#Made To Measure Suits London | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reidsworld · 8 months ago

Text

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?

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett angst #wolverine #wolverine x reader #hugh jackman #x men #deadpool and wolverine #fanfiction #angst #reidsworld

317 notes · View notes

soleilnewspaper · 11 months ago

Text

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

237 notes · View notes

chic-a-gigot · 7 months ago

Text

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.

#Delineator #19th century #1890s #1896 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #color #description #internet archive #Albert R. Mann Library #dress #evening #gigot #october color plates #one color plates

112 notes · View notes

lisbeth-kk · 4 months ago

Text

Sherlock fandom

It is in the Details

He had always been meticulous, even as a child. It was his brother who taught him to observe and to keep an eye out for tiny details.

“The more subtle, the more elegant people will find you. Whether it is your attire or your movements. That way, they will not question your ulterior motives,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock considered this, and when Mycroft bought him the Belstaff and had added the red buttonhole, he understood. It added an eye-catching sophistication to the garment. The fact that it was one of a kind, made it even more special.

Before he attended his first official crime scene, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, used a fair amount of his inheritance on expensive hair products, had a bespoke cologne made, purchased Italian leather shoes, and spent an agonising hour at one of Savile Row’s tailors to have his measurements taken.

“Only blue and black suits. A dozen white shirts. Two of the aubergine ones over there. Two of that shade of blue. No ties.”

The tailor didn’t even bat an eyelid when Sherlock made his order and insisted that everything should be tightly fitted.

“I need to breathe, but that’s about it.”

“Of course,” the tailor replied.

***

“Who are you, and what have you done with that high as a kite kid who turned up and solved a crime for me last year?” Greg Lestrade asked when Sherlock strode towards him.

“Gone. I’m clean as of last month. Just what you commanded, detective inspector,” Sherlock drawled. “Now, where are the bodies?”

Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson weren’t as easily dazzled by his newly invented persona, but Sherlock saw them as irrelevant, so he didn't care about being offended by their snarky comments.

***

“Just look at you,” Mrs Hudson cooed when Sherlock knocked on her door.

Her favourite colour is still purple. Recently been to the hairdresser. Didn’t get that cat after all.

“Hello, Mrs Hudson. Lovely to see you again. Are you still renting out the upstairs flat?”

“I take it you are interested,” the elderly woman said and winked. “Don’t you think it’s a bit big for just you. A flatmate would be nice. What do you say?”

“Who would tolerate living with me?” Sherlock answered with a grimace.

“Oh, come now, Sherlock. Deep down you’re as fluffy as a plushie,” she stated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went upstairs to take a proper look at 221B.

It was cluttered, but the atmosphere was cosy, even though it hadn’t been inhabited for several months.

It feels like a proper home, but do I want to share it with another man? I’ve never lived with other people than my family before. None of my peers tolerated me for more than a few minutes at a time. I find it hard to believe that somewhere out in the London streets, a man walks around willing to share this flat with a pompous and infuriating git as myself. It would be nothing short of a miracle if that was the case.

***

“Sherlock, meet an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike called out when he walked into the lab.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the fair-haired man. To Sherlock’s astonishment this John Watson offered to let him borrow his phone when Sherlock asked Mike for his, even though he knew it was safely tucked into his coat pocket.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The awe in the man’s eyes, made Sherlock look away quickly to hide his own confusion. No one had ever gazed at him like that.

“Who said anything about a flatmate?” John asked when he’d gathered himself after Sherlock’s rapid deductions about his career, family, and wound.

“Mike did,” Sherlock explained and put on his coat and scarf with deliberate movements.

Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at my hands and neck, John Watson.

***

“Will you be needing the upstairs bedroom?” Mrs Hudson asked when she followed him and John into 221B the next day.

John blushed but didn’t answer, which was quite promising.

“We’ll let you know,” Sherlock mumbled.

“We have all sort around here,” she assured them before she went down to her own flat.

John placed his cane by the red chair and wandered around to look at all the eccentricities the flat had to offer. The more he walked around, the less he limped, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction.

“Yes, I think this will do just fine,” John said and made himself comfortable in the upholstery chair.

***

“How did you get glitter in your hair?” John asked two days before Christmas later that year.

“I went to Liberty’s to buy some decorations for our tree,” Sherlock said.

“What happened to the Grinch I moved in with in February?”

“He fell in love with an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp,” Sherlock quipped.

“Did he, now,” John murmured and circled his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock hummed and bent down to kiss John softly.

“Noticed anything else?” he asked innocently and a bit breathless when they parted.

“I did actually. You’ve been to your tailor,” John said with a broad smile.

“Tell me,” Sherlock purred and sucked John’s bottom lip into his mouth.

