names she announces. “Daddy, Miss Teacher and then Aunty Jess. In that order.” 

Laughter from you and Miguel fills the dining room. Your chest warms at the thought of comfort you find yourself in—thinking of Jess, Gabriella and Miguel. The people you didn’t think you would ever meet and change your life for the better. You flicker your eyes and meet Miguel’s gaze. 

A smile appears on his face, reminding you of warmth and comfort that you truly didn’t have. A flutter in your stomach makes you snuggle Gabriella even more with another new physical symptom you feel in the moment as your heart races.

***** 

The skies turn a colour of blue and grey when you walk Miguel and Gabriella to the front porch of the house. Miguel thinks that he’s overstayed for dinner and tells his daughter that it’s time to start the journey and drive home. 

Gabriella runs to the car, opens the door and slides herself inside. It only leaves you and Miguel together outside in the quiet evening.

“Hey,” Miguel turns to face you. “I just want to say that you are a very strong person after hearing your story. I cannot imagine going through what you had to do.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. As they say, when life gives you lemons, you make a lemonade, right?” You say sheepishly. “And perhaps not just lemonade. I gotta make the best of what I have.” 

This causes Miguel to chuckle, and the corner of his mouth curves up to a grin. “You’re right,” he nods. “And you have done that. You’re just an amazing person like that, you know? Just like how I believed you were when we first met.” 

“Thank you, Miguel.” You smile. You’re used to hearing people praise you for your courage and bravery after going through what you have. But hearing it from Miguel feels different—it is different. Is it because of the way he smiles at you? His eyes are a welcoming warm brown that makes your body relax just by looking at him. Or is it because of his emotional and intellectual when the two of you talk that draws you in? 

“And I can’t thank you enough for being so good to my daughter.” Miguel adds. “You’re a good person. Don’t forget that.” 

“That means a lot.” Your voice softens. “Now, I can see how Gabriella gets that charm from.”

Miguel lets out a laugh. “Do I sound cheesy?” 

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s kind.” 

You catch his hands in his pockets and Miguel moves a little closer to you. His gaze holds you in place. “Honestly, I think Gabi learns that from you.” 

Before neither of you could say more, you heard a soft knock from the car and Gabriella was leaning forward in the window. She looks between the two of you and although her voice is muffled, you can still make out what she’s saying to Miguel. “Daddy, are we ready to go?” 

“Sorry, mija. I’ll be with you.” Miguel replies, then turns to look at you. “Thank you for tonight. I’ll bring food over on Thursday. Same time again?” 

You nod, “yes, definitely.”

Miguel greets you a good evening and gets in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life. You wave Gabriella and Miguel goodbye before the car drives off, leaving you on the pathway and hoping that they have a safe journey back home.

thank you for reading!

author's note: sorry for the kinda sad chapter but the hurdle is over now and more chapters will be lighter and fluff :)

[writing-intheundercroft]

Tis the Damn Season - Garreth Weasley

Read on AO3

Word Count: 4,145

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Smut, Oral and Vaginal Sex, NSFW, MDNI

Summary: You're back from five years of traveling the world and living in America, and Garreth Weasley invites you on a foraging trip down to his family cottage in Cornwall. You accept, having regretted not sharing your feelings when you last said goodbye. Or, the origin story of the Weasley knitted sweaters.

A/N: An exercise in writing smut turned into a delicious one shot for Garreth. I've clearly been listening to too much Taylor Swift.

“Welcome home!” Leonora giggled, over the sound of merriment in the Leaky Cauldron.  The class of 1893 was celebrating their five year reunion, with almost all of the graduates in attendance. Sebastian and Ominis had decided to sit out the reunion, staying at your shared home in New York, sending their well wishes with you as you boarded an ocean liner back to London.  Cross-Atlantic apparition had never been your thing.

“I’m glad to be back,” you smiled honestly. London had never really been home, not really.  You’d landed in a shared flat with the boys for a month after graduation before embarking on your world tour, but you hadn’t stayed long enough to make it feel like home.

