#that one. is not historically accurate for dress in the time period

[starswallowingsea]

okay so i am planning on having six of crows read and ready to review by wednesday so...

no option for me to click because you little shits couldn't help yourselves. goodreads pages for all these books linked below

as long as the lemon trees grow

bellewether

villa america

crooked kingdom

the gospel according to jesus christ

[irisinluv]

Yandere x Time Traveler Reader

You could recite the rules by memory if you had to. You were read them before each and every time jump. The most important being- don’t do anything to alter the course of history, don’t let anyone know about time travel, and don’t stay longer than necessary. There’s a slew of other minute details to the rule book, time traveling is a delicate business after all. But you love your job, and you understand how important your work is. You see, history records are often sloppy. We do our best to put things together with old newspapers, books, and the occasional photo, but what if you could go back and meticulously record everything the exact way it was?

Well, historians realized they could utilize time travel to observe and document historic events and time periods. That’s where you come in. You are a field agent- dressed in time appropriate clothes, practiced in period accurate slang and culture, armed with a backstory, and ready to jump back in time to learn the things time has forgot.

You’ve done countless runs before, and this one is no different. Go in. Learn everything you can, and then get the hell out. You don’t stay more than a week, and whatever you do, you stick to your company drafted backstory if anyone ask. So, with this in mind, you wave to your team, and step back in time.

The 1920s proved to be more colorful than you’d imagined. Sure you knew not everything was in black and white… but you expected things to be a bit more drab. The streets were busy with old timey cars in each of the primary colors, women bustled down the streets in loose, boxy dresses with gorgeous patterns. You took note that maybe the 20s were onto something when you noticed the high waisted pants all the men seemed to be wearing. You’d certainly be recommending these slutty little numbers make a comeback.

Taking in all these details, you took a moment to enjoy being a tourist in a new time. This was your favorite part of the job- constantly exploring. You loved the freedom you had. Granted you had your rules, but you could go anywhere. Any time. It was fantastic. Ducking into a cafe, you took a second to inspect the menu before ordering, and taking a seat at a booth. You began people watching as you sipped your drink, taking mental notes of everything and anything that you could jot down later. Suddenly, you’re interrupted from your observations as someone slid into the seat across from you in the booth.

Sawyer saw you order and sit down, and was fascinated by you. You carried yourself differently than anyone he’d seen before, with a natural ease and confidence, yet he could see your eyes assessing everything around you with a slight hint of wonder that made him wonder what those eyes would say if they looked his way. After observing you for several minutes, Sawyer made his move.

You couldn’t help but feel comfortable about the man who slid into your booth and started chatting with you. It wasn’t against the rules to talk with people like this- it was often crucial in fact. As long as you didn’t do anything drastic like save or end their life, convince them of some major course of action, etc…. It often paid to have a friend in an unfamiliar time. So when Sawyer asked you if you had plans this evening…. You had told him you were free.

Now it’s a quarter to 6 and he’s picking you up at the hotel you’d arranged earlier in the day. You had a change of clothes already packed for the occasion, and were buzzing to see inside a real speakeasy during prohibition. Sawyer was prompt in picking you up, and it was only a short walk to a back door of a building. He was ushered inside and soon the two of you were sitting together, leaning close to speak as you sipped (rather horrible) watered down drinks.

You kept to your story- you were traveling from the countryside, and would be in town for the next week. Sawyer noticed, however, how much you steered the conversation away from yourself. You did so skillfully and he had to admire that, but you were secretive none the less. Of course, this only served to further fascinate the man. What was originally just a little crush began to turn into a burning need to know more. What were those calculating eyes of yours thinking? Why did you take everything in with such wonder, like you were committing every detail to memory? He had to know.

For the next several days, Sawyer acted as your guide through the city, showing you clubs and shows and the best places to eat. You found yourself genuinely enjoying his company, and it wasn’t hard to tell he greatly enjoyed yours- showing up first thing each morning to escort you on another adventure. You realized you needed to begin distancing yourself from him, however, as he was pressing you for more details about yourself, and was expertly dodging your attempts at redirection. So, with only a few days left before you had to return, you switched hotels. Went to a different part of town, and began looking into the affairs of a few businesses. You needed to round out your research more anyways.

Sawyer arrived at his usual time, only to find you gone. The hotel attendant explained you’d checked out early, and left no explanation. Sawyers heart stopped. You were the love of his life. He knows it’s sudden, and stupid, he hardly knows you…. But at the same time he feels like he knows you better than anyone else alive. In the few days you’d spent together he’d taken in every little detail about you. He could tell when you were excited or disgusted just by the way your nose twitched. He knew your food preferences, knew how to make you laugh, and just felt like he knew you on a soul deep level…. But you were gone. You’d left him….

You were taking note of the stock in a grocery store a few days later when Sawyer finally saw you. He didn’t approach, instead, followed you back to your hotel. He watched you through a sliver in the curtains as you pulled out a pad of paper and began writing. He watched until you fell asleep, and then slowly crept in through the window. He gently picked up the notepad, only to furrow his brows, confused. You were…. Taking note of the style of labels on soup cans, and the price stickers used? He looked around the room and saw a few other note pads, gently placing the one he’d grabbed back next to your sleeping form, he began snooping through the rest of your notes. You had pages and pages written about what you’d observed, meticulous notes littered with your own commentary and thoughts. And that’s when Sawyer realized the truth. He didn’t have all the details- but he knew you were from the future. You were from the future, and you’d be leaving him in less than 24 hours.

He knew he had to act. He found the small device you would use to return home- it was disguised as a watch, and tucked away inside one of your luggage bags. Holding the small object in his hand, he came up with a plan. Shooting one last look to your sleeping form, he made sure everything was as you left it, aside from your watch, which he slipped in his pocket, and then crept back outside.

The next day, you hustled to finish investigating the last few things your colleagues were interested in. You were walking down the road when you heard a familiar voice call out. Closing your eyes and letting out a soft curse, you turned to see Sawyer racing towards you with a grin.

“Hey! There you are! When they told me you’d checked out a few days ago I’d assumed you left! Glad I found you though! Did you lose a watch by any chance? I found it in the pocket of that coat you borrowed after the theater, it’s small and gold with some swirling patterns carved into it?”

Your eyes widened…. That was your ticket home. How the hell did you not notice it was gone?? You thank him profusely for finding it, and tell him that yes, it’s yours! He clarifies,

“It’s back at my place, I didn’t think I’d run into you so I wasn’t carrying with me. If you’d like, you can swing by my house with me and pick it up?”

Of course you readily agree- after all, you need to leave in a few hours, and seeing inside his house would be great for your research. So, you agree to go home with him. I mean you only had a few hours left. Saying goodbye for real this time wouldn’t hurt.

Sawyers breath catches as you step inside his house. Why does this seem so natural? So perfect? You, fingers lightly tracing the wood banister as you take it all it. You, turning to look where he stands in the entryway - God, he can imagine coming home from work, with you greeting him with a smile just like this. The only thing missing is a kiss. He blinks out of it as he realizes you’re asking about your watch.

“Oh, yes, of course! It’s just down here, follow me!”

He leads you downstairs to a partially finished basement. Partially finished is a loose term. It’s a usable area at least, a workbench in once corner, and minimal boxes cluttering the space. Instead, it’s relatively clean, there’s a few chairs and a couch set up. Far from a living space, but it’s certainly functional. You’re taking all this in when suddenly you’re pulled back wards, stumbling into a chair. Ropes are wound around your midsection, pinning your arms and torso to a chair. You cry out and squirm but he’s surprisingly fast and strong,wrangling your kicking feet until they’re tied to the chair legs. Soon, you’re securely bound to the chair, and he didn’t even have to knock you out. He finds it kind of adorable how easily he overpowered you if he’s being honest.

You cry out and ask him what he’s doing, demand he lets you go! But he only produces your watch from his pocket, and stares at it with curious eyes.

“So, this little thing is your ticket back, hm? I wonder what it’s like- your world. Your time….”

Your eyes grow wide. He knows. He knows you’re not from this time period. That’s breaking one of the most important rules. This in itself could have irreparable consequences to the course of history… what if he decides to use it? Decides to travel through time, un-trained, causing chaos!?

“Please! You have no idea the consequences this will have! You can’t use it! Please- there’s a way things have to be done, you could permanently alter the course of human history with the littlest misstep! The future depends on you letting me go and giving me that watch back!”

He steps closer to you and gently strokes your cheek, realizing you don’t get it. You think you’re tied up because he’s interested in the time traveling. You think he’s going to misuse it. Silly you. He’s not interested in traveling through time.

“Darling… come now. There’s no need to worry. I’m not going to use your watch.”

Your gaze turns confused as you look up at him, and he adores watching your eyes as you try to puzzle your way through this one. He takes pity on you and leans forward to press a kiss to your lips.

And then you watch as he drops and crushes your way home beneath his boot.

“The only future I’m interested in…. Is ours.”

[lackadaisycats]

I tried to answer this succinctly, but it turned into an essay. (Sorry.)

The Princess and the Frog was not accurate, strictly speaking, but dinging it for that would be like criticizing the Lion King for not being a realistic wildlife documentary. Accuracy wasn't really the point. Given the fantastical elements and fictional nations like “Maldonia”, I suppose we're meant to understand this as a bit removed from the real New Orleans. It's more a a jazz-flavored fairy tale than a historical fiction.

But for discussion's sake....

Is it fashion-accurate to its 1926 timeframe? Ehhh, sort of. It pays homage to 20s fashion trends with cloche hats, furs and feathery headpieces, but without fully committing to it. The waistline on almost all of Tiana's clothing is too high for the 20s, and the the shapes of her fancier costumes take a lot of liberties, or deviate wildly from the style of the period.

In the 20s, dresses (including workaday stuff) tended to have a straight up-and-down shape to it - kind of a low-waisted rectangle that de-emphasized curves instead of highlighting them. There are valid reasons to play fast and loose with that, though (something I’m definitely guilty of as well). One of those reasons is communication. 

For instance, speculatively, the filmmakers wrote Tiana as a hard-working waitress and wanted her to look the part, so they made the choice to clothe her in something familiar - that gingham dress of mid-century shape that we broadly associate with diner waitresses. Actual waitress uniforms of the 20s had a fair bit of overlap with maid uniforms at the time too, and I can see why they wouldn't want to risk the confusion. It's more important to communicate clearly with the larger audience than to appease a small faction of fashion nerds who'd notice or care about the precision.

I don't think it's a case of the designers failing to do their research - I'm sure they had piles of references, and maybe even consultants - but they also had to have priorities.

With her hat and coat on, she looks a lot more 1920s-shaped.