“Just spotted some small things. Your shirt isn’t tucked into your trousers in its usually way, one button is only half buttoned, and your left trouser leg has a – “

Sherlock interrupted John’s deductions with a passionate kiss. He looked down into the blue eyes and it felt like he was drowning in a sea of adoration.

“You are a marvel, John Watson,” he whispered.

“Just paying attention to the details that are out of order,” John shrugged, a bit embarrassed by such praise.

“A shame you only catch such details when it comes to me and not at crime scenes.”

John slapped Sherlock’s arse, called him a brat, and went to make tea, while Sherlock decorated the tree.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @helloliriels

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @jolieblack

@221beloved @ninasnakie @shy-bi-letsfuckingdie @7-percent @lhrinchelsea

@peanitbear @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @meandhisjohn @a-victorian-girl

@missdeliadilisblog @salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch

@acumberlockedgirl @willamholmeswatson @whatnext2020 @mydogwatson @redmondcollege

@thegildedbee @ilovegayangels @elizabethhood @xmengal03 @riversong912

@givemesherbet-blog-blog @couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson

@binx72 @macgyvershe @raina-at @dragoonthegreatest

(Tell me if you want to be tagged or removed from the list)

#flash fiction friday #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #bbc sherlock #johnlock #sherlock fanfic #FFF284 #noticing small things #thanks for reblogging!

67 notes · View notes

theesirenteller · 1 month ago

Text

𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖗

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴇɴ : ᴀғғʟɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ | masterlist

LONDON. A place where Epiphany had grown to love. She visited the city nearly twenty times or more between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. Always to visit him. Viviann Sai, a trust fund kid from royals. He has a commanding presence, with sharp, angular features that exude intensity and confidence. His deep-set, expressive hazel eyes carry a mixture of intrigue and danger, framed by thick brows that accentuate his piercing gaze. His strong jawline is complemented by a neatly trimmed beard, adding a rugged yet refined touch to his appearance.

His sun-kissed complexion suggests time spent outdoors, while his dark, slightly wavy hair is combed back, revealing a widow’s peak that gives him an air of mystery. His broad shoulders and well-fitted suit hint at a powerful physique, with the crimson shirt beneath adding a dash of boldness to his otherwise classic style.

He had been thirty-one when they’d met. And she had been thirteen. Now, she is twenty-one and he forty, they’d been reunited once again. Their arrangement had been taboo but Epiphany’s whole life had been taboo since she could walk.

He sat on the edge of his bed before her in nothing but mulberry boxers and a tie wrapped around his left hand. His dark eyes drank in her figure as she twirled the straps of her bra along her shoulders in front of him. Her teasing manner made him smirk in amusement.

They’d recently settled into his apartment after a night and early morning of roaming the lounges and dancefloors of central London. Epiphany’s nose resembled roudolf the red nosed reindeer, she’d been filled with “snow” and endless dirty martinis. She couldn’t feel her limbs, her whole body felt numb to the touch.

Epiphany crawled to him as he tossed a trail of crystal clear diamonds along the floor. “Whip it out for me daddy.”Her voice slid through the air like a soft purr from a kitten.

Epiphany’s hands trembled as she reached for him, her body light as air, floating between reality and the haze of the night. The diamonds he’d scattered across the floor sparkled under the dim lighting, but she had eyes only for him. Her lips, glossed with the remnants of martinis, parted as she dragged herself closer, her breath warm against his thigh.

Viviann leaned against the edge of his bed, one hand gripping the belt still fastened around his waist. He tilted his head, watching her with a slow, knowing smirk. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice deep, indulgent. His fingers traced the stubble along his jaw as if considering her. “Crawling for me, desperate.”

She nodded, the motion sluggish, her pupils blown wide as she pressed her cheek to his knee, lips ghosting over the fabric of his slacks. “I need you,” she whispered, fingers curling over the hem of his pant leg. “Please.”

The plea made something dark flicker in his gaze. He reached down, cupping her chin, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to hold his stare. “Beg properly.”

Her breath hitched, the command shooting straight through her, tightening her core with an ache that made her thighs clench. He knew exactly what he was doing—dangling control just out of her reach, making her earn every inch of his attention.

Epiphany swallowed hard, letting her tongue peek out to wet her lips. “Please, Daddy. I’ve been good all night—”

He chuckled, low and rich. “Good?” His thumb traced her lower lip before slipping between, pressing down on her tongue. “You’ve been nothing but a greedy little mess. Do you even deserve it?”

She whimpered around his touch, nails digging into his calves as she shook her head. “No,” she admitted, her voice barely a breath. “But I want it. I want you.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, as if contemplating her worth. Then, with a swift motion, he released his belt, the sharp sound slicing through the thick tension in the room. The leather slipped through his fingers, pooling in his palm like a promise.

“Then let’s see how much you can take.”

