#Made To Measure Suits London

[room-ten]

Experience Excellence with Made to Measure Suits in London

Step into sophistication with London's premier made to measure suits. Our bespoke tailoring services ensure a perfect fit, combining top-tier craftsmanship with your personal style. Discover the luxury of a suit tailored exclusively for you, providing unmatched comfort and elegance. Visit us in London to begin your journey towards impeccable, custom-tailored fashion.

[dooleyrostron]

Elevate Your Summer Wedding Style with Custom-Made Suits

Introduction: As the summer wedding season approaches, it's time to start thinking about your perfect attire for the big day. Look no further than Dooley & Rostron for all your suit needs. Our impeccable craftsmanship and attention to detail ensure that you'll be dressed to impress. From summer wedding suits to made-to-measure and handmade options, we offer a range of tailored wedding suits that will make you stand out on your special day.

Summer Wedding Suits: Embrace the Season with Style When it comes to summer weddings, finding the right suit that combines comfort and style is essential. At Dooley & Rostron, we have a stunning collection of summer wedding suits that are tailored to perfection. Our suits are designed with lightweight, breathable fabrics that will keep you cool and comfortable throughout the festivities. Whether you prefer classic, slim-fit, or contemporary styles, our extensive range has something to suit every groom's taste.

Made-To-Measure Suits London: Your Perfect Fit Awaits We understand that every individual has unique body proportions and personal preferences when it comes to suits. That's why we offer made-to-measure suits in London, ensuring that you get the perfect fit and style that compliments your physique. Our experienced tailors will take precise measurements and work closely with you to customise every aspect of your suit, from the lapels and buttons to the lining and pockets. With a made-to-measure suit from Dooley & Rostron, you'll exude confidence and sophistication on your wedding day.

Handmade Suits London: The Epitome of Craftsmanship For those seeking the utmost luxury and attention to detail, our handmade suits in London are a perfect choice. Our skilled artisans meticulously craft each suit using traditional techniques and the finest quality fabrics. The result is a suit that not only fits impeccably but also showcases exquisite craftsmanship. From the initial consultation to the final fitting, we ensure a seamless experience, bringing your vision to life and creating a suit that is truly one-of-a-kind.

Tailored Wedding Suit: Unleash Your Personal Style Your wedding day is a reflection of your unique personality, and your suit should reflect that too. A tailored wedding suit from Dooley & Rostron allows you to express your individual style with precision. Our expert tailors will guide you through the process, helping you choose the perfect fabric, style, and details to create a suit that is a true reflection of who you are. Whether you envision a classic black-tie ensemble or a contemporary twist on a traditional look, our tailored wedding suits will help you make a lasting impression.

Conclusion: Don't settle for an off-the-rack suit for your summer wedding. Visit Dooley & Rostron and to discover a world of possibilities with our extensive range of summer wedding suits, made-to-measure and handmade options, and tailored wedding suits. Our commitment to quality craftsmanship and personalization ensures that you'll find the perfect suit to make you look and feel your best on your special day. Embrace the summer wedding season with style and sophistication – because your wedding suit should be as unique as your love story.

ORIGINAL SOURCE: bit.ly/3XZgz1T

[bxbridal88]

Discover the premier destination for bridal alterations in London with BX Bridal. Our skilled team specializes in creating the perfect fit for your wedding dress, ensuring you look and feel stunning on your special day. At BX Bridal, we understand the importance of your bridal gown and provide meticulous attention to detail, personalized service, and exceptional craftsmanship. Whether you need minor adjustments or major alterations, trust BX Bridal to make your dream dress a flawless reality. Experience the best bridal alterations London has to offer with BX Bridal, where your satisfaction is our top priority.

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[carolineandrew1]

Best Made to Measure Suits in London - Caroline Andrew

Caroline Andrew presents the best made to measure suits in London, blending traditional workmanship and modern styling to achieve perfect suits designed to fit. Having a total dedication to quality and detail, there is a similarity found in every single suit tailor-made for each customer.

One starts with a full consultation where clients state their style and fabric preferences together with any special needs. The team of experienced tailors headed by Caroline Andrew will take all the measurements that will be just perfect to get the ideal fit. They can assist with high-quality fabric choices, as well as those elements of a suit, which can be further tailored—such as the lapel, the buttons, pockets, and linings—to really ensure that this one garment is tailor-made for the owner.

Visit Us - https://www.carolineandrew.co.uk/made-to-measure-suits-london/

[lorenzoberni]

Campaign shot by Lorenzo Berni x Patrick McDowell Eurydice Collection.

[reidsworld]

Beautiful Tragedy

Summary: Set in late 1800s London high society, Logan Howlett falls for a woman who is off limits, resulting in what can only be described as a beautiful tragedy. Based on this post by @shinyshayminflower

Paring: Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader

Category: Angst

Content Warnings: Heavy angst, forbidden love, arranged marriage, kinda ooc.

Word Count: 3.6k

Mars speaks… chat I cried while writing this. this turned out sm more AU like than I originally planned but we move. also reader ended up being british...

Part 2 | Masterlist

The grand estate your family owned was a sanctuary of opulence, yet it felt like a gilded cage. The late 1800s had bound you to a life of social expectations, where every decision was dictated by status and tradition. Amidst the grandeur of high society, you found solace in Logan Howlett— a man whose mutant abilities had kept him on the fringes of your world.

Logan, with his war-hardened past and retractable claws, was both an outsider and a confidant. Despite his loyalty and experience, his mutation made it impossible for him to be anything more than a distant companion.

Logan knew where he stood when it came to his place in society. He was more of a bodyguard than friend, someone to be kept at an arm's length yet close enough that it would be acceptable to use him as protection. That was how he met you, while in attendance at a ball hosted by your family, his sole purpose there was to act as a sort of security in case anyone came looking for trouble.

The lavish ballroom of the manor was alive with the clamour of high society. Chandeliers dripped with crystal droplets that cast a warm, shimmering light over the elegantly dressed guests. The air was thick with the fragrance of roses and lilacs, mingled with the faint scent of freshly polished wood and candle wax.

Logan stood near the entrance, his presence a stark contrast to the glittering splendour surrounding him. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit, but his demeanour was understated, a professional reserve that set him apart from the guests. His role was clear: to remain unobtrusive, yet vigilant, a sentinel amidst the grandeur. His reputation as a skilled protector preceded him, but his mutant abilities were a closely guarded secret, known only to those who needed to know.

You, the lady of the evening, moved through the crowd with grace and composure. As the daughter of the host, you were the centre of attention, engaged in polite conversation and the ceremonial dance of high society. Your laughter was soft, your smiles carefully measured. Yet beneath the surface, there was a sense of confinement, a constraint imposed by the roles expected of you.

It was during one of these moments of enforced sociability that Logan first saw you. He had been scanning the room, his sharp eyes ever watchful for any signs of trouble. His gaze landed on you as you were approached by a particularly insistent suitor, whose eyes were filled with interest that seemed to linger a bit too long.

Logan’s instincts kicked in. He moved closer, positioning himself strategically within view but maintaining a respectful distance. He could sense the subtle shift in your demeanour, the polite but firm way you dismissed the suitor. It was a momentary flicker of discomfort, quickly masked by a practiced smile.

As the suitor finally retreated, you looked around, momentarily lost in thought. It was then that your eyes met Logan’s for the first time. The connection was brief but charged with an unspoken understanding. Logan’s gaze was steady and professional, but there was something more—an acknowledgment of the silent pressure you were under.

You excused yourself from the crowd and made your way to a quieter corner of the ballroom. Logan followed at a discreet distance, his curiosity piqued by the subtle display of restraint he had witnessed. It was clear that you were navigating a complex social minefield, and his role, though limited, allowed him a rare glimpse into your world.

“Do you need anything, Miss?” Logan’s voice was low, respectful, as he approached you in the secluded corner. His accent, thick and distinctly Canadian, cut through the formality of his tone, adding an unexpected warmth to his words. The question was more about offering a reprieve than an actual request for assistance. His tone was a gentle reminder of his presence, without overstepping the bounds of his role.

You looked up at him, surprised to find him so close. There was an air of authority about him, but it was tempered with a kindness that contrasted sharply with the stiffness of the evening’s festivities.

“Actually,” you replied, your voice soft but carrying a note of genuine curiosity, “I must say, I rather enjoy your accent. It’s quite refreshing to hear amidst all the clipped tones of London society.”

Logan’s eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “Thank you, Miss. I’ve been told it’s quite distinctive.”

“It is,” you said with a soft smile. “There’s something about it that’s rather charming. It makes you stand out, even in a room full of such grandeur.”

Logan’s gaze softened, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I suppose I’m not quite the typical guest at such events.”

“No, you’re not,” you agreed, “but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

There was a moment of silence, an unspoken connection forming between you. In that brief exchange, there was an understanding that transcended the formalities of the evening. Logan’s presence, though initially seen as a mere security detail, began to take on a different significance.

“I was merely taking a moment away from the crowd,” you say, as if you felt the need to explain your absence from being the lady of the party, the soft tone of your voice cut through the silence.

Logan nodded, respecting your need for space. “It’s quite a gatherin’ tonight. I’m sure it’s overwhelmin’.”

You smiled, a fleeting expression of relief crossing your features. “Yes, it is. The expectations can be quite… demanding.”

Logan’s gaze softened. “I understand. It’s my job to observe and protect, but I’ve seen enough of these gatherin’s to know that they come with their own set of obstacles.”

“And how do you find it, observing from the sidelines?”

Logan’s expression revealed a hint of a smile, though it was tinged with a touch of melancholy. “Sometimes, it’s a necessary role. It allows me to see things that others might miss. But it’s not without its own challenges.”

As the conversation drew to a close, you nodded to him, a gesture of gratitude and acknowledgment. “Thank you, Mr…?”

“Howlett, Logan Howlett.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Howlett. It’s nice to have someone who understands.”

Logan inclined his head, a respectful smile on his lips. “Anytime, Miss. If you need anythin’, I’ll be nearby.”

With that, you returned to the ballroom, the weight of the evening’s obligations settling back upon you. But as you moved through the crowd once more, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this brief, genuine interaction with Logan had introduced a new, albeit unexpected, layer to your world.

Logan, meanwhile, watched you from a distance, his thoughts a mix of admiration and cautious intrigue. The evening had begun with clear boundaries and roles, but this fleeting encounter hinted at the possibility of something more—something that could challenge the carefully constructed walls of society and expectation.

As the night wore on, both of you carried the memory of that brief exchange, a subtle acknowledgment of a connection that neither fully understood but both felt deeply. It was a moment of genuine interaction in a sea of pretence, and it marked the beginning of something new for the both of you.

The first signs of affection between you and Logan since that night were subtle, yet profound. Stolen glances, brief touches, and shared smiles were the only expressions of a deep and forbidden love. On cool, moonlit evenings, you would find secluded corners of the manor, where the walls could not judge and the moonlight could only witness.

The manor's gardens were hushed under the blanket of twilight, the moon casting a silvery glow over the manicured lawns and fragrant blooms. The night was cool, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves and carrying the scent of jasmine. You wandered along the winding paths, seeking refuge from the stifling constraints of the evening’s festivities.

Logan had noticed your retreat and, with the quiet grace of someone who understood the need for solitude, followed at a discreet distance. His presence was a comforting shadow against the moonlit landscape, his footsteps barely making a sound on the gravel path.

You found yourself drawn to a secluded alcove, a small, hidden corner of the garden where the ivy-clad walls and the canopy of ancient trees offered a cocoon of privacy. You leaned against the stone balustrade, the coolness of the marble seeping through your silk gloves. The moonlight danced on the surface of the small pond before you, creating a shimmering mosaic.

Moments later, Logan emerged from the shadows, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that made your heart quicken. He had shed the formal demeanour of the evening, his posture relaxed yet alert, as if he too needed this quiet moment to escape the expectations placed upon him.

“I hoped I’d find you here,” he said softly, his accent carrying a soothing cadence in the stillness of the night.

You turned to him, a smile touching your lips despite the knot of anxiety in your chest. “I needed a moment away from everything.”