Pretty consistently, the indication of the characteristic 1920s drop waist is there, but the approach otherwise ignores the 20s silhouette. The clothes hug the body too much. This may be about appealing to a 2000s audience, visually speaking, but also could be an animation thing. Maybe both. For practical reasons, clothes in 2d animation are usually more a sort of second skin than something that wears or behaves like realistic fabric.

These are not in the 1920s ballpark at all. Tiana's blue gown looks like your basic Disney brand invention. Strapless things would have been extremely unusual and the overall shape is far out of step. Excusable, I guess, because it's a costume in context. Charlotte looks like she’s heading for a mimosa brunch in a modern maxi dress.

Charlotte's princess dress did seem to be calling back to the ultra-wide pannier side hoops of the 18th century - something that made a reappearance for part of the 20s, albeit in much milder form called robe de style. I'm not sure if the filmmakers were alluding to that at all, really, but either way, her dress is hilarious.

They only went about halfway with the cloche hats. The 1920s cloche really encapsulated the cranium, almost entirely covered bobbed hair, and obscured much of the face from certain angles, so it's easy to see why they've been somewhat reined in for the film. Still, it ends up looking more 1930s, where the hats started to recede away from the face, evolving in the direction of the pillbox.

Similarly, Tiana's hair is not very reminiscent of the bobbed, close-to-the-cranium style of the period, but I think that could legitimately be written off as characterization. She's not at all the type of person who'd fuss about going à la mode. Not everyone bobbed and finger-waved their hair.

The clothes Prince Naveen is introduced in are very 1920s collegiate in spirit - the wide-leg oxford bags, the sleeveless pullover sweater, the flat cap, and high, stiff collar. The ukulele and banjolele were pretty trendy instruments at the time too.

Definitely some Josephine Baker vibes here. Also, the look of this whole fantasy sequence was reportedly inspired by the works of Aaron Douglas, a luminary painter of the Harlem Renaissance known for his depictions of the lives of African-Americans. (The mural is in Topeka, Kansas.)

They pretty much nailed the Art Deco. It's gorgeous. Looks somewhat inspired by the interiors of some of the Ralph Walker-designed NYC architecture, plus some French Quarter balcony flair for the final manifestation of Tiana's Place. Her dress here does resemble some gauzy mid-1920s looks, too.

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Culturally speaking...

New Orleans is an unusual place. Because some of the colonial Spanish and French laws and conventions that New Orleans evolved under persisted even after its inception into the United States; because it was such a heterogeneous hub of indigenous and immigrant peoples; and because it had a considerable population of free people of color (mostly Creole), it did not function quite like the rest of the South leading up to the Civil War, nor for a while after. Its particular coalescence of cultures made it its own unique sort of culture within the country, within the region, within the state of Louisiana even. By the early 20th century, though, regardless of the not-very-binary nature of New Orleans, Jim Crow laws were enforcing a literal black-and-white distinction, and not an evenhanded one, by far. In that aspect, the city had begun to resemble the rest of the South.

The film nods at the wealth disparity, but goes on to paint a pretty rosy picture of race and class relations at the time. Still it's not unbelievable that some people were exceptions to the rules. You could probably find a few compartments of old New Orleans society that resisted segregation or certain prejudicial norms, preferring to do things their own way. That aside, the film wasn't trying to confront these topics. Not every piece of media should have to. Sometimes breaking away from miserable period piece stereotypes is refreshing. I'm not sure it could have handled that meaningfully given the running time, narrow story focus, and intended audience, anyhow. (But you could perhaps also make a case that family films habitually underestimate younger audiences in this way.)

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Raymond the firefly I guess is the film's Cajun representation. There's not much to say about it, except perhaps to note that Evangeline is a reference to the heroine of a Longfellow poem of the same name. The poem is an epic romance set during the expulsion of the Acadians from the eastern provinces of Canada and the northernmost reaches of the American colonies (now Maine) by the British in the mid-1700s. Many exiled Acadians gradually migrated south to francophone-friendly Louisiana, settling into the prairies and bayous, where 'Acadian' truncated into the pronunciation 'Cajun'. Evangeline - who is only finally reunited with her love when he’s on his deathbed - has become an emblem of the heartbreak, separation and faithful hope of that cultural history, and there are parishes, statues and other landmarks named after the her throughout Louisiana.

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Voodoo does have a very historical presence in New Orleans, having arrived both directly from West Africa and by way of the Haitian diaspora (where it would more properly be called Vodou). While I don't think Disney's treatment of it was especially sensitive or serious, it also wasn't the grotesquely off-base sort of thing that media of the past has been known to do. It was largely whittled down to a magical plot component, but it wasn't so fully repurposed that it didn't resemble Voodoo at all either - and that's mostly owing to the characters, because it does appear the writers pulled from history there.

It’s apparently widely held that Dr. Facilier is a Baron Samedi caricature - and likely that's true, in part - but I have the impression he's also influenced by Doctor John. Not the 20th century funk musician, but the antebellum “Voodoo King” of New Orleans. Doctor John (also called Bayou John, Jean La Ficelle, and other aliases) claimed to be a Senegalese prince. He became well known as a potion man and romance-focused prognosticator to people from all corners of society. Though highly celebrated and financially successful at his peak, he seems ultimately remembered as an exploitative villain.

To my recollection, the film sort of gingerly avoids referring to Facilier as a Voodoo practitioner directly (I think he's more generically called a witch doctor in the script?) but it does seem to imply his 'friends on the other side' are a consortium of loa. It's mostly abbreviated into nebulously evil-seeming special FX, glazing over any specificity or dimensionality, but it does also loop back around as a vehicle of moral justice. Loa are all very individualistic and multi-faceted, but they do have reciprocal rules for asking favors of them.

There's also the benevolent counterpart in Mama Odie's character. Her wearing ritual whites has a definite basis in Voodoo/Vodou practice, and her depiction as a fairy godmother-like figure isn't entirely out of step with how a mambo may have been perceived...in a very general sense. They were/are ceremonial leaders and community bastions who people would seek out for help, advice and spiritual guidance. More than just emanating matronly good vibes, though, some have wielded considerable political and economic power.

(Just my opinions here. I've done a lot of reading on the subject for research but I'm no authority with any special insider understanding of Voodoo, and I really shouldn't be relied upon as an arbiter of who has or hasn't done it justice in fiction.)

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In summary--

Culturally, I think the film is respectably informed but paints a superficially genteel picture. The set pieces are gorgeous, but the story mostly delivers a sort of veneer of New Orleanishness. And as for fashion, well, it’s the 1920s run through a Disney filter. It’s very pretty, but it’s only as proximally accurate as seemed practical.

I don’t know that any of that really matters so much as whether or not it achieved what it intended, though. As a charming yarn and as a tribute to New Orleans and the Jazz age, I think it’s mostly successful. It’s also really beautifully animated!

[marzipanandminutiae]

Hello!

I am an aspiring author who struggles with accurately portraying historical clothing, and I stumbled across your blog while searching for photographs and information on late 19th century/USA Gilded Age fashion. From the research I've seen compiled across books/the internet, the clothing of the upper class from that area is very well documented in paintings, garment catalogues, photographs, museums, etc....but finding information on what the day-to-day wear of normal people was like is proving much more difficult. Since you seem to be knowledgeable in the subject of historical clothing in this approximate time period, I was wondering if you knew about any good resources to learn more about what people who couldn't afford to follow upper class trends were wearing in the general era as well as any general information around these items.

If it helps, I'm focused on eastern and southeastern United States farming/small railroad town/mountain mining/gulf coast wetland communities, but even just more general resources about what sort of clothing that the average poor person during the Gilded Age wore would be greatly helpful. I've been able to find a few photographs here and there, but these probably aren't an accurate depiction of a persons' 'day-to-day' wear, and I also haven't found much on how women learned to sew homemade clothes, what garments if any would have been bought, where people in rural areas would have sourced their cloth, what undergarments were like, how work shoes were made & aquired, ect.

Please feel free to ignore this if it isn't something you're interested in answering as I'm sure you get a lot of asks, but I'd greatly appreciate it if you have any pointers!

So here's the thing about 19th-century clothing:

in many ways, it's the same all the way down

now, that's a serious generalization. is a farm wife in Colorado going to be wearing the same thing as a Vanderbilt re: materials, fit, and up-to-the-minute trendiness? obviously not. but because so much of what people wore back then has only survived to the present day in our formalwear- long skirts, suits, etc. -we tend to have difficulty recognizing ordinary or "casual" clothing from that period. I also sometimes call this Ballgownification, from the tendency to label literally every pretty Victorian dress a Ball Gown (even on museum websites, at times). Even work clothing can consist of things you wouldn't expect to be work clothing- yes, they sometimes worked in skirts that are long by modern standards, or starched shirts and suspenders. Occupational "crap job clothes" existed, but sometimes we can't recognize even that because of modern conventions.

A wealthy lady wore a lot of two-piece dresses. Her maid wore a lot of two-piece dresses. The trailblazing lady doctor working at the hospital down the road from her house wore a lot of two-piece dresses. The factory worker who made the machine lace the maid used to trim her church dress wore a lot of two-piece dresses. The teenage daughter of the farm family that raised the cows that supplied the city where all those people lived wore a lot of- you get the idea. The FORMAT was very similar across most of American and British society; the variations tended to come in fabrics, trims, fit precision, and how frequently styles would be updated.

Having fewer outfits would be common the further down the social ladder you went, but people still tried to have as much underwear as possible- undergarments wicked up sweat and having clean ones every day was considered crucial for cleanliness. You also would see things changing more slowly- not at a snail's pace, but it might end up being a few years behind the sort of thing you'd see at Newport in the summer, so to speak. Underwear was easier to make oneself than precisely cut and fitted outer garments for adults (usually professionally made for all but the poorest of the poor for a long time- dressmakers and tailors catering to working-class clientele did exist), but that also began to be mass-produced sooner than outer clothing. So depending on the specific location, social status, and era, you might see that sort of thing and children's clothing homemade more often than anything else. Around the 1890s it became more common to purchase dresses and suits ready-made from catalogues like Sears-Roebuck, in the States, though it still hadn't outpaced professional tailoring and dressmaking yet. Work shoes came from dedicated cobblers, and even if you lived in isolated areas, VERY few people in the US and UK wove their own fabric. Most got it from the nearest store on trips to town, or took apart older garments they already had to hand and reused the cloth for that.

I guess the biggest thing I want to emphasize is that, to modern eyes, it can be very hard to tell who is rich and who is anywhere from upper-working-class to middling in Gilded Age photographs. Because just like nowadays a custodial worker and Kim Kardashian might both wear jeans and a t-shirt, the outfit format was the same for much of society.

Candid photography can be great for this sort of thing:

Flower-sellers in London's Covent Garden, 1877. Note that the hat on the far right woman is only a few years out-of-date; she may have gotten it new at the time or from a secondhand clothing market, which were quite popular on both sides of the Atlantic.