As Viviann towered over her, his belt coiled loosely in his grip, Epiphany tilted her head back, letting her heavy-lidded eyes drink in the sight of him. He was all sharp angles and effortless control, his presence wrapping around her like a vice, forcing out every lingering thought, every haunting ghost. That was what she wanted—needed. To be consumed, devoured, dragged so deep into something primal that there was no room left for Rio.

Her ex’s name had been carved into the back of her mind for too long, lurking like a specter in the spaces between her ribs. Even now, in the charged air of Viviann’s bedroom, she could feel the remnants of him clinging to her—old scars, old whispers. The way he used to hold her after long nights of scheming and danger, the unspoken promise in his touch. The nights she had craved his presence, his rough hands, his weight pressing her into something solid, something real.

But Rio was gone. And she was here.

She needed to forget.

Epiphany exhaled, shaking her head as if she could physically expel the memories. She crawled forward again, her hands sliding up Viviann’s thighs, desperate to drown in something new, something commanding enough to override the ache lodged inside her chest. She wanted him to push her so far past herself that nothing else existed—not her past, not her regrets, not the way Rio’s voice sometimes echoed in the hollow spaces of her heart.

Viviann’s fingers curled into her hair, yanking her head back just enough to make her gasp. The sting grounded her, tethered her to the present. His smirk was wicked, knowing. “There you are,” he murmured. “You keep drifting. Who is it you’re trying so hard to forget?”

Her breath hitched. Had he read her that easily?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, voice trembling.

Viviann laughed, dark and indulgent, dragging the belt along her exposed collarbone. “Liar.” His knee nudged her thighs apart, his control suffocating in the most delicious way. “But I’ll give you something better to think about.”

And that was exactly what she wanted. To forget. To surrender. To let Saint obliterate every last memory of Rio with his hands, his mouth, his body—until all that was left was the heat of the moment and the pleasure that burned everything else to ash.

She tugged her coat tighter around herself as she left the restaurant where they’d met earlier that evening. The crimson shirt beneath his tailored suit had caught her attention as it always did—a bold choice, a Viviann choice. Over dinner, he’d reminded her of the world he could offer, the protection and luxury she’d once known in his orbit.

But Viviann wasn’t her past anymore, and no amount of charm could rewrite the chaos Rio had left in his wake.

Still, as she returned to her rented flat, the weight of Viviann’s gaze lingered. He had asked her to stay. To let him take care of her the way only he could. It was tempting—so dangerously tempting.

London had always felt like a second home to Epiphany. Its cobblestone streets and overcast skies carried memories that were both thrilling and forbidden. She’d fallen in love with the city when she was barely a teenager, but the city wasn’t the only thing that had claimed her heart. It had been Viviann Sai.

Viviann was the kind of man who could command a room with a single glance. Sharp, angular features framed by a neatly trimmed beard gave him an air of elegance, while his hazel eyes always seemed to hold a secret. His hair, dark and wavy, combed back to reveal a widow’s peak, added to the intrigue he effortlessly carried. At thirteen, she’d been too young to understand the full weight of their connection, but now, at twenty-one, she wasn’t naive enough to pretend their reunion didn’t mean something.

She pushed open the door to her flat, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The space was small, cozy, and unassuming—everything she needed to hide away from the mess she’d left back home. She had no idea her escape had already been compromised.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to come back,” came a familiar voice, low and smooth, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Her body froze. Slowly, she turned, and there he was. Rio.

He leaned against the doorframe of her bedroom, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His dark eyes were unreadable, but she could feel the heat of his gaze pinning her in place.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.

Her breath hitched as she stared at him, the familiar weight of his presence stealing the air from her lungs. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater, as if grounding herself against the rush of emotions flooding her chest. She hadn’t seen him in so long, hadn’t heard his voice, hadn’t felt the quiet intensity of his gaze searing into her like this.

Her lips parted, but no words came. A sharp sting pricked the corners of her eyes, and despite herself, tears welled up, blurring his face for a moment. She blinked them away quickly, swallowing against the lump rising in her throat.

"You don’t get to just show up," she whispered, her voice trembling, betraying her.

But even as she tried to sound strong, the truth clawed at her—she had missed him, ached for him in ways she hadn’t allowed herself to admit. And now, standing there like a ghost from her past, he was unraveling her with nothing more than his presence.

Rio’s smirk widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “London, huh? Nice place to play hide-and-seek. Too bad you’re not very good at it.”

Her fists clenched at her sides. “I’m not hiding. I’m done. Done with you, with all of it.”

“Done?” He pushed off the doorframe, taking a slow step toward her. “That what you told him?”

Her stomach dropped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rio chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. “Don’t play dumb, mami. You think I don’t know about Viviann? That I wouldn’t find out?”

She squared her shoulders, refusing to let him intimidate her. “You don’t get to have an opinion. You broke up with me, remember?”

His expression hardened, the smirk falling away. “That’s not how this works.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Of course it’s not, because everything has to be on your terms, doesn’t it? You get to push me away and then act like you own me?”