Logan stepped closer, the space between you closing as he approached with deliberate care. His gaze was tender, his eyes reflecting the moonlight with a warmth that belied the cool night. “You seemed lost in thought earlier. Everythin’ alright?”

You nodded, though the flicker of sadness in your eyes spoke volumes. You wracked your brain, trying to find the best way to speak without hurting him. You knew what your father expected of you when it came to your future, the guilt gnawed on you as you spoke, “just… trying to navigate the expectations placed upon me.”

Logan’s hand brushed against yours, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver up your spine. The contact was brief but electric, a silent exchange of the emotions that words could not fully capture. He looked at you with a mixture of admiration and concern, his fingers lingering near yours.

“I wish there was something more I could do, darlin’” he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity.

You turned your hand to his, a gesture of both comfort and need. “Your presence alone means more than you know. It’s the only thing that feels real amidst all the pretence.”

Logan’s thumb gently caressed the back of your hand, his touch both reassuring and tender. “I wish things were different,” he murmured, his voice a hushed confession. “I wish I could be more than just a shadow in the background.”

A sigh escaped your lips, and you looked up at him with a mixture of longing and sorrow. “So do I. But the world is not as kind as we’d like it to be.”

In that moment, the air between you seemed to crackle with unspoken desires. Logan’s eyes searched yours, and you saw a vulnerability in him that matched your own. He took a deep breath, the weight of his unspoken feelings hanging heavily in the space between you.

“I don’t want to just be a shadow,” he said, his voice resolute but soft. “I want to be something real in your life.”

Your heart ached with the intensity of his words. You stepped closer, your free hand resting gently on his arm. “You are, Logan.”

He gave you a pointed look, “I want to be more than just some secret lover, I want to be able to shout from the rooftops that you're mine.”

You sighed with a heavy heart, “I know, I want that too. But we’re bound by the constraints of a world that doesn’t understand us, doesn’t understand you.”

Logan’s gaze dropped to your lips, his eyes heavy with emotion. “Then let this night be ours, if only for a moment. Let the world fade away and let us be here, together, beneath the moon.”

You nodded, tears glistening in your eyes. “Just for tonight.”

He closed the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the love and longing that had been building between you, a quiet declaration of the feelings that had grown in the shadows of the manor. It was a poignant symphony of love and yearning, each touch a silent plea for something that could never fully come to be.

As his lips lingered against yours, the sweetness of the moment was tinged with a sharp edge of guilt and sorrow. You had always known that this love was a fleeting dream, a delicate thread woven in the shadows of your constrained existence. The reality of what was to come loomed over you like a dark cloud, a future you could not escape but deeply resented. Each stolen moment with Logan was both a treasure and a torment, a painful reminder of what you had been forced to forsake. In the moonlit stillness, as you nestled against him, the weight of what was inevitable pressed heavily on your heart. You could feel the crushing burden of a future you could neither change nor fully embrace, and what you had with Logan was a beautiful tragedy.

As you pulled away, both of you breathed deeply, savouring the preciousness of the moment. Logan’s arms encircled you, holding you close against his chest. You rested your head against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

In the tranquillity of the moonlit garden, the world outside ceased to exist. For a brief, fleeting moment, there were no societal constraints, no expectations—just the two of you, lost in the gentle embrace of the night.

“I love you,” Logan whispered, his voice a soft rumble against your ear.

You closed your eyes, a tear rolling down your cheek, your heart swelling with both joy and sorrow at the words you wish you could say. “I know.”

“What if we could just leave?” Logan suggested one night, his voice a hopeful murmur against the backdrop of the crackling fire.

Your heart ached at the thought, your gaze darkening with a mix of longing and despair. “Leave? Logan, it’s not that simple. They would hunt us down. There’s no place for us in the world beyond these walls.”

“But have you ever imagined it? What it would be like if we were free to be together?” he asked, his tone filled with quiet yearning.

“Every single day,” you whispered, your fingers finding his and intertwining with them. “But we both know it’s impossible. Society will never allow it. To them, I’m nothing more than property, meant to be traded to the wealthiest suitor. And you… they see you as a weapon—a beast, not a man.”

Logan’s expression darkened with hurt, and suddenly, he was on his feet, his hands ripping themselves away from yours. “Is that what you think too?” His voice was tight, raw with pain. “Do you see me as just some animal, only here to protect you?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you froze, your breath catching in your throat. “No, Logan, I would never—”

“Then what am I to you?” he cut you off, his frustration bubbling over. “If we can’t run, if there’s no future for us, then why are we still pretending? Pretending that this is enough, that we’re not just stuck in a nightmare we can’t wake up from?”

His anger pierced through you, your heart pounding as you struggled to find the words that could make him understand. “Logan, that’s not what I meant—”

“Not what you meant?” he echoed, his voice sharp. “Wasn’t it you who made me believe there was a chance? That if we just held on, we could make this work? Yet you never said you loved me, not once.”

Your breath hitched, tears spilling down your cheeks as you saw the anguish in his eyes. All you wanted was to reach out, to hold him, to promise that you would find a way to escape together. Logan’s heart ached with the urge to pull you into his arms, to tell you that everything would be okay—that you’d figure it out somehow. But he held himself back, his face a mask of cold indifference, waiting for you to break the unbearable silence.

“I can’t,” you choked out.

“Why not?” he demanded, his voice rising with desperation.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “If I say it, it will only make things worse. It will only hurt you more.”

“Why? Why can’t you just tell me?” he pressed, his voice thick with emotion.

“Because I am to be married!” you finally shouted, the words tearing from your throat.

“What?” His voice was low and cold, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable.

“I am to be married…” The words came out as a broken whisper, heavy with the weight of inevitability. You wished with every fibre of your being that you could take them back, that you’d never had to see the way his expression shattered into something you’d never seen before—something you never wanted to see again.

He turned away from you, and you hated yourself for not trying harder, for not fighting to make him stay, for not finding a way to make him listen.

The grand hall was adorned with flowers, the scent of roses heavy in the air as guests murmured in hushed tones, awaiting the ceremony. You stood in a small room adjacent to the hall, staring at your reflection in the mirror. The white dress, elegant and intricate, felt like a shroud—a symbol of everything you were about to lose.

A soft knock echoed through the quiet room. Your heart leaped in your chest as Logan stepped inside, his face a mix of sorrow and determination. He looked out of place in the lavish surroundings, a reminder of the life you truly wanted but could never have. You had asked to see him, to explain, though you weren’t sure if anything you said could ever make this right.

“Logan…” you began, your voice breaking as you turned to face him.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice tight with emotion. “Don’t say it. I just needed to see you before…”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you stepped closer, shaking your head. “You have to understand—this wasn’t my choice. I never wanted this, Logan. My father… he arranged it all. He would never have allowed us to be together.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Because of what I am,” he said bitterly, his eyes dark with pain. “Because society sees me as some kind of monster.”

You closed the distance between you, reaching out to take his hands in yours. “You’re not a monster, Logan. You’ve never been a monster to me. But the nature of your abilities… they see it as something monstrous, something that could never belong in my world. My father, society—they would never accept it, never accept us.”

Logan looked down at your joined hands, his expression torn between anger and heartbreak. “So this is it, then?” he asked quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re just going to let them take you away from me?”

Your breath hitched, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I don’t have a choice,” you whispered, the words feeling like daggers in your chest. “But I need you to know… I love you, Logan. I’ve loved you since the moment we met. And I’ll never stop loving you, no matter what happens.”

Logan’s eyes met yours, his gaze filled with a deep, unspoken anguish. He pulled you into a fierce embrace, holding you as if he could somehow shield you from the world, from the fate that was tearing you apart. “I love you too,” he whispered against your hair, his voice thick with the pain of a thousand unspoken words.

You clung to him, the two of you standing there, lost in the moment, the weight of your impending separation hanging over you like a dark cloud. You knew that this was goodbye, that once you stepped out of that room, your life would be dreadfully bound to another, and the future you had dreamed of with Logan would be nothing more than a memory.

Logan slowly pulled away, his hands lingering on your shoulders as if he couldn’t bear to let go. “I’ll be waiting for you” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you tried to memorise every detail of his face, every line, every mark. “I’ll always carry you with me, Logan. In my heart.”

He gave you one last, lingering look before stepping back, the distance between you growing wider with every second. He opened the door and left without another word, the sound of it closing behind him echoing in the silence.

You stood there, the emptiness overwhelming as you tried to steady your breathing, trying to prepare yourself for the life you were about to enter—a life without him.

As the music began to play in the hall, signalling the start of the ceremony, you took one last, deep breath, and whispered into the empty room, “I love you, Logan.”

Mars speaks... (again) pt.2 anyone?

[randombush3]

audentes fortuna iuvat

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two

words: 9541

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks III

content warnings: there’s some (a lot of) cheating + postpartum depression. it’s more frustrating than sad though x

notes: this covers 2019-22(ish). It was SUPPOSED to be the last part. It’s not anymore. I’m gonna do a fourth to deal w the mess I have created in a more self-indulgent amount of words than the 3k i had planned. That will probably have smut in it 😛

“Y/n left me.” 

The limousine you are in is completely black, save for the white lines being measured out right next to you. 

“What?” says Jenni. 

“She left me,” Alexia says once more. The hotel room is a non-committal beige. They lie in the same bed, the older of the two welcoming her lost teammate wordlessly and without judgement. Tomorrow, they will return to Barcelona, losers yet another time. “She moved back to london. She took Nico.” 

“She can’t just take Nico, can she?” 

“Y/n, how’s Nico?” Your stomach turns, but whether that is provoked by the thought of the baby boy you left crying in your father’s arms or by the white powder outlining the rim of the woman’s nostrils, you don’t know. 

Your son’s creasing eyes, red face, and grabbing hands appear in front of you. He screams as you walk away. He doesn’t understand why he has not smelt Alexia in weeks, and he misses the comfort of home. 

Everyone waits for your answer. No one comments on the bags under your eyes. “He's fine,” you say with a smile. “He loves it here.”

“I think she is depressed,” Alexia tells Jenni, comforted by the arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close and tightly and reminding her that she is not as alone as you have made her feel. “She told me that she couldn’t be in Barcelona anymore, but she said that without giving me a chance to come with her. Her bags were packed before the conversation started — she might as well have called me from the plane.” 

“Are you angry at her?” 

“Yes.” 

Alexia thinks about it. 

“No.”

“No,” you say when they point at your very own line. The drug holds a place of both familiarity and hatred in your heart. The fine, white powder reminds you of greatness – of being the most successful girl group in the UK – but, also, of hospital visits. It’s not a past addiction, but it could have been. You light a cigarette instead, though it will make the vehicle reek. “I can't. I have a son.” 

“You’re not a saint.” They boo. “You’re allowed to have fun. I saw you the other day, and you had no qualms with any drugs then.” 

“No, I'm not a saint,” you reply. You regret that night — however little you remember. “But I am a mother.” 

“Is it that thing? Postpartum?” Jenni asks. “The baby blues are really shitty, I've heard, but they’re not supposed to cripple you. Maybe the relationship has other issues.” 

“I'm not angry at her, Jenni,” Alexia repeats. “I miss Nico. He looks like her. He has started to look a lot more like her now.”

“He would definitely suit those sparkly bralettes.” Jenni giggles at the thought. 

With an understandable lack of good humour, Alexia ponders something more realistic. “He would suit a Barcelona kit.” 

“He would be made for it. You are his mother.” 

“I'm not angry at her,” Alexia says for the third time, just to make herself believe it. Just to carve those words into her bones and tell herself that it isn’t anger, what she’s feeling. “I don't want to be angry at her. I think I'm going to see if I can move to arsenal.” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

“Well, I'm not angry at her.” 

“Alexia.” Jenni cups her cheek tenderly. “Ale.” She knows she shouldn’t. She’s not angry at you, and so there is no punishment needed. Not that… Not that kissing Jenni would ever be utilised as a weapon to get back at you. Or that she’d actually kiss her. 