Also London, turn of the 20th century.

A family in Denver, Colorado, c. early 1890s.

Train passengers, Atlanta, Georgia, probably 1890s.

Hope this helps!

[iiseult]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝒾𝓋𝑒: 𝒢𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝒞𝓇𝑜𝓈𝓈

CWs →  FLUFF, angst, depression, themes of war and death, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism

Wordcount: 3.5k

Note: For those of you who have been waiting for actual fluff for like five chapters, I hope this is satisfactory. The next chapter is probably going to involve smut, so maybe that will give you something else to look forward to! Enjoy!

The following days were the darkest you had ever known. The palace was eerily silent, half of the staff left with nothing to do in the absence of their King. There were no more tears, and no more talking– there was only waiting, agonizing waiting. You could not bring yourself to leave the fortified stone walls of your home, not necessarily for fear of a raid by Saladin’s troops, but more for fear of leaving your post at your window and missing a sign that Baldwin might be returning. Whatever that sign might be– a flag, a cross, a messenger, you didn’t know–  but you would surely know once you saw it. 

For that reason you took all of your meals in your bedchamber, dressed perpetually in a white linen nightgown. Though she had tried and tried, claiming that looking better would also help you to feel better, Matilda could not convince you to get dressed. To you, there was no longer any reason to get dressed and presentable, let alone get out of bed. The only thing that could help you now was seeing your husband living and breathing, in the flesh. So in this way, the days faded dimly into dark nights, and those dark nights into fair-weathered days, whose blissful sunlight and blue skies mocked you and every other citizen of Jerusalem. Still he did not return. You stayed at your window for hours every night, fighting the heaviness of your eyelids and the sag in your shoulders, but inevitably passing into the realm of sleep from pure exhaustion, hunched over the sill with your head resting on your arms. You would wake in that exact same position every morning, accompanied by aches and pains in your muscles. 

One night, there was thunder. You thought bitterly that it would be the perfect weather to reflect your brooding and negative mental state, that it only made sense for there to be a rainstorm, bring it on, but then there was the issue of there not being a single rain cloud in the sky. It was the clear amber sky of an autumn evening just around sunset, annoyingly picturesque, and dappled with only pink and orange stratus clouds. But there was the thunder, a deep, constant rumbling, perhaps growing even louder by the minute. Yes, you were certain now your ears were not playing tricks on you and that it was growing closer and closer, resounding low, and sustaining. In fact, you could feel its very vibrations rattling your teeth in their sockets. A flame of hope ignited in your heart. 

You leapt to your feet and ran to the window, and you saw over the horizon a dark mass approaching. It was as if the raincloud you had ben searching for was on the ground instead, rolling in for the storm. But it was not a raincloud. It was an army. 

The first rider appeared, distinct from the others because he was moving ahead of them. The thunder was the sound of a thousand horses’ hooves hitting the ground. Your heart dropped and your eyes frantically searched for a flag or an emblem, anything that could tell you which army this was. Given the circumstances of the battle, a large, very logical part of you knew it was Saladin and his men. The low chances of Baldwin’s 4,000 poorly trained soldiers beating out Saladin’s 20,000 had been present in your mind all along. However, the tiny part of you that was illogical needed proof, needed confirmation that it was not simply the soldiers of Jerusalem, returning home in glory. 

Now you could see more horses, more soldiers, a score more than you had ever seen at one time before, all charging in your direction, creating a terrific rumbling sound that drowned out all else. Then appearing from over the horizon was the sign you had been searching for; the flaming golden cross of Jerusalem! They had come home! Tears sprang to your eyes as you watched that beautiful God-blessed cross-bearer speed past the stone palace walls and onto the grounds, followed by a steady stream of warriors. You swallowed back tears to avoid your vision clouding over and watched in amazement as that indistinguishable mass of soldiers transformed into a group of individuals, each a man with his own thoughts and feelings and loved ones. Your heart jumped back up into your throat from where it had fallen earlier. Jerusalem was victorious, they had won! But had he survived? 

You tore your eyes away from the window and began to run, throwing open your bedroom door carelessly. As you did, you saw that you were apparently not the only one who had noticed the troops upon their return, and the hallways were abuzz with life. Servants ran about here and there, clamoring to see out the windows and catch a glimpse of the cross that they so loved, so they could see and believe the good news for themselves. Some laughed, and some cried. Matilda was there. You ran by her as you barrelled down the long corridor, heading for the grand staircase. She called after you, but her voice only succeeded in falling in with the muddled cries of all the others, exclaiming as they were. Shouts of jubilation echoed off the impressively high ceilings and carried throughout the space, filling it entirely. It was a beautiful sound. 

You descended the staircase quickly, quickly, dizzy from the spiral shape of it, your legs pumping as best they could. Another pair of footsteps followed in your wake, and Matilda’s calls persisted, but the rushing of blood in your ears overpowered all else. Finally, you rounded the last bend and came out into the downstairs corridor, illuminated by flickering torches mounted in wall sconces. They threw your shadow large and imposing against the flagstones, making it almost seven feet tall, and dancing wildly in the wind you created in your haste. Matilda could not keep up. 

The giant oak doors of the entrance loomed above you, very stately, and so impressive that they usually required multiple boy servants to open them. It was held closed by a series of iron bars, chains, and bolts, which shone in the orange light, challenging you to best them. You got to unhooking the lower latches that you could reach and called for someone to handle the higher ones. A wide-eyed servant boy, though very much afraid of you, rushed to your aid, quickly sliding the bolts and turning the locks above your head. Soon, they were all undone, and rather than wait for the boy to find another to assist him, you slammed your shoulder against the giant, solid slab of wood and grunted, “help me!”

“Your Majesty!” The boy called, panic evident in his voice, “Please allow me to find a-” But you cut him off before he could finish that sentence, growling in frustration and shooting him a menacing glare. He gulped and without further ceremony, helped you push open the doors. As soon as the crack between them was large enough, letting a sliver of fading daylight paint the flagstones pink and yellow, you pushed through them, out into the real world. The boy rushed after you, and behind him was Matilda, something clutched in her hands. 

Summoning all your strength, you ran, gulping down great lungfuls of the smoky evening air. Your eyes searched, wide and unblinking, as your legs carried you closer to the legion of armor-clad men on horseback. Besides about a thousand identically-shaped silhouettes, you couldn't make out much of anything in detail. No way to tell yet, you had to get closer. Your feet slapped the earth, bare as they were, the sound ringing out shrilly in your ears. The soft flesh stung and turned pink, but you were becoming numb to external stimuli and it made no difference. Your arms swung wildly at your sides, and your hair, whipped into coils by the wind, lashed at your face. There was a growing ache in your chest, but still, you were getting closer. So close that now, you could make out a figure. And suddenly, he was there. 

You knew him immediately by his silver mask, glowing in the sun, and his billowing white robes, though they were stained with sprays of brown and red. You ran and ran to him, calling his name and waving your arms, hoping to capture his attention, but it was all so very unnecessary. He had seen you the second you barrelled through those doors, known you by the shape of your body and your movements, even at such a great distance. Quickly, but as if moving in a dream, he brought his stallion to its knees and dismounted sloppily, nearly tripping in his haste, but it was no matter. His mask slipped, lubricated by his sweat, but he paid it no mind. In dreams, he was never able to move fast enough, as if his muscles were stuck in molasses, always preventing him from getting where he needed to be. This time was much the same. He simply could not reach you fast enough, could not feel the safety of being in your arms soon enough. But he ran, his feet digging into the ground, desperate to find purchase, beating into the soft earth viciously. His heart pounded just as hard against his ribcage, which had already sustained a brutal battering earlier during the battle. But now he could make out your face just a little, the curve of your nose and the dark line of your lips. 

The white linen rippled frantically around his flaming, aching body, which he pushed to its absolute limit, trembling from exhaustion though it was. Faster, he commanded it, faster! And somehow, it listened. 

The two of you drew closer and closer until you could see the way his mask was askew, dangling around his throat like a gaudy, oversized necklace. He seized it in his gloved hand and ripped it away carelessly, breaking the string that held it to him and letting it fall. It hit the ground with a dull thud and rolled away. As your teary-eyed smile came into focus, he desperately clawed at his hood and chainmail veil, discarding those, too, in one fell swoop. Those golden tresses, caked in sweat and blood, sand and earth, rain and battle, flowed freely behind him, cleansed by the wind. 

Then you were upon him, there in your nightgown and unwashed, untethered hair and without any shoes, and yet with the biggest smile he’d ever seen, and could all of that really be for him?

You collided with him roughly, unable to stop due to the momentum, and you heard a puff of air pass his lips. A sob passed yours. For the first time, you knew what it felt like to throw your arms around his bare neck and hold him close, and to cry into his shoulder. He held you, too, a bit hesitant and stiff at first, but soon he softened. His arms wrapped around you and his hands rested on your shoulder blades, and he cried. It was silent save for the few sniffs he gave. He let go of himself and buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your warm, rosy scent straight from the source, tears sliding down his golden-blond lashes and landing softly in your hair. He said nothing. Everything he wanted to say, you had already read from his letters. It was your turn to talk. 

“I read them,” you cried miserably, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. So much regret, so much wasted time. He knew it all, he saw it there. 

“I read them all, and I love you,” you said, then redoubled your efforts, burying your face in him and drawing him somehow closer. He almost believed that his arms would slip right through you and you’d vanish any second, so he cherished every second of your warmth. But you didn’t. You stayed. He broke away for a second, only to sigh in impatience and violently rip off his gloves, whipping them to the ground behind him. The satin sank into the mud. 

With his naked hands he carefully, almost timidly, stroked the small of your back. It was something he’d always wanted to do. He did this until he was fully convinced you were real, and here, and not just a pleasant vision conjured up by his post-battle delusion. But you felt firm and warm and alive beneath his hands, the fabric of your nightgown the very thinnest of barriers.

He slid his palms up to your cheeks and looked into your eyes. So full of love, they were, full of fear and relief and joy and love. You gasped, feeling his calloused hands burning their print into your cheeks. He grinned at the privilege of touching his flesh to your very own. You parted your lips, wanting to say something, but you could make no sound. You could only stare wide-eyed at each other, loving in silence. 

Behind Baldwin, his army stood still and looked on. Their horses stamped but did not move. The men did not know what to think, or how to behave. On the one hand, they were witnessing something very special; the pure, young love of their master and his betrothed. On the other hand, they were staring at a lady dressed in only undergarments, sharing an intimate moment with her man. Some of them blushed, and some smiled. But nobody, absolutely nobody, could bring themselves to look away. 