He closed the distance between them in two strides, his presence overwhelming. “You think I don’t?”

Her breath hitched as he stared her down, his voice dropping to a low growl. “I let you go because I had to. Doesn’t mean you get to run off and play house with someone else.”

“It’s not like that,” she snapped, her voice trembling with anger.

“No?” His eyes darkened, a dangerous glint flashing in them. “Then tell me what it’s like. Tell me why you’re meeting him, why you’re here instead of where you belong—with me.”

“You don’t get to decide where I belong, Rio.”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he fought to keep his temper in check. “You think he can protect you? That he can give you what I can?”

She didn’t answer.

“Pack your shit,” he said finally, his tone cold and commanding.

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not staying here,” he said simply. “Not with him. Not in this city. You’re coming with me.”

“No,” she said firmly, standing her ground. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Rio’s lips curved into a cold smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t asking.”

Before she could react, he grabbed her suitcase, throwing in her belongings with quick, deliberate movements.

“Stop it!” she yelled, trying to pull the bag away from him, but he was unyielding.

When he turned to her, his gaze softened, but only slightly. “You’re mad. I get it. But you’re coming with me, Epiphany. That’s not up for debate.”

Her heart pounded as she stared at him, torn between fury and something she couldn’t quite name. She hated him for his arrogance, for the way he always seemed to take what he wanted. But more than that, she hated the way part of her wanted to go.

Rio held out her coat and suitcase, his dark eyes daring her to defy him.

Epiphany crossed her arms, her jaw tight. "¿Por qué siempre tienes que controlarlo todo?" she snapped, her voice rising.

"Porque alguien tiene que hacerlo," Rio shot back, his tone calm but laced with steel. "Tú no tienes idea de en qué te estás metiendo aquí."

"¡No tienes derecho a decidir por mí!" she countered, stepping closer to him. "No soy una de tus putas propiedades."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "¿Propiedad? Si fueras mía de verdad, no estaríamos aquí, ¿verdad? No estarías corriendo tras un hombre que nunca podrá protegerte como yo."

"¡Él nunca me haría esto!" she shouted, her voice trembling with anger. "No me humillaría, no me dejaría para después venir aquí a arrastrarme como si no tuviera opción."

Rio's expression darkened, his jaw clenching. "No entiendes nada. Te dejé porque tenía que hacerlo, no porque quería."

"¡Eso no lo hace mejor!" she yelled, her hands gesturing wildly. "Me rompiste, Rio. ¿Y ahora vienes aquí, exigiendo que te siga? ¡Eres un maldito hipócrita!"

"¿Hipócrita?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "¿Por qué? ¿Por no querer que te maten por tus decisiones estúpidas? ¿Por querer que estés viva?"

"¿Y esta es tu idea de cuidarme? ¡Arrancándome de mi vida, de mis elecciones!"

He stepped closer, his voice sharp. "Tu vida, tus elecciones, ya no importan cuando te estás poniendo en peligro. Te guste o no, yo voy a asegurarme de que estés bien."

"¿Y qué si no quiero que te preocupes por mí? ¿Qué si quiero que te vayas al diablo?"

Rio's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes blazing. "Puedes quererlo todo lo que quieras, pero no va a pasar."

"¡Eres imposible!" she screamed, turning away from him, her chest heaving.

"Y tú eres terca," he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. "Pero eso no cambia nada. Vámonos, Epiphany."

She turned back to him, her eyes narrowing. "Esto no significa que te perdone."

"Ni te estoy pidiendo perdón," he replied, his gaze locking with hers. "Te estoy diciendo que vuelvas a donde perteneces."

She stared at him for a long moment, the tension thick in the air. Finally, with a frustrated growl, she grabbed her suitcase and stormed past him, muttering under her breath.

"Esto no ha terminado," she said, her voice low but steady.

"No," he agreed, following her out. "Apenas empieza."

But as she followed him out the door, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had never really left him at all.

The hum of the private jet felt oppressive, a backdrop to the storm brewing between them. Epiphany sat in her seat, her legs crossed, staring out the window, her jaw tight as she bit back the words threatening to spill. Across from her, Rio lounged in his seat with calculated ease, his eyes fixed on her like a hawk.

The silence was thick, suffocating, until she finally turned to him, her tone sharp and cutting. "You should’ve stayed in your perfect little world with Beth. Isn’t that what you wanted? A good girl who plays house and does whatever you say?"

His eyes flickered, the name stinging more than he’d admit, but his expression didn’t waver. "Watch it, Epiphany."

"Or what?" she snapped, leaning forward, her voice dripping with venom. "You’ll yell some more? Slam your fist again? Go ahead, Rio. Show me just how much I don’t belong to you anymore."