“Daddy, I can't get him tonight. No, I don't want to stay over. Daddy, I…” You hate the baby. You hate yourself. You hate that Spain hasn’t done well, and that your fiancée is disappointed that nothing is how it was supposed to be. Alexia is probably lying awake in bed, missing her son, and missing you. You expect one of her teammates to call you soon, and tell her that she needs you. You’re her person. “I'm going to get some sleep and I'll pick him up tomorrow. Probably around lunchtime, okay?” 

“Alexia, bésame.” 

…

You had passively bought your house. It’s how property sale works when you’re a celebrity. People are always willing to do things for you if you know the price, and it never hurts to use your name to add a new flashy level to whatever stupid business they are running. It’s a mutual exploitation, to some extent. 

Highgate is beautiful. The house is beautiful. 

The reception room, with its high, decorated ceilings, is your favourite place to numbly take in the twisted jigsaw of your life when Nico has cried himself to sleep. The nursery is on the first floor. He is near enough for safety, but at a distance that allows you to regret all the mistakes you have made.

You watch him roll over onto his stomach, eyes trained on the baby monitor though your fingers graze the ivory keys of your new piano, attempting to compose something worthwhile. At this rate, your solo career is going to fail just like your relationship seems to be doing. 

Yesterday, while Alexia seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth, you came out. It was an off-hand comment during the Graham Norton Show. A quick ‘my fiancée named him. She’s from Barcelona’ was all it took. You hope Alexia, wherever she may be, has heard about it. Jenni would have told her. You trust Jenni to be somewhat on your side because she always has been. 

The doorbell rings just as you sniffle, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “Don’t be pathetic,” you mutter to yourself. “You didn’t pay five million pounds to sit here and cry. You chose to come back home.” 

Being in England – colder, drearier, lonelier England – has made you realise that your decision was not the right one. Or maybe it was. It has proven that you are as terrible a mother as you convinced yourself you were back in Barcelona, and it has also shoved the cavity Alexia leaves in your life when you refuse her entry right down your throat in the form of a constant lump and a dull stabbing in your chest whenever you think about anything past whether Nico has had anything to eat. You can’t even feed him properly, despite it being supposedly in your nature. You buy formula from the nearest Waitrose. 

The doorbell rings again. 

The insistence is not uncommon seeing as you are, at the minute, the English press’s number one target. You open the CCTV app on your phone so that you can decide whether or not to ignore the potential stalker, and your heart rate spikes when you see the hooded figure standing on the porch. Back to the door, it is not possible to determine the threat. A well-buried maternal instinct kicks in for once, and you ensure that Nico is still peacefully out cold before getting up to answer the door with the poker from the Victorian fireplace firmly in your grip. Just in case. 

You are a mother, in whatever capacity you have decided that role looks like, and so you undo the three latches on the door with brave, protective fingers. The baby monitor’s volume has increased, and the fuzz of white noise is audible if Nico were to make a sound. The vague repulsion at the idea of it all is only an aftertaste in your silent prayer for the hooded figure to not want to kill you. Some sick part of your brain imagines Nico dead, as well. It tortures you. 

The poker in your other hand, for the most fleeting of moments, is almost plunged into your chest. The imaginary, self-inflicted wound makes you think of the blood and how the baby upstairs would wail until someone found him. The grimace of annoyance on your lips is nothing new, but you have no more time to torment yourself because the doorbell is pressed again, rather impatiently. 

You open the door and the hooded figure is right in front of you. “He’s asleep,” you say, the Spanish foreign on your tongue. 

Alexia shrugs, and her hood falls down, revealing the brunette tendrils that hang from her slowly sinking bun. “I came for you,” she replies, so earnestly that it is as if nothing ever happened: past pain forgotten and replaced by sprouting memories of soft kisses and mornings where leaving was too hard to do. Some of them, you think, are not real. They don’t seem to be. Your blank stare is unsettling. You almost don’t believe her. “Can we talk?” she tries, and you notice the team-issued duffle on the tiled floor she is standing on. Then, from the pocket of her hoodie, she extracts a pastry box. The plastic window is filled with circles of different colours, and she holds out the macaroons to you as if to bribe her way into a home in which she is unsure she belongs to.

Stepping aside, leaning the poker against the wall by the door, you scratch at the bare skin of your neck. Alexia, while sweeping an arm down to collect her bag, fixes her gaze onto the ring you are wearing, and the diamond glistens with hope that this can all be fixed. “Would you like to come inside?” 

She swallows the whine of anguish that tears her heart open at the idea that this might never be her house to live in, too, and she follows you dutifully as you lead her through hallways far more luxurious than the flat in Barcelona could ever be. This is what you left her for – the person you are, no longer in worn clothing with messy hair, is quite the opposite of the woman with her back to her moments before she had to focus on football. The necklace draped on your sharpened collarbones is new, and she does not dare believe what she has been hearing is true. Yes, there are pictures, but she trusts you. She will always trust you. 

“Have a seat,” you say, gesturing to the wooden dining table. It is clean enough for her to determine that it is unused. Alexia places the macaroons in front of her, and aches at how you sit at the opposite end. 

“I…”

“I thought you were going to give me all the time that I needed.” It is a statement of distance, as if your location is not enough. 

Alexia, eyes widening at how unwelcome she suddenly feels, needs only to remind herself of the impending date of the wedding. It is beginning to loom uncomfortably, with the excitement of getting married drained out like a low tide on a deserted beach. “We have two weeks. If it isn’t going to happen, then you should tell me now. We have to give everyone notice so that they can cancel their flights.” Your silence spurs her on. “You will need to contact the wedding planner, because you refused to let me have a hand in any of it so I don’t even have their number. I’m sorry that you won’t be able to wear your dress. Vivienne Westwood is a big thing for you, I know. I’m sorry that it’s inconvenient.” 

“But Alexia,” you whisper, “I don’t not want to get married.” 

Her eyebrows furrow, head tilted slightly to the left. “I know. That is why I am saying this.” 

Your voice grows louder. “No, no. Sorry, that wasn’t the easiest thing to understand.” Across the dining table, your love that has faltered, that has hesitated and been reconsidered and been stamped down over the past month, extends towards her: its final destination, always and forever. Alexia feels it grab her by the throat, wrenching the words from her before she can even formulate a thought in response, and her body is so drawn to you, in such a powerful fashion, that she pushes her chair out from the table with a grating scrape and is stepping towards you with a finality that makes her wonder if she’ll ever leave your side. 

As she approaches, the idea that she is here becomes a little too real. You have played with the fantasy of it, of course, but the tenderness in her usually fierce eyes does not match the anger you had expected, and, in the most feeble fashion, you have never felt more apologetic in your life. 

“I’m so sorry,” you begin to say. Tears stream down your face with freed anguish, and the words are so simple yet they bear the weight of your entire soul. “I’m so sorry, darling. I made a mistake, and I have been met with the most crushing of realisations: I can’t do this without you, Alexia.” I still want to marry you, Alexia. 

The room seems to close in on your despair, attempting to bottle it, almost, and keep you trapped underneath a haze of emotions you don’t quite know how to sort through. “I… I’m beginning to hate him.” The confession hangs heavy over Alexia’s bowed head as she stands frozen in place, stuck in her journey towards you but unable to arrive. “I’m acutely aware of how cruel it is,” you continue, this next admission being what agonises you the most. It floods the room with guilt, and your voice trembles with self-condemnation that reigns harsher than any other voice in your head. 

“It’s ridiculous. I’m evil and I’m wrong, and I just feel like it is inherently in my nature to be like this, as though some fault has been built into me with warning signs we evidently ignored.” You struggle to breathe. “I wish I could take back the day we decided to have him,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, lips doused in tears, skin searing with shame when Alexia cups your cheek with a strong, calloused hand. “He should not have to be stuck with me as a mother.” 

Your chest heaves, and you are finished. You have never verbalised it before now, and it is impossible to decide whether it has helped remove the lead lining of your heart where it has been bolstered against your will. Her other hand steadily rises to your face, but then, with only a second of hesitation, she is pulling you upwards and enveloping you in her embrace. You feel a little bit closer to her. “Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, tone cracked with sorrow and regret. “Lo siento mucho. Desearía haber sabido, desearía haber estado allí para ti.” 

Gently, she tilts your face upwards to meet her gaze. “You are not evil and no estás equivocada. Estoy aquí ahora, y no te dejaré enfrentar esto sola nunca más.” You collapse into her. “I’m here, cariño, and I am not going anywhere.”

The sentiment is wonderful, and Alexia makes good on her word. 

When Nico begins to cry, the sound piercing through your choked sobs, Alexia realises she has missed all of her life with you. Being separated and being apart due to work, she now knows, are two excruciatingly different things. The whiny wails from upstairs visibly jar you, though you pull away from Alexia to attend to him. “I will do it,” she declares, though her firmness is not mean. “Sit down. Eat the macaroons – they’re… ‘to die for’?” You nod with instinctive encouragement. “Sí. They’re to die for. Try. Jenni says that the pink ones are the best.” 

“Jenni picked them out?” you ask with a briefly regained humour, eyebrows raising. “Had to get your friend to choose your apology gift?” In truth, neither of you know what Alexia would be apologising for, but Nico’s crying grows more incessant and Alexia is climbing the carpeted staircase before the topic can be discussed. 

Alexia reaches her son with tears brimming in her eyes. The failure of Spain at the World Cup is amplified by the idea that she has disappointed him, though he does not yet possess the tools to pledge his allegiance to her country. In fact, Nico has been sleeping in Manchester United attire (your father has been his primary carer of late, and he does not charge you money, so the price is obviously Alexia’s sanity). She is more than glad to smell his nappy, and delighted about the opportunity to change him into something less hideous. 

“Mama loves you so much,” she tells him as she manoeuvres his chubby legs into a plain, inoffensive onesie. “I promise, petit. I am going to help her, okay? And we are going to get through this together.” Alexia forgets about the taste of Jenni’s lips and the heat between them. “Mama just doesn’t see the direction she is going in. It is like her eyes are covered, and she is telling herself that she is walking down the wrong path, but this is not true. You are the most special thing in the world to us. You are the sunrise, the sunset, and the hours of the day.” 

She pauses to stand him up on his tiny feet, hands hoisted underneath his armpits. He is heavier than when she last held him, but she is stronger than before, too. Women’s football is growing, along with her muscles. Nico babbles out a vague reply, but Alexia hears what he is trying to say. “I agree. We’ll be alright.” And, with all her heart, it rings true. 

…

The following day, she calls the doctor for you, script written out on a piece of paper in front of her, translated perfectly so that her concern does not waver the information she needs to tell the receptionist. The clinic is famous and discreet, and they are quick to prescribe you antidepressants before the week draws to a close. You won’t be able to drink at your wedding, and everyone might think you are pregnant again, but Alexia reassures you that it will be worth it. 

Wrapped up in your own bubble, the three of you enjoy London in a way that isn’t possible in Barcelona. 

Here, Alexia has no commitment to football. There are no training sessions she must rush off to, there are no teammates to pry, and no one else to interfere with your private little routine. You quite like it, and she does too. It is only temporary, before you fly out to Menorca and hand Nico off to Eli in order to enjoy your respective bachelorette parties and then, in exactly seven days, your wedding itself. 

“You’re still smoking,” Alexia says disapprovingly, the sleep in her voice enough to make you feel a pang of guilt. It’s late at night when Nico has finally been soothed from his aching gums, and she has been able to climb back into bed expecting to find you asleep already. “Why are you awake?” 

“I’m still smoking,” you tell her. She sighs at the way you parrot her words, but presses an affectionate kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulders despite the lingering smell of cigarettes. “If I can’t drink, I’m going to smoke. This is Hollywood.” 

“This is Highgate.” Her accent curls around the name with something a little too foreign for her to ever consider this place home. “Why are you awake?” she repeats. 

You look down at the open notebook in your lap, the pages either blank or full of crossed-out lyrics. “He was so loud, but I can’t seem to write anything either so, really, it has been quite redundant.”