Over your shoulder, Baldwin could see the palace staff lined up in front of the great doors, some hunched over in tears of relief and joy, others standing tall and triumphant, filled with pride for their nation. Among the latter were his lady sister Sybilla and her son, and Matilda and Amelia, though they were too far away for him to see. Still clutched in Matilda’s hands were a pair of your shoes, which she had been intending to give to you to put on before you ran outside. As soon as she heard the army approaching, she’d known you would abandon everything and go to him. 

Baldwin pulled you into his side with his left arm, and with his right, he cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted to the sky, his voice ringing clear across the field, “Today, we have won a great victory!” 

In an instant, the field erupted into cheers and shouts of rejoicing, almost deafening in volume. You laughed and smiled up at your husband, whose eyes reflected the pink and purple sunset on the horizon. Then he led you towards the castle, just the same way you had come before, only slowly and fulfilled this time. As you looked at him, your eye caught a glint of something gold and glittering against the bare skin of his neck. 

“Heavenly Father, thank you.” 

Together, you walked home. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

A feast was thrown to celebrate Jerusalem’s victory, and for the first time in over a year, Baldwin sat at the head of the table with his Queen at his side. He wore no mask, and no bandages on his face, and he was adorned only by the golden crown that sat atop his cornsilk curls. So many nobles had greeted the two of you that you lost count, but there was one man in particular that stood out, and his name was Reynald de Chatillon. 

His beard was red and scraggly, spreading across his chin like a wildfire and complimenting the equally red hue of his face. In fact, his skin was florid all over; it wasn’t limited to just his face, though his pudgy cheeks were mottled with patches of red, and full of craters left behind by the pox he’d had as a boy. The pox had almost killed him, but it seemed nothing could snuff out his lifeforce, least of all a silly illness, so he just went on living. The same was true of him when you met him at the feast. Despite his constant brushes with death on the battlefield, he was likely the most alive person in that room. An insane, cruel look glinted in his perpetually open, bloodshot eyes– you weren’t sure you ever saw him blink– and his lips shined wetly beneath his mustache, for he was constantly licking them, his fat pink tongue darting out of the corner of his mouth like some kind of tic. But it wasn’t a nervous tick, and that you could be sure of, because Reynald de Chatillon was never nervous. He was a warlord, equally bloodthirsty and wine-thirsty. Mean, short, fat, and clever, though he didn’t look it. Perhaps therein lied his power. You shuddered to think of how he must appear to his enemies. Thankfully, he was on your side, at least for now. 

Reynald entered with his wife, two sons, and three daughters in tow, and to your surprise the girls were rather delicate and pretty, despite harboring the genes of their brutish father. Each of them had fine and flowing red-blonde hair and fair skin, indicating a life of luxury. Both sons were brawny and imposing, though one was much taller than the other, and perhaps more slender. But absolutely none of the children inspired fear the way their father did. You decided that you did not like him, but at that moment, you couldn’t help but at least respect him, just a little. After all, he was apparently an integral part of Baldwin’s army, given the fact that he was invited to the feast, and you had heard that he was one of the main forces that had led Jerusalem to its bloody victory. 

Just as everyone had said, Baldwin was an excellent King, as you came to see for yourself that evening. He held himself with grace and humility, and his kindness inadvertently demanded the respect of others. In a way, he was just as powerful and intimidating as Reynald, but he greeted his soldiers and knights with gentle, welcoming words and tasteful compliments. You couldn’t bite back your smile as you watched him interact with his guests. It truly was just as you had been told. He was a great King, and a great man. You hoped you could be an equally good Queen. 

Though you were each too busy greeting and entertaining guests to really converse, you and Baldwin stole secret glances at each other whenever there was a second to be spared. Sometimes those seconds between you lined up, causing you to accidentally make fleeting eye contact, only to both look away hastily, knowing you’d been caught by the other. He’d blush, and you’d fiddle with your sleeves, and as subtle as you might have thought you were being, most everyone noticed anyway. To see a young King Queen, so green behind the ears and so obviously infatuated with each other, was something to be read about in fairy tales and great love stories from ancient times, but not to be seen in person. Reynald’s daughters whispered to each other and giggled behind their hands. It was a bit of a scandal. 

When the feast had finally concluded and the last drunken guests trickled out of the great hall and to their respective rooms where they were put up for the night, you and Baldwin finally turned to look at each other without embarrassment. A grin spread across his face, and then one broke across yours, too. Finally, a moment alone. 

Since his return, the two of you had decided to drop the formalities and titles, opting to simply call each other by name, at least when you were in private. He took both of your hands in his and held them gently. 

“Y/N, you make such a wonderful Queen.” 

You couldn’t help but beam. 

“You are the most perfect King. And everybody says so, Baldwin.”

He looked down at the table, shaking his head and blushing a little, but his smile never faltered. Then he furrowed his brow, opening his mouth quickly as if he were about to say something, and then thought better of it and closed his lips again. You raised an eyebrow and squeezed his hand gently. 

“What is it? You were going to say something.” 

He smiled a little and only shook his head, still gazing down at the table, but you persisted. “You can tell me anything, you know. I’m your wife. Now, please,” you urged. He looked up at you, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes as he raised his head again. He held your hands a bit tighter for support and took a shaky breath before asking, “Would you…maybe…want to sleep in my room tonight?”

//taglist: @eatmeandbirthmeagain @lzsia @likeanecho344 @lunargraveyard @yoursoulisinyourkeepingalone @stickparrot @ainselthegreat @luigisang @sad-bag @vamp-hira @madeleinerosexxx

[chaifootsteps]

Honestly, Watching/Reading Lackadaisy made me realize that Viv puts, like… no effort into researching the history of her characters. Like, at all.

Almost all the main characters in Hazbin died during a specific time period, but despite that, they all speak like how relatively modern 20-30 somethings and dress the exact same (Cool it with the Striped Suits, Top-hats, and Bowties, Viv, I swear to God) when it would’ve been way more fun and interesting to have the the era they died in reflected in their designs and dialogue. But I think my biggest gripe with Viv’s inability to do more than google one topic and call it a day is the circumstance surrounding Angel’s death. Angel died of an overdose of Angel Dust (the drug) in the 1940s. Angel. The guy who died in the 40s. Died of a drug overdose. Of a drug that wouldn’t have been invented until the 1950s. Years after his death caused by the nonexistent-at-that-point drug. Yeah, great research there, Viv.

Meanwhile, Lackadaisy/Tracy wears the extensive research smack dab on the sleeve. And she kinda has to, seeing as Lackadaisy is technically a period drama, and the whole gimmick of it is “1920s America, but now everyone’s a cute lil kitty cat”. If the historical context in the historical period piece isn’t accurate, then the whole thing falls apart, and Tracy takes great care in making Lackadaisy as accurate to the era as humanly possible.

What really sold me on Tracy's commitment to period accuracy was the art book that just came out, specifically the page where she talks about Mitzi. There's a little drawing of her early design, and most people would agree it looks absolutely fine, but Tracy insists it's not and that she drew it before she did research. I just thought it was super impressive.

(For the record, PCP was invented in 1926, but it wasn't really used as an anesthetic until the 1950s and didn't take off as a street drug until the 1960s. It's also hard to overdose on because you'll tear off your clothes and run screaming into the streets long before you get to that point.)

[jessfandrawer]

IH & RR AU Week, Day 4: Historical AU

Renaissance Italy

This is one of the rare occasions I've drawn someone completely shirtless. How did I do? And hey, I can still kind of draw chibi's.

Some notes:

European men of this time period did not typically have tattoos, but it seemed wrong to have Renji without his tattoos. I ended up giving Renji normal eyebrows so the tattoos could be interpreted as permanent or temporary body art.

Rukia's dress in the main piece is not totally accurate to the time/region. I ended up choosing Italy when I realized the Shinigami, Espadas, and Quincies (spelling?) could be feuding families/rival city states. By that point I was too far into the drawing to change the dress, though.🙃

I referenced An Artist with a Model in his Studio by Cornelis Dusart, and Statue of a River Deity from the National Archeological Museum of Naples, as well as some historical costume books.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Do you think any of the OI characters could be convinced to put on a sexy nurse outfit, while taking care of their sick partner?

I am giggling! (I really tried not to just be like YES to all of them, but I am a weak, weak person.)

oscar isaac charcters x GN!Reader • Rating: 18+ •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• ko-fi • ask-travaganza masterlist •

Warnings: silliness, references to sexy times

Word Count: 465

_____________________________________

Steven: Giggles the whole time, and puts on a fantastically over the top accent to go with the new character he’s created. You have to kiss him to shut him up when he starts quoting Carry On, Doctor.

Marc: Will put on the outfit and make you take your medicine and go to sleep. “I’m taking care of you, so you feel better, why did you want something else?” Is a little shit about it until you beg him for kisses.

Jake: No sooner than the words are out of your mouth, he’s already scrambling to get changed. Nurse Lockley is here with medicine (his dick) and to take care of you (fuck your brains out if you’re up to it.) 

Nathan: Nathan ‘I’m not putting that fucking thing on’ Bateman. Getting all grumpy and muttering under his breath. The second you are out of the room though and (preferably) laying down, he’s knocking on the door in the most outrageous outfit you’ve ever seen and telling you he’s ‘been hired by Dr Bateman to take care of you’.

Anselm: You never have to even bring up the idea, because Anselm has already dressed up for you in a nurse’s outfit many times. (He has several for different occasions, but tends to prefer a custom made latex one that is skin tight and crotchless.) 

Cecil: Thinks the idea is hilarious and gets a little too into character. Tries to wear a pair of very high heels and you just about manage to convince him to take them off before he falls over and gives himself a concussion. 

Club!Blue: Doesn’t mind dressing up at all and is far too into it. (If a guard knocks on his office door, he will be answering it in full costume and with his cock out.)

Orderly!Blue: Please do not encourage this man. 

Jack: Has a disturbingly realistic outfit with blood stains that you do NOT want to ask where they came from. 

Santiago: Takes some convincing because it makes him feel a little self conscious, but he wants to try to not only cheer you up but also to get over some insecurities and he knows he’s safe with you.

Shimmer!Kane: Puts it on without a second thought, clothes are clothes, right? However he does like that it makes you happy. 

King John: Even though this is not historically time period accurate, I can’t help myself - he’s gonna fuck you in a plague doctor mask. I’m sorry.

Rydal: Will be a brat about it, because he wants you to spank him in the outfit.

Laurent: Starts going on about how he’s a ‘wet nurse’ and keeps shoving his boobs in your face.

Poe: As if this man doesn’t have 400 outfits on hand at all times.

_________________

Thank you for reading!

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If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[psipies]

Y'all ever wandered exactly what music would Alastor listen to?

Well do I have a treat for you!

tl;dr I've made a biblically historically accurate playlist with jazz from 1920 - 1933. Enjoy!