Rio’s jaw clenched, his composure slipping. His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it. "You don’t get it, do you? This ain’t about her, and it ain’t about me wanting someone to ‘play house.’ This is about you not knowing your damn place."

Epiphany let out a bitter laugh, her arms crossing over her chest. "My place? That’s rich, coming from the man who threw me aside like I was nothing. You made it clear what my place was when you left me to pick up the pieces of your mess."

"I left to protect you," Rio growled, his voice rising slightly, though his control remained intact.

"Don’t feed me that lie!" she shouted back, her voice trembling with fury. "You left because it was easier than facing the fact that you were scared. Scared of what I meant to you. Scared of the hold I had on you."

Rio slammed his palm down on the armrest, his voice booming and deep, shaking the small cabin. "¡Cállate! You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

Epiphany flinched but quickly recovered, narrowing her eyes. "Oh, I don’t? Then explain this little trip to London. Explain why you came running the moment you thought someone else had me. You can’t stand it, can you? The thought of me with someone else burns you alive."

He leaned forward, his gaze cutting through her. "You’re mine. Always have been, always will be. And I don’t give a damn what you’ve been playing at with that trust fund clown. You were never his, and you never will be."

Epiphany’s laugh was cold, hollow. "Yours? That’s what this is about? You don’t love me, Rio. You just can’t handle losing what you think belongs to you."

His eyes flared with frustration, and for a moment, his voice softened but lost none of its intensity. "You think I came all this way just to make a point? I came because I don’t trust anyone else to keep you alive. Least of all you."

She shook her head, her voice laced with bitterness. "You’re deflecting, as always. You don’t care about my life, just your pride. Admit it, Rio. You’re not here because you love me. You’re here because you can’t stand losing control."

His response was immediate, his voice low and biting. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s about control. But if it keeps you alive, I don’t give a damn. You can hate me all you want, but you’re still coming back with me."

She met his gaze, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "I don’t forgive you, and I never will. I hope you get gonorrhea."

Rio leaned back, his eyes dark and unrelenting. Ignoring her childish insults,"I don’t need your forgiveness. I need you breathing. And like it or not, that means you’re coming with me."

The tension hung heavy between them, neither willing to back down. Epiphany turned back to the window, her voice quiet but defiant. "This isn’t over, Rio."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained cold. "Wouldn't be fun if it was."

Later on, The soft hum of the private jet filled the cabin, a steady, lulling sound that eventually pulled Epiphany into sleep. Her breathing evened out, her body curled slightly against the plush leather seat, the tension she held onto so fiercely finally slipping away.

Rio exhaled, rolling his neck as he let his gaze linger on her. She looked smaller like this, fragile in a way she’d never let herself be when awake. His eyes traced the curve of her arm where her silk blouse had shifted, revealing deep, bruised fingerprints circling her wrist. His stomach twisted. Another mark peeked from beneath the hem of her skirt, a dark blotch on smooth, golden skin. As his gaze traveled over her, he noticed more—scattered evidence of nights she’d spent chasing pain in someone else’s hands.

His fingers curled into fists against his thighs, fury rising like a slow, burning tide. Not at her. Never at her. This was on him. He let her go, turned his back on her, thinking she’d move on. Instead, she’d buried herself in this—masking whatever hollow ache he left with the kind of pain that lingered, the kind that reminded her she was still alive.

He ran a hand over his face, dragging in a deep breath. The jet’s cabin lights cast a soft glow over her, making her seem almost peaceful, but he knew better. He knew what those bruises meant. What she wouldn’t say. Epiphany was by far the most complex young woman he'd ever encountered. She used sex as both a reward and a punishment.

Shifting forward, Rio reached for the blanket beside him and draped it over her. His fingers hovered over her wrist, ghosting over the bruises without touching them. His lips pressed against against the area with a gentle kiss.

@darqchilddaydreamz @lovedlover @ravennaortiz @nobodygetsza

#theesirenteller fanfic #rio; dealer fanfic #theesirentellerstories #theesirenteller characters #rio x epiphany core #theesirenteller

40 notes · View notes

jbaileyfansite · 2 months ago

Text

Masterpost: Jonathan Bailey in Richard II Reviews

Jonathan Bailey gives the best performance I’ve ever seen of Shakespeare’s flawed monarch, an erratic tyrant who gains dignity once deposed. [...] Bailey inhabits and humanizes the king in a clean, clear, martial staging from Nicholas Hytner that feels right for our times. [...] Bailey swaggers on to Succession-style music, in a simple crown but with a bespoke frock coat and sockless feet in velvet slippers, setting him apart from courtiers in suits or jeans. A saturnine beard gives an impish frame to his imperious behavior. [...] Still, Richard II, with its rigid structure and strict double-narrative about two different styles of kingship, is never going to be a crowd-pleaser unless it’s by star casting. Hence Bailey. He commands the stage and even allows a little camp to seep into the character (Richard’s marriage to his shopaholic wife may be transactional). He doesn’t sugar the king’s brattish reluctance to cede the crown but in later speeches attains a stricken grandeur. [x]