“I had to get a glass full of ice and hold it to my fingers so that I could help him. I could have lost some very important assets, but it seemed to do the trick.” He’s teething. You’re telling yourself that the antidepressants are little pills of miracle, and have kicked in already. “Feel.” She presses two freezing fingers to your cheek, and you gasp, flinching away from her. 

“There’s a teething ring downstairs, you know,” you tell her. She shrugs. Maybe it isn’t clean. “Don’t give yourself frostbite. I happen to quite like your fingers.” 

Alexia’s smirk is beyond suggestive, and her lips hit your neck once more with an entirely different heat to them. “Yeah?” You push her head away. “I bet it would feel good. Nice and cold.” 

“You’re delirious.” 

She continues to kiss you. “I don’t know what that means,” she mumbles into your neck, until her lips reach your face and she is near climbing into your lap – notebook long pushed onto the floor. “Dímelo en español.” 

“No lo sé.” 

“Ah. Una palabra inteligente.” 

“Claro.” 

She laughs into the kiss she presses against your lips. She never has never felt like this with anyone else. Never this relaxed, or loved, or safe. “Me vas a matar con tu inteligencia y voy a sentirme estúpida para siempre.” 

“I love you,” you state softly. “I love every part of you.” Alexia, in that moment, decides to never do what she did with Jenni again, and to never break your heart by informing you of her betrayal. 

…

You’re married. 

You’re married to Alexia, a woman who bears the beauty of a goddess and the strength and will of someone who could capture the sun and tame the fire that rages on its surface. 

You admire her as she sleeps so peacefully beside you, tanned skin warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows of the hotel room. Later, you will get on the ferry, go back to Barcelona, and then fly to Capri for three days alone before Alexia’s preseason starts. Aside from a few meetings with Dave, you theoretically aren’t swamped with anything. You’ll be joining her in her city with Nico with a bit more permanence than last time. 

Alexia buries her face in the covers, crawling into your open arms the minute the sunlight rouses her. “Everything is sore,” she groans, her bare skin slightly sticking to yours, the sweat from last night not yet gone. 

“What happened to ‘mi vida, one more time won’t hurt’?” you tease, impersonating her heavy accent over your English with enough drama to get her to elicit another grumble. This time, it’s something about being bullied. “Darling, we have to get up. We’re having breakfast with our parents, and apparently Nico has been upset that we got a night to ourselves.” 

“Pobrecito,” she replies with a newfound level of English sarcasm. She spent the wedding reception avoiding the dance floor, engaged in a long conversation with your father. The topics spanned over most areas of life, and briefly touched upon how you are doing now. Alexia, with much pleasure, confirmed the improvement, however miniscule it has been. She is very proud of you, and he is too. “I only want one thing for breakfast.” 

Her hands begin to roam, the band of her wedding ring hitting your pubic bone. “Mi vida, one more time won’t hurt,” she mocks you from before but in her sexier, Spanish husk, sucking at your collarbone, straddling your waist.

You replace your near moan with a thoughtful hum. “I really want pancakes. Do you think they’ll make me some?”

Downstairs, where it is brighter and impossible to conceal the hickeys on both of your necks, you greet your parents, brother, Anya, and Gio. Alexia’s mother, her sister, and Jenni are sitting at the table, too. Your baby is pretending he isn’t teething, and grinning like an angel. 

“How’s married life?” Anya asks as you take a seat opposite her, Alexia to your right. The table has a gradient of bilingualism, but Gio discovered that she picks up Spanish quite easily considering she can already speak one romance language. “We’ve already found, like, four articles talking about it.” 

“How?” you ask, but you are not offended. 

Gio shrugs. “Drones, I guess. Nothing bad, though. Some speculation about the other bride – if the article does mention that. Most talk is on the dress.” It was a bloody good dress. “And I suspect that there’ll be a juicy little question about who was your Maid of Honour.” 

“Don’t be salty,” you tell her. The MOH issue was sorted out years ago – perhaps 2015 – when you binged Friends together despite having watched it thousands of times before. Anya has been yours, Gio will be hers, and you will be Gio’s. And they say trios never work. 

“I left Mia with her dad for this.” 

“You shouldn’t have had a baby with a man-slag,” Anya says with a snort, enjoying her second mimosa and Gio’s grimace at the idea of her daughter having to put up with her father’s revolving door of one-night-stands. “You’re one to make terrible decisions. At least our girl over here’s married someone who looks at her like she’s hung the moon.” 

Alexia turns to you with a smile, as if on cue, with Nico in her lap. You glance at his rounded cheeks and shining eyes, looking back up at your friends as though to check they are still there. Alexia leans forwards so that she can whisper in your ear. “Te amo. Nico, también. Mi familia es perfecta.” 

…

Returning to Barcelona comes with one negotiated condition on your part. You buy a bigger apartment, where there is space for an office and extra bedrooms. Alexia says her teammates will be taking the piss out of her grand new place the minute she sees it, but she is more than content to contribute to the finances with her new-and-improved salary for this season. “It’s weird to think that I’m from Mollet,” murmurs Alexia, standing in the middle of the large lounge area, surrounded by boxes. Most are from your old flat, but a few have been flown in from London. Alexia wanted you to have your Grammy with you. “This place is so fancy.” 

“It’s half of what the men’s team get,” you remind her, holding Nico with care as he gnaws away on a frozen carrot. His saliva drips onto you, but the antidepressants are working, and the therapy has been effective enough for you to start taking childcare in turns. (You had tried to previously, but Alexia wanted you to focus on yourself, knowing that things will change for all of you once the season started.) “Hey.” You place your hand on her shoulder. She tickles Nico’s chin. “We deserve this. You deserve this. Why don’t you host one of your team’s dinners? I’ll take Nico round to your mum’s – God knows she’d love to shove some food down my throat, too.” 

She shakes her head, strands of brown unstraightened due to the stress of the move and falling out of her bun with a determination to defy her hair bobble. “They would kill me if I did it without you. They’re all far too grateful that you invited Taylor Swift to our wedding.” 

“She’s a friend.” If you hadn’t been distracted by various other happenings that night, you’d have clocked that Alexia’s side of the guests were completely up to their ears in celebrities they’d never expected to meet. “Okay, so do you want me to stay here?” 

“I always want you to stay here,” she answers. 

“Not what I meant.” 

“I won’t take it back.” 

Nico babbles an incoherent yet cutely Spanish-y noise, though his words are getting closer to being said at the old age of eight months. Then, suddenly, something in him clicks. “Mama,” he squeals, his little fist scrunching up the fabric of your t-shirt. “Mamama.”

“Nicolau!” Alexia replies with just as much enthusiasm, cupping his cheeks. She kisses his nose, and then his forehead, and then his chubby knees and socked feet. “Nicolau, sí, la mama et té a las mans! Bon noi, el meu bon i intel·ligent noi.” 

“Does that count?” 

“Mama,” Nico repeats, tugging your earlobe. “Mama. Mama.” It is easy to forget about the (lessening) resentment you harbour when he speaks. Alexia gets him to say it as many times as she can before he goes back to his carrot, but, even then, the two of you stay in that spot, marvelling at your creation. 

Slowly, she turns around in a circle, absorbing the plain walls and towers of boxes. “This is going to be good. Life is going to be good,” you declare with such a firmness that it has to be true. “Darling, let’s get to unpacking and then we can think about a date for this dinner party.” 

“We are going to plan the party?” She raises her eyebrows at you. “Is this party going to start at five o’clock?” 

“Not all of us shit yellow and red.” (In a national sense – you’d have haemorrhoids for United any day of the week.)

Alexia takes Nico off you, in a show of cultural dominance. You’re actually outnumbered, considering he isn’t a British Citizen, and though he shares no DNA with your wife, he has inherited the same ability to narrow his eyes just enough to serve absolute cunt whenever he so pleases. If you weren’t feeling so ganged up on, you’d be a little impressed. “Nico y yo vamos a hacer croquetas de jamón. Adiós.” 

“Darling, the kitchen isn’t–” But you cut yourself off, deciding that she can discover that on her own, along with the criminally empty fridge. You don’t hide your smugness at all when she finds you in your almost-finished bedroom, wearing a look of utter disappointment and mumbling out a heartbroken request for a food delivery as soon as possible. 

…

November marks three years of being together and, also, four weeks of having Alexia’s ‘DNA’ – a pomeranian called Nala, whose Instagram account is run by her favourite parent after you called it silly and told your wife you’d much rather attend to your own seventeen million followers. 

Towards the end of the month, after a well-spent morning and then a family outing to Barcelona Zoo, Alexia meets Jenni Hermoso in a restaurant in what Jenni calls ‘your new rich-people neighbourhood’ in her text to Alexia.

Alexia, really and truly, is happy to have her best friend back in Barcelona. She missed her last year, when Jenni had returned to Atleti, and that separation maybe made what happened the night Spain was knocked out of the World Cup just that bit more understandable. “You’re a Culer, no matter how hard you try to fight it,” Alexia had said when she had climbed back into her own bed, not wanting to fall asleep in Jenni’s arms. “It was terrible to not have Y/n or you.” 

You and Jenni: Alexia’s people. 

“How’s your wife?” Jenni asks with a grin, two glasses of wine into a pleasant evening at an expensive restaurant. “You’ve left her with Nico, so something must be working.” 

In truth, you have been determined to get better. There were articles released not long after the photos of your wedding were circulated, and those speculated a lot about how you are finding motherhood. The baby pictured, captured by long-range lenses and invasive drones, was the world’s first glimpse at what Nico Putellas L/n looks like, and reminded many of them that you had a child to care for when in London, yet were frequently spotted at nightclubs and parties. You rise to most challenges, however, and find it a lot easier to adapt to weekly therapy sessions and pills every morning when you have a wrongful image to disprove. 

“It’s as if it never happened,” Alexia says, both with pride and surprise. “She now seeks to spend time with him. She takes him with her to the recording studio – the album’s coming along well.” It’s your first on your own. Nico plays with one mixing desk, while Dave (flown in from London with the promise that the Barcelona sun will do wonders for his wife’s misery) plays with another. “And… Jenni, we’ve been talking. The clinic that we used for Nico asked us if we wanted to reserve sperm when we first had him, and now they have called asking if now is a good time. I think… I think that she is really considering it. She told me yesterday that her therapist wants me to sit in on the next session, so we can go over how we can make this time different.” 

Jenni frowns, which is not what the woman opposite her had expected at all. “Why are you two having more children? You’re only twenty-five, Ale. Isn’t this going to affect your career?” 

“The men do it all the time.” She’s done a spot of research. They are younger than her when their girlfriends start getting pregnant, and they continue to play with the added admiration that they are fathers as well. 

“Yes, but they have the benefit of getting paid millions. They don’t have to fight with their federation for pitches or pay, and they can focus on football without their career sparking controversy for even existing.” 

“Then my children will grow up with a mother who fights for change.” 

“Or they grow up with a pop star who only wants things she cannot have and a footballer who can’t spend any time with them because she is too busy speaking at various conventions so that the next league match isn’t cancelled.”

“Jenni, do you think your opinion would be different if Y/n was a man?” 

This elicits laughter from the other woman, who rolls her eyes in a way that can only be described as condescending. “Alexia, you’re forgetting that I’m a lesbian too, which is a magnificent feat.” Jenni references the kiss they shared, and what happened after that. “But, no. I don’t. I want you to be the greatest footballer in the world, and you want that too. What are you going to do when Y/n tells you she wants to move back to England? Are you going to give up your future here for her?” 

The waiter interrupts briefly, collecting their empty plates and carting them off with a mission to retrieve the bill after a sharply declined offer for the dessert menu. “You don’t even know if that will happen,” Alexia scoffs, though she is a little sad that her exciting news hasn’t been well-received. “I was going to say that I’d think about the name Jennifer if it ends up being a girl, but now I’m leaning more towards María…”

She is kicked under the table, and she has to hold in her cry of pain because this restaurant is one of your favourite places to eat. “Mapi cannot have this victory over me. She’d be insufferable. Ale, you simply aren’t allowed to do that.” There’s another kick, but it is more playful this time. 