As an old jazz enjoyer, baby swing dancer, hazbin hotel fandom inhabitant and an adhd owner, recently I developed a raging hiperfixation with history of jazz.

So of course I was into the idea of finding a playlist which have recordings from the ✨period✨

You know, stuff that Alastor could actually air in his radio show. Albeit most playlists I found, between music from 1920, have also electro swing and more contemporary music, as well as songs from the show.

So I've made one myself.

Without further ado, here is how madness looks like:

I highly recommend to listen to the playlist on shuffle, since I added the tracks by artist. So it's more fun to have it a bit mixed 🙃🔀

Based on what I could find, Alastor died in his thirties. Most resources state that it was his early thirties. His year of death is 1933 (after fandom wiki). For this project I made an assumption that he lived between 1900 - 1933 and worked in the radio his whole adult life. So on the playlist you'll find the music recorded in years 1920 - 1933.

Vivzie pointed out that Alastor liked Cab Calloway, Charlie Chaplin's "Smile" and his favorite song would be "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile" from the "Annie" musical. Especially that the latter was an inspiration for his character. BUT.

"Annie" musical premiered in 1977, so songs from that work are too modern for the playlist. Although Alastor could enjoy the "Little Orphan Annie", a 1930/31 radio drama show. As far as I'm concerned, it only had a theme song, which unfortunately I can't find on Spotify.

Charlie Chaplin's "Smile" premiered in 1936, but I decided to include it. Let's pretend that the year of death is contractual in this case 😏

Unfortunately most of the jazz standards from 1920 was first recorded after 1940, so I guess they couldn't got into 20s/30s radio. But maybe I should chill a bit on the radio part and include stuff that Alastor could enjoy live, hanging out with Mimzy at some local speakeasies? Whaddya say?

I hope you'll appreciate my exquisite sense of humor, since I was able to choose some tracks basing on the sheer hilarity of how their titles suits our Bambi 🤡 Can you spot them?

I'm not an expert, just a crazy person with too much time on her hands. So if you spot some inaccuracies gimme a shout 👀

I'll be expanding the playlist, because why the hell not?

Phew! Wasn't that a hell of a rabbithole dive? I hope that I was able to introduce you to some fun, new (...old?) music that you'll love 🎩

Personally I grew to love Duke Ellington and Cab Calloway. How 'bout you? Any favorites?

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hi,

'm writing a novel set in the 1900s, including scenes from WW1. Any tips on maintaining accuracy for that period and writing in the style of novels from that era?

Authentic Portrayal of a Historical Era

If your story is set in another time and place, you'll need to do some research to make sure you get the details accurate. Luckily, there's information available online, in books, and on YouTube of just about every historical era in every place.

I want to take a moment to stress the importance of place, because life in early 1900s New York City would have been a little different from life in early 1900s Sacramento, for example. Likewise, life in an early 1900s Scottish village would be quite different from life in an early 1900s Indian village. So, make sure your general research pertains to the country of your story's setting, and that your specific research is geared toward a specific village, town, city, or region--or at the very least (if your specific location is imaginary) the closest real world proximity. Likewise, it's also very important to take socioeconomic status into account, because once again, life for an early 1900s socialite and her family in Manhattan would be quite different from the early 1900s life of a farmer in rural Manitoba.

When you're doing your research, you'll want to pay close attention to the following details:

-- societal rules and norms -- rules and norms around love and marriage -- role of culture and religion -- clothing, architecture, decor -- food and drink -- music -- customs, traditions, festivals -- typical occupations -- treatment/roles of women -- treatment/roles of children -- typical home life -- government and justice system -- transportation, tools, and weaponry -- notable "pop culture" and current events -- slang, idioms, and popular sayings -- important mythology, folklore, and urban legends

YouTube is a great resource for documentaries and documentary style videos to get a good breakdown of particular topics. Like, for example, let's say one of your characters is a wealthy New York socialite. There are videos on YouTube that will show you how a wealthy American or British woman (for example) would dress in the early 1900s. Likewise, you can watch a video about World War I or anything specific to WWI that you want to learn about.

WQA’s Guide to Internet Research Researching a Historical Topic Setting Your Story in an Unfamiliar Place Writing About Difficult to Research Topics

Happy researching and writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[youthereader]

Near Zero part 1.

pairing: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

summary: 2.8k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

rating: eventually E (no smut in this part); age gap (10+ years), infidelity, period-typical sexism

a/n: Though based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character. This is not intended to be historically accurate, merely written as entertainment. This is my first reader fic ever, so please be kind! Many thanks to @indulgence-be-thy-name for encouraging me and helping iron out wrinkled ideas.

part 2. 3.* 4. 5. 6.* 7.*

When you see him now, he’s so different to the last time, but he’s unmistakably the same man. Now, he wears a broad hat and carries a pipe as he approaches you in the empty room.

“I was wondering when you would show up,” he says, and his smile opens him up completely.

He extends a hand as you rise to meet him. Your things are being sorted thoroughly somewhere out back, but you still hold onto your coat and matching pocketbook. Los Alamos feels like another world, so remote that you hadn’t expected the town to be built here, with roads and people swarming. It is a living, breathing thing you’ve somehow managed to stumble into, it feels.

“Dr. Oppenheimer,” you reply, shaking his hand. “I didn’t know if you were meeting me.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss it,” he replies, though he sounds distracted. “What do you know?”

Hardly any pleasantries, which you expected. In the years of knowing him, Dr. Oppenheimer didn’t get to know you as your professor, and certainly not as anything else outside of the classroom. You had not subscribed to the Cult of Oppie, and not necessarily out of choice.

Though there were women studying theoretical and experimental physics, they were few and far between. Since leaving high school, you had understood that to be taken seriously, you could not act like a man. The few friends you had in high school often teased you about your lack of grace, your ability to be covered in chalk dust at any given time, and your unwavering standoffish nature.

You belong in a think tank, not on a podium proclaiming these theories. You could work in a team, which was why you supposed your name came up for this.

“My country needs me,” you reply.

He smiles again, somewhat smaller. His eyes survey you a beat longer and you swallow, picturing your hair windswept and unruly from the train journey. You might smell of sweat, you hadn’t showered since yesterday and came straight here when you let yourself known to security.

“And your country will be glad to have you. Have a seat.”

He gestures to a desk and chair, waiting for you to sit. The silence stretches and you feel his eyes on you. You’re wearing your best dress and your nails match your lipstick. Though you were given little context about being summoned here, it felt like a job interview from the telegram you received a few days ago.

The last time he saw you, you dressed like someone that didn’t care about making a good impression.

To stamp down any nerves, you pluck your cigarettes case from your pocketbook, fishing one out. A lit match appears as you put a cigarette between your lips, Dr. Oppenheimer’s hand cupping the flame as you lean in.

“Mm, thank you,” you murmur. You exhale, watching as he pulls back, extinguishing it with a short puff of air.

He stares down at the burnt-out match for a couple seconds before he looks back at you again, his brows furrowing.

“This opportunity means reaching beyond what we have before scientifically,” he says, and you take another pull from your cigarette.

You speak around your smoke. “This is to do with Nazi weapons, isn’t it.”

“They split the atom,” he replies, and you nod. “And since you’re here, it means you’ve been cleared to be part of our great endeavour.”

The ‘our’ would be ‘his’ to a lot of people. You know better, having seen the hundreds of people outside.

“I need like-minded people,” he says.

You rub the tip of your thumb and forefinger together absently, frowning. You were the first to admit that you had very little in your life besides your work, and that hadn’t been plentiful since war broke out. Belatedly, it occurs to you that he’s referring to your intelligence.

“What could I contribute? I wasn’t one of your best.”

“You were,” he amends, lowering his voice a little. “You just didn’t participate outside of a school building. You were invited.”

Your eyes swing to meet his and you recall that Oppie reputation, that he was a womanizer underneath the genius. It never meant to be aimed towards you, that charm. Or so you assumed.

“I’m not the type to enjoy crowds,” you reply. “It’s a character flaw of mine.”

You were speaking just like your parents, the ones that had not encouraged you to pursue academia. Being a homemaker, someone with a reliable husband was what they wanted for you.

“Would you have come, if I asked you to, personally?” he asks.

His question throws you, and you stammer out: “N-now, or back then?”

“I asked for you both times,” he says.

For the first time, you blush. Hoping he ignores this, you smoke some more to clear your head. You had almost forgotten about his ability to make you flustered.

“If you asked me to come to a class party personally, I would have said yes,” you admit.

You dare to glance his way again, stomach flipping. So much for being a more polished version of yourself, you’re back to being mousey and strange under those intense eyes.

“That’s a pity,” he murmurs. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”

-

In the days and weeks to follow, it’s quickly made clear that there’s no leaving Los Alamos. Your residence is between a series of identical houses. The house itself is barely larger than your living quarters you remember from college. A cramped bedroom, a washroom, and a kitchenette. Nowhere to entertain to speak of, but it was still a privilege to have your own space. Your neighbors to your left are a young family of three, and to your right, there are two secretaries related to fellow scientists.

You keep to yourself. You opt for a long letter to your parents explaining very little about the new role here. You’re certain your letters are read by someone along the way for obvious reasons, and explaining it all tires you anyway.

Being a part of something as insular as this takes some adjusting to say the least. There is no escaping without being noticed, as there are guards all over. You overhear town gossip without meaning to; the tiny bubble you circle over and over is both thrilling and stifling. Everything feels pressurized in those first couple days in your new home especially. You sit on your new bed with your hands in your lap, cigarette perpetually lit in times like these.

You leave early the morning you’re expected in the department, unable to delay the inevitable any longer. You’re not the only one with this drive, walking into the main laboratory (a wide room with desks in rows with a blackboard at the back) to find several men already seated, chatting with one another.

You pause, waiting as their attention diverts to you. You recognize a few of them from professional acquaintance, whereas others you’ve only known by reputation. The air shifts, and you feel very out of place.

“Good morning,” you say, voice soft, controlled.

You wish to be invisible, which was why your clothes were far demurer than what you arrived in earlier that week. Admittedly, you did agonize over your hair for perhaps longer than necessary, but you’re glad you haven’t done childish braids or nothing at all. There’s a fine line to tread with these men; being attractive but not ostentatious is usually the aim. From what you’ve learned over the years, not caring about your appearance tends to backfire in terms of being taken seriously.

You don’t agree with any of this, of course. No-one should be judged on their appearance in terms of their intelligence or whether they’re worth listening to. Unfortunately, this is just the game you must play, especially in academia.

Your eyes catch various reactions, some eyes lighting up with recognition, others perplexed. Some might not have seen you in years and don’t remember you at all, which is fair. You never strove to be known; your work is what mattered.