While Jonathan Bailey’s prancing prince Fiyero can still be seen on cinema screens in the first instalment of the musical Wicked, his King Richard takes to the stage as a similarly flamboyant figure. However here instead of copious amounts of charm, this royal has a spoilt, psychotic air that is stoked by cocaine. While executing his duties of office this king studies those to whom he gives an audience in a way that might, at first, be mistaken for a kindly monarch’s close attention. But the interested tilt of the head and his laser gaze are, it turns out, the callous curiosity of a reptile eyeing potential prey. [...] Bailey’s strength is that he makes Shakespeare’s language sound as modern as that spoken by his fellow millennials. [x]

It’s a bravely vicious performance, leavened with wit and humour and yet also deliberately mannered and alienating. This riveting and not always comfortable portrayal is absolutely matched by Pierreson, who cleverly charts, with the smallest inflections of head and eye exactly how difficult it is to make policy on the hoof. [...] It’s propulsively driven, and often surprisingly funny, wheeling along with an absolute confidence. It’s been a long time since Hytner’s directed a history play and it feels worth the wait. [x]

Guys and dolls have made way for kings and dukes at the Bridge Theatre, where Jonathan Bailey rules in his first stage role since Wicked and Bridgerton fame. [...] Bailey's portrayal is layered and multifaceted. His eyes, often twinkling with mischief, belie his increasingly erratic behavior. His movements, jittery and spiky one moment and filled with a slow and calculated coolness the next, is both unnerving and compelling. [...] Bailey's return to the stage is nothing short of triumphant. With his razor-sharp delivery and mercurial presence, he proves he is not just a star name but a true theatrical force. Long live the king. [x]

This Richard is a kaleidoscope of narcissism and neuroses, and it’s a truly electric watch. As Hytner recently pointed out, Bailey is a natural with the text, and manages to make this changeable, spiteful, lost, needy, uncertain creation hilarious and horrifying in equal measure. Injecting musicality and character into even the most rudimentary of asides and put downs, Bailey somehow manages to inject it all with the slightest splash of camp, too. By the time the walls are closing in about him at the end of the first half and he has adopted an almost messianic-by-way-of-Rik Mayall mania, it’s difficult to not find yourself rooting for the churl. [...] Bailey’s maddening, mercurial tour-de-force proves one of the most exciting and unpredictable performances in London right now, and is worth the ticket price alone. [x]

Long before Bridgerton, there was theatre for Jonathan Bailey, from roles at the RSC as a child actor onwards. His ease and aptitude on stage is evident here yet he is still a revelation, lighting up this play about a king’s misrule and downfall. [...] Nicholas Hytner, as director, smooths away most of the play’s creakiness with a pared-down production that has the pace and intrigue of a thriller. It is muscular in its look and Bailey singularly shines, his luminosity putting the others slightly in the shade. [x]

Anyone questioning the wisdom of the star-casting of “Bridgerton” and “Wicked” talent Bailey should bear in mind that he played Cassio in Hytner’s riveting “Othello” at the National Theatre back in 2013 and followed that with an arresting Edgar/Mad Tom opposite Ian McKellen’s King Lear for director Jonathan Munby. As a result, his handling of the language and, crucially, the intent behind it, is entirely easeful. His king is self-satisfied and perfectly petulant, dispatching orders, and often men’s lives, with gleaming disdain. He’s even better when he’s calmly and quietly coming to understand himself and the nature of his previous selfishness in the play’s highly reflective and tender final scenes. [x]

Although he’s fresh from stealing the limelight in Wicked, star Jonathan Bailey has been landing big stage roles since he was in literal primary school, and he brings a wonderful clarity and charisma to this tale of a misbehaving, queer-coded despot. [...] But who wouldn’t fall under the spell of this captivating king? Bailey lights up Hytner’s lucid production of a strange but infinitely satisfying play. [x]

Jonathan Bailey is magnetic in the title role of Nicholas Hytner’s production at London’s Bridge Theatre. [x]

Shakespeare’s tale notably eschews scenes of bloody battle to focus on the psychological undoing of England’s charming yet irresponsible king. And how charming he is when performed by Bailey, who brings all of his Bridgerton charisma to Nicholas Hytner’s modern-dress production, swaggering about the thrust/in-the-round stage — and even giving the audience seated in the circle a surprise, up-close treat. From the first image of Richard carefully placing the gold crown upon his own head — with Grant Olding’s tinkling piano composition reminiscent of Succession’s now iconic opening credits — Bailey oozes entitlement and ego. [...] Bailey reveals and revels in all facets of this magnetic king and as Hytner has said in multiple interviews, he speaks Shakespeare “as though it is his first language”. [x]