Leonora and Poppy started detailing the whereabouts and day to day lives of your classmates. Violet McDowell had married, as had Grace Pinch-Smedley. Duncan Hobhouse was still painfully single and afraid of not just puffskeins, but now nifflers too after an incident with Amit Thakkar at the bank.  Leander Prewett was still gangly, and proudly wearing his ministry of magic badge for all to see.

“Oh, and Garreth–I’m sure you heard about him and Samantha Dale,” Leonora giggled, pointing across the room.

Your heart sank as you thought of him.  If you had wanted to know who Garreth had been dating while you were away, you would’ve brought it up yourself–now, you had to face the burning jealousy that bubbled in your throat as you thought of the pretty Ravenclaw who currently had her hand placed on his forearm.

Poppy sensed your emotions, elbowing Leonora to stop. “They broke up,” she cooed softly. “Months ago. They’re just friends now.”  Poppy cradled her swelling stomach, your future niece or nephew growing inside.

“Good for them,” you said blithely, trying to feign indifference.

“He’s coming over here.” Leonora whispered. 

You adjusted your skirt as Garreth cheerfully bounced over, red waves crashing over his head.  He’d grown since you last saw him, thicker and sturdier than the stocky teenager you’d last seen.  No wonder Samantha Dale had been interested in him, you thought.  He was impossibly handsome, with emerald green eyes that shined at whoever he spoke with.

“You’re monopolizing our New Yorker,” Garreth announced, cheeks tinged pink from the alcohol.

“Excuse us, then.” Poppy grinned, winking at you as she tugged Leonora away.

You smiled at your Gryffindor friend, who leaned against the bar next to you. “Are you having fun?”

He nodded eagerly. “It’s good to be back together again, you included.” he nudged. “I wish we could spend more time together before you go home.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” You asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“Taking a trip down to my family’s cottage in Cornwall,” he sighed. “I need to gather some more horklumps for my potions.” Garreth took a lengthy sip from his beer, but his eyes never left yours. “How about you come with me?  Been a while since we had an adventure.”

You blushed. “Are you sure I won’t just get in your way?”

Garreth smiled earnestly at you. “Anything to spend a little extra time with you.”

So, you agreed.  Garreth spent the rest of the evening by your side; you felt smug when Samantha Dale stared at the two of you, and the little bubble of regret in your heart grew when Garreth leaned against you.  It had been five years since you’d said goodbye, and you wished you’d been honest about your feelings with him the day you both left Hogwarts.  

Instead, he’d given the back of your hand a chaste kiss, letting you go for the last time.

“Don’t mind the dust,” Garreth advised, pushing the door in. “Mum usually cleans up before we all get in for the holidays.”

You peered over his shoulder as he guided you into the cottage. It was dark, clearly uninhabited over the colder months. You settled the bag of horklumps the two of you had foraged on the wooden table as he walked around the kitchen, lighting candles. Waves crashed outside the walls of the cottage; you imagined how this place might look during the summer time.  Visions of Garreth and his many siblings running around the beach flashed in your head, leaving a lump in your throat.

“There,” Garreth said proudly, assessing the lighting situation. “And we can start a fire in the living room.  Will probably be too cold to sleep upstairs anyways.” He led you to the living room, a small den with two loveseats opposite one another, and a stone fireplace in the center.  

“You just had to drag me on a foraging trip before a snow storm,” you teased.  

“What can I say? You’re an awfully great helper,” Garreth said sweetly, casting his wand at the fireplace.  It lit up beautifully, and the room started to warm.

You hadn’t seen Garreth since you and your Slytherin boys had left school for a worldwide tour at eighteen. Eighteen became nineteen, and then twenty.  Suddenly, London no longer felt like home, and the boys wanted to go to America.  You’d tagged along, their third wheel as you’d been all throughout your Hogwarts years, because there was no one else in London for you; why not experience New York?

Correspondence from your classmates steadily declined as you all got older and busier.  Some had started families (Poppy was pregnant with her first child already) and others were dominating their careers (Imelda was quick on her way to captain of the Holyhead Harpies at twenty three).  

Only one remained constant.