A couple men come forward to shake your hand, pleased to see you. You ignore the way a few pairs of eyes dip to your exposed ankles. You’re scanned and assessed, and whether you’re found wanting is forgotten, for you feel the touch of someone’s hand on your arm and turn your head towards the source.

“Oppie. Back in one piece!” someone calls out.

You stare at the side of Dr. Oppenheimer’s face, your arm burning from where he touched you to slip past. Had he been that close behind you on your way there? You don’t think you could have missed him, though you were preoccupied with your thoughts.

“Yes. Well rested and ready to get back to work,” he replies, striding towards the front.

He doesn’t look your way, doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest, which is fine. It’s not out of the ordinary, and so you sit down on the edge of the group, ankles together under your desk.

“Oppie the Rancher, I don’t see it.”

You can. His hat reminds you of a frontiersman. You can picture him staring out across the desert on his horse, reins in hand.

“A night under the stars can do wonders for your mind, Richard,” Oppenheimer retorts, pointing with his pipe. “You should try it sometime.”

The men banter and you sink into your observer role with ease. At least they’re not acting that differently with a woman present. As more people fill the room, you relax into your chair with your notebook and pen at the ready.

You stand as Dr. Bethe enters, shaking his hand. You will report to him, the head of the theoretical division. Once he takes a seat, the noise dissipates, and Oppenheimer launches into the meeting.

You will have to play catch-up for some time, but it’s not altogether intimidating. You know you can dedicate all your time to this, since you have no family staying here.

-

Days are spent with your head full of equations. You drink cups of drip coffee over and over, and ashtrays are filled and emptied. You are among a team of theorists assigned to a specific task by Bethe, whose own intellect is dedicated to your cause.

The goal is to solve the issue of nitrogen fusing into magnesium, or, to understand the probability of the nitrogen atoms fusing. There isn’t data on this, and so you must calculate for this occurring every time a fission bomb would detonate. Every time, there is a chance that the bomb would cause a chain reaction.

You write out the calculations like everyone else, and each conclusion is the same. There is a chance that the atmosphere itself may ignite.

Everyone else begs for rest, but your mind won’t give you relief. You chain smoke, standing in front of the blackboard with your chalk aloft, as the world darkens around you. You ignore your rumbling stomach, finishing the calculation again with a short sigh. Stepping back, you hear:

“What are you doing here?”

You turn your head to see Oppenheimer standing by the doorway, lips parting at the sight of your face, his hat in his hand. He walks over, glancing at the board behind you.

“It’s the same,” he says, eyes darting left to right.

“I’ve done this ten times,” you murmur. “Theory always leaves near zero chance of catastrophe.”

“Near zero,” he repeats, pulling in a breath. “Yes, I know.”

The weight of this is as much a reality to you as a theory, since this isn’t a classroom back in California, but a laboratory equipped with hundreds of scientific minds all working to build the same weapon. There are marbles representing very real plutonium in the fishbowl six feet away from you.

“I don’t wish to be an alarmist,” you add.

He looks at you again, eyes dipping to your mouth, and you feel a stir beneath your navel. To your surprise, he gives a small smile, but it’s not condescending. You’ve seen him give those out plenty before but have yet to receive one yourself.

“Your fears are valid, though not entirely necessary,” he murmurs. “I just got back from Michigan. I left in a panic about theory. But theory can only take you so far.”

You recall not seeing him for a couple days, though you are prone to missing others when you’re stuck in your own head. Oppenheimer is the exception, always.

He moves to lean against the desk beside you and you follow him, perching yourself at the edge as he looks down at his hat.

“I needed to speak to Compton about the potential chain reaction, of course there’s no possibility of speaking about it on the telephone-”

“So, you took a train all the way to see him?” you ask, and he nods. “But now you seem calm.”

“Not calm,” he says, though his voice is level. “More understanding that there’s a 3-in-a-million chance of total apocalypse.”

Those chances, though conceptually low, are not non-existent. You watch as he glances up at you once more, the air leaving the room. His eyes implore you.

“Near zero.”

“Near zero,” he echoes, his voice a near whisper. He places his hat back on his head.

You push off the desk and pick up the eraser, beginning to wipe the board clean of your calculations. When you finish, you look over at him again, frowning.

“If you’re more understanding, why are you here?”

It’s possible he didn’t go home because he needed to work this all out, like you. He keeps staring back at you, intimidating you as always, causing heat to rise at the back of your neck. In the low light, you hope it’s undetectable.

“The light was on. I saw you through the window.”

You swallow, ducking your head. “Oh.”

You place the eraser back on the ledge, and the space between you seems to shrink though neither of you move. You might be imagining the way he takes you in. He’s the director, and he has valid concerns for his staff.

But you’re no fool. His gaze is too familiar, especially when he nods at you, saying:

“Grab your things. I’ll work you out.”

You obey, following him out, switching off the light along the way. As you walk together down the halls, your footsteps echoing, you smell him beside you. He is tobacco, and body odour. Nothing sharp or unpleasant, but intimate, a semi-sweet musk. You smell the dust on his jacket and think of him sitting astride his horse with that thousand-yard stare.

You exit the building with nods to the guards, bringing you back to the present. You don’t want to leave him there in the street, but his residence is nowhere near yours as far as you know. You think of his wife, not for the first time, and wonder what he tells her about what they’re doing here.

“I’m this way,” you murmur.

Oppenheimer doesn’t respond how you expect, walking beside you for a few minutes instead of leaving you to find your way home alone. The silence between you in companionable, not strained, which feels like a miracle to you. From memory, he has never been someone you had a poor encounter with. It feels like a fluke, but statistically, it makes sense.

Your head still reels with equations, probabilities, and dire consequences. The chances of sleeping are so low, but you still wish him goodnight when you arrive at your residence.

There are people in the street, some glancing your way, seeing him and wave. He lifts a hand but doesn’t greet them further. He waits, watching you try to figure out how to leave him.

“Try to sleep.”

“I don’t know how likely that is,” you admit, turning back to him.

His hands are on his hips, and he smiles knowingly.

“I need you sharp tomorrow.”

You stand so close to one another now that his voice is low, the intimacy of the moment spreading over you.

“You’re no longer Sisyphus, you can rest.”

You think about pointing out the hypocrisy of this. You doubt he finds it easy to sleep at night, under the stars or otherwise.

“I think it’s more like the incy wincy spider,” you say, emboldened by his proximity to you. “Not quite as tragic.”

He chuckles and you smile back at him. He steps back, nodding a little. “Have a good night.”

He waits for you to go to your door, and you open it, glancing back at him for a moment. His smile returns, an understanding shade to his eyes.

“Remember the sun comes out again,” he calls.

He takes off, and you shut the front door behind you, leaning your forehead against it as you exhale.

Thank you for reading! 🖤 Likes, reblogs and replies are always appreciated and genuinely motivate me. 🥺

[97keanu]

Keanu characters + couples Halloween costumes:

John Wick:

John wants to say he doesn't do costumes. He complains, gently, saying he's too old to dress up anyways, but he can't say no to you in the end. He thinks you're funny when you suggest being a nurse since you're always patching him up all the time, but he also can't deny the image of you being a sexy nurse either. You also joke about him being a literal baba yaga and he finds that less funny. In the end, you two go as something that's actually as far from his work as possible, something simple and cute that ends up leaving John feeling happy he can have a moment of fun. Even if that is just staying in, watching cheesy horror movies, and giving out candy with you.

Kevin Lomax:

Unlike John, Kevin would totally go for the obvious with an angel/demon couples costume. He might even ask to be the angel just to throw people off, not to mention seeing you in a sexy devil's costume (especially if you're typically an innocent!reader) would really turn him on. He also likes to keep the costumes a bit higher class, so what you're wearing is not coming from the corner store or the mall. No, Kevin is buying you louboutin red bottoms to match a skin tight Alexander McQueen red dress. And, well, maybe the devil horns and tail do actually come from the mall...

Neo:

Neo doesn't want to admit how badly he loves dressing up. He likes being able to be someone else from time to time, just to get away from his typically boring on the surface life. He likely is asking you to be in 90s nerdy pop culture cosplay for Halloween, maybe even leaning onto the more goth side of media. He would take inspo from movies like: The Crow, Blade, Underworld, and maybe even end up asking you to be the Sally to his Jack.

Ted Logan:

Ted would love any outfit that he could easily pull off being stoned in. Think Shaggy and Velma (bill might even tag in as Scooby). Another great one you two cook up is Garfield and Hello Kitty, but Ted also adds that, Garfield is also, of course, stoned. There's also a possibility for you two to get into a lot of silly innuendos costumes as well, but with Ted's mind they would likely not make much sense. Possibility for you to convince Ted on a historic costume and getting him to take you back in time for period accurate clothing. Also, don't be surprised if it turns into a thrupple costume with Bill.

Evil!Ted Logan:

He would think couples costumes are stupid at first, and maybe even berate you about it (crybaby!reader watch out!). His mind would change when he sees there's slasher Halloween costumes at the mall, and he decides he and evil!bill can probably get away with more mischief if they're masked. He would probably try to talk you into being either the final girl from a slasher to reenact some fantasies, or ask you to be a sexy ver. of Ghostface or Freddy.

Constantine:

Constantine doesn't do costumes. He will likely not even end up breaking like Wick, and instead is a meanie about the whole thing. He shows up in that damned suit he always wears while you're out here in your cutest sexy girl outfit (think angel, playboy bunny, cat woman) and only ends up feeling bad about the whole thing after you storm off and cry. He apologizes the best he can, and ends up trying to make it up to you by being more social at the party, and telling your friends that he's dressed as "Vincent from Pulp Fiction" or some other character that comes to mind that wears a suit. Next year, you make him promise to actually dress up, and when you two do it's totally cheesy ones he hates but allows for you, such as Joker and Harley Quinn-esque.

Jonathan Harker:

This ones fun because you two are going to a masquerade! You get the most gorgeous gown with all the frills you please, with a gothic touch of course. Jonathan isn't usually one who dresses overboard, but tonight he has dressed to the nines for you! He looks sleek and dark, stunning in an illusive mask that for some reason has you feeling more of his dom side. Jonathan actually ends up really getting into it, and he charms you all night long as if he's almost another man entirely. The beauty of the masqurade conceals and invites freedom to be someone you're typically not, and by the end of it, you can't wait to take him home. He can keep the mask on tonight.