Bailey is effectively ineffectual as Richard, viciously petulant and deluded throughout, citing the Divine Right of Kingship to cling to power that he doesn't merit. […] Quiet and studied in performance, he has great moments such as the abdication scene in which he refuses to give up his crown like a child unwilling to part with his favourite toy. [x]

A nation in need, an unsuitable king, banishments, murders, attempted coups. Richard II has it all and so does Jonathan Bailey. He might be dancing through Hollywood and hanging out with the biggest celebs, but this triumphant return to the stage proves that he’s still one of us. Known for his romantic leads, Bailey now takes on a complicated head of state, breaking him open and thinning the lines between divisive, problematic political figure and sardonic, villainous poet. It’s Jonathan Bailey’s world and we’re merely living in it, but Nicholas Hytner’s production sees a five-star cast stuck in a three-star show. [...] Bailey has an utterly captivating delivery that twists snakishly, infused at once with sarcasm, pettiness, fury, and comedy. There’s no empathy or sympathy for anyone but himself in his performance, just impatience, insecurity, and an extremely short fuse. [...] Bailey is wondrous at playing contradiction and Shakespeare looks really good on him. He shines when he gets the chance to delve into the depths of his character’s psyche and a sizzling magnetism takes over during his soliloquies, giving us a taste of what he could do with a more sombre character and a more secure vision. [x]

Bailey gives an engrossing performance as Richard, whose corrupt misrule fuels popular support for the usurper cousin, Henry Bolingbroke (Royce Pierreson), despite the medieval doctrine that the monarch is anointed by God and therefore untouchable. [...] Historical accounts remarked upon Richard’s effeminacy and in Bailey’s adroit rendering he is a capricious, flouncing sociopath whose every utterance is suffused with performative irony. [...] The more compelling drama here is not the political intrigue, but the tragic transfiguration of the deposed king. Richard’s campy loquaciousness had hitherto struck a somewhat desperate, insincere note, whether expatiating on the divine right of kings or reproaching the audience (his erstwhile subjects) for their fickleness and indifference to his downfall. But his flip complacency then gives way, via panic and despair, to a circumspect serenity as he is unburdened in defeat. This transition is tricky for actors to pull off — they must somehow become smaller and bigger at the same time — and Bailey executes it with admirable subtlety. [x]

Jonathan Bailey captures perfectly the narcissism of a boy King. The audience titter nervously as his crown comes under pressure, gasp at the cruelties and are stunned into silence by his final soliloquy and demise. [x]

The staging is solid rather than exceptional. But Bailey makes a transfixing Richard, his plight engaging to the last, despite the nastier excesses of his capricious behaviour. [...] It’s a glittering performance in an uncluttered setting: proficient, measured, the production permits Bailey’s doomed, vainglorious Richard to shine. [x]

It’s a bracing show, constantly exciting as we sit all around it like witnesses, like 15c Englanders. Jonathan Bailey as the King is a whirlwind of temperament, in love with crown and power, secure amid his cronies and his Irish ambitions but until his final sad meditation in prison as erratic and wilful as a toddler, but vicious with it. [...] He is irresistibly watchable, whether in tantrum, self-pitying soliloquy or flashes of awful self-knowledge; some may find him not quite king enough, but he’s endlessly gripping. [x]

Bailey pulses with energy and charisma, which lifts the mood delightfully after all the monochrome men and their moody machinations. [x]

With Jonathan Bailey compelling in the title role, this is a fast-paced, thrilling, and lucid account of Shakespeare’s most poetic and tragic history play. [...] The personal tragedy of Richard comes through strongly here as well as England’s national tragedy. He may be a terrible ruler – arrogant, capricious, erratic, surrounded by flatterers – portrayed here by Bailey as a spoilt, immature playboy. But after he has lost his crown there is genuine pathos as he identifies himself with it so closely that – as shown in him dashing a mirror to pieces – without it he loses his own sense of who he is. [...] As Richard, Bailey holds the stage and speaks the verse with impressive naturalness. (He may be a screen star in the likes of Wicked and Bridgerton, as well as an Olivier Award winner for the Sondheim musical Company, but he has already made a mark in Shakespeare with his Cassio in Hytner’s Othello at the National and his Edgar in the Chichester Ian McKellen King Lear.) Here, he is not just a weak-willed hedonist, but a pretty callous manipulator with a sardonic sense of humour. [...] But although this is not a particularly sympathetic Richard, Bailey does convey his self-destructive behaviour with convincing passion. [x]

Flamboyant, charismatic and completely incapable of ruling a country are just a few of the thoughts that run through my mind watching Jonathan Bailey’s immensely enjoyable performance as Richard II that keeps the audience engaged as to how the story unfolds from start to finish. [...] While the play is billed as a tragedy, there are in this production flashes of unexpected humour thanks to Jonathan Bailey’s performance as the unpredictable Richard II – revealing many different aspects to the character that keeps his performance lively and unexpected. Bailey has completely immersed himself in the role to glorious effect – I would love to see what he would do with other leading Shakespearian characters as it is a really sparkling performance. [x]

