If everything so far had felt somewhat alike an out-of-body experience for her, Rosalie is now completely and painfully aware of her surroundings.
It hurts. It hurts more than she remembers, and it has been a long while since she had been with a man on those conditions. Though, she supposes, she has never actually experienced anything like this before.
Garreth is still trying to maintain the veneer of gentility. He moves inside of her slowly, letting her get used to the stretch of him, caging her beneath him with strong arms either side of her head. The gaze that he keeps on her, though, never fades from anything other than adoring, not unlike an adolescent meeting his first love.
He is utterly besotted, the woman realises. He is lovesick for her, and there is nothing she can do right now but take the thrust of his cock as he slowly pumps it in and out.
"So beautiful." He continues saying. "I am sorry, I just could not help myself…"
The planes of his abdomen rub against her already-swollen and sore clit.
Would it be so bad? She has come for him once; and he is handsome and strong and he keeps telling her that he loves her. If there is no escape, why should she not simply melt into it? She has done this before, and it had not been as traumatic as awareness proves itself to be. Surely nobody would think ill of her for giving in, when the stretch of his cock is making her thighs twitch and warmth sparkle in her stomach.
Garreth kisses her again, mumbles about how much he needs her, and instead of staying slack-mouthed beneath him, she hesitantly mouths back at his lips. He groans, his eyelashes fluttering in pleasure.
His hips speed up. He is still not rough with Rosalie, and she thinks, from the uncoordinated slap of his hips and the mumbles and the dusting of flushed red on his cheeks, that he has little experience with lovemaking, but he certainly becomes more enthusiastic.
"I knew you would understand." He slurs, pulling back before he peppers her cheeks and nose with more of them. "I knew it, since Hogwarts, that we were meant to be together, darling, angel, pretty thing…"
A whimper-moan escapes her mouth unbidden and Garreth groans like he has just heard the music that angels play in heaven.
Rosalie forces herself to stop thinking about the series of events that lead her here. She forces herself to forget that he is fucking she against her will, that she protested him pushing his cock inside of her and cried as he made excuses about how she is just too pretty to resist and he needed her so badly.
Instead, she concentrates on the warm heat of being stretched open. It does feel good.
She hates that it feels good, but she is not willing to lie to herself, and if she is here, if she has no choice, perhaps she ought to simply let herself melt into it.
Her hands fly up to cling to his broad shoulders. Surprise flitters across his expression, but it is quickly replaced by that adoration that is so thick she feels it settle in her bone marrow.
"You feel so good." He mumbles. "I am sorry, I am getting carried away. I waited for so long, I waited for you, and I did so much. I just cannot be patient anymore."
It does not matter, she tells herself. It does not matter, as he begins to increase in speed and a soft moan escapes her mouth. It does not matter how wet the sound of him driving in and out of her is, when she can simply concentrate on the flares of pleasure that are sparking in her lower stomach with every thrust.
Ever since Leander died, she…
The pace increases, but all she does is sigh, arch her back, and let it happen.
Garreth keeps murmuring apologies interspersed with compliments interspersed with justification. I am sorry you are beautiful I needed to do this I am sorry you are so so pretty I needed to feel you I needed to have you I cannot wait I already did too much I am sorry I am sorry.
Rosalie banishes those, too, to a different part of her mind. She concentrates only on the thrust and the pull and the push. The emptiness contrasted with the fullness, the pleasure points inside of her that the man finds with every cant of his hips. His mumbles become nothing more than background noise as the complicated cat's-cradle of strings inside of her are pulled and manipulated, so taut that any of them could snap at any moment.
Then they do, and pleasure washes over she anew.
She feels herself come for him as his cock twitches inside of her. Her body pulsing and spasming around him even as warmth fills her insides and Garreth comes, crowding her sex with his seed. Her thighs tremble in response as he grinds into she, eking out the very last drops of both of their orgasms.
Rosalie forces herself not to think of how she came for him, harder for him, and the shame therein. She made the best of a bad situation, she forces herself to say, even though the glow of two peaks has settled about them and warmed her cheeks and made her breathless.
"You are beautiful…" He rumbles again, as he pulls out, as his seed drips from her stretched hole, staining the sheets.
His hand moves from caging her in, flitters nervously beside her cheeks, before he cups the soft skin and pulls her into another kiss.
She kisses him back in surprise. What else can she do?
"I love you." He says to her, simply, when the kiss ends, as if he has not just taken something precious and intimate from her. "I know I should have waited, but having you here, beneath my roof, how pretty you looked all soaked from the rain... You understand, do you not? I have done so much, I have waited for so long, I could not resist any longer."
She does not respond. His fingers dig harder into her cheek. "You still love me, do you not?"
Rosalie has never loved Garreth Weasley. She has never cared about him more than on a surface level, more than being the friend of her late husband. She might have never stopped his advances, but it was due to the innocent pleasure of being flirted with by such a well-known, well-regarded figure, and the romantic daydream of being snatched away from her grief by someone that truly cared for her, that gives her perspective beyond her duties as a mother.
Yet, the man is staring at her with something that she thinks is need writ clear in his eyes, and...
And she thinks about Ottery St. Catchpole.
She thinks of how they adore him, of all of the other people who would kill to be in her place, who would not have swallowed back tears as the most handsome and eligible man in the village made love to them. She thinks of how easy it would be, for Garreth to ruin her reputation, for him to say that she seduced him into this, to pull sad faces and pass on whispers until she is fair run out of town.
For him to make Rosalie unimportant, to turn everyone she knew against her and make himself the victim of all this, spreading whispers about how cruel she is to spread rumours he would do something so heinous…
She would have to leave the village. Immediately. She would have to ask for sanctuary at her parents' home. Likely, she would have to pull out her son from Hogwarts and head to the continent, but the Beausoleil name would shield her from most of the fallout. Then, one of his pleas began playing on repeat at her mind.
I have done so much, I have waited for so long. I knew it, since Hogwarts…
Leander died unexpectedly, on an attack close to their home. It had been a shot of the Killing Curse from the back, but the Aurors never managed to find who had done it.
Now, she thinks she figured it out, and it freezes her in fear. If she is correct, she doubts a move to France will stop him. After all, he has done so much already.
"I love you." She chokes out.
Garreth smiles at her, bright like the moon, and Rosalie thinks that he never expected her to say anything but.
Some fifty, sixty years later, a certain Arthur Weasley come to a magical household in the edge of Devon, carrying some flowers. He walks the trail lightly and with purpose, as if his path was the soft warm blow of the spring westerly wind.
When he arrives, he asks for the master of the house, and is promptly shown to a Mr. Prewett. He had come ask the granddaughter of the family, a Miss Molly Prewett, for her hand in marriage, and would appreciate the consent of the eldest of her relatives.
One look at the man and his granddaughter, and he knows that, no matter what he says, the match would go on without a hitch. So, for avoiding redundancies, he expressed his consent and contentment to the new couple.
Privately, though, Mr. Prewett remembers his late mother and weeps.