♰ Please send any costumes you think would work for keanuverse characters, I'd love to hear them! Especially anyone I missed ʚ♥︎ɞ

[sanctus-ingenium]

heya! I'm wondering, from where do you reference clothing for your art pieces? (Specifically for Inver!) I enjoy the outfits you draw your characters in

hii so for the fancier victorian-era outfits i used a whole bunch of sources but among them the metropolitan museum costume collection, this is a great online gallery of historical costume that you can search by era. you can also find illustrated fashion plates from the era to get a sense of how people styled the outfits, facial hair, accessories etc. here's one for hats i used. i also followed the twitter account WikiVictorian which.. due to new twitter policies you can't view accounts while not logged in, but it looks like they have a pinterest and also instagram?? anyway great resource, posted a lot of dresses, furniture, and historical recipes with sources & context.

(cut for length)

but those dresses and stuff are for the upper classes. For ordinary people i just googled what I knew every old lady wears: shawls

this is a galway shawl which is like. THE thing every single person wore back in the day and if you check out the wiki page it's a great reference for what patterns & dyes would have been used. from there you can find historical photos. i love photos like this which show a whole scene in context with people from multiple generations hanging out (yooo check out the Sparch in the background!!). now I know this isn't 1860s stuff, but the fact is that fashion doesn't move so fast for people like Clarion who live on a farm and have to make their simple clothing items last for a lifetime or more.

for the military outfits I mainly just googled 'military outfit 1860s' and iterated (groundbreaking). for things to be accurate i tried to pick reference illustrations drawn during the era.

i figure you might mean specifically the ancient Inver stuff so for them I used a lot of old illustrations and stuff from art history class in school. this era is more in the region of the 1500s. here is a kind of kitchy site which nonetheless has real-life examples of some of the clothing i drew. this painting is in my list of references (sorry for the stock image link but it's one of the nicest online reproductions of it) and you can see the guys on the right wearing the same léine that i've drawn Finbarr in. once you know the time period & what the various outfit components are called you can search them more easily. now the headdress i've drawn Finbarr wearing (Olivier wears it as well!) is in fact a real thing, it's the Petrie crown broken in half.

the crown is not of the same era as the other outfits because i'm not so interested in historical accuracy as much for these guys (booo).

for Olivier I searched for old French armour from the same historic era as Finbarr, I know less about the history of Brittany so kind of just copied what I saw with some small alterations (because he wears werewolf armour, which is not a thing irl).

[kaiserin-erzsebet]

tell us more about your complicated feelings about the accuracy of shows like Bridgerton, please!!!

Thank you for asking. I've been wanting to get it out of my head.

First off, I think "historical accuracy" can be a somewhat impossible standard. We don't know the past well enough to do a one-to-one recreation, and even if we did, it would probably be kind of uninteresting. We understand that romance or mystery fiction isn't a one-to-one recreation of modern life either, even if it is set in our own time.

I hold historical accuracy to the same standards as book accuracy when it comes to adaptations. Something is going to change between mediums and that is a pretty neutral thing on the face of it. I often look for an understanding of themes (or predominant concerns of the period) and vibes more than I look for accuracy. And I let the media itself tell me how serious it wants to be about recreating the past.

I love this scene from Marie Antoinette for capturing Rococo excess, and there is a pair of Converse in it:

When I talk about shows like Bridgerton, I mean the ones that exist in this kind of "less than serious, but recognizably historical setting." Overtly self-serious works like a certain recent Napoleon movie that everyone panned are easy to critique on the grounds of historical accuracy, because they are presenting themselves as trying for that.

Bridgerton, on the other hand, is Regency with a giant asterisk. The sparkly dresses and pop song covers tell you that. I feel like it occupies a similar niche to something like Reign, where the aesthetics and the music and the story tell you it is more about romance than about serious history. You're here to have fun and watch pretty people kiss. Yet, there are recognizable historical figures in it at points, which keep it from being full fantasy.

And I don't have anything against something that is interested in being fun and romantic. My own media diet isn't exclusively serious stuff either.

The complicated part of my feelings come more from reception than anything the show is necessarily doing. To me, a historian who consumes a lot of historical media, it's pretty obvious that the show is wearing "not that historical" on its sleeve. And generally, I give that more grace because it is being clear about what it is.

However, in the wake of the show's popularity, I've seen people engaging with it in a way that gives me pause. For example, on a video of a woman making a dress for a Bridgerton premiere, a lot of people in the comments were trying to tell her to do a "period accurate" Regency dress. Period accurate. For Bridgerton. The show that takes actual Regency fashion as a suggested base that they build off of.

I've similarly seen videos along the lines of "POV a Bridgerton era girl doing [x]" that seem to be thinking Bridgerton is a representation of the time period rather than existing in its own bubble. Or people discussing it saying things like "back then [insert thing] was true" trying to draw from the actual Regency period (usually rather badly).

It's like the popularity has broken through to people who don't usually consume history or historical media, who simply miss how much the show is saying that it isn't history. It's a sort of undiscerning audience who isn't catching the blatant, intentional differences from a serious period piece because they know very little about the period. And then things merge into how they think about actual history (see also: people who bring up plot points from Reign to characterize actual Mary QoS in Mary vs Elizabeth discussions, or people who talk about "back then" with GoT or HotD)

And my complicated feeling is this: I don't actually think these shows could do more to differentiate themselves from actual history. They're giving you all the clues to say they aren't trying to do that. Yet, I can't help but think that there are still ways that they bleed into perceptions of history. And I wonder if that is an inevitability with loosely historical media.

[amethystamanda]

Fountain Pen Mini-Set (pencil override plus deco pen and ink pot)

I needed a pencil override for my decades challenge save, and realized that the most accurate thing that I could find was probably no override at all. Quills went out around the 1850s, and modern pens didn't arrive until around the 1960s, and in between there was nothing that I could find.

A child in the 1890s would have needed something to write with that they could take to school the next day (...assuming they had homework, but we're playing a game where they do, so...), and they wouldn't have used a quill. A pencil, maybe, but not one with an eraser attached, and not anything like a modern pencil. If they used a pen, it would have been a dip pen or a fountain pen.

This pen could be considered somewhat accurate from any time from the 1850s (as a dip pen) to the 1950s (as a fountain pen; the change from dip pen to fountain pen would have happened around the 1890s)--or use it for more modern times if you want. It will be used anywhere that a sim normally pulls a pencil out if thin air their pocket. It's a bit chunkier than most of the oldest pens look to be, but it needs to fit the animation and the game, I wanted it to cover a range of time periods, and there were some thicker older pens.

It's dark blue (could pass for black in most lights) with gold details and nib, including the manufacturer's name. It's not fancy as many pens were--it's not completely gold and doesn't have highly patterned designs--so that it can be used by a wider range of households.

It's also my first mesh made from scratch, and I learned quite a but making it, but if anything's off, let me know.

Then I decided I wanted the clutter to go with it. So there's also a deco pen (capped) and a bottle of ink in something close to the shape that a bottle of ink from the 1800s to the early 1900s may have been.

Currently they come in one swatch, to match the pen. I may add more at some point if I decide I want them, but for now, it's just a matching set.

***

You can only use one pen override at a time, so if you want to use this one, remove any others--and if you want to use another, remove this one.

Download: http://simfileshare.net/folder/221356/

***

CC in the historical screenshots:

Linzlu's dry sink and pie safe, and Vampireloreskill's keroseeing lamp, updated by @jewishsimming https://jewishsimming.tumblr.com/post/657737836277252096/historical-buildbuy-objects-made-off-the-grid-hey

kat-simss homework default (Addams) by @kat-simss https://kat-simss.tumblr.com/post/646219971991601152/mcguffeys-reader-historical-homework-defaults

Vintage Ringlets by @the-melancholy-maiden https://www.patreon.com/posts/vintage-ringlets-66568675

Kirsten Meet Dress and Pantalettes by @linzlu https://linzlu.tumblr.com/post/660996937225502721/meet-kirsten-kirstens-meet-dress-was-one-of-my

The lot that is in the screenshot with my decades child Virginia is from the Antiquated Brindleton save by @antiquatedplumbobs https://antiquatedplumbobs.tumblr.com/post/716237011833487360/antiquated-brindleton

(The other screenshots are cc and mod free except for this set, in Cordelia's Secret Cottage in Henford-on-Bagley)

[iiseult]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒: 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒥𝑒𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓂

CWs →  fluff, angst, suggestive content, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism, one-sided pining

Wordcount: 3.1k

Note: I asked if you guys preferred to have more frequent updates with shorter chapters or slower updates with longer chapters, and the three people that responded wanted more frequent updates so here we are. Please reblog if you enjoy because the second chapter didn’t do very well and I don’t want this series to die off before it even begins! EL OH EL!!

The issue of an heir, or the lack thereof, had been solidly squared away by Baldwin within three months of your marriage, so that you never had to speak a word on the matter. He told his mother that despite “frequent attempts” on both your parts, you could not be made with child on account of his inadequate health. Of course no such attempts were ever made, but that knowledge was something that stayed solely between the two of you. By that point everybody in the royal court had suspected as much anyway, and with the news of his leprosy having recently been confirmed, it was accepted with very little noise. Nobody spoke to you of it, likely afraid to broach the topic, except for Baldwin’s mother, who offered you her sympathies and prayers, which you publicly accepted and privately rejected. Though she had finally relented in her feelings of ill will toward you, they had apparently been replaced with feelings of nothingness, so you continued to resent her until her death the following year. 

Meantime, you concerned yourself with adjusting to life as a queen and worked on becoming familiar with the kingdom, and Baldwin left you very much alone. He was a positively mysterious figure, seemingly doing his utmost to stay out of your way and to avoid contact with you altogether. Occasionally you did see him haunting the corridors of the castle like a faceless apparition in his colorless robes and hidden expression, but he never spoke to you, so in turn you did not speak to him. For the most part it did not bother you, but you sometimes childishly wished for his company, though it likely wasn’t his direct company you were wishing for but rather the company of any such equal. However you did miss the fluttery feeling he used to be able to stir in your breast with his charming words and noble actions. Somewhat successfully, you pushed those immature notions away and hoped they wouldn’t return. 

Despite your loneliness, you were constantly surrounded by Matilda and Amelia, the latter whom you’d come to rather like and regard as something of a sister. And if she was the sister, Matilda was the mother. 

Matilda perpetually accompanied you on your explorations of the city, helping you navigate the narrow alleyways and bustling streets and showing you which unsavory characteristics were the surefire marks of a swindler. That you favored the market streets above all else was immediately evident to her, so teaching you to spot dishonest merchants and avoid giving them your business was one of her top priorities. Most of your time in the city was, in fact, spent shopping. You admired the handmade wares being peddled at every corner and ignored the incessant voices imploring you to come this way or go that way so they could sell you something. It was all very amusing and enticing to you. 