Jonathan Bailey plays the central character around whom all of the political shenanigans revolve, capturing his mercurial character. Believing in his god given right to be King, he plays the role to suit the moment; sometimes mischievous, sometimes vain, sometimes proud but ultimately without his “hollow crown”, he is lost without purpose or reason. It is an excellent performance, spoken with great clarity and precision, varying the tone to reflect the King’s attitude to the moment. [x]

Anyone who saw Jonathan Bailey on stage in COCK or Company will know what a gifted performer he is on stage. He may have reached a worldwide audience with his turns in Bridgerton and Wicked but there is nothing like seeing him on stage in the flesh to truly appreciate his talents as a performer. His portrayal of Richard II once again demonstrates this, with Bailey going big in his choices to deliver a performance that always captivates. Quite extreme at times, the exaggerated nature of the performance leads to heightened emotions with Bailey impossible to take your eyes off of. One key moment sees him appear in an unexpected part of the theatre (I won’t spoil where for those who are yet to see it) in a brilliant use of his talents leaving me hanging on his every word. [x]

But it’s the star’s show and Bailey is scintillating as a king on the edge, caught between challenging or capitulating to Bullingbrook. One moment a strutting, cocaine-sniffing sovereign, the next shrinking into despair as his grasp on power slips further out of reach and is gone. [x]

From flashy, commercial musicals to independent plays, theatre across both sides of the Atlantic often features star casting; sometimes the talent fits perfectly within the character brief, yet other times feel like awkward pairings. Fortunately for this production, casting Bailey in the titular role is an absolutely justifiable choice (not just speaking from a Wicked fan's perspective), lending a playfully giving personality to an indecisive monarch. His treatment of words demonstrates careful thought, injecting eclectic energy into movement and physical characterisation (with direction by James Cousins) - in some aspects not unlike Fiyero. Bringing with him a calm yet assertive and indeed, magnificent voice, the delivery of each line switching from light and fluffy to deliberately passionate, through to slowed but clearly enunciated soliloquies following a change in character away from the narcissistic and self-loathing impression we initially know Richard by (having paid obvious attention to elements of the voice like inflexion and pacing), in parts also credited to Jeannette Nelson's meritorious voice work with the Company. [x]

Rather unexpectedly there are similarities between prancing Prince Fiyero in the film version of Wicked and the spoilt brat that is Richard II in this new production of Shakespeare's play. Both are royals who lead privileged, hedonistic lives yet become thoughtful and wise when the real world breaks into their sheltered existence. [...] Yet Bailey's roles on screen have none of the sociopathic edge he brings to his Richard here, in Nicholas Hytner's pacy, modern production. [...] Here Bailey, who despite never having gone to drama school speaks Shakespeare with ease. In one of the Bard's most moving speeches his Richard moves from moral bankruptcy to devastating insight into both his and the human condition. [x]

However, it is Mr Bailey who is the star attraction in this production and he gives every inch the star performance. Totally believable as the despotic Richard, with his swiftly changing moods, he switches from imperial grandeur to whiny sarcasm within the same sentence. It’s a physically demanding performance and he captures both extremes of the king’s character perfectly – the statesman and the wimp. His vocal delivery is perfect too, always with crystal clear elocution and a stage authority that makes you feel you’re in the presence of someone special. [x]

Bailey embodies the king with all the complexities you’d expect from the role. Flitting from a composed leader to a wild party-boy - it is never certain what his next move might be. It brings real interest and stakes to the role, keeping the audience on the edge of their seats throughout. Bailey’s natural stage presence makes him mesmerising to watch, and his erratic, and rather brilliantly camp take on the role plays the king as a caricature of himself. [x]

In a time where the London scene has been haunted by the not-so-usually-adequate celebrity casting, the Bridge Theatre hosts the return of now television and film star Jonathan Bailey to the old boards. He’s not a newbie. In fact, that’s where his thriving trajectory took off – and you can really tell. […]The biggest praise, however, goes to Jonathan Bailey as the protagonist, proving utmost command of his role through a sinisterly captivating take – drawing out the personage’s narcissistic traits through a mixture of menace and humourousness that never falls into camp. [x]

Bailey takes to the role with single-minded dexterity. What Bailey fans first acquainted with the star on screen may not realise is that our Bridgerton heartthrob is first and foremost a stage actor, having performed at the RSC as a child and alongside Ian McKellen in King Lear. Here, we see him flex that muscle with great aptitude, an actor at the heights of his power: another royal success. Richard II is a triumph. [x]

#richard II #jonathan bailey #jonny bailey #theatre #bridge theatre #richard II reviews

39 notes · View notes