Garreth Weasley never stopped writing it seemed.  A letter once a week; two in one week if he missed an owl.  You shared your adventures, and Garreth told stories of the little potions stand he’d opened in Diagon Alley. It wasn’t glamorous, he wrote, but it paid a living, and he was finally able to move out of his family home and into a modest flat he shared with Lucan Brattleby. Garreth was the one who’d arranged the five year reunion, right before Christmas time. He had convinced you to attend when Sebastian and Ominis declined, claiming everyone would be glad to see you.  He was there to pick you up from the dock when you landed, and had escorted you to the room you were renting for the week at the Leaky Cauldron. 

Garreth–the sweetest Gryffindor you’d ever known.

“You alright?” Garreth asked, breaking you out of your thoughts.  He stood before you with stacks of woolen blankets in his arms.  

“I’m fine,” you uttered. “Just thinking,” you shrugged, grabbing some of the blankets to spread on the loveseat. Garreth did the same, setting the one opposite you, and your heart sank into your stomach.

Why had Garreth invited you to Cornwall?  Was it really just to forage the finest horklumps for his potions?  You’d assumed that he wanted to get you alone, and that you could finally confess your long held feelings for him.  Instead, he’d made you stomp through the brutally wet weather, stashing the spiky bastards in your bags for his famed wiggenweld brews. Your heart had done flips when he assessed the weather, claiming it was too cold and too far to apparate back to London.  He’d offered up the Weasley family’s summer home for the night, claiming the two of you could catch up over a bottle of firewhiskey instead of trekking home in the snow.  You felt that familiar warmth in the lower part of your belly when Garreth held you by the waist as you walked down the dune towards Shell Cottage.  

You’d only spent the last six years of your life dreaming of a night spent with Garreth Weasley, after all, and now he was tucking the sheets onto the couch opposite of you, preparing for an innocent sleepover.  You couldn’t help the flutter of disappointment, both emotionally and sexually. 

“Well I think we should drink, and then we can properly catch up, just the two of us.” Garreth announced.  “Be right back.”

You let out a hot puff of air, sinking to your knees in front of the fireplace.  So much for seducing him, you thought.  

Garreth returned with two glasses and a near full bottle of firewhiskey.  He landed on his arse next to you and you smiled, remembering the clumsy, boisterous teenage boy he’d been when you last saw him.  That boy seemed to live inside this grown adult–all muscle, shaggy hair, and hints of red scruff on his chin. He pushed his hair back as he held up his glass to yours, clinking them softly.  You caught up on everything you’d missed in the past five years; how Leander was still his best friend, despite being an annoyance, and how Lucan was a messy roommate.  You told him about your travels around the world, how Ominis snored, and Sebastian was a terrible cook.

“How is Samantha Dale?” You asked, breaking the ice. “I heard you two dated.

Garreth chewed on his lower lip. “Not very long, I’m afraid.  We didn’t have much in common.” he wrinkled his nose.

“Oh,” you said softly. He seemed to want to leave it at that.

“How are Sebastian and Ominis?” Garreth asked tentatively.

You rolled your eyes. “Still a pain in my arse, after all these years. I love them, but I’m not sure how much longer I can live with them.” You sighed.

Garreth snorted. “You’re the one who chose to follow them.”

You hummed quietly, knowing he was right. 

“Is it weird?” Garreth asked after a long sip. “Living with Ominis when you and Sebastian are together?”  He was looking down at his glass, avoiding eye contact.

You sputtered the firewhiskey, coughing at the thought. “Me?  With Sebastian?” You wheezed.

Garreth knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. “Well, yeah.  Because you’re together, aren’t you?”

You laughed, and then laughed some more.  Tears were coming out of your eyes while Garreth gaped at you, eyes wide as saucers.

“How could you think Sebastian and I are together?” You wiped your eyes with the sleeves of your sweater, chuckling.

Garreth’s face was red. “I–we–everyone assumed!  You two were attached at the hip, and there was a rumor you two…” he trailed off, face as red as a tomato. 

“A rumor that we what?” You demanded.

“That you two had slept together in seventh year.” Garreth said sheepishly. “Leander told me.”