Alexia laughs, smiling and thankful that the tension has diffused. “I’m only joking. Y/n has a list scribbled in the back of her lyric book. She’ll probably be called Elena.” That is much more acceptable to Jenni’s ears, and she files that information away for next year, when she’ll tell Mapi that Alexia doesn’t like her name.

…

It works. Alexia and you are lucky. The doctor tells Alexia that, if she were a man, the two of you would have to be extremely careful. Your wife marvels at your ability to destroy your body and stay fertile, but she supposes that you are not the kind of woman to be a lesbian. Sometimes, she wakes up in a cold sweat, believing that you have changed your mind and left her. 

The New Year is a fresh start. Alexia decides to fix the (not so) hidden cracks in your relationship. She confides in her newly-acquired therapist. She may have made a mistake once; the secret is sandwiched between her worries about your susceptibility to depression and how Nico is a decided food critic. 

Though the therapist, a lovely bilingual woman named Sofía, raises her eyebrows, she does not pry. She slides a paper calling card over to Alexia. The paper squeaks along the coffee table between the two comfortable armchairs of the office. “I specialise in couples. Seeing as your wife is already a client of mine, I think you should consider a joint session.” Alexia is new to the idea of mental health. Before, she had been too focused on football to care about it. Even when her father died, any professional she spoke to was only hearing how her mind worked because she knew it was what was best for her performance. “And, Alexia.” She looks up at the therapist with a small, nervous smile. “Congratulations on the pregnancy. I am sure Nico will make a wonderful older brother.” 

Morning sickness drags you out of your shared bed most days. 

Alexia asks you about couples’ therapy when you have finished your dry-heaving one morning. 

“I mean,” you begin before pausing, gulping down the sour taste in your mouth and hoping nothing else is trying to hit the toilet water until tomorrow. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise.” She is dressed in her training kit, but she slings her jumper over your shoulders as soon as you shiver. “Do you think it’s a good idea?” 

“It would do no harm.” As long as Sofía does not bring up Alexia’s confession, your statement will ring true. “You book the appointment. It’ll be easier to work around your schedule that way.” 

“When are you flying back to London?” Her question is not filled with hatred for the city, but with resignation to the fact that your job involves you being stretched between here and there. 

“Not until next month. I thought that I could take Nico to an away game with my dad if I got a flight for Saturday. The rest of the week would be interviews and photoshoots.” 

“How’s the album doing?” 

So far, your songs are only written when Alexia has paid you enough attention to swirl your thoughts and blur your vision. It is in these moments that the lingering, sinking weight inside of you dissipates. “Dave remains hopeful. It won’t fail, but I need it to be better than what we currently have.” 

Shamelessly, Alexia is aware of her effect on your songs. She smirks; “Alba has been begging to babysit, you know.” With no care for your current state, Alexia’s eyes rake up and down your body. You grow embarrassed by how you are slumped over the toilet, and how she is standing above you as though she runs your world. “You look beautiful, mi amor,” she murmurs as you bashfully duck your head between your bent arms. 

“You’re a flirt.” It feels too late for her to still be in the flat. “And you’re going to miss training if you don’t get a move on. There are eggs in the fridge, and Nico definitely liked the omelette you made him a few days ago. He’ll be waking up soon.”

A small sigh escapes the midfielder’s lips, but the prospect of the things she loves most in the world appearing in her life consecutively is enough to convince her to pad her way out the bathroom, swanning into the corridor with a little grin on her face as she sings out ‘bon dia’ to an impressively multilingual toddler and heads into the kitchen with the domestic intention of getting breakfast started. She leaves an omelette out for you, which you attack shortly after Alexia and Nico disappear into their daily routine. She drops him off at preschool, and you pick him up a few hours later, taking him first for lunch with Alba, and then to the studio. 

You come home to a showered Alexia who is memorising her most recent match. She lets Nico slide into her lap without hesitation, but she stays focused on the football even when he tugs on the strands of hair falling out of ponytail. You marvel at the idea of having enough room in your heart for so much love. You decide that you are not like Alexia, though it is not necessarily a terrible thing. A further observation from watching your wife settle her son with a calm, muttered Catalan telling-off, coaxing him into loving football as though he does not already, is that you are so very content with your life at the moment. 

But 2020 kind of sucks. 

For the entire world. 

You’re cut off from your home in any other manner than a digital one, and being stuck in a luxurious penthouse in Barcelona isn’t the worst fate, but it really isn’t ideal. 

Elena, however, has the benefit of coming into the world with ever (physically) present parents, who could recite the java script for Zoom given that they spend hours on therapy calls. Elena, bright and smiley and the picture of her mother, spends the first few months of her life in a happy, happy family, protected by an entire football team and a fierce older brother. (And a yappy Pomerianian called Nala.) 

“Y/n doesn’t like the name María,” Jenni tells Mapi when Alexia sends the first picture of your new addition to the Barcelona group chat. 

“The next baby is going to be a Jennifer,” Mapi says, to both the forward and the unimpressed midfielder walking a few paces in front of such a silly conversation. “For that, I can only feel sorry for her.” 

…

The routine changes the following year. 

It starts with an abrupt but expected conversation. One that Alexia has been dreading. 

Your album – the first one that is just you – was released two months ago, and it has done too well. Selfishly, Alexia had hoped it would fail. You have enough money, and she is earning more and more each season. Success, unfortunately, means that this little life can no longer exist. Or can it? 

“I have to do it,” you whisper to her, tears in your eyes though the smell of sex still lingers. The quietness of a child-free apartment allows for you to hear her gulp. “It’ll be different this time, darling, but I can’t be here anymore. I can’t fly out to London every few days. I can’t leave you with a five-month-old and a toddler when you are training every day and playing matches every weekend. It’s not fair on anyone.” 

Alexia kisses your bare shoulder, hands slipping round your waist as she pulls your sweaty body into her. Her chest presses against your back, but she is only behind you in this bed. She does not agree with you. She does not support it. But, like she always does, she bites her tongue. “If that’s what you want,” she replies, and part of you dies with the thought that she does not really care. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. For us.” And she tells Jenni all about it when she goes to see her a week later – the flimsy excuse of meeting a childhood friend for dinner enough to wrap a cloth around your eyes and leave you at home with a screaming toddler and a baby whose only flaw is that she grows distraught the moment she is put down. 

In the dimly lit living room, the tension hangs thick in the air. You lock eyes. “Why can't you just move with us? Everyone will want you, darling, and life would be easier,” you plead, a month down the line. The house in Highgate has been readied for your more permanent return. 

Alexia takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. “Why can't you get it into your head that I'm not leaving Spain or Barcelona? This is my home.”

“What about the children? School? Life? My career? Does it mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes soften. Your heart breaks, and the piece of you that has already died somehow dies again. “I'm thinking of the children. All the time, I think of them. About the reputation of my name – their name. Putellas, the greatest in the world, or Putellas, the one with potential wasted at West Ham?”

“You're being selfish, Lex,” you snap. “This is an opportunity for all of us, not just me. Think about their future!”

“Their future is here, in the culture they know, the languages they speak. I won't strip them of their identity for the sake of a 'better' life. And my career? I've worked too hard to build what I have here. I won't throw it away.” I don’t want to throw it away. Underscored by Don’t leave me again. 

The room echoes with the weight of her voice. “Their identity comes from both of us.” It’s too final for either of your liking. Elena begins to cry in her cot. “I want to try it. I want you to be open to trying it.” 

She gestures to the suitcases by the door. “Trying it and doing it are two different things. You’re taking them from me!” 

“You’re probably going to love life without them anyway!” you shout. You feel like the crying baby, except the tears rolling down your cheeks carry much more suffering than hers. “You’ll – what? You’ll go out with your friends, and you’ll be able to go to the gym whenever you want. No arguing, no crying, no toddler to entertain, no nappies to change. You never wanted children. I forced it upon you. I regret it, and I’m sorry. We’ll go.”

“Don’t go.” 

I don’t want you to go.

“I have to.” 

You turn your back to her as you fly through the corridor, prepared to console Elena in a taxi. Alexia slips her ring off her finger, and clutches it in her palm instead. Desperately, she searches for a solution. There is nothing within her reach, not even you. 

… 

She is an island amongst a sea of happy people. She is going to be the greatest footballer in the world. It kills her to realise that she can now focus on football. 

Nico starts nursery, attending the same school you once did. He adjusts to life in London seamlessly, and Elena does not seem to care either way. He learns more English every day, and his other mother calls him nightly to read to him. 

With childcare more than sorted, you are free to be interviewed, pictured, and invited to events. You rake in the publicity, especially after laying so slow over the course of the lockdown in Spain. 

“Alexia.” Jenni’s hands knead her tight shoulders, partly teasing her. Alexia wears a frown, eyebrows knitting together with an emotion she’s not sure she can name. “Ale, it’s the same game as always. Nothing has changed.” 

“I know,” she murmurs. “I don’t understand why I feel like this.” She has continued to speak to Sofía, though your joint sessions have now come to a halt while you spend your time doubling as a singer and model. The therapist, try as she might, cannot evaluate the situation effectively enough. Eli and Alba have both tried to help, hoping that weekly dinners and the constant reminder about the invention of aeroplanes would ease the turmoil of Alexia’s mind. It does not. “I am so alone, Jenni.”

Nala is too small to fill the emptiness of the flat. Screens don’t allow for her to kiss you, or play with Nico. She is scared she will miss Elena’s first words. 

“You don’t have to be.” 

It only takes a month for Alexia to break, and it sort of works. 

In Jenni’s bed, it works. Hips keening, soft pants falling from her mouth. 

Quiet moans that stay locked in Jenni’s apartment. 

Each time Alexia leaves, though Jenni repeatedly requests that she stays, she walks out as half a woman. She blinks back her tears and she checks her phone. When she calls you – not a video call – you are never any the wiser to the scratches down her back. 

Alexia remains an island, but the sand beaches are tainted with the arrival of someone else. 

In this way, she is functional. 

She can do sex. She can deal with borderline romance. She can fill the space that you are tearing open with every passing minute spent in that god-awful country you insist on calling home. She can fix it a little bit with Jenni. 

She tells herself that it does not mean anything more than a bandage means to a wound. Who wears the bandage once the gash has healed? 

Where does she put the used bandage? 

Why is she focused on bandages?! She’s having an affair. It’s not an affair! (It is.) Alexia doesn’t… quite… wanttoadmititjustyet.

…

The buzz of your phone is the final push that gets you to conclude the current interview you are trapped in. Before checking what the notification is, you glance at the time. You have half an hour before you need to pick up Nico, and your parents said they would drop Elena home once they returned from London Zoo. 

Alexia: Jenni has had a really good idea 

It’s an intriguing text amongst the more practical ones that oil the mechanics of managing the distance. Tonight, Barcelona play their last match of the season. After this, she’ll be flying out to London. You have missed her. The last time you saw her in person was after Barcelona embarrassed Chelsea in Gothenburg. Elated and filled with pride, it was incredibly nice to have the biggest room in the hotel to yourselves. Her medal was almost as beautiful as her. 

You: Go on…

Alexia: Just draw a heart on Nico’s hand from me porfa. You’ll see. 

You slide into the driver’s seat of your newest self-indulgent car; a Porsche. Momentarily distracted by a camera flash, your turn onto the main road is a little risky, but you manage to make it to the school in time to collect your son. 

“Was he good?” you ask his teacher as she hands you Nico’s book bag. You take in the sight of him: hair messy, school uniform stained though they require the little ones to wear aprons for most of the day. “It’s a little different here. I’m hoping that he’s enjoying himself.” 

“Our new assistant is from Spain,” says the teacher with a small, tired smile, batting her long eyelashes at you. “We had to pry him off her.” 

You let out a laugh. “He misses his mum.” 

“He’s extremely intelligent. He knew to speak Spanish to her and English to us.” Though your grasp of Spanish is near-fluent after such reluctance from your wife to try English, you know that the two-year-old has a talent for juggling the three languages he is growing up around. You’re proud of him. “You shouldn’t worry about him. And, speaking of, we have a parents’ coffee morning just around the corner. It’s always great for the parents to get along – it helps the school feel even more like a family. Will it just be you attending?” Nico’s teacher is around your age, and you can smell her rose perfume that mingles with the soft hint of ready-mixed paint. She has deep, brown eyes, and she is definitely flirting with you. 