Each time you requested it you were allotted certain amounts of money from the king to spend at your whim, collected and delivered to you by various servants, and he was more generous than anyone ever expected. With this allowance, you were able to purchase rolls of richly-colored fabrics to be made into dresses, endless supplies of ink and parchment, pottery covered in artwork so detailed it could have only been done by a single paintbrush hair, any number of books that appealed to you, and numerous tapestries hand-woven with shining threads that depicted biblical scenes or mythical creatures, such as unicorns or dragons. These you hung in your own bedchamber. But perhaps the most magnificent of all your purchases was the very first one you ever made, which occurred during your second week. You had emptied your coin purse for it, quite literally turned it upside down on the merchant’s stand, gold coins rolling here and there for him to chase after. Matilda strongly disapproved and urged you not to make the purchase because she thought the piece too fanciful and mature for such a young lady, but you silenced her with an icy glance and there was henceforth no more talk of the subject. 

It was a sapphire ring. The band was thick and gold, adorned by intricate flowing patterns, and the stone was inlaid securely between four strong prongs. For a second you figured it could become a family heirloom and be passed down onto your children, but then you remembered that the prospect of you ever having children was unlikely at best and a small twinge of disappointment tugged at your heart. So you decided it would be best to get as much enjoyment out of the thing as possible and from then on you wore it proudly everywhere and on every occasion, regardless of Matilda’s disapproving glances. 

The people of Jerusalem found their new queen just as mysterious and elusive as they had once found their king. Seeing a member of their royal family out in public had become an oddity over the years of Baldwin’s reign, and yet you were there at least twice a week, speaking in some romantic foreign tongue to your servants. Many of your subjects spoke only Arabic or Greek and could not recognize your French when they heard it. But the thing most contributing to the air of mysteriousness surrounding you actually had nothing to do with you personally; it was more so the fact that nobody ever expected the king to marry. Your indisputable beauty only contributed to the confusion. There had been rumors about Baldwin’s illness for years now, and the fact that his face was always covered by a mask led most everyone to believe that he must have suffered some hideous facial disfigurement as a result. This begged the question, how could such a beautiful young woman willingly marry such a horrifying person? 

Baldwin took his meals in his bedchamber and also conducted all business out of it. To you he was evasive and sightings of him were rare, limited to perhaps once a month. In the first four weeks after the wedding night, you saw him twice, maybe thrice. 

You had been in the chapel, kneeling at the altar and praying with your head bent and a cloth covering it, when he silently slipped into the room completely unbeknownst to you and took up prayer only a few feet away. After a moment you looked up and saw him with a start, having expected to see someone there, but not expecting to see him. His head was bowed, and his blond tresses fell over his face, hiding it from you, but you could still see his lips moving silently in prayer. When he was finished he quickly crossed himself and turned to fix his gaze on you, apparently having decided to go maskless that day. You stared, chest rising and falling heavily as you tried to recover from the shock with a hand clasped over your heart, willing it to stop its wild thumping. His blue eyes twinkled in amusement as your cheeks flushed and you felt a little anger at him for being entertained by you, but if he noticed this, he didn’t show it. He gazed at you for a time, eyes remaining kind but impassible, before he evidently decided he’d had enough and stood, walking out of the chapel without a single word ever passing between the two of you. 

Again you saw him one afternoon after returning from the city with Matilda. You had purchased the last remaining volume of a book whose other parts were already in the library, and seeked to put it in its rightful place on the shelf. Baldwin had been in the library playing chess with Raymond at the time, as he had been for the better part of the day, and he muttered something to the man softly when you walked in and hastily curtseyed to them. His eyes followed you across the room to where you stopped in front of a towering bookshelf. You let your head drop back against your shoulders and sighed, seeing that you would have to somehow reach the very top shelf. You’d have to find the ladder, or else find a servant who would replace the book for you. As you turned around, he appeared right behind you, blue eyes twinkling in that same mild-mannered way and holding his gloved hands out. 

Without speaking he seemed to say “allow me”, and it was so bewitching that you complied immediately without a thought, dropping the heavy volume into his outstretched hands. You watched, enchanted, in silence as he reached up to the top shelf, straining even at his impressive height, and slid the leather-bound volume into place. Again you curtseyed and bowed your head in thanks, peering up at him through your lashes. He continued smiling and only nodded once before retreating to his chess game, so you followed suit and returned to Matilda’s side. 

A strange anxiousness had seemed to overcome you, and you spent the rest of the day lying on your fainting couch drinking wine and trying to keep your mind from conjuring up images of him. How had he known which books the volume belonged with? How could he know? But by the time night fell and Matilda was gathering you against her chest to help walk you to bed, your regular spirited countenance had returned, and the period of brooding had reached its end. 

There was one other time in that first month you thought you might have seen him, but for all you knew, it could have been a trick of the candlelight. 

After a particularly heavy dinner of lamb, bread, and pudding, you had been dragging yourself wearily to bed when out of the corner of your eye, you saw something white and fluttering behind you. You turned to see what or whom it was, but of course it was gone by then, vanished into thin air. You hadn’t dared peer around the corner, deciding it was better not to know. But the fluttering white thing had almost certainly been his robe, and that notion didn’t leave your mind for the rest of the night, nor did it really ever. It was something you always remembered and often thought of for no particular reason. 

In the second month you saw him even less frequently, only catching a few glimpses here and there, and the instances seemed more spaced apart. He was seldom alone, but even if he had been you doubted you’d have the courage to speak to him, and God only knows what you’d speak of. Perhaps some interesting tidbit of news from the city or some morsel of gossip, as it were. However the opportunity never presented itself. 

In the third month you saw him but once, on the eve of your fifteenth birthday. He had been returning from the city on his white horse with a retinue of servants, many more than would be necessary for any other royal figure, but perhaps they were worried he’d have a spell of illness.

You had been awaiting his return by the window of the East tower with your embroidery for hours, hoping to discover something interesting about his little trip. Earlier in the day you’d heard a few of your maids murmuring about the king’s sudden decision to visit the city for the first time in almost a year. They wondered what the occasion was and then so did you. As he rode past the great stone wall surrounding the castle and disappeared into the stables beyond your line of sight, you concluded that there was truly nothing remarkable to see and that all your waiting had been in vain, so you promptly went to bed. 

On the morning of your fifteenth birthday you awoke to see a package of brown parchment on your bedside table, bound with a shining silken bow of royal blue. The color was a gift in and of itself, for you very well knew how costly blue dye was. A tingle of excitement ran through your veins as you lifted the package onto your lap, carefully pulling the bow loose and setting it aside for later; it would make a lovely accessory. Then, holding your breath, you slid your fingers along the seam of the parchment and unfolded it to reveal an unremarkable wooden box, smooth and cool to the touch. But inside the box, to your utter shock and speechlessness, was a treasure unlike any other you��d ever laid eyes upon. 

It was a necklace, made of heavy, sparkling chains of gold, and set in the middle of the large circular pendant was a perfect sapphire. It was cut expertly and you could see your own awestricken reflection, tinted blue in tiny identical rooms on each flat face. The gemstone was heavy and you understood the need for such a substantial chain as you hung it around your neck, barely able to tear your eyes away from it to read the note that was placed underneath it in the box. 

“To match your ring,” it simply said. 

Though there was no signature, you knew who it was from. Only a king could afford such a thing. And the deep blue color of the jewel was so familiar to you, it must have been the exact same shade as the one in your ring. You held up the ring next to the necklace, which was resting on your bosom, and looked in the mirror for comparison, and sure enough they were identical in color, though the stone in the ring was much smaller. It was only the size of a thumbnail whereas the necklace’s stone was an honest to god rock, a bit smaller than your palm. 

While you stared at yourself in the sapphire’s glassy surface, you came to realize two things; one, you didn’t have any idea when Baldwin’s birthday was, and two, both gemstones were very similar in color to that of the eyes of your husband. You thought perhaps that was what drew you to the ring in the first place, that familiar feeling you got when looking at that color. 

Later in the morning when Amelia dressed you, you showed her the necklace and her pupils widened so much that you could no longer see the gray of her irises. She carefully placed it around your throat, adding the finishing touch to your appearance. Then you asked her when Baldwin’s birthday was. 

“September 16th, Your Majesty. It was a few months before your wedding. He does not celebrate, or at least he hasn’t for very many years. But the parties used to be ever so wonderful…” she trailed off, no doubt reminiscing on the great royal get-togethers of her youth. 

Again something clicked in your mind which you found a bit surprising. Though Baldwin had only seen you a handful of times since the wedding and up close only twice, he had apparently noticed your ring and managed to commit to memory nearly its exact shade of blue. You further realized that he had gone out of the palace the day prior for the purpose of procuring this gift. How did he know your birthday, you wondered. 

You stared down at your ring, which was glinting ceaselessly against your finger as if it was trying to tell you something. Sapphires, you thought, September. And then it made sense. The stone of September was, in fact, a sapphire. That was Baldwin’s stone. The stone of loyalty and honesty. And the two sapphires you now possessed, both bought with his money, would certainly become heirlooms. Perhaps you would have them pass them onto Baldwin’s young nephew upon your death, for it would be too much a shame to bury them with you and keep them from sparkling in the light of the sun the way they were meant to. 

You wanted to thank him but you just didn’t know how. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Baldwin had become something of a private investigator, as it were, and his focus was you. He wanted to keep his distance because he was afraid of upsetting you, so he tried to revert to his original plan of leaving you completely to your own devices and not interfering, but it soon proved impossible for him. Like a fool he had gotten his hopes up, just to have them come crashing down around him on his wedding night. He thought you could have been the perfect person to rule side-by-side with even if you did have a lot to learn. He thought you could have loved him even if it ended up being true that he could not provide you with an heir. He thought that you could have loved him, and that was his mistake, but he had already fallen in love with you.

He could not keep away from you but he could not be with you, so he compromised and went near you only when you did not know. It was not invasive, however, and he never wanted to breach your privacy. It was just little things. He would lurk in corridors he knew you would walk through in hopes of catching snatches of conversations between you and one of your servants. He had Amelia collect pieces of personal information about you and report back to him, which was undoubtedly how he found out your birthday. 

One day he followed you into the chapel and made like he was praying so he could sit next to you, if only for a moment. The warmth that spread in his breast in those few moments of closeness with you was enough to sustain him for a few more weeks. 

Even more painful than his raw leprous skin was the pain of seeing you smiling and conversing with people who were not him, to see you dressing in fine gowns and jewelry and going to dinner with people who were not him. To not be with you was the most painful thing he knew. For the woman he felt such tender things for to not even know the half of it. So with every month that passed he withdrew more, knowing that every time he left his chambers he risked running into you.

 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Quietly he opened your bedroom door, knowing you had to be sleeping at such a late hour, and you were. The pale light of the moon made your face look almost mask-like in sleep. Your delicate eyelashes were pressed to your cheeks, those cheeks he wished so badly to kiss. The desire to be near you, he thought as he gently placed the brown parchment package on your bedside table, was one day going to kill him.