“Ah, yes. Well, that was a lie,” you chuffed. “I was only covering for him and someone else.  It was easier to let everyone think I was slag than for them to face the criticism.”

Garreth cocked his head. “What?  Who?”

You leaned back onto the carpet. “Let’s just say Sebastian and I have very different taste in sexual partners.  For example, I prefer men who are actually into me.  And two, Sebastian prefers Ominis.”

Garreth stared at you, blinking as he put two and two together. The blank look on his face disappeared, eyes widening in shock as he blushed.

“What…oh… oh .” he stuttered. “Wow.  I mean, I guess that makes a ton of sense. Good for them.”

You grinned, laying back on the floor with the glass balanced on your stomach. “Yeah, the two of them are pretty happy together. I think they’ll get married soon.  Bit loud, for roommates though.  I’ve been looking to find my own place.”

Garreth rolled onto his stomach, leaning his head on his hands as he laid next to you on the ground. “In New York?”

“New York, Paris, Buenos Aires…Madrid, Rome, or Berlin.  I could go anywhere in the world,” you declared, stretching out. “I’m a nomad now.”

“Not London?” Garreth asked softly.

You tilted your head to look at the redhead next to you.  His eyes were glistening, a perfect pout as he frowned at your list of locations. You fought the urge to brush his fiery hair out of his eyes.

“I’d come back to London,” you echo, “If there was something here for me.”

“Your friends are here,” Garreth reminded you. “Poppy, Imelda, Natty.”

“Poppy is about to have a baby,” you remind him in return. “Imelda is busy with Quidditch, and Natty splits her time between London and Matabeleland. There’s really no one else.”

“What about me?” Garreth’s voice was small. “I’m here.”

You dig your face into the carpet, hiding the blush that crept up your face. “You’re busy with the shop. I wouldn’t want to be in your way.”

Garreth suddenly pulled you close, his large hand traveling up to cradle your chin so you couldn’t hide your face. “You’d never be in my way.” he said firmly.

“I’m sure no woman would want me constantly hanging around you either,” you breathed.

His eyes flitted down to your lips. “I think you can tell from the way we’re sitting, there won’t be any other women,” he whispered.  His thumb ran over your lips, pressing against your pout.  Garreth rolled you onto your back, hovering over your body as he slotted a knee between your legs.

“You put the blankets on the other loveseat,” you whisper. “I didn’t think you liked me.”

“Because I wanted to be respectful,” Garreth added, brushing his nose against yours. “I’ve been thinking you were with Sallow for years , when I could’ve been doing this.” Garreth’s lips brushed against yours sweetly. “Fuck Leander–I knew I shouldn’t have listened to him.”

You gave a breathy laugh, putting an arm around his neck. “Yes, well, Prewett can fuck off.”

Garreth gulped. “I watched you leave, all those years ago, because I thought you were in love with Sebastian. I thought so long as you were happy, I’d be happy for you.”

“No,” you breathed in sharply. “I was in love with you .”

Garreth wasted no time pressing the weight of his body against yours.  You moaned into his mouth, letting him slip his tongue between your lips. He was everything you’d dreamt of and more since you were seventeen–hard muscle under soft warm skin, his freckled forehead pressed against yours.  You let your legs fall to the side, his thick body slotting between them perfectly–the most natural fit. 

“If I had known,” Garreth groaned into your mouth, “I would’ve asked you to stay.  I would’ve begged .”

“Gar,” you whimpered as he ground his hips into yours, arousal digging into your thigh.

“I would’ve been on my knees,” Garreth’s voice was gravelly now, pressing sloppy kisses against your neck. “Fuck, I would’ve had my mouth against your cunt, begging you to stay with me. It’s all I’ve dreamt of.”

“No use for regret now,” you manage to gasp. “No time like the present.”

Garreth grinned devilishly down at you as he pulled away.  He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Tell me you want this.  Tell me, and I’ll give you all the reasons to stay.”

You licked your lips, nodding at him. “I want you.”