“Next week, right? I’ll have to check with my wife.” 

It’s then that a toddler-sized hand grips your fingers and tugs. “Mama, me voy,” he groans; something akin to Alexia’s impatience. It reminds you of when you used to go shopping and she’d herd you out with the threat of getting in the car and driving away. “Venga.” 

“One sec, sweetheart.” There are countless ways in which you miss Alexia. “My wife and I would love to come.” 

Her smile does not falter on her lips, but there is a greyish disappointment that dulls the warmth of her irises. You smile as you turn your back and lead Nico to the car. You are so excited for Alexia to complete the broken puzzle. 

You melt when she kisses the heart drawn onto her hand when celebrating her goal. Nico copies her, lips pursing and sloppily mimicking the action on a similar heart. “For you, sweetheart,” you tell him as he settles back into your side, careful not to jostle Elena who has fallen asleep on your chest (the therapist did wonders for you). 

“It was for you,” Jenni tells Alexia after the match. Her goal is now serving as the move Alexia feared she’d make. They have changed and been massaged and done the media the are required to do (women’s football is growing): they are free to roam Barcelona if they so wish. 

Her flight is tomorrow evening – “I have a flight tomorrow evening.” 

“Come over tonight.” It isn’t a question, yet it is not quite a command. Mapi passes the two of them, eyes narrowing at the way Jenni has wrapped her hand around Alexia’s wrist. The defender is aware that something is going on, though it breaks her heart to imagine Alexia ever doing that to you. Not knowing they are being watched, Alexia steps in; cups Jenni’s face, brushes her cheekbone with a stroke of her thumb Mapi knows is meant for her wife. Mapi’s stomach lurches. She feels sick. 

“I need to…” It’s not a ‘no’. “Jenni.” She hates that it is not a ‘no’. 

“Ale.” There’s a beat. Mapi blinks twice, shakes her head, and backs away. “I’ll miss you, you know?” 

… 

Jenni doesn’t seem to mind when, the next day, blurry pictures of you on a family outing make rounds through the tabloids she usually doesn’t read. The fact that, up until now, no one has known that your wife is Alexia Putellas has no effect on her. She was stupid for thinking the last six months meant something. Winning together, losing together. Sleeping together. 

In this deal, Alexia has fucked over both women who love her. Except, you don’t know. She hasn’t told you, though Jenni had hoped for it secretly – hoped Alexia chose her – and it is obvious. Obvious to Jenni, who is well acquainted with the blonde hair in the wings of your concert at the O2. Obvious to Jenni, who refuses to think of herself as the other woman. 

She consults Mapi. 

Mapi, who she has come to shamefully realise already knows. 

“I can’t believe the two of you.” The defender is clear in her distaste and disappointment and, honestly, her disgust. “But I am not going to be the one to break that poor girl’s heart.” 

“I’m not asking you to.” 

What is she asking? What does she want from this utterly useless conversation? 

“Mapi.” Jenni closes her eyes, but she sees two faces instead of darkness. Nico. Elena. She’s Elena’s godmother. You decided that – convinced Alexia to choose her best friend over her younger sister, told your wife that there’d be another for Alba to corrupt. “Mapi, I love her. I don’t know what to do.” 

“She loves her wife.” The next sentence proceeds to brutally remind Jenni who that isn’t. “Tell her you’re done. Find someone else. Anyone but her.” 

That is Jenni’s resolve, because she knows that Mapi is right. 

… 

June, July, and August pass with bliss. 

Everyone says that you are a beautiful couple with beautiful children. Alexia beams with pride as she flaunts her practised English, and gladly claims ownership of Nico when he wins a prize on speech day. Every child in Reception is awarded something but that doesn’t stop her from boasting.

She explores the country with the children while you shack up in the recording studio, and brings hugs and kisses (and Red Bull) every evening after dinner. The visits are what reminds you of the sun Alexia brings, especially as the warmth follows her from Barcelona and London is blessed with golden days. Dog days. 

“This isn’t permanent.” Alexia looks up from her phone, comfortable in your bed. The house in Highgate has flecks of Spain woven into the decor now, and you like it that way. 

You climb into the bed beside her, and her arm lifts so that you can snuggle into her chiselled stomach (wow, she has been working hard this season). “What’s Jenni saying?” you ask, following your statement and hoping you’ll get her attention. She presses her phone screen into the duvet before you can translate the message – it is too long of a paragraph for you to handle. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that this isn’t permanent.” 

Alexia, over the past few months, has been the most affectionate, loving, amazing person with the same smile and giggle you married. You thought she had disappeared and was replaced with stern, career-focused Alexia Putellas, jugadora del fútbol. You were wrong. 

“I’m thinking January is when we’ll come back. Nico’s English will survive.” Your parents are going travelling. They’ve never been on the Orient Express before. “I want to be with you.” 

It is a good thing Jenni has just broken up with her. 

“I love you,” you continue. “So much.” 

Alexia hums. Her heart breaks, and she does not know for whom. “¿En serio?” She is happy, she thinks. Certainly, she is glad that the four of you will be reunited. 

 You are. 

January 2022 ruins things for Jenni Hermoso. She calls Pachuca back. 

[soleilnewspaper]

Broken promises

Series masterlist

Summary: Regulus reminds you of a promise you made to him in childhood and how you have broken it. You return from a weekend trip to find Remus in the hospital wing. Sirius knows he can’t hide Remus’s condition for you any longer.

Pairing: platonic Regulus x fem!reader, poly!wolfstar x fem!reader

Warnings: Angst, fighting with friends, feeling inadequate, cliffhanger, talks of blood and bruises (from the full moon)

Word count: 1.9k

AN: I’m terribly ill and doc ordered me to say in bed, so sleep and write is all I have done today lol. Sorry it’s a little short. Thank you for your time :)

December 24th, 1970

Number 12 Grimmauld Place, North West of London, hidden from the eyes of muggles. The Black family took pride in the fact that they were hosting the Yule Eve dinner party. They were Pureblood royalty after all.

The house was decorated in festive decorations for the upcoming Yule celebrations custom of the sacred 28 society. The food alone could surely feed an entire orphanage.

A young Regulus, at a mere nine years old yet dressed far better than most adults. The scratchy material of his dress robes had been bothering him from the moment his mother had forced him into them. His black locs were combed back with magical gel to ensure he remained perfect for the night.

Clasped his small hand, you ran along with him. The frills from your pink dress made it difficult to much. It overwhelmed your body. You thought you looked like a large ball of cotton candy. Which your mother had scolded you for even thinking such a thing.

Trails of pristine white ribbons once worn in your hair now lay tossed on the freshly polished floors of the manor. Your house elf had been ordered by your mother to ‘tame’ your hair earlier that night. Hours of work had been in vain as your locs had bounced back only moments ago. Sliver jewerly adorned your neck sparkling in the candle lit hallway.

Kreacher had turned a blind eye to your ‘escape’ from the dinner. Neither of your mothers had noticed your absence yet. Something which both Regulus and you were beyond grateful for. Merlin knows what your punishment would be for daring to participate in such childish behaviour. For, being a pureblood meant you never were a child. You were simply an investment.

Regulus was the spare, the second choice, a precautionary measure that his parents had taken should Sirius prove to not be eligible. You, on the other hand, were born a girl. Which meant you were to be married off the moment you were of legal age. Although you had heard the stories of girls who had been forced to marry long before that. Your potential husband would be most likely related to you in some way.

Your mother would often gossip about how the Black Family ‘kept things in the family’ in reference to how cousins married each other frequently. However, truth be told, all pureblood were related in some way or other. Pureblood had been facing excitation for centuries. In order to keep their lines ‘pure’ they needed to dip their toes into the pool of incest. The sacred 28 all crossed over if you were to look close enough. Which is why you thought your mother to be a hypocrite.

Regulus pulled you into a nock in the attic. Whilst you were still in a fit of giggles.

“My lady.” Regulus pretended to bow, taking an old feathered hat on and then off his head.

“Why thank you, kind sir.” You responded through a set of giggles. Giving him a curtse in return, just as your mother had taught you.

Regulus took your hand and guided you to sit down with him on the floor, placing his suit jacket down to avoid you getting your dress dirty. You picked up the ends of your dress to try make it easier on you to sit down. A proof sound was heard the second you touched the floor. As you quite literally fell on your ass from the sheer size of the dress. Your mother was a beautiful woman but her style was eccentric to say the least. She had dressed your sister and brother in a similar fashion, both of who were being good children and still in the dining hall.

“Will you consider promising me something, Y/N?” The boy’s language was far better than most adults you knew. Pureblood society doing of course. You were both already fluent in Latin and Greek while Regulus knew French as well. It being his family’s main language after all.

“Whatever do you mean, Reggie?” You asked in the same tone. Frowning your small brows in confusion.

“Would it be to much to ask, if you could promise to be mine forever.” His statement confused you at first causing him to explain further. “We both know our mothers will marry us off one of these days, but please choose me, your friend first.”

“As long as you promise to choose me always and forever.” You smiled back at him.

“Best friends before lovers?” Regulus asked you unsure of himself.

“I would rather have live a life with no love, than live one without you as my friend.” You took ahold of his hand gently.

“I do not wish to condemn you to a love of loneliness, Y/N.” He dropped his hand from yours, fearing he was asking you too much with your friendship.

“Reggie, with you by my side, I could never be lonely.” That had earned you a smile from him, a one larger than you had ever seen before.

Present time

Regulus Arcturus Black would never be your lover. No, your bond proceeded that of romantic expectations. Your bond would always be platonic, but it would be the deepest bond you would ever have. For your souls wore bind together in no way a lover could understand. Even if it was a childish desire to ask for your loyalty forever. To chose him over everyone else in the world. You knew, that in truth, there was only one person he had asked you to never choose over him. His brother. Which is exactly what you had done. The one thing he had begged of you all those years ago, you had done without hesitation. Breaking his trust doesn’t even cover the cost your newfound relationship had taken to your oldest one.

He was not angry nor was he upset with you. Regulus felt hurt, betrayed even. In all his life, he had lived with the expectation that he would always be second best. Only this past summer had his parents began to pay attention to him after Sirius had left home. Officially disowning their eldest, made Regulus their heir. He was only valued once Sirius was gone. For once in his life, people had began to look at him instead. It had been a long time coming, since the moment Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor. The light slowly began to shift to the younger brother. Yet, never completely, not until now. Within the span of a few weeks he had become the star of the family. A fact which had only served to make him bitter because he knew the care of his family was conditional. For they had hardly offered him a look before he was proved to be their last hope of salvation.

The worse part was Sirius believed Regulus was the first choice. When in fact he had never been someone’s first choice in anything. That is excluding you. Regulus had always been your first choice. It was something which he had come to held dearly in the span of his fifteen years of life.

Despite being a few months younger than Sirius, and almost a whole year older than Regulus. You had chosen to be his friend. As children, your mother urged you to make connection with Sirius, but you never did. Regulus was who you chose to spend your time with. Up until Hogwarts neither one of you had any real friends besides each other. Barty did not run in the same circles as the two of you before Hogwarts. The rosier twins didn’t form a friendship with you until Regulus’s first year at Hogwarts which had been their first too.

He had only asked one thing of you, and you could not give him that. You now understood his anger. Yet you still felt defensive as you were in a vulnerable state.

“You do not get to held a childish promise over my head!” You yelled, your voice reaching across the common room.

“It is not about the promise, Y/N.” Regulus stated with lips pulled into a thin unreadable expression.

“Then what is it about, Regulus?” Anger severed through your throat as you spoke.

“Rage does not consume me for the mere fact of your entanglement in a romantic relationship. As one of your closest friends, I comprehend that it is beyond my jurisdiction to dictate the auspices under which you choose to allocate your precious hours. Yet, I implored solely that you not date my own brother.” Regulus paced around the room, his hand running through hair multiple times before he turned to face you directly.

“For it is your preference that leans towards him, and no longer me. He is accustomed to being selected first and foremost in all things. I am not. Barty, Evan, Pandora and you were mine; untill you chose me over me. The one thing you promised, swore, you would never do.” Regulus voice no longer held anger, it was filled with hurt. He pointed a a finger towards your chest to further his point. Breathless as he spoke.

“Reg…” You moved towards him but he flinched away from your touch. “My relationship with him does not change the friendship I have with you.”

“Liar.”

“You say that, yet you continue to be with him. To chose him.” Regulus walked away from you but you followed without hesitation.

“You are being over dramatic.”

“Am I, so am I to just discard the only person who truly understands me. In order to allow you to satisfy your desires.” Regulus used the boot of his shoe to kick the table lightly.

“You do not mean that.” Tears were beginning to form in your eyes.

“What other choice have you given me?” Regulus breathed out barely forming words.

“I never intended to lose you, Reg.”

“Oh, well then everything is sorted. Is it not. Far be it that I have feelings and reactions to your actions.”

“Please, stop, I beg of you.” Your voice was pleading with him now.

“Would you do one decency?”

“Anything.”

“Tell me why did it have to be him.” You heard the crack in his voice as he spoke. Arms at his side and legs planted on the floor.

You squeezed your eyes shut at his question. Knowing whatever your answer would only serve to hurt him further.

“I fell for him. I tried not to. Believe me I did, but I cannot ignore my feelings anymore. Please forgive me.”

“Forgiveness does not come easy, Y/N.” Regulus eyes roared with anger, but you knew there still lay hurt behind them. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

“Does that mean…” The steps you took towards him were careful and precise to not spook him with your actions.

“I would could never live without your friendship. It pains me so, but I know I have to forgive you, but do not ask me to forgive him.”

Tears pooled in your eyes as the words left his cold lips. Before another moment could pass, you wrapped your arms around his torso. To your surprise he accepted your affection. He had never been one to allow affectionate gestures, it simply was not his way of expressing himself. Yet, in the rare moments when he allowed himself to let another in, his warmth would be unlimited.

“Can I assume I have my best friend back?” Your voice was muffled by Regulus’ green Qudditch jersey.

He pulled away from the hug but kept physical contact with you by placing both of his hands on your sides.

“You never lost me.”

Sounds of students began to fill the common room as they returned from the pitch and great hall. Undoubtedly complaining and/or talking about the lack of victory Slytherin had acquired in today’s events.

“One last thing, Y/N.” Regulus spoke in a hushed tone to avoid being interrupted or ease dropped on.

“Anything.”

“If my brother hurts you, there’s not a place in the world he’d be able to hide from me. Blood may be thicker than water, but my loyalty for you will always outweigh my loyalty for him. Never doubt that for a moment.”

“I appreciate it, but that’s not necessarily-“

“Believe me when I say, negotiation is not an option here. You will lose this argument.” Regulus’s dark eyes were completely serious and his face showed no signs of amusement.

“Is your plan to treat me like a child of divorce?”

“Mmm, we’ll work on the arrangements later.” Regulus smiled at you, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You know you will always be my best friend, right?” You asked taking his hand in yours.

“Don’t tell Barty that, he might kill me.” Regulus leaned into you.

“Well we would’t want that, now would we.”

The life of a pureblood had taught you many things. None of which had seamed to prove helpful in any way shape or form for your current situation.

While you might have seamed to patch things up with Regulus for the most part. Although you still were treading in dangerous waters. At least you could sleep soundly knowing he was willing to come around to the idea. In time, of course.

Yet, you still faced another dilemma; your relationship. Secrets were being kept from you, that was obvious enough, but what the secret was remained a mystery to you.

It didn’t help that Sirius and Remus seamed to have no intention of letting you in on it anytime soon. Taking into consideration how much history the two had, you continued to feel out of place in your own relationship, and feared for how much long you could take it.

For the past three days, you had to be condemned to visiting your oh so loving family. Torture did not even begin to cover it. Though you knew there were pureblood children in worst situations. The Blacks were a prime example. Leading you to appreciate your dysfunctional family because at least they had never used an unforgivable curse on you. To say the bar was low would be an understatement.

So as you walked through the castle walls having returned from your trip. Your mind began to wonder. However, your moment of peace was short lived as you passed the Hospital Wing.

You couldn’t see much but you could see Sirius who was walking towards the door. Through a series of lies, excuses and distractions, the boys had managed to occlude you from Remus’s condition. Yet, your weekend away just so happened to be a full moon. A particularly horrific one in fact. No chance were they going to be able to hide it from you now.

Sirius’s sliver eyes were accompanied by purple eye bags from staying up all night with Remus. Hair fell in disarray and tangles were visible in his usual elegant locs. He appeared gaunt, almost as if the life had been drained out of him.

Upon seeing you, a serge of panic ripped through his entire being.

“Oh Salvar.” You rushed towards him in panic searching his face for signs of injury. It only worked to make him feel more guilty than he already was.

“S’m nothin’.” Tiredness and worry were evident in his voice.

“Sirius, do not take me for a fool.”

“I’m not, honestly, just-“ Whilst barely finding the energy to form words, you interrupted him with rage already approaching.

“What’ll be this time, huh?” Hands fell from his face leaving a cold chill. You crossed your arms in front of your chest, you were beyond rage, you were done.

“It’s not like that, baby.” His voice begged for sympathy but you refused to show the effort he had on you.

“Where’s Remus?”

Sirius’s eyes widen at the thought of you seeing Remus in his current state. You stepped forward to enter the hospital wing causing him to plant himself in front of you. Using his height to block your view. Your flight or fight activated. Making use of the large space of the room you tricked him by making him believe you were headed one way and then pushed past him in the other.

As soon as you had escaped his gasp, Sirius ran after you in panic. However, with our tired he was, he didn’t have the strength to carry through.

Remus lay curled up on the hospital bed. Bandages surrounded his body in multiple places. Most seamed clean but others had large red stains from blood. Bruises and cuts decorated his body like Christmas lights. The beautiful brown eyes that you had come to cherish so dearly had taken on a dull hue. With dark circles surround them and bloodshot eyes. His hair stuck up in all different directions filled with dirt and a sneer of blood.

A whine escaped the thin werewolf when he turned on his side to see who had entered. His eyes struggled to focus for a few moments to depict your figure, but when he did, he swore he felt just like he did before people knew about his secret. Ashamed, scared, horrified all mixed into self loathing.

“Remus?” You managed to choke out through the tears that had began to form in your eyes upon seeing him.

“Hey, dovie.”

Taglist: @maraudersforlife2005 @xlxnq

[chic-a-gigot]

The Delineator, no. 4, Vol. XLVIII. Autumn Number. October 1896. Published by the Butterick Publishing Co. London & New York. Colored Plate 20. Figure D43. Evening Toilette. Internet Archive, uploaded by Albert R. Mann Library

Figure D 43. — LADIES’ EVENING TOILETTE.

Figure D 43. — This consists of a Ladies’ basque-waist and skirt. The basque-waist pattern, which is No. 8637 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and may be seen again on page 442 of this magazine. The skirt pattern, which is No. 8672 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in nine sizes for ladies from twenty to thirty-six inches, waist measure, and is differently portrayed on page 447 of this publication.

The ideas expressed in this toilette are calculated to suit the most fastidious taste. Rich faille silk with high lustre and having small black figures on its sulphur ground is handsomely offset by the decoration of chiffon, embroidery and ribbon. A well-fitted lining closed at the center of the front insures a becoming adjustment to the waist, which has a low, round neck and a full front closed along the left shoulder and under-arm seam. The fulness in the back is drawn well to the center in the same manner as in the front by gathers at the neck and shoulder edges and by shirrings at the bottom. The short puff sleeves are made with full linings, gathered, like the puffs, at the top and bottom. A coquettish effect is given by a dainty bow of ribbon on each shoulder, and a softly wrinkled ribbon surrounds the waist. The low neck is decorated with a double ruche of white chiffon.

The five-gored skirt is smooth fitting at the front and sides and may be gathered or plaited at the back. At the sides it ripples but slightly and at the front it flares broadly. The foot trimming consists of a soft, double ruche of white chiffon. Hand-wrought embroidery in black runs upward from the bottom in vine pattern, each spray starting from under a ribbon bow at the ruche.

The toilette is noteworthy not alone for its admirable grace and style but for the practical features embodied in the basque-waist and its susceptibility to variations. A high or low neck and full-length or elbow sleeves may be arranged, and elaborate or simple effects may be attained, according to the use for which the toilette is intended. Faille façonné, moire antique façonné, velvet and the light silks and delicate chiffons and laces which are always more or less fancied, will be chosen for dressy wear, and for more practical occasions mixtures of color, canvas textiles and mixtures of wool and mohair and other novelties will be selected. Lace, colored embroidery, jet passementerie and bands of jet-embroidered mousseline de sole are available for handsome decorations.

[forest-falcon]

The Butterfly Effect

Chpr 11

🐦‍🔥🚒 💚👓👨‍🏫

"Keep her steady," Casey instructed on the approach to Tracy Island.

"Time to suit up."

Jonesy was all too-ready to strap into the exosuit.

Virgil and Brains had taken his measurements - so many measurements, to the point where it had become a borderline annoyance. That was, until the final suit had been unveiled. It wore like a glove - a state-of-the-art glove worth more than his entire flat. And oh...OH had it been fun to use in training.

Tam was strapping into her jet pack - the only one of them who had shown promise at mastering the bat-shit crazy device during training. Jonesy had given his own reenactment of Neville Longbottom flying a broom. The jetpack initially fired too much, and then, too little; dropping him a small height onto his rear.

"Just a tad more sensitive than the firetruck then?"

He gave an impish grin and rubbed his bruised backside.

Mac had passed on the chance to use the confounded contraption after that; but Tam, never one to shy from a challenge, had donned the pack, only to make it look easy.

"This is so much fun!"

"Looks it! I worked out all the bugs for you on my go!"

Jonesy smiled at the memory.

Her joy had been contagious, and it had been nice to see her elated smile mirrored on the Tracy brothers faces as they watched.

He'd only really met Virgil beforehand. It was at the Crystal Spire in London when brainiac, Yost, managed to set his own building alight.

Virgil had saved all their asses, several times, that callout.

"Say, Virgil? What was that badass Ironman suit you used to lift those rocks off Mac, in London?"

"You mean the exosuit?"

"Sure. Erm...do we get to try out one of those in our training?"

"I mean, I don't have anything against you learning how to use it-"

"I'm sensing a but..."

"But... it's made to my measurements, and I'm somewhat larger than yourself."

"Alright show-off," he'd grinned.

"I better get squeezing me some extra gym sessions in!"

"No objections here!" Mac winked.

"Oi, I'm gorgeous as is! Have to give the other guys a chance, is all."

*. *. *.

Jonesy had thought that would be the end of it.

Brains, the Island's resident engineer, inventor and down-right genius, had decided to upgrade their London fire uniforms. Their design was kept the same, as to not give cause for others in the firehouse to ask questions. Everyone in Phoenix had their measurements taken, so it had come as a complete surprise when his very own exosuit was unveiled.

He hadn't ever expected the need to wear it for real - well, a real life rescue.

Jonesy looked around the cabin; studious, contemplative, worried.

Tycho; typing God-knows what on his Tony Stark-esque device. Col. Casey and Captain McCready, busy analyzing a holoprojection of the island.

He leant towards to his best friend; Tam. Her worry was obvious. Perhaps not to everybody, but he knew her. He knew how much she had connected with the Tracy family during her training; their backstory not too dissimilar to her own. Not so much the rockets, and fantasy island; but growing up with only one parent, only to lose the other much too early in life.

He leant over and took Tam's hand.

"Hey. They'll be okay."

He gave her fingers a squeeze.

"How can you know?"

"Because I. am. Iron. Man!"

Jonesy whispered emphatically, flexing the suit with a small hydraulic whine.

Tam shoved him with a smile.

Mac rolled his eyes.

McCready glared at him through the holoprojection of Tracy Island.