Garreth went to work–your sweater was torn off, trousers rucked off your hips as he stripped you of all your clothing.  His damn near tore off his own sweater, throwing it absentmindedly as he worked on the buttons of his pants. The room was warm–whether from your passion or the heat of the fire, you weren’t sure–but you stared up at the man, who’d tugged his pants and undergarments down far enough to free his length. You couldn’t help but admire the freckles all over his body, peppering his skin down to his groin. He pumped his deliciously thick cock in his hand, the tip glistening as he prepared himself.

“All this from a foraging trip,” you joked.

Garreth laughed, his whole body rippling.  He released his length, dipping down to kiss you again. “I promised I’d make the trip with your while,” he teased, fingers dancing over your core.  You shuddered, eyes shutting as he massaged your clit. “I intend to make good on that.”

His teasing words had you unbearably wet, the vulgar sound of his fingers pumping in and out of you filling the room.  Garreth laughed again, the sound music to your ears as he leaned down, pressing his lips to your nub.  He closed his mouth around it, and you let out a stuttered moan as he sucked.

“So sweet,” Garreth groaned. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about getting you off for years.” Opening one eye, you saw him thrusting his hips against the air, desperate for friction.  You nearly stopped him to help his situation, until he curled his fingers inside of you.  Thankfully you two were the only ones in the house, with no neighbors nearby–the scream you let out rippled through the air, Garreth’s name rolling off your lips as he guided you through your orgasm.

“Reason one to stay,” Garreth announced, your slick glistening around his mouth as you panted. “I can do that, every morning and every night.”

Nothing could have stopped you from pouncing on him, pushing him back onto the floor.  He gave you his signature mischievous grin, hands falling to the side of his head. “Go on,” he said lazily, as you straddled his midsection. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

You scooted backwards, his impossibly hard cock brushing against you as you adjusted your body.  His hands slipped to your waist, holding you up as you took him in hand, pressing the tip to your cunt. Garreth looked so beautiful, pupils blown with pleasure as he stared at the two of you, about to join.

“If you hadn’t been listening to your stupid friends, this could’ve been yours years ago,” you breathed.

“I’ll never listen to another soul besides you, ever again.” Garreth rasped. “Only you.”

Garreth’s head tipped back, hitting the ground with a loud thud when you slid onto him.  His hands snaked up to your hips, holding you as you took him in, inch by inch.  He held onto you so tightly, he could’ve bruised you–not that you would’ve cared. You would’ve claimed those marks as a badge of honor, knowing they were left by him .

“Fuck, you feel amazing.” Garreth sputtered. “So–so good around me, so tight.”  

“Tell me to stay,” You whispered, slowly circling your hips as you leaned down to brush your lips against his. “Ask me.”

“Please,” Garreth moaned. “Stay.  Stay with me.”

You picked up speed, cantering your hips.  It was picturesque–the fire crackling in the background, Garreth spread beneath you, coming undone. You raked your hands down his chest, fingers catching on the red hair that dusted his chest.

“Beg me,” you demanded, planting your feet on the floor as you bounced up and down his cock.

“Come home to me,” Garreth whimpered. “Please, please, please come home.  I’ll do anything to have you here with me, always.” He gritted his teeth, pushing his hips upwards. “Gods, I’ll make you come every day, twice a day, for the rest of your life if you just stay.”

“More,” you breathed.  You weren’t sure what you were asking for–more of his pleas, or more of his body.

Garreth started pistoning his hips upwards, meeting you with every bounce.  You couldn’t help letting out the desperate cry that tumbled out of your mouth when he sprung forward, pushing himself even deeper into you.  You were now fully seated in his lap, grinding against one another as you raced to the finish line.

“I’ll worship you,” Garreth growled, peppering kisses on your face. “No need to run anymore. You’ll have a home–I’ll be home for you.” Despite his hand that had slithered up to your neck, pressing light pressure against your pulse, Garreth’s words were wholesome, sweet. He meant them, you realized.  It wasn’t just the sex, or years of pent up feelings coming out into the room. The realization that Garreth Weasley loved you, had loved you for all these years apart, made you feel as if you were about to snap–and without warning, you did.  