[cartanacia]

White Tie Was Invented for Lesbians

it's 3 AM and my brain is liquefying from sleep deprivation and i'm going completely insane.

white tie is a dress code. it consists of a knee-length tailcoat with satin- or grosgrain-faced peak lapels, a stiff wing collar shirt, a low white waistcoat, adidas pants, and a white bow tie made of paper towels. in western dress codes, it's considered formal (technically, black tie is only considered semi-formal). it gained popularity in the early 20th century as an alternative to the frock coat. now it's not popular. in fact, it's dead. except for nobel laureates, debutantes, and unhinged dykes.

in 2019 i watched euphoria. i watched the halloween episode. rue was wearing an interesting costume. i wondered what it was supposed to be.

later, i played a game called fallen london. i finally accumulated enough echoes to buy some decent clothing. between a faded morning coat and a dignified tailcoat, i picked the tailcoat. it gave me +5 persuasion and +1 respectability. i wondered what a tailcoat was and looked it up.

a few months later, i bought a tailcoat. it was slightly moth-eaten and had been hanging in a closet for nearly a hundred years. i liked how the tails billowed when i walked. it hung three inches past my shoulders on both sides. the tails nearly reached down to the floor. i loved it.

that was the very first piece of men's clothing i ever bought, at least within this period that's become one of my main hobbies. now i'm a few days away from receiving a made-to-measure three-piece suit, i have a collection of two dozen bow ties and long ties, and i have 6 made-to-measure dress shirts. i wear a navy blazer at work and dress up for my girlfriend.

soon, i will have my white tie ensemble, too. i'm going to wear it for my wedding.

this is only the beginning, though. i think there's something fundamentally lesbian about white tie in its current state. the men have abandoned it. the men have strayed from the path. white tie is ripe for lesbian conquest. we will claim the no man's land and resurrect it. i forsee that it will be a place of flourishing for drag kings and crossdressing butch nerds.

in conclusion, i'm a marlene dietrich cultist.

i still have to watch morocco.

[room-ten]

Experience the Magic of Made to Measure Suits in London

Step into the world of bespoke tailoring and experience the magic of made to measure suits in London. With a rich history of tailoring, London is home to some of the finest tailors in the world. These skilled artisans create custom-made suits that are tailored to your exact specifications, ensuring a perfect fit and unparalleled style. Whether you're looking for a classic, timeless design or a modern, contemporary look, London's tailors have got you covered. Indulge in the luxury of a bespoke suit and elevate your style game with made to measure suits in London.

[dooleyrostron]

Stylish Summer Wedding Suits and Bespoke Shirts: Elevate Your Style with Dooley & Rostron

Introduction:

Are you looking for the best summer wedding dress that emanates style and personality? Look no other than Dooley & Rostron, the esteemed London-based tailors specialising in handmade and made-to-measure suits. With their exquisite craftsmanship and attention to detail, Dooley & Rostron offers the best collection of summer wedding suits and bespoke shirts in UK. Discover how their exceptional designs can elevate your style and make a lasting impression on your special day

Embrace the Season: Summer Wedding Suits

When it comes to summer weddings, comfort and style go hand in hand. Dooley & Rostron understands the importance of lightweight and breathable fabrics to keep you cool throughout the festivities. Their range of summer wedding suits combines contemporary cuts with fine materials, ensuring you look sophisticated while enjoying the warmer temperatures.

Whether you prefer a classic three-piece suit or a more relaxed look with separates, Dooley & Rostron offers a variety of options to suit your personal style. From linen and lightweight wool to cotton blends, their expertly crafted suits provide both comfort and refinement, making them ideal for outdoor and destination weddings.

Bespoke Shirts: Tailored Perfection

No dress is complete without a well-fitting shirt, Dooley & Rostron's bespoke shirts in UK are second to none. Custom-made to your measurements and choice, these shirts show the summary of personalised luxury. With a wide range of fabrics, patterns, and collar styles, you can create a shirt that perfectly complements your suit and reflects you perfectly.

The skilled designers at Dooley & Rostron pay extra attention to every detail, from the best fit to the hand-stitched finishing touches. Whether you desire a crisp white shirt or a more daring pattern, their bespoke shirts will increase your ensemble and leave you confident and stylish.

Handmade Suits in London: Timeless Craftsmanship

Dooley & Rostron takes pride in their commitment to new tailoring techniques. Each suit is specially handmade by their skilled designers, who bring years of experience and a deep understanding of the craft. The result is a suit that is not only impeccably tailored but also exudes a timeless charm that sets it apart from mass-produced alternatives.

By opting for a handmade suit in london from Dooley & Rostron, you not only invest in a garment of exceptional quality but also support the continuation of age-old tailoring traditions. Experience the difference that skilled craftsmanship makes, as your suit becomes a reflection of your refined taste and the artistry that goes into its creation.

Made-to-Measure Suits: Your Style, Perfected

Dooley & Rostron made-to-measure suits offer the best balance between convenience and customization. With precise measurements and an extensive range of fabrics and styles, their tailors create a suit that fits your body shape and style preferences easily. Whether you are looking for a slim-fitting or a more relaxed cut, their made-to-measure service ensures your suit is tailored to your exact specifications.

Investing in a made-to-measure suit allows you to enjoy the benefits of bespoke tailoring without lengthy wait times. With Dooley & Rostron, you can experience the luxury of a suit made exclusively for you, delivering unmatched comfort and confidence on your wedding day.

Conclusion:

For a perfect summer wedding outfit, Dooley & Rostron is an ideal destination. From their stylish summer wedding suits to their bespoke shirts, handmade suits, and made-to-measure suits in London, they ensure the utmost quality and attention to every detail through their each & every product.

For original: bit.ly/3px2eN0

[bxbridal88]

We at B x bridal have master designers and expert tailors who focus on crafting dresses that are tailored to excellence. Our unique range of Custom Made Bridesmaids Dress London is plays our tailoring quality. Made to Measure Bridesmaids Dresses offer a personalized and excellent option for brides who want their wedding celebration to look and feel like a dream comes true.

[carolineandrew1]

The Best Made-to-Measure Suits in London: Discover Caroline Andrew

Looking for the best made-to-measure suits in London? Discover the top options for men’s tailored suits and women’s suits with Caroline Andrew. This article will cover everything from the unique features of Caroline Andrew’s designs to frequently asked questions, providing you with all the information you need to make an informed decision about your next custom suit. Let’s dive in! Why Choose a…

[whileiamdying]

Marina Abramovic Relents and Adapts a Provocative Piece for Today

1970s has been altered to suit contemporary mores. “Really, the smart thing to do is compromise,” the artist said.

For a presentation of Marina Abramovic’s 1977 work “Imponderabilia” at the Royal Academy in London, an alternative doorway is provided if visitors do not wish to pass close by two naked performers.Credit...David Parry/Royal Academy of Arts, London

By Alex Marshall Reporting from London Sept. 25, 2023

In June 1977, visitors to the Gallery of Modern Art in Bologna, Italy, were met with a shocking sight: Marina Abramovic, the Serbian performance artist, and her partner, Ulay, standing in the museum’s doorway, completely naked.

The only way inside was to squeeze between the couple.

Abramovic and Ulay remained in place for three hours, staring intently into each other’s eyes, as a stream of visitors pushed through and sometimes stepped on their toes. Then, the police arrived, and shut down the performance as obscene.

This fall, Abramovic, now 76, is restaging that work, “Imponderabilia,” at the Royal Academy of Arts, in London, as part of a major retrospective of her work that runs through Jan. 1, 2024. Since Abramovic no longer performs the work herself, and Ulay died in 2020, she has recruited younger performers to take part — and there is another major difference from the 1977 piece.

If a visitor would rather not squeeze past a naked man and woman in a three-foot-wide doorway, they can walk through another entryway to the left, and skip the experience entirely.

In an age when museums are grappling with how to show audiences challenging work, and adopting measures to protect artists and staff, Abramovic is also adapting her old works to suit contemporary mores.

On a recent morning, most visitors chose that nonconfrontational route, until Sarah Raper, 59, gave her coat to her husband and announced: “I’m going to do it!” Raper then briskly pushed past the naked man and woman, facing the female performer.

“That was quite unsettling,” Raper said afterward; it felt like “a real invasion of personal space.”

Jason Speechly, 60, stood watching the two naked performers curiously for several minutes but then opted for the other door. “I just got sheepish and followed the rest of the crowd,” he said.

In an interview, Abramovic said she’d had “millions of meetings” with the Royal Academy’s staff to ensure “Imponderabilia” and three other provocative performances could be included in the retrospective — and she was now conflicted about the compromises that she had made.

If “all of these restrictions we are facing now” had been in place in the 1970s, she said, 80 percent of her works would never have been performed. On the other hand, Abramovic said, artists should not “live in a prison of your own promises” and refuse to change with the times. By making concessions, a new generation was witnessing her art, she said. If she’d complained about the new doorway for “Imponderabilia,” the performance would only exist as “a stupid gray photo in a book” that no one would ever see.

“Really, the smart thing to do is compromise,” she said.

Abramovic has done this with “Imponderabilia” before: In 2010, for “The Artist is Present,” a career survey at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, Abramovic said that MoMA asked for the performers to stand far enough apart so that a wheelchair user could pass between them. “I felt the piece really suffered for that,” she said.

MoMA’s lawyers also asked for significant changes to “Luminosity,” a 1997 endurance feat in which Abramovic sat naked on a bicycle seat mounted high on a gallery wall for six hours while holding her arms and legs outstretched. The MoMA presentation used other performers, and the day before the opening, Abramovic said, the museum’s lawyers insisted that they needed to wear a helmet and safety belt.

“I said, ‘This is ridiculous!’” Abramovic recalled. “‘It’ll become a ridiculous work.’” She said she ended up signing documents that made her personally liable for $1 million in case of any accidents, and the piece went ahead as planned.

Brittany Bailey performing “Luminosity,” a 1997 work by Abramovic, in the Royal Academy show.Credit...Joshua Bright for The New York Times

MoMA did not respond to a request for comment. Klaus Biesenbach, a former MoMA chief curator at large, who organized the 2010 show, said in an email that he couldn’t remember “details and anecdotes” as well as Abramovic can, but added that “it was a miracle” that the exhibition took place.

Biesenbach is now the director of the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin, where he recently saw another example of how attitudes to performance art have changed over time, he said. Earlier this month, the museum restaged Yoko Ono’s “Cut Piece,” a 1964 work in which audience members are invited to snip away a performer’s clothes with scissors. The audience behavior today was very different from the 1960s, he said, with visitors aware that there was a “‘right’ or correct” way to act, and conscious that hundreds of cellphone cameras were trained upon them.

Andrea Tarsia, the Royal Academy’s director of exhibitions, said that most of the changes for the Abramovic show were small and made for the performers’ safety and comfort. With “Imponderabilia,” for instance, the doorway was heated so that the naked man and woman, who stand there for up to an hour at a time, don’t catch a chill.

Nearby security guards also keep an eye on visitor behavior, Tarsia said, and at the end of each day, the performers gather for a “detox” session to discuss any uncomfortable moments that occurred. All performers would have access to therapists, Tarsia added.

The doorway at the Royal Academy is heated so that the performers in “Imponderabilia,” who stand there for up to an hour at a time, don’t catch a chill. Credit... David Parry/Royal Academy of Arts, London

And even if visitors avoid squeezing past the naked bodies, Tarsia said, the work would get them thinking. “In art, when something riles you, that’s often where the interesting bit is,” Tarsia said. “Maybe if people choose not to go through the door, they’ll later reflect on why they made that choice,” he added.

Abramovic, who recently survived a life-threatening embolism and spent time in a coma, said that she did not mind if only a handful of visitors experienced “Imponderabilia” as she originally intended it. Artists, she said, committed to their performances no matter what happened during them.

“If there’s an earthquake, if electricity stops, if somebody walks into you, it’s all part of the work,” she said. “And if nobody passes, that’s still part of the work.”

Alex Marshall is a European culture reporter, based in London. More about Alex Marshall