Garreth let out a guttural groan as you wailed atop him, cunt clamping down on him as you finished.  You pulled his face onto yours, kissing him as you rocked yourself back and forth on him, riding out your climax.  From his breathing, you knew he wasn’t far behind.

“Come in me,” you whispered. “Make me stay.”

Garreth choked as he let it out, his release filling you to the brim.  You clung your sweaty bodies to one another, gasping for air.  He gave you another sweet smile, brushing your sweaty hair out of your eyes. 

“Do you mean it?” he asked quietly.

“Mean what?”

“That you’ll stay this time.” His big green eyes stared down at you hopefully, peeking through his red lashes.

You bit your lip, pressing your nose against his. You thought of the last day at Hogwarts, how Garreth had held your hand, wishing you well on your trip.  How if Garreth knew the truth, he probably would’ve asked you to stay. And now, after all these years, the road you hadn’t taken and had always regretted was now an option.

“I’ll stay,” you assured him. 

Garreth gave you the goofiest, most hopeful grin you’d ever seen before pressing his lips against yours.  You were still joined, and you could feel him stiffening again inside you as you wriggled your hips.  You would’ve picked back up on your lovemaking, if it weren’t for the smell of singed wool filling the room.

“Damn,” Garreth cursed, gently pushing you off of him.  He crawled over to the fireplace, patting down on his sweater, which had a black burn mark in it. “Must have kicked it into the fireplace while we were…” he trailed off, giving you a sheepish look.

You laughed, pulling blankets from the loveseat. “I’ll knit you a new one,” you assured him. “It’ll be your Christmas present.”

Garreth rolled back over to you; he looked silly, six feet tall and rolling on the floor like a boy. “You knit now?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“I had to pick up some hobbies,” you snorted. “Keeps me calm, considering my roommates are sex fiends.”

Garreth laughed, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Tell Sebastian and Ominis you’re moving out.” he said firmly. “I’ll tell Lucan to beat it, and we’ll have a home all to our own.  You can knit tea cozies and make sweaters for the cat.”

You leaned up, nosing his chin. “And sweaters for the family.” you whispered.

Garreth gave you a lazy, proud grin. “Especially for the family.”

You cuddled him in front of the fire, stroking his chest hair as you spoke freely about the future. You would have to write to the boys in the morning, you realized.  Perhaps they could send your clothes in trunks so you wouldn’t have to go back.  Ominis had been begging you to clean your room anyways, and Sebastian could finally walk around nude without you screaming at him.

You could spend Christmas with the Weasleys.  You could meet Garreth’s many siblings, as he’d promised long ago.  You’d knit him a sweater with your own hands, claiming him as yours. And perhaps, one day, you’d be knitting sweaters for your children, who’d run around the very fireplace you were currently laying in front of.

“What are you thinking about?” Garreth asked, stroking your hair.

“How nice it is to be home.”

The children ran around Shell Cottage, shrieking with laughter as they chased one another.  The Weasley wives sat in the living room, in front of the fire as they sorted through piles of yarn.

“Who started this bloody tradition anyways?” Hermione whined. “I’m rubbish at knitting.”

“It was Arthur’s great-aunt,” Molly Weasley laughed.  “She and Great-Uncle Garreth lived here when they first got married, and they started the tradition of new sweaters, every Christmas. Everyone in the Weasley family has followed it ever since. You know, she's actually got a very interesting story...thought she was a squib, didn't go to Hogwarts until she was fifteen...ended up becoming a world traveler before she settled down with Great-Uncle Garreth...” Molly trailed off, but no one else was listening over the sound of Celestina Warbeck over the radio.

Her daughter and daughter-in-laws sat on the floor, learning how to make sweaters for their babies.  Fleur had taken quite well to it, all of her children wearing knit sweaters in Beauxbatons blue, and it was now Hermione’s turn to learn, her daughter laying in a woven basket on the floor next to them, cooing softly.

“Thanks a lot,” Hermione grumbled, looking up at the photograph on the mantle. The young couple smiled for the camera, with Garreth Weasley proudly wearing the first Weasley Christmas sweater recorded in family history.